Airy Fairy Lilian Part 45

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 s.h.i.+rts. 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 _ennuyee_ 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 a.s.surance 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 firmament With living sapphires; Hesperus, that led The 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 gra.s.s 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 divine Rolls 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 grat.i.tude.

"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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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 fas.h.i.+on 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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.