Chapter 51
"That is not it."
"What then?"
"How can I tell you," she says, impatiently, "when I know I don't hate you _at all_?"
"Lilian, is that true?" taking away the handkerchief gently but forcibly that he may see her face, which after all is not nearly so tear-stained as it should be, considering all the heart-rending sobs to which he has been listening. "Are you sure? am I not really distasteful to you?
Perhaps even,"--with an accession of hope, seeing she does not turn from him,--"you like me a little, still?"
"When you are good,"--with an airy laugh and a slight pout--"I do a _little_. Yes,"--seeing him glance longingly at her hand,--"you may kiss it, and then we shall be friends again, for to-night at least. Now do take me down, Sir Guy: if we stay here much longer I shall be seeing bogies in all the corners. Already your ancestors seem to be frowning at me, and a more dark and blood-thirsty set of relatives I never saw. I hope you won't turn out as bad to look at in your old age."
"It all depends. When we are happy we are generally virtuous. Misery creates vice."
"What a sententious speech!" He has taken up his fair burden again, and they are now (very slowly, I must say) descending the stairs. "Now here comes a curve," she says, with a return of all her old sauciness: "please do not drop me."
"I have half a mind to," laughing. "Suppose, now, I let you fall cleverly over these banisters on to the stone flooring beneath, I should save myself from many a flout and many a scornful speech, and rid myself forever of a troublesome little ward."
Leaning her head rather backward, she looks up into his face and smiles one of her sweetest, tenderest smiles.
"I am not afraid of you now, Guardy," she murmurs, softly; whereat his foolish heart beats madly. The old friendly appellation, coming so unexpectedly from her, touches him deeply: it is with difficulty he keeps himself from straining her to his heart and pressing his lips upon the beautiful childish mouth upheld to him. He has had his lesson, however, and refrains.
He is still regarding her with unmistakable admiration, when Miss Beauchamp's voice from the landing above startles them both, and makes them feel, though why they scarcely know, partners in guilt.
There is a metallic ring in it that strikes upon the ear, and suggests all sorts of lady-like disgust and condemnation.
"I am sure, Guy, if Lilian's foot be as bad as she says it is, she would feel more comfortable lying on a sofa. Are you going to pose there all the evening for the benefit of the servants? I think it is hardly good taste of you to keep her in your arms upon the public staircase, whatever you may do in private."
The last words are uttered in a rather lower tone, but are still distinctly audible. Lilian blushes a slow and painful red, and Sir Guy, giving way to a naughty word that is also distinctly audible, carries her
CHAPTER XXII.
"For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
This thought is as a death."--SHAKESPEARE.
The next day is dark and lowering, to Lilian's great joy, who, now she is prevented by lameness from going for one of her loved rambles, finds infinite satisfaction in the thought that even were she quite well, it would be impossible for her to stir out of doors. According to her mode of arguing, this is one day not lost.
About two o'clock Archibald returns, in time for luncheon, and to resume his care of Lilian, who gives him a gentle scolding for his desertion of her in her need. He is full of information about town and their mutual friends there, and imparts it freely.
"Everything is as melancholy up there as it can be," he says, "and very few men to be seen: the clubs are deserted, all shooting or hunting, no doubt. The rain was falling in torrents all the day."
"Poor Archie, you have been having a bad time of it, I fear."
"In spite of the weather and her ruddy locks, Lady Belle Damascene has secured the prize of the season, out of season. She is engaged to Lord Wyntermere: it is not yet publicly announced, but I called to see her mother for five minutes, and so great was her exultation she could not refrain from whispering the delightful intelligence into my ear. Lady Belle is staying with his people now in Suss.e.x."
"Certainly, 'beauty is in the eye of the beholder.' She is painfully ugly," says Miss Beauchamp. "Such feet, such hands, and such a shocking complexion!"
"She is very kind-hearted and amiable," says Cyril.
"That is what is always said of a plain woman," retorts Florence. "When you hear a girl is amiable, always conclude she is hideous. When one's trumpeter is in despair, he says that."
"I am sure Lord Wyntermere must be a young man of good sound sense,"
says Lilian, who never agrees with Florence. "If she has a kind heart he will never be disappointed in her. And, after all, there is no such great advantage to be derived from beauty. When people are married for four or five years, I dare say they quite forget whether the partner of their joys and sorrows was originally lovely or the reverse: custom deadens perception."
"It is better to be good than beautiful," says Lady Chetwoode, who abhors ugly women: "you know what Carew says:
"But a smooth and steadfast mind, Gentle thoughts and calm desires, Hearts with equal love combined, Kindle never-dying fires; Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes."
"Well done, Madre," says Cyril. "You are coming out. I had no idea you were so gifted. Your delivery is perfect."
"And what are you all talking about?" continues Lady Chetwoode: "I think Belle Damascene very sweet to look at. In spite of her red hair, and a good many freckles, and--and--a rather short nose, her expression is very lovable: when she smiles I always feel inclined to kiss her. She is like her mother, who is one of the best women I know."
"If you encourage my mother she will end by telling you Lady Belle is a beauty and a reigning toast," says Guy, _sotto voce_.
Lady Chetwoode laughs, and Lilian says:
"What is every one wearing now, Archie?"
"There is n.o.body to wear anything. For the rest they had all on some soft, s.h.i.+ny stuff like the dress you wore the night before last."
"What an accurate memory you have!" says Florence, letting her eyes rest on Guy's for a moment, though addressing Chesney.
"Satin," translates Lilian, unmoved. "And their bonnets?"
"Oh, yes! they all wore bonnets or hats, I don't know which," vaguely.
"Naturally; mantillas are not yet in vogue. You are better than 'Le Follet,' Archie; your answers are so satisfactory. Did you meet any one we know?"
"Hardly any one. By the bye,"--turning curiously to Sir Guy,--"was Trant here to-day?"
"No," surprised: "why do you ask?"
"Because I met him at Truston this morning. He got out of the train by which I went on,--it seems he has been staying with the Bulstrodes,--and I fancied he was coming on here, but had not time to question him, as I barely caught the train; another minute's delay and I should have been late."
Archibald rambles on about his near escape of being late for the train, while his last words sink deep into the minds of Guy and Cyril. The former grows singularly silent; a depressed expression gains upon his face. Cyril, on the contrary, becomes feverishly gay, and with his mad observations makes merry Lilian laugh heartily.
But when luncheon is over and they all disperse, a gloom falls upon him: his features contract; doubt and a terrible suspicion, augmented by slanderous tales that forever seem to be poured into his ears, make havoc of the naturally kind expression that characterizes his face, and with a stifled sigh he turns and walks toward the billiard-room.
Guy follows him. As Cyril enters the doorway, he enters too, and, closing the door softly, lays his hand upon his shoulder.
"You heard, Cyril?" he says, with exceeding gentleness.