Part 4 (1/2)
”It's an awful nuisance having anything on your mind, isn't it, mother?”
he says, genially.
”It is indeed, my dear,” with heartfelt earnestness and a palpable expectation of worse things yet to come. ”What unfortunate mistake have you been making now?”
”Not one. 'You wrong me, Brutus.' I have been as gently behaved as a skipping lamb all the morning. No; I mean having to fetch our visitor this evening weighs upon my spirits and somehow idles me. I can settle to nothing.”
”You seldom can, dear, can you?” says Lady Chetwoode, mildly, with unmeant irony. ”But”--as though suddenly inspired--”suppose you go for a walk?”
This is a mean suggestion, and utterly unworthy of Lady Chetwoode. The fact is, the day is warm and she is sleepy, and she knows she will not get her forty winks unless he takes himself out of the way. So, with a view to getting rid of him, she grows hypocritically kind.
”A walk will do you good,” she says. ”You don't take half exercise enough. And, you know, the want of it makes people fat.”
”I believe you are right,” Cyril says, rising. He stretches himself, laughs indolently at his own lazy figure in an opposite mirror, after which he vanishes almost as quickly as even she can desire.
Five minutes later, with an open book upon her knee, as a means of defense should any one enter unannounced, Lady Chetwoode is snoozing comfortably; while Cyril, following the exact direction taken by the crow in the morning, walks leisurely onward, under the trees, to meet his fate!
Quite unthinkingly, quite unsuspiciously, he pursues his way, dreaming of anything in the world but The Cottage and its new inmate, until the house, suddenly appearing before him, recalls his wandering thoughts.
The hall-door stands open. Every one of the windows is thrown wide.
There is about everything the unmistakable _silent_ noise that belongs to an inhabited dwelling, however quiet. The young man, standing still, wonders vaguely at the change.
Then all at once a laugh rings out; there is an undeniable scuffle, and presently a tiny black dog with a little mirthful yelp breaks from the house into the garden and commences a mad scamper all round and round the rose trees.
An instant later he is followed by a trim maid-servant, who, flushed but smiling, rushes after him, making well-directed but ineffectual pounces on the truant. As she misses him the dog gives way to another yelp (of triumph this time), and again the hunt goes on.
But now there comes the sound of other feet, and Cyril, glancing up from his interested watch over the terrier's movements, sees surely something far, far lovelier than he has ever seen before.
Even at this early moment his heart gives a little bound and then seems to cease from beating.
Upon the door-step stands a girl--although quite three-and-twenty she still looks the merest girl--clad in a gown of clear black-and-white cambric. A huge coa.r.s.e white ap.r.o.n covers all the front of this gown, and is pinned, French fas.h.i.+on, half-way across her bosom. Her arms, white and soft, and rounded as a child's, are bared to the elbows, her sleeves being carefully tucked up. Two little feet, encased in Louis Quinze slippers, peep coyly from beneath her robe.
Upon this vision Cyril gazes, his whole heart in his eyes, and marks with wondering admiration each fresh beauty. She is tall, rather _posee_ in figure, with a small, proud head, and the carriage of a G.o.ddess. Her features are not altogether perfect, and yet (or rather because of it) she is extremely beautiful. She has great, soft, trusting eyes of a deep rare gray, that looking compel the truth; above her low white forehead her hair rolls back in silky ruffled waves, and is gathered into a loose knot behind. It is a rich nut-brown in color, through which runs a faint tinge of red that turns to burnished gold under the sun's kiss. Her skin is exquisite, pale but warm, through which as she speaks the blood comes and lingers awhile, and flies only to return. Her mouth is perhaps, strictly speaking, in a degree imperfect, yet it is one of her princ.i.p.al charms; it is large and lovable, and covers pretty teeth as white as snow. For my part I love a large mouth, if well shaped, and do not believe a hearty laugh can issue from a small one. And, after all, what is life without its laughter?
A little white cap of the ”mob” description adorns her head, and is trimmed fancifully with black velvet bows that match her gown. Her hands are small and fine, the fingers tapering; just now they are clasped together excitedly; and a brilliant color has come into her cheeks as she stands (unconscious of criticism) and watches the depravity of her favorite.
”Oh! catch him, Kate,” she cries, in a clear, sweet voice, that is now rather impetuous and suggests rising indignation. ”Wicked little wretch!
He shall have a good whipping for this. Dirty little dog,”--(this to the black terrier, in a tone of reproachful disgust)--”not to want his nice clean bath after all the dust of yesterday and to-day!”
This rebuke is evidently lost upon the reprobate terrier, who still flies before the enemy who follows on his heels in hot pursuit. Round and round, in and out, hither and thither he goes, the breathless maid after him, the ceaseless upbraiding of his mistress ringing in his ears.
The nice clean bath has no charms for this degenerate dog, although his ablutions are to be made sweet by the touch of those snowy dimpled hands now clasped in an agony of expectation. No, this miserable animal, disdaining all the good things in store for him, rushes past Kate, past his angry mistress, past the roses, out through the bars of the gate right into Cyril's arms! Oh, ill-judging dog!
Cyril, having caught him, holds him closely, in spite of his vehement struggles, for, scenting mischief in the air, he fights valiantly for freedom.
Kate runs to the garden-gate, so does the bare-armed G.o.ddess, and there, on the path, behold their naughty treasure held fast in a stranger's arms!
When she sees him the G.o.ddess suddenly freezes and grows gravely dignified. The smile departs from her lips, the rich crimson dies, while in its place a faint, delicate blush comes to suffuse her cheeks.
”This is your dog, I think?” says Cyril, pretending to be doubtful on the subject; though who could be more sure?