Airy Fairy Lilian. Duchess
her feet. "It is very unkind of you, and just now too, when I am all alone in a strange house. Oh, nurse!" throwing her arms round the neck of that devoted and long-suffering woman, and forgetful of her resentment, which indeed was born only of her regret, "I am so unhappy, and lonely, and sorry! What shall I do?"
"How can I tell you, my lamb?" – caressing with infinite affection the golden head that lies upon her bosom. "All that I say only vexes you."
"No, it doesn't: I am wicked when I make you think that. After all," – raising her face – "I am not quite forsaken; I have you still, and you will never leave me."
"Not unless I die, my dear," says nurse, earnestly. "And, Miss Lilian, how can you look at her ladyship without knowing her to be a real friend. And Mr. Chetwoode too; and perhaps Sir Guy will be as nice, when you see him."
"Perhaps he won't," ruefully.
"That's nonsense, my dear. Let us look at the bright side of things always. And by and by Master Taffy will come here on a visit, and then it will be like old times. Come, now, be reasonable, child of my heart," says nurse, "and tell me, won't you look forward to having Master Taffy here?"
"I wish he was here now," says Lilian, visibly brightening. "Yes; perhaps they will ask him. But, nurse, do you remember when last I saw Taffy it was at – "
Here she shows such unmistakable symptoms of relapsing into the tearful mood again, that nurse sees the necessity of changing the subject.
"Come, my bairn, let me dress you for dinner," she says, briskly, and presently, after a little more coaxing, she succeeds so well that she sends her little mistress down to the drawing-room, looking her loveliest and her best.
CHAPTER V
"Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self,
Recluse amid the close-embowering woods."
– Thomson.
Next morning, having enjoyed the long and dreamless sleep that belongs to the heart-whole, Lilian runs down to the breakfast-room, with the warm sweet flush of health and youth upon her cheeks. Finding Lady Chetwoode and Cyril already before her, she summons all her grace to her aid and tries to look ashamed of herself.
"Am I late?" she asks, going up to Lady Chetwoode and giving her a little caress as a good-morning. Her very touch is so gentle and childish and loving that it sinks straight into the deepest recesses of one's heart.
"No. Don't be alarmed. I have only just come down myself. You will soon find us out to be some of the laziest people alive."
"I am glad of it: I like lazy people," says Lilian; "all the rest seem to turn their lives into one great worry."
"Will you not give me a good-morning, Miss Chesney?" says Cyril, who is standing behind her.
"Good-morning," putting her hand into his.
"But that is not the way you gave it to my mother," in an aggrieved tone.
"No? – Oh!" – as she comprehends, – "but you should remember how much more deserving your mother is."
"With sorrow I acknowledge the truth of your remark," says Cyril, as he hands her her tea.
"Cyril is our naughty boy," Lady Chetwoode says; "we all spend our lives making allowances for Cyril. You must not mind what he says. I hope you slept well, Lilian; there is nothing does one so much good as a sound sleep, and you looked quite pale with fatigue last night. You see" – smiling – "how well I know your name. It is very familiar to me, having been your dear mother's."
"It seems strangely familiar to me also, though I never know your mother," says Cyril. "I don't believe I shall ever be able to call you Miss Chesney. Would it make you very angry if I called you Lilian?"
"Indeed, no; I shall be very much obliged to you. I should hardly know myself by the more formal title. You shall call me Lilian, and I shall call you Cyril, – if you don't mind."
"I don't think I do, – much," says Cyril; so the compact is signed.
"Guy will be here surely by luncheon," says Lady Chetwoode, with a view of giving her guest pleasure.
"Oh! will he really?" says Lilian, in a quick tone, suggestive of dismay.
"I am sure of it," says Guy's mother fondly: "he never breaks his word."
"Of course not," thinks Lilian to herself. "Fancy a paragon going wrong! How I hate a man who never breaks his word! Why, the Medes and Persians would be weak-minded compared with him."
"I suppose not," she says aloud, rather vaguely.
"You seem to appreciate the idea of your guardian's return," says Cyril, with a slight smile, having read half her thoughts correctly. "Does the mere word frighten you? I should like to know your real opinion of what a guardian ought to be."
"How can I have an opinion on the subject when I have never seen one?"
"Yet a moment ago I saw by your face you were picturing one to yourself."
"If so, it could scarcely be Sir Guy, – as he is not old."
"Not very. He has still a few hairs and a few teeth remaining. But won't you then answer my question? What is your ideal guardian like?"
"If you press it I shall tell you, but you must not betray me to Sir Guy," says Lilian, turning to include Lady Chetwoode in her caution. "My ideal is always a lean old gentleman of about sixty, with a stoop, and any amount of determination. He has a hooked nose on which gold-rimmed spectacles eternally stride; eyes that look one through and through; a mouth full of trite phrases, unpleasant maxims, and false teeth; and a decided tendency toward the suppression of all youthful follies."
"Guy will be an agreeable surprise. I had no idea you could be so severe."
"Nor am I. You must not think me so," says Lilian, blushing warmly and looking rather sorry for having spoken; "but you know you insisted on an answer. Perhaps I should not have spoken so freely, but that I know my real guardian is not at all like my ideal."
"How do you know? Perhaps he too is toothless, old, and unpleasant. He is a great deal older than I am."
"He can't be a great deal older."
"Why?"
"Because" – with a shy glance at the gentle face behind the urn – "Lady Chetwoode looks so young."
She blushes again as she says this, and regards her hostess with an air of such thorough good faith as wins that lady's liking on the spot.
"You are right," says Cyril, laughing; "she is young. She is never to grow old, because her 'boys,' as she calls us, object to old women. You may have heard of 'perennial spring;' well, that is another name for my mother. But you must not tell her so, because she is horribly conceited, and would lead us an awful life if we didn't keep her down."
"Cyril, my dear!" says Lady Chetwoode, laughing, which is about the heaviest reproof she ever delivers.
All this time, her breakfast being finished, Lilian has been carefully and industriously breaking up all the bread left upon her plate, until now quite a small pyramid stands in the centre of it.
Cyril, having secretly crumbled some of his, now, stooping forward, places it upon the top of her hillock.
"I haven't the faintest idea what you intend doing with it," he says, "but, as I am convinced you have some grand project in view, I feel a mean desire to be associated with it in some way by having a finger in the pie. Is it for a pie? I am dying of vulgar curiosity."
"I!" – with a little shocked start; "it doesn't matter, I – I quite forgot. I – "
She presses her hand nervously down upon the top of her goodly pile, and suppresses the gay little erection until it lies prostrate on her plate, where even then it makes a very fair show.
"You meant it for something, my dear, did you not?" asks Lady Chetwoode, kindly.
"Yes, for the birds," says the girl, turning upon her two great earnest eyes that shine like stars through regretful tears. "At home I used to collect all the broken