"And, though she be but little, she is fierce."—Midsummer Night's Dream.
"And, though she be but little, she is fierce."—Midsummer Night's Dream.
"And, though she be but little, she is fierce."—Midsummer Night's Dream.
"And, though she be but little, she is fierce."
—Midsummer Night's Dream.
"Rene.Suffer love! A good epithet! I do suffer love, indeed, for I love thee against my will."—Much Ado About Nothing.
It is a glorious evening toward the close of September. The heat is intense, delicious, as productive of happy languor as though it was still the very heart of summer.
Outside upon the grass sits Lilian, idly threading daisiesinto chains, her riotous golden locks waving upon her fair forehead beneath the influence of the wind. At her feet, full length, lies Archibald, a book containing selections from the works of favorite poets in his hand. He is reading aloud such passages as please him and serve to illustrate the passion that day by day is growing deeper for his pretty cousin. Already his infatuation for her has become a fact so palpable that not only has he ceased to deny it to himself, but every one in the house is fully aware of it, from Lady Chetwoode down to the lowest housemaid. Sometimes, when the poem is an old favorite, he recites it, keeping his dark eyes fixed the while upon the fair coquettish face just above him.
Upon the balcony looking down upon them sits Florence, working at the everlasting parrot, with Guy beside her, utterly miserable, his whole attention concentrated upon his ward. For the past week he has been wretched as a man can be who sees a rival well received before his eyes day after day. Miss Beauchamp's soft speeches and tender glances, although many and pronounced, fail to console him, though to others he appears to accept them willingly enough, and to make a generous return, spending—how, he hardly knows, though perhapsshedoes—a good deal of time in her society. He must indeed be devoid of observation if now he cannot pass a strict examination of the hues of that crewel bird (this is not a joke), for wherever he may be, there Miss Beauchamp is sure to show a few minutes later, always with her wools.
Noting all this, be sure Lilian draws from it her own conclusions.
As each clear silvery laugh reaches him from below, Guy frowns and winces at every fond poetical sentiment that, floated upward by the wind, falls upon his ears.
"See the mountain kiss high heaven,And the waves clasp one another;No sister flower would be forgivenIf it disdained its brother:And the sunlight clasps the earth,And the moonbeams kiss the sea:What are all these kissings worth,If thou kiss not me?"
"See the mountain kiss high heaven,And the waves clasp one another;No sister flower would be forgivenIf it disdained its brother:And the sunlight clasps the earth,And the moonbeams kiss the sea:What are all these kissings worth,If thou kiss not me?"
"See the mountain kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister flower would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother:
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea:
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?"
The words recited by Mr. Chesney with muchempressementsoar upward and gain Guy's ear; Archibald is pointing his quotation with many impassioned glances andmuch tender emphasis; all of which is rather thrown away upon Lilian, who is not in the least sentimental.
"Read something livelier, Archie," she says, regarding her growing chain with unlimited admiration. "There is rather too much honey about that."
"If you can snub Shelley, I'm sure I don't know what it is youdolike," returns he, somewhat disgusted. A slight pause ensues, filled up by the faint noise of the leaves of Chesney's volume as he turns them over impatiently.
"'Oh, my Luve's like a red, red, rose,'" he begins, bravely, but Lilian instantly suppresses him.
"Don't," she says: "that's worse. I always think what a horrid 'luve' she must have been. Fancy a girl with cheeks like that rose over there! Fancy writing a sonnet to a milk-maid! Go on, however; the other lines are rather pretty."
"Oh, my love's like a melodyThat's sweetly played in tune,"
"Oh, my love's like a melodyThat's sweetly played in tune,"
"Oh, my love's like a melody
That's sweetly played in tune,"
reads Archie, and then stops.
"It is pretty," he says, agreeably; "but if you had heard the last word persistently called 'chune,' I think it would have taken the edge off your fancy for it. I had an uncle who adored that little poem, but hewouldcall the word 'chune,' and it rather spoiled the effect. He's dead," says Mr. Chesney, laying down his book, "but I think I see him now."
"In the pride of youth and beauty,With a garland on his brow,"
"In the pride of youth and beauty,With a garland on his brow,"
"In the pride of youth and beauty,
With a garland on his brow,"
quotes Lilian, mischievously.
"Well, not quite. Rather in an exceedingly rusty suit of evening clothes at the Opera. I took him there in a weak moment to hear the 'late lamented Titiens' sing her choicest song in 'Il Trovatore,'—you know it?—well, when it was over and the whole house was in a perfect uproar of applause, I turned and asked him what he thought of it, and he instantly said he thought it was 'a very pretty "chune"!' Fancy Titiens singing a 'chune'! I gave him up after that, and carefully avoided his society. Poor old chap, he didn't bear malice, however, as he died a year later and left me all his money."
"More than you deserved," says Lilian.
Here Cyril and Taffy appearing on the scene cause a diversion. They both simultaneously fling themselves upon the grass at Lilian's feet, and declare themselves completely used up.
"Let us have tea out here," says Lilian, gayly, "and enjoy our summer to the end." Springing to her feet, she turns toward the balcony, careless of the fact that she has destroyed the lovely picture she made sitting on the greensward, surrounded by her attendant swains.
"Florence, come down here, and let us have tea on the grass," she calls out pleasantly to Miss Beauchamp.
"Do, Florence," says Archibald, entreatingly.
"Miss Beauchamp, you reallymust," from Taffy, decides the point.
Florence, feeling it will look ungracious to refuse, rises with reluctance, and sails down upon thequartettebelow, followed by Sir Guy.
"What an awful time we shall be having at Mrs. Boileau's this hour to-morrow night," says Cyril, plaintively, after a long silence on his part. "I shudder when I think of it. No one who has never spent an evening at the Grange can imagine the agony of it."
"I vow I would rather be broken on the wheel than undergo it," says Archibald. "It was downright mean of Lady Chetwoode to let us all in for it. And yet no doubt things might have been worse; we ought to feel devoutly thankful old Boileau is well under the sod."
"What was the matter with him?" asks Lilian.
"Don't name him," says Cyril, "he was past all human endurance; my blood runs cold when I remember, I once did know him. I rejoice to say he is no more. His name was Benjamin: and as he was small and thin, and she was large and fat, she (that is, Mrs. Boileau) was always called 'Benjamin's portion.' That's a joke; do you see it?"
"I do: so you don't take any bobs offmywages," retorts Miss Chesney, promptly, with a distinct imitation of Kate Stantley. "And yet I cannot see how all this made the poor man odious."
"No, not exactly that, though I don't think a well-brought-up man should let himself go to skin and bone. He was intolerable in other ways. One memorable Christmas day Guy and I dined with him, and he got beastly drunk on the sauce for the plum-pudding. We were young at the time, and it made a lasting impression upon us.Indeed, he was hardly the person to sit next at a prolonged dinner-party, first because he was unmistakably dirty, and——"
"Oh, Cyril!"
"Well, and why not? It is not impossible. Even Popes, it now appears, can be indifferent to the advantages to be derived from soap and water."
"Really, Cyril, I think you might choose a pleasanter subject upon which to converse," says Florence, with a disgusted curl of her short upper lip.
"I beg pardon all round, I'm sure," returns Cyril, meekly. "But Lilian should be blamed: shewouldinvestigate the matter; and I'm nothing, if not strictly truthful. He was a very dirty old man, I assure you, my dear Florence."
"Mrs. Boileau, however objectionable, seems to have been rather the best of the two: why did she marry him?" asks Lilian.
"Haven't the remotest idea, and, even if I had, I should be afraid to answer any more of your pertinent questions," with an expressive nod in the direction of Florence. "I can only say it was a very feeble proceeding on the part of such a capable person as Mrs. Boileau."
"Just 'another good woman gone wrong,'" suggests Taffy, mildly.
"Quite so," says Archibald, "though she adored him,—she said. Yet he died, some said of fever, others of—Mrs. Boileau; no attention was ever paid to the others. When hediddroop and die she planted all sorts of lovely little flowers over his grave, and watered them with her tears for ever so long. Could affection farther go?"
"Horrible woman!" says Miss Chesney, "it only wanted that to finish my dislike to her. I hope when I am dead no one will plant flowers onmygrave: the bare idea would make me turn in it."
"Then we won't do it," says Taffy, consolingly.
"I wish we had a few Indian customs in this country," says Cyril, languidly. "The Suttee was a capital institution. Think what a lot of objectionable widows we should have got rid of by this time; Mrs. Boileau, for instance."
"And Mrs. Arlington," puts in Florence, quietly. An unaccountable silence follows this speech. No one can exactly explain why, but every one knows something awkward has been said. Cyril outwardly is perhaps the leastconcerned of them all: as he bites languidly a little blade of green grass, a faint smile flickers at the corners of his lips; Lilian is distinctly angry.
"Poor Mrs. Boileau; all this is rather ill-natured, is it not?" asks Florence, gently, rising as though a dislike to the gossip going on around her compels her to return to the house. In reality it is a dislike to damp grass that urges her to flight.
"Shall I get you a chair, Florence?" asks Cyril, somewhat irrelevantly as it seems.
"Pray don't leave us, Miss Beauchamp," says Taffy. "If you will stay on, we will swear not to make any more ill-natured remarks about any one."
"Then I expect silence will reign supreme, and that the remainder of theconversazionewill be of the deadly-lively order," says Archibald; and, Cyril at this moment arriving with the offered chair, Miss Beauchamp is kindly pleased to remain.
As the evening declines, the midges muster in great force. Cyril and Taffy, being in the humor for smoking,—and having cheroots,—are comparatively speaking happy; the others grow more and more secretly irritated every moment. Florence is making ladylike dabs at her forehead every two seconds with her cambric handkerchief, and is regretting keenly her folly in not retiring in-doors long ago. Midges sting her and raise uninteresting little marks upon her face, thereby doing irremediable damage for the time being. The very thought of such a catastrophe fills her with horror. Her fair, plump hands are getting spoiled by these blood-thirsty little miscreants; this she notices with dismay, but is ignorant of the fact that a far worse misfortune is happening higher up. A tasteless midge has taken a fancy to her nose, and has inflicted on it a serious bite; it is swelling visibly, and a swelled nose is not becoming, especially when it is set as nearly as nature will permit in the centre of a pale, high-bred, but expressionless face.
Ignorant, I say, of this crowning mishap, she goes on dabbing her brow gently, while all the others lie around her dabbing likewise.
At last Lilian loses all patience.
"Oh!hangthese midges!" she says, naturally certainly but rather too forcibly for the times we live in. The petulance of the soft tone, the expression used, makes themall laugh, except Miss Beauchamp, who, true to her training, maintains a demeanor of frigid disapproval, which has the pleasing effect of rendering the swelled nose more ludicrous than it was before.
"Have I said anything verybizarre?" demands Lilian, opening her eyes wide at their laughter. "Oh!"—recollecting—"did I say 'hang them'? It is all Taffy's fault, he will use schoolboy slang. Taffy, you ought to be ashamed of yourself: don't you see how you have shocked Florence?"
"And no wonder," says Archibald, gravely; "you know we swore to her not to abuse anything for the remainder of this evening, not even these little winged torments," viciously squeezing half a dozen to death as he speaks.
"How are we going to the Grange to-morrow evening?" asks Taffy, presently.
The others have broken up and separated; Cyril and Archibald, at a little distance, are apparently convulsed with laughter over some shady story just being related by the former.
"I suppose," goes on Taffy, "as Lady Chetwoode won't come, we shall take the open traps, and not mind the carriage, the evenings are so fine. Who is to drive who, is the question."
"No; who is to drive poor little I, is the question. Sir Guy, will you?" asks Lilian, plaintively, prompted by some curious impulse, seeing him silent, handsome, moody in the background. A moment later she could have killed herself for putting the question to him.
"Guy always drives me," says Florence, calmly: "I never go with any one else, except in the carriage with Aunt Anne. I am nervous, and should be miserable with any one I could not quite trust. Careless driving terrifies me. But Guy is never careless," turning upon Chetwoode a face she fondly hopes is full of feeling, but which unfortunately is suggestive of nothing but a midge's bite. The nose is still the principal feature in it.
Placed in this awkward dilemma, Guy can only curse his fate and be silent. How can he tell Florence he does not care for her society, how explain to Lilian his wild desire for hers? He bites his moustache, and, with his eyes fixed gloomily upon the ground, maintains a disgusted silence. Truly luck is dead against him.
"Oh,—that indeed!" says Lilian, and, being a thoroughwoman, of course makes no allowance for his unhappy position. Evidently,—according to her view of the case,—from his silent acquiescence in Miss Beauchamp's plan, he likes it. No doubt it was all arranged between them early this morning; and she, to have so far forgotten herself as to ask him to drive her! Oh! it is intolerable!
"You are quite right," she says sweetly to Florence, even producing a smile for the occasion, as women will when their hearts are sorest. "There is nothing so depressing as nervousness when driving. Perhaps Archibald will take pity upon me. Archie!" calling out to him, "come here. I want you to do me a great favor,"—with an enchanting smile. "Would it be putting you out dreadfully if I asked you to drive me to Mrs. Boileau's to-morrow evening?"—another smile still more enchanting.
"You really mean it?" asks Archibald, delighted, his dark face lighting, while Guy, looking on helplessly, almost groans aloud. "You know how glad I shall be: I had no idea when I got up this morning such luck was in store for me.DearMrs. Boileau! if she could only guess how eager I am to start for hercharmingGrange!"
He says this in a laughing tone, but Chetwoode fully understands that, like the famous well, it has truth at the bottom of it.
"It grows late, does it not?" Florence says, rising gracefully. "I think we had better go in-doors. We have left Aunt Anne too long alone."
"Auntie is lying down. Her head is bad," says Lilian; "I was with her just before I came out, and she said she wished to be alone."
"Yes; she can't bear noise," remarks Florence, calmly, but meaningly. "I must go and see how she is." There is the faintest suspicion of an emphasis upon the personal pronoun.
"That will be very kind of you, dear," says Miss Chesney, suavely. "And Florence—would you like anything to rub your poor nose?—cold cream—or glycerine—or that; nurse has all those sorts of things, I'm sure." This is a small revenge of Lilian's, impossible to forego; while enjoying it, she puts on the tenderest air of sympathetic concern, and carefully regards Miss Beauchamp's nose with raised brows of solicitude.
"My nose?" repeats Florence, reddening.
"Yes, dear. One of those unkind little insects hasbitten it shamefully, and now it is all pink and swollen. Didn't you know it? I have been feeling so sorry for you for the last ten minutes. It is too bad,—is it not? I hardly think it will be well before dinner, and it is so disfiguring." All this she utters in tones of the deepest commiseration.
Florence wisely makes no reply. She would have borne the tortures of the rack rather than exhibit any vehement temper before Guy; so she contents herself with casting a withering glance upon Lilian,—who receives it with the utmostsang-froid,—and, putting her handkerchief up to the wounded member, sweeps into the house full of righteous indignation.
Sir Guy, after lengthened hesitation, evidently makes up his mind to do something, and, with his face full of purpose, follows her. This devotion on his part is more than Lilian—in spite of her suspicions—has bargained for.
"Gone to console his 'sleepy Venus' for the damage done to her 'Phidian nose,'" she says to Taffy, with rather a bitter laugh.
"Little girls should neither quote Don Juan nor say ill-natured things," replies that youth, with an air of lofty rebuke. But Lilian, not being in the mood for even Taffy's playfulness, makes no answer, and walks away to her beloved garden to seek consolation from the flowers.
Whatever Guy's conference with Florence was about, it was short and decisive, as in five minutes he again emerged from the house, and, looking vainly around him, starts in search of Lilian. Presently, at the end of the long lawn, he sees her.
"Well, has her poor dear nose recovered all its pristine freshness?" she asks him, in a rather reckless tone, as he comes up to her.
"Lilian," says Guy, abruptly, eagerly, taking no notice of this sally,—indeed, scarcely hearing,—"it was all a mistake; I could not speak plainly a moment ago, but I have arranged it all with Florence; and—will you let me drive you to Mrs. Boileau's to-morrow evening?"
"No, thank you," a quick gleam in her large eyes that should have warned him; "I would not make Florence unhappy for the world. Think of her nerves!"
"She will be quite as safe with Cyril—or—your cousin."
"Which cousin?"
"Chesney."
"I think not, because I am going with Archibald."
"You can easily break off with him," anxiously.
"But supposing I do not wish to break off with him?"
"Am I to think, then, you prefer going with your cousin?" in a freezing tone.
"Certainly, I prefer his society to yours, ten thousand times," forcibly; "it was mere idleness made me say I wished to go with you. Had you agreed to my proposition I should probably have changed my mind afterward, so everything is better as it is; I am glad now you did not answer me differently."
"I did not answer you at all," returns Guy, unwisely.
"No, you wereafraid," returns she, with a mocking laugh that sends the red blood to his forehead.
"What do you mean?" he asks, angrily.
"Nothing. It was foolish my mentioning the subject. We are disputing about a mere trifle. I am going with Archie whatever happens, because I like him, and because I know he is always glad to be with me."
She turns as though to leave him, and Guy impulsively catches her hand to detain her; as he does so, his eyes fall upon the little white fingers imprisoned in his own, and there, upon one of them—beside his own ring—he sees another,—newer.
"Who gave you that?" he asks, impulsively, knowing well the answer to his question.
"Archibald," removing her hand quietly, but with determination.
A dead silence follows. Then, speaking calmly by a supreme effort, Guy says:
"I suppose so. Are you going to marry your cousin, Lilian?"
"Is it in the capacity of guardian you ask that question?" defiantly. "You should remember I don't acknowledge one."
"Must I understand by that you will accept him, or have accepted him?"
"Certainly not. You told me yesterday you found it impossible to understand me at any time; why seek to do what is beyond your power? However, I don't mind telling you that as yet Archibald has not made me a formal offer of his heart and hand. No doubt"—mockingly—"when he does me the honor to propose to me, he will speak to you on the subject." Then she laughs a little."Don't you think it is rather absurd arranging matters for poor Archie without his consent? I assure you he has as much idea of proposing to me as the man in the moon."
"If you are not engaged to him you should not wear his ring," severely.
"I am not engaged to you, and I wear your ring. If it is wrong to accept a ring from a man to whom one is not engaged, I think it was very reprehensible of you to give me this," pointing to it.
"With me it is different," Guy is beginning, rather lamely, not being sure of his argument; but Miss Chesney, disdaining subterfuge, interrupts him.
"A thing is either right or wrong," she says, superbly. "I may surely wear either none, or both."
"Then remove both," says Guy, feeling he would rather see her without his, if it must only be worn in conjunction with Chesney's.
"I shan't," returns Lilian, deliberately. "I shall wear both as long as it suits me,—because I adore rings."
"Then you are acting very wrongly. I know there is little use in my speaking to you, once you are bent upon having your own way. You are so self-willed, and so determined."
"Without a friend, what were humanity,To hunt our errors up with a good grace?"
"Without a friend, what were humanity,To hunt our errors up with a good grace?"
"Without a friend, what were humanity,
To hunt our errors up with a good grace?"
quotes Lilian lightly. "There is no use in your lecturing me, Sir Guy; it does me little good.Youwantyourway, and I wantmine; I am not 'self-willed,' but I don't like tyranny, and I always said you were tyrannical."
"You are of course privileged to say what you like," haughtily.
"Very well; then Ishallsay it. One would think I was a baby, the way you—scold—and torment me," here the tears of vexation and childish wrath rise in her eyes; "but I do not acknowledge your authority; I have told you so a hundred times, and I never shall,—never, never, never!"
"Lilian, listen to me——"
"No, I will not. I wonder why you come near me at all. Go back to Florence; she is so calm, so sweet, so—somnolent,"—with a sneer,—"that she will not ruffle your temper. As for me, I hate disagreeable people! Why doyou speak to me? It does neither of us any good. It only makes you ill-mannered and me thoroughly unhappy."
"Unhappy!"
"Yes," petulantly, "miserable. Surely of late you must have noticed how I avoid you. It is nothing but scold, scold, scold, all the time I am with you; and I confess I don't fancy it. You might have known, without my telling you, that I detest being with you!"
"I shall remember it for the future," returns he, in a low voice, falling back a step or two, and speaking coldly, although his heart is beating wildly with passionate pain and anger.
"Thank you," retorts Lilian: "that is the kindest thing you have said to me for many a day."
Yet the moment his back is turned she regrets this rude speech, and all the many others she has given way to during the last fortnight. Her own incivility vexes her, wounds her to the heart's core, for, however mischievously inclined and quick-tempered she may be, she is marvelously warm-hearted and kindly and fond.
For full five minutes she walks to and fro, tormented by secret upbraidings, and then a revulsion sets in. What does it matter after all, she thinks, with an impatient shrug of her pretty soft shoulders. A little plain speaking will do him no harm,—in fact, may do him untold good. He has been so petted all his life long that a snubbing, however small, will enliven him, and make him see himself in his true colors. (What his true colors may be she does not specify even to herself.) And if he is so devoted to Florence, why, let him then spend his time with her, and not come lecturing other people on matters that don't concern him. Such a fuss about a simple emerald ring indeed! Could anything be more absurd?
Nevertheless she feels a keen desire for reconciliation; so much so that, later on,—just before dinner,—seeing Sir Guy in the shrubberies, walking up and down in deepest meditation,—evidently of the depressing order,—she makes up her mind to go and speak to him. Yes, she has been in the wrong; she will go to him, therefore, and make theamende honorable; and he (he is not altogether bad!) will doubtless rejoice to be friends with her again.
So thinking, she moves slowly though deliberately up to him, regarding the while with absolute fervor the exquisite though frail geranium blossom she carries in her hand.It is only partly opened, and is delicately tinted as her own skin.
When she is quite close to her guardian she raises her head, and instantly affects a deliciously surprised little manner at the fact of his unexpected (?) nearness.
"Ah, Sir Guy, you here?" she says, airily, with an apparent consummate forgetfulness of all past broils. "You are just in time: see what a lovely flower I have for you. Is not the color perfect? Is it not sweet?" proffering to him the pale geranium.
"It is," replies he, taking the flower mechanically, because it is held out to him, but hardly looking at it. His face is pale with suppressed anger, his lips are closely set beneath his fair moustache; she is evidently not forgiven. "And yet I think," he says, slowly, "if you knew my opinion of you, you would be the last to offer me a flower."
"And what then is your opinion?" demands Lilian, growing whiter and whiter until all her pretty face has faded to the "paleness o' the pearl." Instinctively she recoils a little, as though some slight blow has touched and shaken her.
"I think you a heartless coquette," returns he, distinctly, in a low tone that literally rings with passion. "Take back your gift. Why should you waste it upon one who does not care to have it?" And, flinging the flower contemptuously at her feet, he turns and departs.
For a full minute Miss Chesney neither stirs nor speaks. When he is quite gone, she straightens herself, and draws her breath sharply.
"Well, I never!" she says, between her little white teeth, which is a homely phrase borrowed from nurse, but very expressive, and with that she plants a small foot viciously upon the unoffending flower and crushes it out of all shape and recognition.
* * * * * * *
Dinner is over, and almost forgotten; conversation flags. Even to the most wakeful it occurs that it must be bordering upon bed-hour.
Lilian, whose nightly habit is to read for an hour or two in her bed before going to sleep, remembering she has left her book where she took off her hat on coming into the house some hours ago, leaves the drawing-room, and, having crossed the large hall, turns into the smaller one that leads to the library.
Midway in this passage one lamp is burning; the three others (because of some inscrutable reason known only to the under-footman) have not been lit: consequently to-night this hall is in semi-darkness.
Almost at the very end of it Miss Chesney finds herself face to face with her guardian, and, impelled by mischief and coquetry, stops short to confront him.
"Well, Sir Guy, have you got the better of your naughty temper?" she asks, saucily. "Fie, to keep a little wicked black dog upon your shoulder for so long! I hope by this time you are properly ashamed of yourself, and that you are ready to promise me never to do it again."
Guy is silent. He is thinking how lovely she is, how indifferent to him, how unattainable.
"Still unrepentant," goes on Lilian, with a mocking smile: "you are a more hardened sinner than ever I gave you credit for. And what is it all about, pray? What has vexed you? Was it my cousin's ring? or my refusing to accompany you to-morrow to Mrs. Boileau's?"
"Both," replies he, feeling compelled to answer. "I still think you should not wear your cousin's ring unless engaged to him."
"Nor yours either, of course," with a frown. "How you do love going over the same ground again and again! Well," determinately, "as I told you before, I shall wear both—do you hear?—just as long as I please. So now, my puissant guardian," with a gesture that is almost a challenge, "I defy you, and dare you to do your worst."
Her tone, as is intended, irritates him; her beauty, her open though childish defiance madden him. Gazing at her in the uncertain light, through which her golden hair and gleaming sapphire eyes shine clearly, he loses all self-control, and in another moment has her in his arms, and has kissed her once, twice, passionately.
Then recollection, all too late, returns, and shocked, horrified at his own conduct, he releases her, and, leaning against the wall with folded arms and lowered eyes, awaits his doom.
Standing where he has left her, pale as a little colorless ghost, with her lips as white as death, and her great eyes grown black through mingled terror and amazement, Lilian regards him silently. She does not move, she scarcely seems to breathe; no faintest sound of anger escapes her. Then slowly—slowly raising her handkerchief, she draws itlightly across her lips, and with a gesture full of contempt and loathing flings it far from her. After which she draws herself up to her extremest height, and, with her head erect and her whole figure suggestive of insulted pride and dignity, she sweeps past him into the library, closing the door quietly behind her.
When the last sound of her footsteps has disappeared, Guy rouses himself as if from a hateful dream, and presses his hand to his forehead. Stooping, he picks up the disdained handkerchief, that lies mournfully in the corner, thrusts it into his bosom, and turning away toward his own quarters, is seen no more that night.
"The best laid schemes o' mice and menGang aft a-gley,And lea'e us nought but grief and pain,For promised joy."—Burns.
"The best laid schemes o' mice and menGang aft a-gley,And lea'e us nought but grief and pain,For promised joy."—Burns.
"The best laid schemes o' mice and menGang aft a-gley,And lea'e us nought but grief and pain,For promised joy."—Burns.
"The best laid schemes o' mice and men
Gang aft a-gley,
And lea'e us nought but grief and pain,
For promised joy."—Burns.
All next day Lilian treats him as though to her eyes he is invisible. She bestows upon him none of the usual courtesies of life; she takes no "good-morrow," nor gives one. She is singularly deaf when he speaks; except when common etiquette compels her to return an answer to one or other of his speeches, she is dumb to him, or, when thus compelled, makes an answer in her iciest tones.
At five o'clock they all start for the Grange, Mrs. Boileau being one of those unpleasant people who think they can never see enough of their guests, or that their guests can never see enough of them,—I am not sure which,—and who consequently has asked them to come early, to inspect her gardens and walk through her grounds before dinner.
As the grounds are well worth seeing, and the evening is charming for strolling, this is about the pleasantest part of the entertainment. At least so thinks Lilian, who (seeing Guy's evident depression) is in radiant spirits. So does Archibald, who follows her as her shadow. They are both delighted at everything about the Grange, and wander hither and thither, looking and admiring as they go.
And indeed it is a charming old place, older perhaps than Chetwoode, though smaller and less imposing. The ivy has clambered up over all its ancient walls and towers and battlements, until it presents to the eye a sheet of darkest, richest green, through which the old-fashioned casements peep in picturesque disorder, hardly two windows being in a line.
Inside, steps are to be met with everywhere in the most unexpected places,—curious doors leading one never knows where,—ghostly corridors along which at dead of night armed knights of by-gone days might tramp, their armor clanking,—winding stairs,—and tapestries that tell of warriors brave and maidens fair, long since buried and forgotten.
Outside, the gardens are lovely and rich in blossom. Here, too, the old world seems to have lingered, the very flowers themselves, though born yesterday, having all the grace and modesty of an age gone by.
Here
"The oxlips and the nodding violet grow:Quite over-canopied with lush woodbine,with sweet musk-roses and with eglantine."
"The oxlips and the nodding violet grow:Quite over-canopied with lush woodbine,with sweet musk-roses and with eglantine."
"The oxlips and the nodding violet grow:
Quite over-canopied with lush woodbine,
with sweet musk-roses and with eglantine."
Here too the "nun-like lily" hangs its head, the sweet "neglected wall-flower" blows, the gaudy sunflower glitters, and the "pale jessamine, the white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet," display their charms; while among them, towering over all through the might of its majesty, shines the rose,—"Joy's own flower," as Felicia Hemans sweetly calls it.
Now—being late in the season—the blossom is more scarce, though still the air is heavy with delicate perfume, and the eyes grow drunk with gazing on the beauty of the autumn flowers. Through them goes Lilian, with Archibald gladly following.
All day long he has had her to himself, and she has been so good to him, so evidently pleased and contented with his society alone, that within his breast an earnest hope has risen, so strongly, that he only waits a fitting opportunity to lay his heart and fortune at her feet.
"I can walk no more," says Lilian, at last, sinking upon the grass beneath the shade of a huge beech that spreads its kindly arms above her. "Let us sit here and talk."
Archibald throws himself beside her, and for a few minutes silence reigns supreme.
"Well?" says Lilian, at length, turning lazy though inquisitive eyes upon her companion.
"Well?" says Archibald in return.
"I said you were to talk," remarks Lilian, in an aggrieved tone. "And you have not said one word yet. You ought to know by this time how I dislike silence."
"Blame yourself: I have been racking my brains without success for the last two minutes to try to find something suitable to say. Did you ever notice how, when one person says to another, 'Come, let us talk,' that other is suddenly stricken with hopeless stupidity? So it is now with me: I cannot talk: I am greatly afraid."
"Well, I can," says Lilian, "and as I insist on your doing so also, I shall ask you questions that require an answer. First, then, did you ever receive a note from me on my leaving the Park, asking you to take care of my birds?"
"Yes."
"And you fed them?"
"Regularly," says Archibald, telling a fearful lie deliberately, as from the day he read that note to this he has never once remembered the feathered friends she mentions, and even now as he speaks has only the very haziest idea of what she means.
"I am glad of that," regarding him searchingly. "It would make me unhappy to think they had been neglected."
"Don't be unhappy, then," returning her gaze calmly and unflinchingly: "they are all right: I took care of that." His manner is truthful in the extreme, his eyes meet hers reassuringly. It is many years since Mr. Chesney first learned the advantage to be derived from an impassive countenance. And now with Lilian's keen blue eyes looking him through and through, he feels doubly thankful that practice has made him so perfect in the art of suppressing his real thoughts. He has also learned the wisdom of the old maxim,—
"When you tell a lie, tell a good one,When you tell a good one, stick to it,"
"When you tell a lie, tell a good one,When you tell a good one, stick to it,"
"When you tell a lie, tell a good one,
When you tell a good one, stick to it,"
and sticks to his accordingly.
"I am so pleased!" says Lilian, after a slight pause,during which she tells herself young men are not so wretchedly thoughtless after all, and that Archibald is quite an example to his sex in the matter of good nature. "One of my chiefest regrets on leaving home was thinking how my birds would miss me."
"I am sorry you ever left it."
"So am I, of course. I was very near declining to do so at the last moment. It took Aunt Priscilla a full week to convince me of the error of my ways, and prove to me that I could not live alone with a gay and (as she hinted) wicked bachelor."
"I have never been so unfortunate as to meet her," says Archibald, mildly, "but I would bet any money your Aunt Priscilla is a highly objectionable and interfering old maid."
"No, she is not: she is a very good woman, and quite an old dear in some ways."
"She is an old maid?" raising himself on his elbow with some show of interest.
"Well, yes, she is; but I like old maids," says Lilian, stoutly.
"Oh, shelikesold maids," says Mr. Chesney,sotto voce, sinking back once more into his lounging position. He evidently considers there is nothing more to be said on that head. "And so she wouldn't let you stay?"
"No. You should have seen her face when I suggested writing to you to ask if I might have a suite of rooms for my own use, promising faithfully never to interfere with you in any way. It was a picture!"
"It pained you very much to leave the Park?"
"It was death to me. Remember, it had been my home all my life; every stick and stone about the place was dear to me."
"It was downright brutal, my turning you out," says Archibald, warmly: "I could hate myself when I think of it. But I knew nothing of it, and—I had not seen you then."
"If you had, would you have let me stay on?"
"I think so," returns he, softly, gazing with dangerous tenderness at the delicate rose-tinted face above him. Then, "Even so, I wish you had asked me; I so seldom go near the place, you would have been thoroughly welcome to stay on in it, had you been the ugliest person breathing."
"So I said at the time, but Aunt Priscilla would not hear of it. I am sure I heard enough about the proprieties at that time to last me all my life. When all arguments failed," says Miss Chesney, breaking into a gay laugh, as recollection crowds upon her, "I proposed one last expedient that nearly drove auntie wild with horror. What do you think it was?"
"Tell me."
"I said I would ask your hand in marriage, and so put an end to all slanderous tongues; that is, if you consented to have me. See what a narrow escape you had," says Lilian, her merriment increasing: "it would have been so awkward to refuse!"
Archibald gazes at her earnestly. He has been through the hands of a good many women in his time, but now confesses himself fairly puzzled. Is her laughter genuine? is it coquetry? or simply amusement?
"Had you ever a proposal, Lilian?" asks he, quietly, his eyes still riveted upon her face.
"No," surprised: "what an odd question! I suppose it is humiliating to think that up to this no man has thought me worth loving. I often imagine it all," says Lilian, confidentially, taking her knees into her embrace, and letting her eyes wander dreamily over to the hills far away behind the swaying trees. "And I dare say some day my curiosity will be gratified. But I do hope he won't write: I should like toseehim do it. I wouldn't," says Miss Chesney, solemnly, "give a pin for a man who wouldn't go down on his knees to his lady-love."
This last remark under the circumstances is eminently unwise. A moment later Lilian is made aware of it by the fact of Archibald's rising and going down deliberately on his knees before her.
"It can scarcely be news to you to tell you I love you," says he, eagerly. "Lilian, will you marry me?"
"What are you saying?" says Miss Chesney, half frightened, half amused: "you must be going mad! Do get up, Archie: you cannot think how ridiculous you look."
"Tell me you will marry me," entreats that young man, unmoved even by the fact of his appearing grotesque in the eyes of his beloved.
"No; I will not," shaking her head. "Archie, do move: there is the most dreadful spider creeping up your leg."
"I don't care; let him creep," says Archibald, valiantly; "I shan't stir until you give me a kind answer."
"I don't know what to say; and besides I can do nothing but laugh while you maintain your present position. Get up instantly, you foolish boy: you are ruining the knees of your best trousers."
Whether this thought carries weight with Mr. Chesney I know not, but certainly he rises to his feet without further demur.
"You spoke about the Park a few minutes ago," he says, slowly; "you know now you can have it back again if you will."
"But not in that way. Did you think I was hinting?" growing rather red. "No; please don't say another word. I wonder you can be so silly."
"Silly!" somewhat aggrieved; "I don't know what you mean by that. Surely a fellow may ask a woman to marry him without being termed 'silly.' I ask you again now. Lilian, will you marry me?"
"No, no, no, certainly not. I have no intention of marrying any one for years to come,—if ever. I think," with a charming pout, "it is very unkind of you to say such things to me,—and just when we were such good friends too; spoiling everything. I shall never be comfortable in your society again; I'm sure I never should have suspected you of such a thing. If I had——" A pause.
"You would not have come here with me to-day, you mean?" gloomily.
"Indeed I should not. Nothing would have induced me. You have put me out terribly."
"I suppose you like Chetwoode," says Archibald, still more gloomily. Having never been denied anything since his birth, he cannot bring himself to accept this crowning misfortune with becoming grace.
"I like everybody,—except Florence," returns Lilian, composedly.
Then there is another pause, rather longer than the first, and then—after a violent struggle with her better feelings—Miss Chesney gives way, and laughs long and heartily.
"My dear Archibald, don't look so woe-begone," she says. "If you could only see yourself! You look as though every relation you ever had was dead. Why, youought to be very much obliged to me. Have you never heard Mr. Punch's advice to young men about to marry?"
"I don't want any one's advice; it is late for that, I fancy. Lilian—darling—darling—won't you——"
"I won't, indeed," recoiling and waving him back, while feeling for the first time slightly embarrassed; "don't come a step nearer; nobody ever made love to me before, and I perfectlyhateit! I hope sincerely no one will ever propose to me again."
"Ishall!" doggedly; "I shan't give you up yet. You have not thought about it. When you know me better you may change your mind."
"Do not deceive yourself," gently, "and do not be offended. It is not you I have an objection to, it is marriage generally. I have only begun my life, and a husband must be such a bore. Any number of people have told me so."
"Old maids, such as your Aunt Priscilla, I dare say," says Archibald, scornfully. "Don't believe them. I wouldn't bore you: you should have everything exactly your own way."
"I have that now."
"And I will wait for you as long as you please."
"So you may," gayly; "but mind, I don't desire you.
"May I take that as a grain of hope?" demands he, eagerly grasping this poor shadow of a crumb with avidity, only to find later on it is no crumb at all. "Don't be cruel, Lilian: every one thinks differently after a while; you may also. You have said I am not hateful to you; if then you would only promise to think it over——"
"Impossible," airily: "I never think: it is too fatiguing. So are you, by the bye, just now. I shan't stay with you any longer, lest I should be infected. Good-bye, Archie; when you are in a pleasanter mood you can return to me, but until then adieu."
So saying, she catches her train in one hand and runs away from him fast as her fleet little feet can carry her.
Down the pathway, round under the limes, into another path runs she, where suddenly she finds herself in Taffy's presence.
"Whither away, fair maid?" asks that youth, removing the cigar from his lips that he is enjoying all alone.
"I am running away from Archie. He was soexcessively dull and disagreeable that I could not bring myself to waste another moment on him, so I ran away and left him justplanté là," says Miss Chesney, with a little foreign gesture and a delicious laugh that rings far through the clear air, and reaches Archibald's ears as he draws nearer.
"Come, I hear footsteps," whispers she, slipping her hand into Taffy's. "Help me to hide from him."
So together they scamper still farther away, until at last they arrive breathless but secure in the shrubberies that surround one side of the house.
When they have quite recovered themselves, it occurs to Taffy that he would like to know all about it.
"What was he saying to you?" asks heà proposof Chesney.
"Nothing," promptly.
Taffy, curiously: "Well, certainly thatwasvery disagreeable."
Lilian, demurely: "It was."
At this Taffy lays his hands upon her shoulders and gives her a good shake.
"Tell me directly," says he, "what he was saying to you."
"How can I?" innocently; "he says so much and none of it worth repeating."
"Was he making love to you?"
"No. Oh, no," mildly.
"I'm certain he was," with conviction. "And look here, Lil, don't you have anything to do with him: he isn't up to the mark by any means. He is too dark, and there is something queer about his eyes. I once saw a man who had cut the throats of his mother, his grandmother, and all his nearest relations,—any amount of them,—and his eyes were just like Chesney's. Don't marry him, whatever you do."
"I won't," laughing: "I should hate to have my throat cut."
"There's Chetwoode, now," says Taffy, who begins to think himself a very deep and delicate diplomatist. "He is a very decent fellow all round if you like."
"I do like, certainly. It is quite a comfort to know Sir Guy is not indecent."
"Oh, you know what I mean well enough. There's nothing underhand about Chetwoode. By the bye, whathave you been doing to him? He is awfully down on his luck all day."
"I!" coldly. "What should I do to Sir Guy?"
"I don't know, I'm sure, but girls have a horrid way of teasing a fellow while pretending to be perfectly civil to him all the time. It is my private opinion," says Mr. Musgrave, mysteriously,—"and I flatter myself I am seldom wrong,—that he is dead spoons on you."
"Really, Taffy!" begins Lilian, angrily.
"Yes, he is: you take my word for it. I'm rather a judge in such matters. Bet you a fiver," says Mr. Musgrave, "he proposes to you before the year is out."
"I wonder, Taffy, how you can be so vulgar!" says Lilian, with crimson cheeks, and a fine show of superior breeding. "I never bet. I forbid you to speak to me on this subject again. Sir Guy, I assure you, has as much intention of proposing to me as I have of accepting him should he do so."
"More fool you," says Taffy, unabashed. "I'm sure he is much nicer than that melancholy Chesney. If I were a girl I should marry him straight off."
"Perhaps he would not marry you," replies Lilian, cuttingly.
"Wouldn't he? he would like a shot, if I were like Lilian Chesney," says Taffy, positively.
"'Like a shot'—what does that mean?" says Miss Chesney, with withering sarcasm. "It is a pity you cannot forget your schoolboy slang, and try to be a gentleman. I don't think you over hear that 'decent fellow' Sir Guy, or even that cut-throat Archibald, use it."
With this parting shaft she marches off overflowing with indignation, leaving Mr. Musgrave lost in wonder at her sudden change of manner.
"What on earth is up with her now?" he asks himself, desperately; but the dressing-bell ringing at this moment disarms thought, and sends him in-doors to prepare for dinner.
Mrs. Boileau has asked no one to meet them except a lank and dreary curate, who is evidently a prime favorite with her. He is an Honorable Mr. Boer, with nothing attractive about him except a most alarming voice that makes one glance instinctively at his boots under the mistaken impression that the sound must come from them. This is rather unfortunate for the curate, as his feet arenot (or ratherare) his strong point, Nature having endowed them with such a tremendous amount of heel, and so much sole, innocent of instep, as makes them unpleasantly suggestive of sledge-hammers.
He is painfully talkative, and oppressively evangelical, which renders him specially abhorrent to Lilian, who has rather a fancy for flowers and candles and nice little boys in white shirts. He is also undecided whether it is Miss Beauchamp or Miss Chesney he most admires. They have equal fortunes, and are therefore (in his clerical eyes) equally lovely. There is certainly more of Miss Beauchamp, but then there is a vivacity, a—ahem—"go," if one might say so, about Miss Chesney perfectly irresistible. Had one of these rival beauties been an heiress, and the other rich in love's charms, I think I know which one Mr. Boer would have bowed before,—not that I even hint at mercenary motives in his reverence, but as it is he is much exercised in his mind as to which he shall honor with his attentions.
I think Lilian wins the day, because after dinner he bears down upon her determinately, and makes for the fauteuil in which she lies ensconced looking bored andennuyéeto the last degree. Dinner has been insipid, the whole evening a mistake; neither Guy nor Archibald will come near her, or even look at her; and now Mr. Boer's meditated attack is the last straw that breaks the camel's back.
"I consider the school-board very much to blame," begins that divine while yet some yards distant, speaking in his usual blatant tones, that never change their key-note, however long they may continue to insult the air.
"So do I," says Lilian, very gently and sweetly, but with such unmistakable haste as suggests a determination on her part to bring the undiscussed subject to an ignominious close. "I quite agree with you; I think them terribly to blame. But I beg your pardon for one moment: I want to ask Mr. Chetwoode a question that has been haunting me for hours."
Rising, she glides away from him over the carpet, leaving Mr. Boer—who takes a long time to understand anything, and could not possibly believe in a rebuff offered to himself in person—watching the tail of her long sweeping gown, and wondering curiously if all the little white frillings beneath it may not have something to do with afalling petticoat. At this point he pulls himself together with a start, and fears secretly he is growing immodest.
In the meantime Lilian has reached Cyril, who is sitting at a table somewhat apart, gazing moodily at a book containing prints of the chief villages in Wales. He, like herself, is evidently in the last stage of dejection.
Bending over him, she whispers in an awful tone, but with a beaming smile meant to mystify the observant Boer:
"If you don't instantly deliver me from that man I shall make a point of going off into such a death-like swoon as will necessitate my being borne from the room. He is now going to tell me about that miserable school-board all over again, and I can't and won't stand it."
"Poor child," says Cyril, with deepest sympathy; "I will protect you. If he comes a step nearer, I swear to you I will have his blood." Uttering this comforting assurance in the mildest tone, he draws a chair to the table, and together they explore Wales in print.
Then there is a little music, and a good deal of carefully suppressed yawning, and then the carriages are announced and they all bid their hostess good-night, and tell a few pretty lies about the charming evening they have spent, etc.
"Cyril, will you drive me home?" Lilian says to him hurriedly in the hall, while they are being finally cloaked and shawled. As she says it she takes care to avoid his eyes, so she does not see the look of amused scrutiny that lies in them.
"So soon!" he says, tragically. "It was an easy victory! I shall be only too charmed, my dear Lilian, to drive you to the other end of the world if need be."
So they start and drive home together placidly, through the cool, soft night. Lilian is strangely silent, so is Cyril,—the calm beauty of the heavens above them rendering their lips mute.