Airy Fairy Lilian Part 39

"No."

"He asked Guy to let you have the cottage?"

"Yes; I had wearied of everything, and though by some chance I had come in for all Mr. Arlington's property, I only cared to go away and hide myself somewhere where I should find quiet and peace. I tried several places, but I was always restless until I came here." She smiles faintly.

Cyril, after a pause, says, hesitatingly:

"Cecilia, did you ever care for--for--Trant?"

"Never: did you imagine that? I never cared for any one but you; I never shall again. And you, Cyril," the tears rushing thickly to her eyes, "do you still think you can love me, the daughter of one bad man, the wife of another? I can hardly think myself as good as other women when I remember all the hateful scenes I have pa.s.sed through."

"I shall treat you to a crowning scene if you ever dare say that again,"

says Cyril, whose spirits are rising now she has denied having any affection for Trant. "And if every relation you ever had was as bad as bad could be, I should adore you all the same. I can't say any more."

"You needn't," returns she, laughing a little. "Oh, Cyril, how sweet it is to be beloved, to me especially, who never yet (until now) had any love offered me; at least," correcting herself hastily, "any I cared to accept!"

"But you had a lover?" asks he, earnestly.

"Yes, one."

"Trant again?" letting his teeth close somewhat sharply on his under lip.

"Yes."

"Cecilia, I am afraid you liked that fellow once. Come, confess it."

"No, indeed, not in the way you mean; but in every other way more than I can tell you. I should be the most ungrateful wretch alive if it were otherwise. As a true friend, I love him."

"How dare you use such a word to any one but me?" says Cyril, bending to smile into her eyes. "I warn you not to do it again, or I shall be dangerously and outrageously jealous. Tears in your eyes still, my sweet? Let me kiss them away: poor eyes! surely they have wept enough in their time to permit of their only smiling in the future."

When they have declared over and over again (in different language every time, of course) the everlasting affection each feels for the other, Cecilia says:

"How late it grows! and you are in your evening dress, and without a hat. Have you dined?"

"Not yet; but I don't want any dinner." (By this remark, O reader, you may guess the depth and sincerity of his love.) "We generally dine at half-past seven, but to-night we are to starve until eight to oblige Florence, who has been spending the day somewhere. So I dressed early and came down to see you."

"At eight," says Cecilia, alarmed: "it is almost that now. You must go, or Lady Chetwoode will be angry with me, and I don't want any one belonging to you to think bad thoughts of me."

"There is plenty of time: it can't be nearly eight yet. Why, it is only half an hour since I came."

"It is a quarter to eight," says Cecilia, solemnly. "Do go, and come again as early as you can to-morrow."

"You will be glad to see me?"

"Yes, if you come very early."

"And you are sure, my own darling, that you really love me?"

"Quite, _quite_ sure," tenderly.

"What a bore it is having to go home this lovely evening!"

discontentedly. "Certainly 'Time was made for slaves.' Well,"--with a sigh,--"good-night. I suppose I must go. I shall run down directly after breakfast. Good-night, my own, my dearest."

"Good-night, Cyril."

"What a cold farewell! I shan't go away at all if you don't say something kinder."

Standing on tiptoe, Cecilia lays her arms around his neck.

"Good-night, my--darling," she whispers, tremulously, and with a last lingering caress they part, as though years were about to roll by before they can meet again.

CHAPTER XVII.

"And, though she be but little, she is fierce."

--_Midsummer Night's Dream._

"RENE. Suffer love! A good epithet! I do suffer love, indeed, for I love thee against my will."--_Much Ado About Nothing._

It is a glorious evening toward the close of September. The heat is intense, delicious, as productive of happy languor as though it was still the very heart of summer.

Outside upon the gra.s.s sits Lilian, idly threading daisies into chains, her riotous golden locks waving upon her fair forehead beneath the influence of the wind. At her feet, full length, lies Archibald, a book containing selections from the works of favorite poets in his hand. He is reading aloud such pa.s.sages as please him and serve to ill.u.s.trate the pa.s.sion that day by day is growing deeper for his pretty cousin. Already his infatuation for her has become a fact so palpable that not only has he ceased to deny it to himself, but every one in the house is fully aware of it, from Lady Chetwoode down to the lowest housemaid.

Sometimes, when the poem is an old favorite, he recites it, keeping his dark eyes fixed the while upon the fair coquettish face just above him.

Upon the balcony looking down upon them sits Florence, working at the everlasting parrot, with Guy beside her, utterly miserable, his whole attention concentrated upon his ward. For the past week he has been wretched as a man can be who sees a rival well received before his eyes day after day. Miss Beauchamp's soft speeches and tender glances, although many and p.r.o.nounced, fail to console him, though to others he appears to accept them willingly enough, and to make a generous return, spending--how, he hardly knows, though perhaps _she_ does--a good deal of time in her society. He must indeed be devoid of observation if now he cannot pa.s.s a strict examination of the hues of that crewel bird (this is not a joke), for wherever he may be, there Miss Beauchamp is sure to show a few minutes later, always with her wools.

Noting all this, be sure Lilian draws from it her own conclusions.

As each clear silvery laugh reaches him from below, Guy frowns and winces at every fond poetical sentiment that, floated upward by the wind, falls upon his ears.

"See the mountain kiss high heaven, And the waves clasp one another; No sister flower would be forgiven If it disdained its brother: And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea: What are all these kissings worth, If thou kiss not me?"

The words recited by Mr. Chesney with much _empress.e.m.e.nt_ soar upward and gain Guy's ear; Archibald is pointing his quotation with many impa.s.sioned glances and much tender emphasis; all of which is rather thrown away upon Lilian, who is not in the least sentimental.

"Read something livelier, Archie," she says, regarding her growing chain with unlimited admiration. "There is rather too much honey about that."

"If you can snub Sh.e.l.ley, I'm sure I don't know what it is you _do_ like," returns he, somewhat disgusted. A slight pause ensues, filled up by the faint noise of the leaves of Chesney's volume as he turns them over impatiently.

"'Oh, my Luve's like a red, red, rose,'" he begins, bravely, but Lilian instantly suppresses him.

"Don't," she says: "that's worse. I always think what a horrid 'luve'

she must have been. Fancy a girl with cheeks like that rose over there!

Fancy writing a sonnet to a milk-maid! Go on, however; the other lines are rather pretty."