Part 43 (1/2)
Now--being late in the season--the blossom is more scarce, though still the air is heavy with delicate perfume, and the eyes grow drunk with gazing on the beauty of the autumn flowers. Through them goes Lilian, with Archibald gladly following.
All day long he has had her to himself, and she has been so good to him, so evidently pleased and contented with his society alone, that within his breast an earnest hope has risen, so strongly, that he only waits a fitting opportunity to lay his heart and fortune at her feet.
”I can walk no more,” says Lilian, at last, sinking upon the gra.s.s beneath the shade of a huge beech that spreads its kindly arms above her. ”Let us sit here and talk.”
Archibald throws himself beside her, and for a few minutes silence reigns supreme.
”Well?” says Lilian, at length, turning lazy though inquisitive eyes upon her companion.
”Well?” says Archibald in return.
”I said you were to talk,” remarks Lilian, in an aggrieved tone. ”And you have not said one word yet. You ought to know by this time how I dislike silence.”
”Blame yourself: I have been racking my brains without success for the last two minutes to try to find something suitable to say. Did you ever notice how, when one person says to another, 'Come, let us talk,' that other is suddenly stricken with hopeless stupidity? So it is now with me: I cannot talk: I am greatly afraid.”
”Well, I can,” says Lilian, ”and as I insist on your doing so also, I shall ask you questions that require an answer. First, then, did you ever receive a note from me on my leaving the Park, asking you to take care of my birds?”
”Yes.”
”And you fed them?”
”Regularly,” says Archibald, telling a fearful lie deliberately, as from the day he read that note to this he has never once remembered the feathered friends she mentions, and even now as he speaks has only the very haziest idea of what she means.
”I am glad of that,” regarding him searchingly. ”It would make me unhappy to think they had been neglected.”
”Don't be unhappy, then,” returning her gaze calmly and unflinchingly: ”they are all right: I took care of that.” His manner is truthful in the extreme, his eyes meet hers rea.s.suringly. It is many years since Mr.
Chesney first learned the advantage to be derived from an impa.s.sive countenance. And now with Lilian's keen blue eyes looking him through and through, he feels doubly thankful that practice has made him so perfect in the art of suppressing his real thoughts. He has also learned the wisdom of the old maxim,--
”When you tell a lie, tell a good one, When you tell a good one, stick to it,”
and sticks to his accordingly.
”I am so pleased!” says Lilian, after a slight pause, during which she tells herself young men are not so wretchedly thoughtless after all, and that Archibald is quite an example to his s.e.x in the matter of good nature. ”One of my chiefest regrets on leaving home was thinking how my birds would miss me.”
”I am sorry you ever left it.”
”So am I, of course. I was very near declining to do so at the last moment. It took Aunt Priscilla a full week to convince me of the error of my ways, and prove to me that I could not live alone with a gay and (as she hinted) wicked bachelor.”
”I have never been so unfortunate as to meet her,” says Archibald, mildly, ”but I would bet any money your Aunt Priscilla is a highly objectionable and interfering old maid.”
”No, she is not: she is a very good woman, and quite an old dear in some ways.”
”She is an old maid?” raising himself on his elbow with some show of interest.
”Well, yes, she is; but I like old maids,” says Lilian, stoutly.
”Oh, she _likes_ old maids,” says Mr. Chesney, _sotto voce_, sinking back once more into his lounging position. He evidently considers there is nothing more to be said on that head. ”And so she wouldn't let you stay?”
”No. You should have seen her face when I suggested writing to you to ask if I might have a suite of rooms for my own use, promising faithfully never to interfere with you in any way. It was a picture!”