We are in the orchard of Summerleas alone, Mr. Carrington and I, with the warm but fitful April sun pouring heavily down upon us. All around is one great pink and white sheet of blossoms; the very path beneath our feet seems covered with tinted snow.
It is one of those pet days that, coming too soon, make us discontented to think to-morrow may again be damp and chill—a day that brings with it an early foretaste of what will be, and is still and heavy as in the heart of summer.
"It will be a good year for fruit," I tell my lover, soberly, "the trees are showing such a fair promise." And my lover laughs, and tells me I am a wonderful child; that he has not yet half dived into the deep stores of private knowledge I possess. He supposes when I come to Strangemore he may dismiss his steward, as probably I will be competent to manage everything there—the master included.
Whereupon I answer, saucely, I need not go to Strangemore forthat, as I fancy I have him pretty well under control even as it is. At this he pinches my ear and prophesies the time will yet come when it will be his turn to menaceme.
Our orchard has not been altogether sacrificed to the inner man: here and there one comes upon straggling slopes of greenest grass and irregular beds of old-fashioned and time-honored flowers—such flowers as went to deck Ophelia's grave, or grew to grace the bank whereon Titania slept.
High up in the western wall a small green gate gives entrance to another garden—a quaint spot, picturesquely wild, that we children chose to name Queen Elizabeth's Retreat. Long lines of elms grow here, through which some paths are cut—paths innocent of gravel and green as the grass that grows on either side. Here, too, are beds of flowers and rustic benches.
"Come, show me anything as pretty as this in all Strangemore," I say, with triumph, as we seat ourselves on an ancient oaken contrivance that threatens at any moment to bring the unwary to the ground.
"I wonder if you will ever think anything at Strangemore as worthy of admiration as what you have here?" says Marmaduke, passing his arm lightly round my waist.
"Perhaps. But I know every nook and cranny of this old place so well and love it so dearly! I can remember no other home. We came here, you know, when I was very young and Billy only a baby.
"But Strangemore will be your home when you come to live with me. You will try to like it for my sake, will you not? It is dearer to me than either of the other places, although they say Luxton is handsomer. Don't you think you will be able to love it, Phyllis?"
"Yes, but not for a long time. I can like things at once, but it takes me years and years and years to love any thing."
"Does that speech apply to persons? If so, I have a pleasant prospect before me. You have known me but a few months; will it take you 'years and years' to love me?"
There is lingering hope in his tone, expectancy in his eyes.
"You? Oh, I don't know. Perhaps so," I reply, with unpleasant truthfulness.
Marmaduke removes his arm from around me and frowns.
"You are candor itself," he says, with a slight tinge of bitterness. "Certainly I can never hereafter accuse you of having concealed the true state of your feelings towards me. Whatever else you may be, you are honest."
"I am," I return reluctantly; "I wish I were not. I am always saying the wrong thing, and repenting it afterwards. Papa says my candor makes me downright vulgar. Marmaduke, do you think honesty is the best policy?"
I glance up at him with questioning eyes from under the flapping hat that has braved so many summers.
"I do," he answers, warmly; "I think there is nothing on earth so sweet or so rare as perfect truthfulness. Be open and true and honest, darling, and like yourself as long as you can. Every hour you live will make therolemore difficult."
"But why? You are older than I am, Marmaduke; would you tell a lie?"
"No, not a direct lie, perhaps, but I might pretend to what I did not feel."
"Oh, but that is nothing. I would do that myself," I exclaim, confidentially. "Many and many a time I have pretended not to know where Billy was when I knew papa was going to box his ears. There is no great harm in that. And Billy has done it for me."
"You don't mean to say Mr. Vernon ever boxed your ears?"
I explode at the tragic meaning of his tone.
"Often," I say, merrily, "shoals of times; but that is not half so bad as being sent to bed. However"—reassuringly—"he has not done it now for ever so long—not since I have been engaged to you."
"I should hope not, indeed," hotly. "Phyllis, why won't you marry me at once? Surely you would be happier with me than—than—living as you now do."
"No, no," edging away from him; "I would not. I am not a bit unhappy as I am. You mistake me; and, as I told you before, he never does it now."
"But it maddens me to think of his ever having done so. And such pretty little ears, too, so pink and delicate! Of all the unmanly blackg—- I beg your pardon, Phyllis: of course it is wrong of me to speak so of your father."
"Oh, don't mind me," I say, easily. "Now you are going to be my husband, I do not care about telling you there is very little love lost between me and papa."
"Then why not shorten our engagement? Surely it has now lasted long enough. There is no reason why you should submit to any tyranny when you can escape from it. If you dislike your father's rule, cut it and come to me; you don't dislikeme."
"No; but I should dislike being married very much indeed."
"Why?" impatiently.
"I don't know," I return, provokingly; "but I am sure I should. 'Better to bear the ills we have,et cetera.'"
"You are trifling," says he, angrily, "why not say at once you detest the idea of having to spend your life with me? I believe I am simply wasting my time endeavoring to gain an affection that will never be mine."
"Then don't waste any more of it," I retort, tapping the ground petulantly with my foot while fixing my gaze with affected unconcern upon a thick, white cloud that rests far away in the eternal blue. "I have no wish to stand in your light. Pray leave me—I shan't mind it in the least—and don't throw away any more of your precious moments."
"Idle advice. I can't leave you now, and you know it. I must only go on squandering my life, I suppose, until the end. I do believe the greatest misfortune that ever befell me was my meeting with you."
"Thank you. You are extremely rude and unkind to me, Marmaduke. If this is your way of making love, I must say I don't like it."
"I don't suppose you do, or anything else connected with me Of course it was an unfortunate thing for me, my coming down here and falling idiotically in love with a girl who does not care whether I am dead or alive."
"That is untrue. I care very much indeed about your being alive."
"Oh! common humanity would suggest that speech."
He turns abruptly and walks a few paces away from me. We are both considerably out of temper by this time, and I make a solemn vow to myself not to open my lips again until he offers an apology for what I am pleased to term his odious crossness. Two seconds afterwards I break my vow.
"Why on earth could you not have fallen in love with Dora?" I cry, petulantly, to the back of his head. "She would do you some credit, and she would love you, too. Every one would envy you if you married Dora, she never says the wrong thing; and she is elegant and very pretty—is she not?
"Very pretty," replies he, dryly; "almost lovely, I think, with her fair hair and beautiful complexion and sweet smile. Yes Dora is more than pretty."
"If you admire her so much, why don't you marry her?" say I, sharply. Although I am not in love with Marmaduke, I strongly object to his expressing unlimited admiration for my sister or any other woman.
"Shall I tell you?" says he, suddenly, coming back to me to take me in his arms and strain me close to him. "Because in my eyes you are ten times lovelier. Because your hair, though darker, pleases me more. Because your complexion, though browner, is to me more fair. Because your smile, though less uniformly sweet, is merrier and tenderer, and more lovable. There! have I given you enough reason for the silly preference I feel for a little girl who does not care a straw about me?"
"Oh, yes, I do: I like you very much," I answer greatly mollified. "I do really—better and better every day."
"Do you indeed?" rapturously. "My own darling."
"Yes," I say, in a thoroughly matter-of-fact tone, with a view to bringing him back to earth again without any unnecessary delay. "But how can you be so fond of me, Marmaduke, when you say I am so cross? Now, tell me this," laying the first finger of my right hand upon his lips, and beating time there with it to each of my words: "why did you first take a fancy to me?"
"Just because you are Phyllis: I have no other reason. If you were any one else, or changed in any way, I would not care in the least for you."
"At that rate we are likely to have a happy time of it," I say, sarcastically, "considering I am never the same for two weeks running, and papa says every one's disposition undergoes a complete alteration every seven years."
"I'll risk that," says he, laughing. "Seven years are a long way off."
"But I shall change in less than seven years," I say, persistently. "Don't you see? I have done so twice already, at seven, and fourteen, and I shall do so again at twenty-one. Therefore, in four years' time I shall be a different person altogether, and you will cease to care for me."
"I shall always adore you, Phyllis," declares my lover, earnestly, "whether we live together for four or fourteen or one hundred and fourteen years."
This leaves nothing more to be said, so I am silent for a moment or two, and gaze at him with some degree of pride as he stands beside me, with his blue eyes, tender and impassioned—as handsome a man as ever made vain love to a graceless maiden.
Still, admirable as he is, I have no desire for him to grow demonstrative so soon again; therefore continue the conversation hastily.
"Were you never in love before?" I ask, without motive.
It occurs to me that like a flash a faint change crosses his face.
"All men have fancies," he answers, and something tells me he is evading a strict reply.
"I don't mean a fancy: I mean a real attachment. Did you ever ask any woman except me to be your wife?"
"Why?" he asks, with an attempt at laughter that ends in dismal failure beneath my remorseless eyes. "Will you throw me over if I say, 'Yes?'"
"No, of course not. But I think you might have told me before. Here have you been pretending all along you never loved any one but me, and now I discover accidentally that long before you knew me you had broken your heart over dozens of women."
"I had not," angrily. "Why do you misconstrue my words?"
"Oh, of course you had."
"I really wish, Phyllis, you would not give yourself the habit of contradicting people so rudely. I tell you I had not."
"Well, you were madly in love with one, at all events," I say, viciously. "I could see that by your eyes when I asked you the question."
"If a man commits a folly once in his life, he is not to be eternally condemned for it, I suppose?"
"I never said it was a folly to love any one; I only suggested it was deceitful of you not too have told about it before. I hate secrets of any kind." My companion winces visibly. "There don't be uneasy," I say, loftily. "I have no desire to pry into any of your affairs."
We pace up and down in uncomfortable silence. At length:—-
"I see you are angry, Phyllis," he says.
"Oh, dear, no. Why should such an insignificant thing that does not affect me in any way, make me angry?"
"My darling child, I think you are; and, oh, Phyllis, for what? For a hateful passion that is dead and buried this many a year, and bore no faintest resemblance to the deep true affection I feel for you. Am I the worse in your eyes because I once—when I was a boy—fancied my heart was lost? Be reasonable, and be kind to me. You have been anything but that all this morning."
"Was she dark, or fair?" I ask, in a milder tone, not noticing, however, the hand he holds out to me.
"Dark—abominably dark."
"And tall?"
"Detestably so."
"You need not abuse her now," I say, reprovingly, "you loved her once."
"I did not," cries he, with some excitement. "I could never have loved her. It was a mad, boyish infatuation. Let us forget her, Phyllis; the subject is hateful to me. Oh my darling, my pet, no one ever really crept into my heart except you—you small, cold, cruel, little child."
I am softened. I make up my mind I will not be cold during the remainder of our day, so I slip my ungloved hand into his, and bring myself close up to his side.
"I will forgive you this time," I whisper; "but Marmaduke, promise me that never in the future will you conceal anything from me."
"I promise—I swear," says my betrothed, eagerly and I receive, and graciously return, the kiss of reconciliation he lays upon my lips.
We are unmistakably and most remarkably late, but that is scarcely a matter for wonder, considering the animal we drove and the vehicle in which we journeyed. We have been bumped and jolted and saddened all the way from Summerleas, besides having endured agonies of shame and fear lest any of the grander folk meeting us upon the road should look down upon us from their aristocratic equipages and scorn our dilapidated condition. By taking an unfrequented route, however, we arrive unseen, and are spared so much humiliation.
When Mr. Carrington asked me a week ago if a garden party at Strangemore would give me any pleasure—so little are we accustomed to gayeties of any kind—my spirits rose to fever height, and I told him without hesitation nothing on earth he could do for me would occasion me greater delight than his ordering and regulatinga fetein which I might bear a part. Afterwards, when I fully understood the consequences of my rash words, how heartily did I repent them!
First came the battle with papa about the necessary garments to be worn at it—gowns we should have and gowns we had not—and a skirmish naturally followed. Mamma and Dora undertook to face the foe alone in this instance (it being unanimously decided in conclave that my presence on the scene would only hinder any chances of success), and after a severe encounter Dora triumphed—as somehow Dora always does triumph—though I am bound to admit many tears were shed and many reproaches uttered before victory was declared in our favor.
Then came the getting to Strangemore in the disgraceful fossil that clings to us like a nightmare, and won't fall to pieces from decay.
Half an hour before we start, papa caracoles away on his sprightly roan, got up regardless of expense, leaving Brewster to drive us, with Billy seated beside him on the box-seat; while we three women sit inside and try to think our dresses are not crushed, while undergoing the hour and a half of anguish, before described, on our way.
As we are all fully alive to the fact that to face the hall-door at Strangemore and the assembled county in our shandrydan is more than we can endure, we enter the grounds by a back way; and having given Brewster strict orders to reach the yard without being seen, and if seen to answer no inconvenient questions, we alight, and shaking out our trains, proceed towards the gardens.
My dress is composed of simple batiste, but is a wonderful mingling of palest pink and blue, impossible to describe; my hat is also pink and blue, my gloves delicately tinted. Marmaduke's earrings and locket and bracelets and rings are scattered all over my person; and altogether, I flatter myself, I am looking as well as it is possible for Phyllis Vernon to look.
Dora is in a ravishing costume, of which blue silk forms the principal part, and has put on a half-pouting, just-awakened expression, that makes her appear a lovely grown up baby.
Mamma is looking, as she always looks in my eyes, perfectly beautiful.
She and Dora march in front, while Billy and I bring up the rear. To my excited imagination it seems as if all the world were met together on the croquet-lawn. I say, "Oh, Billy!" in an exhilarated tone, and give his arm a squeeze; but, as the dear fellow thinks it necessary to be morose on the occasion, he takes it badly, and tells me, angrily, to moderate my transports, or people will say I have never been at any entertainment before—which if people did say it would be unusually near the truth.
Presently Marmaduke, seeing us, comes quickly up, and, having welcomed mother and Dora, offers me his arm with the air of a proprietor, and carries me away from my family.
I feel as though treading on air, and am deliciously far from shyness of any description. Before we have gone very far, my conversational powers assert themselves.
"Marmaduke, don't you think I am looking very nice?" I say naively.
"Very, darling. You always look that."
This general praise disappoints me. Whatever an infatuated person may have chosen to consider me in the time past, I am satisfied that at the present moment I really am worthy of admiration.
"But you cannot have seen my dress," I persist; "it came all the way from London: andweall think it so pretty. Look at it, Marmaduke."
He turns his head willingly in my direction, but his gaze gets little farther than my face.
"It is charming," he says, with enthusiasm. "That pale green suits you tremendously."
"Pale-green!" and I am all faintest azure. I break into a merry laugh, and give him an imperceptible shake.
"Green, you ridiculous boy! Why, there is not a particle of green about me. I am nothing but pink and blue. Do look at me again, Marmaduke, or I shall die of chagrin."
"Well, it was the blue I meant," declares my lover, composedly. "Then, come with me to the other side, Phyllis: I want to introduce you to Lady Alicia Slate-Gore."
"Lady Alicia!" I gasp, awestruck. "Is—is the duke here?"
"No; he is in Scotland. Lady Alicia came by herself. She is an old friend of mine, darling, and I am very fond of her. I want you, therefore, to be particularly charming to her."
"How can you expect me to be that—under the circumstances?" I ask, lightly, glancing up at him from under my lashes with a sudden and altogether new touch of coquetry born of the hour and my gay attire. "How can I be amiable, when you tell me in that bare-faced fashion of your adoration for her? Of course I shall be desperately jealous and desperately disagreeable during the entire interview."
Marmaduke's face betrays the intense delight all men feel when receiving flattery from the beloved one. Perhaps, indeed, he appears a trifle sillier than the generality of them, incense coming from me being so totally unexpected. I know by his eyes he would give anything to kiss me, were it not for shame sake and the gaping crowd.
"Is your Lady Alicia very terrific?" I ask, fearfully and then, almost before he has time to answer my question, we are standing before a tall, benevolent-looking woman of forty-five, with a hooked nose, and a scarlet feather in her bonnet, and I am bowing and smirking at Lady Alicia Slate-Gore.
She is more than civil—she is radiant. She taps me on the cheek with her fan, and calls me "my dear," and asks me a hundred questions in a breath. She taps Marmaduke on the arm and asks him what he means by making love to a child who ought to be in her nursery dreaming fairy-tales.
At this Marmaduke laughs, and says I am older than I look—for which I am grateful to him.
"Old!" says my lady, with a rapid bird like glance at me. "The world will soon be upside down. Am I to consider fourteen old?"
"Phyllis will soon be nineteen," says Marmaduke; for which I feel still more grateful, as it was only two months ago I attained my eighteenth year.
"Indeed! indeed! You should give your friends your receipt, child. You have stolen a good five years from Father Time, and just when you least want it. Now, if you could only give us old people a written prescription," etc., etc.
Marmaduke leaves us to go and receive some other guests, and her ladyship still chatters on to me; while I, catching the infection of her spirits, chatter back again to her, until she declares me vastly amusing, and is persuaded Marmaduke has gained a prize in the life-lottery.
Then Bobby De Vere comes up, a little later, and addresses me in his usual florid style; so does fat Mr. Hastings; and presently Lady Alicia appears again, bringing with her a tall, gaunt man with a prickly beard, who, she says, is desirous of being introduced.
He is probably a well-intentioned person, but he is very deaf, and has evidently mistaken the whole affair. For example, after a moment or two he electrifies me by saying, "You are fortunate, Mrs. Carrington, in having so magnificent a day for yourfete."
I color painfully, stammer a good deal, and finally explain, rather lamely, I am not yet Mrs. Carrington, and that my proper name is Vernon. Upon which he too is covered with confusion and makes a hurried and very unintelligible apology.
"Beg pardon, I'm sure. Quite understood from Lady Alicia—most awkward—inexcusably so. Only arrived at the castle late last night, and am a stranger to every one here. Pray pardon me."
I put an end to his misery by smiling and asking him if he would like to walk about a little—an invitation he accepts with effusion.
There are dear little colored tents scattered all over the place. Bands are playing; so are fountains; and flowers are everywhere. I drink iced Moselle and eat strawberries, and am supremely happy.
My emaciated cavalier escorts me hither and thither, and does all he knows to entertain me. After an hour or so he leaves me, only shortly to return again, and it becomes evident he is bent on studying human nature in a new form as he listens with every appearance of the gravest interest to the ceaseless babble that flows from my lips.
The day wears on, and I see hardly anything of Marmaduke; it is already half-past five, and in another hour my joy must end. I stand at the door of a tent, framed in by blue and white canvas, with a crimson strawberry on its way to my lips, and am vaguely wondering at my lover's absence, when I see him coming towards me, by degrees, and with that guilty air that distinguishes most men when endeavoring secretly to achieve some cherished design. He looks slightly bored, but brightens as his eyes meet mine and hurries his footsteps.
As he draws nearer I address to him some commonplace remark, upon which the two or three men who have been amusing me—my gaunt companion included—sheer off from me as though I had the plague; it being thoroughly understood on all sides that in me they behold the "coming Queen" of Strangemore.
Their defection, however, disconcerts me not at all. I am too glad, too utterly gay on this glorious afternoon to let any trifles annoy me.
"Did you miss me?" asked Marmaduke, tenderly.
"Hardly. You see, I had scarcely time—I have been enjoying myself so much. It has been a delicious day altogether. Have you enjoyed it, Marmaduke?"
"No. I was away from you." There is a world of reproach in his tone.
"True; I had forgotten that," I say, wickedly. Then, "To tell the truth, 'Duke, I was just beginning to wonder had you forgotten my existence. How did you manage to keep away from me for so long?"
"What unbearable conceit! I could not come to you a moment sooner. If I had to get through so much hard work every day as was put upon me this afternoon, I believe I should die of a decline. Don't you feel as if you hated all these people, Phyllis? I do."
"No, indeed; I bear them nothing but good will. They have all helped by their presence to make up the sum of my enjoyment."
"I am so glad the day has been a success—to you at least. Are you looking at that old turret, darling? There is such a beautiful view of the gardens from one of those windows?" This last suggestively.
"Is there?" I answer, with careless indifference. Then, good-naturedly, "I think I would like to see it."
"Would you?" much gratified. "Then come with me."
In his heart I know he is rejoiced at the prospect of atete-a-tetealone with me—rejoiced, too, at the chance of getting rid for a while of all the turmoil and elegant bustle of the crowd.
I go with him, down the garden path, through the shrubberies, up the stone steps, and into the large hall, past immodest statues and up interminable stairs, until we reach the small round chamber of which he speaks.
I run to the window and look down eagerly upon the brilliant scene below; and certainly what meets my eyes rewards me for the treadmill work I have undergone for the purpose.
Beneath me lie the gardens, a mass of glowing color, while far beyond them as the eye can reach stretches the wood in all its green and bronze and brown-tinged glory. Upon the right spreads the park soft and verdant. Below me the gayly-robed guests pass ceaselessly to and fro, and the sound of their rippling laughter climbs up the old ivy-covered walls and enters the window where I stand.
"Oh, how lovely it is?" I cry, delightedly. "Oh, I am so glad I came! How far away they all appear, and how small!"
Marmaduke is watching me with open content: he never seems to tire of my many raptures.
Suddenly I lean forward and, with flushed cheeks, follow the movement of one of the guests, who hitherto has been unnoticed by me.
"Surely—surely," I cry, with considerable excitement, "that is Sir Mark Gore."
Marmaduke stares. "Sir Mark is here," he says. "Do you know him?"
"Of course I do," I answer, gayly, craning my neck farther out of the window, the better to watch my new-old acquaintance; "that is, a little. What a handsome man he is! How odd he should be here to-day!"
"I don't see the oddness of it," rather coldly. "I have known him intimately for many years. How did you become acquainted with him, Phyllis?"
"Oh," I say, laughing, "our first meeting was a very romantic affair—almost as romantic as my second interview with you." I say this with a glance half shy, half merry; but Mr. Carrington does not seem as much alive to my drollery as usual. "Billy and I had ridden into Carston—I on the old white pony, you know—and just as we came to the middle of the High street, Madge shied at a dead sheep, my saddle turned, and but for Sir Mark Gore, who happened to be passing at the moment, I would certainly have fallen off. He rushed to the rescue, caught me in his arms, and deposited me safely on the ground. Was it not near being a tragedy? Afterwards he was even condescending enough to tighten the girths himself, though Billy was well able, and to speed us on our homeward journey. Was it not well he was there?"
"Very well, indeed. And was that all you saw of him?"
"Oh, dear, no; we became great friends after that. I found him wonderfully good-natured and kind."
As I speak I am ignorant of the fact that Sir Mark has the reputation of being the fastest man about town.
"I have no doubt you did," says my betrothed, sarcastically. "And where did you meet him again?"
"At a bazaar, a week later. He got Mrs. Leslie, with whom he was staying, to introduce him to me. And then he called with the Leslies, and I think took a fancy to Dora, as he was continually coming to Summerleas after that. Not that he ever came to the point, you know; he did not propose to her or that; which disappointed us all very much, as Mrs. Leslie told mamma he was enormously rich and a good match."
"You seem to think a great deal of a good match," says Marmaduke, very bitterly. "Are you so extremely fond of money?"
"Awfully," I say, with charming candor. "What can there be better than a lot of it? I shall have plenty when I marry you, Marmaduke, shall I not?"
"As much as ever you want," replies he; but there is no warmth in his tones.
"Don't make rash promises. Perhaps I shall want ever so much. Do you know I never had more than two pounds all together at a time in my life, and that only once? My godfather gave it to me the year before last, and it took Billy and me a whole week to decide how we should spend it."
"Well?" absently.
"Well"—utterly unabashed—"finally we divided it into four half-sovereigns. With one we bought a present for mother, and were going to do the same for Dora, only she said she would rather have the money itself than anything we would select. Then Billy bought a puppy he had been longing for for a month with the third, besides a lot of white rats—odious little things with no hair on their tails—and a squirrel; and—and that's all," I wind up abruptly.
"What did you do with the other half-sovereign? asks 'Duke, more from want of something to say than from any overpowering curiosity.
"Oh, nothing—nothing," I answer, feeling slightly confused, I don't know why. "I cannot remember, it is so long ago."
"Only the year before last, by your own account, and I know your memory to be excellent. Come, tell me what you did with it."
As he grows obstinate, so do I, and therefore answer with gay evasion.
"What would I do with it but one thing? Of course I bought a present for my sweetheart."
Surely some capricious spirit inhabits this room. For the second time since we entered it Marmaduke's countenance lowers.
"Why, what is the matter now?" I ask, impatiently. "What are you looking so cross about?"
"I am not cross," indignantly. "What is there to make me so? There is no reason why you should not have innumerable sweethearts as well as every other woman."
"Oh!" I say; and his last speech having made me aware that the word "sweetheart" has been the cause of all the ill temper, I go on wickedly, "why, none indeed; and this particular one of whom I speak was such a darling! So good to me, too, as he was—I never received an unkind word or a cross look from him. Ah! I shall never forget him."
"You are right there. No virtue is as admirable as sincerity. I wonder how you could bring yourself to resign so desirable a lover."
"I didn't resign him. Circumstances over which we had no control arose, and separated his lot from mine." Here I sigh heavily, and cast my eyes upon the ground with such despairing languor as would have done credit to an Amanda—or a Dora.
"If I am to be considered one of the 'circumstances' in this matter," says my lover, hotly, "I may tell you at once I do not at all envy the position. I have no desire to come between you and your affections."
"You do not," I return, mildly; and, but that when a man is jealous he loses all reasoning and perceptive faculties, he might see that I am crimson with suppressed laughter. "Had you never appeared on the scene, still a marriage between us would have been impossible."
"What is his name?" asks 'Duke, abruptly.
"I would rather not tell you."
"I insist upon knowing. I think I have every right to ask."
"Oh, why? If I promised him to keep the matter secret, surely you would not ask me to break my faith?"
"Once engaged to me, I object to your keeping faith with any other man."
"Well, it is all past and gone now," I murmur, sadly. "Why rake up the old ashes? Let us forget it."
"Forget it!" cries Marmaduke, savagely. "How easy you find it to forget! And you, whom I thought so innocent a child—you, who told me you never had a lover until I came to Strangemore! I cannot so readily forget what you have now told me. It maddens me to think another man has been making love to you, has held your hands, has looked into your eyes, has—has—Phyllis"—- almost fiercely—"tell me the truth; did he ever kiss you?"
My back is turned to him, but I am visibly shaking. I wonder exceedingly why he does not notice it; but perhaps he does, and puts it down to deep emotion.
"No," I say, in a smothered tone, "it never went so far as that."
"Then why not tell me his name?"
"Because—I—cannot."
"Will not, you mean. Very good: I will not ask you again. I think we had better return to the grounds."
He moves a step or two away in the direction of the door. Turning, I burst into a perfect peal of laughter, and laugh until the old room echoes again.
"Oh, Marmaduke," I cry, holding out to him my hands, "come back to me, and I will tell you all. It was old Tanner, your head gardener, I meant the entire time. He used to give me all your fruit and flowers before he went to America; and I bought him an ear-trumpet with my ten shillings, and—oh! oh! oh!"
"Phyllis, Phyllis!" cries my lover, with reproachful tenderness, and, catching me in his arms, presses upon my lips kisses many and passionate, as punishment for my wrongdoing.
"How could you do it, darling? How could you make me so miserable for even a few minutes?"
"I could not help it. You looked so angry and the idea came into my head. And all about old Tanner! Oh! There—there, please don't make me laugh again."
Friendly intercourse being thus once more restored, and it being necessary we should now return to the guests, I make a bet with him, in which a dozen pair of gloves count as high as three kisses, and race him down all the stairs, through landings and rooms and corridors, until I arrive breathless but triumphant at the hall-door. Here we pause, flushed and panting, to recover our equanimity, before marching out together calm and decorous to mingle again among our friends.
Most of them are standing draped and shawled, only waiting to bid farewell to their host. Almost on the steps we come in contact with Sir Mark Gore.
"Miss Vernon," he exclaims, with a start of surprise, "you here! How have I missed seeing you all day? Carrington, when you bring so many people together you should at least give them printed programmes with all their names inscribed, to let them know whom to seek and whom to avoid. Miss Phyllis, how can I tell you how glad I am to see you again?"
"Don't be too glad," says 'Duke, directing a tender smile at me as I stand beaming pinkly upon Sir Mark, "or I shall be jealous."
"How! is it indeed so!" Sir Mark asks, addressing me. He too has only reached the neighborhood within the last few hours, and knows nothing of what has been going on of late in our quiet village.
"Yes, it is indeed so," I return, with an assumption of sauciness, though my cheeks are flaming. Then, half shyly, "Will you not congratulate me?"
"No, I shall congratulate Carrington," replies he, shortly, and after a few more words of the most commonplace description, leaves us.
Mother is on her feet, and has assumed an important expression. She has sent Billy in quest of Dora. Marmaduke crosses over to her, whispers, and expostulates for a moment or two, until at length mother sinks back again upon her seat with a resigned smile, and sends Billy off a second time with a message to Brewster to betake himself and the fossil back to Summerleas with all possible speed. And so it comes to pass that when the lawns are again empty Mr. Carrington drives us all, through the still and dewy evening, to our home, where he remains to dine and spend the rest of this eventful day.
It is a fortnight later, when the post coming in one morning brings to Dora an invitation from our aunts, the Misses Vernon, to go and stay with them for an indefinite period.
These two old ladies—named respectively Aunt Martha and Aunt Priscilla—are maiden sisters of my father's, and are, if possible, more disagreeable than he; so that there is hardly anything—short of committing suicide—we would not do to avoid paying them a visit of any lengthened duration.
Being rich, however, they are powerful, and we have been brought up to understand how inadvisable it would be to offend or annoy them in any way.
Dora receives and reads her letter with an unmoved countenance, saying nothing either for or against the proposition it contains, so that breakfast goes on smoothly. So does luncheon; but an hour afterwards, as I happen to be passing through the hall, I hear high words issuing from the library, with now and then between them a disjointed sob, that I know proceeds from Dora.
An altercation is at all times unpleasant; but in our household it is doubly so, as it has the effect of making the master of it unbearably morose for the remainder of the day or night on which it occurs.
Knowing this, and feeling the roof that covers papa to be, in his present state, unsafe, I steal noiselessly to the hall door and, opening it, find refuge in the outer air.
As evening falls, however, I am warned of the approach of dinner-hour, and, returning to the house, am safely up the stairs, when Billy comes to meet me, his face full of indignant information.
"It is a beastly shame," he says, in a subdued whisper, "and I would not submit to it if I were you. When luncheon was over, Dora went to papa and told him she would not go to Aunt Martha; and when papa raged and insisted, she began to blubber as usual, and said if you were to take her place it would do just as well; and of course papa jumped at the idea, knowing it would be disagreeable, and says youshallgo."
"What!" cry I, furious at this new piece of injustice. "I shall, shall I? He'll see!"
I turn from my brother with an ominous expression on my lips, and move towards my bedroom door. The action means, "Not words, but deeds."
"That's right," says Billy, following close in the character of a backer-up, and openly delighted at the prospect of a scrimmage. "Fight it out. I would give the governor plenty of cheek if I were you; he wants it badly. It's a shame, that's what it is; and you engaged and all! And what will Carrington say? Do you know"—mysteriously—"it is my opinion Miss Dora thinks she could get inside you, if you were once out of the way? She was always a sneak; so I would not give in on any account. But"—despondingly—"you will never have the pluck to go through with it when it comes to the point. I know you won't."
"I will," I return, gazing back at him with stern determination in my eyes, and then I go into my room to prepare for dinner, leaving him both astonished and pleased at my new-found courage.
In this defiant mood I dress and go downstairs. All through dinner Dora is more than usually agreeable. She smiles continually, and converses gayly in her pretty, low-toned elegant way. To me she is particularly attentive, and is apparently deaf to the silence with which I receive her remarks.
Nothing is said on the expected subject of Aunt Martha until it is nearly time for us to retire to the drawing-room, and I am almost beginning to fear the battle will be postponed, when papa, turning to me, says, carelessly, and as though it were a matter of no importance:—
"As Dora dislikes the idea of going to your aunts, Phyllis, at this time of year, we have decided on sending you for a month in her place."
"But I dislike the idea too," I reply, as calmly as rage will let me.
"That is to be regretted, as I will not have your aunts offended. You are the youngest, and must give way."
"But the invitation was not sent to me."
"That will make little difference, and a sufficient excuse can be offered for Dora. As your marriage does not come off until late in the autumn, there is no reason why you should remain at home all the summer."
"This is some of your underhand work," I say, with suppressed anger, addressing Dora.
"I would not speak of 'underhand work,' if I wereyou," returns she, smoothly, with an almost invisible flash from her innocent blue eyes.
"Do not let us discuss the subject further," says papa, in a loud tone. "There is nothing so disagreeable as public recrimination. Understand once for all, Phyllis, the matter is arranged, and you will be ready to go next week."
"I will not?" I cry, passionately, rising and flinging my napkin upon the ground. "I have made up my mind, and I will not go to Qualmsley. Not all the fathers in Christendom shall make me."
"Phyllis!" roars papa, making a wild grab at me as I sweep past his chair; but I avoid him defiantly, and, going out, slam the door with much intentional violence behind me.
I fly through the hall and into the open air, I feel suffocated, half choked, by my angry emotion; but the sweet evening breeze revives me. It is eight o'clock, and a delicious twilight pervades the land.
I run swiftly, an irrepressible sob in my throat, down the lawn, past the paddock, and along the banks of the little stream, until, as I come to what we call the "short cut" to Briersley, I run myself into Mr. Carrington's arms, who is probably on his way to Summerleas.
Usually my greeting to him is a hand outstretched from my body to the length of my arm. Now I cast myself generously into his embrace. I cling to him with almost affectionate fervor. He is very nearly dear to me at this moment, coming to me as a sure and certain friend.
"My darling—my life!" he exclaims, "what is it? You are unhappy; your eyes are full of trouble."
His arms are round me; he presses his lips gently to my forehead; it is a rare thing this kiss, as it is but seldom he caresses me, knowing my antipathy to any demonstrative attentions; but now my evident affliction removes a barrier.
"I want you to marry me—at once." I breathe rather than speak, my hasty running and my excitement having wellnigh stifled me. "You will, will you not? You must. I will not stay here a moment longer than I can help. You said once you wished to marry me in June; you must wish it still."
"I do," he answers, calmly, but his arms tighten round me, and his face flushes. "I will marry you when and where you please. Do you mean to-morrow?—next week?—when?"
"Next month; early next month. I will be ready then. You must tell papa so this evening, and take me away soon. I will show them I will not stay here to be tyrannized over and tormented."
I burst into tears, and bury my face in his coat.
"You shall not stay an hour longer, if you don't wish it," returns my lover, rather unsteadily. "Come with me now, and I will take you to my sister's, and will marry you to-morrow."
"Oh, no, no," I say, recoiling from him; "not that; I did not mean that. I did not want to run away with you. Next month will be soon enough. It was only they insisted on my going to Qualmsley, and I was determined I would not."
"It is disgraceful your being made wretched in this way," exclaims Marmaduke, wrathfully. "Tell me what has vexed you?" He is not aware of the Misses Vernons' existence. "Where is Qualmsley?"
"It is a horrible place, in Yorkshire, where nobody lives, except my aunts. They want me to go to stay there next week for a month. The hateful old things wrote inviting Dora, and when she refused to go papa insisted on victimizing me in her place. If you only knew Aunt Martha and Aunt Priscilla, you would understand my abhorrence—my detestation—of them. They are papa's sisters—the very image of him—and tread and trample on one at every turn. I would rather die than go to them. I would far rather marry you."
I hardly guess the significance of my last words until I see my lover whiten and wince in the twilight.
"Of course I don't mean that," I say, confusedly, "I only—-"
But, as I don't at all feel sure what it is I do mean, I break down here ignominiously and relapse into awkward silence.
"Of course not," he answers. "I quite understand." But his voice has lost all its enthusiasm, and somehow his words drag. "Had you not better come back to the house, Phyllis? You will catch cold without your hat and in that light dress."
I am clothed in white muslin, a little open at the throat, and with my arms half bare. A piece of blue ribbon defines my waist, a bow of the same hue is in my hair; the locket that contains his face is round my neck; a great crimson rose lies upon my bosom.
"I am not cold," I reply: "and I am afraid to face papa."
We are separated now, and I stand alone, gazing down into the rippling stream that runs noisily at my feet. Already two or three bright stars are twinkling overhead and shine up at me, reflected from below. Mr. Carrington lets the distance widen between us while regarding me I feel rather than see—with moody discontented eyes.
"Phyllis," he says, presently, in a low tone, "it seems to me a horrible thing that the idea of your marriage should be so distasteful to you—-"
"No, no; not distasteful," I interrupt, with deprecation.
"Don't say 'no' if you mean 'yes.' Put my feelings out of the question, and tell me honestly if you are unhappy about it."
"I am not. It does not make me more unhappy to marry you than to marry any one else."
"What an answer!" exclaims Marmaduke, with a groan. "Is that all the consolation you can offer me?"
"That is all. Have I not told you all this long ago?" I cry, angrily, goaded by the reflection that each word I speak only makes matters harder. "Why do you bring the subject up again? Must you too be unkind to me? You cannot have believed me madly in love with you, as I have told you to the contrary ages ago."
"So you did. In my folly I hoped time would change you. What a contemptible lover I must be, having failed in eight long months to gain even the affections of a child. Will you never care for me, Phyllis?"
"I do care for you," I return, doggedly, forcing myself to face him. "After mamma and Billy and Roland, I care for you more than any one else. I like you twenty thousand times better than papa or Dora. I cannot say more."
I tap my foot impatiently upon the ground; my fingers seize and take to pieces wantonly the unoffending rose. As I pull its crimson leaves asunder I drop them in the brook and watch them float away under the moon's pale rays. I would that my cruel words could so depart.
I feel angry, disconsolate, with the knowledge that through my own act I am cruelly wounding the man who, I must confess it, is my truest friend. I half think of apologizing, of saying something gentle, yet withal truthful, that shall take away the sting I have planted. A few words rise to my lips. I raise my head to give them utterance.
Suddenly his arms are around me; he is kissing me with passion that is full of sadness. There is so much tenderness mingled with the despair in his face that I, too, am saddened into silence. Repentant, I slip a hand round his neck and give him back one kiss out of the many.
"Don't be sorry," I whisper; "something tells me I shall yet love you with all my heart. Until then bear with me. Or, if you think it a risk, Marmaduke, and would rather put an end to it all now, do so, and I will not be angry with you."
"More probably you would be thankful to me," he answered, bitterly.
"I would not. I would far rather trust myself to you than stay at home after what has passed." My voice is trembling, my lips quiver faintly. "But if one of us must be unhappy, let it be me. I release you. I would not—-"
"Don't be foolish, child," he makes answer, roughly, "I could not release you, even if I would. You are part of my life and the best part, No; let us keep to our bargain now, whatever comes of it."
His eyes are fixed on mine; gradually a softer light creeps into his face. Putting up his hand, he smoothes back the loose hair from my forehead and kisses me gravely on my lips.
"You are my own little girl," he says, "my most precious possession; I will not have you inconsiderately used. Come, I will speak to your father."
So hand in hand we return to the dragon's den, where, Mr. Carrington having faced the dragon and successfully bullied him, peace is restored, and it is finally arranged that in three weeks we are to be married.
----
And in three weeks wearemarried. In three short weeks I glide into a new life, in which Phyllis Carrington holds absolute sway, leaving Phyllis Vernon of the old days—the "general receiver" of the blame of the family—to be buried out of sight forever.
First of all mother takes me up to London, and puts me into the hands of a celebratedmodiste, a woman of great reputation, with piercing eyes, who scowls at me, prods, taps, and measures me, until I lose sight of my own identity and begin to look upon myself as so many inches and fingers and yards embodied. At length, this terrible person expressing herself satisfied with the examination, we may return home again, whither we are shortly followed by many wicker-framed oil skin-covered trunks, in which lie the results of all the measuring.
Everything is so fresh, so gay, so dainty, that I, who have been kept on such low diet with regard to clothing, am enraptured, and as I dress myself in each new gown and survey myself in mother's long glass, sustain a sensation of pleasurable admiration that must be conceit in an "ugly duckling."
As Madame charmingly and rather shoppily expresses it, my wedding-dress is "a marvel of elegance and grace"—and lace, she might have added, as Brussels is everywhere. Indeed, as I see it and think of the bill that must follow, the old deadly fear of a row creeps over me, chilling my joy, until I happily and selfishly remember that when it does fall due I shall be far from Summerleas and papa's wrath, when I become once more enthusiastic in my praise. I even insist on exhibiting myself in it to Marmaduke three nights before my wedding, though all in the house tell me it is unlucky so to do; and Mrs. Tully, the cook, with her eyes full of brandy-and-water, implores me not to be headstrong.
Presents come in from all sides, Bobby De Vere's and Mr. Hastings' being conspicuous more from size than taste. Papa so far overcomes his animosity as to present me with an astonishing travelling-desk, the intricacies of which it takes me months to master, even with the help of Marmaduke. Roland, coming from Ireland for the ceremony, brings with him from the Emerald Isle a necklet too handsome for his purse; while Billy, with tears of love in his dark eyes, puts into my arms a snow-white rabbit that for six long months has been the joy of his heart.
Dora, who at first declared her determination of leaving home during the festivities, on second thoughts changes her mind, having discovered that by absenting herself the loss of a new dress is all she will gain: she even consents frostily to be chief bridesmaid. The two Hastings girls, with Bobby De Vere's sister and two of Marmaduke's cousins, also assist; and Sir Mark Gore is chief mourner.
As the eventful day breaks, I wake, and, rising, get through the principal part of my dressing without aid, a proceeding that much disappoints mother, who at this last hour of my childhood feels as though I were once more her baby, and would have liked, with lingering touches, to dress me bit by bit.
At eight o'clock Martha knocks at my bedroom door and hands in to us a sealed packet, with "Marmaduke's love" written on the outside, and opening it we disclose to view the Carrington diamonds, reset, remodelled, and magnificent in their brilliancy. This is a happy thought on his part, and raises our spirits for twenty minutes at least: though after this some chance word makes our eyes grow moist again, and we weep systematically all through the morning—during the dressing, and generally up to the very last moment—so that when at length I make my appearance in church and walk up tho aisle on papa's arm, I am so white and altogether dejected that I may be considered ghastly.
Marmaduke is also extremely pale, but perfectly calm and self-possessed, and has even a smile upon his lips. As he sees me he comes quickly forward, and taking me from papa, leads me himself to the altar—a proceeding that causes much excitement among the lower members of the congregation, who, in loud whispers, approve his evident fondness for me.
So the holy words are read, and the little mystical golden fetter encircles my finger. I write myself Phyllis Marian Vernon for the last time; and Sir Mark Gore, coming up to me in the vestry-room, slips a beautiful bracelet on my arm, and whispers, smiling:—-
"I hope you will accept all good wishes with this—Mrs. Carrington."
I start and blush faintly as the new title strikes upon my ears, and almost forget to thank him in wondering at its strangeness. Then Marmaduke kisses me gravely, and, giving me his arm leads me back to the carriage, and it is all over!
Am I indeed no longer a child? Is my wish accomplished, and am I at last "grown up?" How short a time ago I stood in my bridal robes in mother's room, still Phyllis Vernon—still a girl and now—Why, it was only a few minutes ago—-
"Oh, Marmaduke, am Ireallymarried?" I say, gazing at him with half-frightened eyes; and he says—-
"Yes, I think so," with an amused smile, and puts his arm round me and kisses me very gently. "And now we are going to be happy ever after," he says, laughing a little.
All through breakfast I am in a haze—a dream. I cut what they put upon my plate, but I cannot eat. I listen to Marmaduke's few words as he makes the customary speech and think of him as though it were yesterday and not to-day. I cannot realize that my engagement is over, that what we have been preparing for these nine months past is at last a settled fact.
I listen to Sir Mark's clever, airy little oration that makes everybody laugh, especially Miss De Vere, and wonder to myself that I too can laugh.
Billy—who has managed to get close up to me—keeps on helping me indefatigably to champagne, under the mistaken impression he is doing me a last service. I catch mamma's sad eyes fixed upon me from the opposite side, and then I know I am going to cry again, and, rising from the table, get away in safety to my own room, whither I am followed by her, and we say our few final, farewell words in private.
Three hours later I have embraced mother for the last time, and am speeding away from home and friends and childhood to I know not what.