I have wandered down to the river side and under the shady trees. As yet, October is so young and mild the leaves refuse to offer tribute, and still quiver and rustle gayly on their branches.
It is a week since my adventure in the wood—five days since Mr. Carrington's last visit. On that occasion having failed to obtain one minute with him alone, the handkerchief still remains in my possession, and proves a very skeleton in my closet, the initials M. J. C.—that stand for Marmaduke John Carrington, as all the world knows—staring out boldly from their corner, and threatening at any moment to betray me: so that, through fear and dread of discovery, I carry it about with me, and sleep with it beneath my pillow. Looking back upon it all now, I wonder how I could have been so foolish, so wanting in invention. I feel with what ease I could now dispose of anything tangible and obnoxious.
There is a slight chill in the air, in spite of the pleasant sun; and I half make up my mind to go for a brisk walk, instead of sauntering idly, as I am at present doing, when somebody calls to me from the adjoining field. It is Mr. Carrington. He climbs the wall that separates us, and drops into my territory, a little scrambling Irish terrier at his heels.
"Is this a favorite retreat of yours?" he asks, as our hands meet.
"Sometimes. Oh, Mr. Carrington, I am so glad to see you to-day."
"Are you, really? That is better news than I hoped to hear when I left home this morning."
"Because I want to return you your handkerchief. I have had it so long, and am so anxious to get rid of it. It—it would probably look nicer," I say, with hesitation, slowly withdrawing the article in question from my pocket, "if anybody else had washed it; but I did not want any one to find out about—that day: so I had to do it myself."
Lingering, cautiously, I bring it to light and hold it out to him. Oh, how dreadfully pink and uncleanly it appears in the broad light of the open air! Tomeit seems doubly hideous—the very last thing a fastidious gentleman would dream of putting to his nose.
Mr. Carrington accepts it almost tenderly. There is not the shadow of a smile upon his face. It would be impossible for me to sayhowgrateful I feel to him for this.
"Is it possible you took all that trouble," he says, a certain gentle light, with which I am growing familiar, coming into his eyes as they rest upon my anxious face. "My dear child, why? Did you not understand I was only jesting when I expressed a desire to have it again? Why did you not put it in the fire, or rid yourself of it in some other fashion long ago? So"—after a pause—"youreallywashed it with your own hands for me?"
"One might guess that by looking at it," I answer, with a rather awkward laugh: "still, I think it would not lookquiteso badly, but that I kept it in my pocket ever since, and that gives it its crumpled appearance."
"Ever since? so near to you for five long days? What a weight it must have been on your tender conscience! Well, at all events no otherwasherwoman"—with a smile—"shall ever touch it. I promise you that." He places it carefully in an inside pocket as he speaks.
"Oh, please do not say that!" I cry, dismayed: "you must not keep it as a specimen of my handiwork. Once properly washed, you will forget all about it: but if you keep it before your eyes in its present state—- Mr. Carrington,doput it in your clothes-basket the moment you go home."
He only laughs at this pathetic entreaty, and throws a pebble into the tiny river that runs at our feet.
"Why are you alone?" he asks, presently. "Why is not the indefatigable Billy with you?"
"He reads with a tutor three times a week. That leaves me very often lonely. I came here to-day just to pass the time until he can join me. He don't seem to care much about Greek and Latin," I admit, ingenuously; "and, as he never looks at his lessons until five minutes before Mr. Caldwood comes, you see he don't get over them very quickly."
"And so leaves you disconsolate longer than he need. Your sister, Miss Vernon—does she never go for a walk with you?"
Ah! now he is coming to Dora.
"Dora? Oh, never. She is not fond of walking; it does not agree with her, she says. You may have noticed she is not very robust, she looks so fragile, so different frommein every respect."
"Very different."
"Yes, we all see that," I answer, rather disconcerted by his ready acquiescence in this home view. "And so pretty as she is, too! Don't you think her very pretty, Mr. Carrington?"
"Extremely so. Even more than merely pretty. Her complexion, I take it, must be quite unrivaled. She is positively lovely—in her own style."
"I am very glad you admire her; but indeed you would be singular if you did not do so," I say, with enthusiasm. "Her golden hair and blue eyes make her quite a picture.Ithink she has the prettiest face I ever saw: don't you?"
"No; not the prettiest. I know another that, to me at least, is far more beautiful."
He is looking straight before him, apparently at nothing, and to my attentive ear there is something hidden in his tone that renders me uneasy for the brilliant future I have mapped out for my sister.
"You have been so much in the world," I say, with some dejection, "and of course in London and Paris and all the large cities one sees many charming faces from time to time. I should have remembered that. I suppose, away from this little village, Dora's face would be but one in a crowd."
"It was not in London or Paris, or any large city I saw the face of which I speak. It was in a neighborhood as small—yes,quite as small as this. The owner of it was a mere child—a little country-girl, knowing nothing of the busy world outside her home, but I shall never again see any one so altogether sweet and lovable."
"What was she like?" I ask, curiously. I am not so uneasy as I was. If only a child she cannot, of course, interfere with Dora. "Describe her to me?"
"Whatisshe like, you mean. She is still in the land of the living.Describeher I don't believe I could," says my companion, with a light laugh. "If I gave you her exact photograph in words, I dare say I would call down your scorn on my benighted taste. Who ever grew rapturous over a description? If you cross-examine me about her charms, without doubt I shall fall through. To my way of thinking beauty does not lie in features, in hair, or eyes, or mouth. It isthere, without one's knowing why; a look, an expression, a smile, all go to make up the indescribable something that is perfection."
"You speak of her as though she were a woman. I don't believe she is a child at all," I say, with a pout.
"She is the greatest child I ever met. But tell me—-" Then, breaking off suddenly, and turning to me, "By the bye," he says, "what may I call you? Miss Vernon is too formal, and Miss Phyllis I detest."
"Yes," return I, laughing, "it reminds me of Martha. You may call me Phyllis if you like."
"Thank you; I shall like it very much.Aproposof photographs, then, a moment ago, Phyllis, did you ever sit for your portrait?" He is looking at me as he speaks, as though desirous of photographing me upon his brain without further loss of time.
"Oh, yes, twice," I answer, cheerfully; "once by a travelling man who came round, and did us all very cheaply indeed (I think for fourpence or sixpence a head); and once in Carston. I had a dozen taken then; but when I had given one each to them all at home, and one to Martha, I found I had no use for the others, and had only wasted my pocket-money. Perhaps"—diffidently—"youwould like one?"
"Likeit!" says Mr. Carrington, with most uncalled-for eagerness: "I should rather think I would. Will you really give me one, Phyllis?"
"Of course," I answer, with surprise: "they are no use to me, and have been tossing about in my drawer for six months. Will you have a Carston one? I really think it is the best. Though, if you put your hand over the eyes, the itinerant's is rather like me."
"What happened to the eyes?"
"There is a faint cast in the right one. The man said it was the way I always looked, but I don't think so myself.Youdon't think I have a squint, do you, Mr. Carrington?"
Here I open my blue-gray eyes to their widest and gaze at my companion in anxious inquiry.
"No, I don't see it," returns he, when he has subjected the eyes in question to a close and lingering examination, Then he laughs a little, and I laugh too, to encourage him, and because at this time of my life gayety of any sort seems good, and tears and laughter are very near to me; and presently we are both making merry over my description of the wanderer's production.
"What o'clock is it," I ask, a little later. "It must be time for me to go home, and Billy will be waiting."
Having told me the hour, he says:
"Have you no watch, Phyllis?"
"No."
"Don't you find it awkward now and then being ignorant of the time? Would you like one?"
"Oh, would I not?" I answer, promptly. "There is nothing I would like better. Do you know it is the one thing for which I am always wishing."
"Phyllis," says Mr. Carrington, eagerly, "let me give you one."
I stare at him in silent bewilderment. Is he really in earnest? He certainly looks so; and for a moment I revel in the glorious thought. Fancy! what it would be to have a watch of my very own; to be able every five minutes to assure myself of the exact hour! Think of all the malicious pleasure I should enjoy in dangling it before Dora's jealous eyes! what pride in exhibiting it to Billy's delighted ones! Probably it would be handsomer than Dora's, which has seen service, and, being newer, would surely keep better time.
Then the delight passes, and something within me whispers such joy is not for me. Of course he would only give it to me for Dora's sake, and yet Iknow—I cannot saywhyI feel it—but Iknowif I accepted a watch from Mr. Carrington all at home would be angry, and it would cause a horrible row.
"Thank you," I say mournfully. "Thank youvery, verymuch, Mr. Carrington, but I could not take it from you. It is very kind of you to offer it, and I would accept it if I could, but it would be of no use. At home I know they would not let me have it, and so it would be a pity for you to spend all your money upon it for nothing."
"What nonsense!" impatiently. "Whowould not let you take it?"
"Papa, mamma, every one," I answer, with deepest dejection. (I would somuchhave liked that watch! Why,whydid he put the delightful but transient idea into my head?) "They would all say I acted wrongly in taking it, and—and they would send it back to you again."
"Is there anything else you would like, Phyllis, that Imight give you?"
"No, nothing, thank you. I must only wait. Mother has promised me her watch upon my wedding morning."
"You seem comfortably certain of being married, sooner or later," he says, with a laugh that still shows some vexation. "Do you ever think whatsortof a husband you would like, Phyllis?"
"No, I never think of disagreeable things, if I can help it," is my somewhat tart reply. My merry mood is gone: I feel in some way injured, and inclined towards snappishness. "And from whatI have seen of husbands I think they are all, every one, each more detestable than the other. If I were an heiress I would never marry; but, being a girl without a fortune, I suppose I must."
Mr. Carrington roars.
"I never heard anything so absurd," he says, "as such mature sentiments coming fromyourlips. Why, to hear you talk, one might imagine you a town-bred young woman, one who has passed through the fourth campaign; but toseeyou—- You have learned your lesson uncommonly well, though I am sure you were never taught it by your mother. And how do you know that you may not lose your heart to a curate, and find yourself poorer after your marriage than before?"
"That I never will," I return, decisively. "In the first place, I detest curates, and in the next I would not be wife to a poor man, even if I adored him. I will marry a rich man, or I will not marry at all."
"I hate to hear you talk like that," says Mr. Carrington, gravely. "The ideas are so unsuited to a little loving girl like you. Although I am positive you do not mean one word of what you say, still it pains me to hear you."
"Idomean it," I answer defiantly; "but as my conversation pains you, I will not inflict it on you longer. Good-bye!"
"Good-bye, you perverse child; and don't try toimagine yourself mercenary. Are you angry with me?" holding my unwilling hand and smiling into my face. "Don't, I'm not worth it. Come, give me one smile to bear me company until we meet again." Thus abjured, I laugh, and my fingers grow quiet in his grasp. "And when will that be?" continues Mr. Carrington. "To-morrow or next day? Probably Friday will see me at Summerleas. In the meantime, now we are friends again, I must remind you not to forget your promise about that Carston photo."
"I will remember," I say; and so we separate.
On my return home, to my inexpressible surprise and delight, I find Roland. During my absence he has arrived, totally unexpected by any member of the household; and the small excitement his appearance causes makes him doubly welcome, as anything that startles us out of our humdrum existence is hailed with positive rapture. Even mother, whose mind is still wonderfully fresh and young, considering all the years she has passed under papa's thumb, enters freely into the general merriment, and forgets for the time being her daily cares.
"You see, I found I would be here almost as soon as a letter," explains Roland; "and, as I hate writing like a nightmare, I resolved to take you a little by surprise."
Mother, radiant, is sitting near him, regarding him with humid eyes. If dear mother had been married to an indulgent husband she would have been a dreadful goose. Even as it is she possesses a talent for weeping upon all occasions only to be equalled by mine.
"How did you manage to get away so soon again, Roly?" I ask, when I have embraced him as much as he will allow.
"I hardly know. Luck, I fancy—and the colonel—did it. The old boy, you see, has a weakness for me which I return by having a weakness for the old boy's daughter. Mother"—languidly—"may I marry the old boy's daughter? She is an extremely pretty little girl, young, with fifteen thousand pounds; but I would not like to engage myself to her without your full consent."
Mother laughs and passes her hand with a light caressing gesture over his charming face.
"Conceited boy!" she murmurs, fondly; "there is little chance you will ever do so much good for yourself."
"Don't be too sure. At all events, I have your consent?"
"Yes, and my blessing, too," says mother, laughing again.
"Thanks. Then I'll turn it over in my mind when I go back."
"Roly," I break in with my accustomed graciousness, "what brought you?"
"The train and an overpowering desire to see Dora's young man."
A laugh and a blush from Dora.
"I met him just now," I say, "down by the trout-river. What a pity he did not come home with me, to satisfy your curiosity without delay!"
"Mother, do you think it the correct thing for Phyllis to keep clandestine appointments with her brother-in-law? Dora, is it possible you do not scent mischief in the air? A person, too, of Phyllis's well-known attractions—-"
"What was he doing at the trout-river?" asks Dora, with a smile. She is too secure in the knowledge of her own beauty to dread a rival anywhere, least of all inme.
"Nothing, as far as I could see. He talked a little, and said he was coming here next Friday."
"The day after to-morrow. I shall ask him his intentions," says Roly. "It is most fortunate I am on the spot. One should never let an affair of this kinddrag. It will doubtless be a thankless task; but I make a point of never shirking duty; and when we have put our beloved father comfortably under ground—-"
"Roland," interrupts mother, in a shocked tone. There is a pause.
"I quite thought you were going to say something," says Roland, amiably. "I was mistaken. I will therefore continue. When we have put our beloved father well under the ground I will then be head of this house, and natural guardian to these poor dear girls and, with this prospect in view, I feel even at the present moment a certain responsibility, that compels me to look after their interests and bring this recreant gallant to book."
"Roland, my dear, I wish you would not speak so of your father," puts in mamma, feebly.
"Very well, I won't," returns Roly; "and he shan't be put under ground at all, if you don't wish it. Cremation shall be his fate, and we shall keep his precious ashes in an urn."
"I don't believe Mr. Carrington cares a pin for Dora," says Billy, irrevelantly. "I think he likes Phyllis twice as well." This remark, though intended to do so, doesnotact as a bombshell in the family circle; it is regarded as a mere flash in the pan from Billy, and is received with silent contempt. What could a boy know about such matters?
"I have a month's leave," Roland informs us presently. "Do you think in that time we could polish it off—courtship, proposal, and wedding? Though," reflectively, "that would be a pity, as by puffing off the marriage for a little while I might then screw another month out of the old boy."
"Just so," I answer, approvingly.
"He is such a desirable young man in every way," says mother,a proposof Mr. Carrington; "so steady, well-tempered, and his house is really beautiful. You know it, Roland—Strangemore—seven miles from this?"
"I think it gloomy," Dora says, quietly. "When I—if I were to—that is—-"
"What a charming virtue is modesty!" I exclaim,sotto voce.
"Go on, Dora," says Roland, in an encouraging tone. "When you marry Mr. Carrington, what will you do then?"
"Of course I don't see the smallest prospect of it," murmurs Dora, with downcast eyes; "but if I were to become mistress of Strangemore I would throw more light into all the rooms; I would open up windows everywhere and take down those heavy pillars."
"Then you would ruin it," I cry indignantly; "its ancient appearance is its chief charm. You would make it a mere modern dwelling-house; and the pillars I think magnificent."
"Idon't," says dear Dora, immovably; "and if ever I get the chance I will certainly remove them."
"You won't get the chance, then; you need not think it. Mr. Carrington has not the smallest idea of marrying you," exclaims Billy, whose Latin and Greek have evidently disagreed with him.
"It is a pity your tutor cannot teach you to be a gentleman," retorts Dora, casting a withering glance at our youngest born.
"Our dear William's temper appears slightly ruffled," remarks Roland, smoothly. "Evidently the gentleman of the name of Caldwood was lavish with his birch this morning. Come with me, Phyllis: I want to visit the stables."
I follow him gladly; and Billy joining us, with a grim countenance, we sally forth, leaving Dora to pour her griefs into mother's gentle bosom.
FRIDAY brings Mr. Carrington, who is specially agreeable, and devotes himself a good deal to Roland. There is a considerable amount of talk about shooting, hunting, and so forth, and we can all see that Roly is favorably impressed. Dora's behavior is perfect—her modesty and virtuous bashfulness apparent. Our visitor rather affects her society than otherwise, but beyond listening to her admiringly when she speaks, shows no marked attention. In the country a visit is indeed a visitation, and several hours elapse before he takes his departure. Once finding myself alone with him in the conservatory, I bestow upon him my promised picture, which he receives with open gratitude and consigns to his pocket as he hears footsteps approaching.
Roland's presence has inspired us all with much additional cheerfulness. We have never appeared so gay so free from restraint, as on this afternoon, and Mr. Carrington finds it hard to tear himself away. I myself am in wild spirits, and quite outshine myself every now and then; and Billy, who is not at any time afflicted with shyness, thinks it a safe opportunity to ask our friend before he leaves if he will some day take us for a drive in his dog-cart.
"Of course I will," say Mr. Carrington. "How unpardonable of me never to have thought of it before! But perhaps," speaking to Billy, but looking at Dora and me, "perhaps you would prefer four horses and the coach? It will be a charity to give it a chance to escape from the moths."
"Oh, I say" says Billy, "are you in earnest?" and, being reassured on this point, fairly overflows with delight.
Dora and I are scarcely less delighted, and Roland is graciously pleased to say it will be rather fun, when he finds the two Hastings girls are also coming. Somehow nobody thinks of a chaperon, which certainly heightens the enjoyment, and proves what a reputable person Mr. Carrington must be.
When the day arrives, and our landlord, clad in a thick light overcoat, drives his four bright bays up to our door, our enthusiasm reaches its final pitch. Imagination can no farther go: our dream is fulfilled.
Mr. Carrington helps Dora carefully to the box-seat, and then springs up beside her. Billy and I sit very close to each other. Roland takes his place anywhere, with a view to changing it on the arrival of Miss Lenah Hastings. The whip crackles, the bays throw up their heads—we are off!
I kiss my hands a hundred times to mamma and Martha and Jane, the cook, who have all come out to the door steps to see us start; while Brewster at the corner of the house stands agape with excited surprise. Not that he need have shown astonishment of any sort, considering our expedition and the manner of it has been ceaselessly dinned into his ears every hour of the day during the past week, by the untiring Billy.
At Rylston we take up the Hastings, and their brother, a fat but well-meaning young man, who plants himself on my other side, and makes elephantine attempts at playfulness. I do not mind him in the least; I find I can pour out my superfluous spirits upon him quite as well as upon a more companionable person, perhaps better; for with him at least I have all the conversation to myself. So I chatter and laugh and talk to Mr. Hastings until I reduce him to a comatose state, leaving him all eyes and little tongue.
I have succeeded in captivating his fancy, however, or else it is his usual mode to devote himself for the entire day to whoever may first happen to fall into his clutches; as, when we descend to Carlton Wood to partake of the lunch our host has provided for us, he still clings to me, and outwardly at least is almost loverlike.
Alas that October days should be so fleet! A day such as this one might have had forty hours without bringingennuito any of us; but at length evening closes in, the time is come when we must take our departure. Regretfully we collect our shawls and move towards the drag.
Mr. Hastings, still adoring, scrambles on by my side, panting and putting with the weight of the too solid flesh nature has bestowed upon him and the wraps he is compelled to carry. Mr. Carrington, Dora, and Miss Hastings are close behind; Billy straggles somewhere in the distance; Roland and pretty Lenah follow more to the left.
Just as we reach the road Mr. Carrington speaks, and colors a little as he does so.
"Miss Phyllis, I think I once heard you say you had never sat on the front of a drag; will you take it now? Miss Vernon agrees with me it is a good chance for you to see if you would like it."
How good of him to remember that foolish speech of mine, when I know he is longing for Dora's society!
"Oh! thank you," I say, flushing; "it is very kind of you to think of it; but Dora likes it too, and I can assure you I was quite happy. I enjoyed myself immensely when coming."
"Oh! in that case—-" returns Mr. Carrington, coldly, half turning away.
"Not but that I wouldlikeit," I go on, encouraged by a smile from Dora, who can now afford to be magnanimous, having been made much of and singled out by the potentate during the entire day, "if you are sure (to Mr. Carrington) you wish it."
"Come," says he with a pleased smile, and soon I find myself in the coveted position, our landlord in excellent temper beside me.
The horses, tired of standing, show a good deal of friskiness at the set-off, and claim their driver's undivided attention, so that we have covered at least a half mile of the road before he speaks to me. Then stooping to tuck the rug more closely round me (the evenings have grown very chilly) he whispers, with a smile:—
"Are youquitesure you would rather be here with me than at the back with that 'fat boy.'"
"Quite positive," I answer, with an emphatic nod. "I was only afraid you would have preferred—you would regret—you would have liked to return as you came," I wind up, desperately.
He stares at me curiously for a moment almost with suspicion, as it seems to me, in the gathering twilight.
"At this moment, believe me, I have no regrets, no troubles," he says at length, quietly. "Can you say the same? Did Hasting's eloquence make no impression? I couldn't hear what particular line he was taking, but he looked unutterable things. Once or twice I thought he was going to weep. The melting mood would just suit a person of his admirable dimensions."
"He was very kind," I return coldly, "and I don't wish to hear him spoken of in a slighting manner. He is so attentive and good-natured; he carried all those wraps without a murmur, though I'm sure he didn't like it, because his face got so red and he—he lost his breath so dreadfully as we came along. None of the others overburdened themselves, andyou, I particularly noticed, carried nothing."
"I'm a selfish beast, I know," said Mr. Carrington, composedly, "and have always had a rooted objection to carrying anything, except, perhaps, a gun, and there is no getting out of that. There are so many disagreeable burdens in this life thatmust be borne, that it seems to me weak-minded voluntarily to add to them. Don't scold me any more, Phyllis; I want to be happy while I can."
"Then don't abuse poor Mr. Hastings."
"Surely it isn't abuse to say a man is fat when he weighs twenty stone."
"It is impossible he can weigh more than fourteen," I exclaim indignantly.
"Well, even that is substantial," returns he, with a provoking air. Suddenly he laughs.
"Don't let us quarrel about Hastings," he says, looking down at me; "I will make any concessions you like, rather than that. I will say he is slim, refined, a very skeleton, if you wish it, only take that little pucker off your forehead it was never meant to wear a frown. Now tell me if you have enjoyed your day."
"Oh, so much!" I say, with a sigh for the delights that are dead and gone. "You see we have never been accustomed to anything but—but—-" I cannot bring myself to mention the disreputable fossil that lies in the coach-house at home, so substitute the words "one horse"; and now, to find one's self behind four, with such a good height between one's self and the ground, is simply bliss I would like to drive like this forever.
"May I take that as a compliment?"
"A compliment?"
My stupidity slightly discomfits my companion.
"I only hoped you meant you—you would have no objection to engage me as coachman in your never-ending drive," he says, slowly. "My abominable selfishness again, you see. I cannot manage to forget Marmaduke Carrington." Then, abruptly. "You shall have the four-in-hand any day you wish, Phyllis, as it pleases you so much; remember that. Just name a day whenever you choose, and I shall only be too happy to drive you."
What a brother-in-law he will make! My heart throbs with delight. This day, then, is to be one of a series. I feel a wild desire to get near Billy, to give him a squeeze in the exuberance of my joy, but in default of him can only look my gratitude by smiling rapturously into Mr. Carrington's dark-blue eyes.
"It is awfully good of you," I say, warmly; "you don't know how much we enjoy it. We have always been so stupid, so tied down, any unexpected amusement like this seems almost too good to be true. But"—with hesitation and a blush—"we had better not gotoooften. You see, papa is a little odd at times, and he might forbid it altogether if we appeared too anxious for it. Perhaps, in a fortnight, if you would take us again—will you? Or would that be too soon?"
"Phyllis, can't you understand how much I wish to be with you?" His tone is almost impatient, and he speaks with unnecessary haste. I conclude he is referring to pretty Dora, who sits behind, and is making mild running with Mr. Hastings.
"Do you know," I say confidentially, "I am so glad you have come to live down here. Before, we had literally nothing to think about, now you are always turning up, and even that is something. Actually, it seems to us, papa appears more lively since your arrival; he don't look so gloomy or prowl about after us so much. And then this drive—we would never have had the chance of such a thing but for you. It is an immense comfort to know you are going to stay here altogether."
"Is it? Phyllis, look at me." I look at him. "Now tell me this: if any other fellow, as well off as I am, had come to Strangemore, and had taken you for drives and that, would you have been as glad to know him? Would you have liked him as well as me?"
He is regarding me very earnestly; his lips are slightly compressed. Evidently he expects me to say something; but, alas! I don't know what, I feel horribly puzzled, and hesitate.
"Go on; answer me," he says, eagerly.
"I don't know. I never thought about it," I murmur, somewhat troubled. "It is such an odd question. You see, if he had come in your place I would not then have known you, and if he had been as kind—yes, I suppose I would have liked him just as well," I conclude, quickly.
Of course I have said the wrong thing. The moment my speech is finished I know this. Mr. Carrington's eyes leave mine; he mutters something between his teeth, and brings the whip down sharply on the far leader.
"These brutes grow lazier every day," he says with an unmistakable frown.
Five—six minutes pass, and he does not address me. I feel annoyed with myself, yet innocent of having intentionally offended. Presently stealing a glance at my companion, I say, contritely,—-
"Have I vexed you, Mr. Carrington?"
"No, no," he answers, hastily, the smile coming home to his lips. "Don't think so. Surely truthfulness, being so rare a virtue, should be precious. I am an irritable fellow at times, and you are finding out all my faults to-night," he says, rather sadly, laying his hand for an instant upon mine, as it lies bare and small and brown upon the rug. "You have proved me both ill-tempered and selfish. You will say I am full of defects."
"Indeed I will not," I return, earnestly, touched by his manner: "I do not even see the faults you mention; and at all events no one was ever before so kind to me as you have been."
"I would be kinder if I dared," he says, somewhat unsteadily.
While I ponder on what these words may mean, while the first dim foreboding—suspicion—what you will—enters my mind, we see Rylston, and pull up to give the Hastings time to alight and bid their adieux. Then we go on again, always in the strange silence that has fallen upon us, and presently find ourselves at home.
Mr. Carrington is on the ground in a moment, and comes round to my side to help me down. I hold out my hands and prepare for a good spring (a clear jump at any time is delightful to me); but he disappoints my hopes by taking me in his arms and placing me gently on the gravel; after which he goes instantly to Dora.
When we are all safely landed, papa, to our unmitigated astonishment, comes forward, and not only asks but presses Mr. Carrington to stay and dine. Perhaps, considering he has four horses and two grooms in his train, our father guesses he will refuse the invitation. At all events he does so very graciously, and, raising his hat, drives off, leaving us free to surround and relate to mother all the glories of the day.
The following Monday, as I sit reading in the small parlor we dare to call our own, I am startled by Dora's abrupt entrance. Her outdoor garments are on her; her whole appearance is full of woe; suspicious circles surround her eyes. I rise fearfully and hasten towards her. Surely if anything worthy of condemnation has occurred it is impossible but I must have a prominent part in it. Has the irreproachable Dora committed a crime? Is she in disgrace with our domestic tyrant.
"Dora, what has happened?" I ask, breathlessly.
"Oh, nothing," returns Dora, reckless misery in her tone; "nothing to signify; only—Billy was right—I am quite positive he never cared for me—has not the slightest intention of proposing to me."
"What? who?" I demand, in my charming definite way.
"Who?" with impatient reproach. "Who is there in this miserable forgotten spot to propose to any one, except—Mr. Carrington?"
"What have you heard, Dora?" I ask, light breaking in upon my obscurity.
"Heard? Nothing. I would not have believed it, if I had heard it. I saw it with my own eyes. An hour ago I put on my things and went out for a walk, intending to go down by the river; but just as I came to the shrubberies, and while I was yet hidden from view, I saw Mr. Carrington and that horrid dog of his standing on the bank just below me. I hesitated for a moment about going forward. I didn't quite like," says Dora, modestly, "to force myself upon him for what would look so like atete-a-tete; and while I waited, unable to make up my mind, he"—a sob—"took out of his waistcoat a large gold locket and opened it, and"—a second heavy sob—"and after gazing at it for a long time, as though he were going to eat it"—a final sob, and an inclination towards choking—"he stooped and kissed it. And, oh! of course it was some odious woman's hair or picture or something," cries Dora, breaking down altogether, and sinking with rather less than her usual grace into the withered arm-chair that adorns that corner of our room.
A terrible suspicion, followed by as awful a sense of conviction, springs to life within me. The word "picture" has struck an icy chill to my heart. Can it by any possibility be my photograph he has been so idiotically and publicly embracing? Am I the fell betrayer of my sister's happiness?
A moment later I almost smile at my own fears. Is it likely any man, more especially one who has seen so much of the world as Mr. Carrington, would find anything worth kissing in my insignificant countenance? I find unlimited consolation in this reflection, that at another time would have caused me serious uneasiness.
Meantime Dora is still giving signs of poignant anguish, and I look at her apprehensively, while pondering on what will be the most sympathetic thing to say or do under the circumstances.
Her nose is growing faintly pink, large tears are standing in her eyes, her head inclines a little—a very little—to one side.
Now when I cry I do it with all my heart. The tears fall like rain; for the time being I abandon myself altogether to my grief, and a perfect deluge is the consequence. Once I have wept my fill, however, I recover almost instantaneously, feeling as fresh as young grass after a shower.
Not so with Dora. When she is afflicted the tears come one by one, slowly, decorously sailing down her face; each drop waits politely until the previous one has cleared off the premises before presuming to follow in its channel. She never sniffs or gurgles or makes unpleasant noises in her throat; indeed, the entire performance—though perhaps monotonous after the first—is fascinating and ladylike in the extreme. In spite of the qualms of conscience that are still faintly pricking me, as I sit mutely opposite my suffering sister, I find myself reckoning each salt drop as it rolls slowly down her cheek. Just as I get to the forty-ninth, Dora speaks again,—-
"If he really is in love with somebody else—and I can hardly doubt it after what I have seen—I think he has behaved very dishonorably to me," she says in a quavering tone.
"How so?" I stammer, hardly knowing what to say.
"How so?" with mild reproof. "Why, what has he meant by coming here day after day, and sitting for hours in the drawing-room, and bringing flowers and game, unless he had some intentions with regard to me? Only that you are so dull, Phyllis, you would not require me to say all this."
"It certainly looks very strange," I acknowledge. "But perhaps, after all, Dora, you are misjudging him. Perhaps it was his sister's—Lady Handcock's—hair he was kissing."
"Nonsense!" says Dora, sharply; "don't be absurd. Did you ever hear of any brother wasting so much affection upon a sister? Do you suppose Billy or Roland would keepyourface or hair in a locket to kiss and embrace in private?"
I certainly cannot flatter myself that they would, so give up this line of argument.
"Perhaps the person, whoever she is, is dead," I suggest more brilliantly.
"No. He smiled at it quite brightly, as one would never smile at a dead face. He smiled at it as if headoredit," murmurs Dora, hopelessly, and the fiftieth drop splashes into her lap. "I shall tell papa," she goes on presently. "I have no idea of letting him be imagining things when there is no truth in them. I wish we had never seen Mr. Carrington! I wish with all my heart something would occur to take him out of this place! I feel as though I hated him," says Dora with unusual vehemence and a rather vicious compression of the lips; "and, at all events, I hope he will never marry that woman in the locket."
And I answer, "so do I" with rather suspicious haste as in duty bound.
It is the evening of the same day, and we are all seated in our accustomed places at the dinner table; all, that is, except papa. It is such an unusual thing forhimto be absent, once a bell has sounded summoning us to meals, that we are busy wondering what can be the matter, when the door is flung violently open, and he enters. It becomes instantly palpable to every one of us, that, in the words of the old song, "sullen glooms his brow;" Billy alone, with his usual obtuseness, remaining dangerously unconscious of this fact.
Papa sits down in a snapping fashion and commences the helping process in silence. Mamma never sits at the head of her table except on those rare and unpleasant occasions when the neighbors are asked to dine. Not a word is spoken; deadly quiet reigns, and all is going on smoothly enough, until Billy, unhappily raising his head, sees Dora's crimson lids.
"Why, Dora," he exclaims, instantly, in a loud and jovial tone, "what on earth is the matter with you? Your eyes are as red as fire."
Down goes Dora's spoon, up comes Dora's handkerchief to her face, and a stifled sob conveys the remainder of her feelings. It is the last straw.
"William!" cries my father in a voice of thunder, "go to your room." And William does as he is bid.
The brown gravy-soup has not yet been removed; and, Billy being our youngest, and consequently the last helped, more than half his allowance of that nutritious fluid still remains upon his plate. His goingnowmeans his being dinnerless for this day at least. A lump rises in my throat and my face flushes. For the moment I feel that I have Dora and papa and my own soup, and, leaning back in my chair, suffer it to follow Billy's.
I am almost on the verge of tears, when, happening to glance upwards, my eyes fall upon Roly's expressive countenance. In his right eye is screwed the most enormous butcher's penny I ever beheld; his nose is drawn altogether to one side in a frantic endeavor to maintain it in its precarious position; his mouth likewise; his left orb is firmly fixed upon our paternal parent.
I instantly become hysterical. An awful fear that I am going to break into wild laughter seizes hold of me. I grow cold with fright, and actually gasp with fear, when mother (who always knows by instinct, dear heart, when we are on the brink of disgrace) brings her foot heavily down on mine, and happily turns the current of my thoughts. She checks me just in time; I wince, and, withdrawing my fascinated gaze from Roly's penny, fix my attention on the tablecloth, while she turns an agonizing look of entreaty upon her eldest hope; but, as his only available eye is warily bent on papa, nothing comes of it.
There is an unaccountable delay after the soup has been removed. Can Billy have been adding to his evil doing by any fresh misconduct? This idea is paramount with me as I sit staring at the house-linen, though all the time in my brain I see Roland's copper regarding me with gloomy attention.
The silence is becoming positively awful, when papa suddenly raises his head from the contemplation of his nails, and Roland sweeping the penny from his eye with graceful ease, utters a languid sigh, and says, mildly:—-
"Shall we say Grace?"
"What is the meaning of this delay?" demands papa, exploding for the second time. "Are we to sit here all night? Tell cook if this occurs again she can leave. Three-quarters of an hour between soup and fish is more than I will put up with. If there is no more dinner, let her say so."
"Perhaps Mrs. Tully is indisposed," says Roly, politely, addressing James. "If so, we ought to make allowances for her." Mrs. Tully's admiration for "Old Tom" being a well-known fact to every one in the house except papa.
"Be silent, Roland; I will have no interference where my servants are concerned," declares papa; and exit James, with his hand to his mouth, to return presently with a very red face and the roast mutton.
"Where's the fish?" asks papa, in a terrific tone.
"It didn't arrive in time, sir."
"Who has the ordering of dinner in this house?" inquires papa, addressing us all generally, as though ignorant of the fact of mother's having done so without a break for the last twenty-six years. "Nobody, I presume, by the manner in which it is served. Now, remember, James, I give strict orders that no more fish is ever taken from that fishmonger. Do you hear?"
"Yes, sir." And at length we all get some roast mutton.
It seems to me that dinner will never come to an end; and yet, to watch me, I feel sure no stranger would ever guess at my impatience. Experience has taught me that any attempt at hurry will betray me, and produce an order calculated to prevent my seeing Billy for the entire evening. I therefore smother my feelings, break my walnuts, and get through my claret with a great show of coolness. Claret is a thing I detest; but it pleases papa to form our tastes, which means condemning us to eat and drink such things as are nauseous and strictly distasteful to us.
At length, however, the welcome word is spoken, and we rise from the table. Once outside the door, I fly to the cook, and, having obtained such delicacies as are procurable, rush upstairs, and enter Billy's room, to find him seated at the farthest end, the deepest look of dejection upon his features.
As our eyes meet, this gloom vanishes, giving place to an expression of intense relief.
"Oh!" he says, "I thought you were Dora."
"No. I could not come sooner, as papa fought over every course. But I have brought you your dinner now, Billy. You must be starving."
"I had it long ago," says Billy, drawing a potato from his pocket and a plate from under the dressing-table on which mutton is distinctly visible. I feel rather disappointed.
"Who brought it to you?" I ask; but before I can receive a reply a heavy step upon the stairs strikes terror to our hearts.
Instantly Billy's dinner goes under the table again, and the dejected depression returns to his face. But I, what am I to do? Under the bed I dive, plate and all, thrusting the plate on before me, and am almost safe, when I tip over a bit of rolled carpet and plunge forward, bringing both hands into the gravy. In this interesting position I remain, trembling, and afraid to stir or breathe, with my eyes directed through a small hole in the valance.
The door opens noisily, and—enter Roly with a cane in his hand and a ferocious gleam in his eyes.
"Oh, Roly!" I gasp, scrambling out of my hiding-place, "what a fright you gave us! We were sure it was papa."
"Where on earth have you come from?" asked Roly, gazing with undisguised amazement at the figure I present. "And—don't come any nearer—'paws off, Pompey'—what is the matter with your hands?"
"Oh, I had just brought up Billy some dinner, and when I heard you I ran under the bed and tripped over the carpet and fell splash into the gravy. But it is nothing," I wind up, airily.
"Nothing! I wish it was less. Go wash yourself, you dirty child." Then resuming the ferocious aspect, and with uplifted cane, he advances on Billy.
"William"—imitating papa's voice to a nicety—"I have not yet done with you. What, sir, did you mean by exposing your sensitive sister to the criticisms of a crowded table? If your own gentlemanly instincts are not sufficiently developed to enable you to understand how unpardonable are personal remarks, let this castigation, that a sense of duty compels me to bestow, be the means of teaching you."
Billy grins, and for the third time commences his dinner while Roland leans against the window-shutter and contemplates him with lazy curiosity.
"Billy," he asks, presently, "is mutton—when the fat has grown white and the gravy is in tiny lumps—a good thing?"
"No it ain't," returns Billy, grumpily, and with rather more than his usual vulgarity.
"I ask merely for information," says Roly. "It certainlylooks odd."
"It'sbeastly," says Billy. "If the governor goes in for any more of this kind of thing I'll cut and run; that's what I'll do."
"Why didn't you have some dumpling?" Roland goes on, smoothly. "The whipped cream with it was capital."
"Dumpling?" says Billy, regarding me fixedly; "dumpling! Phyllis, was there dumpling?"
"There was," I reply.
"And whipped cream!"
"Yes," I answer, faintly.
"Oh, Phyllis!" says Billy, in the liveliest tone of reproach. The flicker of an amused smile shoots across Roland's face.
"Phyllis, why did you not bring him some?" he asks, in a tone that reflects Billy's.
"HowcouldI?" I exclaim, indignantly. "I could not carry more than one plate, and even as it was the gravy was running all about. I was afraid every minute I would be caught. Besides—-"
"Miss Phyllis, Miss Phyllis," comes a sepulchral whisper at the door, accompanied by a faint knock. In the whisper I recognize James. Having taken a precautionary peep through the keyhole, I open the door, and on the threshold discover our faithful friend, a large plate of apples and cream in his hand, and a considerable air of mystery about him.
"Miss Phyllis," he says, in a fine undertone, "cook sent this here to Master Billy; and the mistress says you are to come down at once, as the master has been asking where you all are."
"I am coming," I return; "and tell cook we are awfully obliged to her." Whereupon, having deposited the dainties before Billy, I charge down stairs and into the library; and, having seized hold of the first book I can see, I collect myself, and enter the drawing-room with a sedate air.
"Where have you been?" demands papa, twisting his head round until I wonder his neck doesn't crack.
"In the library, choosing a book."
"What book."
I glance at the volume I carry, and, to my unmitigated horror find it a treatise on surgery.
"It is by Dr. Batly," I murmur, vaguely.
"Come here and let me see it." Trembling, I advance and surrender my book.
"Isthisa proper subject for a young woman to study?" exclaims papa, in high disgust, when he has read through the headings of the chapters. "What an abominable girl you are! Go over there and sit down, and keep yourself out of mischief for the remainder of the evening, if youcan."
"Would you like Tennyson's 'In Memoriam'?" asks Dora, sweetly, raising her white lids for a moment to hold out to me an elegant little edition in green and gold.
"No, thank you," I answer, curtly, and, subsiding into my chair, sulk comfortably until bedtime.