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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/35228-8.txt b/35228-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6e453b6 --- /dev/null +++ b/35228-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,16744 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Airy Fairy Lilian, by +Margaret Wolfe Hamilton (AKA Duchess) + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Airy Fairy Lilian + +Author: Margaret Wolfe Hamilton (AKA Duchess) + +Release Date: February 9, 2011 [EBook #35228] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AIRY FAIRY LILIAN *** + + + + +Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Martin Pettit and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +AIRY FAIRY LILIAN + +BY + +"THE DUCHESS" +AUTHOR OF "PORTIA," "MOLLY BAWN," ETC., ETC. + +NEW YORK +INTERNATIONAL BOOK COMPANY +3, 4, 5 AND 6 MISSION PLACE + + + + +AIRY FAIRY LILIAN. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + "Home, sweet Home." + --_Old English Song._ + + +Down the broad oak staircase--through the silent hall--into the +drawing-room runs Lilian, singing as she goes. + +The room is deserted; through the half-closed blinds the glad sunshine +is rushing, turning to gold all on which its soft touch lingers, and +rendering the large, dull, handsome apartment almost comfortable. + +Outside everything is bright, and warm, and genial, as should be in the +heart of summer; within there is only gloom,--and Lilian clad in her +mourning robes. The contrast is dispiriting: there life, here death, or +at least the knowledge of it. There joy, here the signs and trappings of +woe. + +The black gown and funereal trimmings hardly harmonize with the girl's +flower-like face and the gay song that trembles on her lips. But, alas! +for how short a time does our first keen sorrow last! how swiftly are +our dead forgotten! how seldom does grief kill! When eight long months +have flown by across her father's grave Lilian finds, sometimes to her +dismay, that the hours she grieves for him form but a short part of her +day. + +Not that her sorrow for him, even at its freshest, was very deep; it was +of the subdued and horrified rather than the passionate, despairing +kind. And though in truth she mourned and wept for him until her pretty +eyes could hold no longer tears, still there was a mildness about her +grief more suggestive of tender melancholy than any very poignant +anguish. + +From her the dead father could scarcely be more separated than had been +the living. Naturally of a rather sedentary disposition, Archibald +Chesney, on the death of the wife whom he adored, had become that most +uninteresting and selfish of all things, a confirmed bookworm. He went +in for study, of the abstruse and heavy order, with an ardor worthy of a +better cause. His library was virtually his home; he had neither +affections nor desires beyond. Devoting himself exclusively to his +books, he suffered them to take entire possession of what he chose to +call his heart. + +At times he absolutely forgot the existence of his little three-year-old +daughter; and if ever the remembrance of her did cross his mind it was +but to think of her as an incubus,--as another misfortune heaped upon +his luckless shoulders,--and to wonder, with a sigh, what he was to do +with her in the future. + +The child, deprived of a tender mother at so early an age, was flung, +therefore, upon the tender mercies of her nurses, who alternately petted +and injudiciously reproved her, until at length she bade fair to be as +utterly spoilt as a child can be. + +She had one companion, a boy-cousin about a year older than herself. He +too was lonely and orphaned, so that the two children, making common +cause, clung closely to each other, and shared, both in infancy and in +early youth, their joys and sorrows. The Park had been the boy's home +ever since his parents' death, Mr. Chesney accepting him as his ward, +but never afterward troubling himself about his welfare. Indeed, he had +no objection whatever to fill the Park with relations, so long as they +left him undisturbed to follow his own devices. + +Not that the education of these children was neglected. They had all +tuition that was necessary; and Lilian, having a talent for music, +learned to sing and play the piano very charmingly. She could ride, too, +and sit her horse _a merveille_, and had a passion for reading,--perhaps +inherited. But, as novels were her principal literature, and as she had +no one to regulate her choice of them, it is a matter of opinion whether +she derived much benefit from them. At least she received little harm, +as at seventeen she was as fresh-minded and pure-hearted a child as one +might care to know. + +The County, knowing her to be an heiress,--though not a large +one,--called systematically on her every three months. Twice she had +been taken to a ball by an enterprising mother with a large family of +unpromising sons. But as she reached her eighteenth year her father +died, and her old home, the Park, being strictly entailed on heirs male, +passed from her into the hands of a distant cousin utterly unknown. This +young man, another Archibald Chesney, was abroad at the time of his +kinsman's death,--in Egypt, or Hong-Kong, or Jamaica,--no one exactly +knew which--until after much search he was finally discovered to be in +Halifax. + +From thence he had written to the effect that, as he probably should not +return to his native land for another six months, he hoped his cousin +(if it pleased her) would continue to reside at the Park--where all the +old servants were to be kept on--until his return. + +It did please his cousin; and in her old home she still reigned as +queen, until after eight months she received a letter from her father's +lawyer warning her of Archibald Chesney's actual arrival in London. + +This letter failed in its object. Lilian either would not or could not +bring herself to name the day that should part her forever from all the +old haunts and pleasant nooks she loved so well. She was not brave +enough to take her "Bradshaw" and look up the earliest train that ought +to convey her away from the Park. Indeed, so utterly wanting in decency +and decorum did she appear at this particular epoch of her existence +that the heart of her only aunt--her father's sister--was stirred to its +depths. So much so that, after mature deliberation (for old people as +well as great ones move slowly), she finally packed up the venerable +hair-trunk that had seen the rise and fall of several monarchs, and +marched all the way from Edinburgh to this Midland English shire, to try +what firm expostulation could do in the matter of bringing her niece to +see the error of her ways. + +For a whole week it did very little. + +Lilian was independent in more ways than one. She had considerable +spirit and five hundred pounds a year in her own right. Not only did she +object to leave the Park, but she regarded with horror the prospect of +going to reside with the guardians appointed to receive her by her +father. Not that this idea need have filled her with dismay. Sir Guy +Chetwoode, the actual guardian, was a young man not likely to trouble +himself overmuch about any ward; while his mother, Lady Chetwoode, was +that most gracious of all things, a beautiful and lovable old lady. + +Why Mr. Chesney had chosen so young a man to look after his daughter's +interests must forever remain a mystery,--perhaps because he happened to +be the eldest son of his oldest friend, long since dead. Sir Guy +accepted the charge because he thought it uncivil to refuse, and chiefly +because he believed it likely Miss Chesney would marry before her +father's death. But events proved the fallacy of human thought. When +Archibald Chesney's demise appeared in the _Times_ Sir Guy made a little +face and took meekly a good deal of "chaffing" at his brother's hands; +while Lady Chetwoode sat down, and, with a faint sinking at her heart, +wrote a kindly letter to the orphan, offering her a home at Chetwoode. +To this letter Lilian had sent a polite reply, thanking "dear Lady +Chetwoode" for her kindness, and telling her she had no intention of +quitting the Park just at present. Later on she would be only too happy +to accept, etc., etc. + +Now, however, standing in her own drawing-room, Lilian feels, with a +pang, the game is almost played out; she must leave. Aunt Priscilla's +arguments, detestable though they be, are unhappily quite unanswerable. +To her own heart she confesses this much, and the little gay French song +dies on her lips, and the smile fades from her eyes, and a very dejected +and forlorn expression comes and grows upon her pretty face. + +It is more than pretty, it is lovely,--the fair, sweet childish face, +framed in by its yellow hair; her great velvety eyes, now misty through +vain longing, are blue as the skies above her; her nose is pure Greek; +her forehead, low, but broad, is partly shrouded by little wandering +threads of gold that every now and then break loose from bondage, while +her lashes, long and dark, curl upward from her eyes, as though hating +to conceal the beauty of the exquisite azure within. + +She is not tall, and she is very slender but not lean. She is willful, +quick-tempered, and impetuous, but large-hearted and lovable. There is a +certain haughtiness about her that contrasts curiously but pleasantly +with her youthful expression and laughing kissable mouth. She is +straight and lissome as a young ash-tree; her hands and feet are small +and well shaped; in a word, she is _chic_ from the crown of her fair +head down to her little arched instep. + +Just now, perhaps, as she hears the honest sound of her aunt's footstep +in the hall, a slight pout takes possession of her lips and a flickering +frown adorns her brow. Aunt Priscilla is coming, and Aunt Priscilla +brings victory in her train, and it is not every one can accept defeat +with grace. + +She hastily pulls up one of the blinds; and as old Miss Chesney opens +the door and advances up the room, young Miss Chesney rather turns her +shoulder to her and stares moodily out of the window. But Aunt Priscilla +is not to be daunted. + +"Well, Lilian," she says, in a hopeful tone, and with an amount of faith +admirable under the circumstances, "I trust you have been thinking it +over favorably, and that----" + +"Thinking what over?" asks Lilian; which interruption is a mean +subterfuge. + +"----And that the night has induced you to see your situation in its +proper light." + +"You speak as though I were the under house-maid," says Lilian with a +faint sense of humor. "And yet the word suits me. Surely there never yet +was a situation as mine. I wish my horrid cousin had been drowned +in----. No, Aunt Priscilla, the night has not reformed me. On the +contrary, it has demoralized me, through a dream. I dreamt I went to +Chetwoode, and, lo! the very first night I slept beneath its roof the +ceiling in my room gave way, and, falling, crushed me to fine powder. +After such a ghastly warning do you still advise me to pack up and be +off? If you do," says Lilian, solemnly, "my blood be on your head." + +"Dreams go by contraries," quotes Miss Priscilla, sententiously. "I +don't believe in them. Besides, from all I have heard of the Chetwoodes +they are far too well regulated a family to have anything amiss with +their ceilings." + +"Oh, how _you do_ add fuel to the fire that is consuming me!" exclaims +Lilian, with a groan. "A well-regulated family!--what can be more awful? +Ever since I have been old enough to reason I have looked with righteous +horror upon a well-regulated family. Aunt Priscilla, if you don't change +your tune I vow and protest I shall decide upon remaining here until my +cousin takes me by the shoulders and places me upon the gravel outside." + +"I thought, Lilian," says her aunt, severely, "you promised me yesterday +to think seriously of what I have now been saying to you for a whole +week without cessation." + +"Well, so I am thinking," with a sigh. "It is the amount of thinking I +have been doing for a whole week without cessation that is gradually +turning my hair gray." + +"It would be all very well," says Miss Priscilla, impatiently, "if I +could remain with you; but I cannot. I must return to my duties." These +duties consisted of persecuting poor little children every Sunday by +compelling them to attend her Scriptural class (so she called it) and +answer such questions from the Old Testament as would have driven any +experienced divinity student out of his mind; and on week-days of +causing much sorrow (and more bad language) to be disseminated among the +women of the district by reason of her lectures on their dirt. "And your +cousin is in London, and naturally will wish to take possession in +person." + +"How I wish poor papa had left the Park to me!" says Lilian, +discontentedly, and somewhat irrelevantly. + +"My dear child, I have explained to you at least a dozen times that such +a gift was not in his power. It goes--that is, the Park,--to a male +heir, and----" + +"Yes, I know," petulantly. "Well, then I wish it _had_ been in his power +to leave it to me." + +"And how about writing to Lady Chetwoode?" says Aunt Priscilla, giving +up the argument in despair. (She is a wise woman.) "The sooner you do so +the better." + +"I hate strangers," says Lilian, mournfully. "They make me unhappy. Why +can't I remain where I am? George or Archibald, or whatever his name is, +might just as well let me have a room here. I'm sure the place is large +enough. He need not grudge me one or two apartments. The left wing, for +instance." + +"Lilian," says Miss Chesney, rising from her chair, "how old are you? Is +it possible that at eighteen you have yet to learn the meaning of the +word 'propriety'? You--a _young girl_--to remain here alone with a +_young man_!" + +"He need never see me," says Lilian, quite unmoved by this burst of +eloquence. "I should take very good care of that, as I know I shall +detest him." + +"I decline to listen to you," says Miss Priscilla, raising her hands to +her ears. "You must be lost to all sense of decorum even to imagine such +a thing. You and he in one house, how should you avoid meeting?" + +"Well, even if we did meet," says Lilian, with a small rippling laugh +impossible to quell, "I dare say he wouldn't bite me." + +"No,"--sternly,--"he would probably do worse. He would make love to you. +Some instinct warns me," says Miss Priscilla, with the liveliest horror, +gazing upon the exquisite, glowing face before her, "that within five +days he would be making _violent_ love to you." + +"You strengthen my desire to stay," says Lilian, somewhat frivolously, +"I should so like to say 'No' to him!" + +"Lilian, you make me shudder," says Miss Priscilla, earnestly. "When I +was your age, even younger, I had a full sense of the horror of allowing +any man to mention my name lightly. I kept all men at arm's length, I +suffered no jesting or foolish talking from them. And mark the result," +says Miss Chesney, with pride: "I defy any one to say a word of me but +what is admirable and replete with modesty." + +"Did any one ever propose to you, auntie?" asks Miss Lilian with a +naughty laugh. + +"Certainly. I had many offers," replies Miss Priscilla, promptly,--which +is one of the few lies she allows herself; "I was persecuted by suitors +in my younger days; but I refused them all. And if you will take my +advice, Lilian," says this virgin, with much solemnity, "you will never, +_never_ put yourself into clutches of a _man_." She utters this last +word as though she would have said a tiger or a serpent, or anything +else ruthless and bloodthirsty. "But all this is beside the question." + +"It is, rather," says Lilian, demurely. But, suddenly brightening, +"Between my dismal dreaming last night I thought of another plan." + +"Another!" with open dismay. + +"Yes,"--triumphantly,--"it occurred to me that this bugbear my cousin +might go abroad again. Like the Wandering Jew, he is always traveling; +and who knows but he may take a fancy to visit the South Pole, or +discover the Northwestern Passage, or go with Jules Verne to the centre +of the earth? If so, why should not I remain here and keep house for +him? What can be simpler?" + +"Nothing,"--tritely,--"but unfortunately he is not going abroad again." + +"No! How do you know that?" + +"Through Mr. Shrude, the solicitor." + +"Ah!" says Lilian, in a despairing tone, "how unhappy I am! Though I +might have known that wretched young man would be the last to do what is +his palpable duty." There is a pause. Lilian's head sinks upon her hand; +dejection shows itself in every feature. She sighs so heavily that Miss +Priscilla's spirits rise and she assures herself the game is won. Rash +hope. + +Suddenly Lilian's countenance clears; she raises her head, and a faint +smile appears within her eyes. + +"Aunt Priscilla, I have yet another plan," she says, cheerfully. + +"Oh, my dear, I do hope not," says poor Miss Chesney, almost on the +verge of tears. + +"Yes, and it emanated from you. Supposing I were to remain here, and he +did fall in love with me, and married me: what then? Would not that +solve the difficulty? Once the ceremony was performed he might go prying +about all over the known globe for all that I should care. I should have +my dear Park. I declare," says Lilian, waxing valiant, "had he but one +eye, or did he appear before me with a wooden leg (which I hold to be +the most contemptible of all things), nothing should induce me to refuse +him under the circumstances." + +"And are you going to throw yourself upon your cousin's generosity and +actually ask him to take pity on you and make you his wife? Lilian, I +fancied you had some pride," says Miss Chesney, gravely. + +"So I have," says Lilian, with a repentant sigh. "How I wish I hadn't! +No, I suppose it wouldn't do to marry him in that way, no matter how +badly I treated him afterward to make up for it. Well, my last hope is +dead." + +"And a good thing too. Now, had you not better sit down and write to +Lady Chetwoode or your guardian, naming an early date for going to them? +Though what your father could have meant by selecting so young a man as +a guardian is more than I can imagine." + +"Because he wished me to live with Lady Chetwoode, who was evidently an +old flame; and because Sir Guy, from all I hear, is a sort of Admirable +Crichton--something as prosy as the Heir of Redclyffe, as dull as Sir +Galahad. A goody-goody old-young man. For my part, I would have +preferred a hoary-headed gentleman, with just a little spice of +wickedness about him." + +"Lilian, don't be flippant," in a tone of horror. "I tremble when I +reflect on the dangers that must attend your unbridled tongue." + +"Well, but, Aunt Priscilla,"--plaintively,--"one doesn't relish the +thought of spending day after day with a man who will think it his duty +to find fault every time I give way to my sentiments, and probably grow +pale with disgust whenever I laugh aloud. Shan't I lead him a life!" +says the younger Miss Chesney, viciously, tapping the back of one small +hand vigorously against the palm of the other. "With the hope of giving +that young man something to cavil at, I shall sustain myself." + +"Child," says Miss Priscilla, "let me recommend a course of severe study +to you as the best means of subduing your evil inclinations." + +"I shall take your advice," says the incorrigible Lilian; "I shall study +Sir Guy. I expect that will be the severest course of study I have ever +undergone." + +"Get your paper and write," says Miss Priscilla, who, against her will, +is smiling grimly. + +"I suppose, indeed, I must," says Lilian, seating herself at her +davenport with all the airs of a finished martyr. "'Needs must,' you +know, Aunt Priscilla. I dare say you recollect the rest of that rather +vulgar proverb. I shall seal my fate this instant by writing to Lady +Chetwoode. But, oh!" turning on her chair to regard her aunt with an +expression of the keenest reproach, "how I wish you had not called them +a 'well-regulated family!'" + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + "Be not over-exquisite + To cast the fashion of uncertain evils."--MILTON. + + +Through the open windows the merry-making sun is again dancing, its +bright rays making still more dazzling the glory of the snowy +table-cloth. The great silver urn is hissing and fighting with all +around, as though warning his mistress to use him, as he is not one to +be trifled with; while at the lower end of the table, exactly opposite +Sir Guy's plate, lies the post upon a high salver, ready to the master's +hand, as has been the custom at Chetwoode for generations. + +Evidently the family is late for breakfast. As a rule, the Chetwoode +family always is late for breakfast,--just sufficiently so to make them +certain everything will be quite ready by the time they get down. + +Ten o'clock rings out mysteriously from the handsome marble clock upon +the chimney-piece, and precisely three minutes afterward the door is +thrown open to admit an elderly lady, tall and fair, and still +beautiful. + +She walks with a slow, rather stately step, and in spite of her years +carries her head high. Upon this head rests the daintiest of morning +caps, all white lace and delicate ribbon bows, that match in color her +trailing gown. Her hands, small and tapering, are covered with rings; +otherwise she wears no adornment of any kind. There is a benignity about +her that goes straight to all hearts. Children adore her, dogs fawn upon +her, young men bring to her all their troubles,--the evil behavior of +their tailors and their mistresses are alike laid before her. + +Now, finding the room empty, and knowing it to be four minutes after +ten, she says to herself, "The first!" with a little surprise and much +pardonable pride, and seats herself with something of an air before the +militant urn. When we are old it is so sweet to us to be younger than +the young, when we are young it is so sweet to us to be just _vice +versa_. Oh, foolish youth! + +An elderly butler, who has evidently seen service (in every sense of the +word), and who is actually steeped in respectability up to his port-wine +nose, hovers around the breakfast, adjusting this dish affectionately, +and straightening that, until all is carefully awry, when he leaves the +room with a sigh of satisfaction. + +Perhaps Lady Chetwoode's self-admiration would have grown beyond bounds, +but that just at this instant voices in the hall distract her thoughts. +The sounds make her face brighten and bring a smile to her lips. "The +boys" are coming. She draws the teacups a little nearer to her and makes +a gentle fuss over the spoons. A light laugh echoes through the hall; it +is answered and then the door once more opens, and her two sons enter, +Cyril, being the youngest, naturally coming first. + +On seeing his mother he is pleased to make a gesture indicative of the +most exaggerated surprise. + +"Now, who could have anticipated it?" he says. "Her gracious majesty +already assembled, while her faithful subjects---- Well," with a sudden +change of tone, "for my part I call it downright shabby of people to +scramble down-stairs before other people merely for the sake of putting +them to the blush." + +"Lazy boy! no wonder you are ashamed of yourself when you look at the +clock," says Lady Chetwoode, smiling fondly as she returns his greeting. + +"Ashamed! Pray do not misunderstand me. I have arrived at my +twenty-sixth year without ever having mastered the meaning of that word. +I flatter myself I am a degree beyond that." + +"Last night's headache quite gone, mother?" asks Sir Guy, bending over +her chair to kiss her; an act he performs tenderly, and as though the +doing of it is sweet to him. + +"Quite, my dear," replies she; and there is perhaps the faintest, the +_very_ faintest, accession of warmth in her tone, an almost +imperceptible increase of kindliness in her smile as she speaks to her +eldest son. + +"That's right," says he, patting her gently on the shoulder; after which +he goes over to his own seat and takes up the letters lying before him. + +"Positively I never thought of the post," says Lady Chetwoode. "And here +I have been for quite five minutes with nothing to do. I might as well +have been digesting my correspondence, if there is any for me." + +"One letter for you; five, as usual, for Cyril; one for me," says Guy. +"All Cyril's." Examining them critically at arm's length. "Written +evidently by _very_ young women." + +"Yes, they _will_ write to me," returns Cyril, receiving them with a +sigh and regarding them with careful scrutiny. "It is nothing short of +disgusting," he says presently, singling out one of the letters with his +first finger. "This is the fourth she has written me this week, and as +yet it is only Friday. I won't be able to bear it much longer; I shall +certainly make a stand one of these days." + +"I would if I were you," says Guy, laughing. + +"I have just heard from Lilian Chesney," suddenly says Lady Chetwoode, +speaking as though a bombshell had fallen in their midst. "And she is +really coming here next week!" + +"No!" says Guy, without meaning contradiction, which at the moment is +far from him. + +"Yes," replies his mother, somewhat faintly. + +"Another!" murmurs Cyril, weakly,--he being the only one of the three +who finds any amusement in the situation. "Well, at all events, _she_ +can't write to me, as we shall be under the same roof; and I shall +dismiss the very first servant who brings me a _billet-doux_. How +pleased you do look, Guy! And no wonder;--a whole live ward, and all to +yourself. Lucky you!" + +"It is hard on you, mother," says Guy, "but it can't be helped. When I +promised, I made sure her father would have lived for years to come." + +"You did what was quite right," says Lady Chetwoode, who, if Guy were to +commit a felony, would instantly say it was the only proper course to be +pursued. "And it might have been much worse. Her mother's daughter +cannot fail to be a lady in the best sense of the word." + +"I'm sure I hope she won't, then," says Cyril, who all this time has +been carefully laying in an uncommonly good breakfast. "If there is one +thing I hate, it is a young lady. Give me a girl." + +"But, my dear, what an extraordinary speech! Surely a girl may be a +young lady." + +"Yes, but unfortunately a young lady isn't always a girl. My experience +of the former class is, that, no matter what their age, they are as old +as the hills, and know considerably more than they ought to know." + +"And just as we had got rid of one ward so successfully we must needs +get another," says Lady Chetwoode, with a plaintive sigh. "Dear Mabel! +she was certainly very sweet, and I was excessively fond of her, but I +do hope this new-comer will not be so troublesome." + +"I hope she will be as pleasant to talk to and as good to look at," says +Cyril. "I confess I missed Mab awfully; I never felt so down in my life +as when she declared her intention of marrying Tom Steyne." + +"I never dreamed the marriage would have turned out so well," says Lady +Chetwoode, in a pleased tone. "She was such an--an--unreasonable girl. +But it is wonderful how well she gets on with a husband." + +"Flirts always make the best wives. You forget that, mother." + +"And what a coquette she was? If Lilian Chesney resembles her, I don't +know what I shall do. I am getting too old to take care of pretty +girls." + +"Perhaps Miss Chesney is ugly." + +"I hope not, my dear," says Lady Chetwoode, with a strong shudder. "Let +her be anything but that. I can't bear ugly women. No, her mother was +lovely. I used to think"--relapsing again into the plaintive +style--"that one ward in a lifetime would be sufficient, and now we are +going to have another." + +"It is all Guy's fault," says Cyril. "He does get himself up so like the +moral Pecksniff. There is a stern and dignified air about him would +deceive a Machiavelli, and takes the hearts of parents by storm. Poor +Mr. Chesney, who never even saw him, took him on hearsay as his only +child's guardian. This solitary fact shows how grossly he has taken in +society in general. He is every bit as immoral as the rest of us, +only----" + +"Immoral! My _dear_ Cyril----" interrupts Lady Chetwoode, severely. + +"Well, let us say frivolous. It has just the same meaning nowadays, and +sounds nicer. But he looks a 'grave and reverend,' if ever there was +one. Indeed, his whole appearance is enough to make any passer-by stop +short and say, 'There goes a good young man.'" + +"I'm sure I hope not," says Guy, half offended, wholly disgusted. "I +should be inclined to shoot any one who told me I was a 'good young +man.' I have no desire to pose as such: my ambition does not lie that +way." + +"I don't believe you know what you are saying, either of you," says Lady +Chetwoode, who, though accustomed to them, can never entirely help +showing surprise at their sentiments and expressions every now and then. +"I should be sorry to think everybody did not know you to be (as I do) +good as gold." + +"Thank you, Madre. One compliment from you is worth a dozen from any one +else," says Cyril. "Any news, Guy? You seem absorbed. I cannot tell you +how I admire any one who takes an undisguised interest in his +correspondence. Now I"--gazing at his five unopened letters--"cannot +get up the feeling to save my life. Guy,"--reproachfully,--"don't you +see your mother is dying of curiosity?" + +"The letter is from Trant," says Guy, looking up from the closely +written sheet before him. "He wants to know if we will take a tenant for +'The Cottage.' 'A lady'"--reading from the letter--"'who has suffered +much, and who wishes for quietness and retirement from the world.'" + +"I should recommend a convent under the circumstances," says Cyril. "It +would be the very thing for her. I don't see why she should come down +here to suffer, and put us all in the dumps, and fill our woods with her +sighs and moans." + +"Is she young?" asks Lady Chetwoode, anxiously. + +"No,--I don't know, I'm sure. I should think not, by Trant's way of +mentioning her. 'An old friend,' he says, though, of course, that might +mean anything." + +"Married?" + +"Yes. A widow." + +"Dear me!" says Lady Chetwoode, distastefully. "A most objectionable +class of people. Always in the way, and--er--very designing, and that." + +"If she is anything under forty she will want to marry Guy directly," +Cyril puts in, with an air of conviction. "If I were you, Guy, I should +pause and consider before I introduced such a dangerous ingredient so +near home. Just fancy, mother, seeing Guy married to a woman probably +older than you!" + +"Yes,--I shouldn't wonder," says Lady Chetwoode, nervously. "My dear +child, do nothing in a hurry. Tell Colonel Trant you--you--do not care +about letting The Cottage just at present." + +"Nonsense, mother! How can you be so absurd? Don't you think I may be +considered proof against designing widows at twenty-nine? Never mind +Cyril's talk. I dare say he is afraid for himself. Indeed, the one thing +that makes me hesitate about obliging Trant is the knowledge of how +utterly incapable my poor brother is of taking care of himself." + +"It is only too true," says Cyril, resignedly. "I feel sure if the widow +is flouted by you she will revenge herself by marrying me. Guy, as you +are strong, be merciful." + +"After all, the poor creature may be quite old, and we are frightening +ourselves unnecessarily," says Lady Chetwoode, in all sincerity. + +At this both Guy and Cyril laugh in spite of themselves. + +"Are you really afraid, mother?" asks Cyril, fondly. "What a goose you +are about your 'boys'! Are we always to be children in your eyes? Not +that I wonder at your horror of widows. Even the immortal Weller shared +your sentiments, and warned his 'Samivel' against them. Never mind, +mother; console yourself. I for one swear by all that is lovely never to +seek this particular 'widder' in marriage." + +False oath. + +"You see he seems to take it so much for granted, my giving The Cottage +and that, I hardly like to refuse." + +"It would not be of the least consequence, if it was not situated +actually in our own woods, and not two miles from the house. There lies +the chief objection," says Lady Chetwoode. + +"Yes. Yet what can I do? It is a pretty little place, and it seems a +pity to let it sink into decay. This tenant may save it." + +"It is a lovely spot. I often fancy, Guy," says his mother, somewhat +sadly, "I should like to go and live there myself when you get a wife." + +"Why should you say that?" says Guy, almost roughly. "If my taking a +wife necessitates your quitting Chetwoode, I shall never burden myself +with that luxury." + +"You don't follow out the Mater's argument, dear boy," says Cyril, +smoothly. "She means that when your sylvan widow claims you as her own +she _must_ leave, as of course the same roof could not cover both. But +you are eating nothing, mother; Guy's foolish letter has taken away your +appetite. Take some of this broiled ham!" + +"No, thank you, dear, I don't care for----" + +"Don't perjure yourself. You know you have had a positive passion for +broiled ham from your cradle up. I remember all about it. I insist on +your eating your breakfast, or you will have that beastly headache back +again." + +"My dear," says his mother, entreatingly, "do you think you could be +silent for a few minutes while I discuss this subject with your +brother?" + +"I shan't speak again. After that severe snubbing consider me dumb. But +do get it over quick," says Cyril. "I can't be mute forever." + +"I suppose I had better say yes," says Guy, doubtfully. "It looks +rather like the dog in the manger, having The Cottage idle and still +refusing Trant's friend." + +"That reminds me of a capital story," breaks in the irrepressible Cyril, +gayly. "By Jove, what a sell it was! One fellow met another fellow----" + +"I shall refuse, of course, if you wish it," Guy goes on, addressing his +mother, and scorning to notice this brilliant interruption. + +"No, no, dear. Write and say you will think about it." + +"Won't you listen to my capital story?" asks Cyril, in high disgust. +"Very good. You will both be sorry afterward,--when it is too late." + +Even this awful threat takes no effect. + +"Unfortunately, I can't do that," says Guy, answering Lady Chetwoode. +"His friend is obliged to leave the place she is now in, immediately, +and he wants her to come here next week,--next"--glancing at the +letter--"Saturday." + +"Misfortunes never come single," remarks Cyril; "ours seem to crowd. +First a ward, and then a widow, and all in the same week." + +"Not only the same week, but the same day," exclaims Lady Chetwoode, +looking at her letter; whereupon they all laugh, though they scarcely +know why. + +"What! Is she too coming on Saturday?" asks Guy. "How ill-timed! I am +bound to go to the Bellairs, on that day, whether I like it or not, to +dine, and sleep and spend my time generally. The old boy has some young +dogs of which he is immensely proud, and has been tormenting me for a +month past to go and see them. So yesterday he seized upon me again, and +I didn't quite like to refuse, he seemed so bent on getting my opinion +of the pups." + +"Why not go early, and be back in time for dinner?" + +"Can't, unfortunately. There is to be a dinner there in the evening for +some cousin who is coming to pay them a visit; and I promised Harry, who +doesn't shine in conversation, to stay and make myself agreeable to her. +It's a bore rather, as I fear it will look slightly heathenish my not +being at the station to meet Miss Chesney." + +"Don't put yourself out about that: I'll do all I can to make up for +your loss," says Cyril, who is eminently good-natured. "I'll meet her if +you wish it, and bring her home." + +"Thanks, old man: you're awfully good. It would look inhospitable +neither of us being on the spot to bid her welcome. Take the carriage +and----" + +"Oh, by Jove, I didn't bargain for the carriage. To be smothered alive +in July is not a fascinating idea. Don't you think, mother,"--in an +insinuating voice,--"Miss Chesney would prefer the dogcart or the----" + +"My dear Cyril! Of course you must meet her in the carriage," says his +mother, in the shocked tone that usually ends all disputes. + +"So be it. I give in. Though when I arrive here in the last stage of +exhaustion, reclining in Miss Chesney's arms, you will be to blame," +says Cyril, amiably. "But to return to your widow, Guy; who is to +receive her?" + +"I dare say by this time she has learned to take care of herself," +laughing. "At all events, she does not weigh upon my conscience, even +should I consent to oblige Trant,"--looking at his mother--"by having +her at The Cottage as a tenant." + +"It looks very suspicious, her being turned out of her last place," +Cyril says, in an uncomfortable tone. "Perhaps----" Here he pauses +somewhat mysteriously. + +"Perhaps what?" asks his mother, struck by his manner. + +"Perhaps she is mad," suggests Cyril, in an awesome whisper. "An escaped +lunatic!--a maniac!" + +"I know no one who borders so much on lunacy as yourself," says Guy. +"After all, what does it matter whether our tenant is fat, fair, and +forty, or a lean old maid! It will oblige Trant, and it will keep the +place together. Mother, tell me to say yes." + +Thus desired, Lady Chetwoode gives the required permission. + +"A new tenant at The Cottage and a young lady visitor,--a permanent +visitor! It only requires some one to leave us a legacy in the shape of +a new-born babe, to make up the sum of our calamities," says Cyril, as +he steps out of the low French window and drops on to the sward beneath. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + "She was beautiful as the lily-bosomed Houri that gladdens the + visions of the poet when, soothed to dreams of pleasantness and + peace, the downy pinions of Sleep wave over his turbulent + soul!"--_From the Arabic._ + + +All the flowers at Chetwoode are rejoicing; their heads are high +uplifted, their sweetest perfumes are making still more sweet the soft, +coquettish wind that, stealing past them, snatches their kisses ere they +know. + +It is a glorious day, full of life, and happy sunshine, and music from +the throats of many birds. All the tenors and sopranos and contraltos of +the air seem to be having one vast concert, and are filling the woods +with melody. + +In the morning a little laughing, loving shower came tumbling down into +the earth's embrace, where it was caught gladly and kept forever,--a +little baby shower, on which the sunbeams smiled, knowing that it had +neither power nor wish to kill them. + +But now the greedy earth has grasped it, and others, knowing its fate, +fear to follow, and only the pretty sparkling jewels that tremble on the +grass tell of its having been. + +In the very centre of the great lawn that stretches beyond the +pleasure-grounds stands a mighty oak. Its huge branches throw their arms +far and wide, making a shelter beneath them for all who may choose to +come and seek there for shade. Around its base pretty rustic chairs are +standing in somewhat dissipated order, while on its topmost bough a crow +is swaying and swinging as the soft wind rushes by, making an inky blot +upon the brilliant green, as it were a patch upon the cheek of a court +belle. + +Over all the land from his lofty perch this crow can see,--can mark the +smiling fields, the yellowing corn, the many antlered deer in the Park, +the laughing brooklets, the gurgling streams that now in the great heat +go lazily and stumble sleepily over every pebble in their way. + +He can see his neighbors' houses, perhaps his own snug nest, and all the +beauty and richness and warmth of an English landscape. + +But presently--being a bird of unformed tastes or unappreciative, or +perhaps fickle--he tires of looking, and flapping heavily his black +wings, rises slowly and sails away. + +Toward the east he goes, the sound of his harsh but homely croak growing +fainter as he flies. Over the trees in their gorgeous clothing, across +the murmuring brooks, through the uplands, over the heads of the deer +that gaze at him with their mournful, gentle eyes, he travels, never +ceasing in his flight until he comes to a small belt of firs, evidently +set apart, in the centre of which stands "The Cottage." + +It is considerably larger than one would expect from its name. A long, +low, straggling house, about three miles from Chetwoode entrance-gate, +going by the road, but only one mile, taking a short cut through the +Park. A very pretty house,--with a garden in front, carefully hedged +round, and another garden at the back,--situated in a lovely +spot,--perhaps the most enviable in all Chetwoode,--silent, dreamy, +where one might, indeed, live forever, "the world forgetting, by the +world forgot." + +In the garden all sorts of the sweetest old-world flowers are +blooming,--pinks and carnations, late lilies and sweet-williams; the +velvety heartsease, breathing comfort to the poor +love-that-lies-a-bleeding; the modest forget-me-not, the fragrant +mignonette (whose qualities, they rudely say surpass its charms), the +starry jessamine, the frail woodbine; while here and there from every +nook and corner shines out the fairest, loveliest, queenliest flower of +all,--the rose. + +Every bush is rich with them; the air is heavy with their odor. Roses of +every hue, of every size, from the grand old cabbage to the smallest +Scotch, are here. One gazes round in silent admiration, until the great +love of them swells within the heart and a desire for possession arises, +when, growing murderous, one wishes, like Nero, they had but one neck, +that they might all be gathered at a blow. + +Upon the house only snow-white roses grow. In great masses they uprear +their heads, peeping curiously in at the windows, trailing lovingly +round the porches, nestling under the eaves, drooping coquettishly at +the angles. To-day a raindrop has fallen into each scented heart, has +lingered there all the morning, and is still loath to leave. Above the +flowers the birds hover twittering; beneath them the ground is as a +snowy carpet from their fallen petals. Poor petals! How sad it is that +they must fall! Yet, even in death, how sweet! + +It is Saturday. In the morning the new tenant was expected; the evening +is to bring the new ward. Lady Chetwoode, in consequence, is a little +trouble-minded. Guy has gone to the Bellairs'. Cyril is in radiant +spirits. Not that this latter fact need be recorded, as Cyril belongs to +those favored ones who at their birth receive a dowry from their fairy +godparents of unlimited good-humor. + +He is at all times an easy-going young man, healthy, happy, whose path +in life up to this has been strewn with roses. To him the world isn't +"half a bad place," which he is content to take as he finds it, never +looking too closely into what doesn't concern him,--a treatment the +world evidently likes, as it regards him (especially the gentler portion +of it) with the utmost affection. + +Even with that rare class, mothers blessed with handsome daughters, he +finds favor, either through his face or his manner, or because of the +fact that though a younger son, he has nine hundred pounds a year of his +own and a pretty place called Moorlands, about six miles from Chetwoode. +It was his mother's portion and is now his. + +He is tall, broad-shouldered, and rather handsome, with perhaps more +mouth than usually goes to one man's share; but, as he has laughed +straight through from his cradle to his twenty-sixth year, this is +scarcely to be wondered at. His eyes are gray and frank, his hair is +brown, his skin a good deal tanned. He is very far from being an Adonis, +but he is good to look at, and to know him is to like him. + +Just now, luncheon being over, and nothing else left to do, he is +feeling rather bored than otherwise, and lounges into his mother's +morning-room, being filled with a desire to have speech with somebody. +The somebody nearest to him at the moment being Lady Chetwoode, he +elects to seek her presence and inflict his society upon her. + +"It's an awful nuisance having anything on your mind, isn't it, mother?" +he says, genially. + +"It is indeed, my dear," with heartfelt earnestness and a palpable +expectation of worse things yet to come. "What unfortunate mistake have +you been making now?" + +"Not one. 'You wrong me, Brutus.' I have been as gently behaved as a +skipping lamb all the morning. No; I mean having to fetch our visitor +this evening weighs upon my spirits and somehow idles me. I can settle +to nothing." + +"You seldom can, dear, can you?" says Lady Chetwoode, mildly, with +unmeant irony. "But"--as though suddenly inspired--"suppose you go for a +walk?" + +This is a mean suggestion, and utterly unworthy of Lady Chetwoode. The +fact is, the day is warm and she is sleepy, and she knows she will not +get her forty winks unless he takes himself out of the way. So, with a +view to getting rid of him, she grows hypocritically kind. + +"A walk will do you good," she says. "You don't take half exercise +enough. And, you know, the want of it makes people fat." + +"I believe you are right," Cyril says, rising. He stretches himself, +laughs indolently at his own lazy figure in an opposite mirror, after +which he vanishes almost as quickly as even she can desire. + +Five minutes later, with an open book upon her knee, as a means of +defense should any one enter unannounced, Lady Chetwoode is snoozing +comfortably; while Cyril, following the exact direction taken by the +crow in the morning, walks leisurely onward, under the trees, to meet +his fate! + +Quite unthinkingly, quite unsuspiciously, he pursues his way, dreaming +of anything in the world but The Cottage and its new inmate, until the +house, suddenly appearing before him, recalls his wandering thoughts. + +The hall-door stands open. Every one of the windows is thrown wide. +There is about everything the unmistakable _silent_ noise that belongs +to an inhabited dwelling, however quiet. The young man, standing still, +wonders vaguely at the change. + +Then all at once a laugh rings out; there is an undeniable scuffle, and +presently a tiny black dog with a little mirthful yelp breaks from the +house into the garden and commences a mad scamper all round and round +the rose trees. + +An instant later he is followed by a trim maid-servant, who, flushed but +smiling, rushes after him, making well-directed but ineffectual pounces +on the truant. As she misses him the dog gives way to another yelp (of +triumph this time), and again the hunt goes on. + +But now there comes the sound of other feet, and Cyril, glancing up from +his interested watch over the terrier's movements, sees surely +something far, far lovelier than he has ever seen before. + +Even at this early moment his heart gives a little bound and then seems +to cease from beating. + +Upon the door-step stands a girl--although quite three-and-twenty she +still looks the merest girl--clad in a gown of clear black-and-white +cambric. A huge coarse white apron covers all the front of this gown, +and is pinned, French fashion, half-way across her bosom. Her arms, +white and soft, and rounded as a child's, are bared to the elbows, her +sleeves being carefully tucked up. Two little feet, encased in Louis +Quinze slippers, peep coyly from beneath her robe. + +Upon this vision Cyril gazes, his whole heart in his eyes, and marks +with wondering admiration each fresh beauty. She is tall, rather _posée_ +in figure, with a small, proud head, and the carriage of a goddess. Her +features are not altogether perfect, and yet (or rather because of it) +she is extremely beautiful. She has great, soft, trusting eyes of a deep +rare gray, that looking compel the truth; above her low white forehead +her hair rolls back in silky ruffled waves, and is gathered into a loose +knot behind. It is a rich nut-brown in color, through which runs a faint +tinge of red that turns to burnished gold under the sun's kiss. Her skin +is exquisite, pale but warm, through which as she speaks the blood comes +and lingers awhile, and flies only to return. Her mouth is perhaps, +strictly speaking, in a degree imperfect, yet it is one of her principal +charms; it is large and lovable, and covers pretty teeth as white as +snow. For my part I love a large mouth, if well shaped, and do not +believe a hearty laugh can issue from a small one. And, after all, what +is life without its laughter? + +A little white cap of the "mob" description adorns her head, and is +trimmed fancifully with black velvet bows that match her gown. Her hands +are small and fine, the fingers tapering; just now they are clasped +together excitedly; and a brilliant color has come into her cheeks as +she stands (unconscious of criticism) and watches the depravity of her +favorite. + +"Oh! catch him, Kate," she cries, in a clear, sweet voice, that is now +rather impetuous and suggests rising indignation. "Wicked little wretch! +He shall have a good whipping for this. Dirty little dog,"--(this to the +black terrier, in a tone of reproachful disgust)--"not to want his nice +clean bath after all the dust of yesterday and to-day!" + +This rebuke is evidently lost upon the reprobate terrier, who still +flies before the enemy who follows on his heels in hot pursuit. Round +and round, in and out, hither and thither he goes, the breathless maid +after him, the ceaseless upbraiding of his mistress ringing in his ears. +The nice clean bath has no charms for this degenerate dog, although his +ablutions are to be made sweet by the touch of those snowy dimpled hands +now clasped in an agony of expectation. No, this miserable animal, +disdaining all the good things in store for him, rushes past Kate, past +his angry mistress, past the roses, out through the bars of the gate +right into Cyril's arms! Oh, ill-judging dog! + +Cyril, having caught him, holds him closely, in spite of his vehement +struggles, for, scenting mischief in the air, he fights valiantly for +freedom. + +Kate runs to the garden-gate, so does the bare-armed goddess, and there, +on the path, behold their naughty treasure held fast in a stranger's +arms! + +When she sees him the goddess suddenly freezes and grows gravely +dignified. The smile departs from her lips, the rich crimson dies, while +in its place a faint, delicate blush comes to suffuse her cheeks. + +"This is your dog, I think?" says Cyril, pretending to be doubtful on +the subject; though who could be more sure? + +"Yes,--thank you." Then as her eyes fall upon her lovely naked arms the +blush grows deeper and deeper, until at length her face is red as one of +her own perfect roses. + +"He was very dusty after yesterday's journey, and I was going to wash +him," she says, with a gentle dignity but an evident anxiety to explain. + +"Lucky dog!" says Cyril gravely, in a low tone. + +Kate has disappeared into the background with the refractory pet, whose +quavering protests are lost in the distance. Again silence has fallen +upon the house, the wood, the flowers. The faintest flicker of a smile +trembles for one instant round the corners of the stranger's lips, then +is quickly subdued. + +"Thank you, sir," she says, once more, quietly, and turning away, is +swallowed up hurriedly by the envious roses. + +All the way home Cyril's mind is full of curious thought, though one +topic alone engrosses it. The mistress of that small ungrateful terrier +has taken complete and entire possession of him, to the exclusion of all +other matter. So the widow has not arrived in solitary state,--that is +evident. And what a lovely girl to bring down and bury alive in this +quiet spot. Who on earth can she be? + +How beautiful her arms were, and her hands!--Even the delicate, tinted +filbert nails had not escaped his eager gaze. How sweet she looked, how +bright! Surely a widow would not be fit company for so gay a creature; +and still, when she grew grave at the gate, when her smile faded, had +not a wistful, sorrowful expression fallen across her face and into her +exquisite eyes? Perhaps she, too, has suffered,--is in trouble, and, +through sympathy, clings to her friend the widow. + +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 this Chetwoode?" Lilian asks, five minutes later, as they pass +through the entrance gate. "What a charming avenue!"--putting her head +out of the window, "and so dark. I like it dark; it reminds me of"--she +pauses, and two large tears come slowly, slowly into her blue eyes and +tremble there--"my home," she says in a low tone. + +"You must try to be happy with us," Cyril says, kindly, taking one of +her hands and pressing it gently, to enforce his sympathy; and then the +horses draw up at the hall door, and he helps her to alight, and +presently she finds herself within the doors of Chetwoode. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + "Ye scenes of my childhood, whose loved recollection + Embitters the present, compared with the past."--BYRON. + + +When Lady Chetwoode, who is sitting in the drawing-room, hears the +carriage draw up to the door, she straightens herself in her chair, +smoothes down the folds of her black velvet gown with rather nervous +fingers, and prepares for an unpleasant surprise. She hears Cyril's +voice in the hall inquiring where his mother is, and, rising to her +feet, she makes ready to receive her new ward. + +She has put on what she fondly hopes is a particularly gracious air, but +which is in reality a palpable mixture of fear and uncertainty. The door +opens; there is a slight pause; and then Lilian, slight, and fair, and +pretty, stands upon the threshold. + +She is very pale, partly through fatigue, but much more through +nervousness and the self-same feeling of uncertainty that is weighing +down her hostess. As her eyes meet Lady Chetwoode's they take an +appealing expression that goes straight to the heart of that kindest of +women. + +"You have arrived, my dear," she says, a ring of undeniable cordiality +in her tone, while from her face all the unpleasant fear has vanished. +She moves forward to greet her guest, and as Lilian comes up to her +takes the fair sweet face between her hands and kisses her softly on +each cheek. + +"You are like your mother," she says, presently, holding the girl a +little way from her and regarding her with earnest attention. +"Yes,--very like your mother, and she was beautiful. You are welcome to +Chetwoode, my dear child." + +Lilian, who is feeling rather inclined to cry, does not trust herself to +make any spoken rejoinder, but, putting up her lips of her own accord, +presses them gratefully to Lady Chetwoode's, thereby ratifying the +silent bond of friendship that without a word has on the instant been +sealed between the old woman and the young one. + +A great sense of relief has fallen upon Lady Chetwoode. Not until now, +when her fears have been proved groundless, does she fully comprehend +the amount of uneasiness and positive horror with which she has regarded +the admittance of a stranger into her happy home circle. The thought +that something unrefined, disagreeable, unbearable, might be coming has +followed like a nightmare for the past week, but now, in the presence of +this lovely child, it has fled away ashamed, never to return. + +Lilian's delicate, well-bred face and figure, her small hands, her +graceful movements, her whole air, proclaim her one of the world to +which Lady Chetwoode belongs, and the old lady, who is aristocrat to her +fingers' ends, hails the fact with delight. Her beauty alone had almost +won her cause, when she cast that beseeching glance from the doorway; +and now when she lets the heavy tears grow in her blue eyes, all doubt +is at end, and "almost" gives way to "quite." + +Henceforth she is altogether welcome at Chetwoode, as far as its present +gentle mistress is concerned. + +"Cyril took care of you, I hope?" says Lady Chetwoode, glancing over her +guest's head at her second son, and smiling kindly. + +"Great care of me," returning the smile. + +"But you are tired, of course; it is a long journey, and no doubt you +are glad to reach home," says Lady Chetwoode, using the word naturally. +And though the mention of it causes Lilian a pang, still there is +something tender and restful about it too, that gives some comfort to +her heart. + +"Perhaps you would like to go to your room," continues Lady Chetwoode, +thoughtfully, "though I fear your maid cannot have arrived yet." + +"Miss Chesney, like Juliet, boasts a nurse," says Cyril; "she scorns to +travel with a mere maid." + +"My nurse has always attended me," says Lilian, laughing and blushing. +"She has waited on me since I was a month old. I should not know how to +get on without her, and I am sure she could not get on without me. I +think she is far better than any maid I could get." + +"She must have an interest in you that no new-comer could possibly +have," says Lady Chetwoode, who is in the humor to agree with anything +Lilian may say, so thankful is she to her for being what she is. And yet +so strong is habit that involuntarily, as she speaks, her eyes seek +Lilian's hair, which is dressed to perfection. "I have no doubt she is a +treasure,"--with an air of conviction. "Come with me, my dear." + +They leave the room together. In the hall the housekeeper, coming +forward, says respectfully: + +"Shall I take Miss Chesney to her room, my lady?" + +"No, Matthews," says Lady Chetwoode, graciously; "it will give me +pleasure to take her there myself." + +By which speech all the servants are at once made aware that Miss +Chesney is already in high favor with "my lady," who never, except on +very rare occasions, takes the trouble to see personally after her +visitors' comfort. + + * * * * * + +When Lilian has been ten minutes in her room Mrs. Tipping arrives, and +is shown up-stairs, where she finds her small mistress evidently in the +last stage of despondency. These ten lonely minutes have been fatal to +her new-born hopes, and have reduced her once more to the melancholy +frame of mind in which she left her home in the morning. All this the +faithful Tipping sees at a glance, and instantly essays to cheer her. + +Silently and with careful fingers she first removes her hat, then her +jacket, then she induces her to stand up, and, taking off her dress, +throws round her a white wrapper taken from a trunk, and prepares to +brush the silky yellow hair that for eighteen years has been her own to +dress and tend and admire. + +"Eh, Miss Lilian, child, but it's a lovely place!" she says, presently, +this speech being intended as a part of the cheering process. + +"It seems a fine place," says the "child," indifferently. + +"Fine it is indeed. Grander even than the Park, I'm thinking." + +"'Grander than the Park'!" says Miss Chesney, rousing to unexpected +fervor. "How can you say that? Have you grown fickle, nurse? There is no +place to be compared to the Park, not one in all the world. You can +think as you please, of course,"--with reproachful scorn,--"but it is +_not_ grander than the Park." + +"I meant larger, ninny," soothingly. + +"It is not larger." + +"But, darling, how can you say so when you haven't been round it?" + +"How can _you_ say so when _you_ haven't been round it?" + +This is a poser. Nurse meditates a minute and then says: + +"Thomas--that's the groom that drove me--says it is." + +"Thomas!"--with a look that, had the wretched Thomas been on the spot, +would infallibly have reduced him to ashes; "and what does Thomas know +about it? It is _not_ larger." + +Silence. + +"Indeed, my bairn, I think you might well be happy here," says nurse, +tenderly returning to the charge. + +"I don't want you to think about me at all," says Miss Chesney, in +trembling tones. "You agreed with Aunt Priscilla that I ought to leave +my dear, dear home, and I shall never forgive you for it. I am not happy +here. I shall never be happy here. I shall die of fretting for the Park, +and when I am _dead_ you will perhaps be satisfied." + +"Miss Lilian!" + +"You shan't brush my hair any more," says Miss Lilian, dexterously +evading the descent of the brush. "I can do it for myself very well. You +are a traitor." + +"I am sorry, Miss Chesney, if I have displeased you," says nurse, with +much dignity tempered with distress: only when deeply grieved and +offended does she give her mistress her full title. + +"How dare you call me Miss Chesney!" cries the young lady, springing to +her feet. "It is very unkind of you, and just now too, when I am all +alone in a strange house. Oh, nurse!" throwing her arms round the neck +of that devoted and long-suffering woman, and forgetful of her +resentment, which indeed was born only of her regret, "I am so unhappy, +and lonely, and sorry! What shall I do?" + +"How can I tell you, my lamb?"--caressing with infinite affection the +golden head that lies upon her bosom. "All that I say only vexes you." + +"No, it doesn't: I am wicked when I make you think that. After +all,"--raising her face--"I am not quite forsaken; I have you still, and +you will never leave me." + +"Not unless I die, my dear," says nurse, earnestly. "And, Miss Lilian, +how can you look at her ladyship without knowing her to be a real +friend. And Mr. Chetwoode too; and perhaps Sir Guy will be as nice, when +you see him." + +"Perhaps he won't," ruefully. + +"That's nonsense, my dear. Let us look at the bright side of things +always. And by and by Master Taffy will come here on a visit, and then +it will be like old times. Come, now, be reasonable, child of my heart," +says nurse, "and tell me, won't you look forward to having Master Taffy +here?" + +"I wish he was here now," says Lilian, visibly brightening. "Yes; +perhaps they will ask him. But, nurse, do you remember when last I saw +Taffy it was at----" + +Here she shows such unmistakable symptoms of relapsing into the tearful +mood again, that nurse sees the necessity of changing the subject. + +"Come, my bairn, let me dress you for dinner," she says, briskly, and +presently, after a little more coaxing, she succeeds so well that she +sends her little mistress down to the drawing-room, looking her +loveliest and her best. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + "Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self, + Recluse amid the close-embowering woods." + --THOMSON. + + +Next morning, having enjoyed the long and dreamless sleep that belongs +to the heart-whole, Lilian runs down to the breakfast-room, with the +warm sweet flush of health and youth upon her cheeks. Finding Lady +Chetwoode and Cyril already before her, she summons all her grace to her +aid and tries to look ashamed of herself. + +"Am I late?" she asks, going up to Lady Chetwoode and giving her a +little caress as a good-morning. Her very touch is so gentle and +childish and loving that it sinks straight into the deepest recesses of +one's heart. + +"No. Don't be alarmed. I have only just come down myself. You will soon +find us out to be some of the laziest people alive." + +"I am glad of it: I like lazy people," says Lilian; "all the rest seem +to turn their lives into one great worry." + +"Will you not give me a good-morning, Miss Chesney?" says Cyril, who is +standing behind her. + +"Good-morning," putting her hand into his. + +"But that is not the way you gave it to my mother," in an aggrieved +tone. + +"No?--Oh!"--as she comprehends,--"but you should remember how much more +deserving your mother is." + +"With sorrow I acknowledge the truth of your remark," says Cyril, as he +hands her her tea. + +"Cyril is our naughty boy," Lady Chetwoode says; "we all spend our lives +making allowances for Cyril. You must not mind what he says. I hope you +slept well, Lilian; there is nothing does one so much good as a sound +sleep, and you looked quite pale with fatigue last night. You +see"--smiling--"how well I know your name. It is very familiar to me, +having been your dear mother's." + +"It seems strangely familiar to me also, though I never know your +mother," says Cyril. "I don't believe I shall ever be able to call you +Miss Chesney. Would it make you very angry if I called you Lilian?" + +"Indeed, no; I shall be very much obliged to you. I should hardly know +myself by the more formal title. You shall call me Lilian, and I shall +call you Cyril,--if you don't mind." + +"I don't think I do,--much," says Cyril; so the compact is signed. + +"Guy will be here surely by luncheon," says Lady Chetwoode, with a view +of giving her guest pleasure. + +"Oh! will he really?" says Lilian, in a quick tone, suggestive of +dismay. + +"I am sure of it," says Guy's mother fondly: "he never breaks his word." + +"Of course not," thinks Lilian to herself. "Fancy a paragon going wrong! +How I hate a man who never breaks his word! Why, the Medes and Persians +would be weak-minded compared with him." + +"I suppose not," she says aloud, rather vaguely. + +"You seem to appreciate the idea of your guardian's return," says Cyril, +with a slight smile, having read half her thoughts correctly. "Does the +mere word frighten you? I should like to know your real opinion of what +a guardian ought to be." + +"How can I have an opinion on the subject when I have never seen one?" + +"Yet a moment ago I saw by your face you were picturing one to +yourself." + +"If so, it could scarcely be Sir Guy,--as he is not old." + +"Not very. He has still a few hairs and a few teeth remaining. But won't +you then answer my question? What is your ideal guardian like?" + +"If you press it I shall tell you, but you must not betray me to Sir +Guy," says Lilian, turning to include Lady Chetwoode in her caution. "My +ideal is always a lean old gentleman of about sixty, with a stoop, and +any amount of determination. He has a hooked nose on which gold-rimmed +spectacles eternally stride; eyes that look one through and through; a +mouth full of trite phrases, unpleasant maxims, and false teeth; and a +decided tendency toward the suppression of all youthful follies." + +"Guy will be an agreeable surprise. I had no idea you could be so +severe." + +"Nor am I. You must not think me so," says Lilian, blushing warmly and +looking rather sorry for having spoken; "but you know you insisted on an +answer. Perhaps I should not have spoken so freely, but that I know my +real guardian is not at all like my ideal." + +"How do you know? Perhaps he too is toothless, old, and unpleasant. He +is a great deal older than I am." + +"He can't be a great deal older." + +"Why?" + +"Because"--with a shy glance at the gentle face behind the urn--"Lady +Chetwoode looks so young." + +She blushes again as she says this, and regards her hostess with an air +of such thorough good faith as wins that lady's liking on the spot. + +"You are right," says Cyril, laughing; "she _is_ young. She is never to +grow old, because her 'boys,' as she calls us, object to old women. You +may have heard of 'perennial spring;' well, that is another name for my +mother. But you must not tell her so, because she is horribly conceited, +and would lead us an awful life if we didn't keep her down." + +"Cyril, my dear!" says Lady Chetwoode, laughing, which is about the +heaviest reproof she ever delivers. + +All this time, her breakfast being finished, Lilian has been carefully +and industriously breaking up all the bread left upon her plate, until +now quite a small pyramid stands in the centre of it. + +Cyril, having secretly crumbled some of his, now, stooping forward, +places it upon the top of her hillock. + +"I haven't the faintest idea what you intend doing with it," he says, +"but, as I am convinced you have some grand project in view, I feel a +mean desire to be associated with it in some way by having a finger in +the pie. Is it for a pie? I am dying of vulgar curiosity." + +"I!"--with a little shocked start; "it doesn't matter, I--I quite +forgot. I----" + +She presses her hand nervously down upon the top of her goodly pile, and +suppresses the gay little erection until it lies prostrate on her plate, +where even then it makes a very fair show. + +"You meant it for something, my dear, did you not?" asks Lady Chetwoode, +kindly. + +"Yes, for the birds," says the girl, turning upon her two great earnest +eyes that shine like stars through regretful tears. "At home I used to +collect all the broken bread for them every morning. And they grew so +fond of me, the very robins used to come and perch upon my shoulders and +eat little bits from my lips. There was no one to frighten them. There +was only me, and I loved them. When I knew I must leave the Park,"--a +sorrowful quiver making her voice sad,--"I determined to break my going +gently to them, and at first I only fed them every second day,--in +person,--and then only every third day, and at last only once a week, +until"--in a low tone--"they forgot me altogether." + +"Ungrateful birds," says Cyril, with honest disgust, something like +moisture in his own eyes, so real is her grief. + +"Yes, that was the worst of all, to be so _soon_ forgotten, and I had +fed them without missing a day for five years. But they were not +ungrateful; why should they remember me, when they thought I had tired +of them? Yet I always broke the bread for them every morning, though I +would not give it myself, and to-day"--she sighs--"I forgot I was not at +home." + +"My dear," says Lady Chetwoode, laying her own white, plump, jeweled +hand upon Lilian's slender, snowy one, as it lies beside her on the +table, "you flatter me very much when you say that even for a moment you +felt this house home. I hope you will let the feeling grow in you, and +will try to remember that here you have a true welcome forever, until +you wish to leave us. And as for the birds, I too love them,--dear, +pretty creatures,--and I shall take it as a great kindness, my dear +Lilian, if every morning you will gather up the crumbs and give them to +your little feathered friends." + +"How good you are!" says Lilian, gratefully, turning her small palm +upward so as to give Lady Chetwoode's hand a good squeeze. "I know I +shall be happy here. And I am so glad you like the birds; perhaps here +they may learn to love me, too. Do you know, before leaving the Park, I +wrote a note to my cousin, asking him not to forget to give them bread +every day?--but young men are so careless,"--in a disparaging tone,--"I +dare say he won't take the trouble to see about it." + +"I am a young man," remarks Mr. Chetwoode, suggestively. + +"Yes, I know it," returns Miss Chesney, coolly. + +"I dare say your cousin will think of it," says Lady Chetwoode, who has +a weakness for young men, and always believes the best of them. +"Archibald is very kind-hearted." + +"You know him?"--surprised. + +"Very well, indeed. He comes here almost every autumn to shoot with the +boys. You know, his own home is not ten miles from Chetwoode." + +"I did not know. I never thought of him at all until I knew he was to +inherit the Park. Do you think he will come here this autumn?" + +"I hope so. Last year he was abroad, and we saw nothing of him; but now +he has come home I am sure he will renew his visits. He is a great +favorite of mine; I think you, too, will like him." + +"Don't be too sanguine," says Lilian; "just now I regard him as a +usurper; I feel as though he had stolen my Park." + +"Marry him," says Cyril, "and get it back again. Some more tea, +Miss--Lilian?" + +"If you please--Cyril,"--with a light laugh. "You see, it comes easier +to me than to you, after all." + +"_Place aux dames!_ I felt some embarrassment about commencing. In the +future I shall put my _mauvaise honte_ in my pocket, and regard you as +something I have always longed for,--that is, a sister." + +"Very well, and you must be very good to me," says Lilian, "because +never having had one, I have a very exalted idea of what a brother +should be." + +"How shall you amuse yourself all the morning, child?" asks Lady +Chetwoode. "I fear you're beginning by thinking us stupid." + +"Don't trouble about me," says Lilian. "If I may, I should like to go +out and take a run round the gardens alone. I can always make +acquaintance with places quicker if left to find them out for myself." + +When breakfast is over, and they have all turned their backs with gross +ingratitude upon the morning-room, she dons her hat and sallies forth +bent on discovery. + +Through the gardens she goes, admiring the flowers, pulling a blossom or +two, making love to the robins and sparrows, and gay little chaffinches, +that sit aloft in the branches and pour down sonnets on her head. The +riotous butterflies, skimming hither and thither in the bright sunshine, +hail her coming, and rush with wanton joy across her eyes, as though +seeking to steal from them a lovelier blue for their soft wings. The +flowers, the birds, the bees, the amorous wind, all woo this creature, +so full of joy and sweetness and the unsurpassable beauty of youth. + +She makes a rapid rush through all the hothouses, feeling almost stifled +in them this day, so rich in sun, and, gaining the orchard, eats a +little fruit, and makes a lasting conquest of Michael, the +head-gardener, who, when she has gone into generous raptures over his +arrangements, becomes her abject slave on the spot, and from that day +forward acknowledges no power superior to hers. + +Tiring of admiration, she leaves the garrulous old man, and wanders away +over the closely-shaven lawn, past the hollies, into the wood beyond, +singing as she goes, as is her wont. + +In the deep green wood a delicious sense of freedom possesses her; she +walks on, happy, unsuspicious of evil to come, free of care (oh, that we +all were so!), with nothing to chain her thoughts to earth, or compel +her to dream of aught but the sufficing joy of living, the glad earth +beneath her, the brilliant foliage around, the blue heavens above her +head. + +Alas! alas! how short is the time that lies between the child and the +woman! the intermediate state when, with awakened eyes and arms +outstretched, we inhale the anticipation of life, is as but one day in +comparison with all the years of misery and uncertain pleasure to be +eventually derived from the reality thereof! + +Coming to a rather high wall, Lilian pauses, but not for long. There are +few walls either in Chetwoode or elsewhere likely to daunt Miss Chesney, +when in the humor for exploring. + +Putting one foot into a friendly crevice, and holding on valiantly to +the upper stones, she climbs, and, gaining the top, gazes curiously +around. + +As she turns to survey the land over which she has traveled, a young man +emerges from among the low-lying brushwood, and comes quickly forward. +He is clad in a light-gray suit of tweed, and has in his mouth a +meerschaum pipe of the very latest design. + +He is very tall, very handsome, thoughtful in expression. His hair is +light brown,--what there is of it,--his barber having left him little to +boast of except on the upper lip, where a heavy, drooping moustache of +the same color grows unrebuked. He is a little grave, a little indolent, +a good deal passionate. The severe lines around his well-cut mouth are +softened and counterbalanced by the extreme friendliness of his kind, +dark eyes, that are so dark as to make one doubt whether their blue is +not indeed black. + +Lilian, standing on her airy perch, is still singing, and imparting to +the surrounding scenery the sad story of "Barb'ra Allen's" vile +treatment of her adoring swain, and consequent punishment, when the +crackling of leaves beneath a human foot causing her to turn, she finds +herself face to face with a stranger not a hundred yards away. + +The song dies upon her lips, an intense desire to be elsewhere gains +upon her. The young man in gray, putting his meerschaum in his pocket as +a concession to this unexpected warbler, advances leisurely; and Lilian, +feeling vaguely conscious that the top of a wall, though exalted, is not +the most dignified situation in the world, trusting to her activity, +springs to the ground, and regains with mother earth her self-respect. + +"How could you be so foolish? I do hope you are not hurt," says the gray +young man, coming forward anxiously. + +"Not in the least, thank you," smiling so adorably that he forgets to +speak for a moment or two. Then he says with some hesitation, as though +in doubt: + +"Am I addressing my--ward?" + +"How can I be sure," replies she, also in doubt, "until I know whether +indeed you are my--guardian?" + +"I am Guy Chetwoode," says he, laughing, and raising his hat. + +"And I am Lilian Chesney," replies she, smiling in return, and making a +pretty old-fashioned reverence. + +"Then now I suppose we may shake hands without any breach of etiquette, +and swear eternal friendship," extending his hand. + +"I shall reserve my oath until later on," says Miss Chesney, demurely, +but she gives him her hand nevertheless, with unmistakable _bonhommie_. +"You are going home?" glancing up at him from under her broad-brimmed +hat. "If so, I shall go with you, as I am a little tired." + +"But this wall," says Guy, looking with considerable doubt upon the +uncompromising barrier on the summit of which he had first seen her. +"Had we not better go round?" + +"A thousand times no. What!"--gayly--"to be defeated by such a simple +obstacle as that? I have surmounted greater difficulties than that wall +many a time. If you will get up and give me your hands, I dare say I +shall be able to manage it." + +Thus adjured, Guy climbs, and, gaining the top, stoops to give her the +help desired; she lays her hand in his, and soon he draws her in triumph +to his side. + +"Now to get down," he says, laughing. "Wait." He jumps lightly into the +next field, and, turning, holds out his arms to her. "You must not risk +your neck the second time," he says. "When I saw you give that +tremendous leap a minute ago, my blood froze in my veins. Such terrible +exertion was never meant for--a fairy!" + +"Am I so very small?" says Lilian. "Well, take me down, then." + +She leans toward him, and gently, reverentially he takes her in his arms +and places her on the ground beside him. With such a slight burden to +lift he feels himself almost a Hercules. The whole act does not occupy +half a minute, and already he wishes vaguely it did not take so _very_ +short a time to bring a pretty woman from a wall to the earth beneath. +In some vague manner he understands that for him the situation had its +charm. + +Miss Chesney is thoroughly unembarrassed. + +"There is something in having a young guardian, after all," she says, +casting upon him a glance half shy half merry, wholly sweet. She lays a +faint emphasis upon the "young." + +"You have had doubts on the subject, then?" + +"Serious doubts. But I see there is truth in the old saying that 'there +are few things so bad but that they might have been worse.'" + +"Do you mean to tell me that I am 'something bad'?" + +"No"--laughing; "how I wish I could! It is your superiority frightens +me. I hear I must look on you as something superlatively good." + +"How shocking! And in what way am I supposed to excel my brethren?" + +"In every way," with a good deal of malice: "I have been bred in the +belief that you are a _rara avis_, a model, a----" + +"Your teachers have done me a great injury. I shudder when I contemplate +the bitter awakening you must have when you come to know me better." + +"I hope so. I dare say"--naively--"I could learn to like you very well, +if you proved on acquaintance a little less immaculate than I have been +led to believe you." + +"I shall instantly throw over my pronounced taste for the Christian +virtues, and take steadily to vice," says Guy, with decision: "will that +satisfy your ladyship?" + +"Perhaps you put it a little too strongly," says Lilian, demurely. "By +the bye"--irrelevantly,--"what business took you from home yesterday?" + +"I have to beg your pardon for that,--my absence, I mean; but I could +not help it. And it was scarcely business kept me absent," confesses +Chetwoode, who, if he is anything, is strictly honest, "rather a promise +to dine and sleep at some friends of ours, the Bellairs, who live a few +miles from us." + +"Then it wasn't really that bugbear, business? I begin to revive," says +Miss Chesney. + +"No; nothing half so healthy. I wish I had some more legitimate excuse +to offer for my seeming want of courtesy than the fact of my having to +attend a prosy dinner; but I haven't. I feel I deserve a censure, yet I +hope you won't administer one when I tell you I found a very severe +punishment in the dinner itself." + +"I forgive you," says Lilian, with deep pity. + +"It was a long-standing engagement, and, though I knew what lay before +me, I found I could not elude it any longer. I hate long engagements; +don't you?" + +"Cordially. But I should never dream of entering on one." + +"I did, unfortunately." + +"Then don't do it again." + +"I won't. Never. I finally make up my mind. At least, most certainly not +for the days you may be expected." + +"I fear I'm a fixture,"--ruefully: "you won't have to expect me again." + +"Don't say you fear it: I hope you will be happy here." + +"I hope so, too, and I think it. I like your brother Cyril very much, +and your mother is a darling." + +"And what am I?" + +"Ask me that question a month hence." + +"Shall I tell you what I think of you?" + +"If you wish," says Lilian, indifferently, though in truth she is dying +of curiosity. + +"Well, then, from the very first moment my eyes fell upon you, I thought +to myself: She is without exception the most---- After all, though, I +think I too shall reserve my opinion for a month or so." + +"You are right,"--suppressing valiantly all outward symptoms of +disappointment: "your ideas then will be more formed. Are you fond of +riding, Sir Guy?" + +"Very. Are you?" + +"Oh! am I not? I could ride from morning till night." + +"You are enthusiastic." + +"Yes,"--with a saucy smile,--"that is one of my many virtues. I think +one should be thoroughly in earnest about everything one undertakes. Do +you like dancing?" + +"Rather. It entirely depends upon whom one may be dancing with. There +are some people"--with a short but steady glance at her--"that I feel +positive I could dance with forever without knowing fatigue, or what is +worse, _ennui_. There are others----" an expressive pause. "I have +felt," says Sir Guy, with visible depression, "on certain occasions, as +though I could commit an open assault on the band because it would +insist on playing its waltz from start to finish, instead of stopping +after the first two bars and thereby giving me a chance of escape." + +"Poor 'others'! I see you can be unkind when you choose." + +"But that is seldom, and only when driven to desperation. Are you fond +of dancing? But of course you are: I need scarcely have asked. No doubt +you could dance as well as ride from morning until night." + +"You wrong me slightly. As a rule, I prefer dancing from night until +morning. You skate?" + +"Beautifully!" with ecstatic fervor; "I never saw any one who could +skate as well." + +"No? You shan't be long so. Prepare for a downfall to your pride. I can +skate better than any one in the world." + +Here they both laugh, and, turning, let their eyes meet. Instinctively +they draw closer to each other, and a very kindly feeling springs into +being. + +"They maligned you," says Lilian, softly raising her lovely face, and +gazing at him attentively, with a rather dangerous amount of +ingenuousness. "I begin to fancy you are not so very terrific as they +said. I dare say we shall be quite good friends after all." + +"I wish I was as sure of most things as I am of my own feeling on that +point," says Guy, with considerable warmth, holding out his hand. + +She slips her cool, slim fingers into his, and smiles frankly. There +they lie like little snow-flakes on his broad palm, and as he gazes on +them a great and most natural desire to kiss them presents itself to his +mind. + +"I think we ought to ratify our vow of good-fellowship," says he, +artfully, looking at her as though to gain permission for the theft, and +seeing no rebuff in her friendly eyes, stoops and steals a little +sweetness from the white hand he holds. + +They are almost at the house by this time, and presently, gaining the +drawing-room, find Lady Chetwoode sitting there awaiting them. + +"Ah, Guy, you have returned," cries she, well pleased. + +"Yes, I found my guardian straying aimlessly in a great big wood, so I +brought him home in triumph," says Lilian's gay voice, who is in high +good humor. "Is luncheon ready? Dear Lady Chetwoode, do not say I am +late for the second time to-day." + +"Not more than five minutes, and you know we do not profess to live by +rule. Run away, and take off your hat, child, and come back to me +again." + +So Lilian does as she is desired, and runs away up the broad stairs in +haste, to reduce her rebellious locks to order; yet so pleased is she +with her _rencontre_ with her guardian, and the want of ferocity he has +displayed, and the general desirableness of his face and figure, that +she cannot refrain from pausing midway in her career to apostrophize a +dark-browed warrior who glowers down upon her from one of the walls. + +"By my halidame, and by my troth, and by all the wonderful oaths of your +period, Sir Knight," says she, smiling saucily, and dropping him a +wicked curtsey, "you have good reason to be proud of your kinsman. For, +by Cupid, he is a monstrous handsome man, and vastly agreeable!" + +After this astounding sally she continues her flight, and presently +finds herself in her bedroom and almost in nurse's arms. + +"Lawks-amussy!" says that good old lady, with a gasp, putting her hand +to her side, "what a turn you did give me! Will the child never learn to +walk?" + +"I have seen him!" says Lilian, without preamble, only pausing to give +nurse a naughty little poke in the other side with a view to restoring +her lost equilibrium. + +"Sir Guy?" anxiously. + +"Even so. The veritable and awful Sir Guy! And he isn't a bit awful, in +spite of all we heard; isn't that good news? and he is very handsome, +and quite nice, and apparently can enjoy the world as well as another, +and can do a naughty thing at a pinch; and I know he likes me by the +expression of his eyes, and he actually unbended so far as to stoop to +kiss my hand! There!" All this without stop or comma. + +"Kissed your hand, my lamb! So soon! he did not lose much time. How the +world does wag nowadays!" says nurse, holding aloft her hands in pious +protest. "Only to know you an hour or so, and to have the face to kiss +your hand! Eh, but it's dreadful, it's brazen! I do hope this Sir Guy is +not a wolf in sheep's clothing." + +"It was very good clothing, anyhow. There is consolation in that. I +could never like a man whose coat was badly cut. And his hands,--I +particularly noticed them,--they are long, and well shaped, and quite +brown." + +"You seem mightily pleased with him on so short an acquaintance," says +nurse, shrewdly. "Brown hand, forsooth,--and a shapely coat! Eh, child, +but there's more wanting than that. Maybe it's thinking of being my Lady +Guy you'll be, one of these days?" + +"Nurse, I never met so brilliant a goose as you! And would you throw +away your lovely nursling upon a paltry baronet? Oh! shame! And +yet"--teasingly--"one might do worse." + +"I'll tell you that, when I see him," says cautious nurse, and having +given one last finishing touch to her darling's golden head, dismisses +her to her luncheon and the pernicious attentions of the daring wolf. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + "CLAUD: 'In mine eye, she is the sweetest lady that ever I looked + on.'"--_Much Ado About Nothing_. + + +It is that most satisfactory hour of all the twenty-four,--dinner-hour. +Even yet the busy garish day has not quite vanished, but peeps in upon +them curiously through the open windows,--upon Lady Chetwoode mild and +gracious, upon the two young men, upon airy Lilian looking her bravest +and bonniest in some transparent gown of sombre black, through which her +fair young neck and arms gleam delicately. + +Her only ornaments are roses,--rich, soft white roses, gathered from the +gardens outside: one, sweeter and happier than its fellows, slumbers +cozily in her golden hair. + +Cyril and she, sitting opposite to each other, smile and jest and +converse across the huge bowl of scented flowers that stands in the +centre of the table, while Guy, who is a little silent, keeps wondering +secretly whether any other woman has skin so dazzlingly fair, or eyes so +blue, or hair so richly gilded. + +"I have seen the widow," he says at length, rousing himself to a sense +of his own taciturnity. "On my way home this morning, before I met +you,"--turning to Lilian,--"I thought it my duty to look her up, and say +I hoped she was comfortable, and all that." + +"And you saw her?" asks Cyril, regarding Guy attentively. + +"Yes; she is extremely pretty, and extremely coy,--cold I ought to say, +as there didn't seem to be even the smallest spice of coquetry about +her." + +"That's the safest beginning of all," says Cyril confidentially to his +mother, "and no doubt the latest. I dare say she looked as though she +thought he would never leave." + +"She did," says Guy, laughing, "and, what is more unflattering, I am +sure she meant it." + +"Clever woman!" + +"However, if she intended what you think, she rather defeated her +object; as I shan't trouble her again in a hurry. Can't bear feeling +myself in the way." + +"Is she really pretty?" Cyril asks, curiously, though idly. + +"Really; almost lovely." + +"Evidently a handsome family," thinks Cyril. "I wonder if he saw my +friend the sister, or step-sister, or companion." + +"She looks sad, too," goes on Guy, "and as though she had a melancholy +story attached to her." + +"I do hope not, my dear," interrupts his mother, uneasily. "There is +nothing so objectionable as a woman with a story. Later on one is sure +to hear something wrong about her." + +"I agree with you," Cyril says, promptly. "I can't bear mysterious +people. When in their society, I invariably find myself putting a check +on my conversation, and blushing whenever I get on the topic of +forgeries, burglaries, murders, elopements, and so forth. I never can +keep myself from studying their faces when such subjects are mentioned, +to see which it was had ruffled the peace of their existence. It is +absurd, I know, but I can't help it, and it makes me uncomfortable." + +"Does this lady live in the wood, where I met you?" asks Lilian, +addressing Guy, and apparently deeply interested. + +"Yes, about a mile from that particular spot. She is a new tenant we +took to oblige a friend, but we know nothing about her." + +"How very romantic!" says Lilian; "it is just like a story." + +"Yes; the image of the 'Children of the Abbey,' or 'The Castle of +Otranto,'" says Cyril. "Has she any one living with her, Guy?" +carelessly. + +"Yes, two servants, and a small ill-tempered terrier." + +"I mean any friends. It must be dull to be by one's self." + +"I don't know. I saw no one. She don't seem ambitious about making +acquaintances, as, when I said I hoped she would not find it lonely, and +that my mother would have much pleasure in calling on her, she blushed +painfully, and said she was never lonely, and that she would esteem it a +kindness if we would try to forget she was at the cottage." + +"That was rather rude, my dear, wasn't it?" says Lady Chetwoode mildly. + +"It sounds so, but, as she said it, it wasn't rude. She appeared +nervous, I thought, and as though she had but lately recovered from a +severe illness. When the blush died away, she was as white as death." + +"Well, I shan't distress her by calling," says Lady Chetwoode, who is +naturally a little offended by the unknown's remark. Unconsciously she +has been viewing her coming with distrust, and now this unpleasing +message--for as a message directly addressed to herself she regards +it--has had the effect of changing a smouldering doubt into an +acknowledged dislike. + +"I wonder how she means to employ her time down here," says Cyril. +"Scenery abounds, but lovely views don't go a long way with most people. +After a while they are apt to pall." + +"Is there pretty scenery round Truston?" asks Lilian. + +"Any amount of it. Like 'Auburn,' it is the 'loveliest village of the +plain.' But I can't say we are a very enterprising people. Sometimes it +occurs to one of us to give a dinner-party, but no sooner do we issue +the invitations than we sit down and repent bitterly; and on rare +occasions we may have a ball, which means a drive of fourteen miles on a +freezing night, and universal depression and sneezing for a week +afterward. Perhaps the widow is wise in declining to have anything to do +with our festive gatherings. I begin to think there is method in her +madness." + +"Miss Chesney doesn't agree with you," says Guy, casting a quick glance +at Lilian: "she would go any distance to a ball, and dance from night +till morning, and never know depression next day." + +"Is that true, Miss Chesney?" + +"Sir Guy says it is," replies Lilian, demurely. + +"When I was young," says Lady Chetwoode, "I felt just like that. So long +as the band played, so long I could dance, and without ever feeling +fatigue. And provided he was of a good figure, and could dance well, I +never much cared who my partner was, until I met your father. Dear me! +how long ago it seems!" + +"Not at all," says Cyril; "a mere reminiscence of yesterday. When I am +an old gentleman, I shall make a point of never remembering anything +that happened long ago, no matter how good it may have been." + +"Perhaps you won't have anything good to remember," says Miss Lilian, +provokingly. + +"Guy, give Miss Chesney another glass of wine," says Cyril, promptly: +"she is evidently feeling low." + +"Sir Guy," says Miss Chesney, with equal promptitude, and a treacherous +display of innocent curiosity, "when you were at Belmont last evening +did you hear Miss Bellair say anything of a rather rude attack made upon +her yesterday at the station by an ill-bred young man?" + +"No," says Sir Guy, rather amazed. + +"Did she not speak of it? How strange! Why, I fancied----" + +"Miss Chesney," interposes Cyril, "if you have any regard for your +personal safety, you will refrain from further speech." + +"But why?"--opening her great eyes in affected surprise. "Why may I not +tell Sir Guy about it? Poor Miss Bellair! although a stranger to me, I +felt most genuine pity for her. Just fancy, Sir Guy, a poor girl alone +upon a platform, without a soul to take care of her, what she must have +endured, when a young man--_apparently_ a gentleman--walked up to her, +and taking advantage of her isolated position, bowed to her, simpered +impertinently, and was actually on the very point of addressing her, +when fortunately her cousin came up and rescued her from her unhappy +situation. Was it not shameful? Now, what do you think that rude young +man deserved?" + +"Extinction," replies Guy, without hesitation. + +"I think so too. Don't you, Lady Chetwoode?" + +Lady Chetwoode laughs. + +"Now, I shall give my version of the story," says Cyril. "I too was +present----" + +"And didn't fly to her assistance? Oh, fie!" says Lilian. + +"There was once an unhappy young man, who was sent to a station to meet +a young woman, without having been told beforehand whether she was like +Juno, tall enough to 'snuff the moon,' or whether she was so +insignificant as to require a strong binocular to enable you to see her +at all." + +"I am not insignificant," says Lilian, her indignation getting the +better of her judgment. + +"Am I speaking of you, Miss Chesney?" + +"Well, go on." + +"Now, it came to pass that as this wretched young man was glaring wildly +round to see where his charge might be, he espied a tall young woman, +apparently in the last stage of exhaustion, looking about for some one +to assist her, and seeing no one else, for the one he sought had meanly, +and with a view to his discomfiture, crept silently behind his back----" + +"Oh, Cyril!" + +"Yes, I maintain it; she crept silently behind his back, and bribed her +maid to keep silence. So this wretched young man walked up to Juno, and +pulled his forelock, and made his very best Sunday bow, and generally +put his foot in it. Juno was so frightened by the best bow that she +gave way to a stifled scream, and instantly sank back unconscious into +the arms of her betrothed, who just then ran frantically upon the scene. +Upon this the deluded young man----" + +"That will do," interrupts Lilian, severely. "I am certain I have read +it somewhere before; and--people should always tell the truth." + +"By the bye," says Guy, "I believe Miss Bellair did say something last +night about an unpleasant adventure at the station,--something about a +very low person who had got himself up like a gentleman, but was without +doubt one of the swell mob, and who----" + +"You needn't go any further. I feel my position keenly. Nevertheless, +Miss Bellair made a mistake when she rejected my proffered services. She +little knows what a delightful companion I can be. Can't I, Miss +Chesney?" + +"Can he, Lady Chetwoode? I am not in a position to judge." + +"If a perpetual, never-ceasing flow of conversation has anything to do +with it, I believe he must be acknowledged the most charming of his +sex," says his mother, laughing, and rising, bears away Lilian with her +to the drawing-room. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + "A dancing shape, an image gay, + To haunt, to startle, and waylay." + --WORDSWORTH. + + +When seven long uneventful days have passed away, every one at Chetwoode +is ready to acknowledge that the coming of Lilian Chesney is an +occurrence for which they ought to be devoutly thankful. She is a boon, +a blessing, a merry sunbeam, darting hither and thither about the old +place, lighting up the shadows, dancing through the dark rooms, casting +a little of her own inborn joyousness upon all that comes within her +reach. + +To Lady Chetwoode, who is fond of young life, she is especially +grateful, and creeps into her kind heart in an incredibly short time, +finding no impediment to check her progress. + +Once a day, armed with huge gloves and a gigantic scissors, Lady +Chetwoode makes a tour of her gardens, snipping, and plucking, and +giving superfluous orders to the attentive gardeners all the time. After +her trots Lilian, supplied with a basket and a restless tongue that +seldom wearies, but is always ready to suggest, or help the thought that +sometimes comes slowly to her hostess. + +"As you were saying last night, my dear Lilian----" says Lady Chetwoode, +vaguely, coming to a full stop before the head gardener, and gazing at +Lilian for further inspiration; she had evidently remembered only the +smallest outline of what she wants to say. + +"About the ivy on the north wall? You wanted it thinned. You thought it +a degree too straggling." + +"Yes,--yes; of course. You hear, Michael, I want it clipped and thinned, +and---- There was something else about the ivy, my child, wasn't there?" + +"You wished it mixed with the variegated kind, did you not?" + +"Ah, of course. I wonder how I ever got on without Lilian," says the old +lady, gently pinching the girl's soft peach-like cheek. "Florence, +without doubt, is a comfort,--but--she is not fond of gardening. Shall +we come and take a peep at the grapes, dear?" And so on. + +Occasionally, too,--being fond of living out of doors in the summer, and +being a capital farmeress,--Lady Chetwoode takes a quiet walk down to +the home farm, to inspect all the latest arrivals. And here, too, Miss +Lilian must needs follow. + +There are twelve merry, showy little calves in one field, that run all +together in their ungainly, jolting fashion up to the high gate that +guards their domain, the moment Lady Chetwoode and her visitor arrive, +under the mistaken impression that she and Lilian are a pair of +dairy-maids coming to solace them with unlimited pans of milk. + +Lilian cries "Shoo!" at the top of her gay young voice, and instantly +all the handsome, foolish things scamper away as though destruction were +at their heels, leaving Miss Chesney delighted at the success of her own +performance. + +Then in the paddock there are four mad little colts to be admired, whose +chief joy in life seems to consist in kicking their hind legs wildly +into space, while their more sedate mothers stand apart and compare +notes upon their darlings' merit. + +This paddock is Lilian's special delight, and all the way there, and +all the way back she chatters unceasingly, making the old lady's heart +grow young again, as she listens to, and laughs at, all the merry +stories Miss Chesney tells her of her former life. + +To-day--although the morning has been threatening--is now quite fine. +Tired of sulking, it cleared up half an hour ago, and is now throwing +out a double portion of heat, as though to make up for its early +deficiencies. + +The + + + "King of the East, ... girt + With song and flame and fragrance, slowly lifts + His golden feet on those empurpled stairs + That climb into the windy halls of heaven," + + +and, casting his million beams abroad, enlivens the whole earth. + +It is a day when one might saunter but not walk, when one might dream +though wide awake, when one is perforce amiable because argument or +contradiction would be too great an exertion. + +Sir Guy--who has been making a secret though exhaustive search through +the house for Miss Chesney--now turns his steps toward the orchard, +where already instinct has taught him she is usually to be found. + +He is not looking quite so _insouciant_, or carelessly happy, as when +first we saw him, now two weeks ago; there is a little gnawing, +dissatisfied feeling at his heart, for which he dare not account even to +himself. + +He thinks a good deal of his ward, and his ward thinks a good deal of +him; but unfortunately their thoughts do not amalgamate harmoniously. + +Toward Sir Guy Miss Chesney's actions have not been altogether just. +Cyril she treats with affection, and the utmost _bonhommie_, but toward +his brother--in spite of her civility on that first day of meeting--she +maintains a strict and irritating reserve. + +He is her guardian (detestable, thankless office), and she takes good +care that neither he or she shall ever forget that fact. Secretly she +resents it, and openly gratifies that resentment by denying his +authority in all things, and being specially willful and wayward when +occasion offers; as though to prove to him that she, for one, does not +acknowledge his power over her. + +Not that this ill-treated young man has the faintest desire to assert +any authority whatever. On the contrary, he is most desirous of being +all there is of the most submissive when in her presence; but Miss +Chesney declines to see his humility, and chooses instead to imagine him +capable of oppressing her with all sorts of tyrannical commands at a +moment's notice. + +There is a little cloud on his brow as he reaches the garden and walks +moodily along its principal path. This cloud, however, lightens and +disappears, as upon the southern border he hears voices that tell him +his search is at an end. + +Miss Chesney's clear notes, rather raised and evidently excited, blend +with those of old Michael Ronaldson, whose quavering bass is also +uplifted, suggesting unwonted agitation on the part of this easy-going +though ancient gentleman. + +Lilian is standing on tip-toe, opposite a plum-tree, with the long tail +of her black gown caught firmly in one hand, while with the other she +points frantically in a direction high above her head. + +"Don't you see him?" she says, reproachfully,--"there--in that corner." + +"No, that I don't," says Michael, blankly, sheltering his forehead with +both hands from the sun's rays, while straining his gaze anxiously +toward the spot named. + +"Not see him! Why, he is a big one, a _monster_! Michael," says Lilian, +reproachfully, "you are growing either stupid or short-sighted, and I +didn't expect it from you. Now follow the tip of my finger; look right +along it now--now"--with growing excitement, "don't you see it?" + +"I do, I do," says the old man, enthusiastically; "wait till I get +'en--won't I pay him off!" + +"Is it a plum you want?" asks Guy, who has come up behind her, and is +lost in wonder at what he considers is her excitement about the fruit. +"Shall I get it for you?" + +"A plum! no, it is a snail I want," says Lilian eagerly, "but I can't +get at it. Oh, that I had been born five inches taller! Ronaldson, you +are not tall enough; Sir Guy will catch him." + +Sir Guy, having brought a huge snail to the ground, presents him gravely +to Lilian. + +"That is the twenty-third we have caught to-day," says she, "and +twenty-nine yesterday,--in all forty-eight. Isn't it, Michael?" + +"I think it makes fifty-two," suggests Sir Guy, deferentially. + +"Does it? Well, it makes no difference," says Miss Chesney, with a fine +disregard of arithmetic; "at all events, either way, it is a tremendous +number. I'm sure I don't know where they come from,"--despairingly,-- +"unless they all walk back again during the night." + +"And I wouldn't wonder too," says Michael, _sotto voce_. + +"Walk back again!" repeats Guy, amazed. "Don't you kill them?" + +"Miss Chesney won't hear of 'en being killed, Sir Guy," says old +Ronaldson, sheepishly; "she says as 'ow the cracklin' of 'en do make her +feel sick all over." + +"Oh, yes," says Lilian, making a little wry face, "I hate to think of +it. He used to crunch them under his heel, so," with a shudder, and a +small stamp upon the ground, "and it used to make me absolutely faint. +So we gave it up, and now we just throw them over the wall, +so,"--suiting the action to the word, and flinging the slimy creature +she holds with dainty disgust, between her first finger and thumb, over +the garden boundary. + +Guy laughs, and, thus encouraged, so does old Michael. + +"Well, at all events, it must take them a long time to get back," says +Lilian, apologetically. + +"On your head be it if we have no vegetables or fruit this year," says +Chetwoode, who understands as much about gardening as the man in the +moon, but thinks it right to say something. "Come for a walk, Lilian, +will you? It is a pity to lose this charming day." He speaks with marked +diffidence (his lady's moods being uncertain), which so far gains upon +Miss Chesney that in return she deigns to be gracious. + +"I don't mind if I do," she replies, with much civility. "Good-morning, +Michael;" and with a pretty little nod, and a still prettier smile in +answer to the old man's low salutation, she walks away beside her +guardian. + +Far into the woods they roam, the teeming woods all green and bronze and +copper-colored, content and happy in that no actual grief disturbs them. + + + "The branches cross above their eyes, + The skies are in a net;" + + +the fond gay birds are warbling their tenderest strains. "Along the +grass sweet airs are blown," and all the myriad flowers, the "little +wildings" of the forest, "earth's cultureless buds," are expanding and +glowing, and exhaling the perfumed life that their mother, Nature, has +given them. + +Chetwoode is looking its best and brightest, and Sir Guy might well be +proud of his possessions; but no thought of them enters his mind just +now, which is filled to overflowing with the image of this petulant, +pretty, saucy, lovable ward, that fate has thrown into his path. + +"Yes, it is a lovely place!" says Lilian, after a pause spent in +admiration. She has been looking around her, and has fallen into honest +though silent raptures over all the undulating parks and uplands that +stretch before her, far as the eye can see. "Lovely!--So," with a sigh, +"was my old home." + +"Yes. I think quite as lovely as this." + +"What!" turning to him with a start, while the rich, warm, eager flush +of youth springs to her cheeks and mantles there, "you have been there? +You have seen the Park?" + +"Yes, very often, though not for years past. I spent many a day there +when I was younger. I thought you knew it." + +"No, indeed. It makes me glad to think some one here can remember its +beauties with me. But you cannot know it all as I do: you never saw my +own particular bit of wood?"--with earnest questioning, as though +seeking to deny the hope that strongly exists. "It lies behind the +orchard, and one can get to it by passing through a little gate in the +wall, that leads into the very centre of it. There at first, in the +heart of the trees one sees a tangled mass with giant branches +overhanging it, and straggling blackberry bushes protecting it with +their angry arms, and just inside, the coolest, greenest, freshest bit +of grass in all the world,--my fairy nook I used to call it. But you--of +course you never saw it." + +"It has a huge horse-chestnut at its head, and a silver fir at its +feet." + +"Yes,--yes!" + +"I know it well," says Chetwoode, smiling at her eagerness. "It was your +mother's favorite spot. You know she and my mother were fast friends, +and she was very fond of me. When first she was married, before you +were born, I was constantly at the Park, and afterward too. She used to +read in the spot you name, and I--I was a delicate little fellow at that +time, obliged to lie a good deal, and I used to read there beside her +with my head in her lap, by the hour together." + +"Why, you know more about my mother than I do," says Lilian, with some +faint envy in her tones. + +"Yes,"--hastily, having already learned how little a thing can cause an +outbreak, when one party is bent on war,--"but you must not blame me for +that. I could not help it." + +"No,"--regretfully,--"I suppose not. Before I was born, you say. How old +that seems to make you!" + +"Why?"--laughing. "Because I was able to read eighteen years ago? I was +only nine, or perhaps ten, then." + +"I never could do my sums," says Lilian: "I only know it sounds as +though you were the Ancient Mariner or Methuselah, or anybody in the +last stage of decay." + +"And yet I am not so very old, Lilian. I am not yet thirty." + +"Well, that's old enough. When I am thirty I shall take to caps with +borders, and spectacles, and long black mittens, like nurse. Ha, ha!" +laughs Lilian, delighted at the portrait of herself she has drawn, +"shan't I look nice then?" + +"I dare say you will," says Guy, quite seriously. "But I would advise +you to put off the wearing of them for a while longer. I don't think +thirty old. I am not quite that." + +"A month or two don't signify,"--provokingly; "and as you have had +apparently a very good life I don't think it manly of you to fret +because you are drawing to the close of it. Some people would call it +mean. There, never mind your age: tell me something more about my +mother. Did you love her?" + +"One could not help loving her, she was so gentle, so thoroughly +kind-hearted." + +"Ah! what a pity it is I don't resemble her!" says Lilian, with a +suspiciously deep sigh, accepting the reproach, and shaking her head +mournfully. "Was she like that picture at home in the drawing-room? I +hope not. It is very lovely, but it lacks expression, and has no +tenderness about it." + +"Then the artist must have done her great injustice. She was all +tenderness both in face and disposition as I remember her, and children +are very correct in their impressions. She was extremely beautiful. You +are very like her." + +"Am I, Sir Guy? Oh, thank you. I didn't hope for so much praise. Then in +one thing at least I do resemble my mother. Am I more beautiful or less +so?" + +"That is quite a matter of opinion." + +"And what is yours?" saucily. + +"What can it matter to you?" he says, quickly, almost angrily. "Besides, +I dare say you know it." + +"I don't, indeed. Never mind, I shall find out for myself. I am so +glad"--amiably--"you knew my mother, and the dear Park! It sounds +horrible, does it not, but the Park is even more dear to me than--than +her memory." + +"You can scarcely call it a 'memory'; she died when you were so +young,--hardly old enough to have an idea. I recollect you so well, a +little toddling thing of two." + +"The plot thickens. You knew _me_ also? And pray, Sir Guardian, what was +I like?" + +"You had blue eyes, and a fair skin, a very imperious will, and the +yellowest hair I ever saw." + +"A graphic description! It would be madness on the part of any one to +steal me, as I should infallibly be discovered by it. Well, I have not +altered much. I have still my eyes and my hair, and my will, only +perhaps rather more of the latter. Go on: you are very unusually +interesting to-day: I had no idea you possessed such a fund of +information. Were you very fond of me?" + +"Very," says Chetwoode, laughing in spite of himself. "I was your slave, +as long as I was with you. Your lightest wish was my law. I used +even----" + +A pause. + +"Yes, do go on: I am all attention. 'I used even----'" + +"I was going to say I used to carry you about in my arms, and kiss you +into good humor when you were angry, which was pretty often," replies +Guy, with a rather forced laugh, and a decided accession of color; "but +I feared such a very grown-up young lady as you might be offended." + +"Not in the least,"--with a gay, perfectly unembarrassed enjoyment at +his confusion. "I never heard anything so amusing. Fancy you being my +nurse once on a time. I feel immensely flattered when I think such an +austere individual actually condescended to hold me in his arms and kiss +me into good humor. It is more than I have any right to expect. I am +positively overwhelmed. By the bye, had your remedy the desired effect? +Did I subdue my naughty passion under your treatment?" + +"As far as I can recollect, yes," rather stiffly. Nobody likes being +laughed at. + +"How odd!" says Miss Chesney. + +"Not very," retorts he: "at that time _you_ were very fond of _me_." + +"That is even odder," says Miss Chesney, who takes an insane delight in +teasing him. "What a pity it is you cannot invent some plan for reducing +me to order now!" + +"There are some tasks too great for a mere mortal to undertake," replies +Sir Guy, calmly. + +Miss Chesney, not being just then prepared with a crushing retort, +wisely refrains from speech altogether, although it is by a superhuman +effort she does so. Presently, however, lest he should think her +overpowered by the irony of his remark, she says, quite pleasantly: + +"Did Cyril ever see me before I came here?" + +"No." Then abruptly, "Do you like Cyril?" + +"Oh, immensely! He suits me wonderfully, he is so utterly devoid of +dignity, and all that. One need not mind what one says to Cyril; in his +worst mood he could not terrify. Whereas his brother----" with a little +malicious gleam from under her long, heavy lashes. + +"Well, what of his brother?" + +"Nay, Sir Guy, the month we agreed on has not yet expired," says Lilian. +"I cannot tell you what I think of you yet. Still, you cannot imagine +how dreadfully afraid I am of you at times." + +"If I believed you, it would cause me great regret," says her guardian, +rather hurt. "I am afraid, Lilian, your father acted unwisely when he +chose Chetwoode as a home for you." + +"What! are you tired of me already?" asks she hastily, with a little +tremor in her voice, that might be anger, and that might be pain. + +"Tired of you? No! But I cannot help seeing that the fact of my being +your guardian makes me abhorrent to you." + +"Not quite that," says Miss Chesney, in a little soft, repentant tone. +"What a curious idea to get into your head? dismiss it; there is really +no reason why it should remain." + +"You are sure?" with rather more earnestness than the occasion demands. + +"Quite sure. And now tell me how it was I never saw you until now, since +I was two years old." + +"Well, for one thing, your mother died; then I went to Eton, to +Cambridge, got a commission in the Dragoons, tired of it, sold out, and +am now as you see me." + +"What an eventful history!" says Lilian, laughing. + +At this moment, who should come toward them, beneath the trees, but +Cyril, walking as though for a wager. + +"'Whither awa?'" asks Miss Lilian, gayly stopping him with outstretched +hands. + +"You have spoiled my quotation," says Cyril, reproachfully, "and it was +on the very tip of my tongue. I call it disgraceful. I was going to say +with fine effect, 'Where are you going, my pretty maid?' but I fear it +would fall rather flat if I said it now." + +"Rather. Nevertheless, I accept the compliment. Are you in training? or +where are you going in such a hurry?" + +"A mere constitutional," says Cyril, lightly,--which is a base and ready +lie. "Good-bye, I won't detain you longer. Long ago I learned the useful +lesson that where 'two is company, three is trumpery.' Don't look as +though you would like to devour me, Guy: I meant no harm." + +Lilian laughs, so does Guy, and Cyril continues his hurried walk. + +"Where does that path lead to?" asks Lilian, looking after him as he +disappeared rapidly in the distance. + +"To The Cottage first, and then to the gamekeeper's lodge, and farther +on to another entrance-gate that opens on the road." + +"Perhaps he will see your pretty tenant on his way?" + +"I hardly think so. It seems she never goes beyond her own garden." + +"Poor thing! I feel the greatest curiosity about her, indeed I might say +an interest in her. Perhaps she is unhappy." + +"Perhaps so; though her manner is more frozen than melancholy. She is +almost forbidding, she is so cold." + +"She may be in ill health." + +"She may be," unsympathetically. + +"You do not seem very prepossessed in her favor," says Lilian, +impatiently. + +"Well, I confess I am not," carelessly. "Experience has taught me that +when a woman withdraws persistently from the society of her own sex, and +eschews the companionship of her fellow-creatures, there is sure to be +something radically wrong with her." + +"But you forget there are exceptions to every rule. I confess I would +give anything to see her," says Lilian, warmly. + +"I don't believe you would be the gainer by that bargain," replies he, +with conviction, being oddly, unaccountably prejudiced against this +silent, undemonstrative widow. + + * * * * * + +Meantime, Cyril pursues his way along the path, that every day of late +he has traveled with unexampled perseverance. Seven times he has passed +along it full of hope, and only twice has been rewarded, with a bare +glimpse of the fair unknown, whose face has obstinately haunted him +since his first meeting with it. + +On these two momentous occasions, she has appeared to him so pale and +wan that he is fain to believe the color he saw in her cheeks on that +first day arose from vexation and excitement, rather than health,--a +conclusion that fills him with alarm. + +Now, as he nears the house between the interstices of the hedge he +catches the gleam of a white gown moving to and fro, that surely covers +his divinity. + +Time proves his surmise right. It is the admired incognita, who almost +as he reaches the gate that leads to her bower, comes up to one of the +huge rose-bushes that decorate either side of it, and--unconscious of +criticism--commences to gather from it such flowers as shall add beauty +to the bouquet already growing large within her hands. + +Presently the restless feeling that makes us all know when some +unexpected presence is near, compels her to raise her head. Thereupon +her eyes and those of Cyril Chetwoode meet. She pauses in her occupation +as though irresolute; Cyril pauses too; and then gravely, unsmilingly, +she bows in cold recognition. Certainly her reception is not +encouraging; but Cyril is not to be daunted. + +"I hope," he says, deferentially, "your little dog has been conducting +himself with due propriety since last I had the pleasure of restoring +him to your arms?" + +This Grandisonian speech surely calls for a reply. + +"Yes," says Incognita, graciously. "I think it was only the worry caused +by change of scene made him behave so very badly that--last day." + +So saying, she turns from him, as though anxious to give him a gentle +_congé_. But Cyril, driven to desperation, makes one last effort at +detaining her. + +"I hope your friend is better," he says, leaning his arms upon the top +of the gate, and looking full of anxiety about the absent widow. "My +brother--Sir Guy--called the other day, and said she appeared extremely +delicate." + +"My friend?" staring at him in marked surprise, while a faint deep rose +flush illumines her cheek, making one forget how white and fragile she +appeared a moment since. + +"Yes. I mean Mrs. Arlington, our tenant. I am Cyril Chetwoode," raising +his hat. "I hope the air here will do her good." + +He is talking against time, but she is too much occupied to notice it. + +"I hope it will," she replies, calmly, studying her roses attentively, +while the faintest suspicion of a smile grows and trembles at the corner +of her mobile lips. + +"You are her sister, perhaps?" asks Cyril, the extreme deference of his +whole manner taking from the rudeness of his questioning. + +"No--not her sister." + +"Her friend?" + +"Yes. Her dearest friend," replies Incognita, slowly, after a pause, and +a closer, more prolonged examination of her roses; while again the +curious half-suppressed smile lights up her face. There are few things +prettier on a pretty face than an irrepressible smile. + +"She is fortunate in possessing such a friend," says Cyril, softly; then +with some haste, as though anxious to cover his last remark, "My brother +did not see you when he called?" + +"Did he say so?" + +"No. He merely mentioned having seen only Mrs. Arlington. I do not think +he is aware of your existence." + +"I think he is. I have had the pleasure of speaking with Sir Guy." + +"Indeed!" says Cyril, and instantly tells himself he would not have +suspected Guy of so much slyness. "Probably it was some day since--you +met him----" + +"No, it was on that one occasion when he called here." + +"I dare say I misunderstood," says Cyril, "but I certainly thought he +said he had seen only Mrs. Arlington." + +"Well?" + +"Well?" + +"_I_ am Mrs. Arlington!" + +"What!" says Cyril, with exaggerated surprise,--and a moment later is +shocked at the vehemence of his own manner. "I beg your pardon, I am +sure," he says, contritely; "there is no reason why it should not be so, +but you seem so--I had no idea you wore a--that is--I mean I did not +think you were married." + +"You had no idea I was a widow," corrects Mrs. Arlington, coldly. "I do +not see why you need apologize. On the contrary, I consider you have +paid me a compliment. I am glad I do not look the character. +Good-morning, sir; I have detained you too long already." + +"It is I who have detained you, madam," says Cyril, speaking coldly +also, being a little vexed at the tone she has employed toward him, +feeling it to be undeserved. "I fear I have been unhappy enough to err +twice this morning,--though I trust you will see--unwittingly." He +accompanies this speech with a glance so full of entreaty and a mute +desire for friendship as must go straight to the heart of any true +woman; after which, being a wise young man, he attempts no further +remonstrance, but lifts his hat, and walks away gloomily toward his +home. + +Mrs. Arlington, who is not proof against so much reproachful humility, +lifts her head, sees the dejected manner of his departure, and is +greatly struck by it. She makes one step forward; checks herself; opens +her lips as though to speak; checks herself again; and finally, with a +little impatient sigh, turns and walks off gloomily toward her home. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + "And sang, with much simplicity,--a merit + Not the less precious, that we seldom hear it." + --_Don Juan_. + + +The rain is beating regularly, persistently, against the window-panes; +there is no hope of wandering afield this evening. A sullen summer +shower, without a smile in it, is deluging gardens and lawns, tender +flowers and graveled walks, and is blotting out angrily all the glories +of the landscape. + +It is half-past four o'clock. Lady Chetwoode is sitting in the library +reclining in the coziest arm-chair the room contains, with her knitting +as usual in her hands. She disdains all newer, lighter modes of passing +the time, and knits diligently all day long for her poor. + +Lilian is standing at the melancholy window, counting the diminutive +lakes and toy pools forming in the walk outside. As she looks, a laurel +leaf, blown from the nearest shrubbery, falls into a fairy river, and +floats along in its current like a sedate and sturdy boat, with a small +snail for cargo, that clings to it bravely for dear life. + +Presently a stick, that to Lilian's idle fancy resolves itself into an +iron-clad, runs down the poor little skiff, causing it to founder with +all hands on board. + +At this heart-rending moment John enters with a tea-tray, and, drawing a +small table before Lady Chetwoode, lays it thereon. Her ladyship, with a +sigh, prepares to put away her beloved knitting, hesitates, and then is +lost in so far that she elects to finish that most mysterious of all +things, the rounding of the heel of her socks, before pouring out the +tea. Old James Murland will be expecting these good gray socks by the +end of the week, and old James Murland must not be disappointed. + +"Lady Chetwoode," says Lilian, with soft hesitation, "I want to ask you +a question." + +"Do you, dear? Then ask it." + +"But it is a very odd question, and perhaps you will be angry." + +"I don't think I shall," says Lady Chetwoode ("One, two, three, four," +etc.) + +"Well, then, I like you so much--I love you so much," corrects Lilian, +earnestly, "that, if you don't mind, I should like to call you some name +a little less formal than Lady Chetwoode. Do you mind?" + +Her ladyship lays down her knitting and looks amused. + +"It seems no one cares to give me my title," she says. "Mabel, my late +ward, was hardly here three days when she made a request similar to +yours. She always called me 'Auntie.' Florence calls me, of course, +'Aunt Anne;' but Mabel always called me 'Auntie.'" + +"Ah! that was prettier. May I call you 'Auntie' too? 'Auntie Nannie,'--I +think that a dear little name, and just suited to you." + +"Call me anything you like, darling," says Lady Chetwoode, kissing the +girl's soft, flushed cheek. + +Here the door opens to admit Sir Guy and Cyril, who are driven to +desperation and afternoon tea by the incivility of the weather. + +"The mother and Lilian spooning," says Cyril. "I verily believe women, +when alone, kiss each other for want of something better." + +"I have been laughing at Lilian," says Lady Chetwoode: "she, like Mabel, +cannot be happy unless she finds for me a pet name. So I am to be +'Auntie' to her too." + +"I am glad it is not to be 'Aunt Anne,' like Florence," says Cyril, with +a distasteful shrug; "that way of addressing you always grates upon my +ear." + +"By the bye, that reminds me," says Lady Chetwoode, struggling vainly in +her pocket to bring to light something that isn't there, "Florence is +coming home next week. I had a letter from her this morning telling me +so, but I forgot all about it till now." + +"You don't say so!" says Cyril, in a tone of unaffected dismay. + +Now, when one hears an unknown name mentioned frequently in +conversation, one eventually grows desirous of knowing something about +the owner of that name. + +Lilian therefore gives away to curiosity. + +"And who is Florence?" she asks. + +"'Who is Florence?'" repeats Cyril; "have you really asked the question? +Not to know Florence argues yourself unknown. She is an institution. But +I forgot, you are one of those unhappy ones outside the pale of +Florence's acquaintance. How I envy--I mean pity you!" + +"Florence is my niece," says Lady Chetwoode: "she is at present staying +with some friends in Shropshire, but she lives with me. She has been +here ever since she was seventeen." + +"Is that very long ago?" asks Lilian, and her manner is so _naïve_ that +they all smile. + +"She came here----" begins Lady Chetwoode. + +"She came here," interrupts Cyril, impressively, "precisely five years +ago. Have you mastered that date? If so, cling to it, get it by heart, +never lose sight of it. Once, about a month ago, before she left us to +go to those good-natured people in Shropshire, I told her, quite +accidentally, I thought she came here _nine_ years ago. She was very +angry, and I then learned that Florence angry wasn't nice, and that a +little of her in that state went a long way. I also learned that she +came here five years ago." + +"Am I to understand," asks Lilian, laughing, "that she is twenty-six?" + +"My dear Lilian, I do hope you are not 'obtoose.' Has all my valuable +information been thrown away? I have all this time been trying to +impress upon you the fact that Florence is only twenty-two, but it is +evidently 'love's labor lost.' Now do try to comprehend. She was +twenty-two last year, she is twenty-two this year, and I am almost +positive that this time next year she will be twenty-two again!" + +"Cyril, don't be severe," says his mother. + +"Dearest mother, how can you accuse me of such a thing? Is it severe to +say Florence is still young and lovely?" + +"Do you and Florence like each other?" asks Lilian. + +"Not too much. I am not staid enough for Florence. She says she likes +earnest people,--like Guy." + +"Ah!" says Lilian. + +"What?" Guy hearing his name mentioned looks up dreamily from the +_Times_, in the folds of which he has been buried. "What about me?" + +"Nothing. I was only telling Lilian in what high esteem you are held by +our dear Florence." + +"Is that all?" says Guy, indifferently, going back to the thrilling +account of the divorce case he has been studying. + +"What a very ungallant speech!" says Miss Chesney, with a view to +provocation, regarding him curiously. + +"Was it?" says Guy, meeting her eyes, and letting the interesting paper +slip to the floor beside him. "It was scarcely news, you see, and there +is nothing to be wondered at. If I lived with people for years, I am +certain I should end by being attached to them, were they good or bad." + +"She doesn't waste much of her liking upon me," says Cyril. + +"Nor you on her. She is just the one pretty woman I ever knew to whom +you didn't succumb." + +"You didn't tell me she was pretty," says Lilian, hastily, looking at +Cyril with keen reproach. + +"'Handsome is as handsome does,' and the charming Florence makes a point +of treating me very unhandsomely. You won't like her, Lilian; make up +your mind to it." + +"Nonsense! don't let yourself be prejudiced by Cyril's folly," says Guy. + +"I am not easily prejudiced," replies Lilian, somewhat coldly, and +instantly forms an undying dislike to the unknown Florence. "But she +really is pretty?" she asks, again, rather persistently addressing +Cyril. + +"Lovely!" superciliously. "But ask Guy all about her: he knows." + +"Do you?" says Lilian, turning her large eyes upon Guy. + +"Not more than other people," replies he, calmly, though there is a +perceptible note of irritation in his voice, and a rather vexed gleam in +his blue eyes as he lets them fall upon his unconscious brother. "She is +certainly not lovely." + +"Then she is very pretty?" + +"Not even _very_ pretty in my eyes," replies Sir Guy, who is inwardly +annoyed at the examination. Without exactly knowing why, he feels he is +behaving shabbily to the absent Florence. "Still, I have heard many men +call her so." + +"She is decidedly pretty," says Lady Chetwoode, with decision, "but +rather pale." + +"Would you call it pale?" says Cyril, with suspicious earnestness. +"Well, of course that may be the new name for it, but I always called it +sallow." + +"Cyril, you are incorrigible. At all events, I miss her in a great many +ways," says Lady Chetwoode, and they who listen fully understand the +tone of self-reproach that runs beneath her words in that she cannot +bring herself to miss Florence in all her ways. "She used to pour out +the tea for me, for one thing." + +"Let me do it for you, auntie," says Lilian, springing to her feet with +alacrity, while the new name trips melodiously and naturally from her +tongue. "I never poured out tea for any one, and I should like to +immensely." + +"Thank you, my dear. I shall be much obliged; I can't bear to leave off +this sock now I have got so far. And who, then, used to pour out tea for +you at your own home?" + +"Nurse, always. And for the last six months, ever since"--with a gentle +sigh--"poor papa's death, Aunt Priscilla." + +"That is Miss Chesney?" + +"Yes. But tea was never nice with Aunt Priscilla; she liked it weak, +because of her nerves, she said (though I don't think she had many), and +she always would use the biggest cups in the house, even in the evening. +There never," says Lilian, solemnly, "was any one so odd as my Aunt +Priscilla. Though we had several of the loveliest sets of china in the +world, she never would use them, and always preferred a horrid glaring +set of blue and gold that was my detestation. Taffy and I were going to +smash them all one day right off, but then we thought it would be +shabby, she had placed her affections so firmly on them. Is your tea +quite right, Lady Chetwoode--auntie, I mean,"--with a bright smile,--"or +do you want any more sugar?" + +"It is quite right, thank you, dear." + +"Mine is without exception the most delicious cup of tea I ever tasted," +says Cyril, with intense conviction. Whereat Lilian laughs and promises +him as many more as he can drink. + +"Will you not give me one?" says Guy, who has risen and is standing +beside her, looking down upon her lovely face with a strange expression +in his eyes. + +How pretty she looks pouring out the tea, with that little assumption of +importance about her! How deftly her slender fingers move among the +cups, how firmly they close around the handle of the quaint old teapot! + +A lump of sugar falls with a small crash into the tray. It is a +refractory lump, and runs in and out among the china and the silver +jugs, refusing to be captured by the tongs. Lilian, losing patience (her +stock of it is small), lays down the useless tongs, and taking up the +lump between a dainty finger and thumb, transfers it triumphantly to her +own cup. + +"Well caught," says Cyril, laughing, while it suddenly occurs to Guy +that Florence would have died before she would have done such a thing. +The sugar-tongs was made to pick up the sugar, therefore it would be a +flagrant breach of system to use anything else, and of all other things +one's fingers. Oh, horrible thought! + +Methodical Florence. Unalterable, admirable, tiresome Florence! + +As Sir Guy speaks, Lilian being in one of her capricious moods, which +seem reserved alone for her guardian, half turns her head toward him, +looking at him out of two great unfriendly eyes, says: + +"Is not that yours?" pointing to a cup that she has purposely placed at +a considerable distance from her, so that she may have a decent excuse +for not offering it to him with her own hands. + +"Thank you," Chetwoode says, calmly, taking it without betraying the +chagrin he is foolish enough to feel, but he is very careful not to +trouble her a second time. It is evident to him that, for some reason or +reasons unknown, he is in high disgrace with his ward; though long ago +he has given up trying to discover just cause for her constant displays +of temper. + +Lady Chetwoode is knitting industriously. Already the heel is turned, +and she is on the fair road to make a most successful and rapid finish. +Humanly speaking, there is no possible doubt about old James Murland +being in possession of the socks to-morrow evening. As she knits she +speaks in the low dreamy tone that always seems to me to accompany the +click of the needles. + +"Florence sings very nicely," she says; "in the evening it was pleasant +to hear her voice. Dear me, how it does rain, to be sure! one would +think it never meant to cease. Yes, I am very fond of singing." + +"I have rather a nice little voice," says Miss Chesney, composedly,--"at +least"--with a sudden and most unlooked-for accession of modesty--"they +used to say so at home. Shall I sing something for you, auntie? I should +like to very much, if it would give you any pleasure." + +"Indeed it would, my dear. I had no idea you were musical." + +"I don't suppose I can sing as well as +Florence,"--apologetically,--"but I will try the 'Banks of Allan Water,' +and then you will be able to judge for yourself." + +She sits down, and sings from memory that very sweet and dear old +song,--sings it with all the girlish tenderness of which she is capable, +in a soft, sweet voice, that saddens as fully as it charms,--a voice +that would certainly never raise storms of applause, but is perfect in +its truthfulness and exquisite in its youth and freshness. + +"My dear child, you sing rarely well," says Lady Chetwoode, while Guy +has drawn near, unconsciously to himself, and is standing at a little +distance behind her. How many more witcheries has this little tormenting +siren laid up in store for his undoing? "It reminds me of long ago," +says auntie, with a sigh for the gay hours gone: "once I sang that song +myself. Do you know any Scotch airs, Lilian? I am so fond of them." + +Whereupon Lilian sings "Comin' thro' the Rye" and "Caller Herrin'," +which latter brings tears into Lady Chetwoode's eyes. Altogether, by the +time the first dressing-bell rings, she feels she has made a decided +success, and is so far elated by the thought that she actually +condescends to forego her ill-temper for this occasion only, and bestows +so gracious a smile and speech upon her hapless guardian as sends that +ill-used young man to his room in radiant spirits. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + "So young, and so untender."--_King Lear._ + + +"I wonder why on earth it is some people cannot choose proper hours in +which to travel," says Cyril, testily. "The idea of electing--(not any +more, thank you)--to arrive at ten o'clock at night at any respectable +house is barely decent." + +"Yes, I wish she had named any other hour," says Lady Chetwoode. "It is +rather a nuisance Guy having to go to the station so late." + +"Dear Florence is so romantic," remarks Cyril: "let us hope for her sake +there will be a moon." + +It is half-past eight o'clock, and dinner is nearly over. There has +been some haste this evening on account of Miss Beauchamp's expected +arrival; the very men who are handing round the jellies and sweetmeats +seem as inclined to hurry as their pomposity will allow: hence Cyril's +mild ill-humor. No man but feels aggrieved when compelled to hasten at +his meals. + +Miss Chesney has arrayed herself with great care for the new-comer's +delectation, and has been preparing herself all day to dislike her +cordially. Sir Guy is rather silent; Cyril is not; Lady Chetwoode's +usual good spirits seem to have forsaken her. + +"Are you really going to Truston after dinner?" asks Lilian, in a tone +of surprise, addressing Sir Guy. + +"Yes, really; I do not mind it in the least," answering his mother's +remark even more than hers. "It can scarcely be called a hardship, +taking a short drive on such a lovely night." + +"Of course not, with the prospect before him of so soon meeting this +delightful cousin," thinks Lilian. "How glad he seems to welcome her +home! No fear he would let Cyril meet _her_ at the station!" + +"Yes, it certainly is a lovely evening," she says, aloud. Then, "Was +there no other train for her to come by?" + +"Plenty," answers Cyril; "any number of them. But she thought she would +like Guy to 'meet her by moonlight alone.'" + +It is an old and favorite joke of Cyril's, Miss Beauchamp's admiration +for Guy. He has no idea he is encouraging in any one's mind the +impression that Guy has an admiration for Miss Beauchamp. + +"I wonder you never tire of that subject," Guy says, turning upon his +brother with sudden and most unusual temper. "I don't fancy Florence +would care to hear you forever making free with her name as you do." + +"I beg your pardon a thousand times. I had no idea it was a touchy +subject with you." + +"Nor is it," shortly. + +"She will have her wish," says Lilian, alluding to Cyril's unfortunate +quotation, and ignoring the remark that followed. "I am sure it will be +moonlight by ten,"--making a critical examination of the sky through the +window, near which she is sitting. "How charming moonlight is! If I had +a lover,"--laughing,--"I should never go for a drive or walk with him +except beneath its cool white rays. I think Miss Beauchamp very wise in +choosing the hour she has chosen for her return home." + +This is intolerable. The inference is quite distinct. Guy flushes +crimson and opens his mouth to give way to some of the thoughts that are +oppressing him, but his mother's voice breaking in checks him. + +"Don't have any lovers for a long time, child," she says: "you are too +young for such unsatisfactory toys. The longer you are without them, the +happier you will be. They are more trouble than gratification." + +"I don't mean to have one," says Lilian, with a wise shake of her blonde +head, "for years and years. I was merely admiring Miss Beauchamp's +taste." + +"Wise child!" says Cyril, admiringly. "Why didn't you arrive by +moonlight, Lilian? I'm never in luck." + +"It didn't occur to me: in future I shall be more considerate. Are you +fretting because you can't go to-night to meet your cousin? You see how +insignificant you are: you would not be trusted on so important a +mission. It is only bad little wards you are sent to welcome." + +She laughs gayly as she says this; but Guy, who is listening, feels it +is meant as a reproach to him. + +"There are worse things than bad little wards," says Cyril, "if you are +a specimen." + +"Do you think so? It's a pity every one doesn't agree with you. No, +Martin," to the elderly servitor behind her chair, who she knows has a +decided weakness for her: "don't take away the ice pudding yet: I am +very fond of it." + +"So is Florence. You and she, I foresee, will have a stand-up fight for +it at least once a week. Poor cook! I suppose she will have to make two +ice puddings instead of one for the future." + +"If there is anything on earth I love, it is an ice pudding." + +"Not better than me, I trust." + +"Far, far better." + +"Take it away instantly, Martin; Miss Chesney mustn't have any more: it +don't agree with her." + +At this Martin smiles demurely and deferentially, and presents the +coveted pudding to Miss Chesney; whereat Miss Chesney makes a little +triumphant grimace at Cyril and helps herself as she loves herself. + +Dinner is over. The servants,--oh, joy!--have withdrawn: everybody has +eaten as much fruit as they feel is good for them. Lady Chetwoode looks +at Lilian and half rises from her seat. + +"It is hardly worth while your leaving us this evening, mother," Guy +says, hastily: "I must so soon be running away if I wish to catch the +train coming in." + +"Very well,"--re-seating herself: "we shall break through rules, and +stay with you for this one night. You won't have your coffee until your +return?" + +"No, thank you." He is a little _distrait_, and is following Lilian's +movements with his eyes, who has risen, thrown up the window, and is now +standing upon the balcony outside, gazing upon the slumbering flowers, +and upon the rippling, singing brooks in the distance, the only things +in all creation that never seem to sleep. + +After a while, tiring of inanimate nature, she turns her face inward and +leans against the window-frame, and being in an idle mood, begins to +pluck to pieces the flower that has rested during dinner upon her bosom. + +Standing thus in the half light, she looks particularly fair, and +slight, and childish,-- + + + "A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded, + A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded." + + +Some thought crossing Lady Chetwoode's mind, born of the long and loving +glance she has been bestowing upon Lilian, she says: + +"How I detest fat people. They make me feel positively ill. Mrs. +Boileau, when she called to-day, raised within me the keenest pity." + +"She is a very distressing woman," says Guy, absently. "One feels +thankful she has no daughter." + +"Yes, indeed; the same thought occurred to me. Though perhaps not fat +now, she would undoubtedly show fatal symptoms of a tendency toward it +later on. Now you, my dear Lilian, have happily escaped such a fate: you +will never be fat." + +"I'm sure I hope not, if you dislike the idea so much," says Lilian, +amused, letting the ghastly remains of her ill-treated flower fall to +the ground. + +"If you only knew the misery I felt on hearing you were coming to us," +goes on Lady Chetwoode, "dreading lest you might be inclined that way; +not of course but that I was very pleased to have you, my dear child, +but I fancied you large and healthy-looking, with a country air, red +cheeks, black hair, and unbounded _gaucherie_. Imagine my delight, +therefore, when I beheld you slim and self-possessed, and with your +pretty yellow hair!" + +"You make me blush, you cover me with confusion," says Miss Chesney, +hiding her face in her hands. + +"Yes, yellow hair is my admiration," goes on Lady Chetwoode, modestly: +"I had golden hair myself in my youth." + +"My dearest mother, we all know you were, and are, the loveliest lady in +creation," says Guy, whose tenderness toward his mother is at times a +thing to be admired. + +"My dear Guy, how you flatter!" says she, blushing a faint, sweet old +blush that shows how mightily pleased she is. + +"Do you know," says Lilian, "in spite of being thought horrid, I like +comfortable-looking people? I wish I had more flesh upon my poor bones. +I think," going deliberately up to a glass and surveying herself with a +distasteful shrug,--"I think thin people have a meagre, gawky, hard look +about them, eminently unbecoming. I rather admire Mrs. Mount-George, for +instance." + +"Hateful woman!" says Lady Chetwoode, who cherishes for her an old +spite. + +"I rather admire her, too," says Sir Guy, unwisely,--though he only +gives way to this opinion through a wild desire to help out Lilian's +judgment. + +"Do you?" says that young lady, with exaggerated emphasis. "I shouldn't +have thought she was a man's beauty. She is a little too--too-- +demonstrative, too _prononcée_." + +"Oh, Guy adores fat women," says Cyril, the incorrigible; "wait till you +see Florence: there is nothing of the 'meagre, gawky, hard' sort about +her. She has a decided leaning toward _embonpoint_." + +"And I imagined her quite slight," says Lilian. + +"You must begin then and imagine her all over again. The only flesh +there isn't about Florence is fool's flesh. It is hardly worth while, +however, your creating a fresh portrait, as the original," glancing at +his watch, "will so soon be before you. Guy, my friend, you should +hurry." + +Lilian returns to the balcony, whither Chetwoode's eyes follow her +longingly. He rises reluctantly to his feet, and says to Cyril, with +some hesitation: + +"You would not care to go to meet Florence?" + +"I thank you kindly,--no," says Cyril, with an expressive shrug; "not +for Joe! I shall infinitely prefer a cigar at home, and Miss Chesney's +society,--if she will graciously accord it to me." This with a smile at +Lilian, who has again come in and up to the table, where she is now +eating daintily a showy peach, that has been lying neglected on its dish +since dinner, crying vainly, "Who'll eat me? who'll eat me?" + +She nods and smiles sweetly at Cyril as he speaks. + +"I am always glad to be with those who want me," she says, carefully +removing the skin from her fruit; "specially you, because you always +amuse me. Come out and smoke your cigar, and I will talk to you all the +time. Won't that be a treat for you?" with a little low, soft laugh, and +a swift glance at him from under her curling lashes that, to say the +truth, is rather coquettish. + +"There, Guy, don't you envy me, with such a charming time before me?" +says Cyril, returning her glance with interest. + +"No, indeed," says Lilian, raising her head and gazing full at +Chetwoode, who returns her glance steadily, although he is enduring +grinding torments all this time, and almost--_almost_ begins to hate his +brother. "The last thing Sir Guy would dream of would be to envy you my +graceless society. Fancy a guardian finding pleasure in the frivolous +conversation of his ward! How could you suspect him of such a weakness?" + +Here she lets her small white teeth meet in her fruit with all the airs +of a little _gourmande_, and a most evident enjoyment of its flavor. + +There is a pause. + +Cyril has left the room in search of his cigar-case. Lady Chetwoode has +disappeared to explore the library for her everlasting knitting. Sir Guy +and Lilian are alone. + +"I cannot remember having ever accused you of being frivolous, either in +conversation or manner," says Chetwoode, presently, in a low, rather +angry tone. + +"No?" says naughty Lilian, with a shrug: "I quite thought you had. But +your manner is so expressive at times, it leaves no occasion for mere +words. This morning when I made some harmless remark to Cyril, you +looked as though I had committed murder, or something worthy of +transportation for life at the very least." + +"I cannot remember that either. I think you purposely misunderstand +me." + +"What a rude speech! Oh, if I had said that! But see how late it is," +looking at the clock: "you are wasting all these precious minutes here +that might be spent so much more--profitably with your cousin." + +"You mean you are in a hurry to be rid of me," disdaining to notice her +innuendo; "go,--don't let me detain you from Cyril and his cigar." + +He turns away abruptly, and gives the bell a rather sharp pull. He is so +openly offended that Lilian's heart smites her. + +"Who is misunderstanding now?" she says, with a decided change of tone. +"Shall you be long away, Sir Guy?" + +"Not very," icily. "Truston, as you know, is but a short drive from +this." + +"True." Then with charmingly innocent concern, "Don't you like going out +so late?--you seem a little cross." + +"Do I?" + +"Yes. But perhaps I mistake; I am always making mistakes," says Miss +Lilian, humbly; "I am very unfortunate. And you know what Ouida says, +that 'one is so often thought to be sullen when one is only sad.' Are +_you_ sad?" + +"No," says Guy, goaded past endurance; "I am not. But I should like to +know what I have done that you should make a point at all times of +treating me with incivility." + +"Are you speaking of me?"--with a fine show of surprise, and +widely-opened eyes; "what can you mean? Why, I shouldn't dare be uncivil +to my guardian. I should be afraid. I should positively die of fright," +says Miss Chesney, feeling strongly inclined to laugh, and darting a +little wicked gleam at him from her eyes as she speaks. + +"Your manner"--bitterly--"fully bears out your words. Still I +think---- Why doesn't Granger bring round the carriage? Am I to give the +same order half a dozen times?"--this to a petrified attendant who has +answered the bell, and now vanishes, as though shot, to give it as his +opinion down-stairs that Sir Guy is in "a h'orful wax!" + +"Poor man, how you have frightened him!" says Lilian, softly. "I am +sorry if I have vexed you." Holding out a small hand of amity,--"Shall +we make friends before you go?" + +"It would be mere waste of time," replies he, ignoring the hand; "and, +besides, why should you force yourself to be on friendly terms with me?" + +"You forget----" begins Lilian, somewhat haughtily, made very indignant +by his refusal of her overture; but, Cyril and Lady Chetwoode entering +at this moment simultaneously, the conversation dies. + +"Now I am ready," Cyril says, cheerfully. "I took some of your cigars, +Guy; they are rather better than mine; but the occasion is so felicitous +I thought it demanded it. Do you mind?" + +"You can have the box," replies Guy, curtly. + +To have a suspected rival in full possession of the field, smoking one's +choicest weeds, is not a thing calculated to soothe a ruffled breast. + +"Eh, you're not ill, old fellow, are you?" says Cyril, in his laziest, +most good-natured tones. "The whole box! Come, my dear Lilian, I pine to +begin them." + +Miss Chesney finishes her peach in a hurry and prepares to follow him. + +"Lilian, you are like a baby with a sweet tooth," says Lady Chetwoode. +"Take some of those peaches out on the balcony with you, child: you seem +to enjoy them. And come to me to the drawing-room when you tire of +Cyril." + +So the last thing Guy sees as he leaves the room is Lilian and his +brother armed with peaches and cigars on their way to the balcony; the +last thing he hears is a clear, sweet, ringing laugh that echoes through +the house and falls like molten lead upon his heart. + +He bangs the hall-door with much unnecessary violence, steps into the +carriage, and goes to meet his cousin in about the worst temper he has +given way to for years. + + * * * * * + +Half-past ten has struck. The drawing-room is ablaze with light. Lady +Chetwoode, contrary to custom, is wide awake, the gray sock lying almost +completed upon her lap. Lilian has been singing, but is now sitting +silent with her idle little hands before her, while Cyril reads aloud to +them decent extracts from the celebrated divorce case, now drawing to +its unpleasant close. + +"They ought to be here now," says Lady Chetwoode, suddenly, alluding +not so much to the plaintiff, or the defendant, or the co-respondents, +as to her eldest son and Miss Beauchamp. "The time is up." + +Almost as she says the words the sound of carriage-wheels strikes upon +the ear, and a few minutes later the door is thrown wide open and Miss +Beauchamp enters. + +Lilian stares at her with a good deal of pardonable curiosity. Yes, in +spite of all that Cyril said, she is very nearly handsome. She is tall, +_posée_, large and somewhat full, with rather prominent eyes. Her mouth +is a little thin, but well shaped; her nose is perfect; her figure +faultless. She is quite twenty-six (in spite of artificial aid), a fact +that Lilian perceives with secret gratification. + +She walks slowly up the room, a small Maltese terrier clasped in her +arms, and presents a cool cheek to Lady Chetwoode, as though she had +parted from her but a few hours ago. All the worry and fatigue of travel +have not told upon her: perhaps her maid and that mysterious +closely-locked little morocco bag in the hall could tell upon her; but +she looks as undisturbed in appearance and dress as though she had but +just descended from her room, ready for a morning's walk. + +"My dear Florence, I am glad to welcome you home," says Lady Chetwoode, +affectionately, returning her chaste salute. + +"Thank you, Aunt Anne," says Miss Beauchamp, in carefully modulated +tones. "I, too, am glad to get home. It was quite delightful to find Guy +waiting for me at the station!" + +She smiles a pretty lady-like smile upon Sir Guy as she speaks, he +having followed her into the room. "How d'ye do, Cyril?" + +Cyril returns her greeting with due propriety, but expresses no +hilarious joy at her return. + +"This is Lilian Chesney whom I wrote to you about," Lady Chetwoode says, +putting out one hand to Lilian. "Lilian, my dear, this is Florence." + +The girls shake hands. Miss Beauchamp treats Lilian to a cold though +perfectly polite stare, and then turns back to her aunt. + +"It was a long journey, dear," sympathetically says "Aunt Anne." + +"Very. I felt quite exhausted when I reached Truston, and so did +Fanchette; did you not, _ma bibiche_, my treasure?"--this is to the +little white stuffy ball of wool in her arms, which instantly opens two +pink-lidded eyes, and puts out a crimson tongue, by way of answer. "If +you don't mind, aunt, I think I should like to go to my room." + +"Certainly, dear. And what shall I send you up?" + +"A cup of tea, please, and--er--anything else there is. Elise will know +what I fancy; I dined before I left. Good-night, Miss Chesney. +Good-night, Guy; and thank you again very much for meeting me"--this +very sweetly. + +And then Lady Chetwoode accompanies her up-stairs, and the first +wonderful interview is at an end. + +"Well?" says Cyril. + +"I think her quite handsome," says Lilian, enthusiastically, for Guy's +special benefit, who is sitting at a little distance, glowering upon +space. "Cyril, you are wanting in taste." + +"Not when I admire you," replies Cyril, promptly. "Will you pardon me, +Lilian, if I go to see they send a comfortable and substantial supper to +my cousin? Her appetite is all that her best friend could wish." + +So saying, he quits the room, bent on some business of his own, that has +very little to do, I think, with the refreshment of Miss Beauchamp's +body. + +When he has gone, Lilian takes up Lady Chetwoode's knitting and examines +it critically. For the first time in her life she regrets not having +given up some of her early years to the mastering of fancy work; then +she lays it down again, and sighs heavily. The sigh says quite +distinctly how tedious a thing it is being alone in the room with a man +who will not speak to one. Better, far better, be with a dummy, from +whom nothing could be expected. + +Sir Guy, roused to activity by this dolorous sound, crosses the room and +stands directly before her, a contrite expression upon his face. + +"I have behaved badly," he says. "I confess my fault. Will you not speak +to me, Lilian?" His tone is half laughing, half penitent. + +"Not"--smiling--"until you assure me you have left all your ill-temper +behind you at Truston." + +"I have. I swear it." + +"You are sure?" + +"Positive." + +"I do hope you did not bestow it upon poor Miss Beauchamp?" + +"I don't know, I'm sure. I hope not," says Guy, lightly; and there is +something both in his tone and words that restores Miss Chesney to +amiability. She looks at him steadily for a moment, and then she smiles. + +"I am forgiven?" asks Guy, eagerly, taking courage from her smile. + +"Yes." + +"Shake hands with me, then," says he, holding out his own. + +"You expect too much," returns Lilian, recoiling. "Only an hour ago, you +refused to take my hand: how then can I now accept yours?" + +"I was a brute, nothing less!" declares he, emphatically. "Yet do accept +it, I implore you." + +There is a good deal more meaning in his tone than even he himself is +quite aware of. Miss Chesney either does not or will not see it. Raising +her head, she laughs out loud, a low but thoroughly amused laugh. + +"Any one listening would say you were proposing to me," she says, +mischievously; whereupon he laughs too, and seats himself upon the low +ottoman beside her. + +"I shouldn't mind," he says; "should you?" + +"Not much. I suppose one must go through it some time or other." + +"Have you ever had a--proposal?" + +"Why do you compel me to give you an answer that must be humiliating? +No; I have never had a proposal. But I dare say I shall have one or two +before I die." + +"I dare say. Unless you will now accept mine"--jestingly--"and make me +the happiest of men." + +"No, thank you. You make me such an admirable guardian that I could not +bear to depose you. You are now in a proud position (considering the +ward you have); do not rashly seek to better it." + +"Your words are golden. But all this time you are keeping me in terrible +suspense. You have not yet quite made friends with me." + +Then Lilian places her hand in his. + +"Though you don't deserve it," she says, severely, "still----" + +"Still you do accept me--it, I mean," interrupts Guy, purposely, closing +his fingers warmly over hers. "I shall never forget that fact. Dear +little hand!" softly caressing it, "did I really scorn it an hour ago? I +beg its pardon very humbly." + +"It is granted," answers Lilian, gayly. But to herself she says, "I +wonder how often has he gone through all this before?" + +Nevertheless, in spite of doubts on both sides, the truce is signed for +the present. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + "How beautiful is the rain! + After the dust and heat. + To the dry grass, and the drier grain, + How welcome is the rain!"--LONGFELLOW. + + +Miss Chesney, who, had she been born a man and a gardener, could have +commanded any wages, is on her knees beside some green plants, busily +hunting for slugs. These ravishers of baby flowers and innocent +seedlings are Miss Chesney's especial abhorrence. It is in vain to tell +her that they must be fed,--that they, as well as the leviathan, must +have their daily food; she declines to look upon their frequent +depredations in any other light than as wanton mischief. + +Upon their destruction she wastes so much of her valuable time that, +could there be a thought in their small, slimy, gelatinous bodies, they +must look upon her as the fell destroyer of their race,--a sort of +natural enemy. + +She is guiltless of gloves, and, being heated in the chase, has flung +her hat upon the velvet sward beside her. Whereupon the ardent sun, +availing of the chance, is making desperate love to her, and is kissing +with all his might her priceless complexion. It is a sight to make a +town-bred damsel weep aloud! + +Miss Beauchamp, sailing majestically toward this foolish maiden, with +her diaphanous skirts trailing behind her, a huge hat upon her carefully +arranged braids, and an enormous garden umbrella over all, looks with +surprise, largely mingled with contempt, upon the kneeling figure. She +marks the soft beauty of the skin, the exquisite penciling of the +eyebrows, the rich color on the laughing lips, and, marking, feels some +faint anger at the reckless extravagance of the owner of these +unpurchasable charms. + +To one long aware of the many advantages to be derived from such +precious unguents as creme d'Ispahan, velvetine, and Chinese rouge, is +known also all the fear of detection arising from the daily use of them. +And to see another richly and freely endowed by Nature with all the most +coveted tints, making light of the gift, seems to such a one a gross +impertinence, a miserable want of gratitude, too deep for comprehension. + +Pausing near Lilian, with the over-fed Maltese panting and puffing +beside her, Miss Beauchamp looks down upon her curiously, upon the +rose-leaf face, the little soiled hands, the ruffled golden head, and +calculates to a fraction the exact amount of mischief that may be done +by the possession of so much youth and beauty. + +The girl is far too pretty. There is really no knowing what irremediable +harm she may not have done already. + +"What a mess you are making of yourself!" says Florence, in a tone +replete with lady-like disgust. + +"I am, rather," says Lilian, holding aloft the small hand, on which five +dusty fingers disport themselves, while she regards them +contemplatively; "but I love it, gardening I mean. I would have made a +small fortune at flower-shows, had I given my mind to it earlier: not a +prize would have escaped me." + +"Every one with an acre of garden thinks that," says Miss Beauchamp. + +"Do they?" smiling up at the white goddess beside her. "Well, perhaps +so. 'Hope springs eternal in the human breast,' and a good thing, too." + +"Don't you think you will be likely to get a sunstroke?" remarks +Florence, with indifferent concern. + +"No; I am accustomed to go about without my hat," answers Lilian: "of +course, as a rule, I wear it, but it always gives me a feeling of +suffocation; and as for a veil, I simply couldn't bear one." + +Miss Beauchamp, glancing curiously at the peach-like complexion beneath +her, wonders enviously how she does it, and then reflects with a certain +sense of satisfaction that a very little more of this mad tampering with +Nature's gifts will create such havoc as must call for the immediate aid +of the inestimable Rimmel and his fellows. + +The small terrier, awaking from the tuneful snooze that always +accompanies her moments of inactivity, whether she be standing or lying, +now rolls over to Lilian and makes a fat effort to lick her dear little +Grecian nose. At which let no one wonder, as a prettier little nose was +never seen. But Lilian is so far unsympathetic that she strongly objects +to the caress. + +"Poor Fanchette!" she says, kindly, recoiling a little, "you must +forgive me, but the fact is I can't bear having my face licked. It is +bad taste on my part, I know, and I hope you will grant me pardon. No, I +cannot pet you either, because I think my earthy fingers would not +improve your snowy coat." + +"Come away, Fanchette; come away, _petite_, directly; do you hear?" +cries Miss Beauchamp, in an agony lest the scented fleece of her "curled +darling" should be defiled. "Come to its own mistress, then. Don't you +see you are disturbing Lilian?" this last as a mild apology for the +unaffected horror of her former tone. + +So saying, she gathers up Fanchette, and retires into the shaded +shrubberies beyond. + +Almost as she disappears from view, Guy comes upon the scene. + +"Why, what are you doing?" he calls out while yet a few yards from her. + +"I have been shocking your cousin," returns Lilian, laughing. "I doubt +she thinks me a horrible unlady-like young woman. But I can't help that. +See how I have soiled my hands!" holding up for his inspection her ten +little grimy fingers. + +"And done your utmost to ruin your complexion, all for the sake of a few +poor slugs. What a blood-thirsty little thing you are!" + +"I don't believe there is any blood in them," says Lilian. + +"Do come away. One would think there wasn't a gardener about the place. +You will make yourself ill, kneeling there in the sun; and look how warm +you are; it is a positive shame." + +"But I have preserved the lives, and the beauty of all these little +plants." + +"Never mind the plants. Think of your own beauty. I came here to ask you +if you will come for a walk in the woods. I have just been there, and it +is absolutely cool." + +"I should like to immensely," springing to her feet; "but my +hands,"--hesitating,--"what am I to do with them? Shall I run in and +wash them? I shan't be one minute." + +"Oh, no!"--hastily, having a wholesome horror of women's minutes, "come +down to the stream, and we will wash them there." + +This suggestion, savoring of unconventionality, finds favor in Miss +Chesney's eyes, and they start, going through the lawn, for the tiny +rivulet that runs between it and the longed-for woods. + +Kneeling beside it, Lilian lets the fresh gurgling water trail through +her fingers, until all the dust falls from them and floats away on its +bosom; then reluctantly she withdraws her hands and, rising, looks at +them somewhat ruefully. + +"Now, how shall I dry them?" asks she, glancing at the drops of water +that fall from her fingers and glint and glisten like diamonds in the +sun's rays. + +"In your handkerchief," suggests Guy. + +"But then it would be wet, and I should hate that. Give me yours," says +Miss Chesney, with calm selfishness. + +Guy laughs, and produces an unopened handkerchief in which he carefully, +and, it must be confessed, very tardily dries her fingers, one by one. + +"Do you always take as long as that to dry your own hands?" asks Lilian, +gravely, when he has arrived at the third finger of the second hand. + +"Always!" without a blush. + +"Your dressing, altogether, must take a long time?" + +"Not so long as you imagine. It is only on my hands I expend so much +care." + +"And on mine," suggestively. + +"Exactly so. Do you never wear rings?" + +"Never. And for the very best reason." + +"And that?" + +"Is because I haven't any to wear. I have a few of my mother's, but they +are old-fashioned and heavy, and look very silly on my hands. I must get +them reset." + +"I like rings on pretty hands, such as yours." + +"And Florence's. Yes, she has pretty hands, and pretty rings also." + +"Has she?" + +"What! Would you have me believe you never noticed them? Oh, Sir Guy, +how deceitful you can be!" + +"Now, that is just the very one vice of which I am entirely innocent. +You wrong me. I couldn't be deceitful to save my life. I always think it +must be so fatiguing. Most young ladies have pretty hands, I suppose; +but I never noticed those of Miss Beauchamp, or her rings either, in +particular. Are you fond of rings?" + +"Passionately fond," laughing. "I should like to have every finger and +both of my thumbs covered with them up to the first knuckle." + +"And nobody ever gave you one?" + +"Nobody," shaking her head emphatically. "Wasn't it unkind of them?" + +With this remark Sir Guy does not coincide: so he keeps silence, and +they walk on some yards without speaking. Presently Lilian, whose +thoughts are rapid, finding the stillness irksome, breaks it. + +"Sir Guy----" + +"Miss Chesney." + +As they all call her "Lilian," she glances up at him in some surprise at +the strangeness of his address. + +"Well, and why not," says he, answering the unmistakable question in her +eyes, "when you call me 'Sir Guy' I wish you would not." + +"Why? Is it not your name?" + +"Yes, but it is so formal. You call Cyril by his name, and even with my +mother you have dropped all formality. Why are you so different with me? +Can you not call me 'Guy'?" + +"Guy! Oh, I _couldn't_. Every time the name passed my lips I should +faint with horror at my own temerity. What! call my guardian by his +Christian name? How can you even suggest the idea? Consider your age and +bearing." + +"One would think I was ninety," says he, rather piqued. + +"Well, you are not far from it," teasingly. "However, I don't object to +a compromise. I will call you Uncle Guy, if you wish it." + +"Nonsense!" indignantly. "I don't want to be your uncle." + +"No? Then Brother Guy." + +"That would be equally foolish." + +"You won't, then, claim relationship with me?" in a surprised tone. "I +fear you look upon me as a _mauvais sujet_. Well, then,"--with sudden +inspiration,--"I know what I shall do. Like Esther Summerson, in 'Bleak +House,' I shall call you 'Guardian.' There!" clapping her hands, "is not +that the very thing? Guardian you shall be, and it will remind me of my +duty to you every time I mention your name. Or, perhaps,"--hesitating-- +"'Guardy' will be prettier." + +"I wish I wasn't your guardian," Guy says, somewhat sadly. + +"Don't be unkinder than you can help," reproachfully. "You won't be my +uncle, or my brother, or my guardian? What is it, then, that you would +be?" + +To this question he could give a very concise answer, but does not dare +do so. He therefore maintains a discreet silence, and relieves his +feelings by taking the heads off three dandelions that chance to come in +his path. + +"Does it give you so very much trouble, the guardianship of poor little +me," she asks, with a mischievous though charming smile, "that you so +much regret it?" + +"It isn't that," he answers, slowly, "but I fear you look coldly on me +in consequence of it. You do not make me your friend, and that is +unjust, because it was not my fault. I did not ask to be your guardian; +it was your father's wish entirely. You should not blame me for what he +insisted on." + +"I don't,"--gayly,--"and I forgive you for having acceded to poor papa's +proposal: so don't fret about it. After all,"--naughtily,--"I dare say I +might have got worse; you aren't half bad so far, which is wise of you, +because I warn you I am an _enfant gaté_; and should you dare to thwart +me I should lead you such a life as would make you rue the day you were +born." + +"You speak as though it were my desire to thwart you." + +"Well, perhaps it is. At all events," with a relieved sigh,--"I have +warned you, and now it is off my mind. By the bye, I was going to say +something to you a few minutes ago when you interrupted me." + +"What was it?" + +"I want you"--coaxingly--"to take me round by The Cottage, so that I may +get a glimpse at this wonderful widow." + +"It would be no use; you would not see her." + +"But I might." + +"And if so, what would you gain by it? She is very much like other +women: she has only one nose, and not more than two eyes." + +"Nevertheless she rouses my curiosity. Why have you such a dislike to +the poor woman?" + +"Oh, no dislike," says Guy, the more hastily in that he feels there is +some truth in the accusation. "I don't quite trust her: that is all." + +"Still, take me near The Cottage; _do_, now, Guardy," says Miss Chesney, +softly, turning two exquisite appealing blue eyes upon him, which of +course settles the question. They instantly turn and take the direction +that leads to The Cottage. + +But their effort to see the mysterious widow is not crowned with +success. To Miss Chesney's sorrow and Sir Guy's secret joy, the house +appears as silent and devoid of life as though, indeed, it had never +been inhabited. With many a backward glance and many a wistful look, +Lilian goes by, while Guy carefully suppresses all expressions of +satisfaction and trudges on silently beside her. + +"She must be out," says Lilian, after a lengthened pause. + +"She must be always out," says Guy, "because she is never to be seen." + +"You must have come here a great many times to find that out," says Miss +Chesney, captiously, which remark puts a stop to all conversation for +some time. + +And indeed luck is dead against Lilian, for no sooner has she passed out +of sight than Mrs. Arlington steps from her door, and, armed with a book +and a parasol, makes for the small and shady arbor situated at the end +of the garden. + +But if Lilian's luck has deserted her, Cyril's has not. He has walked +down here this evening in a rather desponding mood, having made the same +journey vainly for the last three days, and now--just as he has reached +despair--finds himself in Mrs. Arlington's presence. + +"Good-evening," he says, gayly, feeling rather elated at his good +fortune, raising his hat. + +"Good-evening," returns she, with a faint blush born of a vivid +recollection of all that passed at their last meeting. + +"I had no idea I should see you to-day," says Cyril; which is the exact +truth,--for a wonder. + +"Why? You always see me when you come round here, don't you?" says Mrs. +Arlington; which is not the truth, she having been the secret witness of +his coming many times, when she has purposely abstained from being seen. + +"I hope," says Cyril, gently, "you have forgiven me for having +inadvertently offended you last--month." + +"Last week, you mean!" in a surprised tone. + +"Is it really only a week? How long it seems!" says Cyril. "Are you sure +it was only last week?" + +"Quite sure," with a slight smile. "Yes, you are forgiven. Although I do +not quite know that I have anything to forgive." + +"Well, I had my own doubts about it at the time," says Cyril; "but I +have been carefully tutoring myself ever since into the belief that I +was wrong. I think my principal fault lay in my expressing a hope that +the air here was doing you good; and that--to say the least of it--was +mild. By the bye, _is_ it doing you good?" + +"Yes, thank you." + +"I am glad of it, as it may persuade you to stay with us. What lovely +roses you have! Is that one over there a 'Gloire de Dijon'? I can +scarcely see it from this, and I'm so fond of roses." + +"This, do you mean?" plucking one. "No, it is a Marshal Neil." + +"Ah, so it is. How stupid of me to make the mistake!" says Cyril, who in +reality knows as much about roses as about the man in the Iron Mask. + +As he speaks, two or three drops of rain fall heavily upon his +face,--one upon his nose, two into his earnest eyes, a large one finds +its way cleverly between his parted lips. This latter has more effect +upon him than the other three combined. + +"It is raining," he says, naturally but superfluously, glancing at his +coat-sleeve for confirmation of his words. + +Heavier and heavier fall the drops. A regular shower comes pattering +from the heavens right upon their devoted heads. The skies grow black +with rain. + +"You will get awfully wet. Do go into the house," Cyril says, anxiously +glancing at her bare head. + +"So will you," with hesitation, gazing with longing upon the distant +arbor, toward which she is evidently bent on rushing. + +"I dare say,"--laughing,--"but I don't much mind even if I do catch it +before I get home." + +"Perhaps"--unwillingly, and somewhat coldly--"you would like to stand in +the arbor until the shower is over?" + +"I should," replies Mr. Chetwoode, with alacrity, "if you think there +will be room for two." + +There _is_ room for two, but undoubtedly not for three. + +The little green bower is pretty but small, and there is only one seat. + +"It is extremely kind of you to give me standing-room," says Cyril, +politely. + +"I am very sorry I cannot give you sitting-room," replies Mrs. +Arlington, quite as politely, after which conversation languishes. + +Cyril looks at Mrs. Arlington; Mrs. Arlington looks at Marshal Neil, and +apparently finds something singularly attractive in his appearance. She +even raises him to her lips once or twice in a fit of abstraction: +whereupon Cyril thinks that, were he a marshal ten times over, too much +honor has been done him. + +Presently Mrs. Arlington breaks the silence. + +"A little while ago," she says, "I saw your brother and a young lady +pass my gate. She seemed very pretty." + +"She is very pretty," says Cyril, with a singular want of judgment in so +wise a young man. "It must have been Lilian Chesney, my brother's ward." + +"He is rather young to have a ward." + +"He is, rather." + +"He is older than you?" + +"Unfortunately, yes, a little." + +"You, then, are very young?" + +"Well, I'm not exactly an infant,"--rather piqued at the cool +superiority of her tone: "I am twenty-six." + +"So I should have thought," says Mrs. Arlington, quietly, which +assertion is as balm to his wounded spirit. + +"Are your brother and his ward much attached to each other?" asks she, +idly, with a very palpable endeavor to make conversation. + +"Not very much,"--laughing, as he remembers certain warlike passages +that have occurred between Guy and Lilian, in which the former has +always had the worst of it. + +"No? She prefers you, perhaps?" + +"I really don't know: we are very good friends, and she is a dear little +thing." + +"No doubt. Fair women are always to be admired. You admire her very +much?" + +"I think her pretty; but"--with an indescribable glance at the +"nut-brown locks" before him, that says all manner of charming +things--"her hair, to please me, is far too golden." + +"Oh, do you think so?" says Mrs. Arlington, surprised. "I saw her +distinctly from my window, and I thought her hair very lovely, and she +herself one of the prettiest creatures I have ever seen." + +"That is strong praise. I confess I have seen others I thought better +worthy of admiration." + +"You have been lucky, then,"--indifferently. "When one travels, one of +course sees a great deal, and becomes a judge on such matters." + +"I didn't travel far to find that out." + +"To find what out?" + +"A prettier woman than Miss Chesney." + +"No?" with cold unconcern and an evident want of interest on the +subject. "How lovely the flowers look with those little drops of rain in +their hearts!--like a touch of sorrow in the very centre of their joy." + +"You like the country?" + +"Yes, I love it. There is a rest, a calm about it that to some seems +monotony, but to me is peace." + +A rather troubled shade falls across her face. An intense pity for her +fills Cyril's breast together with a growing conviction (which is not a +pleasing one) that the dead and gone Arlington must have been a king +among his fellows. + +"I like the country well enough myself," he says, "but I hardly hold it +in such esteem as you do. It is slow,--at times unbearable. Indeed, a +careful study of my feelings has convinced me that I prefer the strains +of Albani or Nilsson to those of the sweetest nightingale that ever +'warbled at eve,' and the sound of the noisiest cab to the bleating of +the melancholy lamb; while the most exquisite sunrise that could be +worked into poetry could not tempt me from my bed. Have I disgusted +you?" + +"I wonder you are not ashamed to give way to such sentiments,"--with a +short but lovely smile. + +"One should never be ashamed of telling the truth, no matter how +unpleasant it may be." + +"True!" with another smile, more prolonged, and therefore lovelier, +that lights up all her face and restores to it the sweetness and +freshness of a child's. + +Cyril, looking at her, forgets the thread of his discourse, and says +impulsively, as though speaking to himself, "It seems impossible." + +"What does?" somewhat startled. + +"Forgive me; I was again going to say something that would undoubtedly +have brought down your heaviest displeasure on my head." + +"Then don't say it," says Mrs. Arlington, coloring deeply. + +"I won't. To return to our subject: the country is just now new to you, +perhaps. After a while you will again pine for society." + +"I do not think so. I have seen a good deal of the world in my time, but +never gained anything from it except--sorrow." + +She sighs heavily; again the shadow darkens her face and dims the beauty +of her eyes. + +"It must have caused you great grief losing your husband so young," says +Cyril, gently, hardly knowing what to say. + +"No, his death had nothing to do with the trouble of which I am +thinking," replies Mrs. Arlington, with curious haste, a quick frown +overshadowing her brow. Her fingers meet and clasp each other closely. + +Cyril is silent, being oppressed with another growing conviction which +completely routs the first and leads him to believe the dead and gone +Arlington a miserable brute, deserving of hanging at the very least. +This conviction, unlike the first, carries consolation with it. "I am +sorry you would not let my mother call on you," he says, presently. + +"Did Sir Guy say I would not see her?" asks she, with some anxiety. "I +hope he did not represent me as having received her kind message with +ingratitude." + +"No, he merely said you wished to see no one." + +"He said the truth. But then there are ways of saying things, and I +should not like to appear rude. I certainly do not wish to see any one, +but for all that I should not like to offend your mother." + +There is not the very smallest emphasis on the word "your," yet somehow +Cyril feels flattered. + +"She is not offended," he says, against his conscience, and is glad to +see his words please her. After a slight pause he goes on: "Although I +am only a stranger to you, I cannot help feeling how bad it is for you +to be so much alone. You are too young to be so isolated." + +"I am happier so." + +"What! you would care to see no one?" + +"I would care to see no one," emphatically, but with a sigh. + +"How dreadfully in the way you must have found me!" says Cyril, +straightening himself preparatory to departure. "The rain, I see, is +over." (It has been for the last ten minutes.) "I shall therefore +restore you to happiness by taking myself away." + +Mrs. Arlington smiles faintly. + +"I don't seem to mind you much," she says, kindly, but with a certain +amount of coldness. "Pray do not think I have wished you away." + +"This is the first kind thing you have ever said to me," says Cyril, +earnestly. + +"Is it? I think I have forgotten how to make pretty speeches," replies +she, calmly. "See, the sun is coming out again. I do not think, Mr. +Chetwoode, you need be afraid any longer of getting wet." + +"I'm afraid--I mean--I am sure not," says Cyril, absently. "Thank you +very much for the shelter you have afforded me. Would you think me very +_exigeant_ if I asked you to give me that rose you have been +ill-treating for the last half hour?" + +"Certainly not," says Mrs. Arlington, hospitably; "you shall have it if +you care for it; but this one is damaged; let me get you a few others, +fresher and sweeter." + +"No, thank you. I do not think you _could_ give me one either fresher or +sweeter. Good-evening." + +"Good-bye," returns she, extending her hand; and, with the gallant +Marshal firmly clasped in his hand, Cyril makes a triumphant exit. + +He has hardly gone three yards beyond the gate that guards the widow's +bower when he finds himself face to face with Florence Beauchamp, rather +wet, and decidedly out of temper. She glances at him curiously, but +makes no remark, so that Cyril hopes devoutly she may not have noticed +where he has just come from. + +"What a shower we have had!" he says, with a great assumption of +geniality and much politeness. + +"You do not seem to have got much of it," replies she, with lady-like +irritability, looking with open disfavor upon the astonishing dryness of +his clothes. + +"No,"--amiably,--"I have escaped pretty well. I never knew any cloth to +resist rain like this,--doesn't even show a mark of it. I am sorry I +cannot say the same for you. Your gown has lost a good deal of its +pristine freshness; while as for your feather, it is, to say the least +of it, dejected." + +No one likes to feel one's self looking a guy. Cyril's tender solicitude +for her clothes has the effect of rendering Miss Beauchamp angrier than +she was before. + +"Oh, pray don't try to make me more uncomfortable than I am," she says, +sharply. "I can imagine how unlovely I am looking. I detest the country: +it means simply destruction to one's clothes and manners," pointedly. +"It has been raining ever since I came back from Shropshire." + +"What a pity you did come back just yet!" says Cyril, with quite +sufficient pause to throw an unpleasant meaning into his words. "As to +the country, I entirely agree with you; give me the town: it never rains +in the town." + +"If it does, one has a carriage at hand. How did you manage to keep +yourself so dry, Cyril?" + +"There is plenty of good shelter round here, if one chooses to look for +it." + +"Evidently; very good shelter, I should say. One would almost think you +had taken refuge in a house." + +"Then one would think wrong. Appearances, you know, are often +deceitful." + +"They are indeed. What a beautiful rose that is!" + +"Was, you mean. It has seen its best days. By the bye, when you were so +near The Cottage, why didn't you go in and stay there until the rain was +over?" + +"I shouldn't dream of asking hospitality from such a very suspicious +sort of person as this Mrs. Arlington seems to be," Miss Beauchamp +replies, with much affectation and more spitefulness. + +"You are right,--you always _are_," says Cyril, calmly. "One should shun +the very idea of evil. Extreme youth can never be too careful. Good-bye +for the present, Florence; I fear I must tear myself away from you, as +duty calls me in this direction." So saying, he turns into another path, +preferring a long round to his home to a further _tête-à-tête_ with the +charming Florence. + +But Florence has not yet quite done with him. His supercilious manner +and that last harmless remark about "extreme youth" rankles in her +breast; so that she carries back to Chetwoode with her a small stone +carefully hidden in her sleeve wherewith to slay him at a convenient +opportunity. + + * * * * * + +The same shower that reduces Miss Beauchamp to sullen discontent behaves +with equal severity to Lilian, who reaches home, flushed and laughing, +drenched and out of breath, with the tail of her gown over her shoulders +and a handkerchief round her neck. Guy is with her; and it seems to Lady +Chetwoode (who is much concerned about them) as though they had rather +enjoyed than otherwise their enforced run. + +Florence, who arrives some time after them, retires to her room, where +she spends the two hours that must elapse before dinner in repairing all +dilapidations in face and figure. At seven o'clock precisely she +descends and gains the drawing-room as admirably dressed as usual, but +with her good humor still conspicuous by its absence. + +She inveighs mildly against the evening's rain, as though it had been +specially sent for the ruin of her clothes and complexion, and says a +good deal about the advantages to be derived from a town life, which is +decidedly gracious, considering how glad she has been all these past +years to make her home at Chetwoode. + +When dinner is almost over she turns to Cyril and says, with deliberate +distinctness: + +"Until to-day I had no idea you were acquainted with--the widow." + +There is no mistaking whom she means. The shot is well fired, and goes +straight home. Cyril changes color perceptibly and does not reply +instantly. Lady Chetwoode looks at him with marked surprise. So does +Lilian. So does Sir Guy. They all await his answer. Miss Beauchamp's +petty triumph is complete. + +"Had you not?" says Cyril. "I wonder so amazing a fact escaped your +knowledge." + +"Have you met Mrs. Arlington? You never mentioned it, Cyril," says Lady +Chetwoode. + +"Oh, yes," says Miss Beauchamp, "he is quite intimate there: aren't you, +Cyril? As I was passing The Cottage to-day in a desperate plight, I met +Cyril coming out of the house." + +"Not out of the house," corrects Cyril, calmly, having quite recovered +his self-possession; "out of the garden." + +"Was it? You were so enviably dry, in spite of the rain, I quite thought +you had been in the house." + +"For once your usually faultless judgment led you astray. I was in an +arbor, where Mrs. Arlington kindly gave me shelter until the rain was +over." + +"Was Mrs. Arlington in the arbor too?" + +"Yes." + +"How very romantic! I suppose it was she gave you the lovely yellow rose +you were regarding so affectionately?" says Miss Beauchamp, with a low +laugh. + +"I always think, Florence, what a fortune you would have made at the +bar," says Cyril, thoughtfully; "your cross-examinations would have had +the effect of turning your witnesses gray. I am utterly convinced you +would have ended your days on the woolsack. It is a pity to see so much +native talent absolutely wasted." + +"Not altogether wasted," sweetly: "it has at least enabled me to +discover how it was you eluded the rain this evening." + +"You met Mrs. Arlington before to-day?" asks Guy, who is half amused and +half relieved, as he remembers how needlessly jealous he has been about +his brother's attentions to Lilian. He feels also some vague doubts as +to the propriety of Cyril's losing his heart to a woman of whom they +know nothing; and his singular silence on the subject of having made her +acquaintance is (to say the least of it) suspicious. But, as Cyril has +been in a chronic state of love-making ever since he got into his first +tall hat, this doubt causes him but little uneasiness. + +"Yes," says Cyril, in answer to his question. + +"Is she as pretty as Sir Guy says?" asks Lilian, smiling. + +"Quite as pretty, if not more so. One may always depend upon Guy's +taste." + +"What a good thing it was you knew her! It saved you from that dreadful +shower," says Lilian, good-naturedly, seeing intuitively he is vexed. +"We were not so fortunate: we had to run for our lives all the way home. +It is a pity, Florence, you didn't know her also, as, being so near the +house, you might have thrown yourself upon her hospitality for a little +while." + +"I hardly think I see it in that light," drawls Florence, affectedly. +"I confess I don't feel exactly ambitious about making the acquaintance +of this Mrs.--er----" + +"Arlington is her name," suggests Cyril, quietly. "Have you forgotten +it? My dear Florence, you really should see some one about your memory: +it is failing every day." + +"I can still remember _some_ things," retorts Miss Beauchamp, blandly. + +By this time it has occurred to Lady Chetwoode that matters are not +going exactly smoothly; whereupon she glances at Miss Beauchamp, then at +Lilian, and finally carries them both off with her to the drawing-room. + +"If there is one thing I detest," says Cyril, throwing himself back in +his chair, with an impatient movement, when he has closed the door upon +them, "it is a vindictive woman. I pity the man who marries Florence +Beauchamp." + +"You are rather hard upon her, are you not?" says Guy. "I have known her +very good-natured." + +"Lucky you! I cannot recall many past acts of kindness on her part." + +"So you met Mrs. Arlington?" says Guy, carelessly. + +"Yes; one day I restored to her her dog; and to-day she offered me +shelter from the rain, simply because she couldn't help it. There our +acquaintance rests." + +"Where is the rose she gave you?" asks Guy, with a laugh, in which, +after a moment's struggle, Cyril joins. + +"Don't lose your heart to her, old boy," Guy says, lightly; but Cyril +well knows he has meaning in what he says. + + * * * * * + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + "There were two cousins almost like to twins; + And so they grew together, like two flowers + Upon one stem."--SHELLEY. + + "It was a babe, beautiful from its birth."--SHELLEY. + + +The next day awakes calm and fair, and full of the rich ripeness that +belongs to August. Lilian, opening her blue eyes upon the world at +half-past seven, calls her nurse, and being dressed rushes forth into +the garden to drink in all the first sweet freshness of the day. + +The dew still lingers upon lawn and blossom; the spiders' webs glisten +like jeweled nets in the dancing sunbeams; the exquisite opal flush of +the morning sky has grown and spread and deepened, until all the heavens +are tinged with warmest carmine. + +There is "splendor in the grass," and "glory in the flower," and Lilian, +flitting from bush to bush, enjoys everything to its utmost; she plucks +two pale roses for her own bosom, and one, deep red and richly perfumed, +to lay beside Lady Chetwoode's plate. This is a usual morning offering +not to be neglected. + +Just as she has made a careful choice, the breakfast bell rings loudly, +and, running at her quickest--most reckless--speed through the hall, she +barely succeeds in stopping herself as she comes up to Sir Guy at the +door of the morning-room. + +"Oh," cries she, with a little gasp, "another moment and I should have +been in your arms. I never saw you. Good-morning, Guardy," gayly. + +"Good-morning, my ward. I beg you to understand I could have welcomed +that other moment. Why, what an early little bird you are! How long have +you been abroad?" + +"For hours and hours, half a day, while you--lazy man--were sound +asleep. See what spoil I have gathered:" pointing to the heavy roses at +her breast. + +"Lovely, indeed," says Guy, who is secretly of opinion that the +wild-rose complexion she has snatched from the amorous wind is by far +the loveliest spoil of the two. + +"And is not this sweet?" she says, holding up to his face the "red, red +rose," with a movement full of grace. + +"Very," replies he, and stooping presses his lips lightly to her white +hand. + +"I meant the rose, not the hand," says she, with a laugh and a faint +blush. + +"Did you? I thought the hand very much the sweeter of the two. Is it for +me?" + +"No!" says Miss Chesney, with much emphasis; and, telling him he is +quite too foolish to be listened to any longer, she opens the door of +the breakfast-room, and they both enter it together, to find all the +others assembled before them, and the post lying in the centre of the +table. All, that is, that remains of it,--namely, one letter for Lilian +and two or three for Guy. + +These latter, being tinged with indigo, are of an uninteresting +description and soon read. Miss Chesney's, on the contrary, is evidently +full of information. It consists of two whole sheets closely covered by +a scrawling handwriting that resembles nothing so much as the struggles +of a dying fly. + +When she has read it twice over carefully--and with considerable +difficulty--she lays it down and looks anxiously at Lady Chetwoode. + +"Auntie," she begins, with a bright blush and a rather confused air. + +"Yes, dear?" + +"This letter"--touching it--"is from my cousin." + +"Yes,--from your cousin? The lad who grew up with you at the Park?" says +Lady Chetwoode, with a kindly nod of comprehension. + +Then ensues a pause. Somehow every one has stopped talking, and Lady +Chetwoode has set down the teapot and turned to Lilian with an air full +of expectancy. They all feel that something yet remains to be said. + +Possessed with this idea, and seeing Lilian's hesitation, Lady Chetwoode +says, in her gentlest tones: + +"Well, dear?" + +"He is unhappy," says Lilian, running one of her fingers up and down the +table-cloth and growing more and more embarrassed: "every year he used +to come to the Park for his holidays, and now----" + +"And now he cannot go to the Park: is that it?" + +"Yes. A little while ago he joined his regiment, and now he has leave of +absence, and he has nowhere to spend it except at Colonel Graham's, who +is his guardian and his uncle, and he _hates_ Colonel Graham," says +Lilian, impressively, looking at Lady Chetwoode with appealing eyes. + +"Poor boy," says that kindest of women, "I do not like to hear of his +being unhappy. Perhaps, Lilian, you would wish----" + +"I want you to ask him here," says Lilian, quickly and boldly, coloring +furiously, and fixing her great honest eyes on Lady Chetwoode. "He said +nothing about it, but I know he would like to be where I am." + +"My dear, of course," says Lady Chetwoode, with most unusual briskness +for her, "ask him instantly to come here as _soon_ as you like, to stay +as _long_ as you like." + +"Auntie Nannie," says Lilian, rising tumultuously from her chair, "you +are the dearest, kindest, best of women!" She presses her lips gently, +although rapturously, to her auntie's cheek, after which she returns to +her seat. "Now I am thoroughly content," she says naively: "I could not +bear to picture Taffy wretched, and that old Colonel Graham is a +downright Tartar!" + +"'Taffy'! what an extraordinary name!" says Florence. "Is it a fancy +name?" + +"No; it is, I am ashamed to say, a nickname. I believe he was christened +James, but one day when we were both almost babies he stole from me my +best doll and squeezed the eyes out of it to see what lay behind, and I +was very angry, and said he was a regular 'Taffy' to do such a thing. +You know the old rhyme?" turning to Lady Chetwoode with a blush and a +light laugh: + + + "Taffy was a Welshman, + Taffy was a thief, + Taffy came to my house + And stole a piece of beef. + + +There is a good deal more of it, quite as interesting, but of course you +know it. Nurse laughed when I so christened him, and after that he was +always called 'Master Taffy' by the servants, and nothing else." + +"How nicknames do cling to one!" + +"I don't believe I should know him by any other now. It suits him much +better than his own, as he doesn't look the least in the world like a +James." + +"How old is your cousin?" asks Florence, with an eye to business. + +"A year older than I am." + +"And that is----" + +"Nineteen." + +"Indeed! I should have thought you older than that." + +"He is very like me, and he is a dragoon!" says Lilian, proudly. "But I +have never seen him since he was gazetted." + +"Then you have not seen him in his uniform?" says Guy. + +"No. But he tells me," glancing at her letter, "he looks 'uncommonly +jolly' in it." + +They all laugh. Even Florence condescends to be amused. + +"When may we expect this hero?" asks Guy, kindly. + +"His leave begins next week," answers Lilian, looking at Lady Chetwoode. +"If he might come then, it would be such a comfort to him." + +"Of course he must come then," says Lady Chetwoode. "Do not let him lose +a day of his precious leave. I remember when Guy was in the army how +stingy they were about granting him a few days now and then." + +"The Mater's 'few days' always meant eight months out of the twelve," +says Cyril, laughing, "and anything like the abuse she used to shower +upon the colonel because he didn't see it in the light that she did, was +never heard. It is unfit for publication." + +"Archibald Chesney is coming here the twenty-ninth," says Guy. "So you +will be able to make choice between your two cousins." + +"Is Archibald coming?" surprised. "But my choice is already made. No one +shall ever get inside Taffy in my affections." + +"Thrice blessed Taffy," says Cyril. "See what it is to be a young and +gallant plunger!" + +"That wouldn't weigh with me," says Lilian, indignantly. + +"Would it not?" asks Guy. "I was hoping otherwise. I was a plunger once. +What is the renowned Taffy's other name?" + +"Musgrave," says Lilian. + +"A very pretty name," remarks Miss Beauchamp, who has received an +unexpected check by the morning's post, and is consequently in high good +humor. + +"I think so too," returns Lilian. + +"Five distinct blushes, and all about Taffy," says Cyril, meditatively. +"Happy Taffy! I have counted them religiously. Are you very much in love +with him, Lilian?" + +"'In love'! nonsense!" laughing. "If you only saw Taffy! (But," with a +glad smile, "you soon will.) He never remembers anything half an hour +after he has said it, and besides," scornfully, "he is only a boy." + +"'Only a boy'! Was there ever such willful waste! Such reckless, +extravagant, woful waste! To throw away five priceless, divine blushes +upon 'only a boy'! Oh, that I were a boy! Perhaps, Lilian, when you come +to know me longer I shall be happy enough to have one whole blush all +to myself." + +"Be consoled," says Miss Chesney, saucily: "I feel assured the longer I +know you, the more reason I shall have to blush for you!" + + * * * * * + +All through the day Miss Chesney's joy makes itself felt. She is +thoroughly happy, and takes very good care every one shall know it. She +sings through the house, "up-stairs, down-stairs, and in my lady's +chamber," gay as any lark, and inundates her nurse with vain conjectures +and interrogations; as for example, whether she thinks Taffy will be +much changed,--and whether twelve months could possibly produce a +respectable moustache,--and if she really believes the fact of his being +a full-blown dragoon will have a demoralizing effect upon him. + +"An' no doubt it will, ninny," says nurse, shaking her beribboned head +very solemnly, "I have no opinion of those soldiering ways myself. I +fear me he will be growing wilder an' wilder every day." + +"Oh! if that's all!" says Miss Lilian, with a relieved sigh. "I am only +afraid he will be growing steadier and steadier; and Taffy would be +ruined if he gave himself airs. I can't endure dignified young men." + +"I don't think you need fret about that, my dear," says nurse, with +conviction. "I never yet saw much signs of it about him." + +Having used up all nurse's powers of conversation, Lilian goes on to +Lady Chetwoode's boudoir, and finds out from her the room Taffy will be +likely to occupy. Having inspected it, and brought up half the servants +to change every article of furniture in the room into a different +position, and given as much trouble as possible, and decided in her own +mind the precise flowers she will place upon his dressing-table the +morning of his arrival, she goes back to her auntie to tell her all she +has done. + +In fact, any one so busy as Miss Chesney during all this day can +scarcely be imagined. Her activity is surprising, and draws from Cyril +the remark that she ought to go as hospital nurse to the wounded Turks, +as she seems eminently fitted for an energetic life. + +After luncheon she disappears for a while, so that at last--though not +for long--something like repose falls upon the house, which sinks into +a state of quietude only to be equaled by that of Verne's "Van +Tricasse." + +Miss Beauchamp is in her room, studying art; Cyril is walking with a +heart full of hope toward The Cottage; Lilian is absent; Guy is +up-stairs with his mother, relating to her a new grievance anent +poachers. + +The lad now in trouble is an old offender, and Guy is puzzled what to do +with him. As a rule all scamps have something interesting about them, +and this Heskett is an unacknowledged favorite of Sir Guy's. + +"Still I know I ought to dismiss him," he says, with a rather troubled +air, and an angry, disappointed expression upon his face. + +"He is young, poor lad," says Lady Chetwoode. + +"So he is, and his mother is so respectable. One hardly knows what to +do. But this last is such a flagrant act, and I swore I would pack him +about his business if it occurred again. The fact is, I rather fancy the +boy, and his wild ways, and don't like driving him to destruction. What +shall I do, mother?" + +"Don't do anything, my dear," replies she, easily. + +"I wish I could follow your advice,"--smiling,--"but, unfortunately, if +I let him off again I fear it will be a bad example to the others. I +almost think----" + +But what he thinks on this particular subject is never known. + +There is a step outside the door,--a step well known to one at least of +those within,--the "soft frou-frou and rustle" of a woman's gown,--and +then the door is pushed very gently open, and Lilian enters, with a +curious little bundle in her arms. + +"See what I've got!" she cries, triumphantly, going over to Lady +Chetwoode, and kneeling down beside her. "It's a baby, a real live baby! +look at it, auntie; did you ever see such a beauty?" + +"A baby," says Lady Chetwoode, fearfully, putting up her glasses, and +staring cautiously down upon the rosy little fellow who in Lilian's +encircling arms is making a desperate effort to assert his dignity, by +sitting up and glaring defiantly around him. + +"Yes, indeed; I carried him away when I found him, and have been playing +with him for the last ten minutes in my own room. Then I began to think +that you might like to see him, too." + +"That was very nice of you, my dear," with some hesitation. "It is +certainly a very clean baby, but its dress is coarse. Whose baby is it?" + +"He belongs to the laundress, I think," says Lilian, "but I'm not quite +sure. I was running through the kitchen when I saw him; isn't he a +rogue?" as baby puts up a chubby hand to seize the golden locks so near +him: "look at his eyes, as big as saucers." + +She laughs delightedly, and baby laughs back at her again, and makes +another violent jump at her yellow hair. Sir Guy, gazing intently at the +pretty picture, at Lilian's flushed and lovely face, thinks he has never +before seen her look half so sweet. Gay, merry, fascinating she always +is, but with this new and womanly tenderness within her eyes, her beauty +seems trebled. "See, he wants my hair: is he not a darling?" she says, +turning her face, rose-red with pleasure, up to Sir Guy. + +"The laundress's child,--Lilian, my _dear_!" says Lady Chetwoode, in a +faint tone of expostulation. + +"Well, Jane was holding it in her arms, but it can't be hers, decidedly, +because she hasn't got one." + +"Proof positive," says Guy. + +"Nor can it be cook's, because hers is grown up: so it must be the +laundress's. Besides, she was standing by, and she looked so glad about +it and so pleased when I took it that I am sure she must be his mother. +And of course she is proud of you, you bonny boy: so should I be, with +your lovely face. Oh, look at his little fists! he is doubling them up +just as though he were going to fight the world. And so he shall fight +it, if he likes, a darling! Come; your mammy is pining for you." + +As she speaks she rises, but baby is loath to go yet awhile. He crows so +successfully at Lady Chetwoode that he makes another conquest of her, +and receives several gentle pats and a kiss from her, to Lilian's great +gratification. + +"But he is too heavy for you," says her ladyship, addressing Lilian. +"Guy, ring the bell for one of the servants to take him down." + +"And offend his mother mortally. No indeed, auntie. We should get no +clothes fit to wear next week if we committed such a _betise_. As I +brought him up, so I shall carry him down, though, to do him justice, he +_is_ heavy. No servant shall touch him, the sweet boy,"--this to baby in +a fond aside. + +"I will carry him down for you," says Guy, advancing slowly from the +window where he has been standing. + +"You! Oh, Sir Guy, fancy you condescending to touch a baby. Though I +forgot," with a quick, mischievous look at him from her azure eyes, "I +believe there once was a baby you even professed to be fond of; but that +was long ago. By the bye, what were you looking so stern about just as I +came in? Were you passing sentence of death on any one?" + +"Not quite so bad as that," says Lady Chetwoode. "It is another of those +tiresome poachers. And this Heskett, is certainly a very naughty boy. He +was caught in the act last night, and Guy doesn't know what to do with +him." + +"Let him off, forgive him," says Lilian, lightly, speaking to her +guardian. "You can't think how much pleasanter you will feel if you do." + +"I believe you are right," says Guy, laughing, "and I dare say I should +give him a last chance, but that I have passed my word. Give me that +great heavy child: he looks as though he were weighing you down to the +ground." + +"I think she holds him very prettily," says Lady Chetwoode: "I should +like to have a picture of her just so." + +"Perhaps some day she will gratify you," returns Guy, encouragingly. +"Are you going to give me that _enfant terrible_, Miss Chesney, before +you expire?" + +"I am stronger than you think. And are you quite sure you can hold a +baby? that you won't let it fall? Take care, now, and don't look as +though you thought he would break. That will do. Auntie, don't you think +he would make a capital nurse?" + +"I hope that child will reach its mother alive," says auntie, in a tone +suggestive of doubt, after which Guy, escorted by Lilian, leaves the +room. + +Half-way down the stairs this brilliant procession meets Florence coming +up. + +"What is that?" she asks, stopping short in utter amazement, and staring +blankly at the baby, who is blinking his great eyes in a most +uncompromising fashion and is evidently deriving much refreshment from +his little fat, red thumb. + +"A baby," says Guy, gravely. + +"A real live baby," says Lilian, "a real small duck," giving the +child's plump cheek a soft pinch over Guy's shoulder. "Don't be +frightened, Florence; he don't bite; you may give him a kiss in all +safety." + +"Thanks," says Florence, drawing her skirts closer round her, as though +the very idea has soiled her garments. "I don't care about kissing +promiscuous babies. Really, Guy, if you only knew how ridiculous you +look, you would spare yourself the humiliation of being so seen by your +servants." + +"Blame Lilian for it all," returns Guy. "I know I shall blush myself to +death if I meet any of the women." + +"I think Sir Guy never before looked so interesting," says Miss Chesney, +who is making frantic play all this time with the baby; but its mood has +changed, and now her most energetic efforts are received--not with +smiles--but with stolid indifference and unblinking contempt by the +young gentleman in arms. + +"I cannot say I agree with you," Miss Beauchamp says, with much subdued +scorn, "and I do not think it is kind to place any one in a false +position." + +She lets a little disdainful angry glance fall upon Lilian,--who +unfortunately does not profit by it, as she does not see it,--and sweeps +up the stairs to her aunt's apartments, while Guy (who is not to be +sneered out of his undertaking) stalks on majestically to the kitchen, +followed by Lilian, and never pauses until he places the chubby little +rogue he carries in its mother's arms,--who eventually turns out to be +the laundress. + +"I am not a judge," he says to this young woman, who is curtsying +profusely and is actually consumed with pride, "but Miss Chesney has +declared your son to be the loveliest child in the world, and I always +agree with Miss Chesney,--for reasons of my own." + +"Oh, thank you, Sir Guy; I'm sure I'm much obliged to you, Miss +Chesney," says the laundress, turning the color of a full-blown peony, +through excitement. + +"What is his name?" asks Lilian, giving the boy a last fond poke with +her pretty slender finger. + +"Abiram, miss," replies the mother, which name much displeases Lilian, +who would have liked to hear he was called Alaric, or Lancelot, or any +other poetical appellation suitable for the most beautiful child in the +world. + +"A very charming name," says Guy, gravely; and, having squeezed a +half-sovereign into the little fellow's fat hand, he and Lilian go +through the passages into the open air. + +"Guardy," says Lilian, "what is a 'promiscuous baby'?" + +"I wish I knew," replies he: "I confess it has been puzzling me ever +since. We must ask Florence when we go in." + +Here they both laugh a little, and stroll on for a time in silence. At +length, being prompted thereto by her evil genius, Lilian says: + +"Tell me, who is the Heskett you and auntie were talking about just +now?" + +"A boy who lives down in the hollow beneath Leigh's farm,--a dark boy we +met one day at the end of the lawn; you remember him?" + +"A lad with great black eyes and a handsome face with just a little +_soupçon_ of wickedness about him? of course I do. Oh! I like that boy. +You must forgive him, Sir Guy, or I shall be unhappy forever." + +"Do you know him?" + +"Yes, well. And his mother, too: she is a dear old thing, and but that +she has an undeniable penchant for tobacco, would be perfection. Guardy, +you _must_ forgive him." + +"My dear child, I can't." + +"Not when I ask you?" in a tone of purest astonishment. + +"Not even then. Ask me something else,--in fact, anything,--and I will +grant it, but not this." + +"I want nothing else," coldly. "I have set my heart on freeing this poor +boy and you refuse me: and it is my first request." + +"It is always your first request, is it not?" he says, smiling a rather +troubled smile. "Yesterday----" + +"Oh, don't remind me of what I may have said yesterday," interrupts Miss +Chesney, impatiently: "think of to-day! I ask you to forgive +Heskett--for my sake." + +"You should try to understand all that would entail," speaking the more +sternly in that it makes him positively wretched to say her nay: "if I +were to forgive Heskett this time, I should have every second man on my +estate a poacher." + +"On the contrary, I believe you would make them all your devoted slaves. + + + 'The quality of mercy is not strain'd; + It droppeth, as the gentle dew from heaven, + Upon the place beneath; it is twice bless'd.'" + + +"I have said I would not, and even you can hardly think it right that I +should break my word." + +"No, you would rather break his mother's heart!" By this time the +spoiled Lilian has quite made up her mind to have her own way, and is +ready to try any means to gain it. "Your word!" she says disdainfully: +"if you are going to emulate the Medes and Persians, of course there is +no use of my arguing with you. You ought to be an ancient Roman; even +that detestable Brutus might be considered soft-hearted when compared +with you." + +"Sneering, Lilian, is a habit that should be confined to those old in +sorrow or worldly wisdom: it sits badly on such lips as yours." + +"Then why compel me to indulge in it? Give me my way in this one +instance, and I will be good, and will probably never sneer again." + +"I cannot." + +"Then don't!" naughtily, made exceeding wroth by (what she is pleased to +term) his obstinacy. "I was foolish in thinking I could influence you in +any way. Had Florence asked you, you would have said yes instantly." + +"Florence would never have asked me to do anything so unreasonable." + +"Of course not! Florence never does wrong in your eyes. It is a pity +every one else does not regard her as favorably as you do." + +"I think every one thinks very highly of her," angrily. + +"Do you? It probably pleases you to think so. I, for one, do not." + +"There is a certain class of people whose likes and dislikes cannot +possibly be accounted for," says Guy, somewhat bitterly. "I think you +would find a difficulty in explaining to me your vehement antipathy +toward Miss Beauchamp. You should remember 'unfounded prejudices bear no +weight.'" + +"That sounds like one of Miss Beauchamp's own trite remarks," says +Lilian, with a disagreeable laugh. "Did you learn it from her?" + +To this Chetwoode makes no reply, and Lilian, carried away by resentment +at his open support of Florence, and by his determination not to accede +to her request about young Heskett, says, passionately: + +"Why should you lose your temper about it?" (it is her own temper that +has gone astray). "It is all not worth a quarrel. Any one may plainly +see how hateful I am to you. In a thousand ways you show me how badly +you think of me. You are a petty tyrant. If I could leave your house, +where I feel myself unwelcome,--at least as far as _you_ are +concerned,--I would gladly do so." + +Here she stops, more from want of breath than eloquence. + +"Be silent," says Guy, turning to confront her, and thereby showing a +face as pale as hers is flushed with childish rage and bafflement. "How +dare you speak like that!" Then, changing his tone, he says quietly, +"You are wrong; you altogether mistake. I am no tyrant; I do what is +just according to my own conscience. No man can do more. As to what else +you may have said, it is _impossible_ you can feel yourself unwelcome in +my house. I do not believe you feel it." + +"Thank you," still defiant, though in truth she is a little frightened +by his manner: "that is as much as to say I am telling a lie, but I do +believe it all the same. Every day you thwart and disappoint me in one +way or another, and you know it." + +"I do not, indeed. It distresses me much that you should say so. So +much, that against my better judgment I give in to you in this matter of +Heskett, if only to prove to you how you wrong me when you say I wish to +thwart you. Heskett is pardoned." + +So saying, he turns from her abruptly and half contemptuously, and, +striking across the grass, makes for a path that leads indirectly to the +stables. + +When he has gone some yards it occurs to Miss Chesney that she feels +decidedly small. She has gained her point, it is true, but in a sorry +fashion, and one that leaves her discontented with her success. She +feels that had he done rightly he would have refused to bandy words with +her at all upon the subject, and he would not have pardoned the +reprehensible Heskett; something in his manner, too, which she chooses +to think domineering, renders her angry still, together with a vague, +uneasy consciousness that he has treated her throughout as a child and +given in to her merely because it is a simpler matter to surrender one's +judgment than to argue with foolish youth. + +This last thought is intolerable. A child, indeed! She will teach him +she is no child, and that women may have sense although they have not +reached the admirable age of six-and-twenty. + +Without further thought she runs after him, and, overtaking him just as +he turns the corner, says, very imperiously, with a view to sustaining +her dignity: + +"Sir Guy, wait: I want to speak to you." + +"Well," he says, stopping dead short, and answering her in his iciest +tones. He barely looks at her; his eyes, having once met hers, wander +away again without an instant's lingering, as though they had seen +nothing worthy of attention. This plain ignoring of her charms is bitter +to Miss Chesney. + +"I do not want you to forgive that boy against your will," she says, +haughtily. "Take back your promise." + +"Impossible! You have made me break my word to myself; nothing shall +induce me to break my word to you. Besides, it would be unfair to +Heskett. If I were to dismiss him now I should feel as though I had +wronged him." + +"But I will not have his pardon so." + +"What!"--scornfully,--"after having expended ten minutes in hurling at +me some of the severest eloquence it has ever been my fate to listen to, +all to gain this Heskett's pardon, you would now have it rescinded! Am I +to understand so much?" + +"No; but I hate ungraciousness." + +"So do I,"--meaningly,--"even more than I hate abuse." + +"Did I abuse you?" + +"I leave you to answer that question." + +"I certainly," with some hesitation, "said you were a tyrant." + +"You did," calmly. + +"And that----" + +"Do not let us go over such distasteful ground again," interrupts he, +impatiently: "you said all you could say,--and you gained your object. +Does not even that satisfy you?" + +"I wish I had never interested myself in the matter," she says, angrily, +vexed with herself, and with him, and with everything. + +"Perhaps your wisdom would have lain in that direction," returns he, +coolly. "But as you did interest yourself, and as victory lies with +you, you should be the one to rejoice." + +"Well, I don't," she says impulsively. And then she looks at him in a +half-defiant, half-penitent, wholly charming way, letting her large soft +eyes speak for her, as they rest full upon his face. There is something +in her fresh young beauty almost irresistible. Guy, with an angry sigh, +acknowledges its power, and going nearer to her, takes both her clasped +hands in his. + +"What a bad-tempered little girl you are!" he says, in a jesting tone, +that is still full of the keenest reproach. "Am I as bad as Brutus and +all those terrible Medes and Persians? I confess you made me tremble +when you showered upon me all those awful comparisons." + +"No, no, I was wrong," she says, hastily, twining her small fingers +closely round his; then very softly, "You are always forgiving me, are +you not? But yet--tell me, Guardy--are you not really glad you have +pardoned that poor Heskett? I cannot be pleased about it myself so long +as I think I have only wrung your promise from you against your will. +Say you are glad, if only to make me happy." + +"I would do anything to make you happy,--anything," he says, in a +strange tone, reading anxiously her lovely _riante_ face, that shows no +faintest trace of such tenderness as he would fain see there; then, +altering his voice with an effort, "Yes, I believe I am glad," he says, +with a short laugh: "your intercession has removed a hateful duty from +my shoulders." + +"Where is the boy? Is he locked up, or confined anywhere?" + +"Nowhere. I never incarcerate my victims," with a slight trace of +bitterness still in his manner. "He is free as air, in all human +probability poaching at this present moment." + +"But if he knows there is punishment in store for him, why doesn't he +make his escape?" + +"You must ask him that, because I cannot answer the question. Perhaps he +does not consider me altogether such a fiend as you do, and may think it +likely I will show mercy at the last moment." + +"Or perhaps," says Lilian, "he has made his escape long ago." + +"I don't think so. Indeed, I am almost sure, if you look straight along +that field"--pointing in a certain direction--"you will see the young +gentleman in question calmly smoking the pipe of peace upon a distant +wall." + +"It is he," says Lilian, in a low tone, after a careful examination of +the youthful smoker. "How little he seems to fear his fate!" + +"Yes, just fancy how lightly he views the thought of falling into the +clutches of a monster!" remarks Chetwoode, with a mocking smile. + +"I think you are a little hard on me," says Lilian, reproachfully. + +"Am I?" carelessly preparing to leave her. "If you see that promising +_protégé_ of yours, Lilian, you can tell him from me that he is quite at +liberty to carry on his nightly games as soon as he pleases. You have no +idea what a solace that news will be to him; only, if you have any +regard for him, advise him not to be caught again." + +So saying, he leaves her and continues his interrupted march to the +stables. + +When Miss Chesney has spent a moment or two inveighing silently against +the hardness and uncharitableness of men in general and Sir Guy +Chetwoode in particular, she accepts the situation, and presently starts +boldly for the hollow in which lies the modest homestead of the +venerable Mrs. Heskett. + +The unconscious cause of the battle royal that has just taken place has +evidently finished his pipe and lounged away through the woods, as he is +nowhere to be seen. And Miss Chesney makes up her mind, with a view to +killing the time that must elapse before dinner, to go straight to his +mother's cottage, and, by proclaiming Sir Guy's leniency, restore peace +to the bosom of that ancient dame. + +And as she walks she muses on all that has passed between herself and +her guardian during the last half-hour. After all, what did she say that +was so very bad? + +She had certainly compared him to Brutus, but what of that? Brutus in +his day was evidently a shining light among his people, and, according +to the immortal Pinnock, an ornament to his sex. Suppose he did condemn +his only son to death, what did that signify in a land where the deed +was looked upon as meritorious? Weak-minded people of the present day +might call him an old brute for so doing, but there are two sides to +every question, and no doubt the young man was a regular nuisance at +home, and much better out of the way. + +Then again she had likened him to the Medes and Persians; and why not? +Who should say the Medes and Persians were not thoroughly respectable +gentlemen, polished and refined? and though in this case again there +might be some who would prefer the manners of a decent English gentleman +to those of the present Shah, that is no reason why the latter should be +regarded so ignominiously. + +She has reached this highly satisfactory point in her argument when a +body dropping from a tree near her, almost at her feet, startles her +rudely from her meditations. + +"Dear me!" says Lilian, with much emphasis, and then knows she is face +to face with Heskett. + +He is a tall lad, brown-skinned as an Italian, with eyes and hair of +gypsy dye. As he stands before Lilian now, in spite of his daring +nature, he appears thoroughly abashed, and with his eyes lowered, twirls +uneasily between his hands the rather greasy article that usually adorns +his brow. + +"I beg your pardon, miss," he says, slowly, "but might I say a word to +you?" + +"I am sorry to hear such bad accounts of you, Heskett," says Miss +Chesney, in return, with all the airs of a dean and chapter. + +"Sir Guy has been telling you, miss?" says the lad, eagerly; "and it is +about my trouble I wanted to see you. They say you have great weight +with the baronet, miss, and once or twice you spoke kindly to me, and I +thought maybe you would say a word for me." + +"You are mistaken: I have no influence," says Lilian, coloring faintly. +"And besides, Heskett, there would be little use in speaking for you, as +you are not to be trusted." + +"I am, Miss Chesney, I am indeed, if Sir Guy would only try me again. I +don't know what tempted me last night, but I got my lesson then, and +never again, I swear, Miss----" + +Here a glance at Lilian's face checks further protestations. She is not +looking at him; her gaze is concentrated upon the left pocket of his +coat, though, indeed, there is little worthy of admiration in the cut of +that garment. Following the direction of her eyes, Heskett's fall +slowly, until at length they fasten upon the object that has so +attracted her. + +Sticking up in that luckless left pocket, so as plainly to be seen, is +a limp and rather draggled brown wing, the undeniable wing of a young +grouse. + +"Heskett," says Lilian, severely, "what have you been doing?" + +"Nothing, miss," desperately. + +"Heskett," still more severely, and with just a touch of scorn in her +tone, "speak the truth: what have you got in your pocket?" + +"It's just a grouse, then," says the boy, defiantly, producing the bonny +brown bird in question. + +"And a fat one," supplements Lilian. "Oh, Heskett, when you know the +consequences of poaching, how can you do it?" + +"'Tis because I do know it,"--recklessly: "it's all up with me this time +because the baronet swore he'd punish me next time I was caught, and he +never breaks his word. So I thought, miss, I'd have a last fling, +whatever came of it." + +"But it isn't 'all up' with you," says Lilian. "I have spoken to Sir +Guy, and he has promised to give you one more chance. But I cannot speak +again, Heskett, and if you still persist in your evil ways I shall have +spoken in vain." + +"You spoke for me?" exclaims he, incredulously. + +"Yes. But I fear I have done no good." + +The boy's eyes seek the ground. + +"I didn't think the likes of you would care to say a kind word for such +as me,--and without the asking," he says, huskily. "Look here, Miss +Chesney, if it will please you, I swear I will never again snare a +bird." + +"Oh, Heskett, will you promise really?" returns Lilian, charmed at her +success, "and can I trust you? You know you gave your word before to Sir +Guy." + +"But not to you, miss. Yes, I will be honest to please you. And indeed, +Miss Chesney, when I left home this morning I never meant to kill a +thing. I started with a short oak stick in my hand, quite innocent like, +and up by the bit of heather yonder this young one ran across my path; I +didn't seek it, and may bad luck go with the oak stick, for, before I +knew what I meant, it flew from me, and a second later the bird lay dead +as mutton. Not a stir in it. I was always a fine shot, miss, with a +stick or a stone," says the accomplished Heskett, regarding his grouse +with much pride. "Will you have it, miss?" he says then, holding it out +to her. + +"No, thank you," loftily: "I am not a receiver of stolen goods; and it +is stolen, remember that." + +"I suppose so, miss. Well, as I said before, I will be honest now to +please you, you have been so good to me." + +"You should try to please some One higher," says Lilian, with a +solemnity that in her is sweeter than it is comical. + +"Nay, then, miss,--to please you first, if I may." + +"Tell me," says Lilian, shifting ground as she finds it untenable, "why +do you never come to church?" + +"It's so mighty dull, miss." + +"You shouldn't find it so. Come and say your prayers, and afterward you +may find it easier to be good. You should not call church dull," with a +little reproving shake of the head. + +"Do _you_ never find it stupid, Miss Chesney?" asks Heskett, with all +diffidence. + +Lilian pauses. This is a home-thrust, and her innate honesty prevents +the reply that trembles on her lips. She _does_ find it very stupid now +and then. + +"Sometimes," she says, with hesitation, "when Mr. Austen is preaching I +cannot think it quite as interesting as it might be: still----" + +"Oh, as for him," says Heskett, with a grin, "he ought to be shot, miss, +begging your pardon, that's what he ought. I never see him I don't wish +he was a rabbit snug in one o' my snares as was never known to fail. +Wouldn't I wring his neck when I caught him! maybe not! comin' around +with his canting talk, as though he was the archbishop hisself." + +"How dare you speak of your clergyman in such a way?" says Lilian, +shocked; "you are a bad, bad boy, and I am very angry with you." + +"Don't then, Miss Chesney," piteously; "I ask your pardon humbly, and +I'll never again speak of Mr. Austen if you don't like. But he do +aggravate awful, miss, and frightens the life out o' mother, because she +do smoke a bit of an evenin', and it's all the comfort she have, poor +soul. There's the Methody parson below, even he's a better sort, though +he do snivel horrid. But I'll do anything to please you, miss, an' I'll +come to church next Sunday." + +"Well, mind you do," says Lilian, dismissing him with a gracious nod. + +So Heskett departs, much exercised in mind, and in the lowest spirits, +being full of vague doubts, yet with a keen consciousness that by his +promise to Miss Chesney he has forfeited his dearest joy, and that from +him the glory of life has departed. No more poaching, no more snaring, +no more midnight excursions fraught with delicious danger: how is he to +get on in future, with nothing to murder but time? + +Meanwhile Miss Chesney, coming home flushed with victory, encounters +Florence in the garden wandering gracefully among the flowers, armed as +usual with the huge umbrella, the guardian of her dear complexion. + +"You have been for a walk?" she asks Lilian, with astonishing +_bonhommie_. "I hope it was a pleasant one." + +"Very, thank you." + +"Then you were not alone. Solitary walks are never pleasant." + +"Nevertheless, mine was solitary." + +"Then, Guy did not go with you?" somewhat hastily. + +"No. He found he had something to do in the stables," Lilian answers, +shortly. + +Miss Beauchamp laughs a low, soft, irritative laugh. + +"How stupid Guy is!" she says. "I wonder it never occurs to him to +invent a new excuse: whenever he wants to avoid doing anything +unpleasant to him, he has always some pressing business connected with +the stables to take him away. Have you noticed it?" + +"I cannot say I have. But then I have not made a point of studying his +eccentricities. Now you have told me this one, I dare say I shall remark +it in future. You see," with a slight smile, "I hold myself in such good +esteem that it never occurred to me others might find my company +disagreeable." + +"Nor do they, I am sure,"--politely,--"but Guy is so peculiar, at times +positively odd." + +"You amaze me more and more every moment. I have always considered him +quite a rational being,--not in the least madder than the rest of us. I +do hope the new moon will have no effect upon him." + +"Ah! you jest," languidly. "But Guy does hold strange opinions, +especially about women. No one, I think, quite understands him but me. +We have always been so--fond of each other, he and I." + +"Yes? Quite like brother and sister, I suppose? It is only natural." + +"Oh, _no_" emphatically, her voice taking a soft intonation full of +sentimental meaning, "not in the very _least_ like brother and sister." + +"Like what then?" asks Lilian, somewhat sharply for her. + +"How downright you are!" with a little forced laugh, and a modest +drooping of her white lids; "I mean, I think a brother and sister are +hardly so necessary to each other's happiness as--as we are to each +other, and have been for years. To me, Chetwoode would not be Chetwoode +without Guy, and I fancy--I am sure--it would scarcely be home to Guy +without me." This with a quiet conviction not to be shaken. "Perhaps you +can see what I mean? though, indeed," with a smile, "I hardly know +myself what it is I _do_ mean." + +"Ah!" says Lilian, a world of meaning in her tone. + +"The only fault I find with him," goes on Florence, in the low, prettily +modulated tone she always adopts, "is, that he is rather a flirt. I +believe he cannot help it; it is second nature to him now. He adores +pretty women, and at times his manner to them is rather--er--caressing. +I tell him it is dangerous. Not perhaps that it makes much difference +nowadays, does it? when women have learned to value attentions exactly +at what they are worth. For my own part, I have little sympathy with +those foolish Ariadnes who spend their lives bemoaning the loss of their +false lovers. Don't you agree with me?" + +"Entirely. Utterly," says Lilian, in a curious tone that might be +translated any way. "But I cannot help thinking Fortune very hard on the +poor Ariadnes. Is that the dressing-bell? How late it has grown! I am +afraid we must go in if we wish to be in time for dinner." + +Miss Beauchamp being possessed with the same fear, they enter the house +together, apparently in perfect amity with each other, and part in peace +at their chamber doors. Lilian even bestows a little smile upon her +companion as she closes hers, but it quickly changes into an +unmistakable little frown as the lock is turned. A shade falls across +her face, an impatient pucker settles comfortably upon her forehead, as +though it means to spend some time there. + +"What a hateful girl that is!" Lilian says to herself, flinging her hat +with a good deal of vehemence on to the bed (where it makes one +desperate effort to range itself and then rolls over to the floor at the +other side), and turning two lovely wrathful eyes toward the door, as +though the object of her anger were still in sight. "Downright +detestable! and quite an old maid; not a doubt of it. Women close on +thirty are always so spiteful!" + +Here she picks up the unoffending hat, and almost unconsciously +straightens a damaged bow while her thought still runs on passionately. + +So Sir Guy "adores pretty women." By the bye, it was a marvelous +concession on Miss Beauchamp's part to acknowledge her as such, for +without doubt all that kindly warning was meant for her. + +Going up to her glass, Lilian runs her fingers through the rippling +masses of her fair hair, and pinches her soft cheeks cruelly until the +red blood rushes upward to defend them, after which, she tells herself, +even Florence could scarcely have said otherwise. + +And does Miss Beauchamp think _herself_ a "pretty woman?" and does Sir +Guy "adore _her_?" She said he was a flirt. But is he? Cyril is +decidedly given that way, and some faults run in families. Now she +remembers certain lingering glances, tender tones, and soft innuendoes +meant for her alone, that might be placed to the account of her +guardian. She smiles somewhat contemptuously as she recalls them. Were +all these but parts of his "caressing" manner? Pah! what a sickening +word it is. + +She blushes hotly, until for a full minute she resembles the heart of a +red, red rose. And for that minute she positively hates her guardian. +Does he imagine that she--_she_--is such a baby as to be flattered by +the attentions of any man, especially by one who is the lover of another +woman? for has not Florence both in words and manner almost claimed him +as her own? Oh, it is too abominable! And---- + +But never mind, wait, and when she has the opportunity, won't she show +him, that's all? + +What she is to show him, or how, does not transpire. But this awful +threat, this carefully disguised and therefore sinister menace, is +evidently one of weight, because it adds yet a deeper crimson to Miss +Chesney's cheeks, and brings to life a fire within her eyes, that gleams +and sparkles there unrebuked. + +Then it quietly dies, and nurse entering finds her little mistress again +calm, but unusually taciturn, and strangely forgetful of her teasing +powers. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + "Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his tongue + His breath's like caller air; + His very fit has music in't, + As he comes up the stair. + + And will I see his face again? + And will I hear him speak? + I'm downright dizzy with the thought, + In troth I'm like to greet."--W. J. MICKLE. + + +It is the most important day of all the three hundred and sixty-five, at +least to Lilian, because it will bring her Taffy. Just before dinner he +will arrive, not sooner, and it is now only half-past four. + +All at Chetwoode are met in the library. The perfume of tea is on the +air; the click of Lady Chetwoode's needles keeps time to the +conversation that is buzzing all round. + +Miss Beauchamp, serene and immovable as ever, is presiding over the +silver and china, while Lilian, wild with spirits, and half mad with +excitement and expectation, is chattering with Cyril upon a distant +sofa. + +Sir Guy, upon the hearthrug, is expressing his contempt for the views +entertained by a certain periodical on the subject of a famous military +scandal, in real parliamentary language, and Florence is meekly agreeing +with him straight through. Never was any one (seemingly) so thoroughly +_en rapport_ with another as Florence with Sir Guy. Her amiable and +rather palpable determination to second his ideas on all matters, her +"nods and becks and wreathed smiles," when in his company, would, if +recited, fill a volume in themselves. But I don't deny it would be a +very stupid volume, from the same to the same: so I suppress it. + +"Sir Guy," says Lilian, suddenly, "don't look so stern and don't stand +with one hand in your breast, and one foot advanced, as though you were +going to address the House." + +"Well, but he is going to address the House," says Cyril, reprovingly: +"we are all here, aren't we?" + +"It is perfectly preposterous," says Guy, who is heated with his +argument, and scarcely hears what is going on around him, so great is +his righteous indignation. "If being of high birth is a reason why one +must be dragged into notoriety, one would almost wish one was born +a----" + +"Sir Guy," interrupts Lilian again, throwing at him a paper pellet she +has been preparing for the last two minutes, with sure and certain aim, +"didn't you hear me desire you not to look like that?" + +Sir Guy laughs, and subsides into a chair. Miss Beauchamp shrugs her +shapely shoulders and indulges in a smile suggestive of pity. + +"I begin to feel outrageously jealous of this unknown Taffy," says +Cyril. "I never knew you in such good spirits before. Do you always +laugh when you are happy?" + +"'Much laughter covers many tears,'" returns Lilian, gayly. "Yes, I am +very happy,--so happy that I think a little would make me cry." + +"Oh, don't," says Cyril, entreatingly; "if you begin I'm safe to follow +suit, and weeping violently always makes me ill." + +"I can readily believe it," says Miss Chesney. "Your expression is +unmistakably doleful, O knight of the rueful countenance!" + +"And his manner is so dejected," remarks his mother, smiling. "Have you +not noticed how silent he always is? One might easily imagine him the +victim of an unhappy love tale." + +"If you say much more," says Mr. Chetwoode, "like Keats, I shall 'die of +a review.' I feel much offended. It has been the dream of my life up to +this that society in general regarded me as a gay and brilliant +personage, one fitted to shine in any sphere, concentrating (as I hoped +I did) rank, beauty, and fashion in my own body." + +"_Did_ you hope all that?" asks Lilian, with soft impertinence. + +"'A modest hope, but modesty's my forte,'" returns he, mildly. "No, Miss +Chesney, I won't be told I am conceited. This is a case in which we +'all do it;' every one in this life thinks himself better than he is." + +"I am glad you so scrupulously exonerate the women," says Lilian, +maliciously. + +At this moment a step is heard in the hall outside. Lilian starts, and +rises impulsively to her feet; her face lights; a delicate pink flush +dawns upon it slowly, and then deepens into a rich carnation. +Instinctively her eyes turn to Lady Chetwoode, and the breath comes a +little quicker from her parted lips. + +"But," she murmurs, raising one hand, and speaking in the low tone one +adopts when intently listening,--"but that I know he can't be here for +another hour, I should say that was--Taffy!" + +The door has opened. A tall, very young man, with a bright boyish face, +fair brown hair, and a daring attempt at a moustache, stands upon the +threshold. Lilian, with a little soft glad cry, runs to him and throws +herself into his arms. + +"Oh, dear, dear boy, you have come!" she says, whereupon the tall young +man laughs delightedly, and bestows upon her an honest and most palpable +hug. + +"Hug," quotha! and what is a "hug"? asks the fastidious reader: and yet, +dear ignorance, I think there is no word in all the English language, or +in any other language, that so efficiently describes the enthusiasm of a +warm embrace as the small one of three letters. + +Be it vulgar or not, however, I cannot help it: the fact remains. Taffy +openly and boldly hugged Miss Chesney before her guardian's eyes, and +Miss Chesney does not resent it; on the contrary, she kisses him with +considerable _empressement_, and then turns to Lady Chetwoode, who is an +admiring spectator of the scene. Cyril is visibly amused; Sir Guy a +trifle envious; Miss Beauchamp thinks the new-comer far too grown for +the reception of such a public demonstration of affection on the part of +a well-conducted young woman, but is rather glad than otherwise that +Lilian has so far committed herself before her guardian. + +"It is Taffy," says Lilian, with much pride. "I knew it was. Do you +know," turning her sweet, flushed, excited face to her cousin, "the +moment I heard your step outside, I said, 'That is Taffy,' and it +_was_," with a charming laugh. + +Meanwhile Mr. Musgrave is being kindly received by Lady Chetwoode and +her sons. + +"It was so awfully good of you to ask me here!" he is saying, +gratefully, and with all a boy's delightful frankness of tone and +manner. "If you hadn't, I shouldn't have known what to do, because I +hate going to my guardian's, one puts in such a bad time there, the old +man is so grumpy. When I got your invitation I said to myself, 'Well, I +_am_ in luck!'" + +Here he is introduced to Miss Beauchamp, and presses the hand she +extends to him with much friendliness, being in radiant spirits with +himself and the world generally. + +"Why, Taffy, you aren't a bit altered, though I do think you have grown +half an inch or so," says Lilian, critically, "and I am so glad of it. +When I heard you had really joined and become an undeniable 'heavy,' I +began to fear you would change, and grow grand, and perhaps think +yourself a man, and put on a great deal of 'side;' isn't that the word, +Sir Guy?" saucily, peeping at him from behind Taffy's back. "You mustn't +correct me, because I heard you use that word this morning; and I am +sure you would not give way to a naughty expression." + +"We are all very glad to have you, Mr. Musgrave," says Lady Chetwoode, +graciously, who has taken an instantaneous fancy to him. "I hope your +visit will be a happy one." + +"Thank you, I know it will; but my name is Taffy," says young Musgrave. +"I hope you will call me by it. I hardly know myself by any other name +now." He says this with a laugh so exactly like Lilian's that they all +notice it, and comment upon it afterward. Indeed, both in feature and +manner he strongly resembles his cousin. Lady Chetwoode smiles, and +promises to forget the more formal address for the future. + +"I have so many things to show you," exclaims Lilian, fondly. "The +stables here are even better than at the Park, and I have a brown mare +all my own, and I am sure I could beat you at tennis now, and there are +six lovely new fat little puppies; will you come and see them? but +perhaps"--doubtfully--"of course you are tired." + +"He must be tired, I think, and hungry too," says Guy, coming up to him +and laying his hand upon his shoulder, "If you can spare him for a +moment or two, Lilian, I will show Taffy his room." Here Guy smiles at +his new guest, and when Guy smiles he is charming. Mr. Musgrave likes +him on the spot. + +"I will go with you," says Lilian promptly, who is never troubled with +the pangs of etiquette, and who cannot as yet bear to lose sight of her +boy. "Such a pretty room as it is! It is near mine, and has an exquisite +view from it,--the lake, and the swans, and part of the garden. Oh, +Taffy, I am so _glad_ you are come!" + +They are half-way up the stairs by this time, and Lilian, putting her +hand through her cousin's arm, beams upon him so sweetly that Guy, who +is the looker-on, feels he would give a small fortune for permission to +kiss her without further delay. Taffy does kiss her on the instant +without having to waste any fortune or ask any permission; and +Chetwoode, seeing how graciously the caress is received and returned, +feels a strange trouble at his heart. How fond she is of this boy! +Surely he is more to her than any cousin ever yet was to another. + +At the head of the stairs another interruption occurs. Advancing toward +them, arrayed in her roomiest, most amazing cap, and clad in her Sunday +gown, appears Mrs. Tipping, shining with joy and expectation. Seeing +Taffy, she opens wide her capacious arms, into which Mr. Musgrave +precipitates himself and is for the moment lost. + +When he comes to light again, he embraces her warmly, and placing his +hands upon her shoulders, regards her smilingly. + +"Bless the boy, how he has grown, to be sure!" says nurse, with tears in +her eyes; taking out her spectacles with much deliberation, she +carefully adjusts them on her substantial nose, and again subjects him +to a loving examination. + +"Yes; hasn't he, nurse? I said so," remarks Lilian, in raptures, while +Sir Guy stands behind, much edified. + +"So have you, nurse," says Master Taffy,--"_young_. I protest it is a +shame the way you go on deceiving the public. Every year only sees you +fresher and lovelier. Why, you are ten years younger than when last I +saw you. It's uncommonly mean of you not to give us a hint as to how you +manage it." + +"Tut," says nurse, giving him a scornful poke with her first finger, +though she is tremendously flattered; "be off with you; you are worse +than ever. Eh, but I always knew how it would be if you took to +soldiering. All the millingtary has soft tongues, and the gift o' the +gab." + +"How do you know, nurse?" demands Mr. Musgrave: "I always understood the +fortunate Tipping was a retired mason. I am afraid at some period of +your life you must have lost your heart to a bold dragoon. Never mind: +my soldiering shan't bring me to grief, if only for your sake." + +"Eh, darling, I hope not," says nurse, surveying with fond admiration +his handsome boyish face: "such bonnie looks as yours should aye sit +upon a high head." + +"I decline to listen to any more flattery. It is downright +demoralizing," says Mr. Musgrave, virtuously, and presently finds +himself in his pretty room, that is sweet with the blossoms of Lilian's +gathering. + + * * * * * + +Mr. Musgrave on acquaintance proves as great a success as his cousin: +indeed, to like one is to like the other, as no twins could be more +similar. He takes very kindly to the house and all its inmates, and is, +after one day's association, as much at home with them as though they +had been his chosen intimates all his life. + +His disposition is certainly sweeter than Lilian's,--bad temper of any +sort being quite unknown to him; whereas Miss Chesney possesses a will +of her own, and a very quick temper indeed. He is bright, sunny, lovable +in disposition, and almost "without guile." So irresistible is he that +even Miss Beauchamp smiles upon him, and is singularly gracious to him, +considering he is not only a youngster but--far worse--a detrimental. + +He has one very principal charm. Unlike all the youthful soldiers it has +been my misfortune to meet, he does not spend his days wearying his +friends with a vivid description of his rooms, his daily duties when on +parade, his colonel, and his brother officers. For this grace alone his +familiars should love him and be grateful to him. + +Nevertheless, he is so far human that, the evening after his arrival, he +whispers to Lilian how he has brought his uniform with him, for her +inspection only. Whereupon Lilian, delighted, desires him to go up that +instant and put it on, that she may pass judgment upon him without +delay. No, she will not wait another second; she cannot know peace or +happiness until she beholds him in all his grandeur. + +After a faint demur, and the suggestion that as it is late he could +scarcely get it on and have time afterward to dress for dinner, he gives +in, and, binding her to secrecy, runs up-stairs, having named a certain +time for her to follow him. + +Half an hour later, Miss Beauchamp, sweeping slowly along the corridor +up-stairs, hears the sound of merriment coming from young Musgrave's +room, and stops short. + +Is that Lilian's voice? surely it is; and in her cousin's room! The door +is almost closed,--not quite; and, overcome by curiosity, she lays her +hand against it, and, pushing it gently open, glances in. + +Before the dressing-table, clothed in military garments of the most +_recherché_ description, is Taffy, while opposite to him, full of open +admiration, stands Miss Chesney. Taffy is struggling with some part of +his dress that declines to fall into a right position, and Lilian is +flouting him merrily for the evident inexperience he betrays. + +Florence, astonished--nay, electrified--by this scene, stands +motionless. A young woman in a young man's bedroom! Oh, shocking! To her +carefully educated mind, the whole thing borders on the improper, while +to have it occur in such a well-regulated household as Chetwoode fills +her with genuine horror. + +So struck is she by the criminality of it all that she might have stayed +there until now, but that a well-known step coming up the stairs warns +her that eavesdropping is not the most honorable position to be caught +in. She moves away, and presently finds herself face to face with Guy. +He is coming lazily along the corridor, but stops as he sees her. + +"What is it, Florence? You look frightened," he says, half jestingly. + +"No, not frightened," Florence answers, coldly, "though I confess I am a +good deal amazed,"--her tone says "disgusted," and Guy knows the tone. +"Really, that girl seems absolutely ignorant of the common decencies of +society!" + +"Of whom are you speaking?" asks Guy, coloring. + +"Of whom can I say such things but Lilian? She is the only one of my +acquaintance deserving of such a remark, and it is not my fault that we +are acquainted. I think it is clearly Aunt Anne's duty to speak to her, +or yours. There are moments when one positively blushes for her." + +"Why, what has she been doing?" asks Guy, overcome with astonishment at +this outburst on the part of the usually calm Florence. + +"Doing! Do you not hear her in her cousin's room? Is that the proper +place for a young lady?" + +At this instant a sound of laughter coming from Mr. Musgrave's apartment +gives truth to her accusations, and with a slight but expressive shrug +of her white shoulders, Florence sails majestically down the stairs, +while Sir Guy instinctively moves on toward Taffy's quarters. + +Miss Beauchamp's touch has left the door quite open, so that, standing +on the threshold, he can see clearly all that is within. + +By this time Taffy is quite arrayed, having finally resorted to his +cousin's help. + +"There!" says Lilian, triumphantly, "now you are ready. Oh! I say, +Taffy, how nice you do look!" + +"No; do I?" returns Mr. Musgrave, with admirable modesty, regarding +himself bashfully though complacently in a full-length mirror. His tall +young figure is well drawn up, his head erect; unconsciously he has +assumed all the full-blown, starchy airs of a military swell. "Does the +coat fit well, do you think?" he asks, turning to await her answer with +doubtful anxiety. + +"It is simply perfection," returns she reassuringly, "not a wrinkle in +it. Certainly you owe your tailor something for turning you out so +well." + +"I do," says Taffy, feelingly. + +"I had no idea it would make such a difference in you," goes on Lilian; +"you look quite grown up." + +"Grown up,--nonsense," somewhat indignantly; "I should think I was +indeed. Just twenty, and six feet one. There are very few fellows in the +service as good a height as I am. 'Grown up,' indeed!" + +"I beg your pardon," Lilian says, meekly. "Remember I am only a little +rustic, hardly aware of what a man really means. Talking of fitting, +however, do you know," thoughtfully, and turning her head to one side, +the better to mark the effect, "I think--I fancy--there is just a little +pucker in your trousers, just at the knee." + +"No; is there?" says Taffy, immediately sinking into the deepest +melancholy as he again refers to the glass. + +Here Sir Guy comes forward and creates a diversion. He is immensely +amused, but still sore and angry at Florence's remarks, while wishing +Lilian would not place herself in such positions as to lay her open to +unkind criticism. + +"Oh, here is Sir Guy," says that young lady, quite unembarrassed; "he +will decide. Sir Guy, do you think his trousers fit very well? Look +here, now, is there not the faintest pucker here?" + +"I think they fit uncommonly well," says Guy, gravely. Taffy has turned +a warm crimson and is silent; but his confusion arises not from Miss +Chesney's presence in his room, but because Chetwoode has discovered him +trying on his new clothes like a school-boy. + +"Lilian wanted so much to see me in my uniform," he says, meanly, +considering how anxious he himself has been to show himself to her in +it. + +"Yes, and doesn't he look well in it?" asks Lilian, proudly; "I had no +idea he could look so handsome. Most men appear perfect fools in +uniform, but it suits Taffy. Don't you think so?" + +"I do; and I think something else, too; your auntie is coming up-stairs, +and if she catches you in Taffy's room she will give you a small lecture +on the proprieties." + +This is the mildest rebuke he can think of. Not that he thinks her at +all worthy of rebuke, but because he is afraid of Florence's tongue for +her sake. + +"Why?" asks Lilian, opening large eyes of utter amazement, after which +the truth dawns upon her, and as it dawns amuses her intensely. "Do you +mean to say," blushing slightly, but evidently struck with the +comicality of the thought,--"what would auntie say, then, if she knew +Taffy had been in mine? Yes; he was,--this afternoon,--just before +lunch," nodding defiantly at Sir Guy, "actually in mine; and he stole my +eau de Cologne, which I thought mean of him. When I found it was all +gone, I was very near running across to your room to replenish my +bottle. Was it not well I didn't? Had I done so I should of course have +earned two lectures, one from auntie and one from--you!" provokingly. +"Why, Guardy, how stupid you are! Taffy is just the same as my brother." + +"But he is not your brother," says Guy, beginning to feel bewildered. + +"Yes, he is, and better than most brothers: aren't you, Taffy?" + +"Are you angry with Lil for being in my room?" asks Mr. Musgrave, +surprised; "she thinks nothing of it: and why should she? Bless you, +all last year, when we were at home--at the Park--she used to come in +and settle my ties when we were going out anywhere to dinner, or that." + +"Sir Guy never had a sister, so of course he doesn't understand," says +Lilian, disdainfully, whereupon Guy gives up the point. "I wish you +would come down and show yourself to auntie. Do now, Taffy,"--coaxingly: +"you can't think how well you look. Come, if only to please me." + +"Oh, I couldn't," says Taffy. "I really couldn't, you know. She would +think me such an awful fool, and Miss Beauchamp would laugh at me, and +altogether it wouldn't be form. I only meant to show myself to you, +but----" + +"Guy, my dear," says Lady Chetwoode from the doorway, "why, what is +going on here?" advancing and smiling gently. + +"Oh, auntie, I am so glad you have come!" says Lilian, going forward to +welcome her: "he would not go down-stairs to you, though I did my best +to persuade him. Is he not charming in uniform?" + +"He is, indeed. Quite charming! He reminds me very much of what Guy was +when first he joined his regiment." Not for a moment does Lady +Chetwoode--dear soul--think of improprieties, or wrong-doing, or the +"decencies of society." And, watching her, Guy grows gradually ashamed +of himself. "It was really selfish of you, my dear Taffy, to deny me a +glimpse of you." + +"Well, I didn't think you'd care, you know," says Mr. Musgrave, who is +positively consumed with pride, and who is blushing like a demoiselle. + +"I couldn't resist coming in when I saw you from the doorway. All my +people were in the army: so I have quite an affection for it. But +Lilian, darling, dinner is almost ready, and you have not yet changed +your dress." + +"I shan't be a minute," says Lilian; and Guy, lighting a candle, escorts +her to her own room, while Lady Chetwoode goes down-stairs. + +"Shall I get you the eau de Cologne now?" he asks, pausing on her +threshold for a moment. + +"If," says Miss Chesney, lowering her eyes with affected shyness, "you +are _quite_ sure there would be nothing reprehensible in my accepting +it, I should like it very much, thank you. By the bye, that reminds me," +glancing at him with a mocking smile, "Lady Chetwoode quite forgot to +deliver that small lecture. You, Sir Guy, as my guardian, should have +reminded her." + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + + "Sweets to the sweet."--_Hamlet._ + + +"I am going to London in the morning. Can I do anything for anybody?" +asks Sir Guy, at exactly twenty minutes past ten on Wednesday night. +"Madre, what of you?" + +"Nothing, dear, thank you," says the Madre, lazily enough, her eyes +comfortably closed. "But to-morrow, my dear boy! why to-morrow? You know +we expect Archibald." + +"I shall be home long before he arrives, if I don't meet him and bring +him with me." + +"Some people make a point of being from home when their guests are +expected," says Miss Lilian, pointedly, raising demure eyes to his. + +"Some other people make a point of being ungenerous," retorts he. +"Florence, can I bring you anything?" + +"I want some wools matched: I cannot finish the parrot's tail in my +crewel-work until I get them, and you will be some hours earlier than +the post." + +"What! you expect me to enter a fancy shop--is that what you call +it?--and sort wools, while the young woman behind the counter makes love +to me? I should die of shame." + +"Nonsense! you need only hand in the envelope I will prepare for you, +and wait until you receive an answer to it." + +"Very good. I dare say I shall survive so much. And you, my ward? How +can I serve you?" + +"In a thousand ways, but modesty forbids my mentioning them. _Au reste_, +I want bonbons, a new book or two, and--the portrait of the handsomest +young man in London." + +"I thoroughly understand, and am immensely flattered. I shall have +myself taken the moment I get there. Would you prefer me sitting or +standing, with my hat on or off? A small size or a cabinet?" + +Miss Chesney makes a little grimace eminently becoming, but disdains +direct reply. "I said a _young_ man," she remarks, severely. + +"I heard you. Am not I in the flower of my youth and beauty?" + +"Lilian evidently does not think so," says Florence, with a would-be air +of intense surprise. + +"Why should I, when it suits me to think differently?" returns Lilian, +calmly. Florence rather amuses her than otherwise. "Sir Guy and I are +quite good friends at present. He has been civil to me for two whole +days together, and has not once told me I have a horrid temper, or held +me up to scorn in any way. Such conduct deserves reward. Therefore I +liken him to an elderly gentleman, because I adore old men. You see, +Guardy?" with an indescribably fascinating air, that has a suspicion of +sauciness only calculated to heighten its charm. + +"I should think he is old in reality to you," says Florence: "you are +such a child." + +"I am," says Lilian, agreeably, though secretly annoyed at the other's +slighting tone. "I like it. There is nothing so good as youth. I should +like to be eighteen always. But for my babyish ways and utter +hopelessness, I feel positive Sir Guy would have beaten me long ago. But +who could chastise an infant?" + +"In long robes," puts in Cyril, who is deep in the intricacies of chess +with Mr. Musgrave. + +"Besides, I am 'Esther Summerson,' and he is 'Mr. Jarndyce,' and +Esther's 'Guardy' very rightly was in perfect subjection to his ward." + +"Esther's guardian, if I remember correctly, fell in love with her; and +she let him see"--dreamily but spitefully--"that she preferred another." + +"Ah, Sir Guy, think of that. See what lies before you," says Lilian, +coloring warmly, but braving it out to the end. + +"I am sure you are going to ask me what I should like, Guy," breaks in +Cyril, languidly, who is not so engrossed by his game but that he can +heed Lilian's embarrassment. "Those cigars of yours are excellent. I +shall feel obliged by your bringing me (as a free gift, mind) half a +dozen boxes. If you do, it will be a saving, as for the future I shall +leave yours in peace." + +"Thank you: I shall make a note of it," says Guy, laughing. + +"Do you go early, Sir Guy?" asks Lilian, presently. She is leaning back +in a huge lounging-chair of blue satin that almost conceals from view +her tiny figure. In her hands is an ebony fan, and as she asks the +question she closes and uncloses it indolently. + +"Very early. I must start at seven to catch the train, if I wish to get +my business done and be back by five." + +"What an unearthly hour for a poor old gentleman like you to rise! You +won't recover it in a hurry. You will breakfast before you go?" + +"Yes." + +"What a lunch you will eat when you get to town! But don't overdo it, +Guardy. You will be starving, no doubt; but remember the horrors of +gout. And who will give you your breakfast at seven?" + +She raises her large soft eyes to his and, unfurling her fan, lays it +thoughtfully against her pretty lips. Sir Guy is about to make an eager +reply, when Miss Beauchamp interposes. + +"I always give Guy his breakfast when he goes to London," she says, +calmly yet hastily. + +"Check!" says Cyril, at this instant, with his eyes on the board. "My +dear Musgrave, what a false move!--a fatal delay. Don't you know bold +play generally wins?" + +"Sometimes it loses," retorts Taffy, innocently; which reply, to his +surprise, appears to cause Mr. Chetwoode infinite amusement. + +"Whenever you do go," says Lilian to Sir Guy, "don't forget my +sweetmeats: I shall be dreaming of them until I see you again. Have you +a pocket-book? Yes. Well, put down in it what I most particularly love. +I like chocolate creams and burnt almonds better than anything in the +world." + +Cyril, with dreamy sentiment, "How I wish I was a burnt almond!" + +Miss Chesney, viciously, "If you were, what a bite I would give you!" + +Taffy, to Sir Guy, "Lilian's tastes and mine are one. If you are really +going to bring lollypops, please make the supply large. When I think of +burnt almonds I feel no end hungry." + +Lilian, vigorously, "You shan't have any of mine, Taffy. Don't imagine +it! Yesterday you ate every one Cyril brought me from Fenston. I crossed +the room for one instant, and when I came back the box was literally +cleared. Wasn't it a shame? I shan't go into partnership with you over +Sir Guy's confections." + +Taffy, _sotto voce_, "Greedy little thing!" Then suddenly addressing Sir +Guy, "I think I saw your old colonel--Trant--about the neighborhood +to-day." + +Cyril draws himself up with a start and looks hard at the lad, who is +utterly unconscious of the private bombshell he has discharged. + +"Trant!" says Guy, surprised; "impossible. Unless, indeed," with a light +laugh, "he came to look after his _protégée_, the widow." + +"Mrs. Arlington? I saw her yesterday," says Taffy, with animation. "She +was in her garden, and she is lovely. I never saw anything so perfect as +her smile." + +"I hope you are not _épris_ with her. We warn everybody against our +tenant," Guy says, smiling, though there is evident meaning in his tone. +"We took her to oblige Trant,--who begged we would not be inquisitive +about her; and literally we are in ignorance of who she is, or where she +came from. Widows, like cousins, are dangerous," with a slight glance at +his brother, who is leaning back in his chair, a knight between his +fingers, taking an exhaustive though nonchalant survey of the painted +ceiling, where all the little loves and graces are playing at a very +pronounced game of hide-and-seek among the roses. + +"I hope," says Florence, slowly, looking up from the _rara avis_ whose +tail she is elaborately embroidering,--the original of which was never +yet (most assuredly) seen by land or sea,--"I hope Colonel Trant, in +this instance, has not played you false. I cannot say I admire Mrs. +Arlington's appearance. Though no doubt she is pretty,--in a certain +style," concludes Miss Beauchamp, who is an adept at uttering the faint +praise that damns. + +"Trant is a gentleman," returns Guy, somewhat coldly. Yet as he says it +a doubt enters his mind. + +"He has the name of being rather fast in town," says young Musgrave, +vaguely; "there is some story about his being madly in love with some +mysterious woman whom nobody knows. I don't remember exactly how it +is,--but they say she is hidden away somewhere." + +"How delightfully definite Taffy always is!" Lilian says, admiringly; +"it is so easy to grasp his meaning. Got any more stories, Taffy? I +quite begin to fancy this Colonel Trant. Is he as captivating as he is +wicked?" + +"Not quite. I am almost sure I saw him to-day in the lane that runs down +between the wood and Brown's farm. But I may be mistaken; I was +certainly one or two fields off, yet I have a sure eye, and I have seen +him often in London." + +"Perhaps Mrs. Arlington is the mysterious lady of his affections," says +Guy, laughing, and, the moment the words have passed his lips, regrets +their utterance. Cyril's eyes descend rapidly from the ceiling and meet +his. On the instant a suspicion unnamed and unacknowledged fills both +their hearts. + +"Do you really think Trant came down to see your tenant?" asks Cyril, +almost defiantly. + +"Certainly not," returning the other's somewhat fiery glance calmly. "I +do not believe he would be in the neighborhood without coming to see my +mother." + +At the last word, so dear to her, Lady Chetwoode wakes gently, opens her +still beautiful eyes, and smiles benignly on all around, as though +defying them to say she has slumbered for half a second. + +"Yes, my dear Guy, I quite agree with you," she says, affably, _apropos_ +of nothing unless it be a dream, and then, being fully roused, suggests +going to bed. Whereupon Florence says, with gentle thoughtfulness, +"Indeed yes. If Guy is to be up early in the morning he ought to go to +bed now," and, rising as her aunt rises, makes a general move. + +When the women have disappeared and resigned themselves to the tender +mercies of their maids, and the men have sought that best beloved of all +apartments, the Tabagie, a sudden resolution to say something that lies +heavy on his mind takes possession of Guy. Of all things on earth he +hates most a "scene," but some power within him compels him to speak +just now. The intense love he bears his only brother, his fear lest harm +should befall him, urges him on, sorely against his will, to give some +faint utterance to all that is puzzling and distressing him. + +Taffy, seduced by the sweetness of the night, has stepped out into the +garden, where he is enjoying his weed alone. Within, the lamp is almost +quenched by the great pale rays of the moon that rush through the open +window. Without, the whole world is steeped in one white, glorious +splendor. + +The stars on high are twinkling, burning, like distant lamps. Anon, one +darts madly across the dark blue amphitheatre overhead, and is lost in +space, while the others laugh on, unheeding its swift destruction. The +flowers are sleeping, emitting in their dreams faint, delicate perfumed +sighs; the cattle have ceased to low in the far fields: there is no +sound through all the busy land save the sweet soughing of the wind and +the light tread of Musgrave's footsteps up and down outside. + +"Cyril," says Guy, removing the meerschaum from between his lips, and +regarding its elaborate silver bands with some nervousness, "I wish you +would not go to The Cottage so often as you do." + +"No? And why not, _très cher_?" asks Cyril, calmly, knowing well what is +coming. + +"For one thing, we do not know who this Mrs. Arlington is, or anything +of her. That in itself is a drawback. I am sorry I ever agreed to +Trant's proposal, but it is too late for regret in that quarter. Do not +double my regret by making me feel I have done you harm." + +"You shall never feel that. How you do torture yourself over shadows, +Guy! I always think it must be the greatest bore on earth to be +conscientious,--that is, over-scrupulous, like you. It is a mistake, +dear boy, take my word for it,--will wear you out before your time." + +"I am thinking of you, Cyril. Forgive me if I seem impertinent. Mrs. +Arlington is lovely, graceful, everything of the most desirable in +appearance, but----" A pause. + +"_Après?_" murmurs Cyril, lazily. + +"But," earnestly, "I should not like you to lose your heart to her, as +you force me to say it. Musgrave says he saw Trant in the lane to-day. +Of course he may have been mistaken; but was he? I have my own doubts, +Cyril," rising in some agitation,--"doubts that may be unjust, but I +cannot conquer them. If you allow yourself to love that woman, she will +bring you misfortune. Why is she so secret about her former life? Why +does she shun society? Cyril, be warned in time; she may be a----, she +may be anything," checking himself slowly. + +"She may," says Cyril, rising with a passionate irrepressible movement +to his feet, under pretense of lighting the cigar that has died out +between his fingers. Then, with a sudden change of tone and a soft +laugh, "The skies may fall, of course, but we scarcely anticipate it. My +good Guy, what a visionary you are! Do be rational, if you can. As for +Mrs. Arlington, why should she create dissension between you and me?" + +"Why, indeed?" returns Guy, gravely. "I have to ask your pardon for my +interference. But you know I only speak when I feel compelled, and +always for your good." + +"You are about the best fellow going, I know that," replies Cyril, +deliberately, knocking the ash off his cigar; "but at times you are wont +to lose your head,--to wander,--like the best of us. I am safe enough, +trust me. 'What's Hecuba to me, or I to Hecuba?' Come, don't let us +spoil this glorious night by a dissertation on what we neither of us +know anything about. What a starlight!" standing at the open casement, +and regarding with quick admiration the glistening dome above him. "I +wonder how any one looking on it can disbelieve in a heaven beyond!" + +Here Musgrave's fair head makes a blot in the perfect calm of the night +scene. + +"Is that you, Taffy? Where have you been all this time?--mooning?--you +have had ample opportunity. But you are too young for Melancholy to mark +you as her own. It is only old folk like Guy," with a laughing though +affectionate glance backward to where his brother stands, somewhat +perplexed, beside the lamp, "should fall victims to the blues." + +"A fig for melancholy!" says Taffy, vaulting lightly into the room, and +by his presence putting an end to all private conversation between the +brothers. + + * * * * * + +The next morning Lilian (to whom early rising is a pure delight), +running down the broad stone stairs two steps at a time, finds Guy on +the eve of starting, with Florence beside him, looking positively +handsome in the most thrilling of morning gowns. She has forsaken her +virtuous couch, and slighted the balmy slumber she so much loves, to +give him his breakfast, and is still unremitting in her attentions, and +untiring with regard to her smiles. + +"Not gone!" says Lilian, wickedly: "how disappointed I am, to be sure! I +fancied my bonbons an hour nearer to me than they really are. Bad +Guardy, why don't you hurry?" She says this with the prettiest +affectation of infantile grace, accompanied by a coquettish glance from +under her sweeping lashes that creates in Florence a mad desire to box +her ears. + +"You forget it will not hasten the train five seconds, Guy's leaving +this sooner than he does," she says, snubbingly. "To picture him sitting +in a draughty station could not--I should think--give satisfaction to +any one." + +"It could"--willfully--"to me. It would show a proper anxiety to obey my +behests. Guardy," with touching concern, "are you sure you are warm +enough? Now do promise me one thing,--that you will beware of the +crossings; they say any number of old men come to grief in that way +yearly, and are run over through deafness, or short sight, or stupidity +in general. Think how horrid it would be if they sent us home your +mangled remains." + +"Go in, you naughty child, and learn to speak to your elders with +respect," says Guy, laughing, and putting her bodily inside the +hall-door, from whence she trips out again to wave him a last adieu, and +kiss her hand warmly to him as he disappears round the corner of the +laurustinus bush. + +And Sir Guy drives away full of his ward's fresh girlish loveliness, her +slender lissome figure, her laughing face, the thousand tantalizing +graces that go to make her what she is; forgetful of Miss Beauchamp's +more matured charms,--her white gown,--her honeyed words,--everything. + +All day long Lilian's image follows him. It is beside him in the crowded +street, enters his club with him, haunts him in his business, laughs at +him in his most serious moods; while she, at home, scarce thinks of him +at all, or at the most vaguely, though when at five he does return she +is the first to greet him. + +"He has come home! he is here!" she cries, dancing into the hall. "Have +you escaped the crossings? and rheumatism? and your old enemy, lumbago? +Good old Guardy, let me help you off with your coat. So. Positively, he +is all here,--not a bit of him gone,--and none the worse for wear!" + +"Tired, Guy?" asks Florence, coming gracefully forward,--slowly, lest +by unseemly haste she should disturb the perfect fold of her train, that +sets off her figure to such advantage. She speaks warmly, +appropriatingly, as one's wife might, after a long journey. + +"Tired! not he," returns Lilian irreverently: "he is quite a gay old +gentleman. Nor hungry either. No doubt he has lunched profusely in town, +'not wisely, but too well,' as somebody says. Where are my sweeties, Sir +Ancient?" + +"My dear Lilian,"--rebukingly,--"if you reflect, you will see he must be +both tired and hungry." + +"So am I for my creams: I quite pine for them. Sir Guy, where _are_ my +sweeties?" + +"Here, little cormorant," says Guy, as fondly as he dares, handing her a +gigantic _bonbonnière_ in which chocolates and French sweetmeats fight +for mastery: "have I got you what you wanted?" + +"Yes, indeed; _best_ of Guardys, I only wish I might kiss my thanks." + +"You may." + +"Better not. Such a condescension on my part might turn your old head. +Oh, Taffy," with an exclamation, "you bad greedy boy; you have taken +half my almonds! Well, you shan't have any of the others, for +punishment. Auntie and Florence and I will eat the rest." + +"Thanks," drawls Florence, languidly, "but I am always so terrified +about toothache." + +"What a pity!" says Miss Chesney. "If I had toothache, I should have all +my teeth drawn instantly, and false ones put in their place." + +To this Miss Beauchamp, being undecided in her own mind as to whether it +is or is not an impertinence, deigns no reply. Cyril, with a gravity +that belies his innermost feelings, gazes hard at Lilian, only to +acknowledge her innocent of desire to offend. + +"You did not meet Archibald?" asks Lady Chetwoode of Guy. + +"No: I suppose he will be down by next train. Chesney is always up to +time." + +"Lilian, my dear, where is my fourth knitting-needle?" asks auntie, +mildly. "I lent it to you this morning for some purpose." + +"It is up-stairs; you shall have it in one moment," returns Lilian, +moving toward the door; and Sir Guy, muttering something about getting +rid of the dust of travel, follows her out of the room. + +At the foot of the stairs he says: + +"Lilian." + +"Yes?" + +"I have brought you yet another bonbon. Will you accept it?" + +As he speaks he holds out to her an open case, in which lies a pretty +ring composed of pearls and diamonds. + +"For me? Oh, Sir Guy!" says Lilian, flushing with pleasure, "what a +lovely present to bring me!" Then her expression changes, and her face +falls somewhat. She has lived long enough to know that young men do not, +as a rule, go about giving costly rings to young women without a motive. +Perhaps she ought to refuse it. Perhaps auntie would think it wrong of +her to take it. And if there is really anything between him and +Florence---- Yet what a pretty ring it is, and how the diamonds glitter! +And what woman can resign diamonds without a struggle? + +"Will auntie be vexed if I take it?" she asks, honestly, after a pause, +raising her clear eyes to his, thereby betraying the fear that is +tormenting her. + +"Why should she? Surely," with a smile, "an elderly guardian may make a +present to his youthful ward without being brought to task for it." + +"And Florence?" asks Lilian, speaking impulsively, but half jestingly. + +"Does it signify what she thinks?" returns he, a little stiffly. "It is +a mere bauble, and scarcely worth so much thought. You remember that day +down by the stream, when you said you were so fond of rings?" + +"No." + +"Well, I do, as I remember most things you say, be they kind or cruel," +softly. "To-day, though I cannot explain why, this ring reminded me of +you, so I bought it, thinking you might fancy it." + +"So I do: it is quite too lovely," says Lilian, feeling as though she +had been ungracious, and, what is worse, prudish. "Thank you very much. +I shall wear it this evening with my new dress, and it will help me to +make an impression on my unknown cousin." + +She holds out her hand to him; it is the right one, and Guy slips the +ring upon the third finger of it, while she, forgetting it is the +engaged finger, makes no objection. + +Sir Guy, still holding the little cool slim hand, looks at her fixedly, +and, looking, decides regretfully that she is quite ignorant of his +meaning. + +"How it sparkles!" she says, moving her hand gently to and fro so that +the light falls upon it from different directions. "Thank you again, +Guardy; you are always better to me than I deserve." She says this +warmly, being desirous of removing all traces of her late hesitation, +and quite oblivious of her former scruples. But the moment she leaves +him she remembers them again, and, coming down-stairs with Lady +Chetwoode's needle, and finding her alone, says, with a heightened +color, "See what a charming present Sir Guy has brought me." + +"Very pretty indeed," Lady Chetwoode says, examining the ring with +interest. "Dear Guy has such taste, and he is always so thoughtful, ever +thinking how to please some one. I am glad it has been you this time, +pussy," kissing the girl's smiling lips as she bends over her. So that +Miss Chesney, reassured by her auntie's kind words, goes up to dress for +the reception of her cousin Archibald, with a clear and therefore happy +conscience. Not for all the diamonds in Christendom would she have +concealed even so small a secret as the acceptance of this ring from one +whom she professes to love, and who she knows trusts in her. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + + "_Kate._ I never saw a better fashioned gown, + More quaint, more pleasing, nor more commendable." + --_Taming of the Shrew._ + + +This dressing of Lilian for the undoing of her cousin is a wonderful +affair, and occupies a considerable time. Not that she spends any of it +in a dainty hesitation over the choice of the gown fated to work his +overthrow; all that has been decided on long ago, and the fruit of many +days' deep thought now lies upon her bed, bearing in its every fold--in +each soft fall of lace--all the distinguishing marks that stamp the work +of the inimitable Worth. + +At length--nurse having admired and praised her to her heart's content, +and given the last fond finishing touches to her toilet--Miss Chesney +stands arrayed for conquest. She is dressed in a marvelous robe of black +velvet--cut _à la Princesse_, simply fashioned, fitting _à +merveille_,--being yet in mourning for her father. It is a little open +at the throat, so that her neck--soft and fair as a child's--may be +partly seen (looking all the whiter for the blackness that frames it +in), and has the sleeves very tight and ending at the elbow, from which +rich folds of Mechlin lace hang downward. Around her throat are a narrow +band of black velvet and three little strings of pearls that once had +been her mother's. In her amber hair a single white rose nestles +sleepily. + +Standing erect before her glass, she contemplates herself in +silence,--marks the snowy loveliness of her neck and arms, her slender +hands (on one of which Guy's ring is sparkling brilliantly), her +rippling yellow hair in all its unstudied sleekness, the tender, +exquisite face, rose-flushed, and, looking gladly upon it all,--for very +love of it,--stoops forward and presses a kiss upon the delicate beauty +that smiles back upon her from the mirror. + +"How do I look, nurse?" she asks, turning with a whimsical grace to the +woman who is regarding her with loving admiration. "Shall we captivate +our cousin?" + +"Ay, so I think, my dear," replies nurse, quietly. "Were you willing, my +beauty, I'm nigh sure you could coax the birds off the bushes." + +"You are an old dear," says Miss Chesney, tenderly, pressing her own +cheek, soft with youth's down, against the wrinkled one near her. "But I +must go and show myself to Taffy." + +So saying, she opens the door, and trips away from Mrs. Tipping's +adoring eyes, down the corridor, until she stops at Taffy's door. + +"Taffy!" + +"Yes." The answer comes in muffled tones. + +"May I come in?" + +"Yes," still more muffled. + +Turning the handle of the door, Lilian enters, to find Mr. Musgrave in +his shirt-sleeves before a long mirror, struggling with his hair, which +is combed straight over his forehead. + +"It won't come right," he says, casting a heart-rending glance at +Lilian, who laughs with most reprehensible cruelty, considering the +situation. + +"I am glad to find you are not suffocated," she says. "From your tone, I +prepared myself--outside--for the worst. Here, bend your head, you +helpless boy, and I will do it for you." + +Taffy kneeling before her submissively, she performs her task deftly, +successfully, and thereby restores peace once more to the bosom of the +dejected dragoon. + +"You should hire me as your valet," she says, lightly; "when you are +away from me, I am afraid to think of all the sufferings you must +undergo. Are you easier in your mind now, Taffy?" + +"Oh, I say! what a swell you are!" says that young man, when he is +sufficiently recovered to glance round. "I call that rig-out downright +fetching. Where did you get that from?" + +"Straight from Monsieur Worth," returns Lilian, with pardonable pride, +when one remembers what a success she is, drawing up her slim young +figure to its fullest height, and letting her white hands fall clasped +before her, as she poses for well-earned admiration. "Is not it pretty? +And doesn't it fit like a glove?" + +"It does. It gives you really a tolerably good figure," with all a +brother's calm impertinence, while examining her critically. "You have +got yourself up regardless, so I suppose you mean mischief." + +"Well, if this doesn't soften his heart, nothing will," replies Miss +Chesney, vainly regarding her velvet, and alluding, as Musgrave well +knows, to her cousin Archibald. "You really think I look nice, Taffy? +You think I am _chic_?" + +"I do, indeed. I am not a judge of women's clothing, but I like black +velvet, and when I have a wife she shall wear nothing else. I would say +more in your favor, but that I fear over-much praise might have a bad +effect upon you, and cause you to die of your 'own dear loveliness.'" + +"_Méchant!_" says Lilian, with a charming pout. "Never mind, I know you +admire me intensely." + +"Have I not said so in the plainest Queen's English? But that time has +fatally revealed to me the real character of the person standing in +those costly garments, I feel I should fall madly in love with you +to-night." + +"Silly child!"--turning up her small nose with immeasurable +disdain,--"do you think I would deign to accept your boyish homage? No; +I like _men_! Indeed!"--with disgraceful affectation,--"I think it my +duty to warn you not to waste time burning your foolish fingers at _my_ +shrine." + +She moves him aside with one small finger, the better to see how +charming she is in another glass. This one reveals to her all the +sweetness she has seen before--and something more. Scarcely has she +glanced into it, when her complexion, that a moment since was a soft and +lovely pink, changes suddenly, and flames into a deep crimson. There, at +the farthest end of the long room reflected in the glass,--staring back +at her,--coatless, motionless, with a brush suspended from each hand, +stands a man, lost in wonder and most flattering astonishment. + +Miss Chesney, turning round with a start, finds that this vision is not +belonging to the other world, but is a real _bona fide_ creature of +flesh and blood,--a young man, tall, broad-shouldered, and very dark. + +For a full minute they stare silently at each other, oppressed with +thoughts widely different in character, while Taffy remains blissfully +ignorant of the situation, being now engaged in a desperate conflict +with a refractory tie. Then one of the brushes falls from the stranger's +hand, and the spell is broken. Miss Chesney, turning impetuously, +proceeds to pour out the vials of her wrath upon Taffy. + +"I think you might have told me," she says, in clear, angry tones, +casting upon him a glance meant to wither. But Mr. Musgrave distinctly +refuses to be withered. + +"Eh? What? _By Jove!_" he says, vaguely, as the awful truth dawns upon +him. Meanwhile Lilian sweeps majestically to the door, her velvets +trailing behind her. All her merry kittenish ways have disappeared; she +walks as a young queen might who has been grossly affronted in open +court. + +"Give you my honor I quite forgot him," murmurs Taffy, from the spot +where he is rooted through sheer dismay. His tones are dismal in the +extreme, but Miss Chesney disdains to hear or argue, and, going out, +closes the door with much determination behind her. The stranger, +suppressing a smile, stoops to pick up the fallen brush, and the scene +is at an end. + +Down the stairs, full of vehement indignation, goes Lilian, thoughts +crowding upon her thick and heavy. Could anything be more unfortunate? +Just when she had got herself up in the most effective style,--just when +she had hoped, with the aid of this velvet gown, to make a pleasing and +dignified _entrée_ into his presence in the drawing-room below,--she has +been led into making his acquaintance in Taffy's bedroom! Oh! horror! +She has been face to face with him in his shirt-sleeves, with his odious +brushes in his hands, and a stare of undeniable surprise upon his +hateful face! Oh! it is insupportable! + +And what was it she said to Taffy? What did she do? Hastily her mind +travels backward to the conversation that has just taken place. + +First, _she combed Taffy's hair_. Oh! miserable girl! She closes two +azure eyes with two slender fingers from the light of day, as this +thought occurs to her. Then, she smirked at her own graceful image in +Taffy's glass, and made all sorts of conceited remarks about her +personal appearance, and then she said she hoped to subjugate "_him_." +What "him" could there be but this one? and of course he knows it. Oh! +unhappy young woman! + +As for Taffy, bad, bad boy that he is, never to give her a hint. +Vengeance surely is in store for him. What right had he to forget? If +there is one thing she detests, it is a person devoid of tact. If there +is one thing she could adore, it would be the power to shake the +wretched Taffy out of his shoes. + +What is there left to her but to gain her room, plead bad headache, and +spend the remainder of the evening in retirement? In this mood she gains +the drawing-room door, and, hesitating before it, thinks better of the +solitary-confinement idea; and, entering the room, seats herself in a +cozy chair and prepares to meet her fate with admirable calmness. + +Dinner is ready,--waiting,--and still no Archibald. Then there is a step +in the hall, the door is thrown open, and he enters, as much hurried as +it is possible for a well-bred young man to be in this nineteenth +century. + +Lady Chetwoode instantly says, with old-fashioned grace, the sweeter +that it is somewhat obsolete,---- + +"Lilian, permit me to introduce to you your cousin, Archibald Chesney." + +Whereupon Lilian bows coldly and refuses to meet her cousin's eyes, +while kind Lady Chetwoode thinks it is a little stiff of the child, and +most unlike her, not to shake hands with her own kin. + +An awkward pause is almost inevitable, when Taffy says out loud, to no +one in particular, but with much gusto: + +"How odd it is they should never have seen each other until now!" after +which he goes into silent agonies of merriment over his own wit, until +brought to his senses by an annihilating glance from Lilian. + +The dinner-hour is remarkable for nothing except Lilian's silence. This, +being so utterly unexpected, is worthy of note. After dinner, when the +men gain the drawing-room, Archibald, coming over, deliberately pushes +aside Miss Chesney's velvet skirts, and seats himself on the low ottoman +beside her with modest determination. + +Miss Chesney, raising her eyes, regards him curiously. + +He is tall, and eminently gloomy in appearance. His hair is of a rare +blackness, his eyes are dark, so is his skin. His eyebrows are slightly +arched, which gives him an air of melancholy protest against the world +in general. His nose is of the high and mighty order that comes under +the denomination of aquiline, or hooked, as may suit you best. Before +his arrival Cyril used to tell Lilian that if Nature had meant him for +anything it was to act as brigand in a private theatre; and Lilian, now +calling to mind this remark, acknowledges the truth of it, and almost +laughs in the face of her dark-browed cousin. Nevertheless she refrains +from outward mirth, which is wisdom on her part, as ridicule is his +_bête noir_. + +Despite the extreme darkness of his complexion he is unmistakably +handsome, though somewhat discontented in expression. Why, no one knows. +He is rich, courted, as are all young men with a respectable rent-roll, +and might have made many a titled _débutante_ Mrs. Chesney had he so +chosen. He has not even a romantic love-affair to fall back upon as an +excuse for his dejection; no unfortunate attachment has arisen to sour +his existence. Indeed, it is seldom the owner of landed property has to +complain on this score, all such luxuries being reserved for the poor of +the earth. + +Archibald Chesney's gloom, which is becoming if anything, does not sink +deeper than his skin. It gives a certain gentleness to his face, and +prevents the ignorant from guessing that he is one of the wildest, +maddest young men about London. Lilian, regarding him with quiet +scrutiny, decides that he is good to look at, and that his eyes are +peculiarly large and dark. + +"Are you angry with me for what happened up-stairs?" he asks, gently, +after a pause spent in as earnest an examination of her as any she has +bestowed upon him. + +"Up-stairs?" says Lilian, with raised brows of inquiry and carefully +studied ignorance. + +"I mean my unfortunate _rencontre_ with you in Musgrave's room." + +"Oh, dear, no," with clear denial. "I seldom grow angry over _trifles_. +I have not thought of it since." She utters her fib bravely, the truth +being that all during dinner she has been consumed with shame. + +"Have you not? _I_ have. I have been utterly miserable ever since you +bestowed that terrible look upon me when your eyes first met mine. Won't +you let me explain my presence there? I think if you do you will forgive +me." + +"It was not your fault: there is nothing about which you need +apologize," says Lilian; but her tone is more cordial, and there is the +faintest dimpling of a smile around her mobile lips. + +"Nevertheless I hate myself in that I caused you a moment's uneasiness," +says Mr. Chesney, that being the amiable word he employs for her +ill-temper. "I shall be discontented until I tell you the truth: so pray +let me." + +"Then tell it," says Lilian. + +"I have a man, a perfect treasure, who can do all that man can possibly +do, who is in fact faultless,--but for one small weakness." + +"And that is?" + +"Like Mr. Stiggins, his vanity is--brandy hot. Now and then he drinks +more of it than is good for him, though to do him justice not very +often. Once in six months, regular as clockwork, he gets hopelessly +drunk, and just now the time being up, he, of course, chose this +particular day to make his half-yearly exhibition of himself, and having +imbibed brandy _ad lib._, forgot to bring himself and my traps to +Chetwoode in time for the first dressing-bell." + +"What a satisfactory sort of servant!" + +"He is, very, when he is sober,--absolutely invaluable. And then his +little mistakes occur so seldom. But I wish he had not chosen this +night of all others in which to play me false. I don't know what I +should have done had I not thrown myself upon Musgrave's mercy and +borrowed his brushes and combs and implements of war generally. As it +was, I had almost given up hope of being able to reach the drawing-room +at all to-night, when just at the last moment my 'treasure' arrived with +my things and--any amount of concealed spirits. Do I bore you with my +explanation? It is very good of you to listen so patiently, but I should +have been too unhappy had I been prevented from telling you all this." + +"I think, after all, it is I should explain my presence in that room," +says Lilian, with a gay, irresistible laugh that causes Guy, who is at +the other end of the room, to lift his head and regard her anxiously. + +He is sitting near Florence, on a sofa (or rather, to speak more +correctly, she is sitting near him), and is looking bored and _gêné_. +Her laugh pains him unaccountably; glancing next at her companion he +marks the still admiration in the dark face as it gazes into her fair +one. Already--_already_--he is surely _empressé_. + +"But the fact is," Lilian is saying, "I have always been in the habit of +visiting Taffy's room before he has quite finished his dressing, to see +if there be any little final touch required that I might give him. Did +you meet him in London?" + +"No; never saw him until a couple of hours ago. Very nice little fellow, +I should say. Cousin of yours?" + +"Yes: isn't he a pet?" says Lilian, eagerly, always glad to hear praise +of her youthful plunger. "There are very few like him. He is my nearest +relative, and you can't think how I love that boy." + +"That boy is, I should say, older than you are." + +"Ye--es," doubtfully, "so he says: about a year, I think. Not that it +matters," says Miss Chesney, airily, "as in reality I am any number of +years older than he is. He is nothing but a big child, so I have to look +after him." + +"You have, I supposed, constituted yourself his mother?" asks Archibald, +intensely amused at her pretty assumption of maternity. + +"Yes," with a grave nod, "or his elder sister, just as I feel it my duty +at the moment to pet or scold him." + +"Happy Taffy!" + +"Not that he gives me much trouble. He is a very good boy generally." + +"He is a very handsome boy, at all events. You have reason to be proud +of your child. I am your cousin also." + +"Yes?" + +"Yes." + +A pause, after which Mr. Chesney says, meekly: + +"I suppose you would not take me as a second son?" + +"I think not," says Lilian, laughing; "you are much too important a +person and far too old to be either petted or scolded." + +"That is very hard lines, isn't it? You might say anything you liked to +me, and I am almost positive I should not resent it. And if you will be +kind enough to turn your eyes on me once more, I think you will +acknowledge I am not so very old." + +"Too old for me to take in hand. I doubt you would be an unruly +member,--a _mauvais sujet_,--a disgrace to my teaching. I should lose +caste. At dinner I saw you frown, and frowns,"--with a coquettishly +plaintive sigh--"frighten me!" + +"Do you imagine me brutal enough to frown upon my mother?--and such a +mother?" + +"Nevertheless, I cannot undertake your reformation. You should remember +you are scarcely in my good books. Are you not a usurper in my eyes? +Have you not stolen from me my beloved Park?" + +"Ah! true. But you can have it back again, you know," returns he, in a +low tone, half jest, though there is a faint under-current--that is +almost earnestness--running through it. + +At this moment Lady Chetwoode saves Lilian the embarrassment of a reply. + +"Sing us something, darling," she says. + +And Lilian, rising, trails her soft skirts after her across the room, +and, sitting down at the piano, commences "Barbara Allen," sweetly, +gravely, tenderly, as is her wont. + +Guy's gaze is following her. The pure though _piquante_ face, the golden +hair, the rich old-fashioned texture of the gown, all combine to make a +lovely picture lovelier. The words of the song make his heart throb, and +bring to life a certain memory of earlier days, when on the top of a +high wall he first heard her singing it. + +Pathetically, softly, she sings it, without affectation or pretense of +any kind, and, having finished, still lets her fingers wander idly over +the notes (drawing from them delicate minor harmonies that sadden the +listener), whilst the others applaud. + +Guy alone being silent, she glances at him presently with a smile full +of kindliness, that claims and obtains an answering smile in return. + +"Have I ever seen that gown on you before?" he asks, after a pause. + +"No. This dress is without doubt an eminent success, as everybody +admires it. No; you never saw it before. Do you like it?" + +"More than I can say. Lilian, you have formed your opinion of your +cousin, and--you like him?" + +"Very much, indeed. He is handsome, _debonnaire_, all that may be +desired, and--he quite likes Taffy." + +"A passport to your favor," says Chetwoode, smiling. "Though no one +could help liking the boy." Then his eyes seeking her hands once more, +fasten upon the right one, and he sees the ring he had placed upon the +third finger a few hours before now glistens bravely upon the second. + +The discovery causes him a pang so keen that involuntarily he draws +himself up to his full height, and condemns himself as a superstitious +fool. As if she divines his thought,--though in reality she knows +nothing of it,--Lilian says, gazing admiringly at the glittering trinket +in question: + +"I think your ring grows prettier and prettier every time I look at it. +But it would not stay on the finger you chose; while I was dressing it +fell off; so, fearing to lose it, I slipped it upon this one. It looks +as well, does it not?" + +"Yes," said Chetwoode, though all the time he is wishing with all his +heart it had not fallen from the engagement finger. When we love we grow +fearful; and with fear there is torment. + +"Why don't you ask Florence to sing?" asks Lilian, suddenly. + +Archibald Chesney has risen and lounged over to the piano, and now is +close beside her. To Guy's jealous ears it seems as though the remark +was made to rid her of his presence. + +"Because I detest French songs," he answers, somewhat sharply,--Miss +Beauchamp being addicted to such foreign music. + +"Do you?" says Lilian, laughing at his tone, which she fully +understands, and straightway sings one (the gayest, brightest, most +nonsensical to be found in her _repertoire_) in her sweet fresh voice, +glancing at him with a comical challenge in her eyes every time the +foolish yet tender refrain occurs. + +When she has finished she says to him, saucily: + +"Well, Sir Guy?" + +And he answers: + +"I am vanquished, utterly convinced. I confess I now like French songs +as well as any others." + +"I like them ten times better," says Archibald, impulsively, "when they +are sung by you. There is a _verve_, a gayety about them that other +songs lack. Have you any more? Do you know any of Gounod's? I like them, +though they are of a different style." + +"They are rather beyond me," says Lilian, laughing. "But hear this: it +is one of Beranger's, very simply set, but I think pretty." + +This time she sings to _him_,--unmistakably,--a soft little Norman +love-song, full of grace and tenderest entreaty, bestowing upon him all +the beguiling smiles she had a moment since given exclusively to her +guardian, until at length Sir Guy, muttering "coquette" to his own +heart, turns aside, leaving Chesney master of the field. + +Lilian, turning from her animated discussion with Archibald, follows his +departing footsteps with her eyes, in which lies a faintly malicious +smile; an expression full of suppressed enjoyment curves her lips; she +is evidently satisfied at his abrupt retreat, and continues her +interrupted conversation with her cousin in still more joyous tones. +Perhaps this is how she means to fulfill her mysterious threat of +"showing" Sir Guy. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + + "I will gather thee, he cried, + Rosebud brightly blowing! + Then I'll sting thee, it replied, + And you'll quickly start aside + With the prickle glowing. + Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red, + Rosebud brightly blowing!" + --GOETHE--_translated_. + + +"Nurse, wash my hair," says Lilian, entering her nurse's sanctum, which +is next her own, one lovely morning early in September when + + + "Dew is on the lea, + And tender buds are fretting to be free." + + +The fickle sun is flinging its broad beams far and near, now glittering +upon the ivied towers, and now dancing round the chimney-tops, now +necking with gold the mullioned window. Its brightness is as a smile +from the departing summer, the sweeter that it grows rarer every hour; +its merry rays spread and lengthen, the wind grows softer, balmier, +beneath its influence; it is as the very heart of lazy July. + + + "And on the woods and on the deep + The smile of heaven lay. + It seemed as if the day were one + Sent from beyond the skies, + Which shed to earth above the sun + A light of Paradise." + + +There is an "inviolable quietness" in all the air. + +Some late roses have grown, and cluster round Lilian's window; stooping +out, she kisses and caresses them, speaking to them as though they were +(as indeed they are) her dear friends, when nurse's voice recalls her to +the present, and the inner room. + +"La, my dear," says Mrs. Tipping, "it is only four days since I washed +it before." + +"Never mind, ninny; wash it again. To-day is so delicious, with such a +dear little breeze, and such a prodigality of sun, that I cannot resist +it. You know how I love running through the air with my hair wet, and +feeling the wind rushing through it. And, nurse, be sure +now"--coaxingly--"you put plenty of soda in the water." + +"What, and rot all your pretty locks? Not I, indeed!" says nurse, with +much determination. + +"But you must; you will now, won't you?" in a wheedling tone. "It never +stands properly out from my head unless it is full of soda." + +"An' what, I wonder, would your poor mamma say to me if she could see me +spoiling your bonny hair this day, an' it the very color of her own? No, +no; I cannot indeed. It goes against my conscience, as it were. Go get +some one else to wash it, not me; it would sadden me." + +"If you won't wash it, no one else shall," pouts Lilian. And when Lilian +pouts she looks so lovely, and so naughty, and so irresistible, that, +instead of scolding her for ill-temper, every one instantly gives in to +her. Nurse gives in, as she has done to her little mistress's pout ever +since the latter was four years old, and forthwith produces soap and +water and plenty of soda. + +The long yellow hair being at length washed, combed out carefully, and +brushed until it hangs heavily all down her back, Lilian administers a +soft little kiss to her nurse as reward for her trouble, and runs +delightedly down the stairs, straight into the open air, without hat, or +covering of any kind for her head. + +The garden is listless and sleepy. The bees are silent, the flowers are +nodding drowsily, wakened into some sort of life by the teasing wind +that sighs and laughs around them unceasingly. Lilian plucks a blossom +here and there, and scatters far and near the gaudy butterfly in very +wantonness of enjoyment, while the wooing wind whistles through her +hair, drying it softly, lovingly, until at last some of its pristine +gloss returns to it, and its gold shines with redoubled vigor beneath +the sun's rays. + +As she saunters, reveling--as one from Fairyland might revel--in the +warmth and gladness of the great heathen god, she sings; and to Guy in +his distant study the sound and the words come all too distinctly,-- + + + "Why shouldn't I love my love? + Why shouldn't he love me? + Why shouldn't he come after me, + Since love to all is free?" + + +Beneath his window she pauses, and, finally, running up the steps of the +balcony, peers in, full of an idle curiosity. + +Sir Guy's den is the most desirable room in the house,--the coziest, +the oddest, the most interesting. Looking at it, one guesses +instinctively how addicted to all pretty things the owner is, from women +down to less costly _bijouterie_. + +Lovely landscapes adorn the walls side by side with Greuze-like faces, +angelic in expression, unlike in appearance. There are a few portraits +of beauties well known in the London and Paris worlds, frail as they are +fair, false as they are _piquante_, whose garments (to do him justice) +are distinctly decent, perhaps more so than their characters. But then +indecency has gone out of fashion. + +There are two or three lounges, some priceless statuettes, a few bits of +_bric-a-brac_ worth their weight in gold, innumerable yellow-backed +volumes by Paul de Kock and his fellows, chairs of all shapes and sizes, +one more comfortable and inviting than the other, enough meerschaum +pipes and cigarette-holders and tobacco-stands to stock a small shop, a +couple of dogs snoozing peacefully upon the hearth-rug, under the +mistaken impression that a fire is burning in the grate, a +writing-table, and before it Sir Guy. These are the principal things +that attract Lilian's attention, as she gazes in, with her silken hair +streaming behind her in the light breeze. + +On the wall she cannot see, there are a few hunters by Herring, a copy +of Millais' "Yes or No," a good deal of stable-ware, and beneath them, +on a table, more pipes, cheroots, and boxes of cigars, mixed up with +straw-covered bottles of perfume, thrust rather ignominiously into the +corner. + +A shadow falling across the paper on which he is writing, Guy raises his +head, to see a fairy vision staring in at him,--a little slight figure, +clothed in airy black with daintiest lace frillings at the throat and +wrists, and with a wealth of golden hair brought purposely all over her +face, letting only the laughing sapphire eyes, blue as the skies above +her, gleam out from among it. + +"Open the door, O hermit, and let a poor wanderer in," croons this +fairy, in properly saddened tones. + +Rising gladly, he throws wide the window to her, whereupon she steps +into the room, still with her face hidden. + +"You come?" asks he, in a deferential tone. + +"To know what you are doing, and what can keep you in-doors this +exquisite day. Do you remember how late in the season it is? and that +you are slighting Nature? She will be angry, and will visit you with +storms and drooping flowers, if you persist in flouting her. Come out. +Come out." + +"Who are you?" asks Guy. "Are you Flora?" He parts her hair gently and +throws it back over her shoulders. "I thought you a nymph,--a fairy,--a +small goddess, and----" + +"And behold it is only Lilian! Naughty Lilian! Are you disappointed, Sir +Guardian?" She laughs, and running her fingers through all her amber +locks, spreading them out on either side of her like a silken veil, that +extends as far as her arms can reach. She is lovely, radiant, bright as +the day itself, fairer than the lazy flowers. + +"What a child you are!" says Guy, with some discontent in his voice, +feeling how far, _far_ younger than he she is. + +"Am I? Nonsense! Nurse says," going to a glass and surveying herself +with critical eyes, "nurse says I am a 'very well grown girl of my +age.'" Almost unconsciously she assumes nurse's pompous though adoring +manner to such perfection that Guy laughs heartily. + +"That is right, Guardy," says Miss Lilian, with bland encouragement. "I +like to hear you laugh; of late you have grown almost as discontented to +look at as my cousin. Have I amused you?" + +"Yes; your assumption of Mrs. Tipping was admirable. Though I am not +sure that I agree with her: you are not very much grown, are you? I +don't think you are up to my shoulder." + +"What a tarradiddle!" says Lilian. "Get off that table directly and let +me convince you." + +As Guy obeys her and draws himself up to his liberal six feet one, she +goes to him and lays her soft head against his arm, only to find he--not +she--is right; she is half an inch below his shoulder. Standing so, it +takes Guy all he knows to keep himself from throwing his arms round her +and straining her to the heart that beats for her so passionately,--that +beats for her alone. + +"You have raised your shoulder," she says, most unfairly: "it wasn't +half so high yesterday. You shouldn't cheat!--What a charming room yours +is! I quite envy it to you. And the flowers are so well selected. Who +adorns your den so artistically? Florence? But of course it is the +invaluable Florence: I might have known. That good creature always does +the correct thing!" + +"I think it is the mother sees to it," replies he, gently. + +"Oh, is it? Kind auntie! What a delicious little bit of blue! +Forget-me-not, is it? How innocent it looks, and babyish, in its green +leaves! May I rob you, Sir Guy? I should like a spray or two for my +dress." + +"You may have anything you wish that I can give you." + +"What a noble offer!--Are you going to waste much more time over your +tiresome letters?" glancing with pretty impertinence at the +half-finished sheets lying on the table near her: "I suppose they are +all business, or love, or suchlike rubbish! Well, good-bye, Guardy, I +must go and finish the drying of my hair; you will find me in the garden +when you come to the end of your last _billet-doux_." + +So saying, she trips away from him down the handsome oak-paneled room, +and disappears through the doorway that leads into the hall. + +Where she goes the sunshine seems to follow her. To Guy's fancy it +appears as though a shadow has fallen suddenly into the room, when the +last glimpse of her yellow hair has vanished out of sight. With a rather +abstracted air he betakes himself once more to his writing, and tries to +forget her. + +But somehow the impetus that urged him on half an hour ago is wanting; +the spur to his industry has lost its sharpness; and presently, throwing +down his pen with an impatient gesture, he acknowledges himself no +longer in the mood for work. + +What a child she is!--again the thought occurs to him;--yet with what +power to torture! To-day all sweetness and honeyed gayety, to-morrow +indifferent, if not actually repellent. She is an anomaly,--a little +frail lily beset with thorns that puts forth its stings to wound, and +probe, and madden, when least expected. + +Only yesterday--after an hour's inward conflict--he had convinced +himself of her love for her cousin Archibald, with such evident pleasure +did she receive his very marked attentions. And now,--to-day,--surely if +she loved Chesney her eyes could not have dwelt so kindly upon another +as they did a few minutes since upon her guardian. With what a pretty +grace she had demanded that blue forget-me-not and placed it in the +bosom of her dress! With what evident sincerity she had hinted at her +wish to see him in the garden when his work should be over! +Perhaps--perhaps---- + +Of late a passionate desire to tell her of the affection with which she +has inspired him consumes him daily,--hourly; but a fear, a sad +certainty of disappointment to follow on his declaration has hitherto +checked the words that so often tremble on his lips. Now the unwonted +gentleness of her manner tempts him to follow her and put his fate "to +the touch," and so end all the jealous anguish and heart-burnings that +torment him all day long. + +Quitting his sanctum, he crosses the hall, and enters the drawing-room, +where he finds Florence alone. + +She is, as usual, bending industriously over her crewel work; the +parrot's tail is now in a high state of perfection, not a color in the +rainbow being missing from it. Seeing Guy, she raises her head and +smiles upon him sweetly, blandly, invitingly. + +"Where is Lilian?" asks Guy, abruptly, with all the tactless +truthfulness of a man when he has one absorbing object in view. + +Miss Beauchamp's bland smile freezes on her lips, and shows itself no +more. She makes answer, nevertheless, in an unmoved tone: + +"Where she always is,--in the garden with her cousin, Mr. Chesney." + +"Always?" says Guy, lightly, though in reality his face has grown +suddenly pale, and his fingers clinch involuntarily. + +"Well," in her unchangeable placid staccato voice, "generally. He seems +very _épris_ with her, and she appears to receive his admiration +favorably. Have you not noticed it?" + +"I cannot say I have." + +"No?"--incredulously--"how extraordinary! But men are proverbially dull +in the observation of such matters as love-affairs. Some, indeed," with +slow meaning, "are positively _blind_." + +She lays her work upon the table before her and examines it critically. +She does not so much as glance at her victim, though secretly enjoying +the knowledge that he is writhing beneath the lash. + +"Chesney would be a good match for her," says Guy, with the calmness of +despair. But his calmness does not deceive his companion. + +"Very good. The Park, I am told, is even larger than Chetwoode. You, as +her guardian, should, I think, put carefully before her all the +advantages to be derived from such a marriage." + +Here she smooths out her parrot, and, turning her head slightly to one +side, wonders whether a little more crimson in the wings would not make +them look more attractive. No, perhaps not: they are gaudy enough +already,--though one often sees--a parrot--with---- + +"I don't believe mere money would have weight with Lilian," Guy breaks +in upon her all-important reverie, with a visible effort. + +"No? Perhaps not. But then the Park is her old home, and she, who +professes such childish adoration for it, might possibly like to regain +it. You really should speak to her, Guy. She should not be allowed to +throw away such a brilliant chance, when a few well-chosen words might +bias her in the right direction." + +Guy makes no reply, but, stepping on to the balcony outside, walks +listlessly away, his heart in a tumult of fear and regret, while Miss +Beauchamp, calmly, and with a certain triumph, goes on contentedly with +her work. A nail in Lilian's coffin has, she hopes, been driven, and +sews her hopes into the canvas beneath her hand, as long ago the +Parisian women knitted their terrible revenge and cruel longings into +their children's socks, whilst all the flower and beauty and chivalry of +France fell beneath the fatal guillotine. + +Guy, wandering aimlessly, full of dismal thought, follows out +mechanically his first idea, and turns in the direction of the garden, +the spot so beloved by his false, treacherous little mistress. + +In the distance he sees her; she is standing motionless in the centre of +a grassplot, while behind her Chesney is busily engaged tying back her +yellow hair with a broad piece of black ribbon she has evidently given +him for the purpose. He has all her rich tresses gathered together in +one, and is lingering palpably over his task. In his coat is placed +conspicuously the blue forget-me-not begged of Guy by Lilian only a few +minutes ago as though her heart were set upon its possession. + +"Coquette," mutters Chetwoode between his teeth. + +"Not done yet?" asks the coquette at this moment of her cousin, giving +her head a little impatient shake. + +"Yes, just done," finishing up in a hurry the somewhat curious bow he is +making. + +"Well, now run," says Lilian, "and do as I bade you. I shall be here on +this spot when you return. You know how I hate waiting: so don't be +long,--do you hear?" + +"Does that mean you will be impatient to see me again?" + +"Of course," laughing. "I shall be _dying_ to see you again, longing, +pining for your return, thinking every minute an hour until you come +back to me." + +Thus encouraged, Archibald quickly vanishes, and Guy comes slowly up to +her. + +"I think you needn't have put that flower in Chesney's coat," he says, +in an aggrieved tone. "I had no idea you meant it for his adornment." + +"Is it in his coat?" As she makes this mean reply she blushes a rich +warm crimson, so full of consciousness that it drives Guy absolutely +wild with jealousy. "Yes, now I remember," she says, with an assumption +of indifference; "he either took it from me, or asked me for it, I quite +forget which." + +"Do you?" + +"I do," resenting his manner, which borders on disbelief, and is in her +eyes highly objectionable. "Why should I trouble myself to recollect +such trifles?" + +After a pause, and with a distinct effort, Chetwoode says: + +"You were foolishly prejudiced against your cousin before his arrival. I +am glad you have learned to be civil to him." + +"More than that, I have learned to like him very much indeed. He is +quite charming, and not in the least _exigeant_, or _difficile_," this +rather pronounced. "Besides, he is my cousin, and the master of my old +home. Whenever I think of the dear Park I naturally think of him, until +now they are both associated in my mind: this adds to my liking." + +Guy's heart sinks within him as he remembers Florence's words and now +hears Lilian's own confession. He glances at her despairingly. She is +picking a flower to pieces, and as she does so a little soft sigh +escapes her. Is it for her lost home? Is she already dreaming of an hour +when she may return to it once more as its happy mistress? Is she +mercenary, as Florence hinted? or is it homesickness that is tempting +her? or can it be that at heart she loves this cousin? + +"It is the same with all women," he says bitterly; "the last comer is +always the best, the newest face the dearest." + +"I do not understand you,"--with cold reproof; "surely you are wandering +from the subject: we were saying nothing about last comers or new faces. +If you happen to be in a bad temper, Sir Guy, I really think it a little +hard that you should come here to inflict it upon me." + +"I am not in a bad temper,"--indignantly. + +"No? It seems very like it," says Miss Chesney. "I can't bear cross +people: they are always saying unpleasant as well as unmeaning things. +New faces, indeed! I really wish Archibald would come; he is always +agreeable, and never starts distasteful topics. Ah, here he is! Archie, +how long you have been! I thought you were never coming! Sir Guy is in +one of his terrible moods, and has frightened me out of my life. I was +in danger of being lectured off the face of the earth. No woman should +be pitied but she that has a guardian! You have come to my rescue barely +in time: another minute, and you would have found only a lifeless +Lilian." + +Sir Guy, black with rage, turns aside. Archibald, ignorant of the storm +brewing, sinks beside her contentedly upon the grass. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + + "O spirit of love, how fresh and quick thou art!"--SHAKESPEARE. + + +It is the gloaming,--that tenderest, fondest, most pensive time of all +the day. As yet, night crouches on the borders of the land, reluctant to +throw its dark shadow over the still smiling earth, while day is slowly, +sadly receding. There is a hush over everything; above, on their leafy +perches, the birds are nestling, and crooning their cradle songs; the +gay breeze, lazy with its exertions of the day, has fallen asleep, so +that the very grasses are silent and unstirred. An owl in the distance +is hooting mournfully. There is a serenity on all around, an +all-pervading stillness that moves one to sadness and fills unwittingly +the eyes with tears. It is the peace that follows upon grief, as though +the busy world, that through all the heat and turmoil of the day has +been weeping and groaning in anguish, has now for a few short hours +found rest. + +The last roses of summer in Mrs. Arlington's garden, now that those gay +young sparks the bees have deserted them, are growing drowsy, and hang +their heavy heads dejectedly. Two or three dissipated butterflies, fond +of late hours and tempted by the warmth, still float gracefully through +the air. + +Cecilia, coming down the garden path, rests her arms upon her wicket +gate and looks toward Chetwoode. + +She is dressed in an exquisite white cambric, fastened at the throat by +a bit of lavender ribbon; through her gown here and there are touches of +the same color; on her head is a ravishing little cap of the mob +description, that lends an additional charm to her face, making her +seem, if possible, more womanly, more lovable than ever. + +As she leans upon the gate a last yellow sunbeam falls upon her, peeps +into her eyes, takes a good-night kiss from her parted lips, and, +descending slowly, lovingly, crosses her bosom, steals a little +sweetness from the white rose dying on her breast, throws a golden shade +upon her white gown, and finally dies chivalrously at her feet. + +But not for the dear devoted sunbeam does that warm blush grow and +mantle on her cheek; not for it do her pulses throb, her heart beat +fast. Toward her, in his evening dress, and without his hat, regardless +of consequences, comes Cyril, the quickness of his step betraying a +flattering haste. As yet, although many weeks have come and gone since +their first meeting, no actual words of love have been spoken between +them; but each knows the other's heart, and has learned that eyes can +speak a more eloquent language, can utter tenderer thoughts, than any +the lips can frame. + +"Again?" says Cecilia, softly, a little wonder, a great undisguised +gladness, in her soft gray eyes. + +"Yes; I could not keep away," returns he, simply. + +He does not ask to enter, but leans upon the gate from his side, very +close to her. Most fair men look well in evening clothes; Cyril looks +downright handsome: his blonde moustache seems golden, his blue eyes +almost black, in the rays of the departing sun: just now those eyes are +filled with love and passionate admiration. + +Her arms, half bare, with some frail shadowy lace falling over them, +look rounded and velvety as a child's in the growing dusk; the fingers +of her pretty, blue-veined hands are interlaced. Separating them, Cyril +takes one hand between both his own and strokes it fondly, silently, yet +almost absently. + +Suddenly raising his head, he looks at her, his whole heart in his +expression, his eyes full of purpose. Instinctively she feels the +warmth, the tenderness of his glance, and changes from a calm lily into +an expectant rose. Her hand trembles within his, as though meditating +flight, and then lies passive as his clasp tightens firmly upon it. +Slowly, reluctantly, as though compelled by some hidden force, she turns +her averted eyes to his. + +"Cecilia," murmurs he, imploringly, and then--and then their lips meet, +and they kiss each other solemnly, with a passionate tenderness, knowing +it is their betrothal they are sealing. + + * * * * * + +"I wish I had summoned courage to kiss you a week ago," he says, +presently. He is inside the gate now, and seems to have lost in this +shamefully short time all the hesitation and modesty that a few minutes +ago were so becoming. His arm is around her; even as he makes this +_risqué_ remark, he stoops and embraces her again, without even having +the grace to ask permission, while she (that I should live to say it of +Cecilia!) never reproves him. + +"Why?" she asks, smiling up at him. + +"See how I have wasted seven good days," returns he, drinking in gladly +all the beauty of her face and smile. "This day last week I might have +been as happy as I am now,--whereas I was the most miserable wretch +alive, the victim of suspense." + +"You bore your misery admirably: had you not told me, I should never +have guessed your wretchedness. Besides, how do you know I should have +been so kind to you seven long days ago?" + +"I know it,--because you love me." + +"And how do you know that either?" asks she, with new-born coquetry that +sits very sweetly upon her. "Cyril, when did you begin to love me?" + +"The very moment I first saw you." + +"No, no; I do not want compliments from _you_: I want the very honest +truth. Tell me." + +"I have told you. The honest truth is this. That morning after your +arrival when I restored your terrier to you, I fell in love with you: +you little thought then, when I gave your dog into your keeping, I was +giving my heart also." + +"No," in a low, soft voice, that somehow has a smile in it, "how could +I? I am glad you loved me always,--that there was no time when I was +indifferent to you. I think love at first sight must be the sweetest and +truest of all." + +"You have the best of it, then, have you not?" with a rather forced +laugh. "Not only did I love you from the first moment I saw you, but you +are the only woman I ever really cared for; while you," with some +hesitation, and turning his eyes steadily away from hers, "you--of +course--did love--once before." + +"Never!" + +The word comes with startling vehemence from between her lips, the new +and brilliant gladness of her face dies from it. A little chill shudder +runs through all her frame, turning her to stone; drawing herself with +determination from his encircling arms, she stands somewhat away from +him. + +"It is time I told you my history," she says, in cold, changed tones, +through which quivers a ring of pain, while her face grows suddenly as +pale, as impenetrable as when they were yet quite strangers to each +other. "Perhaps when you hear it you may regret your words of to-night." +There is a doubt, a weariness in her voice that almost angers him. + +"Nonsense!" he says, roughly, the better to hide the emotion he feels; +"don't be romantic; nobody commits murder, or petty larceny, or bigamy +nowadays, without being found out; unpleasant mysteries, and skeletons +in the closet have gone out of fashion. We put all our skeletons in the +_Times_ now, no matter how we may have to blush for their nakedness. I +don't want to hear anything about your life if it makes you unhappy to +tell it." + +"It doesn't make me unhappy." + +"But it does. Your face has grown quite white, and your eyes are full of +tears. Darling, I won't have you distress yourself for me." + +"I have not committed any of the crimes you mention, or any other +particular crime," returns she, with a very wan little smile. "I have +only been miserable ever since I can remember. I have not spoken about +myself to any one for years, except one friend; but now I should like +to tell you everything." + +"But not there!" holding out his hands to her reproachfully. "I don't +believe I could hear you if you spoke from such a distance." There is +exactly half a yard of sward between them. "If you are willfully bent on +driving us both to the verge of melancholy, at least let us meet our +fate together." + +Here he steals his arm round her once more, and, thus supported, and +with her head upon his shoulder, she commences her short story: + +"Perhaps you know my father was a Major in the Scots Greys; your brother +knew him: his name was Duncan." + +Cyril starts involuntarily. + +"Ah, you start. You, too, knew him?" + +"Yes, slightly." + +"Then," in a curiously hard voice, "you knew nothing good of him. Well," +with a sigh, "no matter; afterward you can tell me what it was. When I +was eighteen he brought me home from school, not that he wanted my +society,--I was rather in his way than otherwise, and it wasn't a good +way,--but because he had a purpose in view. One day, when I had been +home three months, a visitor came to see us. He was introduced to me by +my father. He was young, dark, not ugly, well-mannered," here she pauses +as though to recover breath, and then breaks out with a passion that +shakes all her slight frame, "but hateful, vile, _loathsome_." + +"My darling, don't go on; I don't want to hear about him," implores +Cyril, anxiously. + +"But I must tell you. He possessed that greatest of all virtues in my +father's eyes,--wealth. He was rich. He admired me; I was very pretty +then. He dared to say he loved me. He asked me to marry him, and--I +refused him." + +As though the words are forced from her, she utters them in short, +unequal sentences; her lips have turned the color of death. + +"I suppose he went then to my father, and they planned it all between +them, because at this time he--that is, my father--began to tell me he +was in debt, hopelessly, irretrievably in debt. Among others, he +mentioned certain debts of (so-called) honor, which, if not paid within +a given time, would leave him not only a beggar, but a disgraced one +upon the face of the earth; and I believed him. He worked upon my +feelings day by day, with pretended tears, with vows of amendment. I +don't know," bitterly, "what his share of the bargain was to be, but I +do know he toiled for it conscientiously. I was young, unusually so for +my age, without companions, romantic, impressionable. It seemed to me a +grand thing to sacrifice myself and thereby save my father; and if I +would only consent to marry Mr. Arlington he had promised not only to +avoid dice, but to give up his habits of intemperance. It is an old +story, is it not? No doubt you know it by heart. Crafty age and foolish +youth,--what chance had I? One day I gave in, I said I would marry Mr. +Arlington, and he sold me to him three weeks later. We were married." + +Here her voice fails her again, and a little moan of agonized +recollection escapes her. Cyril, clasping her still closer to him, +presses a kiss upon her brow. At the sweet contact of his lips she +sighs, and two large tears gathering in her eyes roll slowly down her +cheeks. + +"A week after my wretched marriage," she goes on, "I discovered +accidentally that my father had lied to me and tricked me. His +circumstances were not so bad as he had represented to me, and it was on +the condition that he was to have a certain income from Mr. Arlington +yearly that he had persuaded me to marry him. He did not long enjoy it. +He died," slowly, "two months afterward. Of my life with--my husband I +shall not tell you; the recital would only revolt you. Only to think of +it now makes me feel deadly ill; and often from my dreams, as I live it +all over again, I start, cold with horror and disgust. It did not last +long, which was merciful: six months after our marriage he eloped with +an actress and went to Vienna." + +"The blackguard! the scoundrel!" says Cyril, between his teeth, drawing +his breath sharply. + +"I never saw him again. In a little while I received tidings of his +death: he had been stabbed in a brawl in some drinking-house, and only +lived a few hours after it. And I was once more free." + +She pauses, and involuntarily stretches forth both her hands into the +twilight, as one might who long in darkness, being thrust into the full +light of day, seeks to grasp and retain it. + +"When I heard of his death," she says, turning to Cyril, and speaking +in a clear intense tone, "I _laughed_! For the first time for many +months, I laughed aloud! I declared my thankfulness in a distinct voice. +My heart beat with honest, undisguised delight when I knew I should +never see him again, should never in all the years to come shiver and +tremble in his hated presence. He was dead, and I was heartily glad of +it." + +She stops, in terrible agitation. An angry fire gleams in her large gray +eyes. She seems for the moment to have utterly forgotten Cyril's +nearness, as in memory she lives over again all the detested past. Cyril +lays his hand lightly upon her shoulder, her eyes meet his, and then the +anger dies from them. She sighs heavily, and then goes on: + +"After that I don't know what happened for a long time, because I got +brain-fever, and, but for one friend who all through had done his best +for me, I should have died. He and his sister nursed me through it, and +brought me back to life again; but," mournfully, "they could not restore +to me my crushed youth, my ruined faith, my girlish hopes. A few months +had changed me from a mere child into a cold, unloving woman." + +"Don't say that," says Cyril, gently. + +"Until now," returns she, looking at him with eyes full of the most +intense affection; "now all is different." + +"Beloved, how you have suffered!" he says, pressing her head down again +upon his breast, and caressing with loving fingers her rich hair. "But +it is all over, and if I can make you so, you shall be happy in the +future. And your one friend? Who was he?" + +She hesitates perceptibly, and a blush creeping up dyes her pale face +crimson. + +"Perhaps I know," says Cyril, an unaccountable misgiving at his heart. +"Was it Colonel Trant? Do not answer me if you do not wish it," very +gently. + +"Yes, it was he. There is no reason why I should not answer you." + +"No?" + +"No." + +"He asked Guy to let you have the cottage?" + +"Yes; I had wearied of everything, and though by some chance I had come +in for all Mr. Arlington's property, I only cared to go away and hide +myself somewhere where I should find quiet and peace. I tried several +places, but I was always restless until I came here." She smiles +faintly. + +Cyril, after a pause, says, hesitatingly: + +"Cecilia, did you ever care for--for--Trant?" + +"Never: did you imagine that? I never cared for any one but you; I never +shall again. And you, Cyril," the tears rushing thickly to her eyes, "do +you still think you can love me, the daughter of one bad man, the wife +of another? I can hardly think myself as good as other women when I +remember all the hateful scenes I have passed through." + +"I shall treat you to a crowning scene if you ever dare say that again," +says Cyril, whose spirits are rising now she has denied having any +affection for Trant. "And if every relation you ever had was as bad as +bad could be, I should adore you all the same. I can't say any more." + +"You needn't," returns she, laughing a little. "Oh, Cyril, how sweet it +is to be beloved, to me especially, who never yet (until now) had any +love offered me; at least," correcting herself hastily, "any I cared to +accept!" + +"But you had a lover?" asks he, earnestly. + +"Yes, one." + +"Trant again?" letting his teeth close somewhat sharply on his under +lip. + +"Yes." + +"Cecilia, I am afraid you liked that fellow once. Come, confess it." + +"No, indeed, not in the way you mean; but in every other way more than I +can tell you. I should be the most ungrateful wretch alive if it were +otherwise. As a true friend, I love him." + +"How dare you use such a word to any one but me?" says Cyril, bending to +smile into her eyes. "I warn you not to do it again, or I shall be +dangerously and outrageously jealous. Tears in your eyes still, my +sweet? Let me kiss them away: poor eyes! surely they have wept enough in +their time to permit of their only smiling in the future." + +When they have declared over and over again (in different language every +time, of course) the everlasting affection each feels for the other, +Cecilia says: + +"How late it grows! and you are in your evening dress, and without a +hat. Have you dined?" + +"Not yet; but I don't want any dinner." (By this remark, O reader, you +may guess the depth and sincerity of his love.) "We generally dine at +half-past seven, but to-night we are to starve until eight to oblige +Florence, who has been spending the day somewhere. So I dressed early +and came down to see you." + +"At eight," says Cecilia, alarmed: "it is almost that now. You must go, +or Lady Chetwoode will be angry with me, and I don't want any one +belonging to you to think bad thoughts of me." + +"There is plenty of time: it can't be nearly eight yet. Why, it is only +half an hour since I came." + +"It is a quarter to eight," says Cecilia, solemnly. "Do go, and come +again as early as you can to-morrow." + +"You will be glad to see me?" + +"Yes, if you come very early." + +"And you are sure, my own darling, that you really love me?" + +"Quite, _quite_ sure," tenderly. + +"What a bore it is having to go home this lovely evening!" +discontentedly. "Certainly 'Time was made for slaves.' Well,"--with a +sigh,--"good-night. I suppose I must go. I shall run down directly after +breakfast. Good-night, my own, my dearest." + +"Good-night, Cyril." + +"What a cold farewell! I shan't go away at all if you don't say +something kinder." + +Standing on tiptoe, Cecilia lays her arms around his neck. + +"Good-night, my--darling," she whispers, tremulously, and with a last +lingering caress they part, as though years were about to roll by before +they can meet again. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + + "And, though she be but little, she is fierce." + --_Midsummer Night's Dream._ + + "RENE. Suffer love! A good epithet! I do suffer love, indeed, + for I love thee against my will."--_Much Ado About Nothing._ + + +It is a glorious evening toward the close of September. The heat is +intense, delicious, as productive of happy languor as though it was +still the very heart of summer. + +Outside upon the grass sits Lilian, idly threading daisies into chains, +her riotous golden locks waving upon her fair forehead beneath the +influence of the wind. At her feet, full length, lies Archibald, a book +containing selections from the works of favorite poets in his hand. He +is reading aloud such passages as please him and serve to illustrate the +passion that day by day is growing deeper for his pretty cousin. Already +his infatuation for her has become a fact so palpable that not only has +he ceased to deny it to himself, but every one in the house is fully +aware of it, from Lady Chetwoode down to the lowest housemaid. +Sometimes, when the poem is an old favorite, he recites it, keeping his +dark eyes fixed the while upon the fair coquettish face just above him. + +Upon the balcony looking down upon them sits Florence, working at the +everlasting parrot, with Guy beside her, utterly miserable, his whole +attention concentrated upon his ward. For the past week he has been +wretched as a man can be who sees a rival well received before his eyes +day after day. Miss Beauchamp's soft speeches and tender glances, +although many and pronounced, fail to console him, though to others he +appears to accept them willingly enough, and to make a generous return, +spending--how, he hardly knows, though perhaps _she_ does--a good deal +of time in her society. He must indeed be devoid of observation if now +he cannot pass a strict examination of the hues of that crewel bird +(this is not a joke), for wherever he may be, there Miss Beauchamp is +sure to show a few minutes later, always with her wools. + +Noting all this, be sure Lilian draws from it her own conclusions. + +As each clear silvery laugh reaches him from below, Guy frowns and +winces at every fond poetical sentiment that, floated upward by the +wind, falls upon his ears. + + + "See the mountain kiss high heaven, + And the waves clasp one another; + No sister flower would be forgiven + If it disdained its brother: + And the sunlight clasps the earth, + And the moonbeams kiss the sea: + What are all these kissings worth, + If thou kiss not me?" + + +The words recited by Mr. Chesney with much _empressement_ soar upward +and gain Guy's ear; Archibald is pointing his quotation with many +impassioned glances and much tender emphasis; all of which is rather +thrown away upon Lilian, who is not in the least sentimental. + +"Read something livelier, Archie," she says, regarding her growing chain +with unlimited admiration. "There is rather too much honey about that." + +"If you can snub Shelley, I'm sure I don't know what it is you _do_ +like," returns he, somewhat disgusted. A slight pause ensues, filled up +by the faint noise of the leaves of Chesney's volume as he turns them +over impatiently. + +"'Oh, my Luve's like a red, red, rose,'" he begins, bravely, but Lilian +instantly suppresses him. + +"Don't," she says: "that's worse. I always think what a horrid 'luve' +she must have been. Fancy a girl with cheeks like that rose over there! +Fancy writing a sonnet to a milk-maid! Go on, however; the other lines +are rather pretty." + + + "Oh, my love's like a melody + That's sweetly played in tune," + + +reads Archie, and then stops. + +"It is pretty," he says, agreeably; "but if you had heard the last word +persistently called 'chune,' I think it would have taken the edge off +your fancy for it. I had an uncle who adored that little poem, but he +_would_ call the word 'chune,' and it rather spoiled the effect. He's +dead," says Mr. Chesney, laying down his book, "but I think I see him +now." + + + "In the pride of youth and beauty, + With a garland on his brow," + + +quotes Lilian, mischievously. + +"Well, not quite. Rather in an exceedingly rusty suit of evening clothes +at the Opera. I took him there in a weak moment to hear the 'late +lamented Titiens' sing her choicest song in 'Il Trovatore,'--you know +it?--well, when it was over and the whole house was in a perfect uproar +of applause, I turned and asked him what he thought of it, and he +instantly said he thought it was 'a very pretty "chune"!' Fancy Titiens +singing a 'chune'! I gave him up after that, and carefully avoided his +society. Poor old chap, he didn't bear malice, however, as he died a +year later and left me all his money." + +"More than you deserved," says Lilian. + +Here Cyril and Taffy appearing on the scene cause a diversion. They +both simultaneously fling themselves upon the grass at Lilian's feet, +and declare themselves completely used up. + +"Let us have tea out here," says Lilian, gayly, "and enjoy our summer to +the end." Springing to her feet, she turns toward the balcony, careless +of the fact that she has destroyed the lovely picture she made sitting +on the greensward, surrounded by her attendant swains. + +"Florence, come down here, and let us have tea on the grass," she calls +out pleasantly to Miss Beauchamp. + +"Do, Florence," says Archibald, entreatingly. + +"Miss Beauchamp, you really _must_," from Taffy, decides the point. + +Florence, feeling it will look ungracious to refuse, rises with +reluctance, and sails down upon the _quartette_ below, followed by Sir +Guy. + +"What an awful time we shall be having at Mrs. Boileau's this hour +to-morrow night," says Cyril, plaintively, after a long silence on his +part. "I shudder when I think of it. No one who has never spent an +evening at the Grange can imagine the agony of it." + +"I vow I would rather be broken on the wheel than undergo it," says +Archibald. "It was downright mean of Lady Chetwoode to let us all in for +it. And yet no doubt things might have been worse; we ought to feel +devoutly thankful old Boileau is well under the sod." + +"What was the matter with him?" asks Lilian. + +"Don't name him," says Cyril, "he was past all human endurance; my blood +runs cold when I remember, I once did know him. I rejoice to say he is +no more. His name was Benjamin: and as he was small and thin, and she +was large and fat, she (that is, Mrs. Boileau) was always called +'Benjamin's portion.' That's a joke; do you see it?" + +"I do: so you don't take any bobs off _my_ wages," retorts Miss Chesney, +promptly, with a distinct imitation of Kate Stantley. "And yet I cannot +see how all this made the poor man odious." + +"No, not exactly that, though I don't think a well-brought-up man should +let himself go to skin and bone. He was intolerable in other ways. One +memorable Christmas day Guy and I dined with him, and he got beastly +drunk on the sauce for the plum-pudding. We were young at the time, and +it made a lasting impression upon us. Indeed, he was hardly the person +to sit next at a prolonged dinner-party, first because he was +unmistakably dirty, and----" + +"Oh, Cyril!" + +"Well, and why not? It is not impossible. Even Popes, it now appears, +can be indifferent to the advantages to be derived from soap and water." + +"Really, Cyril, I think you might choose a pleasanter subject upon which +to converse," says Florence, with a disgusted curl of her short upper +lip. + +"I beg pardon all round, I'm sure," returns Cyril, meekly. "But Lilian +should be blamed: she _would_ investigate the matter; and I'm nothing, +if not strictly truthful. He was a very dirty old man, I assure you, my +dear Florence." + +"Mrs. Boileau, however objectionable, seems to have been rather the best +of the two: why did she marry him?" asks Lilian. + +"Haven't the remotest idea, and, even if I had, I should be afraid to +answer any more of your pertinent questions," with an expressive nod in +the direction of Florence. "I can only say it was a very feeble +proceeding on the part of such a capable person as Mrs. Boileau." + +"Just 'another good woman gone wrong,'" suggests Taffy, mildly. + +"Quite so," says Archibald, "though she adored him,--she said. Yet he +died, some said of fever, others of--Mrs. Boileau; no attention was ever +paid to the others. When he _did_ droop and die she planted all sorts of +lovely little flowers over his grave, and watered them with her tears +for ever so long. Could affection farther go?" + +"Horrible woman!" says Miss Chesney, "it only wanted that to finish my +dislike to her. I hope when I am dead no one will plant flowers on _my_ +grave: the bare idea would make me turn in it." + +"Then we won't do it," says Taffy, consolingly. + +"I wish we had a few Indian customs in this country," says Cyril, +languidly. "The Suttee was a capital institution. Think what a lot of +objectionable widows we should have got rid of by this time; Mrs. +Boileau, for instance." + +"And Mrs. Arlington," puts in Florence, quietly. An unaccountable +silence follows this speech. No one can exactly explain why, but every +one knows something awkward has been said. Cyril outwardly is perhaps +the least concerned of them all: as he bites languidly a little blade +of green grass, a faint smile flickers at the corners of his lips; +Lilian is distinctly angry. + +"Poor Mrs. Boileau; all this is rather ill-natured, is it not?" asks +Florence, gently, rising as though a dislike to the gossip going on +around her compels her to return to the house. In reality it is a +dislike to damp grass that urges her to flight. + +"Shall I get you a chair, Florence?" asks Cyril, somewhat irrelevantly +as it seems. + +"Pray don't leave us, Miss Beauchamp," says Taffy. "If you will stay on, +we will swear not to make any more ill-natured remarks about any one." + +"Then I expect silence will reign supreme, and that the remainder of the +_conversazione_ will be of the deadly-lively order," says Archibald; +and, Cyril at this moment arriving with the offered chair, Miss +Beauchamp is kindly pleased to remain. + +As the evening declines, the midges muster in great force. Cyril and +Taffy, being in the humor for smoking,--and having cheroots,--are +comparatively speaking happy; the others grow more and more secretly +irritated every moment. Florence is making ladylike dabs at her forehead +every two seconds with her cambric handkerchief, and is regretting +keenly her folly in not retiring in-doors long ago. Midges sting her and +raise uninteresting little marks upon her face, thereby doing +irremediable damage for the time being. The very thought of such a +catastrophe fills her with horror. Her fair, plump hands are getting +spoiled by these blood-thirsty little miscreants; this she notices with +dismay, but is ignorant of the fact that a far worse misfortune is +happening higher up. A tasteless midge has taken a fancy to her nose, +and has inflicted on it a serious bite; it is swelling visibly, and a +swelled nose is not becoming, especially when it is set as nearly as +nature will permit in the centre of a pale, high-bred, but +expressionless face. + +Ignorant, I say, of this crowning mishap, she goes on dabbing her brow +gently, while all the others lie around her dabbing likewise. + +At last Lilian loses all patience. + +"Oh! _hang_ these midges!" she says, naturally certainly but rather too +forcibly for the times we live in. The petulance of the soft tone, the +expression used, makes them all laugh, except Miss Beauchamp, who, true +to her training, maintains a demeanor of frigid disapproval, which has +the pleasing effect of rendering the swelled nose more ludicrous than it +was before. + +"Have I said anything very _bizarre_?" demands Lilian, opening her eyes +wide at their laughter. "Oh!"--recollecting--"did I say 'hang them'? It +is all Taffy's fault, he will use schoolboy slang. Taffy, you ought to +be ashamed of yourself: don't you see how you have shocked Florence?" + +"And no wonder," says Archibald, gravely; "you know we swore to her not +to abuse anything for the remainder of this evening, not even these +little winged torments," viciously squeezing half a dozen to death as he +speaks. + +"How are we going to the Grange to-morrow evening?" asks Taffy, +presently. + +The others have broken up and separated; Cyril and Archibald, at a +little distance, are apparently convulsed with laughter over some shady +story just being related by the former. + +"I suppose," goes on Taffy, "as Lady Chetwoode won't come, we shall take +the open traps, and not mind the carriage, the evenings are so fine. Who +is to drive who, is the question." + +"No; who is to drive poor little I, is the question. Sir Guy, will you?" +asks Lilian, plaintively, prompted by some curious impulse, seeing him +silent, handsome, moody in the background. A moment later she could have +killed herself for putting the question to him. + +"Guy always drives me," says Florence, calmly: "I never go with any one +else, except in the carriage with Aunt Anne. I am nervous, and should be +miserable with any one I could not quite trust. Careless driving +terrifies me. But Guy is never careless," turning upon Chetwoode a face +she fondly hopes is full of feeling, but which unfortunately is +suggestive of nothing but a midge's bite. The nose is still the +principal feature in it. + +Placed in this awkward dilemma, Guy can only curse his fate and be +silent. How can he tell Florence he does not care for her society, how +explain to Lilian his wild desire for hers? He bites his moustache, and, +with his eyes fixed gloomily upon the ground, maintains a disgusted +silence. Truly luck is dead against him. + +"Oh,--that indeed!" says Lilian, and, being a thorough woman, of course +makes no allowance for his unhappy position. Evidently,--according to +her view of the case,--from his silent acquiescence in Miss Beauchamp's +plan, he likes it. No doubt it was all arranged between them early this +morning; and she, to have so far forgotten herself as to ask him to +drive her! Oh! it is intolerable! + +"You are quite right," she says sweetly to Florence, even producing a +smile for the occasion, as women will when their hearts are sorest. +"There is nothing so depressing as nervousness when driving. Perhaps +Archibald will take pity upon me. Archie!" calling out to him, "come +here. I want you to do me a great favor,"--with an enchanting smile. +"Would it be putting you out dreadfully if I asked you to drive me to +Mrs. Boileau's to-morrow evening?"--another smile still more enchanting. + +"You really mean it?" asks Archibald, delighted, his dark face lighting, +while Guy, looking on helplessly, almost groans aloud. "You know how +glad I shall be: I had no idea when I got up this morning such luck was +in store for me. _Dear_ Mrs. Boileau! if she could only guess how eager +I am to start for her _charming_ Grange!" + +He says this in a laughing tone, but Chetwoode fully understands that, +like the famous well, it has truth at the bottom of it. + +"It grows late, does it not?" Florence says, rising gracefully. "I think +we had better go in-doors. We have left Aunt Anne too long alone." + +"Auntie is lying down. Her head is bad," says Lilian; "I was with her +just before I came out, and she said she wished to be alone." + +"Yes; she can't bear noise," remarks Florence, calmly, but meaningly. "I +must go and see how she is." There is the faintest suspicion of an +emphasis upon the personal pronoun. + +"That will be very kind of you, dear," says Miss Chesney, suavely. "And +Florence--would you like anything to rub your poor nose?--cold cream--or +glycerine--or that; nurse has all those sorts of things, I'm sure." This +is a small revenge of Lilian's, impossible to forego; while enjoying it, +she puts on the tenderest air of sympathetic concern, and carefully +regards Miss Beauchamp's nose with raised brows of solicitude. + +"My nose?" repeats Florence, reddening. + +"Yes, dear. One of those unkind little insects has bitten it +shamefully, and now it is all pink and swollen. Didn't you know it? I +have been feeling so sorry for you for the last ten minutes. It is too +bad,--is it not? I hardly think it will be well before dinner, and it is +so disfiguring." All this she utters in tones of the deepest +commiseration. + +Florence wisely makes no reply. She would have borne the tortures of the +rack rather than exhibit any vehement temper before Guy; so she contents +herself with casting a withering glance upon Lilian,--who receives it +with the utmost _sang-froid_,--and, putting her handkerchief up to the +wounded member, sweeps into the house full of righteous indignation. + +Sir Guy, after lengthened hesitation, evidently makes up his mind to do +something, and, with his face full of purpose, follows her. This +devotion on his part is more than Lilian--in spite of her +suspicions--has bargained for. + +"Gone to console his 'sleepy Venus' for the damage done to her 'Phidian +nose,'" she says to Taffy, with rather a bitter laugh. + +"Little girls should neither quote Don Juan nor say ill-natured things," +replies that youth, with an air of lofty rebuke. But Lilian, not being +in the mood for even Taffy's playfulness, makes no answer, and walks +away to her beloved garden to seek consolation from the flowers. + +Whatever Guy's conference with Florence was about, it was short and +decisive, as in five minutes he again emerged from the house, and, +looking vainly around him, starts in search of Lilian. Presently, at the +end of the long lawn, he sees her. + +"Well, has her poor dear nose recovered all its pristine freshness?" she +asks him, in a rather reckless tone, as he comes up to her. + +"Lilian," says Guy, abruptly, eagerly, taking no notice of this +sally,--indeed, scarcely hearing,--"it was all a mistake; I could not +speak plainly a moment ago, but I have arranged it all with Florence; +and--will you let me drive you to Mrs. Boileau's to-morrow evening?" + +"No, thank you," a quick gleam in her large eyes that should have warned +him; "I would not make Florence unhappy for the world. Think of her +nerves!" + +"She will be quite as safe with Cyril--or--your cousin." + +"Which cousin?" + +"Chesney." + +"I think not, because I am going with Archibald." + +"You can easily break off with him," anxiously. + +"But supposing I do not wish to break off with him?" + +"Am I to think, then, you prefer going with your cousin?" in a freezing +tone. + +"Certainly, I prefer his society to yours, ten thousand times," +forcibly; "it was mere idleness made me say I wished to go with you. Had +you agreed to my proposition I should probably have changed my mind +afterward, so everything is better as it is; I am glad now you did not +answer me differently." + +"I did not answer you at all," returns Guy, unwisely. + +"No, you were _afraid_," returns she, with a mocking laugh that sends +the red blood to his forehead. + +"What do you mean?" he asks, angrily. + +"Nothing. It was foolish my mentioning the subject. We are disputing +about a mere trifle. I am going with Archie whatever happens, because I +like him, and because I know he is always glad to be with me." + +She turns as though to leave him, and Guy impulsively catches her hand +to detain her; as he does so, his eyes fall upon the little white +fingers imprisoned in his own, and there, upon one of them--beside his +own ring--he sees another,--newer. + +"Who gave you that?" he asks, impulsively, knowing well the answer to +his question. + +"Archibald," removing her hand quietly, but with determination. + +A dead silence follows. Then, speaking calmly by a supreme effort, Guy +says: + +"I suppose so. Are you going to marry your cousin, Lilian?" + +"Is it in the capacity of guardian you ask that question?" defiantly. +"You should remember I don't acknowledge one." + +"Must I understand by that you will accept him, or have accepted him?" + +"Certainly not. You told me yesterday you found it impossible to +understand me at any time; why seek to do what is beyond your power? +However, I don't mind telling you that as yet Archibald has not made me +a formal offer of his heart and hand. No doubt"--mockingly--"when he +does me the honor to propose to me, he will speak to you on the +subject." Then she laughs a little. "Don't you think it is rather +absurd arranging matters for poor Archie without his consent? I assure +you he has as much idea of proposing to me as the man in the moon." + +"If you are not engaged to him you should not wear his ring," severely. + +"I am not engaged to you, and I wear your ring. If it is wrong to accept +a ring from a man to whom one is not engaged, I think it was very +reprehensible of you to give me this," pointing to it. + +"With me it is different," Guy is beginning, rather lamely, not being +sure of his argument; but Miss Chesney, disdaining subterfuge, +interrupts him. + +"A thing is either right or wrong," she says, superbly. "I may surely +wear either none, or both." + +"Then remove both," says Guy, feeling he would rather see her without +his, if it must only be worn in conjunction with Chesney's. + +"I shan't," returns Lilian, deliberately. "I shall wear both as long as +it suits me,--because I adore rings." + +"Then you are acting very wrongly. I know there is little use in my +speaking to you, once you are bent upon having your own way. You are so +self-willed, and so determined." + + + "Without a friend, what were humanity, + To hunt our errors up with a good grace?" + + +quotes Lilian lightly. "There is no use in your lecturing me, Sir Guy; +it does me little good. _You_ want _your_ way, and I want _mine_; I am +not 'self-willed,' but I don't like tyranny, and I always said you were +tyrannical." + +"You are of course privileged to say what you like," haughtily. + +"Very well; then I _shall_ say it. One would think I was a baby, the way +you--scold--and torment me," here the tears of vexation and childish +wrath rise in her eyes; "but I do not acknowledge your authority; I have +told you so a hundred times, and I never shall,--never, never, never!" + +"Lilian, listen to me----" + +"No, I will not. I wonder why you come near me at all. Go back to +Florence; she is so calm, so sweet, so--_somnolent_,"--with a +sneer,--"that she will not ruffle your temper. As for me, I hate +disagreeable people! Why do you speak to me? It does neither of us any +good. It only makes you ill-mannered and me thoroughly unhappy." + +"Unhappy!" + +"Yes," petulantly, "_miserable_. Surely of late you must have noticed +how I avoid you. It is nothing but scold, scold, scold, all the time I +am with you; and I confess I don't fancy it. You might have known, +without my telling you, that I detest being with you!" + +"I shall remember it for the future," returns he, in a low voice, +falling back a step or two, and speaking coldly, although his heart is +beating wildly with passionate pain and anger. + +"Thank you," retorts Lilian: "that is the kindest thing you have said to +me for many a day." + +Yet the moment his back is turned she regrets this rude speech, and all +the many others she has given way to during the last fortnight. Her own +incivility vexes her, wounds her to the heart's core, for, however +mischievously inclined and quick-tempered she may be, she is marvelously +warm-hearted and kindly and fond. + +For full five minutes she walks to and fro, tormented by secret +upbraidings, and then a revulsion sets in. What does it matter after +all, she thinks, with an impatient shrug of her pretty soft shoulders. A +little plain speaking will do him no harm,--in fact, may do him untold +good. He has been so petted all his life long that a snubbing, however +small, will enliven him, and make him see himself in his true colors. +(What his true colors may be she does not specify even to herself.) And +if he is so devoted to Florence, why, let him then spend his time with +her, and not come lecturing other people on matters that don't concern +him. Such a fuss about a simple emerald ring indeed! Could anything be +more absurd? + +Nevertheless she feels a keen desire for reconciliation; so much so +that, later on,--just before dinner,--seeing Sir Guy in the shrubberies, +walking up and down in deepest meditation,--evidently of the depressing +order,--she makes up her mind to go and speak to him. Yes, she has been +in the wrong; she will go to him, therefore, and make the _amende +honorable_; and he (he is not altogether bad!) will doubtless rejoice to +be friends with her again. + +So thinking, she moves slowly though deliberately up to him, regarding +the while with absolute fervor the exquisite though frail geranium +blossom she carries in her hand. It is only partly opened, and is +delicately tinted as her own skin. + +When she is quite close to her guardian she raises her head, and +instantly affects a deliciously surprised little manner at the fact of +his unexpected (?) nearness. + +"Ah, Sir Guy, you here?" she says, airily, with an apparent consummate +forgetfulness of all past broils. "You are just in time: see what a +lovely flower I have for you. Is not the color perfect? Is it not +sweet?" proffering to him the pale geranium. + +"It is," replies he, taking the flower mechanically, because it is held +out to him, but hardly looking at it. His face is pale with suppressed +anger, his lips are closely set beneath his fair moustache; she is +evidently not forgiven. "And yet I think," he says, slowly, "if you knew +my opinion of you, you would be the last to offer me a flower." + +"And what then is your opinion?" demands Lilian, growing whiter and +whiter until all her pretty face has faded to the "paleness o' the +pearl." Instinctively she recoils a little, as though some slight blow +has touched and shaken her. + +"I think you a heartless coquette," returns he, distinctly, in a low +tone that literally rings with passion. "Take back your gift. Why should +you waste it upon one who does not care to have it?" And, flinging the +flower contemptuously at her feet, he turns and departs. + +For a full minute Miss Chesney neither stirs nor speaks. When he is +quite gone, she straightens herself, and draws her breath sharply. + +"Well, I never!" she says, between her little white teeth, which is a +homely phrase borrowed from nurse, but very expressive, and with that +she plants a small foot viciously upon the unoffending flower and +crushes it out of all shape and recognition. + + * * * * * + +Dinner is over, and almost forgotten; conversation flags. Even to the +most wakeful it occurs that it must be bordering upon bed-hour. + +Lilian, whose nightly habit is to read for an hour or two in her bed +before going to sleep, remembering she has left her book where she took +off her hat on coming into the house some hours ago, leaves the +drawing-room, and, having crossed the large hall, turns into the smaller +one that leads to the library. + +Midway in this passage one lamp is burning; the three others (because +of some inscrutable reason known only to the under-footman) have not +been lit: consequently to-night this hall is in semi-darkness. + +Almost at the very end of it Miss Chesney finds herself face to face +with her guardian, and, impelled by mischief and coquetry, stops short +to confront him. + +"Well, Sir Guy, have you got the better of your naughty temper?" she +asks, saucily. "Fie, to keep a little wicked black dog upon your +shoulder for so long! I hope by this time you are properly ashamed of +yourself, and that you are ready to promise me never to do it again." + +Guy is silent. He is thinking how lovely she is, how indifferent to him, +how unattainable. + +"Still unrepentant," goes on Lilian, with a mocking smile: "you are a +more hardened sinner than ever I gave you credit for. And what is it all +about, pray? What has vexed you? Was it my cousin's ring? or my refusing +to accompany you to-morrow to Mrs. Boileau's?" + +"Both," replies he, feeling compelled to answer. "I still think you +should not wear your cousin's ring unless engaged to him." + +"Nor yours either, of course," with a frown. "How you do love going over +the same ground again and again! Well," determinately, "as I told you +before, I shall wear both--do you hear?--just as long as I please. So +now, my puissant guardian," with a gesture that is almost a challenge, +"I defy you, and dare you to do your worst." + +Her tone, as is intended, irritates him; her beauty, her open though +childish defiance madden him. Gazing at her in the uncertain light, +through which her golden hair and gleaming sapphire eyes shine clearly, +he loses all self-control, and in another moment has her in his arms, +and has kissed her once, twice, passionately. + +Then recollection, all too late, returns, and shocked, horrified at his +own conduct, he releases her, and, leaning against the wall with folded +arms and lowered eyes, awaits his doom. + +Standing where he has left her, pale as a little colorless ghost, with +her lips as white as death, and her great eyes grown black through +mingled terror and amazement, Lilian regards him silently. She does not +move, she scarcely seems to breathe; no faintest sound of anger escapes +her. Then slowly--slowly raising her handkerchief, she draws it lightly +across her lips, and with a gesture full of contempt and loathing flings +it far from her. After which she draws herself up to her extremest +height, and, with her head erect and her whole figure suggestive of +insulted pride and dignity, she sweeps past him into the library, +closing the door quietly behind her. + +When the last sound of her footsteps has disappeared, Guy rouses himself +as if from a hateful dream, and presses his hand to his forehead. +Stooping, he picks up the disdained handkerchief, that lies mournfully +in the corner, thrusts it into his bosom, and turning away toward his +own quarters, is seen no more that night. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + + "The best laid schemes o' mice and men + Gang aft a-gley, + And lea'e us nought but grief and pain, + For promised joy."--BURNS. + + +All next day Lilian treats him as though to her eyes he is invisible. +She bestows upon him none of the usual courtesies of life; she takes no +"good-morrow," nor gives one. She is singularly deaf when he speaks; +except when common etiquette compels her to return an answer to one or +other of his speeches, she is dumb to him, or, when thus compelled, +makes an answer in her iciest tones. + +At five o'clock they all start for the Grange, Mrs. Boileau being one of +those unpleasant people who think they can never see enough of their +guests, or that their guests can never see enough of them,--I am not +sure which,--and who consequently has asked them to come early, to +inspect her gardens and walk through her grounds before dinner. + +As the grounds are well worth seeing, and the evening is charming for +strolling, this is about the pleasantest part of the entertainment. At +least so thinks Lilian, who (seeing Guy's evident depression) is in +radiant spirits. So does Archibald, who follows her as her shadow. They +are both delighted at everything about the Grange, and wander hither and +thither, looking and admiring as they go. + +And indeed it is a charming old place, older perhaps than Chetwoode, +though smaller and less imposing. The ivy has clambered up over all its +ancient walls and towers and battlements, until it presents to the eye a +sheet of darkest, richest green, through which the old-fashioned +casements peep in picturesque disorder, hardly two windows being in a +line. + +Inside, steps are to be met with everywhere in the most unexpected +places,--curious doors leading one never knows where,--ghostly corridors +along which at dead of night armed knights of by-gone days might tramp, +their armor clanking,--winding stairs,--and tapestries that tell of +warriors brave and maidens fair, long since buried and forgotten. + +Outside, the gardens are lovely and rich in blossom. Here, too, the old +world seems to have lingered, the very flowers themselves, though born +yesterday, having all the grace and modesty of an age gone by. + +Here + + + "The oxlips and the nodding violet grow: + Quite over-canopied with lush woodbine, + with sweet musk-roses and with eglantine." + + +Here too the "nun-like lily" hangs its head, the sweet "neglected +wall-flower" blows, the gaudy sunflower glitters, and the "pale +jessamine, the white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet," display +their charms; while among them, towering over all through the might of +its majesty, shines the rose,--"Joy's own flower," as Felicia Hemans +sweetly calls it. + +Now--being late in the season--the blossom is more scarce, though still +the air is heavy with delicate perfume, and the eyes grow drunk with +gazing on the beauty of the autumn flowers. Through them goes Lilian, +with Archibald gladly following. + +All day long he has had her to himself, and she has been so good to him, +so evidently pleased and contented with his society alone, that within +his breast an earnest hope has risen, so strongly, that he only waits a +fitting opportunity to lay his heart and fortune at her feet. + +"I can walk no more," says Lilian, at last, sinking upon the grass +beneath the shade of a huge beech that spreads its kindly arms above +her. "Let us sit here and talk." + +Archibald throws himself beside her, and for a few minutes silence +reigns supreme. + +"Well?" says Lilian, at length, turning lazy though inquisitive eyes +upon her companion. + +"Well?" says Archibald in return. + +"I said you were to talk," remarks Lilian, in an aggrieved tone. "And +you have not said one word yet. You ought to know by this time how I +dislike silence." + +"Blame yourself: I have been racking my brains without success for the +last two minutes to try to find something suitable to say. Did you ever +notice how, when one person says to another, 'Come, let us talk,' that +other is suddenly stricken with hopeless stupidity? So it is now with +me: I cannot talk: I am greatly afraid." + +"Well, I can," says Lilian, "and as I insist on your doing so also, I +shall ask you questions that require an answer. First, then, did you +ever receive a note from me on my leaving the Park, asking you to take +care of my birds?" + +"Yes." + +"And you fed them?" + +"Regularly," says Archibald, telling a fearful lie deliberately, as from +the day he read that note to this he has never once remembered the +feathered friends she mentions, and even now as he speaks has only the +very haziest idea of what she means. + +"I am glad of that," regarding him searchingly. "It would make me +unhappy to think they had been neglected." + +"Don't be unhappy, then," returning her gaze calmly and unflinchingly: +"they are all right: I took care of that." His manner is truthful in the +extreme, his eyes meet hers reassuringly. It is many years since Mr. +Chesney first learned the advantage to be derived from an impassive +countenance. And now with Lilian's keen blue eyes looking him through +and through, he feels doubly thankful that practice has made him so +perfect in the art of suppressing his real thoughts. He has also learned +the wisdom of the old maxim,-- + + + "When you tell a lie, tell a good one, + When you tell a good one, stick to it," + + +and sticks to his accordingly. + +"I am so pleased!" says Lilian, after a slight pause, during which she +tells herself young men are not so wretchedly thoughtless after all, and +that Archibald is quite an example to his sex in the matter of good +nature. "One of my chiefest regrets on leaving home was thinking how my +birds would miss me." + +"I am sorry you ever left it." + +"So am I, of course. I was very near declining to do so at the last +moment. It took Aunt Priscilla a full week to convince me of the error +of my ways, and prove to me that I could not live alone with a gay and +(as she hinted) wicked bachelor." + +"I have never been so unfortunate as to meet her," says Archibald, +mildly, "but I would bet any money your Aunt Priscilla is a highly +objectionable and interfering old maid." + +"No, she is not: she is a very good woman, and quite an old dear in some +ways." + +"She is an old maid?" raising himself on his elbow with some show of +interest. + +"Well, yes, she is; but I like old maids," says Lilian, stoutly. + +"Oh, she _likes_ old maids," says Mr. Chesney, _sotto voce_, sinking +back once more into his lounging position. He evidently considers there +is nothing more to be said on that head. "And so she wouldn't let you +stay?" + +"No. You should have seen her face when I suggested writing to you to +ask if I might have a suite of rooms for my own use, promising +faithfully never to interfere with you in any way. It was a picture!" + +"It pained you very much to leave the Park?" + +"It was death to me. Remember, it had been my home all my life; every +stick and stone about the place was dear to me." + +"It was downright brutal, my turning you out," says Archibald, warmly: +"I could hate myself when I think of it. But I knew nothing of it, +and--I had not seen you then." + +"If you had, would you have let me stay on?" + +"I think so," returns he, softly, gazing with dangerous tenderness at +the delicate rose-tinted face above him. Then, "Even so, I wish you had +asked me; I so seldom go near the place, you would have been thoroughly +welcome to stay on in it, had you been the ugliest person breathing." + +"So I said at the time, but Aunt Priscilla would not hear of it. I am +sure I heard enough about the proprieties at that time to last me all my +life. When all arguments failed," says Miss Chesney, breaking into a gay +laugh, as recollection crowds upon her, "I proposed one last expedient +that nearly drove auntie wild with horror. What do you think it was?" + +"Tell me." + +"I said I would ask your hand in marriage, and so put an end to all +slanderous tongues; that is, if you consented to have me. See what a +narrow escape you had," says Lilian, her merriment increasing: "it would +have been so awkward to refuse!" + +Archibald gazes at her earnestly. He has been through the hands of a +good many women in his time, but now confesses himself fairly puzzled. +Is her laughter genuine? is it coquetry? or simply amusement? + +"Had you ever a proposal, Lilian?" asks he, quietly, his eyes still +riveted upon her face. + +"No," surprised: "what an odd question! I suppose it is humiliating to +think that up to this no man has thought me worth loving. I often +imagine it all," says Lilian, confidentially, taking her knees into her +embrace, and letting her eyes wander dreamily over to the hills far away +behind the swaying trees. "And I dare say some day my curiosity will be +gratified. But I do hope he won't write: I should like to _see_ him do +it. I wouldn't," says Miss Chesney, solemnly, "give a pin for a man who +wouldn't go down on his knees to his lady-love." + +This last remark under the circumstances is eminently unwise. A moment +later Lilian is made aware of it by the fact of Archibald's rising and +going down deliberately on his knees before her. + +"It can scarcely be news to you to tell you I love you," says he, +eagerly. "Lilian, will you marry me?" + +"What are you saying?" says Miss Chesney, half frightened, half amused: +"you must be going mad! Do get up, Archie: you cannot think how +ridiculous you look." + +"Tell me you will marry me," entreats that young man, unmoved even by +the fact of his appearing grotesque in the eyes of his beloved. + +"No; I will not," shaking her head. "Archie, do move: there is the most +dreadful spider creeping up your leg." + +"I don't care; let him creep," says Archibald, valiantly; "I shan't +stir until you give me a kind answer." + +"I don't know what to say; and besides I can do nothing but laugh while +you maintain your present position. Get up instantly, you foolish boy: +you are ruining the knees of your best trousers." + +Whether this thought carries weight with Mr. Chesney I know not, but +certainly he rises to his feet without further demur. + +"You spoke about the Park a few minutes ago," he says, slowly; "you know +now you can have it back again if you will." + +"But not in that way. Did you think I was hinting?" growing rather red. +"No; please don't say another word. I wonder you can be so silly." + +"Silly!" somewhat aggrieved; "I don't know what you mean by that. Surely +a fellow may ask a woman to marry him without being termed 'silly.' I +ask you again now. Lilian, will you marry me?" + +"No, no, no, certainly not. I have no intention of marrying any one for +years to come,--if ever. I think," with a charming pout, "it is very +unkind of you to say such things to me,--and just when we were such good +friends too; spoiling everything. I shall never be comfortable in your +society again; I'm sure I never should have suspected you of such a +thing. If I had----" A pause. + +"You would not have come here with me to-day, you mean?" gloomily. + +"Indeed I should not. Nothing would have induced me. You have put me out +terribly." + +"I suppose you like Chetwoode," says Archibald, still more gloomily. +Having never been denied anything since his birth, he cannot bring +himself to accept this crowning misfortune with becoming grace. + +"I like everybody,--except Florence," returns Lilian, composedly. + +Then there is another pause, rather longer than the first, and +then--after a violent struggle with her better feelings--Miss Chesney +gives way, and laughs long and heartily. + +"My dear Archibald, don't look so woe-begone," she says. "If you could +only see yourself! You look as though every relation you ever had was +dead. Why, you ought to be very much obliged to me. Have you never +heard Mr. Punch's advice to young men about to marry?" + +"I don't want any one's advice; it is late for that, I fancy. +Lilian--darling--_darling_--won't you----" + +"I won't, indeed," recoiling and waving him back, while feeling for the +first time slightly embarrassed; "don't come a step nearer; nobody ever +made love to me before, and I perfectly _hate_ it! I hope sincerely no +one will ever propose to me again." + +"_I_ shall!" doggedly; "I shan't give you up yet. You have not thought +about it. When you know me better you may change your mind." + +"Do not deceive yourself," gently, "and do not be offended. It is not +you I have an objection to, it is marriage generally. I have only begun +my life, and a husband must be such a bore. Any number of people have +told me so." + +"Old maids, such as your Aunt Priscilla, I dare say," says Archibald, +scornfully. "Don't believe them. I wouldn't bore you: you should have +everything exactly your own way." + +"I have that now." + +"And I will wait for you as long as you please." + +"So you may," gayly; "but mind, I don't desire you. + +"May I take that as a grain of hope?" demands he, eagerly grasping this +poor shadow of a crumb with avidity, only to find later on it is no +crumb at all. "Don't be cruel, Lilian: every one thinks differently +after a while; you may also. You have said I am not hateful to you; if +then you would only promise to think it over----" + +"Impossible," airily: "I never think: it is too fatiguing. So are you, +by the bye, just now. I shan't stay with you any longer, lest I should +be infected. Good-bye, Archie; when you are in a pleasanter mood you can +return to me, but until then adieu." + +So saying, she catches her train in one hand and runs away from him fast +as her fleet little feet can carry her. + +Down the pathway, round under the limes, into another path runs she, +where suddenly she finds herself in Taffy's presence. + +"Whither away, fair maid?" asks that youth, removing the cigar from his +lips that he is enjoying all alone. + +"I am running away from Archie. He was so excessively dull and +disagreeable that I could not bring myself to waste another moment on +him, so I ran away and left him just _planté là_," says Miss Chesney, +with a little foreign gesture and a delicious laugh that rings far +through the clear air, and reaches Archibald's ears as he draws nearer. + +"Come, I hear footsteps," whispers she, slipping her hand into Taffy's. +"Help me to hide from him." + +So together they scamper still farther away, until at last they arrive +breathless but secure in the shrubberies that surround one side of the +house. + +When they have quite recovered themselves, it occurs to Taffy that he +would like to know all about it. + +"What was he saying to you?" asks he _à propos_ of Chesney. + +"Nothing," promptly. + +Taffy, curiously: "Well, certainly that _was_ very disagreeable." + +Lilian, demurely: "It was." + +At this Taffy lays his hands upon her shoulders and gives her a good +shake. + +"Tell me directly," says he, "what he was saying to you." + +"How can I?" innocently; "he says so much and none of it worth +repeating." + +"Was he making love to you?" + +"No. Oh, no," mildly. + +"I'm certain he was," with conviction. "And look here, Lil, don't you +have anything to do with him: he isn't up to the mark by any means. He +is too dark, and there is something queer about his eyes. I once saw a +man who had cut the throats of his mother, his grandmother, and all his +nearest relations,--any amount of them,--and his eyes were just like +Chesney's. Don't marry him, whatever you do." + +"I won't," laughing: "I should hate to have my throat cut." + +"There's Chetwoode, now," says Taffy, who begins to think himself a very +deep and delicate diplomatist. "He is a very decent fellow all round if +you like." + +"I do like, certainly. It is quite a comfort to know Sir Guy is not +indecent." + +"Oh, you know what I mean well enough. There's nothing underhand about +Chetwoode. By the bye, what have you been doing to him? He is awfully +down on his luck all day." + +"I!" coldly. "What should I do to Sir Guy?" + +"I don't know, I'm sure, but girls have a horrid way of teasing a fellow +while pretending to be perfectly civil to him all the time. It is my +private opinion," says Mr. Musgrave, mysteriously,--"and I flatter +myself I am seldom wrong,--that he is dead spoons on you." + +"Really, Taffy!" begins Lilian, angrily. + +"Yes, he is: you take my word for it. I'm rather a judge in such +matters. Bet you a fiver," says Mr. Musgrave, "he proposes to you before +the year is out." + +"I wonder, Taffy, how you can be so vulgar!" says Lilian, with crimson +cheeks, and a fine show of superior breeding. "I never bet. I forbid you +to speak to me on this subject again. Sir Guy, I assure you, has as much +intention of proposing to me as I have of accepting him should he do +so." + +"More fool you," says Taffy, unabashed. "I'm sure he is much nicer than +that melancholy Chesney. If I were a girl I should marry him straight +off." + +"Perhaps he would not marry you," replies Lilian, cuttingly. + +"Wouldn't he? he would like a shot, if I were like Lilian Chesney," says +Taffy, positively. + +"'Like a shot'--what does that mean?" says Miss Chesney, with withering +sarcasm. "It is a pity you cannot forget your schoolboy slang, and try +to be a gentleman. I don't think you over hear that 'decent fellow' Sir +Guy, or even that cut-throat Archibald, use it." + +With this parting shaft she marches off overflowing with indignation, +leaving Mr. Musgrave lost in wonder at her sudden change of manner. + +"What on earth is up with her now?" he asks himself, desperately; but +the dressing-bell ringing at this moment disarms thought, and sends him +in-doors to prepare for dinner. + +Mrs. Boileau has asked no one to meet them except a lank and dreary +curate, who is evidently a prime favorite with her. He is an Honorable +Mr. Boer, with nothing attractive about him except a most alarming voice +that makes one glance instinctively at his boots under the mistaken +impression that the sound must come from them. This is rather +unfortunate for the curate, as his feet are not (or rather _are_) his +strong point, Nature having endowed them with such a tremendous amount +of heel, and so much sole, innocent of instep, as makes them +unpleasantly suggestive of sledge-hammers. + +He is painfully talkative, and oppressively evangelical, which renders +him specially abhorrent to Lilian, who has rather a fancy for flowers +and candles and nice little boys in white shirts. He is also undecided +whether it is Miss Beauchamp or Miss Chesney he most admires. They have +equal fortunes, and are therefore (in his clerical eyes) equally lovely. +There is certainly more of Miss Beauchamp, but then there is a vivacity, +a--ahem--"go," if one might say so, about Miss Chesney perfectly +irresistible. Had one of these rival beauties been an heiress, and the +other rich in love's charms, I think I know which one Mr. Boer would +have bowed before,--not that I even hint at mercenary motives in his +reverence, but as it is he is much exercised in his mind as to which he +shall honor with his attentions. + +I think Lilian wins the day, because after dinner he bears down upon her +determinately, and makes for the fauteuil in which she lies ensconced +looking bored and _ennuyée_ to the last degree. Dinner has been insipid, +the whole evening a mistake; neither Guy nor Archibald will come near +her, or even look at her; and now Mr. Boer's meditated attack is the +last straw that breaks the camel's back. + +"I consider the school-board very much to blame," begins that divine +while yet some yards distant, speaking in his usual blatant tones, that +never change their key-note, however long they may continue to insult +the air. + +"So do I," says Lilian, very gently and sweetly, but with such +unmistakable haste as suggests a determination on her part to bring the +undiscussed subject to an ignominious close. "I quite agree with you; I +think them terribly to blame. But I beg your pardon for one moment: I +want to ask Mr. Chetwoode a question that has been haunting me for +hours." + +Rising, she glides away from him over the carpet, leaving Mr. Boer--who +takes a long time to understand anything, and could not possibly believe +in a rebuff offered to himself in person--watching the tail of her long +sweeping gown, and wondering curiously if all the little white frillings +beneath it may not have something to do with a falling petticoat. At +this point he pulls himself together with a start, and fears secretly he +is growing immodest. + +In the meantime Lilian has reached Cyril, who is sitting at a table +somewhat apart, gazing moodily at a book containing prints of the chief +villages in Wales. He, like herself, is evidently in the last stage of +dejection. + +Bending over him, she whispers in an awful tone, but with a beaming +smile meant to mystify the observant Boer: + +"If you don't instantly deliver me from that man I shall make a point of +going off into such a death-like swoon as will necessitate my being +borne from the room. He is now going to tell me about that miserable +school-board all over again, and I can't and won't stand it." + +"Poor child," says Cyril, with deepest sympathy; "I will protect you. If +he comes a step nearer, I swear to you I will have his blood." Uttering +this comforting assurance in the mildest tone, he draws a chair to the +table, and together they explore Wales in print. + +Then there is a little music, and a good deal of carefully suppressed +yawning, and then the carriages are announced and they all bid their +hostess good-night, and tell a few pretty lies about the charming +evening they have spent, etc. + +"Cyril, will you drive me home?" Lilian says to him hurriedly in the +hall, while they are being finally cloaked and shawled. As she says it +she takes care to avoid his eyes, so she does not see the look of amused +scrutiny that lies in them. + +"So soon!" he says, tragically. "It was an easy victory! I shall be only +too charmed, my dear Lilian, to drive you to the other end of the world +if need be." + +So they start and drive home together placidly, through the cool, soft +night. Lilian is strangely silent, so is Cyril,--the calm beauty of the +heavens above them rendering their lips mute. + + + "Now glowed the firmament + With living sapphires; Hesperus, that led + The starry host, rode brightest; till the moon, + Rising in clouded majesty, at length-- + Apparent queen!--unveiled her peerless light, + And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw." + + +The night is very calm, and rich in stars; brilliant almost as garish +day, but bright with that tender, unchanging, ethereal light--clear, +yet full of peaceful shadow--that day can never know. + + + "There is no dew on the dry grass to-night, + Nor damp within the shadow of the trees; + The wind is intermitting, dry and light." + + +Lilian sighs gently as they move rapidly through the still air,--a sigh +not altogether born of the night's sweetness, but rather tinged with +melancholy. The day has been a failure, and though through all its +windings she has been possessed by the spirit of gayety, now in the +subdued silence of the night the reaction setting in reduces her to the +very verge of tears. + +Cyril, too, is very quiet, but _his_ thoughts are filled with joy. +Lifting his gaze to the eternal vault above him, he seems to see in the +gentle stars the eyes of his beloved smiling back at him. A dreamy +happiness, an exquisite feeling of thankfulness, absorb him, making him +selfishly blind to the sadness of his little companion. + +"How silent you are!" Lilian says, at length, unable to endure her +tormenting reverie any longer. + +"Am I?" smiling. "I was thinking of some lines I read yesterday: the +night is so lovely it recalls them. Of course they are as well known to +you as to me; but hear them: + + + "How beautiful is the night! + A dewy freshness fills the silent air; + No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor streak, nor stain, + Breaks the serene of heaven: + In full-orb'd glory yonder moon divine + Rolls through the dark-blue depths." + + +"Yes, they are pretty lines: they are Southey's, I think," says Lilian, +and then she sighs again, and hardly another word is spoken between them +until they reach home. + +As they pull up at the hall-door, Guy, who has arrived a little before +them, comes forward, and, placing one foot upon the step of Cyril's +T-cart, takes Lilian in his arms and lifts her to the ground. She is so +astonished at the suddenness of this demonstration on his part that she +forgets to make any protest, only--she turns slowly and meaningly away +from him, with lowered eyes and with averted head. + +With a beseeching gesture he detains her, and gains for a moment her +attention. He is looking pale, miserable; there is an expression of deep +entreaty in his usually steady blue eyes. + +"Lilian, forgive me," he whispers, anxiously, trying to read her face by +the moonlight: "I have been sufficiently punished. If you could guess +all I have endured to-day through your coldness, your scorn, you would +say so too. Forgive me." + +"Impossible," returns she, haughtily, in clear tones, and, motioning him +contemptuously to one side, follows Cyril into the house. + +Inside they find Lady Chetwoode not only up and waiting for them, but +wide awake. This latter is a compliment so thoroughly unexpected as to +rouse within them feelings of the warmest gratitude. + +"What, Madre! you still here?" says Cyril. "Why, we imagined you not +only out of your first but far into your second beauty sleep by this +time." + +"I missed you all so much I decided upon waiting up for you," Lady +Chetwoode answers, smiling benignly upon them all; "besides, early in +the evening--just after you left--I had a telegram from dear Mabel, +saying she and Tom will surely be here to dinner to-morrow night. And +the idea so pleased me I thought I would stay here to impart my news and +hear yours." + +Every one in the room who knows Mrs. Steyne here declares his delight at +the prospect of so soon seeing her again. + +"She must have made up her mind at the very last moment," says Guy. +"Last week she was undecided whether she should come at all. She hates +leaving London." + +"She must be at Steynemore now," remarks Cyril. + +"Lilian, my dear child, how pale you are!" Lady Chetwoode says, +anxiously taking Lilian's hand and rubbing her cheeks gently with loving +fingers. "Cold, too! The drive has been too much for you, and you are +always so careless about wraps. I ordered supper in the library an hour +ago. Come and have a glass of wine before going to bed." + +"No, thank you, auntie: I don't care for anything." + +"Thank you, Aunt Anne, I think I will take something," interposes +Florence, amiably; "the drive was long. A glass of sherry and one little +biscuit will, I feel sure, do me good." + +Miss Beauchamp's "one little biscuit," as is well known, generally ends +in a substantial supper. + +"Come to the library, then," says Lady Chetwoode, and still holding +Lilian's hand, draws it within her arm, and in her own stately Old-World +fashion leads her there. + +When they have dismissed the butler, and declared their ability to help +one another, Lady Chetwoode says pleasantly: + +"Now tell me everything. Had you an agreeable evening?" + +"Too agreeable!" answers Cyril, with suspicious readiness: "I fear it +will make all other entertainments sink into insignificance. I consider +a night at Mrs. Boileau's the very wildest dissipation. We all sat round +the room on uneasy chairs and admired each other: it would perhaps have +been (if _possible_) a more successful amusement had we not been doing +the same thing for the past two months,--some of us for years! But it +was tremendously exciting all the same." + +"Was there no one to meet you?" + +"My dear mother, how could you suspect Mrs. Boileau of such a thing!" + +"Yes,--there was a Mr. Boer," says Florence, looking up blandly from her +chicken, "a man of very good family,--a clergyman----" + +"No, a curate," interrupts Cyril, mildly. + +"He made himself very agreeable," goes on Florence, in her soft +monotone, that nothing disturbs. "He was so conversational, and so well +read. You liked him, Lilian?" + +"Who? Mr. Boer? No; I thought him insufferable,--so dull,--so prosy," +says Lilian, wearily. She has hardly heard Miss Beauchamp's foregoing +remarks. + +"His manner, certainly, is neither frivolous nor extravagant," Florence +returns, somewhat sharply, "but he appeared sensible and earnest, rare +qualities nowadays." + +"Did I hear you say he wasn't extravagant?" breaks in Cyril, lazily, +purposely misconstruing her application of the word. "My dear Florence, +consider! Could anything show such reckless extravagance as the length +of his coat-tails? I never saw so much superfluous cloth in any man's +garment before. It may be saintly, but it was cruel waste!" + +"How did you amuse yourselves?" asks Lady Chetwoode, hastily, +forestalling a threatening argument. + +"As best we might. Lilian and I amused each other, and I think we had +the best of it. If our visit to the Grange did no other good, it at +least awoke in me a thorough sense of loyalty: I cannot tell you," with +a glance at Lilian, "how often I blessed the 'Prints of Wales' this +night." + +"Oh, Cyril, what a miserable joke!" says Lilian, smiling, but there is +little warmth in her smile, and little real merriment in her usually gay +tones. All this, Cyril--who is sincerely fond of her--notes with regret +and concern. + +"Guy, give Lilian a glass of Moselle," says his mother at this moment; +"it is what she prefers, and it will put a little color into her cheeks: +she looks fatigued." As she says this she moves across the room to speak +to Florence, leaving Lilian standing alone upon the hearth-rug. Guy, as +desired, brings the wine and hands it to Lilian. + +"No, thank you," turning from him coldly. "I do not wish for it." + +"Nevertheless, take it," Guy entreats, in a low voice: "you are terribly +white, and," touching her hand gently, "as cold as death. Is it because +_I_ bring it you will not have it? Will you take it from Taffy?" + +A choking sensation rises in Miss Chesney's throat; the unbidden tears +spring to her eyes; it is by a passionate effort alone she restrains +them from running down her cheeks. As I have said before, the day had +been a distinct failure. She will not speak to Guy, Archibald will not +speak to her. A sense of isolation is oppressing and weighing her down. +She, the pet, the darling, is left lonely, while all the others round +her laugh and jest and accept the good the gods provide. Like a spoilt +child, she longs to rush to her nurse and have a good cry within the +shelter of that fond woman's arms. + +Afraid to speak, lest her voice betray her, afraid to raise her eyes, +lest the tell-tale tears within them be seen, she silently--though +against her will--takes the glass Sir Guy offers, and puts it to her +lips, whereupon he is conscious of a feeling of thankfulness,--the bare +fact of her accepting anything at his hands seeming to breathe upon him +forgiveness. + +Lilian, having finished her Moselle, returns him the glass silently. +Having carried it to the table, he once more glances instinctively to +where he has left her standing. She has disappeared. Without a word to +any one, she has slipped from the library and sought refuge in her own +room. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + + "This much, however, I may add; her years + Were ripe, they might make six-and-twenty springs; + But there are forms which Time to touch forbears, + And turns aside his scythe to vulgar things."--_Don Juan._ + + +Next day creates but little change in Lilian's demeanor. So far as Guy +is concerned, her manner is still frozen and unrelenting. She shows no +sign of a desire to pardon, and Chetwoode noting this grows hardened, +and out-Herods Herod in his imitation of her coldness. + +Archibald, on the contrary, gives in almost directly. Finding it +impossible to maintain his injured bearing beyond luncheon, he succumbs, +and, throwing himself upon her mercy, is graciously received and once +more basks in the full smiles of beauty. At heart Lilian is glad to +welcome him back, and is genial and sweet to him as though no ugly +_contretemps_ had occurred between them yesterday. + +Mabel Steyne being expected in the evening, Lady Chetwoode is especially +happy, and takes no heed of minor matters, or else her eldest son's +distraction would surely have claimed her attention. But Mabel's coming +is an event, and a happy one, and at half-past seven, pleased and +complacent, Lady Chetwoode is seated in her drawing-room, awaiting her +arrival. Lilian and Florence are with her, and one or two of the others, +Guy among them. Indeed, Mrs. Steyne's coming is a gratification the more +charming that it is a rarity, as she seldom visits the country, being +strongly addicted to city pursuits and holding country life and ruralism +generally in abhorrence. + +Just before dinner she arrives; there is a little flutter in the hall, a +few words, a few steps, and then the door is thrown open, and a young +woman, tall, with dark eyes and hair, a nose slightly celestial, and a +very handsome figure, enters. She walks swiftly up the room with the +grand and upright carriage that belongs to her, and is followed by a +tall, fair man, indolent though good to look at, with a straw-colored +moustache, and as much whisker as one might swear by. + +"Dear auntie, I have come!" says Mrs. Steyne, joyfully, which is a fact +so obvious as to make the telling of it superfluous. + +"Mabel, my dear, how glad I am to see you!" exclaims Lady Chetwoode, +rising and holding out her arms to her. A pretty pink flush comes to +life in the old woman's cheeks making her appear ten years younger, and +adding a thousand charms to her sweet old face. + +They kiss each other warmly, the younger woman with tender +_empressement_. + +"It is kind of you to say so," she says, fondly. "And you, auntie--why, +bless me, how young you look! it is disgraceful. Presently I shall be +the auntie, and you the young and lovely Lady Chetwoode. Darling auntie, +I am delighted to be with you again!" + +"How do you do, Tom?" Lady Chetwoode says, putting her a little to one +side to welcome her husband, but still holding her hand. "I do hope you +two have come to stay a long time in the country." + +"Yes, until after Christmas, so you will have time to grow heartily sick +of us," says Mrs. Steyne. "Ah, Florence." + +She and Florence press cheeks sympathetically, as though no evil +passages belonging to the past have ever occurred between them. And then +Lady Chetwoode introduces Lilian. + +"This is Lilian," she says, drawing her forward. "I have often written +to you about her." + +"My supplanter," remarks Mabel Steyne, turning with a smile that lights +up all her handsome brunette face. As she looks at Lilian, fair and soft +and pretty, the rather _insouciant_ expression that has grown upon her +own during her encounter with Florence fades, and once more she becomes +her own gay self. "I hope you will prove a better companion to auntie +than I was," she says, with a merry laugh, taking and pressing Lilian's +hand. Lilian instinctively returns the pressure and the laugh. There is +something wonderfully fetching in Mrs. Steyne's dark, brilliant eyes. + +"She is the best of children!" Lady Chetwoode says, patting Lilian's +shoulder; "though indeed, my dear Mabel, I saw no fault in you." + +"Of course not. Have you noticed, Miss Chesney, Lady Chetwoode's +greatest failing? It is that she will not see a fault in any one." + +"She never mentioned your faults, at all events," Lilian answers, +smiling. + +"I hope your baby is quite well?" Florence asks, calmly, who is far too +well bred ever to forget her manners. + +"The darling child,--yes,--I hope she is well," Lady Chetwoode says, +hastily, feeling as though she has been guilty of unkindness in not +asking for the baby before. Miss Beauchamp possesses to perfection that +most unhappy knack of placing people in the wrong position. + +"Quite, thank you," answering Lady Chetwoode instead of Florence, while +a little fond glance that is usually reserved for the nursery creeps +into her expressive eyes. "If you admired her before, you will quite +love her now. She has grown so big and fat, and has such dear little +sunny curls all over her head!" + +"I like fair babies," says Lilian. + +"Because you are a fair baby yourself," says Cyril. + +"She can say Mammy and Pappy quite distinctly, and I have taught her to +say Auntie very sweetly," goes on Mrs. Steyne, wrapt in recollection of +her offspring's genius. "She can say 'cake' too, and--and that is all, I +think." + +"You forget, Mabel, don't you?" asks her husband, languidly. "You +underrate the child's abilities. The other day when she was in a frenzy +because I would not allow her to pull out my moustache in handfuls she +said----" + +"She was never in a frenzy, Tom," indignantly: "I wonder how you can say +so of the dear angel." + +"Was she not? if _you_ say so, of course I was mistaken, but at the time +I firmly believed it was temper. At all events, Lady Chetwoode, on that +momentous occasion she said, 'Nanna warragood,' without a mistake. She +is a wonderful child!" + +"Don't pay any attention to him, auntie," with a contemptuous shrug. "He +is himself quite idiotic about baby, so much so that he is ashamed of +his infatuation. I shall bring her here some day to let you see her." + +"You must name the day. Would next Monday suit you?" + +"You needn't press the point," Tom Steyne says, warningly: "but for me, +the child and its nurse would be in the room at this moment. Mab and I +had a stand-up fight about it in the hall just before starting, and it +was only after a good deal of calm though firm expostulation I carried +the day. I represented to her that as a rule babies are not invited out +to dine at eight o'clock at night, and that children of her age are +generally more attractive to their mothers than to any one else." + +"Barbarian!" says Lady Chetwoode. + +"How have you been getting on in London, Mab," asks Cyril. "Made any new +conquests?" + +"Several," replies Tom; "though I think on the whole she is going off. +She did not make up her usual number this season. She has, however, on +her list two nice boys in the F. O., and an infant in the Guards. She is +rather unhappy about them, as she cannot make up her mind which it is +she likes best." + +"Wrong, Tom. Yesterday I made it up. I like the 'infant' best. But what +really saddens me is that I am by no means sure he likes _me_ best. He +is terribly fond of Tom, and I sometimes fear thinks him the better +fellow of the two." + +At this moment the door opens and Taffy comes in. + +"Why! Here is my 'infant,'" exclaims Mabel, surprised. "Dear Mr. +Musgrave, I had no idea I should meet you here." + +"My dear Mrs. Steyne! I had no idea such luck was in store for me. I am +so glad to see you again! Lilian, why didn't you break it to me? Joyful +surprises are sometimes dangerous." + +"I thought you knew. We have been discussing 'Mabel's' coming," with a +shy smile, "all the past month." + +"But how could I possibly guess that the 'Mabel' who was occupying +everybody's thoughts could be my Mrs. Steyne?" + +"Ours!" murmurs Tom, faintly. + +"Yes, mine," says Taffy, who is not troubled with over-much shyness. + +"Mr. Musgrave is your cousin?" Mabel asks, turning to Lilian. + +"No, I am her son," says Taffy: "you wouldn't think it--would you? She +is a good deal older than she looks, but she gets herself up +wonderfully. She is not a bad mother," reflectively, "when one comes to +think of it." + +"I dare say if you spoke the truth you would confess her your guardian +angel," says Mabel, letting a kindly glance fall on pretty Lilian. "She +takes care of you, no doubt." + +"And such care," answers Lilian; "but for me I do believe Taffy would +have gone to the bad long ago." + +"'Taffy'! what a curious name. So quaint,--and pretty too, I think. May +I," with a quick irrepressible glance, that is half fun, half natural +coquetry, "call you Taffy?" + +"You may call me anything you like," returns that young gentleman, with +the utmost _bonhommie_ + + + "Call me Daphne, call me Chloris, + Call me Lalage, or Doris, + Only--_only_--call me thine!" + + +"It is really mortifying that I can't," says Mrs. Steyne, while she and +the others all laugh. + +"Sir," says Tom Steyne, "I would have you remember the lady you are +addressing is my wife." + +Says Taffy, reproachfully: + +"Do you think I don't remember it,--to my sorrow?" + +They have got down to dinner and as far as the fish by this time, so are +all feeling friendly and good-natured. + +"Tell you what you'll do, Mab," says Guy. "You shall come over here next +week to stay with us, and bring baby and nurse with you,--and Tom, +whether he likes it or not. We can give him as much good shooting as +will cure him of his laziness." + +"Yes, Mabel, indeed you must," breaks in Lady Chetwoode's gentle voice. +"I want to see that dear child very badly, and how can I notice all her +pretty ways unless she stays in the house with me?" + +"Say yes, Mrs. Steyne," entreats Taffy: "I shall die of grief if you +refuse." + +"Oh, that! Yes, auntie, I shall come, thank you, if only to preserve +Mr.--Taffy's life. But indeed I shall be delighted to get back to the +dear old home for a while; it is so dull at Steynemore all by +ourselves." + +"Thank you, darling," says Tom, meekly. + +After dinner Mrs. Steyne, who has taken a fancy to Lilian, seats herself +beside her in the drawing-room and chatters to her unceasingly of all +things known and unknown. Guy, coming in later with the other men, sinks +into a chair near Mabel, and with Miss Beauchamp's Fanchette upon his +knee employs himself in stroking it and answering Mabel's numerous +questions. He hardly looks at Lilian, and certainly never addresses her, +in which he shows his wisdom. + +"No, I can't bear the country," Mrs. Steyne is saying. "It depresses +me." + +"In the spring surely it is preferable to town," says Lilian. + +"Is it? I suppose so, because I have so often heard it; but my taste is +vitiated. I am not myself out of London. Of course Tom and I go +somewhere every year, but it is to please fashion we go, not because we +like it. You will say I exaggerate when I tell you that I find music in +the very roll of the restless cabs." + +Lilian tells her that she will be badly off for music of that kind at +Steynemore; but perhaps the birds will make up for the loss. + +"No, you will probably think me a poor creature when I confess to you I +prefer Albani to the sweetest nightingale that ever trilled; that I +simply detest the discordant noise made by the melancholy lamb; that I +think the cuckoo tuneless and unmusical, and that I find no transcendent +pleasure in the cooing of the fondest dove that ever mourned over its +mate. These beauties of nature are thrown away upon me. Woodland groves +and leafy dells are to me suggestive of suicide, and make me sigh for +the 'sweet shady side of Pall Mall.' The country, in fact, is lonely, +and my own society makes me shudder. I like noise and excitement, and +the babel of tongues." + +"You forget the flowers," says Lilian, triumphantly. + +"No, my dear; experience has taught me I can purchase them cheaper and +far finer than I can grow them for myself. I am a skeptic, I know," +smiling. "I will not try to convert you to my opinion." + +"Certainly I can see advantages to be gained from a town life," says +Lilian, thoughtfully, leaning her elbow on a small table near her, and +letting her chin sink into her little pink palm. "One has a larger +circle of acquaintances. Here everything is narrowed. One lives in the +house with a certain number of persons, and, whether one likes them or +the reverse, one must put up with them. There is no escape. Yes,"--with +an audible and thoroughly meant sigh,--"that is very sad." + +This little ungracious speech, though uttered in the most innocent +tone, goes home (as is intended) to Guy's heart. He conceals, however, +all chagrin, and pulls the ears of the sleepy snowball he is caressing +with an air of the calmest unconcern. + +"You mention a fact," says Mrs. Steyne, the faintest inflection of +surprise in her manner. "But you, at least, can know nothing of such +misery. Chetwoode is famous for its agreeable people, and you,--you +appear first favorite here. For the last hour I have been listening, and +I have heard only 'Lilian, look at this,' or, 'Lilian, listen to that,' +or 'Lilian, child, what was it you told me yesterday?' You seem a great +pet with every one here." + +Lilian laughs. + +"Not with every one," she says. + +"No?"--raising her straight dark brows. "Is there then an enemy in the +camp? Not Cyril, surely?" + +"Oh, no, not Cyril." + +Their voices involuntarily have sunk a little, and, though any one near +can still hear distinctly, they have all the appearance of people +carrying on a private conversation. + +"Guy?" + +Lilian is silent. Guy's face, as he still strokes the dog dreamily, has +grown haughty in the extreme. He, like Mabel, awaits her answer. + +"What?" says Mrs. Steyne, in an amused tone, evidently treating the +whole matter as a mere jest. "So you are not a pet with Guy! How +horrible! I cannot believe it. Surely Guy is not so ungallant as to have +conceived a dislike for you? Guy, do you hear this awful charge she is +bringing against you? Won't you refute it? Dear boy, how stern you +look!" + +"Do I? I was thinking of something disagreeable." + +"Of me?" puts in Lilian, _sotto voce_, with a faint laugh tinged with +bitterness. "Why should you think what I say so extraordinary? Did you +ever know a guardian like his ward, or a ward like her guardian? I +didn't--especially the latter. They always find each other _such_ a +mistake!" + +Sir Guy, raising his head, looks full at Lilian for a moment; his +expression is almost impossible to translate; then, getting up, he +crosses the room deliberately and seats himself beside Florence, who +welcomes him with one of her conventional smiles that now has something +like warmth in it. + +"I think you are a very cruel little girl," says Mrs. Steyne, gently, +not looking at Lilian, and then turns the conversation in another +channel. + +"You will stay in the country until after Christmas?" says Lilian, +somewhat hastily. + +"Yes; something has gone wrong with our steward's accounts, and Tom is +dissatisfied with him. So he has been dismissed, and we shall stay on +here until we please ourselves with another." + +"I am glad you live so near. Three miles is only a walk, after all." + +"In good weather a mere nothing, though for my own part I am not +addicted to exercise of any sort: I believe, however, Steynemore's +proximity to Chetwoode was one of my chief reasons for marrying Tom." + +"I am glad of any reason that made you do so. If you won't mind my +saying it, I will tell you I like you very much,"--with a slight blush. + +"I am very charmed to hear it," says Mrs. Steyne, heartily, whose liking +for Lilian has grown steadily: "I should be very much disappointed if +you didn't. I foresee we shall be great friends, and that you and auntie +will make me fall quite in love with Tom's native soil. +But"--naively--"you must not be unkind to poor Guy." + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + + "_Orl._--Is't possible that on so little acquaintance + You should like her? that, but seeing, + You should love her?"--_As You Like It._ + + +Four weeks have flown by swiftly, with ungracious haste,--as do all our +happiest moments,--leaving their mark behind them. In their train Taffy +has passed away from Chetwoode, and all in the house have mourned his +departure openly and sincerely. Miss Chesney for two whole days was +inconsolable, and cried her pretty eyes very nearly out; after which she +recovered, and allowed herself to find consolation in the thought that +he has promised to return to them for a fortnight at Christmas-tide. + + + "Summer was dead, and Autumn was expiring, + And infant Winter laughed upon the land + All cloudlessly and cold." + + +The men spend half their days wondering if it will be a good +hunting-season, the women are wrapt in delicious dreams of fur and +velvet. + +At The Cottage all the roses have fluttered into their graves, but in +their place a sweet flower has bloomed. Cecilia's eyes have grown +brighter, gladder, her step firmer, her cheek richer in the tint that +rivals the peach. In her calm home she has but one thought, one hope, +and that is Cyril. She has forbidden him to mention their engagement to +Lady Chetwoode, so as yet the sweet secret is all their own. + +Florence has gained a _bona fide_ admirer, Mr. Boer--after much +deliberation--having, for private reasons, decided in favor of Miss +Beauchamp and her fifteen thousand pounds. But not for Mr. Boer, however +well connected, or however fondly cherished by a rich and aged uncle, +can Miss Beauchamp bring herself to resign all hope of Guy and +Chetwoode. + +At Steynemore, Mabel and her baby are laughing the happy hours away; +though, to speak more accurately, it is at Chetwoode most of them are +spent. At least every second week they drive over there, to find their +rooms ready, and stay on well content to talk and crow at "auntie," +until the handsome head of that dearest of old ladies is fairly turned. + +Lilian has of course gone over heart and mind to Miss Steyne, who +rewards her affection by practicing upon her the most ingenious +tortures. With a craftiness terrible in one so young, she bides her +opportunity and then pulls down all her friend's golden hair; at other +times she makes frantic efforts at gouging out her eyes, tries to cut +her eye-teeth upon her slender fingers, and otherwise does all in her +power to tear her limb from limb. She also appears to find infinite +amusement in scrambling up and down Miss Chesney's unhappy knees, to the +detriment of that dainty lady's very dainty gowns, and shows symptoms of +fight when she refuses to consume all such uninviting remnants of cake +and bonbons as lie heavy on her hands. + +Altogether Lilian has a lively time of it with Mabel's heiress, who, +nevertheless, by right of her sweet witcheries and tender baby tricks, +has gained a fast hold upon her heart. + +But if Baby knows a slave in Lilian, Lilian knows a slave in some one +else. Up to this Archibald has found it impossible to tear himself away +from her loved presence; though ever since that fatal day at the Grange +he has never dared speak openly to her of his attachment. Day by day his +passion has grown stronger, although with every wind her manner toward +him seems to vary,--now kind, to-morrow cold, anon so full of +treacherous fancies and disdainful glances as to make him wonder whether +in truth it is hatred and not love for her that fills his heart to +overflowing. She is + + + "One of those pretty, precious plagues, which haunt + A lover with caprices soft and dear, + That like to make a quarrel, when they can't + Find one, each day of the delightful year; + Bewitching, torturing, as they freeze or glow, + And--what is worst of all--won't let you go." + + +Between her and Guy a silent truce has been signed. They now converse +with apparent geniality; at times they appear, to outsiders, even to +affect each other's society; but secretly they still regard each other +with distrust, and to them alone is known the frailty of the coating +that lies over their late hostility. + +It is three o'clock, and the day for a wonder is fine, all the past week +having been sullen and full of a desire to rain. Now the clouds have +disappeared, and the blue sky dotted with tiny flakes of foam-like vapor +is overhead. The air is crispy, and, though cold, full of life and +invigorating power. + +"I shall go for a walk," says Lilian, appearing suddenly in the +billiard-room, looking like a little northern fairy, so encased is she +in velvet and dark fur. Upon her yellow hair is resting the most +coquettish of fur caps, from beneath which her face smiles fairer and +fresher for its rich surroundings. The two men she addresses look up, +and let the honest admiration they feel for her beauty betray itself in +their eyes. + +Outside of the window, seated on the sill, which is some little distance +from the ground, is Archibald, smoking. Archibald, as a rule, is always +smoking. Inside is Guy, also indulging in a cigar, and disputing +volubly about some knotty point connected with guns or cartridges, or +the proper size of shot to be used for particular birds, I cannot +remember exactly what; I do remember, however, that the argument +completely falls through when Lilian makes her appearance. + +"Were there ever such lazy men?" says Miss Lilian, scornfully. "Did all +the shooting with Tom Steyne last week do you up so completely? I warned +you, if you will be pleased to recollect, that there wasn't much work in +you. Well, I am going to the wood. Who will come with me?" + +"I will," say Guy and Archibald, in a breath. And then ensues a pause. + +"_Embarras de richesses_," says Miss Chesney, with a gay laugh and a +slight elevation of her brows. "You shouldn't all speak at once. Now, +which shall I choose?" Then, impelled by the spirit of mischief that +always possesses her when in her guardian's presence, she says, "It +would be a shame to take you out, Sir Guy, would it not? You seem so +cozy here,"--glancing at the fire,--"while Archibald is evidently bent +on exercise." + +"As you please, of course," says Guy, with well-feigned indifference, +too well feigned for Miss Chesney's liking; it angers her, and awakes +within her a desire to show how little she heeds it. Her smile ripens +and rests alone on Archibald, insensibly her manner toward her cousin +takes a warmer tinge; going over to the window, she lays her hand +lightly on his shoulder, and, leaning over, looks at the ground beneath. + +"Could I get out there?" she asks, a little fearfully, though in truth +at another time she would regard with disdain the person who should tell +her she could not jump so small a distance. "It would be so much better +than going all the way round." + +"Of course you can," returns he, dropping instantly downward, and then +looking up at her; "it is no height at all." + +"It looks high from here, does it not?" still doubtful. "I should +perhaps break my neck if I tried to jump it. No," regretfully, "I must +go round, unless, indeed,"--with another soft glance meant for Guy's +discomfiture, and that alas! does terrible damage to Archibald's +heart,--"you think you could take me down." + +"I know I could," replies he, eagerly. + +"You are sure?" hesitating. "I am very heavy, mind." + +Archibald laughs and holds out his arms, and in another moment has taken +her, slender fairy that she is, and deposited her safely on the ground. + +Sir Guy, who has been an unwilling though fascinated spectator of this +scene, grows pale and turns abruptly aside as Archibald and Lilian, +laughing gayly, disappear into the shrubberies beyond. + +But once out of sight of the billiard-room windows, Miss Chesney's +gayety cruelly deserts her. She is angry with Guy for reasons she would +rather die than acknowledge even to herself, and she is indignant with +Archibald for reasons she would be puzzled to explain at all, while +hating herself for what she is pleased to term her frivolity, such as +jumping out of windows as though she were still a child, and instead of +being a full-grown young woman! What must Gu----what would any one think +of her? + +"It was awfully good of you to choose me," says Archibald, after a few +minutes, feeling foolishly elated at his success. + +"For what?" coldly. + +"For a walk." + +"Did I choose you?" asks Lilian, in a tone that should have warned so +worldly-wise a young man as Chesney. He, however, fails to be warned, +and rushes wildly on his destruction. + +"I thought so," returns he, growing perplexed: "Chetwoode was quite as +anxious to accompany you as I was, and you decided in my favor." + +"Simply because you were outside the window, and looked more like moving +than he did." + +"He was considerably sold for all that," says this foolish Archibald, +with an idiotic laugh, that under the circumstances is madness. Miss +Chesney freezes. + +"Sold? how?" she asks, with a suspicious thirst for knowledge. "I don't +understand." + +The continued iciness of her tone troubles Archibald. + +"You seem determined not to understand," he says, huffily. "I only mean +he would have given a good deal to go with you, until you showed him +plainly you didn't want him." + +"I never meant to show him anything of the kind. You quite mistake." + +"Do I?" with increasing wrath. "Well, I think when a woman tells a +fellow she thinks it would be a pity to disturb him, it comes to very +much the same thing in the end. At all events, Chetwoode took it in that +light." + +"How silly you can be at times, Archibald!" says Lilian, promptly: "I +really wish you would not take up such absurd notions. Sir Guy did _not_ +look at it in that light; he knows perfectly well I detest long walks, +and that I seldom go for one, so he did not press the point. And in fact +I think I shall change my mind now: walking is such a bore, is it not?" + +"Are you not coming then?" stopping short, and growing black with rage: +"you don't seem to know your own mind for two minutes together, or else +you are trying to provoke me! First you ask me to go to the wood with +you, and now you say you will not go. What am I to think of it?" + +"I wouldn't be rude, if I were you," says Miss Chesney, calmly, "and I +wouldn't lose my temper. You make me absolutely uncomfortable when you +let that wicked look grow upon your face. One would think you would like +to murder me. Do try to be amiable! And as for trying to provoke you, I +should not take the trouble! No, I shall not go with you now, certainly: +I shall go with Cyril," pointing to where Cyril is sauntering toward the +entrance to the wood at some short distance from them. + +Without waiting to address another word to the discomfited Archibald, +she runs to Cyril and slips her hand within his arm. + +"Will you take me with you wherever you are going?" she says, smiling +confidently up into his face. + +"What a foolish question! of course I am only too glad to get so dear a +little companion," replies he, smothering a sigh very successfully; +though, to be honest, he is hardly enraptured at the thought of having +Lilian's (or any one's) society just now. Nevertheless he buries his +chagrin, and is eminently agreeable to her as they stroll leisurely in +the direction of The Cottage. + +When they come up to it Lilian pauses. + +"I wish this wonderful goddess would come out. I want to see her quite +close," she says, peeping through the hedge. "At a distance she is +beautiful: I am always wondering whether 'distance lends enchantment to +the view.'" + +"No, it does not," absently. He is looking over the hedge. + +"You seem to know all about it," archly: "shall I ask how? What lovely +red berries!" suddenly attracted by some coloring a few yards away from +her. "Do you see? Wait until I get some." + +Springing on to a bank, she draws down to her some bunches of +mountain-ash berry, that glow like live coals in the fading greenery +around them, and having detached her prize from the parent stem, +prepares to rejoin her companion, who is somewhat distant. + +"Why did you not ask me to get them for you?" he asks, rousing himself +from his reverie: "how precipitate you always are! Take care, child: +that bank is steep." + +"But I am a sure-footed little deer," says Miss Chesney, with a saucy +shake of her pretty head, and, as she speaks, jumps boldly forward. + +A moment later, as she touches the ground, she staggers, her right ankle +refuses to support her, she utters a slight groan, and sinks helplessly +to the ground. + +"You have hurt yourself," exclaims Cyril, kneeling beside her. "What is +it, Lilian? Is it your foot?" + +"I think so," faintly: "it seems twisted. I don't know how it happened, +but it pains me terribly. Just there all the agony seems to rest. Ah!" +as another dart of anguish shoots through the injured ankle. + +"My dear girl, what shall I do for you? Why on earth did you not take my +advice?" exclaims Cyril, in a distracted tone. A woman's grief, a +woman's tears, always unman him. + +"Don't say you told me how it would be," murmurs Lilian, with a ghastly +attempt at a smile that dies away in another moan. "It would be adding +insult to injury. No, do not stir me: do not; I cannot bear it. Oh, +Cyril, I think my ankle is broken." + +With this she grows a little paler, and draws her breath with a sharp +sound, then whiter, whiter still, until at last her head sinks heavily +upon Cyril's supporting arm, and he finds she has fallen into a deep +swoon. + +More frightened than he cares to allow, Cyril raises her in his arms +and, without a moment's thought, conveys his slight burden straight to +The Cottage. + +Cecilia, who from an upper window has seen him coming with his strange +encumbrance, runs down to meet him at the door, her face full of +anxiety. + +"What is it?" she asks, breathlessly, bending over Lilian, who is still +fainting. "Poor child! how white she is!" + +"It is Lilian Chesney. She has sprained her foot, I think," says Cyril, +who is white too with concern: "will you take her in while I go for a +carriage?" + +"Of course. Oh, make haste: her lips are quivering. I am sure she is +suffering great agony. Bring her this way--or--no--shall I lay her on my +bed?" + +"The drawing-room sofa will do very well," going in and laying her on +it. "Will you see to her? and give her some brandy and--and that." + +"Yes, yes. Now go quickly, and send a messenger for Dr. Bland, while you +bring the carriage here. How pretty she is! what lovely hair! Poor +little thing! Go, Cyril, and don't be long." + +When he has disappeared, Mrs. Arlington summons Kate, and together they +cut the boot off Lilian's injured foot, remove the dainty little silk +stocking, and do for her all that can be done until the doctor sees her. +After which, with the help of eau de Cologne, and some brandy, they +succeed in bringing her to life once more. + +"What has happened?" she asks, languidly, raising her hand to her head. + +"Are you better now?" Mrs. Arlington asks, in return, stooping kindly +over her. + +"Yes, thank you, much better," gazing at her with some surprise: "it was +stupid of me to faint. But"--still rather dazed--"where am I?" + +"At The Cottage. Mr. Chetwoode brought you here." + +"And you are Mrs. Arlington?" with a slight smile. + +"Yes," smiling in return. "Kate, put a little water into that brandy, +and give it to Miss Chesney." + +"Please do not, Kate," says Lilian, in her pretty friendly fashion: "I +hate brandy. If"--courteously--"I may have some sherry instead, I should +like it." + +Having drunk the sherry, she sits up and looks quietly around her. + +The room is a little gem in its own way, and suggestive of refinement of +taste and much delicacy in the art of coloring. Between the +softly-tinted pictures that hang upon the walls, rare bits of Worcester +and Wedgwood fight for mastery. Pretty lounging-chairs covered with blue +satin are dispersed here and there, while cozy couches peep out from +every recess. _Bric-a-brac_ of all kinds covers the small velvet tables, +that are hung with priceless lace that only half conceals the spindle +legs beneath. Exquisite little marble Loves and Venuses and Graces smile +and pose upon graceful brackets; upon a distant table two charming +Dresden baskets are to be seen smothered in late flowers. All is bright, +pretty, and artistic. + +"What a charming room!" says Lilian, with involuntary, and therefore +flattering admiration. + +"You like it? I fear it must look insignificant to you after Chetwoode." + +"On the contrary, it is a relief. There, everything is heavy though +handsome, as is the way in all old houses; here, everything is bright +and gay. I like it so much, and you too if you will let me say so," says +Lilian, holding out her hand, feeling already enslaved by the beauty of +the tender, lovely face looking so kindly into hers. "I have wanted to +know you so long, but we knew"--hesitating--"you wished to be quiet." + +"Yes, so I did when first I came here; but time and solitude have taught +me many things. For instance,"--coloring faintly,--"I should be very +glad to know you; I feel sadly stupid now and then." + +"I am glad to hear you say so; I simply detest my own society," says +Miss Chesney, with much vivacity, in spite of the foot. "But,"--with a +rueful glance at the bandaged member,--"I little thought I should make +your acquaintance in this way. I have given you terrible trouble, have I +not?" + +"No, indeed, you must not say so. I believe"--laughing,--"I have been +only too glad, in spite of my former desire for privacy, to see some one +from the outer world again. Your hair has come down. Shall I fasten it +up again for you?" Hardly waiting an answer, she takes Lilian's hair and +binds and twists it into its usual soft knot behind her head, admiring +it as she does so. "How soft it is, and how long, and such a delicious +color, like spun silk! I have always envied people with golden hair. Ah, +here is the carriage: I hope the drive home will not hurt you very much. +She is ready now, Mr. Chetwoode, and I think she looks a little better." + +"I should be ungrateful otherwise," says Lilian. "Mrs. Arlington has +been so kind to me, Cyril." + +"I am sure of that," replies he, casting a curious glance at Cecilia +that rather puzzles Lilian, until, turning her eyes upon Cecilia, she +sees what a pretty pink flush has stolen into her cheeks. Then the truth +all at once flashes upon her, and renders her rather silent, while Cyril +and Mrs. Arlington are making the carriage more comfortable for her. + +"Come," says Cyril, at length taking her in his arms. "Don't be +frightened; I will hurt you as little as I can help." He lifts her +tenderly, but the movement causes pain, and a touch of agony turns her +face white again. She is not a hero where suffering is concerned. + +"Oh, Cyril, be careful," says Mrs. Arlington, fearfully, quite +unconscious in her concern for Lilian's comfort that she has used the +Christian name of her lover. + +When Lilian is at length settled in the carriage, she raises herself to +stoop out and take Cecilia's hand. + +"Good-bye, and thank you again so much," she says, earnestly. "And when +I am well may I come and see you?" + +"You may, indeed,"--warmly. "I shall be anxiously expecting you; I shall +now"--with a gentle glance from her loving gray eyes--"have a double +reason for wishing you soon well." + +Moved by a sudden impulse, Lilian leans forward, and the two women as +their lips meet seal a bond of friendship that lasts them all their +lives. + +For some time after they have left Cecilia's bower Lilian keeps silence, +then all at once she says to Cyril, in tones of the liveliest reproach: + +"I wouldn't have believed it of you." + +"Would you not?" replies he, somewhat startled by this extraordinary +address, being plunged in meditation of his own. "You don't say so! But +what is it then you can't believe?" + +"I think"--with keen upbraiding--"you might have told _me_." + +"So I should, my dear, instantly, if I only knew what it was," growing +more and more bewildered. "If you don't want to bring on brain-fever, my +good Lilian, you will explain what you mean." + +"You must have guessed what a treat a _real_ love-affair would be to +me, who never knew a single instance of one," says Lilian, "and yet you +meanly kept it from me." + +"Kept what?" innocently, though he has the grace to color hotly. + +"Don't be deceitful, Cyril, whatever you are. I say it was downright +unkind to leave me in ignorance of the fact that all this time there was +a real, unmistakable, _bona fide_ lover near me, close to me, at my +_very elbow_, as one might say." + +"I know I am happy enough to be at your elbow just now," says Cyril, +humbly, "but, to confess the truth, I never yet dared to permit myself +to look upon you openly with lover's eyes. I am still at a loss to know +how you discovered the all-absorbing passion that I--that _any one_ +fortunate enough to know you--must feel for you." + +"Don't be a goose," says Miss Chesney, with immeasurable scorn. "Don't +you think I have wit enough to see you are head over ears in love with +that charming, beautiful creature down there in The Cottage? I don't +wonder at that: I only wonder why you did not tell me of it when we were +such good friends." + +"Are you quite sure I had anything to tell you?" + +"Quite; I have eyes and I have ears. Did I not see how you looked at +her, and how she blushed all up to the roots of her soft hair when you +did so? and when you were placing me in the carriage she said, 'Oh, +Cyril!' and what was the meaning of that, Master Chetwoode, eh? She is +the prettiest woman I ever saw," says Lilian, enthusiastically. "To see +her is indeed to love her. I hope _you_ love her properly, with all your +heart?" + +"I do," says Cyril, simply. "I sometimes think, Lilian, it cannot be for +one's happiness to love as I do." + +"Oh, this is delightful!" cries Lilian, clapping her hands. "I am glad +you are in earnest about it; and I am glad you are both so good-looking. +I don't think ugly people ought to fall in love: they quite destroy the +romance of the whole thing." + +"Thanks awfully," says Cyril. "I shall begin to hold up my head now you +have said a word in my favor. But,"--growing serious--"you really like +her, Lilian? How can you be sure you do after so short an acquaintance?" + +"I always like a person at once or not at all. I cannot explain why; it +is a sort of instinct. Florence I detested at first sight; your Mrs. +Arlington I love. What is her name?" + +"Cecilia." + +"A pretty name, and suited to her: with her tender beautiful face she +looks a saint. You are very fortunate, Cyril: something tells me you +cannot fail to be happy, having gained the love of such a woman." + +"Dear little sibyl," says Cyril, lifting one of her hands to his lips, +"I thank you for your prophecy. It does me good only to hear you say +so." + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + + "As on her couch of pain a child was lying."--_Song._ + + +Lilian's injury turns out to be not only a sprain, but a very bad one, +and strict quiet and rest for the sufferer are enjoined by the fat +little family doctor. So for several days she lies supine and obedient +upon a sofa in Lady Chetwoode's boudoir, and makes no moan even when +King Bore with all his horrible train comes swooping down upon her. He +is in greatest force at such times as when all the others are +down-stairs dining and she is (however regretfully) left to her own +devices. The servants passing to and fro with dishes sometimes leave the +doors open, and then the sound of merry voices and laughter, that seems +more frequent because she is at a distance and cannot guess the cause of +their merriment, steals up to her, as she lies dolefully upon her +pillows with her hands clasped behind her sunny head. + +When four days of penance have so passed, Lilian grows _triste_, then +argumentative, then downright irritable, distracting Lady Chetwoode by +asking her perpetually, with tears in her eyes, when she thinks she will +be well. "She is so tired of lying down. Her foot must be nearly well +now. It does not hurt her nearly so much. She is sure, if she might only +use it a little now and then, it would be well in half the time," and so +on. + +At last, when a week has dragged itself to a close, Lilian turns her +cajoleries upon the doctor, who is her sworn vassal, and coaxes and +worries him into letting her go down-stairs, if only to dine. + +"Eh? So soon pining for freedom? Why, bless me, you have been only two +or three days laid up." + +"Six long, _long_ days, dear doctor." + +"And now you would run the risk of undoing all my work. I cannot let you +put your foot to the ground for a long time yet. Well,"--softened by a +beseeching glance,--"if you must go down I suppose you must; but no +walking, mind! If I catch you walking I shall put you into irons and +solitary confinement for a month. I dare say, Lady Chetwoode,"--smiling +archly down upon Miss Chesney's slight figure,--"there will be some +young gentleman to be found in the house not only able but willing to +carry to the dining-room so fair a burden!" + +"We shall be able to manage that easily. And it will be far pleasanter +for her to be with us all in the evening. Guy, or her cousin Mr. +Chesney, can carry her down." + +"I think, auntie," speaking very slowly, "I should prefer Archibald." + +"Eh! eh! you hear, madam, she prefers Archibald,--happy Archibald!" +cackles the little doctor, merrily, being immensely tickled at his own +joke. + +"Archibald Chesney is her cousin," replies Lady Chetwoode, with a sigh, +gazing rather wistfully at the girl's flushed, averted face. + +So Lilian gains the day, and Sir Guy coming into his mother's boudoir +half an hour later is told the glad news. + +"Dr. Bland thinks her so much better," Lady Chetwoode tells him. "But +she is not to let her foot touch the ground; so you must be careful, +darling," to Lilian. "Will you stay with her a little while, Guy? I must +go and write some letters." + +"I shan't be in the least lonely by myself, auntie," says Lilian, +smoothly, letting her fingers stray meaningly to the magazine beside +her; yet in spite of this chilling remark Sir Guy lingers. He has taken +up his station on the hearth-rug and is standing with his back to the +fire, his arms crossed behind him, and instead of seeking to amuse his +wounded ward is apparently sunk in reverie. Suddenly, after a protracted +silence on both sides, he raises his head, and regarding her earnestly, +says: + +"May I take you down to dinner to-night, Lilian?" + +"Thank you," formally: "it is very kind of you to offer, Sir Guy. But +Archie was here a moment ago, and he has promised to take that trouble +upon himself." Then, in a low but perfectly distinct tone, "I can trust +Archie!" + +Although no more is said, Guy thoroughly understands her thoughts have +traveled backward to that one unlucky night when, through a kiss, he +sinned past all chance of pardon. As his own mind follows hers, the dark +color mounts slowly to his very brow. + +"Am I never to be forgiven for that one offense?" he asks, going up to +her couch and looking gravely down upon her. + +"I have forgiven, but unhappily I cannot forget," returns she, gently, +without letting her eyes meet his. Then, with an air of deliberation, +she raises her magazine, and he leaves the room. + +So Sir Guy retires from the contest, and Archibald is elected to the +coveted position of carrier to her capricious majesty, and this very +night, to her great joy, brings her tenderly, carefully, to the +dining-room, where a sofa has been prepared for her reception. + +It so happens that three days later Archibald is summoned to London on +business, and departs, leaving with Lilian his faithful promise to be +back in time to perform his evening duty toward her. + +But man's proposals, as we know, are not always carried out, and +Chesney's fall lamentably short; as just at seven o'clock a telegram +arriving for Lady Chetwoode tells her he has been unexpectedly detained +in town by urgent matters, and cannot by any possibility get home till +next day. + +Cyril is dining with some bachelor friends near Truston: so Lady +Chetwoode, who is always thoughtful, bethinks her there is no one to +bring Lilian down to dinner except Guy. This certainly, for some inward +reason, troubles her. She sighs a little as she remembers Lilian's +marked preference for Chesney's assistance, then she turns to her +maid--the telegram has reached her as she is dressing for dinner--and +says to her: + +"A telegram from Mr. Chesney: he cannot be home to dinner. My hair will +do very well. Hardy: go and tell Sir Guy he need not expect him." + +Hardy, going, meets Sir Guy in the hall below, and imparts her +information. + +Naturally enough, he too thinks first of Lilian. Much as it displeases +his pride, he knows he must in common courtesy again offer her his +rejected services. There is bitterness in the thought, and perhaps a +little happiness also, as he draws his breath rather quickly, and +angrily suppresses a half smile as it curls about his lips. To ask her +again, to be again perhaps refused! He gazes irresolutely at the +staircase, and then, with a secret protest against his own weakness, +mounts it. + +The second dinner-bell has already sounded: there is no time for further +deliberation. Going reluctantly up-stairs, he seeks with slow and +lingering footsteps his mother's boudoir. + +The room is unlit, save by the glorious fire, half wood, half coal, that +crackles and laughs and leaps in the joy of its own fast living. Upon a +couch close to it, bathed in its warm flames, lies the little slender +black-robed figure so inexpressibly dear to him. She is so motionless +that but for her wide eyes, gazing so earnestly into the fire, one might +imagine her wrapt in slumber. Her left arm is thrown upward so that her +head rests upon it, the other hangs listlessly downward, almost touching +the carpet beneath her. + +She looks pale, but lovely. Her golden hair shines richly against the +crimson satin of the cushion on which she leans. As Guy approaches her +she never raises her eyes, although without doubt she sees him. Even +when he stands beside her and gazes down upon her, wrathful at her +insolent disregard, she never pretends to be aware of his near presence. + +"Dinner will be ready in three minutes," he says, coldly: "do you intend +coming down to-night?" + +"Certainly. I am waiting for my cousin," she answers, with her eyes +still fixed upon the fire. + +"I am sorry to be the conveyer of news that must necessarily cause you +disappointment. My mother has had a telegram from Chesney saying he +cannot be home until to-morrow. Business detains him." + +"He promised me he would return in time for dinner," she says, turning +toward him at last, and speaking doubtfully. + +"No doubt he is more upset than you can be at his unintended defection. +But it is the case for all that. He will not be home to-night." + +"Well, I suppose he could not help it." + +"I am positive he couldn't!" coldly. + +"You have great faith in him," with an unpleasant little smile. "Thank +you, Sir Guy: it was very kind of you to bring me such disagreeable +news." As she ceases speaking she turns back again to the contemplation +of the fire, as though desirous of giving him his _congé_. + +"I can hardly say I came to inform you of your cousin's movements," +replies he, haughtily; "rather to ask you if you will accept my aid to +get down-stairs?" + +"Yours!" + +"Even mine." + +"No, thank you," with slow surprise, as though she yet doubts the fact +of his having again dared to offer his services: "I would not trouble +you for worlds!" + +"The trouble is slight," he answers, with an expressive glance at the +fragile figure below him. + +"But yet a trouble! Do not distress yourself, Sir Guy: Parkins will help +me, if you will be so kind as to desire him." + +"Your nurse"--hastily--"would be able, I dare say." + +"Oh, no. I can't bear trusting myself to women. I am an arrant coward. I +always think they are going to trip, or let me drop, at every corner." + +"Then why refuse my aid?" he says, even at the price of his +self-respect. + +"No; I prefer Parkins!" + +"Oh, if you prefer the assistance of a _footman_, there is nothing more +to be said," he exclaims, angrily, going toward the door much offended, +and with just a touch of disgust in his tone. + +Now, Miss Chesney does not prefer the assistance of a footman; in fact, +she would prefer solitude and a lonely dinner rather than trust herself +to such a one; so she pockets her pride, and, seeing Sir Guy almost +outside the door, raises herself on her elbow and says, pettishly, and +with the most flagrant injustice: + +"Of course I can stay here all by myself in the dark, if there is no one +to take me down." + +"I wish I understood you," says Guy, irritably, coming back into the +room. "Do you mean you wish me to carry you down? I am quite willing to +do so, though I wish with all my heart your cousin were here to take my +place. It would evidently be much pleasanter for all parties. +Nevertheless, if you deign to accept my aid," proudly, "I shall neither +trip nor drop you, I promise." + +There is a superciliousness in his manner that vexes Lilian; but, having +an innate horror of solitude, go down she will: so she says, cuttingly: + +"You are graciousness itself! you give me plainly to understand how +irksome is this duty to you. I too wish Archie were here, for many +reasons, but as it is----" she pauses abruptly; and Guy, stooping, +raises her quietly, tenderly, in his arms, and, with the angry scowl +upon his face and the hauteur still within his usually kind blue eyes, +begins his march down-stairs. + +It is rather a long march to commence, with a young woman, however +slender, in one's arms. First comes the corridor, which is of a goodly +length, and after it the endless picture-gallery. Almost as they enter +the latter, a little nail half hidden in the doorway catches in Lilian's +gown, and, dragging it roughly, somehow hurts her foot. The pain she +suffers causes her to give way to a sharp cry, whereupon Guy stops +short, full of anxiety. + +"You are in pain?" he says, gazing eagerly into the face so close to his +own. + +"My foot," she answers, her eyes wet with tears; "something dragged it: +oh, how it hurts! And you promised me to be so careful, and now----but I +dare say you are _glad_ I am punished," she winds up, vehemently, and +then bursts out crying, partly through pain, partly through nervousness +and a good deal of self-torturing thought long suppressed, and hides her +face childishly against his sleeve because she has nowhere else to hide +it. "Lay me down," she says, faintly. + +There is a lounging-chair close to the fire that always burns brightly +in the long gallery: placing her in it, he stands a little aloof, +cursing his own ill-luck, and wondering what he has done to make her +hate him so bitterly. Her tears madden him. Every fresh sob tears his +heart. At last, unable to bear the mental agony any longer, he kneels +down beside her, and, with an aspect of the deepest respect, takes one +of her hands in his. + +"I am very unfortunate," he says, humbly. "Is it hurting you very much?" + +"It is better now," she whispers; but for all that she sobs on very +successfully behind her handkerchief. + +"You are not the only one in pain,"--speaking gently but earnestly: +"every sob of yours causes me absolute torture." + +This speech has no effect except to make her cry again harder than ever. +It is so sweet to a woman to know a man is suffering tortures for her +sake. + +A little soft lock of her hair has shaken itself loose, and has wandered +across her forehead. Almost unconsciously but very lovingly, he moves it +back into its proper place. + +"What have I done, Lilian, that you should so soon have learned to hate +me?" he whispers: "we used to be good friends." + +"So long ago"--in stifled tones from behind the handkerchief--"that I +have almost forgotten it." + +"Not so very long. A few weeks at the utmost,--before your cousin came." + +"Yes,"--with a sigh,--"before my cousin came." + +"That is only idle recrimination. I know I once erred deeply, but surely +I have repented, and---- Tell me why you hate me." + +"I cannot." + +"Why?" + +"Because I don't know myself." + +"What! you confess you hate me without cause?" + +"That is not it." + +"What then?" + +"How can I tell you," she says, impatiently, "when I know I don't hate +you _at all_?" + +"Lilian, is that true?" taking away the handkerchief gently but forcibly +that he may see her face, which after all is not nearly so tear-stained +as it should be, considering all the heart-rending sobs to which he has +been listening. "Are you sure? am I not really distasteful to you? +Perhaps even,"--with an accession of hope, seeing she does not turn from +him,--"you like me a little, still?" + +"When you are good,"--with an airy laugh and a slight pout--"I do a +_little_. Yes,"--seeing him glance longingly at her hand,--"you may kiss +it, and then we shall be friends again, for to-night at least. Now do +take me down, Sir Guy: if we stay here much longer I shall be seeing +bogies in all the corners. Already your ancestors seem to be frowning at +me, and a more dark and blood-thirsty set of relatives I never saw. I +hope you won't turn out as bad to look at in your old age." + +"It all depends. When we are happy we are generally virtuous. Misery +creates vice." + +"What a sententious speech!" He has taken up his fair burden again, and +they are now (very slowly, I must say) descending the stairs. "Now here +comes a curve," she says, with a return of all her old sauciness: +"please do not drop me." + +"I have half a mind to," laughing. "Suppose, now, I let you fall +cleverly over these banisters on to the stone flooring beneath, I should +save myself from many a flout and many a scornful speech, and rid myself +forever of a troublesome little ward." + +Leaning her head rather backward, she looks up into his face and smiles +one of her sweetest, tenderest smiles. + +"I am not afraid of you now, Guardy," she murmurs, softly; whereat his +foolish heart beats madly. The old friendly appellation, coming so +unexpectedly from her, touches him deeply: it is with difficulty he +keeps himself from straining her to his heart and pressing his lips upon +the beautiful childish mouth upheld to him. He has had his lesson, +however, and refrains. + +He is still regarding her with unmistakable admiration, when Miss +Beauchamp's voice from the landing above startles them both, and makes +them feel, though why they scarcely know, partners in guilt. + +There is a metallic ring in it that strikes upon the ear, and suggests +all sorts of lady-like disgust and condemnation. + +"I am sure, Guy, if Lilian's foot be as bad as she says it is, she would +feel more comfortable lying on a sofa. Are you going to pose there all +the evening for the benefit of the servants? I think it is hardly good +taste of you to keep her in your arms upon the public staircase, +whatever you may do in private." + +The last words are uttered in a rather lower tone, but are still +distinctly audible. Lilian blushes a slow and painful red, and Sir Guy, +giving way to a naughty word that is also distinctly audible, carries +her down instantly to the dining-room. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + + "For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; + Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds. + + * * * * * + + This thought is as a death."--SHAKESPEARE. + + +The next day is dark and lowering, to Lilian's great joy, who, now she +is prevented by lameness from going for one of her loved rambles, finds +infinite satisfaction in the thought that even were she quite well, it +would be impossible for her to stir out of doors. According to her mode +of arguing, this is one day not lost. + +About two o'clock Archibald returns, in time for luncheon, and to resume +his care of Lilian, who gives him a gentle scolding for his desertion of +her in her need. He is full of information about town and their mutual +friends there, and imparts it freely. + +"Everything is as melancholy up there as it can be," he says, "and very +few men to be seen: the clubs are deserted, all shooting or hunting, no +doubt. The rain was falling in torrents all the day." + +"Poor Archie, you have been having a bad time of it, I fear." + +"In spite of the weather and her ruddy locks, Lady Belle Damascene has +secured the prize of the season, out of season. She is engaged to Lord +Wyntermere: it is not yet publicly announced, but I called to see her +mother for five minutes, and so great was her exultation she could not +refrain from whispering the delightful intelligence into my ear. Lady +Belle is staying with his people now in Sussex." + +"Certainly, 'beauty is in the eye of the beholder.' She is painfully +ugly," says Miss Beauchamp. "Such feet, such hands, and such a shocking +complexion!" + +"She is very kind-hearted and amiable," says Cyril. + +"That is what is always said of a plain woman," retorts Florence. "When +you hear a girl is amiable, always conclude she is hideous. When one's +trumpeter is in despair, he says that." + +"I am sure Lord Wyntermere must be a young man of good sound sense," +says Lilian, who never agrees with Florence. "If she has a kind heart +he will never be disappointed in her. And, after all, there is no such +great advantage to be derived from beauty. When people are married for +four or five years, I dare say they quite forget whether the partner of +their joys and sorrows was originally lovely or the reverse: custom +deadens perception." + +"It is better to be good than beautiful," says Lady Chetwoode, who +abhors ugly women: "you know what Carew says: + + + "But a smooth and steadfast mind, + Gentle thoughts and calm desires, + Hearts with equal love combined, + Kindle never-dying fires; + Where these are not, I despise + Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes." + + +"Well done, Madre," says Cyril. "You are coming out. I had no idea you +were so gifted. Your delivery is perfect." + +"And what are you all talking about?" continues Lady Chetwoode: "I think +Belle Damascene very sweet to look at. In spite of her red hair, and a +good many freckles, and--and--a rather short nose, her expression is +very lovable: when she smiles I always feel inclined to kiss her. She is +like her mother, who is one of the best women I know." + +"If you encourage my mother she will end by telling you Lady Belle is a +beauty and a reigning toast," says Guy, _sotto voce_. + +Lady Chetwoode laughs, and Lilian says: + +"What is every one wearing now, Archie?" + +"There is nobody to wear anything. For the rest they had all on some +soft, shiny stuff like the dress you wore the night before last." + +"What an accurate memory you have!" says Florence, letting her eyes rest +on Guy's for a moment, though addressing Chesney. + +"Satin," translates Lilian, unmoved. "And their bonnets?" + +"Oh, yes! they all wore bonnets or hats, I don't know which," vaguely. + +"Naturally; mantillas are not yet in vogue. You are better than 'Le +Follet,' Archie; your answers are so satisfactory. Did you meet any one +we know?" + +"Hardly any one. By the bye,"--turning curiously to Sir Guy,--"was +Trant here to-day?" + +"No," surprised: "why do you ask?" + +"Because I met him at Truston this morning. He got out of the train by +which I went on,--it seems he has been staying with the Bulstrodes,--and +I fancied he was coming on here, but had not time to question him, as I +barely caught the train; another minute's delay and I should have been +late." + +Archibald rambles on about his near escape of being late for the train, +while his last words sink deep into the minds of Guy and Cyril. The +former grows singularly silent; a depressed expression gains upon his +face. Cyril, on the contrary, becomes feverishly gay, and with his mad +observations makes merry Lilian laugh heartily. + +But when luncheon is over and they all disperse, a gloom falls upon him: +his features contract; doubt and a terrible suspicion, augmented by +slanderous tales that forever seem to be poured into his ears, make +havoc of the naturally kind expression that characterizes his face, and +with a stifled sigh he turns and walks toward the billiard-room. + +Guy follows him. As Cyril enters the doorway, he enters too, and, +closing the door softly, lays his hand upon his shoulder. + +"You heard, Cyril?" he says, with exceeding gentleness. + +"Heard what?" turning somewhat savagely upon him. + +"My dear fellow,"--affectionate entreaty in his tone,--"do not be +offended with me. Will you not listen, Cyril? It is very painful to me +to speak, but how can I see my brother so--so shamefully taken in +without uttering a word of warning." + +"If you were less tragic and a little more explicit it might help +matters," replies Cyril, with a sneer and a short unpleasant laugh. "Do +speak plainly." + +"I will, then,"--desperately,--"since you desire it. There is more +between Trant and Mrs. Arlington than we know of. I do not speak without +knowledge. From several different sources I have heard the same +story,--of his infatuation for some woman, and of his having taken a +house for her in some remote spot. No names were mentioned, mind; but, +from what I have unwillingly listened to it is impossible not to connect +these evil whispers that are afloat with him and her. Why does he come +so often to the neighborhood and yet never dare to present himself at +Chetwoode?" + +"And you believe Trant capable of so far abusing the rights of +friendship as to ask you--_you_--to supply the house in the remote +spot?" + +"Unfortunately, I must." + +"You are speaking of your friend,"--with a bitter sneer,--"and you can +coldly accuse him of committing so blackguardly an action?" + +"If all I have heard be true (and I have no reason to doubt it), he is +no longer any friend of mine," says Guy, haughtily. "I shall settle with +him later on when I have clearer evidence; in the meantime it almost +drives me mad to think he should have dared to bring down here, so close +to my mother, his----" + +"What?" cries Cyril, fiercely, thrusting his brother from him with +passionate violence. "What is it you would say? Take care, Guy; take +care: you have gone too far already. From whom, pray, have you learned +your infamous story?" + +"I beg your pardon," Guy says, gently, extreme regret visible in his +countenance. "I should not have spoken so, under the circumstances. It +was not from one alone, but from several, I heard what I now tell +you,--though I must again remind you that no names were mentioned; +still, I could not help drawing my own conclusions." + +"They lied!" returns Cyril, passionately, losing his head. "You may tell +them so for me. And you,"--half choking,--"you lie too when you repeat +such vile slanders." + +"It is useless to argue with you," Guy says, coldly, the blood mounting +hotly to his forehead at Cyril's insulting words, while his expression +grows stern and impenetrable. "I waste time. Yet this last word I will +say: Go down to The Cottage--now--this moment--and convince yourself of +the truth of what I have said." + +He turns angrily away: while Cyril, half mad with indignation and +unacknowledged fear, follows this final piece of advice, and almost +unconsciously leaving the house, takes the wonted direction, and hardly +draws breath until the trim hedges and pretty rustic gates of The +Cottage are in view. + +The day is showery, threatening since dawn, and now the rain is falling +thickly, though he heeds it not at all. + +As with laggard steps he draws still nearer the abode of her he loves +yet does not wholly trust, the sound of voices smites upon his ear. He +is standing upon the very spot--somewhat elevated--that overlooks the +arbor where so long ago Miss Beauchamp stood and learned his +acquaintance with Mrs. Arlington. Here now he too stays his steps and +gazes spell-bound upon what he sees before him. + +In the arbor, with his back turned to Cyril, is a man, tall, elderly, +with an iron-gray moustache. Though not strictly handsome, he has a fine +and very military bearing, and a figure quite unmistakable to one who +knows him: with a sickly chill at his heart, Cyril acknowledges him to +be Colonel Trant. + +Cecilia is beside him. She is weeping bitterly, but quietly, and with +one hand conceals her face with her handkerchief. The other is fast +imprisoned in both of Trant's. + +A film settles upon Cyril's eyes, a dull faintness overpowers him, +involuntarily he places one hand upon the trunk of a near elm to steady +himself; yet through the semi-darkness, the strange, unreal feeling that +possesses him, the voices still reach him cruelly distinct. + +"Do not grieve so terribly: it breaks my heart to see you, darling, +_darling_," says Trant, in a low, impassioned tone, and raising the hand +he holds, presses his lips to it tenderly. The slender white fingers +tremble perceptibly under the caress, and then Cecilia says, in a voice +hardly audible through her tears: + +"I am so unhappy! it is all my fault; knowing you loved me, I should +have told you before of----" + +But her voice breaks the spell: Cyril, as it meets his ears, rouses +himself with a start. Not once again does he even glance in her +direction, but with a muttered curse at his own folly, turns and goes +swiftly homeward. + +A very frenzy of despair and disappointment rages within him: to have so +loved,--to be so foully betrayed! Her tears, her sorrow (connected no +doubt with some early passages between her and Trant), because of their +very poignancy, only render him the more furious. + +On reaching Chetwoode he shuts himself into his own room, and, feigning +an excuse, keeps himself apart from the rest of the household all the +remainder of the evening and the night. "Knowing you loved me,"--the +words ring in his ears. Ay, she knew it,--who should know it +better?--but had carefully kept back all mention of the fact when +pressed by him, Cyril, upon the subject. All the world knew what he, +poor fool, had been the last to discover. And what was it her tender +conscience was accusing her of not having told Trant before?--of her +flirtation, as no doubt she mildly termed all the tender looks and +speeches, and clinging kisses, and loving protestations so freely +bestowed upon Cyril,--of her flirtation, no doubt. + +The next morning, after a sleepless night, he starts for London, and +there spends three reckless, miserable days that leave him wan and aged +through reason of the conflict he is waging with himself. After which a +mad desire to see again the cause of all his misery, to openly accuse +her of her treachery, to declare to her all the irreparable mischief she +has done, the utter ruin she has made of his life, seizes hold upon him, +and, leaving the great city, and reaching Truston, he goes straight from +the station to The Cottage once so dear. + +In her garden Cecilia is standing all alone. The wind is sighing +plaintively through the trees that arch above her head, the thousand +dying leaves are fluttering to her feet. There is a sense of decay and +melancholy in all around that harmonizes exquisitely with the dejection +of her whole manner. Her attitude is sad and drooping, her air +depressed; there are tears, and an anxious, expectant look in her gray +eyes. + +"Pining for her lover, no doubt," says Cyril, between his teeth (in +which supposition he is right); and then he opens the gate, and goes +quickly up to her. + +As she hears the well-known click of the latch she turns, and, seeing +him, lets fall unheeded to the ground the basket she is holding, and +runs to him with eyes alight, and soft cheeks tinged with a lovely +generous pink, and holds out her hands to him with a little low glad +cry. + +"At last, truant!" she exclaims, joyfully; "after three whole long, long +days; and what has kept you from me? Why, Cyril, Cyril!"--recoiling, +while a dull ashen shade replaces the gay tinting of her cheeks,--"what +has happened? How oddly you look! You,--you are in trouble?" + +"I am," in a changed, harsh tone she scarcely realizes to be his, moving +back with a gesture of contempt from the extended hands that would so +gladly have clasped his. "In so far you speak the truth: I have +discovered all. One lover, it appears, was not sufficient for you; you +should dupe another for your amusement. It is an old story, but none the +less bitter. No, it is useless your speaking," staying her with a +passionate movement: "I tell you I know _all_." + +"All what?" she asks. She has not removed from his her lustrous eyes, +though her lips have turned very white. + +"Your perfidy." + +"Cyril, explain yourself," she says, in a low, agonized tone, her pallor +changing to a deep crimson. And to Cyril hateful certainty appears if +possible more certain by reason of this luckless blush. + +"Ay, you may well change countenance," he says, with suppressed fury in +which keen agony is blended; "have you yet the grace to blush? As to +explanation, I scarcely think you can require it; yet, as you demand it, +you shall have it. For weeks I have been hearing of you tales in which +your name and Trant's were always mingled; but I disregarded them; I +madly shut my ears and was deaf to them; I would not believe, until it +was too late, until I saw and learned beyond dispute the folly of my +faith. I was here last Friday evening!" + +"Yes?" calmly, though in her soft eyes a deep well of bitterness has +sprung. + +"Well, you were there, in that arbor"--pointing to it--"where +_we_"--with a scornful laugh--"so often sat; but then you had a more +congenial companion. Trant was with you. He held your hand, he caressed +it; he called you his 'darling,' and you allowed it, though indeed why +should you not? doubtless it is a customary word from him to you! And +then you wept as though your heart, your _heart_"--contemptuously-- +"would break. Were you confessing to him your coquetry with me? and +perhaps obtaining an easy forgiveness?" + +"No, I was not," quietly, though there is immeasurable scorn in her +tone. + +"No?" slightingly. "For what, then, were you crying?" + +"Sir,"--with a first outward sign of indignation,--"I refuse to tell +you. By what right do you now ask the question? yesterday, nay, an hour +since, I should have felt myself bound to answer any inquiry of yours, +but not now. The tie between us, a frail one as it seems to me, is +broken; our engagement is at an end: I shall not answer you!" + +"Because you dare not," retorts he, fiercely, stung by her manner. + +"I think you dare too much when you venture so to address me," in a low +clear tone. "And yet, as it is in all human probability the last time we +shall ever meet, and as I would have you remember all your life long the +gross injustice you have done me, I shall satisfy your curiosity. But +recollect, sir, these are indeed the final words that shall pass between +us. + +"A year ago Colonel Trant so far greatly honored me as to ask me to +marry him: for many reasons I then refused. Twice since I came to +Chetwoode he has been to see me,--once to bring me law papers of some +importance, and last Friday to again ask me to be his wife. Again I +refused. I wept then, because, unworthy as I am, I know I was giving +pain to the truest, and, as I know now,"--with a faint trembling in her +voice, quickly subdued--"the _only_ friend I have! When declining his +proposal, I gave my reason for doing so! I told him I loved another! +That other was you!" + +Casting this terrible revenge in his teeth, she turns, and, walking +majestically into the house, closes the door with significant haste +behind her. + +This is the one solitary instance of inhospitality shown by Cecilia in +all her life. Never until now was she known to shut her door in the face +of trouble. And surely Cyril's trouble at this moment is sore and needy! + +To disbelieve Cecilia when face to face with her is impossible. Her eyes +are truth itself. Her whole manner, so replete with dignity and offended +pride, declares her innocent. Cyril stands just where she had left him, +in stunned silence, for at least a quarter of an hour, repeating to +himself miserably all that she has said, and reminding himself with +cold-blooded cruelty of all he has said to her. + +At the end of this awful fifteen minutes, he bethinks himself his hair +must now, if ever, be turned gray; and then, a happier and more resolute +thought striking him, he takes his courage in his two hands, and walking +boldly up to the hall door, knocks and demands admittance with really +admirable composure. Abominable composure, thinks Cecilia, who in spite +of her stern determination never to know him again, has been watching +him covertly from behind a handkerchief and a bedroom curtain all this +time, and is now stationed at the top of the staircase, with dim eyes, +but very acute ears. + +"Yes," Kate tells him, "her mistress is at home," and forthwith shows +him into the bijou drawing-room. After which she departs to tell her +mistress of his arrival. + +Three minutes, that to Cyril's excited fancy lengthen themselves into +twenty, pass away slowly, and then Kate returns. + +"Her mistress's compliments, and she has a terrible headache, and will +Mr. Chetwoode be so kind as to excuse her?" + +Mr. Chetwoode on this occasion is not kind. "He is sorry," he stammers, +"but if Mrs. Arlington could let him see her for five minutes, he would +not detain her longer. He has something of the utmost importance to say +to her." + +His manner is so earnest, so pleading, that Kate, who scents at least a +death in the air, retires full of compassion for the "pore gentleman." +And then another three minutes, that now to the agitated listener appear +like forty, drag themselves into the past. + +Suspense is growing intolerable, when a well-known step in the hall +outside makes his heart beat almost to suffocation. The door is opened +slowly, and Mrs. Arlington comes in. + +"You have something to say to me?" she asks, curtly, unkindly, standing +just inside the door, and betraying an evident determination not to sit +down for any consideration upon earth. Her manner is uncompromising and +forbidding, but her eyes are very red. There is rich consolation in this +discovery. + +"I have," replies Cyril, openly confused now it has come to the point. + +"Say it, then. I am here to listen to you. My servant tells me it is +something of the deepest importance." + +"So it is. In all the world there is nothing so important to me. +Cecilia,"--coming a little nearer to her,--"it is that I want your +forgiveness; I ask your pardon very humbly, and I throw myself upon your +mercy. You must forgive me!" + +"Forgiveness seems easy to you, who cannot feel," replies she, +haughtily, turning as though to leave the room; but Cyril intercepts +her, and places his back against the door. + +"I cannot let you go until you are friends with me again," he says, in +deep agitation. + +"Friends!" + +"Think what I have gone through. _You_ have only suffered for a few +minutes, _I_ have suffered for three long days. Think of it. My heart +was breaking all the time. I went to London hoping to escape thought, +and never shall I forget what I endured in that detestable city. Like a +man in a dream I lived, scarcely seeing, or, if seeing, only trying to +elude, those I knew. At times----" + +"You went to London?" + +"Yes, that is how I have been absent for three days; I have hardly slept +or eaten since last I saw you." + +Here Cecilia is distinctly conscious of a feeling of satisfaction: next +to a man's dying for you the sweetest thing is to hear of a man's +starving for you! + +"Sometimes," goes on Cyril, piling up the agony higher and higher, and +speaking in his gloomiest tones, "I thought it would be better if I put +an end to it once for all, by blowing out my brains." + +"How dare you speak to me like this?" Cecilia says in a trembling voice: +"it is horrible. You would commit suicide? Am I not unhappy enough, that +you must seek to make me more so? Why should you blow your brains out?" +with a shudder. + +"Because I could not live without you. Even now,"--reproachfully,--"when +I see you looking so coldly upon me, I almost wish I had put myself out +of the way for good." + +"Cyril, I forbid you to talk like this." + +"Why? I don't suppose you care whether I am dead or alive." This artful +speech, uttered in a heart-broken tone, does immense execution. + +"If you were dead," begins she, forlornly, and then stops short, because +her voice fails her, and two large tears steal silently down her cheeks. + +"Would you care?" asks Cyril, going up to her and placing one arm gently +round her; being unrepulsed, he gradually strengthens this arm with the +other. "Would you?" + +"I hardly know." + +"Darling, don't be cruel. I was wrong, terribly, unpardonably wrong ever +to doubt your sweet truth; but when one has stories perpetually dinned +into one's ears, one naturally grows jealous of one's shadow, when one +loves as I do." + +"And pray, who told you all these stories?" + +"Never mind." + +"But I do mind," with an angry sob. "What! you are to hear lies of me, +and to believe them, and I am not even to know who told you them! I do +mind, and I insist on knowing." + +"Surely it cannot signify now, when I tell you I don't believe them." + +"It does signify, and I should be told. But indeed I need not ask," with +exceeding bitterness; "I know. It was your brother, Sir Guy. He has +always (why I know not) been a cruel enemy of mine." + +"He only repeated what he heard. He is not to be blamed." + +"It _was_ he, then?" quickly. "But 'blamed'?--of course not; no one is +in the wrong, I suppose, but poor me! I think, sir,"--tremulously,--"it +would be better you should go home, and forget you ever knew any one so +culpable as I am. I should be afraid to marry into a family that could +so misjudge me as yours does. Go, and learn to forget me." + +"I can go, of course, if you desire it," laying hold of his hat: "that +is a simple matter; but I cannot promise to forget. To some people it +may be easy, to me impossible." + +"Nothing is impossible. The going is the first step. Oblivion"--with a +sigh--"will quickly follow." + +"I do not think so. But, since you wish my absence--" + +He moves toward the door with lowered head and dejected manner. + +"I did not say I wished it," in faltering tones; "I only requested you +to leave me for your own sake, and because I would not make your people +unhappy. Though"--piteously--"it should break my heart, I would still +bid you go." + +"Would it break your heart?" flinging his hat into a corner (for my own +part, I don't believe he ever meant going): coming up to her, he folds +her in his arms. "Forgive me, I entreat you," he says, "for what I shall +never forgive myself." + +The humbleness of this appeal touches Cecilia's tender heart. She makes +no effort to escape from his encircling arms; she even returns one out +of his many caresses. + +"To think you could behave so badly to me!" she whispers, +reproachfully. + +"I am a brute! I know it." + +"Oh, no! indeed you are not," says Mrs. Arlington. "Well, yes,"--drawing +a long breath,--"I forgive you; but _promise_, promise you will never +distrust me again." + +Of course he gives the required promise, and peace is once more +restored. + +"I shall not be content with an engagement any longer," Cyril says, +presently. "I consider it eminently unsatisfactory. Why not marry me at +once? I have nine hundred a year, and a scrap of an estate a few miles +from this,--by the bye, you have never yet been to see your +property,--and, if you are not afraid to venture, I think we might be +very happy, even on that small sum." + +"I am not afraid of anything with you," she says, in her calm, tender +fashion; "and money has nothing to do with it. If," with a troubled +sigh, "I ever marry you, I shall not come to you empty-handed." + +"'If: dost thou answer me with ifs?'" quotes he, gayly. "I tell you, +sweet, there is no such word in my dictionary. I shall only wait a +favorable opportunity to ask my mother's consent to our marriage." + +"And if she refuses it?" + +"Why, then I shall marry you without hers, or yours, or the consent of +any one in the world." + +"You jest," she says, tears gathering in her large appealing eyes. "I +would not have you make your mother miserable." + +"Above all things, do not let me see tears in your eyes again," he says, +quickly. "I forbid it. For one thing, it makes me wretched, +and"--softly--"it makes me feel sure _you_ are wretched, which is far +worse. Cecilia, if you don't instantly dry those tears I shall be under +the painful necessity of kissing them away. I tell you I shall get my +mother's consent very readily. When she sees you, she will be only too +proud to welcome such a daughter." + +Soon after this they part, more in love with each other than ever. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + + "_Phebe._--I have more cause to hate him than to love him: + For what had he to do to chide at me?"--_As You Like It._ + + +When Lilian's foot is again strong and well, almost the first use she +makes of it is to go to The Cottage to see Cecilia. She is gladly +welcomed there; the two girls are as pleased with each other as even in +fond anticipation they had dreamed they should be: and how seldom are +such dreams realized! They part with a secret though mutual hope that +they shall soon see each other again. + +Of her first two meetings with the lovely widow Lilian speaks openly to +Lady Chetwoode; but with such an utter want of interest is her news +received that instinctively she refrains from making any further mention +of her new acquaintance. Meantime the friendship ripens rapidly, until +at length scarcely a week elapses without Lilian's paying at least one +or two visits at The Cottage. + +Of the strength of this growing intimacy Sir Guy is supremely ignorant, +until one day chance betrays to him its existence. + +It is a bright but chilly morning, one of November's rawest efforts. The +trees, bereft of even their faded mantle, that has dropped bit by bit +from their meagre arms, now stand bare and shivering in their unlovely +nakedness. The wind, whistling shrilly, rushes through them with +impatient haste, as though longing to escape from their gaunt and most +untempting embraces. There is a suspicion of snow in the biting air. + +In The Cottage a roaring fire is scolding and quarreling vigorously on +its way up the chimney, illuminating with its red rays the parlor in +which it burns; Cecilia is standing on one side of the hearth, looking +up at Lilian, who has come down by appointment to spend the day with +her, and who is mounted on a chair hanging a picture much fancied by +Cecilia. They are freely discussing its merits, and with their gay +chatter are outdoing the noisy fire. To Cecilia the sweet companionship +of this girl is not only an antidote to her loneliness, but an excessive +pleasure. + +The picture just hung is a copy of the "Meditation," and is a special +favorite of Lilian's, who, being the most unsentimental person in the +world, takes a tender delight in people of the visionary order. + +"Do you know, Cecilia," she says, "I think the eyes something like +yours?" + +"Do you?" smiling. "You flatter me." + +"I flatter 'Mademoiselle la Meditation,' you mean. No; you have a +thoughtful, almost a wistful look about you, at times, that might +strongly remind any one of this picture. Now, I"--reflectively--"could +_never_ look like that. When I think (which, to do me justice, is +seldom), I always dwell upon unpleasant topics, and in consequence I +maintain on these rare occasions an exceedingly sour, not to say +ferocious, expression. I hate thinking!" + +"So much the better," replies her companion, with a faint sigh. "The +more persistently you put thought behind you, the longer you will retain +happiness." + +"Why, how sad you look! Have I, as usual, said the wrong thing? You +_mustn't_ think,"--affectionately,--"if it makes you sad. Come, Cis, let +me cheer you up." + +Cecilia starts as though struck, and moves backward as the pretty +abbreviation of her name sounds upon her ear. An expression of hatred +and horror rises and mars her face. + +"Never call me by that name again," she says with some passion, laying +her hand upon the sideboard to steady herself. "Never! do you hear? My +father called me so----" she pauses, and the look of horror passes from +her, only to be replaced by one of shame. "What must you think of me," +she asks, slowly, "you who honored your father? I, too, had a father, +but I did not--no, I did not love him. Am I hateful, am I unnatural, in +your eyes?" + +"Cecilia," says Lilian, with grave simplicity, "you could not be +unnatural, you could not be hateful, in the sight of any one." + +"That name you called me by"--struggling with her emotion--"recalled old +scenes, old memories, most horrible to me. I am unhinged to-day: you +must not mind me." + +"You are not well, dearest." + +"That man, my husband,"--with a strong shudder,--"he, too, called me by +that name. After long years," she says, throwing out her hands with a +significant gesture, as though she would fain so fling from her all +haunting thoughts, "I cannot rid myself of the fear, the loathing, of +those past days. _Are_ they past? Is my terror an omen that they are not +yet ended?" + +"Cecilia, you shall not speak so," says Lilian, putting her arms gently +round her. "You are nervous and--and upset about something. Why should +you encourage such superstitious thoughts, when happiness lies within +your grasp? How can harm come near you in this pretty wood, where you +reign queen? Come, smile at me directly, or I shall tell Cyril of your +evil behavior, and send him here armed with a stout whip to punish you +for your naughtiness. What a whip that would be!" says Lilian, laughing +so gleefully that Cecilia perforce laughs too. + +"How sweet you are to me!" she says, fondly, with tears in her eyes. "At +times I am more than foolish, and last night I had a terrible dream; but +your coming has done me good. Now I can almost laugh at my own fears, +that were so vivid a few hours ago. But my youth was not a happy one." + +"Now you have reached old age, I hope you will enjoy it," says Miss +Chesney, demurely. + +Almost at this moment, Sir Guy Chetwoode is announced, and is shown by +the inestimable Kate into the parlor instead of the drawing-room, +thereby causing unutterable mischief. It is only the second time since +Mrs. Arlington's arrival at The Cottage he has put in an appearance +there, and each time business has been his sole cause for calling. + +He is unmistakably surprised at Lilian's presence, but quickly +suppresses all show of emotion. At first he looks faintly astonished, +but so faintly that a second later one wonders whether the astonishment +was there at all. + +He shakes hands formally with Mrs. Arlington, and smiles in a somewhat +restrained fashion upon Lilian. In truth he is much troubled at the +latter's evident familiarity with the place and its inmate. + +Lilian, jumping down from her high elevation, says to Cecilia: + +"If you two are going to talk business, I shall go into the next room. +The very thought of anything connected with the bugbear 'Law' depresses +me to death. You can call me, Cecilia, when you have quite done." + +"Don't be frightened," says Guy, pleasantly, though inwardly he frowns +as he notes Lilian's unceremonious usage of his tenant's Christian name. +"I shan't detain Mrs. Arlington two minutes." + +Then he addresses himself exclusively to Cecilia, and says what he has +to say in a perfectly courteous, perfectly respectful, perfectly +freezing tone,--to all of which Cecilia responds with a similar though +rather exaggerated amount of coldness that deadens the natural sweetness +of her behavior, and makes Lilian tell herself she has never yet seen +Cecilia to such disadvantage, which is provoking, as she has set her +heart above all things on making Guy like her lovely friend. + +Then Sir Guy, with a distant salutation, withdraws; and both women feel, +silently, as though an icicle had melted from their midst. + +"I wonder why your guardian so dislikes me," says Mrs. Arlington, in a +somewhat hurt tone. "He is ever most ungenerous in his treatment of me." + +"Ungenerous!" hastily, "oh, no! he is not that. He is the most +generous-minded man alive. But--but----" + +"Quite so, dear,"--with a faint smile that yet has in it a tinge of +bitterness. "You see there is a 'but.' I have never wronged him, yet he +hates me." + +"Never mind who hates you," says Lilian, impulsively. "Cyril loves you, +and so do I." + +"I can readily excuse the rest," says Mrs. Arlington, with a bright +smile, kissing her pretty consoler with grateful warmth. + + * * * * * + +An hour after Lilian's return to Chetwoode on this momentous day, Guy, +having screwed his courage to the sticking-point, enters his mother's +boudoir, where he knows she and Lilian are sitting alone. + +Lady Chetwoode is writing at a distant table; Miss Chesney, on a sofa +close to the fire, is surreptitiously ruining--or, as she fondly but +erroneously believes, is knitting away bravely at--the gray sock her +ladyship has just laid down. Lilian's pretty lips are pursed up, her +brow is puckered, her soft color has risen as she bends in strong hope +over her work. The certain charm that belongs to this scene fails to +impress Sir Guy, who is too full of agitated determination to leave room +for minor interests. + +"Lilian," he says, bluntly, with all the execrable want of tact that +characterizes the very gentlest of men, "I wish you would not cultivate +an acquaintance with Mrs. Arlington." + +"Eh?" says Lilian, looking up in somewhat dazed amazement from her +knitting, which is gradually getting into a more and more hopeless mess, +"what is it, then, Sir Guy?" + +"I wish you would not seek an intimacy with Mrs. Arlington," repeats +Chetwoode, speaking all the more sternly in that he feels his courage +ebbing. + +The sternness, however, proves a mistake; Miss Chesney resents it, and, +scenting battle afar off, encases herself in steel, and calmly, nay, +eagerly, awaits the onslaught. + +"What has put you out?" she says, speaking in a tone eminently +calculated to incense the listener. "You seem disturbed. Has Heskett +been poaching again? or has that new pointer turned out a +_disappointer_? What has poor Mrs. Arlington done to you, that you must +send her to Coventry?" + +"Nothing, only----" + +"Nothing! Oh, Sir Guy, surely you must have some substantial reason for +tabooing her so entirely." + +"Perhaps I have. At all events, I ask you most particularly to give up +visiting at The Cottage." + +"I am very sorry, indeed, to seem disobliging, but I shall not give up a +friend without sufficient reason for so doing." + +"A friend! Oh, this is madness," says Sir Guy, with a perceptible start; +then, turning toward his mother, he says, in a rather louder tone, that +adds to the imperiousness of his manner, "Mother, will _you_ speak to +Lilian, and desire her not to go?" + +"But, my dear, why?" asks Lady Chetwoode, raising her eyes in a vague +fashion from her pen. + +"Because I will not have her associating with people of whom we know +nothing," replies he, at his wit's end for an excuse. This one is +barefaced, as at any other time he is far too liberal a man to condemn +any one for being a mere stranger. + +"I know a good deal of her," says Lilian, imperturbably, "and I think +her charming. Perhaps,--who knows?--as she is unknown, she may prove a +duchess in disguise." + +"She may, but I doubt it," replies he, a disagreeable note of irony +running through his speech. + +"Have you discovered her parentage?" asks Lady Chetwoode, hastily. "Is +she of low birth? Lilian, my dear, don't have low tastes: there is +nothing on earth," says Lady Chetwoode, mildly, "so--so--so _melancholy_ +as a person afflicted with low tastes." + +"If thinking Mrs. Arlington a lady in the very best sense of the word is +a low taste, I confess myself afflicted," says Miss Chesney, rather +saucily; whereupon Lady Chetwoode, who knows mischief is brewing and is +imbued with a wholesome horror of all disputes between her son and his +ward, rises hurriedly and prepares to quit the room. + +"I hope Archie will not miss his train," she says, irrelevantly. "He is +always so careless, and I know it is important he should see his +solicitor this evening about the transfer of York's farm. Where is +Archibald?" + +"In the library, I think," responds Lilian. "Dear Archie, how we shall +miss him! shan't we, auntie?" + +This tenderly regretful speech has reference to Mr. Chesney's intended +departure, he having at last, through business, been compelled to leave +Chetwoode and the object of his adoration. + +"We shall, indeed. But remember,"--kindly,--"he has promised to return +to us at Christmas with Taffy." + +"I do remember," gayly; "but for that, I feel I should give way to +tears." + +Here Lady Chetwoode lays her hand upon the girl's shoulder, and presses +it gently, entreatingly. + +"Do not reject Guy's counsel, child," she says, softly; "you know he +always speaks for your good." + +Lilian makes no reply, but, gracefully turning her head, lays her red +lips upon the gentle hand that still rests upon her shoulder. + +Then Lady Chetwoode leaves the room, and Lilian and her guardian are +alone. An ominous silence follows her departure. Lilian, who has +abandoned the unhappy sock, has now taken in hand a very valuable +Dresden china cup, and is apparently examining it with the most profound +interest. + +"I have your promise not to go again to The Cottage?" asks Sir Guy at +length, the exigency of the case causing his persistency. + +"I think not." + +"Why will you persist in this obstinate refusal?" angrily. + +"For many reasons," with a light laugh. "Shall I tell you one? Did you +ever hear of the 'relish of being forbidden?'" + +"It is not a trifling matter. If it was possible, I would tell you what +would prevent your ever wishing to know this Mrs. Arlington again. But, +as it is, I am your guardian,"--determinately,--"I am responsible for +you: I do not wish you to be intimate at The Cottage, and in this one +matter at least I must be obeyed." + +"Must you? we shall see," replies Miss Chesney, with a tantalizing laugh +that, but for the sweet beauty of her _riante_ face, her dewy, mutinous +mouth, her great blue eyes, now ablaze with childish wrath, would have +made him almost hate her. As it is, he is exceeding full of an +indignation he scarcely seeks to control. + +"I, as your guardian, forbid you to go to see that woman," he says, in a +condensed tone. + +"And why, pray?" + +"I cannot explain: I simply forbid you. She is not fit to be an +associate of yours." + +"Then I will _not_ be forbidden: so there!" says Miss Chesney, +defiantly. + +"Lilian, once for all, do not go to The Cottage again," says Guy, very +pale. "If you do you will regret it." + +"Is that a threat?" + +"No; it is a warning. Take it as such if you are wise. If you go against +my wishes in this matter, I shall refuse to take charge of you any +longer." + +"I don't want you to take charge of me," cries Lilian, tears of passion +and wounded feeling in her eyes. In her excitement she has risen to her +feet and stands confronting him, the Dresden cup still within her hand. +"I am not a beggar, that I should crave your hospitality. I can no doubt +find a home with some one who will not hate me as you do." With this, +the foolish child, losing her temper _in toto_, raises her hand and, +because it is the nearest thing to her, flings the cherished cup upon +the floor, where it lies shattered into a thousand pieces. + +In silence Guy contemplates the ruins, in silence Lilian watches him; no +faintest trace of remorse shows itself in her angry fair little face. I +think the keenest regret Guy knows at this moment is that she isn't a +boy, for the simple reason that he would dearly like to box her ears. +Being a woman, and an extremely lovely one, he is necessarily disarmed. + +"So now!" says Miss Lilian, still defiant. + +"I have a great mind," replies Guy, raising his eyes slowly to hers, "to +desire you to pick up every one of those fragments." + +This remark is unworthy of him, proving that in his madness there is not +even method. His speech falls as a red spark into the hot fire of Miss +Chesney's wrath. + +"_You_ desire!" she says, blazing instantly. "What is it you would say? +'Desire!' On the contrary, _I_ desire _you_ to pick them up, and I shall +stay here to see my commands obeyed." + +She has come a little closer to him, and is now standing opposite him +with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. With one firm little finger she +points to the _débris_. She looks such a fragile creature possessed with +such an angry spirit that Chetwoode, in spite of himself acknowledging +the comicality of the situation, cannot altogether conceal a smile. + +"Pick them up," says Lilian imperatively, for the second time. + +"What a little Fury you are!" says Guy; and then, with a faint shrug, he +succumbs, and, stooping, does pick up the pieces of discord. + +"I do it," he says, raising himself when his task is completed, and +letting severity once more harden his features, "to prevent my mother's +being grieved by such an exhibition of----" + +"No, you do not," interrupts she; "you do it because I wished it. For +the future understand that, though you are my guardian, I will not be +treated as though I were a wayward child." + +"Well, you _have_ a wicked temper!" says Guy, who is very pale, drawing +his breath quickly. He smiles as he says it, but it is a smile more +likely to incense than to soothe. + +"I have not," retorts Lilian, passionately. "But that you goaded me I +should never have given way to anger. It is you who have the wicked +temper. I dislike you! I hate you! I wish I had never entered your +house! And"--superbly, drawing herself up to her full height, which does +not take her far--"I shall now leave it! And I shall never come back to +it again!" + +This fearful threat she hurls at his head with much unction. Not that +she means it, but it is as well to be forcible on such occasions. The +less you mean a thing, the more eloquent and vehement you should grow; +the more you mean it, the less vehemence the better, because then it is +energy thrown away: the fact accomplished later on will be crushing +enough in itself. This is a rule that should be strictly observed. + +Guy, whose head is held considerably higher than its wont, looks calmly +out of the window, and disdains to take notice of this outburst. + +His silence irritates Miss Chesney, who has still sufficient rage +concealed within her to carry her victoriously through two quarrels. She +is therefore about to let the vials of her wrath once more loose upon +her unhappy guardian, when the door opens, and Florence, calm and +stately, sweeps slowly in. + +"Aunt Anne not here?" she says; and then she glances at Guy, who is +still holding in his hands some of the fragments of the broken cup, and +who is looking distinctly guilty, and then suspiciously at Lilian, whose +soft face is crimson, and whose blue eyes are very much darker than +usual. + +There is a second's pause, and then Lilian, walking across the room, +goes out, and bangs the door, with much unnecessary violence, behind +her. + +"Dear me!" exclaims Florence, affectedly, when she has recovered from +the shock her delicate nerves have sustained through the abrupt closing +of the door. "How vehement dear Lilian is! There is nothing so ruinous +to one's manners as being brought up without the companionship of +well-bred women. The loss of it makes a girl so--so--hoydenish, and----" + +"I don't think Lilian hoydenish," interrupts Guy, who is in the humor to +quarrel with his shadow,--especially, strange as it seems, with any one +who may chance to speak ill of the small shrew who has just flown like a +whirlwind from the room. + +"No?" says Miss Beauchamp, sweetly. "Perhaps you are right. As a +rule,"--with an admiring glance, so deftly thrown as to make one regret +it should be so utterly flung away,--"you always are. It may be only +natural spirits, but if so,"--blandly,--"don't you think she has a great +deal of natural spirits?" + +"I don't know, I'm sure," says Sir Guy. As he answers he looks at her, +and tells himself he hates all her pink and white fairness, her dull +brown locks, her duller eyes, and more, _much_ more than all, her large +and fleshy nose. "Has she?" he says, in a tone that augurs ill for any +one who may have the hardihood to carry on the conversation. + +"I think she has," says Florence, innocently, a little touch of +doggedness running beneath the innocency. "But, oh, Guy, is that Aunt +Anne's favorite cup? the Dresden she so much prizes? I know it cost any +amount of money. Who broke it?" + +"I did," returns Guy, shortly, unblushingly, and moving away from her, +quits the room. + +Going up the staircase he pauses idly at a window that overlooks the +avenue to watch Archibald disappearing up the drive in the dog-cart. +Even as he watches him, vaguely, and without the least interest in his +movements,--his entire thoughts being preoccupied with another +object,--lo! that object emerges from under the lime-trees, and makes a +light gesture that brings Chesney to a full stop. + +Throwing the reins to the groom, he springs to the ground, and for some +time the two cousins converse earnestly. Then Guy, who is now regarding +them with eager attention, sees Chesney help Lilian into the trap, take +his seat beside her and drive away up the avenue, past the huge +laurustinus, under the elms, on out of sight. + +A slight pang shoots across Guy's heart. Where are they going, these +two? "I shall never return:"--her foolish words, that he so honestly +considers foolish, come back to him now clearly, and with a strange +persistency that troubles him, repeat themselves over again. + +Chesney is going to London, but where is Lilian going? The child's +lovely, angry face rises up before him, full of a keen reproach. What +was she saying to Archibald just now, in that quick vehement fashion of +hers? was she upbraiding her guardian, or was she----? If Chesney had +asked her then to take any immediate steps toward the fulfilling of her +threat, would she, would she----? + +Bah! he draws himself up with a shiver, and smiles contemptuously at the +absurdity of his own fears, assuring himself she will certainly be home +to dinner. + +But dinner comes, and yet no Lilian! Lady Chetwoode has been obliged to +give in an hour ago to one of her severest headaches, and now lies prone +upon her bed, so that Miss Beauchamp and Guy perforce prepare to +partake of that meal alone. + +Florence is resplendent in cream-color and blue, which doesn't suit her +in the least, though it is a pretty gown, one of the prettiest in her +wardrobe, and has been donned by her to-night for Guy's special +delectation, finding a _tête-à-tête_ upon the cards. + +Chetwoode regards her with feverish anxiety as she enters the +drawing-room, hoping to hear some mention made of the absent Lilian; but +in this hope he is disappointed. She might never have been a guest at +Chetwoode, so little notice does Miss Beauchamp take of her +non-appearance. + +She says something amiable about "Aunt Anne's" headache, suggests a new +pill as an unfailing cure for "that sort of thing," and then eats her +dinner placidly, quietly, and, with a careful kindness that not one of +the dishes shall feel slighted by her preference for another, patronizes +all alike, without missing any. It is indeed a matter for wonder and +secret admiration how Miss Beauchamp can so slowly, and with such a +total absence of any appearance of gluttony, get through so much in so +short a space of time. She has evidently a perfect talent for concealing +any amount of viands without seeming to do so, which, it must be +admitted, is a great charm. + +To-night I fear Guy scarcely sees the beauty of it! He is conscious of +feeling disgust and a very passion of impatience. Does she not notice +Lilian's absence? Will she never speak of it? A strange fear lest she +should express ignorance of his ward's whereabouts ties his own tongue. +But she, she does, she _must_ know, and presently no doubt will tell +him. + +How much more of that cream is she going to eat? Surely when the +servants go she will say something. Now she has nearly done: thank the +stars the last bit has disappeared! She is going to lay down her spoon +and acknowledge herself satisfied. + +"I think, Guy, I will take a little more, _very_ little, please. This +new cook seems quite satisfactory," says Florence, in her slow, even, +self-congratulatory way. + +A naughty exclamation trembles on Sir Guy's lips; by a supreme effort he +suppresses it, and gives her the smallest help of the desired cream that +decency will permit. After which he motions silently though peremptorily +to one of the men to remove _all_ the dishes, lest by any chance his +cousin should be tempted to try the cream a third time. + +His own dinner has gone away literally untasted. A terrible misgiving is +consuming him. Lilian's words are still ringing and surging in his +brain,--"I shall never return." He recalls all her hastiness, her +impulsive ways, her hot temper. What if, in a moment of pride and rage, +she should have really gone with her cousin! If--it is impossible! +ridiculously, utterly impossible! Yet his blood grows cold in spite of +his would-be disbelief; a sickening shiver runs through his veins even +while he tells himself he is a fool even to imagine such a thing. And +yet, where is she? + +"I suppose Lilian is at Mabel Steyne's," says Miss Beauchamp, calmly, +having demolished the last bit on her plate with a deep sigh. + +"Is she?" asks Guy, in a tone half stifled. As he speaks, he stoops as +though to pick up an imaginary napkin. + +"Your napkin is here," says Florence, in an uncompromising voice: "don't +you see it?" pointing to where it rests upon the edge of the table. +"Lilian, then,"--with a scrutinizing glance,--"did not tell you where +she was going?" + +"No. There is no reason why she should." + +"Well, I think there is," with a low, perfectly lady-like, but extremely +irritating laugh: "for one thing, her silence has cost you your dinner. +I am sorry I did not relieve your mind by telling you before. But I +could not possibly guess her absence could afflict you so severely. She +said something this morning about going to see Mabel." + +"I dare say," quietly. + +The minutes drag. Miss Beauchamp gets through an unlimited quantity of +dried fruit and two particularly fine pears in no time. She is looking +longingly at a third, when Guy rises impatiently. + +"If she is at Mabel's I suppose I had better go and bring her home," he +says, glancing at the clock. "It is a quarter to nine." + +"I really do not think you need trouble yourself," speaking somewhat +warmly for her: "Mabel is sure to send her home in good time, if she is +there!" She says this slowly, meaningly, and marks how he winces and +changes color at her words. "Then think how cold the night is!" with a +comfortable shiver and a glance at the leaping fire. + +"Of course she is at Steynemore," says Guy, hastily. + +"I would not be too sure: Lilian's movements are always uncertain: one +never quite knows what she is going to do next. Really,"--with a +repetition of her unpleasant laugh,--"when I saw her stepping into the +dog-cart with her cousin to-day, I said to myself that I should not at +all wonder if----" + +"What?" sternly, turning full upon her a pale face and flashing eyes. +Miss Beauchamp's pluck always melts under Guy's anger. + +"Nothing," sullenly; "nothing at least that can concern you. I was +merely hurrying on in my own mind a marriage that must eventually come +off. The idea was absurd, of course, as any woman would prefer a +fashionable wedding to all the inconvenience attendant on a runaway +match." + +"You mean----" + +"I mean"--complacently--"Lilian's marriage with her cousin." + +"You speak"--biting his lips to maintain his composure--"as though it +was all arranged." + +"And is it not?" with well-affected surprise. "I should have thought +you, as her guardian, would have known all about it. Perhaps I speak +prematurely; but one must be blind indeed not to see how matters are +between them. Do sit down, Guy: it fidgets one to see you so undecided. +Of course, if Lilian is at Steynemore she is quite safe." + +"Still, she may be expecting some one to go for her." + +"I think, if so, she would have told you she was going," dryly. + +"Tom hates sending his horses out at night," says Guy,--which is a weak +remark, Tom Steyne being far too indolent a man to make a point of +hating anything. + +"Does he?" with calm surprise, and a prolonged scrutiny of her cousin's +face. "I fancied him the most careless of men on that particular +subject. Before he was married he used to drive over here night after +night, and not care in the least how long he kept the wretched animals +standing in the cold." + +"But that was when he was making love to Mabel. A man in love will +commit any crime." + +"Oh, no, long before that." + +"Perhaps, then, it was when he was making love to you," with a slight +smile. + +This is a sore point. + +"I don't remember that time," says Miss Beauchamp with perfect calmness +but a suspicious indrawing of her rather meagre lips. "If some one must +go out to-night, Guy, why not send Thomas?" + +"Because I prefer going myself," replies he, quietly. + +Passing through the hall on his way to the door, he catches up a heavy +plaid that happens to be lying there, on a side-couch, and, springing +into the open trap outside, drives away quickly under the pale cold rays +of the moon. + +He has refused to take any of the servants with him, and so, alone with +his thoughts, follows the road that leads to Steynemore. + +They are not pleasant thoughts. Being only a man, he has accepted Miss +Beauchamp's pretended doubts about Lilian's safety as real, and almost +persuades himself his present journey will bear him only bitter +disappointment. As to what he is going to do if Lilian has not been seen +at Steynemore, that is a matter on which he refuses to speculate. +Drawing near the house, his suspense and fear grow almost beyond bounds. +Dismounting at the hall-door, which stands partly open, he flings the +reins to Jericho, and going into the hall, turns in the direction of the +drawing-room. + +While he stands without, trying to summon courage to enter boldly, and +literally trembling with suppressed anxiety, a low soft laugh breaks +upon his ear. As he hears it, the blood rushes to his face; +involuntarily he raises his hand to his throat, and then (and only then) +quite realizes how awful has been the terror that for four long hours +has been consuming him. + +The next instant, cold and collected, he turns the handle of the door, +and goes in. + +Upon a low seat opposite Mabel Steyne sits Lilian, evidently in the +gayest spirits. No shadow of depression, no thought of all the mental +agony he has been enduring, mars the brightness of her _mignonne_ face. +She is laughing. Her lustrous azure eyes are turned upward to her +friend, who is laughing also in apparent appreciation of her guest's +jest; her parted lips make merry dimples in her cheeks; her whole face +is full of soft lines of amusement. + +As Guy comes in, Mabel rises with a little exclamation, and goes toward +him with outstretched hands. + +"Why, Guy!" she says, "good boy! Have you come for Lilian? I was just +going to order the carriage to send her home. Did you walk or drive?" + +"I drove." He has studiously since his entrance kept his eyes from +Lilian. The smile has faded from her lips, the happy light from her +eyes; she has turned a pale, proud little face to the fire, away from +her guardian. + +"I made Lilian stay to dinner," says Mabel, who is too clever not to +have remarked the painful constraint existing between her guest and Sir +Guy. "Tom has been out all day shooting and dining at the Bellairs, so I +entreated her to stay and bear me company. Won't you sit down for a +while? It is early yet; there cannot be any hurry." + +"No, thank you. My mother has a bad headache, and, as she does not know +where Lilian is, I think it better to get home." + +"Oh, if auntie has a headache, of course----" + +"I shall go and put on my hat," says Lilian, speaking for the first +time, and rising with slow reluctance from her seat. "Don't stir, Mab: I +shan't be a minute: my things are all in the next room." + +"Lilian is not very well, I fear," Mrs. Steyne says, when the door has +closed upon her, "or else something has annoyed her. I am not sure +which," with a quick glance at him. "She would eat no dinner, and her +spirits are very fitful. But she did not tell me what was the matter, +and I did not like to ask her. She is certainly vexed about something, +and it is a shame she should be made unhappy, poor pretty child!" with +another quick glance. + +"I thought she seemed in radiant spirits just now," remarks Guy, coldly. + +"Yes; but half an hour ago she was so depressed I was quite uneasy about +her: that is why I used the word 'fitful.' Get her to eat something +before she goes to bed," says kindly Mabel, in an undertone, as Lilian +returns equipped for her journey. "Good-night, dear," kissing her. "Have +you wraps, Guy?" + +"Yes, plenty. Good-night." And Mabel, standing on the door-steps, +watches them until they have vanished beneath the starlight. + +It is a dark but very lovely night. Far above them in the dim serene +blue a fair young crescent moon rides bravely. As yet but a few stars +are visible, and they gleam and shiver and twinkle in the eternal dome, +restless as the hearts of the two beings now gazing silently upon their +beauty. + + + "Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, + Blossomed the lonely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels." + + +A creeping shadow lies among the trees; a certain sense of loneliness +dwells in the long avenue of Steynemore as they pass beneath the +branches of the overhanging foliage. A quick wind rustles by them, sad +as a sigh from Nature's suffering breast, chill as the sense of injury +that hangs upon their own bosoms. + +Coming out upon the unshaded road, a greater light falls upon them. The +darkness seems less drear, the feeling of separation more remote, though +still Pride sits with triumphant mien between them, with his great wings +outspread to conceal effectually any penitent glance or thought. The +tender pensive beauty of the growing night is almost lost upon them. + + + "All round was still and calm; the noon of night + Was fast approaching; up th' unclouded sky + The glorious moon pursued her path of light, + And shed a silv'ry splendor far and nigh; + No sound, save of the night-wind's gentlest sigh, + Could reach the ear." + + +A dead silence reigns between them: they both gaze with admirable +perseverance at the horse's ears. Never before has that good animal been +troubled by two such steady stares. Then Lilian stirs slightly, and a +little chattering sound escapes her, that rouses Guy to speech. + +"You are tired?" he says, in freezing tones. + +"Very." + +"Cold?" + +"_Very._" + +"Then put this round you," disagreeably, but with evident anxiety, +producing the cozy plaid. + +"No, thank you." + +"Why?" surprised. + +"Because it is yours," replies she, with such open and childish spite as +at any other time would have brought a smile to his lips. Now it brings +only a dull pain to his heart. + +"I am sorry I only brought what you will not wear," he answers: "it did +not occur to me you might carry your dislike to me even to my clothes. +In future I shall be wiser." + +Silence. + +"Do put it on!" anxiously: "you were coughing all last week." + +"I wouldn't be hypocritical, if I were you," with withering scorn. "I +feel sure it would be a matter for rejoicing, where you are concerned, +if I coughed all next week, and the week after. No: keep your plaid." + +"You are the most willful girl I ever met," wrathfully. + +"No doubt. I dare say you have met only angels. I am not one, I rejoice +to say. Florence is, you know; and one piece of perfection should be +enough in any household." + +Silence again. Not a sound upon the night-air but the clatter of the +horse's feet as he covers bravely the crisp dry road, and the rushing of +the wind. It is a cold wind, sharp and wintry. It whistles past them, +now they have gained the side of the bare moor, with cruel keenness, +cutting uncivilly the tops of their ears, and making them sink their +necks lower in their coverings. + +Miss Chesney's small hands lie naked upon the rug. Even in the +indistinct light he knows that they are shivering and almost blue. + +"Where are your gloves?" he asks, when he can bear the enforced +stillness no longer. + +"I forgot them at Mabel's." + +Impulsively he lays his own bare hand upon hers, and finds it chilled, +nearly freezing. + +"Keep your hands inside the rug," he says, angrily, though there is a +strong current of pain underlying the anger, "and put this shawl on you +directly." + +"I will not," says Lilian, though in truth she is dying for it. + +"You shall," returns Chetwoode, quietly, in a tone he seldom uses, but +which, when used, is seldom disobeyed. Lilian submits to the muffling in +silence, and, though outwardly ungrateful, is inwardly honestly rejoiced +at it. As he fastens it beneath her chin, he stoops his head, until his +eyes are on a level with hers. + +"Was it kind of you, or proper, do you think, to make me so--so uneasy +as I have been all this afternoon and evening?" he asks, compelling her +to return his gaze. + +"Were you uneasy?" says Miss Chesney, viciously and utterly +unrepenting: "I am glad of it." + +"Was it part of your plan to make my mother wretched also?" This is a +slight exaggeration, as Lady Chetwoode has not even been bordering on +the "wretched," and is, in fact, up to the present moment totally +ignorant of Lilian's absence. + +"I certainly did not mean to make dear auntie unhappy," in a +faintly-troubled tone. "But I shall tell her all the truth, and ask her +pardon, when I get home,--_back_, I mean," with studied correction of +the sweet word. + +"What is the truth?" + +"First, that I broke her lovely cup. And then I shall tell her why I +stayed so long at Steynemore." + +"And what will that be?" + +"You know very well. I shall just say to her, 'Auntie, your son, Sir +Guy, behaved so rudely to me this afternoon, I was obliged to leave +Chetwoode for a while.' Then she will forgive me." + +Sir Guy laughs in spite of himself; and Lilian, could he only have +peeped into the deep recesses of the plaid, might also be plainly seen +with her pretty lips apart and all her naughty bewitching face dimpling +with laughter. + +These frivolous symptoms are, however, rapidly and sternly suppressed on +both sides. + +"I really cannot see what awful crime I have committed to make you so +taciturn," she says, presently, with a view to discussing the subject. +"I merely went for a drive with my cousin, as he should pass Steynemore +on his way to the station." + +"Perhaps that was just what made my misery," softly. + +"What! my going for a short drive with Archie? Really, Sir Guy, you will +soon be taken as a model of propriety. Poor old Archie! I am afraid I +shan't be able to make you miserable in that way again for a very long +time. How I wish those tiresome lawyers would let him alone!" + +"Ask them to surrender him," says Guy, irritably. + +"I would,"--cheerfully,--"if I thought it would do the least good. But I +know they are all made of adamant." + +"Lilian,"--suddenly, unexpectedly,--"is there anything between you and +your cousin?" + +"Who?"--with wide, innocent, suspiciously innocent eyes,--"Taffy?" + +"No," impatiently: "of course I mean Chesney," looking at her with +devouring interest. + +"Yes,"--disconsolately, with a desire for revenge,--"more miles than I +care to count." + +"I feel"--steadily--"it is a gross rudeness my asking, and I know you +need not answer me unless you like; but"--with a quick breath--"try to +answer my question. Has anything passed between you and Chesney?" + +"Not much," mildly: "one thrilling love-letter, and that ring." + +"He never asked you to marry him?" with renewed hope. + +"Oh, by the bye, I quite forgot that," indifferently. "Yes, he did ask +me so much." + +"And you refused him?" asks Guy, eagerly, intensely, growing white and +cold beneath the moon's pitiless rays, that seem to take a heartless +pleasure in lighting up his agitated face at this moment. But Lilian's +eyes are turned away from his: so this degradation is spared him. + +"No--n--o, not exactly," replies she. + +"You accepted him?" with dry lips and growing despair. + +"N--o, not exactly," again returns Miss Chesney, with affected +hesitation. + +"Then what _did_ you do?" passionately, his impatient fear getting the +better of his temper. + +"I don't feel myself at liberty to tell you," retorts Lilian, with a +provoking assumption of dignity. + +Sir Guy looks as though he would like to give her a good shake, though +indeed it is quite a question whether he has even the spirits for so +much. He relapses into sulky silence, and makes no further attempt at +conversation. + +"However," says Lilian, to whom silence is always irksome, "I don't mind +telling you what I shall do if he asks me again." + +"What?" almost indifferently. + +"I shall accept him." + +"You will do very wisely," in a clear though constrained voice that +doesn't altogether impose upon Lilian, but nevertheless disagrees with +her. "He is very rich, very handsome, and a very good fellow all round." + +"I don't much care about good fellows," perversely: "they are generally +deadly slow; I am almost sure I prefer the other sort. I am afraid mine +is not a well-regulated mind, as I confess I always feel more kindly +disposed toward a man when I hear something bad of him." + +"Perhaps if I told you something bad about myself it might make you feel +more kindly disposed toward me," with a slight smile. + +"Perhaps it might. But I believe you are incapable of a bad action. +Besides, if I felt myself going to like you, I should stop myself +instantly." + +A pained hurt expression falls into his eyes. + +"I think," he says, very gently, "you must make a point of reserving all +your cruel speeches for me alone. Do you guess how they hurt, child? No, +I am sure you do not: your face is far too sweet to belong to one who +would willingly inflict pain. Am I to be always despised and hated? Why +will you never be friends with me?" + +"Because"--in a very low whisper--"you are so seldom good to me." + +"Am I? You will never know how hard I try to be. But"--taking her hand +in his--"my efforts are always vain." He glances sorrowfully at the +little hand he holds, and then at the pretty face beneath the velvet hat +so near him. Lilian does not return his glance: her eyes are lowered, +her other hand is straying nervously over the tiger-skin that covers her +knees; they have forgotten all about the cold, the dreary night, +everything; for a full half mile they drive on thus silently, her hand +resting unresistingly in his; after which he again breaks the quiet that +exists between them. + +"Did you mean what you said a little time ago about Chetwoode not being +your home?" + +"I suppose so," in a rather changed and far softer tone. "Yes. What +claim have I on Chetwoode?" + +"But your tone implied that if even you had a claim it would be +distasteful to you." + +"Did it?" + +"Don't you know it did?" + +"Well, perhaps I didn't mean quite that. Did _you_ mean all you said +this morning?" + +"Not all, I suppose." + +"How much of it, then?" + +"Unless I were to go through the whole of our conversation again, I +could not tell you that, and I have no wish to do so: to be pained"--in +a low voice--"as I have been, once in a day is surely sufficient." + +"Don't imagine I feel the least sorrow for you," says Lilian, making a +wild attempt at recovering her ill humor, which has melted and vanished +away. + +"I don't imagine it. How could I? One can scarcely feel sorrow or pity +for a person whom one openly professes to 'hate' and 'despise,'" +markedly, while searching her face anxiously with his eyes. + +Miss Chesney pauses. A short but sharp battle takes place within her +breast. Then she raises her face and meets his eyes, while a faint sweet +smile grows within her own: impelled half by a feeling of coquetry, half +by a desire to atone, she lets the fingers he has still imprisoned close +with the daintiest pressure upon his. + +"Perhaps," she whispers, leaning a little toward him, and raising her +lips very close to his cheek as though afraid of being heard by the +intrusive wind, "perhaps I did not quite mean that either." + +Then, seeing how his whole expression changes and brightens, she half +regrets her tender speech, and says instantly, in her most unsentimental +fashion: + +"Pray, Sir Guy, are you going to make your horse walk all the way home? +Can you not pity the sorrows of a poor little ward? I am absolutely +frozen: do stir him up, lazy fellow, or I shall get out and run. Surely +it is too late in the year for nocturnal rambles." + +"If my life depended upon it, I don't believe I could make him go a bit +faster," returns he, telling his lie unblushingly. + +"I forgot you were disabled," says Miss Chesney, demurely, letting her +long lashes droop until they partially (but only partially) conceal her +eyes from her guardian. "How remiss I am! When one has only got the use +of one hand, one can do so little; perhaps"--preparing to withdraw her +fingers slowly, lingeringly from his--"if I were to restore you both +yours, you might be able to persuade that horse to take us home before +morning." + +"I beg you will give yourself no trouble on my account," says Guy, +hastily: "I don't want anything restored. And if you are really anxious +to get 'home'"--with a pleased and grateful smile, "I feel sure I shall +be able to manage this slow brute single-handed." + +So saying, he touches up the good animal in question rather smartly, +which so astonishes the willing creature that he takes to his heels, and +never draws breath until he pulls up before the hall door at Chetwoode. + +"Parkins, get us some supper in the library," says Sir Guy, addressing +the ancient butler as he enters: "the drive has given Miss Chesney and +me an appetite." + +"Yes, Sir Guy, directly," says Parkins, and, going down-stairs to the +other servants, gives it as his opinion that "Sir Guy and Miss Chesney +are going to make a match of it. For when two couples," says Mr. +Parkins, who is at all times rather dim about the exact meaning of his +sentences, "when two couples takes to eating _teet-a-teet_, it is all up +with 'em." + +Whereupon cook says, "Lor!" which is her usual expletive, and means +anything and everything; and Jane, the upper housemaid, who has a +weakness for old Parkins's sayings, tells him with a flattering smile +that he is "dreadful knowin'." + +Meantime, Sir Guy having ascertained that Miss Beauchamp has gone to her +room, and that his mother is better, and asleep, he and Lilian repair to +the library, where a cozy supper is awaiting them, and a cheerful fire +burning. + +Now that they are again in-doors, out of the friendly darkness, with the +full light of several lamps upon them, a second edition of their early +restraint--milder, perhaps, but still oppressive--most unaccountably +falls between them. + +Silently, and very gently, but somewhat distantly, he unfolds the plaid +from round her slight figure, and, drawing a chair for her to the table, +seats himself at a decided distance. Then he asks her with exemplary +politeness what she will have, and she answers him; then he helps her, +and then he helps himself; and then they both wonder secretly what the +other is going to say next. + +But Lilian, who is fighting with a wild desire for laughter, and who is +in her airiest mood, through having been compelled, by pride, to +suppress all day her usual good spirits, decides on making a final +effort at breaking down the barrier between them. + +Raising the glass of wine beside her, she touches it lightly with her +lips, and says, gayly: + +"Come, fill, and pledge me, Sir Guy. But stay; first let me give you a +little quotation that I hope will fall as a drop of nectar into your cup +and chase that nasty little frown from your brow. Have I your leave to +speak?" with a suspicion of coquetry in her manner. + +Chetwoode's handsome lips part in a pleased smile: he turns his face +gladly, willingly, to hers. + +"Why do you ask permission of your slave, O Queen of Hearts?" he +answers, softly, catching the infection of her gayety. He gazes at her +with unchecked and growing admiration, his whole heart in his eyes; +telling himself, as he has told himself a thousand times before, that +to-night she is looking her fairest. + +Her cheeks are flushed from her late drive; one or two glittering golden +lovelocks have been driven by the rough wind from their natural +resting-place, and now lie in gracious disorder on her white forehead; +her lustrous sapphire eyes are gleaming upon him, full of unsubdued +laughter; her lips are parted, showing all the small even teeth within. + +She stoops toward him, and clinking her glass against his with the +prettiest show of _bonne camaraderie_, whispers, softly: + + + "Come, let us be happy together." + + +"Together!" repeats Guy, unsteadily, losing his head, and rising +abruptly from his seat as though to go to her. She half rises also, +seriously frightened at the unexpected effect of her mad words. What is +he going to say to her? What folly urged her on to repeat that +ridiculous line? The idea of flight has just time to cross her mind, but +not time to be acted upon, when the door is thrown open suddenly, and +Cyril--who has at this moment returned from his dinner party--entering +noisily, comes to her rescue. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + + "I have some naked thoughts that roam about + And loudly knock to have their passage out."--MILTON. + + +It goes without telling that Lilian gains the day, Guy's one solitary +attempt at mastery having failed ignominiously. She persists in her +allegiance to her friend, and visits The Cottage regularly as ever; +being even more tender than usual in her manner toward Cecilia, as she +recollects the narrowness of him who could (as she believes) without +cause condemn her. And Sir Guy, though resenting her defiance of his +wishes, and smarting under the knowledge of it, accepts defeat humbly, +and never again refers to the subject of the widow, which henceforth is +a tabooed one between them. + +Soon after this, indeed, an event occurs that puts an end to all reason +why Lilian should not be as friendly with Mrs. Arlington as she may +choose. One afternoon, most unexpectedly, Colonel Trant, coming to +Chetwoode, demands a private interview with Sir Guy. Some faint breaths +of the scandal that so closely and dishonorably connects his name with +Cecilia's have reached his ears, and, knowing of her engagement with +Cyril, he has hastened to Chetwoode to clear her in the eyes of its +world. + +Without apology, he treats Guy to a succinct and studied account of +Cecilia's history,--tells of all her sorrows, and gentle forbearance, +and innocence so falsely betrayed, nor even conceals from him his own +deep love for her, and his two rejections, but makes no mention of Cyril +throughout the interview. + +Guy, as he listens, grows remorseful, and full of self-reproach,--more, +perhaps, for the injustice done to his friend in his thoughts, than for +all the harsh words used toward Mrs. Arlington, though he is too +clean-bred not to regret that also. + +He still shrinks from all idea of Cecilia as a wife for Cyril. The +daughter of a man who, though of good birth, was too sharp in his +dealings for decent society, and the wife of a man, who, though rich in +worldly goods, had no pretensions to be a gentleman at all, could +certainly be no mate for a Chetwoode. A woman of no social standing +whatsoever, with presumably only a pretty face for a dowry,--Cyril must +be mad to dream of her! For him, Guy, want of fortune need not signify; +but for Cyril, with his expensive habits, to think of settling down with +a wife on nine hundred a year is simply folly. + +And then Cyril's brother thinks with regret of a certain Lady Fanny +Stapleton, who, it is a notorious fact, might be had by Cyril for the +asking. Guy himself, it may be remarked, would not have Lady Fanny at +any price, she being rather wanting in the matter of nose and neck; but +younger brothers have no right to cultivate fastidious tastes, and her +snubby ladyship has a great admiration for Cyril, and a fabulous +fortune. + +All the time Trant is singing Cecilia's praises, Guy is secretly sighing +over Lady Fanny and her comfortable thousands, and is wishing The +Cottage had been knocked into fine dust before Mrs. Arlington had +expressed a desire to reside there. + +Nevertheless he is very gentle in his manner toward his former colonel +all the day, spending with him every minute he stays, and going with him +to the railway station when at night he decides on returning to town. +Inwardly he knows he would like to ask his forgiveness for the wrong he +has done him in his thoughts, but hardly thinks it wisdom to let him +know how guilty toward him he has been. Cyril, he is fully persuaded, +will never betray him; and he shrinks from confessing what would +probably only cause pain and create an eternal breach between them. + +However, his conscience so far smites him that he does still further +penance toward the close of the evening. + +Meeting Cyril on his way to dress just before dinner, he stops him. + +"If you will accept an apology from me so late in the day," he says, "I +now offer you one for what I said of Mrs. Arlington some time since. +Trant has told me all the truth. I wronged her grossly, although"--with +a faint touch of bitterness--"when I _lied_ about her I did so +unconsciously." + +"Don't say another word, old man," says Cyril, heartily, and much +gratified, laying his hand lightly upon his shoulder. "I knew you would +discover your mistake in time. I confess at the moment it vexed me you +should lend yourself to the spreading of such an absurd report." + +"Yes, I was wrong." Then, with some hesitation, "Still, there was an +excuse for me. We knew nothing of her. We know nothing still that we can +care to know." + +"How you worry yourself!" says Cyril, with a careless shrug, letting his +hand, however, drop from his brother's shoulder, as he fully understands +the drift of his conversation. "Why can't you let things slide as I do? +It is no end a better plan." + +"I am only thinking of a remark you made a long time ago," replies Guy, +with a laugh, partially deceived by Cyril's indifferent manner: "shall I +remind you of it? 'Samivel, Samivel, my son, never marry a widder.'" + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + + "_Hel._--How happy some, o'er other some can be!" + --_Midsummer Night's Dream._ + + +It is very close on Christmas; another week will bring in the +twenty-fifth of December, with all its absurd affectation of merriment +and light-heartedness. + +Is any one, except a child, ever really happy at Christmas, I wonder? Is +it then one chooses to forget the loved and lost? to thrust out of sight +the regrets that goad and burn? Nay, rather, is it not then our hearts +bleed most freely, while our eyes grow dim with useless tears, and a +great sorrow that touches on despair falls upon us, as we look upon the +vacant seat and grow sick with longing for the "days that are no more?" + +Surely it is then we learn how vain is our determination to forget those +unobtrusive ones who cannot by voice or touch demand attention. The +haunting face, that once full of youth and beauty was all the world to +us, rises from its chill shroud and dares us to be happy. The poor eyes, +once so sweet, so full of gayest laughter, now closed and mute forever, +gleam upon us, perchance across the flowers and fruit, and, checking the +living smile upon our lips, ask us reproachfully how is it with us, that +we can so quickly shut from them the doors of our hearts, after all our +passionate protests, our vows ever to remember. + +Oh, how soon, how _soon_, do we cease our lamentations for our silent +dead! + +When all is told, old Father Christmas is a mighty humbug: so I say and +think, but I would not have you agree with me. Forgive me this +unorthodox sentiment, and let us return to our--lamb! + +Archibald has returned to Chetwoode; so has Taffy. The latter is looking +bigger, fuller, and, as Mrs. Tipping says, examining him through her +spectacles with a criticising air, "more the man," to his intense +disgust. He embraces Lilian and Lady Chetwoode, and very nearly Miss +Beauchamp, on his arrival, in the exuberance of his joy at finding +himself once more within their doors, and is welcomed with effusion by +every individual member of the household. + +Archibald, on the contrary, appears rather done up, and faded, and, +though evidently happy at being again in his old quarters, still seems +sad at heart, and discontented. + +He follows Lilian's movements in a very melancholy fashion, and herself +also, until it becomes apparent to every one that his depression arises +from his increasing infatuation for her; while she, to do her justice, +hardly pretends to encourage him at all. He lives in contemplation of +her beauty and her saucy ways, and is unmistakably _distrait_ when +circumstances call her from his sight. + +In his case "absence" has indeed made the heart grow fonder, as he is, +if possible, more imbecile about her now than when he left, and, after +struggling with his feelings for a few days, finally makes up his mind +to tempt fortune again, and lay himself and his possessions at his +idol's feet. + + * * * * * + +It is the wettest of wet days; against the window-panes the angry +rain-drops are flinging themselves madly, as though desirous of entering +and rendering more dismal the room within, which happens to be the +library. + +Sir Guy is standing at the bow-window, gazing disconsolately upon the +blurred scene outside. Cyril is lounging in an easy chair with a +magazine before him, making a very creditable attempt at reading. +Archibald and Taffy are indulging in a mild bet as to which occupant of +the room will make the first remark. + +Lady Chetwoode is knitting her one hundred and twenty-fourth sock for +the year. Lilian is dreaming, with her large eyes fixed upon the fire. +The inestimable Florence (need I say it?) is smothered in crewel wools, +and is putting a rose-colored eye into her already quite too fearful +parrot. + +"I wonder what we shall do all day," says Guy, suddenly, in tones of the +deepest melancholy. Whereupon Taffy, who has been betting on Cyril, and +Chesney, who has been laying on Lilian, are naturally, though secretly +indignant. + +"Just what we have been doing all the rest of the day,--nothing," +replies Lilian, lazily: "could anything be more desirable?" + +"I hope it will be fine to-morrow," says Mr. Musgrave, in an aggrieved +voice. "But it won't, I shouldn't wonder, just because the meet is to +be at Bellairs, and one always puts in such a good day there." + +"I haven't got enough pluck to think of to-morrow," says Guy, still +melancholy: "to-day engrosses all my thoughts. What _is_ to become of +us?" + +"Let us get up a spelling-bee," says Miss Beauchamp, with cheerful +alacrity; "they are so amusing." + +"Oh, don't! please, Miss Beauchamp, don't," entreats Taffy, +tearfully,--"unless you want to disgrace me eternally. I can't spell +anything; and, even if I could, the very fact of having a word hurled at +my head would make me forget all about it, even were it an old +acquaintance." + +"But, my dear fellow," says Cyril, laying down his "Temple Bar," with +all the air of a man prepared to argue until he and his adversary are +black in the face, "that is the fun of the whole matter. If you spelled +well you would be looked upon as a swindler. The greater mistakes you +make, the more delighted we shall be; and if you could only succeed like +that man in 'Caste' in spelling character with a K, we should give you +two or three rounds of applause. People never get up spelling-bees to +hear good spelling: the discomfiture of their neighbors is what amuses +them most. Have I relieved your mind?" + +"Tremendously. Nevertheless, I fling myself upon your tender mercies, +Miss Beauchamp, and don't let us go in for spelling." + +"Then let us have an historical-bee," substitutes Florence, amiably; she +is always tender where Taffy is concerned. + +"The very thing," declares Cyril, getting up an expression of the +strongest hope. "Perhaps, if you do, I shall get answers to two or three +important questions that have been tormenting me for years. For +instance, I want to know whether the 'gossip's bowl' we read of was made +of Wedgwood or Worcester, and why our ancestors were so uncomfortable as +to take their tea out of 'dishes.' It must have got very cold, don't you +think? to say nothing at all of the inconvenience of being obliged to +lift it to one's lips with both hands." + +"It didn't mean an actual 'dish,'" replies Florence, forgetting the +parrot's rosy optic for a moment, in her desire to correct his +ignorance: "it was merely a term for what we now call cup." + +"No, was it?" says Cyril, with an affectation of intense astonishment; +whereupon they all laugh. + +"Talking of tea," says Lady Chetwoode, "I wonder where it is. Taffy, my +dear, will you ring the bell?" + +Tea is brought, tea is consumed; but still the rain rains on, and their +spirits are at zero. + +"I shall go out, 'hail, rain, or shine,'" says Cyril, springing to his +feet with sudden desperation. + +"So shall I," declares Guy, "to the stables. Taffy, will you come with +me?" + +"As nobody wants me," says Lilian, "I shall make a point of wanting +somebody. Archie, come and have a game of billiards with me before +dinner." + +"My dear Guy, does it not still rain very hard?" protests Florence, +anxiously. + +"Very," laughing. + +"You will get wet," with increasing anxiety, and a tender glance +cleverly directed. + +"Wet! he will get drenched," exclaims Cyril; "he will probably get his +death of cold, and die of inflammation of the lungs. It is horrible to +think of it! Guy, be warned; accept Florence's invitation to stay here +with her, and be happy and dry. As sure as you are out to-day, you may +prepare to shed this mortal coil." + +"Forgive me, Florence, I must go or suffocate," says Guy, refusing to be +warned, or to accept Miss Beauchamp's delicate hint: and together he and +Musgrave sally forth to inspect the stables, while Lilian and Archibald +retire to the billiard-room. + +When they have played for some time, and Archibald has meanly allowed +Lilian to win all the games under the mistaken impression that he is +thereby cajoling her into staying with him longer than she otherwise +might have done, she suddenly destroys the illusion by throwing down her +cue impatiently, and saying, with a delicious little pout: + +"I hate playing with people who know nothing about the game! there is no +excitement in it. I remark when I play with you I always win. You're a +regular muff at billiards, Archie; that's what _you_ are." + +This is a severe blow to Archie's pride, who is a first-class hand at +billiards; but he grins and bears it. + +"If you will give me a few more lessons," he says, humbly, "I dare say I +shall improve." + +"No, I can't afford to waste my time, and you are too tiresome. Let us +go into the drawing-room." + +"Rather let us stay here for a while," he says, earnestly. "They are all +out, and I--I have something to say to you." + +During the last half-hour one of the men has come in and given the fire +a poke and lit the lamps, so that the room looks quite seductive. Miss +Chesney, glancing doubtfully round, acknowledges so much, and prepares +to give in. + +"I hope it is something pleasant," she says, _àpropos_ of Archie's last +remark. "You have been looking downright miserable for days. I hope +sincerely, you are not going melancholy mad, but I have my doubts of it. +What is the matter with you, Archie? You used to be quite a charming +companion, but now you are very much the reverse. Sometimes, when with +you, your appearance is so dejected that if I smile I feel absolutely +heartless. Do try to cheer up, there's a good boy." + +"A fellow can't be always simpering, especially when he is wretched," +retorts he, moodily. + +"Then don't be wretched. That is the very thing to which I object. You +are the very last man in the world who ought to suffer from the blues. +Anything wrong with you?" + +"Everything. I love a woman who doesn't care in the very least for me." + +"Oh, so that is what you have been doing in London, is it?" says Lilian, +after a short pause that makes her words still more impressive. "I +certainly did think you weren't in a very great hurry to return, and +that you looked rather blighted when you did come. I doubt you have been +dancing the 'Geliebt und verloren' waltzes once too often. Did she +refuse you?" + +"I love you, Lilian, and only you," returns he, reproachfully. "No, do +not turn from me; let me plead my cause once more. Darling, I have +indeed tried to live without you, and have failed; if you reject me +again you will drive me to destruction. Lilian, be merciful; say +something kind to me." + +"You promised me," says Lilian, nervously, moving away from him, "never +to speak on this subject again. Oh, why is it that some people will +insist on falling in love with other people? There is something so +stupid about it. Now, _I_ never fall in love; why cannot you follow my +good example?" + +"I am not bloodless, or----" + +"Neither am I," holding up her pretty hand between her and the fire, so +that the rich blood shows through the closed fingers of it. "But I have +common sense, the one thing you lack." + +"_You_ are the one thing I lack," possessing himself of her hand and +kissing it fatuously. "Without you I lack everything. Beloved, must I +learn to look upon you as my curse? Give me, I entreat you, one little +word of encouragement, if only one; I starve for want of it. If you only +knew how I have clung for months, and am still clinging, to the barest +shadow of a hope, you would think twice before you destroyed that one +faint gleam of happiness." + +"This is dreadful," says Lilian, piteously, the ready tears gathering in +her eyes. "Would you marry a woman who does not love you?" + +"I would,"--eagerly,--"when that woman assures me she does not love +another, and I have your word for that." + +Lilian winces. Then, trying to recover her spirits: + +"'What one suffers for one's country--_men_!'" she misquotes, with an +affectation of lightness. "Archie, billiards have a demoralizing effect +upon you. I shan't play with you again." + +"I don't want to bribe you," says Chesney, turning a little pale, and +declining to notice her interruption; "I should be sorry to think I +could do so; but I have ten thousand a year, and if you will marry me +you shall have a thousand a year pin-money, and five thousand if you +survive me." + +"It would spoil my entire life fearing I shouldn't survive you," says +Miss Chesney, who, in spite of her nervousness, or because of it, is +longing to laugh. + +"You will, you need not be afraid of that." + +"It sounds dazzling," murmurs Lilian, "more especially when you give me +your word you will die first; but still I think it downright shabby you +don't offer me the whole ten." + +"So I will!"--eagerly--"if----" + +"Nonsense, Archie," hastily: "don't be absurd. Cannot you see I am only +in jest? I am not going to marry any one, as I told you before. Come +now,"--anxiously,--"don't look so dismal. You know I am very, _very_ +fond of you, but after all one cannot marry every one one is fond of." + +"I suppose not," gloomily. + +"Then do try to look a little pleasanter. They will all notice your +depression when we return to them." + +"I don't care," with increasing gloom. + +"But I do. Archie, look here, dear,"--taking the high and moral +tone,--"do you think it is right of you to go on like this, just as +if----" + +"I don't care a hang what is right, or what is wrong," says Mr. Chesney, +with considerable vehemence. "I only know you are the only woman I ever +really cared for, and you won't have me. Nothing else is of the +slightest consequence." + +"I am not the only woman in the world. Time will show you there are +others ten times nicer and lovelier." + +"I don't believe it." + +"Because you don't wish to," angrily. "In the first place, I am far too +small to be lovely." + +"You are tall enough for my fancy." + +"And my mouth is too large," with growing irritation. + +"It is small enough for my taste." + +"And sometimes, when the summer is very hot, my skin gets quite +_freckled_," with increasing warmth. + +"I adore freckles. I think no woman perfect without them." + +"I don't believe you," indignantly; "and at all events I have a horrible +temper, and I defy you to say you like _that_!" triumphantly. + +"I do," mournfully. "The hardest part of my unfortunate case is this, +that the unkinder you are to me the more I love you." + +"Then I won't have you love me," says Miss Chesney, almost in tears: "do +you hear me? I forbid you to do it any more. It is extremely rude of you +to keep on caring for me when you know I don't like it." + +"Look here, Lilian," says Archie, taking both her hands, "give me a +little hope, a bare crumb to live on, and I will say no more." + +"I cannot, indeed," deeply depressed. + +"Why? Do you love any other fellow?" + +"Certainly not," with suspicious haste. + +"Then I shall wait yet another while, and then ask you again." + +"Oh, don't!" exclaims Lilian, desperately: "I _beg_ you won't. If I +thought I was going to have these scenes all over again at intervals, it +would kill me, and I should learn to hate you. I should, indeed; and +then what would you do? Think of it." + +"I won't," doggedly; "I often heard 'Faint heart never won fair lady,' +and I shall take my chance. I shall never give you up, so long as you +are not engaged to any other man." + +There is a pause. Lilian's blue eyes are full of tears that threaten +every moment to overflow and run down her pale cheeks. She is +desperately sorry for Archibald, the more so that her heart tells her +she will never be able to give him the consolation that alone can do him +any good. Seeing the expression of tender regret that softens her face, +Archibald falls suddenly upon his knees before her, and, pressing his +lips to her hands, murmurs, in deep agitation: + +"My own, my dearest, is there no pity in your kind heart for me?" + +At this most unlucky moment Sir Guy lays his hand upon the door, and +pushing it lightly open, enters. Five minutes later all the world might +have entered freely, but just now the entrance of this one man causes +unutterable pain. + +Archibald has barely time to scramble to his feet; the tears are still +wet on Lilian's cheeks; altogether it is an unmistakable situation, and +Guy turns cold and pale as he recognizes it as such. Chesney on his +knees, with Lilian's hands imprisoned in his own; Lilian in tears,--what +can it mean but a violent love scene? Probably they have been +quarreling, and have just made it up again. "The falling out of faithful +friends, but the renewal is of love." + +As he meets Lilian's shamed eyes, and marks the rich warm crimson that +has mantled in her cheeks, Chetwoode would have beaten a precipitous +retreat, but is prevented by Taffy's following on his heels somewhat +noisily. + +"It is a charming night, Lil," says that young man, with his usual +_bonhommie_. "The rain is a thing of the past. We shall have our run +after all to-morrow." + +"Indeed! I am glad of that," replies Lilian, half indifferently; though +being the woman of the party, she is of course the quickest to recover +self-possession. "I should have died of despair had the morning proved +unkind." + +"Well, you needn't die for a while. I say, Lil," says Mr. Musgrave, +regarding her curiously, "what's the matter with you, eh? You look +awfully down in the mouth. Anything wrong?" + +"Nothing," sharply: "what should be?" + +"Can't say, I'm sure. But your cheeks," persists this miserable boy, +"are as red as fire." + +"I--that is--it _was_ the fire," confusedly, directing a wrathful glance +at him, which is completely thrown away, as Mr. Musgrave is impervious +to hints: "I was sitting close to it." + +"That goes without telling. Any one would imagine by your color, you had +been put upon the hob to simmer. By the bye,"--a most fortunate access +of ignorance carrying his thoughts into another channel,--"what is a +hob? I don't believe I ever saw one." + +"Hob, substantive, short for goblin: as hobgoblin," says Cyril at this +moment, having entered, how, or from where, nobody knows. "Still bent +upon historical research?" + +"It has something to do with kettles, I think," says Taffy. "I don't +quite believe your meaning for it." + +"Don't you? I am sorry for you. I do. But some people never will learn." + +"That is true," says Lilian, somewhat abruptly. Involuntarily her eyes +fall on Chesney. He has been staring in moody silence at the fire since +Chetwoode's entrance, but now, at her words, straightens himself, and +gives way to a low, rather forced, laugh. + +"_Experientia docet_," says Guy, in a queer tone impossible to +translate. "Time is a stern school-master, who compels us against our +will,"--letting his eyes meet Lilian's--"to learn many things." + +"It has taught me one thing," puts in Cyril, who looks half +amused,--"that the dressing-bell has rung some time since." + +"Has it?" says Lilian, rising with alacrity, and directing a very +grateful glance at him: "I never heard it. I shall scarcely have time +now to get ready for dinner. Why did you not tell me before?" + +As she speaks, she sweeps by him, and he, catching her hand, detains her +momentarily. + +"Because, when one is not in the habit of it, one takes time to form a +good tarradiddle," replies he, in a soft whisper. + +She returns his kindly pressure, and, going into the hall, finds that +full five minutes must elapse before the bell really rings. + +"Dear Cyril!" she murmurs to herself, almost aloud, and, running up to +her room, cries a good deal upon nurse's breast before that kind +creature can induce her to change her gown. After which she gets into +her clothes, more because it would be indecent to go without them than +from any great desire to look her best. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + + "For now she knows it is no gentle chase. + + * * * * * + + She looks upon his lips, and they are pale; + She takes him by the hand, and that is cold; + She whispers in his ears a heavy tale, + As if they heard the woful words she told: + She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes, + Where lo! two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies. + + * * * * * + + Two glasses, where herself, herself beheld + A thousand times, and now no more reflect; + Their virtue lost, wherein they late excell'd, + And every beauty robb'd of his effect."--SHAKESPEARE. + + +"'A southern wind and a cloudy sky proclaim it a hunting morning,'" +quotes Miss Chesney, gayly, entering the breakfast-room at nine o'clock +next morning, looking, if anything, a degree more bewitching than usual +in her hat and habit: in her hand is a little gold-mounted riding-whip, +upon her lovable lips a warm, eager smile. "No one down but me!" she +says, "at least of the gentler sex. And Sir Guy presiding! what fun! +Archie, may I trouble you to get me some breakfast? Sir Guy, some tea, +please: I am as hungry as a hawk." + +Sir Guy pours her out a cup of tea, carefully, but silently. Archie, +gloomy, but attentive, places before her what she most fancies: Cyril +gets her a chair; Taffy brings her some toast: all are fondly dancing +attendance on the little spoiled fairy. + +"What are you looking at, Taffy?" asks she, presently, meeting her +cousin's blue eyes, that so oddly resemble her own, fixed upon her +immovably. + +"At you. There is something wrong with your hair," replies he, +unabashed: "some of the pins are coming out. Stay steady, and I'll wheel +you into line in no time." So saying, he adjusts the disorderly +hair-pin; while Chetwoode and Chesney, looking on, are consumed with +envy. + +"Thank you, dear," says Lilian, demurely, giving his hand a little +loving pat: "you are worth your weight in gold. Be sure you push it in +again during the day, if you see it growing unruly. What a delicious +morning it is!" glancing out of the window; "too desirable perhaps. I +hope none of us will break our necks." + +"Funky already, Lil?" says Taffy, with unpardonable impertinence. "Never +mind, darling, keep up your heart; I'm fit as a fiddle myself, and will +so far sacrifice my life as to promise you a lead whenever a copper +brings me in your vicinity. I shall keep you in mind, never fear." + +"I consider your remarks beneath notice, presumptuous boy," says Miss +Chesney, with such a scornful uplifting of her delicate face as +satisfies Taffy, who, being full of mischief, passes on to bestow his +pleasing attentions on the others of the party. Chesney first attracts +his notice. He is standing with his back to a screen, and has his eyes +fixed in moody contemplation on the floor. Melancholy on this occasion +has evidently marked him for her own. + +"What's up with you, old man? you look suicidal," says Mr. Musgrave, +stopping close to him, and giving him a rattling slap on the shoulder +that rather takes the curl out of him, leaving him limp, but full of +indignation. + +"Look here," he says, in an aggrieved tone, "I wish you wouldn't do +that, you know. Your hands, small and delicate as they are,"--Taffy's +hands, though shapely, are decidedly large,--"can hurt. If you go about +the world with such habits you will infallibly commit murder sooner or +later: I should bet on the sooner. One can never be sure, my dear +fellow, who has heart-disease and who has not." + +"Heart-disease means love with most fellows," says the irrepressible +Taffy, "and I have noticed you aren't half a one since your return from +London." At this _mal à propos_ speech both Lilian and Chesney change +color, and Guy, seeing their confusion, becomes miserable in turn, so +that breakfast is a distinct failure, Cyril and Musgrave alone being +capable of animated conversation. + +Half an hour later they are all in the saddle and are riding leisurely +toward Bellairs, which is some miles distant, through as keen a scenting +wind as any one could desire. + +At Grantley Farm they find every one before them, the hounds sniffing +and whimpering, the ancient M. F. H. cheery as is his wont, and a very +fair field. + +Mabel Steyne is here, mounted on a handsome bay mare that rather chafes +and rages under her mistress's detaining hand, while at some few yards' +distance from her is Tom, carefully got up, but sleepy as is his wont. +One can hardly credit that his indolent blue eyes a little later will +grow dark and eager as he scents the fray, and, steadying himself in his +saddle, makes up his mind to "do or die." + +Old General Newsance is plodding in and out among the latest arrivals, +prognosticating evil, and relating the "wondrous adventures" of half a +century ago, when (if he is to be believed) hounds had wings, and +hunters never knew fatigue. With him is old Lord Farnham, who has one +leg in his grave, literally speaking, having lost it in battle more +years ago than one cares to count, but who rides wonderfully +nevertheless, and is as young to speak to, or rather younger, than any +nineteenth-century man. + +Mabel Steyne is dividing her attentions between him and Taffy, when a +prolonged note from the hounds, and a quick cry of "gone away," startles +her into silence. Talkers are scattered, conversation forgotten, and +every one settles down into his or her saddle, ready and eager for the +day's work. + +Down the hill like a flash goes a good dog fox, past the small wood to +the right, through the spinnies, straight into the open beyond. The +scent is good, the pack lively: Lilian and Sir Guy are well to the +front; Archibald close beside them. Cyril to the left is even farther +ahead; while Taffy and Mabel Steyne can be seen a little lower down, +holding well together, Mabel, with her eyes bright and glowing with +excitement, sailing gallantly along on her handsome bay. + +After a time--the fox showing no signs of giving in--hedges and doubles +throw spaces in between the riders. Sir Guy is far away in the distance, +Taffy somewhat in the background; Cyril is out of sight; while Miss +Chesney finds herself now side by side with Archibald, who is riding +recklessly, and rather badly. They have just cleared a very +uncomfortable wall, that in cold blood would have damped their ardor, +only to find a more treacherous one awaiting them farther on, and +Lilian, turning her mare's head a little to the left, makes for a +quieter spot, and presently lands in the next field safe and sound. + +Archibald, however, holds on his original course, and Lilian, turning in +her saddle, watches with real terror his next movement. His horse, a +good one, rises gallantly, springs, and cleverly, though barely, brings +himself clear to the other side. Both he and his master are uninjured, +but it was a near thing, and makes Miss Chesney's heart beat with +unpleasant rapidity. + +"Archibald," she says, bringing herself close up to his side as they +gallop across the field, and turning a very white face to his, "I wish +you would not ride so recklessly: you will end by killing yourself if +you go on in this foolish fashion." + +Her late fear has added a little sharpness to her tone. + +"The sooner the better," replies he, bitterly. "What have I got to live +for? My life is of no use, either to myself or to any one else, as far +as I can see." + +"It is very wicked of you to talk so!" angrily. + +"Is it? You should have thought of that before you made me think so. As +it is, I am not in the humor for lecturing to do me much good. If I am +killed, blame yourself. Meantime, I like hunting: it is the only joy +left me. When I am riding madly like this, I feel again almost +happy--almost," with a quickly suppressed sigh. + +"Still, I ask you, for my sake, to be more careful," says Lilian, +anxiously, partly frightened, partly filled with remorse at his words, +though in her heart she is vexed with him for having used them. "Her +fault if he gets killed." It is really too much! + +"Do you pretend to care?" asks he, with a sneer. "Your manner is indeed +perfect, but how much of it do you mean? Give me the hope I asked for +last night,--say only two kind words to me,--and I will be more careful +of my life than any man in the field to-day." + +"I think I am always saying kind things to you," returns she, rather +indignant; "I am only too kind. And one so foolishly bent on being +miserable as you are, all for nothing, deserves only harsh treatment. +You are not even civil to me. I regret I addressed you just now, and beg +you will not speak to me any more." + +"Be assured I shan't disobey this your last command," says Archibald, +in a low, and what afterward appears to her a prophetic tone, turning +away. + +The field is growing thin. Already many are lying scattered broadcast in +the ditches, or else are wandering hopelessly about on foot, in search +of their lost chargers. The hounds are going at a tremendous pace; a +good many horses show signs of flagging; while the brave old fox still +holds well his own. + +Taffy came to signal grief half an hour ago, but now reappears +triumphant and unplucked, splashed from head to heel, but game for any +amount still. Mrs. Steyne in front a-fighting hard for the brush, while +Lilian every moment is creeping closer to her on the bonny brown mare +that carries her like a bird over hedges and rails. Sir Guy is out of +sight, having just vanished down the slope of the hill, only to reappear +again a second later. Archibald is apparently nowhere, and Miss Chesney +is almost beginning to picture him to herself bathed in his own gore, +when raising her head she sees him coming toward her at a rattling pace, +his horse, which is scarcely up to his weight, well in hand. + +Before him rises an enormous fence, beneath which gleams like a silver +streak a good bit of running water. It is an awkward jump, the more so +that from the other side it is almost impossible for the rider to gauge +its dangers properly. + +Lilian makes a faint sign to him to hold back, which he either does not +or will not see. Bringing his horse up to the fence at a rather wild +pace, he lifts him. The good brute rises obediently, springs forward, +but jumps too short, and in another second horse and rider are rolling +together in a confused mass upon the sward beyond. + +The horse, half in and half out of the water, recovers himself quickly, +and, scrambling to his feet, stands quietly ashamed, trembling in every +limb, at a little distance from his master. + +But Archibald never stirs; he lies motionless, with his arms flung +carelessly above his head, and his face turned upward to the clouded +sky,--a brilliant speck of crimson upon the green grass. + +Lilian, with a sickening feeling of fear, and a suppressed scream, +gallops to his side, and, springing to the ground, kneels down close to +him, and lifts his head upon her knee. + +His face is deadly pale, a small spot of blood upon his right cheek +rendering even more ghastly its excessive pallor. A frantic horror lest +he be dead fills her mind and heart. Like funeral bells his words return +and smite cruelly upon her brain: "If I am killed blame yourself." _Is_ +she to blame? Oh, how harshly she spoke to him! With what bitterness did +she rebuke--when he--when he was only telling her of his great love for +her! + +Was ever woman so devoid of tender feeling? to goad and rail at a man +only because she had made conquest of his heart! And to choose this day +of all others to slight and wound him, when, had she not been hatefully, +unpardonably blind, she might have seen he was bent upon his own +destruction. + +How awfully white he is! Has death indeed sealed his lips forever? Oh, +that he might say one word, if only to forgive her! With one hand she +smooths back his dark crisp hair from his forehead, and tries to wipe +away with her handkerchief the terrible blood-stain from his poor cheek. + +"Archie, Archie," she whispers to him, piteously, bending her face so +close to his that any one might deem the action a caress, "speak to me: +will you not hear me, when I tell you how passionately I regret my +words?" + +But no faintest flicker of intelligence crosses the face lying so mute +and cold upon her knees. For the first time he is stone deaf to the +voice of her entreaty. + +Perhaps some foolish hope that her call might rouse him had taken +possession of her; for now, seeing how nothing but deepest silence +answers her, she lets a groan escape her. Will nobody ever come? Lifting +in fierce impatience a face white as the senseless man's beneath her, +she encounters Guy's eyes fixed upon her, who has by chance seen the +catastrophe, and has hastened to her aid. + +"Do something for him,--something," she cries, trembling; "give him +brandy! it will, it _must_ do him good." + +Guy, kneeling down beside Chesney, places his hand beneath his coat, and +feels for his heart intently. + +"He is not dead!" murmurs Lilian, in an almost inaudible tone: "say he +is alive. I told him never to speak to me again: but I did not dream I +should be so terribly obeyed. Archie, Archie!" + +Her manner is impassioned. Remorse and terror, working together, produce +in her all the appearance, of despairing anguish. She bears herself as +a woman might who gazes at the dead body of him she holds dearest on +earth; and Guy, looking silently upon her, lets a fear greater than her +own, a more intolerable anguish, enter his heart even then. + +"He is not dead," he says, quietly, forcing himself to be calm. +Whereupon Lilian bursts into a storm of tears. + +"Are you sure?" cries she; "is there no mistake? He looks so--so--_like_ +death," with a shuddering sigh. "Oh, what should I have done had he been +killed?" + +"Be happy, he is alive," says Guy, between his dry lips, misery making +his tones cold. All his worst fears are realized. In spite of pretended +indifference, it is plain to him that all her wayward heart has been +given to her cousin. Her intense agitation, her pale agonized face, seem +to him easy to read, impossible to misunderstand. As he rises from his +knees, he leaves all hope behind him in possession of his wounded rival. + +"Stay with him until I bring help: I shan't be a minute," he says, not +looking at her, and presently returning with some rough contrivance that +does duty for a stretcher, and a couple of laborers. They convey him +home to Chetwoode, where they lay him, still insensible, upon his bed, +quiet and cold as one utterly bereft of life. + +Then the little doctor arrives, and the door of Chesney's chamber is +closed upon him and Guy, and for the next half-hour those +outside--listening, watching, hoping, fearing--have a very bad time of +it. + +At last, as the sick-room door opens, and Guy comes into the corridor, a +little figure, that for all those miserable thirty minutes has sat +crouching in a dark corner, rises and runs swiftly toward him. + +It is Lilian: she is trembling visibly, and the face she upraises to his +is pale--nay, gray--with dread suspense. Her white lips try to form a +syllable, but fail. She lays one hand upon his arm beseechingly, and +gazes at him in eloquent silence. + +"Do not look like that," says Guy, shocked at her expression. He speaks +more warmly than he feels, but he quietly removes his arm so that her +hand perforce drops from it. "He is better; much better than at first we +dared hope. He will get well. There is no immediate danger. Do you +understand, Lilian?" + +A little dry sob breaks from her. The relief is almost too intense; all +through her dreary waiting she had expected to hear nothing but that he +was in truth--as he appeared in her eyes--dead. She staggers slightly, +and would have fallen but that Chetwoode most unwillingly places his arm +round her. + +"There is no occasion for all this--nervousness," he says, half +savagely, as she lays her head against his shoulder and cries as though +her heart would break. At this supreme moment she scarcely remembers +Guy's presence, and would have cried just as comfortably with her head +upon old Parkins's shoulder. Perhaps he understands this, and therefore +fails to realize the rapture he should know at having her so +unresistingly within his arms. As it is, his expression is bored to the +last degree: his eyebrows are drawn upward until all his forehead lies +in little wrinkles. With a determination worthy of a better cause he has +fixed his eyes upon the wall opposite, and refuses to notice the lovely +golden head of her who is weeping so confidingly upon his breast. + +It is a touching scene, but fails to impress Guy, who cannot blind +himself to (what he believes to be) the fact that all these pearly tears +are flowing for another,--and that a rival. With his tall figure drawn +to its fullest height, so as to preclude all idea of tenderness, he +says, sharply: + +"One would imagine I had brought you bad news. You could not possibly +appear more inconsolable if you had heard of his death. Do try to rouse +yourself, and be reasonable: he is all right, and as likely to live as +you are." + +At this he gives her a mild but undeniable shake, that has the desired +effect of reducing her to calmness. She checks her sobs, and, moving +away from him, prepares to wipe away all remaining signs of her +agitation. + +"You certainly are not very sympathetic," she says, with a last faint +sob, casting a reproachful glance at him out of two drowned but still +beautiful eyes. + +"I certainly am not," stiffly: "I can't 'weep my spirit from my eyes' +because I hear a fellow is better, if you mean that." + +"You seem to be absolutely grieved at his chance of recovery," +viciously. + +"I have no doubt I seem to you all that is vilest and worst. I learned +your opinion of me long ago." + +"Well,"--scornfully--"I think you need scarcely choose either this +time, or place, for one of your stand-up fights. When you remember what +you have just said,--that you are actually _sorry_ poor dear Archie is +alive,--I think you ought to go away and feel very much ashamed of +yourself." + +"Did I say that?" indignantly. + +"Oh, I don't know," indifferently,--as though his denial now cannot +possibly alter the original fact; "something very like it, at all +events." + +"How can you so malign me, Lilian?" angrily. "No one can be more +heartily sorry for poor Chesney than I am, or more pleased at his escape +from death. You willfully misunderstand every word I utter. For the +future,--as all I say seems to annoy,--I beg you will not trouble +yourself to address me at all." + +"I shall speak to you just whenever I choose," replies Miss Chesney, +with superb defiance. + +At this thrilling instant Chesney's door is again opened wide, and Dr. +Bland comes out, treading softly, and looking all importance. + +"You, my dear Miss Chesney!" he says, approaching her lightly; "the very +young lady of all others I most wished to see. Not that there is +anything very curious about that fact," with his cozy chuckle; "but your +cousin is asking for you, and really, you know, upon my word, he is so +very excitable, I think perhaps--eh?--under the circumstances, you know, +it would be well to gratify his pardonable desire to see you--eh?" + +"The circumstances" refer to the rooted conviction, that for weeks has +been planted in the doctor's breast, of Miss Chesney's engagement to her +cousin. + +"To see me?" says Lilian, shrinking away involuntarily, and turning very +red. Both the tone and the blush are "confirmation strong" of the +doctor's opinion. And Guy, watching her silently, feels, if possible, +even more certain than before of her affection for Chesney. + +"To be sure, my dear; and why not?" says the kindly little doctor, +patting her encouragingly on the shoulder. He deals in pats and smiles. +They are both part of his medicine. So,--under the circumstances,-- +through force of habit, would he have patted the Queen of England or a +lowly milkmaid alike,--with perhaps an additional pat to the milkmaid, +should she chance to be pretty. Lilian, being rich in nature's charms, +is a special favorite of his. + +"But--" says Lilian, still hesitating. To tell the truth, she is hardly +ambitious of entering Archibald's room, considering their last stormy +parting; and, besides, she is feeling sadly nervous and out of sorts. +The ready tears spring again to her eyes; once more the tell-tale blood +springs hotly to her cheeks. Guy's fixed gaze--he is watching her with a +half sneer upon his face--disconcerts her still further. Good Dr. Bland +entirely mistakes the meaning of her confusion. + +"Now, my dear child, if I give you leave to see this reckless cousin, we +must be cautious, _very_ cautious, and quiet, _extremely_ quiet, eh? +That is essential, you know. And mind, no tears. There is nothing so +injurious on these occasions as tears! Reminds one invariably of last +farewells and funeral services, and coffins, and all such uncomfortable +matters. I don't half like granting these interviews myself, but he +appears bent on seeing you, and, as I have said before, he is +impetuous,--_very_ impetuous." + +"You think, then," stammers Lilian, making one last faint effort at +escape from the dreaded ordeal,--"you think----" + +"I don't think," smiling good-naturedly, "I _know_ you must not stay +with him longer than five minutes." + +"Good doctor, make it three," is on the point of Lilian's tongue, but, +ashamed to refuse this small request of poor wounded Archibald, she +follows Dr. Bland into his room. + +On the bed, lying pale and exhausted, is Archibald, his lips white, his +eyes supernaturally large and dark. They grow even larger and much +brighter as they rest on Lilian, who slowly, but--now that she again +sees him so weak and prostrate--full of pity, approaches his side. + +"You have come, Lilian," he says, faintly: "it is very good of +you,--more than I deserve. I vexed you terribly this morning, did I not? +But you will forgive me now I have come to grief," with a wan smile. + +"I have nothing to forgive," says Lilian, tremulously, gazing down upon +him pityingly through two big violet eyes so overcharged with tears as +makes one wonder how they can keep the kindly drops from running down +her cheeks. "But you have. Oh, Archie, let me tell you how deeply I +deplore having spoken so harshly to you to-day. If"--with a +shudder--"you had indeed been killed, I should never have been happy +again." + +"I was unmanly," says Chesney, holding out his hand feebly for hers, +which is instantly given. "I am afraid I almost threatened you. I am +thoroughly ashamed of myself." + +"Oh, hush! I am sure you are speaking too much; and Dr. Bland says you +must not excite yourself. Are you suffering much pain?" very tenderly. + +"Not much;" but the drawn expression of his face belies his assertion. +"To look at you"--softly--"gives me ease." + +"I wonder you don't hate me," says Lilian, in a distressed tone, +fighting hard to suppress the nervous sob that is rising so rebelliously +in her throat. Almost at this moment--so sorry is she for his hopeless +infatuation for her--she wishes he did hate her. "Yet I am not +altogether to blame, and I have suffered more than I can tell you since +you got that terrible fall!" This assurance is very sweet to him. "When +I saw you lying motionless,--when I laid your head upon my knees and +tried to call you back to life, and you never answered me, I thought--" + +"You!" interrupts he, hastily; "did your hands succor me?" + +"Yes," coloring warmly; "though it was very little good I could do you, +I was so frightened. You looked so cold,--so still. I thought then, +'suppose it was my cross words had induced him to take that fence?' +But"--nervously--"it wasn't: that was a foolish, a conceited thought, +with no truth in it." + +"Some little truth, I think," sadly. "When you told me 'never to speak +to you again,'--you recollect?--there came a strange hard look into your +usually kind eyes--" pressing her hand gently to take somewhat from the +sting of his words--"that cut me to the heart. Your indifference seemed +in that one moment to have turned to hatred, and I think I lost my head +a little. Forgive me, sweetheart, if I could not then help thinking that +death could not be much worse than life." + +"Archie,"--gravely,--"promise me you will never think that again." + +"I promise." + +There is a short pause. It is growing almost dark. The wintry day, sad +and weakly from its birth, is dying fast. All the house is silent, +hushed, full of expectancy; only a little irrepressible clock in the +next room ticks its loudest, as though defying pain or sorrow to affect +it in any way. + +"Is it your arm?" asks Lilian, gently, his other hand being hidden +beneath the sheet, "or----" + +"No; two of my ribs, I believe, and my head aches a good deal." + +"I am tormenting you with my foolish chatter," rising remorsefully, as +though to quit the room. + +"No, no," eagerly; "I tell you it makes me easier to see you; it dulls +the pain." Slowly, painfully he draws her hand upward to his lips, and +kisses it softly. "We are friends again?" he whispers. + +"Yes,--always friends," tightening her fingers sympathetically over his. +"If"--very earnestly--"you would only try to make up your mind never to +speak to me again as you did--last night, I believe another unpleasant +word would never pass between us." + +"Do not fear," he says, slowly: "I have quite made up my mind. Rather +than risk bringing again into your eyes the look I saw there to-day, I +would keep silence forever." + +Here Dr. Bland puts his head inside the door, and beckons Lilian to +withdraw. + +"The five minutes are up," he says, warningly, consulting the golden +turnip he usually keeps concealed somewhere about his person, though +where, so large is it, has been for years a matter of speculation with +his numerous patients. + +"I must go," says Lilian, rising: the door is open, and all that goes on +within the chamber can be distinctly heard in the corridor outside. "Now +try to sleep, will you not? and don't worry, and don't even think if you +can help it." + +"Must you go?" wistfully. + +"I fear I must." + +"You will come again to-morrow, very early?" + +"I will come to-morrow, certainly, as early as I can. Good-night." + +"Good-night." + +Closing the door softly behind her, she advances into the corridor, +where she still finds Guy and Dr. Bland conversing earnestly. Perhaps +they have been waiting for her coming. + +"So you have persuaded him to go to sleep?" asks the doctor, beaming +kindly upon "pretty Miss Chesney," that being the title given to her +long ago by the country generally. + +"Yes. I think he will sleep now," Lilian answers. "He looks very white, +poor, poor fellow, but not so badly as I expected." + +"I suppose your presence did him good. Well, I will take a last look at +him before leaving," moving toward the closed door. + +"Can I do anything for you?" asks Guy, following him, glad of any excuse +that makes him quit Lilian's side. + +"Yes,"--smiling,--"you can, indeed. Take your ward down-stairs and give +her a glass of wine. She is too pale for my fancy. I shall be having her +on my hands next if you don't take care." So saying, he disappears. + +Guy turns coldly to Lilian. + +"Will you come down, or shall I send something up to you?" he asks, +icily. + +Lilian's fears have subsided; consequently her spirits have risen to +such a degree that they threaten to overflow every instant. A desire for +mischief makes her heart glow. + +"I shall go with you," she says, with a charming grimace. "I might blame +myself in after years if I ever willingly failed to cultivate every +second spent in your agreeable society." + +So saying, she trips down-stairs gayly beside him, a lovely, though +rather naughty, smile upon her lips. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + + "_Claud._--In mine eye, she is the sweetest lady that ever I looked + on."--_Much Ado About Nothing._ + + +Because of Archibald's accident, and because of much harassing secret +thought, Christmas is a failure this year at Chetwoode. Tom Steyne and +his wife and their adorable baby come to them for a week, it is true, +and try by every means in their power to lighten the gloom that hangs +over the house, but in vain. + +Guy is obstinately _distrait_, not to say ill-tempered; Lilian is +fitful,--now full of the wildest spirits, and anon capricious and +overflowing with little imperious whims; Archibald, though rapidly +mending, is of course invisible, and a complete dead letter; while +Cyril, usually the most genial fellow in the world and devoid of moods, +is at this particular time consumed with anxiety, having at last made up +his mind to reveal to his mother his engagement to Cecilia and ask her +consent to their speedy marriage. Yet another full month elapses, and +already the first glad thought of spring is filling every breast, before +he really brings himself to speak upon the dreaded subject. + +His disclosure he knows by instinct will be received ungraciously and +with disapprobation, not only by Lady Chetwoode, but by Sir Guy, who has +all through proved himself an enemy to the cause. His determined +opposition will undoubtedly increase the difficulties of the situation, +as Lady Chetwoode is in all matters entirely ruled by her eldest son. + +Taking Lilian into his confidence, Cyril happens to mention to her this +latter sure drawback to the success of his suit, whereupon she +generously declares herself both able and willing to take Sir Guy in +hand and compel him to be not only non-combative on the occasion, but an +actual partisan. + +At these valiant words Cyril is so transported with hope and gratitude +that, without allowing himself time for reflection, he suddenly and very +warmly embraces his pretty colleague, calling her, as "Traddles" might +have done, "the dearest girl in the world," and vowing to her that but +for one other she is indeed "the only woman he ever loved." + +Having recovered from the astonishment caused by this outbreak on the +part of the generally nonchalant Cyril, Miss Chesney draws her breath +slowly, and wends her way toward Sir Guy's private den, where she knows +he is at present sure to be found. + +"Are you busy?" she asks, showing her face in the doorway, but not +advancing. + +"Not to you," courteously. They are now on friendly though somewhat +constrained speaking terms. + +"Will you give me, then, a little of your time? It is something very +important." + +"Certainly," replies he, surprised both at the solemnity of her manner +and at the request generally. "Come in and shut the door." + +"It is just a question I would ask of you," says Lilian, uncomfortably, +now she has come to the point, finding an extraordinary difficulty about +proceeding. At length, with a desperate effort she raises her head, and, +looking full at him, says, distinctly: + +"Sir Guy, when two people love each other very dearly, don't you think +they ought to marry?" + +This startling interrogation has the effect of filling Chetwoode with +dismay. He turns white in spite of his vigorous attempt at self-control, +and involuntarily lays his hand upon the nearest chair to steady +himself. Has she come here to tell him of her affection for her cousin? + +"There must be something more," he says, presently, regarding her +fixedly. + +"Yes, but answer me first. Don't you think they ought?" + +"I suppose so,"--unwillingly,--"unless there should be some insuperable +difficulty in the way." + +"He suspects me; he knows my errand," thinks Lilian, letting her eyes +seek the carpet, which gives her all the appearance of feeling a very +natural confusion. "He hopes to entangle me. His 'difficulty' is poor +dear Cecilia's very disreputable papa." + +"No difficulty should stand in the way of love," she argues, severely. +"Besides, what is an 'insuperable difficulty'? Supposing one of them +should be unhappily less--less respectable than the other: would that be +it?" + +Sir Guy opens his eyes. Is it not, then, the cousin? and if not, who? +"Less respectable." He runs through the long list of all the young men +of questionable morals with whom he is acquainted, but can come to no +satisfactory conclusion. Has she possibly heard of certain lawless +doings of Archibald in earlier days, and does she fear perhaps that he, +her guardian, will refuse consent to her marriage because of them? At +this thought he freezes. + +"I think all unsuitable marriages a crime," he says, coldly. "Sooner or +later they lead to the bitterest of all repentance. To marry one one +cannot respect! Surely such an act carries with it its own punishment. +It is a hateful thought. But then----" + +"You do not understand," pleads Lilian, rising in her eagerness, and +going nearer to him, while her large eyes read his face nervously as she +trembles for the success of her undertaking. "There is no question of +'respect.' It is not that I mean. These two of whom I speak will never +repent, because they love each other so entirely." + +"What a stress you lay on the word love!" he says, in a half-mocking, +wholly bitter tone. "Do you believe in it?" + +"I do, indeed. I cannot think there is anything in this world half so +good as it," replies she, with conviction, while reddening painfully +beneath his gaze. "Is it not our greatest happiness?" + +"I think it is our greatest curse." + +"How can you say that?" with soft reproach. "Can you not see for +yourself how it redeems all the misery of life for some people?" + +"Those two fortunate beings of whom you are speaking, for instance," +with a sneer. "All people are not happy in their attachment. What is to +become of those miserable wretches who love, but love in vain? Did you +never hear of a homely proverb that tells you 'one man's meat is another +man's poison'?" + +"You are cynical to-day. But to return; the two to whom I allude have no +poison to contend with. They love so well that it is misery to them to +be apart,--so devotedly that they know no great joy except when they are +together. Could such love cool? I am sure not. And is it not cruel to +keep them asunder?" + +Her voice has grown positively plaintive; she is evidently terribly in +earnest. + +"Are you speaking of yourself?" asks Guy, huskily, turning with sudden +vehemence to lay his hand upon her arm and scan her features with +intense, nay, feverish anxiety. + +"Of myself?" recoiling. "No! What can you mean? What is it that I should +say of myself?" Her cheeks are burning, her eyes are shamed and +perplexed, but they have not fallen before his: she is evidently full of +secret wonder. "It is for Cyril I plead, and for Cecilia," she says, +after a strange pause. + +"Cyril!" exclaims he, the most excessive relief in tone and gesture. +"Does he want to marry Mrs. Arlington?" + +"Yes. I know you have a prejudice against her,"--earnestly,--"but that +is because you do not know her. She is the sweetest woman I ever met." + +"This has been going on for a long time?" + +"I think so. Cyril wished to marry her long ago, but she would not +listen to him without auntie's consent. Was not that good of her? If I +was in her place, I do not believe I should wait for any one's consent." + +"I am sure"--dryly--"you would not." + +"No, not even for my guardian's," replies she, provokingly; then, with a +lapse into her former earnestness, "I want you to be good to her. She is +proud, prouder than auntie even, and would not forgive a slight. And if +her engagement to Cyril came to an end, he would never be happy again. +Think of it." + +"I do," thoughtfully. "I think it is most unfortunate. And she a widow, +too!" + +"But such a widow!" enthusiastically. "A perfect darling of a widow! I +am not sure, after all,"--with rank hypocrisy,--"that widows are not to +be preferred before mere silly foolish girls, who don't know their own +minds half the time." + +"Is that a description of yourself?" with an irrepressible smile. + +"Don't be rude! No 'mere silly girl' would dare to beard a stern +guardian in his den as I am doing! But am I to plead in vain? Dear Sir +Guy, do not be hard. What could be dearer than her refusing to marry +Cyril if it should grieve auntie? 'She would not separate him from his +mother,' she said. Surely you must admire her in that one instance at +least. Think of it all again. They love each other, and they are +unhappy; and you can turn their sorrow into joy." + +"Now they love, of course; but will it last? Cyril's habits are very +expensive, and he has not much money. Do you ever think you may be +promoting a marriage that by and by will prove a failure? The day may +come when they will hate you for having helped to bring them together." + +"No," says Lilian, stoutly, shaking her _blonde_ head emphatically; "I +have no such unhealthy thoughts or fancies. They suit each other; they +are happy in each other's society; they will never repent their +marriage." + +"Is that your experience?" he asks, half amused. + +"I have no experience," returns she, coloring and smiling: "I am like +the Miller of the Dee; I care for nobody, no, not I,--for nobody cares +for me." + +"You forget your cousin." The words escape him almost without his +consent. + +Miss Chesney starts perceptibly, but a second later answers his taunt +with admirable composure. + +"What? Archie? Oh! he don't count; cousins are privileged beings. Or did +you perhaps mean Taffy? But answer me, Sir Guy: you have not yet said +you will help me. And I am bent on making Cecilia happy. I am honestly +fond of her; I cannot bear to see you think contemptuously of her; while +I would gladly welcome her as a sister." + +"I do not see how her marrying Cyril can make her your sister," replies +he, idly; and then he remembers what he has said, and the same thought +striking them both at the same moment, they let their eyes meet +uneasily, and both blush scarlet. + +Guy, sauntering to the window, takes an elaborate survey of the dismal +landscape outside; Lilian coughs gently, and begins to count +industriously all the embroidered lilies in the initial that graces the +corner of her handkerchief. One--two--three---- + +"They might as well have put in four," she says out loud, abstractedly. + +"What?" turning from the window to watch the lovely _mignonne_ face +still bent in contemplation of the lilies. + +"Nothing," mildly: "did I say anything?" + +"Something about 'four,' I thought." + +"Perhaps"--demurely--"I was thinking I had asked you four times to be +good-natured, and you had not deigned to grant my request. When Lady +Chetwoode speaks to you of Cyril and Cecilia, say you will be on their +side. Do not vote against them. Promise." + +He hesitates. + +"Not when _I_ ask you?" murmurs she, in her softest tones, going a +little nearer to him, and uplifting her luminous blue eyes to his. + +Still he hesitates. + +Miss Chesney takes one step more in his direction, which is necessarily +the last, unless she wishes to walk through him. Her eyes, now full of +wistful entreaty, and suspiciously bright, are still fixed reproachfully +upon his. With a light persuasive gesture she lays five white, slender +fingers upon his arm, and whispers, in plaintive tones: + +"I feel sure I am going to cry." + +"I promise," says Sir Guy, instantly, laughing in spite of himself, and +letting his own hand close with unconscious force over hers for a +moment. Whereupon Miss Chesney's lachrymose expression vanishes as if by +magic, while a smile bright and triumphant illuminates her face in its +stead. + +"Thank you," she says, delightedly, and trips toward the door eager to +impart her good news. Upon the threshold, however, she pauses, and +glances back at him coquettishly, perhaps a trifle maliciously, from +under her long heavily-fringed lids. + +"I knew I should win the day," she says, teasingly, "although you don't +believe in love. Nevertheless, I thank you again, and"--raising her +head, and holding out one hand to him with a sweet _bizarre_ grace all +her own--"I would have you know I don't think you half such a bad old +guardy after all!" + + * * * * * + +Almost at this moment Cyril enters his mother's boudoir, where, to his +astonishment, he finds her without companions. + +"All alone, Madre?" he says, airily, putting on his gayest manner and +his most fetching smile to hide the perturbation that in reality he is +feeling. His heart is in his boots, but he wears a very gallant +exterior. + +"Yes," replies Lady Chetwoode, looking up from her work, "and very dull +company I find myself. Have you come to enliven me a little? I hope so: +I have been _gêne_ to the last degree for quite an hour." + +"Where is the inevitable Florence?" + +"In the drawing-room, with Mr. Boer. I can't think what she sees in him, +but she appears to value his society highly. To-day he has brought her +some more church music to try over, and I really wish he wouldn't. +Anything more afflicting than chants tried over and over again upon the +piano I can't conceive. They are very bad upon the organ, but on the +piano! And sometimes he _will_ insist on singing them with her!" + +Here two or three wailing notes from down-stairs are wafted, weeping +into the room, setting the hearers' teeth on edge. To even an incorrect +ear it might occur that Mr. Boer's stentorian notes are not always in +tune! + +"My dear, my dear," exclaims Lady Chetwoode, in a voice of agony, "shut +the door close; _closer_, my dear Cyril, they are at it again!" + +"It's a disease," says Cyril, solemnly. "A great many curates have it. +We should count ourselves lucky that laymen don't usually catch it." + +"I really think it is. I can't bear that sort of young man myself," says +Lady Chetwoode, regretfully, who feels some gentle grief that she cannot +bring herself to admire Mr. Boer; "but I am sure we should all make +allowances; none of us are perfect; and Mrs. Boileau assures me he is +very earnest and extremely zealous. Still, I wish he could try to speak +differently: I think his mother very much to blame for bringing him up +with such a voice." + +"She was much to blame for bringing him up at all. He should have been +strangled at his birth!" Cyril says this slowly, moodily, with every +appearance of really meaning what he says. He is, however, unaware of +the blood-thirsty expression he has assumed, as though in support of his +words, being in fact miles away in thought from Mr. Boer and his +Gregorian music. He is secretly rehearsing a coming conversation with +his mother, in which Cecilia's name is to be delicately introduced. + +"That is going rather far, is it not?" Lady Chetwoode says, laughing. + +"A man is not an automaton. He cannot always successfully stifle his +feelings," says Cyril, still more moodily, _àpropos_ of his own +thoughts; which second most uncalled-for remark induces his mother to +examine him closely. + +"There is something on your mind," she says, gently. "You are not now +thinking of either me or Mr. Boer. Sit down, dear boy, and tell me all +about it." + +"I will tell you standing," says Cyril, who feels it would be taking +advantage of her ignorance to accept a chair until his disclosure is +made. Then the private rehearsal becomes public, and presently Lady +Chetwoode knows all about his "infatuation," as she terms it, for the +widow, and is quite as much distressed about it as even he had expected. + +"It is terrible!" she says, presently, when she has somewhat recovered +from the first shock caused by his intelligence; "and only last spring +you promised me to think seriously of Lady Fanny Stapleton." + +"My dear mother, who could think seriously of Lady Fanny? Why, with her +short nose, and her shorter neck, and her anything but sylph-like form, +she has long ago degenerated into one vast joke." + +"She has money," in a rather stifled tone. + +"And would you have me sacrifice my whole life for mere money?" +reproachfully. "Would money console you afterward, when you saw me +wretched?" + +"But why should you be wretched?" Then, quickly, "Are you so very sure +this Mrs. Arlington will make you happy?" + +"Utterly positive!" in a radiant tone. + +"And are you ready to sacrifice every comfort for mere beauty?" retorts +she. "Ah, Cyril, beware: you do not understand yet what it is to be +hampered for want of money. And there are other things: when one marries +out of one's own sphere, one always repents it." + +"One cannot marry higher than a lady," flushing. "She is not a countess, +or an honorable, or even Lady Fanny; but she is of good family, and she +is very sweet, and very gentle, and very womanly. I shall never again +see any one so good in my eyes. I entreat you, dear mother, not to +refuse your consent." + +"I shall certainly say nothing until I see Guy," says Lady Chetwoode, +tearfully, making a last faint stand. + +"Then let us send for him, and get it over," Cyril says, with gentle +impatience, who is very pale, but determined to finish the subject one +way or the other, now and forever. + +Almost as he says it, Guy enters; and Lady Chetwoode, rising, explains +the situation to him in a few agitated words. True to his promise to +Lilian, and more perhaps because a glance at his brother's quiet face +tells him opposition will be vain, Guy says a few things in favor of the +engagement. But though the words are kind, they are cold; and, having +said them, he beats an instantaneous retreat, leaving Cyril, by his +well-timed support, master of the field. + +"Marry her, then, as you are all against me," says Lady Chetwoode, the +tears running down her cheeks. It is very bitter to her to remember how +Lady Fanny's precious thousands have been literally flung away. All +women, even the best and the sweetest, are mercenary where their sons +are concerned. + +"And you will call upon her?" says Cyril, after a few minutes spent in +an effort to console her have gone by. + +"Call!" repeats poor Lady Chetwoode, with some indignation, "upon that +woman who absolutely declined to receive me when first she came! I have +a little pride still remaining, Cyril, though indeed you have humbled a +good deal of it to-day," with keen reproach. + +"When first she came,"--apologetically,--"she was in great grief and +distress of mind." + +"Grief for her husband?" demands she; which is perhaps the bitterest +thing Lady Chetwoode ever said in her life to either of her "boys." + +"No," coldly; "I think I told you she had never any affection for him." +Then his voice changes, and going over to her he takes her hand +entreatingly, and passes one arm over her shoulder. "Can you not be kind +to her for my sake?" he implores. "Dearest mother, I cannot bear to hear +you speak of her as 'that woman,' when I love her so devotedly." + +"I suppose when one is married one may without insult be called a +woman," turning rather aside from his caress. + +"But then she was so little married, and she looks quite a girl. You +will go to see her, and judge for yourself?" + +"I suppose there is nothing else left for me to do. I would not have all +the county see how utterly you have disappointed me. I have been a good +mother to you, Cyril,"--tremulously,--"and this is how you requite me." + +"It cuts me to the heart to grieve you so much,"--tenderly,--"you, my +own mother. But I--I have been a good son to you, too, have I not, dear +Madre?" + +"You have indeed," says Lady Chetwoode; and then she cries a little +behind her handkerchief. + +"How old is she?" with quivering lips. + +"Twenty-two or twenty-three, I am not sure which," in a subdued tone. + +"In manner is she quiet?" + +"Very. Tranquil is the word that best expresses her. When you see her +you will acknowledge I have not erred in taste." + +Lady Chetwoode with a sigh lays down her arms, and when Cyril stoops his +face to hers she does not refuse the kiss he silently demands, so that +with a lightened conscience he leaves the room to hurry on the wings of +love to Cecilia's bower. + +All the way there he seems to tread on air. His heart is beating, he is +full of happiest exultation. The day is bright and joyous; already one +begins to think of winter kindly as a thing of the past. All nature +seems in unison with his exalted mood. + +Reaching the garden he knows so well and loves so fondly, he walks with +eager, longing steps toward a side path where usually she he seeks is to +be found. Now standing still, he looks round anxiously for Cecilia. + +But Cecilia is not there! + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + + "_Lys._--How now, my love? Why is your cheek so pale? + How chance the roses there do fade so fast? + + _Her._--Belike, for want of rain, which I could well + Between them from the tempest of mine eyes." + --_Midsummer Night's Dream._ + + +Up in her chamber sits Cecilia, speechless, spell-bound, fighting with a +misery too great for tears. Upon her knee lies an open letter from which +an enclosure has slipped and fallen to the ground. And on this last her +eyes, scorched and distended, are fixed hopelessly. + +The letter itself is from Colonel Trant: it was posted yesterday, and +received by her late last night, though were you now to tell her a whole +year has elapsed since first she read its fatal contents, I do not think +she would evince much doubt or surprise. It was evidently hastily +penned, the characters being rough and uneven, and runs as follows: + + + "Austen Holm. Friday. + + "MY DEAR GIRL,--The attempt to break bad news to any one has always + seemed to me so vain, and so unsatisfactory a proceeding, and one + so likely to render even heavier the blow it means to soften, that + here I refrain from it altogether. Yet I would entreat you when + reading what I now enclose not to quite believe in its truth until + further proofs be procured. I shall remain at my present address + for three days longer: if I do not by then hear from you, I shall + come to The Cottage. Whatever happens, I know you will remember it + is my only happiness to serve you, and that I am ever your faithful + friend, + + "GEORGE TRANT." + + +When Cecilia had read so far, she raised the enclosure, though without +any very great misgivings, and, seeing it was from some unknown friend +of Trant's, at present in Russia, skimmed lightly through the earlier +portion of it, until at length a paragraph chained her attention and +killed at a stroke all life and joy and happy love within her. + +"By the bye," ran this fatal page, "did you not know a man named +Arlington?--tall, rather stout, and dark; you used to think him dead. He +is not, however, as I fell against him yesterday by chance and learned +his name and all about him. He didn't seem half such a dissipated card +as you described him, so I hope traveling has improved his morals. I +asked him if he knew any one called Trant, and he said, 'Yes, several.' +I had only a minute or two to speak to him, and, as he never drew breath +himself during that time, I had not much scope for questioning. He +appears possessed of many advantages,--pretty wife at home, no end of +money, nice place, unlimited swagger. Bad form all through, but genial. +You will see him shortly in the old land, as he is starting for England +almost immediately." + +And so on, and on, and on. But Cecilia, then or afterward, never read +another line. + +Her first thought was certainly not of Cyril. It was abject, cowering +fear,--a horror of any return to the old loathed life,--a crushing dread +lest any chance should fling her again into her husband's power. Then +she drew her breath a little hard, and thought of Trant, and then of +Cyril; and _then_ she told herself, with a strange sense of relief, that +at least one can die. + +But this last thought passed away as did the others, and she knew that +death seldom comes to those who seek it; and to command it,--who should +dare do that? Hope dies hard in some breasts! In Cecilia's the little +fond flame barely flickered, so quickly did it fade away and vanish +altogether before the fierce blast that had assailed it. Not for one +moment did she doubt the truth of the statement lying before her. She +was too happy, too certain; she should have remembered that some are +born to misfortune as the sparks fly upward. "She had lived, she had +loved," and here was the end of it all! + +All night long she had not slept. She had indeed lain upon her bed, her +pillow had known the impress of her head, but through every minute of +the lonely, silent awesome hours of gloom, her great eyes had been wide +open, watching for the dawn. + +At last it came. A glorious dawn; a very flush of happy youth; the +sweeter that it bespoke a warm and early spring. At first it showed pale +pink with expectation, then rosy with glad hope. From out the east faint +rays of gold rushed tremulously, and, entering the casement, cast around +Cecilia's head a tender halo. + +When happiness lies within our grasp, when all that earth can give us +(alas! how little!) is within our keeping, how good is the coming of +another day,--a long, perfect day, in which to revel, and laugh, and +sing, as though care were a thing unknown! But when trouble falls upon +us, and this same terrible care is our only portion, with what horror, +what heart-sinking, do we turn our faces from the light and wish with +all the fervor of a vain wish that it were night! + +The holy dawn brought but anguish to Cecilia. She did not turn with +impatience from its smiling beauty, but heavy tears gathered slowly, and +grew within her sorrowful gray eyes, until at length (large as was their +home) they burst their bounds and ran quickly down her cheeks, as though +glad to escape from what should never have been their resting-place. +Swiftly, silently, ran the little pearly drops, ashamed of having dimmed +the lustre of those lovely eyes that only yester morning were so glad +with smiles. + +Sitting now in her bedroom, forlorn and desolate, with the cruel words +that have traveled all the way across a continent to slay her peace +throbbing through her brain, she hears Cyril's well-known step upon the +gravel outside, and, springing to her feet as though stabbed, shrinks +backward until the wall yields her a support. A second later, ashamed of +her own weakness, she straightens herself, smooths back her ruffled hair +from her forehead, and, with a heavy sigh and colorless face, walks +down-stairs to him who from henceforth must be no more counted as a +lover. Slowly, with lingering steps that betray a broken heart, she +draws nigh to him. + +Seeing her, he comes quickly forward to greet her, still glad with the +joy that has been his during all his walk through the budding woods, a +smile upon his lips. But the smile soon dies. The new blankness, the +terrible change, he sees in the beloved face sobers him immediately. It +is vivid enough even at a first glance to fill him with apprehension: +hastening to her as though eager to succor her from any harm that may be +threatening, he would have taken her in his arms, but she, with a +little quick shudder, putting up her hands, prevents him. + +"No," she says, in a low changed tone; "not again!" + +"Something terrible has happened," Cyril says, with conviction, "or you +would not so repulse me. Darling, what is it?" + +"I don't know how to tell you," replies she, her tone cold with the +curious calmness of despair. + +"It cannot be so very bad," nervously; "nothing can signify greatly, +unless it separates you from me." + +A mournful bitter laugh breaks from Cecilia, a laugh that ends swiftly, +tunelessly, as it began. + +"How nearly you have touched upon the truth!" she says, miserably; and +then, in a clear, hard voice, "My husband is alive." + +A dead silence. No sound to disturb the utter stillness, save the +sighing of the early spring wind, the faint twitter of the birds among +the budding branches as already they seek to tune their slender throats +to the warblings of love, and the lowing of the brown-eyed oxen in the +fields far, far below them. + +Then Cyril says, with slow emphasis: + +"I don't believe it. It's a lie! It is impossible!" + +"It is true. I feel it so. Something told me my happiness was too great +to last, and now it has come to an end. Alas! alas! how short a time it +has continued with me! Oh, Cyril!"--smiting her hands together +passionately,--"what shall I do? what shall I do? If he finds me he will +kill me, as he often threatened. How shall I escape?" + +"It is untrue," repeats Cyril, doggedly, hardly noting her terror and +despair. His determined disbelief restores her to calmness. + +"Do you think I would believe except on certain grounds?" she says. +"Colonel Trant wrote me the evil tidings." + +"Trant is interested; he might be glad to delay our marriage," he says, +with a want of generosity unworthy of him. + +"No, no, _no_. You wrong him. And how should he seek to delay a marriage +that was yet far distant?" + +"Not so very distant. I have yet to tell you"--with a strange smile--"my +chief reason for being here to-day: to ask you to receive my mother +to-morrow, who is coming to welcome you as a daughter. How well Fate +planned this tragedy! to have our crowning misfortune fall straight into +the lap of our newly-born content! Cecilia,"--vehemently,--"there must +still be a grain of hope somewhere. Do not let us quite despair. I +cannot so tamely accept the death to all life's joys that must follow on +belief." + +"You shall see for yourself," replies she, handing to him the letter +that all this time has lain crumbled beneath her nerveless fingers. + +When he has read it, he drops it with a groan, and covers his face with +his hands. To him, too, the evidence seems clear and convincing. + +"I told you to avoid me. I warned you," she says, presently, with a wan +smile. "I am born to ill-luck; I bring it even to all those who come +near me--especially, it seems, to the few who are unhappy enough to love +me. Go, Cyril, while there is yet time." + +"There is not time," desperately: "it is already too late." He moves +away from her, and in deep agitation paces up and down the secluded +garden-path; while she, standing alone with drooping head and dry +miserable eyes, scarcely cares to watch his movements, so dead within +her have all youth and energy grown. + +"Cecilia," he says, suddenly, stopping before her, and speaking in a low +tone, that, though perfectly clear, still betrays inward hesitation, +while his eyes carefully avoid hers, "listen to me. What is he to you, +this man that they say is still alive, that you should give up your +whole life for him? He deserted you, scorned you, left you for another +woman. For two long years you have believed him dead. Why should you now +think him living? Let him be dead still and buried in your memory; there +are other lands,"--slowly, and still with averted eyes,--"other homes: +why should we not make one for ourselves? Cecilia,"--coming up to her, +white but earnest, and holding out his arms to her,--"come with me, and +let us find our happiness in each other!" + +Cecilia, after one swift glance at him, moves back hastily. + +"How dare you use such words to me?" she says, in a horror-stricken +voice; "how dare you tempt me? you, _you_ who said you loved me!" Then +the little burst of passion dies; her head droops still lower upon her +breast; her hands coming together fall loosely before her in an +attitude descriptive of the deepest despondency. "I believed in you," +she says, "I trusted you. I did not think _you_ would have been the one +to inflict the bitterest pang of all." She breathes these last words in +accents of the saddest reproach. + +"Nor will I!" cries he, with keen contrition, kneeling down before her, +and hiding his face in a fold of her gown. "Never again, my darling, my +life! I forgot,--I forgot you are as high above all other women as the +sun is above the earth. Cecilia, forgive me." + +"Nay, there is nothing to forgive," she says. "But, +Cyril,"--unsteadily,--"you will go abroad at once, for a little while, +until I have time to decide where in the future I shall hide my head." + +"Must I?" + +"You must." + +"And you,--where will you go?" + +"It matters very little. You will have had time to forget me before ever +I trust myself to see you again." + +"Then I shall never see you again," replies he, mournfully, "if you wait +for that. 'My true love hath my heart, and I have hers.' How can I +forget you while it beats warm within my breast?" + +"Be it so," she answers, with a sigh: "it is a foolish fancy, yet it +gladdens me. I would not be altogether displaced from your mind." + +So she lays her hand upon his head as he still kneels before her, and +gently smooths and caresses it with her light loving fingers. He +trembles a little, and a heavy dry sob breaks from him. This parting is +as the bitterness of death. To them it _is_ death, because it is +forever. + +He brings the dear hand down to his lips, and kisses it softly, +tenderly. + +"Dearest," she murmurs, brokenly, "be comforted." + +"What comfort can I find, when I am losing you?" + +"You can think of me." + +"That would only increase my sorrow." + +"Is it so with you? For me I am thankful, very thankful, for the great +joy that has been mine for months, the knowledge that you loved me. Even +now, when desolation has come upon us, the one bright spot in all my +misery is the thought that at least I may remember you, and call to mind +your words, your face, your voice, without sin." + +"If ever you need me," he says, when a few minutes have elapsed, "you +have only to write, 'Cyril, I want you,' and though the whole world +should lie between us, I shall surely come. O my best beloved! how shall +I live without you?" + +"Don't,--do not speak like that," entreats she, faintly. "It is too hard +already: do not make it worse." Then, recovering herself by a supreme +effort, she says, "Let us part now, here, while we have courage. I think +the few arrangements we can make have been made, and George Trant will +write, if--if there is anything to write about." + +They are standing with their hands locked together reading each other's +faces for the last time. + +"To-morrow you will leave Chetwoode?" she says, regarding him fixedly. + +"To-morrow! I could almost wish there was no to-morrow for either you or +me," replies he. + +"Cyril," she says, with sudden fear, "you will take care of yourself, +you will not go into any danger? Darling,"--with a sob,--"you will +always remember that some day, when this is quite forgotten, I shall +want to see again the face of my dearest friend." + +"I shall come back to you," he says quietly. He is so quiet that she +tells herself now is a fitting time to break away from him; she forces +herself to take the first step that shall part them remorselessly. + +"Good-bye," she says, in faltering tones. + +"Good-bye," returns he, mechanically. With the slow reluctant tears that +spring from a broken heart running down her pale cheeks, she presses her +lips fervently to his hands, and moves slowly away. When she has gone a +few steps, frightened at the terrible silence that seems to have +enwrapped him, benumbing his very senses, she turns to regard him once +more. + +He has never stirred; he scarcely seems to breathe, so motionless is his +attitude; as though some spell were on him, he stands silently gazing +after her, his eyes full of dumb agony. There is something so utterly +lonely in the whole scene that Cecilia bursts into tears. Her sobs rouse +him. + +"Cecilia!" he cries, in a voice of mingled passion and despair that +thrills through her. Once more he holds out to her his arms. She runs to +him, and flings herself for the time into his embrace. He strains her +passionately to his heart. Her sobs break upon the silent air. Once +again their white lips form the word "farewell." There is a last +embrace, a last lingering kiss. + +All is over. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. + + "The flower that smiles to-day + To-morrow dies; + All that we wish to stay + Tempts and then flies. + What is this world's delight? + Lightning that mocks the night, + Brief even as bright."--SHELLEY. + + +At Chetwoode they are all assembled in the drawing-room,--except +Archibald, who is still confined to his room,--waiting for dinner: Cyril +alone is absent. + +"What can be keeping him?" says his mother, at last, losing patience as +she pictures him dallying with his betrothed at The Cottage while the +soup is spoiling and the cook is gradually verging toward hysterics. She +suffers an aggrieved expression to grow within her eyes as she speaks +from the depths of the softest arm-chair the room contains, in which it +is her custom to ensconce herself. + +"Nothing very dreadful, I dare say," replies Florence, in tones a degree +less even than usual, her appetite having got the better of her +self-control. + +Almost as she says the words the door is thrown open, and Cyril enters. +He is in morning costume, his hair is a little rough, his face pale, his +lips bloodless. Walking straight up to his mother, without looking +either to the right or to the left, he says, in a low constrained voice +that betrays a desperate effort to be calm: + +"Be satisfied, mother: you have won the day. Your wish is fulfilled: I +shall never marry Mrs. Arlington: you need not have made such a +difficulty about giving your consent this morning, as now it is +useless." + +"Cyril, what has happened?" says Lady Chetwoode, rising to her feet +alarmed, a distinct pallor overspreading her features. She puts out one +jeweled hand as though to draw him nearer to her, but for the first time +in all his life he shrinks from her gentle touch, and moving backward, +stands in the middle of the room. Lilian, going up to him, compels him +with loving violence to turn toward her. + +"Why don't you speak?" she asks, sharply. "Have you and Cecilia +quarreled?" + +"No: it is no lovers' quarrel," with an odd change of expression: "we +have had little time for quarreling, she and I: our days for love-making +were so short, so sweet!" + +There is a pause: then in a clear harsh voice, in which no faintest +particle of feeling can be traced, he goes on: "Her husband is alive; he +is coming home. After all,"--with a short unlovely laugh, sad through +its very bitterness,--"we worried ourselves unnecessarily, as she was +not, what we so feared, a widow." + +"Cyril!" exclaims Lilian; she is trembling visibly, and gazes at him as +though fearing he may have lost his senses. + +"I would not have troubled you about this matter," continues Cyril, not +heeding the interruption, and addressing the room generally, without +permitting himself to look at any one, "but that it is a fact that must +be known sooner or later; I thought the sooner the better, as it will +end your anxiety and convince you that this _mesalliance_ you so +dreaded,"--with a sneer,--"can never take place." + +Guy, who has come close to him, here lays his hand upon his arm. + +"Do not speak to us as though we could not feel for you," he says, +gently, pain and remorse struggling in his tone, "believe me----" + +But Cyril thrusts him back. + +"I want neither sympathy nor kind words now," he says, fiercely: "you +failed me when I most required them, when they might have made _her_ +happy. I have spoken on this subject now once for all. From this moment +let no one dare broach it to me again." + +Guy is silent, repentant. No one speaks; the tears are running down +Lilian's cheeks. + +"May not I?" she asks, in a distressed whisper. "Oh, my dear! do not +shut yourself up alone with your grief. Have I not been your friend? +Have not I, too, loved her? poor darling! Cyril, let me speak to you of +her sometimes." + +"Not yet; not now," replies he, in the softest tone he has yet used, a +gleam of anguish flashing across his face. "Yes, you were always true to +her, my good little Lilian!" Then, sinking his voice, "I am leaving +home, perhaps for years; do not forsake her. Try to console, to +comfort----" He breaks down hopelessly; raising her hand to his lips, he +kisses it fervently, and a second later has left the room. + +For quite two minutes after the door had closed upon him, no one stirs, +no one utters a word. Guy is still standing with downcast eyes upon the +spot that witnessed his repulse. Lilian is crying. Lady Chetwoode is +also dissolved in tears. It is this particular moment Florence chooses +to make the first remark that has passed her lips since Cyril's abrupt +entrance. + +"Could anything be more fortunate?" she says, in a measured, +congratulatory way. "Could anything have happened more opportunely? Here +is this objectionable marriage irretrievably prevented without any +trouble on our parts. I really think we owe a debt of gratitude to this +very unpleasant husband." + +"Florence," cries Lady Chetwoode, with vehement reproach, stung to the +quick, "how can you see cause for rejoicing in the poor boy's misery! Do +you not think of him?" After which she subsides again, with an audible +sob, into her cambric. But Lilian is not so easily satisfied. + +"How dare you speak so?" she says, turning upon Florence with wet eyes +that flash fire through their tears. "You are a cold and heartless +woman. How should _you_ understand what he is feeling,--poor, poor +Cyril!" This ebullition of wrath seems to do her good. Kneeling down by +her auntie, she places her arms round her, and has another honest +comfortable cry upon her bosom. + +Florence draws herself up to her full height, which is not +inconsiderable, and follows her movements with slow, supercilious +wonder. She half closes her white lids, and lets her mouth take a +slightly disdainful curve,--not too great a curve, but just enough to be +becoming and show the proper disgust she feels at the terrible +exhibition of ill-breeding that has just taken place. + +But as neither Lilian nor Lady Chetwoode can see her, and as Guy has +turned to the fire and is staring into its depths with an expression of +stern disapproval upon his handsome face, she presently finds she is +posing to no effect, and gives it up. + +Letting a rather vindictive look cover her features, she sweeps out of +the drawing-room up to her own chamber, and gets rid of her bad temper +so satisfactorily that after ten minutes her maid gives warning, and is +ready to curse the day she was born. + +The next morning, long before any one is up, Cyril takes his departure +by the early train, and for many days his home knows him no more. + + * * * * * + +A mighty compassion for Cecilia fills the hearts of all at +Chetwoode--all, that is, except Miss Beauchamp, who privately considers +it extremely low and wretched form, to possess a heart at all. + +Lady Chetwoode, eager and anxious to atone for past unkind thought, goes +down to The Cottage in person and insists on seeing its sad +tenant,--when so tender and sympathetic is she, that, the ice being +broken and pride vanquished, the younger woman gives way, and, laying +her head upon the gentle bosom near her, has a hearty cry there, that +eases even while it pains her. I have frequently noticed that when one +person falls to weeping in the arms of another, that other person +maintains a _tendresse_ for her for a considerable time afterward. +Cecilia's lucky rain of tears on this occasion softens her companion +wonderfully, so that Lady Chetwoode, who only came to pity, goes away +admiring. + +There is an indescribable charm about Cecilia, impossible to resist. +Perhaps it is her beauty, perhaps her exquisite womanliness, combined +with the dignity that sits so sweetly on her. Lady Chetwoode succumbs to +it, and by degrees grows not only sympathetic toward her, but really +attached to her society,--"now, when it is too late," as poor Cecilia +tells herself, with a bitter pang. Yet the friendship of Cyril's mother +is dear to her, and helps to lighten the dreary days that must elapse +before the news of her husband's return to life is circumstantially +confirmed. They have all entreated her to make The Cottage still her +home, until such unwelcome news arrives. + +Colonel Trant's friend has again written from Russia, but without being +able to add another link to the chain of evidence. "He had not seen +Arlington since. He had changed his quarters, so they had missed, and he +had had no opportunity of cross-examining him as to his antecedents; but +he himself had small doubt he was the man they had so often discussed +together. He heard he had gone south, through Turkey, meaning to make +his voyage home by sea; he had mentioned something about preferring +that mode of traveling to any other. He could, of course, easily +ascertain the exact time he meant to return to England, and would let +Trant know without delay," etc. + +All this is eminently unsatisfactory, and suspense preying upon Cecilia +commits terrible ravages upon both face and form. Her large eyes look at +one full of a settled melancholy; her cheeks grow more hollow daily; her +once elastic step has grown slow and fearful, as though she dreads to +overtake misfortune. Every morning and evening, as the post hour draws +nigh, she suffers mental agony, through her excessive fear of what a +letter may reveal to her, sharper than any mere physical pain. + +Cyril has gone abroad; twice Lilian has received a line from him, but of +his movements or his feelings they know nothing. Cecilia has managed to +get both these curt letters into her possession, and no doubt treasures +them, and weeps over them, poor soul, as a saint might over a relic. + +Archibald, now almost recovered, has left them reluctantly for change of +air, in happy ignorance of the sad events that have been starting up +among them since his accident, as all those aware of the circumstances +naturally shrink from speaking of them, and show a united desire to +prevent the unhappy story from spreading further. + +So day succeeds day, until at length matters come to a crisis, and hopes +and fears are at an end. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. + + "Love laid his sleepless head + On a thorny rose bed; + And his eyes with tears were red + And pale his lips as the dead. + + "And fear, and sorrow, and scorn, + Kept watch by his head forlorn, + Till the night was overworn, + And the world was merry with morn. + + "And joy came up with the day, + And kissed love's lips as he lay, + And the watchers, ghostly and gray, + Sped from his pillow away. + + "And his eyes at the dawn grew bright + And his lips waxed ruddy as light: + Sorrow may reign for a night, + But day shall bring back delight." + --SWINBURNE. + + +The strong old winter is dead. He has died slowly, painfully, with many +a desperate struggle, many a hard fight to reassert his power; but now +at last he's safely buried, pushed out of sight by all the soft little +armies of green leaves that have risen up in battle against him. Above +his grave the sweet, brave young grasses are springing, the myriad +flowers are bursting into fuller beauty, the birds, not now in twos or +threes, but in countless thousands, are singing melodiously among the as +yet half-opened leaves, making all the woods merry with their tender +madrigals. The whole land is awake and astir, crying, "Welcome" to the +flower-crowned spring, as she flies with winged feet over field, and +brook, and upland. + +It is the first week in March, a wonderfully soft and lamb-like March +even at this early stage of its existence. Archibald has again returned +to Chetwoode, strong and well, having been pressed to do so by Lady +Chetwoode, who has by this time brought herself, most reluctantly, to +believe his presence necessary to Lilian's happiness. + +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. + +Lilian, unable to work or read, wanders aimlessly through the house, +hardly knowing how to hide her growing depression from her cousins, who +alone remain quite ignorant of the impending trouble. Mr. Musgrave, +indeed, is so utterly unaware of the tragedy going on around him, that +he chooses this particular day to be especially lively, not to say +larky, and overpowers Lilian with his attentions; which so distracts her +that, watching her opportunity, she finally effects her escape through +the drawing-room window, and, running swiftly through the plantations, +turns in the direction of the wood. + +She eludes one cousin, however, only to throw herself into the arms of +another. Half-way to The Cottage she meets Archibald coming leisurely +toward her. + +"Take me for a walk," he says, with humble entreaty; and Lilian, who, as +a rule, is kind to every one except her guardian, tells him, after an +unflattering pause, he may accompany her to such and such a distance, +but no farther. + +"I am going to The Cottage," she says. + +"To see this Lady of Shalott, this mysterious Mariana in her moated +grange?" asks Chesney, lightly. + +Odd as it may sound, he has never yet been face to face with Cecilia. +Her determined seclusion and her habit of frequenting the parish church +in the next village, which is but a short distance from her, has left +her a stranger to almost every one in the neighborhood. Archibald is +indeed aware that The Cottage owns a tenant, and that her name is +Arlington, but nothing more. The fact of her never being named at +Chetwoode has prevented his asking any idle questions and thereby making +any discoveries. + +When they have come to the rising mound that half overlooks The Cottage +garden, Lilian comes to a standstill. + +"Now you must leave me," she says, imperatively. + +"Why? We are quite a day's journey from The Cottage yet. Let me see you +to the gate." + +"How tiresome you are!" says Miss Chesney; "just like a big baby, only +not half so nice: you always want more than you are promised." + +As Chesney makes no reply to this sally, she glances at him, and, +following the direction of his eyes, sees Cecilia, who has come out for +a moment or two to breathe the sweet spring air, walking to and fro +among the garden paths. It is a very pale and changed Cecilia upon whom +they look. + +"Why," exclaims Chesney, in a tone of rapt surprise, "surely that is +Miss Duncan!" + +"No,"--amazed,--"it is Mrs. Arlington, Sir Guy's tenant." + +"True,"--slowly,--"I believe she did marry that fellow afterward. But I +never knew her except as Miss Duncan." + +"You knew her?" + +"Very slightly,"--still with his eyes fixed upon Cecilia, as she paces +mournfully up and down in the garden below them, with bent head and +slow, languid movements. "Once I spoke to her, but I knew her well by +sight; she was, she _is_, one of the loveliest women I ever saw. But how +changed she is! how altered, how white her face appears! or can it be +the distance makes me think so? I remember her such a merry girl--almost +a child--when she married Arlington." + +"Yes? She does not look merry now," says Lilian, the warm tears rising +in her eyes: "poor darling, no wonder she looks depressed!" + +"Why?" + +"Oh," says Lilian, hesitating, "something about her husband, you know." + +"You don't mean to say she is wearing sackcloth and the willow, and all +that sort of thing, for Arlington all this time?" in a tone of +astonishment largely flavored with contempt. "I knew him uncommonly well +before he married, and I should think his death would have been a cause +for rejoicing to his wife, above all others." + +"Ah! that is just it," says Lilian, consumed with a desire to tell: she +sinks her voice mysteriously, and sighs a heavy sigh tinctured with +melancholy. + +"Just so," unsympathetically. "Some women, I believe, are hopeless +idiots." + +"They are not," indignantly; "Cecilia is not an idiot; she is miserable +because he is--alive! _Now_ what do you think?" + +"Alive!" incredulously. + +"Exactly so," with all the air of a triumphant _raconteur_. "And when +she had believed him dead, too, for so long! is it not hard upon her, +poor thing! to have him come to life again so disagreeably without a +word of warning? I really think it is quite enough to kill her." + +"Well, I never!" says Mr. Chesney, staring at her. It isn't an elegant +remark, but it is full of animated surprise, and satisfies Lilian. + +"Is it not a tragedy?" she says, growing more and more pitiful every +moment. "All was going on well (it doesn't matter what), when suddenly +some one wrote to Colonel Trant to say he had seen this odious Mr. +Arlington alive and well in Russia, and that he was on his way home. I +shall always"--viciously--"hate the man who wrote it: one would think he +had nothing else to write about, stupid creature! but is it not shocking +for her, poor thing?" + +At this, seemingly without rhyme or reason (except a depraved delight in +other people's sufferings), Mr. Chesney bursts into a loud enjoyable +laugh, and continues it for some seconds. He might perhaps have +continued it until now, did not Lilian see fit to wither his mirth in +the bud. + +"Is it a cause for laughter?" she asks, wrathfully; "but it is _just +like you_! I don't believe you have an atom of feeling. Positively I +think you would laugh if _auntie_, who is almost a mother to you, was +_dead_!" + +"No, I should not," declares Archibald, subsiding from amusement to the +very lowest depths of sulk: "pardon me for contradicting you, but I +should not even _smile_ were Lady Chetwoode dead. She is perhaps the one +woman in the world whose death would cause me unutterable sorrow." + +"Then why did you laugh just now?" + +"Because if you had seen a man lie dead and had attended his funeral, +even _you_ might consider it a joke to hear he was 'alive and well.'" + +"You saw him dead!" + +"Yes, as dead as Julius Cæsar," morosely. "It so happened I knew him +uncommonly well years ago: 'birds of a feather,' you know,"--bitterly,-- +"'flock together.' We flocked for a considerable time. Then I lost sight +of him, and rather forgot all about him than otherwise, until I met him +again in Vienna, more than two years ago. I saw him stabbed,--I had been +dining with him that night,--and helped to carry him home; it seemed a +slight affair, and I left him in the hands of a very skillful +physician, believing him out of danger. Next morning, when I called, he +was dead." + +"Archie,"--in a low awe-struck whisper,--"is it all true?" + +"Perfectly true." + +"You could not by any possibility be mistaken?" + +"Not by any." + +"Then, Archie," says Lilian, solemnly, "you are a _darling_!" + +"Am I?" grimly. "I thought I was a demon who could laugh at the demise +of his best friend." + +"Nonsense!" tucking her hand genially beneath his arm; "I only said that +out of vexation. Think as little about it as I do. I know for a fact you +are not half a bad boy. Come now with me to The Cottage, that I may tell +this extraordinary, this delightful story to Cecilia." + +"Is Cecilia Miss Duncan?" + +"No, Mrs. Arlington. Archie,"--seriously,--"you are quite, utterly sure +you know all about it?" + +"Do you imagine I dreamed it? Of course I am sure. But if you think I am +going down there to endure hysterics, and be made damp with tears, you +are much mistaken. I won't go, Lilian; you needn't think it; I--I should +be afraid." + +"Console yourself; I shan't require your assistance," calmly. "I only +want you to stay outside while I break the good news to her, lest she +should wish to ask you a question. I only hope, Archie, you are telling +me the exact truth,"--severely,--"that you are not drawing on your +imagination, and that it was no other man of the same name you saw lying +dead?" + +"Perhaps it was," replies he, huffily, turning away as they reach the +wicket gate. + +"Do not stir from where you are now," says she, imperiously: "I may want +you at any moment." + +So Archibald, who does not dare disobey her commands, strays idly up and +down outside the hedge, awaiting his summons. It is rather long in +coming, so that his small stock of patience is nearly exhausted when he +receives a message begging him to come in-doors. + +As he enters the drawing-room, however, he is so struck with compassion +at the sight of Cecilia's large, half-frightened eyes turned upon him +that he loses all his ill humor and grows full of sympathy. She is very +unlike the happy Cecilia of a month ago, still more unlike the calm, +dignified Cecilia who first came to Chetwoode. She is pale as the early +blossoms that lie here and there in soft wanton luxuriance upon her +tables; her whole face is eager and expectant. She is trembling +perceptibly from head to foot. + +"What is it you would tell me, sir?" she asks, with deep entreaty. It is +as though she longs yet fears to believe. + +"I would tell you, madam," replies Chesney, respect and pity in his +tone, taking and holding the hand she extends to him, while Lilian +retains the other and watches her anxiously, "that fears are groundless. +A most gross mistake has, I understand, caused you extreme uneasiness. I +would have you dismiss this trouble from your mind. I happened to know +Jasper Arlington well: I was at Vienna the year he was there; we met +often. I witnessed the impromptu duel that caused his death; I saw him +stabbed; I myself helped to carry him to his rooms; next morning he was +dead. Forgive me, madam, that I speak so brusquely. It is best, I think, +to be plain, to mention bare facts." + +Here he pauses, and Cecilia's breath comes quickly; involuntarily her +fingers close round his; a question she hardly dares to ask trembles on +her lips. Archibald reads it in the silent agony of her eyes. + +"I saw him dead," he says, softly, and is rewarded by a grateful glance +from Lilian. + +Cecilia's eyes close; a dry, painful sob comes from between her pallid +lips. + +"She will faint," cries Lilian, placing her arms round her. + +"No, I shall not." By a great effort Cecilia overcomes the insensibility +fast creeping over her. "I thank you, sir," she says to Archibald: "your +words sound like truth. I would I dared believe them! but I have been so +often----" she stops, half choked with emotion. "What must you think me +but inhuman?" she says, sobbingly. "All women except me mourn their +husband's death; I mourn, in that I fear him living." + +"Madam," replies Archibald, scarcely knowing what to say, "I too knew +Jasper Arlington; for me, therefore, it would be impossible to judge you +harshly in this matter. Were you, or any other living soul, to pretend +regret for him, pardon me if I say I should deem you a hypocrite." + +"You must believe what he has told you," says Lilian, emphatically: "it +admits of no denial. But, to-morrow, at all events, will bring you news +from Colonel Trant that will compel you to acknowledge its truth." + +"Yes, yes. Oh, that to-morrow was here!" murmurs Cecilia, faintly. And +Lilian understands that not until Trant's letter is within her hands +will she allow herself to entertain hope. + +Silently Lilian embraces her, and she and Archibald return home. + + * * * * * + +At Chetwoode very intense relief and pleasure are felt as Lilian relates +her wonderful story. Every one is only too willing to place credence in +it. Chesney confesses to some sensations of shame. + +"Somehow," he says, "it never occurred to me your tenant might be Jasper +Arlington's wife and the pretty Miss Duncan who tore my heart into +fritters some years ago. And I knew nothing of all this terrible story +about her husband's supposed resuscitation until to-day. It is a 'comedy +of errors.' I feel inclined to sink into the ground when I remember how +I have walked about here among you all, with full proof of what would +have set you all at rest in no time, carefully locked up in my breast. +Although innocent, Lady Chetwoode, I feel I ought to apologize." + +"I shall go down and make her come up to Chetwoode," says her ladyship, +warmly. "Poor girl! it is far too lonely for her to be down there by +herself, especially just now when she must be so unstrung. As soon as I +hear she has had that letter from George Trant, I shall persuade her to +come to us." + +The next evening brings a letter from Trant that falls like a little +warm seal of certainty upon the good news of yesterday. + +"Going down to the landing-place," writes he, "I found the steamer had +really arrived, and went on board instantly. With my heart beating to +suffocation I walked up to the captain, and asked him if any gentleman +named Arlington had come with him. He said, 'Yes, he was here just now,' +and looking round, pointed to a tall man bending over some luggage. +'There he is,' he said. I went up to the tall man. I could see he was a +good height, and that his hair was black. As I noted this last fact my +blood froze in my veins. When I was quite close to him he raised +himself, turned, and looked full at me! And once more my blood ran +warmly, comfortably. It was _not_ the man I had feared to see. I drew my +breath quickly, and to make assurance doubly sure, determined to ask his +name. + +"'Sir,' I said, bluntly, forgetful of etiquette, 'is your name +Arlington?' + +"'Sir,' replied he, regarding me with calm surprise, 'it is.' At this +moment I confess I lost my head. I became once more eighteen, and +impulsive. I grasped his hands; I wrung them affectionately, not to say +violently. + +"'Then, my dear sir,' I exclaimed, rapturously, 'I owe you a debt of +gratitude. I thank you with all my heart. Had you not been born an +Arlington, I might now be one of the most miserable men alive; as it is, +I am one of the happiest.' + +"My new friend stared. Then he gave way to an irrepressible laugh, and +shrugged his shoulders expressively. + +"'My good fellow,' said he, 'be reasonable. Take yourself back again to +the excellent asylum from which you have escaped, and don't make further +fuss about it. With your genial disposition you are sure to be caught.' + +"At this I thought it better to offer him some slight explanation, which +so amused him that he insisted on carrying me off with him to his hotel, +where we dined, and where I found him a very excellent fellow indeed." + +In this wise runs his letter. Cecilia reads it until each comforting +assertion is shrined within her heart and doubt is no longer possible. +Then an intense gratitude fills her whole being; her eyes grow dim with +tears; clasping her hands earnestly, she falls upon her knees. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. + + "How like a winter hath my absence been + From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! + What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen, + What old December's bareness everywhere!" + --SHAKESPEARE. + + +So Lady Chetwoode goes down to The Cottage in her carriage, and insists +upon carrying Cecilia back with her,--to which, after a slight demur, +Cecilia gladly assents. + +"But how to get Cyril," says practical Lilian, who is with them. + +"He is in Amsterdam," answers Cecilia, with some hesitation. "Colonel +Trant told me so in his letter." + +"Colonel Trant is the most wonderful man I know," says Lilian; "but +Amsterdam of all places! What on earth can any one want in Amsterdam?" + +At this they all laugh, partly because they are still somewhat nervously +inclined, and partly because (though why, I cannot explain) they seem to +find something amusing in the mere thought of Amsterdam. + +"I hope he won't bring back with him a fat _vrouw_," says Miss Chesney. +And then she runs up-stairs to tell Kate to get ready to accompany her +mistress. + +Turning rather timidly toward Lady Chetwoode, Cecilia says: + +"When Cyril returns, then,--you will not--you do not----" + +"When he returns, my dear, you must marry him at once, if only to make +amends for all the misery the poor boy has been enduring. +But,"--kindly--"you must study economy, child; remember you are not +marrying a rich man." + +"He is rich enough for me," smiling; "though indeed it need not signify, +as I have money enough for both. I never spoke of it until now, because +I wished to keep it as a little surprise for him on--on our wedding-day, +but at Mr. Arlington's death I inherited all his fortune. He never +altered the will made before our marriage, and it is nearly four +thousand a year, I think," simply: "Colonel Trant knows the exact +amount, because he is a trustee." + +Lady Chetwoode colors deeply. This woman, whom she had termed +"adventuress," is in reality possessed of a far larger fortune than the +son she would have guarded from her at all hazards; proves to be an +heiress, still further enriched by the priceless gifts of grace and +beauty! + +To say the very least of it, Lady Chetwoode feels small. But, pride +coming to her rescue, she says, somewhat stiffly, while the pleasant +smile of a moment since dies from her face: + +"I had no idea you were so--so--in fact, I believed you almost +portionless. I was led--how I know not--but I certainly was led to think +so. What you say is a surprise. With so much money you should hesitate +before taking any final step. The world is before you,--you are young, +and very charming. I will ask you to forgive an old woman's bluntness; +but remember, there is always something desirable in a title. I would +have you therefore consider. My son is no match for you where _money_ is +concerned." This last emphatically and very proudly. + +Cecilia flushes, and grows distressed. + +"Dear Lady Chetwoode," she says, taking her hand forcibly. "I entreat +you not to speak to me so. Do not make me again unhappy. This money, +which up to the present I have scarcely touched, so hateful has it been +to me, has of late become almost precious to my sight. I please myself +with the thought that the giving of it to--to Cyril--may be some small +return to him for all the tenderness he has lavished upon me. Do not be +angry with me that I cherish, and find such intense gratification in +this idea. It is so sweet to give to those we love!" + +"You have a generous heart," Lady Chetwoode answers, moved by her +generous manner, and pleased too, for money, like music, "hath charms." +"If I have seemed ungracious, forget it. Extreme wonder makes us at +times careless of courtesy, and we did not suspect one who could choose +to live in such a quiet spot as this of being an heiress." + +"You will keep my secret?" anxiously. + +"I promise. You shall be the first to tell it to your husband upon your +wedding-day. I think," says the elder lady, gracefully, "he is too +blessed. Surely you possessed treasure enough in your own person!" + + * * * * * + +So Cecilia goes to Chetwoode, and shortly afterward Lady Chetwoode +conceives a little plot that pleases her intensely, and which she +relates with such evident gusto that Lilian tells her she is an +_intrigante_ of the deepest dye, and that positively for the future she +shall feel quite afraid of her. + +"I never heard anything so artful," says Taffy, who has with much +perseverance wormed himself into their confidence. In fact, after +administering various rebuffs they all lose heart, and confess to him +the whole truth out of utter desperation. "Downright artful!" repeats +Mr. Musgrave, severely. "I shouldn't have believed you capable of it." + +But Cecilia says it is a charming scheme, and sighs for its +accomplishment. Whereupon a telegram is written and sent to Cyril. It is +carefully worded, and, though strictly truthful in letter, rather +suggests the idea that his instant return to Chetwoode will be the only +means of saving his entire family from asphyxiation. It is a thrilling +telegram, almost bound to bring him back without delay, had he but one +grain of humanity left in his composition. + +It evokes an answer that tells them he has started on receipt of their +message, and names the day and hour they may expect him, wind and +weather permitting. + + * * * * * + +It is night,--a rather damp, decidedly unlovely night. The little +station at Truston is almost deserted: only the station-master and two +melancholy porters represent life in its most dejected aspect. Outside +the railings stands the Chetwoode carriage, the horses foaming and +champing their bits in eager impatience to return again to their +comfortable stables. + +Guy, with a cigar between his lips, is pacing up and down, indifferent +alike to the weather or the delay. One of the melancholy porters, who is +evidently in the final stage of depression, tells him the train was due +five minutes ago, and hopes dismally there has been no accident higher +up on the line. Guy, who is lost in thought, hopes so too, and instantly +offers the man a cigar, through force of habit, which the moody one +takes sadly, and deposits in a half-hearted fashion in one of his +numerous rambling pockets to show to his children when he gets home. + +"If ever I _do_ get home," he says to himself, hopelessly, taking out +and lighting an honest clay that has seen considerable service. + +Then a shrill whistle rings through the air, the train steams lazily +into the station, and Guy, casting a hasty glance at the closed blinds +of the carriage outside, hastens forward to meet Cyril, who is the only +passenger for Truston to-night. + +"Has anything happened?" he asks, anxiously, advancing to greet Sir Guy. + +"Yes, but nothing to make you uneasy. Do not ask me any questions now: +you will hear all when you get home." + +"Our mother is well?" + +"Quite well. Are you ready? What a beastly objectionable night it is! +Have you seen to everything, Buckley? Get in, Cyril. I am going outside +to finish my cigar." + +When Guy chooses, he is energetic. Cyril is not, and allows himself to +be pushed unresistingly in the direction of the carriage. + +"Hurry, man: the night is freezing," says Guy, giving him a final touch. +"Home, Buckley." + +Guy springs up in front. Cyril finds himself in the brougham, and in +another instant they are beyond the station railings, rolling along the +road leading to Chetwoode. + +As Cyril closes the door and turns round, the light of the lamps outside +reveals to him the outline of a dark figure seated beside him. + +"Is it you, Lilian?" he asks, surprised; and then the dark figure leans +forward, throws back a furred hood, and Cecilia's face, pale, but full +of a glad triumph, smiles upon him. + +"You!" exclaims he, unsteadily, unable through utter amazement to say +anything more, while with his eyes he gathers in hungrily each delicate +beauty in that "sweetest face to him in all this world." + +Whereupon Cecilia nods almost saucily, though the tears are thick within +her lovely eyes, and answers him: + +"Yes, it is even I. Are you glad or sorry, that you stare so rudely at +me? and never a word of greeting! Shame, then! Have you left all your +manners behind you in Amsterdam? I have come all this way, this cold +night, to bid you welcome and bring you home to Chetwoode, and +yet---- Oh, Cyril!" suddenly flinging herself into his longing arms, "it +is all right at last, my dear--dear--_dear_, and you may love me again +as much as ever you like!" + +When explanations have come to an end, and they are somewhat calmer, +Cyril says: + +"But how is it that you are here with Guy, and going to Chetwoode?" + +"I am staying at Chetwoode. Your mother came herself, and brought me +back with her. How kind she is, how sweet! Even had I never known you, I +should have loved her dearly." + +This last assurance from the lips of his beloved makes up the sum of +Cyril's content. + +"Tell me more, sweetheart," he says, contented only to listen. With his +arms round her, with her face so close to his, with both their hearts +beating in happy unison, he hardly cares to question, but is well +pleased to keep silence, and listen to the soft, loving babble that +issues from her lips. Her very words seem to him, who has so long +wearied for them, set to tenderest music. "Like flakes of feathered +snow, they melted as they fell." + +"I have so much to tell, I scarcely know where to begin. Do you know you +are to escort me to a ball at Mrs. Steyne's next week? No? why, you know +nothing; so much for sojourning in Amsterdam. Then I suppose you are +ignorant of the fact that I have ordered the most delicious dress you +ever beheld to grace the occasion and save myself from disgracing you. +And you are to be very proud of me, and to admire me immensely, or I +shall never forgive you." + +"I am pretty certain not to deserve condign punishment on that score," +fondly. "Darling, can it be really true that we are together again, that +all the late horrible hopelessness is at an end? Cecilia, if this should +prove a dream, and I awoke now, it would kill me." + +"Nay, it is no dream," softly. Turning up her perfect face, until the +lips are close to his, she whispers, "Kiss me, and be convinced." + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. + + "How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature!" + --_Cymbeline._ + + "No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful + I know, her spirits are as coy and wild + As haggards of the rock. + + * * * * * + + Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes, + Misprising what they look on." + --_Much Ado About Nothing._ + + +"Sir Guy," says Miss Chesney, two days later, bursting into his private +sanctum as "the eve is declining," in a rather stormy fashion, "I must +ask you to speak to your groom Buckley: he has been exceedingly rude to +me." + +"Rude? Buckley?" exclaims Sir Guy, with a frown, throwing down the paper +he has been trying to read in the fast growing gloom. It is dusk, but +the red light of the fire flickers full upon his face, betraying the +anger that is gathering there. A looker-on would have readily understood +by it that Buckley's hours for grooming at Chetwoode are few. + +"Yes. I told him to have Saracen saddled for me to-morrow morning, as +the meet is at Ryston, and I expect a good run; and he said he should +not do it without your permission, or orders, or something equally +impertinent." + +"Saracen!" returns Chetwoode, aghast, losing sight of Buckley's +miserable behavior, or rather condoning it on the spot; "you don't mean +to tell me that for one moment you dreamed of riding Saracen?" + +"Certainly I did. And why not?" preparing for battle. + +"Because the idea is simply absurd. You could not possibly ride him. He +is not half trained." + +"Archibald rode him last week, and says he is perfect, and quite safe. I +have decided on trying him to-morrow." + +"I wish Chesney would not put such thoughts into your head. He is _not_ +safe, and he has never been ridden by a woman." + +"That is just why I fancy him: I have often before now ridden horses +that had never had a lady on their backs until I rode them. And +to-morrow I feel sure will be a good day, besides being probably my +last meet for the season." + +"My dear child, I think it would indeed be your last meet were you to +ride that brute: his temper is thoroughly uncertain." + +"You told me a few days ago my hand could make any horse's mouth, and +now----" + +"I told you then what I tell you again now, that you are one of the best +woman riders I ever saw. But for all that, you would find it impossible +to manage Saracen." + +"You refuse him to me, then?" with an ominous gleam in her eyes. + +"I wish you would not look at it in that light: I merely cannot consent +to let you break your neck. If your own mare does not please you, you +can take my mount, or any other in the entire stables." + +"No, thank you, I only want that one." + +"But, my dear Lilian, pray be reasonable!" entreats Chetwoode, warmly, +and just a trifle impatiently: "do you think I would be doing my duty by +you if I sanctioned such a rash proceeding?" + +"Your duty?" unpleasantly, and with a certain scornful uplifting of her +small Grecian nose. + +"Just so," coldly; "I am your guardian, remember." + +"Oh, pray do not perpetually seek to remind me of that detestable fact," +says Miss Chesney, vindictively; whereupon Sir Guy freezes, and subsides +into dead and angry silence. Lilian, sweeping over to the darkening +window, commences upon the pane a most disheartening tattoo, that makes +the listener long for death. When Chetwoode can stand it no longer, he +breaks the oppressive stillness. + +"Perhaps you are not aware," he says, angrily, "that a noise of that +description is intensely irritating." + +"No. _I_ like it," retorts Miss Chesney, tattooing louder than ever. + +"If you go on much longer, you will drive me out of my mind," remarks +Guy, distractedly. + +"Oh, don't let it come to that," calmly; "let me drive you out of the +room first." + +"As to my guardianship," says Chetwoode, in a chilling tone, "console +yourself with the reflection that it cannot last forever. Time is never +at a standstill, and your twenty-first birthday will restore you to +freedom. You can then ride as many wild animals and kill yourself as +quickly as you please, without asking any one's consent." + +"I can do that now too, and probably shall. I have quite made up my mind +to ride Saracen to-morrow!" + +"Then the sooner you unmake that mind the better." + +"Well,"--turning upon him as though fully prepared to crush him with her +coming speech,--"if I don't ride him I shall stay at home altogether: +there!" + +"I think that will be by far the wiser plan of the two," returns he, +coolly. + +"What! and lose all my day!" cries Lilian, overwhelmed by the atrocity +of this remark, "while you and all the others go and enjoy yourselves! +How hatefully selfish you can be! But I won't be tyrannized over in this +fashion. I shall go, and on Saracen too." + +"You shall not," firmly. + +Miss Chesney has come close up to where he is standing on the +hearth-rug. The fire-light dances and crackles merrily, casting its +rays, now yellow, now deep crimson, over their angry faces, as though +drawing keen enjoyment from the deadly duel going on so near to it. One +pale gleam lingers lovingly upon Lilian's sunny head, throwing over it +yet another shade, if possible richer and more golden than its fellows; +another lights up her white hands, rather defiantly clinched, one small +foot in its high-heeled shoe that has advanced beyond her gown, and two +blue eyes large with indignant astonishment. + +Guy is returning her gaze with almost equal indignation, being angrily +remindful of certain looks and scenes that of late have passed between +them. + +"You defy me?" says Lilian, slowly. + +"I do." + +"You _refuse_ me?" as though not quite believing the evidence of her +senses. + +"I do. I forbid you to ride that one horse." + +"Forbid me!" exclaims she passionately, tears starting to her eyes. "You +are fond of forbidding, as it seems to me. Recollect, sir, that, though +unhappily your ward, I am neither your child nor your wife." + +"I assure you I had never the presumption to imagine you in the latter +character," he answers, haughtily, turning very pale, but speaking +steadily and in a tone eminently uncomplimentary. + +"Your voice says more than your words," exclaims Lilian, too angry to +weigh consequences. "Am I to understand"--with an unlovely laugh--"you +think me unworthy to fill so exalted a position?" + +"As you press me for the truth," says Chetwoode, who has lost his temper +completely, "I confess I should hardly care to live out my life with +such a----" + +"Yes, go on; 'with such a--' shrew, is it? or perhaps virago?" + +"As you wish it," with a contemptuous shrug; "either will suit, but I +was going to say 'flirt.'" + +"Were you?" cries she, tears of mortification and rage dimming her eyes, +all the spoiled child within her rising in arms. "Flirt, am I? and +shrew? Well, I will not have the name of it without the gain of it. I +hate you, hate you, _hate_ you!" + +With the last word she raises her hand suddenly and administers to him a +sound and wholesome box upon the ear. + +The effect is electric. Sir Guy starts back as though stunned. Never in +all his life has he been so utterly taken aback, routed with such deadly +slaughter. The dark, hot color flames into his cheeks. Shame for her--a +sort of horror that she should have been guilty of such an +act--overpowers him. Involuntarily he puts one hand up to the cheek her +slender fingers, now hanging so listlessly at her side, have wounded, +while regarding her with silent amazement largely mixed with reproach. + +As for Lilian, the deed once done, she would have given worlds to recall +it,--that is, secretly,--but in this life, unfortunately, facts +accomplished cannot be undone. Outwardly she is as defiant as ever, and, +though extremely white, steadily and unflinchingly returns his gaze. + +Yet after a little, a very little while, her eyes fall before his, her +pretty, proud head droops somewhat, a small remnant of grace springs up +in the very middle of all her passion and disdain. She is frightened, +nervous, contrite. + +When the silence has become absolutely unbearable, Guy says, in a low +tone that betrays not the faintest feeling: + +"I am afraid I must have said something to annoy you terribly. I confess +I lost my temper, and otherwise behaved as a gentleman should not. I beg +your pardon." + +His voice is that of a stranger; it is so altered she scarcely knows it. +Never in their worst disputes has he so spoken to her. With a little +sickening feeling of despair and terror at her heart, she turns away +and moves toward the door. + +"Are you going? Pray take care. The room is very dark where the +fire-light does not penetrate," says Guy, still in the same curiously +changed voice, so full of quiet indifference, so replete with the cold +courtesy we accord to those who are outside and beyond our affections. + +He opens the door for her, and bows very slightly as she passes through, +and then closes it again calmly, while she, with weary, listless +footsteps, drags herself up-stairs and throws herself upon her bed. + +Lying there with dry and open eyes, not daring to think, she hardly +cares to analyze her own feelings. She knows she is miserable, and +obstinately tries to persuade herself it is because she has been +thwarted in her desire to ride Saracen, but in vain. After a struggle +with her better thoughts, she gives in, and acknowledges her soreness of +heart arises from the conviction that she has forever disgraced herself +in her guardian's eyes. She will never be able to look at him again, +though in truth that need scarcely signify, as surely in the future he +will not care to see where she may be looking. It is all over. He is +done with her. Instinctively she understands from his altered manner how +he has made up his mind never again to exercise his right over her as +guardian, never again to concern himself about either her weal or her +woe. She is too wretched to cry, and lies prostrate, her pulses +throbbing, her brain on fire. + +"What is it, my bird?" asks nurse, entering, and bending solicitously +over her. "Are you not well? Does your head ache?" + +"It is not my head," plaintively. + +"Your side, my lamb?" + +"Yes, it is my side," says Lilian, laying her hand pathetically upon her +heart; and then, overcome by the weight of her own sorrows, she buries +her head in her pillows and bursts into tears. + +"Eh, hinny, don't cry," says nurse, fondly. "We must all have pains +there at times, an' we must just learn to bear them as best we may. +Come, look up, my bairn; I will put on a good mustard blister to-night, +and to-morrow I tell you it won't magnify at all," winds up nurse, +fluently, who rather prides herself upon her management of the Queen's +English, and would scorn to acknowledge the misplacement of a word here +and there; and indeed, after all, when one comes to think of it, it does +_not_ "magnify" very much. + +But Lilian sobs on disconsolately. And next morning she has fresh cause +to bewail her evil conduct. For the day breaks and continues through all +its short life so wet, so wild, so stormy, that neither Saracen nor any +other horse can leave the stables. Hunting is out of the question, and +with a fresh pang, that through its severity is punishment enough for +her fault, she knows all her temper of the night before was displayed +for naught. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. + + "Meanwhile the day sinks fast, the sun is set, + And in the lighted hall the guests are met; + The beautiful looked lovelier in the light + Of love, and admiration, and delight + Reflected from a thousand hearts and eyes, + Kindling a momentary paradise." + --SHELLEY: _Ginevra_. + + +It is the night of Mabel Steyne's ball. In the library at Chetwoode they +are almost every one assembled, except Lilian, and Florence Beauchamp, +and Mr. Musgrave, whose dressing occupies a considerable part of his +life, and who is still sufficiently young to find pleasure in it. + +Lady Chetwoode in gray satin is looking charming; Cecilia, lovely, in +the palest shade of blue. She is standing at a table somewhat apart, +conversing with Cyril, who is fastening a bracelet upon one of her arms. +Guy and Archibald are carrying on a desultory conversation. + +And now the door opens, and Lilian comes in. For the first time for a +whole year she has quite discarded mourning to-night, and is dressed in +pure white. Some snowdrops are thrown carelessly among the folds of the +tulle that covers and softens her silk gown; a tiny spray of the same +flower lies nestling in her hair. + +She appears more fairy-like, more child-like and sweeter than ever, as +she advances into the room, with a pretty consciousness of her own +beauty, that sits charmingly upon her. She is a perfect little vision of +loveliness, and is tenderly aware of the fact. Her neck is fair, her +shoulders rounded and kissable as an infant's; her eyes are gleaming, +her lips apart and smiling; her sunny hair, that is never quite as +smooth as other people's, lies in rippling coils upon her head, while +across her forehead a few short rebellious love-locks wander. + +Seeing her, Sir Guy and Chesney are filled with a simultaneous longing +to take her in their arms and embrace her then and there. + +Sweeping past Sir Guy, as though he is invisible, she goes on, happy, +radiant toward Lady Chetwoode. She is in her airiest mood, and has +evidently cast behind her all petty _désagréments_, being bent on +enjoying life to its fullest for this one night at least. + +"Is not my dress charming, auntie? does it not become me?" she asks, +with the utmost _naïveté_, casting a backward glance over her shoulder +at her snowy train. + +"It does, indeed. Let me congratulate you, darling," says Lady Chetwoode +to her favorite: "it is really exquisite." + +"Lovely as its wearer," says Archibald, with a suppressed sigh. + +"Pouf!" says Lilian, gayly: "what a simile! It is a rudeness; who dares +compare me with a paltry gown? A tenth part as lovely, you mean. How +refractory this button is!" holding out to him a rounded arm to have the +twelfth button of her glove fastened; "try can you do it for me?" + +Here Taffy enters, and is apparently struck with exaggerated admiration +as he beholds her. + +"Ma conscience!" he says, in the words of the famous Dominie, "what a +little swell we are! Titania, my dear, permit me to compliment you on +the success you are sure to have. Monsieur Worth has excelled himself! +Really, you are very nearly pretty. You'll have a good time of it +to-night, I shouldn't wonder." + +"I hope so," gladly; "I can hardly keep my feet quiet, I do so long to +dance. And so you admire me?" + +"Intensely. As a tribute to your beauty, I think I shall give you a +kiss." + +"Not for worlds," exclaims she, retreating hastily. "I know your +embraces of old. Do let me take my flowers and tulle uncrushed to +Mabel's, or I shall complain of you to her, and so spoil your evening." + +"I am glad to see you have recovered your usual spirits," maliciously: +"this morning you were nowhere. I could not get a word out of you. Ever +since yesterday, when you were disappointed about your run, you have +been in 'doleful dumps.' All day you looked as though you thought there +was 'nothing so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.' You seemed to revel +in it." + +"Perhaps I was afraid to encourage you. Once set going, you know you +cannot stop," says Lilian, laughing, while two red spots, caused by his +random remark, rise and burn in her cheeks. + +"We are late, are we not?" says Florence, entering at this moment; and +as Florence never errs, Archibald instantly gives his arm to Lady +Chetwoode and takes her down to the carriage. Taffy, who has already +opened an animated conversation with Miss Beauchamp on the horrors of +square dances, accompanies her; Cyril disappears with Cecilia, and +Lilian is left alone in the library with Sir Guy. + +Curving her body gracefully, Lilian gathers up with slow nonchalance her +long train, and, without bestowing a glance upon Guy, who is silently +waiting to escort her to the smaller brougham, goes up to a mirror to +take a last lingering survey of her own bewitching image. Then she +calmly smooths down her glove, then refastens a bracelet that has come +undone, while he, with a bored expression on his face, waits +impatiently. + +By this, Archibald, who has had ample time to put Lady Chetwoode in her +carriage and come all the way back to find a fan forgotten by Miss +Beauchamp, re-enters the room. + +Lilian beams upon him directly. + +"Good Archie," she says, sweetly, "you have returned just in time. There +was positively nobody to take poor little me to the brougham." She slips +her hand beneath his arm, and walks past Sir Guy composedly, with +laughing friendly eyes uplifted to her cousin's. + + * * * * * + +The ball is at its height. The first small hour of morning has sounded. +The band is playing dreamily, sweetly; flowers are nodding everywhere, +some emitting a dying fragrance, others still fresh and sweet as when +first plucked. Afar off the faint splashing of the fountains in the +conservatories echoes tremulously, full of cool imaginings, through the +warm air. Music and laughter and mirth--real and unreal--are mixed +together in one harmonious whole. + +Mrs. Steyne has now an unaffected smile upon her face, being assured her +ball is an undeniable success, and is allowing herself to be amused by +Taffy, who is standing close beside her. + +Tom Steyne, who, like Sir Charles Coldstream, is "thirty-three and used +up," is in a corner, silently miserable, suffering himself to be flirted +at by a gay young thing of forty. He has been making despairing signs to +Taffy to come to his assistance, for the past five minutes, which +signals of distress that young gentleman basely declines to see. + +Every one is busy asking who Mrs. Arlington can be, and, as nobody +knows, everybody undertakes to tell his or her neighbor "all about her." +And by this time every one is aware she is enormously rich, the widow of +an Indian nabob, from whom she was divorced on account of some "fi-fi +story, my dear, that is never mentioned now," and that she is ever so +many years older than she really looks; "painting is brought to such +perfection nowadays!" + +All night long Sir Guy has not asked Lilian to dance; he has held +himself aloof from her, never even allowing his glance to stray in her +direction, although no smallest grace, no faintest coquetry, of hers has +escaped his notice. To him the whole evening has been a miserable +failure. He has danced, laughed, flirted a good deal, "as is his nature +to,"--more particularly with Florence,--but he has been systematically +wretched all through. + +Lilian and Archibald have been inseparable. She has danced with him, in +defiance of all decent rules, dance after dance, even throwing over some +engagements to continue her mad encouragement of him. She has noted Sir +Guy's attention to his cousin, and, noting (although in her heart she +scarcely believes in it), has grown a little reckless as to what +judgment people may form of her evident appreciation of Chesney's +society. + +There is indeed a memorable five minutes when she absolutely deliberates +as to whether she will or will not accept her cousin's hand, and so give +herself a way to escape from Sir Guy's dreaded displeasure. But, while +deliberating, she quite forgets the terrible disappointment she is +laying up in store for him, who has neither thought, nor eyes, nor +words, for any one but her. Being the undisputed belle of the evening, +she naturally comes in for a heavy share of attention, and, be sure, +does not altogether escape unkind comment. + +"Oh, poor Tom! Do look at Tom and that fearful Miss Dumaresque," says +Mrs. Steyne, who just at this moment discovers the corner where Tom is +doing his utmost to "suffer and be strong." It is, however, a miserable +attempt, as he is visibly depressed and plainly on the point of giving +way altogether. "Somebody must go to his succor," says Mabel, with +decision: "the question is, who? You, my dear Taffy, I think." + +"Not I," says Taffy; "please, dear Mrs. Steyne, do not afflict me so +far. I couldn't, indeed. I am very dreadfully afraid of Miss Dumaresque; +besides, I never pity Tom even when in his worst scrapes. We all +know"--sentimentally--"he is the happiest man alive; when he does fall +in for his bad quarter of an hour, why not let him endure it like +another? And he is rather in a hat, now, isn't he?" taking an evident +keen delight in Mr. Steyne's misfortunes. "I wouldn't be in his shoes +for a good deal. He looks as if he was going to cry. The fact is, the +gods have pampered him so much, that it is a shame not to let him know +for a few minutes what real distress means." + +"But what if he _should_ die!" reproachfully: "one so unaccustomed to +adversity as Tom would be very likely to sink under it. He looks half +dead already! Mark the hunted expression in his poor dear eyes." + +"I wish you would mark the forlorn and dejected expression in other +people's eyes," in an injured tone; "but all that, of course, goes for +nothing." + +"In yours, do you mean?" with exaggerated sympathy. "My dear boy, have +you a secret sorrow? Does concealment, like that nasty worm, prey upon +you? I should be unhappy forever if I could bring myself to think so." + +"Then don't think so; come, let us finish this waltz, and forget that +lucky fellow in the corner." + +"What! you would have me trip it on the light fantastic toe while Tom is +enduring torment? Never! Whatever I may do in prosperity, in adversity I +'never will desert Mr. Micawber.'" + +"I vow I think you are jealous of that antiquated though still frisky +damsel," says Taffy, ready to explode with laughter at the bare idea, +as he watches the frisky one's attempt at subjugating the hapless Tom. + +"You have discovered my hidden fear," replies Mabel, laughing, too: +"forgive my weakness. There are moments when even the strongest break +down! Wait here patiently for me, and I have no doubt with a little +skill I shall be able to deliver him." + +At one side of the ball-room, close to an upper window, is a recess, +dimly lit, and partially curtained, in which it is possible for two or +three to stand without letting outsiders be aware of their vicinity: +into this nook Lilian and Archibald have just withdrawn, she having +confessed to a faint sense of fatigue. The sweet lingering notes of the +waltz "Geliebt und Verloren" are saddening the air; now they swell, now +faint, now almost die out altogether, only to rise again full of +pathetic meaning. + +"How charming it is to be here!" says Lilian, sinking into a cushioned +seat with a sigh of relief, "apart from every one, and yet so near; to +watch their different expressions, and speculate upon their secret +feelings, without appearing rude: do you not think so? Do you like being +here?" + +"Yes, I like being here with you,"--or anywhere else, he might have +added, without deviating from the truth. + +At this moment Guy, who is not dancing, happens to saunter up, and lean +against the curtains of the window close to their hiding-place, totally +unconscious of their presence. From where she is sitting Lilian can +distinctly see him, herself unseen. He looks moody, and is evidently +enchanted with the flavor of his blonde moustache. He is scarcely +noticeable from where he stands, so that when two men come leisurely up +to the very mouth of the retreat, and dispose of themselves luxuriously +by leaning all their weight upon the frail pillars against which the +curtains hang, they do not perceive him. + +One is Harry Bellair, who has apparently been having a good many +suppers; the other is his friend. + +Mr. Bellair's friend is not as handsome as he might be. There is a want +of jaw, and a general lightness about him (not of demeanor: far be it +from me to hint at that!) that at a first glance is positively +startling. One hardly knows where his flesh ends or his hair begins, +while his eyes are a marvel in themselves, making the beholder wonder +how much paler they _can_ get without becoming pure white. His +moustache is of the vaguest tints, so vague that until acquaintance +ripens one is unaware of its existence. Altogether, he is excellently +bleached. + +To-night, to add to his manifold attractions, he appears all shirt-front +and white tie, with very little waistcoat to speak of. In his left and +palest optic is the inevitable eyeglass, in which he is supposed by his +intimates to sleep, as never yet has human being (except perhaps his +mamma in the earlier scenes of his existence) seen him without it. In +spite of all this, however, he looks mild, and very harmless. + +"She is awfully lovely," says Mr. Bellair, evidently continuing a +conversation, and saying it with an audible sigh; "quite too lovely for +me." + +"You seem fetched," says his friend, directing a pale but feeling ray +upon him through the beloved glass. + +"I am, I confess it," says Mr. Bellair, effusively; "I adore her, and +that's a fact: but she would not look at me. She's in love with her +cousin,--Chesney, you know,--and they're to be married straight off the +reel, next month, I think--or that." + +"Hah!" says the friend. "She's good to look at, do you know, and rather +uncommon style, in spite of her yellow hair. She's a ward of +Chetwoode's, isn't she? Always heard he was awfully _épris_ there." + +By this time Lilian is crimson, and Archibald hardly less so, though he +is distinctly conscious of a desire to laugh; Lilian's eyes are riveted +on Sir Guy, who has grown very pale and has turned a frowning brow upon +these luckless young men. + +"Not a bit of it," says Mr. Bellair, "at least now. He was, I believe, +but she bowled him over in a couple of months and laughed at him +afterward. No, Chesney is the white-headed boy with her. Not that I see +much in him myself," discontentedly. + +"Sour-looking beggar," rejoins the friend, with kind sympathy. + +It is growing tremendously jolly for the listeners. Lilian turns a +pained, beseeching glance upon Archibald, who returns the glance, but +declares by gesture his inability to do anything. He is still secretly +amused, and not being able from his point of vantage to see Chetwoode, +is scarcely as confused as Lilian. Should he now stir, and walk out of +his place of concealment with Miss Chesney, he would only cover with +shame the unsuspecting gossips and make two enemies for life, without +doing any good. + +Chetwoode is in the same condition, but though angry and bitterly stung +by their words, hardly cares to resent them, being utterly unaware of +Lilian's eyes, which are bent upon him. He waits impatiently for the +moment when Mr. Bellair and his "fat friend" may choose to move on. Did +he know who was so close to him, watching every expression of his face, +impatience might have passed all bounds. As it is, a few chance remarks +matter little to him. + +But Mr. Bellair's friend has yet something else to say. + +"Fine girl, Miss Beauchamp," says this youth, languidly; "immensely good +form, and that. Looks like a goddess." + +"There's a lot of her, if you mean that. But she's too nosy," says Mr. +Bellair, grumpily, a sense of injury full upon him. His own nose is of +the charming curt and simple order: his "friends in council" (who might +be more select) are wont to call it playfully a "spud." "Far too nosy! I +hate a woman all nose! makes her look so like a mope." + +"You've been getting a snubbing there," says his friend, this time +unfeelingly and with an inhuman chuckle. + +"I have," valiantly: "she has too much of the goddess about her for my +fancy: choke-full of dignity and airs, you know, and all that sort of +rubbish. It don't go down, I take it, in the long run. It's as much as +she can do to say 'how d'ye do' to you, and she looks a fellow up and +down half a dozen times before she gives him a waltz. You don't catch me +inviting her to the 'mazy dance' again in a hurry. I hate affectation. I +wouldn't marry that girl for untold gold." + +"She wouldn't have you," says his friend, with a repetition of the +unpleasant chuckle. + +"Maybe she wouldn't," replies Mr. Bellair, rather hurt. "Anyhow, she is +not to be named in the same day with Miss Chesney. I suppose you know +she is engaged to Chetwoode, so you needn't get spoony on her," +viciously; "it is quite an old affair, begun in the cradle, I believe, +and kept up ever since: never can understand that sort of thing myself; +would quite as soon marry my sister. But all men aren't alike." + +"No, they aren't," says the friend, with conviction. "Why don't he +marry her, though? He must be tired of looking at her." + +"He funks it, that's what it is," says Mr. Bellair, "and no wonder; +after seeing Miss Chesney he must feel rather discontented with his +choice. Ah!"--with a sigh warranted to blow out the largest wax +candle,--"there's a girl for you if you like!" + +"Don't weep over it, old boy, at least here; you'll be seen," says his +friend, jovially, with odious want of sympathy; after which they are +pleased to remove themselves and their opinions to another part of the +room. + +When they have gone, Lilian, who has been turning white and red at +intervals all through the discussion, remains motionless, her eyes still +fixed on Chetwoode. She does not heed Archibald's remark, so earnestly +is she regarding her guardian. Can it be true what they have just said, +that he, Sir Guy, has been for years engaged to Florence? At certain +moments such a thought has crossed her own mind, but never until +to-night has she heard it spoken of. + +Chetwoode, who has moved, comes a little nearer to where she is +standing, and pauses there, compelled to it by a pressure in the crowd. + +"With what taste do they accredit me!" he says, half aloud, with a +rather pale smile and a slight curl of his short upper lip, discernible +even beneath his drooping moustache. His eyes are directed toward +Florence, who is standing, carrying on a lifeless flirtation at a little +distance from him; there is distaste in every line of his face, and +Lilian, marking it, draws a long breath, and lets the smile return to +her mobile lips. + +"Was Chetwoode there all the time?" asks Archibald, aghast. + +"Yes: was it not horrible?" replies she, half laughing. "Poor Mr. +Bellair! I had no idea I had done so much mischief." + +The hours are growing older, Lady Chetwoode is growing tired. Already +with the utmost craftiness has she concealed five distinct yawns, and +begins to think with lingering fondness of eider-down and bedroom fires. + +Florence, too, who is sitting near her, and who is ever careful not to +overdo the thing, is longing for home, being always anxious to husband +as far as possible her waning youth and beauty. + +"Lilian, dearest, I think you must come home now," Lady Chetwoode says, +tapping the girl's white arms, as she stops close to her in the interval +of a dance. + +"So soon, auntie!" says Lilian, with dismay. + +She is dancing with a very good-looking guardsman, who early in the +evening did homage to her charms, and who ever since has been growing +worse and worse; by this time he is very bad indeed, and scorns to look +at any one in the room except Miss Chesney, who, to confess the truth, +has been coquetting with him unremittingly for the past half-hour, +without noticing, or at least appearing to notice, Archibald's black +looks or Sir Guy's averted ones. + +At Lady Chetwoode's words, the devoted guardsman turns an imploring +glance upon his lovely partner, that fills her (she is kind-hearted) +with the liveliest compassion. Yes, she will make one last effort, if +only to save him from mental suicide. + +"Dear auntie, if you love me, 'fly not yet,'" she says, pathetically. +"It is so long since I have danced, and"--with the faintest, fleetest +glance at the guardsman--"I am enjoying myself so much." + +"Lady Chetwoode, it can't be done," interposes Tom Steyne, who is +standing by: "Miss Chesney has promised me the next dance, and I am +living in the expectation of it. At my time of life I have noticed a +tendency on the part of beauty to rather shun my attentions; Miss +Chesney's condescension, therefore, has filled me with joy. She must +wait a little longer: I refuse to resign my dance with the _belle_ of +the evening." + +"Go and finish your dance, child: I will arrange with auntie," says +Mabel, kindly; whereupon Lilian floats away gladly in the arms of her +warrior, leaving Mrs. Steyne to settle matters. + +"You shall go home, dear, with Florence, because you are tired, and +Cyril and his exceedingly beautiful _fiancée_ shall go with you; leave +the small night brougham for Lilian, and Guy can take her home. I shan't +keep her beyond another hour, and I shall see that she is well wrapped +up." + +So it arranges itself; and by and by, when an hour has passed away, +Lilian and Guy discover to their horror they are in for a _tête-à-tête_ +drive to Chetwoode. + +They bid good-bye to the unconscious Mabel, and, silently entering the +brougham, are presently driving swiftly through the fresh cool air. + +"Are you quite comfortable?" Guy asks, as in duty bound, very stiffly. + +"Quite, thank you," replies she, even more stiffly; after which outbreak +of politeness "silence reigns supreme." + +When a good half-mile has been traversed, Guy, who is secretly filled +with wonder at the extreme taciturnity of his usually lively companion, +so far descends from his pedestal of pride as to turn his head +cautiously in her direction: to his utter amazement, he finds she has +fallen fast asleep! + +The excitement and fatigue of dancing, to which she has been so long +unaccustomed, have overpowered her, and, like a tired child as she is, +she has given way to restful slumber. Her pale blue cashmere has fallen +a little to one side so that a white arm, soft and round as a baby's, +can be seen in all the abandon of sleep, naked beside her, the hand half +closed like a little curled shell. + +Not yet quite convinced that her slumber is real, Guy lays his hand +gently upon hers, but at the touch she makes no movement: no smallest +ripple of consciousness crosses her face. In the faint light of the lamp +he regards her curiously, and wonders, with a pang, how the little fury +of a few hours ago can look so angelic now. At this moment, as he +watches her, all the anger that has lain in his heart for her melts, +vanishes, never to return. + +Then he sees her attitude is uncomfortable: her face is very pale, her +head is thrown too much back, a little troubled sigh escapes her. He +thinks, or at least tries to think,--let not me be the one to judge +him,--she will have unhappy dreams if she continues much longer in her +present position. Poor child! she is quite worn out. Perhaps he could +manage to raise her in a degree, without disturbing her reviving repose. + +Slipping his arm gently round her, he lifts her a little, and draws her +somewhat nearer to him. So gently does he move her, that Lilian, who is +indeed fatigued, and absolutely tired out with her exertions of the +evening, never awakes, but lets her heavy, sleepy little head drop over +to the other side, down upon Chetwoode's shoulder. + +Guy does not stir. After all, what does it matter? she is easier so, and +it can hurt neither of them; she never has been, she never will be, +anything to him; in all probability she will marry her cousin. At this +point he stops and thinks about her treatment of that handsome +guardsman, and meditates deeply thereon. To him she is a mystery, a +lovely riddle yet unsolved; but with his arm round her, and her face so +near his own, he is conscious of feeling an irrepressible gladness. A +thrill of happiness, the only touch of it he has known for many days, +fills his heart, while with it is a bitter regret that chills it at its +birth. + +The carriage rattles over some unusually large stone, and Lilian awakes. +At first an excessive sense of drowsiness dulls her perception, and +then, all at once, it flashes across her mind that she has been asleep, +and that now she is encircled, supported by Guy's arm. Even in the +friendly darkness a warm flush suffuses her face, born half of quick +indignation, half of shame. Raising herself hastily, she draws back from +his embrace, and glances up at him with open surprise. + +"You are awake?" says Guy, quietly; he has relaxed his hold, but still +has not altogether withdrawn his support. As their eyes meet in the +uncertain flickering light that comes to them from outside, she sees so +much sadness, so much tenderness in his, that her anger is instantly +disarmed. Still, she moves yet a little farther from him, while +forgetting to make any reply. + +"Are you uncomfortable?" asks he, slowly, as though there is nothing out +of the common in his sitting thus with his arm round her, and as though +a mere sense of discomfort can be the only reason for her objection to +it. He does not make the slightest effort to detain her, but still lets +her feel his nearness. + +"No," replies Miss Chesney, somewhat troubled; "it is not that, +only----" + +"Then I think you had better stay as you are. You are very tired, I can +see, and this carriage is not the easiest in the world." + +With gentle boldness he replaces the offending arm in its old position, +and wisely refrains from further speech. + +Lilian is confounded. She makes no effort to release herself, being +filled with amazement at the extraordinary change in his manner, and, +perhaps, wholly glad of it. Has he forgiven her? Has he repented him of +his stern looks and cold avoidance? All night long he has shunned her +persistently, has apparently been unaware of her presence; and now there +is something in his tone, in his touch, that betrays to her what sets +her heart beating treacherously. + +Presently Guy becomes aware of this fact, and finding encouragement in +the thought that she has not again repulsed him, says, softly: + +"Were you frightened when you awoke?" + +"Yes, a little." + +"You are not frightened now?" + +"No, not now. At first, on waking, I started to find myself here." + +"Here," may mean the carriage, or her resting-place, or anything. + +After a short pause: + +"Sir Guy,"--tremulously. + +"Yes." + +"You remember all that happened the night before last?" + +"I do," slowly. + +"I have wanted ever since to tell you how sorry I am for it all, to beg +your pardon, to ask you to----" she stops, afraid to trust her voice +further, because of some little troublesome thing that rises in her +throat and threatens to make itself heard. + +"I don't want you to beg my pardon," says Guy, hastily, in a pained +tone. "If I had not provoked you, it would never have happened. Lilian, +promise me you will think no more about it." + +"Think about it! I shall never cease thinking about it. It was horrible, +it was shameful of me. I must have gone mad, I think. Even now, to +remember it makes me blush afresh. I am glad it is dark,"--with a little +nervous laugh,--"because you cannot see my face. It is burning." + +"Is it?" tenderly. With gentle fingers he touches her soft cheek, and +finds it is indeed, as she has said, "burning." He discovers something +else also,--tears quite wet upon it. + +"You are crying, child," he says, startled, distressed. + +"Am I? No wonder. I _ought_ to suffer for my hateful conduct toward you. +I shall never forgive myself." + +"Nonsense!" angrily. "Why should you cry about such a trifle? I won't +have it. It makes me miserable to know any thought of me can cause you a +tear." + +"I cry"--with a heavy sob--"because I fear you will never think well of +me again. I have lost your good opinion, if indeed"--sadly--"I ever had +it. You _must_ think badly of me." + +"I do not," returns he, with an accent that is almost regret. "I wish I +could. It matters little what you do, I shall never think of you but as +the dearest and sweetest girl I ever met. In that"--with a sigh--"lies +my misfortune." + +"Not think badly of me! and yet you called me a flirt! Am I a flirt?" + +Chetwoode hesitates, but only for a minute; then he says, decidedly, +though gently: + +"Perhaps not a flirt, but certainly a coquette. Do not be angry with me +for saying so. Think how you passed this one evening. First remember the +earlier part of it, and then your cruel encouragement of the luckless +guardsman." + +"But the people I wanted to dance with wouldn't ask me to dance," says +Lilian, reproachfully, "and what was I to do? I did not care for that +stupid Captain Monk: he was handsome, but insufferably slow, and--and--I +don't believe I cared for _any one_." + +"What! not even for----" He pauses. Not now, not at this moment, when +for a sweet though perhaps mad time she seems so near to him in thought +and feeling, can he introduce his rival's name. Unconsciously he +tightens his arm round her, and, emboldened by the softness of her +manner, smooths back from her forehead the few golden hairs that have +wandered there without their mistress's will. + +Lilian is silent, and strangely, unutterably happy. + +"I wish we could be always friends," she says, wistfully, after a little +eloquent pause. + +"So do I,"--mournfully,--"but I know we never shall be." + +"That is a very unkind speech, is it not? At least"--slipping five warm +little fingers into his disengaged hand--"_I_ shall always be a friend +of _yours_, and glad of every smallest thing that may give you +happiness." + +"You say all this now, and yet to-morrow,"--bending to look at her in +the ungenerous light,--"to-morrow you may tell me again that you 'hate +me.'" + +"If I do,"--quickly,--"you must not believe me. I have a wretched +temper, and I lost it completely when I said that the other night. I +did not mean it. I do not hate you, Guy: you know that, do you not?" Her +voice falls a little, trembles, and softens. It is the first time she +has ever called him by his Christian name without its prefix, and Guy's +pulses begin to throb a little wildly. + +"If you do not hate me, what then?" he asks. + +"I like you." + +"Only that?" rather unsteadily. + +"To like honestly is perhaps best of all." + +"It may be, but it does not satisfy me. One _likes_ many people." + +Lilian is silent. She is almost positive now that he loves her, and +while longing to hear him say so, shrinks from saying what will surely +bring forth the avowal. And yet if she now answers him coldly, +carelessly---- + +"If I say I am fond of you," she says, in a tone so low, so nervous, as +to be almost unheard, "will that do?" + +The carriage some time since has turned in the avenue gate. + +They are approaching the house swiftly; already the lights from the +windows begin to twinkle through the leafy branches of the trees: their +time is short. Guy forgets all about Chesney, all about everything +except the girlish face so close to his own. + +"_Are_ you fond of me, Lilian?" he asks, entreatingly. There is no +reply: he stoops, eager to read his fate in her expression. His head +touches hers; still lower, and his moustache brushes her cheek; Lilian +trembles a little, but her pale lips refuse to answer; another instant, +and his lips meet hers. He kisses her warmly, passionately, and +fancies--is it fancy?--that she returns his caress faintly. + +Then the carriage stops. The men alight. Sir Guy steps out, and Miss +Chesney lays her hand in his as he helps her to descend. He presses it +warmly, but fails in his anxious attempt to make her eyes meet his: +moving quickly past him into the house, she crosses the hall, and has +her foot upon the first step of the stairs, when his voice arrests her. + +"Good-night, Lilian," he says, rather nervously, addressing her from a +few yards' distance. He is thinking of a certain night long ago when he +incurred her anger, and trembles for the consequences of his last act. + +Lilian hesitates. Then she turns partly toward him, though still keeping +half her face averted. Her cheeks are crimson; her eyes, shamed and +full of tears, are bent upon the ground. For one swift instant she +raises them and lets a soft, shy glance meet his. + +"Good-night," she whispers, timidly holding out to him her hand. + +Guy takes it gladly, reverently. "Good-night, my own darling," answers +he, in a voice choked with emotion. + +Then she goes up-stairs, and is lost in her own chamber. But for Guy +there is neither rest nor sleep. + +Flinging off his coat and waistcoat, he paces incessantly up and down +his room, half mad with doubt and fear. + +Does she love him? That is the whole burden and refrain of his thoughts; +does she? Surely her manner has implied it, and yet---- A terrible +misgiving oppresses him, as he remembers the open dislike that of late +she has shown to his society, the unconcealed animosity she has so +liberally displayed toward him. + +Can it be that he has only afforded her amusement for the passing hour? +Surely this child, with her soft innocent face and truthful eyes, cannot +be old in the wiles and witcheries of the practiced flirt. She has let +her head rest upon his shoulder, has let his fingers wander caressingly +over her hair, has let tears lie wet upon her cheeks for him; and then +he thinks of the closing scene, of how he has kissed her, as a lover +might, unrebuked. + +But then her manner toward Chesney; true, she had discarded his +attentions toward the close of the night, and accepted willingly those +of the guardsman, but this piece of seeming fickleness might have arisen +out of a lover's quarrel. What if during all their memorable drive home +she has been merely trifling with him,--if now, this instant, while he +is miserable because of his love for her and the uncertainty belonging +to it, she should be laughing at his folly, and thinking composedly of +her coming marriage with her cousin! Why then, he tells himself +savagely, he is well rid of her, and that he envies no man her +possession! + +But at the thought he draws his breath hard; his handsome face grows set +and stern, a haggard look comes into his blue eyes and lingers round his +mouth. Flinging open the window, he leans out to feel the cold air beat +upon him, and watches the coming of the morn. + + + "Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, + Comes dancing from the east." + + +Guy watches its coming, yet scarcely notes its beauty, so full of dark +forebodings are his thoughts. Yet it brings him determination and +courage to face his fate. To-day he will end this intolerable doubt, and +learn what fortune has in store for him, be it good or bad; of this he +is finally resolved. She shall declare herself in one of two characters, +either as his affianced wife, or as the very vilest coquette the world +contains. + +And yet her tears!--Again he holds her in his arms. Again his lips meet +hers. Again he feels the light pressure of her little tired head upon +his shoulder, hears her soft regular breathing. With a groan he rouses +himself from these recollections that torture him by their very +sweetness. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. + + "Thou art my life, my love, my heart, + The very eyes of me, + And hast command of every part, + To live and die for thee."--R. HERRICK. + + +The next morning comes, but no Lilian appears at breakfast. Florence +alone of the gentler members of the family puts in an appearance; she is +as properly composed, as carefully attired, as delicately tinted, as +though the ball of the night before was unknown to her. Lilian, on the +contrary,--lazy little thing!--is still lying in her bed, with her arms +flung above her graceful head, dreaming happy idle dreams. + +Miss Beauchamp, behind the urn, is presiding with unimpeachable elegance +of deportment over the cups and saucers; while pouring out the tea, she +makes a running commentary on the events of the night before, dropping +into each cup, with the sugar,--perhaps with a view to modulating its +sweetness,--a sarcastic remark or two about her friends' and +acquaintances' manners and dress. Into Guy's cup she lets fall a few +words about Lilian, likely, as she vainly hopes, to damage her in his +estimation; not that she much fears her as a rival after witnessing +Chetwoode's careful avoidance of her on the previous evening; +nevertheless, under such circumstances, it is always well to put in a +bad word when you can. + +She has most of the conversation to herself (Guy and Archibald being +gloomy to a painful degree, and Cyril consumed with a desire to know +when Cecilia may be reasonably expected to leave her room), until Mr. +Musgrave enters, who appears as fresh as a daisy, and "uncommon fit," as +he informs them gratuitously, with an air of the utmost _bonhommie_. + +He instantly catches and keeps up the conversational ball, sustaining it +proudly, and never letting it touch the ground, until his friends, +rising simultaneously, check him cruelly in the very midst of a charming +anecdote. Even then he is not daunted, but, following Cyril to the +stables (finding him the most genial of the party), takes up there a +fresh line, and expresses his opinions as cheerfully and fluently on the +subject of "The Horse," as though he had been debarred from speaking for +a month and has only just now recovered the use of the organ of speech. + + * * * * * + +It is half-past one. A soft spring sun is smiling on the earth, and +Lilian, who rather shrinks from the thought of meeting Sir Guy again, +and has made a rapid descent from her own room into the garden, is +walking there leisurely to and fro, gathering such "pallid blossoms" as +she likes best: a few late snowdrops, "winter's timid children," some +early lilies, "a host of daffodils," a little handful of the "happy and +beautiful crocuses," now "gayly arrayed in their yellow and green," all +these go to fill the basket that hangs upon her arm. + +As she wanders through the garden, inhaling its earliest perfumes, and +with her own heart throbbing rather tumultuously as she dreams again of +each tender word and look that passed between her and Guy last night, a +great longing and gladness is hers; at this moment the beauty and +sweetness of life, all the joy to be found everywhere for those who, +with a thankful spirit, seek for it, makes itself felt within her. + +George Herbert's lovely lines rise to her mind, and half unconsciously, +as she walks from bed to bed, she repeats them to herself aloud. + + + "How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean + Are thy returns! ev'n as the flow'rs in spring; + To which, besides their own demean, + The late past frosts tributes of pleasure bring. + Grief melts away like snow in May, + As if there were no such cold thing." + + +Surely _her_ grief has melted away, and, with it, distrust and angry +feeling. + +Having arranged her bouquet of all such tender plants as do now "upraise +their loaded stems," she walks toward the library window, and, finding +it open, steps in. It is a bow-window, and the sun has been making love +to her eyes, so that not until she has advanced a yard or two, does she +discover she is not alone; she then stops short, and blushes painfully. + +At the other end of the room stand Guy and Chesney, evidently in earnest +conversation. Archibald is talking; Guy, with his eyes upon the ground, +is pale as death, and silent. As they see Lilian, both men start +guiltily, and fall somewhat farther apart: a heavy sense of impending +trouble makes itself felt by all three. + +Then Guy, regaining self-possession, raises his head and looks full at +Lilian. + +"Lilian is here, let her speak for herself," he says, in a forced tone +of composure, addressing Chesney, but with his eyes riveted upon her. + +"What is it?" asks Lilian, white as the snowdrops in her trembling hand. + +"Your cousin asked me--He wishes to marry you," returns Guy, unsteadily, +a look of such mute agony and entreaty in his eyes as touches Lilian to +the quick. "He has spoken to me as your guardian. He says he has some +hope; he would have me plead for him, but that is impossible." He has +spoken so far with difficulty; now in a clear tone he goes on, "Speak, +Lilian: let your answer come from your own lips." + +His voice is wonderfully steady, but there is always the same searching +look of entreaty on his face. + +"Dear Archie," says Lilian, trembling perceptibly, while all the poor +spring blossoms fall unheeded to her feet, and lie there still and dead, +as some offering laid on the shrine of Venus, "how can I speak to you? I +_cannot_ marry you. I love you,--you are my dear cousin, and my friend, +but,--but----" + +"It is enough," says Chesney, quietly. "Hope is at an end. Forgive me my +persistency. You shall not have to complain of it again." + +Sadly, with a certain dignity, he reaches the door, opens it, and, +going out, closes it gently behind him. Hope with him, indeed, is dead! +Never again will it spring within his breast. + +When he has gone, an awful silence ensues. There is a minute that is +longer than an hour; there is an hour that may be shorter than any +minute. Happy are they that have enjoyed this latter. The particular +minute that follows on Archibald's retreat seems to contain a whole +day-ful of hours, so terrible is its length to the two he leaves behind. + +Lilian's eyes are fastened upon, literally bound to, a little sprig of +myrtle that lies among the ill-fated flowers at her feet. Not until many +days have passed can she again look upon a myrtle spray without feeling +a nervous beating at her heart; she is oppressed with fear; she has at +this moment but one longing, and that is to escape. A conviction that +her longing is a vain one only adds to her discomfiture; she lacks the +courage to lift her head and encounter the eyes she knows are fixed upon +her. + +At length, unable longer to endure the dreadful stillness, she moves, +and compels herself to meet Chetwoode's gaze. The spell is broken. + +"Lilian, will you marry--_me_?" asks he, desperately, making a movement +toward her. + +A quick, painful blush covers Lilian's face, lingers a moment, then dies +away, leaving her pale, motionless as a little marble statue,--perfect, +but lifeless. Almost as it fades it reappears again, so sudden is the +transition, changing her once more into very lovable flesh and blood. + +"Will you marry me?" repeats Guy, coming still closer to her. His face +is white with anxiety. He does not attempt to touch her, but with folded +arms stands gazing down in an agony of suspense upon the lips that in +another instant will seal his fate for good or evil. + +"I have half a mind to say no," whispers Miss Chesney, in a low, +compressed voice. Her head is drooping; her fingers are nervously +intertwined. A flicker, the very faintest tremble of the old merry +smile, hovers round her mouth as she speaks, then vanishes away. + +"Lilian,"--in a tone full of vehement reproach,--"do not trifle with +me--now. Answer me: why do you so speak to me?" + +"Because--I think--you ought to have asked me long ago!" returns she, +casting a half-shy, half-tender glance at him upward from the azure +eyes that are absolutely drowned in tears. + +Then, without a word of warning, she bursts out crying, and, Guy +catching her passionately in his arms, she sobs away all her nervous +gladness upon his heart. + +"My darling,--my sweet,--do you really love me?" asks Guy, after a few +moments given up to such ecstasy as may be known once in a +lifetime,--not oftener. + +"What a question!" says Lilian, smiling through eyes that are still wet. +"I have not once asked it of you. I look into your eyes and I see love +written there in great big letters, and I am satisfied. Can you not see +the same in mine? Look closely,--very closely, and try if you cannot." + +"Dear eyes!" says Guy, kissing them separately. "Lilian, if indeed you +love me, why have you made life so odious to me for the last three +months?" + +"Because I wasn't going to be civil to people who were over-attentive to +other people," says Lilian, in her most lucid manner. "And--sometimes--I +thought you liked Florence." + +"Florence? Pshaw! Who could like Florence, having once seen you?" + +"Mr. Boer could, I'm sure. He has seen me,--as seldom as I could manage, +certainly,--but still enough to mark the wide difference between us." + +"Boer is a lunatic," says Guy, with conviction,--"quite unaccountable. +But I think I could forgive him all his peccadilloes if he would promise +to marry Florence and remove her. I can stand almost anything--except +single chants as performed by her." + +"Then all my jealousy was for nothing?" with a slight smile. + +"All. But what of mine? What of Chesney?" He regards her earnestly as he +asks the question. + +"Poor Archie," she says, with a pang of real sorrow and regret, as she +remembers everything. And then follows a conversation confined +exclusively to Archibald,--being filled with all the heart-burnings and +despair caused by that unhappy young man's mistaken attentions. When the +subject has exhausted itself, and they are once more silent, they find +themselves thoughtful, perhaps a little sad. A sigh escapes Lilian. +Raising her head, she looks at her lover anxiously. + +"Guy," she says, rather tremulously, "you have never said one +reproachful word to me about what happened the other night--in the +library. I am thinking of it now. When I call to mind my wretched temper +I feel frightened. Perhaps--perhaps--I shall not make you happy." + +"I defy you to make me unhappy so long as you can tell me honestly you +love me. Do not take advantage of it"--with a light laugh--"if I confess +to you I would rather have a box on the ear from you than a kiss from +any other woman. But such is the degrading truth. Nevertheless" +--teasingly--"next time I would ask you, as a favor, not to do it +_quite_ so hard!" + +"Ah, Guy," tearfully, and with a hot blush, "do not jest about it." + +"How can I do anything else to-day?" Then, tenderly, "Still sad, my own? +Take that little pucker off your brow. Do you imagine any act of yours +could look badly in my eyes? 'You are my life--my love--my heart.' When +I recollect how miserable I was yesterday, I can hardly believe in my +happiness of to-day." + +"Dearest," says Lilian, her voice faltering, "you are too good to me." +Then, turning to him, of her own sweet will, she throws her arms around +his neck, and lays her soft flushed cheek to his. "I shall never be bad +to you again, Guy," she whispers; "believe that; never, never, never!" + + * * * * * + +Coming into the hall a little later, they encounter her ladyship's maid, +and stop to speak to her. + +"Is Lady Chetwoode's head better?" asks Lilian. "Can I see her, Hardy?" + +"Yes, Miss Chesney. She is much better; she has had a little sleep, and +has asked for you several times since she awoke. I could not find you +anywhere." + +"I will go to her now," says Lilian, and she and Guy, going up-stairs, +make their way to Lady Chetwoode's room. + +"Better, auntie?" asks Lilian, bending over her, as she sits in her +comfortable arm-chair. + +"Rather better, darling," returns auntie, who is now feeling as well as +possible (though it is yet too soon to admit it even to herself), and +who has just finished a cutlet, and a glass of the rare old port so +strongly recommended by Dr. Bland. "Guy, bring over that chair for +Lilian. Sitting up late at night always upsets me." + +"It was a horrible ball," says Miss Lilian, ungratefully. "I didn't +enjoy it one bit." + +"No?" in amazement. "My dear, you surprise me. I thought I had never +seen you look so joyous in my life." + +"It was all forced gayety," with a little laugh. "My heart was slowly +breaking all the time. I wanted to dance with one person, who +obstinately refused to ask me, and so spoiled my entire evening. Was it +not cruel of that 'one person'?" + +"The fact is," says Guy, addressing his mother, "she behaved so +infamously, and flirted so disgracefully, all night, that the 'one +person' was quite afraid to approach her." + +"I fear you did flirt a little," says Lady Chetwoode, gentle reproof in +her tone; "that handsome young man you were dancing with just before I +left--and who seemed so devoted--hardly went home heart-whole. That was +naughty, darling, wasn't it? You should think of--of--other people's +feelings." It is palpable to both her hearers she is alluding to +Chesney. + +"Auntie," says Miss Chesney, promptly, and with the utmost _naïveté_, +"if you scold me, I feel sure you will bring on that nasty headache +again." + +She is bending over the back of Lady Chetwoode's chair, where she cannot +be seen, and is tenderly smoothing as much of her pretty gray hair as +can be seen beneath the lace cap that adorns her auntie's head. + +Sir Guy laughs. + +"Ah! I shall never make you a good child, so long as your guardian +encourages you in your wickedness," says Lady Chetwoode, smiling too. + +"Do I encourage her? Surely that is a libel," says Guy: "she herself +will bear me witness how frequently--though vainly--I have reasoned with +her on her conduct. I hardly know what is to be done with her, +unless----" here he pauses, and looks at Lilian, who declines to meet +his glance, but lets her hand slip from Lady Chetwoode's head down to +her shoulder, where it rests nervously--"unless I take her myself, and +marry her out of hand, before she has time to say 'no.'" + +"Perhaps--even did you allow me time--I should not say 'no,'" says +Lilian, with astonishing meekness, her face like the heart of a "red, +red rose." + +Something in her son's eyes, something in Lilian's tone, rouses Lady +Chetwoode to comprehension. + +"What is it?" she asks, quickly, and with agitation. "Lilian, why do you +stand there? Come here, that I may look at you? Can It be possible? Have +you two----" + +"We have," replies Lilian, interrupting her gently, and suddenly going +down on her knees, she places her arms round her. "Are you sorry, +auntie? Am I very unworthy? Won't you have me for your daughter after +all?" + +"Sorry!" says Lady Chetwoode, and, had she spoken volumes, she could not +have expressed more unfeigned joy. "And has all your quarreling ended +so?" she asks, presently, with an amused laugh. + +"Yes, just so," replies Guy, taking Lilian's hand, and raising it to his +lips. "We have got it all over before our marriage, so as to have none +afterward. Is it not so, Lilian?" + +She smiles assent, and there is something in the smile so sweet, so +adorable, that, in spite of his mother "and a'," Guy kisses her on the +spot. + +"I am so relieved," says Lady Chetwoode, regarding her new daughter with +much fondness, "and just as I had given up all hope. Many times I wished +for a girl, when I found myself with only two troublesome boys, and now +at last I have one,--a real daughter." + +"And I a mother. Though I think my name for you will always be the one +by which I learned to love you,--Auntie," returns Lilian, tenderly. + +At this moment Cecilia opens the door cautiously, and, stepping very +lightly, enters the room, followed by Cyril, also on tiptoe. Seeing Lady +Chetwoode, however, standing close to Lilian and looking quite animated +and not in the least invalided, they brighten up, and advance more +briskly. + +"Dear Madre," says Cecilia, who has adopted Cyril's name for his mother, +"I am glad to see you so much better. Is your headache quite gone?" + +"Quite, my dear. Lilian has cured it. She is the most wonderful +physician." + +And then the new-comers are told the delightful story, and Lilian +receives two more caresses, and gets through three or four blushes very +beautifully. They are still asking many questions, and uttering pretty +speeches, when a step upon the corridor outside attracts their +attention. + +It is a jaunty step, and undoubtedly belongs to Mr. Musgrave, who is +informing the household generally, at the top of his fresh young voice, +that he is "ragged and torn," and that he rather enjoys it than +otherwise. Coming close to the door, however, he moderates his +transports, and, losing sight of the vagabond, degenerates once more +into that very inferior creature, a decently-clothed and well-combed +young gentleman. + +Opening the door with praiseworthy carefulness, he says, in the meekest +and most sympathetic voice possible: + +"I hope your headache is better, Lady Chetwoode?" + +By this time he has his head quite inside the door, and becomes +pleasantly conscious that there is something festive in the air within. +The properly lachrymose expression he has assumed vanishes as if by +magic, while his usual debonair smile returns to his lips. + +"Oh, I say--then it was all a swindle on the part of Hardy, was it?" he +asks. "Dear Lady Chetwoode, it makes me feel positively young again to +see you looking so well. Your woman hinted to me you were at the point +of death." + +"Come in, Taffy. You too shall hear what has revived me," says her +ladyship, smiling, and thereupon unfolds her tale to him, over which he +beams, and looks blessings on all around. + +"I knew it," he says; "could have told everybody all about it months +ago! couldn't I, Lil? Remember the day I bet you a fiver he would +propose to you in six months?" + +"I remember nothing of the kind," says Miss Chesney, horribly shocked. +"Taffy, how can you say such a thing?" + +"Tell us all about it, Taffy," entreats Cyril, languidly, from the +depths of an arm-chair. "I feel so done up with all I have gone through +this morning, that I long for a wholesome exciting little tale to rouse +me a bit. Go on." + +"Oh, it was only that day at Mrs. Boileau's last autumn," begins Taffy. + +"Taffy, I desire you to be silent," says Lilian, going up to him and +looking very determined. "Do not attempt to speak when I tell you not to +do so." + +"Was the betting even, Taffy?" asks Cyril. + +"No. She said----" + +"_Taffy!_" + +"She said he had as much idea of proposing to her as she had of----" + +"Taffy!" + +"Marrying him, even should he ask her," winds up Mr. Musgrave, exploding +with joy over his discomfiting disclosure. + +"No one believes you," says Lilian, in despair, while they all laugh +heartily, and Cyril tells her not to make bad bets in future. + +"Not one," says Sir Guy, supporting her as in duty bound; "but I really +think you ought to give him that five pounds." + +"Certainly I shall not," says Miss Chesney, hotly. "It is all a +fabrication from beginning to end. I never made a bet in my life. And, +besides, the time he named was the end of the year, and _not_ in six +months." + +At this avowal they all roar, and Guy declares he must take her out for +a walk, lest she should commit herself any further. + + * * * * * + +The happy day at length is drawing to a close. Already it is evening, +though still the dying light lingers, as if loath to go. Archibald +Chesney, after a hurried private interview with Lady Chetwoode, has +taken his departure, not to return again to Chetwoode until time has +grown into years. In her own room Lilian, even in the midst of her +new-born gladness, has wept bitterly for him, and sorrowed honestly over +the remembrance of his grief and disappointment. + +Of all the household Florence alone is still in ignorance of the +wonderful event that has taken place since morning. Her aunt has +declared her intention of being the one to impart the good news to her, +for which all the others are devoutly thankful. She--Miss Beauchamp--has +been out driving all the afternoon for the benefit of her dear +complexion; has visited the schools, and there succeeded in irritating +almost to the verge of murder the unhappy teacher and all the wretched +little children; has had an interview with Mr. Boer, who showed himself +on the occasion even more _empressé_ than usual; has returned, and is +now once more seated at her work in the drawing-room, covered with wools +and glory. + +Near her sits Lilian, absently winding a tiny ball of wool. Having +finished her task, she hands it to Florence with a heavy sigh indicative +of relief. + +"Thanks. Will you do another?" asks Florence. + +"No,--oh, no," hastily. Then, laughing, "You mustn't think me uncivil," +she says, "but I am really not equal to winding up another, of these +interminable balls. My head goes round as fast as the wool, if not +faster." + +"And are you going to sit there doing nothing?" asks Florence, glancing +at her with ill-concealed disapproval, as the young lady proceeds to +ensconce herself in the coziest depths of the coziest chair the room +contains, as close to the fire as prudence will permit. + +"I am almost sure of it," she answers, complacently, horrifying the +proper Florence being one of her chief joys. "I am never really happy +until I feel myself thoroughly idle. I detest being useful. I love doing +'nothing,' as you call it. I have always looked upon Dr. Watts's bee as +a tiresome lunatic." + +"Do you never think it necessary to try to--improve your mind?" + +"Does crewel-work improve the mind?" opening her eyes for an instant +lazily. + +"Certainly; in so far that it leaves time for reflection. There is +something soothing about it that assists the mind. While one works one +can reflect." + +"Can one?" naughtily: "I couldn't. I can do any number of things, but I +am almost positive I couldn't reflect. It means--doesn't it?--going over +and over and over again disagreeable scenes, and remembering how much +prettier one might have behaved under such and such circumstances. I +call that not only wearying but unpleasant. No, I feel sure I am right. +I shall never, if I can help it, reflect." + +"Then you are content to be a mere butterfly--an idler on the face of +the earth all your days?" asks Florence, severely, taking the high and +moral tone she has been successfully cultivating ever since her +acquaintance with Mr. Boer. + +"As long as I can. Surely when I marry it will be time enough to grow +'useful,' and go in for work generally. You see one can't avoid it then. +Keeping one's husband in order, I have been always told, is an onerous +job." + +"You intend marrying, then?" Something in the other's tone has roused +Florence to curiosity. She sits up and looks faintly interested. + +"Yes." + +"Soon?" + +"Perhaps." + +"You are serious?" + +"Quite serious." + +"Ah!" + +A pause. Miss Beauchamp takes up two shades of wool and examines them +critically. They are so exactly alike that it can make little difference +which she chooses. But she is methodical, and would die rather than make +one false stitch in a whole acre of canvas. Having made her choice of +the two shades, she returns to the attack. + +"I had no idea you liked your cousin so much," she says. + +"So much! How much?" says Lilian, quickly turning very red. Her cousin +is a sore subject with her just now. "I do not think we are speaking of +Archibald." + +"No; but I thought you said----" + +"Nothing of him, I am sure," still hastily. + +"Oh! I beg your pardon. I quite fancied----" Here she pauses, somewhat +mystified. Then, "You and he are very good friends, are you not?" + +"Very," coldly. + +"And yet," with an elephantine attempt at playfulness, "I certainly did +think last night some quarrel had arisen between you. He looked so +savage when you were dancing with Captain Monk. His eyes are handsome, +but at times I have noticed a gleam in them that might safely be termed +dangerous." + +"Have you? I have not." + +"No? How strange! But no doubt when with you---- For my own part, I +confess I should be quite afraid of him,--of annoying him, I mean." + +"I have never yet felt afraid of any one," returns Lilian, absently. + +"How I do admire your courage,--your pluck, if I may so call it," says +Florence, hesitating properly over the unlady-like word. "Now, _I_ am so +different. I am painfully nervous with some people. Guy, for instance, +quite tyrannizes over me," with the little conscious laugh that makes +the old disgust rise warmly in Lilian's breast. "I should be so afraid +to contradict Guy." + +"And why?" + +"I don't know. He looks so--so---- I really can hardly explain; but some +sympathetic understanding between us makes me know he would not like it. +He has a great desire for his own way." + +"Most people have,"--dryly. "I never feel those sympathetic sensations +you speak of myself, but I could guess so much." + +"Another reason why I should refrain from thwarting his wishes is this," +says Florence, sorting her colors carefully, "I fancy, indeed I _know_, +he could actually dislike any one who systematically contradicted him." + +"Do you think so? I contradict him when I choose." + +"Yes," blandly: "that exactly illustrates my idea." + +"You think, then, he dislikes me?" says Lilian, raising herself the +better to examine her companion's features, while a sense of thorough +amusement makes itself felt within her. + +"Dislike"--apologetically--"is a hard word. And yet at times I think so. +Surely you must have noticed how he avoids you, how he declines to carry +out any argument commenced by you." + +"I blush for my want of sensibility," says Lilian, meekly. "No, I have +not noticed it." + +"Have you not?" with exaggerated surprise. "I have." + +At this most inopportune moment Guy enters the room. + +"Ah, Guy," says Lilian, quietly, "come here. I want to tell you +something." + +He comes over obediently, gladly, and stands by her chair. It is a low +one, and he leans his arm upon the back of it. + +"Florence has just said you hate being contradicted," she murmurs, in +her softest tones. + +"If she did, there was a great deal of truth in the remark," he answers, +with an amused laugh, while Florence glances up triumphantly. "Most +fellows do, eh?" + +"And that I am the one that generally contradicts you." + +"That is only half a truth. If she had said who _always_ contradicts me, +it would have been a whole one." + +Lilian rises. She places her hand lightly on his arm. + +"She also said that for that reason you dislike me." The words are +uttered quietly, but somehow tears have gathered in the violet eyes. + +"Dislike!" exclaims her lover, the very faint symptoms of distress upon +his darling's face causing him instant pain. "Lilian! how absurd you +are! How could such a word come to be used between us? Surely Florence +must know--has not my mother told you?" he asks, turning to Miss +Beauchamp a look full of surprise. + +"I know nothing," replies she, growing a shade paler. At this moment she +does know, and determines finally to accept, when next offered, the +devotion Mr. Boer has been showering upon her for the past two months. +Yes, she will take him for better, for worse, voice, low-church +tendencies, and all. The latter may be altered, the former silenced. "I +know nothing," she says; "what is it?" + +"Merely this, that Lilian and I are going to be married this summer. +Lilian, of your goodness do not contradict me, in this one matter at +least," bending a tender smile upon his betrothed, who returns it shyly. + +"I confess you surprise me," says Florence, with the utmost +self-possession, though her lips are still a trifle white. "I have never +been so astonished in my life. You seem to me so unsuited--so--but that +only shows how impossible it is to judge rightly in such a case. Had I +been asked to name the feeling I believed you two entertained for each +other, I should unhesitatingly have called it hatred!" + +"How we have deceived the British Public!" says Guy, laughing, although +at her words a warm color has crept into his face. "For the future we +must not 'dissemble.' Now that we have shown ourselves up in our true +colors, Florence, you will, I hope, wish us joy." + +"Certainly, with all my heart," in a tone impossible to translate: "my +only regret is, that mere wishing will not insure it to you." + +Here a servant opening the door informs Miss Beauchamp that Lady +Chetwoode wishes to see her for a few minutes. + +"Say I shall be with her directly," returns Florence, and, rising +leisurely, she sweeps, without the smallest appearance of haste, from +the room. + +Then Lilian turns to Sir Guy: + +"How curiously she uttered that last speech!--almost as though she hoped +we should not be happy, I am sure I am right; she does not want you to +marry me." + +"She was not enthusiastic in her congratulations, I admit. But that need +not affect us. I am not proud. So long as _you_ want to marry me, I +shall be quite content." + +Lilian's reply, being wordless, need not be recorded here. + +"Spiteful thing," remarks she, presently, _à propos_ of the spotless +Florence. + +"Poor, Boer!" replies he. + +"You think she will marry _him_?" heavily, and most unflatteringly, +emphasized. + +"I do." + +"Poor Florence!" returns she. "When I think that, I can forgive her all +her sins. Dreadful man! I do hope she will make his life a burden to +him." + +"I am sure you will live to see one hope fulfilled. Though I dare say he +has a better chance of peace in the years to come than I have: Florence, +at all events, does not go about boxing people's----" + +"Guy," says Miss Chesney, imperatively, laying her hand upon his lips, +"if you dare to finish that sentence, or if you ever refer to that +horrible scene again, I shall most positively refuse to marry---- Oh! +here is Mr. Boer. Talk of somebody! Look, it is he, is it not?" Standing +on tiptoe, she cranes her neck eagerly, and rather flattens her pretty +nose against the window-pane in a wild endeavor to catch a glimpse of +Mr. Boer's long-tailed coat, which "hangs" very much "down behind," +before it quite disappears in a curve of the avenue. Presently it comes +to view again from behind the huge laurustinus bush, and they are now +quite convinced it is indeed the amorous parson. + +"Yes, it is he," says Guy, staring over his betrothed's head, as he +catches the first glimpse. "And evidently full of purpose. Mark the fell +determination in his clerical stride." + +"She saw him this morning at the schools,--she told me so,--and here he +is again!" says Lilian, in an awe-struck tone. "There must be something +in it. As you say, he really seems bent on business of some sort; +perhaps he is come----" + +"With a new chant, as I'm a sinner," says Chetwoode, with a groan. "Let +us go into the library: the baize and that large screen stifles sound." + +"No, to propose! I mean: there is a curious look about him as if, +if----" + +"He was going to execution?" + +"No, to Florence." + +"That is quite the same thing." + +"I hear his step," says Lilian, hurriedly, flinging open the window, +"and hers too! She must have seen him coming, and run to meet him with +open arms. Not for worlds would I spoil sport, or put them in a 'tender +taking.' Let us fly." Stepping out on the balcony, she turns to glance +back at him. "Will you follow me?" she asks, a certain arch sweetness in +her eyes. + +"To the end of the world!" returns he, eagerly, and together, hand in +hand, they pass out of sight. + + +THE END. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Airy Fairy Lilian, by +Margaret Wolfe Hamilton (AKA Duchess) + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AIRY FAIRY LILIAN *** + +***** This file should be named 35228-8.txt or 35228-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/5/2/2/35228/ + +Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Martin Pettit and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Airy Fairy Lilian + +Author: Margaret Wolfe Hamilton (AKA Duchess) + +Release Date: February 9, 2011 [EBook #35228] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AIRY FAIRY LILIAN *** + + + + +Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Martin Pettit and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class = "mynote"><p class="center">Transcriber's Note:<br /><br /> +A Table of Contents has been added.</p></div> + +<hr /> + +<h1><span>AIRY FAIRY LILIAN</span><br /><span id="id1">BY</span> <span>"THE DUCHESS"</span></h1> + +<p class="bold">AUTHOR OF "PORTIA," "MOLLY BAWN," ETC., ETC.</p> + +<p class="tbrk"> </p> + +<hr class="smler" /> + +<p class="tbrk"> </p> + +<p class="center">NEW YORK<br />INTERNATIONAL BOOK COMPANY<br />3, 4, 5 AND 6 MISSION PLACE</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="bold2">CONTENTS.</p> + +<p class="center"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">CHAPTER XVIII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">CHAPTER XIX.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XX">CHAPTER XX.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">CHAPTER XXI.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">CHAPTER XXII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">CHAPTER XXIII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">CHAPTER XXIV.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">CHAPTER XXV.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">CHAPTER XXVI.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII">CHAPTER XXVII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII">CHAPTER XXVIII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX">CHAPTER XXIX.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXX">CHAPTER XXX.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI">CHAPTER XXXI.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII">CHAPTER XXXII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIII">CHAPTER XXXIII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIV">CHAPTER XXXIV.</a></p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> + +<p class="bold2">AIRY FAIRY LILIAN.</p> + +<hr class="smler" /> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.</span></h2> + +<div class="block"><p>"Home, sweet Home."<br /><span class="s6"> </span>—<i>Old English Song.</i></p></div> + +<p>Down the broad oak staircase—through the silent hall—into the +drawing-room runs Lilian, singing as she goes.</p> + +<p>The room is deserted; through the half-closed blinds the glad sunshine +is rushing, turning to gold all on which its soft touch lingers, and +rendering the large, dull, handsome apartment almost comfortable.</p> + +<p>Outside everything is bright, and warm, and genial, as should be in the +heart of summer; within there is only gloom,—and Lilian clad in her +mourning robes. The contrast is dispiriting: there life, here death, or +at least the knowledge of it. There joy, here the signs and trappings of woe.</p> + +<p>The black gown and funereal trimmings hardly harmonize with the girl's +flower-like face and the gay song that trembles on her lips. But, alas! +for how short a time does our first keen sorrow last! how swiftly are +our dead forgotten! how seldom does grief kill! When eight long months +have flown by across her father's grave Lilian finds, sometimes to her +dismay, that the hours she grieves for him form but a short part of her day.</p> + +<p>Not that her sorrow for him, even at its freshest, was very deep; it was +of the subdued and horrified rather than the passionate, despairing +kind. And though in truth she mourned and wept for him until her pretty +eyes could hold no longer tears, still there was a mildness about her +grief more suggestive of tender melancholy than any very poignant anguish.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span></p><p>From her the dead father could scarcely be more separated than had been +the living. Naturally of a rather sedentary disposition, Archibald +Chesney, on the death of the wife whom he adored, had become that most +uninteresting and selfish of all things, a confirmed bookworm. He went +in for study, of the abstruse and heavy order, with an ardor worthy of a +better cause. His library was virtually his home; he had neither +affections nor desires beyond. Devoting himself exclusively to his +books, he suffered them to take entire possession of what he chose to call his heart.</p> + +<p>At times he absolutely forgot the existence of his little three-year-old +daughter; and if ever the remembrance of her did cross his mind it was +but to think of her as an incubus,—as another misfortune heaped upon +his luckless shoulders,—and to wonder, with a sigh, what he was to do +with her in the future.</p> + +<p>The child, deprived of a tender mother at so early an age, was flung, +therefore, upon the tender mercies of her nurses, who alternately petted +and injudiciously reproved her, until at length she bade fair to be as +utterly spoilt as a child can be.</p> + +<p>She had one companion, a boy-cousin about a year older than herself. He +too was lonely and orphaned, so that the two children, making common +cause, clung closely to each other, and shared, both in infancy and in +early youth, their joys and sorrows. The Park had been the boy's home +ever since his parents' death, Mr. Chesney accepting him as his ward, +but never afterward troubling himself about his welfare. Indeed, he had +no objection whatever to fill the Park with relations, so long as they +left him undisturbed to follow his own devices.</p> + +<p>Not that the education of these children was neglected. They had all +tuition that was necessary; and Lilian, having a talent for music, +learned to sing and play the piano very charmingly. She could ride, too, +and sit her horse <i>a merveille</i>, and had a passion for reading,—perhaps +inherited. But, as novels were her principal literature, and as she had +no one to regulate her choice of them, it is a matter of opinion whether +she derived much benefit from them. At least she received little harm, +as at seventeen she was as fresh-minded and pure-hearted a child as one +might care to know.</p> + +<p>The County, knowing her to be an heiress,—though not a large +one,—called systematically on her every three<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span> months. Twice she had +been taken to a ball by an enterprising mother with a large family of +unpromising sons. But as she reached her eighteenth year her father +died, and her old home, the Park, being strictly entailed on heirs male, +passed from her into the hands of a distant cousin utterly unknown. This +young man, another Archibald Chesney, was abroad at the time of his +kinsman's death,—in Egypt, or Hong-Kong, or Jamaica,—no one exactly +knew which—until after much search he was finally discovered to be in Halifax.</p> + +<p>From thence he had written to the effect that, as he probably should not +return to his native land for another six months, he hoped his cousin +(if it pleased her) would continue to reside at the Park—where all the +old servants were to be kept on—until his return.</p> + +<p>It did please his cousin; and in her old home she still reigned as +queen, until after eight months she received a letter from her father's +lawyer warning her of Archibald Chesney's actual arrival in London.</p> + +<p>This letter failed in its object. Lilian either would not or could not +bring herself to name the day that should part her forever from all the +old haunts and pleasant nooks she loved so well. She was not brave +enough to take her "Bradshaw" and look up the earliest train that ought +to convey her away from the Park. Indeed, so utterly wanting in decency +and decorum did she appear at this particular epoch of her existence +that the heart of her only aunt—her father's sister—was stirred to its +depths. So much so that, after mature deliberation (for old people as +well as great ones move slowly), she finally packed up the venerable +hair-trunk that had seen the rise and fall of several monarchs, and +marched all the way from Edinburgh to this Midland English shire, to try +what firm expostulation could do in the matter of bringing her niece to +see the error of her ways.</p> + +<p>For a whole week it did very little.</p> + +<p>Lilian was independent in more ways than one. She had considerable +spirit and five hundred pounds a year in her own right. Not only did she +object to leave the Park, but she regarded with horror the prospect of +going to reside with the guardians appointed to receive her by her +father. Not that this idea need have filled her with dismay. Sir Guy +Chetwoode, the actual guardian, was a young man not likely to trouble +himself overmuch about<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span> any ward; while his mother, Lady Chetwoode, was +that most gracious of all things, a beautiful and lovable old lady.</p> + +<p>Why Mr. Chesney had chosen so young a man to look after his daughter's +interests must forever remain a mystery,—perhaps because he happened to +be the eldest son of his oldest friend, long since dead. Sir Guy +accepted the charge because he thought it uncivil to refuse, and chiefly +because he believed it likely Miss Chesney would marry before her +father's death. But events proved the fallacy of human thought. When +Archibald Chesney's demise appeared in the <i>Times</i> Sir Guy made a little +face and took meekly a good deal of "chaffing" at his brother's hands; +while Lady Chetwoode sat down, and, with a faint sinking at her heart, +wrote a kindly letter to the orphan, offering her a home at Chetwoode. +To this letter Lilian had sent a polite reply, thanking "dear Lady +Chetwoode" for her kindness, and telling her she had no intention of +quitting the Park just at present. Later on she would be only too happy +to accept, etc., etc.</p> + +<p>Now, however, standing in her own drawing-room, Lilian feels, with a +pang, the game is almost played out; she must leave. Aunt Priscilla's +arguments, detestable though they be, are unhappily quite unanswerable. +To her own heart she confesses this much, and the little gay French song +dies on her lips, and the smile fades from her eyes, and a very dejected +and forlorn expression comes and grows upon her pretty face.</p> + +<p>It is more than pretty, it is lovely,—the fair, sweet childish face, +framed in by its yellow hair; her great velvety eyes, now misty through +vain longing, are blue as the skies above her; her nose is pure Greek; +her forehead, low, but broad, is partly shrouded by little wandering +threads of gold that every now and then break loose from bondage, while +her lashes, long and dark, curl upward from her eyes, as though hating +to conceal the beauty of the exquisite azure within.</p> + +<p>She is not tall, and she is very slender but not lean. She is willful, +quick-tempered, and impetuous, but large-hearted and lovable. There is a +certain haughtiness about her that contrasts curiously but pleasantly +with her youthful expression and laughing kissable mouth. She is +straight and lissome as a young ash-tree; her hands and feet are small +and well shaped; in a word, she is <i>chic</i><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span> from the crown of her fair +head down to her little arched instep.</p> + +<p>Just now, perhaps, as she hears the honest sound of her aunt's footstep +in the hall, a slight pout takes possession of her lips and a flickering +frown adorns her brow. Aunt Priscilla is coming, and Aunt Priscilla +brings victory in her train, and it is not every one can accept defeat with grace.</p> + +<p>She hastily pulls up one of the blinds; and as old Miss Chesney opens +the door and advances up the room, young Miss Chesney rather turns her +shoulder to her and stares moodily out of the window. But Aunt Priscilla +is not to be daunted.</p> + +<p>"Well, Lilian," she says, in a hopeful tone, and with an amount of faith +admirable under the circumstances, "I trust you have been thinking it +over favorably, and that——"</p> + +<p>"Thinking what over?" asks Lilian; which interruption is a mean subterfuge.</p> + +<p>"——And that the night has induced you to see your situation in its +proper light."</p> + +<p>"You speak as though I were the under house-maid," says Lilian with a +faint sense of humor. "And yet the word suits me. Surely there never yet +was a situation as mine. I wish my horrid cousin had been drowned +in——. No, Aunt Priscilla, the night has not reformed me. On the +contrary, it has demoralized me, through a dream. I dreamt I went to +Chetwoode, and, lo! the very first night I slept beneath its roof the +ceiling in my room gave way, and, falling, crushed me to fine powder. +After such a ghastly warning do you still advise me to pack up and be +off? If you do," says Lilian, solemnly, "my blood be on your head."</p> + +<p>"Dreams go by contraries," quotes Miss Priscilla, sententiously. "I +don't believe in them. Besides, from all I have heard of the Chetwoodes +they are far too well regulated a family to have anything amiss with +their ceilings."</p> + +<p>"Oh, how <i>you do</i> add fuel to the fire that is consuming me!" exclaims +Lilian, with a groan. "A well-regulated family!—what can be more awful? +Ever since I have been old enough to reason I have looked with righteous +horror upon a well-regulated family. Aunt Priscilla, if you don't change +your tune I vow and protest I shall decide upon<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span> remaining here until my +cousin takes me by the shoulders and places me upon the gravel outside."</p> + +<p>"I thought, Lilian," says her aunt, severely, "you promised me yesterday +to think seriously of what I have now been saying to you for a whole +week without cessation."</p> + +<p>"Well, so I am thinking," with a sigh. "It is the amount of thinking I +have been doing for a whole week without cessation that is gradually +turning my hair gray."</p> + +<p>"It would be all very well," says Miss Priscilla, impatiently, "if I +could remain with you; but I cannot. I must return to my duties." These +duties consisted of persecuting poor little children every Sunday by +compelling them to attend her Scriptural class (so she called it) and +answer such questions from the Old Testament as would have driven any +experienced divinity student out of his mind; and on week-days of +causing much sorrow (and more bad language) to be disseminated among the +women of the district by reason of her lectures on their dirt. "And your +cousin is in London, and naturally will wish to take possession in person."</p> + +<p>"How I wish poor papa had left the Park to me!" says Lilian, +discontentedly, and somewhat irrelevantly.</p> + +<p>"My dear child, I have explained to you at least a dozen times that such +a gift was not in his power. It goes—that is, the Park,—to a male +heir, and——"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I know," petulantly. "Well, then I wish it <i>had</i> been in his power +to leave it to me."</p> + +<p>"And how about writing to Lady Chetwoode?" says Aunt Priscilla, giving +up the argument in despair. (She is a wise woman.) "The sooner you do so the better."</p> + +<p>"I hate strangers," says Lilian, mournfully. "They make me unhappy. Why +can't I remain where I am? George or Archibald, or whatever his name is, +might just as well let me have a room here. I'm sure the place is large +enough. He need not grudge me one or two apartments. The left wing, for instance."</p> + +<p>"Lilian," says Miss Chesney, rising from her chair, "how old are you? Is +it possible that at eighteen you have yet to learn the meaning of the +word 'propriety'? You—a <i>young girl</i>—to remain here alone with a +<i>young man</i>!"</p> + +<p>"He need never see me," says Lilian, quite unmoved by<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span> this burst of +eloquence. "I should take very good care of that, as I know I shall detest him."</p> + +<p>"I decline to listen to you," says Miss Priscilla, raising her hands to +her ears. "You must be lost to all sense of decorum even to imagine such +a thing. You and he in one house, how should you avoid meeting?"</p> + +<p>"Well, even if we did meet," says Lilian, with a small rippling laugh +impossible to quell, "I dare say he wouldn't bite me."</p> + +<p>"No,"—sternly,—"he would probably do worse. He would make love to you. +Some instinct warns me," says Miss Priscilla, with the liveliest horror, +gazing upon the exquisite, glowing face before her, "that within five +days he would be making <i>violent</i> love to you."</p> + +<p>"You strengthen my desire to stay," says Lilian, somewhat frivolously, +"I should so like to say 'No' to him!"</p> + +<p>"Lilian, you make me shudder," says Miss Priscilla, earnestly. "When I +was your age, even younger, I had a full sense of the horror of allowing +any man to mention my name lightly. I kept all men at arm's length, I +suffered no jesting or foolish talking from them. And mark the result," +says Miss Chesney, with pride: "I defy any one to say a word of me but +what is admirable and replete with modesty."</p> + +<p>"Did any one ever propose to you, auntie?" asks Miss Lilian with a naughty laugh.</p> + +<p>"Certainly. I had many offers," replies Miss Priscilla, promptly,—which +is one of the few lies she allows herself; "I was persecuted by suitors +in my younger days; but I refused them all. And if you will take my +advice, Lilian," says this virgin, with much solemnity, "you will never, +<i>never</i> put yourself into clutches of a <i>man</i>." She utters this last +word as though she would have said a tiger or a serpent, or anything +else ruthless and bloodthirsty. "But all this is beside the question."</p> + +<p>"It is, rather," says Lilian, demurely. But, suddenly brightening, +"Between my dismal dreaming last night I thought of another plan."</p> + +<p>"Another!" with open dismay.</p> + +<p>"Yes,"—triumphantly,—"it occurred to me that this bugbear my cousin +might go abroad again. Like the Wandering Jew, he is always traveling; +and who knows but he may take a fancy to visit the South Pole, or +discover the Northwestern Passage, or go with Jules Verne to the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span> centre +of the earth? If so, why should not I remain here and keep house for +him? What can be simpler?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing,"—tritely,—"but unfortunately he is not going abroad again."</p> + +<p>"No! How do you know that?"</p> + +<p>"Through Mr. Shrude, the solicitor."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" says Lilian, in a despairing tone, "how unhappy I am! Though I +might have known that wretched young man would be the last to do what is +his palpable duty." There is a pause. Lilian's head sinks upon her hand; +dejection shows itself in every feature. She sighs so heavily that Miss +Priscilla's spirits rise and she assures herself the game is won. Rash hope.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Lilian's countenance clears; she raises her head, and a faint +smile appears within her eyes.</p> + +<p>"Aunt Priscilla, I have yet another plan," she says, cheerfully.</p> + +<p>"Oh, my dear, I do hope not," says poor Miss Chesney, almost on the verge of tears.</p> + +<p>"Yes, and it emanated from you. Supposing I were to remain here, and he +did fall in love with me, and married me: what then? Would not that +solve the difficulty? Once the ceremony was performed he might go prying +about all over the known globe for all that I should care. I should have +my dear Park. I declare," says Lilian, waxing valiant, "had he but one +eye, or did he appear before me with a wooden leg (which I hold to be +the most contemptible of all things), nothing should induce me to refuse +him under the circumstances."</p> + +<p>"And are you going to throw yourself upon your cousin's generosity and +actually ask him to take pity on you and make you his wife? Lilian, I +fancied you had some pride," says Miss Chesney, gravely.</p> + +<p>"So I have," says Lilian, with a repentant sigh. "How I wish I hadn't! +No, I suppose it wouldn't do to marry him in that way, no matter how +badly I treated him afterward to make up for it. Well, my last hope is dead."</p> + +<p>"And a good thing too. Now, had you not better sit down and write to +Lady Chetwoode or your guardian, naming an early date for going to them? +Though what your father could have meant by selecting so young a man as +a guardian is more than I can imagine."</p> + +<p>"Because he wished me to live with Lady Chetwoode, who was evidently an +old flame; and because Sir Guy,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span> from all I hear, is a sort of Admirable +Crichton—something as prosy as the Heir of Redclyffe, as dull as Sir +Galahad. A goody-goody old-young man. For my part, I would have +preferred a hoary-headed gentleman, with just a little spice of +wickedness about him."</p> + +<p>"Lilian, don't be flippant," in a tone of horror. "I tremble when I +reflect on the dangers that must attend your unbridled tongue."</p> + +<p>"Well, but, Aunt Priscilla,"—plaintively,—"one doesn't relish the +thought of spending day after day with a man who will think it his duty +to find fault every time I give way to my sentiments, and probably grow +pale with disgust whenever I laugh aloud. Shan't I lead him a life!" +says the younger Miss Chesney, viciously, tapping the back of one small +hand vigorously against the palm of the other. "With the hope of giving +that young man something to cavil at, I shall sustain myself."</p> + +<p>"Child," says Miss Priscilla, "let me recommend a course of severe study +to you as the best means of subduing your evil inclinations."</p> + +<p>"I shall take your advice," says the incorrigible Lilian; "I shall study +Sir Guy. I expect that will be the severest course of study I have ever undergone."</p> + +<p>"Get your paper and write," says Miss Priscilla, who, against her will, +is smiling grimly.</p> + +<p>"I suppose, indeed, I must," says Lilian, seating herself at her +davenport with all the airs of a finished martyr. "'Needs must,' you +know, Aunt Priscilla. I dare say you recollect the rest of that rather +vulgar proverb. I shall seal my fate this instant by writing to Lady +Chetwoode. But, oh!" turning on her chair to regard her aunt with an +expression of the keenest reproach, "how I wish you had not called them +a 'well-regulated family!'"</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.</span></h2> + +<div class="block3"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"Be not over-exquisite</div> +<div>To cast the fashion of uncertain evils."—<span class="smcap">Milton.</span></div> +</div></div></div> + +<p>Through the open windows the merry-making sun is again dancing, its +bright rays making still more dazzling the glory of the snowy +table-cloth. The great silver urn is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span> hissing and fighting with all +around, as though warning his mistress to use him, as he is not one to +be trifled with; while at the lower end of the table, exactly opposite +Sir Guy's plate, lies the post upon a high salver, ready to the master's +hand, as has been the custom at Chetwoode for generations.</p> + +<p>Evidently the family is late for breakfast. As a rule, the Chetwoode +family always is late for breakfast,—just sufficiently so to make them +certain everything will be quite ready by the time they get down.</p> + +<p>Ten o'clock rings out mysteriously from the handsome marble clock upon +the chimney-piece, and precisely three minutes afterward the door is +thrown open to admit an elderly lady, tall and fair, and still beautiful.</p> + +<p>She walks with a slow, rather stately step, and in spite of her years +carries her head high. Upon this head rests the daintiest of morning +caps, all white lace and delicate ribbon bows, that match in color her +trailing gown. Her hands, small and tapering, are covered with rings; +otherwise she wears no adornment of any kind. There is a benignity about +her that goes straight to all hearts. Children adore her, dogs fawn upon +her, young men bring to her all their troubles,—the evil behavior of +their tailors and their mistresses are alike laid before her.</p> + +<p>Now, finding the room empty, and knowing it to be four minutes after +ten, she says to herself, "The first!" with a little surprise and much +pardonable pride, and seats herself with something of an air before the +militant urn. When we are old it is so sweet to us to be younger than +the young, when we are young it is so sweet to us to be just <i>vice +versa</i>. Oh, foolish youth!</p> + +<p>An elderly butler, who has evidently seen service (in every sense of the +word), and who is actually steeped in respectability up to his port-wine +nose, hovers around the breakfast, adjusting this dish affectionately, +and straightening that, until all is carefully awry, when he leaves the +room with a sigh of satisfaction.</p> + +<p>Perhaps Lady Chetwoode's self-admiration would have grown beyond bounds, +but that just at this instant voices in the hall distract her thoughts. +The sounds make her face brighten and bring a smile to her lips. "The +boys" are coming. She draws the teacups a little nearer to her and makes +a gentle fuss over the spoons. A light laugh echoes through the hall; it +is answered and then the door<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span> once more opens, and her two sons enter, +Cyril, being the youngest, naturally coming first.</p> + +<p>On seeing his mother he is pleased to make a gesture indicative of the +most exaggerated surprise.</p> + +<p>"Now, who could have anticipated it?" he says. "Her gracious majesty +already assembled, while her faithful subjects—— Well," with a sudden +change of tone, "for my part I call it downright shabby of people to +scramble down-stairs before other people merely for the sake of putting +them to the blush."</p> + +<p>"Lazy boy! no wonder you are ashamed of yourself when you look at the +clock," says Lady Chetwoode, smiling fondly as she returns his greeting.</p> + +<p>"Ashamed! Pray do not misunderstand me. I have arrived at my +twenty-sixth year without ever having mastered the meaning of that word. +I flatter myself I am a degree beyond that."</p> + +<p>"Last night's headache quite gone, mother?" asks Sir Guy, bending over +her chair to kiss her; an act he performs tenderly, and as though the +doing of it is sweet to him.</p> + +<p>"Quite, my dear," replies she; and there is perhaps the faintest, the +<i>very</i> faintest, accession of warmth in her tone, an almost +imperceptible increase of kindliness in her smile as she speaks to her eldest son.</p> + +<p>"That's right," says he, patting her gently on the shoulder; after which +he goes over to his own seat and takes up the letters lying before him.</p> + +<p>"Positively I never thought of the post," says Lady Chetwoode. "And here +I have been for quite five minutes with nothing to do. I might as well +have been digesting my correspondence, if there is any for me."</p> + +<p>"One letter for you; five, as usual, for Cyril; one for me," says Guy. +"All Cyril's." Examining them critically at arm's length. "Written +evidently by <i>very</i> young women."</p> + +<p>"Yes, they <i>will</i> write to me," returns Cyril, receiving them with a +sigh and regarding them with careful scrutiny. "It is nothing short of +disgusting," he says presently, singling out one of the letters with his +first finger. "This is the fourth she has written me this week, and as +yet it is only Friday. I won't be able to bear it much longer; I shall +certainly make a stand one of these days."</p> + +<p>"I would if I were you," says Guy, laughing.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span></p><p>"I have just heard from Lilian Chesney," suddenly says Lady Chetwoode, +speaking as though a bombshell had fallen in their midst. "And she is +really coming here next week!"</p> + +<p>"No!" says Guy, without meaning contradiction, which at the moment is far from him.</p> + +<p>"Yes," replies his mother, somewhat faintly.</p> + +<p>"Another!" murmurs Cyril, weakly,—he being the only one of the three +who finds any amusement in the situation. "Well, at all events, <i>she</i> +can't write to me, as we shall be under the same roof; and I shall +dismiss the very first servant who brings me a <i>billet-doux</i>. How +pleased you do look, Guy! And no wonder;—a whole live ward, and all to +yourself. Lucky you!"</p> + +<p>"It is hard on you, mother," says Guy, "but it can't be helped. When I +promised, I made sure her father would have lived for years to come."</p> + +<p>"You did what was quite right," says Lady Chetwoode, who, if Guy were to +commit a felony, would instantly say it was the only proper course to be +pursued. "And it might have been much worse. Her mother's daughter +cannot fail to be a lady in the best sense of the word."</p> + +<p>"I'm sure I hope she won't, then," says Cyril, who all this time has +been carefully laying in an uncommonly good breakfast. "If there is one +thing I hate, it is a young lady. Give me a girl."</p> + +<p>"But, my dear, what an extraordinary speech! Surely a girl may be a young lady."</p> + +<p>"Yes, but unfortunately a young lady isn't always a girl. My experience +of the former class is, that, no matter what their age, they are as old +as the hills, and know considerably more than they ought to know."</p> + +<p>"And just as we had got rid of one ward so successfully we must needs +get another," says Lady Chetwoode, with a plaintive sigh. "Dear Mabel! +she was certainly very sweet, and I was excessively fond of her, but I +do hope this new-comer will not be so troublesome."</p> + +<p>"I hope she will be as pleasant to talk to and as good to look at," says +Cyril. "I confess I missed Mab awfully; I never felt so down in my life +as when she declared her intention of marrying Tom Steyne."</p> + +<p>"I never dreamed the marriage would have turned out so well," says Lady +Chetwoode, in a pleased tone. "She<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> was such an—an—unreasonable girl. +But it is wonderful how well she gets on with a husband."</p> + +<p>"Flirts always make the best wives. You forget that, mother."</p> + +<p>"And what a coquette she was? If Lilian Chesney resembles her, I don't +know what I shall do. I am getting too old to take care of pretty girls."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps Miss Chesney is ugly."</p> + +<p>"I hope not, my dear," says Lady Chetwoode, with a strong shudder. "Let +her be anything but that. I can't bear ugly women. No, her mother was +lovely. I used to think"—relapsing again into the plaintive +style—"that one ward in a lifetime would be sufficient, and now we are +going to have another."</p> + +<p>"It is all Guy's fault," says Cyril. "He does get himself up so like the +moral Pecksniff. There is a stern and dignified air about him would +deceive a Machiavelli, and takes the hearts of parents by storm. Poor +Mr. Chesney, who never even saw him, took him on hearsay as his only +child's guardian. This solitary fact shows how grossly he has taken in +society in general. He is every bit as immoral as the rest of us, only——"</p> + +<p>"Immoral! My <i>dear</i> Cyril——" interrupts Lady Chetwoode, severely.</p> + +<p>"Well, let us say frivolous. It has just the same meaning nowadays, and +sounds nicer. But he looks a 'grave and reverend,' if ever there was +one. Indeed, his whole appearance is enough to make any passer-by stop +short and say, 'There goes a good young man.'"</p> + +<p>"I'm sure I hope not," says Guy, half offended, wholly disgusted. "I +should be inclined to shoot any one who told me I was a 'good young +man.' I have no desire to pose as such: my ambition does not lie that way."</p> + +<p>"I don't believe you know what you are saying, either of you," says Lady +Chetwoode, who, though accustomed to them, can never entirely help +showing surprise at their sentiments and expressions every now and then. +"I should be sorry to think everybody did not know you to be (as I do) good as gold."</p> + +<p>"Thank you, Madre. One compliment from you is worth a dozen from any one +else," says Cyril. "Any news, Guy? You seem absorbed. I cannot tell you +how I admire any one who takes an undisguised interest in his +correspondence. Now I"—gazing at his five unopened letters<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span>—"cannot +get up the feeling to save my life. Guy,"—reproachfully,—"don't you +see your mother is dying of curiosity?"</p> + +<p>"The letter is from Trant," says Guy, looking up from the closely +written sheet before him. "He wants to know if we will take a tenant for +'The Cottage.' 'A lady'"—reading from the letter—"'who has suffered +much, and who wishes for quietness and retirement from the world.'"</p> + +<p>"I should recommend a convent under the circumstances," says Cyril. "It +would be the very thing for her. I don't see why she should come down +here to suffer, and put us all in the dumps, and fill our woods with her sighs and moans."</p> + +<p>"Is she young?" asks Lady Chetwoode, anxiously.</p> + +<p>"No,—I don't know, I'm sure. I should think not, by Trant's way of +mentioning her. 'An old friend,' he says, though, of course, that might mean anything."</p> + +<p>"Married?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. A widow."</p> + +<p>"Dear me!" says Lady Chetwoode, distastefully. "A most objectionable +class of people. Always in the way, and—er—very designing, and that."</p> + +<p>"If she is anything under forty she will want to marry Guy directly," +Cyril puts in, with an air of conviction. "If I were you, Guy, I should +pause and consider before I introduced such a dangerous ingredient so +near home. Just fancy, mother, seeing Guy married to a woman probably +older than you!"</p> + +<p>"Yes,—I shouldn't wonder," says Lady Chetwoode, nervously. "My dear +child, do nothing in a hurry. Tell Colonel Trant you—you—do not care +about letting The Cottage just at present."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense, mother! How can you be so absurd? Don't you think I may be +considered proof against designing widows at twenty-nine? Never mind +Cyril's talk. I dare say he is afraid for himself. Indeed, the one thing +that makes me hesitate about obliging Trant is the knowledge of how +utterly incapable my poor brother is of taking care of himself."</p> + +<p>"It is only too true," says Cyril, resignedly. "I feel sure if the widow +is flouted by you she will revenge herself by marrying me. Guy, as you +are strong, be merciful."</p> + +<p>"After all, the poor creature may be quite old, and we<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> are frightening +ourselves unnecessarily," says Lady Chetwoode, in all sincerity.</p> + +<p>At this both Guy and Cyril laugh in spite of themselves.</p> + +<p>"Are you really afraid, mother?" asks Cyril, fondly. "What a goose you +are about your 'boys'! Are we always to be children in your eyes? Not +that I wonder at your horror of widows. Even the immortal Weller shared +your sentiments, and warned his 'Samivel' against them. Never mind, +mother; console yourself. I for one swear by all that is lovely never to +seek this particular 'widder' in marriage."</p> + +<p>False oath.</p> + +<p>"You see he seems to take it so much for granted, my giving The Cottage +and that, I hardly like to refuse."</p> + +<p>"It would not be of the least consequence, if it was not situated +actually in our own woods, and not two miles from the house. There lies +the chief objection," says Lady Chetwoode.</p> + +<p>"Yes. Yet what can I do? It is a pretty little place, and it seems a +pity to let it sink into decay. This tenant may save it."</p> + +<p>"It is a lovely spot. I often fancy, Guy," says his mother, somewhat +sadly, "I should like to go and live there myself when you get a wife."</p> + +<p>"Why should you say that?" says Guy, almost roughly. "If my taking a +wife necessitates your quitting Chetwoode, I shall never burden myself +with that luxury."</p> + +<p>"You don't follow out the Mater's argument, dear boy," says Cyril, +smoothly. "She means that when your sylvan widow claims you as her own +she <i>must</i> leave, as of course the same roof could not cover both. But +you are eating nothing, mother; Guy's foolish letter has taken away your +appetite. Take some of this broiled ham!"</p> + +<p>"No, thank you, dear, I don't care for——"</p> + +<p>"Don't perjure yourself. You know you have had a positive passion for +broiled ham from your cradle up. I remember all about it. I insist on +your eating your breakfast, or you will have that beastly headache back again."</p> + +<p>"My dear," says his mother, entreatingly, "do you think you could be +silent for a few minutes while I discuss this subject with your brother?"</p> + +<p>"I shan't speak again. After that severe snubbing consider me dumb. But +do get it over quick," says Cyril. "I can't be mute forever."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span></p><p>"I suppose I had better say yes," says Guy, doubtfully. "It looks +rather like the dog in the manger, having The Cottage idle and still +refusing Trant's friend."</p> + +<p>"That reminds me of a capital story," breaks in the irrepressible Cyril, +gayly. "By Jove, what a sell it was! One fellow met another fellow——"</p> + +<p>"I shall refuse, of course, if you wish it," Guy goes on, addressing his +mother, and scorning to notice this brilliant interruption.</p> + +<p>"No, no, dear. Write and say you will think about it."</p> + +<p>"Won't you listen to my capital story?" asks Cyril, in high disgust. +"Very good. You will both be sorry afterward,—when it is too late."</p> + +<p>Even this awful threat takes no effect.</p> + +<p>"Unfortunately, I can't do that," says Guy, answering Lady Chetwoode. +"His friend is obliged to leave the place she is now in, immediately, +and he wants her to come here next week,—next"—glancing at the +letter—"Saturday."</p> + +<p>"Misfortunes never come single," remarks Cyril; "ours seem to crowd. +First a ward, and then a widow, and all in the same week."</p> + +<p>"Not only the same week, but the same day," exclaims Lady Chetwoode, +looking at her letter; whereupon they all laugh, though they scarcely know why.</p> + +<p>"What! Is she too coming on Saturday?" asks Guy. "How ill-timed! I am +bound to go to the Bellairs, on that day, whether I like it or not, to +dine, and sleep and spend my time generally. The old boy has some young +dogs of which he is immensely proud, and has been tormenting me for a +month past to go and see them. So yesterday he seized upon me again, and +I didn't quite like to refuse, he seemed so bent on getting my opinion of the pups."</p> + +<p>"Why not go early, and be back in time for dinner?"</p> + +<p>"Can't, unfortunately. There is to be a dinner there in the evening for +some cousin who is coming to pay them a visit; and I promised Harry, who +doesn't shine in conversation, to stay and make myself agreeable to her. +It's a bore rather, as I fear it will look slightly heathenish my not +being at the station to meet Miss Chesney."</p> + +<p>"Don't put yourself out about that: I'll do all I can to make up for +your loss," says Cyril, who is eminently good-natured. "I'll meet her if +you wish it, and bring her home."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span></p><p>"Thanks, old man: you're awfully good. It would look inhospitable +neither of us being on the spot to bid her welcome. Take the carriage and——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, by Jove, I didn't bargain for the carriage. To be smothered alive +in July is not a fascinating idea. Don't you think, mother,"—in an +insinuating voice,—"Miss Chesney would prefer the dogcart or the——"</p> + +<p>"My dear Cyril! Of course you must meet her in the carriage," says his +mother, in the shocked tone that usually ends all disputes.</p> + +<p>"So be it. I give in. Though when I arrive here in the last stage of +exhaustion, reclining in Miss Chesney's arms, you will be to blame," +says Cyril, amiably. "But to return to your widow, Guy; who is to receive her?"</p> + +<p>"I dare say by this time she has learned to take care of herself," +laughing. "At all events, she does not weigh upon my conscience, even +should I consent to oblige Trant,"—looking at his mother—"by having +her at The Cottage as a tenant."</p> + +<p>"It looks very suspicious, her being turned out of her last place," +Cyril says, in an uncomfortable tone. "Perhaps——" Here he pauses +somewhat mysteriously.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps what?" asks his mother, struck by his manner.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps she is mad," suggests Cyril, in an awesome whisper. "An escaped +lunatic!—a maniac!"</p> + +<p>"I know no one who borders so much on lunacy as yourself," says Guy. +"After all, what does it matter whether our tenant is fat, fair, and +forty, or a lean old maid! It will oblige Trant, and it will keep the +place together. Mother, tell me to say yes."</p> + +<p>Thus desired, Lady Chetwoode gives the required permission.</p> + +<p>"A new tenant at The Cottage and a young lady visitor,—a permanent +visitor! It only requires some one to leave us a legacy in the shape of +a new-born babe, to make up the sum of our calamities," says Cyril, as +he steps out of the low French window and drops on to the sward beneath.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span></p> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.</span></h2> + +<blockquote><p>"She was beautiful as the lily-bosomed Houri that gladdens the +visions of the poet when, soothed to dreams of pleasantness and +peace, the downy pinions of Sleep wave over his turbulent +soul!"—<i>From the Arabic.</i></p></blockquote> + +<p>All the flowers at Chetwoode are rejoicing; their heads are high +uplifted, their sweetest perfumes are making still more sweet the soft, +coquettish wind that, stealing past them, snatches their kisses ere they know.</p> + +<p>It is a glorious day, full of life, and happy sunshine, and music from +the throats of many birds. All the tenors and sopranos and contraltos of +the air seem to be having one vast concert, and are filling the woods with melody.</p> + +<p>In the morning a little laughing, loving shower came tumbling down into +the earth's embrace, where it was caught gladly and kept forever,—a +little baby shower, on which the sunbeams smiled, knowing that it had +neither power nor wish to kill them.</p> + +<p>But now the greedy earth has grasped it, and others, knowing its fate, +fear to follow, and only the pretty sparkling jewels that tremble on the +grass tell of its having been.</p> + +<p>In the very centre of the great lawn that stretches beyond the +pleasure-grounds stands a mighty oak. Its huge branches throw their arms +far and wide, making a shelter beneath them for all who may choose to +come and seek there for shade. Around its base pretty rustic chairs are +standing in somewhat dissipated order, while on its topmost bough a crow +is swaying and swinging as the soft wind rushes by, making an inky blot +upon the brilliant green, as it were a patch upon the cheek of a court belle.</p> + +<p>Over all the land from his lofty perch this crow can see,—can mark the +smiling fields, the yellowing corn, the many antlered deer in the Park, +the laughing brooklets, the gurgling streams that now in the great heat +go lazily and stumble sleepily over every pebble in their way.</p> + +<p>He can see his neighbors' houses, perhaps his own snug nest, and all the +beauty and richness and warmth of an English landscape.</p> + +<p>But presently—being a bird of unformed tastes or unappreciative, or +perhaps fickle—he tires of looking, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> flapping heavily his black +wings, rises slowly and sails away.</p> + +<p>Toward the east he goes, the sound of his harsh but homely croak growing +fainter as he flies. Over the trees in their gorgeous clothing, across +the murmuring brooks, through the uplands, over the heads of the deer +that gaze at him with their mournful, gentle eyes, he travels, never +ceasing in his flight until he comes to a small belt of firs, evidently +set apart, in the centre of which stands "The Cottage."</p> + +<p>It is considerably larger than one would expect from its name. A long, +low, straggling house, about three miles from Chetwoode entrance-gate, +going by the road, but only one mile, taking a short cut through the +Park. A very pretty house,—with a garden in front, carefully hedged +round, and another garden at the back,—situated in a lovely +spot,—perhaps the most enviable in all Chetwoode,—silent, dreamy, +where one might, indeed, live forever, "the world forgetting, by the world forgot."</p> + +<p>In the garden all sorts of the sweetest old-world flowers are +blooming,—pinks and carnations, late lilies and sweet-williams; the +velvety heartsease, breathing comfort to the poor +love-that-lies-a-bleeding; the modest forget-me-not, the fragrant +mignonette (whose qualities, they rudely say surpass its charms), the +starry jessamine, the frail woodbine; while here and there from every +nook and corner shines out the fairest, loveliest, queenliest flower of +all,—the rose.</p> + +<p>Every bush is rich with them; the air is heavy with their odor. Roses of +every hue, of every size, from the grand old cabbage to the smallest +Scotch, are here. One gazes round in silent admiration, until the great +love of them swells within the heart and a desire for possession arises, +when, growing murderous, one wishes, like Nero, they had but one neck, +that they might all be gathered at a blow.</p> + +<p>Upon the house only snow-white roses grow. In great masses they uprear +their heads, peeping curiously in at the windows, trailing lovingly +round the porches, nestling under the eaves, drooping coquettishly at +the angles. To-day a raindrop has fallen into each scented heart, has +lingered there all the morning, and is still loath to leave. Above the +flowers the birds hover twittering; beneath them the ground is as a +snowy carpet from their fallen petals.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> Poor petals! How sad it is that +they must fall! Yet, even in death, how sweet!</p> + +<p>It is Saturday. In the morning the new tenant was expected; the evening +is to bring the new ward. Lady Chetwoode, in consequence, is a little +trouble-minded. Guy has gone to the Bellairs'. Cyril is in radiant +spirits. Not that this latter fact need be recorded, as Cyril belongs to +those favored ones who at their birth receive a dowry from their fairy +godparents of unlimited good-humor.</p> + +<p>He is at all times an easy-going young man, healthy, happy, whose path +in life up to this has been strewn with roses. To him the world isn't +"half a bad place," which he is content to take as he finds it, never +looking too closely into what doesn't concern him,—a treatment the +world evidently likes, as it regards him (especially the gentler portion +of it) with the utmost affection.</p> + +<p>Even with that rare class, mothers blessed with handsome daughters, he +finds favor, either through his face or his manner, or because of the +fact that though a younger son, he has nine hundred pounds a year of his +own and a pretty place called Moorlands, about six miles from Chetwoode. +It was his mother's portion and is now his.</p> + +<p>He is tall, broad-shouldered, and rather handsome, with perhaps more +mouth than usually goes to one man's share; but, as he has laughed +straight through from his cradle to his twenty-sixth year, this is +scarcely to be wondered at. His eyes are gray and frank, his hair is +brown, his skin a good deal tanned. He is very far from being an Adonis, +but he is good to look at, and to know him is to like him.</p> + +<p>Just now, luncheon being over, and nothing else left to do, he is +feeling rather bored than otherwise, and lounges into his mother's +morning-room, being filled with a desire to have speech with somebody. +The somebody nearest to him at the moment being Lady Chetwoode, he +elects to seek her presence and inflict his society upon her.</p> + +<p>"It's an awful nuisance having anything on your mind, isn't it, mother?" +he says, genially.</p> + +<p>"It is indeed, my dear," with heartfelt earnestness and a palpable +expectation of worse things yet to come. "What unfortunate mistake have +you been making now?"</p> + +<p>"Not one. 'You wrong me, Brutus.' I have been as gently behaved as a +skipping lamb all the morning. No; I mean having to fetch our visitor +this evening weighs<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> upon my spirits and somehow idles me. I can settle +to nothing."</p> + +<p>"You seldom can, dear, can you?" says Lady Chetwoode, mildly, with +unmeant irony. "But"—as though suddenly inspired—"suppose you go for a +walk?"</p> + +<p>This is a mean suggestion, and utterly unworthy of Lady Chetwoode. The +fact is, the day is warm and she is sleepy, and she knows she will not +get her forty winks unless he takes himself out of the way. So, with a +view to getting rid of him, she grows hypocritically kind.</p> + +<p>"A walk will do you good," she says. "You don't take half exercise +enough. And, you know, the want of it makes people fat."</p> + +<p>"I believe you are right," Cyril says, rising. He stretches himself, +laughs indolently at his own lazy figure in an opposite mirror, after +which he vanishes almost as quickly as even she can desire.</p> + +<p>Five minutes later, with an open book upon her knee, as a means of +defense should any one enter unannounced, Lady Chetwoode is snoozing +comfortably; while Cyril, following the exact direction taken by the +crow in the morning, walks leisurely onward, under the trees, to meet his fate!</p> + +<p>Quite unthinkingly, quite unsuspiciously, he pursues his way, dreaming +of anything in the world but The Cottage and its new inmate, until the +house, suddenly appearing before him, recalls his wandering thoughts.</p> + +<p>The hall-door stands open. Every one of the windows is thrown wide. +There is about everything the unmistakable <i>silent</i> noise that belongs +to an inhabited dwelling, however quiet. The young man, standing still, +wonders vaguely at the change.</p> + +<p>Then all at once a laugh rings out; there is an undeniable scuffle, and +presently a tiny black dog with a little mirthful yelp breaks from the +house into the garden and commences a mad scamper all round and round the rose trees.</p> + +<p>An instant later he is followed by a trim maid-servant, who, flushed but +smiling, rushes after him, making well-directed but ineffectual pounces +on the truant. As she misses him the dog gives way to another yelp (of +triumph this time), and again the hunt goes on.</p> + +<p>But now there comes the sound of other feet, and Cyril, glancing up from +his interested watch over the terrier's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span> movements, sees surely +something far, far lovelier than he has ever seen before.</p> + +<p>Even at this early moment his heart gives a little bound and then seems +to cease from beating.</p> + +<p>Upon the door-step stands a girl—although quite three-and-twenty she +still looks the merest girl—clad in a gown of clear black-and-white +cambric. A huge coarse white apron covers all the front of this gown, +and is pinned, French fashion, half-way across her bosom. Her arms, +white and soft, and rounded as a child's, are bared to the elbows, her +sleeves being carefully tucked up. Two little feet, encased in Louis +Quinze slippers, peep coyly from beneath her robe.</p> + +<p>Upon this vision Cyril gazes, his whole heart in his eyes, and marks +with wondering admiration each fresh beauty. She is tall, rather <i>posée</i> +in figure, with a small, proud head, and the carriage of a goddess. Her +features are not altogether perfect, and yet (or rather because of it) +she is extremely beautiful. She has great, soft, trusting eyes of a deep +rare gray, that looking compel the truth; above her low white forehead +her hair rolls back in silky ruffled waves, and is gathered into a loose +knot behind. It is a rich nut-brown in color, through which runs a faint +tinge of red that turns to burnished gold under the sun's kiss. Her skin +is exquisite, pale but warm, through which as she speaks the blood comes +and lingers awhile, and flies only to return. Her mouth is perhaps, +strictly speaking, in a degree imperfect, yet it is one of her principal +charms; it is large and lovable, and covers pretty teeth as white as +snow. For my part I love a large mouth, if well shaped, and do not +believe a hearty laugh can issue from a small one. And, after all, what +is life without its laughter?</p> + +<p>A little white cap of the "mob" description adorns her head, and is +trimmed fancifully with black velvet bows that match her gown. Her hands +are small and fine, the fingers tapering; just now they are clasped +together excitedly; and a brilliant color has come into her cheeks as +she stands (unconscious of criticism) and watches the depravity of her favorite.</p> + +<p>"Oh! catch him, Kate," she cries, in a clear, sweet voice, that is now +rather impetuous and suggests rising indignation. "Wicked little wretch! +He shall have a good whipping for this. Dirty little dog,"—(this to the +black terrier, in a tone of reproachful disgust)—"not to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> want his nice +clean bath after all the dust of yesterday and to-day!"</p> + +<p>This rebuke is evidently lost upon the reprobate terrier, who still +flies before the enemy who follows on his heels in hot pursuit. Round +and round, in and out, hither and thither he goes, the breathless maid +after him, the ceaseless upbraiding of his mistress ringing in his ears. +The nice clean bath has no charms for this degenerate dog, although his +ablutions are to be made sweet by the touch of those snowy dimpled hands +now clasped in an agony of expectation. No, this miserable animal, +disdaining all the good things in store for him, rushes past Kate, past +his angry mistress, past the roses, out through the bars of the gate +right into Cyril's arms! Oh, ill-judging dog!</p> + +<p>Cyril, having caught him, holds him closely, in spite of his vehement +struggles, for, scenting mischief in the air, he fights valiantly for freedom.</p> + +<p>Kate runs to the garden-gate, so does the bare-armed goddess, and there, +on the path, behold their naughty treasure held fast in a stranger's arms!</p> + +<p>When she sees him the goddess suddenly freezes and grows gravely +dignified. The smile departs from her lips, the rich crimson dies, while +in its place a faint, delicate blush comes to suffuse her cheeks.</p> + +<p>"This is your dog, I think?" says Cyril, pretending to be doubtful on +the subject; though who could be more sure?</p> + +<p>"Yes,—thank you." Then as her eyes fall upon her lovely naked arms the +blush grows deeper and deeper, until at length her face is red as one of +her own perfect roses.</p> + +<p>"He was very dusty after yesterday's journey, and I was going to wash +him," she says, with a gentle dignity but an evident anxiety to explain.</p> + +<p>"Lucky dog!" says Cyril gravely, in a low tone.</p> + +<p>Kate has disappeared into the background with the refractory pet, whose +quavering protests are lost in the distance. Again silence has fallen +upon the house, the wood, the flowers. The faintest flicker of a smile +trembles for one instant round the corners of the stranger's lips, then +is quickly subdued.</p> + +<p>"Thank you, sir," she says, once more, quietly, and turning away, is +swallowed up hurriedly by the envious roses.</p> + +<p>All the way home Cyril's mind is full of curious<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> thought, though one +topic alone engrosses it. The mistress of that small ungrateful terrier +has taken complete and entire possession of him, to the exclusion of all +other matter. So the widow has not arrived in solitary state,—that is +evident. And what a lovely girl to bring down and bury alive in this +quiet spot. Who on earth can she be?</p> + +<p>How beautiful her arms were, and her hands!—Even the delicate, tinted +filbert nails had not escaped his eager gaze. How sweet she looked, how +bright! Surely a widow would not be fit company for so gay a creature; +and still, when she grew grave at the gate, when her smile faded, had +not a wistful, sorrowful expression fallen across her face and into her +exquisite eyes? Perhaps she, too, has suffered,—is in trouble, and, +through sympathy, clings to her friend the widow.</p> + +<p>After a moment or two, this train of thought being found unsatisfactory, +another forces its way to the surface.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>One can indeed!</p> + +<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> 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——</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Perforce, therefore, he leaves off his cogitations, nor renews them +until he is seated in the detested carriage <i>en route</i> 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.</p> + +<p>When he reaches Trustan the train is almost due, and two minutes +afterward it steams into the station.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"I thought you were never coming," she says, in a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> clear distinct tone +meant for Cyril's discomfiture, casting upon that depraved person a +glance replete with scorn.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Vulgar beast!" he says at length out loud with much unction, which +happily affords him instant relief.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"Miss Chesney?" he asks, with hesitation, being mindful of his late defeat.</p> + +<p>"Yes," smiling. "It <i>is</i> 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."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span></p><p>"Not unpleasant at all. It was quite fine the entire time, and there +was no dust."</p> + +<p>"Your trunks are labeled?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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 <i>propria persona</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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?"</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"You <i>are</i> my guardian then?" says Lilian, with such unmistakable hope +in her tones that Cyril laughs outright.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span></p><p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Is this Chetwoode?" Lilian asks, five minutes later, as they pass +through the entrance gate. "What a charming avenue!"—putting her head +out of the window, "and so dark. I like it dark; it reminds me of"—she +pauses, and two large tears come slowly, slowly into her blue eyes and +tremble there—"my home," she says in a low tone.</p> + +<p>"You must try to be happy with us," Cyril says, kindly, taking one of +her hands and pressing it gently, to enforce his sympathy; and then the +horses draw up at the hall door, and he helps her to alight, and +presently she finds herself within the doors of Chetwoode.</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.</span></h2> + +<div class="block3"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"Ye scenes of my childhood, whose loved recollection</div> +<div>Embitters the present, compared with the past."—<span class="smcap">Byron.</span></div> +</div></div></div> + +<p>When Lady Chetwoode, who is sitting in the drawing-room, hears the +carriage draw up to the door, she straightens herself in her chair, +smoothes down the folds of her black velvet gown with rather nervous +fingers, and prepares for an unpleasant surprise. She hears Cyril's +voice in the hall inquiring where his mother is, and, rising to her +feet, she makes ready to receive her new ward.</p> + +<p>She has put on what she fondly hopes is a particularly gracious air, but +which is in reality a palpable mixture of fear and uncertainty. The door +opens; there is a slight pause; and then Lilian, slight, and fair, and +pretty, stands upon the threshold.</p> + +<p>She is very pale, partly through fatigue, but much more through +nervousness and the self-same feeling of uncertainty that is weighing +down her hostess. As her eyes meet Lady Chetwoode's they take an +appealing <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span>expression that goes straight to the heart of that kindest of +women.</p> + +<p>"You have arrived, my dear," she says, a ring of undeniable cordiality +in her tone, while from her face all the unpleasant fear has vanished. +She moves forward to greet her guest, and as Lilian comes up to her +takes the fair sweet face between her hands and kisses her softly on each cheek.</p> + +<p>"You are like your mother," she says, presently, holding the girl a +little way from her and regarding her with earnest attention. +"Yes,—very like your mother, and she was beautiful. You are welcome to +Chetwoode, my dear child."</p> + +<p>Lilian, who is feeling rather inclined to cry, does not trust herself to +make any spoken rejoinder, but, putting up her lips of her own accord, +presses them gratefully to Lady Chetwoode's, thereby ratifying the +silent bond of friendship that without a word has on the instant been +sealed between the old woman and the young one.</p> + +<p>A great sense of relief has fallen upon Lady Chetwoode. Not until now, +when her fears have been proved groundless, does she fully comprehend +the amount of uneasiness and positive horror with which she has regarded +the admittance of a stranger into her happy home circle. The thought +that something unrefined, disagreeable, unbearable, might be coming has +followed like a nightmare for the past week, but now, in the presence of +this lovely child, it has fled away ashamed, never to return.</p> + +<p>Lilian's delicate, well-bred face and figure, her small hands, her +graceful movements, her whole air, proclaim her one of the world to +which Lady Chetwoode belongs, and the old lady, who is aristocrat to her +fingers' ends, hails the fact with delight. Her beauty alone had almost +won her cause, when she cast that beseeching glance from the doorway; +and now when she lets the heavy tears grow in her blue eyes, all doubt +is at end, and "almost" gives way to "quite."</p> + +<p>Henceforth she is altogether welcome at Chetwoode, as far as its present +gentle mistress is concerned.</p> + +<p>"Cyril took care of you, I hope?" says Lady Chetwoode, glancing over her +guest's head at her second son, and smiling kindly.</p> + +<p>"Great care of me," returning the smile.</p> + +<p>"But you are tired, of course; it is a long journey, and no doubt you +are glad to reach home," says Lady <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span>Chetwoode, using the word naturally. +And though the mention of it causes Lilian a pang, still there is +something tender and restful about it too, that gives some comfort to her heart.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps you would like to go to your room," continues Lady Chetwoode, +thoughtfully, "though I fear your maid cannot have arrived yet."</p> + +<p>"Miss Chesney, like Juliet, boasts a nurse," says Cyril; "she scorns to +travel with a mere maid."</p> + +<p>"My nurse has always attended me," says Lilian, laughing and blushing. +"She has waited on me since I was a month old. I should not know how to +get on without her, and I am sure she could not get on without me. I +think she is far better than any maid I could get."</p> + +<p>"She must have an interest in you that no new-comer could possibly +have," says Lady Chetwoode, who is in the humor to agree with anything +Lilian may say, so thankful is she to her for being what she is. And yet +so strong is habit that involuntarily, as she speaks, her eyes seek +Lilian's hair, which is dressed to perfection. "I have no doubt she is a +treasure,"—with an air of conviction. "Come with me, my dear."</p> + +<p>They leave the room together. In the hall the housekeeper, coming +forward, says respectfully:</p> + +<p>"Shall I take Miss Chesney to her room, my lady?"</p> + +<p>"No, Matthews," says Lady Chetwoode, graciously; "it will give me +pleasure to take her there myself."</p> + +<p>By which speech all the servants are at once made aware that Miss +Chesney is already in high favor with "my lady," who never, except on +very rare occasions, takes the trouble to see personally after her visitors' comfort.</p> + +<p class="center">* * * * * * *</p> + +<p>When Lilian has been ten minutes in her room Mrs. Tipping arrives, and +is shown up-stairs, where she finds her small mistress evidently in the +last stage of despondency. These ten lonely minutes have been fatal to +her new-born hopes, and have reduced her once more to the melancholy +frame of mind in which she left her home in the morning. All this the +faithful Tipping sees at a glance, and instantly essays to cheer her.</p> + +<p>Silently and with careful fingers she first removes her hat, then her +jacket, then she induces her to stand up, and, taking off her dress, +throws round her a white wrapper taken from a trunk, and prepares to +brush the silky yellow<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> hair that for eighteen years has been her own to +dress and tend and admire.</p> + +<p>"Eh, Miss Lilian, child, but it's a lovely place!" she says, presently, +this speech being intended as a part of the cheering process.</p> + +<p>"It seems a fine place," says the "child," indifferently.</p> + +<p>"Fine it is indeed. Grander even than the Park, I'm thinking."</p> + +<p>"'Grander than the Park'!" says Miss Chesney, rousing to unexpected +fervor. "How can you say that? Have you grown fickle, nurse? There is no +place to be compared to the Park, not one in all the world. You can +think as you please, of course,"—with reproachful scorn,—"but it is +<i>not</i> grander than the Park."</p> + +<p>"I meant larger, ninny," soothingly.</p> + +<p>"It is not larger."</p> + +<p>"But, darling, how can you say so when you haven't been round it?"</p> + +<p>"How can <i>you</i> say so when <i>you</i> haven't been round it?"</p> + +<p>This is a poser. Nurse meditates a minute and then says:</p> + +<p>"Thomas—that's the groom that drove me—says it is."</p> + +<p>"Thomas!"—with a look that, had the wretched Thomas been on the spot, +would infallibly have reduced him to ashes; "and what does Thomas know +about it? It is <i>not</i> larger."</p> + +<p>Silence.</p> + +<p>"Indeed, my bairn, I think you might well be happy here," says nurse, +tenderly returning to the charge.</p> + +<p>"I don't want you to think about me at all," says Miss Chesney, in +trembling tones. "You agreed with Aunt Priscilla that I ought to leave +my dear, dear home, and I shall never forgive you for it. I am not happy +here. I shall never be happy here. I shall die of fretting for the Park, +and when I am <i>dead</i> you will perhaps be satisfied."</p> + +<p>"Miss Lilian!"</p> + +<p>"You shan't brush my hair any more," says Miss Lilian, dexterously +evading the descent of the brush. "I can do it for myself very well. You +are a traitor."</p> + +<p>"I am sorry, Miss Chesney, if I have displeased you," says nurse, with +much dignity tempered with distress: only when deeply grieved and +offended does she give her mistress her full title.</p> + +<p>"How dare you call me Miss Chesney!" cries the young<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> lady, springing to +her feet. "It is very unkind of you, and just now too, when I am all +alone in a strange house. Oh, nurse!" throwing her arms round the neck +of that devoted and long-suffering woman, and forgetful of her +resentment, which indeed was born only of her regret, "I am so unhappy, +and lonely, and sorry! What shall I do?"</p> + +<p>"How can I tell you, my lamb?"—caressing with infinite affection the +golden head that lies upon her bosom. "All that I say only vexes you."</p> + +<p>"No, it doesn't: I am wicked when I make you think that. After +all,"—raising her face—"I am not quite forsaken; I have you still, and +you will never leave me."</p> + +<p>"Not unless I die, my dear," says nurse, earnestly. "And, Miss Lilian, +how can you look at her ladyship without knowing her to be a real +friend. And Mr. Chetwoode too; and perhaps Sir Guy will be as nice, when +you see him."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps he won't," ruefully.</p> + +<p>"That's nonsense, my dear. Let us look at the bright side of things +always. And by and by Master Taffy will come here on a visit, and then +it will be like old times. Come, now, be reasonable, child of my heart," +says nurse, "and tell me, won't you look forward to having Master Taffy here?"</p> + +<p>"I wish he was here now," says Lilian, visibly brightening. "Yes; +perhaps they will ask him. But, nurse, do you remember when last I saw +Taffy it was at——"</p> + +<p>Here she shows such unmistakable symptoms of relapsing into the tearful +mood again, that nurse sees the necessity of changing the subject.</p> + +<p>"Come, my bairn, let me dress you for dinner," she says, briskly, and +presently, after a little more coaxing, she succeeds so well that she +sends her little mistress down to the drawing-room, looking her +loveliest and her best.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span></p> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.</span></h2> + +<div class="block3"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self,</div> +<div>Recluse amid the close-embowering woods."</div> +<div><span class="s12"> </span>—<span class="smcap">Thomson.</span></div> +</div></div></div> + +<p>Next morning, having enjoyed the long and dreamless sleep that belongs +to the heart-whole, Lilian runs down to the breakfast-room, with the +warm sweet flush of health and youth upon her cheeks. Finding Lady +Chetwoode and Cyril already before her, she summons all her grace to her +aid and tries to look ashamed of herself.</p> + +<p>"Am I late?" she asks, going up to Lady Chetwoode and giving her a +little caress as a good-morning. Her very touch is so gentle and +childish and loving that it sinks straight into the deepest recesses of one's heart.</p> + +<p>"No. Don't be alarmed. I have only just come down myself. You will soon +find us out to be some of the laziest people alive."</p> + +<p>"I am glad of it: I like lazy people," says Lilian; "all the rest seem +to turn their lives into one great worry."</p> + +<p>"Will you not give me a good-morning, Miss Chesney?" says Cyril, who is +standing behind her.</p> + +<p>"Good-morning," putting her hand into his.</p> + +<p>"But that is not the way you gave it to my mother," in an aggrieved tone.</p> + +<p>"No?—Oh!"—as she comprehends,—"but you should remember how much more +deserving your mother is."</p> + +<p>"With sorrow I acknowledge the truth of your remark," says Cyril, as he +hands her her tea.</p> + +<p>"Cyril is our naughty boy," Lady Chetwoode says; "we all spend our lives +making allowances for Cyril. You must not mind what he says. I hope you +slept well, Lilian; there is nothing does one so much good as a sound +sleep, and you looked quite pale with fatigue last night. You +see"—smiling—"how well I know your name. It is very familiar to me, +having been your dear mother's."</p> + +<p>"It seems strangely familiar to me also, though I never know your +mother," says Cyril. "I don't believe I shall ever be able to call you +Miss Chesney. Would it make you very angry if I called you Lilian?"</p> + +<p>"Indeed, no; I shall be very much obliged to you. I should hardly know +myself by the more formal title. You<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span> shall call me Lilian, and I shall +call you Cyril,—if you don't mind."</p> + +<p>"I don't think I do,—much," says Cyril; so the compact is signed.</p> + +<p>"Guy will be here surely by luncheon," says Lady Chetwoode, with a view +of giving her guest pleasure.</p> + +<p>"Oh! will he really?" says Lilian, in a quick tone, suggestive of dismay.</p> + +<p>"I am sure of it," says Guy's mother fondly: "he never breaks his word."</p> + +<p>"Of course not," thinks Lilian to herself. "Fancy a paragon going wrong! +How I hate a man who never breaks his word! Why, the Medes and Persians +would be weak-minded compared with him."</p> + +<p>"I suppose not," she says aloud, rather vaguely.</p> + +<p>"You seem to appreciate the idea of your guardian's return," says Cyril, +with a slight smile, having read half her thoughts correctly. "Does the +mere word frighten you? I should like to know your real opinion of what +a guardian ought to be."</p> + +<p>"How can I have an opinion on the subject when I have never seen one?"</p> + +<p>"Yet a moment ago I saw by your face you were picturing one to yourself."</p> + +<p>"If so, it could scarcely be Sir Guy,—as he is not old."</p> + +<p>"Not very. He has still a few hairs and a few teeth remaining. But won't +you then answer my question? What is your ideal guardian like?"</p> + +<p>"If you press it I shall tell you, but you must not betray me to Sir +Guy," says Lilian, turning to include Lady Chetwoode in her caution. "My +ideal is always a lean old gentleman of about sixty, with a stoop, and +any amount of determination. He has a hooked nose on which gold-rimmed +spectacles eternally stride; eyes that look one through and through; a +mouth full of trite phrases, unpleasant maxims, and false teeth; and a +decided tendency toward the suppression of all youthful follies."</p> + +<p>"Guy will be an agreeable surprise. I had no idea you could be so severe."</p> + +<p>"Nor am I. You must not think me so," says Lilian, blushing warmly and +looking rather sorry for having spoken; "but you know you insisted on an +answer. Perhaps I should not have spoken so freely, but that I know my +real guardian is not at all like my ideal."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span></p><p>"How do you know? Perhaps he too is toothless, old, and unpleasant. He +is a great deal older than I am."</p> + +<p>"He can't be a great deal older."</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"Because"—with a shy glance at the gentle face behind the urn—"Lady +Chetwoode looks so young."</p> + +<p>She blushes again as she says this, and regards her hostess with an air +of such thorough good faith as wins that lady's liking on the spot.</p> + +<p>"You are right," says Cyril, laughing; "she <i>is</i> young. She is never to +grow old, because her 'boys,' as she calls us, object to old women. You +may have heard of 'perennial spring;' well, that is another name for my +mother. But you must not tell her so, because she is horribly conceited, +and would lead us an awful life if we didn't keep her down."</p> + +<p>"Cyril, my dear!" says Lady Chetwoode, laughing, which is about the +heaviest reproof she ever delivers.</p> + +<p>All this time, her breakfast being finished, Lilian has been carefully +and industriously breaking up all the bread left upon her plate, until +now quite a small pyramid stands in the centre of it.</p> + +<p>Cyril, having secretly crumbled some of his, now, stooping forward, +places it upon the top of her hillock.</p> + +<p>"I haven't the faintest idea what you intend doing with it," he says, +"but, as I am convinced you have some grand project in view, I feel a +mean desire to be associated with it in some way by having a finger in +the pie. Is it for a pie? I am dying of vulgar curiosity."</p> + +<p>"I!"—with a little shocked start; "it doesn't matter, I—I quite +forgot. I——"</p> + +<p>She presses her hand nervously down upon the top of her goodly pile, and +suppresses the gay little erection until it lies prostrate on her plate, +where even then it makes a very fair show.</p> + +<p>"You meant it for something, my dear, did you not?" asks Lady Chetwoode, kindly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, for the birds," says the girl, turning upon her two great earnest +eyes that shine like stars through regretful tears. "At home I used to +collect all the broken bread for them every morning. And they grew so +fond of me, the very robins used to come and perch upon my shoulders and +eat little bits from my lips. There was no one to frighten them. There +was only me, and I loved them.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span> When I knew I must leave the Park,"—a +sorrowful quiver making her voice sad,—"I determined to break my going +gently to them, and at first I only fed them every second day,—in +person,—and then only every third day, and at last only once a week, +until"—in a low tone—"they forgot me altogether."</p> + +<p>"Ungrateful birds," says Cyril, with honest disgust, something like +moisture in his own eyes, so real is her grief.</p> + +<p>"Yes, that was the worst of all, to be so <i>soon</i> forgotten, and I had +fed them without missing a day for five years. But they were not +ungrateful; why should they remember me, when they thought I had tired +of them? Yet I always broke the bread for them every morning, though I +would not give it myself, and to-day"—she sighs—"I forgot I was not at +home."</p> + +<p>"My dear," says Lady Chetwoode, laying her own white, plump, jeweled +hand upon Lilian's slender, snowy one, as it lies beside her on the +table, "you flatter me very much when you say that even for a moment you +felt this house home. I hope you will let the feeling grow in you, and +will try to remember that here you have a true welcome forever, until +you wish to leave us. And as for the birds, I too love them,—dear, +pretty creatures,—and I shall take it as a great kindness, my dear +Lilian, if every morning you will gather up the crumbs and give them to +your little feathered friends."</p> + +<p>"How good you are!" says Lilian, gratefully, turning her small palm +upward so as to give Lady Chetwoode's hand a good squeeze. "I know I +shall be happy here. And I am so glad you like the birds; perhaps here +they may learn to love me, too. Do you know, before leaving the Park, I +wrote a note to my cousin, asking him not to forget to give them bread +every day?—but young men are so careless,"—in a disparaging tone,—"I +dare say he won't take the trouble to see about it."</p> + +<p>"I am a young man," remarks Mr. Chetwoode, suggestively.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I know it," returns Miss Chesney, coolly.</p> + +<p>"I dare say your cousin will think of it," says Lady Chetwoode, who has +a weakness for young men, and always believes the best of them. +"Archibald is very kind-hearted."</p> + +<p>"You know him?"—surprised.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span></p><p>"Very well, indeed. He comes here almost every autumn to shoot with the +boys. You know, his own home is not ten miles from Chetwoode."</p> + +<p>"I did not know. I never thought of him at all until I knew he was to +inherit the Park. Do you think he will come here this autumn?"</p> + +<p>"I hope so. Last year he was abroad, and we saw nothing of him; but now +he has come home I am sure he will renew his visits. He is a great +favorite of mine; I think you, too, will like him."</p> + +<p>"Don't be too sanguine," says Lilian; "just now I regard him as a +usurper; I feel as though he had stolen my Park."</p> + +<p>"Marry him," says Cyril, "and get it back again. Some more tea, +Miss—Lilian?"</p> + +<p>"If you please—Cyril,"—with a light laugh. "You see, it comes easier +to me than to you, after all."</p> + +<p>"<i>Place aux dames!</i> I felt some embarrassment about commencing. In the +future I shall put my <i>mauvaise honte</i> in my pocket, and regard you as +something I have always longed for,—that is, a sister."</p> + +<p>"Very well, and you must be very good to me," says Lilian, "because +never having had one, I have a very exalted idea of what a brother should be."</p> + +<p>"How shall you amuse yourself all the morning, child?" asks Lady +Chetwoode. "I fear you're beginning by thinking us stupid."</p> + +<p>"Don't trouble about me," says Lilian. "If I may, I should like to go +out and take a run round the gardens alone. I can always make +acquaintance with places quicker if left to find them out for myself."</p> + +<p>When breakfast is over, and they have all turned their backs with gross +ingratitude upon the morning-room, she dons her hat and sallies forth bent on discovery.</p> + +<p>Through the gardens she goes, admiring the flowers, pulling a blossom or +two, making love to the robins and sparrows, and gay little chaffinches, +that sit aloft in the branches and pour down sonnets on her head. The +riotous butterflies, skimming hither and thither in the bright sunshine, +hail her coming, and rush with wanton joy across her eyes, as though +seeking to steal from them a lovelier blue for their soft wings. The +flowers, the birds, the bees, the amorous wind, all woo this creature, +so full<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> of joy and sweetness and the unsurpassable beauty of youth.</p> + +<p>She makes a rapid rush through all the hothouses, feeling almost stifled +in them this day, so rich in sun, and, gaining the orchard, eats a +little fruit, and makes a lasting conquest of Michael, the +head-gardener, who, when she has gone into generous raptures over his +arrangements, becomes her abject slave on the spot, and from that day +forward acknowledges no power superior to hers.</p> + +<p>Tiring of admiration, she leaves the garrulous old man, and wanders away +over the closely-shaven lawn, past the hollies, into the wood beyond, +singing as she goes, as is her wont.</p> + +<p>In the deep green wood a delicious sense of freedom possesses her; she +walks on, happy, unsuspicious of evil to come, free of care (oh, that we +all were so!), with nothing to chain her thoughts to earth, or compel +her to dream of aught but the sufficing joy of living, the glad earth +beneath her, the brilliant foliage around, the blue heavens above her head.</p> + +<p>Alas! alas! how short is the time that lies between the child and the +woman! the intermediate state when, with awakened eyes and arms +outstretched, we inhale the anticipation of life, is as but one day in +comparison with all the years of misery and uncertain pleasure to be +eventually derived from the reality thereof!</p> + +<p>Coming to a rather high wall, Lilian pauses, but not for long. There are +few walls either in Chetwoode or elsewhere likely to daunt Miss Chesney, +when in the humor for exploring.</p> + +<p>Putting one foot into a friendly crevice, and holding on valiantly to +the upper stones, she climbs, and, gaining the top, gazes curiously around.</p> + +<p>As she turns to survey the land over which she has traveled, a young man +emerges from among the low-lying brushwood, and comes quickly forward. +He is clad in a light-gray suit of tweed, and has in his mouth a +meerschaum pipe of the very latest design.</p> + +<p>He is very tall, very handsome, thoughtful in expression. His hair is +light brown,—what there is of it,—his barber having left him little to +boast of except on the upper lip, where a heavy, drooping moustache of +the same color grows unrebuked. He is a little grave, a little indolent, +a good deal passionate. The severe lines around his well-cut<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span> mouth are +softened and counterbalanced by the extreme friendliness of his kind, +dark eyes, that are so dark as to make one doubt whether their blue is +not indeed black.</p> + +<p>Lilian, standing on her airy perch, is still singing, and imparting to +the surrounding scenery the sad story of "Barb'ra Allen's" vile +treatment of her adoring swain, and consequent punishment, when the +crackling of leaves beneath a human foot causing her to turn, she finds +herself face to face with a stranger not a hundred yards away.</p> + +<p>The song dies upon her lips, an intense desire to be elsewhere gains +upon her. The young man in gray, putting his meerschaum in his pocket as +a concession to this unexpected warbler, advances leisurely; and Lilian, +feeling vaguely conscious that the top of a wall, though exalted, is not +the most dignified situation in the world, trusting to her activity, +springs to the ground, and regains with mother earth her self-respect.</p> + +<p>"How could you be so foolish? I do hope you are not hurt," says the gray +young man, coming forward anxiously.</p> + +<p>"Not in the least, thank you," smiling so adorably that he forgets to +speak for a moment or two. Then he says with some hesitation, as though in doubt:</p> + +<p>"Am I addressing my—ward?"</p> + +<p>"How can I be sure," replies she, also in doubt, "until I know whether +indeed you are my—guardian?"</p> + +<p>"I am Guy Chetwoode," says he, laughing, and raising his hat.</p> + +<p>"And I am Lilian Chesney," replies she, smiling in return, and making a +pretty old-fashioned reverence.</p> + +<p>"Then now I suppose we may shake hands without any breach of etiquette, +and swear eternal friendship," extending his hand.</p> + +<p>"I shall reserve my oath until later on," says Miss Chesney, demurely, +but she gives him her hand nevertheless, with unmistakable <i>bonhommie</i>. +"You are going home?" glancing up at him from under her broad-brimmed +hat. "If so, I shall go with you, as I am a little tired."</p> + +<p>"But this wall," says Guy, looking with considerable doubt upon the +uncompromising barrier on the summit of which he had first seen her. +"Had we not better go round?"</p> + +<p>"A thousand times no. What!"—gayly—"to be defeated by such a simple +obstacle as that? I have <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span>surmounted greater difficulties than that wall +many a time. If you will get up and give me your hands, I dare say I +shall be able to manage it."</p> + +<p>Thus adjured, Guy climbs, and, gaining the top, stoops to give her the +help desired; she lays her hand in his, and soon he draws her in triumph to his side.</p> + +<p>"Now to get down," he says, laughing. "Wait." He jumps lightly into the +next field, and, turning, holds out his arms to her. "You must not risk +your neck the second time," he says. "When I saw you give that +tremendous leap a minute ago, my blood froze in my veins. Such terrible +exertion was never meant for—a fairy!"</p> + +<p>"Am I so very small?" says Lilian. "Well, take me down, then."</p> + +<p>She leans toward him, and gently, reverentially he takes her in his arms +and places her on the ground beside him. With such a slight burden to +lift he feels himself almost a Hercules. The whole act does not occupy +half a minute, and already he wishes vaguely it did not take so <i>very</i> +short a time to bring a pretty woman from a wall to the earth beneath. +In some vague manner he understands that for him the situation had its charm.</p> + +<p>Miss Chesney is thoroughly unembarrassed.</p> + +<p>"There is something in having a young guardian, after all," she says, +casting upon him a glance half shy half merry, wholly sweet. She lays a +faint emphasis upon the "young."</p> + +<p>"You have had doubts on the subject, then?"</p> + +<p>"Serious doubts. But I see there is truth in the old saying that 'there +are few things so bad but that they might have been worse.'"</p> + +<p>"Do you mean to tell me that I am 'something bad'?"</p> + +<p>"No"—laughing; "how I wish I could! It is your superiority frightens +me. I hear I must look on you as something superlatively good."</p> + +<p>"How shocking! And in what way am I supposed to excel my brethren?"</p> + +<p>"In every way," with a good deal of malice: "I have been bred in the +belief that you are a <i>rara avis</i>, a model, a——"</p> + +<p>"Your teachers have done me a great injury. I shudder when I contemplate +the bitter awakening you must have when you come to know me better."</p> + +<p>"I hope so. I dare say"—naively—"I could learn to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span> like you very well, +if you proved on acquaintance a little less immaculate than I have been +led to believe you."</p> + +<p>"I shall instantly throw over my pronounced taste for the Christian +virtues, and take steadily to vice," says Guy, with decision: "will that +satisfy your ladyship?"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps you put it a little too strongly," says Lilian, demurely. "By +the bye"—irrelevantly,—"what business took you from home yesterday?"</p> + +<p>"I have to beg your pardon for that,—my absence, I mean; but I could +not help it. And it was scarcely business kept me absent," confesses +Chetwoode, who, if he is anything, is strictly honest, "rather a promise +to dine and sleep at some friends of ours, the Bellairs, who live a few +miles from us."</p> + +<p>"Then it wasn't really that bugbear, business? I begin to revive," says Miss Chesney.</p> + +<p>"No; nothing half so healthy. I wish I had some more legitimate excuse +to offer for my seeming want of courtesy than the fact of my having to +attend a prosy dinner; but I haven't. I feel I deserve a censure, yet I +hope you won't administer one when I tell you I found a very severe +punishment in the dinner itself."</p> + +<p>"I forgive you," says Lilian, with deep pity.</p> + +<p>"It was a long-standing engagement, and, though I knew what lay before +me, I found I could not elude it any longer. I hate long engagements; don't you?"</p> + +<p>"Cordially. But I should never dream of entering on one."</p> + +<p>"I did, unfortunately."</p> + +<p>"Then don't do it again."</p> + +<p>"I won't. Never. I finally make up my mind. At least, most certainly not +for the days you may be expected."</p> + +<p>"I fear I'm a fixture,"—ruefully: "you won't have to expect me again."</p> + +<p>"Don't say you fear it: I hope you will be happy here."</p> + +<p>"I hope so, too, and I think it. I like your brother Cyril very much, +and your mother is a darling."</p> + +<p>"And what am I?"</p> + +<p>"Ask me that question a month hence."</p> + +<p>"Shall I tell you what I think of you?"</p> + +<p>"If you wish," says Lilian, indifferently, though in truth she is dying of curiosity.</p> + +<p>"Well, then, from the very first moment my eyes fell upon you, I thought +to myself: She is without exception<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span> the most—— After all, though, I +think I too shall reserve my opinion for a month or so."</p> + +<p>"You are right,"—suppressing valiantly all outward symptoms of +disappointment: "your ideas then will be more formed. Are you fond of riding, Sir Guy?"</p> + +<p>"Very. Are you?"</p> + +<p>"Oh! am I not? I could ride from morning till night."</p> + +<p>"You are enthusiastic."</p> + +<p>"Yes,"—with a saucy smile,—"that is one of my many virtues. I think +one should be thoroughly in earnest about everything one undertakes. Do you like dancing?"</p> + +<p>"Rather. It entirely depends upon whom one may be dancing with. There +are some people"—with a short but steady glance at her—"that I feel +positive I could dance with forever without knowing fatigue, or what is +worse, <i>ennui</i>. There are others——" an expressive pause. "I have +felt," says Sir Guy, with visible depression, "on certain occasions, as +though I could commit an open assault on the band because it would +insist on playing its waltz from start to finish, instead of stopping +after the first two bars and thereby giving me a chance of escape."</p> + +<p>"Poor 'others'! I see you can be unkind when you choose."</p> + +<p>"But that is seldom, and only when driven to desperation. Are you fond +of dancing? But of course you are: I need scarcely have asked. No doubt +you could dance as well as ride from morning until night."</p> + +<p>"You wrong me slightly. As a rule, I prefer dancing from night until +morning. You skate?"</p> + +<p>"Beautifully!" with ecstatic fervor; "I never saw any one who could skate as well."</p> + +<p>"No? You shan't be long so. Prepare for a downfall to your pride. I can +skate better than any one in the world."</p> + +<p>Here they both laugh, and, turning, let their eyes meet. Instinctively +they draw closer to each other, and a very kindly feeling springs into being.</p> + +<p>"They maligned you," says Lilian, softly raising her lovely face, and +gazing at him attentively, with a rather dangerous amount of +ingenuousness. "I begin to fancy you are not so very terrific as they +said. I dare say we shall be quite good friends after all."</p> + +<p>"I wish I was as sure of most things as I am of my own feeling on that +point," says Guy, with considerable warmth, holding out his hand.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span></p><p>She slips her cool, slim fingers into his, and smiles frankly. There +they lie like little snow-flakes on his broad palm, and as he gazes on +them a great and most natural desire to kiss them presents itself to his mind.</p> + +<p>"I think we ought to ratify our vow of good-fellowship," says he, +artfully, looking at her as though to gain permission for the theft, and +seeing no rebuff in her friendly eyes, stoops and steals a little +sweetness from the white hand he holds.</p> + +<p>They are almost at the house by this time, and presently, gaining the +drawing-room, find Lady Chetwoode sitting there awaiting them.</p> + +<p>"Ah, Guy, you have returned," cries she, well pleased.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I found my guardian straying aimlessly in a great big wood, so I +brought him home in triumph," says Lilian's gay voice, who is in high +good humor. "Is luncheon ready? Dear Lady Chetwoode, do not say I am +late for the second time to-day."</p> + +<p>"Not more than five minutes, and you know we do not profess to live by +rule. Run away, and take off your hat, child, and come back to me again."</p> + +<p>So Lilian does as she is desired, and runs away up the broad stairs in +haste, to reduce her rebellious locks to order; yet so pleased is she +with her <i>rencontre</i> with her guardian, and the want of ferocity he has +displayed, and the general desirableness of his face and figure, that +she cannot refrain from pausing midway in her career to apostrophize a +dark-browed warrior who glowers down upon her from one of the walls.</p> + +<p>"By my halidame, and by my troth, and by all the wonderful oaths of your +period, Sir Knight," says she, smiling saucily, and dropping him a +wicked curtsey, "you have good reason to be proud of your kinsman. For, +by Cupid, he is a monstrous handsome man, and vastly agreeable!"</p> + +<p>After this astounding sally she continues her flight, and presently +finds herself in her bedroom and almost in nurse's arms.</p> + +<p>"Lawks-amussy!" says that good old lady, with a gasp, putting her hand +to her side, "what a turn you did give me! Will the child never learn to walk?"</p> + +<p>"I have seen him!" says Lilian, without preamble, only pausing to give +nurse a naughty little poke in the other side with a view to restoring +her lost equilibrium.</p> + +<p>"Sir Guy?" anxiously.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span></p><p>"Even so. The veritable and awful Sir Guy! And he isn't a bit awful, in +spite of all we heard; isn't that good news? and he is very handsome, +and quite nice, and apparently can enjoy the world as well as another, +and can do a naughty thing at a pinch; and I know he likes me by the +expression of his eyes, and he actually unbended so far as to stoop to +kiss my hand! There!" All this without stop or comma.</p> + +<p>"Kissed your hand, my lamb! So soon! he did not lose much time. How the +world does wag nowadays!" says nurse, holding aloft her hands in pious +protest. "Only to know you an hour or so, and to have the face to kiss +your hand! Eh, but it's dreadful, it's brazen! I do hope this Sir Guy is +not a wolf in sheep's clothing."</p> + +<p>"It was very good clothing, anyhow. There is consolation in that. I +could never like a man whose coat was badly cut. And his hands,—I +particularly noticed them,—they are long, and well shaped, and quite brown."</p> + +<p>"You seem mightily pleased with him on so short an acquaintance," says +nurse, shrewdly. "Brown hand, forsooth,—and a shapely coat! Eh, child, +but there's more wanting than that. Maybe it's thinking of being my Lady +Guy you'll be, one of these days?"</p> + +<p>"Nurse, I never met so brilliant a goose as you! And would you throw +away your lovely nursling upon a paltry baronet? Oh! shame! And +yet"—teasingly—"one might do worse."</p> + +<p>"I'll tell you that, when I see him," says cautious nurse, and having +given one last finishing touch to her darling's golden head, dismisses +her to her luncheon and the pernicious attentions of the daring wolf.</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.</span></h2> + +<blockquote><p class="center">"<span class="smcap">Claud</span>: 'In mine eye, she is the sweetest lady that ever I looked +on.'"—<i>Much Ado About Nothing</i>.</p></blockquote> + +<p>It is that most satisfactory hour of all the twenty-four,—dinner-hour. +Even yet the busy garish day has not quite vanished, but peeps in upon +them curiously through the open windows,—upon Lady Chetwoode mild and +gracious, upon the two young men, upon airy Lilian looking<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span> her bravest +and bonniest in some transparent gown of sombre black, through which her +fair young neck and arms gleam delicately.</p> + +<p>Her only ornaments are roses,—rich, soft white roses, gathered from the +gardens outside: one, sweeter and happier than its fellows, slumbers +cozily in her golden hair.</p> + +<p>Cyril and she, sitting opposite to each other, smile and jest and +converse across the huge bowl of scented flowers that stands in the +centre of the table, while Guy, who is a little silent, keeps wondering +secretly whether any other woman has skin so dazzlingly fair, or eyes so +blue, or hair so richly gilded.</p> + +<p>"I have seen the widow," he says at length, rousing himself to a sense +of his own taciturnity. "On my way home this morning, before I met +you,"—turning to Lilian,—"I thought it my duty to look her up, and say +I hoped she was comfortable, and all that."</p> + +<p>"And you saw her?" asks Cyril, regarding Guy attentively.</p> + +<p>"Yes; she is extremely pretty, and extremely coy,—cold I ought to say, +as there didn't seem to be even the smallest spice of coquetry about her."</p> + +<p>"That's the safest beginning of all," says Cyril confidentially to his +mother, "and no doubt the latest. I dare say she looked as though she +thought he would never leave."</p> + +<p>"She did," says Guy, laughing, "and, what is more unflattering, I am +sure she meant it."</p> + +<p>"Clever woman!"</p> + +<p>"However, if she intended what you think, she rather defeated her +object; as I shan't trouble her again in a hurry. Can't bear feeling +myself in the way."</p> + +<p>"Is she really pretty?" Cyril asks, curiously, though idly.</p> + +<p>"Really; almost lovely."</p> + +<p>"Evidently a handsome family," thinks Cyril. "I wonder if he saw my +friend the sister, or step-sister, or companion."</p> + +<p>"She looks sad, too," goes on Guy, "and as though she had a melancholy +story attached to her."</p> + +<p>"I do hope not, my dear," interrupts his mother, uneasily. "There is +nothing so objectionable as a woman with a story. Later on one is sure +to hear something wrong about her."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span></p><p>"I agree with you," Cyril says, promptly. "I can't bear mysterious +people. When in their society, I invariably find myself putting a check +on my conversation, and blushing whenever I get on the topic of +forgeries, burglaries, murders, elopements, and so forth. I never can +keep myself from studying their faces when such subjects are mentioned, +to see which it was had ruffled the peace of their existence. It is +absurd, I know, but I can't help it, and it makes me uncomfortable."</p> + +<p>"Does this lady live in the wood, where I met you?" asks Lilian, +addressing Guy, and apparently deeply interested.</p> + +<p>"Yes, about a mile from that particular spot. She is a new tenant we +took to oblige a friend, but we know nothing about her."</p> + +<p>"How very romantic!" says Lilian; "it is just like a story."</p> + +<p>"Yes; the image of the 'Children of the Abbey,' or 'The Castle of +Otranto,'" says Cyril. "Has she any one living with her, Guy?" carelessly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, two servants, and a small ill-tempered terrier."</p> + +<p>"I mean any friends. It must be dull to be by one's self."</p> + +<p>"I don't know. I saw no one. She don't seem ambitious about making +acquaintances, as, when I said I hoped she would not find it lonely, and +that my mother would have much pleasure in calling on her, she blushed +painfully, and said she was never lonely, and that she would esteem it a +kindness if we would try to forget she was at the cottage."</p> + +<p>"That was rather rude, my dear, wasn't it?" says Lady Chetwoode mildly.</p> + +<p>"It sounds so, but, as she said it, it wasn't rude. She appeared +nervous, I thought, and as though she had but lately recovered from a +severe illness. When the blush died away, she was as white as death."</p> + +<p>"Well, I shan't distress her by calling," says Lady Chetwoode, who is +naturally a little offended by the unknown's remark. Unconsciously she +has been viewing her coming with distrust, and now this unpleasing +message—for as a message directly addressed to herself she regards +it—has had the effect of changing a smouldering doubt into an acknowledged dislike.</p> + +<p>"I wonder how she means to employ her time down<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span> here," says Cyril. +"Scenery abounds, but lovely views don't go a long way with most people. +After a while they are apt to pall."</p> + +<p>"Is there pretty scenery round Truston?" asks Lilian.</p> + +<p>"Any amount of it. Like 'Auburn,' it is the 'loveliest village of the +plain.' But I can't say we are a very enterprising people. Sometimes it +occurs to one of us to give a dinner-party, but no sooner do we issue +the invitations than we sit down and repent bitterly; and on rare +occasions we may have a ball, which means a drive of fourteen miles on a +freezing night, and universal depression and sneezing for a week +afterward. Perhaps the widow is wise in declining to have anything to do +with our festive gatherings. I begin to think there is method in her madness."</p> + +<p>"Miss Chesney doesn't agree with you," says Guy, casting a quick glance +at Lilian: "she would go any distance to a ball, and dance from night +till morning, and never know depression next day."</p> + +<p>"Is that true, Miss Chesney?"</p> + +<p>"Sir Guy says it is," replies Lilian, demurely.</p> + +<p>"When I was young," says Lady Chetwoode, "I felt just like that. So long +as the band played, so long I could dance, and without ever feeling +fatigue. And provided he was of a good figure, and could dance well, I +never much cared who my partner was, until I met your father. Dear me! +how long ago it seems!"</p> + +<p>"Not at all," says Cyril; "a mere reminiscence of yesterday. When I am +an old gentleman, I shall make a point of never remembering anything +that happened long ago, no matter how good it may have been."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps you won't have anything good to remember," says Miss Lilian, provokingly.</p> + +<p>"Guy, give Miss Chesney another glass of wine," says Cyril, promptly: +"she is evidently feeling low."</p> + +<p>"Sir Guy," says Miss Chesney, with equal promptitude, and a treacherous +display of innocent curiosity, "when you were at Belmont last evening +did you hear Miss Bellair say anything of a rather rude attack made upon +her yesterday at the station by an ill-bred young man?"</p> + +<p>"No," says Sir Guy, rather amazed.</p> + +<p>"Did she not speak of it? How strange! Why, I fancied——"</p> + +<p>"Miss Chesney," interposes Cyril, "if you have any <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span>regard for your +personal safety, you will refrain from further speech."</p> + +<p>"But why?"—opening her great eyes in affected surprise. "Why may I not +tell Sir Guy about it? Poor Miss Bellair! although a stranger to me, I +felt most genuine pity for her. Just fancy, Sir Guy, a poor girl alone +upon a platform, without a soul to take care of her, what she must have +endured, when a young man—<i>apparently</i> a gentleman—walked up to her, +and taking advantage of her isolated position, bowed to her, simpered +impertinently, and was actually on the very point of addressing her, +when fortunately her cousin came up and rescued her from her unhappy +situation. Was it not shameful? Now, what do you think that rude young man deserved?"</p> + +<p>"Extinction," replies Guy, without hesitation.</p> + +<p>"I think so too. Don't you, Lady Chetwoode?"</p> + +<p>Lady Chetwoode laughs.</p> + +<p>"Now, I shall give my version of the story," says Cyril. "I too was +present——"</p> + +<p>"And didn't fly to her assistance? Oh, fie!" says Lilian.</p> + +<p>"There was once an unhappy young man, who was sent to a station to meet +a young woman, without having been told beforehand whether she was like +Juno, tall enough to 'snuff the moon,' or whether she was so +insignificant as to require a strong binocular to enable you to see her at all."</p> + +<p>"I am not insignificant," says Lilian, her indignation getting the +better of her judgment.</p> + +<p>"Am I speaking of you, Miss Chesney?"</p> + +<p>"Well, go on."</p> + +<p>"Now, it came to pass that as this wretched young man was glaring wildly +round to see where his charge might be, he espied a tall young woman, +apparently in the last stage of exhaustion, looking about for some one +to assist her, and seeing no one else, for the one he sought had meanly, +and with a view to his discomfiture, crept silently behind his back——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, Cyril!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I maintain it; she crept silently behind his back, and bribed her +maid to keep silence. So this wretched young man walked up to Juno, and +pulled his forelock, and made his very best Sunday bow, and generally +put his foot in it. Juno was so frightened by the best bow that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> she +gave way to a stifled scream, and instantly sank back unconscious into +the arms of her betrothed, who just then ran frantically upon the scene. +Upon this the deluded young man——"</p> + +<p>"That will do," interrupts Lilian, severely. "I am certain I have read +it somewhere before; and—people should always tell the truth."</p> + +<p>"By the bye," says Guy, "I believe Miss Bellair did say something last +night about an unpleasant adventure at the station,—something about a +very low person who had got himself up like a gentleman, but was without +doubt one of the swell mob, and who——"</p> + +<p>"You needn't go any further. I feel my position keenly. Nevertheless, +Miss Bellair made a mistake when she rejected my proffered services. She +little knows what a delightful companion I can be. Can't I, Miss +Chesney?"</p> + +<p>"Can he, Lady Chetwoode? I am not in a position to judge."</p> + +<p>"If a perpetual, never-ceasing flow of conversation has anything to do +with it, I believe he must be acknowledged the most charming of his +sex," says his mother, laughing, and rising, bears away Lilian with her +to the drawing-room.</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.</span></h2> + +<div class="block2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"A dancing shape, an image gay,</div> +<div>To haunt, to startle, and waylay."</div> +<div><span class="s9"> </span>—<span class="smcap">Wordsworth</span>.</div> +</div></div></div> + +<p>When seven long uneventful days have passed away, every one at Chetwoode +is ready to acknowledge that the coming of Lilian Chesney is an +occurrence for which they ought to be devoutly thankful. She is a boon, +a blessing, a merry sunbeam, darting hither and thither about the old +place, lighting up the shadows, dancing through the dark rooms, casting +a little of her own inborn joyousness upon all that comes within her +reach.</p> + +<p>To Lady Chetwoode, who is fond of young life, she is especially +grateful, and creeps into her kind heart in an incredibly short time, +finding no impediment to check her progress.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span></p><p>Once a day, armed with huge gloves and a gigantic scissors, Lady +Chetwoode makes a tour of her gardens, snipping, and plucking, and +giving superfluous orders to the attentive gardeners all the time. After +her trots Lilian, supplied with a basket and a restless tongue that +seldom wearies, but is always ready to suggest, or help the thought that +sometimes comes slowly to her hostess.</p> + +<p>"As you were saying last night, my dear Lilian——" says Lady Chetwoode, +vaguely, coming to a full stop before the head gardener, and gazing at +Lilian for further inspiration; she had evidently remembered only the +smallest outline of what she wants to say.</p> + +<p>"About the ivy on the north wall? You wanted it thinned. You thought it +a degree too straggling."</p> + +<p>"Yes,—yes; of course. You hear, Michael, I want it clipped and thinned, +and—— There was something else about the ivy, my child, wasn't there?"</p> + +<p>"You wished it mixed with the variegated kind, did you not?"</p> + +<p>"Ah, of course. I wonder how I ever got on without Lilian," says the old +lady, gently pinching the girl's soft peach-like cheek. "Florence, +without doubt, is a comfort,—but—she is not fond of gardening. Shall +we come and take a peep at the grapes, dear?" And so on.</p> + +<p>Occasionally, too,—being fond of living out of doors in the summer, and +being a capital farmeress,—Lady Chetwoode takes a quiet walk down to +the home farm, to inspect all the latest arrivals. And here, too, Miss +Lilian must needs follow.</p> + +<p>There are twelve merry, showy little calves in one field, that run all +together in their ungainly, jolting fashion up to the high gate that +guards their domain, the moment Lady Chetwoode and her visitor arrive, +under the mistaken impression that she and Lilian are a pair of +dairy-maids coming to solace them with unlimited pans of milk.</p> + +<p>Lilian cries "Shoo!" at the top of her gay young voice, and instantly +all the handsome, foolish things scamper away as though destruction were +at their heels, leaving Miss Chesney delighted at the success of her own performance.</p> + +<p>Then in the paddock there are four mad little colts to be admired, whose +chief joy in life seems to consist in kicking their hind legs wildly +into space, while their more sedate mothers stand apart and compare +notes upon their darlings' merit.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span></p><p>This paddock is Lilian's special delight, and all the way there, and +all the way back she chatters unceasingly, making the old lady's heart +grow young again, as she listens to, and laughs at, all the merry +stories Miss Chesney tells her of her former life.</p> + +<p>To-day—although the morning has been threatening—is now quite fine. +Tired of sulking, it cleared up half an hour ago, and is now throwing +out a double portion of heat, as though to make up for its early deficiencies.</p> + +<p>The</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"King of the East, ... girt</div> +<div>With song and flame and fragrance, slowly lifts</div> +<div>His golden feet on those empurpled stairs</div> +<div>That climb into the windy halls of heaven,"</div> +</div></div> + +<p>and, casting his million beams abroad, enlivens the whole earth.</p> + +<p>It is a day when one might saunter but not walk, when one might dream +though wide awake, when one is perforce amiable because argument or +contradiction would be too great an exertion.</p> + +<p>Sir Guy—who has been making a secret though exhaustive search through +the house for Miss Chesney—now turns his steps toward the orchard, +where already instinct has taught him she is usually to be found.</p> + +<p>He is not looking quite so <i>insouciant</i>, or carelessly happy, as when +first we saw him, now two weeks ago; there is a little gnawing, +dissatisfied feeling at his heart, for which he dare not account even to himself.</p> + +<p>He thinks a good deal of his ward, and his ward thinks a good deal of +him; but unfortunately their thoughts do not amalgamate harmoniously.</p> + +<p>Toward Sir Guy Miss Chesney's actions have not been altogether just. +Cyril she treats with affection, and the utmost <i>bonhommie</i>, but toward +his brother—in spite of her civility on that first day of meeting—she +maintains a strict and irritating reserve.</p> + +<p>He is her guardian (detestable, thankless office), and she takes good +care that neither he or she shall ever forget that fact. Secretly she +resents it, and openly gratifies that resentment by denying his +authority in all things, and being specially willful and wayward when +occasion offers; as though to prove to him that she, for one, does not +acknowledge his power over her.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span></p><p>Not that this ill-treated young man has the faintest desire to assert +any authority whatever. On the contrary, he is most desirous of being +all there is of the most submissive when in her presence; but Miss +Chesney declines to see his humility, and chooses instead to imagine him +capable of oppressing her with all sorts of tyrannical commands at a moment's notice.</p> + +<p>There is a little cloud on his brow as he reaches the garden and walks +moodily along its principal path. This cloud, however, lightens and +disappears, as upon the southern border he hears voices that tell him +his search is at an end.</p> + +<p>Miss Chesney's clear notes, rather raised and evidently excited, blend +with those of old Michael Ronaldson, whose quavering bass is also +uplifted, suggesting unwonted agitation on the part of this easy-going +though ancient gentleman.</p> + +<p>Lilian is standing on tip-toe, opposite a plum-tree, with the long tail +of her black gown caught firmly in one hand, while with the other she +points frantically in a direction high above her head.</p> + +<p>"Don't you see him?" she says, reproachfully,—"there—in that corner."</p> + +<p>"No, that I don't," says Michael, blankly, sheltering his forehead with +both hands from the sun's rays, while straining his gaze anxiously +toward the spot named.</p> + +<p>"Not see him! Why, he is a big one, a <i>monster</i>! Michael," says Lilian, +reproachfully, "you are growing either stupid or short-sighted, and I +didn't expect it from you. Now follow the tip of my finger; look right +along it now—now"—with growing excitement, "don't you see it?"</p> + +<p>"I do, I do," says the old man, enthusiastically; "wait till I get +'en—won't I pay him off!"</p> + +<p>"Is it a plum you want?" asks Guy, who has come up behind her, and is +lost in wonder at what he considers is her excitement about the fruit. +"Shall I get it for you?"</p> + +<p>"A plum! no, it is a snail I want," says Lilian eagerly, "but I can't +get at it. Oh, that I had been born five inches taller! Ronaldson, you +are not tall enough; Sir Guy will catch him."</p> + +<p>Sir Guy, having brought a huge snail to the ground, presents him gravely to Lilian.</p> + +<p>"That is the twenty-third we have caught to-day," says<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> she, "and +twenty-nine yesterday,—in all forty-eight. Isn't it, Michael?"</p> + +<p>"I think it makes fifty-two," suggests Sir Guy, deferentially.</p> + +<p>"Does it? Well, it makes no difference," says Miss Chesney, with a fine +disregard of arithmetic; "at all events, either way, it is a tremendous +number. I'm sure I don't know where they come +from,"—despairingly,—"unless they all walk back again during the night."</p> + +<p>"And I wouldn't wonder too," says Michael, <i>sotto voce</i>.</p> + +<p>"Walk back again!" repeats Guy, amazed. "Don't you kill them?"</p> + +<p>"Miss Chesney won't hear of 'en being killed, Sir Guy," says old +Ronaldson, sheepishly; "she says as 'ow the cracklin' of 'en do make her +feel sick all over."</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes," says Lilian, making a little wry face, "I hate to think of +it. He used to crunch them under his heel, so," with a shudder, and a +small stamp upon the ground, "and it used to make me absolutely faint. +So we gave it up, and now we just throw them over the wall, +so,"—suiting the action to the word, and flinging the slimy creature +she holds with dainty disgust, between her first finger and thumb, over +the garden boundary.</p> + +<p>Guy laughs, and, thus encouraged, so does old Michael.</p> + +<p>"Well, at all events, it must take them a long time to get back," says +Lilian, apologetically.</p> + +<p>"On your head be it if we have no vegetables or fruit this year," says +Chetwoode, who understands as much about gardening as the man in the +moon, but thinks it right to say something. "Come for a walk, Lilian, +will you? It is a pity to lose this charming day." He speaks with marked +diffidence (his lady's moods being uncertain), which so far gains upon +Miss Chesney that in return she deigns to be gracious.</p> + +<p>"I don't mind if I do," she replies, with much civility. "Good-morning, +Michael;" and with a pretty little nod, and a still prettier smile in +answer to the old man's low salutation, she walks away beside her guardian.</p> + +<p>Far into the woods they roam, the teeming woods all green and bronze and +copper-colored, content and happy in that no actual grief disturbs them.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"The branches cross above their eyes,</div> +<div>The skies are in a net;"</div> +</div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span></p><p>the fond gay birds are warbling their tenderest strains. "Along the +grass sweet airs are blown," and all the myriad flowers, the "little +wildings" of the forest, "earth's cultureless buds," are expanding and +glowing, and exhaling the perfumed life that their mother, Nature, has given them.</p> + +<p>Chetwoode is looking its best and brightest, and Sir Guy might well be +proud of his possessions; but no thought of them enters his mind just +now, which is filled to overflowing with the image of this petulant, +pretty, saucy, lovable ward, that fate has thrown into his path.</p> + +<p>"Yes, it is a lovely place!" says Lilian, after a pause spent in +admiration. She has been looking around her, and has fallen into honest +though silent raptures over all the undulating parks and uplands that +stretch before her, far as the eye can see. "Lovely!—So," with a sigh, +"was my old home."</p> + +<p>"Yes. I think quite as lovely as this."</p> + +<p>"What!" turning to him with a start, while the rich, warm, eager flush +of youth springs to her cheeks and mantles there, "you have been there? +You have seen the Park?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, very often, though not for years past. I spent many a day there +when I was younger. I thought you knew it."</p> + +<p>"No, indeed. It makes me glad to think some one here can remember its +beauties with me. But you cannot know it all as I do: you never saw my +own particular bit of wood?"—with earnest questioning, as though +seeking to deny the hope that strongly exists. "It lies behind the +orchard, and one can get to it by passing through a little gate in the +wall, that leads into the very centre of it. There at first, in the +heart of the trees one sees a tangled mass with giant branches +overhanging it, and straggling blackberry bushes protecting it with +their angry arms, and just inside, the coolest, greenest, freshest bit +of grass in all the world,—my fairy nook I used to call it. But you—of +course you never saw it."</p> + +<p>"It has a huge horse-chestnut at its head, and a silver fir at its feet."</p> + +<p>"Yes,—yes!"</p> + +<p>"I know it well," says Chetwoode, smiling at her eagerness. "It was your +mother's favorite spot. You know she and my mother were fast friends, +and she was very fond of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span> me. When first she was married, before you +were born, I was constantly at the Park, and afterward too. She used to +read in the spot you name, and I—I was a delicate little fellow at that +time, obliged to lie a good deal, and I used to read there beside her +with my head in her lap, by the hour together."</p> + +<p>"Why, you know more about my mother than I do," says Lilian, with some +faint envy in her tones.</p> + +<p>"Yes,"—hastily, having already learned how little a thing can cause an +outbreak, when one party is bent on war,—"but you must not blame me for +that. I could not help it."</p> + +<p>"No,"—regretfully,—"I suppose not. Before I was born, you say. How old +that seems to make you!"</p> + +<p>"Why?"—laughing. "Because I was able to read eighteen years ago? I was +only nine, or perhaps ten, then."</p> + +<p>"I never could do my sums," says Lilian: "I only know it sounds as +though you were the Ancient Mariner or Methuselah, or anybody in the +last stage of decay."</p> + +<p>"And yet I am not so very old, Lilian. I am not yet thirty."</p> + +<p>"Well, that's old enough. When I am thirty I shall take to caps with +borders, and spectacles, and long black mittens, like nurse. Ha, ha!" +laughs Lilian, delighted at the portrait of herself she has drawn, +"shan't I look nice then?"</p> + +<p>"I dare say you will," says Guy, quite seriously. "But I would advise +you to put off the wearing of them for a while longer. I don't think +thirty old. I am not quite that."</p> + +<p>"A month or two don't signify,"—provokingly; "and as you have had +apparently a very good life I don't think it manly of you to fret +because you are drawing to the close of it. Some people would call it +mean. There, never mind your age: tell me something more about my +mother. Did you love her?"</p> + +<p>"One could not help loving her, she was so gentle, so thoroughly kind-hearted."</p> + +<p>"Ah! what a pity it is I don't resemble her!" says Lilian, with a +suspiciously deep sigh, accepting the reproach, and shaking her head +mournfully. "Was she like that picture at home in the drawing-room? I +hope not. It is very lovely, but it lacks expression, and has no +tenderness about it."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span></p><p>"Then the artist must have done her great injustice. She was all +tenderness both in face and disposition as I remember her, and children +are very correct in their impressions. She was extremely beautiful. You +are very like her."</p> + +<p>"Am I, Sir Guy? Oh, thank you. I didn't hope for so much praise. Then in +one thing at least I do resemble my mother. Am I more beautiful or less so?"</p> + +<p>"That is quite a matter of opinion."</p> + +<p>"And what is yours?" saucily.</p> + +<p>"What can it matter to you?" he says, quickly, almost angrily. "Besides, +I dare say you know it."</p> + +<p>"I don't, indeed. Never mind, I shall find out for myself. I am so +glad"—amiably—"you knew my mother, and the dear Park! It sounds +horrible, does it not, but the Park is even more dear to me than—than her memory."</p> + +<p>"You can scarcely call it a 'memory'; she died when you were so +young,—hardly old enough to have an idea. I recollect you so well, a +little toddling thing of two."</p> + +<p>"The plot thickens. You knew <i>me</i> also? And pray, Sir Guardian, what was +I like?"</p> + +<p>"You had blue eyes, and a fair skin, a very imperious will, and the +yellowest hair I ever saw."</p> + +<p>"A graphic description! It would be madness on the part of any one to +steal me, as I should infallibly be discovered by it. Well, I have not +altered much. I have still my eyes and my hair, and my will, only +perhaps rather more of the latter. Go on: you are very unusually +interesting to-day: I had no idea you possessed such a fund of +information. Were you very fond of me?"</p> + +<p>"Very," says Chetwoode, laughing in spite of himself. "I was your slave, +as long as I was with you. Your lightest wish was my law. I used even——"</p> + +<p>A pause.</p> + +<p>"Yes, do go on: I am all attention. 'I used even——'"</p> + +<p>"I was going to say I used to carry you about in my arms, and kiss you +into good humor when you were angry, which was pretty often," replies +Guy, with a rather forced laugh, and a decided accession of color; "but +I feared such a very grown-up young lady as you might be offended."</p> + +<p>"Not in the least,"—with a gay, perfectly unembarrassed enjoyment at +his confusion. "I never heard <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span>anything so amusing. Fancy you being my +nurse once on a time. I feel immensely flattered when I think such an +austere individual actually condescended to hold me in his arms and kiss +me into good humor. It is more than I have any right to expect. I am +positively overwhelmed. By the bye, had your remedy the desired effect? +Did I subdue my naughty passion under your treatment?"</p> + +<p>"As far as I can recollect, yes," rather stiffly. Nobody likes being laughed at.</p> + +<p>"How odd!" says Miss Chesney.</p> + +<p>"Not very," retorts he: "at that time <i>you</i> were very fond of <i>me</i>."</p> + +<p>"That is even odder," says Miss Chesney, who takes an insane delight in +teasing him. "What a pity it is you cannot invent some plan for reducing +me to order now!"</p> + +<p>"There are some tasks too great for a mere mortal to undertake," replies +Sir Guy, calmly.</p> + +<p>Miss Chesney, not being just then prepared with a crushing retort, +wisely refrains from speech altogether, although it is by a superhuman +effort she does so. Presently, however, lest he should think her +overpowered by the irony of his remark, she says, quite pleasantly:</p> + +<p>"Did Cyril ever see me before I came here?"</p> + +<p>"No." Then abruptly, "Do you like Cyril?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, immensely! He suits me wonderfully, he is so utterly devoid of +dignity, and all that. One need not mind what one says to Cyril; in his +worst mood he could not terrify. Whereas his brother——" with a little +malicious gleam from under her long, heavy lashes.</p> + +<p>"Well, what of his brother?"</p> + +<p>"Nay, Sir Guy, the month we agreed on has not yet expired," says Lilian. +"I cannot tell you what I think of you yet. Still, you cannot imagine +how dreadfully afraid I am of you at times."</p> + +<p>"If I believed you, it would cause me great regret," says her guardian, +rather hurt. "I am afraid, Lilian, your father acted unwisely when he +chose Chetwoode as a home for you."</p> + +<p>"What! are you tired of me already?" asks she hastily, with a little +tremor in her voice, that might be anger, and that might be pain.</p> + +<p>"Tired of you? No! But I cannot help seeing that the fact of my being +your guardian makes me abhorrent to you."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span></p><p>"Not quite that," says Miss Chesney, in a little soft, repentant tone. +"What a curious idea to get into your head? dismiss it; there is really +no reason why it should remain."</p> + +<p>"You are sure?" with rather more earnestness than the occasion demands.</p> + +<p>"Quite sure. And now tell me how it was I never saw you until now, since +I was two years old."</p> + +<p>"Well, for one thing, your mother died; then I went to Eton, to +Cambridge, got a commission in the Dragoons, tired of it, sold out, and +am now as you see me."</p> + +<p>"What an eventful history!" says Lilian, laughing.</p> + +<p>At this moment, who should come toward them, beneath the trees, but +Cyril, walking as though for a wager.</p> + +<p>"'Whither awa?'" asks Miss Lilian, gayly stopping him with outstretched hands.</p> + +<p>"You have spoiled my quotation," says Cyril, reproachfully, "and it was +on the very tip of my tongue. I call it disgraceful. I was going to say +with fine effect, 'Where are you going, my pretty maid?' but I fear it +would fall rather flat if I said it now."</p> + +<p>"Rather. Nevertheless, I accept the compliment. Are you in training? or +where are you going in such a hurry?"</p> + +<p>"A mere constitutional," says Cyril, lightly,—which is a base and ready +lie. "Good-bye, I won't detain you longer. Long ago I learned the useful +lesson that where 'two is company, three is trumpery.' Don't look as +though you would like to devour me, Guy: I meant no harm."</p> + +<p>Lilian laughs, so does Guy, and Cyril continues his hurried walk.</p> + +<p>"Where does that path lead to?" asks Lilian, looking after him as he +disappeared rapidly in the distance.</p> + +<p>"To The Cottage first, and then to the gamekeeper's lodge, and farther +on to another entrance-gate that opens on the road."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps he will see your pretty tenant on his way?"</p> + +<p>"I hardly think so. It seems she never goes beyond her own garden."</p> + +<p>"Poor thing! I feel the greatest curiosity about her, indeed I might say +an interest in her. Perhaps she is unhappy."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps so; though her manner is more frozen than melancholy. She is +almost forbidding, she is so cold."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span></p><p>"She may be in ill health."</p> + +<p>"She may be," unsympathetically.</p> + +<p>"You do not seem very prepossessed in her favor," says Lilian, impatiently.</p> + +<p>"Well, I confess I am not," carelessly. "Experience has taught me that +when a woman withdraws persistently from the society of her own sex, and +eschews the companionship of her fellow-creatures, there is sure to be +something radically wrong with her."</p> + +<p>"But you forget there are exceptions to every rule. I confess I would +give anything to see her," says Lilian, warmly.</p> + +<p>"I don't believe you would be the gainer by that bargain," replies he, +with conviction, being oddly, unaccountably prejudiced against this +silent, undemonstrative widow.</p> + +<p class="center">* * * * * * *</p> + +<p>Meantime, Cyril pursues his way along the path, that every day of late +he has traveled with unexampled perseverance. Seven times he has passed +along it full of hope, and only twice has been rewarded, with a bare +glimpse of the fair unknown, whose face has obstinately haunted him +since his first meeting with it.</p> + +<p>On these two momentous occasions, she has appeared to him so pale and +wan that he is fain to believe the color he saw in her cheeks on that +first day arose from vexation and excitement, rather than health,—a +conclusion that fills him with alarm.</p> + +<p>Now, as he nears the house between the interstices of the hedge he +catches the gleam of a white gown moving to and fro, that surely covers his divinity.</p> + +<p>Time proves his surmise right. It is the admired incognita, who almost +as he reaches the gate that leads to her bower, comes up to one of the +huge rose-bushes that decorate either side of it, and—unconscious of +criticism—commences to gather from it such flowers as shall add beauty +to the bouquet already growing large within her hands.</p> + +<p>Presently the restless feeling that makes us all know when some +unexpected presence is near, compels her to raise her head. Thereupon +her eyes and those of Cyril Chetwoode meet. She pauses in her occupation +as though irresolute; Cyril pauses too; and then gravely, unsmilingly, +she bows in cold recognition. Certainly her reception is not +encouraging; but Cyril is not to be daunted.</p> + +<p>"I hope," he says, deferentially, "your little dog has<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span> been conducting +himself with due propriety since last I had the pleasure of restoring +him to your arms?"</p> + +<p>This Grandisonian speech surely calls for a reply.</p> + +<p>"Yes," says Incognita, graciously. "I think it was only the worry caused +by change of scene made him behave so very badly that—last day."</p> + +<p>So saying, she turns from him, as though anxious to give him a gentle +<i>congé</i>. But Cyril, driven to desperation, makes one last effort at +detaining her.</p> + +<p>"I hope your friend is better," he says, leaning his arms upon the top +of the gate, and looking full of anxiety about the absent widow. "My +brother—Sir Guy—called the other day, and said she appeared extremely +delicate."</p> + +<p>"My friend?" staring at him in marked surprise, while a faint deep rose +flush illumines her cheek, making one forget how white and fragile she +appeared a moment since.</p> + +<p>"Yes. I mean Mrs. Arlington, our tenant. I am Cyril Chetwoode," raising +his hat. "I hope the air here will do her good."</p> + +<p>He is talking against time, but she is too much occupied to notice it.</p> + +<p>"I hope it will," she replies, calmly, studying her roses attentively, +while the faintest suspicion of a smile grows and trembles at the corner +of her mobile lips.</p> + +<p>"You are her sister, perhaps?" asks Cyril, the extreme deference of his +whole manner taking from the rudeness of his questioning.</p> + +<p>"No—not her sister."</p> + +<p>"Her friend?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. Her dearest friend," replies Incognita, slowly, after a pause, and +a closer, more prolonged examination of her roses; while again the +curious half-suppressed smile lights up her face. There are few things +prettier on a pretty face than an irrepressible smile.</p> + +<p>"She is fortunate in possessing such a friend," says Cyril, softly; then +with some haste, as though anxious to cover his last remark, "My brother +did not see you when he called?"</p> + +<p>"Did he say so?"</p> + +<p>"No. He merely mentioned having seen only Mrs. Arlington. I do not think +he is aware of your existence."</p> + +<p>"I think he is. I have had the pleasure of speaking with Sir Guy."</p> + +<p>"Indeed!" says Cyril, and instantly tells himself he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span> would not have +suspected Guy of so much slyness. "Probably it was some day since—you +met him——"</p> + +<p>"No, it was on that one occasion when he called here."</p> + +<p>"I dare say I misunderstood," says Cyril, "but I certainly thought he +said he had seen only Mrs. Arlington."</p> + +<p>"Well?"</p> + +<p>"Well?"</p> + +<p>"<i>I</i> am Mrs. Arlington!"</p> + +<p>"What!" says Cyril, with exaggerated surprise,—and a moment later is +shocked at the vehemence of his own manner. "I beg your pardon, I am +sure," he says, contritely; "there is no reason why it should not be so, +but you seem so—I had no idea you wore a—that is—I mean I did not +think you were married."</p> + +<p>"You had no idea I was a widow," corrects Mrs. Arlington, coldly. "I do +not see why you need apologize. On the contrary, I consider you have +paid me a compliment. I am glad I do not look the character. +Good-morning, sir; I have detained you too long already."</p> + +<p>"It is I who have detained you, madam," says Cyril, speaking coldly +also, being a little vexed at the tone she has employed toward him, +feeling it to be undeserved. "I fear I have been unhappy enough to err +twice this morning,—though I trust you will see—unwittingly." He +accompanies this speech with a glance so full of entreaty and a mute +desire for friendship as must go straight to the heart of any true +woman; after which, being a wise young man, he attempts no further +remonstrance, but lifts his hat, and walks away gloomily toward his +home.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Arlington, who is not proof against so much reproachful humility, +lifts her head, sees the dejected manner of his departure, and is +greatly struck by it. She makes one step forward; checks herself; opens +her lips as though to speak; checks herself again; and finally, with a +little impatient sigh, turns and walks off gloomily toward her home.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span></p> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.</span></h2> + +<div class="block2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"And sang, with much simplicity,—a merit</div> +<div>Not the less precious, that we seldom hear it."</div> +<div><span class="s12"> </span>—<i>Don Juan</i>.</div> +</div></div></div> + +<p>The rain is beating regularly, persistently, against the window-panes; +there is no hope of wandering afield this evening. A sullen summer +shower, without a smile in it, is deluging gardens and lawns, tender +flowers and graveled walks, and is blotting out angrily all the glories +of the landscape.</p> + +<p>It is half-past four o'clock. Lady Chetwoode is sitting in the library +reclining in the coziest arm-chair the room contains, with her knitting +as usual in her hands. She disdains all newer, lighter modes of passing +the time, and knits diligently all day long for her poor.</p> + +<p>Lilian is standing at the melancholy window, counting the diminutive +lakes and toy pools forming in the walk outside. As she looks, a laurel +leaf, blown from the nearest shrubbery, falls into a fairy river, and +floats along in its current like a sedate and sturdy boat, with a small +snail for cargo, that clings to it bravely for dear life.</p> + +<p>Presently a stick, that to Lilian's idle fancy resolves itself into an +iron-clad, runs down the poor little skiff, causing it to founder with +all hands on board.</p> + +<p>At this heart-rending moment John enters with a tea-tray, and, drawing a +small table before Lady Chetwoode, lays it thereon. Her ladyship, with a +sigh, prepares to put away her beloved knitting, hesitates, and then is +lost in so far that she elects to finish that most mysterious of all +things, the rounding of the heel of her socks, before pouring out the +tea. Old James Murland will be expecting these good gray socks by the +end of the week, and old James Murland must not be disappointed.</p> + +<p>"Lady Chetwoode," says Lilian, with soft hesitation, "I want to ask you a question."</p> + +<p>"Do you, dear? Then ask it."</p> + +<p>"But it is a very odd question, and perhaps you will be angry."</p> + +<p>"I don't think I shall," says Lady Chetwoode ("One, two, three, four," etc.)</p> + +<p>"Well, then, I like you so much—I love you so much,"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> corrects Lilian, +earnestly, "that, if you don't mind, I should like to call you some name +a little less formal than Lady Chetwoode. Do you mind?"</p> + +<p>Her ladyship lays down her knitting and looks amused.</p> + +<p>"It seems no one cares to give me my title," she says. "Mabel, my late +ward, was hardly here three days when she made a request similar to +yours. She always called me 'Auntie.' Florence calls me, of course, +'Aunt Anne;' but Mabel always called me 'Auntie.'"</p> + +<p>"Ah! that was prettier. May I call you 'Auntie' too? 'Auntie Nannie,'—I +think that a dear little name, and just suited to you."</p> + +<p>"Call me anything you like, darling," says Lady Chetwoode, kissing the +girl's soft, flushed cheek.</p> + +<p>Here the door opens to admit Sir Guy and Cyril, who are driven to +desperation and afternoon tea by the incivility of the weather.</p> + +<p>"The mother and Lilian spooning," says Cyril. "I verily believe women, +when alone, kiss each other for want of something better."</p> + +<p>"I have been laughing at Lilian," says Lady Chetwoode: "she, like Mabel, +cannot be happy unless she finds for me a pet name. So I am to be +'Auntie' to her too."</p> + +<p>"I am glad it is not to be 'Aunt Anne,' like Florence," says Cyril, with +a distasteful shrug; "that way of addressing you always grates upon my ear."</p> + +<p>"By the bye, that reminds me," says Lady Chetwoode, struggling vainly in +her pocket to bring to light something that isn't there, "Florence is +coming home next week. I had a letter from her this morning telling me +so, but I forgot all about it till now."</p> + +<p>"You don't say so!" says Cyril, in a tone of unaffected dismay.</p> + +<p>Now, when one hears an unknown name mentioned frequently in +conversation, one eventually grows desirous of knowing something about +the owner of that name.</p> + +<p>Lilian therefore gives away to curiosity.</p> + +<p>"And who is Florence?" she asks.</p> + +<p>"'Who is Florence?'" repeats Cyril; "have you really asked the question? +Not to know Florence argues yourself unknown. She is an institution. But +I forgot, you are one of those unhappy ones outside the pale of +Florence's acquaintance. How I envy—I mean pity you!"</p> + +<p>"Florence is my niece," says Lady Chetwoode: "she is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span> at present staying +with some friends in Shropshire, but she lives with me. She has been +here ever since she was seventeen."</p> + +<p>"Is that very long ago?" asks Lilian, and her manner is so <i>naïve</i> that +they all smile.</p> + +<p>"She came here——" begins Lady Chetwoode.</p> + +<p>"She came here," interrupts Cyril, impressively, "precisely five years +ago. Have you mastered that date? If so, cling to it, get it by heart, +never lose sight of it. Once, about a month ago, before she left us to +go to those good-natured people in Shropshire, I told her, quite +accidentally, I thought she came here <i>nine</i> years ago. She was very +angry, and I then learned that Florence angry wasn't nice, and that a +little of her in that state went a long way. I also learned that she +came here five years ago."</p> + +<p>"Am I to understand," asks Lilian, laughing, "that she is twenty-six?"</p> + +<p>"My dear Lilian, I do hope you are not 'obtoose.' Has all my valuable +information been thrown away? I have all this time been trying to +impress upon you the fact that Florence is only twenty-two, but it is +evidently 'love's labor lost.' Now do try to comprehend. She was +twenty-two last year, she is twenty-two this year, and I am almost +positive that this time next year she will be twenty-two again!"</p> + +<p>"Cyril, don't be severe," says his mother.</p> + +<p>"Dearest mother, how can you accuse me of such a thing? Is it severe to +say Florence is still young and lovely?"</p> + +<p>"Do you and Florence like each other?" asks Lilian.</p> + +<p>"Not too much. I am not staid enough for Florence. She says she likes +earnest people,—like Guy."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" says Lilian.</p> + +<p>"What?" Guy hearing his name mentioned looks up dreamily from the +<i>Times</i>, in the folds of which he has been buried. "What about me?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing. I was only telling Lilian in what high esteem you are held by +our dear Florence."</p> + +<p>"Is that all?" says Guy, indifferently, going back to the thrilling +account of the divorce case he has been studying.</p> + +<p>"What a very ungallant speech!" says Miss Chesney, with a view to +provocation, regarding him curiously.</p> + +<p>"Was it?" says Guy, meeting her eyes, and letting the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span> interesting paper +slip to the floor beside him. "It was scarcely news, you see, and there +is nothing to be wondered at. If I lived with people for years, I am +certain I should end by being attached to them, were they good or bad."</p> + +<p>"She doesn't waste much of her liking upon me," says Cyril.</p> + +<p>"Nor you on her. She is just the one pretty woman I ever knew to whom +you didn't succumb."</p> + +<p>"You didn't tell me she was pretty," says Lilian, hastily, looking at +Cyril with keen reproach.</p> + +<p>"'Handsome is as handsome does,' and the charming Florence makes a point +of treating me very unhandsomely. You won't like her, Lilian; make up +your mind to it."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense! don't let yourself be prejudiced by Cyril's folly," says Guy.</p> + +<p>"I am not easily prejudiced," replies Lilian, somewhat coldly, and +instantly forms an undying dislike to the unknown Florence. "But she +really is pretty?" she asks, again, rather persistently addressing Cyril.</p> + +<p>"Lovely!" superciliously. "But ask Guy all about her: he knows."</p> + +<p>"Do you?" says Lilian, turning her large eyes upon Guy.</p> + +<p>"Not more than other people," replies he, calmly, though there is a +perceptible note of irritation in his voice, and a rather vexed gleam in +his blue eyes as he lets them fall upon his unconscious brother. "She is +certainly not lovely."</p> + +<p>"Then she is very pretty?"</p> + +<p>"Not even <i>very</i> pretty in my eyes," replies Sir Guy, who is inwardly +annoyed at the examination. Without exactly knowing why, he feels he is +behaving shabbily to the absent Florence. "Still, I have heard many men +call her so."</p> + +<p>"She is decidedly pretty," says Lady Chetwoode, with decision, "but rather pale."</p> + +<p>"Would you call it pale?" says Cyril, with suspicious earnestness. +"Well, of course that may be the new name for it, but I always called it sallow."</p> + +<p>"Cyril, you are incorrigible. At all events, I miss her in a great many +ways," says Lady Chetwoode, and they who listen fully understand the +tone of self-reproach that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span> runs beneath her words in that she cannot +bring herself to miss Florence in all her ways. "She used to pour out +the tea for me, for one thing."</p> + +<p>"Let me do it for you, auntie," says Lilian, springing to her feet with +alacrity, while the new name trips melodiously and naturally from her +tongue. "I never poured out tea for any one, and I should like to immensely."</p> + +<p>"Thank you, my dear. I shall be much obliged; I can't bear to leave off +this sock now I have got so far. And who, then, used to pour out tea for +you at your own home?"</p> + +<p>"Nurse, always. And for the last six months, ever since"—with a gentle +sigh—"poor papa's death, Aunt Priscilla."</p> + +<p>"That is Miss Chesney?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. But tea was never nice with Aunt Priscilla; she liked it weak, +because of her nerves, she said (though I don't think she had many), and +she always would use the biggest cups in the house, even in the evening. +There never," says Lilian, solemnly, "was any one so odd as my Aunt +Priscilla. Though we had several of the loveliest sets of china in the +world, she never would use them, and always preferred a horrid glaring +set of blue and gold that was my detestation. Taffy and I were going to +smash them all one day right off, but then we thought it would be +shabby, she had placed her affections so firmly on them. Is your tea +quite right, Lady Chetwoode—auntie, I mean,"—with a bright smile,—"or +do you want any more sugar?"</p> + +<p>"It is quite right, thank you, dear."</p> + +<p>"Mine is without exception the most delicious cup of tea I ever tasted," +says Cyril, with intense conviction. Whereat Lilian laughs and promises +him as many more as he can drink.</p> + +<p>"Will you not give me one?" says Guy, who has risen and is standing +beside her, looking down upon her lovely face with a strange expression in his eyes.</p> + +<p>How pretty she looks pouring out the tea, with that little assumption of +importance about her! How deftly her slender fingers move among the +cups, how firmly they close around the handle of the quaint old teapot!</p> + +<p>A lump of sugar falls with a small crash into the tray. It is a +refractory lump, and runs in and out among the china and the silver +jugs, refusing to be captured by the tongs. Lilian, losing patience (her +stock of it is small),<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span> lays down the useless tongs, and taking up the +lump between a dainty finger and thumb, transfers it triumphantly to her own cup.</p> + +<p>"Well caught," says Cyril, laughing, while it suddenly occurs to Guy +that Florence would have died before she would have done such a thing. +The sugar-tongs was made to pick up the sugar, therefore it would be a +flagrant breach of system to use anything else, and of all other things +one's fingers. Oh, horrible thought!</p> + +<p>Methodical Florence. Unalterable, admirable, tiresome Florence!</p> + +<p>As Sir Guy speaks, Lilian being in one of her capricious moods, which +seem reserved alone for her guardian, half turns her head toward him, +looking at him out of two great unfriendly eyes, says:</p> + +<p>"Is not that yours?" pointing to a cup that she has purposely placed at +a considerable distance from her, so that she may have a decent excuse +for not offering it to him with her own hands.</p> + +<p>"Thank you," Chetwoode says, calmly, taking it without betraying the +chagrin he is foolish enough to feel, but he is very careful not to +trouble her a second time. It is evident to him that, for some reason or +reasons unknown, he is in high disgrace with his ward; though long ago +he has given up trying to discover just cause for her constant displays of temper.</p> + +<p>Lady Chetwoode is knitting industriously. Already the heel is turned, +and she is on the fair road to make a most successful and rapid finish. +Humanly speaking, there is no possible doubt about old James Murland +being in possession of the socks to-morrow evening. As she knits she +speaks in the low dreamy tone that always seems to me to accompany the +click of the needles.</p> + +<p>"Florence sings very nicely," she says; "in the evening it was pleasant +to hear her voice. Dear me, how it does rain, to be sure! one would +think it never meant to cease. Yes, I am very fond of singing."</p> + +<p>"I have rather a nice little voice," says Miss Chesney, composedly,—"at +least"—with a sudden and most unlooked-for accession of modesty—"they +used to say so at home. Shall I sing something for you, auntie? I should +like to very much, if it would give you any pleasure."</p> + +<p>"Indeed it would, my dear. I had no idea you were musical."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span></p><p>"I don't suppose I can sing as well as +Florence,"—apologetically,—"but I will try the 'Banks of Allan Water,' +and then you will be able to judge for yourself."</p> + +<p>She sits down, and sings from memory that very sweet and dear old +song,—sings it with all the girlish tenderness of which she is capable, +in a soft, sweet voice, that saddens as fully as it charms,—a voice +that would certainly never raise storms of applause, but is perfect in +its truthfulness and exquisite in its youth and freshness.</p> + +<p>"My dear child, you sing rarely well," says Lady Chetwoode, while Guy +has drawn near, unconsciously to himself, and is standing at a little +distance behind her. How many more witcheries has this little tormenting +siren laid up in store for his undoing? "It reminds me of long ago," +says auntie, with a sigh for the gay hours gone: "once I sang that song +myself. Do you know any Scotch airs, Lilian? I am so fond of them."</p> + +<p>Whereupon Lilian sings "Comin' thro' the Rye" and "Caller Herrin'," +which latter brings tears into Lady Chetwoode's eyes. Altogether, by the +time the first dressing-bell rings, she feels she has made a decided +success, and is so far elated by the thought that she actually +condescends to forego her ill-temper for this occasion only, and bestows +so gracious a smile and speech upon her hapless guardian as sends that +ill-used young man to his room in radiant spirits.</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.</span></h2> + +<div class="block2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"So young, and so untender."—<i>King Lear.</i></div> +</div></div></div> + +<p>"I wonder why on earth it is some people cannot choose proper hours in +which to travel," says Cyril, testily. "The idea of electing—(not any +more, thank you)—to arrive at ten o'clock at night at any respectable +house is barely decent."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I wish she had named any other hour," says Lady Chetwoode. "It is +rather a nuisance Guy having to go to the station so late."</p> + +<p>"Dear Florence is so romantic," remarks Cyril: "let us hope for her sake +there will be a moon."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span></p><p>It is half-past eight o'clock, and dinner is nearly over. There has +been some haste this evening on account of Miss Beauchamp's expected +arrival; the very men who are handing round the jellies and sweetmeats +seem as inclined to hurry as their pomposity will allow: hence Cyril's +mild ill-humor. No man but feels aggrieved when compelled to hasten at his meals.</p> + +<p>Miss Chesney has arrayed herself with great care for the new-comer's +delectation, and has been preparing herself all day to dislike her +cordially. Sir Guy is rather silent; Cyril is not; Lady Chetwoode's +usual good spirits seem to have forsaken her.</p> + +<p>"Are you really going to Truston after dinner?" asks Lilian, in a tone +of surprise, addressing Sir Guy.</p> + +<p>"Yes, really; I do not mind it in the least," answering his mother's +remark even more than hers. "It can scarcely be called a hardship, +taking a short drive on such a lovely night."</p> + +<p>"Of course not, with the prospect before him of so soon meeting this +delightful cousin," thinks Lilian. "How glad he seems to welcome her +home! No fear he would let Cyril meet <i>her</i> at the station!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, it certainly is a lovely evening," she says, aloud. Then, "Was +there no other train for her to come by?"</p> + +<p>"Plenty," answers Cyril; "any number of them. But she thought she would +like Guy to 'meet her by moonlight alone.'"</p> + +<p>It is an old and favorite joke of Cyril's, Miss Beauchamp's admiration +for Guy. He has no idea he is encouraging in any one's mind the +impression that Guy has an admiration for Miss Beauchamp.</p> + +<p>"I wonder you never tire of that subject," Guy says, turning upon his +brother with sudden and most unusual temper. "I don't fancy Florence +would care to hear you forever making free with her name as you do."</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon a thousand times. I had no idea it was a touchy +subject with you."</p> + +<p>"Nor is it," shortly.</p> + +<p>"She will have her wish," says Lilian, alluding to Cyril's unfortunate +quotation, and ignoring the remark that followed. "I am sure it will be +moonlight by ten,"—making a critical examination of the sky through the +window, near which she is sitting. "How charming moonlight is! If I had +a lover,"—laughing,—"I should<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span> never go for a drive or walk with him +except beneath its cool white rays. I think Miss Beauchamp very wise in +choosing the hour she has chosen for her return home."</p> + +<p>This is intolerable. The inference is quite distinct. Guy flushes +crimson and opens his mouth to give way to some of the thoughts that are +oppressing him, but his mother's voice breaking in checks him.</p> + +<p>"Don't have any lovers for a long time, child," she says: "you are too +young for such unsatisfactory toys. The longer you are without them, the +happier you will be. They are more trouble than gratification."</p> + +<p>"I don't mean to have one," says Lilian, with a wise shake of her blonde +head, "for years and years. I was merely admiring Miss Beauchamp's taste."</p> + +<p>"Wise child!" says Cyril, admiringly. "Why didn't you arrive by +moonlight, Lilian? I'm never in luck."</p> + +<p>"It didn't occur to me: in future I shall be more considerate. Are you +fretting because you can't go to-night to meet your cousin? You see how +insignificant you are: you would not be trusted on so important a +mission. It is only bad little wards you are sent to welcome."</p> + +<p>She laughs gayly as she says this; but Guy, who is listening, feels it +is meant as a reproach to him.</p> + +<p>"There are worse things than bad little wards," says Cyril, "if you are a specimen."</p> + +<p>"Do you think so? It's a pity every one doesn't agree with you. No, +Martin," to the elderly servitor behind her chair, who she knows has a +decided weakness for her: "don't take away the ice pudding yet: I am +very fond of it."</p> + +<p>"So is Florence. You and she, I foresee, will have a stand-up fight for +it at least once a week. Poor cook! I suppose she will have to make two +ice puddings instead of one for the future."</p> + +<p>"If there is anything on earth I love, it is an ice pudding."</p> + +<p>"Not better than me, I trust."</p> + +<p>"Far, far better."</p> + +<p>"Take it away instantly, Martin; Miss Chesney mustn't have any more: it +don't agree with her."</p> + +<p>At this Martin smiles demurely and deferentially, and presents the +coveted pudding to Miss Chesney; whereat Miss Chesney makes a little +triumphant grimace at Cyril and helps herself as she loves herself.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span></p><p>Dinner is over. The servants,—oh, joy!—have withdrawn: everybody has +eaten as much fruit as they feel is good for them. Lady Chetwoode looks +at Lilian and half rises from her seat.</p> + +<p>"It is hardly worth while your leaving us this evening, mother," Guy +says, hastily: "I must so soon be running away if I wish to catch the +train coming in."</p> + +<p>"Very well,"—re-seating herself: "we shall break through rules, and +stay with you for this one night. You won't have your coffee until your return?"</p> + +<p>"No, thank you." He is a little <i>distrait</i>, and is following Lilian's +movements with his eyes, who has risen, thrown up the window, and is now +standing upon the balcony outside, gazing upon the slumbering flowers, +and upon the rippling, singing brooks in the distance, the only things +in all creation that never seem to sleep.</p> + +<p>After a while, tiring of inanimate nature, she turns her face inward and +leans against the window-frame, and being in an idle mood, begins to +pluck to pieces the flower that has rested during dinner upon her bosom.</p> + +<p>Standing thus in the half light, she looks particularly fair, and +slight, and childish,—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded,</div> +<div>A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded."</div> +</div></div> + +<p>Some thought crossing Lady Chetwoode's mind, born of the long and loving +glance she has been bestowing upon Lilian, she says:</p> + +<p>"How I detest fat people. They make me feel positively ill. Mrs. +Boileau, when she called to-day, raised within me the keenest pity."</p> + +<p>"She is a very distressing woman," says Guy, absently. "One feels +thankful she has no daughter."</p> + +<p>"Yes, indeed; the same thought occurred to me. Though perhaps not fat +now, she would undoubtedly show fatal symptoms of a tendency toward it +later on. Now you, my dear Lilian, have happily escaped such a fate: you +will never be fat."</p> + +<p>"I'm sure I hope not, if you dislike the idea so much," says Lilian, +amused, letting the ghastly remains of her ill-treated flower fall to the ground.</p> + +<p>"If you only knew the misery I felt on hearing you were coming to us," +goes on Lady Chetwoode, "dreading lest you might be inclined that way; +not of course but<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span> that I was very pleased to have you, my dear child, +but I fancied you large and healthy-looking, with a country air, red +cheeks, black hair, and unbounded <i>gaucherie</i>. Imagine my delight, +therefore, when I beheld you slim and self-possessed, and with your +pretty yellow hair!"</p> + +<p>"You make me blush, you cover me with confusion," says Miss Chesney, +hiding her face in her hands.</p> + +<p>"Yes, yellow hair is my admiration," goes on Lady Chetwoode, modestly: +"I had golden hair myself in my youth."</p> + +<p>"My dearest mother, we all know you were, and are, the loveliest lady in +creation," says Guy, whose tenderness toward his mother is at times a +thing to be admired.</p> + +<p>"My dear Guy, how you flatter!" says she, blushing a faint, sweet old +blush that shows how mightily pleased she is.</p> + +<p>"Do you know," says Lilian, "in spite of being thought horrid, I like +comfortable-looking people? I wish I had more flesh upon my poor bones. +I think," going deliberately up to a glass and surveying herself with a +distasteful shrug,—"I think thin people have a meagre, gawky, hard look +about them, eminently unbecoming. I rather admire Mrs. Mount-George, for instance."</p> + +<p>"Hateful woman!" says Lady Chetwoode, who cherishes for her an old spite.</p> + +<p>"I rather admire her, too," says Sir Guy, unwisely,—though he only +gives way to this opinion through a wild desire to help out Lilian's judgment.</p> + +<p>"Do you?" says that young lady, with exaggerated emphasis. "I shouldn't +have thought she was a man's beauty. She is a little +too—too—demonstrative, too <i>prononcée</i>."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Guy adores fat women," says Cyril, the incorrigible; "wait till you +see Florence: there is nothing of the 'meagre, gawky, hard' sort about +her. She has a decided leaning toward <i>embonpoint</i>."</p> + +<p>"And I imagined her quite slight," says Lilian.</p> + +<p>"You must begin then and imagine her all over again. The only flesh +there isn't about Florence is fool's flesh. It is hardly worth while, +however, your creating a fresh portrait, as the original," glancing at +his watch, "will so soon be before you. Guy, my friend, you should hurry."</p> + +<p>Lilian returns to the balcony, whither Chetwoode's eyes follow her +longingly. He rises reluctantly to his feet, and says to Cyril, with some hesitation:</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span></p><p>"You would not care to go to meet Florence?"</p> + +<p>"I thank you kindly,—no," says Cyril, with an expressive shrug; "not +for Joe! I shall infinitely prefer a cigar at home, and Miss Chesney's +society,—if she will graciously accord it to me." This with a smile at +Lilian, who has again come in and up to the table, where she is now +eating daintily a showy peach, that has been lying neglected on its dish +since dinner, crying vainly, "Who'll eat me? who'll eat me?"</p> + +<p>She nods and smiles sweetly at Cyril as he speaks.</p> + +<p>"I am always glad to be with those who want me," she says, carefully +removing the skin from her fruit; "specially you, because you always +amuse me. Come out and smoke your cigar, and I will talk to you all the +time. Won't that be a treat for you?" with a little low, soft laugh, and +a swift glance at him from under her curling lashes that, to say the +truth, is rather coquettish.</p> + +<p>"There, Guy, don't you envy me, with such a charming time before me?" +says Cyril, returning her glance with interest.</p> + +<p>"No, indeed," says Lilian, raising her head and gazing full at +Chetwoode, who returns her glance steadily, although he is enduring +grinding torments all this time, and almost—<i>almost</i> begins to hate his +brother. "The last thing Sir Guy would dream of would be to envy you my +graceless society. Fancy a guardian finding pleasure in the frivolous +conversation of his ward! How could you suspect him of such a weakness?"</p> + +<p>Here she lets her small white teeth meet in her fruit with all the airs +of a little <i>gourmande</i>, and a most evident enjoyment of its flavor.</p> + +<p>There is a pause.</p> + +<p>Cyril has left the room in search of his cigar-case. Lady Chetwoode has +disappeared to explore the library for her everlasting knitting. Sir Guy +and Lilian are alone.</p> + +<p>"I cannot remember having ever accused you of being frivolous, either in +conversation or manner," says Chetwoode, presently, in a low, rather angry tone.</p> + +<p>"No?" says naughty Lilian, with a shrug: "I quite thought you had. But +your manner is so expressive at times, it leaves no occasion for mere +words. This morning when I made some harmless remark to Cyril, you +looked as though I had committed murder, or something worthy of +transportation for life at the very least."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span></p><p>"I cannot remember that either. I think you purposely misunderstand +me."</p> + +<p>"What a rude speech! Oh, if I had said that! But see how late it is," +looking at the clock: "you are wasting all these precious minutes here +that might be spent so much more—profitably with your cousin."</p> + +<p>"You mean you are in a hurry to be rid of me," disdaining to notice her +innuendo; "go,—don't let me detain you from Cyril and his cigar."</p> + +<p>He turns away abruptly, and gives the bell a rather sharp pull. He is so +openly offended that Lilian's heart smites her.</p> + +<p>"Who is misunderstanding now?" she says, with a decided change of tone. +"Shall you be long away, Sir Guy?"</p> + +<p>"Not very," icily. "Truston, as you know, is but a short drive from this."</p> + +<p>"True." Then with charmingly innocent concern, "Don't you like going out +so late?—you seem a little cross."</p> + +<p>"Do I?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. But perhaps I mistake; I am always making mistakes," says Miss +Lilian, humbly; "I am very unfortunate. And you know what Ouida says, +that 'one is so often thought to be sullen when one is only sad.' Are <i>you</i> sad?"</p> + +<p>"No," says Guy, goaded past endurance; "I am not. But I should like to +know what I have done that you should make a point at all times of +treating me with incivility."</p> + +<p>"Are you speaking of me?"—with a fine show of surprise, and +widely-opened eyes; "what can you mean? Why, I shouldn't dare be uncivil +to my guardian. I should be afraid. I should positively die of fright," +says Miss Chesney, feeling strongly inclined to laugh, and darting a +little wicked gleam at him from her eyes as she speaks.</p> + +<p>"Your manner"—bitterly—"fully bears out your words. Still I +think—— Why doesn't Granger bring round the carriage? Am I to give the +same order half a dozen times?"—this to a petrified attendant who has +answered the bell, and now vanishes, as though shot, to give it as his +opinion down-stairs that Sir Guy is in "a h'orful wax!"</p> + +<p>"Poor man, how you have frightened him!" says <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span>Lilian, softly. "I am +sorry if I have vexed you." Holding out a small hand of amity,—"Shall +we make friends before you go?"</p> + +<p>"It would be mere waste of time," replies he, ignoring the hand; "and, +besides, why should you force yourself to be on friendly terms with me?"</p> + +<p>"You forget——" begins Lilian, somewhat haughtily, made very indignant +by his refusal of her overture; but, Cyril and Lady Chetwoode entering +at this moment simultaneously, the conversation dies.</p> + +<p>"Now I am ready," Cyril says, cheerfully. "I took some of your cigars, +Guy; they are rather better than mine; but the occasion is so felicitous +I thought it demanded it. Do you mind?"</p> + +<p>"You can have the box," replies Guy, curtly.</p> + +<p>To have a suspected rival in full possession of the field, smoking one's +choicest weeds, is not a thing calculated to soothe a ruffled breast.</p> + +<p>"Eh, you're not ill, old fellow, are you?" says Cyril, in his laziest, +most good-natured tones. "The whole box! Come, my dear Lilian, I pine to begin them."</p> + +<p>Miss Chesney finishes her peach in a hurry and prepares to follow him.</p> + +<p>"Lilian, you are like a baby with a sweet tooth," says Lady Chetwoode. +"Take some of those peaches out on the balcony with you, child: you seem +to enjoy them. And come to me to the drawing-room when you tire of Cyril."</p> + +<p>So the last thing Guy sees as he leaves the room is Lilian and his +brother armed with peaches and cigars on their way to the balcony; the +last thing he hears is a clear, sweet, ringing laugh that echoes through +the house and falls like molten lead upon his heart.</p> + +<p>He bangs the hall-door with much unnecessary violence, steps into the +carriage, and goes to meet his cousin in about the worst temper he has +given way to for years.</p> + +<p class="center">* * * * * * *</p> + +<p>Half-past ten has struck. The drawing-room is ablaze with light. Lady +Chetwoode, contrary to custom, is wide awake, the gray sock lying almost +completed upon her lap. Lilian has been singing, but is now sitting +silent with her idle little hands before her, while Cyril reads aloud to +them decent extracts from the celebrated divorce case, now drawing to +its unpleasant close.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span></p><p>"They ought to be here now," says Lady Chetwoode, suddenly, alluding +not so much to the plaintiff, or the defendant, or the co-respondents, +as to her eldest son and Miss Beauchamp. "The time is up."</p> + +<p>Almost as she says the words the sound of carriage-wheels strikes upon +the ear, and a few minutes later the door is thrown wide open and Miss Beauchamp enters.</p> + +<p>Lilian stares at her with a good deal of pardonable curiosity. Yes, in +spite of all that Cyril said, she is very nearly handsome. She is tall, +<i>posée</i>, large and somewhat full, with rather prominent eyes. Her mouth +is a little thin, but well shaped; her nose is perfect; her figure +faultless. She is quite twenty-six (in spite of artificial aid), a fact +that Lilian perceives with secret gratification.</p> + +<p>She walks slowly up the room, a small Maltese terrier clasped in her +arms, and presents a cool cheek to Lady Chetwoode, as though she had +parted from her but a few hours ago. All the worry and fatigue of travel +have not told upon her: perhaps her maid and that mysterious +closely-locked little morocco bag in the hall could tell upon her; but +she looks as undisturbed in appearance and dress as though she had but +just descended from her room, ready for a morning's walk.</p> + +<p>"My dear Florence, I am glad to welcome you home," says Lady Chetwoode, +affectionately, returning her chaste salute.</p> + +<p>"Thank you, Aunt Anne," says Miss Beauchamp, in carefully modulated +tones. "I, too, am glad to get home. It was quite delightful to find Guy +waiting for me at the station!"</p> + +<p>She smiles a pretty lady-like smile upon Sir Guy as she speaks, he +having followed her into the room. "How d'ye do, Cyril?"</p> + +<p>Cyril returns her greeting with due propriety, but expresses no +hilarious joy at her return.</p> + +<p>"This is Lilian Chesney whom I wrote to you about," Lady Chetwoode says, +putting out one hand to Lilian. "Lilian, my dear, this is Florence."</p> + +<p>The girls shake hands. Miss Beauchamp treats Lilian to a cold though +perfectly polite stare, and then turns back to her aunt.</p> + +<p>"It was a long journey, dear," sympathetically says "Aunt Anne."</p> + +<p>"Very. I felt quite exhausted when I reached Truston,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span> and so did +Fanchette; did you not, <i>ma bibiche</i>, my treasure?"—this is to the +little white stuffy ball of wool in her arms, which instantly opens two +pink-lidded eyes, and puts out a crimson tongue, by way of answer. "If +you don't mind, aunt, I think I should like to go to my room."</p> + +<p>"Certainly, dear. And what shall I send you up?"</p> + +<p>"A cup of tea, please, and—er—anything else there is. Elise will know +what I fancy; I dined before I left. Good-night, Miss Chesney. +Good-night, Guy; and thank you again very much for meeting me"—this very sweetly.</p> + +<p>And then Lady Chetwoode accompanies her up-stairs, and the first +wonderful interview is at an end.</p> + +<p>"Well?" says Cyril.</p> + +<p>"I think her quite handsome," says Lilian, enthusiastically, for Guy's +special benefit, who is sitting at a little distance, glowering upon +space. "Cyril, you are wanting in taste."</p> + +<p>"Not when I admire you," replies Cyril, promptly. "Will you pardon me, +Lilian, if I go to see they send a comfortable and substantial supper to +my cousin? Her appetite is all that her best friend could wish."</p> + +<p>So saying, he quits the room, bent on some business of his own, that has +very little to do, I think, with the refreshment of Miss Beauchamp's body.</p> + +<p>When he has gone, Lilian takes up Lady Chetwoode's knitting and examines +it critically. For the first time in her life she regrets not having +given up some of her early years to the mastering of fancy work; then +she lays it down again, and sighs heavily. The sigh says quite +distinctly how tedious a thing it is being alone in the room with a man +who will not speak to one. Better, far better, be with a dummy, from +whom nothing could be expected.</p> + +<p>Sir Guy, roused to activity by this dolorous sound, crosses the room and +stands directly before her, a contrite expression upon his face.</p> + +<p>"I have behaved badly," he says. "I confess my fault. Will you not speak +to me, Lilian?" His tone is half laughing, half penitent.</p> + +<p>"Not"—smiling—"until you assure me you have left all your ill-temper +behind you at Truston."</p> + +<p>"I have. I swear it."</p> + +<p>"You are sure?"</p> + +<p>"Positive."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span></p><p>"I do hope you did not bestow it upon poor Miss Beauchamp?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know, I'm sure. I hope not," says Guy, lightly; and there is +something both in his tone and words that restores Miss Chesney to +amiability. She looks at him steadily for a moment, and then she smiles.</p> + +<p>"I am forgiven?" asks Guy, eagerly, taking courage from her smile.</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Shake hands with me, then," says he, holding out his own.</p> + +<p>"You expect too much," returns Lilian, recoiling. "Only an hour ago, you +refused to take my hand: how then can I now accept yours?"</p> + +<p>"I was a brute, nothing less!" declares he, emphatically. "Yet do accept +it, I implore you."</p> + +<p>There is a good deal more meaning in his tone than even he himself is +quite aware of. Miss Chesney either does not or will not see it. Raising +her head, she laughs out loud, a low but thoroughly amused laugh.</p> + +<p>"Any one listening would say you were proposing to me," she says, +mischievously; whereupon he laughs too, and seats himself upon the low +ottoman beside her.</p> + +<p>"I shouldn't mind," he says; "should you?"</p> + +<p>"Not much. I suppose one must go through it some time or other."</p> + +<p>"Have you ever had a—proposal?"</p> + +<p>"Why do you compel me to give you an answer that must be humiliating? +No; I have never had a proposal. But I dare say I shall have one or two before I die."</p> + +<p>"I dare say. Unless you will now accept mine"—jestingly—"and make me +the happiest of men."</p> + +<p>"No, thank you. You make me such an admirable guardian that I could not +bear to depose you. You are now in a proud position (considering the +ward you have); do not rashly seek to better it."</p> + +<p>"Your words are golden. But all this time you are keeping me in terrible +suspense. You have not yet quite made friends with me."</p> + +<p>Then Lilian places her hand in his.</p> + +<p>"Though you don't deserve it," she says, severely, "still——"</p> + +<p>"Still you do accept me—it, I mean," interrupts Guy, purposely, closing +his fingers warmly over hers. "I shall<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span> never forget that fact. Dear +little hand!" softly caressing it, "did I really scorn it an hour ago? I +beg its pardon very humbly."</p> + +<p>"It is granted," answers Lilian, gayly. But to herself she says, "I +wonder how often has he gone through all this before?"</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, in spite of doubts on both sides, the truce is signed for the present.</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.</span></h2> + +<div class="block2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"How beautiful is the rain!</div> +<div>After the dust and heat.</div> +<div>To the dry grass, and the drier grain,</div> +<div>How welcome is the rain!"—<span class="smcap">Longfellow.</span></div> +</div></div></div> + +<p>Miss Chesney, who, had she been born a man and a gardener, could have +commanded any wages, is on her knees beside some green plants, busily +hunting for slugs. These ravishers of baby flowers and innocent +seedlings are Miss Chesney's especial abhorrence. It is in vain to tell +her that they must be fed,—that they, as well as the leviathan, must +have their daily food; she declines to look upon their frequent +depredations in any other light than as wanton mischief.</p> + +<p>Upon their destruction she wastes so much of her valuable time that, +could there be a thought in their small, slimy, gelatinous bodies, they +must look upon her as the fell destroyer of their race,—a sort of natural enemy.</p> + +<p>She is guiltless of gloves, and, being heated in the chase, has flung +her hat upon the velvet sward beside her. Whereupon the ardent sun, +availing of the chance, is making desperate love to her, and is kissing +with all his might her priceless complexion. It is a sight to make a +town-bred damsel weep aloud!</p> + +<p>Miss Beauchamp, sailing majestically toward this foolish maiden, with +her diaphanous skirts trailing behind her, a huge hat upon her carefully +arranged braids, and an enormous garden umbrella over all, looks with +surprise, largely mingled with contempt, upon the kneeling figure. She +marks the soft beauty of the skin, the exquisite <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span>penciling of the +eyebrows, the rich color on the laughing lips, and, marking, feels some +faint anger at the reckless extravagance of the owner of these unpurchasable charms.</p> + +<p>To one long aware of the many advantages to be derived from such +precious unguents as creme d'Ispahan, velvetine, and Chinese rouge, is +known also all the fear of detection arising from the daily use of them. +And to see another richly and freely endowed by Nature with all the most +coveted tints, making light of the gift, seems to such a one a gross +impertinence, a miserable want of gratitude, too deep for comprehension.</p> + +<p>Pausing near Lilian, with the over-fed Maltese panting and puffing +beside her, Miss Beauchamp looks down upon her curiously, upon the +rose-leaf face, the little soiled hands, the ruffled golden head, and +calculates to a fraction the exact amount of mischief that may be done +by the possession of so much youth and beauty.</p> + +<p>The girl is far too pretty. There is really no knowing what irremediable +harm she may not have done already.</p> + +<p>"What a mess you are making of yourself!" says Florence, in a tone +replete with lady-like disgust.</p> + +<p>"I am, rather," says Lilian, holding aloft the small hand, on which five +dusty fingers disport themselves, while she regards them +contemplatively; "but I love it, gardening I mean. I would have made a +small fortune at flower-shows, had I given my mind to it earlier: not a +prize would have escaped me."</p> + +<p>"Every one with an acre of garden thinks that," says Miss Beauchamp.</p> + +<p>"Do they?" smiling up at the white goddess beside her. "Well, perhaps +so. 'Hope springs eternal in the human breast,' and a good thing, too."</p> + +<p>"Don't you think you will be likely to get a sunstroke?" remarks +Florence, with indifferent concern.</p> + +<p>"No; I am accustomed to go about without my hat," answers Lilian: "of +course, as a rule, I wear it, but it always gives me a feeling of +suffocation; and as for a veil, I simply couldn't bear one."</p> + +<p>Miss Beauchamp, glancing curiously at the peach-like complexion beneath +her, wonders enviously how she does it, and then reflects with a certain +sense of satisfaction that a very little more of this mad tampering with +Nature's gifts will create such havoc as must call for the immediate aid +of the inestimable Rimmel and his fellows.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span></p><p>The small terrier, awaking from the tuneful snooze that always +accompanies her moments of inactivity, whether she be standing or lying, +now rolls over to Lilian and makes a fat effort to lick her dear little +Grecian nose. At which let no one wonder, as a prettier little nose was +never seen. But Lilian is so far unsympathetic that she strongly objects to the caress.</p> + +<p>"Poor Fanchette!" she says, kindly, recoiling a little, "you must +forgive me, but the fact is I can't bear having my face licked. It is +bad taste on my part, I know, and I hope you will grant me pardon. No, I +cannot pet you either, because I think my earthy fingers would not +improve your snowy coat."</p> + +<p>"Come away, Fanchette; come away, <i>petite</i>, directly; do you hear?" +cries Miss Beauchamp, in an agony lest the scented fleece of her "curled +darling" should be defiled. "Come to its own mistress, then. Don't you +see you are disturbing Lilian?" this last as a mild apology for the +unaffected horror of her former tone.</p> + +<p>So saying, she gathers up Fanchette, and retires into the shaded +shrubberies beyond.</p> + +<p>Almost as she disappears from view, Guy comes upon the scene.</p> + +<p>"Why, what are you doing?" he calls out while yet a few yards from her.</p> + +<p>"I have been shocking your cousin," returns Lilian, laughing. "I doubt +she thinks me a horrible unlady-like young woman. But I can't help that. +See how I have soiled my hands!" holding up for his inspection her ten +little grimy fingers.</p> + +<p>"And done your utmost to ruin your complexion, all for the sake of a few +poor slugs. What a blood-thirsty little thing you are!"</p> + +<p>"I don't believe there is any blood in them," says Lilian.</p> + +<p>"Do come away. One would think there wasn't a gardener about the place. +You will make yourself ill, kneeling there in the sun; and look how warm +you are; it is a positive shame."</p> + +<p>"But I have preserved the lives, and the beauty of all these little plants."</p> + +<p>"Never mind the plants. Think of your own beauty. I came here to ask you +if you will come for a walk in the woods. I have just been there, and it +is absolutely cool."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span></p><p>"I should like to immensely," springing to her feet; "but my +hands,"—hesitating,—"what am I to do with them? Shall I run in and +wash them? I shan't be one minute."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no!"—hastily, having a wholesome horror of women's minutes, "come +down to the stream, and we will wash them there."</p> + +<p>This suggestion, savoring of unconventionality, finds favor in Miss +Chesney's eyes, and they start, going through the lawn, for the tiny +rivulet that runs between it and the longed-for woods.</p> + +<p>Kneeling beside it, Lilian lets the fresh gurgling water trail through +her fingers, until all the dust falls from them and floats away on its +bosom; then reluctantly she withdraws her hands and, rising, looks at +them somewhat ruefully.</p> + +<p>"Now, how shall I dry them?" asks she, glancing at the drops of water +that fall from her fingers and glint and glisten like diamonds in the sun's rays.</p> + +<p>"In your handkerchief," suggests Guy.</p> + +<p>"But then it would be wet, and I should hate that. Give me yours," says +Miss Chesney, with calm selfishness.</p> + +<p>Guy laughs, and produces an unopened handkerchief in which he carefully, +and, it must be confessed, very tardily dries her fingers, one by one.</p> + +<p>"Do you always take as long as that to dry your own hands?" asks Lilian, +gravely, when he has arrived at the third finger of the second hand.</p> + +<p>"Always!" without a blush.</p> + +<p>"Your dressing, altogether, must take a long time?"</p> + +<p>"Not so long as you imagine. It is only on my hands I expend so much care."</p> + +<p>"And on mine," suggestively.</p> + +<p>"Exactly so. Do you never wear rings?"</p> + +<p>"Never. And for the very best reason."</p> + +<p>"And that?"</p> + +<p>"Is because I haven't any to wear. I have a few of my mother's, but they +are old-fashioned and heavy, and look very silly on my hands. I must get them reset."</p> + +<p>"I like rings on pretty hands, such as yours."</p> + +<p>"And Florence's. Yes, she has pretty hands, and pretty rings also."</p> + +<p>"Has she?"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span></p><p>"What! Would you have me believe you never noticed them? Oh, Sir Guy, +how deceitful you can be!"</p> + +<p>"Now, that is just the very one vice of which I am entirely innocent. +You wrong me. I couldn't be deceitful to save my life. I always think it +must be so fatiguing. Most young ladies have pretty hands, I suppose; +but I never noticed those of Miss Beauchamp, or her rings either, in +particular. Are you fond of rings?"</p> + +<p>"Passionately fond," laughing. "I should like to have every finger and +both of my thumbs covered with them up to the first knuckle."</p> + +<p>"And nobody ever gave you one?"</p> + +<p>"Nobody," shaking her head emphatically. "Wasn't it unkind of them?"</p> + +<p>With this remark Sir Guy does not coincide: so he keeps silence, and +they walk on some yards without speaking. Presently Lilian, whose +thoughts are rapid, finding the stillness irksome, breaks it.</p> + +<p>"Sir Guy——"</p> + +<p>"Miss Chesney."</p> + +<p>As they all call her "Lilian," she glances up at him in some surprise at +the strangeness of his address.</p> + +<p>"Well, and why not," says he, answering the unmistakable question in her +eyes, "when you call me 'Sir Guy' I wish you would not."</p> + +<p>"Why? Is it not your name?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, but it is so formal. You call Cyril by his name, and even with my +mother you have dropped all formality. Why are you so different with me? +Can you not call me 'Guy'?"</p> + +<p>"Guy! Oh, I <i>couldn't</i>. Every time the name passed my lips I should +faint with horror at my own temerity. What! call my guardian by his +Christian name? How can you even suggest the idea? Consider your age and bearing."</p> + +<p>"One would think I was ninety," says he, rather piqued.</p> + +<p>"Well, you are not far from it," teasingly. "However, I don't object to +a compromise. I will call you Uncle Guy, if you wish it."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense!" indignantly. "I don't want to be your uncle."</p> + +<p>"No? Then Brother Guy."</p> + +<p>"That would be equally foolish."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span></p><p>"You won't, then, claim relationship with me?" in a surprised tone. "I +fear you look upon me as a <i>mauvais sujet</i>. Well, then,"—with sudden +inspiration,—"I know what I shall do. Like Esther Summerson, in 'Bleak +House,' I shall call you 'Guardian.' There!" clapping her hands, "is not +that the very thing? Guardian you shall be, and it will remind me of my +duty to you every time I mention your name. Or, +perhaps,"—hesitating—"'Guardy' will be prettier."</p> + +<p>"I wish I wasn't your guardian," Guy says, somewhat sadly.</p> + +<p>"Don't be unkinder than you can help," reproachfully. "You won't be my +uncle, or my brother, or my guardian? What is it, then, that you would be?"</p> + +<p>To this question he could give a very concise answer, but does not dare +do so. He therefore maintains a discreet silence, and relieves his +feelings by taking the heads off three dandelions that chance to come in his path.</p> + +<p>"Does it give you so very much trouble, the guardianship of poor little +me," she asks, with a mischievous though charming smile, "that you so much regret it?"</p> + +<p>"It isn't that," he answers, slowly, "but I fear you look coldly on me +in consequence of it. You do not make me your friend, and that is +unjust, because it was not my fault. I did not ask to be your guardian; +it was your father's wish entirely. You should not blame me for what he insisted on."</p> + +<p>"I don't,"—gayly,—"and I forgive you for having acceded to poor papa's +proposal: so don't fret about it. After all,"—naughtily,—"I dare say I +might have got worse; you aren't half bad so far, which is wise of you, +because I warn you I am an <i>enfant gaté</i>; and should you dare to thwart +me I should lead you such a life as would make you rue the day you were born."</p> + +<p>"You speak as though it were my desire to thwart you."</p> + +<p>"Well, perhaps it is. At all events," with a relieved sigh,—"I have +warned you, and now it is off my mind. By the bye, I was going to say +something to you a few minutes ago when you interrupted me."</p> + +<p>"What was it?"</p> + +<p>"I want you"—coaxingly—"to take me round by The Cottage, so that I may +get a glimpse at this wonderful widow."</p> + +<p>"It would be no use; you would not see her."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span></p><p>"But I might."</p> + +<p>"And if so, what would you gain by it? She is very much like other +women: she has only one nose, and not more than two eyes."</p> + +<p>"Nevertheless she rouses my curiosity. Why have you such a dislike to +the poor woman?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no dislike," says Guy, the more hastily in that he feels there is +some truth in the accusation. "I don't quite trust her: that is all."</p> + +<p>"Still, take me near The Cottage; <i>do</i>, now, Guardy," says Miss Chesney, +softly, turning two exquisite appealing blue eyes upon him, which of +course settles the question. They instantly turn and take the direction +that leads to The Cottage.</p> + +<p>But their effort to see the mysterious widow is not crowned with +success. To Miss Chesney's sorrow and Sir Guy's secret joy, the house +appears as silent and devoid of life as though, indeed, it had never +been inhabited. With many a backward glance and many a wistful look, +Lilian goes by, while Guy carefully suppresses all expressions of +satisfaction and trudges on silently beside her.</p> + +<p>"She must be out," says Lilian, after a lengthened pause.</p> + +<p>"She must be always out," says Guy, "because she is never to be seen."</p> + +<p>"You must have come here a great many times to find that out," says Miss +Chesney, captiously, which remark puts a stop to all conversation for some time.</p> + +<p>And indeed luck is dead against Lilian, for no sooner has she passed out +of sight than Mrs. Arlington steps from her door, and, armed with a book +and a parasol, makes for the small and shady arbor situated at the end of the garden.</p> + +<p>But if Lilian's luck has deserted her, Cyril's has not. He has walked +down here this evening in a rather desponding mood, having made the same +journey vainly for the last three days, and now—just as he has reached +despair—finds himself in Mrs. Arlington's presence.</p> + +<p>"Good-evening," he says, gayly, feeling rather elated at his good +fortune, raising his hat.</p> + +<p>"Good-evening," returns she, with a faint blush born of a vivid +recollection of all that passed at their last meeting.</p> + +<p>"I had no idea I should see you to-day," says Cyril; which is the exact +truth,—for a wonder.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span></p><p>"Why? You always see me when you come round here, don't you?" says Mrs. +Arlington; which is not the truth, she having been the secret witness of +his coming many times, when she has purposely abstained from being seen.</p> + +<p>"I hope," says Cyril, gently, "you have forgiven me for having +inadvertently offended you last—month."</p> + +<p>"Last week, you mean!" in a surprised tone.</p> + +<p>"Is it really only a week? How long it seems!" says Cyril. "Are you sure +it was only last week?"</p> + +<p>"Quite sure," with a slight smile. "Yes, you are forgiven. Although I do +not quite know that I have anything to forgive."</p> + +<p>"Well, I had my own doubts about it at the time," says Cyril; "but I +have been carefully tutoring myself ever since into the belief that I +was wrong. I think my principal fault lay in my expressing a hope that +the air here was doing you good; and that—to say the least of it—was +mild. By the bye, <i>is</i> it doing you good?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, thank you."</p> + +<p>"I am glad of it, as it may persuade you to stay with us. What lovely +roses you have! Is that one over there a 'Gloire de Dijon'? I can +scarcely see it from this, and I'm so fond of roses."</p> + +<p>"This, do you mean?" plucking one. "No, it is a Marshal Neil."</p> + +<p>"Ah, so it is. How stupid of me to make the mistake!" says Cyril, who in +reality knows as much about roses as about the man in the Iron Mask.</p> + +<p>As he speaks, two or three drops of rain fall heavily upon his +face,—one upon his nose, two into his earnest eyes, a large one finds +its way cleverly between his parted lips. This latter has more effect +upon him than the other three combined.</p> + +<p>"It is raining," he says, naturally but superfluously, glancing at his +coat-sleeve for confirmation of his words.</p> + +<p>Heavier and heavier fall the drops. A regular shower comes pattering +from the heavens right upon their devoted heads. The skies grow black with rain.</p> + +<p>"You will get awfully wet. Do go into the house," Cyril says, anxiously +glancing at her bare head.</p> + +<p>"So will you," with hesitation, gazing with longing upon the distant +arbor, toward which she is evidently bent on rushing.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span></p><p>"I dare say,"—laughing,—"but I don't much mind even if I do catch it +before I get home."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps"—unwillingly, and somewhat coldly—"you would like to stand in +the arbor until the shower is over?"</p> + +<p>"I should," replies Mr. Chetwoode, with alacrity, "if you think there +will be room for two."</p> + +<p>There <i>is</i> room for two, but undoubtedly not for three.</p> + +<p>The little green bower is pretty but small, and there is only one seat.</p> + +<p>"It is extremely kind of you to give me standing-room," says Cyril, politely.</p> + +<p>"I am very sorry I cannot give you sitting-room," replies Mrs. +Arlington, quite as politely, after which conversation languishes.</p> + +<p>Cyril looks at Mrs. Arlington; Mrs. Arlington looks at Marshal Neil, and +apparently finds something singularly attractive in his appearance. She +even raises him to her lips once or twice in a fit of abstraction: +whereupon Cyril thinks that, were he a marshal ten times over, too much +honor has been done him.</p> + +<p>Presently Mrs. Arlington breaks the silence.</p> + +<p>"A little while ago," she says, "I saw your brother and a young lady +pass my gate. She seemed very pretty."</p> + +<p>"She is very pretty," says Cyril, with a singular want of judgment in so +wise a young man. "It must have been Lilian Chesney, my brother's ward."</p> + +<p>"He is rather young to have a ward."</p> + +<p>"He is, rather."</p> + +<p>"He is older than you?"</p> + +<p>"Unfortunately, yes, a little."</p> + +<p>"You, then, are very young?"</p> + +<p>"Well, I'm not exactly an infant,"—rather piqued at the cool +superiority of her tone: "I am twenty-six."</p> + +<p>"So I should have thought," says Mrs. Arlington, quietly, which +assertion is as balm to his wounded spirit.</p> + +<p>"Are your brother and his ward much attached to each other?" asks she, +idly, with a very palpable endeavor to make conversation.</p> + +<p>"Not very much,"—laughing, as he remembers certain warlike passages +that have occurred between Guy and Lilian, in which the former has +always had the worst of it.</p> + +<p>"No? She prefers you, perhaps?"</p> + +<p>"I really don't know: we are very good friends, and she is a dear little thing."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span></p><p>"No doubt. Fair women are always to be admired. You admire her very +much?"</p> + +<p>"I think her pretty; but"—with an indescribable glance at the +"nut-brown locks" before him, that says all manner of charming +things—"her hair, to please me, is far too golden."</p> + +<p>"Oh, do you think so?" says Mrs. Arlington, surprised. "I saw her +distinctly from my window, and I thought her hair very lovely, and she +herself one of the prettiest creatures I have ever seen."</p> + +<p>"That is strong praise. I confess I have seen others I thought better +worthy of admiration."</p> + +<p>"You have been lucky, then,"—indifferently. "When one travels, one of +course sees a great deal, and becomes a judge on such matters."</p> + +<p>"I didn't travel far to find that out."</p> + +<p>"To find what out?"</p> + +<p>"A prettier woman than Miss Chesney."</p> + +<p>"No?" with cold unconcern and an evident want of interest on the +subject. "How lovely the flowers look with those little drops of rain in +their hearts!—like a touch of sorrow in the very centre of their joy."</p> + +<p>"You like the country?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I love it. There is a rest, a calm about it that to some seems +monotony, but to me is peace."</p> + +<p>A rather troubled shade falls across her face. An intense pity for her +fills Cyril's breast together with a growing conviction (which is not a +pleasing one) that the dead and gone Arlington must have been a king +among his fellows.</p> + +<p>"I like the country well enough myself," he says, "but I hardly hold it +in such esteem as you do. It is slow,—at times unbearable. Indeed, a +careful study of my feelings has convinced me that I prefer the strains +of Albani or Nilsson to those of the sweetest nightingale that ever +'warbled at eve,' and the sound of the noisiest cab to the bleating of +the melancholy lamb; while the most exquisite sunrise that could be +worked into poetry could not tempt me from my bed. Have I disgusted you?"</p> + +<p>"I wonder you are not ashamed to give way to such sentiments,"—with a +short but lovely smile.</p> + +<p>"One should never be ashamed of telling the truth, no matter how +unpleasant it may be."</p> + +<p>"True!" with another smile, more prolonged, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span> therefore lovelier, +that lights up all her face and restores to it the sweetness and +freshness of a child's.</p> + +<p>Cyril, looking at her, forgets the thread of his discourse, and says +impulsively, as though speaking to himself, "It seems impossible."</p> + +<p>"What does?" somewhat startled.</p> + +<p>"Forgive me; I was again going to say something that would undoubtedly +have brought down your heaviest displeasure on my head."</p> + +<p>"Then don't say it," says Mrs. Arlington, coloring deeply.</p> + +<p>"I won't. To return to our subject: the country is just now new to you, +perhaps. After a while you will again pine for society."</p> + +<p>"I do not think so. I have seen a good deal of the world in my time, but +never gained anything from it except—sorrow."</p> + +<p>She sighs heavily; again the shadow darkens her face and dims the beauty of her eyes.</p> + +<p>"It must have caused you great grief losing your husband so young," says +Cyril, gently, hardly knowing what to say.</p> + +<p>"No, his death had nothing to do with the trouble of which I am +thinking," replies Mrs. Arlington, with curious haste, a quick frown +overshadowing her brow. Her fingers meet and clasp each other closely.</p> + +<p>Cyril is silent, being oppressed with another growing conviction which +completely routs the first and leads him to believe the dead and gone +Arlington a miserable brute, deserving of hanging at the very least. +This conviction, unlike the first, carries consolation with it. "I am +sorry you would not let my mother call on you," he says, presently.</p> + +<p>"Did Sir Guy say I would not see her?" asks she, with some anxiety. "I +hope he did not represent me as having received her kind message with ingratitude."</p> + +<p>"No, he merely said you wished to see no one."</p> + +<p>"He said the truth. But then there are ways of saying things, and I +should not like to appear rude. I certainly do not wish to see any one, +but for all that I should not like to offend your mother."</p> + +<p>There is not the very smallest emphasis on the word "your," yet somehow +Cyril feels flattered.</p> + +<p>"She is not offended," he says, against his conscience,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span> and is glad to +see his words please her. After a slight pause he goes on: "Although I +am only a stranger to you, I cannot help feeling how bad it is for you +to be so much alone. You are too young to be so isolated."</p> + +<p>"I am happier so."</p> + +<p>"What! you would care to see no one?"</p> + +<p>"I would care to see no one," emphatically, but with a sigh.</p> + +<p>"How dreadfully in the way you must have found me!" says Cyril, +straightening himself preparatory to departure. "The rain, I see, is +over." (It has been for the last ten minutes.) "I shall therefore +restore you to happiness by taking myself away."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Arlington smiles faintly.</p> + +<p>"I don't seem to mind you much," she says, kindly, but with a certain +amount of coldness. "Pray do not think I have wished you away."</p> + +<p>"This is the first kind thing you have ever said to me," says Cyril, earnestly.</p> + +<p>"Is it? I think I have forgotten how to make pretty speeches," replies +she, calmly. "See, the sun is coming out again. I do not think, Mr. +Chetwoode, you need be afraid any longer of getting wet."</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid—I mean—I am sure not," says Cyril, absently. "Thank you +very much for the shelter you have afforded me. Would you think me very +<i>exigeant</i> if I asked you to give me that rose you have been +ill-treating for the last half hour?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly not," says Mrs. Arlington, hospitably; "you shall have it if +you care for it; but this one is damaged; let me get you a few others, +fresher and sweeter."</p> + +<p>"No, thank you. I do not think you <i>could</i> give me one either fresher or +sweeter. Good-evening."</p> + +<p>"Good-bye," returns she, extending her hand; and, with the gallant +Marshal firmly clasped in his hand, Cyril makes a triumphant exit.</p> + +<p>He has hardly gone three yards beyond the gate that guards the widow's +bower when he finds himself face to face with Florence Beauchamp, rather +wet, and decidedly out of temper. She glances at him curiously, but +makes no remark, so that Cyril hopes devoutly she may not have noticed +where he has just come from.</p> + +<p>"What a shower we have had!" he says, with a great assumption of +geniality and much politeness.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span></p><p>"You do not seem to have got much of it," replies she, with lady-like +irritability, looking with open disfavor upon the astonishing dryness of his clothes.</p> + +<p>"No,"—amiably,—"I have escaped pretty well. I never knew any cloth to +resist rain like this,—doesn't even show a mark of it. I am sorry I +cannot say the same for you. Your gown has lost a good deal of its +pristine freshness; while as for your feather, it is, to say the least of it, dejected."</p> + +<p>No one likes to feel one's self looking a guy. Cyril's tender solicitude +for her clothes has the effect of rendering Miss Beauchamp angrier than she was before.</p> + +<p>"Oh, pray don't try to make me more uncomfortable than I am," she says, +sharply. "I can imagine how unlovely I am looking. I detest the country: +it means simply destruction to one's clothes and manners," pointedly. +"It has been raining ever since I came back from Shropshire."</p> + +<p>"What a pity you did come back just yet!" says Cyril, with quite +sufficient pause to throw an unpleasant meaning into his words. "As to +the country, I entirely agree with you; give me the town: it never rains in the town."</p> + +<p>"If it does, one has a carriage at hand. How did you manage to keep +yourself so dry, Cyril?"</p> + +<p>"There is plenty of good shelter round here, if one chooses to look for it."</p> + +<p>"Evidently; very good shelter, I should say. One would almost think you +had taken refuge in a house."</p> + +<p>"Then one would think wrong. Appearances, you know, are often deceitful."</p> + +<p>"They are indeed. What a beautiful rose that is!"</p> + +<p>"Was, you mean. It has seen its best days. By the bye, when you were so +near The Cottage, why didn't you go in and stay there until the rain was over?"</p> + +<p>"I shouldn't dream of asking hospitality from such a very suspicious +sort of person as this Mrs. Arlington seems to be," Miss Beauchamp +replies, with much affectation and more spitefulness.</p> + +<p>"You are right,—you always <i>are</i>," says Cyril, calmly. "One should shun +the very idea of evil. Extreme youth can never be too careful. Good-bye +for the present, Florence; I fear I must tear myself away from you, as +duty calls me in this direction." So saying, he turns into another path, +preferring a long round to his home to a further <i>tête-à-tête</i> with the +charming Florence.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span></p><p>But Florence has not yet quite done with him. His supercilious manner +and that last harmless remark about "extreme youth" rankles in her +breast; so that she carries back to Chetwoode with her a small stone +carefully hidden in her sleeve wherewith to slay him at a convenient opportunity.</p> + +<p class="center">* * * * * * *</p> + +<p>The same shower that reduces Miss Beauchamp to sullen discontent behaves +with equal severity to Lilian, who reaches home, flushed and laughing, +drenched and out of breath, with the tail of her gown over her shoulders +and a handkerchief round her neck. Guy is with her; and it seems to Lady +Chetwoode (who is much concerned about them) as though they had rather +enjoyed than otherwise their enforced run.</p> + +<p>Florence, who arrives some time after them, retires to her room, where +she spends the two hours that must elapse before dinner in repairing all +dilapidations in face and figure. At seven o'clock precisely she +descends and gains the drawing-room as admirably dressed as usual, but +with her good humor still conspicuous by its absence.</p> + +<p>She inveighs mildly against the evening's rain, as though it had been +specially sent for the ruin of her clothes and complexion, and says a +good deal about the advantages to be derived from a town life, which is +decidedly gracious, considering how glad she has been all these past +years to make her home at Chetwoode.</p> + +<p>When dinner is almost over she turns to Cyril and says, with deliberate distinctness:</p> + +<p>"Until to-day I had no idea you were acquainted with—the widow."</p> + +<p>There is no mistaking whom she means. The shot is well fired, and goes +straight home. Cyril changes color perceptibly and does not reply +instantly. Lady Chetwoode looks at him with marked surprise. So does +Lilian. So does Sir Guy. They all await his answer. Miss Beauchamp's +petty triumph is complete.</p> + +<p>"Had you not?" says Cyril. "I wonder so amazing a fact escaped your knowledge."</p> + +<p>"Have you met Mrs. Arlington? You never mentioned it, Cyril," says Lady Chetwoode.</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes," says Miss Beauchamp, "he is quite intimate there: aren't you, +Cyril? As I was passing The Cottage to-day in a desperate plight, I met +Cyril coming out of the house."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span></p><p>"Not out of the house," corrects Cyril, calmly, having quite recovered +his self-possession; "out of the garden."</p> + +<p>"Was it? You were so enviably dry, in spite of the rain, I quite thought +you had been in the house."</p> + +<p>"For once your usually faultless judgment led you astray. I was in an +arbor, where Mrs. Arlington kindly gave me shelter until the rain was over."</p> + +<p>"Was Mrs. Arlington in the arbor too?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"How very romantic! I suppose it was she gave you the lovely yellow rose +you were regarding so affectionately?" says Miss Beauchamp, with a low laugh.</p> + +<p>"I always think, Florence, what a fortune you would have made at the +bar," says Cyril, thoughtfully; "your cross-examinations would have had +the effect of turning your witnesses gray. I am utterly convinced you +would have ended your days on the woolsack. It is a pity to see so much +native talent absolutely wasted."</p> + +<p>"Not altogether wasted," sweetly: "it has at least enabled me to +discover how it was you eluded the rain this evening."</p> + +<p>"You met Mrs. Arlington before to-day?" asks Guy, who is half amused and +half relieved, as he remembers how needlessly jealous he has been about +his brother's attentions to Lilian. He feels also some vague doubts as +to the propriety of Cyril's losing his heart to a woman of whom they +know nothing; and his singular silence on the subject of having made her +acquaintance is (to say the least of it) suspicious. But, as Cyril has +been in a chronic state of love-making ever since he got into his first +tall hat, this doubt causes him but little uneasiness.</p> + +<p>"Yes," says Cyril, in answer to his question.</p> + +<p>"Is she as pretty as Sir Guy says?" asks Lilian, smiling.</p> + +<p>"Quite as pretty, if not more so. One may always depend upon Guy's taste."</p> + +<p>"What a good thing it was you knew her! It saved you from that dreadful +shower," says Lilian, good-naturedly, seeing intuitively he is vexed. +"We were not so fortunate: we had to run for our lives all the way home. +It is a pity, Florence, you didn't know her also, as, being so near the +house, you might have thrown yourself upon her hospitality for a little while."</p> + +<p>"I hardly think I see it in that light," drawls <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span>Florence, affectedly. +"I confess I don't feel exactly ambitious about making the acquaintance +of this Mrs.—er——"</p> + +<p>"Arlington is her name," suggests Cyril, quietly. "Have you forgotten +it? My dear Florence, you really should see some one about your memory: +it is failing every day."</p> + +<p>"I can still remember <i>some</i> things," retorts Miss Beauchamp, blandly.</p> + +<p>By this time it has occurred to Lady Chetwoode that matters are not +going exactly smoothly; whereupon she glances at Miss Beauchamp, then at +Lilian, and finally carries them both off with her to the drawing-room.</p> + +<p>"If there is one thing I detest," says Cyril, throwing himself back in +his chair, with an impatient movement, when he has closed the door upon +them, "it is a vindictive woman. I pity the man who marries Florence Beauchamp."</p> + +<p>"You are rather hard upon her, are you not?" says Guy. "I have known her +very good-natured."</p> + +<p>"Lucky you! I cannot recall many past acts of kindness on her part."</p> + +<p>"So you met Mrs. Arlington?" says Guy, carelessly.</p> + +<p>"Yes; one day I restored to her her dog; and to-day she offered me +shelter from the rain, simply because she couldn't help it. There our +acquaintance rests."</p> + +<p>"Where is the rose she gave you?" asks Guy, with a laugh, in which, +after a moment's struggle, Cyril joins.</p> + +<p>"Don't lose your heart to her, old boy," Guy says, lightly; but Cyril +well knows he has meaning in what he says.</p> + +<p class="center">* * * * * * *</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.</span></h2> + +<div class="block3"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"There were two cousins almost like to twins;</div> +<div>And so they grew together, like two flowers</div> +<div>Upon one stem."—<span class="smcap">Shelley.</span></div> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<div>"It was a babe, beautiful from its birth."—<span class="smcap">Shelley.</span></div> +</div></div></div> + +<p>The next day awakes calm and fair, and full of the rich ripeness that +belongs to August. Lilian, opening her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> blue eyes upon the world at +half-past seven, calls her nurse, and being dressed rushes forth into +the garden to drink in all the first sweet freshness of the day.</p> + +<p>The dew still lingers upon lawn and blossom; the spiders' webs glisten +like jeweled nets in the dancing sunbeams; the exquisite opal flush of +the morning sky has grown and spread and deepened, until all the heavens +are tinged with warmest carmine.</p> + +<p>There is "splendor in the grass," and "glory in the flower," and Lilian, +flitting from bush to bush, enjoys everything to its utmost; she plucks +two pale roses for her own bosom, and one, deep red and richly perfumed, +to lay beside Lady Chetwoode's plate. This is a usual morning offering +not to be neglected.</p> + +<p>Just as she has made a careful choice, the breakfast bell rings loudly, +and, running at her quickest—most reckless—speed through the hall, she +barely succeeds in stopping herself as she comes up to Sir Guy at the +door of the morning-room.</p> + +<p>"Oh," cries she, with a little gasp, "another moment and I should have +been in your arms. I never saw you. Good-morning, Guardy," gayly.</p> + +<p>"Good-morning, my ward. I beg you to understand I could have welcomed +that other moment. Why, what an early little bird you are! How long have +you been abroad?"</p> + +<p>"For hours and hours, half a day, while you—lazy man—were sound +asleep. See what spoil I have gathered:" pointing to the heavy roses at her breast.</p> + +<p>"Lovely, indeed," says Guy, who is secretly of opinion that the +wild-rose complexion she has snatched from the amorous wind is by far +the loveliest spoil of the two.</p> + +<p>"And is not this sweet?" she says, holding up to his face the "red, red +rose," with a movement full of grace.</p> + +<p>"Very," replies he, and stooping presses his lips lightly to her white hand.</p> + +<p>"I meant the rose, not the hand," says she, with a laugh and a faint blush.</p> + +<p>"Did you? I thought the hand very much the sweeter of the two. Is it for me?"</p> + +<p>"No!" says Miss Chesney, with much emphasis; and, telling him he is +quite too foolish to be listened to any longer, she opens the door of +the breakfast-room, and they both enter it together, to find all the +others assembled before them, and the post lying in the centre of the +table.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span> All, that is, that remains of it,—namely, one letter for Lilian +and two or three for Guy.</p> + +<p>These latter, being tinged with indigo, are of an uninteresting +description and soon read. Miss Chesney's, on the contrary, is evidently +full of information. It consists of two whole sheets closely covered by +a scrawling handwriting that resembles nothing so much as the struggles +of a dying fly.</p> + +<p>When she has read it twice over carefully—and with considerable +difficulty—she lays it down and looks anxiously at Lady Chetwoode.</p> + +<p>"Auntie," she begins, with a bright blush and a rather confused air.</p> + +<p>"Yes, dear?"</p> + +<p>"This letter"—touching it—"is from my cousin."</p> + +<p>"Yes,—from your cousin? The lad who grew up with you at the Park?" says +Lady Chetwoode, with a kindly nod of comprehension.</p> + +<p>Then ensues a pause. Somehow every one has stopped talking, and Lady +Chetwoode has set down the teapot and turned to Lilian with an air full +of expectancy. They all feel that something yet remains to be said.</p> + +<p>Possessed with this idea, and seeing Lilian's hesitation, Lady Chetwoode +says, in her gentlest tones:</p> + +<p>"Well, dear?"</p> + +<p>"He is unhappy," says Lilian, running one of her fingers up and down the +table-cloth and growing more and more embarrassed: "every year he used +to come to the Park for his holidays, and now——"</p> + +<p>"And now he cannot go to the Park: is that it?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. A little while ago he joined his regiment, and now he has leave of +absence, and he has nowhere to spend it except at Colonel Graham's, who +is his guardian and his uncle, and he <i>hates</i> Colonel Graham," says +Lilian, impressively, looking at Lady Chetwoode with appealing eyes.</p> + +<p>"Poor boy," says that kindest of women, "I do not like to hear of his +being unhappy. Perhaps, Lilian, you would wish——"</p> + +<p>"I want you to ask him here," says Lilian, quickly and boldly, coloring +furiously, and fixing her great honest eyes on Lady Chetwoode. "He said +nothing about it, but I know he would like to be where I am."</p> + +<p>"My dear, of course," says Lady Chetwoode, with most<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span> unusual briskness +for her, "ask him instantly to come here as <i>soon</i> as you like, to stay +as <i>long</i> as you like."</p> + +<p>"Auntie Nannie," says Lilian, rising tumultuously from her chair, "you +are the dearest, kindest, best of women!" She presses her lips gently, +although rapturously, to her auntie's cheek, after which she returns to +her seat. "Now I am thoroughly content," she says naively: "I could not +bear to picture Taffy wretched, and that old Colonel Graham is a +downright Tartar!"</p> + +<p>"'Taffy'! what an extraordinary name!" says Florence. "Is it a fancy name?"</p> + +<p>"No; it is, I am ashamed to say, a nickname. I believe he was christened +James, but one day when we were both almost babies he stole from me my +best doll and squeezed the eyes out of it to see what lay behind, and I +was very angry, and said he was a regular 'Taffy' to do such a thing. +You know the old rhyme?" turning to Lady Chetwoode with a blush and a light laugh:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"Taffy was a Welshman,</div> +<div>Taffy was a thief,</div> +<div>Taffy came to my house</div> +<div>And stole a piece of beef.</div> +</div></div> + +<p>There is a good deal more of it, quite as interesting, but of course you +know it. Nurse laughed when I so christened him, and after that he was +always called 'Master Taffy' by the servants, and nothing else."</p> + +<p>"How nicknames do cling to one!"</p> + +<p>"I don't believe I should know him by any other now. It suits him much +better than his own, as he doesn't look the least in the world like a James."</p> + +<p>"How old is your cousin?" asks Florence, with an eye to business.</p> + +<p>"A year older than I am."</p> + +<p>"And that is——"</p> + +<p>"Nineteen."</p> + +<p>"Indeed! I should have thought you older than that."</p> + +<p>"He is very like me, and he is a dragoon!" says Lilian, proudly. "But I +have never seen him since he was gazetted."</p> + +<p>"Then you have not seen him in his uniform?" says Guy.</p> + +<p>"No. But he tells me," glancing at her letter, "he looks 'uncommonly jolly' in it."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span></p><p>They all laugh. Even Florence condescends to be amused.</p> + +<p>"When may we expect this hero?" asks Guy, kindly.</p> + +<p>"His leave begins next week," answers Lilian, looking at Lady Chetwoode. +"If he might come then, it would be such a comfort to him."</p> + +<p>"Of course he must come then," says Lady Chetwoode. "Do not let him lose +a day of his precious leave. I remember when Guy was in the army how +stingy they were about granting him a few days now and then."</p> + +<p>"The Mater's 'few days' always meant eight months out of the twelve," +says Cyril, laughing, "and anything like the abuse she used to shower +upon the colonel because he didn't see it in the light that she did, was +never heard. It is unfit for publication."</p> + +<p>"Archibald Chesney is coming here the twenty-ninth," says Guy. "So you +will be able to make choice between your two cousins."</p> + +<p>"Is Archibald coming?" surprised. "But my choice is already made. No one +shall ever get inside Taffy in my affections."</p> + +<p>"Thrice blessed Taffy," says Cyril. "See what it is to be a young and gallant plunger!"</p> + +<p>"That wouldn't weigh with me," says Lilian, indignantly.</p> + +<p>"Would it not?" asks Guy. "I was hoping otherwise. I was a plunger once. +What is the renowned Taffy's other name?"</p> + +<p>"Musgrave," says Lilian.</p> + +<p>"A very pretty name," remarks Miss Beauchamp, who has received an +unexpected check by the morning's post, and is consequently in high good humor.</p> + +<p>"I think so too," returns Lilian.</p> + +<p>"Five distinct blushes, and all about Taffy," says Cyril, meditatively. +"Happy Taffy! I have counted them religiously. Are you very much in love with him, Lilian?"</p> + +<p>"'In love'! nonsense!" laughing. "If you only saw Taffy! (But," with a +glad smile, "you soon will.) He never remembers anything half an hour +after he has said it, and besides," scornfully, "he is only a boy."</p> + +<p>"'Only a boy'! Was there ever such willful waste! Such reckless, +extravagant, woful waste! To throw away five priceless, divine blushes +upon 'only a boy'! Oh, that I were a boy! Perhaps, Lilian, when you come +to know<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span> me longer I shall be happy enough to have one whole blush all +to myself."</p> + +<p>"Be consoled," says Miss Chesney, saucily: "I feel assured the longer I +know you, the more reason I shall have to blush for you!"</p> + +<p class="center">* * * * * * *</p> + +<p>All through the day Miss Chesney's joy makes itself felt. She is +thoroughly happy, and takes very good care every one shall know it. She +sings through the house, "up-stairs, down-stairs, and in my lady's +chamber," gay as any lark, and inundates her nurse with vain conjectures +and interrogations; as for example, whether she thinks Taffy will be +much changed,—and whether twelve months could possibly produce a +respectable moustache,—and if she really believes the fact of his being +a full-blown dragoon will have a demoralizing effect upon him.</p> + +<p>"An' no doubt it will, ninny," says nurse, shaking her beribboned head +very solemnly, "I have no opinion of those soldiering ways myself. I +fear me he will be growing wilder an' wilder every day."</p> + +<p>"Oh! if that's all!" says Miss Lilian, with a relieved sigh. "I am only +afraid he will be growing steadier and steadier; and Taffy would be +ruined if he gave himself airs. I can't endure dignified young men."</p> + +<p>"I don't think you need fret about that, my dear," says nurse, with +conviction. "I never yet saw much signs of it about him."</p> + +<p>Having used up all nurse's powers of conversation, Lilian goes on to +Lady Chetwoode's boudoir, and finds out from her the room Taffy will be +likely to occupy. Having inspected it, and brought up half the servants +to change every article of furniture in the room into a different +position, and given as much trouble as possible, and decided in her own +mind the precise flowers she will place upon his dressing-table the +morning of his arrival, she goes back to her auntie to tell her all she has done.</p> + +<p>In fact, any one so busy as Miss Chesney during all this day can +scarcely be imagined. Her activity is surprising, and draws from Cyril +the remark that she ought to go as hospital nurse to the wounded Turks, +as she seems eminently fitted for an energetic life.</p> + +<p>After luncheon she disappears for a while, so that at last—though not +for long—something like repose falls<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> upon the house, which sinks into +a state of quietude only to be equaled by that of Verne's "Van Tricasse."</p> + +<p>Miss Beauchamp is in her room, studying art; Cyril is walking with a +heart full of hope toward The Cottage; Lilian is absent; Guy is +up-stairs with his mother, relating to her a new grievance anent poachers.</p> + +<p>The lad now in trouble is an old offender, and Guy is puzzled what to do +with him. As a rule all scamps have something interesting about them, +and this Heskett is an unacknowledged favorite of Sir Guy's.</p> + +<p>"Still I know I ought to dismiss him," he says, with a rather troubled +air, and an angry, disappointed expression upon his face.</p> + +<p>"He is young, poor lad," says Lady Chetwoode.</p> + +<p>"So he is, and his mother is so respectable. One hardly knows what to +do. But this last is such a flagrant act, and I swore I would pack him +about his business if it occurred again. The fact is, I rather fancy the +boy, and his wild ways, and don't like driving him to destruction. What +shall I do, mother?"</p> + +<p>"Don't do anything, my dear," replies she, easily.</p> + +<p>"I wish I could follow your advice,"—smiling,—"but, unfortunately, if +I let him off again I fear it will be a bad example to the others. I +almost think——"</p> + +<p>But what he thinks on this particular subject is never known.</p> + +<p>There is a step outside the door,—a step well known to one at least of +those within,—the "soft frou-frou and rustle" of a woman's gown,—and +then the door is pushed very gently open, and Lilian enters, with a +curious little bundle in her arms.</p> + +<p>"See what I've got!" she cries, triumphantly, going over to Lady +Chetwoode, and kneeling down beside her. "It's a baby, a real live baby! +look at it, auntie; did you ever see such a beauty?"</p> + +<p>"A baby," says Lady Chetwoode, fearfully, putting up her glasses, and +staring cautiously down upon the rosy little fellow who in Lilian's +encircling arms is making a desperate effort to assert his dignity, by +sitting up and glaring defiantly around him.</p> + +<p>"Yes, indeed; I carried him away when I found him, and have been playing +with him for the last ten minutes in my own room. Then I began to think +that you might like to see him, too."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span></p><p>"That was very nice of you, my dear," with some hesitation. "It is +certainly a very clean baby, but its dress is coarse. Whose baby is it?"</p> + +<p>"He belongs to the laundress, I think," says Lilian, "but I'm not quite +sure. I was running through the kitchen when I saw him; isn't he a +rogue?" as baby puts up a chubby hand to seize the golden locks so near +him: "look at his eyes, as big as saucers."</p> + +<p>She laughs delightedly, and baby laughs back at her again, and makes +another violent jump at her yellow hair. Sir Guy, gazing intently at the +pretty picture, at Lilian's flushed and lovely face, thinks he has never +before seen her look half so sweet. Gay, merry, fascinating she always +is, but with this new and womanly tenderness within her eyes, her beauty +seems trebled. "See, he wants my hair: is he not a darling?" she says, +turning her face, rose-red with pleasure, up to Sir Guy.</p> + +<p>"The laundress's child,—Lilian, my <i>dear</i>!" says Lady Chetwoode, in a +faint tone of expostulation.</p> + +<p>"Well, Jane was holding it in her arms, but it can't be hers, decidedly, +because she hasn't got one."</p> + +<p>"Proof positive," says Guy.</p> + +<p>"Nor can it be cook's, because hers is grown up: so it must be the +laundress's. Besides, she was standing by, and she looked so glad about +it and so pleased when I took it that I am sure she must be his mother. +And of course she is proud of you, you bonny boy: so should I be, with +your lovely face. Oh, look at his little fists! he is doubling them up +just as though he were going to fight the world. And so he shall fight +it, if he likes, a darling! Come; your mammy is pining for you."</p> + +<p>As she speaks she rises, but baby is loath to go yet awhile. He crows so +successfully at Lady Chetwoode that he makes another conquest of her, +and receives several gentle pats and a kiss from her, to Lilian's great gratification.</p> + +<p>"But he is too heavy for you," says her ladyship, addressing Lilian. +"Guy, ring the bell for one of the servants to take him down."</p> + +<p>"And offend his mother mortally. No indeed, auntie. We should get no +clothes fit to wear next week if we committed such a <i>betise</i>. As I +brought him up, so I shall carry him down, though, to do him justice, he +<i>is</i> heavy. No servant shall touch him, the sweet boy,"—this to baby in +a fond aside.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span></p><p>"I will carry him down for you," says Guy, advancing slowly from the +window where he has been standing.</p> + +<p>"You! Oh, Sir Guy, fancy you condescending to touch a baby. Though I +forgot," with a quick, mischievous look at him from her azure eyes, "I +believe there once was a baby you even professed to be fond of; but that +was long ago. By the bye, what were you looking so stern about just as I +came in? Were you passing sentence of death on any one?"</p> + +<p>"Not quite so bad as that," says Lady Chetwoode. "It is another of those +tiresome poachers. And this Heskett, is certainly a very naughty boy. He +was caught in the act last night, and Guy doesn't know what to do with him."</p> + +<p>"Let him off, forgive him," says Lilian, lightly, speaking to her +guardian. "You can't think how much pleasanter you will feel if you do."</p> + +<p>"I believe you are right," says Guy, laughing, "and I dare say I should +give him a last chance, but that I have passed my word. Give me that +great heavy child: he looks as though he were weighing you down to the ground."</p> + +<p>"I think she holds him very prettily," says Lady Chetwoode: "I should +like to have a picture of her just so."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps some day she will gratify you," returns Guy, encouragingly. +"Are you going to give me that <i>enfant terrible</i>, Miss Chesney, before you expire?"</p> + +<p>"I am stronger than you think. And are you quite sure you can hold a +baby? that you won't let it fall? Take care, now, and don't look as +though you thought he would break. That will do. Auntie, don't you think +he would make a capital nurse?"</p> + +<p>"I hope that child will reach its mother alive," says auntie, in a tone +suggestive of doubt, after which Guy, escorted by Lilian, leaves the room.</p> + +<p>Half-way down the stairs this brilliant procession meets Florence coming up.</p> + +<p>"What is that?" she asks, stopping short in utter amazement, and staring +blankly at the baby, who is blinking his great eyes in a most +uncompromising fashion and is evidently deriving much refreshment from +his little fat, red thumb.</p> + +<p>"A baby," says Guy, gravely.</p> + +<p>"A real live baby," says Lilian, "a real small duck,"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> giving the +child's plump cheek a soft pinch over Guy's shoulder. "Don't be +frightened, Florence; he don't bite; you may give him a kiss in all safety."</p> + +<p>"Thanks," says Florence, drawing her skirts closer round her, as though +the very idea has soiled her garments. "I don't care about kissing +promiscuous babies. Really, Guy, if you only knew how ridiculous you +look, you would spare yourself the humiliation of being so seen by your servants."</p> + +<p>"Blame Lilian for it all," returns Guy. "I know I shall blush myself to +death if I meet any of the women."</p> + +<p>"I think Sir Guy never before looked so interesting," says Miss Chesney, +who is making frantic play all this time with the baby; but its mood has +changed, and now her most energetic efforts are received—not with +smiles—but with stolid indifference and unblinking contempt by the +young gentleman in arms.</p> + +<p>"I cannot say I agree with you," Miss Beauchamp says, with much subdued +scorn, "and I do not think it is kind to place any one in a false position."</p> + +<p>She lets a little disdainful angry glance fall upon Lilian,—who +unfortunately does not profit by it, as she does not see it,—and sweeps +up the stairs to her aunt's apartments, while Guy (who is not to be +sneered out of his undertaking) stalks on majestically to the kitchen, +followed by Lilian, and never pauses until he places the chubby little +rogue he carries in its mother's arms,—who eventually turns out to be +the laundress.</p> + +<p>"I am not a judge," he says to this young woman, who is curtsying +profusely and is actually consumed with pride, "but Miss Chesney has +declared your son to be the loveliest child in the world, and I always +agree with Miss Chesney,—for reasons of my own."</p> + +<p>"Oh, thank you, Sir Guy; I'm sure I'm much obliged to you, Miss +Chesney," says the laundress, turning the color of a full-blown peony, +through excitement.</p> + +<p>"What is his name?" asks Lilian, giving the boy a last fond poke with +her pretty slender finger.</p> + +<p>"Abiram, miss," replies the mother, which name much displeases Lilian, +who would have liked to hear he was called Alaric, or Lancelot, or any +other poetical appellation suitable for the most beautiful child in the world.</p> + +<p>"A very charming name," says Guy, gravely; and, having squeezed a +half-sovereign into the little fellow's fat<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> hand, he and Lilian go +through the passages into the open air.</p> + +<p>"Guardy," says Lilian, "what is a 'promiscuous baby'?"</p> + +<p>"I wish I knew," replies he: "I confess it has been puzzling me ever +since. We must ask Florence when we go in."</p> + +<p>Here they both laugh a little, and stroll on for a time in silence. At +length, being prompted thereto by her evil genius, Lilian says:</p> + +<p>"Tell me, who is the Heskett you and auntie were talking about just now?"</p> + +<p>"A boy who lives down in the hollow beneath Leigh's farm,—a dark boy we +met one day at the end of the lawn; you remember him?"</p> + +<p>"A lad with great black eyes and a handsome face with just a little +<i>soupçon</i> of wickedness about him? of course I do. Oh! I like that boy. +You must forgive him, Sir Guy, or I shall be unhappy forever."</p> + +<p>"Do you know him?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, well. And his mother, too: she is a dear old thing, and but that +she has an undeniable penchant for tobacco, would be perfection. Guardy, +you <i>must</i> forgive him."</p> + +<p>"My dear child, I can't."</p> + +<p>"Not when I ask you?" in a tone of purest astonishment.</p> + +<p>"Not even then. Ask me something else,—in fact, anything,—and I will +grant it, but not this."</p> + +<p>"I want nothing else," coldly. "I have set my heart on freeing this poor +boy and you refuse me: and it is my first request."</p> + +<p>"It is always your first request, is it not?" he says, smiling a rather +troubled smile. "Yesterday——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, don't remind me of what I may have said yesterday," interrupts Miss +Chesney, impatiently: "think of to-day! I ask you to forgive +Heskett—for my sake."</p> + +<p>"You should try to understand all that would entail," speaking the more +sternly in that it makes him positively wretched to say her nay: "if I +were to forgive Heskett this time, I should have every second man on my +estate a poacher."</p> + +<p>"On the contrary, I believe you would make them all your devoted slaves.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span><div>'The quality of mercy is not strain'd;</div> +<div>It droppeth, as the gentle dew from heaven,</div> +<div>Upon the place beneath; it is twice bless'd.'"</div> +</div></div> + +<p>"I have said I would not, and even you can hardly think it right that I +should break my word."</p> + +<p>"No, you would rather break his mother's heart!" By this time the +spoiled Lilian has quite made up her mind to have her own way, and is +ready to try any means to gain it. "Your word!" she says disdainfully: +"if you are going to emulate the Medes and Persians, of course there is +no use of my arguing with you. You ought to be an ancient Roman; even +that detestable Brutus might be considered soft-hearted when compared with you."</p> + +<p>"Sneering, Lilian, is a habit that should be confined to those old in +sorrow or worldly wisdom: it sits badly on such lips as yours."</p> + +<p>"Then why compel me to indulge in it? Give me my way in this one +instance, and I will be good, and will probably never sneer again."</p> + +<p>"I cannot."</p> + +<p>"Then don't!" naughtily, made exceeding wroth by (what she is pleased to +term) his obstinacy. "I was foolish in thinking I could influence you in +any way. Had Florence asked you, you would have said yes instantly."</p> + +<p>"Florence would never have asked me to do anything so unreasonable."</p> + +<p>"Of course not! Florence never does wrong in your eyes. It is a pity +every one else does not regard her as favorably as you do."</p> + +<p>"I think every one thinks very highly of her," angrily.</p> + +<p>"Do you? It probably pleases you to think so. I, for one, do not."</p> + +<p>"There is a certain class of people whose likes and dislikes cannot +possibly be accounted for," says Guy, somewhat bitterly. "I think you +would find a difficulty in explaining to me your vehement antipathy +toward Miss Beauchamp. You should remember 'unfounded prejudices bear no weight.'"</p> + +<p>"That sounds like one of Miss Beauchamp's own trite remarks," says +Lilian, with a disagreeable laugh. "Did you learn it from her?"</p> + +<p>To this Chetwoode makes no reply, and Lilian, carried away by resentment +at his open support of Florence, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span> by his determination not to accede +to her request about young Heskett, says, passionately:</p> + +<p>"Why should you lose your temper about it?" (it is her own temper that +has gone astray). "It is all not worth a quarrel. Any one may plainly +see how hateful I am to you. In a thousand ways you show me how badly +you think of me. You are a petty tyrant. If I could leave your house, +where I feel myself unwelcome,—at least as far as <i>you</i> are +concerned,—I would gladly do so."</p> + +<p>Here she stops, more from want of breath than eloquence.</p> + +<p>"Be silent," says Guy, turning to confront her, and thereby showing a +face as pale as hers is flushed with childish rage and bafflement. "How +dare you speak like that!" Then, changing his tone, he says quietly, +"You are wrong; you altogether mistake. I am no tyrant; I do what is +just according to my own conscience. No man can do more. As to what else +you may have said, it is <i>impossible</i> you can feel yourself unwelcome in +my house. I do not believe you feel it."</p> + +<p>"Thank you," still defiant, though in truth she is a little frightened +by his manner: "that is as much as to say I am telling a lie, but I do +believe it all the same. Every day you thwart and disappoint me in one +way or another, and you know it."</p> + +<p>"I do not, indeed. It distresses me much that you should say so. So +much, that against my better judgment I give in to you in this matter of +Heskett, if only to prove to you how you wrong me when you say I wish to +thwart you. Heskett is pardoned."</p> + +<p>So saying, he turns from her abruptly and half contemptuously, and, +striking across the grass, makes for a path that leads indirectly to the stables.</p> + +<p>When he has gone some yards it occurs to Miss Chesney that she feels +decidedly small. She has gained her point, it is true, but in a sorry +fashion, and one that leaves her discontented with her success. She +feels that had he done rightly he would have refused to bandy words with +her at all upon the subject, and he would not have pardoned the +reprehensible Heskett; something in his manner, too, which she chooses +to think domineering, renders her angry still, together with a vague, +uneasy consciousness that he has treated her throughout as a child and +given in to her merely because it is a simpler matter to surrender one's +judgment than to argue with foolish youth.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span></p><p>This last thought is intolerable. A child, indeed! She will teach him +she is no child, and that women may have sense although they have not +reached the admirable age of six-and-twenty.</p> + +<p>Without further thought she runs after him, and, overtaking him just as +he turns the corner, says, very imperiously, with a view to sustaining her dignity:</p> + +<p>"Sir Guy, wait: I want to speak to you."</p> + +<p>"Well," he says, stopping dead short, and answering her in his iciest +tones. He barely looks at her; his eyes, having once met hers, wander +away again without an instant's lingering, as though they had seen +nothing worthy of attention. This plain ignoring of her charms is bitter +to Miss Chesney.</p> + +<p>"I do not want you to forgive that boy against your will," she says, +haughtily. "Take back your promise."</p> + +<p>"Impossible! You have made me break my word to myself; nothing shall +induce me to break my word to you. Besides, it would be unfair to +Heskett. If I were to dismiss him now I should feel as though I had wronged him."</p> + +<p>"But I will not have his pardon so."</p> + +<p>"What!"—scornfully,—"after having expended ten minutes in hurling at +me some of the severest eloquence it has ever been my fate to listen to, +all to gain this Heskett's pardon, you would now have it rescinded! Am I +to understand so much?"</p> + +<p>"No; but I hate ungraciousness."</p> + +<p>"So do I,"—meaningly,—"even more than I hate abuse."</p> + +<p>"Did I abuse you?"</p> + +<p>"I leave you to answer that question."</p> + +<p>"I certainly," with some hesitation, "said you were a tyrant."</p> + +<p>"You did," calmly.</p> + +<p>"And that——"</p> + +<p>"Do not let us go over such distasteful ground again," interrupts he, +impatiently: "you said all you could say,—and you gained your object. +Does not even that satisfy you?"</p> + +<p>"I wish I had never interested myself in the matter," she says, angrily, +vexed with herself, and with him, and with everything.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps your wisdom would have lain in that direction," returns he, +coolly. "But as you did interest <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span>yourself, and as victory lies with +you, you should be the one to rejoice."</p> + +<p>"Well, I don't," she says impulsively. And then she looks at him in a +half-defiant, half-penitent, wholly charming way, letting her large soft +eyes speak for her, as they rest full upon his face. There is something +in her fresh young beauty almost irresistible. Guy, with an angry sigh, +acknowledges its power, and going nearer to her, takes both her clasped hands in his.</p> + +<p>"What a bad-tempered little girl you are!" he says, in a jesting tone, +that is still full of the keenest reproach. "Am I as bad as Brutus and +all those terrible Medes and Persians? I confess you made me tremble +when you showered upon me all those awful comparisons."</p> + +<p>"No, no, I was wrong," she says, hastily, twining her small fingers +closely round his; then very softly, "You are always forgiving me, are +you not? But yet—tell me, Guardy—are you not really glad you have +pardoned that poor Heskett? I cannot be pleased about it myself so long +as I think I have only wrung your promise from you against your will. +Say you are glad, if only to make me happy."</p> + +<p>"I would do anything to make you happy,—anything," he says, in a +strange tone, reading anxiously her lovely <i>riante</i> face, that shows no +faintest trace of such tenderness as he would fain see there; then, +altering his voice with an effort, "Yes, I believe I am glad," he says, +with a short laugh: "your intercession has removed a hateful duty from my shoulders."</p> + +<p>"Where is the boy? Is he locked up, or confined anywhere?"</p> + +<p>"Nowhere. I never incarcerate my victims," with a slight trace of +bitterness still in his manner. "He is free as air, in all human +probability poaching at this present moment."</p> + +<p>"But if he knows there is punishment in store for him, why doesn't he +make his escape?"</p> + +<p>"You must ask him that, because I cannot answer the question. Perhaps he +does not consider me altogether such a fiend as you do, and may think it +likely I will show mercy at the last moment."</p> + +<p>"Or perhaps," says Lilian, "he has made his escape long ago."</p> + +<p>"I don't think so. Indeed, I am almost sure, if you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span> look straight along +that field"—pointing in a certain direction—"you will see the young +gentleman in question calmly smoking the pipe of peace upon a distant wall."</p> + +<p>"It is he," says Lilian, in a low tone, after a careful examination of +the youthful smoker. "How little he seems to fear his fate!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, just fancy how lightly he views the thought of falling into the +clutches of a monster!" remarks Chetwoode, with a mocking smile.</p> + +<p>"I think you are a little hard on me," says Lilian, reproachfully.</p> + +<p>"Am I?" carelessly preparing to leave her. "If you see that promising +<i>protégé</i> of yours, Lilian, you can tell him from me that he is quite at +liberty to carry on his nightly games as soon as he pleases. You have no +idea what a solace that news will be to him; only, if you have any +regard for him, advise him not to be caught again."</p> + +<p>So saying, he leaves her and continues his interrupted march to the stables.</p> + +<p>When Miss Chesney has spent a moment or two inveighing silently against +the hardness and uncharitableness of men in general and Sir Guy +Chetwoode in particular, she accepts the situation, and presently starts +boldly for the hollow in which lies the modest homestead of the +venerable Mrs. Heskett.</p> + +<p>The unconscious cause of the battle royal that has just taken place has +evidently finished his pipe and lounged away through the woods, as he is +nowhere to be seen. And Miss Chesney makes up her mind, with a view to +killing the time that must elapse before dinner, to go straight to his +mother's cottage, and, by proclaiming Sir Guy's leniency, restore peace +to the bosom of that ancient dame.</p> + +<p>And as she walks she muses on all that has passed between herself and +her guardian during the last half-hour. After all, what did she say that +was so very bad?</p> + +<p>She had certainly compared him to Brutus, but what of that? Brutus in +his day was evidently a shining light among his people, and, according +to the immortal Pinnock, an ornament to his sex. Suppose he did condemn +his only son to death, what did that signify in a land where the deed +was looked upon as meritorious? Weak-minded people of the present day +might call him an old brute for so doing, but there are two sides to +every <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span>question, and no doubt the young man was a regular nuisance at +home, and much better out of the way.</p> + +<p>Then again she had likened him to the Medes and Persians; and why not? +Who should say the Medes and Persians were not thoroughly respectable +gentlemen, polished and refined? and though in this case again there +might be some who would prefer the manners of a decent English gentleman +to those of the present Shah, that is no reason why the latter should be +regarded so ignominiously.</p> + +<p>She has reached this highly satisfactory point in her argument when a +body dropping from a tree near her, almost at her feet, startles her +rudely from her meditations.</p> + +<p>"Dear me!" says Lilian, with much emphasis, and then knows she is face +to face with Heskett.</p> + +<p>He is a tall lad, brown-skinned as an Italian, with eyes and hair of +gypsy dye. As he stands before Lilian now, in spite of his daring +nature, he appears thoroughly abashed, and with his eyes lowered, twirls +uneasily between his hands the rather greasy article that usually adorns his brow.</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon, miss," he says, slowly, "but might I say a word to you?"</p> + +<p>"I am sorry to hear such bad accounts of you, Heskett," says Miss +Chesney, in return, with all the airs of a dean and chapter.</p> + +<p>"Sir Guy has been telling you, miss?" says the lad, eagerly; "and it is +about my trouble I wanted to see you. They say you have great weight +with the baronet, miss, and once or twice you spoke kindly to me, and I +thought maybe you would say a word for me."</p> + +<p>"You are mistaken: I have no influence," says Lilian, coloring faintly. +"And besides, Heskett, there would be little use in speaking for you, as +you are not to be trusted."</p> + +<p>"I am, Miss Chesney, I am indeed, if Sir Guy would only try me again. I +don't know what tempted me last night, but I got my lesson then, and +never again, I swear, Miss——"</p> + +<p>Here a glance at Lilian's face checks further protestations. She is not +looking at him; her gaze is concentrated upon the left pocket of his +coat, though, indeed, there is little worthy of admiration in the cut of +that garment. Following the direction of her eyes, Heskett's fall +slowly, until at length they fasten upon the object that has so attracted her.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span></p><p>Sticking up in that luckless left pocket, so as plainly to be seen, is +a limp and rather draggled brown wing, the undeniable wing of a young grouse.</p> + +<p>"Heskett," says Lilian, severely, "what have you been doing?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing, miss," desperately.</p> + +<p>"Heskett," still more severely, and with just a touch of scorn in her +tone, "speak the truth: what have you got in your pocket?"</p> + +<p>"It's just a grouse, then," says the boy, defiantly, producing the bonny +brown bird in question.</p> + +<p>"And a fat one," supplements Lilian. "Oh, Heskett, when you know the +consequences of poaching, how can you do it?"</p> + +<p>"'Tis because I do know it,"—recklessly: "it's all up with me this time +because the baronet swore he'd punish me next time I was caught, and he +never breaks his word. So I thought, miss, I'd have a last fling, +whatever came of it."</p> + +<p>"But it isn't 'all up' with you," says Lilian. "I have spoken to Sir +Guy, and he has promised to give you one more chance. But I cannot speak +again, Heskett, and if you still persist in your evil ways I shall have +spoken in vain."</p> + +<p>"You spoke for me?" exclaims he, incredulously.</p> + +<p>"Yes. But I fear I have done no good."</p> + +<p>The boy's eyes seek the ground.</p> + +<p>"I didn't think the likes of you would care to say a kind word for such +as me,—and without the asking," he says, huskily. "Look here, Miss +Chesney, if it will please you, I swear I will never again snare a bird."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Heskett, will you promise really?" returns Lilian, charmed at her +success, "and can I trust you? You know you gave your word before to Sir Guy."</p> + +<p>"But not to you, miss. Yes, I will be honest to please you. And indeed, +Miss Chesney, when I left home this morning I never meant to kill a +thing. I started with a short oak stick in my hand, quite innocent like, +and up by the bit of heather yonder this young one ran across my path; I +didn't seek it, and may bad luck go with the oak stick, for, before I +knew what I meant, it flew from me, and a second later the bird lay dead +as mutton. Not a stir in it. I was always a fine shot, miss, with a +stick or a stone," says the accomplished Heskett, regarding his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span> grouse +with much pride. "Will you have it, miss?" he says then, holding it out to her.</p> + +<p>"No, thank you," loftily: "I am not a receiver of stolen goods; and it +is stolen, remember that."</p> + +<p>"I suppose so, miss. Well, as I said before, I will be honest now to +please you, you have been so good to me."</p> + +<p>"You should try to please some One higher," says Lilian, with a +solemnity that in her is sweeter than it is comical.</p> + +<p>"Nay, then, miss,—to please you first, if I may."</p> + +<p>"Tell me," says Lilian, shifting ground as she finds it untenable, "why +do you never come to church?"</p> + +<p>"It's so mighty dull, miss."</p> + +<p>"You shouldn't find it so. Come and say your prayers, and afterward you +may find it easier to be good. You should not call church dull," with a +little reproving shake of the head.</p> + +<p>"Do <i>you</i> never find it stupid, Miss Chesney?" asks Heskett, with all +diffidence.</p> + +<p>Lilian pauses. This is a home-thrust, and her innate honesty prevents +the reply that trembles on her lips. She <i>does</i> find it very stupid now +and then.</p> + +<p>"Sometimes," she says, with hesitation, "when Mr. Austen is preaching I +cannot think it quite as interesting as it might be: still——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, as for him," says Heskett, with a grin, "he ought to be shot, miss, +begging your pardon, that's what he ought. I never see him I don't wish +he was a rabbit snug in one o' my snares as was never known to fail. +Wouldn't I wring his neck when I caught him! maybe not! comin' around +with his canting talk, as though he was the archbishop hisself."</p> + +<p>"How dare you speak of your clergyman in such a way?" says Lilian, +shocked; "you are a bad, bad boy, and I am very angry with you."</p> + +<p>"Don't then, Miss Chesney," piteously; "I ask your pardon humbly, and +I'll never again speak of Mr. Austen if you don't like. But he do +aggravate awful, miss, and frightens the life out o' mother, because she +do smoke a bit of an evenin', and it's all the comfort she have, poor +soul. There's the Methody parson below, even he's a better sort, though +he do snivel horrid. But I'll do anything to please you, miss, an' I'll +come to church next Sunday."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span></p><p>"Well, mind you do," says Lilian, dismissing him with a gracious nod.</p> + +<p>So Heskett departs, much exercised in mind, and in the lowest spirits, +being full of vague doubts, yet with a keen consciousness that by his +promise to Miss Chesney he has forfeited his dearest joy, and that from +him the glory of life has departed. No more poaching, no more snaring, +no more midnight excursions fraught with delicious danger: how is he to +get on in future, with nothing to murder but time?</p> + +<p>Meanwhile Miss Chesney, coming home flushed with victory, encounters +Florence in the garden wandering gracefully among the flowers, armed as +usual with the huge umbrella, the guardian of her dear complexion.</p> + +<p>"You have been for a walk?" she asks Lilian, with astonishing +<i>bonhommie</i>. "I hope it was a pleasant one."</p> + +<p>"Very, thank you."</p> + +<p>"Then you were not alone. Solitary walks are never pleasant."</p> + +<p>"Nevertheless, mine was solitary."</p> + +<p>"Then, Guy did not go with you?" somewhat hastily.</p> + +<p>"No. He found he had something to do in the stables," Lilian answers, shortly.</p> + +<p>Miss Beauchamp laughs a low, soft, irritative laugh.</p> + +<p>"How stupid Guy is!" she says. "I wonder it never occurs to him to +invent a new excuse: whenever he wants to avoid doing anything +unpleasant to him, he has always some pressing business connected with +the stables to take him away. Have you noticed it?"</p> + +<p>"I cannot say I have. But then I have not made a point of studying his +eccentricities. Now you have told me this one, I dare say I shall remark +it in future. You see," with a slight smile, "I hold myself in such good +esteem that it never occurred to me others might find my company disagreeable."</p> + +<p>"Nor do they, I am sure,"—politely,—"but Guy is so peculiar, at times +positively odd."</p> + +<p>"You amaze me more and more every moment. I have always considered him +quite a rational being,—not in the least madder than the rest of us. I +do hope the new moon will have no effect upon him."</p> + +<p>"Ah! you jest," languidly. "But Guy does hold strange opinions, +especially about women. No one, I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span> think, quite understands him but me. +We have always been so—fond of each other, he and I."</p> + +<p>"Yes? Quite like brother and sister, I suppose? It is only natural."</p> + +<p>"Oh, <i>no</i>" emphatically, her voice taking a soft intonation full of +sentimental meaning, "not in the very <i>least</i> like brother and sister."</p> + +<p>"Like what then?" asks Lilian, somewhat sharply for her.</p> + +<p>"How downright you are!" with a little forced laugh, and a modest +drooping of her white lids; "I mean, I think a brother and sister are +hardly so necessary to each other's happiness as—as we are to each +other, and have been for years. To me, Chetwoode would not be Chetwoode +without Guy, and I fancy—I am sure—it would scarcely be home to Guy +without me." This with a quiet conviction not to be shaken. "Perhaps you +can see what I mean? though, indeed," with a smile, "I hardly know +myself what it is I <i>do</i> mean."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" says Lilian, a world of meaning in her tone.</p> + +<p>"The only fault I find with him," goes on Florence, in the low, prettily +modulated tone she always adopts, "is, that he is rather a flirt. I +believe he cannot help it; it is second nature to him now. He adores +pretty women, and at times his manner to them is rather—er—caressing. +I tell him it is dangerous. Not perhaps that it makes much difference +nowadays, does it? when women have learned to value attentions exactly +at what they are worth. For my own part, I have little sympathy with +those foolish Ariadnes who spend their lives bemoaning the loss of their +false lovers. Don't you agree with me?"</p> + +<p>"Entirely. Utterly," says Lilian, in a curious tone that might be +translated any way. "But I cannot help thinking Fortune very hard on the +poor Ariadnes. Is that the dressing-bell? How late it has grown! I am +afraid we must go in if we wish to be in time for dinner."</p> + +<p>Miss Beauchamp being possessed with the same fear, they enter the house +together, apparently in perfect amity with each other, and part in peace +at their chamber doors. Lilian even bestows a little smile upon her +companion as she closes hers, but it quickly changes into an +unmistakable little frown as the lock is turned. A shade falls across +her face, an impatient pucker settles comfortably<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span> upon her forehead, as +though it means to spend some time there.</p> + +<p>"What a hateful girl that is!" Lilian says to herself, flinging her hat +with a good deal of vehemence on to the bed (where it makes one +desperate effort to range itself and then rolls over to the floor at the +other side), and turning two lovely wrathful eyes toward the door, as +though the object of her anger were still in sight. "Downright +detestable! and quite an old maid; not a doubt of it. Women close on +thirty are always so spiteful!"</p> + +<p>Here she picks up the unoffending hat, and almost unconsciously +straightens a damaged bow while her thought still runs on passionately.</p> + +<p>So Sir Guy "adores pretty women." By the bye, it was a marvelous +concession on Miss Beauchamp's part to acknowledge her as such, for +without doubt all that kindly warning was meant for her.</p> + +<p>Going up to her glass, Lilian runs her fingers through the rippling +masses of her fair hair, and pinches her soft cheeks cruelly until the +red blood rushes upward to defend them, after which, she tells herself, +even Florence could scarcely have said otherwise.</p> + +<p>And does Miss Beauchamp think <i>herself</i> a "pretty woman?" and does Sir +Guy "adore <i>her</i>?" She said he was a flirt. But is he? Cyril is +decidedly given that way, and some faults run in families. Now she +remembers certain lingering glances, tender tones, and soft innuendoes +meant for her alone, that might be placed to the account of her +guardian. She smiles somewhat contemptuously as she recalls them. Were +all these but parts of his "caressing" manner? Pah! what a sickening word it is.</p> + +<p>She blushes hotly, until for a full minute she resembles the heart of a +red, red rose. And for that minute she positively hates her guardian. +Does he imagine that she—<i>she</i>—is such a baby as to be flattered by +the attentions of any man, especially by one who is the lover of another +woman? for has not Florence both in words and manner almost claimed him +as her own? Oh, it is too abominable! And——</p> + +<p>But never mind, wait, and when she has the opportunity, won't she show him, that's all?</p> + +<p>What she is to show him, or how, does not transpire. But this awful +threat, this carefully disguised and therefore sinister menace, is +evidently one of weight, because it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span> adds yet a deeper crimson to Miss +Chesney's cheeks, and brings to life a fire within her eyes, that gleams +and sparkles there unrebuked.</p> + +<p>Then it quietly dies, and nurse entering finds her little mistress again +calm, but unusually taciturn, and strangely forgetful of her teasing powers.</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.</span></h2> + +<div class="block3"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his tongue</div> +<div class="i1">His breath's like caller air;</div> +<div>His very fit has music in't,</div> +<div class="i1">As he comes up the stair.</div> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<div>And will I see his face again?</div> +<div class="i1">And will I hear him speak?</div> +<div>I'm downright dizzy with the thought,</div> +<div class="i1">In troth I'm like to greet."—<span class="smcap">W. J. Mickle.</span></div> +</div></div></div> + +<p>It is the most important day of all the three hundred and sixty-five, at +least to Lilian, because it will bring her Taffy. Just before dinner he +will arrive, not sooner, and it is now only half-past four.</p> + +<p>All at Chetwoode are met in the library. The perfume of tea is on the +air; the click of Lady Chetwoode's needles keeps time to the +conversation that is buzzing all round.</p> + +<p>Miss Beauchamp, serene and immovable as ever, is presiding over the +silver and china, while Lilian, wild with spirits, and half mad with +excitement and expectation, is chattering with Cyril upon a distant sofa.</p> + +<p>Sir Guy, upon the hearthrug, is expressing his contempt for the views +entertained by a certain periodical on the subject of a famous military +scandal, in real parliamentary language, and Florence is meekly agreeing +with him straight through. Never was any one (seemingly) so thoroughly +<i>en rapport</i> with another as Florence with Sir Guy. Her amiable and +rather palpable determination to second his ideas on all matters, her +"nods and becks and wreathed smiles," when in his company, would, if +recited, fill a volume in themselves. But I don't deny it would be a +very stupid volume, from the same to the same: so I suppress it.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span></p><p>"Sir Guy," says Lilian, suddenly, "don't look so stern and don't stand +with one hand in your breast, and one foot advanced, as though you were +going to address the House."</p> + +<p>"Well, but he is going to address the House," says Cyril, reprovingly: +"we are all here, aren't we?"</p> + +<p>"It is perfectly preposterous," says Guy, who is heated with his +argument, and scarcely hears what is going on around him, so great is +his righteous indignation. "If being of high birth is a reason why one +must be dragged into notoriety, one would almost wish one was born a——"</p> + +<p>"Sir Guy," interrupts Lilian again, throwing at him a paper pellet she +has been preparing for the last two minutes, with sure and certain aim, +"didn't you hear me desire you not to look like that?"</p> + +<p>Sir Guy laughs, and subsides into a chair. Miss Beauchamp shrugs her +shapely shoulders and indulges in a smile suggestive of pity.</p> + +<p>"I begin to feel outrageously jealous of this unknown Taffy," says +Cyril. "I never knew you in such good spirits before. Do you always +laugh when you are happy?"</p> + +<p>"'Much laughter covers many tears,'" returns Lilian, gayly. "Yes, I am +very happy,—so happy that I think a little would make me cry."</p> + +<p>"Oh, don't," says Cyril, entreatingly; "if you begin I'm safe to follow +suit, and weeping violently always makes me ill."</p> + +<p>"I can readily believe it," says Miss Chesney. "Your expression is +unmistakably doleful, O knight of the rueful countenance!"</p> + +<p>"And his manner is so dejected," remarks his mother, smiling. "Have you +not noticed how silent he always is? One might easily imagine him the +victim of an unhappy love tale."</p> + +<p>"If you say much more," says Mr. Chetwoode, "like Keats, I shall 'die of +a review.' I feel much offended. It has been the dream of my life up to +this that society in general regarded me as a gay and brilliant +personage, one fitted to shine in any sphere, concentrating (as I hoped +I did) rank, beauty, and fashion in my own body."</p> + +<p>"<i>Did</i> you hope all that?" asks Lilian, with soft impertinence.</p> + +<p>"'A modest hope, but modesty's my forte,'" returns he, mildly. "No, Miss +Chesney, I won't be told I am<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> conceited. This is a case in which we +'all do it;' every one in this life thinks himself better than he is."</p> + +<p>"I am glad you so scrupulously exonerate the women," says Lilian, maliciously.</p> + +<p>At this moment a step is heard in the hall outside. Lilian starts, and +rises impulsively to her feet; her face lights; a delicate pink flush +dawns upon it slowly, and then deepens into a rich carnation. +Instinctively her eyes turn to Lady Chetwoode, and the breath comes a +little quicker from her parted lips.</p> + +<p>"But," she murmurs, raising one hand, and speaking in the low tone one +adopts when intently listening,—"but that I know he can't be here for +another hour, I should say that was—Taffy!"</p> + +<p>The door has opened. A tall, very young man, with a bright boyish face, +fair brown hair, and a daring attempt at a moustache, stands upon the +threshold. Lilian, with a little soft glad cry, runs to him and throws +herself into his arms.</p> + +<p>"Oh, dear, dear boy, you have come!" she says, whereupon the tall young +man laughs delightedly, and bestows upon her an honest and most palpable hug.</p> + +<p>"Hug," quotha! and what is a "hug"? asks the fastidious reader: and yet, +dear ignorance, I think there is no word in all the English language, or +in any other language, that so efficiently describes the enthusiasm of a +warm embrace as the small one of three letters.</p> + +<p>Be it vulgar or not, however, I cannot help it: the fact remains. Taffy +openly and boldly hugged Miss Chesney before her guardian's eyes, and +Miss Chesney does not resent it; on the contrary, she kisses him with +considerable <i>empressement</i>, and then turns to Lady Chetwoode, who is an +admiring spectator of the scene. Cyril is visibly amused; Sir Guy a +trifle envious; Miss Beauchamp thinks the new-comer far too grown for +the reception of such a public demonstration of affection on the part of +a well-conducted young woman, but is rather glad than otherwise that +Lilian has so far committed herself before her guardian.</p> + +<p>"It is Taffy," says Lilian, with much pride. "I knew it was. Do you +know," turning her sweet, flushed, excited face to her cousin, "the +moment I heard your step outside, I said, 'That is Taffy,' and it +<i>was</i>," with a charming laugh.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span></p><p>Meanwhile Mr. Musgrave is being kindly received by Lady Chetwoode and +her sons.</p> + +<p>"It was so awfully good of you to ask me here!" he is saying, +gratefully, and with all a boy's delightful frankness of tone and +manner. "If you hadn't, I shouldn't have known what to do, because I +hate going to my guardian's, one puts in such a bad time there, the old +man is so grumpy. When I got your invitation I said to myself, 'Well, I +<i>am</i> in luck!'"</p> + +<p>Here he is introduced to Miss Beauchamp, and presses the hand she +extends to him with much friendliness, being in radiant spirits with +himself and the world generally.</p> + +<p>"Why, Taffy, you aren't a bit altered, though I do think you have grown +half an inch or so," says Lilian, critically, "and I am so glad of it. +When I heard you had really joined and become an undeniable 'heavy,' I +began to fear you would change, and grow grand, and perhaps think +yourself a man, and put on a great deal of 'side;' isn't that the word, +Sir Guy?" saucily, peeping at him from behind Taffy's back. "You mustn't +correct me, because I heard you use that word this morning; and I am +sure you would not give way to a naughty expression."</p> + +<p>"We are all very glad to have you, Mr. Musgrave," says Lady Chetwoode, +graciously, who has taken an instantaneous fancy to him. "I hope your +visit will be a happy one."</p> + +<p>"Thank you, I know it will; but my name is Taffy," says young Musgrave. +"I hope you will call me by it. I hardly know myself by any other name +now." He says this with a laugh so exactly like Lilian's that they all +notice it, and comment upon it afterward. Indeed, both in feature and +manner he strongly resembles his cousin. Lady Chetwoode smiles, and +promises to forget the more formal address for the future.</p> + +<p>"I have so many things to show you," exclaims Lilian, fondly. "The +stables here are even better than at the Park, and I have a brown mare +all my own, and I am sure I could beat you at tennis now, and there are +six lovely new fat little puppies; will you come and see them? but +perhaps"—doubtfully—"of course you are tired."</p> + +<p>"He must be tired, I think, and hungry too," says Guy, coming up to him +and laying his hand upon his shoulder, "If you can spare him for a +moment or two, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span>Lilian, I will show Taffy his room." Here Guy smiles at +his new guest, and when Guy smiles he is charming. Mr. Musgrave likes +him on the spot.</p> + +<p>"I will go with you," says Lilian promptly, who is never troubled with +the pangs of etiquette, and who cannot as yet bear to lose sight of her +boy. "Such a pretty room as it is! It is near mine, and has an exquisite +view from it,—the lake, and the swans, and part of the garden. Oh, +Taffy, I am so <i>glad</i> you are come!"</p> + +<p>They are half-way up the stairs by this time, and Lilian, putting her +hand through her cousin's arm, beams upon him so sweetly that Guy, who +is the looker-on, feels he would give a small fortune for permission to +kiss her without further delay. Taffy does kiss her on the instant +without having to waste any fortune or ask any permission; and +Chetwoode, seeing how graciously the caress is received and returned, +feels a strange trouble at his heart. How fond she is of this boy! +Surely he is more to her than any cousin ever yet was to another.</p> + +<p>At the head of the stairs another interruption occurs. Advancing toward +them, arrayed in her roomiest, most amazing cap, and clad in her Sunday +gown, appears Mrs. Tipping, shining with joy and expectation. Seeing +Taffy, she opens wide her capacious arms, into which Mr. Musgrave +precipitates himself and is for the moment lost.</p> + +<p>When he comes to light again, he embraces her warmly, and placing his +hands upon her shoulders, regards her smilingly.</p> + +<p>"Bless the boy, how he has grown, to be sure!" says nurse, with tears in +her eyes; taking out her spectacles with much deliberation, she +carefully adjusts them on her substantial nose, and again subjects him +to a loving examination.</p> + +<p>"Yes; hasn't he, nurse? I said so," remarks Lilian, in raptures, while +Sir Guy stands behind, much edified.</p> + +<p>"So have you, nurse," says Master Taffy,—"<i>young</i>. I protest it is a +shame the way you go on deceiving the public. Every year only sees you +fresher and lovelier. Why, you are ten years younger than when last I +saw you. It's uncommonly mean of you not to give us a hint as to how you manage it."</p> + +<p>"Tut," says nurse, giving him a scornful poke with her first finger, +though she is tremendously flattered; "be off with you; you are worse +than ever. Eh, but I always<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span> knew how it would be if you took to +soldiering. All the millingtary has soft tongues, and the gift o' the gab."</p> + +<p>"How do you know, nurse?" demands Mr. Musgrave: "I always understood the +fortunate Tipping was a retired mason. I am afraid at some period of +your life you must have lost your heart to a bold dragoon. Never mind: +my soldiering shan't bring me to grief, if only for your sake."</p> + +<p>"Eh, darling, I hope not," says nurse, surveying with fond admiration +his handsome boyish face: "such bonnie looks as yours should aye sit upon a high head."</p> + +<p>"I decline to listen to any more flattery. It is downright +demoralizing," says Mr. Musgrave, virtuously, and presently finds +himself in his pretty room, that is sweet with the blossoms of Lilian's gathering.</p> + +<p class="center">* * * * * * *</p> + +<p>Mr. Musgrave on acquaintance proves as great a success as his cousin: +indeed, to like one is to like the other, as no twins could be more +similar. He takes very kindly to the house and all its inmates, and is, +after one day's association, as much at home with them as though they +had been his chosen intimates all his life.</p> + +<p>His disposition is certainly sweeter than Lilian's,—bad temper of any +sort being quite unknown to him; whereas Miss Chesney possesses a will +of her own, and a very quick temper indeed. He is bright, sunny, lovable +in disposition, and almost "without guile." So irresistible is he that +even Miss Beauchamp smiles upon him, and is singularly gracious to him, +considering he is not only a youngster but—far worse—a detrimental.</p> + +<p>He has one very principal charm. Unlike all the youthful soldiers it has +been my misfortune to meet, he does not spend his days wearying his +friends with a vivid description of his rooms, his daily duties when on +parade, his colonel, and his brother officers. For this grace alone his +familiars should love him and be grateful to him.</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, he is so far human that, the evening after his arrival, he +whispers to Lilian how he has brought his uniform with him, for her +inspection only. Whereupon Lilian, delighted, desires him to go up that +instant and put it on, that she may pass judgment upon him without +delay. No, she will not wait another second; she cannot know peace or +happiness until she beholds him in all his grandeur.</p> + +<p>After a faint demur, and the suggestion that as it is late<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> he could +scarcely get it on and have time afterward to dress for dinner, he gives +in, and, binding her to secrecy, runs up-stairs, having named a certain +time for her to follow him.</p> + +<p>Half an hour later, Miss Beauchamp, sweeping slowly along the corridor +up-stairs, hears the sound of merriment coming from young Musgrave's +room, and stops short.</p> + +<p>Is that Lilian's voice? surely it is; and in her cousin's room! The door +is almost closed,—not quite; and, overcome by curiosity, she lays her +hand against it, and, pushing it gently open, glances in.</p> + +<p>Before the dressing-table, clothed in military garments of the most +<i>recherché</i> description, is Taffy, while opposite to him, full of open +admiration, stands Miss Chesney. Taffy is struggling with some part of +his dress that declines to fall into a right position, and Lilian is +flouting him merrily for the evident inexperience he betrays.</p> + +<p>Florence, astonished—nay, electrified—by this scene, stands +motionless. A young woman in a young man's bedroom! Oh, shocking! To her +carefully educated mind, the whole thing borders on the improper, while +to have it occur in such a well-regulated household as Chetwoode fills +her with genuine horror.</p> + +<p>So struck is she by the criminality of it all that she might have stayed +there until now, but that a well-known step coming up the stairs warns +her that eavesdropping is not the most honorable position to be caught +in. She moves away, and presently finds herself face to face with Guy. +He is coming lazily along the corridor, but stops as he sees her.</p> + +<p>"What is it, Florence? You look frightened," he says, half jestingly.</p> + +<p>"No, not frightened," Florence answers, coldly, "though I confess I am a +good deal amazed,"—her tone says "disgusted," and Guy knows the tone. +"Really, that girl seems absolutely ignorant of the common decencies of +society!"</p> + +<p>"Of whom are you speaking?" asks Guy, coloring.</p> + +<p>"Of whom can I say such things but Lilian? She is the only one of my +acquaintance deserving of such a remark, and it is not my fault that we +are acquainted. I think it is clearly Aunt Anne's duty to speak to her, +or yours. There are moments when one positively blushes for her."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span></p><p>"Why, what has she been doing?" asks Guy, overcome with astonishment at +this outburst on the part of the usually calm Florence.</p> + +<p>"Doing! Do you not hear her in her cousin's room? Is that the proper +place for a young lady?"</p> + +<p>At this instant a sound of laughter coming from Mr. Musgrave's apartment +gives truth to her accusations, and with a slight but expressive shrug +of her white shoulders, Florence sails majestically down the stairs, +while Sir Guy instinctively moves on toward Taffy's quarters.</p> + +<p>Miss Beauchamp's touch has left the door quite open, so that, standing +on the threshold, he can see clearly all that is within.</p> + +<p>By this time Taffy is quite arrayed, having finally resorted to his cousin's help.</p> + +<p>"There!" says Lilian, triumphantly, "now you are ready. Oh! I say, +Taffy, how nice you do look!"</p> + +<p>"No; do I?" returns Mr. Musgrave, with admirable modesty, regarding +himself bashfully though complacently in a full-length mirror. His tall +young figure is well drawn up, his head erect; unconsciously he has +assumed all the full-blown, starchy airs of a military swell. "Does the +coat fit well, do you think?" he asks, turning to await her answer with +doubtful anxiety.</p> + +<p>"It is simply perfection," returns she reassuringly, "not a wrinkle in +it. Certainly you owe your tailor something for turning you out so well."</p> + +<p>"I do," says Taffy, feelingly.</p> + +<p>"I had no idea it would make such a difference in you," goes on Lilian; +"you look quite grown up."</p> + +<p>"Grown up,—nonsense," somewhat indignantly; "I should think I was +indeed. Just twenty, and six feet one. There are very few fellows in the +service as good a height as I am. 'Grown up,' indeed!"</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon," Lilian says, meekly. "Remember I am only a little +rustic, hardly aware of what a man really means. Talking of fitting, +however, do you know," thoughtfully, and turning her head to one side, +the better to mark the effect, "I think—I fancy—there is just a little +pucker in your trousers, just at the knee."</p> + +<p>"No; is there?" says Taffy, immediately sinking into the deepest +melancholy as he again refers to the glass.</p> + +<p>Here Sir Guy comes forward and creates a diversion. He is immensely +amused, but still sore and angry at Florence's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span> remarks, while wishing +Lilian would not place herself in such positions as to lay her open to unkind criticism.</p> + +<p>"Oh, here is Sir Guy," says that young lady, quite unembarrassed; "he +will decide. Sir Guy, do you think his trousers fit very well? Look +here, now, is there not the faintest pucker here?"</p> + +<p>"I think they fit uncommonly well," says Guy, gravely. Taffy has turned +a warm crimson and is silent; but his confusion arises not from Miss +Chesney's presence in his room, but because Chetwoode has discovered him +trying on his new clothes like a school-boy.</p> + +<p>"Lilian wanted so much to see me in my uniform," he says, meanly, +considering how anxious he himself has been to show himself to her in it.</p> + +<p>"Yes, and doesn't he look well in it?" asks Lilian, proudly; "I had no +idea he could look so handsome. Most men appear perfect fools in +uniform, but it suits Taffy. Don't you think so?"</p> + +<p>"I do; and I think something else, too; your auntie is coming up-stairs, +and if she catches you in Taffy's room she will give you a small lecture +on the proprieties."</p> + +<p>This is the mildest rebuke he can think of. Not that he thinks her at +all worthy of rebuke, but because he is afraid of Florence's tongue for her sake.</p> + +<p>"Why?" asks Lilian, opening large eyes of utter amazement, after which +the truth dawns upon her, and as it dawns amuses her intensely. "Do you +mean to say," blushing slightly, but evidently struck with the +comicality of the thought,—"what would auntie say, then, if she knew +Taffy had been in mine? Yes; he was,—this afternoon,—just before +lunch," nodding defiantly at Sir Guy, "actually in mine; and he stole my +eau de Cologne, which I thought mean of him. When I found it was all +gone, I was very near running across to your room to replenish my +bottle. Was it not well I didn't? Had I done so I should of course have +earned two lectures, one from auntie and one from—you!" provokingly. +"Why, Guardy, how stupid you are! Taffy is just the same as my brother."</p> + +<p>"But he is not your brother," says Guy, beginning to feel bewildered.</p> + +<p>"Yes, he is, and better than most brothers: aren't you, Taffy?"</p> + +<p>"Are you angry with Lil for being in my room?" asks Mr. Musgrave, +surprised; "she thinks nothing of it: and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span> why should she? Bless you, +all last year, when we were at home—at the Park—she used to come in +and settle my ties when we were going out anywhere to dinner, or that."</p> + +<p>"Sir Guy never had a sister, so of course he doesn't understand," says +Lilian, disdainfully, whereupon Guy gives up the point. "I wish you +would come down and show yourself to auntie. Do now, Taffy,"—coaxingly: +"you can't think how well you look. Come, if only to please me."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I couldn't," says Taffy. "I really couldn't, you know. She would +think me such an awful fool, and Miss Beauchamp would laugh at me, and +altogether it wouldn't be form. I only meant to show myself to you, +but——"</p> + +<p>"Guy, my dear," says Lady Chetwoode from the doorway, "why, what is +going on here?" advancing and smiling gently.</p> + +<p>"Oh, auntie, I am so glad you have come!" says Lilian, going forward to +welcome her: "he would not go down-stairs to you, though I did my best +to persuade him. Is he not charming in uniform?"</p> + +<p>"He is, indeed. Quite charming! He reminds me very much of what Guy was +when first he joined his regiment." Not for a moment does Lady +Chetwoode—dear soul—think of improprieties, or wrong-doing, or the +"decencies of society." And, watching her, Guy grows gradually ashamed +of himself. "It was really selfish of you, my dear Taffy, to deny me a +glimpse of you."</p> + +<p>"Well, I didn't think you'd care, you know," says Mr. Musgrave, who is +positively consumed with pride, and who is blushing like a demoiselle.</p> + +<p>"I couldn't resist coming in when I saw you from the doorway. All my +people were in the army: so I have quite an affection for it. But +Lilian, darling, dinner is almost ready, and you have not yet changed your dress."</p> + +<p>"I shan't be a minute," says Lilian; and Guy, lighting a candle, escorts +her to her own room, while Lady Chetwoode goes down-stairs.</p> + +<p>"Shall I get you the eau de Cologne now?" he asks, pausing on her +threshold for a moment.</p> + +<p>"If," says Miss Chesney, lowering her eyes with affected shyness, "you +are <i>quite</i> sure there would be nothing reprehensible in my accepting +it, I should like it very much, thank you. By the bye, that reminds me," +glancing at<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span> him with a mocking smile, "Lady Chetwoode quite forgot to +deliver that small lecture. You, Sir Guy, as my guardian, should have reminded her."</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.</span></h2> + +<p class="center">"Sweets to the sweet."—<i>Hamlet.</i></p> + +<p>"I am going to London in the morning. Can I do anything for anybody?" +asks Sir Guy, at exactly twenty minutes past ten on Wednesday night. +"Madre, what of you?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing, dear, thank you," says the Madre, lazily enough, her eyes +comfortably closed. "But to-morrow, my dear boy! why to-morrow? You know +we expect Archibald."</p> + +<p>"I shall be home long before he arrives, if I don't meet him and bring +him with me."</p> + +<p>"Some people make a point of being from home when their guests are +expected," says Miss Lilian, pointedly, raising demure eyes to his.</p> + +<p>"Some other people make a point of being ungenerous," retorts he. +"Florence, can I bring you anything?"</p> + +<p>"I want some wools matched: I cannot finish the parrot's tail in my +crewel-work until I get them, and you will be some hours earlier than the post."</p> + +<p>"What! you expect me to enter a fancy shop—is that what you call +it?—and sort wools, while the young woman behind the counter makes love +to me? I should die of shame."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense! you need only hand in the envelope I will prepare for you, +and wait until you receive an answer to it."</p> + +<p>"Very good. I dare say I shall survive so much. And you, my ward? How +can I serve you?"</p> + +<p>"In a thousand ways, but modesty forbids my mentioning them. <i>Au reste</i>, +I want bonbons, a new book or two, and—the portrait of the handsomest +young man in London."</p> + +<p>"I thoroughly understand, and am immensely flattered.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span> I shall have +myself taken the moment I get there. Would you prefer me sitting or +standing, with my hat on or off? A small size or a cabinet?"</p> + +<p>Miss Chesney makes a little grimace eminently becoming, but disdains +direct reply. "I said a <i>young</i> man," she remarks, severely.</p> + +<p>"I heard you. Am not I in the flower of my youth and beauty?"</p> + +<p>"Lilian evidently does not think so," says Florence, with a would-be air +of intense surprise.</p> + +<p>"Why should I, when it suits me to think differently?" returns Lilian, +calmly. Florence rather amuses her than otherwise. "Sir Guy and I are +quite good friends at present. He has been civil to me for two whole +days together, and has not once told me I have a horrid temper, or held +me up to scorn in any way. Such conduct deserves reward. Therefore I +liken him to an elderly gentleman, because I adore old men. You see, +Guardy?" with an indescribably fascinating air, that has a suspicion of +sauciness only calculated to heighten its charm.</p> + +<p>"I should think he is old in reality to you," says Florence: "you are such a child."</p> + +<p>"I am," says Lilian, agreeably, though secretly annoyed at the other's +slighting tone. "I like it. There is nothing so good as youth. I should +like to be eighteen always. But for my babyish ways and utter +hopelessness, I feel positive Sir Guy would have beaten me long ago. But +who could chastise an infant?"</p> + +<p>"In long robes," puts in Cyril, who is deep in the intricacies of chess +with Mr. Musgrave.</p> + +<p>"Besides, I am 'Esther Summerson,' and he is 'Mr. Jarndyce,' and +Esther's 'Guardy' very rightly was in perfect subjection to his ward."</p> + +<p>"Esther's guardian, if I remember correctly, fell in love with her; and +she let him see"—dreamily but spitefully—"that she preferred another."</p> + +<p>"Ah, Sir Guy, think of that. See what lies before you," says Lilian, +coloring warmly, but braving it out to the end.</p> + +<p>"I am sure you are going to ask me what I should like, Guy," breaks in +Cyril, languidly, who is not so engrossed by his game but that he can +heed Lilian's embarrassment. "Those cigars of yours are excellent. I +shall feel obliged by your bringing me (as a free gift, mind) half a +dozen<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span> boxes. If you do, it will be a saving, as for the future I shall +leave yours in peace."</p> + +<p>"Thank you: I shall make a note of it," says Guy, laughing.</p> + +<p>"Do you go early, Sir Guy?" asks Lilian, presently. She is leaning back +in a huge lounging-chair of blue satin that almost conceals from view +her tiny figure. In her hands is an ebony fan, and as she asks the +question she closes and uncloses it indolently.</p> + +<p>"Very early. I must start at seven to catch the train, if I wish to get +my business done and be back by five."</p> + +<p>"What an unearthly hour for a poor old gentleman like you to rise! You +won't recover it in a hurry. You will breakfast before you go?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"What a lunch you will eat when you get to town! But don't overdo it, +Guardy. You will be starving, no doubt; but remember the horrors of +gout. And who will give you your breakfast at seven?"</p> + +<p>She raises her large soft eyes to his and, unfurling her fan, lays it +thoughtfully against her pretty lips. Sir Guy is about to make an eager +reply, when Miss Beauchamp interposes.</p> + +<p>"I always give Guy his breakfast when he goes to London," she says, +calmly yet hastily.</p> + +<p>"Check!" says Cyril, at this instant, with his eyes on the board. "My +dear Musgrave, what a false move!—a fatal delay. Don't you know bold +play generally wins?"</p> + +<p>"Sometimes it loses," retorts Taffy, innocently; which reply, to his +surprise, appears to cause Mr. Chetwoode infinite amusement.</p> + +<p>"Whenever you do go," says Lilian to Sir Guy, "don't forget my +sweetmeats: I shall be dreaming of them until I see you again. Have you +a pocket-book? Yes. Well, put down in it what I most particularly love. +I like chocolate creams and burnt almonds better than anything in the world."</p> + +<p>Cyril, with dreamy sentiment, "How I wish I was a burnt almond!"</p> + +<p>Miss Chesney, viciously, "If you were, what a bite I would give you!"</p> + +<p>Taffy, to Sir Guy, "Lilian's tastes and mine are one.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span> If you are really +going to bring lollypops, please make the supply large. When I think of +burnt almonds I feel no end hungry."</p> + +<p>Lilian, vigorously, "You shan't have any of mine, Taffy. Don't imagine +it! Yesterday you ate every one Cyril brought me from Fenston. I crossed +the room for one instant, and when I came back the box was literally +cleared. Wasn't it a shame? I shan't go into partnership with you over +Sir Guy's confections."</p> + +<p>Taffy, <i>sotto voce</i>, "Greedy little thing!" Then suddenly addressing Sir +Guy, "I think I saw your old colonel—Trant—about the neighborhood +to-day."</p> + +<p>Cyril draws himself up with a start and looks hard at the lad, who is +utterly unconscious of the private bombshell he has discharged.</p> + +<p>"Trant!" says Guy, surprised; "impossible. Unless, indeed," with a light +laugh, "he came to look after his <i>protégée</i>, the widow."</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Arlington? I saw her yesterday," says Taffy, with animation. "She +was in her garden, and she is lovely. I never saw anything so perfect as her smile."</p> + +<p>"I hope you are not <i>épris</i> with her. We warn everybody against our +tenant," Guy says, smiling, though there is evident meaning in his tone. +"We took her to oblige Trant,—who begged we would not be inquisitive +about her; and literally we are in ignorance of who she is, or where she +came from. Widows, like cousins, are dangerous," with a slight glance at +his brother, who is leaning back in his chair, a knight between his +fingers, taking an exhaustive though nonchalant survey of the painted +ceiling, where all the little loves and graces are playing at a very +pronounced game of hide-and-seek among the roses.</p> + +<p>"I hope," says Florence, slowly, looking up from the <i>rara avis</i> whose +tail she is elaborately embroidering,—the original of which was never +yet (most assuredly) seen by land or sea,—"I hope Colonel Trant, in +this instance, has not played you false. I cannot say I admire Mrs. +Arlington's appearance. Though no doubt she is pretty,—in a certain +style," concludes Miss Beauchamp, who is an adept at uttering the faint +praise that damns.</p> + +<p>"Trant is a gentleman," returns Guy, somewhat coldly. Yet as he says it +a doubt enters his mind.</p> + +<p>"He has the name of being rather fast in town," says young Musgrave, +vaguely; "there is some story about his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span> being madly in love with some +mysterious woman whom nobody knows. I don't remember exactly how it +is,—but they say she is hidden away somewhere."</p> + +<p>"How delightfully definite Taffy always is!" Lilian says, admiringly; +"it is so easy to grasp his meaning. Got any more stories, Taffy? I +quite begin to fancy this Colonel Trant. Is he as captivating as he is wicked?"</p> + +<p>"Not quite. I am almost sure I saw him to-day in the lane that runs down +between the wood and Brown's farm. But I may be mistaken; I was +certainly one or two fields off, yet I have a sure eye, and I have seen +him often in London."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps Mrs. Arlington is the mysterious lady of his affections," says +Guy, laughing, and, the moment the words have passed his lips, regrets +their utterance. Cyril's eyes descend rapidly from the ceiling and meet +his. On the instant a suspicion unnamed and unacknowledged fills both their hearts.</p> + +<p>"Do you really think Trant came down to see your tenant?" asks Cyril, +almost defiantly.</p> + +<p>"Certainly not," returning the other's somewhat fiery glance calmly. "I +do not believe he would be in the neighborhood without coming to see my mother."</p> + +<p>At the last word, so dear to her, Lady Chetwoode wakes gently, opens her +still beautiful eyes, and smiles benignly on all around, as though +defying them to say she has slumbered for half a second.</p> + +<p>"Yes, my dear Guy, I quite agree with you," she says, affably, <i>apropos</i> +of nothing unless it be a dream, and then, being fully roused, suggests +going to bed. Whereupon Florence says, with gentle thoughtfulness, +"Indeed yes. If Guy is to be up early in the morning he ought to go to +bed now," and, rising as her aunt rises, makes a general move.</p> + +<p>When the women have disappeared and resigned themselves to the tender +mercies of their maids, and the men have sought that best beloved of all +apartments, the Tabagie, a sudden resolution to say something that lies +heavy on his mind takes possession of Guy. Of all things on earth he +hates most a "scene," but some power within him compels him to speak +just now. The intense love he bears his only brother, his fear lest harm +should befall him, urges him on, sorely against his will, to give some +faint utterance to all that is puzzling and distressing him.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span></p><p>Taffy, seduced by the sweetness of the night, has stepped out into the +garden, where he is enjoying his weed alone. Within, the lamp is almost +quenched by the great pale rays of the moon that rush through the open +window. Without, the whole world is steeped in one white, glorious splendor.</p> + +<p>The stars on high are twinkling, burning, like distant lamps. Anon, one +darts madly across the dark blue amphitheatre overhead, and is lost in +space, while the others laugh on, unheeding its swift destruction. The +flowers are sleeping, emitting in their dreams faint, delicate perfumed +sighs; the cattle have ceased to low in the far fields: there is no +sound through all the busy land save the sweet soughing of the wind and +the light tread of Musgrave's footsteps up and down outside.</p> + +<p>"Cyril," says Guy, removing the meerschaum from between his lips, and +regarding its elaborate silver bands with some nervousness, "I wish you +would not go to The Cottage so often as you do."</p> + +<p>"No? And why not, <i>très cher</i>?" asks Cyril, calmly, knowing well what is +coming.</p> + +<p>"For one thing, we do not know who this Mrs. Arlington is, or anything +of her. That in itself is a drawback. I am sorry I ever agreed to +Trant's proposal, but it is too late for regret in that quarter. Do not +double my regret by making me feel I have done you harm."</p> + +<p>"You shall never feel that. How you do torture yourself over shadows, +Guy! I always think it must be the greatest bore on earth to be +conscientious,—that is, over-scrupulous, like you. It is a mistake, +dear boy, take my word for it,—will wear you out before your time."</p> + +<p>"I am thinking of you, Cyril. Forgive me if I seem impertinent. Mrs. +Arlington is lovely, graceful, everything of the most desirable in +appearance, but——" A pause.</p> + +<p>"<i>Après?</i>" murmurs Cyril, lazily.</p> + +<p>"But," earnestly, "I should not like you to lose your heart to her, as +you force me to say it. Musgrave says he saw Trant in the lane to-day. +Of course he may have been mistaken; but was he? I have my own doubts, +Cyril," rising in some agitation,—"doubts that may be unjust, but I +cannot conquer them. If you allow yourself to love that woman, she will +bring you misfortune. Why is she so secret about her former life? Why +does she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span> shun society? Cyril, be warned in time; she may be a——, she +may be anything," checking himself slowly.</p> + +<p>"She may," says Cyril, rising with a passionate irrepressible movement +to his feet, under pretense of lighting the cigar that has died out +between his fingers. Then, with a sudden change of tone and a soft +laugh, "The skies may fall, of course, but we scarcely anticipate it. My +good Guy, what a visionary you are! Do be rational, if you can. As for +Mrs. Arlington, why should she create dissension between you and me?"</p> + +<p>"Why, indeed?" returns Guy, gravely. "I have to ask your pardon for my +interference. But you know I only speak when I feel compelled, and +always for your good."</p> + +<p>"You are about the best fellow going, I know that," replies Cyril, +deliberately, knocking the ash off his cigar; "but at times you are wont +to lose your head,—to wander,—like the best of us. I am safe enough, +trust me. 'What's Hecuba to me, or I to Hecuba?' Come, don't let us +spoil this glorious night by a dissertation on what we neither of us +know anything about. What a starlight!" standing at the open casement, +and regarding with quick admiration the glistening dome above him. "I +wonder how any one looking on it can disbelieve in a heaven beyond!"</p> + +<p>Here Musgrave's fair head makes a blot in the perfect calm of the night scene.</p> + +<p>"Is that you, Taffy? Where have you been all this time?—mooning?—you +have had ample opportunity. But you are too young for Melancholy to mark +you as her own. It is only old folk like Guy," with a laughing though +affectionate glance backward to where his brother stands, somewhat +perplexed, beside the lamp, "should fall victims to the blues."</p> + +<p>"A fig for melancholy!" says Taffy, vaulting lightly into the room, and +by his presence putting an end to all private conversation between the brothers.</p> + +<p class="center">* * * * * * *</p> + +<p>The next morning Lilian (to whom early rising is a pure delight), +running down the broad stone stairs two steps at a time, finds Guy on +the eve of starting, with Florence beside him, looking positively +handsome in the most thrilling of morning gowns. She has forsaken her +virtuous couch, and slighted the balmy slumber she so much loves,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span> to +give him his breakfast, and is still unremitting in her attentions, and +untiring with regard to her smiles.</p> + +<p>"Not gone!" says Lilian, wickedly: "how disappointed I am, to be sure! I +fancied my bonbons an hour nearer to me than they really are. Bad +Guardy, why don't you hurry?" She says this with the prettiest +affectation of infantile grace, accompanied by a coquettish glance from +under her sweeping lashes that creates in Florence a mad desire to box her ears.</p> + +<p>"You forget it will not hasten the train five seconds, Guy's leaving +this sooner than he does," she says, snubbingly. "To picture him sitting +in a draughty station could not—I should think—give satisfaction to +any one."</p> + +<p>"It could"—willfully—"to me. It would show a proper anxiety to obey my +behests. Guardy," with touching concern, "are you sure you are warm +enough? Now do promise me one thing,—that you will beware of the +crossings; they say any number of old men come to grief in that way +yearly, and are run over through deafness, or short sight, or stupidity +in general. Think how horrid it would be if they sent us home your mangled remains."</p> + +<p>"Go in, you naughty child, and learn to speak to your elders with +respect," says Guy, laughing, and putting her bodily inside the +hall-door, from whence she trips out again to wave him a last adieu, and +kiss her hand warmly to him as he disappears round the corner of the +laurustinus bush.</p> + +<p>And Sir Guy drives away full of his ward's fresh girlish loveliness, her +slender lissome figure, her laughing face, the thousand tantalizing +graces that go to make her what she is; forgetful of Miss Beauchamp's +more matured charms,—her white gown,—her honeyed words,—everything.</p> + +<p>All day long Lilian's image follows him. It is beside him in the crowded +street, enters his club with him, haunts him in his business, laughs at +him in his most serious moods; while she, at home, scarce thinks of him +at all, or at the most vaguely, though when at five he does return she +is the first to greet him.</p> + +<p>"He has come home! he is here!" she cries, dancing into the hall. "Have +you escaped the crossings? and rheumatism? and your old enemy, lumbago? +Good old Guardy, let me help you off with your coat. So. Positively, he +is all here,—not a bit of him gone,—and none the worse for wear!"</p> + +<p>"Tired, Guy?" asks Florence, coming gracefully <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span>forward,—slowly, lest +by unseemly haste she should disturb the perfect fold of her train, that +sets off her figure to such advantage. She speaks warmly, +appropriatingly, as one's wife might, after a long journey.</p> + +<p>"Tired! not he," returns Lilian irreverently: "he is quite a gay old +gentleman. Nor hungry either. No doubt he has lunched profusely in town, +'not wisely, but too well,' as somebody says. Where are my sweeties, Sir Ancient?"</p> + +<p>"My dear Lilian,"—rebukingly,—"if you reflect, you will see he must be +both tired and hungry."</p> + +<p>"So am I for my creams: I quite pine for them. Sir Guy, where <i>are</i> my +sweeties?"</p> + +<p>"Here, little cormorant," says Guy, as fondly as he dares, handing her a +gigantic <i>bonbonnière</i> in which chocolates and French sweetmeats fight +for mastery: "have I got you what you wanted?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, indeed; <i>best</i> of Guardys, I only wish I might kiss my thanks."</p> + +<p>"You may."</p> + +<p>"Better not. Such a condescension on my part might turn your old head. +Oh, Taffy," with an exclamation, "you bad greedy boy; you have taken +half my almonds! Well, you shan't have any of the others, for +punishment. Auntie and Florence and I will eat the rest."</p> + +<p>"Thanks," drawls Florence, languidly, "but I am always so terrified about toothache."</p> + +<p>"What a pity!" says Miss Chesney. "If I had toothache, I should have all +my teeth drawn instantly, and false ones put in their place."</p> + +<p>To this Miss Beauchamp, being undecided in her own mind as to whether it +is or is not an impertinence, deigns no reply. Cyril, with a gravity +that belies his innermost feelings, gazes hard at Lilian, only to +acknowledge her innocent of desire to offend.</p> + +<p>"You did not meet Archibald?" asks Lady Chetwoode of Guy.</p> + +<p>"No: I suppose he will be down by next train. Chesney is always up to time."</p> + +<p>"Lilian, my dear, where is my fourth knitting-needle?" asks auntie, +mildly. "I lent it to you this morning for some purpose."</p> + +<p>"It is up-stairs; you shall have it in one moment," returns Lilian, +moving toward the door; and Sir Guy, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span>muttering something about getting +rid of the dust of travel, follows her out of the room.</p> + +<p>At the foot of the stairs he says:</p> + +<p>"Lilian."</p> + +<p>"Yes?"</p> + +<p>"I have brought you yet another bonbon. Will you accept it?"</p> + +<p>As he speaks he holds out to her an open case, in which lies a pretty +ring composed of pearls and diamonds.</p> + +<p>"For me? Oh, Sir Guy!" says Lilian, flushing with pleasure, "what a +lovely present to bring me!" Then her expression changes, and her face +falls somewhat. She has lived long enough to know that young men do not, +as a rule, go about giving costly rings to young women without a motive. +Perhaps she ought to refuse it. Perhaps auntie would think it wrong of +her to take it. And if there is really anything between him and +Florence—— Yet what a pretty ring it is, and how the diamonds glitter! +And what woman can resign diamonds without a struggle?</p> + +<p>"Will auntie be vexed if I take it?" she asks, honestly, after a pause, +raising her clear eyes to his, thereby betraying the fear that is tormenting her.</p> + +<p>"Why should she? Surely," with a smile, "an elderly guardian may make a +present to his youthful ward without being brought to task for it."</p> + +<p>"And Florence?" asks Lilian, speaking impulsively, but half jestingly.</p> + +<p>"Does it signify what she thinks?" returns he, a little stiffly. "It is +a mere bauble, and scarcely worth so much thought. You remember that day +down by the stream, when you said you were so fond of rings?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Well, I do, as I remember most things you say, be they kind or cruel," +softly. "To-day, though I cannot explain why, this ring reminded me of +you, so I bought it, thinking you might fancy it."</p> + +<p>"So I do: it is quite too lovely," says Lilian, feeling as though she +had been ungracious, and, what is worse, prudish. "Thank you very much. +I shall wear it this evening with my new dress, and it will help me to +make an impression on my unknown cousin."</p> + +<p>She holds out her hand to him; it is the right one, and Guy slips the +ring upon the third finger of it, while she, forgetting it is the +engaged finger, makes no objection.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span></p><p>Sir Guy, still holding the little cool slim hand, looks at her fixedly, +and, looking, decides regretfully that she is quite ignorant of his meaning.</p> + +<p>"How it sparkles!" she says, moving her hand gently to and fro so that +the light falls upon it from different directions. "Thank you again, +Guardy; you are always better to me than I deserve." She says this +warmly, being desirous of removing all traces of her late hesitation, +and quite oblivious of her former scruples. But the moment she leaves +him she remembers them again, and, coming down-stairs with Lady +Chetwoode's needle, and finding her alone, says, with a heightened +color, "See what a charming present Sir Guy has brought me."</p> + +<p>"Very pretty indeed," Lady Chetwoode says, examining the ring with +interest. "Dear Guy has such taste, and he is always so thoughtful, ever +thinking how to please some one. I am glad it has been you this time, +pussy," kissing the girl's smiling lips as she bends over her. So that +Miss Chesney, reassured by her auntie's kind words, goes up to dress for +the reception of her cousin Archibald, with a clear and therefore happy +conscience. Not for all the diamonds in Christendom would she have +concealed even so small a secret as the acceptance of this ring from one +whom she professes to love, and who she knows trusts in her.</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.</span></h2> + +<div class="block3"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div class="i1">"<i>Kate.</i> I never saw a better fashioned gown,</div> +<div>More quaint, more pleasing, nor more commendable."</div> +<div><span class="s12"> </span>—<i>Taming of the Shrew.</i></div> +</div></div></div> + +<p>This dressing of Lilian for the undoing of her cousin is a wonderful +affair, and occupies a considerable time. Not that she spends any of it +in a dainty hesitation over the choice of the gown fated to work his +overthrow; all that has been decided on long ago, and the fruit of many +days' deep thought now lies upon her bed, bearing in its every fold—in +each soft fall of lace—all the distinguishing marks that stamp the work +of the inimitable Worth.</p> + +<p>At length—nurse having admired and praised her to her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span> heart's content, +and given the last fond finishing touches to her toilet—Miss Chesney +stands arrayed for conquest. She is dressed in a marvelous robe of black +velvet—cut <i>à la Princesse</i>, simply fashioned, fitting <i>à +merveille</i>,—being yet in mourning for her father. It is a little open +at the throat, so that her neck—soft and fair as a child's—may be +partly seen (looking all the whiter for the blackness that frames it +in), and has the sleeves very tight and ending at the elbow, from which +rich folds of Mechlin lace hang downward. Around her throat are a narrow +band of black velvet and three little strings of pearls that once had +been her mother's. In her amber hair a single white rose nestles sleepily.</p> + +<p>Standing erect before her glass, she contemplates herself in +silence,—marks the snowy loveliness of her neck and arms, her slender +hands (on one of which Guy's ring is sparkling brilliantly), her +rippling yellow hair in all its unstudied sleekness, the tender, +exquisite face, rose-flushed, and, looking gladly upon it all,—for very +love of it,—stoops forward and presses a kiss upon the delicate beauty +that smiles back upon her from the mirror.</p> + +<p>"How do I look, nurse?" she asks, turning with a whimsical grace to the +woman who is regarding her with loving admiration. "Shall we captivate our cousin?"</p> + +<p>"Ay, so I think, my dear," replies nurse, quietly. "Were you willing, my +beauty, I'm nigh sure you could coax the birds off the bushes."</p> + +<p>"You are an old dear," says Miss Chesney, tenderly, pressing her own +cheek, soft with youth's down, against the wrinkled one near her. "But I +must go and show myself to Taffy."</p> + +<p>So saying, she opens the door, and trips away from Mrs. Tipping's +adoring eyes, down the corridor, until she stops at Taffy's door.</p> + +<p>"Taffy!"</p> + +<p>"Yes." The answer comes in muffled tones.</p> + +<p>"May I come in?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," still more muffled.</p> + +<p>Turning the handle of the door, Lilian enters, to find Mr. Musgrave in +his shirt-sleeves before a long mirror, struggling with his hair, which +is combed straight over his forehead.</p> + +<p>"It won't come right," he says, casting a heart-rending<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span> glance at +Lilian, who laughs with most reprehensible cruelty, considering the situation.</p> + +<p>"I am glad to find you are not suffocated," she says. "From your tone, I +prepared myself—outside—for the worst. Here, bend your head, you +helpless boy, and I will do it for you."</p> + +<p>Taffy kneeling before her submissively, she performs her task deftly, +successfully, and thereby restores peace once more to the bosom of the +dejected dragoon.</p> + +<p>"You should hire me as your valet," she says, lightly; "when you are +away from me, I am afraid to think of all the sufferings you must +undergo. Are you easier in your mind now, Taffy?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I say! what a swell you are!" says that young man, when he is +sufficiently recovered to glance round. "I call that rig-out downright +fetching. Where did you get that from?"</p> + +<p>"Straight from Monsieur Worth," returns Lilian, with pardonable pride, +when one remembers what a success she is, drawing up her slim young +figure to its fullest height, and letting her white hands fall clasped +before her, as she poses for well-earned admiration. "Is not it pretty? +And doesn't it fit like a glove?"</p> + +<p>"It does. It gives you really a tolerably good figure," with all a +brother's calm impertinence, while examining her critically. "You have +got yourself up regardless, so I suppose you mean mischief."</p> + +<p>"Well, if this doesn't soften his heart, nothing will," replies Miss +Chesney, vainly regarding her velvet, and alluding, as Musgrave well +knows, to her cousin Archibald. "You really think I look nice, Taffy? +You think I am <i>chic</i>?"</p> + +<p>"I do, indeed. I am not a judge of women's clothing, but I like black +velvet, and when I have a wife she shall wear nothing else. I would say +more in your favor, but that I fear over-much praise might have a bad +effect upon you, and cause you to die of your 'own dear loveliness.'"</p> + +<p>"<i>Méchant!</i>" says Lilian, with a charming pout. "Never mind, I know you +admire me intensely."</p> + +<p>"Have I not said so in the plainest Queen's English? But that time has +fatally revealed to me the real character of the person standing in +those costly garments, I feel I should fall madly in love with you +to-night."</p> + +<p>"Silly child!"—turning up her small nose with <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span>immeasurable +disdain,—"do you think I would deign to accept your boyish homage? No; +I like <i>men</i>! Indeed!"—with disgraceful affectation,—"I think it my +duty to warn you not to waste time burning your foolish fingers at <i>my</i> shrine."</p> + +<p>She moves him aside with one small finger, the better to see how +charming she is in another glass. This one reveals to her all the +sweetness she has seen before—and something more. Scarcely has she +glanced into it, when her complexion, that a moment since was a soft and +lovely pink, changes suddenly, and flames into a deep crimson. There, at +the farthest end of the long room reflected in the glass,—staring back +at her,—coatless, motionless, with a brush suspended from each hand, +stands a man, lost in wonder and most flattering astonishment.</p> + +<p>Miss Chesney, turning round with a start, finds that this vision is not +belonging to the other world, but is a real <i>bona fide</i> creature of +flesh and blood,—a young man, tall, broad-shouldered, and very dark.</p> + +<p>For a full minute they stare silently at each other, oppressed with +thoughts widely different in character, while Taffy remains blissfully +ignorant of the situation, being now engaged in a desperate conflict +with a refractory tie. Then one of the brushes falls from the stranger's +hand, and the spell is broken. Miss Chesney, turning impetuously, +proceeds to pour out the vials of her wrath upon Taffy.</p> + +<p>"I think you might have told me," she says, in clear, angry tones, +casting upon him a glance meant to wither. But Mr. Musgrave distinctly +refuses to be withered.</p> + +<p>"Eh? What? <i>By Jove!</i>" he says, vaguely, as the awful truth dawns upon +him. Meanwhile Lilian sweeps majestically to the door, her velvets +trailing behind her. All her merry kittenish ways have disappeared; she +walks as a young queen might who has been grossly affronted in open court.</p> + +<p>"Give you my honor I quite forgot him," murmurs Taffy, from the spot +where he is rooted through sheer dismay. His tones are dismal in the +extreme, but Miss Chesney disdains to hear or argue, and, going out, +closes the door with much determination behind her. The stranger, +suppressing a smile, stoops to pick up the fallen brush, and the scene is at an end.</p> + +<p>Down the stairs, full of vehement indignation, goes <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span>Lilian, thoughts +crowding upon her thick and heavy. Could anything be more unfortunate? +Just when she had got herself up in the most effective style,—just when +she had hoped, with the aid of this velvet gown, to make a pleasing and +dignified <i>entrée</i> into his presence in the drawing-room below,—she has +been led into making his acquaintance in Taffy's bedroom! Oh! horror! +She has been face to face with him in his shirt-sleeves, with his odious +brushes in his hands, and a stare of undeniable surprise upon his +hateful face! Oh! it is insupportable!</p> + +<p>And what was it she said to Taffy? What did she do? Hastily her mind +travels backward to the conversation that has just taken place.</p> + +<p>First, <i>she combed Taffy's hair</i>. Oh! miserable girl! She closes two +azure eyes with two slender fingers from the light of day, as this +thought occurs to her. Then, she smirked at her own graceful image in +Taffy's glass, and made all sorts of conceited remarks about her +personal appearance, and then she said she hoped to subjugate "<i>him</i>." +What "him" could there be but this one? and of course he knows it. Oh! +unhappy young woman!</p> + +<p>As for Taffy, bad, bad boy that he is, never to give her a hint. +Vengeance surely is in store for him. What right had he to forget? If +there is one thing she detests, it is a person devoid of tact. If there +is one thing she could adore, it would be the power to shake the +wretched Taffy out of his shoes.</p> + +<p>What is there left to her but to gain her room, plead bad headache, and +spend the remainder of the evening in retirement? In this mood she gains +the drawing-room door, and, hesitating before it, thinks better of the +solitary-confinement idea; and, entering the room, seats herself in a +cozy chair and prepares to meet her fate with admirable calmness.</p> + +<p>Dinner is ready,—waiting,—and still no Archibald. Then there is a step +in the hall, the door is thrown open, and he enters, as much hurried as +it is possible for a well-bred young man to be in this nineteenth century.</p> + +<p>Lady Chetwoode instantly says, with old-fashioned grace, the sweeter +that it is somewhat obsolete,——</p> + +<p>"Lilian, permit me to introduce to you your cousin, Archibald Chesney."</p> + +<p>Whereupon Lilian bows coldly and refuses to meet her cousin's eyes, +while kind Lady Chetwoode thinks it is a little<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span> stiff of the child, and +most unlike her, not to shake hands with her own kin.</p> + +<p>An awkward pause is almost inevitable, when Taffy says out loud, to no +one in particular, but with much gusto:</p> + +<p>"How odd it is they should never have seen each other until now!" after +which he goes into silent agonies of merriment over his own wit, until +brought to his senses by an annihilating glance from Lilian.</p> + +<p>The dinner-hour is remarkable for nothing except Lilian's silence. This, +being so utterly unexpected, is worthy of note. After dinner, when the +men gain the drawing-room, Archibald, coming over, deliberately pushes +aside Miss Chesney's velvet skirts, and seats himself on the low ottoman +beside her with modest determination.</p> + +<p>Miss Chesney, raising her eyes, regards him curiously.</p> + +<p>He is tall, and eminently gloomy in appearance. His hair is of a rare +blackness, his eyes are dark, so is his skin. His eyebrows are slightly +arched, which gives him an air of melancholy protest against the world +in general. His nose is of the high and mighty order that comes under +the denomination of aquiline, or hooked, as may suit you best. Before +his arrival Cyril used to tell Lilian that if Nature had meant him for +anything it was to act as brigand in a private theatre; and Lilian, now +calling to mind this remark, acknowledges the truth of it, and almost +laughs in the face of her dark-browed cousin. Nevertheless she refrains +from outward mirth, which is wisdom on her part, as ridicule is his +<i>bête noir</i>.</p> + +<p>Despite the extreme darkness of his complexion he is unmistakably +handsome, though somewhat discontented in expression. Why, no one knows. +He is rich, courted, as are all young men with a respectable rent-roll, +and might have made many a titled <i>débutante</i> Mrs. Chesney had he so +chosen. He has not even a romantic love-affair to fall back upon as an +excuse for his dejection; no unfortunate attachment has arisen to sour +his existence. Indeed, it is seldom the owner of landed property has to +complain on this score, all such luxuries being reserved for the poor of the earth.</p> + +<p>Archibald Chesney's gloom, which is becoming if anything, does not sink +deeper than his skin. It gives a certain gentleness to his face, and +prevents the ignorant from guessing that he is one of the wildest, +maddest young men<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span> about London. Lilian, regarding him with quiet +scrutiny, decides that he is good to look at, and that his eyes are +peculiarly large and dark.</p> + +<p>"Are you angry with me for what happened up-stairs?" he asks, gently, +after a pause spent in as earnest an examination of her as any she has +bestowed upon him.</p> + +<p>"Up-stairs?" says Lilian, with raised brows of inquiry and carefully +studied ignorance.</p> + +<p>"I mean my unfortunate <i>rencontre</i> with you in Musgrave's room."</p> + +<p>"Oh, dear, no," with clear denial. "I seldom grow angry over <i>trifles</i>. +I have not thought of it since." She utters her fib bravely, the truth +being that all during dinner she has been consumed with shame.</p> + +<p>"Have you not? <i>I</i> have. I have been utterly miserable ever since you +bestowed that terrible look upon me when your eyes first met mine. Won't +you let me explain my presence there? I think if you do you will forgive me."</p> + +<p>"It was not your fault: there is nothing about which you need +apologize," says Lilian; but her tone is more cordial, and there is the +faintest dimpling of a smile around her mobile lips.</p> + +<p>"Nevertheless I hate myself in that I caused you a moment's uneasiness," +says Mr. Chesney, that being the amiable word he employs for her +ill-temper. "I shall be discontented until I tell you the truth: so pray let me."</p> + +<p>"Then tell it," says Lilian.</p> + +<p>"I have a man, a perfect treasure, who can do all that man can possibly +do, who is in fact faultless,—but for one small weakness."</p> + +<p>"And that is?"</p> + +<p>"Like Mr. Stiggins, his vanity is—brandy hot. Now and then he drinks +more of it than is good for him, though to do him justice not very +often. Once in six months, regular as clockwork, he gets hopelessly +drunk, and just now the time being up, he, of course, chose this +particular day to make his half-yearly exhibition of himself, and having +imbibed brandy <i>ad lib.</i>, forgot to bring himself and my traps to +Chetwoode in time for the first dressing-bell."</p> + +<p>"What a satisfactory sort of servant!"</p> + +<p>"He is, very, when he is sober,—absolutely invaluable. And then his +little mistakes occur so seldom. But I wish<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span> he had not chosen this +night of all others in which to play me false. I don't know what I +should have done had I not thrown myself upon Musgrave's mercy and +borrowed his brushes and combs and implements of war generally. As it +was, I had almost given up hope of being able to reach the drawing-room +at all to-night, when just at the last moment my 'treasure' arrived with +my things and—any amount of concealed spirits. Do I bore you with my +explanation? It is very good of you to listen so patiently, but I should +have been too unhappy had I been prevented from telling you all this."</p> + +<p>"I think, after all, it is I should explain my presence in that room," +says Lilian, with a gay, irresistible laugh that causes Guy, who is at +the other end of the room, to lift his head and regard her anxiously.</p> + +<p>He is sitting near Florence, on a sofa (or rather, to speak more +correctly, she is sitting near him), and is looking bored and <i>gêné</i>. +Her laugh pains him unaccountably; glancing next at her companion he +marks the still admiration in the dark face as it gazes into her fair +one. Already—<i>already</i>—he is surely <i>empressé</i>.</p> + +<p>"But the fact is," Lilian is saying, "I have always been in the habit of +visiting Taffy's room before he has quite finished his dressing, to see +if there be any little final touch required that I might give him. Did +you meet him in London?"</p> + +<p>"No; never saw him until a couple of hours ago. Very nice little fellow, +I should say. Cousin of yours?"</p> + +<p>"Yes: isn't he a pet?" says Lilian, eagerly, always glad to hear praise +of her youthful plunger. "There are very few like him. He is my nearest +relative, and you can't think how I love that boy."</p> + +<p>"That boy is, I should say, older than you are."</p> + +<p>"Ye—es," doubtfully, "so he says: about a year, I think. Not that it +matters," says Miss Chesney, airily, "as in reality I am any number of +years older than he is. He is nothing but a big child, so I have to look after him."</p> + +<p>"You have, I supposed, constituted yourself his mother?" asks Archibald, +intensely amused at her pretty assumption of maternity.</p> + +<p>"Yes," with a grave nod, "or his elder sister, just as I feel it my duty +at the moment to pet or scold him."</p> + +<p>"Happy Taffy!"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span></p><p>"Not that he gives me much trouble. He is a very good boy generally."</p> + +<p>"He is a very handsome boy, at all events. You have reason to be proud +of your child. I am your cousin also."</p> + +<p>"Yes?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>A pause, after which Mr. Chesney says, meekly:</p> + +<p>"I suppose you would not take me as a second son?"</p> + +<p>"I think not," says Lilian, laughing; "you are much too important a +person and far too old to be either petted or scolded."</p> + +<p>"That is very hard lines, isn't it? You might say anything you liked to +me, and I am almost positive I should not resent it. And if you will be +kind enough to turn your eyes on me once more, I think you will +acknowledge I am not so very old."</p> + +<p>"Too old for me to take in hand. I doubt you would be an unruly +member,—a <i>mauvais sujet</i>,—a disgrace to my teaching. I should lose +caste. At dinner I saw you frown, and frowns,"—with a coquettishly +plaintive sigh—"frighten me!"</p> + +<p>"Do you imagine me brutal enough to frown upon my mother?—and such a +mother?"</p> + +<p>"Nevertheless, I cannot undertake your reformation. You should remember +you are scarcely in my good books. Are you not a usurper in my eyes? +Have you not stolen from me my beloved Park?"</p> + +<p>"Ah! true. But you can have it back again, you know," returns he, in a +low tone, half jest, though there is a faint under-current—that is +almost earnestness—running through it.</p> + +<p>At this moment Lady Chetwoode saves Lilian the embarrassment of a reply.</p> + +<p>"Sing us something, darling," she says.</p> + +<p>And Lilian, rising, trails her soft skirts after her across the room, +and, sitting down at the piano, commences "Barbara Allen," sweetly, +gravely, tenderly, as is her wont.</p> + +<p>Guy's gaze is following her. The pure though <i>piquante</i> face, the golden +hair, the rich old-fashioned texture of the gown, all combine to make a +lovely picture lovelier. The words of the song make his heart throb, and +bring to life a certain memory of earlier days, when on the top of a +high wall he first heard her singing it.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span></p><p>Pathetically, softly, she sings it, without affectation or pretense of +any kind, and, having finished, still lets her fingers wander idly over +the notes (drawing from them delicate minor harmonies that sadden the +listener), whilst the others applaud.</p> + +<p>Guy alone being silent, she glances at him presently with a smile full +of kindliness, that claims and obtains an answering smile in return.</p> + +<p>"Have I ever seen that gown on you before?" he asks, after a pause.</p> + +<p>"No. This dress is without doubt an eminent success, as everybody +admires it. No; you never saw it before. Do you like it?"</p> + +<p>"More than I can say. Lilian, you have formed your opinion of your +cousin, and—you like him?"</p> + +<p>"Very much, indeed. He is handsome, <i>debonnaire</i>, all that may be +desired, and—he quite likes Taffy."</p> + +<p>"A passport to your favor," says Chetwoode, smiling. "Though no one +could help liking the boy." Then his eyes seeking her hands once more, +fasten upon the right one, and he sees the ring he had placed upon the +third finger a few hours before now glistens bravely upon the second.</p> + +<p>The discovery causes him a pang so keen that involuntarily he draws +himself up to his full height, and condemns himself as a superstitious +fool. As if she divines his thought,—though in reality she knows +nothing of it,—Lilian says, gazing admiringly at the glittering trinket +in question:</p> + +<p>"I think your ring grows prettier and prettier every time I look at it. +But it would not stay on the finger you chose; while I was dressing it +fell off; so, fearing to lose it, I slipped it upon this one. It looks +as well, does it not?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Chetwoode, though all the time he is wishing with all his +heart it had not fallen from the engagement finger. When we love we grow +fearful; and with fear there is torment.</p> + +<p>"Why don't you ask Florence to sing?" asks Lilian, suddenly.</p> + +<p>Archibald Chesney has risen and lounged over to the piano, and now is +close beside her. To Guy's jealous ears it seems as though the remark +was made to rid her of his presence.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span></p><p>"Because I detest French songs," he answers, somewhat sharply,—Miss +Beauchamp being addicted to such foreign music.</p> + +<p>"Do you?" says Lilian, laughing at his tone, which she fully +understands, and straightway sings one (the gayest, brightest, most +nonsensical to be found in her <i>repertoire</i>) in her sweet fresh voice, +glancing at him with a comical challenge in her eyes every time the +foolish yet tender refrain occurs.</p> + +<p>When she has finished she says to him, saucily:</p> + +<p>"Well, Sir Guy?"</p> + +<p>And he answers:</p> + +<p>"I am vanquished, utterly convinced. I confess I now like French songs +as well as any others."</p> + +<p>"I like them ten times better," says Archibald, impulsively, "when they +are sung by you. There is a <i>verve</i>, a gayety about them that other +songs lack. Have you any more? Do you know any of Gounod's? I like them, +though they are of a different style."</p> + +<p>"They are rather beyond me," says Lilian, laughing. "But hear this: it +is one of Beranger's, very simply set, but I think pretty."</p> + +<p>This time she sings to <i>him</i>,—unmistakably,—a soft little Norman +love-song, full of grace and tenderest entreaty, bestowing upon him all +the beguiling smiles she had a moment since given exclusively to her +guardian, until at length Sir Guy, muttering "coquette" to his own +heart, turns aside, leaving Chesney master of the field.</p> + +<p>Lilian, turning from her animated discussion with Archibald, follows his +departing footsteps with her eyes, in which lies a faintly malicious +smile; an expression full of suppressed enjoyment curves her lips; she +is evidently satisfied at his abrupt retreat, and continues her +interrupted conversation with her cousin in still more joyous tones. +Perhaps this is how she means to fulfill her mysterious threat of "showing" Sir Guy.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span></p> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.</span></h2> + +<div class="block2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"I will gather thee, he cried,</div> +<div class="i1">Rosebud brightly blowing!</div> +<div>Then I'll sting thee, it replied,</div> +<div>And you'll quickly start aside</div> +<div class="i1">With the prickle glowing.</div> +<div>Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,</div> +<div class="i1">Rosebud brightly blowing!"</div> +<div><span class="s6"> </span>—<span class="smcap">Goethe</span>—<i>translated</i>.</div> +</div></div></div> + +<p>"Nurse, wash my hair," says Lilian, entering her nurse's sanctum, which +is next her own, one lovely morning early in September when</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"Dew is on the lea,</div> +<div>And tender buds are fretting to be free."</div> +</div></div> + +<p>The fickle sun is flinging its broad beams far and near, now glittering +upon the ivied towers, and now dancing round the chimney-tops, now +necking with gold the mullioned window. Its brightness is as a smile +from the departing summer, the sweeter that it grows rarer every hour; +its merry rays spread and lengthen, the wind grows softer, balmier, +beneath its influence; it is as the very heart of lazy July.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"And on the woods and on the deep</div> +<div>The smile of heaven lay.</div> +<div>It seemed as if the day were one</div> +<div class="i1">Sent from beyond the skies,</div> +<div>Which shed to earth above the sun</div> +<div class="i1">A light of Paradise."</div> +</div></div> + +<p>There is an "inviolable quietness" in all the air.</p> + +<p>Some late roses have grown, and cluster round Lilian's window; stooping +out, she kisses and caresses them, speaking to them as though they were +(as indeed they are) her dear friends, when nurse's voice recalls her to +the present, and the inner room.</p> + +<p>"La, my dear," says Mrs. Tipping, "it is only four days since I washed it before."</p> + +<p>"Never mind, ninny; wash it again. To-day is so delicious, with such a +dear little breeze, and such a prodigality of sun, that I cannot resist +it. You know how I love running through the air with my hair wet, and +feeling the wind rushing through it. And, nurse, be sure +now"—coaxingly—"you put plenty of soda in the water."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span></p><p>"What, and rot all your pretty locks? Not I, indeed!" says nurse, with +much determination.</p> + +<p>"But you must; you will now, won't you?" in a wheedling tone. "It never +stands properly out from my head unless it is full of soda."</p> + +<p>"An' what, I wonder, would your poor mamma say to me if she could see me +spoiling your bonny hair this day, an' it the very color of her own? No, +no; I cannot indeed. It goes against my conscience, as it were. Go get +some one else to wash it, not me; it would sadden me."</p> + +<p>"If you won't wash it, no one else shall," pouts Lilian. And when Lilian +pouts she looks so lovely, and so naughty, and so irresistible, that, +instead of scolding her for ill-temper, every one instantly gives in to +her. Nurse gives in, as she has done to her little mistress's pout ever +since the latter was four years old, and forthwith produces soap and +water and plenty of soda.</p> + +<p>The long yellow hair being at length washed, combed out carefully, and +brushed until it hangs heavily all down her back, Lilian administers a +soft little kiss to her nurse as reward for her trouble, and runs +delightedly down the stairs, straight into the open air, without hat, or +covering of any kind for her head.</p> + +<p>The garden is listless and sleepy. The bees are silent, the flowers are +nodding drowsily, wakened into some sort of life by the teasing wind +that sighs and laughs around them unceasingly. Lilian plucks a blossom +here and there, and scatters far and near the gaudy butterfly in very +wantonness of enjoyment, while the wooing wind whistles through her +hair, drying it softly, lovingly, until at last some of its pristine +gloss returns to it, and its gold shines with redoubled vigor beneath +the sun's rays.</p> + +<p>As she saunters, reveling—as one from Fairyland might revel—in the +warmth and gladness of the great heathen god, she sings; and to Guy in +his distant study the sound and the words come all too distinctly,—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"Why shouldn't I love my love?</div> +<div class="i1">Why shouldn't he love me?</div> +<div>Why shouldn't he come after me,</div> +<div class="i1">Since love to all is free?"</div> +</div></div> + +<p>Beneath his window she pauses, and, finally, running up the steps of the +balcony, peers in, full of an idle curiosity.</p> + +<p>Sir Guy's den is the most desirable room in the house,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span>—the coziest, +the oddest, the most interesting. Looking at it, one guesses +instinctively how addicted to all pretty things the owner is, from women +down to less costly <i>bijouterie</i>.</p> + +<p>Lovely landscapes adorn the walls side by side with Greuze-like faces, +angelic in expression, unlike in appearance. There are a few portraits +of beauties well known in the London and Paris worlds, frail as they are +fair, false as they are <i>piquante</i>, whose garments (to do him justice) +are distinctly decent, perhaps more so than their characters. But then +indecency has gone out of fashion.</p> + +<p>There are two or three lounges, some priceless statuettes, a few bits of +<i>bric-a-brac</i> worth their weight in gold, innumerable yellow-backed +volumes by Paul de Kock and his fellows, chairs of all shapes and sizes, +one more comfortable and inviting than the other, enough meerschaum +pipes and cigarette-holders and tobacco-stands to stock a small shop, a +couple of dogs snoozing peacefully upon the hearth-rug, under the +mistaken impression that a fire is burning in the grate, a +writing-table, and before it Sir Guy. These are the principal things +that attract Lilian's attention, as she gazes in, with her silken hair +streaming behind her in the light breeze.</p> + +<p>On the wall she cannot see, there are a few hunters by Herring, a copy +of Millais' "Yes or No," a good deal of stable-ware, and beneath them, +on a table, more pipes, cheroots, and boxes of cigars, mixed up with +straw-covered bottles of perfume, thrust rather ignominiously into the corner.</p> + +<p>A shadow falling across the paper on which he is writing, Guy raises his +head, to see a fairy vision staring in at him,—a little slight figure, +clothed in airy black with daintiest lace frillings at the throat and +wrists, and with a wealth of golden hair brought purposely all over her +face, letting only the laughing sapphire eyes, blue as the skies above +her, gleam out from among it.</p> + +<p>"Open the door, O hermit, and let a poor wanderer in," croons this +fairy, in properly saddened tones.</p> + +<p>Rising gladly, he throws wide the window to her, whereupon she steps +into the room, still with her face hidden.</p> + +<p>"You come?" asks he, in a deferential tone.</p> + +<p>"To know what you are doing, and what can keep you in-doors this +exquisite day. Do you remember how late in the season it is? and that +you are slighting Nature? She<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span> will be angry, and will visit you with +storms and drooping flowers, if you persist in flouting her. Come out. Come out."</p> + +<p>"Who are you?" asks Guy. "Are you Flora?" He parts her hair gently and +throws it back over her shoulders. "I thought you a nymph,—a fairy,—a +small goddess, and——"</p> + +<p>"And behold it is only Lilian! Naughty Lilian! Are you disappointed, Sir +Guardian?" She laughs, and running her fingers through all her amber +locks, spreading them out on either side of her like a silken veil, that +extends as far as her arms can reach. She is lovely, radiant, bright as +the day itself, fairer than the lazy flowers.</p> + +<p>"What a child you are!" says Guy, with some discontent in his voice, +feeling how far, <i>far</i> younger than he she is.</p> + +<p>"Am I? Nonsense! Nurse says," going to a glass and surveying herself +with critical eyes, "nurse says I am a 'very well grown girl of my +age.'" Almost unconsciously she assumes nurse's pompous though adoring +manner to such perfection that Guy laughs heartily.</p> + +<p>"That is right, Guardy," says Miss Lilian, with bland encouragement. "I +like to hear you laugh; of late you have grown almost as discontented to +look at as my cousin. Have I amused you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; your assumption of Mrs. Tipping was admirable. Though I am not +sure that I agree with her: you are not very much grown, are you? I +don't think you are up to my shoulder."</p> + +<p>"What a tarradiddle!" says Lilian. "Get off that table directly and let +me convince you."</p> + +<p>As Guy obeys her and draws himself up to his liberal six feet one, she +goes to him and lays her soft head against his arm, only to find he—not +she—is right; she is half an inch below his shoulder. Standing so, it +takes Guy all he knows to keep himself from throwing his arms round her +and straining her to the heart that beats for her so passionately,—that +beats for her alone.</p> + +<p>"You have raised your shoulder," she says, most unfairly: "it wasn't +half so high yesterday. You shouldn't cheat!—What a charming room yours +is! I quite envy it to you. And the flowers are so well selected. Who +adorns your den so artistically? Florence? But of course it is the +invaluable Florence: I might have known. That good creature always does +the correct thing!"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span></p><p>"I think it is the mother sees to it," replies he, gently.</p> + +<p>"Oh, is it? Kind auntie! What a delicious little bit of blue! +Forget-me-not, is it? How innocent it looks, and babyish, in its green +leaves! May I rob you, Sir Guy? I should like a spray or two for my dress."</p> + +<p>"You may have anything you wish that I can give you."</p> + +<p>"What a noble offer!—Are you going to waste much more time over your +tiresome letters?" glancing with pretty impertinence at the +half-finished sheets lying on the table near her: "I suppose they are +all business, or love, or suchlike rubbish! Well, good-bye, Guardy, I +must go and finish the drying of my hair; you will find me in the garden +when you come to the end of your last <i>billet-doux</i>."</p> + +<p>So saying, she trips away from him down the handsome oak-paneled room, +and disappears through the doorway that leads into the hall.</p> + +<p>Where she goes the sunshine seems to follow her. To Guy's fancy it +appears as though a shadow has fallen suddenly into the room, when the +last glimpse of her yellow hair has vanished out of sight. With a rather +abstracted air he betakes himself once more to his writing, and tries to forget her.</p> + +<p>But somehow the impetus that urged him on half an hour ago is wanting; +the spur to his industry has lost its sharpness; and presently, throwing +down his pen with an impatient gesture, he acknowledges himself no +longer in the mood for work.</p> + +<p>What a child she is!—again the thought occurs to him;—yet with what +power to torture! To-day all sweetness and honeyed gayety, to-morrow +indifferent, if not actually repellent. She is an anomaly,—a little +frail lily beset with thorns that puts forth its stings to wound, and +probe, and madden, when least expected.</p> + +<p>Only yesterday—after an hour's inward conflict—he had convinced +himself of her love for her cousin Archibald, with such evident pleasure +did she receive his very marked attentions. And now,—to-day,—surely if +she loved Chesney her eyes could not have dwelt so kindly upon another +as they did a few minutes since upon her guardian. With what a pretty +grace she had demanded that blue forget-me-not and placed it in the +bosom of her dress! With what evident sincerity she had hinted at her +wish to see him in the garden when his work should be over! +Perhaps—perhaps——</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span></p><p>Of late a passionate desire to tell her of the affection with which she +has inspired him consumes him daily,—hourly; but a fear, a sad +certainty of disappointment to follow on his declaration has hitherto +checked the words that so often tremble on his lips. Now the unwonted +gentleness of her manner tempts him to follow her and put his fate "to +the touch," and so end all the jealous anguish and heart-burnings that +torment him all day long.</p> + +<p>Quitting his sanctum, he crosses the hall, and enters the drawing-room, +where he finds Florence alone.</p> + +<p>She is, as usual, bending industriously over her crewel work; the +parrot's tail is now in a high state of perfection, not a color in the +rainbow being missing from it. Seeing Guy, she raises her head and +smiles upon him sweetly, blandly, invitingly.</p> + +<p>"Where is Lilian?" asks Guy, abruptly, with all the tactless +truthfulness of a man when he has one absorbing object in view.</p> + +<p>Miss Beauchamp's bland smile freezes on her lips, and shows itself no +more. She makes answer, nevertheless, in an unmoved tone:</p> + +<p>"Where she always is,—in the garden with her cousin, Mr. Chesney."</p> + +<p>"Always?" says Guy, lightly, though in reality his face has grown +suddenly pale, and his fingers clinch involuntarily.</p> + +<p>"Well," in her unchangeable placid staccato voice, "generally. He seems +very <i>épris</i> with her, and she appears to receive his admiration +favorably. Have you not noticed it?"</p> + +<p>"I cannot say I have."</p> + +<p>"No?"—incredulously—"how extraordinary! But men are proverbially dull +in the observation of such matters as love-affairs. Some, indeed," with +slow meaning, "are positively <i>blind</i>."</p> + +<p>She lays her work upon the table before her and examines it critically. +She does not so much as glance at her victim, though secretly enjoying +the knowledge that he is writhing beneath the lash.</p> + +<p>"Chesney would be a good match for her," says Guy, with the calmness of +despair. But his calmness does not deceive his companion.</p> + +<p>"Very good. The Park, I am told, is even larger than Chetwoode. You, as +her guardian, should, I think, put<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span> carefully before her all the +advantages to be derived from such a marriage."</p> + +<p>Here she smooths out her parrot, and, turning her head slightly to one +side, wonders whether a little more crimson in the wings would not make +them look more attractive. No, perhaps not: they are gaudy enough +already,—though one often sees—a parrot—with——</p> + +<p>"I don't believe mere money would have weight with Lilian," Guy breaks +in upon her all-important reverie, with a visible effort.</p> + +<p>"No? Perhaps not. But then the Park is her old home, and she, who +professes such childish adoration for it, might possibly like to regain +it. You really should speak to her, Guy. She should not be allowed to +throw away such a brilliant chance, when a few well-chosen words might +bias her in the right direction."</p> + +<p>Guy makes no reply, but, stepping on to the balcony outside, walks +listlessly away, his heart in a tumult of fear and regret, while Miss +Beauchamp, calmly, and with a certain triumph, goes on contentedly with +her work. A nail in Lilian's coffin has, she hopes, been driven, and +sews her hopes into the canvas beneath her hand, as long ago the +Parisian women knitted their terrible revenge and cruel longings into +their children's socks, whilst all the flower and beauty and chivalry of +France fell beneath the fatal guillotine.</p> + +<p>Guy, wandering aimlessly, full of dismal thought, follows out +mechanically his first idea, and turns in the direction of the garden, +the spot so beloved by his false, treacherous little mistress.</p> + +<p>In the distance he sees her; she is standing motionless in the centre of +a grassplot, while behind her Chesney is busily engaged tying back her +yellow hair with a broad piece of black ribbon she has evidently given +him for the purpose. He has all her rich tresses gathered together in +one, and is lingering palpably over his task. In his coat is placed +conspicuously the blue forget-me-not begged of Guy by Lilian only a few +minutes ago as though her heart were set upon its possession.</p> + +<p>"Coquette," mutters Chetwoode between his teeth.</p> + +<p>"Not done yet?" asks the coquette at this moment of her cousin, giving +her head a little impatient shake.</p> + +<p>"Yes, just done," finishing up in a hurry the somewhat curious bow he is making.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span></p><p>"Well, now run," says Lilian, "and do as I bade you. I shall be here on +this spot when you return. You know how I hate waiting: so don't be +long,—do you hear?"</p> + +<p>"Does that mean you will be impatient to see me again?"</p> + +<p>"Of course," laughing. "I shall be <i>dying</i> to see you again, longing, +pining for your return, thinking every minute an hour until you come back to me."</p> + +<p>Thus encouraged, Archibald quickly vanishes, and Guy comes slowly up to her.</p> + +<p>"I think you needn't have put that flower in Chesney's coat," he says, +in an aggrieved tone. "I had no idea you meant it for his adornment."</p> + +<p>"Is it in his coat?" As she makes this mean reply she blushes a rich +warm crimson, so full of consciousness that it drives Guy absolutely +wild with jealousy. "Yes, now I remember," she says, with an assumption +of indifference; "he either took it from me, or asked me for it, I quite forget which."</p> + +<p>"Do you?"</p> + +<p>"I do," resenting his manner, which borders on disbelief, and is in her +eyes highly objectionable. "Why should I trouble myself to recollect +such trifles?"</p> + +<p>After a pause, and with a distinct effort, Chetwoode says:</p> + +<p>"You were foolishly prejudiced against your cousin before his arrival. I +am glad you have learned to be civil to him."</p> + +<p>"More than that, I have learned to like him very much indeed. He is +quite charming, and not in the least <i>exigeant</i>, or <i>difficile</i>," this +rather pronounced. "Besides, he is my cousin, and the master of my old +home. Whenever I think of the dear Park I naturally think of him, until +now they are both associated in my mind: this adds to my liking."</p> + +<p>Guy's heart sinks within him as he remembers Florence's words and now +hears Lilian's own confession. He glances at her despairingly. She is +picking a flower to pieces, and as she does so a little soft sigh +escapes her. Is it for her lost home? Is she already dreaming of an hour +when she may return to it once more as its happy mistress? Is she +mercenary, as Florence hinted? or is it homesickness that is tempting +her? or can it be that at heart she loves this cousin?</p> + +<p>"It is the same with all women," he says bitterly; "the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span> last comer is +always the best, the newest face the dearest."</p> + +<p>"I do not understand you,"—with cold reproof; "surely you are wandering +from the subject: we were saying nothing about last comers or new faces. +If you happen to be in a bad temper, Sir Guy, I really think it a little +hard that you should come here to inflict it upon me."</p> + +<p>"I am not in a bad temper,"—indignantly.</p> + +<p>"No? It seems very like it," says Miss Chesney. "I can't bear cross +people: they are always saying unpleasant as well as unmeaning things. +New faces, indeed! I really wish Archibald would come; he is always +agreeable, and never starts distasteful topics. Ah, here he is! Archie, +how long you have been! I thought you were never coming! Sir Guy is in +one of his terrible moods, and has frightened me out of my life. I was +in danger of being lectured off the face of the earth. No woman should +be pitied but she that has a guardian! You have come to my rescue barely +in time: another minute, and you would have found only a lifeless Lilian."</p> + +<p>Sir Guy, black with rage, turns aside. Archibald, ignorant of the storm +brewing, sinks beside her contentedly upon the grass.</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI.</span></h2> + +<p class="center">"O spirit of love, how fresh and quick thou art!"—<span class="smcap">Shakespeare.</span></p> + +<p>It is the gloaming,—that tenderest, fondest, most pensive time of all +the day. As yet, night crouches on the borders of the land, reluctant to +throw its dark shadow over the still smiling earth, while day is slowly, +sadly receding. There is a hush over everything; above, on their leafy +perches, the birds are nestling, and crooning their cradle songs; the +gay breeze, lazy with its exertions of the day, has fallen asleep, so +that the very grasses are silent and unstirred. An owl in the distance +is hooting mournfully. There is a serenity on all around, an +all-pervading stillness that moves one to sadness and fills unwittingly +the eyes with tears. It is the peace that follows upon grief, as though +the busy world, that through all the heat<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span> and turmoil of the day has +been weeping and groaning in anguish, has now for a few short hours found rest.</p> + +<p>The last roses of summer in Mrs. Arlington's garden, now that those gay +young sparks the bees have deserted them, are growing drowsy, and hang +their heavy heads dejectedly. Two or three dissipated butterflies, fond +of late hours and tempted by the warmth, still float gracefully through the air.</p> + +<p>Cecilia, coming down the garden path, rests her arms upon her wicket +gate and looks toward Chetwoode.</p> + +<p>She is dressed in an exquisite white cambric, fastened at the throat by +a bit of lavender ribbon; through her gown here and there are touches of +the same color; on her head is a ravishing little cap of the mob +description, that lends an additional charm to her face, making her +seem, if possible, more womanly, more lovable than ever.</p> + +<p>As she leans upon the gate a last yellow sunbeam falls upon her, peeps +into her eyes, takes a good-night kiss from her parted lips, and, +descending slowly, lovingly, crosses her bosom, steals a little +sweetness from the white rose dying on her breast, throws a golden shade +upon her white gown, and finally dies chivalrously at her feet.</p> + +<p>But not for the dear devoted sunbeam does that warm blush grow and +mantle on her cheek; not for it do her pulses throb, her heart beat +fast. Toward her, in his evening dress, and without his hat, regardless +of consequences, comes Cyril, the quickness of his step betraying a +flattering haste. As yet, although many weeks have come and gone since +their first meeting, no actual words of love have been spoken between +them; but each knows the other's heart, and has learned that eyes can +speak a more eloquent language, can utter tenderer thoughts, than any +the lips can frame.</p> + +<p>"Again?" says Cecilia, softly, a little wonder, a great undisguised +gladness, in her soft gray eyes.</p> + +<p>"Yes; I could not keep away," returns he, simply.</p> + +<p>He does not ask to enter, but leans upon the gate from his side, very +close to her. Most fair men look well in evening clothes; Cyril looks +downright handsome: his blonde moustache seems golden, his blue eyes +almost black, in the rays of the departing sun: just now those eyes are +filled with love and passionate admiration.</p> + +<p>Her arms, half bare, with some frail shadowy lace falling over them, +look rounded and velvety as a child's in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span> the growing dusk; the fingers +of her pretty, blue-veined hands are interlaced. Separating them, Cyril +takes one hand between both his own and strokes it fondly, silently, yet almost absently.</p> + +<p>Suddenly raising his head, he looks at her, his whole heart in his +expression, his eyes full of purpose. Instinctively she feels the +warmth, the tenderness of his glance, and changes from a calm lily into +an expectant rose. Her hand trembles within his, as though meditating +flight, and then lies passive as his clasp tightens firmly upon it. +Slowly, reluctantly, as though compelled by some hidden force, she turns +her averted eyes to his.</p> + +<p>"Cecilia," murmurs he, imploringly, and then—and then their lips meet, +and they kiss each other solemnly, with a passionate tenderness, knowing +it is their betrothal they are sealing.</p> + +<p class="center">* * * * * * *</p> + +<p>"I wish I had summoned courage to kiss you a week ago," he says, +presently. He is inside the gate now, and seems to have lost in this +shamefully short time all the hesitation and modesty that a few minutes +ago were so becoming. His arm is around her; even as he makes this +<i>risqué</i> remark, he stoops and embraces her again, without even having +the grace to ask permission, while she (that I should live to say it of +Cecilia!) never reproves him.</p> + +<p>"Why?" she asks, smiling up at him.</p> + +<p>"See how I have wasted seven good days," returns he, drinking in gladly +all the beauty of her face and smile. "This day last week I might have +been as happy as I am now,—whereas I was the most miserable wretch +alive, the victim of suspense."</p> + +<p>"You bore your misery admirably: had you not told me, I should never +have guessed your wretchedness. Besides, how do you know I should have +been so kind to you seven long days ago?"</p> + +<p>"I know it,—because you love me."</p> + +<p>"And how do you know that either?" asks she, with new-born coquetry that +sits very sweetly upon her. "Cyril, when did you begin to love me?"</p> + +<p>"The very moment I first saw you."</p> + +<p>"No, no; I do not want compliments from <i>you</i>: I want the very honest +truth. Tell me."</p> + +<p>"I have told you. The honest truth is this. That morning after your +arrival when I restored your terrier to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span> you, I fell in love with you: +you little thought then, when I gave your dog into your keeping, I was +giving my heart also."</p> + +<p>"No," in a low, soft voice, that somehow has a smile in it, "how could +I? I am glad you loved me always,—that there was no time when I was +indifferent to you. I think love at first sight must be the sweetest and +truest of all."</p> + +<p>"You have the best of it, then, have you not?" with a rather forced +laugh. "Not only did I love you from the first moment I saw you, but you +are the only woman I ever really cared for; while you," with some +hesitation, and turning his eyes steadily away from hers, "you—of +course—did love—once before."</p> + +<p>"Never!"</p> + +<p>The word comes with startling vehemence from between her lips, the new +and brilliant gladness of her face dies from it. A little chill shudder +runs through all her frame, turning her to stone; drawing herself with +determination from his encircling arms, she stands somewhat away from him.</p> + +<p>"It is time I told you my history," she says, in cold, changed tones, +through which quivers a ring of pain, while her face grows suddenly as +pale, as impenetrable as when they were yet quite strangers to each +other. "Perhaps when you hear it you may regret your words of to-night." +There is a doubt, a weariness in her voice that almost angers him.</p> + +<p>"Nonsense!" he says, roughly, the better to hide the emotion he feels; +"don't be romantic; nobody commits murder, or petty larceny, or bigamy +nowadays, without being found out; unpleasant mysteries, and skeletons +in the closet have gone out of fashion. We put all our skeletons in the +<i>Times</i> now, no matter how we may have to blush for their nakedness. I +don't want to hear anything about your life if it makes you unhappy to tell it."</p> + +<p>"It doesn't make me unhappy."</p> + +<p>"But it does. Your face has grown quite white, and your eyes are full of +tears. Darling, I won't have you distress yourself for me."</p> + +<p>"I have not committed any of the crimes you mention, or any other +particular crime," returns she, with a very wan little smile. "I have +only been miserable ever since I can remember. I have not spoken about +myself to any<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span> one for years, except one friend; but now I should like +to tell you everything."</p> + +<p>"But not there!" holding out his hands to her reproachfully. "I don't +believe I could hear you if you spoke from such a distance." There is +exactly half a yard of sward between them. "If you are willfully bent on +driving us both to the verge of melancholy, at least let us meet our fate together."</p> + +<p>Here he steals his arm round her once more, and, thus supported, and +with her head upon his shoulder, she commences her short story:</p> + +<p>"Perhaps you know my father was a Major in the Scots Greys; your brother +knew him: his name was Duncan."</p> + +<p>Cyril starts involuntarily.</p> + +<p>"Ah, you start. You, too, knew him?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, slightly."</p> + +<p>"Then," in a curiously hard voice, "you knew nothing good of him. Well," +with a sigh, "no matter; afterward you can tell me what it was. When I +was eighteen he brought me home from school, not that he wanted my +society,—I was rather in his way than otherwise, and it wasn't a good +way,—but because he had a purpose in view. One day, when I had been +home three months, a visitor came to see us. He was introduced to me by +my father. He was young, dark, not ugly, well-mannered," here she pauses +as though to recover breath, and then breaks out with a passion that +shakes all her slight frame, "but hateful, vile, <i>loathsome</i>."</p> + +<p>"My darling, don't go on; I don't want to hear about him," implores Cyril, anxiously.</p> + +<p>"But I must tell you. He possessed that greatest of all virtues in my +father's eyes,—wealth. He was rich. He admired me; I was very pretty +then. He dared to say he loved me. He asked me to marry him, and—I refused him."</p> + +<p>As though the words are forced from her, she utters them in short, +unequal sentences; her lips have turned the color of death.</p> + +<p>"I suppose he went then to my father, and they planned it all between +them, because at this time he—that is, my father—began to tell me he +was in debt, hopelessly, irretrievably in debt. Among others, he +mentioned certain debts of (so-called) honor, which, if not paid within +a given time, would leave him not only a beggar, but a <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span>disgraced one +upon the face of the earth; and I believed him. He worked upon my +feelings day by day, with pretended tears, with vows of amendment. I +don't know," bitterly, "what his share of the bargain was to be, but I +do know he toiled for it conscientiously. I was young, unusually so for +my age, without companions, romantic, impressionable. It seemed to me a +grand thing to sacrifice myself and thereby save my father; and if I +would only consent to marry Mr. Arlington he had promised not only to +avoid dice, but to give up his habits of intemperance. It is an old +story, is it not? No doubt you know it by heart. Crafty age and foolish +youth,—what chance had I? One day I gave in, I said I would marry Mr. +Arlington, and he sold me to him three weeks later. We were married."</p> + +<p>Here her voice fails her again, and a little moan of agonized +recollection escapes her. Cyril, clasping her still closer to him, +presses a kiss upon her brow. At the sweet contact of his lips she +sighs, and two large tears gathering in her eyes roll slowly down her cheeks.</p> + +<p>"A week after my wretched marriage," she goes on, "I discovered +accidentally that my father had lied to me and tricked me. His +circumstances were not so bad as he had represented to me, and it was on +the condition that he was to have a certain income from Mr. Arlington +yearly that he had persuaded me to marry him. He did not long enjoy it. +He died," slowly, "two months afterward. Of my life with—my husband I +shall not tell you; the recital would only revolt you. Only to think of +it now makes me feel deadly ill; and often from my dreams, as I live it +all over again, I start, cold with horror and disgust. It did not last +long, which was merciful: six months after our marriage he eloped with +an actress and went to Vienna."</p> + +<p>"The blackguard! the scoundrel!" says Cyril, between his teeth, drawing +his breath sharply.</p> + +<p>"I never saw him again. In a little while I received tidings of his +death: he had been stabbed in a brawl in some drinking-house, and only +lived a few hours after it. And I was once more free."</p> + +<p>She pauses, and involuntarily stretches forth both her hands into the +twilight, as one might who long in darkness, being thrust into the full +light of day, seeks to grasp and retain it.</p> + +<p>"When I heard of his death," she says, turning to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span> Cyril, and speaking +in a clear intense tone, "I <i>laughed</i>! For the first time for many +months, I laughed aloud! I declared my thankfulness in a distinct voice. +My heart beat with honest, undisguised delight when I knew I should +never see him again, should never in all the years to come shiver and +tremble in his hated presence. He was dead, and I was heartily glad of it."</p> + +<p>She stops, in terrible agitation. An angry fire gleams in her large gray +eyes. She seems for the moment to have utterly forgotten Cyril's +nearness, as in memory she lives over again all the detested past. Cyril +lays his hand lightly upon her shoulder, her eyes meet his, and then the +anger dies from them. She sighs heavily, and then goes on:</p> + +<p>"After that I don't know what happened for a long time, because I got +brain-fever, and, but for one friend who all through had done his best +for me, I should have died. He and his sister nursed me through it, and +brought me back to life again; but," mournfully, "they could not restore +to me my crushed youth, my ruined faith, my girlish hopes. A few months +had changed me from a mere child into a cold, unloving woman."</p> + +<p>"Don't say that," says Cyril, gently.</p> + +<p>"Until now," returns she, looking at him with eyes full of the most +intense affection; "now all is different."</p> + +<p>"Beloved, how you have suffered!" he says, pressing her head down again +upon his breast, and caressing with loving fingers her rich hair. "But +it is all over, and if I can make you so, you shall be happy in the +future. And your one friend? Who was he?"</p> + +<p>She hesitates perceptibly, and a blush creeping up dyes her pale face crimson.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps I know," says Cyril, an unaccountable misgiving at his heart. +"Was it Colonel Trant? Do not answer me if you do not wish it," very gently.</p> + +<p>"Yes, it was he. There is no reason why I should not answer you."</p> + +<p>"No?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"He asked Guy to let you have the cottage?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; I had wearied of everything, and though by some chance I had come +in for all Mr. Arlington's property, I only cared to go away and hide +myself somewhere where I should find quiet and peace. I tried several +places, but I was always restless until I came here." She smiles +faintly.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span></p><p>Cyril, after a pause, says, hesitatingly:</p> + +<p>"Cecilia, did you ever care for—for—Trant?"</p> + +<p>"Never: did you imagine that? I never cared for any one but you; I never +shall again. And you, Cyril," the tears rushing thickly to her eyes, "do +you still think you can love me, the daughter of one bad man, the wife +of another? I can hardly think myself as good as other women when I +remember all the hateful scenes I have passed through."</p> + +<p>"I shall treat you to a crowning scene if you ever dare say that again," +says Cyril, whose spirits are rising now she has denied having any +affection for Trant. "And if every relation you ever had was as bad as +bad could be, I should adore you all the same. I can't say any more."</p> + +<p>"You needn't," returns she, laughing a little. "Oh, Cyril, how sweet it +is to be beloved, to me especially, who never yet (until now) had any +love offered me; at least," correcting herself hastily, "any I cared to accept!"</p> + +<p>"But you had a lover?" asks he, earnestly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, one."</p> + +<p>"Trant again?" letting his teeth close somewhat sharply on his under lip.</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Cecilia, I am afraid you liked that fellow once. Come, confess it."</p> + +<p>"No, indeed, not in the way you mean; but in every other way more than I +can tell you. I should be the most ungrateful wretch alive if it were +otherwise. As a true friend, I love him."</p> + +<p>"How dare you use such a word to any one but me?" says Cyril, bending to +smile into her eyes. "I warn you not to do it again, or I shall be +dangerously and outrageously jealous. Tears in your eyes still, my +sweet? Let me kiss them away: poor eyes! surely they have wept enough in +their time to permit of their only smiling in the future."</p> + +<p>When they have declared over and over again (in different language every +time, of course) the everlasting affection each feels for the other, Cecilia says:</p> + +<p>"How late it grows! and you are in your evening dress, and without a +hat. Have you dined?"</p> + +<p>"Not yet; but I don't want any dinner." (By this remark, O reader, you +may guess the depth and sincerity of his love.) "We generally dine at +half-past seven, but <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span>to-night we are to starve until eight to oblige +Florence, who has been spending the day somewhere. So I dressed early +and came down to see you."</p> + +<p>"At eight," says Cecilia, alarmed: "it is almost that now. You must go, +or Lady Chetwoode will be angry with me, and I don't want any one +belonging to you to think bad thoughts of me."</p> + +<p>"There is plenty of time: it can't be nearly eight yet. Why, it is only +half an hour since I came."</p> + +<p>"It is a quarter to eight," says Cecilia, solemnly. "Do go, and come +again as early as you can to-morrow."</p> + +<p>"You will be glad to see me?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, if you come very early."</p> + +<p>"And you are sure, my own darling, that you really love me?"</p> + +<p>"Quite, <i>quite</i> sure," tenderly.</p> + +<p>"What a bore it is having to go home this lovely evening!" +discontentedly. "Certainly 'Time was made for slaves.' Well,"—with a +sigh,—"good-night. I suppose I must go. I shall run down directly after +breakfast. Good-night, my own, my dearest."</p> + +<p>"Good-night, Cyril."</p> + +<p>"What a cold farewell! I shan't go away at all if you don't say +something kinder."</p> + +<p>Standing on tiptoe, Cecilia lays her arms around his neck.</p> + +<p>"Good-night, my—darling," she whispers, tremulously, and with a last +lingering caress they part, as though years were about to roll by before +they can meet again.</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII.</span></h2> + +<div class="block2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"And, though she be but little, she is fierce."</div> +<div><span class="s6"> </span>—<i>Midsummer Night's Dream.</i></div> +</div></div></div> + +<p class="center">"<span class="smcap">Rene.</span> Suffer love! A good epithet! I do suffer love, indeed, +for I love thee against my will."—<i>Much Ado About Nothing.</i></p> + +<p>It is a glorious evening toward the close of September. The heat is +intense, delicious, as productive of happy languor as though it was +still the very heart of summer.</p> + +<p>Outside upon the grass sits Lilian, idly threading daisies<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span> into chains, +her riotous golden locks waving upon her fair forehead beneath the +influence of the wind. At her feet, full length, lies Archibald, a book +containing selections from the works of favorite poets in his hand. He +is reading aloud such passages as please him and serve to illustrate the +passion that day by day is growing deeper for his pretty cousin. Already +his infatuation for her has become a fact so palpable that not only has +he ceased to deny it to himself, but every one in the house is fully +aware of it, from Lady Chetwoode down to the lowest housemaid. +Sometimes, when the poem is an old favorite, he recites it, keeping his +dark eyes fixed the while upon the fair coquettish face just above him.</p> + +<p>Upon the balcony looking down upon them sits Florence, working at the +everlasting parrot, with Guy beside her, utterly miserable, his whole +attention concentrated upon his ward. For the past week he has been +wretched as a man can be who sees a rival well received before his eyes +day after day. Miss Beauchamp's soft speeches and tender glances, +although many and pronounced, fail to console him, though to others he +appears to accept them willingly enough, and to make a generous return, +spending—how, he hardly knows, though perhaps <i>she</i> does—a good deal +of time in her society. He must indeed be devoid of observation if now +he cannot pass a strict examination of the hues of that crewel bird +(this is not a joke), for wherever he may be, there Miss Beauchamp is +sure to show a few minutes later, always with her wools.</p> + +<p>Noting all this, be sure Lilian draws from it her own conclusions.</p> + +<p>As each clear silvery laugh reaches him from below, Guy frowns and +winces at every fond poetical sentiment that, floated upward by the +wind, falls upon his ears.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"See the mountain kiss high heaven,</div> +<div class="i1">And the waves clasp one another;</div> +<div>No sister flower would be forgiven</div> +<div class="i1">If it disdained its brother:</div> +<div>And the sunlight clasps the earth,</div> +<div class="i1">And the moonbeams kiss the sea:</div> +<div>What are all these kissings worth,</div> +<div class="i1">If thou kiss not me?"</div> +</div></div> + +<p>The words recited by Mr. Chesney with much <i>empressement</i> soar upward +and gain Guy's ear; Archibald is pointing his quotation with many +impassioned glances and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span> much tender emphasis; all of which is rather +thrown away upon Lilian, who is not in the least sentimental.</p> + +<p>"Read something livelier, Archie," she says, regarding her growing chain +with unlimited admiration. "There is rather too much honey about that."</p> + +<p>"If you can snub Shelley, I'm sure I don't know what it is you <i>do</i> +like," returns he, somewhat disgusted. A slight pause ensues, filled up +by the faint noise of the leaves of Chesney's volume as he turns them over impatiently.</p> + +<p>"'Oh, my Luve's like a red, red, rose,'" he begins, bravely, but Lilian +instantly suppresses him.</p> + +<p>"Don't," she says: "that's worse. I always think what a horrid 'luve' +she must have been. Fancy a girl with cheeks like that rose over there! +Fancy writing a sonnet to a milk-maid! Go on, however; the other lines are rather pretty."</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"Oh, my love's like a melody</div> +<div>That's sweetly played in tune,"</div> +</div></div> + +<p>reads Archie, and then stops.</p> + +<p>"It is pretty," he says, agreeably; "but if you had heard the last word +persistently called 'chune,' I think it would have taken the edge off +your fancy for it. I had an uncle who adored that little poem, but he +<i>would</i> call the word 'chune,' and it rather spoiled the effect. He's +dead," says Mr. Chesney, laying down his book, "but I think I see him now."</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"In the pride of youth and beauty,</div> +<div>With a garland on his brow,"</div> +</div></div> + +<p>quotes Lilian, mischievously.</p> + +<p>"Well, not quite. Rather in an exceedingly rusty suit of evening clothes +at the Opera. I took him there in a weak moment to hear the 'late +lamented Titiens' sing her choicest song in 'Il Trovatore,'—you know +it?—well, when it was over and the whole house was in a perfect uproar +of applause, I turned and asked him what he thought of it, and he +instantly said he thought it was 'a very pretty "chune"!' Fancy Titiens +singing a 'chune'! I gave him up after that, and carefully avoided his +society. Poor old chap, he didn't bear malice, however, as he died a +year later and left me all his money."</p> + +<p>"More than you deserved," says Lilian.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span></p><p>Here Cyril and Taffy appearing on the scene cause a diversion. They +both simultaneously fling themselves upon the grass at Lilian's feet, +and declare themselves completely used up.</p> + +<p>"Let us have tea out here," says Lilian, gayly, "and enjoy our summer to +the end." Springing to her feet, she turns toward the balcony, careless +of the fact that she has destroyed the lovely picture she made sitting +on the greensward, surrounded by her attendant swains.</p> + +<p>"Florence, come down here, and let us have tea on the grass," she calls +out pleasantly to Miss Beauchamp.</p> + +<p>"Do, Florence," says Archibald, entreatingly.</p> + +<p>"Miss Beauchamp, you really <i>must</i>," from Taffy, decides the point.</p> + +<p>Florence, feeling it will look ungracious to refuse, rises with +reluctance, and sails down upon the <i>quartette</i> below, followed by Sir Guy.</p> + +<p>"What an awful time we shall be having at Mrs. Boileau's this hour +to-morrow night," says Cyril, plaintively, after a long silence on his +part. "I shudder when I think of it. No one who has never spent an +evening at the Grange can imagine the agony of it."</p> + +<p>"I vow I would rather be broken on the wheel than undergo it," says +Archibald. "It was downright mean of Lady Chetwoode to let us all in for +it. And yet no doubt things might have been worse; we ought to feel +devoutly thankful old Boileau is well under the sod."</p> + +<p>"What was the matter with him?" asks Lilian.</p> + +<p>"Don't name him," says Cyril, "he was past all human endurance; my blood +runs cold when I remember, I once did know him. I rejoice to say he is +no more. His name was Benjamin: and as he was small and thin, and she +was large and fat, she (that is, Mrs. Boileau) was always called +'Benjamin's portion.' That's a joke; do you see it?"</p> + +<p>"I do: so you don't take any bobs off <i>my</i> wages," retorts Miss Chesney, +promptly, with a distinct imitation of Kate Stantley. "And yet I cannot +see how all this made the poor man odious."</p> + +<p>"No, not exactly that, though I don't think a well-brought-up man should +let himself go to skin and bone. He was intolerable in other ways. One +memorable Christmas day Guy and I dined with him, and he got beastly +drunk on the sauce for the plum-pudding. We were young at the time, and +it made a lasting impression upon us.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span> Indeed, he was hardly the person +to sit next at a prolonged dinner-party, first because he was +unmistakably dirty, and——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, Cyril!"</p> + +<p>"Well, and why not? It is not impossible. Even Popes, it now appears, +can be indifferent to the advantages to be derived from soap and water."</p> + +<p>"Really, Cyril, I think you might choose a pleasanter subject upon which +to converse," says Florence, with a disgusted curl of her short upper lip.</p> + +<p>"I beg pardon all round, I'm sure," returns Cyril, meekly. "But Lilian +should be blamed: she <i>would</i> investigate the matter; and I'm nothing, +if not strictly truthful. He was a very dirty old man, I assure you, my dear Florence."</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Boileau, however objectionable, seems to have been rather the best +of the two: why did she marry him?" asks Lilian.</p> + +<p>"Haven't the remotest idea, and, even if I had, I should be afraid to +answer any more of your pertinent questions," with an expressive nod in +the direction of Florence. "I can only say it was a very feeble +proceeding on the part of such a capable person as Mrs. Boileau."</p> + +<p>"Just 'another good woman gone wrong,'" suggests Taffy, mildly.</p> + +<p>"Quite so," says Archibald, "though she adored him,—she said. Yet he +died, some said of fever, others of—Mrs. Boileau; no attention was ever +paid to the others. When he <i>did</i> droop and die she planted all sorts of +lovely little flowers over his grave, and watered them with her tears +for ever so long. Could affection farther go?"</p> + +<p>"Horrible woman!" says Miss Chesney, "it only wanted that to finish my +dislike to her. I hope when I am dead no one will plant flowers on <i>my</i> +grave: the bare idea would make me turn in it."</p> + +<p>"Then we won't do it," says Taffy, consolingly.</p> + +<p>"I wish we had a few Indian customs in this country," says Cyril, +languidly. "The Suttee was a capital institution. Think what a lot of +objectionable widows we should have got rid of by this time; Mrs. +Boileau, for instance."</p> + +<p>"And Mrs. Arlington," puts in Florence, quietly. An unaccountable +silence follows this speech. No one can exactly explain why, but every +one knows something awkward has been said. Cyril outwardly is perhaps +the least<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span> concerned of them all: as he bites languidly a little blade +of green grass, a faint smile flickers at the corners of his lips; +Lilian is distinctly angry.</p> + +<p>"Poor Mrs. Boileau; all this is rather ill-natured, is it not?" asks +Florence, gently, rising as though a dislike to the gossip going on +around her compels her to return to the house. In reality it is a +dislike to damp grass that urges her to flight.</p> + +<p>"Shall I get you a chair, Florence?" asks Cyril, somewhat irrelevantly +as it seems.</p> + +<p>"Pray don't leave us, Miss Beauchamp," says Taffy. "If you will stay on, +we will swear not to make any more ill-natured remarks about any one."</p> + +<p>"Then I expect silence will reign supreme, and that the remainder of the +<i>conversazione</i> will be of the deadly-lively order," says Archibald; +and, Cyril at this moment arriving with the offered chair, Miss +Beauchamp is kindly pleased to remain.</p> + +<p>As the evening declines, the midges muster in great force. Cyril and +Taffy, being in the humor for smoking,—and having cheroots,—are +comparatively speaking happy; the others grow more and more secretly +irritated every moment. Florence is making ladylike dabs at her forehead +every two seconds with her cambric handkerchief, and is regretting +keenly her folly in not retiring in-doors long ago. Midges sting her and +raise uninteresting little marks upon her face, thereby doing +irremediable damage for the time being. The very thought of such a +catastrophe fills her with horror. Her fair, plump hands are getting +spoiled by these blood-thirsty little miscreants; this she notices with +dismay, but is ignorant of the fact that a far worse misfortune is +happening higher up. A tasteless midge has taken a fancy to her nose, +and has inflicted on it a serious bite; it is swelling visibly, and a +swelled nose is not becoming, especially when it is set as nearly as +nature will permit in the centre of a pale, high-bred, but expressionless face.</p> + +<p>Ignorant, I say, of this crowning mishap, she goes on dabbing her brow +gently, while all the others lie around her dabbing likewise.</p> + +<p>At last Lilian loses all patience.</p> + +<p>"Oh! <i>hang</i> these midges!" she says, naturally certainly but rather too +forcibly for the times we live in. The petulance of the soft tone, the +expression used, makes them<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span> all laugh, except Miss Beauchamp, who, true +to her training, maintains a demeanor of frigid disapproval, which has +the pleasing effect of rendering the swelled nose more ludicrous than it was before.</p> + +<p>"Have I said anything very <i>bizarre</i>?" demands Lilian, opening her eyes +wide at their laughter. "Oh!"—recollecting—"did I say 'hang them'? It +is all Taffy's fault, he will use schoolboy slang. Taffy, you ought to +be ashamed of yourself: don't you see how you have shocked Florence?"</p> + +<p>"And no wonder," says Archibald, gravely; "you know we swore to her not +to abuse anything for the remainder of this evening, not even these +little winged torments," viciously squeezing half a dozen to death as he +speaks.</p> + +<p>"How are we going to the Grange to-morrow evening?" asks Taffy, presently.</p> + +<p>The others have broken up and separated; Cyril and Archibald, at a +little distance, are apparently convulsed with laughter over some shady +story just being related by the former.</p> + +<p>"I suppose," goes on Taffy, "as Lady Chetwoode won't come, we shall take +the open traps, and not mind the carriage, the evenings are so fine. Who +is to drive who, is the question."</p> + +<p>"No; who is to drive poor little I, is the question. Sir Guy, will you?" +asks Lilian, plaintively, prompted by some curious impulse, seeing him +silent, handsome, moody in the background. A moment later she could have +killed herself for putting the question to him.</p> + +<p>"Guy always drives me," says Florence, calmly: "I never go with any one +else, except in the carriage with Aunt Anne. I am nervous, and should be +miserable with any one I could not quite trust. Careless driving +terrifies me. But Guy is never careless," turning upon Chetwoode a face +she fondly hopes is full of feeling, but which unfortunately is +suggestive of nothing but a midge's bite. The nose is still the +principal feature in it.</p> + +<p>Placed in this awkward dilemma, Guy can only curse his fate and be +silent. How can he tell Florence he does not care for her society, how +explain to Lilian his wild desire for hers? He bites his moustache, and, +with his eyes fixed gloomily upon the ground, maintains a disgusted +silence. Truly luck is dead against him.</p> + +<p>"Oh,—that indeed!" says Lilian, and, being a thorough<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span> woman, of course +makes no allowance for his unhappy position. Evidently,—according to +her view of the case,—from his silent acquiescence in Miss Beauchamp's +plan, he likes it. No doubt it was all arranged between them early this +morning; and she, to have so far forgotten herself as to ask him to +drive her! Oh! it is intolerable!</p> + +<p>"You are quite right," she says sweetly to Florence, even producing a +smile for the occasion, as women will when their hearts are sorest. +"There is nothing so depressing as nervousness when driving. Perhaps +Archibald will take pity upon me. Archie!" calling out to him, "come +here. I want you to do me a great favor,"—with an enchanting smile. +"Would it be putting you out dreadfully if I asked you to drive me to +Mrs. Boileau's to-morrow evening?"—another smile still more enchanting.</p> + +<p>"You really mean it?" asks Archibald, delighted, his dark face lighting, +while Guy, looking on helplessly, almost groans aloud. "You know how +glad I shall be: I had no idea when I got up this morning such luck was +in store for me. <i>Dear</i> Mrs. Boileau! if she could only guess how eager +I am to start for her <i>charming</i> Grange!"</p> + +<p>He says this in a laughing tone, but Chetwoode fully understands that, +like the famous well, it has truth at the bottom of it.</p> + +<p>"It grows late, does it not?" Florence says, rising gracefully. "I think +we had better go in-doors. We have left Aunt Anne too long alone."</p> + +<p>"Auntie is lying down. Her head is bad," says Lilian; "I was with her +just before I came out, and she said she wished to be alone."</p> + +<p>"Yes; she can't bear noise," remarks Florence, calmly, but meaningly. "I +must go and see how she is." There is the faintest suspicion of an +emphasis upon the personal pronoun.</p> + +<p>"That will be very kind of you, dear," says Miss Chesney, suavely. "And +Florence—would you like anything to rub your poor nose?—cold cream—or +glycerine—or that; nurse has all those sorts of things, I'm sure." This +is a small revenge of Lilian's, impossible to forego; while enjoying it, +she puts on the tenderest air of sympathetic concern, and carefully +regards Miss Beauchamp's nose with raised brows of solicitude.</p> + +<p>"My nose?" repeats Florence, reddening.</p> + +<p>"Yes, dear. One of those unkind little insects has <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span>bitten it +shamefully, and now it is all pink and swollen. Didn't you know it? I +have been feeling so sorry for you for the last ten minutes. It is too +bad,—is it not? I hardly think it will be well before dinner, and it is +so disfiguring." All this she utters in tones of the deepest commiseration.</p> + +<p>Florence wisely makes no reply. She would have borne the tortures of the +rack rather than exhibit any vehement temper before Guy; so she contents +herself with casting a withering glance upon Lilian,—who receives it +with the utmost <i>sang-froid</i>,—and, putting her handkerchief up to the +wounded member, sweeps into the house full of righteous indignation.</p> + +<p>Sir Guy, after lengthened hesitation, evidently makes up his mind to do +something, and, with his face full of purpose, follows her. This +devotion on his part is more than Lilian—in spite of her +suspicions—has bargained for.</p> + +<p>"Gone to console his 'sleepy Venus' for the damage done to her 'Phidian +nose,'" she says to Taffy, with rather a bitter laugh.</p> + +<p>"Little girls should neither quote Don Juan nor say ill-natured things," +replies that youth, with an air of lofty rebuke. But Lilian, not being +in the mood for even Taffy's playfulness, makes no answer, and walks +away to her beloved garden to seek consolation from the flowers.</p> + +<p>Whatever Guy's conference with Florence was about, it was short and +decisive, as in five minutes he again emerged from the house, and, +looking vainly around him, starts in search of Lilian. Presently, at the +end of the long lawn, he sees her.</p> + +<p>"Well, has her poor dear nose recovered all its pristine freshness?" she +asks him, in a rather reckless tone, as he comes up to her.</p> + +<p>"Lilian," says Guy, abruptly, eagerly, taking no notice of this +sally,—indeed, scarcely hearing,—"it was all a mistake; I could not +speak plainly a moment ago, but I have arranged it all with Florence; +and—will you let me drive you to Mrs. Boileau's to-morrow evening?"</p> + +<p>"No, thank you," a quick gleam in her large eyes that should have warned +him; "I would not make Florence unhappy for the world. Think of her nerves!"</p> + +<p>"She will be quite as safe with Cyril—or—your cousin."</p> + +<p>"Which cousin?"</p> + +<p>"Chesney."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span></p><p>"I think not, because I am going with Archibald."</p> + +<p>"You can easily break off with him," anxiously.</p> + +<p>"But supposing I do not wish to break off with him?"</p> + +<p>"Am I to think, then, you prefer going with your cousin?" in a freezing tone.</p> + +<p>"Certainly, I prefer his society to yours, ten thousand times," +forcibly; "it was mere idleness made me say I wished to go with you. Had +you agreed to my proposition I should probably have changed my mind +afterward, so everything is better as it is; I am glad now you did not +answer me differently."</p> + +<p>"I did not answer you at all," returns Guy, unwisely.</p> + +<p>"No, you were <i>afraid</i>," returns she, with a mocking laugh that sends +the red blood to his forehead.</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" he asks, angrily.</p> + +<p>"Nothing. It was foolish my mentioning the subject. We are disputing +about a mere trifle. I am going with Archie whatever happens, because I +like him, and because I know he is always glad to be with me."</p> + +<p>She turns as though to leave him, and Guy impulsively catches her hand +to detain her; as he does so, his eyes fall upon the little white +fingers imprisoned in his own, and there, upon one of them—beside his +own ring—he sees another,—newer.</p> + +<p>"Who gave you that?" he asks, impulsively, knowing well the answer to his question.</p> + +<p>"Archibald," removing her hand quietly, but with determination.</p> + +<p>A dead silence follows. Then, speaking calmly by a supreme effort, Guy says:</p> + +<p>"I suppose so. Are you going to marry your cousin, Lilian?"</p> + +<p>"Is it in the capacity of guardian you ask that question?" defiantly. +"You should remember I don't acknowledge one."</p> + +<p>"Must I understand by that you will accept him, or have accepted him?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly not. You told me yesterday you found it impossible to +understand me at any time; why seek to do what is beyond your power? +However, I don't mind telling you that as yet Archibald has not made me +a formal offer of his heart and hand. No doubt"—mockingly—"when he +does me the honor to propose to me, he will speak to you on the +subject." Then she laughs a little.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span> "Don't you think it is rather +absurd arranging matters for poor Archie without his consent? I assure +you he has as much idea of proposing to me as the man in the moon."</p> + +<p>"If you are not engaged to him you should not wear his ring," severely.</p> + +<p>"I am not engaged to you, and I wear your ring. If it is wrong to accept +a ring from a man to whom one is not engaged, I think it was very +reprehensible of you to give me this," pointing to it.</p> + +<p>"With me it is different," Guy is beginning, rather lamely, not being +sure of his argument; but Miss Chesney, disdaining subterfuge, interrupts him.</p> + +<p>"A thing is either right or wrong," she says, superbly. "I may surely +wear either none, or both."</p> + +<p>"Then remove both," says Guy, feeling he would rather see her without +his, if it must only be worn in conjunction with Chesney's.</p> + +<p>"I shan't," returns Lilian, deliberately. "I shall wear both as long as +it suits me,—because I adore rings."</p> + +<p>"Then you are acting very wrongly. I know there is little use in my +speaking to you, once you are bent upon having your own way. You are so +self-willed, and so determined."</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"Without a friend, what were humanity,</div> +<div>To hunt our errors up with a good grace?"</div> +</div></div> + +<p>quotes Lilian lightly. "There is no use in your lecturing me, Sir Guy; +it does me little good. <i>You</i> want <i>your</i> way, and I want <i>mine</i>; I am +not 'self-willed,' but I don't like tyranny, and I always said you were tyrannical."</p> + +<p>"You are of course privileged to say what you like," haughtily.</p> + +<p>"Very well; then I <i>shall</i> say it. One would think I was a baby, the way +you—scold—and torment me," here the tears of vexation and childish +wrath rise in her eyes; "but I do not acknowledge your authority; I have +told you so a hundred times, and I never shall,—never, never, never!"</p> + +<p>"Lilian, listen to me——"</p> + +<p>"No, I will not. I wonder why you come near me at all. Go back to +Florence; she is so calm, so sweet, so—<i>somnolent</i>,"—with a +sneer,—"that she will not ruffle your temper. As for me, I hate +disagreeable people! Why do<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span> you speak to me? It does neither of us any +good. It only makes you ill-mannered and me thoroughly unhappy."</p> + +<p>"Unhappy!"</p> + +<p>"Yes," petulantly, "<i>miserable</i>. Surely of late you must have noticed +how I avoid you. It is nothing but scold, scold, scold, all the time I +am with you; and I confess I don't fancy it. You might have known, +without my telling you, that I detest being with you!"</p> + +<p>"I shall remember it for the future," returns he, in a low voice, +falling back a step or two, and speaking coldly, although his heart is +beating wildly with passionate pain and anger.</p> + +<p>"Thank you," retorts Lilian: "that is the kindest thing you have said to +me for many a day."</p> + +<p>Yet the moment his back is turned she regrets this rude speech, and all +the many others she has given way to during the last fortnight. Her own +incivility vexes her, wounds her to the heart's core, for, however +mischievously inclined and quick-tempered she may be, she is marvelously +warm-hearted and kindly and fond.</p> + +<p>For full five minutes she walks to and fro, tormented by secret +upbraidings, and then a revulsion sets in. What does it matter after +all, she thinks, with an impatient shrug of her pretty soft shoulders. A +little plain speaking will do him no harm,—in fact, may do him untold +good. He has been so petted all his life long that a snubbing, however +small, will enliven him, and make him see himself in his true colors. +(What his true colors may be she does not specify even to herself.) And +if he is so devoted to Florence, why, let him then spend his time with +her, and not come lecturing other people on matters that don't concern +him. Such a fuss about a simple emerald ring indeed! Could anything be more absurd?</p> + +<p>Nevertheless she feels a keen desire for reconciliation; so much so +that, later on,—just before dinner,—seeing Sir Guy in the shrubberies, +walking up and down in deepest meditation,—evidently of the depressing +order,—she makes up her mind to go and speak to him. Yes, she has been +in the wrong; she will go to him, therefore, and make the <i>amende +honorable</i>; and he (he is not altogether bad!) will doubtless rejoice to +be friends with her again.</p> + +<p>So thinking, she moves slowly though deliberately up to him, regarding +the while with absolute fervor the exquisite though frail geranium +blossom she carries in her hand.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span> It is only partly opened, and is +delicately tinted as her own skin.</p> + +<p>When she is quite close to her guardian she raises her head, and +instantly affects a deliciously surprised little manner at the fact of +his unexpected (?) nearness.</p> + +<p>"Ah, Sir Guy, you here?" she says, airily, with an apparent consummate +forgetfulness of all past broils. "You are just in time: see what a +lovely flower I have for you. Is not the color perfect? Is it not +sweet?" proffering to him the pale geranium.</p> + +<p>"It is," replies he, taking the flower mechanically, because it is held +out to him, but hardly looking at it. His face is pale with suppressed +anger, his lips are closely set beneath his fair moustache; she is +evidently not forgiven. "And yet I think," he says, slowly, "if you knew +my opinion of you, you would be the last to offer me a flower."</p> + +<p>"And what then is your opinion?" demands Lilian, growing whiter and +whiter until all her pretty face has faded to the "paleness o' the +pearl." Instinctively she recoils a little, as though some slight blow +has touched and shaken her.</p> + +<p>"I think you a heartless coquette," returns he, distinctly, in a low +tone that literally rings with passion. "Take back your gift. Why should +you waste it upon one who does not care to have it?" And, flinging the +flower contemptuously at her feet, he turns and departs.</p> + +<p>For a full minute Miss Chesney neither stirs nor speaks. When he is +quite gone, she straightens herself, and draws her breath sharply.</p> + +<p>"Well, I never!" she says, between her little white teeth, which is a +homely phrase borrowed from nurse, but very expressive, and with that +she plants a small foot viciously upon the unoffending flower and +crushes it out of all shape and recognition.</p> + +<p class="center">* * * * * * *</p> + +<p>Dinner is over, and almost forgotten; conversation flags. Even to the +most wakeful it occurs that it must be bordering upon bed-hour.</p> + +<p>Lilian, whose nightly habit is to read for an hour or two in her bed +before going to sleep, remembering she has left her book where she took +off her hat on coming into the house some hours ago, leaves the +drawing-room, and, having crossed the large hall, turns into the smaller +one that leads to the library.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span></p><p>Midway in this passage one lamp is burning; the three others (because +of some inscrutable reason known only to the under-footman) have not +been lit: consequently to-night this hall is in semi-darkness.</p> + +<p>Almost at the very end of it Miss Chesney finds herself face to face +with her guardian, and, impelled by mischief and coquetry, stops short +to confront him.</p> + +<p>"Well, Sir Guy, have you got the better of your naughty temper?" she +asks, saucily. "Fie, to keep a little wicked black dog upon your +shoulder for so long! I hope by this time you are properly ashamed of +yourself, and that you are ready to promise me never to do it again."</p> + +<p>Guy is silent. He is thinking how lovely she is, how indifferent to him, +how unattainable.</p> + +<p>"Still unrepentant," goes on Lilian, with a mocking smile: "you are a +more hardened sinner than ever I gave you credit for. And what is it all +about, pray? What has vexed you? Was it my cousin's ring? or my refusing +to accompany you to-morrow to Mrs. Boileau's?"</p> + +<p>"Both," replies he, feeling compelled to answer. "I still think you +should not wear your cousin's ring unless engaged to him."</p> + +<p>"Nor yours either, of course," with a frown. "How you do love going over +the same ground again and again! Well," determinately, "as I told you +before, I shall wear both—do you hear?—just as long as I please. So +now, my puissant guardian," with a gesture that is almost a challenge, +"I defy you, and dare you to do your worst."</p> + +<p>Her tone, as is intended, irritates him; her beauty, her open though +childish defiance madden him. Gazing at her in the uncertain light, +through which her golden hair and gleaming sapphire eyes shine clearly, +he loses all self-control, and in another moment has her in his arms, +and has kissed her once, twice, passionately.</p> + +<p>Then recollection, all too late, returns, and shocked, horrified at his +own conduct, he releases her, and, leaning against the wall with folded +arms and lowered eyes, awaits his doom.</p> + +<p>Standing where he has left her, pale as a little colorless ghost, with +her lips as white as death, and her great eyes grown black through +mingled terror and amazement, Lilian regards him silently. She does not +move, she scarcely seems to breathe; no faintest sound of anger escapes +her. Then slowly—slowly raising her handkerchief, she draws it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span> lightly +across her lips, and with a gesture full of contempt and loathing flings +it far from her. After which she draws herself up to her extremest +height, and, with her head erect and her whole figure suggestive of +insulted pride and dignity, she sweeps past him into the library, +closing the door quietly behind her.</p> + +<p>When the last sound of her footsteps has disappeared, Guy rouses himself +as if from a hateful dream, and presses his hand to his forehead. +Stooping, he picks up the disdained handkerchief, that lies mournfully +in the corner, thrusts it into his bosom, and turning away toward his +own quarters, is seen no more that night.</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.</span></h2> + +<div class="block2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"The best laid schemes o' mice and men</div> +<div class="i1">Gang aft a-gley,</div> +<div>And lea'e us nought but grief and pain,</div> +<div class="i1">For promised joy."—<span class="smcap">Burns.</span></div> +</div></div></div> + +<p>All next day Lilian treats him as though to her eyes he is invisible. +She bestows upon him none of the usual courtesies of life; she takes no +"good-morrow," nor gives one. She is singularly deaf when he speaks; +except when common etiquette compels her to return an answer to one or +other of his speeches, she is dumb to him, or, when thus compelled, +makes an answer in her iciest tones.</p> + +<p>At five o'clock they all start for the Grange, Mrs. Boileau being one of +those unpleasant people who think they can never see enough of their +guests, or that their guests can never see enough of them,—I am not +sure which,—and who consequently has asked them to come early, to +inspect her gardens and walk through her grounds before dinner.</p> + +<p>As the grounds are well worth seeing, and the evening is charming for +strolling, this is about the pleasantest part of the entertainment. At +least so thinks Lilian, who (seeing Guy's evident depression) is in +radiant spirits. So does Archibald, who follows her as her shadow. They +are both delighted at everything about the Grange, and wander hither and +thither, looking and admiring as they go.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span></p><p>And indeed it is a charming old place, older perhaps than Chetwoode, +though smaller and less imposing. The ivy has clambered up over all its +ancient walls and towers and battlements, until it presents to the eye a +sheet of darkest, richest green, through which the old-fashioned +casements peep in picturesque disorder, hardly two windows being in a line.</p> + +<p>Inside, steps are to be met with everywhere in the most unexpected +places,—curious doors leading one never knows where,—ghostly corridors +along which at dead of night armed knights of by-gone days might tramp, +their armor clanking,—winding stairs,—and tapestries that tell of +warriors brave and maidens fair, long since buried and forgotten.</p> + +<p>Outside, the gardens are lovely and rich in blossom. Here, too, the old +world seems to have lingered, the very flowers themselves, though born +yesterday, having all the grace and modesty of an age gone by.</p> + +<p>Here</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"The oxlips and the nodding violet grow:</div> +<div>Quite over-canopied with lush woodbine,</div> +<div>with sweet musk-roses and with eglantine."</div> +</div></div> + +<p>Here too the "nun-like lily" hangs its head, the sweet "neglected +wall-flower" blows, the gaudy sunflower glitters, and the "pale +jessamine, the white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet," display +their charms; while among them, towering over all through the might of +its majesty, shines the rose,—"Joy's own flower," as Felicia Hemans +sweetly calls it.</p> + +<p>Now—being late in the season—the blossom is more scarce, though still +the air is heavy with delicate perfume, and the eyes grow drunk with +gazing on the beauty of the autumn flowers. Through them goes Lilian, +with Archibald gladly following.</p> + +<p>All day long he has had her to himself, and she has been so good to him, +so evidently pleased and contented with his society alone, that within +his breast an earnest hope has risen, so strongly, that he only waits a +fitting opportunity to lay his heart and fortune at her feet.</p> + +<p>"I can walk no more," says Lilian, at last, sinking upon the grass +beneath the shade of a huge beech that spreads its kindly arms above +her. "Let us sit here and talk."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span></p><p>Archibald throws himself beside her, and for a few minutes silence +reigns supreme.</p> + +<p>"Well?" says Lilian, at length, turning lazy though inquisitive eyes +upon her companion.</p> + +<p>"Well?" says Archibald in return.</p> + +<p>"I said you were to talk," remarks Lilian, in an aggrieved tone. "And +you have not said one word yet. You ought to know by this time how I dislike silence."</p> + +<p>"Blame yourself: I have been racking my brains without success for the +last two minutes to try to find something suitable to say. Did you ever +notice how, when one person says to another, 'Come, let us talk,' that +other is suddenly stricken with hopeless stupidity? So it is now with +me: I cannot talk: I am greatly afraid."</p> + +<p>"Well, I can," says Lilian, "and as I insist on your doing so also, I +shall ask you questions that require an answer. First, then, did you +ever receive a note from me on my leaving the Park, asking you to take +care of my birds?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"And you fed them?"</p> + +<p>"Regularly," says Archibald, telling a fearful lie deliberately, as from +the day he read that note to this he has never once remembered the +feathered friends she mentions, and even now as he speaks has only the +very haziest idea of what she means.</p> + +<p>"I am glad of that," regarding him searchingly. "It would make me +unhappy to think they had been neglected."</p> + +<p>"Don't be unhappy, then," returning her gaze calmly and unflinchingly: +"they are all right: I took care of that." His manner is truthful in the +extreme, his eyes meet hers reassuringly. It is many years since Mr. +Chesney first learned the advantage to be derived from an impassive +countenance. And now with Lilian's keen blue eyes looking him through +and through, he feels doubly thankful that practice has made him so +perfect in the art of suppressing his real thoughts. He has also learned +the wisdom of the old maxim,—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"When you tell a lie, tell a good one,</div> +<div>When you tell a good one, stick to it,"</div> +</div></div> + +<p>and sticks to his accordingly.</p> + +<p>"I am so pleased!" says Lilian, after a slight pause,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span> during which she +tells herself young men are not so wretchedly thoughtless after all, and +that Archibald is quite an example to his sex in the matter of good +nature. "One of my chiefest regrets on leaving home was thinking how my +birds would miss me."</p> + +<p>"I am sorry you ever left it."</p> + +<p>"So am I, of course. I was very near declining to do so at the last +moment. It took Aunt Priscilla a full week to convince me of the error +of my ways, and prove to me that I could not live alone with a gay and +(as she hinted) wicked bachelor."</p> + +<p>"I have never been so unfortunate as to meet her," says Archibald, +mildly, "but I would bet any money your Aunt Priscilla is a highly +objectionable and interfering old maid."</p> + +<p>"No, she is not: she is a very good woman, and quite an old dear in some ways."</p> + +<p>"She is an old maid?" raising himself on his elbow with some show of interest.</p> + +<p>"Well, yes, she is; but I like old maids," says Lilian, stoutly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, she <i>likes</i> old maids," says Mr. Chesney, <i>sotto voce</i>, sinking +back once more into his lounging position. He evidently considers there +is nothing more to be said on that head. "And so she wouldn't let you stay?"</p> + +<p>"No. You should have seen her face when I suggested writing to you to +ask if I might have a suite of rooms for my own use, promising +faithfully never to interfere with you in any way. It was a picture!"</p> + +<p>"It pained you very much to leave the Park?"</p> + +<p>"It was death to me. Remember, it had been my home all my life; every +stick and stone about the place was dear to me."</p> + +<p>"It was downright brutal, my turning you out," says Archibald, warmly: +"I could hate myself when I think of it. But I knew nothing of it, +and—I had not seen you then."</p> + +<p>"If you had, would you have let me stay on?"</p> + +<p>"I think so," returns he, softly, gazing with dangerous tenderness at +the delicate rose-tinted face above him. Then, "Even so, I wish you had +asked me; I so seldom go near the place, you would have been thoroughly +welcome to stay on in it, had you been the ugliest person breathing."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span></p><p>"So I said at the time, but Aunt Priscilla would not hear of it. I am +sure I heard enough about the proprieties at that time to last me all my +life. When all arguments failed," says Miss Chesney, breaking into a gay +laugh, as recollection crowds upon her, "I proposed one last expedient +that nearly drove auntie wild with horror. What do you think it was?"</p> + +<p>"Tell me."</p> + +<p>"I said I would ask your hand in marriage, and so put an end to all +slanderous tongues; that is, if you consented to have me. See what a +narrow escape you had," says Lilian, her merriment increasing: "it would +have been so awkward to refuse!"</p> + +<p>Archibald gazes at her earnestly. He has been through the hands of a +good many women in his time, but now confesses himself fairly puzzled. +Is her laughter genuine? is it coquetry? or simply amusement?</p> + +<p>"Had you ever a proposal, Lilian?" asks he, quietly, his eyes still +riveted upon her face.</p> + +<p>"No," surprised: "what an odd question! I suppose it is humiliating to +think that up to this no man has thought me worth loving. I often +imagine it all," says Lilian, confidentially, taking her knees into her +embrace, and letting her eyes wander dreamily over to the hills far away +behind the swaying trees. "And I dare say some day my curiosity will be +gratified. But I do hope he won't write: I should like to <i>see</i> him do +it. I wouldn't," says Miss Chesney, solemnly, "give a pin for a man who +wouldn't go down on his knees to his lady-love."</p> + +<p>This last remark under the circumstances is eminently unwise. A moment +later Lilian is made aware of it by the fact of Archibald's rising and +going down deliberately on his knees before her.</p> + +<p>"It can scarcely be news to you to tell you I love you," says he, +eagerly. "Lilian, will you marry me?"</p> + +<p>"What are you saying?" says Miss Chesney, half frightened, half amused: +"you must be going mad! Do get up, Archie: you cannot think how +ridiculous you look."</p> + +<p>"Tell me you will marry me," entreats that young man, unmoved even by +the fact of his appearing grotesque in the eyes of his beloved.</p> + +<p>"No; I will not," shaking her head. "Archie, do move: there is the most +dreadful spider creeping up your leg."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span></p><p>"I don't care; let him creep," says Archibald, valiantly; "I shan't +stir until you give me a kind answer."</p> + +<p>"I don't know what to say; and besides I can do nothing but laugh while +you maintain your present position. Get up instantly, you foolish boy: +you are ruining the knees of your best trousers."</p> + +<p>Whether this thought carries weight with Mr. Chesney I know not, but +certainly he rises to his feet without further demur.</p> + +<p>"You spoke about the Park a few minutes ago," he says, slowly; "you know +now you can have it back again if you will."</p> + +<p>"But not in that way. Did you think I was hinting?" growing rather red. +"No; please don't say another word. I wonder you can be so silly."</p> + +<p>"Silly!" somewhat aggrieved; "I don't know what you mean by that. Surely +a fellow may ask a woman to marry him without being termed 'silly.' I +ask you again now. Lilian, will you marry me?"</p> + +<p>"No, no, no, certainly not. I have no intention of marrying any one for +years to come,—if ever. I think," with a charming pout, "it is very +unkind of you to say such things to me,—and just when we were such good +friends too; spoiling everything. I shall never be comfortable in your +society again; I'm sure I never should have suspected you of such a +thing. If I had——" A pause.</p> + +<p>"You would not have come here with me to-day, you mean?" gloomily.</p> + +<p>"Indeed I should not. Nothing would have induced me. You have put me out terribly."</p> + +<p>"I suppose you like Chetwoode," says Archibald, still more gloomily. +Having never been denied anything since his birth, he cannot bring +himself to accept this crowning misfortune with becoming grace.</p> + +<p>"I like everybody,—except Florence," returns Lilian, composedly.</p> + +<p>Then there is another pause, rather longer than the first, and +then—after a violent struggle with her better feelings—Miss Chesney +gives way, and laughs long and heartily.</p> + +<p>"My dear Archibald, don't look so woe-begone," she says. "If you could +only see yourself! You look as though every relation you ever had was +dead. Why, you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span> ought to be very much obliged to me. Have you never +heard Mr. Punch's advice to young men about to marry?"</p> + +<p>"I don't want any one's advice; it is late for that, I fancy. +Lilian—darling—<i>darling</i>—won't you——"</p> + +<p>"I won't, indeed," recoiling and waving him back, while feeling for the +first time slightly embarrassed; "don't come a step nearer; nobody ever +made love to me before, and I perfectly <i>hate</i> it! I hope sincerely no +one will ever propose to me again."</p> + +<p>"<i>I</i> shall!" doggedly; "I shan't give you up yet. You have not thought +about it. When you know me better you may change your mind."</p> + +<p>"Do not deceive yourself," gently, "and do not be offended. It is not +you I have an objection to, it is marriage generally. I have only begun +my life, and a husband must be such a bore. Any number of people have told me so."</p> + +<p>"Old maids, such as your Aunt Priscilla, I dare say," says Archibald, +scornfully. "Don't believe them. I wouldn't bore you: you should have +everything exactly your own way."</p> + +<p>"I have that now."</p> + +<p>"And I will wait for you as long as you please."</p> + +<p>"So you may," gayly; "but mind, I don't desire you.</p> + +<p>"May I take that as a grain of hope?" demands he, eagerly grasping this +poor shadow of a crumb with avidity, only to find later on it is no +crumb at all. "Don't be cruel, Lilian: every one thinks differently +after a while; you may also. You have said I am not hateful to you; if +then you would only promise to think it over——"</p> + +<p>"Impossible," airily: "I never think: it is too fatiguing. So are you, +by the bye, just now. I shan't stay with you any longer, lest I should +be infected. Good-bye, Archie; when you are in a pleasanter mood you can +return to me, but until then adieu."</p> + +<p>So saying, she catches her train in one hand and runs away from him fast +as her fleet little feet can carry her.</p> + +<p>Down the pathway, round under the limes, into another path runs she, +where suddenly she finds herself in Taffy's presence.</p> + +<p>"Whither away, fair maid?" asks that youth, removing the cigar from his +lips that he is enjoying all alone.</p> + +<p>"I am running away from Archie. He was so <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span>excessively dull and +disagreeable that I could not bring myself to waste another moment on +him, so I ran away and left him just <i>planté là</i>," says Miss Chesney, +with a little foreign gesture and a delicious laugh that rings far +through the clear air, and reaches Archibald's ears as he draws nearer.</p> + +<p>"Come, I hear footsteps," whispers she, slipping her hand into Taffy's. +"Help me to hide from him."</p> + +<p>So together they scamper still farther away, until at last they arrive +breathless but secure in the shrubberies that surround one side of the house.</p> + +<p>When they have quite recovered themselves, it occurs to Taffy that he +would like to know all about it.</p> + +<p>"What was he saying to you?" asks he <i>à propos</i> of Chesney.</p> + +<p>"Nothing," promptly.</p> + +<p>Taffy, curiously: "Well, certainly that <i>was</i> very disagreeable."</p> + +<p>Lilian, demurely: "It was."</p> + +<p>At this Taffy lays his hands upon her shoulders and gives her a good shake.</p> + +<p>"Tell me directly," says he, "what he was saying to you."</p> + +<p>"How can I?" innocently; "he says so much and none of it worth +repeating."</p> + +<p>"Was he making love to you?"</p> + +<p>"No. Oh, no," mildly.</p> + +<p>"I'm certain he was," with conviction. "And look here, Lil, don't you +have anything to do with him: he isn't up to the mark by any means. He +is too dark, and there is something queer about his eyes. I once saw a +man who had cut the throats of his mother, his grandmother, and all his +nearest relations,—any amount of them,—and his eyes were just like +Chesney's. Don't marry him, whatever you do."</p> + +<p>"I won't," laughing: "I should hate to have my throat cut."</p> + +<p>"There's Chetwoode, now," says Taffy, who begins to think himself a very +deep and delicate diplomatist. "He is a very decent fellow all round if you like."</p> + +<p>"I do like, certainly. It is quite a comfort to know Sir Guy is not indecent."</p> + +<p>"Oh, you know what I mean well enough. There's nothing underhand about +Chetwoode. By the bye, what<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span> have you been doing to him? He is awfully +down on his luck all day."</p> + +<p>"I!" coldly. "What should I do to Sir Guy?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know, I'm sure, but girls have a horrid way of teasing a fellow +while pretending to be perfectly civil to him all the time. It is my +private opinion," says Mr. Musgrave, mysteriously,—"and I flatter +myself I am seldom wrong,—that he is dead spoons on you."</p> + +<p>"Really, Taffy!" begins Lilian, angrily.</p> + +<p>"Yes, he is: you take my word for it. I'm rather a judge in such +matters. Bet you a fiver," says Mr. Musgrave, "he proposes to you before +the year is out."</p> + +<p>"I wonder, Taffy, how you can be so vulgar!" says Lilian, with crimson +cheeks, and a fine show of superior breeding. "I never bet. I forbid you +to speak to me on this subject again. Sir Guy, I assure you, has as much +intention of proposing to me as I have of accepting him should he do so."</p> + +<p>"More fool you," says Taffy, unabashed. "I'm sure he is much nicer than +that melancholy Chesney. If I were a girl I should marry him straight off."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps he would not marry you," replies Lilian, cuttingly.</p> + +<p>"Wouldn't he? he would like a shot, if I were like Lilian Chesney," says +Taffy, positively.</p> + +<p>"'Like a shot'—what does that mean?" says Miss Chesney, with withering +sarcasm. "It is a pity you cannot forget your schoolboy slang, and try +to be a gentleman. I don't think you over hear that 'decent fellow' Sir +Guy, or even that cut-throat Archibald, use it."</p> + +<p>With this parting shaft she marches off overflowing with indignation, +leaving Mr. Musgrave lost in wonder at her sudden change of manner.</p> + +<p>"What on earth is up with her now?" he asks himself, desperately; but +the dressing-bell ringing at this moment disarms thought, and sends him +in-doors to prepare for dinner.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Boileau has asked no one to meet them except a lank and dreary +curate, who is evidently a prime favorite with her. He is an Honorable +Mr. Boer, with nothing attractive about him except a most alarming voice +that makes one glance instinctively at his boots under the mistaken +impression that the sound must come from them. This is rather +unfortunate for the curate, as his feet are<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span> not (or rather <i>are</i>) his +strong point, Nature having endowed them with such a tremendous amount +of heel, and so much sole, innocent of instep, as makes them +unpleasantly suggestive of sledge-hammers.</p> + +<p>He is painfully talkative, and oppressively evangelical, which renders +him specially abhorrent to Lilian, who has rather a fancy for flowers +and candles and nice little boys in white shirts. He is also undecided +whether it is Miss Beauchamp or Miss Chesney he most admires. They have +equal fortunes, and are therefore (in his clerical eyes) equally lovely. +There is certainly more of Miss Beauchamp, but then there is a vivacity, +a—ahem—"go," if one might say so, about Miss Chesney perfectly +irresistible. Had one of these rival beauties been an heiress, and the +other rich in love's charms, I think I know which one Mr. Boer would +have bowed before,—not that I even hint at mercenary motives in his +reverence, but as it is he is much exercised in his mind as to which he +shall honor with his attentions.</p> + +<p>I think Lilian wins the day, because after dinner he bears down upon her +determinately, and makes for the fauteuil in which she lies ensconced +looking bored and <i>ennuyée</i> to the last degree. Dinner has been insipid, +the whole evening a mistake; neither Guy nor Archibald will come near +her, or even look at her; and now Mr. Boer's meditated attack is the +last straw that breaks the camel's back.</p> + +<p>"I consider the school-board very much to blame," begins that divine +while yet some yards distant, speaking in his usual blatant tones, that +never change their key-note, however long they may continue to insult the air.</p> + +<p>"So do I," says Lilian, very gently and sweetly, but with such +unmistakable haste as suggests a determination on her part to bring the +undiscussed subject to an ignominious close. "I quite agree with you; I +think them terribly to blame. But I beg your pardon for one moment: I +want to ask Mr. Chetwoode a question that has been haunting me for hours."</p> + +<p>Rising, she glides away from him over the carpet, leaving Mr. Boer—who +takes a long time to understand anything, and could not possibly believe +in a rebuff offered to himself in person—watching the tail of her long +sweeping gown, and wondering curiously if all the little white frillings +beneath it may not have something to do with a <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span>falling petticoat. At +this point he pulls himself together with a start, and fears secretly he +is growing immodest.</p> + +<p>In the meantime Lilian has reached Cyril, who is sitting at a table +somewhat apart, gazing moodily at a book containing prints of the chief +villages in Wales. He, like herself, is evidently in the last stage of dejection.</p> + +<p>Bending over him, she whispers in an awful tone, but with a beaming +smile meant to mystify the observant Boer:</p> + +<p>"If you don't instantly deliver me from that man I shall make a point of +going off into such a death-like swoon as will necessitate my being +borne from the room. He is now going to tell me about that miserable +school-board all over again, and I can't and won't stand it."</p> + +<p>"Poor child," says Cyril, with deepest sympathy; "I will protect you. If +he comes a step nearer, I swear to you I will have his blood." Uttering +this comforting assurance in the mildest tone, he draws a chair to the +table, and together they explore Wales in print.</p> + +<p>Then there is a little music, and a good deal of carefully suppressed +yawning, and then the carriages are announced and they all bid their +hostess good-night, and tell a few pretty lies about the charming +evening they have spent, etc.</p> + +<p>"Cyril, will you drive me home?" Lilian says to him hurriedly in the +hall, while they are being finally cloaked and shawled. As she says it +she takes care to avoid his eyes, so she does not see the look of amused +scrutiny that lies in them.</p> + +<p>"So soon!" he says, tragically. "It was an easy victory! I shall be only +too charmed, my dear Lilian, to drive you to the other end of the world if need be."</p> + +<p>So they start and drive home together placidly, through the cool, soft +night. Lilian is strangely silent, so is Cyril,—the calm beauty of the +heavens above them rendering their lips mute.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div class="i3">"Now glowed the firmament</div> +<div>With living sapphires; Hesperus, that led</div> +<div>The starry host, rode brightest; till the moon,</div> +<div>Rising in clouded majesty, at length—</div> +<div>Apparent queen!—unveiled her peerless light,</div> +<div>And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw."</div> +</div></div> + +<p>The night is very calm, and rich in stars; brilliant almost as garish +day, but bright with that tender, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span>unchanging, ethereal light—clear, +yet full of peaceful shadow—that day can never know.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div class="i2">"There is no dew on the dry grass to-night,</div> +<div>Nor damp within the shadow of the trees;</div> +<div>The wind is intermitting, dry and light."</div> +</div></div> + +<p>Lilian sighs gently as they move rapidly through the still air,—a sigh +not altogether born of the night's sweetness, but rather tinged with +melancholy. The day has been a failure, and though through all its +windings she has been possessed by the spirit of gayety, now in the +subdued silence of the night the reaction setting in reduces her to the +very verge of tears.</p> + +<p>Cyril, too, is very quiet, but <i>his</i> thoughts are filled with joy. +Lifting his gaze to the eternal vault above him, he seems to see in the +gentle stars the eyes of his beloved smiling back at him. A dreamy +happiness, an exquisite feeling of thankfulness, absorb him, making him +selfishly blind to the sadness of his little companion.</p> + +<p>"How silent you are!" Lilian says, at length, unable to endure her +tormenting reverie any longer.</p> + +<p>"Am I?" smiling. "I was thinking of some lines I read yesterday: the +night is so lovely it recalls them. Of course they are as well known to +you as to me; but hear them:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div class="i4">"How beautiful is the night!</div> +<div>A dewy freshness fills the silent air;</div> +<div>No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor streak, nor stain,</div> +<div class="i4">Breaks the serene of heaven:</div> +<div>In full-orb'd glory yonder moon divine</div> +<div class="i4">Rolls through the dark-blue depths."</div> +</div></div> + +<p>"Yes, they are pretty lines: they are Southey's, I think," says Lilian, +and then she sighs again, and hardly another word is spoken between them +until they reach home.</p> + +<p>As they pull up at the hall-door, Guy, who has arrived a little before +them, comes forward, and, placing one foot upon the step of Cyril's +T-cart, takes Lilian in his arms and lifts her to the ground. She is so +astonished at the suddenness of this demonstration on his part that she +forgets to make any protest, only—she turns slowly and meaningly away +from him, with lowered eyes and with averted head.</p> + +<p>With a beseeching gesture he detains her, and gains for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span> a moment her +attention. He is looking pale, miserable; there is an expression of deep +entreaty in his usually steady blue eyes.</p> + +<p>"Lilian, forgive me," he whispers, anxiously, trying to read her face by +the moonlight: "I have been sufficiently punished. If you could guess +all I have endured to-day through your coldness, your scorn, you would +say so too. Forgive me."</p> + +<p>"Impossible," returns she, haughtily, in clear tones, and, motioning him +contemptuously to one side, follows Cyril into the house.</p> + +<p>Inside they find Lady Chetwoode not only up and waiting for them, but +wide awake. This latter is a compliment so thoroughly unexpected as to +rouse within them feelings of the warmest gratitude.</p> + +<p>"What, Madre! you still here?" says Cyril. "Why, we imagined you not +only out of your first but far into your second beauty sleep by this time."</p> + +<p>"I missed you all so much I decided upon waiting up for you," Lady +Chetwoode answers, smiling benignly upon them all; "besides, early in +the evening—just after you left—I had a telegram from dear Mabel, +saying she and Tom will surely be here to dinner to-morrow night. And +the idea so pleased me I thought I would stay here to impart my news and hear yours."</p> + +<p>Every one in the room who knows Mrs. Steyne here declares his delight at +the prospect of so soon seeing her again.</p> + +<p>"She must have made up her mind at the very last moment," says Guy. +"Last week she was undecided whether she should come at all. She hates leaving London."</p> + +<p>"She must be at Steynemore now," remarks Cyril.</p> + +<p>"Lilian, my dear child, how pale you are!" Lady Chetwoode says, +anxiously taking Lilian's hand and rubbing her cheeks gently with loving +fingers. "Cold, too! The drive has been too much for you, and you are +always so careless about wraps. I ordered supper in the library an hour +ago. Come and have a glass of wine before going to bed."</p> + +<p>"No, thank you, auntie: I don't care for anything."</p> + +<p>"Thank you, Aunt Anne, I think I will take something," interposes +Florence, amiably; "the drive was long. A glass of sherry and one little +biscuit will, I feel sure, do me good."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span></p><p>Miss Beauchamp's "one little biscuit," as is well known, generally ends +in a substantial supper.</p> + +<p>"Come to the library, then," says Lady Chetwoode, and still holding +Lilian's hand, draws it within her arm, and in her own stately Old-World +fashion leads her there.</p> + +<p>When they have dismissed the butler, and declared their ability to help +one another, Lady Chetwoode says pleasantly:</p> + +<p>"Now tell me everything. Had you an agreeable evening?"</p> + +<p>"Too agreeable!" answers Cyril, with suspicious readiness: "I fear it +will make all other entertainments sink into insignificance. I consider +a night at Mrs. Boileau's the very wildest dissipation. We all sat round +the room on uneasy chairs and admired each other: it would perhaps have +been (if <i>possible</i>) a more successful amusement had we not been doing +the same thing for the past two months,—some of us for years! But it +was tremendously exciting all the same."</p> + +<p>"Was there no one to meet you?"</p> + +<p>"My dear mother, how could you suspect Mrs. Boileau of such a thing!"</p> + +<p>"Yes,—there was a Mr. Boer," says Florence, looking up blandly from her +chicken, "a man of very good family,—a clergyman——"</p> + +<p>"No, a curate," interrupts Cyril, mildly.</p> + +<p>"He made himself very agreeable," goes on Florence, in her soft +monotone, that nothing disturbs. "He was so conversational, and so well +read. You liked him, Lilian?"</p> + +<p>"Who? Mr. Boer? No; I thought him insufferable,—so dull,—so prosy," +says Lilian, wearily. She has hardly heard Miss Beauchamp's foregoing remarks.</p> + +<p>"His manner, certainly, is neither frivolous nor extravagant," Florence +returns, somewhat sharply, "but he appeared sensible and earnest, rare +qualities nowadays."</p> + +<p>"Did I hear you say he wasn't extravagant?" breaks in Cyril, lazily, +purposely misconstruing her application of the word. "My dear Florence, +consider! Could anything show such reckless extravagance as the length +of his coat-tails? I never saw so much superfluous cloth in any man's +garment before. It may be saintly, but it was cruel waste!"</p> + +<p>"How did you amuse yourselves?" asks Lady Chetwoode, hastily, +forestalling a threatening argument.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span></p><p>"As best we might. Lilian and I amused each other, and I think we had +the best of it. If our visit to the Grange did no other good, it at +least awoke in me a thorough sense of loyalty: I cannot tell you," with +a glance at Lilian, "how often I blessed the 'Prints of Wales' this night."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Cyril, what a miserable joke!" says Lilian, smiling, but there is +little warmth in her smile, and little real merriment in her usually gay +tones. All this, Cyril—who is sincerely fond of her—notes with regret +and concern.</p> + +<p>"Guy, give Lilian a glass of Moselle," says his mother at this moment; +"it is what she prefers, and it will put a little color into her cheeks: +she looks fatigued." As she says this she moves across the room to speak +to Florence, leaving Lilian standing alone upon the hearth-rug. Guy, as +desired, brings the wine and hands it to Lilian.</p> + +<p>"No, thank you," turning from him coldly. "I do not wish for it."</p> + +<p>"Nevertheless, take it," Guy entreats, in a low voice: "you are terribly +white, and," touching her hand gently, "as cold as death. Is it because +<i>I</i> bring it you will not have it? Will you take it from Taffy?"</p> + +<p>A choking sensation rises in Miss Chesney's throat; the unbidden tears +spring to her eyes; it is by a passionate effort alone she restrains +them from running down her cheeks. As I have said before, the day had +been a distinct failure. She will not speak to Guy, Archibald will not +speak to her. A sense of isolation is oppressing and weighing her down. +She, the pet, the darling, is left lonely, while all the others round +her laugh and jest and accept the good the gods provide. Like a spoilt +child, she longs to rush to her nurse and have a good cry within the +shelter of that fond woman's arms.</p> + +<p>Afraid to speak, lest her voice betray her, afraid to raise her eyes, +lest the tell-tale tears within them be seen, she silently—though +against her will—takes the glass Sir Guy offers, and puts it to her +lips, whereupon he is conscious of a feeling of thankfulness,—the bare +fact of her accepting anything at his hands seeming to breathe upon him +forgiveness.</p> + +<p>Lilian, having finished her Moselle, returns him the glass silently. +Having carried it to the table, he once more glances instinctively to +where he has left her <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span>standing. She has disappeared. Without a word to +any one, she has slipped from the library and sought refuge in her own room.</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX.</span></h2> + +<div class="block3"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"This much, however, I may add; her years</div> +<div class="i1">Were ripe, they might make six-and-twenty springs;</div> +<div>But there are forms which Time to touch forbears,</div> +<div class="i1">And turns aside his scythe to vulgar things."—<i>Don Juan.</i></div> +</div></div></div> + +<p>Next day creates but little change in Lilian's demeanor. So far as Guy +is concerned, her manner is still frozen and unrelenting. She shows no +sign of a desire to pardon, and Chetwoode noting this grows hardened, +and out-Herods Herod in his imitation of her coldness.</p> + +<p>Archibald, on the contrary, gives in almost directly. Finding it +impossible to maintain his injured bearing beyond luncheon, he succumbs, +and, throwing himself upon her mercy, is graciously received and once +more basks in the full smiles of beauty. At heart Lilian is glad to +welcome him back, and is genial and sweet to him as though no ugly +<i>contretemps</i> had occurred between them yesterday.</p> + +<p>Mabel Steyne being expected in the evening, Lady Chetwoode is especially +happy, and takes no heed of minor matters, or else her eldest son's +distraction would surely have claimed her attention. But Mabel's coming +is an event, and a happy one, and at half-past seven, pleased and +complacent, Lady Chetwoode is seated in her drawing-room, awaiting her +arrival. Lilian and Florence are with her, and one or two of the others, +Guy among them. Indeed, Mrs. Steyne's coming is a gratification the more +charming that it is a rarity, as she seldom visits the country, being +strongly addicted to city pursuits and holding country life and ruralism +generally in abhorrence.</p> + +<p>Just before dinner she arrives; there is a little flutter in the hall, a +few words, a few steps, and then the door is thrown open, and a young +woman, tall, with dark eyes and hair, a nose slightly celestial, and a +very handsome figure, enters. She walks swiftly up the room with the +grand and upright carriage that belongs to her, and is followed by a +tall, fair man, indolent though good to look at,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span> with a straw-colored +moustache, and as much whisker as one might swear by.</p> + +<p>"Dear auntie, I have come!" says Mrs. Steyne, joyfully, which is a fact +so obvious as to make the telling of it superfluous.</p> + +<p>"Mabel, my dear, how glad I am to see you!" exclaims Lady Chetwoode, +rising and holding out her arms to her. A pretty pink flush comes to +life in the old woman's cheeks making her appear ten years younger, and +adding a thousand charms to her sweet old face.</p> + +<p>They kiss each other warmly, the younger woman with tender <i>empressement</i>.</p> + +<p>"It is kind of you to say so," she says, fondly. "And you, auntie—why, +bless me, how young you look! it is disgraceful. Presently I shall be +the auntie, and you the young and lovely Lady Chetwoode. Darling auntie, +I am delighted to be with you again!"</p> + +<p>"How do you do, Tom?" Lady Chetwoode says, putting her a little to one +side to welcome her husband, but still holding her hand. "I do hope you +two have come to stay a long time in the country."</p> + +<p>"Yes, until after Christmas, so you will have time to grow heartily sick +of us," says Mrs. Steyne. "Ah, Florence."</p> + +<p>She and Florence press cheeks sympathetically, as though no evil +passages belonging to the past have ever occurred between them. And then +Lady Chetwoode introduces Lilian.</p> + +<p>"This is Lilian," she says, drawing her forward. "I have often written +to you about her."</p> + +<p>"My supplanter," remarks Mabel Steyne, turning with a smile that lights +up all her handsome brunette face. As she looks at Lilian, fair and soft +and pretty, the rather <i>insouciant</i> expression that has grown upon her +own during her encounter with Florence fades, and once more she becomes +her own gay self. "I hope you will prove a better companion to auntie +than I was," she says, with a merry laugh, taking and pressing Lilian's +hand. Lilian instinctively returns the pressure and the laugh. There is +something wonderfully fetching in Mrs. Steyne's dark, brilliant eyes.</p> + +<p>"She is the best of children!" Lady Chetwoode says, patting Lilian's +shoulder; "though indeed, my dear Mabel, I saw no fault in you."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span></p><p>"Of course not. Have you noticed, Miss Chesney, Lady Chetwoode's +greatest failing? It is that she will not see a fault in any one."</p> + +<p>"She never mentioned your faults, at all events," Lilian answers, +smiling.</p> + +<p>"I hope your baby is quite well?" Florence asks, calmly, who is far too +well bred ever to forget her manners.</p> + +<p>"The darling child,—yes,—I hope she is well," Lady Chetwoode says, +hastily, feeling as though she has been guilty of unkindness in not +asking for the baby before. Miss Beauchamp possesses to perfection that +most unhappy knack of placing people in the wrong position.</p> + +<p>"Quite, thank you," answering Lady Chetwoode instead of Florence, while +a little fond glance that is usually reserved for the nursery creeps +into her expressive eyes. "If you admired her before, you will quite +love her now. She has grown so big and fat, and has such dear little +sunny curls all over her head!"</p> + +<p>"I like fair babies," says Lilian.</p> + +<p>"Because you are a fair baby yourself," says Cyril.</p> + +<p>"She can say Mammy and Pappy quite distinctly, and I have taught her to +say Auntie very sweetly," goes on Mrs. Steyne, wrapt in recollection of +her offspring's genius. "She can say 'cake' too, and—and that is all, I think."</p> + +<p>"You forget, Mabel, don't you?" asks her husband, languidly. "You +underrate the child's abilities. The other day when she was in a frenzy +because I would not allow her to pull out my moustache in handfuls she +said——"</p> + +<p>"She was never in a frenzy, Tom," indignantly: "I wonder how you can say +so of the dear angel."</p> + +<p>"Was she not? if <i>you</i> say so, of course I was mistaken, but at the time +I firmly believed it was temper. At all events, Lady Chetwoode, on that +momentous occasion she said, 'Nanna warragood,' without a mistake. She +is a wonderful child!"</p> + +<p>"Don't pay any attention to him, auntie," with a contemptuous shrug. "He +is himself quite idiotic about baby, so much so that he is ashamed of +his infatuation. I shall bring her here some day to let you see her."</p> + +<p>"You must name the day. Would next Monday suit you?"</p> + +<p>"You needn't press the point," Tom Steyne says, warningly: "but for me, +the child and its nurse would be in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span> the room at this moment. Mab and I +had a stand-up fight about it in the hall just before starting, and it +was only after a good deal of calm though firm expostulation I carried +the day. I represented to her that as a rule babies are not invited out +to dine at eight o'clock at night, and that children of her age are +generally more attractive to their mothers than to any one else."</p> + +<p>"Barbarian!" says Lady Chetwoode.</p> + +<p>"How have you been getting on in London, Mab," asks Cyril. "Made any new conquests?"</p> + +<p>"Several," replies Tom; "though I think on the whole she is going off. +She did not make up her usual number this season. She has, however, on +her list two nice boys in the F. O., and an infant in the Guards. She is +rather unhappy about them, as she cannot make up her mind which it is +she likes best."</p> + +<p>"Wrong, Tom. Yesterday I made it up. I like the 'infant' best. But what +really saddens me is that I am by no means sure he likes <i>me</i> best. He +is terribly fond of Tom, and I sometimes fear thinks him the better +fellow of the two."</p> + +<p>At this moment the door opens and Taffy comes in.</p> + +<p>"Why! Here is my 'infant,'" exclaims Mabel, surprised. "Dear Mr. +Musgrave, I had no idea I should meet you here."</p> + +<p>"My dear Mrs. Steyne! I had no idea such luck was in store for me. I am +so glad to see you again! Lilian, why didn't you break it to me? Joyful +surprises are sometimes dangerous."</p> + +<p>"I thought you knew. We have been discussing 'Mabel's' coming," with a +shy smile, "all the past month."</p> + +<p>"But how could I possibly guess that the 'Mabel' who was occupying +everybody's thoughts could be my Mrs. Steyne?"</p> + +<p>"Ours!" murmurs Tom, faintly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, mine," says Taffy, who is not troubled with over-much shyness.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Musgrave is your cousin?" Mabel asks, turning to Lilian.</p> + +<p>"No, I am her son," says Taffy: "you wouldn't think it—would you? She +is a good deal older than she looks, but she gets herself up +wonderfully. She is not a bad mother," reflectively, "when one comes to think of it."</p> + +<p>"I dare say if you spoke the truth you would confess<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span> her your guardian +angel," says Mabel, letting a kindly glance fall on pretty Lilian. "She +takes care of you, no doubt."</p> + +<p>"And such care," answers Lilian; "but for me I do believe Taffy would +have gone to the bad long ago."</p> + +<p>"'Taffy'! what a curious name. So quaint,—and pretty too, I think. May +I," with a quick irrepressible glance, that is half fun, half natural +coquetry, "call you Taffy?"</p> + +<p>"You may call me anything you like," returns that young gentleman, with +the utmost <i>bonhommie</i></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"Call me Daphne, call me Chloris,</div> +<div>Call me Lalage, or Doris,</div> +<div>Only—<i>only</i>—call me thine!"</div> +</div></div> + +<p>"It is really mortifying that I can't," says Mrs. Steyne, while she and +the others all laugh.</p> + +<p>"Sir," says Tom Steyne, "I would have you remember the lady you are +addressing is my wife."</p> + +<p>Says Taffy, reproachfully:</p> + +<p>"Do you think I don't remember it,—to my sorrow?"</p> + +<p>They have got down to dinner and as far as the fish by this time, so are +all feeling friendly and good-natured.</p> + +<p>"Tell you what you'll do, Mab," says Guy. "You shall come over here next +week to stay with us, and bring baby and nurse with you,—and Tom, +whether he likes it or not. We can give him as much good shooting as +will cure him of his laziness."</p> + +<p>"Yes, Mabel, indeed you must," breaks in Lady Chetwoode's gentle voice. +"I want to see that dear child very badly, and how can I notice all her +pretty ways unless she stays in the house with me?"</p> + +<p>"Say yes, Mrs. Steyne," entreats Taffy: "I shall die of grief if you refuse."</p> + +<p>"Oh, that! Yes, auntie, I shall come, thank you, if only to preserve +Mr.—Taffy's life. But indeed I shall be delighted to get back to the +dear old home for a while; it is so dull at Steynemore all by ourselves."</p> + +<p>"Thank you, darling," says Tom, meekly.</p> + +<p>After dinner Mrs. Steyne, who has taken a fancy to Lilian, seats herself +beside her in the drawing-room and chatters to her unceasingly of all +things known and unknown. Guy, coming in later with the other men, sinks +into a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span> chair near Mabel, and with Miss Beauchamp's Fanchette upon his +knee employs himself in stroking it and answering Mabel's numerous +questions. He hardly looks at Lilian, and certainly never addresses her, +in which he shows his wisdom.</p> + +<p>"No, I can't bear the country," Mrs. Steyne is saying. "It depresses me."</p> + +<p>"In the spring surely it is preferable to town," says Lilian.</p> + +<p>"Is it? I suppose so, because I have so often heard it; but my taste is +vitiated. I am not myself out of London. Of course Tom and I go +somewhere every year, but it is to please fashion we go, not because we +like it. You will say I exaggerate when I tell you that I find music in +the very roll of the restless cabs."</p> + +<p>Lilian tells her that she will be badly off for music of that kind at +Steynemore; but perhaps the birds will make up for the loss.</p> + +<p>"No, you will probably think me a poor creature when I confess to you I +prefer Albani to the sweetest nightingale that ever trilled; that I +simply detest the discordant noise made by the melancholy lamb; that I +think the cuckoo tuneless and unmusical, and that I find no transcendent +pleasure in the cooing of the fondest dove that ever mourned over its +mate. These beauties of nature are thrown away upon me. Woodland groves +and leafy dells are to me suggestive of suicide, and make me sigh for +the 'sweet shady side of Pall Mall.' The country, in fact, is lonely, +and my own society makes me shudder. I like noise and excitement, and +the babel of tongues."</p> + +<p>"You forget the flowers," says Lilian, triumphantly.</p> + +<p>"No, my dear; experience has taught me I can purchase them cheaper and +far finer than I can grow them for myself. I am a skeptic, I know," +smiling. "I will not try to convert you to my opinion."</p> + +<p>"Certainly I can see advantages to be gained from a town life," says +Lilian, thoughtfully, leaning her elbow on a small table near her, and +letting her chin sink into her little pink palm. "One has a larger +circle of acquaintances. Here everything is narrowed. One lives in the +house with a certain number of persons, and, whether one likes them or +the reverse, one must put up with them. There is no escape. Yes,"—with +an audible and thoroughly meant sigh,—"that is very sad."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span></p><p>This little ungracious speech, though uttered in the most innocent +tone, goes home (as is intended) to Guy's heart. He conceals, however, +all chagrin, and pulls the ears of the sleepy snowball he is caressing +with an air of the calmest unconcern.</p> + +<p>"You mention a fact," says Mrs. Steyne, the faintest inflection of +surprise in her manner. "But you, at least, can know nothing of such +misery. Chetwoode is famous for its agreeable people, and you,—you +appear first favorite here. For the last hour I have been listening, and +I have heard only 'Lilian, look at this,' or, 'Lilian, listen to that,' +or 'Lilian, child, what was it you told me yesterday?' You seem a great +pet with every one here."</p> + +<p>Lilian laughs.</p> + +<p>"Not with every one," she says.</p> + +<p>"No?"—raising her straight dark brows. "Is there then an enemy in the +camp? Not Cyril, surely?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, not Cyril."</p> + +<p>Their voices involuntarily have sunk a little, and, though any one near +can still hear distinctly, they have all the appearance of people +carrying on a private conversation.</p> + +<p>"Guy?"</p> + +<p>Lilian is silent. Guy's face, as he still strokes the dog dreamily, has +grown haughty in the extreme. He, like Mabel, awaits her answer.</p> + +<p>"What?" says Mrs. Steyne, in an amused tone, evidently treating the +whole matter as a mere jest. "So you are not a pet with Guy! How +horrible! I cannot believe it. Surely Guy is not so ungallant as to have +conceived a dislike for you? Guy, do you hear this awful charge she is +bringing against you? Won't you refute it? Dear boy, how stern you look!"</p> + +<p>"Do I? I was thinking of something disagreeable."</p> + +<p>"Of me?" puts in Lilian, <i>sotto voce</i>, with a faint laugh tinged with +bitterness. "Why should you think what I say so extraordinary? Did you +ever know a guardian like his ward, or a ward like her guardian? I +didn't—especially the latter. They always find each other <i>such</i> a +mistake!"</p> + +<p>Sir Guy, raising his head, looks full at Lilian for a moment; his +expression is almost impossible to translate; then, getting up, he +crosses the room deliberately and seats himself beside Florence, who +welcomes him with one<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span> of her conventional smiles that now has something +like warmth in it.</p> + +<p>"I think you are a very cruel little girl," says Mrs. Steyne, gently, +not looking at Lilian, and then turns the conversation in another channel.</p> + +<p>"You will stay in the country until after Christmas?" says Lilian, somewhat hastily.</p> + +<p>"Yes; something has gone wrong with our steward's accounts, and Tom is +dissatisfied with him. So he has been dismissed, and we shall stay on +here until we please ourselves with another."</p> + +<p>"I am glad you live so near. Three miles is only a walk, after all."</p> + +<p>"In good weather a mere nothing, though for my own part I am not +addicted to exercise of any sort: I believe, however, Steynemore's +proximity to Chetwoode was one of my chief reasons for marrying Tom."</p> + +<p>"I am glad of any reason that made you do so. If you won't mind my +saying it, I will tell you I like you very much,"—with a slight blush.</p> + +<p>"I am very charmed to hear it," says Mrs. Steyne, heartily, whose liking +for Lilian has grown steadily: "I should be very much disappointed if +you didn't. I foresee we shall be great friends, and that you and auntie +will make me fall quite in love with Tom's native soil. +But"—naively—"you must not be unkind to poor Guy."</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX.</span></h2> + +<div class="block3"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div class="i1">"<i>Orl.</i>—Is't possible that on so little acquaintance</div> +<div>You should like her? that, but seeing,</div> +<div>You should love her?"—<i>As You Like It.</i></div> +</div></div></div> + +<p>Four weeks have flown by swiftly, with ungracious haste,—as do all our +happiest moments,—leaving their mark behind them. In their train Taffy +has passed away from Chetwoode, and all in the house have mourned his +departure openly and sincerely. Miss Chesney for two whole days was +inconsolable, and cried her pretty eyes very nearly out; after which she +recovered, and allowed herself<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span> to find consolation in the thought that +he has promised to return to them for a fortnight at Christmas-tide.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"Summer was dead, and Autumn was expiring,</div> +<div>And infant Winter laughed upon the land</div> +<div>All cloudlessly and cold."</div> +</div></div> + +<p>The men spend half their days wondering if it will be a good +hunting-season, the women are wrapt in delicious dreams of fur and velvet.</p> + +<p>At The Cottage all the roses have fluttered into their graves, but in +their place a sweet flower has bloomed. Cecilia's eyes have grown +brighter, gladder, her step firmer, her cheek richer in the tint that +rivals the peach. In her calm home she has but one thought, one hope, +and that is Cyril. She has forbidden him to mention their engagement to +Lady Chetwoode, so as yet the sweet secret is all their own.</p> + +<p>Florence has gained a <i>bona fide</i> admirer, Mr. Boer—after much +deliberation—having, for private reasons, decided in favor of Miss +Beauchamp and her fifteen thousand pounds. But not for Mr. Boer, however +well connected, or however fondly cherished by a rich and aged uncle, +can Miss Beauchamp bring herself to resign all hope of Guy and Chetwoode.</p> + +<p>At Steynemore, Mabel and her baby are laughing the happy hours away; +though, to speak more accurately, it is at Chetwoode most of them are +spent. At least every second week they drive over there, to find their +rooms ready, and stay on well content to talk and crow at "auntie," +until the handsome head of that dearest of old ladies is fairly turned.</p> + +<p>Lilian has of course gone over heart and mind to Miss Steyne, who +rewards her affection by practicing upon her the most ingenious +tortures. With a craftiness terrible in one so young, she bides her +opportunity and then pulls down all her friend's golden hair; at other +times she makes frantic efforts at gouging out her eyes, tries to cut +her eye-teeth upon her slender fingers, and otherwise does all in her +power to tear her limb from limb. She also appears to find infinite +amusement in scrambling up and down Miss Chesney's unhappy knees, to the +detriment of that dainty lady's very dainty gowns, and shows symptoms of +fight when she refuses to consume all such uninviting remnants of cake +and bonbons as lie heavy on her hands.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span></p><p>Altogether Lilian has a lively time of it with Mabel's heiress, who, +nevertheless, by right of her sweet witcheries and tender baby tricks, +has gained a fast hold upon her heart.</p> + +<p>But if Baby knows a slave in Lilian, Lilian knows a slave in some one +else. Up to this Archibald has found it impossible to tear himself away +from her loved presence; though ever since that fatal day at the Grange +he has never dared speak openly to her of his attachment. Day by day his +passion has grown stronger, although with every wind her manner toward +him seems to vary,—now kind, to-morrow cold, anon so full of +treacherous fancies and disdainful glances as to make him wonder whether +in truth it is hatred and not love for her that fills his heart to overflowing. She is</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"One of those pretty, precious plagues, which haunt</div> +<div class="i1">A lover with caprices soft and dear,</div> +<div>That like to make a quarrel, when they can't</div> +<div class="i1">Find one, each day of the delightful year;</div> +<div>Bewitching, torturing, as they freeze or glow,</div> +<div>And—what is worst of all—won't let you go."</div> +</div></div> + +<p>Between her and Guy a silent truce has been signed. They now converse +with apparent geniality; at times they appear, to outsiders, even to +affect each other's society; but secretly they still regard each other +with distrust, and to them alone is known the frailty of the coating +that lies over their late hostility.</p> + +<p>It is three o'clock, and the day for a wonder is fine, all the past week +having been sullen and full of a desire to rain. Now the clouds have +disappeared, and the blue sky dotted with tiny flakes of foam-like vapor +is overhead. The air is crispy, and, though cold, full of life and invigorating power.</p> + +<p>"I shall go for a walk," says Lilian, appearing suddenly in the +billiard-room, looking like a little northern fairy, so encased is she +in velvet and dark fur. Upon her yellow hair is resting the most +coquettish of fur caps, from beneath which her face smiles fairer and +fresher for its rich surroundings. The two men she addresses look up, +and let the honest admiration they feel for her beauty betray itself in their eyes.</p> + +<p>Outside of the window, seated on the sill, which is some little distance +from the ground, is Archibald, smoking. Archibald, as a rule, is always +smoking. Inside is Guy,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span> also indulging in a cigar, and disputing +volubly about some knotty point connected with guns or cartridges, or +the proper size of shot to be used for particular birds, I cannot +remember exactly what; I do remember, however, that the argument +completely falls through when Lilian makes her appearance.</p> + +<p>"Were there ever such lazy men?" says Miss Lilian, scornfully. "Did all +the shooting with Tom Steyne last week do you up so completely? I warned +you, if you will be pleased to recollect, that there wasn't much work in +you. Well, I am going to the wood. Who will come with me?"</p> + +<p>"I will," say Guy and Archibald, in a breath. And then ensues a pause.</p> + +<p>"<i>Embarras de richesses</i>," says Miss Chesney, with a gay laugh and a +slight elevation of her brows. "You shouldn't all speak at once. Now, +which shall I choose?" Then, impelled by the spirit of mischief that +always possesses her when in her guardian's presence, she says, "It +would be a shame to take you out, Sir Guy, would it not? You seem so +cozy here,"—glancing at the fire,—"while Archibald is evidently bent +on exercise."</p> + +<p>"As you please, of course," says Guy, with well-feigned indifference, +too well feigned for Miss Chesney's liking; it angers her, and awakes +within her a desire to show how little she heeds it. Her smile ripens +and rests alone on Archibald, insensibly her manner toward her cousin +takes a warmer tinge; going over to the window, she lays her hand +lightly on his shoulder, and, leaning over, looks at the ground beneath.</p> + +<p>"Could I get out there?" she asks, a little fearfully, though in truth +at another time she would regard with disdain the person who should tell +her she could not jump so small a distance. "It would be so much better +than going all the way round."</p> + +<p>"Of course you can," returns he, dropping instantly downward, and then +looking up at her; "it is no height at all."</p> + +<p>"It looks high from here, does it not?" still doubtful. "I should +perhaps break my neck if I tried to jump it. No," regretfully, "I must +go round, unless, indeed,"—with another soft glance meant for Guy's +discomfiture, and that alas! does terrible damage to Archibald's +heart,—"you think you could take me down."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span></p><p>"I know I could," replies he, eagerly.</p> + +<p>"You are sure?" hesitating. "I am very heavy, mind."</p> + +<p>Archibald laughs and holds out his arms, and in another moment has taken +her, slender fairy that she is, and deposited her safely on the ground.</p> + +<p>Sir Guy, who has been an unwilling though fascinated spectator of this +scene, grows pale and turns abruptly aside as Archibald and Lilian, +laughing gayly, disappear into the shrubberies beyond.</p> + +<p>But once out of sight of the billiard-room windows, Miss Chesney's +gayety cruelly deserts her. She is angry with Guy for reasons she would +rather die than acknowledge even to herself, and she is indignant with +Archibald for reasons she would be puzzled to explain at all, while +hating herself for what she is pleased to term her frivolity, such as +jumping out of windows as though she were still a child, and instead of +being a full-grown young woman! What must Gu——what would any one think +of her?</p> + +<p>"It was awfully good of you to choose me," says Archibald, after a few +minutes, feeling foolishly elated at his success.</p> + +<p>"For what?" coldly.</p> + +<p>"For a walk."</p> + +<p>"Did I choose you?" asks Lilian, in a tone that should have warned so +worldly-wise a young man as Chesney. He, however, fails to be warned, +and rushes wildly on his destruction.</p> + +<p>"I thought so," returns he, growing perplexed: "Chetwoode was quite as +anxious to accompany you as I was, and you decided in my favor."</p> + +<p>"Simply because you were outside the window, and looked more like moving +than he did."</p> + +<p>"He was considerably sold for all that," says this foolish Archibald, +with an idiotic laugh, that under the circumstances is madness. Miss Chesney freezes.</p> + +<p>"Sold? how?" she asks, with a suspicious thirst for knowledge. "I don't understand."</p> + +<p>The continued iciness of her tone troubles Archibald.</p> + +<p>"You seem determined not to understand," he says, huffily. "I only mean +he would have given a good deal to go with you, until you showed him +plainly you didn't want him."</p> + +<p>"I never meant to show him anything of the kind. You quite mistake."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span></p><p>"Do I?" with increasing wrath. "Well, I think when a woman tells a +fellow she thinks it would be a pity to disturb him, it comes to very +much the same thing in the end. At all events, Chetwoode took it in that light."</p> + +<p>"How silly you can be at times, Archibald!" says Lilian, promptly: "I +really wish you would not take up such absurd notions. Sir Guy did <i>not</i> +look at it in that light; he knows perfectly well I detest long walks, +and that I seldom go for one, so he did not press the point. And in fact +I think I shall change my mind now: walking is such a bore, is it not?"</p> + +<p>"Are you not coming then?" stopping short, and growing black with rage: +"you don't seem to know your own mind for two minutes together, or else +you are trying to provoke me! First you ask me to go to the wood with +you, and now you say you will not go. What am I to think of it?"</p> + +<p>"I wouldn't be rude, if I were you," says Miss Chesney, calmly, "and I +wouldn't lose my temper. You make me absolutely uncomfortable when you +let that wicked look grow upon your face. One would think you would like +to murder me. Do try to be amiable! And as for trying to provoke you, I +should not take the trouble! No, I shall not go with you now, certainly: +I shall go with Cyril," pointing to where Cyril is sauntering toward the +entrance to the wood at some short distance from them.</p> + +<p>Without waiting to address another word to the discomfited Archibald, +she runs to Cyril and slips her hand within his arm.</p> + +<p>"Will you take me with you wherever you are going?" she says, smiling +confidently up into his face.</p> + +<p>"What a foolish question! of course I am only too glad to get so dear a +little companion," replies he, smothering a sigh very successfully; +though, to be honest, he is hardly enraptured at the thought of having +Lilian's (or any one's) society just now. Nevertheless he buries his +chagrin, and is eminently agreeable to her as they stroll leisurely in +the direction of The Cottage.</p> + +<p>When they come up to it Lilian pauses.</p> + +<p>"I wish this wonderful goddess would come out. I want to see her quite +close," she says, peeping through the hedge. "At a distance she is +beautiful: I am always<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> wondering whether 'distance lends enchantment to +the view.'"</p> + +<p>"No, it does not," absently. He is looking over the hedge.</p> + +<p>"You seem to know all about it," archly: "shall I ask how? What lovely +red berries!" suddenly attracted by some coloring a few yards away from +her. "Do you see? Wait until I get some."</p> + +<p>Springing on to a bank, she draws down to her some bunches of +mountain-ash berry, that glow like live coals in the fading greenery +around them, and having detached her prize from the parent stem, +prepares to rejoin her companion, who is somewhat distant.</p> + +<p>"Why did you not ask me to get them for you?" he asks, rousing himself +from his reverie: "how precipitate you always are! Take care, child: +that bank is steep."</p> + +<p>"But I am a sure-footed little deer," says Miss Chesney, with a saucy +shake of her pretty head, and, as she speaks, jumps boldly forward.</p> + +<p>A moment later, as she touches the ground, she staggers, her right ankle +refuses to support her, she utters a slight groan, and sinks helplessly to the ground.</p> + +<p>"You have hurt yourself," exclaims Cyril, kneeling beside her. "What is +it, Lilian? Is it your foot?"</p> + +<p>"I think so," faintly: "it seems twisted. I don't know how it happened, +but it pains me terribly. Just there all the agony seems to rest. Ah!" +as another dart of anguish shoots through the injured ankle.</p> + +<p>"My dear girl, what shall I do for you? Why on earth did you not take my +advice?" exclaims Cyril, in a distracted tone. A woman's grief, a +woman's tears, always unman him.</p> + +<p>"Don't say you told me how it would be," murmurs Lilian, with a ghastly +attempt at a smile that dies away in another moan. "It would be adding +insult to injury. No, do not stir me: do not; I cannot bear it. Oh, +Cyril, I think my ankle is broken."</p> + +<p>With this she grows a little paler, and draws her breath with a sharp +sound, then whiter, whiter still, until at last her head sinks heavily +upon Cyril's supporting arm, and he finds she has fallen into a deep swoon.</p> + +<p>More frightened than he cares to allow, Cyril raises her in his arms +and, without a moment's thought, conveys his slight burden straight to The Cottage.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span></p><p>Cecilia, who from an upper window has seen him coming with his strange +encumbrance, runs down to meet him at the door, her face full of anxiety.</p> + +<p>"What is it?" she asks, breathlessly, bending over Lilian, who is still +fainting. "Poor child! how white she is!"</p> + +<p>"It is Lilian Chesney. She has sprained her foot, I think," says Cyril, +who is white too with concern: "will you take her in while I go for a carriage?"</p> + +<p>"Of course. Oh, make haste: her lips are quivering. I am sure she is +suffering great agony. Bring her this way—or—no—shall I lay her on my +bed?"</p> + +<p>"The drawing-room sofa will do very well," going in and laying her on +it. "Will you see to her? and give her some brandy and—and that."</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes. Now go quickly, and send a messenger for Dr. Bland, while you +bring the carriage here. How pretty she is! what lovely hair! Poor +little thing! Go, Cyril, and don't be long."</p> + +<p>When he has disappeared, Mrs. Arlington summons Kate, and together they +cut the boot off Lilian's injured foot, remove the dainty little silk +stocking, and do for her all that can be done until the doctor sees her. +After which, with the help of eau de Cologne, and some brandy, they +succeed in bringing her to life once more.</p> + +<p>"What has happened?" she asks, languidly, raising her hand to her head.</p> + +<p>"Are you better now?" Mrs. Arlington asks, in return, stooping kindly over her.</p> + +<p>"Yes, thank you, much better," gazing at her with some surprise: "it was +stupid of me to faint. But"—still rather dazed—"where am I?"</p> + +<p>"At The Cottage. Mr. Chetwoode brought you here."</p> + +<p>"And you are Mrs. Arlington?" with a slight smile.</p> + +<p>"Yes," smiling in return. "Kate, put a little water into that brandy, +and give it to Miss Chesney."</p> + +<p>"Please do not, Kate," says Lilian, in her pretty friendly fashion: "I +hate brandy. If"—courteously—"I may have some sherry instead, I should +like it."</p> + +<p>Having drunk the sherry, she sits up and looks quietly around her.</p> + +<p>The room is a little gem in its own way, and suggestive of refinement of +taste and much delicacy in the art of coloring. Between the +softly-tinted pictures that hang upon<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span> the walls, rare bits of Worcester +and Wedgwood fight for mastery. Pretty lounging-chairs covered with blue +satin are dispersed here and there, while cozy couches peep out from +every recess. <i>Bric-a-brac</i> of all kinds covers the small velvet tables, +that are hung with priceless lace that only half conceals the spindle +legs beneath. Exquisite little marble Loves and Venuses and Graces smile +and pose upon graceful brackets; upon a distant table two charming +Dresden baskets are to be seen smothered in late flowers. All is bright, +pretty, and artistic.</p> + +<p>"What a charming room!" says Lilian, with involuntary, and therefore +flattering admiration.</p> + +<p>"You like it? I fear it must look insignificant to you after Chetwoode."</p> + +<p>"On the contrary, it is a relief. There, everything is heavy though +handsome, as is the way in all old houses; here, everything is bright +and gay. I like it so much, and you too if you will let me say so," says +Lilian, holding out her hand, feeling already enslaved by the beauty of +the tender, lovely face looking so kindly into hers. "I have wanted to +know you so long, but we knew"—hesitating—"you wished to be quiet."</p> + +<p>"Yes, so I did when first I came here; but time and solitude have taught +me many things. For instance,"—coloring faintly,—"I should be very +glad to know you; I feel sadly stupid now and then."</p> + +<p>"I am glad to hear you say so; I simply detest my own society," says +Miss Chesney, with much vivacity, in spite of the foot. "But,"—with a +rueful glance at the bandaged member,—"I little thought I should make +your acquaintance in this way. I have given you terrible trouble, have I not?"</p> + +<p>"No, indeed, you must not say so. I believe"—laughing,—"I have been +only too glad, in spite of my former desire for privacy, to see some one +from the outer world again. Your hair has come down. Shall I fasten it +up again for you?" Hardly waiting an answer, she takes Lilian's hair and +binds and twists it into its usual soft knot behind her head, admiring +it as she does so. "How soft it is, and how long, and such a delicious +color, like spun silk! I have always envied people with golden hair. Ah, +here is the carriage: I hope the drive home will not hurt you very much. +She is ready now, Mr. Chetwoode, and I think she looks a little better."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span></p><p>"I should be ungrateful otherwise," says Lilian. "Mrs. Arlington has +been so kind to me, Cyril."</p> + +<p>"I am sure of that," replies he, casting a curious glance at Cecilia +that rather puzzles Lilian, until, turning her eyes upon Cecilia, she +sees what a pretty pink flush has stolen into her cheeks. Then the truth +all at once flashes upon her, and renders her rather silent, while Cyril +and Mrs. Arlington are making the carriage more comfortable for her.</p> + +<p>"Come," says Cyril, at length taking her in his arms. "Don't be +frightened; I will hurt you as little as I can help." He lifts her +tenderly, but the movement causes pain, and a touch of agony turns her +face white again. She is not a hero where suffering is concerned.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Cyril, be careful," says Mrs. Arlington, fearfully, quite +unconscious in her concern for Lilian's comfort that she has used the +Christian name of her lover.</p> + +<p>When Lilian is at length settled in the carriage, she raises herself to +stoop out and take Cecilia's hand.</p> + +<p>"Good-bye, and thank you again so much," she says, earnestly. "And when +I am well may I come and see you?"</p> + +<p>"You may, indeed,"—warmly. "I shall be anxiously expecting you; I shall +now"—with a gentle glance from her loving gray eyes—"have a double +reason for wishing you soon well."</p> + +<p>Moved by a sudden impulse, Lilian leans forward, and the two women as +their lips meet seal a bond of friendship that lasts them all their lives.</p> + +<p>For some time after they have left Cecilia's bower Lilian keeps silence, +then all at once she says to Cyril, in tones of the liveliest reproach:</p> + +<p>"I wouldn't have believed it of you."</p> + +<p>"Would you not?" replies he, somewhat startled by this extraordinary +address, being plunged in meditation of his own. "You don't say so! But +what is it then you can't believe?"</p> + +<p>"I think"—with keen upbraiding—"you might have told <i>me</i>."</p> + +<p>"So I should, my dear, instantly, if I only knew what it was," growing +more and more bewildered. "If you don't want to bring on brain-fever, my +good Lilian, you will explain what you mean."</p> + +<p>"You must have guessed what a treat a <i>real</i> love-affair<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span> would be to +me, who never knew a single instance of one," says Lilian, "and yet you +meanly kept it from me."</p> + +<p>"Kept what?" innocently, though he has the grace to color hotly.</p> + +<p>"Don't be deceitful, Cyril, whatever you are. I say it was downright +unkind to leave me in ignorance of the fact that all this time there was +a real, unmistakable, <i>bona fide</i> lover near me, close to me, at my +<i>very elbow</i>, as one might say."</p> + +<p>"I know I am happy enough to be at your elbow just now," says Cyril, +humbly, "but, to confess the truth, I never yet dared to permit myself +to look upon you openly with lover's eyes. I am still at a loss to know +how you discovered the all-absorbing passion that I—that <i>any one</i> +fortunate enough to know you—must feel for you."</p> + +<p>"Don't be a goose," says Miss Chesney, with immeasurable scorn. "Don't +you think I have wit enough to see you are head over ears in love with +that charming, beautiful creature down there in The Cottage? I don't +wonder at that: I only wonder why you did not tell me of it when we were +such good friends."</p> + +<p>"Are you quite sure I had anything to tell you?"</p> + +<p>"Quite; I have eyes and I have ears. Did I not see how you looked at +her, and how she blushed all up to the roots of her soft hair when you +did so? and when you were placing me in the carriage she said, 'Oh, +Cyril!' and what was the meaning of that, Master Chetwoode, eh? She is +the prettiest woman I ever saw," says Lilian, enthusiastically. "To see +her is indeed to love her. I hope <i>you</i> love her properly, with all your heart?"</p> + +<p>"I do," says Cyril, simply. "I sometimes think, Lilian, it cannot be for +one's happiness to love as I do."</p> + +<p>"Oh, this is delightful!" cries Lilian, clapping her hands. "I am glad +you are in earnest about it; and I am glad you are both so good-looking. +I don't think ugly people ought to fall in love: they quite destroy the +romance of the whole thing."</p> + +<p>"Thanks awfully," says Cyril. "I shall begin to hold up my head now you +have said a word in my favor. But,"—growing serious—"you really like +her, Lilian? How can you be sure you do after so short an acquaintance?"</p> + +<p>"I always like a person at once or not at all. I cannot explain why; it +is a sort of instinct. Florence I detested<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span> at first sight; your Mrs. +Arlington I love. What is her name?"</p> + +<p>"Cecilia."</p> + +<p>"A pretty name, and suited to her: with her tender beautiful face she +looks a saint. You are very fortunate, Cyril: something tells me you +cannot fail to be happy, having gained the love of such a woman."</p> + +<p>"Dear little sibyl," says Cyril, lifting one of her hands to his lips, +"I thank you for your prophecy. It does me good only to hear you say so."</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI.</span></h2> + +<p class="center">"As on her couch of pain a child was lying."—<i>Song.</i></p> + +<p>Lilian's injury turns out to be not only a sprain, but a very bad one, +and strict quiet and rest for the sufferer are enjoined by the fat +little family doctor. So for several days she lies supine and obedient +upon a sofa in Lady Chetwoode's boudoir, and makes no moan even when +King Bore with all his horrible train comes swooping down upon her. He +is in greatest force at such times as when all the others are +down-stairs dining and she is (however regretfully) left to her own +devices. The servants passing to and fro with dishes sometimes leave the +doors open, and then the sound of merry voices and laughter, that seems +more frequent because she is at a distance and cannot guess the cause of +their merriment, steals up to her, as she lies dolefully upon her +pillows with her hands clasped behind her sunny head.</p> + +<p>When four days of penance have so passed, Lilian grows <i>triste</i>, then +argumentative, then downright irritable, distracting Lady Chetwoode by +asking her perpetually, with tears in her eyes, when she thinks she will +be well. "She is so tired of lying down. Her foot must be nearly well +now. It does not hurt her nearly so much. She is sure, if she might only +use it a little now and then, it would be well in half the time," and so on.</p> + +<p>At last, when a week has dragged itself to a close, Lilian turns her +cajoleries upon the doctor, who is her sworn <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span>vassal, and coaxes and +worries him into letting her go down-stairs, if only to dine.</p> + +<p>"Eh? So soon pining for freedom? Why, bless me, you have been only two +or three days laid up."</p> + +<p>"Six long, <i>long</i> days, dear doctor."</p> + +<p>"And now you would run the risk of undoing all my work. I cannot let you +put your foot to the ground for a long time yet. Well,"—softened by a +beseeching glance,—"if you must go down I suppose you must; but no +walking, mind! If I catch you walking I shall put you into irons and +solitary confinement for a month. I dare say, Lady Chetwoode,"—smiling +archly down upon Miss Chesney's slight figure,—"there will be some +young gentleman to be found in the house not only able but willing to +carry to the dining-room so fair a burden!"</p> + +<p>"We shall be able to manage that easily. And it will be far pleasanter +for her to be with us all in the evening. Guy, or her cousin Mr. +Chesney, can carry her down."</p> + +<p>"I think, auntie," speaking very slowly, "I should prefer Archibald."</p> + +<p>"Eh! eh! you hear, madam, she prefers Archibald,—happy Archibald!" +cackles the little doctor, merrily, being immensely tickled at his own joke.</p> + +<p>"Archibald Chesney is her cousin," replies Lady Chetwoode, with a sigh, +gazing rather wistfully at the girl's flushed, averted face.</p> + +<p>So Lilian gains the day, and Sir Guy coming into his mother's boudoir +half an hour later is told the glad news.</p> + +<p>"Dr. Bland thinks her so much better," Lady Chetwoode tells him. "But +she is not to let her foot touch the ground; so you must be careful, +darling," to Lilian. "Will you stay with her a little while, Guy? I must +go and write some letters."</p> + +<p>"I shan't be in the least lonely by myself, auntie," says Lilian, +smoothly, letting her fingers stray meaningly to the magazine beside +her; yet in spite of this chilling remark Sir Guy lingers. He has taken +up his station on the hearth-rug and is standing with his back to the +fire, his arms crossed behind him, and instead of seeking to amuse his +wounded ward is apparently sunk in reverie. Suddenly, after a protracted +silence on both sides, he raises his head, and regarding her earnestly, says:</p> + +<p>"May I take you down to dinner to-night, Lilian?"</p> + +<p>"Thank you," formally: "it is very kind of you to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span> offer, Sir Guy. But +Archie was here a moment ago, and he has promised to take that trouble +upon himself." Then, in a low but perfectly distinct tone, "I can trust Archie!"</p> + +<p>Although no more is said, Guy thoroughly understands her thoughts have +traveled backward to that one unlucky night when, through a kiss, he +sinned past all chance of pardon. As his own mind follows hers, the dark +color mounts slowly to his very brow.</p> + +<p>"Am I never to be forgiven for that one offense?" he asks, going up to +her couch and looking gravely down upon her.</p> + +<p>"I have forgiven, but unhappily I cannot forget," returns she, gently, +without letting her eyes meet his. Then, with an air of deliberation, +she raises her magazine, and he leaves the room.</p> + +<p>So Sir Guy retires from the contest, and Archibald is elected to the +coveted position of carrier to her capricious majesty, and this very +night, to her great joy, brings her tenderly, carefully, to the +dining-room, where a sofa has been prepared for her reception.</p> + +<p>It so happens that three days later Archibald is summoned to London on +business, and departs, leaving with Lilian his faithful promise to be +back in time to perform his evening duty toward her.</p> + +<p>But man's proposals, as we know, are not always carried out, and +Chesney's fall lamentably short; as just at seven o'clock a telegram +arriving for Lady Chetwoode tells her he has been unexpectedly detained +in town by urgent matters, and cannot by any possibility get home till next day.</p> + +<p>Cyril is dining with some bachelor friends near Truston: so Lady +Chetwoode, who is always thoughtful, bethinks her there is no one to +bring Lilian down to dinner except Guy. This certainly, for some inward +reason, troubles her. She sighs a little as she remembers Lilian's +marked preference for Chesney's assistance, then she turns to her +maid—the telegram has reached her as she is dressing for dinner—and +says to her:</p> + +<p>"A telegram from Mr. Chesney: he cannot be home to dinner. My hair will +do very well. Hardy: go and tell Sir Guy he need not expect him."</p> + +<p>Hardy, going, meets Sir Guy in the hall below, and imparts her information.</p> + +<p>Naturally enough, he too thinks first of Lilian. Much<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span> as it displeases +his pride, he knows he must in common courtesy again offer her his +rejected services. There is bitterness in the thought, and perhaps a +little happiness also, as he draws his breath rather quickly, and +angrily suppresses a half smile as it curls about his lips. To ask her +again, to be again perhaps refused! He gazes irresolutely at the +staircase, and then, with a secret protest against his own weakness, mounts it.</p> + +<p>The second dinner-bell has already sounded: there is no time for further +deliberation. Going reluctantly up-stairs, he seeks with slow and +lingering footsteps his mother's boudoir.</p> + +<p>The room is unlit, save by the glorious fire, half wood, half coal, that +crackles and laughs and leaps in the joy of its own fast living. Upon a +couch close to it, bathed in its warm flames, lies the little slender +black-robed figure so inexpressibly dear to him. She is so motionless +that but for her wide eyes, gazing so earnestly into the fire, one might +imagine her wrapt in slumber. Her left arm is thrown upward so that her +head rests upon it, the other hangs listlessly downward, almost touching +the carpet beneath her.</p> + +<p>She looks pale, but lovely. Her golden hair shines richly against the +crimson satin of the cushion on which she leans. As Guy approaches her +she never raises her eyes, although without doubt she sees him. Even +when he stands beside her and gazes down upon her, wrathful at her +insolent disregard, she never pretends to be aware of his near presence.</p> + +<p>"Dinner will be ready in three minutes," he says, coldly: "do you intend +coming down to-night?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly. I am waiting for my cousin," she answers, with her eyes +still fixed upon the fire.</p> + +<p>"I am sorry to be the conveyer of news that must necessarily cause you +disappointment. My mother has had a telegram from Chesney saying he +cannot be home until to-morrow. Business detains him."</p> + +<p>"He promised me he would return in time for dinner," she says, turning +toward him at last, and speaking doubtfully.</p> + +<p>"No doubt he is more upset than you can be at his unintended defection. +But it is the case for all that. He will not be home to-night."</p> + +<p>"Well, I suppose he could not help it."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span></p><p>"I am positive he couldn't!" coldly.</p> + +<p>"You have great faith in him," with an unpleasant little smile. "Thank +you, Sir Guy: it was very kind of you to bring me such disagreeable +news." As she ceases speaking she turns back again to the contemplation +of the fire, as though desirous of giving him his <i>congé</i>.</p> + +<p>"I can hardly say I came to inform you of your cousin's movements," +replies he, haughtily; "rather to ask you if you will accept my aid to get down-stairs?"</p> + +<p>"Yours!"</p> + +<p>"Even mine."</p> + +<p>"No, thank you," with slow surprise, as though she yet doubts the fact +of his having again dared to offer his services: "I would not trouble you for worlds!"</p> + +<p>"The trouble is slight," he answers, with an expressive glance at the +fragile figure below him.</p> + +<p>"But yet a trouble! Do not distress yourself, Sir Guy: Parkins will help +me, if you will be so kind as to desire him."</p> + +<p>"Your nurse"—hastily—"would be able, I dare say."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no. I can't bear trusting myself to women. I am an arrant coward. I +always think they are going to trip, or let me drop, at every corner."</p> + +<p>"Then why refuse my aid?" he says, even at the price of his self-respect.</p> + +<p>"No; I prefer Parkins!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, if you prefer the assistance of a <i>footman</i>, there is nothing more +to be said," he exclaims, angrily, going toward the door much offended, +and with just a touch of disgust in his tone.</p> + +<p>Now, Miss Chesney does not prefer the assistance of a footman; in fact, +she would prefer solitude and a lonely dinner rather than trust herself +to such a one; so she pockets her pride, and, seeing Sir Guy almost +outside the door, raises herself on her elbow and says, pettishly, and +with the most flagrant injustice:</p> + +<p>"Of course I can stay here all by myself in the dark, if there is no one +to take me down."</p> + +<p>"I wish I understood you," says Guy, irritably, coming back into the +room. "Do you mean you wish me to carry you down? I am quite willing to +do so, though I wish with all my heart your cousin were here to take my +place. It would evidently be much pleasanter for all parties. +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span>Nevertheless, if you deign to accept my aid," proudly, "I shall neither +trip nor drop you, I promise."</p> + +<p>There is a superciliousness in his manner that vexes Lilian; but, having +an innate horror of solitude, go down she will: so she says, cuttingly:</p> + +<p>"You are graciousness itself! you give me plainly to understand how +irksome is this duty to you. I too wish Archie were here, for many +reasons, but as it is——" she pauses abruptly; and Guy, stooping, +raises her quietly, tenderly, in his arms, and, with the angry scowl +upon his face and the hauteur still within his usually kind blue eyes, +begins his march down-stairs.</p> + +<p>It is rather a long march to commence, with a young woman, however +slender, in one's arms. First comes the corridor, which is of a goodly +length, and after it the endless picture-gallery. Almost as they enter +the latter, a little nail half hidden in the doorway catches in Lilian's +gown, and, dragging it roughly, somehow hurts her foot. The pain she +suffers causes her to give way to a sharp cry, whereupon Guy stops +short, full of anxiety.</p> + +<p>"You are in pain?" he says, gazing eagerly into the face so close to his own.</p> + +<p>"My foot," she answers, her eyes wet with tears; "something dragged it: +oh, how it hurts! And you promised me to be so careful, and now——but I +dare say you are <i>glad</i> I am punished," she winds up, vehemently, and +then bursts out crying, partly through pain, partly through nervousness +and a good deal of self-torturing thought long suppressed, and hides her +face childishly against his sleeve because she has nowhere else to hide +it. "Lay me down," she says, faintly.</p> + +<p>There is a lounging-chair close to the fire that always burns brightly +in the long gallery: placing her in it, he stands a little aloof, +cursing his own ill-luck, and wondering what he has done to make her +hate him so bitterly. Her tears madden him. Every fresh sob tears his +heart. At last, unable to bear the mental agony any longer, he kneels +down beside her, and, with an aspect of the deepest respect, takes one +of her hands in his.</p> + +<p>"I am very unfortunate," he says, humbly. "Is it hurting you very much?"</p> + +<p>"It is better now," she whispers; but for all that she sobs on very +successfully behind her handkerchief.</p> + +<p>"You are not the only one in pain,"—speaking gently<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span> but earnestly: +"every sob of yours causes me absolute torture."</p> + +<p>This speech has no effect except to make her cry again harder than ever. +It is so sweet to a woman to know a man is suffering tortures for her sake.</p> + +<p>A little soft lock of her hair has shaken itself loose, and has wandered +across her forehead. Almost unconsciously but very lovingly, he moves it +back into its proper place.</p> + +<p>"What have I done, Lilian, that you should so soon have learned to hate +me?" he whispers: "we used to be good friends."</p> + +<p>"So long ago"—in stifled tones from behind the handkerchief—"that I +have almost forgotten it."</p> + +<p>"Not so very long. A few weeks at the utmost,—before your cousin came."</p> + +<p>"Yes,"—with a sigh,—"before my cousin came."</p> + +<p>"That is only idle recrimination. I know I once erred deeply, but surely +I have repented, and—— Tell me why you hate me."</p> + +<p>"I cannot."</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"Because I don't know myself."</p> + +<p>"What! you confess you hate me without cause?"</p> + +<p>"That is not it."</p> + +<p>"What then?"</p> + +<p>"How can I tell you," she says, impatiently, "when I know I don't hate +you <i>at all</i>?"</p> + +<p>"Lilian, is that true?" taking away the handkerchief gently but forcibly +that he may see her face, which after all is not nearly so tear-stained +as it should be, considering all the heart-rending sobs to which he has +been listening. "Are you sure? am I not really distasteful to you? +Perhaps even,"—with an accession of hope, seeing she does not turn from +him,—"you like me a little, still?"</p> + +<p>"When you are good,"—with an airy laugh and a slight pout—"I do a +<i>little</i>. Yes,"—seeing him glance longingly at her hand,—"you may kiss +it, and then we shall be friends again, for to-night at least. Now do +take me down, Sir Guy: if we stay here much longer I shall be seeing +bogies in all the corners. Already your ancestors seem to be frowning at +me, and a more dark and blood-thirsty set of relatives I never saw. I +hope you won't turn out as bad to look at in your old age."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span></p><p>"It all depends. When we are happy we are generally virtuous. Misery +creates vice."</p> + +<p>"What a sententious speech!" He has taken up his fair burden again, and +they are now (very slowly, I must say) descending the stairs. "Now here +comes a curve," she says, with a return of all her old sauciness: +"please do not drop me."</p> + +<p>"I have half a mind to," laughing. "Suppose, now, I let you fall +cleverly over these banisters on to the stone flooring beneath, I should +save myself from many a flout and many a scornful speech, and rid myself +forever of a troublesome little ward."</p> + +<p>Leaning her head rather backward, she looks up into his face and smiles +one of her sweetest, tenderest smiles.</p> + +<p>"I am not afraid of you now, Guardy," she murmurs, softly; whereat his +foolish heart beats madly. The old friendly appellation, coming so +unexpectedly from her, touches him deeply: it is with difficulty he +keeps himself from straining her to his heart and pressing his lips upon +the beautiful childish mouth upheld to him. He has had his lesson, +however, and refrains.</p> + +<p>He is still regarding her with unmistakable admiration, when Miss +Beauchamp's voice from the landing above startles them both, and makes +them feel, though why they scarcely know, partners in guilt.</p> + +<p>There is a metallic ring in it that strikes upon the ear, and suggests +all sorts of lady-like disgust and condemnation.</p> + +<p>"I am sure, Guy, if Lilian's foot be as bad as she says it is, she would +feel more comfortable lying on a sofa. Are you going to pose there all +the evening for the benefit of the servants? I think it is hardly good +taste of you to keep her in your arms upon the public staircase, +whatever you may do in private."</p> + +<p>The last words are uttered in a rather lower tone, but are still +distinctly audible. Lilian blushes a slow and painful red, and Sir Guy, +giving way to a naughty word that is also distinctly audible, carries +her down instantly to the dining-room.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span></p> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII.</span></h2> + +<div class="block3"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;</div> +<div>Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.</div> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<div class="i2">* * * * * * *</div> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<div>This thought is as a death."—<span class="smcap">Shakespeare.</span></div> +</div></div></div> + +<p>The next day is dark and lowering, to Lilian's great joy, who, now she +is prevented by lameness from going for one of her loved rambles, finds +infinite satisfaction in the thought that even were she quite well, it +would be impossible for her to stir out of doors. According to her mode +of arguing, this is one day not lost.</p> + +<p>About two o'clock Archibald returns, in time for luncheon, and to resume +his care of Lilian, who gives him a gentle scolding for his desertion of +her in her need. He is full of information about town and their mutual +friends there, and imparts it freely.</p> + +<p>"Everything is as melancholy up there as it can be," he says, "and very +few men to be seen: the clubs are deserted, all shooting or hunting, no +doubt. The rain was falling in torrents all the day."</p> + +<p>"Poor Archie, you have been having a bad time of it, I fear."</p> + +<p>"In spite of the weather and her ruddy locks, Lady Belle Damascene has +secured the prize of the season, out of season. She is engaged to Lord +Wyntermere: it is not yet publicly announced, but I called to see her +mother for five minutes, and so great was her exultation she could not +refrain from whispering the delightful intelligence into my ear. Lady +Belle is staying with his people now in Sussex."</p> + +<p>"Certainly, 'beauty is in the eye of the beholder.' She is painfully +ugly," says Miss Beauchamp. "Such feet, such hands, and such a shocking complexion!"</p> + +<p>"She is very kind-hearted and amiable," says Cyril.</p> + +<p>"That is what is always said of a plain woman," retorts Florence. "When +you hear a girl is amiable, always conclude she is hideous. When one's +trumpeter is in despair, he says that."</p> + +<p>"I am sure Lord Wyntermere must be a young man of good sound sense," +says Lilian, who never agrees with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span> Florence. "If she has a kind heart +he will never be disappointed in her. And, after all, there is no such +great advantage to be derived from beauty. When people are married for +four or five years, I dare say they quite forget whether the partner of +their joys and sorrows was originally lovely or the reverse: custom deadens perception."</p> + +<p>"It is better to be good than beautiful," says Lady Chetwoode, who +abhors ugly women: "you know what Carew says:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"But a smooth and steadfast mind,</div> +<div class="i1">Gentle thoughts and calm desires,</div> +<div>Hearts with equal love combined,</div> +<div class="i1">Kindle never-dying fires;</div> +<div>Where these are not, I despise</div> +<div>Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes."</div> +</div></div> + +<p>"Well done, Madre," says Cyril. "You are coming out. I had no idea you +were so gifted. Your delivery is perfect."</p> + +<p>"And what are you all talking about?" continues Lady Chetwoode: "I think +Belle Damascene very sweet to look at. In spite of her red hair, and a +good many freckles, and—and—a rather short nose, her expression is +very lovable: when she smiles I always feel inclined to kiss her. She is +like her mother, who is one of the best women I know."</p> + +<p>"If you encourage my mother she will end by telling you Lady Belle is a +beauty and a reigning toast," says Guy, <i>sotto voce</i>.</p> + +<p>Lady Chetwoode laughs, and Lilian says:</p> + +<p>"What is every one wearing now, Archie?"</p> + +<p>"There is nobody to wear anything. For the rest they had all on some +soft, shiny stuff like the dress you wore the night before last."</p> + +<p>"What an accurate memory you have!" says Florence, letting her eyes rest +on Guy's for a moment, though addressing Chesney.</p> + +<p>"Satin," translates Lilian, unmoved. "And their bonnets?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes! they all wore bonnets or hats, I don't know which," vaguely.</p> + +<p>"Naturally; mantillas are not yet in vogue. You are better than 'Le +Follet,' Archie; your answers are so satisfactory. Did you meet any one we know?"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span></p><p>"Hardly any one. By the bye,"—turning curiously to Sir Guy,—"was +Trant here to-day?"</p> + +<p>"No," surprised: "why do you ask?"</p> + +<p>"Because I met him at Truston this morning. He got out of the train by +which I went on,—it seems he has been staying with the Bulstrodes,—and +I fancied he was coming on here, but had not time to question him, as I +barely caught the train; another minute's delay and I should have been late."</p> + +<p>Archibald rambles on about his near escape of being late for the train, +while his last words sink deep into the minds of Guy and Cyril. The +former grows singularly silent; a depressed expression gains upon his +face. Cyril, on the contrary, becomes feverishly gay, and with his mad +observations makes merry Lilian laugh heartily.</p> + +<p>But when luncheon is over and they all disperse, a gloom falls upon him: +his features contract; doubt and a terrible suspicion, augmented by +slanderous tales that forever seem to be poured into his ears, make +havoc of the naturally kind expression that characterizes his face, and +with a stifled sigh he turns and walks toward the billiard-room.</p> + +<p>Guy follows him. As Cyril enters the doorway, he enters too, and, +closing the door softly, lays his hand upon his shoulder.</p> + +<p>"You heard, Cyril?" he says, with exceeding gentleness.</p> + +<p>"Heard what?" turning somewhat savagely upon him.</p> + +<p>"My dear fellow,"—affectionate entreaty in his tone,—"do not be +offended with me. Will you not listen, Cyril? It is very painful to me +to speak, but how can I see my brother so—so shamefully taken in +without uttering a word of warning."</p> + +<p>"If you were less tragic and a little more explicit it might help +matters," replies Cyril, with a sneer and a short unpleasant laugh. "Do speak plainly."</p> + +<p>"I will, then,"—desperately,—"since you desire it. There is more +between Trant and Mrs. Arlington than we know of. I do not speak without +knowledge. From several different sources I have heard the same +story,—of his infatuation for some woman, and of his having taken a +house for her in some remote spot. No names were mentioned, mind; but, +from what I have unwillingly listened to it is impossible not to connect +these evil whispers that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span> are afloat with him and her. Why does he come +so often to the neighborhood and yet never dare to present himself at Chetwoode?"</p> + +<p>"And you believe Trant capable of so far abusing the rights of +friendship as to ask you—<i>you</i>—to supply the house in the remote +spot?"</p> + +<p>"Unfortunately, I must."</p> + +<p>"You are speaking of your friend,"—with a bitter sneer,—"and you can +coldly accuse him of committing so blackguardly an action?"</p> + +<p>"If all I have heard be true (and I have no reason to doubt it), he is +no longer any friend of mine," says Guy, haughtily. "I shall settle with +him later on when I have clearer evidence; in the meantime it almost +drives me mad to think he should have dared to bring down here, so close +to my mother, his——"</p> + +<p>"What?" cries Cyril, fiercely, thrusting his brother from him with +passionate violence. "What is it you would say? Take care, Guy; take +care: you have gone too far already. From whom, pray, have you learned +your infamous story?"</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon," Guy says, gently, extreme regret visible in his +countenance. "I should not have spoken so, under the circumstances. It +was not from one alone, but from several, I heard what I now tell +you,—though I must again remind you that no names were mentioned; +still, I could not help drawing my own conclusions."</p> + +<p>"They lied!" returns Cyril, passionately, losing his head. "You may tell +them so for me. And you,"—half choking,—"you lie too when you repeat +such vile slanders."</p> + +<p>"It is useless to argue with you," Guy says, coldly, the blood mounting +hotly to his forehead at Cyril's insulting words, while his expression +grows stern and impenetrable. "I waste time. Yet this last word I will +say: Go down to The Cottage—now—this moment—and convince yourself of +the truth of what I have said."</p> + +<p>He turns angrily away: while Cyril, half mad with indignation and +unacknowledged fear, follows this final piece of advice, and almost +unconsciously leaving the house, takes the wonted direction, and hardly +draws breath until the trim hedges and pretty rustic gates of The +Cottage are in view.</p> + +<p>The day is showery, threatening since dawn, and now the rain is falling +thickly, though he heeds it not at all.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span></p><p>As with laggard steps he draws still nearer the abode of her he loves +yet does not wholly trust, the sound of voices smites upon his ear. He +is standing upon the very spot—somewhat elevated—that overlooks the +arbor where so long ago Miss Beauchamp stood and learned his +acquaintance with Mrs. Arlington. Here now he too stays his steps and +gazes spell-bound upon what he sees before him.</p> + +<p>In the arbor, with his back turned to Cyril, is a man, tall, elderly, +with an iron-gray moustache. Though not strictly handsome, he has a fine +and very military bearing, and a figure quite unmistakable to one who +knows him: with a sickly chill at his heart, Cyril acknowledges him to +be Colonel Trant.</p> + +<p>Cecilia is beside him. She is weeping bitterly, but quietly, and with +one hand conceals her face with her handkerchief. The other is fast +imprisoned in both of Trant's.</p> + +<p>A film settles upon Cyril's eyes, a dull faintness overpowers him, +involuntarily he places one hand upon the trunk of a near elm to steady +himself; yet through the semi-darkness, the strange, unreal feeling that +possesses him, the voices still reach him cruelly distinct.</p> + +<p>"Do not grieve so terribly: it breaks my heart to see you, darling, +<i>darling</i>," says Trant, in a low, impassioned tone, and raising the hand +he holds, presses his lips to it tenderly. The slender white fingers +tremble perceptibly under the caress, and then Cecilia says, in a voice +hardly audible through her tears:</p> + +<p>"I am so unhappy! it is all my fault; knowing you loved me, I should +have told you before of——"</p> + +<p>But her voice breaks the spell: Cyril, as it meets his ears, rouses +himself with a start. Not once again does he even glance in her +direction, but with a muttered curse at his own folly, turns and goes swiftly homeward.</p> + +<p>A very frenzy of despair and disappointment rages within him: to have so +loved,—to be so foully betrayed! Her tears, her sorrow (connected no +doubt with some early passages between her and Trant), because of their +very poignancy, only render him the more furious.</p> + +<p>On reaching Chetwoode he shuts himself into his own room, and, feigning +an excuse, keeps himself apart from the rest of the household all the +remainder of the evening and the night. "Knowing you loved me,"—the +words<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span> ring in his ears. Ay, she knew it,—who should know it +better?—but had carefully kept back all mention of the fact when +pressed by him, Cyril, upon the subject. All the world knew what he, +poor fool, had been the last to discover. And what was it her tender +conscience was accusing her of not having told Trant before?—of her +flirtation, as no doubt she mildly termed all the tender looks and +speeches, and clinging kisses, and loving protestations so freely +bestowed upon Cyril,—of her flirtation, no doubt.</p> + +<p>The next morning, after a sleepless night, he starts for London, and +there spends three reckless, miserable days that leave him wan and aged +through reason of the conflict he is waging with himself. After which a +mad desire to see again the cause of all his misery, to openly accuse +her of her treachery, to declare to her all the irreparable mischief she +has done, the utter ruin she has made of his life, seizes hold upon him, +and, leaving the great city, and reaching Truston, he goes straight from +the station to The Cottage once so dear.</p> + +<p>In her garden Cecilia is standing all alone. The wind is sighing +plaintively through the trees that arch above her head, the thousand +dying leaves are fluttering to her feet. There is a sense of decay and +melancholy in all around that harmonizes exquisitely with the dejection +of her whole manner. Her attitude is sad and drooping, her air +depressed; there are tears, and an anxious, expectant look in her gray eyes.</p> + +<p>"Pining for her lover, no doubt," says Cyril, between his teeth (in +which supposition he is right); and then he opens the gate, and goes +quickly up to her.</p> + +<p>As she hears the well-known click of the latch she turns, and, seeing +him, lets fall unheeded to the ground the basket she is holding, and +runs to him with eyes alight, and soft cheeks tinged with a lovely +generous pink, and holds out her hands to him with a little low glad cry.</p> + +<p>"At last, truant!" she exclaims, joyfully; "after three whole long, long +days; and what has kept you from me? Why, Cyril, Cyril!"—recoiling, +while a dull ashen shade replaces the gay tinting of her cheeks,—"what +has happened? How oddly you look! You,—you are in trouble?"</p> + +<p>"I am," in a changed, harsh tone she scarcely realizes to be his, moving +back with a gesture of contempt from<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span> the extended hands that would so +gladly have clasped his. "In so far you speak the truth: I have +discovered all. One lover, it appears, was not sufficient for you; you +should dupe another for your amusement. It is an old story, but none the +less bitter. No, it is useless your speaking," staying her with a +passionate movement: "I tell you I know <i>all</i>."</p> + +<p>"All what?" she asks. She has not removed from his her lustrous eyes, +though her lips have turned very white.</p> + +<p>"Your perfidy."</p> + +<p>"Cyril, explain yourself," she says, in a low, agonized tone, her pallor +changing to a deep crimson. And to Cyril hateful certainty appears if +possible more certain by reason of this luckless blush.</p> + +<p>"Ay, you may well change countenance," he says, with suppressed fury in +which keen agony is blended; "have you yet the grace to blush? As to +explanation, I scarcely think you can require it; yet, as you demand it, +you shall have it. For weeks I have been hearing of you tales in which +your name and Trant's were always mingled; but I disregarded them; I +madly shut my ears and was deaf to them; I would not believe, until it +was too late, until I saw and learned beyond dispute the folly of my +faith. I was here last Friday evening!"</p> + +<p>"Yes?" calmly, though in her soft eyes a deep well of bitterness has sprung.</p> + +<p>"Well, you were there, in that arbor"—pointing to it—"where +<i>we</i>"—with a scornful laugh—"so often sat; but then you had a more +congenial companion. Trant was with you. He held your hand, he caressed +it; he called you his 'darling,' and you allowed it, though indeed why +should you not? doubtless it is a customary word from him to you! And +then you wept as though your heart, your +<i>heart</i>"—contemptuously—"would break. Were you confessing to him your +coquetry with me? and perhaps obtaining an easy forgiveness?"</p> + +<p>"No, I was not," quietly, though there is immeasurable scorn in her tone.</p> + +<p>"No?" slightingly. "For what, then, were you crying?"</p> + +<p>"Sir,"—with a first outward sign of indignation,—"I refuse to tell +you. By what right do you now ask the question? yesterday, nay, an hour +since, I should have felt myself bound to answer any inquiry of yours, +but not now.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span> The tie between us, a frail one as it seems to me, is +broken; our engagement is at an end: I shall not answer you!"</p> + +<p>"Because you dare not," retorts he, fiercely, stung by her manner.</p> + +<p>"I think you dare too much when you venture so to address me," in a low +clear tone. "And yet, as it is in all human probability the last time we +shall ever meet, and as I would have you remember all your life long the +gross injustice you have done me, I shall satisfy your curiosity. But +recollect, sir, these are indeed the final words that shall pass between us.</p> + +<p>"A year ago Colonel Trant so far greatly honored me as to ask me to +marry him: for many reasons I then refused. Twice since I came to +Chetwoode he has been to see me,—once to bring me law papers of some +importance, and last Friday to again ask me to be his wife. Again I +refused. I wept then, because, unworthy as I am, I know I was giving +pain to the truest, and, as I know now,"—with a faint trembling in her +voice, quickly subdued—"the <i>only</i> friend I have! When declining his +proposal, I gave my reason for doing so! I told him I loved another! +That other was you!"</p> + +<p>Casting this terrible revenge in his teeth, she turns, and, walking +majestically into the house, closes the door with significant haste behind her.</p> + +<p>This is the one solitary instance of inhospitality shown by Cecilia in +all her life. Never until now was she known to shut her door in the face +of trouble. And surely Cyril's trouble at this moment is sore and needy!</p> + +<p>To disbelieve Cecilia when face to face with her is impossible. Her eyes +are truth itself. Her whole manner, so replete with dignity and offended +pride, declares her innocent. Cyril stands just where she had left him, +in stunned silence, for at least a quarter of an hour, repeating to +himself miserably all that she has said, and reminding himself with +cold-blooded cruelty of all he has said to her.</p> + +<p>At the end of this awful fifteen minutes, he bethinks himself his hair +must now, if ever, be turned gray; and then, a happier and more resolute +thought striking him, he takes his courage in his two hands, and walking +boldly up to the hall door, knocks and demands admittance with really +admirable composure. Abominable composure, thinks Cecilia, who in spite +of her stern determination never to know him again, has been watching +him covertly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span> from behind a handkerchief and a bedroom curtain all this +time, and is now stationed at the top of the staircase, with dim eyes, +but very acute ears.</p> + +<p>"Yes," Kate tells him, "her mistress is at home," and forthwith shows +him into the bijou drawing-room. After which she departs to tell her +mistress of his arrival.</p> + +<p>Three minutes, that to Cyril's excited fancy lengthen themselves into +twenty, pass away slowly, and then Kate returns.</p> + +<p>"Her mistress's compliments, and she has a terrible headache, and will +Mr. Chetwoode be so kind as to excuse her?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Chetwoode on this occasion is not kind. "He is sorry," he stammers, +"but if Mrs. Arlington could let him see her for five minutes, he would +not detain her longer. He has something of the utmost importance to say to her."</p> + +<p>His manner is so earnest, so pleading, that Kate, who scents at least a +death in the air, retires full of compassion for the "pore gentleman." +And then another three minutes, that now to the agitated listener appear +like forty, drag themselves into the past.</p> + +<p>Suspense is growing intolerable, when a well-known step in the hall +outside makes his heart beat almost to suffocation. The door is opened +slowly, and Mrs. Arlington comes in.</p> + +<p>"You have something to say to me?" she asks, curtly, unkindly, standing +just inside the door, and betraying an evident determination not to sit +down for any consideration upon earth. Her manner is uncompromising and +forbidding, but her eyes are very red. There is rich consolation in this discovery.</p> + +<p>"I have," replies Cyril, openly confused now it has come to the point.</p> + +<p>"Say it, then. I am here to listen to you. My servant tells me it is +something of the deepest importance."</p> + +<p>"So it is. In all the world there is nothing so important to me. +Cecilia,"—coming a little nearer to her,—"it is that I want your +forgiveness; I ask your pardon very humbly, and I throw myself upon your +mercy. You must forgive me!"</p> + +<p>"Forgiveness seems easy to you, who cannot feel," replies she, +haughtily, turning as though to leave the room; but Cyril intercepts +her, and places his back against the door.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span></p><p>"I cannot let you go until you are friends with me again," he says, in +deep agitation.</p> + +<p>"Friends!"</p> + +<p>"Think what I have gone through. <i>You</i> have only suffered for a few +minutes, <i>I</i> have suffered for three long days. Think of it. My heart +was breaking all the time. I went to London hoping to escape thought, +and never shall I forget what I endured in that detestable city. Like a +man in a dream I lived, scarcely seeing, or, if seeing, only trying to +elude, those I knew. At times——"</p> + +<p>"You went to London?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, that is how I have been absent for three days; I have hardly slept +or eaten since last I saw you."</p> + +<p>Here Cecilia is distinctly conscious of a feeling of satisfaction: next +to a man's dying for you the sweetest thing is to hear of a man's +starving for you!</p> + +<p>"Sometimes," goes on Cyril, piling up the agony higher and higher, and +speaking in his gloomiest tones, "I thought it would be better if I put +an end to it once for all, by blowing out my brains."</p> + +<p>"How dare you speak to me like this?" Cecilia says in a trembling voice: +"it is horrible. You would commit suicide? Am I not unhappy enough, that +you must seek to make me more so? Why should you blow your brains out?" +with a shudder.</p> + +<p>"Because I could not live without you. Even now,"—reproachfully,—"when +I see you looking so coldly upon me, I almost wish I had put myself out +of the way for good."</p> + +<p>"Cyril, I forbid you to talk like this."</p> + +<p>"Why? I don't suppose you care whether I am dead or alive." This artful +speech, uttered in a heart-broken tone, does immense execution.</p> + +<p>"If you were dead," begins she, forlornly, and then stops short, because +her voice fails her, and two large tears steal silently down her cheeks.</p> + +<p>"Would you care?" asks Cyril, going up to her and placing one arm gently +round her; being unrepulsed, he gradually strengthens this arm with the +other. "Would you?"</p> + +<p>"I hardly know."</p> + +<p>"Darling, don't be cruel. I was wrong, terribly, unpardonably wrong ever +to doubt your sweet truth; but when one has stories perpetually dinned +into one's ears,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span> one naturally grows jealous of one's shadow, when one +loves as I do."</p> + +<p>"And pray, who told you all these stories?"</p> + +<p>"Never mind."</p> + +<p>"But I do mind," with an angry sob. "What! you are to hear lies of me, +and to believe them, and I am not even to know who told you them! I do +mind, and I insist on knowing."</p> + +<p>"Surely it cannot signify now, when I tell you I don't believe them."</p> + +<p>"It does signify, and I should be told. But indeed I need not ask," with +exceeding bitterness; "I know. It was your brother, Sir Guy. He has +always (why I know not) been a cruel enemy of mine."</p> + +<p>"He only repeated what he heard. He is not to be blamed."</p> + +<p>"It <i>was</i> he, then?" quickly. "But 'blamed'?—of course not; no one is +in the wrong, I suppose, but poor me! I think, sir,"—tremulously,—"it +would be better you should go home, and forget you ever knew any one so +culpable as I am. I should be afraid to marry into a family that could +so misjudge me as yours does. Go, and learn to forget me."</p> + +<p>"I can go, of course, if you desire it," laying hold of his hat: "that +is a simple matter; but I cannot promise to forget. To some people it +may be easy, to me impossible."</p> + +<p>"Nothing is impossible. The going is the first step. Oblivion"—with a +sigh—"will quickly follow."</p> + +<p>"I do not think so. But, since you wish my absence—"</p> + +<p>He moves toward the door with lowered head and dejected manner.</p> + +<p>"I did not say I wished it," in faltering tones; "I only requested you +to leave me for your own sake, and because I would not make your people +unhappy. Though"—piteously—"it should break my heart, I would still +bid you go."</p> + +<p>"Would it break your heart?" flinging his hat into a corner (for my own +part, I don't believe he ever meant going): coming up to her, he folds +her in his arms. "Forgive me, I entreat you," he says, "for what I shall +never forgive myself."</p> + +<p>The humbleness of this appeal touches Cecilia's tender heart. She makes +no effort to escape from his encircling arms; she even returns one out +of his many caresses.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span></p><p>"To think you could behave so badly to me!" she whispers, +reproachfully.</p> + +<p>"I am a brute! I know it."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no! indeed you are not," says Mrs. Arlington. "Well, yes,"—drawing +a long breath,—"I forgive you; but <i>promise</i>, promise you will never +distrust me again."</p> + +<p>Of course he gives the required promise, and peace is once more restored.</p> + +<p>"I shall not be content with an engagement any longer," Cyril says, +presently. "I consider it eminently unsatisfactory. Why not marry me at +once? I have nine hundred a year, and a scrap of an estate a few miles +from this,—by the bye, you have never yet been to see your +property,—and, if you are not afraid to venture, I think we might be +very happy, even on that small sum."</p> + +<p>"I am not afraid of anything with you," she says, in her calm, tender +fashion; "and money has nothing to do with it. If," with a troubled +sigh, "I ever marry you, I shall not come to you empty-handed."</p> + +<p>"'If: dost thou answer me with ifs?'" quotes he, gayly. "I tell you, +sweet, there is no such word in my dictionary. I shall only wait a +favorable opportunity to ask my mother's consent to our marriage."</p> + +<p>"And if she refuses it?"</p> + +<p>"Why, then I shall marry you without hers, or yours, or the consent of +any one in the world."</p> + +<p>"You jest," she says, tears gathering in her large appealing eyes. "I +would not have you make your mother miserable."</p> + +<p>"Above all things, do not let me see tears in your eyes again," he says, +quickly. "I forbid it. For one thing, it makes me wretched, +and"—softly—"it makes me feel sure <i>you</i> are wretched, which is far +worse. Cecilia, if you don't instantly dry those tears I shall be under +the painful necessity of kissing them away. I tell you I shall get my +mother's consent very readily. When she sees you, she will be only too +proud to welcome such a daughter."</p> + +<p>Soon after this they part, more in love with each other than ever.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span></p> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.</span></h2> + +<div class="block3"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div class="i1">"<i>Phebe.</i>—I have more cause to hate him than to love him:</div> +<div>For what had he to do to chide at me?"—<i>As You Like It.</i></div> +</div></div></div> + +<p>When Lilian's foot is again strong and well, almost the first use she +makes of it is to go to The Cottage to see Cecilia. She is gladly +welcomed there; the two girls are as pleased with each other as even in +fond anticipation they had dreamed they should be: and how seldom are +such dreams realized! They part with a secret though mutual hope that +they shall soon see each other again.</p> + +<p>Of her first two meetings with the lovely widow Lilian speaks openly to +Lady Chetwoode; but with such an utter want of interest is her news +received that instinctively she refrains from making any further mention +of her new acquaintance. Meantime the friendship ripens rapidly, until +at length scarcely a week elapses without Lilian's paying at least one +or two visits at The Cottage.</p> + +<p>Of the strength of this growing intimacy Sir Guy is supremely ignorant, +until one day chance betrays to him its existence.</p> + +<p>It is a bright but chilly morning, one of November's rawest efforts. The +trees, bereft of even their faded mantle, that has dropped bit by bit +from their meagre arms, now stand bare and shivering in their unlovely +nakedness. The wind, whistling shrilly, rushes through them with +impatient haste, as though longing to escape from their gaunt and most +untempting embraces. There is a suspicion of snow in the biting air.</p> + +<p>In The Cottage a roaring fire is scolding and quarreling vigorously on +its way up the chimney, illuminating with its red rays the parlor in +which it burns; Cecilia is standing on one side of the hearth, looking +up at Lilian, who has come down by appointment to spend the day with +her, and who is mounted on a chair hanging a picture much fancied by +Cecilia. They are freely discussing its merits, and with their gay +chatter are outdoing the noisy fire. To Cecilia the sweet companionship +of this girl is not only an antidote to her loneliness, but an excessive pleasure.</p> + +<p>The picture just hung is a copy of the "Meditation," and is a special +favorite of Lilian's, who, being the most<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span> unsentimental person in the +world, takes a tender delight in people of the visionary order.</p> + +<p>"Do you know, Cecilia," she says, "I think the eyes something like yours?"</p> + +<p>"Do you?" smiling. "You flatter me."</p> + +<p>"I flatter 'Mademoiselle la Meditation,' you mean. No; you have a +thoughtful, almost a wistful look about you, at times, that might +strongly remind any one of this picture. Now, I"—reflectively—"could +<i>never</i> look like that. When I think (which, to do me justice, is +seldom), I always dwell upon unpleasant topics, and in consequence I +maintain on these rare occasions an exceedingly sour, not to say +ferocious, expression. I hate thinking!"</p> + +<p>"So much the better," replies her companion, with a faint sigh. "The +more persistently you put thought behind you, the longer you will retain happiness."</p> + +<p>"Why, how sad you look! Have I, as usual, said the wrong thing? You +<i>mustn't</i> think,"—affectionately,—"if it makes you sad. Come, Cis, let +me cheer you up."</p> + +<p>Cecilia starts as though struck, and moves backward as the pretty +abbreviation of her name sounds upon her ear. An expression of hatred +and horror rises and mars her face.</p> + +<p>"Never call me by that name again," she says with some passion, laying +her hand upon the sideboard to steady herself. "Never! do you hear? My +father called me so——" she pauses, and the look of horror passes from +her, only to be replaced by one of shame. "What must you think of me," +she asks, slowly, "you who honored your father? I, too, had a father, +but I did not—no, I did not love him. Am I hateful, am I unnatural, in +your eyes?"</p> + +<p>"Cecilia," says Lilian, with grave simplicity, "you could not be +unnatural, you could not be hateful, in the sight of any one."</p> + +<p>"That name you called me by"—struggling with her emotion—"recalled old +scenes, old memories, most horrible to me. I am unhinged to-day: you must not mind me."</p> + +<p>"You are not well, dearest."</p> + +<p>"That man, my husband,"—with a strong shudder,—"he, too, called me by +that name. After long years," she says, throwing out her hands with a +significant gesture, as though she would fain so fling from her all +haunting<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span> thoughts, "I cannot rid myself of the fear, the loathing, of +those past days. <i>Are</i> they past? Is my terror an omen that they are not +yet ended?"</p> + +<p>"Cecilia, you shall not speak so," says Lilian, putting her arms gently +round her. "You are nervous and—and upset about something. Why should +you encourage such superstitious thoughts, when happiness lies within +your grasp? How can harm come near you in this pretty wood, where you +reign queen? Come, smile at me directly, or I shall tell Cyril of your +evil behavior, and send him here armed with a stout whip to punish you +for your naughtiness. What a whip that would be!" says Lilian, laughing +so gleefully that Cecilia perforce laughs too.</p> + +<p>"How sweet you are to me!" she says, fondly, with tears in her eyes. "At +times I am more than foolish, and last night I had a terrible dream; but +your coming has done me good. Now I can almost laugh at my own fears, +that were so vivid a few hours ago. But my youth was not a happy one."</p> + +<p>"Now you have reached old age, I hope you will enjoy it," says Miss Chesney, demurely.</p> + +<p>Almost at this moment, Sir Guy Chetwoode is announced, and is shown by +the inestimable Kate into the parlor instead of the drawing-room, +thereby causing unutterable mischief. It is only the second time since +Mrs. Arlington's arrival at The Cottage he has put in an appearance +there, and each time business has been his sole cause for calling.</p> + +<p>He is unmistakably surprised at Lilian's presence, but quickly +suppresses all show of emotion. At first he looks faintly astonished, +but so faintly that a second later one wonders whether the astonishment +was there at all.</p> + +<p>He shakes hands formally with Mrs. Arlington, and smiles in a somewhat +restrained fashion upon Lilian. In truth he is much troubled at the +latter's evident familiarity with the place and its inmate.</p> + +<p>Lilian, jumping down from her high elevation, says to Cecilia:</p> + +<p>"If you two are going to talk business, I shall go into the next room. +The very thought of anything connected with the bugbear 'Law' depresses +me to death. You can call me, Cecilia, when you have quite done."</p> + +<p>"Don't be frightened," says Guy, pleasantly, though<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span> inwardly he frowns +as he notes Lilian's unceremonious usage of his tenant's Christian name. +"I shan't detain Mrs. Arlington two minutes."</p> + +<p>Then he addresses himself exclusively to Cecilia, and says what he has +to say in a perfectly courteous, perfectly respectful, perfectly +freezing tone,—to all of which Cecilia responds with a similar though +rather exaggerated amount of coldness that deadens the natural sweetness +of her behavior, and makes Lilian tell herself she has never yet seen +Cecilia to such disadvantage, which is provoking, as she has set her +heart above all things on making Guy like her lovely friend.</p> + +<p>Then Sir Guy, with a distant salutation, withdraws; and both women feel, +silently, as though an icicle had melted from their midst.</p> + +<p>"I wonder why your guardian so dislikes me," says Mrs. Arlington, in a +somewhat hurt tone. "He is ever most ungenerous in his treatment of me."</p> + +<p>"Ungenerous!" hastily, "oh, no! he is not that. He is the most +generous-minded man alive. But—but——"</p> + +<p>"Quite so, dear,"—with a faint smile that yet has in it a tinge of +bitterness. "You see there is a 'but.' I have never wronged him, yet he hates me."</p> + +<p>"Never mind who hates you," says Lilian, impulsively. "Cyril loves you, and so do I."</p> + +<p>"I can readily excuse the rest," says Mrs. Arlington, with a bright +smile, kissing her pretty consoler with grateful warmth.</p> + +<p class="center">* * * * * * *</p> + +<p>An hour after Lilian's return to Chetwoode on this momentous day, Guy, +having screwed his courage to the sticking-point, enters his mother's +boudoir, where he knows she and Lilian are sitting alone.</p> + +<p>Lady Chetwoode is writing at a distant table; Miss Chesney, on a sofa +close to the fire, is surreptitiously ruining—or, as she fondly but +erroneously believes, is knitting away bravely at—the gray sock her +ladyship has just laid down. Lilian's pretty lips are pursed up, her +brow is puckered, her soft color has risen as she bends in strong hope +over her work. The certain charm that belongs to this scene fails to +impress Sir Guy, who is too full of agitated determination to leave room for minor interests.</p> + +<p>"Lilian," he says, bluntly, with all the execrable want of tact that +characterizes the very gentlest of men, "I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span> wish you would not cultivate +an acquaintance with Mrs. Arlington."</p> + +<p>"Eh?" says Lilian, looking up in somewhat dazed amazement from her +knitting, which is gradually getting into a more and more hopeless mess, +"what is it, then, Sir Guy?"</p> + +<p>"I wish you would not seek an intimacy with Mrs. Arlington," repeats +Chetwoode, speaking all the more sternly in that he feels his courage ebbing.</p> + +<p>The sternness, however, proves a mistake; Miss Chesney resents it, and, +scenting battle afar off, encases herself in steel, and calmly, nay, +eagerly, awaits the onslaught.</p> + +<p>"What has put you out?" she says, speaking in a tone eminently +calculated to incense the listener. "You seem disturbed. Has Heskett +been poaching again? or has that new pointer turned out a +<i>disappointer</i>? What has poor Mrs. Arlington done to you, that you must +send her to Coventry?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing, only——"</p> + +<p>"Nothing! Oh, Sir Guy, surely you must have some substantial reason for +tabooing her so entirely."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps I have. At all events, I ask you most particularly to give up +visiting at The Cottage."</p> + +<p>"I am very sorry, indeed, to seem disobliging, but I shall not give up a +friend without sufficient reason for so doing."</p> + +<p>"A friend! Oh, this is madness," says Sir Guy, with a perceptible start; +then, turning toward his mother, he says, in a rather louder tone, that +adds to the imperiousness of his manner, "Mother, will <i>you</i> speak to +Lilian, and desire her not to go?"</p> + +<p>"But, my dear, why?" asks Lady Chetwoode, raising her eyes in a vague +fashion from her pen.</p> + +<p>"Because I will not have her associating with people of whom we know +nothing," replies he, at his wit's end for an excuse. This one is +barefaced, as at any other time he is far too liberal a man to condemn +any one for being a mere stranger.</p> + +<p>"I know a good deal of her," says Lilian, imperturbably, "and I think +her charming. Perhaps,—who knows?—as she is unknown, she may prove a +duchess in disguise."</p> + +<p>"She may, but I doubt it," replies he, a disagreeable note of irony +running through his speech.</p> + +<p>"Have you discovered her parentage?" asks Lady <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span>Chetwoode, hastily. "Is +she of low birth? Lilian, my dear, don't have low tastes: there is +nothing on earth," says Lady Chetwoode, mildly, "so—so—so <i>melancholy</i> +as a person afflicted with low tastes."</p> + +<p>"If thinking Mrs. Arlington a lady in the very best sense of the word is +a low taste, I confess myself afflicted," says Miss Chesney, rather +saucily; whereupon Lady Chetwoode, who knows mischief is brewing and is +imbued with a wholesome horror of all disputes between her son and his +ward, rises hurriedly and prepares to quit the room.</p> + +<p>"I hope Archie will not miss his train," she says, irrelevantly. "He is +always so careless, and I know it is important he should see his +solicitor this evening about the transfer of York's farm. Where is Archibald?"</p> + +<p>"In the library, I think," responds Lilian. "Dear Archie, how we shall +miss him! shan't we, auntie?"</p> + +<p>This tenderly regretful speech has reference to Mr. Chesney's intended +departure, he having at last, through business, been compelled to leave +Chetwoode and the object of his adoration.</p> + +<p>"We shall, indeed. But remember,"—kindly,—"he has promised to return +to us at Christmas with Taffy."</p> + +<p>"I do remember," gayly; "but for that, I feel I should give way to tears."</p> + +<p>Here Lady Chetwoode lays her hand upon the girl's shoulder, and presses +it gently, entreatingly.</p> + +<p>"Do not reject Guy's counsel, child," she says, softly; "you know he +always speaks for your good."</p> + +<p>Lilian makes no reply, but, gracefully turning her head, lays her red +lips upon the gentle hand that still rests upon her shoulder.</p> + +<p>Then Lady Chetwoode leaves the room, and Lilian and her guardian are +alone. An ominous silence follows her departure. Lilian, who has +abandoned the unhappy sock, has now taken in hand a very valuable +Dresden china cup, and is apparently examining it with the most profound interest.</p> + +<p>"I have your promise not to go again to The Cottage?" asks Sir Guy at +length, the exigency of the case causing his persistency.</p> + +<p>"I think not."</p> + +<p>"Why will you persist in this obstinate refusal?" angrily.</p> + +<p>"For many reasons," with a light laugh. "Shall I tell<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span> you one? Did you +ever hear of the 'relish of being forbidden?'"</p> + +<p>"It is not a trifling matter. If it was possible, I would tell you what +would prevent your ever wishing to know this Mrs. Arlington again. But, +as it is, I am your guardian,"—determinately,—"I am responsible for +you: I do not wish you to be intimate at The Cottage, and in this one +matter at least I must be obeyed."</p> + +<p>"Must you? we shall see," replies Miss Chesney, with a tantalizing laugh +that, but for the sweet beauty of her <i>riante</i> face, her dewy, mutinous +mouth, her great blue eyes, now ablaze with childish wrath, would have +made him almost hate her. As it is, he is exceeding full of an +indignation he scarcely seeks to control.</p> + +<p>"I, as your guardian, forbid you to go to see that woman," he says, in a +condensed tone.</p> + +<p>"And why, pray?"</p> + +<p>"I cannot explain: I simply forbid you. She is not fit to be an +associate of yours."</p> + +<p>"Then I will <i>not</i> be forbidden: so there!" says Miss Chesney, defiantly.</p> + +<p>"Lilian, once for all, do not go to The Cottage again," says Guy, very +pale. "If you do you will regret it."</p> + +<p>"Is that a threat?"</p> + +<p>"No; it is a warning. Take it as such if you are wise. If you go against +my wishes in this matter, I shall refuse to take charge of you any longer."</p> + +<p>"I don't want you to take charge of me," cries Lilian, tears of passion +and wounded feeling in her eyes. In her excitement she has risen to her +feet and stands confronting him, the Dresden cup still within her hand. +"I am not a beggar, that I should crave your hospitality. I can no doubt +find a home with some one who will not hate me as you do." With this, +the foolish child, losing her temper <i>in toto</i>, raises her hand and, +because it is the nearest thing to her, flings the cherished cup upon +the floor, where it lies shattered into a thousand pieces.</p> + +<p>In silence Guy contemplates the ruins, in silence Lilian watches him; no +faintest trace of remorse shows itself in her angry fair little face. I +think the keenest regret Guy knows at this moment is that she isn't a +boy, for the simple reason that he would dearly like to box her ears. +Being a woman, and an extremely lovely one, he is necessarily disarmed.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span></p><p>"So now!" says Miss Lilian, still defiant.</p> + +<p>"I have a great mind," replies Guy, raising his eyes slowly to hers, "to +desire you to pick up every one of those fragments."</p> + +<p>This remark is unworthy of him, proving that in his madness there is not +even method. His speech falls as a red spark into the hot fire of Miss Chesney's wrath.</p> + +<p>"<i>You</i> desire!" she says, blazing instantly. "What is it you would say? +'Desire!' On the contrary, <i>I</i> desire <i>you</i> to pick them up, and I shall +stay here to see my commands obeyed."</p> + +<p>She has come a little closer to him, and is now standing opposite him +with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. With one firm little finger she +points to the <i>débris</i>. She looks such a fragile creature possessed with +such an angry spirit that Chetwoode, in spite of himself acknowledging +the comicality of the situation, cannot altogether conceal a smile.</p> + +<p>"Pick them up," says Lilian imperatively, for the second time.</p> + +<p>"What a little Fury you are!" says Guy; and then, with a faint shrug, he +succumbs, and, stooping, does pick up the pieces of discord.</p> + +<p>"I do it," he says, raising himself when his task is completed, and +letting severity once more harden his features, "to prevent my mother's +being grieved by such an exhibition of——"</p> + +<p>"No, you do not," interrupts she; "you do it because I wished it. For +the future understand that, though you are my guardian, I will not be +treated as though I were a wayward child."</p> + +<p>"Well, you <i>have</i> a wicked temper!" says Guy, who is very pale, drawing +his breath quickly. He smiles as he says it, but it is a smile more +likely to incense than to soothe.</p> + +<p>"I have not," retorts Lilian, passionately. "But that you goaded me I +should never have given way to anger. It is you who have the wicked +temper. I dislike you! I hate you! I wish I had never entered your +house! And"—superbly, drawing herself up to her full height, which does +not take her far—"I shall now leave it! And I shall never come back to +it again!"</p> + +<p>This fearful threat she hurls at his head with much unction. Not that +she means it, but it is as well to be <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span>forcible on such occasions. The +less you mean a thing, the more eloquent and vehement you should grow; +the more you mean it, the less vehemence the better, because then it is +energy thrown away: the fact accomplished later on will be crushing +enough in itself. This is a rule that should be strictly observed.</p> + +<p>Guy, whose head is held considerably higher than its wont, looks calmly +out of the window, and disdains to take notice of this outburst.</p> + +<p>His silence irritates Miss Chesney, who has still sufficient rage +concealed within her to carry her victoriously through two quarrels. She +is therefore about to let the vials of her wrath once more loose upon +her unhappy guardian, when the door opens, and Florence, calm and +stately, sweeps slowly in.</p> + +<p>"Aunt Anne not here?" she says; and then she glances at Guy, who is +still holding in his hands some of the fragments of the broken cup, and +who is looking distinctly guilty, and then suspiciously at Lilian, whose +soft face is crimson, and whose blue eyes are very much darker than usual.</p> + +<p>There is a second's pause, and then Lilian, walking across the room, +goes out, and bangs the door, with much unnecessary violence, behind her.</p> + +<p>"Dear me!" exclaims Florence, affectedly, when she has recovered from +the shock her delicate nerves have sustained through the abrupt closing +of the door. "How vehement dear Lilian is! There is nothing so ruinous +to one's manners as being brought up without the companionship of +well-bred women. The loss of it makes a girl so—so—hoydenish, and——"</p> + +<p>"I don't think Lilian hoydenish," interrupts Guy, who is in the humor to +quarrel with his shadow,—especially, strange as it seems, with any one +who may chance to speak ill of the small shrew who has just flown like a +whirlwind from the room.</p> + +<p>"No?" says Miss Beauchamp, sweetly. "Perhaps you are right. As a +rule,"—with an admiring glance, so deftly thrown as to make one regret +it should be so utterly flung away,—"you always are. It may be only +natural spirits, but if so,"—blandly,—"don't you think she has a great +deal of natural spirits?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know, I'm sure," says Sir Guy. As he answers he looks at her, +and tells himself he hates all her pink and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span> white fairness, her dull +brown locks, her duller eyes, and more, <i>much</i> more than all, her large +and fleshy nose. "Has she?" he says, in a tone that augurs ill for any +one who may have the hardihood to carry on the conversation.</p> + +<p>"I think she has," says Florence, innocently, a little touch of +doggedness running beneath the innocency. "But, oh, Guy, is that Aunt +Anne's favorite cup? the Dresden she so much prizes? I know it cost any +amount of money. Who broke it?"</p> + +<p>"I did," returns Guy, shortly, unblushingly, and moving away from her, quits the room.</p> + +<p>Going up the staircase he pauses idly at a window that overlooks the +avenue to watch Archibald disappearing up the drive in the dog-cart. +Even as he watches him, vaguely, and without the least interest in his +movements,—his entire thoughts being preoccupied with another +object,—lo! that object emerges from under the lime-trees, and makes a +light gesture that brings Chesney to a full stop.</p> + +<p>Throwing the reins to the groom, he springs to the ground, and for some +time the two cousins converse earnestly. Then Guy, who is now regarding +them with eager attention, sees Chesney help Lilian into the trap, take +his seat beside her and drive away up the avenue, past the huge +laurustinus, under the elms, on out of sight.</p> + +<p>A slight pang shoots across Guy's heart. Where are they going, these +two? "I shall never return:"—her foolish words, that he so honestly +considers foolish, come back to him now clearly, and with a strange +persistency that troubles him, repeat themselves over again.</p> + +<p>Chesney is going to London, but where is Lilian going? The child's +lovely, angry face rises up before him, full of a keen reproach. What +was she saying to Archibald just now, in that quick vehement fashion of +hers? was she upbraiding her guardian, or was she——? If Chesney had +asked her then to take any immediate steps toward the fulfilling of her +threat, would she, would she——?</p> + +<p>Bah! he draws himself up with a shiver, and smiles contemptuously at the +absurdity of his own fears, assuring himself she will certainly be home to dinner.</p> + +<p>But dinner comes, and yet no Lilian! Lady Chetwoode has been obliged to +give in an hour ago to one of her severest headaches, and now lies prone +upon her bed, so that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span> Miss Beauchamp and Guy perforce prepare to +partake of that meal alone.</p> + +<p>Florence is resplendent in cream-color and blue, which doesn't suit her +in the least, though it is a pretty gown, one of the prettiest in her +wardrobe, and has been donned by her to-night for Guy's special +delectation, finding a <i>tête-à-tête</i> upon the cards.</p> + +<p>Chetwoode regards her with feverish anxiety as she enters the +drawing-room, hoping to hear some mention made of the absent Lilian; but +in this hope he is disappointed. She might never have been a guest at +Chetwoode, so little notice does Miss Beauchamp take of her non-appearance.</p> + +<p>She says something amiable about "Aunt Anne's" headache, suggests a new +pill as an unfailing cure for "that sort of thing," and then eats her +dinner placidly, quietly, and, with a careful kindness that not one of +the dishes shall feel slighted by her preference for another, patronizes +all alike, without missing any. It is indeed a matter for wonder and +secret admiration how Miss Beauchamp can so slowly, and with such a +total absence of any appearance of gluttony, get through so much in so +short a space of time. She has evidently a perfect talent for concealing +any amount of viands without seeming to do so, which, it must be +admitted, is a great charm.</p> + +<p>To-night I fear Guy scarcely sees the beauty of it! He is conscious of +feeling disgust and a very passion of impatience. Does she not notice +Lilian's absence? Will she never speak of it? A strange fear lest she +should express ignorance of his ward's whereabouts ties his own tongue. +But she, she does, she <i>must</i> know, and presently no doubt will tell him.</p> + +<p>How much more of that cream is she going to eat? Surely when the +servants go she will say something. Now she has nearly done: thank the +stars the last bit has disappeared! She is going to lay down her spoon +and acknowledge herself satisfied.</p> + +<p>"I think, Guy, I will take a little more, <i>very</i> little, please. This +new cook seems quite satisfactory," says Florence, in her slow, even, +self-congratulatory way.</p> + +<p>A naughty exclamation trembles on Sir Guy's lips; by a supreme effort he +suppresses it, and gives her the smallest help of the desired cream that +decency will permit. After which he motions silently though peremptorily +to one of the men to remove <i>all</i> the dishes, lest by any chance<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span> his +cousin should be tempted to try the cream a third time.</p> + +<p>His own dinner has gone away literally untasted. A terrible misgiving is +consuming him. Lilian's words are still ringing and surging in his +brain,—"I shall never return." He recalls all her hastiness, her +impulsive ways, her hot temper. What if, in a moment of pride and rage, +she should have really gone with her cousin! If—it is impossible! +ridiculously, utterly impossible! Yet his blood grows cold in spite of +his would-be disbelief; a sickening shiver runs through his veins even +while he tells himself he is a fool even to imagine such a thing. And yet, where is she?</p> + +<p>"I suppose Lilian is at Mabel Steyne's," says Miss Beauchamp, calmly, +having demolished the last bit on her plate with a deep sigh.</p> + +<p>"Is she?" asks Guy, in a tone half stifled. As he speaks, he stoops as +though to pick up an imaginary napkin.</p> + +<p>"Your napkin is here," says Florence, in an uncompromising voice: "don't +you see it?" pointing to where it rests upon the edge of the table. +"Lilian, then,"—with a scrutinizing glance,—"did not tell you where +she was going?"</p> + +<p>"No. There is no reason why she should."</p> + +<p>"Well, I think there is," with a low, perfectly lady-like, but extremely +irritating laugh: "for one thing, her silence has cost you your dinner. +I am sorry I did not relieve your mind by telling you before. But I +could not possibly guess her absence could afflict you so severely. She +said something this morning about going to see Mabel."</p> + +<p>"I dare say," quietly.</p> + +<p>The minutes drag. Miss Beauchamp gets through an unlimited quantity of +dried fruit and two particularly fine pears in no time. She is looking +longingly at a third, when Guy rises impatiently.</p> + +<p>"If she is at Mabel's I suppose I had better go and bring her home," he +says, glancing at the clock. "It is a quarter to nine."</p> + +<p>"I really do not think you need trouble yourself," speaking somewhat +warmly for her: "Mabel is sure to send her home in good time, if she is +there!" She says this slowly, meaningly, and marks how he winces and +changes color at her words. "Then think how cold the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span> night is!" with a +comfortable shiver and a glance at the leaping fire.</p> + +<p>"Of course she is at Steynemore," says Guy, hastily.</p> + +<p>"I would not be too sure: Lilian's movements are always uncertain: one +never quite knows what she is going to do next. Really,"—with a +repetition of her unpleasant laugh,—"when I saw her stepping into the +dog-cart with her cousin to-day, I said to myself that I should not at +all wonder if——"</p> + +<p>"What?" sternly, turning full upon her a pale face and flashing eyes. +Miss Beauchamp's pluck always melts under Guy's anger.</p> + +<p>"Nothing," sullenly; "nothing at least that can concern you. I was +merely hurrying on in my own mind a marriage that must eventually come +off. The idea was absurd, of course, as any woman would prefer a +fashionable wedding to all the inconvenience attendant on a runaway match."</p> + +<p>"You mean——"</p> + +<p>"I mean"—complacently—"Lilian's marriage with her cousin."</p> + +<p>"You speak"—biting his lips to maintain his composure—"as though it +was all arranged."</p> + +<p>"And is it not?" with well-affected surprise. "I should have thought +you, as her guardian, would have known all about it. Perhaps I speak +prematurely; but one must be blind indeed not to see how matters are +between them. Do sit down, Guy: it fidgets one to see you so undecided. +Of course, if Lilian is at Steynemore she is quite safe."</p> + +<p>"Still, she may be expecting some one to go for her."</p> + +<p>"I think, if so, she would have told you she was going," dryly.</p> + +<p>"Tom hates sending his horses out at night," says Guy,—which is a weak +remark, Tom Steyne being far too indolent a man to make a point of hating anything.</p> + +<p>"Does he?" with calm surprise, and a prolonged scrutiny of her cousin's +face. "I fancied him the most careless of men on that particular +subject. Before he was married he used to drive over here night after +night, and not care in the least how long he kept the wretched animals +standing in the cold."</p> + +<p>"But that was when he was making love to Mabel. A man in love will +commit any crime."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, long before that."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span></p><p>"Perhaps, then, it was when he was making love to you," with a slight +smile.</p> + +<p>This is a sore point.</p> + +<p>"I don't remember that time," says Miss Beauchamp with perfect calmness +but a suspicious indrawing of her rather meagre lips. "If some one must +go out to-night, Guy, why not send Thomas?"</p> + +<p>"Because I prefer going myself," replies he, quietly.</p> + +<p>Passing through the hall on his way to the door, he catches up a heavy +plaid that happens to be lying there, on a side-couch, and, springing +into the open trap outside, drives away quickly under the pale cold rays of the moon.</p> + +<p>He has refused to take any of the servants with him, and so, alone with +his thoughts, follows the road that leads to Steynemore.</p> + +<p>They are not pleasant thoughts. Being only a man, he has accepted Miss +Beauchamp's pretended doubts about Lilian's safety as real, and almost +persuades himself his present journey will bear him only bitter +disappointment. As to what he is going to do if Lilian has not been seen +at Steynemore, that is a matter on which he refuses to speculate. +Drawing near the house, his suspense and fear grow almost beyond bounds. +Dismounting at the hall-door, which stands partly open, he flings the +reins to Jericho, and going into the hall, turns in the direction of the drawing-room.</p> + +<p>While he stands without, trying to summon courage to enter boldly, and +literally trembling with suppressed anxiety, a low soft laugh breaks +upon his ear. As he hears it, the blood rushes to his face; +involuntarily he raises his hand to his throat, and then (and only then) +quite realizes how awful has been the terror that for four long hours +has been consuming him.</p> + +<p>The next instant, cold and collected, he turns the handle of the door, and goes in.</p> + +<p>Upon a low seat opposite Mabel Steyne sits Lilian, evidently in the +gayest spirits. No shadow of depression, no thought of all the mental +agony he has been enduring, mars the brightness of her <i>mignonne</i> face. +She is laughing. Her lustrous azure eyes are turned upward to her +friend, who is laughing also in apparent appreciation of her guest's +jest; her parted lips make merry dimples in her cheeks; her whole face +is full of soft lines of amusement.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span></p><p>As Guy comes in, Mabel rises with a little exclamation, and goes toward +him with outstretched hands.</p> + +<p>"Why, Guy!" she says, "good boy! Have you come for Lilian? I was just +going to order the carriage to send her home. Did you walk or drive?"</p> + +<p>"I drove." He has studiously since his entrance kept his eyes from +Lilian. The smile has faded from her lips, the happy light from her +eyes; she has turned a pale, proud little face to the fire, away from her guardian.</p> + +<p>"I made Lilian stay to dinner," says Mabel, who is too clever not to +have remarked the painful constraint existing between her guest and Sir +Guy. "Tom has been out all day shooting and dining at the Bellairs, so I +entreated her to stay and bear me company. Won't you sit down for a +while? It is early yet; there cannot be any hurry."</p> + +<p>"No, thank you. My mother has a bad headache, and, as she does not know +where Lilian is, I think it better to get home."</p> + +<p>"Oh, if auntie has a headache, of course——"</p> + +<p>"I shall go and put on my hat," says Lilian, speaking for the first +time, and rising with slow reluctance from her seat. "Don't stir, Mab: I +shan't be a minute: my things are all in the next room."</p> + +<p>"Lilian is not very well, I fear," Mrs. Steyne says, when the door has +closed upon her, "or else something has annoyed her. I am not sure +which," with a quick glance at him. "She would eat no dinner, and her +spirits are very fitful. But she did not tell me what was the matter, +and I did not like to ask her. She is certainly vexed about something, +and it is a shame she should be made unhappy, poor pretty child!" with +another quick glance.</p> + +<p>"I thought she seemed in radiant spirits just now," remarks Guy, coldly.</p> + +<p>"Yes; but half an hour ago she was so depressed I was quite uneasy about +her: that is why I used the word 'fitful.' Get her to eat something +before she goes to bed," says kindly Mabel, in an undertone, as Lilian +returns equipped for her journey. "Good-night, dear," kissing her. "Have you wraps, Guy?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, plenty. Good-night." And Mabel, standing on the door-steps, +watches them until they have vanished beneath the starlight.</p> + +<p>It is a dark but very lovely night. Far above them in the dim serene +blue a fair young crescent moon rides<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span> bravely. As yet but a few stars +are visible, and they gleam and shiver and twinkle in the eternal dome, +restless as the hearts of the two beings now gazing silently upon their beauty.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,</div> +<div>Blossomed the lonely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels."</div> +</div></div> + +<p>A creeping shadow lies among the trees; a certain sense of loneliness +dwells in the long avenue of Steynemore as they pass beneath the +branches of the overhanging foliage. A quick wind rustles by them, sad +as a sigh from Nature's suffering breast, chill as the sense of injury +that hangs upon their own bosoms.</p> + +<p>Coming out upon the unshaded road, a greater light falls upon them. The +darkness seems less drear, the feeling of separation more remote, though +still Pride sits with triumphant mien between them, with his great wings +outspread to conceal effectually any penitent glance or thought. The +tender pensive beauty of the growing night is almost lost upon them.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"All round was still and calm; the noon of night</div> +<div>Was fast approaching; up th' unclouded sky</div> +<div>The glorious moon pursued her path of light,</div> +<div>And shed a silv'ry splendor far and nigh;</div> +<div>No sound, save of the night-wind's gentlest sigh,</div> +<div>Could reach the ear."</div> +</div></div> + +<p>A dead silence reigns between them: they both gaze with admirable +perseverance at the horse's ears. Never before has that good animal been +troubled by two such steady stares. Then Lilian stirs slightly, and a +little chattering sound escapes her, that rouses Guy to speech.</p> + +<p>"You are tired?" he says, in freezing tones.</p> + +<p>"Very."</p> + +<p>"Cold?"</p> + +<p>"<i>Very.</i>"</p> + +<p>"Then put this round you," disagreeably, but with evident anxiety, +producing the cozy plaid.</p> + +<p>"No, thank you."</p> + +<p>"Why?" surprised.</p> + +<p>"Because it is yours," replies she, with such open and childish spite as +at any other time would have brought a smile to his lips. Now it brings +only a dull pain to his heart.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span></p><p>"I am sorry I only brought what you will not wear," he answers: "it did +not occur to me you might carry your dislike to me even to my clothes. +In future I shall be wiser."</p> + +<p>Silence.</p> + +<p>"Do put it on!" anxiously: "you were coughing all last week."</p> + +<p>"I wouldn't be hypocritical, if I were you," with withering scorn. "I +feel sure it would be a matter for rejoicing, where you are concerned, +if I coughed all next week, and the week after. No: keep your plaid."</p> + +<p>"You are the most willful girl I ever met," wrathfully.</p> + +<p>"No doubt. I dare say you have met only angels. I am not one, I rejoice +to say. Florence is, you know; and one piece of perfection should be +enough in any household."</p> + +<p>Silence again. Not a sound upon the night-air but the clatter of the +horse's feet as he covers bravely the crisp dry road, and the rushing of +the wind. It is a cold wind, sharp and wintry. It whistles past them, +now they have gained the side of the bare moor, with cruel keenness, +cutting uncivilly the tops of their ears, and making them sink their +necks lower in their coverings.</p> + +<p>Miss Chesney's small hands lie naked upon the rug. Even in the +indistinct light he knows that they are shivering and almost blue.</p> + +<p>"Where are your gloves?" he asks, when he can bear the enforced +stillness no longer.</p> + +<p>"I forgot them at Mabel's."</p> + +<p>Impulsively he lays his own bare hand upon hers, and finds it chilled, +nearly freezing.</p> + +<p>"Keep your hands inside the rug," he says, angrily, though there is a +strong current of pain underlying the anger, "and put this shawl on you directly."</p> + +<p>"I will not," says Lilian, though in truth she is dying for it.</p> + +<p>"You shall," returns Chetwoode, quietly, in a tone he seldom uses, but +which, when used, is seldom disobeyed. Lilian submits to the muffling in +silence, and, though outwardly ungrateful, is inwardly honestly rejoiced +at it. As he fastens it beneath her chin, he stoops his head, until his +eyes are on a level with hers.</p> + +<p>"Was it kind of you, or proper, do you think, to make me so—so uneasy +as I have been all this afternoon and evening?" he asks, compelling her +to return his gaze.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span></p><p>"Were you uneasy?" says Miss Chesney, viciously and utterly +unrepenting: "I am glad of it."</p> + +<p>"Was it part of your plan to make my mother wretched also?" This is a +slight exaggeration, as Lady Chetwoode has not even been bordering on +the "wretched," and is, in fact, up to the present moment totally +ignorant of Lilian's absence.</p> + +<p>"I certainly did not mean to make dear auntie unhappy," in a +faintly-troubled tone. "But I shall tell her all the truth, and ask her +pardon, when I get home,—<i>back</i>, I mean," with studied correction of +the sweet word.</p> + +<p>"What is the truth?"</p> + +<p>"First, that I broke her lovely cup. And then I shall tell her why I +stayed so long at Steynemore."</p> + +<p>"And what will that be?"</p> + +<p>"You know very well. I shall just say to her, 'Auntie, your son, Sir +Guy, behaved so rudely to me this afternoon, I was obliged to leave +Chetwoode for a while.' Then she will forgive me."</p> + +<p>Sir Guy laughs in spite of himself; and Lilian, could he only have +peeped into the deep recesses of the plaid, might also be plainly seen +with her pretty lips apart and all her naughty bewitching face dimpling with laughter.</p> + +<p>These frivolous symptoms are, however, rapidly and sternly suppressed on both sides.</p> + +<p>"I really cannot see what awful crime I have committed to make you so +taciturn," she says, presently, with a view to discussing the subject. +"I merely went for a drive with my cousin, as he should pass Steynemore +on his way to the station."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps that was just what made my misery," softly.</p> + +<p>"What! my going for a short drive with Archie? Really, Sir Guy, you will +soon be taken as a model of propriety. Poor old Archie! I am afraid I +shan't be able to make you miserable in that way again for a very long +time. How I wish those tiresome lawyers would let him alone!"</p> + +<p>"Ask them to surrender him," says Guy, irritably.</p> + +<p>"I would,"—cheerfully,—"if I thought it would do the least good. But I +know they are all made of adamant."</p> + +<p>"Lilian,"—suddenly, unexpectedly,—"is there anything between you and +your cousin?"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span></p><p>"Who?"—with wide, innocent, suspiciously innocent eyes,—"Taffy?"</p> + +<p>"No," impatiently: "of course I mean Chesney," looking at her with +devouring interest.</p> + +<p>"Yes,"—disconsolately, with a desire for revenge,—"more miles than I +care to count."</p> + +<p>"I feel"—steadily—"it is a gross rudeness my asking, and I know you +need not answer me unless you like; but"—with a quick breath—"try to +answer my question. Has anything passed between you and Chesney?"</p> + +<p>"Not much," mildly: "one thrilling love-letter, and that ring."</p> + +<p>"He never asked you to marry him?" with renewed hope.</p> + +<p>"Oh, by the bye, I quite forgot that," indifferently. "Yes, he did ask me so much."</p> + +<p>"And you refused him?" asks Guy, eagerly, intensely, growing white and +cold beneath the moon's pitiless rays, that seem to take a heartless +pleasure in lighting up his agitated face at this moment. But Lilian's +eyes are turned away from his: so this degradation is spared him.</p> + +<p>"No—n—o, not exactly," replies she.</p> + +<p>"You accepted him?" with dry lips and growing despair.</p> + +<p>"N—o, not exactly," again returns Miss Chesney, with affected +hesitation.</p> + +<p>"Then what <i>did</i> you do?" passionately, his impatient fear getting the +better of his temper.</p> + +<p>"I don't feel myself at liberty to tell you," retorts Lilian, with a +provoking assumption of dignity.</p> + +<p>Sir Guy looks as though he would like to give her a good shake, though +indeed it is quite a question whether he has even the spirits for so +much. He relapses into sulky silence, and makes no further attempt at conversation.</p> + +<p>"However," says Lilian, to whom silence is always irksome, "I don't mind +telling you what I shall do if he asks me again."</p> + +<p>"What?" almost indifferently.</p> + +<p>"I shall accept him."</p> + +<p>"You will do very wisely," in a clear though constrained voice that +doesn't altogether impose upon Lilian, but nevertheless disagrees with +her. "He is very rich, very handsome, and a very good fellow all round."</p> + +<p>"I don't much care about good fellows," perversely:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span> "they are generally +deadly slow; I am almost sure I prefer the other sort. I am afraid mine +is not a well-regulated mind, as I confess I always feel more kindly +disposed toward a man when I hear something bad of him."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps if I told you something bad about myself it might make you feel +more kindly disposed toward me," with a slight smile.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps it might. But I believe you are incapable of a bad action. +Besides, if I felt myself going to like you, I should stop myself instantly."</p> + +<p>A pained hurt expression falls into his eyes.</p> + +<p>"I think," he says, very gently, "you must make a point of reserving all +your cruel speeches for me alone. Do you guess how they hurt, child? No, +I am sure you do not: your face is far too sweet to belong to one who +would willingly inflict pain. Am I to be always despised and hated? Why +will you never be friends with me?"</p> + +<p>"Because"—in a very low whisper—"you are so seldom good to me."</p> + +<p>"Am I? You will never know how hard I try to be. But"—taking her hand +in his—"my efforts are always vain." He glances sorrowfully at the +little hand he holds, and then at the pretty face beneath the velvet hat +so near him. Lilian does not return his glance: her eyes are lowered, +her other hand is straying nervously over the tiger-skin that covers her +knees; they have forgotten all about the cold, the dreary night, +everything; for a full half mile they drive on thus silently, her hand +resting unresistingly in his; after which he again breaks the quiet that +exists between them.</p> + +<p>"Did you mean what you said a little time ago about Chetwoode not being your home?"</p> + +<p>"I suppose so," in a rather changed and far softer tone. "Yes. What +claim have I on Chetwoode?"</p> + +<p>"But your tone implied that if even you had a claim it would be +distasteful to you."</p> + +<p>"Did it?"</p> + +<p>"Don't you know it did?"</p> + +<p>"Well, perhaps I didn't mean quite that. Did <i>you</i> mean all you said +this morning?"</p> + +<p>"Not all, I suppose."</p> + +<p>"How much of it, then?"</p> + +<p>"Unless I were to go through the whole of our conversation again, I +could not tell you that, and I have no wish<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span> to do so: to be pained"—in +a low voice—"as I have been, once in a day is surely sufficient."</p> + +<p>"Don't imagine I feel the least sorrow for you," says Lilian, making a +wild attempt at recovering her ill humor, which has melted and vanished away.</p> + +<p>"I don't imagine it. How could I? One can scarcely feel sorrow or pity +for a person whom one openly professes to 'hate' and 'despise,'" +markedly, while searching her face anxiously with his eyes.</p> + +<p>Miss Chesney pauses. A short but sharp battle takes place within her +breast. Then she raises her face and meets his eyes, while a faint sweet +smile grows within her own: impelled half by a feeling of coquetry, half +by a desire to atone, she lets the fingers he has still imprisoned close +with the daintiest pressure upon his.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps," she whispers, leaning a little toward him, and raising her +lips very close to his cheek as though afraid of being heard by the +intrusive wind, "perhaps I did not quite mean that either."</p> + +<p>Then, seeing how his whole expression changes and brightens, she half +regrets her tender speech, and says instantly, in her most unsentimental fashion:</p> + +<p>"Pray, Sir Guy, are you going to make your horse walk all the way home? +Can you not pity the sorrows of a poor little ward? I am absolutely +frozen: do stir him up, lazy fellow, or I shall get out and run. Surely +it is too late in the year for nocturnal rambles."</p> + +<p>"If my life depended upon it, I don't believe I could make him go a bit +faster," returns he, telling his lie unblushingly.</p> + +<p>"I forgot you were disabled," says Miss Chesney, demurely, letting her +long lashes droop until they partially (but only partially) conceal her +eyes from her guardian. "How remiss I am! When one has only got the use +of one hand, one can do so little; perhaps"—preparing to withdraw her +fingers slowly, lingeringly from his—"if I were to restore you both +yours, you might be able to persuade that horse to take us home before morning."</p> + +<p>"I beg you will give yourself no trouble on my account," says Guy, +hastily: "I don't want anything restored. And if you are really anxious +to get 'home'"—with a pleased and grateful smile, "I feel sure I shall +be able to manage this slow brute single-handed."</p> + +<p>So saying, he touches up the good animal in question<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span> rather smartly, +which so astonishes the willing creature that he takes to his heels, and +never draws breath until he pulls up before the hall door at Chetwoode.</p> + +<p>"Parkins, get us some supper in the library," says Sir Guy, addressing +the ancient butler as he enters: "the drive has given Miss Chesney and +me an appetite."</p> + +<p>"Yes, Sir Guy, directly," says Parkins, and, going down-stairs to the +other servants, gives it as his opinion that "Sir Guy and Miss Chesney +are going to make a match of it. For when two couples," says Mr. +Parkins, who is at all times rather dim about the exact meaning of his +sentences, "when two couples takes to eating <i>teet-a-teet</i>, it is all up +with 'em."</p> + +<p>Whereupon cook says, "Lor!" which is her usual expletive, and means +anything and everything; and Jane, the upper housemaid, who has a +weakness for old Parkins's sayings, tells him with a flattering smile +that he is "dreadful knowin'."</p> + +<p>Meantime, Sir Guy having ascertained that Miss Beauchamp has gone to her +room, and that his mother is better, and asleep, he and Lilian repair to +the library, where a cozy supper is awaiting them, and a cheerful fire burning.</p> + +<p>Now that they are again in-doors, out of the friendly darkness, with the +full light of several lamps upon them, a second edition of their early +restraint—milder, perhaps, but still oppressive—most unaccountably +falls between them.</p> + +<p>Silently, and very gently, but somewhat distantly, he unfolds the plaid +from round her slight figure, and, drawing a chair for her to the table, +seats himself at a decided distance. Then he asks her with exemplary +politeness what she will have, and she answers him; then he helps her, +and then he helps himself; and then they both wonder secretly what the +other is going to say next.</p> + +<p>But Lilian, who is fighting with a wild desire for laughter, and who is +in her airiest mood, through having been compelled, by pride, to +suppress all day her usual good spirits, decides on making a final +effort at breaking down the barrier between them.</p> + +<p>Raising the glass of wine beside her, she touches it lightly with her +lips, and says, gayly:</p> + +<p>"Come, fill, and pledge me, Sir Guy. But stay; first let me give you a +little quotation that I hope will fall as a drop of nectar into your cup +and chase that nasty little<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span> frown from your brow. Have I your leave to +speak?" with a suspicion of coquetry in her manner.</p> + +<p>Chetwoode's handsome lips part in a pleased smile: he turns his face +gladly, willingly, to hers.</p> + +<p>"Why do you ask permission of your slave, O Queen of Hearts?" he +answers, softly, catching the infection of her gayety. He gazes at her +with unchecked and growing admiration, his whole heart in his eyes; +telling himself, as he has told himself a thousand times before, that +to-night she is looking her fairest.</p> + +<p>Her cheeks are flushed from her late drive; one or two glittering golden +lovelocks have been driven by the rough wind from their natural +resting-place, and now lie in gracious disorder on her white forehead; +her lustrous sapphire eyes are gleaming upon him, full of unsubdued +laughter; her lips are parted, showing all the small even teeth within.</p> + +<p>She stoops toward him, and clinking her glass against his with the +prettiest show of <i>bonne camaraderie</i>, whispers, softly:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"Come, let us be happy together."</div> +</div></div> + +<p>"Together!" repeats Guy, unsteadily, losing his head, and rising +abruptly from his seat as though to go to her. She half rises also, +seriously frightened at the unexpected effect of her mad words. What is +he going to say to her? What folly urged her on to repeat that +ridiculous line? The idea of flight has just time to cross her mind, but +not time to be acted upon, when the door is thrown open suddenly, and +Cyril—who has at this moment returned from his dinner party—entering +noisily, comes to her rescue.</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.</span></h2> + +<div class="block3"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"I have some naked thoughts that roam about</div> +<div>And loudly knock to have their passage out."—<span class="smcap">Milton.</span></div> +</div></div></div> + +<p>It goes without telling that Lilian gains the day, Guy's one solitary +attempt at mastery having failed ignominiously. She persists in her +allegiance to her friend, and visits The Cottage regularly as ever; +being even more <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span>tender than usual in her manner toward Cecilia, as she +recollects the narrowness of him who could (as she believes) without +cause condemn her. And Sir Guy, though resenting her defiance of his +wishes, and smarting under the knowledge of it, accepts defeat humbly, +and never again refers to the subject of the widow, which henceforth is +a tabooed one between them.</p> + +<p>Soon after this, indeed, an event occurs that puts an end to all reason +why Lilian should not be as friendly with Mrs. Arlington as she may +choose. One afternoon, most unexpectedly, Colonel Trant, coming to +Chetwoode, demands a private interview with Sir Guy. Some faint breaths +of the scandal that so closely and dishonorably connects his name with +Cecilia's have reached his ears, and, knowing of her engagement with +Cyril, he has hastened to Chetwoode to clear her in the eyes of its world.</p> + +<p>Without apology, he treats Guy to a succinct and studied account of +Cecilia's history,—tells of all her sorrows, and gentle forbearance, +and innocence so falsely betrayed, nor even conceals from him his own +deep love for her, and his two rejections, but makes no mention of Cyril +throughout the interview.</p> + +<p>Guy, as he listens, grows remorseful, and full of self-reproach,—more, +perhaps, for the injustice done to his friend in his thoughts, than for +all the harsh words used toward Mrs. Arlington, though he is too +clean-bred not to regret that also.</p> + +<p>He still shrinks from all idea of Cecilia as a wife for Cyril. The +daughter of a man who, though of good birth, was too sharp in his +dealings for decent society, and the wife of a man, who, though rich in +worldly goods, had no pretensions to be a gentleman at all, could +certainly be no mate for a Chetwoode. A woman of no social standing +whatsoever, with presumably only a pretty face for a dowry,—Cyril must +be mad to dream of her! For him, Guy, want of fortune need not signify; +but for Cyril, with his expensive habits, to think of settling down with +a wife on nine hundred a year is simply folly.</p> + +<p>And then Cyril's brother thinks with regret of a certain Lady Fanny +Stapleton, who, it is a notorious fact, might be had by Cyril for the +asking. Guy himself, it may be remarked, would not have Lady Fanny at +any price, she being rather wanting in the matter of nose and neck; but +younger brothers have no right to cultivate fastidious<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span> tastes, and her +snubby ladyship has a great admiration for Cyril, and a fabulous fortune.</p> + +<p>All the time Trant is singing Cecilia's praises, Guy is secretly sighing +over Lady Fanny and her comfortable thousands, and is wishing The +Cottage had been knocked into fine dust before Mrs. Arlington had +expressed a desire to reside there.</p> + +<p>Nevertheless he is very gentle in his manner toward his former colonel +all the day, spending with him every minute he stays, and going with him +to the railway station when at night he decides on returning to town. +Inwardly he knows he would like to ask his forgiveness for the wrong he +has done him in his thoughts, but hardly thinks it wisdom to let him +know how guilty toward him he has been. Cyril, he is fully persuaded, +will never betray him; and he shrinks from confessing what would +probably only cause pain and create an eternal breach between them.</p> + +<p>However, his conscience so far smites him that he does still further +penance toward the close of the evening.</p> + +<p>Meeting Cyril on his way to dress just before dinner, he stops him.</p> + +<p>"If you will accept an apology from me so late in the day," he says, "I +now offer you one for what I said of Mrs. Arlington some time since. +Trant has told me all the truth. I wronged her grossly, although"—with +a faint touch of bitterness—"when I <i>lied</i> about her I did so unconsciously."</p> + +<p>"Don't say another word, old man," says Cyril, heartily, and much +gratified, laying his hand lightly upon his shoulder. "I knew you would +discover your mistake in time. I confess at the moment it vexed me you +should lend yourself to the spreading of such an absurd report."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I was wrong." Then, with some hesitation, "Still, there was an +excuse for me. We knew nothing of her. We know nothing still that we can care to know."</p> + +<p>"How you worry yourself!" says Cyril, with a careless shrug, letting his +hand, however, drop from his brother's shoulder, as he fully understands +the drift of his conversation. "Why can't you let things slide as I do? +It is no end a better plan."</p> + +<p>"I am only thinking of a remark you made a long time ago," replies Guy, +with a laugh, partially deceived by Cyril's indifferent manner: "shall I +remind you of it? 'Samivel, Samivel, my son, never marry a widder.'"</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span></p> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_XXV" id="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV.</span></h2> + +<div class="block3"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"<i>Hel.</i>—How happy some, o'er other some can be!"</div> +<div><span class="s12"> </span>—<i>Midsummer Night's Dream.</i></div> +</div></div></div> + +<p>It is very close on Christmas; another week will bring in the +twenty-fifth of December, with all its absurd affectation of merriment +and light-heartedness.</p> + +<p>Is any one, except a child, ever really happy at Christmas, I wonder? Is +it then one chooses to forget the loved and lost? to thrust out of sight +the regrets that goad and burn? Nay, rather, is it not then our hearts +bleed most freely, while our eyes grow dim with useless tears, and a +great sorrow that touches on despair falls upon us, as we look upon the +vacant seat and grow sick with longing for the "days that are no more?"</p> + +<p>Surely it is then we learn how vain is our determination to forget those +unobtrusive ones who cannot by voice or touch demand attention. The +haunting face, that once full of youth and beauty was all the world to +us, rises from its chill shroud and dares us to be happy. The poor eyes, +once so sweet, so full of gayest laughter, now closed and mute forever, +gleam upon us, perchance across the flowers and fruit, and, checking the +living smile upon our lips, ask us reproachfully how is it with us, that +we can so quickly shut from them the doors of our hearts, after all our +passionate protests, our vows ever to remember.</p> + +<p>Oh, how soon, how <i>soon</i>, do we cease our lamentations for our silent +dead!</p> + +<p>When all is told, old Father Christmas is a mighty humbug: so I say and +think, but I would not have you agree with me. Forgive me this +unorthodox sentiment, and let us return to our—lamb!</p> + +<p>Archibald has returned to Chetwoode; so has Taffy. The latter is looking +bigger, fuller, and, as Mrs. Tipping says, examining him through her +spectacles with a criticising air, "more the man," to his intense +disgust. He embraces Lilian and Lady Chetwoode, and very nearly Miss +Beauchamp, on his arrival, in the exuberance of his joy at finding +himself once more within their doors, and is welcomed with effusion by +every individual member of the household.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span></p><p>Archibald, on the contrary, appears rather done up, and faded, and, +though evidently happy at being again in his old quarters, still seems +sad at heart, and discontented.</p> + +<p>He follows Lilian's movements in a very melancholy fashion, and herself +also, until it becomes apparent to every one that his depression arises +from his increasing infatuation for her; while she, to do her justice, +hardly pretends to encourage him at all. He lives in contemplation of +her beauty and her saucy ways, and is unmistakably <i>distrait</i> when +circumstances call her from his sight.</p> + +<p>In his case "absence" has indeed made the heart grow fonder, as he is, +if possible, more imbecile about her now than when he left, and, after +struggling with his feelings for a few days, finally makes up his mind +to tempt fortune again, and lay himself and his possessions at his +idol's feet.</p> + +<p class="center">* * * * * * *</p> + +<p>It is the wettest of wet days; against the window-panes the angry +rain-drops are flinging themselves madly, as though desirous of entering +and rendering more dismal the room within, which happens to be the library.</p> + +<p>Sir Guy is standing at the bow-window, gazing disconsolately upon the +blurred scene outside. Cyril is lounging in an easy chair with a +magazine before him, making a very creditable attempt at reading. +Archibald and Taffy are indulging in a mild bet as to which occupant of +the room will make the first remark.</p> + +<p>Lady Chetwoode is knitting her one hundred and twenty-fourth sock for +the year. Lilian is dreaming, with her large eyes fixed upon the fire. +The inestimable Florence (need I say it?) is smothered in crewel wools, +and is putting a rose-colored eye into her already quite too fearful parrot.</p> + +<p>"I wonder what we shall do all day," says Guy, suddenly, in tones of the +deepest melancholy. Whereupon Taffy, who has been betting on Cyril, and +Chesney, who has been laying on Lilian, are naturally, though secretly indignant.</p> + +<p>"Just what we have been doing all the rest of the day,—nothing," +replies Lilian, lazily: "could anything be more desirable?"</p> + +<p>"I hope it will be fine to-morrow," says Mr. Musgrave, in an aggrieved +voice. "But it won't, I shouldn't <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span>wonder, just because the meet is to +be at Bellairs, and one always puts in such a good day there."</p> + +<p>"I haven't got enough pluck to think of to-morrow," says Guy, still +melancholy: "to-day engrosses all my thoughts. What <i>is</i> to become of us?"</p> + +<p>"Let us get up a spelling-bee," says Miss Beauchamp, with cheerful +alacrity; "they are so amusing."</p> + +<p>"Oh, don't! please, Miss Beauchamp, don't," entreats Taffy, +tearfully,—"unless you want to disgrace me eternally. I can't spell +anything; and, even if I could, the very fact of having a word hurled at +my head would make me forget all about it, even were it an old acquaintance."</p> + +<p>"But, my dear fellow," says Cyril, laying down his "Temple Bar," with +all the air of a man prepared to argue until he and his adversary are +black in the face, "that is the fun of the whole matter. If you spelled +well you would be looked upon as a swindler. The greater mistakes you +make, the more delighted we shall be; and if you could only succeed like +that man in 'Caste' in spelling character with a K, we should give you +two or three rounds of applause. People never get up spelling-bees to +hear good spelling: the discomfiture of their neighbors is what amuses +them most. Have I relieved your mind?"</p> + +<p>"Tremendously. Nevertheless, I fling myself upon your tender mercies, +Miss Beauchamp, and don't let us go in for spelling."</p> + +<p>"Then let us have an historical-bee," substitutes Florence, amiably; she +is always tender where Taffy is concerned.</p> + +<p>"The very thing," declares Cyril, getting up an expression of the +strongest hope. "Perhaps, if you do, I shall get answers to two or three +important questions that have been tormenting me for years. For +instance, I want to know whether the 'gossip's bowl' we read of was made +of Wedgwood or Worcester, and why our ancestors were so uncomfortable as +to take their tea out of 'dishes.' It must have got very cold, don't you +think? to say nothing at all of the inconvenience of being obliged to +lift it to one's lips with both hands."</p> + +<p>"It didn't mean an actual 'dish,'" replies Florence, forgetting the +parrot's rosy optic for a moment, in her desire to correct his +ignorance: "it was merely a term for what we now call cup."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span></p><p>"No, was it?" says Cyril, with an affectation of intense astonishment; +whereupon they all laugh.</p> + +<p>"Talking of tea," says Lady Chetwoode, "I wonder where it is. Taffy, my +dear, will you ring the bell?"</p> + +<p>Tea is brought, tea is consumed; but still the rain rains on, and their +spirits are at zero.</p> + +<p>"I shall go out, 'hail, rain, or shine,'" says Cyril, springing to his +feet with sudden desperation.</p> + +<p>"So shall I," declares Guy, "to the stables. Taffy, will you come with me?"</p> + +<p>"As nobody wants me," says Lilian, "I shall make a point of wanting +somebody. Archie, come and have a game of billiards with me before dinner."</p> + +<p>"My dear Guy, does it not still rain very hard?" protests Florence, anxiously.</p> + +<p>"Very," laughing.</p> + +<p>"You will get wet," with increasing anxiety, and a tender glance cleverly directed.</p> + +<p>"Wet! he will get drenched," exclaims Cyril; "he will probably get his +death of cold, and die of inflammation of the lungs. It is horrible to +think of it! Guy, be warned; accept Florence's invitation to stay here +with her, and be happy and dry. As sure as you are out to-day, you may +prepare to shed this mortal coil."</p> + +<p>"Forgive me, Florence, I must go or suffocate," says Guy, refusing to be +warned, or to accept Miss Beauchamp's delicate hint: and together he and +Musgrave sally forth to inspect the stables, while Lilian and Archibald +retire to the billiard-room.</p> + +<p>When they have played for some time, and Archibald has meanly allowed +Lilian to win all the games under the mistaken impression that he is +thereby cajoling her into staying with him longer than she otherwise +might have done, she suddenly destroys the illusion by throwing down her +cue impatiently, and saying, with a delicious little pout:</p> + +<p>"I hate playing with people who know nothing about the game! there is no +excitement in it. I remark when I play with you I always win. You're a +regular muff at billiards, Archie; that's what <i>you</i> are."</p> + +<p>This is a severe blow to Archie's pride, who is a first-class hand at +billiards; but he grins and bears it.</p> + +<p>"If you will give me a few more lessons," he says, humbly, "I dare say I shall improve."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span></p><p>"No, I can't afford to waste my time, and you are too tiresome. Let us +go into the drawing-room."</p> + +<p>"Rather let us stay here for a while," he says, earnestly. "They are all +out, and I—I have something to say to you."</p> + +<p>During the last half-hour one of the men has come in and given the fire +a poke and lit the lamps, so that the room looks quite seductive. Miss +Chesney, glancing doubtfully round, acknowledges so much, and prepares to give in.</p> + +<p>"I hope it is something pleasant," she says, <i>àpropos</i> of Archie's last +remark. "You have been looking downright miserable for days. I hope +sincerely, you are not going melancholy mad, but I have my doubts of it. +What is the matter with you, Archie? You used to be quite a charming +companion, but now you are very much the reverse. Sometimes, when with +you, your appearance is so dejected that if I smile I feel absolutely +heartless. Do try to cheer up, there's a good boy."</p> + +<p>"A fellow can't be always simpering, especially when he is wretched," +retorts he, moodily.</p> + +<p>"Then don't be wretched. That is the very thing to which I object. You +are the very last man in the world who ought to suffer from the blues. +Anything wrong with you?"</p> + +<p>"Everything. I love a woman who doesn't care in the very least for me."</p> + +<p>"Oh, so that is what you have been doing in London, is it?" says Lilian, +after a short pause that makes her words still more impressive. "I +certainly did think you weren't in a very great hurry to return, and +that you looked rather blighted when you did come. I doubt you have been +dancing the 'Geliebt und verloren' waltzes once too often. Did she refuse you?"</p> + +<p>"I love you, Lilian, and only you," returns he, reproachfully. "No, do +not turn from me; let me plead my cause once more. Darling, I have +indeed tried to live without you, and have failed; if you reject me +again you will drive me to destruction. Lilian, be merciful; say +something kind to me."</p> + +<p>"You promised me," says Lilian, nervously, moving away from him, "never +to speak on this subject again. Oh, why is it that some people will +insist on falling in love with other people? There is something so +stupid about<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span> it. Now, <i>I</i> never fall in love; why cannot you follow my +good example?"</p> + +<p>"I am not bloodless, or——"</p> + +<p>"Neither am I," holding up her pretty hand between her and the fire, so +that the rich blood shows through the closed fingers of it. "But I have +common sense, the one thing you lack."</p> + +<p>"<i>You</i> are the one thing I lack," possessing himself of her hand and +kissing it fatuously. "Without you I lack everything. Beloved, must I +learn to look upon you as my curse? Give me, I entreat you, one little +word of encouragement, if only one; I starve for want of it. If you only +knew how I have clung for months, and am still clinging, to the barest +shadow of a hope, you would think twice before you destroyed that one +faint gleam of happiness."</p> + +<p>"This is dreadful," says Lilian, piteously, the ready tears gathering in +her eyes. "Would you marry a woman who does not love you?"</p> + +<p>"I would,"—eagerly,—"when that woman assures me she does not love +another, and I have your word for that."</p> + +<p>Lilian winces. Then, trying to recover her spirits:</p> + +<p>"'What one suffers for one's country—<i>men</i>!'" she misquotes, with an +affectation of lightness. "Archie, billiards have a demoralizing effect +upon you. I shan't play with you again."</p> + +<p>"I don't want to bribe you," says Chesney, turning a little pale, and +declining to notice her interruption; "I should be sorry to think I +could do so; but I have ten thousand a year, and if you will marry me +you shall have a thousand a year pin-money, and five thousand if you survive me."</p> + +<p>"It would spoil my entire life fearing I shouldn't survive you," says +Miss Chesney, who, in spite of her nervousness, or because of it, is longing to laugh.</p> + +<p>"You will, you need not be afraid of that."</p> + +<p>"It sounds dazzling," murmurs Lilian, "more especially when you give me +your word you will die first; but still I think it downright shabby you +don't offer me the whole ten."</p> + +<p>"So I will!"—eagerly—"if——"</p> + +<p>"Nonsense, Archie," hastily: "don't be absurd. Cannot you see I am only +in jest? I am not going to marry any one, as I told you before. Come +now,"—anxiously,—"don't look so dismal. You know I am very, <i>very</i> +fond<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span> of you, but after all one cannot marry every one one is fond of."</p> + +<p>"I suppose not," gloomily.</p> + +<p>"Then do try to look a little pleasanter. They will all notice your +depression when we return to them."</p> + +<p>"I don't care," with increasing gloom.</p> + +<p>"But I do. Archie, look here, dear,"—taking the high and moral +tone,—"do you think it is right of you to go on like this, just as if——"</p> + +<p>"I don't care a hang what is right, or what is wrong," says Mr. Chesney, +with considerable vehemence. "I only know you are the only woman I ever +really cared for, and you won't have me. Nothing else is of the +slightest consequence."</p> + +<p>"I am not the only woman in the world. Time will show you there are +others ten times nicer and lovelier."</p> + +<p>"I don't believe it."</p> + +<p>"Because you don't wish to," angrily. "In the first place, I am far too +small to be lovely."</p> + +<p>"You are tall enough for my fancy."</p> + +<p>"And my mouth is too large," with growing irritation.</p> + +<p>"It is small enough for my taste."</p> + +<p>"And sometimes, when the summer is very hot, my skin gets quite +<i>freckled</i>," with increasing warmth.</p> + +<p>"I adore freckles. I think no woman perfect without them."</p> + +<p>"I don't believe you," indignantly; "and at all events I have a horrible +temper, and I defy you to say you like <i>that</i>!" triumphantly.</p> + +<p>"I do," mournfully. "The hardest part of my unfortunate case is this, +that the unkinder you are to me the more I love you."</p> + +<p>"Then I won't have you love me," says Miss Chesney, almost in tears: "do +you hear me? I forbid you to do it any more. It is extremely rude of you +to keep on caring for me when you know I don't like it."</p> + +<p>"Look here, Lilian," says Archie, taking both her hands, "give me a +little hope, a bare crumb to live on, and I will say no more."</p> + +<p>"I cannot, indeed," deeply depressed.</p> + +<p>"Why? Do you love any other fellow?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly not," with suspicious haste.</p> + +<p>"Then I shall wait yet another while, and then ask you again."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span></p><p>"Oh, don't!" exclaims Lilian, desperately: "I <i>beg</i> you won't. If I +thought I was going to have these scenes all over again at intervals, it +would kill me, and I should learn to hate you. I should, indeed; and +then what would you do? Think of it."</p> + +<p>"I won't," doggedly; "I often heard 'Faint heart never won fair lady,' +and I shall take my chance. I shall never give you up, so long as you +are not engaged to any other man."</p> + +<p>There is a pause. Lilian's blue eyes are full of tears that threaten +every moment to overflow and run down her pale cheeks. She is +desperately sorry for Archibald, the more so that her heart tells her +she will never be able to give him the consolation that alone can do him +any good. Seeing the expression of tender regret that softens her face, +Archibald falls suddenly upon his knees before her, and, pressing his +lips to her hands, murmurs, in deep agitation:</p> + +<p>"My own, my dearest, is there no pity in your kind heart for me?"</p> + +<p>At this most unlucky moment Sir Guy lays his hand upon the door, and +pushing it lightly open, enters. Five minutes later all the world might +have entered freely, but just now the entrance of this one man causes unutterable pain.</p> + +<p>Archibald has barely time to scramble to his feet; the tears are still +wet on Lilian's cheeks; altogether it is an unmistakable situation, and +Guy turns cold and pale as he recognizes it as such. Chesney on his +knees, with Lilian's hands imprisoned in his own; Lilian in tears,—what +can it mean but a violent love scene? Probably they have been +quarreling, and have just made it up again. "The falling out of faithful +friends, but the renewal is of love."</p> + +<p>As he meets Lilian's shamed eyes, and marks the rich warm crimson that +has mantled in her cheeks, Chetwoode would have beaten a precipitous +retreat, but is prevented by Taffy's following on his heels somewhat noisily.</p> + +<p>"It is a charming night, Lil," says that young man, with his usual +<i>bonhommie</i>. "The rain is a thing of the past. We shall have our run +after all to-morrow."</p> + +<p>"Indeed! I am glad of that," replies Lilian, half indifferently; though +being the woman of the party, she is of course the quickest to recover +self-possession. "I should have died of despair had the morning proved unkind."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span></p><p>"Well, you needn't die for a while. I say, Lil," says Mr. Musgrave, +regarding her curiously, "what's the matter with you, eh? You look +awfully down in the mouth. Anything wrong?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing," sharply: "what should be?"</p> + +<p>"Can't say, I'm sure. But your cheeks," persists this miserable boy, +"are as red as fire."</p> + +<p>"I—that is—it <i>was</i> the fire," confusedly, directing a wrathful glance +at him, which is completely thrown away, as Mr. Musgrave is impervious +to hints: "I was sitting close to it."</p> + +<p>"That goes without telling. Any one would imagine by your color, you had +been put upon the hob to simmer. By the bye,"—a most fortunate access +of ignorance carrying his thoughts into another channel,—"what is a +hob? I don't believe I ever saw one."</p> + +<p>"Hob, substantive, short for goblin: as hobgoblin," says Cyril at this +moment, having entered, how, or from where, nobody knows. "Still bent +upon historical research?"</p> + +<p>"It has something to do with kettles, I think," says Taffy. "I don't +quite believe your meaning for it."</p> + +<p>"Don't you? I am sorry for you. I do. But some people never will learn."</p> + +<p>"That is true," says Lilian, somewhat abruptly. Involuntarily her eyes +fall on Chesney. He has been staring in moody silence at the fire since +Chetwoode's entrance, but now, at her words, straightens himself, and +gives way to a low, rather forced, laugh.</p> + +<p>"<i>Experientia docet</i>," says Guy, in a queer tone impossible to +translate. "Time is a stern school-master, who compels us against our +will,"—letting his eyes meet Lilian's—"to learn many things."</p> + +<p>"It has taught me one thing," puts in Cyril, who looks half +amused,—"that the dressing-bell has rung some time since."</p> + +<p>"Has it?" says Lilian, rising with alacrity, and directing a very +grateful glance at him: "I never heard it. I shall scarcely have time +now to get ready for dinner. Why did you not tell me before?"</p> + +<p>As she speaks, she sweeps by him, and he, catching her hand, detains her momentarily.</p> + +<p>"Because, when one is not in the habit of it, one takes time to form a +good tarradiddle," replies he, in a soft whisper.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span></p><p>She returns his kindly pressure, and, going into the hall, finds that +full five minutes must elapse before the bell really rings.</p> + +<p>"Dear Cyril!" she murmurs to herself, almost aloud, and, running up to +her room, cries a good deal upon nurse's breast before that kind +creature can induce her to change her gown. After which she gets into +her clothes, more because it would be indecent to go without them than +from any great desire to look her best.</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_XXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.</span></h2> + +<div class="block3"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"For now she knows it is no gentle chase.</div> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<div class="i2">* * * * * * *</div> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<div>She looks upon his lips, and they are pale;</div> +<div class="i1">She takes him by the hand, and that is cold;</div> +<div>She whispers in his ears a heavy tale,</div> +<div class="i1">As if they heard the woful words she told:</div> +<div>She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes,</div> +<div>Where lo! two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies.</div> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<div class="i2">* * * * * * *</div> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<div>Two glasses, where herself, herself beheld</div> +<div class="i1">A thousand times, and now no more reflect;</div> +<div>Their virtue lost, wherein they late excell'd,</div> +<div class="i1">And every beauty robb'd of his effect."—<span class="smcap">Shakespeare.</span></div> +</div></div></div> + +<p>"'A southern wind and a cloudy sky proclaim it a hunting morning,'" +quotes Miss Chesney, gayly, entering the breakfast-room at nine o'clock +next morning, looking, if anything, a degree more bewitching than usual +in her hat and habit: in her hand is a little gold-mounted riding-whip, +upon her lovable lips a warm, eager smile. "No one down but me!" she +says, "at least of the gentler sex. And Sir Guy presiding! what fun! +Archie, may I trouble you to get me some breakfast? Sir Guy, some tea, +please: I am as hungry as a hawk."</p> + +<p>Sir Guy pours her out a cup of tea, carefully, but silently. Archie, +gloomy, but attentive, places before her what she most fancies: Cyril +gets her a chair; Taffy brings her some toast: all are fondly dancing +attendance on the little spoiled fairy.</p> + +<p>"What are you looking at, Taffy?" asks she, presently,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span> meeting her +cousin's blue eyes, that so oddly resemble her own, fixed upon her immovably.</p> + +<p>"At you. There is something wrong with your hair," replies he, +unabashed: "some of the pins are coming out. Stay steady, and I'll wheel +you into line in no time." So saying, he adjusts the disorderly +hair-pin; while Chetwoode and Chesney, looking on, are consumed with envy.</p> + +<p>"Thank you, dear," says Lilian, demurely, giving his hand a little +loving pat: "you are worth your weight in gold. Be sure you push it in +again during the day, if you see it growing unruly. What a delicious +morning it is!" glancing out of the window; "too desirable perhaps. I +hope none of us will break our necks."</p> + +<p>"Funky already, Lil?" says Taffy, with unpardonable impertinence. "Never +mind, darling, keep up your heart; I'm fit as a fiddle myself, and will +so far sacrifice my life as to promise you a lead whenever a copper +brings me in your vicinity. I shall keep you in mind, never fear."</p> + +<p>"I consider your remarks beneath notice, presumptuous boy," says Miss +Chesney, with such a scornful uplifting of her delicate face as +satisfies Taffy, who, being full of mischief, passes on to bestow his +pleasing attentions on the others of the party. Chesney first attracts +his notice. He is standing with his back to a screen, and has his eyes +fixed in moody contemplation on the floor. Melancholy on this occasion +has evidently marked him for her own.</p> + +<p>"What's up with you, old man? you look suicidal," says Mr. Musgrave, +stopping close to him, and giving him a rattling slap on the shoulder +that rather takes the curl out of him, leaving him limp, but full of indignation.</p> + +<p>"Look here," he says, in an aggrieved tone, "I wish you wouldn't do +that, you know. Your hands, small and delicate as they are,"—Taffy's +hands, though shapely, are decidedly large,—"can hurt. If you go about +the world with such habits you will infallibly commit murder sooner or +later: I should bet on the sooner. One can never be sure, my dear +fellow, who has heart-disease and who has not."</p> + +<p>"Heart-disease means love with most fellows," says the irrepressible +Taffy, "and I have noticed you aren't half a one since your return from +London." At this <i>mal à propos</i> speech both Lilian and Chesney change +color, and Guy, seeing their confusion, becomes miserable in turn, so +that breakfast is a distinct failure, Cyril and Musgrave alone being +capable of animated conversation.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span></p><p>Half an hour later they are all in the saddle and are riding leisurely +toward Bellairs, which is some miles distant, through as keen a scenting +wind as any one could desire.</p> + +<p>At Grantley Farm they find every one before them, the hounds sniffing +and whimpering, the ancient M. F. H. cheery as is his wont, and a very fair field.</p> + +<p>Mabel Steyne is here, mounted on a handsome bay mare that rather chafes +and rages under her mistress's detaining hand, while at some few yards' +distance from her is Tom, carefully got up, but sleepy as is his wont. +One can hardly credit that his indolent blue eyes a little later will +grow dark and eager as he scents the fray, and, steadying himself in his +saddle, makes up his mind to "do or die."</p> + +<p>Old General Newsance is plodding in and out among the latest arrivals, +prognosticating evil, and relating the "wondrous adventures" of half a +century ago, when (if he is to be believed) hounds had wings, and +hunters never knew fatigue. With him is old Lord Farnham, who has one +leg in his grave, literally speaking, having lost it in battle more +years ago than one cares to count, but who rides wonderfully +nevertheless, and is as young to speak to, or rather younger, than any +nineteenth-century man.</p> + +<p>Mabel Steyne is dividing her attentions between him and Taffy, when a +prolonged note from the hounds, and a quick cry of "gone away," startles +her into silence. Talkers are scattered, conversation forgotten, and +every one settles down into his or her saddle, ready and eager for the day's work.</p> + +<p>Down the hill like a flash goes a good dog fox, past the small wood to +the right, through the spinnies, straight into the open beyond. The +scent is good, the pack lively: Lilian and Sir Guy are well to the +front; Archibald close beside them. Cyril to the left is even farther +ahead; while Taffy and Mabel Steyne can be seen a little lower down, +holding well together, Mabel, with her eyes bright and glowing with +excitement, sailing gallantly along on her handsome bay.</p> + +<p>After a time—the fox showing no signs of giving in—hedges and doubles +throw spaces in between the riders. Sir Guy is far away in the distance, +Taffy somewhat in the background; Cyril is out of sight; while Miss +Chesney finds herself now side by side with Archibald, who is riding +recklessly, and rather badly. They have just cleared a very +uncomfortable wall, that in cold blood would have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span> damped their ardor, +only to find a more treacherous one awaiting them farther on, and +Lilian, turning her mare's head a little to the left, makes for a +quieter spot, and presently lands in the next field safe and sound.</p> + +<p>Archibald, however, holds on his original course, and Lilian, turning in +her saddle, watches with real terror his next movement. His horse, a +good one, rises gallantly, springs, and cleverly, though barely, brings +himself clear to the other side. Both he and his master are uninjured, +but it was a near thing, and makes Miss Chesney's heart beat with +unpleasant rapidity.</p> + +<p>"Archibald," she says, bringing herself close up to his side as they +gallop across the field, and turning a very white face to his, "I wish +you would not ride so recklessly: you will end by killing yourself if +you go on in this foolish fashion."</p> + +<p>Her late fear has added a little sharpness to her tone.</p> + +<p>"The sooner the better," replies he, bitterly. "What have I got to live +for? My life is of no use, either to myself or to any one else, as far as I can see."</p> + +<p>"It is very wicked of you to talk so!" angrily.</p> + +<p>"Is it? You should have thought of that before you made me think so. As +it is, I am not in the humor for lecturing to do me much good. If I am +killed, blame yourself. Meantime, I like hunting: it is the only joy +left me. When I am riding madly like this, I feel again almost +happy—almost," with a quickly suppressed sigh.</p> + +<p>"Still, I ask you, for my sake, to be more careful," says Lilian, +anxiously, partly frightened, partly filled with remorse at his words, +though in her heart she is vexed with him for having used them. "Her +fault if he gets killed." It is really too much!</p> + +<p>"Do you pretend to care?" asks he, with a sneer. "Your manner is indeed +perfect, but how much of it do you mean? Give me the hope I asked for +last night,—say only two kind words to me,—and I will be more careful +of my life than any man in the field to-day."</p> + +<p>"I think I am always saying kind things to you," returns she, rather +indignant; "I am only too kind. And one so foolishly bent on being +miserable as you are, all for nothing, deserves only harsh treatment. +You are not even civil to me. I regret I addressed you just now, and beg +you will not speak to me any more."</p> + +<p>"Be assured I shan't disobey this your last command,"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span> says Archibald, +in a low, and what afterward appears to her a prophetic tone, turning away.</p> + +<p>The field is growing thin. Already many are lying scattered broadcast in +the ditches, or else are wandering hopelessly about on foot, in search +of their lost chargers. The hounds are going at a tremendous pace; a +good many horses show signs of flagging; while the brave old fox still +holds well his own.</p> + +<p>Taffy came to signal grief half an hour ago, but now reappears +triumphant and unplucked, splashed from head to heel, but game for any +amount still. Mrs. Steyne in front a-fighting hard for the brush, while +Lilian every moment is creeping closer to her on the bonny brown mare +that carries her like a bird over hedges and rails. Sir Guy is out of +sight, having just vanished down the slope of the hill, only to reappear +again a second later. Archibald is apparently nowhere, and Miss Chesney +is almost beginning to picture him to herself bathed in his own gore, +when raising her head she sees him coming toward her at a rattling pace, +his horse, which is scarcely up to his weight, well in hand.</p> + +<p>Before him rises an enormous fence, beneath which gleams like a silver +streak a good bit of running water. It is an awkward jump, the more so +that from the other side it is almost impossible for the rider to gauge +its dangers properly.</p> + +<p>Lilian makes a faint sign to him to hold back, which he either does not +or will not see. Bringing his horse up to the fence at a rather wild +pace, he lifts him. The good brute rises obediently, springs forward, +but jumps too short, and in another second horse and rider are rolling +together in a confused mass upon the sward beyond.</p> + +<p>The horse, half in and half out of the water, recovers himself quickly, +and, scrambling to his feet, stands quietly ashamed, trembling in every +limb, at a little distance from his master.</p> + +<p>But Archibald never stirs; he lies motionless, with his arms flung +carelessly above his head, and his face turned upward to the clouded +sky,—a brilliant speck of crimson upon the green grass.</p> + +<p>Lilian, with a sickening feeling of fear, and a suppressed scream, +gallops to his side, and, springing to the ground, kneels down close to +him, and lifts his head upon her knee.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span></p><p>His face is deadly pale, a small spot of blood upon his right cheek +rendering even more ghastly its excessive pallor. A frantic horror lest +he be dead fills her mind and heart. Like funeral bells his words return +and smite cruelly upon her brain: "If I am killed blame yourself." <i>Is</i> +she to blame? Oh, how harshly she spoke to him! With what bitterness did +she rebuke—when he—when he was only telling her of his great love for +her!</p> + +<p>Was ever woman so devoid of tender feeling? to goad and rail at a man +only because she had made conquest of his heart! And to choose this day +of all others to slight and wound him, when, had she not been hatefully, +unpardonably blind, she might have seen he was bent upon his own destruction.</p> + +<p>How awfully white he is! Has death indeed sealed his lips forever? Oh, +that he might say one word, if only to forgive her! With one hand she +smooths back his dark crisp hair from his forehead, and tries to wipe +away with her handkerchief the terrible blood-stain from his poor cheek.</p> + +<p>"Archie, Archie," she whispers to him, piteously, bending her face so +close to his that any one might deem the action a caress, "speak to me: +will you not hear me, when I tell you how passionately I regret my words?"</p> + +<p>But no faintest flicker of intelligence crosses the face lying so mute +and cold upon her knees. For the first time he is stone deaf to the +voice of her entreaty.</p> + +<p>Perhaps some foolish hope that her call might rouse him had taken +possession of her; for now, seeing how nothing but deepest silence +answers her, she lets a groan escape her. Will nobody ever come? Lifting +in fierce impatience a face white as the senseless man's beneath her, +she encounters Guy's eyes fixed upon her, who has by chance seen the +catastrophe, and has hastened to her aid.</p> + +<p>"Do something for him,—something," she cries, trembling; "give him +brandy! it will, it <i>must</i> do him good."</p> + +<p>Guy, kneeling down beside Chesney, places his hand beneath his coat, and +feels for his heart intently.</p> + +<p>"He is not dead!" murmurs Lilian, in an almost inaudible tone: "say he +is alive. I told him never to speak to me again: but I did not dream I +should be so terribly obeyed. Archie, Archie!"</p> + +<p>Her manner is impassioned. Remorse and terror, working together, produce +in her all the appearance, of <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span>despairing anguish. She bears herself as +a woman might who gazes at the dead body of him she holds dearest on +earth; and Guy, looking silently upon her, lets a fear greater than her +own, a more intolerable anguish, enter his heart even then.</p> + +<p>"He is not dead," he says, quietly, forcing himself to be calm. +Whereupon Lilian bursts into a storm of tears.</p> + +<p>"Are you sure?" cries she; "is there no mistake? He looks so—so—<i>like</i> +death," with a shuddering sigh. "Oh, what should I have done had he been killed?"</p> + +<p>"Be happy, he is alive," says Guy, between his dry lips, misery making +his tones cold. All his worst fears are realized. In spite of pretended +indifference, it is plain to him that all her wayward heart has been +given to her cousin. Her intense agitation, her pale agonized face, seem +to him easy to read, impossible to misunderstand. As he rises from his +knees, he leaves all hope behind him in possession of his wounded rival.</p> + +<p>"Stay with him until I bring help: I shan't be a minute," he says, not +looking at her, and presently returning with some rough contrivance that +does duty for a stretcher, and a couple of laborers. They convey him +home to Chetwoode, where they lay him, still insensible, upon his bed, +quiet and cold as one utterly bereft of life.</p> + +<p>Then the little doctor arrives, and the door of Chesney's chamber is +closed upon him and Guy, and for the next half-hour those +outside—listening, watching, hoping, fearing—have a very bad time of +it.</p> + +<p>At last, as the sick-room door opens, and Guy comes into the corridor, a +little figure, that for all those miserable thirty minutes has sat +crouching in a dark corner, rises and runs swiftly toward him.</p> + +<p>It is Lilian: she is trembling visibly, and the face she upraises to his +is pale—nay, gray—with dread suspense. Her white lips try to form a +syllable, but fail. She lays one hand upon his arm beseechingly, and +gazes at him in eloquent silence.</p> + +<p>"Do not look like that," says Guy, shocked at her expression. He speaks +more warmly than he feels, but he quietly removes his arm so that her +hand perforce drops from it. "He is better; much better than at first we +dared hope. He will get well. There is no immediate danger. Do you understand, Lilian?"</p> + +<p>A little dry sob breaks from her. The relief is almost<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span> too intense; all +through her dreary waiting she had expected to hear nothing but that he +was in truth—as he appeared in her eyes—dead. She staggers slightly, +and would have fallen but that Chetwoode most unwillingly places his arm round her.</p> + +<p>"There is no occasion for all this—nervousness," he says, half +savagely, as she lays her head against his shoulder and cries as though +her heart would break. At this supreme moment she scarcely remembers +Guy's presence, and would have cried just as comfortably with her head +upon old Parkins's shoulder. Perhaps he understands this, and therefore +fails to realize the rapture he should know at having her so +unresistingly within his arms. As it is, his expression is bored to the +last degree: his eyebrows are drawn upward until all his forehead lies +in little wrinkles. With a determination worthy of a better cause he has +fixed his eyes upon the wall opposite, and refuses to notice the lovely +golden head of her who is weeping so confidingly upon his breast.</p> + +<p>It is a touching scene, but fails to impress Guy, who cannot blind +himself to (what he believes to be) the fact that all these pearly tears +are flowing for another,—and that a rival. With his tall figure drawn +to its fullest height, so as to preclude all idea of tenderness, he says, sharply:</p> + +<p>"One would imagine I had brought you bad news. You could not possibly +appear more inconsolable if you had heard of his death. Do try to rouse +yourself, and be reasonable: he is all right, and as likely to live as you are."</p> + +<p>At this he gives her a mild but undeniable shake, that has the desired +effect of reducing her to calmness. She checks her sobs, and, moving +away from him, prepares to wipe away all remaining signs of her agitation.</p> + +<p>"You certainly are not very sympathetic," she says, with a last faint +sob, casting a reproachful glance at him out of two drowned but still beautiful eyes.</p> + +<p>"I certainly am not," stiffly: "I can't 'weep my spirit from my eyes' +because I hear a fellow is better, if you mean that."</p> + +<p>"You seem to be absolutely grieved at his chance of recovery," viciously.</p> + +<p>"I have no doubt I seem to you all that is vilest and worst. I learned +your opinion of me long ago."</p> + +<p>"Well,"—scornfully—"I think you need scarcely<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span> choose either this +time, or place, for one of your stand-up fights. When you remember what +you have just said,—that you are actually <i>sorry</i> poor dear Archie is +alive,—I think you ought to go away and feel very much ashamed of yourself."</p> + +<p>"Did I say that?" indignantly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I don't know," indifferently,—as though his denial now cannot +possibly alter the original fact; "something very like it, at all events."</p> + +<p>"How can you so malign me, Lilian?" angrily. "No one can be more +heartily sorry for poor Chesney than I am, or more pleased at his escape +from death. You willfully misunderstand every word I utter. For the +future,—as all I say seems to annoy,—I beg you will not trouble +yourself to address me at all."</p> + +<p>"I shall speak to you just whenever I choose," replies Miss Chesney, +with superb defiance.</p> + +<p>At this thrilling instant Chesney's door is again opened wide, and Dr. +Bland comes out, treading softly, and looking all importance.</p> + +<p>"You, my dear Miss Chesney!" he says, approaching her lightly; "the very +young lady of all others I most wished to see. Not that there is +anything very curious about that fact," with his cozy chuckle; "but your +cousin is asking for you, and really, you know, upon my word, he is so +very excitable, I think perhaps—eh?—under the circumstances, you know, +it would be well to gratify his pardonable desire to see you—eh?"</p> + +<p>"The circumstances" refer to the rooted conviction, that for weeks has +been planted in the doctor's breast, of Miss Chesney's engagement to her cousin.</p> + +<p>"To see me?" says Lilian, shrinking away involuntarily, and turning very +red. Both the tone and the blush are "confirmation strong" of the +doctor's opinion. And Guy, watching her silently, feels, if possible, +even more certain than before of her affection for Chesney.</p> + +<p>"To be sure, my dear; and why not?" says the kindly little doctor, +patting her encouragingly on the shoulder. He deals in pats and smiles. +They are both part of his medicine. So,—under the +circumstances,—through force of habit, would he have patted the Queen +of England or a lowly milkmaid alike,—with perhaps an additional pat to +the milkmaid, should she chance to be pretty. Lilian, being rich in +nature's charms, is a special favorite of his.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span></p><p>"But—" says Lilian, still hesitating. To tell the truth, she is hardly +ambitious of entering Archibald's room, considering their last stormy +parting; and, besides, she is feeling sadly nervous and out of sorts. +The ready tears spring again to her eyes; once more the tell-tale blood +springs hotly to her cheeks. Guy's fixed gaze—he is watching her with a +half sneer upon his face—disconcerts her still further. Good Dr. Bland +entirely mistakes the meaning of her confusion.</p> + +<p>"Now, my dear child, if I give you leave to see this reckless cousin, we +must be cautious, <i>very</i> cautious, and quiet, <i>extremely</i> quiet, eh? +That is essential, you know. And mind, no tears. There is nothing so +injurious on these occasions as tears! Reminds one invariably of last +farewells and funeral services, and coffins, and all such uncomfortable +matters. I don't half like granting these interviews myself, but he +appears bent on seeing you, and, as I have said before, he is +impetuous,—<i>very</i> impetuous."</p> + +<p>"You think, then," stammers Lilian, making one last faint effort at +escape from the dreaded ordeal,—"you think——"</p> + +<p>"I don't think," smiling good-naturedly, "I <i>know</i> you must not stay +with him longer than five minutes."</p> + +<p>"Good doctor, make it three," is on the point of Lilian's tongue, but, +ashamed to refuse this small request of poor wounded Archibald, she +follows Dr. Bland into his room.</p> + +<p>On the bed, lying pale and exhausted, is Archibald, his lips white, his +eyes supernaturally large and dark. They grow even larger and much +brighter as they rest on Lilian, who slowly, but—now that she again +sees him so weak and prostrate—full of pity, approaches his side.</p> + +<p>"You have come, Lilian," he says, faintly: "it is very good of +you,—more than I deserve. I vexed you terribly this morning, did I not? +But you will forgive me now I have come to grief," with a wan smile.</p> + +<p>"I have nothing to forgive," says Lilian, tremulously, gazing down upon +him pityingly through two big violet eyes so overcharged with tears as +makes one wonder how they can keep the kindly drops from running down +her cheeks. "But you have. Oh, Archie, let me tell you how deeply I +deplore having spoken so harshly to you to-day. If"—with a +shudder—"you had indeed been killed, I should never have been happy again."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span></p><p>"I was unmanly," says Chesney, holding out his hand feebly for hers, +which is instantly given. "I am afraid I almost threatened you. I am +thoroughly ashamed of myself."</p> + +<p>"Oh, hush! I am sure you are speaking too much; and Dr. Bland says you +must not excite yourself. Are you suffering much pain?" very tenderly.</p> + +<p>"Not much;" but the drawn expression of his face belies his assertion. +"To look at you"—softly—"gives me ease."</p> + +<p>"I wonder you don't hate me," says Lilian, in a distressed tone, +fighting hard to suppress the nervous sob that is rising so rebelliously +in her throat. Almost at this moment—so sorry is she for his hopeless +infatuation for her—she wishes he did hate her. "Yet I am not +altogether to blame, and I have suffered more than I can tell you since +you got that terrible fall!" This assurance is very sweet to him. "When +I saw you lying motionless,—when I laid your head upon my knees and +tried to call you back to life, and you never answered me, I thought—"</p> + +<p>"You!" interrupts he, hastily; "did your hands succor me?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," coloring warmly; "though it was very little good I could do you, +I was so frightened. You looked so cold,—so still. I thought then, +'suppose it was my cross words had induced him to take that fence?' +But"—nervously—"it wasn't: that was a foolish, a conceited thought, +with no truth in it."</p> + +<p>"Some little truth, I think," sadly. "When you told me 'never to speak +to you again,'—you recollect?—there came a strange hard look into your +usually kind eyes—" pressing her hand gently to take somewhat from the +sting of his words—"that cut me to the heart. Your indifference seemed +in that one moment to have turned to hatred, and I think I lost my head +a little. Forgive me, sweetheart, if I could not then help thinking that +death could not be much worse than life."</p> + +<p>"Archie,"—gravely,—"promise me you will never think that again."</p> + +<p>"I promise."</p> + +<p>There is a short pause. It is growing almost dark. The wintry day, sad +and weakly from its birth, is dying fast. All the house is silent, +hushed, full of expectancy; only a little irrepressible clock in the +next room ticks its<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span> loudest, as though defying pain or sorrow to affect +it in any way.</p> + +<p>"Is it your arm?" asks Lilian, gently, his other hand being hidden +beneath the sheet, "or——"</p> + +<p>"No; two of my ribs, I believe, and my head aches a good deal."</p> + +<p>"I am tormenting you with my foolish chatter," rising remorsefully, as +though to quit the room.</p> + +<p>"No, no," eagerly; "I tell you it makes me easier to see you; it dulls +the pain." Slowly, painfully he draws her hand upward to his lips, and +kisses it softly. "We are friends again?" he whispers.</p> + +<p>"Yes,—always friends," tightening her fingers sympathetically over his. +"If"—very earnestly—"you would only try to make up your mind never to +speak to me again as you did—last night, I believe another unpleasant +word would never pass between us."</p> + +<p>"Do not fear," he says, slowly: "I have quite made up my mind. Rather +than risk bringing again into your eyes the look I saw there to-day, I +would keep silence forever."</p> + +<p>Here Dr. Bland puts his head inside the door, and beckons Lilian to withdraw.</p> + +<p>"The five minutes are up," he says, warningly, consulting the golden +turnip he usually keeps concealed somewhere about his person, though +where, so large is it, has been for years a matter of speculation with +his numerous patients.</p> + +<p>"I must go," says Lilian, rising: the door is open, and all that goes on +within the chamber can be distinctly heard in the corridor outside. "Now +try to sleep, will you not? and don't worry, and don't even think if you can help it."</p> + +<p>"Must you go?" wistfully.</p> + +<p>"I fear I must."</p> + +<p>"You will come again to-morrow, very early?"</p> + +<p>"I will come to-morrow, certainly, as early as I can. Good-night."</p> + +<p>"Good-night."</p> + +<p>Closing the door softly behind her, she advances into the corridor, +where she still finds Guy and Dr. Bland conversing earnestly. Perhaps +they have been waiting for her coming.</p> + +<p>"So you have persuaded him to go to sleep?" asks the doctor, beaming +kindly upon "pretty Miss Chesney," that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span> being the title given to her +long ago by the country generally.</p> + +<p>"Yes. I think he will sleep now," Lilian answers. "He looks very white, +poor, poor fellow, but not so badly as I expected."</p> + +<p>"I suppose your presence did him good. Well, I will take a last look at +him before leaving," moving toward the closed door.</p> + +<p>"Can I do anything for you?" asks Guy, following him, glad of any excuse +that makes him quit Lilian's side.</p> + +<p>"Yes,"—smiling,—"you can, indeed. Take your ward down-stairs and give +her a glass of wine. She is too pale for my fancy. I shall be having her +on my hands next if you don't take care." So saying, he disappears.</p> + +<p>Guy turns coldly to Lilian.</p> + +<p>"Will you come down, or shall I send something up to you?" he asks, icily.</p> + +<p>Lilian's fears have subsided; consequently her spirits have risen to +such a degree that they threaten to overflow every instant. A desire for +mischief makes her heart glow.</p> + +<p>"I shall go with you," she says, with a charming grimace. "I might blame +myself in after years if I ever willingly failed to cultivate every +second spent in your agreeable society."</p> + +<p>So saying, she trips down-stairs gayly beside him, a lovely, though +rather naughty, smile upon her lips.</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_XXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXVII"></a>CHAPTER _XXVII.</span></h2> + +<blockquote><p class="center">"<i>Claud.</i>—In mine eye, she is the sweetest lady that ever I looked +on."—<i>Much Ado About Nothing.</i></p></blockquote> + +<p>Because of Archibald's accident, and because of much harassing secret +thought, Christmas is a failure this year at Chetwoode. Tom Steyne and +his wife and their adorable baby come to them for a week, it is true, +and try by every means in their power to lighten the gloom that hangs +over the house, but in vain.</p> + +<p>Guy is obstinately <i>distrait</i>, not to say ill-tempered; Lilian is +fitful,—now full of the wildest spirits, and anon<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span> capricious and +overflowing with little imperious whims; Archibald, though rapidly +mending, is of course invisible, and a complete dead letter; while +Cyril, usually the most genial fellow in the world and devoid of moods, +is at this particular time consumed with anxiety, having at last made up +his mind to reveal to his mother his engagement to Cecilia and ask her +consent to their speedy marriage. Yet another full month elapses, and +already the first glad thought of spring is filling every breast, before +he really brings himself to speak upon the dreaded subject.</p> + +<p>His disclosure he knows by instinct will be received ungraciously and +with disapprobation, not only by Lady Chetwoode, but by Sir Guy, who has +all through proved himself an enemy to the cause. His determined +opposition will undoubtedly increase the difficulties of the situation, +as Lady Chetwoode is in all matters entirely ruled by her eldest son.</p> + +<p>Taking Lilian into his confidence, Cyril happens to mention to her this +latter sure drawback to the success of his suit, whereupon she +generously declares herself both able and willing to take Sir Guy in +hand and compel him to be not only non-combative on the occasion, but an actual partisan.</p> + +<p>At these valiant words Cyril is so transported with hope and gratitude +that, without allowing himself time for reflection, he suddenly and very +warmly embraces his pretty colleague, calling her, as "Traddles" might +have done, "the dearest girl in the world," and vowing to her that but +for one other she is indeed "the only woman he ever loved."</p> + +<p>Having recovered from the astonishment caused by this outbreak on the +part of the generally nonchalant Cyril, Miss Chesney draws her breath +slowly, and wends her way toward Sir Guy's private den, where she knows +he is at present sure to be found.</p> + +<p>"Are you busy?" she asks, showing her face in the doorway, but not advancing.</p> + +<p>"Not to you," courteously. They are now on friendly though somewhat +constrained speaking terms.</p> + +<p>"Will you give me, then, a little of your time? It is something very important."</p> + +<p>"Certainly," replies he, surprised both at the solemnity of her manner +and at the request generally. "Come in and shut the door."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span></p><p>"It is just a question I would ask of you," says Lilian, uncomfortably, +now she has come to the point, finding an extraordinary difficulty about +proceeding. At length, with a desperate effort she raises her head, and, +looking full at him, says, distinctly:</p> + +<p>"Sir Guy, when two people love each other very dearly, don't you think +they ought to marry?"</p> + +<p>This startling interrogation has the effect of filling Chetwoode with +dismay. He turns white in spite of his vigorous attempt at self-control, +and involuntarily lays his hand upon the nearest chair to steady +himself. Has she come here to tell him of her affection for her cousin?</p> + +<p>"There must be something more," he says, presently, regarding her fixedly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, but answer me first. Don't you think they ought?"</p> + +<p>"I suppose so,"—unwillingly,—"unless there should be some insuperable +difficulty in the way."</p> + +<p>"He suspects me; he knows my errand," thinks Lilian, letting her eyes +seek the carpet, which gives her all the appearance of feeling a very +natural confusion. "He hopes to entangle me. His 'difficulty' is poor +dear Cecilia's very disreputable papa."</p> + +<p>"No difficulty should stand in the way of love," she argues, severely. +"Besides, what is an 'insuperable difficulty'? Supposing one of them +should be unhappily less—less respectable than the other: would that be +it?"</p> + +<p>Sir Guy opens his eyes. Is it not, then, the cousin? and if not, who? +"Less respectable." He runs through the long list of all the young men +of questionable morals with whom he is acquainted, but can come to no +satisfactory conclusion. Has she possibly heard of certain lawless +doings of Archibald in earlier days, and does she fear perhaps that he, +her guardian, will refuse consent to her marriage because of them? At +this thought he freezes.</p> + +<p>"I think all unsuitable marriages a crime," he says, coldly. "Sooner or +later they lead to the bitterest of all repentance. To marry one one +cannot respect! Surely such an act carries with it its own punishment. +It is a hateful thought. But then——"</p> + +<p>"You do not understand," pleads Lilian, rising in her eagerness, and +going nearer to him, while her large eyes read his face nervously as she +trembles for the success of her undertaking. "There is no question of +'respect.' It<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span> is not that I mean. These two of whom I speak will never +repent, because they love each other so entirely."</p> + +<p>"What a stress you lay on the word love!" he says, in a half-mocking, +wholly bitter tone. "Do you believe in it?"</p> + +<p>"I do, indeed. I cannot think there is anything in this world half so +good as it," replies she, with conviction, while reddening painfully +beneath his gaze. "Is it not our greatest happiness?"</p> + +<p>"I think it is our greatest curse."</p> + +<p>"How can you say that?" with soft reproach. "Can you not see for +yourself how it redeems all the misery of life for some people?"</p> + +<p>"Those two fortunate beings of whom you are speaking, for instance," +with a sneer. "All people are not happy in their attachment. What is to +become of those miserable wretches who love, but love in vain? Did you +never hear of a homely proverb that tells you 'one man's meat is another man's poison'?"</p> + +<p>"You are cynical to-day. But to return; the two to whom I allude have no +poison to contend with. They love so well that it is misery to them to +be apart,—so devotedly that they know no great joy except when they are +together. Could such love cool? I am sure not. And is it not cruel to +keep them asunder?"</p> + +<p>Her voice has grown positively plaintive; she is evidently terribly in earnest.</p> + +<p>"Are you speaking of yourself?" asks Guy, huskily, turning with sudden +vehemence to lay his hand upon her arm and scan her features with +intense, nay, feverish anxiety.</p> + +<p>"Of myself?" recoiling. "No! What can you mean? What is it that I should +say of myself?" Her cheeks are burning, her eyes are shamed and +perplexed, but they have not fallen before his: she is evidently full of +secret wonder. "It is for Cyril I plead, and for Cecilia," she says, +after a strange pause.</p> + +<p>"Cyril!" exclaims he, the most excessive relief in tone and gesture. +"Does he want to marry Mrs. Arlington?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. I know you have a prejudice against her,"—earnestly,—"but that +is because you do not know her. She is the sweetest woman I ever met."</p> + +<p>"This has been going on for a long time?"</p> + +<p>"I think so. Cyril wished to marry her long ago, but<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span> she would not +listen to him without auntie's consent. Was not that good of her? If I +was in her place, I do not believe I should wait for any one's consent."</p> + +<p>"I am sure"—dryly—"you would not."</p> + +<p>"No, not even for my guardian's," replies she, provokingly; then, with a +lapse into her former earnestness, "I want you to be good to her. She is +proud, prouder than auntie even, and would not forgive a slight. And if +her engagement to Cyril came to an end, he would never be happy again. +Think of it."</p> + +<p>"I do," thoughtfully. "I think it is most unfortunate. And she a widow, too!"</p> + +<p>"But such a widow!" enthusiastically. "A perfect darling of a widow! I +am not sure, after all,"—with rank hypocrisy,—"that widows are not to +be preferred before mere silly foolish girls, who don't know their own +minds half the time."</p> + +<p>"Is that a description of yourself?" with an irrepressible smile.</p> + +<p>"Don't be rude! No 'mere silly girl' would dare to beard a stern +guardian in his den as I am doing! But am I to plead in vain? Dear Sir +Guy, do not be hard. What could be dearer than her refusing to marry +Cyril if it should grieve auntie? 'She would not separate him from his +mother,' she said. Surely you must admire her in that one instance at +least. Think of it all again. They love each other, and they are +unhappy; and you can turn their sorrow into joy."</p> + +<p>"Now they love, of course; but will it last? Cyril's habits are very +expensive, and he has not much money. Do you ever think you may be +promoting a marriage that by and by will prove a failure? The day may +come when they will hate you for having helped to bring them together."</p> + +<p>"No," says Lilian, stoutly, shaking her <i>blonde</i> head emphatically; "I +have no such unhealthy thoughts or fancies. They suit each other; they +are happy in each other's society; they will never repent their marriage."</p> + +<p>"Is that your experience?" he asks, half amused.</p> + +<p>"I have no experience," returns she, coloring and smiling: "I am like +the Miller of the Dee; I care for nobody, no, not I,—for nobody cares for me."</p> + +<p>"You forget your cousin." The words escape him almost without his consent.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span></p><p>Miss Chesney starts perceptibly, but a second later answers his taunt +with admirable composure.</p> + +<p>"What? Archie? Oh! he don't count; cousins are privileged beings. Or did +you perhaps mean Taffy? But answer me, Sir Guy: you have not yet said +you will help me. And I am bent on making Cecilia happy. I am honestly +fond of her; I cannot bear to see you think contemptuously of her; while +I would gladly welcome her as a sister."</p> + +<p>"I do not see how her marrying Cyril can make her your sister," replies +he, idly; and then he remembers what he has said, and the same thought +striking them both at the same moment, they let their eyes meet +uneasily, and both blush scarlet.</p> + +<p>Guy, sauntering to the window, takes an elaborate survey of the dismal +landscape outside; Lilian coughs gently, and begins to count +industriously all the embroidered lilies in the initial that graces the +corner of her handkerchief. One—two—three——</p> + +<p>"They might as well have put in four," she says out loud, abstractedly.</p> + +<p>"What?" turning from the window to watch the lovely <i>mignonne</i> face +still bent in contemplation of the lilies.</p> + +<p>"Nothing," mildly: "did I say anything?"</p> + +<p>"Something about 'four,' I thought."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps"—demurely—"I was thinking I had asked you four times to be +good-natured, and you had not deigned to grant my request. When Lady +Chetwoode speaks to you of Cyril and Cecilia, say you will be on their +side. Do not vote against them. Promise."</p> + +<p>He hesitates.</p> + +<p>"Not when <i>I</i> ask you?" murmurs she, in her softest tones, going a +little nearer to him, and uplifting her luminous blue eyes to his.</p> + +<p>Still he hesitates.</p> + +<p>Miss Chesney takes one step more in his direction, which is necessarily +the last, unless she wishes to walk through him. Her eyes, now full of +wistful entreaty, and suspiciously bright, are still fixed reproachfully +upon his. With a light persuasive gesture she lays five white, slender +fingers upon his arm, and whispers, in plaintive tones:</p> + +<p>"I feel sure I am going to cry."</p> + +<p>"I promise," says Sir Guy, instantly, laughing in spite of himself, and +letting his own hand close with <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span>unconscious force over hers for a +moment. Whereupon Miss Chesney's lachrymose expression vanishes as if by +magic, while a smile bright and triumphant illuminates her face in its stead.</p> + +<p>"Thank you," she says, delightedly, and trips toward the door eager to +impart her good news. Upon the threshold, however, she pauses, and +glances back at him coquettishly, perhaps a trifle maliciously, from +under her long heavily-fringed lids.</p> + +<p>"I knew I should win the day," she says, teasingly, "although you don't +believe in love. Nevertheless, I thank you again, and"—raising her +head, and holding out one hand to him with a sweet <i>bizarre</i> grace all +her own—"I would have you know I don't think you half such a bad old +guardy after all!"</p> + +<p class="center">* * * * * * *</p> + +<p>Almost at this moment Cyril enters his mother's boudoir, where, to his +astonishment, he finds her without companions.</p> + +<p>"All alone, Madre?" he says, airily, putting on his gayest manner and +his most fetching smile to hide the perturbation that in reality he is +feeling. His heart is in his boots, but he wears a very gallant exterior.</p> + +<p>"Yes," replies Lady Chetwoode, looking up from her work, "and very dull +company I find myself. Have you come to enliven me a little? I hope so: +I have been <i>gêne</i> to the last degree for quite an hour."</p> + +<p>"Where is the inevitable Florence?"</p> + +<p>"In the drawing-room, with Mr. Boer. I can't think what she sees in him, +but she appears to value his society highly. To-day he has brought her +some more church music to try over, and I really wish he wouldn't. +Anything more afflicting than chants tried over and over again upon the +piano I can't conceive. They are very bad upon the organ, but on the +piano! And sometimes he <i>will</i> insist on singing them with her!"</p> + +<p>Here two or three wailing notes from down-stairs are wafted, weeping +into the room, setting the hearers' teeth on edge. To even an incorrect +ear it might occur that Mr. Boer's stentorian notes are not always in tune!</p> + +<p>"My dear, my dear," exclaims Lady Chetwoode, in a voice of agony, "shut +the door close; <i>closer</i>, my dear Cyril, they are at it again!"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span></p><p>"It's a disease," says Cyril, solemnly. "A great many curates have it. +We should count ourselves lucky that laymen don't usually catch it."</p> + +<p>"I really think it is. I can't bear that sort of young man myself," says +Lady Chetwoode, regretfully, who feels some gentle grief that she cannot +bring herself to admire Mr. Boer; "but I am sure we should all make +allowances; none of us are perfect; and Mrs. Boileau assures me he is +very earnest and extremely zealous. Still, I wish he could try to speak +differently: I think his mother very much to blame for bringing him up +with such a voice."</p> + +<p>"She was much to blame for bringing him up at all. He should have been +strangled at his birth!" Cyril says this slowly, moodily, with every +appearance of really meaning what he says. He is, however, unaware of +the blood-thirsty expression he has assumed, as though in support of his +words, being in fact miles away in thought from Mr. Boer and his +Gregorian music. He is secretly rehearsing a coming conversation with +his mother, in which Cecilia's name is to be delicately introduced.</p> + +<p>"That is going rather far, is it not?" Lady Chetwoode says, laughing.</p> + +<p>"A man is not an automaton. He cannot always successfully stifle his +feelings," says Cyril, still more moodily, <i>àpropos</i> of his own +thoughts; which second most uncalled-for remark induces his mother to +examine him closely.</p> + +<p>"There is something on your mind," she says, gently. "You are not now +thinking of either me or Mr. Boer. Sit down, dear boy, and tell me all about it."</p> + +<p>"I will tell you standing," says Cyril, who feels it would be taking +advantage of her ignorance to accept a chair until his disclosure is +made. Then the private rehearsal becomes public, and presently Lady +Chetwoode knows all about his "infatuation," as she terms it, for the +widow, and is quite as much distressed about it as even he had expected.</p> + +<p>"It is terrible!" she says, presently, when she has somewhat recovered +from the first shock caused by his intelligence; "and only last spring +you promised me to think seriously of Lady Fanny Stapleton."</p> + +<p>"My dear mother, who could think seriously of Lady Fanny? Why, with her +short nose, and her shorter neck, and her anything but sylph-like form, +she has long ago degenerated into one vast joke."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span></p><p>"She has money," in a rather stifled tone.</p> + +<p>"And would you have me sacrifice my whole life for mere money?" +reproachfully. "Would money console you afterward, when you saw me wretched?"</p> + +<p>"But why should you be wretched?" Then, quickly, "Are you so very sure +this Mrs. Arlington will make you happy?"</p> + +<p>"Utterly positive!" in a radiant tone.</p> + +<p>"And are you ready to sacrifice every comfort for mere beauty?" retorts +she. "Ah, Cyril, beware: you do not understand yet what it is to be +hampered for want of money. And there are other things: when one marries +out of one's own sphere, one always repents it."</p> + +<p>"One cannot marry higher than a lady," flushing. "She is not a countess, +or an honorable, or even Lady Fanny; but she is of good family, and she +is very sweet, and very gentle, and very womanly. I shall never again +see any one so good in my eyes. I entreat you, dear mother, not to +refuse your consent."</p> + +<p>"I shall certainly say nothing until I see Guy," says Lady Chetwoode, +tearfully, making a last faint stand.</p> + +<p>"Then let us send for him, and get it over," Cyril says, with gentle +impatience, who is very pale, but determined to finish the subject one +way or the other, now and forever.</p> + +<p>Almost as he says it, Guy enters; and Lady Chetwoode, rising, explains +the situation to him in a few agitated words. True to his promise to +Lilian, and more perhaps because a glance at his brother's quiet face +tells him opposition will be vain, Guy says a few things in favor of the +engagement. But though the words are kind, they are cold; and, having +said them, he beats an instantaneous retreat, leaving Cyril, by his +well-timed support, master of the field.</p> + +<p>"Marry her, then, as you are all against me," says Lady Chetwoode, the +tears running down her cheeks. It is very bitter to her to remember how +Lady Fanny's precious thousands have been literally flung away. All +women, even the best and the sweetest, are mercenary where their sons are concerned.</p> + +<p>"And you will call upon her?" says Cyril, after a few minutes spent in +an effort to console her have gone by.</p> + +<p>"Call!" repeats poor Lady Chetwoode, with some indignation, "upon that +woman who absolutely declined to receive me when first she came! I have +a little pride still<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span> remaining, Cyril, though indeed you have humbled a +good deal of it to-day," with keen reproach.</p> + +<p>"When first she came,"—apologetically,—"she was in great grief and +distress of mind."</p> + +<p>"Grief for her husband?" demands she; which is perhaps the bitterest +thing Lady Chetwoode ever said in her life to either of her "boys."</p> + +<p>"No," coldly; "I think I told you she had never any affection for him." +Then his voice changes, and going over to her he takes her hand +entreatingly, and passes one arm over her shoulder. "Can you not be kind +to her for my sake?" he implores. "Dearest mother, I cannot bear to hear +you speak of her as 'that woman,' when I love her so devotedly."</p> + +<p>"I suppose when one is married one may without insult be called a +woman," turning rather aside from his caress.</p> + +<p>"But then she was so little married, and she looks quite a girl. You +will go to see her, and judge for yourself?"</p> + +<p>"I suppose there is nothing else left for me to do. I would not have all +the county see how utterly you have disappointed me. I have been a good +mother to you, Cyril,"—tremulously,—"and this is how you requite me."</p> + +<p>"It cuts me to the heart to grieve you so much,"—tenderly,—"you, my +own mother. But I—I have been a good son to you, too, have I not, dear Madre?"</p> + +<p>"You have indeed," says Lady Chetwoode; and then she cries a little +behind her handkerchief.</p> + +<p>"How old is she?" with quivering lips.</p> + +<p>"Twenty-two or twenty-three, I am not sure which," in a subdued tone.</p> + +<p>"In manner is she quiet?"</p> + +<p>"Very. Tranquil is the word that best expresses her. When you see her +you will acknowledge I have not erred in taste."</p> + +<p>Lady Chetwoode with a sigh lays down her arms, and when Cyril stoops his +face to hers she does not refuse the kiss he silently demands, so that +with a lightened conscience he leaves the room to hurry on the wings of +love to Cecilia's bower.</p> + +<p>All the way there he seems to tread on air. His heart is beating, he is +full of happiest exultation. The day is bright and joyous; already one +begins to think of winter kindly as a thing of the past. All nature +seems in unison with his exalted mood.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span></p><p>Reaching the garden he knows so well and loves so fondly, he walks with +eager, longing steps toward a side path where usually she he seeks is to +be found. Now standing still, he looks round anxiously for Cecilia.</p> + +<p>But Cecilia is not there!</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_XXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII.</span></h2> + +<div class="block3"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div class="i1">"<i>Lys.</i>—How now, my love? Why is your cheek so pale?</div> +<div>How chance the roses there do fade so fast?</div> +<div class="i1"><i>Her.</i>—Belike, for want of rain, which I could well</div> +<div>Between them from the tempest of mine eyes."</div> +<div><span class="s12"> </span>—<i>Midsummer Night's Dream.</i></div> +</div></div></div> + +<p>Up in her chamber sits Cecilia, speechless, spell-bound, fighting with a +misery too great for tears. Upon her knee lies an open letter from which +an enclosure has slipped and fallen to the ground. And on this last her +eyes, scorched and distended, are fixed hopelessly.</p> + +<p>The letter itself is from Colonel Trant: it was posted yesterday, and +received by her late last night, though were you now to tell her a whole +year has elapsed since first she read its fatal contents, I do not think +she would evince much doubt or surprise. It was evidently hastily +penned, the characters being rough and uneven, and runs as follows:</p> + +<blockquote><p class="right">"Austen Holm. Friday.</p> + +<p>"<span class="smcap">My dear Girl</span>,—The attempt to break bad news to any one has always +seemed to me so vain, and so unsatisfactory a proceeding, and one +so likely to render even heavier the blow it means to soften, that +here I refrain from it altogether. Yet I would entreat you when +reading what I now enclose not to quite believe in its truth until +further proofs be procured. I shall remain at my present address +for three days longer: if I do not by then hear from you, I shall +come to The Cottage. Whatever happens, I know you will remember it +is my only happiness to serve you, and that I am ever your faithful friend,</p> + +<p class="right">"<span class="smcap">George Trant</span>."</p></blockquote> + +<p>When Cecilia had read so far, she raised the enclosure, though without +any very great misgivings, and, seeing it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span> was from some unknown friend +of Trant's, at present in Russia, skimmed lightly through the earlier +portion of it, until at length a paragraph chained her attention and +killed at a stroke all life and joy and happy love within her.</p> + +<p>"By the bye," ran this fatal page, "did you not know a man named +Arlington?—tall, rather stout, and dark; you used to think him dead. He +is not, however, as I fell against him yesterday by chance and learned +his name and all about him. He didn't seem half such a dissipated card +as you described him, so I hope traveling has improved his morals. I +asked him if he knew any one called Trant, and he said, 'Yes, several.' +I had only a minute or two to speak to him, and, as he never drew breath +himself during that time, I had not much scope for questioning. He +appears possessed of many advantages,—pretty wife at home, no end of +money, nice place, unlimited swagger. Bad form all through, but genial. +You will see him shortly in the old land, as he is starting for England almost immediately."</p> + +<p>And so on, and on, and on. But Cecilia, then or afterward, never read another line.</p> + +<p>Her first thought was certainly not of Cyril. It was abject, cowering +fear,—a horror of any return to the old loathed life,—a crushing dread +lest any chance should fling her again into her husband's power. Then +she drew her breath a little hard, and thought of Trant, and then of +Cyril; and <i>then</i> she told herself, with a strange sense of relief, that +at least one can die.</p> + +<p>But this last thought passed away as did the others, and she knew that +death seldom comes to those who seek it; and to command it,—who should +dare do that? Hope dies hard in some breasts! In Cecilia's the little +fond flame barely flickered, so quickly did it fade away and vanish +altogether before the fierce blast that had assailed it. Not for one +moment did she doubt the truth of the statement lying before her. She +was too happy, too certain; she should have remembered that some are +born to misfortune as the sparks fly upward. "She had lived, she had +loved," and here was the end of it all!</p> + +<p>All night long she had not slept. She had indeed lain upon her bed, her +pillow had known the impress of her head, but through every minute of +the lonely, silent awesome hours of gloom, her great eyes had been wide +open, watching for the dawn.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span></p><p>At last it came. A glorious dawn; a very flush of happy youth; the +sweeter that it bespoke a warm and early spring. At first it showed pale +pink with expectation, then rosy with glad hope. From out the east faint +rays of gold rushed tremulously, and, entering the casement, cast around +Cecilia's head a tender halo.</p> + +<p>When happiness lies within our grasp, when all that earth can give us +(alas! how little!) is within our keeping, how good is the coming of +another day,—a long, perfect day, in which to revel, and laugh, and +sing, as though care were a thing unknown! But when trouble falls upon +us, and this same terrible care is our only portion, with what horror, +what heart-sinking, do we turn our faces from the light and wish with +all the fervor of a vain wish that it were night!</p> + +<p>The holy dawn brought but anguish to Cecilia. She did not turn with +impatience from its smiling beauty, but heavy tears gathered slowly, and +grew within her sorrowful gray eyes, until at length (large as was their +home) they burst their bounds and ran quickly down her cheeks, as though +glad to escape from what should never have been their resting-place. +Swiftly, silently, ran the little pearly drops, ashamed of having dimmed +the lustre of those lovely eyes that only yester morning were so glad with smiles.</p> + +<p>Sitting now in her bedroom, forlorn and desolate, with the cruel words +that have traveled all the way across a continent to slay her peace +throbbing through her brain, she hears Cyril's well-known step upon the +gravel outside, and, springing to her feet as though stabbed, shrinks +backward until the wall yields her a support. A second later, ashamed of +her own weakness, she straightens herself, smooths back her ruffled hair +from her forehead, and, with a heavy sigh and colorless face, walks +down-stairs to him who from henceforth must be no more counted as a +lover. Slowly, with lingering steps that betray a broken heart, she draws nigh to him.</p> + +<p>Seeing her, he comes quickly forward to greet her, still glad with the +joy that has been his during all his walk through the budding woods, a +smile upon his lips. But the smile soon dies. The new blankness, the +terrible change, he sees in the beloved face sobers him immediately. It +is vivid enough even at a first glance to fill him with apprehension: +hastening to her as though eager to succor her from any harm that may be +threatening, he would have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span> taken her in his arms, but she, with a +little quick shudder, putting up her hands, prevents him.</p> + +<p>"No," she says, in a low changed tone; "not again!"</p> + +<p>"Something terrible has happened," Cyril says, with conviction, "or you +would not so repulse me. Darling, what is it?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know how to tell you," replies she, her tone cold with the +curious calmness of despair.</p> + +<p>"It cannot be so very bad," nervously; "nothing can signify greatly, +unless it separates you from me."</p> + +<p>A mournful bitter laugh breaks from Cecilia, a laugh that ends swiftly, +tunelessly, as it began.</p> + +<p>"How nearly you have touched upon the truth!" she says, miserably; and +then, in a clear, hard voice, "My husband is alive."</p> + +<p>A dead silence. No sound to disturb the utter stillness, save the +sighing of the early spring wind, the faint twitter of the birds among +the budding branches as already they seek to tune their slender throats +to the warblings of love, and the lowing of the brown-eyed oxen in the +fields far, far below them.</p> + +<p>Then Cyril says, with slow emphasis:</p> + +<p>"I don't believe it. It's a lie! It is impossible!"</p> + +<p>"It is true. I feel it so. Something told me my happiness was too great +to last, and now it has come to an end. Alas! alas! how short a time it +has continued with me! Oh, Cyril!"—smiting her hands together +passionately,—"what shall I do? what shall I do? If he finds me he will +kill me, as he often threatened. How shall I escape?"</p> + +<p>"It is untrue," repeats Cyril, doggedly, hardly noting her terror and +despair. His determined disbelief restores her to calmness.</p> + +<p>"Do you think I would believe except on certain grounds?" she says. +"Colonel Trant wrote me the evil tidings."</p> + +<p>"Trant is interested; he might be glad to delay our marriage," he says, +with a want of generosity unworthy of him.</p> + +<p>"No, no, <i>no</i>. You wrong him. And how should he seek to delay a marriage +that was yet far distant?"</p> + +<p>"Not so very distant. I have yet to tell you"—with a strange smile—"my +chief reason for being here to-day: to ask you to receive my mother +to-morrow, who is coming<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span> to welcome you as a daughter. How well Fate +planned this tragedy! to have our crowning misfortune fall straight into +the lap of our newly-born content! Cecilia,"—vehemently,—"there must +still be a grain of hope somewhere. Do not let us quite despair. I +cannot so tamely accept the death to all life's joys that must follow on belief."</p> + +<p>"You shall see for yourself," replies she, handing to him the letter +that all this time has lain crumbled beneath her nerveless fingers.</p> + +<p>When he has read it, he drops it with a groan, and covers his face with +his hands. To him, too, the evidence seems clear and convincing.</p> + +<p>"I told you to avoid me. I warned you," she says, presently, with a wan +smile. "I am born to ill-luck; I bring it even to all those who come +near me—especially, it seems, to the few who are unhappy enough to love +me. Go, Cyril, while there is yet time."</p> + +<p>"There is not time," desperately: "it is already too late." He moves +away from her, and in deep agitation paces up and down the secluded +garden-path; while she, standing alone with drooping head and dry +miserable eyes, scarcely cares to watch his movements, so dead within +her have all youth and energy grown.</p> + +<p>"Cecilia," he says, suddenly, stopping before her, and speaking in a low +tone, that, though perfectly clear, still betrays inward hesitation, +while his eyes carefully avoid hers, "listen to me. What is he to you, +this man that they say is still alive, that you should give up your +whole life for him? He deserted you, scorned you, left you for another +woman. For two long years you have believed him dead. Why should you now +think him living? Let him be dead still and buried in your memory; there +are other lands,"—slowly, and still with averted eyes,—"other homes: +why should we not make one for ourselves? Cecilia,"—coming up to her, +white but earnest, and holding out his arms to her,—"come with me, and +let us find our happiness in each other!"</p> + +<p>Cecilia, after one swift glance at him, moves back hastily.</p> + +<p>"How dare you use such words to me?" she says, in a horror-stricken +voice; "how dare you tempt me? you, <i>you</i> who said you loved me!" Then +the little burst of passion dies; her head droops still lower upon her +breast; her hands coming together fall loosely before her in an +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span>attitude descriptive of the deepest despondency. "I believed in you," +she says, "I trusted you. I did not think <i>you</i> would have been the one +to inflict the bitterest pang of all." She breathes these last words in +accents of the saddest reproach.</p> + +<p>"Nor will I!" cries he, with keen contrition, kneeling down before her, +and hiding his face in a fold of her gown. "Never again, my darling, my +life! I forgot,—I forgot you are as high above all other women as the +sun is above the earth. Cecilia, forgive me."</p> + +<p>"Nay, there is nothing to forgive," she says. "But, +Cyril,"—unsteadily,—"you will go abroad at once, for a little while, +until I have time to decide where in the future I shall hide my head."</p> + +<p>"Must I?"</p> + +<p>"You must."</p> + +<p>"And you,—where will you go?"</p> + +<p>"It matters very little. You will have had time to forget me before ever +I trust myself to see you again."</p> + +<p>"Then I shall never see you again," replies he, mournfully, "if you wait +for that. 'My true love hath my heart, and I have hers.' How can I +forget you while it beats warm within my breast?"</p> + +<p>"Be it so," she answers, with a sigh: "it is a foolish fancy, yet it +gladdens me. I would not be altogether displaced from your mind."</p> + +<p>So she lays her hand upon his head as he still kneels before her, and +gently smooths and caresses it with her light loving fingers. He +trembles a little, and a heavy dry sob breaks from him. This parting is +as the bitterness of death. To them it <i>is</i> death, because it is forever.</p> + +<p>He brings the dear hand down to his lips, and kisses it softly, tenderly.</p> + +<p>"Dearest," she murmurs, brokenly, "be comforted."</p> + +<p>"What comfort can I find, when I am losing you?"</p> + +<p>"You can think of me."</p> + +<p>"That would only increase my sorrow."</p> + +<p>"Is it so with you? For me I am thankful, very thankful, for the great +joy that has been mine for months, the knowledge that you loved me. Even +now, when desolation has come upon us, the one bright spot in all my +misery is the thought that at least I may remember you, and call to mind +your words, your face, your voice, without sin."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</a></span></p><p>"If ever you need me," he says, when a few minutes have elapsed, "you +have only to write, 'Cyril, I want you,' and though the whole world +should lie between us, I shall surely come. O my best beloved! how shall +I live without you?"</p> + +<p>"Don't,—do not speak like that," entreats she, faintly. "It is too hard +already: do not make it worse." Then, recovering herself by a supreme +effort, she says, "Let us part now, here, while we have courage. I think +the few arrangements we can make have been made, and George Trant will +write, if—if there is anything to write about."</p> + +<p>They are standing with their hands locked together reading each other's +faces for the last time.</p> + +<p>"To-morrow you will leave Chetwoode?" she says, regarding him fixedly.</p> + +<p>"To-morrow! I could almost wish there was no to-morrow for either you or +me," replies he.</p> + +<p>"Cyril," she says, with sudden fear, "you will take care of yourself, +you will not go into any danger? Darling,"—with a sob,—"you will +always remember that some day, when this is quite forgotten, I shall +want to see again the face of my dearest friend."</p> + +<p>"I shall come back to you," he says quietly. He is so quiet that she +tells herself now is a fitting time to break away from him; she forces +herself to take the first step that shall part them remorselessly.</p> + +<p>"Good-bye," she says, in faltering tones.</p> + +<p>"Good-bye," returns he, mechanically. With the slow reluctant tears that +spring from a broken heart running down her pale cheeks, she presses her +lips fervently to his hands, and moves slowly away. When she has gone a +few steps, frightened at the terrible silence that seems to have +enwrapped him, benumbing his very senses, she turns to regard him once more.</p> + +<p>He has never stirred; he scarcely seems to breathe, so motionless is his +attitude; as though some spell were on him, he stands silently gazing +after her, his eyes full of dumb agony. There is something so utterly +lonely in the whole scene that Cecilia bursts into tears. Her sobs rouse him.</p> + +<p>"Cecilia!" he cries, in a voice of mingled passion and despair that +thrills through her. Once more he holds out to her his arms. She runs to +him, and flings herself for the time into his embrace. He strains her +passionately to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span> his heart. Her sobs break upon the silent air. Once +again their white lips form the word "farewell." There is a last +embrace, a last lingering kiss.</p> + +<p>All is over.</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_XXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXIX.</span></h2> + +<div class="block2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"The flower that smiles to-day</div> +<div class="i2">To-morrow dies;</div> +<div>All that we wish to stay</div> +<div class="i2">Tempts and then flies.</div> +<div>What is this world's delight?</div> +<div>Lightning that mocks the night,</div> +<div>Brief even as bright."—<span class="smcap">Shelley.</span></div> +</div></div></div> + +<p>At Chetwoode they are all assembled in the drawing-room,—except +Archibald, who is still confined to his room,—waiting for dinner: Cyril +alone is absent.</p> + +<p>"What can be keeping him?" says his mother, at last, losing patience as +she pictures him dallying with his betrothed at The Cottage while the +soup is spoiling and the cook is gradually verging toward hysterics. She +suffers an aggrieved expression to grow within her eyes as she speaks +from the depths of the softest arm-chair the room contains, in which it +is her custom to ensconce herself.</p> + +<p>"Nothing very dreadful, I dare say," replies Florence, in tones a degree +less even than usual, her appetite having got the better of her self-control.</p> + +<p>Almost as she says the words the door is thrown open, and Cyril enters. +He is in morning costume, his hair is a little rough, his face pale, his +lips bloodless. Walking straight up to his mother, without looking +either to the right or to the left, he says, in a low constrained voice +that betrays a desperate effort to be calm:</p> + +<p>"Be satisfied, mother: you have won the day. Your wish is fulfilled: I +shall never marry Mrs. Arlington: you need not have made such a +difficulty about giving your consent this morning, as now it is useless."</p> + +<p>"Cyril, what has happened?" says Lady Chetwoode, rising to her feet +alarmed, a distinct pallor overspreading her features. She puts out one +jeweled hand as though to draw him nearer to her, but for the first time +in all his life he shrinks from her gentle touch, and moving backward,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</a></span> +stands in the middle of the room. Lilian, going up to him, compels him +with loving violence to turn toward her.</p> + +<p>"Why don't you speak?" she asks, sharply. "Have you and Cecilia quarreled?"</p> + +<p>"No: it is no lovers' quarrel," with an odd change of expression: "we +have had little time for quarreling, she and I: our days for love-making +were so short, so sweet!"</p> + +<p>There is a pause: then in a clear harsh voice, in which no faintest +particle of feeling can be traced, he goes on: "Her husband is alive; he +is coming home. After all,"—with a short unlovely laugh, sad through +its very bitterness,—"we worried ourselves unnecessarily, as she was +not, what we so feared, a widow."</p> + +<p>"Cyril!" exclaims Lilian; she is trembling visibly, and gazes at him as +though fearing he may have lost his senses.</p> + +<p>"I would not have troubled you about this matter," continues Cyril, not +heeding the interruption, and addressing the room generally, without +permitting himself to look at any one, "but that it is a fact that must +be known sooner or later; I thought the sooner the better, as it will +end your anxiety and convince you that this <i>mesalliance</i> you so +dreaded,"—with a sneer,—"can never take place."</p> + +<p>Guy, who has come close to him, here lays his hand upon his arm.</p> + +<p>"Do not speak to us as though we could not feel for you," he says, +gently, pain and remorse struggling in his tone, "believe me——"</p> + +<p>But Cyril thrusts him back.</p> + +<p>"I want neither sympathy nor kind words now," he says, fiercely: "you +failed me when I most required them, when they might have made <i>her</i> +happy. I have spoken on this subject now once for all. From this moment +let no one dare broach it to me again."</p> + +<p>Guy is silent, repentant. No one speaks; the tears are running down Lilian's cheeks.</p> + +<p>"May not I?" she asks, in a distressed whisper. "Oh, my dear! do not +shut yourself up alone with your grief. Have I not been your friend? +Have not I, too, loved her? poor darling! Cyril, let me speak to you of her sometimes."</p> + +<p>"Not yet; not now," replies he, in the softest tone he has yet used, a +gleam of anguish flashing across his face. "Yes, you were always true to +her, my good little <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</a></span>Lilian!" Then, sinking his voice, "I am leaving +home, perhaps for years; do not forsake her. Try to console, to +comfort——" He breaks down hopelessly; raising her hand to his lips, he +kisses it fervently, and a second later has left the room.</p> + +<p>For quite two minutes after the door had closed upon him, no one stirs, +no one utters a word. Guy is still standing with downcast eyes upon the +spot that witnessed his repulse. Lilian is crying. Lady Chetwoode is +also dissolved in tears. It is this particular moment Florence chooses +to make the first remark that has passed her lips since Cyril's abrupt entrance.</p> + +<p>"Could anything be more fortunate?" she says, in a measured, +congratulatory way. "Could anything have happened more opportunely? Here +is this objectionable marriage irretrievably prevented without any +trouble on our parts. I really think we owe a debt of gratitude to this +very unpleasant husband."</p> + +<p>"Florence," cries Lady Chetwoode, with vehement reproach, stung to the +quick, "how can you see cause for rejoicing in the poor boy's misery! Do +you not think of him?" After which she subsides again, with an audible +sob, into her cambric. But Lilian is not so easily satisfied.</p> + +<p>"How dare you speak so?" she says, turning upon Florence with wet eyes +that flash fire through their tears. "You are a cold and heartless +woman. How should <i>you</i> understand what he is feeling,—poor, poor +Cyril!" This ebullition of wrath seems to do her good. Kneeling down by +her auntie, she places her arms round her, and has another honest +comfortable cry upon her bosom.</p> + +<p>Florence draws herself up to her full height, which is not +inconsiderable, and follows her movements with slow, supercilious +wonder. She half closes her white lids, and lets her mouth take a +slightly disdainful curve,—not too great a curve, but just enough to be +becoming and show the proper disgust she feels at the terrible +exhibition of ill-breeding that has just taken place.</p> + +<p>But as neither Lilian nor Lady Chetwoode can see her, and as Guy has +turned to the fire and is staring into its depths with an expression of +stern disapproval upon his handsome face, she presently finds she is +posing to no effect, and gives it up.</p> + +<p>Letting a rather vindictive look cover her features, she sweeps out of +the drawing-room up to her own chamber,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</a></span> and gets rid of her bad temper +so satisfactorily that after ten minutes her maid gives warning, and is +ready to curse the day she was born.</p> + +<p>The next morning, long before any one is up, Cyril takes his departure +by the early train, and for many days his home knows him no more.</p> + +<p class="center">* * * * * * *</p> + +<p>A mighty compassion for Cecilia fills the hearts of all at +Chetwoode—all, that is, except Miss Beauchamp, who privately considers +it extremely low and wretched form, to possess a heart at all.</p> + +<p>Lady Chetwoode, eager and anxious to atone for past unkind thought, goes +down to The Cottage in person and insists on seeing its sad +tenant,—when so tender and sympathetic is she, that, the ice being +broken and pride vanquished, the younger woman gives way, and, laying +her head upon the gentle bosom near her, has a hearty cry there, that +eases even while it pains her. I have frequently noticed that when one +person falls to weeping in the arms of another, that other person +maintains a <i>tendresse</i> for her for a considerable time afterward. +Cecilia's lucky rain of tears on this occasion softens her companion +wonderfully, so that Lady Chetwoode, who only came to pity, goes away admiring.</p> + +<p>There is an indescribable charm about Cecilia, impossible to resist. +Perhaps it is her beauty, perhaps her exquisite womanliness, combined +with the dignity that sits so sweetly on her. Lady Chetwoode succumbs to +it, and by degrees grows not only sympathetic toward her, but really +attached to her society,—"now, when it is too late," as poor Cecilia +tells herself, with a bitter pang. Yet the friendship of Cyril's mother +is dear to her, and helps to lighten the dreary days that must elapse +before the news of her husband's return to life is circumstantially +confirmed. They have all entreated her to make The Cottage still her +home, until such unwelcome news arrives.</p> + +<p>Colonel Trant's friend has again written from Russia, but without being +able to add another link to the chain of evidence. "He had not seen +Arlington since. He had changed his quarters, so they had missed, and he +had had no opportunity of cross-examining him as to his antecedents; but +he himself had small doubt he was the man they had so often discussed +together. He heard he had gone south, through Turkey, meaning to make +his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</a></span> voyage home by sea; he had mentioned something about preferring +that mode of traveling to any other. He could, of course, easily +ascertain the exact time he meant to return to England, and would let +Trant know without delay," etc.</p> + +<p>All this is eminently unsatisfactory, and suspense preying upon Cecilia +commits terrible ravages upon both face and form. Her large eyes look at +one full of a settled melancholy; her cheeks grow more hollow daily; her +once elastic step has grown slow and fearful, as though she dreads to +overtake misfortune. Every morning and evening, as the post hour draws +nigh, she suffers mental agony, through her excessive fear of what a +letter may reveal to her, sharper than any mere physical pain.</p> + +<p>Cyril has gone abroad; twice Lilian has received a line from him, but of +his movements or his feelings they know nothing. Cecilia has managed to +get both these curt letters into her possession, and no doubt treasures +them, and weeps over them, poor soul, as a saint might over a relic.</p> + +<p>Archibald, now almost recovered, has left them reluctantly for change of +air, in happy ignorance of the sad events that have been starting up +among them since his accident, as all those aware of the circumstances +naturally shrink from speaking of them, and show a united desire to +prevent the unhappy story from spreading further.</p> + +<p>So day succeeds day, until at length matters come to a crisis, and hopes +and fears are at an end.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</a></span></p> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_XXX" id="CHAPTER_XXX"></a>CHAPTER XXX.</span></h2> + +<div class="block2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"Love laid his sleepless head</div> +<div>On a thorny rose bed;</div> +<div>And his eyes with tears were red</div> +<div>And pale his lips as the dead.</div> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<div>"And fear, and sorrow, and scorn,</div> +<div>Kept watch by his head forlorn,</div> +<div>Till the night was overworn,</div> +<div>And the world was merry with morn.</div> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<div>"And joy came up with the day,</div> +<div>And kissed love's lips as he lay,</div> +<div>And the watchers, ghostly and gray,</div> +<div>Sped from his pillow away.</div> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<div>"And his eyes at the dawn grew bright</div> +<div>And his lips waxed ruddy as light:</div> +<div>Sorrow may reign for a night,</div> +<div>But day shall bring back delight."</div> +<div><span class="s12"> </span>—<span class="smcap">Swinburne.</span></div> +</div></div></div> + +<p>The strong old winter is dead. He has died slowly, painfully, with many +a desperate struggle, many a hard fight to reassert his power; but now +at last he's safely buried, pushed out of sight by all the soft little +armies of green leaves that have risen up in battle against him. Above +his grave the sweet, brave young grasses are springing, the myriad +flowers are bursting into fuller beauty, the birds, not now in twos or +threes, but in countless thousands, are singing melodiously among the as +yet half-opened leaves, making all the woods merry with their tender +madrigals. The whole land is awake and astir, crying, "Welcome" to the +flower-crowned spring, as she flies with winged feet over field, and +brook, and upland.</p> + +<p>It is the first week in March, a wonderfully soft and lamb-like March +even at this early stage of its existence. Archibald has again returned +to Chetwoode, strong and well, having been pressed to do so by Lady +Chetwoode, who has by this time brought herself, most reluctantly, to +believe his presence necessary to Lilian's happiness.</p> + +<p>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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</a></span> and the scornful manner in which he regards it, raise +within the bosoms of his numerous friends feelings of admiration the most intense.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"With what rapture would I hail your presence in the British army!" +replies Mr. Musgrave, totally unabashed.</p> + +<p class="center">* * * * * * *</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Lilian, alone of them all, clings wildly and obstinately to the hope +that this Arlington may not be <i>the</i> Arlington; but she is the only one +who dares place faith in this barren suggestion.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</a></span>pictures Cyril's increased despair and misery +should their worst fears be confirmed,—forgetting that Cyril, being +without hope, can no longer fear.</p> + +<p>Lilian, unable to work or read, wanders aimlessly through the house, +hardly knowing how to hide her growing depression from her cousins, who +alone remain quite ignorant of the impending trouble. Mr. Musgrave, +indeed, is so utterly unaware of the tragedy going on around him, that +he chooses this particular day to be especially lively, not to say +larky, and overpowers Lilian with his attentions; which so distracts her +that, watching her opportunity, she finally effects her escape through +the drawing-room window, and, running swiftly through the plantations, +turns in the direction of the wood.</p> + +<p>She eludes one cousin, however, only to throw herself into the arms of +another. Half-way to The Cottage she meets Archibald coming leisurely toward her.</p> + +<p>"Take me for a walk," he says, with humble entreaty; and Lilian, who, as +a rule, is kind to every one except her guardian, tells him, after an +unflattering pause, he may accompany her to such and such a distance, but no farther.</p> + +<p>"I am going to The Cottage," she says.</p> + +<p>"To see this Lady of Shalott, this mysterious Mariana in her moated +grange?" asks Chesney, lightly.</p> + +<p>Odd as it may sound, he has never yet been face to face with Cecilia. +Her determined seclusion and her habit of frequenting the parish church +in the next village, which is but a short distance from her, has left +her a stranger to almost every one in the neighborhood. Archibald is +indeed aware that The Cottage owns a tenant, and that her name is +Arlington, but nothing more. The fact of her never being named at +Chetwoode has prevented his asking any idle questions and thereby making any discoveries.</p> + +<p>When they have come to the rising mound that half overlooks The Cottage +garden, Lilian comes to a standstill.</p> + +<p>"Now you must leave me," she says, imperatively.</p> + +<p>"Why? We are quite a day's journey from The Cottage yet. Let me see you to the gate."</p> + +<p>"How tiresome you are!" says Miss Chesney; "just like a big baby, only +not half so nice: you always want more than you are promised."</p> + +<p>As Chesney makes no reply to this sally, she glances at him, and, +following the direction of his eyes, sees Cecilia,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</a></span> who has come out for +a moment or two to breathe the sweet spring air, walking to and fro +among the garden paths. It is a very pale and changed Cecilia upon whom they look.</p> + +<p>"Why," exclaims Chesney, in a tone of rapt surprise, "surely that is Miss Duncan!"</p> + +<p>"No,"—amazed,—"it is Mrs. Arlington, Sir Guy's tenant."</p> + +<p>"True,"—slowly,—"I believe she did marry that fellow afterward. But I +never knew her except as Miss Duncan."</p> + +<p>"You knew her?"</p> + +<p>"Very slightly,"—still with his eyes fixed upon Cecilia, as she paces +mournfully up and down in the garden below them, with bent head and +slow, languid movements. "Once I spoke to her, but I knew her well by +sight; she was, she <i>is</i>, one of the loveliest women I ever saw. But how +changed she is! how altered, how white her face appears! or can it be +the distance makes me think so? I remember her such a merry girl—almost +a child—when she married Arlington."</p> + +<p>"Yes? She does not look merry now," says Lilian, the warm tears rising +in her eyes: "poor darling, no wonder she looks depressed!"</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"Oh," says Lilian, hesitating, "something about her husband, you know."</p> + +<p>"You don't mean to say she is wearing sackcloth and the willow, and all +that sort of thing, for Arlington all this time?" in a tone of +astonishment largely flavored with contempt. "I knew him uncommonly well +before he married, and I should think his death would have been a cause +for rejoicing to his wife, above all others."</p> + +<p>"Ah! that is just it," says Lilian, consumed with a desire to tell: she +sinks her voice mysteriously, and sighs a heavy sigh tinctured with melancholy.</p> + +<p>"Just so," unsympathetically. "Some women, I believe, are hopeless idiots."</p> + +<p>"They are not," indignantly; "Cecilia is not an idiot; she is miserable +because he is—alive! <i>Now</i> what do you think?"</p> + +<p>"Alive!" incredulously.</p> + +<p>"Exactly so," with all the air of a triumphant <i>raconteur</i>. "And when +she had believed him dead, too, for so<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</a></span> long! is it not hard upon her, +poor thing! to have him come to life again so disagreeably without a +word of warning? I really think it is quite enough to kill her."</p> + +<p>"Well, I never!" says Mr. Chesney, staring at her. It isn't an elegant +remark, but it is full of animated surprise, and satisfies Lilian.</p> + +<p>"Is it not a tragedy?" she says, growing more and more pitiful every +moment. "All was going on well (it doesn't matter what), when suddenly +some one wrote to Colonel Trant to say he had seen this odious Mr. +Arlington alive and well in Russia, and that he was on his way home. I +shall always"—viciously—"hate the man who wrote it: one would think he +had nothing else to write about, stupid creature! but is it not shocking +for her, poor thing?"</p> + +<p>At this, seemingly without rhyme or reason (except a depraved delight in +other people's sufferings), Mr. Chesney bursts into a loud enjoyable +laugh, and continues it for some seconds. He might perhaps have +continued it until now, did not Lilian see fit to wither his mirth in the bud.</p> + +<p>"Is it a cause for laughter?" she asks, wrathfully; "but it is <i>just +like you</i>! I don't believe you have an atom of feeling. Positively I +think you would laugh if <i>auntie</i>, who is almost a mother to you, was <i>dead</i>!"</p> + +<p>"No, I should not," declares Archibald, subsiding from amusement to the +very lowest depths of sulk: "pardon me for contradicting you, but I +should not even <i>smile</i> were Lady Chetwoode dead. She is perhaps the one +woman in the world whose death would cause me unutterable sorrow."</p> + +<p>"Then why did you laugh just now?"</p> + +<p>"Because if you had seen a man lie dead and had attended his funeral, +even <i>you</i> might consider it a joke to hear he was 'alive and well.'"</p> + +<p>"You saw him dead!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, as dead as Julius Cæsar," morosely. "It so happened I knew him +uncommonly well years ago: 'birds of a feather,' you +know,"—bitterly,—"'flock together.' We flocked for a considerable +time. Then I lost sight of him, and rather forgot all about him than +otherwise, until I met him again in Vienna, more than two years ago. I +saw him stabbed,—I had been dining with him that night,—and helped to +carry him home; it seemed a slight affair, and I left him in the hands +of a very skillful <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</a></span>physician, believing him out of danger. Next +morning, when I called, he was dead."</p> + +<p>"Archie,"—in a low awe-struck whisper,—"is it all true?"</p> + +<p>"Perfectly true."</p> + +<p>"You could not by any possibility be mistaken?"</p> + +<p>"Not by any."</p> + +<p>"Then, Archie," says Lilian, solemnly, "you are a <i>darling</i>!"</p> + +<p>"Am I?" grimly. "I thought I was a demon who could laugh at the demise +of his best friend."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense!" tucking her hand genially beneath his arm; "I only said that +out of vexation. Think as little about it as I do. I know for a fact you +are not half a bad boy. Come now with me to The Cottage, that I may tell +this extraordinary, this delightful story to Cecilia."</p> + +<p>"Is Cecilia Miss Duncan?"</p> + +<p>"No, Mrs. Arlington. Archie,"—seriously,—"you are quite, utterly sure +you know all about it?"</p> + +<p>"Do you imagine I dreamed it? Of course I am sure. But if you think I am +going down there to endure hysterics, and be made damp with tears, you +are much mistaken. I won't go, Lilian; you needn't think it; I—I should +be afraid."</p> + +<p>"Console yourself; I shan't require your assistance," calmly. "I only +want you to stay outside while I break the good news to her, lest she +should wish to ask you a question. I only hope, Archie, you are telling +me the exact truth,"—severely,—"that you are not drawing on your +imagination, and that it was no other man of the same name you saw lying dead?"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps it was," replies he, huffily, turning away as they reach the wicket gate.</p> + +<p>"Do not stir from where you are now," says she, imperiously: "I may want +you at any moment."</p> + +<p>So Archibald, who does not dare disobey her commands, strays idly up and +down outside the hedge, awaiting his summons. It is rather long in +coming, so that his small stock of patience is nearly exhausted when he +receives a message begging him to come in-doors.</p> + +<p>As he enters the drawing-room, however, he is so struck with compassion +at the sight of Cecilia's large, half-frightened eyes turned upon him +that he loses all his ill humor and grows full of sympathy. She is very +unlike the happy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</a></span> Cecilia of a month ago, still more unlike the calm, +dignified Cecilia who first came to Chetwoode. She is pale as the early +blossoms that lie here and there in soft wanton luxuriance upon her +tables; her whole face is eager and expectant. She is trembling +perceptibly from head to foot.</p> + +<p>"What is it you would tell me, sir?" she asks, with deep entreaty. It is +as though she longs yet fears to believe.</p> + +<p>"I would tell you, madam," replies Chesney, respect and pity in his +tone, taking and holding the hand she extends to him, while Lilian +retains the other and watches her anxiously, "that fears are groundless. +A most gross mistake has, I understand, caused you extreme uneasiness. I +would have you dismiss this trouble from your mind. I happened to know +Jasper Arlington well: I was at Vienna the year he was there; we met +often. I witnessed the impromptu duel that caused his death; I saw him +stabbed; I myself helped to carry him to his rooms; next morning he was +dead. Forgive me, madam, that I speak so brusquely. It is best, I think, +to be plain, to mention bare facts."</p> + +<p>Here he pauses, and Cecilia's breath comes quickly; involuntarily her +fingers close round his; a question she hardly dares to ask trembles on +her lips. Archibald reads it in the silent agony of her eyes.</p> + +<p>"I saw him dead," he says, softly, and is rewarded by a grateful glance from Lilian.</p> + +<p>Cecilia's eyes close; a dry, painful sob comes from between her pallid lips.</p> + +<p>"She will faint," cries Lilian, placing her arms round her.</p> + +<p>"No, I shall not." By a great effort Cecilia overcomes the insensibility +fast creeping over her. "I thank you, sir," she says to Archibald: "your +words sound like truth. I would I dared believe them! but I have been so +often——" she stops, half choked with emotion. "What must you think me +but inhuman?" she says, sobbingly. "All women except me mourn their +husband's death; I mourn, in that I fear him living."</p> + +<p>"Madam," replies Archibald, scarcely knowing what to say, "I too knew +Jasper Arlington; for me, therefore, it would be impossible to judge you +harshly in this matter. Were you, or any other living soul, to pretend +regret for him, pardon me if I say I should deem you a hypocrite."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</a></span></p><p>"You must believe what he has told you," says Lilian, emphatically: "it +admits of no denial. But, to-morrow, at all events, will bring you news +from Colonel Trant that will compel you to acknowledge its truth."</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes. Oh, that to-morrow was here!" murmurs Cecilia, faintly. And +Lilian understands that not until Trant's letter is within her hands +will she allow herself to entertain hope.</p> + +<p>Silently Lilian embraces her, and she and Archibald return home.</p> + +<p class="center">* * * * * * *</p> + +<p>At Chetwoode very intense relief and pleasure are felt as Lilian relates +her wonderful story. Every one is only too willing to place credence in +it. Chesney confesses to some sensations of shame.</p> + +<p>"Somehow," he says, "it never occurred to me your tenant might be Jasper +Arlington's wife and the pretty Miss Duncan who tore my heart into +fritters some years ago. And I knew nothing of all this terrible story +about her husband's supposed resuscitation until to-day. It is a 'comedy +of errors.' I feel inclined to sink into the ground when I remember how +I have walked about here among you all, with full proof of what would +have set you all at rest in no time, carefully locked up in my breast. +Although innocent, Lady Chetwoode, I feel I ought to apologize."</p> + +<p>"I shall go down and make her come up to Chetwoode," says her ladyship, +warmly. "Poor girl! it is far too lonely for her to be down there by +herself, especially just now when she must be so unstrung. As soon as I +hear she has had that letter from George Trant, I shall persuade her to come to us."</p> + +<p>The next evening brings a letter from Trant that falls like a little +warm seal of certainty upon the good news of yesterday.</p> + +<p>"Going down to the landing-place," writes he, "I found the steamer had +really arrived, and went on board instantly. With my heart beating to +suffocation I walked up to the captain, and asked him if any gentleman +named Arlington had come with him. He said, 'Yes, he was here just now,' +and looking round, pointed to a tall man bending over some luggage. +'There he is,' he said. I went up to the tall man. I could see he was a +good height, and that his hair was black. As I noted this last<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</a></span> fact my +blood froze in my veins. When I was quite close to him he raised +himself, turned, and looked full at me! And once more my blood ran +warmly, comfortably. It was <i>not</i> the man I had feared to see. I drew my +breath quickly, and to make assurance doubly sure, determined to ask his name.</p> + +<p>"'Sir,' I said, bluntly, forgetful of etiquette, 'is your name Arlington?'</p> + +<p>"'Sir,' replied he, regarding me with calm surprise, 'it is.' At this +moment I confess I lost my head. I became once more eighteen, and +impulsive. I grasped his hands; I wrung them affectionately, not to say violently.</p> + +<p>"'Then, my dear sir,' I exclaimed, rapturously, 'I owe you a debt of +gratitude. I thank you with all my heart. Had you not been born an +Arlington, I might now be one of the most miserable men alive; as it is, +I am one of the happiest.'</p> + +<p>"My new friend stared. Then he gave way to an irrepressible laugh, and +shrugged his shoulders expressively.</p> + +<p>"'My good fellow,' said he, 'be reasonable. Take yourself back again to +the excellent asylum from which you have escaped, and don't make further +fuss about it. With your genial disposition you are sure to be caught.'</p> + +<p>"At this I thought it better to offer him some slight explanation, which +so amused him that he insisted on carrying me off with him to his hotel, +where we dined, and where I found him a very excellent fellow indeed."</p> + +<p>In this wise runs his letter. Cecilia reads it until each comforting +assertion is shrined within her heart and doubt is no longer possible. +Then an intense gratitude fills her whole being; her eyes grow dim with +tears; clasping her hands earnestly, she falls upon her knees.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</a></span></p> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_XXXI" id="CHAPTER_XXXI"></a>CHAPTER XXXI.</span></h2> + +<div class="block3"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"How like a winter hath my absence been</div> +<div>From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!</div> +<div>What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen,</div> +<div>What old December's bareness everywhere!"</div> +<div><span class="s12"> </span>—<span class="smcap">Shakespeare.</span></div> +</div></div></div> + +<p>So Lady Chetwoode goes down to The Cottage in her carriage, and insists +upon carrying Cecilia back with her,—to which, after a slight demur, +Cecilia gladly assents.</p> + +<p>"But how to get Cyril," says practical Lilian, who is with them.</p> + +<p>"He is in Amsterdam," answers Cecilia, with some hesitation. "Colonel +Trant told me so in his letter."</p> + +<p>"Colonel Trant is the most wonderful man I know," says Lilian; "but +Amsterdam of all places! What on earth can any one want in Amsterdam?"</p> + +<p>At this they all laugh, partly because they are still somewhat nervously +inclined, and partly because (though why, I cannot explain) they seem to +find something amusing in the mere thought of Amsterdam.</p> + +<p>"I hope he won't bring back with him a fat <i>vrouw</i>," says Miss Chesney. +And then she runs up-stairs to tell Kate to get ready to accompany her mistress.</p> + +<p>Turning rather timidly toward Lady Chetwoode, Cecilia says:</p> + +<p>"When Cyril returns, then,—you will not—you do not——"</p> + +<p>"When he returns, my dear, you must marry him at once, if only to make +amends for all the misery the poor boy has been enduring. +But,"—kindly—"you must study economy, child; remember you are not +marrying a rich man."</p> + +<p>"He is rich enough for me," smiling; "though indeed it need not signify, +as I have money enough for both. I never spoke of it until now, because +I wished to keep it as a little surprise for him on—on our wedding-day, +but at Mr. Arlington's death I inherited all his fortune. He never +altered the will made before our marriage, and it is nearly four +thousand a year, I think," simply: "Colonel Trant knows the exact +amount, because he is a trustee."</p> + +<p>Lady Chetwoode colors deeply. This woman, whom<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</a></span> she had termed +"adventuress," is in reality possessed of a far larger fortune than the +son she would have guarded from her at all hazards; proves to be an +heiress, still further enriched by the priceless gifts of grace and beauty!</p> + +<p>To say the very least of it, Lady Chetwoode feels small. But, pride +coming to her rescue, she says, somewhat stiffly, while the pleasant +smile of a moment since dies from her face:</p> + +<p>"I had no idea you were so—so—in fact, I believed you almost +portionless. I was led—how I know not—but I certainly was led to think +so. What you say is a surprise. With so much money you should hesitate +before taking any final step. The world is before you,—you are young, +and very charming. I will ask you to forgive an old woman's bluntness; +but remember, there is always something desirable in a title. I would +have you therefore consider. My son is no match for you where <i>money</i> is +concerned." This last emphatically and very proudly.</p> + +<p>Cecilia flushes, and grows distressed.</p> + +<p>"Dear Lady Chetwoode," she says, taking her hand forcibly. "I entreat +you not to speak to me so. Do not make me again unhappy. This money, +which up to the present I have scarcely touched, so hateful has it been +to me, has of late become almost precious to my sight. I please myself +with the thought that the giving of it to—to Cyril—may be some small +return to him for all the tenderness he has lavished upon me. Do not be +angry with me that I cherish, and find such intense gratification in +this idea. It is so sweet to give to those we love!"</p> + +<p>"You have a generous heart," Lady Chetwoode answers, moved by her +generous manner, and pleased too, for money, like music, "hath charms." +"If I have seemed ungracious, forget it. Extreme wonder makes us at +times careless of courtesy, and we did not suspect one who could choose +to live in such a quiet spot as this of being an heiress."</p> + +<p>"You will keep my secret?" anxiously.</p> + +<p>"I promise. You shall be the first to tell it to your husband upon your +wedding-day. I think," says the elder lady, gracefully, "he is too +blessed. Surely you possessed treasure enough in your own person!"</p> + +<p class="center">* * * * * * *</p> + +<p>So Cecilia goes to Chetwoode, and shortly afterward Lady Chetwoode +conceives a little plot that pleases her <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</a></span>intensely, and which she +relates with such evident gusto that Lilian tells her she is an +<i>intrigante</i> of the deepest dye, and that positively for the future she +shall feel quite afraid of her.</p> + +<p>"I never heard anything so artful," says Taffy, who has with much +perseverance wormed himself into their confidence. In fact, after +administering various rebuffs they all lose heart, and confess to him +the whole truth out of utter desperation. "Downright artful!" repeats +Mr. Musgrave, severely. "I shouldn't have believed you capable of it."</p> + +<p>But Cecilia says it is a charming scheme, and sighs for its +accomplishment. Whereupon a telegram is written and sent to Cyril. It is +carefully worded, and, though strictly truthful in letter, rather +suggests the idea that his instant return to Chetwoode will be the only +means of saving his entire family from asphyxiation. It is a thrilling +telegram, almost bound to bring him back without delay, had he but one +grain of humanity left in his composition.</p> + +<p>It evokes an answer that tells them he has started on receipt of their +message, and names the day and hour they may expect him, wind and weather permitting.</p> + +<p class="center">* * * * * * *</p> + +<p>It is night,—a rather damp, decidedly unlovely night. The little +station at Truston is almost deserted: only the station-master and two +melancholy porters represent life in its most dejected aspect. Outside +the railings stands the Chetwoode carriage, the horses foaming and +champing their bits in eager impatience to return again to their comfortable stables.</p> + +<p>Guy, with a cigar between his lips, is pacing up and down, indifferent +alike to the weather or the delay. One of the melancholy porters, who is +evidently in the final stage of depression, tells him the train was due +five minutes ago, and hopes dismally there has been no accident higher +up on the line. Guy, who is lost in thought, hopes so too, and instantly +offers the man a cigar, through force of habit, which the moody one +takes sadly, and deposits in a half-hearted fashion in one of his +numerous rambling pockets to show to his children when he gets home.</p> + +<p>"If ever I <i>do</i> get home," he says to himself, hopelessly, taking out +and lighting an honest clay that has seen considerable service.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</a></span></p><p>Then a shrill whistle rings through the air, the train steams lazily +into the station, and Guy, casting a hasty glance at the closed blinds +of the carriage outside, hastens forward to meet Cyril, who is the only +passenger for Truston to-night.</p> + +<p>"Has anything happened?" he asks, anxiously, advancing to greet Sir Guy.</p> + +<p>"Yes, but nothing to make you uneasy. Do not ask me any questions now: +you will hear all when you get home."</p> + +<p>"Our mother is well?"</p> + +<p>"Quite well. Are you ready? What a beastly objectionable night it is! +Have you seen to everything, Buckley? Get in, Cyril. I am going outside +to finish my cigar."</p> + +<p>When Guy chooses, he is energetic. Cyril is not, and allows himself to +be pushed unresistingly in the direction of the carriage.</p> + +<p>"Hurry, man: the night is freezing," says Guy, giving him a final touch. +"Home, Buckley."</p> + +<p>Guy springs up in front. Cyril finds himself in the brougham, and in +another instant they are beyond the station railings, rolling along the +road leading to Chetwoode.</p> + +<p>As Cyril closes the door and turns round, the light of the lamps outside +reveals to him the outline of a dark figure seated beside him.</p> + +<p>"Is it you, Lilian?" he asks, surprised; and then the dark figure leans +forward, throws back a furred hood, and Cecilia's face, pale, but full +of a glad triumph, smiles upon him.</p> + +<p>"You!" exclaims he, unsteadily, unable through utter amazement to say +anything more, while with his eyes he gathers in hungrily each delicate +beauty in that "sweetest face to him in all this world."</p> + +<p>Whereupon Cecilia nods almost saucily, though the tears are thick within +her lovely eyes, and answers him:</p> + +<p>"Yes, it is even I. Are you glad or sorry, that you stare so rudely at +me? and never a word of greeting! Shame, then! Have you left all your +manners behind you in Amsterdam? I have come all this way, this cold +night, to bid you welcome and bring you home to Chetwoode, and +yet—— Oh, Cyril!" suddenly flinging herself into his longing arms, "it +is all right at last, my dear—dear—<i>dear</i>, and you may love me again +as much as ever you like!"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</a></span></p><p>When explanations have come to an end, and they are somewhat calmer, +Cyril says:</p> + +<p>"But how is it that you are here with Guy, and going to Chetwoode?"</p> + +<p>"I am staying at Chetwoode. Your mother came herself, and brought me +back with her. How kind she is, how sweet! Even had I never known you, I +should have loved her dearly."</p> + +<p>This last assurance from the lips of his beloved makes up the sum of Cyril's content.</p> + +<p>"Tell me more, sweetheart," he says, contented only to listen. With his +arms round her, with her face so close to his, with both their hearts +beating in happy unison, he hardly cares to question, but is well +pleased to keep silence, and listen to the soft, loving babble that +issues from her lips. Her very words seem to him, who has so long +wearied for them, set to tenderest music. "Like flakes of feathered +snow, they melted as they fell."</p> + +<p>"I have so much to tell, I scarcely know where to begin. Do you know you +are to escort me to a ball at Mrs. Steyne's next week? No? why, you know +nothing; so much for sojourning in Amsterdam. Then I suppose you are +ignorant of the fact that I have ordered the most delicious dress you +ever beheld to grace the occasion and save myself from disgracing you. +And you are to be very proud of me, and to admire me immensely, or I +shall never forgive you."</p> + +<p>"I am pretty certain not to deserve condign punishment on that score," +fondly. "Darling, can it be really true that we are together again, that +all the late horrible hopelessness is at an end? Cecilia, if this should +prove a dream, and I awoke now, it would kill me."</p> + +<p>"Nay, it is no dream," softly. Turning up her perfect face, until the +lips are close to his, she whispers, "Kiss me, and be convinced."</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</a></span></p> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_XXXII" id="CHAPTER_XXXII"></a>CHAPTER XXXII.</span></h2> + +<div class="block3"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature!"</div> +<div><span class="s12"> </span>—<i>Cymbeline.</i></div> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<div>"No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful</div> +<div>I know, her spirits are as coy and wild</div> +<div>As haggards of the rock.</div> +<div class="i2">* * * * * * *</div> +<div>Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes,</div> +<div>Misprising what they look on."</div> +<div><span class="s12"> </span>—<i>Much Ado About Nothing.</i></div> +</div></div></div> + +<p>"Sir Guy," says Miss Chesney, two days later, bursting into his private +sanctum as "the eve is declining," in a rather stormy fashion, "I must +ask you to speak to your groom Buckley: he has been exceedingly rude to me."</p> + +<p>"Rude? Buckley?" exclaims Sir Guy, with a frown, throwing down the paper +he has been trying to read in the fast growing gloom. It is dusk, but +the red light of the fire flickers full upon his face, betraying the +anger that is gathering there. A looker-on would have readily understood +by it that Buckley's hours for grooming at Chetwoode are few.</p> + +<p>"Yes. I told him to have Saracen saddled for me to-morrow morning, as +the meet is at Ryston, and I expect a good run; and he said he should +not do it without your permission, or orders, or something equally impertinent."</p> + +<p>"Saracen!" returns Chetwoode, aghast, losing sight of Buckley's +miserable behavior, or rather condoning it on the spot; "you don't mean +to tell me that for one moment you dreamed of riding Saracen?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly I did. And why not?" preparing for battle.</p> + +<p>"Because the idea is simply absurd. You could not possibly ride him. He +is not half trained."</p> + +<p>"Archibald rode him last week, and says he is perfect, and quite safe. I +have decided on trying him to-morrow."</p> + +<p>"I wish Chesney would not put such thoughts into your head. He is <i>not</i> +safe, and he has never been ridden by a woman."</p> + +<p>"That is just why I fancy him: I have often before now ridden horses +that had never had a lady on their backs until I rode them. And +to-morrow I feel sure will be a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</a></span> good day, besides being probably my +last meet for the season."</p> + +<p>"My dear child, I think it would indeed be your last meet were you to +ride that brute: his temper is thoroughly uncertain."</p> + +<p>"You told me a few days ago my hand could make any horse's mouth, and now——"</p> + +<p>"I told you then what I tell you again now, that you are one of the best +woman riders I ever saw. But for all that, you would find it impossible to manage Saracen."</p> + +<p>"You refuse him to me, then?" with an ominous gleam in her eyes.</p> + +<p>"I wish you would not look at it in that light: I merely cannot consent +to let you break your neck. If your own mare does not please you, you +can take my mount, or any other in the entire stables."</p> + +<p>"No, thank you, I only want that one."</p> + +<p>"But, my dear Lilian, pray be reasonable!" entreats Chetwoode, warmly, +and just a trifle impatiently: "do you think I would be doing my duty by +you if I sanctioned such a rash proceeding?"</p> + +<p>"Your duty?" unpleasantly, and with a certain scornful uplifting of her +small Grecian nose.</p> + +<p>"Just so," coldly; "I am your guardian, remember."</p> + +<p>"Oh, pray do not perpetually seek to remind me of that detestable fact," +says Miss Chesney, vindictively; whereupon Sir Guy freezes, and subsides +into dead and angry silence. Lilian, sweeping over to the darkening +window, commences upon the pane a most disheartening tattoo, that makes +the listener long for death. When Chetwoode can stand it no longer, he +breaks the oppressive stillness.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps you are not aware," he says, angrily, "that a noise of that +description is intensely irritating."</p> + +<p>"No. <i>I</i> like it," retorts Miss Chesney, tattooing louder than ever.</p> + +<p>"If you go on much longer, you will drive me out of my mind," remarks +Guy, distractedly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, don't let it come to that," calmly; "let me drive you out of the room first."</p> + +<p>"As to my guardianship," says Chetwoode, in a chilling tone, "console +yourself with the reflection that it cannot last forever. Time is never +at a standstill, and your twenty-first birthday will restore you to +freedom. You can<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</a></span> then ride as many wild animals and kill yourself as +quickly as you please, without asking any one's consent."</p> + +<p>"I can do that now too, and probably shall. I have quite made up my mind +to ride Saracen to-morrow!"</p> + +<p>"Then the sooner you unmake that mind the better."</p> + +<p>"Well,"—turning upon him as though fully prepared to crush him with her +coming speech,—"if I don't ride him I shall stay at home altogether: there!"</p> + +<p>"I think that will be by far the wiser plan of the two," returns he, coolly.</p> + +<p>"What! and lose all my day!" cries Lilian, overwhelmed by the atrocity +of this remark, "while you and all the others go and enjoy yourselves! +How hatefully selfish you can be! But I won't be tyrannized over in this +fashion. I shall go, and on Saracen too."</p> + +<p>"You shall not," firmly.</p> + +<p>Miss Chesney has come close up to where he is standing on the +hearth-rug. The fire-light dances and crackles merrily, casting its +rays, now yellow, now deep crimson, over their angry faces, as though +drawing keen enjoyment from the deadly duel going on so near to it. One +pale gleam lingers lovingly upon Lilian's sunny head, throwing over it +yet another shade, if possible richer and more golden than its fellows; +another lights up her white hands, rather defiantly clinched, one small +foot in its high-heeled shoe that has advanced beyond her gown, and two +blue eyes large with indignant astonishment.</p> + +<p>Guy is returning her gaze with almost equal indignation, being angrily +remindful of certain looks and scenes that of late have passed between them.</p> + +<p>"You defy me?" says Lilian, slowly.</p> + +<p>"I do."</p> + +<p>"You <i>refuse</i> me?" as though not quite believing the evidence of her senses.</p> + +<p>"I do. I forbid you to ride that one horse."</p> + +<p>"Forbid me!" exclaims she passionately, tears starting to her eyes. "You +are fond of forbidding, as it seems to me. Recollect, sir, that, though +unhappily your ward, I am neither your child nor your wife."</p> + +<p>"I assure you I had never the presumption to imagine you in the latter +character," he answers, haughtily, turning very pale, but speaking +steadily and in a tone eminently uncomplimentary.</p> + +<p>"Your voice says more than your words," exclaims <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</a></span>Lilian, too angry to +weigh consequences. "Am I to understand"—with an unlovely laugh—"you +think me unworthy to fill so exalted a position?"</p> + +<p>"As you press me for the truth," says Chetwoode, who has lost his temper +completely, "I confess I should hardly care to live out my life with +such a——"</p> + +<p>"Yes, go on; 'with such a—' shrew, is it? or perhaps virago?"</p> + +<p>"As you wish it," with a contemptuous shrug; "either will suit, but I +was going to say 'flirt.'"</p> + +<p>"Were you?" cries she, tears of mortification and rage dimming her eyes, +all the spoiled child within her rising in arms. "Flirt, am I? and +shrew? Well, I will not have the name of it without the gain of it. I +hate you, hate you, <i>hate</i> you!"</p> + +<p>With the last word she raises her hand suddenly and administers to him a +sound and wholesome box upon the ear.</p> + +<p>The effect is electric. Sir Guy starts back as though stunned. Never in +all his life has he been so utterly taken aback, routed with such deadly +slaughter. The dark, hot color flames into his cheeks. Shame for her—a +sort of horror that she should have been guilty of such an +act—overpowers him. Involuntarily he puts one hand up to the cheek her +slender fingers, now hanging so listlessly at her side, have wounded, +while regarding her with silent amazement largely mixed with reproach.</p> + +<p>As for Lilian, the deed once done, she would have given worlds to recall +it,—that is, secretly,—but in this life, unfortunately, facts +accomplished cannot be undone. Outwardly she is as defiant as ever, and, +though extremely white, steadily and unflinchingly returns his gaze.</p> + +<p>Yet after a little, a very little while, her eyes fall before his, her +pretty, proud head droops somewhat, a small remnant of grace springs up +in the very middle of all her passion and disdain. She is frightened, nervous, contrite.</p> + +<p>When the silence has become absolutely unbearable, Guy says, in a low +tone that betrays not the faintest feeling:</p> + +<p>"I am afraid I must have said something to annoy you terribly. I confess +I lost my temper, and otherwise behaved as a gentleman should not. I beg your pardon."</p> + +<p>His voice is that of a stranger; it is so altered she scarcely knows it. +Never in their worst disputes has he so spoken to her. With a little +sickening feeling of <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</a></span>despair and terror at her heart, she turns away +and moves toward the door.</p> + +<p>"Are you going? Pray take care. The room is very dark where the +fire-light does not penetrate," says Guy, still in the same curiously +changed voice, so full of quiet indifference, so replete with the cold +courtesy we accord to those who are outside and beyond our affections.</p> + +<p>He opens the door for her, and bows very slightly as she passes through, +and then closes it again calmly, while she, with weary, listless +footsteps, drags herself up-stairs and throws herself upon her bed.</p> + +<p>Lying there with dry and open eyes, not daring to think, she hardly +cares to analyze her own feelings. She knows she is miserable, and +obstinately tries to persuade herself it is because she has been +thwarted in her desire to ride Saracen, but in vain. After a struggle +with her better thoughts, she gives in, and acknowledges her soreness of +heart arises from the conviction that she has forever disgraced herself +in her guardian's eyes. She will never be able to look at him again, +though in truth that need scarcely signify, as surely in the future he +will not care to see where she may be looking. It is all over. He is +done with her. Instinctively she understands from his altered manner how +he has made up his mind never again to exercise his right over her as +guardian, never again to concern himself about either her weal or her +woe. She is too wretched to cry, and lies prostrate, her pulses +throbbing, her brain on fire.</p> + +<p>"What is it, my bird?" asks nurse, entering, and bending solicitously +over her. "Are you not well? Does your head ache?"</p> + +<p>"It is not my head," plaintively.</p> + +<p>"Your side, my lamb?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, it is my side," says Lilian, laying her hand pathetically upon her +heart; and then, overcome by the weight of her own sorrows, she buries +her head in her pillows and bursts into tears.</p> + +<p>"Eh, hinny, don't cry," says nurse, fondly. "We must all have pains +there at times, an' we must just learn to bear them as best we may. +Come, look up, my bairn; I will put on a good mustard blister to-night, +and to-morrow I tell you it won't magnify at all," winds up nurse, +fluently, who rather prides herself upon her management of the Queen's +English, and would scorn to acknowledge<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</a></span> the misplacement of a word here +and there; and indeed, after all, when one comes to think of it, it does +<i>not</i> "magnify" very much.</p> + +<p>But Lilian sobs on disconsolately. And next morning she has fresh cause +to bewail her evil conduct. For the day breaks and continues through all +its short life so wet, so wild, so stormy, that neither Saracen nor any +other horse can leave the stables. Hunting is out of the question, and +with a fresh pang, that through its severity is punishment enough for +her fault, she knows all her temper of the night before was displayed for naught.</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII.</span></h2> + +<div class="block3"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"Meanwhile the day sinks fast, the sun is set,</div> +<div>And in the lighted hall the guests are met;</div> +<div>The beautiful looked lovelier in the light</div> +<div>Of love, and admiration, and delight</div> +<div>Reflected from a thousand hearts and eyes,</div> +<div>Kindling a momentary paradise."</div> +<div><span class="s12"> </span>—<span class="smcap">Shelley</span>: <i>Ginevra</i>.</div> +</div></div></div> + +<p>It is the night of Mabel Steyne's ball. In the library at Chetwoode they +are almost every one assembled, except Lilian, and Florence Beauchamp, +and Mr. Musgrave, whose dressing occupies a considerable part of his +life, and who is still sufficiently young to find pleasure in it.</p> + +<p>Lady Chetwoode in gray satin is looking charming; Cecilia, lovely, in +the palest shade of blue. She is standing at a table somewhat apart, +conversing with Cyril, who is fastening a bracelet upon one of her arms. +Guy and Archibald are carrying on a desultory conversation.</p> + +<p>And now the door opens, and Lilian comes in. For the first time for a +whole year she has quite discarded mourning to-night, and is dressed in +pure white. Some snowdrops are thrown carelessly among the folds of the +tulle that covers and softens her silk gown; a tiny spray of the same +flower lies nestling in her hair.</p> + +<p>She appears more fairy-like, more child-like and sweeter than ever, as +she advances into the room, with a pretty consciousness of her own +beauty, that sits charmingly upon her. She is a perfect little vision of +loveliness, and is <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</a></span>tenderly aware of the fact. Her neck is fair, her +shoulders rounded and kissable as an infant's; her eyes are gleaming, +her lips apart and smiling; her sunny hair, that is never quite as +smooth as other people's, lies in rippling coils upon her head, while +across her forehead a few short rebellious love-locks wander.</p> + +<p>Seeing her, Sir Guy and Chesney are filled with a simultaneous longing +to take her in their arms and embrace her then and there.</p> + +<p>Sweeping past Sir Guy, as though he is invisible, she goes on, happy, +radiant toward Lady Chetwoode. She is in her airiest mood, and has +evidently cast behind her all petty <i>désagréments</i>, being bent on +enjoying life to its fullest for this one night at least.</p> + +<p>"Is not my dress charming, auntie? does it not become me?" she asks, +with the utmost <i>naïveté</i>, casting a backward glance over her shoulder +at her snowy train.</p> + +<p>"It does, indeed. Let me congratulate you, darling," says Lady Chetwoode +to her favorite: "it is really exquisite."</p> + +<p>"Lovely as its wearer," says Archibald, with a suppressed sigh.</p> + +<p>"Pouf!" says Lilian, gayly: "what a simile! It is a rudeness; who dares +compare me with a paltry gown? A tenth part as lovely, you mean. How +refractory this button is!" holding out to him a rounded arm to have the +twelfth button of her glove fastened; "try can you do it for me?"</p> + +<p>Here Taffy enters, and is apparently struck with exaggerated admiration +as he beholds her.</p> + +<p>"Ma conscience!" he says, in the words of the famous Dominie, "what a +little swell we are! Titania, my dear, permit me to compliment you on +the success you are sure to have. Monsieur Worth has excelled himself! +Really, you are very nearly pretty. You'll have a good time of it +to-night, I shouldn't wonder."</p> + +<p>"I hope so," gladly; "I can hardly keep my feet quiet, I do so long to +dance. And so you admire me?"</p> + +<p>"Intensely. As a tribute to your beauty, I think I shall give you a kiss."</p> + +<p>"Not for worlds," exclaims she, retreating hastily. "I know your +embraces of old. Do let me take my flowers and tulle uncrushed to +Mabel's, or I shall complain of you to her, and so spoil your evening."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</a></span></p><p>"I am glad to see you have recovered your usual spirits," maliciously: +"this morning you were nowhere. I could not get a word out of you. Ever +since yesterday, when you were disappointed about your run, you have +been in 'doleful dumps.' All day you looked as though you thought there +was 'nothing so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.' You seemed to revel in it."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps I was afraid to encourage you. Once set going, you know you +cannot stop," says Lilian, laughing, while two red spots, caused by his +random remark, rise and burn in her cheeks.</p> + +<p>"We are late, are we not?" says Florence, entering at this moment; and +as Florence never errs, Archibald instantly gives his arm to Lady +Chetwoode and takes her down to the carriage. Taffy, who has already +opened an animated conversation with Miss Beauchamp on the horrors of +square dances, accompanies her; Cyril disappears with Cecilia, and +Lilian is left alone in the library with Sir Guy.</p> + +<p>Curving her body gracefully, Lilian gathers up with slow nonchalance her +long train, and, without bestowing a glance upon Guy, who is silently +waiting to escort her to the smaller brougham, goes up to a mirror to +take a last lingering survey of her own bewitching image. Then she +calmly smooths down her glove, then refastens a bracelet that has come +undone, while he, with a bored expression on his face, waits impatiently.</p> + +<p>By this, Archibald, who has had ample time to put Lady Chetwoode in her +carriage and come all the way back to find a fan forgotten by Miss +Beauchamp, re-enters the room.</p> + +<p>Lilian beams upon him directly.</p> + +<p>"Good Archie," she says, sweetly, "you have returned just in time. There +was positively nobody to take poor little me to the brougham." She slips +her hand beneath his arm, and walks past Sir Guy composedly, with +laughing friendly eyes uplifted to her cousin's.</p> + +<p class="center">* * * * * * *</p> + +<p>The ball is at its height. The first small hour of morning has sounded. +The band is playing dreamily, sweetly; flowers are nodding everywhere, +some emitting a dying fragrance, others still fresh and sweet as when +first plucked. Afar off the faint splashing of the fountains in the +conservatories echoes tremulously, full of cool imaginings,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</a></span> through the +warm air. Music and laughter and mirth—real and unreal—are mixed +together in one harmonious whole.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Steyne has now an unaffected smile upon her face, being assured her +ball is an undeniable success, and is allowing herself to be amused by +Taffy, who is standing close beside her.</p> + +<p>Tom Steyne, who, like Sir Charles Coldstream, is "thirty-three and used +up," is in a corner, silently miserable, suffering himself to be flirted +at by a gay young thing of forty. He has been making despairing signs to +Taffy to come to his assistance, for the past five minutes, which +signals of distress that young gentleman basely declines to see.</p> + +<p>Every one is busy asking who Mrs. Arlington can be, and, as nobody +knows, everybody undertakes to tell his or her neighbor "all about her." +And by this time every one is aware she is enormously rich, the widow of +an Indian nabob, from whom she was divorced on account of some "fi-fi +story, my dear, that is never mentioned now," and that she is ever so +many years older than she really looks; "painting is brought to such +perfection nowadays!"</p> + +<p>All night long Sir Guy has not asked Lilian to dance; he has held +himself aloof from her, never even allowing his glance to stray in her +direction, although no smallest grace, no faintest coquetry, of hers has +escaped his notice. To him the whole evening has been a miserable +failure. He has danced, laughed, flirted a good deal, "as is his nature +to,"—more particularly with Florence,—but he has been systematically +wretched all through.</p> + +<p>Lilian and Archibald have been inseparable. She has danced with him, in +defiance of all decent rules, dance after dance, even throwing over some +engagements to continue her mad encouragement of him. She has noted Sir +Guy's attention to his cousin, and, noting (although in her heart she +scarcely believes in it), has grown a little reckless as to what +judgment people may form of her evident appreciation of Chesney's society.</p> + +<p>There is indeed a memorable five minutes when she absolutely deliberates +as to whether she will or will not accept her cousin's hand, and so give +herself a way to escape from Sir Guy's dreaded displeasure. But, while +deliberating, she quite forgets the terrible disappointment she is +laying up in store for him, who has neither thought, nor<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</a></span> eyes, nor +words, for any one but her. Being the undisputed belle of the evening, +she naturally comes in for a heavy share of attention, and, be sure, +does not altogether escape unkind comment.</p> + +<p>"Oh, poor Tom! Do look at Tom and that fearful Miss Dumaresque," says +Mrs. Steyne, who just at this moment discovers the corner where Tom is +doing his utmost to "suffer and be strong." It is, however, a miserable +attempt, as he is visibly depressed and plainly on the point of giving +way altogether. "Somebody must go to his succor," says Mabel, with +decision: "the question is, who? You, my dear Taffy, I think."</p> + +<p>"Not I," says Taffy; "please, dear Mrs. Steyne, do not afflict me so +far. I couldn't, indeed. I am very dreadfully afraid of Miss Dumaresque; +besides, I never pity Tom even when in his worst scrapes. We all +know"—sentimentally—"he is the happiest man alive; when he does fall +in for his bad quarter of an hour, why not let him endure it like +another? And he is rather in a hat, now, isn't he?" taking an evident +keen delight in Mr. Steyne's misfortunes. "I wouldn't be in his shoes +for a good deal. He looks as if he was going to cry. The fact is, the +gods have pampered him so much, that it is a shame not to let him know +for a few minutes what real distress means."</p> + +<p>"But what if he <i>should</i> die!" reproachfully: "one so unaccustomed to +adversity as Tom would be very likely to sink under it. He looks half +dead already! Mark the hunted expression in his poor dear eyes."</p> + +<p>"I wish you would mark the forlorn and dejected expression in other +people's eyes," in an injured tone; "but all that, of course, goes for nothing."</p> + +<p>"In yours, do you mean?" with exaggerated sympathy. "My dear boy, have +you a secret sorrow? Does concealment, like that nasty worm, prey upon +you? I should be unhappy forever if I could bring myself to think so."</p> + +<p>"Then don't think so; come, let us finish this waltz, and forget that +lucky fellow in the corner."</p> + +<p>"What! you would have me trip it on the light fantastic toe while Tom is +enduring torment? Never! Whatever I may do in prosperity, in adversity I +'never will desert Mr. Micawber.'"</p> + +<p>"I vow I think you are jealous of that antiquated though still frisky +damsel," says Taffy, ready to explode<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</a></span> with laughter at the bare idea, +as he watches the frisky one's attempt at subjugating the hapless Tom.</p> + +<p>"You have discovered my hidden fear," replies Mabel, laughing, too: +"forgive my weakness. There are moments when even the strongest break +down! Wait here patiently for me, and I have no doubt with a little +skill I shall be able to deliver him."</p> + +<p>At one side of the ball-room, close to an upper window, is a recess, +dimly lit, and partially curtained, in which it is possible for two or +three to stand without letting outsiders be aware of their vicinity: +into this nook Lilian and Archibald have just withdrawn, she having +confessed to a faint sense of fatigue. The sweet lingering notes of the +waltz "Geliebt und Verloren" are saddening the air; now they swell, now +faint, now almost die out altogether, only to rise again full of pathetic meaning.</p> + +<p>"How charming it is to be here!" says Lilian, sinking into a cushioned +seat with a sigh of relief, "apart from every one, and yet so near; to +watch their different expressions, and speculate upon their secret +feelings, without appearing rude: do you not think so? Do you like being here?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I like being here with you,"—or anywhere else, he might have +added, without deviating from the truth.</p> + +<p>At this moment Guy, who is not dancing, happens to saunter up, and lean +against the curtains of the window close to their hiding-place, totally +unconscious of their presence. From where she is sitting Lilian can +distinctly see him, herself unseen. He looks moody, and is evidently +enchanted with the flavor of his blonde moustache. He is scarcely +noticeable from where he stands, so that when two men come leisurely up +to the very mouth of the retreat, and dispose of themselves luxuriously +by leaning all their weight upon the frail pillars against which the +curtains hang, they do not perceive him.</p> + +<p>One is Harry Bellair, who has apparently been having a good many +suppers; the other is his friend.</p> + +<p>Mr. Bellair's friend is not as handsome as he might be. There is a want +of jaw, and a general lightness about him (not of demeanor: far be it +from me to hint at that!) that at a first glance is positively +startling. One hardly knows where his flesh ends or his hair begins, +while his eyes are a marvel in themselves, making the beholder wonder +how much paler they <i>can</i> get without becoming pure white.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</a></span> His +moustache is of the vaguest tints, so vague that until acquaintance +ripens one is unaware of its existence. Altogether, he is excellently bleached.</p> + +<p>To-night, to add to his manifold attractions, he appears all shirt-front +and white tie, with very little waistcoat to speak of. In his left and +palest optic is the inevitable eyeglass, in which he is supposed by his +intimates to sleep, as never yet has human being (except perhaps his +mamma in the earlier scenes of his existence) seen him without it. In +spite of all this, however, he looks mild, and very harmless.</p> + +<p>"She is awfully lovely," says Mr. Bellair, evidently continuing a +conversation, and saying it with an audible sigh; "quite too lovely for me."</p> + +<p>"You seem fetched," says his friend, directing a pale but feeling ray +upon him through the beloved glass.</p> + +<p>"I am, I confess it," says Mr. Bellair, effusively; "I adore her, and +that's a fact: but she would not look at me. She's in love with her +cousin,—Chesney, you know,—and they're to be married straight off the +reel, next month, I think—or that."</p> + +<p>"Hah!" says the friend. "She's good to look at, do you know, and rather +uncommon style, in spite of her yellow hair. She's a ward of +Chetwoode's, isn't she? Always heard he was awfully <i>épris</i> there."</p> + +<p>By this time Lilian is crimson, and Archibald hardly less so, though he +is distinctly conscious of a desire to laugh; Lilian's eyes are riveted +on Sir Guy, who has grown very pale and has turned a frowning brow upon +these luckless young men.</p> + +<p>"Not a bit of it," says Mr. Bellair, "at least now. He was, I believe, +but she bowled him over in a couple of months and laughed at him +afterward. No, Chesney is the white-headed boy with her. Not that I see +much in him myself," discontentedly.</p> + +<p>"Sour-looking beggar," rejoins the friend, with kind sympathy.</p> + +<p>It is growing tremendously jolly for the listeners. Lilian turns a +pained, beseeching glance upon Archibald, who returns the glance, but +declares by gesture his inability to do anything. He is still secretly +amused, and not being able from his point of vantage to see Chetwoode, +is scarcely as confused as Lilian. Should he now stir, and walk out of +his place of concealment with Miss Chesney, he would<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</a></span> only cover with +shame the unsuspecting gossips and make two enemies for life, without doing any good.</p> + +<p>Chetwoode is in the same condition, but though angry and bitterly stung +by their words, hardly cares to resent them, being utterly unaware of +Lilian's eyes, which are bent upon him. He waits impatiently for the +moment when Mr. Bellair and his "fat friend" may choose to move on. Did +he know who was so close to him, watching every expression of his face, +impatience might have passed all bounds. As it is, a few chance remarks +matter little to him.</p> + +<p>But Mr. Bellair's friend has yet something else to say.</p> + +<p>"Fine girl, Miss Beauchamp," says this youth, languidly; "immensely good +form, and that. Looks like a goddess."</p> + +<p>"There's a lot of her, if you mean that. But she's too nosy," says Mr. +Bellair, grumpily, a sense of injury full upon him. His own nose is of +the charming curt and simple order: his "friends in council" (who might +be more select) are wont to call it playfully a "spud." "Far too nosy! I +hate a woman all nose! makes her look so like a mope."</p> + +<p>"You've been getting a snubbing there," says his friend, this time +unfeelingly and with an inhuman chuckle.</p> + +<p>"I have," valiantly: "she has too much of the goddess about her for my +fancy: choke-full of dignity and airs, you know, and all that sort of +rubbish. It don't go down, I take it, in the long run. It's as much as +she can do to say 'how d'ye do' to you, and she looks a fellow up and +down half a dozen times before she gives him a waltz. You don't catch me +inviting her to the 'mazy dance' again in a hurry. I hate affectation. I +wouldn't marry that girl for untold gold."</p> + +<p>"She wouldn't have you," says his friend, with a repetition of the unpleasant chuckle.</p> + +<p>"Maybe she wouldn't," replies Mr. Bellair, rather hurt. "Anyhow, she is +not to be named in the same day with Miss Chesney. I suppose you know +she is engaged to Chetwoode, so you needn't get spoony on her," +viciously; "it is quite an old affair, begun in the cradle, I believe, +and kept up ever since: never can understand that sort of thing myself; +would quite as soon marry my sister. But all men aren't alike."</p> + +<p>"No, they aren't," says the friend, with conviction.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</a></span> "Why don't he +marry her, though? He must be tired of looking at her."</p> + +<p>"He funks it, that's what it is," says Mr. Bellair, "and no wonder; +after seeing Miss Chesney he must feel rather discontented with his +choice. Ah!"—with a sigh warranted to blow out the largest wax +candle,—"there's a girl for you if you like!"</p> + +<p>"Don't weep over it, old boy, at least here; you'll be seen," says his +friend, jovially, with odious want of sympathy; after which they are +pleased to remove themselves and their opinions to another part of the room.</p> + +<p>When they have gone, Lilian, who has been turning white and red at +intervals all through the discussion, remains motionless, her eyes still +fixed on Chetwoode. She does not heed Archibald's remark, so earnestly +is she regarding her guardian. Can it be true what they have just said, +that he, Sir Guy, has been for years engaged to Florence? At certain +moments such a thought has crossed her own mind, but never until +to-night has she heard it spoken of.</p> + +<p>Chetwoode, who has moved, comes a little nearer to where she is +standing, and pauses there, compelled to it by a pressure in the crowd.</p> + +<p>"With what taste do they accredit me!" he says, half aloud, with a +rather pale smile and a slight curl of his short upper lip, discernible +even beneath his drooping moustache. His eyes are directed toward +Florence, who is standing, carrying on a lifeless flirtation at a little +distance from him; there is distaste in every line of his face, and +Lilian, marking it, draws a long breath, and lets the smile return to her mobile lips.</p> + +<p>"Was Chetwoode there all the time?" asks Archibald, aghast.</p> + +<p>"Yes: was it not horrible?" replies she, half laughing. "Poor Mr. +Bellair! I had no idea I had done so much mischief."</p> + +<p>The hours are growing older, Lady Chetwoode is growing tired. Already +with the utmost craftiness has she concealed five distinct yawns, and +begins to think with lingering fondness of eider-down and bedroom fires.</p> + +<p>Florence, too, who is sitting near her, and who is ever careful not to +overdo the thing, is longing for home, being always anxious to husband +as far as possible her waning youth and beauty.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[Pg 326]</a></span></p><p>"Lilian, dearest, I think you must come home now," Lady Chetwoode says, +tapping the girl's white arms, as she stops close to her in the interval of a dance.</p> + +<p>"So soon, auntie!" says Lilian, with dismay.</p> + +<p>She is dancing with a very good-looking guardsman, who early in the +evening did homage to her charms, and who ever since has been growing +worse and worse; by this time he is very bad indeed, and scorns to look +at any one in the room except Miss Chesney, who, to confess the truth, +has been coquetting with him unremittingly for the past half-hour, +without noticing, or at least appearing to notice, Archibald's black +looks or Sir Guy's averted ones.</p> + +<p>At Lady Chetwoode's words, the devoted guardsman turns an imploring +glance upon his lovely partner, that fills her (she is kind-hearted) +with the liveliest compassion. Yes, she will make one last effort, if +only to save him from mental suicide.</p> + +<p>"Dear auntie, if you love me, 'fly not yet,'" she says, pathetically. +"It is so long since I have danced, and"—with the faintest, fleetest +glance at the guardsman—"I am enjoying myself so much."</p> + +<p>"Lady Chetwoode, it can't be done," interposes Tom Steyne, who is +standing by: "Miss Chesney has promised me the next dance, and I am +living in the expectation of it. At my time of life I have noticed a +tendency on the part of beauty to rather shun my attentions; Miss +Chesney's condescension, therefore, has filled me with joy. She must +wait a little longer: I refuse to resign my dance with the <i>belle</i> of the evening."</p> + +<p>"Go and finish your dance, child: I will arrange with auntie," says +Mabel, kindly; whereupon Lilian floats away gladly in the arms of her +warrior, leaving Mrs. Steyne to settle matters.</p> + +<p>"You shall go home, dear, with Florence, because you are tired, and +Cyril and his exceedingly beautiful <i>fiancée</i> shall go with you; leave +the small night brougham for Lilian, and Guy can take her home. I shan't +keep her beyond another hour, and I shall see that she is well wrapped up."</p> + +<p>So it arranges itself; and by and by, when an hour has passed away, +Lilian and Guy discover to their horror they are in for a <i>tête-à-tête</i> +drive to Chetwoode.</p> + +<p>They bid good-bye to the unconscious Mabel, and,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</a></span> silently entering the +brougham, are presently driving swiftly through the fresh cool air.</p> + +<p>"Are you quite comfortable?" Guy asks, as in duty bound, very stiffly.</p> + +<p>"Quite, thank you," replies she, even more stiffly; after which outbreak +of politeness "silence reigns supreme."</p> + +<p>When a good half-mile has been traversed, Guy, who is secretly filled +with wonder at the extreme taciturnity of his usually lively companion, +so far descends from his pedestal of pride as to turn his head +cautiously in her direction: to his utter amazement, he finds she has +fallen fast asleep!</p> + +<p>The excitement and fatigue of dancing, to which she has been so long +unaccustomed, have overpowered her, and, like a tired child as she is, +she has given way to restful slumber. Her pale blue cashmere has fallen +a little to one side so that a white arm, soft and round as a baby's, +can be seen in all the abandon of sleep, naked beside her, the hand half +closed like a little curled shell.</p> + +<p>Not yet quite convinced that her slumber is real, Guy lays his hand +gently upon hers, but at the touch she makes no movement: no smallest +ripple of consciousness crosses her face. In the faint light of the lamp +he regards her curiously, and wonders, with a pang, how the little fury +of a few hours ago can look so angelic now. At this moment, as he +watches her, all the anger that has lain in his heart for her melts, +vanishes, never to return.</p> + +<p>Then he sees her attitude is uncomfortable: her face is very pale, her +head is thrown too much back, a little troubled sigh escapes her. He +thinks, or at least tries to think,—let not me be the one to judge +him,—she will have unhappy dreams if she continues much longer in her +present position. Poor child! she is quite worn out. Perhaps he could +manage to raise her in a degree, without disturbing her reviving repose.</p> + +<p>Slipping his arm gently round her, he lifts her a little, and draws her +somewhat nearer to him. So gently does he move her, that Lilian, who is +indeed fatigued, and absolutely tired out with her exertions of the +evening, never awakes, but lets her heavy, sleepy little head drop over +to the other side, down upon Chetwoode's shoulder.</p> + +<p>Guy does not stir. After all, what does it matter? she is easier so, and +it can hurt neither of them; she never has been, she never will be, +anything to him; in all probability she will marry her cousin. At this +point he stops<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[Pg 328]</a></span> and thinks about her treatment of that handsome +guardsman, and meditates deeply thereon. To him she is a mystery, a +lovely riddle yet unsolved; but with his arm round her, and her face so +near his own, he is conscious of feeling an irrepressible gladness. A +thrill of happiness, the only touch of it he has known for many days, +fills his heart, while with it is a bitter regret that chills it at its birth.</p> + +<p>The carriage rattles over some unusually large stone, and Lilian awakes. +At first an excessive sense of drowsiness dulls her perception, and +then, all at once, it flashes across her mind that she has been asleep, +and that now she is encircled, supported by Guy's arm. Even in the +friendly darkness a warm flush suffuses her face, born half of quick +indignation, half of shame. Raising herself hastily, she draws back from +his embrace, and glances up at him with open surprise.</p> + +<p>"You are awake?" says Guy, quietly; he has relaxed his hold, but still +has not altogether withdrawn his support. As their eyes meet in the +uncertain flickering light that comes to them from outside, she sees so +much sadness, so much tenderness in his, that her anger is instantly +disarmed. Still, she moves yet a little farther from him, while +forgetting to make any reply.</p> + +<p>"Are you uncomfortable?" asks he, slowly, as though there is nothing out +of the common in his sitting thus with his arm round her, and as though +a mere sense of discomfort can be the only reason for her objection to +it. He does not make the slightest effort to detain her, but still lets +her feel his nearness.</p> + +<p>"No," replies Miss Chesney, somewhat troubled; "it is not that, only——"</p> + +<p>"Then I think you had better stay as you are. You are very tired, I can +see, and this carriage is not the easiest in the world."</p> + +<p>With gentle boldness he replaces the offending arm in its old position, +and wisely refrains from further speech.</p> + +<p>Lilian is confounded. She makes no effort to release herself, being +filled with amazement at the extraordinary change in his manner, and, +perhaps, wholly glad of it. Has he forgiven her? Has he repented him of +his stern looks and cold avoidance? All night long he has shunned her +persistently, has apparently been unaware of her presence; and now there +is something in his tone, in his touch,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[Pg 329]</a></span> that betrays to her what sets +her heart beating treacherously.</p> + +<p>Presently Guy becomes aware of this fact, and finding encouragement in +the thought that she has not again repulsed him, says, softly:</p> + +<p>"Were you frightened when you awoke?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, a little."</p> + +<p>"You are not frightened now?"</p> + +<p>"No, not now. At first, on waking, I started to find myself here."</p> + +<p>"Here," may mean the carriage, or her resting-place, or anything.</p> + +<p>After a short pause:</p> + +<p>"Sir Guy,"—tremulously.</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"You remember all that happened the night before last?"</p> + +<p>"I do," slowly.</p> + +<p>"I have wanted ever since to tell you how sorry I am for it all, to beg +your pardon, to ask you to——" she stops, afraid to trust her voice +further, because of some little troublesome thing that rises in her +throat and threatens to make itself heard.</p> + +<p>"I don't want you to beg my pardon," says Guy, hastily, in a pained +tone. "If I had not provoked you, it would never have happened. Lilian, +promise me you will think no more about it."</p> + +<p>"Think about it! I shall never cease thinking about it. It was horrible, +it was shameful of me. I must have gone mad, I think. Even now, to +remember it makes me blush afresh. I am glad it is dark,"—with a little +nervous laugh,—"because you cannot see my face. It is burning."</p> + +<p>"Is it?" tenderly. With gentle fingers he touches her soft cheek, and +finds it is indeed, as she has said, "burning." He discovers something +else also,—tears quite wet upon it.</p> + +<p>"You are crying, child," he says, startled, distressed.</p> + +<p>"Am I? No wonder. I <i>ought</i> to suffer for my hateful conduct toward you. +I shall never forgive myself."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense!" angrily. "Why should you cry about such a trifle? I won't +have it. It makes me miserable to know any thought of me can cause you a tear."</p> + +<p>"I cry"—with a heavy sob—"because I fear you will<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[Pg 330]</a></span> never think well of +me again. I have lost your good opinion, if indeed"—sadly—"I ever had +it. You <i>must</i> think badly of me."</p> + +<p>"I do not," returns he, with an accent that is almost regret. "I wish I +could. It matters little what you do, I shall never think of you but as +the dearest and sweetest girl I ever met. In that"—with a sigh—"lies +my misfortune."</p> + +<p>"Not think badly of me! and yet you called me a flirt! Am I a flirt?"</p> + +<p>Chetwoode hesitates, but only for a minute; then he says, decidedly, though gently:</p> + +<p>"Perhaps not a flirt, but certainly a coquette. Do not be angry with me +for saying so. Think how you passed this one evening. First remember the +earlier part of it, and then your cruel encouragement of the luckless guardsman."</p> + +<p>"But the people I wanted to dance with wouldn't ask me to dance," says +Lilian, reproachfully, "and what was I to do? I did not care for that +stupid Captain Monk: he was handsome, but insufferably slow, and—and—I +don't believe I cared for <i>any one</i>."</p> + +<p>"What! not even for——" He pauses. Not now, not at this moment, when +for a sweet though perhaps mad time she seems so near to him in thought +and feeling, can he introduce his rival's name. Unconsciously he +tightens his arm round her, and, emboldened by the softness of her +manner, smooths back from her forehead the few golden hairs that have +wandered there without their mistress's will.</p> + +<p>Lilian is silent, and strangely, unutterably happy.</p> + +<p>"I wish we could be always friends," she says, wistfully, after a little +eloquent pause.</p> + +<p>"So do I,"—mournfully,—"but I know we never shall be."</p> + +<p>"That is a very unkind speech, is it not? At least"—slipping five warm +little fingers into his disengaged hand—"<i>I</i> shall always be a friend +of <i>yours</i>, and glad of every smallest thing that may give you happiness."</p> + +<p>"You say all this now, and yet to-morrow,"—bending to look at her in +the ungenerous light,—"to-morrow you may tell me again that you 'hate me.'"</p> + +<p>"If I do,"—quickly,—"you must not believe me. I have a wretched +temper, and I lost it completely when I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[Pg 331]</a></span> said that the other night. I +did not mean it. I do not hate you, Guy: you know that, do you not?" Her +voice falls a little, trembles, and softens. It is the first time she +has ever called him by his Christian name without its prefix, and Guy's +pulses begin to throb a little wildly.</p> + +<p>"If you do not hate me, what then?" he asks.</p> + +<p>"I like you."</p> + +<p>"Only that?" rather unsteadily.</p> + +<p>"To like honestly is perhaps best of all."</p> + +<p>"It may be, but it does not satisfy me. One <i>likes</i> many people."</p> + +<p>Lilian is silent. She is almost positive now that he loves her, and +while longing to hear him say so, shrinks from saying what will surely +bring forth the avowal. And yet if she now answers him coldly, +carelessly——</p> + +<p>"If I say I am fond of you," she says, in a tone so low, so nervous, as +to be almost unheard, "will that do?"</p> + +<p>The carriage some time since has turned in the avenue gate.</p> + +<p>They are approaching the house swiftly; already the lights from the +windows begin to twinkle through the leafy branches of the trees: their +time is short. Guy forgets all about Chesney, all about everything +except the girlish face so close to his own.</p> + +<p>"<i>Are</i> you fond of me, Lilian?" he asks, entreatingly. There is no +reply: he stoops, eager to read his fate in her expression. His head +touches hers; still lower, and his moustache brushes her cheek; Lilian +trembles a little, but her pale lips refuse to answer; another instant, +and his lips meet hers. He kisses her warmly, passionately, and +fancies—is it fancy?—that she returns his caress faintly.</p> + +<p>Then the carriage stops. The men alight. Sir Guy steps out, and Miss +Chesney lays her hand in his as he helps her to descend. He presses it +warmly, but fails in his anxious attempt to make her eyes meet his: +moving quickly past him into the house, she crosses the hall, and has +her foot upon the first step of the stairs, when his voice arrests her.</p> + +<p>"Good-night, Lilian," he says, rather nervously, addressing her from a +few yards' distance. He is thinking of a certain night long ago when he +incurred her anger, and trembles for the consequences of his last act.</p> + +<p>Lilian hesitates. Then she turns partly toward him, though still keeping +half her face averted. Her cheeks<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[Pg 332]</a></span> are crimson; her eyes, shamed and +full of tears, are bent upon the ground. For one swift instant she +raises them and lets a soft, shy glance meet his.</p> + +<p>"Good-night," she whispers, timidly holding out to him her hand.</p> + +<p>Guy takes it gladly, reverently. "Good-night, my own darling," answers +he, in a voice choked with emotion.</p> + +<p>Then she goes up-stairs, and is lost in her own chamber. But for Guy +there is neither rest nor sleep.</p> + +<p>Flinging off his coat and waistcoat, he paces incessantly up and down +his room, half mad with doubt and fear.</p> + +<p>Does she love him? That is the whole burden and refrain of his thoughts; +does she? Surely her manner has implied it, and yet—— A terrible +misgiving oppresses him, as he remembers the open dislike that of late +she has shown to his society, the unconcealed animosity she has so +liberally displayed toward him.</p> + +<p>Can it be that he has only afforded her amusement for the passing hour? +Surely this child, with her soft innocent face and truthful eyes, cannot +be old in the wiles and witcheries of the practiced flirt. She has let +her head rest upon his shoulder, has let his fingers wander caressingly +over her hair, has let tears lie wet upon her cheeks for him; and then +he thinks of the closing scene, of how he has kissed her, as a lover might, unrebuked.</p> + +<p>But then her manner toward Chesney; true, she had discarded his +attentions toward the close of the night, and accepted willingly those +of the guardsman, but this piece of seeming fickleness might have arisen +out of a lover's quarrel. What if during all their memorable drive home +she has been merely trifling with him,—if now, this instant, while he +is miserable because of his love for her and the uncertainty belonging +to it, she should be laughing at his folly, and thinking composedly of +her coming marriage with her cousin! Why then, he tells himself +savagely, he is well rid of her, and that he envies no man her possession!</p> + +<p>But at the thought he draws his breath hard; his handsome face grows set +and stern, a haggard look comes into his blue eyes and lingers round his +mouth. Flinging open the window, he leans out to feel the cold air beat +upon him, and watches the coming of the morn.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger,</div> +<div>Comes dancing from the east."</div> +</div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[Pg 333]</a></span></p><p>Guy watches its coming, yet scarcely notes its beauty, so full of dark +forebodings are his thoughts. Yet it brings him determination and +courage to face his fate. To-day he will end this intolerable doubt, and +learn what fortune has in store for him, be it good or bad; of this he +is finally resolved. She shall declare herself in one of two characters, +either as his affianced wife, or as the very vilest coquette the world contains.</p> + +<p>And yet her tears!—Again he holds her in his arms. Again his lips meet +hers. Again he feels the light pressure of her little tired head upon +his shoulder, hears her soft regular breathing. With a groan he rouses +himself from these recollections that torture him by their very sweetness.</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2><span><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV.</span></h2> + +<div class="block2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"Thou art my life, my love, my heart,</div> +<div class="i1">The very eyes of me,</div> +<div>And hast command of every part,</div> +<div class="i1">To live and die for thee."—<span class="smcap">R. Herrick.</span></div> +</div></div></div> + +<p>The next morning comes, but no Lilian appears at breakfast. Florence +alone of the gentler members of the family puts in an appearance; she is +as properly composed, as carefully attired, as delicately tinted, as +though the ball of the night before was unknown to her. Lilian, on the +contrary,—lazy little thing!—is still lying in her bed, with her arms +flung above her graceful head, dreaming happy idle dreams.</p> + +<p>Miss Beauchamp, behind the urn, is presiding with unimpeachable elegance +of deportment over the cups and saucers; while pouring out the tea, she +makes a running commentary on the events of the night before, dropping +into each cup, with the sugar,—perhaps with a view to modulating its +sweetness,—a sarcastic remark or two about her friends' and +acquaintances' manners and dress. Into Guy's cup she lets fall a few +words about Lilian, likely, as she vainly hopes, to damage her in his +estimation; not that she much fears her as a rival after witnessing +Chetwoode's careful avoidance of her on the previous evening; +nevertheless, under such circumstances, it is always well to put in a +bad word when you can.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[Pg 334]</a></span></p><p>She has most of the conversation to herself (Guy and Archibald being +gloomy to a painful degree, and Cyril consumed with a desire to know +when Cecilia may be reasonably expected to leave her room), until Mr. +Musgrave enters, who appears as fresh as a daisy, and "uncommon fit," as +he informs them gratuitously, with an air of the utmost <i>bonhommie</i>.</p> + +<p>He instantly catches and keeps up the conversational ball, sustaining it +proudly, and never letting it touch the ground, until his friends, +rising simultaneously, check him cruelly in the very midst of a charming +anecdote. Even then he is not daunted, but, following Cyril to the +stables (finding him the most genial of the party), takes up there a +fresh line, and expresses his opinions as cheerfully and fluently on the +subject of "The Horse," as though he had been debarred from speaking for +a month and has only just now recovered the use of the organ of speech.</p> + +<p class="center">* * * * * * *</p> + +<p>It is half-past one. A soft spring sun is smiling on the earth, and +Lilian, who rather shrinks from the thought of meeting Sir Guy again, +and has made a rapid descent from her own room into the garden, is +walking there leisurely to and fro, gathering such "pallid blossoms" as +she likes best: a few late snowdrops, "winter's timid children," some +early lilies, "a host of daffodils," a little handful of the "happy and +beautiful crocuses," now "gayly arrayed in their yellow and green," all +these go to fill the basket that hangs upon her arm.</p> + +<p>As she wanders through the garden, inhaling its earliest perfumes, and +with her own heart throbbing rather tumultuously as she dreams again of +each tender word and look that passed between her and Guy last night, a +great longing and gladness is hers; at this moment the beauty and +sweetness of life, all the joy to be found everywhere for those who, +with a thankful spirit, seek for it, makes itself felt within her.</p> + +<p>George Herbert's lovely lines rise to her mind, and half unconsciously, +as she walks from bed to bed, she repeats them to herself aloud.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<div>"How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean</div> +<div class="i1">Are thy returns! ev'n as the flow'rs in spring;</div> +<div>To which, besides their own demean,</div> +<div class="i1">The late past frosts tributes of pleasure bring.</div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[Pg 335]</a></span><div>Grief melts away like snow in May,</div> +<div class="i1">As if there were no such cold thing."</div> +</div></div> + +<p>Surely <i>her</i> grief has melted away, and, with it, distrust and angry +feeling.</p> + +<p>Having arranged her bouquet of all such tender plants as do now "upraise +their loaded stems," she walks toward the library window, and, finding +it open, steps in. It is a bow-window, and the sun has been making love +to her eyes, so that not until she has advanced a yard or two, does she +discover she is not alone; she then stops short, and blushes painfully.</p> + +<p>At the other end of the room stand Guy and Chesney, evidently in earnest +conversation. Archibald is talking; Guy, with his eyes upon the ground, +is pale as death, and silent. As they see Lilian, both men start +guiltily, and fall somewhat farther apart: a heavy sense of impending +trouble makes itself felt by all three.</p> + +<p>Then Guy, regaining self-possession, raises his head and looks full at Lilian.</p> + +<p>"Lilian is here, let her speak for herself," he says, in a forced tone +of composure, addressing Chesney, but with his eyes riveted upon her.</p> + +<p>"What is it?" asks Lilian, white as the snowdrops in her trembling hand.</p> + +<p>"Your cousin asked me—He wishes to marry you," returns Guy, unsteadily, +a look of such mute agony and entreaty in his eyes as touches Lilian to +the quick. "He has spoken to me as your guardian. He says he has some +hope; he would have me plead for him, but that is impossible." He has +spoken so far with difficulty; now in a clear tone he goes on, "Speak, +Lilian: let your answer come from your own lips."</p> + +<p>His voice is wonderfully steady, but there is always the same searching +look of entreaty on his face.</p> + +<p>"Dear Archie," says Lilian, trembling perceptibly, while all the poor +spring blossoms fall unheeded to her feet, and lie there still and dead, +as some offering laid on the shrine of Venus, "how can I speak to you? I +<i>cannot</i> marry you. I love you,—you are my dear cousin, and my friend, +but,—but——"</p> + +<p>"It is enough," says Chesney, quietly. "Hope is at an end. Forgive me my +persistency. You shall not have to complain of it again."</p> + +<p>Sadly, with a certain dignity, he reaches the door, opens<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[Pg 336]</a></span> it, and, +going out, closes it gently behind him. Hope with him, indeed, is dead! +Never again will it spring within his breast.</p> + +<p>When he has gone, an awful silence ensues. There is a minute that is +longer than an hour; there is an hour that may be shorter than any +minute. Happy are they that have enjoyed this latter. The particular +minute that follows on Archibald's retreat seems to contain a whole +day-ful of hours, so terrible is its length to the two he leaves behind.</p> + +<p>Lilian's eyes are fastened upon, literally bound to, a little sprig of +myrtle that lies among the ill-fated flowers at her feet. Not until many +days have passed can she again look upon a myrtle spray without feeling +a nervous beating at her heart; she is oppressed with fear; she has at +this moment but one longing, and that is to escape. A conviction that +her longing is a vain one only adds to her discomfiture; she lacks the +courage to lift her head and encounter the eyes she knows are fixed upon her.</p> + +<p>At length, unable longer to endure the dreadful stillness, she moves, +and compels herself to meet Chetwoode's gaze. The spell is broken.</p> + +<p>"Lilian, will you marry—<i>me</i>?" asks he, desperately, making a movement +toward her.</p> + +<p>A quick, painful blush covers Lilian's face, lingers a moment, then dies +away, leaving her pale, motionless as a little marble statue,—perfect, +but lifeless. Almost as it fades it reappears again, so sudden is the +transition, changing her once more into very lovable flesh and blood.</p> + +<p>"Will you marry me?" repeats Guy, coming still closer to her. His face +is white with anxiety. He does not attempt to touch her, but with folded +arms stands gazing down in an agony of suspense upon the lips that in +another instant will seal his fate for good or evil.</p> + +<p>"I have half a mind to say no," whispers Miss Chesney, in a low, +compressed voice. Her head is drooping; her fingers are nervously +intertwined. A flicker, the very faintest tremble of the old merry +smile, hovers round her mouth as she speaks, then vanishes away.</p> + +<p>"Lilian,"—in a tone full of vehement reproach,—"do not trifle with +me—now. Answer me: why do you so speak to me?"</p> + +<p>"Because—I think—you ought to have asked me long ago!" returns she, +casting a half-shy, half-tender glance at<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[Pg 337]</a></span> him upward from the azure +eyes that are absolutely drowned in tears.</p> + +<p>Then, without a word of warning, she bursts out crying, and, Guy +catching her passionately in his arms, she sobs away all her nervous +gladness upon his heart.</p> + +<p>"My darling,—my sweet,—do you really love me?" asks Guy, after a few +moments given up to such ecstasy as may be known once in a +lifetime,—not oftener.</p> + +<p>"What a question!" says Lilian, smiling through eyes that are still wet. +"I have not once asked it of you. I look into your eyes and I see love +written there in great big letters, and I am satisfied. Can you not see +the same in mine? Look closely,—very closely, and try if you cannot."</p> + +<p>"Dear eyes!" says Guy, kissing them separately. "Lilian, if indeed you +love me, why have you made life so odious to me for the last three +months?"</p> + +<p>"Because I wasn't going to be civil to people who were over-attentive to +other people," says Lilian, in her most lucid manner. "And—sometimes—I +thought you liked Florence."</p> + +<p>"Florence? Pshaw! Who could like Florence, having once seen you?"</p> + +<p>"Mr. Boer could, I'm sure. He has seen me,—as seldom as I could manage, +certainly,—but still enough to mark the wide difference between us."</p> + +<p>"Boer is a lunatic," says Guy, with conviction,—"quite unaccountable. +But I think I could forgive him all his peccadilloes if he would promise +to marry Florence and remove her. I can stand almost anything—except +single chants as performed by her."</p> + +<p>"Then all my jealousy was for nothing?" with a slight smile.</p> + +<p>"All. But what of mine? What of Chesney?" He regards her earnestly as he +asks the question.</p> + +<p>"Poor Archie," she says, with a pang of real sorrow and regret, as she +remembers everything. And then follows a conversation confined +exclusively to Archibald,—being filled with all the heart-burnings and +despair caused by that unhappy young man's mistaken attentions. When the +subject has exhausted itself, and they are once more silent, they find +themselves thoughtful, perhaps a little sad. A sigh escapes Lilian. +Raising her head, she looks at her lover anxiously.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[Pg 338]</a></span></p><p>"Guy," she says, rather tremulously, "you have never said one +reproachful word to me about what happened the other night—in the +library. I am thinking of it now. When I call to mind my wretched temper +I feel frightened. Perhaps—perhaps—I shall not make you happy."</p> + +<p>"I defy you to make me unhappy so long as you can tell me honestly you +love me. Do not take advantage of it"—with a light laugh—"if I confess +to you I would rather have a box on the ear from you than a kiss from +any other woman. But such is the degrading truth. +Nevertheless"—teasingly—"next time I would ask you, as a favor, not to +do it <i>quite</i> so hard!"</p> + +<p>"Ah, Guy," tearfully, and with a hot blush, "do not jest about it."</p> + +<p>"How can I do anything else to-day?" Then, tenderly, "Still sad, my own? +Take that little pucker off your brow. Do you imagine any act of yours +could look badly in my eyes? 'You are my life—my love—my heart.' When +I recollect how miserable I was yesterday, I can hardly believe in my +happiness of to-day."</p> + +<p>"Dearest," says Lilian, her voice faltering, "you are too good to me." +Then, turning to him, of her own sweet will, she throws her arms around +his neck, and lays her soft flushed cheek to his. "I shall never be bad +to you again, Guy," she whispers; "believe that; never, never, never!"</p> + +<p class="center">* * * * * * *</p> + +<p>Coming into the hall a little later, they encounter her ladyship's maid, +and stop to speak to her.</p> + +<p>"Is Lady Chetwoode's head better?" asks Lilian. "Can I see her, Hardy?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Miss Chesney. She is much better; she has had a little sleep, and +has asked for you several times since she awoke. I could not find you anywhere."</p> + +<p>"I will go to her now," says Lilian, and she and Guy, going up-stairs, +make their way to Lady Chetwoode's room.</p> + +<p>"Better, auntie?" asks Lilian, bending over her, as she sits in her +comfortable arm-chair.</p> + +<p>"Rather better, darling," returns auntie, who is now feeling as well as +possible (though it is yet too soon to admit it even to herself), and +who has just finished a cutlet, and a glass of the rare old port so +strongly recommended by Dr. Bland. "Guy, bring over that chair for +Lilian. Sitting up late at night always upsets me."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[Pg 339]</a></span></p><p>"It was a horrible ball," says Miss Lilian, ungratefully. "I didn't +enjoy it one bit."</p> + +<p>"No?" in amazement. "My dear, you surprise me. I thought I had never +seen you look so joyous in my life."</p> + +<p>"It was all forced gayety," with a little laugh. "My heart was slowly +breaking all the time. I wanted to dance with one person, who +obstinately refused to ask me, and so spoiled my entire evening. Was it +not cruel of that 'one person'?"</p> + +<p>"The fact is," says Guy, addressing his mother, "she behaved so +infamously, and flirted so disgracefully, all night, that the 'one +person' was quite afraid to approach her."</p> + +<p>"I fear you did flirt a little," says Lady Chetwoode, gentle reproof in +her tone; "that handsome young man you were dancing with just before I +left—and who seemed so devoted—hardly went home heart-whole. That was +naughty, darling, wasn't it? You should think of—of—other people's +feelings." It is palpable to both her hearers she is alluding to Chesney.</p> + +<p>"Auntie," says Miss Chesney, promptly, and with the utmost <i>naïveté</i>, +"if you scold me, I feel sure you will bring on that nasty headache again."</p> + +<p>She is bending over the back of Lady Chetwoode's chair, where she cannot +be seen, and is tenderly smoothing as much of her pretty gray hair as +can be seen beneath the lace cap that adorns her auntie's head.</p> + +<p>Sir Guy laughs.</p> + +<p>"Ah! I shall never make you a good child, so long as your guardian +encourages you in your wickedness," says Lady Chetwoode, smiling too.</p> + +<p>"Do I encourage her? Surely that is a libel," says Guy: "she herself +will bear me witness how frequently—though vainly—I have reasoned with +her on her conduct. I hardly know what is to be done with her, +unless——" here he pauses, and looks at Lilian, who declines to meet +his glance, but lets her hand slip from Lady Chetwoode's head down to +her shoulder, where it rests nervously—"unless I take her myself, and +marry her out of hand, before she has time to say 'no.'"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps—even did you allow me time—I should not say 'no,'" says +Lilian, with astonishing meekness, her face like the heart of a "red, red rose."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[Pg 340]</a></span></p><p>Something in her son's eyes, something in Lilian's tone, rouses Lady +Chetwoode to comprehension.</p> + +<p>"What is it?" she asks, quickly, and with agitation. "Lilian, why do you +stand there? Come here, that I may look at you? Can It be possible? Have +you two——"</p> + +<p>"We have," replies Lilian, interrupting her gently, and suddenly going +down on her knees, she places her arms round her. "Are you sorry, +auntie? Am I very unworthy? Won't you have me for your daughter after all?"</p> + +<p>"Sorry!" says Lady Chetwoode, and, had she spoken volumes, she could not +have expressed more unfeigned joy. "And has all your quarreling ended +so?" she asks, presently, with an amused laugh.</p> + +<p>"Yes, just so," replies Guy, taking Lilian's hand, and raising it to his +lips. "We have got it all over before our marriage, so as to have none +afterward. Is it not so, Lilian?"</p> + +<p>She smiles assent, and there is something in the smile so sweet, so +adorable, that, in spite of his mother "and a'," Guy kisses her on the spot.</p> + +<p>"I am so relieved," says Lady Chetwoode, regarding her new daughter with +much fondness, "and just as I had given up all hope. Many times I wished +for a girl, when I found myself with only two troublesome boys, and now +at last I have one,—a real daughter."</p> + +<p>"And I a mother. Though I think my name for you will always be the one +by which I learned to love you,—Auntie," returns Lilian, tenderly.</p> + +<p>At this moment Cecilia opens the door cautiously, and, stepping very +lightly, enters the room, followed by Cyril, also on tiptoe. Seeing Lady +Chetwoode, however, standing close to Lilian and looking quite animated +and not in the least invalided, they brighten up, and advance more briskly.</p> + +<p>"Dear Madre," says Cecilia, who has adopted Cyril's name for his mother, +"I am glad to see you so much better. Is your headache quite gone?"</p> + +<p>"Quite, my dear. Lilian has cured it. She is the most wonderful physician."</p> + +<p>And then the new-comers are told the delightful story, and Lilian +receives two more caresses, and gets through three or four blushes very +beautifully. They are still asking many questions, and uttering pretty +speeches, when a step upon the corridor outside attracts their attention.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[Pg 341]</a></span></p><p>It is a jaunty step, and undoubtedly belongs to Mr. Musgrave, who is +informing the household generally, at the top of his fresh young voice, +that he is "ragged and torn," and that he rather enjoys it than +otherwise. Coming close to the door, however, he moderates his +transports, and, losing sight of the vagabond, degenerates once more +into that very inferior creature, a decently-clothed and well-combed young gentleman.</p> + +<p>Opening the door with praiseworthy carefulness, he says, in the meekest +and most sympathetic voice possible:</p> + +<p>"I hope your headache is better, Lady Chetwoode?"</p> + +<p>By this time he has his head quite inside the door, and becomes +pleasantly conscious that there is something festive in the air within. +The properly lachrymose expression he has assumed vanishes as if by +magic, while his usual debonair smile returns to his lips.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I say—then it was all a swindle on the part of Hardy, was it?" he +asks. "Dear Lady Chetwoode, it makes me feel positively young again to +see you looking so well. Your woman hinted to me you were at the point of death."</p> + +<p>"Come in, Taffy. You too shall hear what has revived me," says her +ladyship, smiling, and thereupon unfolds her tale to him, over which he +beams, and looks blessings on all around.</p> + +<p>"I knew it," he says; "could have told everybody all about it months +ago! couldn't I, Lil? Remember the day I bet you a fiver he would +propose to you in six months?"</p> + +<p>"I remember nothing of the kind," says Miss Chesney, horribly shocked. +"Taffy, how can you say such a thing?"</p> + +<p>"Tell us all about it, Taffy," entreats Cyril, languidly, from the +depths of an arm-chair. "I feel so done up with all I have gone through +this morning, that I long for a wholesome exciting little tale to rouse +me a bit. Go on."</p> + +<p>"Oh, it was only that day at Mrs. Boileau's last autumn," begins Taffy.</p> + +<p>"Taffy, I desire you to be silent," says Lilian, going up to him and +looking very determined. "Do not attempt to speak when I tell you not to do so."</p> + +<p>"Was the betting even, Taffy?" asks Cyril.</p> + +<p>"No. She said——"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[Pg 342]</a></span></p><p>"<i>Taffy!</i>"</p> + +<p>"She said he had as much idea of proposing to her as she had of——"</p> + +<p>"Taffy!"</p> + +<p>"Marrying him, even should he ask her," winds up Mr. Musgrave, exploding +with joy over his discomfiting disclosure.</p> + +<p>"No one believes you," says Lilian, in despair, while they all laugh +heartily, and Cyril tells her not to make bad bets in future.</p> + +<p>"Not one," says Sir Guy, supporting her as in duty bound; "but I really +think you ought to give him that five pounds."</p> + +<p>"Certainly I shall not," says Miss Chesney, hotly. "It is all a +fabrication from beginning to end. I never made a bet in my life. And, +besides, the time he named was the end of the year, and <i>not</i> in six months."</p> + +<p>At this avowal they all roar, and Guy declares he must take her out for +a walk, lest she should commit herself any further.</p> + +<p class="center">* * * * * * *</p> + +<p>The happy day at length is drawing to a close. Already it is evening, +though still the dying light lingers, as if loath to go. Archibald +Chesney, after a hurried private interview with Lady Chetwoode, has +taken his departure, not to return again to Chetwoode until time has +grown into years. In her own room Lilian, even in the midst of her +new-born gladness, has wept bitterly for him, and sorrowed honestly over +the remembrance of his grief and disappointment.</p> + +<p>Of all the household Florence alone is still in ignorance of the +wonderful event that has taken place since morning. Her aunt has +declared her intention of being the one to impart the good news to her, +for which all the others are devoutly thankful. She—Miss Beauchamp—has +been out driving all the afternoon for the benefit of her dear +complexion; has visited the schools, and there succeeded in irritating +almost to the verge of murder the unhappy teacher and all the wretched +little children; has had an interview with Mr. Boer, who showed himself +on the occasion even more <i>empressé</i> than usual; has returned, and is +now once more seated at her work in the drawing-room, covered with wools and glory.</p> + +<p>Near her sits Lilian, absently winding a tiny ball of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[Pg 343]</a></span> wool. Having +finished her task, she hands it to Florence with a heavy sigh indicative of relief.</p> + +<p>"Thanks. Will you do another?" asks Florence.</p> + +<p>"No,—oh, no," hastily. Then, laughing, "You mustn't think me uncivil," +she says, "but I am really not equal to winding up another, of these +interminable balls. My head goes round as fast as the wool, if not faster."</p> + +<p>"And are you going to sit there doing nothing?" asks Florence, glancing +at her with ill-concealed disapproval, as the young lady proceeds to +ensconce herself in the coziest depths of the coziest chair the room +contains, as close to the fire as prudence will permit.</p> + +<p>"I am almost sure of it," she answers, complacently, horrifying the +proper Florence being one of her chief joys. "I am never really happy +until I feel myself thoroughly idle. I detest being useful. I love doing +'nothing,' as you call it. I have always looked upon Dr. Watts's bee as +a tiresome lunatic."</p> + +<p>"Do you never think it necessary to try to—improve your mind?"</p> + +<p>"Does crewel-work improve the mind?" opening her eyes for an instant lazily.</p> + +<p>"Certainly; in so far that it leaves time for reflection. There is +something soothing about it that assists the mind. While one works one can reflect."</p> + +<p>"Can one?" naughtily: "I couldn't. I can do any number of things, but I +am almost positive I couldn't reflect. It means—doesn't it?—going over +and over and over again disagreeable scenes, and remembering how much +prettier one might have behaved under such and such circumstances. I +call that not only wearying but unpleasant. No, I feel sure I am right. +I shall never, if I can help it, reflect."</p> + +<p>"Then you are content to be a mere butterfly—an idler on the face of +the earth all your days?" asks Florence, severely, taking the high and +moral tone she has been successfully cultivating ever since her +acquaintance with Mr. Boer.</p> + +<p>"As long as I can. Surely when I marry it will be time enough to grow +'useful,' and go in for work generally. You see one can't avoid it then. +Keeping one's husband in order, I have been always told, is an onerous job."</p> + +<p>"You intend marrying, then?" Something in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[Pg 344]</a></span> other's tone has roused +Florence to curiosity. She sits up and looks faintly interested.</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Soon?"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps."</p> + +<p>"You are serious?"</p> + +<p>"Quite serious."</p> + +<p>"Ah!"</p> + +<p>A pause. Miss Beauchamp takes up two shades of wool and examines them +critically. They are so exactly alike that it can make little difference +which she chooses. But she is methodical, and would die rather than make +one false stitch in a whole acre of canvas. Having made her choice of +the two shades, she returns to the attack.</p> + +<p>"I had no idea you liked your cousin so much," she says.</p> + +<p>"So much! How much?" says Lilian, quickly turning very red. Her cousin +is a sore subject with her just now. "I do not think we are speaking of Archibald."</p> + +<p>"No; but I thought you said——"</p> + +<p>"Nothing of him, I am sure," still hastily.</p> + +<p>"Oh! I beg your pardon. I quite fancied——" Here she pauses, somewhat +mystified. Then, "You and he are very good friends, are you not?"</p> + +<p>"Very," coldly.</p> + +<p>"And yet," with an elephantine attempt at playfulness, "I certainly did +think last night some quarrel had arisen between you. He looked so +savage when you were dancing with Captain Monk. His eyes are handsome, +but at times I have noticed a gleam in them that might safely be termed dangerous."</p> + +<p>"Have you? I have not."</p> + +<p>"No? How strange! But no doubt when with you—— For my own part, I +confess I should be quite afraid of him,—of annoying him, I mean."</p> + +<p>"I have never yet felt afraid of any one," returns Lilian, absently.</p> + +<p>"How I do admire your courage,—your pluck, if I may so call it," says +Florence, hesitating properly over the unlady-like word. "Now, <i>I</i> am so +different. I am painfully nervous with some people. Guy, for instance, +quite tyrannizes over me," with the little conscious laugh that makes +the old disgust rise warmly in Lilian's breast. "I should be so afraid +to contradict Guy."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[Pg 345]</a></span></p><p>"And why?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know. He looks so—so—— I really can hardly explain; but some +sympathetic understanding between us makes me know he would not like it. +He has a great desire for his own way."</p> + +<p>"Most people have,"—dryly. "I never feel those sympathetic sensations +you speak of myself, but I could guess so much."</p> + +<p>"Another reason why I should refrain from thwarting his wishes is this," +says Florence, sorting her colors carefully, "I fancy, indeed I <i>know</i>, +he could actually dislike any one who systematically contradicted him."</p> + +<p>"Do you think so? I contradict him when I choose."</p> + +<p>"Yes," blandly: "that exactly illustrates my idea."</p> + +<p>"You think, then, he dislikes me?" says Lilian, raising herself the +better to examine her companion's features, while a sense of thorough +amusement makes itself felt within her.</p> + +<p>"Dislike"—apologetically—"is a hard word. And yet at times I think so. +Surely you must have noticed how he avoids you, how he declines to carry +out any argument commenced by you."</p> + +<p>"I blush for my want of sensibility," says Lilian, meekly. "No, I have +not noticed it."</p> + +<p>"Have you not?" with exaggerated surprise. "I have."</p> + +<p>At this most inopportune moment Guy enters the room.</p> + +<p>"Ah, Guy," says Lilian, quietly, "come here. I want to tell you something."</p> + +<p>He comes over obediently, gladly, and stands by her chair. It is a low +one, and he leans his arm upon the back of it.</p> + +<p>"Florence has just said you hate being contradicted," she murmurs, in +her softest tones.</p> + +<p>"If she did, there was a great deal of truth in the remark," he answers, +with an amused laugh, while Florence glances up triumphantly. "Most fellows do, eh?"</p> + +<p>"And that I am the one that generally contradicts you."</p> + +<p>"That is only half a truth. If she had said who <i>always</i> contradicts me, +it would have been a whole one."</p> + +<p>Lilian rises. She places her hand lightly on his arm.</p> + +<p>"She also said that for that reason you dislike me." The words are +uttered quietly, but somehow tears have gathered in the violet eyes.</p> + +<p>"Dislike!" exclaims her lover, the very faint symptoms<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[Pg 346]</a></span> of distress upon +his darling's face causing him instant pain. "Lilian! how absurd you +are! How could such a word come to be used between us? Surely Florence +must know—has not my mother told you?" he asks, turning to Miss +Beauchamp a look full of surprise.</p> + +<p>"I know nothing," replies she, growing a shade paler. At this moment she +does know, and determines finally to accept, when next offered, the +devotion Mr. Boer has been showering upon her for the past two months. +Yes, she will take him for better, for worse, voice, low-church +tendencies, and all. The latter may be altered, the former silenced. "I +know nothing," she says; "what is it?"</p> + +<p>"Merely this, that Lilian and I are going to be married this summer. +Lilian, of your goodness do not contradict me, in this one matter at +least," bending a tender smile upon his betrothed, who returns it shyly.</p> + +<p>"I confess you surprise me," says Florence, with the utmost +self-possession, though her lips are still a trifle white. "I have never +been so astonished in my life. You seem to me so unsuited—so—but that +only shows how impossible it is to judge rightly in such a case. Had I +been asked to name the feeling I believed you two entertained for each +other, I should unhesitatingly have called it hatred!"</p> + +<p>"How we have deceived the British Public!" says Guy, laughing, although +at her words a warm color has crept into his face. "For the future we +must not 'dissemble.' Now that we have shown ourselves up in our true +colors, Florence, you will, I hope, wish us joy."</p> + +<p>"Certainly, with all my heart," in a tone impossible to translate: "my +only regret is, that mere wishing will not insure it to you."</p> + +<p>Here a servant opening the door informs Miss Beauchamp that Lady +Chetwoode wishes to see her for a few minutes.</p> + +<p>"Say I shall be with her directly," returns Florence, and, rising +leisurely, she sweeps, without the smallest appearance of haste, from the room.</p> + +<p>Then Lilian turns to Sir Guy:</p> + +<p>"How curiously she uttered that last speech!—almost as though she hoped +we should not be happy, I am sure I am right; she does not want you to marry me."</p> + +<p>"She was not enthusiastic in her congratulations, I admit. But that need +not affect us. I am not proud.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[Pg 347]</a></span> So long as <i>you</i> want to marry me, I +shall be quite content."</p> + +<p>Lilian's reply, being wordless, need not be recorded here.</p> + +<p>"Spiteful thing," remarks she, presently, <i>à propos</i> of the spotless +Florence.</p> + +<p>"Poor, Boer!" replies he.</p> + +<p>"You think she will marry <i>him</i>?" heavily, and most unflatteringly, emphasized.</p> + +<p>"I do."</p> + +<p>"Poor Florence!" returns she. "When I think that, I can forgive her all +her sins. Dreadful man! I do hope she will make his life a burden to him."</p> + +<p>"I am sure you will live to see one hope fulfilled. Though I dare say he +has a better chance of peace in the years to come than I have: Florence, +at all events, does not go about boxing people's——"</p> + +<p>"Guy," says Miss Chesney, imperatively, laying her hand upon his lips, +"if you dare to finish that sentence, or if you ever refer to that +horrible scene again, I shall most positively refuse to marry—— Oh! +here is Mr. Boer. Talk of somebody! Look, it is he, is it not?" Standing +on tiptoe, she cranes her neck eagerly, and rather flattens her pretty +nose against the window-pane in a wild endeavor to catch a glimpse of +Mr. Boer's long-tailed coat, which "hangs" very much "down behind," +before it quite disappears in a curve of the avenue. Presently it comes +to view again from behind the huge laurustinus bush, and they are now +quite convinced it is indeed the amorous parson.</p> + +<p>"Yes, it is he," says Guy, staring over his betrothed's head, as he +catches the first glimpse. "And evidently full of purpose. Mark the fell +determination in his clerical stride."</p> + +<p>"She saw him this morning at the schools,—she told me so,—and here he +is again!" says Lilian, in an awe-struck tone. "There must be something +in it. As you say, he really seems bent on business of some sort; +perhaps he is come——"</p> + +<p>"With a new chant, as I'm a sinner," says Chetwoode, with a groan. "Let +us go into the library: the baize and that large screen stifles sound."</p> + +<p>"No, to propose! I mean: there is a curious look about him as if, if——"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[Pg 348]</a></span></p><p>"He was going to execution?"</p> + +<p>"No, to Florence."</p> + +<p>"That is quite the same thing."</p> + +<p>"I hear his step," says Lilian, hurriedly, flinging open the window, +"and hers too! She must have seen him coming, and run to meet him with +open arms. Not for worlds would I spoil sport, or put them in a 'tender +taking.' Let us fly." Stepping out on the balcony, she turns to glance +back at him. "Will you follow me?" she asks, a certain arch sweetness in her eyes.</p> + +<p>"To the end of the world!" returns he, eagerly, and together, hand in +hand, they pass out of sight.</p> + +<p class="tbrk"> </p> + +<p class="bold">THE END.</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Airy Fairy Lilian, by +Margaret Wolfe Hamilton (AKA Duchess) + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AIRY FAIRY LILIAN *** + +***** This file should be named 35228-h.htm or 35228-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/5/2/2/35228/ + +Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Martin Pettit and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Airy Fairy Lilian + +Author: Margaret Wolfe Hamilton (AKA Duchess) + +Release Date: February 9, 2011 [EBook #35228] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AIRY FAIRY LILIAN *** + + + + +Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Martin Pettit and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +AIRY FAIRY LILIAN + +BY + +"THE DUCHESS" +AUTHOR OF "PORTIA," "MOLLY BAWN," ETC., ETC. + +NEW YORK +INTERNATIONAL BOOK COMPANY +3, 4, 5 AND 6 MISSION PLACE + + + + +AIRY FAIRY LILIAN. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + "Home, sweet Home." + --_Old English Song._ + + +Down the broad oak staircase--through the silent hall--into the +drawing-room runs Lilian, singing as she goes. + +The room is deserted; through the half-closed blinds the glad sunshine +is rushing, turning to gold all on which its soft touch lingers, and +rendering the large, dull, handsome apartment almost comfortable. + +Outside everything is bright, and warm, and genial, as should be in the +heart of summer; within there is only gloom,--and Lilian clad in her +mourning robes. The contrast is dispiriting: there life, here death, or +at least the knowledge of it. There joy, here the signs and trappings of +woe. + +The black gown and funereal trimmings hardly harmonize with the girl's +flower-like face and the gay song that trembles on her lips. But, alas! +for how short a time does our first keen sorrow last! how swiftly are +our dead forgotten! how seldom does grief kill! When eight long months +have flown by across her father's grave Lilian finds, sometimes to her +dismay, that the hours she grieves for him form but a short part of her +day. + +Not that her sorrow for him, even at its freshest, was very deep; it was +of the subdued and horrified rather than the passionate, despairing +kind. And though in truth she mourned and wept for him until her pretty +eyes could hold no longer tears, still there was a mildness about her +grief more suggestive of tender melancholy than any very poignant +anguish. + +From her the dead father could scarcely be more separated than had been +the living. Naturally of a rather sedentary disposition, Archibald +Chesney, on the death of the wife whom he adored, had become that most +uninteresting and selfish of all things, a confirmed bookworm. He went +in for study, of the abstruse and heavy order, with an ardor worthy of a +better cause. His library was virtually his home; he had neither +affections nor desires beyond. Devoting himself exclusively to his +books, he suffered them to take entire possession of what he chose to +call his heart. + +At times he absolutely forgot the existence of his little three-year-old +daughter; and if ever the remembrance of her did cross his mind it was +but to think of her as an incubus,--as another misfortune heaped upon +his luckless shoulders,--and to wonder, with a sigh, what he was to do +with her in the future. + +The child, deprived of a tender mother at so early an age, was flung, +therefore, upon the tender mercies of her nurses, who alternately petted +and injudiciously reproved her, until at length she bade fair to be as +utterly spoilt as a child can be. + +She had one companion, a boy-cousin about a year older than herself. He +too was lonely and orphaned, so that the two children, making common +cause, clung closely to each other, and shared, both in infancy and in +early youth, their joys and sorrows. The Park had been the boy's home +ever since his parents' death, Mr. Chesney accepting him as his ward, +but never afterward troubling himself about his welfare. Indeed, he had +no objection whatever to fill the Park with relations, so long as they +left him undisturbed to follow his own devices. + +Not that the education of these children was neglected. They had all +tuition that was necessary; and Lilian, having a talent for music, +learned to sing and play the piano very charmingly. She could ride, too, +and sit her horse _a merveille_, and had a passion for reading,--perhaps +inherited. But, as novels were her principal literature, and as she had +no one to regulate her choice of them, it is a matter of opinion whether +she derived much benefit from them. At least she received little harm, +as at seventeen she was as fresh-minded and pure-hearted a child as one +might care to know. + +The County, knowing her to be an heiress,--though not a large +one,--called systematically on her every three months. Twice she had +been taken to a ball by an enterprising mother with a large family of +unpromising sons. But as she reached her eighteenth year her father +died, and her old home, the Park, being strictly entailed on heirs male, +passed from her into the hands of a distant cousin utterly unknown. This +young man, another Archibald Chesney, was abroad at the time of his +kinsman's death,--in Egypt, or Hong-Kong, or Jamaica,--no one exactly +knew which--until after much search he was finally discovered to be in +Halifax. + +From thence he had written to the effect that, as he probably should not +return to his native land for another six months, he hoped his cousin +(if it pleased her) would continue to reside at the Park--where all the +old servants were to be kept on--until his return. + +It did please his cousin; and in her old home she still reigned as +queen, until after eight months she received a letter from her father's +lawyer warning her of Archibald Chesney's actual arrival in London. + +This letter failed in its object. Lilian either would not or could not +bring herself to name the day that should part her forever from all the +old haunts and pleasant nooks she loved so well. She was not brave +enough to take her "Bradshaw" and look up the earliest train that ought +to convey her away from the Park. Indeed, so utterly wanting in decency +and decorum did she appear at this particular epoch of her existence +that the heart of her only aunt--her father's sister--was stirred to its +depths. So much so that, after mature deliberation (for old people as +well as great ones move slowly), she finally packed up the venerable +hair-trunk that had seen the rise and fall of several monarchs, and +marched all the way from Edinburgh to this Midland English shire, to try +what firm expostulation could do in the matter of bringing her niece to +see the error of her ways. + +For a whole week it did very little. + +Lilian was independent in more ways than one. She had considerable +spirit and five hundred pounds a year in her own right. Not only did she +object to leave the Park, but she regarded with horror the prospect of +going to reside with the guardians appointed to receive her by her +father. Not that this idea need have filled her with dismay. Sir Guy +Chetwoode, the actual guardian, was a young man not likely to trouble +himself overmuch about any ward; while his mother, Lady Chetwoode, was +that most gracious of all things, a beautiful and lovable old lady. + +Why Mr. Chesney had chosen so young a man to look after his daughter's +interests must forever remain a mystery,--perhaps because he happened to +be the eldest son of his oldest friend, long since dead. Sir Guy +accepted the charge because he thought it uncivil to refuse, and chiefly +because he believed it likely Miss Chesney would marry before her +father's death. But events proved the fallacy of human thought. When +Archibald Chesney's demise appeared in the _Times_ Sir Guy made a little +face and took meekly a good deal of "chaffing" at his brother's hands; +while Lady Chetwoode sat down, and, with a faint sinking at her heart, +wrote a kindly letter to the orphan, offering her a home at Chetwoode. +To this letter Lilian had sent a polite reply, thanking "dear Lady +Chetwoode" for her kindness, and telling her she had no intention of +quitting the Park just at present. Later on she would be only too happy +to accept, etc., etc. + +Now, however, standing in her own drawing-room, Lilian feels, with a +pang, the game is almost played out; she must leave. Aunt Priscilla's +arguments, detestable though they be, are unhappily quite unanswerable. +To her own heart she confesses this much, and the little gay French song +dies on her lips, and the smile fades from her eyes, and a very dejected +and forlorn expression comes and grows upon her pretty face. + +It is more than pretty, it is lovely,--the fair, sweet childish face, +framed in by its yellow hair; her great velvety eyes, now misty through +vain longing, are blue as the skies above her; her nose is pure Greek; +her forehead, low, but broad, is partly shrouded by little wandering +threads of gold that every now and then break loose from bondage, while +her lashes, long and dark, curl upward from her eyes, as though hating +to conceal the beauty of the exquisite azure within. + +She is not tall, and she is very slender but not lean. She is willful, +quick-tempered, and impetuous, but large-hearted and lovable. There is a +certain haughtiness about her that contrasts curiously but pleasantly +with her youthful expression and laughing kissable mouth. She is +straight and lissome as a young ash-tree; her hands and feet are small +and well shaped; in a word, she is _chic_ from the crown of her fair +head down to her little arched instep. + +Just now, perhaps, as she hears the honest sound of her aunt's footstep +in the hall, a slight pout takes possession of her lips and a flickering +frown adorns her brow. Aunt Priscilla is coming, and Aunt Priscilla +brings victory in her train, and it is not every one can accept defeat +with grace. + +She hastily pulls up one of the blinds; and as old Miss Chesney opens +the door and advances up the room, young Miss Chesney rather turns her +shoulder to her and stares moodily out of the window. But Aunt Priscilla +is not to be daunted. + +"Well, Lilian," she says, in a hopeful tone, and with an amount of faith +admirable under the circumstances, "I trust you have been thinking it +over favorably, and that----" + +"Thinking what over?" asks Lilian; which interruption is a mean +subterfuge. + +"----And that the night has induced you to see your situation in its +proper light." + +"You speak as though I were the under house-maid," says Lilian with a +faint sense of humor. "And yet the word suits me. Surely there never yet +was a situation as mine. I wish my horrid cousin had been drowned +in----. No, Aunt Priscilla, the night has not reformed me. On the +contrary, it has demoralized me, through a dream. I dreamt I went to +Chetwoode, and, lo! the very first night I slept beneath its roof the +ceiling in my room gave way, and, falling, crushed me to fine powder. +After such a ghastly warning do you still advise me to pack up and be +off? If you do," says Lilian, solemnly, "my blood be on your head." + +"Dreams go by contraries," quotes Miss Priscilla, sententiously. "I +don't believe in them. Besides, from all I have heard of the Chetwoodes +they are far too well regulated a family to have anything amiss with +their ceilings." + +"Oh, how _you do_ add fuel to the fire that is consuming me!" exclaims +Lilian, with a groan. "A well-regulated family!--what can be more awful? +Ever since I have been old enough to reason I have looked with righteous +horror upon a well-regulated family. Aunt Priscilla, if you don't change +your tune I vow and protest I shall decide upon remaining here until my +cousin takes me by the shoulders and places me upon the gravel outside." + +"I thought, Lilian," says her aunt, severely, "you promised me yesterday +to think seriously of what I have now been saying to you for a whole +week without cessation." + +"Well, so I am thinking," with a sigh. "It is the amount of thinking I +have been doing for a whole week without cessation that is gradually +turning my hair gray." + +"It would be all very well," says Miss Priscilla, impatiently, "if I +could remain with you; but I cannot. I must return to my duties." These +duties consisted of persecuting poor little children every Sunday by +compelling them to attend her Scriptural class (so she called it) and +answer such questions from the Old Testament as would have driven any +experienced divinity student out of his mind; and on week-days of +causing much sorrow (and more bad language) to be disseminated among the +women of the district by reason of her lectures on their dirt. "And your +cousin is in London, and naturally will wish to take possession in +person." + +"How I wish poor papa had left the Park to me!" says Lilian, +discontentedly, and somewhat irrelevantly. + +"My dear child, I have explained to you at least a dozen times that such +a gift was not in his power. It goes--that is, the Park,--to a male +heir, and----" + +"Yes, I know," petulantly. "Well, then I wish it _had_ been in his power +to leave it to me." + +"And how about writing to Lady Chetwoode?" says Aunt Priscilla, giving +up the argument in despair. (She is a wise woman.) "The sooner you do so +the better." + +"I hate strangers," says Lilian, mournfully. "They make me unhappy. Why +can't I remain where I am? George or Archibald, or whatever his name is, +might just as well let me have a room here. I'm sure the place is large +enough. He need not grudge me one or two apartments. The left wing, for +instance." + +"Lilian," says Miss Chesney, rising from her chair, "how old are you? Is +it possible that at eighteen you have yet to learn the meaning of the +word 'propriety'? You--a _young girl_--to remain here alone with a +_young man_!" + +"He need never see me," says Lilian, quite unmoved by this burst of +eloquence. "I should take very good care of that, as I know I shall +detest him." + +"I decline to listen to you," says Miss Priscilla, raising her hands to +her ears. "You must be lost to all sense of decorum even to imagine such +a thing. You and he in one house, how should you avoid meeting?" + +"Well, even if we did meet," says Lilian, with a small rippling laugh +impossible to quell, "I dare say he wouldn't bite me." + +"No,"--sternly,--"he would probably do worse. He would make love to you. +Some instinct warns me," says Miss Priscilla, with the liveliest horror, +gazing upon the exquisite, glowing face before her, "that within five +days he would be making _violent_ love to you." + +"You strengthen my desire to stay," says Lilian, somewhat frivolously, +"I should so like to say 'No' to him!" + +"Lilian, you make me shudder," says Miss Priscilla, earnestly. "When I +was your age, even younger, I had a full sense of the horror of allowing +any man to mention my name lightly. I kept all men at arm's length, I +suffered no jesting or foolish talking from them. And mark the result," +says Miss Chesney, with pride: "I defy any one to say a word of me but +what is admirable and replete with modesty." + +"Did any one ever propose to you, auntie?" asks Miss Lilian with a +naughty laugh. + +"Certainly. I had many offers," replies Miss Priscilla, promptly,--which +is one of the few lies she allows herself; "I was persecuted by suitors +in my younger days; but I refused them all. And if you will take my +advice, Lilian," says this virgin, with much solemnity, "you will never, +_never_ put yourself into clutches of a _man_." She utters this last +word as though she would have said a tiger or a serpent, or anything +else ruthless and bloodthirsty. "But all this is beside the question." + +"It is, rather," says Lilian, demurely. But, suddenly brightening, +"Between my dismal dreaming last night I thought of another plan." + +"Another!" with open dismay. + +"Yes,"--triumphantly,--"it occurred to me that this bugbear my cousin +might go abroad again. Like the Wandering Jew, he is always traveling; +and who knows but he may take a fancy to visit the South Pole, or +discover the Northwestern Passage, or go with Jules Verne to the centre +of the earth? If so, why should not I remain here and keep house for +him? What can be simpler?" + +"Nothing,"--tritely,--"but unfortunately he is not going abroad again." + +"No! How do you know that?" + +"Through Mr. Shrude, the solicitor." + +"Ah!" says Lilian, in a despairing tone, "how unhappy I am! Though I +might have known that wretched young man would be the last to do what is +his palpable duty." There is a pause. Lilian's head sinks upon her hand; +dejection shows itself in every feature. She sighs so heavily that Miss +Priscilla's spirits rise and she assures herself the game is won. Rash +hope. + +Suddenly Lilian's countenance clears; she raises her head, and a faint +smile appears within her eyes. + +"Aunt Priscilla, I have yet another plan," she says, cheerfully. + +"Oh, my dear, I do hope not," says poor Miss Chesney, almost on the +verge of tears. + +"Yes, and it emanated from you. Supposing I were to remain here, and he +did fall in love with me, and married me: what then? Would not that +solve the difficulty? Once the ceremony was performed he might go prying +about all over the known globe for all that I should care. I should have +my dear Park. I declare," says Lilian, waxing valiant, "had he but one +eye, or did he appear before me with a wooden leg (which I hold to be +the most contemptible of all things), nothing should induce me to refuse +him under the circumstances." + +"And are you going to throw yourself upon your cousin's generosity and +actually ask him to take pity on you and make you his wife? Lilian, I +fancied you had some pride," says Miss Chesney, gravely. + +"So I have," says Lilian, with a repentant sigh. "How I wish I hadn't! +No, I suppose it wouldn't do to marry him in that way, no matter how +badly I treated him afterward to make up for it. Well, my last hope is +dead." + +"And a good thing too. Now, had you not better sit down and write to +Lady Chetwoode or your guardian, naming an early date for going to them? +Though what your father could have meant by selecting so young a man as +a guardian is more than I can imagine." + +"Because he wished me to live with Lady Chetwoode, who was evidently an +old flame; and because Sir Guy, from all I hear, is a sort of Admirable +Crichton--something as prosy as the Heir of Redclyffe, as dull as Sir +Galahad. A goody-goody old-young man. For my part, I would have +preferred a hoary-headed gentleman, with just a little spice of +wickedness about him." + +"Lilian, don't be flippant," in a tone of horror. "I tremble when I +reflect on the dangers that must attend your unbridled tongue." + +"Well, but, Aunt Priscilla,"--plaintively,--"one doesn't relish the +thought of spending day after day with a man who will think it his duty +to find fault every time I give way to my sentiments, and probably grow +pale with disgust whenever I laugh aloud. Shan't I lead him a life!" +says the younger Miss Chesney, viciously, tapping the back of one small +hand vigorously against the palm of the other. "With the hope of giving +that young man something to cavil at, I shall sustain myself." + +"Child," says Miss Priscilla, "let me recommend a course of severe study +to you as the best means of subduing your evil inclinations." + +"I shall take your advice," says the incorrigible Lilian; "I shall study +Sir Guy. I expect that will be the severest course of study I have ever +undergone." + +"Get your paper and write," says Miss Priscilla, who, against her will, +is smiling grimly. + +"I suppose, indeed, I must," says Lilian, seating herself at her +davenport with all the airs of a finished martyr. "'Needs must,' you +know, Aunt Priscilla. I dare say you recollect the rest of that rather +vulgar proverb. I shall seal my fate this instant by writing to Lady +Chetwoode. But, oh!" turning on her chair to regard her aunt with an +expression of the keenest reproach, "how I wish you had not called them +a 'well-regulated family!'" + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + "Be not over-exquisite + To cast the fashion of uncertain evils."--MILTON. + + +Through the open windows the merry-making sun is again dancing, its +bright rays making still more dazzling the glory of the snowy +table-cloth. The great silver urn is hissing and fighting with all +around, as though warning his mistress to use him, as he is not one to +be trifled with; while at the lower end of the table, exactly opposite +Sir Guy's plate, lies the post upon a high salver, ready to the master's +hand, as has been the custom at Chetwoode for generations. + +Evidently the family is late for breakfast. As a rule, the Chetwoode +family always is late for breakfast,--just sufficiently so to make them +certain everything will be quite ready by the time they get down. + +Ten o'clock rings out mysteriously from the handsome marble clock upon +the chimney-piece, and precisely three minutes afterward the door is +thrown open to admit an elderly lady, tall and fair, and still +beautiful. + +She walks with a slow, rather stately step, and in spite of her years +carries her head high. Upon this head rests the daintiest of morning +caps, all white lace and delicate ribbon bows, that match in color her +trailing gown. Her hands, small and tapering, are covered with rings; +otherwise she wears no adornment of any kind. There is a benignity about +her that goes straight to all hearts. Children adore her, dogs fawn upon +her, young men bring to her all their troubles,--the evil behavior of +their tailors and their mistresses are alike laid before her. + +Now, finding the room empty, and knowing it to be four minutes after +ten, she says to herself, "The first!" with a little surprise and much +pardonable pride, and seats herself with something of an air before the +militant urn. When we are old it is so sweet to us to be younger than +the young, when we are young it is so sweet to us to be just _vice +versa_. Oh, foolish youth! + +An elderly butler, who has evidently seen service (in every sense of the +word), and who is actually steeped in respectability up to his port-wine +nose, hovers around the breakfast, adjusting this dish affectionately, +and straightening that, until all is carefully awry, when he leaves the +room with a sigh of satisfaction. + +Perhaps Lady Chetwoode's self-admiration would have grown beyond bounds, +but that just at this instant voices in the hall distract her thoughts. +The sounds make her face brighten and bring a smile to her lips. "The +boys" are coming. She draws the teacups a little nearer to her and makes +a gentle fuss over the spoons. A light laugh echoes through the hall; it +is answered and then the door once more opens, and her two sons enter, +Cyril, being the youngest, naturally coming first. + +On seeing his mother he is pleased to make a gesture indicative of the +most exaggerated surprise. + +"Now, who could have anticipated it?" he says. "Her gracious majesty +already assembled, while her faithful subjects---- Well," with a sudden +change of tone, "for my part I call it downright shabby of people to +scramble down-stairs before other people merely for the sake of putting +them to the blush." + +"Lazy boy! no wonder you are ashamed of yourself when you look at the +clock," says Lady Chetwoode, smiling fondly as she returns his greeting. + +"Ashamed! Pray do not misunderstand me. I have arrived at my +twenty-sixth year without ever having mastered the meaning of that word. +I flatter myself I am a degree beyond that." + +"Last night's headache quite gone, mother?" asks Sir Guy, bending over +her chair to kiss her; an act he performs tenderly, and as though the +doing of it is sweet to him. + +"Quite, my dear," replies she; and there is perhaps the faintest, the +_very_ faintest, accession of warmth in her tone, an almost +imperceptible increase of kindliness in her smile as she speaks to her +eldest son. + +"That's right," says he, patting her gently on the shoulder; after which +he goes over to his own seat and takes up the letters lying before him. + +"Positively I never thought of the post," says Lady Chetwoode. "And here +I have been for quite five minutes with nothing to do. I might as well +have been digesting my correspondence, if there is any for me." + +"One letter for you; five, as usual, for Cyril; one for me," says Guy. +"All Cyril's." Examining them critically at arm's length. "Written +evidently by _very_ young women." + +"Yes, they _will_ write to me," returns Cyril, receiving them with a +sigh and regarding them with careful scrutiny. "It is nothing short of +disgusting," he says presently, singling out one of the letters with his +first finger. "This is the fourth she has written me this week, and as +yet it is only Friday. I won't be able to bear it much longer; I shall +certainly make a stand one of these days." + +"I would if I were you," says Guy, laughing. + +"I have just heard from Lilian Chesney," suddenly says Lady Chetwoode, +speaking as though a bombshell had fallen in their midst. "And she is +really coming here next week!" + +"No!" says Guy, without meaning contradiction, which at the moment is +far from him. + +"Yes," replies his mother, somewhat faintly. + +"Another!" murmurs Cyril, weakly,--he being the only one of the three +who finds any amusement in the situation. "Well, at all events, _she_ +can't write to me, as we shall be under the same roof; and I shall +dismiss the very first servant who brings me a _billet-doux_. How +pleased you do look, Guy! And no wonder;--a whole live ward, and all to +yourself. Lucky you!" + +"It is hard on you, mother," says Guy, "but it can't be helped. When I +promised, I made sure her father would have lived for years to come." + +"You did what was quite right," says Lady Chetwoode, who, if Guy were to +commit a felony, would instantly say it was the only proper course to be +pursued. "And it might have been much worse. Her mother's daughter +cannot fail to be a lady in the best sense of the word." + +"I'm sure I hope she won't, then," says Cyril, who all this time has +been carefully laying in an uncommonly good breakfast. "If there is one +thing I hate, it is a young lady. Give me a girl." + +"But, my dear, what an extraordinary speech! Surely a girl may be a +young lady." + +"Yes, but unfortunately a young lady isn't always a girl. My experience +of the former class is, that, no matter what their age, they are as old +as the hills, and know considerably more than they ought to know." + +"And just as we had got rid of one ward so successfully we must needs +get another," says Lady Chetwoode, with a plaintive sigh. "Dear Mabel! +she was certainly very sweet, and I was excessively fond of her, but I +do hope this new-comer will not be so troublesome." + +"I hope she will be as pleasant to talk to and as good to look at," says +Cyril. "I confess I missed Mab awfully; I never felt so down in my life +as when she declared her intention of marrying Tom Steyne." + +"I never dreamed the marriage would have turned out so well," says Lady +Chetwoode, in a pleased tone. "She was such an--an--unreasonable girl. +But it is wonderful how well she gets on with a husband." + +"Flirts always make the best wives. You forget that, mother." + +"And what a coquette she was? If Lilian Chesney resembles her, I don't +know what I shall do. I am getting too old to take care of pretty +girls." + +"Perhaps Miss Chesney is ugly." + +"I hope not, my dear," says Lady Chetwoode, with a strong shudder. "Let +her be anything but that. I can't bear ugly women. No, her mother was +lovely. I used to think"--relapsing again into the plaintive +style--"that one ward in a lifetime would be sufficient, and now we are +going to have another." + +"It is all Guy's fault," says Cyril. "He does get himself up so like the +moral Pecksniff. There is a stern and dignified air about him would +deceive a Machiavelli, and takes the hearts of parents by storm. Poor +Mr. Chesney, who never even saw him, took him on hearsay as his only +child's guardian. This solitary fact shows how grossly he has taken in +society in general. He is every bit as immoral as the rest of us, +only----" + +"Immoral! My _dear_ Cyril----" interrupts Lady Chetwoode, severely. + +"Well, let us say frivolous. It has just the same meaning nowadays, and +sounds nicer. But he looks a 'grave and reverend,' if ever there was +one. Indeed, his whole appearance is enough to make any passer-by stop +short and say, 'There goes a good young man.'" + +"I'm sure I hope not," says Guy, half offended, wholly disgusted. "I +should be inclined to shoot any one who told me I was a 'good young +man.' I have no desire to pose as such: my ambition does not lie that +way." + +"I don't believe you know what you are saying, either of you," says Lady +Chetwoode, who, though accustomed to them, can never entirely help +showing surprise at their sentiments and expressions every now and then. +"I should be sorry to think everybody did not know you to be (as I do) +good as gold." + +"Thank you, Madre. One compliment from you is worth a dozen from any one +else," says Cyril. "Any news, Guy? You seem absorbed. I cannot tell you +how I admire any one who takes an undisguised interest in his +correspondence. Now I"--gazing at his five unopened letters--"cannot +get up the feeling to save my life. Guy,"--reproachfully,--"don't you +see your mother is dying of curiosity?" + +"The letter is from Trant," says Guy, looking up from the closely +written sheet before him. "He wants to know if we will take a tenant for +'The Cottage.' 'A lady'"--reading from the letter--"'who has suffered +much, and who wishes for quietness and retirement from the world.'" + +"I should recommend a convent under the circumstances," says Cyril. "It +would be the very thing for her. I don't see why she should come down +here to suffer, and put us all in the dumps, and fill our woods with her +sighs and moans." + +"Is she young?" asks Lady Chetwoode, anxiously. + +"No,--I don't know, I'm sure. I should think not, by Trant's way of +mentioning her. 'An old friend,' he says, though, of course, that might +mean anything." + +"Married?" + +"Yes. A widow." + +"Dear me!" says Lady Chetwoode, distastefully. "A most objectionable +class of people. Always in the way, and--er--very designing, and that." + +"If she is anything under forty she will want to marry Guy directly," +Cyril puts in, with an air of conviction. "If I were you, Guy, I should +pause and consider before I introduced such a dangerous ingredient so +near home. Just fancy, mother, seeing Guy married to a woman probably +older than you!" + +"Yes,--I shouldn't wonder," says Lady Chetwoode, nervously. "My dear +child, do nothing in a hurry. Tell Colonel Trant you--you--do not care +about letting The Cottage just at present." + +"Nonsense, mother! How can you be so absurd? Don't you think I may be +considered proof against designing widows at twenty-nine? Never mind +Cyril's talk. I dare say he is afraid for himself. Indeed, the one thing +that makes me hesitate about obliging Trant is the knowledge of how +utterly incapable my poor brother is of taking care of himself." + +"It is only too true," says Cyril, resignedly. "I feel sure if the widow +is flouted by you she will revenge herself by marrying me. Guy, as you +are strong, be merciful." + +"After all, the poor creature may be quite old, and we are frightening +ourselves unnecessarily," says Lady Chetwoode, in all sincerity. + +At this both Guy and Cyril laugh in spite of themselves. + +"Are you really afraid, mother?" asks Cyril, fondly. "What a goose you +are about your 'boys'! Are we always to be children in your eyes? Not +that I wonder at your horror of widows. Even the immortal Weller shared +your sentiments, and warned his 'Samivel' against them. Never mind, +mother; console yourself. I for one swear by all that is lovely never to +seek this particular 'widder' in marriage." + +False oath. + +"You see he seems to take it so much for granted, my giving The Cottage +and that, I hardly like to refuse." + +"It would not be of the least consequence, if it was not situated +actually in our own woods, and not two miles from the house. There lies +the chief objection," says Lady Chetwoode. + +"Yes. Yet what can I do? It is a pretty little place, and it seems a +pity to let it sink into decay. This tenant may save it." + +"It is a lovely spot. I often fancy, Guy," says his mother, somewhat +sadly, "I should like to go and live there myself when you get a wife." + +"Why should you say that?" says Guy, almost roughly. "If my taking a +wife necessitates your quitting Chetwoode, I shall never burden myself +with that luxury." + +"You don't follow out the Mater's argument, dear boy," says Cyril, +smoothly. "She means that when your sylvan widow claims you as her own +she _must_ leave, as of course the same roof could not cover both. But +you are eating nothing, mother; Guy's foolish letter has taken away your +appetite. Take some of this broiled ham!" + +"No, thank you, dear, I don't care for----" + +"Don't perjure yourself. You know you have had a positive passion for +broiled ham from your cradle up. I remember all about it. I insist on +your eating your breakfast, or you will have that beastly headache back +again." + +"My dear," says his mother, entreatingly, "do you think you could be +silent for a few minutes while I discuss this subject with your +brother?" + +"I shan't speak again. After that severe snubbing consider me dumb. But +do get it over quick," says Cyril. "I can't be mute forever." + +"I suppose I had better say yes," says Guy, doubtfully. "It looks +rather like the dog in the manger, having The Cottage idle and still +refusing Trant's friend." + +"That reminds me of a capital story," breaks in the irrepressible Cyril, +gayly. "By Jove, what a sell it was! One fellow met another fellow----" + +"I shall refuse, of course, if you wish it," Guy goes on, addressing his +mother, and scorning to notice this brilliant interruption. + +"No, no, dear. Write and say you will think about it." + +"Won't you listen to my capital story?" asks Cyril, in high disgust. +"Very good. You will both be sorry afterward,--when it is too late." + +Even this awful threat takes no effect. + +"Unfortunately, I can't do that," says Guy, answering Lady Chetwoode. +"His friend is obliged to leave the place she is now in, immediately, +and he wants her to come here next week,--next"--glancing at the +letter--"Saturday." + +"Misfortunes never come single," remarks Cyril; "ours seem to crowd. +First a ward, and then a widow, and all in the same week." + +"Not only the same week, but the same day," exclaims Lady Chetwoode, +looking at her letter; whereupon they all laugh, though they scarcely +know why. + +"What! Is she too coming on Saturday?" asks Guy. "How ill-timed! I am +bound to go to the Bellairs, on that day, whether I like it or not, to +dine, and sleep and spend my time generally. The old boy has some young +dogs of which he is immensely proud, and has been tormenting me for a +month past to go and see them. So yesterday he seized upon me again, and +I didn't quite like to refuse, he seemed so bent on getting my opinion +of the pups." + +"Why not go early, and be back in time for dinner?" + +"Can't, unfortunately. There is to be a dinner there in the evening for +some cousin who is coming to pay them a visit; and I promised Harry, who +doesn't shine in conversation, to stay and make myself agreeable to her. +It's a bore rather, as I fear it will look slightly heathenish my not +being at the station to meet Miss Chesney." + +"Don't put yourself out about that: I'll do all I can to make up for +your loss," says Cyril, who is eminently good-natured. "I'll meet her if +you wish it, and bring her home." + +"Thanks, old man: you're awfully good. It would look inhospitable +neither of us being on the spot to bid her welcome. Take the carriage +and----" + +"Oh, by Jove, I didn't bargain for the carriage. To be smothered alive +in July is not a fascinating idea. Don't you think, mother,"--in an +insinuating voice,--"Miss Chesney would prefer the dogcart or the----" + +"My dear Cyril! Of course you must meet her in the carriage," says his +mother, in the shocked tone that usually ends all disputes. + +"So be it. I give in. Though when I arrive here in the last stage of +exhaustion, reclining in Miss Chesney's arms, you will be to blame," +says Cyril, amiably. "But to return to your widow, Guy; who is to +receive her?" + +"I dare say by this time she has learned to take care of herself," +laughing. "At all events, she does not weigh upon my conscience, even +should I consent to oblige Trant,"--looking at his mother--"by having +her at The Cottage as a tenant." + +"It looks very suspicious, her being turned out of her last place," +Cyril says, in an uncomfortable tone. "Perhaps----" Here he pauses +somewhat mysteriously. + +"Perhaps what?" asks his mother, struck by his manner. + +"Perhaps she is mad," suggests Cyril, in an awesome whisper. "An escaped +lunatic!--a maniac!" + +"I know no one who borders so much on lunacy as yourself," says Guy. +"After all, what does it matter whether our tenant is fat, fair, and +forty, or a lean old maid! It will oblige Trant, and it will keep the +place together. Mother, tell me to say yes." + +Thus desired, Lady Chetwoode gives the required permission. + +"A new tenant at The Cottage and a young lady visitor,--a permanent +visitor! It only requires some one to leave us a legacy in the shape of +a new-born babe, to make up the sum of our calamities," says Cyril, as +he steps out of the low French window and drops on to the sward beneath. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + "She was beautiful as the lily-bosomed Houri that gladdens the + visions of the poet when, soothed to dreams of pleasantness and + peace, the downy pinions of Sleep wave over his turbulent + soul!"--_From the Arabic._ + + +All the flowers at Chetwoode are rejoicing; their heads are high +uplifted, their sweetest perfumes are making still more sweet the soft, +coquettish wind that, stealing past them, snatches their kisses ere they +know. + +It is a glorious day, full of life, and happy sunshine, and music from +the throats of many birds. All the tenors and sopranos and contraltos of +the air seem to be having one vast concert, and are filling the woods +with melody. + +In the morning a little laughing, loving shower came tumbling down into +the earth's embrace, where it was caught gladly and kept forever,--a +little baby shower, on which the sunbeams smiled, knowing that it had +neither power nor wish to kill them. + +But now the greedy earth has grasped it, and others, knowing its fate, +fear to follow, and only the pretty sparkling jewels that tremble on the +grass tell of its having been. + +In the very centre of the great lawn that stretches beyond the +pleasure-grounds stands a mighty oak. Its huge branches throw their arms +far and wide, making a shelter beneath them for all who may choose to +come and seek there for shade. Around its base pretty rustic chairs are +standing in somewhat dissipated order, while on its topmost bough a crow +is swaying and swinging as the soft wind rushes by, making an inky blot +upon the brilliant green, as it were a patch upon the cheek of a court +belle. + +Over all the land from his lofty perch this crow can see,--can mark the +smiling fields, the yellowing corn, the many antlered deer in the Park, +the laughing brooklets, the gurgling streams that now in the great heat +go lazily and stumble sleepily over every pebble in their way. + +He can see his neighbors' houses, perhaps his own snug nest, and all the +beauty and richness and warmth of an English landscape. + +But presently--being a bird of unformed tastes or unappreciative, or +perhaps fickle--he tires of looking, and flapping heavily his black +wings, rises slowly and sails away. + +Toward the east he goes, the sound of his harsh but homely croak growing +fainter as he flies. Over the trees in their gorgeous clothing, across +the murmuring brooks, through the uplands, over the heads of the deer +that gaze at him with their mournful, gentle eyes, he travels, never +ceasing in his flight until he comes to a small belt of firs, evidently +set apart, in the centre of which stands "The Cottage." + +It is considerably larger than one would expect from its name. A long, +low, straggling house, about three miles from Chetwoode entrance-gate, +going by the road, but only one mile, taking a short cut through the +Park. A very pretty house,--with a garden in front, carefully hedged +round, and another garden at the back,--situated in a lovely +spot,--perhaps the most enviable in all Chetwoode,--silent, dreamy, +where one might, indeed, live forever, "the world forgetting, by the +world forgot." + +In the garden all sorts of the sweetest old-world flowers are +blooming,--pinks and carnations, late lilies and sweet-williams; the +velvety heartsease, breathing comfort to the poor +love-that-lies-a-bleeding; the modest forget-me-not, the fragrant +mignonette (whose qualities, they rudely say surpass its charms), the +starry jessamine, the frail woodbine; while here and there from every +nook and corner shines out the fairest, loveliest, queenliest flower of +all,--the rose. + +Every bush is rich with them; the air is heavy with their odor. Roses of +every hue, of every size, from the grand old cabbage to the smallest +Scotch, are here. One gazes round in silent admiration, until the great +love of them swells within the heart and a desire for possession arises, +when, growing murderous, one wishes, like Nero, they had but one neck, +that they might all be gathered at a blow. + +Upon the house only snow-white roses grow. In great masses they uprear +their heads, peeping curiously in at the windows, trailing lovingly +round the porches, nestling under the eaves, drooping coquettishly at +the angles. To-day a raindrop has fallen into each scented heart, has +lingered there all the morning, and is still loath to leave. Above the +flowers the birds hover twittering; beneath them the ground is as a +snowy carpet from their fallen petals. Poor petals! How sad it is that +they must fall! Yet, even in death, how sweet! + +It is Saturday. In the morning the new tenant was expected; the evening +is to bring the new ward. Lady Chetwoode, in consequence, is a little +trouble-minded. Guy has gone to the Bellairs'. Cyril is in radiant +spirits. Not that this latter fact need be recorded, as Cyril belongs to +those favored ones who at their birth receive a dowry from their fairy +godparents of unlimited good-humor. + +He is at all times an easy-going young man, healthy, happy, whose path +in life up to this has been strewn with roses. To him the world isn't +"half a bad place," which he is content to take as he finds it, never +looking too closely into what doesn't concern him,--a treatment the +world evidently likes, as it regards him (especially the gentler portion +of it) with the utmost affection. + +Even with that rare class, mothers blessed with handsome daughters, he +finds favor, either through his face or his manner, or because of the +fact that though a younger son, he has nine hundred pounds a year of his +own and a pretty place called Moorlands, about six miles from Chetwoode. +It was his mother's portion and is now his. + +He is tall, broad-shouldered, and rather handsome, with perhaps more +mouth than usually goes to one man's share; but, as he has laughed +straight through from his cradle to his twenty-sixth year, this is +scarcely to be wondered at. His eyes are gray and frank, his hair is +brown, his skin a good deal tanned. He is very far from being an Adonis, +but he is good to look at, and to know him is to like him. + +Just now, luncheon being over, and nothing else left to do, he is +feeling rather bored than otherwise, and lounges into his mother's +morning-room, being filled with a desire to have speech with somebody. +The somebody nearest to him at the moment being Lady Chetwoode, he +elects to seek her presence and inflict his society upon her. + +"It's an awful nuisance having anything on your mind, isn't it, mother?" +he says, genially. + +"It is indeed, my dear," with heartfelt earnestness and a palpable +expectation of worse things yet to come. "What unfortunate mistake have +you been making now?" + +"Not one. 'You wrong me, Brutus.' I have been as gently behaved as a +skipping lamb all the morning. No; I mean having to fetch our visitor +this evening weighs upon my spirits and somehow idles me. I can settle +to nothing." + +"You seldom can, dear, can you?" says Lady Chetwoode, mildly, with +unmeant irony. "But"--as though suddenly inspired--"suppose you go for a +walk?" + +This is a mean suggestion, and utterly unworthy of Lady Chetwoode. The +fact is, the day is warm and she is sleepy, and she knows she will not +get her forty winks unless he takes himself out of the way. So, with a +view to getting rid of him, she grows hypocritically kind. + +"A walk will do you good," she says. "You don't take half exercise +enough. And, you know, the want of it makes people fat." + +"I believe you are right," Cyril says, rising. He stretches himself, +laughs indolently at his own lazy figure in an opposite mirror, after +which he vanishes almost as quickly as even she can desire. + +Five minutes later, with an open book upon her knee, as a means of +defense should any one enter unannounced, Lady Chetwoode is snoozing +comfortably; while Cyril, following the exact direction taken by the +crow in the morning, walks leisurely onward, under the trees, to meet +his fate! + +Quite unthinkingly, quite unsuspiciously, he pursues his way, dreaming +of anything in the world but The Cottage and its new inmate, until the +house, suddenly appearing before him, recalls his wandering thoughts. + +The hall-door stands open. Every one of the windows is thrown wide. +There is about everything the unmistakable _silent_ noise that belongs +to an inhabited dwelling, however quiet. The young man, standing still, +wonders vaguely at the change. + +Then all at once a laugh rings out; there is an undeniable scuffle, and +presently a tiny black dog with a little mirthful yelp breaks from the +house into the garden and commences a mad scamper all round and round +the rose trees. + +An instant later he is followed by a trim maid-servant, who, flushed but +smiling, rushes after him, making well-directed but ineffectual pounces +on the truant. As she misses him the dog gives way to another yelp (of +triumph this time), and again the hunt goes on. + +But now there comes the sound of other feet, and Cyril, glancing up from +his interested watch over the terrier's movements, sees surely +something far, far lovelier than he has ever seen before. + +Even at this early moment his heart gives a little bound and then seems +to cease from beating. + +Upon the door-step stands a girl--although quite three-and-twenty she +still looks the merest girl--clad in a gown of clear black-and-white +cambric. A huge coarse white apron covers all the front of this gown, +and is pinned, French fashion, half-way across her bosom. Her arms, +white and soft, and rounded as a child's, are bared to the elbows, her +sleeves being carefully tucked up. Two little feet, encased in Louis +Quinze slippers, peep coyly from beneath her robe. + +Upon this vision Cyril gazes, his whole heart in his eyes, and marks +with wondering admiration each fresh beauty. She is tall, rather _posee_ +in figure, with a small, proud head, and the carriage of a goddess. Her +features are not altogether perfect, and yet (or rather because of it) +she is extremely beautiful. She has great, soft, trusting eyes of a deep +rare gray, that looking compel the truth; above her low white forehead +her hair rolls back in silky ruffled waves, and is gathered into a loose +knot behind. It is a rich nut-brown in color, through which runs a faint +tinge of red that turns to burnished gold under the sun's kiss. Her skin +is exquisite, pale but warm, through which as she speaks the blood comes +and lingers awhile, and flies only to return. Her mouth is perhaps, +strictly speaking, in a degree imperfect, yet it is one of her principal +charms; it is large and lovable, and covers pretty teeth as white as +snow. For my part I love a large mouth, if well shaped, and do not +believe a hearty laugh can issue from a small one. And, after all, what +is life without its laughter? + +A little white cap of the "mob" description adorns her head, and is +trimmed fancifully with black velvet bows that match her gown. Her hands +are small and fine, the fingers tapering; just now they are clasped +together excitedly; and a brilliant color has come into her cheeks as +she stands (unconscious of criticism) and watches the depravity of her +favorite. + +"Oh! catch him, Kate," she cries, in a clear, sweet voice, that is now +rather impetuous and suggests rising indignation. "Wicked little wretch! +He shall have a good whipping for this. Dirty little dog,"--(this to the +black terrier, in a tone of reproachful disgust)--"not to want his nice +clean bath after all the dust of yesterday and to-day!" + +This rebuke is evidently lost upon the reprobate terrier, who still +flies before the enemy who follows on his heels in hot pursuit. Round +and round, in and out, hither and thither he goes, the breathless maid +after him, the ceaseless upbraiding of his mistress ringing in his ears. +The nice clean bath has no charms for this degenerate dog, although his +ablutions are to be made sweet by the touch of those snowy dimpled hands +now clasped in an agony of expectation. No, this miserable animal, +disdaining all the good things in store for him, rushes past Kate, past +his angry mistress, past the roses, out through the bars of the gate +right into Cyril's arms! Oh, ill-judging dog! + +Cyril, having caught him, holds him closely, in spite of his vehement +struggles, for, scenting mischief in the air, he fights valiantly for +freedom. + +Kate runs to the garden-gate, so does the bare-armed goddess, and there, +on the path, behold their naughty treasure held fast in a stranger's +arms! + +When she sees him the goddess suddenly freezes and grows gravely +dignified. The smile departs from her lips, the rich crimson dies, while +in its place a faint, delicate blush comes to suffuse her cheeks. + +"This is your dog, I think?" says Cyril, pretending to be doubtful on +the subject; though who could be more sure? + +"Yes,--thank you." Then as her eyes fall upon her lovely naked arms the +blush grows deeper and deeper, until at length her face is red as one of +her own perfect roses. + +"He was very dusty after yesterday's journey, and I was going to wash +him," she says, with a gentle dignity but an evident anxiety to explain. + +"Lucky dog!" says Cyril gravely, in a low tone. + +Kate has disappeared into the background with the refractory pet, whose +quavering protests are lost in the distance. Again silence has fallen +upon the house, the wood, the flowers. The faintest flicker of a smile +trembles for one instant round the corners of the stranger's lips, then +is quickly subdued. + +"Thank you, sir," she says, once more, quietly, and turning away, is +swallowed up hurriedly by the envious roses. + +All the way home Cyril's mind is full of curious thought, though one +topic alone engrosses it. The mistress of that small ungrateful terrier +has taken complete and entire possession of him, to the exclusion of all +other matter. So the widow has not arrived in solitary state,--that is +evident. And what a lovely girl to bring down and bury alive in this +quiet spot. Who on earth can she be? + +How beautiful her arms were, and her hands!--Even the delicate, tinted +filbert nails had not escaped his eager gaze. How sweet she looked, how +bright! Surely a widow would not be fit company for so gay a creature; +and still, when she grew grave at the gate, when her smile faded, had +not a wistful, sorrowful expression fallen across her face and into her +exquisite eyes? Perhaps she, too, has suffered,--is in trouble, and, +through sympathy, clings to her friend the widow. + +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 this Chetwoode?" Lilian asks, five minutes later, as they pass +through the entrance gate. "What a charming avenue!"--putting her head +out of the window, "and so dark. I like it dark; it reminds me of"--she +pauses, and two large tears come slowly, slowly into her blue eyes and +tremble there--"my home," she says in a low tone. + +"You must try to be happy with us," Cyril says, kindly, taking one of +her hands and pressing it gently, to enforce his sympathy; and then the +horses draw up at the hall door, and he helps her to alight, and +presently she finds herself within the doors of Chetwoode. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + "Ye scenes of my childhood, whose loved recollection + Embitters the present, compared with the past."--BYRON. + + +When Lady Chetwoode, who is sitting in the drawing-room, hears the +carriage draw up to the door, she straightens herself in her chair, +smoothes down the folds of her black velvet gown with rather nervous +fingers, and prepares for an unpleasant surprise. She hears Cyril's +voice in the hall inquiring where his mother is, and, rising to her +feet, she makes ready to receive her new ward. + +She has put on what she fondly hopes is a particularly gracious air, but +which is in reality a palpable mixture of fear and uncertainty. The door +opens; there is a slight pause; and then Lilian, slight, and fair, and +pretty, stands upon the threshold. + +She is very pale, partly through fatigue, but much more through +nervousness and the self-same feeling of uncertainty that is weighing +down her hostess. As her eyes meet Lady Chetwoode's they take an +appealing expression that goes straight to the heart of that kindest of +women. + +"You have arrived, my dear," she says, a ring of undeniable cordiality +in her tone, while from her face all the unpleasant fear has vanished. +She moves forward to greet her guest, and as Lilian comes up to her +takes the fair sweet face between her hands and kisses her softly on +each cheek. + +"You are like your mother," she says, presently, holding the girl a +little way from her and regarding her with earnest attention. +"Yes,--very like your mother, and she was beautiful. You are welcome to +Chetwoode, my dear child." + +Lilian, who is feeling rather inclined to cry, does not trust herself to +make any spoken rejoinder, but, putting up her lips of her own accord, +presses them gratefully to Lady Chetwoode's, thereby ratifying the +silent bond of friendship that without a word has on the instant been +sealed between the old woman and the young one. + +A great sense of relief has fallen upon Lady Chetwoode. Not until now, +when her fears have been proved groundless, does she fully comprehend +the amount of uneasiness and positive horror with which she has regarded +the admittance of a stranger into her happy home circle. The thought +that something unrefined, disagreeable, unbearable, might be coming has +followed like a nightmare for the past week, but now, in the presence of +this lovely child, it has fled away ashamed, never to return. + +Lilian's delicate, well-bred face and figure, her small hands, her +graceful movements, her whole air, proclaim her one of the world to +which Lady Chetwoode belongs, and the old lady, who is aristocrat to her +fingers' ends, hails the fact with delight. Her beauty alone had almost +won her cause, when she cast that beseeching glance from the doorway; +and now when she lets the heavy tears grow in her blue eyes, all doubt +is at end, and "almost" gives way to "quite." + +Henceforth she is altogether welcome at Chetwoode, as far as its present +gentle mistress is concerned. + +"Cyril took care of you, I hope?" says Lady Chetwoode, glancing over her +guest's head at her second son, and smiling kindly. + +"Great care of me," returning the smile. + +"But you are tired, of course; it is a long journey, and no doubt you +are glad to reach home," says Lady Chetwoode, using the word naturally. +And though the mention of it causes Lilian a pang, still there is +something tender and restful about it too, that gives some comfort to +her heart. + +"Perhaps you would like to go to your room," continues Lady Chetwoode, +thoughtfully, "though I fear your maid cannot have arrived yet." + +"Miss Chesney, like Juliet, boasts a nurse," says Cyril; "she scorns to +travel with a mere maid." + +"My nurse has always attended me," says Lilian, laughing and blushing. +"She has waited on me since I was a month old. I should not know how to +get on without her, and I am sure she could not get on without me. I +think she is far better than any maid I could get." + +"She must have an interest in you that no new-comer could possibly +have," says Lady Chetwoode, who is in the humor to agree with anything +Lilian may say, so thankful is she to her for being what she is. And yet +so strong is habit that involuntarily, as she speaks, her eyes seek +Lilian's hair, which is dressed to perfection. "I have no doubt she is a +treasure,"--with an air of conviction. "Come with me, my dear." + +They leave the room together. In the hall the housekeeper, coming +forward, says respectfully: + +"Shall I take Miss Chesney to her room, my lady?" + +"No, Matthews," says Lady Chetwoode, graciously; "it will give me +pleasure to take her there myself." + +By which speech all the servants are at once made aware that Miss +Chesney is already in high favor with "my lady," who never, except on +very rare occasions, takes the trouble to see personally after her +visitors' comfort. + + * * * * * + +When Lilian has been ten minutes in her room Mrs. Tipping arrives, and +is shown up-stairs, where she finds her small mistress evidently in the +last stage of despondency. These ten lonely minutes have been fatal to +her new-born hopes, and have reduced her once more to the melancholy +frame of mind in which she left her home in the morning. All this the +faithful Tipping sees at a glance, and instantly essays to cheer her. + +Silently and with careful fingers she first removes her hat, then her +jacket, then she induces her to stand up, and, taking off her dress, +throws round her a white wrapper taken from a trunk, and prepares to +brush the silky yellow hair that for eighteen years has been her own to +dress and tend and admire. + +"Eh, Miss Lilian, child, but it's a lovely place!" she says, presently, +this speech being intended as a part of the cheering process. + +"It seems a fine place," says the "child," indifferently. + +"Fine it is indeed. Grander even than the Park, I'm thinking." + +"'Grander than the Park'!" says Miss Chesney, rousing to unexpected +fervor. "How can you say that? Have you grown fickle, nurse? There is no +place to be compared to the Park, not one in all the world. You can +think as you please, of course,"--with reproachful scorn,--"but it is +_not_ grander than the Park." + +"I meant larger, ninny," soothingly. + +"It is not larger." + +"But, darling, how can you say so when you haven't been round it?" + +"How can _you_ say so when _you_ haven't been round it?" + +This is a poser. Nurse meditates a minute and then says: + +"Thomas--that's the groom that drove me--says it is." + +"Thomas!"--with a look that, had the wretched Thomas been on the spot, +would infallibly have reduced him to ashes; "and what does Thomas know +about it? It is _not_ larger." + +Silence. + +"Indeed, my bairn, I think you might well be happy here," says nurse, +tenderly returning to the charge. + +"I don't want you to think about me at all," says Miss Chesney, in +trembling tones. "You agreed with Aunt Priscilla that I ought to leave +my dear, dear home, and I shall never forgive you for it. I am not happy +here. I shall never be happy here. I shall die of fretting for the Park, +and when I am _dead_ you will perhaps be satisfied." + +"Miss Lilian!" + +"You shan't brush my hair any more," says Miss Lilian, dexterously +evading the descent of the brush. "I can do it for myself very well. You +are a traitor." + +"I am sorry, Miss Chesney, if I have displeased you," says nurse, with +much dignity tempered with distress: only when deeply grieved and +offended does she give her mistress her full title. + +"How dare you call me Miss Chesney!" cries the young lady, springing to +her feet. "It is very unkind of you, and just now too, when I am all +alone in a strange house. Oh, nurse!" throwing her arms round the neck +of that devoted and long-suffering woman, and forgetful of her +resentment, which indeed was born only of her regret, "I am so unhappy, +and lonely, and sorry! What shall I do?" + +"How can I tell you, my lamb?"--caressing with infinite affection the +golden head that lies upon her bosom. "All that I say only vexes you." + +"No, it doesn't: I am wicked when I make you think that. After +all,"--raising her face--"I am not quite forsaken; I have you still, and +you will never leave me." + +"Not unless I die, my dear," says nurse, earnestly. "And, Miss Lilian, +how can you look at her ladyship without knowing her to be a real +friend. And Mr. Chetwoode too; and perhaps Sir Guy will be as nice, when +you see him." + +"Perhaps he won't," ruefully. + +"That's nonsense, my dear. Let us look at the bright side of things +always. And by and by Master Taffy will come here on a visit, and then +it will be like old times. Come, now, be reasonable, child of my heart," +says nurse, "and tell me, won't you look forward to having Master Taffy +here?" + +"I wish he was here now," says Lilian, visibly brightening. "Yes; +perhaps they will ask him. But, nurse, do you remember when last I saw +Taffy it was at----" + +Here she shows such unmistakable symptoms of relapsing into the tearful +mood again, that nurse sees the necessity of changing the subject. + +"Come, my bairn, let me dress you for dinner," she says, briskly, and +presently, after a little more coaxing, she succeeds so well that she +sends her little mistress down to the drawing-room, looking her +loveliest and her best. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + "Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self, + Recluse amid the close-embowering woods." + --THOMSON. + + +Next morning, having enjoyed the long and dreamless sleep that belongs +to the heart-whole, Lilian runs down to the breakfast-room, with the +warm sweet flush of health and youth upon her cheeks. Finding Lady +Chetwoode and Cyril already before her, she summons all her grace to her +aid and tries to look ashamed of herself. + +"Am I late?" she asks, going up to Lady Chetwoode and giving her a +little caress as a good-morning. Her very touch is so gentle and +childish and loving that it sinks straight into the deepest recesses of +one's heart. + +"No. Don't be alarmed. I have only just come down myself. You will soon +find us out to be some of the laziest people alive." + +"I am glad of it: I like lazy people," says Lilian; "all the rest seem +to turn their lives into one great worry." + +"Will you not give me a good-morning, Miss Chesney?" says Cyril, who is +standing behind her. + +"Good-morning," putting her hand into his. + +"But that is not the way you gave it to my mother," in an aggrieved +tone. + +"No?--Oh!"--as she comprehends,--"but you should remember how much more +deserving your mother is." + +"With sorrow I acknowledge the truth of your remark," says Cyril, as he +hands her her tea. + +"Cyril is our naughty boy," Lady Chetwoode says; "we all spend our lives +making allowances for Cyril. You must not mind what he says. I hope you +slept well, Lilian; there is nothing does one so much good as a sound +sleep, and you looked quite pale with fatigue last night. You +see"--smiling--"how well I know your name. It is very familiar to me, +having been your dear mother's." + +"It seems strangely familiar to me also, though I never know your +mother," says Cyril. "I don't believe I shall ever be able to call you +Miss Chesney. Would it make you very angry if I called you Lilian?" + +"Indeed, no; I shall be very much obliged to you. I should hardly know +myself by the more formal title. You shall call me Lilian, and I shall +call you Cyril,--if you don't mind." + +"I don't think I do,--much," says Cyril; so the compact is signed. + +"Guy will be here surely by luncheon," says Lady Chetwoode, with a view +of giving her guest pleasure. + +"Oh! will he really?" says Lilian, in a quick tone, suggestive of +dismay. + +"I am sure of it," says Guy's mother fondly: "he never breaks his word." + +"Of course not," thinks Lilian to herself. "Fancy a paragon going wrong! +How I hate a man who never breaks his word! Why, the Medes and Persians +would be weak-minded compared with him." + +"I suppose not," she says aloud, rather vaguely. + +"You seem to appreciate the idea of your guardian's return," says Cyril, +with a slight smile, having read half her thoughts correctly. "Does the +mere word frighten you? I should like to know your real opinion of what +a guardian ought to be." + +"How can I have an opinion on the subject when I have never seen one?" + +"Yet a moment ago I saw by your face you were picturing one to +yourself." + +"If so, it could scarcely be Sir Guy,--as he is not old." + +"Not very. He has still a few hairs and a few teeth remaining. But won't +you then answer my question? What is your ideal guardian like?" + +"If you press it I shall tell you, but you must not betray me to Sir +Guy," says Lilian, turning to include Lady Chetwoode in her caution. "My +ideal is always a lean old gentleman of about sixty, with a stoop, and +any amount of determination. He has a hooked nose on which gold-rimmed +spectacles eternally stride; eyes that look one through and through; a +mouth full of trite phrases, unpleasant maxims, and false teeth; and a +decided tendency toward the suppression of all youthful follies." + +"Guy will be an agreeable surprise. I had no idea you could be so +severe." + +"Nor am I. You must not think me so," says Lilian, blushing warmly and +looking rather sorry for having spoken; "but you know you insisted on an +answer. Perhaps I should not have spoken so freely, but that I know my +real guardian is not at all like my ideal." + +"How do you know? Perhaps he too is toothless, old, and unpleasant. He +is a great deal older than I am." + +"He can't be a great deal older." + +"Why?" + +"Because"--with a shy glance at the gentle face behind the urn--"Lady +Chetwoode looks so young." + +She blushes again as she says this, and regards her hostess with an air +of such thorough good faith as wins that lady's liking on the spot. + +"You are right," says Cyril, laughing; "she _is_ young. She is never to +grow old, because her 'boys,' as she calls us, object to old women. You +may have heard of 'perennial spring;' well, that is another name for my +mother. But you must not tell her so, because she is horribly conceited, +and would lead us an awful life if we didn't keep her down." + +"Cyril, my dear!" says Lady Chetwoode, laughing, which is about the +heaviest reproof she ever delivers. + +All this time, her breakfast being finished, Lilian has been carefully +and industriously breaking up all the bread left upon her plate, until +now quite a small pyramid stands in the centre of it. + +Cyril, having secretly crumbled some of his, now, stooping forward, +places it upon the top of her hillock. + +"I haven't the faintest idea what you intend doing with it," he says, +"but, as I am convinced you have some grand project in view, I feel a +mean desire to be associated with it in some way by having a finger in +the pie. Is it for a pie? I am dying of vulgar curiosity." + +"I!"--with a little shocked start; "it doesn't matter, I--I quite +forgot. I----" + +She presses her hand nervously down upon the top of her goodly pile, and +suppresses the gay little erection until it lies prostrate on her plate, +where even then it makes a very fair show. + +"You meant it for something, my dear, did you not?" asks Lady Chetwoode, +kindly. + +"Yes, for the birds," says the girl, turning upon her two great earnest +eyes that shine like stars through regretful tears. "At home I used to +collect all the broken bread for them every morning. And they grew so +fond of me, the very robins used to come and perch upon my shoulders and +eat little bits from my lips. There was no one to frighten them. There +was only me, and I loved them. When I knew I must leave the Park,"--a +sorrowful quiver making her voice sad,--"I determined to break my going +gently to them, and at first I only fed them every second day,--in +person,--and then only every third day, and at last only once a week, +until"--in a low tone--"they forgot me altogether." + +"Ungrateful birds," says Cyril, with honest disgust, something like +moisture in his own eyes, so real is her grief. + +"Yes, that was the worst of all, to be so _soon_ forgotten, and I had +fed them without missing a day for five years. But they were not +ungrateful; why should they remember me, when they thought I had tired +of them? Yet I always broke the bread for them every morning, though I +would not give it myself, and to-day"--she sighs--"I forgot I was not at +home." + +"My dear," says Lady Chetwoode, laying her own white, plump, jeweled +hand upon Lilian's slender, snowy one, as it lies beside her on the +table, "you flatter me very much when you say that even for a moment you +felt this house home. I hope you will let the feeling grow in you, and +will try to remember that here you have a true welcome forever, until +you wish to leave us. And as for the birds, I too love them,--dear, +pretty creatures,--and I shall take it as a great kindness, my dear +Lilian, if every morning you will gather up the crumbs and give them to +your little feathered friends." + +"How good you are!" says Lilian, gratefully, turning her small palm +upward so as to give Lady Chetwoode's hand a good squeeze. "I know I +shall be happy here. And I am so glad you like the birds; perhaps here +they may learn to love me, too. Do you know, before leaving the Park, I +wrote a note to my cousin, asking him not to forget to give them bread +every day?--but young men are so careless,"--in a disparaging tone,--"I +dare say he won't take the trouble to see about it." + +"I am a young man," remarks Mr. Chetwoode, suggestively. + +"Yes, I know it," returns Miss Chesney, coolly. + +"I dare say your cousin will think of it," says Lady Chetwoode, who has +a weakness for young men, and always believes the best of them. +"Archibald is very kind-hearted." + +"You know him?"--surprised. + +"Very well, indeed. He comes here almost every autumn to shoot with the +boys. You know, his own home is not ten miles from Chetwoode." + +"I did not know. I never thought of him at all until I knew he was to +inherit the Park. Do you think he will come here this autumn?" + +"I hope so. Last year he was abroad, and we saw nothing of him; but now +he has come home I am sure he will renew his visits. He is a great +favorite of mine; I think you, too, will like him." + +"Don't be too sanguine," says Lilian; "just now I regard him as a +usurper; I feel as though he had stolen my Park." + +"Marry him," says Cyril, "and get it back again. Some more tea, +Miss--Lilian?" + +"If you please--Cyril,"--with a light laugh. "You see, it comes easier +to me than to you, after all." + +"_Place aux dames!_ I felt some embarrassment about commencing. In the +future I shall put my _mauvaise honte_ in my pocket, and regard you as +something I have always longed for,--that is, a sister." + +"Very well, and you must be very good to me," says Lilian, "because +never having had one, I have a very exalted idea of what a brother +should be." + +"How shall you amuse yourself all the morning, child?" asks Lady +Chetwoode. "I fear you're beginning by thinking us stupid." + +"Don't trouble about me," says Lilian. "If I may, I should like to go +out and take a run round the gardens alone. I can always make +acquaintance with places quicker if left to find them out for myself." + +When breakfast is over, and they have all turned their backs with gross +ingratitude upon the morning-room, she dons her hat and sallies forth +bent on discovery. + +Through the gardens she goes, admiring the flowers, pulling a blossom or +two, making love to the robins and sparrows, and gay little chaffinches, +that sit aloft in the branches and pour down sonnets on her head. The +riotous butterflies, skimming hither and thither in the bright sunshine, +hail her coming, and rush with wanton joy across her eyes, as though +seeking to steal from them a lovelier blue for their soft wings. The +flowers, the birds, the bees, the amorous wind, all woo this creature, +so full of joy and sweetness and the unsurpassable beauty of youth. + +She makes a rapid rush through all the hothouses, feeling almost stifled +in them this day, so rich in sun, and, gaining the orchard, eats a +little fruit, and makes a lasting conquest of Michael, the +head-gardener, who, when she has gone into generous raptures over his +arrangements, becomes her abject slave on the spot, and from that day +forward acknowledges no power superior to hers. + +Tiring of admiration, she leaves the garrulous old man, and wanders away +over the closely-shaven lawn, past the hollies, into the wood beyond, +singing as she goes, as is her wont. + +In the deep green wood a delicious sense of freedom possesses her; she +walks on, happy, unsuspicious of evil to come, free of care (oh, that we +all were so!), with nothing to chain her thoughts to earth, or compel +her to dream of aught but the sufficing joy of living, the glad earth +beneath her, the brilliant foliage around, the blue heavens above her +head. + +Alas! alas! how short is the time that lies between the child and the +woman! the intermediate state when, with awakened eyes and arms +outstretched, we inhale the anticipation of life, is as but one day in +comparison with all the years of misery and uncertain pleasure to be +eventually derived from the reality thereof! + +Coming to a rather high wall, Lilian pauses, but not for long. There are +few walls either in Chetwoode or elsewhere likely to daunt Miss Chesney, +when in the humor for exploring. + +Putting one foot into a friendly crevice, and holding on valiantly to +the upper stones, she climbs, and, gaining the top, gazes curiously +around. + +As she turns to survey the land over which she has traveled, a young man +emerges from among the low-lying brushwood, and comes quickly forward. +He is clad in a light-gray suit of tweed, and has in his mouth a +meerschaum pipe of the very latest design. + +He is very tall, very handsome, thoughtful in expression. His hair is +light brown,--what there is of it,--his barber having left him little to +boast of except on the upper lip, where a heavy, drooping moustache of +the same color grows unrebuked. He is a little grave, a little indolent, +a good deal passionate. The severe lines around his well-cut mouth are +softened and counterbalanced by the extreme friendliness of his kind, +dark eyes, that are so dark as to make one doubt whether their blue is +not indeed black. + +Lilian, standing on her airy perch, is still singing, and imparting to +the surrounding scenery the sad story of "Barb'ra Allen's" vile +treatment of her adoring swain, and consequent punishment, when the +crackling of leaves beneath a human foot causing her to turn, she finds +herself face to face with a stranger not a hundred yards away. + +The song dies upon her lips, an intense desire to be elsewhere gains +upon her. The young man in gray, putting his meerschaum in his pocket as +a concession to this unexpected warbler, advances leisurely; and Lilian, +feeling vaguely conscious that the top of a wall, though exalted, is not +the most dignified situation in the world, trusting to her activity, +springs to the ground, and regains with mother earth her self-respect. + +"How could you be so foolish? I do hope you are not hurt," says the gray +young man, coming forward anxiously. + +"Not in the least, thank you," smiling so adorably that he forgets to +speak for a moment or two. Then he says with some hesitation, as though +in doubt: + +"Am I addressing my--ward?" + +"How can I be sure," replies she, also in doubt, "until I know whether +indeed you are my--guardian?" + +"I am Guy Chetwoode," says he, laughing, and raising his hat. + +"And I am Lilian Chesney," replies she, smiling in return, and making a +pretty old-fashioned reverence. + +"Then now I suppose we may shake hands without any breach of etiquette, +and swear eternal friendship," extending his hand. + +"I shall reserve my oath until later on," says Miss Chesney, demurely, +but she gives him her hand nevertheless, with unmistakable _bonhommie_. +"You are going home?" glancing up at him from under her broad-brimmed +hat. "If so, I shall go with you, as I am a little tired." + +"But this wall," says Guy, looking with considerable doubt upon the +uncompromising barrier on the summit of which he had first seen her. +"Had we not better go round?" + +"A thousand times no. What!"--gayly--"to be defeated by such a simple +obstacle as that? I have surmounted greater difficulties than that wall +many a time. If you will get up and give me your hands, I dare say I +shall be able to manage it." + +Thus adjured, Guy climbs, and, gaining the top, stoops to give her the +help desired; she lays her hand in his, and soon he draws her in triumph +to his side. + +"Now to get down," he says, laughing. "Wait." He jumps lightly into the +next field, and, turning, holds out his arms to her. "You must not risk +your neck the second time," he says. "When I saw you give that +tremendous leap a minute ago, my blood froze in my veins. Such terrible +exertion was never meant for--a fairy!" + +"Am I so very small?" says Lilian. "Well, take me down, then." + +She leans toward him, and gently, reverentially he takes her in his arms +and places her on the ground beside him. With such a slight burden to +lift he feels himself almost a Hercules. The whole act does not occupy +half a minute, and already he wishes vaguely it did not take so _very_ +short a time to bring a pretty woman from a wall to the earth beneath. +In some vague manner he understands that for him the situation had its +charm. + +Miss Chesney is thoroughly unembarrassed. + +"There is something in having a young guardian, after all," she says, +casting upon him a glance half shy half merry, wholly sweet. She lays a +faint emphasis upon the "young." + +"You have had doubts on the subject, then?" + +"Serious doubts. But I see there is truth in the old saying that 'there +are few things so bad but that they might have been worse.'" + +"Do you mean to tell me that I am 'something bad'?" + +"No"--laughing; "how I wish I could! It is your superiority frightens +me. I hear I must look on you as something superlatively good." + +"How shocking! And in what way am I supposed to excel my brethren?" + +"In every way," with a good deal of malice: "I have been bred in the +belief that you are a _rara avis_, a model, a----" + +"Your teachers have done me a great injury. I shudder when I contemplate +the bitter awakening you must have when you come to know me better." + +"I hope so. I dare say"--naively--"I could learn to like you very well, +if you proved on acquaintance a little less immaculate than I have been +led to believe you." + +"I shall instantly throw over my pronounced taste for the Christian +virtues, and take steadily to vice," says Guy, with decision: "will that +satisfy your ladyship?" + +"Perhaps you put it a little too strongly," says Lilian, demurely. "By +the bye"--irrelevantly,--"what business took you from home yesterday?" + +"I have to beg your pardon for that,--my absence, I mean; but I could +not help it. And it was scarcely business kept me absent," confesses +Chetwoode, who, if he is anything, is strictly honest, "rather a promise +to dine and sleep at some friends of ours, the Bellairs, who live a few +miles from us." + +"Then it wasn't really that bugbear, business? I begin to revive," says +Miss Chesney. + +"No; nothing half so healthy. I wish I had some more legitimate excuse +to offer for my seeming want of courtesy than the fact of my having to +attend a prosy dinner; but I haven't. I feel I deserve a censure, yet I +hope you won't administer one when I tell you I found a very severe +punishment in the dinner itself." + +"I forgive you," says Lilian, with deep pity. + +"It was a long-standing engagement, and, though I knew what lay before +me, I found I could not elude it any longer. I hate long engagements; +don't you?" + +"Cordially. But I should never dream of entering on one." + +"I did, unfortunately." + +"Then don't do it again." + +"I won't. Never. I finally make up my mind. At least, most certainly not +for the days you may be expected." + +"I fear I'm a fixture,"--ruefully: "you won't have to expect me again." + +"Don't say you fear it: I hope you will be happy here." + +"I hope so, too, and I think it. I like your brother Cyril very much, +and your mother is a darling." + +"And what am I?" + +"Ask me that question a month hence." + +"Shall I tell you what I think of you?" + +"If you wish," says Lilian, indifferently, though in truth she is dying +of curiosity. + +"Well, then, from the very first moment my eyes fell upon you, I thought +to myself: She is without exception the most---- After all, though, I +think I too shall reserve my opinion for a month or so." + +"You are right,"--suppressing valiantly all outward symptoms of +disappointment: "your ideas then will be more formed. Are you fond of +riding, Sir Guy?" + +"Very. Are you?" + +"Oh! am I not? I could ride from morning till night." + +"You are enthusiastic." + +"Yes,"--with a saucy smile,--"that is one of my many virtues. I think +one should be thoroughly in earnest about everything one undertakes. Do +you like dancing?" + +"Rather. It entirely depends upon whom one may be dancing with. There +are some people"--with a short but steady glance at her--"that I feel +positive I could dance with forever without knowing fatigue, or what is +worse, _ennui_. There are others----" an expressive pause. "I have +felt," says Sir Guy, with visible depression, "on certain occasions, as +though I could commit an open assault on the band because it would +insist on playing its waltz from start to finish, instead of stopping +after the first two bars and thereby giving me a chance of escape." + +"Poor 'others'! I see you can be unkind when you choose." + +"But that is seldom, and only when driven to desperation. Are you fond +of dancing? But of course you are: I need scarcely have asked. No doubt +you could dance as well as ride from morning until night." + +"You wrong me slightly. As a rule, I prefer dancing from night until +morning. You skate?" + +"Beautifully!" with ecstatic fervor; "I never saw any one who could +skate as well." + +"No? You shan't be long so. Prepare for a downfall to your pride. I can +skate better than any one in the world." + +Here they both laugh, and, turning, let their eyes meet. Instinctively +they draw closer to each other, and a very kindly feeling springs into +being. + +"They maligned you," says Lilian, softly raising her lovely face, and +gazing at him attentively, with a rather dangerous amount of +ingenuousness. "I begin to fancy you are not so very terrific as they +said. I dare say we shall be quite good friends after all." + +"I wish I was as sure of most things as I am of my own feeling on that +point," says Guy, with considerable warmth, holding out his hand. + +She slips her cool, slim fingers into his, and smiles frankly. There +they lie like little snow-flakes on his broad palm, and as he gazes on +them a great and most natural desire to kiss them presents itself to his +mind. + +"I think we ought to ratify our vow of good-fellowship," says he, +artfully, looking at her as though to gain permission for the theft, and +seeing no rebuff in her friendly eyes, stoops and steals a little +sweetness from the white hand he holds. + +They are almost at the house by this time, and presently, gaining the +drawing-room, find Lady Chetwoode sitting there awaiting them. + +"Ah, Guy, you have returned," cries she, well pleased. + +"Yes, I found my guardian straying aimlessly in a great big wood, so I +brought him home in triumph," says Lilian's gay voice, who is in high +good humor. "Is luncheon ready? Dear Lady Chetwoode, do not say I am +late for the second time to-day." + +"Not more than five minutes, and you know we do not profess to live by +rule. Run away, and take off your hat, child, and come back to me +again." + +So Lilian does as she is desired, and runs away up the broad stairs in +haste, to reduce her rebellious locks to order; yet so pleased is she +with her _rencontre_ with her guardian, and the want of ferocity he has +displayed, and the general desirableness of his face and figure, that +she cannot refrain from pausing midway in her career to apostrophize a +dark-browed warrior who glowers down upon her from one of the walls. + +"By my halidame, and by my troth, and by all the wonderful oaths of your +period, Sir Knight," says she, smiling saucily, and dropping him a +wicked curtsey, "you have good reason to be proud of your kinsman. For, +by Cupid, he is a monstrous handsome man, and vastly agreeable!" + +After this astounding sally she continues her flight, and presently +finds herself in her bedroom and almost in nurse's arms. + +"Lawks-amussy!" says that good old lady, with a gasp, putting her hand +to her side, "what a turn you did give me! Will the child never learn to +walk?" + +"I have seen him!" says Lilian, without preamble, only pausing to give +nurse a naughty little poke in the other side with a view to restoring +her lost equilibrium. + +"Sir Guy?" anxiously. + +"Even so. The veritable and awful Sir Guy! And he isn't a bit awful, in +spite of all we heard; isn't that good news? and he is very handsome, +and quite nice, and apparently can enjoy the world as well as another, +and can do a naughty thing at a pinch; and I know he likes me by the +expression of his eyes, and he actually unbended so far as to stoop to +kiss my hand! There!" All this without stop or comma. + +"Kissed your hand, my lamb! So soon! he did not lose much time. How the +world does wag nowadays!" says nurse, holding aloft her hands in pious +protest. "Only to know you an hour or so, and to have the face to kiss +your hand! Eh, but it's dreadful, it's brazen! I do hope this Sir Guy is +not a wolf in sheep's clothing." + +"It was very good clothing, anyhow. There is consolation in that. I +could never like a man whose coat was badly cut. And his hands,--I +particularly noticed them,--they are long, and well shaped, and quite +brown." + +"You seem mightily pleased with him on so short an acquaintance," says +nurse, shrewdly. "Brown hand, forsooth,--and a shapely coat! Eh, child, +but there's more wanting than that. Maybe it's thinking of being my Lady +Guy you'll be, one of these days?" + +"Nurse, I never met so brilliant a goose as you! And would you throw +away your lovely nursling upon a paltry baronet? Oh! shame! And +yet"--teasingly--"one might do worse." + +"I'll tell you that, when I see him," says cautious nurse, and having +given one last finishing touch to her darling's golden head, dismisses +her to her luncheon and the pernicious attentions of the daring wolf. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + "CLAUD: 'In mine eye, she is the sweetest lady that ever I looked + on.'"--_Much Ado About Nothing_. + + +It is that most satisfactory hour of all the twenty-four,--dinner-hour. +Even yet the busy garish day has not quite vanished, but peeps in upon +them curiously through the open windows,--upon Lady Chetwoode mild and +gracious, upon the two young men, upon airy Lilian looking her bravest +and bonniest in some transparent gown of sombre black, through which her +fair young neck and arms gleam delicately. + +Her only ornaments are roses,--rich, soft white roses, gathered from the +gardens outside: one, sweeter and happier than its fellows, slumbers +cozily in her golden hair. + +Cyril and she, sitting opposite to each other, smile and jest and +converse across the huge bowl of scented flowers that stands in the +centre of the table, while Guy, who is a little silent, keeps wondering +secretly whether any other woman has skin so dazzlingly fair, or eyes so +blue, or hair so richly gilded. + +"I have seen the widow," he says at length, rousing himself to a sense +of his own taciturnity. "On my way home this morning, before I met +you,"--turning to Lilian,--"I thought it my duty to look her up, and say +I hoped she was comfortable, and all that." + +"And you saw her?" asks Cyril, regarding Guy attentively. + +"Yes; she is extremely pretty, and extremely coy,--cold I ought to say, +as there didn't seem to be even the smallest spice of coquetry about +her." + +"That's the safest beginning of all," says Cyril confidentially to his +mother, "and no doubt the latest. I dare say she looked as though she +thought he would never leave." + +"She did," says Guy, laughing, "and, what is more unflattering, I am +sure she meant it." + +"Clever woman!" + +"However, if she intended what you think, she rather defeated her +object; as I shan't trouble her again in a hurry. Can't bear feeling +myself in the way." + +"Is she really pretty?" Cyril asks, curiously, though idly. + +"Really; almost lovely." + +"Evidently a handsome family," thinks Cyril. "I wonder if he saw my +friend the sister, or step-sister, or companion." + +"She looks sad, too," goes on Guy, "and as though she had a melancholy +story attached to her." + +"I do hope not, my dear," interrupts his mother, uneasily. "There is +nothing so objectionable as a woman with a story. Later on one is sure +to hear something wrong about her." + +"I agree with you," Cyril says, promptly. "I can't bear mysterious +people. When in their society, I invariably find myself putting a check +on my conversation, and blushing whenever I get on the topic of +forgeries, burglaries, murders, elopements, and so forth. I never can +keep myself from studying their faces when such subjects are mentioned, +to see which it was had ruffled the peace of their existence. It is +absurd, I know, but I can't help it, and it makes me uncomfortable." + +"Does this lady live in the wood, where I met you?" asks Lilian, +addressing Guy, and apparently deeply interested. + +"Yes, about a mile from that particular spot. She is a new tenant we +took to oblige a friend, but we know nothing about her." + +"How very romantic!" says Lilian; "it is just like a story." + +"Yes; the image of the 'Children of the Abbey,' or 'The Castle of +Otranto,'" says Cyril. "Has she any one living with her, Guy?" +carelessly. + +"Yes, two servants, and a small ill-tempered terrier." + +"I mean any friends. It must be dull to be by one's self." + +"I don't know. I saw no one. She don't seem ambitious about making +acquaintances, as, when I said I hoped she would not find it lonely, and +that my mother would have much pleasure in calling on her, she blushed +painfully, and said she was never lonely, and that she would esteem it a +kindness if we would try to forget she was at the cottage." + +"That was rather rude, my dear, wasn't it?" says Lady Chetwoode mildly. + +"It sounds so, but, as she said it, it wasn't rude. She appeared +nervous, I thought, and as though she had but lately recovered from a +severe illness. When the blush died away, she was as white as death." + +"Well, I shan't distress her by calling," says Lady Chetwoode, who is +naturally a little offended by the unknown's remark. Unconsciously she +has been viewing her coming with distrust, and now this unpleasing +message--for as a message directly addressed to herself she regards +it--has had the effect of changing a smouldering doubt into an +acknowledged dislike. + +"I wonder how she means to employ her time down here," says Cyril. +"Scenery abounds, but lovely views don't go a long way with most people. +After a while they are apt to pall." + +"Is there pretty scenery round Truston?" asks Lilian. + +"Any amount of it. Like 'Auburn,' it is the 'loveliest village of the +plain.' But I can't say we are a very enterprising people. Sometimes it +occurs to one of us to give a dinner-party, but no sooner do we issue +the invitations than we sit down and repent bitterly; and on rare +occasions we may have a ball, which means a drive of fourteen miles on a +freezing night, and universal depression and sneezing for a week +afterward. Perhaps the widow is wise in declining to have anything to do +with our festive gatherings. I begin to think there is method in her +madness." + +"Miss Chesney doesn't agree with you," says Guy, casting a quick glance +at Lilian: "she would go any distance to a ball, and dance from night +till morning, and never know depression next day." + +"Is that true, Miss Chesney?" + +"Sir Guy says it is," replies Lilian, demurely. + +"When I was young," says Lady Chetwoode, "I felt just like that. So long +as the band played, so long I could dance, and without ever feeling +fatigue. And provided he was of a good figure, and could dance well, I +never much cared who my partner was, until I met your father. Dear me! +how long ago it seems!" + +"Not at all," says Cyril; "a mere reminiscence of yesterday. When I am +an old gentleman, I shall make a point of never remembering anything +that happened long ago, no matter how good it may have been." + +"Perhaps you won't have anything good to remember," says Miss Lilian, +provokingly. + +"Guy, give Miss Chesney another glass of wine," says Cyril, promptly: +"she is evidently feeling low." + +"Sir Guy," says Miss Chesney, with equal promptitude, and a treacherous +display of innocent curiosity, "when you were at Belmont last evening +did you hear Miss Bellair say anything of a rather rude attack made upon +her yesterday at the station by an ill-bred young man?" + +"No," says Sir Guy, rather amazed. + +"Did she not speak of it? How strange! Why, I fancied----" + +"Miss Chesney," interposes Cyril, "if you have any regard for your +personal safety, you will refrain from further speech." + +"But why?"--opening her great eyes in affected surprise. "Why may I not +tell Sir Guy about it? Poor Miss Bellair! although a stranger to me, I +felt most genuine pity for her. Just fancy, Sir Guy, a poor girl alone +upon a platform, without a soul to take care of her, what she must have +endured, when a young man--_apparently_ a gentleman--walked up to her, +and taking advantage of her isolated position, bowed to her, simpered +impertinently, and was actually on the very point of addressing her, +when fortunately her cousin came up and rescued her from her unhappy +situation. Was it not shameful? Now, what do you think that rude young +man deserved?" + +"Extinction," replies Guy, without hesitation. + +"I think so too. Don't you, Lady Chetwoode?" + +Lady Chetwoode laughs. + +"Now, I shall give my version of the story," says Cyril. "I too was +present----" + +"And didn't fly to her assistance? Oh, fie!" says Lilian. + +"There was once an unhappy young man, who was sent to a station to meet +a young woman, without having been told beforehand whether she was like +Juno, tall enough to 'snuff the moon,' or whether she was so +insignificant as to require a strong binocular to enable you to see her +at all." + +"I am not insignificant," says Lilian, her indignation getting the +better of her judgment. + +"Am I speaking of you, Miss Chesney?" + +"Well, go on." + +"Now, it came to pass that as this wretched young man was glaring wildly +round to see where his charge might be, he espied a tall young woman, +apparently in the last stage of exhaustion, looking about for some one +to assist her, and seeing no one else, for the one he sought had meanly, +and with a view to his discomfiture, crept silently behind his back----" + +"Oh, Cyril!" + +"Yes, I maintain it; she crept silently behind his back, and bribed her +maid to keep silence. So this wretched young man walked up to Juno, and +pulled his forelock, and made his very best Sunday bow, and generally +put his foot in it. Juno was so frightened by the best bow that she +gave way to a stifled scream, and instantly sank back unconscious into +the arms of her betrothed, who just then ran frantically upon the scene. +Upon this the deluded young man----" + +"That will do," interrupts Lilian, severely. "I am certain I have read +it somewhere before; and--people should always tell the truth." + +"By the bye," says Guy, "I believe Miss Bellair did say something last +night about an unpleasant adventure at the station,--something about a +very low person who had got himself up like a gentleman, but was without +doubt one of the swell mob, and who----" + +"You needn't go any further. I feel my position keenly. Nevertheless, +Miss Bellair made a mistake when she rejected my proffered services. She +little knows what a delightful companion I can be. Can't I, Miss +Chesney?" + +"Can he, Lady Chetwoode? I am not in a position to judge." + +"If a perpetual, never-ceasing flow of conversation has anything to do +with it, I believe he must be acknowledged the most charming of his +sex," says his mother, laughing, and rising, bears away Lilian with her +to the drawing-room. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + "A dancing shape, an image gay, + To haunt, to startle, and waylay." + --WORDSWORTH. + + +When seven long uneventful days have passed away, every one at Chetwoode +is ready to acknowledge that the coming of Lilian Chesney is an +occurrence for which they ought to be devoutly thankful. She is a boon, +a blessing, a merry sunbeam, darting hither and thither about the old +place, lighting up the shadows, dancing through the dark rooms, casting +a little of her own inborn joyousness upon all that comes within her +reach. + +To Lady Chetwoode, who is fond of young life, she is especially +grateful, and creeps into her kind heart in an incredibly short time, +finding no impediment to check her progress. + +Once a day, armed with huge gloves and a gigantic scissors, Lady +Chetwoode makes a tour of her gardens, snipping, and plucking, and +giving superfluous orders to the attentive gardeners all the time. After +her trots Lilian, supplied with a basket and a restless tongue that +seldom wearies, but is always ready to suggest, or help the thought that +sometimes comes slowly to her hostess. + +"As you were saying last night, my dear Lilian----" says Lady Chetwoode, +vaguely, coming to a full stop before the head gardener, and gazing at +Lilian for further inspiration; she had evidently remembered only the +smallest outline of what she wants to say. + +"About the ivy on the north wall? You wanted it thinned. You thought it +a degree too straggling." + +"Yes,--yes; of course. You hear, Michael, I want it clipped and thinned, +and---- There was something else about the ivy, my child, wasn't there?" + +"You wished it mixed with the variegated kind, did you not?" + +"Ah, of course. I wonder how I ever got on without Lilian," says the old +lady, gently pinching the girl's soft peach-like cheek. "Florence, +without doubt, is a comfort,--but--she is not fond of gardening. Shall +we come and take a peep at the grapes, dear?" And so on. + +Occasionally, too,--being fond of living out of doors in the summer, and +being a capital farmeress,--Lady Chetwoode takes a quiet walk down to +the home farm, to inspect all the latest arrivals. And here, too, Miss +Lilian must needs follow. + +There are twelve merry, showy little calves in one field, that run all +together in their ungainly, jolting fashion up to the high gate that +guards their domain, the moment Lady Chetwoode and her visitor arrive, +under the mistaken impression that she and Lilian are a pair of +dairy-maids coming to solace them with unlimited pans of milk. + +Lilian cries "Shoo!" at the top of her gay young voice, and instantly +all the handsome, foolish things scamper away as though destruction were +at their heels, leaving Miss Chesney delighted at the success of her own +performance. + +Then in the paddock there are four mad little colts to be admired, whose +chief joy in life seems to consist in kicking their hind legs wildly +into space, while their more sedate mothers stand apart and compare +notes upon their darlings' merit. + +This paddock is Lilian's special delight, and all the way there, and +all the way back she chatters unceasingly, making the old lady's heart +grow young again, as she listens to, and laughs at, all the merry +stories Miss Chesney tells her of her former life. + +To-day--although the morning has been threatening--is now quite fine. +Tired of sulking, it cleared up half an hour ago, and is now throwing +out a double portion of heat, as though to make up for its early +deficiencies. + +The + + + "King of the East, ... girt + With song and flame and fragrance, slowly lifts + His golden feet on those empurpled stairs + That climb into the windy halls of heaven," + + +and, casting his million beams abroad, enlivens the whole earth. + +It is a day when one might saunter but not walk, when one might dream +though wide awake, when one is perforce amiable because argument or +contradiction would be too great an exertion. + +Sir Guy--who has been making a secret though exhaustive search through +the house for Miss Chesney--now turns his steps toward the orchard, +where already instinct has taught him she is usually to be found. + +He is not looking quite so _insouciant_, or carelessly happy, as when +first we saw him, now two weeks ago; there is a little gnawing, +dissatisfied feeling at his heart, for which he dare not account even to +himself. + +He thinks a good deal of his ward, and his ward thinks a good deal of +him; but unfortunately their thoughts do not amalgamate harmoniously. + +Toward Sir Guy Miss Chesney's actions have not been altogether just. +Cyril she treats with affection, and the utmost _bonhommie_, but toward +his brother--in spite of her civility on that first day of meeting--she +maintains a strict and irritating reserve. + +He is her guardian (detestable, thankless office), and she takes good +care that neither he or she shall ever forget that fact. Secretly she +resents it, and openly gratifies that resentment by denying his +authority in all things, and being specially willful and wayward when +occasion offers; as though to prove to him that she, for one, does not +acknowledge his power over her. + +Not that this ill-treated young man has the faintest desire to assert +any authority whatever. On the contrary, he is most desirous of being +all there is of the most submissive when in her presence; but Miss +Chesney declines to see his humility, and chooses instead to imagine him +capable of oppressing her with all sorts of tyrannical commands at a +moment's notice. + +There is a little cloud on his brow as he reaches the garden and walks +moodily along its principal path. This cloud, however, lightens and +disappears, as upon the southern border he hears voices that tell him +his search is at an end. + +Miss Chesney's clear notes, rather raised and evidently excited, blend +with those of old Michael Ronaldson, whose quavering bass is also +uplifted, suggesting unwonted agitation on the part of this easy-going +though ancient gentleman. + +Lilian is standing on tip-toe, opposite a plum-tree, with the long tail +of her black gown caught firmly in one hand, while with the other she +points frantically in a direction high above her head. + +"Don't you see him?" she says, reproachfully,--"there--in that corner." + +"No, that I don't," says Michael, blankly, sheltering his forehead with +both hands from the sun's rays, while straining his gaze anxiously +toward the spot named. + +"Not see him! Why, he is a big one, a _monster_! Michael," says Lilian, +reproachfully, "you are growing either stupid or short-sighted, and I +didn't expect it from you. Now follow the tip of my finger; look right +along it now--now"--with growing excitement, "don't you see it?" + +"I do, I do," says the old man, enthusiastically; "wait till I get +'en--won't I pay him off!" + +"Is it a plum you want?" asks Guy, who has come up behind her, and is +lost in wonder at what he considers is her excitement about the fruit. +"Shall I get it for you?" + +"A plum! no, it is a snail I want," says Lilian eagerly, "but I can't +get at it. Oh, that I had been born five inches taller! Ronaldson, you +are not tall enough; Sir Guy will catch him." + +Sir Guy, having brought a huge snail to the ground, presents him gravely +to Lilian. + +"That is the twenty-third we have caught to-day," says she, "and +twenty-nine yesterday,--in all forty-eight. Isn't it, Michael?" + +"I think it makes fifty-two," suggests Sir Guy, deferentially. + +"Does it? Well, it makes no difference," says Miss Chesney, with a fine +disregard of arithmetic; "at all events, either way, it is a tremendous +number. I'm sure I don't know where they come from,"--despairingly,-- +"unless they all walk back again during the night." + +"And I wouldn't wonder too," says Michael, _sotto voce_. + +"Walk back again!" repeats Guy, amazed. "Don't you kill them?" + +"Miss Chesney won't hear of 'en being killed, Sir Guy," says old +Ronaldson, sheepishly; "she says as 'ow the cracklin' of 'en do make her +feel sick all over." + +"Oh, yes," says Lilian, making a little wry face, "I hate to think of +it. He used to crunch them under his heel, so," with a shudder, and a +small stamp upon the ground, "and it used to make me absolutely faint. +So we gave it up, and now we just throw them over the wall, +so,"--suiting the action to the word, and flinging the slimy creature +she holds with dainty disgust, between her first finger and thumb, over +the garden boundary. + +Guy laughs, and, thus encouraged, so does old Michael. + +"Well, at all events, it must take them a long time to get back," says +Lilian, apologetically. + +"On your head be it if we have no vegetables or fruit this year," says +Chetwoode, who understands as much about gardening as the man in the +moon, but thinks it right to say something. "Come for a walk, Lilian, +will you? It is a pity to lose this charming day." He speaks with marked +diffidence (his lady's moods being uncertain), which so far gains upon +Miss Chesney that in return she deigns to be gracious. + +"I don't mind if I do," she replies, with much civility. "Good-morning, +Michael;" and with a pretty little nod, and a still prettier smile in +answer to the old man's low salutation, she walks away beside her +guardian. + +Far into the woods they roam, the teeming woods all green and bronze and +copper-colored, content and happy in that no actual grief disturbs them. + + + "The branches cross above their eyes, + The skies are in a net;" + + +the fond gay birds are warbling their tenderest strains. "Along the +grass sweet airs are blown," and all the myriad flowers, the "little +wildings" of the forest, "earth's cultureless buds," are expanding and +glowing, and exhaling the perfumed life that their mother, Nature, has +given them. + +Chetwoode is looking its best and brightest, and Sir Guy might well be +proud of his possessions; but no thought of them enters his mind just +now, which is filled to overflowing with the image of this petulant, +pretty, saucy, lovable ward, that fate has thrown into his path. + +"Yes, it is a lovely place!" says Lilian, after a pause spent in +admiration. She has been looking around her, and has fallen into honest +though silent raptures over all the undulating parks and uplands that +stretch before her, far as the eye can see. "Lovely!--So," with a sigh, +"was my old home." + +"Yes. I think quite as lovely as this." + +"What!" turning to him with a start, while the rich, warm, eager flush +of youth springs to her cheeks and mantles there, "you have been there? +You have seen the Park?" + +"Yes, very often, though not for years past. I spent many a day there +when I was younger. I thought you knew it." + +"No, indeed. It makes me glad to think some one here can remember its +beauties with me. But you cannot know it all as I do: you never saw my +own particular bit of wood?"--with earnest questioning, as though +seeking to deny the hope that strongly exists. "It lies behind the +orchard, and one can get to it by passing through a little gate in the +wall, that leads into the very centre of it. There at first, in the +heart of the trees one sees a tangled mass with giant branches +overhanging it, and straggling blackberry bushes protecting it with +their angry arms, and just inside, the coolest, greenest, freshest bit +of grass in all the world,--my fairy nook I used to call it. But you--of +course you never saw it." + +"It has a huge horse-chestnut at its head, and a silver fir at its +feet." + +"Yes,--yes!" + +"I know it well," says Chetwoode, smiling at her eagerness. "It was your +mother's favorite spot. You know she and my mother were fast friends, +and she was very fond of me. When first she was married, before you +were born, I was constantly at the Park, and afterward too. She used to +read in the spot you name, and I--I was a delicate little fellow at that +time, obliged to lie a good deal, and I used to read there beside her +with my head in her lap, by the hour together." + +"Why, you know more about my mother than I do," says Lilian, with some +faint envy in her tones. + +"Yes,"--hastily, having already learned how little a thing can cause an +outbreak, when one party is bent on war,--"but you must not blame me for +that. I could not help it." + +"No,"--regretfully,--"I suppose not. Before I was born, you say. How old +that seems to make you!" + +"Why?"--laughing. "Because I was able to read eighteen years ago? I was +only nine, or perhaps ten, then." + +"I never could do my sums," says Lilian: "I only know it sounds as +though you were the Ancient Mariner or Methuselah, or anybody in the +last stage of decay." + +"And yet I am not so very old, Lilian. I am not yet thirty." + +"Well, that's old enough. When I am thirty I shall take to caps with +borders, and spectacles, and long black mittens, like nurse. Ha, ha!" +laughs Lilian, delighted at the portrait of herself she has drawn, +"shan't I look nice then?" + +"I dare say you will," says Guy, quite seriously. "But I would advise +you to put off the wearing of them for a while longer. I don't think +thirty old. I am not quite that." + +"A month or two don't signify,"--provokingly; "and as you have had +apparently a very good life I don't think it manly of you to fret +because you are drawing to the close of it. Some people would call it +mean. There, never mind your age: tell me something more about my +mother. Did you love her?" + +"One could not help loving her, she was so gentle, so thoroughly +kind-hearted." + +"Ah! what a pity it is I don't resemble her!" says Lilian, with a +suspiciously deep sigh, accepting the reproach, and shaking her head +mournfully. "Was she like that picture at home in the drawing-room? I +hope not. It is very lovely, but it lacks expression, and has no +tenderness about it." + +"Then the artist must have done her great injustice. She was all +tenderness both in face and disposition as I remember her, and children +are very correct in their impressions. She was extremely beautiful. You +are very like her." + +"Am I, Sir Guy? Oh, thank you. I didn't hope for so much praise. Then in +one thing at least I do resemble my mother. Am I more beautiful or less +so?" + +"That is quite a matter of opinion." + +"And what is yours?" saucily. + +"What can it matter to you?" he says, quickly, almost angrily. "Besides, +I dare say you know it." + +"I don't, indeed. Never mind, I shall find out for myself. I am so +glad"--amiably--"you knew my mother, and the dear Park! It sounds +horrible, does it not, but the Park is even more dear to me than--than +her memory." + +"You can scarcely call it a 'memory'; she died when you were so +young,--hardly old enough to have an idea. I recollect you so well, a +little toddling thing of two." + +"The plot thickens. You knew _me_ also? And pray, Sir Guardian, what was +I like?" + +"You had blue eyes, and a fair skin, a very imperious will, and the +yellowest hair I ever saw." + +"A graphic description! It would be madness on the part of any one to +steal me, as I should infallibly be discovered by it. Well, I have not +altered much. I have still my eyes and my hair, and my will, only +perhaps rather more of the latter. Go on: you are very unusually +interesting to-day: I had no idea you possessed such a fund of +information. Were you very fond of me?" + +"Very," says Chetwoode, laughing in spite of himself. "I was your slave, +as long as I was with you. Your lightest wish was my law. I used +even----" + +A pause. + +"Yes, do go on: I am all attention. 'I used even----'" + +"I was going to say I used to carry you about in my arms, and kiss you +into good humor when you were angry, which was pretty often," replies +Guy, with a rather forced laugh, and a decided accession of color; "but +I feared such a very grown-up young lady as you might be offended." + +"Not in the least,"--with a gay, perfectly unembarrassed enjoyment at +his confusion. "I never heard anything so amusing. Fancy you being my +nurse once on a time. I feel immensely flattered when I think such an +austere individual actually condescended to hold me in his arms and kiss +me into good humor. It is more than I have any right to expect. I am +positively overwhelmed. By the bye, had your remedy the desired effect? +Did I subdue my naughty passion under your treatment?" + +"As far as I can recollect, yes," rather stiffly. Nobody likes being +laughed at. + +"How odd!" says Miss Chesney. + +"Not very," retorts he: "at that time _you_ were very fond of _me_." + +"That is even odder," says Miss Chesney, who takes an insane delight in +teasing him. "What a pity it is you cannot invent some plan for reducing +me to order now!" + +"There are some tasks too great for a mere mortal to undertake," replies +Sir Guy, calmly. + +Miss Chesney, not being just then prepared with a crushing retort, +wisely refrains from speech altogether, although it is by a superhuman +effort she does so. Presently, however, lest he should think her +overpowered by the irony of his remark, she says, quite pleasantly: + +"Did Cyril ever see me before I came here?" + +"No." Then abruptly, "Do you like Cyril?" + +"Oh, immensely! He suits me wonderfully, he is so utterly devoid of +dignity, and all that. One need not mind what one says to Cyril; in his +worst mood he could not terrify. Whereas his brother----" with a little +malicious gleam from under her long, heavy lashes. + +"Well, what of his brother?" + +"Nay, Sir Guy, the month we agreed on has not yet expired," says Lilian. +"I cannot tell you what I think of you yet. Still, you cannot imagine +how dreadfully afraid I am of you at times." + +"If I believed you, it would cause me great regret," says her guardian, +rather hurt. "I am afraid, Lilian, your father acted unwisely when he +chose Chetwoode as a home for you." + +"What! are you tired of me already?" asks she hastily, with a little +tremor in her voice, that might be anger, and that might be pain. + +"Tired of you? No! But I cannot help seeing that the fact of my being +your guardian makes me abhorrent to you." + +"Not quite that," says Miss Chesney, in a little soft, repentant tone. +"What a curious idea to get into your head? dismiss it; there is really +no reason why it should remain." + +"You are sure?" with rather more earnestness than the occasion demands. + +"Quite sure. And now tell me how it was I never saw you until now, since +I was two years old." + +"Well, for one thing, your mother died; then I went to Eton, to +Cambridge, got a commission in the Dragoons, tired of it, sold out, and +am now as you see me." + +"What an eventful history!" says Lilian, laughing. + +At this moment, who should come toward them, beneath the trees, but +Cyril, walking as though for a wager. + +"'Whither awa?'" asks Miss Lilian, gayly stopping him with outstretched +hands. + +"You have spoiled my quotation," says Cyril, reproachfully, "and it was +on the very tip of my tongue. I call it disgraceful. I was going to say +with fine effect, 'Where are you going, my pretty maid?' but I fear it +would fall rather flat if I said it now." + +"Rather. Nevertheless, I accept the compliment. Are you in training? or +where are you going in such a hurry?" + +"A mere constitutional," says Cyril, lightly,--which is a base and ready +lie. "Good-bye, I won't detain you longer. Long ago I learned the useful +lesson that where 'two is company, three is trumpery.' Don't look as +though you would like to devour me, Guy: I meant no harm." + +Lilian laughs, so does Guy, and Cyril continues his hurried walk. + +"Where does that path lead to?" asks Lilian, looking after him as he +disappeared rapidly in the distance. + +"To The Cottage first, and then to the gamekeeper's lodge, and farther +on to another entrance-gate that opens on the road." + +"Perhaps he will see your pretty tenant on his way?" + +"I hardly think so. It seems she never goes beyond her own garden." + +"Poor thing! I feel the greatest curiosity about her, indeed I might say +an interest in her. Perhaps she is unhappy." + +"Perhaps so; though her manner is more frozen than melancholy. She is +almost forbidding, she is so cold." + +"She may be in ill health." + +"She may be," unsympathetically. + +"You do not seem very prepossessed in her favor," says Lilian, +impatiently. + +"Well, I confess I am not," carelessly. "Experience has taught me that +when a woman withdraws persistently from the society of her own sex, and +eschews the companionship of her fellow-creatures, there is sure to be +something radically wrong with her." + +"But you forget there are exceptions to every rule. I confess I would +give anything to see her," says Lilian, warmly. + +"I don't believe you would be the gainer by that bargain," replies he, +with conviction, being oddly, unaccountably prejudiced against this +silent, undemonstrative widow. + + * * * * * + +Meantime, Cyril pursues his way along the path, that every day of late +he has traveled with unexampled perseverance. Seven times he has passed +along it full of hope, and only twice has been rewarded, with a bare +glimpse of the fair unknown, whose face has obstinately haunted him +since his first meeting with it. + +On these two momentous occasions, she has appeared to him so pale and +wan that he is fain to believe the color he saw in her cheeks on that +first day arose from vexation and excitement, rather than health,--a +conclusion that fills him with alarm. + +Now, as he nears the house between the interstices of the hedge he +catches the gleam of a white gown moving to and fro, that surely covers +his divinity. + +Time proves his surmise right. It is the admired incognita, who almost +as he reaches the gate that leads to her bower, comes up to one of the +huge rose-bushes that decorate either side of it, and--unconscious of +criticism--commences to gather from it such flowers as shall add beauty +to the bouquet already growing large within her hands. + +Presently the restless feeling that makes us all know when some +unexpected presence is near, compels her to raise her head. Thereupon +her eyes and those of Cyril Chetwoode meet. She pauses in her occupation +as though irresolute; Cyril pauses too; and then gravely, unsmilingly, +she bows in cold recognition. Certainly her reception is not +encouraging; but Cyril is not to be daunted. + +"I hope," he says, deferentially, "your little dog has been conducting +himself with due propriety since last I had the pleasure of restoring +him to your arms?" + +This Grandisonian speech surely calls for a reply. + +"Yes," says Incognita, graciously. "I think it was only the worry caused +by change of scene made him behave so very badly that--last day." + +So saying, she turns from him, as though anxious to give him a gentle +_conge_. But Cyril, driven to desperation, makes one last effort at +detaining her. + +"I hope your friend is better," he says, leaning his arms upon the top +of the gate, and looking full of anxiety about the absent widow. "My +brother--Sir Guy--called the other day, and said she appeared extremely +delicate." + +"My friend?" staring at him in marked surprise, while a faint deep rose +flush illumines her cheek, making one forget how white and fragile she +appeared a moment since. + +"Yes. I mean Mrs. Arlington, our tenant. I am Cyril Chetwoode," raising +his hat. "I hope the air here will do her good." + +He is talking against time, but she is too much occupied to notice it. + +"I hope it will," she replies, calmly, studying her roses attentively, +while the faintest suspicion of a smile grows and trembles at the corner +of her mobile lips. + +"You are her sister, perhaps?" asks Cyril, the extreme deference of his +whole manner taking from the rudeness of his questioning. + +"No--not her sister." + +"Her friend?" + +"Yes. Her dearest friend," replies Incognita, slowly, after a pause, and +a closer, more prolonged examination of her roses; while again the +curious half-suppressed smile lights up her face. There are few things +prettier on a pretty face than an irrepressible smile. + +"She is fortunate in possessing such a friend," says Cyril, softly; then +with some haste, as though anxious to cover his last remark, "My brother +did not see you when he called?" + +"Did he say so?" + +"No. He merely mentioned having seen only Mrs. Arlington. I do not think +he is aware of your existence." + +"I think he is. I have had the pleasure of speaking with Sir Guy." + +"Indeed!" says Cyril, and instantly tells himself he would not have +suspected Guy of so much slyness. "Probably it was some day since--you +met him----" + +"No, it was on that one occasion when he called here." + +"I dare say I misunderstood," says Cyril, "but I certainly thought he +said he had seen only Mrs. Arlington." + +"Well?" + +"Well?" + +"_I_ am Mrs. Arlington!" + +"What!" says Cyril, with exaggerated surprise,--and a moment later is +shocked at the vehemence of his own manner. "I beg your pardon, I am +sure," he says, contritely; "there is no reason why it should not be so, +but you seem so--I had no idea you wore a--that is--I mean I did not +think you were married." + +"You had no idea I was a widow," corrects Mrs. Arlington, coldly. "I do +not see why you need apologize. On the contrary, I consider you have +paid me a compliment. I am glad I do not look the character. +Good-morning, sir; I have detained you too long already." + +"It is I who have detained you, madam," says Cyril, speaking coldly +also, being a little vexed at the tone she has employed toward him, +feeling it to be undeserved. "I fear I have been unhappy enough to err +twice this morning,--though I trust you will see--unwittingly." He +accompanies this speech with a glance so full of entreaty and a mute +desire for friendship as must go straight to the heart of any true +woman; after which, being a wise young man, he attempts no further +remonstrance, but lifts his hat, and walks away gloomily toward his +home. + +Mrs. Arlington, who is not proof against so much reproachful humility, +lifts her head, sees the dejected manner of his departure, and is +greatly struck by it. She makes one step forward; checks herself; opens +her lips as though to speak; checks herself again; and finally, with a +little impatient sigh, turns and walks off gloomily toward her home. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + "And sang, with much simplicity,--a merit + Not the less precious, that we seldom hear it." + --_Don Juan_. + + +The rain is beating regularly, persistently, against the window-panes; +there is no hope of wandering afield this evening. A sullen summer +shower, without a smile in it, is deluging gardens and lawns, tender +flowers and graveled walks, and is blotting out angrily all the glories +of the landscape. + +It is half-past four o'clock. Lady Chetwoode is sitting in the library +reclining in the coziest arm-chair the room contains, with her knitting +as usual in her hands. She disdains all newer, lighter modes of passing +the time, and knits diligently all day long for her poor. + +Lilian is standing at the melancholy window, counting the diminutive +lakes and toy pools forming in the walk outside. As she looks, a laurel +leaf, blown from the nearest shrubbery, falls into a fairy river, and +floats along in its current like a sedate and sturdy boat, with a small +snail for cargo, that clings to it bravely for dear life. + +Presently a stick, that to Lilian's idle fancy resolves itself into an +iron-clad, runs down the poor little skiff, causing it to founder with +all hands on board. + +At this heart-rending moment John enters with a tea-tray, and, drawing a +small table before Lady Chetwoode, lays it thereon. Her ladyship, with a +sigh, prepares to put away her beloved knitting, hesitates, and then is +lost in so far that she elects to finish that most mysterious of all +things, the rounding of the heel of her socks, before pouring out the +tea. Old James Murland will be expecting these good gray socks by the +end of the week, and old James Murland must not be disappointed. + +"Lady Chetwoode," says Lilian, with soft hesitation, "I want to ask you +a question." + +"Do you, dear? Then ask it." + +"But it is a very odd question, and perhaps you will be angry." + +"I don't think I shall," says Lady Chetwoode ("One, two, three, four," +etc.) + +"Well, then, I like you so much--I love you so much," corrects Lilian, +earnestly, "that, if you don't mind, I should like to call you some name +a little less formal than Lady Chetwoode. Do you mind?" + +Her ladyship lays down her knitting and looks amused. + +"It seems no one cares to give me my title," she says. "Mabel, my late +ward, was hardly here three days when she made a request similar to +yours. She always called me 'Auntie.' Florence calls me, of course, +'Aunt Anne;' but Mabel always called me 'Auntie.'" + +"Ah! that was prettier. May I call you 'Auntie' too? 'Auntie Nannie,'--I +think that a dear little name, and just suited to you." + +"Call me anything you like, darling," says Lady Chetwoode, kissing the +girl's soft, flushed cheek. + +Here the door opens to admit Sir Guy and Cyril, who are driven to +desperation and afternoon tea by the incivility of the weather. + +"The mother and Lilian spooning," says Cyril. "I verily believe women, +when alone, kiss each other for want of something better." + +"I have been laughing at Lilian," says Lady Chetwoode: "she, like Mabel, +cannot be happy unless she finds for me a pet name. So I am to be +'Auntie' to her too." + +"I am glad it is not to be 'Aunt Anne,' like Florence," says Cyril, with +a distasteful shrug; "that way of addressing you always grates upon my +ear." + +"By the bye, that reminds me," says Lady Chetwoode, struggling vainly in +her pocket to bring to light something that isn't there, "Florence is +coming home next week. I had a letter from her this morning telling me +so, but I forgot all about it till now." + +"You don't say so!" says Cyril, in a tone of unaffected dismay. + +Now, when one hears an unknown name mentioned frequently in +conversation, one eventually grows desirous of knowing something about +the owner of that name. + +Lilian therefore gives away to curiosity. + +"And who is Florence?" she asks. + +"'Who is Florence?'" repeats Cyril; "have you really asked the question? +Not to know Florence argues yourself unknown. She is an institution. But +I forgot, you are one of those unhappy ones outside the pale of +Florence's acquaintance. How I envy--I mean pity you!" + +"Florence is my niece," says Lady Chetwoode: "she is at present staying +with some friends in Shropshire, but she lives with me. She has been +here ever since she was seventeen." + +"Is that very long ago?" asks Lilian, and her manner is so _naive_ that +they all smile. + +"She came here----" begins Lady Chetwoode. + +"She came here," interrupts Cyril, impressively, "precisely five years +ago. Have you mastered that date? If so, cling to it, get it by heart, +never lose sight of it. Once, about a month ago, before she left us to +go to those good-natured people in Shropshire, I told her, quite +accidentally, I thought she came here _nine_ years ago. She was very +angry, and I then learned that Florence angry wasn't nice, and that a +little of her in that state went a long way. I also learned that she +came here five years ago." + +"Am I to understand," asks Lilian, laughing, "that she is twenty-six?" + +"My dear Lilian, I do hope you are not 'obtoose.' Has all my valuable +information been thrown away? I have all this time been trying to +impress upon you the fact that Florence is only twenty-two, but it is +evidently 'love's labor lost.' Now do try to comprehend. She was +twenty-two last year, she is twenty-two this year, and I am almost +positive that this time next year she will be twenty-two again!" + +"Cyril, don't be severe," says his mother. + +"Dearest mother, how can you accuse me of such a thing? Is it severe to +say Florence is still young and lovely?" + +"Do you and Florence like each other?" asks Lilian. + +"Not too much. I am not staid enough for Florence. She says she likes +earnest people,--like Guy." + +"Ah!" says Lilian. + +"What?" Guy hearing his name mentioned looks up dreamily from the +_Times_, in the folds of which he has been buried. "What about me?" + +"Nothing. I was only telling Lilian in what high esteem you are held by +our dear Florence." + +"Is that all?" says Guy, indifferently, going back to the thrilling +account of the divorce case he has been studying. + +"What a very ungallant speech!" says Miss Chesney, with a view to +provocation, regarding him curiously. + +"Was it?" says Guy, meeting her eyes, and letting the interesting paper +slip to the floor beside him. "It was scarcely news, you see, and there +is nothing to be wondered at. If I lived with people for years, I am +certain I should end by being attached to them, were they good or bad." + +"She doesn't waste much of her liking upon me," says Cyril. + +"Nor you on her. She is just the one pretty woman I ever knew to whom +you didn't succumb." + +"You didn't tell me she was pretty," says Lilian, hastily, looking at +Cyril with keen reproach. + +"'Handsome is as handsome does,' and the charming Florence makes a point +of treating me very unhandsomely. You won't like her, Lilian; make up +your mind to it." + +"Nonsense! don't let yourself be prejudiced by Cyril's folly," says Guy. + +"I am not easily prejudiced," replies Lilian, somewhat coldly, and +instantly forms an undying dislike to the unknown Florence. "But she +really is pretty?" she asks, again, rather persistently addressing +Cyril. + +"Lovely!" superciliously. "But ask Guy all about her: he knows." + +"Do you?" says Lilian, turning her large eyes upon Guy. + +"Not more than other people," replies he, calmly, though there is a +perceptible note of irritation in his voice, and a rather vexed gleam in +his blue eyes as he lets them fall upon his unconscious brother. "She is +certainly not lovely." + +"Then she is very pretty?" + +"Not even _very_ pretty in my eyes," replies Sir Guy, who is inwardly +annoyed at the examination. Without exactly knowing why, he feels he is +behaving shabbily to the absent Florence. "Still, I have heard many men +call her so." + +"She is decidedly pretty," says Lady Chetwoode, with decision, "but +rather pale." + +"Would you call it pale?" says Cyril, with suspicious earnestness. +"Well, of course that may be the new name for it, but I always called it +sallow." + +"Cyril, you are incorrigible. At all events, I miss her in a great many +ways," says Lady Chetwoode, and they who listen fully understand the +tone of self-reproach that runs beneath her words in that she cannot +bring herself to miss Florence in all her ways. "She used to pour out +the tea for me, for one thing." + +"Let me do it for you, auntie," says Lilian, springing to her feet with +alacrity, while the new name trips melodiously and naturally from her +tongue. "I never poured out tea for any one, and I should like to +immensely." + +"Thank you, my dear. I shall be much obliged; I can't bear to leave off +this sock now I have got so far. And who, then, used to pour out tea for +you at your own home?" + +"Nurse, always. And for the last six months, ever since"--with a gentle +sigh--"poor papa's death, Aunt Priscilla." + +"That is Miss Chesney?" + +"Yes. But tea was never nice with Aunt Priscilla; she liked it weak, +because of her nerves, she said (though I don't think she had many), and +she always would use the biggest cups in the house, even in the evening. +There never," says Lilian, solemnly, "was any one so odd as my Aunt +Priscilla. Though we had several of the loveliest sets of china in the +world, she never would use them, and always preferred a horrid glaring +set of blue and gold that was my detestation. Taffy and I were going to +smash them all one day right off, but then we thought it would be +shabby, she had placed her affections so firmly on them. Is your tea +quite right, Lady Chetwoode--auntie, I mean,"--with a bright smile,--"or +do you want any more sugar?" + +"It is quite right, thank you, dear." + +"Mine is without exception the most delicious cup of tea I ever tasted," +says Cyril, with intense conviction. Whereat Lilian laughs and promises +him as many more as he can drink. + +"Will you not give me one?" says Guy, who has risen and is standing +beside her, looking down upon her lovely face with a strange expression +in his eyes. + +How pretty she looks pouring out the tea, with that little assumption of +importance about her! How deftly her slender fingers move among the +cups, how firmly they close around the handle of the quaint old teapot! + +A lump of sugar falls with a small crash into the tray. It is a +refractory lump, and runs in and out among the china and the silver +jugs, refusing to be captured by the tongs. Lilian, losing patience (her +stock of it is small), lays down the useless tongs, and taking up the +lump between a dainty finger and thumb, transfers it triumphantly to her +own cup. + +"Well caught," says Cyril, laughing, while it suddenly occurs to Guy +that Florence would have died before she would have done such a thing. +The sugar-tongs was made to pick up the sugar, therefore it would be a +flagrant breach of system to use anything else, and of all other things +one's fingers. Oh, horrible thought! + +Methodical Florence. Unalterable, admirable, tiresome Florence! + +As Sir Guy speaks, Lilian being in one of her capricious moods, which +seem reserved alone for her guardian, half turns her head toward him, +looking at him out of two great unfriendly eyes, says: + +"Is not that yours?" pointing to a cup that she has purposely placed at +a considerable distance from her, so that she may have a decent excuse +for not offering it to him with her own hands. + +"Thank you," Chetwoode says, calmly, taking it without betraying the +chagrin he is foolish enough to feel, but he is very careful not to +trouble her a second time. It is evident to him that, for some reason or +reasons unknown, he is in high disgrace with his ward; though long ago +he has given up trying to discover just cause for her constant displays +of temper. + +Lady Chetwoode is knitting industriously. Already the heel is turned, +and she is on the fair road to make a most successful and rapid finish. +Humanly speaking, there is no possible doubt about old James Murland +being in possession of the socks to-morrow evening. As she knits she +speaks in the low dreamy tone that always seems to me to accompany the +click of the needles. + +"Florence sings very nicely," she says; "in the evening it was pleasant +to hear her voice. Dear me, how it does rain, to be sure! one would +think it never meant to cease. Yes, I am very fond of singing." + +"I have rather a nice little voice," says Miss Chesney, composedly,--"at +least"--with a sudden and most unlooked-for accession of modesty--"they +used to say so at home. Shall I sing something for you, auntie? I should +like to very much, if it would give you any pleasure." + +"Indeed it would, my dear. I had no idea you were musical." + +"I don't suppose I can sing as well as +Florence,"--apologetically,--"but I will try the 'Banks of Allan Water,' +and then you will be able to judge for yourself." + +She sits down, and sings from memory that very sweet and dear old +song,--sings it with all the girlish tenderness of which she is capable, +in a soft, sweet voice, that saddens as fully as it charms,--a voice +that would certainly never raise storms of applause, but is perfect in +its truthfulness and exquisite in its youth and freshness. + +"My dear child, you sing rarely well," says Lady Chetwoode, while Guy +has drawn near, unconsciously to himself, and is standing at a little +distance behind her. How many more witcheries has this little tormenting +siren laid up in store for his undoing? "It reminds me of long ago," +says auntie, with a sigh for the gay hours gone: "once I sang that song +myself. Do you know any Scotch airs, Lilian? I am so fond of them." + +Whereupon Lilian sings "Comin' thro' the Rye" and "Caller Herrin'," +which latter brings tears into Lady Chetwoode's eyes. Altogether, by the +time the first dressing-bell rings, she feels she has made a decided +success, and is so far elated by the thought that she actually +condescends to forego her ill-temper for this occasion only, and bestows +so gracious a smile and speech upon her hapless guardian as sends that +ill-used young man to his room in radiant spirits. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + "So young, and so untender."--_King Lear._ + + +"I wonder why on earth it is some people cannot choose proper hours in +which to travel," says Cyril, testily. "The idea of electing--(not any +more, thank you)--to arrive at ten o'clock at night at any respectable +house is barely decent." + +"Yes, I wish she had named any other hour," says Lady Chetwoode. "It is +rather a nuisance Guy having to go to the station so late." + +"Dear Florence is so romantic," remarks Cyril: "let us hope for her sake +there will be a moon." + +It is half-past eight o'clock, and dinner is nearly over. There has +been some haste this evening on account of Miss Beauchamp's expected +arrival; the very men who are handing round the jellies and sweetmeats +seem as inclined to hurry as their pomposity will allow: hence Cyril's +mild ill-humor. No man but feels aggrieved when compelled to hasten at +his meals. + +Miss Chesney has arrayed herself with great care for the new-comer's +delectation, and has been preparing herself all day to dislike her +cordially. Sir Guy is rather silent; Cyril is not; Lady Chetwoode's +usual good spirits seem to have forsaken her. + +"Are you really going to Truston after dinner?" asks Lilian, in a tone +of surprise, addressing Sir Guy. + +"Yes, really; I do not mind it in the least," answering his mother's +remark even more than hers. "It can scarcely be called a hardship, +taking a short drive on such a lovely night." + +"Of course not, with the prospect before him of so soon meeting this +delightful cousin," thinks Lilian. "How glad he seems to welcome her +home! No fear he would let Cyril meet _her_ at the station!" + +"Yes, it certainly is a lovely evening," she says, aloud. Then, "Was +there no other train for her to come by?" + +"Plenty," answers Cyril; "any number of them. But she thought she would +like Guy to 'meet her by moonlight alone.'" + +It is an old and favorite joke of Cyril's, Miss Beauchamp's admiration +for Guy. He has no idea he is encouraging in any one's mind the +impression that Guy has an admiration for Miss Beauchamp. + +"I wonder you never tire of that subject," Guy says, turning upon his +brother with sudden and most unusual temper. "I don't fancy Florence +would care to hear you forever making free with her name as you do." + +"I beg your pardon a thousand times. I had no idea it was a touchy +subject with you." + +"Nor is it," shortly. + +"She will have her wish," says Lilian, alluding to Cyril's unfortunate +quotation, and ignoring the remark that followed. "I am sure it will be +moonlight by ten,"--making a critical examination of the sky through the +window, near which she is sitting. "How charming moonlight is! If I had +a lover,"--laughing,--"I should never go for a drive or walk with him +except beneath its cool white rays. I think Miss Beauchamp very wise in +choosing the hour she has chosen for her return home." + +This is intolerable. The inference is quite distinct. Guy flushes +crimson and opens his mouth to give way to some of the thoughts that are +oppressing him, but his mother's voice breaking in checks him. + +"Don't have any lovers for a long time, child," she says: "you are too +young for such unsatisfactory toys. The longer you are without them, the +happier you will be. They are more trouble than gratification." + +"I don't mean to have one," says Lilian, with a wise shake of her blonde +head, "for years and years. I was merely admiring Miss Beauchamp's +taste." + +"Wise child!" says Cyril, admiringly. "Why didn't you arrive by +moonlight, Lilian? I'm never in luck." + +"It didn't occur to me: in future I shall be more considerate. Are you +fretting because you can't go to-night to meet your cousin? You see how +insignificant you are: you would not be trusted on so important a +mission. It is only bad little wards you are sent to welcome." + +She laughs gayly as she says this; but Guy, who is listening, feels it +is meant as a reproach to him. + +"There are worse things than bad little wards," says Cyril, "if you are +a specimen." + +"Do you think so? It's a pity every one doesn't agree with you. No, +Martin," to the elderly servitor behind her chair, who she knows has a +decided weakness for her: "don't take away the ice pudding yet: I am +very fond of it." + +"So is Florence. You and she, I foresee, will have a stand-up fight for +it at least once a week. Poor cook! I suppose she will have to make two +ice puddings instead of one for the future." + +"If there is anything on earth I love, it is an ice pudding." + +"Not better than me, I trust." + +"Far, far better." + +"Take it away instantly, Martin; Miss Chesney mustn't have any more: it +don't agree with her." + +At this Martin smiles demurely and deferentially, and presents the +coveted pudding to Miss Chesney; whereat Miss Chesney makes a little +triumphant grimace at Cyril and helps herself as she loves herself. + +Dinner is over. The servants,--oh, joy!--have withdrawn: everybody has +eaten as much fruit as they feel is good for them. Lady Chetwoode looks +at Lilian and half rises from her seat. + +"It is hardly worth while your leaving us this evening, mother," Guy +says, hastily: "I must so soon be running away if I wish to catch the +train coming in." + +"Very well,"--re-seating herself: "we shall break through rules, and +stay with you for this one night. You won't have your coffee until your +return?" + +"No, thank you." He is a little _distrait_, and is following Lilian's +movements with his eyes, who has risen, thrown up the window, and is now +standing upon the balcony outside, gazing upon the slumbering flowers, +and upon the rippling, singing brooks in the distance, the only things +in all creation that never seem to sleep. + +After a while, tiring of inanimate nature, she turns her face inward and +leans against the window-frame, and being in an idle mood, begins to +pluck to pieces the flower that has rested during dinner upon her bosom. + +Standing thus in the half light, she looks particularly fair, and +slight, and childish,-- + + + "A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded, + A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded." + + +Some thought crossing Lady Chetwoode's mind, born of the long and loving +glance she has been bestowing upon Lilian, she says: + +"How I detest fat people. They make me feel positively ill. Mrs. +Boileau, when she called to-day, raised within me the keenest pity." + +"She is a very distressing woman," says Guy, absently. "One feels +thankful she has no daughter." + +"Yes, indeed; the same thought occurred to me. Though perhaps not fat +now, she would undoubtedly show fatal symptoms of a tendency toward it +later on. Now you, my dear Lilian, have happily escaped such a fate: you +will never be fat." + +"I'm sure I hope not, if you dislike the idea so much," says Lilian, +amused, letting the ghastly remains of her ill-treated flower fall to +the ground. + +"If you only knew the misery I felt on hearing you were coming to us," +goes on Lady Chetwoode, "dreading lest you might be inclined that way; +not of course but that I was very pleased to have you, my dear child, +but I fancied you large and healthy-looking, with a country air, red +cheeks, black hair, and unbounded _gaucherie_. Imagine my delight, +therefore, when I beheld you slim and self-possessed, and with your +pretty yellow hair!" + +"You make me blush, you cover me with confusion," says Miss Chesney, +hiding her face in her hands. + +"Yes, yellow hair is my admiration," goes on Lady Chetwoode, modestly: +"I had golden hair myself in my youth." + +"My dearest mother, we all know you were, and are, the loveliest lady in +creation," says Guy, whose tenderness toward his mother is at times a +thing to be admired. + +"My dear Guy, how you flatter!" says she, blushing a faint, sweet old +blush that shows how mightily pleased she is. + +"Do you know," says Lilian, "in spite of being thought horrid, I like +comfortable-looking people? I wish I had more flesh upon my poor bones. +I think," going deliberately up to a glass and surveying herself with a +distasteful shrug,--"I think thin people have a meagre, gawky, hard look +about them, eminently unbecoming. I rather admire Mrs. Mount-George, for +instance." + +"Hateful woman!" says Lady Chetwoode, who cherishes for her an old +spite. + +"I rather admire her, too," says Sir Guy, unwisely,--though he only +gives way to this opinion through a wild desire to help out Lilian's +judgment. + +"Do you?" says that young lady, with exaggerated emphasis. "I shouldn't +have thought she was a man's beauty. She is a little too--too-- +demonstrative, too _prononcee_." + +"Oh, Guy adores fat women," says Cyril, the incorrigible; "wait till you +see Florence: there is nothing of the 'meagre, gawky, hard' sort about +her. She has a decided leaning toward _embonpoint_." + +"And I imagined her quite slight," says Lilian. + +"You must begin then and imagine her all over again. The only flesh +there isn't about Florence is fool's flesh. It is hardly worth while, +however, your creating a fresh portrait, as the original," glancing at +his watch, "will so soon be before you. Guy, my friend, you should +hurry." + +Lilian returns to the balcony, whither Chetwoode's eyes follow her +longingly. He rises reluctantly to his feet, and says to Cyril, with +some hesitation: + +"You would not care to go to meet Florence?" + +"I thank you kindly,--no," says Cyril, with an expressive shrug; "not +for Joe! I shall infinitely prefer a cigar at home, and Miss Chesney's +society,--if she will graciously accord it to me." This with a smile at +Lilian, who has again come in and up to the table, where she is now +eating daintily a showy peach, that has been lying neglected on its dish +since dinner, crying vainly, "Who'll eat me? who'll eat me?" + +She nods and smiles sweetly at Cyril as he speaks. + +"I am always glad to be with those who want me," she says, carefully +removing the skin from her fruit; "specially you, because you always +amuse me. Come out and smoke your cigar, and I will talk to you all the +time. Won't that be a treat for you?" with a little low, soft laugh, and +a swift glance at him from under her curling lashes that, to say the +truth, is rather coquettish. + +"There, Guy, don't you envy me, with such a charming time before me?" +says Cyril, returning her glance with interest. + +"No, indeed," says Lilian, raising her head and gazing full at +Chetwoode, who returns her glance steadily, although he is enduring +grinding torments all this time, and almost--_almost_ begins to hate his +brother. "The last thing Sir Guy would dream of would be to envy you my +graceless society. Fancy a guardian finding pleasure in the frivolous +conversation of his ward! How could you suspect him of such a weakness?" + +Here she lets her small white teeth meet in her fruit with all the airs +of a little _gourmande_, and a most evident enjoyment of its flavor. + +There is a pause. + +Cyril has left the room in search of his cigar-case. Lady Chetwoode has +disappeared to explore the library for her everlasting knitting. Sir Guy +and Lilian are alone. + +"I cannot remember having ever accused you of being frivolous, either in +conversation or manner," says Chetwoode, presently, in a low, rather +angry tone. + +"No?" says naughty Lilian, with a shrug: "I quite thought you had. But +your manner is so expressive at times, it leaves no occasion for mere +words. This morning when I made some harmless remark to Cyril, you +looked as though I had committed murder, or something worthy of +transportation for life at the very least." + +"I cannot remember that either. I think you purposely misunderstand +me." + +"What a rude speech! Oh, if I had said that! But see how late it is," +looking at the clock: "you are wasting all these precious minutes here +that might be spent so much more--profitably with your cousin." + +"You mean you are in a hurry to be rid of me," disdaining to notice her +innuendo; "go,--don't let me detain you from Cyril and his cigar." + +He turns away abruptly, and gives the bell a rather sharp pull. He is so +openly offended that Lilian's heart smites her. + +"Who is misunderstanding now?" she says, with a decided change of tone. +"Shall you be long away, Sir Guy?" + +"Not very," icily. "Truston, as you know, is but a short drive from +this." + +"True." Then with charmingly innocent concern, "Don't you like going out +so late?--you seem a little cross." + +"Do I?" + +"Yes. But perhaps I mistake; I am always making mistakes," says Miss +Lilian, humbly; "I am very unfortunate. And you know what Ouida says, +that 'one is so often thought to be sullen when one is only sad.' Are +_you_ sad?" + +"No," says Guy, goaded past endurance; "I am not. But I should like to +know what I have done that you should make a point at all times of +treating me with incivility." + +"Are you speaking of me?"--with a fine show of surprise, and +widely-opened eyes; "what can you mean? Why, I shouldn't dare be uncivil +to my guardian. I should be afraid. I should positively die of fright," +says Miss Chesney, feeling strongly inclined to laugh, and darting a +little wicked gleam at him from her eyes as she speaks. + +"Your manner"--bitterly--"fully bears out your words. Still I +think---- Why doesn't Granger bring round the carriage? Am I to give the +same order half a dozen times?"--this to a petrified attendant who has +answered the bell, and now vanishes, as though shot, to give it as his +opinion down-stairs that Sir Guy is in "a h'orful wax!" + +"Poor man, how you have frightened him!" says Lilian, softly. "I am +sorry if I have vexed you." Holding out a small hand of amity,--"Shall +we make friends before you go?" + +"It would be mere waste of time," replies he, ignoring the hand; "and, +besides, why should you force yourself to be on friendly terms with me?" + +"You forget----" begins Lilian, somewhat haughtily, made very indignant +by his refusal of her overture; but, Cyril and Lady Chetwoode entering +at this moment simultaneously, the conversation dies. + +"Now I am ready," Cyril says, cheerfully. "I took some of your cigars, +Guy; they are rather better than mine; but the occasion is so felicitous +I thought it demanded it. Do you mind?" + +"You can have the box," replies Guy, curtly. + +To have a suspected rival in full possession of the field, smoking one's +choicest weeds, is not a thing calculated to soothe a ruffled breast. + +"Eh, you're not ill, old fellow, are you?" says Cyril, in his laziest, +most good-natured tones. "The whole box! Come, my dear Lilian, I pine to +begin them." + +Miss Chesney finishes her peach in a hurry and prepares to follow him. + +"Lilian, you are like a baby with a sweet tooth," says Lady Chetwoode. +"Take some of those peaches out on the balcony with you, child: you seem +to enjoy them. And come to me to the drawing-room when you tire of +Cyril." + +So the last thing Guy sees as he leaves the room is Lilian and his +brother armed with peaches and cigars on their way to the balcony; the +last thing he hears is a clear, sweet, ringing laugh that echoes through +the house and falls like molten lead upon his heart. + +He bangs the hall-door with much unnecessary violence, steps into the +carriage, and goes to meet his cousin in about the worst temper he has +given way to for years. + + * * * * * + +Half-past ten has struck. The drawing-room is ablaze with light. Lady +Chetwoode, contrary to custom, is wide awake, the gray sock lying almost +completed upon her lap. Lilian has been singing, but is now sitting +silent with her idle little hands before her, while Cyril reads aloud to +them decent extracts from the celebrated divorce case, now drawing to +its unpleasant close. + +"They ought to be here now," says Lady Chetwoode, suddenly, alluding +not so much to the plaintiff, or the defendant, or the co-respondents, +as to her eldest son and Miss Beauchamp. "The time is up." + +Almost as she says the words the sound of carriage-wheels strikes upon +the ear, and a few minutes later the door is thrown wide open and Miss +Beauchamp enters. + +Lilian stares at her with a good deal of pardonable curiosity. Yes, in +spite of all that Cyril said, she is very nearly handsome. She is tall, +_posee_, large and somewhat full, with rather prominent eyes. Her mouth +is a little thin, but well shaped; her nose is perfect; her figure +faultless. She is quite twenty-six (in spite of artificial aid), a fact +that Lilian perceives with secret gratification. + +She walks slowly up the room, a small Maltese terrier clasped in her +arms, and presents a cool cheek to Lady Chetwoode, as though she had +parted from her but a few hours ago. All the worry and fatigue of travel +have not told upon her: perhaps her maid and that mysterious +closely-locked little morocco bag in the hall could tell upon her; but +she looks as undisturbed in appearance and dress as though she had but +just descended from her room, ready for a morning's walk. + +"My dear Florence, I am glad to welcome you home," says Lady Chetwoode, +affectionately, returning her chaste salute. + +"Thank you, Aunt Anne," says Miss Beauchamp, in carefully modulated +tones. "I, too, am glad to get home. It was quite delightful to find Guy +waiting for me at the station!" + +She smiles a pretty lady-like smile upon Sir Guy as she speaks, he +having followed her into the room. "How d'ye do, Cyril?" + +Cyril returns her greeting with due propriety, but expresses no +hilarious joy at her return. + +"This is Lilian Chesney whom I wrote to you about," Lady Chetwoode says, +putting out one hand to Lilian. "Lilian, my dear, this is Florence." + +The girls shake hands. Miss Beauchamp treats Lilian to a cold though +perfectly polite stare, and then turns back to her aunt. + +"It was a long journey, dear," sympathetically says "Aunt Anne." + +"Very. I felt quite exhausted when I reached Truston, and so did +Fanchette; did you not, _ma bibiche_, my treasure?"--this is to the +little white stuffy ball of wool in her arms, which instantly opens two +pink-lidded eyes, and puts out a crimson tongue, by way of answer. "If +you don't mind, aunt, I think I should like to go to my room." + +"Certainly, dear. And what shall I send you up?" + +"A cup of tea, please, and--er--anything else there is. Elise will know +what I fancy; I dined before I left. Good-night, Miss Chesney. +Good-night, Guy; and thank you again very much for meeting me"--this +very sweetly. + +And then Lady Chetwoode accompanies her up-stairs, and the first +wonderful interview is at an end. + +"Well?" says Cyril. + +"I think her quite handsome," says Lilian, enthusiastically, for Guy's +special benefit, who is sitting at a little distance, glowering upon +space. "Cyril, you are wanting in taste." + +"Not when I admire you," replies Cyril, promptly. "Will you pardon me, +Lilian, if I go to see they send a comfortable and substantial supper to +my cousin? Her appetite is all that her best friend could wish." + +So saying, he quits the room, bent on some business of his own, that has +very little to do, I think, with the refreshment of Miss Beauchamp's +body. + +When he has gone, Lilian takes up Lady Chetwoode's knitting and examines +it critically. For the first time in her life she regrets not having +given up some of her early years to the mastering of fancy work; then +she lays it down again, and sighs heavily. The sigh says quite +distinctly how tedious a thing it is being alone in the room with a man +who will not speak to one. Better, far better, be with a dummy, from +whom nothing could be expected. + +Sir Guy, roused to activity by this dolorous sound, crosses the room and +stands directly before her, a contrite expression upon his face. + +"I have behaved badly," he says. "I confess my fault. Will you not speak +to me, Lilian?" His tone is half laughing, half penitent. + +"Not"--smiling--"until you assure me you have left all your ill-temper +behind you at Truston." + +"I have. I swear it." + +"You are sure?" + +"Positive." + +"I do hope you did not bestow it upon poor Miss Beauchamp?" + +"I don't know, I'm sure. I hope not," says Guy, lightly; and there is +something both in his tone and words that restores Miss Chesney to +amiability. She looks at him steadily for a moment, and then she smiles. + +"I am forgiven?" asks Guy, eagerly, taking courage from her smile. + +"Yes." + +"Shake hands with me, then," says he, holding out his own. + +"You expect too much," returns Lilian, recoiling. "Only an hour ago, you +refused to take my hand: how then can I now accept yours?" + +"I was a brute, nothing less!" declares he, emphatically. "Yet do accept +it, I implore you." + +There is a good deal more meaning in his tone than even he himself is +quite aware of. Miss Chesney either does not or will not see it. Raising +her head, she laughs out loud, a low but thoroughly amused laugh. + +"Any one listening would say you were proposing to me," she says, +mischievously; whereupon he laughs too, and seats himself upon the low +ottoman beside her. + +"I shouldn't mind," he says; "should you?" + +"Not much. I suppose one must go through it some time or other." + +"Have you ever had a--proposal?" + +"Why do you compel me to give you an answer that must be humiliating? +No; I have never had a proposal. But I dare say I shall have one or two +before I die." + +"I dare say. Unless you will now accept mine"--jestingly--"and make me +the happiest of men." + +"No, thank you. You make me such an admirable guardian that I could not +bear to depose you. You are now in a proud position (considering the +ward you have); do not rashly seek to better it." + +"Your words are golden. But all this time you are keeping me in terrible +suspense. You have not yet quite made friends with me." + +Then Lilian places her hand in his. + +"Though you don't deserve it," she says, severely, "still----" + +"Still you do accept me--it, I mean," interrupts Guy, purposely, closing +his fingers warmly over hers. "I shall never forget that fact. Dear +little hand!" softly caressing it, "did I really scorn it an hour ago? I +beg its pardon very humbly." + +"It is granted," answers Lilian, gayly. But to herself she says, "I +wonder how often has he gone through all this before?" + +Nevertheless, in spite of doubts on both sides, the truce is signed for +the present. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + "How beautiful is the rain! + After the dust and heat. + To the dry grass, and the drier grain, + How welcome is the rain!"--LONGFELLOW. + + +Miss Chesney, who, had she been born a man and a gardener, could have +commanded any wages, is on her knees beside some green plants, busily +hunting for slugs. These ravishers of baby flowers and innocent +seedlings are Miss Chesney's especial abhorrence. It is in vain to tell +her that they must be fed,--that they, as well as the leviathan, must +have their daily food; she declines to look upon their frequent +depredations in any other light than as wanton mischief. + +Upon their destruction she wastes so much of her valuable time that, +could there be a thought in their small, slimy, gelatinous bodies, they +must look upon her as the fell destroyer of their race,--a sort of +natural enemy. + +She is guiltless of gloves, and, being heated in the chase, has flung +her hat upon the velvet sward beside her. Whereupon the ardent sun, +availing of the chance, is making desperate love to her, and is kissing +with all his might her priceless complexion. It is a sight to make a +town-bred damsel weep aloud! + +Miss Beauchamp, sailing majestically toward this foolish maiden, with +her diaphanous skirts trailing behind her, a huge hat upon her carefully +arranged braids, and an enormous garden umbrella over all, looks with +surprise, largely mingled with contempt, upon the kneeling figure. She +marks the soft beauty of the skin, the exquisite penciling of the +eyebrows, the rich color on the laughing lips, and, marking, feels some +faint anger at the reckless extravagance of the owner of these +unpurchasable charms. + +To one long aware of the many advantages to be derived from such +precious unguents as creme d'Ispahan, velvetine, and Chinese rouge, is +known also all the fear of detection arising from the daily use of them. +And to see another richly and freely endowed by Nature with all the most +coveted tints, making light of the gift, seems to such a one a gross +impertinence, a miserable want of gratitude, too deep for comprehension. + +Pausing near Lilian, with the over-fed Maltese panting and puffing +beside her, Miss Beauchamp looks down upon her curiously, upon the +rose-leaf face, the little soiled hands, the ruffled golden head, and +calculates to a fraction the exact amount of mischief that may be done +by the possession of so much youth and beauty. + +The girl is far too pretty. There is really no knowing what irremediable +harm she may not have done already. + +"What a mess you are making of yourself!" says Florence, in a tone +replete with lady-like disgust. + +"I am, rather," says Lilian, holding aloft the small hand, on which five +dusty fingers disport themselves, while she regards them +contemplatively; "but I love it, gardening I mean. I would have made a +small fortune at flower-shows, had I given my mind to it earlier: not a +prize would have escaped me." + +"Every one with an acre of garden thinks that," says Miss Beauchamp. + +"Do they?" smiling up at the white goddess beside her. "Well, perhaps +so. 'Hope springs eternal in the human breast,' and a good thing, too." + +"Don't you think you will be likely to get a sunstroke?" remarks +Florence, with indifferent concern. + +"No; I am accustomed to go about without my hat," answers Lilian: "of +course, as a rule, I wear it, but it always gives me a feeling of +suffocation; and as for a veil, I simply couldn't bear one." + +Miss Beauchamp, glancing curiously at the peach-like complexion beneath +her, wonders enviously how she does it, and then reflects with a certain +sense of satisfaction that a very little more of this mad tampering with +Nature's gifts will create such havoc as must call for the immediate aid +of the inestimable Rimmel and his fellows. + +The small terrier, awaking from the tuneful snooze that always +accompanies her moments of inactivity, whether she be standing or lying, +now rolls over to Lilian and makes a fat effort to lick her dear little +Grecian nose. At which let no one wonder, as a prettier little nose was +never seen. But Lilian is so far unsympathetic that she strongly objects +to the caress. + +"Poor Fanchette!" she says, kindly, recoiling a little, "you must +forgive me, but the fact is I can't bear having my face licked. It is +bad taste on my part, I know, and I hope you will grant me pardon. No, I +cannot pet you either, because I think my earthy fingers would not +improve your snowy coat." + +"Come away, Fanchette; come away, _petite_, directly; do you hear?" +cries Miss Beauchamp, in an agony lest the scented fleece of her "curled +darling" should be defiled. "Come to its own mistress, then. Don't you +see you are disturbing Lilian?" this last as a mild apology for the +unaffected horror of her former tone. + +So saying, she gathers up Fanchette, and retires into the shaded +shrubberies beyond. + +Almost as she disappears from view, Guy comes upon the scene. + +"Why, what are you doing?" he calls out while yet a few yards from her. + +"I have been shocking your cousin," returns Lilian, laughing. "I doubt +she thinks me a horrible unlady-like young woman. But I can't help that. +See how I have soiled my hands!" holding up for his inspection her ten +little grimy fingers. + +"And done your utmost to ruin your complexion, all for the sake of a few +poor slugs. What a blood-thirsty little thing you are!" + +"I don't believe there is any blood in them," says Lilian. + +"Do come away. One would think there wasn't a gardener about the place. +You will make yourself ill, kneeling there in the sun; and look how warm +you are; it is a positive shame." + +"But I have preserved the lives, and the beauty of all these little +plants." + +"Never mind the plants. Think of your own beauty. I came here to ask you +if you will come for a walk in the woods. I have just been there, and it +is absolutely cool." + +"I should like to immensely," springing to her feet; "but my +hands,"--hesitating,--"what am I to do with them? Shall I run in and +wash them? I shan't be one minute." + +"Oh, no!"--hastily, having a wholesome horror of women's minutes, "come +down to the stream, and we will wash them there." + +This suggestion, savoring of unconventionality, finds favor in Miss +Chesney's eyes, and they start, going through the lawn, for the tiny +rivulet that runs between it and the longed-for woods. + +Kneeling beside it, Lilian lets the fresh gurgling water trail through +her fingers, until all the dust falls from them and floats away on its +bosom; then reluctantly she withdraws her hands and, rising, looks at +them somewhat ruefully. + +"Now, how shall I dry them?" asks she, glancing at the drops of water +that fall from her fingers and glint and glisten like diamonds in the +sun's rays. + +"In your handkerchief," suggests Guy. + +"But then it would be wet, and I should hate that. Give me yours," says +Miss Chesney, with calm selfishness. + +Guy laughs, and produces an unopened handkerchief in which he carefully, +and, it must be confessed, very tardily dries her fingers, one by one. + +"Do you always take as long as that to dry your own hands?" asks Lilian, +gravely, when he has arrived at the third finger of the second hand. + +"Always!" without a blush. + +"Your dressing, altogether, must take a long time?" + +"Not so long as you imagine. It is only on my hands I expend so much +care." + +"And on mine," suggestively. + +"Exactly so. Do you never wear rings?" + +"Never. And for the very best reason." + +"And that?" + +"Is because I haven't any to wear. I have a few of my mother's, but they +are old-fashioned and heavy, and look very silly on my hands. I must get +them reset." + +"I like rings on pretty hands, such as yours." + +"And Florence's. Yes, she has pretty hands, and pretty rings also." + +"Has she?" + +"What! Would you have me believe you never noticed them? Oh, Sir Guy, +how deceitful you can be!" + +"Now, that is just the very one vice of which I am entirely innocent. +You wrong me. I couldn't be deceitful to save my life. I always think it +must be so fatiguing. Most young ladies have pretty hands, I suppose; +but I never noticed those of Miss Beauchamp, or her rings either, in +particular. Are you fond of rings?" + +"Passionately fond," laughing. "I should like to have every finger and +both of my thumbs covered with them up to the first knuckle." + +"And nobody ever gave you one?" + +"Nobody," shaking her head emphatically. "Wasn't it unkind of them?" + +With this remark Sir Guy does not coincide: so he keeps silence, and +they walk on some yards without speaking. Presently Lilian, whose +thoughts are rapid, finding the stillness irksome, breaks it. + +"Sir Guy----" + +"Miss Chesney." + +As they all call her "Lilian," she glances up at him in some surprise at +the strangeness of his address. + +"Well, and why not," says he, answering the unmistakable question in her +eyes, "when you call me 'Sir Guy' I wish you would not." + +"Why? Is it not your name?" + +"Yes, but it is so formal. You call Cyril by his name, and even with my +mother you have dropped all formality. Why are you so different with me? +Can you not call me 'Guy'?" + +"Guy! Oh, I _couldn't_. Every time the name passed my lips I should +faint with horror at my own temerity. What! call my guardian by his +Christian name? How can you even suggest the idea? Consider your age and +bearing." + +"One would think I was ninety," says he, rather piqued. + +"Well, you are not far from it," teasingly. "However, I don't object to +a compromise. I will call you Uncle Guy, if you wish it." + +"Nonsense!" indignantly. "I don't want to be your uncle." + +"No? Then Brother Guy." + +"That would be equally foolish." + +"You won't, then, claim relationship with me?" in a surprised tone. "I +fear you look upon me as a _mauvais sujet_. Well, then,"--with sudden +inspiration,--"I know what I shall do. Like Esther Summerson, in 'Bleak +House,' I shall call you 'Guardian.' There!" clapping her hands, "is not +that the very thing? Guardian you shall be, and it will remind me of my +duty to you every time I mention your name. Or, perhaps,"--hesitating-- +"'Guardy' will be prettier." + +"I wish I wasn't your guardian," Guy says, somewhat sadly. + +"Don't be unkinder than you can help," reproachfully. "You won't be my +uncle, or my brother, or my guardian? What is it, then, that you would +be?" + +To this question he could give a very concise answer, but does not dare +do so. He therefore maintains a discreet silence, and relieves his +feelings by taking the heads off three dandelions that chance to come in +his path. + +"Does it give you so very much trouble, the guardianship of poor little +me," she asks, with a mischievous though charming smile, "that you so +much regret it?" + +"It isn't that," he answers, slowly, "but I fear you look coldly on me +in consequence of it. You do not make me your friend, and that is +unjust, because it was not my fault. I did not ask to be your guardian; +it was your father's wish entirely. You should not blame me for what he +insisted on." + +"I don't,"--gayly,--"and I forgive you for having acceded to poor papa's +proposal: so don't fret about it. After all,"--naughtily,--"I dare say I +might have got worse; you aren't half bad so far, which is wise of you, +because I warn you I am an _enfant gate_; and should you dare to thwart +me I should lead you such a life as would make you rue the day you were +born." + +"You speak as though it were my desire to thwart you." + +"Well, perhaps it is. At all events," with a relieved sigh,--"I have +warned you, and now it is off my mind. By the bye, I was going to say +something to you a few minutes ago when you interrupted me." + +"What was it?" + +"I want you"--coaxingly--"to take me round by The Cottage, so that I may +get a glimpse at this wonderful widow." + +"It would be no use; you would not see her." + +"But I might." + +"And if so, what would you gain by it? She is very much like other +women: she has only one nose, and not more than two eyes." + +"Nevertheless she rouses my curiosity. Why have you such a dislike to +the poor woman?" + +"Oh, no dislike," says Guy, the more hastily in that he feels there is +some truth in the accusation. "I don't quite trust her: that is all." + +"Still, take me near The Cottage; _do_, now, Guardy," says Miss Chesney, +softly, turning two exquisite appealing blue eyes upon him, which of +course settles the question. They instantly turn and take the direction +that leads to The Cottage. + +But their effort to see the mysterious widow is not crowned with +success. To Miss Chesney's sorrow and Sir Guy's secret joy, the house +appears as silent and devoid of life as though, indeed, it had never +been inhabited. With many a backward glance and many a wistful look, +Lilian goes by, while Guy carefully suppresses all expressions of +satisfaction and trudges on silently beside her. + +"She must be out," says Lilian, after a lengthened pause. + +"She must be always out," says Guy, "because she is never to be seen." + +"You must have come here a great many times to find that out," says Miss +Chesney, captiously, which remark puts a stop to all conversation for +some time. + +And indeed luck is dead against Lilian, for no sooner has she passed out +of sight than Mrs. Arlington steps from her door, and, armed with a book +and a parasol, makes for the small and shady arbor situated at the end +of the garden. + +But if Lilian's luck has deserted her, Cyril's has not. He has walked +down here this evening in a rather desponding mood, having made the same +journey vainly for the last three days, and now--just as he has reached +despair--finds himself in Mrs. Arlington's presence. + +"Good-evening," he says, gayly, feeling rather elated at his good +fortune, raising his hat. + +"Good-evening," returns she, with a faint blush born of a vivid +recollection of all that passed at their last meeting. + +"I had no idea I should see you to-day," says Cyril; which is the exact +truth,--for a wonder. + +"Why? You always see me when you come round here, don't you?" says Mrs. +Arlington; which is not the truth, she having been the secret witness of +his coming many times, when she has purposely abstained from being seen. + +"I hope," says Cyril, gently, "you have forgiven me for having +inadvertently offended you last--month." + +"Last week, you mean!" in a surprised tone. + +"Is it really only a week? How long it seems!" says Cyril. "Are you sure +it was only last week?" + +"Quite sure," with a slight smile. "Yes, you are forgiven. Although I do +not quite know that I have anything to forgive." + +"Well, I had my own doubts about it at the time," says Cyril; "but I +have been carefully tutoring myself ever since into the belief that I +was wrong. I think my principal fault lay in my expressing a hope that +the air here was doing you good; and that--to say the least of it--was +mild. By the bye, _is_ it doing you good?" + +"Yes, thank you." + +"I am glad of it, as it may persuade you to stay with us. What lovely +roses you have! Is that one over there a 'Gloire de Dijon'? I can +scarcely see it from this, and I'm so fond of roses." + +"This, do you mean?" plucking one. "No, it is a Marshal Neil." + +"Ah, so it is. How stupid of me to make the mistake!" says Cyril, who in +reality knows as much about roses as about the man in the Iron Mask. + +As he speaks, two or three drops of rain fall heavily upon his +face,--one upon his nose, two into his earnest eyes, a large one finds +its way cleverly between his parted lips. This latter has more effect +upon him than the other three combined. + +"It is raining," he says, naturally but superfluously, glancing at his +coat-sleeve for confirmation of his words. + +Heavier and heavier fall the drops. A regular shower comes pattering +from the heavens right upon their devoted heads. The skies grow black +with rain. + +"You will get awfully wet. Do go into the house," Cyril says, anxiously +glancing at her bare head. + +"So will you," with hesitation, gazing with longing upon the distant +arbor, toward which she is evidently bent on rushing. + +"I dare say,"--laughing,--"but I don't much mind even if I do catch it +before I get home." + +"Perhaps"--unwillingly, and somewhat coldly--"you would like to stand in +the arbor until the shower is over?" + +"I should," replies Mr. Chetwoode, with alacrity, "if you think there +will be room for two." + +There _is_ room for two, but undoubtedly not for three. + +The little green bower is pretty but small, and there is only one seat. + +"It is extremely kind of you to give me standing-room," says Cyril, +politely. + +"I am very sorry I cannot give you sitting-room," replies Mrs. +Arlington, quite as politely, after which conversation languishes. + +Cyril looks at Mrs. Arlington; Mrs. Arlington looks at Marshal Neil, and +apparently finds something singularly attractive in his appearance. She +even raises him to her lips once or twice in a fit of abstraction: +whereupon Cyril thinks that, were he a marshal ten times over, too much +honor has been done him. + +Presently Mrs. Arlington breaks the silence. + +"A little while ago," she says, "I saw your brother and a young lady +pass my gate. She seemed very pretty." + +"She is very pretty," says Cyril, with a singular want of judgment in so +wise a young man. "It must have been Lilian Chesney, my brother's ward." + +"He is rather young to have a ward." + +"He is, rather." + +"He is older than you?" + +"Unfortunately, yes, a little." + +"You, then, are very young?" + +"Well, I'm not exactly an infant,"--rather piqued at the cool +superiority of her tone: "I am twenty-six." + +"So I should have thought," says Mrs. Arlington, quietly, which +assertion is as balm to his wounded spirit. + +"Are your brother and his ward much attached to each other?" asks she, +idly, with a very palpable endeavor to make conversation. + +"Not very much,"--laughing, as he remembers certain warlike passages +that have occurred between Guy and Lilian, in which the former has +always had the worst of it. + +"No? She prefers you, perhaps?" + +"I really don't know: we are very good friends, and she is a dear little +thing." + +"No doubt. Fair women are always to be admired. You admire her very +much?" + +"I think her pretty; but"--with an indescribable glance at the +"nut-brown locks" before him, that says all manner of charming +things--"her hair, to please me, is far too golden." + +"Oh, do you think so?" says Mrs. Arlington, surprised. "I saw her +distinctly from my window, and I thought her hair very lovely, and she +herself one of the prettiest creatures I have ever seen." + +"That is strong praise. I confess I have seen others I thought better +worthy of admiration." + +"You have been lucky, then,"--indifferently. "When one travels, one of +course sees a great deal, and becomes a judge on such matters." + +"I didn't travel far to find that out." + +"To find what out?" + +"A prettier woman than Miss Chesney." + +"No?" with cold unconcern and an evident want of interest on the +subject. "How lovely the flowers look with those little drops of rain in +their hearts!--like a touch of sorrow in the very centre of their joy." + +"You like the country?" + +"Yes, I love it. There is a rest, a calm about it that to some seems +monotony, but to me is peace." + +A rather troubled shade falls across her face. An intense pity for her +fills Cyril's breast together with a growing conviction (which is not a +pleasing one) that the dead and gone Arlington must have been a king +among his fellows. + +"I like the country well enough myself," he says, "but I hardly hold it +in such esteem as you do. It is slow,--at times unbearable. Indeed, a +careful study of my feelings has convinced me that I prefer the strains +of Albani or Nilsson to those of the sweetest nightingale that ever +'warbled at eve,' and the sound of the noisiest cab to the bleating of +the melancholy lamb; while the most exquisite sunrise that could be +worked into poetry could not tempt me from my bed. Have I disgusted +you?" + +"I wonder you are not ashamed to give way to such sentiments,"--with a +short but lovely smile. + +"One should never be ashamed of telling the truth, no matter how +unpleasant it may be." + +"True!" with another smile, more prolonged, and therefore lovelier, +that lights up all her face and restores to it the sweetness and +freshness of a child's. + +Cyril, looking at her, forgets the thread of his discourse, and says +impulsively, as though speaking to himself, "It seems impossible." + +"What does?" somewhat startled. + +"Forgive me; I was again going to say something that would undoubtedly +have brought down your heaviest displeasure on my head." + +"Then don't say it," says Mrs. Arlington, coloring deeply. + +"I won't. To return to our subject: the country is just now new to you, +perhaps. After a while you will again pine for society." + +"I do not think so. I have seen a good deal of the world in my time, but +never gained anything from it except--sorrow." + +She sighs heavily; again the shadow darkens her face and dims the beauty +of her eyes. + +"It must have caused you great grief losing your husband so young," says +Cyril, gently, hardly knowing what to say. + +"No, his death had nothing to do with the trouble of which I am +thinking," replies Mrs. Arlington, with curious haste, a quick frown +overshadowing her brow. Her fingers meet and clasp each other closely. + +Cyril is silent, being oppressed with another growing conviction which +completely routs the first and leads him to believe the dead and gone +Arlington a miserable brute, deserving of hanging at the very least. +This conviction, unlike the first, carries consolation with it. "I am +sorry you would not let my mother call on you," he says, presently. + +"Did Sir Guy say I would not see her?" asks she, with some anxiety. "I +hope he did not represent me as having received her kind message with +ingratitude." + +"No, he merely said you wished to see no one." + +"He said the truth. But then there are ways of saying things, and I +should not like to appear rude. I certainly do not wish to see any one, +but for all that I should not like to offend your mother." + +There is not the very smallest emphasis on the word "your," yet somehow +Cyril feels flattered. + +"She is not offended," he says, against his conscience, and is glad to +see his words please her. After a slight pause he goes on: "Although I +am only a stranger to you, I cannot help feeling how bad it is for you +to be so much alone. You are too young to be so isolated." + +"I am happier so." + +"What! you would care to see no one?" + +"I would care to see no one," emphatically, but with a sigh. + +"How dreadfully in the way you must have found me!" says Cyril, +straightening himself preparatory to departure. "The rain, I see, is +over." (It has been for the last ten minutes.) "I shall therefore +restore you to happiness by taking myself away." + +Mrs. Arlington smiles faintly. + +"I don't seem to mind you much," she says, kindly, but with a certain +amount of coldness. "Pray do not think I have wished you away." + +"This is the first kind thing you have ever said to me," says Cyril, +earnestly. + +"Is it? I think I have forgotten how to make pretty speeches," replies +she, calmly. "See, the sun is coming out again. I do not think, Mr. +Chetwoode, you need be afraid any longer of getting wet." + +"I'm afraid--I mean--I am sure not," says Cyril, absently. "Thank you +very much for the shelter you have afforded me. Would you think me very +_exigeant_ if I asked you to give me that rose you have been +ill-treating for the last half hour?" + +"Certainly not," says Mrs. Arlington, hospitably; "you shall have it if +you care for it; but this one is damaged; let me get you a few others, +fresher and sweeter." + +"No, thank you. I do not think you _could_ give me one either fresher or +sweeter. Good-evening." + +"Good-bye," returns she, extending her hand; and, with the gallant +Marshal firmly clasped in his hand, Cyril makes a triumphant exit. + +He has hardly gone three yards beyond the gate that guards the widow's +bower when he finds himself face to face with Florence Beauchamp, rather +wet, and decidedly out of temper. She glances at him curiously, but +makes no remark, so that Cyril hopes devoutly she may not have noticed +where he has just come from. + +"What a shower we have had!" he says, with a great assumption of +geniality and much politeness. + +"You do not seem to have got much of it," replies she, with lady-like +irritability, looking with open disfavor upon the astonishing dryness of +his clothes. + +"No,"--amiably,--"I have escaped pretty well. I never knew any cloth to +resist rain like this,--doesn't even show a mark of it. I am sorry I +cannot say the same for you. Your gown has lost a good deal of its +pristine freshness; while as for your feather, it is, to say the least +of it, dejected." + +No one likes to feel one's self looking a guy. Cyril's tender solicitude +for her clothes has the effect of rendering Miss Beauchamp angrier than +she was before. + +"Oh, pray don't try to make me more uncomfortable than I am," she says, +sharply. "I can imagine how unlovely I am looking. I detest the country: +it means simply destruction to one's clothes and manners," pointedly. +"It has been raining ever since I came back from Shropshire." + +"What a pity you did come back just yet!" says Cyril, with quite +sufficient pause to throw an unpleasant meaning into his words. "As to +the country, I entirely agree with you; give me the town: it never rains +in the town." + +"If it does, one has a carriage at hand. How did you manage to keep +yourself so dry, Cyril?" + +"There is plenty of good shelter round here, if one chooses to look for +it." + +"Evidently; very good shelter, I should say. One would almost think you +had taken refuge in a house." + +"Then one would think wrong. Appearances, you know, are often +deceitful." + +"They are indeed. What a beautiful rose that is!" + +"Was, you mean. It has seen its best days. By the bye, when you were so +near The Cottage, why didn't you go in and stay there until the rain was +over?" + +"I shouldn't dream of asking hospitality from such a very suspicious +sort of person as this Mrs. Arlington seems to be," Miss Beauchamp +replies, with much affectation and more spitefulness. + +"You are right,--you always _are_," says Cyril, calmly. "One should shun +the very idea of evil. Extreme youth can never be too careful. Good-bye +for the present, Florence; I fear I must tear myself away from you, as +duty calls me in this direction." So saying, he turns into another path, +preferring a long round to his home to a further _tete-a-tete_ with the +charming Florence. + +But Florence has not yet quite done with him. His supercilious manner +and that last harmless remark about "extreme youth" rankles in her +breast; so that she carries back to Chetwoode with her a small stone +carefully hidden in her sleeve wherewith to slay him at a convenient +opportunity. + + * * * * * + +The same shower that reduces Miss Beauchamp to sullen discontent behaves +with equal severity to Lilian, who reaches home, flushed and laughing, +drenched and out of breath, with the tail of her gown over her shoulders +and a handkerchief round her neck. Guy is with her; and it seems to Lady +Chetwoode (who is much concerned about them) as though they had rather +enjoyed than otherwise their enforced run. + +Florence, who arrives some time after them, retires to her room, where +she spends the two hours that must elapse before dinner in repairing all +dilapidations in face and figure. At seven o'clock precisely she +descends and gains the drawing-room as admirably dressed as usual, but +with her good humor still conspicuous by its absence. + +She inveighs mildly against the evening's rain, as though it had been +specially sent for the ruin of her clothes and complexion, and says a +good deal about the advantages to be derived from a town life, which is +decidedly gracious, considering how glad she has been all these past +years to make her home at Chetwoode. + +When dinner is almost over she turns to Cyril and says, with deliberate +distinctness: + +"Until to-day I had no idea you were acquainted with--the widow." + +There is no mistaking whom she means. The shot is well fired, and goes +straight home. Cyril changes color perceptibly and does not reply +instantly. Lady Chetwoode looks at him with marked surprise. So does +Lilian. So does Sir Guy. They all await his answer. Miss Beauchamp's +petty triumph is complete. + +"Had you not?" says Cyril. "I wonder so amazing a fact escaped your +knowledge." + +"Have you met Mrs. Arlington? You never mentioned it, Cyril," says Lady +Chetwoode. + +"Oh, yes," says Miss Beauchamp, "he is quite intimate there: aren't you, +Cyril? As I was passing The Cottage to-day in a desperate plight, I met +Cyril coming out of the house." + +"Not out of the house," corrects Cyril, calmly, having quite recovered +his self-possession; "out of the garden." + +"Was it? You were so enviably dry, in spite of the rain, I quite thought +you had been in the house." + +"For once your usually faultless judgment led you astray. I was in an +arbor, where Mrs. Arlington kindly gave me shelter until the rain was +over." + +"Was Mrs. Arlington in the arbor too?" + +"Yes." + +"How very romantic! I suppose it was she gave you the lovely yellow rose +you were regarding so affectionately?" says Miss Beauchamp, with a low +laugh. + +"I always think, Florence, what a fortune you would have made at the +bar," says Cyril, thoughtfully; "your cross-examinations would have had +the effect of turning your witnesses gray. I am utterly convinced you +would have ended your days on the woolsack. It is a pity to see so much +native talent absolutely wasted." + +"Not altogether wasted," sweetly: "it has at least enabled me to +discover how it was you eluded the rain this evening." + +"You met Mrs. Arlington before to-day?" asks Guy, who is half amused and +half relieved, as he remembers how needlessly jealous he has been about +his brother's attentions to Lilian. He feels also some vague doubts as +to the propriety of Cyril's losing his heart to a woman of whom they +know nothing; and his singular silence on the subject of having made her +acquaintance is (to say the least of it) suspicious. But, as Cyril has +been in a chronic state of love-making ever since he got into his first +tall hat, this doubt causes him but little uneasiness. + +"Yes," says Cyril, in answer to his question. + +"Is she as pretty as Sir Guy says?" asks Lilian, smiling. + +"Quite as pretty, if not more so. One may always depend upon Guy's +taste." + +"What a good thing it was you knew her! It saved you from that dreadful +shower," says Lilian, good-naturedly, seeing intuitively he is vexed. +"We were not so fortunate: we had to run for our lives all the way home. +It is a pity, Florence, you didn't know her also, as, being so near the +house, you might have thrown yourself upon her hospitality for a little +while." + +"I hardly think I see it in that light," drawls Florence, affectedly. +"I confess I don't feel exactly ambitious about making the acquaintance +of this Mrs.--er----" + +"Arlington is her name," suggests Cyril, quietly. "Have you forgotten +it? My dear Florence, you really should see some one about your memory: +it is failing every day." + +"I can still remember _some_ things," retorts Miss Beauchamp, blandly. + +By this time it has occurred to Lady Chetwoode that matters are not +going exactly smoothly; whereupon she glances at Miss Beauchamp, then at +Lilian, and finally carries them both off with her to the drawing-room. + +"If there is one thing I detest," says Cyril, throwing himself back in +his chair, with an impatient movement, when he has closed the door upon +them, "it is a vindictive woman. I pity the man who marries Florence +Beauchamp." + +"You are rather hard upon her, are you not?" says Guy. "I have known her +very good-natured." + +"Lucky you! I cannot recall many past acts of kindness on her part." + +"So you met Mrs. Arlington?" says Guy, carelessly. + +"Yes; one day I restored to her her dog; and to-day she offered me +shelter from the rain, simply because she couldn't help it. There our +acquaintance rests." + +"Where is the rose she gave you?" asks Guy, with a laugh, in which, +after a moment's struggle, Cyril joins. + +"Don't lose your heart to her, old boy," Guy says, lightly; but Cyril +well knows he has meaning in what he says. + + * * * * * + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + "There were two cousins almost like to twins; + And so they grew together, like two flowers + Upon one stem."--SHELLEY. + + "It was a babe, beautiful from its birth."--SHELLEY. + + +The next day awakes calm and fair, and full of the rich ripeness that +belongs to August. Lilian, opening her blue eyes upon the world at +half-past seven, calls her nurse, and being dressed rushes forth into +the garden to drink in all the first sweet freshness of the day. + +The dew still lingers upon lawn and blossom; the spiders' webs glisten +like jeweled nets in the dancing sunbeams; the exquisite opal flush of +the morning sky has grown and spread and deepened, until all the heavens +are tinged with warmest carmine. + +There is "splendor in the grass," and "glory in the flower," and Lilian, +flitting from bush to bush, enjoys everything to its utmost; she plucks +two pale roses for her own bosom, and one, deep red and richly perfumed, +to lay beside Lady Chetwoode's plate. This is a usual morning offering +not to be neglected. + +Just as she has made a careful choice, the breakfast bell rings loudly, +and, running at her quickest--most reckless--speed through the hall, she +barely succeeds in stopping herself as she comes up to Sir Guy at the +door of the morning-room. + +"Oh," cries she, with a little gasp, "another moment and I should have +been in your arms. I never saw you. Good-morning, Guardy," gayly. + +"Good-morning, my ward. I beg you to understand I could have welcomed +that other moment. Why, what an early little bird you are! How long have +you been abroad?" + +"For hours and hours, half a day, while you--lazy man--were sound +asleep. See what spoil I have gathered:" pointing to the heavy roses at +her breast. + +"Lovely, indeed," says Guy, who is secretly of opinion that the +wild-rose complexion she has snatched from the amorous wind is by far +the loveliest spoil of the two. + +"And is not this sweet?" she says, holding up to his face the "red, red +rose," with a movement full of grace. + +"Very," replies he, and stooping presses his lips lightly to her white +hand. + +"I meant the rose, not the hand," says she, with a laugh and a faint +blush. + +"Did you? I thought the hand very much the sweeter of the two. Is it for +me?" + +"No!" says Miss Chesney, with much emphasis; and, telling him he is +quite too foolish to be listened to any longer, she opens the door of +the breakfast-room, and they both enter it together, to find all the +others assembled before them, and the post lying in the centre of the +table. All, that is, that remains of it,--namely, one letter for Lilian +and two or three for Guy. + +These latter, being tinged with indigo, are of an uninteresting +description and soon read. Miss Chesney's, on the contrary, is evidently +full of information. It consists of two whole sheets closely covered by +a scrawling handwriting that resembles nothing so much as the struggles +of a dying fly. + +When she has read it twice over carefully--and with considerable +difficulty--she lays it down and looks anxiously at Lady Chetwoode. + +"Auntie," she begins, with a bright blush and a rather confused air. + +"Yes, dear?" + +"This letter"--touching it--"is from my cousin." + +"Yes,--from your cousin? The lad who grew up with you at the Park?" says +Lady Chetwoode, with a kindly nod of comprehension. + +Then ensues a pause. Somehow every one has stopped talking, and Lady +Chetwoode has set down the teapot and turned to Lilian with an air full +of expectancy. They all feel that something yet remains to be said. + +Possessed with this idea, and seeing Lilian's hesitation, Lady Chetwoode +says, in her gentlest tones: + +"Well, dear?" + +"He is unhappy," says Lilian, running one of her fingers up and down the +table-cloth and growing more and more embarrassed: "every year he used +to come to the Park for his holidays, and now----" + +"And now he cannot go to the Park: is that it?" + +"Yes. A little while ago he joined his regiment, and now he has leave of +absence, and he has nowhere to spend it except at Colonel Graham's, who +is his guardian and his uncle, and he _hates_ Colonel Graham," says +Lilian, impressively, looking at Lady Chetwoode with appealing eyes. + +"Poor boy," says that kindest of women, "I do not like to hear of his +being unhappy. Perhaps, Lilian, you would wish----" + +"I want you to ask him here," says Lilian, quickly and boldly, coloring +furiously, and fixing her great honest eyes on Lady Chetwoode. "He said +nothing about it, but I know he would like to be where I am." + +"My dear, of course," says Lady Chetwoode, with most unusual briskness +for her, "ask him instantly to come here as _soon_ as you like, to stay +as _long_ as you like." + +"Auntie Nannie," says Lilian, rising tumultuously from her chair, "you +are the dearest, kindest, best of women!" She presses her lips gently, +although rapturously, to her auntie's cheek, after which she returns to +her seat. "Now I am thoroughly content," she says naively: "I could not +bear to picture Taffy wretched, and that old Colonel Graham is a +downright Tartar!" + +"'Taffy'! what an extraordinary name!" says Florence. "Is it a fancy +name?" + +"No; it is, I am ashamed to say, a nickname. I believe he was christened +James, but one day when we were both almost babies he stole from me my +best doll and squeezed the eyes out of it to see what lay behind, and I +was very angry, and said he was a regular 'Taffy' to do such a thing. +You know the old rhyme?" turning to Lady Chetwoode with a blush and a +light laugh: + + + "Taffy was a Welshman, + Taffy was a thief, + Taffy came to my house + And stole a piece of beef. + + +There is a good deal more of it, quite as interesting, but of course you +know it. Nurse laughed when I so christened him, and after that he was +always called 'Master Taffy' by the servants, and nothing else." + +"How nicknames do cling to one!" + +"I don't believe I should know him by any other now. It suits him much +better than his own, as he doesn't look the least in the world like a +James." + +"How old is your cousin?" asks Florence, with an eye to business. + +"A year older than I am." + +"And that is----" + +"Nineteen." + +"Indeed! I should have thought you older than that." + +"He is very like me, and he is a dragoon!" says Lilian, proudly. "But I +have never seen him since he was gazetted." + +"Then you have not seen him in his uniform?" says Guy. + +"No. But he tells me," glancing at her letter, "he looks 'uncommonly +jolly' in it." + +They all laugh. Even Florence condescends to be amused. + +"When may we expect this hero?" asks Guy, kindly. + +"His leave begins next week," answers Lilian, looking at Lady Chetwoode. +"If he might come then, it would be such a comfort to him." + +"Of course he must come then," says Lady Chetwoode. "Do not let him lose +a day of his precious leave. I remember when Guy was in the army how +stingy they were about granting him a few days now and then." + +"The Mater's 'few days' always meant eight months out of the twelve," +says Cyril, laughing, "and anything like the abuse she used to shower +upon the colonel because he didn't see it in the light that she did, was +never heard. It is unfit for publication." + +"Archibald Chesney is coming here the twenty-ninth," says Guy. "So you +will be able to make choice between your two cousins." + +"Is Archibald coming?" surprised. "But my choice is already made. No one +shall ever get inside Taffy in my affections." + +"Thrice blessed Taffy," says Cyril. "See what it is to be a young and +gallant plunger!" + +"That wouldn't weigh with me," says Lilian, indignantly. + +"Would it not?" asks Guy. "I was hoping otherwise. I was a plunger once. +What is the renowned Taffy's other name?" + +"Musgrave," says Lilian. + +"A very pretty name," remarks Miss Beauchamp, who has received an +unexpected check by the morning's post, and is consequently in high good +humor. + +"I think so too," returns Lilian. + +"Five distinct blushes, and all about Taffy," says Cyril, meditatively. +"Happy Taffy! I have counted them religiously. Are you very much in love +with him, Lilian?" + +"'In love'! nonsense!" laughing. "If you only saw Taffy! (But," with a +glad smile, "you soon will.) He never remembers anything half an hour +after he has said it, and besides," scornfully, "he is only a boy." + +"'Only a boy'! Was there ever such willful waste! Such reckless, +extravagant, woful waste! To throw away five priceless, divine blushes +upon 'only a boy'! Oh, that I were a boy! Perhaps, Lilian, when you come +to know me longer I shall be happy enough to have one whole blush all +to myself." + +"Be consoled," says Miss Chesney, saucily: "I feel assured the longer I +know you, the more reason I shall have to blush for you!" + + * * * * * + +All through the day Miss Chesney's joy makes itself felt. She is +thoroughly happy, and takes very good care every one shall know it. She +sings through the house, "up-stairs, down-stairs, and in my lady's +chamber," gay as any lark, and inundates her nurse with vain conjectures +and interrogations; as for example, whether she thinks Taffy will be +much changed,--and whether twelve months could possibly produce a +respectable moustache,--and if she really believes the fact of his being +a full-blown dragoon will have a demoralizing effect upon him. + +"An' no doubt it will, ninny," says nurse, shaking her beribboned head +very solemnly, "I have no opinion of those soldiering ways myself. I +fear me he will be growing wilder an' wilder every day." + +"Oh! if that's all!" says Miss Lilian, with a relieved sigh. "I am only +afraid he will be growing steadier and steadier; and Taffy would be +ruined if he gave himself airs. I can't endure dignified young men." + +"I don't think you need fret about that, my dear," says nurse, with +conviction. "I never yet saw much signs of it about him." + +Having used up all nurse's powers of conversation, Lilian goes on to +Lady Chetwoode's boudoir, and finds out from her the room Taffy will be +likely to occupy. Having inspected it, and brought up half the servants +to change every article of furniture in the room into a different +position, and given as much trouble as possible, and decided in her own +mind the precise flowers she will place upon his dressing-table the +morning of his arrival, she goes back to her auntie to tell her all she +has done. + +In fact, any one so busy as Miss Chesney during all this day can +scarcely be imagined. Her activity is surprising, and draws from Cyril +the remark that she ought to go as hospital nurse to the wounded Turks, +as she seems eminently fitted for an energetic life. + +After luncheon she disappears for a while, so that at last--though not +for long--something like repose falls upon the house, which sinks into +a state of quietude only to be equaled by that of Verne's "Van +Tricasse." + +Miss Beauchamp is in her room, studying art; Cyril is walking with a +heart full of hope toward The Cottage; Lilian is absent; Guy is +up-stairs with his mother, relating to her a new grievance anent +poachers. + +The lad now in trouble is an old offender, and Guy is puzzled what to do +with him. As a rule all scamps have something interesting about them, +and this Heskett is an unacknowledged favorite of Sir Guy's. + +"Still I know I ought to dismiss him," he says, with a rather troubled +air, and an angry, disappointed expression upon his face. + +"He is young, poor lad," says Lady Chetwoode. + +"So he is, and his mother is so respectable. One hardly knows what to +do. But this last is such a flagrant act, and I swore I would pack him +about his business if it occurred again. The fact is, I rather fancy the +boy, and his wild ways, and don't like driving him to destruction. What +shall I do, mother?" + +"Don't do anything, my dear," replies she, easily. + +"I wish I could follow your advice,"--smiling,--"but, unfortunately, if +I let him off again I fear it will be a bad example to the others. I +almost think----" + +But what he thinks on this particular subject is never known. + +There is a step outside the door,--a step well known to one at least of +those within,--the "soft frou-frou and rustle" of a woman's gown,--and +then the door is pushed very gently open, and Lilian enters, with a +curious little bundle in her arms. + +"See what I've got!" she cries, triumphantly, going over to Lady +Chetwoode, and kneeling down beside her. "It's a baby, a real live baby! +look at it, auntie; did you ever see such a beauty?" + +"A baby," says Lady Chetwoode, fearfully, putting up her glasses, and +staring cautiously down upon the rosy little fellow who in Lilian's +encircling arms is making a desperate effort to assert his dignity, by +sitting up and glaring defiantly around him. + +"Yes, indeed; I carried him away when I found him, and have been playing +with him for the last ten minutes in my own room. Then I began to think +that you might like to see him, too." + +"That was very nice of you, my dear," with some hesitation. "It is +certainly a very clean baby, but its dress is coarse. Whose baby is it?" + +"He belongs to the laundress, I think," says Lilian, "but I'm not quite +sure. I was running through the kitchen when I saw him; isn't he a +rogue?" as baby puts up a chubby hand to seize the golden locks so near +him: "look at his eyes, as big as saucers." + +She laughs delightedly, and baby laughs back at her again, and makes +another violent jump at her yellow hair. Sir Guy, gazing intently at the +pretty picture, at Lilian's flushed and lovely face, thinks he has never +before seen her look half so sweet. Gay, merry, fascinating she always +is, but with this new and womanly tenderness within her eyes, her beauty +seems trebled. "See, he wants my hair: is he not a darling?" she says, +turning her face, rose-red with pleasure, up to Sir Guy. + +"The laundress's child,--Lilian, my _dear_!" says Lady Chetwoode, in a +faint tone of expostulation. + +"Well, Jane was holding it in her arms, but it can't be hers, decidedly, +because she hasn't got one." + +"Proof positive," says Guy. + +"Nor can it be cook's, because hers is grown up: so it must be the +laundress's. Besides, she was standing by, and she looked so glad about +it and so pleased when I took it that I am sure she must be his mother. +And of course she is proud of you, you bonny boy: so should I be, with +your lovely face. Oh, look at his little fists! he is doubling them up +just as though he were going to fight the world. And so he shall fight +it, if he likes, a darling! Come; your mammy is pining for you." + +As she speaks she rises, but baby is loath to go yet awhile. He crows so +successfully at Lady Chetwoode that he makes another conquest of her, +and receives several gentle pats and a kiss from her, to Lilian's great +gratification. + +"But he is too heavy for you," says her ladyship, addressing Lilian. +"Guy, ring the bell for one of the servants to take him down." + +"And offend his mother mortally. No indeed, auntie. We should get no +clothes fit to wear next week if we committed such a _betise_. As I +brought him up, so I shall carry him down, though, to do him justice, he +_is_ heavy. No servant shall touch him, the sweet boy,"--this to baby in +a fond aside. + +"I will carry him down for you," says Guy, advancing slowly from the +window where he has been standing. + +"You! Oh, Sir Guy, fancy you condescending to touch a baby. Though I +forgot," with a quick, mischievous look at him from her azure eyes, "I +believe there once was a baby you even professed to be fond of; but that +was long ago. By the bye, what were you looking so stern about just as I +came in? Were you passing sentence of death on any one?" + +"Not quite so bad as that," says Lady Chetwoode. "It is another of those +tiresome poachers. And this Heskett, is certainly a very naughty boy. He +was caught in the act last night, and Guy doesn't know what to do with +him." + +"Let him off, forgive him," says Lilian, lightly, speaking to her +guardian. "You can't think how much pleasanter you will feel if you do." + +"I believe you are right," says Guy, laughing, "and I dare say I should +give him a last chance, but that I have passed my word. Give me that +great heavy child: he looks as though he were weighing you down to the +ground." + +"I think she holds him very prettily," says Lady Chetwoode: "I should +like to have a picture of her just so." + +"Perhaps some day she will gratify you," returns Guy, encouragingly. +"Are you going to give me that _enfant terrible_, Miss Chesney, before +you expire?" + +"I am stronger than you think. And are you quite sure you can hold a +baby? that you won't let it fall? Take care, now, and don't look as +though you thought he would break. That will do. Auntie, don't you think +he would make a capital nurse?" + +"I hope that child will reach its mother alive," says auntie, in a tone +suggestive of doubt, after which Guy, escorted by Lilian, leaves the +room. + +Half-way down the stairs this brilliant procession meets Florence coming +up. + +"What is that?" she asks, stopping short in utter amazement, and staring +blankly at the baby, who is blinking his great eyes in a most +uncompromising fashion and is evidently deriving much refreshment from +his little fat, red thumb. + +"A baby," says Guy, gravely. + +"A real live baby," says Lilian, "a real small duck," giving the +child's plump cheek a soft pinch over Guy's shoulder. "Don't be +frightened, Florence; he don't bite; you may give him a kiss in all +safety." + +"Thanks," says Florence, drawing her skirts closer round her, as though +the very idea has soiled her garments. "I don't care about kissing +promiscuous babies. Really, Guy, if you only knew how ridiculous you +look, you would spare yourself the humiliation of being so seen by your +servants." + +"Blame Lilian for it all," returns Guy. "I know I shall blush myself to +death if I meet any of the women." + +"I think Sir Guy never before looked so interesting," says Miss Chesney, +who is making frantic play all this time with the baby; but its mood has +changed, and now her most energetic efforts are received--not with +smiles--but with stolid indifference and unblinking contempt by the +young gentleman in arms. + +"I cannot say I agree with you," Miss Beauchamp says, with much subdued +scorn, "and I do not think it is kind to place any one in a false +position." + +She lets a little disdainful angry glance fall upon Lilian,--who +unfortunately does not profit by it, as she does not see it,--and sweeps +up the stairs to her aunt's apartments, while Guy (who is not to be +sneered out of his undertaking) stalks on majestically to the kitchen, +followed by Lilian, and never pauses until he places the chubby little +rogue he carries in its mother's arms,--who eventually turns out to be +the laundress. + +"I am not a judge," he says to this young woman, who is curtsying +profusely and is actually consumed with pride, "but Miss Chesney has +declared your son to be the loveliest child in the world, and I always +agree with Miss Chesney,--for reasons of my own." + +"Oh, thank you, Sir Guy; I'm sure I'm much obliged to you, Miss +Chesney," says the laundress, turning the color of a full-blown peony, +through excitement. + +"What is his name?" asks Lilian, giving the boy a last fond poke with +her pretty slender finger. + +"Abiram, miss," replies the mother, which name much displeases Lilian, +who would have liked to hear he was called Alaric, or Lancelot, or any +other poetical appellation suitable for the most beautiful child in the +world. + +"A very charming name," says Guy, gravely; and, having squeezed a +half-sovereign into the little fellow's fat hand, he and Lilian go +through the passages into the open air. + +"Guardy," says Lilian, "what is a 'promiscuous baby'?" + +"I wish I knew," replies he: "I confess it has been puzzling me ever +since. We must ask Florence when we go in." + +Here they both laugh a little, and stroll on for a time in silence. At +length, being prompted thereto by her evil genius, Lilian says: + +"Tell me, who is the Heskett you and auntie were talking about just +now?" + +"A boy who lives down in the hollow beneath Leigh's farm,--a dark boy we +met one day at the end of the lawn; you remember him?" + +"A lad with great black eyes and a handsome face with just a little +_soupcon_ of wickedness about him? of course I do. Oh! I like that boy. +You must forgive him, Sir Guy, or I shall be unhappy forever." + +"Do you know him?" + +"Yes, well. And his mother, too: she is a dear old thing, and but that +she has an undeniable penchant for tobacco, would be perfection. Guardy, +you _must_ forgive him." + +"My dear child, I can't." + +"Not when I ask you?" in a tone of purest astonishment. + +"Not even then. Ask me something else,--in fact, anything,--and I will +grant it, but not this." + +"I want nothing else," coldly. "I have set my heart on freeing this poor +boy and you refuse me: and it is my first request." + +"It is always your first request, is it not?" he says, smiling a rather +troubled smile. "Yesterday----" + +"Oh, don't remind me of what I may have said yesterday," interrupts Miss +Chesney, impatiently: "think of to-day! I ask you to forgive +Heskett--for my sake." + +"You should try to understand all that would entail," speaking the more +sternly in that it makes him positively wretched to say her nay: "if I +were to forgive Heskett this time, I should have every second man on my +estate a poacher." + +"On the contrary, I believe you would make them all your devoted slaves. + + + 'The quality of mercy is not strain'd; + It droppeth, as the gentle dew from heaven, + Upon the place beneath; it is twice bless'd.'" + + +"I have said I would not, and even you can hardly think it right that I +should break my word." + +"No, you would rather break his mother's heart!" By this time the +spoiled Lilian has quite made up her mind to have her own way, and is +ready to try any means to gain it. "Your word!" she says disdainfully: +"if you are going to emulate the Medes and Persians, of course there is +no use of my arguing with you. You ought to be an ancient Roman; even +that detestable Brutus might be considered soft-hearted when compared +with you." + +"Sneering, Lilian, is a habit that should be confined to those old in +sorrow or worldly wisdom: it sits badly on such lips as yours." + +"Then why compel me to indulge in it? Give me my way in this one +instance, and I will be good, and will probably never sneer again." + +"I cannot." + +"Then don't!" naughtily, made exceeding wroth by (what she is pleased to +term) his obstinacy. "I was foolish in thinking I could influence you in +any way. Had Florence asked you, you would have said yes instantly." + +"Florence would never have asked me to do anything so unreasonable." + +"Of course not! Florence never does wrong in your eyes. It is a pity +every one else does not regard her as favorably as you do." + +"I think every one thinks very highly of her," angrily. + +"Do you? It probably pleases you to think so. I, for one, do not." + +"There is a certain class of people whose likes and dislikes cannot +possibly be accounted for," says Guy, somewhat bitterly. "I think you +would find a difficulty in explaining to me your vehement antipathy +toward Miss Beauchamp. You should remember 'unfounded prejudices bear no +weight.'" + +"That sounds like one of Miss Beauchamp's own trite remarks," says +Lilian, with a disagreeable laugh. "Did you learn it from her?" + +To this Chetwoode makes no reply, and Lilian, carried away by resentment +at his open support of Florence, and by his determination not to accede +to her request about young Heskett, says, passionately: + +"Why should you lose your temper about it?" (it is her own temper that +has gone astray). "It is all not worth a quarrel. Any one may plainly +see how hateful I am to you. In a thousand ways you show me how badly +you think of me. You are a petty tyrant. If I could leave your house, +where I feel myself unwelcome,--at least as far as _you_ are +concerned,--I would gladly do so." + +Here she stops, more from want of breath than eloquence. + +"Be silent," says Guy, turning to confront her, and thereby showing a +face as pale as hers is flushed with childish rage and bafflement. "How +dare you speak like that!" Then, changing his tone, he says quietly, +"You are wrong; you altogether mistake. I am no tyrant; I do what is +just according to my own conscience. No man can do more. As to what else +you may have said, it is _impossible_ you can feel yourself unwelcome in +my house. I do not believe you feel it." + +"Thank you," still defiant, though in truth she is a little frightened +by his manner: "that is as much as to say I am telling a lie, but I do +believe it all the same. Every day you thwart and disappoint me in one +way or another, and you know it." + +"I do not, indeed. It distresses me much that you should say so. So +much, that against my better judgment I give in to you in this matter of +Heskett, if only to prove to you how you wrong me when you say I wish to +thwart you. Heskett is pardoned." + +So saying, he turns from her abruptly and half contemptuously, and, +striking across the grass, makes for a path that leads indirectly to the +stables. + +When he has gone some yards it occurs to Miss Chesney that she feels +decidedly small. She has gained her point, it is true, but in a sorry +fashion, and one that leaves her discontented with her success. She +feels that had he done rightly he would have refused to bandy words with +her at all upon the subject, and he would not have pardoned the +reprehensible Heskett; something in his manner, too, which she chooses +to think domineering, renders her angry still, together with a vague, +uneasy consciousness that he has treated her throughout as a child and +given in to her merely because it is a simpler matter to surrender one's +judgment than to argue with foolish youth. + +This last thought is intolerable. A child, indeed! She will teach him +she is no child, and that women may have sense although they have not +reached the admirable age of six-and-twenty. + +Without further thought she runs after him, and, overtaking him just as +he turns the corner, says, very imperiously, with a view to sustaining +her dignity: + +"Sir Guy, wait: I want to speak to you." + +"Well," he says, stopping dead short, and answering her in his iciest +tones. He barely looks at her; his eyes, having once met hers, wander +away again without an instant's lingering, as though they had seen +nothing worthy of attention. This plain ignoring of her charms is bitter +to Miss Chesney. + +"I do not want you to forgive that boy against your will," she says, +haughtily. "Take back your promise." + +"Impossible! You have made me break my word to myself; nothing shall +induce me to break my word to you. Besides, it would be unfair to +Heskett. If I were to dismiss him now I should feel as though I had +wronged him." + +"But I will not have his pardon so." + +"What!"--scornfully,--"after having expended ten minutes in hurling at +me some of the severest eloquence it has ever been my fate to listen to, +all to gain this Heskett's pardon, you would now have it rescinded! Am I +to understand so much?" + +"No; but I hate ungraciousness." + +"So do I,"--meaningly,--"even more than I hate abuse." + +"Did I abuse you?" + +"I leave you to answer that question." + +"I certainly," with some hesitation, "said you were a tyrant." + +"You did," calmly. + +"And that----" + +"Do not let us go over such distasteful ground again," interrupts he, +impatiently: "you said all you could say,--and you gained your object. +Does not even that satisfy you?" + +"I wish I had never interested myself in the matter," she says, angrily, +vexed with herself, and with him, and with everything. + +"Perhaps your wisdom would have lain in that direction," returns he, +coolly. "But as you did interest yourself, and as victory lies with +you, you should be the one to rejoice." + +"Well, I don't," she says impulsively. And then she looks at him in a +half-defiant, half-penitent, wholly charming way, letting her large soft +eyes speak for her, as they rest full upon his face. There is something +in her fresh young beauty almost irresistible. Guy, with an angry sigh, +acknowledges its power, and going nearer to her, takes both her clasped +hands in his. + +"What a bad-tempered little girl you are!" he says, in a jesting tone, +that is still full of the keenest reproach. "Am I as bad as Brutus and +all those terrible Medes and Persians? I confess you made me tremble +when you showered upon me all those awful comparisons." + +"No, no, I was wrong," she says, hastily, twining her small fingers +closely round his; then very softly, "You are always forgiving me, are +you not? But yet--tell me, Guardy--are you not really glad you have +pardoned that poor Heskett? I cannot be pleased about it myself so long +as I think I have only wrung your promise from you against your will. +Say you are glad, if only to make me happy." + +"I would do anything to make you happy,--anything," he says, in a +strange tone, reading anxiously her lovely _riante_ face, that shows no +faintest trace of such tenderness as he would fain see there; then, +altering his voice with an effort, "Yes, I believe I am glad," he says, +with a short laugh: "your intercession has removed a hateful duty from +my shoulders." + +"Where is the boy? Is he locked up, or confined anywhere?" + +"Nowhere. I never incarcerate my victims," with a slight trace of +bitterness still in his manner. "He is free as air, in all human +probability poaching at this present moment." + +"But if he knows there is punishment in store for him, why doesn't he +make his escape?" + +"You must ask him that, because I cannot answer the question. Perhaps he +does not consider me altogether such a fiend as you do, and may think it +likely I will show mercy at the last moment." + +"Or perhaps," says Lilian, "he has made his escape long ago." + +"I don't think so. Indeed, I am almost sure, if you look straight along +that field"--pointing in a certain direction--"you will see the young +gentleman in question calmly smoking the pipe of peace upon a distant +wall." + +"It is he," says Lilian, in a low tone, after a careful examination of +the youthful smoker. "How little he seems to fear his fate!" + +"Yes, just fancy how lightly he views the thought of falling into the +clutches of a monster!" remarks Chetwoode, with a mocking smile. + +"I think you are a little hard on me," says Lilian, reproachfully. + +"Am I?" carelessly preparing to leave her. "If you see that promising +_protege_ of yours, Lilian, you can tell him from me that he is quite at +liberty to carry on his nightly games as soon as he pleases. You have no +idea what a solace that news will be to him; only, if you have any +regard for him, advise him not to be caught again." + +So saying, he leaves her and continues his interrupted march to the +stables. + +When Miss Chesney has spent a moment or two inveighing silently against +the hardness and uncharitableness of men in general and Sir Guy +Chetwoode in particular, she accepts the situation, and presently starts +boldly for the hollow in which lies the modest homestead of the +venerable Mrs. Heskett. + +The unconscious cause of the battle royal that has just taken place has +evidently finished his pipe and lounged away through the woods, as he is +nowhere to be seen. And Miss Chesney makes up her mind, with a view to +killing the time that must elapse before dinner, to go straight to his +mother's cottage, and, by proclaiming Sir Guy's leniency, restore peace +to the bosom of that ancient dame. + +And as she walks she muses on all that has passed between herself and +her guardian during the last half-hour. After all, what did she say that +was so very bad? + +She had certainly compared him to Brutus, but what of that? Brutus in +his day was evidently a shining light among his people, and, according +to the immortal Pinnock, an ornament to his sex. Suppose he did condemn +his only son to death, what did that signify in a land where the deed +was looked upon as meritorious? Weak-minded people of the present day +might call him an old brute for so doing, but there are two sides to +every question, and no doubt the young man was a regular nuisance at +home, and much better out of the way. + +Then again she had likened him to the Medes and Persians; and why not? +Who should say the Medes and Persians were not thoroughly respectable +gentlemen, polished and refined? and though in this case again there +might be some who would prefer the manners of a decent English gentleman +to those of the present Shah, that is no reason why the latter should be +regarded so ignominiously. + +She has reached this highly satisfactory point in her argument when a +body dropping from a tree near her, almost at her feet, startles her +rudely from her meditations. + +"Dear me!" says Lilian, with much emphasis, and then knows she is face +to face with Heskett. + +He is a tall lad, brown-skinned as an Italian, with eyes and hair of +gypsy dye. As he stands before Lilian now, in spite of his daring +nature, he appears thoroughly abashed, and with his eyes lowered, twirls +uneasily between his hands the rather greasy article that usually adorns +his brow. + +"I beg your pardon, miss," he says, slowly, "but might I say a word to +you?" + +"I am sorry to hear such bad accounts of you, Heskett," says Miss +Chesney, in return, with all the airs of a dean and chapter. + +"Sir Guy has been telling you, miss?" says the lad, eagerly; "and it is +about my trouble I wanted to see you. They say you have great weight +with the baronet, miss, and once or twice you spoke kindly to me, and I +thought maybe you would say a word for me." + +"You are mistaken: I have no influence," says Lilian, coloring faintly. +"And besides, Heskett, there would be little use in speaking for you, as +you are not to be trusted." + +"I am, Miss Chesney, I am indeed, if Sir Guy would only try me again. I +don't know what tempted me last night, but I got my lesson then, and +never again, I swear, Miss----" + +Here a glance at Lilian's face checks further protestations. She is not +looking at him; her gaze is concentrated upon the left pocket of his +coat, though, indeed, there is little worthy of admiration in the cut of +that garment. Following the direction of her eyes, Heskett's fall +slowly, until at length they fasten upon the object that has so +attracted her. + +Sticking up in that luckless left pocket, so as plainly to be seen, is +a limp and rather draggled brown wing, the undeniable wing of a young +grouse. + +"Heskett," says Lilian, severely, "what have you been doing?" + +"Nothing, miss," desperately. + +"Heskett," still more severely, and with just a touch of scorn in her +tone, "speak the truth: what have you got in your pocket?" + +"It's just a grouse, then," says the boy, defiantly, producing the bonny +brown bird in question. + +"And a fat one," supplements Lilian. "Oh, Heskett, when you know the +consequences of poaching, how can you do it?" + +"'Tis because I do know it,"--recklessly: "it's all up with me this time +because the baronet swore he'd punish me next time I was caught, and he +never breaks his word. So I thought, miss, I'd have a last fling, +whatever came of it." + +"But it isn't 'all up' with you," says Lilian. "I have spoken to Sir +Guy, and he has promised to give you one more chance. But I cannot speak +again, Heskett, and if you still persist in your evil ways I shall have +spoken in vain." + +"You spoke for me?" exclaims he, incredulously. + +"Yes. But I fear I have done no good." + +The boy's eyes seek the ground. + +"I didn't think the likes of you would care to say a kind word for such +as me,--and without the asking," he says, huskily. "Look here, Miss +Chesney, if it will please you, I swear I will never again snare a +bird." + +"Oh, Heskett, will you promise really?" returns Lilian, charmed at her +success, "and can I trust you? You know you gave your word before to Sir +Guy." + +"But not to you, miss. Yes, I will be honest to please you. And indeed, +Miss Chesney, when I left home this morning I never meant to kill a +thing. I started with a short oak stick in my hand, quite innocent like, +and up by the bit of heather yonder this young one ran across my path; I +didn't seek it, and may bad luck go with the oak stick, for, before I +knew what I meant, it flew from me, and a second later the bird lay dead +as mutton. Not a stir in it. I was always a fine shot, miss, with a +stick or a stone," says the accomplished Heskett, regarding his grouse +with much pride. "Will you have it, miss?" he says then, holding it out +to her. + +"No, thank you," loftily: "I am not a receiver of stolen goods; and it +is stolen, remember that." + +"I suppose so, miss. Well, as I said before, I will be honest now to +please you, you have been so good to me." + +"You should try to please some One higher," says Lilian, with a +solemnity that in her is sweeter than it is comical. + +"Nay, then, miss,--to please you first, if I may." + +"Tell me," says Lilian, shifting ground as she finds it untenable, "why +do you never come to church?" + +"It's so mighty dull, miss." + +"You shouldn't find it so. Come and say your prayers, and afterward you +may find it easier to be good. You should not call church dull," with a +little reproving shake of the head. + +"Do _you_ never find it stupid, Miss Chesney?" asks Heskett, with all +diffidence. + +Lilian pauses. This is a home-thrust, and her innate honesty prevents +the reply that trembles on her lips. She _does_ find it very stupid now +and then. + +"Sometimes," she says, with hesitation, "when Mr. Austen is preaching I +cannot think it quite as interesting as it might be: still----" + +"Oh, as for him," says Heskett, with a grin, "he ought to be shot, miss, +begging your pardon, that's what he ought. I never see him I don't wish +he was a rabbit snug in one o' my snares as was never known to fail. +Wouldn't I wring his neck when I caught him! maybe not! comin' around +with his canting talk, as though he was the archbishop hisself." + +"How dare you speak of your clergyman in such a way?" says Lilian, +shocked; "you are a bad, bad boy, and I am very angry with you." + +"Don't then, Miss Chesney," piteously; "I ask your pardon humbly, and +I'll never again speak of Mr. Austen if you don't like. But he do +aggravate awful, miss, and frightens the life out o' mother, because she +do smoke a bit of an evenin', and it's all the comfort she have, poor +soul. There's the Methody parson below, even he's a better sort, though +he do snivel horrid. But I'll do anything to please you, miss, an' I'll +come to church next Sunday." + +"Well, mind you do," says Lilian, dismissing him with a gracious nod. + +So Heskett departs, much exercised in mind, and in the lowest spirits, +being full of vague doubts, yet with a keen consciousness that by his +promise to Miss Chesney he has forfeited his dearest joy, and that from +him the glory of life has departed. No more poaching, no more snaring, +no more midnight excursions fraught with delicious danger: how is he to +get on in future, with nothing to murder but time? + +Meanwhile Miss Chesney, coming home flushed with victory, encounters +Florence in the garden wandering gracefully among the flowers, armed as +usual with the huge umbrella, the guardian of her dear complexion. + +"You have been for a walk?" she asks Lilian, with astonishing +_bonhommie_. "I hope it was a pleasant one." + +"Very, thank you." + +"Then you were not alone. Solitary walks are never pleasant." + +"Nevertheless, mine was solitary." + +"Then, Guy did not go with you?" somewhat hastily. + +"No. He found he had something to do in the stables," Lilian answers, +shortly. + +Miss Beauchamp laughs a low, soft, irritative laugh. + +"How stupid Guy is!" she says. "I wonder it never occurs to him to +invent a new excuse: whenever he wants to avoid doing anything +unpleasant to him, he has always some pressing business connected with +the stables to take him away. Have you noticed it?" + +"I cannot say I have. But then I have not made a point of studying his +eccentricities. Now you have told me this one, I dare say I shall remark +it in future. You see," with a slight smile, "I hold myself in such good +esteem that it never occurred to me others might find my company +disagreeable." + +"Nor do they, I am sure,"--politely,--"but Guy is so peculiar, at times +positively odd." + +"You amaze me more and more every moment. I have always considered him +quite a rational being,--not in the least madder than the rest of us. I +do hope the new moon will have no effect upon him." + +"Ah! you jest," languidly. "But Guy does hold strange opinions, +especially about women. No one, I think, quite understands him but me. +We have always been so--fond of each other, he and I." + +"Yes? Quite like brother and sister, I suppose? It is only natural." + +"Oh, _no_" emphatically, her voice taking a soft intonation full of +sentimental meaning, "not in the very _least_ like brother and sister." + +"Like what then?" asks Lilian, somewhat sharply for her. + +"How downright you are!" with a little forced laugh, and a modest +drooping of her white lids; "I mean, I think a brother and sister are +hardly so necessary to each other's happiness as--as we are to each +other, and have been for years. To me, Chetwoode would not be Chetwoode +without Guy, and I fancy--I am sure--it would scarcely be home to Guy +without me." This with a quiet conviction not to be shaken. "Perhaps you +can see what I mean? though, indeed," with a smile, "I hardly know +myself what it is I _do_ mean." + +"Ah!" says Lilian, a world of meaning in her tone. + +"The only fault I find with him," goes on Florence, in the low, prettily +modulated tone she always adopts, "is, that he is rather a flirt. I +believe he cannot help it; it is second nature to him now. He adores +pretty women, and at times his manner to them is rather--er--caressing. +I tell him it is dangerous. Not perhaps that it makes much difference +nowadays, does it? when women have learned to value attentions exactly +at what they are worth. For my own part, I have little sympathy with +those foolish Ariadnes who spend their lives bemoaning the loss of their +false lovers. Don't you agree with me?" + +"Entirely. Utterly," says Lilian, in a curious tone that might be +translated any way. "But I cannot help thinking Fortune very hard on the +poor Ariadnes. Is that the dressing-bell? How late it has grown! I am +afraid we must go in if we wish to be in time for dinner." + +Miss Beauchamp being possessed with the same fear, they enter the house +together, apparently in perfect amity with each other, and part in peace +at their chamber doors. Lilian even bestows a little smile upon her +companion as she closes hers, but it quickly changes into an +unmistakable little frown as the lock is turned. A shade falls across +her face, an impatient pucker settles comfortably upon her forehead, as +though it means to spend some time there. + +"What a hateful girl that is!" Lilian says to herself, flinging her hat +with a good deal of vehemence on to the bed (where it makes one +desperate effort to range itself and then rolls over to the floor at the +other side), and turning two lovely wrathful eyes toward the door, as +though the object of her anger were still in sight. "Downright +detestable! and quite an old maid; not a doubt of it. Women close on +thirty are always so spiteful!" + +Here she picks up the unoffending hat, and almost unconsciously +straightens a damaged bow while her thought still runs on passionately. + +So Sir Guy "adores pretty women." By the bye, it was a marvelous +concession on Miss Beauchamp's part to acknowledge her as such, for +without doubt all that kindly warning was meant for her. + +Going up to her glass, Lilian runs her fingers through the rippling +masses of her fair hair, and pinches her soft cheeks cruelly until the +red blood rushes upward to defend them, after which, she tells herself, +even Florence could scarcely have said otherwise. + +And does Miss Beauchamp think _herself_ a "pretty woman?" and does Sir +Guy "adore _her_?" She said he was a flirt. But is he? Cyril is +decidedly given that way, and some faults run in families. Now she +remembers certain lingering glances, tender tones, and soft innuendoes +meant for her alone, that might be placed to the account of her +guardian. She smiles somewhat contemptuously as she recalls them. Were +all these but parts of his "caressing" manner? Pah! what a sickening +word it is. + +She blushes hotly, until for a full minute she resembles the heart of a +red, red rose. And for that minute she positively hates her guardian. +Does he imagine that she--_she_--is such a baby as to be flattered by +the attentions of any man, especially by one who is the lover of another +woman? for has not Florence both in words and manner almost claimed him +as her own? Oh, it is too abominable! And---- + +But never mind, wait, and when she has the opportunity, won't she show +him, that's all? + +What she is to show him, or how, does not transpire. But this awful +threat, this carefully disguised and therefore sinister menace, is +evidently one of weight, because it adds yet a deeper crimson to Miss +Chesney's cheeks, and brings to life a fire within her eyes, that gleams +and sparkles there unrebuked. + +Then it quietly dies, and nurse entering finds her little mistress again +calm, but unusually taciturn, and strangely forgetful of her teasing +powers. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + "Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his tongue + His breath's like caller air; + His very fit has music in't, + As he comes up the stair. + + And will I see his face again? + And will I hear him speak? + I'm downright dizzy with the thought, + In troth I'm like to greet."--W. J. MICKLE. + + +It is the most important day of all the three hundred and sixty-five, at +least to Lilian, because it will bring her Taffy. Just before dinner he +will arrive, not sooner, and it is now only half-past four. + +All at Chetwoode are met in the library. The perfume of tea is on the +air; the click of Lady Chetwoode's needles keeps time to the +conversation that is buzzing all round. + +Miss Beauchamp, serene and immovable as ever, is presiding over the +silver and china, while Lilian, wild with spirits, and half mad with +excitement and expectation, is chattering with Cyril upon a distant +sofa. + +Sir Guy, upon the hearthrug, is expressing his contempt for the views +entertained by a certain periodical on the subject of a famous military +scandal, in real parliamentary language, and Florence is meekly agreeing +with him straight through. Never was any one (seemingly) so thoroughly +_en rapport_ with another as Florence with Sir Guy. Her amiable and +rather palpable determination to second his ideas on all matters, her +"nods and becks and wreathed smiles," when in his company, would, if +recited, fill a volume in themselves. But I don't deny it would be a +very stupid volume, from the same to the same: so I suppress it. + +"Sir Guy," says Lilian, suddenly, "don't look so stern and don't stand +with one hand in your breast, and one foot advanced, as though you were +going to address the House." + +"Well, but he is going to address the House," says Cyril, reprovingly: +"we are all here, aren't we?" + +"It is perfectly preposterous," says Guy, who is heated with his +argument, and scarcely hears what is going on around him, so great is +his righteous indignation. "If being of high birth is a reason why one +must be dragged into notoriety, one would almost wish one was born +a----" + +"Sir Guy," interrupts Lilian again, throwing at him a paper pellet she +has been preparing for the last two minutes, with sure and certain aim, +"didn't you hear me desire you not to look like that?" + +Sir Guy laughs, and subsides into a chair. Miss Beauchamp shrugs her +shapely shoulders and indulges in a smile suggestive of pity. + +"I begin to feel outrageously jealous of this unknown Taffy," says +Cyril. "I never knew you in such good spirits before. Do you always +laugh when you are happy?" + +"'Much laughter covers many tears,'" returns Lilian, gayly. "Yes, I am +very happy,--so happy that I think a little would make me cry." + +"Oh, don't," says Cyril, entreatingly; "if you begin I'm safe to follow +suit, and weeping violently always makes me ill." + +"I can readily believe it," says Miss Chesney. "Your expression is +unmistakably doleful, O knight of the rueful countenance!" + +"And his manner is so dejected," remarks his mother, smiling. "Have you +not noticed how silent he always is? One might easily imagine him the +victim of an unhappy love tale." + +"If you say much more," says Mr. Chetwoode, "like Keats, I shall 'die of +a review.' I feel much offended. It has been the dream of my life up to +this that society in general regarded me as a gay and brilliant +personage, one fitted to shine in any sphere, concentrating (as I hoped +I did) rank, beauty, and fashion in my own body." + +"_Did_ you hope all that?" asks Lilian, with soft impertinence. + +"'A modest hope, but modesty's my forte,'" returns he, mildly. "No, Miss +Chesney, I won't be told I am conceited. This is a case in which we +'all do it;' every one in this life thinks himself better than he is." + +"I am glad you so scrupulously exonerate the women," says Lilian, +maliciously. + +At this moment a step is heard in the hall outside. Lilian starts, and +rises impulsively to her feet; her face lights; a delicate pink flush +dawns upon it slowly, and then deepens into a rich carnation. +Instinctively her eyes turn to Lady Chetwoode, and the breath comes a +little quicker from her parted lips. + +"But," she murmurs, raising one hand, and speaking in the low tone one +adopts when intently listening,--"but that I know he can't be here for +another hour, I should say that was--Taffy!" + +The door has opened. A tall, very young man, with a bright boyish face, +fair brown hair, and a daring attempt at a moustache, stands upon the +threshold. Lilian, with a little soft glad cry, runs to him and throws +herself into his arms. + +"Oh, dear, dear boy, you have come!" she says, whereupon the tall young +man laughs delightedly, and bestows upon her an honest and most palpable +hug. + +"Hug," quotha! and what is a "hug"? asks the fastidious reader: and yet, +dear ignorance, I think there is no word in all the English language, or +in any other language, that so efficiently describes the enthusiasm of a +warm embrace as the small one of three letters. + +Be it vulgar or not, however, I cannot help it: the fact remains. Taffy +openly and boldly hugged Miss Chesney before her guardian's eyes, and +Miss Chesney does not resent it; on the contrary, she kisses him with +considerable _empressement_, and then turns to Lady Chetwoode, who is an +admiring spectator of the scene. Cyril is visibly amused; Sir Guy a +trifle envious; Miss Beauchamp thinks the new-comer far too grown for +the reception of such a public demonstration of affection on the part of +a well-conducted young woman, but is rather glad than otherwise that +Lilian has so far committed herself before her guardian. + +"It is Taffy," says Lilian, with much pride. "I knew it was. Do you +know," turning her sweet, flushed, excited face to her cousin, "the +moment I heard your step outside, I said, 'That is Taffy,' and it +_was_," with a charming laugh. + +Meanwhile Mr. Musgrave is being kindly received by Lady Chetwoode and +her sons. + +"It was so awfully good of you to ask me here!" he is saying, +gratefully, and with all a boy's delightful frankness of tone and +manner. "If you hadn't, I shouldn't have known what to do, because I +hate going to my guardian's, one puts in such a bad time there, the old +man is so grumpy. When I got your invitation I said to myself, 'Well, I +_am_ in luck!'" + +Here he is introduced to Miss Beauchamp, and presses the hand she +extends to him with much friendliness, being in radiant spirits with +himself and the world generally. + +"Why, Taffy, you aren't a bit altered, though I do think you have grown +half an inch or so," says Lilian, critically, "and I am so glad of it. +When I heard you had really joined and become an undeniable 'heavy,' I +began to fear you would change, and grow grand, and perhaps think +yourself a man, and put on a great deal of 'side;' isn't that the word, +Sir Guy?" saucily, peeping at him from behind Taffy's back. "You mustn't +correct me, because I heard you use that word this morning; and I am +sure you would not give way to a naughty expression." + +"We are all very glad to have you, Mr. Musgrave," says Lady Chetwoode, +graciously, who has taken an instantaneous fancy to him. "I hope your +visit will be a happy one." + +"Thank you, I know it will; but my name is Taffy," says young Musgrave. +"I hope you will call me by it. I hardly know myself by any other name +now." He says this with a laugh so exactly like Lilian's that they all +notice it, and comment upon it afterward. Indeed, both in feature and +manner he strongly resembles his cousin. Lady Chetwoode smiles, and +promises to forget the more formal address for the future. + +"I have so many things to show you," exclaims Lilian, fondly. "The +stables here are even better than at the Park, and I have a brown mare +all my own, and I am sure I could beat you at tennis now, and there are +six lovely new fat little puppies; will you come and see them? but +perhaps"--doubtfully--"of course you are tired." + +"He must be tired, I think, and hungry too," says Guy, coming up to him +and laying his hand upon his shoulder, "If you can spare him for a +moment or two, Lilian, I will show Taffy his room." Here Guy smiles at +his new guest, and when Guy smiles he is charming. Mr. Musgrave likes +him on the spot. + +"I will go with you," says Lilian promptly, who is never troubled with +the pangs of etiquette, and who cannot as yet bear to lose sight of her +boy. "Such a pretty room as it is! It is near mine, and has an exquisite +view from it,--the lake, and the swans, and part of the garden. Oh, +Taffy, I am so _glad_ you are come!" + +They are half-way up the stairs by this time, and Lilian, putting her +hand through her cousin's arm, beams upon him so sweetly that Guy, who +is the looker-on, feels he would give a small fortune for permission to +kiss her without further delay. Taffy does kiss her on the instant +without having to waste any fortune or ask any permission; and +Chetwoode, seeing how graciously the caress is received and returned, +feels a strange trouble at his heart. How fond she is of this boy! +Surely he is more to her than any cousin ever yet was to another. + +At the head of the stairs another interruption occurs. Advancing toward +them, arrayed in her roomiest, most amazing cap, and clad in her Sunday +gown, appears Mrs. Tipping, shining with joy and expectation. Seeing +Taffy, she opens wide her capacious arms, into which Mr. Musgrave +precipitates himself and is for the moment lost. + +When he comes to light again, he embraces her warmly, and placing his +hands upon her shoulders, regards her smilingly. + +"Bless the boy, how he has grown, to be sure!" says nurse, with tears in +her eyes; taking out her spectacles with much deliberation, she +carefully adjusts them on her substantial nose, and again subjects him +to a loving examination. + +"Yes; hasn't he, nurse? I said so," remarks Lilian, in raptures, while +Sir Guy stands behind, much edified. + +"So have you, nurse," says Master Taffy,--"_young_. I protest it is a +shame the way you go on deceiving the public. Every year only sees you +fresher and lovelier. Why, you are ten years younger than when last I +saw you. It's uncommonly mean of you not to give us a hint as to how you +manage it." + +"Tut," says nurse, giving him a scornful poke with her first finger, +though she is tremendously flattered; "be off with you; you are worse +than ever. Eh, but I always knew how it would be if you took to +soldiering. All the millingtary has soft tongues, and the gift o' the +gab." + +"How do you know, nurse?" demands Mr. Musgrave: "I always understood the +fortunate Tipping was a retired mason. I am afraid at some period of +your life you must have lost your heart to a bold dragoon. Never mind: +my soldiering shan't bring me to grief, if only for your sake." + +"Eh, darling, I hope not," says nurse, surveying with fond admiration +his handsome boyish face: "such bonnie looks as yours should aye sit +upon a high head." + +"I decline to listen to any more flattery. It is downright +demoralizing," says Mr. Musgrave, virtuously, and presently finds +himself in his pretty room, that is sweet with the blossoms of Lilian's +gathering. + + * * * * * + +Mr. Musgrave on acquaintance proves as great a success as his cousin: +indeed, to like one is to like the other, as no twins could be more +similar. He takes very kindly to the house and all its inmates, and is, +after one day's association, as much at home with them as though they +had been his chosen intimates all his life. + +His disposition is certainly sweeter than Lilian's,--bad temper of any +sort being quite unknown to him; whereas Miss Chesney possesses a will +of her own, and a very quick temper indeed. He is bright, sunny, lovable +in disposition, and almost "without guile." So irresistible is he that +even Miss Beauchamp smiles upon him, and is singularly gracious to him, +considering he is not only a youngster but--far worse--a detrimental. + +He has one very principal charm. Unlike all the youthful soldiers it has +been my misfortune to meet, he does not spend his days wearying his +friends with a vivid description of his rooms, his daily duties when on +parade, his colonel, and his brother officers. For this grace alone his +familiars should love him and be grateful to him. + +Nevertheless, he is so far human that, the evening after his arrival, he +whispers to Lilian how he has brought his uniform with him, for her +inspection only. Whereupon Lilian, delighted, desires him to go up that +instant and put it on, that she may pass judgment upon him without +delay. No, she will not wait another second; she cannot know peace or +happiness until she beholds him in all his grandeur. + +After a faint demur, and the suggestion that as it is late he could +scarcely get it on and have time afterward to dress for dinner, he gives +in, and, binding her to secrecy, runs up-stairs, having named a certain +time for her to follow him. + +Half an hour later, Miss Beauchamp, sweeping slowly along the corridor +up-stairs, hears the sound of merriment coming from young Musgrave's +room, and stops short. + +Is that Lilian's voice? surely it is; and in her cousin's room! The door +is almost closed,--not quite; and, overcome by curiosity, she lays her +hand against it, and, pushing it gently open, glances in. + +Before the dressing-table, clothed in military garments of the most +_recherche_ description, is Taffy, while opposite to him, full of open +admiration, stands Miss Chesney. Taffy is struggling with some part of +his dress that declines to fall into a right position, and Lilian is +flouting him merrily for the evident inexperience he betrays. + +Florence, astonished--nay, electrified--by this scene, stands +motionless. A young woman in a young man's bedroom! Oh, shocking! To her +carefully educated mind, the whole thing borders on the improper, while +to have it occur in such a well-regulated household as Chetwoode fills +her with genuine horror. + +So struck is she by the criminality of it all that she might have stayed +there until now, but that a well-known step coming up the stairs warns +her that eavesdropping is not the most honorable position to be caught +in. She moves away, and presently finds herself face to face with Guy. +He is coming lazily along the corridor, but stops as he sees her. + +"What is it, Florence? You look frightened," he says, half jestingly. + +"No, not frightened," Florence answers, coldly, "though I confess I am a +good deal amazed,"--her tone says "disgusted," and Guy knows the tone. +"Really, that girl seems absolutely ignorant of the common decencies of +society!" + +"Of whom are you speaking?" asks Guy, coloring. + +"Of whom can I say such things but Lilian? She is the only one of my +acquaintance deserving of such a remark, and it is not my fault that we +are acquainted. I think it is clearly Aunt Anne's duty to speak to her, +or yours. There are moments when one positively blushes for her." + +"Why, what has she been doing?" asks Guy, overcome with astonishment at +this outburst on the part of the usually calm Florence. + +"Doing! Do you not hear her in her cousin's room? Is that the proper +place for a young lady?" + +At this instant a sound of laughter coming from Mr. Musgrave's apartment +gives truth to her accusations, and with a slight but expressive shrug +of her white shoulders, Florence sails majestically down the stairs, +while Sir Guy instinctively moves on toward Taffy's quarters. + +Miss Beauchamp's touch has left the door quite open, so that, standing +on the threshold, he can see clearly all that is within. + +By this time Taffy is quite arrayed, having finally resorted to his +cousin's help. + +"There!" says Lilian, triumphantly, "now you are ready. Oh! I say, +Taffy, how nice you do look!" + +"No; do I?" returns Mr. Musgrave, with admirable modesty, regarding +himself bashfully though complacently in a full-length mirror. His tall +young figure is well drawn up, his head erect; unconsciously he has +assumed all the full-blown, starchy airs of a military swell. "Does the +coat fit well, do you think?" he asks, turning to await her answer with +doubtful anxiety. + +"It is simply perfection," returns she reassuringly, "not a wrinkle in +it. Certainly you owe your tailor something for turning you out so +well." + +"I do," says Taffy, feelingly. + +"I had no idea it would make such a difference in you," goes on Lilian; +"you look quite grown up." + +"Grown up,--nonsense," somewhat indignantly; "I should think I was +indeed. Just twenty, and six feet one. There are very few fellows in the +service as good a height as I am. 'Grown up,' indeed!" + +"I beg your pardon," Lilian says, meekly. "Remember I am only a little +rustic, hardly aware of what a man really means. Talking of fitting, +however, do you know," thoughtfully, and turning her head to one side, +the better to mark the effect, "I think--I fancy--there is just a little +pucker in your trousers, just at the knee." + +"No; is there?" says Taffy, immediately sinking into the deepest +melancholy as he again refers to the glass. + +Here Sir Guy comes forward and creates a diversion. He is immensely +amused, but still sore and angry at Florence's remarks, while wishing +Lilian would not place herself in such positions as to lay her open to +unkind criticism. + +"Oh, here is Sir Guy," says that young lady, quite unembarrassed; "he +will decide. Sir Guy, do you think his trousers fit very well? Look +here, now, is there not the faintest pucker here?" + +"I think they fit uncommonly well," says Guy, gravely. Taffy has turned +a warm crimson and is silent; but his confusion arises not from Miss +Chesney's presence in his room, but because Chetwoode has discovered him +trying on his new clothes like a school-boy. + +"Lilian wanted so much to see me in my uniform," he says, meanly, +considering how anxious he himself has been to show himself to her in +it. + +"Yes, and doesn't he look well in it?" asks Lilian, proudly; "I had no +idea he could look so handsome. Most men appear perfect fools in +uniform, but it suits Taffy. Don't you think so?" + +"I do; and I think something else, too; your auntie is coming up-stairs, +and if she catches you in Taffy's room she will give you a small lecture +on the proprieties." + +This is the mildest rebuke he can think of. Not that he thinks her at +all worthy of rebuke, but because he is afraid of Florence's tongue for +her sake. + +"Why?" asks Lilian, opening large eyes of utter amazement, after which +the truth dawns upon her, and as it dawns amuses her intensely. "Do you +mean to say," blushing slightly, but evidently struck with the +comicality of the thought,--"what would auntie say, then, if she knew +Taffy had been in mine? Yes; he was,--this afternoon,--just before +lunch," nodding defiantly at Sir Guy, "actually in mine; and he stole my +eau de Cologne, which I thought mean of him. When I found it was all +gone, I was very near running across to your room to replenish my +bottle. Was it not well I didn't? Had I done so I should of course have +earned two lectures, one from auntie and one from--you!" provokingly. +"Why, Guardy, how stupid you are! Taffy is just the same as my brother." + +"But he is not your brother," says Guy, beginning to feel bewildered. + +"Yes, he is, and better than most brothers: aren't you, Taffy?" + +"Are you angry with Lil for being in my room?" asks Mr. Musgrave, +surprised; "she thinks nothing of it: and why should she? Bless you, +all last year, when we were at home--at the Park--she used to come in +and settle my ties when we were going out anywhere to dinner, or that." + +"Sir Guy never had a sister, so of course he doesn't understand," says +Lilian, disdainfully, whereupon Guy gives up the point. "I wish you +would come down and show yourself to auntie. Do now, Taffy,"--coaxingly: +"you can't think how well you look. Come, if only to please me." + +"Oh, I couldn't," says Taffy. "I really couldn't, you know. She would +think me such an awful fool, and Miss Beauchamp would laugh at me, and +altogether it wouldn't be form. I only meant to show myself to you, +but----" + +"Guy, my dear," says Lady Chetwoode from the doorway, "why, what is +going on here?" advancing and smiling gently. + +"Oh, auntie, I am so glad you have come!" says Lilian, going forward to +welcome her: "he would not go down-stairs to you, though I did my best +to persuade him. Is he not charming in uniform?" + +"He is, indeed. Quite charming! He reminds me very much of what Guy was +when first he joined his regiment." Not for a moment does Lady +Chetwoode--dear soul--think of improprieties, or wrong-doing, or the +"decencies of society." And, watching her, Guy grows gradually ashamed +of himself. "It was really selfish of you, my dear Taffy, to deny me a +glimpse of you." + +"Well, I didn't think you'd care, you know," says Mr. Musgrave, who is +positively consumed with pride, and who is blushing like a demoiselle. + +"I couldn't resist coming in when I saw you from the doorway. All my +people were in the army: so I have quite an affection for it. But +Lilian, darling, dinner is almost ready, and you have not yet changed +your dress." + +"I shan't be a minute," says Lilian; and Guy, lighting a candle, escorts +her to her own room, while Lady Chetwoode goes down-stairs. + +"Shall I get you the eau de Cologne now?" he asks, pausing on her +threshold for a moment. + +"If," says Miss Chesney, lowering her eyes with affected shyness, "you +are _quite_ sure there would be nothing reprehensible in my accepting +it, I should like it very much, thank you. By the bye, that reminds me," +glancing at him with a mocking smile, "Lady Chetwoode quite forgot to +deliver that small lecture. You, Sir Guy, as my guardian, should have +reminded her." + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + + "Sweets to the sweet."--_Hamlet._ + + +"I am going to London in the morning. Can I do anything for anybody?" +asks Sir Guy, at exactly twenty minutes past ten on Wednesday night. +"Madre, what of you?" + +"Nothing, dear, thank you," says the Madre, lazily enough, her eyes +comfortably closed. "But to-morrow, my dear boy! why to-morrow? You know +we expect Archibald." + +"I shall be home long before he arrives, if I don't meet him and bring +him with me." + +"Some people make a point of being from home when their guests are +expected," says Miss Lilian, pointedly, raising demure eyes to his. + +"Some other people make a point of being ungenerous," retorts he. +"Florence, can I bring you anything?" + +"I want some wools matched: I cannot finish the parrot's tail in my +crewel-work until I get them, and you will be some hours earlier than +the post." + +"What! you expect me to enter a fancy shop--is that what you call +it?--and sort wools, while the young woman behind the counter makes love +to me? I should die of shame." + +"Nonsense! you need only hand in the envelope I will prepare for you, +and wait until you receive an answer to it." + +"Very good. I dare say I shall survive so much. And you, my ward? How +can I serve you?" + +"In a thousand ways, but modesty forbids my mentioning them. _Au reste_, +I want bonbons, a new book or two, and--the portrait of the handsomest +young man in London." + +"I thoroughly understand, and am immensely flattered. I shall have +myself taken the moment I get there. Would you prefer me sitting or +standing, with my hat on or off? A small size or a cabinet?" + +Miss Chesney makes a little grimace eminently becoming, but disdains +direct reply. "I said a _young_ man," she remarks, severely. + +"I heard you. Am not I in the flower of my youth and beauty?" + +"Lilian evidently does not think so," says Florence, with a would-be air +of intense surprise. + +"Why should I, when it suits me to think differently?" returns Lilian, +calmly. Florence rather amuses her than otherwise. "Sir Guy and I are +quite good friends at present. He has been civil to me for two whole +days together, and has not once told me I have a horrid temper, or held +me up to scorn in any way. Such conduct deserves reward. Therefore I +liken him to an elderly gentleman, because I adore old men. You see, +Guardy?" with an indescribably fascinating air, that has a suspicion of +sauciness only calculated to heighten its charm. + +"I should think he is old in reality to you," says Florence: "you are +such a child." + +"I am," says Lilian, agreeably, though secretly annoyed at the other's +slighting tone. "I like it. There is nothing so good as youth. I should +like to be eighteen always. But for my babyish ways and utter +hopelessness, I feel positive Sir Guy would have beaten me long ago. But +who could chastise an infant?" + +"In long robes," puts in Cyril, who is deep in the intricacies of chess +with Mr. Musgrave. + +"Besides, I am 'Esther Summerson,' and he is 'Mr. Jarndyce,' and +Esther's 'Guardy' very rightly was in perfect subjection to his ward." + +"Esther's guardian, if I remember correctly, fell in love with her; and +she let him see"--dreamily but spitefully--"that she preferred another." + +"Ah, Sir Guy, think of that. See what lies before you," says Lilian, +coloring warmly, but braving it out to the end. + +"I am sure you are going to ask me what I should like, Guy," breaks in +Cyril, languidly, who is not so engrossed by his game but that he can +heed Lilian's embarrassment. "Those cigars of yours are excellent. I +shall feel obliged by your bringing me (as a free gift, mind) half a +dozen boxes. If you do, it will be a saving, as for the future I shall +leave yours in peace." + +"Thank you: I shall make a note of it," says Guy, laughing. + +"Do you go early, Sir Guy?" asks Lilian, presently. She is leaning back +in a huge lounging-chair of blue satin that almost conceals from view +her tiny figure. In her hands is an ebony fan, and as she asks the +question she closes and uncloses it indolently. + +"Very early. I must start at seven to catch the train, if I wish to get +my business done and be back by five." + +"What an unearthly hour for a poor old gentleman like you to rise! You +won't recover it in a hurry. You will breakfast before you go?" + +"Yes." + +"What a lunch you will eat when you get to town! But don't overdo it, +Guardy. You will be starving, no doubt; but remember the horrors of +gout. And who will give you your breakfast at seven?" + +She raises her large soft eyes to his and, unfurling her fan, lays it +thoughtfully against her pretty lips. Sir Guy is about to make an eager +reply, when Miss Beauchamp interposes. + +"I always give Guy his breakfast when he goes to London," she says, +calmly yet hastily. + +"Check!" says Cyril, at this instant, with his eyes on the board. "My +dear Musgrave, what a false move!--a fatal delay. Don't you know bold +play generally wins?" + +"Sometimes it loses," retorts Taffy, innocently; which reply, to his +surprise, appears to cause Mr. Chetwoode infinite amusement. + +"Whenever you do go," says Lilian to Sir Guy, "don't forget my +sweetmeats: I shall be dreaming of them until I see you again. Have you +a pocket-book? Yes. Well, put down in it what I most particularly love. +I like chocolate creams and burnt almonds better than anything in the +world." + +Cyril, with dreamy sentiment, "How I wish I was a burnt almond!" + +Miss Chesney, viciously, "If you were, what a bite I would give you!" + +Taffy, to Sir Guy, "Lilian's tastes and mine are one. If you are really +going to bring lollypops, please make the supply large. When I think of +burnt almonds I feel no end hungry." + +Lilian, vigorously, "You shan't have any of mine, Taffy. Don't imagine +it! Yesterday you ate every one Cyril brought me from Fenston. I crossed +the room for one instant, and when I came back the box was literally +cleared. Wasn't it a shame? I shan't go into partnership with you over +Sir Guy's confections." + +Taffy, _sotto voce_, "Greedy little thing!" Then suddenly addressing Sir +Guy, "I think I saw your old colonel--Trant--about the neighborhood +to-day." + +Cyril draws himself up with a start and looks hard at the lad, who is +utterly unconscious of the private bombshell he has discharged. + +"Trant!" says Guy, surprised; "impossible. Unless, indeed," with a light +laugh, "he came to look after his _protegee_, the widow." + +"Mrs. Arlington? I saw her yesterday," says Taffy, with animation. "She +was in her garden, and she is lovely. I never saw anything so perfect as +her smile." + +"I hope you are not _epris_ with her. We warn everybody against our +tenant," Guy says, smiling, though there is evident meaning in his tone. +"We took her to oblige Trant,--who begged we would not be inquisitive +about her; and literally we are in ignorance of who she is, or where she +came from. Widows, like cousins, are dangerous," with a slight glance at +his brother, who is leaning back in his chair, a knight between his +fingers, taking an exhaustive though nonchalant survey of the painted +ceiling, where all the little loves and graces are playing at a very +pronounced game of hide-and-seek among the roses. + +"I hope," says Florence, slowly, looking up from the _rara avis_ whose +tail she is elaborately embroidering,--the original of which was never +yet (most assuredly) seen by land or sea,--"I hope Colonel Trant, in +this instance, has not played you false. I cannot say I admire Mrs. +Arlington's appearance. Though no doubt she is pretty,--in a certain +style," concludes Miss Beauchamp, who is an adept at uttering the faint +praise that damns. + +"Trant is a gentleman," returns Guy, somewhat coldly. Yet as he says it +a doubt enters his mind. + +"He has the name of being rather fast in town," says young Musgrave, +vaguely; "there is some story about his being madly in love with some +mysterious woman whom nobody knows. I don't remember exactly how it +is,--but they say she is hidden away somewhere." + +"How delightfully definite Taffy always is!" Lilian says, admiringly; +"it is so easy to grasp his meaning. Got any more stories, Taffy? I +quite begin to fancy this Colonel Trant. Is he as captivating as he is +wicked?" + +"Not quite. I am almost sure I saw him to-day in the lane that runs down +between the wood and Brown's farm. But I may be mistaken; I was +certainly one or two fields off, yet I have a sure eye, and I have seen +him often in London." + +"Perhaps Mrs. Arlington is the mysterious lady of his affections," says +Guy, laughing, and, the moment the words have passed his lips, regrets +their utterance. Cyril's eyes descend rapidly from the ceiling and meet +his. On the instant a suspicion unnamed and unacknowledged fills both +their hearts. + +"Do you really think Trant came down to see your tenant?" asks Cyril, +almost defiantly. + +"Certainly not," returning the other's somewhat fiery glance calmly. "I +do not believe he would be in the neighborhood without coming to see my +mother." + +At the last word, so dear to her, Lady Chetwoode wakes gently, opens her +still beautiful eyes, and smiles benignly on all around, as though +defying them to say she has slumbered for half a second. + +"Yes, my dear Guy, I quite agree with you," she says, affably, _apropos_ +of nothing unless it be a dream, and then, being fully roused, suggests +going to bed. Whereupon Florence says, with gentle thoughtfulness, +"Indeed yes. If Guy is to be up early in the morning he ought to go to +bed now," and, rising as her aunt rises, makes a general move. + +When the women have disappeared and resigned themselves to the tender +mercies of their maids, and the men have sought that best beloved of all +apartments, the Tabagie, a sudden resolution to say something that lies +heavy on his mind takes possession of Guy. Of all things on earth he +hates most a "scene," but some power within him compels him to speak +just now. The intense love he bears his only brother, his fear lest harm +should befall him, urges him on, sorely against his will, to give some +faint utterance to all that is puzzling and distressing him. + +Taffy, seduced by the sweetness of the night, has stepped out into the +garden, where he is enjoying his weed alone. Within, the lamp is almost +quenched by the great pale rays of the moon that rush through the open +window. Without, the whole world is steeped in one white, glorious +splendor. + +The stars on high are twinkling, burning, like distant lamps. Anon, one +darts madly across the dark blue amphitheatre overhead, and is lost in +space, while the others laugh on, unheeding its swift destruction. The +flowers are sleeping, emitting in their dreams faint, delicate perfumed +sighs; the cattle have ceased to low in the far fields: there is no +sound through all the busy land save the sweet soughing of the wind and +the light tread of Musgrave's footsteps up and down outside. + +"Cyril," says Guy, removing the meerschaum from between his lips, and +regarding its elaborate silver bands with some nervousness, "I wish you +would not go to The Cottage so often as you do." + +"No? And why not, _tres cher_?" asks Cyril, calmly, knowing well what is +coming. + +"For one thing, we do not know who this Mrs. Arlington is, or anything +of her. That in itself is a drawback. I am sorry I ever agreed to +Trant's proposal, but it is too late for regret in that quarter. Do not +double my regret by making me feel I have done you harm." + +"You shall never feel that. How you do torture yourself over shadows, +Guy! I always think it must be the greatest bore on earth to be +conscientious,--that is, over-scrupulous, like you. It is a mistake, +dear boy, take my word for it,--will wear you out before your time." + +"I am thinking of you, Cyril. Forgive me if I seem impertinent. Mrs. +Arlington is lovely, graceful, everything of the most desirable in +appearance, but----" A pause. + +"_Apres?_" murmurs Cyril, lazily. + +"But," earnestly, "I should not like you to lose your heart to her, as +you force me to say it. Musgrave says he saw Trant in the lane to-day. +Of course he may have been mistaken; but was he? I have my own doubts, +Cyril," rising in some agitation,--"doubts that may be unjust, but I +cannot conquer them. If you allow yourself to love that woman, she will +bring you misfortune. Why is she so secret about her former life? Why +does she shun society? Cyril, be warned in time; she may be a----, she +may be anything," checking himself slowly. + +"She may," says Cyril, rising with a passionate irrepressible movement +to his feet, under pretense of lighting the cigar that has died out +between his fingers. Then, with a sudden change of tone and a soft +laugh, "The skies may fall, of course, but we scarcely anticipate it. My +good Guy, what a visionary you are! Do be rational, if you can. As for +Mrs. Arlington, why should she create dissension between you and me?" + +"Why, indeed?" returns Guy, gravely. "I have to ask your pardon for my +interference. But you know I only speak when I feel compelled, and +always for your good." + +"You are about the best fellow going, I know that," replies Cyril, +deliberately, knocking the ash off his cigar; "but at times you are wont +to lose your head,--to wander,--like the best of us. I am safe enough, +trust me. 'What's Hecuba to me, or I to Hecuba?' Come, don't let us +spoil this glorious night by a dissertation on what we neither of us +know anything about. What a starlight!" standing at the open casement, +and regarding with quick admiration the glistening dome above him. "I +wonder how any one looking on it can disbelieve in a heaven beyond!" + +Here Musgrave's fair head makes a blot in the perfect calm of the night +scene. + +"Is that you, Taffy? Where have you been all this time?--mooning?--you +have had ample opportunity. But you are too young for Melancholy to mark +you as her own. It is only old folk like Guy," with a laughing though +affectionate glance backward to where his brother stands, somewhat +perplexed, beside the lamp, "should fall victims to the blues." + +"A fig for melancholy!" says Taffy, vaulting lightly into the room, and +by his presence putting an end to all private conversation between the +brothers. + + * * * * * + +The next morning Lilian (to whom early rising is a pure delight), +running down the broad stone stairs two steps at a time, finds Guy on +the eve of starting, with Florence beside him, looking positively +handsome in the most thrilling of morning gowns. She has forsaken her +virtuous couch, and slighted the balmy slumber she so much loves, to +give him his breakfast, and is still unremitting in her attentions, and +untiring with regard to her smiles. + +"Not gone!" says Lilian, wickedly: "how disappointed I am, to be sure! I +fancied my bonbons an hour nearer to me than they really are. Bad +Guardy, why don't you hurry?" She says this with the prettiest +affectation of infantile grace, accompanied by a coquettish glance from +under her sweeping lashes that creates in Florence a mad desire to box +her ears. + +"You forget it will not hasten the train five seconds, Guy's leaving +this sooner than he does," she says, snubbingly. "To picture him sitting +in a draughty station could not--I should think--give satisfaction to +any one." + +"It could"--willfully--"to me. It would show a proper anxiety to obey my +behests. Guardy," with touching concern, "are you sure you are warm +enough? Now do promise me one thing,--that you will beware of the +crossings; they say any number of old men come to grief in that way +yearly, and are run over through deafness, or short sight, or stupidity +in general. Think how horrid it would be if they sent us home your +mangled remains." + +"Go in, you naughty child, and learn to speak to your elders with +respect," says Guy, laughing, and putting her bodily inside the +hall-door, from whence she trips out again to wave him a last adieu, and +kiss her hand warmly to him as he disappears round the corner of the +laurustinus bush. + +And Sir Guy drives away full of his ward's fresh girlish loveliness, her +slender lissome figure, her laughing face, the thousand tantalizing +graces that go to make her what she is; forgetful of Miss Beauchamp's +more matured charms,--her white gown,--her honeyed words,--everything. + +All day long Lilian's image follows him. It is beside him in the crowded +street, enters his club with him, haunts him in his business, laughs at +him in his most serious moods; while she, at home, scarce thinks of him +at all, or at the most vaguely, though when at five he does return she +is the first to greet him. + +"He has come home! he is here!" she cries, dancing into the hall. "Have +you escaped the crossings? and rheumatism? and your old enemy, lumbago? +Good old Guardy, let me help you off with your coat. So. Positively, he +is all here,--not a bit of him gone,--and none the worse for wear!" + +"Tired, Guy?" asks Florence, coming gracefully forward,--slowly, lest +by unseemly haste she should disturb the perfect fold of her train, that +sets off her figure to such advantage. She speaks warmly, +appropriatingly, as one's wife might, after a long journey. + +"Tired! not he," returns Lilian irreverently: "he is quite a gay old +gentleman. Nor hungry either. No doubt he has lunched profusely in town, +'not wisely, but too well,' as somebody says. Where are my sweeties, Sir +Ancient?" + +"My dear Lilian,"--rebukingly,--"if you reflect, you will see he must be +both tired and hungry." + +"So am I for my creams: I quite pine for them. Sir Guy, where _are_ my +sweeties?" + +"Here, little cormorant," says Guy, as fondly as he dares, handing her a +gigantic _bonbonniere_ in which chocolates and French sweetmeats fight +for mastery: "have I got you what you wanted?" + +"Yes, indeed; _best_ of Guardys, I only wish I might kiss my thanks." + +"You may." + +"Better not. Such a condescension on my part might turn your old head. +Oh, Taffy," with an exclamation, "you bad greedy boy; you have taken +half my almonds! Well, you shan't have any of the others, for +punishment. Auntie and Florence and I will eat the rest." + +"Thanks," drawls Florence, languidly, "but I am always so terrified +about toothache." + +"What a pity!" says Miss Chesney. "If I had toothache, I should have all +my teeth drawn instantly, and false ones put in their place." + +To this Miss Beauchamp, being undecided in her own mind as to whether it +is or is not an impertinence, deigns no reply. Cyril, with a gravity +that belies his innermost feelings, gazes hard at Lilian, only to +acknowledge her innocent of desire to offend. + +"You did not meet Archibald?" asks Lady Chetwoode of Guy. + +"No: I suppose he will be down by next train. Chesney is always up to +time." + +"Lilian, my dear, where is my fourth knitting-needle?" asks auntie, +mildly. "I lent it to you this morning for some purpose." + +"It is up-stairs; you shall have it in one moment," returns Lilian, +moving toward the door; and Sir Guy, muttering something about getting +rid of the dust of travel, follows her out of the room. + +At the foot of the stairs he says: + +"Lilian." + +"Yes?" + +"I have brought you yet another bonbon. Will you accept it?" + +As he speaks he holds out to her an open case, in which lies a pretty +ring composed of pearls and diamonds. + +"For me? Oh, Sir Guy!" says Lilian, flushing with pleasure, "what a +lovely present to bring me!" Then her expression changes, and her face +falls somewhat. She has lived long enough to know that young men do not, +as a rule, go about giving costly rings to young women without a motive. +Perhaps she ought to refuse it. Perhaps auntie would think it wrong of +her to take it. And if there is really anything between him and +Florence---- Yet what a pretty ring it is, and how the diamonds glitter! +And what woman can resign diamonds without a struggle? + +"Will auntie be vexed if I take it?" she asks, honestly, after a pause, +raising her clear eyes to his, thereby betraying the fear that is +tormenting her. + +"Why should she? Surely," with a smile, "an elderly guardian may make a +present to his youthful ward without being brought to task for it." + +"And Florence?" asks Lilian, speaking impulsively, but half jestingly. + +"Does it signify what she thinks?" returns he, a little stiffly. "It is +a mere bauble, and scarcely worth so much thought. You remember that day +down by the stream, when you said you were so fond of rings?" + +"No." + +"Well, I do, as I remember most things you say, be they kind or cruel," +softly. "To-day, though I cannot explain why, this ring reminded me of +you, so I bought it, thinking you might fancy it." + +"So I do: it is quite too lovely," says Lilian, feeling as though she +had been ungracious, and, what is worse, prudish. "Thank you very much. +I shall wear it this evening with my new dress, and it will help me to +make an impression on my unknown cousin." + +She holds out her hand to him; it is the right one, and Guy slips the +ring upon the third finger of it, while she, forgetting it is the +engaged finger, makes no objection. + +Sir Guy, still holding the little cool slim hand, looks at her fixedly, +and, looking, decides regretfully that she is quite ignorant of his +meaning. + +"How it sparkles!" she says, moving her hand gently to and fro so that +the light falls upon it from different directions. "Thank you again, +Guardy; you are always better to me than I deserve." She says this +warmly, being desirous of removing all traces of her late hesitation, +and quite oblivious of her former scruples. But the moment she leaves +him she remembers them again, and, coming down-stairs with Lady +Chetwoode's needle, and finding her alone, says, with a heightened +color, "See what a charming present Sir Guy has brought me." + +"Very pretty indeed," Lady Chetwoode says, examining the ring with +interest. "Dear Guy has such taste, and he is always so thoughtful, ever +thinking how to please some one. I am glad it has been you this time, +pussy," kissing the girl's smiling lips as she bends over her. So that +Miss Chesney, reassured by her auntie's kind words, goes up to dress for +the reception of her cousin Archibald, with a clear and therefore happy +conscience. Not for all the diamonds in Christendom would she have +concealed even so small a secret as the acceptance of this ring from one +whom she professes to love, and who she knows trusts in her. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + + "_Kate._ I never saw a better fashioned gown, + More quaint, more pleasing, nor more commendable." + --_Taming of the Shrew._ + + +This dressing of Lilian for the undoing of her cousin is a wonderful +affair, and occupies a considerable time. Not that she spends any of it +in a dainty hesitation over the choice of the gown fated to work his +overthrow; all that has been decided on long ago, and the fruit of many +days' deep thought now lies upon her bed, bearing in its every fold--in +each soft fall of lace--all the distinguishing marks that stamp the work +of the inimitable Worth. + +At length--nurse having admired and praised her to her heart's content, +and given the last fond finishing touches to her toilet--Miss Chesney +stands arrayed for conquest. She is dressed in a marvelous robe of black +velvet--cut _a la Princesse_, simply fashioned, fitting _a +merveille_,--being yet in mourning for her father. It is a little open +at the throat, so that her neck--soft and fair as a child's--may be +partly seen (looking all the whiter for the blackness that frames it +in), and has the sleeves very tight and ending at the elbow, from which +rich folds of Mechlin lace hang downward. Around her throat are a narrow +band of black velvet and three little strings of pearls that once had +been her mother's. In her amber hair a single white rose nestles +sleepily. + +Standing erect before her glass, she contemplates herself in +silence,--marks the snowy loveliness of her neck and arms, her slender +hands (on one of which Guy's ring is sparkling brilliantly), her +rippling yellow hair in all its unstudied sleekness, the tender, +exquisite face, rose-flushed, and, looking gladly upon it all,--for very +love of it,--stoops forward and presses a kiss upon the delicate beauty +that smiles back upon her from the mirror. + +"How do I look, nurse?" she asks, turning with a whimsical grace to the +woman who is regarding her with loving admiration. "Shall we captivate +our cousin?" + +"Ay, so I think, my dear," replies nurse, quietly. "Were you willing, my +beauty, I'm nigh sure you could coax the birds off the bushes." + +"You are an old dear," says Miss Chesney, tenderly, pressing her own +cheek, soft with youth's down, against the wrinkled one near her. "But I +must go and show myself to Taffy." + +So saying, she opens the door, and trips away from Mrs. Tipping's +adoring eyes, down the corridor, until she stops at Taffy's door. + +"Taffy!" + +"Yes." The answer comes in muffled tones. + +"May I come in?" + +"Yes," still more muffled. + +Turning the handle of the door, Lilian enters, to find Mr. Musgrave in +his shirt-sleeves before a long mirror, struggling with his hair, which +is combed straight over his forehead. + +"It won't come right," he says, casting a heart-rending glance at +Lilian, who laughs with most reprehensible cruelty, considering the +situation. + +"I am glad to find you are not suffocated," she says. "From your tone, I +prepared myself--outside--for the worst. Here, bend your head, you +helpless boy, and I will do it for you." + +Taffy kneeling before her submissively, she performs her task deftly, +successfully, and thereby restores peace once more to the bosom of the +dejected dragoon. + +"You should hire me as your valet," she says, lightly; "when you are +away from me, I am afraid to think of all the sufferings you must +undergo. Are you easier in your mind now, Taffy?" + +"Oh, I say! what a swell you are!" says that young man, when he is +sufficiently recovered to glance round. "I call that rig-out downright +fetching. Where did you get that from?" + +"Straight from Monsieur Worth," returns Lilian, with pardonable pride, +when one remembers what a success she is, drawing up her slim young +figure to its fullest height, and letting her white hands fall clasped +before her, as she poses for well-earned admiration. "Is not it pretty? +And doesn't it fit like a glove?" + +"It does. It gives you really a tolerably good figure," with all a +brother's calm impertinence, while examining her critically. "You have +got yourself up regardless, so I suppose you mean mischief." + +"Well, if this doesn't soften his heart, nothing will," replies Miss +Chesney, vainly regarding her velvet, and alluding, as Musgrave well +knows, to her cousin Archibald. "You really think I look nice, Taffy? +You think I am _chic_?" + +"I do, indeed. I am not a judge of women's clothing, but I like black +velvet, and when I have a wife she shall wear nothing else. I would say +more in your favor, but that I fear over-much praise might have a bad +effect upon you, and cause you to die of your 'own dear loveliness.'" + +"_Mechant!_" says Lilian, with a charming pout. "Never mind, I know you +admire me intensely." + +"Have I not said so in the plainest Queen's English? But that time has +fatally revealed to me the real character of the person standing in +those costly garments, I feel I should fall madly in love with you +to-night." + +"Silly child!"--turning up her small nose with immeasurable +disdain,--"do you think I would deign to accept your boyish homage? No; +I like _men_! Indeed!"--with disgraceful affectation,--"I think it my +duty to warn you not to waste time burning your foolish fingers at _my_ +shrine." + +She moves him aside with one small finger, the better to see how +charming she is in another glass. This one reveals to her all the +sweetness she has seen before--and something more. Scarcely has she +glanced into it, when her complexion, that a moment since was a soft and +lovely pink, changes suddenly, and flames into a deep crimson. There, at +the farthest end of the long room reflected in the glass,--staring back +at her,--coatless, motionless, with a brush suspended from each hand, +stands a man, lost in wonder and most flattering astonishment. + +Miss Chesney, turning round with a start, finds that this vision is not +belonging to the other world, but is a real _bona fide_ creature of +flesh and blood,--a young man, tall, broad-shouldered, and very dark. + +For a full minute they stare silently at each other, oppressed with +thoughts widely different in character, while Taffy remains blissfully +ignorant of the situation, being now engaged in a desperate conflict +with a refractory tie. Then one of the brushes falls from the stranger's +hand, and the spell is broken. Miss Chesney, turning impetuously, +proceeds to pour out the vials of her wrath upon Taffy. + +"I think you might have told me," she says, in clear, angry tones, +casting upon him a glance meant to wither. But Mr. Musgrave distinctly +refuses to be withered. + +"Eh? What? _By Jove!_" he says, vaguely, as the awful truth dawns upon +him. Meanwhile Lilian sweeps majestically to the door, her velvets +trailing behind her. All her merry kittenish ways have disappeared; she +walks as a young queen might who has been grossly affronted in open +court. + +"Give you my honor I quite forgot him," murmurs Taffy, from the spot +where he is rooted through sheer dismay. His tones are dismal in the +extreme, but Miss Chesney disdains to hear or argue, and, going out, +closes the door with much determination behind her. The stranger, +suppressing a smile, stoops to pick up the fallen brush, and the scene +is at an end. + +Down the stairs, full of vehement indignation, goes Lilian, thoughts +crowding upon her thick and heavy. Could anything be more unfortunate? +Just when she had got herself up in the most effective style,--just when +she had hoped, with the aid of this velvet gown, to make a pleasing and +dignified _entree_ into his presence in the drawing-room below,--she has +been led into making his acquaintance in Taffy's bedroom! Oh! horror! +She has been face to face with him in his shirt-sleeves, with his odious +brushes in his hands, and a stare of undeniable surprise upon his +hateful face! Oh! it is insupportable! + +And what was it she said to Taffy? What did she do? Hastily her mind +travels backward to the conversation that has just taken place. + +First, _she combed Taffy's hair_. Oh! miserable girl! She closes two +azure eyes with two slender fingers from the light of day, as this +thought occurs to her. Then, she smirked at her own graceful image in +Taffy's glass, and made all sorts of conceited remarks about her +personal appearance, and then she said she hoped to subjugate "_him_." +What "him" could there be but this one? and of course he knows it. Oh! +unhappy young woman! + +As for Taffy, bad, bad boy that he is, never to give her a hint. +Vengeance surely is in store for him. What right had he to forget? If +there is one thing she detests, it is a person devoid of tact. If there +is one thing she could adore, it would be the power to shake the +wretched Taffy out of his shoes. + +What is there left to her but to gain her room, plead bad headache, and +spend the remainder of the evening in retirement? In this mood she gains +the drawing-room door, and, hesitating before it, thinks better of the +solitary-confinement idea; and, entering the room, seats herself in a +cozy chair and prepares to meet her fate with admirable calmness. + +Dinner is ready,--waiting,--and still no Archibald. Then there is a step +in the hall, the door is thrown open, and he enters, as much hurried as +it is possible for a well-bred young man to be in this nineteenth +century. + +Lady Chetwoode instantly says, with old-fashioned grace, the sweeter +that it is somewhat obsolete,---- + +"Lilian, permit me to introduce to you your cousin, Archibald Chesney." + +Whereupon Lilian bows coldly and refuses to meet her cousin's eyes, +while kind Lady Chetwoode thinks it is a little stiff of the child, and +most unlike her, not to shake hands with her own kin. + +An awkward pause is almost inevitable, when Taffy says out loud, to no +one in particular, but with much gusto: + +"How odd it is they should never have seen each other until now!" after +which he goes into silent agonies of merriment over his own wit, until +brought to his senses by an annihilating glance from Lilian. + +The dinner-hour is remarkable for nothing except Lilian's silence. This, +being so utterly unexpected, is worthy of note. After dinner, when the +men gain the drawing-room, Archibald, coming over, deliberately pushes +aside Miss Chesney's velvet skirts, and seats himself on the low ottoman +beside her with modest determination. + +Miss Chesney, raising her eyes, regards him curiously. + +He is tall, and eminently gloomy in appearance. His hair is of a rare +blackness, his eyes are dark, so is his skin. His eyebrows are slightly +arched, which gives him an air of melancholy protest against the world +in general. His nose is of the high and mighty order that comes under +the denomination of aquiline, or hooked, as may suit you best. Before +his arrival Cyril used to tell Lilian that if Nature had meant him for +anything it was to act as brigand in a private theatre; and Lilian, now +calling to mind this remark, acknowledges the truth of it, and almost +laughs in the face of her dark-browed cousin. Nevertheless she refrains +from outward mirth, which is wisdom on her part, as ridicule is his +_bete noir_. + +Despite the extreme darkness of his complexion he is unmistakably +handsome, though somewhat discontented in expression. Why, no one knows. +He is rich, courted, as are all young men with a respectable rent-roll, +and might have made many a titled _debutante_ Mrs. Chesney had he so +chosen. He has not even a romantic love-affair to fall back upon as an +excuse for his dejection; no unfortunate attachment has arisen to sour +his existence. Indeed, it is seldom the owner of landed property has to +complain on this score, all such luxuries being reserved for the poor of +the earth. + +Archibald Chesney's gloom, which is becoming if anything, does not sink +deeper than his skin. It gives a certain gentleness to his face, and +prevents the ignorant from guessing that he is one of the wildest, +maddest young men about London. Lilian, regarding him with quiet +scrutiny, decides that he is good to look at, and that his eyes are +peculiarly large and dark. + +"Are you angry with me for what happened up-stairs?" he asks, gently, +after a pause spent in as earnest an examination of her as any she has +bestowed upon him. + +"Up-stairs?" says Lilian, with raised brows of inquiry and carefully +studied ignorance. + +"I mean my unfortunate _rencontre_ with you in Musgrave's room." + +"Oh, dear, no," with clear denial. "I seldom grow angry over _trifles_. +I have not thought of it since." She utters her fib bravely, the truth +being that all during dinner she has been consumed with shame. + +"Have you not? _I_ have. I have been utterly miserable ever since you +bestowed that terrible look upon me when your eyes first met mine. Won't +you let me explain my presence there? I think if you do you will forgive +me." + +"It was not your fault: there is nothing about which you need +apologize," says Lilian; but her tone is more cordial, and there is the +faintest dimpling of a smile around her mobile lips. + +"Nevertheless I hate myself in that I caused you a moment's uneasiness," +says Mr. Chesney, that being the amiable word he employs for her +ill-temper. "I shall be discontented until I tell you the truth: so pray +let me." + +"Then tell it," says Lilian. + +"I have a man, a perfect treasure, who can do all that man can possibly +do, who is in fact faultless,--but for one small weakness." + +"And that is?" + +"Like Mr. Stiggins, his vanity is--brandy hot. Now and then he drinks +more of it than is good for him, though to do him justice not very +often. Once in six months, regular as clockwork, he gets hopelessly +drunk, and just now the time being up, he, of course, chose this +particular day to make his half-yearly exhibition of himself, and having +imbibed brandy _ad lib._, forgot to bring himself and my traps to +Chetwoode in time for the first dressing-bell." + +"What a satisfactory sort of servant!" + +"He is, very, when he is sober,--absolutely invaluable. And then his +little mistakes occur so seldom. But I wish he had not chosen this +night of all others in which to play me false. I don't know what I +should have done had I not thrown myself upon Musgrave's mercy and +borrowed his brushes and combs and implements of war generally. As it +was, I had almost given up hope of being able to reach the drawing-room +at all to-night, when just at the last moment my 'treasure' arrived with +my things and--any amount of concealed spirits. Do I bore you with my +explanation? It is very good of you to listen so patiently, but I should +have been too unhappy had I been prevented from telling you all this." + +"I think, after all, it is I should explain my presence in that room," +says Lilian, with a gay, irresistible laugh that causes Guy, who is at +the other end of the room, to lift his head and regard her anxiously. + +He is sitting near Florence, on a sofa (or rather, to speak more +correctly, she is sitting near him), and is looking bored and _gene_. +Her laugh pains him unaccountably; glancing next at her companion he +marks the still admiration in the dark face as it gazes into her fair +one. Already--_already_--he is surely _empresse_. + +"But the fact is," Lilian is saying, "I have always been in the habit of +visiting Taffy's room before he has quite finished his dressing, to see +if there be any little final touch required that I might give him. Did +you meet him in London?" + +"No; never saw him until a couple of hours ago. Very nice little fellow, +I should say. Cousin of yours?" + +"Yes: isn't he a pet?" says Lilian, eagerly, always glad to hear praise +of her youthful plunger. "There are very few like him. He is my nearest +relative, and you can't think how I love that boy." + +"That boy is, I should say, older than you are." + +"Ye--es," doubtfully, "so he says: about a year, I think. Not that it +matters," says Miss Chesney, airily, "as in reality I am any number of +years older than he is. He is nothing but a big child, so I have to look +after him." + +"You have, I supposed, constituted yourself his mother?" asks Archibald, +intensely amused at her pretty assumption of maternity. + +"Yes," with a grave nod, "or his elder sister, just as I feel it my duty +at the moment to pet or scold him." + +"Happy Taffy!" + +"Not that he gives me much trouble. He is a very good boy generally." + +"He is a very handsome boy, at all events. You have reason to be proud +of your child. I am your cousin also." + +"Yes?" + +"Yes." + +A pause, after which Mr. Chesney says, meekly: + +"I suppose you would not take me as a second son?" + +"I think not," says Lilian, laughing; "you are much too important a +person and far too old to be either petted or scolded." + +"That is very hard lines, isn't it? You might say anything you liked to +me, and I am almost positive I should not resent it. And if you will be +kind enough to turn your eyes on me once more, I think you will +acknowledge I am not so very old." + +"Too old for me to take in hand. I doubt you would be an unruly +member,--a _mauvais sujet_,--a disgrace to my teaching. I should lose +caste. At dinner I saw you frown, and frowns,"--with a coquettishly +plaintive sigh--"frighten me!" + +"Do you imagine me brutal enough to frown upon my mother?--and such a +mother?" + +"Nevertheless, I cannot undertake your reformation. You should remember +you are scarcely in my good books. Are you not a usurper in my eyes? +Have you not stolen from me my beloved Park?" + +"Ah! true. But you can have it back again, you know," returns he, in a +low tone, half jest, though there is a faint under-current--that is +almost earnestness--running through it. + +At this moment Lady Chetwoode saves Lilian the embarrassment of a reply. + +"Sing us something, darling," she says. + +And Lilian, rising, trails her soft skirts after her across the room, +and, sitting down at the piano, commences "Barbara Allen," sweetly, +gravely, tenderly, as is her wont. + +Guy's gaze is following her. The pure though _piquante_ face, the golden +hair, the rich old-fashioned texture of the gown, all combine to make a +lovely picture lovelier. The words of the song make his heart throb, and +bring to life a certain memory of earlier days, when on the top of a +high wall he first heard her singing it. + +Pathetically, softly, she sings it, without affectation or pretense of +any kind, and, having finished, still lets her fingers wander idly over +the notes (drawing from them delicate minor harmonies that sadden the +listener), whilst the others applaud. + +Guy alone being silent, she glances at him presently with a smile full +of kindliness, that claims and obtains an answering smile in return. + +"Have I ever seen that gown on you before?" he asks, after a pause. + +"No. This dress is without doubt an eminent success, as everybody +admires it. No; you never saw it before. Do you like it?" + +"More than I can say. Lilian, you have formed your opinion of your +cousin, and--you like him?" + +"Very much, indeed. He is handsome, _debonnaire_, all that may be +desired, and--he quite likes Taffy." + +"A passport to your favor," says Chetwoode, smiling. "Though no one +could help liking the boy." Then his eyes seeking her hands once more, +fasten upon the right one, and he sees the ring he had placed upon the +third finger a few hours before now glistens bravely upon the second. + +The discovery causes him a pang so keen that involuntarily he draws +himself up to his full height, and condemns himself as a superstitious +fool. As if she divines his thought,--though in reality she knows +nothing of it,--Lilian says, gazing admiringly at the glittering trinket +in question: + +"I think your ring grows prettier and prettier every time I look at it. +But it would not stay on the finger you chose; while I was dressing it +fell off; so, fearing to lose it, I slipped it upon this one. It looks +as well, does it not?" + +"Yes," said Chetwoode, though all the time he is wishing with all his +heart it had not fallen from the engagement finger. When we love we grow +fearful; and with fear there is torment. + +"Why don't you ask Florence to sing?" asks Lilian, suddenly. + +Archibald Chesney has risen and lounged over to the piano, and now is +close beside her. To Guy's jealous ears it seems as though the remark +was made to rid her of his presence. + +"Because I detest French songs," he answers, somewhat sharply,--Miss +Beauchamp being addicted to such foreign music. + +"Do you?" says Lilian, laughing at his tone, which she fully +understands, and straightway sings one (the gayest, brightest, most +nonsensical to be found in her _repertoire_) in her sweet fresh voice, +glancing at him with a comical challenge in her eyes every time the +foolish yet tender refrain occurs. + +When she has finished she says to him, saucily: + +"Well, Sir Guy?" + +And he answers: + +"I am vanquished, utterly convinced. I confess I now like French songs +as well as any others." + +"I like them ten times better," says Archibald, impulsively, "when they +are sung by you. There is a _verve_, a gayety about them that other +songs lack. Have you any more? Do you know any of Gounod's? I like them, +though they are of a different style." + +"They are rather beyond me," says Lilian, laughing. "But hear this: it +is one of Beranger's, very simply set, but I think pretty." + +This time she sings to _him_,--unmistakably,--a soft little Norman +love-song, full of grace and tenderest entreaty, bestowing upon him all +the beguiling smiles she had a moment since given exclusively to her +guardian, until at length Sir Guy, muttering "coquette" to his own +heart, turns aside, leaving Chesney master of the field. + +Lilian, turning from her animated discussion with Archibald, follows his +departing footsteps with her eyes, in which lies a faintly malicious +smile; an expression full of suppressed enjoyment curves her lips; she +is evidently satisfied at his abrupt retreat, and continues her +interrupted conversation with her cousin in still more joyous tones. +Perhaps this is how she means to fulfill her mysterious threat of +"showing" Sir Guy. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + + "I will gather thee, he cried, + Rosebud brightly blowing! + Then I'll sting thee, it replied, + And you'll quickly start aside + With the prickle glowing. + Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red, + Rosebud brightly blowing!" + --GOETHE--_translated_. + + +"Nurse, wash my hair," says Lilian, entering her nurse's sanctum, which +is next her own, one lovely morning early in September when + + + "Dew is on the lea, + And tender buds are fretting to be free." + + +The fickle sun is flinging its broad beams far and near, now glittering +upon the ivied towers, and now dancing round the chimney-tops, now +necking with gold the mullioned window. Its brightness is as a smile +from the departing summer, the sweeter that it grows rarer every hour; +its merry rays spread and lengthen, the wind grows softer, balmier, +beneath its influence; it is as the very heart of lazy July. + + + "And on the woods and on the deep + The smile of heaven lay. + It seemed as if the day were one + Sent from beyond the skies, + Which shed to earth above the sun + A light of Paradise." + + +There is an "inviolable quietness" in all the air. + +Some late roses have grown, and cluster round Lilian's window; stooping +out, she kisses and caresses them, speaking to them as though they were +(as indeed they are) her dear friends, when nurse's voice recalls her to +the present, and the inner room. + +"La, my dear," says Mrs. Tipping, "it is only four days since I washed +it before." + +"Never mind, ninny; wash it again. To-day is so delicious, with such a +dear little breeze, and such a prodigality of sun, that I cannot resist +it. You know how I love running through the air with my hair wet, and +feeling the wind rushing through it. And, nurse, be sure +now"--coaxingly--"you put plenty of soda in the water." + +"What, and rot all your pretty locks? Not I, indeed!" says nurse, with +much determination. + +"But you must; you will now, won't you?" in a wheedling tone. "It never +stands properly out from my head unless it is full of soda." + +"An' what, I wonder, would your poor mamma say to me if she could see me +spoiling your bonny hair this day, an' it the very color of her own? No, +no; I cannot indeed. It goes against my conscience, as it were. Go get +some one else to wash it, not me; it would sadden me." + +"If you won't wash it, no one else shall," pouts Lilian. And when Lilian +pouts she looks so lovely, and so naughty, and so irresistible, that, +instead of scolding her for ill-temper, every one instantly gives in to +her. Nurse gives in, as she has done to her little mistress's pout ever +since the latter was four years old, and forthwith produces soap and +water and plenty of soda. + +The long yellow hair being at length washed, combed out carefully, and +brushed until it hangs heavily all down her back, Lilian administers a +soft little kiss to her nurse as reward for her trouble, and runs +delightedly down the stairs, straight into the open air, without hat, or +covering of any kind for her head. + +The garden is listless and sleepy. The bees are silent, the flowers are +nodding drowsily, wakened into some sort of life by the teasing wind +that sighs and laughs around them unceasingly. Lilian plucks a blossom +here and there, and scatters far and near the gaudy butterfly in very +wantonness of enjoyment, while the wooing wind whistles through her +hair, drying it softly, lovingly, until at last some of its pristine +gloss returns to it, and its gold shines with redoubled vigor beneath +the sun's rays. + +As she saunters, reveling--as one from Fairyland might revel--in the +warmth and gladness of the great heathen god, she sings; and to Guy in +his distant study the sound and the words come all too distinctly,-- + + + "Why shouldn't I love my love? + Why shouldn't he love me? + Why shouldn't he come after me, + Since love to all is free?" + + +Beneath his window she pauses, and, finally, running up the steps of the +balcony, peers in, full of an idle curiosity. + +Sir Guy's den is the most desirable room in the house,--the coziest, +the oddest, the most interesting. Looking at it, one guesses +instinctively how addicted to all pretty things the owner is, from women +down to less costly _bijouterie_. + +Lovely landscapes adorn the walls side by side with Greuze-like faces, +angelic in expression, unlike in appearance. There are a few portraits +of beauties well known in the London and Paris worlds, frail as they are +fair, false as they are _piquante_, whose garments (to do him justice) +are distinctly decent, perhaps more so than their characters. But then +indecency has gone out of fashion. + +There are two or three lounges, some priceless statuettes, a few bits of +_bric-a-brac_ worth their weight in gold, innumerable yellow-backed +volumes by Paul de Kock and his fellows, chairs of all shapes and sizes, +one more comfortable and inviting than the other, enough meerschaum +pipes and cigarette-holders and tobacco-stands to stock a small shop, a +couple of dogs snoozing peacefully upon the hearth-rug, under the +mistaken impression that a fire is burning in the grate, a +writing-table, and before it Sir Guy. These are the principal things +that attract Lilian's attention, as she gazes in, with her silken hair +streaming behind her in the light breeze. + +On the wall she cannot see, there are a few hunters by Herring, a copy +of Millais' "Yes or No," a good deal of stable-ware, and beneath them, +on a table, more pipes, cheroots, and boxes of cigars, mixed up with +straw-covered bottles of perfume, thrust rather ignominiously into the +corner. + +A shadow falling across the paper on which he is writing, Guy raises his +head, to see a fairy vision staring in at him,--a little slight figure, +clothed in airy black with daintiest lace frillings at the throat and +wrists, and with a wealth of golden hair brought purposely all over her +face, letting only the laughing sapphire eyes, blue as the skies above +her, gleam out from among it. + +"Open the door, O hermit, and let a poor wanderer in," croons this +fairy, in properly saddened tones. + +Rising gladly, he throws wide the window to her, whereupon she steps +into the room, still with her face hidden. + +"You come?" asks he, in a deferential tone. + +"To know what you are doing, and what can keep you in-doors this +exquisite day. Do you remember how late in the season it is? and that +you are slighting Nature? She will be angry, and will visit you with +storms and drooping flowers, if you persist in flouting her. Come out. +Come out." + +"Who are you?" asks Guy. "Are you Flora?" He parts her hair gently and +throws it back over her shoulders. "I thought you a nymph,--a fairy,--a +small goddess, and----" + +"And behold it is only Lilian! Naughty Lilian! Are you disappointed, Sir +Guardian?" She laughs, and running her fingers through all her amber +locks, spreading them out on either side of her like a silken veil, that +extends as far as her arms can reach. She is lovely, radiant, bright as +the day itself, fairer than the lazy flowers. + +"What a child you are!" says Guy, with some discontent in his voice, +feeling how far, _far_ younger than he she is. + +"Am I? Nonsense! Nurse says," going to a glass and surveying herself +with critical eyes, "nurse says I am a 'very well grown girl of my +age.'" Almost unconsciously she assumes nurse's pompous though adoring +manner to such perfection that Guy laughs heartily. + +"That is right, Guardy," says Miss Lilian, with bland encouragement. "I +like to hear you laugh; of late you have grown almost as discontented to +look at as my cousin. Have I amused you?" + +"Yes; your assumption of Mrs. Tipping was admirable. Though I am not +sure that I agree with her: you are not very much grown, are you? I +don't think you are up to my shoulder." + +"What a tarradiddle!" says Lilian. "Get off that table directly and let +me convince you." + +As Guy obeys her and draws himself up to his liberal six feet one, she +goes to him and lays her soft head against his arm, only to find he--not +she--is right; she is half an inch below his shoulder. Standing so, it +takes Guy all he knows to keep himself from throwing his arms round her +and straining her to the heart that beats for her so passionately,--that +beats for her alone. + +"You have raised your shoulder," she says, most unfairly: "it wasn't +half so high yesterday. You shouldn't cheat!--What a charming room yours +is! I quite envy it to you. And the flowers are so well selected. Who +adorns your den so artistically? Florence? But of course it is the +invaluable Florence: I might have known. That good creature always does +the correct thing!" + +"I think it is the mother sees to it," replies he, gently. + +"Oh, is it? Kind auntie! What a delicious little bit of blue! +Forget-me-not, is it? How innocent it looks, and babyish, in its green +leaves! May I rob you, Sir Guy? I should like a spray or two for my +dress." + +"You may have anything you wish that I can give you." + +"What a noble offer!--Are you going to waste much more time over your +tiresome letters?" glancing with pretty impertinence at the +half-finished sheets lying on the table near her: "I suppose they are +all business, or love, or suchlike rubbish! Well, good-bye, Guardy, I +must go and finish the drying of my hair; you will find me in the garden +when you come to the end of your last _billet-doux_." + +So saying, she trips away from him down the handsome oak-paneled room, +and disappears through the doorway that leads into the hall. + +Where she goes the sunshine seems to follow her. To Guy's fancy it +appears as though a shadow has fallen suddenly into the room, when the +last glimpse of her yellow hair has vanished out of sight. With a rather +abstracted air he betakes himself once more to his writing, and tries to +forget her. + +But somehow the impetus that urged him on half an hour ago is wanting; +the spur to his industry has lost its sharpness; and presently, throwing +down his pen with an impatient gesture, he acknowledges himself no +longer in the mood for work. + +What a child she is!--again the thought occurs to him;--yet with what +power to torture! To-day all sweetness and honeyed gayety, to-morrow +indifferent, if not actually repellent. She is an anomaly,--a little +frail lily beset with thorns that puts forth its stings to wound, and +probe, and madden, when least expected. + +Only yesterday--after an hour's inward conflict--he had convinced +himself of her love for her cousin Archibald, with such evident pleasure +did she receive his very marked attentions. And now,--to-day,--surely if +she loved Chesney her eyes could not have dwelt so kindly upon another +as they did a few minutes since upon her guardian. With what a pretty +grace she had demanded that blue forget-me-not and placed it in the +bosom of her dress! With what evident sincerity she had hinted at her +wish to see him in the garden when his work should be over! +Perhaps--perhaps---- + +Of late a passionate desire to tell her of the affection with which she +has inspired him consumes him daily,--hourly; but a fear, a sad +certainty of disappointment to follow on his declaration has hitherto +checked the words that so often tremble on his lips. Now the unwonted +gentleness of her manner tempts him to follow her and put his fate "to +the touch," and so end all the jealous anguish and heart-burnings that +torment him all day long. + +Quitting his sanctum, he crosses the hall, and enters the drawing-room, +where he finds Florence alone. + +She is, as usual, bending industriously over her crewel work; the +parrot's tail is now in a high state of perfection, not a color in the +rainbow being missing from it. Seeing Guy, she raises her head and +smiles upon him sweetly, blandly, invitingly. + +"Where is Lilian?" asks Guy, abruptly, with all the tactless +truthfulness of a man when he has one absorbing object in view. + +Miss Beauchamp's bland smile freezes on her lips, and shows itself no +more. She makes answer, nevertheless, in an unmoved tone: + +"Where she always is,--in the garden with her cousin, Mr. Chesney." + +"Always?" says Guy, lightly, though in reality his face has grown +suddenly pale, and his fingers clinch involuntarily. + +"Well," in her unchangeable placid staccato voice, "generally. He seems +very _epris_ with her, and she appears to receive his admiration +favorably. Have you not noticed it?" + +"I cannot say I have." + +"No?"--incredulously--"how extraordinary! But men are proverbially dull +in the observation of such matters as love-affairs. Some, indeed," with +slow meaning, "are positively _blind_." + +She lays her work upon the table before her and examines it critically. +She does not so much as glance at her victim, though secretly enjoying +the knowledge that he is writhing beneath the lash. + +"Chesney would be a good match for her," says Guy, with the calmness of +despair. But his calmness does not deceive his companion. + +"Very good. The Park, I am told, is even larger than Chetwoode. You, as +her guardian, should, I think, put carefully before her all the +advantages to be derived from such a marriage." + +Here she smooths out her parrot, and, turning her head slightly to one +side, wonders whether a little more crimson in the wings would not make +them look more attractive. No, perhaps not: they are gaudy enough +already,--though one often sees--a parrot--with---- + +"I don't believe mere money would have weight with Lilian," Guy breaks +in upon her all-important reverie, with a visible effort. + +"No? Perhaps not. But then the Park is her old home, and she, who +professes such childish adoration for it, might possibly like to regain +it. You really should speak to her, Guy. She should not be allowed to +throw away such a brilliant chance, when a few well-chosen words might +bias her in the right direction." + +Guy makes no reply, but, stepping on to the balcony outside, walks +listlessly away, his heart in a tumult of fear and regret, while Miss +Beauchamp, calmly, and with a certain triumph, goes on contentedly with +her work. A nail in Lilian's coffin has, she hopes, been driven, and +sews her hopes into the canvas beneath her hand, as long ago the +Parisian women knitted their terrible revenge and cruel longings into +their children's socks, whilst all the flower and beauty and chivalry of +France fell beneath the fatal guillotine. + +Guy, wandering aimlessly, full of dismal thought, follows out +mechanically his first idea, and turns in the direction of the garden, +the spot so beloved by his false, treacherous little mistress. + +In the distance he sees her; she is standing motionless in the centre of +a grassplot, while behind her Chesney is busily engaged tying back her +yellow hair with a broad piece of black ribbon she has evidently given +him for the purpose. He has all her rich tresses gathered together in +one, and is lingering palpably over his task. In his coat is placed +conspicuously the blue forget-me-not begged of Guy by Lilian only a few +minutes ago as though her heart were set upon its possession. + +"Coquette," mutters Chetwoode between his teeth. + +"Not done yet?" asks the coquette at this moment of her cousin, giving +her head a little impatient shake. + +"Yes, just done," finishing up in a hurry the somewhat curious bow he is +making. + +"Well, now run," says Lilian, "and do as I bade you. I shall be here on +this spot when you return. You know how I hate waiting: so don't be +long,--do you hear?" + +"Does that mean you will be impatient to see me again?" + +"Of course," laughing. "I shall be _dying_ to see you again, longing, +pining for your return, thinking every minute an hour until you come +back to me." + +Thus encouraged, Archibald quickly vanishes, and Guy comes slowly up to +her. + +"I think you needn't have put that flower in Chesney's coat," he says, +in an aggrieved tone. "I had no idea you meant it for his adornment." + +"Is it in his coat?" As she makes this mean reply she blushes a rich +warm crimson, so full of consciousness that it drives Guy absolutely +wild with jealousy. "Yes, now I remember," she says, with an assumption +of indifference; "he either took it from me, or asked me for it, I quite +forget which." + +"Do you?" + +"I do," resenting his manner, which borders on disbelief, and is in her +eyes highly objectionable. "Why should I trouble myself to recollect +such trifles?" + +After a pause, and with a distinct effort, Chetwoode says: + +"You were foolishly prejudiced against your cousin before his arrival. I +am glad you have learned to be civil to him." + +"More than that, I have learned to like him very much indeed. He is +quite charming, and not in the least _exigeant_, or _difficile_," this +rather pronounced. "Besides, he is my cousin, and the master of my old +home. Whenever I think of the dear Park I naturally think of him, until +now they are both associated in my mind: this adds to my liking." + +Guy's heart sinks within him as he remembers Florence's words and now +hears Lilian's own confession. He glances at her despairingly. She is +picking a flower to pieces, and as she does so a little soft sigh +escapes her. Is it for her lost home? Is she already dreaming of an hour +when she may return to it once more as its happy mistress? Is she +mercenary, as Florence hinted? or is it homesickness that is tempting +her? or can it be that at heart she loves this cousin? + +"It is the same with all women," he says bitterly; "the last comer is +always the best, the newest face the dearest." + +"I do not understand you,"--with cold reproof; "surely you are wandering +from the subject: we were saying nothing about last comers or new faces. +If you happen to be in a bad temper, Sir Guy, I really think it a little +hard that you should come here to inflict it upon me." + +"I am not in a bad temper,"--indignantly. + +"No? It seems very like it," says Miss Chesney. "I can't bear cross +people: they are always saying unpleasant as well as unmeaning things. +New faces, indeed! I really wish Archibald would come; he is always +agreeable, and never starts distasteful topics. Ah, here he is! Archie, +how long you have been! I thought you were never coming! Sir Guy is in +one of his terrible moods, and has frightened me out of my life. I was +in danger of being lectured off the face of the earth. No woman should +be pitied but she that has a guardian! You have come to my rescue barely +in time: another minute, and you would have found only a lifeless +Lilian." + +Sir Guy, black with rage, turns aside. Archibald, ignorant of the storm +brewing, sinks beside her contentedly upon the grass. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + + "O spirit of love, how fresh and quick thou art!"--SHAKESPEARE. + + +It is the gloaming,--that tenderest, fondest, most pensive time of all +the day. As yet, night crouches on the borders of the land, reluctant to +throw its dark shadow over the still smiling earth, while day is slowly, +sadly receding. There is a hush over everything; above, on their leafy +perches, the birds are nestling, and crooning their cradle songs; the +gay breeze, lazy with its exertions of the day, has fallen asleep, so +that the very grasses are silent and unstirred. An owl in the distance +is hooting mournfully. There is a serenity on all around, an +all-pervading stillness that moves one to sadness and fills unwittingly +the eyes with tears. It is the peace that follows upon grief, as though +the busy world, that through all the heat and turmoil of the day has +been weeping and groaning in anguish, has now for a few short hours +found rest. + +The last roses of summer in Mrs. Arlington's garden, now that those gay +young sparks the bees have deserted them, are growing drowsy, and hang +their heavy heads dejectedly. Two or three dissipated butterflies, fond +of late hours and tempted by the warmth, still float gracefully through +the air. + +Cecilia, coming down the garden path, rests her arms upon her wicket +gate and looks toward Chetwoode. + +She is dressed in an exquisite white cambric, fastened at the throat by +a bit of lavender ribbon; through her gown here and there are touches of +the same color; on her head is a ravishing little cap of the mob +description, that lends an additional charm to her face, making her +seem, if possible, more womanly, more lovable than ever. + +As she leans upon the gate a last yellow sunbeam falls upon her, peeps +into her eyes, takes a good-night kiss from her parted lips, and, +descending slowly, lovingly, crosses her bosom, steals a little +sweetness from the white rose dying on her breast, throws a golden shade +upon her white gown, and finally dies chivalrously at her feet. + +But not for the dear devoted sunbeam does that warm blush grow and +mantle on her cheek; not for it do her pulses throb, her heart beat +fast. Toward her, in his evening dress, and without his hat, regardless +of consequences, comes Cyril, the quickness of his step betraying a +flattering haste. As yet, although many weeks have come and gone since +their first meeting, no actual words of love have been spoken between +them; but each knows the other's heart, and has learned that eyes can +speak a more eloquent language, can utter tenderer thoughts, than any +the lips can frame. + +"Again?" says Cecilia, softly, a little wonder, a great undisguised +gladness, in her soft gray eyes. + +"Yes; I could not keep away," returns he, simply. + +He does not ask to enter, but leans upon the gate from his side, very +close to her. Most fair men look well in evening clothes; Cyril looks +downright handsome: his blonde moustache seems golden, his blue eyes +almost black, in the rays of the departing sun: just now those eyes are +filled with love and passionate admiration. + +Her arms, half bare, with some frail shadowy lace falling over them, +look rounded and velvety as a child's in the growing dusk; the fingers +of her pretty, blue-veined hands are interlaced. Separating them, Cyril +takes one hand between both his own and strokes it fondly, silently, yet +almost absently. + +Suddenly raising his head, he looks at her, his whole heart in his +expression, his eyes full of purpose. Instinctively she feels the +warmth, the tenderness of his glance, and changes from a calm lily into +an expectant rose. Her hand trembles within his, as though meditating +flight, and then lies passive as his clasp tightens firmly upon it. +Slowly, reluctantly, as though compelled by some hidden force, she turns +her averted eyes to his. + +"Cecilia," murmurs he, imploringly, and then--and then their lips meet, +and they kiss each other solemnly, with a passionate tenderness, knowing +it is their betrothal they are sealing. + + * * * * * + +"I wish I had summoned courage to kiss you a week ago," he says, +presently. He is inside the gate now, and seems to have lost in this +shamefully short time all the hesitation and modesty that a few minutes +ago were so becoming. His arm is around her; even as he makes this +_risque_ remark, he stoops and embraces her again, without even having +the grace to ask permission, while she (that I should live to say it of +Cecilia!) never reproves him. + +"Why?" she asks, smiling up at him. + +"See how I have wasted seven good days," returns he, drinking in gladly +all the beauty of her face and smile. "This day last week I might have +been as happy as I am now,--whereas I was the most miserable wretch +alive, the victim of suspense." + +"You bore your misery admirably: had you not told me, I should never +have guessed your wretchedness. Besides, how do you know I should have +been so kind to you seven long days ago?" + +"I know it,--because you love me." + +"And how do you know that either?" asks she, with new-born coquetry that +sits very sweetly upon her. "Cyril, when did you begin to love me?" + +"The very moment I first saw you." + +"No, no; I do not want compliments from _you_: I want the very honest +truth. Tell me." + +"I have told you. The honest truth is this. That morning after your +arrival when I restored your terrier to you, I fell in love with you: +you little thought then, when I gave your dog into your keeping, I was +giving my heart also." + +"No," in a low, soft voice, that somehow has a smile in it, "how could +I? I am glad you loved me always,--that there was no time when I was +indifferent to you. I think love at first sight must be the sweetest and +truest of all." + +"You have the best of it, then, have you not?" with a rather forced +laugh. "Not only did I love you from the first moment I saw you, but you +are the only woman I ever really cared for; while you," with some +hesitation, and turning his eyes steadily away from hers, "you--of +course--did love--once before." + +"Never!" + +The word comes with startling vehemence from between her lips, the new +and brilliant gladness of her face dies from it. A little chill shudder +runs through all her frame, turning her to stone; drawing herself with +determination from his encircling arms, she stands somewhat away from +him. + +"It is time I told you my history," she says, in cold, changed tones, +through which quivers a ring of pain, while her face grows suddenly as +pale, as impenetrable as when they were yet quite strangers to each +other. "Perhaps when you hear it you may regret your words of to-night." +There is a doubt, a weariness in her voice that almost angers him. + +"Nonsense!" he says, roughly, the better to hide the emotion he feels; +"don't be romantic; nobody commits murder, or petty larceny, or bigamy +nowadays, without being found out; unpleasant mysteries, and skeletons +in the closet have gone out of fashion. We put all our skeletons in the +_Times_ now, no matter how we may have to blush for their nakedness. I +don't want to hear anything about your life if it makes you unhappy to +tell it." + +"It doesn't make me unhappy." + +"But it does. Your face has grown quite white, and your eyes are full of +tears. Darling, I won't have you distress yourself for me." + +"I have not committed any of the crimes you mention, or any other +particular crime," returns she, with a very wan little smile. "I have +only been miserable ever since I can remember. I have not spoken about +myself to any one for years, except one friend; but now I should like +to tell you everything." + +"But not there!" holding out his hands to her reproachfully. "I don't +believe I could hear you if you spoke from such a distance." There is +exactly half a yard of sward between them. "If you are willfully bent on +driving us both to the verge of melancholy, at least let us meet our +fate together." + +Here he steals his arm round her once more, and, thus supported, and +with her head upon his shoulder, she commences her short story: + +"Perhaps you know my father was a Major in the Scots Greys; your brother +knew him: his name was Duncan." + +Cyril starts involuntarily. + +"Ah, you start. You, too, knew him?" + +"Yes, slightly." + +"Then," in a curiously hard voice, "you knew nothing good of him. Well," +with a sigh, "no matter; afterward you can tell me what it was. When I +was eighteen he brought me home from school, not that he wanted my +society,--I was rather in his way than otherwise, and it wasn't a good +way,--but because he had a purpose in view. One day, when I had been +home three months, a visitor came to see us. He was introduced to me by +my father. He was young, dark, not ugly, well-mannered," here she pauses +as though to recover breath, and then breaks out with a passion that +shakes all her slight frame, "but hateful, vile, _loathsome_." + +"My darling, don't go on; I don't want to hear about him," implores +Cyril, anxiously. + +"But I must tell you. He possessed that greatest of all virtues in my +father's eyes,--wealth. He was rich. He admired me; I was very pretty +then. He dared to say he loved me. He asked me to marry him, and--I +refused him." + +As though the words are forced from her, she utters them in short, +unequal sentences; her lips have turned the color of death. + +"I suppose he went then to my father, and they planned it all between +them, because at this time he--that is, my father--began to tell me he +was in debt, hopelessly, irretrievably in debt. Among others, he +mentioned certain debts of (so-called) honor, which, if not paid within +a given time, would leave him not only a beggar, but a disgraced one +upon the face of the earth; and I believed him. He worked upon my +feelings day by day, with pretended tears, with vows of amendment. I +don't know," bitterly, "what his share of the bargain was to be, but I +do know he toiled for it conscientiously. I was young, unusually so for +my age, without companions, romantic, impressionable. It seemed to me a +grand thing to sacrifice myself and thereby save my father; and if I +would only consent to marry Mr. Arlington he had promised not only to +avoid dice, but to give up his habits of intemperance. It is an old +story, is it not? No doubt you know it by heart. Crafty age and foolish +youth,--what chance had I? One day I gave in, I said I would marry Mr. +Arlington, and he sold me to him three weeks later. We were married." + +Here her voice fails her again, and a little moan of agonized +recollection escapes her. Cyril, clasping her still closer to him, +presses a kiss upon her brow. At the sweet contact of his lips she +sighs, and two large tears gathering in her eyes roll slowly down her +cheeks. + +"A week after my wretched marriage," she goes on, "I discovered +accidentally that my father had lied to me and tricked me. His +circumstances were not so bad as he had represented to me, and it was on +the condition that he was to have a certain income from Mr. Arlington +yearly that he had persuaded me to marry him. He did not long enjoy it. +He died," slowly, "two months afterward. Of my life with--my husband I +shall not tell you; the recital would only revolt you. Only to think of +it now makes me feel deadly ill; and often from my dreams, as I live it +all over again, I start, cold with horror and disgust. It did not last +long, which was merciful: six months after our marriage he eloped with +an actress and went to Vienna." + +"The blackguard! the scoundrel!" says Cyril, between his teeth, drawing +his breath sharply. + +"I never saw him again. In a little while I received tidings of his +death: he had been stabbed in a brawl in some drinking-house, and only +lived a few hours after it. And I was once more free." + +She pauses, and involuntarily stretches forth both her hands into the +twilight, as one might who long in darkness, being thrust into the full +light of day, seeks to grasp and retain it. + +"When I heard of his death," she says, turning to Cyril, and speaking +in a clear intense tone, "I _laughed_! For the first time for many +months, I laughed aloud! I declared my thankfulness in a distinct voice. +My heart beat with honest, undisguised delight when I knew I should +never see him again, should never in all the years to come shiver and +tremble in his hated presence. He was dead, and I was heartily glad of +it." + +She stops, in terrible agitation. An angry fire gleams in her large gray +eyes. She seems for the moment to have utterly forgotten Cyril's +nearness, as in memory she lives over again all the detested past. Cyril +lays his hand lightly upon her shoulder, her eyes meet his, and then the +anger dies from them. She sighs heavily, and then goes on: + +"After that I don't know what happened for a long time, because I got +brain-fever, and, but for one friend who all through had done his best +for me, I should have died. He and his sister nursed me through it, and +brought me back to life again; but," mournfully, "they could not restore +to me my crushed youth, my ruined faith, my girlish hopes. A few months +had changed me from a mere child into a cold, unloving woman." + +"Don't say that," says Cyril, gently. + +"Until now," returns she, looking at him with eyes full of the most +intense affection; "now all is different." + +"Beloved, how you have suffered!" he says, pressing her head down again +upon his breast, and caressing with loving fingers her rich hair. "But +it is all over, and if I can make you so, you shall be happy in the +future. And your one friend? Who was he?" + +She hesitates perceptibly, and a blush creeping up dyes her pale face +crimson. + +"Perhaps I know," says Cyril, an unaccountable misgiving at his heart. +"Was it Colonel Trant? Do not answer me if you do not wish it," very +gently. + +"Yes, it was he. There is no reason why I should not answer you." + +"No?" + +"No." + +"He asked Guy to let you have the cottage?" + +"Yes; I had wearied of everything, and though by some chance I had come +in for all Mr. Arlington's property, I only cared to go away and hide +myself somewhere where I should find quiet and peace. I tried several +places, but I was always restless until I came here." She smiles +faintly. + +Cyril, after a pause, says, hesitatingly: + +"Cecilia, did you ever care for--for--Trant?" + +"Never: did you imagine that? I never cared for any one but you; I never +shall again. And you, Cyril," the tears rushing thickly to her eyes, "do +you still think you can love me, the daughter of one bad man, the wife +of another? I can hardly think myself as good as other women when I +remember all the hateful scenes I have passed through." + +"I shall treat you to a crowning scene if you ever dare say that again," +says Cyril, whose spirits are rising now she has denied having any +affection for Trant. "And if every relation you ever had was as bad as +bad could be, I should adore you all the same. I can't say any more." + +"You needn't," returns she, laughing a little. "Oh, Cyril, how sweet it +is to be beloved, to me especially, who never yet (until now) had any +love offered me; at least," correcting herself hastily, "any I cared to +accept!" + +"But you had a lover?" asks he, earnestly. + +"Yes, one." + +"Trant again?" letting his teeth close somewhat sharply on his under +lip. + +"Yes." + +"Cecilia, I am afraid you liked that fellow once. Come, confess it." + +"No, indeed, not in the way you mean; but in every other way more than I +can tell you. I should be the most ungrateful wretch alive if it were +otherwise. As a true friend, I love him." + +"How dare you use such a word to any one but me?" says Cyril, bending to +smile into her eyes. "I warn you not to do it again, or I shall be +dangerously and outrageously jealous. Tears in your eyes still, my +sweet? Let me kiss them away: poor eyes! surely they have wept enough in +their time to permit of their only smiling in the future." + +When they have declared over and over again (in different language every +time, of course) the everlasting affection each feels for the other, +Cecilia says: + +"How late it grows! and you are in your evening dress, and without a +hat. Have you dined?" + +"Not yet; but I don't want any dinner." (By this remark, O reader, you +may guess the depth and sincerity of his love.) "We generally dine at +half-past seven, but to-night we are to starve until eight to oblige +Florence, who has been spending the day somewhere. So I dressed early +and came down to see you." + +"At eight," says Cecilia, alarmed: "it is almost that now. You must go, +or Lady Chetwoode will be angry with me, and I don't want any one +belonging to you to think bad thoughts of me." + +"There is plenty of time: it can't be nearly eight yet. Why, it is only +half an hour since I came." + +"It is a quarter to eight," says Cecilia, solemnly. "Do go, and come +again as early as you can to-morrow." + +"You will be glad to see me?" + +"Yes, if you come very early." + +"And you are sure, my own darling, that you really love me?" + +"Quite, _quite_ sure," tenderly. + +"What a bore it is having to go home this lovely evening!" +discontentedly. "Certainly 'Time was made for slaves.' Well,"--with a +sigh,--"good-night. I suppose I must go. I shall run down directly after +breakfast. Good-night, my own, my dearest." + +"Good-night, Cyril." + +"What a cold farewell! I shan't go away at all if you don't say +something kinder." + +Standing on tiptoe, Cecilia lays her arms around his neck. + +"Good-night, my--darling," she whispers, tremulously, and with a last +lingering caress they part, as though years were about to roll by before +they can meet again. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + + "And, though she be but little, she is fierce." + --_Midsummer Night's Dream._ + + "RENE. Suffer love! A good epithet! I do suffer love, indeed, + for I love thee against my will."--_Much Ado About Nothing._ + + +It is a glorious evening toward the close of September. The heat is +intense, delicious, as productive of happy languor as though it was +still the very heart of summer. + +Outside upon the grass sits Lilian, idly threading daisies into chains, +her riotous golden locks waving upon her fair forehead beneath the +influence of the wind. At her feet, full length, lies Archibald, a book +containing selections from the works of favorite poets in his hand. He +is reading aloud such passages as please him and serve to illustrate the +passion that day by day is growing deeper for his pretty cousin. Already +his infatuation for her has become a fact so palpable that not only has +he ceased to deny it to himself, but every one in the house is fully +aware of it, from Lady Chetwoode down to the lowest housemaid. +Sometimes, when the poem is an old favorite, he recites it, keeping his +dark eyes fixed the while upon the fair coquettish face just above him. + +Upon the balcony looking down upon them sits Florence, working at the +everlasting parrot, with Guy beside her, utterly miserable, his whole +attention concentrated upon his ward. For the past week he has been +wretched as a man can be who sees a rival well received before his eyes +day after day. Miss Beauchamp's soft speeches and tender glances, +although many and pronounced, fail to console him, though to others he +appears to accept them willingly enough, and to make a generous return, +spending--how, he hardly knows, though perhaps _she_ does--a good deal +of time in her society. He must indeed be devoid of observation if now +he cannot pass a strict examination of the hues of that crewel bird +(this is not a joke), for wherever he may be, there Miss Beauchamp is +sure to show a few minutes later, always with her wools. + +Noting all this, be sure Lilian draws from it her own conclusions. + +As each clear silvery laugh reaches him from below, Guy frowns and +winces at every fond poetical sentiment that, floated upward by the +wind, falls upon his ears. + + + "See the mountain kiss high heaven, + And the waves clasp one another; + No sister flower would be forgiven + If it disdained its brother: + And the sunlight clasps the earth, + And the moonbeams kiss the sea: + What are all these kissings worth, + If thou kiss not me?" + + +The words recited by Mr. Chesney with much _empressement_ soar upward +and gain Guy's ear; Archibald is pointing his quotation with many +impassioned glances and much tender emphasis; all of which is rather +thrown away upon Lilian, who is not in the least sentimental. + +"Read something livelier, Archie," she says, regarding her growing chain +with unlimited admiration. "There is rather too much honey about that." + +"If you can snub Shelley, I'm sure I don't know what it is you _do_ +like," returns he, somewhat disgusted. A slight pause ensues, filled up +by the faint noise of the leaves of Chesney's volume as he turns them +over impatiently. + +"'Oh, my Luve's like a red, red, rose,'" he begins, bravely, but Lilian +instantly suppresses him. + +"Don't," she says: "that's worse. I always think what a horrid 'luve' +she must have been. Fancy a girl with cheeks like that rose over there! +Fancy writing a sonnet to a milk-maid! Go on, however; the other lines +are rather pretty." + + + "Oh, my love's like a melody + That's sweetly played in tune," + + +reads Archie, and then stops. + +"It is pretty," he says, agreeably; "but if you had heard the last word +persistently called 'chune,' I think it would have taken the edge off +your fancy for it. I had an uncle who adored that little poem, but he +_would_ call the word 'chune,' and it rather spoiled the effect. He's +dead," says Mr. Chesney, laying down his book, "but I think I see him +now." + + + "In the pride of youth and beauty, + With a garland on his brow," + + +quotes Lilian, mischievously. + +"Well, not quite. Rather in an exceedingly rusty suit of evening clothes +at the Opera. I took him there in a weak moment to hear the 'late +lamented Titiens' sing her choicest song in 'Il Trovatore,'--you know +it?--well, when it was over and the whole house was in a perfect uproar +of applause, I turned and asked him what he thought of it, and he +instantly said he thought it was 'a very pretty "chune"!' Fancy Titiens +singing a 'chune'! I gave him up after that, and carefully avoided his +society. Poor old chap, he didn't bear malice, however, as he died a +year later and left me all his money." + +"More than you deserved," says Lilian. + +Here Cyril and Taffy appearing on the scene cause a diversion. They +both simultaneously fling themselves upon the grass at Lilian's feet, +and declare themselves completely used up. + +"Let us have tea out here," says Lilian, gayly, "and enjoy our summer to +the end." Springing to her feet, she turns toward the balcony, careless +of the fact that she has destroyed the lovely picture she made sitting +on the greensward, surrounded by her attendant swains. + +"Florence, come down here, and let us have tea on the grass," she calls +out pleasantly to Miss Beauchamp. + +"Do, Florence," says Archibald, entreatingly. + +"Miss Beauchamp, you really _must_," from Taffy, decides the point. + +Florence, feeling it will look ungracious to refuse, rises with +reluctance, and sails down upon the _quartette_ below, followed by Sir +Guy. + +"What an awful time we shall be having at Mrs. Boileau's this hour +to-morrow night," says Cyril, plaintively, after a long silence on his +part. "I shudder when I think of it. No one who has never spent an +evening at the Grange can imagine the agony of it." + +"I vow I would rather be broken on the wheel than undergo it," says +Archibald. "It was downright mean of Lady Chetwoode to let us all in for +it. And yet no doubt things might have been worse; we ought to feel +devoutly thankful old Boileau is well under the sod." + +"What was the matter with him?" asks Lilian. + +"Don't name him," says Cyril, "he was past all human endurance; my blood +runs cold when I remember, I once did know him. I rejoice to say he is +no more. His name was Benjamin: and as he was small and thin, and she +was large and fat, she (that is, Mrs. Boileau) was always called +'Benjamin's portion.' That's a joke; do you see it?" + +"I do: so you don't take any bobs off _my_ wages," retorts Miss Chesney, +promptly, with a distinct imitation of Kate Stantley. "And yet I cannot +see how all this made the poor man odious." + +"No, not exactly that, though I don't think a well-brought-up man should +let himself go to skin and bone. He was intolerable in other ways. One +memorable Christmas day Guy and I dined with him, and he got beastly +drunk on the sauce for the plum-pudding. We were young at the time, and +it made a lasting impression upon us. Indeed, he was hardly the person +to sit next at a prolonged dinner-party, first because he was +unmistakably dirty, and----" + +"Oh, Cyril!" + +"Well, and why not? It is not impossible. Even Popes, it now appears, +can be indifferent to the advantages to be derived from soap and water." + +"Really, Cyril, I think you might choose a pleasanter subject upon which +to converse," says Florence, with a disgusted curl of her short upper +lip. + +"I beg pardon all round, I'm sure," returns Cyril, meekly. "But Lilian +should be blamed: she _would_ investigate the matter; and I'm nothing, +if not strictly truthful. He was a very dirty old man, I assure you, my +dear Florence." + +"Mrs. Boileau, however objectionable, seems to have been rather the best +of the two: why did she marry him?" asks Lilian. + +"Haven't the remotest idea, and, even if I had, I should be afraid to +answer any more of your pertinent questions," with an expressive nod in +the direction of Florence. "I can only say it was a very feeble +proceeding on the part of such a capable person as Mrs. Boileau." + +"Just 'another good woman gone wrong,'" suggests Taffy, mildly. + +"Quite so," says Archibald, "though she adored him,--she said. Yet he +died, some said of fever, others of--Mrs. Boileau; no attention was ever +paid to the others. When he _did_ droop and die she planted all sorts of +lovely little flowers over his grave, and watered them with her tears +for ever so long. Could affection farther go?" + +"Horrible woman!" says Miss Chesney, "it only wanted that to finish my +dislike to her. I hope when I am dead no one will plant flowers on _my_ +grave: the bare idea would make me turn in it." + +"Then we won't do it," says Taffy, consolingly. + +"I wish we had a few Indian customs in this country," says Cyril, +languidly. "The Suttee was a capital institution. Think what a lot of +objectionable widows we should have got rid of by this time; Mrs. +Boileau, for instance." + +"And Mrs. Arlington," puts in Florence, quietly. An unaccountable +silence follows this speech. No one can exactly explain why, but every +one knows something awkward has been said. Cyril outwardly is perhaps +the least concerned of them all: as he bites languidly a little blade +of green grass, a faint smile flickers at the corners of his lips; +Lilian is distinctly angry. + +"Poor Mrs. Boileau; all this is rather ill-natured, is it not?" asks +Florence, gently, rising as though a dislike to the gossip going on +around her compels her to return to the house. In reality it is a +dislike to damp grass that urges her to flight. + +"Shall I get you a chair, Florence?" asks Cyril, somewhat irrelevantly +as it seems. + +"Pray don't leave us, Miss Beauchamp," says Taffy. "If you will stay on, +we will swear not to make any more ill-natured remarks about any one." + +"Then I expect silence will reign supreme, and that the remainder of the +_conversazione_ will be of the deadly-lively order," says Archibald; +and, Cyril at this moment arriving with the offered chair, Miss +Beauchamp is kindly pleased to remain. + +As the evening declines, the midges muster in great force. Cyril and +Taffy, being in the humor for smoking,--and having cheroots,--are +comparatively speaking happy; the others grow more and more secretly +irritated every moment. Florence is making ladylike dabs at her forehead +every two seconds with her cambric handkerchief, and is regretting +keenly her folly in not retiring in-doors long ago. Midges sting her and +raise uninteresting little marks upon her face, thereby doing +irremediable damage for the time being. The very thought of such a +catastrophe fills her with horror. Her fair, plump hands are getting +spoiled by these blood-thirsty little miscreants; this she notices with +dismay, but is ignorant of the fact that a far worse misfortune is +happening higher up. A tasteless midge has taken a fancy to her nose, +and has inflicted on it a serious bite; it is swelling visibly, and a +swelled nose is not becoming, especially when it is set as nearly as +nature will permit in the centre of a pale, high-bred, but +expressionless face. + +Ignorant, I say, of this crowning mishap, she goes on dabbing her brow +gently, while all the others lie around her dabbing likewise. + +At last Lilian loses all patience. + +"Oh! _hang_ these midges!" she says, naturally certainly but rather too +forcibly for the times we live in. The petulance of the soft tone, the +expression used, makes them all laugh, except Miss Beauchamp, who, true +to her training, maintains a demeanor of frigid disapproval, which has +the pleasing effect of rendering the swelled nose more ludicrous than it +was before. + +"Have I said anything very _bizarre_?" demands Lilian, opening her eyes +wide at their laughter. "Oh!"--recollecting--"did I say 'hang them'? It +is all Taffy's fault, he will use schoolboy slang. Taffy, you ought to +be ashamed of yourself: don't you see how you have shocked Florence?" + +"And no wonder," says Archibald, gravely; "you know we swore to her not +to abuse anything for the remainder of this evening, not even these +little winged torments," viciously squeezing half a dozen to death as he +speaks. + +"How are we going to the Grange to-morrow evening?" asks Taffy, +presently. + +The others have broken up and separated; Cyril and Archibald, at a +little distance, are apparently convulsed with laughter over some shady +story just being related by the former. + +"I suppose," goes on Taffy, "as Lady Chetwoode won't come, we shall take +the open traps, and not mind the carriage, the evenings are so fine. Who +is to drive who, is the question." + +"No; who is to drive poor little I, is the question. Sir Guy, will you?" +asks Lilian, plaintively, prompted by some curious impulse, seeing him +silent, handsome, moody in the background. A moment later she could have +killed herself for putting the question to him. + +"Guy always drives me," says Florence, calmly: "I never go with any one +else, except in the carriage with Aunt Anne. I am nervous, and should be +miserable with any one I could not quite trust. Careless driving +terrifies me. But Guy is never careless," turning upon Chetwoode a face +she fondly hopes is full of feeling, but which unfortunately is +suggestive of nothing but a midge's bite. The nose is still the +principal feature in it. + +Placed in this awkward dilemma, Guy can only curse his fate and be +silent. How can he tell Florence he does not care for her society, how +explain to Lilian his wild desire for hers? He bites his moustache, and, +with his eyes fixed gloomily upon the ground, maintains a disgusted +silence. Truly luck is dead against him. + +"Oh,--that indeed!" says Lilian, and, being a thorough woman, of course +makes no allowance for his unhappy position. Evidently,--according to +her view of the case,--from his silent acquiescence in Miss Beauchamp's +plan, he likes it. No doubt it was all arranged between them early this +morning; and she, to have so far forgotten herself as to ask him to +drive her! Oh! it is intolerable! + +"You are quite right," she says sweetly to Florence, even producing a +smile for the occasion, as women will when their hearts are sorest. +"There is nothing so depressing as nervousness when driving. Perhaps +Archibald will take pity upon me. Archie!" calling out to him, "come +here. I want you to do me a great favor,"--with an enchanting smile. +"Would it be putting you out dreadfully if I asked you to drive me to +Mrs. Boileau's to-morrow evening?"--another smile still more enchanting. + +"You really mean it?" asks Archibald, delighted, his dark face lighting, +while Guy, looking on helplessly, almost groans aloud. "You know how +glad I shall be: I had no idea when I got up this morning such luck was +in store for me. _Dear_ Mrs. Boileau! if she could only guess how eager +I am to start for her _charming_ Grange!" + +He says this in a laughing tone, but Chetwoode fully understands that, +like the famous well, it has truth at the bottom of it. + +"It grows late, does it not?" Florence says, rising gracefully. "I think +we had better go in-doors. We have left Aunt Anne too long alone." + +"Auntie is lying down. Her head is bad," says Lilian; "I was with her +just before I came out, and she said she wished to be alone." + +"Yes; she can't bear noise," remarks Florence, calmly, but meaningly. "I +must go and see how she is." There is the faintest suspicion of an +emphasis upon the personal pronoun. + +"That will be very kind of you, dear," says Miss Chesney, suavely. "And +Florence--would you like anything to rub your poor nose?--cold cream--or +glycerine--or that; nurse has all those sorts of things, I'm sure." This +is a small revenge of Lilian's, impossible to forego; while enjoying it, +she puts on the tenderest air of sympathetic concern, and carefully +regards Miss Beauchamp's nose with raised brows of solicitude. + +"My nose?" repeats Florence, reddening. + +"Yes, dear. One of those unkind little insects has bitten it +shamefully, and now it is all pink and swollen. Didn't you know it? I +have been feeling so sorry for you for the last ten minutes. It is too +bad,--is it not? I hardly think it will be well before dinner, and it is +so disfiguring." All this she utters in tones of the deepest +commiseration. + +Florence wisely makes no reply. She would have borne the tortures of the +rack rather than exhibit any vehement temper before Guy; so she contents +herself with casting a withering glance upon Lilian,--who receives it +with the utmost _sang-froid_,--and, putting her handkerchief up to the +wounded member, sweeps into the house full of righteous indignation. + +Sir Guy, after lengthened hesitation, evidently makes up his mind to do +something, and, with his face full of purpose, follows her. This +devotion on his part is more than Lilian--in spite of her +suspicions--has bargained for. + +"Gone to console his 'sleepy Venus' for the damage done to her 'Phidian +nose,'" she says to Taffy, with rather a bitter laugh. + +"Little girls should neither quote Don Juan nor say ill-natured things," +replies that youth, with an air of lofty rebuke. But Lilian, not being +in the mood for even Taffy's playfulness, makes no answer, and walks +away to her beloved garden to seek consolation from the flowers. + +Whatever Guy's conference with Florence was about, it was short and +decisive, as in five minutes he again emerged from the house, and, +looking vainly around him, starts in search of Lilian. Presently, at the +end of the long lawn, he sees her. + +"Well, has her poor dear nose recovered all its pristine freshness?" she +asks him, in a rather reckless tone, as he comes up to her. + +"Lilian," says Guy, abruptly, eagerly, taking no notice of this +sally,--indeed, scarcely hearing,--"it was all a mistake; I could not +speak plainly a moment ago, but I have arranged it all with Florence; +and--will you let me drive you to Mrs. Boileau's to-morrow evening?" + +"No, thank you," a quick gleam in her large eyes that should have warned +him; "I would not make Florence unhappy for the world. Think of her +nerves!" + +"She will be quite as safe with Cyril--or--your cousin." + +"Which cousin?" + +"Chesney." + +"I think not, because I am going with Archibald." + +"You can easily break off with him," anxiously. + +"But supposing I do not wish to break off with him?" + +"Am I to think, then, you prefer going with your cousin?" in a freezing +tone. + +"Certainly, I prefer his society to yours, ten thousand times," +forcibly; "it was mere idleness made me say I wished to go with you. Had +you agreed to my proposition I should probably have changed my mind +afterward, so everything is better as it is; I am glad now you did not +answer me differently." + +"I did not answer you at all," returns Guy, unwisely. + +"No, you were _afraid_," returns she, with a mocking laugh that sends +the red blood to his forehead. + +"What do you mean?" he asks, angrily. + +"Nothing. It was foolish my mentioning the subject. We are disputing +about a mere trifle. I am going with Archie whatever happens, because I +like him, and because I know he is always glad to be with me." + +She turns as though to leave him, and Guy impulsively catches her hand +to detain her; as he does so, his eyes fall upon the little white +fingers imprisoned in his own, and there, upon one of them--beside his +own ring--he sees another,--newer. + +"Who gave you that?" he asks, impulsively, knowing well the answer to +his question. + +"Archibald," removing her hand quietly, but with determination. + +A dead silence follows. Then, speaking calmly by a supreme effort, Guy +says: + +"I suppose so. Are you going to marry your cousin, Lilian?" + +"Is it in the capacity of guardian you ask that question?" defiantly. +"You should remember I don't acknowledge one." + +"Must I understand by that you will accept him, or have accepted him?" + +"Certainly not. You told me yesterday you found it impossible to +understand me at any time; why seek to do what is beyond your power? +However, I don't mind telling you that as yet Archibald has not made me +a formal offer of his heart and hand. No doubt"--mockingly--"when he +does me the honor to propose to me, he will speak to you on the +subject." Then she laughs a little. "Don't you think it is rather +absurd arranging matters for poor Archie without his consent? I assure +you he has as much idea of proposing to me as the man in the moon." + +"If you are not engaged to him you should not wear his ring," severely. + +"I am not engaged to you, and I wear your ring. If it is wrong to accept +a ring from a man to whom one is not engaged, I think it was very +reprehensible of you to give me this," pointing to it. + +"With me it is different," Guy is beginning, rather lamely, not being +sure of his argument; but Miss Chesney, disdaining subterfuge, +interrupts him. + +"A thing is either right or wrong," she says, superbly. "I may surely +wear either none, or both." + +"Then remove both," says Guy, feeling he would rather see her without +his, if it must only be worn in conjunction with Chesney's. + +"I shan't," returns Lilian, deliberately. "I shall wear both as long as +it suits me,--because I adore rings." + +"Then you are acting very wrongly. I know there is little use in my +speaking to you, once you are bent upon having your own way. You are so +self-willed, and so determined." + + + "Without a friend, what were humanity, + To hunt our errors up with a good grace?" + + +quotes Lilian lightly. "There is no use in your lecturing me, Sir Guy; +it does me little good. _You_ want _your_ way, and I want _mine_; I am +not 'self-willed,' but I don't like tyranny, and I always said you were +tyrannical." + +"You are of course privileged to say what you like," haughtily. + +"Very well; then I _shall_ say it. One would think I was a baby, the way +you--scold--and torment me," here the tears of vexation and childish +wrath rise in her eyes; "but I do not acknowledge your authority; I have +told you so a hundred times, and I never shall,--never, never, never!" + +"Lilian, listen to me----" + +"No, I will not. I wonder why you come near me at all. Go back to +Florence; she is so calm, so sweet, so--_somnolent_,"--with a +sneer,--"that she will not ruffle your temper. As for me, I hate +disagreeable people! Why do you speak to me? It does neither of us any +good. It only makes you ill-mannered and me thoroughly unhappy." + +"Unhappy!" + +"Yes," petulantly, "_miserable_. Surely of late you must have noticed +how I avoid you. It is nothing but scold, scold, scold, all the time I +am with you; and I confess I don't fancy it. You might have known, +without my telling you, that I detest being with you!" + +"I shall remember it for the future," returns he, in a low voice, +falling back a step or two, and speaking coldly, although his heart is +beating wildly with passionate pain and anger. + +"Thank you," retorts Lilian: "that is the kindest thing you have said to +me for many a day." + +Yet the moment his back is turned she regrets this rude speech, and all +the many others she has given way to during the last fortnight. Her own +incivility vexes her, wounds her to the heart's core, for, however +mischievously inclined and quick-tempered she may be, she is marvelously +warm-hearted and kindly and fond. + +For full five minutes she walks to and fro, tormented by secret +upbraidings, and then a revulsion sets in. What does it matter after +all, she thinks, with an impatient shrug of her pretty soft shoulders. A +little plain speaking will do him no harm,--in fact, may do him untold +good. He has been so petted all his life long that a snubbing, however +small, will enliven him, and make him see himself in his true colors. +(What his true colors may be she does not specify even to herself.) And +if he is so devoted to Florence, why, let him then spend his time with +her, and not come lecturing other people on matters that don't concern +him. Such a fuss about a simple emerald ring indeed! Could anything be +more absurd? + +Nevertheless she feels a keen desire for reconciliation; so much so +that, later on,--just before dinner,--seeing Sir Guy in the shrubberies, +walking up and down in deepest meditation,--evidently of the depressing +order,--she makes up her mind to go and speak to him. Yes, she has been +in the wrong; she will go to him, therefore, and make the _amende +honorable_; and he (he is not altogether bad!) will doubtless rejoice to +be friends with her again. + +So thinking, she moves slowly though deliberately up to him, regarding +the while with absolute fervor the exquisite though frail geranium +blossom she carries in her hand. It is only partly opened, and is +delicately tinted as her own skin. + +When she is quite close to her guardian she raises her head, and +instantly affects a deliciously surprised little manner at the fact of +his unexpected (?) nearness. + +"Ah, Sir Guy, you here?" she says, airily, with an apparent consummate +forgetfulness of all past broils. "You are just in time: see what a +lovely flower I have for you. Is not the color perfect? Is it not +sweet?" proffering to him the pale geranium. + +"It is," replies he, taking the flower mechanically, because it is held +out to him, but hardly looking at it. His face is pale with suppressed +anger, his lips are closely set beneath his fair moustache; she is +evidently not forgiven. "And yet I think," he says, slowly, "if you knew +my opinion of you, you would be the last to offer me a flower." + +"And what then is your opinion?" demands Lilian, growing whiter and +whiter until all her pretty face has faded to the "paleness o' the +pearl." Instinctively she recoils a little, as though some slight blow +has touched and shaken her. + +"I think you a heartless coquette," returns he, distinctly, in a low +tone that literally rings with passion. "Take back your gift. Why should +you waste it upon one who does not care to have it?" And, flinging the +flower contemptuously at her feet, he turns and departs. + +For a full minute Miss Chesney neither stirs nor speaks. When he is +quite gone, she straightens herself, and draws her breath sharply. + +"Well, I never!" she says, between her little white teeth, which is a +homely phrase borrowed from nurse, but very expressive, and with that +she plants a small foot viciously upon the unoffending flower and +crushes it out of all shape and recognition. + + * * * * * + +Dinner is over, and almost forgotten; conversation flags. Even to the +most wakeful it occurs that it must be bordering upon bed-hour. + +Lilian, whose nightly habit is to read for an hour or two in her bed +before going to sleep, remembering she has left her book where she took +off her hat on coming into the house some hours ago, leaves the +drawing-room, and, having crossed the large hall, turns into the smaller +one that leads to the library. + +Midway in this passage one lamp is burning; the three others (because +of some inscrutable reason known only to the under-footman) have not +been lit: consequently to-night this hall is in semi-darkness. + +Almost at the very end of it Miss Chesney finds herself face to face +with her guardian, and, impelled by mischief and coquetry, stops short +to confront him. + +"Well, Sir Guy, have you got the better of your naughty temper?" she +asks, saucily. "Fie, to keep a little wicked black dog upon your +shoulder for so long! I hope by this time you are properly ashamed of +yourself, and that you are ready to promise me never to do it again." + +Guy is silent. He is thinking how lovely she is, how indifferent to him, +how unattainable. + +"Still unrepentant," goes on Lilian, with a mocking smile: "you are a +more hardened sinner than ever I gave you credit for. And what is it all +about, pray? What has vexed you? Was it my cousin's ring? or my refusing +to accompany you to-morrow to Mrs. Boileau's?" + +"Both," replies he, feeling compelled to answer. "I still think you +should not wear your cousin's ring unless engaged to him." + +"Nor yours either, of course," with a frown. "How you do love going over +the same ground again and again! Well," determinately, "as I told you +before, I shall wear both--do you hear?--just as long as I please. So +now, my puissant guardian," with a gesture that is almost a challenge, +"I defy you, and dare you to do your worst." + +Her tone, as is intended, irritates him; her beauty, her open though +childish defiance madden him. Gazing at her in the uncertain light, +through which her golden hair and gleaming sapphire eyes shine clearly, +he loses all self-control, and in another moment has her in his arms, +and has kissed her once, twice, passionately. + +Then recollection, all too late, returns, and shocked, horrified at his +own conduct, he releases her, and, leaning against the wall with folded +arms and lowered eyes, awaits his doom. + +Standing where he has left her, pale as a little colorless ghost, with +her lips as white as death, and her great eyes grown black through +mingled terror and amazement, Lilian regards him silently. She does not +move, she scarcely seems to breathe; no faintest sound of anger escapes +her. Then slowly--slowly raising her handkerchief, she draws it lightly +across her lips, and with a gesture full of contempt and loathing flings +it far from her. After which she draws herself up to her extremest +height, and, with her head erect and her whole figure suggestive of +insulted pride and dignity, she sweeps past him into the library, +closing the door quietly behind her. + +When the last sound of her footsteps has disappeared, Guy rouses himself +as if from a hateful dream, and presses his hand to his forehead. +Stooping, he picks up the disdained handkerchief, that lies mournfully +in the corner, thrusts it into his bosom, and turning away toward his +own quarters, is seen no more that night. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + + "The best laid schemes o' mice and men + Gang aft a-gley, + And lea'e us nought but grief and pain, + For promised joy."--BURNS. + + +All next day Lilian treats him as though to her eyes he is invisible. +She bestows upon him none of the usual courtesies of life; she takes no +"good-morrow," nor gives one. She is singularly deaf when he speaks; +except when common etiquette compels her to return an answer to one or +other of his speeches, she is dumb to him, or, when thus compelled, +makes an answer in her iciest tones. + +At five o'clock they all start for the Grange, Mrs. Boileau being one of +those unpleasant people who think they can never see enough of their +guests, or that their guests can never see enough of them,--I am not +sure which,--and who consequently has asked them to come early, to +inspect her gardens and walk through her grounds before dinner. + +As the grounds are well worth seeing, and the evening is charming for +strolling, this is about the pleasantest part of the entertainment. At +least so thinks Lilian, who (seeing Guy's evident depression) is in +radiant spirits. So does Archibald, who follows her as her shadow. They +are both delighted at everything about the Grange, and wander hither and +thither, looking and admiring as they go. + +And indeed it is a charming old place, older perhaps than Chetwoode, +though smaller and less imposing. The ivy has clambered up over all its +ancient walls and towers and battlements, until it presents to the eye a +sheet of darkest, richest green, through which the old-fashioned +casements peep in picturesque disorder, hardly two windows being in a +line. + +Inside, steps are to be met with everywhere in the most unexpected +places,--curious doors leading one never knows where,--ghostly corridors +along which at dead of night armed knights of by-gone days might tramp, +their armor clanking,--winding stairs,--and tapestries that tell of +warriors brave and maidens fair, long since buried and forgotten. + +Outside, the gardens are lovely and rich in blossom. Here, too, the old +world seems to have lingered, the very flowers themselves, though born +yesterday, having all the grace and modesty of an age gone by. + +Here + + + "The oxlips and the nodding violet grow: + Quite over-canopied with lush woodbine, + with sweet musk-roses and with eglantine." + + +Here too the "nun-like lily" hangs its head, the sweet "neglected +wall-flower" blows, the gaudy sunflower glitters, and the "pale +jessamine, the white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet," display +their charms; while among them, towering over all through the might of +its majesty, shines the rose,--"Joy's own flower," as Felicia Hemans +sweetly calls it. + +Now--being late in the season--the blossom is more scarce, though still +the air is heavy with delicate perfume, and the eyes grow drunk with +gazing on the beauty of the autumn flowers. Through them goes Lilian, +with Archibald gladly following. + +All day long he has had her to himself, and she has been so good to him, +so evidently pleased and contented with his society alone, that within +his breast an earnest hope has risen, so strongly, that he only waits a +fitting opportunity to lay his heart and fortune at her feet. + +"I can walk no more," says Lilian, at last, sinking upon the grass +beneath the shade of a huge beech that spreads its kindly arms above +her. "Let us sit here and talk." + +Archibald throws himself beside her, and for a few minutes silence +reigns supreme. + +"Well?" says Lilian, at length, turning lazy though inquisitive eyes +upon her companion. + +"Well?" says Archibald in return. + +"I said you were to talk," remarks Lilian, in an aggrieved tone. "And +you have not said one word yet. You ought to know by this time how I +dislike silence." + +"Blame yourself: I have been racking my brains without success for the +last two minutes to try to find something suitable to say. Did you ever +notice how, when one person says to another, 'Come, let us talk,' that +other is suddenly stricken with hopeless stupidity? So it is now with +me: I cannot talk: I am greatly afraid." + +"Well, I can," says Lilian, "and as I insist on your doing so also, I +shall ask you questions that require an answer. First, then, did you +ever receive a note from me on my leaving the Park, asking you to take +care of my birds?" + +"Yes." + +"And you fed them?" + +"Regularly," says Archibald, telling a fearful lie deliberately, as from +the day he read that note to this he has never once remembered the +feathered friends she mentions, and even now as he speaks has only the +very haziest idea of what she means. + +"I am glad of that," regarding him searchingly. "It would make me +unhappy to think they had been neglected." + +"Don't be unhappy, then," returning her gaze calmly and unflinchingly: +"they are all right: I took care of that." His manner is truthful in the +extreme, his eyes meet hers reassuringly. It is many years since Mr. +Chesney first learned the advantage to be derived from an impassive +countenance. And now with Lilian's keen blue eyes looking him through +and through, he feels doubly thankful that practice has made him so +perfect in the art of suppressing his real thoughts. He has also learned +the wisdom of the old maxim,-- + + + "When you tell a lie, tell a good one, + When you tell a good one, stick to it," + + +and sticks to his accordingly. + +"I am so pleased!" says Lilian, after a slight pause, during which she +tells herself young men are not so wretchedly thoughtless after all, and +that Archibald is quite an example to his sex in the matter of good +nature. "One of my chiefest regrets on leaving home was thinking how my +birds would miss me." + +"I am sorry you ever left it." + +"So am I, of course. I was very near declining to do so at the last +moment. It took Aunt Priscilla a full week to convince me of the error +of my ways, and prove to me that I could not live alone with a gay and +(as she hinted) wicked bachelor." + +"I have never been so unfortunate as to meet her," says Archibald, +mildly, "but I would bet any money your Aunt Priscilla is a highly +objectionable and interfering old maid." + +"No, she is not: she is a very good woman, and quite an old dear in some +ways." + +"She is an old maid?" raising himself on his elbow with some show of +interest. + +"Well, yes, she is; but I like old maids," says Lilian, stoutly. + +"Oh, she _likes_ old maids," says Mr. Chesney, _sotto voce_, sinking +back once more into his lounging position. He evidently considers there +is nothing more to be said on that head. "And so she wouldn't let you +stay?" + +"No. You should have seen her face when I suggested writing to you to +ask if I might have a suite of rooms for my own use, promising +faithfully never to interfere with you in any way. It was a picture!" + +"It pained you very much to leave the Park?" + +"It was death to me. Remember, it had been my home all my life; every +stick and stone about the place was dear to me." + +"It was downright brutal, my turning you out," says Archibald, warmly: +"I could hate myself when I think of it. But I knew nothing of it, +and--I had not seen you then." + +"If you had, would you have let me stay on?" + +"I think so," returns he, softly, gazing with dangerous tenderness at +the delicate rose-tinted face above him. Then, "Even so, I wish you had +asked me; I so seldom go near the place, you would have been thoroughly +welcome to stay on in it, had you been the ugliest person breathing." + +"So I said at the time, but Aunt Priscilla would not hear of it. I am +sure I heard enough about the proprieties at that time to last me all my +life. When all arguments failed," says Miss Chesney, breaking into a gay +laugh, as recollection crowds upon her, "I proposed one last expedient +that nearly drove auntie wild with horror. What do you think it was?" + +"Tell me." + +"I said I would ask your hand in marriage, and so put an end to all +slanderous tongues; that is, if you consented to have me. See what a +narrow escape you had," says Lilian, her merriment increasing: "it would +have been so awkward to refuse!" + +Archibald gazes at her earnestly. He has been through the hands of a +good many women in his time, but now confesses himself fairly puzzled. +Is her laughter genuine? is it coquetry? or simply amusement? + +"Had you ever a proposal, Lilian?" asks he, quietly, his eyes still +riveted upon her face. + +"No," surprised: "what an odd question! I suppose it is humiliating to +think that up to this no man has thought me worth loving. I often +imagine it all," says Lilian, confidentially, taking her knees into her +embrace, and letting her eyes wander dreamily over to the hills far away +behind the swaying trees. "And I dare say some day my curiosity will be +gratified. But I do hope he won't write: I should like to _see_ him do +it. I wouldn't," says Miss Chesney, solemnly, "give a pin for a man who +wouldn't go down on his knees to his lady-love." + +This last remark under the circumstances is eminently unwise. A moment +later Lilian is made aware of it by the fact of Archibald's rising and +going down deliberately on his knees before her. + +"It can scarcely be news to you to tell you I love you," says he, +eagerly. "Lilian, will you marry me?" + +"What are you saying?" says Miss Chesney, half frightened, half amused: +"you must be going mad! Do get up, Archie: you cannot think how +ridiculous you look." + +"Tell me you will marry me," entreats that young man, unmoved even by +the fact of his appearing grotesque in the eyes of his beloved. + +"No; I will not," shaking her head. "Archie, do move: there is the most +dreadful spider creeping up your leg." + +"I don't care; let him creep," says Archibald, valiantly; "I shan't +stir until you give me a kind answer." + +"I don't know what to say; and besides I can do nothing but laugh while +you maintain your present position. Get up instantly, you foolish boy: +you are ruining the knees of your best trousers." + +Whether this thought carries weight with Mr. Chesney I know not, but +certainly he rises to his feet without further demur. + +"You spoke about the Park a few minutes ago," he says, slowly; "you know +now you can have it back again if you will." + +"But not in that way. Did you think I was hinting?" growing rather red. +"No; please don't say another word. I wonder you can be so silly." + +"Silly!" somewhat aggrieved; "I don't know what you mean by that. Surely +a fellow may ask a woman to marry him without being termed 'silly.' I +ask you again now. Lilian, will you marry me?" + +"No, no, no, certainly not. I have no intention of marrying any one for +years to come,--if ever. I think," with a charming pout, "it is very +unkind of you to say such things to me,--and just when we were such good +friends too; spoiling everything. I shall never be comfortable in your +society again; I'm sure I never should have suspected you of such a +thing. If I had----" A pause. + +"You would not have come here with me to-day, you mean?" gloomily. + +"Indeed I should not. Nothing would have induced me. You have put me out +terribly." + +"I suppose you like Chetwoode," says Archibald, still more gloomily. +Having never been denied anything since his birth, he cannot bring +himself to accept this crowning misfortune with becoming grace. + +"I like everybody,--except Florence," returns Lilian, composedly. + +Then there is another pause, rather longer than the first, and +then--after a violent struggle with her better feelings--Miss Chesney +gives way, and laughs long and heartily. + +"My dear Archibald, don't look so woe-begone," she says. "If you could +only see yourself! You look as though every relation you ever had was +dead. Why, you ought to be very much obliged to me. Have you never +heard Mr. Punch's advice to young men about to marry?" + +"I don't want any one's advice; it is late for that, I fancy. +Lilian--darling--_darling_--won't you----" + +"I won't, indeed," recoiling and waving him back, while feeling for the +first time slightly embarrassed; "don't come a step nearer; nobody ever +made love to me before, and I perfectly _hate_ it! I hope sincerely no +one will ever propose to me again." + +"_I_ shall!" doggedly; "I shan't give you up yet. You have not thought +about it. When you know me better you may change your mind." + +"Do not deceive yourself," gently, "and do not be offended. It is not +you I have an objection to, it is marriage generally. I have only begun +my life, and a husband must be such a bore. Any number of people have +told me so." + +"Old maids, such as your Aunt Priscilla, I dare say," says Archibald, +scornfully. "Don't believe them. I wouldn't bore you: you should have +everything exactly your own way." + +"I have that now." + +"And I will wait for you as long as you please." + +"So you may," gayly; "but mind, I don't desire you. + +"May I take that as a grain of hope?" demands he, eagerly grasping this +poor shadow of a crumb with avidity, only to find later on it is no +crumb at all. "Don't be cruel, Lilian: every one thinks differently +after a while; you may also. You have said I am not hateful to you; if +then you would only promise to think it over----" + +"Impossible," airily: "I never think: it is too fatiguing. So are you, +by the bye, just now. I shan't stay with you any longer, lest I should +be infected. Good-bye, Archie; when you are in a pleasanter mood you can +return to me, but until then adieu." + +So saying, she catches her train in one hand and runs away from him fast +as her fleet little feet can carry her. + +Down the pathway, round under the limes, into another path runs she, +where suddenly she finds herself in Taffy's presence. + +"Whither away, fair maid?" asks that youth, removing the cigar from his +lips that he is enjoying all alone. + +"I am running away from Archie. He was so excessively dull and +disagreeable that I could not bring myself to waste another moment on +him, so I ran away and left him just _plante la_," says Miss Chesney, +with a little foreign gesture and a delicious laugh that rings far +through the clear air, and reaches Archibald's ears as he draws nearer. + +"Come, I hear footsteps," whispers she, slipping her hand into Taffy's. +"Help me to hide from him." + +So together they scamper still farther away, until at last they arrive +breathless but secure in the shrubberies that surround one side of the +house. + +When they have quite recovered themselves, it occurs to Taffy that he +would like to know all about it. + +"What was he saying to you?" asks he _a propos_ of Chesney. + +"Nothing," promptly. + +Taffy, curiously: "Well, certainly that _was_ very disagreeable." + +Lilian, demurely: "It was." + +At this Taffy lays his hands upon her shoulders and gives her a good +shake. + +"Tell me directly," says he, "what he was saying to you." + +"How can I?" innocently; "he says so much and none of it worth +repeating." + +"Was he making love to you?" + +"No. Oh, no," mildly. + +"I'm certain he was," with conviction. "And look here, Lil, don't you +have anything to do with him: he isn't up to the mark by any means. He +is too dark, and there is something queer about his eyes. I once saw a +man who had cut the throats of his mother, his grandmother, and all his +nearest relations,--any amount of them,--and his eyes were just like +Chesney's. Don't marry him, whatever you do." + +"I won't," laughing: "I should hate to have my throat cut." + +"There's Chetwoode, now," says Taffy, who begins to think himself a very +deep and delicate diplomatist. "He is a very decent fellow all round if +you like." + +"I do like, certainly. It is quite a comfort to know Sir Guy is not +indecent." + +"Oh, you know what I mean well enough. There's nothing underhand about +Chetwoode. By the bye, what have you been doing to him? He is awfully +down on his luck all day." + +"I!" coldly. "What should I do to Sir Guy?" + +"I don't know, I'm sure, but girls have a horrid way of teasing a fellow +while pretending to be perfectly civil to him all the time. It is my +private opinion," says Mr. Musgrave, mysteriously,--"and I flatter +myself I am seldom wrong,--that he is dead spoons on you." + +"Really, Taffy!" begins Lilian, angrily. + +"Yes, he is: you take my word for it. I'm rather a judge in such +matters. Bet you a fiver," says Mr. Musgrave, "he proposes to you before +the year is out." + +"I wonder, Taffy, how you can be so vulgar!" says Lilian, with crimson +cheeks, and a fine show of superior breeding. "I never bet. I forbid you +to speak to me on this subject again. Sir Guy, I assure you, has as much +intention of proposing to me as I have of accepting him should he do +so." + +"More fool you," says Taffy, unabashed. "I'm sure he is much nicer than +that melancholy Chesney. If I were a girl I should marry him straight +off." + +"Perhaps he would not marry you," replies Lilian, cuttingly. + +"Wouldn't he? he would like a shot, if I were like Lilian Chesney," says +Taffy, positively. + +"'Like a shot'--what does that mean?" says Miss Chesney, with withering +sarcasm. "It is a pity you cannot forget your schoolboy slang, and try +to be a gentleman. I don't think you over hear that 'decent fellow' Sir +Guy, or even that cut-throat Archibald, use it." + +With this parting shaft she marches off overflowing with indignation, +leaving Mr. Musgrave lost in wonder at her sudden change of manner. + +"What on earth is up with her now?" he asks himself, desperately; but +the dressing-bell ringing at this moment disarms thought, and sends him +in-doors to prepare for dinner. + +Mrs. Boileau has asked no one to meet them except a lank and dreary +curate, who is evidently a prime favorite with her. He is an Honorable +Mr. Boer, with nothing attractive about him except a most alarming voice +that makes one glance instinctively at his boots under the mistaken +impression that the sound must come from them. This is rather +unfortunate for the curate, as his feet are not (or rather _are_) his +strong point, Nature having endowed them with such a tremendous amount +of heel, and so much sole, innocent of instep, as makes them +unpleasantly suggestive of sledge-hammers. + +He is painfully talkative, and oppressively evangelical, which renders +him specially abhorrent to Lilian, who has rather a fancy for flowers +and candles and nice little boys in white shirts. He is also undecided +whether it is Miss Beauchamp or Miss Chesney he most admires. They have +equal fortunes, and are therefore (in his clerical eyes) equally lovely. +There is certainly more of Miss Beauchamp, but then there is a vivacity, +a--ahem--"go," if one might say so, about Miss Chesney perfectly +irresistible. Had one of these rival beauties been an heiress, and the +other rich in love's charms, I think I know which one Mr. Boer would +have bowed before,--not that I even hint at mercenary motives in his +reverence, but as it is he is much exercised in his mind as to which he +shall honor with his attentions. + +I think Lilian wins the day, because after dinner he bears down upon her +determinately, and makes for the fauteuil in which she lies ensconced +looking bored and _ennuyee_ to the last degree. Dinner has been insipid, +the whole evening a mistake; neither Guy nor Archibald will come near +her, or even look at her; and now Mr. Boer's meditated attack is the +last straw that breaks the camel's back. + +"I consider the school-board very much to blame," begins that divine +while yet some yards distant, speaking in his usual blatant tones, that +never change their key-note, however long they may continue to insult +the air. + +"So do I," says Lilian, very gently and sweetly, but with such +unmistakable haste as suggests a determination on her part to bring the +undiscussed subject to an ignominious close. "I quite agree with you; I +think them terribly to blame. But I beg your pardon for one moment: I +want to ask Mr. Chetwoode a question that has been haunting me for +hours." + +Rising, she glides away from him over the carpet, leaving Mr. Boer--who +takes a long time to understand anything, and could not possibly believe +in a rebuff offered to himself in person--watching the tail of her long +sweeping gown, and wondering curiously if all the little white frillings +beneath it may not have something to do with a falling petticoat. At +this point he pulls himself together with a start, and fears secretly he +is growing immodest. + +In the meantime Lilian has reached Cyril, who is sitting at a table +somewhat apart, gazing moodily at a book containing prints of the chief +villages in Wales. He, like herself, is evidently in the last stage of +dejection. + +Bending over him, she whispers in an awful tone, but with a beaming +smile meant to mystify the observant Boer: + +"If you don't instantly deliver me from that man I shall make a point of +going off into such a death-like swoon as will necessitate my being +borne from the room. He is now going to tell me about that miserable +school-board all over again, and I can't and won't stand it." + +"Poor child," says Cyril, with deepest sympathy; "I will protect you. If +he comes a step nearer, I swear to you I will have his blood." Uttering +this comforting assurance in the mildest tone, he draws a chair to the +table, and together they explore Wales in print. + +Then there is a little music, and a good deal of carefully suppressed +yawning, and then the carriages are announced and they all bid their +hostess good-night, and tell a few pretty lies about the charming +evening they have spent, etc. + +"Cyril, will you drive me home?" Lilian says to him hurriedly in the +hall, while they are being finally cloaked and shawled. As she says it +she takes care to avoid his eyes, so she does not see the look of amused +scrutiny that lies in them. + +"So soon!" he says, tragically. "It was an easy victory! I shall be only +too charmed, my dear Lilian, to drive you to the other end of the world +if need be." + +So they start and drive home together placidly, through the cool, soft +night. Lilian is strangely silent, so is Cyril,--the calm beauty of the +heavens above them rendering their lips mute. + + + "Now glowed the firmament + With living sapphires; Hesperus, that led + The starry host, rode brightest; till the moon, + Rising in clouded majesty, at length-- + Apparent queen!--unveiled her peerless light, + And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw." + + +The night is very calm, and rich in stars; brilliant almost as garish +day, but bright with that tender, unchanging, ethereal light--clear, +yet full of peaceful shadow--that day can never know. + + + "There is no dew on the dry grass to-night, + Nor damp within the shadow of the trees; + The wind is intermitting, dry and light." + + +Lilian sighs gently as they move rapidly through the still air,--a sigh +not altogether born of the night's sweetness, but rather tinged with +melancholy. The day has been a failure, and though through all its +windings she has been possessed by the spirit of gayety, now in the +subdued silence of the night the reaction setting in reduces her to the +very verge of tears. + +Cyril, too, is very quiet, but _his_ thoughts are filled with joy. +Lifting his gaze to the eternal vault above him, he seems to see in the +gentle stars the eyes of his beloved smiling back at him. A dreamy +happiness, an exquisite feeling of thankfulness, absorb him, making him +selfishly blind to the sadness of his little companion. + +"How silent you are!" Lilian says, at length, unable to endure her +tormenting reverie any longer. + +"Am I?" smiling. "I was thinking of some lines I read yesterday: the +night is so lovely it recalls them. Of course they are as well known to +you as to me; but hear them: + + + "How beautiful is the night! + A dewy freshness fills the silent air; + No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor streak, nor stain, + Breaks the serene of heaven: + In full-orb'd glory yonder moon divine + Rolls through the dark-blue depths." + + +"Yes, they are pretty lines: they are Southey's, I think," says Lilian, +and then she sighs again, and hardly another word is spoken between them +until they reach home. + +As they pull up at the hall-door, Guy, who has arrived a little before +them, comes forward, and, placing one foot upon the step of Cyril's +T-cart, takes Lilian in his arms and lifts her to the ground. She is so +astonished at the suddenness of this demonstration on his part that she +forgets to make any protest, only--she turns slowly and meaningly away +from him, with lowered eyes and with averted head. + +With a beseeching gesture he detains her, and gains for a moment her +attention. He is looking pale, miserable; there is an expression of deep +entreaty in his usually steady blue eyes. + +"Lilian, forgive me," he whispers, anxiously, trying to read her face by +the moonlight: "I have been sufficiently punished. If you could guess +all I have endured to-day through your coldness, your scorn, you would +say so too. Forgive me." + +"Impossible," returns she, haughtily, in clear tones, and, motioning him +contemptuously to one side, follows Cyril into the house. + +Inside they find Lady Chetwoode not only up and waiting for them, but +wide awake. This latter is a compliment so thoroughly unexpected as to +rouse within them feelings of the warmest gratitude. + +"What, Madre! you still here?" says Cyril. "Why, we imagined you not +only out of your first but far into your second beauty sleep by this +time." + +"I missed you all so much I decided upon waiting up for you," Lady +Chetwoode answers, smiling benignly upon them all; "besides, early in +the evening--just after you left--I had a telegram from dear Mabel, +saying she and Tom will surely be here to dinner to-morrow night. And +the idea so pleased me I thought I would stay here to impart my news and +hear yours." + +Every one in the room who knows Mrs. Steyne here declares his delight at +the prospect of so soon seeing her again. + +"She must have made up her mind at the very last moment," says Guy. +"Last week she was undecided whether she should come at all. She hates +leaving London." + +"She must be at Steynemore now," remarks Cyril. + +"Lilian, my dear child, how pale you are!" Lady Chetwoode says, +anxiously taking Lilian's hand and rubbing her cheeks gently with loving +fingers. "Cold, too! The drive has been too much for you, and you are +always so careless about wraps. I ordered supper in the library an hour +ago. Come and have a glass of wine before going to bed." + +"No, thank you, auntie: I don't care for anything." + +"Thank you, Aunt Anne, I think I will take something," interposes +Florence, amiably; "the drive was long. A glass of sherry and one little +biscuit will, I feel sure, do me good." + +Miss Beauchamp's "one little biscuit," as is well known, generally ends +in a substantial supper. + +"Come to the library, then," says Lady Chetwoode, and still holding +Lilian's hand, draws it within her arm, and in her own stately Old-World +fashion leads her there. + +When they have dismissed the butler, and declared their ability to help +one another, Lady Chetwoode says pleasantly: + +"Now tell me everything. Had you an agreeable evening?" + +"Too agreeable!" answers Cyril, with suspicious readiness: "I fear it +will make all other entertainments sink into insignificance. I consider +a night at Mrs. Boileau's the very wildest dissipation. We all sat round +the room on uneasy chairs and admired each other: it would perhaps have +been (if _possible_) a more successful amusement had we not been doing +the same thing for the past two months,--some of us for years! But it +was tremendously exciting all the same." + +"Was there no one to meet you?" + +"My dear mother, how could you suspect Mrs. Boileau of such a thing!" + +"Yes,--there was a Mr. Boer," says Florence, looking up blandly from her +chicken, "a man of very good family,--a clergyman----" + +"No, a curate," interrupts Cyril, mildly. + +"He made himself very agreeable," goes on Florence, in her soft +monotone, that nothing disturbs. "He was so conversational, and so well +read. You liked him, Lilian?" + +"Who? Mr. Boer? No; I thought him insufferable,--so dull,--so prosy," +says Lilian, wearily. She has hardly heard Miss Beauchamp's foregoing +remarks. + +"His manner, certainly, is neither frivolous nor extravagant," Florence +returns, somewhat sharply, "but he appeared sensible and earnest, rare +qualities nowadays." + +"Did I hear you say he wasn't extravagant?" breaks in Cyril, lazily, +purposely misconstruing her application of the word. "My dear Florence, +consider! Could anything show such reckless extravagance as the length +of his coat-tails? I never saw so much superfluous cloth in any man's +garment before. It may be saintly, but it was cruel waste!" + +"How did you amuse yourselves?" asks Lady Chetwoode, hastily, +forestalling a threatening argument. + +"As best we might. Lilian and I amused each other, and I think we had +the best of it. If our visit to the Grange did no other good, it at +least awoke in me a thorough sense of loyalty: I cannot tell you," with +a glance at Lilian, "how often I blessed the 'Prints of Wales' this +night." + +"Oh, Cyril, what a miserable joke!" says Lilian, smiling, but there is +little warmth in her smile, and little real merriment in her usually gay +tones. All this, Cyril--who is sincerely fond of her--notes with regret +and concern. + +"Guy, give Lilian a glass of Moselle," says his mother at this moment; +"it is what she prefers, and it will put a little color into her cheeks: +she looks fatigued." As she says this she moves across the room to speak +to Florence, leaving Lilian standing alone upon the hearth-rug. Guy, as +desired, brings the wine and hands it to Lilian. + +"No, thank you," turning from him coldly. "I do not wish for it." + +"Nevertheless, take it," Guy entreats, in a low voice: "you are terribly +white, and," touching her hand gently, "as cold as death. Is it because +_I_ bring it you will not have it? Will you take it from Taffy?" + +A choking sensation rises in Miss Chesney's throat; the unbidden tears +spring to her eyes; it is by a passionate effort alone she restrains +them from running down her cheeks. As I have said before, the day had +been a distinct failure. She will not speak to Guy, Archibald will not +speak to her. A sense of isolation is oppressing and weighing her down. +She, the pet, the darling, is left lonely, while all the others round +her laugh and jest and accept the good the gods provide. Like a spoilt +child, she longs to rush to her nurse and have a good cry within the +shelter of that fond woman's arms. + +Afraid to speak, lest her voice betray her, afraid to raise her eyes, +lest the tell-tale tears within them be seen, she silently--though +against her will--takes the glass Sir Guy offers, and puts it to her +lips, whereupon he is conscious of a feeling of thankfulness,--the bare +fact of her accepting anything at his hands seeming to breathe upon him +forgiveness. + +Lilian, having finished her Moselle, returns him the glass silently. +Having carried it to the table, he once more glances instinctively to +where he has left her standing. She has disappeared. Without a word to +any one, she has slipped from the library and sought refuge in her own +room. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + + "This much, however, I may add; her years + Were ripe, they might make six-and-twenty springs; + But there are forms which Time to touch forbears, + And turns aside his scythe to vulgar things."--_Don Juan._ + + +Next day creates but little change in Lilian's demeanor. So far as Guy +is concerned, her manner is still frozen and unrelenting. She shows no +sign of a desire to pardon, and Chetwoode noting this grows hardened, +and out-Herods Herod in his imitation of her coldness. + +Archibald, on the contrary, gives in almost directly. Finding it +impossible to maintain his injured bearing beyond luncheon, he succumbs, +and, throwing himself upon her mercy, is graciously received and once +more basks in the full smiles of beauty. At heart Lilian is glad to +welcome him back, and is genial and sweet to him as though no ugly +_contretemps_ had occurred between them yesterday. + +Mabel Steyne being expected in the evening, Lady Chetwoode is especially +happy, and takes no heed of minor matters, or else her eldest son's +distraction would surely have claimed her attention. But Mabel's coming +is an event, and a happy one, and at half-past seven, pleased and +complacent, Lady Chetwoode is seated in her drawing-room, awaiting her +arrival. Lilian and Florence are with her, and one or two of the others, +Guy among them. Indeed, Mrs. Steyne's coming is a gratification the more +charming that it is a rarity, as she seldom visits the country, being +strongly addicted to city pursuits and holding country life and ruralism +generally in abhorrence. + +Just before dinner she arrives; there is a little flutter in the hall, a +few words, a few steps, and then the door is thrown open, and a young +woman, tall, with dark eyes and hair, a nose slightly celestial, and a +very handsome figure, enters. She walks swiftly up the room with the +grand and upright carriage that belongs to her, and is followed by a +tall, fair man, indolent though good to look at, with a straw-colored +moustache, and as much whisker as one might swear by. + +"Dear auntie, I have come!" says Mrs. Steyne, joyfully, which is a fact +so obvious as to make the telling of it superfluous. + +"Mabel, my dear, how glad I am to see you!" exclaims Lady Chetwoode, +rising and holding out her arms to her. A pretty pink flush comes to +life in the old woman's cheeks making her appear ten years younger, and +adding a thousand charms to her sweet old face. + +They kiss each other warmly, the younger woman with tender +_empressement_. + +"It is kind of you to say so," she says, fondly. "And you, auntie--why, +bless me, how young you look! it is disgraceful. Presently I shall be +the auntie, and you the young and lovely Lady Chetwoode. Darling auntie, +I am delighted to be with you again!" + +"How do you do, Tom?" Lady Chetwoode says, putting her a little to one +side to welcome her husband, but still holding her hand. "I do hope you +two have come to stay a long time in the country." + +"Yes, until after Christmas, so you will have time to grow heartily sick +of us," says Mrs. Steyne. "Ah, Florence." + +She and Florence press cheeks sympathetically, as though no evil +passages belonging to the past have ever occurred between them. And then +Lady Chetwoode introduces Lilian. + +"This is Lilian," she says, drawing her forward. "I have often written +to you about her." + +"My supplanter," remarks Mabel Steyne, turning with a smile that lights +up all her handsome brunette face. As she looks at Lilian, fair and soft +and pretty, the rather _insouciant_ expression that has grown upon her +own during her encounter with Florence fades, and once more she becomes +her own gay self. "I hope you will prove a better companion to auntie +than I was," she says, with a merry laugh, taking and pressing Lilian's +hand. Lilian instinctively returns the pressure and the laugh. There is +something wonderfully fetching in Mrs. Steyne's dark, brilliant eyes. + +"She is the best of children!" Lady Chetwoode says, patting Lilian's +shoulder; "though indeed, my dear Mabel, I saw no fault in you." + +"Of course not. Have you noticed, Miss Chesney, Lady Chetwoode's +greatest failing? It is that she will not see a fault in any one." + +"She never mentioned your faults, at all events," Lilian answers, +smiling. + +"I hope your baby is quite well?" Florence asks, calmly, who is far too +well bred ever to forget her manners. + +"The darling child,--yes,--I hope she is well," Lady Chetwoode says, +hastily, feeling as though she has been guilty of unkindness in not +asking for the baby before. Miss Beauchamp possesses to perfection that +most unhappy knack of placing people in the wrong position. + +"Quite, thank you," answering Lady Chetwoode instead of Florence, while +a little fond glance that is usually reserved for the nursery creeps +into her expressive eyes. "If you admired her before, you will quite +love her now. She has grown so big and fat, and has such dear little +sunny curls all over her head!" + +"I like fair babies," says Lilian. + +"Because you are a fair baby yourself," says Cyril. + +"She can say Mammy and Pappy quite distinctly, and I have taught her to +say Auntie very sweetly," goes on Mrs. Steyne, wrapt in recollection of +her offspring's genius. "She can say 'cake' too, and--and that is all, I +think." + +"You forget, Mabel, don't you?" asks her husband, languidly. "You +underrate the child's abilities. The other day when she was in a frenzy +because I would not allow her to pull out my moustache in handfuls she +said----" + +"She was never in a frenzy, Tom," indignantly: "I wonder how you can say +so of the dear angel." + +"Was she not? if _you_ say so, of course I was mistaken, but at the time +I firmly believed it was temper. At all events, Lady Chetwoode, on that +momentous occasion she said, 'Nanna warragood,' without a mistake. She +is a wonderful child!" + +"Don't pay any attention to him, auntie," with a contemptuous shrug. "He +is himself quite idiotic about baby, so much so that he is ashamed of +his infatuation. I shall bring her here some day to let you see her." + +"You must name the day. Would next Monday suit you?" + +"You needn't press the point," Tom Steyne says, warningly: "but for me, +the child and its nurse would be in the room at this moment. Mab and I +had a stand-up fight about it in the hall just before starting, and it +was only after a good deal of calm though firm expostulation I carried +the day. I represented to her that as a rule babies are not invited out +to dine at eight o'clock at night, and that children of her age are +generally more attractive to their mothers than to any one else." + +"Barbarian!" says Lady Chetwoode. + +"How have you been getting on in London, Mab," asks Cyril. "Made any new +conquests?" + +"Several," replies Tom; "though I think on the whole she is going off. +She did not make up her usual number this season. She has, however, on +her list two nice boys in the F. O., and an infant in the Guards. She is +rather unhappy about them, as she cannot make up her mind which it is +she likes best." + +"Wrong, Tom. Yesterday I made it up. I like the 'infant' best. But what +really saddens me is that I am by no means sure he likes _me_ best. He +is terribly fond of Tom, and I sometimes fear thinks him the better +fellow of the two." + +At this moment the door opens and Taffy comes in. + +"Why! Here is my 'infant,'" exclaims Mabel, surprised. "Dear Mr. +Musgrave, I had no idea I should meet you here." + +"My dear Mrs. Steyne! I had no idea such luck was in store for me. I am +so glad to see you again! Lilian, why didn't you break it to me? Joyful +surprises are sometimes dangerous." + +"I thought you knew. We have been discussing 'Mabel's' coming," with a +shy smile, "all the past month." + +"But how could I possibly guess that the 'Mabel' who was occupying +everybody's thoughts could be my Mrs. Steyne?" + +"Ours!" murmurs Tom, faintly. + +"Yes, mine," says Taffy, who is not troubled with over-much shyness. + +"Mr. Musgrave is your cousin?" Mabel asks, turning to Lilian. + +"No, I am her son," says Taffy: "you wouldn't think it--would you? She +is a good deal older than she looks, but she gets herself up +wonderfully. She is not a bad mother," reflectively, "when one comes to +think of it." + +"I dare say if you spoke the truth you would confess her your guardian +angel," says Mabel, letting a kindly glance fall on pretty Lilian. "She +takes care of you, no doubt." + +"And such care," answers Lilian; "but for me I do believe Taffy would +have gone to the bad long ago." + +"'Taffy'! what a curious name. So quaint,--and pretty too, I think. May +I," with a quick irrepressible glance, that is half fun, half natural +coquetry, "call you Taffy?" + +"You may call me anything you like," returns that young gentleman, with +the utmost _bonhommie_ + + + "Call me Daphne, call me Chloris, + Call me Lalage, or Doris, + Only--_only_--call me thine!" + + +"It is really mortifying that I can't," says Mrs. Steyne, while she and +the others all laugh. + +"Sir," says Tom Steyne, "I would have you remember the lady you are +addressing is my wife." + +Says Taffy, reproachfully: + +"Do you think I don't remember it,--to my sorrow?" + +They have got down to dinner and as far as the fish by this time, so are +all feeling friendly and good-natured. + +"Tell you what you'll do, Mab," says Guy. "You shall come over here next +week to stay with us, and bring baby and nurse with you,--and Tom, +whether he likes it or not. We can give him as much good shooting as +will cure him of his laziness." + +"Yes, Mabel, indeed you must," breaks in Lady Chetwoode's gentle voice. +"I want to see that dear child very badly, and how can I notice all her +pretty ways unless she stays in the house with me?" + +"Say yes, Mrs. Steyne," entreats Taffy: "I shall die of grief if you +refuse." + +"Oh, that! Yes, auntie, I shall come, thank you, if only to preserve +Mr.--Taffy's life. But indeed I shall be delighted to get back to the +dear old home for a while; it is so dull at Steynemore all by +ourselves." + +"Thank you, darling," says Tom, meekly. + +After dinner Mrs. Steyne, who has taken a fancy to Lilian, seats herself +beside her in the drawing-room and chatters to her unceasingly of all +things known and unknown. Guy, coming in later with the other men, sinks +into a chair near Mabel, and with Miss Beauchamp's Fanchette upon his +knee employs himself in stroking it and answering Mabel's numerous +questions. He hardly looks at Lilian, and certainly never addresses her, +in which he shows his wisdom. + +"No, I can't bear the country," Mrs. Steyne is saying. "It depresses +me." + +"In the spring surely it is preferable to town," says Lilian. + +"Is it? I suppose so, because I have so often heard it; but my taste is +vitiated. I am not myself out of London. Of course Tom and I go +somewhere every year, but it is to please fashion we go, not because we +like it. You will say I exaggerate when I tell you that I find music in +the very roll of the restless cabs." + +Lilian tells her that she will be badly off for music of that kind at +Steynemore; but perhaps the birds will make up for the loss. + +"No, you will probably think me a poor creature when I confess to you I +prefer Albani to the sweetest nightingale that ever trilled; that I +simply detest the discordant noise made by the melancholy lamb; that I +think the cuckoo tuneless and unmusical, and that I find no transcendent +pleasure in the cooing of the fondest dove that ever mourned over its +mate. These beauties of nature are thrown away upon me. Woodland groves +and leafy dells are to me suggestive of suicide, and make me sigh for +the 'sweet shady side of Pall Mall.' The country, in fact, is lonely, +and my own society makes me shudder. I like noise and excitement, and +the babel of tongues." + +"You forget the flowers," says Lilian, triumphantly. + +"No, my dear; experience has taught me I can purchase them cheaper and +far finer than I can grow them for myself. I am a skeptic, I know," +smiling. "I will not try to convert you to my opinion." + +"Certainly I can see advantages to be gained from a town life," says +Lilian, thoughtfully, leaning her elbow on a small table near her, and +letting her chin sink into her little pink palm. "One has a larger +circle of acquaintances. Here everything is narrowed. One lives in the +house with a certain number of persons, and, whether one likes them or +the reverse, one must put up with them. There is no escape. Yes,"--with +an audible and thoroughly meant sigh,--"that is very sad." + +This little ungracious speech, though uttered in the most innocent +tone, goes home (as is intended) to Guy's heart. He conceals, however, +all chagrin, and pulls the ears of the sleepy snowball he is caressing +with an air of the calmest unconcern. + +"You mention a fact," says Mrs. Steyne, the faintest inflection of +surprise in her manner. "But you, at least, can know nothing of such +misery. Chetwoode is famous for its agreeable people, and you,--you +appear first favorite here. For the last hour I have been listening, and +I have heard only 'Lilian, look at this,' or, 'Lilian, listen to that,' +or 'Lilian, child, what was it you told me yesterday?' You seem a great +pet with every one here." + +Lilian laughs. + +"Not with every one," she says. + +"No?"--raising her straight dark brows. "Is there then an enemy in the +camp? Not Cyril, surely?" + +"Oh, no, not Cyril." + +Their voices involuntarily have sunk a little, and, though any one near +can still hear distinctly, they have all the appearance of people +carrying on a private conversation. + +"Guy?" + +Lilian is silent. Guy's face, as he still strokes the dog dreamily, has +grown haughty in the extreme. He, like Mabel, awaits her answer. + +"What?" says Mrs. Steyne, in an amused tone, evidently treating the +whole matter as a mere jest. "So you are not a pet with Guy! How +horrible! I cannot believe it. Surely Guy is not so ungallant as to have +conceived a dislike for you? Guy, do you hear this awful charge she is +bringing against you? Won't you refute it? Dear boy, how stern you +look!" + +"Do I? I was thinking of something disagreeable." + +"Of me?" puts in Lilian, _sotto voce_, with a faint laugh tinged with +bitterness. "Why should you think what I say so extraordinary? Did you +ever know a guardian like his ward, or a ward like her guardian? I +didn't--especially the latter. They always find each other _such_ a +mistake!" + +Sir Guy, raising his head, looks full at Lilian for a moment; his +expression is almost impossible to translate; then, getting up, he +crosses the room deliberately and seats himself beside Florence, who +welcomes him with one of her conventional smiles that now has something +like warmth in it. + +"I think you are a very cruel little girl," says Mrs. Steyne, gently, +not looking at Lilian, and then turns the conversation in another +channel. + +"You will stay in the country until after Christmas?" says Lilian, +somewhat hastily. + +"Yes; something has gone wrong with our steward's accounts, and Tom is +dissatisfied with him. So he has been dismissed, and we shall stay on +here until we please ourselves with another." + +"I am glad you live so near. Three miles is only a walk, after all." + +"In good weather a mere nothing, though for my own part I am not +addicted to exercise of any sort: I believe, however, Steynemore's +proximity to Chetwoode was one of my chief reasons for marrying Tom." + +"I am glad of any reason that made you do so. If you won't mind my +saying it, I will tell you I like you very much,"--with a slight blush. + +"I am very charmed to hear it," says Mrs. Steyne, heartily, whose liking +for Lilian has grown steadily: "I should be very much disappointed if +you didn't. I foresee we shall be great friends, and that you and auntie +will make me fall quite in love with Tom's native soil. +But"--naively--"you must not be unkind to poor Guy." + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + + "_Orl._--Is't possible that on so little acquaintance + You should like her? that, but seeing, + You should love her?"--_As You Like It._ + + +Four weeks have flown by swiftly, with ungracious haste,--as do all our +happiest moments,--leaving their mark behind them. In their train Taffy +has passed away from Chetwoode, and all in the house have mourned his +departure openly and sincerely. Miss Chesney for two whole days was +inconsolable, and cried her pretty eyes very nearly out; after which she +recovered, and allowed herself to find consolation in the thought that +he has promised to return to them for a fortnight at Christmas-tide. + + + "Summer was dead, and Autumn was expiring, + And infant Winter laughed upon the land + All cloudlessly and cold." + + +The men spend half their days wondering if it will be a good +hunting-season, the women are wrapt in delicious dreams of fur and +velvet. + +At The Cottage all the roses have fluttered into their graves, but in +their place a sweet flower has bloomed. Cecilia's eyes have grown +brighter, gladder, her step firmer, her cheek richer in the tint that +rivals the peach. In her calm home she has but one thought, one hope, +and that is Cyril. She has forbidden him to mention their engagement to +Lady Chetwoode, so as yet the sweet secret is all their own. + +Florence has gained a _bona fide_ admirer, Mr. Boer--after much +deliberation--having, for private reasons, decided in favor of Miss +Beauchamp and her fifteen thousand pounds. But not for Mr. Boer, however +well connected, or however fondly cherished by a rich and aged uncle, +can Miss Beauchamp bring herself to resign all hope of Guy and +Chetwoode. + +At Steynemore, Mabel and her baby are laughing the happy hours away; +though, to speak more accurately, it is at Chetwoode most of them are +spent. At least every second week they drive over there, to find their +rooms ready, and stay on well content to talk and crow at "auntie," +until the handsome head of that dearest of old ladies is fairly turned. + +Lilian has of course gone over heart and mind to Miss Steyne, who +rewards her affection by practicing upon her the most ingenious +tortures. With a craftiness terrible in one so young, she bides her +opportunity and then pulls down all her friend's golden hair; at other +times she makes frantic efforts at gouging out her eyes, tries to cut +her eye-teeth upon her slender fingers, and otherwise does all in her +power to tear her limb from limb. She also appears to find infinite +amusement in scrambling up and down Miss Chesney's unhappy knees, to the +detriment of that dainty lady's very dainty gowns, and shows symptoms of +fight when she refuses to consume all such uninviting remnants of cake +and bonbons as lie heavy on her hands. + +Altogether Lilian has a lively time of it with Mabel's heiress, who, +nevertheless, by right of her sweet witcheries and tender baby tricks, +has gained a fast hold upon her heart. + +But if Baby knows a slave in Lilian, Lilian knows a slave in some one +else. Up to this Archibald has found it impossible to tear himself away +from her loved presence; though ever since that fatal day at the Grange +he has never dared speak openly to her of his attachment. Day by day his +passion has grown stronger, although with every wind her manner toward +him seems to vary,--now kind, to-morrow cold, anon so full of +treacherous fancies and disdainful glances as to make him wonder whether +in truth it is hatred and not love for her that fills his heart to +overflowing. She is + + + "One of those pretty, precious plagues, which haunt + A lover with caprices soft and dear, + That like to make a quarrel, when they can't + Find one, each day of the delightful year; + Bewitching, torturing, as they freeze or glow, + And--what is worst of all--won't let you go." + + +Between her and Guy a silent truce has been signed. They now converse +with apparent geniality; at times they appear, to outsiders, even to +affect each other's society; but secretly they still regard each other +with distrust, and to them alone is known the frailty of the coating +that lies over their late hostility. + +It is three o'clock, and the day for a wonder is fine, all the past week +having been sullen and full of a desire to rain. Now the clouds have +disappeared, and the blue sky dotted with tiny flakes of foam-like vapor +is overhead. The air is crispy, and, though cold, full of life and +invigorating power. + +"I shall go for a walk," says Lilian, appearing suddenly in the +billiard-room, looking like a little northern fairy, so encased is she +in velvet and dark fur. Upon her yellow hair is resting the most +coquettish of fur caps, from beneath which her face smiles fairer and +fresher for its rich surroundings. The two men she addresses look up, +and let the honest admiration they feel for her beauty betray itself in +their eyes. + +Outside of the window, seated on the sill, which is some little distance +from the ground, is Archibald, smoking. Archibald, as a rule, is always +smoking. Inside is Guy, also indulging in a cigar, and disputing +volubly about some knotty point connected with guns or cartridges, or +the proper size of shot to be used for particular birds, I cannot +remember exactly what; I do remember, however, that the argument +completely falls through when Lilian makes her appearance. + +"Were there ever such lazy men?" says Miss Lilian, scornfully. "Did all +the shooting with Tom Steyne last week do you up so completely? I warned +you, if you will be pleased to recollect, that there wasn't much work in +you. Well, I am going to the wood. Who will come with me?" + +"I will," say Guy and Archibald, in a breath. And then ensues a pause. + +"_Embarras de richesses_," says Miss Chesney, with a gay laugh and a +slight elevation of her brows. "You shouldn't all speak at once. Now, +which shall I choose?" Then, impelled by the spirit of mischief that +always possesses her when in her guardian's presence, she says, "It +would be a shame to take you out, Sir Guy, would it not? You seem so +cozy here,"--glancing at the fire,--"while Archibald is evidently bent +on exercise." + +"As you please, of course," says Guy, with well-feigned indifference, +too well feigned for Miss Chesney's liking; it angers her, and awakes +within her a desire to show how little she heeds it. Her smile ripens +and rests alone on Archibald, insensibly her manner toward her cousin +takes a warmer tinge; going over to the window, she lays her hand +lightly on his shoulder, and, leaning over, looks at the ground beneath. + +"Could I get out there?" she asks, a little fearfully, though in truth +at another time she would regard with disdain the person who should tell +her she could not jump so small a distance. "It would be so much better +than going all the way round." + +"Of course you can," returns he, dropping instantly downward, and then +looking up at her; "it is no height at all." + +"It looks high from here, does it not?" still doubtful. "I should +perhaps break my neck if I tried to jump it. No," regretfully, "I must +go round, unless, indeed,"--with another soft glance meant for Guy's +discomfiture, and that alas! does terrible damage to Archibald's +heart,--"you think you could take me down." + +"I know I could," replies he, eagerly. + +"You are sure?" hesitating. "I am very heavy, mind." + +Archibald laughs and holds out his arms, and in another moment has taken +her, slender fairy that she is, and deposited her safely on the ground. + +Sir Guy, who has been an unwilling though fascinated spectator of this +scene, grows pale and turns abruptly aside as Archibald and Lilian, +laughing gayly, disappear into the shrubberies beyond. + +But once out of sight of the billiard-room windows, Miss Chesney's +gayety cruelly deserts her. She is angry with Guy for reasons she would +rather die than acknowledge even to herself, and she is indignant with +Archibald for reasons she would be puzzled to explain at all, while +hating herself for what she is pleased to term her frivolity, such as +jumping out of windows as though she were still a child, and instead of +being a full-grown young woman! What must Gu----what would any one think +of her? + +"It was awfully good of you to choose me," says Archibald, after a few +minutes, feeling foolishly elated at his success. + +"For what?" coldly. + +"For a walk." + +"Did I choose you?" asks Lilian, in a tone that should have warned so +worldly-wise a young man as Chesney. He, however, fails to be warned, +and rushes wildly on his destruction. + +"I thought so," returns he, growing perplexed: "Chetwoode was quite as +anxious to accompany you as I was, and you decided in my favor." + +"Simply because you were outside the window, and looked more like moving +than he did." + +"He was considerably sold for all that," says this foolish Archibald, +with an idiotic laugh, that under the circumstances is madness. Miss +Chesney freezes. + +"Sold? how?" she asks, with a suspicious thirst for knowledge. "I don't +understand." + +The continued iciness of her tone troubles Archibald. + +"You seem determined not to understand," he says, huffily. "I only mean +he would have given a good deal to go with you, until you showed him +plainly you didn't want him." + +"I never meant to show him anything of the kind. You quite mistake." + +"Do I?" with increasing wrath. "Well, I think when a woman tells a +fellow she thinks it would be a pity to disturb him, it comes to very +much the same thing in the end. At all events, Chetwoode took it in that +light." + +"How silly you can be at times, Archibald!" says Lilian, promptly: "I +really wish you would not take up such absurd notions. Sir Guy did _not_ +look at it in that light; he knows perfectly well I detest long walks, +and that I seldom go for one, so he did not press the point. And in fact +I think I shall change my mind now: walking is such a bore, is it not?" + +"Are you not coming then?" stopping short, and growing black with rage: +"you don't seem to know your own mind for two minutes together, or else +you are trying to provoke me! First you ask me to go to the wood with +you, and now you say you will not go. What am I to think of it?" + +"I wouldn't be rude, if I were you," says Miss Chesney, calmly, "and I +wouldn't lose my temper. You make me absolutely uncomfortable when you +let that wicked look grow upon your face. One would think you would like +to murder me. Do try to be amiable! And as for trying to provoke you, I +should not take the trouble! No, I shall not go with you now, certainly: +I shall go with Cyril," pointing to where Cyril is sauntering toward the +entrance to the wood at some short distance from them. + +Without waiting to address another word to the discomfited Archibald, +she runs to Cyril and slips her hand within his arm. + +"Will you take me with you wherever you are going?" she says, smiling +confidently up into his face. + +"What a foolish question! of course I am only too glad to get so dear a +little companion," replies he, smothering a sigh very successfully; +though, to be honest, he is hardly enraptured at the thought of having +Lilian's (or any one's) society just now. Nevertheless he buries his +chagrin, and is eminently agreeable to her as they stroll leisurely in +the direction of The Cottage. + +When they come up to it Lilian pauses. + +"I wish this wonderful goddess would come out. I want to see her quite +close," she says, peeping through the hedge. "At a distance she is +beautiful: I am always wondering whether 'distance lends enchantment to +the view.'" + +"No, it does not," absently. He is looking over the hedge. + +"You seem to know all about it," archly: "shall I ask how? What lovely +red berries!" suddenly attracted by some coloring a few yards away from +her. "Do you see? Wait until I get some." + +Springing on to a bank, she draws down to her some bunches of +mountain-ash berry, that glow like live coals in the fading greenery +around them, and having detached her prize from the parent stem, +prepares to rejoin her companion, who is somewhat distant. + +"Why did you not ask me to get them for you?" he asks, rousing himself +from his reverie: "how precipitate you always are! Take care, child: +that bank is steep." + +"But I am a sure-footed little deer," says Miss Chesney, with a saucy +shake of her pretty head, and, as she speaks, jumps boldly forward. + +A moment later, as she touches the ground, she staggers, her right ankle +refuses to support her, she utters a slight groan, and sinks helplessly +to the ground. + +"You have hurt yourself," exclaims Cyril, kneeling beside her. "What is +it, Lilian? Is it your foot?" + +"I think so," faintly: "it seems twisted. I don't know how it happened, +but it pains me terribly. Just there all the agony seems to rest. Ah!" +as another dart of anguish shoots through the injured ankle. + +"My dear girl, what shall I do for you? Why on earth did you not take my +advice?" exclaims Cyril, in a distracted tone. A woman's grief, a +woman's tears, always unman him. + +"Don't say you told me how it would be," murmurs Lilian, with a ghastly +attempt at a smile that dies away in another moan. "It would be adding +insult to injury. No, do not stir me: do not; I cannot bear it. Oh, +Cyril, I think my ankle is broken." + +With this she grows a little paler, and draws her breath with a sharp +sound, then whiter, whiter still, until at last her head sinks heavily +upon Cyril's supporting arm, and he finds she has fallen into a deep +swoon. + +More frightened than he cares to allow, Cyril raises her in his arms +and, without a moment's thought, conveys his slight burden straight to +The Cottage. + +Cecilia, who from an upper window has seen him coming with his strange +encumbrance, runs down to meet him at the door, her face full of +anxiety. + +"What is it?" she asks, breathlessly, bending over Lilian, who is still +fainting. "Poor child! how white she is!" + +"It is Lilian Chesney. She has sprained her foot, I think," says Cyril, +who is white too with concern: "will you take her in while I go for a +carriage?" + +"Of course. Oh, make haste: her lips are quivering. I am sure she is +suffering great agony. Bring her this way--or--no--shall I lay her on my +bed?" + +"The drawing-room sofa will do very well," going in and laying her on +it. "Will you see to her? and give her some brandy and--and that." + +"Yes, yes. Now go quickly, and send a messenger for Dr. Bland, while you +bring the carriage here. How pretty she is! what lovely hair! Poor +little thing! Go, Cyril, and don't be long." + +When he has disappeared, Mrs. Arlington summons Kate, and together they +cut the boot off Lilian's injured foot, remove the dainty little silk +stocking, and do for her all that can be done until the doctor sees her. +After which, with the help of eau de Cologne, and some brandy, they +succeed in bringing her to life once more. + +"What has happened?" she asks, languidly, raising her hand to her head. + +"Are you better now?" Mrs. Arlington asks, in return, stooping kindly +over her. + +"Yes, thank you, much better," gazing at her with some surprise: "it was +stupid of me to faint. But"--still rather dazed--"where am I?" + +"At The Cottage. Mr. Chetwoode brought you here." + +"And you are Mrs. Arlington?" with a slight smile. + +"Yes," smiling in return. "Kate, put a little water into that brandy, +and give it to Miss Chesney." + +"Please do not, Kate," says Lilian, in her pretty friendly fashion: "I +hate brandy. If"--courteously--"I may have some sherry instead, I should +like it." + +Having drunk the sherry, she sits up and looks quietly around her. + +The room is a little gem in its own way, and suggestive of refinement of +taste and much delicacy in the art of coloring. Between the +softly-tinted pictures that hang upon the walls, rare bits of Worcester +and Wedgwood fight for mastery. Pretty lounging-chairs covered with blue +satin are dispersed here and there, while cozy couches peep out from +every recess. _Bric-a-brac_ of all kinds covers the small velvet tables, +that are hung with priceless lace that only half conceals the spindle +legs beneath. Exquisite little marble Loves and Venuses and Graces smile +and pose upon graceful brackets; upon a distant table two charming +Dresden baskets are to be seen smothered in late flowers. All is bright, +pretty, and artistic. + +"What a charming room!" says Lilian, with involuntary, and therefore +flattering admiration. + +"You like it? I fear it must look insignificant to you after Chetwoode." + +"On the contrary, it is a relief. There, everything is heavy though +handsome, as is the way in all old houses; here, everything is bright +and gay. I like it so much, and you too if you will let me say so," says +Lilian, holding out her hand, feeling already enslaved by the beauty of +the tender, lovely face looking so kindly into hers. "I have wanted to +know you so long, but we knew"--hesitating--"you wished to be quiet." + +"Yes, so I did when first I came here; but time and solitude have taught +me many things. For instance,"--coloring faintly,--"I should be very +glad to know you; I feel sadly stupid now and then." + +"I am glad to hear you say so; I simply detest my own society," says +Miss Chesney, with much vivacity, in spite of the foot. "But,"--with a +rueful glance at the bandaged member,--"I little thought I should make +your acquaintance in this way. I have given you terrible trouble, have I +not?" + +"No, indeed, you must not say so. I believe"--laughing,--"I have been +only too glad, in spite of my former desire for privacy, to see some one +from the outer world again. Your hair has come down. Shall I fasten it +up again for you?" Hardly waiting an answer, she takes Lilian's hair and +binds and twists it into its usual soft knot behind her head, admiring +it as she does so. "How soft it is, and how long, and such a delicious +color, like spun silk! I have always envied people with golden hair. Ah, +here is the carriage: I hope the drive home will not hurt you very much. +She is ready now, Mr. Chetwoode, and I think she looks a little better." + +"I should be ungrateful otherwise," says Lilian. "Mrs. Arlington has +been so kind to me, Cyril." + +"I am sure of that," replies he, casting a curious glance at Cecilia +that rather puzzles Lilian, until, turning her eyes upon Cecilia, she +sees what a pretty pink flush has stolen into her cheeks. Then the truth +all at once flashes upon her, and renders her rather silent, while Cyril +and Mrs. Arlington are making the carriage more comfortable for her. + +"Come," says Cyril, at length taking her in his arms. "Don't be +frightened; I will hurt you as little as I can help." He lifts her +tenderly, but the movement causes pain, and a touch of agony turns her +face white again. She is not a hero where suffering is concerned. + +"Oh, Cyril, be careful," says Mrs. Arlington, fearfully, quite +unconscious in her concern for Lilian's comfort that she has used the +Christian name of her lover. + +When Lilian is at length settled in the carriage, she raises herself to +stoop out and take Cecilia's hand. + +"Good-bye, and thank you again so much," she says, earnestly. "And when +I am well may I come and see you?" + +"You may, indeed,"--warmly. "I shall be anxiously expecting you; I shall +now"--with a gentle glance from her loving gray eyes--"have a double +reason for wishing you soon well." + +Moved by a sudden impulse, Lilian leans forward, and the two women as +their lips meet seal a bond of friendship that lasts them all their +lives. + +For some time after they have left Cecilia's bower Lilian keeps silence, +then all at once she says to Cyril, in tones of the liveliest reproach: + +"I wouldn't have believed it of you." + +"Would you not?" replies he, somewhat startled by this extraordinary +address, being plunged in meditation of his own. "You don't say so! But +what is it then you can't believe?" + +"I think"--with keen upbraiding--"you might have told _me_." + +"So I should, my dear, instantly, if I only knew what it was," growing +more and more bewildered. "If you don't want to bring on brain-fever, my +good Lilian, you will explain what you mean." + +"You must have guessed what a treat a _real_ love-affair would be to +me, who never knew a single instance of one," says Lilian, "and yet you +meanly kept it from me." + +"Kept what?" innocently, though he has the grace to color hotly. + +"Don't be deceitful, Cyril, whatever you are. I say it was downright +unkind to leave me in ignorance of the fact that all this time there was +a real, unmistakable, _bona fide_ lover near me, close to me, at my +_very elbow_, as one might say." + +"I know I am happy enough to be at your elbow just now," says Cyril, +humbly, "but, to confess the truth, I never yet dared to permit myself +to look upon you openly with lover's eyes. I am still at a loss to know +how you discovered the all-absorbing passion that I--that _any one_ +fortunate enough to know you--must feel for you." + +"Don't be a goose," says Miss Chesney, with immeasurable scorn. "Don't +you think I have wit enough to see you are head over ears in love with +that charming, beautiful creature down there in The Cottage? I don't +wonder at that: I only wonder why you did not tell me of it when we were +such good friends." + +"Are you quite sure I had anything to tell you?" + +"Quite; I have eyes and I have ears. Did I not see how you looked at +her, and how she blushed all up to the roots of her soft hair when you +did so? and when you were placing me in the carriage she said, 'Oh, +Cyril!' and what was the meaning of that, Master Chetwoode, eh? She is +the prettiest woman I ever saw," says Lilian, enthusiastically. "To see +her is indeed to love her. I hope _you_ love her properly, with all your +heart?" + +"I do," says Cyril, simply. "I sometimes think, Lilian, it cannot be for +one's happiness to love as I do." + +"Oh, this is delightful!" cries Lilian, clapping her hands. "I am glad +you are in earnest about it; and I am glad you are both so good-looking. +I don't think ugly people ought to fall in love: they quite destroy the +romance of the whole thing." + +"Thanks awfully," says Cyril. "I shall begin to hold up my head now you +have said a word in my favor. But,"--growing serious--"you really like +her, Lilian? How can you be sure you do after so short an acquaintance?" + +"I always like a person at once or not at all. I cannot explain why; it +is a sort of instinct. Florence I detested at first sight; your Mrs. +Arlington I love. What is her name?" + +"Cecilia." + +"A pretty name, and suited to her: with her tender beautiful face she +looks a saint. You are very fortunate, Cyril: something tells me you +cannot fail to be happy, having gained the love of such a woman." + +"Dear little sibyl," says Cyril, lifting one of her hands to his lips, +"I thank you for your prophecy. It does me good only to hear you say +so." + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + + "As on her couch of pain a child was lying."--_Song._ + + +Lilian's injury turns out to be not only a sprain, but a very bad one, +and strict quiet and rest for the sufferer are enjoined by the fat +little family doctor. So for several days she lies supine and obedient +upon a sofa in Lady Chetwoode's boudoir, and makes no moan even when +King Bore with all his horrible train comes swooping down upon her. He +is in greatest force at such times as when all the others are +down-stairs dining and she is (however regretfully) left to her own +devices. The servants passing to and fro with dishes sometimes leave the +doors open, and then the sound of merry voices and laughter, that seems +more frequent because she is at a distance and cannot guess the cause of +their merriment, steals up to her, as she lies dolefully upon her +pillows with her hands clasped behind her sunny head. + +When four days of penance have so passed, Lilian grows _triste_, then +argumentative, then downright irritable, distracting Lady Chetwoode by +asking her perpetually, with tears in her eyes, when she thinks she will +be well. "She is so tired of lying down. Her foot must be nearly well +now. It does not hurt her nearly so much. She is sure, if she might only +use it a little now and then, it would be well in half the time," and so +on. + +At last, when a week has dragged itself to a close, Lilian turns her +cajoleries upon the doctor, who is her sworn vassal, and coaxes and +worries him into letting her go down-stairs, if only to dine. + +"Eh? So soon pining for freedom? Why, bless me, you have been only two +or three days laid up." + +"Six long, _long_ days, dear doctor." + +"And now you would run the risk of undoing all my work. I cannot let you +put your foot to the ground for a long time yet. Well,"--softened by a +beseeching glance,--"if you must go down I suppose you must; but no +walking, mind! If I catch you walking I shall put you into irons and +solitary confinement for a month. I dare say, Lady Chetwoode,"--smiling +archly down upon Miss Chesney's slight figure,--"there will be some +young gentleman to be found in the house not only able but willing to +carry to the dining-room so fair a burden!" + +"We shall be able to manage that easily. And it will be far pleasanter +for her to be with us all in the evening. Guy, or her cousin Mr. +Chesney, can carry her down." + +"I think, auntie," speaking very slowly, "I should prefer Archibald." + +"Eh! eh! you hear, madam, she prefers Archibald,--happy Archibald!" +cackles the little doctor, merrily, being immensely tickled at his own +joke. + +"Archibald Chesney is her cousin," replies Lady Chetwoode, with a sigh, +gazing rather wistfully at the girl's flushed, averted face. + +So Lilian gains the day, and Sir Guy coming into his mother's boudoir +half an hour later is told the glad news. + +"Dr. Bland thinks her so much better," Lady Chetwoode tells him. "But +she is not to let her foot touch the ground; so you must be careful, +darling," to Lilian. "Will you stay with her a little while, Guy? I must +go and write some letters." + +"I shan't be in the least lonely by myself, auntie," says Lilian, +smoothly, letting her fingers stray meaningly to the magazine beside +her; yet in spite of this chilling remark Sir Guy lingers. He has taken +up his station on the hearth-rug and is standing with his back to the +fire, his arms crossed behind him, and instead of seeking to amuse his +wounded ward is apparently sunk in reverie. Suddenly, after a protracted +silence on both sides, he raises his head, and regarding her earnestly, +says: + +"May I take you down to dinner to-night, Lilian?" + +"Thank you," formally: "it is very kind of you to offer, Sir Guy. But +Archie was here a moment ago, and he has promised to take that trouble +upon himself." Then, in a low but perfectly distinct tone, "I can trust +Archie!" + +Although no more is said, Guy thoroughly understands her thoughts have +traveled backward to that one unlucky night when, through a kiss, he +sinned past all chance of pardon. As his own mind follows hers, the dark +color mounts slowly to his very brow. + +"Am I never to be forgiven for that one offense?" he asks, going up to +her couch and looking gravely down upon her. + +"I have forgiven, but unhappily I cannot forget," returns she, gently, +without letting her eyes meet his. Then, with an air of deliberation, +she raises her magazine, and he leaves the room. + +So Sir Guy retires from the contest, and Archibald is elected to the +coveted position of carrier to her capricious majesty, and this very +night, to her great joy, brings her tenderly, carefully, to the +dining-room, where a sofa has been prepared for her reception. + +It so happens that three days later Archibald is summoned to London on +business, and departs, leaving with Lilian his faithful promise to be +back in time to perform his evening duty toward her. + +But man's proposals, as we know, are not always carried out, and +Chesney's fall lamentably short; as just at seven o'clock a telegram +arriving for Lady Chetwoode tells her he has been unexpectedly detained +in town by urgent matters, and cannot by any possibility get home till +next day. + +Cyril is dining with some bachelor friends near Truston: so Lady +Chetwoode, who is always thoughtful, bethinks her there is no one to +bring Lilian down to dinner except Guy. This certainly, for some inward +reason, troubles her. She sighs a little as she remembers Lilian's +marked preference for Chesney's assistance, then she turns to her +maid--the telegram has reached her as she is dressing for dinner--and +says to her: + +"A telegram from Mr. Chesney: he cannot be home to dinner. My hair will +do very well. Hardy: go and tell Sir Guy he need not expect him." + +Hardy, going, meets Sir Guy in the hall below, and imparts her +information. + +Naturally enough, he too thinks first of Lilian. Much as it displeases +his pride, he knows he must in common courtesy again offer her his +rejected services. There is bitterness in the thought, and perhaps a +little happiness also, as he draws his breath rather quickly, and +angrily suppresses a half smile as it curls about his lips. To ask her +again, to be again perhaps refused! He gazes irresolutely at the +staircase, and then, with a secret protest against his own weakness, +mounts it. + +The second dinner-bell has already sounded: there is no time for further +deliberation. Going reluctantly up-stairs, he seeks with slow and +lingering footsteps his mother's boudoir. + +The room is unlit, save by the glorious fire, half wood, half coal, that +crackles and laughs and leaps in the joy of its own fast living. Upon a +couch close to it, bathed in its warm flames, lies the little slender +black-robed figure so inexpressibly dear to him. She is so motionless +that but for her wide eyes, gazing so earnestly into the fire, one might +imagine her wrapt in slumber. Her left arm is thrown upward so that her +head rests upon it, the other hangs listlessly downward, almost touching +the carpet beneath her. + +She looks pale, but lovely. Her golden hair shines richly against the +crimson satin of the cushion on which she leans. As Guy approaches her +she never raises her eyes, although without doubt she sees him. Even +when he stands beside her and gazes down upon her, wrathful at her +insolent disregard, she never pretends to be aware of his near presence. + +"Dinner will be ready in three minutes," he says, coldly: "do you intend +coming down to-night?" + +"Certainly. I am waiting for my cousin," she answers, with her eyes +still fixed upon the fire. + +"I am sorry to be the conveyer of news that must necessarily cause you +disappointment. My mother has had a telegram from Chesney saying he +cannot be home until to-morrow. Business detains him." + +"He promised me he would return in time for dinner," she says, turning +toward him at last, and speaking doubtfully. + +"No doubt he is more upset than you can be at his unintended defection. +But it is the case for all that. He will not be home to-night." + +"Well, I suppose he could not help it." + +"I am positive he couldn't!" coldly. + +"You have great faith in him," with an unpleasant little smile. "Thank +you, Sir Guy: it was very kind of you to bring me such disagreeable +news." As she ceases speaking she turns back again to the contemplation +of the fire, as though desirous of giving him his _conge_. + +"I can hardly say I came to inform you of your cousin's movements," +replies he, haughtily; "rather to ask you if you will accept my aid to +get down-stairs?" + +"Yours!" + +"Even mine." + +"No, thank you," with slow surprise, as though she yet doubts the fact +of his having again dared to offer his services: "I would not trouble +you for worlds!" + +"The trouble is slight," he answers, with an expressive glance at the +fragile figure below him. + +"But yet a trouble! Do not distress yourself, Sir Guy: Parkins will help +me, if you will be so kind as to desire him." + +"Your nurse"--hastily--"would be able, I dare say." + +"Oh, no. I can't bear trusting myself to women. I am an arrant coward. I +always think they are going to trip, or let me drop, at every corner." + +"Then why refuse my aid?" he says, even at the price of his +self-respect. + +"No; I prefer Parkins!" + +"Oh, if you prefer the assistance of a _footman_, there is nothing more +to be said," he exclaims, angrily, going toward the door much offended, +and with just a touch of disgust in his tone. + +Now, Miss Chesney does not prefer the assistance of a footman; in fact, +she would prefer solitude and a lonely dinner rather than trust herself +to such a one; so she pockets her pride, and, seeing Sir Guy almost +outside the door, raises herself on her elbow and says, pettishly, and +with the most flagrant injustice: + +"Of course I can stay here all by myself in the dark, if there is no one +to take me down." + +"I wish I understood you," says Guy, irritably, coming back into the +room. "Do you mean you wish me to carry you down? I am quite willing to +do so, though I wish with all my heart your cousin were here to take my +place. It would evidently be much pleasanter for all parties. +Nevertheless, if you deign to accept my aid," proudly, "I shall neither +trip nor drop you, I promise." + +There is a superciliousness in his manner that vexes Lilian; but, having +an innate horror of solitude, go down she will: so she says, cuttingly: + +"You are graciousness itself! you give me plainly to understand how +irksome is this duty to you. I too wish Archie were here, for many +reasons, but as it is----" she pauses abruptly; and Guy, stooping, +raises her quietly, tenderly, in his arms, and, with the angry scowl +upon his face and the hauteur still within his usually kind blue eyes, +begins his march down-stairs. + +It is rather a long march to commence, with a young woman, however +slender, in one's arms. First comes the corridor, which is of a goodly +length, and after it the endless picture-gallery. Almost as they enter +the latter, a little nail half hidden in the doorway catches in Lilian's +gown, and, dragging it roughly, somehow hurts her foot. The pain she +suffers causes her to give way to a sharp cry, whereupon Guy stops +short, full of anxiety. + +"You are in pain?" he says, gazing eagerly into the face so close to his +own. + +"My foot," she answers, her eyes wet with tears; "something dragged it: +oh, how it hurts! And you promised me to be so careful, and now----but I +dare say you are _glad_ I am punished," she winds up, vehemently, and +then bursts out crying, partly through pain, partly through nervousness +and a good deal of self-torturing thought long suppressed, and hides her +face childishly against his sleeve because she has nowhere else to hide +it. "Lay me down," she says, faintly. + +There is a lounging-chair close to the fire that always burns brightly +in the long gallery: placing her in it, he stands a little aloof, +cursing his own ill-luck, and wondering what he has done to make her +hate him so bitterly. Her tears madden him. Every fresh sob tears his +heart. At last, unable to bear the mental agony any longer, he kneels +down beside her, and, with an aspect of the deepest respect, takes one +of her hands in his. + +"I am very unfortunate," he says, humbly. "Is it hurting you very much?" + +"It is better now," she whispers; but for all that she sobs on very +successfully behind her handkerchief. + +"You are not the only one in pain,"--speaking gently but earnestly: +"every sob of yours causes me absolute torture." + +This speech has no effect except to make her cry again harder than ever. +It is so sweet to a woman to know a man is suffering tortures for her +sake. + +A little soft lock of her hair has shaken itself loose, and has wandered +across her forehead. Almost unconsciously but very lovingly, he moves it +back into its proper place. + +"What have I done, Lilian, that you should so soon have learned to hate +me?" he whispers: "we used to be good friends." + +"So long ago"--in stifled tones from behind the handkerchief--"that I +have almost forgotten it." + +"Not so very long. A few weeks at the utmost,--before your cousin came." + +"Yes,"--with a sigh,--"before my cousin came." + +"That is only idle recrimination. I know I once erred deeply, but surely +I have repented, and---- Tell me why you hate me." + +"I cannot." + +"Why?" + +"Because I don't know myself." + +"What! you confess you hate me without cause?" + +"That is not it." + +"What then?" + +"How can I tell you," she says, impatiently, "when I know I don't hate +you _at all_?" + +"Lilian, is that true?" taking away the handkerchief gently but forcibly +that he may see her face, which after all is not nearly so tear-stained +as it should be, considering all the heart-rending sobs to which he has +been listening. "Are you sure? am I not really distasteful to you? +Perhaps even,"--with an accession of hope, seeing she does not turn from +him,--"you like me a little, still?" + +"When you are good,"--with an airy laugh and a slight pout--"I do a +_little_. Yes,"--seeing him glance longingly at her hand,--"you may kiss +it, and then we shall be friends again, for to-night at least. Now do +take me down, Sir Guy: if we stay here much longer I shall be seeing +bogies in all the corners. Already your ancestors seem to be frowning at +me, and a more dark and blood-thirsty set of relatives I never saw. I +hope you won't turn out as bad to look at in your old age." + +"It all depends. When we are happy we are generally virtuous. Misery +creates vice." + +"What a sententious speech!" He has taken up his fair burden again, and +they are now (very slowly, I must say) descending the stairs. "Now here +comes a curve," she says, with a return of all her old sauciness: +"please do not drop me." + +"I have half a mind to," laughing. "Suppose, now, I let you fall +cleverly over these banisters on to the stone flooring beneath, I should +save myself from many a flout and many a scornful speech, and rid myself +forever of a troublesome little ward." + +Leaning her head rather backward, she looks up into his face and smiles +one of her sweetest, tenderest smiles. + +"I am not afraid of you now, Guardy," she murmurs, softly; whereat his +foolish heart beats madly. The old friendly appellation, coming so +unexpectedly from her, touches him deeply: it is with difficulty he +keeps himself from straining her to his heart and pressing his lips upon +the beautiful childish mouth upheld to him. He has had his lesson, +however, and refrains. + +He is still regarding her with unmistakable admiration, when Miss +Beauchamp's voice from the landing above startles them both, and makes +them feel, though why they scarcely know, partners in guilt. + +There is a metallic ring in it that strikes upon the ear, and suggests +all sorts of lady-like disgust and condemnation. + +"I am sure, Guy, if Lilian's foot be as bad as she says it is, she would +feel more comfortable lying on a sofa. Are you going to pose there all +the evening for the benefit of the servants? I think it is hardly good +taste of you to keep her in your arms upon the public staircase, +whatever you may do in private." + +The last words are uttered in a rather lower tone, but are still +distinctly audible. Lilian blushes a slow and painful red, and Sir Guy, +giving way to a naughty word that is also distinctly audible, carries +her down instantly to the dining-room. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + + "For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; + Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds. + + * * * * * + + This thought is as a death."--SHAKESPEARE. + + +The next day is dark and lowering, to Lilian's great joy, who, now she +is prevented by lameness from going for one of her loved rambles, finds +infinite satisfaction in the thought that even were she quite well, it +would be impossible for her to stir out of doors. According to her mode +of arguing, this is one day not lost. + +About two o'clock Archibald returns, in time for luncheon, and to resume +his care of Lilian, who gives him a gentle scolding for his desertion of +her in her need. He is full of information about town and their mutual +friends there, and imparts it freely. + +"Everything is as melancholy up there as it can be," he says, "and very +few men to be seen: the clubs are deserted, all shooting or hunting, no +doubt. The rain was falling in torrents all the day." + +"Poor Archie, you have been having a bad time of it, I fear." + +"In spite of the weather and her ruddy locks, Lady Belle Damascene has +secured the prize of the season, out of season. She is engaged to Lord +Wyntermere: it is not yet publicly announced, but I called to see her +mother for five minutes, and so great was her exultation she could not +refrain from whispering the delightful intelligence into my ear. Lady +Belle is staying with his people now in Sussex." + +"Certainly, 'beauty is in the eye of the beholder.' She is painfully +ugly," says Miss Beauchamp. "Such feet, such hands, and such a shocking +complexion!" + +"She is very kind-hearted and amiable," says Cyril. + +"That is what is always said of a plain woman," retorts Florence. "When +you hear a girl is amiable, always conclude she is hideous. When one's +trumpeter is in despair, he says that." + +"I am sure Lord Wyntermere must be a young man of good sound sense," +says Lilian, who never agrees with Florence. "If she has a kind heart +he will never be disappointed in her. And, after all, there is no such +great advantage to be derived from beauty. When people are married for +four or five years, I dare say they quite forget whether the partner of +their joys and sorrows was originally lovely or the reverse: custom +deadens perception." + +"It is better to be good than beautiful," says Lady Chetwoode, who +abhors ugly women: "you know what Carew says: + + + "But a smooth and steadfast mind, + Gentle thoughts and calm desires, + Hearts with equal love combined, + Kindle never-dying fires; + Where these are not, I despise + Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes." + + +"Well done, Madre," says Cyril. "You are coming out. I had no idea you +were so gifted. Your delivery is perfect." + +"And what are you all talking about?" continues Lady Chetwoode: "I think +Belle Damascene very sweet to look at. In spite of her red hair, and a +good many freckles, and--and--a rather short nose, her expression is +very lovable: when she smiles I always feel inclined to kiss her. She is +like her mother, who is one of the best women I know." + +"If you encourage my mother she will end by telling you Lady Belle is a +beauty and a reigning toast," says Guy, _sotto voce_. + +Lady Chetwoode laughs, and Lilian says: + +"What is every one wearing now, Archie?" + +"There is nobody to wear anything. For the rest they had all on some +soft, shiny stuff like the dress you wore the night before last." + +"What an accurate memory you have!" says Florence, letting her eyes rest +on Guy's for a moment, though addressing Chesney. + +"Satin," translates Lilian, unmoved. "And their bonnets?" + +"Oh, yes! they all wore bonnets or hats, I don't know which," vaguely. + +"Naturally; mantillas are not yet in vogue. You are better than 'Le +Follet,' Archie; your answers are so satisfactory. Did you meet any one +we know?" + +"Hardly any one. By the bye,"--turning curiously to Sir Guy,--"was +Trant here to-day?" + +"No," surprised: "why do you ask?" + +"Because I met him at Truston this morning. He got out of the train by +which I went on,--it seems he has been staying with the Bulstrodes,--and +I fancied he was coming on here, but had not time to question him, as I +barely caught the train; another minute's delay and I should have been +late." + +Archibald rambles on about his near escape of being late for the train, +while his last words sink deep into the minds of Guy and Cyril. The +former grows singularly silent; a depressed expression gains upon his +face. Cyril, on the contrary, becomes feverishly gay, and with his mad +observations makes merry Lilian laugh heartily. + +But when luncheon is over and they all disperse, a gloom falls upon him: +his features contract; doubt and a terrible suspicion, augmented by +slanderous tales that forever seem to be poured into his ears, make +havoc of the naturally kind expression that characterizes his face, and +with a stifled sigh he turns and walks toward the billiard-room. + +Guy follows him. As Cyril enters the doorway, he enters too, and, +closing the door softly, lays his hand upon his shoulder. + +"You heard, Cyril?" he says, with exceeding gentleness. + +"Heard what?" turning somewhat savagely upon him. + +"My dear fellow,"--affectionate entreaty in his tone,--"do not be +offended with me. Will you not listen, Cyril? It is very painful to me +to speak, but how can I see my brother so--so shamefully taken in +without uttering a word of warning." + +"If you were less tragic and a little more explicit it might help +matters," replies Cyril, with a sneer and a short unpleasant laugh. "Do +speak plainly." + +"I will, then,"--desperately,--"since you desire it. There is more +between Trant and Mrs. Arlington than we know of. I do not speak without +knowledge. From several different sources I have heard the same +story,--of his infatuation for some woman, and of his having taken a +house for her in some remote spot. No names were mentioned, mind; but, +from what I have unwillingly listened to it is impossible not to connect +these evil whispers that are afloat with him and her. Why does he come +so often to the neighborhood and yet never dare to present himself at +Chetwoode?" + +"And you believe Trant capable of so far abusing the rights of +friendship as to ask you--_you_--to supply the house in the remote +spot?" + +"Unfortunately, I must." + +"You are speaking of your friend,"--with a bitter sneer,--"and you can +coldly accuse him of committing so blackguardly an action?" + +"If all I have heard be true (and I have no reason to doubt it), he is +no longer any friend of mine," says Guy, haughtily. "I shall settle with +him later on when I have clearer evidence; in the meantime it almost +drives me mad to think he should have dared to bring down here, so close +to my mother, his----" + +"What?" cries Cyril, fiercely, thrusting his brother from him with +passionate violence. "What is it you would say? Take care, Guy; take +care: you have gone too far already. From whom, pray, have you learned +your infamous story?" + +"I beg your pardon," Guy says, gently, extreme regret visible in his +countenance. "I should not have spoken so, under the circumstances. It +was not from one alone, but from several, I heard what I now tell +you,--though I must again remind you that no names were mentioned; +still, I could not help drawing my own conclusions." + +"They lied!" returns Cyril, passionately, losing his head. "You may tell +them so for me. And you,"--half choking,--"you lie too when you repeat +such vile slanders." + +"It is useless to argue with you," Guy says, coldly, the blood mounting +hotly to his forehead at Cyril's insulting words, while his expression +grows stern and impenetrable. "I waste time. Yet this last word I will +say: Go down to The Cottage--now--this moment--and convince yourself of +the truth of what I have said." + +He turns angrily away: while Cyril, half mad with indignation and +unacknowledged fear, follows this final piece of advice, and almost +unconsciously leaving the house, takes the wonted direction, and hardly +draws breath until the trim hedges and pretty rustic gates of The +Cottage are in view. + +The day is showery, threatening since dawn, and now the rain is falling +thickly, though he heeds it not at all. + +As with laggard steps he draws still nearer the abode of her he loves +yet does not wholly trust, the sound of voices smites upon his ear. He +is standing upon the very spot--somewhat elevated--that overlooks the +arbor where so long ago Miss Beauchamp stood and learned his +acquaintance with Mrs. Arlington. Here now he too stays his steps and +gazes spell-bound upon what he sees before him. + +In the arbor, with his back turned to Cyril, is a man, tall, elderly, +with an iron-gray moustache. Though not strictly handsome, he has a fine +and very military bearing, and a figure quite unmistakable to one who +knows him: with a sickly chill at his heart, Cyril acknowledges him to +be Colonel Trant. + +Cecilia is beside him. She is weeping bitterly, but quietly, and with +one hand conceals her face with her handkerchief. The other is fast +imprisoned in both of Trant's. + +A film settles upon Cyril's eyes, a dull faintness overpowers him, +involuntarily he places one hand upon the trunk of a near elm to steady +himself; yet through the semi-darkness, the strange, unreal feeling that +possesses him, the voices still reach him cruelly distinct. + +"Do not grieve so terribly: it breaks my heart to see you, darling, +_darling_," says Trant, in a low, impassioned tone, and raising the hand +he holds, presses his lips to it tenderly. The slender white fingers +tremble perceptibly under the caress, and then Cecilia says, in a voice +hardly audible through her tears: + +"I am so unhappy! it is all my fault; knowing you loved me, I should +have told you before of----" + +But her voice breaks the spell: Cyril, as it meets his ears, rouses +himself with a start. Not once again does he even glance in her +direction, but with a muttered curse at his own folly, turns and goes +swiftly homeward. + +A very frenzy of despair and disappointment rages within him: to have so +loved,--to be so foully betrayed! Her tears, her sorrow (connected no +doubt with some early passages between her and Trant), because of their +very poignancy, only render him the more furious. + +On reaching Chetwoode he shuts himself into his own room, and, feigning +an excuse, keeps himself apart from the rest of the household all the +remainder of the evening and the night. "Knowing you loved me,"--the +words ring in his ears. Ay, she knew it,--who should know it +better?--but had carefully kept back all mention of the fact when +pressed by him, Cyril, upon the subject. All the world knew what he, +poor fool, had been the last to discover. And what was it her tender +conscience was accusing her of not having told Trant before?--of her +flirtation, as no doubt she mildly termed all the tender looks and +speeches, and clinging kisses, and loving protestations so freely +bestowed upon Cyril,--of her flirtation, no doubt. + +The next morning, after a sleepless night, he starts for London, and +there spends three reckless, miserable days that leave him wan and aged +through reason of the conflict he is waging with himself. After which a +mad desire to see again the cause of all his misery, to openly accuse +her of her treachery, to declare to her all the irreparable mischief she +has done, the utter ruin she has made of his life, seizes hold upon him, +and, leaving the great city, and reaching Truston, he goes straight from +the station to The Cottage once so dear. + +In her garden Cecilia is standing all alone. The wind is sighing +plaintively through the trees that arch above her head, the thousand +dying leaves are fluttering to her feet. There is a sense of decay and +melancholy in all around that harmonizes exquisitely with the dejection +of her whole manner. Her attitude is sad and drooping, her air +depressed; there are tears, and an anxious, expectant look in her gray +eyes. + +"Pining for her lover, no doubt," says Cyril, between his teeth (in +which supposition he is right); and then he opens the gate, and goes +quickly up to her. + +As she hears the well-known click of the latch she turns, and, seeing +him, lets fall unheeded to the ground the basket she is holding, and +runs to him with eyes alight, and soft cheeks tinged with a lovely +generous pink, and holds out her hands to him with a little low glad +cry. + +"At last, truant!" she exclaims, joyfully; "after three whole long, long +days; and what has kept you from me? Why, Cyril, Cyril!"--recoiling, +while a dull ashen shade replaces the gay tinting of her cheeks,--"what +has happened? How oddly you look! You,--you are in trouble?" + +"I am," in a changed, harsh tone she scarcely realizes to be his, moving +back with a gesture of contempt from the extended hands that would so +gladly have clasped his. "In so far you speak the truth: I have +discovered all. One lover, it appears, was not sufficient for you; you +should dupe another for your amusement. It is an old story, but none the +less bitter. No, it is useless your speaking," staying her with a +passionate movement: "I tell you I know _all_." + +"All what?" she asks. She has not removed from his her lustrous eyes, +though her lips have turned very white. + +"Your perfidy." + +"Cyril, explain yourself," she says, in a low, agonized tone, her pallor +changing to a deep crimson. And to Cyril hateful certainty appears if +possible more certain by reason of this luckless blush. + +"Ay, you may well change countenance," he says, with suppressed fury in +which keen agony is blended; "have you yet the grace to blush? As to +explanation, I scarcely think you can require it; yet, as you demand it, +you shall have it. For weeks I have been hearing of you tales in which +your name and Trant's were always mingled; but I disregarded them; I +madly shut my ears and was deaf to them; I would not believe, until it +was too late, until I saw and learned beyond dispute the folly of my +faith. I was here last Friday evening!" + +"Yes?" calmly, though in her soft eyes a deep well of bitterness has +sprung. + +"Well, you were there, in that arbor"--pointing to it--"where +_we_"--with a scornful laugh--"so often sat; but then you had a more +congenial companion. Trant was with you. He held your hand, he caressed +it; he called you his 'darling,' and you allowed it, though indeed why +should you not? doubtless it is a customary word from him to you! And +then you wept as though your heart, your _heart_"--contemptuously-- +"would break. Were you confessing to him your coquetry with me? and +perhaps obtaining an easy forgiveness?" + +"No, I was not," quietly, though there is immeasurable scorn in her +tone. + +"No?" slightingly. "For what, then, were you crying?" + +"Sir,"--with a first outward sign of indignation,--"I refuse to tell +you. By what right do you now ask the question? yesterday, nay, an hour +since, I should have felt myself bound to answer any inquiry of yours, +but not now. The tie between us, a frail one as it seems to me, is +broken; our engagement is at an end: I shall not answer you!" + +"Because you dare not," retorts he, fiercely, stung by her manner. + +"I think you dare too much when you venture so to address me," in a low +clear tone. "And yet, as it is in all human probability the last time we +shall ever meet, and as I would have you remember all your life long the +gross injustice you have done me, I shall satisfy your curiosity. But +recollect, sir, these are indeed the final words that shall pass between +us. + +"A year ago Colonel Trant so far greatly honored me as to ask me to +marry him: for many reasons I then refused. Twice since I came to +Chetwoode he has been to see me,--once to bring me law papers of some +importance, and last Friday to again ask me to be his wife. Again I +refused. I wept then, because, unworthy as I am, I know I was giving +pain to the truest, and, as I know now,"--with a faint trembling in her +voice, quickly subdued--"the _only_ friend I have! When declining his +proposal, I gave my reason for doing so! I told him I loved another! +That other was you!" + +Casting this terrible revenge in his teeth, she turns, and, walking +majestically into the house, closes the door with significant haste +behind her. + +This is the one solitary instance of inhospitality shown by Cecilia in +all her life. Never until now was she known to shut her door in the face +of trouble. And surely Cyril's trouble at this moment is sore and needy! + +To disbelieve Cecilia when face to face with her is impossible. Her eyes +are truth itself. Her whole manner, so replete with dignity and offended +pride, declares her innocent. Cyril stands just where she had left him, +in stunned silence, for at least a quarter of an hour, repeating to +himself miserably all that she has said, and reminding himself with +cold-blooded cruelty of all he has said to her. + +At the end of this awful fifteen minutes, he bethinks himself his hair +must now, if ever, be turned gray; and then, a happier and more resolute +thought striking him, he takes his courage in his two hands, and walking +boldly up to the hall door, knocks and demands admittance with really +admirable composure. Abominable composure, thinks Cecilia, who in spite +of her stern determination never to know him again, has been watching +him covertly from behind a handkerchief and a bedroom curtain all this +time, and is now stationed at the top of the staircase, with dim eyes, +but very acute ears. + +"Yes," Kate tells him, "her mistress is at home," and forthwith shows +him into the bijou drawing-room. After which she departs to tell her +mistress of his arrival. + +Three minutes, that to Cyril's excited fancy lengthen themselves into +twenty, pass away slowly, and then Kate returns. + +"Her mistress's compliments, and she has a terrible headache, and will +Mr. Chetwoode be so kind as to excuse her?" + +Mr. Chetwoode on this occasion is not kind. "He is sorry," he stammers, +"but if Mrs. Arlington could let him see her for five minutes, he would +not detain her longer. He has something of the utmost importance to say +to her." + +His manner is so earnest, so pleading, that Kate, who scents at least a +death in the air, retires full of compassion for the "pore gentleman." +And then another three minutes, that now to the agitated listener appear +like forty, drag themselves into the past. + +Suspense is growing intolerable, when a well-known step in the hall +outside makes his heart beat almost to suffocation. The door is opened +slowly, and Mrs. Arlington comes in. + +"You have something to say to me?" she asks, curtly, unkindly, standing +just inside the door, and betraying an evident determination not to sit +down for any consideration upon earth. Her manner is uncompromising and +forbidding, but her eyes are very red. There is rich consolation in this +discovery. + +"I have," replies Cyril, openly confused now it has come to the point. + +"Say it, then. I am here to listen to you. My servant tells me it is +something of the deepest importance." + +"So it is. In all the world there is nothing so important to me. +Cecilia,"--coming a little nearer to her,--"it is that I want your +forgiveness; I ask your pardon very humbly, and I throw myself upon your +mercy. You must forgive me!" + +"Forgiveness seems easy to you, who cannot feel," replies she, +haughtily, turning as though to leave the room; but Cyril intercepts +her, and places his back against the door. + +"I cannot let you go until you are friends with me again," he says, in +deep agitation. + +"Friends!" + +"Think what I have gone through. _You_ have only suffered for a few +minutes, _I_ have suffered for three long days. Think of it. My heart +was breaking all the time. I went to London hoping to escape thought, +and never shall I forget what I endured in that detestable city. Like a +man in a dream I lived, scarcely seeing, or, if seeing, only trying to +elude, those I knew. At times----" + +"You went to London?" + +"Yes, that is how I have been absent for three days; I have hardly slept +or eaten since last I saw you." + +Here Cecilia is distinctly conscious of a feeling of satisfaction: next +to a man's dying for you the sweetest thing is to hear of a man's +starving for you! + +"Sometimes," goes on Cyril, piling up the agony higher and higher, and +speaking in his gloomiest tones, "I thought it would be better if I put +an end to it once for all, by blowing out my brains." + +"How dare you speak to me like this?" Cecilia says in a trembling voice: +"it is horrible. You would commit suicide? Am I not unhappy enough, that +you must seek to make me more so? Why should you blow your brains out?" +with a shudder. + +"Because I could not live without you. Even now,"--reproachfully,--"when +I see you looking so coldly upon me, I almost wish I had put myself out +of the way for good." + +"Cyril, I forbid you to talk like this." + +"Why? I don't suppose you care whether I am dead or alive." This artful +speech, uttered in a heart-broken tone, does immense execution. + +"If you were dead," begins she, forlornly, and then stops short, because +her voice fails her, and two large tears steal silently down her cheeks. + +"Would you care?" asks Cyril, going up to her and placing one arm gently +round her; being unrepulsed, he gradually strengthens this arm with the +other. "Would you?" + +"I hardly know." + +"Darling, don't be cruel. I was wrong, terribly, unpardonably wrong ever +to doubt your sweet truth; but when one has stories perpetually dinned +into one's ears, one naturally grows jealous of one's shadow, when one +loves as I do." + +"And pray, who told you all these stories?" + +"Never mind." + +"But I do mind," with an angry sob. "What! you are to hear lies of me, +and to believe them, and I am not even to know who told you them! I do +mind, and I insist on knowing." + +"Surely it cannot signify now, when I tell you I don't believe them." + +"It does signify, and I should be told. But indeed I need not ask," with +exceeding bitterness; "I know. It was your brother, Sir Guy. He has +always (why I know not) been a cruel enemy of mine." + +"He only repeated what he heard. He is not to be blamed." + +"It _was_ he, then?" quickly. "But 'blamed'?--of course not; no one is +in the wrong, I suppose, but poor me! I think, sir,"--tremulously,--"it +would be better you should go home, and forget you ever knew any one so +culpable as I am. I should be afraid to marry into a family that could +so misjudge me as yours does. Go, and learn to forget me." + +"I can go, of course, if you desire it," laying hold of his hat: "that +is a simple matter; but I cannot promise to forget. To some people it +may be easy, to me impossible." + +"Nothing is impossible. The going is the first step. Oblivion"--with a +sigh--"will quickly follow." + +"I do not think so. But, since you wish my absence--" + +He moves toward the door with lowered head and dejected manner. + +"I did not say I wished it," in faltering tones; "I only requested you +to leave me for your own sake, and because I would not make your people +unhappy. Though"--piteously--"it should break my heart, I would still +bid you go." + +"Would it break your heart?" flinging his hat into a corner (for my own +part, I don't believe he ever meant going): coming up to her, he folds +her in his arms. "Forgive me, I entreat you," he says, "for what I shall +never forgive myself." + +The humbleness of this appeal touches Cecilia's tender heart. She makes +no effort to escape from his encircling arms; she even returns one out +of his many caresses. + +"To think you could behave so badly to me!" she whispers, +reproachfully. + +"I am a brute! I know it." + +"Oh, no! indeed you are not," says Mrs. Arlington. "Well, yes,"--drawing +a long breath,--"I forgive you; but _promise_, promise you will never +distrust me again." + +Of course he gives the required promise, and peace is once more +restored. + +"I shall not be content with an engagement any longer," Cyril says, +presently. "I consider it eminently unsatisfactory. Why not marry me at +once? I have nine hundred a year, and a scrap of an estate a few miles +from this,--by the bye, you have never yet been to see your +property,--and, if you are not afraid to venture, I think we might be +very happy, even on that small sum." + +"I am not afraid of anything with you," she says, in her calm, tender +fashion; "and money has nothing to do with it. If," with a troubled +sigh, "I ever marry you, I shall not come to you empty-handed." + +"'If: dost thou answer me with ifs?'" quotes he, gayly. "I tell you, +sweet, there is no such word in my dictionary. I shall only wait a +favorable opportunity to ask my mother's consent to our marriage." + +"And if she refuses it?" + +"Why, then I shall marry you without hers, or yours, or the consent of +any one in the world." + +"You jest," she says, tears gathering in her large appealing eyes. "I +would not have you make your mother miserable." + +"Above all things, do not let me see tears in your eyes again," he says, +quickly. "I forbid it. For one thing, it makes me wretched, +and"--softly--"it makes me feel sure _you_ are wretched, which is far +worse. Cecilia, if you don't instantly dry those tears I shall be under +the painful necessity of kissing them away. I tell you I shall get my +mother's consent very readily. When she sees you, she will be only too +proud to welcome such a daughter." + +Soon after this they part, more in love with each other than ever. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + + "_Phebe._--I have more cause to hate him than to love him: + For what had he to do to chide at me?"--_As You Like It._ + + +When Lilian's foot is again strong and well, almost the first use she +makes of it is to go to The Cottage to see Cecilia. She is gladly +welcomed there; the two girls are as pleased with each other as even in +fond anticipation they had dreamed they should be: and how seldom are +such dreams realized! They part with a secret though mutual hope that +they shall soon see each other again. + +Of her first two meetings with the lovely widow Lilian speaks openly to +Lady Chetwoode; but with such an utter want of interest is her news +received that instinctively she refrains from making any further mention +of her new acquaintance. Meantime the friendship ripens rapidly, until +at length scarcely a week elapses without Lilian's paying at least one +or two visits at The Cottage. + +Of the strength of this growing intimacy Sir Guy is supremely ignorant, +until one day chance betrays to him its existence. + +It is a bright but chilly morning, one of November's rawest efforts. The +trees, bereft of even their faded mantle, that has dropped bit by bit +from their meagre arms, now stand bare and shivering in their unlovely +nakedness. The wind, whistling shrilly, rushes through them with +impatient haste, as though longing to escape from their gaunt and most +untempting embraces. There is a suspicion of snow in the biting air. + +In The Cottage a roaring fire is scolding and quarreling vigorously on +its way up the chimney, illuminating with its red rays the parlor in +which it burns; Cecilia is standing on one side of the hearth, looking +up at Lilian, who has come down by appointment to spend the day with +her, and who is mounted on a chair hanging a picture much fancied by +Cecilia. They are freely discussing its merits, and with their gay +chatter are outdoing the noisy fire. To Cecilia the sweet companionship +of this girl is not only an antidote to her loneliness, but an excessive +pleasure. + +The picture just hung is a copy of the "Meditation," and is a special +favorite of Lilian's, who, being the most unsentimental person in the +world, takes a tender delight in people of the visionary order. + +"Do you know, Cecilia," she says, "I think the eyes something like +yours?" + +"Do you?" smiling. "You flatter me." + +"I flatter 'Mademoiselle la Meditation,' you mean. No; you have a +thoughtful, almost a wistful look about you, at times, that might +strongly remind any one of this picture. Now, I"--reflectively--"could +_never_ look like that. When I think (which, to do me justice, is +seldom), I always dwell upon unpleasant topics, and in consequence I +maintain on these rare occasions an exceedingly sour, not to say +ferocious, expression. I hate thinking!" + +"So much the better," replies her companion, with a faint sigh. "The +more persistently you put thought behind you, the longer you will retain +happiness." + +"Why, how sad you look! Have I, as usual, said the wrong thing? You +_mustn't_ think,"--affectionately,--"if it makes you sad. Come, Cis, let +me cheer you up." + +Cecilia starts as though struck, and moves backward as the pretty +abbreviation of her name sounds upon her ear. An expression of hatred +and horror rises and mars her face. + +"Never call me by that name again," she says with some passion, laying +her hand upon the sideboard to steady herself. "Never! do you hear? My +father called me so----" she pauses, and the look of horror passes from +her, only to be replaced by one of shame. "What must you think of me," +she asks, slowly, "you who honored your father? I, too, had a father, +but I did not--no, I did not love him. Am I hateful, am I unnatural, in +your eyes?" + +"Cecilia," says Lilian, with grave simplicity, "you could not be +unnatural, you could not be hateful, in the sight of any one." + +"That name you called me by"--struggling with her emotion--"recalled old +scenes, old memories, most horrible to me. I am unhinged to-day: you +must not mind me." + +"You are not well, dearest." + +"That man, my husband,"--with a strong shudder,--"he, too, called me by +that name. After long years," she says, throwing out her hands with a +significant gesture, as though she would fain so fling from her all +haunting thoughts, "I cannot rid myself of the fear, the loathing, of +those past days. _Are_ they past? Is my terror an omen that they are not +yet ended?" + +"Cecilia, you shall not speak so," says Lilian, putting her arms gently +round her. "You are nervous and--and upset about something. Why should +you encourage such superstitious thoughts, when happiness lies within +your grasp? How can harm come near you in this pretty wood, where you +reign queen? Come, smile at me directly, or I shall tell Cyril of your +evil behavior, and send him here armed with a stout whip to punish you +for your naughtiness. What a whip that would be!" says Lilian, laughing +so gleefully that Cecilia perforce laughs too. + +"How sweet you are to me!" she says, fondly, with tears in her eyes. "At +times I am more than foolish, and last night I had a terrible dream; but +your coming has done me good. Now I can almost laugh at my own fears, +that were so vivid a few hours ago. But my youth was not a happy one." + +"Now you have reached old age, I hope you will enjoy it," says Miss +Chesney, demurely. + +Almost at this moment, Sir Guy Chetwoode is announced, and is shown by +the inestimable Kate into the parlor instead of the drawing-room, +thereby causing unutterable mischief. It is only the second time since +Mrs. Arlington's arrival at The Cottage he has put in an appearance +there, and each time business has been his sole cause for calling. + +He is unmistakably surprised at Lilian's presence, but quickly +suppresses all show of emotion. At first he looks faintly astonished, +but so faintly that a second later one wonders whether the astonishment +was there at all. + +He shakes hands formally with Mrs. Arlington, and smiles in a somewhat +restrained fashion upon Lilian. In truth he is much troubled at the +latter's evident familiarity with the place and its inmate. + +Lilian, jumping down from her high elevation, says to Cecilia: + +"If you two are going to talk business, I shall go into the next room. +The very thought of anything connected with the bugbear 'Law' depresses +me to death. You can call me, Cecilia, when you have quite done." + +"Don't be frightened," says Guy, pleasantly, though inwardly he frowns +as he notes Lilian's unceremonious usage of his tenant's Christian name. +"I shan't detain Mrs. Arlington two minutes." + +Then he addresses himself exclusively to Cecilia, and says what he has +to say in a perfectly courteous, perfectly respectful, perfectly +freezing tone,--to all of which Cecilia responds with a similar though +rather exaggerated amount of coldness that deadens the natural sweetness +of her behavior, and makes Lilian tell herself she has never yet seen +Cecilia to such disadvantage, which is provoking, as she has set her +heart above all things on making Guy like her lovely friend. + +Then Sir Guy, with a distant salutation, withdraws; and both women feel, +silently, as though an icicle had melted from their midst. + +"I wonder why your guardian so dislikes me," says Mrs. Arlington, in a +somewhat hurt tone. "He is ever most ungenerous in his treatment of me." + +"Ungenerous!" hastily, "oh, no! he is not that. He is the most +generous-minded man alive. But--but----" + +"Quite so, dear,"--with a faint smile that yet has in it a tinge of +bitterness. "You see there is a 'but.' I have never wronged him, yet he +hates me." + +"Never mind who hates you," says Lilian, impulsively. "Cyril loves you, +and so do I." + +"I can readily excuse the rest," says Mrs. Arlington, with a bright +smile, kissing her pretty consoler with grateful warmth. + + * * * * * + +An hour after Lilian's return to Chetwoode on this momentous day, Guy, +having screwed his courage to the sticking-point, enters his mother's +boudoir, where he knows she and Lilian are sitting alone. + +Lady Chetwoode is writing at a distant table; Miss Chesney, on a sofa +close to the fire, is surreptitiously ruining--or, as she fondly but +erroneously believes, is knitting away bravely at--the gray sock her +ladyship has just laid down. Lilian's pretty lips are pursed up, her +brow is puckered, her soft color has risen as she bends in strong hope +over her work. The certain charm that belongs to this scene fails to +impress Sir Guy, who is too full of agitated determination to leave room +for minor interests. + +"Lilian," he says, bluntly, with all the execrable want of tact that +characterizes the very gentlest of men, "I wish you would not cultivate +an acquaintance with Mrs. Arlington." + +"Eh?" says Lilian, looking up in somewhat dazed amazement from her +knitting, which is gradually getting into a more and more hopeless mess, +"what is it, then, Sir Guy?" + +"I wish you would not seek an intimacy with Mrs. Arlington," repeats +Chetwoode, speaking all the more sternly in that he feels his courage +ebbing. + +The sternness, however, proves a mistake; Miss Chesney resents it, and, +scenting battle afar off, encases herself in steel, and calmly, nay, +eagerly, awaits the onslaught. + +"What has put you out?" she says, speaking in a tone eminently +calculated to incense the listener. "You seem disturbed. Has Heskett +been poaching again? or has that new pointer turned out a +_disappointer_? What has poor Mrs. Arlington done to you, that you must +send her to Coventry?" + +"Nothing, only----" + +"Nothing! Oh, Sir Guy, surely you must have some substantial reason for +tabooing her so entirely." + +"Perhaps I have. At all events, I ask you most particularly to give up +visiting at The Cottage." + +"I am very sorry, indeed, to seem disobliging, but I shall not give up a +friend without sufficient reason for so doing." + +"A friend! Oh, this is madness," says Sir Guy, with a perceptible start; +then, turning toward his mother, he says, in a rather louder tone, that +adds to the imperiousness of his manner, "Mother, will _you_ speak to +Lilian, and desire her not to go?" + +"But, my dear, why?" asks Lady Chetwoode, raising her eyes in a vague +fashion from her pen. + +"Because I will not have her associating with people of whom we know +nothing," replies he, at his wit's end for an excuse. This one is +barefaced, as at any other time he is far too liberal a man to condemn +any one for being a mere stranger. + +"I know a good deal of her," says Lilian, imperturbably, "and I think +her charming. Perhaps,--who knows?--as she is unknown, she may prove a +duchess in disguise." + +"She may, but I doubt it," replies he, a disagreeable note of irony +running through his speech. + +"Have you discovered her parentage?" asks Lady Chetwoode, hastily. "Is +she of low birth? Lilian, my dear, don't have low tastes: there is +nothing on earth," says Lady Chetwoode, mildly, "so--so--so _melancholy_ +as a person afflicted with low tastes." + +"If thinking Mrs. Arlington a lady in the very best sense of the word is +a low taste, I confess myself afflicted," says Miss Chesney, rather +saucily; whereupon Lady Chetwoode, who knows mischief is brewing and is +imbued with a wholesome horror of all disputes between her son and his +ward, rises hurriedly and prepares to quit the room. + +"I hope Archie will not miss his train," she says, irrelevantly. "He is +always so careless, and I know it is important he should see his +solicitor this evening about the transfer of York's farm. Where is +Archibald?" + +"In the library, I think," responds Lilian. "Dear Archie, how we shall +miss him! shan't we, auntie?" + +This tenderly regretful speech has reference to Mr. Chesney's intended +departure, he having at last, through business, been compelled to leave +Chetwoode and the object of his adoration. + +"We shall, indeed. But remember,"--kindly,--"he has promised to return +to us at Christmas with Taffy." + +"I do remember," gayly; "but for that, I feel I should give way to +tears." + +Here Lady Chetwoode lays her hand upon the girl's shoulder, and presses +it gently, entreatingly. + +"Do not reject Guy's counsel, child," she says, softly; "you know he +always speaks for your good." + +Lilian makes no reply, but, gracefully turning her head, lays her red +lips upon the gentle hand that still rests upon her shoulder. + +Then Lady Chetwoode leaves the room, and Lilian and her guardian are +alone. An ominous silence follows her departure. Lilian, who has +abandoned the unhappy sock, has now taken in hand a very valuable +Dresden china cup, and is apparently examining it with the most profound +interest. + +"I have your promise not to go again to The Cottage?" asks Sir Guy at +length, the exigency of the case causing his persistency. + +"I think not." + +"Why will you persist in this obstinate refusal?" angrily. + +"For many reasons," with a light laugh. "Shall I tell you one? Did you +ever hear of the 'relish of being forbidden?'" + +"It is not a trifling matter. If it was possible, I would tell you what +would prevent your ever wishing to know this Mrs. Arlington again. But, +as it is, I am your guardian,"--determinately,--"I am responsible for +you: I do not wish you to be intimate at The Cottage, and in this one +matter at least I must be obeyed." + +"Must you? we shall see," replies Miss Chesney, with a tantalizing laugh +that, but for the sweet beauty of her _riante_ face, her dewy, mutinous +mouth, her great blue eyes, now ablaze with childish wrath, would have +made him almost hate her. As it is, he is exceeding full of an +indignation he scarcely seeks to control. + +"I, as your guardian, forbid you to go to see that woman," he says, in a +condensed tone. + +"And why, pray?" + +"I cannot explain: I simply forbid you. She is not fit to be an +associate of yours." + +"Then I will _not_ be forbidden: so there!" says Miss Chesney, +defiantly. + +"Lilian, once for all, do not go to The Cottage again," says Guy, very +pale. "If you do you will regret it." + +"Is that a threat?" + +"No; it is a warning. Take it as such if you are wise. If you go against +my wishes in this matter, I shall refuse to take charge of you any +longer." + +"I don't want you to take charge of me," cries Lilian, tears of passion +and wounded feeling in her eyes. In her excitement she has risen to her +feet and stands confronting him, the Dresden cup still within her hand. +"I am not a beggar, that I should crave your hospitality. I can no doubt +find a home with some one who will not hate me as you do." With this, +the foolish child, losing her temper _in toto_, raises her hand and, +because it is the nearest thing to her, flings the cherished cup upon +the floor, where it lies shattered into a thousand pieces. + +In silence Guy contemplates the ruins, in silence Lilian watches him; no +faintest trace of remorse shows itself in her angry fair little face. I +think the keenest regret Guy knows at this moment is that she isn't a +boy, for the simple reason that he would dearly like to box her ears. +Being a woman, and an extremely lovely one, he is necessarily disarmed. + +"So now!" says Miss Lilian, still defiant. + +"I have a great mind," replies Guy, raising his eyes slowly to hers, "to +desire you to pick up every one of those fragments." + +This remark is unworthy of him, proving that in his madness there is not +even method. His speech falls as a red spark into the hot fire of Miss +Chesney's wrath. + +"_You_ desire!" she says, blazing instantly. "What is it you would say? +'Desire!' On the contrary, _I_ desire _you_ to pick them up, and I shall +stay here to see my commands obeyed." + +She has come a little closer to him, and is now standing opposite him +with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. With one firm little finger she +points to the _debris_. She looks such a fragile creature possessed with +such an angry spirit that Chetwoode, in spite of himself acknowledging +the comicality of the situation, cannot altogether conceal a smile. + +"Pick them up," says Lilian imperatively, for the second time. + +"What a little Fury you are!" says Guy; and then, with a faint shrug, he +succumbs, and, stooping, does pick up the pieces of discord. + +"I do it," he says, raising himself when his task is completed, and +letting severity once more harden his features, "to prevent my mother's +being grieved by such an exhibition of----" + +"No, you do not," interrupts she; "you do it because I wished it. For +the future understand that, though you are my guardian, I will not be +treated as though I were a wayward child." + +"Well, you _have_ a wicked temper!" says Guy, who is very pale, drawing +his breath quickly. He smiles as he says it, but it is a smile more +likely to incense than to soothe. + +"I have not," retorts Lilian, passionately. "But that you goaded me I +should never have given way to anger. It is you who have the wicked +temper. I dislike you! I hate you! I wish I had never entered your +house! And"--superbly, drawing herself up to her full height, which does +not take her far--"I shall now leave it! And I shall never come back to +it again!" + +This fearful threat she hurls at his head with much unction. Not that +she means it, but it is as well to be forcible on such occasions. The +less you mean a thing, the more eloquent and vehement you should grow; +the more you mean it, the less vehemence the better, because then it is +energy thrown away: the fact accomplished later on will be crushing +enough in itself. This is a rule that should be strictly observed. + +Guy, whose head is held considerably higher than its wont, looks calmly +out of the window, and disdains to take notice of this outburst. + +His silence irritates Miss Chesney, who has still sufficient rage +concealed within her to carry her victoriously through two quarrels. She +is therefore about to let the vials of her wrath once more loose upon +her unhappy guardian, when the door opens, and Florence, calm and +stately, sweeps slowly in. + +"Aunt Anne not here?" she says; and then she glances at Guy, who is +still holding in his hands some of the fragments of the broken cup, and +who is looking distinctly guilty, and then suspiciously at Lilian, whose +soft face is crimson, and whose blue eyes are very much darker than +usual. + +There is a second's pause, and then Lilian, walking across the room, +goes out, and bangs the door, with much unnecessary violence, behind +her. + +"Dear me!" exclaims Florence, affectedly, when she has recovered from +the shock her delicate nerves have sustained through the abrupt closing +of the door. "How vehement dear Lilian is! There is nothing so ruinous +to one's manners as being brought up without the companionship of +well-bred women. The loss of it makes a girl so--so--hoydenish, and----" + +"I don't think Lilian hoydenish," interrupts Guy, who is in the humor to +quarrel with his shadow,--especially, strange as it seems, with any one +who may chance to speak ill of the small shrew who has just flown like a +whirlwind from the room. + +"No?" says Miss Beauchamp, sweetly. "Perhaps you are right. As a +rule,"--with an admiring glance, so deftly thrown as to make one regret +it should be so utterly flung away,--"you always are. It may be only +natural spirits, but if so,"--blandly,--"don't you think she has a great +deal of natural spirits?" + +"I don't know, I'm sure," says Sir Guy. As he answers he looks at her, +and tells himself he hates all her pink and white fairness, her dull +brown locks, her duller eyes, and more, _much_ more than all, her large +and fleshy nose. "Has she?" he says, in a tone that augurs ill for any +one who may have the hardihood to carry on the conversation. + +"I think she has," says Florence, innocently, a little touch of +doggedness running beneath the innocency. "But, oh, Guy, is that Aunt +Anne's favorite cup? the Dresden she so much prizes? I know it cost any +amount of money. Who broke it?" + +"I did," returns Guy, shortly, unblushingly, and moving away from her, +quits the room. + +Going up the staircase he pauses idly at a window that overlooks the +avenue to watch Archibald disappearing up the drive in the dog-cart. +Even as he watches him, vaguely, and without the least interest in his +movements,--his entire thoughts being preoccupied with another +object,--lo! that object emerges from under the lime-trees, and makes a +light gesture that brings Chesney to a full stop. + +Throwing the reins to the groom, he springs to the ground, and for some +time the two cousins converse earnestly. Then Guy, who is now regarding +them with eager attention, sees Chesney help Lilian into the trap, take +his seat beside her and drive away up the avenue, past the huge +laurustinus, under the elms, on out of sight. + +A slight pang shoots across Guy's heart. Where are they going, these +two? "I shall never return:"--her foolish words, that he so honestly +considers foolish, come back to him now clearly, and with a strange +persistency that troubles him, repeat themselves over again. + +Chesney is going to London, but where is Lilian going? The child's +lovely, angry face rises up before him, full of a keen reproach. What +was she saying to Archibald just now, in that quick vehement fashion of +hers? was she upbraiding her guardian, or was she----? If Chesney had +asked her then to take any immediate steps toward the fulfilling of her +threat, would she, would she----? + +Bah! he draws himself up with a shiver, and smiles contemptuously at the +absurdity of his own fears, assuring himself she will certainly be home +to dinner. + +But dinner comes, and yet no Lilian! Lady Chetwoode has been obliged to +give in an hour ago to one of her severest headaches, and now lies prone +upon her bed, so that Miss Beauchamp and Guy perforce prepare to +partake of that meal alone. + +Florence is resplendent in cream-color and blue, which doesn't suit her +in the least, though it is a pretty gown, one of the prettiest in her +wardrobe, and has been donned by her to-night for Guy's special +delectation, finding a _tete-a-tete_ upon the cards. + +Chetwoode regards her with feverish anxiety as she enters the +drawing-room, hoping to hear some mention made of the absent Lilian; but +in this hope he is disappointed. She might never have been a guest at +Chetwoode, so little notice does Miss Beauchamp take of her +non-appearance. + +She says something amiable about "Aunt Anne's" headache, suggests a new +pill as an unfailing cure for "that sort of thing," and then eats her +dinner placidly, quietly, and, with a careful kindness that not one of +the dishes shall feel slighted by her preference for another, patronizes +all alike, without missing any. It is indeed a matter for wonder and +secret admiration how Miss Beauchamp can so slowly, and with such a +total absence of any appearance of gluttony, get through so much in so +short a space of time. She has evidently a perfect talent for concealing +any amount of viands without seeming to do so, which, it must be +admitted, is a great charm. + +To-night I fear Guy scarcely sees the beauty of it! He is conscious of +feeling disgust and a very passion of impatience. Does she not notice +Lilian's absence? Will she never speak of it? A strange fear lest she +should express ignorance of his ward's whereabouts ties his own tongue. +But she, she does, she _must_ know, and presently no doubt will tell +him. + +How much more of that cream is she going to eat? Surely when the +servants go she will say something. Now she has nearly done: thank the +stars the last bit has disappeared! She is going to lay down her spoon +and acknowledge herself satisfied. + +"I think, Guy, I will take a little more, _very_ little, please. This +new cook seems quite satisfactory," says Florence, in her slow, even, +self-congratulatory way. + +A naughty exclamation trembles on Sir Guy's lips; by a supreme effort he +suppresses it, and gives her the smallest help of the desired cream that +decency will permit. After which he motions silently though peremptorily +to one of the men to remove _all_ the dishes, lest by any chance his +cousin should be tempted to try the cream a third time. + +His own dinner has gone away literally untasted. A terrible misgiving is +consuming him. Lilian's words are still ringing and surging in his +brain,--"I shall never return." He recalls all her hastiness, her +impulsive ways, her hot temper. What if, in a moment of pride and rage, +she should have really gone with her cousin! If--it is impossible! +ridiculously, utterly impossible! Yet his blood grows cold in spite of +his would-be disbelief; a sickening shiver runs through his veins even +while he tells himself he is a fool even to imagine such a thing. And +yet, where is she? + +"I suppose Lilian is at Mabel Steyne's," says Miss Beauchamp, calmly, +having demolished the last bit on her plate with a deep sigh. + +"Is she?" asks Guy, in a tone half stifled. As he speaks, he stoops as +though to pick up an imaginary napkin. + +"Your napkin is here," says Florence, in an uncompromising voice: "don't +you see it?" pointing to where it rests upon the edge of the table. +"Lilian, then,"--with a scrutinizing glance,--"did not tell you where +she was going?" + +"No. There is no reason why she should." + +"Well, I think there is," with a low, perfectly lady-like, but extremely +irritating laugh: "for one thing, her silence has cost you your dinner. +I am sorry I did not relieve your mind by telling you before. But I +could not possibly guess her absence could afflict you so severely. She +said something this morning about going to see Mabel." + +"I dare say," quietly. + +The minutes drag. Miss Beauchamp gets through an unlimited quantity of +dried fruit and two particularly fine pears in no time. She is looking +longingly at a third, when Guy rises impatiently. + +"If she is at Mabel's I suppose I had better go and bring her home," he +says, glancing at the clock. "It is a quarter to nine." + +"I really do not think you need trouble yourself," speaking somewhat +warmly for her: "Mabel is sure to send her home in good time, if she is +there!" She says this slowly, meaningly, and marks how he winces and +changes color at her words. "Then think how cold the night is!" with a +comfortable shiver and a glance at the leaping fire. + +"Of course she is at Steynemore," says Guy, hastily. + +"I would not be too sure: Lilian's movements are always uncertain: one +never quite knows what she is going to do next. Really,"--with a +repetition of her unpleasant laugh,--"when I saw her stepping into the +dog-cart with her cousin to-day, I said to myself that I should not at +all wonder if----" + +"What?" sternly, turning full upon her a pale face and flashing eyes. +Miss Beauchamp's pluck always melts under Guy's anger. + +"Nothing," sullenly; "nothing at least that can concern you. I was +merely hurrying on in my own mind a marriage that must eventually come +off. The idea was absurd, of course, as any woman would prefer a +fashionable wedding to all the inconvenience attendant on a runaway +match." + +"You mean----" + +"I mean"--complacently--"Lilian's marriage with her cousin." + +"You speak"--biting his lips to maintain his composure--"as though it +was all arranged." + +"And is it not?" with well-affected surprise. "I should have thought +you, as her guardian, would have known all about it. Perhaps I speak +prematurely; but one must be blind indeed not to see how matters are +between them. Do sit down, Guy: it fidgets one to see you so undecided. +Of course, if Lilian is at Steynemore she is quite safe." + +"Still, she may be expecting some one to go for her." + +"I think, if so, she would have told you she was going," dryly. + +"Tom hates sending his horses out at night," says Guy,--which is a weak +remark, Tom Steyne being far too indolent a man to make a point of +hating anything. + +"Does he?" with calm surprise, and a prolonged scrutiny of her cousin's +face. "I fancied him the most careless of men on that particular +subject. Before he was married he used to drive over here night after +night, and not care in the least how long he kept the wretched animals +standing in the cold." + +"But that was when he was making love to Mabel. A man in love will +commit any crime." + +"Oh, no, long before that." + +"Perhaps, then, it was when he was making love to you," with a slight +smile. + +This is a sore point. + +"I don't remember that time," says Miss Beauchamp with perfect calmness +but a suspicious indrawing of her rather meagre lips. "If some one must +go out to-night, Guy, why not send Thomas?" + +"Because I prefer going myself," replies he, quietly. + +Passing through the hall on his way to the door, he catches up a heavy +plaid that happens to be lying there, on a side-couch, and, springing +into the open trap outside, drives away quickly under the pale cold rays +of the moon. + +He has refused to take any of the servants with him, and so, alone with +his thoughts, follows the road that leads to Steynemore. + +They are not pleasant thoughts. Being only a man, he has accepted Miss +Beauchamp's pretended doubts about Lilian's safety as real, and almost +persuades himself his present journey will bear him only bitter +disappointment. As to what he is going to do if Lilian has not been seen +at Steynemore, that is a matter on which he refuses to speculate. +Drawing near the house, his suspense and fear grow almost beyond bounds. +Dismounting at the hall-door, which stands partly open, he flings the +reins to Jericho, and going into the hall, turns in the direction of the +drawing-room. + +While he stands without, trying to summon courage to enter boldly, and +literally trembling with suppressed anxiety, a low soft laugh breaks +upon his ear. As he hears it, the blood rushes to his face; +involuntarily he raises his hand to his throat, and then (and only then) +quite realizes how awful has been the terror that for four long hours +has been consuming him. + +The next instant, cold and collected, he turns the handle of the door, +and goes in. + +Upon a low seat opposite Mabel Steyne sits Lilian, evidently in the +gayest spirits. No shadow of depression, no thought of all the mental +agony he has been enduring, mars the brightness of her _mignonne_ face. +She is laughing. Her lustrous azure eyes are turned upward to her +friend, who is laughing also in apparent appreciation of her guest's +jest; her parted lips make merry dimples in her cheeks; her whole face +is full of soft lines of amusement. + +As Guy comes in, Mabel rises with a little exclamation, and goes toward +him with outstretched hands. + +"Why, Guy!" she says, "good boy! Have you come for Lilian? I was just +going to order the carriage to send her home. Did you walk or drive?" + +"I drove." He has studiously since his entrance kept his eyes from +Lilian. The smile has faded from her lips, the happy light from her +eyes; she has turned a pale, proud little face to the fire, away from +her guardian. + +"I made Lilian stay to dinner," says Mabel, who is too clever not to +have remarked the painful constraint existing between her guest and Sir +Guy. "Tom has been out all day shooting and dining at the Bellairs, so I +entreated her to stay and bear me company. Won't you sit down for a +while? It is early yet; there cannot be any hurry." + +"No, thank you. My mother has a bad headache, and, as she does not know +where Lilian is, I think it better to get home." + +"Oh, if auntie has a headache, of course----" + +"I shall go and put on my hat," says Lilian, speaking for the first +time, and rising with slow reluctance from her seat. "Don't stir, Mab: I +shan't be a minute: my things are all in the next room." + +"Lilian is not very well, I fear," Mrs. Steyne says, when the door has +closed upon her, "or else something has annoyed her. I am not sure +which," with a quick glance at him. "She would eat no dinner, and her +spirits are very fitful. But she did not tell me what was the matter, +and I did not like to ask her. She is certainly vexed about something, +and it is a shame she should be made unhappy, poor pretty child!" with +another quick glance. + +"I thought she seemed in radiant spirits just now," remarks Guy, coldly. + +"Yes; but half an hour ago she was so depressed I was quite uneasy about +her: that is why I used the word 'fitful.' Get her to eat something +before she goes to bed," says kindly Mabel, in an undertone, as Lilian +returns equipped for her journey. "Good-night, dear," kissing her. "Have +you wraps, Guy?" + +"Yes, plenty. Good-night." And Mabel, standing on the door-steps, +watches them until they have vanished beneath the starlight. + +It is a dark but very lovely night. Far above them in the dim serene +blue a fair young crescent moon rides bravely. As yet but a few stars +are visible, and they gleam and shiver and twinkle in the eternal dome, +restless as the hearts of the two beings now gazing silently upon their +beauty. + + + "Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, + Blossomed the lonely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels." + + +A creeping shadow lies among the trees; a certain sense of loneliness +dwells in the long avenue of Steynemore as they pass beneath the +branches of the overhanging foliage. A quick wind rustles by them, sad +as a sigh from Nature's suffering breast, chill as the sense of injury +that hangs upon their own bosoms. + +Coming out upon the unshaded road, a greater light falls upon them. The +darkness seems less drear, the feeling of separation more remote, though +still Pride sits with triumphant mien between them, with his great wings +outspread to conceal effectually any penitent glance or thought. The +tender pensive beauty of the growing night is almost lost upon them. + + + "All round was still and calm; the noon of night + Was fast approaching; up th' unclouded sky + The glorious moon pursued her path of light, + And shed a silv'ry splendor far and nigh; + No sound, save of the night-wind's gentlest sigh, + Could reach the ear." + + +A dead silence reigns between them: they both gaze with admirable +perseverance at the horse's ears. Never before has that good animal been +troubled by two such steady stares. Then Lilian stirs slightly, and a +little chattering sound escapes her, that rouses Guy to speech. + +"You are tired?" he says, in freezing tones. + +"Very." + +"Cold?" + +"_Very._" + +"Then put this round you," disagreeably, but with evident anxiety, +producing the cozy plaid. + +"No, thank you." + +"Why?" surprised. + +"Because it is yours," replies she, with such open and childish spite as +at any other time would have brought a smile to his lips. Now it brings +only a dull pain to his heart. + +"I am sorry I only brought what you will not wear," he answers: "it did +not occur to me you might carry your dislike to me even to my clothes. +In future I shall be wiser." + +Silence. + +"Do put it on!" anxiously: "you were coughing all last week." + +"I wouldn't be hypocritical, if I were you," with withering scorn. "I +feel sure it would be a matter for rejoicing, where you are concerned, +if I coughed all next week, and the week after. No: keep your plaid." + +"You are the most willful girl I ever met," wrathfully. + +"No doubt. I dare say you have met only angels. I am not one, I rejoice +to say. Florence is, you know; and one piece of perfection should be +enough in any household." + +Silence again. Not a sound upon the night-air but the clatter of the +horse's feet as he covers bravely the crisp dry road, and the rushing of +the wind. It is a cold wind, sharp and wintry. It whistles past them, +now they have gained the side of the bare moor, with cruel keenness, +cutting uncivilly the tops of their ears, and making them sink their +necks lower in their coverings. + +Miss Chesney's small hands lie naked upon the rug. Even in the +indistinct light he knows that they are shivering and almost blue. + +"Where are your gloves?" he asks, when he can bear the enforced +stillness no longer. + +"I forgot them at Mabel's." + +Impulsively he lays his own bare hand upon hers, and finds it chilled, +nearly freezing. + +"Keep your hands inside the rug," he says, angrily, though there is a +strong current of pain underlying the anger, "and put this shawl on you +directly." + +"I will not," says Lilian, though in truth she is dying for it. + +"You shall," returns Chetwoode, quietly, in a tone he seldom uses, but +which, when used, is seldom disobeyed. Lilian submits to the muffling in +silence, and, though outwardly ungrateful, is inwardly honestly rejoiced +at it. As he fastens it beneath her chin, he stoops his head, until his +eyes are on a level with hers. + +"Was it kind of you, or proper, do you think, to make me so--so uneasy +as I have been all this afternoon and evening?" he asks, compelling her +to return his gaze. + +"Were you uneasy?" says Miss Chesney, viciously and utterly +unrepenting: "I am glad of it." + +"Was it part of your plan to make my mother wretched also?" This is a +slight exaggeration, as Lady Chetwoode has not even been bordering on +the "wretched," and is, in fact, up to the present moment totally +ignorant of Lilian's absence. + +"I certainly did not mean to make dear auntie unhappy," in a +faintly-troubled tone. "But I shall tell her all the truth, and ask her +pardon, when I get home,--_back_, I mean," with studied correction of +the sweet word. + +"What is the truth?" + +"First, that I broke her lovely cup. And then I shall tell her why I +stayed so long at Steynemore." + +"And what will that be?" + +"You know very well. I shall just say to her, 'Auntie, your son, Sir +Guy, behaved so rudely to me this afternoon, I was obliged to leave +Chetwoode for a while.' Then she will forgive me." + +Sir Guy laughs in spite of himself; and Lilian, could he only have +peeped into the deep recesses of the plaid, might also be plainly seen +with her pretty lips apart and all her naughty bewitching face dimpling +with laughter. + +These frivolous symptoms are, however, rapidly and sternly suppressed on +both sides. + +"I really cannot see what awful crime I have committed to make you so +taciturn," she says, presently, with a view to discussing the subject. +"I merely went for a drive with my cousin, as he should pass Steynemore +on his way to the station." + +"Perhaps that was just what made my misery," softly. + +"What! my going for a short drive with Archie? Really, Sir Guy, you will +soon be taken as a model of propriety. Poor old Archie! I am afraid I +shan't be able to make you miserable in that way again for a very long +time. How I wish those tiresome lawyers would let him alone!" + +"Ask them to surrender him," says Guy, irritably. + +"I would,"--cheerfully,--"if I thought it would do the least good. But I +know they are all made of adamant." + +"Lilian,"--suddenly, unexpectedly,--"is there anything between you and +your cousin?" + +"Who?"--with wide, innocent, suspiciously innocent eyes,--"Taffy?" + +"No," impatiently: "of course I mean Chesney," looking at her with +devouring interest. + +"Yes,"--disconsolately, with a desire for revenge,--"more miles than I +care to count." + +"I feel"--steadily--"it is a gross rudeness my asking, and I know you +need not answer me unless you like; but"--with a quick breath--"try to +answer my question. Has anything passed between you and Chesney?" + +"Not much," mildly: "one thrilling love-letter, and that ring." + +"He never asked you to marry him?" with renewed hope. + +"Oh, by the bye, I quite forgot that," indifferently. "Yes, he did ask +me so much." + +"And you refused him?" asks Guy, eagerly, intensely, growing white and +cold beneath the moon's pitiless rays, that seem to take a heartless +pleasure in lighting up his agitated face at this moment. But Lilian's +eyes are turned away from his: so this degradation is spared him. + +"No--n--o, not exactly," replies she. + +"You accepted him?" with dry lips and growing despair. + +"N--o, not exactly," again returns Miss Chesney, with affected +hesitation. + +"Then what _did_ you do?" passionately, his impatient fear getting the +better of his temper. + +"I don't feel myself at liberty to tell you," retorts Lilian, with a +provoking assumption of dignity. + +Sir Guy looks as though he would like to give her a good shake, though +indeed it is quite a question whether he has even the spirits for so +much. He relapses into sulky silence, and makes no further attempt at +conversation. + +"However," says Lilian, to whom silence is always irksome, "I don't mind +telling you what I shall do if he asks me again." + +"What?" almost indifferently. + +"I shall accept him." + +"You will do very wisely," in a clear though constrained voice that +doesn't altogether impose upon Lilian, but nevertheless disagrees with +her. "He is very rich, very handsome, and a very good fellow all round." + +"I don't much care about good fellows," perversely: "they are generally +deadly slow; I am almost sure I prefer the other sort. I am afraid mine +is not a well-regulated mind, as I confess I always feel more kindly +disposed toward a man when I hear something bad of him." + +"Perhaps if I told you something bad about myself it might make you feel +more kindly disposed toward me," with a slight smile. + +"Perhaps it might. But I believe you are incapable of a bad action. +Besides, if I felt myself going to like you, I should stop myself +instantly." + +A pained hurt expression falls into his eyes. + +"I think," he says, very gently, "you must make a point of reserving all +your cruel speeches for me alone. Do you guess how they hurt, child? No, +I am sure you do not: your face is far too sweet to belong to one who +would willingly inflict pain. Am I to be always despised and hated? Why +will you never be friends with me?" + +"Because"--in a very low whisper--"you are so seldom good to me." + +"Am I? You will never know how hard I try to be. But"--taking her hand +in his--"my efforts are always vain." He glances sorrowfully at the +little hand he holds, and then at the pretty face beneath the velvet hat +so near him. Lilian does not return his glance: her eyes are lowered, +her other hand is straying nervously over the tiger-skin that covers her +knees; they have forgotten all about the cold, the dreary night, +everything; for a full half mile they drive on thus silently, her hand +resting unresistingly in his; after which he again breaks the quiet that +exists between them. + +"Did you mean what you said a little time ago about Chetwoode not being +your home?" + +"I suppose so," in a rather changed and far softer tone. "Yes. What +claim have I on Chetwoode?" + +"But your tone implied that if even you had a claim it would be +distasteful to you." + +"Did it?" + +"Don't you know it did?" + +"Well, perhaps I didn't mean quite that. Did _you_ mean all you said +this morning?" + +"Not all, I suppose." + +"How much of it, then?" + +"Unless I were to go through the whole of our conversation again, I +could not tell you that, and I have no wish to do so: to be pained"--in +a low voice--"as I have been, once in a day is surely sufficient." + +"Don't imagine I feel the least sorrow for you," says Lilian, making a +wild attempt at recovering her ill humor, which has melted and vanished +away. + +"I don't imagine it. How could I? One can scarcely feel sorrow or pity +for a person whom one openly professes to 'hate' and 'despise,'" +markedly, while searching her face anxiously with his eyes. + +Miss Chesney pauses. A short but sharp battle takes place within her +breast. Then she raises her face and meets his eyes, while a faint sweet +smile grows within her own: impelled half by a feeling of coquetry, half +by a desire to atone, she lets the fingers he has still imprisoned close +with the daintiest pressure upon his. + +"Perhaps," she whispers, leaning a little toward him, and raising her +lips very close to his cheek as though afraid of being heard by the +intrusive wind, "perhaps I did not quite mean that either." + +Then, seeing how his whole expression changes and brightens, she half +regrets her tender speech, and says instantly, in her most unsentimental +fashion: + +"Pray, Sir Guy, are you going to make your horse walk all the way home? +Can you not pity the sorrows of a poor little ward? I am absolutely +frozen: do stir him up, lazy fellow, or I shall get out and run. Surely +it is too late in the year for nocturnal rambles." + +"If my life depended upon it, I don't believe I could make him go a bit +faster," returns he, telling his lie unblushingly. + +"I forgot you were disabled," says Miss Chesney, demurely, letting her +long lashes droop until they partially (but only partially) conceal her +eyes from her guardian. "How remiss I am! When one has only got the use +of one hand, one can do so little; perhaps"--preparing to withdraw her +fingers slowly, lingeringly from his--"if I were to restore you both +yours, you might be able to persuade that horse to take us home before +morning." + +"I beg you will give yourself no trouble on my account," says Guy, +hastily: "I don't want anything restored. And if you are really anxious +to get 'home'"--with a pleased and grateful smile, "I feel sure I shall +be able to manage this slow brute single-handed." + +So saying, he touches up the good animal in question rather smartly, +which so astonishes the willing creature that he takes to his heels, and +never draws breath until he pulls up before the hall door at Chetwoode. + +"Parkins, get us some supper in the library," says Sir Guy, addressing +the ancient butler as he enters: "the drive has given Miss Chesney and +me an appetite." + +"Yes, Sir Guy, directly," says Parkins, and, going down-stairs to the +other servants, gives it as his opinion that "Sir Guy and Miss Chesney +are going to make a match of it. For when two couples," says Mr. +Parkins, who is at all times rather dim about the exact meaning of his +sentences, "when two couples takes to eating _teet-a-teet_, it is all up +with 'em." + +Whereupon cook says, "Lor!" which is her usual expletive, and means +anything and everything; and Jane, the upper housemaid, who has a +weakness for old Parkins's sayings, tells him with a flattering smile +that he is "dreadful knowin'." + +Meantime, Sir Guy having ascertained that Miss Beauchamp has gone to her +room, and that his mother is better, and asleep, he and Lilian repair to +the library, where a cozy supper is awaiting them, and a cheerful fire +burning. + +Now that they are again in-doors, out of the friendly darkness, with the +full light of several lamps upon them, a second edition of their early +restraint--milder, perhaps, but still oppressive--most unaccountably +falls between them. + +Silently, and very gently, but somewhat distantly, he unfolds the plaid +from round her slight figure, and, drawing a chair for her to the table, +seats himself at a decided distance. Then he asks her with exemplary +politeness what she will have, and she answers him; then he helps her, +and then he helps himself; and then they both wonder secretly what the +other is going to say next. + +But Lilian, who is fighting with a wild desire for laughter, and who is +in her airiest mood, through having been compelled, by pride, to +suppress all day her usual good spirits, decides on making a final +effort at breaking down the barrier between them. + +Raising the glass of wine beside her, she touches it lightly with her +lips, and says, gayly: + +"Come, fill, and pledge me, Sir Guy. But stay; first let me give you a +little quotation that I hope will fall as a drop of nectar into your cup +and chase that nasty little frown from your brow. Have I your leave to +speak?" with a suspicion of coquetry in her manner. + +Chetwoode's handsome lips part in a pleased smile: he turns his face +gladly, willingly, to hers. + +"Why do you ask permission of your slave, O Queen of Hearts?" he +answers, softly, catching the infection of her gayety. He gazes at her +with unchecked and growing admiration, his whole heart in his eyes; +telling himself, as he has told himself a thousand times before, that +to-night she is looking her fairest. + +Her cheeks are flushed from her late drive; one or two glittering golden +lovelocks have been driven by the rough wind from their natural +resting-place, and now lie in gracious disorder on her white forehead; +her lustrous sapphire eyes are gleaming upon him, full of unsubdued +laughter; her lips are parted, showing all the small even teeth within. + +She stoops toward him, and clinking her glass against his with the +prettiest show of _bonne camaraderie_, whispers, softly: + + + "Come, let us be happy together." + + +"Together!" repeats Guy, unsteadily, losing his head, and rising +abruptly from his seat as though to go to her. She half rises also, +seriously frightened at the unexpected effect of her mad words. What is +he going to say to her? What folly urged her on to repeat that +ridiculous line? The idea of flight has just time to cross her mind, but +not time to be acted upon, when the door is thrown open suddenly, and +Cyril--who has at this moment returned from his dinner party--entering +noisily, comes to her rescue. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + + "I have some naked thoughts that roam about + And loudly knock to have their passage out."--MILTON. + + +It goes without telling that Lilian gains the day, Guy's one solitary +attempt at mastery having failed ignominiously. She persists in her +allegiance to her friend, and visits The Cottage regularly as ever; +being even more tender than usual in her manner toward Cecilia, as she +recollects the narrowness of him who could (as she believes) without +cause condemn her. And Sir Guy, though resenting her defiance of his +wishes, and smarting under the knowledge of it, accepts defeat humbly, +and never again refers to the subject of the widow, which henceforth is +a tabooed one between them. + +Soon after this, indeed, an event occurs that puts an end to all reason +why Lilian should not be as friendly with Mrs. Arlington as she may +choose. One afternoon, most unexpectedly, Colonel Trant, coming to +Chetwoode, demands a private interview with Sir Guy. Some faint breaths +of the scandal that so closely and dishonorably connects his name with +Cecilia's have reached his ears, and, knowing of her engagement with +Cyril, he has hastened to Chetwoode to clear her in the eyes of its +world. + +Without apology, he treats Guy to a succinct and studied account of +Cecilia's history,--tells of all her sorrows, and gentle forbearance, +and innocence so falsely betrayed, nor even conceals from him his own +deep love for her, and his two rejections, but makes no mention of Cyril +throughout the interview. + +Guy, as he listens, grows remorseful, and full of self-reproach,--more, +perhaps, for the injustice done to his friend in his thoughts, than for +all the harsh words used toward Mrs. Arlington, though he is too +clean-bred not to regret that also. + +He still shrinks from all idea of Cecilia as a wife for Cyril. The +daughter of a man who, though of good birth, was too sharp in his +dealings for decent society, and the wife of a man, who, though rich in +worldly goods, had no pretensions to be a gentleman at all, could +certainly be no mate for a Chetwoode. A woman of no social standing +whatsoever, with presumably only a pretty face for a dowry,--Cyril must +be mad to dream of her! For him, Guy, want of fortune need not signify; +but for Cyril, with his expensive habits, to think of settling down with +a wife on nine hundred a year is simply folly. + +And then Cyril's brother thinks with regret of a certain Lady Fanny +Stapleton, who, it is a notorious fact, might be had by Cyril for the +asking. Guy himself, it may be remarked, would not have Lady Fanny at +any price, she being rather wanting in the matter of nose and neck; but +younger brothers have no right to cultivate fastidious tastes, and her +snubby ladyship has a great admiration for Cyril, and a fabulous +fortune. + +All the time Trant is singing Cecilia's praises, Guy is secretly sighing +over Lady Fanny and her comfortable thousands, and is wishing The +Cottage had been knocked into fine dust before Mrs. Arlington had +expressed a desire to reside there. + +Nevertheless he is very gentle in his manner toward his former colonel +all the day, spending with him every minute he stays, and going with him +to the railway station when at night he decides on returning to town. +Inwardly he knows he would like to ask his forgiveness for the wrong he +has done him in his thoughts, but hardly thinks it wisdom to let him +know how guilty toward him he has been. Cyril, he is fully persuaded, +will never betray him; and he shrinks from confessing what would +probably only cause pain and create an eternal breach between them. + +However, his conscience so far smites him that he does still further +penance toward the close of the evening. + +Meeting Cyril on his way to dress just before dinner, he stops him. + +"If you will accept an apology from me so late in the day," he says, "I +now offer you one for what I said of Mrs. Arlington some time since. +Trant has told me all the truth. I wronged her grossly, although"--with +a faint touch of bitterness--"when I _lied_ about her I did so +unconsciously." + +"Don't say another word, old man," says Cyril, heartily, and much +gratified, laying his hand lightly upon his shoulder. "I knew you would +discover your mistake in time. I confess at the moment it vexed me you +should lend yourself to the spreading of such an absurd report." + +"Yes, I was wrong." Then, with some hesitation, "Still, there was an +excuse for me. We knew nothing of her. We know nothing still that we can +care to know." + +"How you worry yourself!" says Cyril, with a careless shrug, letting his +hand, however, drop from his brother's shoulder, as he fully understands +the drift of his conversation. "Why can't you let things slide as I do? +It is no end a better plan." + +"I am only thinking of a remark you made a long time ago," replies Guy, +with a laugh, partially deceived by Cyril's indifferent manner: "shall I +remind you of it? 'Samivel, Samivel, my son, never marry a widder.'" + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + + "_Hel._--How happy some, o'er other some can be!" + --_Midsummer Night's Dream._ + + +It is very close on Christmas; another week will bring in the +twenty-fifth of December, with all its absurd affectation of merriment +and light-heartedness. + +Is any one, except a child, ever really happy at Christmas, I wonder? Is +it then one chooses to forget the loved and lost? to thrust out of sight +the regrets that goad and burn? Nay, rather, is it not then our hearts +bleed most freely, while our eyes grow dim with useless tears, and a +great sorrow that touches on despair falls upon us, as we look upon the +vacant seat and grow sick with longing for the "days that are no more?" + +Surely it is then we learn how vain is our determination to forget those +unobtrusive ones who cannot by voice or touch demand attention. The +haunting face, that once full of youth and beauty was all the world to +us, rises from its chill shroud and dares us to be happy. The poor eyes, +once so sweet, so full of gayest laughter, now closed and mute forever, +gleam upon us, perchance across the flowers and fruit, and, checking the +living smile upon our lips, ask us reproachfully how is it with us, that +we can so quickly shut from them the doors of our hearts, after all our +passionate protests, our vows ever to remember. + +Oh, how soon, how _soon_, do we cease our lamentations for our silent +dead! + +When all is told, old Father Christmas is a mighty humbug: so I say and +think, but I would not have you agree with me. Forgive me this +unorthodox sentiment, and let us return to our--lamb! + +Archibald has returned to Chetwoode; so has Taffy. The latter is looking +bigger, fuller, and, as Mrs. Tipping says, examining him through her +spectacles with a criticising air, "more the man," to his intense +disgust. He embraces Lilian and Lady Chetwoode, and very nearly Miss +Beauchamp, on his arrival, in the exuberance of his joy at finding +himself once more within their doors, and is welcomed with effusion by +every individual member of the household. + +Archibald, on the contrary, appears rather done up, and faded, and, +though evidently happy at being again in his old quarters, still seems +sad at heart, and discontented. + +He follows Lilian's movements in a very melancholy fashion, and herself +also, until it becomes apparent to every one that his depression arises +from his increasing infatuation for her; while she, to do her justice, +hardly pretends to encourage him at all. He lives in contemplation of +her beauty and her saucy ways, and is unmistakably _distrait_ when +circumstances call her from his sight. + +In his case "absence" has indeed made the heart grow fonder, as he is, +if possible, more imbecile about her now than when he left, and, after +struggling with his feelings for a few days, finally makes up his mind +to tempt fortune again, and lay himself and his possessions at his +idol's feet. + + * * * * * + +It is the wettest of wet days; against the window-panes the angry +rain-drops are flinging themselves madly, as though desirous of entering +and rendering more dismal the room within, which happens to be the +library. + +Sir Guy is standing at the bow-window, gazing disconsolately upon the +blurred scene outside. Cyril is lounging in an easy chair with a +magazine before him, making a very creditable attempt at reading. +Archibald and Taffy are indulging in a mild bet as to which occupant of +the room will make the first remark. + +Lady Chetwoode is knitting her one hundred and twenty-fourth sock for +the year. Lilian is dreaming, with her large eyes fixed upon the fire. +The inestimable Florence (need I say it?) is smothered in crewel wools, +and is putting a rose-colored eye into her already quite too fearful +parrot. + +"I wonder what we shall do all day," says Guy, suddenly, in tones of the +deepest melancholy. Whereupon Taffy, who has been betting on Cyril, and +Chesney, who has been laying on Lilian, are naturally, though secretly +indignant. + +"Just what we have been doing all the rest of the day,--nothing," +replies Lilian, lazily: "could anything be more desirable?" + +"I hope it will be fine to-morrow," says Mr. Musgrave, in an aggrieved +voice. "But it won't, I shouldn't wonder, just because the meet is to +be at Bellairs, and one always puts in such a good day there." + +"I haven't got enough pluck to think of to-morrow," says Guy, still +melancholy: "to-day engrosses all my thoughts. What _is_ to become of +us?" + +"Let us get up a spelling-bee," says Miss Beauchamp, with cheerful +alacrity; "they are so amusing." + +"Oh, don't! please, Miss Beauchamp, don't," entreats Taffy, +tearfully,--"unless you want to disgrace me eternally. I can't spell +anything; and, even if I could, the very fact of having a word hurled at +my head would make me forget all about it, even were it an old +acquaintance." + +"But, my dear fellow," says Cyril, laying down his "Temple Bar," with +all the air of a man prepared to argue until he and his adversary are +black in the face, "that is the fun of the whole matter. If you spelled +well you would be looked upon as a swindler. The greater mistakes you +make, the more delighted we shall be; and if you could only succeed like +that man in 'Caste' in spelling character with a K, we should give you +two or three rounds of applause. People never get up spelling-bees to +hear good spelling: the discomfiture of their neighbors is what amuses +them most. Have I relieved your mind?" + +"Tremendously. Nevertheless, I fling myself upon your tender mercies, +Miss Beauchamp, and don't let us go in for spelling." + +"Then let us have an historical-bee," substitutes Florence, amiably; she +is always tender where Taffy is concerned. + +"The very thing," declares Cyril, getting up an expression of the +strongest hope. "Perhaps, if you do, I shall get answers to two or three +important questions that have been tormenting me for years. For +instance, I want to know whether the 'gossip's bowl' we read of was made +of Wedgwood or Worcester, and why our ancestors were so uncomfortable as +to take their tea out of 'dishes.' It must have got very cold, don't you +think? to say nothing at all of the inconvenience of being obliged to +lift it to one's lips with both hands." + +"It didn't mean an actual 'dish,'" replies Florence, forgetting the +parrot's rosy optic for a moment, in her desire to correct his +ignorance: "it was merely a term for what we now call cup." + +"No, was it?" says Cyril, with an affectation of intense astonishment; +whereupon they all laugh. + +"Talking of tea," says Lady Chetwoode, "I wonder where it is. Taffy, my +dear, will you ring the bell?" + +Tea is brought, tea is consumed; but still the rain rains on, and their +spirits are at zero. + +"I shall go out, 'hail, rain, or shine,'" says Cyril, springing to his +feet with sudden desperation. + +"So shall I," declares Guy, "to the stables. Taffy, will you come with +me?" + +"As nobody wants me," says Lilian, "I shall make a point of wanting +somebody. Archie, come and have a game of billiards with me before +dinner." + +"My dear Guy, does it not still rain very hard?" protests Florence, +anxiously. + +"Very," laughing. + +"You will get wet," with increasing anxiety, and a tender glance +cleverly directed. + +"Wet! he will get drenched," exclaims Cyril; "he will probably get his +death of cold, and die of inflammation of the lungs. It is horrible to +think of it! Guy, be warned; accept Florence's invitation to stay here +with her, and be happy and dry. As sure as you are out to-day, you may +prepare to shed this mortal coil." + +"Forgive me, Florence, I must go or suffocate," says Guy, refusing to be +warned, or to accept Miss Beauchamp's delicate hint: and together he and +Musgrave sally forth to inspect the stables, while Lilian and Archibald +retire to the billiard-room. + +When they have played for some time, and Archibald has meanly allowed +Lilian to win all the games under the mistaken impression that he is +thereby cajoling her into staying with him longer than she otherwise +might have done, she suddenly destroys the illusion by throwing down her +cue impatiently, and saying, with a delicious little pout: + +"I hate playing with people who know nothing about the game! there is no +excitement in it. I remark when I play with you I always win. You're a +regular muff at billiards, Archie; that's what _you_ are." + +This is a severe blow to Archie's pride, who is a first-class hand at +billiards; but he grins and bears it. + +"If you will give me a few more lessons," he says, humbly, "I dare say I +shall improve." + +"No, I can't afford to waste my time, and you are too tiresome. Let us +go into the drawing-room." + +"Rather let us stay here for a while," he says, earnestly. "They are all +out, and I--I have something to say to you." + +During the last half-hour one of the men has come in and given the fire +a poke and lit the lamps, so that the room looks quite seductive. Miss +Chesney, glancing doubtfully round, acknowledges so much, and prepares +to give in. + +"I hope it is something pleasant," she says, _apropos_ of Archie's last +remark. "You have been looking downright miserable for days. I hope +sincerely, you are not going melancholy mad, but I have my doubts of it. +What is the matter with you, Archie? You used to be quite a charming +companion, but now you are very much the reverse. Sometimes, when with +you, your appearance is so dejected that if I smile I feel absolutely +heartless. Do try to cheer up, there's a good boy." + +"A fellow can't be always simpering, especially when he is wretched," +retorts he, moodily. + +"Then don't be wretched. That is the very thing to which I object. You +are the very last man in the world who ought to suffer from the blues. +Anything wrong with you?" + +"Everything. I love a woman who doesn't care in the very least for me." + +"Oh, so that is what you have been doing in London, is it?" says Lilian, +after a short pause that makes her words still more impressive. "I +certainly did think you weren't in a very great hurry to return, and +that you looked rather blighted when you did come. I doubt you have been +dancing the 'Geliebt und verloren' waltzes once too often. Did she +refuse you?" + +"I love you, Lilian, and only you," returns he, reproachfully. "No, do +not turn from me; let me plead my cause once more. Darling, I have +indeed tried to live without you, and have failed; if you reject me +again you will drive me to destruction. Lilian, be merciful; say +something kind to me." + +"You promised me," says Lilian, nervously, moving away from him, "never +to speak on this subject again. Oh, why is it that some people will +insist on falling in love with other people? There is something so +stupid about it. Now, _I_ never fall in love; why cannot you follow my +good example?" + +"I am not bloodless, or----" + +"Neither am I," holding up her pretty hand between her and the fire, so +that the rich blood shows through the closed fingers of it. "But I have +common sense, the one thing you lack." + +"_You_ are the one thing I lack," possessing himself of her hand and +kissing it fatuously. "Without you I lack everything. Beloved, must I +learn to look upon you as my curse? Give me, I entreat you, one little +word of encouragement, if only one; I starve for want of it. If you only +knew how I have clung for months, and am still clinging, to the barest +shadow of a hope, you would think twice before you destroyed that one +faint gleam of happiness." + +"This is dreadful," says Lilian, piteously, the ready tears gathering in +her eyes. "Would you marry a woman who does not love you?" + +"I would,"--eagerly,--"when that woman assures me she does not love +another, and I have your word for that." + +Lilian winces. Then, trying to recover her spirits: + +"'What one suffers for one's country--_men_!'" she misquotes, with an +affectation of lightness. "Archie, billiards have a demoralizing effect +upon you. I shan't play with you again." + +"I don't want to bribe you," says Chesney, turning a little pale, and +declining to notice her interruption; "I should be sorry to think I +could do so; but I have ten thousand a year, and if you will marry me +you shall have a thousand a year pin-money, and five thousand if you +survive me." + +"It would spoil my entire life fearing I shouldn't survive you," says +Miss Chesney, who, in spite of her nervousness, or because of it, is +longing to laugh. + +"You will, you need not be afraid of that." + +"It sounds dazzling," murmurs Lilian, "more especially when you give me +your word you will die first; but still I think it downright shabby you +don't offer me the whole ten." + +"So I will!"--eagerly--"if----" + +"Nonsense, Archie," hastily: "don't be absurd. Cannot you see I am only +in jest? I am not going to marry any one, as I told you before. Come +now,"--anxiously,--"don't look so dismal. You know I am very, _very_ +fond of you, but after all one cannot marry every one one is fond of." + +"I suppose not," gloomily. + +"Then do try to look a little pleasanter. They will all notice your +depression when we return to them." + +"I don't care," with increasing gloom. + +"But I do. Archie, look here, dear,"--taking the high and moral +tone,--"do you think it is right of you to go on like this, just as +if----" + +"I don't care a hang what is right, or what is wrong," says Mr. Chesney, +with considerable vehemence. "I only know you are the only woman I ever +really cared for, and you won't have me. Nothing else is of the +slightest consequence." + +"I am not the only woman in the world. Time will show you there are +others ten times nicer and lovelier." + +"I don't believe it." + +"Because you don't wish to," angrily. "In the first place, I am far too +small to be lovely." + +"You are tall enough for my fancy." + +"And my mouth is too large," with growing irritation. + +"It is small enough for my taste." + +"And sometimes, when the summer is very hot, my skin gets quite +_freckled_," with increasing warmth. + +"I adore freckles. I think no woman perfect without them." + +"I don't believe you," indignantly; "and at all events I have a horrible +temper, and I defy you to say you like _that_!" triumphantly. + +"I do," mournfully. "The hardest part of my unfortunate case is this, +that the unkinder you are to me the more I love you." + +"Then I won't have you love me," says Miss Chesney, almost in tears: "do +you hear me? I forbid you to do it any more. It is extremely rude of you +to keep on caring for me when you know I don't like it." + +"Look here, Lilian," says Archie, taking both her hands, "give me a +little hope, a bare crumb to live on, and I will say no more." + +"I cannot, indeed," deeply depressed. + +"Why? Do you love any other fellow?" + +"Certainly not," with suspicious haste. + +"Then I shall wait yet another while, and then ask you again." + +"Oh, don't!" exclaims Lilian, desperately: "I _beg_ you won't. If I +thought I was going to have these scenes all over again at intervals, it +would kill me, and I should learn to hate you. I should, indeed; and +then what would you do? Think of it." + +"I won't," doggedly; "I often heard 'Faint heart never won fair lady,' +and I shall take my chance. I shall never give you up, so long as you +are not engaged to any other man." + +There is a pause. Lilian's blue eyes are full of tears that threaten +every moment to overflow and run down her pale cheeks. She is +desperately sorry for Archibald, the more so that her heart tells her +she will never be able to give him the consolation that alone can do him +any good. Seeing the expression of tender regret that softens her face, +Archibald falls suddenly upon his knees before her, and, pressing his +lips to her hands, murmurs, in deep agitation: + +"My own, my dearest, is there no pity in your kind heart for me?" + +At this most unlucky moment Sir Guy lays his hand upon the door, and +pushing it lightly open, enters. Five minutes later all the world might +have entered freely, but just now the entrance of this one man causes +unutterable pain. + +Archibald has barely time to scramble to his feet; the tears are still +wet on Lilian's cheeks; altogether it is an unmistakable situation, and +Guy turns cold and pale as he recognizes it as such. Chesney on his +knees, with Lilian's hands imprisoned in his own; Lilian in tears,--what +can it mean but a violent love scene? Probably they have been +quarreling, and have just made it up again. "The falling out of faithful +friends, but the renewal is of love." + +As he meets Lilian's shamed eyes, and marks the rich warm crimson that +has mantled in her cheeks, Chetwoode would have beaten a precipitous +retreat, but is prevented by Taffy's following on his heels somewhat +noisily. + +"It is a charming night, Lil," says that young man, with his usual +_bonhommie_. "The rain is a thing of the past. We shall have our run +after all to-morrow." + +"Indeed! I am glad of that," replies Lilian, half indifferently; though +being the woman of the party, she is of course the quickest to recover +self-possession. "I should have died of despair had the morning proved +unkind." + +"Well, you needn't die for a while. I say, Lil," says Mr. Musgrave, +regarding her curiously, "what's the matter with you, eh? You look +awfully down in the mouth. Anything wrong?" + +"Nothing," sharply: "what should be?" + +"Can't say, I'm sure. But your cheeks," persists this miserable boy, +"are as red as fire." + +"I--that is--it _was_ the fire," confusedly, directing a wrathful glance +at him, which is completely thrown away, as Mr. Musgrave is impervious +to hints: "I was sitting close to it." + +"That goes without telling. Any one would imagine by your color, you had +been put upon the hob to simmer. By the bye,"--a most fortunate access +of ignorance carrying his thoughts into another channel,--"what is a +hob? I don't believe I ever saw one." + +"Hob, substantive, short for goblin: as hobgoblin," says Cyril at this +moment, having entered, how, or from where, nobody knows. "Still bent +upon historical research?" + +"It has something to do with kettles, I think," says Taffy. "I don't +quite believe your meaning for it." + +"Don't you? I am sorry for you. I do. But some people never will learn." + +"That is true," says Lilian, somewhat abruptly. Involuntarily her eyes +fall on Chesney. He has been staring in moody silence at the fire since +Chetwoode's entrance, but now, at her words, straightens himself, and +gives way to a low, rather forced, laugh. + +"_Experientia docet_," says Guy, in a queer tone impossible to +translate. "Time is a stern school-master, who compels us against our +will,"--letting his eyes meet Lilian's--"to learn many things." + +"It has taught me one thing," puts in Cyril, who looks half +amused,--"that the dressing-bell has rung some time since." + +"Has it?" says Lilian, rising with alacrity, and directing a very +grateful glance at him: "I never heard it. I shall scarcely have time +now to get ready for dinner. Why did you not tell me before?" + +As she speaks, she sweeps by him, and he, catching her hand, detains her +momentarily. + +"Because, when one is not in the habit of it, one takes time to form a +good tarradiddle," replies he, in a soft whisper. + +She returns his kindly pressure, and, going into the hall, finds that +full five minutes must elapse before the bell really rings. + +"Dear Cyril!" she murmurs to herself, almost aloud, and, running up to +her room, cries a good deal upon nurse's breast before that kind +creature can induce her to change her gown. After which she gets into +her clothes, more because it would be indecent to go without them than +from any great desire to look her best. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + + "For now she knows it is no gentle chase. + + * * * * * + + She looks upon his lips, and they are pale; + She takes him by the hand, and that is cold; + She whispers in his ears a heavy tale, + As if they heard the woful words she told: + She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes, + Where lo! two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies. + + * * * * * + + Two glasses, where herself, herself beheld + A thousand times, and now no more reflect; + Their virtue lost, wherein they late excell'd, + And every beauty robb'd of his effect."--SHAKESPEARE. + + +"'A southern wind and a cloudy sky proclaim it a hunting morning,'" +quotes Miss Chesney, gayly, entering the breakfast-room at nine o'clock +next morning, looking, if anything, a degree more bewitching than usual +in her hat and habit: in her hand is a little gold-mounted riding-whip, +upon her lovable lips a warm, eager smile. "No one down but me!" she +says, "at least of the gentler sex. And Sir Guy presiding! what fun! +Archie, may I trouble you to get me some breakfast? Sir Guy, some tea, +please: I am as hungry as a hawk." + +Sir Guy pours her out a cup of tea, carefully, but silently. Archie, +gloomy, but attentive, places before her what she most fancies: Cyril +gets her a chair; Taffy brings her some toast: all are fondly dancing +attendance on the little spoiled fairy. + +"What are you looking at, Taffy?" asks she, presently, meeting her +cousin's blue eyes, that so oddly resemble her own, fixed upon her +immovably. + +"At you. There is something wrong with your hair," replies he, +unabashed: "some of the pins are coming out. Stay steady, and I'll wheel +you into line in no time." So saying, he adjusts the disorderly +hair-pin; while Chetwoode and Chesney, looking on, are consumed with +envy. + +"Thank you, dear," says Lilian, demurely, giving his hand a little +loving pat: "you are worth your weight in gold. Be sure you push it in +again during the day, if you see it growing unruly. What a delicious +morning it is!" glancing out of the window; "too desirable perhaps. I +hope none of us will break our necks." + +"Funky already, Lil?" says Taffy, with unpardonable impertinence. "Never +mind, darling, keep up your heart; I'm fit as a fiddle myself, and will +so far sacrifice my life as to promise you a lead whenever a copper +brings me in your vicinity. I shall keep you in mind, never fear." + +"I consider your remarks beneath notice, presumptuous boy," says Miss +Chesney, with such a scornful uplifting of her delicate face as +satisfies Taffy, who, being full of mischief, passes on to bestow his +pleasing attentions on the others of the party. Chesney first attracts +his notice. He is standing with his back to a screen, and has his eyes +fixed in moody contemplation on the floor. Melancholy on this occasion +has evidently marked him for her own. + +"What's up with you, old man? you look suicidal," says Mr. Musgrave, +stopping close to him, and giving him a rattling slap on the shoulder +that rather takes the curl out of him, leaving him limp, but full of +indignation. + +"Look here," he says, in an aggrieved tone, "I wish you wouldn't do +that, you know. Your hands, small and delicate as they are,"--Taffy's +hands, though shapely, are decidedly large,--"can hurt. If you go about +the world with such habits you will infallibly commit murder sooner or +later: I should bet on the sooner. One can never be sure, my dear +fellow, who has heart-disease and who has not." + +"Heart-disease means love with most fellows," says the irrepressible +Taffy, "and I have noticed you aren't half a one since your return from +London." At this _mal a propos_ speech both Lilian and Chesney change +color, and Guy, seeing their confusion, becomes miserable in turn, so +that breakfast is a distinct failure, Cyril and Musgrave alone being +capable of animated conversation. + +Half an hour later they are all in the saddle and are riding leisurely +toward Bellairs, which is some miles distant, through as keen a scenting +wind as any one could desire. + +At Grantley Farm they find every one before them, the hounds sniffing +and whimpering, the ancient M. F. H. cheery as is his wont, and a very +fair field. + +Mabel Steyne is here, mounted on a handsome bay mare that rather chafes +and rages under her mistress's detaining hand, while at some few yards' +distance from her is Tom, carefully got up, but sleepy as is his wont. +One can hardly credit that his indolent blue eyes a little later will +grow dark and eager as he scents the fray, and, steadying himself in his +saddle, makes up his mind to "do or die." + +Old General Newsance is plodding in and out among the latest arrivals, +prognosticating evil, and relating the "wondrous adventures" of half a +century ago, when (if he is to be believed) hounds had wings, and +hunters never knew fatigue. With him is old Lord Farnham, who has one +leg in his grave, literally speaking, having lost it in battle more +years ago than one cares to count, but who rides wonderfully +nevertheless, and is as young to speak to, or rather younger, than any +nineteenth-century man. + +Mabel Steyne is dividing her attentions between him and Taffy, when a +prolonged note from the hounds, and a quick cry of "gone away," startles +her into silence. Talkers are scattered, conversation forgotten, and +every one settles down into his or her saddle, ready and eager for the +day's work. + +Down the hill like a flash goes a good dog fox, past the small wood to +the right, through the spinnies, straight into the open beyond. The +scent is good, the pack lively: Lilian and Sir Guy are well to the +front; Archibald close beside them. Cyril to the left is even farther +ahead; while Taffy and Mabel Steyne can be seen a little lower down, +holding well together, Mabel, with her eyes bright and glowing with +excitement, sailing gallantly along on her handsome bay. + +After a time--the fox showing no signs of giving in--hedges and doubles +throw spaces in between the riders. Sir Guy is far away in the distance, +Taffy somewhat in the background; Cyril is out of sight; while Miss +Chesney finds herself now side by side with Archibald, who is riding +recklessly, and rather badly. They have just cleared a very +uncomfortable wall, that in cold blood would have damped their ardor, +only to find a more treacherous one awaiting them farther on, and +Lilian, turning her mare's head a little to the left, makes for a +quieter spot, and presently lands in the next field safe and sound. + +Archibald, however, holds on his original course, and Lilian, turning in +her saddle, watches with real terror his next movement. His horse, a +good one, rises gallantly, springs, and cleverly, though barely, brings +himself clear to the other side. Both he and his master are uninjured, +but it was a near thing, and makes Miss Chesney's heart beat with +unpleasant rapidity. + +"Archibald," she says, bringing herself close up to his side as they +gallop across the field, and turning a very white face to his, "I wish +you would not ride so recklessly: you will end by killing yourself if +you go on in this foolish fashion." + +Her late fear has added a little sharpness to her tone. + +"The sooner the better," replies he, bitterly. "What have I got to live +for? My life is of no use, either to myself or to any one else, as far +as I can see." + +"It is very wicked of you to talk so!" angrily. + +"Is it? You should have thought of that before you made me think so. As +it is, I am not in the humor for lecturing to do me much good. If I am +killed, blame yourself. Meantime, I like hunting: it is the only joy +left me. When I am riding madly like this, I feel again almost +happy--almost," with a quickly suppressed sigh. + +"Still, I ask you, for my sake, to be more careful," says Lilian, +anxiously, partly frightened, partly filled with remorse at his words, +though in her heart she is vexed with him for having used them. "Her +fault if he gets killed." It is really too much! + +"Do you pretend to care?" asks he, with a sneer. "Your manner is indeed +perfect, but how much of it do you mean? Give me the hope I asked for +last night,--say only two kind words to me,--and I will be more careful +of my life than any man in the field to-day." + +"I think I am always saying kind things to you," returns she, rather +indignant; "I am only too kind. And one so foolishly bent on being +miserable as you are, all for nothing, deserves only harsh treatment. +You are not even civil to me. I regret I addressed you just now, and beg +you will not speak to me any more." + +"Be assured I shan't disobey this your last command," says Archibald, +in a low, and what afterward appears to her a prophetic tone, turning +away. + +The field is growing thin. Already many are lying scattered broadcast in +the ditches, or else are wandering hopelessly about on foot, in search +of their lost chargers. The hounds are going at a tremendous pace; a +good many horses show signs of flagging; while the brave old fox still +holds well his own. + +Taffy came to signal grief half an hour ago, but now reappears +triumphant and unplucked, splashed from head to heel, but game for any +amount still. Mrs. Steyne in front a-fighting hard for the brush, while +Lilian every moment is creeping closer to her on the bonny brown mare +that carries her like a bird over hedges and rails. Sir Guy is out of +sight, having just vanished down the slope of the hill, only to reappear +again a second later. Archibald is apparently nowhere, and Miss Chesney +is almost beginning to picture him to herself bathed in his own gore, +when raising her head she sees him coming toward her at a rattling pace, +his horse, which is scarcely up to his weight, well in hand. + +Before him rises an enormous fence, beneath which gleams like a silver +streak a good bit of running water. It is an awkward jump, the more so +that from the other side it is almost impossible for the rider to gauge +its dangers properly. + +Lilian makes a faint sign to him to hold back, which he either does not +or will not see. Bringing his horse up to the fence at a rather wild +pace, he lifts him. The good brute rises obediently, springs forward, +but jumps too short, and in another second horse and rider are rolling +together in a confused mass upon the sward beyond. + +The horse, half in and half out of the water, recovers himself quickly, +and, scrambling to his feet, stands quietly ashamed, trembling in every +limb, at a little distance from his master. + +But Archibald never stirs; he lies motionless, with his arms flung +carelessly above his head, and his face turned upward to the clouded +sky,--a brilliant speck of crimson upon the green grass. + +Lilian, with a sickening feeling of fear, and a suppressed scream, +gallops to his side, and, springing to the ground, kneels down close to +him, and lifts his head upon her knee. + +His face is deadly pale, a small spot of blood upon his right cheek +rendering even more ghastly its excessive pallor. A frantic horror lest +he be dead fills her mind and heart. Like funeral bells his words return +and smite cruelly upon her brain: "If I am killed blame yourself." _Is_ +she to blame? Oh, how harshly she spoke to him! With what bitterness did +she rebuke--when he--when he was only telling her of his great love for +her! + +Was ever woman so devoid of tender feeling? to goad and rail at a man +only because she had made conquest of his heart! And to choose this day +of all others to slight and wound him, when, had she not been hatefully, +unpardonably blind, she might have seen he was bent upon his own +destruction. + +How awfully white he is! Has death indeed sealed his lips forever? Oh, +that he might say one word, if only to forgive her! With one hand she +smooths back his dark crisp hair from his forehead, and tries to wipe +away with her handkerchief the terrible blood-stain from his poor cheek. + +"Archie, Archie," she whispers to him, piteously, bending her face so +close to his that any one might deem the action a caress, "speak to me: +will you not hear me, when I tell you how passionately I regret my +words?" + +But no faintest flicker of intelligence crosses the face lying so mute +and cold upon her knees. For the first time he is stone deaf to the +voice of her entreaty. + +Perhaps some foolish hope that her call might rouse him had taken +possession of her; for now, seeing how nothing but deepest silence +answers her, she lets a groan escape her. Will nobody ever come? Lifting +in fierce impatience a face white as the senseless man's beneath her, +she encounters Guy's eyes fixed upon her, who has by chance seen the +catastrophe, and has hastened to her aid. + +"Do something for him,--something," she cries, trembling; "give him +brandy! it will, it _must_ do him good." + +Guy, kneeling down beside Chesney, places his hand beneath his coat, and +feels for his heart intently. + +"He is not dead!" murmurs Lilian, in an almost inaudible tone: "say he +is alive. I told him never to speak to me again: but I did not dream I +should be so terribly obeyed. Archie, Archie!" + +Her manner is impassioned. Remorse and terror, working together, produce +in her all the appearance, of despairing anguish. She bears herself as +a woman might who gazes at the dead body of him she holds dearest on +earth; and Guy, looking silently upon her, lets a fear greater than her +own, a more intolerable anguish, enter his heart even then. + +"He is not dead," he says, quietly, forcing himself to be calm. +Whereupon Lilian bursts into a storm of tears. + +"Are you sure?" cries she; "is there no mistake? He looks so--so--_like_ +death," with a shuddering sigh. "Oh, what should I have done had he been +killed?" + +"Be happy, he is alive," says Guy, between his dry lips, misery making +his tones cold. All his worst fears are realized. In spite of pretended +indifference, it is plain to him that all her wayward heart has been +given to her cousin. Her intense agitation, her pale agonized face, seem +to him easy to read, impossible to misunderstand. As he rises from his +knees, he leaves all hope behind him in possession of his wounded rival. + +"Stay with him until I bring help: I shan't be a minute," he says, not +looking at her, and presently returning with some rough contrivance that +does duty for a stretcher, and a couple of laborers. They convey him +home to Chetwoode, where they lay him, still insensible, upon his bed, +quiet and cold as one utterly bereft of life. + +Then the little doctor arrives, and the door of Chesney's chamber is +closed upon him and Guy, and for the next half-hour those +outside--listening, watching, hoping, fearing--have a very bad time of +it. + +At last, as the sick-room door opens, and Guy comes into the corridor, a +little figure, that for all those miserable thirty minutes has sat +crouching in a dark corner, rises and runs swiftly toward him. + +It is Lilian: she is trembling visibly, and the face she upraises to his +is pale--nay, gray--with dread suspense. Her white lips try to form a +syllable, but fail. She lays one hand upon his arm beseechingly, and +gazes at him in eloquent silence. + +"Do not look like that," says Guy, shocked at her expression. He speaks +more warmly than he feels, but he quietly removes his arm so that her +hand perforce drops from it. "He is better; much better than at first we +dared hope. He will get well. There is no immediate danger. Do you +understand, Lilian?" + +A little dry sob breaks from her. The relief is almost too intense; all +through her dreary waiting she had expected to hear nothing but that he +was in truth--as he appeared in her eyes--dead. She staggers slightly, +and would have fallen but that Chetwoode most unwillingly places his arm +round her. + +"There is no occasion for all this--nervousness," he says, half +savagely, as she lays her head against his shoulder and cries as though +her heart would break. At this supreme moment she scarcely remembers +Guy's presence, and would have cried just as comfortably with her head +upon old Parkins's shoulder. Perhaps he understands this, and therefore +fails to realize the rapture he should know at having her so +unresistingly within his arms. As it is, his expression is bored to the +last degree: his eyebrows are drawn upward until all his forehead lies +in little wrinkles. With a determination worthy of a better cause he has +fixed his eyes upon the wall opposite, and refuses to notice the lovely +golden head of her who is weeping so confidingly upon his breast. + +It is a touching scene, but fails to impress Guy, who cannot blind +himself to (what he believes to be) the fact that all these pearly tears +are flowing for another,--and that a rival. With his tall figure drawn +to its fullest height, so as to preclude all idea of tenderness, he +says, sharply: + +"One would imagine I had brought you bad news. You could not possibly +appear more inconsolable if you had heard of his death. Do try to rouse +yourself, and be reasonable: he is all right, and as likely to live as +you are." + +At this he gives her a mild but undeniable shake, that has the desired +effect of reducing her to calmness. She checks her sobs, and, moving +away from him, prepares to wipe away all remaining signs of her +agitation. + +"You certainly are not very sympathetic," she says, with a last faint +sob, casting a reproachful glance at him out of two drowned but still +beautiful eyes. + +"I certainly am not," stiffly: "I can't 'weep my spirit from my eyes' +because I hear a fellow is better, if you mean that." + +"You seem to be absolutely grieved at his chance of recovery," +viciously. + +"I have no doubt I seem to you all that is vilest and worst. I learned +your opinion of me long ago." + +"Well,"--scornfully--"I think you need scarcely choose either this +time, or place, for one of your stand-up fights. When you remember what +you have just said,--that you are actually _sorry_ poor dear Archie is +alive,--I think you ought to go away and feel very much ashamed of +yourself." + +"Did I say that?" indignantly. + +"Oh, I don't know," indifferently,--as though his denial now cannot +possibly alter the original fact; "something very like it, at all +events." + +"How can you so malign me, Lilian?" angrily. "No one can be more +heartily sorry for poor Chesney than I am, or more pleased at his escape +from death. You willfully misunderstand every word I utter. For the +future,--as all I say seems to annoy,--I beg you will not trouble +yourself to address me at all." + +"I shall speak to you just whenever I choose," replies Miss Chesney, +with superb defiance. + +At this thrilling instant Chesney's door is again opened wide, and Dr. +Bland comes out, treading softly, and looking all importance. + +"You, my dear Miss Chesney!" he says, approaching her lightly; "the very +young lady of all others I most wished to see. Not that there is +anything very curious about that fact," with his cozy chuckle; "but your +cousin is asking for you, and really, you know, upon my word, he is so +very excitable, I think perhaps--eh?--under the circumstances, you know, +it would be well to gratify his pardonable desire to see you--eh?" + +"The circumstances" refer to the rooted conviction, that for weeks has +been planted in the doctor's breast, of Miss Chesney's engagement to her +cousin. + +"To see me?" says Lilian, shrinking away involuntarily, and turning very +red. Both the tone and the blush are "confirmation strong" of the +doctor's opinion. And Guy, watching her silently, feels, if possible, +even more certain than before of her affection for Chesney. + +"To be sure, my dear; and why not?" says the kindly little doctor, +patting her encouragingly on the shoulder. He deals in pats and smiles. +They are both part of his medicine. So,--under the circumstances,-- +through force of habit, would he have patted the Queen of England or a +lowly milkmaid alike,--with perhaps an additional pat to the milkmaid, +should she chance to be pretty. Lilian, being rich in nature's charms, +is a special favorite of his. + +"But--" says Lilian, still hesitating. To tell the truth, she is hardly +ambitious of entering Archibald's room, considering their last stormy +parting; and, besides, she is feeling sadly nervous and out of sorts. +The ready tears spring again to her eyes; once more the tell-tale blood +springs hotly to her cheeks. Guy's fixed gaze--he is watching her with a +half sneer upon his face--disconcerts her still further. Good Dr. Bland +entirely mistakes the meaning of her confusion. + +"Now, my dear child, if I give you leave to see this reckless cousin, we +must be cautious, _very_ cautious, and quiet, _extremely_ quiet, eh? +That is essential, you know. And mind, no tears. There is nothing so +injurious on these occasions as tears! Reminds one invariably of last +farewells and funeral services, and coffins, and all such uncomfortable +matters. I don't half like granting these interviews myself, but he +appears bent on seeing you, and, as I have said before, he is +impetuous,--_very_ impetuous." + +"You think, then," stammers Lilian, making one last faint effort at +escape from the dreaded ordeal,--"you think----" + +"I don't think," smiling good-naturedly, "I _know_ you must not stay +with him longer than five minutes." + +"Good doctor, make it three," is on the point of Lilian's tongue, but, +ashamed to refuse this small request of poor wounded Archibald, she +follows Dr. Bland into his room. + +On the bed, lying pale and exhausted, is Archibald, his lips white, his +eyes supernaturally large and dark. They grow even larger and much +brighter as they rest on Lilian, who slowly, but--now that she again +sees him so weak and prostrate--full of pity, approaches his side. + +"You have come, Lilian," he says, faintly: "it is very good of +you,--more than I deserve. I vexed you terribly this morning, did I not? +But you will forgive me now I have come to grief," with a wan smile. + +"I have nothing to forgive," says Lilian, tremulously, gazing down upon +him pityingly through two big violet eyes so overcharged with tears as +makes one wonder how they can keep the kindly drops from running down +her cheeks. "But you have. Oh, Archie, let me tell you how deeply I +deplore having spoken so harshly to you to-day. If"--with a +shudder--"you had indeed been killed, I should never have been happy +again." + +"I was unmanly," says Chesney, holding out his hand feebly for hers, +which is instantly given. "I am afraid I almost threatened you. I am +thoroughly ashamed of myself." + +"Oh, hush! I am sure you are speaking too much; and Dr. Bland says you +must not excite yourself. Are you suffering much pain?" very tenderly. + +"Not much;" but the drawn expression of his face belies his assertion. +"To look at you"--softly--"gives me ease." + +"I wonder you don't hate me," says Lilian, in a distressed tone, +fighting hard to suppress the nervous sob that is rising so rebelliously +in her throat. Almost at this moment--so sorry is she for his hopeless +infatuation for her--she wishes he did hate her. "Yet I am not +altogether to blame, and I have suffered more than I can tell you since +you got that terrible fall!" This assurance is very sweet to him. "When +I saw you lying motionless,--when I laid your head upon my knees and +tried to call you back to life, and you never answered me, I thought--" + +"You!" interrupts he, hastily; "did your hands succor me?" + +"Yes," coloring warmly; "though it was very little good I could do you, +I was so frightened. You looked so cold,--so still. I thought then, +'suppose it was my cross words had induced him to take that fence?' +But"--nervously--"it wasn't: that was a foolish, a conceited thought, +with no truth in it." + +"Some little truth, I think," sadly. "When you told me 'never to speak +to you again,'--you recollect?--there came a strange hard look into your +usually kind eyes--" pressing her hand gently to take somewhat from the +sting of his words--"that cut me to the heart. Your indifference seemed +in that one moment to have turned to hatred, and I think I lost my head +a little. Forgive me, sweetheart, if I could not then help thinking that +death could not be much worse than life." + +"Archie,"--gravely,--"promise me you will never think that again." + +"I promise." + +There is a short pause. It is growing almost dark. The wintry day, sad +and weakly from its birth, is dying fast. All the house is silent, +hushed, full of expectancy; only a little irrepressible clock in the +next room ticks its loudest, as though defying pain or sorrow to affect +it in any way. + +"Is it your arm?" asks Lilian, gently, his other hand being hidden +beneath the sheet, "or----" + +"No; two of my ribs, I believe, and my head aches a good deal." + +"I am tormenting you with my foolish chatter," rising remorsefully, as +though to quit the room. + +"No, no," eagerly; "I tell you it makes me easier to see you; it dulls +the pain." Slowly, painfully he draws her hand upward to his lips, and +kisses it softly. "We are friends again?" he whispers. + +"Yes,--always friends," tightening her fingers sympathetically over his. +"If"--very earnestly--"you would only try to make up your mind never to +speak to me again as you did--last night, I believe another unpleasant +word would never pass between us." + +"Do not fear," he says, slowly: "I have quite made up my mind. Rather +than risk bringing again into your eyes the look I saw there to-day, I +would keep silence forever." + +Here Dr. Bland puts his head inside the door, and beckons Lilian to +withdraw. + +"The five minutes are up," he says, warningly, consulting the golden +turnip he usually keeps concealed somewhere about his person, though +where, so large is it, has been for years a matter of speculation with +his numerous patients. + +"I must go," says Lilian, rising: the door is open, and all that goes on +within the chamber can be distinctly heard in the corridor outside. "Now +try to sleep, will you not? and don't worry, and don't even think if you +can help it." + +"Must you go?" wistfully. + +"I fear I must." + +"You will come again to-morrow, very early?" + +"I will come to-morrow, certainly, as early as I can. Good-night." + +"Good-night." + +Closing the door softly behind her, she advances into the corridor, +where she still finds Guy and Dr. Bland conversing earnestly. Perhaps +they have been waiting for her coming. + +"So you have persuaded him to go to sleep?" asks the doctor, beaming +kindly upon "pretty Miss Chesney," that being the title given to her +long ago by the country generally. + +"Yes. I think he will sleep now," Lilian answers. "He looks very white, +poor, poor fellow, but not so badly as I expected." + +"I suppose your presence did him good. Well, I will take a last look at +him before leaving," moving toward the closed door. + +"Can I do anything for you?" asks Guy, following him, glad of any excuse +that makes him quit Lilian's side. + +"Yes,"--smiling,--"you can, indeed. Take your ward down-stairs and give +her a glass of wine. She is too pale for my fancy. I shall be having her +on my hands next if you don't take care." So saying, he disappears. + +Guy turns coldly to Lilian. + +"Will you come down, or shall I send something up to you?" he asks, +icily. + +Lilian's fears have subsided; consequently her spirits have risen to +such a degree that they threaten to overflow every instant. A desire for +mischief makes her heart glow. + +"I shall go with you," she says, with a charming grimace. "I might blame +myself in after years if I ever willingly failed to cultivate every +second spent in your agreeable society." + +So saying, she trips down-stairs gayly beside him, a lovely, though +rather naughty, smile upon her lips. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + + "_Claud._--In mine eye, she is the sweetest lady that ever I looked + on."--_Much Ado About Nothing._ + + +Because of Archibald's accident, and because of much harassing secret +thought, Christmas is a failure this year at Chetwoode. Tom Steyne and +his wife and their adorable baby come to them for a week, it is true, +and try by every means in their power to lighten the gloom that hangs +over the house, but in vain. + +Guy is obstinately _distrait_, not to say ill-tempered; Lilian is +fitful,--now full of the wildest spirits, and anon capricious and +overflowing with little imperious whims; Archibald, though rapidly +mending, is of course invisible, and a complete dead letter; while +Cyril, usually the most genial fellow in the world and devoid of moods, +is at this particular time consumed with anxiety, having at last made up +his mind to reveal to his mother his engagement to Cecilia and ask her +consent to their speedy marriage. Yet another full month elapses, and +already the first glad thought of spring is filling every breast, before +he really brings himself to speak upon the dreaded subject. + +His disclosure he knows by instinct will be received ungraciously and +with disapprobation, not only by Lady Chetwoode, but by Sir Guy, who has +all through proved himself an enemy to the cause. His determined +opposition will undoubtedly increase the difficulties of the situation, +as Lady Chetwoode is in all matters entirely ruled by her eldest son. + +Taking Lilian into his confidence, Cyril happens to mention to her this +latter sure drawback to the success of his suit, whereupon she +generously declares herself both able and willing to take Sir Guy in +hand and compel him to be not only non-combative on the occasion, but an +actual partisan. + +At these valiant words Cyril is so transported with hope and gratitude +that, without allowing himself time for reflection, he suddenly and very +warmly embraces his pretty colleague, calling her, as "Traddles" might +have done, "the dearest girl in the world," and vowing to her that but +for one other she is indeed "the only woman he ever loved." + +Having recovered from the astonishment caused by this outbreak on the +part of the generally nonchalant Cyril, Miss Chesney draws her breath +slowly, and wends her way toward Sir Guy's private den, where she knows +he is at present sure to be found. + +"Are you busy?" she asks, showing her face in the doorway, but not +advancing. + +"Not to you," courteously. They are now on friendly though somewhat +constrained speaking terms. + +"Will you give me, then, a little of your time? It is something very +important." + +"Certainly," replies he, surprised both at the solemnity of her manner +and at the request generally. "Come in and shut the door." + +"It is just a question I would ask of you," says Lilian, uncomfortably, +now she has come to the point, finding an extraordinary difficulty about +proceeding. At length, with a desperate effort she raises her head, and, +looking full at him, says, distinctly: + +"Sir Guy, when two people love each other very dearly, don't you think +they ought to marry?" + +This startling interrogation has the effect of filling Chetwoode with +dismay. He turns white in spite of his vigorous attempt at self-control, +and involuntarily lays his hand upon the nearest chair to steady +himself. Has she come here to tell him of her affection for her cousin? + +"There must be something more," he says, presently, regarding her +fixedly. + +"Yes, but answer me first. Don't you think they ought?" + +"I suppose so,"--unwillingly,--"unless there should be some insuperable +difficulty in the way." + +"He suspects me; he knows my errand," thinks Lilian, letting her eyes +seek the carpet, which gives her all the appearance of feeling a very +natural confusion. "He hopes to entangle me. His 'difficulty' is poor +dear Cecilia's very disreputable papa." + +"No difficulty should stand in the way of love," she argues, severely. +"Besides, what is an 'insuperable difficulty'? Supposing one of them +should be unhappily less--less respectable than the other: would that be +it?" + +Sir Guy opens his eyes. Is it not, then, the cousin? and if not, who? +"Less respectable." He runs through the long list of all the young men +of questionable morals with whom he is acquainted, but can come to no +satisfactory conclusion. Has she possibly heard of certain lawless +doings of Archibald in earlier days, and does she fear perhaps that he, +her guardian, will refuse consent to her marriage because of them? At +this thought he freezes. + +"I think all unsuitable marriages a crime," he says, coldly. "Sooner or +later they lead to the bitterest of all repentance. To marry one one +cannot respect! Surely such an act carries with it its own punishment. +It is a hateful thought. But then----" + +"You do not understand," pleads Lilian, rising in her eagerness, and +going nearer to him, while her large eyes read his face nervously as she +trembles for the success of her undertaking. "There is no question of +'respect.' It is not that I mean. These two of whom I speak will never +repent, because they love each other so entirely." + +"What a stress you lay on the word love!" he says, in a half-mocking, +wholly bitter tone. "Do you believe in it?" + +"I do, indeed. I cannot think there is anything in this world half so +good as it," replies she, with conviction, while reddening painfully +beneath his gaze. "Is it not our greatest happiness?" + +"I think it is our greatest curse." + +"How can you say that?" with soft reproach. "Can you not see for +yourself how it redeems all the misery of life for some people?" + +"Those two fortunate beings of whom you are speaking, for instance," +with a sneer. "All people are not happy in their attachment. What is to +become of those miserable wretches who love, but love in vain? Did you +never hear of a homely proverb that tells you 'one man's meat is another +man's poison'?" + +"You are cynical to-day. But to return; the two to whom I allude have no +poison to contend with. They love so well that it is misery to them to +be apart,--so devotedly that they know no great joy except when they are +together. Could such love cool? I am sure not. And is it not cruel to +keep them asunder?" + +Her voice has grown positively plaintive; she is evidently terribly in +earnest. + +"Are you speaking of yourself?" asks Guy, huskily, turning with sudden +vehemence to lay his hand upon her arm and scan her features with +intense, nay, feverish anxiety. + +"Of myself?" recoiling. "No! What can you mean? What is it that I should +say of myself?" Her cheeks are burning, her eyes are shamed and +perplexed, but they have not fallen before his: she is evidently full of +secret wonder. "It is for Cyril I plead, and for Cecilia," she says, +after a strange pause. + +"Cyril!" exclaims he, the most excessive relief in tone and gesture. +"Does he want to marry Mrs. Arlington?" + +"Yes. I know you have a prejudice against her,"--earnestly,--"but that +is because you do not know her. She is the sweetest woman I ever met." + +"This has been going on for a long time?" + +"I think so. Cyril wished to marry her long ago, but she would not +listen to him without auntie's consent. Was not that good of her? If I +was in her place, I do not believe I should wait for any one's consent." + +"I am sure"--dryly--"you would not." + +"No, not even for my guardian's," replies she, provokingly; then, with a +lapse into her former earnestness, "I want you to be good to her. She is +proud, prouder than auntie even, and would not forgive a slight. And if +her engagement to Cyril came to an end, he would never be happy again. +Think of it." + +"I do," thoughtfully. "I think it is most unfortunate. And she a widow, +too!" + +"But such a widow!" enthusiastically. "A perfect darling of a widow! I +am not sure, after all,"--with rank hypocrisy,--"that widows are not to +be preferred before mere silly foolish girls, who don't know their own +minds half the time." + +"Is that a description of yourself?" with an irrepressible smile. + +"Don't be rude! No 'mere silly girl' would dare to beard a stern +guardian in his den as I am doing! But am I to plead in vain? Dear Sir +Guy, do not be hard. What could be dearer than her refusing to marry +Cyril if it should grieve auntie? 'She would not separate him from his +mother,' she said. Surely you must admire her in that one instance at +least. Think of it all again. They love each other, and they are +unhappy; and you can turn their sorrow into joy." + +"Now they love, of course; but will it last? Cyril's habits are very +expensive, and he has not much money. Do you ever think you may be +promoting a marriage that by and by will prove a failure? The day may +come when they will hate you for having helped to bring them together." + +"No," says Lilian, stoutly, shaking her _blonde_ head emphatically; "I +have no such unhealthy thoughts or fancies. They suit each other; they +are happy in each other's society; they will never repent their +marriage." + +"Is that your experience?" he asks, half amused. + +"I have no experience," returns she, coloring and smiling: "I am like +the Miller of the Dee; I care for nobody, no, not I,--for nobody cares +for me." + +"You forget your cousin." The words escape him almost without his +consent. + +Miss Chesney starts perceptibly, but a second later answers his taunt +with admirable composure. + +"What? Archie? Oh! he don't count; cousins are privileged beings. Or did +you perhaps mean Taffy? But answer me, Sir Guy: you have not yet said +you will help me. And I am bent on making Cecilia happy. I am honestly +fond of her; I cannot bear to see you think contemptuously of her; while +I would gladly welcome her as a sister." + +"I do not see how her marrying Cyril can make her your sister," replies +he, idly; and then he remembers what he has said, and the same thought +striking them both at the same moment, they let their eyes meet +uneasily, and both blush scarlet. + +Guy, sauntering to the window, takes an elaborate survey of the dismal +landscape outside; Lilian coughs gently, and begins to count +industriously all the embroidered lilies in the initial that graces the +corner of her handkerchief. One--two--three---- + +"They might as well have put in four," she says out loud, abstractedly. + +"What?" turning from the window to watch the lovely _mignonne_ face +still bent in contemplation of the lilies. + +"Nothing," mildly: "did I say anything?" + +"Something about 'four,' I thought." + +"Perhaps"--demurely--"I was thinking I had asked you four times to be +good-natured, and you had not deigned to grant my request. When Lady +Chetwoode speaks to you of Cyril and Cecilia, say you will be on their +side. Do not vote against them. Promise." + +He hesitates. + +"Not when _I_ ask you?" murmurs she, in her softest tones, going a +little nearer to him, and uplifting her luminous blue eyes to his. + +Still he hesitates. + +Miss Chesney takes one step more in his direction, which is necessarily +the last, unless she wishes to walk through him. Her eyes, now full of +wistful entreaty, and suspiciously bright, are still fixed reproachfully +upon his. With a light persuasive gesture she lays five white, slender +fingers upon his arm, and whispers, in plaintive tones: + +"I feel sure I am going to cry." + +"I promise," says Sir Guy, instantly, laughing in spite of himself, and +letting his own hand close with unconscious force over hers for a +moment. Whereupon Miss Chesney's lachrymose expression vanishes as if by +magic, while a smile bright and triumphant illuminates her face in its +stead. + +"Thank you," she says, delightedly, and trips toward the door eager to +impart her good news. Upon the threshold, however, she pauses, and +glances back at him coquettishly, perhaps a trifle maliciously, from +under her long heavily-fringed lids. + +"I knew I should win the day," she says, teasingly, "although you don't +believe in love. Nevertheless, I thank you again, and"--raising her +head, and holding out one hand to him with a sweet _bizarre_ grace all +her own--"I would have you know I don't think you half such a bad old +guardy after all!" + + * * * * * + +Almost at this moment Cyril enters his mother's boudoir, where, to his +astonishment, he finds her without companions. + +"All alone, Madre?" he says, airily, putting on his gayest manner and +his most fetching smile to hide the perturbation that in reality he is +feeling. His heart is in his boots, but he wears a very gallant +exterior. + +"Yes," replies Lady Chetwoode, looking up from her work, "and very dull +company I find myself. Have you come to enliven me a little? I hope so: +I have been _gene_ to the last degree for quite an hour." + +"Where is the inevitable Florence?" + +"In the drawing-room, with Mr. Boer. I can't think what she sees in him, +but she appears to value his society highly. To-day he has brought her +some more church music to try over, and I really wish he wouldn't. +Anything more afflicting than chants tried over and over again upon the +piano I can't conceive. They are very bad upon the organ, but on the +piano! And sometimes he _will_ insist on singing them with her!" + +Here two or three wailing notes from down-stairs are wafted, weeping +into the room, setting the hearers' teeth on edge. To even an incorrect +ear it might occur that Mr. Boer's stentorian notes are not always in +tune! + +"My dear, my dear," exclaims Lady Chetwoode, in a voice of agony, "shut +the door close; _closer_, my dear Cyril, they are at it again!" + +"It's a disease," says Cyril, solemnly. "A great many curates have it. +We should count ourselves lucky that laymen don't usually catch it." + +"I really think it is. I can't bear that sort of young man myself," says +Lady Chetwoode, regretfully, who feels some gentle grief that she cannot +bring herself to admire Mr. Boer; "but I am sure we should all make +allowances; none of us are perfect; and Mrs. Boileau assures me he is +very earnest and extremely zealous. Still, I wish he could try to speak +differently: I think his mother very much to blame for bringing him up +with such a voice." + +"She was much to blame for bringing him up at all. He should have been +strangled at his birth!" Cyril says this slowly, moodily, with every +appearance of really meaning what he says. He is, however, unaware of +the blood-thirsty expression he has assumed, as though in support of his +words, being in fact miles away in thought from Mr. Boer and his +Gregorian music. He is secretly rehearsing a coming conversation with +his mother, in which Cecilia's name is to be delicately introduced. + +"That is going rather far, is it not?" Lady Chetwoode says, laughing. + +"A man is not an automaton. He cannot always successfully stifle his +feelings," says Cyril, still more moodily, _apropos_ of his own +thoughts; which second most uncalled-for remark induces his mother to +examine him closely. + +"There is something on your mind," she says, gently. "You are not now +thinking of either me or Mr. Boer. Sit down, dear boy, and tell me all +about it." + +"I will tell you standing," says Cyril, who feels it would be taking +advantage of her ignorance to accept a chair until his disclosure is +made. Then the private rehearsal becomes public, and presently Lady +Chetwoode knows all about his "infatuation," as she terms it, for the +widow, and is quite as much distressed about it as even he had expected. + +"It is terrible!" she says, presently, when she has somewhat recovered +from the first shock caused by his intelligence; "and only last spring +you promised me to think seriously of Lady Fanny Stapleton." + +"My dear mother, who could think seriously of Lady Fanny? Why, with her +short nose, and her shorter neck, and her anything but sylph-like form, +she has long ago degenerated into one vast joke." + +"She has money," in a rather stifled tone. + +"And would you have me sacrifice my whole life for mere money?" +reproachfully. "Would money console you afterward, when you saw me +wretched?" + +"But why should you be wretched?" Then, quickly, "Are you so very sure +this Mrs. Arlington will make you happy?" + +"Utterly positive!" in a radiant tone. + +"And are you ready to sacrifice every comfort for mere beauty?" retorts +she. "Ah, Cyril, beware: you do not understand yet what it is to be +hampered for want of money. And there are other things: when one marries +out of one's own sphere, one always repents it." + +"One cannot marry higher than a lady," flushing. "She is not a countess, +or an honorable, or even Lady Fanny; but she is of good family, and she +is very sweet, and very gentle, and very womanly. I shall never again +see any one so good in my eyes. I entreat you, dear mother, not to +refuse your consent." + +"I shall certainly say nothing until I see Guy," says Lady Chetwoode, +tearfully, making a last faint stand. + +"Then let us send for him, and get it over," Cyril says, with gentle +impatience, who is very pale, but determined to finish the subject one +way or the other, now and forever. + +Almost as he says it, Guy enters; and Lady Chetwoode, rising, explains +the situation to him in a few agitated words. True to his promise to +Lilian, and more perhaps because a glance at his brother's quiet face +tells him opposition will be vain, Guy says a few things in favor of the +engagement. But though the words are kind, they are cold; and, having +said them, he beats an instantaneous retreat, leaving Cyril, by his +well-timed support, master of the field. + +"Marry her, then, as you are all against me," says Lady Chetwoode, the +tears running down her cheeks. It is very bitter to her to remember how +Lady Fanny's precious thousands have been literally flung away. All +women, even the best and the sweetest, are mercenary where their sons +are concerned. + +"And you will call upon her?" says Cyril, after a few minutes spent in +an effort to console her have gone by. + +"Call!" repeats poor Lady Chetwoode, with some indignation, "upon that +woman who absolutely declined to receive me when first she came! I have +a little pride still remaining, Cyril, though indeed you have humbled a +good deal of it to-day," with keen reproach. + +"When first she came,"--apologetically,--"she was in great grief and +distress of mind." + +"Grief for her husband?" demands she; which is perhaps the bitterest +thing Lady Chetwoode ever said in her life to either of her "boys." + +"No," coldly; "I think I told you she had never any affection for him." +Then his voice changes, and going over to her he takes her hand +entreatingly, and passes one arm over her shoulder. "Can you not be kind +to her for my sake?" he implores. "Dearest mother, I cannot bear to hear +you speak of her as 'that woman,' when I love her so devotedly." + +"I suppose when one is married one may without insult be called a +woman," turning rather aside from his caress. + +"But then she was so little married, and she looks quite a girl. You +will go to see her, and judge for yourself?" + +"I suppose there is nothing else left for me to do. I would not have all +the county see how utterly you have disappointed me. I have been a good +mother to you, Cyril,"--tremulously,--"and this is how you requite me." + +"It cuts me to the heart to grieve you so much,"--tenderly,--"you, my +own mother. But I--I have been a good son to you, too, have I not, dear +Madre?" + +"You have indeed," says Lady Chetwoode; and then she cries a little +behind her handkerchief. + +"How old is she?" with quivering lips. + +"Twenty-two or twenty-three, I am not sure which," in a subdued tone. + +"In manner is she quiet?" + +"Very. Tranquil is the word that best expresses her. When you see her +you will acknowledge I have not erred in taste." + +Lady Chetwoode with a sigh lays down her arms, and when Cyril stoops his +face to hers she does not refuse the kiss he silently demands, so that +with a lightened conscience he leaves the room to hurry on the wings of +love to Cecilia's bower. + +All the way there he seems to tread on air. His heart is beating, he is +full of happiest exultation. The day is bright and joyous; already one +begins to think of winter kindly as a thing of the past. All nature +seems in unison with his exalted mood. + +Reaching the garden he knows so well and loves so fondly, he walks with +eager, longing steps toward a side path where usually she he seeks is to +be found. Now standing still, he looks round anxiously for Cecilia. + +But Cecilia is not there! + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + + "_Lys._--How now, my love? Why is your cheek so pale? + How chance the roses there do fade so fast? + + _Her._--Belike, for want of rain, which I could well + Between them from the tempest of mine eyes." + --_Midsummer Night's Dream._ + + +Up in her chamber sits Cecilia, speechless, spell-bound, fighting with a +misery too great for tears. Upon her knee lies an open letter from which +an enclosure has slipped and fallen to the ground. And on this last her +eyes, scorched and distended, are fixed hopelessly. + +The letter itself is from Colonel Trant: it was posted yesterday, and +received by her late last night, though were you now to tell her a whole +year has elapsed since first she read its fatal contents, I do not think +she would evince much doubt or surprise. It was evidently hastily +penned, the characters being rough and uneven, and runs as follows: + + + "Austen Holm. Friday. + + "MY DEAR GIRL,--The attempt to break bad news to any one has always + seemed to me so vain, and so unsatisfactory a proceeding, and one + so likely to render even heavier the blow it means to soften, that + here I refrain from it altogether. Yet I would entreat you when + reading what I now enclose not to quite believe in its truth until + further proofs be procured. I shall remain at my present address + for three days longer: if I do not by then hear from you, I shall + come to The Cottage. Whatever happens, I know you will remember it + is my only happiness to serve you, and that I am ever your faithful + friend, + + "GEORGE TRANT." + + +When Cecilia had read so far, she raised the enclosure, though without +any very great misgivings, and, seeing it was from some unknown friend +of Trant's, at present in Russia, skimmed lightly through the earlier +portion of it, until at length a paragraph chained her attention and +killed at a stroke all life and joy and happy love within her. + +"By the bye," ran this fatal page, "did you not know a man named +Arlington?--tall, rather stout, and dark; you used to think him dead. He +is not, however, as I fell against him yesterday by chance and learned +his name and all about him. He didn't seem half such a dissipated card +as you described him, so I hope traveling has improved his morals. I +asked him if he knew any one called Trant, and he said, 'Yes, several.' +I had only a minute or two to speak to him, and, as he never drew breath +himself during that time, I had not much scope for questioning. He +appears possessed of many advantages,--pretty wife at home, no end of +money, nice place, unlimited swagger. Bad form all through, but genial. +You will see him shortly in the old land, as he is starting for England +almost immediately." + +And so on, and on, and on. But Cecilia, then or afterward, never read +another line. + +Her first thought was certainly not of Cyril. It was abject, cowering +fear,--a horror of any return to the old loathed life,--a crushing dread +lest any chance should fling her again into her husband's power. Then +she drew her breath a little hard, and thought of Trant, and then of +Cyril; and _then_ she told herself, with a strange sense of relief, that +at least one can die. + +But this last thought passed away as did the others, and she knew that +death seldom comes to those who seek it; and to command it,--who should +dare do that? Hope dies hard in some breasts! In Cecilia's the little +fond flame barely flickered, so quickly did it fade away and vanish +altogether before the fierce blast that had assailed it. Not for one +moment did she doubt the truth of the statement lying before her. She +was too happy, too certain; she should have remembered that some are +born to misfortune as the sparks fly upward. "She had lived, she had +loved," and here was the end of it all! + +All night long she had not slept. She had indeed lain upon her bed, her +pillow had known the impress of her head, but through every minute of +the lonely, silent awesome hours of gloom, her great eyes had been wide +open, watching for the dawn. + +At last it came. A glorious dawn; a very flush of happy youth; the +sweeter that it bespoke a warm and early spring. At first it showed pale +pink with expectation, then rosy with glad hope. From out the east faint +rays of gold rushed tremulously, and, entering the casement, cast around +Cecilia's head a tender halo. + +When happiness lies within our grasp, when all that earth can give us +(alas! how little!) is within our keeping, how good is the coming of +another day,--a long, perfect day, in which to revel, and laugh, and +sing, as though care were a thing unknown! But when trouble falls upon +us, and this same terrible care is our only portion, with what horror, +what heart-sinking, do we turn our faces from the light and wish with +all the fervor of a vain wish that it were night! + +The holy dawn brought but anguish to Cecilia. She did not turn with +impatience from its smiling beauty, but heavy tears gathered slowly, and +grew within her sorrowful gray eyes, until at length (large as was their +home) they burst their bounds and ran quickly down her cheeks, as though +glad to escape from what should never have been their resting-place. +Swiftly, silently, ran the little pearly drops, ashamed of having dimmed +the lustre of those lovely eyes that only yester morning were so glad +with smiles. + +Sitting now in her bedroom, forlorn and desolate, with the cruel words +that have traveled all the way across a continent to slay her peace +throbbing through her brain, she hears Cyril's well-known step upon the +gravel outside, and, springing to her feet as though stabbed, shrinks +backward until the wall yields her a support. A second later, ashamed of +her own weakness, she straightens herself, smooths back her ruffled hair +from her forehead, and, with a heavy sigh and colorless face, walks +down-stairs to him who from henceforth must be no more counted as a +lover. Slowly, with lingering steps that betray a broken heart, she +draws nigh to him. + +Seeing her, he comes quickly forward to greet her, still glad with the +joy that has been his during all his walk through the budding woods, a +smile upon his lips. But the smile soon dies. The new blankness, the +terrible change, he sees in the beloved face sobers him immediately. It +is vivid enough even at a first glance to fill him with apprehension: +hastening to her as though eager to succor her from any harm that may be +threatening, he would have taken her in his arms, but she, with a +little quick shudder, putting up her hands, prevents him. + +"No," she says, in a low changed tone; "not again!" + +"Something terrible has happened," Cyril says, with conviction, "or you +would not so repulse me. Darling, what is it?" + +"I don't know how to tell you," replies she, her tone cold with the +curious calmness of despair. + +"It cannot be so very bad," nervously; "nothing can signify greatly, +unless it separates you from me." + +A mournful bitter laugh breaks from Cecilia, a laugh that ends swiftly, +tunelessly, as it began. + +"How nearly you have touched upon the truth!" she says, miserably; and +then, in a clear, hard voice, "My husband is alive." + +A dead silence. No sound to disturb the utter stillness, save the +sighing of the early spring wind, the faint twitter of the birds among +the budding branches as already they seek to tune their slender throats +to the warblings of love, and the lowing of the brown-eyed oxen in the +fields far, far below them. + +Then Cyril says, with slow emphasis: + +"I don't believe it. It's a lie! It is impossible!" + +"It is true. I feel it so. Something told me my happiness was too great +to last, and now it has come to an end. Alas! alas! how short a time it +has continued with me! Oh, Cyril!"--smiting her hands together +passionately,--"what shall I do? what shall I do? If he finds me he will +kill me, as he often threatened. How shall I escape?" + +"It is untrue," repeats Cyril, doggedly, hardly noting her terror and +despair. His determined disbelief restores her to calmness. + +"Do you think I would believe except on certain grounds?" she says. +"Colonel Trant wrote me the evil tidings." + +"Trant is interested; he might be glad to delay our marriage," he says, +with a want of generosity unworthy of him. + +"No, no, _no_. You wrong him. And how should he seek to delay a marriage +that was yet far distant?" + +"Not so very distant. I have yet to tell you"--with a strange smile--"my +chief reason for being here to-day: to ask you to receive my mother +to-morrow, who is coming to welcome you as a daughter. How well Fate +planned this tragedy! to have our crowning misfortune fall straight into +the lap of our newly-born content! Cecilia,"--vehemently,--"there must +still be a grain of hope somewhere. Do not let us quite despair. I +cannot so tamely accept the death to all life's joys that must follow on +belief." + +"You shall see for yourself," replies she, handing to him the letter +that all this time has lain crumbled beneath her nerveless fingers. + +When he has read it, he drops it with a groan, and covers his face with +his hands. To him, too, the evidence seems clear and convincing. + +"I told you to avoid me. I warned you," she says, presently, with a wan +smile. "I am born to ill-luck; I bring it even to all those who come +near me--especially, it seems, to the few who are unhappy enough to love +me. Go, Cyril, while there is yet time." + +"There is not time," desperately: "it is already too late." He moves +away from her, and in deep agitation paces up and down the secluded +garden-path; while she, standing alone with drooping head and dry +miserable eyes, scarcely cares to watch his movements, so dead within +her have all youth and energy grown. + +"Cecilia," he says, suddenly, stopping before her, and speaking in a low +tone, that, though perfectly clear, still betrays inward hesitation, +while his eyes carefully avoid hers, "listen to me. What is he to you, +this man that they say is still alive, that you should give up your +whole life for him? He deserted you, scorned you, left you for another +woman. For two long years you have believed him dead. Why should you now +think him living? Let him be dead still and buried in your memory; there +are other lands,"--slowly, and still with averted eyes,--"other homes: +why should we not make one for ourselves? Cecilia,"--coming up to her, +white but earnest, and holding out his arms to her,--"come with me, and +let us find our happiness in each other!" + +Cecilia, after one swift glance at him, moves back hastily. + +"How dare you use such words to me?" she says, in a horror-stricken +voice; "how dare you tempt me? you, _you_ who said you loved me!" Then +the little burst of passion dies; her head droops still lower upon her +breast; her hands coming together fall loosely before her in an +attitude descriptive of the deepest despondency. "I believed in you," +she says, "I trusted you. I did not think _you_ would have been the one +to inflict the bitterest pang of all." She breathes these last words in +accents of the saddest reproach. + +"Nor will I!" cries he, with keen contrition, kneeling down before her, +and hiding his face in a fold of her gown. "Never again, my darling, my +life! I forgot,--I forgot you are as high above all other women as the +sun is above the earth. Cecilia, forgive me." + +"Nay, there is nothing to forgive," she says. "But, +Cyril,"--unsteadily,--"you will go abroad at once, for a little while, +until I have time to decide where in the future I shall hide my head." + +"Must I?" + +"You must." + +"And you,--where will you go?" + +"It matters very little. You will have had time to forget me before ever +I trust myself to see you again." + +"Then I shall never see you again," replies he, mournfully, "if you wait +for that. 'My true love hath my heart, and I have hers.' How can I +forget you while it beats warm within my breast?" + +"Be it so," she answers, with a sigh: "it is a foolish fancy, yet it +gladdens me. I would not be altogether displaced from your mind." + +So she lays her hand upon his head as he still kneels before her, and +gently smooths and caresses it with her light loving fingers. He +trembles a little, and a heavy dry sob breaks from him. This parting is +as the bitterness of death. To them it _is_ death, because it is +forever. + +He brings the dear hand down to his lips, and kisses it softly, +tenderly. + +"Dearest," she murmurs, brokenly, "be comforted." + +"What comfort can I find, when I am losing you?" + +"You can think of me." + +"That would only increase my sorrow." + +"Is it so with you? For me I am thankful, very thankful, for the great +joy that has been mine for months, the knowledge that you loved me. Even +now, when desolation has come upon us, the one bright spot in all my +misery is the thought that at least I may remember you, and call to mind +your words, your face, your voice, without sin." + +"If ever you need me," he says, when a few minutes have elapsed, "you +have only to write, 'Cyril, I want you,' and though the whole world +should lie between us, I shall surely come. O my best beloved! how shall +I live without you?" + +"Don't,--do not speak like that," entreats she, faintly. "It is too hard +already: do not make it worse." Then, recovering herself by a supreme +effort, she says, "Let us part now, here, while we have courage. I think +the few arrangements we can make have been made, and George Trant will +write, if--if there is anything to write about." + +They are standing with their hands locked together reading each other's +faces for the last time. + +"To-morrow you will leave Chetwoode?" she says, regarding him fixedly. + +"To-morrow! I could almost wish there was no to-morrow for either you or +me," replies he. + +"Cyril," she says, with sudden fear, "you will take care of yourself, +you will not go into any danger? Darling,"--with a sob,--"you will +always remember that some day, when this is quite forgotten, I shall +want to see again the face of my dearest friend." + +"I shall come back to you," he says quietly. He is so quiet that she +tells herself now is a fitting time to break away from him; she forces +herself to take the first step that shall part them remorselessly. + +"Good-bye," she says, in faltering tones. + +"Good-bye," returns he, mechanically. With the slow reluctant tears that +spring from a broken heart running down her pale cheeks, she presses her +lips fervently to his hands, and moves slowly away. When she has gone a +few steps, frightened at the terrible silence that seems to have +enwrapped him, benumbing his very senses, she turns to regard him once +more. + +He has never stirred; he scarcely seems to breathe, so motionless is his +attitude; as though some spell were on him, he stands silently gazing +after her, his eyes full of dumb agony. There is something so utterly +lonely in the whole scene that Cecilia bursts into tears. Her sobs rouse +him. + +"Cecilia!" he cries, in a voice of mingled passion and despair that +thrills through her. Once more he holds out to her his arms. She runs to +him, and flings herself for the time into his embrace. He strains her +passionately to his heart. Her sobs break upon the silent air. Once +again their white lips form the word "farewell." There is a last +embrace, a last lingering kiss. + +All is over. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. + + "The flower that smiles to-day + To-morrow dies; + All that we wish to stay + Tempts and then flies. + What is this world's delight? + Lightning that mocks the night, + Brief even as bright."--SHELLEY. + + +At Chetwoode they are all assembled in the drawing-room,--except +Archibald, who is still confined to his room,--waiting for dinner: Cyril +alone is absent. + +"What can be keeping him?" says his mother, at last, losing patience as +she pictures him dallying with his betrothed at The Cottage while the +soup is spoiling and the cook is gradually verging toward hysterics. She +suffers an aggrieved expression to grow within her eyes as she speaks +from the depths of the softest arm-chair the room contains, in which it +is her custom to ensconce herself. + +"Nothing very dreadful, I dare say," replies Florence, in tones a degree +less even than usual, her appetite having got the better of her +self-control. + +Almost as she says the words the door is thrown open, and Cyril enters. +He is in morning costume, his hair is a little rough, his face pale, his +lips bloodless. Walking straight up to his mother, without looking +either to the right or to the left, he says, in a low constrained voice +that betrays a desperate effort to be calm: + +"Be satisfied, mother: you have won the day. Your wish is fulfilled: I +shall never marry Mrs. Arlington: you need not have made such a +difficulty about giving your consent this morning, as now it is +useless." + +"Cyril, what has happened?" says Lady Chetwoode, rising to her feet +alarmed, a distinct pallor overspreading her features. She puts out one +jeweled hand as though to draw him nearer to her, but for the first time +in all his life he shrinks from her gentle touch, and moving backward, +stands in the middle of the room. Lilian, going up to him, compels him +with loving violence to turn toward her. + +"Why don't you speak?" she asks, sharply. "Have you and Cecilia +quarreled?" + +"No: it is no lovers' quarrel," with an odd change of expression: "we +have had little time for quarreling, she and I: our days for love-making +were so short, so sweet!" + +There is a pause: then in a clear harsh voice, in which no faintest +particle of feeling can be traced, he goes on: "Her husband is alive; he +is coming home. After all,"--with a short unlovely laugh, sad through +its very bitterness,--"we worried ourselves unnecessarily, as she was +not, what we so feared, a widow." + +"Cyril!" exclaims Lilian; she is trembling visibly, and gazes at him as +though fearing he may have lost his senses. + +"I would not have troubled you about this matter," continues Cyril, not +heeding the interruption, and addressing the room generally, without +permitting himself to look at any one, "but that it is a fact that must +be known sooner or later; I thought the sooner the better, as it will +end your anxiety and convince you that this _mesalliance_ you so +dreaded,"--with a sneer,--"can never take place." + +Guy, who has come close to him, here lays his hand upon his arm. + +"Do not speak to us as though we could not feel for you," he says, +gently, pain and remorse struggling in his tone, "believe me----" + +But Cyril thrusts him back. + +"I want neither sympathy nor kind words now," he says, fiercely: "you +failed me when I most required them, when they might have made _her_ +happy. I have spoken on this subject now once for all. From this moment +let no one dare broach it to me again." + +Guy is silent, repentant. No one speaks; the tears are running down +Lilian's cheeks. + +"May not I?" she asks, in a distressed whisper. "Oh, my dear! do not +shut yourself up alone with your grief. Have I not been your friend? +Have not I, too, loved her? poor darling! Cyril, let me speak to you of +her sometimes." + +"Not yet; not now," replies he, in the softest tone he has yet used, a +gleam of anguish flashing across his face. "Yes, you were always true to +her, my good little Lilian!" Then, sinking his voice, "I am leaving +home, perhaps for years; do not forsake her. Try to console, to +comfort----" He breaks down hopelessly; raising her hand to his lips, he +kisses it fervently, and a second later has left the room. + +For quite two minutes after the door had closed upon him, no one stirs, +no one utters a word. Guy is still standing with downcast eyes upon the +spot that witnessed his repulse. Lilian is crying. Lady Chetwoode is +also dissolved in tears. It is this particular moment Florence chooses +to make the first remark that has passed her lips since Cyril's abrupt +entrance. + +"Could anything be more fortunate?" she says, in a measured, +congratulatory way. "Could anything have happened more opportunely? Here +is this objectionable marriage irretrievably prevented without any +trouble on our parts. I really think we owe a debt of gratitude to this +very unpleasant husband." + +"Florence," cries Lady Chetwoode, with vehement reproach, stung to the +quick, "how can you see cause for rejoicing in the poor boy's misery! Do +you not think of him?" After which she subsides again, with an audible +sob, into her cambric. But Lilian is not so easily satisfied. + +"How dare you speak so?" she says, turning upon Florence with wet eyes +that flash fire through their tears. "You are a cold and heartless +woman. How should _you_ understand what he is feeling,--poor, poor +Cyril!" This ebullition of wrath seems to do her good. Kneeling down by +her auntie, she places her arms round her, and has another honest +comfortable cry upon her bosom. + +Florence draws herself up to her full height, which is not +inconsiderable, and follows her movements with slow, supercilious +wonder. She half closes her white lids, and lets her mouth take a +slightly disdainful curve,--not too great a curve, but just enough to be +becoming and show the proper disgust she feels at the terrible +exhibition of ill-breeding that has just taken place. + +But as neither Lilian nor Lady Chetwoode can see her, and as Guy has +turned to the fire and is staring into its depths with an expression of +stern disapproval upon his handsome face, she presently finds she is +posing to no effect, and gives it up. + +Letting a rather vindictive look cover her features, she sweeps out of +the drawing-room up to her own chamber, and gets rid of her bad temper +so satisfactorily that after ten minutes her maid gives warning, and is +ready to curse the day she was born. + +The next morning, long before any one is up, Cyril takes his departure +by the early train, and for many days his home knows him no more. + + * * * * * + +A mighty compassion for Cecilia fills the hearts of all at +Chetwoode--all, that is, except Miss Beauchamp, who privately considers +it extremely low and wretched form, to possess a heart at all. + +Lady Chetwoode, eager and anxious to atone for past unkind thought, goes +down to The Cottage in person and insists on seeing its sad +tenant,--when so tender and sympathetic is she, that, the ice being +broken and pride vanquished, the younger woman gives way, and, laying +her head upon the gentle bosom near her, has a hearty cry there, that +eases even while it pains her. I have frequently noticed that when one +person falls to weeping in the arms of another, that other person +maintains a _tendresse_ for her for a considerable time afterward. +Cecilia's lucky rain of tears on this occasion softens her companion +wonderfully, so that Lady Chetwoode, who only came to pity, goes away +admiring. + +There is an indescribable charm about Cecilia, impossible to resist. +Perhaps it is her beauty, perhaps her exquisite womanliness, combined +with the dignity that sits so sweetly on her. Lady Chetwoode succumbs to +it, and by degrees grows not only sympathetic toward her, but really +attached to her society,--"now, when it is too late," as poor Cecilia +tells herself, with a bitter pang. Yet the friendship of Cyril's mother +is dear to her, and helps to lighten the dreary days that must elapse +before the news of her husband's return to life is circumstantially +confirmed. They have all entreated her to make The Cottage still her +home, until such unwelcome news arrives. + +Colonel Trant's friend has again written from Russia, but without being +able to add another link to the chain of evidence. "He had not seen +Arlington since. He had changed his quarters, so they had missed, and he +had had no opportunity of cross-examining him as to his antecedents; but +he himself had small doubt he was the man they had so often discussed +together. He heard he had gone south, through Turkey, meaning to make +his voyage home by sea; he had mentioned something about preferring +that mode of traveling to any other. He could, of course, easily +ascertain the exact time he meant to return to England, and would let +Trant know without delay," etc. + +All this is eminently unsatisfactory, and suspense preying upon Cecilia +commits terrible ravages upon both face and form. Her large eyes look at +one full of a settled melancholy; her cheeks grow more hollow daily; her +once elastic step has grown slow and fearful, as though she dreads to +overtake misfortune. Every morning and evening, as the post hour draws +nigh, she suffers mental agony, through her excessive fear of what a +letter may reveal to her, sharper than any mere physical pain. + +Cyril has gone abroad; twice Lilian has received a line from him, but of +his movements or his feelings they know nothing. Cecilia has managed to +get both these curt letters into her possession, and no doubt treasures +them, and weeps over them, poor soul, as a saint might over a relic. + +Archibald, now almost recovered, has left them reluctantly for change of +air, in happy ignorance of the sad events that have been starting up +among them since his accident, as all those aware of the circumstances +naturally shrink from speaking of them, and show a united desire to +prevent the unhappy story from spreading further. + +So day succeeds day, until at length matters come to a crisis, and hopes +and fears are at an end. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. + + "Love laid his sleepless head + On a thorny rose bed; + And his eyes with tears were red + And pale his lips as the dead. + + "And fear, and sorrow, and scorn, + Kept watch by his head forlorn, + Till the night was overworn, + And the world was merry with morn. + + "And joy came up with the day, + And kissed love's lips as he lay, + And the watchers, ghostly and gray, + Sped from his pillow away. + + "And his eyes at the dawn grew bright + And his lips waxed ruddy as light: + Sorrow may reign for a night, + But day shall bring back delight." + --SWINBURNE. + + +The strong old winter is dead. He has died slowly, painfully, with many +a desperate struggle, many a hard fight to reassert his power; but now +at last he's safely buried, pushed out of sight by all the soft little +armies of green leaves that have risen up in battle against him. Above +his grave the sweet, brave young grasses are springing, the myriad +flowers are bursting into fuller beauty, the birds, not now in twos or +threes, but in countless thousands, are singing melodiously among the as +yet half-opened leaves, making all the woods merry with their tender +madrigals. The whole land is awake and astir, crying, "Welcome" to the +flower-crowned spring, as she flies with winged feet over field, and +brook, and upland. + +It is the first week in March, a wonderfully soft and lamb-like March +even at this early stage of its existence. Archibald has again returned +to Chetwoode, strong and well, having been pressed to do so by Lady +Chetwoode, who has by this time brought herself, most reluctantly, to +believe his presence necessary to Lilian's happiness. + +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. + +Lilian, unable to work or read, wanders aimlessly through the house, +hardly knowing how to hide her growing depression from her cousins, who +alone remain quite ignorant of the impending trouble. Mr. Musgrave, +indeed, is so utterly unaware of the tragedy going on around him, that +he chooses this particular day to be especially lively, not to say +larky, and overpowers Lilian with his attentions; which so distracts her +that, watching her opportunity, she finally effects her escape through +the drawing-room window, and, running swiftly through the plantations, +turns in the direction of the wood. + +She eludes one cousin, however, only to throw herself into the arms of +another. Half-way to The Cottage she meets Archibald coming leisurely +toward her. + +"Take me for a walk," he says, with humble entreaty; and Lilian, who, as +a rule, is kind to every one except her guardian, tells him, after an +unflattering pause, he may accompany her to such and such a distance, +but no farther. + +"I am going to The Cottage," she says. + +"To see this Lady of Shalott, this mysterious Mariana in her moated +grange?" asks Chesney, lightly. + +Odd as it may sound, he has never yet been face to face with Cecilia. +Her determined seclusion and her habit of frequenting the parish church +in the next village, which is but a short distance from her, has left +her a stranger to almost every one in the neighborhood. Archibald is +indeed aware that The Cottage owns a tenant, and that her name is +Arlington, but nothing more. The fact of her never being named at +Chetwoode has prevented his asking any idle questions and thereby making +any discoveries. + +When they have come to the rising mound that half overlooks The Cottage +garden, Lilian comes to a standstill. + +"Now you must leave me," she says, imperatively. + +"Why? We are quite a day's journey from The Cottage yet. Let me see you +to the gate." + +"How tiresome you are!" says Miss Chesney; "just like a big baby, only +not half so nice: you always want more than you are promised." + +As Chesney makes no reply to this sally, she glances at him, and, +following the direction of his eyes, sees Cecilia, who has come out for +a moment or two to breathe the sweet spring air, walking to and fro +among the garden paths. It is a very pale and changed Cecilia upon whom +they look. + +"Why," exclaims Chesney, in a tone of rapt surprise, "surely that is +Miss Duncan!" + +"No,"--amazed,--"it is Mrs. Arlington, Sir Guy's tenant." + +"True,"--slowly,--"I believe she did marry that fellow afterward. But I +never knew her except as Miss Duncan." + +"You knew her?" + +"Very slightly,"--still with his eyes fixed upon Cecilia, as she paces +mournfully up and down in the garden below them, with bent head and +slow, languid movements. "Once I spoke to her, but I knew her well by +sight; she was, she _is_, one of the loveliest women I ever saw. But how +changed she is! how altered, how white her face appears! or can it be +the distance makes me think so? I remember her such a merry girl--almost +a child--when she married Arlington." + +"Yes? She does not look merry now," says Lilian, the warm tears rising +in her eyes: "poor darling, no wonder she looks depressed!" + +"Why?" + +"Oh," says Lilian, hesitating, "something about her husband, you know." + +"You don't mean to say she is wearing sackcloth and the willow, and all +that sort of thing, for Arlington all this time?" in a tone of +astonishment largely flavored with contempt. "I knew him uncommonly well +before he married, and I should think his death would have been a cause +for rejoicing to his wife, above all others." + +"Ah! that is just it," says Lilian, consumed with a desire to tell: she +sinks her voice mysteriously, and sighs a heavy sigh tinctured with +melancholy. + +"Just so," unsympathetically. "Some women, I believe, are hopeless +idiots." + +"They are not," indignantly; "Cecilia is not an idiot; she is miserable +because he is--alive! _Now_ what do you think?" + +"Alive!" incredulously. + +"Exactly so," with all the air of a triumphant _raconteur_. "And when +she had believed him dead, too, for so long! is it not hard upon her, +poor thing! to have him come to life again so disagreeably without a +word of warning? I really think it is quite enough to kill her." + +"Well, I never!" says Mr. Chesney, staring at her. It isn't an elegant +remark, but it is full of animated surprise, and satisfies Lilian. + +"Is it not a tragedy?" she says, growing more and more pitiful every +moment. "All was going on well (it doesn't matter what), when suddenly +some one wrote to Colonel Trant to say he had seen this odious Mr. +Arlington alive and well in Russia, and that he was on his way home. I +shall always"--viciously--"hate the man who wrote it: one would think he +had nothing else to write about, stupid creature! but is it not shocking +for her, poor thing?" + +At this, seemingly without rhyme or reason (except a depraved delight in +other people's sufferings), Mr. Chesney bursts into a loud enjoyable +laugh, and continues it for some seconds. He might perhaps have +continued it until now, did not Lilian see fit to wither his mirth in +the bud. + +"Is it a cause for laughter?" she asks, wrathfully; "but it is _just +like you_! I don't believe you have an atom of feeling. Positively I +think you would laugh if _auntie_, who is almost a mother to you, was +_dead_!" + +"No, I should not," declares Archibald, subsiding from amusement to the +very lowest depths of sulk: "pardon me for contradicting you, but I +should not even _smile_ were Lady Chetwoode dead. She is perhaps the one +woman in the world whose death would cause me unutterable sorrow." + +"Then why did you laugh just now?" + +"Because if you had seen a man lie dead and had attended his funeral, +even _you_ might consider it a joke to hear he was 'alive and well.'" + +"You saw him dead!" + +"Yes, as dead as Julius Caesar," morosely. "It so happened I knew him +uncommonly well years ago: 'birds of a feather,' you know,"--bitterly,-- +"'flock together.' We flocked for a considerable time. Then I lost sight +of him, and rather forgot all about him than otherwise, until I met him +again in Vienna, more than two years ago. I saw him stabbed,--I had been +dining with him that night,--and helped to carry him home; it seemed a +slight affair, and I left him in the hands of a very skillful +physician, believing him out of danger. Next morning, when I called, he +was dead." + +"Archie,"--in a low awe-struck whisper,--"is it all true?" + +"Perfectly true." + +"You could not by any possibility be mistaken?" + +"Not by any." + +"Then, Archie," says Lilian, solemnly, "you are a _darling_!" + +"Am I?" grimly. "I thought I was a demon who could laugh at the demise +of his best friend." + +"Nonsense!" tucking her hand genially beneath his arm; "I only said that +out of vexation. Think as little about it as I do. I know for a fact you +are not half a bad boy. Come now with me to The Cottage, that I may tell +this extraordinary, this delightful story to Cecilia." + +"Is Cecilia Miss Duncan?" + +"No, Mrs. Arlington. Archie,"--seriously,--"you are quite, utterly sure +you know all about it?" + +"Do you imagine I dreamed it? Of course I am sure. But if you think I am +going down there to endure hysterics, and be made damp with tears, you +are much mistaken. I won't go, Lilian; you needn't think it; I--I should +be afraid." + +"Console yourself; I shan't require your assistance," calmly. "I only +want you to stay outside while I break the good news to her, lest she +should wish to ask you a question. I only hope, Archie, you are telling +me the exact truth,"--severely,--"that you are not drawing on your +imagination, and that it was no other man of the same name you saw lying +dead?" + +"Perhaps it was," replies he, huffily, turning away as they reach the +wicket gate. + +"Do not stir from where you are now," says she, imperiously: "I may want +you at any moment." + +So Archibald, who does not dare disobey her commands, strays idly up and +down outside the hedge, awaiting his summons. It is rather long in +coming, so that his small stock of patience is nearly exhausted when he +receives a message begging him to come in-doors. + +As he enters the drawing-room, however, he is so struck with compassion +at the sight of Cecilia's large, half-frightened eyes turned upon him +that he loses all his ill humor and grows full of sympathy. She is very +unlike the happy Cecilia of a month ago, still more unlike the calm, +dignified Cecilia who first came to Chetwoode. She is pale as the early +blossoms that lie here and there in soft wanton luxuriance upon her +tables; her whole face is eager and expectant. She is trembling +perceptibly from head to foot. + +"What is it you would tell me, sir?" she asks, with deep entreaty. It is +as though she longs yet fears to believe. + +"I would tell you, madam," replies Chesney, respect and pity in his +tone, taking and holding the hand she extends to him, while Lilian +retains the other and watches her anxiously, "that fears are groundless. +A most gross mistake has, I understand, caused you extreme uneasiness. I +would have you dismiss this trouble from your mind. I happened to know +Jasper Arlington well: I was at Vienna the year he was there; we met +often. I witnessed the impromptu duel that caused his death; I saw him +stabbed; I myself helped to carry him to his rooms; next morning he was +dead. Forgive me, madam, that I speak so brusquely. It is best, I think, +to be plain, to mention bare facts." + +Here he pauses, and Cecilia's breath comes quickly; involuntarily her +fingers close round his; a question she hardly dares to ask trembles on +her lips. Archibald reads it in the silent agony of her eyes. + +"I saw him dead," he says, softly, and is rewarded by a grateful glance +from Lilian. + +Cecilia's eyes close; a dry, painful sob comes from between her pallid +lips. + +"She will faint," cries Lilian, placing her arms round her. + +"No, I shall not." By a great effort Cecilia overcomes the insensibility +fast creeping over her. "I thank you, sir," she says to Archibald: "your +words sound like truth. I would I dared believe them! but I have been so +often----" she stops, half choked with emotion. "What must you think me +but inhuman?" she says, sobbingly. "All women except me mourn their +husband's death; I mourn, in that I fear him living." + +"Madam," replies Archibald, scarcely knowing what to say, "I too knew +Jasper Arlington; for me, therefore, it would be impossible to judge you +harshly in this matter. Were you, or any other living soul, to pretend +regret for him, pardon me if I say I should deem you a hypocrite." + +"You must believe what he has told you," says Lilian, emphatically: "it +admits of no denial. But, to-morrow, at all events, will bring you news +from Colonel Trant that will compel you to acknowledge its truth." + +"Yes, yes. Oh, that to-morrow was here!" murmurs Cecilia, faintly. And +Lilian understands that not until Trant's letter is within her hands +will she allow herself to entertain hope. + +Silently Lilian embraces her, and she and Archibald return home. + + * * * * * + +At Chetwoode very intense relief and pleasure are felt as Lilian relates +her wonderful story. Every one is only too willing to place credence in +it. Chesney confesses to some sensations of shame. + +"Somehow," he says, "it never occurred to me your tenant might be Jasper +Arlington's wife and the pretty Miss Duncan who tore my heart into +fritters some years ago. And I knew nothing of all this terrible story +about her husband's supposed resuscitation until to-day. It is a 'comedy +of errors.' I feel inclined to sink into the ground when I remember how +I have walked about here among you all, with full proof of what would +have set you all at rest in no time, carefully locked up in my breast. +Although innocent, Lady Chetwoode, I feel I ought to apologize." + +"I shall go down and make her come up to Chetwoode," says her ladyship, +warmly. "Poor girl! it is far too lonely for her to be down there by +herself, especially just now when she must be so unstrung. As soon as I +hear she has had that letter from George Trant, I shall persuade her to +come to us." + +The next evening brings a letter from Trant that falls like a little +warm seal of certainty upon the good news of yesterday. + +"Going down to the landing-place," writes he, "I found the steamer had +really arrived, and went on board instantly. With my heart beating to +suffocation I walked up to the captain, and asked him if any gentleman +named Arlington had come with him. He said, 'Yes, he was here just now,' +and looking round, pointed to a tall man bending over some luggage. +'There he is,' he said. I went up to the tall man. I could see he was a +good height, and that his hair was black. As I noted this last fact my +blood froze in my veins. When I was quite close to him he raised +himself, turned, and looked full at me! And once more my blood ran +warmly, comfortably. It was _not_ the man I had feared to see. I drew my +breath quickly, and to make assurance doubly sure, determined to ask his +name. + +"'Sir,' I said, bluntly, forgetful of etiquette, 'is your name +Arlington?' + +"'Sir,' replied he, regarding me with calm surprise, 'it is.' At this +moment I confess I lost my head. I became once more eighteen, and +impulsive. I grasped his hands; I wrung them affectionately, not to say +violently. + +"'Then, my dear sir,' I exclaimed, rapturously, 'I owe you a debt of +gratitude. I thank you with all my heart. Had you not been born an +Arlington, I might now be one of the most miserable men alive; as it is, +I am one of the happiest.' + +"My new friend stared. Then he gave way to an irrepressible laugh, and +shrugged his shoulders expressively. + +"'My good fellow,' said he, 'be reasonable. Take yourself back again to +the excellent asylum from which you have escaped, and don't make further +fuss about it. With your genial disposition you are sure to be caught.' + +"At this I thought it better to offer him some slight explanation, which +so amused him that he insisted on carrying me off with him to his hotel, +where we dined, and where I found him a very excellent fellow indeed." + +In this wise runs his letter. Cecilia reads it until each comforting +assertion is shrined within her heart and doubt is no longer possible. +Then an intense gratitude fills her whole being; her eyes grow dim with +tears; clasping her hands earnestly, she falls upon her knees. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. + + "How like a winter hath my absence been + From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! + What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen, + What old December's bareness everywhere!" + --SHAKESPEARE. + + +So Lady Chetwoode goes down to The Cottage in her carriage, and insists +upon carrying Cecilia back with her,--to which, after a slight demur, +Cecilia gladly assents. + +"But how to get Cyril," says practical Lilian, who is with them. + +"He is in Amsterdam," answers Cecilia, with some hesitation. "Colonel +Trant told me so in his letter." + +"Colonel Trant is the most wonderful man I know," says Lilian; "but +Amsterdam of all places! What on earth can any one want in Amsterdam?" + +At this they all laugh, partly because they are still somewhat nervously +inclined, and partly because (though why, I cannot explain) they seem to +find something amusing in the mere thought of Amsterdam. + +"I hope he won't bring back with him a fat _vrouw_," says Miss Chesney. +And then she runs up-stairs to tell Kate to get ready to accompany her +mistress. + +Turning rather timidly toward Lady Chetwoode, Cecilia says: + +"When Cyril returns, then,--you will not--you do not----" + +"When he returns, my dear, you must marry him at once, if only to make +amends for all the misery the poor boy has been enduring. +But,"--kindly--"you must study economy, child; remember you are not +marrying a rich man." + +"He is rich enough for me," smiling; "though indeed it need not signify, +as I have money enough for both. I never spoke of it until now, because +I wished to keep it as a little surprise for him on--on our wedding-day, +but at Mr. Arlington's death I inherited all his fortune. He never +altered the will made before our marriage, and it is nearly four +thousand a year, I think," simply: "Colonel Trant knows the exact +amount, because he is a trustee." + +Lady Chetwoode colors deeply. This woman, whom she had termed +"adventuress," is in reality possessed of a far larger fortune than the +son she would have guarded from her at all hazards; proves to be an +heiress, still further enriched by the priceless gifts of grace and +beauty! + +To say the very least of it, Lady Chetwoode feels small. But, pride +coming to her rescue, she says, somewhat stiffly, while the pleasant +smile of a moment since dies from her face: + +"I had no idea you were so--so--in fact, I believed you almost +portionless. I was led--how I know not--but I certainly was led to think +so. What you say is a surprise. With so much money you should hesitate +before taking any final step. The world is before you,--you are young, +and very charming. I will ask you to forgive an old woman's bluntness; +but remember, there is always something desirable in a title. I would +have you therefore consider. My son is no match for you where _money_ is +concerned." This last emphatically and very proudly. + +Cecilia flushes, and grows distressed. + +"Dear Lady Chetwoode," she says, taking her hand forcibly. "I entreat +you not to speak to me so. Do not make me again unhappy. This money, +which up to the present I have scarcely touched, so hateful has it been +to me, has of late become almost precious to my sight. I please myself +with the thought that the giving of it to--to Cyril--may be some small +return to him for all the tenderness he has lavished upon me. Do not be +angry with me that I cherish, and find such intense gratification in +this idea. It is so sweet to give to those we love!" + +"You have a generous heart," Lady Chetwoode answers, moved by her +generous manner, and pleased too, for money, like music, "hath charms." +"If I have seemed ungracious, forget it. Extreme wonder makes us at +times careless of courtesy, and we did not suspect one who could choose +to live in such a quiet spot as this of being an heiress." + +"You will keep my secret?" anxiously. + +"I promise. You shall be the first to tell it to your husband upon your +wedding-day. I think," says the elder lady, gracefully, "he is too +blessed. Surely you possessed treasure enough in your own person!" + + * * * * * + +So Cecilia goes to Chetwoode, and shortly afterward Lady Chetwoode +conceives a little plot that pleases her intensely, and which she +relates with such evident gusto that Lilian tells her she is an +_intrigante_ of the deepest dye, and that positively for the future she +shall feel quite afraid of her. + +"I never heard anything so artful," says Taffy, who has with much +perseverance wormed himself into their confidence. In fact, after +administering various rebuffs they all lose heart, and confess to him +the whole truth out of utter desperation. "Downright artful!" repeats +Mr. Musgrave, severely. "I shouldn't have believed you capable of it." + +But Cecilia says it is a charming scheme, and sighs for its +accomplishment. Whereupon a telegram is written and sent to Cyril. It is +carefully worded, and, though strictly truthful in letter, rather +suggests the idea that his instant return to Chetwoode will be the only +means of saving his entire family from asphyxiation. It is a thrilling +telegram, almost bound to bring him back without delay, had he but one +grain of humanity left in his composition. + +It evokes an answer that tells them he has started on receipt of their +message, and names the day and hour they may expect him, wind and +weather permitting. + + * * * * * + +It is night,--a rather damp, decidedly unlovely night. The little +station at Truston is almost deserted: only the station-master and two +melancholy porters represent life in its most dejected aspect. Outside +the railings stands the Chetwoode carriage, the horses foaming and +champing their bits in eager impatience to return again to their +comfortable stables. + +Guy, with a cigar between his lips, is pacing up and down, indifferent +alike to the weather or the delay. One of the melancholy porters, who is +evidently in the final stage of depression, tells him the train was due +five minutes ago, and hopes dismally there has been no accident higher +up on the line. Guy, who is lost in thought, hopes so too, and instantly +offers the man a cigar, through force of habit, which the moody one +takes sadly, and deposits in a half-hearted fashion in one of his +numerous rambling pockets to show to his children when he gets home. + +"If ever I _do_ get home," he says to himself, hopelessly, taking out +and lighting an honest clay that has seen considerable service. + +Then a shrill whistle rings through the air, the train steams lazily +into the station, and Guy, casting a hasty glance at the closed blinds +of the carriage outside, hastens forward to meet Cyril, who is the only +passenger for Truston to-night. + +"Has anything happened?" he asks, anxiously, advancing to greet Sir Guy. + +"Yes, but nothing to make you uneasy. Do not ask me any questions now: +you will hear all when you get home." + +"Our mother is well?" + +"Quite well. Are you ready? What a beastly objectionable night it is! +Have you seen to everything, Buckley? Get in, Cyril. I am going outside +to finish my cigar." + +When Guy chooses, he is energetic. Cyril is not, and allows himself to +be pushed unresistingly in the direction of the carriage. + +"Hurry, man: the night is freezing," says Guy, giving him a final touch. +"Home, Buckley." + +Guy springs up in front. Cyril finds himself in the brougham, and in +another instant they are beyond the station railings, rolling along the +road leading to Chetwoode. + +As Cyril closes the door and turns round, the light of the lamps outside +reveals to him the outline of a dark figure seated beside him. + +"Is it you, Lilian?" he asks, surprised; and then the dark figure leans +forward, throws back a furred hood, and Cecilia's face, pale, but full +of a glad triumph, smiles upon him. + +"You!" exclaims he, unsteadily, unable through utter amazement to say +anything more, while with his eyes he gathers in hungrily each delicate +beauty in that "sweetest face to him in all this world." + +Whereupon Cecilia nods almost saucily, though the tears are thick within +her lovely eyes, and answers him: + +"Yes, it is even I. Are you glad or sorry, that you stare so rudely at +me? and never a word of greeting! Shame, then! Have you left all your +manners behind you in Amsterdam? I have come all this way, this cold +night, to bid you welcome and bring you home to Chetwoode, and +yet---- Oh, Cyril!" suddenly flinging herself into his longing arms, "it +is all right at last, my dear--dear--_dear_, and you may love me again +as much as ever you like!" + +When explanations have come to an end, and they are somewhat calmer, +Cyril says: + +"But how is it that you are here with Guy, and going to Chetwoode?" + +"I am staying at Chetwoode. Your mother came herself, and brought me +back with her. How kind she is, how sweet! Even had I never known you, I +should have loved her dearly." + +This last assurance from the lips of his beloved makes up the sum of +Cyril's content. + +"Tell me more, sweetheart," he says, contented only to listen. With his +arms round her, with her face so close to his, with both their hearts +beating in happy unison, he hardly cares to question, but is well +pleased to keep silence, and listen to the soft, loving babble that +issues from her lips. Her very words seem to him, who has so long +wearied for them, set to tenderest music. "Like flakes of feathered +snow, they melted as they fell." + +"I have so much to tell, I scarcely know where to begin. Do you know you +are to escort me to a ball at Mrs. Steyne's next week? No? why, you know +nothing; so much for sojourning in Amsterdam. Then I suppose you are +ignorant of the fact that I have ordered the most delicious dress you +ever beheld to grace the occasion and save myself from disgracing you. +And you are to be very proud of me, and to admire me immensely, or I +shall never forgive you." + +"I am pretty certain not to deserve condign punishment on that score," +fondly. "Darling, can it be really true that we are together again, that +all the late horrible hopelessness is at an end? Cecilia, if this should +prove a dream, and I awoke now, it would kill me." + +"Nay, it is no dream," softly. Turning up her perfect face, until the +lips are close to his, she whispers, "Kiss me, and be convinced." + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. + + "How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature!" + --_Cymbeline._ + + "No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful + I know, her spirits are as coy and wild + As haggards of the rock. + + * * * * * + + Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes, + Misprising what they look on." + --_Much Ado About Nothing._ + + +"Sir Guy," says Miss Chesney, two days later, bursting into his private +sanctum as "the eve is declining," in a rather stormy fashion, "I must +ask you to speak to your groom Buckley: he has been exceedingly rude to +me." + +"Rude? Buckley?" exclaims Sir Guy, with a frown, throwing down the paper +he has been trying to read in the fast growing gloom. It is dusk, but +the red light of the fire flickers full upon his face, betraying the +anger that is gathering there. A looker-on would have readily understood +by it that Buckley's hours for grooming at Chetwoode are few. + +"Yes. I told him to have Saracen saddled for me to-morrow morning, as +the meet is at Ryston, and I expect a good run; and he said he should +not do it without your permission, or orders, or something equally +impertinent." + +"Saracen!" returns Chetwoode, aghast, losing sight of Buckley's +miserable behavior, or rather condoning it on the spot; "you don't mean +to tell me that for one moment you dreamed of riding Saracen?" + +"Certainly I did. And why not?" preparing for battle. + +"Because the idea is simply absurd. You could not possibly ride him. He +is not half trained." + +"Archibald rode him last week, and says he is perfect, and quite safe. I +have decided on trying him to-morrow." + +"I wish Chesney would not put such thoughts into your head. He is _not_ +safe, and he has never been ridden by a woman." + +"That is just why I fancy him: I have often before now ridden horses +that had never had a lady on their backs until I rode them. And +to-morrow I feel sure will be a good day, besides being probably my +last meet for the season." + +"My dear child, I think it would indeed be your last meet were you to +ride that brute: his temper is thoroughly uncertain." + +"You told me a few days ago my hand could make any horse's mouth, and +now----" + +"I told you then what I tell you again now, that you are one of the best +woman riders I ever saw. But for all that, you would find it impossible +to manage Saracen." + +"You refuse him to me, then?" with an ominous gleam in her eyes. + +"I wish you would not look at it in that light: I merely cannot consent +to let you break your neck. If your own mare does not please you, you +can take my mount, or any other in the entire stables." + +"No, thank you, I only want that one." + +"But, my dear Lilian, pray be reasonable!" entreats Chetwoode, warmly, +and just a trifle impatiently: "do you think I would be doing my duty by +you if I sanctioned such a rash proceeding?" + +"Your duty?" unpleasantly, and with a certain scornful uplifting of her +small Grecian nose. + +"Just so," coldly; "I am your guardian, remember." + +"Oh, pray do not perpetually seek to remind me of that detestable fact," +says Miss Chesney, vindictively; whereupon Sir Guy freezes, and subsides +into dead and angry silence. Lilian, sweeping over to the darkening +window, commences upon the pane a most disheartening tattoo, that makes +the listener long for death. When Chetwoode can stand it no longer, he +breaks the oppressive stillness. + +"Perhaps you are not aware," he says, angrily, "that a noise of that +description is intensely irritating." + +"No. _I_ like it," retorts Miss Chesney, tattooing louder than ever. + +"If you go on much longer, you will drive me out of my mind," remarks +Guy, distractedly. + +"Oh, don't let it come to that," calmly; "let me drive you out of the +room first." + +"As to my guardianship," says Chetwoode, in a chilling tone, "console +yourself with the reflection that it cannot last forever. Time is never +at a standstill, and your twenty-first birthday will restore you to +freedom. You can then ride as many wild animals and kill yourself as +quickly as you please, without asking any one's consent." + +"I can do that now too, and probably shall. I have quite made up my mind +to ride Saracen to-morrow!" + +"Then the sooner you unmake that mind the better." + +"Well,"--turning upon him as though fully prepared to crush him with her +coming speech,--"if I don't ride him I shall stay at home altogether: +there!" + +"I think that will be by far the wiser plan of the two," returns he, +coolly. + +"What! and lose all my day!" cries Lilian, overwhelmed by the atrocity +of this remark, "while you and all the others go and enjoy yourselves! +How hatefully selfish you can be! But I won't be tyrannized over in this +fashion. I shall go, and on Saracen too." + +"You shall not," firmly. + +Miss Chesney has come close up to where he is standing on the +hearth-rug. The fire-light dances and crackles merrily, casting its +rays, now yellow, now deep crimson, over their angry faces, as though +drawing keen enjoyment from the deadly duel going on so near to it. One +pale gleam lingers lovingly upon Lilian's sunny head, throwing over it +yet another shade, if possible richer and more golden than its fellows; +another lights up her white hands, rather defiantly clinched, one small +foot in its high-heeled shoe that has advanced beyond her gown, and two +blue eyes large with indignant astonishment. + +Guy is returning her gaze with almost equal indignation, being angrily +remindful of certain looks and scenes that of late have passed between +them. + +"You defy me?" says Lilian, slowly. + +"I do." + +"You _refuse_ me?" as though not quite believing the evidence of her +senses. + +"I do. I forbid you to ride that one horse." + +"Forbid me!" exclaims she passionately, tears starting to her eyes. "You +are fond of forbidding, as it seems to me. Recollect, sir, that, though +unhappily your ward, I am neither your child nor your wife." + +"I assure you I had never the presumption to imagine you in the latter +character," he answers, haughtily, turning very pale, but speaking +steadily and in a tone eminently uncomplimentary. + +"Your voice says more than your words," exclaims Lilian, too angry to +weigh consequences. "Am I to understand"--with an unlovely laugh--"you +think me unworthy to fill so exalted a position?" + +"As you press me for the truth," says Chetwoode, who has lost his temper +completely, "I confess I should hardly care to live out my life with +such a----" + +"Yes, go on; 'with such a--' shrew, is it? or perhaps virago?" + +"As you wish it," with a contemptuous shrug; "either will suit, but I +was going to say 'flirt.'" + +"Were you?" cries she, tears of mortification and rage dimming her eyes, +all the spoiled child within her rising in arms. "Flirt, am I? and +shrew? Well, I will not have the name of it without the gain of it. I +hate you, hate you, _hate_ you!" + +With the last word she raises her hand suddenly and administers to him a +sound and wholesome box upon the ear. + +The effect is electric. Sir Guy starts back as though stunned. Never in +all his life has he been so utterly taken aback, routed with such deadly +slaughter. The dark, hot color flames into his cheeks. Shame for her--a +sort of horror that she should have been guilty of such an +act--overpowers him. Involuntarily he puts one hand up to the cheek her +slender fingers, now hanging so listlessly at her side, have wounded, +while regarding her with silent amazement largely mixed with reproach. + +As for Lilian, the deed once done, she would have given worlds to recall +it,--that is, secretly,--but in this life, unfortunately, facts +accomplished cannot be undone. Outwardly she is as defiant as ever, and, +though extremely white, steadily and unflinchingly returns his gaze. + +Yet after a little, a very little while, her eyes fall before his, her +pretty, proud head droops somewhat, a small remnant of grace springs up +in the very middle of all her passion and disdain. She is frightened, +nervous, contrite. + +When the silence has become absolutely unbearable, Guy says, in a low +tone that betrays not the faintest feeling: + +"I am afraid I must have said something to annoy you terribly. I confess +I lost my temper, and otherwise behaved as a gentleman should not. I beg +your pardon." + +His voice is that of a stranger; it is so altered she scarcely knows it. +Never in their worst disputes has he so spoken to her. With a little +sickening feeling of despair and terror at her heart, she turns away +and moves toward the door. + +"Are you going? Pray take care. The room is very dark where the +fire-light does not penetrate," says Guy, still in the same curiously +changed voice, so full of quiet indifference, so replete with the cold +courtesy we accord to those who are outside and beyond our affections. + +He opens the door for her, and bows very slightly as she passes through, +and then closes it again calmly, while she, with weary, listless +footsteps, drags herself up-stairs and throws herself upon her bed. + +Lying there with dry and open eyes, not daring to think, she hardly +cares to analyze her own feelings. She knows she is miserable, and +obstinately tries to persuade herself it is because she has been +thwarted in her desire to ride Saracen, but in vain. After a struggle +with her better thoughts, she gives in, and acknowledges her soreness of +heart arises from the conviction that she has forever disgraced herself +in her guardian's eyes. She will never be able to look at him again, +though in truth that need scarcely signify, as surely in the future he +will not care to see where she may be looking. It is all over. He is +done with her. Instinctively she understands from his altered manner how +he has made up his mind never again to exercise his right over her as +guardian, never again to concern himself about either her weal or her +woe. She is too wretched to cry, and lies prostrate, her pulses +throbbing, her brain on fire. + +"What is it, my bird?" asks nurse, entering, and bending solicitously +over her. "Are you not well? Does your head ache?" + +"It is not my head," plaintively. + +"Your side, my lamb?" + +"Yes, it is my side," says Lilian, laying her hand pathetically upon her +heart; and then, overcome by the weight of her own sorrows, she buries +her head in her pillows and bursts into tears. + +"Eh, hinny, don't cry," says nurse, fondly. "We must all have pains +there at times, an' we must just learn to bear them as best we may. +Come, look up, my bairn; I will put on a good mustard blister to-night, +and to-morrow I tell you it won't magnify at all," winds up nurse, +fluently, who rather prides herself upon her management of the Queen's +English, and would scorn to acknowledge the misplacement of a word here +and there; and indeed, after all, when one comes to think of it, it does +_not_ "magnify" very much. + +But Lilian sobs on disconsolately. And next morning she has fresh cause +to bewail her evil conduct. For the day breaks and continues through all +its short life so wet, so wild, so stormy, that neither Saracen nor any +other horse can leave the stables. Hunting is out of the question, and +with a fresh pang, that through its severity is punishment enough for +her fault, she knows all her temper of the night before was displayed +for naught. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. + + "Meanwhile the day sinks fast, the sun is set, + And in the lighted hall the guests are met; + The beautiful looked lovelier in the light + Of love, and admiration, and delight + Reflected from a thousand hearts and eyes, + Kindling a momentary paradise." + --SHELLEY: _Ginevra_. + + +It is the night of Mabel Steyne's ball. In the library at Chetwoode they +are almost every one assembled, except Lilian, and Florence Beauchamp, +and Mr. Musgrave, whose dressing occupies a considerable part of his +life, and who is still sufficiently young to find pleasure in it. + +Lady Chetwoode in gray satin is looking charming; Cecilia, lovely, in +the palest shade of blue. She is standing at a table somewhat apart, +conversing with Cyril, who is fastening a bracelet upon one of her arms. +Guy and Archibald are carrying on a desultory conversation. + +And now the door opens, and Lilian comes in. For the first time for a +whole year she has quite discarded mourning to-night, and is dressed in +pure white. Some snowdrops are thrown carelessly among the folds of the +tulle that covers and softens her silk gown; a tiny spray of the same +flower lies nestling in her hair. + +She appears more fairy-like, more child-like and sweeter than ever, as +she advances into the room, with a pretty consciousness of her own +beauty, that sits charmingly upon her. She is a perfect little vision of +loveliness, and is tenderly aware of the fact. Her neck is fair, her +shoulders rounded and kissable as an infant's; her eyes are gleaming, +her lips apart and smiling; her sunny hair, that is never quite as +smooth as other people's, lies in rippling coils upon her head, while +across her forehead a few short rebellious love-locks wander. + +Seeing her, Sir Guy and Chesney are filled with a simultaneous longing +to take her in their arms and embrace her then and there. + +Sweeping past Sir Guy, as though he is invisible, she goes on, happy, +radiant toward Lady Chetwoode. She is in her airiest mood, and has +evidently cast behind her all petty _desagrements_, being bent on +enjoying life to its fullest for this one night at least. + +"Is not my dress charming, auntie? does it not become me?" she asks, +with the utmost _naivete_, casting a backward glance over her shoulder +at her snowy train. + +"It does, indeed. Let me congratulate you, darling," says Lady Chetwoode +to her favorite: "it is really exquisite." + +"Lovely as its wearer," says Archibald, with a suppressed sigh. + +"Pouf!" says Lilian, gayly: "what a simile! It is a rudeness; who dares +compare me with a paltry gown? A tenth part as lovely, you mean. How +refractory this button is!" holding out to him a rounded arm to have the +twelfth button of her glove fastened; "try can you do it for me?" + +Here Taffy enters, and is apparently struck with exaggerated admiration +as he beholds her. + +"Ma conscience!" he says, in the words of the famous Dominie, "what a +little swell we are! Titania, my dear, permit me to compliment you on +the success you are sure to have. Monsieur Worth has excelled himself! +Really, you are very nearly pretty. You'll have a good time of it +to-night, I shouldn't wonder." + +"I hope so," gladly; "I can hardly keep my feet quiet, I do so long to +dance. And so you admire me?" + +"Intensely. As a tribute to your beauty, I think I shall give you a +kiss." + +"Not for worlds," exclaims she, retreating hastily. "I know your +embraces of old. Do let me take my flowers and tulle uncrushed to +Mabel's, or I shall complain of you to her, and so spoil your evening." + +"I am glad to see you have recovered your usual spirits," maliciously: +"this morning you were nowhere. I could not get a word out of you. Ever +since yesterday, when you were disappointed about your run, you have +been in 'doleful dumps.' All day you looked as though you thought there +was 'nothing so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.' You seemed to revel +in it." + +"Perhaps I was afraid to encourage you. Once set going, you know you +cannot stop," says Lilian, laughing, while two red spots, caused by his +random remark, rise and burn in her cheeks. + +"We are late, are we not?" says Florence, entering at this moment; and +as Florence never errs, Archibald instantly gives his arm to Lady +Chetwoode and takes her down to the carriage. Taffy, who has already +opened an animated conversation with Miss Beauchamp on the horrors of +square dances, accompanies her; Cyril disappears with Cecilia, and +Lilian is left alone in the library with Sir Guy. + +Curving her body gracefully, Lilian gathers up with slow nonchalance her +long train, and, without bestowing a glance upon Guy, who is silently +waiting to escort her to the smaller brougham, goes up to a mirror to +take a last lingering survey of her own bewitching image. Then she +calmly smooths down her glove, then refastens a bracelet that has come +undone, while he, with a bored expression on his face, waits +impatiently. + +By this, Archibald, who has had ample time to put Lady Chetwoode in her +carriage and come all the way back to find a fan forgotten by Miss +Beauchamp, re-enters the room. + +Lilian beams upon him directly. + +"Good Archie," she says, sweetly, "you have returned just in time. There +was positively nobody to take poor little me to the brougham." She slips +her hand beneath his arm, and walks past Sir Guy composedly, with +laughing friendly eyes uplifted to her cousin's. + + * * * * * + +The ball is at its height. The first small hour of morning has sounded. +The band is playing dreamily, sweetly; flowers are nodding everywhere, +some emitting a dying fragrance, others still fresh and sweet as when +first plucked. Afar off the faint splashing of the fountains in the +conservatories echoes tremulously, full of cool imaginings, through the +warm air. Music and laughter and mirth--real and unreal--are mixed +together in one harmonious whole. + +Mrs. Steyne has now an unaffected smile upon her face, being assured her +ball is an undeniable success, and is allowing herself to be amused by +Taffy, who is standing close beside her. + +Tom Steyne, who, like Sir Charles Coldstream, is "thirty-three and used +up," is in a corner, silently miserable, suffering himself to be flirted +at by a gay young thing of forty. He has been making despairing signs to +Taffy to come to his assistance, for the past five minutes, which +signals of distress that young gentleman basely declines to see. + +Every one is busy asking who Mrs. Arlington can be, and, as nobody +knows, everybody undertakes to tell his or her neighbor "all about her." +And by this time every one is aware she is enormously rich, the widow of +an Indian nabob, from whom she was divorced on account of some "fi-fi +story, my dear, that is never mentioned now," and that she is ever so +many years older than she really looks; "painting is brought to such +perfection nowadays!" + +All night long Sir Guy has not asked Lilian to dance; he has held +himself aloof from her, never even allowing his glance to stray in her +direction, although no smallest grace, no faintest coquetry, of hers has +escaped his notice. To him the whole evening has been a miserable +failure. He has danced, laughed, flirted a good deal, "as is his nature +to,"--more particularly with Florence,--but he has been systematically +wretched all through. + +Lilian and Archibald have been inseparable. She has danced with him, in +defiance of all decent rules, dance after dance, even throwing over some +engagements to continue her mad encouragement of him. She has noted Sir +Guy's attention to his cousin, and, noting (although in her heart she +scarcely believes in it), has grown a little reckless as to what +judgment people may form of her evident appreciation of Chesney's +society. + +There is indeed a memorable five minutes when she absolutely deliberates +as to whether she will or will not accept her cousin's hand, and so give +herself a way to escape from Sir Guy's dreaded displeasure. But, while +deliberating, she quite forgets the terrible disappointment she is +laying up in store for him, who has neither thought, nor eyes, nor +words, for any one but her. Being the undisputed belle of the evening, +she naturally comes in for a heavy share of attention, and, be sure, +does not altogether escape unkind comment. + +"Oh, poor Tom! Do look at Tom and that fearful Miss Dumaresque," says +Mrs. Steyne, who just at this moment discovers the corner where Tom is +doing his utmost to "suffer and be strong." It is, however, a miserable +attempt, as he is visibly depressed and plainly on the point of giving +way altogether. "Somebody must go to his succor," says Mabel, with +decision: "the question is, who? You, my dear Taffy, I think." + +"Not I," says Taffy; "please, dear Mrs. Steyne, do not afflict me so +far. I couldn't, indeed. I am very dreadfully afraid of Miss Dumaresque; +besides, I never pity Tom even when in his worst scrapes. We all +know"--sentimentally--"he is the happiest man alive; when he does fall +in for his bad quarter of an hour, why not let him endure it like +another? And he is rather in a hat, now, isn't he?" taking an evident +keen delight in Mr. Steyne's misfortunes. "I wouldn't be in his shoes +for a good deal. He looks as if he was going to cry. The fact is, the +gods have pampered him so much, that it is a shame not to let him know +for a few minutes what real distress means." + +"But what if he _should_ die!" reproachfully: "one so unaccustomed to +adversity as Tom would be very likely to sink under it. He looks half +dead already! Mark the hunted expression in his poor dear eyes." + +"I wish you would mark the forlorn and dejected expression in other +people's eyes," in an injured tone; "but all that, of course, goes for +nothing." + +"In yours, do you mean?" with exaggerated sympathy. "My dear boy, have +you a secret sorrow? Does concealment, like that nasty worm, prey upon +you? I should be unhappy forever if I could bring myself to think so." + +"Then don't think so; come, let us finish this waltz, and forget that +lucky fellow in the corner." + +"What! you would have me trip it on the light fantastic toe while Tom is +enduring torment? Never! Whatever I may do in prosperity, in adversity I +'never will desert Mr. Micawber.'" + +"I vow I think you are jealous of that antiquated though still frisky +damsel," says Taffy, ready to explode with laughter at the bare idea, +as he watches the frisky one's attempt at subjugating the hapless Tom. + +"You have discovered my hidden fear," replies Mabel, laughing, too: +"forgive my weakness. There are moments when even the strongest break +down! Wait here patiently for me, and I have no doubt with a little +skill I shall be able to deliver him." + +At one side of the ball-room, close to an upper window, is a recess, +dimly lit, and partially curtained, in which it is possible for two or +three to stand without letting outsiders be aware of their vicinity: +into this nook Lilian and Archibald have just withdrawn, she having +confessed to a faint sense of fatigue. The sweet lingering notes of the +waltz "Geliebt und Verloren" are saddening the air; now they swell, now +faint, now almost die out altogether, only to rise again full of +pathetic meaning. + +"How charming it is to be here!" says Lilian, sinking into a cushioned +seat with a sigh of relief, "apart from every one, and yet so near; to +watch their different expressions, and speculate upon their secret +feelings, without appearing rude: do you not think so? Do you like being +here?" + +"Yes, I like being here with you,"--or anywhere else, he might have +added, without deviating from the truth. + +At this moment Guy, who is not dancing, happens to saunter up, and lean +against the curtains of the window close to their hiding-place, totally +unconscious of their presence. From where she is sitting Lilian can +distinctly see him, herself unseen. He looks moody, and is evidently +enchanted with the flavor of his blonde moustache. He is scarcely +noticeable from where he stands, so that when two men come leisurely up +to the very mouth of the retreat, and dispose of themselves luxuriously +by leaning all their weight upon the frail pillars against which the +curtains hang, they do not perceive him. + +One is Harry Bellair, who has apparently been having a good many +suppers; the other is his friend. + +Mr. Bellair's friend is not as handsome as he might be. There is a want +of jaw, and a general lightness about him (not of demeanor: far be it +from me to hint at that!) that at a first glance is positively +startling. One hardly knows where his flesh ends or his hair begins, +while his eyes are a marvel in themselves, making the beholder wonder +how much paler they _can_ get without becoming pure white. His +moustache is of the vaguest tints, so vague that until acquaintance +ripens one is unaware of its existence. Altogether, he is excellently +bleached. + +To-night, to add to his manifold attractions, he appears all shirt-front +and white tie, with very little waistcoat to speak of. In his left and +palest optic is the inevitable eyeglass, in which he is supposed by his +intimates to sleep, as never yet has human being (except perhaps his +mamma in the earlier scenes of his existence) seen him without it. In +spite of all this, however, he looks mild, and very harmless. + +"She is awfully lovely," says Mr. Bellair, evidently continuing a +conversation, and saying it with an audible sigh; "quite too lovely for +me." + +"You seem fetched," says his friend, directing a pale but feeling ray +upon him through the beloved glass. + +"I am, I confess it," says Mr. Bellair, effusively; "I adore her, and +that's a fact: but she would not look at me. She's in love with her +cousin,--Chesney, you know,--and they're to be married straight off the +reel, next month, I think--or that." + +"Hah!" says the friend. "She's good to look at, do you know, and rather +uncommon style, in spite of her yellow hair. She's a ward of +Chetwoode's, isn't she? Always heard he was awfully _epris_ there." + +By this time Lilian is crimson, and Archibald hardly less so, though he +is distinctly conscious of a desire to laugh; Lilian's eyes are riveted +on Sir Guy, who has grown very pale and has turned a frowning brow upon +these luckless young men. + +"Not a bit of it," says Mr. Bellair, "at least now. He was, I believe, +but she bowled him over in a couple of months and laughed at him +afterward. No, Chesney is the white-headed boy with her. Not that I see +much in him myself," discontentedly. + +"Sour-looking beggar," rejoins the friend, with kind sympathy. + +It is growing tremendously jolly for the listeners. Lilian turns a +pained, beseeching glance upon Archibald, who returns the glance, but +declares by gesture his inability to do anything. He is still secretly +amused, and not being able from his point of vantage to see Chetwoode, +is scarcely as confused as Lilian. Should he now stir, and walk out of +his place of concealment with Miss Chesney, he would only cover with +shame the unsuspecting gossips and make two enemies for life, without +doing any good. + +Chetwoode is in the same condition, but though angry and bitterly stung +by their words, hardly cares to resent them, being utterly unaware of +Lilian's eyes, which are bent upon him. He waits impatiently for the +moment when Mr. Bellair and his "fat friend" may choose to move on. Did +he know who was so close to him, watching every expression of his face, +impatience might have passed all bounds. As it is, a few chance remarks +matter little to him. + +But Mr. Bellair's friend has yet something else to say. + +"Fine girl, Miss Beauchamp," says this youth, languidly; "immensely good +form, and that. Looks like a goddess." + +"There's a lot of her, if you mean that. But she's too nosy," says Mr. +Bellair, grumpily, a sense of injury full upon him. His own nose is of +the charming curt and simple order: his "friends in council" (who might +be more select) are wont to call it playfully a "spud." "Far too nosy! I +hate a woman all nose! makes her look so like a mope." + +"You've been getting a snubbing there," says his friend, this time +unfeelingly and with an inhuman chuckle. + +"I have," valiantly: "she has too much of the goddess about her for my +fancy: choke-full of dignity and airs, you know, and all that sort of +rubbish. It don't go down, I take it, in the long run. It's as much as +she can do to say 'how d'ye do' to you, and she looks a fellow up and +down half a dozen times before she gives him a waltz. You don't catch me +inviting her to the 'mazy dance' again in a hurry. I hate affectation. I +wouldn't marry that girl for untold gold." + +"She wouldn't have you," says his friend, with a repetition of the +unpleasant chuckle. + +"Maybe she wouldn't," replies Mr. Bellair, rather hurt. "Anyhow, she is +not to be named in the same day with Miss Chesney. I suppose you know +she is engaged to Chetwoode, so you needn't get spoony on her," +viciously; "it is quite an old affair, begun in the cradle, I believe, +and kept up ever since: never can understand that sort of thing myself; +would quite as soon marry my sister. But all men aren't alike." + +"No, they aren't," says the friend, with conviction. "Why don't he +marry her, though? He must be tired of looking at her." + +"He funks it, that's what it is," says Mr. Bellair, "and no wonder; +after seeing Miss Chesney he must feel rather discontented with his +choice. Ah!"--with a sigh warranted to blow out the largest wax +candle,--"there's a girl for you if you like!" + +"Don't weep over it, old boy, at least here; you'll be seen," says his +friend, jovially, with odious want of sympathy; after which they are +pleased to remove themselves and their opinions to another part of the +room. + +When they have gone, Lilian, who has been turning white and red at +intervals all through the discussion, remains motionless, her eyes still +fixed on Chetwoode. She does not heed Archibald's remark, so earnestly +is she regarding her guardian. Can it be true what they have just said, +that he, Sir Guy, has been for years engaged to Florence? At certain +moments such a thought has crossed her own mind, but never until +to-night has she heard it spoken of. + +Chetwoode, who has moved, comes a little nearer to where she is +standing, and pauses there, compelled to it by a pressure in the crowd. + +"With what taste do they accredit me!" he says, half aloud, with a +rather pale smile and a slight curl of his short upper lip, discernible +even beneath his drooping moustache. His eyes are directed toward +Florence, who is standing, carrying on a lifeless flirtation at a little +distance from him; there is distaste in every line of his face, and +Lilian, marking it, draws a long breath, and lets the smile return to +her mobile lips. + +"Was Chetwoode there all the time?" asks Archibald, aghast. + +"Yes: was it not horrible?" replies she, half laughing. "Poor Mr. +Bellair! I had no idea I had done so much mischief." + +The hours are growing older, Lady Chetwoode is growing tired. Already +with the utmost craftiness has she concealed five distinct yawns, and +begins to think with lingering fondness of eider-down and bedroom fires. + +Florence, too, who is sitting near her, and who is ever careful not to +overdo the thing, is longing for home, being always anxious to husband +as far as possible her waning youth and beauty. + +"Lilian, dearest, I think you must come home now," Lady Chetwoode says, +tapping the girl's white arms, as she stops close to her in the interval +of a dance. + +"So soon, auntie!" says Lilian, with dismay. + +She is dancing with a very good-looking guardsman, who early in the +evening did homage to her charms, and who ever since has been growing +worse and worse; by this time he is very bad indeed, and scorns to look +at any one in the room except Miss Chesney, who, to confess the truth, +has been coquetting with him unremittingly for the past half-hour, +without noticing, or at least appearing to notice, Archibald's black +looks or Sir Guy's averted ones. + +At Lady Chetwoode's words, the devoted guardsman turns an imploring +glance upon his lovely partner, that fills her (she is kind-hearted) +with the liveliest compassion. Yes, she will make one last effort, if +only to save him from mental suicide. + +"Dear auntie, if you love me, 'fly not yet,'" she says, pathetically. +"It is so long since I have danced, and"--with the faintest, fleetest +glance at the guardsman--"I am enjoying myself so much." + +"Lady Chetwoode, it can't be done," interposes Tom Steyne, who is +standing by: "Miss Chesney has promised me the next dance, and I am +living in the expectation of it. At my time of life I have noticed a +tendency on the part of beauty to rather shun my attentions; Miss +Chesney's condescension, therefore, has filled me with joy. She must +wait a little longer: I refuse to resign my dance with the _belle_ of +the evening." + +"Go and finish your dance, child: I will arrange with auntie," says +Mabel, kindly; whereupon Lilian floats away gladly in the arms of her +warrior, leaving Mrs. Steyne to settle matters. + +"You shall go home, dear, with Florence, because you are tired, and +Cyril and his exceedingly beautiful _fiancee_ shall go with you; leave +the small night brougham for Lilian, and Guy can take her home. I shan't +keep her beyond another hour, and I shall see that she is well wrapped +up." + +So it arranges itself; and by and by, when an hour has passed away, +Lilian and Guy discover to their horror they are in for a _tete-a-tete_ +drive to Chetwoode. + +They bid good-bye to the unconscious Mabel, and, silently entering the +brougham, are presently driving swiftly through the fresh cool air. + +"Are you quite comfortable?" Guy asks, as in duty bound, very stiffly. + +"Quite, thank you," replies she, even more stiffly; after which outbreak +of politeness "silence reigns supreme." + +When a good half-mile has been traversed, Guy, who is secretly filled +with wonder at the extreme taciturnity of his usually lively companion, +so far descends from his pedestal of pride as to turn his head +cautiously in her direction: to his utter amazement, he finds she has +fallen fast asleep! + +The excitement and fatigue of dancing, to which she has been so long +unaccustomed, have overpowered her, and, like a tired child as she is, +she has given way to restful slumber. Her pale blue cashmere has fallen +a little to one side so that a white arm, soft and round as a baby's, +can be seen in all the abandon of sleep, naked beside her, the hand half +closed like a little curled shell. + +Not yet quite convinced that her slumber is real, Guy lays his hand +gently upon hers, but at the touch she makes no movement: no smallest +ripple of consciousness crosses her face. In the faint light of the lamp +he regards her curiously, and wonders, with a pang, how the little fury +of a few hours ago can look so angelic now. At this moment, as he +watches her, all the anger that has lain in his heart for her melts, +vanishes, never to return. + +Then he sees her attitude is uncomfortable: her face is very pale, her +head is thrown too much back, a little troubled sigh escapes her. He +thinks, or at least tries to think,--let not me be the one to judge +him,--she will have unhappy dreams if she continues much longer in her +present position. Poor child! she is quite worn out. Perhaps he could +manage to raise her in a degree, without disturbing her reviving repose. + +Slipping his arm gently round her, he lifts her a little, and draws her +somewhat nearer to him. So gently does he move her, that Lilian, who is +indeed fatigued, and absolutely tired out with her exertions of the +evening, never awakes, but lets her heavy, sleepy little head drop over +to the other side, down upon Chetwoode's shoulder. + +Guy does not stir. After all, what does it matter? she is easier so, and +it can hurt neither of them; she never has been, she never will be, +anything to him; in all probability she will marry her cousin. At this +point he stops and thinks about her treatment of that handsome +guardsman, and meditates deeply thereon. To him she is a mystery, a +lovely riddle yet unsolved; but with his arm round her, and her face so +near his own, he is conscious of feeling an irrepressible gladness. A +thrill of happiness, the only touch of it he has known for many days, +fills his heart, while with it is a bitter regret that chills it at its +birth. + +The carriage rattles over some unusually large stone, and Lilian awakes. +At first an excessive sense of drowsiness dulls her perception, and +then, all at once, it flashes across her mind that she has been asleep, +and that now she is encircled, supported by Guy's arm. Even in the +friendly darkness a warm flush suffuses her face, born half of quick +indignation, half of shame. Raising herself hastily, she draws back from +his embrace, and glances up at him with open surprise. + +"You are awake?" says Guy, quietly; he has relaxed his hold, but still +has not altogether withdrawn his support. As their eyes meet in the +uncertain flickering light that comes to them from outside, she sees so +much sadness, so much tenderness in his, that her anger is instantly +disarmed. Still, she moves yet a little farther from him, while +forgetting to make any reply. + +"Are you uncomfortable?" asks he, slowly, as though there is nothing out +of the common in his sitting thus with his arm round her, and as though +a mere sense of discomfort can be the only reason for her objection to +it. He does not make the slightest effort to detain her, but still lets +her feel his nearness. + +"No," replies Miss Chesney, somewhat troubled; "it is not that, +only----" + +"Then I think you had better stay as you are. You are very tired, I can +see, and this carriage is not the easiest in the world." + +With gentle boldness he replaces the offending arm in its old position, +and wisely refrains from further speech. + +Lilian is confounded. She makes no effort to release herself, being +filled with amazement at the extraordinary change in his manner, and, +perhaps, wholly glad of it. Has he forgiven her? Has he repented him of +his stern looks and cold avoidance? All night long he has shunned her +persistently, has apparently been unaware of her presence; and now there +is something in his tone, in his touch, that betrays to her what sets +her heart beating treacherously. + +Presently Guy becomes aware of this fact, and finding encouragement in +the thought that she has not again repulsed him, says, softly: + +"Were you frightened when you awoke?" + +"Yes, a little." + +"You are not frightened now?" + +"No, not now. At first, on waking, I started to find myself here." + +"Here," may mean the carriage, or her resting-place, or anything. + +After a short pause: + +"Sir Guy,"--tremulously. + +"Yes." + +"You remember all that happened the night before last?" + +"I do," slowly. + +"I have wanted ever since to tell you how sorry I am for it all, to beg +your pardon, to ask you to----" she stops, afraid to trust her voice +further, because of some little troublesome thing that rises in her +throat and threatens to make itself heard. + +"I don't want you to beg my pardon," says Guy, hastily, in a pained +tone. "If I had not provoked you, it would never have happened. Lilian, +promise me you will think no more about it." + +"Think about it! I shall never cease thinking about it. It was horrible, +it was shameful of me. I must have gone mad, I think. Even now, to +remember it makes me blush afresh. I am glad it is dark,"--with a little +nervous laugh,--"because you cannot see my face. It is burning." + +"Is it?" tenderly. With gentle fingers he touches her soft cheek, and +finds it is indeed, as she has said, "burning." He discovers something +else also,--tears quite wet upon it. + +"You are crying, child," he says, startled, distressed. + +"Am I? No wonder. I _ought_ to suffer for my hateful conduct toward you. +I shall never forgive myself." + +"Nonsense!" angrily. "Why should you cry about such a trifle? I won't +have it. It makes me miserable to know any thought of me can cause you a +tear." + +"I cry"--with a heavy sob--"because I fear you will never think well of +me again. I have lost your good opinion, if indeed"--sadly--"I ever had +it. You _must_ think badly of me." + +"I do not," returns he, with an accent that is almost regret. "I wish I +could. It matters little what you do, I shall never think of you but as +the dearest and sweetest girl I ever met. In that"--with a sigh--"lies +my misfortune." + +"Not think badly of me! and yet you called me a flirt! Am I a flirt?" + +Chetwoode hesitates, but only for a minute; then he says, decidedly, +though gently: + +"Perhaps not a flirt, but certainly a coquette. Do not be angry with me +for saying so. Think how you passed this one evening. First remember the +earlier part of it, and then your cruel encouragement of the luckless +guardsman." + +"But the people I wanted to dance with wouldn't ask me to dance," says +Lilian, reproachfully, "and what was I to do? I did not care for that +stupid Captain Monk: he was handsome, but insufferably slow, and--and--I +don't believe I cared for _any one_." + +"What! not even for----" He pauses. Not now, not at this moment, when +for a sweet though perhaps mad time she seems so near to him in thought +and feeling, can he introduce his rival's name. Unconsciously he +tightens his arm round her, and, emboldened by the softness of her +manner, smooths back from her forehead the few golden hairs that have +wandered there without their mistress's will. + +Lilian is silent, and strangely, unutterably happy. + +"I wish we could be always friends," she says, wistfully, after a little +eloquent pause. + +"So do I,"--mournfully,--"but I know we never shall be." + +"That is a very unkind speech, is it not? At least"--slipping five warm +little fingers into his disengaged hand--"_I_ shall always be a friend +of _yours_, and glad of every smallest thing that may give you +happiness." + +"You say all this now, and yet to-morrow,"--bending to look at her in +the ungenerous light,--"to-morrow you may tell me again that you 'hate +me.'" + +"If I do,"--quickly,--"you must not believe me. I have a wretched +temper, and I lost it completely when I said that the other night. I +did not mean it. I do not hate you, Guy: you know that, do you not?" Her +voice falls a little, trembles, and softens. It is the first time she +has ever called him by his Christian name without its prefix, and Guy's +pulses begin to throb a little wildly. + +"If you do not hate me, what then?" he asks. + +"I like you." + +"Only that?" rather unsteadily. + +"To like honestly is perhaps best of all." + +"It may be, but it does not satisfy me. One _likes_ many people." + +Lilian is silent. She is almost positive now that he loves her, and +while longing to hear him say so, shrinks from saying what will surely +bring forth the avowal. And yet if she now answers him coldly, +carelessly---- + +"If I say I am fond of you," she says, in a tone so low, so nervous, as +to be almost unheard, "will that do?" + +The carriage some time since has turned in the avenue gate. + +They are approaching the house swiftly; already the lights from the +windows begin to twinkle through the leafy branches of the trees: their +time is short. Guy forgets all about Chesney, all about everything +except the girlish face so close to his own. + +"_Are_ you fond of me, Lilian?" he asks, entreatingly. There is no +reply: he stoops, eager to read his fate in her expression. His head +touches hers; still lower, and his moustache brushes her cheek; Lilian +trembles a little, but her pale lips refuse to answer; another instant, +and his lips meet hers. He kisses her warmly, passionately, and +fancies--is it fancy?--that she returns his caress faintly. + +Then the carriage stops. The men alight. Sir Guy steps out, and Miss +Chesney lays her hand in his as he helps her to descend. He presses it +warmly, but fails in his anxious attempt to make her eyes meet his: +moving quickly past him into the house, she crosses the hall, and has +her foot upon the first step of the stairs, when his voice arrests her. + +"Good-night, Lilian," he says, rather nervously, addressing her from a +few yards' distance. He is thinking of a certain night long ago when he +incurred her anger, and trembles for the consequences of his last act. + +Lilian hesitates. Then she turns partly toward him, though still keeping +half her face averted. Her cheeks are crimson; her eyes, shamed and +full of tears, are bent upon the ground. For one swift instant she +raises them and lets a soft, shy glance meet his. + +"Good-night," she whispers, timidly holding out to him her hand. + +Guy takes it gladly, reverently. "Good-night, my own darling," answers +he, in a voice choked with emotion. + +Then she goes up-stairs, and is lost in her own chamber. But for Guy +there is neither rest nor sleep. + +Flinging off his coat and waistcoat, he paces incessantly up and down +his room, half mad with doubt and fear. + +Does she love him? That is the whole burden and refrain of his thoughts; +does she? Surely her manner has implied it, and yet---- A terrible +misgiving oppresses him, as he remembers the open dislike that of late +she has shown to his society, the unconcealed animosity she has so +liberally displayed toward him. + +Can it be that he has only afforded her amusement for the passing hour? +Surely this child, with her soft innocent face and truthful eyes, cannot +be old in the wiles and witcheries of the practiced flirt. She has let +her head rest upon his shoulder, has let his fingers wander caressingly +over her hair, has let tears lie wet upon her cheeks for him; and then +he thinks of the closing scene, of how he has kissed her, as a lover +might, unrebuked. + +But then her manner toward Chesney; true, she had discarded his +attentions toward the close of the night, and accepted willingly those +of the guardsman, but this piece of seeming fickleness might have arisen +out of a lover's quarrel. What if during all their memorable drive home +she has been merely trifling with him,--if now, this instant, while he +is miserable because of his love for her and the uncertainty belonging +to it, she should be laughing at his folly, and thinking composedly of +her coming marriage with her cousin! Why then, he tells himself +savagely, he is well rid of her, and that he envies no man her +possession! + +But at the thought he draws his breath hard; his handsome face grows set +and stern, a haggard look comes into his blue eyes and lingers round his +mouth. Flinging open the window, he leans out to feel the cold air beat +upon him, and watches the coming of the morn. + + + "Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, + Comes dancing from the east." + + +Guy watches its coming, yet scarcely notes its beauty, so full of dark +forebodings are his thoughts. Yet it brings him determination and +courage to face his fate. To-day he will end this intolerable doubt, and +learn what fortune has in store for him, be it good or bad; of this he +is finally resolved. She shall declare herself in one of two characters, +either as his affianced wife, or as the very vilest coquette the world +contains. + +And yet her tears!--Again he holds her in his arms. Again his lips meet +hers. Again he feels the light pressure of her little tired head upon +his shoulder, hears her soft regular breathing. With a groan he rouses +himself from these recollections that torture him by their very +sweetness. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. + + "Thou art my life, my love, my heart, + The very eyes of me, + And hast command of every part, + To live and die for thee."--R. HERRICK. + + +The next morning comes, but no Lilian appears at breakfast. Florence +alone of the gentler members of the family puts in an appearance; she is +as properly composed, as carefully attired, as delicately tinted, as +though the ball of the night before was unknown to her. Lilian, on the +contrary,--lazy little thing!--is still lying in her bed, with her arms +flung above her graceful head, dreaming happy idle dreams. + +Miss Beauchamp, behind the urn, is presiding with unimpeachable elegance +of deportment over the cups and saucers; while pouring out the tea, she +makes a running commentary on the events of the night before, dropping +into each cup, with the sugar,--perhaps with a view to modulating its +sweetness,--a sarcastic remark or two about her friends' and +acquaintances' manners and dress. Into Guy's cup she lets fall a few +words about Lilian, likely, as she vainly hopes, to damage her in his +estimation; not that she much fears her as a rival after witnessing +Chetwoode's careful avoidance of her on the previous evening; +nevertheless, under such circumstances, it is always well to put in a +bad word when you can. + +She has most of the conversation to herself (Guy and Archibald being +gloomy to a painful degree, and Cyril consumed with a desire to know +when Cecilia may be reasonably expected to leave her room), until Mr. +Musgrave enters, who appears as fresh as a daisy, and "uncommon fit," as +he informs them gratuitously, with an air of the utmost _bonhommie_. + +He instantly catches and keeps up the conversational ball, sustaining it +proudly, and never letting it touch the ground, until his friends, +rising simultaneously, check him cruelly in the very midst of a charming +anecdote. Even then he is not daunted, but, following Cyril to the +stables (finding him the most genial of the party), takes up there a +fresh line, and expresses his opinions as cheerfully and fluently on the +subject of "The Horse," as though he had been debarred from speaking for +a month and has only just now recovered the use of the organ of speech. + + * * * * * + +It is half-past one. A soft spring sun is smiling on the earth, and +Lilian, who rather shrinks from the thought of meeting Sir Guy again, +and has made a rapid descent from her own room into the garden, is +walking there leisurely to and fro, gathering such "pallid blossoms" as +she likes best: a few late snowdrops, "winter's timid children," some +early lilies, "a host of daffodils," a little handful of the "happy and +beautiful crocuses," now "gayly arrayed in their yellow and green," all +these go to fill the basket that hangs upon her arm. + +As she wanders through the garden, inhaling its earliest perfumes, and +with her own heart throbbing rather tumultuously as she dreams again of +each tender word and look that passed between her and Guy last night, a +great longing and gladness is hers; at this moment the beauty and +sweetness of life, all the joy to be found everywhere for those who, +with a thankful spirit, seek for it, makes itself felt within her. + +George Herbert's lovely lines rise to her mind, and half unconsciously, +as she walks from bed to bed, she repeats them to herself aloud. + + + "How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean + Are thy returns! ev'n as the flow'rs in spring; + To which, besides their own demean, + The late past frosts tributes of pleasure bring. + Grief melts away like snow in May, + As if there were no such cold thing." + + +Surely _her_ grief has melted away, and, with it, distrust and angry +feeling. + +Having arranged her bouquet of all such tender plants as do now "upraise +their loaded stems," she walks toward the library window, and, finding +it open, steps in. It is a bow-window, and the sun has been making love +to her eyes, so that not until she has advanced a yard or two, does she +discover she is not alone; she then stops short, and blushes painfully. + +At the other end of the room stand Guy and Chesney, evidently in earnest +conversation. Archibald is talking; Guy, with his eyes upon the ground, +is pale as death, and silent. As they see Lilian, both men start +guiltily, and fall somewhat farther apart: a heavy sense of impending +trouble makes itself felt by all three. + +Then Guy, regaining self-possession, raises his head and looks full at +Lilian. + +"Lilian is here, let her speak for herself," he says, in a forced tone +of composure, addressing Chesney, but with his eyes riveted upon her. + +"What is it?" asks Lilian, white as the snowdrops in her trembling hand. + +"Your cousin asked me--He wishes to marry you," returns Guy, unsteadily, +a look of such mute agony and entreaty in his eyes as touches Lilian to +the quick. "He has spoken to me as your guardian. He says he has some +hope; he would have me plead for him, but that is impossible." He has +spoken so far with difficulty; now in a clear tone he goes on, "Speak, +Lilian: let your answer come from your own lips." + +His voice is wonderfully steady, but there is always the same searching +look of entreaty on his face. + +"Dear Archie," says Lilian, trembling perceptibly, while all the poor +spring blossoms fall unheeded to her feet, and lie there still and dead, +as some offering laid on the shrine of Venus, "how can I speak to you? I +_cannot_ marry you. I love you,--you are my dear cousin, and my friend, +but,--but----" + +"It is enough," says Chesney, quietly. "Hope is at an end. Forgive me my +persistency. You shall not have to complain of it again." + +Sadly, with a certain dignity, he reaches the door, opens it, and, +going out, closes it gently behind him. Hope with him, indeed, is dead! +Never again will it spring within his breast. + +When he has gone, an awful silence ensues. There is a minute that is +longer than an hour; there is an hour that may be shorter than any +minute. Happy are they that have enjoyed this latter. The particular +minute that follows on Archibald's retreat seems to contain a whole +day-ful of hours, so terrible is its length to the two he leaves behind. + +Lilian's eyes are fastened upon, literally bound to, a little sprig of +myrtle that lies among the ill-fated flowers at her feet. Not until many +days have passed can she again look upon a myrtle spray without feeling +a nervous beating at her heart; she is oppressed with fear; she has at +this moment but one longing, and that is to escape. A conviction that +her longing is a vain one only adds to her discomfiture; she lacks the +courage to lift her head and encounter the eyes she knows are fixed upon +her. + +At length, unable longer to endure the dreadful stillness, she moves, +and compels herself to meet Chetwoode's gaze. The spell is broken. + +"Lilian, will you marry--_me_?" asks he, desperately, making a movement +toward her. + +A quick, painful blush covers Lilian's face, lingers a moment, then dies +away, leaving her pale, motionless as a little marble statue,--perfect, +but lifeless. Almost as it fades it reappears again, so sudden is the +transition, changing her once more into very lovable flesh and blood. + +"Will you marry me?" repeats Guy, coming still closer to her. His face +is white with anxiety. He does not attempt to touch her, but with folded +arms stands gazing down in an agony of suspense upon the lips that in +another instant will seal his fate for good or evil. + +"I have half a mind to say no," whispers Miss Chesney, in a low, +compressed voice. Her head is drooping; her fingers are nervously +intertwined. A flicker, the very faintest tremble of the old merry +smile, hovers round her mouth as she speaks, then vanishes away. + +"Lilian,"--in a tone full of vehement reproach,--"do not trifle with +me--now. Answer me: why do you so speak to me?" + +"Because--I think--you ought to have asked me long ago!" returns she, +casting a half-shy, half-tender glance at him upward from the azure +eyes that are absolutely drowned in tears. + +Then, without a word of warning, she bursts out crying, and, Guy +catching her passionately in his arms, she sobs away all her nervous +gladness upon his heart. + +"My darling,--my sweet,--do you really love me?" asks Guy, after a few +moments given up to such ecstasy as may be known once in a +lifetime,--not oftener. + +"What a question!" says Lilian, smiling through eyes that are still wet. +"I have not once asked it of you. I look into your eyes and I see love +written there in great big letters, and I am satisfied. Can you not see +the same in mine? Look closely,--very closely, and try if you cannot." + +"Dear eyes!" says Guy, kissing them separately. "Lilian, if indeed you +love me, why have you made life so odious to me for the last three +months?" + +"Because I wasn't going to be civil to people who were over-attentive to +other people," says Lilian, in her most lucid manner. "And--sometimes--I +thought you liked Florence." + +"Florence? Pshaw! Who could like Florence, having once seen you?" + +"Mr. Boer could, I'm sure. He has seen me,--as seldom as I could manage, +certainly,--but still enough to mark the wide difference between us." + +"Boer is a lunatic," says Guy, with conviction,--"quite unaccountable. +But I think I could forgive him all his peccadilloes if he would promise +to marry Florence and remove her. I can stand almost anything--except +single chants as performed by her." + +"Then all my jealousy was for nothing?" with a slight smile. + +"All. But what of mine? What of Chesney?" He regards her earnestly as he +asks the question. + +"Poor Archie," she says, with a pang of real sorrow and regret, as she +remembers everything. And then follows a conversation confined +exclusively to Archibald,--being filled with all the heart-burnings and +despair caused by that unhappy young man's mistaken attentions. When the +subject has exhausted itself, and they are once more silent, they find +themselves thoughtful, perhaps a little sad. A sigh escapes Lilian. +Raising her head, she looks at her lover anxiously. + +"Guy," she says, rather tremulously, "you have never said one +reproachful word to me about what happened the other night--in the +library. I am thinking of it now. When I call to mind my wretched temper +I feel frightened. Perhaps--perhaps--I shall not make you happy." + +"I defy you to make me unhappy so long as you can tell me honestly you +love me. Do not take advantage of it"--with a light laugh--"if I confess +to you I would rather have a box on the ear from you than a kiss from +any other woman. But such is the degrading truth. Nevertheless" +--teasingly--"next time I would ask you, as a favor, not to do it +_quite_ so hard!" + +"Ah, Guy," tearfully, and with a hot blush, "do not jest about it." + +"How can I do anything else to-day?" Then, tenderly, "Still sad, my own? +Take that little pucker off your brow. Do you imagine any act of yours +could look badly in my eyes? 'You are my life--my love--my heart.' When +I recollect how miserable I was yesterday, I can hardly believe in my +happiness of to-day." + +"Dearest," says Lilian, her voice faltering, "you are too good to me." +Then, turning to him, of her own sweet will, she throws her arms around +his neck, and lays her soft flushed cheek to his. "I shall never be bad +to you again, Guy," she whispers; "believe that; never, never, never!" + + * * * * * + +Coming into the hall a little later, they encounter her ladyship's maid, +and stop to speak to her. + +"Is Lady Chetwoode's head better?" asks Lilian. "Can I see her, Hardy?" + +"Yes, Miss Chesney. She is much better; she has had a little sleep, and +has asked for you several times since she awoke. I could not find you +anywhere." + +"I will go to her now," says Lilian, and she and Guy, going up-stairs, +make their way to Lady Chetwoode's room. + +"Better, auntie?" asks Lilian, bending over her, as she sits in her +comfortable arm-chair. + +"Rather better, darling," returns auntie, who is now feeling as well as +possible (though it is yet too soon to admit it even to herself), and +who has just finished a cutlet, and a glass of the rare old port so +strongly recommended by Dr. Bland. "Guy, bring over that chair for +Lilian. Sitting up late at night always upsets me." + +"It was a horrible ball," says Miss Lilian, ungratefully. "I didn't +enjoy it one bit." + +"No?" in amazement. "My dear, you surprise me. I thought I had never +seen you look so joyous in my life." + +"It was all forced gayety," with a little laugh. "My heart was slowly +breaking all the time. I wanted to dance with one person, who +obstinately refused to ask me, and so spoiled my entire evening. Was it +not cruel of that 'one person'?" + +"The fact is," says Guy, addressing his mother, "she behaved so +infamously, and flirted so disgracefully, all night, that the 'one +person' was quite afraid to approach her." + +"I fear you did flirt a little," says Lady Chetwoode, gentle reproof in +her tone; "that handsome young man you were dancing with just before I +left--and who seemed so devoted--hardly went home heart-whole. That was +naughty, darling, wasn't it? You should think of--of--other people's +feelings." It is palpable to both her hearers she is alluding to +Chesney. + +"Auntie," says Miss Chesney, promptly, and with the utmost _naivete_, +"if you scold me, I feel sure you will bring on that nasty headache +again." + +She is bending over the back of Lady Chetwoode's chair, where she cannot +be seen, and is tenderly smoothing as much of her pretty gray hair as +can be seen beneath the lace cap that adorns her auntie's head. + +Sir Guy laughs. + +"Ah! I shall never make you a good child, so long as your guardian +encourages you in your wickedness," says Lady Chetwoode, smiling too. + +"Do I encourage her? Surely that is a libel," says Guy: "she herself +will bear me witness how frequently--though vainly--I have reasoned with +her on her conduct. I hardly know what is to be done with her, +unless----" here he pauses, and looks at Lilian, who declines to meet +his glance, but lets her hand slip from Lady Chetwoode's head down to +her shoulder, where it rests nervously--"unless I take her myself, and +marry her out of hand, before she has time to say 'no.'" + +"Perhaps--even did you allow me time--I should not say 'no,'" says +Lilian, with astonishing meekness, her face like the heart of a "red, +red rose." + +Something in her son's eyes, something in Lilian's tone, rouses Lady +Chetwoode to comprehension. + +"What is it?" she asks, quickly, and with agitation. "Lilian, why do you +stand there? Come here, that I may look at you? Can It be possible? Have +you two----" + +"We have," replies Lilian, interrupting her gently, and suddenly going +down on her knees, she places her arms round her. "Are you sorry, +auntie? Am I very unworthy? Won't you have me for your daughter after +all?" + +"Sorry!" says Lady Chetwoode, and, had she spoken volumes, she could not +have expressed more unfeigned joy. "And has all your quarreling ended +so?" she asks, presently, with an amused laugh. + +"Yes, just so," replies Guy, taking Lilian's hand, and raising it to his +lips. "We have got it all over before our marriage, so as to have none +afterward. Is it not so, Lilian?" + +She smiles assent, and there is something in the smile so sweet, so +adorable, that, in spite of his mother "and a'," Guy kisses her on the +spot. + +"I am so relieved," says Lady Chetwoode, regarding her new daughter with +much fondness, "and just as I had given up all hope. Many times I wished +for a girl, when I found myself with only two troublesome boys, and now +at last I have one,--a real daughter." + +"And I a mother. Though I think my name for you will always be the one +by which I learned to love you,--Auntie," returns Lilian, tenderly. + +At this moment Cecilia opens the door cautiously, and, stepping very +lightly, enters the room, followed by Cyril, also on tiptoe. Seeing Lady +Chetwoode, however, standing close to Lilian and looking quite animated +and not in the least invalided, they brighten up, and advance more +briskly. + +"Dear Madre," says Cecilia, who has adopted Cyril's name for his mother, +"I am glad to see you so much better. Is your headache quite gone?" + +"Quite, my dear. Lilian has cured it. She is the most wonderful +physician." + +And then the new-comers are told the delightful story, and Lilian +receives two more caresses, and gets through three or four blushes very +beautifully. They are still asking many questions, and uttering pretty +speeches, when a step upon the corridor outside attracts their +attention. + +It is a jaunty step, and undoubtedly belongs to Mr. Musgrave, who is +informing the household generally, at the top of his fresh young voice, +that he is "ragged and torn," and that he rather enjoys it than +otherwise. Coming close to the door, however, he moderates his +transports, and, losing sight of the vagabond, degenerates once more +into that very inferior creature, a decently-clothed and well-combed +young gentleman. + +Opening the door with praiseworthy carefulness, he says, in the meekest +and most sympathetic voice possible: + +"I hope your headache is better, Lady Chetwoode?" + +By this time he has his head quite inside the door, and becomes +pleasantly conscious that there is something festive in the air within. +The properly lachrymose expression he has assumed vanishes as if by +magic, while his usual debonair smile returns to his lips. + +"Oh, I say--then it was all a swindle on the part of Hardy, was it?" he +asks. "Dear Lady Chetwoode, it makes me feel positively young again to +see you looking so well. Your woman hinted to me you were at the point +of death." + +"Come in, Taffy. You too shall hear what has revived me," says her +ladyship, smiling, and thereupon unfolds her tale to him, over which he +beams, and looks blessings on all around. + +"I knew it," he says; "could have told everybody all about it months +ago! couldn't I, Lil? Remember the day I bet you a fiver he would +propose to you in six months?" + +"I remember nothing of the kind," says Miss Chesney, horribly shocked. +"Taffy, how can you say such a thing?" + +"Tell us all about it, Taffy," entreats Cyril, languidly, from the +depths of an arm-chair. "I feel so done up with all I have gone through +this morning, that I long for a wholesome exciting little tale to rouse +me a bit. Go on." + +"Oh, it was only that day at Mrs. Boileau's last autumn," begins Taffy. + +"Taffy, I desire you to be silent," says Lilian, going up to him and +looking very determined. "Do not attempt to speak when I tell you not to +do so." + +"Was the betting even, Taffy?" asks Cyril. + +"No. She said----" + +"_Taffy!_" + +"She said he had as much idea of proposing to her as she had of----" + +"Taffy!" + +"Marrying him, even should he ask her," winds up Mr. Musgrave, exploding +with joy over his discomfiting disclosure. + +"No one believes you," says Lilian, in despair, while they all laugh +heartily, and Cyril tells her not to make bad bets in future. + +"Not one," says Sir Guy, supporting her as in duty bound; "but I really +think you ought to give him that five pounds." + +"Certainly I shall not," says Miss Chesney, hotly. "It is all a +fabrication from beginning to end. I never made a bet in my life. And, +besides, the time he named was the end of the year, and _not_ in six +months." + +At this avowal they all roar, and Guy declares he must take her out for +a walk, lest she should commit herself any further. + + * * * * * + +The happy day at length is drawing to a close. Already it is evening, +though still the dying light lingers, as if loath to go. Archibald +Chesney, after a hurried private interview with Lady Chetwoode, has +taken his departure, not to return again to Chetwoode until time has +grown into years. In her own room Lilian, even in the midst of her +new-born gladness, has wept bitterly for him, and sorrowed honestly over +the remembrance of his grief and disappointment. + +Of all the household Florence alone is still in ignorance of the +wonderful event that has taken place since morning. Her aunt has +declared her intention of being the one to impart the good news to her, +for which all the others are devoutly thankful. She--Miss Beauchamp--has +been out driving all the afternoon for the benefit of her dear +complexion; has visited the schools, and there succeeded in irritating +almost to the verge of murder the unhappy teacher and all the wretched +little children; has had an interview with Mr. Boer, who showed himself +on the occasion even more _empresse_ than usual; has returned, and is +now once more seated at her work in the drawing-room, covered with wools +and glory. + +Near her sits Lilian, absently winding a tiny ball of wool. Having +finished her task, she hands it to Florence with a heavy sigh indicative +of relief. + +"Thanks. Will you do another?" asks Florence. + +"No,--oh, no," hastily. Then, laughing, "You mustn't think me uncivil," +she says, "but I am really not equal to winding up another, of these +interminable balls. My head goes round as fast as the wool, if not +faster." + +"And are you going to sit there doing nothing?" asks Florence, glancing +at her with ill-concealed disapproval, as the young lady proceeds to +ensconce herself in the coziest depths of the coziest chair the room +contains, as close to the fire as prudence will permit. + +"I am almost sure of it," she answers, complacently, horrifying the +proper Florence being one of her chief joys. "I am never really happy +until I feel myself thoroughly idle. I detest being useful. I love doing +'nothing,' as you call it. I have always looked upon Dr. Watts's bee as +a tiresome lunatic." + +"Do you never think it necessary to try to--improve your mind?" + +"Does crewel-work improve the mind?" opening her eyes for an instant +lazily. + +"Certainly; in so far that it leaves time for reflection. There is +something soothing about it that assists the mind. While one works one +can reflect." + +"Can one?" naughtily: "I couldn't. I can do any number of things, but I +am almost positive I couldn't reflect. It means--doesn't it?--going over +and over and over again disagreeable scenes, and remembering how much +prettier one might have behaved under such and such circumstances. I +call that not only wearying but unpleasant. No, I feel sure I am right. +I shall never, if I can help it, reflect." + +"Then you are content to be a mere butterfly--an idler on the face of +the earth all your days?" asks Florence, severely, taking the high and +moral tone she has been successfully cultivating ever since her +acquaintance with Mr. Boer. + +"As long as I can. Surely when I marry it will be time enough to grow +'useful,' and go in for work generally. You see one can't avoid it then. +Keeping one's husband in order, I have been always told, is an onerous +job." + +"You intend marrying, then?" Something in the other's tone has roused +Florence to curiosity. She sits up and looks faintly interested. + +"Yes." + +"Soon?" + +"Perhaps." + +"You are serious?" + +"Quite serious." + +"Ah!" + +A pause. Miss Beauchamp takes up two shades of wool and examines them +critically. They are so exactly alike that it can make little difference +which she chooses. But she is methodical, and would die rather than make +one false stitch in a whole acre of canvas. Having made her choice of +the two shades, she returns to the attack. + +"I had no idea you liked your cousin so much," she says. + +"So much! How much?" says Lilian, quickly turning very red. Her cousin +is a sore subject with her just now. "I do not think we are speaking of +Archibald." + +"No; but I thought you said----" + +"Nothing of him, I am sure," still hastily. + +"Oh! I beg your pardon. I quite fancied----" Here she pauses, somewhat +mystified. Then, "You and he are very good friends, are you not?" + +"Very," coldly. + +"And yet," with an elephantine attempt at playfulness, "I certainly did +think last night some quarrel had arisen between you. He looked so +savage when you were dancing with Captain Monk. His eyes are handsome, +but at times I have noticed a gleam in them that might safely be termed +dangerous." + +"Have you? I have not." + +"No? How strange! But no doubt when with you---- For my own part, I +confess I should be quite afraid of him,--of annoying him, I mean." + +"I have never yet felt afraid of any one," returns Lilian, absently. + +"How I do admire your courage,--your pluck, if I may so call it," says +Florence, hesitating properly over the unlady-like word. "Now, _I_ am so +different. I am painfully nervous with some people. Guy, for instance, +quite tyrannizes over me," with the little conscious laugh that makes +the old disgust rise warmly in Lilian's breast. "I should be so afraid +to contradict Guy." + +"And why?" + +"I don't know. He looks so--so---- I really can hardly explain; but some +sympathetic understanding between us makes me know he would not like it. +He has a great desire for his own way." + +"Most people have,"--dryly. "I never feel those sympathetic sensations +you speak of myself, but I could guess so much." + +"Another reason why I should refrain from thwarting his wishes is this," +says Florence, sorting her colors carefully, "I fancy, indeed I _know_, +he could actually dislike any one who systematically contradicted him." + +"Do you think so? I contradict him when I choose." + +"Yes," blandly: "that exactly illustrates my idea." + +"You think, then, he dislikes me?" says Lilian, raising herself the +better to examine her companion's features, while a sense of thorough +amusement makes itself felt within her. + +"Dislike"--apologetically--"is a hard word. And yet at times I think so. +Surely you must have noticed how he avoids you, how he declines to carry +out any argument commenced by you." + +"I blush for my want of sensibility," says Lilian, meekly. "No, I have +not noticed it." + +"Have you not?" with exaggerated surprise. "I have." + +At this most inopportune moment Guy enters the room. + +"Ah, Guy," says Lilian, quietly, "come here. I want to tell you +something." + +He comes over obediently, gladly, and stands by her chair. It is a low +one, and he leans his arm upon the back of it. + +"Florence has just said you hate being contradicted," she murmurs, in +her softest tones. + +"If she did, there was a great deal of truth in the remark," he answers, +with an amused laugh, while Florence glances up triumphantly. "Most +fellows do, eh?" + +"And that I am the one that generally contradicts you." + +"That is only half a truth. If she had said who _always_ contradicts me, +it would have been a whole one." + +Lilian rises. She places her hand lightly on his arm. + +"She also said that for that reason you dislike me." The words are +uttered quietly, but somehow tears have gathered in the violet eyes. + +"Dislike!" exclaims her lover, the very faint symptoms of distress upon +his darling's face causing him instant pain. "Lilian! how absurd you +are! How could such a word come to be used between us? Surely Florence +must know--has not my mother told you?" he asks, turning to Miss +Beauchamp a look full of surprise. + +"I know nothing," replies she, growing a shade paler. At this moment she +does know, and determines finally to accept, when next offered, the +devotion Mr. Boer has been showering upon her for the past two months. +Yes, she will take him for better, for worse, voice, low-church +tendencies, and all. The latter may be altered, the former silenced. "I +know nothing," she says; "what is it?" + +"Merely this, that Lilian and I are going to be married this summer. +Lilian, of your goodness do not contradict me, in this one matter at +least," bending a tender smile upon his betrothed, who returns it shyly. + +"I confess you surprise me," says Florence, with the utmost +self-possession, though her lips are still a trifle white. "I have never +been so astonished in my life. You seem to me so unsuited--so--but that +only shows how impossible it is to judge rightly in such a case. Had I +been asked to name the feeling I believed you two entertained for each +other, I should unhesitatingly have called it hatred!" + +"How we have deceived the British Public!" says Guy, laughing, although +at her words a warm color has crept into his face. "For the future we +must not 'dissemble.' Now that we have shown ourselves up in our true +colors, Florence, you will, I hope, wish us joy." + +"Certainly, with all my heart," in a tone impossible to translate: "my +only regret is, that mere wishing will not insure it to you." + +Here a servant opening the door informs Miss Beauchamp that Lady +Chetwoode wishes to see her for a few minutes. + +"Say I shall be with her directly," returns Florence, and, rising +leisurely, she sweeps, without the smallest appearance of haste, from +the room. + +Then Lilian turns to Sir Guy: + +"How curiously she uttered that last speech!--almost as though she hoped +we should not be happy, I am sure I am right; she does not want you to +marry me." + +"She was not enthusiastic in her congratulations, I admit. But that need +not affect us. I am not proud. So long as _you_ want to marry me, I +shall be quite content." + +Lilian's reply, being wordless, need not be recorded here. + +"Spiteful thing," remarks she, presently, _a propos_ of the spotless +Florence. + +"Poor, Boer!" replies he. + +"You think she will marry _him_?" heavily, and most unflatteringly, +emphasized. + +"I do." + +"Poor Florence!" returns she. "When I think that, I can forgive her all +her sins. Dreadful man! I do hope she will make his life a burden to +him." + +"I am sure you will live to see one hope fulfilled. Though I dare say he +has a better chance of peace in the years to come than I have: Florence, +at all events, does not go about boxing people's----" + +"Guy," says Miss Chesney, imperatively, laying her hand upon his lips, +"if you dare to finish that sentence, or if you ever refer to that +horrible scene again, I shall most positively refuse to marry---- Oh! +here is Mr. Boer. Talk of somebody! Look, it is he, is it not?" Standing +on tiptoe, she cranes her neck eagerly, and rather flattens her pretty +nose against the window-pane in a wild endeavor to catch a glimpse of +Mr. Boer's long-tailed coat, which "hangs" very much "down behind," +before it quite disappears in a curve of the avenue. Presently it comes +to view again from behind the huge laurustinus bush, and they are now +quite convinced it is indeed the amorous parson. + +"Yes, it is he," says Guy, staring over his betrothed's head, as he +catches the first glimpse. "And evidently full of purpose. Mark the fell +determination in his clerical stride." + +"She saw him this morning at the schools,--she told me so,--and here he +is again!" says Lilian, in an awe-struck tone. "There must be something +in it. As you say, he really seems bent on business of some sort; +perhaps he is come----" + +"With a new chant, as I'm a sinner," says Chetwoode, with a groan. "Let +us go into the library: the baize and that large screen stifles sound." + +"No, to propose! I mean: there is a curious look about him as if, +if----" + +"He was going to execution?" + +"No, to Florence." + +"That is quite the same thing." + +"I hear his step," says Lilian, hurriedly, flinging open the window, +"and hers too! She must have seen him coming, and run to meet him with +open arms. Not for worlds would I spoil sport, or put them in a 'tender +taking.' Let us fly." Stepping out on the balcony, she turns to glance +back at him. "Will you follow me?" she asks, a certain arch sweetness in +her eyes. + +"To the end of the world!" returns he, eagerly, and together, hand in +hand, they pass out of sight. + + +THE END. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Airy Fairy Lilian, by +Margaret Wolfe Hamilton (AKA Duchess) + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AIRY FAIRY LILIAN *** + +***** This file should be named 35228.txt or 35228.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/5/2/2/35228/ + +Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Martin Pettit and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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