Airy Fairy Lilian. Duchess

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СКАЧАТЬ presently – being a bird of unformed tastes or unappreciative, or perhaps fickle – he tires of looking, and flapping heavily his black wings, rises slowly and sails away.

      Toward the east he goes, the sound of his harsh but homely croak growing fainter as he flies. Over the trees in their gorgeous clothing, across the murmuring brooks, through the uplands, over the heads of the deer that gaze at him with their mournful, gentle eyes, he travels, never ceasing in his flight until he comes to a small belt of firs, evidently set apart, in the centre of which stands "The Cottage."

      It is considerably larger than one would expect from its name. A long, low, straggling house, about three miles from Chetwoode entrance-gate, going by the road, but only one mile, taking a short cut through the Park. A very pretty house, – with a garden in front, carefully hedged round, and another garden at the back, – situated in a lovely spot, – perhaps the most enviable in all Chetwoode, – silent, dreamy, where one might, indeed, live forever, "the world forgetting, by the world forgot."

      In the garden all sorts of the sweetest old-world flowers are blooming, – pinks and carnations, late lilies and sweet-williams; the velvety heartsease, breathing comfort to the poor love-that-lies-a-bleeding; the modest forget-me-not, the fragrant mignonette (whose qualities, they rudely say surpass its charms), the starry jessamine, the frail woodbine; while here and there from every nook and corner shines out the fairest, loveliest, queenliest flower of all, – the rose.

      Every bush is rich with them; the air is heavy with their odor. Roses of every hue, of every size, from the grand old cabbage to the smallest Scotch, are here. One gazes round in silent admiration, until the great love of them swells within the heart and a desire for possession arises, when, growing murderous, one wishes, like Nero, they had but one neck, that they might all be gathered at a blow.

      Upon the house only snow-white roses grow. In great masses they uprear their heads, peeping curiously in at the windows, trailing lovingly round the porches, nestling under the eaves, drooping coquettishly at the angles. To-day a raindrop has fallen into each scented heart, has lingered there all the morning, and is still loath to leave. Above the flowers the birds hover twittering; beneath them the ground is as a snowy carpet from their fallen petals. Poor petals! How sad it is that they must fall! Yet, even in death, how sweet!

      It is Saturday. In the morning the new tenant was expected; the evening is to bring the new ward. Lady Chetwoode, in consequence, is a little trouble-minded. Guy has gone to the Bellairs'. Cyril is in radiant spirits. Not that this latter fact need be recorded, as Cyril belongs to those favored ones who at their birth receive a dowry from their fairy godparents of unlimited good-humor.

      He is at all times an easy-going young man, healthy, happy, whose path in life up to this has been strewn with roses. To him the world isn't "half a bad place," which he is content to take as he finds it, never looking too closely into what doesn't concern him, – a treatment the world evidently likes, as it regards him (especially the gentler portion of it) with the utmost affection.

      Even with that rare class, mothers blessed with handsome daughters, he finds favor, either through his face or his manner, or because of the fact that though a younger son, he has nine hundred pounds a year of his own and a pretty place called Moorlands, about six miles from Chetwoode. It was his mother's portion and is now his.

      He is tall, broad-shouldered, and rather handsome, with perhaps more mouth than usually goes to one man's share; but, as he has laughed straight through from his cradle to his twenty-sixth year, this is scarcely to be wondered at. His eyes are gray and frank, his hair is brown, his skin a good deal tanned. He is very far from being an Adonis, but he is good to look at, and to know him is to like him.

      Just now, luncheon being over, and nothing else left to do, he is feeling rather bored than otherwise, and lounges into his mother's morning-room, being filled with a desire to have speech with somebody. The somebody nearest to him at the moment being Lady Chetwoode, he elects to seek her presence and inflict his society upon her.

      "It's an awful nuisance having anything on your mind, isn't it, mother?" he says, genially.

      "It is indeed, my dear," with heartfelt earnestness and a palpable expectation of worse things yet to come. "What unfortunate mistake have you been making now?"

      "Not one. 'You wrong me, Brutus.' I have been as gently behaved as a skipping lamb all the morning. No; I mean having to fetch our visitor this evening weighs upon my spirits and somehow idles me. I can settle to nothing."

      "You seldom can, dear, can you?" says Lady Chetwoode, mildly, with unmeant irony. "But" – as though suddenly inspired – "suppose you go for a walk?"

      This is a mean suggestion, and utterly unworthy of Lady Chetwoode. The fact is, the day is warm and she is sleepy, and she knows she will not get her forty winks unless he takes himself out of the way. So, with a view to getting rid of him, she grows hypocritically kind.

      "A walk will do you good," she says. "You don't take half exercise enough. And, you know, the want of it makes people fat."

      "I believe you are right," Cyril says, rising. He stretches himself, laughs indolently at his own lazy figure in an opposite mirror, after which he vanishes almost as quickly as even she can desire.

      Five minutes later, with an open book upon her knee, as a means of defense should any one enter unannounced, Lady Chetwoode is snoozing comfortably; while Cyril, following the exact direction taken by the crow in the morning, walks leisurely onward, under the trees, to meet his fate!

      Quite unthinkingly, quite unsuspiciously, he pursues his way, dreaming of anything in the world but The Cottage and its new inmate, until the house, suddenly appearing before him, recalls his wandering thoughts.

      The hall-door stands open. Every one of the windows is thrown wide. There is about everything the unmistakable silent noise that belongs to an inhabited dwelling, however quiet. The young man, standing still, wonders vaguely at the change.

      Then all at once a laugh rings out; there is an undeniable scuffle, and presently a tiny black dog with a little mirthful yelp breaks from the house into the garden and commences a mad scamper all round and round the rose trees.

      An instant later he is followed by a trim maid-servant, who, flushed but smiling, rushes after him, making well-directed but ineffectual pounces on the truant. As she misses him the dog gives way to another yelp (of triumph this time), and again the hunt goes on.

      But now there comes the sound of other feet, and Cyril, glancing up from his interested watch over the terrier's movements, sees surely something far, far lovelier than he has ever seen before.

      Even at this early moment his heart gives a little bound and then seems to cease from beating.

      Upon the door-step stands a girl – although quite three-and-twenty she still looks the merest girl – clad in a gown of clear black-and-white cambric. A huge coarse white apron covers all the front of this gown, and is pinned, French fashion, half-way across her bosom. Her arms, white and soft, and rounded as a child's, are bared to the elbows, her sleeves being carefully tucked up. Two little feet, encased in Louis Quinze slippers, peep coyly from beneath her robe.

      Upon this vision Cyril gazes, his whole heart in his eyes, and marks with wondering admiration each fresh beauty. She is tall, rather posée in figure, with a small, proud head, and the carriage of a goddess. Her features are not altogether perfect, and yet (or rather because of it) she is extremely beautiful. She has great, soft, trusting eyes of a deep rare gray, that looking compel the truth; above her low white forehead her hair rolls back in silky ruffled waves, and is gathered into a loose knot behind. It is a rich nut-brown in color, through which runs a СКАЧАТЬ