"I will gather thee, he cried,
Rosebud brightly blowing!
Then I'll sting thee, it replied,
And you'll quickly start aside
With the prickle glowing.
Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,
Rosebud brightly blowing!"
--GOETHE--_translated_.
"Nurse, wash my hair," says Lilian, entering her nurse's sanctum, which
is next her own, one lovely morning early in September when
"Dew is on the lea,
And tender buds are fretting to be free."
The fickle sun is flinging its broad beams far and near, now glittering
upon the ivied towers, and now dancing round the chimney-tops, now
necking with gold the mullioned window. Its brightness is as a smile
from the departing summer, the sweeter that it grows rarer every hour;
its merry rays spread and lengthen, the wind grows softer, balmier,
beneath its influence; it is as the very heart of lazy July.
"And on the woods and on the deep
The smile of heaven lay.
It seemed as if the day were one
Sent from beyond the skies,
Which shed to earth above the sun
A light of Paradise."
There is an "inviolable quietness" in all the air.
Some late roses have grown, and cluster round Lilian's window; stooping
out, she kisses and caresses them, speaking to them as though they were
(as indeed they are) her dear friends, when nurse's voice recalls her to
the present, and the inner room.
"La, my dear," says Mrs. Tipping, "it is only four days since I washed
it before."
"Never mind, ninny; wash it again. To-day is so delicious, with such a
dear little breeze, and such a prodigality of sun, that I cannot resist
it. You know how I love running through the air with my hair wet, and
feeling the wind rushing through it. And, nurse, be sure
now"--coaxingly--"you put plenty of soda in the water."
"What, and rot all your pretty locks? Not I, indeed!" says nurse, with
much determination.
"But you must; you will now, won't you?" in a wheedling tone. "It never
stands properly out from my head unless it is full of soda."
"An' what, I wonder, would your poor mamma say to me if she could see me
spoiling your bonny hair this day, an' it the very color of her own? No,
no; I cannot indeed. It goes against my conscience, as it were. Go get
some one else to wash it, not me; it would sadden me."
"If you won't wash it, no one else shall," pouts Lilian. And when Lilian
pouts she looks so lovely, and so naughty, and so irresistible, that,
instead of scolding her for ill-temper, every one instantly gives in to
her. Nurse gives in, as she has done to her little mistress's pout ever
since the latter was four years old, and forthwith produces soap and
water and plenty of soda.
The long yellow hair being at length washed, combed out carefully, and
brushed until it hangs heavily all down her back, Lilian administers a
soft little kiss to her nurse as reward for her trouble, and runs
delightedly down the stairs, straight into the open air, without hat, or
covering of any kind for her head.
The garden is listless and sleepy. The bees are silent, the flowers are
nodding drowsily, wakened into some sort of life by the teasing wind
that sighs and laughs around them unceasingly. Lilian plucks a blossom
here and there, and scatters far and near the gaudy butterfly in very
wantonness of enjoyment, while the wooing wind whistles through her
hair, drying it softly, lovingly, until at last some of its pristine
gloss returns to it, and its gold shines with redoubled vigor beneath
the sun's rays.
As she saunters, reveling--as one from Fairyland might revel--in the
warmth and gladness of the great heathen god, she sings; and to Guy in
his distant study the sound and the words come all too distinctly,--
"Why shouldn't I love my love?
Why shouldn't he love me?
Why shouldn't he come after me,
Since love to all is free?"
Beneath his window she pauses, and, finally, running up the steps of the
balcony, peers in, full of an idle curiosity.
Sir Guy's den is the most desirable room in the house,--the coziest,
the oddest, the most interesting. Looking at it, one guesses
instinctively how addicted to all pretty things the owner is, from women
down to less costly _bijouterie_.
Lovely landscapes adorn the walls side by side with Greuze-like faces,
angelic in expression, unlike in appearance. There are a few portraits
of beauties well known in the London and Paris worlds, frail as they are
fair, false as they are _piquante_, whose garments (to do him justice)
are distinctly decent, perhaps more so than their characters. But then
indecency has gone out of fashion.
There are two or three lounges, some priceless statuettes, a few bits of
_bric-a-brac_ worth their weight in gold, innumerable yellow-backed
volumes by Paul de Kock and his fellows, chairs of all shapes and sizes,
one more comfortable and inviting than the other, enough meerschaum
pipes and cigarette-holders and tobacco-stands to stock a small shop, a
couple of dogs snoozing peacefully upon the hearth-rug, under the
mistaken impression that a fire is burning in the grate, a
writing-table, and before it Sir Guy. These are the principal things
that attract Lilian's attention, as she gazes in, with her silken hair
streaming behind her in the light breeze.
On the wall she cannot see, there are a few hunters by Herring, a copy
of Millais' "Yes or No," a good deal of stable-ware, and beneath them,
on a table, more pipes, cheroots, and boxes of cigars, mixed up with
straw-covered bottles of perfume, thrust rather ignominiously into the
corner.
A shadow falling across the paper on which he is writing, Guy raises his
head, to see a fairy vision staring in at him,--a little slight figure,
clothed in airy black with daintiest lace frillings at the throat and
wrists, and with a wealth of golden hair brought purposely all over her
face, letting only the laughing sapphire eyes, blue as the skies above
her, gleam out from among it.
"Open the door, O hermit, and let a poor wanderer in," croons this
fairy, in properly saddened tones.
Rising gladly, he throws wide the window to her, whereupon she steps
into the room, still with her face hidden.
"You come?" asks he, in a deferential tone.
"To know what you are doing, and what can keep you in-doors this
exquisite day. Do you remember how late in the season it is? and that
you are slighting Nature? She will be angry, and will visit you with
storms and drooping flowers, if you persist in flouting her. Come out.
Come out."
"Who are you?" asks Guy. "Are you Flora?" He parts her hair gently and
throws it back over her shoulders. "I thought you a nymph,--a fairy,--a
small goddess, and----"
"And behold it is only Lilian! Naughty Lilian! Are you disappointed, Sir
Guardian?" She laughs, and running her fingers through all her amber
locks, spreading them out on either side of her like a silken veil, that
extends as far as her arms can reach. She is lovely, radiant, bright as
the day itself, fairer than the lazy flowers.
"What a child you are!" says Guy, with some discontent in his voice,
feeling how far, _far_ younger than he she is.
"Am I? Nonsense! Nurse says," going to a glass and surveying herself
with critical eyes, "nurse says I am a 'very well grown girl of my
age.'" Almost unconsciously she assumes nurse's pompous though adoring
manner to such perfection that Guy laughs heartily.
"That is right, Guardy," says Miss Lilian, with bland encouragement. "I
like to hear you laugh; of late you have grown almost as discontented to
look at as my cousin. Have I amused you?"
"Yes; your assumption of Mrs. Tipping was admirable. Though I am not
sure that I agree with her: you are not very much grown, are you? I
don't think you are up to my shoulder."
"What a tarradiddle!" says Lilian. "Get off that table directly and let
me convince you."
As Guy obeys her and draws himself up to his liberal six feet one, she
goes to him and lays her soft head against his arm, only to find he--not
she--is right; she is half an inch below his shoulder. Standing so, it
takes Guy all he knows to keep himself from throwing his arms round her
and straining her to the heart that beats for her so passionately,--that
beats for her alone.
"You have raised your shoulder," she says, most unfairly: "it wasn't
half so high yesterday. You shouldn't cheat!--What a charming room yours
is! I quite envy it to you. And the flowers are so well selected. Who
adorns your den so artistically? Florence? But of course it is the
invaluable Florence: I might have known. That good creature always does
the correct thing!"
"I think it is the mother sees to it," replies he, gently.
"Oh, is it? Kind auntie! What a delicious little bit of blue!
Forget-me-not, is it? How innocent it looks, and babyish, in its green
leaves! May I rob you, Sir Guy? I should like a spray or two for my
dress."
"You may have anything you wish that I can give you."
"What a noble offer!--Are you going to waste much more time over your
tiresome letters?" glancing with pretty impertinence at the
half-finished sheets lying on the table near her: "I suppose they are
all business, or love, or suchlike rubbish! Well, good-bye, Guardy, I
must go and finish the drying of my hair; you will find me in the garden
when you come to the end of your last _billet-doux_."
So saying, she trips away from him down the handsome oak-paneled room,
and disappears through the doorway that leads into the hall.
Where she goes the sunshine seems to follow her. To Guy's fancy it
appears as though a shadow has fallen suddenly into the room, when the
last glimpse of her yellow hair has vanished out of sight. With a rather
abstracted air he betakes himself once more to his writing, and tries to
forget her.
But somehow the impetus that urged him on half an hour ago is wanting;
the spur to his industry has lost its sharpness; and presently, throwing
down his pen with an impatient gesture, he acknowledges himself no
longer in the mood for work.
What a child she is!--again the thought occurs to him;--yet with what
power to torture! To-day all sweetness and honeyed gayety, to-morrow
indifferent, if not actually repellent. She is an anomaly,--a little
frail lily beset with thorns that puts forth its stings to wound, and
probe, and madden, when least expected.
Only yesterday--after an hour's inward conflict--he had convinced
himself of her love for her cousin Archibald, with such evident pleasure
did she receive his very marked attentions. And now,--to-day,--surely if
she loved Chesney her eyes could not have dwelt so kindly upon another
as they did a few minutes since upon her guardian. With what a pretty
grace she had demanded that blue forget-me-not and placed it in the
bosom of her dress! With what evident sincerity she had hinted at her
wish to see him in the garden when his work should be over!
Perhaps--perhaps----
Of late a passionate desire to tell her of the affection with which she
has inspired him consumes him daily,--hourly; but a fear, a sad
certainty of disappointment to follow on his declaration has hitherto
checked the words that so often tremble on his lips. Now the unwonted
gentleness of her manner tempts him to follow her and put his fate "to
the touch," and so end all the jealous anguish and heart-burnings that
torment him all day long.
Quitting his sanctum, he crosses the hall, and enters the drawing-room,
where he finds Florence alone.
She is, as usual, bending industriously over her crewel work; the
parrot's tail is now in a high state of perfection, not a color in the
rainbow being missing from it. Seeing Guy, she raises her head and
smiles upon him sweetly, blandly, invitingly.
"Where is Lilian?" asks Guy, abruptly, with all the tactless
truthfulness of a man when he has one absorbing object in view.
Miss Beauchamp's bland smile freezes on her lips, and shows itself no
more. She makes answer, nevertheless, in an unmoved tone:
"Where she always is,--in the garden with her cousin, Mr. Chesney."
"Always?" says Guy, lightly, though in reality his face has grown
suddenly pale, and his fingers clinch involuntarily.
"Well," in her unchangeable placid staccato voice, "generally. He seems
very _epris_ with her, and she appears to receive his admiration
favorably. Have you not noticed it?"
"I cannot say I have."
"No?"--incredulously--"how extraordinary! But men are proverbially dull
in the observation of such matters as love-affairs. Some, indeed," with
slow meaning, "are positively _blind_."
She lays her work upon the table before her and examines it critically.
She does not so much as glance at her victim, though secretly enjoying
the knowledge that he is writhing beneath the lash.
"Chesney would be a good match for her," says Guy, with the calmness of
despair. But his calmness does not deceive his companion.
"Very good. The Park, I am told, is even larger than Chetwoode. You, as
her guardian, should, I think, put carefully before her all the
advantages to be derived from such a marriage."
Here she smooths out her parrot, and, turning her head slightly to one
side, wonders whether a little more crimson in the wings would not make
them look more attractive. No, perhaps not: they are gaudy enough
already,--though one often sees--a parrot--with----
"I don't believe mere money would have weight with Lilian," Guy breaks
in upon her all-important reverie, with a visible effort.
"No? Perhaps not. But then the Park is her old home, and she, who
professes such childish adoration for it, might possibly like to regain
it. You really should speak to her, Guy. She should not be allowed to
throw away such a brilliant chance, when a few well-chosen words might
bias her in the right direction."
Guy makes no reply, but, stepping on to the balcony outside, walks
listlessly away, his heart in a tumult of fear and regret, while Miss
Beauchamp, calmly, and with a certain triumph, goes on contentedly with
her work. A nail in Lilian's coffin has, she hopes, been driven, and
sews her hopes into the canvas beneath her hand, as long ago the
Parisian women knitted their terrible revenge and cruel longings into
their children's socks, whilst all the flower and beauty and chivalry of
France fell beneath the fatal guillotine.
Guy, wandering aimlessly, full of dismal thought, follows out
mechanically his first idea, and turns in the direction of the garden,
the spot so beloved by his false, treacherous little mistress.
In the distance he sees her; she is standing motionless in the centre of
a grassplot, while behind her Chesney is busily engaged tying back her
yellow hair with a broad piece of black ribbon she has evidently given
him for the purpose. He has all her rich tresses gathered together in
one, and is lingering palpably over his task. In his coat is placed
conspicuously the blue forget-me-not begged of Guy by Lilian only a few
minutes ago as though her heart were set upon its possession.
"Coquette," mutters Chetwoode between his teeth.
"Not done yet?" asks the coquette at this moment of her cousin, giving
her head a little impatient shake.
"Yes, just done," finishing up in a hurry the somewhat curious bow he is
making.
"Well, now run," says Lilian, "and do as I bade you. I shall be here on
this spot when you return. You know how I hate waiting: so don't be
long,--do you hear?"
"Does that mean you will be impatient to see me again?"
"Of course," laughing. "I shall be _dying_ to see you again, longing,
pining for your return, thinking every minute an hour until you come
back to me."
Thus encouraged, Archibald quickly vanishes, and Guy comes slowly up to
her.
"I think you needn't have put that flower in Chesney's coat," he says,
in an aggrieved tone. "I had no idea you meant it for his adornment."
"Is it in his coat?" As she makes this mean reply she blushes a rich
warm crimson, so full of consciousness that it drives Guy absolutely
wild with jealousy. "Yes, now I remember," she says, with an assumption
of indifference; "he either took it from me, or asked me for it, I quite
forget which."
"Do you?"
"I do," resenting his manner, which borders on disbelief, and is in her
eyes highly objectionable. "Why should I trouble myself to recollect
such trifles?"
After a pause, and with a distinct effort, Chetwoode says:
"You were foolishly prejudiced against your cousin before his arrival. I
am glad you have learned to be civil to him."
"More than that, I have learned to like him very much indeed. He is
quite charming, and not in the least _exigeant_, or _difficile_," this
rather pronounced. "Besides, he is my cousin, and the master of my old
home. Whenever I think of the dear Park I naturally think of him, until
now they are both associated in my mind: this adds to my liking."
Guy's heart sinks within him as he remembers Florence's words and now
hears Lilian's own confession. He glances at her despairingly. She is
picking a flower to pieces, and as she does so a little soft sigh
escapes her. Is it for her lost home? Is she already dreaming of an hour
when she may return to it once more as its happy mistress? Is she
mercenary, as Florence hinted? or is it homesickness that is tempting
her? or can it be that at heart she loves this cousin?
"It is the same with all women," he says bitterly; "the last comer is
always the best, the newest face the dearest."
"I do not understand you,"--with cold reproof; "surely you are wandering
from the subject: we were saying nothing about last comers or new faces.
If you happen to be in a bad temper, Sir Guy, I really think it a little
hard that you should come here to inflict it upon me."
"I am not in a bad temper,"--indignantly.
"No? It seems very like it," says Miss Chesney. "I can't bear cross
people: they are always saying unpleasant as well as unmeaning things.
New faces, indeed! I really wish Archibald would come; he is always
agreeable, and never starts distasteful topics. Ah, here he is! Archie,
how long you have been! I thought you were never coming! Sir Guy is in
one of his terrible moods, and has frightened me out of my life. I was
in danger of being lectured off the face of the earth. No woman should
be pitied but she that has a guardian! You have come to my rescue barely
in time: another minute, and you would have found only a lifeless
Lilian."
Sir Guy, black with rage, turns aside. Archibald, ignorant of the storm
brewing, sinks beside her contentedly upon the grass.