Part 63 (1/2)
”I--that is--it _was_ the fire,” confusedly, directing a wrathful glance at him, which is completely thrown away, as Mr. Musgrave is impervious to hints: ”I was sitting close to it.”
”That goes without telling. Any one would imagine by your color, you had been put upon the hob to simmer. By the bye,”--a most fortunate access of ignorance carrying his thoughts into another channel,--”what is a hob? I don't believe I ever saw one.”
”Hob, substantive, short for goblin: as hobgoblin,” says Cyril at this moment, having entered, how, or from where, n.o.body knows. ”Still bent upon historical research?”
”It has something to do with kettles, I think,” says Taffy. ”I don't quite believe your meaning for it.”
”Don't you? I am sorry for you. I do. But some people never will learn.”
”That is true,” says Lilian, somewhat abruptly. Involuntarily her eyes fall on Chesney. He has been staring in moody silence at the fire since Chetwoode's entrance, but now, at her words, straightens himself, and gives way to a low, rather forced, laugh.
”_Experientia docet_,” says Guy, in a queer tone impossible to translate. ”Time is a stern school-master, who compels us against our will,”--letting his eyes meet Lilian's--”to learn many things.”
”It has taught me one thing,” puts in Cyril, who looks half amused,--”that the dressing-bell has rung some time since.”
”Has it?” says Lilian, rising with alacrity, and directing a very grateful glance at him: ”I never heard it. I shall scarcely have time now to get ready for dinner. Why did you not tell me before?”
As she speaks, she sweeps by him, and he, catching her hand, detains her momentarily.
”Because, when one is not in the habit of it, one takes time to form a good tarradiddle,” replies he, in a soft whisper.
She returns his kindly pressure, and, going into the hall, finds that full five minutes must elapse before the bell really rings.
”Dear Cyril!” she murmurs to herself, almost aloud, and, running up to her room, cries a good deal upon nurse's breast before that kind creature can induce her to change her gown. After which she gets into her clothes, more because it would be indecent to go without them than from any great desire to look her best.
CHAPTER XXVI.
”For now she knows it is no gentle chase.
She looks upon his lips, and they are pale; She takes him by the hand, and that is cold; She whispers in his ears a heavy tale, As if they heard the woful words she told: She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes, Where lo! two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies.
Two gla.s.ses, where herself, herself beheld A thousand times, and now no more reflect; Their virtue lost, wherein they late excell'd, And every beauty robb'd of his effect.”--SHAKESPEARE.
”'A southern wind and a cloudy sky proclaim it a hunting morning,'”
quotes Miss Chesney, gayly, entering the breakfast-room at nine o'clock next morning, looking, if anything, a degree more bewitching than usual in her hat and habit: in her hand is a little gold-mounted riding-whip, upon her lovable lips a warm, eager smile. ”No one down but me!” she says, ”at least of the gentler s.e.x. And Sir Guy presiding! what fun!
Archie, may I trouble you to get me some breakfast? Sir Guy, some tea, please: I am as hungry as a hawk.”
Sir Guy pours her out a cup of tea, carefully, but silently. Archie, gloomy, but attentive, places before her what she most fancies: Cyril gets her a chair; Taffy brings her some toast: all are fondly dancing attendance on the little spoiled fairy.
”What are you looking at, Taffy?” asks she, presently, meeting her cousin's blue eyes, that so oddly resemble her own, fixed upon her immovably.
”At you. There is something wrong with your hair,” replies he, unabashed: ”some of the pins are coming out. Stay steady, and I'll wheel you into line in no time.” So saying, he adjusts the disorderly hair-pin; while Chetwoode and Chesney, looking on, are consumed with envy.
”Thank you, dear,” says Lilian, demurely, giving his hand a little loving pat: ”you are worth your weight in gold. Be sure you push it in again during the day, if you see it growing unruly. What a delicious morning it is!” glancing out of the window; ”too desirable perhaps. I hope none of us will break our necks.”
”Funky already, Lil?” says Taffy, with unpardonable impertinence. ”Never mind, darling, keep up your heart; I'm fit as a fiddle myself, and will so far sacrifice my life as to promise you a lead whenever a copper brings me in your vicinity. I shall keep you in mind, never fear.”