"Now glowed the firmamentWith living sapphires; Hesperus, that ledThe 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."
"Now glowed the firmamentWith living sapphires; Hesperus, that ledThe 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."
"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."
"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."
"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, buthisthoughts 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 divineRolls through the dark-blue depths."
"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 divineRolls through the dark-blue depths."
"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 fora 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 (ifpossible) 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 becauseIbring 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 herstanding. She has disappeared. Without a word to any one, she has slipped from the library and sought refuge in her own room.
"This much, however, I may add; her yearsWere 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.
"This much, however, I may add; her yearsWere 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.
"This much, however, I may add; her yearsWere 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.
"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 uglycontretempshad 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 tenderempressement.
"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 ratherinsouciantexpression 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? ifyousay 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 inthe 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 likesmebest. 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 confessher 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 utmostbonhommie
"Call me Daphne, call me Chloris,Call me Lalage, or Doris,Only—only—call me thine!"
"Call me Daphne, call me Chloris,Call me Lalage, or Doris,Only—only—call me thine!"
"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 achair 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 othersucha 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 oneof 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."
"Orl.—Is't possible that on so little acquaintanceYou should like her? that, but seeing,You should love her?"—As You Like It.
"Orl.—Is't possible that on so little acquaintanceYou should like her? that, but seeing,You should love her?"—As You Like It.
"Orl.—Is't possible that on so little acquaintanceYou should like her? that, but seeing,You should love her?"—As You Like It.
"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 herselfto 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 landAll cloudlessly and cold."
"Summer was dead, and Autumn was expiring,And infant Winter laughed upon the landAll cloudlessly and cold."
"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 abona fideadmirer, 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 hauntA lover with caprices soft and dear,That like to make a quarrel, when they can'tFind 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."
"One of those pretty, precious plagues, which hauntA lover with caprices soft and dear,That like to make a quarrel, when they can'tFind 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."
"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 didnotlook 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 alwayswondering 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 uponthe 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-bracof 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 toldme."
"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 areallove-affairwould 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 fidelover near me, close to me, at myvery 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—thatany onefortunate 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 hopeyoulove 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 detestedat 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."
"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 growstriste, 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 swornvassal, 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,longdays, 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 tooffer, 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. Muchas 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 hiscongé.
"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 afootman, 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 aregladI 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 gentlybut 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 youat 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 alittle. 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.