"She must have made up her mind at the very last moment," says Guy. "Last week she was undecided whether she should come at all. She hates leaving London."
"She must be at Steynemore now," remarks Cyril.
"Lilian, my dear child, how pale you are!" Lady Chetwoode says, anxiously taking Lilian's hand and rubbing her cheeks gently with loving fingers. "Cold, too! The drive has been too much for you, and you are always so careless about wraps. I ordered supper in the library an hour ago. Come and have a glass of wine before going to bed."
"No, thank you, auntie: I don't care for anything."
"Thank you, Aunt Anne, I think I will take something," interposes Florence, amiably; "the drive was long. A glass of sherry and one little biscuit will, I feel sure, do me good."
Miss Beauchamp's "one little biscuit," as is well known, generally ends in a substantial supper.
"Come to the library, then," says Lady Chetwoode, and still holding Lilian's hand, draws it within her arm, and in her own stately Old-World fashion leads her there.
When they have dismissed the butler, and declared their ability to help one another, Lady Chetwoode says pleasantly:
"Now tell me everything. Had you an agreeable evening?"
"Too agreeable!" answers Cyril, with suspicious readiness: "I fear it will make all other entertainments sink into insignificance. I consider a night at Mrs. Boileau's the very wildest dissipation. We all sat round the room on uneasy chairs and admired each other: it would perhaps have been (if possible) a more successful amusement had we not been doing the same thing for the past two months, – some of us for years! But it was tremendously exciting all the same."
"Was there no one to meet you?"
"My dear mother, how could you suspect Mrs. Boileau of such a thing!"
"Yes, – there was a Mr. Boer," says Florence, looking up blandly from her chicken, "a man of very good family, – a clergyman – "
"No, a curate," interrupts Cyril, mildly.
"He made himself very agreeable," goes on Florence, in her soft monotone, that nothing disturbs. "He was so conversational, and so well read. You liked him, Lilian?"
"Who? Mr. Boer? No; I thought him insufferable, – so dull, – so prosy," says Lilian, wearily. She has hardly heard Miss Beauchamp's foregoing remarks.
"His manner, certainly, is neither frivolous nor extravagant," Florence returns, somewhat sharply, "but he appeared sensible and earnest, rare qualities nowadays."
"Did I hear you say he wasn't extravagant?" breaks in Cyril, lazily, purposely misconstruing her application of the word. "My dear Florence, consider! Could anything show such reckless extravagance as the length of his coat-tails? I never saw so much superfluous cloth in any man's garment before. It may be saintly, but it was cruel waste!"
"How did you amuse yourselves?" asks Lady Chetwoode, hastily, forestalling a threatening argument.
"As best we might. Lilian and I amused each other, and I think we had the best of it. If our visit to the Grange did no other good, it at least awoke in me a thorough sense of loyalty: I cannot tell you," with a glance at Lilian, "how often I blessed the 'Prints of Wales' this night."
"Oh, Cyril, what a miserable joke!" says Lilian, smiling, but there is little warmth in her smile, and little real merriment in her usually gay tones. All this, Cyril – who is sincerely fond of her – notes with regret and concern.
"Guy, give Lilian a glass of Moselle," says his mother at this moment; "it is what she prefers, and it will put a little color into her cheeks: she looks fatigued." As she says this she moves across the room to speak to Florence, leaving Lilian standing alone upon the hearth-rug. Guy, as desired, brings the wine and hands it to Lilian.
"No, thank you," turning from him coldly. "I do not wish for it."
"Nevertheless, take it," Guy entreats, in a low voice: "you are terribly white, and," touching her hand gently, "as cold as death. Is it because I bring it you will not have it? Will you take it from Taffy?"
A choking sensation rises in Miss Chesney's throat; the unbidden tears spring to her eyes; it is by a passionate effort alone she restrains them from running down her cheeks. As I have said before, the day had been a distinct failure. She will not speak to Guy, Archibald will not speak to her. A sense of isolation is oppressing and weighing her down. She, the pet, the darling, is left lonely, while all the others round her laugh and jest and accept the good the gods provide. Like a spoilt child, she longs to rush to her nurse and have a good cry within the shelter of that fond woman's arms.
Afraid to speak, lest her voice betray her, afraid to raise her eyes, lest the tell-tale tears within them be seen, she silently – though against her will – takes the glass Sir Guy offers, and puts it to her lips, whereupon he is conscious of a feeling of thankfulness, – the bare fact of her accepting anything at his hands seeming to breathe upon him forgiveness.
Lilian, having finished her Moselle, returns him the glass silently. Having carried it to the table, he once more glances instinctively to where he has left her standing. She has disappeared. Without a word to any one, she has slipped from the library and sought refuge in her own room.
CHAPTER XIX
"This much, however, I may add; her years
Were ripe, they might make six-and-twenty springs;
But there are forms which Time to touch forbears,
And turns aside his scythe to vulgar things." —Don Juan.
Next day creates but little change in Lilian's demeanor. So far as Guy is concerned, her manner is still frozen and unrelenting. She shows no sign of a desire to pardon, and Chetwoode noting this grows hardened, and out-Herods Herod in his imitation of her coldness.
Archibald, on the contrary, gives in almost directly. Finding it impossible to maintain his injured bearing beyond luncheon, he succumbs, and, throwing himself upon her mercy, is graciously received and once more basks in the full smiles of beauty. At heart Lilian is glad to welcome him back, and is genial and sweet to him as though no ugly contretemps had occurred between them yesterday.
Mabel Steyne being expected in the evening, Lady Chetwoode is especially happy, and takes no heed of minor matters, or else her eldest son's distraction would surely have claimed her attention. But Mabel's coming is an event, and a happy one, and at half-past seven, pleased and complacent, Lady Chetwoode is seated in her drawing-room, awaiting her arrival. Lilian and Florence are with her, and one or two of the others, Guy among them. Indeed, Mrs. Steyne's coming is a gratification the more charming that it is a rarity, as she seldom visits the country, being strongly addicted to city pursuits and holding country life and ruralism generally in abhorrence.
Just before dinner she arrives; there is a little flutter in the hall, a few words, a few steps, and then the door is thrown open, and a young woman, tall, with dark eyes and hair, a nose slightly celestial, and a very handsome figure, enters. She walks swiftly up the room with the grand and upright carriage that belongs to her, and is followed by a tall, fair man, indolent though good to look at, with a straw-colored moustache, and as much whisker as one might swear by.
"Dear auntie, I have come!" says Mrs. Steyne, joyfully, which is a fact so obvious as to make the telling of it superfluous.
"Mabel, my dear, how glad I am to see you!" exclaims Lady Chetwoode, rising and holding out her arms to her. A pretty pink flush comes to life in the old woman's cheeks making her appear ten years younger, and adding a thousand charms to her sweet old face.
They kiss each other warmly, the younger woman with tender empressement.
"It is kind of you to say so," she says, fondly. "And you, auntie – why, bless me, how young you look! it is disgraceful. Presently I shall be the auntie, and you the young and lovely Lady Chetwoode. Darling auntie, I am delighted to be with you again!"
"How do you do, Tom?" Lady Chetwoode says, putting her a little to one side to welcome her husband, but still holding her hand. "I do hope you two have come to stay a long time in the country."
"Yes, until after Christmas, so you will have time to grow heartily sick of us," says Mrs. Steyne. "Ah, Florence."
She and Florence press cheeks sympathetically, as though no evil passages belonging to the past have ever occurred between them. And then Lady Chetwoode introduces Lilian.
"This is Lilian," she says, drawing her forward. "I have often written to you about her."
"My supplanter," remarks Mabel Steyne, turning with a smile that lights up all her handsome brunette face. As she looks at Lilian, fair and soft and pretty, the rather insouciant expression that has grown upon her own during her encounter with Florence fades, and once more she becomes her own gay self. "I hope you will prove a better companion to auntie than I was," she says, with a merry laugh, taking and pressing Lilian's hand. Lilian instinctively returns the pressure and the laugh. There is something wonderfully fetching in Mrs. Steyne's dark, brilliant eyes.
"She is the best of children!" Lady Chetwoode says, patting Lilian's shoulder; "though indeed, my dear Mabel, I saw no fault in you."
"Of course not. Have you noticed, Miss Chesney, Lady Chetwoode's greatest failing? It is that she will not see a fault in any one."
"She never mentioned your faults, at all events," Lilian answers, smiling.
"I hope your baby is quite well?" Florence asks, calmly, who is far too well bred ever to forget her manners.
"The darling child, – yes, – I hope she is well," Lady Chetwoode says, hastily, feeling as though she has been guilty of unkindness in not asking for the baby before. Miss Beauchamp possesses to perfection that most unhappy knack of placing people in the wrong position.
"Quite, thank you," answering Lady Chetwoode instead of Florence, while a little fond glance that is usually reserved for the nursery creeps into her expressive eyes. "If you admired her before, you will quite love her now. She has grown so big and fat, and has such dear little sunny curls all over her head!"
"I like fair babies," says Lilian.
"Because you are a fair baby yourself," says Cyril.
"She can say Mammy and Pappy quite distinctly, and I have taught her to say Auntie very sweetly," goes on Mrs. Steyne, wrapt in recollection of her offspring's genius. "She can say 'cake' too, and – and that is all, I think."
"You forget, Mabel, don't you?" asks her husband, languidly. "You underrate the child's abilities. The other day when she was in a frenzy because I would not allow her to pull out my moustache in handfuls she said – "
"She was never in a frenzy, Tom," indignantly: "I wonder how you can say so of the dear angel."
"Was she not? if you say so, of course I was mistaken, but at the time I firmly believed it was temper. At all events, Lady Chetwoode, on that momentous occasion she said, 'Nanna warragood,' without a mistake. She is a wonderful child!"
"Don't pay any attention to him, auntie," with a contemptuous shrug. "He is himself quite idiotic about baby, so much so that he is ashamed of his infatuation. I shall bring her here some day to let you see her."
"You must name the day. Would next Monday suit you?"
"You needn't press the point," Tom Steyne says, warningly: "but for me, the child and its nurse would be in the room at this moment. Mab and I had a stand-up fight about it in the hall just before starting, and it was only after a good deal of calm though firm expostulation I carried the day. I represented to her that as a rule babies are not invited out to dine at eight o'clock at night, and that children of her age are generally more attractive to their mothers than to any one else."
"Barbarian!" says Lady Chetwoode.
"How have you been getting on in London, Mab," asks Cyril. "Made any new conquests?"
"Several," replies Tom; "though I think on the whole she is going off. She did not make up her usual number this season. She has, however, on her list two nice boys in the F. O., and an infant in the Guards. She is rather unhappy about them, as she cannot make up her mind which it is she likes best."
"Wrong, Tom. Yesterday I made it up. I like the 'infant' best. But what really saddens me is that I am by no means sure he likes me best. He is terribly fond of Tom, and I sometimes fear thinks him the better fellow of the two."
At this moment the door opens and Taffy comes in.
"Why! Here is my 'infant,'" exclaims Mabel, surprised. "Dear Mr. Musgrave, I had no idea I should meet you here."
"My dear Mrs. Steyne! I had no idea such luck was in store for me. I am so glad to see you again! Lilian, why didn't you break it to me? Joyful surprises are sometimes dangerous."
"I thought you knew. We have been discussing 'Mabel's' coming," with a shy smile, "all the past month."
"But how could I possibly guess that the 'Mabel' who was occupying everybody's thoughts could be my Mrs. Steyne?"
"Ours!" murmurs Tom, faintly.
"Yes, mine," says Taffy, who is not troubled with over-much shyness.
"Mr. Musgrave is your cousin?" Mabel asks, turning to Lilian.
"No, I am her son," says Taffy: "you wouldn't think it – would you? She is a good deal older than she looks, but she gets herself up wonderfully. She is not a bad mother," reflectively, "when one comes to think of it."
"I dare say if you spoke the truth you would confess her your guardian angel," says Mabel, letting a kindly glance fall on pretty Lilian. "She takes care of you, no doubt."
"And such care," answers Lilian; "but for me I do believe Taffy would have gone to the bad long ago."
"'Taffy'! what a curious name. So quaint, – and pretty too, I think. May I," with a quick irrepressible glance, that is half fun, half natural coquetry, "call you Taffy?"
"You may call me anything you like," returns that young gentleman, with the utmost bonhommie
"Call me Daphne, call me Chloris,
Call me Lalage, or Doris,
Only —only– call me thine!"
"It is really mortifying that I can't," says Mrs. Steyne, while she and the others all laugh.
"Sir," says Tom Steyne, "I would have you remember the lady you are addressing is my wife."
Says Taffy, reproachfully:
"Do you think I don't remember it, – to my sorrow?"
They have got down to dinner and as far as the fish by this time, so are all feeling friendly and good-natured.
"Tell you what you'll do, Mab," says Guy. "You shall come over here next week to stay with us, and bring baby and nurse with you, – and Tom, whether he likes it or not. We can give him as much good shooting as will cure him of his laziness."
"Yes, Mabel, indeed you must," breaks in Lady Chetwoode's gentle voice. "I want to see that dear child very badly, and how can I notice all her pretty ways unless she stays in the house with me?"
"Say yes, Mrs. Steyne," entreats Taffy: "I shall die of grief if you refuse."
"Oh, that! Yes, auntie, I shall come, thank you, if only to preserve Mr. – Taffy's life. But indeed I shall be delighted to get back to the dear old home for a while; it is so dull at Steynemore all by ourselves."
"Thank you, darling," says Tom, meekly.
After dinner Mrs. Steyne, who has taken a fancy to Lilian, seats herself beside her in the drawing-room and chatters to her unceasingly of all things known and unknown. Guy, coming in later with the other men, sinks into a chair near Mabel, and with Miss Beauchamp's Fanchette upon his knee employs himself in stroking it and answering Mabel's numerous questions. He hardly looks at Lilian, and certainly never addresses her, in which he shows his wisdom.
"No, I can't bear the country," Mrs. Steyne is saying. "It depresses me."
"In the spring surely it is preferable to town," says Lilian.
"Is it? I suppose so, because I have so often heard it; but my taste is vitiated. I am not myself out of London. Of course Tom and I go somewhere every year, but it is to please fashion we go, not because we like it. You will say I exaggerate when I tell you that I find music in the very roll of the restless cabs."
Lilian tells her that she will be badly off for music of that kind at Steynemore; but perhaps the birds will make up for the loss.
"No, you will probably think me a poor creature when I confess to you I prefer Albani to the sweetest nightingale that ever trilled; that I simply detest the discordant noise made by the melancholy lamb; that I think the cuckoo tuneless and unmusical, and that I find no transcendent pleasure in the cooing of the fondest dove that ever mourned over its mate. These beauties of nature are thrown away upon me. Woodland groves and leafy dells are to me suggestive of suicide, and make me sigh for the 'sweet shady side of Pall Mall.' The country, in fact, is lonely, and my own society makes me shudder. I like noise and excitement, and the babel of tongues."
"You forget the flowers," says Lilian, triumphantly.
"No, my dear; experience has taught me I can purchase them cheaper and far finer than I can grow them for myself. I am a skeptic, I know," smiling. "I will not try to convert you to my opinion."
"Certainly I can see advantages to be gained from a town life," says Lilian, thoughtfully, leaning her elbow on a small table near her, and letting her chin sink into her little pink palm. "One has a larger circle of acquaintances. Here everything is narrowed. One lives in the house with a certain number of persons, and, whether one likes them or the reverse, one must put up with them. There is no escape. Yes," – with an audible and thoroughly meant sigh, – "that is very sad."
This little ungracious speech, though uttered in the most innocent tone, goes home (as is intended) to Guy's heart. He conceals, however, all chagrin, and pulls the ears of the sleepy snowball he is caressing with an air of the calmest unconcern.
"You mention a fact," says Mrs. Steyne, the faintest inflection of surprise in her manner. "But you, at least, can know nothing of such misery. Chetwoode is famous for its agreeable people, and you, – you appear first favorite here. For the last hour I have been listening, and I have heard only 'Lilian, look at this,' or, 'Lilian, listen to that,' or 'Lilian, child, what was it you told me yesterday?' You seem a great pet with every one here."
Lilian laughs.
"Not with every one," she says.
"No?" – raising her straight dark brows. "Is there then an enemy in the camp? Not Cyril, surely?"
"Oh, no, not Cyril."
Their voices involuntarily have sunk a little, and, though any one near can still hear distinctly, they have all the appearance of people carrying on a private conversation.
"Guy?"
Lilian is silent. Guy's face, as he still strokes the dog dreamily, has grown haughty in the extreme. He, like Mabel, awaits her answer.
"What?" says Mrs. Steyne, in an amused tone, evidently treating the whole matter as a mere jest. "So you are not a pet with Guy! How horrible! I cannot believe it. Surely Guy is not so ungallant as to have conceived a dislike for you? Guy, do you hear this awful charge she is bringing against you? Won't you refute it? Dear boy, how stern you look!"
"Do I? I was thinking of something disagreeable."
"Of me?" puts in Lilian, sotto voce, with a faint laugh tinged with bitterness. "Why should you think what I say so extraordinary? Did you ever know a guardian like his ward, or a ward like her guardian? I didn't – especially the latter. They always find each other such a mistake!"
Sir Guy, raising his head, looks full at Lilian for a moment; his expression is almost impossible to translate; then, getting up, he crosses the room deliberately and seats himself beside Florence, who welcomes him with one of her conventional smiles that now has something like warmth in it.
"I think you are a very cruel little girl," says Mrs. Steyne, gently, not looking at Lilian, and then turns the conversation in another channel.
"You will stay in the country until after Christmas?" says Lilian, somewhat hastily.
"Yes; something has gone wrong with our steward's accounts, and Tom is dissatisfied with him. So he has been dismissed, and we shall stay on here until we please ourselves with another."
"I am glad you live so near. Three miles is only a walk, after all."
"In good weather a mere nothing, though for my own part I am not addicted to exercise of any sort: I believe, however, Steynemore's proximity to Chetwoode was one of my chief reasons for marrying Tom."
"I am glad of any reason that made you do so. If you won't mind my saying it, I will tell you I like you very much," – with a slight blush.
"I am very charmed to hear it," says Mrs. Steyne, heartily, whose liking for Lilian has grown steadily: "I should be very much disappointed if you didn't. I foresee we shall be great friends, and that you and auntie will make me fall quite in love with Tom's native soil. But" – naively – "you must not be unkind to poor Guy."