Airy Fairy Lilian

"Perhaps he would not marry you," replies Lilian, cuttingly.

"Wouldn't he? he would like a shot, if I were like Lilian Chesney," says Taffy, positively.

"'Like a shot' – what does that mean?" says Miss Chesney, with withering sarcasm. "It is a pity you cannot forget your schoolboy slang, and try to be a gentleman. I don't think you over hear that 'decent fellow' Sir Guy, or even that cut-throat Archibald, use it."

With this parting shaft she marches off overflowing with indignation, leaving Mr. Musgrave lost in wonder at her sudden change of manner.

"What on earth is up with her now?" he asks himself, desperately; but the dressing-bell ringing at this moment disarms thought, and sends him in-doors to prepare for dinner.

Mrs. Boileau has asked no one to meet them except a lank and dreary curate, who is evidently a prime favorite with her. He is an Honorable Mr. Boer, with nothing attractive about him except a most alarming voice that makes one glance instinctively at his boots under the mistaken impression that the sound must come from them. This is rather unfortunate for the curate, as his feet are not (or rather are) his strong point, Nature having endowed them with such a tremendous amount of heel, and so much sole, innocent of instep, as makes them unpleasantly suggestive of sledge-hammers.

He is painfully talkative, and oppressively evangelical, which renders him specially abhorrent to Lilian, who has rather a fancy for flowers and candles and nice little boys in white shirts. He is also undecided whether it is Miss Beauchamp or Miss Chesney he most admires. They have equal fortunes, and are therefore (in his clerical eyes) equally lovely. There is certainly more of Miss Beauchamp, but then there is a vivacity, a – ahem – "go," if one might say so, about Miss Chesney perfectly irresistible. Had one of these rival beauties been an heiress, and the other rich in love's charms, I think I know which one Mr. Boer would have bowed before, – not that I even hint at mercenary motives in his reverence, but as it is he is much exercised in his mind as to which he shall honor with his attentions.

I think Lilian wins the day, because after dinner he bears down upon her determinately, and makes for the fauteuil in which she lies ensconced looking bored and ennuyée to the last degree. Dinner has been insipid, the whole evening a mistake; neither Guy nor Archibald will come near her, or even look at her; and now Mr. Boer's meditated attack is the last straw that breaks the camel's back.

"I consider the school-board very much to blame," begins that divine while yet some yards distant, speaking in his usual blatant tones, that never change their key-note, however long they may continue to insult the air.

"So do I," says Lilian, very gently and sweetly, but with such unmistakable haste as suggests a determination on her part to bring the undiscussed subject to an ignominious close. "I quite agree with you; I think them terribly to blame. But I beg your pardon for one moment: I want to ask Mr. Chetwoode a question that has been haunting me for hours."

Rising, she glides away from him over the carpet, leaving Mr. Boer – who takes a long time to understand anything, and could not possibly believe in a rebuff offered to himself in person – watching the tail of her long sweeping gown, and wondering curiously if all the little white frillings beneath it may not have something to do with a falling petticoat. At this point he pulls himself together with a start, and fears secretly he is growing immodest.

In the meantime Lilian has reached Cyril, who is sitting at a table somewhat apart, gazing moodily at a book containing prints of the chief villages in Wales. He, like herself, is evidently in the last stage of dejection.

Bending over him, she whispers in an awful tone, but with a beaming smile meant to mystify the observant Boer:

"If you don't instantly deliver me from that man I shall make a point of going off into such a death-like swoon as will necessitate my being borne from the room. He is now going to tell me about that miserable school-board all over again, and I can't and won't stand it."

"Poor child," says Cyril, with deepest sympathy; "I will protect you. If he comes a step nearer, I swear to you I will have his blood." Uttering this comforting assurance in the mildest tone, he draws a chair to the table, and together they explore Wales in print.

Then there is a little music, and a good deal of carefully suppressed yawning, and then the carriages are announced and they all bid their hostess good-night, and tell a few pretty lies about the charming evening they have spent, etc.

"Cyril, will you drive me home?" Lilian says to him hurriedly in the hall, while they are being finally cloaked and shawled. As she says it she takes care to avoid his eyes, so she does not see the look of amused scrutiny that lies in them.

"So soon!" he says, tragically. "It was an easy victory! I shall be only too charmed, my dear Lilian, to drive you to the other end of the world if need be."

So they start and drive home together placidly, through the cool, soft night. Lilian is strangely silent, so is Cyril, – the calm beauty of the heavens above them rendering their lips mute.

"Now glowed the firmamentWith living sapphires; Hesperus, that ledThe starry host, rode brightest; till the moon,Rising in clouded majesty, at length —Apparent queen! – unveiled her peerless light,And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw."

The night is very calm, and rich in stars; brilliant almost as garish day, but bright with that tender, unchanging, ethereal light – clear, yet full of peaceful shadow – that day can never know.

"There is no dew on the dry grass to-night,

Nor damp within the shadow of the trees;The wind is intermitting, dry and light."

Lilian sighs gently as they move rapidly through the still air, – a sigh not altogether born of the night's sweetness, but rather tinged with melancholy. The day has been a failure, and though through all its windings she has been possessed by the spirit of gayety, now in the subdued silence of the night the reaction setting in reduces her to the very verge of tears.

Cyril, too, is very quiet, but his thoughts are filled with joy. Lifting his gaze to the eternal vault above him, he seems to see in the gentle stars the eyes of his beloved smiling back at him. A dreamy happiness, an exquisite feeling of thankfulness, absorb him, making him selfishly blind to the sadness of his little companion.

"How silent you are!" Lilian says, at length, unable to endure her tormenting reverie any longer.

"Am I?" smiling. "I was thinking of some lines I read yesterday: the night is so lovely it recalls them. Of course they are as well known to you as to me; but hear them:

"How beautiful is the night!A dewy freshness fills the silent air;No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor streak, nor stain,Breaks the serene of heaven:In full-orb'd glory yonder moon divineRolls through the dark-blue depths."

"Yes, they are pretty lines: they are Southey's, I think," says Lilian, and then she sighs again, and hardly another word is spoken between them until they reach home.

As they pull up at the hall-door, Guy, who has arrived a little before them, comes forward, and, placing one foot upon the step of Cyril's T-cart, takes Lilian in his arms and lifts her to the ground. She is so astonished at the suddenness of this demonstration on his part that she forgets to make any protest, only – she turns slowly and meaningly away from him, with lowered eyes and with averted head.

With a beseeching gesture he detains her, and gains for a moment her attention. He is looking pale, miserable; there is an expression of deep entreaty in his usually steady blue eyes.

"Lilian, forgive me," he whispers, anxiously, trying to read her face by the moonlight: "I have been sufficiently punished. If you could guess all I have endured to-day through your coldness, your scorn, you would say so too. Forgive me."

"Impossible," returns she, haughtily, in clear tones, and, motioning him contemptuously to one side, follows Cyril into the house.

Inside they find Lady Chetwoode not only up and waiting for them, but wide awake. This latter is a compliment so thoroughly unexpected as to rouse within them feelings of the warmest gratitude.

"What, Madre! you still here?" says Cyril. "Why, we imagined you not only out of your first but far into your second beauty sleep by this time."

"I missed you all so much I decided upon waiting up for you," Lady Chetwoode answers, smiling benignly upon them all; "besides, early in the evening – just after you left – I had a telegram from dear Mabel, saying she and Tom will surely be here to dinner to-morrow night. And the idea so pleased me I thought I would stay here to impart my news and hear yours."

Every one in the room who knows Mrs. Steyne here declares his delight at the prospect of so soon seeing her again.

"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 yearsWere 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.