Then she goes up-stairs, and is lost in her own chamber. But for Guy there is neither rest nor sleep.

Flinging off his coat and waistcoat, he paces incessantly up and down his room, half mad with doubt and fear.

Does she love him? That is the whole burden and refrain of his thoughts; does she? Surely her manner has implied it, and yet---- A terrible misgiving oppresses him, as he remembers the open dislike that of late she has shown to his society, the unconcealed animosity she has so liberally displayed toward him.

Can it be that he has only afforded her amus.e.m.e.nt for the pa.s.sing hour?

Surely this child, with her soft innocent face and truthful eyes, cannot be old in the wiles and witcheries of the practiced flirt. She has let her head rest upon his shoulder, has let his fingers wander caressingly over her hair, has let tears lie wet upon her cheeks for him; and then he thinks of the closing scene, of how he has kissed her, as a lover might, unrebuked.

But then her manner toward Chesney; true, she had discarded his attentions toward the close of the night, and accepted willingly those of the guardsman, but this piece of seeming fickleness might have arisen out of a lover's quarrel. What if during all their memorable drive home she has been merely trifling with him,--if now, this instant, while he is miserable because of his love for her and the uncertainty belonging to it, she should be laughing at his folly, and thinking composedly of her coming marriage with her cousin! Why then, he tells himself savagely, he is well rid of her, and that he envies no man her possession!

But at the thought he draws his breath hard; his handsome face grows set and stern, a haggard look comes into his blue eyes and lingers round his mouth. Flinging open the window, he leans out to feel the cold air beat upon him, and watches the coming of the morn.

"Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east."

Guy watches its coming, yet scarcely notes its beauty, so full of dark forebodings are his thoughts. Yet it brings him determination and courage to face his fate. To-day he will end this intolerable doubt, and learn what fortune has in store for him, be it good or bad; of this he is finally resolved. She shall declare herself in one of two characters, either as his affianced wife, or as the very vilest coquette the world contains.

And yet her tears!--Again he holds her in his arms. Again his lips meet hers. Again he feels the light pressure of her little tired head upon his shoulder, hears her soft regular breathing. With a groan he rouses himself from these recollections that torture him by their very sweetness.

CHAPTER x.x.xIV.

"Thou art my life, my love, my heart, The very eyes of me, And hast command of every part, To live and die for thee."--R. HERRICK.

The next morning comes, but no Lilian appears at breakfast. Florence alone of the gentler members of the family puts in an appearance; she is as properly composed, as carefully attired, as delicately tinted, as though the ball of the night before was unknown to her. Lilian, on the contrary,--lazy little thing!--is still lying in her bed, with her arms flung above her graceful head, dreaming happy idle dreams.

Miss Beauchamp, behind the urn, is presiding with unimpeachable elegance of deportment over the cups and saucers; while pouring out the tea, she makes a running commentary on the events of the night before, dropping into each cup, with the sugar,--perhaps with a view to modulating its sweetness,--a sarcastic remark or two about her friends' and acquaintances' manners and dress. Into Guy's cup she lets fall a few words about Lilian, likely, as she vainly hopes, to damage her in his estimation; not that she much fears her as a rival after witnessing Chetwoode's careful avoidance of her on the previous evening; nevertheless, under such circ.u.mstances, it is always well to put in a bad word when you can.

She has most of the conversation to herself (Guy and Archibald being gloomy to a painful degree, and Cyril consumed with a desire to know when Cecilia may be reasonably expected to leave her room), until Mr.

Musgrave enters, who appears as fresh as a daisy, and "uncommon fit," as he informs them gratuitously, with an air of the utmost _bonhommie_.

He instantly catches and keeps up the conversational ball, sustaining it proudly, and never letting it touch the ground, until his friends, rising simultaneously, check him cruelly in the very midst of a charming anecdote. Even then he is not daunted, but, following Cyril to the stables (finding him the most genial of the party), takes up there a fresh line, and expresses his opinions as cheerfully and fluently on the subject of "The Horse," as though he had been debarred from speaking for a month and has only just now recovered the use of the organ of speech.

It is half-past one. A soft spring sun is smiling on the earth, and Lilian, who rather shrinks from the thought of meeting Sir Guy again, and has made a rapid descent from her own room into the garden, is walking there leisurely to and fro, gathering such "pallid blossoms" as she likes best: a few late snowdrops, "winter's timid children," some early lilies, "a host of daffodils," a little handful of the "happy and beautiful crocuses," now "gayly arrayed in their yellow and green," all these go to fill the basket that hangs upon her arm.

As she wanders through the garden, inhaling its earliest perfumes, and with her own heart throbbing rather tumultuously as she dreams again of each tender word and look that pa.s.sed between her and Guy last night, a great longing and gladness is hers; at this moment the beauty and sweetness of life, all the joy to be found everywhere for those who, with a thankful spirit, seek for it, makes itself felt within her.

George Herbert's lovely lines rise to her mind, and half unconsciously, as she walks from bed to bed, she repeats them to herself aloud.

"How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean Are thy returns! ev'n as the flow'rs in spring; To which, besides their own demean, The late past frosts tributes of pleasure bring.

Grief melts away like snow in May, As if there were no such cold thing."

Surely _her_ grief has melted away, and, with it, distrust and angry feeling.

Having arranged her bouquet of all such tender plants as do now "upraise their loaded stems," she walks toward the library window, and, finding it open, steps in. It is a bow-window, and the sun has been making love to her eyes, so that not until she has advanced a yard or two, does she discover she is not alone; she then stops short, and blushes painfully.

At the other end of the room stand Guy and Chesney, evidently in earnest conversation. Archibald is talking; Guy, with his eyes upon the ground, is pale as death, and silent. As they see Lilian, both men start guiltily, and fall somewhat farther apart: a heavy sense of impending trouble makes itself felt by all three.

Then Guy, regaining self-possession, raises his head and looks full at Lilian.

"Lilian is here, let her speak for herself," he says, in a forced tone of composure, addressing Chesney, but with his eyes riveted upon her.

"What is it?" asks Lilian, white as the snowdrops in her trembling hand.

"Your cousin asked me--He wishes to marry you," returns Guy, unsteadily, a look of such mute agony and entreaty in his eyes as touches Lilian to the quick. "He has spoken to me as your guardian. He says he has some hope; he would have me plead for him, but that is impossible." He has spoken so far with difficulty; now in a clear tone he goes on, "Speak, Lilian: let your answer come from your own lips."

His voice is wonderfully steady, but there is always the same searching look of entreaty on his face.

"Dear Archie," says Lilian, trembling perceptibly, while all the poor spring blossoms fall unheeded to her feet, and lie there still and dead, as some offering laid on the shrine of Venus, "how can I speak to you? I _cannot_ marry you. I love you,--you are my dear cousin, and my friend, but,--but----"

"It is enough," says Chesney, quietly. "Hope is at an end. Forgive me my persistency. You shall not have to complain of it again."

Sadly, with a certain dignity, he reaches the door, opens it, and, going out, closes it gently behind him. Hope with him, indeed, is dead!

Never again will it spring within his breast.

When he has gone, an awful silence ensues. There is a minute that is longer than an hour; there is an hour that may be shorter than any minute. Happy are they that have enjoyed this latter. The particular minute that follows on Archibald's retreat seems to contain a whole day-ful of hours, so terrible is its length to the two he leaves behind.

Lilian's eyes are fastened upon, literally bound to, a little sprig of myrtle that lies among the ill-fated flowers at her feet. Not until many days have pa.s.sed can she again look upon a myrtle spray without feeling a nervous beating at her heart; she is oppressed with fear; she has at this moment but one longing, and that is to escape. A conviction that her longing is a vain one only adds to her discomfiture; she lacks the courage to lift her head and encounter the eyes she knows are fixed upon her.

At length, unable longer to endure the dreadful stillness, she moves, and compels herself to meet Chetwoode's gaze. The spell is broken.

"Lilian, will you marry--_me_?" asks he, desperately, making a movement toward her.

A quick, painful blush covers Lilian's face, lingers a moment, then dies away, leaving her pale, motionless as a little marble statue,--perfect, but lifeless. Almost as it fades it reappears again, so sudden is the transition, changing her once more into very lovable flesh and blood.

"Will you marry me?" repeats Guy, coming still closer to her. His face is white with anxiety. He does not attempt to touch her, but with folded arms stands gazing down in an agony of suspense upon the lips that in another instant will seal his fate for good or evil.

"I have half a mind to say no," whispers Miss Chesney, in a low, compressed voice. Her head is drooping; her fingers are nervously intertwined. A flicker, the very faintest tremble of the old merry smile, hovers round her mouth as she speaks, then vanishes away.

"Lilian,"--in a tone full of vehement reproach,--"do not trifle with me--now. Answer me: why do you so speak to me?"

"Because--I think--you ought to have asked me long ago!" returns she, casting a half-shy, half-tender glance at him upward from the azure eyes that are absolutely drowned in tears.

Then, without a word of warning, she bursts out crying, and, Guy catching her pa.s.sionately in his arms, she sobs away all her nervous gladness upon his heart.

"My darling,--my sweet,--do you really love me?" asks Guy, after a few moments given up to such ecstasy as may be known once in a lifetime,--not oftener.

"What a question!" says Lilian, smiling through eyes that are still wet.

"I have not once asked it of you. I look into your eyes and I see love written there in great big letters, and I am satisfied. Can you not see the same in mine? Look closely,--very closely, and try if you cannot."