Chapter 61
"Oh, so that is what you have been doing in London, is it?" says Lilian, after a short pause that makes her words still more impressive. "I certainly did think you weren't in a very great hurry to return, and that you looked rather blighted when you did come. I doubt you have been dancing the 'Geliebt und verloren' waltzes once too often. Did she refuse you?"
"I love you, Lilian, and only you," returns he, reproachfully. "No, do not turn from me; let me plead my cause once more. Darling, I have indeed tried to live without you, and have failed; if you reject me again you will drive me to destruction. Lilian, be merciful; say something kind to me."
"You promised me," says Lilian, nervously, moving away from him, "never to speak on this subject again. Oh, why is it that some people will insist on falling in love with other people? There is something so stupid about it. Now, _I_ never fall in love; why cannot you follow my good example?"
"I am not bloodless, or----"
"Neither am I," holding up her pretty hand between her and the fire, so that the rich blood shows through the closed fingers of it. "But I have common sense, the one thing you lack."
"_You_ are the one thing I lack," possessing himself of her hand and kissing it fatuously. "Without you I lack everything. Beloved, must I learn to look upon you as my curse? Give me, I entreat you, one little word of encouragement, if only one; I starve for want of it. If you only knew how I have clung for months, and am still clinging, to the barest shadow of a hope, you would think twice before you destroyed that one faint gleam of happiness."
"This is dreadful," says Lilian, piteously, the ready tears gathering in her eyes. "Would you marry a woman who does not love you?"
"I would,"--eagerly,--"when that woman a.s.sures me she does not love another, and I have your word for that."
Lilian winces. Then, trying to recover her spirits:
"'What one suffers for one's country--_men_!'" she misquotes, with an affectation of lightness. "Archie, billiards have a demoralizing effect upon you. I shan't play with you again."
"I don't want to bribe you," says Chesney, turning a little pale, and declining to notice her interruption; "I should be sorry to think I could do so; but I have ten thousand a year, and if you will marry me you shall have a thousand a year pin-money, and five thousand if you survive me."
"It would spoil my entire life fearing I shouldn't survive you," says Miss Chesney, who, in spite of her nervousness, or because of it, is longing to laugh.
"You will, you need not be afraid of that."
"It sounds dazzling," murmurs Lilian, "more especially when you give me your word you will die first; but still I think it downright shabby you don't offer me the whole ten."
"So I will!"--eagerly--"if----"
"Nonsense,
"I suppose not," gloomily.
"Then do try to look a little pleasanter. They will all notice your depression when we return to them."
"I don't care," with increasing gloom.
"But I do. Archie, look here, dear,"--taking the high and moral tone,--"do you think it is right of you to go on like this, just as if----"
"I don't care a hang what is right, or what is wrong," says Mr. Chesney, with considerable vehemence. "I only know you are the only woman I ever really cared for, and you won't have me. Nothing else is of the slightest consequence."
"I am not the only woman in the world. Time will show you there are others ten times nicer and lovelier."
"I don't believe it."
"Because you don't wish to," angrily. "In the first place, I am far too small to be lovely."
"You are tall enough for my fancy."
"And my mouth is too large," with growing irritation.
"It is small enough for my taste."
"And sometimes, when the summer is very hot, my skin gets quite _freckled_," with increasing warmth.
"I adore freckles. I think no woman perfect without them."
"I don't believe you," indignantly; "and at all events I have a horrible temper, and I defy you to say you like _that_!" triumphantly.
"I do," mournfully. "The hardest part of my unfortunate case is this, that the unkinder you are to me the more I love you."
"Then I won't have you love me," says Miss Chesney, almost in tears: "do you hear me? I forbid you to do it any more. It is extremely rude of you to keep on caring for me when you know I don't like it."
"Look here, Lilian," says Archie, taking both her hands, "give me a little hope, a bare crumb to live on, and I will say no more."
"I cannot, indeed," deeply depressed.
"Why? Do you love any other fellow?"
"Certainly not," with suspicious haste.
"Then I shall wait yet another while, and then ask you again."
"Oh, don't!" exclaims Lilian, desperately: "I _beg_ you won't. If I thought I was going to have these scenes all over again at intervals, it would kill me, and I should learn to hate you. I should, indeed; and then what would you do? Think of it."
"I won't," doggedly; "I often heard 'Faint heart never won fair lady,'
and I shall take my chance. I shall never give you up, so long as you are not engaged to any other man."
There is a pause. Lilian's blue eyes are full of tears that threaten every moment to overflow and run down her pale cheeks. She is desperately sorry for Archibald, the more so that her heart tells her she will never be able to give him the consolation that alone can do him any good. Seeing the expression of tender regret that softens her face, Archibald falls suddenly upon his knees before her, and, pressing his lips to her hands, murmurs, in deep agitation:
"My own, my dearest, is there no pity in your kind heart for me?"
At this most unlucky moment Sir Guy lays his hand upon the door, and pus.h.i.+ng it lightly open, enters. Five minutes later all the world might have entered freely, but just now the entrance of this one man causes unutterable pain.
Archibald has barely time to scramble to his feet; the tears are still wet on Lilian's cheeks; altogether it is an unmistakable situation, and Guy turns cold and pale as he recognizes it as such. Chesney on his knees, with Lilian's hands imprisoned in his own; Lilian in tears,--what can it mean but a violent love scene? Probably they have been quarreling, and have just made it up again. "The falling out of faithful friends, but the renewal is of love."
As he meets Lilian's shamed eyes, and marks the rich warm crimson that has mantled in her cheeks, Chetwoode would have beaten a precipitous retreat, but is prevented by Taffy's following on his heels somewhat noisily.
"It is a charming night, Lil," says that young man, with his usual _bonhommie_. "The rain is a thing of the past. We shall have our run after all to-morrow."
"Indeed! I am glad of that," replies Lilian, half indifferently; though being the woman of the party, she is of course the quickest to recover self-possession. "I should have died of despair had the morning proved unkind."
"Well, you needn't die for a while. I say, Lil," says Mr. Musgrave, regarding her curiously, "what's the matter with you, eh? You look awfully down in the mouth. Anything wrong?"
"Nothing," sharply: "what should be?"
"Can't say, I'm sure. But your cheeks," persists this miserable boy, "are as red as fire."