We have been married nearly three months, and are going on very comfortably. As yet no cross or angry words have arisen between us; all is smooth as unruffled waters. Though Marmaduke is, if anything, fonder of me than at first, he is perhaps a shade less slavishly attentive. For example, he can now enjoy hisTimesat breakfast and read it straight through without raising his eyes between every paragraph, to make sure I am still behind the teapot and have not vanished into mid air, or to ask me tenderly if I would wish to do this or care to go there.
He has also learned—which is more satisfactory still—that it is possible to know enjoyment even when I am out of sight.
Two months of delicious thoughtless idleness we spend in Spain and Switzerland, and then—we pine for home. This latter secretly, and with a sworn determination that each will be the last to confess it.
One calm glorious evening, however, after dinner, as I stand at the window of our hotel, gazing over the Lake of Geneva, something within me compels the following speech:
"How beautiful Strangemore must be looking now!"—-
I feel slightly doubtful of the wisdom of my words when they were uttered, and would have recalled them; but the encouraging amiability with which Marmaduke receives my remark speedily reassures me.
"Yes," he says, with energy, "it never looks so well as just at this time of year."
"So I should think."
A long pause.
"English scenery is always at its best in the autumn. After all, there is no place like England—I mean, of course for a continuance. Don't you agree with me, darling?"
"I do indeed. Dear Briersley Wood! How fond Billy and I were of it. You remember the clump of nut-trees, 'Duke?"
"Is it likely I should forget it?" sentimentally. "For my own part, I think the wood on the other side of Strangemore handsomer than Briersley; but of course it was too far away from Summerleas for you to know it well."
Another pause, longer than the last, and more eloquent.
"How I should like to see it—now!" I murmur, with faint emphasis and a heroically suppressed sigh.
"Would you really?" rising eagerly, and coming into the embrasure of the window. "Would you like to get back, darling? Not yet for a little while, of course," with quick correction, "but later on, when—-"
"I would like to start at once," I cry, frankly, flinging hesitation to the winds; "as soon as possible. I am longing to see every one; and you know, 'Duke," sweetly, "I have yet to make a near acquaintance withourhome."
I smile up to him, and am satisfied my words have caused nothing but the extremest content.
"Very good. It is easily arranged; and next year we can come and get through what we now leave undone. They must be wanting us at home, I fancy; there are the birds and everything," concludes Marmaduke, in a reflective tone, which is the nearest approach to a return of reason he has yet shown.
We spend a fortnight in London on our way back, when I am presented to some of my husband's relations. His sister, Lady Handcock, I do not see, as she has been in Canada for the last two years with Sir James, and, though now travelling homewards and expected every day, does not arrive during our stay in the Great Babylon.
Cousins and aunts and friends, however, are numerous, and for the most part so kind that restraint vanishes, and I tell myself people-in-law are not so formidable as I have been led to believe. One thorn, however, remains among my roses and pricks me gently.
Lady Blanche Going—with whom we stay a week—of all the cousins interests me most; though it must be confessed the interest is of a disagreeable nature. She has a charming house in Park Lane, and the softest, most fascinating manners; she is in every point such as a well-bred woman ought to be, yet with her alone I am not happy. For the most part looking barely twenty-five, there are times—odd moments when the invariable smile is off her face—when I could fancy her at least seven years older. Now and then, too, a suspicious gleam—toowarm, as coming from a decorous matron—falls from her sleepy almond-shaped eyes upon some favorite among the "stronger" sex, and I cannot forgive her in that she makes me appear the most unsophisticated, childish bride that ever left a nursery. So that I am glad when we leave her and move farther south to our beautiful home.
Oh, the delight, the rapture, of the first meeting, when the first day after our return, I drive over to Summerleas: The darling mother's tearful welcome, the "boy Billee's" more boisterous one. Even Dora, for a moment or two forgets her elegance and her wrongs, and gives me a hearty embrace. And how well I am looking, and how happy! And how pretty my dress is, and how becoming! And how they have all missed me! And just fancy! Roland isreallyengaged to the "old boy's" daughter, after all; and the colonel himself writes about it, as though quite pleased, in spite of her having such a good fortune. Though, indeed, why should he not? for where could he find any one handsomer, or dearer, or more charming than our Roly? and so on.
All too swift in its happiness flies the day, and Marmaduke comes to reclaim me. Yet the strange senses of rest and completeness that fills me, in the presence of the old beloved, distresses me. Why can I not feel for Marmaduke that romantic, all-sufficing devotion of which I have read? I certainlylikehim immensely. He is everything of the dearest and best, and kind almost to a fault; therefore I ought to adore him; but somehow I cannot quite make up my mind to it. One should love a husband better than all the rest of the world put together; so I have heard, so I believe; but do I?
I lay little plans; I map out small scenes, to try how far my affection for my husband will go.
For instance, I picture to myself Billy or he condemned to start in the morning for Australia, never to return; one or other must go, and the decision rests with me. Which shall I let go, which shall I keep? I send Marmaduke, and feel a deep pang at my heart; I send Billy—the pang becomes keenest torture.
Again, supposing both to be sentenced to death, and supposing also it is in my power to save one of them: which would I rescue? Marmaduke of course! I haul him triumphantly from his gloomy cell; but as I do so my Billy's beautiful eyes, filled with mute despair, shine upon me from out the semi-darkness, and I cease to drag Marmaduke: I cannot leave my brother.
When this last picture first presents itself to my vivid imagination I am in bed, and the idea overcomes me to such a degree that I find myself presently in floods of tears, unable altogether to suppress my sobs.
In a minute or two Marmaduke wakes and turns uneasily.
"What is the matter, Phyllis," he asks, anxiously. "Is anything wrong with you, my darling?"
"No, no, nothing," I answer hastily, and bury my nose in the pillow.
"But you are crying," he remonstrates, reaching out a kindly hand in the darkness that is meant for my face, but alights unexpectedly upon the back of my head. "Tell me what is troubling you, my pet."
"Nothing at all," I say again; "I was only thinking." Here I stifle a foolish sigh born of my still more foolish tears.
"Thinking of what?"
"Of Billy," I reply reluctantly. And then, though he says nothing, and though I cannot see his face, I know my husband is offended.
He goes back to his original position, and is soon again asleep, while I lie awake for half an hour longer, worrying my brain with trying to discover what there can be to vex Marmaduke in my weeping over Billy.
Still I am happy, utterly so, as one must be who is without care or sorrow, whose lightest wish meets instant fulfilment, and less and less frequently am I haunted by the vague fear of ingratitude—by the thought of how poor a return I make for all the good showered upon me, as I see how sufficient I am for my husband's happiness: while only on rare occasions does he betray his passionate longing for a more perfect hold upon my heart by the suppressed but evident jealousy with which he regards my love for my family.
"Whom would you like to invite here for the shooting?" asks Marmaduke, at breakfast, to my consternation. "I suppose we had better fill the house?"
"Oh, 'Duke," I cry, in terror, "must you do that? And must I entertain them all?"
"I suppose so," replies he, laughing; "though I dare say if you will let them alone they will entertain themselves. If you get a good many men and women together they generally contrive to work out their own amusement."
"I have seen so few people in my life," I say, desperately, "and none of them grand people. That is, lords, I mean, and that. I shall be frightened out of my life."
"My acquaintance with lords is not so extensive as you seem to imagine. I know a few other people. We will limit the lords, if you wish to."
"Baronets and very rich people are just as bad."
"Nonsense, darling! I will be here to help you if they grow very dangerous, and get altogether beyond control."
"Oh, that is all very well," I say, feeling inclined to cry, "but you will be out shooting all day, and I will be left at home to speak to them. I don't mind the men so much, but the women will be dreadful."
This last sentence appears to afford Marmaduke the liveliest amusement. He laughs until I begin to feel really hurt at his want of sympathy.
"You don't care for me," I cry, with petulant reproach, "or you would not try to make me so unhappy."
"My darling child, how can you say so? Unhappy! because a few people are kind enough to come and pay you a visit. You say I do not 'care for you' because I ask you to be civil to two or three women!" Here he laughs again a little, though evidently against his will. "Oh, Phyllis! if you are going to cry I will not say another word about it. Come, look up, my pet, and I promise to forget our friends for this autumn at least. We will spend it by ourselves; though I must confess"—regretfully—"it seems to me a sin to leave all those birds in peace. Now are you satisfied?"
But I am not: I am only ashamed of myself. Is this childish fear of strangers the proper spirit for a grown-up married woman to betray? I dry my eyes and make a secret determination to go through with it, no matter what it costs me.
"No, no," I say, heroically; "let them come. It is very stupid of me to feel nervous about it. I dare say I shall like them all immensely when they are once here; and—and—perhaps they too will like me."
"Small doubt of that," says my husband, heartily. "I only hope the men won't get beyond the liking. Phyllis, you are a darling, and when they leave us you shall tell me how tremendously you enjoyed it all."
I am not sufficient hypocrite to coincide with this hopeful idea. I kill a sigh before I next speak.
"Duke," I say, with faltering tongue, "must I sit at the head of the table?"
"Of course," again visibly amused. "Surely you would not like to sit at the bottom?"
"No," with deep dejection; "one is as bad as the other. In either place I shall be horribly conspicuous." Then, after a brief hesitation, and with a decided tendency to fawn upon him, "Marmaduke, we will have all the things handed round; won't we, now? I shall never have anything to carve, shall I?"
"Never," replies 'Duke; "you shall give us dinner in any earthly style you choose, always provided you let us have a good one. There!"
"And Parsons will see to that," I say, partially consoled, drawing my breath more lightly.
"Now, whom shall we ask?" says 'Duke, seating himself, and drawing out a pencil and pocket-book with an air of business, while I look over his shoulder. "Harriet is staying with old Sir William at present, but next week she will be free. She will come, and James. I am so anxious you should meet each other."
"Oh, Marmaduke, what shall I do if your sister does not like me? It would make me so miserable if she disapproved of me in any way."
"Your modesty, my dear, is quite refreshing in this brazen age. Of course, if Harriet expresses disapprobation of my choice, I shall sue for a divorce."
I pinch his ear, and perch myself comfortably on the arm of his chair.
"Is she anything like you?"
"You could hardly find a greater contrast, I should say, in every way. She is extremely fair—quite a blonde—not much taller than you are, and rather fat. She has a considerable amount of spirit, and keeps Sir James in great order; while I am a dejected being, tyrannized over by the veriest little shrew that ever breathed."
"I like that. But from what you say she must be a terrible person."
"Then my description belies her. Harriet is very charming and a general favorite. As for Sir James, he simply adores her. I dare say she will bring Bebe with her."
"Who is Bebe?"
"Bebe Beatoun? Oh, Handcock's niece, and Harriet's 'most cherished.' Fortunately, her mother is at present in Italy, soshecan't come, which is lucky for us all, as she is adame terrible. Then we must ask Blanche Going."
"Oh,mustyou ask her?" I exclaim, discontentedly. "I don't think I quite like her; she is so supercilious, and seems to consider me so—soyoung."
"Is that a fault? I never met any one with such a veneration for age as you have. I tell you, Phyllis, there is nothing on earth so desirable as youth. Be glad of it while you have it; it never lasts. I dare say Blanche herself would not mind taking a little of it off your hands, if—she only could."
"I don't think so; she rather gave me the impression that she looked down upon me, as though I were foolish and not worth much consideration."
"Don't be uncharitable, Phyllis; she could not think anything so absurd. Besides, she told me herself one day she liked you immensely—hoped you and she would be tremendous friends, and so on. Blanche is too good-natured to treat any one as you say."
"Perhaps so. But, really, now, Marmaduke—seriously, I mean—would you not wish me to be older? Say twenty-five or so, with a little more knowledge of everything, you know? And, in fact, I mean would it not be better if I were more a woman of the world?"
"Oh, horror of horrors!" cries 'Duke, raising his, hands in affected terror. "How can you suggest anything so cruel! If I were married to a fashionable woman I would either cut and run, or commit suicide in six months."
"Then you really think me—-" I hesitate.
"A veritable little goose. No, no!—perfection, I mean," seeing me pout. Then suddenly putting his arms round me and drawing me down to him, he whispers, with deep feeling, "Phyllis, my darling, darling girl, don't you know it? Must I tell it you over and over again? Cannot you see every hour of your life how fondly I love you, just for what you are? Andyou, Phyllis, tell me—doyou—-" He stops abruptly and regards me with a curious earnestness for a minute, then, laughing rather constrainedly, puts me gently back from him and goes on: "What other guests shall we name? Mark Gore; would you care for him?"
"Yes; I liked what I saw of him. And Dora, Marmaduke."
"Dora, of course. And some one to meet her, I suppose? Whom shall we say? I think George Ashurst is an eligible who would just suit her. He is not exactly brilliant, but he is thoroughly good-hearted, and a baronet, with unlimited coin."
"I don't think Dora would like him if he is stupid," I say, doubtfully.
"Oh, he is not a fool, if you mean that; and he has as many golden charms as would make a duller man clever."
"Ah! who is mercenary now?" I say, lifting a finger of conviction.
"Am I? You see what comes of marrying amanof the world. Now, had you seen as much life as I have you might be equally unpleasant."
"ButIdon't think you unpleasant, 'Duke."
"Don't you? There is consolation to be found in that. And now whom would you like to invite, darling?"
"I would like Billy," I say, disconsolately; "but he is never in the way when wanted, like other boys. And Roly is in Ireland, by special desire, of course. And I would like mother, only—-"
"Perhaps you would like the whole family?" says my husband, mildly.
"Yes, I would," I return, with alacrity; "every—-" I was going to say "man jack of them," but thinking this—though purest English to Billy's ears—may be considered vulgar by mere outsiders, check myself in time, and substitute the words "every one of them," rather tamely. "All, that is, except papa; I doubt if he could be amiable for two hours together. But where is the use in wishing for what I cannot have?"
"We could get Billy for a week, I dare say, later on," says Marmaduke, kindly, "while the rest are here, if only to keep you from despair. Is there any one else?"
"No; papa looked upon friends as nightmares, so we have none. Besides, I shall have quite enough to do making myself agreeable to those you have named. I only hope they will not worry me into an early grave."
"Well, then, I suppose, with two or three spare men, this list will do?"
"Don't you think you are asking a great many?"
"No; very few, it seems to me; at least barely enough to make the house warm. Here is a tip for you, Phyllis: when making up your mind to invite people to stay with you, always ask a good many together, as the more there are the easier it will be to amuse them, and much trouble is taken off the shoulders of the poor little hostess. Bebe you will like, she is so gay and bright: every one is fond of her?"
"How old is she?"
"Very young—not more than nineteen or twenty, and she looks almost as young as you. She will suit you, and help you to do the honors. The only thing that can be said against Bebe is, she is such an incorrigible little flirt. Do not learn that accomplishment from her."
"How shall I be able to help it, if you throw me in the way of it? I think you are acting foolishly," with a wise shake of my head. "What if one of those 'spare men' should chance to fall in love with me?"
"That would be a mere bagatelle toyourfalling in love with one of the 'spare men.'"
"I see nothing to prevent that either."
"Don't you?" Then, half earnestly, taking my face between his hands, "You would not do that, Phyllis, would you?"
"No, I think not," I say, lightly, letting him have his kiss without rebuke: "I feel no desire to be a flirt. It must be an awful thing, as it seems to me, to have two or three men in love with you at the same time. I findonebad enough"—maliciously—"and that is what it comes to, is it not?"
"I suppose so, if one is a successful coquette."
"Well," I say, springing to my feet, "I only hope Dora will get a good husband out of all this turmoil, if only to recompense me for the misery I am going to endure."
During the morning of the day on which Lady Handcock is expected to arrive, I feel strangely nervous and unsettled. I don't seem to care so much for any one's good opinion as for hers. If Marmaduke's sister refuses to like me, I shall take it very hardly indeed, and I do not dare to flatter myself that it may be otherwise. Probably she will be cold and haughty and indifferent, like the generality of grand dames, or, worse still, supercilious and filled with a well-bred mockery only half concealed, like Lady Blanche Going.
As she has written to say they will not arrive until five o'clock, I put on my outdoor things after luncheon and wander forth alone in search of good spirits and a frame of mind so altogether radiant as shall help me to conquer fate towards evening. As at four o'clock, however, I retrace my steps, I am by no means certain I have found anything beyond a brilliant color.
I cross the threshold and move towards the staircase with the laudable intention of robing myself for conquest be fore their coming, when to my consternation I am met by Tynon, the butler, with the pleasing intelligence that "Sir James and Lady Handcock and Miss Beatoun" have already arrived.
Have entered my doors with no hostess to receive them or bid them welcome! Whatwillthey think? How awkward it has proved, my going for that stupid walk!
I smother a groan, fling my hat at Tynon, and, just as I am, with my hair slightly disarranged, enter the drawing room.
At the upper end stands Marmaduke, laughing and talking gayly to a fair-haired, prettily-dressed woman, who in a lower class of existence, might be termed "buxom." To say she is inclining towardsembonpointwill, however, sound less shocking to ears polite. I have heard from my husband that she is about thirty years of age, but in the quick glance I take at her I decide she might be any age under that, she is so white and soft and gay.
"Oh! here she is," says 'Duke, gladly, as I enter.
"I am so sorry!" I murmur, with a rising color, coming quickly forward; "but we did not expect you until five o'clock."
As I advance, so does she, and when we meet she lays two small plump, jewelled hands upon my shoulders.
"It was all my fault," she says, smiling. "When you know me better you will understand that I cannothelpbeing in a hurry. However, you must forgive me this time, as my appearing at this hour is in itself a flattery, proving how impatient I was to see you." Then, regarding me attentively. "Why, what a child!" she cries; "what a baby! and what delicious eyes! Really, Marmaduke, I hardly know whether most to congratulate or—pity you."
She speaks with a curiously pretty accent, putting an emphasis on every third or fourth word that fascinates and pleases the listener.
"Pity!" return I, amazedly, making an unsuccessful effort to elude her firm grasp, while the indignant color flames into my cheeks. "You speak as if—whyshould youpityhim?"
"Because, cannot you fancy what a life you are going to lead him," says her ladyship, with a little arch laugh that wrinkles up her Grecian no. "Child I too have eyes and I can see mischief written in every line of your—uglylittle face."
I try to feel angry, but cannot. It is in her power to make every word she utters an undeveloped compliment. I succumb at once and forever, and give myself up to her merry true-hearted influence. Putting my frowns in my pocket, I laugh.
"If you keep on saying these things before 'Duke," I say, "he will find me out, and perhaps in time repent his bargain."
Here I make a littlemoueat my husband, who is standing rather behind his sister, which he returns with interest "How do you know I have not found you out long ago? It is my belief I married you for my sins. Harriet, I leave her now in your hands; reform her—if you can."
"Go and look after James," says Lady Handcock "He always gets into mischief when left by himself. I want to make friends with Phyllis."
By and by Miss Beatoun comes in, and I get through another introduction.
She is hardly as tall as I am, and wonderfully pretty. No need to disbelieve the report that last season all men raved of her. Her eyes are large and dark and soft, her hair a very, very light brown, though hardly golden, and guiltless of dye. A tiny black mole, somewhat like a Queen Anne's patch, grows close to her left ear.
As I look at her, I decide hastily she ismorethan pretty—she is attractive. Her whole face is full of light; the very corners of her mouth express unuttered laughter; it is altogether the most/riante, kissable, lovable face conceivable. Her bands and feet are fairy-like in their proportions.
Nevertheless, her eyes, though unusually soft, betray the coquette; they cannot entirely conceal the mischievous longing for mastery that lurks in their velvet depths.
"Is she not young, Bebe?" asks Lady Handcock, indicating me.
"Very. Much younger even than I dared to hope. Of course"—to me—"we all heard you werequitea girl; yet that did not reassure me, as it can be said of most brides, and as a rule they are a disagreeable lot. But you have forgotten to give yourself airs, and that issonovel and delightful—so many young womenwillgo in for that sort of thing. I feel," says Miss Beatoun, gayly, "I am going to have a delicious autumn, and be very happy."
"I hope so," I answer, earnestly. "Do you know, Lady Handcock, I quite dreaded your coming?—it kept me awake several nights, thinking perhaps you would be cold and difficult, and would not like me; and now I amsorelieved—you cannot fancy what a weight is off my mind."
I say this with such evident feeling that they both laugh heartily, and Bebe gives it as her opinion that I am a "regular darling."
"But you must not call me Lady Handcock," corrects my sister-in-law. "My name is Harriet—or Harry, for the most part. I do not want to be made an old woman just yet, though Bebewilltell every one I am her aunt, instead of saying James is her uncle."
"It is the only hold I have over her you see," exclaims Bebe, "and I keep it as a threat. But for knowing I have it in my power to say that, she would be under no control. And with mamma so given to itinerant habits, and Harry being my naturalchaperon I have to protect myself as best I may."
----
By dinner hour our party is still further enlarged by Dora, Mark Gore, and Sir George Ashurst, a very fair young man, with an aquiline nose, plump face, and a long white moustache. He at once impresses me with the belief that he is thoroughly good-natured, and altogether incapable of ill temper of any kind. Perhaps, indeed, if he were to smile a little less frequently, and show some symptoms of having an opinion of his own, it would be an improvement. But what will you? One cannot have everything. And he is chatty and agreeable, and I manage to spend my evenings very comfortably in his society.
The next day Captain Jenkins and Mr. Powell, from the Barracks at Chillington, put in an appearance; and a very youthful gentleman, with a calm and cherubic countenance, arrives from London. This latter is in the Hussars, and is full of a modest self-appreciation very much to be admired.
"Well, Chips, so you have come, in spite of all your engagements," says Marmaduke, slapping this fair-haired warrior affectionately upon the shoulder. (His correct name is John Chippinghall Thornton; but his friends and brother officers having elected to call him "Chip," he usually goes by that appellation. ThoughwhyI have never been able to fathom, as it would be a too palpable flattery to regard this very erratic young man as a "chip of the old block," his father being a peculiarly mild and inoffensive clergyman, residing in a northern village).
"What did Lady Emily say to your defection, and Maudie Green, and Carrie, and all the rest of your friends?"
"Oh, I say, now," says Master Chips, with an ingenuous blush, "it isn't fair to show me up in this light—is it?—and before Mrs. Carrington, too. She will have no opinion of me if she listens to allyousay."
"I am only anxious to hear how you tore yourself away from their fascinations."
"Yes, do tell us, Mr. Thornton," says I. "We are so afraid that you have sacrificed yourself to oblige us."
"Don't you believe a word Marmaduke says, Mrs. Carrington: he is always representing me falsely. I shall be unhappy forever if you won't understand how proud and charmed I was to receive your invitation. Just to show you how he exaggerates, the Carry and Maud he spoke of are my cousins, and that's the same as sisters, you know."
"Only far more dangerous," I return, laughing.
"Well, at all events, they have every one gone off to Germany or country-houses, so they must do without me. I couldn't go trotting after 'em everywhere, you know: do enough of that in the spring to last the year. And, besides, I don't much care for any of that lot now."
"No? Tired of them already? What a desperate Don Juan! Really, Chips, I shudder to think where you will end. And who is the idol of the present hour?—something more exquisite still?"
"Not to be named in the same day," says Mr. Thornton, confidingly. "Fact is, she is a sort of connection of your own. Met her last season in town, you know,—- and er"—an eloquent sigh—"I mean Miss Beatoun."
Marmaduke bursts out laughing, and so do I.
"Then, you are all right," says 'Duke. "With your usual luck you have fallen upon your feet. At this instant the same roof covers you and yourinamorata."
"No!" cries Chips, eagerly. "You don't mean it? Of course you are only joking. You're not in earnest, now Marmaduke—are you?"
"Seeing is believing," returns Duke. "But if you don't go and dress yourself this very moment you will get no dinner, and lose a good chance of exercising your fascinations upon Miss Beatoun."
Later on he takes her in to dinner and is supremely happy; while Messieurs Jenkins and Powell, who have reached their thirty-third year, look on aghast at the young one's "cheek." They are estimable men, and useful in their own way, but refuse to shine in conversation. Ithinkthey like each other; I am quitesurethey like Marmaduke, who draws them out in a wonderful manner, and makes them marvel at their own unwonted brilliancy; while Harriet aids and abets him by her gayety.
At my right hand sits Sir James, a tall, distinguished-looking man, with hair of iron-gray and deep-set eyes. He is grave and remarkably silent—such an utter contrast to his laughter-loving wife, of whom he never appears to take the smallest notice. To me it is a matter of amazement how he can so systematically ignore her, as he seldom addresses to her a word or lets his eyes rest upon her for any length of time.
But for Marmaduke's assertion that they adore each other I would be inclined to think them at daggers drawn, or at least indifferent; and it is only now and then when she speaks to him, and I see his eyes light up and smile and soften, that I can accept the gentler idea.
Not to his wife alone, however, is he reserved; all the rest of the world he treats in a similar manner, and I come to the conclusion he abhors talking, and is a man with no settled taste or pursuits. Hearing, indeed, that his one passion is hunting, I broach the subject cautiously, and, feeling certain of making a score, express myself desirous of being informed as to the express nature of the "bull-finch."
"Explanations always fall short," is his reply. "Some day when we are out I willshowyou one. That will be best."
So my ignorance remains unenlightened, and as he calmly returns to his dinner, I do the same, and abandon all hopes of hearing him converse.
Dora is doing the amiable to Sir George Ashurst. Anything so simple or innocent as Dora in her white dress and coral ribbons could hardly be conceived. I am admiring her myself with all my heart, and wondering how it is she does it; and I fancy Sir Mark Gore is doing the same. Once, as she raises the childish questioning blue eyes to her companion's face, and murmurs some pretty speech in her soft treble, I see Sir Mark smile openly. It is only a momentary merriment, however, as directly afterwards he turns to me, suave and charming as ever.
"How becoming white is to your sister!" he says. "It suits her expression so wonderfully. I don't know how it is, but the wordingenuealways comes to me when I look at her."
"She is very pretty," I return, coldly. I have not yet quite decided on the nature of that smile.
"You do her an injustice. Surely she is more than 'pretty'—a word that means so little in these degenerate days. If I were an artist I should like to paint her as 'Moonlight,' with a bunch of lilies in her hands, and just that dress she is now wearing—withoutthe ribbons—and a little stream running at her feet. I have seldom seen so sweet an expression. One could hardly fancy an unkind word coming from those lips, or a hidden motive in her heart."
I think of our "Moonlight's" designs upon Marmaduke and the man who is now so loud in her praise. I think of the many and energeticfracasbetween her and Billy, and am silent. I don't know why, but I am positive Sir Mark is amused. I color and look up.
"What ages ago it seems since last we met!" says he, promptly.
"Ages? No, months. It was last June we met, I think—and here."
"Oh, that was only the barest glimpse; one could hardly call it a meeting. I was referring to my visit to the Leslies two years ago. You remember that little scene in the High street, at Carston?"
I laughed merrily.
"'I do indeed. But for you thefinalewould have beentoo ignominious. I shall always owe you a debt of gratitude for your timely appearance. The saddle turned, I recollect, exactly opposite the Bank, and I had a horrid vision of two or three young men gazing at me in eager expectation from some of the windows."
"Yes; and then we met again, and—- Shall I peel one of these for you?"
"Please."
"And I flattered myself you treated me with some degree of graciousness; flattered myself so far that I presumed to send you a little volume of poems I had heard you wish for and which—you returned. That was rather cruel, was it not?"
"I have alwaysfelthow rude you must have thought me on that occasion." I reply, blushing hotly. "I did so long to tell you all about it, but could not. It was not my fault, however; I confess I would have kept it if possible: it was papa. He said you should not have sent it, and insisted on its being returned."
"Well, perhaps he was right. Yet it was a very harmless and innocent little volume, after all, containing only the mildest sentiments. (Is that a good one?)"
"(Very good, thank you). It was Tennyson's 'Idyls'—I remember perfectly; and it was filled with the prettiest illustrations. Oh, I was so sorry to part with that neat little book! Do you know I was silly enough to cry the day I posted it back to you?"
Sir Mark regards me earnestly, almost curiously. I am laughing at my own past folly, but he does not even smile in sympathy.
"I am sorry any act of mine should have cost you a tear," he says, slowly, "But why did you not write a line to explain all this to me when sending it?"
"Fancythe iniquity of such a thing! the very suggestion would have brought down untold wrath upon my poor head. To ask permission to write a letter to a gentleman! Oh, horror!"
"And you would not—but, no, of course you would not," says Sir Mark, rather unintelligibly.
And then I glance at Lady Handcock, and she glances at me. Sir Mark rises to open the door, and I smile and nod gayly at him as I cross the threshold and pass into the lighted hall.
----
We are all beginning to know each other well, and to be mutually pleased with each other, when, towards the close of the week, Lady Blanche Going joins our party. She is looking considerably handsomer than when I last saw her in town, and is apparently in good humor with herself and all the rest of the world. How long this comfortable state of affairs may last, however, remains a mystery. She brings with her a horse, a pet-poodle, and avery French maid, who makes herself extremely troublesome, and causes much dissension in the servants' hall.
Sir Mark Gore and her ladyship are evidently old friends, and express a well-bred amount of pleasure on again meeting. Perhaps her ladyship's expressions are by a shade the warmest.
"I had no idea I should meet you here," she winds up, sweetly, when the subject of her satisfaction is exhausted. "Mrs. Carrington, when alluding to her other guests, never mentioned your name."
"No? Mrs. Carrington, how unkind of you to dismiss me so completely from your thoughts! 'Never to mention my name!' It is horrible to picture oneself so totally forgotten."
"You could not surely hope to bealwaysin my thoughts?" I answer, lightly.
Her ladyship flashes a sharp glance at us from her long dark eyes.
"I might notexpectit, certainly; but I am not to be blamed if I cannot help hoping for anything so desirable."
"Vain hope!" return I saucily, "and a foolish one besides. Have you never heard that 'familiarity breeds contempt?' and that 'too much of anything is good for nothing?' Were I to keep you perpetually in my mind I might perhaps end by hating you."
"What an appalling idea!" murmurs Lady Blanche, softly, speaking in that peculiar tone of half-suppressed irony I so greatly detest. "Should anything so dreadful ever occur I doubt if Sir Mark would recover it."
"I don't suppose I should," replies Sir Mark, rather bluntly, as it seems to me, without turning his head in her direction.
There is a moment's rather awkward pause, and then her ladyship laughs lightly, and, crossing the room, sits down by Bebe Beatoun.
Her laugh is an unpleasant one, and jars upon me painfully. Her very manner of rising and leaving me alone with Sir Mark has something in it so full of insolent meaning that for the instant I hate her. She makes me feel I have said something foolish—something better left unsaid, though thoroughly unmeant. I color, bite my lip, and, without another word to my companion, who is looking black as night, I go out through the open window.
So for the second time the little thorn enters into my heart and pricks me gently. A seed is sown that bears, me bitter fruit.
Nobody seems to mind me in the least (as a hindrance to their rather open flirtations), though, with the exception of Lady Blanche, all my guests appear prepossessed in my favor.
I am no good at all as achaperon—looking at that necessary evil in the light of a guardian of morals—as no one, I feel utterly positive, would listen to a word of advice given by me, even had I the courage to speak that word, which I feel sure I have not.
"Tell you why I like you so much," says Bebe to me, one day, with charming candor (we have become great friends by this time); "you have so little of the married woman about you. You don't look the thing at all. Nobody would feel in the least put out ifyou caught them doing anything, even a little bitfi-fi. You'd be afraid to scold, and you are too good-natured to 'peach.' Now there's mamma;hereyes strike terror to the hearts of the girls shechaperons. Only let her catch you with your hand in the possession of any Detrimental, however delightful, and it is all up with you half an hour later."
"But I suppose your mother is right. I shall remember what you say, and take her as a model from this day forth."
"It isn'tinyou. You would make a horrible mess of it; and you are infinitely nicer as you are. A strong stare is a necessary ingredient, and you don't possess that. You should be able to wither with a look. I hate being scolded, and I would back mamma, once started, to hold her own against any of those Billingsgate ladies one hears of. I assure you the amount of vituperation our night brougham has concealed about its person is enough, one would think, to turn the color of its cloth. No doubt that is why it requires doing up so very often."
"You don't seem any the better for all the indignation."
"No, that is just it. That shows the folly of wasting so much valuable breath. I am a born flirt, and as such I hope I'll die. There! that is extra naughty, is it not? So, out of respect for you, I will unsay it, and hope instead I may depart this life a calm and decorous matron."
"Do you know I never had a flirtation in my life?" I say, almost regretfully.
"No? really! How absurd!" says Bebe, bursting into a much-amused laugh. "That is just what makes you the curious, dear, darling, little child you are. But you need not be so poverty-stricken any longer unless you please, as any one can see howepriswith you is Sir Mark Gore."
"Nonsense!" cry I, blushing furiously. "How can you say anything so untrue? I have known him this ever so long; he is quite an old friend."
"And afastfriend," says Bebe, laughing again at her own wit. "Having waited so long you do right to begin your campaign with a seasoned veteran."
"You must not say such things: if you do I shall rouse myself and assert my authority as a very dragon amongchaperons; and then where will you and Captain Jenkins and Master Chips be?"
"No, don't," entreats Bebe, pretending to be frightened. "As you now are you are perfection: were you to change you would not be Phyllis Carrington at all. WhenImarry I intend taking you as an example, and so make myself dear to the hearts of all my spinster friends."
"And when will that be, Bebe?"
A shade crosses and darkens her face. For a moment she looks sad; then it disappears, and she laughs gayly.
"Never, probably. I don't get the chance. Generally when I pay my autumn visits, I live in a state of constant dread of being pounced upon by officious matrons, just as I am going in for an hour ofthoroughenjoyment with a man who has not a penny on earth besides his pay. But here it is different.Youwould never pounce, my Phyllis, would you? You would make a delightful clitter-clatter, with those little high-heeled shoes of yours, long before you turned the corner; there is nothing mean or prowling about you. Phyllis, is all that hair really your own? I won't believe it till I see it. Let me pull it down, and do it up again for you in a new style, will you? I am tremendously good at hair-dressing, really. Harry says I am better than her French maid. When all trades fail, and I am a lonely old maid, I shall bind myself to a barber."
With this she pulls my hair all about my shoulders, and makes me endure untold tortures for at least three-quarters of an hour.
----
Meantime Dora is improving the shining hours with Sir George Ashurst. She is making very fast and likely running, that looks as if it meant to make the altar-rails its goal.
As for her victim, he has neither eyes nor tongue nor ears for any one but Dora, and success lends enchantment to my sister's face and form. Always pretty, she has gained from the excitement of the contest an animation hitherto unknown, that adds considerably to her charms.
I experience little throbs of satisfaction and delight as I contemplate this promising flirtation; though as yet I do not dare to think of marriage as its probable termination. I long intensely to discuss the subject with Dora, to learn how far I may beguile myself with hope; but one day, having touched upon it very delicately, I am met with such an amount of innocent blankness as effectually deters me from making any further attempt.
Nevertheless, speak it I must, or die; and, coming upon Marmaduke suddenly, directly after receiving Dora's rebuff, I proceed with much caution to sound him about the matter.
He is in his own private den, a little room devoted to rubbish, and containing a motley collection of pipes, guns, whips, actresses (for the most part decent), and spurs. As I enter he is bending over some new favorite among the guns, and is endeavoring, with the assistance of the largest pin I ever saw, to pick dust from some intricate crevice. He is crimson, either from stooping or anxiety—I don't know which, though I incline towards the latter opinion—as on seeing me he says, irritably,—-
"Phyllis, have you a small pin? I cannot think," flinging the large one angrily from him, "why they choose to make them this size: they are not of the smallest use to any fellow who wants to clean a gun."
"They may have been designed for some other purpose," I suggest, meekly, producing a more reasonably sized pin, which he seizes with avidity and returns to his task.
I seat myself near him, and for a few minutes content myself with watching the loving care he bestows upon his work. No careless servant's hands should touch those new and shining barrels.
"Marmaduke," I say at length, "I don't think Sir George so very stupid."
"Don't you, darling?" absently.
"No. Why did you say he was?"
"DidI say it?" Evidently every idea he possesses is centred in that absurd gun.
"Dear me, 'Duke, of course you did," I cry, impatiently. "You told me he was not 'brilliant,' and that means the same thing. Don't you remember?"
"Wellishe brilliant?"
"No, but he converses very nicely, and is quite as agreeable as any of the other men, in a general sort of way."
"I am very glad you think so. He is a great friend of mine; and, after all, I don't suppose it matters in the least a man's not being able to master his Greek and Latin, or failing to take his degree."
"Of course not. I dare say he did not put his mind to it. I am convinced had he done so he would have distinguished himself as—as much as anybody."
"Just so."
"I think"—with hesitation—"he would suit Dora very well."
"I agree with you there; more particularly as Dora is not clever either."
"Yes, she is," I cry hotly; "she is exceedingly clever. She can do a great deal more than most girls; she can do lots of things that I can't do."
"Can she? But perhaps you fail in the cleverness also?"
"I think you are excessively rude and disagreeable," I say, much affronted, and getting up, move with dignity towards the door.
"If you see Ashurst tell him I want him," calls out Marmaduke as I reach it.
"Yes; and at the same time I shall tell him you said he was a dunce at college," I return, in a withering tone.
Marmaduke laughs, and, dropping the precious gun, runs after me, catches and draws me back into hissanctum.
"I think Dora and Ashurst two of the most intellectual people it has ever been my good fortune to meet," he says, still laughing, and holding me. "Will that do? Is your majesty appeased?"
"I wouldn't tell fibs, if I were you," return I, severely.
"Say lies. I hate the word 'fib.' A lie sounds much more honest. But I am really in earnest when I say I think Dora clever. I know at least twenty girls who have done their best to be made Lady Ashurst, and not one of them ever came as near success as she has."
"But he has not proposed to her yet."
"It is the same thing. Any one can see that he has Dora on the brain, and I don't think (asking your pardon humbly) his brain would stand much pressure. I'd lay any amount she has him at her feet before his visit is concluded."
"How delightful! How pleased mamma will be! Marmaduke, I forgive you. But you must not say slighting things of me again.
"Slighting things ofyou, my own darling! Cannot you see when I am in fun? I only wanted to make you pout and look like the baby you are. In reality I think you the brightest, dearest, sweetest,et cetera."
Thus my mind is relieved, and I feel I can wait with calmness the desirable end that is evidently in store for Dora.
I am so elated by Marmaduke's concurrence with my hopes that I actually kiss him, and, re-seating myself, consent to take the butt-end of the gun upon my lap and hold it carefully, while he rubs the barrels up and down with a dreadfully dirty piece of scarlet flannel soaked in oil.
When, however, this monotonous process has been continued for ten minutes or so, and I find I cannot flatter myself with the belief that it will soon be over, I lose sight of the virtue called patience.
"Do you think they would ever grow brighter than they are now?" I venture mildly. "If you rubbed them for years, Marmaduke, I don't believe they could be further improved: do you?"
"Well, indeed, perhaps you are right. I think they will do now," replies he, regarding his new toy with a fond eye; and then almost with regret, as though loath to part with it, he replaces it in its flannel berth.
"Bye the bye, Phyllis, I had a letter from a friend of mine this morning—Chandos—telling me of his return to England, and I have written inviting him here."
"Have you? I hope he is nice. Is he Mr. or Captain Chandos, or what?"
"Neither: he is Lord Chandos."
"What!" cry I; "the real live lord at last!Now, I suppose, we will have to be very seemly in our conduct, and forget we ever laughed. Is he very old and staid, 'Duke?"
"Very. He is a year older than I am; and I remember you once told me I was bordering on my second childhood or something like it. However, in reality you will not find Chandos formidable. He has held his honors but a very short time. Last autumn he was only Captain Everett, with nothing to speak of beyond his pay, when fate in the shape of an unsound yacht sailed in, and, having drowned one old man and two young ones, pushed Everett into his present position."
"What a romance! I suppose one ought to feel sorry for the three drowned men, but somehow I don't. With such a story connected with him, your friend ought to be both handsome and agreeable. Is he?"
"I don't know. I would be afraid to say. You might take me to task and abuse me afterwards, if our opinions differed. You knowyouthink George Ashurst a very fascinating youth. Chandos is a wonderful favorite with women, if that has anything to do with it."
"Of course it has—everything."
"I have been thinking," says 'Duke, "that as a set-off to all the hospitality we have received from the county, we ought to give a ball."
"A ball! Oh, delicious!" cry I, clapping my hands rapturously. "What has put such a glorious idea into your head? To dance to a band all down that great, big, ballroom! Oh, 'Duke! I am so glad I married you!"
'Duke laughs and colors slightly.
"Are you, really? Do you mean that? Do you never repent it?"
"Repent it? Never!—not for a single instant. How could I, when you are so good to me—when you are always thinking of things to make me happy?"
"I am doubly, trebly rewarded for anything I may have done by hearing such words from your lips. To know you are 'glad you married me' is the next best thing to knowing you love me."
"And so I do love you, you silly boy, I am very, very fond of you. Marmaduke, do you think you could get Billy here for the ball?"
"I will try. I dare say I shall be able to manage it. And now run away and get Blanche Going to help you write out a list of people. She knows every one in the county, and is a capital hand at anything of that sort."
"She seems to be a capital hand at most things," I reply, pettishly, "except at making herself agreeable to me. It is always Blanche Going can do this, and Blanche Going can do that. She is a paragon of perfection in your eyes, I do believe. I won't ask her to help me. I hate her."
"Well ask any one else you like, then, or no one. But don't hate poor Blanche. What has she done to deserve it?"
"Nothing. But I hate her for all that. I feel like a cat with its fur rubbed up the wrong way whenever I am near her. She has the happy knack of always making me feel small and foolish. I suppose we are antagonistic to each other. And why do you call her 'poorBlanche?' I don't see that she is in any need of your pity."
"Have you not said she has incurred your displeasure? What greater misfortune could befall her?" says 'Duke, smiling tenderly into my cross little face.
I relent and smile in turn.
"Oh, believe me, she will not die of that," I say; "and at all events don'tyoube unhappy, 'Duke," patting his face softly. "I shall never hateyou—be sure of that."
And then catching up my train to facilitate my movements, I run through the house in search of Harriet and Bebe, to make known to them my news and discuss with them all the joys and glories of a ball.
Bebe is scarcely less delighted than I am; and all the rest of that day and the greater part of the next we spend in arranging and dissarranging countless plans.
"It shall be a ball," says Bebe, enthusiastically, "such as the county never before attended. We will astonish the natives. We will get men down from London to settle everything, and the decorations and music and supper shall be beyond praise. I know exactly what to do and to order. I have helped Harriet to give balls ever so often, and I am determined, as it will be your first ball as Mrs. Carrington, it shall be a splendid success."
"My first ball in every way," I say feeling rather ashamed of myself. "I was at several small dances before my marriage, and at a number of dinner-parties since, but I never in my life was at a real large ball."
"What!" cries Bebe, literally struck dumb by this revelation; then, with a little lady-like shout of laughter, "I never heard of anything half so ludicrous. Why Phyllis. I am a venerable grandmother next to you. Harriet," to Lady Handcock, who has just entered, "just fancy! Phyllis tells me she was never at a ball!"
"I dare say she is all the better for it," says Harriet, kindly, seeing my color is a little high. "If you had gone to fewer you would be a better girl. How did it happen, Phyllis?"
"No one in our immediate neighborhood ever gave a ball," I hasten to explain, "and we did not visit people who lived far away." I suppress the fact of our having had no respectable vehicle to convey us to those distant ball-givers, had we been ever so inclined to go. "I suppose it appears very odd to you."
"Odd!" cries Bebe; "it is abominable! I am so envious I can scarcely bring myself to speak to you. I know exactly what I may expect, whileyoucan indulge in the most delightful anticipations. I can remember even now the raptures ofmyfirst ball: the reality far exceeded even my wildest flights of fancy, and that is a rare thing. Positively I can smell the flowers and hear the music this moment. And then I had so many partners—more I think, than I get now: I could have filled twenty cards instead of one. Why, Phyllis, I am but two years older than you, and yet if I had a pound for every ball I have been at, I would have enough money to tide me over my next season without fear of debt."
My mind—incapable of retaining, even when at its best, more than one idea at a time—is now so filled to overflowing with the thought of this ball that I quite lose sight of our expected visitor, and forget to mention the advent of Lord Chandos. I talk and dream and think of nothing but the coming gayety.
Nevertheless it causes me keen anxiety. I am conceitedly desirous of looking my best on that eventful night; I am also ambitious of seeming stricken in years, having long ago decided that my juvenile appearance as a married woman is very much against me, and that age brings dignity.
I sit down, and, running over all my dresses in my mind, cannot convince myself that any of them, if worn, would have the desired effect of adding years to my face and form. Mytrousseau, to be just, was desirable in every way. How she managed it no one could tell, but motherdidcontrive to screw sufficient money out of papa to set me creditably before the world. Still all my evening robes seem youthful and girlish in the extreme as I call them up one by one.
After a full half-hour of earnest cogitation, I make up my mind to a grand purpose, and, stealing downstairs, move rather sneakily to Marmaduke's study. I devoutly trust he will be alone, and as I open the door I find I have my wish.
He is busily writing; but, as he is never too busy to attend to me, he lays down his pen and smiles kindly as he sees me.
"Come in, little woman. What am I to do for you?"
"Marmaduke," I say, nervously, "I have come to ask you a great favor."
"That is something refreshingly now. Do you know it will be the first favor you have asked of me, though we have been married more than three months? Say on and I swear it shall be yours, whatever it is—to the half of my kingdom."
"You are quite sure you will not think it queer of me, or—or shabby?"
"Quite certain."
"Well, then"—with an effort—"for this ball, I think, Marmaduke, I would like a new dress; may I send to London for it?"
When I have said it it seems to me so disgracefully soon to ask for new clothes that I blush crimson, and am to the last degree shamefaced.
Marmaduke laughs heartily.
"Is that all?" he says. "Are you really wasting a blush on such a slight request? What an odd little girl you are! I believe you are the only wife alive who would feel modest about asking such a question. How much do you want darling? You will require some other things too, I suppose. Shall I give you a hundred pounds, to see how far it will go? Will that be enough?"
"Oh, 'Duke! a great deal too much."
"Not a bit too much. I don't know what dresses cost, but I have always heard a considerable sum. And now, as we are on the subject of money, Phyllis; what would you prefer—an allowance, or money whenever you want it, or what?"
"If you would pay my bills, Marmaduke, I would like it best." I have never felt so thoroughly married as at this moment, when I know myself to be dependent on him for every shilling I may spend.
"Very well. Whatever you like. Any time you tire of this arrangement you can say so. But at all events you will require some pocket-money," rising from the table and going over to a small safe in the wall.
"No, thank you, 'Duke; I have some."
"How much?"
"Enough, thank you."
"Nonsense, Phyllis!" almost angrily. "How absurd you are! One would think I was not your husband. I wish you would try to remember you have a perfect right to everything I possess. Come here directly and take this," holding out to me a roll of notes and a handful of gold. "Promise me," he says, "when you want more you will come to me for it. It would make me positively wretched if I thought you were without money to buy whatever you fancy."
"But I never had fifty—I never had ten pounds in my life," I say, half amused. "I won't know what to do with it."
"I wonder if you will have the same story to relate this time next year?" answers 'Duke, laughing. "The very simplest thing to learn is how to spend money. And now tell me—I confess I have a little curiosity on the subject—what are you going to wear on the twenty-fourth? You will make yourself look your most charming, will you not, Phyllis?"
"I shall never be able to look dignified or imposing, if you mean that," say I, gloomily. "All the old women about the farms who don't know me think I am a visitor here, and call me 'Miss,' just as though I were never married."
"That is very sad, especially as you will have to wait so many year for those wrinkles you covet. I dare say a dealer in cosmetics, however, would lay you on a few for the occasion, if you paid him well; and, with one of your grandmother's gowns, we might perhaps be able to persuade our guests that I had married a woman old enough to be my mother."
"I know what I shouldliketo wear," I say, shyly.
"What?"
"Black velvet and the diamonds," I say, boldly.
Marmaduke roars.
"What are you laughing at?" I ask, testily, somewhat vexed.
"At the picture you have drawn. At the idea of velvet and diamonds in conjunction with your baby face. Why did you not think of adding on the ermine? Then, indeed, with your height you would be quite majestic?"
"But may I wear it? May I—may I?" ask I, impatiently. "All my life I have been wanting to wear velvet, and now when I have so good an opportunity do let me."
"Is that your highest ambition? By all means, my dear child, gratify it. Why not? Probably in such an effective get-up you will take the house by storm."
"I really think I shall look very nice and—old" I return, reflectively. Then, "'Duke, have you written about Billy?"
"Yes; I said we wished to have him on the nineteenth for a week; that will bring him in time for the slaughter on the twentieth. I thought perhaps he might enjoy that."
"You think of everything. I know no one so kind or good-natured. 'Duke, don't make a joke about that velvet. Don't tell any one what I said, please."
"Never fear. I will be silent as the grave. You shall burst upon them as an apparition in all your ancient bravery."
That evening we dress early, Bebe and I, for no particular reason, that I can remember, and, coming downstairs together, seat ourselves before the drawing-room fire to ruin our complexions and have a cozy chat until the others break in upon us. We have discussed many things and expressed various opinions about most of the other guests in the house, until at length we draw breath before entering with vivacity upon some fresh unfortunate. Even as we pause, the door at the end of the room is flung wide, and a tall young man coming in walks straight towards me.
The lamps have not yet been lit, and only the crimson flashes from the blazing fire reveal to us his features. He is dark, rather more distinguished-looking than handsome, and has wonderful deep, kind, gray eyes.
"Lord Chandos," announces Tynon, in the background, speaking from out the darkness, after which, having played his part, he vanishes.
I rise and go to meet the new-comer, with extended hand.
"This is a surprise, but a pleasant one. I am very glad to bid you welcome," I say, in a shy, old-fashioned manner; but my hand-clasp is warm and genial, and he smiles and looks pleased.
"Thank you; Mrs. Carrington, I suppose?" he says, with some faint hesitation, his eyes travelling over my dreadfully youthful form, that looks even more than usually childish to night in its clothing of white cashmere and blue ribbons.
"Yes," I return, laughing and blushing. "Marmaduke should have been here to give us a formal introduction to each other, though indeed it is hardly necessary: I seem to know you quite well from all I have heard about you."
A slight rustling near the fire, a faint pause, and then Bebe comes forward.
"How d'ye do, Lord Chandos?" she says. "I hope you have not quite forgotten me."
She holds out her hand and for an instant her eyes look fairly into his—onlyfor an instant.
She is dressed in some filmy black gown, that clings close to her, and has nothing to relieve its gloom save one spot of blood-red color that rests upon her bosom. Her arms shine bare and white to the elbow; in her hair is another fleck of the blood-red ribbon. Is it the flickering uncertain light or my own fancy that makes her face appear so pale?
Her eyes gleam large and dark, and the curious little black mole lying so close to her ear looks blacker than usual in contrast to her white cheek. But her tone rings gay and steady as ever. A smile quivers round her lips.
I am puzzled, I scarcely know why. I glance at Lord Chandos, and—surely the firelight to-night is playing fantastic tricks—hisface appears flushed and anxious, I draw conclusions, but cannot make them satisfactory.
"I had no idea I should meet you here," he says, in a low tone that is studiously polite.
Bebe laughs musically.
"No! Then we are mutually astonished. I thought you safe in Italy. Certainly it is on my mind that somebody told me you were there."
"I returned home last week." Then, turning to me, he says, hurriedly, "I hope Carrington is well?"
"Quite well, thank you. Will you come with me to find him? He would have been the first to welcome you, had he known of your coming, but we did not hope to see you until next week."
"I had no idea myself I could have been here so soon. But business, luckily, there was none to detain me, so I came straight on to throw myself on your tender mercies."
We have now reached the library door.
"Marmaduke," I call out, opening it and entering, "I have brought you Lord Chandos. Now, are you not surprised and pleased?"
"Oh! more pleased than I can say," exclaims 'Duke, heartily, coming eagerly forward to greet his friend. "My dear fellow, what good wind blew you to us so soon?"
When I return to the drawing-room I find the lamps burning cheerily, and most of our party assembled.
Lady Blanche, reclining in a lowfauteuil, is conversing earnestly with Sir Mark Gore, who stands beside her. Seeing me, she smiles softly at him and motions him to a chair near her. As I move past her trailing skirts a sudden thought of Mons. Rimmel comes to me—the delicatest, faintest perfume reaches me. She runs the fingers of one white hand caressingly across her white arm; her every movement is an essence—a grace.
Dora, in her favorite white muslin and sweet demure smile, is holding Mr. Powell and Sir George Ashurst in thrall. She is bestowing the greater part of her attention upon the former, to the disgust and bewilderment of honest George, who looks with moody dislike upon his rival. Both men are intent upon taking her down to dinner. There is little need for you to torture yourself with jealous fears, Sir George. When the time comes it is without doubt upon your arm she will lay that little white pink-tinged hand.
Bebe is sitting upon a sofa, with the infatuated Chips beside her, and is no longer pale: two crimson spots adorn her cheeks and add brilliancy to her eyes. As I watch her wonderingly she slowly raises her head, and, meeting my gaze, bestows upon me a glance so full of the liveliest reproach, not unmixed with indignation, that I am filled with consternation, WhathaveI done to deserve so withering a look?
"I would give something to know of whom you are thinking just now," says a voice at my elbow. "Not ofme, I trust?"
I turn to find Sir Mark is regarding me earnestly. Instinctively I glance at the vacant chair beside Lady Blanche, and in doing so encounter her dark eyes bent on mine. Verily, I am not in good odor with my guests to-night.
All through dinner I try to attract Bebe's attention, but cannot. I address her, only to receive the coldest of replies. Even afterwards, when we get back once more to the drawing-room, I cannot manage an explanation, as she escapes to her own room, and does not appear again until the gentlemen have joined us.
Neither she nor Lord Chandos exchange one word with each other throughout the entire evening. With a sort of feverish gayety she chatters to young Thornton, to Captain Jenkins, to any one who may chance to be near her, as though she fears a silence.