"Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,Blossomed the lonely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels."
"Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,Blossomed the lonely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels."
"Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,
Blossomed the lonely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels."
A creeping shadow lies among the trees; a certain sense of loneliness dwells in the long avenue of Steynemore as they pass beneath the branches of the overhanging foliage. A quick wind rustles by them, sad as a sigh from Nature's suffering breast, chill as the sense of injury that hangs upon their own bosoms.
Coming out upon the unshaded road, a greater light falls upon them. The darkness seems less drear, the feeling of separation more remote, though still Pride sits with triumphant mien between them, with his great wings outspread to conceal effectually any penitent glance or thought. The tender pensive beauty of the growing night is almost lost upon them.
"All round was still and calm; the noon of nightWas fast approaching; up th' unclouded skyThe glorious moon pursued her path of light,And shed a silv'ry splendor far and nigh;No sound, save of the night-wind's gentlest sigh,Could reach the ear."
"All round was still and calm; the noon of nightWas fast approaching; up th' unclouded skyThe glorious moon pursued her path of light,And shed a silv'ry splendor far and nigh;No sound, save of the night-wind's gentlest sigh,Could reach the ear."
"All round was still and calm; the noon of night
Was fast approaching; up th' unclouded sky
The glorious moon pursued her path of light,
And shed a silv'ry splendor far and nigh;
No sound, save of the night-wind's gentlest sigh,
Could reach the ear."
A dead silence reigns between them: they both gaze with admirable perseverance at the horse's ears. Never before has that good animal been troubled by two such steady stares. Then Lilian stirs slightly, and a little chattering sound escapes her, that rouses Guy to speech.
"You are tired?" he says, in freezing tones.
"Very."
"Cold?"
"Very."
"Then put this round you," disagreeably, but with evident anxiety, producing the cozy plaid.
"No, thank you."
"Why?" surprised.
"Because it is yours," replies she, with such open and childish spite as at any other time would have brought a smile to his lips. Now it brings only a dull pain to his heart.
"I am sorry I only brought what you will not wear," he answers: "it did not occur to me you might carry your dislike to me even to my clothes. In future I shall be wiser."
Silence.
"Do put it on!" anxiously: "you were coughing all last week."
"I wouldn't be hypocritical, if I were you," with withering scorn. "I feel sure it would be a matter for rejoicing, where you are concerned, if I coughed all next week, and the week after. No: keep your plaid."
"You are the most willful girl I ever met," wrathfully.
"No doubt. I dare say you have met only angels. I am not one, I rejoice to say. Florence is, you know; and one piece of perfection should be enough in any household."
Silence again. Not a sound upon the night-air but the clatter of the horse's feet as he covers bravely the crisp dry road, and the rushing of the wind. It is a cold wind, sharp and wintry. It whistles past them, now they have gained the side of the bare moor, with cruel keenness, cutting uncivilly the tops of their ears, and making them sink their necks lower in their coverings.
Miss Chesney's small hands lie naked upon the rug. Even in the indistinct light he knows that they are shivering and almost blue.
"Where are your gloves?" he asks, when he can bear the enforced stillness no longer.
"I forgot them at Mabel's."
Impulsively he lays his own bare hand upon hers, and finds it chilled, nearly freezing.
"Keep your hands inside the rug," he says, angrily, though there is a strong current of pain underlying the anger, "and put this shawl on you directly."
"I will not," says Lilian, though in truth she is dying for it.
"You shall," returns Chetwoode, quietly, in a tone he seldom uses, but which, when used, is seldom disobeyed. Lilian submits to the muffling in silence, and, though outwardly ungrateful, is inwardly honestly rejoiced at it. As he fastens it beneath her chin, he stoops his head, until his eyes are on a level with hers.
"Was it kind of you, or proper, do you think, to make me so—so uneasy as I have been all this afternoon and evening?" he asks, compelling her to return his gaze.
"Were you uneasy?" says Miss Chesney, viciously and utterly unrepenting: "I am glad of it."
"Was it part of your plan to make my mother wretched also?" This is a slight exaggeration, as Lady Chetwoode has not even been bordering on the "wretched," and is, in fact, up to the present moment totally ignorant of Lilian's absence.
"I certainly did not mean to make dear auntie unhappy," in a faintly-troubled tone. "But I shall tell her all the truth, and ask her pardon, when I get home,—back, I mean," with studied correction of the sweet word.
"What is the truth?"
"First, that I broke her lovely cup. And then I shall tell her why I stayed so long at Steynemore."
"And what will that be?"
"You know very well. I shall just say to her, 'Auntie, your son, Sir Guy, behaved so rudely to me this afternoon, I was obliged to leave Chetwoode for a while.' Then she will forgive me."
Sir Guy laughs in spite of himself; and Lilian, could he only have peeped into the deep recesses of the plaid, might also be plainly seen with her pretty lips apart and all her naughty bewitching face dimpling with laughter.
These frivolous symptoms are, however, rapidly and sternly suppressed on both sides.
"I really cannot see what awful crime I have committed to make you so taciturn," she says, presently, with a view to discussing the subject. "I merely went for a drive with my cousin, as he should pass Steynemore on his way to the station."
"Perhaps that was just what made my misery," softly.
"What! my going for a short drive with Archie? Really, Sir Guy, you will soon be taken as a model of propriety. Poor old Archie! I am afraid I shan't be able to make you miserable in that way again for a very long time. How I wish those tiresome lawyers would let him alone!"
"Ask them to surrender him," says Guy, irritably.
"I would,"—cheerfully,—"if I thought it would do the least good. But I know they are all made of adamant."
"Lilian,"—suddenly, unexpectedly,—"is there anything between you and your cousin?"
"Who?"—with wide, innocent, suspiciously innocent eyes,—"Taffy?"
"No," impatiently: "of course I mean Chesney," looking at her with devouring interest.
"Yes,"—disconsolately, with a desire for revenge,—"more miles than I care to count."
"I feel"—steadily—"it is a gross rudeness my asking, and I know you need not answer me unless you like; but"—with a quick breath—"try to answer my question. Has anything passed between you and Chesney?"
"Not much," mildly: "one thrilling love-letter, and that ring."
"He never asked you to marry him?" with renewed hope.
"Oh, by the bye, I quite forgot that," indifferently. "Yes, he did ask me so much."
"And you refused him?" asks Guy, eagerly, intensely, growing white and cold beneath the moon's pitiless rays, that seem to take a heartless pleasure in lighting up his agitated face at this moment. But Lilian's eyes are turned away from his: so this degradation is spared him.
"No—n—o, not exactly," replies she.
"You accepted him?" with dry lips and growing despair.
"N—o, not exactly," again returns Miss Chesney, with affected hesitation.
"Then whatdidyou do?" passionately, his impatient fear getting the better of his temper.
"I don't feel myself at liberty to tell you," retorts Lilian, with a provoking assumption of dignity.
Sir Guy looks as though he would like to give her a good shake, though indeed it is quite a question whether he has even the spirits for so much. He relapses into sulky silence, and makes no further attempt at conversation.
"However," says Lilian, to whom silence is always irksome, "I don't mind telling you what I shall do if he asks me again."
"What?" almost indifferently.
"I shall accept him."
"You will do very wisely," in a clear though constrained voice that doesn't altogether impose upon Lilian, but nevertheless disagrees with her. "He is very rich, very handsome, and a very good fellow all round."
"I don't much care about good fellows," perversely:"they are generally deadly slow; I am almost sure I prefer the other sort. I am afraid mine is not a well-regulated mind, as I confess I always feel more kindly disposed toward a man when I hear something bad of him."
"Perhaps if I told you something bad about myself it might make you feel more kindly disposed toward me," with a slight smile.
"Perhaps it might. But I believe you are incapable of a bad action. Besides, if I felt myself going to like you, I should stop myself instantly."
A pained hurt expression falls into his eyes.
"I think," he says, very gently, "you must make a point of reserving all your cruel speeches for me alone. Do you guess how they hurt, child? No, I am sure you do not: your face is far too sweet to belong to one who would willingly inflict pain. Am I to be always despised and hated? Why will you never be friends with me?"
"Because"—in a very low whisper—"you are so seldom good to me."
"Am I? You will never know how hard I try to be. But"—taking her hand in his—"my efforts are always vain." He glances sorrowfully at the little hand he holds, and then at the pretty face beneath the velvet hat so near him. Lilian does not return his glance: her eyes are lowered, her other hand is straying nervously over the tiger-skin that covers her knees; they have forgotten all about the cold, the dreary night, everything; for a full half mile they drive on thus silently, her hand resting unresistingly in his; after which he again breaks the quiet that exists between them.
"Did you mean what you said a little time ago about Chetwoode not being your home?"
"I suppose so," in a rather changed and far softer tone. "Yes. What claim have I on Chetwoode?"
"But your tone implied that if even you had a claim it would be distasteful to you."
"Did it?"
"Don't you know it did?"
"Well, perhaps I didn't mean quite that. Didyoumean all you said this morning?"
"Not all, I suppose."
"How much of it, then?"
"Unless I were to go through the whole of our conversation again, I could not tell you that, and I have no wishto do so: to be pained"—in a low voice—"as I have been, once in a day is surely sufficient."
"Don't imagine I feel the least sorrow for you," says Lilian, making a wild attempt at recovering her ill humor, which has melted and vanished away.
"I don't imagine it. How could I? One can scarcely feel sorrow or pity for a person whom one openly professes to 'hate' and 'despise,'" markedly, while searching her face anxiously with his eyes.
Miss Chesney pauses. A short but sharp battle takes place within her breast. Then she raises her face and meets his eyes, while a faint sweet smile grows within her own: impelled half by a feeling of coquetry, half by a desire to atone, she lets the fingers he has still imprisoned close with the daintiest pressure upon his.
"Perhaps," she whispers, leaning a little toward him, and raising her lips very close to his cheek as though afraid of being heard by the intrusive wind, "perhaps I did not quite mean that either."
Then, seeing how his whole expression changes and brightens, she half regrets her tender speech, and says instantly, in her most unsentimental fashion:
"Pray, Sir Guy, are you going to make your horse walk all the way home? Can you not pity the sorrows of a poor little ward? I am absolutely frozen: do stir him up, lazy fellow, or I shall get out and run. Surely it is too late in the year for nocturnal rambles."
"If my life depended upon it, I don't believe I could make him go a bit faster," returns he, telling his lie unblushingly.
"I forgot you were disabled," says Miss Chesney, demurely, letting her long lashes droop until they partially (but only partially) conceal her eyes from her guardian. "How remiss I am! When one has only got the use of one hand, one can do so little; perhaps"—preparing to withdraw her fingers slowly, lingeringly from his—"if I were to restore you both yours, you might be able to persuade that horse to take us home before morning."
"I beg you will give yourself no trouble on my account," says Guy, hastily: "I don't want anything restored. And if you are really anxious to get 'home'"—with a pleased and grateful smile, "I feel sure I shall be able to manage this slow brute single-handed."
So saying, he touches up the good animal in questionrather smartly, which so astonishes the willing creature that he takes to his heels, and never draws breath until he pulls up before the hall door at Chetwoode.
"Parkins, get us some supper in the library," says Sir Guy, addressing the ancient butler as he enters: "the drive has given Miss Chesney and me an appetite."
"Yes, Sir Guy, directly," says Parkins, and, going down-stairs to the other servants, gives it as his opinion that "Sir Guy and Miss Chesney are going to make a match of it. For when two couples," says Mr. Parkins, who is at all times rather dim about the exact meaning of his sentences, "when two couples takes to eatingteet-a-teet, it is all up with 'em."
Whereupon cook says, "Lor!" which is her usual expletive, and means anything and everything; and Jane, the upper housemaid, who has a weakness for old Parkins's sayings, tells him with a flattering smile that he is "dreadful knowin'."
Meantime, Sir Guy having ascertained that Miss Beauchamp has gone to her room, and that his mother is better, and asleep, he and Lilian repair to the library, where a cozy supper is awaiting them, and a cheerful fire burning.
Now that they are again in-doors, out of the friendly darkness, with the full light of several lamps upon them, a second edition of their early restraint—milder, perhaps, but still oppressive—most unaccountably falls between them.
Silently, and very gently, but somewhat distantly, he unfolds the plaid from round her slight figure, and, drawing a chair for her to the table, seats himself at a decided distance. Then he asks her with exemplary politeness what she will have, and she answers him; then he helps her, and then he helps himself; and then they both wonder secretly what the other is going to say next.
But Lilian, who is fighting with a wild desire for laughter, and who is in her airiest mood, through having been compelled, by pride, to suppress all day her usual good spirits, decides on making a final effort at breaking down the barrier between them.
Raising the glass of wine beside her, she touches it lightly with her lips, and says, gayly:
"Come, fill, and pledge me, Sir Guy. But stay; first let me give you a little quotation that I hope will fall as a drop of nectar into your cup and chase that nasty littlefrown from your brow. Have I your leave to speak?" with a suspicion of coquetry in her manner.
Chetwoode's handsome lips part in a pleased smile: he turns his face gladly, willingly, to hers.
"Why do you ask permission of your slave, O Queen of Hearts?" he answers, softly, catching the infection of her gayety. He gazes at her with unchecked and growing admiration, his whole heart in his eyes; telling himself, as he has told himself a thousand times before, that to-night she is looking her fairest.
Her cheeks are flushed from her late drive; one or two glittering golden lovelocks have been driven by the rough wind from their natural resting-place, and now lie in gracious disorder on her white forehead; her lustrous sapphire eyes are gleaming upon him, full of unsubdued laughter; her lips are parted, showing all the small even teeth within.
She stoops toward him, and clinking her glass against his with the prettiest show ofbonne camaraderie, whispers, softly:
"Come, let us be happy together."
"Come, let us be happy together."
"Come, let us be happy together."
"Together!" repeats Guy, unsteadily, losing his head, and rising abruptly from his seat as though to go to her. She half rises also, seriously frightened at the unexpected effect of her mad words. What is he going to say to her? What folly urged her on to repeat that ridiculous line? The idea of flight has just time to cross her mind, but not time to be acted upon, when the door is thrown open suddenly, and Cyril—who has at this moment returned from his dinner party—entering noisily, comes to her rescue.
"I have some naked thoughts that roam aboutAnd loudly knock to have their passage out."—Milton.
"I have some naked thoughts that roam aboutAnd loudly knock to have their passage out."—Milton.
"I have some naked thoughts that roam aboutAnd loudly knock to have their passage out."—Milton.
"I have some naked thoughts that roam about
And loudly knock to have their passage out."—Milton.
It goes without telling that Lilian gains the day, Guy's one solitary attempt at mastery having failed ignominiously. She persists in her allegiance to her friend, and visits The Cottage regularly as ever; being even moretender than usual in her manner toward Cecilia, as she recollects the narrowness of him who could (as she believes) without cause condemn her. And Sir Guy, though resenting her defiance of his wishes, and smarting under the knowledge of it, accepts defeat humbly, and never again refers to the subject of the widow, which henceforth is a tabooed one between them.
Soon after this, indeed, an event occurs that puts an end to all reason why Lilian should not be as friendly with Mrs. Arlington as she may choose. One afternoon, most unexpectedly, Colonel Trant, coming to Chetwoode, demands a private interview with Sir Guy. Some faint breaths of the scandal that so closely and dishonorably connects his name with Cecilia's have reached his ears, and, knowing of her engagement with Cyril, he has hastened to Chetwoode to clear her in the eyes of its world.
Without apology, he treats Guy to a succinct and studied account of Cecilia's history,—tells of all her sorrows, and gentle forbearance, and innocence so falsely betrayed, nor even conceals from him his own deep love for her, and his two rejections, but makes no mention of Cyril throughout the interview.
Guy, as he listens, grows remorseful, and full of self-reproach,—more, perhaps, for the injustice done to his friend in his thoughts, than for all the harsh words used toward Mrs. Arlington, though he is too clean-bred not to regret that also.
He still shrinks from all idea of Cecilia as a wife for Cyril. The daughter of a man who, though of good birth, was too sharp in his dealings for decent society, and the wife of a man, who, though rich in worldly goods, had no pretensions to be a gentleman at all, could certainly be no mate for a Chetwoode. A woman of no social standing whatsoever, with presumably only a pretty face for a dowry,—Cyril must be mad to dream of her! For him, Guy, want of fortune need not signify; but for Cyril, with his expensive habits, to think of settling down with a wife on nine hundred a year is simply folly.
And then Cyril's brother thinks with regret of a certain Lady Fanny Stapleton, who, it is a notorious fact, might be had by Cyril for the asking. Guy himself, it may be remarked, would not have Lady Fanny at any price, she being rather wanting in the matter of nose and neck; but younger brothers have no right to cultivate fastidioustastes, and her snubby ladyship has a great admiration for Cyril, and a fabulous fortune.
All the time Trant is singing Cecilia's praises, Guy is secretly sighing over Lady Fanny and her comfortable thousands, and is wishing The Cottage had been knocked into fine dust before Mrs. Arlington had expressed a desire to reside there.
Nevertheless he is very gentle in his manner toward his former colonel all the day, spending with him every minute he stays, and going with him to the railway station when at night he decides on returning to town. Inwardly he knows he would like to ask his forgiveness for the wrong he has done him in his thoughts, but hardly thinks it wisdom to let him know how guilty toward him he has been. Cyril, he is fully persuaded, will never betray him; and he shrinks from confessing what would probably only cause pain and create an eternal breach between them.
However, his conscience so far smites him that he does still further penance toward the close of the evening.
Meeting Cyril on his way to dress just before dinner, he stops him.
"If you will accept an apology from me so late in the day," he says, "I now offer you one for what I said of Mrs. Arlington some time since. Trant has told me all the truth. I wronged her grossly, although"—with a faint touch of bitterness—"when Iliedabout her I did so unconsciously."
"Don't say another word, old man," says Cyril, heartily, and much gratified, laying his hand lightly upon his shoulder. "I knew you would discover your mistake in time. I confess at the moment it vexed me you should lend yourself to the spreading of such an absurd report."
"Yes, I was wrong." Then, with some hesitation, "Still, there was an excuse for me. We knew nothing of her. We know nothing still that we can care to know."
"How you worry yourself!" says Cyril, with a careless shrug, letting his hand, however, drop from his brother's shoulder, as he fully understands the drift of his conversation. "Why can't you let things slide as I do? It is no end a better plan."
"I am only thinking of a remark you made a long time ago," replies Guy, with a laugh, partially deceived by Cyril's indifferent manner: "shall I remind you of it? 'Samivel, Samivel, my son, never marry a widder.'"
"Hel.—How happy some, o'er other some can be!"—Midsummer Night's Dream.
"Hel.—How happy some, o'er other some can be!"—Midsummer Night's Dream.
"Hel.—How happy some, o'er other some can be!"—Midsummer Night's Dream.
"Hel.—How happy some, o'er other some can be!"
—Midsummer Night's Dream.
It is very close on Christmas; another week will bring in the twenty-fifth of December, with all its absurd affectation of merriment and light-heartedness.
Is any one, except a child, ever really happy at Christmas, I wonder? Is it then one chooses to forget the loved and lost? to thrust out of sight the regrets that goad and burn? Nay, rather, is it not then our hearts bleed most freely, while our eyes grow dim with useless tears, and a great sorrow that touches on despair falls upon us, as we look upon the vacant seat and grow sick with longing for the "days that are no more?"
Surely it is then we learn how vain is our determination to forget those unobtrusive ones who cannot by voice or touch demand attention. The haunting face, that once full of youth and beauty was all the world to us, rises from its chill shroud and dares us to be happy. The poor eyes, once so sweet, so full of gayest laughter, now closed and mute forever, gleam upon us, perchance across the flowers and fruit, and, checking the living smile upon our lips, ask us reproachfully how is it with us, that we can so quickly shut from them the doors of our hearts, after all our passionate protests, our vows ever to remember.
Oh, how soon, howsoon, do we cease our lamentations for our silent dead!
When all is told, old Father Christmas is a mighty humbug: so I say and think, but I would not have you agree with me. Forgive me this unorthodox sentiment, and let us return to our—lamb!
Archibald has returned to Chetwoode; so has Taffy. The latter is looking bigger, fuller, and, as Mrs. Tipping says, examining him through her spectacles with a criticising air, "more the man," to his intense disgust. He embraces Lilian and Lady Chetwoode, and very nearly Miss Beauchamp, on his arrival, in the exuberance of his joy at finding himself once more within their doors, and is welcomed with effusion by every individual member of the household.
Archibald, on the contrary, appears rather done up, and faded, and, though evidently happy at being again in his old quarters, still seems sad at heart, and discontented.
He follows Lilian's movements in a very melancholy fashion, and herself also, until it becomes apparent to every one that his depression arises from his increasing infatuation for her; while she, to do her justice, hardly pretends to encourage him at all. He lives in contemplation of her beauty and her saucy ways, and is unmistakablydistraitwhen circumstances call her from his sight.
In his case "absence" has indeed made the heart grow fonder, as he is, if possible, more imbecile about her now than when he left, and, after struggling with his feelings for a few days, finally makes up his mind to tempt fortune again, and lay himself and his possessions at his idol's feet.
* * * * * * *
It is the wettest of wet days; against the window-panes the angry rain-drops are flinging themselves madly, as though desirous of entering and rendering more dismal the room within, which happens to be the library.
Sir Guy is standing at the bow-window, gazing disconsolately upon the blurred scene outside. Cyril is lounging in an easy chair with a magazine before him, making a very creditable attempt at reading. Archibald and Taffy are indulging in a mild bet as to which occupant of the room will make the first remark.
Lady Chetwoode is knitting her one hundred and twenty-fourth sock for the year. Lilian is dreaming, with her large eyes fixed upon the fire. The inestimable Florence (need I say it?) is smothered in crewel wools, and is putting a rose-colored eye into her already quite too fearful parrot.
"I wonder what we shall do all day," says Guy, suddenly, in tones of the deepest melancholy. Whereupon Taffy, who has been betting on Cyril, and Chesney, who has been laying on Lilian, are naturally, though secretly indignant.
"Just what we have been doing all the rest of the day,—nothing," replies Lilian, lazily: "could anything be more desirable?"
"I hope it will be fine to-morrow," says Mr. Musgrave, in an aggrieved voice. "But it won't, I shouldn'twonder, just because the meet is to be at Bellairs, and one always puts in such a good day there."
"I haven't got enough pluck to think of to-morrow," says Guy, still melancholy: "to-day engrosses all my thoughts. Whatisto become of us?"
"Let us get up a spelling-bee," says Miss Beauchamp, with cheerful alacrity; "they are so amusing."
"Oh, don't! please, Miss Beauchamp, don't," entreats Taffy, tearfully,—"unless you want to disgrace me eternally. I can't spell anything; and, even if I could, the very fact of having a word hurled at my head would make me forget all about it, even were it an old acquaintance."
"But, my dear fellow," says Cyril, laying down his "Temple Bar," with all the air of a man prepared to argue until he and his adversary are black in the face, "that is the fun of the whole matter. If you spelled well you would be looked upon as a swindler. The greater mistakes you make, the more delighted we shall be; and if you could only succeed like that man in 'Caste' in spelling character with a K, we should give you two or three rounds of applause. People never get up spelling-bees to hear good spelling: the discomfiture of their neighbors is what amuses them most. Have I relieved your mind?"
"Tremendously. Nevertheless, I fling myself upon your tender mercies, Miss Beauchamp, and don't let us go in for spelling."
"Then let us have an historical-bee," substitutes Florence, amiably; she is always tender where Taffy is concerned.
"The very thing," declares Cyril, getting up an expression of the strongest hope. "Perhaps, if you do, I shall get answers to two or three important questions that have been tormenting me for years. For instance, I want to know whether the 'gossip's bowl' we read of was made of Wedgwood or Worcester, and why our ancestors were so uncomfortable as to take their tea out of 'dishes.' It must have got very cold, don't you think? to say nothing at all of the inconvenience of being obliged to lift it to one's lips with both hands."
"It didn't mean an actual 'dish,'" replies Florence, forgetting the parrot's rosy optic for a moment, in her desire to correct his ignorance: "it was merely a term for what we now call cup."
"No, was it?" says Cyril, with an affectation of intense astonishment; whereupon they all laugh.
"Talking of tea," says Lady Chetwoode, "I wonder where it is. Taffy, my dear, will you ring the bell?"
Tea is brought, tea is consumed; but still the rain rains on, and their spirits are at zero.
"I shall go out, 'hail, rain, or shine,'" says Cyril, springing to his feet with sudden desperation.
"So shall I," declares Guy, "to the stables. Taffy, will you come with me?"
"As nobody wants me," says Lilian, "I shall make a point of wanting somebody. Archie, come and have a game of billiards with me before dinner."
"My dear Guy, does it not still rain very hard?" protests Florence, anxiously.
"Very," laughing.
"You will get wet," with increasing anxiety, and a tender glance cleverly directed.
"Wet! he will get drenched," exclaims Cyril; "he will probably get his death of cold, and die of inflammation of the lungs. It is horrible to think of it! Guy, be warned; accept Florence's invitation to stay here with her, and be happy and dry. As sure as you are out to-day, you may prepare to shed this mortal coil."
"Forgive me, Florence, I must go or suffocate," says Guy, refusing to be warned, or to accept Miss Beauchamp's delicate hint: and together he and Musgrave sally forth to inspect the stables, while Lilian and Archibald retire to the billiard-room.
When they have played for some time, and Archibald has meanly allowed Lilian to win all the games under the mistaken impression that he is thereby cajoling her into staying with him longer than she otherwise might have done, she suddenly destroys the illusion by throwing down her cue impatiently, and saying, with a delicious little pout:
"I hate playing with people who know nothing about the game! there is no excitement in it. I remark when I play with you I always win. You're a regular muff at billiards, Archie; that's whatyouare."
This is a severe blow to Archie's pride, who is a first-class hand at billiards; but he grins and bears it.
"If you will give me a few more lessons," he says, humbly, "I dare say I shall improve."
"No, I can't afford to waste my time, and you are too tiresome. Let us go into the drawing-room."
"Rather let us stay here for a while," he says, earnestly. "They are all out, and I—I have something to say to you."
During the last half-hour one of the men has come in and given the fire a poke and lit the lamps, so that the room looks quite seductive. Miss Chesney, glancing doubtfully round, acknowledges so much, and prepares to give in.
"I hope it is something pleasant," she says,àproposof Archie's last remark. "You have been looking downright miserable for days. I hope sincerely, you are not going melancholy mad, but I have my doubts of it. What is the matter with you, Archie? You used to be quite a charming companion, but now you are very much the reverse. Sometimes, when with you, your appearance is so dejected that if I smile I feel absolutely heartless. Do try to cheer up, there's a good boy."
"A fellow can't be always simpering, especially when he is wretched," retorts he, moodily.
"Then don't be wretched. That is the very thing to which I object. You are the very last man in the world who ought to suffer from the blues. Anything wrong with you?"
"Everything. I love a woman who doesn't care in the very least for me."
"Oh, so that is what you have been doing in London, is it?" says Lilian, after a short pause that makes her words still more impressive. "I certainly did think you weren't in a very great hurry to return, and that you looked rather blighted when you did come. I doubt you have been dancing the 'Geliebt und verloren' waltzes once too often. Did she refuse you?"
"I love you, Lilian, and only you," returns he, reproachfully. "No, do not turn from me; let me plead my cause once more. Darling, I have indeed tried to live without you, and have failed; if you reject me again you will drive me to destruction. Lilian, be merciful; say something kind to me."
"You promised me," says Lilian, nervously, moving away from him, "never to speak on this subject again. Oh, why is it that some people will insist on falling in love with other people? There is something so stupid aboutit. Now,Inever fall in love; why cannot you follow my good example?"
"I am not bloodless, or——"
"Neither am I," holding up her pretty hand between her and the fire, so that the rich blood shows through the closed fingers of it. "But I have common sense, the one thing you lack."
"Youare the one thing I lack," possessing himself of her hand and kissing it fatuously. "Without you I lack everything. Beloved, must I learn to look upon you as my curse? Give me, I entreat you, one little word of encouragement, if only one; I starve for want of it. If you only knew how I have clung for months, and am still clinging, to the barest shadow of a hope, you would think twice before you destroyed that one faint gleam of happiness."
"This is dreadful," says Lilian, piteously, the ready tears gathering in her eyes. "Would you marry a woman who does not love you?"
"I would,"—eagerly,—"when that woman assures me she does not love another, and I have your word for that."
Lilian winces. Then, trying to recover her spirits:
"'What one suffers for one's country—men!'" she misquotes, with an affectation of lightness. "Archie, billiards have a demoralizing effect upon you. I shan't play with you again."
"I don't want to bribe you," says Chesney, turning a little pale, and declining to notice her interruption; "I should be sorry to think I could do so; but I have ten thousand a year, and if you will marry me you shall have a thousand a year pin-money, and five thousand if you survive me."
"It would spoil my entire life fearing I shouldn't survive you," says Miss Chesney, who, in spite of her nervousness, or because of it, is longing to laugh.
"You will, you need not be afraid of that."
"It sounds dazzling," murmurs Lilian, "more especially when you give me your word you will die first; but still I think it downright shabby you don't offer me the whole ten."
"So I will!"—eagerly—"if——"
"Nonsense, Archie," hastily: "don't be absurd. Cannot you see I am only in jest? I am not going to marry any one, as I told you before. Come now,"—anxiously,—"don't look so dismal. You know I am very,veryfondof you, but after all one cannot marry every one one is fond of."
"I suppose not," gloomily.
"Then do try to look a little pleasanter. They will all notice your depression when we return to them."
"I don't care," with increasing gloom.
"But I do. Archie, look here, dear,"—taking the high and moral tone,—"do you think it is right of you to go on like this, just as if——"
"I don't care a hang what is right, or what is wrong," says Mr. Chesney, with considerable vehemence. "I only know you are the only woman I ever really cared for, and you won't have me. Nothing else is of the slightest consequence."
"I am not the only woman in the world. Time will show you there are others ten times nicer and lovelier."
"I don't believe it."
"Because you don't wish to," angrily. "In the first place, I am far too small to be lovely."
"You are tall enough for my fancy."
"And my mouth is too large," with growing irritation.
"It is small enough for my taste."
"And sometimes, when the summer is very hot, my skin gets quitefreckled," with increasing warmth.
"I adore freckles. I think no woman perfect without them."
"I don't believe you," indignantly; "and at all events I have a horrible temper, and I defy you to say you likethat!" triumphantly.
"I do," mournfully. "The hardest part of my unfortunate case is this, that the unkinder you are to me the more I love you."
"Then I won't have you love me," says Miss Chesney, almost in tears: "do you hear me? I forbid you to do it any more. It is extremely rude of you to keep on caring for me when you know I don't like it."
"Look here, Lilian," says Archie, taking both her hands, "give me a little hope, a bare crumb to live on, and I will say no more."
"I cannot, indeed," deeply depressed.
"Why? Do you love any other fellow?"
"Certainly not," with suspicious haste.
"Then I shall wait yet another while, and then ask you again."
"Oh, don't!" exclaims Lilian, desperately: "Ibegyou won't. If I thought I was going to have these scenes all over again at intervals, it would kill me, and I should learn to hate you. I should, indeed; and then what would you do? Think of it."
"I won't," doggedly; "I often heard 'Faint heart never won fair lady,' and I shall take my chance. I shall never give you up, so long as you are not engaged to any other man."
There is a pause. Lilian's blue eyes are full of tears that threaten every moment to overflow and run down her pale cheeks. She is desperately sorry for Archibald, the more so that her heart tells her she will never be able to give him the consolation that alone can do him any good. Seeing the expression of tender regret that softens her face, Archibald falls suddenly upon his knees before her, and, pressing his lips to her hands, murmurs, in deep agitation:
"My own, my dearest, is there no pity in your kind heart for me?"
At this most unlucky moment Sir Guy lays his hand upon the door, and pushing it lightly open, enters. Five minutes later all the world might have entered freely, but just now the entrance of this one man causes unutterable pain.
Archibald has barely time to scramble to his feet; the tears are still wet on Lilian's cheeks; altogether it is an unmistakable situation, and Guy turns cold and pale as he recognizes it as such. Chesney on his knees, with Lilian's hands imprisoned in his own; Lilian in tears,—what can it mean but a violent love scene? Probably they have been quarreling, and have just made it up again. "The falling out of faithful friends, but the renewal is of love."
As he meets Lilian's shamed eyes, and marks the rich warm crimson that has mantled in her cheeks, Chetwoode would have beaten a precipitous retreat, but is prevented by Taffy's following on his heels somewhat noisily.
"It is a charming night, Lil," says that young man, with his usualbonhommie. "The rain is a thing of the past. We shall have our run after all to-morrow."
"Indeed! I am glad of that," replies Lilian, half indifferently; though being the woman of the party, she is of course the quickest to recover self-possession. "I should have died of despair had the morning proved unkind."
"Well, you needn't die for a while. I say, Lil," says Mr. Musgrave, regarding her curiously, "what's the matter with you, eh? You look awfully down in the mouth. Anything wrong?"
"Nothing," sharply: "what should be?"
"Can't say, I'm sure. But your cheeks," persists this miserable boy, "are as red as fire."
"I—that is—itwasthe fire," confusedly, directing a wrathful glance at him, which is completely thrown away, as Mr. Musgrave is impervious to hints: "I was sitting close to it."
"That goes without telling. Any one would imagine by your color, you had been put upon the hob to simmer. By the bye,"—a most fortunate access of ignorance carrying his thoughts into another channel,—"what is a hob? I don't believe I ever saw one."
"Hob, substantive, short for goblin: as hobgoblin," says Cyril at this moment, having entered, how, or from where, nobody knows. "Still bent upon historical research?"
"It has something to do with kettles, I think," says Taffy. "I don't quite believe your meaning for it."
"Don't you? I am sorry for you. I do. But some people never will learn."
"That is true," says Lilian, somewhat abruptly. Involuntarily her eyes fall on Chesney. He has been staring in moody silence at the fire since Chetwoode's entrance, but now, at her words, straightens himself, and gives way to a low, rather forced, laugh.
"Experientia docet," says Guy, in a queer tone impossible to translate. "Time is a stern school-master, who compels us against our will,"—letting his eyes meet Lilian's—"to learn many things."
"It has taught me one thing," puts in Cyril, who looks half amused,—"that the dressing-bell has rung some time since."
"Has it?" says Lilian, rising with alacrity, and directing a very grateful glance at him: "I never heard it. I shall scarcely have time now to get ready for dinner. Why did you not tell me before?"
As she speaks, she sweeps by him, and he, catching her hand, detains her momentarily.
"Because, when one is not in the habit of it, one takes time to form a good tarradiddle," replies he, in a soft whisper.
She returns his kindly pressure, and, going into the hall, finds that full five minutes must elapse before the bell really rings.
"Dear Cyril!" she murmurs to herself, almost aloud, and, running up to her room, cries a good deal upon nurse's breast before that kind creature can induce her to change her gown. After which she gets into her clothes, more because it would be indecent to go without them than from any great desire to look her best.