Chapter 37
"Where she always is,--in the garden with her cousin, Mr. Chesney."
"Always?" says Guy, lightly, though in reality his face has grown suddenly pale, and his fingers clinch involuntarily.
"Well," in her unchangeable placid staccato voice, "generally. He seems very _epris_ with her, and she appears to receive his admiration favorably. Have you not noticed it?"
"I cannot say I have."
"No?"--incredulously--"how extraordinary! But men are proverbially dull in the observation of such matters as love-affairs. Some, indeed," with slow meaning, "are positively _blind_."
She lays her work upon the table before her and examines it critically.
She does not so much as glance at her victim, though secretly enjoying the knowledge that he is writhing beneath the lash.
"Chesney would be a good match for her," says Guy, with the calmness of despair. But his calmness does not deceive his companion.
"Very good. The Park, I am told, is even larger than Chetwoode. You, as her guardian, should, I think, put carefully before her all the advantages to be derived from such a marriage."
Here she smooths out her parrot, and, turning her head slightly to one side, wonders whether a little more crimson in the wings would not make them look more attractive. No, perhaps not: they are gaudy enough already,--though one often sees--a parrot--with----
"I don't believe mere money would have weight with Lilian," Guy breaks in upon her all-important reverie, with a visible effort.
"No? Perhaps not. But then the Park is her old home, and she, who professes such childish adoration for it, might possibly like to regain it. You really should speak to her, Guy. She should not be allowed to throw away such a brilliant chance, when a few well-chosen words might bias her in the right direction."
Guy makes no reply, but, stepping on to the balcony outside, walks listlessly away, his heart in a tumult of fear and regret, while Miss Beauchamp, calmly, and with a certain triumph, goes on contentedly with her work. A nail in Lilian's coffin has, she hopes, been driven, and sews her hopes into the canvas beneath her hand, as long ago the Parisian women knitted their terrible revenge and cruel longings into their children's socks, whilst all the flower and beauty and chivalry of France fell beneath the fatal guillotine.
Guy, wandering aimlessly, full of dismal thought, follows out mechanically his first idea, and turns in the direction of the garden, the spot so beloved by his false, treacherous little mistress.
In the distance he sees her; she is standing motionless in the centre of a gra.s.splot, while behind her Chesney is busily engaged tying back her yellow hair with a broad piece of black ribbon she has evidently given him for the purpose. He has all her rich tresses gathered together in one, and is lingering palpably over his task. In his coat is placed conspicuously the blue forget-me-not begged of Guy by Lilian only a few minutes ago as though her heart were set upon its possession.
"Coquette," mutters Chetwoode between his teeth.
"Not done yet?" asks the coquette at this moment of her cousin, giving her head a little impatient shake.
"Yes, just done," finis.h.i.+ng up in a hurry the somewhat curious bow he is making.
"Well, now run," says Lilian, "and do as I bade you. I shall be here on this spot when you return. You know how I hate waiting: so don't be long,--do you hear?"
"Does that mean you will be impatient to see me again?"
"Of course," laughing. "I shall be _dying_ to see you again, longing, pining for your return, thinking every minute an hour until you come back to me."
Thus encouraged, Archibald quickly vanishes, and Guy comes slowly up to her.
"I think you needn't have put that flower in Chesney's coat," he
"Is it in his coat?" As she makes this mean reply she blushes a rich warm crimson, so full of consciousness that it drives Guy absolutely wild with jealousy. "Yes, now I remember," she says, with an a.s.sumption of indifference; "he either took it from me, or asked me for it, I quite forget which."
"Do you?"
"I do," resenting his manner, which borders on disbelief, and is in her eyes highly objectionable. "Why should I trouble myself to recollect such trifles?"
After a pause, and with a distinct effort, Chetwoode says:
"You were foolishly prejudiced against your cousin before his arrival. I am glad you have learned to be civil to him."
"More than that, I have learned to like him very much indeed. He is quite charming, and not in the least _exigeant_, or _difficile_," this rather p.r.o.nounced. "Besides, he is my cousin, and the master of my old home. Whenever I think of the dear Park I naturally think of him, until now they are both a.s.sociated in my mind: this adds to my liking."
Guy's heart sinks within him as he remembers Florence's words and now hears Lilian's own confession. He glances at her despairingly. She is picking a flower to pieces, and as she does so a little soft sigh escapes her. Is it for her lost home? Is she already dreaming of an hour when she may return to it once more as its happy mistress? Is she mercenary, as Florence hinted? or is it homesickness that is tempting her? or can it be that at heart she loves this cousin?
"It is the same with all women," he says bitterly; "the last comer is always the best, the newest face the dearest."
"I do not understand you,"--with cold reproof; "surely you are wandering from the subject: we were saying nothing about last comers or new faces.
If you happen to be in a bad temper, Sir Guy, I really think it a little hard that you should come here to inflict it upon me."
"I am not in a bad temper,"--indignantly.
"No? It seems very like it," says Miss Chesney. "I can't bear cross people: they are always saying unpleasant as well as unmeaning things.
New faces, indeed! I really wish Archibald would come; he is always agreeable, and never starts distasteful topics. Ah, here he is! Archie, how long you have been! I thought you were never coming! Sir Guy is in one of his terrible moods, and has frightened me out of my life. I was in danger of being lectured off the face of the earth. No woman should be pitied but she that has a guardian! You have come to my rescue barely in time: another minute, and you would have found only a lifeless Lilian."
Sir Guy, black with rage, turns aside. Archibald, ignorant of the storm brewing, sinks beside her contentedly upon the gra.s.s.
CHAPTER XVI.
"O spirit of love, how fresh and quick thou art!"--SHAKESPEARE.
It is the gloaming,--that tenderest, fondest, most pensive time of all the day. As yet, night crouches on the borders of the land, reluctant to throw its dark shadow over the still smiling earth, while day is slowly, sadly receding. There is a hush over everything; above, on their leafy perches, the birds are nestling, and crooning their cradle songs; the gay breeze, lazy with its exertions of the day, has fallen asleep, so that the very gra.s.ses are silent and unstirred. An owl in the distance is hooting mournfully. There is a serenity on all around, an all-pervading stillness that moves one to sadness and fills unwittingly the eyes with tears. It is the peace that follows upon grief, as though the busy world, that through all the heat and turmoil of the day has been weeping and groaning in anguish, has now for a few short hours found rest.
The last roses of summer in Mrs. Arlington's garden, now that those gay young sparks the bees have deserted them, are growing drowsy, and hang their heavy heads dejectedly. Two or three dissipated b.u.t.terflies, fond of late hours and tempted by the warmth, still float gracefully through the air.
Cecilia, coming down the garden path, rests her arms upon her wicket gate and looks toward Chetwoode.
She is dressed in an exquisite white cambric, fastened at the throat by a bit of lavender ribbon; through her gown here and there are touches of the same color; on her head is a ravis.h.i.+ng little cap of the mob description, that lends an additional charm to her face, making her seem, if possible, more womanly, more lovable than ever.
As she leans upon the gate a last yellow sunbeam falls upon her, peeps into her eyes, takes a good-night kiss from her parted lips, and, descending slowly, lovingly, crosses her bosom, steals a little sweetness from the white rose dying on her breast, throws a golden shade upon her white gown, and finally dies chivalrously at her feet.
But not for the dear devoted sunbeam does that warm blush grow and mantle on her cheek; not for it do her pulses throb, her heart beat fast. Toward her, in his evening dress, and without his hat, regardless of consequences, comes Cyril, the quickness of his step betraying a flattering haste. As yet, although many weeks have come and gone since their first meeting, no actual words of love have been spoken between them; but each knows the other's heart, and has learned that eyes can speak a more eloquent language, can utter tenderer thoughts, than any the lips can frame.
"Again?" says Cecilia, softly, a little wonder, a great undisguised gladness, in her soft gray eyes.
"Yes; I could not keep away," returns he, simply.
He does not ask to enter, but leans upon the gate from his side, very close to her. Most fair men look well in evening clothes; Cyril looks downright handsome: his blonde moustache seems golden, his blue eyes almost black, in the rays of the departing sun: just now those eyes are filled with love and pa.s.sionate admiration.
Her arms, half bare, with some frail shadowy lace falling over them, look rounded and velvety as a child's in the growing dusk; the fingers of her pretty, blue-veined hands are interlaced. Separating them, Cyril takes one hand between both his own and strokes it fondly, silently, yet almost absently.