Part 23 (2/2)
”Don't lose your heart to her, old boy,” Guy says, lightly; but Cyril well knows he has meaning in what he says.
CHAPTER XI.
”There were two cousins almost like to twins; And so they grew together, like two flowers Upon one stem.”--Sh.e.l.lEY.
”It was a babe, beautiful from its birth.”--Sh.e.l.lEY.
The next day awakes calm and fair, and full of the rich ripeness that belongs to August. Lilian, opening her blue eyes upon the world at half-past seven, calls her nurse, and being dressed rushes forth into the garden to drink in all the first sweet freshness of the day.
The dew still lingers upon lawn and blossom; the spiders' webs glisten like jeweled nets in the dancing sunbeams; the exquisite opal flush of the morning sky has grown and spread and deepened, until all the heavens are tinged with warmest carmine.
There is ”splendor in the gra.s.s,” and ”glory in the flower,” and Lilian, flitting from bush to bush, enjoys everything to its utmost; she plucks two pale roses for her own bosom, and one, deep red and richly perfumed, to lay beside Lady Chetwoode's plate. This is a usual morning offering not to be neglected.
Just as she has made a careful choice, the breakfast bell rings loudly, and, running at her quickest--most reckless--speed through the hall, she barely succeeds in stopping herself as she comes up to Sir Guy at the door of the morning-room.
”Oh,” cries she, with a little gasp, ”another moment and I should have been in your arms. I never saw you. Good-morning, Guardy,” gayly.
”Good-morning, my ward. I beg you to understand I could have welcomed that other moment. Why, what an early little bird you are! How long have you been abroad?”
”For hours and hours, half a day, while you--lazy man--were sound asleep. See what spoil I have gathered:” pointing to the heavy roses at her breast.
”Lovely, indeed,” says Guy, who is secretly of opinion that the wild-rose complexion she has s.n.a.t.c.hed from the amorous wind is by far the loveliest spoil of the two.
”And is not this sweet?” she says, holding up to his face the ”red, red rose,” with a movement full of grace.
”Very,” replies he, and stooping presses his lips lightly to her white hand.
”I meant the rose, not the hand,” says she, with a laugh and a faint blush.
”Did you? I thought the hand very much the sweeter of the two. Is it for me?”
”No!” says Miss Chesney, with much emphasis; and, telling him he is quite too foolish to be listened to any longer, she opens the door of the breakfast-room, and they both enter it together, to find all the others a.s.sembled before them, and the post lying in the centre of the table. All, that is, that remains of it,--namely, one letter for Lilian and two or three for Guy.
These latter, being tinged with indigo, are of an uninteresting description and soon read. Miss Chesney's, on the contrary, is evidently full of information. It consists of two whole sheets closely covered by a scrawling handwriting that resembles nothing so much as the struggles of a dying fly.
When she has read it twice over carefully--and with considerable difficulty--she lays it down and looks anxiously at Lady Chetwoode.
”Auntie,” she begins, with a bright blush and a rather confused air.
”Yes, dear?”
”This letter”--touching it--”is from my cousin.”
”Yes,--from your cousin? The lad who grew up with you at the Park?” says Lady Chetwoode, with a kindly nod of comprehension.
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