Nevertheless the minutes drag. It is the stupidest night we have known, and I begin to wish I had learned whist or chess or something of that sort. I am out of spirits and though innocent of what it may be, feel myself guilty of some hideous blunder.
Presently the dreaded quiet falls. The whist-players are happy, the rest of us are not. Sir Mark, with grave politeness, comes to the rescue.
"Perhaps Mr. Thornton will kindly favor us with a song?" he says, without a smile.
And Mr. Thornton, with a face even more than usually benign, willingly consents, and gives us. "What will you do, love, when I am going?"—a proposof his approaching departure for India—with much sentimental fervor, and many tender glances directed openly at Miss Beatoun.
"Thank you," murmurs that young lady, when the doleful ditty is finished, having listened to it all through with an air of saddened admiration impossible to describe, and unmistakably flattering. "I know no song that touches me so deeply as that."
"I know you are laughing at me," says Chips, frankly, seating himself again beside her, and sinking his voice to a whisper that he fondly but erroneously believes to be inaudible; "but I don't care. I would rather have you to make fun of me than any other girl to love me!"
Could infatuation further go?
"Perhaps one might find it possible to do both," insinuates Miss Beatoun, wickedly; but, this piece of flagrant hypocrisy proving to much even for her, she raises her fan to a level with her lips and subsides with an irrepressible smile behind it, while poor little Chips murmurs:—
"Oh, come, now. That is more than any fellow would believe, you know," and grins a pleased and radiant grin.
Bebe, being asked to sing, refuses, gently but firmly; and when I have delighted my audience with one or two old English ballads, we give in, and think with animation of our beds.
In the corridor above I seize hold of Bebe.
"What has vexed you?" I ask, anxiously. "Why are you not friends with me? Youmustcome to my room before you go to bed. Promise."
"Very good. I will come," quietly disengaging my hand. Then, before closing the door, "Indeed, Phyllis, I think you might have told me," she says, in a tone of deep reproach.
So that is it! But surely she must have seen his coming so unexpectedly was a great surprise. And is there a romance connected with her and Lord Chandos?
I confess to an overpowering feeling of curiosity. I dismiss my maid with more haste than usual, and, sitting in my dressing-gown and slippers, long for Bebe's coming. I am convinced I shall not sleep one wink if she fails to keep this appointment.
I am not doomed to a sleepless night, however, as presently she comes in—all her beautiful hair loose about her shoulders.
"Now, Bebe" I exclaim, jumping up to give her a good shake, "how could you be so cross all about nothing? I did not know myself he was coming so soon. You made me miserable the entire evening, and spoiled everything."
"But you knew he was coming sometime; why did you not say so?"
"I forgot all about him. I knew no reason why I should attach importance to his presence here. I don't know now either. I was quite ignorant of your previous acquaintance with him. Probably had he waited in London until next week, as he originally intended, it might have occurred to me to mention his coming, and so I would have spared myself all the cruelty and neglect and wicked looks so lavishly bestowed upon me this evening."
"You have yet to learn," says Miss Beatoun, whois, I think, a little ashamed of her pettishness, "that of all things I most detest being taken by surprise. It puts me out dreadfully; I don't recover myself for ever so long; and to see Lord Chandos here, of all people, when I believed him safe in Italy, took away my breath. Phyllis, I don't know how it is, but I feel I must tell you all about it."
"Yes, do. I am so anxious to hear. Yet I half guess he is, or was, a lover of yours. Is it not so? And something has gone wrong?"
"Very much wrong, indeed," with a rather bitter laugh. "It will be a slight come-down to my pride to tell you this story; but I can trust you, can I not? I am not fond of women friends as a rule—indeed, Harriet is my only one—but you, Phyllis, have exercised upon me some charm, I do believe, as when I am near you I forget to be reserved."
"That is because you know how well I like you."
"Is it? Perhaps so. Well, about Lord Chandos. My story is a short one, you will say, and to the point. I met him first two years ago. He fell in love with me, and last year asked me to marry him. That is all; but you will understand by it how little ambitious I was of meeting him again."
"And you—-"
"Refused him, dear. How could I do otherwise? He was only Captain Everett then, without a prospect on earth; and I am no heiress. It would have meant poverty—scarcely even what is called 'genteel poverty'—had I consented to be his wife; and"—with a quick shudder of disgust—"I would rather be dead, I think, than endure such a life as that."
"Did you love him, Bebe?"
"I liked him well enough to marry him, certainly," she admits, slowly, "had circumstances been different."
We are silent for a little time; then Bebe says, in a low tone.
"He was so good about it, and I deserved so little mercy at his hands. I don't deny I had flirted with him horribly, with cruel heartlessness, considering I knew all along when it came to the final move, I would say 'No.' I liked him so well that I could not make up my mind to be brave in time and let him go, never counting the pain I would afterwards have to inflict—and bear."
Her voice sinks to a whisper. Without turning my head, I lay my hand on hers.
"It all happened one morning," she goes on, presently making a faint pause between each sentence, "quite early. There was nothing poetic or sentimental about it in the way of conservatories or flowers or music. He had come to pay me his usual visit. It was July, and mamma and I were leaving town the next day. We were not to see each other again for a long time. Perhaps that hastened it. It was a wet day, I remember—I can hear the sad drip, drip, of the raindrops now—and we felt silent and depressed. Somehow then—I hardly know how—it all was said—and over."
"How sad it was!" I murmur, stroking the hand I hold with quiet sympathy. "And then—-"
"Then I let him see how utterly false and worthless was the woman he loved. I let him know that even if I adored him his want of money would be an insurmountable barrier between us. I think Itoldhim so. I am not quite sure of that. I do not recollect distinctly one word I said that day. I only know that he went away impressed with the belief that I was a mere contemptible money-worshipper."
"Did he say anything—reproachful, I mean?"
"That was the hardest part of it. He would not reproach me. Had he been bitter or hard or cold I could have borne it better; but he was silent on the head of his wrongs. He only sat there, looking distinctly miserable, without an unkind word on his lips."
"What? Did he say nothing?"
"Very little. Unless to tell me I had treated him disgracefully, I don't know that there was anythingto besaid. He declared that he had expected just such an answer; that he felt he had no right to hope for a happier one. He did not blame me—of course I was acting wisely—and so on. He never once asked me to reconsider my words. Then he got up and said he must bid me a long farewell. He knew a man who would gladly exchange with him and give him a chance of seeing a little Indian life; he was tired of England. You can imagine the kind of thing."
"Poor fellow! How did he look?"
"He was very white, and his lips were tightly compressed. And I think there were—tearsin his eyes. Oh, Phyllis" cries Bebe, passionately, rising to push her chair back sharply, and beginning to pace the room, "when I saw the tears in his eyes I almost gave in.Almost, mark you, not quite. I am too well trained for that."
"I think I would have relented."
"I am sure you would; but your education has been so different. Upon this earth," says Bebe, slowly, "there is nothing so mean or so despicable as a woman born and bred as I am. Taught from our cradles to look on money and money's worth as the principal good to be obtained in life; with the watchwords, 'an excellent match,' 'a rich marriage,' 'an eligibleparti,' drummed into our ears from the time we put on sashes and short frocks. There is something desperately unwholesome about the whole thing."
"Did you never see him since?" ask I, deeply impressed by her manner and the love-affair generally.
"Never until to-night. You may fancy what a shock it was."
"And he didn't evenkissyou before going away, as he thought, forever?" I exclaim, unwisely.
"Kiss me," severely. "How do you mean, Phyllis? Of course he did not kiss me: why should he?"
"Oh, I don't know. I suppose it would have been unusual," I return, overwhelmed with confusion. "Only it seemed to me—I mean it is sogoodto be kissed by one we love."
"Is it?" coldly. "I am not fond of kissing."
I hasten to change the subject. "When he was gone, how wretched you must have felt!"
"I suppose I did. But I shed no tears; I was too unhappy, I think, for mere crying. However,"—with sudden recklessness—"it is all over now, and we have lived through it. Let us forget it. A month after the scene I have just described, the old lord and his sons were drowned, and Travers Everett came in for everything. You see what I lost by being mercenary."
"I wonder, when he became so rich, he did not come back directly and ask you all over again."
"He knew rather better than that, I take it," says Bebe, with a slight accession ofhauteur; and for the second time I feel ashamed of myself and my ignoble sentiments. "He went abroad and stayed there until now. He don't look as though he had pined over-much, does he?"—with a laugh—"A broken heart is the most curable thing I know. I thought I had never seen him look so well."
"A man cannot pine forever," I say, in defense of the absent. Then, rather nervously, "I wonder when you will marry now, Bebe?"
"Never, most probably," kneeling down on the hearth-rug. "You see I threw away my good luck. Fortune will scarcely be so complaisant a second time." says Bebe, with a gay laugh, laying her head down upon my lap; and then in another moment I become aware that she is Bobbing passionately.
The tears rise thickly to my own eyes, yet I find no words to comfort her. I keep silence, and suffer my fingers to wander caressingly through her dark tresses as they lie scattered across my knees. Perhaps the greatest eloquence would not have been so acceptable as that silent touch.
In a very short time the storm passes, and Bebe, raising her face, covers it with her hands.
"I havenotbeen crying," she says, with wilful vehemence; "you must not think I have. If you do, I will never be your friend again. How dare you say I shed tears for any man?"
"I did not say it, Bebe. I will never say it," I return, earnestly.
She puts her bare arms around my neck and lays her head upon my shoulder in such a position that I cannot see her face, and so remains, staring thoughtfully into the fire.
"I know you will be very angry with me," I say presently, "but I must say it. Perhaps you will marry him some time."
"No, never, never. Do you think it. I refused him when he was poor; I would not accept him now he is rich. How could you ever imagine it? Even were he to ask me again (which, believe me, is the most unlikely thing that could happen), I would give him the same answer. He may think me heartless; he shall not think me so mean a thing as that."
"If he loves you he will think no bad of you."
"You do well to say 'if'. I don't suppose he does love me now. He did once." Her arms tighten around me, although I think for the moment she has forgotten me and everything and is looking back upon the past. After a little while she says, again, "Yes, he did love me once."
"And does still. I am sure of it. His whole face changed when he saw you this evening. I remarked it, though I am not generally famous for keen observation. It is impossible he can have forgotten you, Bebe."
"Of course. There are so few pretty people in the world," with a smile. "The change you saw in him tonight, Phyllis, was probably surprise; or perhaps disgust, at finding himself so unexpectedly thrown again into my society. He did not once address me during the evening."
"How could he, when you devoted yourself in such a provokingly open manner to that ridiculous boy, and afterwards allowed Captain Jenkins to monopolize you exclusively? I wish, Bebe, you would not."
"Indeed I shall," says Miss Beatoun, petulantly, "I shall flirt as hard as ever I can with every one I meet. He shall not think I am dying of chagrin and disappointment."
"And will you not even speak to Lord Chandos?"
"Not if I can help it. So you need not say another word. If you do, I will report you to Marmaduke as a dangerous little match-maker, and perhaps marry Captain Jenkins. I have really met more disagreeable men. And as for Chips," says Bebe, who has seemingly recovered all her wonted gayety, "that boy is the most amusing thing I know. He is perfectly adorable. And so handsome as he is, too! It is quite a pleasure alone to sit and look at him."
"Are you going away now?" seeing her rise.
"Yes; it is all hours, or, rather small hours, and Marmaduke will be here in a moment to scold me for keeping you from your beauty-sleep. Good night, dearest, and forget what a goose I made of myself. Promise me."
"I cannot promise to forget what I never thought," I reply, giving her a good hug, and so we part for some hours.
Still, I do not go to bed. Her story has affected me deeply, and sets me pondering. I have seen so little realbona fide sentiment in my home life that probably it interests me in a greater degree than it would most girls of my own age differently reared. I sit before my fire, my hands clasped round my knees, for half an hour, cogitating as to ways and means of reuniting my friend to her beloved—for that Lord Chandos has ceased to regard her with feelings of ardent affection is a thing I neither can nor will believe.
I am still vaguely planning, when Marmaduke, coming in, orders me off to my slumbers, declaring my roses will degenerate into lilies if I persist in keeping such dissipated hours.
"Billy is coming to-day," is the first thought that occurs to me as I spring from my bed on the morning of the nineteenth and run to the window. It is a glorious day outside, sunny and warm and bright, full of that air of subdued summer that always belongs to September. The flowers below are waving gently in the soft breeze; the trees have a musical rustle they surely lacked on yesterday; the very birds in the air and among the branches are crying, "Coming, coming, coming!"
Soon I shall see him; soon I shall welcome him to my own home. Alas, alas! that so many hours must pass before he can enter my expectant arms! That detestable "Bradshaw" has decreed that no train but the half-past five shall bring him.
Bebe, who is immensely amused at my impatience, declares herself prepared to fall in love with Billy on the spot, the very moment she sees him.
"I am passionately attached to boys," she says, meeting me in the corridor about half-past three (I am in such a rambling, unsettled condition as compels me to walk from pillar to post all day); "I like their society—witness my devotion to Chips—and they like mine. But for all that, I shall be nowhere with your Billy; you have another guest in your house who will take his heart by storm."
"Whom do you mean?"
"Lady Blanche Going. I never yet saw the boy who could resist her. Is not that odd? Is she not the last person one would select as a favorite with youth?"
"I hope he willnotlike her," I cry, impulsively; then, feeling myself, without cause, ungracious, "that is—of course I do not mean that—only—"
"Oh, yes, you do," says Miss Beatoun, coolly; "you would be very sorry if Billy were to waste his affection on her. So would I. You detest her; so do I. Why mince matters? But for all that your boy will be her sworn slave, or I am much mistaken. If only to spiteyou, she will make him her friend.
"But why? What have I ever done to her?"
"Nothing; only it is intolerable somebody should admire you so much."
And with a mischievous glance, Miss Beatoun disappears round the corner.
"Marmaduke," say I, seizing my husband by the arm as the dog-cart comes round to the door for final orders, preparatory to starting for the station (it is now almost five o'clock), "is William going for Billy? I wishIcould go. You don't think he will expect—-" I hesitate.
Marmaduke reads my face attentively for a minute, then ponders a little.
"You think he may be disappointed if welcomed only by a groom?" he says, with a smile. "Take that little pucker off your forehead, Phyllis: I will bring your Billy to you myself," and mounting the dog-cart, drives off to the station without another word.
As I have already said, it is now five o'clock. It will take him just half an hour to reach Carston and meet the train. Ten minutes at least must be wasted finding Billy, getting his traps together, and settling things generally; then half an hour more to drive home; so that altogether one hour and ten minutes must go by before I can hope to see them. This appears an interminable age; all the day has not seemed so long as this last hour and ten minutes.
At a quarter to six I run upstairs and get myself dressed for dinner—although we do not dine until half-past seven—hurrying through my toilet with the most exaggerated haste, as if fearing they may arrive before it is finished; and I would not miss being the first to greet my boy for all the world contains.
When I once more reach the drawing-room it still wants five minutes to the promised time. Lady Blanche Going and one or two of the men are lounging here. She raises her head as I enter, and scans me languidly.
"Do we dine earlier than usual to-night, Mrs. Carrington?" she asks, with curiosity.
"No; not earlier than usual. It was a mere whim of mine getting my dressing over so soon."
"Oh, I quite forgot your brother was coming," she says, with a faint smile, bending over her work again. She looks as though she were pitying my youthful enthusiasm I make no reply. Taking up a book, I seat myself near a front window, as far as possible from the other occupants of the room, and pretend to read.
A quarter past six. Surely they ought to be here by this. Twenty-five minutes past six! I rise, regardless of comment, and gaze up the avenue.
Oh, if anything should have prevented his coming! Are not masters always tyrants? But even in such a case ought not Marmaduke to be back by this to tell me of it?
Or, yet more sickening thought,canany accident have happened to the train, and is Marmaduke afraid to bring me home the evil tidings?
I am just picturing to myself Billy's chestnut locks be-dabbled with his gore, when something smites upon mine ear. Surely it is the sound of wheels. I flatten my nose against the window-panes and strain my eyes into the gathering twilight.
Yes, fast as the good horse can bring them they come. A moment, later, and the dog-cart in full swing rounds the corner, while in it, coated to the chin, and in full possession of the reins, sits my brother, with Marmaduke—quite a secondary person—smiling beside him.
I utter an exclamation, and, flinging my book from me—blind to the smiles my guests cannot restrain—I rush headlong from the room, and in another instant have Billy folded in my arms. Surely a year has gone by since last I saw him.
"Oh, Billy, Billy!" I cry, clinging to him, the tears in my eyes, while glad smiles fight for mastery upon my lips. "Is it really you? It seems years and years since last we were together. Oh, how tall you have grown, and how good-looking!"
"Oh, I'm all right," returns Billy, graciously giving back my kisses, warmly, it is true, but with none of the lingering tenderness that characterizes mine. "I don't think a fellow alters much in a month. Though really, now that I look at you,youappear very tall, too, and thin, I think. We had such a jolly drive over; never wanted the whip the whole way, except for the flies."
"Yes. And are you glad to see me, Billy? Were you lonely without me? I was so lonely without you! But come upstairs to your room, and I will tell you every thing."
As I am drawing him eagerly away I catch sight of Marmaduke's face, who has been silently regarding us all this time, himself unnoticed.
Something in his expression touches me with remorse. I run up to him and lay my hand upon his arm.
"Thank you for bringing him," I say, earnestly, "and for letting him have the reins. I noticed that. You have made me very happy to-day."
"Have I? It was easily done. I am glad to know I have made you happy for even one short day."
He smiles, but draws his arm gently from my grasp as he speaks, and I know by the line across his forehead some painful thought has jarred upon him.
I am feeling self-reproachful and sorry, when Billy's voice recalls me to the joy of the present hour.
"Are you coming?" says that autocrat, impatiently, from the first step of the stairs, with about six bulging brown-paper parcels in his arms, that evidently no human power could have induced to enter the portmanteau that stands beside him. "Come," he says, again; and, forgetful of everything but the fact of his presence near me, I race him up the stairs and into the bedroom my own hands have made bright for him, while the elegant Thomas and the portmanteau follow more slowly in our rear.
"What a capital room!" says my Billy, "and lots of space. I like that. I hate being cramped, as I always am at home."
"I am glad you like it," I reply, bubbling over with satisfaction. "I settled it myself, and had the carpet taken off, because I knew you would prefer the room without it. But I desired them to put that narrow piece all round the bed, lest your feet should be cold. You won't object to that?"
"Oh, no; it may remain, if you have any fancy for it."
I am about to suggest that as it is not intended for my bare feet it does not affect me one way or the other; but, knowing argument with Billy to be worse than useless, I refrain.
"Have you any dress-clothes?" I ask, presently, some-what nervously.
"No; I never had any dress-clothes in my life; where would I get them?—but I have black breeches and a black jacket (like a shell-jacket, you know), and a white shirt and a black tie. That will do, won't it? Langley says I look uncommon well in them; and you'll see when I'm dressed up and that, I'll be as fit as the best of 'em."
It is evident Billy's good opinion of himself has not been lowered since we parted. He holds a generous belief in his own personal attractions; so does Langley, whoever he may be.
"Far nicer than any of them," I respond, with enthusiasm; and he does not contradict me.
When the garments just described have been laid upon the bed, Billy discloses symptoms of a desire to get into them, I turn to leave the room. But on the threshold I be-think me of another important question, and pause to ask it in a tone not altogether free from trepidation; for Billy, at times, is a person difficult to deal with.
"Have you a clean white cambric handkerchief?" I ask, slowly.
"Well, no, I have not," confesses my brother, amicably. "You see, all the white ones mother gave me when leaving, I exchanged with another fellow for some of his. And grand handkerchiefs they are—really handsome ones, you know, Phyllis; but they have all got flags, or sailors, or fat Shahs painted in the corners and in the middle, which makes them look just aleetleconspicuous.' But it won't matter a bit," says Billy, cheerfully, "as I seldom blow my nose (indeed, never, unless I have a cold in my head); and if I don't exhibit the Shahs, they will never find me out."
"Oh, indeed that would not do," I exclaim, earnestly. "You must let me get you one of Marmaduke's, and then you will feel more easy in your mind. Just suppose you were to sneeze! I often do it, even without having a cold."
"All right; you can bring it," says Billy, and I withdraw.
When, half an hour later, the drawing-room door opens to admit him, and looking up I see my brother's well-shaped head and slight boyish figure, a strange pang of delight and admiration touches my heart.
He enters boldly, with a.. the grace and independence an English boy and especially an Eton boy, if well-bred possesses, and advancing leisurely, comes to a standstill by my side.
I introduce him to Harriet, who is nearest to me; then to Sir George Ashurst, then to Captain Jenkins; afterwards I leave him to his own devices. I am glad to hear him chatting away merrily to kind Sir Gorge, when a voice, addressing him from an opposite sofa, makes me turn.
The voice belongs to Lady Blanche Going, and she is smiling at him in her laziest, most seductive manner.
"Won't you come and speak to me?" she says, sweetly, "Mrs. Carrington will not find time to present you to every one, and I cannot wait for a formal introduction. Come here, and let me tell you I like Etonians better than anything else in the world."
Sir Mark's moustache moves slightly, just sufficient to allow his lips to form themselves into a faint sneer; while Billy, thus summoned, crosses over and falls into the seat beside her ladyship.
"Do you, really?" he says. "But I'm awfully afraid I shall destroy your good opinion of us. You see, the fact is"—he goes on, candidly—"I have so little to say for myself, I fear in a very few minutes you will vote me a bore. However, you are quite welcome to anything I have to say; and when you are tired of me please say so."
"Oh, that your elders had half your wit!" exclaims her ladyship, with an effective but bewitching shake of her beautiful head. "If they would but come to the point as you do, Mr. Vernon, what a great deal of time might be saved!"
"Oh, I say, don't call me that," says my brother, with an irresistible laugh; "every one calls me 'Billy.' I shouldn't know myself by any other name. If you insist upon calling me Mr. Vernon I shall fancy you have found reason to dislike me."
"And would that be an overwhelming calamity?"
"I should certainly regard it in that light. I like being friends with—beautiful people," returns Billy, with a faint hesitation, but all a boy's flattering warmth; and so on.
Here Sir James Handcock, wakening from one of his usual fits of somnolence, actually takes the trouble to cross the room and put a question to his wife in an audible whisper.
"Who is that handsome lad?" he asks, staring kindly at Billy. (He was absent when my brother first entered the room.)
"Mrs. Carrington's brother," returns his wife, with a sympathetic smile.
"A really charming face," says Sir James, criticisingly; "scarcely a fault. Quite a face for an artist's pencil." And I feel my heart warm towards Sir James Handcock.
When dinner is announced, Lady Blanche declares her intention of going down with no one but her new friend, and Billy, proud and enchanted, conducts her to the dining-room; while Bebe casts a "what did I tell you?" sort of look at me behind their backs. Indeed, so thorough are the fascinations she exercises upon him that before the evening is concluded he is hopelessly and entirely her slave.
It has come at last—the night of my first ball; and surely no girlishdebutantein her first season ever felt a greater thrill of delight at this mere fact than I, spite of my being "wooed an' married an' a'."
Behold me in my room arrayed for conquest.
Having once made up my mind to the black velvet—though mother and Harriet and Bebe all declare me a great deal too young and too slight for it—I persist in my determination, and the dress is ordered and sent down.
It is a most delectable old dress, rejoicing greatly in "old point;" and when I am in it, and Martha has fastened the diamonds in my hair and ears and round my throat and wrists and waist, I contemplate myself in a lengthy mirror with feelings akin to admiration.
Having dismissed my maid, who professes herself lost in pleased astonishment at the radiant spectacle I present, I go softly to 'Duke's dressing-room door, and, hearing him whistling within, open it quietly.
Standing motionless, framed in by the portals, I murmur, "Marmaduke."
He turns, and for a moment regards me silently.
"My darling!" he says then, in a tone of glad surprise, and comes quickly up to me.
"Am I—looking—well?" I ask tremulously.
"'Well!' you are looking lovely," returns he, with enthusiasm, and, taking my hand carefully, as though fearful of doing some injury to my toilet, leads me before his glass. "See there," he says, "what a perfect little picture you make."
I stare myself out of countenance, and am thoroughly satisfied with what I see.
"I had no idea I could ever appear so—presentable," I say, half shy, wholly delighted.
"You shall be painted in that dress," declares 'Duke warmly, "and put all those antiquated dames in the picture-gallery in the shade."
"Are not the diamonds beautiful?" exclaim I. "And my gloves such a good fit! And"—anxiously—"Marmaduke, are yousureyou like my hair?"
"I like everything about you. I never saw you look half so well. I feel horribly proud of you."
"Bestow a little of your admiration on my bouquet, if you please. Sir Mark had it sent down to me, all the way from London, and his man brought it to me half an hour ago. Was it not thoughtful?"
"Very. I suppose"—with a comical sigh—"all the men will be making love to you to-night. That's the worst of having a pretty wife; she is only half one's own." Then, abruptly, changing the subject, "What dear little round babyish arms!" stooping to press his lips to each in turn. "They might belong to a mere child."
"And you really think I am lookingdownright pretty?" I ask desperately, yet withal very wistfully, reading his face for a reply. I do so ardently long to be classed among the well favored people!
"I should rather think I do. Why, Phyllis! of what earthly use is a mirror to you?"
"As—as pretty as Dora?" with hesitation. I am gradually nearing the highest point.
"Pshaw! Dora, indeed! She could not hold a candle to you—to be emphatic."
"Well, here's a kiss for you," say I, standing on tiptoe to deliver it in the exuberance of my satisfaction, feeling for once in my life, utterly and disgracefully conceited.
Marmaduke, however, appearing at this moment dangerously desirous of taking me into his arms and giving me a hearty embrace, to the detriment of my finery, I beat a hasty retreat, and go off to exhibit myself to mamma and Dora.
His Grace the Duke of Chillington and Lady Alicia Slate-Gore have arrived. The rooms begin to look gay and very full. His Grace a—well-preserved gentleman, of unknown age—adjusts his glass more carefully in his right eye, and coining over, requests from me the pleasure of the first quadrille. I accept, and begin to regard myself as an important personage. I glance at myself in one of the long mirrors that line the walls, and seeing therein a slender figure, robed in velvet and literally flashing with diamonds, I appear good in my eyes, and feel a self-satisfied smirk stealing over my countenance.
I am dimly conscious that darling mother is sitting on a sofa somewhat distant from me, looking as pretty as possible and absolutely flushed with pride and pleasure as she beholds me and my illustrious partner.
Dora, a little further down, is positively delicious in white silk and pink coral—the coral being mine. Her still entertaining for me the old grudge does not prevent her borrowing of me freely such things as she deems may suit her child-like beauty; while I, unable to divest myself of the idea that in some way I have wronged her, and that but for me all these things she borrows would by right be hers, lend to her lavishly from all that I possess.
To-night, however, in spite of the bewitching simplicity of her appearance, I feel no jealous pangs. "For this night only," I will consider myself as charming as Dora.
"Rather think it will be a severe season. You hunt?" asks his Grace, in rather high, jerky tones, having come to the conclusion, I presume, that he ought to say something.
I answer him to the intent that I do not; that in fact—lowering to my pride as it may be to confess it—I would rather be afraid to do so.
He regards me with much interest and approval.
"Quite right; quite right," he says. "Ladies are—ha—charming you know, of course, and that—but in a hunting-field—a mistake."
I laugh, and suggest amiably he is not over-gallant.
"No—no? really! Have I said anything rude? Can't apply to you, you know, Mrs. Carrington, as you say you have no ambition to be in at the death. Women, as a rule, neverare, you know; they are generally in a drain by that time; and if a man sees them, unless he wants to be considered a brute for life, he must stop and pull 'em out It takes nice feelings to do that gracefully, and with a due regard to proper language, in the middle of a good run. Charming girl, Miss Beatoun."
"Very."
"Pretty girl, too, in white silk and the coral."
"You mean my sister?"
"Indeed indeed? You must excuse the openness of my observations. I would never have guessed at the relationship. Can't discern the slightest family resemblance."
He says this so emphatically that I understand him to mean he considers me far inferior to Dora. I begin to think his Grace an obtuse and undesirable person, sadly wanting in discrimination. No doubt he is thinking my plainness only to be equalled by my dullness. I wish impatiently the quadrille would begin and get itself over, that I may be rid of him, more especially as I am longing with a keenness that belongs alone to youth, for a waltz or a galop, or anything fast and inspiriting.
At last the band strikes up and we take our places. Marmaduke (who is dancing with Lady Alicia Slate-Gore) and I are the only untitled people in the set. Nevertheless, as I look at my husband I think to myself, with a certain satisfaction, that not one among us has an appearance so handsome or so distinguished as his.
The quadrille being at an end, Sir Mark Gore instantly claims me for the coming waltz, and, as I place my hand very willingly upon his arm, whispers:—-
"You are like an old picture. I cannot take my eyes off you. Who told you to dress yourself like that?"
"Myself. Is it not nice?" I ask, eagerly, casting another surreptitious glance at my youthful form as we move near a glass. "Don't you think it becoming?"
"If I told you all I thought," he exclaims, eagerly then, checking himself with an effort, and a rather forced laugh, continues—"you might perhaps read me a lecture."
"Not I: I am not in the mood for lectures. I feel half intoxicated with excitement and pleasure, as though nothing could have power to annoy or vex me to-night. The very music thrills me."
"You remind me of Browning's little lady,—-
'She was the smallest lady alive: Made in a piece of nature's madness.Toosmall almost for the life and gladness That over-filled her.'
You remember her?"
"Am I the 'smallest lady alive?' Why, see, I am quite up to your shoulder. You insult me, sir. Come, dance,dance, or I will never forgive you."
He passes his arm round my waist, and in another moment we are waltzing.
Did I ever dance before, I wonder? Or is this some new sensation? I hardly touch the ground; my heart—my very pulses—beat in unison with the perfect music.
I stop, breathless, flushed, radiant, and glance up at Sir Mark, with parted, smiling lips, as though eager to hear him say how delightful he too has found it.
He is a little pale, I fancy, and answers my smile rather slowly.
"Yes, it has beenmorethan pleasant," he says, divining and answering my thought.
He is not enthusiastic; and I am dissatisfied.
"You don'tlook" I say with inquisitive reproach, "as though you enjoyed it one bit."
A curious smile passes over Sir Mark's face.
"Don't I?" he replies, quietly.
"No. Decidedly the reverse even. Ofcourse"—with a considerable amount of pique—"You could have found plenty of better dancers among the people here."
"Perhaps I could; although you must permit me to doubt it. I only know I would rather have you for a partner than any one else in the room."
I am not proof against flattery, A smile is born and grows steadily round my lips, until at length my whole face beams.
"Well, you might try toappearmore contented," I say, with a last feeble attempt at remonstrance. "When I get what I want I always look pleased."
"I know you do. But I am a thankless being; the more I get the more I want. When a man is starving, to give him alittleonly adds to the pangs he suffers—-"
The last bars of the waltz died out with a lingering wailing sigh. A little hush falls. . . . Sir George Ashurst, coming up, offers me his arm.
"You will let me put my name down for another before you go?" asks Sir Mark, hurriedly, following us a few steps.
I hand him my card. "Keep it for me," I say, "until after the dance. You can then return it."
"May I have the next after this?" very eagerly.
I glance at him over my shoulder. "Yes—if I am disengaged, and you care for it," I make answer, forgetful of my character as hostess, of the world's tongue, of everything but the sweet gayety of the present hour.
----
The night wears on. Already it is one hour past midnight. Sir Mark is again my partner.
Up to this the evening has fully answered my fondest expectations. I have danced incessantly. I have been utterly, thoughtlessly happy. Now a slight contraction about the soles of my feet warns me I begin to experience fatigue.
Sir Mark leads me towards a conservatory, dimly lit and exquisitely arranged, at the door of which I stand to bestow a backward glance upon the ball-room.
At a considerable distance I can discern Bebe standing beside Lord Chandos. It is without doubt an interval in their dance, but they are not talking. Miss Beautoun's head is slightly inclinedfromher companion, and it is evident to me she has mounted an exceedingly high horse. Nevertheless, to see her with him at all gratifies me; as it is surely a step in the right direction.
Dora is waltzing with a "Heavy," and I can see Sir George glowering upon them from a remote corner. Dora sees him also, and instantly smiles tenderly into her dragoon's light-blue eyes. This too looks promising. My spirits go up another degree, and I indulge in a low pleased laugh.
"Still revelling in bliss, Mrs. Carrington?" Sir Mark's voice recalls me. "No flaw as yet?"
"Not one. Of course not. What a ridiculous question! I told you nothing should interfere with my enjoyment this evening. Yet, stay"—with a demure and dejected shake of the head: "every now and then Iamtroubled with a faint regret."
"And it—is—-"
"That all this must some time come to an end. There, is not that a haunting thought?"
I laugh, so does he.
"I shall have plenty of it in the spring," I continue, presently. "'Duke says I shall go to London then."
"And so lose the keen sense of pleasure you now possess. What a mistake! Take my advice, and don't go through a London season."
"What stupid advice. Indeed Ishall, and enjoy it too, I am only longing for the time to come round. I shall be dreaming of it from now until then."
"You are bent on rushing wildly to your fate," says he, smiling. "Well, do so, and rue it later on. When you come to look on dancing, not as a good thing in itself, but merely as a means to an end, remember I warned you."
"I will remember nothing," I say, saucily, "except that I am at this moment without a care in the world. Come, let us go in."
Sir Mark hesitates.
"Shall we finish the dance first?"
"No," I am looking longingly into the cool green light of the conservatory beyond me. "See how delicious it is in there. Let us find a seat."
Still he hesitates, as though unwilling to move in the desired direction.
"It seems a pity to lose this music," he says. "Afterwards we could rest."
I turn my eyes mischievously upon him.
"Who?is keen about dancing now?" I ask, gayly. "NotI. For my part, I pine for a sofa. As youwillhave it, I confess I am just a little wee bit tired."
We walk on through the outer nest of flowers into the smaller one beyond, which is if anything dimlier lit, calmer, more subtly perfumed. The nameless fragrance is everywhere, the splash, splash of a small fountain falls soothingly on the ear; the music, though distinct, is strangely, dreamily distant.
Some tall shrubs are dispersed here and there; behind them cozy seats are hidden; shadows of a darker shade envelope them.
As with purposeless steps I pass by a rather larger one of these I suddenly find myself face to face with Lady Blanche Going and—Marmaduke.
Now there is no earthly reason why they should not be here alone together; hundreds of other couples, tired and warm from dancing, have probably done the same; yet, as my eyes fall upon them, a strange feeling that is partly anger, partly pain, troubles me. All my gay wild spirits sink and disappear. I know my face has lost its vivacity and expresses only surprise and chagrin.
As my glance fastens more directly upon Duke, I see he too is looking unlike himself. There is a dark, almost fierce expression in his eyes; his lips are compressed. A slight movement of the thin nostrils as he draws his breath tells me he is evidently suppressing some strong emotion.
Her ladyship, exquisitely lovely in deep cream-colored silk, with something scarlet in her dark hair, is nestling among the crimson cushions of the lounge, and does not deign to raise herself as we approach. Her eyes are a degree larger, more languid than usual; her complexion, always good, is perfect in this soft light. Her fan is in my husband's hands.
It is impossible for me, without being guilty of positive rudeness, to turn and leave them without a word. I stand, therefore, silent, a pale, slight child, next to her, in all her supercilious beauty—with little of the woman about me except my trailing velvet and golden ring, and glittering, gleaming jewels.
"Are you having a good time, Mrs. Carrington?" asks Lady Blanche, sweetly.
"Very, thank you," with extreme coldness. "I had no idea I could enjoy anything so much."
"Youlookhappy," with increased amiability and a soft, indulgent smile, such as one would use toward an excitable child. "I suppose you still find pleasure in dancing?"
"Yes. I believe I have a good many years yet to run before I must, for decency's sake, declare myself tired of it."
"Until you are quite an old married woman like me? Yes," with much complacency. "You are fortunate in your partner. All the world acknowledges Sir Mark to be above praise—in the dancing line. Even I"—with a sudden and tomeutterly inexplicable glance at the gentleman in question—"can remember how desirable he used to be."
Dead silence, and a slight bow on the part of Sir Mark.
"Indeed?" say I, turning a smile of exaggerated friendliness upon him. "Then consider how doubly good it is of him to wasteso muchof his time upon a mere novice like me."
I hardly know what prompts this speech. Perhaps a faint remembrance of how at certain times, when conversing with Mark Gore, I have looked across the rooms or gardens, or wherever we might chance to be, and seen a glance that was almost hatred fall on me from her ladyship's eyes. Now, however, my spiteful little speech has no greater effect than to cause Marmaduke's fingers to close with vicious force around the painted satin toy he holds.
Why does he not speak? Why will he not even suffer his gaze to meet mine? I feel angry and reckless. He is sitting a little forward, with his head slightly bent and a determined expression upon his face. Is he anxious for my departure? Have I disturbed his interestingtete-a-tete!
I will show him how little power he has over me for either joy or sorrow.
I turn away, and with a backward careless nod at Lady Blanche, say lightly,—-
"Take care you don't suffer for sitting there. There are somanydraughts in a conservatory,Weeven consider the open air safer."
And with that, though it was by no means my original intention, I go out through the glass door into the silent starlight night, and even manage to laugh gayly before we are beyond earshot.
As we touch the gravel, however, I face Sir Mark, and, foolishly unmindful of how my words may impress him, cry fiercely, "Did you bring me there on purpose?"
"Where?" he asks, with such wide astonishment as instantly brings me to my senses. I feel overpowered with shame, and try to turn it off, clumsily enough.
"Into Lady Blanche's presence," I say, fretfully. "Youknow that woman always puts me out."
"Was it not yourself whoinsistedon going there?" Sir Mark reminds me, gravely.
"True," I reply, and then I laugh a little, and, taking higher ground, continue, "You are horrified at my ill temper, are you not? And indeed I have behaved disgracefully. After all, I don't know why I should feel bitterly towards her; it is a mere unfounded prejudice on my part. You think me wretchedly pettish?"
"I do not, indeed," very quietly. "Of course I can fully understand how utterly impossible it would be for you and Blanche Going to have a single idea in common."
"She is so clever you mean," with a small frown.
"She is such anintrigante, I mean," replies my companion, quite coolly.
"Let us go in, it is cold," I say, with a quick shiver. So we go round by the hall door, and soon again find ourselves in the ball-room. As we enter I determinately put from me all thought of 'Duke's dark, passionate face. Iwillbe happy. Iwillwrench from the flying hours all they have worth taking. Why should I care, who never really loved, whether or not he finds contentment in another woman's society.
----
I am tired, and somewhat dispirited. The rooms are growing thinner. A voice at my side makes me start and turn.
"If not engaged, will you give me this?" asks 'Duke, ceremoniously.
"Certainly, if youwishit. But are you sobadlyoff for a partner? To dance with one's wife must be—to say the least of it—insipid."
He makes no reply, but places his arm around my waist in silence. It is a waltz.
"Do you know this is the first time I ever danced with you?" I say, struck myself by the oddness of the idea.
"I know." And in another moment we are keeping time to one of the dreamiest airs of Strauss. No, not even Mark Gore is a better dancer than Marmaduke.
When we have taken just one bare turn round the room, 'Duke stops short and leads me on to a balcony that by some chance is vacant.
"There! I won't inflict myself upon you any longer," he says, quietly. "You dance very well. After all practice has nothing to do with it. Will you sit down? Or shall I find you a partner for the remainder of this waltz?"
"Are you in such a hurry to be gone?"
"No; certainly not," seating himself beside me.
Silence.
"I really wish, Marmaduke," I burst out, petulantly, "you would say what has aggrieved you, instead of sitting there frowning and glowering at one and making people feel uncomfortable If you want to scold me, do so. I dare say I shall survive it."
This piece of impertinence rouses no wrath in the person addressed, and draws no reply.
"Well, what is it?" I go on. "I have beenquitehappy all the evening—until now. Every one else has been civil to me. If youmustbe disagreeable, be so at once. What have I done?"
"I have accused you of nothing, Phyllis."
"No"—in an agitated tone—"I wish you would. I might then know why you are looking so cross."
"Of course I am quite aware you can be supremely happy without me. There was no necessity for you to hint at it so broadly."
"And youcannotwithoutme, I suppose? You appeared very comfortable in the conservatory some time ago."
"Did I" with a quick return of the angry expression he had then worn. "My face belied me then. I could hardly feel comfortable when I saw you laying yourself open to the ill-natured comments of the entire room."
"What do you mean Marmaduke?"
"You know what I mean. Is it the correct thing to dance the whole evening with one man!"
"What man?"
"Gore, of course. Every one remarked it. I wish you would try to be a little more dignified, and remember how censorious is the world in which we are living."
"Do you want me to understand thatyouthink I wasflirting with Sir Mark Gore?" I am literally trembling with indignation.
"No, I merely wish you to see how foolishly you have acted."
"Was it with such base insinuations against your wife Lady Blanche amused you to night? Do you think it was becoming conduct on your part to listen to such lies being uttered without rebuke?"
I have risen, and, with folded hands and white lips, am looking down upon him.
"Phyllis! How can you suppose that I would listen calmly toany onewho could speak evil ofyou?"
"I can readily suppose anything after what you have said. Is it not worse ofyoutothinkevil of me?Flirting!You beyond all people are in a position to acquit me of that. I had plenty of opportunities: did I ever flirt with you?"
"You did not, indeed. I tell you I don't for a moment suspect you of such a thing; only—-"
Here, looking up, we both became aware of Sir Mark's approach. He is still some distance from us.
"Are you engaged to him for this, Phyllis?" asks my husband, in a low hurried tone.
"Yes."
"Don't dance it, then," imploringly. "Say you will not, if only to oblige me."
"Why? What excuse can I offer? You ask me to be rude to him, and yet give no reason why I should be so."
"You intend dancing it with him then?" sternly.
"Certainly," in a freezing tone.
"Very good. Do so." And, turning on his heel, he walks quietly and slowly away.
"I fear I have displaced a better man," says Sir Mark, lightly, as he joins me. "Will you forgive me? I could not resist reminding you of your promise of this."
"I fear I must undo that promise," I return, gayly. "I am really fatigued. To dance with me now would be no advantage to any one."
"Am I to thank Carrington for this disappointment? Was he fearful of your being over-tired?" He is courteous as ever, yet it seems to me the very faintest suspicion of a sneer comes to his lips—so faint that a moment later I doubt it has ever been.
"No," I return, calmly. "You give him credit for too much thoughtfulness. So far from dreaming of fatigue, he even asked me just now to dance with him—was not that self-denying of him?—but I only took one small turn. You forget I am not yet in proper training. I have had very little practice in my time."
"Let me get you an ice. No? Some champagne, then? Iced water?"
"Nothing thank you."
"At least let me stay and talk to you."
"I shall be glad of that. You never met any one with such a rooted objection to her own society as I have," I answer, laughing.
Then the strain loosens; the smile dies off my lips. How ardently do I long to be alone! Why does not this man get up and leave me? At all events, Marmaduke will see I have repented of my ill temper, and am not dancing.
As I sit moodily staring through the window at the gay scene within, it so happens the Duke of Chillington, with one or two other men, passes slowly by.
"Our cousin of Chillington," says Sir Mark, with an amused air—he is a second cousin of his Grace—"has expressed himself enraptured with his hostess."
I raise my eyebrows and betray some slight surprise.
"I think you must mistake. When speaking to him, in the earlier part of the evening, he gave me to understand—politely, it is true, but none the less plainly—that he considered me a very mediocre sort of person."
"In that case I fear we must believe his lordship to be an arch old hypocrite, as he toldmehe thought your manner and expression above all praise."
"Well, I think him a very stupid old gentleman," I reply, ungraciously.
Sir Mark turns his eyes upon me thoughtfully.
"Have you found that 'little rift' after all, Mrs. Carrington?" asks he gravely.
"Yes—I suppose so," with impatience. Really the man grows very tiresome. "I must have been mad to hope we wretched mortals could have five whole hours of unbroken happiness."
"True:
'Every white must have its blacke,
And every sweete its soure.'"
"Another quotation?" superciliously. I am not in an amiable mood. "You seem to have them ready for all emergencies. How closely you must attend to your poetical studies! How fond of them you must be!"
"I am. Does that surprise you? Do you find a difficulty in associating me with polite verse?"
He has his elbow on his knee; his fingers caress his heavy black mustache. He is regarding me with the profoundest interest.
"I really never thought about it," I return, wearily, with a rather petulant movement of the head.
Oh that this hateful ball was at an end!
----
The last guest has departed. We of the household have gone up to our rooms. Now that it is all over, I feel strangely inclined to sit down and have a good cry. In the solitude of my own room Marmaduke's words and glances come back to me, making me miserable, now that excitement is no longer at hand to help me to forget. One by one they return with cruel clearness.
If he would only come up from that horrid smoking-room and be good-natured once more and make friends with me! I think I could forgive and forget everything, and look upon the remembrance of this ball with much delight and satisfaction.
My slight jealously of Blanche Going has disappeared, and weighs not at all in the scale with my other miseries. Indeed, I have almost forgotten the incident in which she figured.
Hark! a distant door bangs. Now surely he is coming. Will He enter my room first, I wonder, to speak to me as he always does? Or will he at once shut himself morosely into his dressing-room?
Steps upon the stairs, steps along the corridor. A laugh.
"Good-night" from Sir Mark Gore. "Good-night," heartily returned by Marmaduke. Bah! how needlessly I have worried myself! He is not angry at all. If he can jest and talk so easily with the cause of all our dispute, he can certainly entertain no bitter thoughts towards me.
I hear Marmaduke cross the inside room and approach mine. I feel confident he is coming to "make it up" with me. I turn my chair so as to face the door and be ready to meet him half-way in the reconciliation; though—lest he may think me too eager—I find it my duty to let a gently aggrieved shadow fall upon my face.
The door opens, and he comes in, walks deliberately to my dressing-table, lights a candle, and then, without so much as a glance at the fireplace, where I sit, prepares to return to his room.
"Marmaduke!" I cry, in dismay, springing to my feet.
He stops and regards me coldly.
"Do you want me? Can I do anything for you?"
"'Duke! how can you be so unkind, so unforgiving, so—so cruel to me?" I exclaim, going a little nearer, a suspicion of tears in my voice, large visible drops in my eyes. "Are you going away without saying one word to me?"
"WhathaveI to say? You have left me nothing. When last we spoke I asked you to do a very simple thing to please me, and you refused."
"I know. But afterwards I was sorry. I—you must have seen—I did not mean to vex you."
"I saw nothing. The knowledge of what Iwasto see in defiance of my entreaty was not reassuring, I left the ball-room then and did not return to it again. I was glad there was no necessity why I should do so: they were all going."
"Then you do not know—I did not dance with Sir Mark—after all?" I ask, eagerly, laying the bare tips of my fingers upon his arm.
"No!" laying down the candle, while his color grows a shade deeper. "Did you refuse him, then?"
"Yes; I said I was too tired; I said—-"
"Oh! Phyllis! darling—darling!" cries 'Duke, catching me in his arms before I can finish my confession, and straining me to his heart.
"So you see you need not have been so very cold to me," I whisper from this safe retreat, feeling much relieved. It is positive torture to me to quarrel with any one.
"Forgive me, my own. It is our first disagreement; it shall be our last. What a miserable hour and a half I might have spared myself had I but known!"
"But 'Duke, you said I behaved foolishly all the evening."
"Never mind what I said."
"But I must know who put it into your head. Was it Blanche Going?"
"She said something about it, certainly. It was a mere careless remark she made, but it struck me. I don't believe she knew she said it."
"I guessed rightly, then. That woman hates me. She was trying to make mischief between you and I."
"Oh, no, darling. Do not misjudge her. I am convinced she had no hidden meaning in what she said. It was only a passing word, and probably I took it up wrongly. She has no thought for you but kindness."
"Then I don't like her kindness, and I will not have you listening to her remarks about me. She never says anything without a meaning. You do not think I was flirting, 'Duke?"
"My darling, of course not. No; but I love you so dearly it is positive agony to imagine any onemight, by chance, misinterpret your conduct."
"And you will never be cross to me again?"
"Never."
"And you are deeply grieved you behaved so infamously to me?"
"I am indeed."
"And I looked lovelyallthe evening?"
"I never beheld anything half so lovely."
"And I dance very nicely?"
"Beautifully. Quito like a fairy." Whereupon we both laugh merrily, and anger and resentment are forgotten.