Airy Fairy Lilian. Duchess
one thing, your mother died; then I went to Eton, to Cambridge, got a commission in the Dragoons, tired of it, sold out, and am now as you see me."
"What an eventful history!" says Lilian, laughing.
At this moment, who should come toward them, beneath the trees, but Cyril, walking as though for a wager.
"'Whither awa?'" asks Miss Lilian, gayly stopping him with outstretched hands.
"You have spoiled my quotation," says Cyril, reproachfully, "and it was on the very tip of my tongue. I call it disgraceful. I was going to say with fine effect, 'Where are you going, my pretty maid?' but I fear it would fall rather flat if I said it now."
"Rather. Nevertheless, I accept the compliment. Are you in training? or where are you going in such a hurry?"
"A mere constitutional," says Cyril, lightly—which is a base and ready lie. "Good-bye, I won't detain you longer. Long ago I learned the useful lesson that where 'two is company, three is trumpery.' Don't look as though you would like to devour me, Guy: I meant no harm."
Lilian laughs, so does Guy, and Cyril continues his hurried walk.
"Where does that path lead to?" asks Lilian, looking after him as he disappeared rapidly in the distance.
"To The Cottage first, and then to the gamekeeper's lodge, and farther on to another entrance-gate that opens on the road."
"Perhaps he will see your pretty tenant on his way?"
"I hardly think so. It seems she never goes beyond her own garden."
"Poor thing! I feel the greatest curiosity about her, indeed I might say an interest in her. Perhaps she is unhappy."
"Perhaps so; though her manner is more frozen than melancholy. She is almost forbidding, she is so cold."
"She may be in ill health."
"She may be," unsympathetically.
"You do not seem very prepossessed in her favor," says Lilian, impatiently.
"Well, I confess I am not," carelessly. "Experience has taught me that when a woman withdraws persistently from the society of her own sex, and eschews the companionship of her fellow-creatures, there is sure to be something radically wrong with her."
"But you forget there are exceptions to every rule. I confess I would give anything to see her," says Lilian, warmly.
"I don't believe you would be the gainer by that bargain," replies he, with conviction, being oddly, unaccountably prejudiced against this silent, undemonstrative widow.
* * * * * * *
Meantime, Cyril pursues his way along the path, that every day of late he has traveled with unexampled perseverance. Seven times he has passed along it full of hope, and only twice has been rewarded, with a bare glimpse of the fair unknown, whose face has obstinately haunted him since his first meeting with it.
On these two momentous occasions, she has appeared to him so pale and wan that he is fain to believe the color he saw in her cheeks on that first day arose from vexation and excitement, rather than health—a conclusion that fills him with alarm.
Now, as he nears the house between the interstices of the hedge he catches the gleam of a white gown moving to and fro, that surely covers his divinity.
Time proves his surmise right. It is the admired incognita, who almost as he reaches the gate that leads to her bower, comes up to one of the huge rose-bushes that decorate either side of it, and—unconscious of criticism—commences to gather from it such flowers as shall add beauty to the bouquet already growing large within her hands.
Presently the restless feeling that makes us all know when some unexpected presence is near, compels her to raise her head. Thereupon her eyes and those of Cyril Chetwoode meet. She pauses in her occupation as though irresolute; Cyril pauses too; and then gravely, unsmilingly, she bows in cold recognition. Certainly her reception is not encouraging; but Cyril is not to be daunted.
"I hope," he says, deferentially, "your little dog has been conducting himself with due propriety since last I had the pleasure of restoring him to your arms?"
This Grandisonian speech surely calls for a reply.
"Yes," says Incognita, graciously. "I think it was only the worry caused by change of scene made him behave so very badly that—last day."
So saying, she turns from him, as though anxious to give him a gentle congé. But Cyril, driven to desperation, makes one last effort at detaining her.
"I hope your friend is better," he says, leaning his arms upon the top of the gate, and looking full of anxiety about the absent widow. "My brother—Sir Guy—called the other day, and said she appeared extremely delicate."
"My friend?" staring at him in marked surprise, while a faint deep rose flush illumines her cheek, making one forget how white and fragile she appeared a moment since.
"Yes. I mean Mrs. Arlington, our tenant. I am Cyril Chetwoode," raising his hat. "I hope the air here will do her good."
He is talking against time, but she is too much occupied to notice it.
"I hope it will," she replies, calmly, studying her roses attentively, while the faintest suspicion of a smile grows and trembles at the corner of her mobile lips.
"You are her sister, perhaps?" asks Cyril, the extreme deference of his whole manner taking from the rudeness of his questioning.
"No—not her sister."
"Her friend?"
"Yes. Her dearest friend," replies Incognita, slowly, after a pause, and a closer, more prolonged examination of her roses; while again the curious half-suppressed smile lights up her face. There are few things prettier on a pretty face than an irrepressible smile.
"She is fortunate in possessing such a friend," says Cyril, softly; then with some haste, as though anxious to cover his last remark, "My brother did not see you when he called?"
"Did he say so?"
"No. He merely mentioned having seen only Mrs. Arlington. I do not think he is aware of your existence."
"I think he is. I have had the pleasure of speaking with Sir Guy."
"Indeed!" says Cyril, and instantly tells himself he would not have suspected Guy of so much slyness. "Probably it was some day since—you met him——"
"No, it was on that one occasion when he called here."
"I dare say I misunderstood," says Cyril, "but I certainly thought he said he had seen only Mrs. Arlington."
"Well?"
"Well?"
"I am Mrs. Arlington!"
"What!" says Cyril, with exaggerated surprise—and a moment later is shocked at the vehemence of his own manner. "I beg your pardon, I am sure," he says, contritely; "there is no reason why it should not be so, but you seem so—I had no idea you wore a—that is—I mean I did not think you were married."
"You had no idea I was a widow," corrects Mrs. Arlington, coldly. "I do not see why you need apologize. On the contrary, I consider you have paid me a compliment. I am glad I do not look the character. Good-morning, sir; I have detained you too long already."
"It is I who have detained you, madam," says Cyril, speaking coldly also, being a little vexed at the tone she has employed toward him, feeling it to be undeserved. "I fear I have been unhappy enough to err twice this morning—though I trust you will see—unwittingly." He accompanies this speech with a glance so full of entreaty and a mute desire for friendship as must go straight to the heart of any true woman; after which, being a wise young man, he attempts no further remonstrance, but lifts his hat, and walks away gloomily toward his home.
Mrs. Arlington, who is not proof against so much reproachful humility,