Part 29 (1/2)

”Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his tongue His breath's like caller air; His very fit has music in't, As he comes up the stair.

And will I see his face again?

And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy with the thought, In troth I'm like to greet.”--W. J. MICKLE.

It is the most important day of all the three hundred and sixty-five, at least to Lilian, because it will bring her Taffy. Just before dinner he will arrive, not sooner, and it is now only half-past four.

All at Chetwoode are met in the library. The perfume of tea is on the air; the click of Lady Chetwoode's needles keeps time to the conversation that is buzzing all round.

Miss Beauchamp, serene and immovable as ever, is presiding over the silver and china, while Lilian, wild with spirits, and half mad with excitement and expectation, is chattering with Cyril upon a distant sofa.

Sir Guy, upon the hearthrug, is expressing his contempt for the views entertained by a certain periodical on the subject of a famous military scandal, in real parliamentary language, and Florence is meekly agreeing with him straight through. Never was any one (seemingly) so thoroughly _en rapport_ with another as Florence with Sir Guy. Her amiable and rather palpable determination to second his ideas on all matters, her ”nods and becks and wreathed smiles,” when in his company, would, if recited, fill a volume in themselves. But I don't deny it would be a very stupid volume, from the same to the same: so I suppress it.

”Sir Guy,” says Lilian, suddenly, ”don't look so stern and don't stand with one hand in your breast, and one foot advanced, as though you were going to address the House.”

”Well, but he is going to address the House,” says Cyril, reprovingly: ”we are all here, aren't we?”

”It is perfectly preposterous,” says Guy, who is heated with his argument, and scarcely hears what is going on around him, so great is his righteous indignation. ”If being of high birth is a reason why one must be dragged into notoriety, one would almost wish one was born a----”

”Sir Guy,” interrupts Lilian again, throwing at him a paper pellet she has been preparing for the last two minutes, with sure and certain aim, ”didn't you hear me desire you not to look like that?”

Sir Guy laughs, and subsides into a chair. Miss Beauchamp shrugs her shapely shoulders and indulges in a smile suggestive of pity.

”I begin to feel outrageously jealous of this unknown Taffy,” says Cyril. ”I never knew you in such good spirits before. Do you always laugh when you are happy?”

”'Much laughter covers many tears,'” returns Lilian, gayly. ”Yes, I am very happy,--so happy that I think a little would make me cry.”

”Oh, don't,” says Cyril, entreatingly; ”if you begin I'm safe to follow suit, and weeping violently always makes me ill.”

”I can readily believe it,” says Miss Chesney. ”Your expression is unmistakably doleful, O knight of the rueful countenance!”

”And his manner is so dejected,” remarks his mother, smiling. ”Have you not noticed how silent he always is? One might easily imagine him the victim of an unhappy love tale.”

”If you say much more,” says Mr. Chetwoode, ”like Keats, I shall 'die of a review.' I feel much offended. It has been the dream of my life up to this that society in general regarded me as a gay and brilliant personage, one fitted to s.h.i.+ne in any sphere, concentrating (as I hoped I did) rank, beauty, and fas.h.i.+on in my own body.”

”_Did_ you hope all that?” asks Lilian, with soft impertinence.

”'A modest hope, but modesty's my forte,'” returns he, mildly. ”No, Miss Chesney, I won't be told I am conceited. This is a case in which we 'all do it;' every one in this life thinks himself better than he is.”

”I am glad you so scrupulously exonerate the women,” says Lilian, maliciously.

At this moment a step is heard in the hall outside. Lilian starts, and rises impulsively to her feet; her face lights; a delicate pink flush dawns upon it slowly, and then deepens into a rich carnation.

Instinctively her eyes turn to Lady Chetwoode, and the breath comes a little quicker from her parted lips.

”But,” she murmurs, raising one hand, and speaking in the low tone one adopts when intently listening,--”but that I know he can't be here for another hour, I should say that was--Taffy!”

The door has opened. A tall, very young man, with a bright boyish face, fair brown hair, and a daring attempt at a moustache, stands upon the threshold. Lilian, with a little soft glad cry, runs to him and throws herself into his arms.

”Oh, dear, dear boy, you have come!” she says, whereupon the tall young man laughs delightedly, and bestows upon her an honest and most palpable hug.