He is still regarding her with unmistakable admiration, when Miss Beauchamp's voice from the landing above startles them both, and makes them feel, though why they scarcely know, partners in guilt.
There is a metallic ring in it that strikes upon the ear, and suggests all sorts of lady-like disgust and condemnation.
"I am sure, Guy, if Lilian's foot be as bad as she says it is, she would feel more comfortable lying on a sofa. Are you going to pose there all the evening for the benefit of the servants? I think it is hardly good taste of you to keep her in your arms upon the public staircase, whatever you may do in private."
The last words are uttered in a rather lower tone, but are still distinctly audible. Lilian blushes a slow and painful red, and Sir Guy, giving way to a naughty word that is also distinctly audible, carries her down instantly to the dining-room.
"For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.* * * * * * *This thought is as a death."—Shakespeare.
"For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.* * * * * * *This thought is as a death."—Shakespeare.
"For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
"For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
* * * * * * *
* * * * * * *
This thought is as a death."—Shakespeare.
This thought is as a death."—Shakespeare.
The next day is dark and lowering, to Lilian's great joy, who, now she is prevented by lameness from going for one of her loved rambles, finds infinite satisfaction in the thought that even were she quite well, it would be impossible for her to stir out of doors. According to her mode of arguing, this is one day not lost.
About two o'clock Archibald returns, in time for luncheon, and to resume his care of Lilian, who gives him a gentle scolding for his desertion of her in her need. He is full of information about town and their mutual friends there, and imparts it freely.
"Everything is as melancholy up there as it can be," he says, "and very few men to be seen: the clubs are deserted, all shooting or hunting, no doubt. The rain was falling in torrents all the day."
"Poor Archie, you have been having a bad time of it, I fear."
"In spite of the weather and her ruddy locks, Lady Belle Damascene has secured the prize of the season, out of season. She is engaged to Lord Wyntermere: it is not yet publicly announced, but I called to see her mother for five minutes, and so great was her exultation she could not refrain from whispering the delightful intelligence into my ear. Lady Belle is staying with his people now in Sussex."
"Certainly, 'beauty is in the eye of the beholder.' She is painfully ugly," says Miss Beauchamp. "Such feet, such hands, and such a shocking complexion!"
"She is very kind-hearted and amiable," says Cyril.
"That is what is always said of a plain woman," retorts Florence. "When you hear a girl is amiable, always conclude she is hideous. When one's trumpeter is in despair, he says that."
"I am sure Lord Wyntermere must be a young man of good sound sense," says Lilian, who never agrees withFlorence. "If she has a kind heart he will never be disappointed in her. And, after all, there is no such great advantage to be derived from beauty. When people are married for four or five years, I dare say they quite forget whether the partner of their joys and sorrows was originally lovely or the reverse: custom deadens perception."
"It is better to be good than beautiful," says Lady Chetwoode, who abhors ugly women: "you know what Carew says:
"But a smooth and steadfast mind,Gentle thoughts and calm desires,Hearts with equal love combined,Kindle never-dying fires;Where these are not, I despiseLovely cheeks or lips or eyes."
"But a smooth and steadfast mind,Gentle thoughts and calm desires,Hearts with equal love combined,Kindle never-dying fires;Where these are not, I despiseLovely cheeks or lips or eyes."
"But a smooth and steadfast mind,
Gentle thoughts and calm desires,
Hearts with equal love combined,
Kindle never-dying fires;
Where these are not, I despise
Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes."
"Well done, Madre," says Cyril. "You are coming out. I had no idea you were so gifted. Your delivery is perfect."
"And what are you all talking about?" continues Lady Chetwoode: "I think Belle Damascene very sweet to look at. In spite of her red hair, and a good many freckles, and—and—a rather short nose, her expression is very lovable: when she smiles I always feel inclined to kiss her. She is like her mother, who is one of the best women I know."
"If you encourage my mother she will end by telling you Lady Belle is a beauty and a reigning toast," says Guy,sotto voce.
Lady Chetwoode laughs, and Lilian says:
"What is every one wearing now, Archie?"
"There is nobody to wear anything. For the rest they had all on some soft, shiny stuff like the dress you wore the night before last."
"What an accurate memory you have!" says Florence, letting her eyes rest on Guy's for a moment, though addressing Chesney.
"Satin," translates Lilian, unmoved. "And their bonnets?"
"Oh, yes! they all wore bonnets or hats, I don't know which," vaguely.
"Naturally; mantillas are not yet in vogue. You are better than 'Le Follet,' Archie; your answers are so satisfactory. Did you meet any one we know?"
"Hardly any one. By the bye,"—turning curiously to Sir Guy,—"was Trant here to-day?"
"No," surprised: "why do you ask?"
"Because I met him at Truston this morning. He got out of the train by which I went on,—it seems he has been staying with the Bulstrodes,—and I fancied he was coming on here, but had not time to question him, as I barely caught the train; another minute's delay and I should have been late."
Archibald rambles on about his near escape of being late for the train, while his last words sink deep into the minds of Guy and Cyril. The former grows singularly silent; a depressed expression gains upon his face. Cyril, on the contrary, becomes feverishly gay, and with his mad observations makes merry Lilian laugh heartily.
But when luncheon is over and they all disperse, a gloom falls upon him: his features contract; doubt and a terrible suspicion, augmented by slanderous tales that forever seem to be poured into his ears, make havoc of the naturally kind expression that characterizes his face, and with a stifled sigh he turns and walks toward the billiard-room.
Guy follows him. As Cyril enters the doorway, he enters too, and, closing the door softly, lays his hand upon his shoulder.
"You heard, Cyril?" he says, with exceeding gentleness.
"Heard what?" turning somewhat savagely upon him.
"My dear fellow,"—affectionate entreaty in his tone,—"do not be offended with me. Will you not listen, Cyril? It is very painful to me to speak, but how can I see my brother so—so shamefully taken in without uttering a word of warning."
"If you were less tragic and a little more explicit it might help matters," replies Cyril, with a sneer and a short unpleasant laugh. "Do speak plainly."
"I will, then,"—desperately,—"since you desire it. There is more between Trant and Mrs. Arlington than we know of. I do not speak without knowledge. From several different sources I have heard the same story,—of his infatuation for some woman, and of his having taken a house for her in some remote spot. No names were mentioned, mind; but, from what I have unwillingly listened to it is impossible not to connect these evil whispers thatare afloat with him and her. Why does he come so often to the neighborhood and yet never dare to present himself at Chetwoode?"
"And you believe Trant capable of so far abusing the rights of friendship as to ask you—you—to supply the house in the remote spot?"
"Unfortunately, I must."
"You are speaking of your friend,"—with a bitter sneer,—"and you can coldly accuse him of committing so blackguardly an action?"
"If all I have heard be true (and I have no reason to doubt it), he is no longer any friend of mine," says Guy, haughtily. "I shall settle with him later on when I have clearer evidence; in the meantime it almost drives me mad to think he should have dared to bring down here, so close to my mother, his——"
"What?" cries Cyril, fiercely, thrusting his brother from him with passionate violence. "What is it you would say? Take care, Guy; take care: you have gone too far already. From whom, pray, have you learned your infamous story?"
"I beg your pardon," Guy says, gently, extreme regret visible in his countenance. "I should not have spoken so, under the circumstances. It was not from one alone, but from several, I heard what I now tell you,—though I must again remind you that no names were mentioned; still, I could not help drawing my own conclusions."
"They lied!" returns Cyril, passionately, losing his head. "You may tell them so for me. And you,"—half choking,—"you lie too when you repeat such vile slanders."
"It is useless to argue with you," Guy says, coldly, the blood mounting hotly to his forehead at Cyril's insulting words, while his expression grows stern and impenetrable. "I waste time. Yet this last word I will say: Go down to The Cottage—now—this moment—and convince yourself of the truth of what I have said."
He turns angrily away: while Cyril, half mad with indignation and unacknowledged fear, follows this final piece of advice, and almost unconsciously leaving the house, takes the wonted direction, and hardly draws breath until the trim hedges and pretty rustic gates of The Cottage are in view.
The day is showery, threatening since dawn, and now the rain is falling thickly, though he heeds it not at all.
As with laggard steps he draws still nearer the abode of her he loves yet does not wholly trust, the sound of voices smites upon his ear. He is standing upon the very spot—somewhat elevated—that overlooks the arbor where so long ago Miss Beauchamp stood and learned his acquaintance with Mrs. Arlington. Here now he too stays his steps and gazes spell-bound upon what he sees before him.
In the arbor, with his back turned to Cyril, is a man, tall, elderly, with an iron-gray moustache. Though not strictly handsome, he has a fine and very military bearing, and a figure quite unmistakable to one who knows him: with a sickly chill at his heart, Cyril acknowledges him to be Colonel Trant.
Cecilia is beside him. She is weeping bitterly, but quietly, and with one hand conceals her face with her handkerchief. The other is fast imprisoned in both of Trant's.
A film settles upon Cyril's eyes, a dull faintness overpowers him, involuntarily he places one hand upon the trunk of a near elm to steady himself; yet through the semi-darkness, the strange, unreal feeling that possesses him, the voices still reach him cruelly distinct.
"Do not grieve so terribly: it breaks my heart to see you, darling,darling," says Trant, in a low, impassioned tone, and raising the hand he holds, presses his lips to it tenderly. The slender white fingers tremble perceptibly under the caress, and then Cecilia says, in a voice hardly audible through her tears:
"I am so unhappy! it is all my fault; knowing you loved me, I should have told you before of——"
But her voice breaks the spell: Cyril, as it meets his ears, rouses himself with a start. Not once again does he even glance in her direction, but with a muttered curse at his own folly, turns and goes swiftly homeward.
A very frenzy of despair and disappointment rages within him: to have so loved,—to be so foully betrayed! Her tears, her sorrow (connected no doubt with some early passages between her and Trant), because of their very poignancy, only render him the more furious.
On reaching Chetwoode he shuts himself into his own room, and, feigning an excuse, keeps himself apart from the rest of the household all the remainder of the evening and the night. "Knowing you loved me,"—the wordsring in his ears. Ay, she knew it,—who should know it better?—but had carefully kept back all mention of the fact when pressed by him, Cyril, upon the subject. All the world knew what he, poor fool, had been the last to discover. And what was it her tender conscience was accusing her of not having told Trant before?—of her flirtation, as no doubt she mildly termed all the tender looks and speeches, and clinging kisses, and loving protestations so freely bestowed upon Cyril,—of her flirtation, no doubt.
The next morning, after a sleepless night, he starts for London, and there spends three reckless, miserable days that leave him wan and aged through reason of the conflict he is waging with himself. After which a mad desire to see again the cause of all his misery, to openly accuse her of her treachery, to declare to her all the irreparable mischief she has done, the utter ruin she has made of his life, seizes hold upon him, and, leaving the great city, and reaching Truston, he goes straight from the station to The Cottage once so dear.
In her garden Cecilia is standing all alone. The wind is sighing plaintively through the trees that arch above her head, the thousand dying leaves are fluttering to her feet. There is a sense of decay and melancholy in all around that harmonizes exquisitely with the dejection of her whole manner. Her attitude is sad and drooping, her air depressed; there are tears, and an anxious, expectant look in her gray eyes.
"Pining for her lover, no doubt," says Cyril, between his teeth (in which supposition he is right); and then he opens the gate, and goes quickly up to her.
As she hears the well-known click of the latch she turns, and, seeing him, lets fall unheeded to the ground the basket she is holding, and runs to him with eyes alight, and soft cheeks tinged with a lovely generous pink, and holds out her hands to him with a little low glad cry.
"At last, truant!" she exclaims, joyfully; "after three whole long, long days; and what has kept you from me? Why, Cyril, Cyril!"—recoiling, while a dull ashen shade replaces the gay tinting of her cheeks,—"what has happened? How oddly you look! You,—you are in trouble?"
"I am," in a changed, harsh tone she scarcely realizes to be his, moving back with a gesture of contempt fromthe extended hands that would so gladly have clasped his. "In so far you speak the truth: I have discovered all. One lover, it appears, was not sufficient for you; you should dupe another for your amusement. It is an old story, but none the less bitter. No, it is useless your speaking," staying her with a passionate movement: "I tell you I knowall."
"All what?" she asks. She has not removed from his her lustrous eyes, though her lips have turned very white.
"Your perfidy."
"Cyril, explain yourself," she says, in a low, agonized tone, her pallor changing to a deep crimson. And to Cyril hateful certainty appears if possible more certain by reason of this luckless blush.
"Ay, you may well change countenance," he says, with suppressed fury in which keen agony is blended; "have you yet the grace to blush? As to explanation, I scarcely think you can require it; yet, as you demand it, you shall have it. For weeks I have been hearing of you tales in which your name and Trant's were always mingled; but I disregarded them; I madly shut my ears and was deaf to them; I would not believe, until it was too late, until I saw and learned beyond dispute the folly of my faith. I was here last Friday evening!"
"Yes?" calmly, though in her soft eyes a deep well of bitterness has sprung.
"Well, you were there, in that arbor"—pointing to it—"wherewe"—with a scornful laugh—"so often sat; but then you had a more congenial companion. Trant was with you. He held your hand, he caressed it; he called you his 'darling,' and you allowed it, though indeed why should you not? doubtless it is a customary word from him to you! And then you wept as though your heart, yourheart"—contemptuously—"would break. Were you confessing to him your coquetry with me? and perhaps obtaining an easy forgiveness?"
"No, I was not," quietly, though there is immeasurable scorn in her tone.
"No?" slightingly. "For what, then, were you crying?"
"Sir,"—with a first outward sign of indignation,—"I refuse to tell you. By what right do you now ask the question? yesterday, nay, an hour since, I should have felt myself bound to answer any inquiry of yours, but not now.The tie between us, a frail one as it seems to me, is broken; our engagement is at an end: I shall not answer you!"
"Because you dare not," retorts he, fiercely, stung by her manner.
"I think you dare too much when you venture so to address me," in a low clear tone. "And yet, as it is in all human probability the last time we shall ever meet, and as I would have you remember all your life long the gross injustice you have done me, I shall satisfy your curiosity. But recollect, sir, these are indeed the final words that shall pass between us.
"A year ago Colonel Trant so far greatly honored me as to ask me to marry him: for many reasons I then refused. Twice since I came to Chetwoode he has been to see me,—once to bring me law papers of some importance, and last Friday to again ask me to be his wife. Again I refused. I wept then, because, unworthy as I am, I know I was giving pain to the truest, and, as I know now,"—with a faint trembling in her voice, quickly subdued—"theonlyfriend I have! When declining his proposal, I gave my reason for doing so! I told him I loved another! That other was you!"
Casting this terrible revenge in his teeth, she turns, and, walking majestically into the house, closes the door with significant haste behind her.
This is the one solitary instance of inhospitality shown by Cecilia in all her life. Never until now was she known to shut her door in the face of trouble. And surely Cyril's trouble at this moment is sore and needy!
To disbelieve Cecilia when face to face with her is impossible. Her eyes are truth itself. Her whole manner, so replete with dignity and offended pride, declares her innocent. Cyril stands just where she had left him, in stunned silence, for at least a quarter of an hour, repeating to himself miserably all that she has said, and reminding himself with cold-blooded cruelty of all he has said to her.
At the end of this awful fifteen minutes, he bethinks himself his hair must now, if ever, be turned gray; and then, a happier and more resolute thought striking him, he takes his courage in his two hands, and walking boldly up to the hall door, knocks and demands admittance with really admirable composure. Abominable composure, thinks Cecilia, who in spite of her stern determination never to know him again, has been watching him covertlyfrom behind a handkerchief and a bedroom curtain all this time, and is now stationed at the top of the staircase, with dim eyes, but very acute ears.
"Yes," Kate tells him, "her mistress is at home," and forthwith shows him into the bijou drawing-room. After which she departs to tell her mistress of his arrival.
Three minutes, that to Cyril's excited fancy lengthen themselves into twenty, pass away slowly, and then Kate returns.
"Her mistress's compliments, and she has a terrible headache, and will Mr. Chetwoode be so kind as to excuse her?"
Mr. Chetwoode on this occasion is not kind. "He is sorry," he stammers, "but if Mrs. Arlington could let him see her for five minutes, he would not detain her longer. He has something of the utmost importance to say to her."
His manner is so earnest, so pleading, that Kate, who scents at least a death in the air, retires full of compassion for the "pore gentleman." And then another three minutes, that now to the agitated listener appear like forty, drag themselves into the past.
Suspense is growing intolerable, when a well-known step in the hall outside makes his heart beat almost to suffocation. The door is opened slowly, and Mrs. Arlington comes in.
"You have something to say to me?" she asks, curtly, unkindly, standing just inside the door, and betraying an evident determination not to sit down for any consideration upon earth. Her manner is uncompromising and forbidding, but her eyes are very red. There is rich consolation in this discovery.
"I have," replies Cyril, openly confused now it has come to the point.
"Say it, then. I am here to listen to you. My servant tells me it is something of the deepest importance."
"So it is. In all the world there is nothing so important to me. Cecilia,"—coming a little nearer to her,—"it is that I want your forgiveness; I ask your pardon very humbly, and I throw myself upon your mercy. You must forgive me!"
"Forgiveness seems easy to you, who cannot feel," replies she, haughtily, turning as though to leave the room; but Cyril intercepts her, and places his back against the door.
"I cannot let you go until you are friends with me again," he says, in deep agitation.
"Friends!"
"Think what I have gone through.Youhave only suffered for a few minutes,Ihave suffered for three long days. Think of it. My heart was breaking all the time. I went to London hoping to escape thought, and never shall I forget what I endured in that detestable city. Like a man in a dream I lived, scarcely seeing, or, if seeing, only trying to elude, those I knew. At times——"
"You went to London?"
"Yes, that is how I have been absent for three days; I have hardly slept or eaten since last I saw you."
Here Cecilia is distinctly conscious of a feeling of satisfaction: next to a man's dying for you the sweetest thing is to hear of a man's starving for you!
"Sometimes," goes on Cyril, piling up the agony higher and higher, and speaking in his gloomiest tones, "I thought it would be better if I put an end to it once for all, by blowing out my brains."
"How dare you speak to me like this?" Cecilia says in a trembling voice: "it is horrible. You would commit suicide? Am I not unhappy enough, that you must seek to make me more so? Why should you blow your brains out?" with a shudder.
"Because I could not live without you. Even now,"—reproachfully,—"when I see you looking so coldly upon me, I almost wish I had put myself out of the way for good."
"Cyril, I forbid you to talk like this."
"Why? I don't suppose you care whether I am dead or alive." This artful speech, uttered in a heart-broken tone, does immense execution.
"If you were dead," begins she, forlornly, and then stops short, because her voice fails her, and two large tears steal silently down her cheeks.
"Would you care?" asks Cyril, going up to her and placing one arm gently round her; being unrepulsed, he gradually strengthens this arm with the other. "Would you?"
"I hardly know."
"Darling, don't be cruel. I was wrong, terribly, unpardonably wrong ever to doubt your sweet truth; but when one has stories perpetually dinned into one's ears,one naturally grows jealous of one's shadow, when one loves as I do."
"And pray, who told you all these stories?"
"Never mind."
"But I do mind," with an angry sob. "What! you are to hear lies of me, and to believe them, and I am not even to know who told you them! I do mind, and I insist on knowing."
"Surely it cannot signify now, when I tell you I don't believe them."
"It does signify, and I should be told. But indeed I need not ask," with exceeding bitterness; "I know. It was your brother, Sir Guy. He has always (why I know not) been a cruel enemy of mine."
"He only repeated what he heard. He is not to be blamed."
"Itwashe, then?" quickly. "But 'blamed'?—of course not; no one is in the wrong, I suppose, but poor me! I think, sir,"—tremulously,—"it would be better you should go home, and forget you ever knew any one so culpable as I am. I should be afraid to marry into a family that could so misjudge me as yours does. Go, and learn to forget me."
"I can go, of course, if you desire it," laying hold of his hat: "that is a simple matter; but I cannot promise to forget. To some people it may be easy, to me impossible."
"Nothing is impossible. The going is the first step. Oblivion"—with a sigh—"will quickly follow."
"I do not think so. But, since you wish my absence—"
He moves toward the door with lowered head and dejected manner.
"I did not say I wished it," in faltering tones; "I only requested you to leave me for your own sake, and because I would not make your people unhappy. Though"—piteously—"it should break my heart, I would still bid you go."
"Would it break your heart?" flinging his hat into a corner (for my own part, I don't believe he ever meant going): coming up to her, he folds her in his arms. "Forgive me, I entreat you," he says, "for what I shall never forgive myself."
The humbleness of this appeal touches Cecilia's tender heart. She makes no effort to escape from his encircling arms; she even returns one out of his many caresses.
"To think you could behave so badly to me!" she whispers, reproachfully.
"I am a brute! I know it."
"Oh, no! indeed you are not," says Mrs. Arlington. "Well, yes,"—drawing a long breath,—"I forgive you; butpromise, promise you will never distrust me again."
Of course he gives the required promise, and peace is once more restored.
"I shall not be content with an engagement any longer," Cyril says, presently. "I consider it eminently unsatisfactory. Why not marry me at once? I have nine hundred a year, and a scrap of an estate a few miles from this,—by the bye, you have never yet been to see your property,—and, if you are not afraid to venture, I think we might be very happy, even on that small sum."
"I am not afraid of anything with you," she says, in her calm, tender fashion; "and money has nothing to do with it. If," with a troubled sigh, "I ever marry you, I shall not come to you empty-handed."
"'If: dost thou answer me with ifs?'" quotes he, gayly. "I tell you, sweet, there is no such word in my dictionary. I shall only wait a favorable opportunity to ask my mother's consent to our marriage."
"And if she refuses it?"
"Why, then I shall marry you without hers, or yours, or the consent of any one in the world."
"You jest," she says, tears gathering in her large appealing eyes. "I would not have you make your mother miserable."
"Above all things, do not let me see tears in your eyes again," he says, quickly. "I forbid it. For one thing, it makes me wretched, and"—softly—"it makes me feel sureyouare wretched, which is far worse. Cecilia, if you don't instantly dry those tears I shall be under the painful necessity of kissing them away. I tell you I shall get my mother's consent very readily. When she sees you, she will be only too proud to welcome such a daughter."
Soon after this they part, more in love with each other than ever.
"Phebe.—I have more cause to hate him than to love him:For what had he to do to chide at me?"—As You Like It.
"Phebe.—I have more cause to hate him than to love him:For what had he to do to chide at me?"—As You Like It.
"Phebe.—I have more cause to hate him than to love him:For what had he to do to chide at me?"—As You Like It.
"Phebe.—I have more cause to hate him than to love him:
For what had he to do to chide at me?"—As You Like It.
When Lilian's foot is again strong and well, almost the first use she makes of it is to go to The Cottage to see Cecilia. She is gladly welcomed there; the two girls are as pleased with each other as even in fond anticipation they had dreamed they should be: and how seldom are such dreams realized! They part with a secret though mutual hope that they shall soon see each other again.
Of her first two meetings with the lovely widow Lilian speaks openly to Lady Chetwoode; but with such an utter want of interest is her news received that instinctively she refrains from making any further mention of her new acquaintance. Meantime the friendship ripens rapidly, until at length scarcely a week elapses without Lilian's paying at least one or two visits at The Cottage.
Of the strength of this growing intimacy Sir Guy is supremely ignorant, until one day chance betrays to him its existence.
It is a bright but chilly morning, one of November's rawest efforts. The trees, bereft of even their faded mantle, that has dropped bit by bit from their meagre arms, now stand bare and shivering in their unlovely nakedness. The wind, whistling shrilly, rushes through them with impatient haste, as though longing to escape from their gaunt and most untempting embraces. There is a suspicion of snow in the biting air.
In The Cottage a roaring fire is scolding and quarreling vigorously on its way up the chimney, illuminating with its red rays the parlor in which it burns; Cecilia is standing on one side of the hearth, looking up at Lilian, who has come down by appointment to spend the day with her, and who is mounted on a chair hanging a picture much fancied by Cecilia. They are freely discussing its merits, and with their gay chatter are outdoing the noisy fire. To Cecilia the sweet companionship of this girl is not only an antidote to her loneliness, but an excessive pleasure.
The picture just hung is a copy of the "Meditation," and is a special favorite of Lilian's, who, being the mostunsentimental person in the world, takes a tender delight in people of the visionary order.
"Do you know, Cecilia," she says, "I think the eyes something like yours?"
"Do you?" smiling. "You flatter me."
"I flatter 'Mademoiselle la Meditation,' you mean. No; you have a thoughtful, almost a wistful look about you, at times, that might strongly remind any one of this picture. Now, I"—reflectively—"couldneverlook like that. When I think (which, to do me justice, is seldom), I always dwell upon unpleasant topics, and in consequence I maintain on these rare occasions an exceedingly sour, not to say ferocious, expression. I hate thinking!"
"So much the better," replies her companion, with a faint sigh. "The more persistently you put thought behind you, the longer you will retain happiness."
"Why, how sad you look! Have I, as usual, said the wrong thing? Youmustn'tthink,"—affectionately,—"if it makes you sad. Come, Cis, let me cheer you up."
Cecilia starts as though struck, and moves backward as the pretty abbreviation of her name sounds upon her ear. An expression of hatred and horror rises and mars her face.
"Never call me by that name again," she says with some passion, laying her hand upon the sideboard to steady herself. "Never! do you hear? My father called me so——" she pauses, and the look of horror passes from her, only to be replaced by one of shame. "What must you think of me," she asks, slowly, "you who honored your father? I, too, had a father, but I did not—no, I did not love him. Am I hateful, am I unnatural, in your eyes?"
"Cecilia," says Lilian, with grave simplicity, "you could not be unnatural, you could not be hateful, in the sight of any one."
"That name you called me by"—struggling with her emotion—"recalled old scenes, old memories, most horrible to me. I am unhinged to-day: you must not mind me."
"You are not well, dearest."
"That man, my husband,"—with a strong shudder,—"he, too, called me by that name. After long years," she says, throwing out her hands with a significant gesture, as though she would fain so fling from her all hauntingthoughts, "I cannot rid myself of the fear, the loathing, of those past days.Arethey past? Is my terror an omen that they are not yet ended?"
"Cecilia, you shall not speak so," says Lilian, putting her arms gently round her. "You are nervous and—and upset about something. Why should you encourage such superstitious thoughts, when happiness lies within your grasp? How can harm come near you in this pretty wood, where you reign queen? Come, smile at me directly, or I shall tell Cyril of your evil behavior, and send him here armed with a stout whip to punish you for your naughtiness. What a whip that would be!" says Lilian, laughing so gleefully that Cecilia perforce laughs too.
"How sweet you are to me!" she says, fondly, with tears in her eyes. "At times I am more than foolish, and last night I had a terrible dream; but your coming has done me good. Now I can almost laugh at my own fears, that were so vivid a few hours ago. But my youth was not a happy one."
"Now you have reached old age, I hope you will enjoy it," says Miss Chesney, demurely.
Almost at this moment, Sir Guy Chetwoode is announced, and is shown by the inestimable Kate into the parlor instead of the drawing-room, thereby causing unutterable mischief. It is only the second time since Mrs. Arlington's arrival at The Cottage he has put in an appearance there, and each time business has been his sole cause for calling.
He is unmistakably surprised at Lilian's presence, but quickly suppresses all show of emotion. At first he looks faintly astonished, but so faintly that a second later one wonders whether the astonishment was there at all.
He shakes hands formally with Mrs. Arlington, and smiles in a somewhat restrained fashion upon Lilian. In truth he is much troubled at the latter's evident familiarity with the place and its inmate.
Lilian, jumping down from her high elevation, says to Cecilia:
"If you two are going to talk business, I shall go into the next room. The very thought of anything connected with the bugbear 'Law' depresses me to death. You can call me, Cecilia, when you have quite done."
"Don't be frightened," says Guy, pleasantly, thoughinwardly he frowns as he notes Lilian's unceremonious usage of his tenant's Christian name. "I shan't detain Mrs. Arlington two minutes."
Then he addresses himself exclusively to Cecilia, and says what he has to say in a perfectly courteous, perfectly respectful, perfectly freezing tone,—to all of which Cecilia responds with a similar though rather exaggerated amount of coldness that deadens the natural sweetness of her behavior, and makes Lilian tell herself she has never yet seen Cecilia to such disadvantage, which is provoking, as she has set her heart above all things on making Guy like her lovely friend.
Then Sir Guy, with a distant salutation, withdraws; and both women feel, silently, as though an icicle had melted from their midst.
"I wonder why your guardian so dislikes me," says Mrs. Arlington, in a somewhat hurt tone. "He is ever most ungenerous in his treatment of me."
"Ungenerous!" hastily, "oh, no! he is not that. He is the most generous-minded man alive. But—but——"
"Quite so, dear,"—with a faint smile that yet has in it a tinge of bitterness. "You see there is a 'but.' I have never wronged him, yet he hates me."
"Never mind who hates you," says Lilian, impulsively. "Cyril loves you, and so do I."
"I can readily excuse the rest," says Mrs. Arlington, with a bright smile, kissing her pretty consoler with grateful warmth.
* * * * * * *
An hour after Lilian's return to Chetwoode on this momentous day, Guy, having screwed his courage to the sticking-point, enters his mother's boudoir, where he knows she and Lilian are sitting alone.
Lady Chetwoode is writing at a distant table; Miss Chesney, on a sofa close to the fire, is surreptitiously ruining—or, as she fondly but erroneously believes, is knitting away bravely at—the gray sock her ladyship has just laid down. Lilian's pretty lips are pursed up, her brow is puckered, her soft color has risen as she bends in strong hope over her work. The certain charm that belongs to this scene fails to impress Sir Guy, who is too full of agitated determination to leave room for minor interests.
"Lilian," he says, bluntly, with all the execrable want of tact that characterizes the very gentlest of men, "Iwish you would not cultivate an acquaintance with Mrs. Arlington."
"Eh?" says Lilian, looking up in somewhat dazed amazement from her knitting, which is gradually getting into a more and more hopeless mess, "what is it, then, Sir Guy?"
"I wish you would not seek an intimacy with Mrs. Arlington," repeats Chetwoode, speaking all the more sternly in that he feels his courage ebbing.
The sternness, however, proves a mistake; Miss Chesney resents it, and, scenting battle afar off, encases herself in steel, and calmly, nay, eagerly, awaits the onslaught.
"What has put you out?" she says, speaking in a tone eminently calculated to incense the listener. "You seem disturbed. Has Heskett been poaching again? or has that new pointer turned out adisappointer? What has poor Mrs. Arlington done to you, that you must send her to Coventry?"
"Nothing, only——"
"Nothing! Oh, Sir Guy, surely you must have some substantial reason for tabooing her so entirely."
"Perhaps I have. At all events, I ask you most particularly to give up visiting at The Cottage."
"I am very sorry, indeed, to seem disobliging, but I shall not give up a friend without sufficient reason for so doing."
"A friend! Oh, this is madness," says Sir Guy, with a perceptible start; then, turning toward his mother, he says, in a rather louder tone, that adds to the imperiousness of his manner, "Mother, willyouspeak to Lilian, and desire her not to go?"
"But, my dear, why?" asks Lady Chetwoode, raising her eyes in a vague fashion from her pen.
"Because I will not have her associating with people of whom we know nothing," replies he, at his wit's end for an excuse. This one is barefaced, as at any other time he is far too liberal a man to condemn any one for being a mere stranger.
"I know a good deal of her," says Lilian, imperturbably, "and I think her charming. Perhaps,—who knows?—as she is unknown, she may prove a duchess in disguise."
"She may, but I doubt it," replies he, a disagreeable note of irony running through his speech.
"Have you discovered her parentage?" asks LadyChetwoode, hastily. "Is she of low birth? Lilian, my dear, don't have low tastes: there is nothing on earth," says Lady Chetwoode, mildly, "so—so—somelancholyas a person afflicted with low tastes."
"If thinking Mrs. Arlington a lady in the very best sense of the word is a low taste, I confess myself afflicted," says Miss Chesney, rather saucily; whereupon Lady Chetwoode, who knows mischief is brewing and is imbued with a wholesome horror of all disputes between her son and his ward, rises hurriedly and prepares to quit the room.
"I hope Archie will not miss his train," she says, irrelevantly. "He is always so careless, and I know it is important he should see his solicitor this evening about the transfer of York's farm. Where is Archibald?"
"In the library, I think," responds Lilian. "Dear Archie, how we shall miss him! shan't we, auntie?"
This tenderly regretful speech has reference to Mr. Chesney's intended departure, he having at last, through business, been compelled to leave Chetwoode and the object of his adoration.
"We shall, indeed. But remember,"—kindly,—"he has promised to return to us at Christmas with Taffy."
"I do remember," gayly; "but for that, I feel I should give way to tears."
Here Lady Chetwoode lays her hand upon the girl's shoulder, and presses it gently, entreatingly.
"Do not reject Guy's counsel, child," she says, softly; "you know he always speaks for your good."
Lilian makes no reply, but, gracefully turning her head, lays her red lips upon the gentle hand that still rests upon her shoulder.
Then Lady Chetwoode leaves the room, and Lilian and her guardian are alone. An ominous silence follows her departure. Lilian, who has abandoned the unhappy sock, has now taken in hand a very valuable Dresden china cup, and is apparently examining it with the most profound interest.
"I have your promise not to go again to The Cottage?" asks Sir Guy at length, the exigency of the case causing his persistency.
"I think not."
"Why will you persist in this obstinate refusal?" angrily.
"For many reasons," with a light laugh. "Shall I tellyou one? Did you ever hear of the 'relish of being forbidden?'"
"It is not a trifling matter. If it was possible, I would tell you what would prevent your ever wishing to know this Mrs. Arlington again. But, as it is, I am your guardian,"—determinately,—"I am responsible for you: I do not wish you to be intimate at The Cottage, and in this one matter at least I must be obeyed."
"Must you? we shall see," replies Miss Chesney, with a tantalizing laugh that, but for the sweet beauty of herrianteface, her dewy, mutinous mouth, her great blue eyes, now ablaze with childish wrath, would have made him almost hate her. As it is, he is exceeding full of an indignation he scarcely seeks to control.
"I, as your guardian, forbid you to go to see that woman," he says, in a condensed tone.
"And why, pray?"
"I cannot explain: I simply forbid you. She is not fit to be an associate of yours."
"Then I willnotbe forbidden: so there!" says Miss Chesney, defiantly.
"Lilian, once for all, do not go to The Cottage again," says Guy, very pale. "If you do you will regret it."
"Is that a threat?"
"No; it is a warning. Take it as such if you are wise. If you go against my wishes in this matter, I shall refuse to take charge of you any longer."
"I don't want you to take charge of me," cries Lilian, tears of passion and wounded feeling in her eyes. In her excitement she has risen to her feet and stands confronting him, the Dresden cup still within her hand. "I am not a beggar, that I should crave your hospitality. I can no doubt find a home with some one who will not hate me as you do." With this, the foolish child, losing her temperin toto, raises her hand and, because it is the nearest thing to her, flings the cherished cup upon the floor, where it lies shattered into a thousand pieces.
In silence Guy contemplates the ruins, in silence Lilian watches him; no faintest trace of remorse shows itself in her angry fair little face. I think the keenest regret Guy knows at this moment is that she isn't a boy, for the simple reason that he would dearly like to box her ears. Being a woman, and an extremely lovely one, he is necessarily disarmed.
"So now!" says Miss Lilian, still defiant.
"I have a great mind," replies Guy, raising his eyes slowly to hers, "to desire you to pick up every one of those fragments."
This remark is unworthy of him, proving that in his madness there is not even method. His speech falls as a red spark into the hot fire of Miss Chesney's wrath.
"Youdesire!" she says, blazing instantly. "What is it you would say? 'Desire!' On the contrary,Idesireyouto pick them up, and I shall stay here to see my commands obeyed."
She has come a little closer to him, and is now standing opposite him with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. With one firm little finger she points to thedébris. She looks such a fragile creature possessed with such an angry spirit that Chetwoode, in spite of himself acknowledging the comicality of the situation, cannot altogether conceal a smile.
"Pick them up," says Lilian imperatively, for the second time.
"What a little Fury you are!" says Guy; and then, with a faint shrug, he succumbs, and, stooping, does pick up the pieces of discord.
"I do it," he says, raising himself when his task is completed, and letting severity once more harden his features, "to prevent my mother's being grieved by such an exhibition of——"
"No, you do not," interrupts she; "you do it because I wished it. For the future understand that, though you are my guardian, I will not be treated as though I were a wayward child."
"Well, youhavea wicked temper!" says Guy, who is very pale, drawing his breath quickly. He smiles as he says it, but it is a smile more likely to incense than to soothe.
"I have not," retorts Lilian, passionately. "But that you goaded me I should never have given way to anger. It is you who have the wicked temper. I dislike you! I hate you! I wish I had never entered your house! And"—superbly, drawing herself up to her full height, which does not take her far—"I shall now leave it! And I shall never come back to it again!"
This fearful threat she hurls at his head with much unction. Not that she means it, but it is as well to beforcible on such occasions. The less you mean a thing, the more eloquent and vehement you should grow; the more you mean it, the less vehemence the better, because then it is energy thrown away: the fact accomplished later on will be crushing enough in itself. This is a rule that should be strictly observed.
Guy, whose head is held considerably higher than its wont, looks calmly out of the window, and disdains to take notice of this outburst.
His silence irritates Miss Chesney, who has still sufficient rage concealed within her to carry her victoriously through two quarrels. She is therefore about to let the vials of her wrath once more loose upon her unhappy guardian, when the door opens, and Florence, calm and stately, sweeps slowly in.
"Aunt Anne not here?" she says; and then she glances at Guy, who is still holding in his hands some of the fragments of the broken cup, and who is looking distinctly guilty, and then suspiciously at Lilian, whose soft face is crimson, and whose blue eyes are very much darker than usual.
There is a second's pause, and then Lilian, walking across the room, goes out, and bangs the door, with much unnecessary violence, behind her.
"Dear me!" exclaims Florence, affectedly, when she has recovered from the shock her delicate nerves have sustained through the abrupt closing of the door. "How vehement dear Lilian is! There is nothing so ruinous to one's manners as being brought up without the companionship of well-bred women. The loss of it makes a girl so—so—hoydenish, and——"
"I don't think Lilian hoydenish," interrupts Guy, who is in the humor to quarrel with his shadow,—especially, strange as it seems, with any one who may chance to speak ill of the small shrew who has just flown like a whirlwind from the room.
"No?" says Miss Beauchamp, sweetly. "Perhaps you are right. As a rule,"—with an admiring glance, so deftly thrown as to make one regret it should be so utterly flung away,—"you always are. It may be only natural spirits, but if so,"—blandly,—"don't you think she has a great deal of natural spirits?"
"I don't know, I'm sure," says Sir Guy. As he answers he looks at her, and tells himself he hates all her pink andwhite fairness, her dull brown locks, her duller eyes, and more,muchmore than all, her large and fleshy nose. "Has she?" he says, in a tone that augurs ill for any one who may have the hardihood to carry on the conversation.
"I think she has," says Florence, innocently, a little touch of doggedness running beneath the innocency. "But, oh, Guy, is that Aunt Anne's favorite cup? the Dresden she so much prizes? I know it cost any amount of money. Who broke it?"
"I did," returns Guy, shortly, unblushingly, and moving away from her, quits the room.
Going up the staircase he pauses idly at a window that overlooks the avenue to watch Archibald disappearing up the drive in the dog-cart. Even as he watches him, vaguely, and without the least interest in his movements,—his entire thoughts being preoccupied with another object,—lo! that object emerges from under the lime-trees, and makes a light gesture that brings Chesney to a full stop.
Throwing the reins to the groom, he springs to the ground, and for some time the two cousins converse earnestly. Then Guy, who is now regarding them with eager attention, sees Chesney help Lilian into the trap, take his seat beside her and drive away up the avenue, past the huge laurustinus, under the elms, on out of sight.
A slight pang shoots across Guy's heart. Where are they going, these two? "I shall never return:"—her foolish words, that he so honestly considers foolish, come back to him now clearly, and with a strange persistency that troubles him, repeat themselves over again.
Chesney is going to London, but where is Lilian going? The child's lovely, angry face rises up before him, full of a keen reproach. What was she saying to Archibald just now, in that quick vehement fashion of hers? was she upbraiding her guardian, or was she——? If Chesney had asked her then to take any immediate steps toward the fulfilling of her threat, would she, would she——?
Bah! he draws himself up with a shiver, and smiles contemptuously at the absurdity of his own fears, assuring himself she will certainly be home to dinner.
But dinner comes, and yet no Lilian! Lady Chetwoode has been obliged to give in an hour ago to one of her severest headaches, and now lies prone upon her bed, so thatMiss Beauchamp and Guy perforce prepare to partake of that meal alone.
Florence is resplendent in cream-color and blue, which doesn't suit her in the least, though it is a pretty gown, one of the prettiest in her wardrobe, and has been donned by her to-night for Guy's special delectation, finding atête-à-têteupon the cards.
Chetwoode regards her with feverish anxiety as she enters the drawing-room, hoping to hear some mention made of the absent Lilian; but in this hope he is disappointed. She might never have been a guest at Chetwoode, so little notice does Miss Beauchamp take of her non-appearance.
She says something amiable about "Aunt Anne's" headache, suggests a new pill as an unfailing cure for "that sort of thing," and then eats her dinner placidly, quietly, and, with a careful kindness that not one of the dishes shall feel slighted by her preference for another, patronizes all alike, without missing any. It is indeed a matter for wonder and secret admiration how Miss Beauchamp can so slowly, and with such a total absence of any appearance of gluttony, get through so much in so short a space of time. She has evidently a perfect talent for concealing any amount of viands without seeming to do so, which, it must be admitted, is a great charm.
To-night I fear Guy scarcely sees the beauty of it! He is conscious of feeling disgust and a very passion of impatience. Does she not notice Lilian's absence? Will she never speak of it? A strange fear lest she should express ignorance of his ward's whereabouts ties his own tongue. But she, she does, shemustknow, and presently no doubt will tell him.
How much more of that cream is she going to eat? Surely when the servants go she will say something. Now she has nearly done: thank the stars the last bit has disappeared! She is going to lay down her spoon and acknowledge herself satisfied.
"I think, Guy, I will take a little more,verylittle, please. This new cook seems quite satisfactory," says Florence, in her slow, even, self-congratulatory way.
A naughty exclamation trembles on Sir Guy's lips; by a supreme effort he suppresses it, and gives her the smallest help of the desired cream that decency will permit. After which he motions silently though peremptorily to one of the men to removeallthe dishes, lest by any chancehis cousin should be tempted to try the cream a third time.
His own dinner has gone away literally untasted. A terrible misgiving is consuming him. Lilian's words are still ringing and surging in his brain,—"I shall never return." He recalls all her hastiness, her impulsive ways, her hot temper. What if, in a moment of pride and rage, she should have really gone with her cousin! If—it is impossible! ridiculously, utterly impossible! Yet his blood grows cold in spite of his would-be disbelief; a sickening shiver runs through his veins even while he tells himself he is a fool even to imagine such a thing. And yet, where is she?
"I suppose Lilian is at Mabel Steyne's," says Miss Beauchamp, calmly, having demolished the last bit on her plate with a deep sigh.
"Is she?" asks Guy, in a tone half stifled. As he speaks, he stoops as though to pick up an imaginary napkin.
"Your napkin is here," says Florence, in an uncompromising voice: "don't you see it?" pointing to where it rests upon the edge of the table. "Lilian, then,"—with a scrutinizing glance,—"did not tell you where she was going?"
"No. There is no reason why she should."
"Well, I think there is," with a low, perfectly lady-like, but extremely irritating laugh: "for one thing, her silence has cost you your dinner. I am sorry I did not relieve your mind by telling you before. But I could not possibly guess her absence could afflict you so severely. She said something this morning about going to see Mabel."
"I dare say," quietly.
The minutes drag. Miss Beauchamp gets through an unlimited quantity of dried fruit and two particularly fine pears in no time. She is looking longingly at a third, when Guy rises impatiently.
"If she is at Mabel's I suppose I had better go and bring her home," he says, glancing at the clock. "It is a quarter to nine."
"I really do not think you need trouble yourself," speaking somewhat warmly for her: "Mabel is sure to send her home in good time, if she is there!" She says this slowly, meaningly, and marks how he winces and changes color at her words. "Then think how cold thenight is!" with a comfortable shiver and a glance at the leaping fire.
"Of course she is at Steynemore," says Guy, hastily.
"I would not be too sure: Lilian's movements are always uncertain: one never quite knows what she is going to do next. Really,"—with a repetition of her unpleasant laugh,—"when I saw her stepping into the dog-cart with her cousin to-day, I said to myself that I should not at all wonder if——"
"What?" sternly, turning full upon her a pale face and flashing eyes. Miss Beauchamp's pluck always melts under Guy's anger.
"Nothing," sullenly; "nothing at least that can concern you. I was merely hurrying on in my own mind a marriage that must eventually come off. The idea was absurd, of course, as any woman would prefer a fashionable wedding to all the inconvenience attendant on a runaway match."
"You mean——"
"I mean"—complacently—"Lilian's marriage with her cousin."
"You speak"—biting his lips to maintain his composure—"as though it was all arranged."
"And is it not?" with well-affected surprise. "I should have thought you, as her guardian, would have known all about it. Perhaps I speak prematurely; but one must be blind indeed not to see how matters are between them. Do sit down, Guy: it fidgets one to see you so undecided. Of course, if Lilian is at Steynemore she is quite safe."
"Still, she may be expecting some one to go for her."
"I think, if so, she would have told you she was going," dryly.
"Tom hates sending his horses out at night," says Guy,—which is a weak remark, Tom Steyne being far too indolent a man to make a point of hating anything.
"Does he?" with calm surprise, and a prolonged scrutiny of her cousin's face. "I fancied him the most careless of men on that particular subject. Before he was married he used to drive over here night after night, and not care in the least how long he kept the wretched animals standing in the cold."
"But that was when he was making love to Mabel. A man in love will commit any crime."
"Oh, no, long before that."
"Perhaps, then, it was when he was making love to you," with a slight smile.
This is a sore point.
"I don't remember that time," says Miss Beauchamp with perfect calmness but a suspicious indrawing of her rather meagre lips. "If some one must go out to-night, Guy, why not send Thomas?"
"Because I prefer going myself," replies he, quietly.
Passing through the hall on his way to the door, he catches up a heavy plaid that happens to be lying there, on a side-couch, and, springing into the open trap outside, drives away quickly under the pale cold rays of the moon.
He has refused to take any of the servants with him, and so, alone with his thoughts, follows the road that leads to Steynemore.
They are not pleasant thoughts. Being only a man, he has accepted Miss Beauchamp's pretended doubts about Lilian's safety as real, and almost persuades himself his present journey will bear him only bitter disappointment. As to what he is going to do if Lilian has not been seen at Steynemore, that is a matter on which he refuses to speculate. Drawing near the house, his suspense and fear grow almost beyond bounds. Dismounting at the hall-door, which stands partly open, he flings the reins to Jericho, and going into the hall, turns in the direction of the drawing-room.
While he stands without, trying to summon courage to enter boldly, and literally trembling with suppressed anxiety, a low soft laugh breaks upon his ear. As he hears it, the blood rushes to his face; involuntarily he raises his hand to his throat, and then (and only then) quite realizes how awful has been the terror that for four long hours has been consuming him.
The next instant, cold and collected, he turns the handle of the door, and goes in.
Upon a low seat opposite Mabel Steyne sits Lilian, evidently in the gayest spirits. No shadow of depression, no thought of all the mental agony he has been enduring, mars the brightness of hermignonneface. She is laughing. Her lustrous azure eyes are turned upward to her friend, who is laughing also in apparent appreciation of her guest's jest; her parted lips make merry dimples in her cheeks; her whole face is full of soft lines of amusement.
As Guy comes in, Mabel rises with a little exclamation, and goes toward him with outstretched hands.
"Why, Guy!" she says, "good boy! Have you come for Lilian? I was just going to order the carriage to send her home. Did you walk or drive?"
"I drove." He has studiously since his entrance kept his eyes from Lilian. The smile has faded from her lips, the happy light from her eyes; she has turned a pale, proud little face to the fire, away from her guardian.
"I made Lilian stay to dinner," says Mabel, who is too clever not to have remarked the painful constraint existing between her guest and Sir Guy. "Tom has been out all day shooting and dining at the Bellairs, so I entreated her to stay and bear me company. Won't you sit down for a while? It is early yet; there cannot be any hurry."
"No, thank you. My mother has a bad headache, and, as she does not know where Lilian is, I think it better to get home."
"Oh, if auntie has a headache, of course——"
"I shall go and put on my hat," says Lilian, speaking for the first time, and rising with slow reluctance from her seat. "Don't stir, Mab: I shan't be a minute: my things are all in the next room."
"Lilian is not very well, I fear," Mrs. Steyne says, when the door has closed upon her, "or else something has annoyed her. I am not sure which," with a quick glance at him. "She would eat no dinner, and her spirits are very fitful. But she did not tell me what was the matter, and I did not like to ask her. She is certainly vexed about something, and it is a shame she should be made unhappy, poor pretty child!" with another quick glance.
"I thought she seemed in radiant spirits just now," remarks Guy, coldly.
"Yes; but half an hour ago she was so depressed I was quite uneasy about her: that is why I used the word 'fitful.' Get her to eat something before she goes to bed," says kindly Mabel, in an undertone, as Lilian returns equipped for her journey. "Good-night, dear," kissing her. "Have you wraps, Guy?"
"Yes, plenty. Good-night." And Mabel, standing on the door-steps, watches them until they have vanished beneath the starlight.
It is a dark but very lovely night. Far above them in the dim serene blue a fair young crescent moon ridesbravely. As yet but a few stars are visible, and they gleam and shiver and twinkle in the eternal dome, restless as the hearts of the two beings now gazing silently upon their beauty.