"For now she knows it is no gentle chase.* * * * * * *She looks upon his lips, and they are pale;She takes him by the hand, and that is cold;She whispers in his ears a heavy tale,As if they heard the woful words she told:She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes,Where lo! two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies.* * * * * * *Two glasses, where herself, herself beheldA thousand times, and now no more reflect;Their virtue lost, wherein they late excell'd,And every beauty robb'd of his effect."—Shakespeare.
"For now she knows it is no gentle chase.* * * * * * *She looks upon his lips, and they are pale;She takes him by the hand, and that is cold;She whispers in his ears a heavy tale,As if they heard the woful words she told:She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes,Where lo! two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies.* * * * * * *Two glasses, where herself, herself beheldA thousand times, and now no more reflect;Their virtue lost, wherein they late excell'd,And every beauty robb'd of his effect."—Shakespeare.
"For now she knows it is no gentle chase.
"For now she knows it is no gentle chase.
* * * * * * *
* * * * * * *
She looks upon his lips, and they are pale;She takes him by the hand, and that is cold;She whispers in his ears a heavy tale,As if they heard the woful words she told:She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes,Where lo! two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies.
She looks upon his lips, and they are pale;
She takes him by the hand, and that is cold;
She whispers in his ears a heavy tale,
As if they heard the woful words she told:
She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes,
Where lo! two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies.
* * * * * * *
* * * * * * *
Two glasses, where herself, herself beheldA thousand times, and now no more reflect;Their virtue lost, wherein they late excell'd,And every beauty robb'd of his effect."—Shakespeare.
Two glasses, where herself, herself beheld
A thousand times, and now no more reflect;
Their virtue lost, wherein they late excell'd,
And every beauty robb'd of his effect."—Shakespeare.
"'A southern wind and a cloudy sky proclaim it a hunting morning,'" quotes Miss Chesney, gayly, entering the breakfast-room at nine o'clock next morning, looking, if anything, a degree more bewitching than usual in her hat and habit: in her hand is a little gold-mounted riding-whip, upon her lovable lips a warm, eager smile. "No one down but me!" she says, "at least of the gentler sex. And Sir Guy presiding! what fun! Archie, may I trouble you to get me some breakfast? Sir Guy, some tea, please: I am as hungry as a hawk."
Sir Guy pours her out a cup of tea, carefully, but silently. Archie, gloomy, but attentive, places before her what she most fancies: Cyril gets her a chair; Taffy brings her some toast: all are fondly dancing attendance on the little spoiled fairy.
"What are you looking at, Taffy?" asks she, presently,meeting her cousin's blue eyes, that so oddly resemble her own, fixed upon her immovably.
"At you. There is something wrong with your hair," replies he, unabashed: "some of the pins are coming out. Stay steady, and I'll wheel you into line in no time." So saying, he adjusts the disorderly hair-pin; while Chetwoode and Chesney, looking on, are consumed with envy.
"Thank you, dear," says Lilian, demurely, giving his hand a little loving pat: "you are worth your weight in gold. Be sure you push it in again during the day, if you see it growing unruly. What a delicious morning it is!" glancing out of the window; "too desirable perhaps. I hope none of us will break our necks."
"Funky already, Lil?" says Taffy, with unpardonable impertinence. "Never mind, darling, keep up your heart; I'm fit as a fiddle myself, and will so far sacrifice my life as to promise you a lead whenever a copper brings me in your vicinity. I shall keep you in mind, never fear."
"I consider your remarks beneath notice, presumptuous boy," says Miss Chesney, with such a scornful uplifting of her delicate face as satisfies Taffy, who, being full of mischief, passes on to bestow his pleasing attentions on the others of the party. Chesney first attracts his notice. He is standing with his back to a screen, and has his eyes fixed in moody contemplation on the floor. Melancholy on this occasion has evidently marked him for her own.
"What's up with you, old man? you look suicidal," says Mr. Musgrave, stopping close to him, and giving him a rattling slap on the shoulder that rather takes the curl out of him, leaving him limp, but full of indignation.
"Look here," he says, in an aggrieved tone, "I wish you wouldn't do that, you know. Your hands, small and delicate as they are,"—Taffy's hands, though shapely, are decidedly large,—"can hurt. If you go about the world with such habits you will infallibly commit murder sooner or later: I should bet on the sooner. One can never be sure, my dear fellow, who has heart-disease and who has not."
"Heart-disease means love with most fellows," says the irrepressible Taffy, "and I have noticed you aren't half a one since your return from London." At thismal à proposspeech both Lilian and Chesney change color, and Guy, seeing their confusion, becomes miserable in turn, so that breakfast is a distinct failure, Cyril and Musgrave alone being capable of animated conversation.
Half an hour later they are all in the saddle and are riding leisurely toward Bellairs, which is some miles distant, through as keen a scenting wind as any one could desire.
At Grantley Farm they find every one before them, the hounds sniffing and whimpering, the ancient M. F. H. cheery as is his wont, and a very fair field.
Mabel Steyne is here, mounted on a handsome bay mare that rather chafes and rages under her mistress's detaining hand, while at some few yards' distance from her is Tom, carefully got up, but sleepy as is his wont. One can hardly credit that his indolent blue eyes a little later will grow dark and eager as he scents the fray, and, steadying himself in his saddle, makes up his mind to "do or die."
Old General Newsance is plodding in and out among the latest arrivals, prognosticating evil, and relating the "wondrous adventures" of half a century ago, when (if he is to be believed) hounds had wings, and hunters never knew fatigue. With him is old Lord Farnham, who has one leg in his grave, literally speaking, having lost it in battle more years ago than one cares to count, but who rides wonderfully nevertheless, and is as young to speak to, or rather younger, than any nineteenth-century man.
Mabel Steyne is dividing her attentions between him and Taffy, when a prolonged note from the hounds, and a quick cry of "gone away," startles her into silence. Talkers are scattered, conversation forgotten, and every one settles down into his or her saddle, ready and eager for the day's work.
Down the hill like a flash goes a good dog fox, past the small wood to the right, through the spinnies, straight into the open beyond. The scent is good, the pack lively: Lilian and Sir Guy are well to the front; Archibald close beside them. Cyril to the left is even farther ahead; while Taffy and Mabel Steyne can be seen a little lower down, holding well together, Mabel, with her eyes bright and glowing with excitement, sailing gallantly along on her handsome bay.
After a time—the fox showing no signs of giving in—hedges and doubles throw spaces in between the riders. Sir Guy is far away in the distance, Taffy somewhat in the background; Cyril is out of sight; while Miss Chesney finds herself now side by side with Archibald, who is riding recklessly, and rather badly. They have just cleared a very uncomfortable wall, that in cold blood would havedamped their ardor, only to find a more treacherous one awaiting them farther on, and Lilian, turning her mare's head a little to the left, makes for a quieter spot, and presently lands in the next field safe and sound.
Archibald, however, holds on his original course, and Lilian, turning in her saddle, watches with real terror his next movement. His horse, a good one, rises gallantly, springs, and cleverly, though barely, brings himself clear to the other side. Both he and his master are uninjured, but it was a near thing, and makes Miss Chesney's heart beat with unpleasant rapidity.
"Archibald," she says, bringing herself close up to his side as they gallop across the field, and turning a very white face to his, "I wish you would not ride so recklessly: you will end by killing yourself if you go on in this foolish fashion."
Her late fear has added a little sharpness to her tone.
"The sooner the better," replies he, bitterly. "What have I got to live for? My life is of no use, either to myself or to any one else, as far as I can see."
"It is very wicked of you to talk so!" angrily.
"Is it? You should have thought of that before you made me think so. As it is, I am not in the humor for lecturing to do me much good. If I am killed, blame yourself. Meantime, I like hunting: it is the only joy left me. When I am riding madly like this, I feel again almost happy—almost," with a quickly suppressed sigh.
"Still, I ask you, for my sake, to be more careful," says Lilian, anxiously, partly frightened, partly filled with remorse at his words, though in her heart she is vexed with him for having used them. "Her fault if he gets killed." It is really too much!
"Do you pretend to care?" asks he, with a sneer. "Your manner is indeed perfect, but how much of it do you mean? Give me the hope I asked for last night,—say only two kind words to me,—and I will be more careful of my life than any man in the field to-day."
"I think I am always saying kind things to you," returns she, rather indignant; "I am only too kind. And one so foolishly bent on being miserable as you are, all for nothing, deserves only harsh treatment. You are not even civil to me. I regret I addressed you just now, and beg you will not speak to me any more."
"Be assured I shan't disobey this your last command,"says Archibald, in a low, and what afterward appears to her a prophetic tone, turning away.
The field is growing thin. Already many are lying scattered broadcast in the ditches, or else are wandering hopelessly about on foot, in search of their lost chargers. The hounds are going at a tremendous pace; a good many horses show signs of flagging; while the brave old fox still holds well his own.
Taffy came to signal grief half an hour ago, but now reappears triumphant and unplucked, splashed from head to heel, but game for any amount still. Mrs. Steyne in front a-fighting hard for the brush, while Lilian every moment is creeping closer to her on the bonny brown mare that carries her like a bird over hedges and rails. Sir Guy is out of sight, having just vanished down the slope of the hill, only to reappear again a second later. Archibald is apparently nowhere, and Miss Chesney is almost beginning to picture him to herself bathed in his own gore, when raising her head she sees him coming toward her at a rattling pace, his horse, which is scarcely up to his weight, well in hand.
Before him rises an enormous fence, beneath which gleams like a silver streak a good bit of running water. It is an awkward jump, the more so that from the other side it is almost impossible for the rider to gauge its dangers properly.
Lilian makes a faint sign to him to hold back, which he either does not or will not see. Bringing his horse up to the fence at a rather wild pace, he lifts him. The good brute rises obediently, springs forward, but jumps too short, and in another second horse and rider are rolling together in a confused mass upon the sward beyond.
The horse, half in and half out of the water, recovers himself quickly, and, scrambling to his feet, stands quietly ashamed, trembling in every limb, at a little distance from his master.
But Archibald never stirs; he lies motionless, with his arms flung carelessly above his head, and his face turned upward to the clouded sky,—a brilliant speck of crimson upon the green grass.
Lilian, with a sickening feeling of fear, and a suppressed scream, gallops to his side, and, springing to the ground, kneels down close to him, and lifts his head upon her knee.
His face is deadly pale, a small spot of blood upon his right cheek rendering even more ghastly its excessive pallor. A frantic horror lest he be dead fills her mind and heart. Like funeral bells his words return and smite cruelly upon her brain: "If I am killed blame yourself."Isshe to blame? Oh, how harshly she spoke to him! With what bitterness did she rebuke—when he—when he was only telling her of his great love for her!
Was ever woman so devoid of tender feeling? to goad and rail at a man only because she had made conquest of his heart! And to choose this day of all others to slight and wound him, when, had she not been hatefully, unpardonably blind, she might have seen he was bent upon his own destruction.
How awfully white he is! Has death indeed sealed his lips forever? Oh, that he might say one word, if only to forgive her! With one hand she smooths back his dark crisp hair from his forehead, and tries to wipe away with her handkerchief the terrible blood-stain from his poor cheek.
"Archie, Archie," she whispers to him, piteously, bending her face so close to his that any one might deem the action a caress, "speak to me: will you not hear me, when I tell you how passionately I regret my words?"
But no faintest flicker of intelligence crosses the face lying so mute and cold upon her knees. For the first time he is stone deaf to the voice of her entreaty.
Perhaps some foolish hope that her call might rouse him had taken possession of her; for now, seeing how nothing but deepest silence answers her, she lets a groan escape her. Will nobody ever come? Lifting in fierce impatience a face white as the senseless man's beneath her, she encounters Guy's eyes fixed upon her, who has by chance seen the catastrophe, and has hastened to her aid.
"Do something for him,—something," she cries, trembling; "give him brandy! it will, itmustdo him good."
Guy, kneeling down beside Chesney, places his hand beneath his coat, and feels for his heart intently.
"He is not dead!" murmurs Lilian, in an almost inaudible tone: "say he is alive. I told him never to speak to me again: but I did not dream I should be so terribly obeyed. Archie, Archie!"
Her manner is impassioned. Remorse and terror, working together, produce in her all the appearance, ofdespairing anguish. She bears herself as a woman might who gazes at the dead body of him she holds dearest on earth; and Guy, looking silently upon her, lets a fear greater than her own, a more intolerable anguish, enter his heart even then.
"He is not dead," he says, quietly, forcing himself to be calm. Whereupon Lilian bursts into a storm of tears.
"Are you sure?" cries she; "is there no mistake? He looks so—so—likedeath," with a shuddering sigh. "Oh, what should I have done had he been killed?"
"Be happy, he is alive," says Guy, between his dry lips, misery making his tones cold. All his worst fears are realized. In spite of pretended indifference, it is plain to him that all her wayward heart has been given to her cousin. Her intense agitation, her pale agonized face, seem to him easy to read, impossible to misunderstand. As he rises from his knees, he leaves all hope behind him in possession of his wounded rival.
"Stay with him until I bring help: I shan't be a minute," he says, not looking at her, and presently returning with some rough contrivance that does duty for a stretcher, and a couple of laborers. They convey him home to Chetwoode, where they lay him, still insensible, upon his bed, quiet and cold as one utterly bereft of life.
Then the little doctor arrives, and the door of Chesney's chamber is closed upon him and Guy, and for the next half-hour those outside—listening, watching, hoping, fearing—have a very bad time of it.
At last, as the sick-room door opens, and Guy comes into the corridor, a little figure, that for all those miserable thirty minutes has sat crouching in a dark corner, rises and runs swiftly toward him.
It is Lilian: she is trembling visibly, and the face she upraises to his is pale—nay, gray—with dread suspense. Her white lips try to form a syllable, but fail. She lays one hand upon his arm beseechingly, and gazes at him in eloquent silence.
"Do not look like that," says Guy, shocked at her expression. He speaks more warmly than he feels, but he quietly removes his arm so that her hand perforce drops from it. "He is better; much better than at first we dared hope. He will get well. There is no immediate danger. Do you understand, Lilian?"
A little dry sob breaks from her. The relief is almosttoo intense; all through her dreary waiting she had expected to hear nothing but that he was in truth—as he appeared in her eyes—dead. She staggers slightly, and would have fallen but that Chetwoode most unwillingly places his arm round her.
"There is no occasion for all this—nervousness," he says, half savagely, as she lays her head against his shoulder and cries as though her heart would break. At this supreme moment she scarcely remembers Guy's presence, and would have cried just as comfortably with her head upon old Parkins's shoulder. Perhaps he understands this, and therefore fails to realize the rapture he should know at having her so unresistingly within his arms. As it is, his expression is bored to the last degree: his eyebrows are drawn upward until all his forehead lies in little wrinkles. With a determination worthy of a better cause he has fixed his eyes upon the wall opposite, and refuses to notice the lovely golden head of her who is weeping so confidingly upon his breast.
It is a touching scene, but fails to impress Guy, who cannot blind himself to (what he believes to be) the fact that all these pearly tears are flowing for another,—and that a rival. With his tall figure drawn to its fullest height, so as to preclude all idea of tenderness, he says, sharply:
"One would imagine I had brought you bad news. You could not possibly appear more inconsolable if you had heard of his death. Do try to rouse yourself, and be reasonable: he is all right, and as likely to live as you are."
At this he gives her a mild but undeniable shake, that has the desired effect of reducing her to calmness. She checks her sobs, and, moving away from him, prepares to wipe away all remaining signs of her agitation.
"You certainly are not very sympathetic," she says, with a last faint sob, casting a reproachful glance at him out of two drowned but still beautiful eyes.
"I certainly am not," stiffly: "I can't 'weep my spirit from my eyes' because I hear a fellow is better, if you mean that."
"You seem to be absolutely grieved at his chance of recovery," viciously.
"I have no doubt I seem to you all that is vilest and worst. I learned your opinion of me long ago."
"Well,"—scornfully—"I think you need scarcelychoose either this time, or place, for one of your stand-up fights. When you remember what you have just said,—that you are actuallysorrypoor dear Archie is alive,—I think you ought to go away and feel very much ashamed of yourself."
"Did I say that?" indignantly.
"Oh, I don't know," indifferently,—as though his denial now cannot possibly alter the original fact; "something very like it, at all events."
"How can you so malign me, Lilian?" angrily. "No one can be more heartily sorry for poor Chesney than I am, or more pleased at his escape from death. You willfully misunderstand every word I utter. For the future,—as all I say seems to annoy,—I beg you will not trouble yourself to address me at all."
"I shall speak to you just whenever I choose," replies Miss Chesney, with superb defiance.
At this thrilling instant Chesney's door is again opened wide, and Dr. Bland comes out, treading softly, and looking all importance.
"You, my dear Miss Chesney!" he says, approaching her lightly; "the very young lady of all others I most wished to see. Not that there is anything very curious about that fact," with his cozy chuckle; "but your cousin is asking for you, and really, you know, upon my word, he is so very excitable, I think perhaps—eh?—under the circumstances, you know, it would be well to gratify his pardonable desire to see you—eh?"
"The circumstances" refer to the rooted conviction, that for weeks has been planted in the doctor's breast, of Miss Chesney's engagement to her cousin.
"To see me?" says Lilian, shrinking away involuntarily, and turning very red. Both the tone and the blush are "confirmation strong" of the doctor's opinion. And Guy, watching her silently, feels, if possible, even more certain than before of her affection for Chesney.
"To be sure, my dear; and why not?" says the kindly little doctor, patting her encouragingly on the shoulder. He deals in pats and smiles. They are both part of his medicine. So,—under the circumstances,—through force of habit, would he have patted the Queen of England or a lowly milkmaid alike,—with perhaps an additional pat to the milkmaid, should she chance to be pretty. Lilian, being rich in nature's charms, is a special favorite of his.
"But—" says Lilian, still hesitating. To tell the truth, she is hardly ambitious of entering Archibald's room, considering their last stormy parting; and, besides, she is feeling sadly nervous and out of sorts. The ready tears spring again to her eyes; once more the tell-tale blood springs hotly to her cheeks. Guy's fixed gaze—he is watching her with a half sneer upon his face—disconcerts her still further. Good Dr. Bland entirely mistakes the meaning of her confusion.
"Now, my dear child, if I give you leave to see this reckless cousin, we must be cautious,verycautious, and quiet,extremelyquiet, eh? That is essential, you know. And mind, no tears. There is nothing so injurious on these occasions as tears! Reminds one invariably of last farewells and funeral services, and coffins, and all such uncomfortable matters. I don't half like granting these interviews myself, but he appears bent on seeing you, and, as I have said before, he is impetuous,—veryimpetuous."
"You think, then," stammers Lilian, making one last faint effort at escape from the dreaded ordeal,—"you think——"
"I don't think," smiling good-naturedly, "Iknowyou must not stay with him longer than five minutes."
"Good doctor, make it three," is on the point of Lilian's tongue, but, ashamed to refuse this small request of poor wounded Archibald, she follows Dr. Bland into his room.
On the bed, lying pale and exhausted, is Archibald, his lips white, his eyes supernaturally large and dark. They grow even larger and much brighter as they rest on Lilian, who slowly, but—now that she again sees him so weak and prostrate—full of pity, approaches his side.
"You have come, Lilian," he says, faintly: "it is very good of you,—more than I deserve. I vexed you terribly this morning, did I not? But you will forgive me now I have come to grief," with a wan smile.
"I have nothing to forgive," says Lilian, tremulously, gazing down upon him pityingly through two big violet eyes so overcharged with tears as makes one wonder how they can keep the kindly drops from running down her cheeks. "But you have. Oh, Archie, let me tell you how deeply I deplore having spoken so harshly to you to-day. If"—with a shudder—"you had indeed been killed, I should never have been happy again."
"I was unmanly," says Chesney, holding out his hand feebly for hers, which is instantly given. "I am afraid I almost threatened you. I am thoroughly ashamed of myself."
"Oh, hush! I am sure you are speaking too much; and Dr. Bland says you must not excite yourself. Are you suffering much pain?" very tenderly.
"Not much;" but the drawn expression of his face belies his assertion. "To look at you"—softly—"gives me ease."
"I wonder you don't hate me," says Lilian, in a distressed tone, fighting hard to suppress the nervous sob that is rising so rebelliously in her throat. Almost at this moment—so sorry is she for his hopeless infatuation for her—she wishes he did hate her. "Yet I am not altogether to blame, and I have suffered more than I can tell you since you got that terrible fall!" This assurance is very sweet to him. "When I saw you lying motionless,—when I laid your head upon my knees and tried to call you back to life, and you never answered me, I thought—"
"You!" interrupts he, hastily; "did your hands succor me?"
"Yes," coloring warmly; "though it was very little good I could do you, I was so frightened. You looked so cold,—so still. I thought then, 'suppose it was my cross words had induced him to take that fence?' But"—nervously—"it wasn't: that was a foolish, a conceited thought, with no truth in it."
"Some little truth, I think," sadly. "When you told me 'never to speak to you again,'—you recollect?—there came a strange hard look into your usually kind eyes—" pressing her hand gently to take somewhat from the sting of his words—"that cut me to the heart. Your indifference seemed in that one moment to have turned to hatred, and I think I lost my head a little. Forgive me, sweetheart, if I could not then help thinking that death could not be much worse than life."
"Archie,"—gravely,—"promise me you will never think that again."
"I promise."
There is a short pause. It is growing almost dark. The wintry day, sad and weakly from its birth, is dying fast. All the house is silent, hushed, full of expectancy; only a little irrepressible clock in the next room ticks itsloudest, as though defying pain or sorrow to affect it in any way.
"Is it your arm?" asks Lilian, gently, his other hand being hidden beneath the sheet, "or——"
"No; two of my ribs, I believe, and my head aches a good deal."
"I am tormenting you with my foolish chatter," rising remorsefully, as though to quit the room.
"No, no," eagerly; "I tell you it makes me easier to see you; it dulls the pain." Slowly, painfully he draws her hand upward to his lips, and kisses it softly. "We are friends again?" he whispers.
"Yes,—always friends," tightening her fingers sympathetically over his. "If"—very earnestly—"you would only try to make up your mind never to speak to me again as you did—last night, I believe another unpleasant word would never pass between us."
"Do not fear," he says, slowly: "I have quite made up my mind. Rather than risk bringing again into your eyes the look I saw there to-day, I would keep silence forever."
Here Dr. Bland puts his head inside the door, and beckons Lilian to withdraw.
"The five minutes are up," he says, warningly, consulting the golden turnip he usually keeps concealed somewhere about his person, though where, so large is it, has been for years a matter of speculation with his numerous patients.
"I must go," says Lilian, rising: the door is open, and all that goes on within the chamber can be distinctly heard in the corridor outside. "Now try to sleep, will you not? and don't worry, and don't even think if you can help it."
"Must you go?" wistfully.
"I fear I must."
"You will come again to-morrow, very early?"
"I will come to-morrow, certainly, as early as I can. Good-night."
"Good-night."
Closing the door softly behind her, she advances into the corridor, where she still finds Guy and Dr. Bland conversing earnestly. Perhaps they have been waiting for her coming.
"So you have persuaded him to go to sleep?" asks the doctor, beaming kindly upon "pretty Miss Chesney," thatbeing the title given to her long ago by the country generally.
"Yes. I think he will sleep now," Lilian answers. "He looks very white, poor, poor fellow, but not so badly as I expected."
"I suppose your presence did him good. Well, I will take a last look at him before leaving," moving toward the closed door.
"Can I do anything for you?" asks Guy, following him, glad of any excuse that makes him quit Lilian's side.
"Yes,"—smiling,—"you can, indeed. Take your ward down-stairs and give her a glass of wine. She is too pale for my fancy. I shall be having her on my hands next if you don't take care." So saying, he disappears.
Guy turns coldly to Lilian.
"Will you come down, or shall I send something up to you?" he asks, icily.
Lilian's fears have subsided; consequently her spirits have risen to such a degree that they threaten to overflow every instant. A desire for mischief makes her heart glow.
"I shall go with you," she says, with a charming grimace. "I might blame myself in after years if I ever willingly failed to cultivate every second spent in your agreeable society."
So saying, she trips down-stairs gayly beside him, a lovely, though rather naughty, smile upon her lips.
"Claud.—In mine eye, she is the sweetest lady that ever I looked on."—Much Ado About Nothing.
"Claud.—In mine eye, she is the sweetest lady that ever I looked on."—Much Ado About Nothing.
Because of Archibald's accident, and because of much harassing secret thought, Christmas is a failure this year at Chetwoode. Tom Steyne and his wife and their adorable baby come to them for a week, it is true, and try by every means in their power to lighten the gloom that hangs over the house, but in vain.
Guy is obstinatelydistrait, not to say ill-tempered; Lilian is fitful,—now full of the wildest spirits, and anoncapricious and overflowing with little imperious whims; Archibald, though rapidly mending, is of course invisible, and a complete dead letter; while Cyril, usually the most genial fellow in the world and devoid of moods, is at this particular time consumed with anxiety, having at last made up his mind to reveal to his mother his engagement to Cecilia and ask her consent to their speedy marriage. Yet another full month elapses, and already the first glad thought of spring is filling every breast, before he really brings himself to speak upon the dreaded subject.
His disclosure he knows by instinct will be received ungraciously and with disapprobation, not only by Lady Chetwoode, but by Sir Guy, who has all through proved himself an enemy to the cause. His determined opposition will undoubtedly increase the difficulties of the situation, as Lady Chetwoode is in all matters entirely ruled by her eldest son.
Taking Lilian into his confidence, Cyril happens to mention to her this latter sure drawback to the success of his suit, whereupon she generously declares herself both able and willing to take Sir Guy in hand and compel him to be not only non-combative on the occasion, but an actual partisan.
At these valiant words Cyril is so transported with hope and gratitude that, without allowing himself time for reflection, he suddenly and very warmly embraces his pretty colleague, calling her, as "Traddles" might have done, "the dearest girl in the world," and vowing to her that but for one other she is indeed "the only woman he ever loved."
Having recovered from the astonishment caused by this outbreak on the part of the generally nonchalant Cyril, Miss Chesney draws her breath slowly, and wends her way toward Sir Guy's private den, where she knows he is at present sure to be found.
"Are you busy?" she asks, showing her face in the doorway, but not advancing.
"Not to you," courteously. They are now on friendly though somewhat constrained speaking terms.
"Will you give me, then, a little of your time? It is something very important."
"Certainly," replies he, surprised both at the solemnity of her manner and at the request generally. "Come in and shut the door."
"It is just a question I would ask of you," says Lilian, uncomfortably, now she has come to the point, finding an extraordinary difficulty about proceeding. At length, with a desperate effort she raises her head, and, looking full at him, says, distinctly:
"Sir Guy, when two people love each other very dearly, don't you think they ought to marry?"
This startling interrogation has the effect of filling Chetwoode with dismay. He turns white in spite of his vigorous attempt at self-control, and involuntarily lays his hand upon the nearest chair to steady himself. Has she come here to tell him of her affection for her cousin?
"There must be something more," he says, presently, regarding her fixedly.
"Yes, but answer me first. Don't you think they ought?"
"I suppose so,"—unwillingly,—"unless there should be some insuperable difficulty in the way."
"He suspects me; he knows my errand," thinks Lilian, letting her eyes seek the carpet, which gives her all the appearance of feeling a very natural confusion. "He hopes to entangle me. His 'difficulty' is poor dear Cecilia's very disreputable papa."
"No difficulty should stand in the way of love," she argues, severely. "Besides, what is an 'insuperable difficulty'? Supposing one of them should be unhappily less—less respectable than the other: would that be it?"
Sir Guy opens his eyes. Is it not, then, the cousin? and if not, who? "Less respectable." He runs through the long list of all the young men of questionable morals with whom he is acquainted, but can come to no satisfactory conclusion. Has she possibly heard of certain lawless doings of Archibald in earlier days, and does she fear perhaps that he, her guardian, will refuse consent to her marriage because of them? At this thought he freezes.
"I think all unsuitable marriages a crime," he says, coldly. "Sooner or later they lead to the bitterest of all repentance. To marry one one cannot respect! Surely such an act carries with it its own punishment. It is a hateful thought. But then——"
"You do not understand," pleads Lilian, rising in her eagerness, and going nearer to him, while her large eyes read his face nervously as she trembles for the success of her undertaking. "There is no question of 'respect.' Itis not that I mean. These two of whom I speak will never repent, because they love each other so entirely."
"What a stress you lay on the word love!" he says, in a half-mocking, wholly bitter tone. "Do you believe in it?"
"I do, indeed. I cannot think there is anything in this world half so good as it," replies she, with conviction, while reddening painfully beneath his gaze. "Is it not our greatest happiness?"
"I think it is our greatest curse."
"How can you say that?" with soft reproach. "Can you not see for yourself how it redeems all the misery of life for some people?"
"Those two fortunate beings of whom you are speaking, for instance," with a sneer. "All people are not happy in their attachment. What is to become of those miserable wretches who love, but love in vain? Did you never hear of a homely proverb that tells you 'one man's meat is another man's poison'?"
"You are cynical to-day. But to return; the two to whom I allude have no poison to contend with. They love so well that it is misery to them to be apart,—so devotedly that they know no great joy except when they are together. Could such love cool? I am sure not. And is it not cruel to keep them asunder?"
Her voice has grown positively plaintive; she is evidently terribly in earnest.
"Are you speaking of yourself?" asks Guy, huskily, turning with sudden vehemence to lay his hand upon her arm and scan her features with intense, nay, feverish anxiety.
"Of myself?" recoiling. "No! What can you mean? What is it that I should say of myself?" Her cheeks are burning, her eyes are shamed and perplexed, but they have not fallen before his: she is evidently full of secret wonder. "It is for Cyril I plead, and for Cecilia," she says, after a strange pause.
"Cyril!" exclaims he, the most excessive relief in tone and gesture. "Does he want to marry Mrs. Arlington?"
"Yes. I know you have a prejudice against her,"—earnestly,—"but that is because you do not know her. She is the sweetest woman I ever met."
"This has been going on for a long time?"
"I think so. Cyril wished to marry her long ago, butshe would not listen to him without auntie's consent. Was not that good of her? If I was in her place, I do not believe I should wait for any one's consent."
"I am sure"—dryly—"you would not."
"No, not even for my guardian's," replies she, provokingly; then, with a lapse into her former earnestness, "I want you to be good to her. She is proud, prouder than auntie even, and would not forgive a slight. And if her engagement to Cyril came to an end, he would never be happy again. Think of it."
"I do," thoughtfully. "I think it is most unfortunate. And she a widow, too!"
"But such a widow!" enthusiastically. "A perfect darling of a widow! I am not sure, after all,"—with rank hypocrisy,—"that widows are not to be preferred before mere silly foolish girls, who don't know their own minds half the time."
"Is that a description of yourself?" with an irrepressible smile.
"Don't be rude! No 'mere silly girl' would dare to beard a stern guardian in his den as I am doing! But am I to plead in vain? Dear Sir Guy, do not be hard. What could be dearer than her refusing to marry Cyril if it should grieve auntie? 'She would not separate him from his mother,' she said. Surely you must admire her in that one instance at least. Think of it all again. They love each other, and they are unhappy; and you can turn their sorrow into joy."
"Now they love, of course; but will it last? Cyril's habits are very expensive, and he has not much money. Do you ever think you may be promoting a marriage that by and by will prove a failure? The day may come when they will hate you for having helped to bring them together."
"No," says Lilian, stoutly, shaking herblondehead emphatically; "I have no such unhealthy thoughts or fancies. They suit each other; they are happy in each other's society; they will never repent their marriage."
"Is that your experience?" he asks, half amused.
"I have no experience," returns she, coloring and smiling: "I am like the Miller of the Dee; I care for nobody, no, not I,—for nobody cares for me."
"You forget your cousin." The words escape him almost without his consent.
Miss Chesney starts perceptibly, but a second later answers his taunt with admirable composure.
"What? Archie? Oh! he don't count; cousins are privileged beings. Or did you perhaps mean Taffy? But answer me, Sir Guy: you have not yet said you will help me. And I am bent on making Cecilia happy. I am honestly fond of her; I cannot bear to see you think contemptuously of her; while I would gladly welcome her as a sister."
"I do not see how her marrying Cyril can make her your sister," replies he, idly; and then he remembers what he has said, and the same thought striking them both at the same moment, they let their eyes meet uneasily, and both blush scarlet.
Guy, sauntering to the window, takes an elaborate survey of the dismal landscape outside; Lilian coughs gently, and begins to count industriously all the embroidered lilies in the initial that graces the corner of her handkerchief. One—two—three——
"They might as well have put in four," she says out loud, abstractedly.
"What?" turning from the window to watch the lovelymignonneface still bent in contemplation of the lilies.
"Nothing," mildly: "did I say anything?"
"Something about 'four,' I thought."
"Perhaps"—demurely—"I was thinking I had asked you four times to be good-natured, and you had not deigned to grant my request. When Lady Chetwoode speaks to you of Cyril and Cecilia, say you will be on their side. Do not vote against them. Promise."
He hesitates.
"Not whenIask you?" murmurs she, in her softest tones, going a little nearer to him, and uplifting her luminous blue eyes to his.
Still he hesitates.
Miss Chesney takes one step more in his direction, which is necessarily the last, unless she wishes to walk through him. Her eyes, now full of wistful entreaty, and suspiciously bright, are still fixed reproachfully upon his. With a light persuasive gesture she lays five white, slender fingers upon his arm, and whispers, in plaintive tones:
"I feel sure I am going to cry."
"I promise," says Sir Guy, instantly, laughing in spite of himself, and letting his own hand close withunconscious force over hers for a moment. Whereupon Miss Chesney's lachrymose expression vanishes as if by magic, while a smile bright and triumphant illuminates her face in its stead.
"Thank you," she says, delightedly, and trips toward the door eager to impart her good news. Upon the threshold, however, she pauses, and glances back at him coquettishly, perhaps a trifle maliciously, from under her long heavily-fringed lids.
"I knew I should win the day," she says, teasingly, "although you don't believe in love. Nevertheless, I thank you again, and"—raising her head, and holding out one hand to him with a sweetbizarregrace all her own—"I would have you know I don't think you half such a bad old guardy after all!"
* * * * * * *
Almost at this moment Cyril enters his mother's boudoir, where, to his astonishment, he finds her without companions.
"All alone, Madre?" he says, airily, putting on his gayest manner and his most fetching smile to hide the perturbation that in reality he is feeling. His heart is in his boots, but he wears a very gallant exterior.
"Yes," replies Lady Chetwoode, looking up from her work, "and very dull company I find myself. Have you come to enliven me a little? I hope so: I have beengêneto the last degree for quite an hour."
"Where is the inevitable Florence?"
"In the drawing-room, with Mr. Boer. I can't think what she sees in him, but she appears to value his society highly. To-day he has brought her some more church music to try over, and I really wish he wouldn't. Anything more afflicting than chants tried over and over again upon the piano I can't conceive. They are very bad upon the organ, but on the piano! And sometimes hewillinsist on singing them with her!"
Here two or three wailing notes from down-stairs are wafted, weeping into the room, setting the hearers' teeth on edge. To even an incorrect ear it might occur that Mr. Boer's stentorian notes are not always in tune!
"My dear, my dear," exclaims Lady Chetwoode, in a voice of agony, "shut the door close;closer, my dear Cyril, they are at it again!"
"It's a disease," says Cyril, solemnly. "A great many curates have it. We should count ourselves lucky that laymen don't usually catch it."
"I really think it is. I can't bear that sort of young man myself," says Lady Chetwoode, regretfully, who feels some gentle grief that she cannot bring herself to admire Mr. Boer; "but I am sure we should all make allowances; none of us are perfect; and Mrs. Boileau assures me he is very earnest and extremely zealous. Still, I wish he could try to speak differently: I think his mother very much to blame for bringing him up with such a voice."
"She was much to blame for bringing him up at all. He should have been strangled at his birth!" Cyril says this slowly, moodily, with every appearance of really meaning what he says. He is, however, unaware of the blood-thirsty expression he has assumed, as though in support of his words, being in fact miles away in thought from Mr. Boer and his Gregorian music. He is secretly rehearsing a coming conversation with his mother, in which Cecilia's name is to be delicately introduced.
"That is going rather far, is it not?" Lady Chetwoode says, laughing.
"A man is not an automaton. He cannot always successfully stifle his feelings," says Cyril, still more moodily,àproposof his own thoughts; which second most uncalled-for remark induces his mother to examine him closely.
"There is something on your mind," she says, gently. "You are not now thinking of either me or Mr. Boer. Sit down, dear boy, and tell me all about it."
"I will tell you standing," says Cyril, who feels it would be taking advantage of her ignorance to accept a chair until his disclosure is made. Then the private rehearsal becomes public, and presently Lady Chetwoode knows all about his "infatuation," as she terms it, for the widow, and is quite as much distressed about it as even he had expected.
"It is terrible!" she says, presently, when she has somewhat recovered from the first shock caused by his intelligence; "and only last spring you promised me to think seriously of Lady Fanny Stapleton."
"My dear mother, who could think seriously of Lady Fanny? Why, with her short nose, and her shorter neck, and her anything but sylph-like form, she has long ago degenerated into one vast joke."
"She has money," in a rather stifled tone.
"And would you have me sacrifice my whole life for mere money?" reproachfully. "Would money console you afterward, when you saw me wretched?"
"But why should you be wretched?" Then, quickly, "Are you so very sure this Mrs. Arlington will make you happy?"
"Utterly positive!" in a radiant tone.
"And are you ready to sacrifice every comfort for mere beauty?" retorts she. "Ah, Cyril, beware: you do not understand yet what it is to be hampered for want of money. And there are other things: when one marries out of one's own sphere, one always repents it."
"One cannot marry higher than a lady," flushing. "She is not a countess, or an honorable, or even Lady Fanny; but she is of good family, and she is very sweet, and very gentle, and very womanly. I shall never again see any one so good in my eyes. I entreat you, dear mother, not to refuse your consent."
"I shall certainly say nothing until I see Guy," says Lady Chetwoode, tearfully, making a last faint stand.
"Then let us send for him, and get it over," Cyril says, with gentle impatience, who is very pale, but determined to finish the subject one way or the other, now and forever.
Almost as he says it, Guy enters; and Lady Chetwoode, rising, explains the situation to him in a few agitated words. True to his promise to Lilian, and more perhaps because a glance at his brother's quiet face tells him opposition will be vain, Guy says a few things in favor of the engagement. But though the words are kind, they are cold; and, having said them, he beats an instantaneous retreat, leaving Cyril, by his well-timed support, master of the field.
"Marry her, then, as you are all against me," says Lady Chetwoode, the tears running down her cheeks. It is very bitter to her to remember how Lady Fanny's precious thousands have been literally flung away. All women, even the best and the sweetest, are mercenary where their sons are concerned.
"And you will call upon her?" says Cyril, after a few minutes spent in an effort to console her have gone by.
"Call!" repeats poor Lady Chetwoode, with some indignation, "upon that woman who absolutely declined to receive me when first she came! I have a little pride stillremaining, Cyril, though indeed you have humbled a good deal of it to-day," with keen reproach.
"When first she came,"—apologetically,—"she was in great grief and distress of mind."
"Grief for her husband?" demands she; which is perhaps the bitterest thing Lady Chetwoode ever said in her life to either of her "boys."
"No," coldly; "I think I told you she had never any affection for him." Then his voice changes, and going over to her he takes her hand entreatingly, and passes one arm over her shoulder. "Can you not be kind to her for my sake?" he implores. "Dearest mother, I cannot bear to hear you speak of her as 'that woman,' when I love her so devotedly."
"I suppose when one is married one may without insult be called a woman," turning rather aside from his caress.
"But then she was so little married, and she looks quite a girl. You will go to see her, and judge for yourself?"
"I suppose there is nothing else left for me to do. I would not have all the county see how utterly you have disappointed me. I have been a good mother to you, Cyril,"—tremulously,—"and this is how you requite me."
"It cuts me to the heart to grieve you so much,"—tenderly,—"you, my own mother. But I—I have been a good son to you, too, have I not, dear Madre?"
"You have indeed," says Lady Chetwoode; and then she cries a little behind her handkerchief.
"How old is she?" with quivering lips.
"Twenty-two or twenty-three, I am not sure which," in a subdued tone.
"In manner is she quiet?"
"Very. Tranquil is the word that best expresses her. When you see her you will acknowledge I have not erred in taste."
Lady Chetwoode with a sigh lays down her arms, and when Cyril stoops his face to hers she does not refuse the kiss he silently demands, so that with a lightened conscience he leaves the room to hurry on the wings of love to Cecilia's bower.
All the way there he seems to tread on air. His heart is beating, he is full of happiest exultation. The day is bright and joyous; already one begins to think of winter kindly as a thing of the past. All nature seems in unison with his exalted mood.
Reaching the garden he knows so well and loves so fondly, he walks with eager, longing steps toward a side path where usually she he seeks is to be found. Now standing still, he looks round anxiously for Cecilia.
But Cecilia is not there!