"Was it? You were so enviably dry, in spite of the rain, I quite thought you had been in the house."
"For once your usually faultless judgment led you astray. I was in an arbor, where Mrs. Arlington kindly gave me shelter until the rain was over."
"Was Mrs. Arlington in the arbor too?"
"Yes."
"How very romantic! I suppose it was she gave you the lovely yellow rose you were regarding so affectionately?" says Miss Beauchamp, with a low laugh.
"I always think, Florence, what a fortune you would have made at the bar," says Cyril, thoughtfully; "your cross-examinations would have had the effect of turning your witnesses gray. I am utterly convinced you would have ended your days on the woolsack. It is a pity to see so much native talent absolutely wasted."
"Not altogether wasted," sweetly: "it has at least enabled me to discover how it was you eluded the rain this evening."
"You met Mrs. Arlington before to-day?" asks Guy, who is half amused and half relieved, as he remembers how needlessly jealous he has been about his brother"s attentions to Lilian. He feels also some vague doubts as to the propriety of Cyril"s losing his heart to a woman of whom they know nothing; and his singular silence on the subject of having made her acquaintance is (to say the least of it) suspicious. But, as Cyril has been in a chronic state of love-making ever since he got into his first tall hat, this doubt causes him but little uneasiness.
"Yes," says Cyril, in answer to his question.
"Is she as pretty as Sir Guy says?" asks Lilian, smiling.
"Quite as pretty, if not more so. One may always depend upon Guy"s taste."
"What a good thing it was you knew her! It saved you from that dreadful shower," says Lilian, good-naturedly, seeing intuitively he is vexed.
"We were not so fortunate: we had to run for our lives all the way home.
It is a pity, Florence, you didn"t know her also, as, being so near the house, you might have thrown yourself upon her hospitality for a little while."
"I hardly think I see it in that light," drawls Florence, affectedly.
"I confess I don"t feel exactly ambitious about making the acquaintance of this Mrs.--er----"
"Arlington is her name," suggests Cyril, quietly. "Have you forgotten it? My dear Florence, you really should see some one about your memory: it is failing every day."
"I can still remember _some_ things," retorts Miss Beauchamp, blandly.
By this time it has occurred to Lady Chetwoode that matters are not going exactly smoothly; whereupon she glances at Miss Beauchamp, then at Lilian, and finally carries them both off with her to the drawing-room.
"If there is one thing I detest," says Cyril, throwing himself back in his chair, with an impatient movement, when he has closed the door upon them, "it is a vindictive woman. I pity the man who marries Florence Beauchamp."
"You are rather hard upon her, are you not?" says Guy. "I have known her very good-natured."
"Lucky you! I cannot recall many past acts of kindness on her part."
"So you met Mrs. Arlington?" says Guy, carelessly.
"Yes; one day I restored to her her dog; and to-day she offered me shelter from the rain, simply because she couldn"t help it. There our acquaintance rests."
"Where is the rose she gave you?" asks Guy, with a laugh, in which, after a moment"s struggle, Cyril joins.
"Don"t lose your heart to her, old boy," Guy says, lightly; but Cyril well knows he has meaning in what he says.
CHAPTER XI.
"There were two cousins almost like to twins; And so they grew together, like two flowers Upon one stem."--Sh.e.l.lEY.
"It was a babe, beautiful from its birth."--Sh.e.l.lEY.
The next day awakes calm and fair, and full of the rich ripeness that belongs to August. Lilian, opening her blue eyes upon the world at half-past seven, calls her nurse, and being dressed rushes forth into the garden to drink in all the first sweet freshness of the day.
The dew still lingers upon lawn and blossom; the spiders" webs glisten like jeweled nets in the dancing sunbeams; the exquisite opal flush of the morning sky has grown and spread and deepened, until all the heavens are tinged with warmest carmine.
There is "splendor in the gra.s.s," and "glory in the flower," and Lilian, flitting from bush to bush, enjoys everything to its utmost; she plucks two pale roses for her own bosom, and one, deep red and richly perfumed, to lay beside Lady Chetwoode"s plate. This is a usual morning offering not to be neglected.
Just as she has made a careful choice, the breakfast bell rings loudly, and, running at her quickest--most reckless--speed through the hall, she barely succeeds in stopping herself as she comes up to Sir Guy at the door of the morning-room.
"Oh," cries she, with a little gasp, "another moment and I should have been in your arms. I never saw you. Good-morning, Guardy," gayly.
"Good-morning, my ward. I beg you to understand I could have welcomed that other moment. Why, what an early little bird you are! How long have you been abroad?"
"For hours and hours, half a day, while you--lazy man--were sound asleep. See what spoil I have gathered:" pointing to the heavy roses at her breast.
"Lovely, indeed," says Guy, who is secretly of opinion that the wild-rose complexion she has s.n.a.t.c.hed from the amorous wind is by far the loveliest spoil of the two.
"And is not this sweet?" she says, holding up to his face the "red, red rose," with a movement full of grace.
"Very," replies he, and stooping presses his lips lightly to her white hand.
"I meant the rose, not the hand," says she, with a laugh and a faint blush.
"Did you? I thought the hand very much the sweeter of the two. Is it for me?"
"No!" says Miss Chesney, with much emphasis; and, telling him he is quite too foolish to be listened to any longer, she opens the door of the breakfast-room, and they both enter it together, to find all the others a.s.sembled before them, and the post lying in the centre of the table. All, that is, that remains of it,--namely, one letter for Lilian and two or three for Guy.
These latter, being tinged with indigo, are of an uninteresting description and soon read. Miss Chesney"s, on the contrary, is evidently full of information. It consists of two whole sheets closely covered by a scrawling handwriting that resembles nothing so much as the struggles of a dying fly.
When she has read it twice over carefully--and with considerable difficulty--she lays it down and looks anxiously at Lady Chetwoode.
"Auntie," she begins, with a bright blush and a rather confused air.
"Yes, dear?"
"This letter"--touching it--"is from my cousin."
"Yes,--from your cousin? The lad who grew up with you at the Park?" says Lady Chetwoode, with a kindly nod of comprehension.