"Ye scenes of my childhood, whose loved recollection
Embitters the present, compared with the past."--BYRON.
When Lady Chetwoode, who is sitting in the drawing-room, hears the
carriage draw up to the door, she straightens herself in her chair,
smoothes down the folds of her black velvet gown with rather nervous
fingers, and prepares for an unpleasant surprise. She hears Cyril's
voice in the hall inquiring where his mother is, and, rising to her
feet, she makes ready to receive her new ward.
She has put on what she fondly hopes is a particularly gracious air, but
which is in reality a palpable mixture of fear and uncertainty. The door
opens; there is a slight pause; and then Lilian, slight, and fair, and
pretty, stands upon the threshold.
She is very pale, partly through fatigue, but much more through
nervousness and the self-same feeling of uncertainty that is weighing
down her hostess. As her eyes meet Lady Chetwoode's they take an
appealing expression that goes straight to the heart of that kindest of
women.
"You have arrived, my dear," she says, a ring of undeniable cordiality
in her tone, while from her face all the unpleasant fear has vanished.
She moves forward to greet her guest, and as Lilian comes up to her
takes the fair sweet face between her hands and kisses her softly on
each cheek.
"You are like your mother," she says, presently, holding the girl a
little way from her and regarding her with earnest attention.
"Yes,--very like your mother, and she was beautiful. You are welcome to
Chetwoode, my dear child."
Lilian, who is feeling rather inclined to cry, does not trust herself to
make any spoken rejoinder, but, putting up her lips of her own accord,
presses them gratefully to Lady Chetwoode's, thereby ratifying the
silent bond of friendship that without a word has on the instant been
sealed between the old woman and the young one.
A great sense of relief has fallen upon Lady Chetwoode. Not until now,
when her fears have been proved groundless, does she fully comprehend
the amount of uneasiness and positive horror with which she has regarded
the admittance of a stranger into her happy home circle. The thought
that something unrefined, disagreeable, unbearable, might be coming has
followed like a nightmare for the past week, but now, in the presence of
this lovely child, it has fled away ashamed, never to return.
Lilian's delicate, well-bred face and figure, her small hands, her
graceful movements, her whole air, proclaim her one of the world to
which Lady Chetwoode belongs, and the old lady, who is aristocrat to her
fingers' ends, hails the fact with delight. Her beauty alone had almost
won her cause, when she cast that beseeching glance from the doorway;
and now when she lets the heavy tears grow in her blue eyes, all doubt
is at end, and "almost" gives way to "quite."
Henceforth she is altogether welcome at Chetwoode, as far as its present
gentle mistress is concerned.
"Cyril took care of you, I hope?" says Lady Chetwoode, glancing over her
guest's head at her second son, and smiling kindly.
"Great care of me," returning the smile.
"But you are tired, of course; it is a long journey, and no doubt you
are glad to reach home," says Lady Chetwoode, using the word naturally.
And though the mention of it causes Lilian a pang, still there is
something tender and restful about it too, that gives some comfort to
her heart.
"Perhaps you would like to go to your room," continues Lady Chetwoode,
thoughtfully, "though I fear your maid cannot have arrived yet."
"Miss Chesney, like Juliet, boasts a nurse," says Cyril; "she scorns to
travel with a mere maid."
"My nurse has always attended me," says Lilian, laughing and blushing.
"She has waited on me since I was a month old. I should not know how to
get on without her, and I am sure she could not get on without me. I
think she is far better than any maid I could get."
"She must have an interest in you that no new-comer could possibly
have," says Lady Chetwoode, who is in the humor to agree with anything
Lilian may say, so thankful is she to her for being what she is. And yet
so strong is habit that involuntarily, as she speaks, her eyes seek
Lilian's hair, which is dressed to perfection. "I have no doubt she is a
treasure,"--with an air of conviction. "Come with me, my dear."
They leave the room together. In the hall the housekeeper, coming
forward, says respectfully:
"Shall I take Miss Chesney to her room, my lady?"
"No, Matthews," says Lady Chetwoode, graciously; "it will give me
pleasure to take her there myself."
By which speech all the servants are at once made aware that Miss
Chesney is already in high favor with "my lady," who never, except on
very rare occasions, takes the trouble to see personally after her
visitors' comfort.
* * * * *
When Lilian has been ten minutes in her room Mrs. Tipping arrives, and
is shown up-stairs, where she finds her small mistress evidently in the
last stage of despondency. These ten lonely minutes have been fatal to
her new-born hopes, and have reduced her once more to the melancholy
frame of mind in which she left her home in the morning. All this the
faithful Tipping sees at a glance, and instantly essays to cheer her.
Silently and with careful fingers she first removes her hat, then her
jacket, then she induces her to stand up, and, taking off her dress,
throws round her a white wrapper taken from a trunk, and prepares to
brush the silky yellow hair that for eighteen years has been her own to
dress and tend and admire.
"Eh, Miss Lilian, child, but it's a lovely place!" she says, presently,
this speech being intended as a part of the cheering process.
"It seems a fine place," says the "child," indifferently.
"Fine it is indeed. Grander even than the Park, I'm thinking."
"'Grander than the Park'!" says Miss Chesney, rousing to unexpected
fervor. "How can you say that? Have you grown fickle, nurse? There is no
place to be compared to the Park, not one in all the world. You can
think as you please, of course,"--with reproachful scorn,--"but it is
_not_ grander than the Park."
"I meant larger, ninny," soothingly.
"It is not larger."
"But, darling, how can you say so when you haven't been round it?"
"How can _you_ say so when _you_ haven't been round it?"
This is a poser. Nurse meditates a minute and then says:
"Thomas--that's the groom that drove me--says it is."
"Thomas!"--with a look that, had the wretched Thomas been on the spot,
would infallibly have reduced him to ashes; "and what does Thomas know
about it? It is _not_ larger."
Silence.
"Indeed, my bairn, I think you might well be happy here," says nurse,
tenderly returning to the charge.
"I don't want you to think about me at all," says Miss Chesney, in
trembling tones. "You agreed with Aunt Priscilla that I ought to leave
my dear, dear home, and I shall never forgive you for it. I am not happy
here. I shall never be happy here. I shall die of fretting for the Park,
and when I am _dead_ you will perhaps be satisfied."
"Miss Lilian!"
"You shan't brush my hair any more," says Miss Lilian, dexterously
evading the descent of the brush. "I can do it for myself very well. You
are a traitor."
"I am sorry, Miss Chesney, if I have displeased you," says nurse, with
much dignity tempered with distress: only when deeply grieved and
offended does she give her mistress her full title.
"How dare you call me Miss Chesney!" cries the young lady, springing to
her feet. "It is very unkind of you, and just now too, when I am all
alone in a strange house. Oh, nurse!" throwing her arms round the neck
of that devoted and long-suffering woman, and forgetful of her
resentment, which indeed was born only of her regret, "I am so unhappy,
and lonely, and sorry! What shall I do?"
"How can I tell you, my lamb?"--caressing with infinite affection the
golden head that lies upon her bosom. "All that I say only vexes you."
"No, it doesn't: I am wicked when I make you think that. After
all,"--raising her face--"I am not quite forsaken; I have you still, and
you will never leave me."
"Not unless I die, my dear," says nurse, earnestly. "And, Miss Lilian,
how can you look at her ladyship without knowing her to be a real
friend. And Mr. Chetwoode too; and perhaps Sir Guy will be as nice, when
you see him."
"Perhaps he won't," ruefully.
"That's nonsense, my dear. Let us look at the bright side of things
always. And by and by Master Taffy will come here on a visit, and then
it will be like old times. Come, now, be reasonable, child of my heart,"
says nurse, "and tell me, won't you look forward to having Master Taffy
here?"
"I wish he was here now," says Lilian, visibly brightening. "Yes;
perhaps they will ask him. But, nurse, do you remember when last I saw
Taffy it was at----"
Here she shows such unmistakable symptoms of relapsing into the tearful
mood again, that nurse sees the necessity of changing the subject.
"Come, my bairn, let me dress you for dinner," she says, briskly, and
presently, after a little more coaxing, she succeeds so well that she
sends her little mistress down to the drawing-room, looking her
loveliest and her best.