Airy Fairy Lilian. Duchess
head, sees the dejected manner of his departure, and is greatly struck by it. She makes one step forward; checks herself; opens her lips as though to speak; checks herself again; and finally, with a little impatient sigh, turns and walks off gloomily toward her home.
CHAPTER VIII.
"And sang, with much simplicity—a merit
Not the less precious, that we seldom hear it."
—Don Juan.
The rain is beating regularly, persistently, against the window-panes; there is no hope of wandering afield this evening. A sullen summer shower, without a smile in it, is deluging gardens and lawns, tender flowers and graveled walks, and is blotting out angrily all the glories of the landscape.
It is half-past four o'clock. Lady Chetwoode is sitting in the library reclining in the coziest arm-chair the room contains, with her knitting as usual in her hands. She disdains all newer, lighter modes of passing the time, and knits diligently all day long for her poor.
Lilian is standing at the melancholy window, counting the diminutive lakes and toy pools forming in the walk outside. As she looks, a laurel leaf, blown from the nearest shrubbery, falls into a fairy river, and floats along in its current like a sedate and sturdy boat, with a small snail for cargo, that clings to it bravely for dear life.
Presently a stick, that to Lilian's idle fancy resolves itself into an iron-clad, runs down the poor little skiff, causing it to founder with all hands on board.
At this heart-rending moment John enters with a tea-tray, and, drawing a small table before Lady Chetwoode, lays it thereon. Her ladyship, with a sigh, prepares to put away her beloved knitting, hesitates, and then is lost in so far that she elects to finish that most mysterious of all things, the rounding of the heel of her socks, before pouring out the tea. Old James Murland will be expecting these good gray socks by the end of the week, and old James Murland must not be disappointed.
"Lady Chetwoode," says Lilian, with soft hesitation, "I want to ask you a question."
"Do you, dear? Then ask it."
"But it is a very odd question, and perhaps you will be angry."
"I don't think I shall," says Lady Chetwoode ("One, two, three, four," etc.)
"Well, then, I like you so much—I love you so much," corrects Lilian, earnestly, "that, if you don't mind, I should like to call you some name a little less formal than Lady Chetwoode. Do you mind?"
Her ladyship lays down her knitting and looks amused.
"It seems no one cares to give me my title," she says. "Mabel, my late ward, was hardly here three days when she made a request similar to yours. She always called me 'Auntie.' Florence calls me, of course, 'Aunt Anne;' but Mabel always called me 'Auntie.'"
"Ah! that was prettier. May I call you 'Auntie' too? 'Auntie Nannie,'—I think that a dear little name, and just suited to you."
"Call me anything you like, darling," says Lady Chetwoode, kissing the girl's soft, flushed cheek.
Here the door opens to admit Sir Guy and Cyril, who are driven to desperation and afternoon tea by the incivility of the weather.
"The mother and Lilian spooning," says Cyril. "I verily believe women, when alone, kiss each other for want of something better."
"I have been laughing at Lilian," says Lady Chetwoode: "she, like Mabel, cannot be happy unless she finds for me a pet name. So I am to be 'Auntie' to her too."
"I am glad it is not to be 'Aunt Anne,' like Florence," says Cyril, with a distasteful shrug; "that way of addressing you always grates upon my ear."
"By the bye, that reminds me," says Lady Chetwoode, struggling vainly in her pocket to bring to light something that isn't there, "Florence is coming home next week. I had a letter from her this morning telling me so, but I forgot all about it till now."
"You don't say so!" says Cyril, in a tone of unaffected dismay.
Now, when one hears an unknown name mentioned frequently in conversation, one eventually grows desirous of knowing something about the owner of that name.
Lilian therefore gives away to curiosity.
"And who is Florence?" she asks.
"'Who is Florence?'" repeats Cyril; "have you really asked the question? Not to know Florence argues yourself unknown. She is an institution. But I forgot, you are one of those unhappy ones outside the pale of Florence's acquaintance. How I envy—I mean pity you!"
"Florence is my niece," says Lady Chetwoode: "she is at present staying with some friends in Shropshire, but she lives with me. She has been here ever since she was seventeen."
"Is that very long ago?" asks Lilian, and her manner is so naïve that they all smile.
"She came here——" begins Lady Chetwoode.
"She came here," interrupts Cyril, impressively, "precisely five years ago. Have you mastered that date? If so, cling to it, get it by heart, never lose sight of it. Once, about a month ago, before she left us to go to those good-natured people in Shropshire, I told her, quite accidentally, I thought she came here nine years ago. She was very angry, and I then learned that Florence angry wasn't nice, and that a little of her in that state went a long way. I also learned that she came here five years ago."
"Am I to understand," asks Lilian, laughing, "that she is twenty-six?"
"My dear Lilian, I do hope you are not 'obtoose.' Has all my valuable information been thrown away? I have all this time been trying to impress upon you the fact that Florence is only twenty-two, but it is evidently 'love's labor lost.' Now do try to comprehend. She was twenty-two last year, she is twenty-two this year, and I am almost positive that this time next year she will be twenty-two again!"
"Cyril, don't be severe," says his mother.
"Dearest mother, how can you accuse me of such a thing? Is it severe to say Florence is still young and lovely?"
"Do you and Florence like each other?" asks Lilian.
"Not too much. I am not staid enough for Florence. She says she likes earnest people—like Guy."
"Ah!" says Lilian.
"What?" Guy hearing his name mentioned looks up dreamily from the Times, in the folds of which he has been buried. "What about me?"
"Nothing. I was only telling Lilian in what high esteem you are held by our dear Florence."
"Is that all?" says Guy, indifferently, going back to the thrilling account of the divorce case he has been studying.
"What a very ungallant speech!" says Miss Chesney, with a view to provocation, regarding him curiously.
"Was it?" says Guy, meeting her eyes, and letting the interesting paper slip to the floor beside him. "It was scarcely news, you see, and there is nothing to be wondered at. If I lived with people for years, I am certain I should end by being attached to them, were they good or bad."
"She doesn't waste much of her liking upon me," says Cyril.
"Nor you on her. She is just the one pretty woman I ever knew to whom you didn't succumb."
"You didn't tell me she was pretty," says Lilian, hastily, looking at Cyril with keen reproach.
"'Handsome is as handsome does,' and the charming Florence makes a point of treating me very unhandsomely. You won't like her, Lilian; make up your mind to it."
"Nonsense! don't let yourself be prejudiced by Cyril's folly," says Guy.
"I am not easily prejudiced," replies Lilian, somewhat coldly, and instantly forms an undying dislike