Airy Fairy Lilian

"And done your utmost to ruin your complexion, all for the sake of a few poor slugs. What a blood-thirsty little thing you are!"

"I don't believe there is any blood in them," says Lilian.

"Do come away. One would think there wasn't a gardener about the place. You will make yourself ill, kneeling there in the sun; and look how warm you are; it is a positive shame."

"But I have preserved the lives, and the beauty of all these little plants."

"Never mind the plants. Think of your own beauty. I came here to ask you if you will come for a walk in the woods. I have just been there, and it is absolutely cool."

"I should like to immensely," springing to her feet; "but my hands," – hesitating, – "what am I to do with them? Shall I run in and wash them? I shan't be one minute."

"Oh, no!" – hastily, having a wholesome horror of women's minutes, "come down to the stream, and we will wash them there."

This suggestion, savoring of unconventionality, finds favor in Miss Chesney's eyes, and they start, going through the lawn, for the tiny rivulet that runs between it and the longed-for woods.

Kneeling beside it, Lilian lets the fresh gurgling water trail through her fingers, until all the dust falls from them and floats away on its bosom; then reluctantly she withdraws her hands and, rising, looks at them somewhat ruefully.

"Now, how shall I dry them?" asks she, glancing at the drops of water that fall from her fingers and glint and glisten like diamonds in the sun's rays.

"In your handkerchief," suggests Guy.

"But then it would be wet, and I should hate that. Give me yours," says Miss Chesney, with calm selfishness.

Guy laughs, and produces an unopened handkerchief in which he carefully, and, it must be confessed, very tardily dries her fingers, one by one.

"Do you always take as long as that to dry your own hands?" asks Lilian, gravely, when he has arrived at the third finger of the second hand.

"Always!" without a blush.

"Your dressing, altogether, must take a long time?"

"Not so long as you imagine. It is only on my hands I expend so much care."

"And on mine," suggestively.

"Exactly so. Do you never wear rings?"

"Never. And for the very best reason."

"And that?"

"Is because I haven't any to wear. I have a few of my mother's, but they are old-fashioned and heavy, and look very silly on my hands. I must get them reset."

"I like rings on pretty hands, such as yours."

"And Florence's. Yes, she has pretty hands, and pretty rings also."

"Has she?"

"What! Would you have me believe you never noticed them? Oh, Sir Guy, how deceitful you can be!"

"Now, that is just the very one vice of which I am entirely innocent. You wrong me. I couldn't be deceitful to save my life. I always think it must be so fatiguing. Most young ladies have pretty hands, I suppose; but I never noticed those of Miss Beauchamp, or her rings either, in particular. Are you fond of rings?"

"Passionately fond," laughing. "I should like to have every finger and both of my thumbs covered with them up to the first knuckle."

"And nobody ever gave you one?"

"Nobody," 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 passed 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 relationship 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 guardianship 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 having acceded to poor papa's proposal: so don't fret about it. After all," – naughtily, – "I dare say I might have got worse; you aren't half bad so far, which is wise of you, because I warn you I am an enfant gaté; and should you dare to thwart me I should lead you such a life as would make you rue the day you were born."

"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.