"_Kate._ I never saw a better fashioned gown,
More quaint, more pleasing, nor more commendable."
--_Taming of the Shrew._
This dressing of Lilian for the undoing of her cousin is a wonderful
affair, and occupies a considerable time. Not that she spends any of it
in a dainty hesitation over the choice of the gown fated to work his
overthrow; all that has been decided on long ago, and the fruit of many
days' deep thought now lies upon her bed, bearing in its every fold--in
each soft fall of lace--all the distinguishing marks that stamp the work
of the inimitable Worth.
At length--nurse having admired and praised her to her heart's content,
and given the last fond finishing touches to her toilet--Miss Chesney
stands arrayed for conquest. She is dressed in a marvelous robe of black
velvet--cut _a la Princesse_, simply fashioned, fitting _a
merveille_,--being yet in mourning for her father. It is a little open
at the throat, so that her neck--soft and fair as a child's--may be
partly seen (looking all the whiter for the blackness that frames it
in), and has the sleeves very tight and ending at the elbow, from which
rich folds of Mechlin lace hang downward. Around her throat are a narrow
band of black velvet and three little strings of pearls that once had
been her mother's. In her amber hair a single white rose nestles
sleepily.
Standing erect before her glass, she contemplates herself in
silence,--marks the snowy loveliness of her neck and arms, her slender
hands (on one of which Guy's ring is sparkling brilliantly), her
rippling yellow hair in all its unstudied sleekness, the tender,
exquisite face, rose-flushed, and, looking gladly upon it all,--for very
love of it,--stoops forward and presses a kiss upon the delicate beauty
that smiles back upon her from the mirror.
"How do I look, nurse?" she asks, turning with a whimsical grace to the
woman who is regarding her with loving admiration. "Shall we captivate
our cousin?"
"Ay, so I think, my dear," replies nurse, quietly. "Were you willing, my
beauty, I'm nigh sure you could coax the birds off the bushes."
"You are an old dear," says Miss Chesney, tenderly, pressing her own
cheek, soft with youth's down, against the wrinkled one near her. "But I
must go and show myself to Taffy."
So saying, she opens the door, and trips away from Mrs. Tipping's
adoring eyes, down the corridor, until she stops at Taffy's door.
"Taffy!"
"Yes." The answer comes in muffled tones.
"May I come in?"
"Yes," still more muffled.
Turning the handle of the door, Lilian enters, to find Mr. Musgrave in
his shirt-sleeves before a long mirror, struggling with his hair, which
is combed straight over his forehead.
"It won't come right," he says, casting a heart-rending glance at
Lilian, who laughs with most reprehensible cruelty, considering the
situation.
"I am glad to find you are not suffocated," she says. "From your tone, I
prepared myself--outside--for the worst. Here, bend your head, you
helpless boy, and I will do it for you."
Taffy kneeling before her submissively, she performs her task deftly,
successfully, and thereby restores peace once more to the bosom of the
dejected dragoon.
"You should hire me as your valet," she says, lightly; "when you are
away from me, I am afraid to think of all the sufferings you must
undergo. Are you easier in your mind now, Taffy?"
"Oh, I say! what a swell you are!" says that young man, when he is
sufficiently recovered to glance round. "I call that rig-out downright
fetching. Where did you get that from?"
"Straight from Monsieur Worth," returns Lilian, with pardonable pride,
when one remembers what a success she is, drawing up her slim young
figure to its fullest height, and letting her white hands fall clasped
before her, as she poses for well-earned admiration. "Is not it pretty?
And doesn't it fit like a glove?"
"It does. It gives you really a tolerably good figure," with all a
brother's calm impertinence, while examining her critically. "You have
got yourself up regardless, so I suppose you mean mischief."
"Well, if this doesn't soften his heart, nothing will," replies Miss
Chesney, vainly regarding her velvet, and alluding, as Musgrave well
knows, to her cousin Archibald. "You really think I look nice, Taffy?
You think I am _chic_?"
"I do, indeed. I am not a judge of women's clothing, but I like black
velvet, and when I have a wife she shall wear nothing else. I would say
more in your favor, but that I fear over-much praise might have a bad
effect upon you, and cause you to die of your 'own dear loveliness.'"
"_Mechant!_" says Lilian, with a charming pout. "Never mind, I know you
admire me intensely."
"Have I not said so in the plainest Queen's English? But that time has
fatally revealed to me the real character of the person standing in
those costly garments, I feel I should fall madly in love with you
to-night."
"Silly child!"--turning up her small nose with immeasurable
disdain,--"do you think I would deign to accept your boyish homage? No;
I like _men_! Indeed!"--with disgraceful affectation,--"I think it my
duty to warn you not to waste time burning your foolish fingers at _my_
shrine."
She moves him aside with one small finger, the better to see how
charming she is in another glass. This one reveals to her all the
sweetness she has seen before--and something more. Scarcely has she
glanced into it, when her complexion, that a moment since was a soft and
lovely pink, changes suddenly, and flames into a deep crimson. There, at
the farthest end of the long room reflected in the glass,--staring back
at her,--coatless, motionless, with a brush suspended from each hand,
stands a man, lost in wonder and most flattering astonishment.
Miss Chesney, turning round with a start, finds that this vision is not
belonging to the other world, but is a real _bona fide_ creature of
flesh and blood,--a young man, tall, broad-shouldered, and very dark.
For a full minute they stare silently at each other, oppressed with
thoughts widely different in character, while Taffy remains blissfully
ignorant of the situation, being now engaged in a desperate conflict
with a refractory tie. Then one of the brushes falls from the stranger's
hand, and the spell is broken. Miss Chesney, turning impetuously,
proceeds to pour out the vials of her wrath upon Taffy.
"I think you might have told me," she says, in clear, angry tones,
casting upon him a glance meant to wither. But Mr. Musgrave distinctly
refuses to be withered.
"Eh? What? _By Jove!_" he says, vaguely, as the awful truth dawns upon
him. Meanwhile Lilian sweeps majestically to the door, her velvets
trailing behind her. All her merry kittenish ways have disappeared; she
walks as a young queen might who has been grossly affronted in open
court.
"Give you my honor I quite forgot him," murmurs Taffy, from the spot
where he is rooted through sheer dismay. His tones are dismal in the
extreme, but Miss Chesney disdains to hear or argue, and, going out,
closes the door with much determination behind her. The stranger,
suppressing a smile, stoops to pick up the fallen brush, and the scene
is at an end.
Down the stairs, full of vehement indignation, goes Lilian, thoughts
crowding upon her thick and heavy. Could anything be more unfortunate?
Just when she had got herself up in the most effective style,--just when
she had hoped, with the aid of this velvet gown, to make a pleasing and
dignified _entree_ into his presence in the drawing-room below,--she has
been led into making his acquaintance in Taffy's bedroom! Oh! horror!
She has been face to face with him in his shirt-sleeves, with his odious
brushes in his hands, and a stare of undeniable surprise upon his
hateful face! Oh! it is insupportable!
And what was it she said to Taffy? What did she do? Hastily her mind
travels backward to the conversation that has just taken place.
First, _she combed Taffy's hair_. Oh! miserable girl! She closes two
azure eyes with two slender fingers from the light of day, as this
thought occurs to her. Then, she smirked at her own graceful image in
Taffy's glass, and made all sorts of conceited remarks about her
personal appearance, and then she said she hoped to subjugate "_him_."
What "him" could there be but this one? and of course he knows it. Oh!
unhappy young woman!
As for Taffy, bad, bad boy that he is, never to give her a hint.
Vengeance surely is in store for him. What right had he to forget? If
there is one thing she detests, it is a person devoid of tact. If there
is one thing she could adore, it would be the power to shake the
wretched Taffy out of his shoes.
What is there left to her but to gain her room, plead bad headache, and
spend the remainder of the evening in retirement? In this mood she gains
the drawing-room door, and, hesitating before it, thinks better of the
solitary-confinement idea; and, entering the room, seats herself in a
cozy chair and prepares to meet her fate with admirable calmness.
Dinner is ready,--waiting,--and still no Archibald. Then there is a step
in the hall, the door is thrown open, and he enters, as much hurried as
it is possible for a well-bred young man to be in this nineteenth
century.
Lady Chetwoode instantly says, with old-fashioned grace, the sweeter
that it is somewhat obsolete,----
"Lilian, permit me to introduce to you your cousin, Archibald Chesney."
Whereupon Lilian bows coldly and refuses to meet her cousin's eyes,
while kind Lady Chetwoode thinks it is a little stiff of the child, and
most unlike her, not to shake hands with her own kin.
An awkward pause is almost inevitable, when Taffy says out loud, to no
one in particular, but with much gusto:
"How odd it is they should never have seen each other until now!" after
which he goes into silent agonies of merriment over his own wit, until
brought to his senses by an annihilating glance from Lilian.
The dinner-hour is remarkable for nothing except Lilian's silence. This,
being so utterly unexpected, is worthy of note. After dinner, when the
men gain the drawing-room, Archibald, coming over, deliberately pushes
aside Miss Chesney's velvet skirts, and seats himself on the low ottoman
beside her with modest determination.
Miss Chesney, raising her eyes, regards him curiously.
He is tall, and eminently gloomy in appearance. His hair is of a rare
blackness, his eyes are dark, so is his skin. His eyebrows are slightly
arched, which gives him an air of melancholy protest against the world
in general. His nose is of the high and mighty order that comes under
the denomination of aquiline, or hooked, as may suit you best. Before
his arrival Cyril used to tell Lilian that if Nature had meant him for
anything it was to act as brigand in a private theatre; and Lilian, now
calling to mind this remark, acknowledges the truth of it, and almost
laughs in the face of her dark-browed cousin. Nevertheless she refrains
from outward mirth, which is wisdom on her part, as ridicule is his
_bete noir_.
Despite the extreme darkness of his complexion he is unmistakably
handsome, though somewhat discontented in expression. Why, no one knows.
He is rich, courted, as are all young men with a respectable rent-roll,
and might have made many a titled _debutante_ Mrs. Chesney had he so
chosen. He has not even a romantic love-affair to fall back upon as an
excuse for his dejection; no unfortunate attachment has arisen to sour
his existence. Indeed, it is seldom the owner of landed property has to
complain on this score, all such luxuries being reserved for the poor of
the earth.
Archibald Chesney's gloom, which is becoming if anything, does not sink
deeper than his skin. It gives a certain gentleness to his face, and
prevents the ignorant from guessing that he is one of the wildest,
maddest young men about London. Lilian, regarding him with quiet
scrutiny, decides that he is good to look at, and that his eyes are
peculiarly large and dark.
"Are you angry with me for what happened up-stairs?" he asks, gently,
after a pause spent in as earnest an examination of her as any she has
bestowed upon him.
"Up-stairs?" says Lilian, with raised brows of inquiry and carefully
studied ignorance.
"I mean my unfortunate _rencontre_ with you in Musgrave's room."
"Oh, dear, no," with clear denial. "I seldom grow angry over _trifles_.
I have not thought of it since." She utters her fib bravely, the truth
being that all during dinner she has been consumed with shame.
"Have you not? _I_ have. I have been utterly miserable ever since you
bestowed that terrible look upon me when your eyes first met mine. Won't
you let me explain my presence there? I think if you do you will forgive
me."
"It was not your fault: there is nothing about which you need
apologize," says Lilian; but her tone is more cordial, and there is the
faintest dimpling of a smile around her mobile lips.
"Nevertheless I hate myself in that I caused you a moment's uneasiness,"
says Mr. Chesney, that being the amiable word he employs for her
ill-temper. "I shall be discontented until I tell you the truth: so pray
let me."
"Then tell it," says Lilian.
"I have a man, a perfect treasure, who can do all that man can possibly
do, who is in fact faultless,--but for one small weakness."
"And that is?"
"Like Mr. Stiggins, his vanity is--brandy hot. Now and then he drinks
more of it than is good for him, though to do him justice not very
often. Once in six months, regular as clockwork, he gets hopelessly
drunk, and just now the time being up, he, of course, chose this
particular day to make his half-yearly exhibition of himself, and having
imbibed brandy _ad lib._, forgot to bring himself and my traps to
Chetwoode in time for the first dressing-bell."
"What a satisfactory sort of servant!"
"He is, very, when he is sober,--absolutely invaluable. And then his
little mistakes occur so seldom. But I wish he had not chosen this
night of all others in which to play me false. I don't know what I
should have done had I not thrown myself upon Musgrave's mercy and
borrowed his brushes and combs and implements of war generally. As it
was, I had almost given up hope of being able to reach the drawing-room
at all to-night, when just at the last moment my 'treasure' arrived with
my things and--any amount of concealed spirits. Do I bore you with my
explanation? It is very good of you to listen so patiently, but I should
have been too unhappy had I been prevented from telling you all this."
"I think, after all, it is I should explain my presence in that room,"
says Lilian, with a gay, irresistible laugh that causes Guy, who is at
the other end of the room, to lift his head and regard her anxiously.
He is sitting near Florence, on a sofa (or rather, to speak more
correctly, she is sitting near him), and is looking bored and _gene_.
Her laugh pains him unaccountably; glancing next at her companion he
marks the still admiration in the dark face as it gazes into her fair
one. Already--_already_--he is surely _empresse_.
"But the fact is," Lilian is saying, "I have always been in the habit of
visiting Taffy's room before he has quite finished his dressing, to see
if there be any little final touch required that I might give him. Did
you meet him in London?"
"No; never saw him until a couple of hours ago. Very nice little fellow,
I should say. Cousin of yours?"
"Yes: isn't he a pet?" says Lilian, eagerly, always glad to hear praise
of her youthful plunger. "There are very few like him. He is my nearest
relative, and you can't think how I love that boy."
"That boy is, I should say, older than you are."
"Ye--es," doubtfully, "so he says: about a year, I think. Not that it
matters," says Miss Chesney, airily, "as in reality I am any number of
years older than he is. He is nothing but a big child, so I have to look
after him."
"You have, I supposed, constituted yourself his mother?" asks Archibald,
intensely amused at her pretty assumption of maternity.
"Yes," with a grave nod, "or his elder sister, just as I feel it my duty
at the moment to pet or scold him."
"Happy Taffy!"
"Not that he gives me much trouble. He is a very good boy generally."
"He is a very handsome boy, at all events. You have reason to be proud
of your child. I am your cousin also."
"Yes?"
"Yes."
A pause, after which Mr. Chesney says, meekly:
"I suppose you would not take me as a second son?"
"I think not," says Lilian, laughing; "you are much too important a
person and far too old to be either petted or scolded."
"That is very hard lines, isn't it? You might say anything you liked to
me, and I am almost positive I should not resent it. And if you will be
kind enough to turn your eyes on me once more, I think you will
acknowledge I am not so very old."
"Too old for me to take in hand. I doubt you would be an unruly
member,--a _mauvais sujet_,--a disgrace to my teaching. I should lose
caste. At dinner I saw you frown, and frowns,"--with a coquettishly
plaintive sigh--"frighten me!"
"Do you imagine me brutal enough to frown upon my mother?--and such a
mother?"
"Nevertheless, I cannot undertake your reformation. You should remember
you are scarcely in my good books. Are you not a usurper in my eyes?
Have you not stolen from me my beloved Park?"
"Ah! true. But you can have it back again, you know," returns he, in a
low tone, half jest, though there is a faint under-current--that is
almost earnestness--running through it.
At this moment Lady Chetwoode saves Lilian the embarrassment of a reply.
"Sing us something, darling," she says.
And Lilian, rising, trails her soft skirts after her across the room,
and, sitting down at the piano, commences "Barbara Allen," sweetly,
gravely, tenderly, as is her wont.
Guy's gaze is following her. The pure though _piquante_ face, the golden
hair, the rich old-fashioned texture of the gown, all combine to make a
lovely picture lovelier. The words of the song make his heart throb, and
bring to life a certain memory of earlier days, when on the top of a
high wall he first heard her singing it.
Pathetically, softly, she sings it, without affectation or pretense of
any kind, and, having finished, still lets her fingers wander idly over
the notes (drawing from them delicate minor harmonies that sadden the
listener), whilst the others applaud.
Guy alone being silent, she glances at him presently with a smile full
of kindliness, that claims and obtains an answering smile in return.
"Have I ever seen that gown on you before?" he asks, after a pause.
"No. This dress is without doubt an eminent success, as everybody
admires it. No; you never saw it before. Do you like it?"
"More than I can say. Lilian, you have formed your opinion of your
cousin, and--you like him?"
"Very much, indeed. He is handsome, _debonnaire_, all that may be
desired, and--he quite likes Taffy."
"A passport to your favor," says Chetwoode, smiling. "Though no one
could help liking the boy." Then his eyes seeking her hands once more,
fasten upon the right one, and he sees the ring he had placed upon the
third finger a few hours before now glistens bravely upon the second.
The discovery causes him a pang so keen that involuntarily he draws
himself up to his full height, and condemns himself as a superstitious
fool. As if she divines his thought,--though in reality she knows
nothing of it,--Lilian says, gazing admiringly at the glittering trinket
in question:
"I think your ring grows prettier and prettier every time I look at it.
But it would not stay on the finger you chose; while I was dressing it
fell off; so, fearing to lose it, I slipped it upon this one. It looks
as well, does it not?"
"Yes," said Chetwoode, though all the time he is wishing with all his
heart it had not fallen from the engagement finger. When we love we grow
fearful; and with fear there is torment.
"Why don't you ask Florence to sing?" asks Lilian, suddenly.
Archibald Chesney has risen and lounged over to the piano, and now is
close beside her. To Guy's jealous ears it seems as though the remark
was made to rid her of his presence.
"Because I detest French songs," he answers, somewhat sharply,--Miss
Beauchamp being addicted to such foreign music.
"Do you?" says Lilian, laughing at his tone, which she fully
understands, and straightway sings one (the gayest, brightest, most
nonsensical to be found in her _repertoire_) in her sweet fresh voice,
glancing at him with a comical challenge in her eyes every time the
foolish yet tender refrain occurs.
When she has finished she says to him, saucily:
"Well, Sir Guy?"
And he answers:
"I am vanquished, utterly convinced. I confess I now like French songs
as well as any others."
"I like them ten times better," says Archibald, impulsively, "when they
are sung by you. There is a _verve_, a gayety about them that other
songs lack. Have you any more? Do you know any of Gounod's? I like them,
though they are of a different style."
"They are rather beyond me," says Lilian, laughing. "But hear this: it
is one of Beranger's, very simply set, but I think pretty."
This time she sings to _him_,--unmistakably,--a soft little Norman
love-song, full of grace and tenderest entreaty, bestowing upon him all
the beguiling smiles she had a moment since given exclusively to her
guardian, until at length Sir Guy, muttering "coquette" to his own
heart, turns aside, leaving Chesney master of the field.
Lilian, turning from her animated discussion with Archibald, follows his
departing footsteps with her eyes, in which lies a faintly malicious
smile; an expression full of suppressed enjoyment curves her lips; she
is evidently satisfied at his abrupt retreat, and continues her
interrupted conversation with her cousin in still more joyous tones.
Perhaps this is how she means to fulfill her mysterious threat of
"showing" Sir Guy.