"And, though she be but little, she is fierce."
--_Midsummer Night's Dream._
"RENE. Suffer love! A good epithet! I do suffer love, indeed,
for I love thee against my will."--_Much Ado About Nothing._
It is a glorious evening toward the close of September. The heat is
intense, delicious, as productive of happy languor as though it was
still the very heart of summer.
Outside upon the grass sits Lilian, idly threading daisies into chains,
her riotous golden locks waving upon her fair forehead beneath the
influence of the wind. At her feet, full length, lies Archibald, a book
containing selections from the works of favorite poets in his hand. He
is reading aloud such passages as please him and serve to illustrate the
passion that day by day is growing deeper for his pretty cousin. Already
his infatuation for her has become a fact so palpable that not only has
he ceased to deny it to himself, but every one in the house is fully
aware of it, from Lady Chetwoode down to the lowest housemaid.
Sometimes, when the poem is an old favorite, he recites it, keeping his
dark eyes fixed the while upon the fair coquettish face just above him.
Upon the balcony looking down upon them sits Florence, working at the
everlasting parrot, with Guy beside her, utterly miserable, his whole
attention concentrated upon his ward. For the past week he has been
wretched as a man can be who sees a rival well received before his eyes
day after day. Miss Beauchamp's soft speeches and tender glances,
although many and pronounced, fail to console him, though to others he
appears to accept them willingly enough, and to make a generous return,
spending--how, he hardly knows, though perhaps _she_ does--a good deal
of time in her society. He must indeed be devoid of observation if now
he cannot pass a strict examination of the hues of that crewel bird
(this is not a joke), for wherever he may be, there Miss Beauchamp is
sure to show a few minutes later, always with her wools.
Noting all this, be sure Lilian draws from it her own conclusions.
As each clear silvery laugh reaches him from below, Guy frowns and
winces at every fond poetical sentiment that, floated upward by the
wind, falls upon his ears.
"See the mountain kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister flower would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother:
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea:
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?"
The words recited by Mr. Chesney with much _empressement_ soar upward
and gain Guy's ear; Archibald is pointing his quotation with many
impassioned glances and much tender emphasis; all of which is rather
thrown away upon Lilian, who is not in the least sentimental.
"Read something livelier, Archie," she says, regarding her growing chain
with unlimited admiration. "There is rather too much honey about that."
"If you can snub Shelley, I'm sure I don't know what it is you _do_
like," returns he, somewhat disgusted. A slight pause ensues, filled up
by the faint noise of the leaves of Chesney's volume as he turns them
over impatiently.
"'Oh, my Luve's like a red, red, rose,'" he begins, bravely, but Lilian
instantly suppresses him.
"Don't," she says: "that's worse. I always think what a horrid 'luve'
she must have been. Fancy a girl with cheeks like that rose over there!
Fancy writing a sonnet to a milk-maid! Go on, however; the other lines
are rather pretty."
"Oh, my love's like a melody
That's sweetly played in tune,"
reads Archie, and then stops.
"It is pretty," he says, agreeably; "but if you had heard the last word
persistently called 'chune,' I think it would have taken the edge off
your fancy for it. I had an uncle who adored that little poem, but he
_would_ call the word 'chune,' and it rather spoiled the effect. He's
dead," says Mr. Chesney, laying down his book, "but I think I see him
now."
"In the pride of youth and beauty,
With a garland on his brow,"
quotes Lilian, mischievously.
"Well, not quite. Rather in an exceedingly rusty suit of evening clothes
at the Opera. I took him there in a weak moment to hear the 'late
lamented Titiens' sing her choicest song in 'Il Trovatore,'--you know
it?--well, when it was over and the whole house was in a perfect uproar
of applause, I turned and asked him what he thought of it, and he
instantly said he thought it was 'a very pretty "chune"!' Fancy Titiens
singing a 'chune'! I gave him up after that, and carefully avoided his
society. Poor old chap, he didn't bear malice, however, as he died a
year later and left me all his money."
"More than you deserved," says Lilian.
Here Cyril and Taffy appearing on the scene cause a diversion. They
both simultaneously fling themselves upon the grass at Lilian's feet,
and declare themselves completely used up.
"Let us have tea out here," says Lilian, gayly, "and enjoy our summer to
the end." Springing to her feet, she turns toward the balcony, careless
of the fact that she has destroyed the lovely picture she made sitting
on the greensward, surrounded by her attendant swains.
"Florence, come down here, and let us have tea on the grass," she calls
out pleasantly to Miss Beauchamp.
"Do, Florence," says Archibald, entreatingly.
"Miss Beauchamp, you really _must_," from Taffy, decides the point.
Florence, feeling it will look ungracious to refuse, rises with
reluctance, and sails down upon the _quartette_ below, followed by Sir
Guy.
"What an awful time we shall be having at Mrs. Boileau's this hour
to-morrow night," says Cyril, plaintively, after a long silence on his
part. "I shudder when I think of it. No one who has never spent an
evening at the Grange can imagine the agony of it."
"I vow I would rather be broken on the wheel than undergo it," says
Archibald. "It was downright mean of Lady Chetwoode to let us all in for
it. And yet no doubt things might have been worse; we ought to feel
devoutly thankful old Boileau is well under the sod."
"What was the matter with him?" asks Lilian.
"Don't name him," says Cyril, "he was past all human endurance; my blood
runs cold when I remember, I once did know him. I rejoice to say he is
no more. His name was Benjamin: and as he was small and thin, and she
was large and fat, she (that is, Mrs. Boileau) was always called
'Benjamin's portion.' That's a joke; do you see it?"
"I do: so you don't take any bobs off _my_ wages," retorts Miss Chesney,
promptly, with a distinct imitation of Kate Stantley. "And yet I cannot
see how all this made the poor man odious."
"No, not exactly that, though I don't think a well-brought-up man should
let himself go to skin and bone. He was intolerable in other ways. One
memorable Christmas day Guy and I dined with him, and he got beastly
drunk on the sauce for the plum-pudding. We were young at the time, and
it made a lasting impression upon us. Indeed, he was hardly the person
to sit next at a prolonged dinner-party, first because he was
unmistakably dirty, and----"
"Oh, Cyril!"
"Well, and why not? It is not impossible. Even Popes, it now appears,
can be indifferent to the advantages to be derived from soap and water."
"Really, Cyril, I think you might choose a pleasanter subject upon which
to converse," says Florence, with a disgusted curl of her short upper
lip.
"I beg pardon all round, I'm sure," returns Cyril, meekly. "But Lilian
should be blamed: she _would_ investigate the matter; and I'm nothing,
if not strictly truthful. He was a very dirty old man, I assure you, my
dear Florence."
"Mrs. Boileau, however objectionable, seems to have been rather the best
of the two: why did she marry him?" asks Lilian.
"Haven't the remotest idea, and, even if I had, I should be afraid to
answer any more of your pertinent questions," with an expressive nod in
the direction of Florence. "I can only say it was a very feeble
proceeding on the part of such a capable person as Mrs. Boileau."
"Just 'another good woman gone wrong,'" suggests Taffy, mildly.
"Quite so," says Archibald, "though she adored him,--she said. Yet he
died, some said of fever, others of--Mrs. Boileau; no attention was ever
paid to the others. When he _did_ droop and die she planted all sorts of
lovely little flowers over his grave, and watered them with her tears
for ever so long. Could affection farther go?"
"Horrible woman!" says Miss Chesney, "it only wanted that to finish my
dislike to her. I hope when I am dead no one will plant flowers on _my_
grave: the bare idea would make me turn in it."
"Then we won't do it," says Taffy, consolingly.
"I wish we had a few Indian customs in this country," says Cyril,
languidly. "The Suttee was a capital institution. Think what a lot of
objectionable widows we should have got rid of by this time; Mrs.
Boileau, for instance."
"And Mrs. Arlington," puts in Florence, quietly. An unaccountable
silence follows this speech. No one can exactly explain why, but every
one knows something awkward has been said. Cyril outwardly is perhaps
the least concerned of them all: as he bites languidly a little blade
of green grass, a faint smile flickers at the corners of his lips;
Lilian is distinctly angry.
"Poor Mrs. Boileau; all this is rather ill-natured, is it not?" asks
Florence, gently, rising as though a dislike to the gossip going on
around her compels her to return to the house. In reality it is a
dislike to damp grass that urges her to flight.
"Shall I get you a chair, Florence?" asks Cyril, somewhat irrelevantly
as it seems.
"Pray don't leave us, Miss Beauchamp," says Taffy. "If you will stay on,
we will swear not to make any more ill-natured remarks about any one."
"Then I expect silence will reign supreme, and that the remainder of the
_conversazione_ will be of the deadly-lively order," says Archibald;
and, Cyril at this moment arriving with the offered chair, Miss
Beauchamp is kindly pleased to remain.
As the evening declines, the midges muster in great force. Cyril and
Taffy, being in the humor for smoking,--and having cheroots,--are
comparatively speaking happy; the others grow more and more secretly
irritated every moment. Florence is making ladylike dabs at her forehead
every two seconds with her cambric handkerchief, and is regretting
keenly her folly in not retiring in-doors long ago. Midges sting her and
raise uninteresting little marks upon her face, thereby doing
irremediable damage for the time being. The very thought of such a
catastrophe fills her with horror. Her fair, plump hands are getting
spoiled by these blood-thirsty little miscreants; this she notices with
dismay, but is ignorant of the fact that a far worse misfortune is
happening higher up. A tasteless midge has taken a fancy to her nose,
and has inflicted on it a serious bite; it is swelling visibly, and a
swelled nose is not becoming, especially when it is set as nearly as
nature will permit in the centre of a pale, high-bred, but
expressionless face.
Ignorant, I say, of this crowning mishap, she goes on dabbing her brow
gently, while all the others lie around her dabbing likewise.
At last Lilian loses all patience.
"Oh! _hang_ these midges!" she says, naturally certainly but rather too
forcibly for the times we live in. The petulance of the soft tone, the
expression used, makes them all laugh, except Miss Beauchamp, who, true
to her training, maintains a demeanor of frigid disapproval, which has
the pleasing effect of rendering the swelled nose more ludicrous than it
was before.
"Have I said anything very _bizarre_?" demands Lilian, opening her eyes
wide at their laughter. "Oh!"--recollecting--"did I say 'hang them'? It
is all Taffy's fault, he will use schoolboy slang. Taffy, you ought to
be ashamed of yourself: don't you see how you have shocked Florence?"
"And no wonder," says Archibald, gravely; "you know we swore to her not
to abuse anything for the remainder of this evening, not even these
little winged torments," viciously squeezing half a dozen to death as he
speaks.
"How are we going to the Grange to-morrow evening?" asks Taffy,
presently.
The others have broken up and separated; Cyril and Archibald, at a
little distance, are apparently convulsed with laughter over some shady
story just being related by the former.
"I suppose," goes on Taffy, "as Lady Chetwoode won't come, we shall take
the open traps, and not mind the carriage, the evenings are so fine. Who
is to drive who, is the question."
"No; who is to drive poor little I, is the question. Sir Guy, will you?"
asks Lilian, plaintively, prompted by some curious impulse, seeing him
silent, handsome, moody in the background. A moment later she could have
killed herself for putting the question to him.
"Guy always drives me," says Florence, calmly: "I never go with any one
else, except in the carriage with Aunt Anne. I am nervous, and should be
miserable with any one I could not quite trust. Careless driving
terrifies me. But Guy is never careless," turning upon Chetwoode a face
she fondly hopes is full of feeling, but which unfortunately is
suggestive of nothing but a midge's bite. The nose is still the
principal feature in it.
Placed in this awkward dilemma, Guy can only curse his fate and be
silent. How can he tell Florence he does not care for her society, how
explain to Lilian his wild desire for hers? He bites his moustache, and,
with his eyes fixed gloomily upon the ground, maintains a disgusted
silence. Truly luck is dead against him.
"Oh,--that indeed!" says Lilian, and, being a thorough woman, of course
makes no allowance for his unhappy position. Evidently,--according to
her view of the case,--from his silent acquiescence in Miss Beauchamp's
plan, he likes it. No doubt it was all arranged between them early this
morning; and she, to have so far forgotten herself as to ask him to
drive her! Oh! it is intolerable!
"You are quite right," she says sweetly to Florence, even producing a
smile for the occasion, as women will when their hearts are sorest.
"There is nothing so depressing as nervousness when driving. Perhaps
Archibald will take pity upon me. Archie!" calling out to him, "come
here. I want you to do me a great favor,"--with an enchanting smile.
"Would it be putting you out dreadfully if I asked you to drive me to
Mrs. Boileau's to-morrow evening?"--another smile still more enchanting.
"You really mean it?" asks Archibald, delighted, his dark face lighting,
while Guy, looking on helplessly, almost groans aloud. "You know how
glad I shall be: I had no idea when I got up this morning such luck was
in store for me. _Dear_ Mrs. Boileau! if she could only guess how eager
I am to start for her _charming_ Grange!"
He says this in a laughing tone, but Chetwoode fully understands that,
like the famous well, it has truth at the bottom of it.
"It grows late, does it not?" Florence says, rising gracefully. "I think
we had better go in-doors. We have left Aunt Anne too long alone."
"Auntie is lying down. Her head is bad," says Lilian; "I was with her
just before I came out, and she said she wished to be alone."
"Yes; she can't bear noise," remarks Florence, calmly, but meaningly. "I
must go and see how she is." There is the faintest suspicion of an
emphasis upon the personal pronoun.
"That will be very kind of you, dear," says Miss Chesney, suavely. "And
Florence--would you like anything to rub your poor nose?--cold cream--or
glycerine--or that; nurse has all those sorts of things, I'm sure." This
is a small revenge of Lilian's, impossible to forego; while enjoying it,
she puts on the tenderest air of sympathetic concern, and carefully
regards Miss Beauchamp's nose with raised brows of solicitude.
"My nose?" repeats Florence, reddening.
"Yes, dear. One of those unkind little insects has bitten it
shamefully, and now it is all pink and swollen. Didn't you know it? I
have been feeling so sorry for you for the last ten minutes. It is too
bad,--is it not? I hardly think it will be well before dinner, and it is
so disfiguring." All this she utters in tones of the deepest
commiseration.
Florence wisely makes no reply. She would have borne the tortures of the
rack rather than exhibit any vehement temper before Guy; so she contents
herself with casting a withering glance upon Lilian,--who receives it
with the utmost _sang-froid_,--and, putting her handkerchief up to the
wounded member, sweeps into the house full of righteous indignation.
Sir Guy, after lengthened hesitation, evidently makes up his mind to do
something, and, with his face full of purpose, follows her. This
devotion on his part is more than Lilian--in spite of her
suspicions--has bargained for.
"Gone to console his 'sleepy Venus' for the damage done to her 'Phidian
nose,'" she says to Taffy, with rather a bitter laugh.
"Little girls should neither quote Don Juan nor say ill-natured things,"
replies that youth, with an air of lofty rebuke. But Lilian, not being
in the mood for even Taffy's playfulness, makes no answer, and walks
away to her beloved garden to seek consolation from the flowers.
Whatever Guy's conference with Florence was about, it was short and
decisive, as in five minutes he again emerged from the house, and,
looking vainly around him, starts in search of Lilian. Presently, at the
end of the long lawn, he sees her.
"Well, has her poor dear nose recovered all its pristine freshness?" she
asks him, in a rather reckless tone, as he comes up to her.
"Lilian," says Guy, abruptly, eagerly, taking no notice of this
sally,--indeed, scarcely hearing,--"it was all a mistake; I could not
speak plainly a moment ago, but I have arranged it all with Florence;
and--will you let me drive you to Mrs. Boileau's to-morrow evening?"
"No, thank you," a quick gleam in her large eyes that should have warned
him; "I would not make Florence unhappy for the world. Think of her
nerves!"
"She will be quite as safe with Cyril--or--your cousin."
"Which cousin?"
"Chesney."
"I think not, because I am going with Archibald."
"You can easily break off with him," anxiously.
"But supposing I do not wish to break off with him?"
"Am I to think, then, you prefer going with your cousin?" in a freezing
tone.
"Certainly, I prefer his society to yours, ten thousand times,"
forcibly; "it was mere idleness made me say I wished to go with you. Had
you agreed to my proposition I should probably have changed my mind
afterward, so everything is better as it is; I am glad now you did not
answer me differently."
"I did not answer you at all," returns Guy, unwisely.
"No, you were _afraid_," returns she, with a mocking laugh that sends
the red blood to his forehead.
"What do you mean?" he asks, angrily.
"Nothing. It was foolish my mentioning the subject. We are disputing
about a mere trifle. I am going with Archie whatever happens, because I
like him, and because I know he is always glad to be with me."
She turns as though to leave him, and Guy impulsively catches her hand
to detain her; as he does so, his eyes fall upon the little white
fingers imprisoned in his own, and there, upon one of them--beside his
own ring--he sees another,--newer.
"Who gave you that?" he asks, impulsively, knowing well the answer to
his question.
"Archibald," removing her hand quietly, but with determination.
A dead silence follows. Then, speaking calmly by a supreme effort, Guy
says:
"I suppose so. Are you going to marry your cousin, Lilian?"
"Is it in the capacity of guardian you ask that question?" defiantly.
"You should remember I don't acknowledge one."
"Must I understand by that you will accept him, or have accepted him?"
"Certainly not. You told me yesterday you found it impossible to
understand me at any time; why seek to do what is beyond your power?
However, I don't mind telling you that as yet Archibald has not made me
a formal offer of his heart and hand. No doubt"--mockingly--"when he
does me the honor to propose to me, he will speak to you on the
subject." Then she laughs a little. "Don't you think it is rather
absurd arranging matters for poor Archie without his consent? I assure
you he has as much idea of proposing to me as the man in the moon."
"If you are not engaged to him you should not wear his ring," severely.
"I am not engaged to you, and I wear your ring. If it is wrong to accept
a ring from a man to whom one is not engaged, I think it was very
reprehensible of you to give me this," pointing to it.
"With me it is different," Guy is beginning, rather lamely, not being
sure of his argument; but Miss Chesney, disdaining subterfuge,
interrupts him.
"A thing is either right or wrong," she says, superbly. "I may surely
wear either none, or both."
"Then remove both," says Guy, feeling he would rather see her without
his, if it must only be worn in conjunction with Chesney's.
"I shan't," returns Lilian, deliberately. "I shall wear both as long as
it suits me,--because I adore rings."
"Then you are acting very wrongly. I know there is little use in my
speaking to you, once you are bent upon having your own way. You are so
self-willed, and so determined."
"Without a friend, what were humanity,
To hunt our errors up with a good grace?"
quotes Lilian lightly. "There is no use in your lecturing me, Sir Guy;
it does me little good. _You_ want _your_ way, and I want _mine_; I am
not 'self-willed,' but I don't like tyranny, and I always said you were
tyrannical."
"You are of course privileged to say what you like," haughtily.
"Very well; then I _shall_ say it. One would think I was a baby, the way
you--scold--and torment me," here the tears of vexation and childish
wrath rise in her eyes; "but I do not acknowledge your authority; I have
told you so a hundred times, and I never shall,--never, never, never!"
"Lilian, listen to me----"
"No, I will not. I wonder why you come near me at all. Go back to
Florence; she is so calm, so sweet, so--_somnolent_,"--with a
sneer,--"that she will not ruffle your temper. As for me, I hate
disagreeable people! Why do you speak to me? It does neither of us any
good. It only makes you ill-mannered and me thoroughly unhappy."
"Unhappy!"
"Yes," petulantly, "_miserable_. Surely of late you must have noticed
how I avoid you. It is nothing but scold, scold, scold, all the time I
am with you; and I confess I don't fancy it. You might have known,
without my telling you, that I detest being with you!"
"I shall remember it for the future," returns he, in a low voice,
falling back a step or two, and speaking coldly, although his heart is
beating wildly with passionate pain and anger.
"Thank you," retorts Lilian: "that is the kindest thing you have said to
me for many a day."
Yet the moment his back is turned she regrets this rude speech, and all
the many others she has given way to during the last fortnight. Her own
incivility vexes her, wounds her to the heart's core, for, however
mischievously inclined and quick-tempered she may be, she is marvelously
warm-hearted and kindly and fond.
For full five minutes she walks to and fro, tormented by secret
upbraidings, and then a revulsion sets in. What does it matter after
all, she thinks, with an impatient shrug of her pretty soft shoulders. A
little plain speaking will do him no harm,--in fact, may do him untold
good. He has been so petted all his life long that a snubbing, however
small, will enliven him, and make him see himself in his true colors.
(What his true colors may be she does not specify even to herself.) And
if he is so devoted to Florence, why, let him then spend his time with
her, and not come lecturing other people on matters that don't concern
him. Such a fuss about a simple emerald ring indeed! Could anything be
more absurd?
Nevertheless she feels a keen desire for reconciliation; so much so
that, later on,--just before dinner,--seeing Sir Guy in the shrubberies,
walking up and down in deepest meditation,--evidently of the depressing
order,--she makes up her mind to go and speak to him. Yes, she has been
in the wrong; she will go to him, therefore, and make the _amende
honorable_; and he (he is not altogether bad!) will doubtless rejoice to
be friends with her again.
So thinking, she moves slowly though deliberately up to him, regarding
the while with absolute fervor the exquisite though frail geranium
blossom she carries in her hand. It is only partly opened, and is
delicately tinted as her own skin.
When she is quite close to her guardian she raises her head, and
instantly affects a deliciously surprised little manner at the fact of
his unexpected (?) nearness.
"Ah, Sir Guy, you here?" she says, airily, with an apparent consummate
forgetfulness of all past broils. "You are just in time: see what a
lovely flower I have for you. Is not the color perfect? Is it not
sweet?" proffering to him the pale geranium.
"It is," replies he, taking the flower mechanically, because it is held
out to him, but hardly looking at it. His face is pale with suppressed
anger, his lips are closely set beneath his fair moustache; she is
evidently not forgiven. "And yet I think," he says, slowly, "if you knew
my opinion of you, you would be the last to offer me a flower."
"And what then is your opinion?" demands Lilian, growing whiter and
whiter until all her pretty face has faded to the "paleness o' the
pearl." Instinctively she recoils a little, as though some slight blow
has touched and shaken her.
"I think you a heartless coquette," returns he, distinctly, in a low
tone that literally rings with passion. "Take back your gift. Why should
you waste it upon one who does not care to have it?" And, flinging the
flower contemptuously at her feet, he turns and departs.
For a full minute Miss Chesney neither stirs nor speaks. When he is
quite gone, she straightens herself, and draws her breath sharply.
"Well, I never!" she says, between her little white teeth, which is a
homely phrase borrowed from nurse, but very expressive, and with that
she plants a small foot viciously upon the unoffending flower and
crushes it out of all shape and recognition.
* * * * *
Dinner is over, and almost forgotten; conversation flags. Even to the
most wakeful it occurs that it must be bordering upon bed-hour.
Lilian, whose nightly habit is to read for an hour or two in her bed
before going to sleep, remembering she has left her book where she took
off her hat on coming into the house some hours ago, leaves the
drawing-room, and, having crossed the large hall, turns into the smaller
one that leads to the library.
Midway in this passage one lamp is burning; the three others (because
of some inscrutable reason known only to the under-footman) have not
been lit: consequently to-night this hall is in semi-darkness.
Almost at the very end of it Miss Chesney finds herself face to face
with her guardian, and, impelled by mischief and coquetry, stops short
to confront him.
"Well, Sir Guy, have you got the better of your naughty temper?" she
asks, saucily. "Fie, to keep a little wicked black dog upon your
shoulder for so long! I hope by this time you are properly ashamed of
yourself, and that you are ready to promise me never to do it again."
Guy is silent. He is thinking how lovely she is, how indifferent to him,
how unattainable.
"Still unrepentant," goes on Lilian, with a mocking smile: "you are a
more hardened sinner than ever I gave you credit for. And what is it all
about, pray? What has vexed you? Was it my cousin's ring? or my refusing
to accompany you to-morrow to Mrs. Boileau's?"
"Both," replies he, feeling compelled to answer. "I still think you
should not wear your cousin's ring unless engaged to him."
"Nor yours either, of course," with a frown. "How you do love going over
the same ground again and again! Well," determinately, "as I told you
before, I shall wear both--do you hear?--just as long as I please. So
now, my puissant guardian," with a gesture that is almost a challenge,
"I defy you, and dare you to do your worst."
Her tone, as is intended, irritates him; her beauty, her open though
childish defiance madden him. Gazing at her in the uncertain light,
through which her golden hair and gleaming sapphire eyes shine clearly,
he loses all self-control, and in another moment has her in his arms,
and has kissed her once, twice, passionately.
Then recollection, all too late, returns, and shocked, horrified at his
own conduct, he releases her, and, leaning against the wall with folded
arms and lowered eyes, awaits his doom.
Standing where he has left her, pale as a little colorless ghost, with
her lips as white as death, and her great eyes grown black through
mingled terror and amazement, Lilian regards him silently. She does not
move, she scarcely seems to breathe; no faintest sound of anger escapes
her. Then slowly--slowly raising her handkerchief, she draws it lightly
across her lips, and with a gesture full of contempt and loathing flings
it far from her. After which she draws herself up to her extremest
height, and, with her head erect and her whole figure suggestive of
insulted pride and dignity, she sweeps past him into the library,
closing the door quietly behind her.
When the last sound of her footsteps has disappeared, Guy rouses himself
as if from a hateful dream, and presses his hand to his forehead.
Stooping, he picks up the disdained handkerchief, that lies mournfully
in the corner, thrusts it into his bosom, and turning away toward his
own quarters, is seen no more that night.