"I--that is--it _was_ the fire," confusedly, directing a wrathful glance at him, which is completely thrown away, as Mr. Musgrave is impervious to hints: "I was sitting close to it."

"That goes without telling. Any one would imagine by your color, you had been put upon the hob to simmer. By the bye,"--a most fortunate access of ignorance carrying his thoughts into another channel,--"what is a hob? I don't believe I ever saw one."

"Hob, substantive, short for goblin: as hobgoblin," says Cyril at this moment, having entered, how, or from where, n.o.body knows. "Still bent upon historical research?"

"It has something to do with kettles, I think," says Taffy. "I don't quite believe your meaning for it."

"Don't you? I am sorry for you. I do. But some people never will learn."

"That is true," says Lilian, somewhat abruptly. Involuntarily her eyes fall on Chesney. He has been staring in moody silence at the fire since Chetwoode's entrance, but now, at her words, straightens himself, and gives way to a low, rather forced, laugh.

"_Experientia docet_," says Guy, in a queer tone impossible to translate. "Time is a stern school-master, who compels us against our will,"--letting his eyes meet Lilian's--"to learn many things."

"It has taught me one thing," puts in Cyril, who looks half amused,--"that the dressing-bell has rung some time since."

"Has it?" says Lilian, rising with alacrity, and directing a very grateful glance at him: "I never heard it. I shall scarcely have time now to get ready for dinner. Why did you not tell me before?"

As she speaks, she sweeps by him, and he, catching her hand, detains her momentarily.

"Because, when one is not in the habit of it, one takes time to form a good tarradiddle," replies he, in a soft whisper.

She returns his kindly pressure, and, going into the hall, finds that full five minutes must elapse before the bell really rings.

"Dear Cyril!" she murmurs to herself, almost aloud, and, running up to her room, cries a good deal upon nurse's breast before that kind creature can induce her to change her gown. After which she gets into her clothes, more because it would be indecent to go without them than from any great desire to look her best.

CHAPTER XXVI.

"For now she knows it is no gentle chase.

She looks upon his lips, and they are pale; She takes him by the hand, and that is cold; She whispers in his ears a heavy tale, As if they heard the woful words she told: She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes, Where lo! two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies.

Two gla.s.ses, where herself, herself beheld A thousand times, and now no more reflect; Their virtue lost, wherein they late excell'd, And every beauty robb'd of his effect."--SHAKESPEARE.

"'A southern wind and a cloudy sky proclaim it a hunting morning,'"

quotes Miss Chesney, gayly, entering the breakfast-room at nine o'clock next morning, looking, if anything, a degree more bewitching than usual in her hat and habit: in her hand is a little gold-mounted riding-whip, upon her lovable lips a warm, eager smile. "No one down but me!" she says, "at least of the gentler s.e.x. And Sir Guy presiding! what fun!

Archie, may I trouble you to get me some breakfast? Sir Guy, some tea, please: I am as hungry as a hawk."

Sir Guy pours her out a cup of tea, carefully, but silently. Archie, gloomy, but attentive, places before her what she most fancies: Cyril gets her a chair; Taffy brings her some toast: all are fondly dancing attendance on the little spoiled fairy.

"What are you looking at, Taffy?" asks she, presently, meeting her cousin's blue eyes, that so oddly resemble her own, fixed upon her immovably.

"At you. There is something wrong with your hair," replies he, unabashed: "some of the pins are coming out. Stay steady, and I'll wheel you into line in no time." So saying, he adjusts the disorderly hair-pin; while Chetwoode and Chesney, looking on, are consumed with envy.

"Thank you, dear," says Lilian, demurely, giving his hand a little loving pat: "you are worth your weight in gold. Be sure you push it in again during the day, if you see it growing unruly. What a delicious morning it is!" glancing out of the window; "too desirable perhaps. I hope none of us will break our necks."

"Funky already, Lil?" says Taffy, with unpardonable impertinence. "Never mind, darling, keep up your heart; I'm fit as a fiddle myself, and will so far sacrifice my life as to promise you a lead whenever a copper brings me in your vicinity. I shall keep you in mind, never fear."

"I consider your remarks beneath notice, presumptuous boy," says Miss Chesney, with such a scornful uplifting of her delicate face as satisfies Taffy, who, being full of mischief, pa.s.ses on to bestow his pleasing attentions on the others of the party. Chesney first attracts his notice. He is standing with his back to a screen, and has his eyes fixed in moody contemplation on the floor. Melancholy on this occasion has evidently marked him for her own.

"What's up with you, old man? you look suicidal," says Mr. Musgrave, stopping close to him, and giving him a rattling slap on the shoulder that rather takes the curl out of him, leaving him limp, but full of indignation.

"Look here," he says, in an aggrieved tone, "I wish you wouldn't do that, you know. Your hands, small and delicate as they are,"--Taffy's hands, though shapely, are decidedly large,--"can hurt. If you go about the world with such habits you will infallibly commit murder sooner or later: I should bet on the sooner. One can never be sure, my dear fellow, who has heart-disease and who has not."

"Heart-disease means love with most fellows," says the irrepressible Taffy, "and I have noticed you aren't half a one since your return from London." At this _mal a propos_ speech both Lilian and Chesney change color, and Guy, seeing their confusion, becomes miserable in turn, so that breakfast is a distinct failure, Cyril and Musgrave alone being capable of animated conversation.

Half an hour later they are all in the saddle and are riding leisurely toward Bellairs, which is some miles distant, through as keen a scenting wind as any one could desire.

At Grantley Farm they find every one before them, the hounds sniffing and whimpering, the ancient M. F. H. cheery as is his wont, and a very fair field.

Mabel Steyne is here, mounted on a handsome bay mare that rather chafes and rages under her mistress's detaining hand, while at some few yards'

distance from her is Tom, carefully got up, but sleepy as is his wont.

One can hardly credit that his indolent blue eyes a little later will grow dark and eager as he scents the fray, and, steadying himself in his saddle, makes up his mind to "do or die."

Old General Newsance is plodding in and out among the latest arrivals, prognosticating evil, and relating the "wondrous adventures" of half a century ago, when (if he is to be believed) hounds had wings, and hunters never knew fatigue. With him is old Lord Farnham, who has one leg in his grave, literally speaking, having lost it in battle more years ago than one cares to count, but who rides wonderfully nevertheless, and is as young to speak to, or rather younger, than any nineteenth-century man.

Mabel Steyne is dividing her attentions between him and Taffy, when a prolonged note from the hounds, and a quick cry of "gone away," startles her into silence. Talkers are scattered, conversation forgotten, and every one settles down into his or her saddle, ready and eager for the day's work.

Down the hill like a flash goes a good dog fox, past the small wood to the right, through the spinnies, straight into the open beyond. The scent is good, the pack lively: Lilian and Sir Guy are well to the front; Archibald close beside them. Cyril to the left is even farther ahead; while Taffy and Mabel Steyne can be seen a little lower down, holding well together, Mabel, with her eyes bright and glowing with excitement, sailing gallantly along on her handsome bay.

After a time--the fox showing no signs of giving in--hedges and doubles throw s.p.a.ces in between the riders. Sir Guy is far away in the distance, Taffy somewhat in the background; Cyril is out of sight; while Miss Chesney finds herself now side by side with Archibald, who is riding recklessly, and rather badly. They have just cleared a very uncomfortable wall, that in cold blood would have damped their ardor, only to find a more treacherous one awaiting them farther on, and Lilian, turning her mare's head a little to the left, makes for a quieter spot, and presently lands in the next field safe and sound.

Archibald, however, holds on his original course, and Lilian, turning in her saddle, watches with real terror his next movement. His horse, a good one, rises gallantly, springs, and cleverly, though barely, brings himself clear to the other side. Both he and his master are uninjured, but it was a near thing, and makes Miss Chesney's heart beat with unpleasant rapidity.

"Archibald," she says, bringing herself close up to his side as they gallop across the field, and turning a very white face to his, "I wish you would not ride so recklessly: you will end by killing yourself if you go on in this foolish fashion."

Her late fear has added a little sharpness to her tone.

"The sooner the better," replies he, bitterly. "What have I got to live for? My life is of no use, either to myself or to any one else, as far as I can see."

"It is very wicked of you to talk so!" angrily.

"Is it? You should have thought of that before you made me think so. As it is, I am not in the humor for lecturing to do me much good. If I am killed, blame yourself. Meantime, I like hunting: it is the only joy left me. When I am riding madly like this, I feel again almost happy--almost," with a quickly suppressed sigh.

"Still, I ask you, for my sake, to be more careful," says Lilian, anxiously, partly frightened, partly filled with remorse at his words, though in her heart she is vexed with him for having used them. "Her fault if he gets killed." It is really too much!

"Do you pretend to care?" asks he, with a sneer. "Your manner is indeed perfect, but how much of it do you mean? Give me the hope I asked for last night,--say only two kind words to me,--and I will be more careful of my life than any man in the field to-day."

"I think I am always saying kind things to you," returns she, rather indignant; "I am only too kind. And one so foolishly bent on being miserable as you are, all for nothing, deserves only harsh treatment.

You are not even civil to me. I regret I addressed you just now, and beg you will not speak to me any more."

"Be a.s.sured I shan't disobey this your last command," says Archibald, in a low, and what afterward appears to her a prophetic tone, turning away.