A GLIMPSE AT LILLIAN LINTON’S HEART.
“Rupert, have you seen my orchids since they bloomed?” Lillian asked of
her uncle’s ward, as the family were leaving the dining-room.
“No. Are you indulging in orchids, Lillian?”
“Yes; I am wild over them. Uncle Will gave me several varieties on my
last birthday, and they are just doing their best for me now. Come into
the conservatory and let me show them to you.”
“All right. I have a fancy for the pretty things, too,” replied the
young man as he followed the fair girl toward the hot-house, and
thinking, as he did so, how lovely and graceful the girl was in her
perfectly fitting morning robe of garnet cashmere trimmed with
swansdown, and which harmonized delightfully with her brilliant
complexion.
She took him to a sunny corner of the conservatory which Sir William had
set apart and fitted up expressly to gratify this extravagant whim of
his pretty niece, and where the young lady had really displayed much
taste and appreciation of the rare things in which she was interested,
both as to choice and arrangement.
They spent half an hour or more in examining the beautiful things, and
Rupert became almost as enthusiastic as Lillian herself over them.
But she had no notion of allowing even her favorite flowers to
monopolize all his attention. She had had a far more important object in
view in bringing him there with her.
“So you are really determined on taking this American trip, Rupert?” she
remarked, as they paused before a lovely arethusa in full bloom, from
which she broke its fairest blossom, and, bending forward, fastened it
to the lapel of his coat.
“Oh, Lillian, what a pity to break the pretty thing!” he said,
regretfully.
“Not for you,” she answered, looking up at him with a smile, and
flushing as she met those frank brown eyes that were regarding her with
unmistakable admiration. “You would be welcome to more if you wished.”
“You are very generous,” he returned, regarding the flower thoughtfully,
and wondering what made her blush so when with him. “But about my trip.
Yes, I have decided that I will go.”
“When?”
“I sail just a week from to-day. I wrote yesterday to engage my
passage.”
“So soon?” Lillian cried, catching her breath, and losing all her
brilliant color.
“Yes; if I am to join that excursion to the Pacific coast on the 12th of
next month, I must be off.”
“The house will seem like a convent when you are gone; you are the life
and soul of everything here,” said the girl, tears starting to her eyes.
“Thank you; I had no idea that I was of so much importance,” he
returned, lightly.
“Didn’t you?” she asked, sweeping him a coy look from beneath her long,
dark lashes. “You have something to learn yet, then. But how long will
you be away? Surely not six months, as Uncle Will said this morning.”
“Yes, I think so. I do not wish to hurry, and I mean to get a pretty
thorough idea of what the United States are like. I think I shall be
away until July or August.”
“Oh, Rupert, don’t! It will be too lonely and wretched for anything
without you!” Lillian burst forth, impetuously, and in an agitated
voice.
“Why, Lillian!” he exclaimed, astonished, and bestowing a puzzled look
upon her downcast, agitated countenance; “will you miss me like that?”
“Did you expect you could go away for so long and not be missed?” she
asked, tremulously.
“I confess I had not thought much about it,” he replied, gravely; “but I
suppose, as we have all been brought up together, and had so much in
common, that no one of us could go away without being missed. However,
you will have Percy.”
“But Percy is soon to go to the Grange, and will be so taken up with his
interests there that we shall see but very little of him. Oh, Rupert, I
wish there was no such place as America!” Lillian concluded, with
quivering lips.
“Bless you, little sister! I never thought that my going away would
upset you like this,” Rupert said, laying his hand lightly on her
shoulder, and really moved to see how she was taking it to heart.
“Little sister!” she repeated, flushing crimson, and drawing her figure
to its full height.
She was very handsome at that moment, and Rupert wondered that he had
not noticed of late how exceedingly lovely she had grown, while there
was a nameless something in her expressive face, and even in her
attitude, that thrilled him strangely.
“Does that offend your young ladyship?” he questioned, laughing. “You
are not so little after all, and I was unfortunate in my choice of an
adjective; but you were such a tiny midget when I came here, eight years
ago, that I have always regarded you as very _petite_.”
“But I am not—your sister; we are not related at all,” she murmured.
He started, and bent a puzzled look upon her. She was standing before
him, with half-averted face, her darkly fringed lids almost touching her
cheeks, her bosom heaving with the heavy pulsations of her heart.
“True,” he returned, in a constrained tone, “and you must pardon me if I
have presumed too far; but you must understand, Lillian, that it has
become a natural consequence for me to regard you almost in that light,
since one cannot live so many years in a family without becoming
strongly attached to its members. I had flattered myself, too, that I
had won at least a little corner in the hearts of my friends here.”
“You have! you have! Oh, Rupert, I did not mean anything like that!”
Lillian cried, in a distressed tone, and with visible agitation.
“Then what did you mean? I do not understand you,” the young man asked,
and leaned forward to look into her downcast face.
Lillian lifted her great dark eyes to his for an instant, and his heart
gave a startled bound at what he read in their dusky depths. Then the
rich blood rushed in a crimson flood to her very brow, dyeing even her
white neck with its rosy hue.
At that moment a door of the conservatory opened and shut, and the girl
started guiltily from his side.
“There comes the gardener,” she said, with evident confusion, “and I
must speak to him.”
She darted away, speeding swiftly down the walk, leaving the young man
speechless and amazed at the discovery that he had made; for he had read
in the girl’s beautiful face and speaking glance the confession of her
love for him.
“Whew!” he ejaculated, recovering himself after a moment; “I never
dreamed of anything like that! What in the world have I been thinking of
not to realize before that she had grown a young lady, and a very
beautiful one, too? I wonder if I could—can it be possible that I
have—bah! I never have meant to do any mischief in that way. Perhaps
I’ll—no. I’ll wait until I get back from my trip. It is very awkward. I
wish it had not happened just now,” he soliloquized, brokenly.
He stood gazing out of the conservatory in an absent way for several
minutes, his face very grave, an anxious look in his fine eyes; but, as
he heard Lillian and the gardener approaching, he passed around to
another path and so out of the hot-house, and thus avoided meeting them;
he did not feel that he could encounter the young girl again just then.
He wished to get away by himself and think over the revelation he had
just received.
The thought of love in connection with Lillian Linton had never entered
his mind until now.
She had simply been a genial playmate during the earlier years of his
life, sharing many of his own and Percy’s sports, and a pleasant
companion when, of late, he had returned to Heathdale from college to
spend his vacations.
He had scarcely realized—as his own words betrayed—that she had reached
woman’s estate. He knew she was very pretty, very bright and sparkling;
he knew that Heathdale would not seem like home to him without her, and
he enjoyed her society as he would that of a dear sister; but as for
anything nearer, as a wife, he had never thought of her.
More and more he regretted that little episode in the conservatory. The
memory of it embarrassed him, try hard as he would to overcome it, and
he found himself avoiding the possibility of a _tête-à-tête_ with
Lillian again, while he began to grow anxious for the day of his
departure, that he might escape the unnatural constraint that seemed to
have fallen upon him.
Sir William wondered what had come over him during the next few days,
but attributed his unusual gravity to his regret at the approaching
separation.
Lady Linton knew from Lillian’s manner, that something had gone wrong;
but, although she questioned her, she could learn nothing satisfactory,
and she became more and more unreconciled over Rupert’s projected tour.
If she could only have succeeded in arranging an engagement between him
and Lillian before he left, she would have felt quite safe in letting
him go; he would have stood committed then, and it would have been a
safeguard during his absence.
She did everything in her power to make it pleasant for him during the
little time that remained to him at home; she meant that he should at
least take away agreeable memories with him, and he assured her again
and again that he should never forget her kindness to him, for all that
she was doing for him.
“You have been like a mother to me, Lady Linton, ever since I came to
Heathdale,” he said, gratefully, to her one day when she was arranging
something for his comfort during the voyage.
“And you have been like a son to me, my dear boy,” she returned, with a
fond glance. “I shall always regard you as such. I am sure I do not know
what we are going to do without you.”
“Six months will soon pass,” Rupert said, trying to speak lightly.
“They may to you, who will be traveling constantly, but they will be
long to us who wait at home. Poor Lillian! I set her to marking some
handkerchiefs for you this morning, but she broke down and cried so over
her work that she had to give it up.”
“I am afraid I am an unworthy subject for so much regret,” Rupert said,
with a sigh.
Lillian’s regard for him, her pale, sad face, and hollow eyes, were a
great burden on his heart.
The day of his departure arrived, and he took an affectionate leave of
his friends.
Lady Linton embraced him as fervently as if he had indeed been her son,
bade him take care of himself and come safely back to them, for it would
break their hearts to lose him entirely. Percy wished him every possible
pleasure, and promised to write to him every week. Lillian gave him an
icy cold hand at parting; there were tears on her dark lashes, and her
lips quivered painfully over her farewell; but she would not allow him
to kiss her in the old friendly fashion, as he used to do when he and
Percy went back to school at the end of their holidays. She had vowed
that their lips should never meet again until he had given her a lover’s
kiss.
Rupert looked troubled at being thus repulsed. He understood the reason
for it, however, and it was with a feeling of relief that he realized he
was to have six months in which to make up his mind as to what his duty
was toward his guardian’s niece.
Sir William accompanied him to London, thence to Liverpool, where he saw
him safely on board the stanch Cunarder that was to bear him across the
Atlantic, after which he returned to Heathdale, feeling as if half the
sunshine had suddenly been blotted from his life. The boy was
inexpressibly dear to him, and he would have been bereaved indeed if
anything happened to him.