"How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature!"
--_Cymbeline._
"No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful
I know, her spirits are as coy and wild
As haggards of the rock.
* * * * *
Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes,
Misprising what they look on."
--_Much Ado About Nothing._
"Sir Guy," says Miss Chesney, two days later, bursting into his private
sanctum as "the eve is declining," in a rather stormy fashion, "I must
ask you to speak to your groom Buckley: he has been exceedingly rude to
me."
"Rude? Buckley?" exclaims Sir Guy, with a frown, throwing down the paper
he has been trying to read in the fast growing gloom. It is dusk, but
the red light of the fire flickers full upon his face, betraying the
anger that is gathering there. A looker-on would have readily understood
by it that Buckley's hours for grooming at Chetwoode are few.
"Yes. I told him to have Saracen saddled for me to-morrow morning, as
the meet is at Ryston, and I expect a good run; and he said he should
not do it without your permission, or orders, or something equally
impertinent."
"Saracen!" returns Chetwoode, aghast, losing sight of Buckley's
miserable behavior, or rather condoning it on the spot; "you don't mean
to tell me that for one moment you dreamed of riding Saracen?"
"Certainly I did. And why not?" preparing for battle.
"Because the idea is simply absurd. You could not possibly ride him. He
is not half trained."
"Archibald rode him last week, and says he is perfect, and quite safe. I
have decided on trying him to-morrow."
"I wish Chesney would not put such thoughts into your head. He is _not_
safe, and he has never been ridden by a woman."
"That is just why I fancy him: I have often before now ridden horses
that had never had a lady on their backs until I rode them. And
to-morrow I feel sure will be a good day, besides being probably my
last meet for the season."
"My dear child, I think it would indeed be your last meet were you to
ride that brute: his temper is thoroughly uncertain."
"You told me a few days ago my hand could make any horse's mouth, and
now----"
"I told you then what I tell you again now, that you are one of the best
woman riders I ever saw. But for all that, you would find it impossible
to manage Saracen."
"You refuse him to me, then?" with an ominous gleam in her eyes.
"I wish you would not look at it in that light: I merely cannot consent
to let you break your neck. If your own mare does not please you, you
can take my mount, or any other in the entire stables."
"No, thank you, I only want that one."
"But, my dear Lilian, pray be reasonable!" entreats Chetwoode, warmly,
and just a trifle impatiently: "do you think I would be doing my duty by
you if I sanctioned such a rash proceeding?"
"Your duty?" unpleasantly, and with a certain scornful uplifting of her
small Grecian nose.
"Just so," coldly; "I am your guardian, remember."
"Oh, pray do not perpetually seek to remind me of that detestable fact,"
says Miss Chesney, vindictively; whereupon Sir Guy freezes, and subsides
into dead and angry silence. Lilian, sweeping over to the darkening
window, commences upon the pane a most disheartening tattoo, that makes
the listener long for death. When Chetwoode can stand it no longer, he
breaks the oppressive stillness.
"Perhaps you are not aware," he says, angrily, "that a noise of that
description is intensely irritating."
"No. _I_ like it," retorts Miss Chesney, tattooing louder than ever.
"If you go on much longer, you will drive me out of my mind," remarks
Guy, distractedly.
"Oh, don't let it come to that," calmly; "let me drive you out of the
room first."
"As to my guardianship," says Chetwoode, in a chilling tone, "console
yourself with the reflection that it cannot last forever. Time is never
at a standstill, and your twenty-first birthday will restore you to
freedom. You can then ride as many wild animals and kill yourself as
quickly as you please, without asking any one's consent."
"I can do that now too, and probably shall. I have quite made up my mind
to ride Saracen to-morrow!"
"Then the sooner you unmake that mind the better."
"Well,"--turning upon him as though fully prepared to crush him with her
coming speech,--"if I don't ride him I shall stay at home altogether:
there!"
"I think that will be by far the wiser plan of the two," returns he,
coolly.
"What! and lose all my day!" cries Lilian, overwhelmed by the atrocity
of this remark, "while you and all the others go and enjoy yourselves!
How hatefully selfish you can be! But I won't be tyrannized over in this
fashion. I shall go, and on Saracen too."
"You shall not," firmly.
Miss Chesney has come close up to where he is standing on the
hearth-rug. The fire-light dances and crackles merrily, casting its
rays, now yellow, now deep crimson, over their angry faces, as though
drawing keen enjoyment from the deadly duel going on so near to it. One
pale gleam lingers lovingly upon Lilian's sunny head, throwing over it
yet another shade, if possible richer and more golden than its fellows;
another lights up her white hands, rather defiantly clinched, one small
foot in its high-heeled shoe that has advanced beyond her gown, and two
blue eyes large with indignant astonishment.
Guy is returning her gaze with almost equal indignation, being angrily
remindful of certain looks and scenes that of late have passed between
them.
"You defy me?" says Lilian, slowly.
"I do."
"You _refuse_ me?" as though not quite believing the evidence of her
senses.
"I do. I forbid you to ride that one horse."
"Forbid me!" exclaims she passionately, tears starting to her eyes. "You
are fond of forbidding, as it seems to me. Recollect, sir, that, though
unhappily your ward, I am neither your child nor your wife."
"I assure you I had never the presumption to imagine you in the latter
character," he answers, haughtily, turning very pale, but speaking
steadily and in a tone eminently uncomplimentary.
"Your voice says more than your words," exclaims Lilian, too angry to
weigh consequences. "Am I to understand"--with an unlovely laugh--"you
think me unworthy to fill so exalted a position?"
"As you press me for the truth," says Chetwoode, who has lost his temper
completely, "I confess I should hardly care to live out my life with
such a----"
"Yes, go on; 'with such a--' shrew, is it? or perhaps virago?"
"As you wish it," with a contemptuous shrug; "either will suit, but I
was going to say 'flirt.'"
"Were you?" cries she, tears of mortification and rage dimming her eyes,
all the spoiled child within her rising in arms. "Flirt, am I? and
shrew? Well, I will not have the name of it without the gain of it. I
hate you, hate you, _hate_ you!"
With the last word she raises her hand suddenly and administers to him a
sound and wholesome box upon the ear.
The effect is electric. Sir Guy starts back as though stunned. Never in
all his life has he been so utterly taken aback, routed with such deadly
slaughter. The dark, hot color flames into his cheeks. Shame for her--a
sort of horror that she should have been guilty of such an
act--overpowers him. Involuntarily he puts one hand up to the cheek her
slender fingers, now hanging so listlessly at her side, have wounded,
while regarding her with silent amazement largely mixed with reproach.
As for Lilian, the deed once done, she would have given worlds to recall
it,--that is, secretly,--but in this life, unfortunately, facts
accomplished cannot be undone. Outwardly she is as defiant as ever, and,
though extremely white, steadily and unflinchingly returns his gaze.
Yet after a little, a very little while, her eyes fall before his, her
pretty, proud head droops somewhat, a small remnant of grace springs up
in the very middle of all her passion and disdain. She is frightened,
nervous, contrite.
When the silence has become absolutely unbearable, Guy says, in a low
tone that betrays not the faintest feeling:
"I am afraid I must have said something to annoy you terribly. I confess
I lost my temper, and otherwise behaved as a gentleman should not. I beg
your pardon."
His voice is that of a stranger; it is so altered she scarcely knows it.
Never in their worst disputes has he so spoken to her. With a little
sickening feeling of despair and terror at her heart, she turns away
and moves toward the door.
"Are you going? Pray take care. The room is very dark where the
fire-light does not penetrate," says Guy, still in the same curiously
changed voice, so full of quiet indifference, so replete with the cold
courtesy we accord to those who are outside and beyond our affections.
He opens the door for her, and bows very slightly as she passes through,
and then closes it again calmly, while she, with weary, listless
footsteps, drags herself up-stairs and throws herself upon her bed.
Lying there with dry and open eyes, not daring to think, she hardly
cares to analyze her own feelings. She knows she is miserable, and
obstinately tries to persuade herself it is because she has been
thwarted in her desire to ride Saracen, but in vain. After a struggle
with her better thoughts, she gives in, and acknowledges her soreness of
heart arises from the conviction that she has forever disgraced herself
in her guardian's eyes. She will never be able to look at him again,
though in truth that need scarcely signify, as surely in the future he
will not care to see where she may be looking. It is all over. He is
done with her. Instinctively she understands from his altered manner how
he has made up his mind never again to exercise his right over her as
guardian, never again to concern himself about either her weal or her
woe. She is too wretched to cry, and lies prostrate, her pulses
throbbing, her brain on fire.
"What is it, my bird?" asks nurse, entering, and bending solicitously
over her. "Are you not well? Does your head ache?"
"It is not my head," plaintively.
"Your side, my lamb?"
"Yes, it is my side," says Lilian, laying her hand pathetically upon her
heart; and then, overcome by the weight of her own sorrows, she buries
her head in her pillows and bursts into tears.
"Eh, hinny, don't cry," says nurse, fondly. "We must all have pains
there at times, an' we must just learn to bear them as best we may.
Come, look up, my bairn; I will put on a good mustard blister to-night,
and to-morrow I tell you it won't magnify at all," winds up nurse,
fluently, who rather prides herself upon her management of the Queen's
English, and would scorn to acknowledge the misplacement of a word here
and there; and indeed, after all, when one comes to think of it, it does
_not_ "magnify" very much.
But Lilian sobs on disconsolately. And next morning she has fresh cause
to bewail her evil conduct. For the day breaks and continues through all
its short life so wet, so wild, so stormy, that neither Saracen nor any
other horse can leave the stables. Hunting is out of the question, and
with a fresh pang, that through its severity is punishment enough for
her fault, she knows all her temper of the night before was displayed
for naught.