Part 41 (1/2)
”Yes, your wife. You don't seem over and above pleased at my news.”
”Is a man always pleased at his wife's unexpected appearance?” asks Sir Penthony, recovering himself with a rather forced laugh. ”I had no idea she was here. I---- Is she a friend of yours?”
”The dearest friend I have. I know no one,” declares her ladys.h.i.+p, fervently, ”I love so fondly.”
”Happy Lady Stafford! I almost think I would change places with her this moment. At all events, whatever faults she may possess, she has rare taste in friends.”
”You speak disparagingly. Has she a fault?”
”The greatest a woman can have: she lacks that one quality that would make her a 'joy forever.'”
”Your severity makes you unkind. And yet, do you know she is greatly liked. Nay, she has been _loved_. Perhaps when you come to know her a little better (I do not conceal from you that I have heard something of your story), you will think more tenderly of her.
Remember, 'beauty is only skin deep.'”
”Yes,”--with a light laugh,--”But 'ugliness goes to the bone.'”
”That is the retort discourteous. I see it is time wasted to plead my friend's cause. Although, perhaps,”--reproachfully,--”not blessed with actual beauty, still----”
”No, there's _not_ much beauty about her,” says Sir Penthony, with something akin to a groan. Then, ”I beg your pardon,” he murmurs; ”pray excuse me. Why should I trouble a stranger with my affairs?” He stands aside, with a slight bow, to let her pa.s.s. ”And you won't tell me your name?” he cannot resist saying before losing sight of her.
”Make haste with your dressing; you shall know then,” glancing back at him, with a bewitching smile.
”Be sure I shall waste no time. If, in my hurry, I appear to less advantage than usual to-night, you must not be the one to blame me.”
”A very fair beginning,” says Cecil, as she slips away. ”Now I must be firm. But, oh dear, oh dear! he is much handsomer even than I thought.”
CHAPTER XV.
”If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning.”
--_Miles Standish._
The minutes, selfishly thoughtless of all but themselves, fly rapidly.
Cecil makes her way to the drawing-room, where she is followed presently by Molly, then by Luttrell; but, as these two latter refuse to converse with each other, conversation is rather one-sided.
Mr. Amherst, contrary to his usual custom, appears very early on the field, evidently desirous of enjoying the fray to its utmost. He looks quite jubilant and fresh for him, and his nose is in a degree sharper than its wont. He opens an animated discourse with Cecil; but Lady Stafford, although _distrait_ and with her mind on the stretch, listening for every sound outside, replies brilliantly, and, woman-like, conceals her anxiety with her tongue.
At length the dreaded moment comes. There is a sound of footfalls, nearer--nearer still--then, ”clearer, deadlier than before,” and the door opens, to discover Sir Penthony upon the threshold.
Lady Stafford is sitting within the embrasure of the window.
”Fortune favors me,” she says hurriedly to Molly, alluding to the other guests' non-appearance.
”Your wife is staying with me,” Mr. Amherst begins, complacently; and, pointing to Cecil, ”Allow me to introduce you to----”
”Lady Stafford,” Cecil interrupts, coming forward while a good deal of rich crimson mantles in her cheeks. She is looking lovely from excitement; and her pretty, rounded, graceful figure is shown off to the best advantage by the heavy fall of the red draperies behind her.
Sir Penthony gazes, spell-bound, at the gracious creature before him; the color recedes from his lips and brow; his eyes grow darker.