Airy Fairy Lilian
TextSomething in her son's eyes, something in Lilian's tone, rouses Lady Chetwoode to comprehension.
"What is it?" she asks, quickly, and with agitation. "Lilian, why do you stand there? Come here, that I may look at you? Can It be possible? Have you two – "
"We have," replies Lilian, interrupting her gently, and suddenly going down on her knees, she places her arms round her. "Are you sorry, auntie? Am I very unworthy? Won't you have me for your daughter after all?"
"Sorry!" says Lady Chetwoode, and, had she spoken volumes, she could not have expressed more unfeigned joy. "And has all your quarreling ended so?" she asks, presently, with an amused laugh.
"Yes, just so," replies Guy, taking Lilian's hand, and raising it to his lips. "We have got it all over before our marriage, so as to have none afterward. Is it not so, Lilian?"
She smiles assent, and there is something in the smile so sweet, so adorable, that, in spite of his mother "and a'," Guy kisses her on the spot.
"I am so relieved," says Lady Chetwoode, regarding her new daughter with much fondness, "and just as I had given up all hope. Many times I wished for a girl, when I found myself with only two troublesome boys, and now at last I have one, – a real daughter."
"And I a mother. Though I think my name for you will always be the one by which I learned to love you, – Auntie," returns Lilian, tenderly.
At this moment Cecilia opens the door cautiously, and, stepping very lightly, enters the room, followed by Cyril, also on tiptoe. Seeing Lady Chetwoode, however, standing close to Lilian and looking quite animated and not in the least invalided, they brighten up, and advance more briskly.
"Dear Madre," says Cecilia, who has adopted Cyril's name for his mother, "I am glad to see you so much better. Is your headache quite gone?"
"Quite, my dear. Lilian has cured it. She is the most wonderful physician."
And then the new-comers are told the delightful story, and Lilian receives two more caresses, and gets through three or four blushes very beautifully. They are still asking many questions, and uttering pretty speeches, when a step upon the corridor outside attracts their attention.
It is a jaunty step, and undoubtedly belongs to Mr. Musgrave, who is informing the household generally, at the top of his fresh young voice, that he is "ragged and torn," and that he rather enjoys it than otherwise. Coming close to the door, however, he moderates his transports, and, losing sight of the vagabond, degenerates once more into that very inferior creature, a decently-clothed and well-combed young gentleman.
Opening the door with praiseworthy carefulness, he says, in the meekest and most sympathetic voice possible:
"I hope your headache is better, Lady Chetwoode?"
By this time he has his head quite inside the door, and becomes pleasantly conscious that there is something festive in the air within. The properly lachrymose expression he has assumed vanishes as if by magic, while his usual debonair smile returns to his lips.
"Oh, I say – then it was all a swindle on the part of Hardy, was it?" he asks. "Dear Lady Chetwoode, it makes me feel positively young again to see you looking so well. Your woman hinted to me you were at the point of death."
"Come in, Taffy. You too shall hear what has revived me," says her ladyship, smiling, and thereupon unfolds her tale to him, over which he beams, and looks blessings on all around.
"I knew it," he says; "could have told everybody all about it months ago! couldn't I, Lil? Remember the day I bet you a fiver he would propose to you in six months?"
"I remember nothing of the kind," says Miss Chesney, horribly shocked. "Taffy, how can you say such a thing?"
"Tell us all about it, Taffy," entreats Cyril, languidly, from the depths of an arm-chair. "I feel so done up with all I have gone through this morning, that I long for a wholesome exciting little tale to rouse me a bit. Go on."
"Oh, it was only that day at Mrs. Boileau's last autumn," begins Taffy.
"Taffy, I desire you to be silent," says Lilian, going up to him and looking very determined. "Do not attempt to speak when I tell you not to do so."
"Was the betting even, Taffy?" asks Cyril.
"No. She said – "
"Taffy!"
"She said he had as much idea of proposing to her as she had of – "
"Taffy!"
"Marrying him, even should he ask her," winds up Mr. Musgrave, exploding with joy over his discomfiting disclosure.
"No one believes you," says Lilian, in despair, while they all laugh heartily, and Cyril tells her not to make bad bets in future.
"Not one," says Sir Guy, supporting her as in duty bound; "but I really think you ought to give him that five pounds."
"Certainly I shall not," says Miss Chesney, hotly. "It is all a fabrication from beginning to end. I never made a bet in my life. And, besides, the time he named was the end of the year, and not in six months."
At this avowal they all roar, and Guy declares he must take her out for a walk, lest she should commit herself any further.
* * * * * * *
The happy day at length is drawing to a close. Already it is evening, though still the dying light lingers, as if loath to go. Archibald Chesney, after a hurried private interview with Lady Chetwoode, has taken his departure, not to return again to Chetwoode until time has grown into years. In her own room Lilian, even in the midst of her new-born gladness, has wept bitterly for him, and sorrowed honestly over the remembrance of his grief and disappointment.
Of all the household Florence alone is still in ignorance of the wonderful event that has taken place since morning. Her aunt has declared her intention of being the one to impart the good news to her, for which all the others are devoutly thankful. She – Miss Beauchamp – has been out driving all the afternoon for the benefit of her dear complexion; has visited the schools, and there succeeded in irritating almost to the verge of murder the unhappy teacher and all the wretched little children; has had an interview with Mr. Boer, who showed himself on the occasion even more empressé than usual; has returned, and is now once more seated at her work in the drawing-room, covered with wools and glory.
Near her sits Lilian, absently winding a tiny ball of wool. Having finished her task, she hands it to Florence with a heavy sigh indicative of relief.
"Thanks. Will you do another?" asks Florence.
"No, – oh, no," hastily. Then, laughing, "You mustn't think me uncivil," she says, "but I am really not equal to winding up another, of these interminable balls. My head goes round as fast as the wool, if not faster."
"And are you going to sit there doing nothing?" asks Florence, glancing at her with ill-concealed disapproval, as the young lady proceeds to ensconce herself in the coziest depths of the coziest chair the room contains, as close to the fire as prudence will permit.
"I am almost sure of it," she answers, complacently, horrifying the proper Florence being one of her chief joys. "I am never really happy until I feel myself thoroughly idle. I detest being useful. I love doing 'nothing,' as you call it. I have always looked upon Dr. Watts's bee as a tiresome lunatic."
"Do you never think it necessary to try to – improve your mind?"
"Does crewel-work improve the mind?" opening her eyes for an instant lazily.
"Certainly; in so far that it leaves time for reflection. There is something soothing about it that assists the mind. While one works one can reflect."
"Can one?" naughtily: "I couldn't. I can do any number of things, but I am almost positive I couldn't reflect. It means – doesn't it? – going over and over and over again disagreeable scenes, and remembering how much prettier one might have behaved under such and such circumstances. I call that not only wearying but unpleasant. No, I feel sure I am right. I shall never, if I can help it, reflect."
"Then you are content to be a mere butterfly – an idler on the face of the earth all your days?" asks Florence, severely, taking the high and moral tone she has been successfully cultivating ever since her acquaintance with Mr. Boer.
"As long as I can. Surely when I marry it will be time enough to grow 'useful,' and go in for work generally. You see one can't avoid it then. Keeping one's husband in order, I have been always told, is an onerous job."
"You intend marrying, then?" Something in the other's tone has roused Florence to curiosity. She sits up and looks faintly interested.
"Yes."
"Soon?"
"Perhaps."
"You are serious?"
"Quite serious."
"Ah!"
A pause. Miss Beauchamp takes up two shades of wool and examines them critically. They are so exactly alike that it can make little difference which she chooses. But she is methodical, and would die rather than make one false stitch in a whole acre of canvas. Having made her choice of the two shades, she returns to the attack.
"I had no idea you liked your cousin so much," she says.
"So much! How much?" says Lilian, quickly turning very red. Her cousin is a sore subject with her just now. "I do not think we are speaking of Archibald."
"No; but I thought you said – "
"Nothing of him, I am sure," still hastily.
"Oh! I beg your pardon. I quite fancied – " Here she pauses, somewhat mystified. Then, "You and he are very good friends, are you not?"
"Very," coldly.
"And yet," with an elephantine attempt at playfulness, "I certainly did think last night some quarrel had arisen between you. He looked so savage when you were dancing with Captain Monk. His eyes are handsome, but at times I have noticed a gleam in them that might safely be termed dangerous."
"Have you? I have not."
"No? How strange! But no doubt when with you – For my own part, I confess I should be quite afraid of him, – of annoying him, I mean."
"I have never yet felt afraid of any one," returns Lilian, absently.
"How I do admire your courage, – your pluck, if I may so call it," says Florence, hesitating properly over the unlady-like word. "Now, I am so different. I am painfully nervous with some people. Guy, for instance, quite tyrannizes over me," with the little conscious laugh that makes the old disgust rise warmly in Lilian's breast. "I should be so afraid to contradict Guy."
"And why?"
"I don't know. He looks so – so – I really can hardly explain; but some sympathetic understanding between us makes me know he would not like it. He has a great desire for his own way."
"Most people have," – dryly. "I never feel those sympathetic sensations you speak of myself, but I could guess so much."
"Another reason why I should refrain from thwarting his wishes is this," says Florence, sorting her colors carefully, "I fancy, indeed I know, he could actually dislike any one who systematically contradicted him."
"Do you think so? I contradict him when I choose."
"Yes," blandly: "that exactly illustrates my idea."
"You think, then, he dislikes me?" says Lilian, raising herself the better to examine her companion's features, while a sense of thorough amusement makes itself felt within her.
"Dislike" – apologetically – "is a hard word. And yet at times I think so. Surely you must have noticed how he avoids you, how he declines to carry out any argument commenced by you."
"I blush for my want of sensibility," says Lilian, meekly. "No, I have not noticed it."
"Have you not?" with exaggerated surprise. "I have."
At this most inopportune moment Guy enters the room.
"Ah, Guy," says Lilian, quietly, "come here. I want to tell you something."
He comes over obediently, gladly, and stands by her chair. It is a low one, and he leans his arm upon the back of it.
"Florence has just said you hate being contradicted," she murmurs, in her softest tones.
"If she did, there was a great deal of truth in the remark," he answers, with an amused laugh, while Florence glances up triumphantly. "Most fellows do, eh?"
"And that I am the one that generally contradicts you."
"That is only half a truth. If she had said who always contradicts me, it would have been a whole one."
Lilian rises. She places her hand lightly on his arm.
"She also said that for that reason you dislike me." The words are uttered quietly, but somehow tears have gathered in the violet eyes.
"Dislike!" exclaims her lover, the very faint symptoms of distress upon his darling's face causing him instant pain. "Lilian! how absurd you are! How could such a word come to be used between us? Surely Florence must know – has not my mother told you?" he asks, turning to Miss Beauchamp a look full of surprise.
"I know nothing," replies she, growing a shade paler. At this moment she does know, and determines finally to accept, when next offered, the devotion Mr. Boer has been showering upon her for the past two months. Yes, she will take him for better, for worse, voice, low-church tendencies, and all. The latter may be altered, the former silenced. "I know nothing," she says; "what is it?"
"Merely this, that Lilian and I are going to be married this summer. Lilian, of your goodness do not contradict me, in this one matter at least," bending a tender smile upon his betrothed, who returns it shyly.
"I confess you surprise me," says Florence, with the utmost self-possession, though her lips are still a trifle white. "I have never been so astonished in my life. You seem to me so unsuited – so – but that only shows how impossible it is to judge rightly in such a case. Had I been asked to name the feeling I believed you two entertained for each other, I should unhesitatingly have called it hatred!"
"How we have deceived the British Public!" says Guy, laughing, although at her words a warm color has crept into his face. "For the future we must not 'dissemble.' Now that we have shown ourselves up in our true colors, Florence, you will, I hope, wish us joy."
"Certainly, with all my heart," in a tone impossible to translate: "my only regret is, that mere wishing will not insure it to you."
Here a servant opening the door informs Miss Beauchamp that Lady Chetwoode wishes to see her for a few minutes.
"Say I shall be with her directly," returns Florence, and, rising leisurely, she sweeps, without the smallest appearance of haste, from the room.
Then Lilian turns to Sir Guy:
"How curiously she uttered that last speech! – almost as though she hoped we should not be happy, I am sure I am right; she does not want you to marry me."
"She was not enthusiastic in her congratulations, I admit. But that need not affect us. I am not proud. So long as you want to marry me, I shall be quite content."
Lilian's reply, being wordless, need not be recorded here.
"Spiteful thing," remarks she, presently, à propos of the spotless Florence.
"Poor, Boer!" replies he.
"You think she will marry him?" heavily, and most unflatteringly, emphasized.
"I do."
"Poor Florence!" returns she. "When I think that, I can forgive her all her sins. Dreadful man! I do hope she will make his life a burden to him."
"I am sure you will live to see one hope fulfilled. Though I dare say he has a better chance of peace in the years to come than I have: Florence, at all events, does not go about boxing people's – "
"Guy," says Miss Chesney, imperatively, laying her hand upon his lips, "if you dare to finish that sentence, or if you ever refer to that horrible scene again, I shall most positively refuse to marry – Oh! here is Mr. Boer. Talk of somebody! Look, it is he, is it not?" Standing on tiptoe, she cranes her neck eagerly, and rather flattens her pretty nose against the window-pane in a wild endeavor to catch a glimpse of Mr. Boer's long-tailed coat, which "hangs" very much "down behind," before it quite disappears in a curve of the avenue. Presently it comes to view again from behind the huge laurustinus bush, and they are now quite convinced it is indeed the amorous parson.
"Yes, it is he," says Guy, staring over his betrothed's head, as he catches the first glimpse. "And evidently full of purpose. Mark the fell determination in his clerical stride."
"She saw him this morning at the schools, – she told me so, – and here he is again!" says Lilian, in an awe-struck tone. "There must be something in it. As you say, he really seems bent on business of some sort; perhaps he is come – "
"With a new chant, as I'm a sinner," says Chetwoode, with a groan. "Let us go into the library: the baize and that large screen stifles sound."
"No, to propose! I mean: there is a curious look about him as if, if – "
"He was going to execution?"
"No, to Florence."
"That is quite the same thing."
"I hear his step," says Lilian, hurriedly, flinging open the window, "and hers too! She must have seen him coming, and run to meet him with open arms. Not for worlds would I spoil sport, or put them in a 'tender taking.' Let us fly." Stepping out on the balcony, she turns to glance back at him. "Will you follow me?" she asks, a certain arch sweetness in her eyes.
"To the end of the world!" returns he, eagerly, and together, hand in hand, they pass out of sight.