"_Orl._--Is't possible that on so little acquaintance
You should like her? that, but seeing,
You should love her?"--_As You Like It._
Four weeks have flown by swiftly, with ungracious haste,--as do all our
happiest moments,--leaving their mark behind them. In their train Taffy
has passed away from Chetwoode, and all in the house have mourned his
departure openly and sincerely. Miss Chesney for two whole days was
inconsolable, and cried her pretty eyes very nearly out; after which she
recovered, and allowed herself to find consolation in the thought that
he has promised to return to them for a fortnight at Christmas-tide.
"Summer was dead, and Autumn was expiring,
And infant Winter laughed upon the land
All cloudlessly and cold."
The men spend half their days wondering if it will be a good
hunting-season, the women are wrapt in delicious dreams of fur and
velvet.
At The Cottage all the roses have fluttered into their graves, but in
their place a sweet flower has bloomed. Cecilia's eyes have grown
brighter, gladder, her step firmer, her cheek richer in the tint that
rivals the peach. In her calm home she has but one thought, one hope,
and that is Cyril. She has forbidden him to mention their engagement to
Lady Chetwoode, so as yet the sweet secret is all their own.
Florence has gained a _bona fide_ admirer, Mr. Boer--after much
deliberation--having, for private reasons, decided in favor of Miss
Beauchamp and her fifteen thousand pounds. But not for Mr. Boer, however
well connected, or however fondly cherished by a rich and aged uncle,
can Miss Beauchamp bring herself to resign all hope of Guy and
Chetwoode.
At Steynemore, Mabel and her baby are laughing the happy hours away;
though, to speak more accurately, it is at Chetwoode most of them are
spent. At least every second week they drive over there, to find their
rooms ready, and stay on well content to talk and crow at "auntie,"
until the handsome head of that dearest of old ladies is fairly turned.
Lilian has of course gone over heart and mind to Miss Steyne, who
rewards her affection by practicing upon her the most ingenious
tortures. With a craftiness terrible in one so young, she bides her
opportunity and then pulls down all her friend's golden hair; at other
times she makes frantic efforts at gouging out her eyes, tries to cut
her eye-teeth upon her slender fingers, and otherwise does all in her
power to tear her limb from limb. She also appears to find infinite
amusement in scrambling up and down Miss Chesney's unhappy knees, to the
detriment of that dainty lady's very dainty gowns, and shows symptoms of
fight when she refuses to consume all such uninviting remnants of cake
and bonbons as lie heavy on her hands.
Altogether Lilian has a lively time of it with Mabel's heiress, who,
nevertheless, by right of her sweet witcheries and tender baby tricks,
has gained a fast hold upon her heart.
But if Baby knows a slave in Lilian, Lilian knows a slave in some one
else. Up to this Archibald has found it impossible to tear himself away
from her loved presence; though ever since that fatal day at the Grange
he has never dared speak openly to her of his attachment. Day by day his
passion has grown stronger, although with every wind her manner toward
him seems to vary,--now kind, to-morrow cold, anon so full of
treacherous fancies and disdainful glances as to make him wonder whether
in truth it is hatred and not love for her that fills his heart to
overflowing. She is
"One of those pretty, precious plagues, which haunt
A lover with caprices soft and dear,
That like to make a quarrel, when they can't
Find one, each day of the delightful year;
Bewitching, torturing, as they freeze or glow,
And--what is worst of all--won't let you go."
Between her and Guy a silent truce has been signed. They now converse
with apparent geniality; at times they appear, to outsiders, even to
affect each other's society; but secretly they still regard each other
with distrust, and to them alone is known the frailty of the coating
that lies over their late hostility.
It is three o'clock, and the day for a wonder is fine, all the past week
having been sullen and full of a desire to rain. Now the clouds have
disappeared, and the blue sky dotted with tiny flakes of foam-like vapor
is overhead. The air is crispy, and, though cold, full of life and
invigorating power.
"I shall go for a walk," says Lilian, appearing suddenly in the
billiard-room, looking like a little northern fairy, so encased is she
in velvet and dark fur. Upon her yellow hair is resting the most
coquettish of fur caps, from beneath which her face smiles fairer and
fresher for its rich surroundings. The two men she addresses look up,
and let the honest admiration they feel for her beauty betray itself in
their eyes.
Outside of the window, seated on the sill, which is some little distance
from the ground, is Archibald, smoking. Archibald, as a rule, is always
smoking. Inside is Guy, also indulging in a cigar, and disputing
volubly about some knotty point connected with guns or cartridges, or
the proper size of shot to be used for particular birds, I cannot
remember exactly what; I do remember, however, that the argument
completely falls through when Lilian makes her appearance.
"Were there ever such lazy men?" says Miss Lilian, scornfully. "Did all
the shooting with Tom Steyne last week do you up so completely? I warned
you, if you will be pleased to recollect, that there wasn't much work in
you. Well, I am going to the wood. Who will come with me?"
"I will," say Guy and Archibald, in a breath. And then ensues a pause.
"_Embarras de richesses_," says Miss Chesney, with a gay laugh and a
slight elevation of her brows. "You shouldn't all speak at once. Now,
which shall I choose?" Then, impelled by the spirit of mischief that
always possesses her when in her guardian's presence, she says, "It
would be a shame to take you out, Sir Guy, would it not? You seem so
cozy here,"--glancing at the fire,--"while Archibald is evidently bent
on exercise."
"As you please, of course," says Guy, with well-feigned indifference,
too well feigned for Miss Chesney's liking; it angers her, and awakes
within her a desire to show how little she heeds it. Her smile ripens
and rests alone on Archibald, insensibly her manner toward her cousin
takes a warmer tinge; going over to the window, she lays her hand
lightly on his shoulder, and, leaning over, looks at the ground beneath.
"Could I get out there?" she asks, a little fearfully, though in truth
at another time she would regard with disdain the person who should tell
her she could not jump so small a distance. "It would be so much better
than going all the way round."
"Of course you can," returns he, dropping instantly downward, and then
looking up at her; "it is no height at all."
"It looks high from here, does it not?" still doubtful. "I should
perhaps break my neck if I tried to jump it. No," regretfully, "I must
go round, unless, indeed,"--with another soft glance meant for Guy's
discomfiture, and that alas! does terrible damage to Archibald's
heart,--"you think you could take me down."
"I know I could," replies he, eagerly.
"You are sure?" hesitating. "I am very heavy, mind."
Archibald laughs and holds out his arms, and in another moment has taken
her, slender fairy that she is, and deposited her safely on the ground.
Sir Guy, who has been an unwilling though fascinated spectator of this
scene, grows pale and turns abruptly aside as Archibald and Lilian,
laughing gayly, disappear into the shrubberies beyond.
But once out of sight of the billiard-room windows, Miss Chesney's
gayety cruelly deserts her. She is angry with Guy for reasons she would
rather die than acknowledge even to herself, and she is indignant with
Archibald for reasons she would be puzzled to explain at all, while
hating herself for what she is pleased to term her frivolity, such as
jumping out of windows as though she were still a child, and instead of
being a full-grown young woman! What must Gu----what would any one think
of her?
"It was awfully good of you to choose me," says Archibald, after a few
minutes, feeling foolishly elated at his success.
"For what?" coldly.
"For a walk."
"Did I choose you?" asks Lilian, in a tone that should have warned so
worldly-wise a young man as Chesney. He, however, fails to be warned,
and rushes wildly on his destruction.
"I thought so," returns he, growing perplexed: "Chetwoode was quite as
anxious to accompany you as I was, and you decided in my favor."
"Simply because you were outside the window, and looked more like moving
than he did."
"He was considerably sold for all that," says this foolish Archibald,
with an idiotic laugh, that under the circumstances is madness. Miss
Chesney freezes.
"Sold? how?" she asks, with a suspicious thirst for knowledge. "I don't
understand."
The continued iciness of her tone troubles Archibald.
"You seem determined not to understand," he says, huffily. "I only mean
he would have given a good deal to go with you, until you showed him
plainly you didn't want him."
"I never meant to show him anything of the kind. You quite mistake."
"Do I?" with increasing wrath. "Well, I think when a woman tells a
fellow she thinks it would be a pity to disturb him, it comes to very
much the same thing in the end. At all events, Chetwoode took it in that
light."
"How silly you can be at times, Archibald!" says Lilian, promptly: "I
really wish you would not take up such absurd notions. Sir Guy did _not_
look at it in that light; he knows perfectly well I detest long walks,
and that I seldom go for one, so he did not press the point. And in fact
I think I shall change my mind now: walking is such a bore, is it not?"
"Are you not coming then?" stopping short, and growing black with rage:
"you don't seem to know your own mind for two minutes together, or else
you are trying to provoke me! First you ask me to go to the wood with
you, and now you say you will not go. What am I to think of it?"
"I wouldn't be rude, if I were you," says Miss Chesney, calmly, "and I
wouldn't lose my temper. You make me absolutely uncomfortable when you
let that wicked look grow upon your face. One would think you would like
to murder me. Do try to be amiable! And as for trying to provoke you, I
should not take the trouble! No, I shall not go with you now, certainly:
I shall go with Cyril," pointing to where Cyril is sauntering toward the
entrance to the wood at some short distance from them.
Without waiting to address another word to the discomfited Archibald,
she runs to Cyril and slips her hand within his arm.
"Will you take me with you wherever you are going?" she says, smiling
confidently up into his face.
"What a foolish question! of course I am only too glad to get so dear a
little companion," replies he, smothering a sigh very successfully;
though, to be honest, he is hardly enraptured at the thought of having
Lilian's (or any one's) society just now. Nevertheless he buries his
chagrin, and is eminently agreeable to her as they stroll leisurely in
the direction of The Cottage.
When they come up to it Lilian pauses.
"I wish this wonderful goddess would come out. I want to see her quite
close," she says, peeping through the hedge. "At a distance she is
beautiful: I am always wondering whether 'distance lends enchantment to
the view.'"
"No, it does not," absently. He is looking over the hedge.
"You seem to know all about it," archly: "shall I ask how? What lovely
red berries!" suddenly attracted by some coloring a few yards away from
her. "Do you see? Wait until I get some."
Springing on to a bank, she draws down to her some bunches of
mountain-ash berry, that glow like live coals in the fading greenery
around them, and having detached her prize from the parent stem,
prepares to rejoin her companion, who is somewhat distant.
"Why did you not ask me to get them for you?" he asks, rousing himself
from his reverie: "how precipitate you always are! Take care, child:
that bank is steep."
"But I am a sure-footed little deer," says Miss Chesney, with a saucy
shake of her pretty head, and, as she speaks, jumps boldly forward.
A moment later, as she touches the ground, she staggers, her right ankle
refuses to support her, she utters a slight groan, and sinks helplessly
to the ground.
"You have hurt yourself," exclaims Cyril, kneeling beside her. "What is
it, Lilian? Is it your foot?"
"I think so," faintly: "it seems twisted. I don't know how it happened,
but it pains me terribly. Just there all the agony seems to rest. Ah!"
as another dart of anguish shoots through the injured ankle.
"My dear girl, what shall I do for you? Why on earth did you not take my
advice?" exclaims Cyril, in a distracted tone. A woman's grief, a
woman's tears, always unman him.
"Don't say you told me how it would be," murmurs Lilian, with a ghastly
attempt at a smile that dies away in another moan. "It would be adding
insult to injury. No, do not stir me: do not; I cannot bear it. Oh,
Cyril, I think my ankle is broken."
With this she grows a little paler, and draws her breath with a sharp
sound, then whiter, whiter still, until at last her head sinks heavily
upon Cyril's supporting arm, and he finds she has fallen into a deep
swoon.
More frightened than he cares to allow, Cyril raises her in his arms
and, without a moment's thought, conveys his slight burden straight to
The Cottage.
Cecilia, who from an upper window has seen him coming with his strange
encumbrance, runs down to meet him at the door, her face full of
anxiety.
"What is it?" she asks, breathlessly, bending over Lilian, who is still
fainting. "Poor child! how white she is!"
"It is Lilian Chesney. She has sprained her foot, I think," says Cyril,
who is white too with concern: "will you take her in while I go for a
carriage?"
"Of course. Oh, make haste: her lips are quivering. I am sure she is
suffering great agony. Bring her this way--or--no--shall I lay her on my
bed?"
"The drawing-room sofa will do very well," going in and laying her on
it. "Will you see to her? and give her some brandy and--and that."
"Yes, yes. Now go quickly, and send a messenger for Dr. Bland, while you
bring the carriage here. How pretty she is! what lovely hair! Poor
little thing! Go, Cyril, and don't be long."
When he has disappeared, Mrs. Arlington summons Kate, and together they
cut the boot off Lilian's injured foot, remove the dainty little silk
stocking, and do for her all that can be done until the doctor sees her.
After which, with the help of eau de Cologne, and some brandy, they
succeed in bringing her to life once more.
"What has happened?" she asks, languidly, raising her hand to her head.
"Are you better now?" Mrs. Arlington asks, in return, stooping kindly
over her.
"Yes, thank you, much better," gazing at her with some surprise: "it was
stupid of me to faint. But"--still rather dazed--"where am I?"
"At The Cottage. Mr. Chetwoode brought you here."
"And you are Mrs. Arlington?" with a slight smile.
"Yes," smiling in return. "Kate, put a little water into that brandy,
and give it to Miss Chesney."
"Please do not, Kate," says Lilian, in her pretty friendly fashion: "I
hate brandy. If"--courteously--"I may have some sherry instead, I should
like it."
Having drunk the sherry, she sits up and looks quietly around her.
The room is a little gem in its own way, and suggestive of refinement of
taste and much delicacy in the art of coloring. Between the
softly-tinted pictures that hang upon the walls, rare bits of Worcester
and Wedgwood fight for mastery. Pretty lounging-chairs covered with blue
satin are dispersed here and there, while cozy couches peep out from
every recess. _Bric-a-brac_ of all kinds covers the small velvet tables,
that are hung with priceless lace that only half conceals the spindle
legs beneath. Exquisite little marble Loves and Venuses and Graces smile
and pose upon graceful brackets; upon a distant table two charming
Dresden baskets are to be seen smothered in late flowers. All is bright,
pretty, and artistic.
"What a charming room!" says Lilian, with involuntary, and therefore
flattering admiration.
"You like it? I fear it must look insignificant to you after Chetwoode."
"On the contrary, it is a relief. There, everything is heavy though
handsome, as is the way in all old houses; here, everything is bright
and gay. I like it so much, and you too if you will let me say so," says
Lilian, holding out her hand, feeling already enslaved by the beauty of
the tender, lovely face looking so kindly into hers. "I have wanted to
know you so long, but we knew"--hesitating--"you wished to be quiet."
"Yes, so I did when first I came here; but time and solitude have taught
me many things. For instance,"--coloring faintly,--"I should be very
glad to know you; I feel sadly stupid now and then."
"I am glad to hear you say so; I simply detest my own society," says
Miss Chesney, with much vivacity, in spite of the foot. "But,"--with a
rueful glance at the bandaged member,--"I little thought I should make
your acquaintance in this way. I have given you terrible trouble, have I
not?"
"No, indeed, you must not say so. I believe"--laughing,--"I have been
only too glad, in spite of my former desire for privacy, to see some one
from the outer world again. Your hair has come down. Shall I fasten it
up again for you?" Hardly waiting an answer, she takes Lilian's hair and
binds and twists it into its usual soft knot behind her head, admiring
it as she does so. "How soft it is, and how long, and such a delicious
color, like spun silk! I have always envied people with golden hair. Ah,
here is the carriage: I hope the drive home will not hurt you very much.
She is ready now, Mr. Chetwoode, and I think she looks a little better."
"I should be ungrateful otherwise," says Lilian. "Mrs. Arlington has
been so kind to me, Cyril."
"I am sure of that," replies he, casting a curious glance at Cecilia
that rather puzzles Lilian, until, turning her eyes upon Cecilia, she
sees what a pretty pink flush has stolen into her cheeks. Then the truth
all at once flashes upon her, and renders her rather silent, while Cyril
and Mrs. Arlington are making the carriage more comfortable for her.
"Come," says Cyril, at length taking her in his arms. "Don't be
frightened; I will hurt you as little as I can help." He lifts her
tenderly, but the movement causes pain, and a touch of agony turns her
face white again. She is not a hero where suffering is concerned.
"Oh, Cyril, be careful," says Mrs. Arlington, fearfully, quite
unconscious in her concern for Lilian's comfort that she has used the
Christian name of her lover.
When Lilian is at length settled in the carriage, she raises herself to
stoop out and take Cecilia's hand.
"Good-bye, and thank you again so much," she says, earnestly. "And when
I am well may I come and see you?"
"You may, indeed,"--warmly. "I shall be anxiously expecting you; I shall
now"--with a gentle glance from her loving gray eyes--"have a double
reason for wishing you soon well."
Moved by a sudden impulse, Lilian leans forward, and the two women as
their lips meet seal a bond of friendship that lasts them all their
lives.
For some time after they have left Cecilia's bower Lilian keeps silence,
then all at once she says to Cyril, in tones of the liveliest reproach:
"I wouldn't have believed it of you."
"Would you not?" replies he, somewhat startled by this extraordinary
address, being plunged in meditation of his own. "You don't say so! But
what is it then you can't believe?"
"I think"--with keen upbraiding--"you might have told _me_."
"So I should, my dear, instantly, if I only knew what it was," growing
more and more bewildered. "If you don't want to bring on brain-fever, my
good Lilian, you will explain what you mean."
"You must have guessed what a treat a _real_ love-affair would be to
me, who never knew a single instance of one," says Lilian, "and yet you
meanly kept it from me."
"Kept what?" innocently, though he has the grace to color hotly.
"Don't be deceitful, Cyril, whatever you are. I say it was downright
unkind to leave me in ignorance of the fact that all this time there was
a real, unmistakable, _bona fide_ lover near me, close to me, at my
_very elbow_, as one might say."
"I know I am happy enough to be at your elbow just now," says Cyril,
humbly, "but, to confess the truth, I never yet dared to permit myself
to look upon you openly with lover's eyes. I am still at a loss to know
how you discovered the all-absorbing passion that I--that _any one_
fortunate enough to know you--must feel for you."
"Don't be a goose," says Miss Chesney, with immeasurable scorn. "Don't
you think I have wit enough to see you are head over ears in love with
that charming, beautiful creature down there in The Cottage? I don't
wonder at that: I only wonder why you did not tell me of it when we were
such good friends."
"Are you quite sure I had anything to tell you?"
"Quite; I have eyes and I have ears. Did I not see how you looked at
her, and how she blushed all up to the roots of her soft hair when you
did so? and when you were placing me in the carriage she said, 'Oh,
Cyril!' and what was the meaning of that, Master Chetwoode, eh? She is
the prettiest woman I ever saw," says Lilian, enthusiastically. "To see
her is indeed to love her. I hope _you_ love her properly, with all your
heart?"
"I do," says Cyril, simply. "I sometimes think, Lilian, it cannot be for
one's happiness to love as I do."
"Oh, this is delightful!" cries Lilian, clapping her hands. "I am glad
you are in earnest about it; and I am glad you are both so good-looking.
I don't think ugly people ought to fall in love: they quite destroy the
romance of the whole thing."
"Thanks awfully," says Cyril. "I shall begin to hold up my head now you
have said a word in my favor. But,"--growing serious--"you really like
her, Lilian? How can you be sure you do after so short an acquaintance?"
"I always like a person at once or not at all. I cannot explain why; it
is a sort of instinct. Florence I detested at first sight; your Mrs.
Arlington I love. What is her name?"
"Cecilia."
"A pretty name, and suited to her: with her tender beautiful face she
looks a saint. You are very fortunate, Cyril: something tells me you
cannot fail to be happy, having gained the love of such a woman."
"Dear little sibyl," says Cyril, lifting one of her hands to his lips,
"I thank you for your prophecy. It does me good only to hear you say
so."