"This much, however, I may add; her years
Were ripe, they might make six-and-twenty springs;
But there are forms which Time to touch forbears,
And turns aside his scythe to vulgar things."--_Don Juan._
Next day creates but little change in Lilian's demeanor. So far as Guy
is concerned, her manner is still frozen and unrelenting. She shows no
sign of a desire to pardon, and Chetwoode noting this grows hardened,
and out-Herods Herod in his imitation of her coldness.
Archibald, on the contrary, gives in almost directly. Finding it
impossible to maintain his injured bearing beyond luncheon, he succumbs,
and, throwing himself upon her mercy, is graciously received and once
more basks in the full smiles of beauty. At heart Lilian is glad to
welcome him back, and is genial and sweet to him as though no ugly
_contretemps_ had occurred between them yesterday.
Mabel Steyne being expected in the evening, Lady Chetwoode is especially
happy, and takes no heed of minor matters, or else her eldest son's
distraction would surely have claimed her attention. But Mabel's coming
is an event, and a happy one, and at half-past seven, pleased and
complacent, Lady Chetwoode is seated in her drawing-room, awaiting her
arrival. Lilian and Florence are with her, and one or two of the others,
Guy among them. Indeed, Mrs. Steyne's coming is a gratification the more
charming that it is a rarity, as she seldom visits the country, being
strongly addicted to city pursuits and holding country life and ruralism
generally in abhorrence.
Just before dinner she arrives; there is a little flutter in the hall, a
few words, a few steps, and then the door is thrown open, and a young
woman, tall, with dark eyes and hair, a nose slightly celestial, and a
very handsome figure, enters. She walks swiftly up the room with the
grand and upright carriage that belongs to her, and is followed by a
tall, fair man, indolent though good to look at, with a straw-colored
moustache, and as much whisker as one might swear by.
"Dear auntie, I have come!" says Mrs. Steyne, joyfully, which is a fact
so obvious as to make the telling of it superfluous.
"Mabel, my dear, how glad I am to see you!" exclaims Lady Chetwoode,
rising and holding out her arms to her. A pretty pink flush comes to
life in the old woman's cheeks making her appear ten years younger, and
adding a thousand charms to her sweet old face.
They kiss each other warmly, the younger woman with tender
_empressement_.
"It is kind of you to say so," she says, fondly. "And you, auntie--why,
bless me, how young you look! it is disgraceful. Presently I shall be
the auntie, and you the young and lovely Lady Chetwoode. Darling auntie,
I am delighted to be with you again!"
"How do you do, Tom?" Lady Chetwoode says, putting her a little to one
side to welcome her husband, but still holding her hand. "I do hope you
two have come to stay a long time in the country."
"Yes, until after Christmas, so you will have time to grow heartily sick
of us," says Mrs. Steyne. "Ah, Florence."
She and Florence press cheeks sympathetically, as though no evil
passages belonging to the past have ever occurred between them. And then
Lady Chetwoode introduces Lilian.
"This is Lilian," she says, drawing her forward. "I have often written
to you about her."
"My supplanter," remarks Mabel Steyne, turning with a smile that lights
up all her handsome brunette face. As she looks at Lilian, fair and soft
and pretty, the rather _insouciant_ expression that has grown upon her
own during her encounter with Florence fades, and once more she becomes
her own gay self. "I hope you will prove a better companion to auntie
than I was," she says, with a merry laugh, taking and pressing Lilian's
hand. Lilian instinctively returns the pressure and the laugh. There is
something wonderfully fetching in Mrs. Steyne's dark, brilliant eyes.
"She is the best of children!" Lady Chetwoode says, patting Lilian's
shoulder; "though indeed, my dear Mabel, I saw no fault in you."
"Of course not. Have you noticed, Miss Chesney, Lady Chetwoode's
greatest failing? It is that she will not see a fault in any one."
"She never mentioned your faults, at all events," Lilian answers,
smiling.
"I hope your baby is quite well?" Florence asks, calmly, who is far too
well bred ever to forget her manners.
"The darling child,--yes,--I hope she is well," Lady Chetwoode says,
hastily, feeling as though she has been guilty of unkindness in not
asking for the baby before. Miss Beauchamp possesses to perfection that
most unhappy knack of placing people in the wrong position.
"Quite, thank you," answering Lady Chetwoode instead of Florence, while
a little fond glance that is usually reserved for the nursery creeps
into her expressive eyes. "If you admired her before, you will quite
love her now. She has grown so big and fat, and has such dear little
sunny curls all over her head!"
"I like fair babies," says Lilian.
"Because you are a fair baby yourself," says Cyril.
"She can say Mammy and Pappy quite distinctly, and I have taught her to
say Auntie very sweetly," goes on Mrs. Steyne, wrapt in recollection of
her offspring's genius. "She can say 'cake' too, and--and that is all, I
think."
"You forget, Mabel, don't you?" asks her husband, languidly. "You
underrate the child's abilities. The other day when she was in a frenzy
because I would not allow her to pull out my moustache in handfuls she
said----"
"She was never in a frenzy, Tom," indignantly: "I wonder how you can say
so of the dear angel."
"Was she not? if _you_ say so, of course I was mistaken, but at the time
I firmly believed it was temper. At all events, Lady Chetwoode, on that
momentous occasion she said, 'Nanna warragood,' without a mistake. She
is a wonderful child!"
"Don't pay any attention to him, auntie," with a contemptuous shrug. "He
is himself quite idiotic about baby, so much so that he is ashamed of
his infatuation. I shall bring her here some day to let you see her."
"You must name the day. Would next Monday suit you?"
"You needn't press the point," Tom Steyne says, warningly: "but for me,
the child and its nurse would be in the room at this moment. Mab and I
had a stand-up fight about it in the hall just before starting, and it
was only after a good deal of calm though firm expostulation I carried
the day. I represented to her that as a rule babies are not invited out
to dine at eight o'clock at night, and that children of her age are
generally more attractive to their mothers than to any one else."
"Barbarian!" says Lady Chetwoode.
"How have you been getting on in London, Mab," asks Cyril. "Made any new
conquests?"
"Several," replies Tom; "though I think on the whole she is going off.
She did not make up her usual number this season. She has, however, on
her list two nice boys in the F. O., and an infant in the Guards. She is
rather unhappy about them, as she cannot make up her mind which it is
she likes best."
"Wrong, Tom. Yesterday I made it up. I like the 'infant' best. But what
really saddens me is that I am by no means sure he likes _me_ best. He
is terribly fond of Tom, and I sometimes fear thinks him the better
fellow of the two."
At this moment the door opens and Taffy comes in.
"Why! Here is my 'infant,'" exclaims Mabel, surprised. "Dear Mr.
Musgrave, I had no idea I should meet you here."
"My dear Mrs. Steyne! I had no idea such luck was in store for me. I am
so glad to see you again! Lilian, why didn't you break it to me? Joyful
surprises are sometimes dangerous."
"I thought you knew. We have been discussing 'Mabel's' coming," with a
shy smile, "all the past month."
"But how could I possibly guess that the 'Mabel' who was occupying
everybody's thoughts could be my Mrs. Steyne?"
"Ours!" murmurs Tom, faintly.
"Yes, mine," says Taffy, who is not troubled with over-much shyness.
"Mr. Musgrave is your cousin?" Mabel asks, turning to Lilian.
"No, I am her son," says Taffy: "you wouldn't think it--would you? She
is a good deal older than she looks, but she gets herself up
wonderfully. She is not a bad mother," reflectively, "when one comes to
think of it."
"I dare say if you spoke the truth you would confess her your guardian
angel," says Mabel, letting a kindly glance fall on pretty Lilian. "She
takes care of you, no doubt."
"And such care," answers Lilian; "but for me I do believe Taffy would
have gone to the bad long ago."
"'Taffy'! what a curious name. So quaint,--and pretty too, I think. May
I," with a quick irrepressible glance, that is half fun, half natural
coquetry, "call you Taffy?"
"You may call me anything you like," returns that young gentleman, with
the utmost _bonhommie_
"Call me Daphne, call me Chloris,
Call me Lalage, or Doris,
Only--_only_--call me thine!"
"It is really mortifying that I can't," says Mrs. Steyne, while she and
the others all laugh.
"Sir," says Tom Steyne, "I would have you remember the lady you are
addressing is my wife."
Says Taffy, reproachfully:
"Do you think I don't remember it,--to my sorrow?"
They have got down to dinner and as far as the fish by this time, so are
all feeling friendly and good-natured.
"Tell you what you'll do, Mab," says Guy. "You shall come over here next
week to stay with us, and bring baby and nurse with you,--and Tom,
whether he likes it or not. We can give him as much good shooting as
will cure him of his laziness."
"Yes, Mabel, indeed you must," breaks in Lady Chetwoode's gentle voice.
"I want to see that dear child very badly, and how can I notice all her
pretty ways unless she stays in the house with me?"
"Say yes, Mrs. Steyne," entreats Taffy: "I shall die of grief if you
refuse."
"Oh, that! Yes, auntie, I shall come, thank you, if only to preserve
Mr.--Taffy's life. But indeed I shall be delighted to get back to the
dear old home for a while; it is so dull at Steynemore all by
ourselves."
"Thank you, darling," says Tom, meekly.
After dinner Mrs. Steyne, who has taken a fancy to Lilian, seats herself
beside her in the drawing-room and chatters to her unceasingly of all
things known and unknown. Guy, coming in later with the other men, sinks
into a chair near Mabel, and with Miss Beauchamp's Fanchette upon his
knee employs himself in stroking it and answering Mabel's numerous
questions. He hardly looks at Lilian, and certainly never addresses her,
in which he shows his wisdom.
"No, I can't bear the country," Mrs. Steyne is saying. "It depresses
me."
"In the spring surely it is preferable to town," says Lilian.
"Is it? I suppose so, because I have so often heard it; but my taste is
vitiated. I am not myself out of London. Of course Tom and I go
somewhere every year, but it is to please fashion we go, not because we
like it. You will say I exaggerate when I tell you that I find music in
the very roll of the restless cabs."
Lilian tells her that she will be badly off for music of that kind at
Steynemore; but perhaps the birds will make up for the loss.
"No, you will probably think me a poor creature when I confess to you I
prefer Albani to the sweetest nightingale that ever trilled; that I
simply detest the discordant noise made by the melancholy lamb; that I
think the cuckoo tuneless and unmusical, and that I find no transcendent
pleasure in the cooing of the fondest dove that ever mourned over its
mate. These beauties of nature are thrown away upon me. Woodland groves
and leafy dells are to me suggestive of suicide, and make me sigh for
the 'sweet shady side of Pall Mall.' The country, in fact, is lonely,
and my own society makes me shudder. I like noise and excitement, and
the babel of tongues."
"You forget the flowers," says Lilian, triumphantly.
"No, my dear; experience has taught me I can purchase them cheaper and
far finer than I can grow them for myself. I am a skeptic, I know,"
smiling. "I will not try to convert you to my opinion."
"Certainly I can see advantages to be gained from a town life," says
Lilian, thoughtfully, leaning her elbow on a small table near her, and
letting her chin sink into her little pink palm. "One has a larger
circle of acquaintances. Here everything is narrowed. One lives in the
house with a certain number of persons, and, whether one likes them or
the reverse, one must put up with them. There is no escape. Yes,"--with
an audible and thoroughly meant sigh,--"that is very sad."
This little ungracious speech, though uttered in the most innocent
tone, goes home (as is intended) to Guy's heart. He conceals, however,
all chagrin, and pulls the ears of the sleepy snowball he is caressing
with an air of the calmest unconcern.
"You mention a fact," says Mrs. Steyne, the faintest inflection of
surprise in her manner. "But you, at least, can know nothing of such
misery. Chetwoode is famous for its agreeable people, and you,--you
appear first favorite here. For the last hour I have been listening, and
I have heard only 'Lilian, look at this,' or, 'Lilian, listen to that,'
or 'Lilian, child, what was it you told me yesterday?' You seem a great
pet with every one here."
Lilian laughs.
"Not with every one," she says.
"No?"--raising her straight dark brows. "Is there then an enemy in the
camp? Not Cyril, surely?"
"Oh, no, not Cyril."
Their voices involuntarily have sunk a little, and, though any one near
can still hear distinctly, they have all the appearance of people
carrying on a private conversation.
"Guy?"
Lilian is silent. Guy's face, as he still strokes the dog dreamily, has
grown haughty in the extreme. He, like Mabel, awaits her answer.
"What?" says Mrs. Steyne, in an amused tone, evidently treating the
whole matter as a mere jest. "So you are not a pet with Guy! How
horrible! I cannot believe it. Surely Guy is not so ungallant as to have
conceived a dislike for you? Guy, do you hear this awful charge she is
bringing against you? Won't you refute it? Dear boy, how stern you
look!"
"Do I? I was thinking of something disagreeable."
"Of me?" puts in Lilian, _sotto voce_, with a faint laugh tinged with
bitterness. "Why should you think what I say so extraordinary? Did you
ever know a guardian like his ward, or a ward like her guardian? I
didn't--especially the latter. They always find each other _such_ a
mistake!"
Sir Guy, raising his head, looks full at Lilian for a moment; his
expression is almost impossible to translate; then, getting up, he
crosses the room deliberately and seats himself beside Florence, who
welcomes him with one of her conventional smiles that now has something
like warmth in it.
"I think you are a very cruel little girl," says Mrs. Steyne, gently,
not looking at Lilian, and then turns the conversation in another
channel.
"You will stay in the country until after Christmas?" says Lilian,
somewhat hastily.
"Yes; something has gone wrong with our steward's accounts, and Tom is
dissatisfied with him. So he has been dismissed, and we shall stay on
here until we please ourselves with another."
"I am glad you live so near. Three miles is only a walk, after all."
"In good weather a mere nothing, though for my own part I am not
addicted to exercise of any sort: I believe, however, Steynemore's
proximity to Chetwoode was one of my chief reasons for marrying Tom."
"I am glad of any reason that made you do so. If you won't mind my
saying it, I will tell you I like you very much,"--with a slight blush.
"I am very charmed to hear it," says Mrs. Steyne, heartily, whose liking
for Lilian has grown steadily: "I should be very much disappointed if
you didn't. I foresee we shall be great friends, and that you and auntie
will make me fall quite in love with Tom's native soil.
But"--naively--"you must not be unkind to poor Guy."