"Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self,
Recluse amid the close-embowering woods."
--THOMSON.
Next morning, having enjoyed the long and dreamless sleep that belongs
to the heart-whole, Lilian runs down to the breakfast-room, with the
warm sweet flush of health and youth upon her cheeks. Finding Lady
Chetwoode and Cyril already before her, she summons all her grace to her
aid and tries to look ashamed of herself.
"Am I late?" she asks, going up to Lady Chetwoode and giving her a
little caress as a good-morning. Her very touch is so gentle and
childish and loving that it sinks straight into the deepest recesses of
one's heart.
"No. Don't be alarmed. I have only just come down myself. You will soon
find us out to be some of the laziest people alive."
"I am glad of it: I like lazy people," says Lilian; "all the rest seem
to turn their lives into one great worry."
"Will you not give me a good-morning, Miss Chesney?" says Cyril, who is
standing behind her.
"Good-morning," putting her hand into his.
"But that is not the way you gave it to my mother," in an aggrieved
tone.
"No?--Oh!"--as she comprehends,--"but you should remember how much more
deserving your mother is."
"With sorrow I acknowledge the truth of your remark," says Cyril, as he
hands her her tea.
"Cyril is our naughty boy," Lady Chetwoode says; "we all spend our lives
making allowances for Cyril. You must not mind what he says. I hope you
slept well, Lilian; there is nothing does one so much good as a sound
sleep, and you looked quite pale with fatigue last night. You
see"--smiling--"how well I know your name. It is very familiar to me,
having been your dear mother's."
"It seems strangely familiar to me also, though I never know your
mother," says Cyril. "I don't believe I shall ever be able to call you
Miss Chesney. Would it make you very angry if I called you Lilian?"
"Indeed, no; I shall be very much obliged to you. I should hardly know
myself by the more formal title. You shall call me Lilian, and I shall
call you Cyril,--if you don't mind."
"I don't think I do,--much," says Cyril; so the compact is signed.
"Guy will be here surely by luncheon," says Lady Chetwoode, with a view
of giving her guest pleasure.
"Oh! will he really?" says Lilian, in a quick tone, suggestive of
dismay.
"I am sure of it," says Guy's mother fondly: "he never breaks his word."
"Of course not," thinks Lilian to herself. "Fancy a paragon going wrong!
How I hate a man who never breaks his word! Why, the Medes and Persians
would be weak-minded compared with him."
"I suppose not," she says aloud, rather vaguely.
"You seem to appreciate the idea of your guardian's return," says Cyril,
with a slight smile, having read half her thoughts correctly. "Does the
mere word frighten you? I should like to know your real opinion of what
a guardian ought to be."
"How can I have an opinion on the subject when I have never seen one?"
"Yet a moment ago I saw by your face you were picturing one to
yourself."
"If so, it could scarcely be Sir Guy,--as he is not old."
"Not very. He has still a few hairs and a few teeth remaining. But won't
you then answer my question? What is your ideal guardian like?"
"If you press it I shall tell you, but you must not betray me to Sir
Guy," says Lilian, turning to include Lady Chetwoode in her caution. "My
ideal is always a lean old gentleman of about sixty, with a stoop, and
any amount of determination. He has a hooked nose on which gold-rimmed
spectacles eternally stride; eyes that look one through and through; a
mouth full of trite phrases, unpleasant maxims, and false teeth; and a
decided tendency toward the suppression of all youthful follies."
"Guy will be an agreeable surprise. I had no idea you could be so
severe."
"Nor am I. You must not think me so," says Lilian, blushing warmly and
looking rather sorry for having spoken; "but you know you insisted on an
answer. Perhaps I should not have spoken so freely, but that I know my
real guardian is not at all like my ideal."
"How do you know? Perhaps he too is toothless, old, and unpleasant. He
is a great deal older than I am."
"He can't be a great deal older."
"Why?"
"Because"--with a shy glance at the gentle face behind the urn--"Lady
Chetwoode looks so young."
She blushes again as she says this, and regards her hostess with an air
of such thorough good faith as wins that lady's liking on the spot.
"You are right," says Cyril, laughing; "she _is_ young. She is never to
grow old, because her 'boys,' as she calls us, object to old women. You
may have heard of 'perennial spring;' well, that is another name for my
mother. But you must not tell her so, because she is horribly conceited,
and would lead us an awful life if we didn't keep her down."
"Cyril, my dear!" says Lady Chetwoode, laughing, which is about the
heaviest reproof she ever delivers.
All this time, her breakfast being finished, Lilian has been carefully
and industriously breaking up all the bread left upon her plate, until
now quite a small pyramid stands in the centre of it.
Cyril, having secretly crumbled some of his, now, stooping forward,
places it upon the top of her hillock.
"I haven't the faintest idea what you intend doing with it," he says,
"but, as I am convinced you have some grand project in view, I feel a
mean desire to be associated with it in some way by having a finger in
the pie. Is it for a pie? I am dying of vulgar curiosity."
"I!"--with a little shocked start; "it doesn't matter, I--I quite
forgot. I----"
She presses her hand nervously down upon the top of her goodly pile, and
suppresses the gay little erection until it lies prostrate on her plate,
where even then it makes a very fair show.
"You meant it for something, my dear, did you not?" asks Lady Chetwoode,
kindly.
"Yes, for the birds," says the girl, turning upon her two great earnest
eyes that shine like stars through regretful tears. "At home I used to
collect all the broken bread for them every morning. And they grew so
fond of me, the very robins used to come and perch upon my shoulders and
eat little bits from my lips. There was no one to frighten them. There
was only me, and I loved them. When I knew I must leave the Park,"--a
sorrowful quiver making her voice sad,--"I determined to break my going
gently to them, and at first I only fed them every second day,--in
person,--and then only every third day, and at last only once a week,
until"--in a low tone--"they forgot me altogether."
"Ungrateful birds," says Cyril, with honest disgust, something like
moisture in his own eyes, so real is her grief.
"Yes, that was the worst of all, to be so _soon_ forgotten, and I had
fed them without missing a day for five years. But they were not
ungrateful; why should they remember me, when they thought I had tired
of them? Yet I always broke the bread for them every morning, though I
would not give it myself, and to-day"--she sighs--"I forgot I was not at
home."
"My dear," says Lady Chetwoode, laying her own white, plump, jeweled
hand upon Lilian's slender, snowy one, as it lies beside her on the
table, "you flatter me very much when you say that even for a moment you
felt this house home. I hope you will let the feeling grow in you, and
will try to remember that here you have a true welcome forever, until
you wish to leave us. And as for the birds, I too love them,--dear,
pretty creatures,--and I shall take it as a great kindness, my dear
Lilian, if every morning you will gather up the crumbs and give them to
your little feathered friends."
"How good you are!" says Lilian, gratefully, turning her small palm
upward so as to give Lady Chetwoode's hand a good squeeze. "I know I
shall be happy here. And I am so glad you like the birds; perhaps here
they may learn to love me, too. Do you know, before leaving the Park, I
wrote a note to my cousin, asking him not to forget to give them bread
every day?--but young men are so careless,"--in a disparaging tone,--"I
dare say he won't take the trouble to see about it."
"I am a young man," remarks Mr. Chetwoode, suggestively.
"Yes, I know it," returns Miss Chesney, coolly.
"I dare say your cousin will think of it," says Lady Chetwoode, who has
a weakness for young men, and always believes the best of them.
"Archibald is very kind-hearted."
"You know him?"--surprised.
"Very well, indeed. He comes here almost every autumn to shoot with the
boys. You know, his own home is not ten miles from Chetwoode."
"I did not know. I never thought of him at all until I knew he was to
inherit the Park. Do you think he will come here this autumn?"
"I hope so. Last year he was abroad, and we saw nothing of him; but now
he has come home I am sure he will renew his visits. He is a great
favorite of mine; I think you, too, will like him."
"Don't be too sanguine," says Lilian; "just now I regard him as a
usurper; I feel as though he had stolen my Park."
"Marry him," says Cyril, "and get it back again. Some more tea,
Miss--Lilian?"
"If you please--Cyril,"--with a light laugh. "You see, it comes easier
to me than to you, after all."
"_Place aux dames!_ I felt some embarrassment about commencing. In the
future I shall put my _mauvaise honte_ in my pocket, and regard you as
something I have always longed for,--that is, a sister."
"Very well, and you must be very good to me," says Lilian, "because
never having had one, I have a very exalted idea of what a brother
should be."
"How shall you amuse yourself all the morning, child?" asks Lady
Chetwoode. "I fear you're beginning by thinking us stupid."
"Don't trouble about me," says Lilian. "If I may, I should like to go
out and take a run round the gardens alone. I can always make
acquaintance with places quicker if left to find them out for myself."
When breakfast is over, and they have all turned their backs with gross
ingratitude upon the morning-room, she dons her hat and sallies forth
bent on discovery.
Through the gardens she goes, admiring the flowers, pulling a blossom or
two, making love to the robins and sparrows, and gay little chaffinches,
that sit aloft in the branches and pour down sonnets on her head. The
riotous butterflies, skimming hither and thither in the bright sunshine,
hail her coming, and rush with wanton joy across her eyes, as though
seeking to steal from them a lovelier blue for their soft wings. The
flowers, the birds, the bees, the amorous wind, all woo this creature,
so full of joy and sweetness and the unsurpassable beauty of youth.
She makes a rapid rush through all the hothouses, feeling almost stifled
in them this day, so rich in sun, and, gaining the orchard, eats a
little fruit, and makes a lasting conquest of Michael, the
head-gardener, who, when she has gone into generous raptures over his
arrangements, becomes her abject slave on the spot, and from that day
forward acknowledges no power superior to hers.
Tiring of admiration, she leaves the garrulous old man, and wanders away
over the closely-shaven lawn, past the hollies, into the wood beyond,
singing as she goes, as is her wont.
In the deep green wood a delicious sense of freedom possesses her; she
walks on, happy, unsuspicious of evil to come, free of care (oh, that we
all were so!), with nothing to chain her thoughts to earth, or compel
her to dream of aught but the sufficing joy of living, the glad earth
beneath her, the brilliant foliage around, the blue heavens above her
head.
Alas! alas! how short is the time that lies between the child and the
woman! the intermediate state when, with awakened eyes and arms
outstretched, we inhale the anticipation of life, is as but one day in
comparison with all the years of misery and uncertain pleasure to be
eventually derived from the reality thereof!
Coming to a rather high wall, Lilian pauses, but not for long. There are
few walls either in Chetwoode or elsewhere likely to daunt Miss Chesney,
when in the humor for exploring.
Putting one foot into a friendly crevice, and holding on valiantly to
the upper stones, she climbs, and, gaining the top, gazes curiously
around.
As she turns to survey the land over which she has traveled, a young man
emerges from among the low-lying brushwood, and comes quickly forward.
He is clad in a light-gray suit of tweed, and has in his mouth a
meerschaum pipe of the very latest design.
He is very tall, very handsome, thoughtful in expression. His hair is
light brown,--what there is of it,--his barber having left him little to
boast of except on the upper lip, where a heavy, drooping moustache of
the same color grows unrebuked. He is a little grave, a little indolent,
a good deal passionate. The severe lines around his well-cut mouth are
softened and counterbalanced by the extreme friendliness of his kind,
dark eyes, that are so dark as to make one doubt whether their blue is
not indeed black.
Lilian, standing on her airy perch, is still singing, and imparting to
the surrounding scenery the sad story of "Barb'ra Allen's" vile
treatment of her adoring swain, and consequent punishment, when the
crackling of leaves beneath a human foot causing her to turn, she finds
herself face to face with a stranger not a hundred yards away.
The song dies upon her lips, an intense desire to be elsewhere gains
upon her. The young man in gray, putting his meerschaum in his pocket as
a concession to this unexpected warbler, advances leisurely; and Lilian,
feeling vaguely conscious that the top of a wall, though exalted, is not
the most dignified situation in the world, trusting to her activity,
springs to the ground, and regains with mother earth her self-respect.
"How could you be so foolish? I do hope you are not hurt," says the gray
young man, coming forward anxiously.
"Not in the least, thank you," smiling so adorably that he forgets to
speak for a moment or two. Then he says with some hesitation, as though
in doubt:
"Am I addressing my--ward?"
"How can I be sure," replies she, also in doubt, "until I know whether
indeed you are my--guardian?"
"I am Guy Chetwoode," says he, laughing, and raising his hat.
"And I am Lilian Chesney," replies she, smiling in return, and making a
pretty old-fashioned reverence.
"Then now I suppose we may shake hands without any breach of etiquette,
and swear eternal friendship," extending his hand.
"I shall reserve my oath until later on," says Miss Chesney, demurely,
but she gives him her hand nevertheless, with unmistakable _bonhommie_.
"You are going home?" glancing up at him from under her broad-brimmed
hat. "If so, I shall go with you, as I am a little tired."
"But this wall," says Guy, looking with considerable doubt upon the
uncompromising barrier on the summit of which he had first seen her.
"Had we not better go round?"
"A thousand times no. What!"--gayly--"to be defeated by such a simple
obstacle as that? I have surmounted greater difficulties than that wall
many a time. If you will get up and give me your hands, I dare say I
shall be able to manage it."
Thus adjured, Guy climbs, and, gaining the top, stoops to give her the
help desired; she lays her hand in his, and soon he draws her in triumph
to his side.
"Now to get down," he says, laughing. "Wait." He jumps lightly into the
next field, and, turning, holds out his arms to her. "You must not risk
your neck the second time," he says. "When I saw you give that
tremendous leap a minute ago, my blood froze in my veins. Such terrible
exertion was never meant for--a fairy!"
"Am I so very small?" says Lilian. "Well, take me down, then."
She leans toward him, and gently, reverentially he takes her in his arms
and places her on the ground beside him. With such a slight burden to
lift he feels himself almost a Hercules. The whole act does not occupy
half a minute, and already he wishes vaguely it did not take so _very_
short a time to bring a pretty woman from a wall to the earth beneath.
In some vague manner he understands that for him the situation had its
charm.
Miss Chesney is thoroughly unembarrassed.
"There is something in having a young guardian, after all," she says,
casting upon him a glance half shy half merry, wholly sweet. She lays a
faint emphasis upon the "young."
"You have had doubts on the subject, then?"
"Serious doubts. But I see there is truth in the old saying that 'there
are few things so bad but that they might have been worse.'"
"Do you mean to tell me that I am 'something bad'?"
"No"--laughing; "how I wish I could! It is your superiority frightens
me. I hear I must look on you as something superlatively good."
"How shocking! And in what way am I supposed to excel my brethren?"
"In every way," with a good deal of malice: "I have been bred in the
belief that you are a _rara avis_, a model, a----"
"Your teachers have done me a great injury. I shudder when I contemplate
the bitter awakening you must have when you come to know me better."
"I hope so. I dare say"--naively--"I could learn to like you very well,
if you proved on acquaintance a little less immaculate than I have been
led to believe you."
"I shall instantly throw over my pronounced taste for the Christian
virtues, and take steadily to vice," says Guy, with decision: "will that
satisfy your ladyship?"
"Perhaps you put it a little too strongly," says Lilian, demurely. "By
the bye"--irrelevantly,--"what business took you from home yesterday?"
"I have to beg your pardon for that,--my absence, I mean; but I could
not help it. And it was scarcely business kept me absent," confesses
Chetwoode, who, if he is anything, is strictly honest, "rather a promise
to dine and sleep at some friends of ours, the Bellairs, who live a few
miles from us."
"Then it wasn't really that bugbear, business? I begin to revive," says
Miss Chesney.
"No; nothing half so healthy. I wish I had some more legitimate excuse
to offer for my seeming want of courtesy than the fact of my having to
attend a prosy dinner; but I haven't. I feel I deserve a censure, yet I
hope you won't administer one when I tell you I found a very severe
punishment in the dinner itself."
"I forgive you," says Lilian, with deep pity.
"It was a long-standing engagement, and, though I knew what lay before
me, I found I could not elude it any longer. I hate long engagements;
don't you?"
"Cordially. But I should never dream of entering on one."
"I did, unfortunately."
"Then don't do it again."
"I won't. Never. I finally make up my mind. At least, most certainly not
for the days you may be expected."
"I fear I'm a fixture,"--ruefully: "you won't have to expect me again."
"Don't say you fear it: I hope you will be happy here."
"I hope so, too, and I think it. I like your brother Cyril very much,
and your mother is a darling."
"And what am I?"
"Ask me that question a month hence."
"Shall I tell you what I think of you?"
"If you wish," says Lilian, indifferently, though in truth she is dying
of curiosity.
"Well, then, from the very first moment my eyes fell upon you, I thought
to myself: She is without exception the most---- After all, though, I
think I too shall reserve my opinion for a month or so."
"You are right,"--suppressing valiantly all outward symptoms of
disappointment: "your ideas then will be more formed. Are you fond of
riding, Sir Guy?"
"Very. Are you?"
"Oh! am I not? I could ride from morning till night."
"You are enthusiastic."
"Yes,"--with a saucy smile,--"that is one of my many virtues. I think
one should be thoroughly in earnest about everything one undertakes. Do
you like dancing?"
"Rather. It entirely depends upon whom one may be dancing with. There
are some people"--with a short but steady glance at her--"that I feel
positive I could dance with forever without knowing fatigue, or what is
worse, _ennui_. There are others----" an expressive pause. "I have
felt," says Sir Guy, with visible depression, "on certain occasions, as
though I could commit an open assault on the band because it would
insist on playing its waltz from start to finish, instead of stopping
after the first two bars and thereby giving me a chance of escape."
"Poor 'others'! I see you can be unkind when you choose."
"But that is seldom, and only when driven to desperation. Are you fond
of dancing? But of course you are: I need scarcely have asked. No doubt
you could dance as well as ride from morning until night."
"You wrong me slightly. As a rule, I prefer dancing from night until
morning. You skate?"
"Beautifully!" with ecstatic fervor; "I never saw any one who could
skate as well."
"No? You shan't be long so. Prepare for a downfall to your pride. I can
skate better than any one in the world."
Here they both laugh, and, turning, let their eyes meet. Instinctively
they draw closer to each other, and a very kindly feeling springs into
being.
"They maligned you," says Lilian, softly raising her lovely face, and
gazing at him attentively, with a rather dangerous amount of
ingenuousness. "I begin to fancy you are not so very terrific as they
said. I dare say we shall be quite good friends after all."
"I wish I was as sure of most things as I am of my own feeling on that
point," says Guy, with considerable warmth, holding out his hand.
She slips her cool, slim fingers into his, and smiles frankly. There
they lie like little snow-flakes on his broad palm, and as he gazes on
them a great and most natural desire to kiss them presents itself to his
mind.
"I think we ought to ratify our vow of good-fellowship," says he,
artfully, looking at her as though to gain permission for the theft, and
seeing no rebuff in her friendly eyes, stoops and steals a little
sweetness from the white hand he holds.
They are almost at the house by this time, and presently, gaining the
drawing-room, find Lady Chetwoode sitting there awaiting them.
"Ah, Guy, you have returned," cries she, well pleased.
"Yes, I found my guardian straying aimlessly in a great big wood, so I
brought him home in triumph," says Lilian's gay voice, who is in high
good humor. "Is luncheon ready? Dear Lady Chetwoode, do not say I am
late for the second time to-day."
"Not more than five minutes, and you know we do not profess to live by
rule. Run away, and take off your hat, child, and come back to me
again."
So Lilian does as she is desired, and runs away up the broad stairs in
haste, to reduce her rebellious locks to order; yet so pleased is she
with her _rencontre_ with her guardian, and the want of ferocity he has
displayed, and the general desirableness of his face and figure, that
she cannot refrain from pausing midway in her career to apostrophize a
dark-browed warrior who glowers down upon her from one of the walls.
"By my halidame, and by my troth, and by all the wonderful oaths of your
period, Sir Knight," says she, smiling saucily, and dropping him a
wicked curtsey, "you have good reason to be proud of your kinsman. For,
by Cupid, he is a monstrous handsome man, and vastly agreeable!"
After this astounding sally she continues her flight, and presently
finds herself in her bedroom and almost in nurse's arms.
"Lawks-amussy!" says that good old lady, with a gasp, putting her hand
to her side, "what a turn you did give me! Will the child never learn to
walk?"
"I have seen him!" says Lilian, without preamble, only pausing to give
nurse a naughty little poke in the other side with a view to restoring
her lost equilibrium.
"Sir Guy?" anxiously.
"Even so. The veritable and awful Sir Guy! And he isn't a bit awful, in
spite of all we heard; isn't that good news? and he is very handsome,
and quite nice, and apparently can enjoy the world as well as another,
and can do a naughty thing at a pinch; and I know he likes me by the
expression of his eyes, and he actually unbended so far as to stoop to
kiss my hand! There!" All this without stop or comma.
"Kissed your hand, my lamb! So soon! he did not lose much time. How the
world does wag nowadays!" says nurse, holding aloft her hands in pious
protest. "Only to know you an hour or so, and to have the face to kiss
your hand! Eh, but it's dreadful, it's brazen! I do hope this Sir Guy is
not a wolf in sheep's clothing."
"It was very good clothing, anyhow. There is consolation in that. I
could never like a man whose coat was badly cut. And his hands,--I
particularly noticed them,--they are long, and well shaped, and quite
brown."
"You seem mightily pleased with him on so short an acquaintance," says
nurse, shrewdly. "Brown hand, forsooth,--and a shapely coat! Eh, child,
but there's more wanting than that. Maybe it's thinking of being my Lady
Guy you'll be, one of these days?"
"Nurse, I never met so brilliant a goose as you! And would you throw
away your lovely nursling upon a paltry baronet? Oh! shame! And
yet"--teasingly--"one might do worse."
"I'll tell you that, when I see him," says cautious nurse, and having
given one last finishing touch to her darling's golden head, dismisses
her to her luncheon and the pernicious attentions of the daring wolf.