Airy Fairy Lilian
"This is your dog, I think?" says Cyril, pretending to be doubtful on the subject; though who could be more sure?
"Yes, – thank you." Then as her eyes fall upon her lovely naked arms the blush grows deeper and deeper, until at length her face is red as one of her own perfect roses.
"He was very dusty after yesterday's journey, and I was going to wash him," she says, with a gentle dignity but an evident anxiety to explain.
"Lucky dog!" says Cyril gravely, in a low tone.
Kate has disappeared into the background with the refractory pet, whose quavering protests are lost in the distance. Again silence has fallen upon the house, the wood, the flowers. The faintest flicker of a smile trembles for one instant round the corners of the stranger's lips, then is quickly subdued.
"Thank you, sir," she says, once more, quietly, and turning away, is swallowed up hurriedly by the envious roses.
All the way home Cyril's mind is full of curious thought, though one topic alone engrosses it. The mistress of that small ungrateful terrier has taken complete and entire possession of him, to the exclusion of all other matter. So the widow has not arrived in solitary state, – that is evident. And what a lovely girl to bring down and bury alive in this quiet spot. Who on earth can she be?
How beautiful her arms were, and her hands! – Even the delicate, tinted filbert nails had not escaped his eager gaze. How sweet she looked, how bright! Surely a widow would not be fit company for so gay a creature; and still, when she grew grave at the gate, when her smile faded, had not a wistful, sorrowful expression fallen across her face and into her exquisite eyes? Perhaps she, too, has suffered, – is in trouble, and, through sympathy, clings to her friend the widow.
After a moment or two, this train of thought being found unsatisfactory, another forces its way to the surface.
By the bye, why should she not be her sister, – that is, the widow's? Of course; nothing more likely. How stupid of him not to have thought of that before! Naturally Mrs. Arlington has a sister, who has come down with her to see that the place is comfortable and well situated and that, and who will stay with her until the first loneliness that always accompanies a change has worn away.
And when it has worn away, what then? The conclusion of his thought causes Cyril an unaccountable pang, that startles even himself. In five minutes – in five short minutes – surely no woman's eyes, however lovely, could have wrought much mischief; and yet – and yet – what was there about her to haunt one so?
He rouses himself with an effort and refuses to answer his own question. Is he a love-sick boy, to fancy himself enthralled by each new pretty face he sees? Are there only one laughing mouth and one pair of deep gray eyes in the world? What a fool one can be at times!
One can indeed!
He turns his thoughts persistently upon the coming season, the anticipation of which, only yesterday, filled him with the keenest delight. But three or four short weeks to pass, and the 12th will be here, bringing with it all the joy and self-gratulation that can be derived from the slaying of many birds. He did very well last year, and earned himself many laurels and the reputation of being a crack shot. How will it be this season? Already it seems to him he scents the heather, and feels the weight of his trusty gun upon his shoulder, and hears the soft patter of his good dog's paws behind him. What an awful sell it would be if the birds proved scarce! Warren spoke highly of them the other day, and Warren is an old hand; but still – but still —
How could a widow of forty have a sister of twenty – unless, perhaps, she was a step-sister? Yes, that must be it. Step – Pshaw!
It is a matter of congratulation that just at this moment Cyril finds himself in view of the house, and, pulling out his watch, discovers he has left himself only ten minutes in which to get himself ready before starting for the station to meet Miss Chesney.
Perforce, therefore, he leaves off his cogitations, nor renews them until he is seated in the detested carriage en route for Trustan and the ward, when he is so depressed by the roof's apparent intention of descending bodily upon his head that he lets his morbid imagination hold full sway and gives himself up to the gloomiest forebodings, of which the chief is that the unknown being in possession of such great and hitherto unsurpassed beauty is, of course, not only beloved by but hopelessly engaged to a man in every way utterly unworthy of her.
When he reaches Trustan the train is almost due, and two minutes afterward it steams into the station.
The passengers alight. Cyril gazes anxiously up and down the platform among the women, trying to discover which of them looks most likely to bear the name of Chesney.
A preternaturally tall young lady, with eyes like sloes and a very superior figure, attracts him most. She is apparently alone, and is looking round as though expecting some one. It is – it must be she.
Raising his hat, Cyril advances toward her and makes a slight bow, which is not returned. The sloes sparkle indignantly, the superior figure grows considerably more superior; and the young lady, turning as though for protection from this bad man who has so insolently and openly molested her in the broad daylight, lays her hand with an expression of relief upon the arm of a gentleman who has just joined her.
"I thought you were never coming," she says, in a clear distinct tone meant for Cyril's discomfiture, casting upon that depraved person a glance replete with scorn.
As her companion happens to be Harry Bellair of Belmont, Mr. Chetwoode is rather taken aback. He moves aside and colors faintly. Harry Bellair, who is a young gentleman addicted to huge plaids, and low hats, and three or four lockets on his watch chain, being evidently under the impression that Cyril has been "up to one of his larks," bestows upon him in passing a covert but odiously knowing wink, that has the effect of driving Cyril actually wild, and makes him give way to low expressions under his breath.
"Vulgar beast!" he says at length out loud with much unction, which happily affords him instant relief.
"Are you looking for me?" says a soft voice at his elbow, and turning he beholds a lovely childish face upturned somewhat timidly to his.
"Miss Chesney?" he asks, with hesitation, being mindful of his late defeat.
"Yes," smiling. "It is for me, then, you are looking? Oh," – with a thankful sigh, – "I am so glad! I have wanted to ask you the question for two minutes, but I was afraid you might be the wrong person."
"I wish you had spoken," laughing: "you would have saved me from much ignominy. I fancied you something altogether different from what you are," with a glance full of kindly admiration, – "and I fear I made rather a fool of myself in consequence. I beg your pardon for having kept you so long in suspense, and especially for having in my ignorance mistaken you for that black-browed lady." Here he smiles down on the fair sweet little face that is smiling up at him.
"Was it that tall young lady you called a 'beast'?" asks Miss Lilian, demurely. "If so, it wasn't very polite of you, was it?"
"Oh," – with a laugh, – "did you hear me? I doubt I have begun our acquaintance badly. No, notwithstanding the provocation I received (you saw the withering glance she bestowed upon me?), I refrained from evil language as far as she was concerned, and consoled myself by expending my rage upon her companion, – the man who was seeing after her. Are you tired? – Your journey has not been very unpleasant, I hope?"
"Not unpleasant at all. It was quite fine the entire time, and there was no dust."
"Your trunks are labeled?"
"Yes."
"Then perhaps you had better come with me. One of the men will see to your luggage, and will drive your maid home. She is with you?"
"Yes. That is, my nurse is; I have never had any other maid. This is Tipping," says Miss Chesney, moving back a step or two, and drawing forward with an affectionate gesture, a pleasant-faced, elderly woman of about fifty-five.
"I am glad to see you, Mrs. Tipping," says Cyril, genially, who does not think it necessary, like some folk, to treat the lower classes with studied coldness, as though they were a thing apart. "Perhaps you will tell the groom about your mistress's things, while I take her out of this draughty station."
Lilian follows him to the carriage, wondering as she goes. There is an air of command about this new acquaintance that puzzles her. Is he Sir Guy? Is it her guardian in propria persona who has come to meet her? And could a guardian be so – so – likable? Inwardly she hopes it may be so, being rather impressed by Cyril's manner and handsome face.
When they are about half-way to Chetwoode she plucks up courage to say, although the saying of it costs her a brilliant blush, "Are you my guardian?"
"I call that a most unkind question," says Cyril. "Have I fallen short in any way, that the thought suggests itself? Do you mean to insinuate that I am not guarding you properly now? Am I not taking sufficiently good care of you?"
"You are my guardian then?" says Lilian, with such unmistakable hope in her tones that Cyril laughs outright.
"No, I am not," he says; "I wish I were; though for your own sake it is better as it is. Your guardian is no end a better fellow than I am. He would have come to meet you to-day, but he was obliged to go some miles away on business."
"Business!" thinks Miss Chesney, disdainfully. "Of course it would never do for the goody-goody to neglect his business. Oh, dear! I know we shall not get on at all."
"I am very glad he did not put himself out for me," she says, glancing at Cyril from under her long curling lashes. "It would have been a pity, as I have not missed him at all."
"I feel intensely grateful to you for that speech," says Cyril. "When Guy cuts me out later on, – as he always does, – I shall still have the memory of it to fall back upon."
"Is this Chetwoode?" Lilian asks, five minutes later, as they pass through the entrance gate. "What a charming avenue!" – putting her head out of the window, "and so dark. I like it dark; it reminds me of" – she pauses, and two large tears come slowly, slowly into her blue eyes and tremble there – "my home," she says in a low tone.
"You must try to be happy with us," Cyril says, kindly, taking one of her hands and pressing it gently, to enforce his sympathy; and then the horses draw up at the hall door, and he helps her to alight, and presently she finds herself within the doors of Chetwoode.
CHAPTER IV
"Ye scenes of my childhood, whose loved recollection
Embitters the present, compared with the past." – Byron.
When Lady Chetwoode, who is sitting in the drawing-room, hears the carriage draw up to the door, she straightens herself in her chair, smoothes down the folds of her black velvet gown with rather nervous fingers, and prepares for an unpleasant surprise. She hears Cyril's voice in the hall inquiring where his mother is, and, rising to her feet, she makes ready to receive her new ward.
She has put on what she fondly hopes is a particularly gracious air, but which is in reality a palpable mixture of fear and uncertainty. The door opens; there is a slight pause; and then Lilian, slight, and fair, and pretty, stands upon the threshold.
She is very pale, partly through fatigue, but much more through nervousness and the self-same feeling of uncertainty that is weighing down her hostess. As her eyes meet Lady Chetwoode's they take an appealing expression that goes straight to the heart of that kindest of women.
"You have arrived, my dear," she says, a ring of undeniable cordiality in her tone, while from her face all the unpleasant fear has vanished. She moves forward to greet her guest, and as Lilian comes up to her takes the fair sweet face between her hands and kisses her softly on each cheek.
"You are like your mother," she says, presently, holding the girl a little way from her and regarding her with earnest attention. "Yes, – very like your mother, and she was beautiful. You are welcome to Chetwoode, my dear child."
Lilian, who is feeling rather inclined to cry, does not trust herself to make any spoken rejoinder, but, putting up her lips of her own accord, presses them gratefully to Lady Chetwoode's, thereby ratifying the silent bond of friendship that without a word has on the instant been sealed between the old woman and the young one.
A great sense of relief has fallen upon Lady Chetwoode. Not until now, when her fears have been proved groundless, does she fully comprehend the amount of uneasiness and positive horror with which she has regarded the admittance of a stranger into her happy home circle. The thought that something unrefined, disagreeable, unbearable, might be coming has followed like a nightmare for the past week, but now, in the presence of this lovely child, it has fled away ashamed, never to return.
Lilian's delicate, well-bred face and figure, her small hands, her graceful movements, her whole air, proclaim her one of the world to which Lady Chetwoode belongs, and the old lady, who is aristocrat to her fingers' ends, hails the fact with delight. Her beauty alone had almost won her cause, when she cast that beseeching glance from the doorway; and now when she lets the heavy tears grow in her blue eyes, all doubt is at end, and "almost" gives way to "quite."
Henceforth she is altogether welcome at Chetwoode, as far as its present gentle mistress is concerned.
"Cyril took care of you, I hope?" says Lady Chetwoode, glancing over her guest's head at her second son, and smiling kindly.
"Great care of me," returning the smile.
"But you are tired, of course; it is a long journey, and no doubt you are glad to reach home," says Lady Chetwoode, using the word naturally. And though the mention of it causes Lilian a pang, still there is something tender and restful about it too, that gives some comfort to her heart.
"Perhaps you would like to go to your room," continues Lady Chetwoode, thoughtfully, "though I fear your maid cannot have arrived yet."
"Miss Chesney, like Juliet, boasts a nurse," says Cyril; "she scorns to travel with a mere maid."
"My nurse has always attended me," says Lilian, laughing and blushing. "She has waited on me since I was a month old. I should not know how to get on without her, and I am sure she could not get on without me. I think she is far better than any maid I could get."
"She must have an interest in you that no new-comer could possibly have," says Lady Chetwoode, who is in the humor to agree with anything Lilian may say, so thankful is she to her for being what she is. And yet so strong is habit that involuntarily, as she speaks, her eyes seek Lilian's hair, which is dressed to perfection. "I have no doubt she is a treasure," – with an air of conviction. "Come with me, my dear."
They leave the room together. In the hall the housekeeper, coming forward, says respectfully:
"Shall I take Miss Chesney to her room, my lady?"
"No, Matthews," says Lady Chetwoode, graciously; "it will give me pleasure to take her there myself."
By which speech all the servants are at once made aware that Miss Chesney is already in high favor with "my lady," who never, except on very rare occasions, takes the trouble to see personally after her visitors' comfort.
* * * * * * *When Lilian has been ten minutes in her room Mrs. Tipping arrives, and is shown up-stairs, where she finds her small mistress evidently in the last stage of despondency. These ten lonely minutes have been fatal to her new-born hopes, and have reduced her once more to the melancholy frame of mind in which she left her home in the morning. All this the faithful Tipping sees at a glance, and instantly essays to cheer her.
Silently and with careful fingers she first removes her hat, then her jacket, then she induces her to stand up, and, taking off her dress, throws round her a white wrapper taken from a trunk, and prepares to brush the silky yellow hair that for eighteen years has been her own to dress and tend and admire.
"Eh, Miss Lilian, child, but it's a lovely place!" she says, presently, this speech being intended as a part of the cheering process.
"It seems a fine place," says the "child," indifferently.
"Fine it is indeed. Grander even than the Park, I'm thinking."
"'Grander than the Park'!" says Miss Chesney, rousing to unexpected fervor. "How can you say that? Have you grown fickle, nurse? There is no place to be compared to the Park, not one in all the world. You can think as you please, of course," – with reproachful scorn, – "but it is not grander than the Park."
"I meant larger, ninny," soothingly.
"It is not larger."
"But, darling, how can you say so when you haven't been round it?"
"How can you say so when you haven't been round it?"
This is a poser. Nurse meditates a minute and then says:
"Thomas – that's the groom that drove me – says it is."
"Thomas!" – with a look that, had the wretched Thomas been on the spot, would infallibly have reduced him to ashes; "and what does Thomas know about it? It is not larger."
Silence.
"Indeed, my bairn, I think you might well be happy here," says nurse, tenderly returning to the charge.
"I don't want you to think about me at all," says Miss Chesney, in trembling tones. "You agreed with Aunt Priscilla that I ought to leave my dear, dear home, and I shall never forgive you for it. I am not happy here. I shall never be happy here. I shall die of fretting for the Park, and when I am dead you will perhaps be satisfied."
"Miss Lilian!"
"You shan't brush my hair any more," says Miss Lilian, dexterously evading the descent of the brush. "I can do it for myself very well. You are a traitor."
"I am sorry, Miss Chesney, if I have displeased you," says nurse, with much dignity tempered with distress: only when deeply grieved and offended does she give her mistress her full title.
"How dare you call me Miss Chesney!" cries the young lady, springing to her feet. "It is very unkind of you, and just now too, when I am all alone in a strange house. Oh, nurse!" throwing her arms round the neck of that devoted and long-suffering woman, and forgetful of her resentment, which indeed was born only of her regret, "I am so unhappy, and lonely, and sorry! What shall I do?"
"How can I tell you, my lamb?" – caressing with infinite affection the golden head that lies upon her bosom. "All that I say only vexes you."
"No, it doesn't: I am wicked when I make you think that. After all," – raising her face – "I am not quite forsaken; I have you still, and you will never leave me."
"Not unless I die, my dear," says nurse, earnestly. "And, Miss Lilian, how can you look at her ladyship without knowing her to be a real friend. And Mr. Chetwoode too; and perhaps Sir Guy will be as nice, when you see him."
"Perhaps he won't," ruefully.
"That's nonsense, my dear. Let us look at the bright side of things always. And by and by Master Taffy will come here on a visit, and then it will be like old times. Come, now, be reasonable, child of my heart," says nurse, "and tell me, won't you look forward to having Master Taffy here?"
"I wish he was here now," says Lilian, visibly brightening. "Yes; perhaps they will ask him. But, nurse, do you remember when last I saw Taffy it was at – "
Here she shows such unmistakable symptoms of relapsing into the tearful mood again, that nurse sees the necessity of changing the subject.
"Come, my bairn, let me dress you for dinner," she says, briskly, and presently, after a little more coaxing, she succeeds so well that she sends her little mistress down to the drawing-room, looking her loveliest and her best.
CHAPTER V
"Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self,
Recluse amid the close-embowering woods."
– Thomson.
Next morning, having enjoyed the long and dreamless sleep that belongs to the heart-whole, Lilian runs down to the breakfast-room, with the warm sweet flush of health and youth upon her cheeks. Finding Lady Chetwoode and Cyril already before her, she summons all her grace to her aid and tries to look ashamed of herself.
"Am I late?" she asks, going up to Lady Chetwoode and giving her a little caress as a good-morning. Her very touch is so gentle and childish and loving that it sinks straight into the deepest recesses of one's heart.
"No. Don't be alarmed. I have only just come down myself. You will soon find us out to be some of the laziest people alive."
"I am glad of it: I like lazy people," says Lilian; "all the rest seem to turn their lives into one great worry."
"Will you not give me a good-morning, Miss Chesney?" says Cyril, who is standing behind her.
"Good-morning," putting her hand into his.
"But that is not the way you gave it to my mother," in an aggrieved tone.
"No? – Oh!" – as she comprehends, – "but you should remember how much more deserving your mother is."
"With sorrow I acknowledge the truth of your remark," says Cyril, as he hands her her tea.
"Cyril is our naughty boy," Lady Chetwoode says; "we all spend our lives making allowances for Cyril. You must not mind what he says. I hope you slept well, Lilian; there is nothing does one so much good as a sound sleep, and you looked quite pale with fatigue last night. You see" – smiling – "how well I know your name. It is very familiar to me, having been your dear mother's."
"It seems strangely familiar to me also, though I never know your mother," says Cyril. "I don't believe I shall ever be able to call you Miss Chesney. Would it make you very angry if I called you Lilian?"
"Indeed, no; I shall be very much obliged to you. I should hardly know myself by the more formal title. You shall call me Lilian, and I shall call you Cyril, – if you don't mind."
"I don't think I do, – much," says Cyril; so the compact is signed.
"Guy will be here surely by luncheon," says Lady Chetwoode, with a view of giving her guest pleasure.
"Oh! will he really?" says Lilian, in a quick tone, suggestive of dismay.
"I am sure of it," says Guy's mother fondly: "he never breaks his word."
"Of course not," thinks Lilian to herself. "Fancy a paragon going wrong! How I hate a man who never breaks his word! Why, the Medes and Persians would be weak-minded compared with him."
"I suppose not," she says aloud, rather vaguely.
"You seem to appreciate the idea of your guardian's return," says Cyril, with a slight smile, having read half her thoughts correctly. "Does the mere word frighten you? I should like to know your real opinion of what a guardian ought to be."
"How can I have an opinion on the subject when I have never seen one?"
"Yet a moment ago I saw by your face you were picturing one to yourself."
"If so, it could scarcely be Sir Guy, – as he is not old."
"Not very. He has still a few hairs and a few teeth remaining. But won't you then answer my question? What is your ideal guardian like?"
"If you press it I shall tell you, but you must not betray me to Sir Guy," says Lilian, turning to include Lady Chetwoode in her caution. "My ideal is always a lean old gentleman of about sixty, with a stoop, and any amount of determination. He has a hooked nose on which gold-rimmed spectacles eternally stride; eyes that look one through and through; a mouth full of trite phrases, unpleasant maxims, and false teeth; and a decided tendency toward the suppression of all youthful follies."
"Guy will be an agreeable surprise. I had no idea you could be so severe."
"Nor am I. You must not think me so," says Lilian, blushing warmly and looking rather sorry for having spoken; "but you know you insisted on an answer. Perhaps I should not have spoken so freely, but that I know my real guardian is not at all like my ideal."
"How do you know? Perhaps he too is toothless, old, and unpleasant. He is a great deal older than I am."
"He can't be a great deal older."
"Why?"
"Because" – with a shy glance at the gentle face behind the urn – "Lady Chetwoode looks so young."
She blushes again as she says this, and regards her hostess with an air of such thorough good faith as wins that lady's liking on the spot.