"She was beautiful as the lily-bosomed Houri that gladdens the
visions of the poet when, soothed to dreams of pleasantness and
peace, the downy pinions of Sleep wave over his turbulent
soul!"--_From the Arabic._
All the flowers at Chetwoode are rejoicing; their heads are high
uplifted, their sweetest perfumes are making still more sweet the soft,
coquettish wind that, stealing past them, snatches their kisses ere they
know.
It is a glorious day, full of life, and happy sunshine, and music from
the throats of many birds. All the tenors and sopranos and contraltos of
the air seem to be having one vast concert, and are filling the woods
with melody.
In the morning a little laughing, loving shower came tumbling down into
the earth's embrace, where it was caught gladly and kept forever,--a
little baby shower, on which the sunbeams smiled, knowing that it had
neither power nor wish to kill them.
But now the greedy earth has grasped it, and others, knowing its fate,
fear to follow, and only the pretty sparkling jewels that tremble on the
grass tell of its having been.
In the very centre of the great lawn that stretches beyond the
pleasure-grounds stands a mighty oak. Its huge branches throw their arms
far and wide, making a shelter beneath them for all who may choose to
come and seek there for shade. Around its base pretty rustic chairs are
standing in somewhat dissipated order, while on its topmost bough a crow
is swaying and swinging as the soft wind rushes by, making an inky blot
upon the brilliant green, as it were a patch upon the cheek of a court
belle.
Over all the land from his lofty perch this crow can see,--can mark the
smiling fields, the yellowing corn, the many antlered deer in the Park,
the laughing brooklets, the gurgling streams that now in the great heat
go lazily and stumble sleepily over every pebble in their way.
He can see his neighbors' houses, perhaps his own snug nest, and all the
beauty and richness and warmth of an English landscape.
But presently--being a bird of unformed tastes or unappreciative, or
perhaps fickle--he tires of looking, and flapping heavily his black
wings, rises slowly and sails away.
Toward the east he goes, the sound of his harsh but homely croak growing
fainter as he flies. Over the trees in their gorgeous clothing, across
the murmuring brooks, through the uplands, over the heads of the deer
that gaze at him with their mournful, gentle eyes, he travels, never
ceasing in his flight until he comes to a small belt of firs, evidently
set apart, in the centre of which stands "The Cottage."
It is considerably larger than one would expect from its name. A long,
low, straggling house, about three miles from Chetwoode entrance-gate,
going by the road, but only one mile, taking a short cut through the
Park. A very pretty house,--with a garden in front, carefully hedged
round, and another garden at the back,--situated in a lovely
spot,--perhaps the most enviable in all Chetwoode,--silent, dreamy,
where one might, indeed, live forever, "the world forgetting, by the
world forgot."
In the garden all sorts of the sweetest old-world flowers are
blooming,--pinks and carnations, late lilies and sweet-williams; the
velvety heartsease, breathing comfort to the poor
love-that-lies-a-bleeding; the modest forget-me-not, the fragrant
mignonette (whose qualities, they rudely say surpass its charms), the
starry jessamine, the frail woodbine; while here and there from every
nook and corner shines out the fairest, loveliest, queenliest flower of
all,--the rose.
Every bush is rich with them; the air is heavy with their odor. Roses of
every hue, of every size, from the grand old cabbage to the smallest
Scotch, are here. One gazes round in silent admiration, until the great
love of them swells within the heart and a desire for possession arises,
when, growing murderous, one wishes, like Nero, they had but one neck,
that they might all be gathered at a blow.
Upon the house only snow-white roses grow. In great masses they uprear
their heads, peeping curiously in at the windows, trailing lovingly
round the porches, nestling under the eaves, drooping coquettishly at
the angles. To-day a raindrop has fallen into each scented heart, has
lingered there all the morning, and is still loath to leave. Above the
flowers the birds hover twittering; beneath them the ground is as a
snowy carpet from their fallen petals. Poor petals! How sad it is that
they must fall! Yet, even in death, how sweet!
It is Saturday. In the morning the new tenant was expected; the evening
is to bring the new ward. Lady Chetwoode, in consequence, is a little
trouble-minded. Guy has gone to the Bellairs'. Cyril is in radiant
spirits. Not that this latter fact need be recorded, as Cyril belongs to
those favored ones who at their birth receive a dowry from their fairy
godparents of unlimited good-humor.
He is at all times an easy-going young man, healthy, happy, whose path
in life up to this has been strewn with roses. To him the world isn't
"half a bad place," which he is content to take as he finds it, never
looking too closely into what doesn't concern him,--a treatment the
world evidently likes, as it regards him (especially the gentler portion
of it) with the utmost affection.
Even with that rare class, mothers blessed with handsome daughters, he
finds favor, either through his face or his manner, or because of the
fact that though a younger son, he has nine hundred pounds a year of his
own and a pretty place called Moorlands, about six miles from Chetwoode.
It was his mother's portion and is now his.
He is tall, broad-shouldered, and rather handsome, with perhaps more
mouth than usually goes to one man's share; but, as he has laughed
straight through from his cradle to his twenty-sixth year, this is
scarcely to be wondered at. His eyes are gray and frank, his hair is
brown, his skin a good deal tanned. He is very far from being an Adonis,
but he is good to look at, and to know him is to like him.
Just now, luncheon being over, and nothing else left to do, he is
feeling rather bored than otherwise, and lounges into his mother's
morning-room, being filled with a desire to have speech with somebody.
The somebody nearest to him at the moment being Lady Chetwoode, he
elects to seek her presence and inflict his society upon her.
"It's an awful nuisance having anything on your mind, isn't it, mother?"
he says, genially.
"It is indeed, my dear," with heartfelt earnestness and a palpable
expectation of worse things yet to come. "What unfortunate mistake have
you been making now?"
"Not one. 'You wrong me, Brutus.' I have been as gently behaved as a
skipping lamb all the morning. No; I mean having to fetch our visitor
this evening weighs upon my spirits and somehow idles me. I can settle
to nothing."
"You seldom can, dear, can you?" says Lady Chetwoode, mildly, with
unmeant irony. "But"--as though suddenly inspired--"suppose you go for a
walk?"
This is a mean suggestion, and utterly unworthy of Lady Chetwoode. The
fact is, the day is warm and she is sleepy, and she knows she will not
get her forty winks unless he takes himself out of the way. So, with a
view to getting rid of him, she grows hypocritically kind.
"A walk will do you good," she says. "You don't take half exercise
enough. And, you know, the want of it makes people fat."
"I believe you are right," Cyril says, rising. He stretches himself,
laughs indolently at his own lazy figure in an opposite mirror, after
which he vanishes almost as quickly as even she can desire.
Five minutes later, with an open book upon her knee, as a means of
defense should any one enter unannounced, Lady Chetwoode is snoozing
comfortably; while Cyril, following the exact direction taken by the
crow in the morning, walks leisurely onward, under the trees, to meet
his fate!
Quite unthinkingly, quite unsuspiciously, he pursues his way, dreaming
of anything in the world but The Cottage and its new inmate, until the
house, suddenly appearing before him, recalls his wandering thoughts.
The hall-door stands open. Every one of the windows is thrown wide.
There is about everything the unmistakable _silent_ noise that belongs
to an inhabited dwelling, however quiet. The young man, standing still,
wonders vaguely at the change.
Then all at once a laugh rings out; there is an undeniable scuffle, and
presently a tiny black dog with a little mirthful yelp breaks from the
house into the garden and commences a mad scamper all round and round
the rose trees.
An instant later he is followed by a trim maid-servant, who, flushed but
smiling, rushes after him, making well-directed but ineffectual pounces
on the truant. As she misses him the dog gives way to another yelp (of
triumph this time), and again the hunt goes on.
But now there comes the sound of other feet, and Cyril, glancing up from
his interested watch over the terrier's movements, sees surely
something far, far lovelier than he has ever seen before.
Even at this early moment his heart gives a little bound and then seems
to cease from beating.
Upon the door-step stands a girl--although quite three-and-twenty she
still looks the merest girl--clad in a gown of clear black-and-white
cambric. A huge coarse white apron covers all the front of this gown,
and is pinned, French fashion, half-way across her bosom. Her arms,
white and soft, and rounded as a child's, are bared to the elbows, her
sleeves being carefully tucked up. Two little feet, encased in Louis
Quinze slippers, peep coyly from beneath her robe.
Upon this vision Cyril gazes, his whole heart in his eyes, and marks
with wondering admiration each fresh beauty. She is tall, rather _posee_
in figure, with a small, proud head, and the carriage of a goddess. Her
features are not altogether perfect, and yet (or rather because of it)
she is extremely beautiful. She has great, soft, trusting eyes of a deep
rare gray, that looking compel the truth; above her low white forehead
her hair rolls back in silky ruffled waves, and is gathered into a loose
knot behind. It is a rich nut-brown in color, through which runs a faint
tinge of red that turns to burnished gold under the sun's kiss. Her skin
is exquisite, pale but warm, through which as she speaks the blood comes
and lingers awhile, and flies only to return. Her mouth is perhaps,
strictly speaking, in a degree imperfect, yet it is one of her principal
charms; it is large and lovable, and covers pretty teeth as white as
snow. For my part I love a large mouth, if well shaped, and do not
believe a hearty laugh can issue from a small one. And, after all, what
is life without its laughter?
A little white cap of the "mob" description adorns her head, and is
trimmed fancifully with black velvet bows that match her gown. Her hands
are small and fine, the fingers tapering; just now they are clasped
together excitedly; and a brilliant color has come into her cheeks as
she stands (unconscious of criticism) and watches the depravity of her
favorite.
"Oh! catch him, Kate," she cries, in a clear, sweet voice, that is now
rather impetuous and suggests rising indignation. "Wicked little wretch!
He shall have a good whipping for this. Dirty little dog,"--(this to the
black terrier, in a tone of reproachful disgust)--"not to want his nice
clean bath after all the dust of yesterday and to-day!"
This rebuke is evidently lost upon the reprobate terrier, who still
flies before the enemy who follows on his heels in hot pursuit. Round
and round, in and out, hither and thither he goes, the breathless maid
after him, the ceaseless upbraiding of his mistress ringing in his ears.
The nice clean bath has no charms for this degenerate dog, although his
ablutions are to be made sweet by the touch of those snowy dimpled hands
now clasped in an agony of expectation. No, this miserable animal,
disdaining all the good things in store for him, rushes past Kate, past
his angry mistress, past the roses, out through the bars of the gate
right into Cyril's arms! Oh, ill-judging dog!
Cyril, having caught him, holds him closely, in spite of his vehement
struggles, for, scenting mischief in the air, he fights valiantly for
freedom.
Kate runs to the garden-gate, so does the bare-armed goddess, and there,
on the path, behold their naughty treasure held fast in a stranger's
arms!
When she sees him the goddess suddenly freezes and grows gravely
dignified. The smile departs from her lips, the rich crimson dies, while
in its place a faint, delicate blush comes to suffuse her cheeks.
"This is your dog, I think?" says Cyril, pretending to be doubtful on
the subject; though who could be more sure?
"Yes,--thank you." Then as her eyes fall upon her lovely naked arms the
blush grows deeper and deeper, until at length her face is red as one of
her own perfect roses.
"He was very dusty after yesterday's journey, and I was going to wash
him," she says, with a gentle dignity but an evident anxiety to explain.
"Lucky dog!" says Cyril gravely, in a low tone.
Kate has disappeared into the background with the refractory pet, whose
quavering protests are lost in the distance. Again silence has fallen
upon the house, the wood, the flowers. The faintest flicker of a smile
trembles for one instant round the corners of the stranger's lips, then
is quickly subdued.
"Thank you, sir," she says, once more, quietly, and turning away, is
swallowed up hurriedly by the envious roses.
All the way home Cyril's mind is full of curious thought, though one
topic alone engrosses it. The mistress of that small ungrateful terrier
has taken complete and entire possession of him, to the exclusion of all
other matter. So the widow has not arrived in solitary state,--that is
evident. And what a lovely girl to bring down and bury alive in this
quiet spot. Who on earth can she be?
How beautiful her arms were, and her hands!--Even the delicate, tinted
filbert nails had not escaped his eager gaze. How sweet she looked, how
bright! Surely a widow would not be fit company for so gay a creature;
and still, when she grew grave at the gate, when her smile faded, had
not a wistful, sorrowful expression fallen across her face and into her
exquisite eyes? Perhaps she, too, has suffered,--is in trouble, and,
through sympathy, clings to her friend the widow.
After a moment or two, this train of thought being found unsatisfactory,
another forces its way to the surface.
By the bye, why should she not be her sister,--that is, the widow's? Of
course; nothing more likely. How stupid of him not to have thought of
that before! Naturally Mrs. Arlington has a sister, who has come down
with her to see that the place is comfortable and well situated and
that, and who will stay with her until the first loneliness that always
accompanies a change has worn away.
And when it has worn away, what then? The conclusion of his thought
causes Cyril an unaccountable pang, that startles even himself. In five
minutes--in five short minutes--surely no woman's eyes, however lovely,
could have wrought much mischief; and yet--and yet--what was there about
her to haunt one so?
He rouses himself with an effort and refuses to answer his own question.
Is he a love-sick boy, to fancy himself enthralled by each new pretty
face he sees? Are there only one laughing mouth and one pair of deep
gray eyes in the world? What a fool one can be at times!
One can indeed!
He turns his thoughts persistently upon the coming season, the
anticipation of which, only yesterday, filled him with the keenest
delight. But three or four short weeks to pass, and the 12th will be
here, bringing with it all the joy and self-gratulation that can be
derived from the slaying of many birds. He did very well last year, and
earned himself many laurels and the reputation of being a crack shot.
How will it be this season? Already it seems to him he scents the
heather, and feels the weight of his trusty gun upon his shoulder, and
hears the soft patter of his good dog's paws behind him. What an awful
sell it would be if the birds proved scarce! Warren spoke highly of them
the other day, and Warren is an old hand; but still--but still----
How could a widow of forty have a sister of twenty--unless, perhaps, she
was a step-sister? Yes, that must be it. Step---- Pshaw!
It is a matter of congratulation that just at this moment Cyril finds
himself in view of the house, and, pulling out his watch, discovers he
has left himself only ten minutes in which to get himself ready before
starting for the station to meet Miss Chesney.
Perforce, therefore, he leaves off his cogitations, nor renews them
until he is seated in the detested carriage _en route_ for Trustan and
the ward, when he is so depressed by the roof's apparent intention of
descending bodily upon his head that he lets his morbid imagination hold
full sway and gives himself up to the gloomiest forebodings, of which
the chief is that the unknown being in possession of such great and
hitherto unsurpassed beauty is, of course, not only beloved by but
hopelessly engaged to a man in every way utterly unworthy of her.
When he reaches Trustan the train is almost due, and two minutes
afterward it steams into the station.
The passengers alight. Cyril gazes anxiously up and down the platform
among the women, trying to discover which of them looks most likely to
bear the name of Chesney.
A preternaturally tall young lady, with eyes like sloes and a very
superior figure, attracts him most. She is apparently alone, and is
looking round as though expecting some one. It is--it must be she.
Raising his hat, Cyril advances toward her and makes a slight bow, which
is not returned. The sloes sparkle indignantly, the superior figure
grows considerably more superior; and the young lady, turning as though
for protection from this bad man who has so insolently and openly
molested her in the broad daylight, lays her hand with an expression of
relief upon the arm of a gentleman who has just joined her.
"I thought you were never coming," she says, in a clear distinct tone
meant for Cyril's discomfiture, casting upon that depraved person a
glance replete with scorn.
As her companion happens to be Harry Bellair of Belmont, Mr. Chetwoode
is rather taken aback. He moves aside and colors faintly. Harry Bellair,
who is a young gentleman addicted to huge plaids, and low hats, and
three or four lockets on his watch chain, being evidently under the
impression that Cyril has been "up to one of his larks," bestows upon
him in passing a covert but odiously knowing wink, that has the effect
of driving Cyril actually wild, and makes him give way to low
expressions under his breath.
"Vulgar beast!" he says at length out loud with much unction, which
happily affords him instant relief.
"Are you looking for me?" says a soft voice at his elbow, and turning he
beholds a lovely childish face upturned somewhat timidly to his.
"Miss Chesney?" he asks, with hesitation, being mindful of his late
defeat.
"Yes," smiling. "It _is_ for me, then, you are looking? Oh,"--with a
thankful sigh,--"I am so glad! I have wanted to ask you the question for
two minutes, but I was afraid you might be the wrong person."
"I wish you had spoken," laughing: "you would have saved me from much
ignominy. I fancied you something altogether different from what you
are," with a glance full of kindly admiration,--"and I fear I made
rather a fool of myself in consequence. I beg your pardon for having
kept you so long in suspense, and especially for having in my ignorance
mistaken you for that black-browed lady." Here he smiles down on the
fair sweet little face that is smiling up at him.
"Was it that tall young lady you called a 'beast'?" asks Miss Lilian,
demurely. "If so, it wasn't very polite of you, was it?"
"Oh,"--with a laugh,--"did you hear me? I doubt I have begun our
acquaintance badly. No, notwithstanding the provocation I received (you
saw the withering glance she bestowed upon me?), I refrained from evil
language as far as she was concerned, and consoled myself by expending
my rage upon her companion,--the man who was seeing after her. Are you
tired?--Your journey has not been very unpleasant, I hope?"
"Not unpleasant at all. It was quite fine the entire time, and there
was no dust."
"Your trunks are labeled?"
"Yes."
"Then perhaps you had better come with me. One of the men will see to
your luggage, and will drive your maid home. She is with you?"
"Yes. That is, my nurse is; I have never had any other maid. This is
Tipping," says Miss Chesney, moving back a step or two, and drawing
forward with an affectionate gesture, a pleasant-faced, elderly woman of
about fifty-five.
"I am glad to see you, Mrs. Tipping," says Cyril, genially, who does not
think it necessary, like some folk, to treat the lower classes with
studied coldness, as though they were a thing apart. "Perhaps you will
tell the groom about your mistress's things, while I take her out of
this draughty station."
Lilian follows him to the carriage, wondering as she goes. There is an
air of command about this new acquaintance that puzzles her. Is he Sir
Guy? Is it her guardian in _propria persona_ who has come to meet her?
And could a guardian be so--so--likable? Inwardly she hopes it may be
so, being rather impressed by Cyril's manner and handsome face.
When they are about half-way to Chetwoode she plucks up courage to say,
although the saying of it costs her a brilliant blush, "Are you my
guardian?"
"I call that a most unkind question," says Cyril. "Have I fallen short
in any way, that the thought suggests itself? Do you mean to insinuate
that I am not guarding you properly now? Am I not taking sufficiently
good care of you?"
"You _are_ my guardian then?" says Lilian, with such unmistakable hope
in her tones that Cyril laughs outright.
"No, I am not," he says; "I wish I were; though for your own sake it is
better as it is. Your guardian is no end a better fellow than I am. He
would have come to meet you to-day, but he was obliged to go some miles
away on business."
"Business!" thinks Miss Chesney, disdainfully. "Of course it would never
do for the goody-goody to neglect his business. Oh, dear! I know we
shall not get on at all."
"I am very glad he did not put himself out for me," she says, glancing
at Cyril from under her long curling lashes. "It would have been a pity,
as I have not missed him at all."
"I feel intensely grateful to you for that speech," says Cyril. "When
Guy cuts me out later on,--as he always does,--I shall still have the
memory of it to fall back upon."
"Is this Chetwoode?" Lilian asks, five minutes later, as they pass
through the entrance gate. "What a charming avenue!"--putting her head
out of the window, "and so dark. I like it dark; it reminds me of"--she
pauses, and two large tears come slowly, slowly into her blue eyes and
tremble there--"my home," she says in a low tone.
"You must try to be happy with us," Cyril says, kindly, taking one of
her hands and pressing it gently, to enforce his sympathy; and then the
horses draw up at the hall door, and he helps her to alight, and
presently she finds herself within the doors of Chetwoode.