Part 78 (2/2)
At the other end of the room stand Guy and Chesney, evidently in earnest conversation. Archibald is talking; Guy, with his eyes upon the ground, is pale as death, and silent. As they see Lilian, both men start guiltily, and fall somewhat farther apart: a heavy sense of impending trouble makes itself felt by all three.
Then Guy, regaining self-possession, raises his head and looks full at Lilian.
”Lilian is here, let her speak for herself,” he says, in a forced tone of composure, addressing Chesney, but with his eyes riveted upon her.
”What is it?” asks Lilian, white as the snowdrops in her trembling hand.
”Your cousin asked me--He wishes to marry you,” returns Guy, unsteadily, a look of such mute agony and entreaty in his eyes as touches Lilian to the quick. ”He has spoken to me as your guardian. He says he has some hope; he would have me plead for him, but that is impossible.” He has spoken so far with difficulty; now in a clear tone he goes on, ”Speak, Lilian: let your answer come from your own lips.”
His voice is wonderfully steady, but there is always the same searching look of entreaty on his face.
”Dear Archie,” says Lilian, trembling perceptibly, while all the poor spring blossoms fall unheeded to her feet, and lie there still and dead, as some offering laid on the shrine of Venus, ”how can I speak to you? I _cannot_ marry you. I love you,--you are my dear cousin, and my friend, but,--but----”
”It is enough,” says Chesney, quietly. ”Hope is at an end. Forgive me my persistency. You shall not have to complain of it again.”
Sadly, with a certain dignity, he reaches the door, opens it, and, going out, closes it gently behind him. Hope with him, indeed, is dead!
Never again will it spring within his breast.
When he has gone, an awful silence ensues. There is a minute that is longer than an hour; there is an hour that may be shorter than any minute. Happy are they that have enjoyed this latter. The particular minute that follows on Archibald's retreat seems to contain a whole day-ful of hours, so terrible is its length to the two he leaves behind.
Lilian's eyes are fastened upon, literally bound to, a little sprig of myrtle that lies among the ill-fated flowers at her feet. Not until many days have pa.s.sed can she again look upon a myrtle spray without feeling a nervous beating at her heart; she is oppressed with fear; she has at this moment but one longing, and that is to escape. A conviction that her longing is a vain one only adds to her discomfiture; she lacks the courage to lift her head and encounter the eyes she knows are fixed upon her.
At length, unable longer to endure the dreadful stillness, she moves, and compels herself to meet Chetwoode's gaze. The spell is broken.
”Lilian, will you marry--_me_?” asks he, desperately, making a movement toward her.
A quick, painful blush covers Lilian's face, lingers a moment, then dies away, leaving her pale, motionless as a little marble statue,--perfect, but lifeless. Almost as it fades it reappears again, so sudden is the transition, changing her once more into very lovable flesh and blood.
”Will you marry me?” repeats Guy, coming still closer to her. His face is white with anxiety. He does not attempt to touch her, but with folded arms stands gazing down in an agony of suspense upon the lips that in another instant will seal his fate for good or evil.
”I have half a mind to say no,” whispers Miss Chesney, in a low, compressed voice. Her head is drooping; her fingers are nervously intertwined. A flicker, the very faintest tremble of the old merry smile, hovers round her mouth as she speaks, then vanishes away.
”Lilian,”--in a tone full of vehement reproach,--”do not trifle with me--now. Answer me: why do you so speak to me?”
”Because--I think--you ought to have asked me long ago!” returns she, casting a half-shy, half-tender glance at him upward from the azure eyes that are absolutely drowned in tears.
Then, without a word of warning, she bursts out crying, and, Guy catching her pa.s.sionately in his arms, she sobs away all her nervous gladness upon his heart.
”My darling,--my sweet,--do you really love me?” asks Guy, after a few moments given up to such ecstasy as may be known once in a lifetime,--not oftener.
”What a question!” says Lilian, smiling through eyes that are still wet.
”I have not once asked it of you. I look into your eyes and I see love written there in great big letters, and I am satisfied. Can you not see the same in mine? Look closely,--very closely, and try if you cannot.”
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