"_Hel._--How happy some, o'er other some can be!"
--_Midsummer Night's Dream._
It is very close on Christmas; another week will bring in the
twenty-fifth of December, with all its absurd affectation of merriment
and light-heartedness.
Is any one, except a child, ever really happy at Christmas, I wonder? Is
it then one chooses to forget the loved and lost? to thrust out of sight
the regrets that goad and burn? Nay, rather, is it not then our hearts
bleed most freely, while our eyes grow dim with useless tears, and a
great sorrow that touches on despair falls upon us, as we look upon the
vacant seat and grow sick with longing for the "days that are no more?"
Surely it is then we learn how vain is our determination to forget those
unobtrusive ones who cannot by voice or touch demand attention. The
haunting face, that once full of youth and beauty was all the world to
us, rises from its chill shroud and dares us to be happy. The poor eyes,
once so sweet, so full of gayest laughter, now closed and mute forever,
gleam upon us, perchance across the flowers and fruit, and, checking the
living smile upon our lips, ask us reproachfully how is it with us, that
we can so quickly shut from them the doors of our hearts, after all our
passionate protests, our vows ever to remember.
Oh, how soon, how _soon_, do we cease our lamentations for our silent
dead!
When all is told, old Father Christmas is a mighty humbug: so I say and
think, but I would not have you agree with me. Forgive me this
unorthodox sentiment, and let us return to our--lamb!
Archibald has returned to Chetwoode; so has Taffy. The latter is looking
bigger, fuller, and, as Mrs. Tipping says, examining him through her
spectacles with a criticising air, "more the man," to his intense
disgust. He embraces Lilian and Lady Chetwoode, and very nearly Miss
Beauchamp, on his arrival, in the exuberance of his joy at finding
himself once more within their doors, and is welcomed with effusion by
every individual member of the household.
Archibald, on the contrary, appears rather done up, and faded, and,
though evidently happy at being again in his old quarters, still seems
sad at heart, and discontented.
He follows Lilian's movements in a very melancholy fashion, and herself
also, until it becomes apparent to every one that his depression arises
from his increasing infatuation for her; while she, to do her justice,
hardly pretends to encourage him at all. He lives in contemplation of
her beauty and her saucy ways, and is unmistakably _distrait_ when
circumstances call her from his sight.
In his case "absence" has indeed made the heart grow fonder, as he is,
if possible, more imbecile about her now than when he left, and, after
struggling with his feelings for a few days, finally makes up his mind
to tempt fortune again, and lay himself and his possessions at his
idol's feet.
* * * * *
It is the wettest of wet days; against the window-panes the angry
rain-drops are flinging themselves madly, as though desirous of entering
and rendering more dismal the room within, which happens to be the
library.
Sir Guy is standing at the bow-window, gazing disconsolately upon the
blurred scene outside. Cyril is lounging in an easy chair with a
magazine before him, making a very creditable attempt at reading.
Archibald and Taffy are indulging in a mild bet as to which occupant of
the room will make the first remark.
Lady Chetwoode is knitting her one hundred and twenty-fourth sock for
the year. Lilian is dreaming, with her large eyes fixed upon the fire.
The inestimable Florence (need I say it?) is smothered in crewel wools,
and is putting a rose-colored eye into her already quite too fearful
parrot.
"I wonder what we shall do all day," says Guy, suddenly, in tones of the
deepest melancholy. Whereupon Taffy, who has been betting on Cyril, and
Chesney, who has been laying on Lilian, are naturally, though secretly
indignant.
"Just what we have been doing all the rest of the day,--nothing,"
replies Lilian, lazily: "could anything be more desirable?"
"I hope it will be fine to-morrow," says Mr. Musgrave, in an aggrieved
voice. "But it won't, I shouldn't wonder, just because the meet is to
be at Bellairs, and one always puts in such a good day there."
"I haven't got enough pluck to think of to-morrow," says Guy, still
melancholy: "to-day engrosses all my thoughts. What _is_ to become of
us?"
"Let us get up a spelling-bee," says Miss Beauchamp, with cheerful
alacrity; "they are so amusing."
"Oh, don't! please, Miss Beauchamp, don't," entreats Taffy,
tearfully,--"unless you want to disgrace me eternally. I can't spell
anything; and, even if I could, the very fact of having a word hurled at
my head would make me forget all about it, even were it an old
acquaintance."
"But, my dear fellow," says Cyril, laying down his "Temple Bar," with
all the air of a man prepared to argue until he and his adversary are
black in the face, "that is the fun of the whole matter. If you spelled
well you would be looked upon as a swindler. The greater mistakes you
make, the more delighted we shall be; and if you could only succeed like
that man in 'Caste' in spelling character with a K, we should give you
two or three rounds of applause. People never get up spelling-bees to
hear good spelling: the discomfiture of their neighbors is what amuses
them most. Have I relieved your mind?"
"Tremendously. Nevertheless, I fling myself upon your tender mercies,
Miss Beauchamp, and don't let us go in for spelling."
"Then let us have an historical-bee," substitutes Florence, amiably; she
is always tender where Taffy is concerned.
"The very thing," declares Cyril, getting up an expression of the
strongest hope. "Perhaps, if you do, I shall get answers to two or three
important questions that have been tormenting me for years. For
instance, I want to know whether the 'gossip's bowl' we read of was made
of Wedgwood or Worcester, and why our ancestors were so uncomfortable as
to take their tea out of 'dishes.' It must have got very cold, don't you
think? to say nothing at all of the inconvenience of being obliged to
lift it to one's lips with both hands."
"It didn't mean an actual 'dish,'" replies Florence, forgetting the
parrot's rosy optic for a moment, in her desire to correct his
ignorance: "it was merely a term for what we now call cup."
"No, was it?" says Cyril, with an affectation of intense astonishment;
whereupon they all laugh.
"Talking of tea," says Lady Chetwoode, "I wonder where it is. Taffy, my
dear, will you ring the bell?"
Tea is brought, tea is consumed; but still the rain rains on, and their
spirits are at zero.
"I shall go out, 'hail, rain, or shine,'" says Cyril, springing to his
feet with sudden desperation.
"So shall I," declares Guy, "to the stables. Taffy, will you come with
me?"
"As nobody wants me," says Lilian, "I shall make a point of wanting
somebody. Archie, come and have a game of billiards with me before
dinner."
"My dear Guy, does it not still rain very hard?" protests Florence,
anxiously.
"Very," laughing.
"You will get wet," with increasing anxiety, and a tender glance
cleverly directed.
"Wet! he will get drenched," exclaims Cyril; "he will probably get his
death of cold, and die of inflammation of the lungs. It is horrible to
think of it! Guy, be warned; accept Florence's invitation to stay here
with her, and be happy and dry. As sure as you are out to-day, you may
prepare to shed this mortal coil."
"Forgive me, Florence, I must go or suffocate," says Guy, refusing to be
warned, or to accept Miss Beauchamp's delicate hint: and together he and
Musgrave sally forth to inspect the stables, while Lilian and Archibald
retire to the billiard-room.
When they have played for some time, and Archibald has meanly allowed
Lilian to win all the games under the mistaken impression that he is
thereby cajoling her into staying with him longer than she otherwise
might have done, she suddenly destroys the illusion by throwing down her
cue impatiently, and saying, with a delicious little pout:
"I hate playing with people who know nothing about the game! there is no
excitement in it. I remark when I play with you I always win. You're a
regular muff at billiards, Archie; that's what _you_ are."
This is a severe blow to Archie's pride, who is a first-class hand at
billiards; but he grins and bears it.
"If you will give me a few more lessons," he says, humbly, "I dare say I
shall improve."
"No, I can't afford to waste my time, and you are too tiresome. Let us
go into the drawing-room."
"Rather let us stay here for a while," he says, earnestly. "They are all
out, and I--I have something to say to you."
During the last half-hour one of the men has come in and given the fire
a poke and lit the lamps, so that the room looks quite seductive. Miss
Chesney, glancing doubtfully round, acknowledges so much, and prepares
to give in.
"I hope it is something pleasant," she says, _apropos_ of Archie's last
remark. "You have been looking downright miserable for days. I hope
sincerely, you are not going melancholy mad, but I have my doubts of it.
What is the matter with you, Archie? You used to be quite a charming
companion, but now you are very much the reverse. Sometimes, when with
you, your appearance is so dejected that if I smile I feel absolutely
heartless. Do try to cheer up, there's a good boy."
"A fellow can't be always simpering, especially when he is wretched,"
retorts he, moodily.
"Then don't be wretched. That is the very thing to which I object. You
are the very last man in the world who ought to suffer from the blues.
Anything wrong with you?"
"Everything. I love a woman who doesn't care in the very least for me."
"Oh, so that is what you have been doing in London, is it?" says Lilian,
after a short pause that makes her words still more impressive. "I
certainly did think you weren't in a very great hurry to return, and
that you looked rather blighted when you did come. I doubt you have been
dancing the 'Geliebt und verloren' waltzes once too often. Did she
refuse you?"
"I love you, Lilian, and only you," returns he, reproachfully. "No, do
not turn from me; let me plead my cause once more. Darling, I have
indeed tried to live without you, and have failed; if you reject me
again you will drive me to destruction. Lilian, be merciful; say
something kind to me."
"You promised me," says Lilian, nervously, moving away from him, "never
to speak on this subject again. Oh, why is it that some people will
insist on falling in love with other people? There is something so
stupid about it. Now, _I_ never fall in love; why cannot you follow my
good example?"
"I am not bloodless, or----"
"Neither am I," holding up her pretty hand between her and the fire, so
that the rich blood shows through the closed fingers of it. "But I have
common sense, the one thing you lack."
"_You_ are the one thing I lack," possessing himself of her hand and
kissing it fatuously. "Without you I lack everything. Beloved, must I
learn to look upon you as my curse? Give me, I entreat you, one little
word of encouragement, if only one; I starve for want of it. If you only
knew how I have clung for months, and am still clinging, to the barest
shadow of a hope, you would think twice before you destroyed that one
faint gleam of happiness."
"This is dreadful," says Lilian, piteously, the ready tears gathering in
her eyes. "Would you marry a woman who does not love you?"
"I would,"--eagerly,--"when that woman assures me she does not love
another, and I have your word for that."
Lilian winces. Then, trying to recover her spirits:
"'What one suffers for one's country--_men_!'" she misquotes, with an
affectation of lightness. "Archie, billiards have a demoralizing effect
upon you. I shan't play with you again."
"I don't want to bribe you," says Chesney, turning a little pale, and
declining to notice her interruption; "I should be sorry to think I
could do so; but I have ten thousand a year, and if you will marry me
you shall have a thousand a year pin-money, and five thousand if you
survive me."
"It would spoil my entire life fearing I shouldn't survive you," says
Miss Chesney, who, in spite of her nervousness, or because of it, is
longing to laugh.
"You will, you need not be afraid of that."
"It sounds dazzling," murmurs Lilian, "more especially when you give me
your word you will die first; but still I think it downright shabby you
don't offer me the whole ten."
"So I will!"--eagerly--"if----"
"Nonsense, Archie," hastily: "don't be absurd. Cannot you see I am only
in jest? I am not going to marry any one, as I told you before. Come
now,"--anxiously,--"don't look so dismal. You know I am very, _very_
fond of you, but after all one cannot marry every one one is fond of."
"I suppose not," gloomily.
"Then do try to look a little pleasanter. They will all notice your
depression when we return to them."
"I don't care," with increasing gloom.
"But I do. Archie, look here, dear,"--taking the high and moral
tone,--"do you think it is right of you to go on like this, just as
if----"
"I don't care a hang what is right, or what is wrong," says Mr. Chesney,
with considerable vehemence. "I only know you are the only woman I ever
really cared for, and you won't have me. Nothing else is of the
slightest consequence."
"I am not the only woman in the world. Time will show you there are
others ten times nicer and lovelier."
"I don't believe it."
"Because you don't wish to," angrily. "In the first place, I am far too
small to be lovely."
"You are tall enough for my fancy."
"And my mouth is too large," with growing irritation.
"It is small enough for my taste."
"And sometimes, when the summer is very hot, my skin gets quite
_freckled_," with increasing warmth.
"I adore freckles. I think no woman perfect without them."
"I don't believe you," indignantly; "and at all events I have a horrible
temper, and I defy you to say you like _that_!" triumphantly.
"I do," mournfully. "The hardest part of my unfortunate case is this,
that the unkinder you are to me the more I love you."
"Then I won't have you love me," says Miss Chesney, almost in tears: "do
you hear me? I forbid you to do it any more. It is extremely rude of you
to keep on caring for me when you know I don't like it."
"Look here, Lilian," says Archie, taking both her hands, "give me a
little hope, a bare crumb to live on, and I will say no more."
"I cannot, indeed," deeply depressed.
"Why? Do you love any other fellow?"
"Certainly not," with suspicious haste.
"Then I shall wait yet another while, and then ask you again."
"Oh, don't!" exclaims Lilian, desperately: "I _beg_ you won't. If I
thought I was going to have these scenes all over again at intervals, it
would kill me, and I should learn to hate you. I should, indeed; and
then what would you do? Think of it."
"I won't," doggedly; "I often heard 'Faint heart never won fair lady,'
and I shall take my chance. I shall never give you up, so long as you
are not engaged to any other man."
There is a pause. Lilian's blue eyes are full of tears that threaten
every moment to overflow and run down her pale cheeks. She is
desperately sorry for Archibald, the more so that her heart tells her
she will never be able to give him the consolation that alone can do him
any good. Seeing the expression of tender regret that softens her face,
Archibald falls suddenly upon his knees before her, and, pressing his
lips to her hands, murmurs, in deep agitation:
"My own, my dearest, is there no pity in your kind heart for me?"
At this most unlucky moment Sir Guy lays his hand upon the door, and
pushing it lightly open, enters. Five minutes later all the world might
have entered freely, but just now the entrance of this one man causes
unutterable pain.
Archibald has barely time to scramble to his feet; the tears are still
wet on Lilian's cheeks; altogether it is an unmistakable situation, and
Guy turns cold and pale as he recognizes it as such. Chesney on his
knees, with Lilian's hands imprisoned in his own; Lilian in tears,--what
can it mean but a violent love scene? Probably they have been
quarreling, and have just made it up again. "The falling out of faithful
friends, but the renewal is of love."
As he meets Lilian's shamed eyes, and marks the rich warm crimson that
has mantled in her cheeks, Chetwoode would have beaten a precipitous
retreat, but is prevented by Taffy's following on his heels somewhat
noisily.
"It is a charming night, Lil," says that young man, with his usual
_bonhommie_. "The rain is a thing of the past. We shall have our run
after all to-morrow."
"Indeed! I am glad of that," replies Lilian, half indifferently; though
being the woman of the party, she is of course the quickest to recover
self-possession. "I should have died of despair had the morning proved
unkind."
"Well, you needn't die for a while. I say, Lil," says Mr. Musgrave,
regarding her curiously, "what's the matter with you, eh? You look
awfully down in the mouth. Anything wrong?"
"Nothing," sharply: "what should be?"
"Can't say, I'm sure. But your cheeks," persists this miserable boy,
"are as red as fire."
"I--that is--it _was_ the fire," confusedly, directing a wrathful glance
at him, which is completely thrown away, as Mr. Musgrave is impervious
to hints: "I was sitting close to it."
"That goes without telling. Any one would imagine by your color, you had
been put upon the hob to simmer. By the bye,"--a most fortunate access
of ignorance carrying his thoughts into another channel,--"what is a
hob? I don't believe I ever saw one."
"Hob, substantive, short for goblin: as hobgoblin," says Cyril at this
moment, having entered, how, or from where, nobody knows. "Still bent
upon historical research?"
"It has something to do with kettles, I think," says Taffy. "I don't
quite believe your meaning for it."
"Don't you? I am sorry for you. I do. But some people never will learn."
"That is true," says Lilian, somewhat abruptly. Involuntarily her eyes
fall on Chesney. He has been staring in moody silence at the fire since
Chetwoode's entrance, but now, at her words, straightens himself, and
gives way to a low, rather forced, laugh.
"_Experientia docet_," says Guy, in a queer tone impossible to
translate. "Time is a stern school-master, who compels us against our
will,"--letting his eyes meet Lilian's--"to learn many things."
"It has taught me one thing," puts in Cyril, who looks half
amused,--"that the dressing-bell has rung some time since."
"Has it?" says Lilian, rising with alacrity, and directing a very
grateful glance at him: "I never heard it. I shall scarcely have time
now to get ready for dinner. Why did you not tell me before?"
As she speaks, she sweeps by him, and he, catching her hand, detains her
momentarily.
"Because, when one is not in the habit of it, one takes time to form a
good tarradiddle," replies he, in a soft whisper.
She returns his kindly pressure, and, going into the hall, finds that
full five minutes must elapse before the bell really rings.
"Dear Cyril!" she murmurs to herself, almost aloud, and, running up to
her room, cries a good deal upon nurse's breast before that kind
creature can induce her to change her gown. After which she gets into
her clothes, more because it would be indecent to go without them than
from any great desire to look her best.