Airy Fairy Lilian Part 79

"Dear eyes!" says Guy, kissing them separately. "Lilian, if indeed you love me, why have you made life so odious to me for the last three months?"

"Because I wasn't going to be civil to people who were over-attentive to other people," says Lilian, in her most lucid manner. "And--sometimes--I thought you liked Florence."

"Florence? Pshaw! Who could like Florence, having once seen you?"

"Mr. Boer could, I'm sure. He has seen me,--as seldom as I could manage, certainly,--but still enough to mark the wide difference between us."

"Boer is a lunatic," says Guy, with conviction,--"quite unaccountable.

But I think I could forgive him all his peccadilloes if he would promise to marry Florence and remove her. I can stand almost anything--except single chants as performed by her."

"Then all my jealousy was for nothing?" with a slight smile.

"All. But what of mine? What of Chesney?" He regards her earnestly as he asks the question.

"Poor Archie," she says, with a pang of real sorrow and regret, as she remembers everything. And then follows a conversation confined exclusively to Archibald,--being filled with all the heart-burnings and despair caused by that unhappy young man's mistaken attentions. When the subject has exhausted itself, and they are once more silent, they find themselves thoughtful, perhaps a little sad. A sigh escapes Lilian.

Raising her head, she looks at her lover anxiously.

"Guy," she says, rather tremulously, "you have never said one reproachful word to me about what happened the other night--in the library. I am thinking of it now. When I call to mind my wretched temper I feel frightened. Perhaps--perhaps--I shall not make you happy."

"I defy you to make me unhappy so long as you can tell me honestly you love me. Do not take advantage of it"--with a light laugh--"if I confess to you I would rather have a box on the ear from you than a kiss from any other woman. But such is the degrading truth. Nevertheless"

--teasingly--"next time I would ask you, as a favor, not to do it _quite_ so hard!"

"Ah, Guy," tearfully, and with a hot blush, "do not jest about it."

"How can I do anything else to-day?" Then, tenderly, "Still sad, my own?

Take that little pucker off your brow. Do you imagine any act of yours could look badly in my eyes? 'You are my life--my love--my heart.' When I recollect how miserable I was yesterday, I can hardly believe in my happiness of to-day."

"Dearest," says Lilian, her voice faltering, "you are too good to me."

Then, turning to him, of her own sweet will, she throws her arms around his neck, and lays her soft flushed cheek to his. "I shall never be bad to you again, Guy," she whispers; "believe that; never, never, never!"

Coming into the hall a little later, they encounter her ladys.h.i.+p's maid, and stop to speak to her.

"Is Lady Chetwoode's head better?" asks Lilian. "Can I see her, Hardy?"

"Yes, Miss Chesney. She is much better; she has had a little sleep, and has asked for you several times since she awoke. I could not find you anywhere."

"I will go to her now," says Lilian, and she and Guy, going up-stairs, make their way to Lady Chetwoode's room.

"Better, auntie?" asks Lilian, bending over her, as she sits in her comfortable arm-chair.

"Rather better, darling," returns auntie, who is now feeling as well as possible (though it is yet too soon to admit it even to herself), and who has just finished a cutlet, and a gla.s.s of the rare old port so strongly recommended by Dr. Bland. "Guy, bring over that chair for Lilian. Sitting up late at night always upsets me."

"It was a horrible ball," says Miss Lilian, ungratefully. "I didn't enjoy it one bit."

"No?" in amazement. "My dear, you surprise me. I thought I had never seen you look so joyous in my life."

"It was all forced gayety," with a little laugh. "My heart was slowly breaking all the time. I wanted to dance with one person, who obstinately refused to ask me, and so spoiled my entire evening. Was it not cruel of that 'one person'?"

"The fact is," says Guy, addressing his mother, "she behaved so infamously, and flirted so disgracefully, all night, that the 'one person' was quite afraid to approach her."

"I fear you did flirt a little," says Lady Chetwoode, gentle reproof in her tone; "that handsome young man you were dancing with just before I left--and who seemed so devoted--hardly went home heart-whole. That was naughty, darling, wasn't it? You should think of--of--other people's feelings." It is palpable to both her hearers she is alluding to Chesney.

"Auntie," says Miss Chesney, promptly, and with the utmost _navete_, "if you scold me, I feel sure you will bring on that nasty headache again."

She is bending over the back of Lady Chetwoode's chair, where she cannot be seen, and is tenderly smoothing as much of her pretty gray hair as can be seen beneath the lace cap that adorns her auntie's head.

Sir Guy laughs.

"Ah! I shall never make you a good child, so long as your guardian encourages you in your wickedness," says Lady Chetwoode, smiling too.

"Do I encourage her? Surely that is a libel," says Guy: "she herself will bear me witness how frequently--though vainly--I have reasoned with her on her conduct. I hardly know what is to be done with her, unless----" here he pauses, and looks at Lilian, who declines to meet his glance, but lets her hand slip from Lady Chetwoode's head down to her shoulder, where it rests nervously--"unless I take her myself, and marry her out of hand, before she has time to say 'no.'"

"Perhaps--even did you allow me time--I should not say 'no,'" says Lilian, with astonis.h.i.+ng meekness, her face like the heart of a "red, red rose."

Something 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 a.s.sent, 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 a.s.sumed vanishes as if by magic, while his usual debonair smile returns to his lips.