The next day Dora is still low—very low indeed—and sighs heavily at intervals. We might, however, in spite of this, have managed to knock some enjoyment out of our lives, but, unfortunately, whatever communication she had made to papa on the subject of Mr. Carrington's treachery has had the effect of rendering him almost unbearable.
At breakfast the playfulness of his remarks can only be equalled by the sweetness of his expression; and by lunch-hour he is so much worse that (as far at least as I am concerned) the food before me is as dust and ashes. I think Roland rather enjoys the murkiness of our atmosphere than otherwise, and takes a small but evident pleasure in winking at me as he presses the vinegar and pepper upon our already highly-seasoned father.
The latter, knowing my nomadic tendencies, is successful in bringing to light during the day a dozen unhemmed cambric handkerchiefs, and before going to his customary afternoon ride leaves strict injunctions behind him that by my fingers they are to be begun and ended before his return. About four o'clock, therefore, behold me sitting in state in the drawing-room, in company with mamma and Dora, hard at work at my enforced task.
The conversation is limited; it dwindles, indeed, until it gets so sparse that at length we are ashamed of it and relapse into silence. Dora broods with tender melancholy upon her woes; mother thinks of us; while I, were I to give a voice to my thoughts, would demand of mother the name of the evil genius that possessed her when she walked to the altar with papa.
The needle runs into my finger; it does so pretty regularly after every fifth stitch, but this time it had got under my nail, and causes me for the moment keen anguish. I groan, and mutter something under my breath; and mother says, "Phyllis, darling, be careful," in a dreamy tone. Surely we are more than ordinarily dull.
Suddenly there comes a rattle of horses' hoofs upon the gravel outside. We raise our heads simultaneously and question each other by our looks. A little later, and Mr. Carrington's voice striking on our ears sets speculation at rest. Mamma glances furtively at Dora, and Dora breathes a faint sigh and blushes pale pink, while suffering an aggrieved expression to characterize her face.
A horrible thought comes into my head. Suppose—ofcourseit is impossible—butsupposeMr. Carrington were to come in now, and in the course of conversation mention my photograph: what will not mother and Dora think? What is to prevent their drawing a conclusion about what happened yesterday? Although I do not in the least believe itwasmy picture Mr. Carrington was seen embracing, still the very idea that itmightbe, and that he might at any time speak of it turns me cold. Something must be done, and that quickly. Without further hesitation I rise from my seat, put down my work, and make for the door. No one attempts to detain me, and in an instant I am in the hall, face to face with our visitor.
I lay my hand upon the front of his coat, and whisper hurriedly:—-
"Do not say a word about my picture, not aword. Do you understand?" I have raised my face very close to his in my anxiety, and shake him slightly to emphasize my words.
"I do;" replies he, placing his hand over mine as it lies almost unconsciously upon his breast. "Of course I will not. But—why—-"
"Nothing," I say; "at least only a fancy. Go now. I will tell you some other time."
"Phyllis, will you meet me at the oak-tree to-morrow evening at five—atfour?" he asks, eagerly, detaining me as I seek to escape; and I say, "Yes," with impatient haste, and, tearing my hand out of his, I turn my back upon him and gladly disappear.
"At last! How late you are! I thought you werenevercoming," is Mr. Carrington's somewhat impatient greeting next evening, as he advances to meet me from under the old oak-tree. My cheeks are flushed with the rapidity of my walk; my breath rushes from me in short, quick, little gasps.
"I was so busy, I could not come a moment sooner. I would not be here at all but that I promised, and was afraid you would think me out of my senses yesterday," I say, laughing and panting.
"I certainly thought you rather tragical, and have been puzzling my brain ever since to discover the cause. Now, tell it to me."
"If I do you will think me horribly conceited." I hesitate and blush uneasily. For the first time it occurs to me that I have a very uncomfortable story to relate.
"I will not," says Mr. Carrington, amiably.
"Well then, the fact is, down at the trout-river, the day before yesterday, somebody saw you kissing a picture in a locket, and I feared if you mentioned havingmyportrait they might—they take up such ridiculous fancies at home—theymightthink it wasmine."
"Is it possible they would imagine anything so unlikely?"
"Ofcourse"—with eager haste—"Iknow it was not, but they might choose to think differently; and, besides, something has whispered to me two or three times since that perhaps I was wrong in giving my photograph to you at all. Was I?" wistfully.
"That is a hard question to askme, Phyllis, who am so happy in the possession of it. I certainly do not think you were."
"Then you would see no harm in my giving my picture to any one?"
"Of course I do not say it would be right of you to go about giving it to every man you meet."
"No? Then why should I give it to you in particular. After all, I believe I was wrong."
"Oh, that is quite another thing altogether," says Mr. Carrington, biting his lip. "You have known me a long time; I may almost be considered an old friend. And, besides, you can be quite sure that I will prize it as it deserves."
"That is saying very little," I return, gloomily. His reasoning seems to me poor and unsatisfactory. I begin to wish my wretched likeness back again in my untidy drawer.
"But why are you so sure it wasnotyour picture I was caught admiring the other day?" asks Mr. Carrington, presently, with an ill-suppressed smile.
"Nonsense!" I reply angrily. (I hate being laughed at). "For what possible reason would you putmyface into your locket? Iknewyou would think me vain when I began, but I amnot—and—and I am very sorry I took the trouble to explain it to you at all."
"Forgive me, Phyllis. I did not mean to offend you, and I donotthink you vain. I was merely imagining what a fatuous fool I must have looked when discovered in the act you describe. But have you no curiosity to learn who itreallywas I was so publicly embracing?"
"Iknow," I return, with a nod; "it was that little girl you told me of some time since—the village maiden, you remember, whose face was so dear to you. Am I not right!"
"Quite right. What a capital guess you made!"
"May I see her?" I ask, coaxingly. "Do let me get just one little peep at her. I am sure she is lovely, from what you say; and I do so like pretty people?"
"You would only be disappointed, and then you would say so, and I could not bear to hear one disparaging word said of my beauty."
"I willnotbe disappointed. Of course you have had so much experience to guide you—your taste must be better than mine. Please let me see her."
"You promise faithfully not to scorn the face I will show you? You will say no slighting word?"
"I will not indeed. How could you think I would be so rude?"
"Very good." He raises his watch-chain and detaches from it a plain gold locket. I draw near and gaze at it eagerly. What will she be like, this rival of Dora's?
"Now, remember," he says again, while a look of intense amusement crosses his face, "you have promised to admire?"
"Yes, yes," I answer impatiently; and as he deliberately opens the trinket I lean forward and stare into the large gray-blue eyes of Phyllis Marian Vernon.
---
Slowly I raise my head and look at my companion. He appears grave now, and rather anxious. I know I am as white as death.
"So you have putmeinto a lockettoo," I say, in a low tone. "Why?"
"Do not use the word 'too,' Phyllis. You have no rival; I keep no woman's face near me except yours."
"Then it was an untruth you told me about that girl?"
"No it was not. Will you not try to understand?Youare that little girl; it was your face I kissed the other day down by the river. There is no face in the world I hold so dear as yours."
"Then you had norightto kiss it," I break out indignantly, my surprise and bewilderment making me vehement. "I did not give you my picture to put in your locket and treat in that way. How dare you carry me all over the place with you—making things so unpleasant everywhere? And, besides, you are talking very falsely; it is impossible thatany onecould think me beautiful."
"Ido," says he, gently. "I cannot help it. You know we all judge differently. And as to my kissing it, surely that was no great harm. It became mine, you know, when you gave it to me; and for me to kiss it now and then cannot injure you or it." He gazes down tenderly upon the face lying in his hand. "The Phyllis here does not look as if she could be unkind or unjust," he says, softly.
I am impressed by the mildness of his reproach. Insensibly, I go closer to him, and regard with mingled feelings the innocent cause of all the disturbance.
"It certainly looks wonderfully well," I say, with reluctance. "It never appeared to me so—ah—passablebefore. It must be the gold frame. Somehow—I never thought so until to-day—but now it seems much too pretty for me."
"Remember your promise," says Mr. Carrington, demurely, "to admire and say no disparaging word."
"You laid a trap for me," I reply, smiling in spite of myself, and hard set to prevent the smile turning into a merry laugh as I review the situation.
I lean my back against the old tree, and, clasping my hands loosely before me, begin to piece past events. I have not gone far in my meditations when I become aware that Mr. Carrington has closed the locket, has turned, and is steadfastly regarding me. My hat lies on the ground beside me; the wanton wind has blown a few stray tresses of my hair across my forehead. Involuntarily I raise my head until our eyes meet. Something new, indefinite, in his, makes my heart beat with a sudden fear that yet is nameless.
"Phyllis," whispers he, hurriedly, impulsively, "will you marry me?"
A long, long pause.
I am still alive, then! the skies havenotfallen!
"What!" cry I, when I recover breath, moving back a step or two, and staring at him with the most open and undisguised amazement.CanI have heard aright? Is it indeed me he is asking to marry him? And if so—if my senses have not deceived me—who is to tell Dora. This thought surmounts all others.
"I want you to say you will marry me," repeats he, rather disconcerted by the emphatic astonishment of my look and tone. As I make no reply this time, he is emboldened, and, advancing, takes both my hands.
"Why do you look so surprised?" he says. "Why will you not answer me? Surely for weeks you must have seen I would some time ask you this question. Then why not to-day? If I waited for years I could not love you more utterly, more madly, if you like, than now. And you, Phyllis—say you will be my wife."
"I cannot indeed," I reply, earnestly; "it is out of the question. I never knew you—you cared for me in this way—I always thought—that is, we all thought—you—-"
"Yes?"
"We were all quite sure—I mean none of us imagined you were in love withme."
"With whom, then?—with Dora?"
"Well"—nervously—"I am sure mamma and papa thought so, and so did I."
"What an absurd mistake! Ten thousand Doras would not make one Phyllis. Do you know, ever since that first day I saw you in the wood I loved you? Do you remember it?"
"Yes," I say, blushing furiously. "I was hanging from the nut tree and nearly went mad with shame and rage when I found I could not escape. It puzzles me to think what you could have seen to admire about methatday, unless my boots." I laugh rather hysterically.
"Nevertheless Ididlove you then, and have gone on nursing the feeling ever since, until I can keep it to myself no longer. But you are silent, Phyllis. Why do you not speak? Iwillnot remember what you said just now; Iwillnot take a refusal from you. Darling, darling, surely you love me, if only a little?"
"No, I do not love you," I answer, with downcast lids and flaming cheeks.
Silence falls upon my cruel words. His hand-clasp loosens, but still he does not let me altogether go; and, glancing up timidly, I see a face like and yet unlike the face I know—a face that is still and white, with lips that tremble slightly beneath the heavy fair mustache. A world of disappointed anguish darkens his blue eyes.
Seeing all this, and knowing myself its cause, my heart is touched and a keen pang darts through my breast. I press his hands with reassuring force as I go on hastily:—-
"But Ilikeyou, you will understand. I may notloveyou, but Ilikeyou very much indeed—better than any other man I ever met, except Roland and Billy, andheis only a boy." This is not a very clear or logical speech, but it does just as well: it brings the blood back to his face, and a smile to his lips, the light and fire to his eyes.
"Are you sure of that?" he asks, eagerly. "Are you certain, Phyllis?"
"Quite sure. But then I have never seen any men except Mr. Mangan, you know, and the curate, and Bobby De Vere, and—and one or two others."
"And these one or two others,"—jealously—"have I nothing to fear from them? Have you giventhemnone of your thoughts?"
"Not one," return I, smiling up at him. The smile does more than I intend.
"Then youwillmarry me, Phyllis?" cries he, with renewed hope. "If youlikeme as you say, I will make you love me when you are once my own. No man could love as I do without creating some answering affection. Phyllis," he goes on, passionately, "look at me and say you believe all this. Oh, my life, my darling, how I have longed for you! How I have watched the hours that would bring me to your side! How I have hated the evenings that parted you from me! Say one little kind word to me to make me happy."
His tone is so full of hope and joy that almost I feel myself drifting with the current of his passion. But Dora's face rising before me checks the coming words. I draw back.
"Phyllis, put me out of pain," he says, entreatingly. I begin to find the situation trying, being a mere novice in the art of receiving and refusing proposals with propriety.
"I—I don't think I want to get married yet," I say, at length, with nervous gentleness. I am very fearful of hurting him again. "At home, when I ask to go anywhere, they tell me I am still a child, and you are much older than me. I don't mean that you areold," I add anxiously, "only a good deal older than I am; and perhaps when it was too late you would repent the step you had taken and wish you had chosen a wife older and wiser."
I stop, amazed at my own eloquence and rather proud of myself. Never before have I made so long and so connected a speech. Really the "older and wiser" could scarcely have done better. The marrying in haste and repenting at leisure allusion appears to me very neat, andoughtto be effective.
All is going on very well indeed, and I feel I could continue with dignity to the end, but that just at this moment I become conscious I am going to sneeze. Oh, horrible, unromantic thought! Willnothingput it back for ten minutes—for evenfive?I feel myself turning crimson, and certain admonitory twitchings in my nose warn me the catastrophe is close at hand.
"Of course," says Mr. Carrington, in a low tone, "I know youarevery young" (it is coming) "only seventeen. And, and"—(surelycoming)—"I suppose twenty eight appears quite old to you." (In another instant I shall be disgraced forever.) "I look even older than I am. But good gracious Phyllis, is anything the matter with you?"
"Nothing, nothing," I murmur, with a last frantic effort at pride and dignity, "only a—a—snee—eeze—atchu—atchu—atchu!"
There is a most awful pause, and then Mr. Carrington, after a vain endeavor to suppress it, bursts into an unrestrained fit of laughter, in which without hesitation I join him. Indeed, now the crisis is over and my difficult and new-born dignity is a thing of the past, I feel much more comfortable and pleasanter in every way.
"But, Phyllis, all this time you are keeping me in suspense," says Mr. Carrington, presently, in an anxious tone: "and I will not leave you again without a decided answer. The uncertainty kills me. Darling, I feel glad and thankful when I remember how happy I can make your life, if you will only let me. You shall never have a wish ungratified that is in my power to grant. Strangemore shall be yours, and you shall make what alterations there you choose. You shall have your own rooms, and furnish them as your own taste directs. You shall reign there as the very sweetest queen that ever came within its walls."
He has passed his arm lightly round my waist, and is keenly noting the effect of his words.
"I remember the other day you told me how you longed to visit foreign lands. I will take you abroad, and you shall stay there as long as you wish—until you have seen everything your fancy has pictured to you. You will like all this, Phyllis; it pleases you."
There is no use in denying it. All thisdoesplease me. Nay, more; it intoxicates me. I am heart-whole, and can therefore freely yield myself up to the enjoyment of the visions he has conjured up before me. I feel I am giving in swiftly and surely. My refusing to marry him will not make him a whit more anxious to marry Dora; and instinct tells me now she is utterly unsuited to him. Still I am reluctant.
"Would you let me have Billy and mamma and Dora with me very often?" I ask faintly.
His arm round me tightens suddenly.
"As often as ever you wish," he says, with strange calmness. "I tell you you shall be my queen at Strangemore, and your wishes shall be law."
"And"—here I blush crimson, and my voice sinks to a whisper—"there is something else I want very, very much. Will you do it for me?"
"I will. Tell me what it is."
His tone is so quiet, so kind, I am encouraged; yet I know by the trembling of the hand that holds mine that the quiet is enforced.
"Will you send Billy to Eton for me?" I say, my voice shaking terribly. "I know it is a very great thing to ask, but he solongsto go."
"I will do better than that," he answers softly, drawing me closer to him as he sees how soon I shall be his by my own consent. "I will settle on you any money you wish, andyou shall send Billy to Eton, and afterwards to Oxford or Cambridge."
This assurance, given at any other time, would have driven me half mad with delight. Now, though my heart feels a strong throb of pleasure, it is largely mingled with what I know is pain. Am I selling myself?
Some finer instinct within me whispers to me to pause before giving myself irrevocably to a man whom I certainly do not love as a woman should love the one with whom she elects to buffet all the storms and trials of life. A horrible thought comes to me and grows on my lips. I feel Imustgive it utterance.
"Suppose," I say, suddenly, "suppose—afterwards—when I have married you, I see some one to love with all my heart and mind: what then?"
He shivers. He draws me passionately, almost fiercely to him, as though defying my miserable words to come true.
"What put such a detestable idea into your head?" he asks hoarsely, with pale lips. "Are you trying to frighten me? Shall I tell you howthatwould end? You would be my murderess as surely as though you drove a knife into my heart. What an evil thought! But I defy it," he says, forcing a smile. "Once you are mine, once you belong to me altogether, I will hold you against yourself—against the world. Oh Phyllis, my child, mylove—-"
He pauses, and, putting his hand under my chin, turns up my face until my head leans against his arm and my eyes look straight into his. His face is dangerously close to mine; it comes closer, closer, until suddenly, without a word of warning, his lips meet mine in a long, eager, passionate kiss.
It is the first time a lover's kiss has been laid upon my lips. I do not struggle or seek to free myself. I only burst into a storm of tears. I am frightened, troubled, and lie trembling and sobbing in his arms, hardly knowing what I feel, hardly conscious of anything but a sense of shame and fear. I know, too, that Marmaduke's heart is beating wildly against my cheek.
"Phyllis, what is it? what have I done?" he asks, very anxiously. "My darling, was I too abrupt? Did I frighten you? Forgive me, sweet; I forgot what a mere timid child you are."
I sob on bitterly.
"It shall not happen again; I promise you that, Phyllis, I will never kiss you again until you give me permission. Now surely you will forgive me. My darling, why should it grieve you so terribly?"
"I don't know," I whisper, "only I do not want to be married, or have a lover, oranything."
Marmaduke lays his cheek very gently against mine, and for a long time there is silence between us. After awhile my sobs cease, and he once more breaks the silence by saying:—-
"You will marry me, Phyllis?" and I answer, "Yes," very quietly, somehow feeling as if that kiss had sealed my fate, and put it out of my power to answer "No."
"Then look at me," says Marmaduke, tenderly. "Will you not let me see my dear wife's face?"
I raise a face flushed and tear-stained and glance at him shyly for a moment. Evidently its dimmed appearance makes no difference to him, as there is unmistakable rapture and triumph in his gaze as he regards it. I hide it again with a sigh, though now the Rubicon being actually passed, I feel a sense of rest I had not known before.
"Who is to tell them at home?" I ask presently.
"I will. Shall I go back with you now and tell them at once?"
"No, no," I cry, hastily, shrinking from the contemplation of the scene that will inevitably follow his announcement. "It is too late now. To-morrow—about four o'clock—you can come and get it over. And, Mr. Carrington, will, will you please besureto tell them I knew nothing of it—never suspected, I mean, that youcaredfor me?"
"That Ilovedyou? It would be a pity to suppress so evident a fact. Though how you could have been so blind, my pet, puzzles me. Well, then, to-morrow let it be. And now I will walk home with you, lest any hobgoblin, jealous of my joy should spirit you away from me."
Together and rather silently we go through the wood and out into the road beyond. I am conscious that every now and then Marmaduke's eyes seek my face and dwell there with a smile in them that betrays his extreme and utter satisfaction. As for me, I am neither glad nor sorry, nor anything, but rather fearful of the consequence when my engagement shall be made public in the home circle. As yet my marriage is a thing so faint, so far away in the dim distance, that it causes me little or no annoyance.
Suddenly I stop short in the middle of the road and burst into irrepressible laughter.
"What is it?" asks Mr. Carrington, who is smiling in sympathy.
"Oh that sneeze!" I say when I can speak "coming just in the middle of your proposal. Could anything have been so unsuitable, so utterly out of place? That odious little convulsion! I shall always think of the whole scene with abhorrence."
"Suppose I propose to you all over again?" suggests Mr. Carrington. "It is impossible you can bring it in so unfortunately a second time; and you can then recollect the important event with more complaisance."
"No, no. A second addition would be flat, stale, and unprofitable; and besides, it does not really matter, does it? Only I suppose it would be more correct to feel grave and tearful, instead of comical, on such occasions."
"Nothingmatters," exclaims Marmaduke, fervently, seizing my hand and kissing it, "since you have promised to be my wife. AndsoonPhyllis—is it not so?"
"Oh, no;certainlynotsoon," I return, decidedly. "There is plenty of time. There is no hurry; and I do not want to be married foreverso long."
My lover's countenance falls.
"What do you mean by 'ever so long?'" he asks.
"Two or three years, perhaps."
"Phyllis! how can you be so unreasonable, soabsurd?" says he, his face flushing. "Two years!It is an eternity. Say six months, if you will; though eventhatis a ridiculous delay."
"If you talk like that," I say, stopping to stare fixedly at him, "I will not marry you at all. We had better decide the question at once. If you mean to say you think seriously I will marry you insix months, all I can say is, you are very much mistaken. I would not marry the Prince of Wales in six months;there!If you once mention the subject to papa, and he discovers I do not wish to be hurried into the marriage, I have no doubt, he will insist on my becoming a bride in sixdays. But rather than submit to any tyranny in the matter I would run away anddrown myself."
I utter this appalling threat with every outward demonstration of seriousness. Really the last hour has developed in a wonderful manner my powers of conversation.
"Do you suppose," cried Marmaduke, with indignation, "I have any desire toforceyou into anything? You may rest assured I will never mention the subject to your father. What do you take me for? You shall do just as you think fit. But, Phyllis,darling"—very tenderly, "won't you considermea little? Remember how I shall be longing for you, and how unhappy will be every day spent away from you. Oh, darling, you cannot comprehend how every thought of my heart is wrapped up in you—how passionate and devoted is my love."
He looks so handsome, so much in earnest, as he says this, with his face flushed and his dark eyes alight, that I feel myself relenting. He sees his advantage and presses it.
"You won't be cruel, darling, will you? Remember you have all the power in your own hands. I would not, if I could, compel you to marry me a day sooner than you wish. And, Phyllis, will you not try to think it is for your happiness as well as for mine? In time you will learn to love me as well—no,thatwould be impossible—but almost as well as I love you. The entire devotion of a man's lifemustmeet with some return; and I swear it shall not be my fault if every hour you spend is not happier than the last. Speak, Phyllis, and say you will come to me in—-"
"A year," I interrupt, hastily. "Yes, that is a great concession; I saidthreeyears first, and now by a word I take off two. That is twenty-four long months.Thinkof it. You cannot expect more."
"It willneverpass," says Marmaduke, desperately.
"It will pass, all too soon," say I, with a heavy sigh.
All that evening and all the next day I creep about as one oppressed with sin. As the hour approaches that shall lay bare my secret I feel positively faint, and heartily wish myself in my grave. I am as wretched as though some calamity had befallen me; and verily I begin to think it has. With what intense longing do I wish undone all that happened yesterday!
Almost as the hall-clock, with its customary uncouthness clangs out four strokes, Mr. Carrington rides up to the door.
As I sit in an upper chamber—like Elaine, but with what different emotions!—watching my lover's coming, I can see he is looking oppressively radiant, and is actually whistling. I begin to hate him. How detestable a man looks when whistling!Ploughboyswhistle!
He knocks a loud, determined, and, as it seems to me in my morbid fright, a triumphant knock at the door, and rings the bell until it sends forth a merry peal that echoes through the passages. A funny empty sensation comes into the tops of my fingers and across my forehead, as though the blood was receding, and, rising swiftly, I hurry to my own room and lock the door.
Nowhe is in the hall, and Billy and he are laughing—at some stupid joke, no doubt.Nowhe is in the library;nowhe has told papa it is a fine day; andnowit must be all over!
I am too frightened to cry. Half an hour, an hour, go by. I long, yet fear, to open the door. Another quarter of an hour elapses, and then mother's step comes slowly along the corridor outside.
"Phyllis, are you within, open the door."
It is mother's voice, but it sounds strangely cold. I open to her, and present a woebegone face to her inspection. She comes in and comforts me for a moment silently. Then she speaks.
"Phyllis, I never thought you deceitful," she says, as severely as it is in her to say anything, and with a look of reproach in her dear eyes that cuts me to the heart.
"Mother," I cry passionately, "don't look at me like that. Indeed, indeed I am not deceitful. I knew nothing about it when he asked me yesterday to marry him. I was a great deal more surprised than evenyouare now. I always thought it was Dora (and I wish with all my heart itwasDora); but, though I refused him at first, he said so much afterwards that I was induced to give in. Oh, mother, won't you believe me?"
"But you must have met him many times, Phyllis, before he asked you in marriage—many times of which we knownothing."
"I did not, indeed. Whenever I saw him I told you—except once, a long time ago when we met in the wood, with Billy. But I was climbing a nut-tree that day, and was afraid to say anything of it, lest I should get into disgrace. And when we went for that drive; and two or three times we met here; and that was all. I am sure I don't know what made him fall in love withme, and Dora so much prettier and more charming in every way. I don't believe he knows himself."
"It is certainly most extraordinary," says mother, "and, I must add, very unfortunate. You will acknowledge it looks suspicious. Your father is much disturbed about it and I really think Dora's heart must be broken, she is crying so bitterly. If we had not all made up our minds so securely about Dora it would not be so bad; but she was sure of it. And his visits here were so frequent. I really do think he has behaved very badly."
"It was a mistake altogether," I murmur feebly.
"Yes, and a most unhappy one. I am sure I don't know whatisto be done about Dora. She insists upon it that you secretly encouraged and took him away from her; and your father appears to sympathize with her."
"That goes without telling," I reply bitterly.
Then there follows a pause, during which mother sighs heavily once or twice, and I do severe battle with my conscience. At the end of it I cry, suddenly,—-
"Mother, there is one thing for which Idoblame myself, but at first it did not occur to me that it might be wrong. One day we were talking of photographs, Mr. Carrington and I, and—two days afterwards I gave him mine. He put it in his locket, and when Dora saw him down by the river it wasithe was kissing. I never dreamed itcouldbe mine until he showed it to me yesterday."
"I had forgotten to ask you about that. Dora and your father were discussing it just now, and Dora declared she was certain it had happened as you have now stated. Phyllis, if there has not been actual duplicity in your conduct, there has at least been much imprudence."
"I know that, mother," I return disconsolately.
"This will greatly add to your discredit in the affair: you must see that. Really," says mother, sinking into a chair, and sighing again, "this engagement, that should cause us all such pride and joy, is only a source of annoyance and pain."
"Then I won't marry him at all, mother," I cry, recklessly. "I don't want to one bit: and probably if I tell him to-morrow I hate and despise himhewill not want to either. Or shall I write? A letter will go far quicker."
But mother is aghast at this daring proposal. Because he has disappointed her hopes in one quarter is no reason why she should lose him altogether as a son-in-law.
"No, no," she says in a slightly altered tone. "Let things remain as they now are. It is a good match for you in every sense of the word; and setting him free would give Dora no satisfaction. But I wish it had all come about differently."
With that she turns from me and goes towards the door. My heart feels breaking.
"Oh, mother, you are not going to leave me like this, are you?" I burst out, miserably. "When other girls get engaged, people are kind and say nice things to them; but nobody seems to care aboutme, nobody wishesmejoy. Am Inothingto you? Am I to get only hard and cruel words?" Piteous sobs interrupt me. I cover my face with my hands.
Of course in another moment I am folded in mother's arms, and her soft hands press my graceless head down upon the bosom that never yet in all my griefs has failed me. Two of her tears fall upon my cheek.
"My darling child," she whispers, "have I been too unkind to you? I did not mean it, Phyllis; but I have been made so miserable by all I have heard."
"But you don't think me deceitful, mother?"
"No, not now—not at any time, I think; but I was greatly upset by poor Dora's disappointment. My darling, I hope you will be happy in your choice and in my heart I believe you will. At all events, he is not blind to the virtues of my dear girl. He loves you very dearly, Phyllis. Are you sure, my dearest, that you love him?"
"Didyoulove papa very much, darling, when you married him?"
"Of course, dear," with a faint blush.
"Oh, mother, did you really?" Then, with a reflective sigh, "At that rate I am glad I do not love Mr. Carrington."
"Phyllis! what are you saying? It is the first duty of every woman to love her husband. You must try to regard Mr. Carrington in that light."
"Ilikehim, and that is better.Youwere blind to papa's faults because you loved him; that was a mistake. Now, I shallnotbe blind to Marmaduke's; and if he does anything very horrid, or develops unpleasant symptoms, I shall be able to give him up before it is too late. If you had been fully alive to papa's little tempers, mother, I don't suppose you wouldever have married him; would you?"
"Phyllis, I cannot allow you to discuss your father in this manner. It is neither dutiful nor proper; and it vexes me very much."
"Then I won't vex you. But I read in a book the other day. 'It is better to respect your husband than to love him.'"
"One should do both, of course; but, oh, Phyllis, try tolove him; that is the great softener in the married life. It is so easy to forgive when love urges. You are wrong, my pet, but you have a tender heart, and so I pray all may be well with you. Yet when I think of your leaving me to face the wide world I feel lonely. I fancy I could have better spared Dora than my own wild Phyllis."
She whispers this soothingly into my ear, kisses me as only a mothercankiss, and leaves me presently wholly comforted. If mother indeed loves me, the scapegrace, better than her model Dora, I have reason to feel glad and grateful.
Meanwhile the household is divided. "The boy Billee," as Roland calls him, has been sent for two hours into solitary confinement, because, on hearing the great news, he exclaimed, "Didn't I tell you all along how it would be?" in a heartless and triumphant manner, thus adding insult to Dora's injury.
Roly also is on my side, and comes upstairs to tell me so.
"You have twice the spirit, you know," he says, in a tone meant to compliment. "Dora is too dead-and-alive; no man born would be tormented with her. I am awfully glad, Phyllis."
And then he speaks of poor "Dora," and a moment later goes into convulsions of laughter over "poor Dora's" discomfiture.
"She made so sure, don't you know, and that; had upset and re-arranged Strangemore and Carrington and everything to her own entire satisfaction. Oh, by Jove, it is the best joke I ever heard in my life!" And so on.
When by chance during the evening papa and I meet, though his manner is frozen, he makes no offensive remarks; and, strange as it appears to me, I seem to have gained some dignity in his eyes. So the long hours of that day drag by, and night falls at last.
After dinner Dora comes creeping in, her eyelids red and swollen, her dainty cheeks bereft of their usual soft pink. Misery and despair are depicted in every line of her face and figure.
Papa rises ostentatiously and pushes an easy chair towards the fire for her (already the touch of winter is upon us.) Mamma pours out a glass of papa's own port. Even Billy proclaims a truce for the time being, and places a soft stool beneath my injured sister's feet, while I sit apart and feel myself a murderess.
I begin to vaguely wonder whether, were I in Dora's place, all these delicate attentions would be showered upon me. I also try to decide whether, if I had been slighted by my beloved, I would publish the fact upon the house-tops and come down to the bosom of my family with scarlet eyes and pallid face and hair effectively loosened: or whether I would hide my sorrow with my life and endure all in heroic silence. I have got so far as the Spartan boy in my meditations, when Roland, bringing his fingers to meet upon the fleshy part of my arm, causes me to spring from my seat and give utterance to an emphatic "Oh!" while Cheekie, the fox-terrier, who is crouching in her favorite position at my feet, coming in for a full share of my weight, sets up a corresponding howl, and altogether the confusion is complete.
When it has subsided there ensues an awful pause. Then papa speaks.
"It would be waste of time to appeal to your better feelings, Phyllis: youhave none!But that you are hopelessly wanting in all delicacy of sentiment, you would understand that this is no time to indulge in a vulgar overflow of spirits. Do you not see how your sister is suffering? Your heartlessness is downrightdisgusting. Leave the room."
I instantly avail myself of the permission to withdraw only too glad of the excuse, and retire, followed closely by Roland, who I can see is choking with suppressed laughter.
"How could you do it?" I ask, reproachfully, as we gain the hall-door. "They are all angry enough as it is."
"I could not help it," returns Roly, still struggling with his merriment; "the solemnity of the whole thing was too much for me. I knew I was going to laugh out loud, so pinched you to draw off attention."
"I think youmighthave chosen Billy."
"He was too far off; you were the most convenient."
"And so you sacrificed me to save yourself?" I exclaim, indignantly.
Like all men, Roland is unutterably selfish; unlike all men, he is ever ready to make atonement, once the selfish act is accomplished.
"Even so," he says now. "But look here, Phyllis: I'll make it up to you. Here's ten bob." And he tries to force the money into my unwilling hand.
"No, keep it," I return, softened by the gift; "I can do without it, and I am sure you want it yourself."
"I don'treally," says Roland, looking fair into my eyes. "I have plenty—for a while; and you know you said yesterday you had spent your last penny. When you are Mrs. Carrington you can stand to me. Here: no nonsense: if you don't take it this moment, I'll chuck it into the pond."
Thus threatened, I take it; and then together we stroll into the kitchen-garden, where Roland reduces his laughter-loving mind to order with the aid of the fragrant weed.
Our engagement having received the openly expressed though secretly unwilling sanction of my father, Mr. Carrington comes over every other day to our house, where he of course meets with overpowering sweetness from everybody—Dora excepted. Not that she shows him any demonstrative dislike. If she happens to be in the room when he arrives she is as civil as the occasion calls for, but at the first opportunity she makes her exit, not to return again during his stay, and, if possible, avoids his society altogether. A heavy sense of injury is upon her, impossible to lift.
To me she has said little or nothing on the subject. Once, two days after my engagement was made known, happening to find herself alone with me, she said, curiously:—-
"Was it your photograph I saw Mr. Carrington kissing that day?"
And when I answered "Yes," rather shamefacedly, she turned from me with lowered lids and a curved smile that suggested many thoughts. Like most even-tempered people, Dora, when roused, is singularly obstinate and unforgiving.
At times I am a little unhappy, but very seldom. On such occasions the horrible doubt that I am marrying Marmaduke for his money crushes me. Every now and then I catch myself revelling in the thought of what I shall do for Billy and Roly and all of them, when plenty of gold is at my disposal. I try to think how much I like him, how handsome he is, how kind, how good to me, but always at the end of my cogitations I find my thoughts reverting to the grand house in which I am to reign as queen, or to the blue velvet dress I mean to wear as soon as I can afford to buy it.
I now glory in an engagement ring that sparkles fairly and gives me much pleasure. I have also an enormous locket, on which the letters P. M. V. are marked out by brilliants. This latter contains an exquisitely painted miniature of my betrothed, and is given to me by him in a manner that betokens doubt of its being acceptable.
"I don't suppose you will care for the picture part of it," he says with a laugh and a rather heightened color.
But Idocare for it, picture and all, and tell him so, to his lasting satisfaction, though it must be confessed I look oftener at theoutsideof that locket than at any other part of it. Thus by degrees I find myself laden with gifts of all kinds—for the most part costly; and, as trinkets are scarce with us and jewels imaginary, it will be understood that each new ornament added to my store raises me higher in the social scale.
So time speeds and Christmas passes and gentle spring grows apace.
"Come out," says Billy one morning early in April, thrusting a disheveled head into my room; "come out: it is almost warm." Whereupon I don my hat and sally forth, my Billy in attendance.
Mechanically we make for the small belt of trees that encircles and bounds our home, and is by courtesy "our wood." It is my favorite retreat—the spot most dear to me at Summerleas. Ah! how sweet is everything to-day, how fragrant! The primrose gold in its mossy bed, supported by its myriad friends; the pretty purple violet—the white one prettier still. I sigh and look about me sadly.
"This is the very last spring I shall ever spend at home," I say, at length, being in one of my sentimental and regretful moods.
"Yes," returns Billy; "this time next year, I suppose, you will be holding high court at Strangemore. How funny you will look? you are so small! Why, you will be an out-and-out swell then, Phyllis, and can cut the country if you choose. What are you so doleful about? Ain't you glad?"
"No, I am not," I reply emphatically; "I am sorry! I amwretched!Everything will be so new and big and strange, and—youwill not be there. Oh, Billy!" flinging my arms around his neck, "I feelthatworst of all. I amtoofond of you, and that's a fact."
"Well, and I am awfully fond of you too," says Billy, giving me a bear-like hug that horribly disarranges my appearance, but is sweet to me, so much do I adore my "boy Billee."
We seat ourselves on a grassy knoll and give ourselves up to gloomy foreboding.
"It is a beastly nuisance, your getting married at all," says Billy, grumpily. "If it had been Dora, now, it would have been a cause for public rejoicing; but you are different. What I am to do without you in this stupid hole is more than I can tell. I shall get papa to send me to a boarding-school when you go." (The Eton plan has not yet been divulged.) "Why on earth did you take a fancy to that fellow, Phyllis? Were you not very well as you were?"
"It washetook a fancy tome, if you please. I never thought of such a thing. But there is little use discussing that now. Marry him I must before the year is out; and really, perhaps, after all, I shall be very happy."
"Oh, yes, I dare say, if being happy means settling down and having a lot of squalling brats before you can say Jack Robinson.Iknow how it will be," says Billy, moodily "you will be an old woman before your time."
"Indeed I shall not," I cry, with much indignation, viewing with discomfort the ruins to which he has reduced my handsome castle. "I intend to keep young foreverso long. Why, I am only eighteen now, and I shan't be old until I amthirty. And, Billy," coaxingly, "you shall see what I shall do foryouwhen I marry him: I will send you toEton. There!"
"Why don't you say you will send me to the moon?" replies he, with withering contempt.
"But I will really; MarmadukesaysI shall; and you are to spend all of your holidays at Strangemore; and I will keep a gun for you, and a dog; and maybe he will let me give you ahorse."
"Oh, fiddlesticks!" says the dear boy. "Draw a line somewhere. You have said too much; and I've outgrown my belief in the 'Arabian Nights.' I will be quite content with the dog and gun."
"Well, you shall see. And Roland shall have money every now and then to pay his debts; and Dora shall have as many new dresses as she can wear; and for Mamma I will get one of those delightful easy-chairs we saw in the shop-window in Carston, the one that moves up and down, you know—and—- Oh, Billy! I think it is a glorious thing to be rich. If I could only do all I say, I believe I would marry him were he as ugly as sin."
In the enthusiasm of the moment I spring to my feet, and as I do so become fatally aware that not two yards from me stands Marmaduke, leaning against a tree. There is a curious, not altogether amiable, expression upon his face, that assures me he has overheard our conversation. Yet one cannot accuse him of eavesdropping, as if we had only taken the trouble to raise our heads our eyes must inevitably have met his.
I am palsied with shame and horror; I am stricken dumb; and Billy, looking lazily upwards from where he is stretched full length upon the sward to discover the cause, in his turn becomes aware of the enemy's presence. A moment later he is on his feet and has beaten a retreat, leaving me alone to face the foe.
Mr. Carrington comes slowly forward.
"Yes, I heard every word," he says, calmly, anger and reproach in his eyes.
I make no reply: I feel myself incapable of speech. Indeed, looking back upon it now, I think silence was the better part, as, under the circumstances, I don't quite see what I could have said.
"So this is the light in which you regard our marriage!" he goes on bitterly: "as a means to an end—no more. At the close of six months I find myself as far from having gained a place in your affections as when we first met. I may well despair. Your heart seems full of thought and love for every one, Phyllis, except for the man you have promised to marry."
"Then give me up," I say, defiantly, though my false courage sinks as I remember what a row there will be at home if he takes me at my word.
"No, I willnotgive you up. I will marry you in spite of your coldness: I am more determined on it now than ever," he makes answer, almost fiercely.
I feel uneasy, not to say unhappy. I have heard of men marrying women for spite and revenging themselves upon them afterwards. This recollection is not reassuring. I glance at Marmaduke furtively, and persuade myself he is looking downright vindictive.
"Yes," I murmur, doubtfully, "and perhaps, afterwards, when I was your wife, you would be cruel to me, and—-"
"Phyllis," he interrupts me, hastily, "what are you saying? Who has put such a detestable idea into your head?Iunkind to you, or cruel! Child, can you not evenimaginethe depth of the love I bear you?"
I know I am going to cry. Already are my eyes suffusing; my nose develops a tickling sensation. I am indignant with myself at the bare thought, but nevertheless I feel assured if I open my mouth it will be to give utterance to a sob. If I cry before him now he will think—-
"Phyllis, do you really wish to marry me?" asks Mr. Carrington, suddenly, trying to read my hot and averted face. "If you repent your promise, say so: it is not yet too late to withdraw. Better bear pain now than lasting misery hereafter. Answer me truly: do you wish to be my wife?"
"I do," I return, earnestly. "I shall be happier with you, who are always kind to me, than I am at home. It is only at times I feel regretful. But of course—if you don't want to marry me—-" I pause, overcome by the ignominy of this thought.
Mr. Carrington takes my hand.
"I would give half my possessions to gain your love," he says, softly; "but, even as it is, no bribe on earth could induce me to relinquish you. Don't talk about my giving you up. That is out of the question. I could as easily part with my life as with my Phyllis. Perhaps," with a rather sad little smile, "some time in the future you may deem me worthy to be placed in the category with Billy and Roland and the rest of them."
A mournful sound breaks from me. I search my pocket for a handkerchief wherewith to wipe away the solitary tear that meanders down my cheek. Need I say it is not there? Mr. Carrington, guessing my want, produces a very snowy article from somewhere and hands it to me.
"Do you want one?" he asks, tenderly, and presently I am dissolved in tears, my nose buried in my lover's cambric.
"I am sure you must hate me," I whisper, dismally. "I make you unhappy almost every time we meet. Mr. Carrington, will you try to forget what I said just now, and forgive me?"
"How can I forgive you anything when you call me Mr. Carrington?"
"Marmaduke, then." He presses me closer to him, and I rub my stained and humid countenance up and down against his coat. I am altogether penitent.
"After all, Marmaduke, may be I didn't say anything so very dreadful," I venture, at the end of a slight pause. "I was only thinking, and deciding on what I would like to give everybody when—when I was your wife. Was that very bad?"
"No; there was nothing to vex me in all that; it only showed me what a loving, generous little heart my pet has. But then, Phyllis, why did you give me so plainly to understand you were marrying me only for the sake of my odious money, by saying—what you did in your last speech?"
"What did I say?"
"That for the sake of being rich you would marry me (or any one else, your tone meant) even were I 'as ugly as sin.'"
"If I said that, it was an untruth, because if you were us ugly as Bobby De Vere, for instance, I most certainly would not marry you. I detest plain people."
"Well, at all events, I think you owe me some reparation for the pain you have inflicted."
"I do, indeed," I admit, eagerly. "Lay any penance you like upon me, and I will not shrink from it. I will do whatever you ask."
"Will you?" quickly. "Then kiss me of your own accord. I don't believe up to this, Phyllis, you have ever yet done so of your own sweet will."
"I will do it now, then," I return, heroically, and straight away, raising myself on tiptoe, without the smallest pretense at prudery, I fling myself into his arms and kiss him with all my heart.
No accomplished coquette seeking after effect could have achieved a more complete success by her arts than I have by this simple act, which is with me an everyday occurrence where the boys are concerned. By it I have obtained a thousand pardons, if need be.
He is evidently surprised, and grows a little pale, then smiles, and strains me to him with passionate fervor.
"My darling—my own! Oh, Phyllis! if I could only make you love me!" he whispers, longingly.
"Marmaduke," I say presently, in a rather bashful tone, trifling with the lapel of his coat.
"Well, my pet?"
"I have something to say to you."
"Have you, darling?"
"I want to tell you that I think I must be growing fond of you."
"My angel!"
"Yes. And do you know why I think so?"
"No. I cannot imagine how anything so unlikely and desirable should come to pass."
"I will tell you. Do you remember how, long ago when first you kissed me, I disliked it so much that it made me cry?"
"Yes."
"Well, now I find I don't mind it one bit!"
Instead of being struck with the good sense of this discovery, Marmaduke roars with laughter.
"Oh, you needn't laugh," I say, slightly offended: "it is a very good sign. I have read in books how girls shudder and shiver when kissed by a man they don't like; and, as I never shudder or shiver when you kiss me, of course that means that I like you immensely. Don't you see?"
"I do," says Marmaduke, who is still laughing heartily. "And I also see it is an excellent reason why I should instantly kiss you again. Oh, Phyllis! I think if we looked into the family Bible we would discover we had all mistaken your age, and that you are only ten instead of eighteen."
"Why?"
"For many reasons. Come; let us walk on."
As lunch-hour approaches, we retrace our steps until we reach the principal avenue. Here Mr. Carrington declines my invitation to enter the house and partake of such light refreshments as may be going, and departs with a promise to take us for a drive the following day.
Nature tells me the luncheon-hour must be past, and, impelled by hunger, I run down the gravel sweep at the top of my speed; but, just as I get to the thick bunch of laurels that conceals the house from view, Billy's voice, coming from nowhere in particular, stops me. Presently from between the evergreens his head emerges.
"I thought he was with you," he says, with an air of intense relief. "Well?"
"Well?" I reiterate.
"Why don't you tell me," cries Billy, angrily, "instead of standing there with your mouth open? Did he hear what we said?"
"Yes, every word."
"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" with a dismal groan. "And who is to tell them at home, I would like to know?"
"Tell them what?"
"Why, about,—- Surely you don't mean to tell me he is going to marry you after all that?" exclaims Billy, his eyes enlarged to twice their usual size.
"Yes, of course he is," I reply, with much dignity and indignation combined. "When a man loves a woman he does not give her up for a trifle."
"A trifle! Well, I never," murmurs Billy floored for once in his life.