Part 45 (2/2)

”Yes, they are pretty lines: they are Southey's, I think,” says Lilian, and then she sighs again, and hardly another word is spoken between them until they reach home.

As they pull up at the hall-door, Guy, who has arrived a little before them, comes forward, and, placing one foot upon the step of Cyril's T-cart, takes Lilian in his arms and lifts her to the ground. She is so astonished at the suddenness of this demonstration on his part that she forgets to make any protest, only--she turns slowly and meaningly away from him, with lowered eyes and with averted head.

With a beseeching gesture he detains her, and gains for a moment her attention. He is looking pale, miserable; there is an expression of deep entreaty in his usually steady blue eyes.

”Lilian, forgive me,” he whispers, anxiously, trying to read her face by the moonlight: ”I have been sufficiently punished. If you could guess all I have endured to-day through your coldness, your scorn, you would say so too. Forgive me.”

”Impossible,” returns she, haughtily, in clear tones, and, motioning him contemptuously to one side, follows Cyril into the house.

Inside they find Lady Chetwoode not only up and waiting for them, but wide awake. This latter is a compliment so thoroughly unexpected as to rouse within them feelings of the warmest grat.i.tude.

”What, Madre! you still here?” says Cyril. ”Why, we imagined you not only out of your first but far into your second beauty sleep by this time.”

”I missed you all so much I decided upon waiting up for you,” Lady Chetwoode answers, smiling benignly upon them all; ”besides, early in the evening--just after you left--I had a telegram from dear Mabel, saying she and Tom will surely be here to dinner to-morrow night. And the idea so pleased me I thought I would stay here to impart my news and hear yours.”

Every one in the room who knows Mrs. Steyne here declares his delight at the prospect of so soon seeing her again.

”She must have made up her mind at the very last moment,” says Guy.

”Last week she was undecided whether she should come at all. She hates leaving London.”

”She must be at Steynemore now,” remarks Cyril.

”Lilian, my dear child, how pale you are!” Lady Chetwoode says, anxiously taking Lilian's hand and rubbing her cheeks gently with loving fingers. ”Cold, too! The drive has been too much for you, and you are always so careless about wraps. I ordered supper in the library an hour ago. Come and have a gla.s.s of wine before going to bed.”

”No, thank you, auntie: I don't care for anything.”

”Thank you, Aunt Anne, I think I will take something,” interposes Florence, amiably; ”the drive was long. A gla.s.s of sherry and one little biscuit will, I feel sure, do me good.”

Miss Beauchamp's ”one little biscuit,” as is well known, generally ends in a substantial supper.

”Come to the library, then,” says Lady Chetwoode, and still holding Lilian's hand, draws it within her arm, and in her own stately Old-World fas.h.i.+on leads her there.

When they have dismissed the butler, and declared their ability to help one another, Lady Chetwoode says pleasantly:

”Now tell me everything. Had you an agreeable evening?”

”Too agreeable!” answers Cyril, with suspicious readiness: ”I fear it will make all other entertainments sink into insignificance. I consider a night at Mrs. Boileau's the very wildest dissipation. We all sat round the room on uneasy chairs and admired each other: it would perhaps have been (if _possible_) a more successful amus.e.m.e.nt had we not been doing the same thing for the past two months,--some of us for years! But it was tremendously exciting all the same.”

”Was there no one to meet you?”

”My dear mother, how could you suspect Mrs. Boileau of such a thing!”

”Yes,--there was a Mr. Boer,” says Florence, looking up blandly from her chicken, ”a man of very good family,--a clergyman----”

”No, a curate,” interrupts Cyril, mildly.

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