"So young, and so untender."—King Lear.
"So young, and so untender."—King Lear.
"So young, and so untender."—King Lear.
"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 meetherat 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 shouldnever 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 littledistrait, 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."
"A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded,A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded."
"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 butthat 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 unboundedgaucherie. 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, tooprononcée."
"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 towardembonpoint."
"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—almostbegins 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 littlegourmande, 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.' Areyousad?"
"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!" saysLilian, 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 shallnever 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.
"How beautiful is the rain!After the dust and heat.To the dry grass, and the drier grain,How welcome is the rain!"—Longfellow.
"How beautiful is the rain!After the dust and heat.To the dry grass, and the drier grain,How welcome is the rain!"—Longfellow.
"How beautiful is the rain!After the dust and heat.To the dry grass, and the drier grain,How welcome is the rain!"—Longfellow.
"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 exquisitepenciling 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, Icouldn'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 amauvais 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 anenfant 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,isit 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."
Thereisroom 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, andtherefore 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 veryexigeantif 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 youcouldgive 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 alwaysare," 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 furthertête-à-têtewith 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," drawlsFlorence, 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 remembersomethings," 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.
* * * * * * *