"So young, and so untender."--_King Lear._
"I wonder why on earth it is some people cannot choose proper hours in
which to travel," says Cyril, testily. "The idea of electing--(not any
more, thank you)--to arrive at ten o'clock at night at any respectable
house is barely decent."
"Yes, I wish she had named any other hour," says Lady Chetwoode. "It is
rather a nuisance Guy having to go to the station so late."
"Dear Florence is so romantic," remarks Cyril: "let us hope for her sake
there will be a moon."
It is half-past eight o'clock, and dinner is nearly over. There has
been some haste this evening on account of Miss Beauchamp's expected
arrival; the very men who are handing round the jellies and sweetmeats
seem as inclined to hurry as their pomposity will allow: hence Cyril's
mild ill-humor. No man but feels aggrieved when compelled to hasten at
his meals.
Miss Chesney has arrayed herself with great care for the new-comer's
delectation, and has been preparing herself all day to dislike her
cordially. Sir Guy is rather silent; Cyril is not; Lady Chetwoode's
usual good spirits seem to have forsaken her.
"Are you really going to Truston after dinner?" asks Lilian, in a tone
of surprise, addressing Sir Guy.
"Yes, really; I do not mind it in the least," answering his mother's
remark even more than hers. "It can scarcely be called a hardship,
taking a short drive on such a lovely night."
"Of course not, with the prospect before him of so soon meeting this
delightful cousin," thinks Lilian. "How glad he seems to welcome her
home! No fear he would let Cyril meet _her_ at the station!"
"Yes, it certainly is a lovely evening," she says, aloud. Then, "Was
there no other train for her to come by?"
"Plenty," answers Cyril; "any number of them. But she thought she would
like Guy to 'meet her by moonlight alone.'"
It is an old and favorite joke of Cyril's, Miss Beauchamp's admiration
for Guy. He has no idea he is encouraging in any one's mind the
impression that Guy has an admiration for Miss Beauchamp.
"I wonder you never tire of that subject," Guy says, turning upon his
brother with sudden and most unusual temper. "I don't fancy Florence
would care to hear you forever making free with her name as you do."
"I beg your pardon a thousand times. I had no idea it was a touchy
subject with you."
"Nor is it," shortly.
"She will have her wish," says Lilian, alluding to Cyril's unfortunate
quotation, and ignoring the remark that followed. "I am sure it will be
moonlight by ten,"--making a critical examination of the sky through the
window, near which she is sitting. "How charming moonlight is! If I had
a lover,"--laughing,--"I should never go for a drive or walk with him
except beneath its cool white rays. I think Miss Beauchamp very wise in
choosing the hour she has chosen for her return home."
This is intolerable. The inference is quite distinct. Guy flushes
crimson and opens his mouth to give way to some of the thoughts that are
oppressing him, but his mother's voice breaking in checks him.
"Don't have any lovers for a long time, child," she says: "you are too
young for such unsatisfactory toys. The longer you are without them, the
happier you will be. They are more trouble than gratification."
"I don't mean to have one," says Lilian, with a wise shake of her blonde
head, "for years and years. I was merely admiring Miss Beauchamp's
taste."
"Wise child!" says Cyril, admiringly. "Why didn't you arrive by
moonlight, Lilian? I'm never in luck."
"It didn't occur to me: in future I shall be more considerate. Are you
fretting because you can't go to-night to meet your cousin? You see how
insignificant you are: you would not be trusted on so important a
mission. It is only bad little wards you are sent to welcome."
She laughs gayly as she says this; but Guy, who is listening, feels it
is meant as a reproach to him.
"There are worse things than bad little wards," says Cyril, "if you are
a specimen."
"Do you think so? It's a pity every one doesn't agree with you. No,
Martin," to the elderly servitor behind her chair, who she knows has a
decided weakness for her: "don't take away the ice pudding yet: I am
very fond of it."
"So is Florence. You and she, I foresee, will have a stand-up fight for
it at least once a week. Poor cook! I suppose she will have to make two
ice puddings instead of one for the future."
"If there is anything on earth I love, it is an ice pudding."
"Not better than me, I trust."
"Far, far better."
"Take it away instantly, Martin; Miss Chesney mustn't have any more: it
don't agree with her."
At this Martin smiles demurely and deferentially, and presents the
coveted pudding to Miss Chesney; whereat Miss Chesney makes a little
triumphant grimace at Cyril and helps herself as she loves herself.
Dinner is over. The servants,--oh, joy!--have withdrawn: everybody has
eaten as much fruit as they feel is good for them. Lady Chetwoode looks
at Lilian and half rises from her seat.
"It is hardly worth while your leaving us this evening, mother," Guy
says, hastily: "I must so soon be running away if I wish to catch the
train coming in."
"Very well,"--re-seating herself: "we shall break through rules, and
stay with you for this one night. You won't have your coffee until your
return?"
"No, thank you." He is a little _distrait_, and is following Lilian's
movements with his eyes, who has risen, thrown up the window, and is now
standing upon the balcony outside, gazing upon the slumbering flowers,
and upon the rippling, singing brooks in the distance, the only things
in all creation that never seem to sleep.
After a while, tiring of inanimate nature, she turns her face inward and
leans against the window-frame, and being in an idle mood, begins to
pluck to pieces the flower that has rested during dinner upon her bosom.
Standing thus in the half light, she looks particularly fair, and
slight, and childish,--
"A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded,
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded."
Some thought crossing Lady Chetwoode's mind, born of the long and loving
glance she has been bestowing upon Lilian, she says:
"How I detest fat people. They make me feel positively ill. Mrs.
Boileau, when she called to-day, raised within me the keenest pity."
"She is a very distressing woman," says Guy, absently. "One feels
thankful she has no daughter."
"Yes, indeed; the same thought occurred to me. Though perhaps not fat
now, she would undoubtedly show fatal symptoms of a tendency toward it
later on. Now you, my dear Lilian, have happily escaped such a fate: you
will never be fat."
"I'm sure I hope not, if you dislike the idea so much," says Lilian,
amused, letting the ghastly remains of her ill-treated flower fall to
the ground.
"If you only knew the misery I felt on hearing you were coming to us,"
goes on Lady Chetwoode, "dreading lest you might be inclined that way;
not of course but that I was very pleased to have you, my dear child,
but I fancied you large and healthy-looking, with a country air, red
cheeks, black hair, and unbounded _gaucherie_. Imagine my delight,
therefore, when I beheld you slim and self-possessed, and with your
pretty yellow hair!"
"You make me blush, you cover me with confusion," says Miss Chesney,
hiding her face in her hands.
"Yes, yellow hair is my admiration," goes on Lady Chetwoode, modestly:
"I had golden hair myself in my youth."
"My dearest mother, we all know you were, and are, the loveliest lady in
creation," says Guy, whose tenderness toward his mother is at times a
thing to be admired.
"My dear Guy, how you flatter!" says she, blushing a faint, sweet old
blush that shows how mightily pleased she is.
"Do you know," says Lilian, "in spite of being thought horrid, I like
comfortable-looking people? I wish I had more flesh upon my poor bones.
I think," going deliberately up to a glass and surveying herself with a
distasteful shrug,--"I think thin people have a meagre, gawky, hard look
about them, eminently unbecoming. I rather admire Mrs. Mount-George, for
instance."
"Hateful woman!" says Lady Chetwoode, who cherishes for her an old
spite.
"I rather admire her, too," says Sir Guy, unwisely,--though he only
gives way to this opinion through a wild desire to help out Lilian's
judgment.
"Do you?" says that young lady, with exaggerated emphasis. "I shouldn't
have thought she was a man's beauty. She is a little too--too--
demonstrative, too _prononcee_."
"Oh, Guy adores fat women," says Cyril, the incorrigible; "wait till you
see Florence: there is nothing of the 'meagre, gawky, hard' sort about
her. She has a decided leaning toward _embonpoint_."
"And I imagined her quite slight," says Lilian.
"You must begin then and imagine her all over again. The only flesh
there isn't about Florence is fool's flesh. It is hardly worth while,
however, your creating a fresh portrait, as the original," glancing at
his watch, "will so soon be before you. Guy, my friend, you should
hurry."
Lilian returns to the balcony, whither Chetwoode's eyes follow her
longingly. He rises reluctantly to his feet, and says to Cyril, with
some hesitation:
"You would not care to go to meet Florence?"
"I thank you kindly,--no," says Cyril, with an expressive shrug; "not
for Joe! I shall infinitely prefer a cigar at home, and Miss Chesney's
society,--if she will graciously accord it to me." This with a smile at
Lilian, who has again come in and up to the table, where she is now
eating daintily a showy peach, that has been lying neglected on its dish
since dinner, crying vainly, "Who'll eat me? who'll eat me?"
She nods and smiles sweetly at Cyril as he speaks.
"I am always glad to be with those who want me," she says, carefully
removing the skin from her fruit; "specially you, because you always
amuse me. Come out and smoke your cigar, and I will talk to you all the
time. Won't that be a treat for you?" with a little low, soft laugh, and
a swift glance at him from under her curling lashes that, to say the
truth, is rather coquettish.
"There, Guy, don't you envy me, with such a charming time before me?"
says Cyril, returning her glance with interest.
"No, indeed," says Lilian, raising her head and gazing full at
Chetwoode, who returns her glance steadily, although he is enduring
grinding torments all this time, and almost--_almost_ begins to hate his
brother. "The last thing Sir Guy would dream of would be to envy you my
graceless society. Fancy a guardian finding pleasure in the frivolous
conversation of his ward! How could you suspect him of such a weakness?"
Here she lets her small white teeth meet in her fruit with all the airs
of a little _gourmande_, and a most evident enjoyment of its flavor.
There is a pause.
Cyril has left the room in search of his cigar-case. Lady Chetwoode has
disappeared to explore the library for her everlasting knitting. Sir Guy
and Lilian are alone.
"I cannot remember having ever accused you of being frivolous, either in
conversation or manner," says Chetwoode, presently, in a low, rather
angry tone.
"No?" says naughty Lilian, with a shrug: "I quite thought you had. But
your manner is so expressive at times, it leaves no occasion for mere
words. This morning when I made some harmless remark to Cyril, you
looked as though I had committed murder, or something worthy of
transportation for life at the very least."
"I cannot remember that either. I think you purposely misunderstand
me."
"What a rude speech! Oh, if I had said that! But see how late it is,"
looking at the clock: "you are wasting all these precious minutes here
that might be spent so much more--profitably with your cousin."
"You mean you are in a hurry to be rid of me," disdaining to notice her
innuendo; "go,--don't let me detain you from Cyril and his cigar."
He turns away abruptly, and gives the bell a rather sharp pull. He is so
openly offended that Lilian's heart smites her.
"Who is misunderstanding now?" she says, with a decided change of tone.
"Shall you be long away, Sir Guy?"
"Not very," icily. "Truston, as you know, is but a short drive from
this."
"True." Then with charmingly innocent concern, "Don't you like going out
so late?--you seem a little cross."
"Do I?"
"Yes. But perhaps I mistake; I am always making mistakes," says Miss
Lilian, humbly; "I am very unfortunate. And you know what Ouida says,
that 'one is so often thought to be sullen when one is only sad.' Are
_you_ sad?"
"No," says Guy, goaded past endurance; "I am not. But I should like to
know what I have done that you should make a point at all times of
treating me with incivility."
"Are you speaking of me?"--with a fine show of surprise, and
widely-opened eyes; "what can you mean? Why, I shouldn't dare be uncivil
to my guardian. I should be afraid. I should positively die of fright,"
says Miss Chesney, feeling strongly inclined to laugh, and darting a
little wicked gleam at him from her eyes as she speaks.
"Your manner"--bitterly--"fully bears out your words. Still I
think---- Why doesn't Granger bring round the carriage? Am I to give the
same order half a dozen times?"--this to a petrified attendant who has
answered the bell, and now vanishes, as though shot, to give it as his
opinion down-stairs that Sir Guy is in "a h'orful wax!"
"Poor man, how you have frightened him!" says Lilian, softly. "I am
sorry if I have vexed you." Holding out a small hand of amity,--"Shall
we make friends before you go?"
"It would be mere waste of time," replies he, ignoring the hand; "and,
besides, why should you force yourself to be on friendly terms with me?"
"You forget----" begins Lilian, somewhat haughtily, made very indignant
by his refusal of her overture; but, Cyril and Lady Chetwoode entering
at this moment simultaneously, the conversation dies.
"Now I am ready," Cyril says, cheerfully. "I took some of your cigars,
Guy; they are rather better than mine; but the occasion is so felicitous
I thought it demanded it. Do you mind?"
"You can have the box," replies Guy, curtly.
To have a suspected rival in full possession of the field, smoking one's
choicest weeds, is not a thing calculated to soothe a ruffled breast.
"Eh, you're not ill, old fellow, are you?" says Cyril, in his laziest,
most good-natured tones. "The whole box! Come, my dear Lilian, I pine to
begin them."
Miss Chesney finishes her peach in a hurry and prepares to follow him.
"Lilian, you are like a baby with a sweet tooth," says Lady Chetwoode.
"Take some of those peaches out on the balcony with you, child: you seem
to enjoy them. And come to me to the drawing-room when you tire of
Cyril."
So the last thing Guy sees as he leaves the room is Lilian and his
brother armed with peaches and cigars on their way to the balcony; the
last thing he hears is a clear, sweet, ringing laugh that echoes through
the house and falls like molten lead upon his heart.
He bangs the hall-door with much unnecessary violence, steps into the
carriage, and goes to meet his cousin in about the worst temper he has
given way to for years.
* * * * *
Half-past ten has struck. The drawing-room is ablaze with light. Lady
Chetwoode, contrary to custom, is wide awake, the gray sock lying almost
completed upon her lap. Lilian has been singing, but is now sitting
silent with her idle little hands before her, while Cyril reads aloud to
them decent extracts from the celebrated divorce case, now drawing to
its unpleasant close.
"They ought to be here now," says Lady Chetwoode, suddenly, alluding
not so much to the plaintiff, or the defendant, or the co-respondents,
as to her eldest son and Miss Beauchamp. "The time is up."
Almost as she says the words the sound of carriage-wheels strikes upon
the ear, and a few minutes later the door is thrown wide open and Miss
Beauchamp enters.
Lilian stares at her with a good deal of pardonable curiosity. Yes, in
spite of all that Cyril said, she is very nearly handsome. She is tall,
_posee_, large and somewhat full, with rather prominent eyes. Her mouth
is a little thin, but well shaped; her nose is perfect; her figure
faultless. She is quite twenty-six (in spite of artificial aid), a fact
that Lilian perceives with secret gratification.
She walks slowly up the room, a small Maltese terrier clasped in her
arms, and presents a cool cheek to Lady Chetwoode, as though she had
parted from her but a few hours ago. All the worry and fatigue of travel
have not told upon her: perhaps her maid and that mysterious
closely-locked little morocco bag in the hall could tell upon her; but
she looks as undisturbed in appearance and dress as though she had but
just descended from her room, ready for a morning's walk.
"My dear Florence, I am glad to welcome you home," says Lady Chetwoode,
affectionately, returning her chaste salute.
"Thank you, Aunt Anne," says Miss Beauchamp, in carefully modulated
tones. "I, too, am glad to get home. It was quite delightful to find Guy
waiting for me at the station!"
She smiles a pretty lady-like smile upon Sir Guy as she speaks, he
having followed her into the room. "How d'ye do, Cyril?"
Cyril returns her greeting with due propriety, but expresses no
hilarious joy at her return.
"This is Lilian Chesney whom I wrote to you about," Lady Chetwoode says,
putting out one hand to Lilian. "Lilian, my dear, this is Florence."
The girls shake hands. Miss Beauchamp treats Lilian to a cold though
perfectly polite stare, and then turns back to her aunt.
"It was a long journey, dear," sympathetically says "Aunt Anne."
"Very. I felt quite exhausted when I reached Truston, and so did
Fanchette; did you not, _ma bibiche_, my treasure?"--this is to the
little white stuffy ball of wool in her arms, which instantly opens two
pink-lidded eyes, and puts out a crimson tongue, by way of answer. "If
you don't mind, aunt, I think I should like to go to my room."
"Certainly, dear. And what shall I send you up?"
"A cup of tea, please, and--er--anything else there is. Elise will know
what I fancy; I dined before I left. Good-night, Miss Chesney.
Good-night, Guy; and thank you again very much for meeting me"--this
very sweetly.
And then Lady Chetwoode accompanies her up-stairs, and the first
wonderful interview is at an end.
"Well?" says Cyril.
"I think her quite handsome," says Lilian, enthusiastically, for Guy's
special benefit, who is sitting at a little distance, glowering upon
space. "Cyril, you are wanting in taste."
"Not when I admire you," replies Cyril, promptly. "Will you pardon me,
Lilian, if I go to see they send a comfortable and substantial supper to
my cousin? Her appetite is all that her best friend could wish."
So saying, he quits the room, bent on some business of his own, that has
very little to do, I think, with the refreshment of Miss Beauchamp's
body.
When he has gone, Lilian takes up Lady Chetwoode's knitting and examines
it critically. For the first time in her life she regrets not having
given up some of her early years to the mastering of fancy work; then
she lays it down again, and sighs heavily. The sigh says quite
distinctly how tedious a thing it is being alone in the room with a man
who will not speak to one. Better, far better, be with a dummy, from
whom nothing could be expected.
Sir Guy, roused to activity by this dolorous sound, crosses the room and
stands directly before her, a contrite expression upon his face.
"I have behaved badly," he says. "I confess my fault. Will you not speak
to me, Lilian?" His tone is half laughing, half penitent.
"Not"--smiling--"until you assure me you have left all your ill-temper
behind you at Truston."
"I have. I swear it."
"You are sure?"
"Positive."
"I do hope you did not bestow it upon poor Miss Beauchamp?"
"I don't know, I'm sure. I hope not," says Guy, lightly; and there is
something both in his tone and words that restores Miss Chesney to
amiability. She looks at him steadily for a moment, and then she smiles.
"I am forgiven?" asks Guy, eagerly, taking courage from her smile.
"Yes."
"Shake hands with me, then," says he, holding out his own.
"You expect too much," returns Lilian, recoiling. "Only an hour ago, you
refused to take my hand: how then can I now accept yours?"
"I was a brute, nothing less!" declares he, emphatically. "Yet do accept
it, I implore you."
There is a good deal more meaning in his tone than even he himself is
quite aware of. Miss Chesney either does not or will not see it. Raising
her head, she laughs out loud, a low but thoroughly amused laugh.
"Any one listening would say you were proposing to me," she says,
mischievously; whereupon he laughs too, and seats himself upon the low
ottoman beside her.
"I shouldn't mind," he says; "should you?"
"Not much. I suppose one must go through it some time or other."
"Have you ever had a--proposal?"
"Why do you compel me to give you an answer that must be humiliating?
No; I have never had a proposal. But I dare say I shall have one or two
before I die."
"I dare say. Unless you will now accept mine"--jestingly--"and make me
the happiest of men."
"No, thank you. You make me such an admirable guardian that I could not
bear to depose you. You are now in a proud position (considering the
ward you have); do not rashly seek to better it."
"Your words are golden. But all this time you are keeping me in terrible
suspense. You have not yet quite made friends with me."
Then Lilian places her hand in his.
"Though you don't deserve it," she says, severely, "still----"
"Still you do accept me--it, I mean," interrupts Guy, purposely, closing
his fingers warmly over hers. "I shall never forget that fact. Dear
little hand!" softly caressing it, "did I really scorn it an hour ago? I
beg its pardon very humbly."
"It is granted," answers Lilian, gayly. But to herself she says, "I
wonder how often has he gone through all this before?"
Nevertheless, in spite of doubts on both sides, the truce is signed for
the present.