Part 75 (1/2)
”Meanwhile the day sinks fast, the sun is set, And in the lighted hall the guests are met; The beautiful looked lovelier in the light Of love, and admiration, and delight Reflected from a thousand hearts and eyes, Kindling a momentary paradise.”
--Sh.e.l.lEY: _Ginevra_.
It is the night of Mabel Steyne's ball. In the library at Chetwoode they are almost every one a.s.sembled, except Lilian, and Florence Beauchamp, and Mr. Musgrave, whose dressing occupies a considerable part of his life, and who is still sufficiently young to find pleasure in it.
Lady Chetwoode in gray satin is looking charming; Cecilia, lovely, in the palest shade of blue. She is standing at a table somewhat apart, conversing with Cyril, who is fastening a bracelet upon one of her arms.
Guy and Archibald are carrying on a desultory conversation.
And now the door opens, and Lilian comes in. For the first time for a whole year she has quite discarded mourning to-night, and is dressed in pure white. Some snowdrops are thrown carelessly among the folds of the tulle that covers and softens her silk gown; a tiny spray of the same flower lies nestling in her hair.
She appears more fairy-like, more child-like and sweeter than ever, as she advances into the room, with a pretty consciousness of her own beauty, that sits charmingly upon her. She is a perfect little vision of loveliness, and is tenderly aware of the fact. Her neck is fair, her shoulders rounded and kissable as an infant's; her eyes are gleaming, her lips apart and smiling; her sunny hair, that is never quite as smooth as other people's, lies in rippling coils upon her head, while across her forehead a few short rebellious love-locks wander.
Seeing her, Sir Guy and Chesney are filled with a simultaneous longing to take her in their arms and embrace her then and there.
Sweeping past Sir Guy, as though he is invisible, she goes on, happy, radiant toward Lady Chetwoode. She is in her airiest mood, and has evidently cast behind her all petty _desagrements_, being bent on enjoying life to its fullest for this one night at least.
”Is not my dress charming, auntie? does it not become me?” she asks, with the utmost _navete_, casting a backward glance over her shoulder at her snowy train.
”It does, indeed. Let me congratulate you, darling,” says Lady Chetwoode to her favorite: ”it is really exquisite.”
”Lovely as its wearer,” says Archibald, with a suppressed sigh.
”Pouf!” says Lilian, gayly: ”what a simile! It is a rudeness; who dares compare me with a paltry gown? A tenth part as lovely, you mean. How refractory this b.u.t.ton is!” holding out to him a rounded arm to have the twelfth b.u.t.ton of her glove fastened; ”try can you do it for me?”
Here Taffy enters, and is apparently struck with exaggerated admiration as he beholds her.
”Ma conscience!” he says, in the words of the famous Dominie, ”what a little swell we are! t.i.tania, my dear, permit me to compliment you on the success you are sure to have. Monsieur Worth has excelled himself!
Really, you are very nearly pretty. You'll have a good time of it to-night, I shouldn't wonder.”
”I hope so,” gladly; ”I can hardly keep my feet quiet, I do so long to dance. And so you admire me?”
”Intensely. As a tribute to your beauty, I think I shall give you a kiss.”
”Not for worlds,” exclaims she, retreating hastily. ”I know your embraces of old. Do let me take my flowers and tulle uncrushed to Mabel's, or I shall complain of you to her, and so spoil your evening.”
”I am glad to see you have recovered your usual spirits,” maliciously: ”this morning you were nowhere. I could not get a word out of you. Ever since yesterday, when you were disappointed about your run, you have been in 'doleful dumps.' All day you looked as though you thought there was 'nothing so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.' You seemed to revel in it.”
”Perhaps I was afraid to encourage you. Once set going, you know you cannot stop,” says Lilian, laughing, while two red spots, caused by his random remark, rise and burn in her cheeks.
”We are late, are we not?” says Florence, entering at this moment; and as Florence never errs, Archibald instantly gives his arm to Lady Chetwoode and takes her down to the carriage. Taffy, who has already opened an animated conversation with Miss Beauchamp on the horrors of square dances, accompanies her; Cyril disappears with Cecilia, and Lilian is left alone in the library with Sir Guy.
Curving her body gracefully, Lilian gathers up with slow nonchalance her long train, and, without bestowing a glance upon Guy, who is silently waiting to escort her to the smaller brougham, goes up to a mirror to take a last lingering survey of her own bewitching image. Then she calmly smooths down her glove, then refastens a bracelet that has come undone, while he, with a bored expression on his face, waits impatiently.
By this, Archibald, who has had ample time to put Lady Chetwoode in her carriage and come all the way back to find a fan forgotten by Miss Beauchamp, re-enters the room.
Lilian beams upon him directly.
”Good Archie,” she says, sweetly, ”you have returned just in time. There was positively n.o.body to take poor little me to the brougham.” She slips her hand beneath his arm, and walks past Sir Guy composedly, with laughing friendly eyes uplifted to her cousin's.