Part 41 (1/2)
”Oh,--that indeed!” says Lilian, and, being a thorough woman, of course makes no allowance for his unhappy position. Evidently,--according to her view of the case,--from his silent acquiescence in Miss Beauchamp's plan, he likes it. No doubt it was all arranged between them early this morning; and she, to have so far forgotten herself as to ask him to drive her! Oh! it is intolerable!
”You are quite right,” she says sweetly to Florence, even producing a smile for the occasion, as women will when their hearts are sorest.
”There is nothing so depressing as nervousness when driving. Perhaps Archibald will take pity upon me. Archie!” calling out to him, ”come here. I want you to do me a great favor,”--with an enchanting smile.
”Would it be putting you out dreadfully if I asked you to drive me to Mrs. Boileau's to-morrow evening?”--another smile still more enchanting.
”You really mean it?” asks Archibald, delighted, his dark face lighting, while Guy, looking on helplessly, almost groans aloud. ”You know how glad I shall be: I had no idea when I got up this morning such luck was in store for me. _Dear_ Mrs. Boileau! if she could only guess how eager I am to start for her _charming_ Grange!”
He says this in a laughing tone, but Chetwoode fully understands that, like the famous well, it has truth at the bottom of it.
”It grows late, does it not?” Florence says, rising gracefully. ”I think we had better go in-doors. We have left Aunt Anne too long alone.”
”Auntie is lying down. Her head is bad,” says Lilian; ”I was with her just before I came out, and she said she wished to be alone.”
”Yes; she can't bear noise,” remarks Florence, calmly, but meaningly. ”I must go and see how she is.” There is the faintest suspicion of an emphasis upon the personal p.r.o.noun.
”That will be very kind of you, dear,” says Miss Chesney, suavely. ”And Florence--would you like anything to rub your poor nose?--cold cream--or glycerine--or that; nurse has all those sorts of things, I'm sure.” This is a small revenge of Lilian's, impossible to forego; while enjoying it, she puts on the tenderest air of sympathetic concern, and carefully regards Miss Beauchamp's nose with raised brows of solicitude.
”My nose?” repeats Florence, reddening.
”Yes, dear. One of those unkind little insects has bitten it shamefully, and now it is all pink and swollen. Didn't you know it? I have been feeling so sorry for you for the last ten minutes. It is too bad,--is it not? I hardly think it will be well before dinner, and it is so disfiguring.” All this she utters in tones of the deepest commiseration.
Florence wisely makes no reply. She would have borne the tortures of the rack rather than exhibit any vehement temper before Guy; so she contents herself with casting a withering glance upon Lilian,--who receives it with the utmost _sang-froid_,--and, putting her handkerchief up to the wounded member, sweeps into the house full of righteous indignation.
Sir Guy, after lengthened hesitation, evidently makes up his mind to do something, and, with his face full of purpose, follows her. This devotion on his part is more than Lilian--in spite of her suspicions--has bargained for.
”Gone to console his 'sleepy Venus' for the damage done to her 'Phidian nose,'” she says to Taffy, with rather a bitter laugh.
”Little girls should neither quote Don Juan nor say ill-natured things,”
replies that youth, with an air of lofty rebuke. But Lilian, not being in the mood for even Taffy's playfulness, makes no answer, and walks away to her beloved garden to seek consolation from the flowers.
Whatever Guy's conference with Florence was about, it was short and decisive, as in five minutes he again emerged from the house, and, looking vainly around him, starts in search of Lilian. Presently, at the end of the long lawn, he sees her.
”Well, has her poor dear nose recovered all its pristine freshness?” she asks him, in a rather reckless tone, as he comes up to her.
”Lilian,” says Guy, abruptly, eagerly, taking no notice of this sally,--indeed, scarcely hearing,--”it was all a mistake; I could not speak plainly a moment ago, but I have arranged it all with Florence; and--will you let me drive you to Mrs. Boileau's to-morrow evening?”
”No, thank you,” a quick gleam in her large eyes that should have warned him; ”I would not make Florence unhappy for the world. Think of her nerves!”
”She will be quite as safe with Cyril--or--your cousin.”
”Which cousin?”
”Chesney.”
”I think not, because I am going with Archibald.”
”You can easily break off with him,” anxiously.
”But supposing I do not wish to break off with him?”