"Sweets to the sweet."--_Hamlet._
"I am going to London in the morning. Can I do anything for anybody?"
asks Sir Guy, at exactly twenty minutes past ten on Wednesday night.
"Madre, what of you?"
"Nothing, dear, thank you," says the Madre, lazily enough, her eyes
comfortably closed. "But to-morrow, my dear boy! why to-morrow? You know
we expect Archibald."
"I shall be home long before he arrives, if I don't meet him and bring
him with me."
"Some people make a point of being from home when their guests are
expected," says Miss Lilian, pointedly, raising demure eyes to his.
"Some other people make a point of being ungenerous," retorts he.
"Florence, can I bring you anything?"
"I want some wools matched: I cannot finish the parrot's tail in my
crewel-work until I get them, and you will be some hours earlier than
the post."
"What! you expect me to enter a fancy shop--is that what you call
it?--and sort wools, while the young woman behind the counter makes love
to me? I should die of shame."
"Nonsense! you need only hand in the envelope I will prepare for you,
and wait until you receive an answer to it."
"Very good. I dare say I shall survive so much. And you, my ward? How
can I serve you?"
"In a thousand ways, but modesty forbids my mentioning them. _Au reste_,
I want bonbons, a new book or two, and--the portrait of the handsomest
young man in London."
"I thoroughly understand, and am immensely flattered. I shall have
myself taken the moment I get there. Would you prefer me sitting or
standing, with my hat on or off? A small size or a cabinet?"
Miss Chesney makes a little grimace eminently becoming, but disdains
direct reply. "I said a _young_ man," she remarks, severely.
"I heard you. Am not I in the flower of my youth and beauty?"
"Lilian evidently does not think so," says Florence, with a would-be air
of intense surprise.
"Why should I, when it suits me to think differently?" returns Lilian,
calmly. Florence rather amuses her than otherwise. "Sir Guy and I are
quite good friends at present. He has been civil to me for two whole
days together, and has not once told me I have a horrid temper, or held
me up to scorn in any way. Such conduct deserves reward. Therefore I
liken him to an elderly gentleman, because I adore old men. You see,
Guardy?" with an indescribably fascinating air, that has a suspicion of
sauciness only calculated to heighten its charm.
"I should think he is old in reality to you," says Florence: "you are
such a child."
"I am," says Lilian, agreeably, though secretly annoyed at the other's
slighting tone. "I like it. There is nothing so good as youth. I should
like to be eighteen always. But for my babyish ways and utter
hopelessness, I feel positive Sir Guy would have beaten me long ago. But
who could chastise an infant?"
"In long robes," puts in Cyril, who is deep in the intricacies of chess
with Mr. Musgrave.
"Besides, I am 'Esther Summerson,' and he is 'Mr. Jarndyce,' and
Esther's 'Guardy' very rightly was in perfect subjection to his ward."
"Esther's guardian, if I remember correctly, fell in love with her; and
she let him see"--dreamily but spitefully--"that she preferred another."
"Ah, Sir Guy, think of that. See what lies before you," says Lilian,
coloring warmly, but braving it out to the end.
"I am sure you are going to ask me what I should like, Guy," breaks in
Cyril, languidly, who is not so engrossed by his game but that he can
heed Lilian's embarrassment. "Those cigars of yours are excellent. I
shall feel obliged by your bringing me (as a free gift, mind) half a
dozen boxes. If you do, it will be a saving, as for the future I shall
leave yours in peace."
"Thank you: I shall make a note of it," says Guy, laughing.
"Do you go early, Sir Guy?" asks Lilian, presently. She is leaning back
in a huge lounging-chair of blue satin that almost conceals from view
her tiny figure. In her hands is an ebony fan, and as she asks the
question she closes and uncloses it indolently.
"Very early. I must start at seven to catch the train, if I wish to get
my business done and be back by five."
"What an unearthly hour for a poor old gentleman like you to rise! You
won't recover it in a hurry. You will breakfast before you go?"
"Yes."
"What a lunch you will eat when you get to town! But don't overdo it,
Guardy. You will be starving, no doubt; but remember the horrors of
gout. And who will give you your breakfast at seven?"
She raises her large soft eyes to his and, unfurling her fan, lays it
thoughtfully against her pretty lips. Sir Guy is about to make an eager
reply, when Miss Beauchamp interposes.
"I always give Guy his breakfast when he goes to London," she says,
calmly yet hastily.
"Check!" says Cyril, at this instant, with his eyes on the board. "My
dear Musgrave, what a false move!--a fatal delay. Don't you know bold
play generally wins?"
"Sometimes it loses," retorts Taffy, innocently; which reply, to his
surprise, appears to cause Mr. Chetwoode infinite amusement.
"Whenever you do go," says Lilian to Sir Guy, "don't forget my
sweetmeats: I shall be dreaming of them until I see you again. Have you
a pocket-book? Yes. Well, put down in it what I most particularly love.
I like chocolate creams and burnt almonds better than anything in the
world."
Cyril, with dreamy sentiment, "How I wish I was a burnt almond!"
Miss Chesney, viciously, "If you were, what a bite I would give you!"
Taffy, to Sir Guy, "Lilian's tastes and mine are one. If you are really
going to bring lollypops, please make the supply large. When I think of
burnt almonds I feel no end hungry."
Lilian, vigorously, "You shan't have any of mine, Taffy. Don't imagine
it! Yesterday you ate every one Cyril brought me from Fenston. I crossed
the room for one instant, and when I came back the box was literally
cleared. Wasn't it a shame? I shan't go into partnership with you over
Sir Guy's confections."
Taffy, _sotto voce_, "Greedy little thing!" Then suddenly addressing Sir
Guy, "I think I saw your old colonel--Trant--about the neighborhood
to-day."
Cyril draws himself up with a start and looks hard at the lad, who is
utterly unconscious of the private bombshell he has discharged.
"Trant!" says Guy, surprised; "impossible. Unless, indeed," with a light
laugh, "he came to look after his _protegee_, the widow."
"Mrs. Arlington? I saw her yesterday," says Taffy, with animation. "She
was in her garden, and she is lovely. I never saw anything so perfect as
her smile."
"I hope you are not _epris_ with her. We warn everybody against our
tenant," Guy says, smiling, though there is evident meaning in his tone.
"We took her to oblige Trant,--who begged we would not be inquisitive
about her; and literally we are in ignorance of who she is, or where she
came from. Widows, like cousins, are dangerous," with a slight glance at
his brother, who is leaning back in his chair, a knight between his
fingers, taking an exhaustive though nonchalant survey of the painted
ceiling, where all the little loves and graces are playing at a very
pronounced game of hide-and-seek among the roses.
"I hope," says Florence, slowly, looking up from the _rara avis_ whose
tail she is elaborately embroidering,--the original of which was never
yet (most assuredly) seen by land or sea,--"I hope Colonel Trant, in
this instance, has not played you false. I cannot say I admire Mrs.
Arlington's appearance. Though no doubt she is pretty,--in a certain
style," concludes Miss Beauchamp, who is an adept at uttering the faint
praise that damns.
"Trant is a gentleman," returns Guy, somewhat coldly. Yet as he says it
a doubt enters his mind.
"He has the name of being rather fast in town," says young Musgrave,
vaguely; "there is some story about his being madly in love with some
mysterious woman whom nobody knows. I don't remember exactly how it
is,--but they say she is hidden away somewhere."
"How delightfully definite Taffy always is!" Lilian says, admiringly;
"it is so easy to grasp his meaning. Got any more stories, Taffy? I
quite begin to fancy this Colonel Trant. Is he as captivating as he is
wicked?"
"Not quite. I am almost sure I saw him to-day in the lane that runs down
between the wood and Brown's farm. But I may be mistaken; I was
certainly one or two fields off, yet I have a sure eye, and I have seen
him often in London."
"Perhaps Mrs. Arlington is the mysterious lady of his affections," says
Guy, laughing, and, the moment the words have passed his lips, regrets
their utterance. Cyril's eyes descend rapidly from the ceiling and meet
his. On the instant a suspicion unnamed and unacknowledged fills both
their hearts.
"Do you really think Trant came down to see your tenant?" asks Cyril,
almost defiantly.
"Certainly not," returning the other's somewhat fiery glance calmly. "I
do not believe he would be in the neighborhood without coming to see my
mother."
At the last word, so dear to her, Lady Chetwoode wakes gently, opens her
still beautiful eyes, and smiles benignly on all around, as though
defying them to say she has slumbered for half a second.
"Yes, my dear Guy, I quite agree with you," she says, affably, _apropos_
of nothing unless it be a dream, and then, being fully roused, suggests
going to bed. Whereupon Florence says, with gentle thoughtfulness,
"Indeed yes. If Guy is to be up early in the morning he ought to go to
bed now," and, rising as her aunt rises, makes a general move.
When the women have disappeared and resigned themselves to the tender
mercies of their maids, and the men have sought that best beloved of all
apartments, the Tabagie, a sudden resolution to say something that lies
heavy on his mind takes possession of Guy. Of all things on earth he
hates most a "scene," but some power within him compels him to speak
just now. The intense love he bears his only brother, his fear lest harm
should befall him, urges him on, sorely against his will, to give some
faint utterance to all that is puzzling and distressing him.
Taffy, seduced by the sweetness of the night, has stepped out into the
garden, where he is enjoying his weed alone. Within, the lamp is almost
quenched by the great pale rays of the moon that rush through the open
window. Without, the whole world is steeped in one white, glorious
splendor.
The stars on high are twinkling, burning, like distant lamps. Anon, one
darts madly across the dark blue amphitheatre overhead, and is lost in
space, while the others laugh on, unheeding its swift destruction. The
flowers are sleeping, emitting in their dreams faint, delicate perfumed
sighs; the cattle have ceased to low in the far fields: there is no
sound through all the busy land save the sweet soughing of the wind and
the light tread of Musgrave's footsteps up and down outside.
"Cyril," says Guy, removing the meerschaum from between his lips, and
regarding its elaborate silver bands with some nervousness, "I wish you
would not go to The Cottage so often as you do."
"No? And why not, _tres cher_?" asks Cyril, calmly, knowing well what is
coming.
"For one thing, we do not know who this Mrs. Arlington is, or anything
of her. That in itself is a drawback. I am sorry I ever agreed to
Trant's proposal, but it is too late for regret in that quarter. Do not
double my regret by making me feel I have done you harm."
"You shall never feel that. How you do torture yourself over shadows,
Guy! I always think it must be the greatest bore on earth to be
conscientious,--that is, over-scrupulous, like you. It is a mistake,
dear boy, take my word for it,--will wear you out before your time."
"I am thinking of you, Cyril. Forgive me if I seem impertinent. Mrs.
Arlington is lovely, graceful, everything of the most desirable in
appearance, but----" A pause.
"_Apres?_" murmurs Cyril, lazily.
"But," earnestly, "I should not like you to lose your heart to her, as
you force me to say it. Musgrave says he saw Trant in the lane to-day.
Of course he may have been mistaken; but was he? I have my own doubts,
Cyril," rising in some agitation,--"doubts that may be unjust, but I
cannot conquer them. If you allow yourself to love that woman, she will
bring you misfortune. Why is she so secret about her former life? Why
does she shun society? Cyril, be warned in time; she may be a----, she
may be anything," checking himself slowly.
"She may," says Cyril, rising with a passionate irrepressible movement
to his feet, under pretense of lighting the cigar that has died out
between his fingers. Then, with a sudden change of tone and a soft
laugh, "The skies may fall, of course, but we scarcely anticipate it. My
good Guy, what a visionary you are! Do be rational, if you can. As for
Mrs. Arlington, why should she create dissension between you and me?"
"Why, indeed?" returns Guy, gravely. "I have to ask your pardon for my
interference. But you know I only speak when I feel compelled, and
always for your good."
"You are about the best fellow going, I know that," replies Cyril,
deliberately, knocking the ash off his cigar; "but at times you are wont
to lose your head,--to wander,--like the best of us. I am safe enough,
trust me. 'What's Hecuba to me, or I to Hecuba?' Come, don't let us
spoil this glorious night by a dissertation on what we neither of us
know anything about. What a starlight!" standing at the open casement,
and regarding with quick admiration the glistening dome above him. "I
wonder how any one looking on it can disbelieve in a heaven beyond!"
Here Musgrave's fair head makes a blot in the perfect calm of the night
scene.
"Is that you, Taffy? Where have you been all this time?--mooning?--you
have had ample opportunity. But you are too young for Melancholy to mark
you as her own. It is only old folk like Guy," with a laughing though
affectionate glance backward to where his brother stands, somewhat
perplexed, beside the lamp, "should fall victims to the blues."
"A fig for melancholy!" says Taffy, vaulting lightly into the room, and
by his presence putting an end to all private conversation between the
brothers.
* * * * *
The next morning Lilian (to whom early rising is a pure delight),
running down the broad stone stairs two steps at a time, finds Guy on
the eve of starting, with Florence beside him, looking positively
handsome in the most thrilling of morning gowns. She has forsaken her
virtuous couch, and slighted the balmy slumber she so much loves, to
give him his breakfast, and is still unremitting in her attentions, and
untiring with regard to her smiles.
"Not gone!" says Lilian, wickedly: "how disappointed I am, to be sure! I
fancied my bonbons an hour nearer to me than they really are. Bad
Guardy, why don't you hurry?" She says this with the prettiest
affectation of infantile grace, accompanied by a coquettish glance from
under her sweeping lashes that creates in Florence a mad desire to box
her ears.
"You forget it will not hasten the train five seconds, Guy's leaving
this sooner than he does," she says, snubbingly. "To picture him sitting
in a draughty station could not--I should think--give satisfaction to
any one."
"It could"--willfully--"to me. It would show a proper anxiety to obey my
behests. Guardy," with touching concern, "are you sure you are warm
enough? Now do promise me one thing,--that you will beware of the
crossings; they say any number of old men come to grief in that way
yearly, and are run over through deafness, or short sight, or stupidity
in general. Think how horrid it would be if they sent us home your
mangled remains."
"Go in, you naughty child, and learn to speak to your elders with
respect," says Guy, laughing, and putting her bodily inside the
hall-door, from whence she trips out again to wave him a last adieu, and
kiss her hand warmly to him as he disappears round the corner of the
laurustinus bush.
And Sir Guy drives away full of his ward's fresh girlish loveliness, her
slender lissome figure, her laughing face, the thousand tantalizing
graces that go to make her what she is; forgetful of Miss Beauchamp's
more matured charms,--her white gown,--her honeyed words,--everything.
All day long Lilian's image follows him. It is beside him in the crowded
street, enters his club with him, haunts him in his business, laughs at
him in his most serious moods; while she, at home, scarce thinks of him
at all, or at the most vaguely, though when at five he does return she
is the first to greet him.
"He has come home! he is here!" she cries, dancing into the hall. "Have
you escaped the crossings? and rheumatism? and your old enemy, lumbago?
Good old Guardy, let me help you off with your coat. So. Positively, he
is all here,--not a bit of him gone,--and none the worse for wear!"
"Tired, Guy?" asks Florence, coming gracefully forward,--slowly, lest
by unseemly haste she should disturb the perfect fold of her train, that
sets off her figure to such advantage. She speaks warmly,
appropriatingly, as one's wife might, after a long journey.
"Tired! not he," returns Lilian irreverently: "he is quite a gay old
gentleman. Nor hungry either. No doubt he has lunched profusely in town,
'not wisely, but too well,' as somebody says. Where are my sweeties, Sir
Ancient?"
"My dear Lilian,"--rebukingly,--"if you reflect, you will see he must be
both tired and hungry."
"So am I for my creams: I quite pine for them. Sir Guy, where _are_ my
sweeties?"
"Here, little cormorant," says Guy, as fondly as he dares, handing her a
gigantic _bonbonniere_ in which chocolates and French sweetmeats fight
for mastery: "have I got you what you wanted?"
"Yes, indeed; _best_ of Guardys, I only wish I might kiss my thanks."
"You may."
"Better not. Such a condescension on my part might turn your old head.
Oh, Taffy," with an exclamation, "you bad greedy boy; you have taken
half my almonds! Well, you shan't have any of the others, for
punishment. Auntie and Florence and I will eat the rest."
"Thanks," drawls Florence, languidly, "but I am always so terrified
about toothache."
"What a pity!" says Miss Chesney. "If I had toothache, I should have all
my teeth drawn instantly, and false ones put in their place."
To this Miss Beauchamp, being undecided in her own mind as to whether it
is or is not an impertinence, deigns no reply. Cyril, with a gravity
that belies his innermost feelings, gazes hard at Lilian, only to
acknowledge her innocent of desire to offend.
"You did not meet Archibald?" asks Lady Chetwoode of Guy.
"No: I suppose he will be down by next train. Chesney is always up to
time."
"Lilian, my dear, where is my fourth knitting-needle?" asks auntie,
mildly. "I lent it to you this morning for some purpose."
"It is up-stairs; you shall have it in one moment," returns Lilian,
moving toward the door; and Sir Guy, muttering something about getting
rid of the dust of travel, follows her out of the room.
At the foot of the stairs he says:
"Lilian."
"Yes?"
"I have brought you yet another bonbon. Will you accept it?"
As he speaks he holds out to her an open case, in which lies a pretty
ring composed of pearls and diamonds.
"For me? Oh, Sir Guy!" says Lilian, flushing with pleasure, "what a
lovely present to bring me!" Then her expression changes, and her face
falls somewhat. She has lived long enough to know that young men do not,
as a rule, go about giving costly rings to young women without a motive.
Perhaps she ought to refuse it. Perhaps auntie would think it wrong of
her to take it. And if there is really anything between him and
Florence---- Yet what a pretty ring it is, and how the diamonds glitter!
And what woman can resign diamonds without a struggle?
"Will auntie be vexed if I take it?" she asks, honestly, after a pause,
raising her clear eyes to his, thereby betraying the fear that is
tormenting her.
"Why should she? Surely," with a smile, "an elderly guardian may make a
present to his youthful ward without being brought to task for it."
"And Florence?" asks Lilian, speaking impulsively, but half jestingly.
"Does it signify what she thinks?" returns he, a little stiffly. "It is
a mere bauble, and scarcely worth so much thought. You remember that day
down by the stream, when you said you were so fond of rings?"
"No."
"Well, I do, as I remember most things you say, be they kind or cruel,"
softly. "To-day, though I cannot explain why, this ring reminded me of
you, so I bought it, thinking you might fancy it."
"So I do: it is quite too lovely," says Lilian, feeling as though she
had been ungracious, and, what is worse, prudish. "Thank you very much.
I shall wear it this evening with my new dress, and it will help me to
make an impression on my unknown cousin."
She holds out her hand to him; it is the right one, and Guy slips the
ring upon the third finger of it, while she, forgetting it is the
engaged finger, makes no objection.
Sir Guy, still holding the little cool slim hand, looks at her fixedly,
and, looking, decides regretfully that she is quite ignorant of his
meaning.
"How it sparkles!" she says, moving her hand gently to and fro so that
the light falls upon it from different directions. "Thank you again,
Guardy; you are always better to me than I deserve." She says this
warmly, being desirous of removing all traces of her late hesitation,
and quite oblivious of her former scruples. But the moment she leaves
him she remembers them again, and, coming down-stairs with Lady
Chetwoode's needle, and finding her alone, says, with a heightened
color, "See what a charming present Sir Guy has brought me."
"Very pretty indeed," Lady Chetwoode says, examining the ring with
interest. "Dear Guy has such taste, and he is always so thoughtful, ever
thinking how to please some one. I am glad it has been you this time,
pussy," kissing the girl's smiling lips as she bends over her. So that
Miss Chesney, reassured by her auntie's kind words, goes up to dress for
the reception of her cousin Archibald, with a clear and therefore happy
conscience. Not for all the diamonds in Christendom would she have
concealed even so small a secret as the acceptance of this ring from one
whom she professes to love, and who she knows trusts in her.