"Thou art my life, my love, my heart,
The very eyes of me,
And hast command of every part,
To live and die for thee."--R. HERRICK.
The next morning comes, but no Lilian appears at breakfast. Florence
alone of the gentler members of the family puts in an appearance; she is
as properly composed, as carefully attired, as delicately tinted, as
though the ball of the night before was unknown to her. Lilian, on the
contrary,--lazy little thing!--is still lying in her bed, with her arms
flung above her graceful head, dreaming happy idle dreams.
Miss Beauchamp, behind the urn, is presiding with unimpeachable elegance
of deportment over the cups and saucers; while pouring out the tea, she
makes a running commentary on the events of the night before, dropping
into each cup, with the sugar,--perhaps with a view to modulating its
sweetness,--a sarcastic remark or two about her friends' and
acquaintances' manners and dress. Into Guy's cup she lets fall a few
words about Lilian, likely, as she vainly hopes, to damage her in his
estimation; not that she much fears her as a rival after witnessing
Chetwoode's careful avoidance of her on the previous evening;
nevertheless, under such circumstances, it is always well to put in a
bad word when you can.
She has most of the conversation to herself (Guy and Archibald being
gloomy to a painful degree, and Cyril consumed with a desire to know
when Cecilia may be reasonably expected to leave her room), until Mr.
Musgrave enters, who appears as fresh as a daisy, and "uncommon fit," as
he informs them gratuitously, with an air of the utmost _bonhommie_.
He instantly catches and keeps up the conversational ball, sustaining it
proudly, and never letting it touch the ground, until his friends,
rising simultaneously, check him cruelly in the very midst of a charming
anecdote. Even then he is not daunted, but, following Cyril to the
stables (finding him the most genial of the party), takes up there a
fresh line, and expresses his opinions as cheerfully and fluently on the
subject of "The Horse," as though he had been debarred from speaking for
a month and has only just now recovered the use of the organ of speech.
* * * * *
It is half-past one. A soft spring sun is smiling on the earth, and
Lilian, who rather shrinks from the thought of meeting Sir Guy again,
and has made a rapid descent from her own room into the garden, is
walking there leisurely to and fro, gathering such "pallid blossoms" as
she likes best: a few late snowdrops, "winter's timid children," some
early lilies, "a host of daffodils," a little handful of the "happy and
beautiful crocuses," now "gayly arrayed in their yellow and green," all
these go to fill the basket that hangs upon her arm.
As she wanders through the garden, inhaling its earliest perfumes, and
with her own heart throbbing rather tumultuously as she dreams again of
each tender word and look that passed between her and Guy last night, a
great longing and gladness is hers; at this moment the beauty and
sweetness of life, all the joy to be found everywhere for those who,
with a thankful spirit, seek for it, makes itself felt within her.
George Herbert's lovely lines rise to her mind, and half unconsciously,
as she walks from bed to bed, she repeats them to herself aloud.
"How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean
Are thy returns! ev'n as the flow'rs in spring;
To which, besides their own demean,
The late past frosts tributes of pleasure bring.
Grief melts away like snow in May,
As if there were no such cold thing."
Surely _her_ grief has melted away, and, with it, distrust and angry
feeling.
Having arranged her bouquet of all such tender plants as do now "upraise
their loaded stems," she walks toward the library window, and, finding
it open, steps in. It is a bow-window, and the sun has been making love
to her eyes, so that not until she has advanced a yard or two, does she
discover she is not alone; she then stops short, and blushes painfully.
At the other end of the room stand Guy and Chesney, evidently in earnest
conversation. Archibald is talking; Guy, with his eyes upon the ground,
is pale as death, and silent. As they see Lilian, both men start
guiltily, and fall somewhat farther apart: a heavy sense of impending
trouble makes itself felt by all three.
Then Guy, regaining self-possession, raises his head and looks full at
Lilian.
"Lilian is here, let her speak for herself," he says, in a forced tone
of composure, addressing Chesney, but with his eyes riveted upon her.
"What is it?" asks Lilian, white as the snowdrops in her trembling hand.
"Your cousin asked me--He wishes to marry you," returns Guy, unsteadily,
a look of such mute agony and entreaty in his eyes as touches Lilian to
the quick. "He has spoken to me as your guardian. He says he has some
hope; he would have me plead for him, but that is impossible." He has
spoken so far with difficulty; now in a clear tone he goes on, "Speak,
Lilian: let your answer come from your own lips."
His voice is wonderfully steady, but there is always the same searching
look of entreaty on his face.
"Dear Archie," says Lilian, trembling perceptibly, while all the poor
spring blossoms fall unheeded to her feet, and lie there still and dead,
as some offering laid on the shrine of Venus, "how can I speak to you? I
_cannot_ marry you. I love you,--you are my dear cousin, and my friend,
but,--but----"
"It is enough," says Chesney, quietly. "Hope is at an end. Forgive me my
persistency. You shall not have to complain of it again."
Sadly, with a certain dignity, he reaches the door, opens it, and,
going out, closes it gently behind him. Hope with him, indeed, is dead!
Never again will it spring within his breast.
When he has gone, an awful silence ensues. There is a minute that is
longer than an hour; there is an hour that may be shorter than any
minute. Happy are they that have enjoyed this latter. The particular
minute that follows on Archibald's retreat seems to contain a whole
day-ful of hours, so terrible is its length to the two he leaves behind.
Lilian's eyes are fastened upon, literally bound to, a little sprig of
myrtle that lies among the ill-fated flowers at her feet. Not until many
days have passed can she again look upon a myrtle spray without feeling
a nervous beating at her heart; she is oppressed with fear; she has at
this moment but one longing, and that is to escape. A conviction that
her longing is a vain one only adds to her discomfiture; she lacks the
courage to lift her head and encounter the eyes she knows are fixed upon
her.
At length, unable longer to endure the dreadful stillness, she moves,
and compels herself to meet Chetwoode's gaze. The spell is broken.
"Lilian, will you marry--_me_?" asks he, desperately, making a movement
toward her.
A quick, painful blush covers Lilian's face, lingers a moment, then dies
away, leaving her pale, motionless as a little marble statue,--perfect,
but lifeless. Almost as it fades it reappears again, so sudden is the
transition, changing her once more into very lovable flesh and blood.
"Will you marry me?" repeats Guy, coming still closer to her. His face
is white with anxiety. He does not attempt to touch her, but with folded
arms stands gazing down in an agony of suspense upon the lips that in
another instant will seal his fate for good or evil.
"I have half a mind to say no," whispers Miss Chesney, in a low,
compressed voice. Her head is drooping; her fingers are nervously
intertwined. A flicker, the very faintest tremble of the old merry
smile, hovers round her mouth as she speaks, then vanishes away.
"Lilian,"--in a tone full of vehement reproach,--"do not trifle with
me--now. Answer me: why do you so speak to me?"
"Because--I think--you ought to have asked me long ago!" returns she,
casting a half-shy, half-tender glance at him upward from the azure
eyes that are absolutely drowned in tears.
Then, without a word of warning, she bursts out crying, and, Guy
catching her passionately in his arms, she sobs away all her nervous
gladness upon his heart.
"My darling,--my sweet,--do you really love me?" asks Guy, after a few
moments given up to such ecstasy as may be known once in a
lifetime,--not oftener.
"What a question!" says Lilian, smiling through eyes that are still wet.
"I have not once asked it of you. I look into your eyes and I see love
written there in great big letters, and I am satisfied. Can you not see
the same in mine? Look closely,--very closely, and try if you cannot."
"Dear eyes!" says Guy, kissing them separately. "Lilian, if indeed you
love me, why have you made life so odious to me for the last three
months?"
"Because I wasn't going to be civil to people who were over-attentive to
other people," says Lilian, in her most lucid manner. "And--sometimes--I
thought you liked Florence."
"Florence? Pshaw! Who could like Florence, having once seen you?"
"Mr. Boer could, I'm sure. He has seen me,--as seldom as I could manage,
certainly,--but still enough to mark the wide difference between us."
"Boer is a lunatic," says Guy, with conviction,--"quite unaccountable.
But I think I could forgive him all his peccadilloes if he would promise
to marry Florence and remove her. I can stand almost anything--except
single chants as performed by her."
"Then all my jealousy was for nothing?" with a slight smile.
"All. But what of mine? What of Chesney?" He regards her earnestly as he
asks the question.
"Poor Archie," she says, with a pang of real sorrow and regret, as she
remembers everything. And then follows a conversation confined
exclusively to Archibald,--being filled with all the heart-burnings and
despair caused by that unhappy young man's mistaken attentions. When the
subject has exhausted itself, and they are once more silent, they find
themselves thoughtful, perhaps a little sad. A sigh escapes Lilian.
Raising her head, she looks at her lover anxiously.
"Guy," she says, rather tremulously, "you have never said one
reproachful word to me about what happened the other night--in the
library. I am thinking of it now. When I call to mind my wretched temper
I feel frightened. Perhaps--perhaps--I shall not make you happy."
"I defy you to make me unhappy so long as you can tell me honestly you
love me. Do not take advantage of it"--with a light laugh--"if I confess
to you I would rather have a box on the ear from you than a kiss from
any other woman. But such is the degrading truth. Nevertheless"
--teasingly--"next time I would ask you, as a favor, not to do it
_quite_ so hard!"
"Ah, Guy," tearfully, and with a hot blush, "do not jest about it."
"How can I do anything else to-day?" Then, tenderly, "Still sad, my own?
Take that little pucker off your brow. Do you imagine any act of yours
could look badly in my eyes? 'You are my life--my love--my heart.' When
I recollect how miserable I was yesterday, I can hardly believe in my
happiness of to-day."
"Dearest," says Lilian, her voice faltering, "you are too good to me."
Then, turning to him, of her own sweet will, she throws her arms around
his neck, and lays her soft flushed cheek to his. "I shall never be bad
to you again, Guy," she whispers; "believe that; never, never, never!"
* * * * *
Coming into the hall a little later, they encounter her ladyship's maid,
and stop to speak to her.
"Is Lady Chetwoode's head better?" asks Lilian. "Can I see her, Hardy?"
"Yes, Miss Chesney. She is much better; she has had a little sleep, and
has asked for you several times since she awoke. I could not find you
anywhere."
"I will go to her now," says Lilian, and she and Guy, going up-stairs,
make their way to Lady Chetwoode's room.
"Better, auntie?" asks Lilian, bending over her, as she sits in her
comfortable arm-chair.
"Rather better, darling," returns auntie, who is now feeling as well as
possible (though it is yet too soon to admit it even to herself), and
who has just finished a cutlet, and a glass of the rare old port so
strongly recommended by Dr. Bland. "Guy, bring over that chair for
Lilian. Sitting up late at night always upsets me."
"It was a horrible ball," says Miss Lilian, ungratefully. "I didn't
enjoy it one bit."
"No?" in amazement. "My dear, you surprise me. I thought I had never
seen you look so joyous in my life."
"It was all forced gayety," with a little laugh. "My heart was slowly
breaking all the time. I wanted to dance with one person, who
obstinately refused to ask me, and so spoiled my entire evening. Was it
not cruel of that 'one person'?"
"The fact is," says Guy, addressing his mother, "she behaved so
infamously, and flirted so disgracefully, all night, that the 'one
person' was quite afraid to approach her."
"I fear you did flirt a little," says Lady Chetwoode, gentle reproof in
her tone; "that handsome young man you were dancing with just before I
left--and who seemed so devoted--hardly went home heart-whole. That was
naughty, darling, wasn't it? You should think of--of--other people's
feelings." It is palpable to both her hearers she is alluding to
Chesney.
"Auntie," says Miss Chesney, promptly, and with the utmost _naivete_,
"if you scold me, I feel sure you will bring on that nasty headache
again."
She is bending over the back of Lady Chetwoode's chair, where she cannot
be seen, and is tenderly smoothing as much of her pretty gray hair as
can be seen beneath the lace cap that adorns her auntie's head.
Sir Guy laughs.
"Ah! I shall never make you a good child, so long as your guardian
encourages you in your wickedness," says Lady Chetwoode, smiling too.
"Do I encourage her? Surely that is a libel," says Guy: "she herself
will bear me witness how frequently--though vainly--I have reasoned with
her on her conduct. I hardly know what is to be done with her,
unless----" here he pauses, and looks at Lilian, who declines to meet
his glance, but lets her hand slip from Lady Chetwoode's head down to
her shoulder, where it rests nervously--"unless I take her myself, and
marry her out of hand, before she has time to say 'no.'"
"Perhaps--even did you allow me time--I should not say 'no,'" says
Lilian, with astonishing meekness, her face like the heart of a "red,
red rose."
Something in her son's eyes, something in Lilian's tone, rouses Lady
Chetwoode to comprehension.
"What is it?" she asks, quickly, and with agitation. "Lilian, why do you
stand there? Come here, that I may look at you? Can It be possible? Have
you two----"
"We have," replies Lilian, interrupting her gently, and suddenly going
down on her knees, she places her arms round her. "Are you sorry,
auntie? Am I very unworthy? Won't you have me for your daughter after
all?"
"Sorry!" says Lady Chetwoode, and, had she spoken volumes, she could not
have expressed more unfeigned joy. "And has all your quarreling ended
so?" she asks, presently, with an amused laugh.
"Yes, just so," replies Guy, taking Lilian's hand, and raising it to his
lips. "We have got it all over before our marriage, so as to have none
afterward. Is it not so, Lilian?"
She smiles assent, and there is something in the smile so sweet, so
adorable, that, in spite of his mother "and a'," Guy kisses her on the
spot.
"I am so relieved," says Lady Chetwoode, regarding her new daughter with
much fondness, "and just as I had given up all hope. Many times I wished
for a girl, when I found myself with only two troublesome boys, and now
at last I have one,--a real daughter."
"And I a mother. Though I think my name for you will always be the one
by which I learned to love you,--Auntie," returns Lilian, tenderly.
At this moment Cecilia opens the door cautiously, and, stepping very
lightly, enters the room, followed by Cyril, also on tiptoe. Seeing Lady
Chetwoode, however, standing close to Lilian and looking quite animated
and not in the least invalided, they brighten up, and advance more
briskly.
"Dear Madre," says Cecilia, who has adopted Cyril's name for his mother,
"I am glad to see you so much better. Is your headache quite gone?"
"Quite, my dear. Lilian has cured it. She is the most wonderful
physician."
And then the new-comers are told the delightful story, and Lilian
receives two more caresses, and gets through three or four blushes very
beautifully. They are still asking many questions, and uttering pretty
speeches, when a step upon the corridor outside attracts their
attention.
It is a jaunty step, and undoubtedly belongs to Mr. Musgrave, who is
informing the household generally, at the top of his fresh young voice,
that he is "ragged and torn," and that he rather enjoys it than
otherwise. Coming close to the door, however, he moderates his
transports, and, losing sight of the vagabond, degenerates once more
into that very inferior creature, a decently-clothed and well-combed
young gentleman.
Opening the door with praiseworthy carefulness, he says, in the meekest
and most sympathetic voice possible:
"I hope your headache is better, Lady Chetwoode?"
By this time he has his head quite inside the door, and becomes
pleasantly conscious that there is something festive in the air within.
The properly lachrymose expression he has assumed vanishes as if by
magic, while his usual debonair smile returns to his lips.
"Oh, I say--then it was all a swindle on the part of Hardy, was it?" he
asks. "Dear Lady Chetwoode, it makes me feel positively young again to
see you looking so well. Your woman hinted to me you were at the point
of death."
"Come in, Taffy. You too shall hear what has revived me," says her
ladyship, smiling, and thereupon unfolds her tale to him, over which he
beams, and looks blessings on all around.
"I knew it," he says; "could have told everybody all about it months
ago! couldn't I, Lil? Remember the day I bet you a fiver he would
propose to you in six months?"
"I remember nothing of the kind," says Miss Chesney, horribly shocked.
"Taffy, how can you say such a thing?"
"Tell us all about it, Taffy," entreats Cyril, languidly, from the
depths of an arm-chair. "I feel so done up with all I have gone through
this morning, that I long for a wholesome exciting little tale to rouse
me a bit. Go on."
"Oh, it was only that day at Mrs. Boileau's last autumn," begins Taffy.
"Taffy, I desire you to be silent," says Lilian, going up to him and
looking very determined. "Do not attempt to speak when I tell you not to
do so."
"Was the betting even, Taffy?" asks Cyril.
"No. She said----"
"_Taffy!_"
"She said he had as much idea of proposing to her as she had of----"
"Taffy!"
"Marrying him, even should he ask her," winds up Mr. Musgrave, exploding
with joy over his discomfiting disclosure.
"No one believes you," says Lilian, in despair, while they all laugh
heartily, and Cyril tells her not to make bad bets in future.
"Not one," says Sir Guy, supporting her as in duty bound; "but I really
think you ought to give him that five pounds."
"Certainly I shall not," says Miss Chesney, hotly. "It is all a
fabrication from beginning to end. I never made a bet in my life. And,
besides, the time he named was the end of the year, and _not_ in six
months."
At this avowal they all roar, and Guy declares he must take her out for
a walk, lest she should commit herself any further.
* * * * *
The happy day at length is drawing to a close. Already it is evening,
though still the dying light lingers, as if loath to go. Archibald
Chesney, after a hurried private interview with Lady Chetwoode, has
taken his departure, not to return again to Chetwoode until time has
grown into years. In her own room Lilian, even in the midst of her
new-born gladness, has wept bitterly for him, and sorrowed honestly over
the remembrance of his grief and disappointment.
Of all the household Florence alone is still in ignorance of the
wonderful event that has taken place since morning. Her aunt has
declared her intention of being the one to impart the good news to her,
for which all the others are devoutly thankful. She--Miss Beauchamp--has
been out driving all the afternoon for the benefit of her dear
complexion; has visited the schools, and there succeeded in irritating
almost to the verge of murder the unhappy teacher and all the wretched
little children; has had an interview with Mr. Boer, who showed himself
on the occasion even more _empresse_ than usual; has returned, and is
now once more seated at her work in the drawing-room, covered with wools
and glory.
Near her sits Lilian, absently winding a tiny ball of wool. Having
finished her task, she hands it to Florence with a heavy sigh indicative
of relief.
"Thanks. Will you do another?" asks Florence.
"No,--oh, no," hastily. Then, laughing, "You mustn't think me uncivil,"
she says, "but I am really not equal to winding up another, of these
interminable balls. My head goes round as fast as the wool, if not
faster."
"And are you going to sit there doing nothing?" asks Florence, glancing
at her with ill-concealed disapproval, as the young lady proceeds to
ensconce herself in the coziest depths of the coziest chair the room
contains, as close to the fire as prudence will permit.
"I am almost sure of it," she answers, complacently, horrifying the
proper Florence being one of her chief joys. "I am never really happy
until I feel myself thoroughly idle. I detest being useful. I love doing
'nothing,' as you call it. I have always looked upon Dr. Watts's bee as
a tiresome lunatic."
"Do you never think it necessary to try to--improve your mind?"
"Does crewel-work improve the mind?" opening her eyes for an instant
lazily.
"Certainly; in so far that it leaves time for reflection. There is
something soothing about it that assists the mind. While one works one
can reflect."
"Can one?" naughtily: "I couldn't. I can do any number of things, but I
am almost positive I couldn't reflect. It means--doesn't it?--going over
and over and over again disagreeable scenes, and remembering how much
prettier one might have behaved under such and such circumstances. I
call that not only wearying but unpleasant. No, I feel sure I am right.
I shall never, if I can help it, reflect."
"Then you are content to be a mere butterfly--an idler on the face of
the earth all your days?" asks Florence, severely, taking the high and
moral tone she has been successfully cultivating ever since her
acquaintance with Mr. Boer.
"As long as I can. Surely when I marry it will be time enough to grow
'useful,' and go in for work generally. You see one can't avoid it then.
Keeping one's husband in order, I have been always told, is an onerous
job."
"You intend marrying, then?" Something in the other's tone has roused
Florence to curiosity. She sits up and looks faintly interested.
"Yes."
"Soon?"
"Perhaps."
"You are serious?"
"Quite serious."
"Ah!"
A pause. Miss Beauchamp takes up two shades of wool and examines them
critically. They are so exactly alike that it can make little difference
which she chooses. But she is methodical, and would die rather than make
one false stitch in a whole acre of canvas. Having made her choice of
the two shades, she returns to the attack.
"I had no idea you liked your cousin so much," she says.
"So much! How much?" says Lilian, quickly turning very red. Her cousin
is a sore subject with her just now. "I do not think we are speaking of
Archibald."
"No; but I thought you said----"
"Nothing of him, I am sure," still hastily.
"Oh! I beg your pardon. I quite fancied----" Here she pauses, somewhat
mystified. Then, "You and he are very good friends, are you not?"
"Very," coldly.
"And yet," with an elephantine attempt at playfulness, "I certainly did
think last night some quarrel had arisen between you. He looked so
savage when you were dancing with Captain Monk. His eyes are handsome,
but at times I have noticed a gleam in them that might safely be termed
dangerous."
"Have you? I have not."
"No? How strange! But no doubt when with you---- For my own part, I
confess I should be quite afraid of him,--of annoying him, I mean."
"I have never yet felt afraid of any one," returns Lilian, absently.
"How I do admire your courage,--your pluck, if I may so call it," says
Florence, hesitating properly over the unlady-like word. "Now, _I_ am so
different. I am painfully nervous with some people. Guy, for instance,
quite tyrannizes over me," with the little conscious laugh that makes
the old disgust rise warmly in Lilian's breast. "I should be so afraid
to contradict Guy."
"And why?"
"I don't know. He looks so--so---- I really can hardly explain; but some
sympathetic understanding between us makes me know he would not like it.
He has a great desire for his own way."
"Most people have,"--dryly. "I never feel those sympathetic sensations
you speak of myself, but I could guess so much."
"Another reason why I should refrain from thwarting his wishes is this,"
says Florence, sorting her colors carefully, "I fancy, indeed I _know_,
he could actually dislike any one who systematically contradicted him."
"Do you think so? I contradict him when I choose."
"Yes," blandly: "that exactly illustrates my idea."
"You think, then, he dislikes me?" says Lilian, raising herself the
better to examine her companion's features, while a sense of thorough
amusement makes itself felt within her.
"Dislike"--apologetically--"is a hard word. And yet at times I think so.
Surely you must have noticed how he avoids you, how he declines to carry
out any argument commenced by you."
"I blush for my want of sensibility," says Lilian, meekly. "No, I have
not noticed it."
"Have you not?" with exaggerated surprise. "I have."
At this most inopportune moment Guy enters the room.
"Ah, Guy," says Lilian, quietly, "come here. I want to tell you
something."
He comes over obediently, gladly, and stands by her chair. It is a low
one, and he leans his arm upon the back of it.
"Florence has just said you hate being contradicted," she murmurs, in
her softest tones.
"If she did, there was a great deal of truth in the remark," he answers,
with an amused laugh, while Florence glances up triumphantly. "Most
fellows do, eh?"
"And that I am the one that generally contradicts you."
"That is only half a truth. If she had said who _always_ contradicts me,
it would have been a whole one."
Lilian rises. She places her hand lightly on his arm.
"She also said that for that reason you dislike me." The words are
uttered quietly, but somehow tears have gathered in the violet eyes.
"Dislike!" exclaims her lover, the very faint symptoms of distress upon
his darling's face causing him instant pain. "Lilian! how absurd you
are! How could such a word come to be used between us? Surely Florence
must know--has not my mother told you?" he asks, turning to Miss
Beauchamp a look full of surprise.
"I know nothing," replies she, growing a shade paler. At this moment she
does know, and determines finally to accept, when next offered, the
devotion Mr. Boer has been showering upon her for the past two months.
Yes, she will take him for better, for worse, voice, low-church
tendencies, and all. The latter may be altered, the former silenced. "I
know nothing," she says; "what is it?"
"Merely this, that Lilian and I are going to be married this summer.
Lilian, of your goodness do not contradict me, in this one matter at
least," bending a tender smile upon his betrothed, who returns it shyly.
"I confess you surprise me," says Florence, with the utmost
self-possession, though her lips are still a trifle white. "I have never
been so astonished in my life. You seem to me so unsuited--so--but that
only shows how impossible it is to judge rightly in such a case. Had I
been asked to name the feeling I believed you two entertained for each
other, I should unhesitatingly have called it hatred!"
"How we have deceived the British Public!" says Guy, laughing, although
at her words a warm color has crept into his face. "For the future we
must not 'dissemble.' Now that we have shown ourselves up in our true
colors, Florence, you will, I hope, wish us joy."
"Certainly, with all my heart," in a tone impossible to translate: "my
only regret is, that mere wishing will not insure it to you."
Here a servant opening the door informs Miss Beauchamp that Lady
Chetwoode wishes to see her for a few minutes.
"Say I shall be with her directly," returns Florence, and, rising
leisurely, she sweeps, without the smallest appearance of haste, from
the room.
Then Lilian turns to Sir Guy:
"How curiously she uttered that last speech!--almost as though she hoped
we should not be happy, I am sure I am right; she does not want you to
marry me."
"She was not enthusiastic in her congratulations, I admit. But that need
not affect us. I am not proud. So long as _you_ want to marry me, I
shall be quite content."
Lilian's reply, being wordless, need not be recorded here.
"Spiteful thing," remarks she, presently, _a propos_ of the spotless
Florence.
"Poor, Boer!" replies he.
"You think she will marry _him_?" heavily, and most unflatteringly,
emphasized.
"I do."
"Poor Florence!" returns she. "When I think that, I can forgive her all
her sins. Dreadful man! I do hope she will make his life a burden to
him."
"I am sure you will live to see one hope fulfilled. Though I dare say he
has a better chance of peace in the years to come than I have: Florence,
at all events, does not go about boxing people's----"
"Guy," says Miss Chesney, imperatively, laying her hand upon his lips,
"if you dare to finish that sentence, or if you ever refer to that
horrible scene again, I shall most positively refuse to marry---- Oh!
here is Mr. Boer. Talk of somebody! Look, it is he, is it not?" Standing
on tiptoe, she cranes her neck eagerly, and rather flattens her pretty
nose against the window-pane in a wild endeavor to catch a glimpse of
Mr. Boer's long-tailed coat, which "hangs" very much "down behind,"
before it quite disappears in a curve of the avenue. Presently it comes
to view again from behind the huge laurustinus bush, and they are now
quite convinced it is indeed the amorous parson.
"Yes, it is he," says Guy, staring over his betrothed's head, as he
catches the first glimpse. "And evidently full of purpose. Mark the fell
determination in his clerical stride."
"She saw him this morning at the schools,--she told me so,--and here he
is again!" says Lilian, in an awe-struck tone. "There must be something
in it. As you say, he really seems bent on business of some sort;
perhaps he is come----"
"With a new chant, as I'm a sinner," says Chetwoode, with a groan. "Let
us go into the library: the baize and that large screen stifles sound."
"No, to propose! I mean: there is a curious look about him as if,
if----"
"He was going to execution?"
"No, to Florence."
"That is quite the same thing."
"I hear his step," says Lilian, hurriedly, flinging open the window,
"and hers too! She must have seen him coming, and run to meet him with
open arms. Not for worlds would I spoil sport, or put them in a 'tender
taking.' Let us fly." Stepping out on the balcony, she turns to glance
back at him. "Will you follow me?" she asks, a certain arch sweetness in
her eyes.
"To the end of the world!" returns he, eagerly, and together, hand in
hand, they pass out of sight.
THE END.