Airy Fairy Lilian Part 35

"Not that he gives me much trouble. He is a very good boy generally."

"He is a very handsome boy, at all events. You have reason to be proud of your child. I am your cousin also."

"Yes?"

"Yes."

A pause, after which Mr. Chesney says, meekly:

"I suppose you would not take me as a second son?"

"I think not," says Lilian, laughing; "you are much too important a person and far too old to be either petted or scolded."

"That is very hard lines, isn't it? You might say anything you liked to me, and I am almost positive I should not resent it. And if you will be kind enough to turn your eyes on me once more, I think you will acknowledge I am not so very old."

"Too old for me to take in hand. I doubt you would be an unruly member,--a _mauvais sujet_,--a disgrace to my teaching. I should lose caste. At dinner I saw you frown, and frowns,"--with a coquettishly plaintive sigh--"frighten me!"

"Do you imagine me brutal enough to frown upon my mother?--and such a mother?"

"Nevertheless, I cannot undertake your reformation. You should remember you are scarcely in my good books. Are you not a usurper in my eyes?

Have you not stolen from me my beloved Park?"

"Ah! true. But you can have it back again, you know," returns he, in a low tone, half jest, though there is a faint under-current--that is almost earnestness--running through it.

At this moment Lady Chetwoode saves Lilian the embarra.s.sment of a reply.

"Sing us something, darling," she says.

And Lilian, rising, trails her soft skirts after her across the room, and, sitting down at the piano, commences "Barbara Allen," sweetly, gravely, tenderly, as is her wont.

Guy's gaze is following her. The pure though _piquante_ face, the golden hair, the rich old-fas.h.i.+oned texture of the gown, all combine to make a lovely picture lovelier. The words of the song make his heart throb, and bring to life a certain memory of earlier days, when on the top of a high wall he first heard her singing it.

Pathetically, softly, she sings it, without affectation or pretense of any kind, and, having finished, still lets her fingers wander idly over the notes (drawing from them delicate minor harmonies that sadden the listener), whilst the others applaud.

Guy alone being silent, she glances at him presently with a smile full of kindliness, that claims and obtains an answering smile in return.

"Have I ever seen that gown on you before?" he asks, after a pause.

"No. This dress is without doubt an eminent success, as everybody admires it. No; you never saw it before. Do you like it?"

"More than I can say. Lilian, you have formed your opinion of your cousin, and--you like him?"

"Very much, indeed. He is handsome, _debonnaire_, all that may be desired, and--he quite likes Taffy."

"A pa.s.sport to your favor," says Chetwoode, smiling. "Though no one could help liking the boy." Then his eyes seeking her hands once more, fasten upon the right one, and he sees the ring he had placed upon the third finger a few hours before now glistens bravely upon the second.

The discovery causes him a pang so keen that involuntarily he draws himself up to his full height, and condemns himself as a superst.i.tious fool. As if she divines his thought,--though in reality she knows nothing of it,--Lilian says, gazing admiringly at the glittering trinket in question:

"I think your ring grows prettier and prettier every time I look at it.

But it would not stay on the finger you chose; while I was dressing it fell off; so, fearing to lose it, I slipped it upon this one. It looks as well, does it not?"

"Yes," said Chetwoode, though all the time he is wis.h.i.+ng with all his heart it had not fallen from the engagement finger. When we love we grow fearful; and with fear there is torment.

"Why don't you ask Florence to sing?" asks Lilian, suddenly.

Archibald Chesney has risen and lounged over to the piano, and now is close beside her. To Guy's jealous ears it seems as though the remark was made to rid her of his presence.

"Because I detest French songs," he answers, somewhat sharply,--Miss Beauchamp being addicted to such foreign music.

"Do you?" says Lilian, laughing at his tone, which she fully understands, and straightway sings one (the gayest, brightest, most nonsensical to be found in her _repertoire_) in her sweet fresh voice, glancing at him with a comical challenge in her eyes every time the foolish yet tender refrain occurs.

When she has finished she says to him, saucily:

"Well, Sir Guy?"

And he answers:

"I am vanquished, utterly convinced. I confess I now like French songs as well as any others."

"I like them ten times better," says Archibald, impulsively, "when they are sung by you. There is a _verve_, a gayety about them that other songs lack. Have you any more? Do you know any of Gounod's? I like them, though they are of a different style."

"They are rather beyond me," says Lilian, laughing. "But hear this: it is one of Beranger's, very simply set, but I think pretty."

This time she sings to _him_,--unmistakably,--a soft little Norman love-song, full of grace and tenderest entreaty, bestowing upon him all the beguiling smiles she had a moment since given exclusively to her guardian, until at length Sir Guy, muttering "coquette" to his own heart, turns aside, leaving Chesney master of the field.

Lilian, turning from her animated discussion with Archibald, follows his departing footsteps with her eyes, in which lies a faintly malicious smile; an expression full of suppressed enjoyment curves her lips; she is evidently satisfied at his abrupt retreat, and continues her interrupted conversation with her cousin in still more joyous tones.

Perhaps this is how she means to fulfill her mysterious threat of "showing" Sir Guy.

CHAPTER XV.

"I will gather thee, he cried, Rosebud brightly blowing!

Then I'll sting thee, it replied, And you'll quickly start aside With the p.r.i.c.kle glowing.

Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red, Rosebud brightly blowing!"

--GOETHE--_translated_.

"Nurse, wash my hair," says Lilian, entering her nurse's sanctum, which is next her own, one lovely morning early in September when

"Dew is on the lea, And tender buds are fretting to be free."

The fickle sun is flinging its broad beams far and near, now glittering upon the ivied towers, and now dancing round the chimney-tops, now necking with gold the mullioned window. Its brightness is as a smile from the departing summer, the sweeter that it grows rarer every hour; its merry rays spread and lengthen, the wind grows softer, balmier, beneath its influence; it is as the very heart of lazy July.