Part 40 (2/2)
”Never mind it. You are no comparison prettier without it.
Cecil,”--doubtingly,--”I hope when it comes to the last moment you will have nerve.”
”Be happy,” says Cecil. ”I am always quite composed at last moments; that is one of my princ.i.p.al charms. I never create sensations through vulgar excitement. I shall probably astonish you (and myself also) by my extreme coolness. In the meantime I”--smiling--”I own I should like a gla.s.s of sherry. What o'clock is it, Molly?”
”Just seven.”
”Ah! he must be here now. How I wish it was over!” says Lady Stafford, with a little sinking of the heart.
”And I am not yet dressed. I must run,” exclaims Molly. ”Good-bye, Cecil. Keep up your spirits, and remember above all things how well your dress becomes you.”
Two or three minutes elapse,--five,--and still Cecil cannot bring herself to descend. She is more nervous about this inevitable meeting than she cares to own. Will he be openly cold, or anxious to conciliate, or annoyed? The latter she greatly fears. What if he should suspect her of having asked Mr. Amherst to invite him? This idea torments her more than all the others, and chains her to her room.
She takes up another bracelet and tries it on. Disliking the effect, she takes it off again. So she trifles, in fond hope of cheating time, and would probably be trifling now had not the handle of her door been boldly turned, the door opened, and a young man come confidently forward.
His confidence comes to an untimely end as his astonished eyes rest on Cecil.
”I beg your pardon, I'm sure,” he says, beating a hasty retreat back to the landing outside. ”I had no idea--I'm awfully sorry--but this room used to be mine.”
”It is mine now,” says Cecil, accepting the situation at a glance, recognizing Sir Penthony without hesitation.
He is a tall young man,--”lanky,” as she has herself expressed him,--with thick brown hair, closely cropped. He has handsome dark eyes, with a rather mocking expression in them, and has a trick of shutting them slightly if puzzled or annoyed. His voice is extremely charming, though it has a distinct croak (that can hardly be called husky or hoa.r.s.e) that is rather fascinating. His short upper lip is covered by a heavy brown moustache that hides a laughing mouth. He is aristocratic and good-looking, without being able to lay claim to actual beauty.
Just now he is overwhelmed with confusion, as Cecil, feeling compelled thereto, steps forward, smiling, to rea.s.sure him.
”You have made a mistake,--you have lost your way,” she says, in a tone that trembles ever such a little in spite of her efforts to be calm.
”To my shame I confess it,” he says, laughing, gazing with ill-concealed admiration at this charming azure vision standing before him. ”Foolishly I forgot to ask for my room, and ran up the stairs, feeling certain that the one that used to be mine long ago must be so still. Can you forgive me?”
”I think I can. Meantime, if you are Sir Penthony Stafford, your room lies there,” pointing to the last door opening on the corridor.
”Thank you,” yet making no haste to reach the discovered shelter. ”May I not know to whom I am indebted for so much kindness?”
”I dare say you will be introduced in proper form by and by,” says Cecil, demurely, making a movement as though to leave him. ”When you are dressed you shall be formally presented.”
”At least,” he asks, hastily, with a view to detaining her, ”do me one more service before you go. If you know me so well, perhaps you can tell me if any of my friends are staying here at present?”
”Several. Teddy Luttrell for one.”
”Indeed! And----”
”The Darleys. You know them?”
”Little woman,--dolly,--bizarre in manner and dress?”
”A most accurate description. And there is another friend,--one who ought to be your dearest: I allude to Lady Stafford.”
”Lady Stafford!”
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