Part 20 (1/2)
”n.o.body,” shaking her head emphatically. ”Wasn't it unkind of them?”
With this remark Sir Guy does not coincide: so he keeps silence, and they walk on some yards without speaking. Presently Lilian, whose thoughts are rapid, finding the stillness irksome, breaks it.
”Sir Guy----”
”Miss Chesney.”
As they all call her ”Lilian,” she glances up at him in some surprise at the strangeness of his address.
”Well, and why not,” says he, answering the unmistakable question in her eyes, ”when you call me 'Sir Guy' I wish you would not.”
”Why? Is it not your name?”
”Yes, but it is so formal. You call Cyril by his name, and even with my mother you have dropped all formality. Why are you so different with me?
Can you not call me 'Guy'?”
”Guy! Oh, I _couldn't_. Every time the name pa.s.sed my lips I should faint with horror at my own temerity. What! call my guardian by his Christian name? How can you even suggest the idea? Consider your age and bearing.”
”One would think I was ninety,” says he, rather piqued.
”Well, you are not far from it,” teasingly. ”However, I don't object to a compromise. I will call you Uncle Guy, if you wish it.”
”Nonsense!” indignantly. ”I don't want to be your uncle.”
”No? Then Brother Guy.”
”That would be equally foolish.”
”You won't, then, claim relations.h.i.+p with me?” in a surprised tone. ”I fear you look upon me as a _mauvais sujet_. Well, then,”--with sudden inspiration,--”I know what I shall do. Like Esther Summerson, in 'Bleak House,' I shall call you 'Guardian.' There!” clapping her hands, ”is not that the very thing? Guardian you shall be, and it will remind me of my duty to you every time I mention your name. Or, perhaps,”--hesitating-- ”'Guardy' will be prettier.”
”I wish I wasn't your guardian,” Guy says, somewhat sadly.
”Don't be unkinder than you can help,” reproachfully. ”You won't be my uncle, or my brother, or my guardian? What is it, then, that you would be?”
To this question he could give a very concise answer, but does not dare do so. He therefore maintains a discreet silence, and relieves his feelings by taking the heads off three dandelions that chance to come in his path.
”Does it give you so very much trouble, the guardians.h.i.+p of poor little me,” she asks, with a mischievous though charming smile, ”that you so much regret it?”
”It isn't that,” he answers, slowly, ”but I fear you look coldly on me in consequence of it. You do not make me your friend, and that is unjust, because it was not my fault. I did not ask to be your guardian; it was your father's wish entirely. You should not blame me for what he insisted on.”
”I don't,”--gayly,--”and I forgive you for having acceded to poor papa's proposal: so don't fret about it. After all,”--naughtily,--”I dare say I might have got worse; you aren't half bad so far, which is wise of you, because I warn you I am an _enfant gate_; and should you dare to thwart me I should lead you such a life as would make you rue the day you were born.”
”You speak as though it were my desire to thwart you.”
”Well, perhaps it is. At all events,” with a relieved sigh,--”I have warned you, and now it is off my mind. By the bye, I was going to say something to you a few minutes ago when you interrupted me.”
”What was it?”
”I want you”--coaxingly--”to take me round by The Cottage, so that I may get a glimpse at this wonderful widow.”