Part 10 (1/2)
”Does this lady live in the wood, where I met you?” asks Lilian, addressing Guy, and apparently deeply interested.
”Yes, about a mile from that particular spot. She is a new tenant we took to oblige a friend, but we know nothing about her.”
”How very romantic!” says Lilian; ”it is just like a story.”
”Yes; the image of the 'Children of the Abbey,' or 'The Castle of Otranto,'” says Cyril. ”Has she any one living with her, Guy?”
carelessly.
”Yes, two servants, and a small ill-tempered terrier.”
”I mean any friends. It must be dull to be by one's self.”
”I don't know. I saw no one. She don't seem ambitious about making acquaintances, as, when I said I hoped she would not find it lonely, and that my mother would have much pleasure in calling on her, she blushed painfully, and said she was never lonely, and that she would esteem it a kindness if we would try to forget she was at the cottage.”
”That was rather rude, my dear, wasn't it?” says Lady Chetwoode mildly.
”It sounds so, but, as she said it, it wasn't rude. She appeared nervous, I thought, and as though she had but lately recovered from a severe illness. When the blush died away, she was as white as death.”
”Well, I shan't distress her by calling,” says Lady Chetwoode, who is naturally a little offended by the unknown's remark. Unconsciously she has been viewing her coming with distrust, and now this unpleasing message--for as a message directly addressed to herself she regards it--has had the effect of changing a smouldering doubt into an acknowledged dislike.
”I wonder how she means to employ her time down here,” says Cyril.
”Scenery abounds, but lovely views don't go a long way with most people.
After a while they are apt to pall.”
”Is there pretty scenery round Truston?” asks Lilian.
”Any amount of it. Like 'Auburn,' it is the 'loveliest village of the plain.' But I can't say we are a very enterprising people. Sometimes it occurs to one of us to give a dinner-party, but no sooner do we issue the invitations than we sit down and repent bitterly; and on rare occasions we may have a ball, which means a drive of fourteen miles on a freezing night, and universal depression and sneezing for a week afterward. Perhaps the widow is wise in declining to have anything to do with our festive gatherings. I begin to think there is method in her madness.”
”Miss Chesney doesn't agree with you,” says Guy, casting a quick glance at Lilian: ”she would go any distance to a ball, and dance from night till morning, and never know depression next day.”
”Is that true, Miss Chesney?”
”Sir Guy says it is,” replies Lilian, demurely.
”When I was young,” says Lady Chetwoode, ”I felt just like that. So long as the band played, so long I could dance, and without ever feeling fatigue. And provided he was of a good figure, and could dance well, I never much cared who my partner was, until I met your father. Dear me!
how long ago it seems!”
”Not at all,” says Cyril; ”a mere reminiscence of yesterday. When I am an old gentleman, I shall make a point of never remembering anything that happened long ago, no matter how good it may have been.”
”Perhaps you won't have anything good to remember,” says Miss Lilian, provokingly.
”Guy, give Miss Chesney another gla.s.s of wine,” says Cyril, promptly: ”she is evidently feeling low.”
”Sir Guy,” says Miss Chesney, with equal prompt.i.tude, and a treacherous display of innocent curiosity, ”when you were at Belmont last evening did you hear Miss Bellair say anything of a rather rude attack made upon her yesterday at the station by an ill-bred young man?”
”No,” says Sir Guy, rather amazed.