Part 34 (1/2)

She moves him aside with one small finger, the better to see how charming she is in another gla.s.s. This one reveals to her all the sweetness she has seen before--and something more. Scarcely has she glanced into it, when her complexion, that a moment since was a soft and lovely pink, changes suddenly, and flames into a deep crimson. There, at the farthest end of the long room reflected in the gla.s.s,--staring back at her,--coatless, motionless, with a brush suspended from each hand, stands a man, lost in wonder and most flattering astonishment.

Miss Chesney, turning round with a start, finds that this vision is not belonging to the other world, but is a real _bona fide_ creature of flesh and blood,--a young man, tall, broad-shouldered, and very dark.

For a full minute they stare silently at each other, oppressed with thoughts widely different in character, while Taffy remains blissfully ignorant of the situation, being now engaged in a desperate conflict with a refractory tie. Then one of the brushes falls from the stranger's hand, and the spell is broken. Miss Chesney, turning impetuously, proceeds to pour out the vials of her wrath upon Taffy.

”I think you might have told me,” she says, in clear, angry tones, casting upon him a glance meant to wither. But Mr. Musgrave distinctly refuses to be withered.

”Eh? What? _By Jove!_” he says, vaguely, as the awful truth dawns upon him. Meanwhile Lilian sweeps majestically to the door, her velvets trailing behind her. All her merry kittenish ways have disappeared; she walks as a young queen might who has been grossly affronted in open court.

”Give you my honor I quite forgot him,” murmurs Taffy, from the spot where he is rooted through sheer dismay. His tones are dismal in the extreme, but Miss Chesney disdains to hear or argue, and, going out, closes the door with much determination behind her. The stranger, suppressing a smile, stoops to pick up the fallen brush, and the scene is at an end.

Down the stairs, full of vehement indignation, goes Lilian, thoughts crowding upon her thick and heavy. Could anything be more unfortunate?

Just when she had got herself up in the most effective style,--just when she had hoped, with the aid of this velvet gown, to make a pleasing and dignified _entree_ into his presence in the drawing-room below,--she has been led into making his acquaintance in Taffy's bedroom! Oh! horror!

She has been face to face with him in his s.h.i.+rt-sleeves, with his odious brushes in his hands, and a stare of undeniable surprise upon his hateful face! Oh! it is insupportable!

And what was it she said to Taffy? What did she do? Hastily her mind travels backward to the conversation that has just taken place.

First, _she combed Taffy's hair_. Oh! miserable girl! She closes two azure eyes with two slender fingers from the light of day, as this thought occurs to her. Then, she smirked at her own graceful image in Taffy's gla.s.s, and made all sorts of conceited remarks about her personal appearance, and then she said she hoped to subjugate ”_him_.”

What ”him” could there be but this one? and of course he knows it. Oh!

unhappy young woman!

As for Taffy, bad, bad boy that he is, never to give her a hint.

Vengeance surely is in store for him. What right had he to forget? If there is one thing she detests, it is a person devoid of tact. If there is one thing she could adore, it would be the power to shake the wretched Taffy out of his shoes.

What is there left to her but to gain her room, plead bad headache, and spend the remainder of the evening in retirement? In this mood she gains the drawing-room door, and, hesitating before it, thinks better of the solitary-confinement idea; and, entering the room, seats herself in a cozy chair and prepares to meet her fate with admirable calmness.

Dinner is ready,--waiting,--and still no Archibald. Then there is a step in the hall, the door is thrown open, and he enters, as much hurried as it is possible for a well-bred young man to be in this nineteenth century.

Lady Chetwoode instantly says, with old-fas.h.i.+oned grace, the sweeter that it is somewhat obsolete,----

”Lilian, permit me to introduce to you your cousin, Archibald Chesney.”

Whereupon Lilian bows coldly and refuses to meet her cousin's eyes, while kind Lady Chetwoode thinks it is a little stiff of the child, and most unlike her, not to shake hands with her own kin.

An awkward pause is almost inevitable, when Taffy says out loud, to no one in particular, but with much gusto:

”How odd it is they should never have seen each other until now!” after which he goes into silent agonies of merriment over his own wit, until brought to his senses by an annihilating glance from Lilian.

The dinner-hour is remarkable for nothing except Lilian's silence. This, being so utterly unexpected, is worthy of note. After dinner, when the men gain the drawing-room, Archibald, coming over, deliberately pushes aside Miss Chesney's velvet skirts, and seats himself on the low ottoman beside her with modest determination.

Miss Chesney, raising her eyes, regards him curiously.

He is tall, and eminently gloomy in appearance. His hair is of a rare blackness, his eyes are dark, so is his skin. His eyebrows are slightly arched, which gives him an air of melancholy protest against the world in general. His nose is of the high and mighty order that comes under the denomination of aquiline, or hooked, as may suit you best. Before his arrival Cyril used to tell Lilian that if Nature had meant him for anything it was to act as brigand in a private theatre; and Lilian, now calling to mind this remark, acknowledges the truth of it, and almost laughs in the face of her dark-browed cousin. Nevertheless she refrains from outward mirth, which is wisdom on her part, as ridicule is his _bete noir_.

Despite the extreme darkness of his complexion he is unmistakably handsome, though somewhat discontented in expression. Why, no one knows.

He is rich, courted, as are all young men with a respectable rent-roll, and might have made many a t.i.tled _debutante_ Mrs. Chesney had he so chosen. He has not even a romantic love-affair to fall back upon as an excuse for his dejection; no unfortunate attachment has arisen to sour his existence. Indeed, it is seldom the owner of landed property has to complain on this score, all such luxuries being reserved for the poor of the earth.

Archibald Chesney's gloom, which is becoming if anything, does not sink deeper than his skin. It gives a certain gentleness to his face, and prevents the ignorant from guessing that he is one of the wildest, maddest young men about London. Lilian, regarding him with quiet scrutiny, decides that he is good to look at, and that his eyes are peculiarly large and dark.