Chapter 20
"n.o.body," shaking her head emphatically. "Wasn't it unkind of them?"
With this remark Sir Guy does not coincide: so he keeps silence, and they walk on some yards without speaking. Presently Lilian, whose thoughts are rapid, finding the stillness irksome, breaks it.
"Sir Guy----"
"Miss Chesney."
As they all call her "Lilian," she glances up at him in some surprise at the strangeness of his address.
"Well, and why not," says he, answering the unmistakable question in her eyes, "when you call me 'Sir Guy' I wish you would not."
"Why? Is it not your name?"
"Yes, but it is so formal. You call Cyril by his name, and even with my mother you have dropped all formality. Why are you so different with me?
Can you not call me 'Guy'?"
"Guy! Oh, I _couldn't_. Every time the name pa.s.sed my lips I should faint with horror at my own temerity. What! call my guardian by his Christian name? How can you even suggest the idea? Consider your age and bearing."
"One would think I was ninety," says he, rather piqued.
"Well, you are not far from it," teasingly. "However, I don't object to a compromise. I will call you Uncle Guy, if you wish it."
"Nonsense!" indignantly. "I don't want to be your uncle."
"No? Then Brother Guy."
"That would be equally foolish."
"You won't, then, claim relations.h.i.+p with me?" in a surprised tone. "I fear you look upon me as a _mauvais sujet_. Well, then,"--with sudden inspiration,--"I know what I shall do. Like Esther Summerson, in 'Bleak House,' I shall call you 'Guardian.' There!" clapping her hands, "is not that the very thing? Guardian you shall be, and it will remind me of my duty to you every time I mention your name. Or, perhaps,"--hesitating-- "'Guardy' will be prettier."
"I wish I wasn't your guardian," Guy says, somewhat sadly.
"Don't be unkinder than you can help," reproachfully. "You won't be my uncle, or my brother, or my guardian? What is it, then, that you would be?"
To this question he could give a very concise answer, but does not dare do so. He therefore maintains a discreet silence, and relieves his feelings by taking the heads off three dandelions that chance to come in his path.
"Does it give you so very much trouble, the guardians.h.i.+p of poor little me," she asks, with a mischievous though charming smile, "that you so much regret it?"
"It isn't that," he answers, slowly, "but I fear you look coldly on me in consequence of it. You do not make me your friend, and that is unjust, because it was not my fault. I did not ask to be your guardian; it was your father's wish entirely. You should not blame me for what he insisted on."
"I don't,"--gayly,--"and I forgive you for
"You speak as though it were my desire to thwart you."
"Well, perhaps it is. At all events," with a relieved sigh,--"I have warned you, and now it is off my mind. By the bye, I was going to say something to you a few minutes ago when you interrupted me."
"What was it?"
"I want you"--coaxingly--"to take me round by The Cottage, so that I may get a glimpse at this wonderful widow."
"It would be no use; you would not see her."
"But I might."
"And if so, what would you gain by it? She is very much like other women: she has only one nose, and not more than two eyes."
"Nevertheless she rouses my curiosity. Why have you such a dislike to the poor woman?"
"Oh, no dislike," says Guy, the more hastily in that he feels there is some truth in the accusation. "I don't quite trust her: that is all."
"Still, take me near The Cottage; _do_, now, Guardy," says Miss Chesney, softly, turning two exquisite appealing blue eyes upon him, which of course settles the question. They instantly turn and take the direction that leads to The Cottage.
But their effort to see the mysterious widow is not crowned with success. To Miss Chesney's sorrow and Sir Guy's secret joy, the house appears as silent and devoid of life as though, indeed, it had never been inhabited. With many a backward glance and many a wistful look, Lilian goes by, while Guy carefully suppresses all expressions of satisfaction and trudges on silently beside her.
"She must be out," says Lilian, after a lengthened pause.
"She must be always out," says Guy, "because she is never to be seen."
"You must have come here a great many times to find that out," says Miss Chesney, captiously, which remark puts a stop to all conversation for some time.
And indeed luck is dead against Lilian, for no sooner has she pa.s.sed out of sight than Mrs. Arlington steps from her door, and, armed with a book and a parasol, makes for the small and shady arbor situated at the end of the garden.
But if Lilian's luck has deserted her, Cyril's has not. He has walked down here this evening in a rather desponding mood, having made the same journey vainly for the last three days, and now--just as he has reached despair--finds himself in Mrs. Arlington's presence.
"Good-evening," he says, gayly, feeling rather elated at his good fortune, raising his hat.
"Good-evening," returns she, with a faint blush born of a vivid recollection of all that pa.s.sed at their last meeting.
"I had no idea I should see you to-day," says Cyril; which is the exact truth,--for a wonder.
"Why? You always see me when you come round here, don't you?" says Mrs.
Arlington; which is not the truth, she having been the secret witness of his coming many times, when she has purposely abstained from being seen.
"I hope," says Cyril, gently, "you have forgiven me for having inadvertently offended you last--month."
"Last week, you mean!" in a surprised tone.
"Is it really only a week? How long it seems!" says Cyril. "Are you sure it was only last week?"
"Quite sure," with a slight smile. "Yes, you are forgiven. Although I do not quite know that I have anything to forgive."
"Well, I had my own doubts about it at the time," says Cyril; "but I have been carefully tutoring myself ever since into the belief that I was wrong. I think my princ.i.p.al fault lay in my expressing a hope that the air here was doing you good; and that--to say the least of it--was mild. By the bye, _is_ it doing you good?"
"Yes, thank you."
"I am glad of it, as it may persuade you to stay with us. What lovely roses you have! Is that one over there a 'Gloire de Dijon'? I can scarcely see it from this, and I'm so fond of roses."
"This, do you mean?" plucking one. "No, it is a Marshal Neil."