"_Phebe._--I have more cause to hate him than to love him:
For what had he to do to chide at me?"--_As You Like It._
When Lilian's foot is again strong and well, almost the first use she
makes of it is to go to The Cottage to see Cecilia. She is gladly
welcomed there; the two girls are as pleased with each other as even in
fond anticipation they had dreamed they should be: and how seldom are
such dreams realized! They part with a secret though mutual hope that
they shall soon see each other again.
Of her first two meetings with the lovely widow Lilian speaks openly to
Lady Chetwoode; but with such an utter want of interest is her news
received that instinctively she refrains from making any further mention
of her new acquaintance. Meantime the friendship ripens rapidly, until
at length scarcely a week elapses without Lilian's paying at least one
or two visits at The Cottage.
Of the strength of this growing intimacy Sir Guy is supremely ignorant,
until one day chance betrays to him its existence.
It is a bright but chilly morning, one of November's rawest efforts. The
trees, bereft of even their faded mantle, that has dropped bit by bit
from their meagre arms, now stand bare and shivering in their unlovely
nakedness. The wind, whistling shrilly, rushes through them with
impatient haste, as though longing to escape from their gaunt and most
untempting embraces. There is a suspicion of snow in the biting air.
In The Cottage a roaring fire is scolding and quarreling vigorously on
its way up the chimney, illuminating with its red rays the parlor in
which it burns; Cecilia is standing on one side of the hearth, looking
up at Lilian, who has come down by appointment to spend the day with
her, and who is mounted on a chair hanging a picture much fancied by
Cecilia. They are freely discussing its merits, and with their gay
chatter are outdoing the noisy fire. To Cecilia the sweet companionship
of this girl is not only an antidote to her loneliness, but an excessive
pleasure.
The picture just hung is a copy of the "Meditation," and is a special
favorite of Lilian's, who, being the most unsentimental person in the
world, takes a tender delight in people of the visionary order.
"Do you know, Cecilia," she says, "I think the eyes something like
yours?"
"Do you?" smiling. "You flatter me."
"I flatter 'Mademoiselle la Meditation,' you mean. No; you have a
thoughtful, almost a wistful look about you, at times, that might
strongly remind any one of this picture. Now, I"--reflectively--"could
_never_ look like that. When I think (which, to do me justice, is
seldom), I always dwell upon unpleasant topics, and in consequence I
maintain on these rare occasions an exceedingly sour, not to say
ferocious, expression. I hate thinking!"
"So much the better," replies her companion, with a faint sigh. "The
more persistently you put thought behind you, the longer you will retain
happiness."
"Why, how sad you look! Have I, as usual, said the wrong thing? You
_mustn't_ think,"--affectionately,--"if it makes you sad. Come, Cis, let
me cheer you up."
Cecilia starts as though struck, and moves backward as the pretty
abbreviation of her name sounds upon her ear. An expression of hatred
and horror rises and mars her face.
"Never call me by that name again," she says with some passion, laying
her hand upon the sideboard to steady herself. "Never! do you hear? My
father called me so----" she pauses, and the look of horror passes from
her, only to be replaced by one of shame. "What must you think of me,"
she asks, slowly, "you who honored your father? I, too, had a father,
but I did not--no, I did not love him. Am I hateful, am I unnatural, in
your eyes?"
"Cecilia," says Lilian, with grave simplicity, "you could not be
unnatural, you could not be hateful, in the sight of any one."
"That name you called me by"--struggling with her emotion--"recalled old
scenes, old memories, most horrible to me. I am unhinged to-day: you
must not mind me."
"You are not well, dearest."
"That man, my husband,"--with a strong shudder,--"he, too, called me by
that name. After long years," she says, throwing out her hands with a
significant gesture, as though she would fain so fling from her all
haunting thoughts, "I cannot rid myself of the fear, the loathing, of
those past days. _Are_ they past? Is my terror an omen that they are not
yet ended?"
"Cecilia, you shall not speak so," says Lilian, putting her arms gently
round her. "You are nervous and--and upset about something. Why should
you encourage such superstitious thoughts, when happiness lies within
your grasp? How can harm come near you in this pretty wood, where you
reign queen? Come, smile at me directly, or I shall tell Cyril of your
evil behavior, and send him here armed with a stout whip to punish you
for your naughtiness. What a whip that would be!" says Lilian, laughing
so gleefully that Cecilia perforce laughs too.
"How sweet you are to me!" she says, fondly, with tears in her eyes. "At
times I am more than foolish, and last night I had a terrible dream; but
your coming has done me good. Now I can almost laugh at my own fears,
that were so vivid a few hours ago. But my youth was not a happy one."
"Now you have reached old age, I hope you will enjoy it," says Miss
Chesney, demurely.
Almost at this moment, Sir Guy Chetwoode is announced, and is shown by
the inestimable Kate into the parlor instead of the drawing-room,
thereby causing unutterable mischief. It is only the second time since
Mrs. Arlington's arrival at The Cottage he has put in an appearance
there, and each time business has been his sole cause for calling.
He is unmistakably surprised at Lilian's presence, but quickly
suppresses all show of emotion. At first he looks faintly astonished,
but so faintly that a second later one wonders whether the astonishment
was there at all.
He shakes hands formally with Mrs. Arlington, and smiles in a somewhat
restrained fashion upon Lilian. In truth he is much troubled at the
latter's evident familiarity with the place and its inmate.
Lilian, jumping down from her high elevation, says to Cecilia:
"If you two are going to talk business, I shall go into the next room.
The very thought of anything connected with the bugbear 'Law' depresses
me to death. You can call me, Cecilia, when you have quite done."
"Don't be frightened," says Guy, pleasantly, though inwardly he frowns
as he notes Lilian's unceremonious usage of his tenant's Christian name.
"I shan't detain Mrs. Arlington two minutes."
Then he addresses himself exclusively to Cecilia, and says what he has
to say in a perfectly courteous, perfectly respectful, perfectly
freezing tone,--to all of which Cecilia responds with a similar though
rather exaggerated amount of coldness that deadens the natural sweetness
of her behavior, and makes Lilian tell herself she has never yet seen
Cecilia to such disadvantage, which is provoking, as she has set her
heart above all things on making Guy like her lovely friend.
Then Sir Guy, with a distant salutation, withdraws; and both women feel,
silently, as though an icicle had melted from their midst.
"I wonder why your guardian so dislikes me," says Mrs. Arlington, in a
somewhat hurt tone. "He is ever most ungenerous in his treatment of me."
"Ungenerous!" hastily, "oh, no! he is not that. He is the most
generous-minded man alive. But--but----"
"Quite so, dear,"--with a faint smile that yet has in it a tinge of
bitterness. "You see there is a 'but.' I have never wronged him, yet he
hates me."
"Never mind who hates you," says Lilian, impulsively. "Cyril loves you,
and so do I."
"I can readily excuse the rest," says Mrs. Arlington, with a bright
smile, kissing her pretty consoler with grateful warmth.
* * * * *
An hour after Lilian's return to Chetwoode on this momentous day, Guy,
having screwed his courage to the sticking-point, enters his mother's
boudoir, where he knows she and Lilian are sitting alone.
Lady Chetwoode is writing at a distant table; Miss Chesney, on a sofa
close to the fire, is surreptitiously ruining--or, as she fondly but
erroneously believes, is knitting away bravely at--the gray sock her
ladyship has just laid down. Lilian's pretty lips are pursed up, her
brow is puckered, her soft color has risen as she bends in strong hope
over her work. The certain charm that belongs to this scene fails to
impress Sir Guy, who is too full of agitated determination to leave room
for minor interests.
"Lilian," he says, bluntly, with all the execrable want of tact that
characterizes the very gentlest of men, "I wish you would not cultivate
an acquaintance with Mrs. Arlington."
"Eh?" says Lilian, looking up in somewhat dazed amazement from her
knitting, which is gradually getting into a more and more hopeless mess,
"what is it, then, Sir Guy?"
"I wish you would not seek an intimacy with Mrs. Arlington," repeats
Chetwoode, speaking all the more sternly in that he feels his courage
ebbing.
The sternness, however, proves a mistake; Miss Chesney resents it, and,
scenting battle afar off, encases herself in steel, and calmly, nay,
eagerly, awaits the onslaught.
"What has put you out?" she says, speaking in a tone eminently
calculated to incense the listener. "You seem disturbed. Has Heskett
been poaching again? or has that new pointer turned out a
_disappointer_? What has poor Mrs. Arlington done to you, that you must
send her to Coventry?"
"Nothing, only----"
"Nothing! Oh, Sir Guy, surely you must have some substantial reason for
tabooing her so entirely."
"Perhaps I have. At all events, I ask you most particularly to give up
visiting at The Cottage."
"I am very sorry, indeed, to seem disobliging, but I shall not give up a
friend without sufficient reason for so doing."
"A friend! Oh, this is madness," says Sir Guy, with a perceptible start;
then, turning toward his mother, he says, in a rather louder tone, that
adds to the imperiousness of his manner, "Mother, will _you_ speak to
Lilian, and desire her not to go?"
"But, my dear, why?" asks Lady Chetwoode, raising her eyes in a vague
fashion from her pen.
"Because I will not have her associating with people of whom we know
nothing," replies he, at his wit's end for an excuse. This one is
barefaced, as at any other time he is far too liberal a man to condemn
any one for being a mere stranger.
"I know a good deal of her," says Lilian, imperturbably, "and I think
her charming. Perhaps,--who knows?--as she is unknown, she may prove a
duchess in disguise."
"She may, but I doubt it," replies he, a disagreeable note of irony
running through his speech.
"Have you discovered her parentage?" asks Lady Chetwoode, hastily. "Is
she of low birth? Lilian, my dear, don't have low tastes: there is
nothing on earth," says Lady Chetwoode, mildly, "so--so--so _melancholy_
as a person afflicted with low tastes."
"If thinking Mrs. Arlington a lady in the very best sense of the word is
a low taste, I confess myself afflicted," says Miss Chesney, rather
saucily; whereupon Lady Chetwoode, who knows mischief is brewing and is
imbued with a wholesome horror of all disputes between her son and his
ward, rises hurriedly and prepares to quit the room.
"I hope Archie will not miss his train," she says, irrelevantly. "He is
always so careless, and I know it is important he should see his
solicitor this evening about the transfer of York's farm. Where is
Archibald?"
"In the library, I think," responds Lilian. "Dear Archie, how we shall
miss him! shan't we, auntie?"
This tenderly regretful speech has reference to Mr. Chesney's intended
departure, he having at last, through business, been compelled to leave
Chetwoode and the object of his adoration.
"We shall, indeed. But remember,"--kindly,--"he has promised to return
to us at Christmas with Taffy."
"I do remember," gayly; "but for that, I feel I should give way to
tears."
Here Lady Chetwoode lays her hand upon the girl's shoulder, and presses
it gently, entreatingly.
"Do not reject Guy's counsel, child," she says, softly; "you know he
always speaks for your good."
Lilian makes no reply, but, gracefully turning her head, lays her red
lips upon the gentle hand that still rests upon her shoulder.
Then Lady Chetwoode leaves the room, and Lilian and her guardian are
alone. An ominous silence follows her departure. Lilian, who has
abandoned the unhappy sock, has now taken in hand a very valuable
Dresden china cup, and is apparently examining it with the most profound
interest.
"I have your promise not to go again to The Cottage?" asks Sir Guy at
length, the exigency of the case causing his persistency.
"I think not."
"Why will you persist in this obstinate refusal?" angrily.
"For many reasons," with a light laugh. "Shall I tell you one? Did you
ever hear of the 'relish of being forbidden?'"
"It is not a trifling matter. If it was possible, I would tell you what
would prevent your ever wishing to know this Mrs. Arlington again. But,
as it is, I am your guardian,"--determinately,--"I am responsible for
you: I do not wish you to be intimate at The Cottage, and in this one
matter at least I must be obeyed."
"Must you? we shall see," replies Miss Chesney, with a tantalizing laugh
that, but for the sweet beauty of her _riante_ face, her dewy, mutinous
mouth, her great blue eyes, now ablaze with childish wrath, would have
made him almost hate her. As it is, he is exceeding full of an
indignation he scarcely seeks to control.
"I, as your guardian, forbid you to go to see that woman," he says, in a
condensed tone.
"And why, pray?"
"I cannot explain: I simply forbid you. She is not fit to be an
associate of yours."
"Then I will _not_ be forbidden: so there!" says Miss Chesney,
defiantly.
"Lilian, once for all, do not go to The Cottage again," says Guy, very
pale. "If you do you will regret it."
"Is that a threat?"
"No; it is a warning. Take it as such if you are wise. If you go against
my wishes in this matter, I shall refuse to take charge of you any
longer."
"I don't want you to take charge of me," cries Lilian, tears of passion
and wounded feeling in her eyes. In her excitement she has risen to her
feet and stands confronting him, the Dresden cup still within her hand.
"I am not a beggar, that I should crave your hospitality. I can no doubt
find a home with some one who will not hate me as you do." With this,
the foolish child, losing her temper _in toto_, raises her hand and,
because it is the nearest thing to her, flings the cherished cup upon
the floor, where it lies shattered into a thousand pieces.
In silence Guy contemplates the ruins, in silence Lilian watches him; no
faintest trace of remorse shows itself in her angry fair little face. I
think the keenest regret Guy knows at this moment is that she isn't a
boy, for the simple reason that he would dearly like to box her ears.
Being a woman, and an extremely lovely one, he is necessarily disarmed.
"So now!" says Miss Lilian, still defiant.
"I have a great mind," replies Guy, raising his eyes slowly to hers, "to
desire you to pick up every one of those fragments."
This remark is unworthy of him, proving that in his madness there is not
even method. His speech falls as a red spark into the hot fire of Miss
Chesney's wrath.
"_You_ desire!" she says, blazing instantly. "What is it you would say?
'Desire!' On the contrary, _I_ desire _you_ to pick them up, and I shall
stay here to see my commands obeyed."
She has come a little closer to him, and is now standing opposite him
with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. With one firm little finger she
points to the _debris_. She looks such a fragile creature possessed with
such an angry spirit that Chetwoode, in spite of himself acknowledging
the comicality of the situation, cannot altogether conceal a smile.
"Pick them up," says Lilian imperatively, for the second time.
"What a little Fury you are!" says Guy; and then, with a faint shrug, he
succumbs, and, stooping, does pick up the pieces of discord.
"I do it," he says, raising himself when his task is completed, and
letting severity once more harden his features, "to prevent my mother's
being grieved by such an exhibition of----"
"No, you do not," interrupts she; "you do it because I wished it. For
the future understand that, though you are my guardian, I will not be
treated as though I were a wayward child."
"Well, you _have_ a wicked temper!" says Guy, who is very pale, drawing
his breath quickly. He smiles as he says it, but it is a smile more
likely to incense than to soothe.
"I have not," retorts Lilian, passionately. "But that you goaded me I
should never have given way to anger. It is you who have the wicked
temper. I dislike you! I hate you! I wish I had never entered your
house! And"--superbly, drawing herself up to her full height, which does
not take her far--"I shall now leave it! And I shall never come back to
it again!"
This fearful threat she hurls at his head with much unction. Not that
she means it, but it is as well to be forcible on such occasions. The
less you mean a thing, the more eloquent and vehement you should grow;
the more you mean it, the less vehemence the better, because then it is
energy thrown away: the fact accomplished later on will be crushing
enough in itself. This is a rule that should be strictly observed.
Guy, whose head is held considerably higher than its wont, looks calmly
out of the window, and disdains to take notice of this outburst.
His silence irritates Miss Chesney, who has still sufficient rage
concealed within her to carry her victoriously through two quarrels. She
is therefore about to let the vials of her wrath once more loose upon
her unhappy guardian, when the door opens, and Florence, calm and
stately, sweeps slowly in.
"Aunt Anne not here?" she says; and then she glances at Guy, who is
still holding in his hands some of the fragments of the broken cup, and
who is looking distinctly guilty, and then suspiciously at Lilian, whose
soft face is crimson, and whose blue eyes are very much darker than
usual.
There is a second's pause, and then Lilian, walking across the room,
goes out, and bangs the door, with much unnecessary violence, behind
her.
"Dear me!" exclaims Florence, affectedly, when she has recovered from
the shock her delicate nerves have sustained through the abrupt closing
of the door. "How vehement dear Lilian is! There is nothing so ruinous
to one's manners as being brought up without the companionship of
well-bred women. The loss of it makes a girl so--so--hoydenish, and----"
"I don't think Lilian hoydenish," interrupts Guy, who is in the humor to
quarrel with his shadow,--especially, strange as it seems, with any one
who may chance to speak ill of the small shrew who has just flown like a
whirlwind from the room.
"No?" says Miss Beauchamp, sweetly. "Perhaps you are right. As a
rule,"--with an admiring glance, so deftly thrown as to make one regret
it should be so utterly flung away,--"you always are. It may be only
natural spirits, but if so,"--blandly,--"don't you think she has a great
deal of natural spirits?"
"I don't know, I'm sure," says Sir Guy. As he answers he looks at her,
and tells himself he hates all her pink and white fairness, her dull
brown locks, her duller eyes, and more, _much_ more than all, her large
and fleshy nose. "Has she?" he says, in a tone that augurs ill for any
one who may have the hardihood to carry on the conversation.
"I think she has," says Florence, innocently, a little touch of
doggedness running beneath the innocency. "But, oh, Guy, is that Aunt
Anne's favorite cup? the Dresden she so much prizes? I know it cost any
amount of money. Who broke it?"
"I did," returns Guy, shortly, unblushingly, and moving away from her,
quits the room.
Going up the staircase he pauses idly at a window that overlooks the
avenue to watch Archibald disappearing up the drive in the dog-cart.
Even as he watches him, vaguely, and without the least interest in his
movements,--his entire thoughts being preoccupied with another
object,--lo! that object emerges from under the lime-trees, and makes a
light gesture that brings Chesney to a full stop.
Throwing the reins to the groom, he springs to the ground, and for some
time the two cousins converse earnestly. Then Guy, who is now regarding
them with eager attention, sees Chesney help Lilian into the trap, take
his seat beside her and drive away up the avenue, past the huge
laurustinus, under the elms, on out of sight.
A slight pang shoots across Guy's heart. Where are they going, these
two? "I shall never return:"--her foolish words, that he so honestly
considers foolish, come back to him now clearly, and with a strange
persistency that troubles him, repeat themselves over again.
Chesney is going to London, but where is Lilian going? The child's
lovely, angry face rises up before him, full of a keen reproach. What
was she saying to Archibald just now, in that quick vehement fashion of
hers? was she upbraiding her guardian, or was she----? If Chesney had
asked her then to take any immediate steps toward the fulfilling of her
threat, would she, would she----?
Bah! he draws himself up with a shiver, and smiles contemptuously at the
absurdity of his own fears, assuring himself she will certainly be home
to dinner.
But dinner comes, and yet no Lilian! Lady Chetwoode has been obliged to
give in an hour ago to one of her severest headaches, and now lies prone
upon her bed, so that Miss Beauchamp and Guy perforce prepare to
partake of that meal alone.
Florence is resplendent in cream-color and blue, which doesn't suit her
in the least, though it is a pretty gown, one of the prettiest in her
wardrobe, and has been donned by her to-night for Guy's special
delectation, finding a _tete-a-tete_ upon the cards.
Chetwoode regards her with feverish anxiety as she enters the
drawing-room, hoping to hear some mention made of the absent Lilian; but
in this hope he is disappointed. She might never have been a guest at
Chetwoode, so little notice does Miss Beauchamp take of her
non-appearance.
She says something amiable about "Aunt Anne's" headache, suggests a new
pill as an unfailing cure for "that sort of thing," and then eats her
dinner placidly, quietly, and, with a careful kindness that not one of
the dishes shall feel slighted by her preference for another, patronizes
all alike, without missing any. It is indeed a matter for wonder and
secret admiration how Miss Beauchamp can so slowly, and with such a
total absence of any appearance of gluttony, get through so much in so
short a space of time. She has evidently a perfect talent for concealing
any amount of viands without seeming to do so, which, it must be
admitted, is a great charm.
To-night I fear Guy scarcely sees the beauty of it! He is conscious of
feeling disgust and a very passion of impatience. Does she not notice
Lilian's absence? Will she never speak of it? A strange fear lest she
should express ignorance of his ward's whereabouts ties his own tongue.
But she, she does, she _must_ know, and presently no doubt will tell
him.
How much more of that cream is she going to eat? Surely when the
servants go she will say something. Now she has nearly done: thank the
stars the last bit has disappeared! She is going to lay down her spoon
and acknowledge herself satisfied.
"I think, Guy, I will take a little more, _very_ little, please. This
new cook seems quite satisfactory," says Florence, in her slow, even,
self-congratulatory way.
A naughty exclamation trembles on Sir Guy's lips; by a supreme effort he
suppresses it, and gives her the smallest help of the desired cream that
decency will permit. After which he motions silently though peremptorily
to one of the men to remove _all_ the dishes, lest by any chance his
cousin should be tempted to try the cream a third time.
His own dinner has gone away literally untasted. A terrible misgiving is
consuming him. Lilian's words are still ringing and surging in his
brain,--"I shall never return." He recalls all her hastiness, her
impulsive ways, her hot temper. What if, in a moment of pride and rage,
she should have really gone with her cousin! If--it is impossible!
ridiculously, utterly impossible! Yet his blood grows cold in spite of
his would-be disbelief; a sickening shiver runs through his veins even
while he tells himself he is a fool even to imagine such a thing. And
yet, where is she?
"I suppose Lilian is at Mabel Steyne's," says Miss Beauchamp, calmly,
having demolished the last bit on her plate with a deep sigh.
"Is she?" asks Guy, in a tone half stifled. As he speaks, he stoops as
though to pick up an imaginary napkin.
"Your napkin is here," says Florence, in an uncompromising voice: "don't
you see it?" pointing to where it rests upon the edge of the table.
"Lilian, then,"--with a scrutinizing glance,--"did not tell you where
she was going?"
"No. There is no reason why she should."
"Well, I think there is," with a low, perfectly lady-like, but extremely
irritating laugh: "for one thing, her silence has cost you your dinner.
I am sorry I did not relieve your mind by telling you before. But I
could not possibly guess her absence could afflict you so severely. She
said something this morning about going to see Mabel."
"I dare say," quietly.
The minutes drag. Miss Beauchamp gets through an unlimited quantity of
dried fruit and two particularly fine pears in no time. She is looking
longingly at a third, when Guy rises impatiently.
"If she is at Mabel's I suppose I had better go and bring her home," he
says, glancing at the clock. "It is a quarter to nine."
"I really do not think you need trouble yourself," speaking somewhat
warmly for her: "Mabel is sure to send her home in good time, if she is
there!" She says this slowly, meaningly, and marks how he winces and
changes color at her words. "Then think how cold the night is!" with a
comfortable shiver and a glance at the leaping fire.
"Of course she is at Steynemore," says Guy, hastily.
"I would not be too sure: Lilian's movements are always uncertain: one
never quite knows what she is going to do next. Really,"--with a
repetition of her unpleasant laugh,--"when I saw her stepping into the
dog-cart with her cousin to-day, I said to myself that I should not at
all wonder if----"
"What?" sternly, turning full upon her a pale face and flashing eyes.
Miss Beauchamp's pluck always melts under Guy's anger.
"Nothing," sullenly; "nothing at least that can concern you. I was
merely hurrying on in my own mind a marriage that must eventually come
off. The idea was absurd, of course, as any woman would prefer a
fashionable wedding to all the inconvenience attendant on a runaway
match."
"You mean----"
"I mean"--complacently--"Lilian's marriage with her cousin."
"You speak"--biting his lips to maintain his composure--"as though it
was all arranged."
"And is it not?" with well-affected surprise. "I should have thought
you, as her guardian, would have known all about it. Perhaps I speak
prematurely; but one must be blind indeed not to see how matters are
between them. Do sit down, Guy: it fidgets one to see you so undecided.
Of course, if Lilian is at Steynemore she is quite safe."
"Still, she may be expecting some one to go for her."
"I think, if so, she would have told you she was going," dryly.
"Tom hates sending his horses out at night," says Guy,--which is a weak
remark, Tom Steyne being far too indolent a man to make a point of
hating anything.
"Does he?" with calm surprise, and a prolonged scrutiny of her cousin's
face. "I fancied him the most careless of men on that particular
subject. Before he was married he used to drive over here night after
night, and not care in the least how long he kept the wretched animals
standing in the cold."
"But that was when he was making love to Mabel. A man in love will
commit any crime."
"Oh, no, long before that."
"Perhaps, then, it was when he was making love to you," with a slight
smile.
This is a sore point.
"I don't remember that time," says Miss Beauchamp with perfect calmness
but a suspicious indrawing of her rather meagre lips. "If some one must
go out to-night, Guy, why not send Thomas?"
"Because I prefer going myself," replies he, quietly.
Passing through the hall on his way to the door, he catches up a heavy
plaid that happens to be lying there, on a side-couch, and, springing
into the open trap outside, drives away quickly under the pale cold rays
of the moon.
He has refused to take any of the servants with him, and so, alone with
his thoughts, follows the road that leads to Steynemore.
They are not pleasant thoughts. Being only a man, he has accepted Miss
Beauchamp's pretended doubts about Lilian's safety as real, and almost
persuades himself his present journey will bear him only bitter
disappointment. As to what he is going to do if Lilian has not been seen
at Steynemore, that is a matter on which he refuses to speculate.
Drawing near the house, his suspense and fear grow almost beyond bounds.
Dismounting at the hall-door, which stands partly open, he flings the
reins to Jericho, and going into the hall, turns in the direction of the
drawing-room.
While he stands without, trying to summon courage to enter boldly, and
literally trembling with suppressed anxiety, a low soft laugh breaks
upon his ear. As he hears it, the blood rushes to his face;
involuntarily he raises his hand to his throat, and then (and only then)
quite realizes how awful has been the terror that for four long hours
has been consuming him.
The next instant, cold and collected, he turns the handle of the door,
and goes in.
Upon a low seat opposite Mabel Steyne sits Lilian, evidently in the
gayest spirits. No shadow of depression, no thought of all the mental
agony he has been enduring, mars the brightness of her _mignonne_ face.
She is laughing. Her lustrous azure eyes are turned upward to her
friend, who is laughing also in apparent appreciation of her guest's
jest; her parted lips make merry dimples in her cheeks; her whole face
is full of soft lines of amusement.
As Guy comes in, Mabel rises with a little exclamation, and goes toward
him with outstretched hands.
"Why, Guy!" she says, "good boy! Have you come for Lilian? I was just
going to order the carriage to send her home. Did you walk or drive?"
"I drove." He has studiously since his entrance kept his eyes from
Lilian. The smile has faded from her lips, the happy light from her
eyes; she has turned a pale, proud little face to the fire, away from
her guardian.
"I made Lilian stay to dinner," says Mabel, who is too clever not to
have remarked the painful constraint existing between her guest and Sir
Guy. "Tom has been out all day shooting and dining at the Bellairs, so I
entreated her to stay and bear me company. Won't you sit down for a
while? It is early yet; there cannot be any hurry."
"No, thank you. My mother has a bad headache, and, as she does not know
where Lilian is, I think it better to get home."
"Oh, if auntie has a headache, of course----"
"I shall go and put on my hat," says Lilian, speaking for the first
time, and rising with slow reluctance from her seat. "Don't stir, Mab: I
shan't be a minute: my things are all in the next room."
"Lilian is not very well, I fear," Mrs. Steyne says, when the door has
closed upon her, "or else something has annoyed her. I am not sure
which," with a quick glance at him. "She would eat no dinner, and her
spirits are very fitful. But she did not tell me what was the matter,
and I did not like to ask her. She is certainly vexed about something,
and it is a shame she should be made unhappy, poor pretty child!" with
another quick glance.
"I thought she seemed in radiant spirits just now," remarks Guy, coldly.
"Yes; but half an hour ago she was so depressed I was quite uneasy about
her: that is why I used the word 'fitful.' Get her to eat something
before she goes to bed," says kindly Mabel, in an undertone, as Lilian
returns equipped for her journey. "Good-night, dear," kissing her. "Have
you wraps, Guy?"
"Yes, plenty. Good-night." And Mabel, standing on the door-steps,
watches them until they have vanished beneath the starlight.
It is a dark but very lovely night. Far above them in the dim serene
blue a fair young crescent moon rides bravely. As yet but a few stars
are visible, and they gleam and shiver and twinkle in the eternal dome,
restless as the hearts of the two beings now gazing silently upon their
beauty.
"Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,
Blossomed the lonely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels."
A creeping shadow lies among the trees; a certain sense of loneliness
dwells in the long avenue of Steynemore as they pass beneath the
branches of the overhanging foliage. A quick wind rustles by them, sad
as a sigh from Nature's suffering breast, chill as the sense of injury
that hangs upon their own bosoms.
Coming out upon the unshaded road, a greater light falls upon them. The
darkness seems less drear, the feeling of separation more remote, though
still Pride sits with triumphant mien between them, with his great wings
outspread to conceal effectually any penitent glance or thought. The
tender pensive beauty of the growing night is almost lost upon them.
"All round was still and calm; the noon of night
Was fast approaching; up th' unclouded sky
The glorious moon pursued her path of light,
And shed a silv'ry splendor far and nigh;
No sound, save of the night-wind's gentlest sigh,
Could reach the ear."
A dead silence reigns between them: they both gaze with admirable
perseverance at the horse's ears. Never before has that good animal been
troubled by two such steady stares. Then Lilian stirs slightly, and a
little chattering sound escapes her, that rouses Guy to speech.
"You are tired?" he says, in freezing tones.
"Very."
"Cold?"
"_Very._"
"Then put this round you," disagreeably, but with evident anxiety,
producing the cozy plaid.
"No, thank you."
"Why?" surprised.
"Because it is yours," replies she, with such open and childish spite as
at any other time would have brought a smile to his lips. Now it brings
only a dull pain to his heart.
"I am sorry I only brought what you will not wear," he answers: "it did
not occur to me you might carry your dislike to me even to my clothes.
In future I shall be wiser."
Silence.
"Do put it on!" anxiously: "you were coughing all last week."
"I wouldn't be hypocritical, if I were you," with withering scorn. "I
feel sure it would be a matter for rejoicing, where you are concerned,
if I coughed all next week, and the week after. No: keep your plaid."
"You are the most willful girl I ever met," wrathfully.
"No doubt. I dare say you have met only angels. I am not one, I rejoice
to say. Florence is, you know; and one piece of perfection should be
enough in any household."
Silence again. Not a sound upon the night-air but the clatter of the
horse's feet as he covers bravely the crisp dry road, and the rushing of
the wind. It is a cold wind, sharp and wintry. It whistles past them,
now they have gained the side of the bare moor, with cruel keenness,
cutting uncivilly the tops of their ears, and making them sink their
necks lower in their coverings.
Miss Chesney's small hands lie naked upon the rug. Even in the
indistinct light he knows that they are shivering and almost blue.
"Where are your gloves?" he asks, when he can bear the enforced
stillness no longer.
"I forgot them at Mabel's."
Impulsively he lays his own bare hand upon hers, and finds it chilled,
nearly freezing.
"Keep your hands inside the rug," he says, angrily, though there is a
strong current of pain underlying the anger, "and put this shawl on you
directly."
"I will not," says Lilian, though in truth she is dying for it.
"You shall," returns Chetwoode, quietly, in a tone he seldom uses, but
which, when used, is seldom disobeyed. Lilian submits to the muffling in
silence, and, though outwardly ungrateful, is inwardly honestly rejoiced
at it. As he fastens it beneath her chin, he stoops his head, until his
eyes are on a level with hers.
"Was it kind of you, or proper, do you think, to make me so--so uneasy
as I have been all this afternoon and evening?" he asks, compelling her
to return his gaze.
"Were you uneasy?" says Miss Chesney, viciously and utterly
unrepenting: "I am glad of it."
"Was it part of your plan to make my mother wretched also?" This is a
slight exaggeration, as Lady Chetwoode has not even been bordering on
the "wretched," and is, in fact, up to the present moment totally
ignorant of Lilian's absence.
"I certainly did not mean to make dear auntie unhappy," in a
faintly-troubled tone. "But I shall tell her all the truth, and ask her
pardon, when I get home,--_back_, I mean," with studied correction of
the sweet word.
"What is the truth?"
"First, that I broke her lovely cup. And then I shall tell her why I
stayed so long at Steynemore."
"And what will that be?"
"You know very well. I shall just say to her, 'Auntie, your son, Sir
Guy, behaved so rudely to me this afternoon, I was obliged to leave
Chetwoode for a while.' Then she will forgive me."
Sir Guy laughs in spite of himself; and Lilian, could he only have
peeped into the deep recesses of the plaid, might also be plainly seen
with her pretty lips apart and all her naughty bewitching face dimpling
with laughter.
These frivolous symptoms are, however, rapidly and sternly suppressed on
both sides.
"I really cannot see what awful crime I have committed to make you so
taciturn," she says, presently, with a view to discussing the subject.
"I merely went for a drive with my cousin, as he should pass Steynemore
on his way to the station."
"Perhaps that was just what made my misery," softly.
"What! my going for a short drive with Archie? Really, Sir Guy, you will
soon be taken as a model of propriety. Poor old Archie! I am afraid I
shan't be able to make you miserable in that way again for a very long
time. How I wish those tiresome lawyers would let him alone!"
"Ask them to surrender him," says Guy, irritably.
"I would,"--cheerfully,--"if I thought it would do the least good. But I
know they are all made of adamant."
"Lilian,"--suddenly, unexpectedly,--"is there anything between you and
your cousin?"
"Who?"--with wide, innocent, suspiciously innocent eyes,--"Taffy?"
"No," impatiently: "of course I mean Chesney," looking at her with
devouring interest.
"Yes,"--disconsolately, with a desire for revenge,--"more miles than I
care to count."
"I feel"--steadily--"it is a gross rudeness my asking, and I know you
need not answer me unless you like; but"--with a quick breath--"try to
answer my question. Has anything passed between you and Chesney?"
"Not much," mildly: "one thrilling love-letter, and that ring."
"He never asked you to marry him?" with renewed hope.
"Oh, by the bye, I quite forgot that," indifferently. "Yes, he did ask
me so much."
"And you refused him?" asks Guy, eagerly, intensely, growing white and
cold beneath the moon's pitiless rays, that seem to take a heartless
pleasure in lighting up his agitated face at this moment. But Lilian's
eyes are turned away from his: so this degradation is spared him.
"No--n--o, not exactly," replies she.
"You accepted him?" with dry lips and growing despair.
"N--o, not exactly," again returns Miss Chesney, with affected
hesitation.
"Then what _did_ you do?" passionately, his impatient fear getting the
better of his temper.
"I don't feel myself at liberty to tell you," retorts Lilian, with a
provoking assumption of dignity.
Sir Guy looks as though he would like to give her a good shake, though
indeed it is quite a question whether he has even the spirits for so
much. He relapses into sulky silence, and makes no further attempt at
conversation.
"However," says Lilian, to whom silence is always irksome, "I don't mind
telling you what I shall do if he asks me again."
"What?" almost indifferently.
"I shall accept him."
"You will do very wisely," in a clear though constrained voice that
doesn't altogether impose upon Lilian, but nevertheless disagrees with
her. "He is very rich, very handsome, and a very good fellow all round."
"I don't much care about good fellows," perversely: "they are generally
deadly slow; I am almost sure I prefer the other sort. I am afraid mine
is not a well-regulated mind, as I confess I always feel more kindly
disposed toward a man when I hear something bad of him."
"Perhaps if I told you something bad about myself it might make you feel
more kindly disposed toward me," with a slight smile.
"Perhaps it might. But I believe you are incapable of a bad action.
Besides, if I felt myself going to like you, I should stop myself
instantly."
A pained hurt expression falls into his eyes.
"I think," he says, very gently, "you must make a point of reserving all
your cruel speeches for me alone. Do you guess how they hurt, child? No,
I am sure you do not: your face is far too sweet to belong to one who
would willingly inflict pain. Am I to be always despised and hated? Why
will you never be friends with me?"
"Because"--in a very low whisper--"you are so seldom good to me."
"Am I? You will never know how hard I try to be. But"--taking her hand
in his--"my efforts are always vain." He glances sorrowfully at the
little hand he holds, and then at the pretty face beneath the velvet hat
so near him. Lilian does not return his glance: her eyes are lowered,
her other hand is straying nervously over the tiger-skin that covers her
knees; they have forgotten all about the cold, the dreary night,
everything; for a full half mile they drive on thus silently, her hand
resting unresistingly in his; after which he again breaks the quiet that
exists between them.
"Did you mean what you said a little time ago about Chetwoode not being
your home?"
"I suppose so," in a rather changed and far softer tone. "Yes. What
claim have I on Chetwoode?"
"But your tone implied that if even you had a claim it would be
distasteful to you."
"Did it?"
"Don't you know it did?"
"Well, perhaps I didn't mean quite that. Did _you_ mean all you said
this morning?"
"Not all, I suppose."
"How much of it, then?"
"Unless I were to go through the whole of our conversation again, I
could not tell you that, and I have no wish to do so: to be pained"--in
a low voice--"as I have been, once in a day is surely sufficient."
"Don't imagine I feel the least sorrow for you," says Lilian, making a
wild attempt at recovering her ill humor, which has melted and vanished
away.
"I don't imagine it. How could I? One can scarcely feel sorrow or pity
for a person whom one openly professes to 'hate' and 'despise,'"
markedly, while searching her face anxiously with his eyes.
Miss Chesney pauses. A short but sharp battle takes place within her
breast. Then she raises her face and meets his eyes, while a faint sweet
smile grows within her own: impelled half by a feeling of coquetry, half
by a desire to atone, she lets the fingers he has still imprisoned close
with the daintiest pressure upon his.
"Perhaps," she whispers, leaning a little toward him, and raising her
lips very close to his cheek as though afraid of being heard by the
intrusive wind, "perhaps I did not quite mean that either."
Then, seeing how his whole expression changes and brightens, she half
regrets her tender speech, and says instantly, in her most unsentimental
fashion:
"Pray, Sir Guy, are you going to make your horse walk all the way home?
Can you not pity the sorrows of a poor little ward? I am absolutely
frozen: do stir him up, lazy fellow, or I shall get out and run. Surely
it is too late in the year for nocturnal rambles."
"If my life depended upon it, I don't believe I could make him go a bit
faster," returns he, telling his lie unblushingly.
"I forgot you were disabled," says Miss Chesney, demurely, letting her
long lashes droop until they partially (but only partially) conceal her
eyes from her guardian. "How remiss I am! When one has only got the use
of one hand, one can do so little; perhaps"--preparing to withdraw her
fingers slowly, lingeringly from his--"if I were to restore you both
yours, you might be able to persuade that horse to take us home before
morning."
"I beg you will give yourself no trouble on my account," says Guy,
hastily: "I don't want anything restored. And if you are really anxious
to get 'home'"--with a pleased and grateful smile, "I feel sure I shall
be able to manage this slow brute single-handed."
So saying, he touches up the good animal in question rather smartly,
which so astonishes the willing creature that he takes to his heels, and
never draws breath until he pulls up before the hall door at Chetwoode.
"Parkins, get us some supper in the library," says Sir Guy, addressing
the ancient butler as he enters: "the drive has given Miss Chesney and
me an appetite."
"Yes, Sir Guy, directly," says Parkins, and, going down-stairs to the
other servants, gives it as his opinion that "Sir Guy and Miss Chesney
are going to make a match of it. For when two couples," says Mr.
Parkins, who is at all times rather dim about the exact meaning of his
sentences, "when two couples takes to eating _teet-a-teet_, it is all up
with 'em."
Whereupon cook says, "Lor!" which is her usual expletive, and means
anything and everything; and Jane, the upper housemaid, who has a
weakness for old Parkins's sayings, tells him with a flattering smile
that he is "dreadful knowin'."
Meantime, Sir Guy having ascertained that Miss Beauchamp has gone to her
room, and that his mother is better, and asleep, he and Lilian repair to
the library, where a cozy supper is awaiting them, and a cheerful fire
burning.
Now that they are again in-doors, out of the friendly darkness, with the
full light of several lamps upon them, a second edition of their early
restraint--milder, perhaps, but still oppressive--most unaccountably
falls between them.
Silently, and very gently, but somewhat distantly, he unfolds the plaid
from round her slight figure, and, drawing a chair for her to the table,
seats himself at a decided distance. Then he asks her with exemplary
politeness what she will have, and she answers him; then he helps her,
and then he helps himself; and then they both wonder secretly what the
other is going to say next.
But Lilian, who is fighting with a wild desire for laughter, and who is
in her airiest mood, through having been compelled, by pride, to
suppress all day her usual good spirits, decides on making a final
effort at breaking down the barrier between them.
Raising the glass of wine beside her, she touches it lightly with her
lips, and says, gayly:
"Come, fill, and pledge me, Sir Guy. But stay; first let me give you a
little quotation that I hope will fall as a drop of nectar into your cup
and chase that nasty little frown from your brow. Have I your leave to
speak?" with a suspicion of coquetry in her manner.
Chetwoode's handsome lips part in a pleased smile: he turns his face
gladly, willingly, to hers.
"Why do you ask permission of your slave, O Queen of Hearts?" he
answers, softly, catching the infection of her gayety. He gazes at her
with unchecked and growing admiration, his whole heart in his eyes;
telling himself, as he has told himself a thousand times before, that
to-night she is looking her fairest.
Her cheeks are flushed from her late drive; one or two glittering golden
lovelocks have been driven by the rough wind from their natural
resting-place, and now lie in gracious disorder on her white forehead;
her lustrous sapphire eyes are gleaming upon him, full of unsubdued
laughter; her lips are parted, showing all the small even teeth within.
She stoops toward him, and clinking her glass against his with the
prettiest show of _bonne camaraderie_, whispers, softly:
"Come, let us be happy together."
"Together!" repeats Guy, unsteadily, losing his head, and rising
abruptly from his seat as though to go to her. She half rises also,
seriously frightened at the unexpected effect of her mad words. What is
he going to say to her? What folly urged her on to repeat that
ridiculous line? The idea of flight has just time to cross her mind, but
not time to be acted upon, when the door is thrown open suddenly, and
Cyril--who has at this moment returned from his dinner party--entering
noisily, comes to her rescue.