"There were two cousins almost like to twins;
And so they grew together, like two flowers
Upon one stem."--SHELLEY.
"It was a babe, beautiful from its birth."--SHELLEY.
The next day awakes calm and fair, and full of the rich ripeness that
belongs to August. Lilian, opening her blue eyes upon the world at
half-past seven, calls her nurse, and being dressed rushes forth into
the garden to drink in all the first sweet freshness of the day.
The dew still lingers upon lawn and blossom; the spiders' webs glisten
like jeweled nets in the dancing sunbeams; the exquisite opal flush of
the morning sky has grown and spread and deepened, until all the heavens
are tinged with warmest carmine.
There is "splendor in the grass," and "glory in the flower," and Lilian,
flitting from bush to bush, enjoys everything to its utmost; she plucks
two pale roses for her own bosom, and one, deep red and richly perfumed,
to lay beside Lady Chetwoode's plate. This is a usual morning offering
not to be neglected.
Just as she has made a careful choice, the breakfast bell rings loudly,
and, running at her quickest--most reckless--speed through the hall, she
barely succeeds in stopping herself as she comes up to Sir Guy at the
door of the morning-room.
"Oh," cries she, with a little gasp, "another moment and I should have
been in your arms. I never saw you. Good-morning, Guardy," gayly.
"Good-morning, my ward. I beg you to understand I could have welcomed
that other moment. Why, what an early little bird you are! How long have
you been abroad?"
"For hours and hours, half a day, while you--lazy man--were sound
asleep. See what spoil I have gathered:" pointing to the heavy roses at
her breast.
"Lovely, indeed," says Guy, who is secretly of opinion that the
wild-rose complexion she has snatched from the amorous wind is by far
the loveliest spoil of the two.
"And is not this sweet?" she says, holding up to his face the "red, red
rose," with a movement full of grace.
"Very," replies he, and stooping presses his lips lightly to her white
hand.
"I meant the rose, not the hand," says she, with a laugh and a faint
blush.
"Did you? I thought the hand very much the sweeter of the two. Is it for
me?"
"No!" says Miss Chesney, with much emphasis; and, telling him he is
quite too foolish to be listened to any longer, she opens the door of
the breakfast-room, and they both enter it together, to find all the
others assembled before them, and the post lying in the centre of the
table. All, that is, that remains of it,--namely, one letter for Lilian
and two or three for Guy.
These latter, being tinged with indigo, are of an uninteresting
description and soon read. Miss Chesney's, on the contrary, is evidently
full of information. It consists of two whole sheets closely covered by
a scrawling handwriting that resembles nothing so much as the struggles
of a dying fly.
When she has read it twice over carefully--and with considerable
difficulty--she lays it down and looks anxiously at Lady Chetwoode.
"Auntie," she begins, with a bright blush and a rather confused air.
"Yes, dear?"
"This letter"--touching it--"is from my cousin."
"Yes,--from your cousin? The lad who grew up with you at the Park?" says
Lady Chetwoode, with a kindly nod of comprehension.
Then ensues a pause. Somehow every one has stopped talking, and Lady
Chetwoode has set down the teapot and turned to Lilian with an air full
of expectancy. They all feel that something yet remains to be said.
Possessed with this idea, and seeing Lilian's hesitation, Lady Chetwoode
says, in her gentlest tones:
"Well, dear?"
"He is unhappy," says Lilian, running one of her fingers up and down the
table-cloth and growing more and more embarrassed: "every year he used
to come to the Park for his holidays, and now----"
"And now he cannot go to the Park: is that it?"
"Yes. A little while ago he joined his regiment, and now he has leave of
absence, and he has nowhere to spend it except at Colonel Graham's, who
is his guardian and his uncle, and he _hates_ Colonel Graham," says
Lilian, impressively, looking at Lady Chetwoode with appealing eyes.
"Poor boy," says that kindest of women, "I do not like to hear of his
being unhappy. Perhaps, Lilian, you would wish----"
"I want you to ask him here," says Lilian, quickly and boldly, coloring
furiously, and fixing her great honest eyes on Lady Chetwoode. "He said
nothing about it, but I know he would like to be where I am."
"My dear, of course," says Lady Chetwoode, with most unusual briskness
for her, "ask him instantly to come here as _soon_ as you like, to stay
as _long_ as you like."
"Auntie Nannie," says Lilian, rising tumultuously from her chair, "you
are the dearest, kindest, best of women!" She presses her lips gently,
although rapturously, to her auntie's cheek, after which she returns to
her seat. "Now I am thoroughly content," she says naively: "I could not
bear to picture Taffy wretched, and that old Colonel Graham is a
downright Tartar!"
"'Taffy'! what an extraordinary name!" says Florence. "Is it a fancy
name?"
"No; it is, I am ashamed to say, a nickname. I believe he was christened
James, but one day when we were both almost babies he stole from me my
best doll and squeezed the eyes out of it to see what lay behind, and I
was very angry, and said he was a regular 'Taffy' to do such a thing.
You know the old rhyme?" turning to Lady Chetwoode with a blush and a
light laugh:
"Taffy was a Welshman,
Taffy was a thief,
Taffy came to my house
And stole a piece of beef.
There is a good deal more of it, quite as interesting, but of course you
know it. Nurse laughed when I so christened him, and after that he was
always called 'Master Taffy' by the servants, and nothing else."
"How nicknames do cling to one!"
"I don't believe I should know him by any other now. It suits him much
better than his own, as he doesn't look the least in the world like a
James."
"How old is your cousin?" asks Florence, with an eye to business.
"A year older than I am."
"And that is----"
"Nineteen."
"Indeed! I should have thought you older than that."
"He is very like me, and he is a dragoon!" says Lilian, proudly. "But I
have never seen him since he was gazetted."
"Then you have not seen him in his uniform?" says Guy.
"No. But he tells me," glancing at her letter, "he looks 'uncommonly
jolly' in it."
They all laugh. Even Florence condescends to be amused.
"When may we expect this hero?" asks Guy, kindly.
"His leave begins next week," answers Lilian, looking at Lady Chetwoode.
"If he might come then, it would be such a comfort to him."
"Of course he must come then," says Lady Chetwoode. "Do not let him lose
a day of his precious leave. I remember when Guy was in the army how
stingy they were about granting him a few days now and then."
"The Mater's 'few days' always meant eight months out of the twelve,"
says Cyril, laughing, "and anything like the abuse she used to shower
upon the colonel because he didn't see it in the light that she did, was
never heard. It is unfit for publication."
"Archibald Chesney is coming here the twenty-ninth," says Guy. "So you
will be able to make choice between your two cousins."
"Is Archibald coming?" surprised. "But my choice is already made. No one
shall ever get inside Taffy in my affections."
"Thrice blessed Taffy," says Cyril. "See what it is to be a young and
gallant plunger!"
"That wouldn't weigh with me," says Lilian, indignantly.
"Would it not?" asks Guy. "I was hoping otherwise. I was a plunger once.
What is the renowned Taffy's other name?"
"Musgrave," says Lilian.
"A very pretty name," remarks Miss Beauchamp, who has received an
unexpected check by the morning's post, and is consequently in high good
humor.
"I think so too," returns Lilian.
"Five distinct blushes, and all about Taffy," says Cyril, meditatively.
"Happy Taffy! I have counted them religiously. Are you very much in love
with him, Lilian?"
"'In love'! nonsense!" laughing. "If you only saw Taffy! (But," with a
glad smile, "you soon will.) He never remembers anything half an hour
after he has said it, and besides," scornfully, "he is only a boy."
"'Only a boy'! Was there ever such willful waste! Such reckless,
extravagant, woful waste! To throw away five priceless, divine blushes
upon 'only a boy'! Oh, that I were a boy! Perhaps, Lilian, when you come
to know me longer I shall be happy enough to have one whole blush all
to myself."
"Be consoled," says Miss Chesney, saucily: "I feel assured the longer I
know you, the more reason I shall have to blush for you!"
* * * * *
All through the day Miss Chesney's joy makes itself felt. She is
thoroughly happy, and takes very good care every one shall know it. She
sings through the house, "up-stairs, down-stairs, and in my lady's
chamber," gay as any lark, and inundates her nurse with vain conjectures
and interrogations; as for example, whether she thinks Taffy will be
much changed,--and whether twelve months could possibly produce a
respectable moustache,--and if she really believes the fact of his being
a full-blown dragoon will have a demoralizing effect upon him.
"An' no doubt it will, ninny," says nurse, shaking her beribboned head
very solemnly, "I have no opinion of those soldiering ways myself. I
fear me he will be growing wilder an' wilder every day."
"Oh! if that's all!" says Miss Lilian, with a relieved sigh. "I am only
afraid he will be growing steadier and steadier; and Taffy would be
ruined if he gave himself airs. I can't endure dignified young men."
"I don't think you need fret about that, my dear," says nurse, with
conviction. "I never yet saw much signs of it about him."
Having used up all nurse's powers of conversation, Lilian goes on to
Lady Chetwoode's boudoir, and finds out from her the room Taffy will be
likely to occupy. Having inspected it, and brought up half the servants
to change every article of furniture in the room into a different
position, and given as much trouble as possible, and decided in her own
mind the precise flowers she will place upon his dressing-table the
morning of his arrival, she goes back to her auntie to tell her all she
has done.
In fact, any one so busy as Miss Chesney during all this day can
scarcely be imagined. Her activity is surprising, and draws from Cyril
the remark that she ought to go as hospital nurse to the wounded Turks,
as she seems eminently fitted for an energetic life.
After luncheon she disappears for a while, so that at last--though not
for long--something like repose falls upon the house, which sinks into
a state of quietude only to be equaled by that of Verne's "Van
Tricasse."
Miss Beauchamp is in her room, studying art; Cyril is walking with a
heart full of hope toward The Cottage; Lilian is absent; Guy is
up-stairs with his mother, relating to her a new grievance anent
poachers.
The lad now in trouble is an old offender, and Guy is puzzled what to do
with him. As a rule all scamps have something interesting about them,
and this Heskett is an unacknowledged favorite of Sir Guy's.
"Still I know I ought to dismiss him," he says, with a rather troubled
air, and an angry, disappointed expression upon his face.
"He is young, poor lad," says Lady Chetwoode.
"So he is, and his mother is so respectable. One hardly knows what to
do. But this last is such a flagrant act, and I swore I would pack him
about his business if it occurred again. The fact is, I rather fancy the
boy, and his wild ways, and don't like driving him to destruction. What
shall I do, mother?"
"Don't do anything, my dear," replies she, easily.
"I wish I could follow your advice,"--smiling,--"but, unfortunately, if
I let him off again I fear it will be a bad example to the others. I
almost think----"
But what he thinks on this particular subject is never known.
There is a step outside the door,--a step well known to one at least of
those within,--the "soft frou-frou and rustle" of a woman's gown,--and
then the door is pushed very gently open, and Lilian enters, with a
curious little bundle in her arms.
"See what I've got!" she cries, triumphantly, going over to Lady
Chetwoode, and kneeling down beside her. "It's a baby, a real live baby!
look at it, auntie; did you ever see such a beauty?"
"A baby," says Lady Chetwoode, fearfully, putting up her glasses, and
staring cautiously down upon the rosy little fellow who in Lilian's
encircling arms is making a desperate effort to assert his dignity, by
sitting up and glaring defiantly around him.
"Yes, indeed; I carried him away when I found him, and have been playing
with him for the last ten minutes in my own room. Then I began to think
that you might like to see him, too."
"That was very nice of you, my dear," with some hesitation. "It is
certainly a very clean baby, but its dress is coarse. Whose baby is it?"
"He belongs to the laundress, I think," says Lilian, "but I'm not quite
sure. I was running through the kitchen when I saw him; isn't he a
rogue?" as baby puts up a chubby hand to seize the golden locks so near
him: "look at his eyes, as big as saucers."
She laughs delightedly, and baby laughs back at her again, and makes
another violent jump at her yellow hair. Sir Guy, gazing intently at the
pretty picture, at Lilian's flushed and lovely face, thinks he has never
before seen her look half so sweet. Gay, merry, fascinating she always
is, but with this new and womanly tenderness within her eyes, her beauty
seems trebled. "See, he wants my hair: is he not a darling?" she says,
turning her face, rose-red with pleasure, up to Sir Guy.
"The laundress's child,--Lilian, my _dear_!" says Lady Chetwoode, in a
faint tone of expostulation.
"Well, Jane was holding it in her arms, but it can't be hers, decidedly,
because she hasn't got one."
"Proof positive," says Guy.
"Nor can it be cook's, because hers is grown up: so it must be the
laundress's. Besides, she was standing by, and she looked so glad about
it and so pleased when I took it that I am sure she must be his mother.
And of course she is proud of you, you bonny boy: so should I be, with
your lovely face. Oh, look at his little fists! he is doubling them up
just as though he were going to fight the world. And so he shall fight
it, if he likes, a darling! Come; your mammy is pining for you."
As she speaks she rises, but baby is loath to go yet awhile. He crows so
successfully at Lady Chetwoode that he makes another conquest of her,
and receives several gentle pats and a kiss from her, to Lilian's great
gratification.
"But he is too heavy for you," says her ladyship, addressing Lilian.
"Guy, ring the bell for one of the servants to take him down."
"And offend his mother mortally. No indeed, auntie. We should get no
clothes fit to wear next week if we committed such a _betise_. As I
brought him up, so I shall carry him down, though, to do him justice, he
_is_ heavy. No servant shall touch him, the sweet boy,"--this to baby in
a fond aside.
"I will carry him down for you," says Guy, advancing slowly from the
window where he has been standing.
"You! Oh, Sir Guy, fancy you condescending to touch a baby. Though I
forgot," with a quick, mischievous look at him from her azure eyes, "I
believe there once was a baby you even professed to be fond of; but that
was long ago. By the bye, what were you looking so stern about just as I
came in? Were you passing sentence of death on any one?"
"Not quite so bad as that," says Lady Chetwoode. "It is another of those
tiresome poachers. And this Heskett, is certainly a very naughty boy. He
was caught in the act last night, and Guy doesn't know what to do with
him."
"Let him off, forgive him," says Lilian, lightly, speaking to her
guardian. "You can't think how much pleasanter you will feel if you do."
"I believe you are right," says Guy, laughing, "and I dare say I should
give him a last chance, but that I have passed my word. Give me that
great heavy child: he looks as though he were weighing you down to the
ground."
"I think she holds him very prettily," says Lady Chetwoode: "I should
like to have a picture of her just so."
"Perhaps some day she will gratify you," returns Guy, encouragingly.
"Are you going to give me that _enfant terrible_, Miss Chesney, before
you expire?"
"I am stronger than you think. And are you quite sure you can hold a
baby? that you won't let it fall? Take care, now, and don't look as
though you thought he would break. That will do. Auntie, don't you think
he would make a capital nurse?"
"I hope that child will reach its mother alive," says auntie, in a tone
suggestive of doubt, after which Guy, escorted by Lilian, leaves the
room.
Half-way down the stairs this brilliant procession meets Florence coming
up.
"What is that?" she asks, stopping short in utter amazement, and staring
blankly at the baby, who is blinking his great eyes in a most
uncompromising fashion and is evidently deriving much refreshment from
his little fat, red thumb.
"A baby," says Guy, gravely.
"A real live baby," says Lilian, "a real small duck," giving the
child's plump cheek a soft pinch over Guy's shoulder. "Don't be
frightened, Florence; he don't bite; you may give him a kiss in all
safety."
"Thanks," says Florence, drawing her skirts closer round her, as though
the very idea has soiled her garments. "I don't care about kissing
promiscuous babies. Really, Guy, if you only knew how ridiculous you
look, you would spare yourself the humiliation of being so seen by your
servants."
"Blame Lilian for it all," returns Guy. "I know I shall blush myself to
death if I meet any of the women."
"I think Sir Guy never before looked so interesting," says Miss Chesney,
who is making frantic play all this time with the baby; but its mood has
changed, and now her most energetic efforts are received--not with
smiles--but with stolid indifference and unblinking contempt by the
young gentleman in arms.
"I cannot say I agree with you," Miss Beauchamp says, with much subdued
scorn, "and I do not think it is kind to place any one in a false
position."
She lets a little disdainful angry glance fall upon Lilian,--who
unfortunately does not profit by it, as she does not see it,--and sweeps
up the stairs to her aunt's apartments, while Guy (who is not to be
sneered out of his undertaking) stalks on majestically to the kitchen,
followed by Lilian, and never pauses until he places the chubby little
rogue he carries in its mother's arms,--who eventually turns out to be
the laundress.
"I am not a judge," he says to this young woman, who is curtsying
profusely and is actually consumed with pride, "but Miss Chesney has
declared your son to be the loveliest child in the world, and I always
agree with Miss Chesney,--for reasons of my own."
"Oh, thank you, Sir Guy; I'm sure I'm much obliged to you, Miss
Chesney," says the laundress, turning the color of a full-blown peony,
through excitement.
"What is his name?" asks Lilian, giving the boy a last fond poke with
her pretty slender finger.
"Abiram, miss," replies the mother, which name much displeases Lilian,
who would have liked to hear he was called Alaric, or Lancelot, or any
other poetical appellation suitable for the most beautiful child in the
world.
"A very charming name," says Guy, gravely; and, having squeezed a
half-sovereign into the little fellow's fat hand, he and Lilian go
through the passages into the open air.
"Guardy," says Lilian, "what is a 'promiscuous baby'?"
"I wish I knew," replies he: "I confess it has been puzzling me ever
since. We must ask Florence when we go in."
Here they both laugh a little, and stroll on for a time in silence. At
length, being prompted thereto by her evil genius, Lilian says:
"Tell me, who is the Heskett you and auntie were talking about just
now?"
"A boy who lives down in the hollow beneath Leigh's farm,--a dark boy we
met one day at the end of the lawn; you remember him?"
"A lad with great black eyes and a handsome face with just a little
_soupcon_ of wickedness about him? of course I do. Oh! I like that boy.
You must forgive him, Sir Guy, or I shall be unhappy forever."
"Do you know him?"
"Yes, well. And his mother, too: she is a dear old thing, and but that
she has an undeniable penchant for tobacco, would be perfection. Guardy,
you _must_ forgive him."
"My dear child, I can't."
"Not when I ask you?" in a tone of purest astonishment.
"Not even then. Ask me something else,--in fact, anything,--and I will
grant it, but not this."
"I want nothing else," coldly. "I have set my heart on freeing this poor
boy and you refuse me: and it is my first request."
"It is always your first request, is it not?" he says, smiling a rather
troubled smile. "Yesterday----"
"Oh, don't remind me of what I may have said yesterday," interrupts Miss
Chesney, impatiently: "think of to-day! I ask you to forgive
Heskett--for my sake."
"You should try to understand all that would entail," speaking the more
sternly in that it makes him positively wretched to say her nay: "if I
were to forgive Heskett this time, I should have every second man on my
estate a poacher."
"On the contrary, I believe you would make them all your devoted slaves.
'The quality of mercy is not strain'd;
It droppeth, as the gentle dew from heaven,
Upon the place beneath; it is twice bless'd.'"
"I have said I would not, and even you can hardly think it right that I
should break my word."
"No, you would rather break his mother's heart!" By this time the
spoiled Lilian has quite made up her mind to have her own way, and is
ready to try any means to gain it. "Your word!" she says disdainfully:
"if you are going to emulate the Medes and Persians, of course there is
no use of my arguing with you. You ought to be an ancient Roman; even
that detestable Brutus might be considered soft-hearted when compared
with you."
"Sneering, Lilian, is a habit that should be confined to those old in
sorrow or worldly wisdom: it sits badly on such lips as yours."
"Then why compel me to indulge in it? Give me my way in this one
instance, and I will be good, and will probably never sneer again."
"I cannot."
"Then don't!" naughtily, made exceeding wroth by (what she is pleased to
term) his obstinacy. "I was foolish in thinking I could influence you in
any way. Had Florence asked you, you would have said yes instantly."
"Florence would never have asked me to do anything so unreasonable."
"Of course not! Florence never does wrong in your eyes. It is a pity
every one else does not regard her as favorably as you do."
"I think every one thinks very highly of her," angrily.
"Do you? It probably pleases you to think so. I, for one, do not."
"There is a certain class of people whose likes and dislikes cannot
possibly be accounted for," says Guy, somewhat bitterly. "I think you
would find a difficulty in explaining to me your vehement antipathy
toward Miss Beauchamp. You should remember 'unfounded prejudices bear no
weight.'"
"That sounds like one of Miss Beauchamp's own trite remarks," says
Lilian, with a disagreeable laugh. "Did you learn it from her?"
To this Chetwoode makes no reply, and Lilian, carried away by resentment
at his open support of Florence, and by his determination not to accede
to her request about young Heskett, says, passionately:
"Why should you lose your temper about it?" (it is her own temper that
has gone astray). "It is all not worth a quarrel. Any one may plainly
see how hateful I am to you. In a thousand ways you show me how badly
you think of me. You are a petty tyrant. If I could leave your house,
where I feel myself unwelcome,--at least as far as _you_ are
concerned,--I would gladly do so."
Here she stops, more from want of breath than eloquence.
"Be silent," says Guy, turning to confront her, and thereby showing a
face as pale as hers is flushed with childish rage and bafflement. "How
dare you speak like that!" Then, changing his tone, he says quietly,
"You are wrong; you altogether mistake. I am no tyrant; I do what is
just according to my own conscience. No man can do more. As to what else
you may have said, it is _impossible_ you can feel yourself unwelcome in
my house. I do not believe you feel it."
"Thank you," still defiant, though in truth she is a little frightened
by his manner: "that is as much as to say I am telling a lie, but I do
believe it all the same. Every day you thwart and disappoint me in one
way or another, and you know it."
"I do not, indeed. It distresses me much that you should say so. So
much, that against my better judgment I give in to you in this matter of
Heskett, if only to prove to you how you wrong me when you say I wish to
thwart you. Heskett is pardoned."
So saying, he turns from her abruptly and half contemptuously, and,
striking across the grass, makes for a path that leads indirectly to the
stables.
When he has gone some yards it occurs to Miss Chesney that she feels
decidedly small. She has gained her point, it is true, but in a sorry
fashion, and one that leaves her discontented with her success. She
feels that had he done rightly he would have refused to bandy words with
her at all upon the subject, and he would not have pardoned the
reprehensible Heskett; something in his manner, too, which she chooses
to think domineering, renders her angry still, together with a vague,
uneasy consciousness that he has treated her throughout as a child and
given in to her merely because it is a simpler matter to surrender one's
judgment than to argue with foolish youth.
This last thought is intolerable. A child, indeed! She will teach him
she is no child, and that women may have sense although they have not
reached the admirable age of six-and-twenty.
Without further thought she runs after him, and, overtaking him just as
he turns the corner, says, very imperiously, with a view to sustaining
her dignity:
"Sir Guy, wait: I want to speak to you."
"Well," he says, stopping dead short, and answering her in his iciest
tones. He barely looks at her; his eyes, having once met hers, wander
away again without an instant's lingering, as though they had seen
nothing worthy of attention. This plain ignoring of her charms is bitter
to Miss Chesney.
"I do not want you to forgive that boy against your will," she says,
haughtily. "Take back your promise."
"Impossible! You have made me break my word to myself; nothing shall
induce me to break my word to you. Besides, it would be unfair to
Heskett. If I were to dismiss him now I should feel as though I had
wronged him."
"But I will not have his pardon so."
"What!"--scornfully,--"after having expended ten minutes in hurling at
me some of the severest eloquence it has ever been my fate to listen to,
all to gain this Heskett's pardon, you would now have it rescinded! Am I
to understand so much?"
"No; but I hate ungraciousness."
"So do I,"--meaningly,--"even more than I hate abuse."
"Did I abuse you?"
"I leave you to answer that question."
"I certainly," with some hesitation, "said you were a tyrant."
"You did," calmly.
"And that----"
"Do not let us go over such distasteful ground again," interrupts he,
impatiently: "you said all you could say,--and you gained your object.
Does not even that satisfy you?"
"I wish I had never interested myself in the matter," she says, angrily,
vexed with herself, and with him, and with everything.
"Perhaps your wisdom would have lain in that direction," returns he,
coolly. "But as you did interest yourself, and as victory lies with
you, you should be the one to rejoice."
"Well, I don't," she says impulsively. And then she looks at him in a
half-defiant, half-penitent, wholly charming way, letting her large soft
eyes speak for her, as they rest full upon his face. There is something
in her fresh young beauty almost irresistible. Guy, with an angry sigh,
acknowledges its power, and going nearer to her, takes both her clasped
hands in his.
"What a bad-tempered little girl you are!" he says, in a jesting tone,
that is still full of the keenest reproach. "Am I as bad as Brutus and
all those terrible Medes and Persians? I confess you made me tremble
when you showered upon me all those awful comparisons."
"No, no, I was wrong," she says, hastily, twining her small fingers
closely round his; then very softly, "You are always forgiving me, are
you not? But yet--tell me, Guardy--are you not really glad you have
pardoned that poor Heskett? I cannot be pleased about it myself so long
as I think I have only wrung your promise from you against your will.
Say you are glad, if only to make me happy."
"I would do anything to make you happy,--anything," he says, in a
strange tone, reading anxiously her lovely _riante_ face, that shows no
faintest trace of such tenderness as he would fain see there; then,
altering his voice with an effort, "Yes, I believe I am glad," he says,
with a short laugh: "your intercession has removed a hateful duty from
my shoulders."
"Where is the boy? Is he locked up, or confined anywhere?"
"Nowhere. I never incarcerate my victims," with a slight trace of
bitterness still in his manner. "He is free as air, in all human
probability poaching at this present moment."
"But if he knows there is punishment in store for him, why doesn't he
make his escape?"
"You must ask him that, because I cannot answer the question. Perhaps he
does not consider me altogether such a fiend as you do, and may think it
likely I will show mercy at the last moment."
"Or perhaps," says Lilian, "he has made his escape long ago."
"I don't think so. Indeed, I am almost sure, if you look straight along
that field"--pointing in a certain direction--"you will see the young
gentleman in question calmly smoking the pipe of peace upon a distant
wall."
"It is he," says Lilian, in a low tone, after a careful examination of
the youthful smoker. "How little he seems to fear his fate!"
"Yes, just fancy how lightly he views the thought of falling into the
clutches of a monster!" remarks Chetwoode, with a mocking smile.
"I think you are a little hard on me," says Lilian, reproachfully.
"Am I?" carelessly preparing to leave her. "If you see that promising
_protege_ of yours, Lilian, you can tell him from me that he is quite at
liberty to carry on his nightly games as soon as he pleases. You have no
idea what a solace that news will be to him; only, if you have any
regard for him, advise him not to be caught again."
So saying, he leaves her and continues his interrupted march to the
stables.
When Miss Chesney has spent a moment or two inveighing silently against
the hardness and uncharitableness of men in general and Sir Guy
Chetwoode in particular, she accepts the situation, and presently starts
boldly for the hollow in which lies the modest homestead of the
venerable Mrs. Heskett.
The unconscious cause of the battle royal that has just taken place has
evidently finished his pipe and lounged away through the woods, as he is
nowhere to be seen. And Miss Chesney makes up her mind, with a view to
killing the time that must elapse before dinner, to go straight to his
mother's cottage, and, by proclaiming Sir Guy's leniency, restore peace
to the bosom of that ancient dame.
And as she walks she muses on all that has passed between herself and
her guardian during the last half-hour. After all, what did she say that
was so very bad?
She had certainly compared him to Brutus, but what of that? Brutus in
his day was evidently a shining light among his people, and, according
to the immortal Pinnock, an ornament to his sex. Suppose he did condemn
his only son to death, what did that signify in a land where the deed
was looked upon as meritorious? Weak-minded people of the present day
might call him an old brute for so doing, but there are two sides to
every question, and no doubt the young man was a regular nuisance at
home, and much better out of the way.
Then again she had likened him to the Medes and Persians; and why not?
Who should say the Medes and Persians were not thoroughly respectable
gentlemen, polished and refined? and though in this case again there
might be some who would prefer the manners of a decent English gentleman
to those of the present Shah, that is no reason why the latter should be
regarded so ignominiously.
She has reached this highly satisfactory point in her argument when a
body dropping from a tree near her, almost at her feet, startles her
rudely from her meditations.
"Dear me!" says Lilian, with much emphasis, and then knows she is face
to face with Heskett.
He is a tall lad, brown-skinned as an Italian, with eyes and hair of
gypsy dye. As he stands before Lilian now, in spite of his daring
nature, he appears thoroughly abashed, and with his eyes lowered, twirls
uneasily between his hands the rather greasy article that usually adorns
his brow.
"I beg your pardon, miss," he says, slowly, "but might I say a word to
you?"
"I am sorry to hear such bad accounts of you, Heskett," says Miss
Chesney, in return, with all the airs of a dean and chapter.
"Sir Guy has been telling you, miss?" says the lad, eagerly; "and it is
about my trouble I wanted to see you. They say you have great weight
with the baronet, miss, and once or twice you spoke kindly to me, and I
thought maybe you would say a word for me."
"You are mistaken: I have no influence," says Lilian, coloring faintly.
"And besides, Heskett, there would be little use in speaking for you, as
you are not to be trusted."
"I am, Miss Chesney, I am indeed, if Sir Guy would only try me again. I
don't know what tempted me last night, but I got my lesson then, and
never again, I swear, Miss----"
Here a glance at Lilian's face checks further protestations. She is not
looking at him; her gaze is concentrated upon the left pocket of his
coat, though, indeed, there is little worthy of admiration in the cut of
that garment. Following the direction of her eyes, Heskett's fall
slowly, until at length they fasten upon the object that has so
attracted her.
Sticking up in that luckless left pocket, so as plainly to be seen, is
a limp and rather draggled brown wing, the undeniable wing of a young
grouse.
"Heskett," says Lilian, severely, "what have you been doing?"
"Nothing, miss," desperately.
"Heskett," still more severely, and with just a touch of scorn in her
tone, "speak the truth: what have you got in your pocket?"
"It's just a grouse, then," says the boy, defiantly, producing the bonny
brown bird in question.
"And a fat one," supplements Lilian. "Oh, Heskett, when you know the
consequences of poaching, how can you do it?"
"'Tis because I do know it,"--recklessly: "it's all up with me this time
because the baronet swore he'd punish me next time I was caught, and he
never breaks his word. So I thought, miss, I'd have a last fling,
whatever came of it."
"But it isn't 'all up' with you," says Lilian. "I have spoken to Sir
Guy, and he has promised to give you one more chance. But I cannot speak
again, Heskett, and if you still persist in your evil ways I shall have
spoken in vain."
"You spoke for me?" exclaims he, incredulously.
"Yes. But I fear I have done no good."
The boy's eyes seek the ground.
"I didn't think the likes of you would care to say a kind word for such
as me,--and without the asking," he says, huskily. "Look here, Miss
Chesney, if it will please you, I swear I will never again snare a
bird."
"Oh, Heskett, will you promise really?" returns Lilian, charmed at her
success, "and can I trust you? You know you gave your word before to Sir
Guy."
"But not to you, miss. Yes, I will be honest to please you. And indeed,
Miss Chesney, when I left home this morning I never meant to kill a
thing. I started with a short oak stick in my hand, quite innocent like,
and up by the bit of heather yonder this young one ran across my path; I
didn't seek it, and may bad luck go with the oak stick, for, before I
knew what I meant, it flew from me, and a second later the bird lay dead
as mutton. Not a stir in it. I was always a fine shot, miss, with a
stick or a stone," says the accomplished Heskett, regarding his grouse
with much pride. "Will you have it, miss?" he says then, holding it out
to her.
"No, thank you," loftily: "I am not a receiver of stolen goods; and it
is stolen, remember that."
"I suppose so, miss. Well, as I said before, I will be honest now to
please you, you have been so good to me."
"You should try to please some One higher," says Lilian, with a
solemnity that in her is sweeter than it is comical.
"Nay, then, miss,--to please you first, if I may."
"Tell me," says Lilian, shifting ground as she finds it untenable, "why
do you never come to church?"
"It's so mighty dull, miss."
"You shouldn't find it so. Come and say your prayers, and afterward you
may find it easier to be good. You should not call church dull," with a
little reproving shake of the head.
"Do _you_ never find it stupid, Miss Chesney?" asks Heskett, with all
diffidence.
Lilian pauses. This is a home-thrust, and her innate honesty prevents
the reply that trembles on her lips. She _does_ find it very stupid now
and then.
"Sometimes," she says, with hesitation, "when Mr. Austen is preaching I
cannot think it quite as interesting as it might be: still----"
"Oh, as for him," says Heskett, with a grin, "he ought to be shot, miss,
begging your pardon, that's what he ought. I never see him I don't wish
he was a rabbit snug in one o' my snares as was never known to fail.
Wouldn't I wring his neck when I caught him! maybe not! comin' around
with his canting talk, as though he was the archbishop hisself."
"How dare you speak of your clergyman in such a way?" says Lilian,
shocked; "you are a bad, bad boy, and I am very angry with you."
"Don't then, Miss Chesney," piteously; "I ask your pardon humbly, and
I'll never again speak of Mr. Austen if you don't like. But he do
aggravate awful, miss, and frightens the life out o' mother, because she
do smoke a bit of an evenin', and it's all the comfort she have, poor
soul. There's the Methody parson below, even he's a better sort, though
he do snivel horrid. But I'll do anything to please you, miss, an' I'll
come to church next Sunday."
"Well, mind you do," says Lilian, dismissing him with a gracious nod.
So Heskett departs, much exercised in mind, and in the lowest spirits,
being full of vague doubts, yet with a keen consciousness that by his
promise to Miss Chesney he has forfeited his dearest joy, and that from
him the glory of life has departed. No more poaching, no more snaring,
no more midnight excursions fraught with delicious danger: how is he to
get on in future, with nothing to murder but time?
Meanwhile Miss Chesney, coming home flushed with victory, encounters
Florence in the garden wandering gracefully among the flowers, armed as
usual with the huge umbrella, the guardian of her dear complexion.
"You have been for a walk?" she asks Lilian, with astonishing
_bonhommie_. "I hope it was a pleasant one."
"Very, thank you."
"Then you were not alone. Solitary walks are never pleasant."
"Nevertheless, mine was solitary."
"Then, Guy did not go with you?" somewhat hastily.
"No. He found he had something to do in the stables," Lilian answers,
shortly.
Miss Beauchamp laughs a low, soft, irritative laugh.
"How stupid Guy is!" she says. "I wonder it never occurs to him to
invent a new excuse: whenever he wants to avoid doing anything
unpleasant to him, he has always some pressing business connected with
the stables to take him away. Have you noticed it?"
"I cannot say I have. But then I have not made a point of studying his
eccentricities. Now you have told me this one, I dare say I shall remark
it in future. You see," with a slight smile, "I hold myself in such good
esteem that it never occurred to me others might find my company
disagreeable."
"Nor do they, I am sure,"--politely,--"but Guy is so peculiar, at times
positively odd."
"You amaze me more and more every moment. I have always considered him
quite a rational being,--not in the least madder than the rest of us. I
do hope the new moon will have no effect upon him."
"Ah! you jest," languidly. "But Guy does hold strange opinions,
especially about women. No one, I think, quite understands him but me.
We have always been so--fond of each other, he and I."
"Yes? Quite like brother and sister, I suppose? It is only natural."
"Oh, _no_" emphatically, her voice taking a soft intonation full of
sentimental meaning, "not in the very _least_ like brother and sister."
"Like what then?" asks Lilian, somewhat sharply for her.
"How downright you are!" with a little forced laugh, and a modest
drooping of her white lids; "I mean, I think a brother and sister are
hardly so necessary to each other's happiness as--as we are to each
other, and have been for years. To me, Chetwoode would not be Chetwoode
without Guy, and I fancy--I am sure--it would scarcely be home to Guy
without me." This with a quiet conviction not to be shaken. "Perhaps you
can see what I mean? though, indeed," with a smile, "I hardly know
myself what it is I _do_ mean."
"Ah!" says Lilian, a world of meaning in her tone.
"The only fault I find with him," goes on Florence, in the low, prettily
modulated tone she always adopts, "is, that he is rather a flirt. I
believe he cannot help it; it is second nature to him now. He adores
pretty women, and at times his manner to them is rather--er--caressing.
I tell him it is dangerous. Not perhaps that it makes much difference
nowadays, does it? when women have learned to value attentions exactly
at what they are worth. For my own part, I have little sympathy with
those foolish Ariadnes who spend their lives bemoaning the loss of their
false lovers. Don't you agree with me?"
"Entirely. Utterly," says Lilian, in a curious tone that might be
translated any way. "But I cannot help thinking Fortune very hard on the
poor Ariadnes. Is that the dressing-bell? How late it has grown! I am
afraid we must go in if we wish to be in time for dinner."
Miss Beauchamp being possessed with the same fear, they enter the house
together, apparently in perfect amity with each other, and part in peace
at their chamber doors. Lilian even bestows a little smile upon her
companion as she closes hers, but it quickly changes into an
unmistakable little frown as the lock is turned. A shade falls across
her face, an impatient pucker settles comfortably upon her forehead, as
though it means to spend some time there.
"What a hateful girl that is!" Lilian says to herself, flinging her hat
with a good deal of vehemence on to the bed (where it makes one
desperate effort to range itself and then rolls over to the floor at the
other side), and turning two lovely wrathful eyes toward the door, as
though the object of her anger were still in sight. "Downright
detestable! and quite an old maid; not a doubt of it. Women close on
thirty are always so spiteful!"
Here she picks up the unoffending hat, and almost unconsciously
straightens a damaged bow while her thought still runs on passionately.
So Sir Guy "adores pretty women." By the bye, it was a marvelous
concession on Miss Beauchamp's part to acknowledge her as such, for
without doubt all that kindly warning was meant for her.
Going up to her glass, Lilian runs her fingers through the rippling
masses of her fair hair, and pinches her soft cheeks cruelly until the
red blood rushes upward to defend them, after which, she tells herself,
even Florence could scarcely have said otherwise.
And does Miss Beauchamp think _herself_ a "pretty woman?" and does Sir
Guy "adore _her_?" She said he was a flirt. But is he? Cyril is
decidedly given that way, and some faults run in families. Now she
remembers certain lingering glances, tender tones, and soft innuendoes
meant for her alone, that might be placed to the account of her
guardian. She smiles somewhat contemptuously as she recalls them. Were
all these but parts of his "caressing" manner? Pah! what a sickening
word it is.
She blushes hotly, until for a full minute she resembles the heart of a
red, red rose. And for that minute she positively hates her guardian.
Does he imagine that she--_she_--is such a baby as to be flattered by
the attentions of any man, especially by one who is the lover of another
woman? for has not Florence both in words and manner almost claimed him
as her own? Oh, it is too abominable! And----
But never mind, wait, and when she has the opportunity, won't she show
him, that's all?
What she is to show him, or how, does not transpire. But this awful
threat, this carefully disguised and therefore sinister menace, is
evidently one of weight, because it adds yet a deeper crimson to Miss
Chesney's cheeks, and brings to life a fire within her eyes, that gleams
and sparkles there unrebuked.
Then it quietly dies, and nurse entering finds her little mistress again
calm, but unusually taciturn, and strangely forgetful of her teasing
powers.