Airy Fairy Lilian Part 77

"No," replies Miss Chesney, somewhat troubled; "it is not that, only----"

"Then I think you had better stay as you are. You are very tired, I can see, and this carriage is not the easiest in the world."

With gentle boldness he replaces the offending arm in its old position, and wisely refrains from further speech.

Lilian is confounded. She makes no effort to release herself, being filled with amazement at the extraordinary change in his manner, and, perhaps, wholly glad of it. Has he forgiven her? Has he repented him of his stern looks and cold avoidance? All night long he has shunned her persistently, has apparently been unaware of her presence; and now there is something in his tone, in his touch, that betrays to her what sets her heart beating treacherously.

Presently Guy becomes aware of this fact, and finding encouragement in the thought that she has not again repulsed him, says, softly:

"Were you frightened when you awoke?"

"Yes, a little."

"You are not frightened now?"

"No, not now. At first, on waking, I started to find myself here."

"Here," may mean the carriage, or her resting-place, or anything.

After a short pause:

"Sir Guy,"--tremulously.

"Yes."

"You remember all that happened the night before last?"

"I do," slowly.

"I have wanted ever since to tell you how sorry I am for it all, to beg your pardon, to ask you to----" she stops, afraid to trust her voice further, because of some little troublesome thing that rises in her throat and threatens to make itself heard.

"I don't want you to beg my pardon," says Guy, hastily, in a pained tone. "If I had not provoked you, it would never have happened. Lilian, promise me you will think no more about it."

"Think about it! I shall never cease thinking about it. It was horrible, it was shameful of me. I must have gone mad, I think. Even now, to remember it makes me blush afresh. I am glad it is dark,"--with a little nervous laugh,--"because you cannot see my face. It is burning."

"Is it?" tenderly. With gentle fingers he touches her soft cheek, and finds it is indeed, as she has said, "burning." He discovers something else also,--tears quite wet upon it.

"You are crying, child," he says, startled, distressed.

"Am I? No wonder. I _ought_ to suffer for my hateful conduct toward you.

I shall never forgive myself."

"Nonsense!" angrily. "Why should you cry about such a trifle? I won't have it. It makes me miserable to know any thought of me can cause you a tear."

"I cry"--with a heavy sob--"because I fear you will never think well of me again. I have lost your good opinion, if indeed"--sadly--"I ever had it. You _must_ think badly of me."

"I do not," returns he, with an accent that is almost regret. "I wish I could. It matters little what you do, I shall never think of you but as the dearest and sweetest girl I ever met. In that"--with a sigh--"lies my misfortune."

"Not think badly of me! and yet you called me a flirt! Am I a flirt?"

Chetwoode hesitates, but only for a minute; then he says, decidedly, though gently:

"Perhaps not a flirt, but certainly a coquette. Do not be angry with me for saying so. Think how you pa.s.sed this one evening. First remember the earlier part of it, and then your cruel encouragement of the luckless guardsman."

"But the people I wanted to dance with wouldn't ask me to dance," says Lilian, reproachfully, "and what was I to do? I did not care for that stupid Captain Monk: he was handsome, but insufferably slow, and--and--I don't believe I cared for _any one_."

"What! not even for----" He pauses. Not now, not at this moment, when for a sweet though perhaps mad time she seems so near to him in thought and feeling, can he introduce his rival's name. Unconsciously he tightens his arm round her, and, emboldened by the softness of her manner, smooths back from her forehead the few golden hairs that have wandered there without their mistress's will.

Lilian is silent, and strangely, unutterably happy.

"I wish we could be always friends," she says, wistfully, after a little eloquent pause.

"So do I,"--mournfully,--"but I know we never shall be."

"That is a very unkind speech, is it not? At least"--slipping five warm little fingers into his disengaged hand--"_I_ shall always be a friend of _yours_, and glad of every smallest thing that may give you happiness."

"You say all this now, and yet to-morrow,"--bending to look at her in the ungenerous light,--"to-morrow you may tell me again that you 'hate me.'"

"If I do,"--quickly,--"you must not believe me. I have a wretched temper, and I lost it completely when I said that the other night. I did not mean it. I do not hate you, Guy: you know that, do you not?" Her voice falls a little, trembles, and softens. It is the first time she has ever called him by his Christian name without its prefix, and Guy's pulses begin to throb a little wildly.

"If you do not hate me, what then?" he asks.

"I like you."

"Only that?" rather unsteadily.

"To like honestly is perhaps best of all."

"It may be, but it does not satisfy me. One _likes_ many people."

Lilian is silent. She is almost positive now that he loves her, and while longing to hear him say so, shrinks from saying what will surely bring forth the avowal. And yet if she now answers him coldly, carelessly----

"If I say I am fond of you," she says, in a tone so low, so nervous, as to be almost unheard, "will that do?"

The carriage some time since has turned in the avenue gate.

They are approaching the house swiftly; already the lights from the windows begin to twinkle through the leafy branches of the trees: their time is short. Guy forgets all about Chesney, all about everything except the girlish face so close to his own.

"_Are_ you fond of me, Lilian?" he asks, entreatingly. There is no reply: he stoops, eager to read his fate in her expression. His head touches hers; still lower, and his moustache brushes her cheek; Lilian trembles a little, but her pale lips refuse to answer; another instant, and his lips meet hers. He kisses her warmly, pa.s.sionately, and fancies--is it fancy?--that she returns his caress faintly.

Then the carriage stops. The men alight. Sir Guy steps out, and Miss Chesney lays her hand in his as he helps her to descend. He presses it warmly, but fails in his anxious attempt to make her eyes meet his: moving quickly past him into the house, she crosses the hall, and has her foot upon the first step of the stairs, when his voice arrests her.

"Good-night, Lilian," he says, rather nervously, addressing her from a few yards' distance. He is thinking of a certain night long ago when he incurred her anger, and trembles for the consequences of his last act.

Lilian hesitates. Then she turns partly toward him, though still keeping half her face averted. Her cheeks are crimson; her eyes, shamed and full of tears, are bent upon the ground. For one swift instant she raises them and lets a soft, shy glance meet his.

"Good-night," she whispers, timidly holding out to him her hand.

Guy takes it gladly, reverently. "Good-night, my own darling," answers he, in a voice choked with emotion.