We are all more or less late for breakfast next morning, Mr. Thornton being the only one who exhibits much symptom of life. He is, if possible, a degree gayer, more sprightly than usual, and talks incessantly to any one who will be kind enough to listen to him.
"I do think a ball in a country-house the most using-up thing I know," he says, helping himself generously to cold game-pie. "It is twice the fun of a town affair, but it knocks one up—no doubt of it—makes a fellow feel so seedy and languid, and ruins the appetite."
"I think you will do uncommonly well if you finish what you have there," remarks Sir Mark, languidly.
Thornton roars: so does Billy.
"You have me there," says Chips. "I ought to have known better than to introducethatsubject. My appetite is my weak point."
"Your strong point, I suppose you mean," puts in Sir Mark, faintly amused.
"I think the worse thing about a country ball is this," says Bebe; "one feels so lonely, so purposeless, when it is over. In town one will probably be going to another next evening;here one can do nothing but regret past glories. I wish it were all going to happen, over again to-night."
"So do I," says Thornton, casting a sentimental glance at the speaker. "I would go over every hour of it again gladly—old maids and all—for the sake of the few minutes for the sake of the few minutes of real happiness I enjoyed. There aresome people one could dance withforever."
Lord Chandos, raising his head, bestows a haughty stare upon the youthful Chips, which is quite thrown away, as that gay young Don is staring in turn, with all his might, and with the liveliest admiration, at Miss Beatoun.
"Could you?" asks that fascinating person, innocently "Now I could not; at least I think I would like to sit down now and then. But, Phyllis, dear, seriously, I wish we were going to do something out of the common this evening."
"Try charades or tableaux," suggests 'Duke brilliantly. "The very thing! Tableaux let it be, by all means. Marmaduke, no one can say last night's dissipation has clouded your intellect. We will have them in the library, where the folding-doors will come in capitally."
"You used to be a great man at tableaux, Carrington," says Sir George; "and I shall never forget seeing Lady Blanche once as Guinevere."
Her ladyship raises her white lids and smiles faintly.
"You were Lancelot, Gore, on that occasion," continues this well-meaning but blundering young man. "You remember, eh?"
"Distinctly—quite as if it happened yesterday," replies Sir Mark, with a studied indifference little suited to the emphatic words. "Have some of this hot cake, Thornton? You are eating nothing."
"Thanks: I don't know but I will," says Chips, totally unabashed. "You could hardly give me anything I like so well as hot cake for breakfast."
"You will make a point of remembering that, I trust, Mrs. Carrington," says Sir Mark, gravely.
"Phyllis, you would look such a good Desdemona," says Bebe, who is now fairly started. "I am sure she must have beenveryyoung to let herself be beguiled into a marriage with that horrid Othello."
"And who would represent the Moor?"
"Sir Mark, I suppose: he looks more like it than any one else."
"You flatter me, Miss Beatoun," murmurs Sir Mark, with a slight bow.
"Oh, I only mean you are darker than any of the others, except James, and I am sure he never could look sufficiently ferocious," answers Bebe, laughing.
"And you think I can?"
"You will have to. When we have blackened you a little, and bent your eyebrows into a murderous scowl, and made you look thoroughly odious, you will do very well."
"How onedoesenjoy the prospect of tableaux. I rather think I shall rival Salvini by the time I am out of your hands."
"I hope not. I can't bear Salvini," says Harriet, mildly.
"That is going rather far, Harry. Why don't you say you can't bear his figure? Wemightbelieve that."
"But I don't want to be smothered," I protest, nervously.
"Oh, youmustsubmit to that. When people hear of 'a scene from "Othello"' they immediately think of pillows. They would consider they had been done out of something if we gave them a mere court part. We will have you just dying, murmuring your last poor little words, with Sir Mark looking as if he were longing to try the effect of the bolster next, and Miss Vernon, as Emilia, kneeling beside you."
"Now, that is what I call a downright cheerful picture," says Marmaduke.
"Icall it high tragedy," replies Miss Beatoun, reprovingly. "Willyou be Emilia, Miss Vernon?"
"I will help you in any way I can," says Dora, with her usual gentle amiability.
"You would make a capital Beatrice, Bebe," says Marmaduke. "We might have a good scene from 'Much Ado About Nothing.' Who will be Benedick? Now, don't all speak at once."
"I think it would suit me," says Chips, very modestly.
We all laugh heartily.
"You grow modest, Mr. Thornton," says Sir Mark. "I fear you must be ill. Try a little of this honey; you will find it excellent."
"No, thanks. I feel I shall be able to pull through now until luncheon."
"Let us go into the library and arrange everything," I suggest, eagerly; and we all rise and go there.
By degrees, as the afternoon advances, the men show symptoms of fatigue and drop off one by one, while we women still keep together to discuss the all-engrossing idea.
Curious odds and ends of old-world finery are dragged from remote closets and brought to light. Clothes that once adorned Marmaduke's ancestors are now draped around young white arms and necks, and draw forth peals of laughter from the lookers-on.
"But we must have an audience," suggests: Bebe, at length, rather blankly, stopping short, with her hands in the air, from which hangs down an ancient embroidered robe.
"True. How shall we manage that?"
"Send a groom instantly with invitations to the Hastings, the Leslies, and the De Veres, and the Cuppaidges. I am positive they are all dying ofennuithis moment, and will hail with rapture any chance of escape from it. They will all come; and the Leslies have two or three really very presentable young men staying with them."
"Yes, that will be best. Dora, will you go and write the notes for me? Now, would it not be a good thing to exclude all the non-players from our council?"
"Oh," says Harriet, "thenImust go."
"No, no, Harry, we can't do without you," cry I, imploringly; "you must stay. We could not get on without some head to guide us and soothe down disappointed actors. You shall be wardrobe-woman and chief secretary and prime minister and stage manager all in one."
"Yes," says Bebe, who has got herself into the ancient robe by this; "and head-centre and peacemaker, and all that sort of thing. Now, don't I look sweet in this flowered gown? Ah! what interesting creatures our great-great-grandmothers must have been! It almost makes me long to be a great-great-grand mother myself."
"But your salary—your salary: state your terms," says Harriet. "I cannot be all that you have mentioned for nothing."
"For love, dearest: call youthatnothing?" replies Bebe, as she struts up and down before a long glass.
Presently darling mother, who has slept at Strangemore and breakfasted in her room, comes creeping in, and a dispute arises as to whether she must be excluded from the cabinet and sent into exile until night reveals our secrets. But she is so amused at everything, and has grown so young and gay in the absence of her bugbear, that we make an exception in her favor also; and, as she has a real talent for dressing people, and would have made an invaluable ladies' maid, had her lot been cast so low, we find her very useful later on.
The invitations are despatched, and acceptances from all brought back; every one, it appears, will be delighted to come and witness our success or failure, as the case may be. These polite replies cause us faint pangs of consternation largely tinctured with timidity, making us conscious that we are regularly in for something: that much is expected of us; and that, after all, the performance may prove "flat, stale, and unprofitable."
All through dinner we—the intended victims, are mysterious, not to say depressed; while Sir James Handcock, the two men from the Barracks, and Sir George Ashurst make mild jokes at our expense, and wish us safely out of it.
At nine the guests arrive; at half-past nine all is in readiness; the audience is seated, the impromptu curtains are drawn up, and "Rebecca laying the jewels at Rowena's feet" stands revealed.
Lady Blanche Going, as the Jewess, is looking positively beautiful, as kneeling at Dora's feet, in many colored garments of crimson and gold and such gorgeous shades, with much gleaming of precious stones, she gazes with saddened curiosity in the face above her; while Dora, raising her veil—my wedding veil—with uplifted arms to look down on her, presents such a contrast, with her dead white robe and fair babyish face, to the darker beauty's more glowing style as takes the audience by storm.
The applause is loud and lengthened; and Sir George Ashurst's enthusiasm reaches such a pitch that when it subsides he has to retire to his room in search of another pair of gloves.
The curtain rises for the second time on Lady Blanche again and Sir Mark Gore as "The Huguenots." This, too, is highly successful, albeit her ladyship is too dark for the part.
Everybody agrees that Sir Mark, with the sorrowfully determined expression on his face, is perfect; while Lady Blanche astonishes some of us by the amount of passionate pleading she throws into her eye.
And now comes a hitch. The third tableau on which we have decided is "The Last Appeal." There has been considerable difficulty about the arrangement of this from the beginning, and now at the last moment Sir Mark Gore vows he will have nothing to do with it.
"I couldn't do it," he says, throwing out his hands. "There is no use urging a fellow. I could look murderous. I might look sentimental: I could not appeal. I won't, and that's all about it. They will say there are no more actors if you send me on again so soon; and besides, those breeches don't fit me. They will go on Chandos; let him take my part."
"How disobliging you are!" says Miss Beatoun, flushing. "Then I won't be the person appealed to. I did not want to, all along. It is too bad I should get no parts but those in which rags and ugly dresses are worn. I shall have to do Cinderella presently in tatters, and in this I have only a short gown, and nasty thick shoes and a pitcher."
"What nonsense!" say I. "You know every one said you looked delicious with that little handkerchief across your shoulders. Lord Chandos, go and dress yourself directly, as Sir Mark will not."
"Of what use is it," says Chandos, quietly, "if Miss Beatoun declines to act with me?"
"Acting with you has nothing to do with it," returns Bebe, reddening perceptibly. "I only decline the 'old clo' part of it. Consider how it hurts my vanity."
"Yet you would have worn them had Sir Mark kept his word," I say, in an injured tone.
At this Lord Chandos looks expressively at Miss Beatoun, Miss Beatoun looks witheringly at me, and Marmaduke, utterly innocent, says persuasively:—-
"Come now, Bebe, that's conclusive. Chandos will think you have some reason for it if you persist in refusing."
At this unfortunate remark even I feel some dismay. Considering all that has passed between these two, and the nature of the tableau in question, itisunfortunate. Chandos and Bebe color violently; the latter's fingers close with nervous force upon the pretty short gown she is wearing and crumple it recklessly. The loose cambric kerchief on her breast rises and falls with angry motion. Chandos is evidently furious.
"I shall think nothing of the kind," he says, in a low, distinct tone. "Miss Beatoun should be allowed to please herself. For my part, I think it an odious scene and hackneyed to the last degree."
"Still, as it is on the cards—-" I murmur, weakly.
Marmaduke stares at me in wonderment, and then at Harriet, who is also listening. We are every one of us thoroughly unpleasant.
Bebe laughs a rather forced laugh. "I wonder what our friends in the dress circle are thinking all this time?" she says. "Lord Chandos, go and put on your things and don't let us keep them waiting any longer."
"That's right," exclaims Marmaduke, much relieved, moving away to another group in the distance engaged in a hot dispute. Still Chandos lingers.
"I am sorry for this," he says to Bebe, in a low tone, almost haughtily. "But it is not yet too late. If the idea is so detestable to you, then give it up now, and I will support you."
"Why should it be distasteful to me?" very coldly. "I will make no further objections."
"I hope you exonerate me. I could not help it. I am more vexed about it than you can be."
"I think you might have said emphatically just at first you did not wish it. However, it does not matter."
"How could I? Such a remark would have been an implied rudeness to you."
"Then I wish you had been rude."
"You are unreasonable, Miss Beatoun," says his lordship, stiffly. Then in a still lower tone, "There are few things I would not do for you, but that is not one of them."
"I think you had better go and put on those garments Sir Mark rejected. We can finish the argument later on," murmurs Bebe, turning away, with a half-smile, and, Lord Chandos hurrying over his toilet, we have them on our miniature stage sooner than we dared to hope.
But, though they gave in to their own wishes, or rather to their own pride, the performance is a failure, for, though Bebe certainly manages to look the very personification of hardened persistency, Lord Chandos by no means comes up to our idea of the appealing and despairing adorer, and altogether there is a stony finish about it that nobody admires. The spectators are, indeed, polite, and say all manner of pretty things, but they say them from the lips alone, which is palpable and not satisfactory.
And now comes my turn. The "British public," as Mr. Thornton persists on calling our very select audience, is requested to turn its kind attention on Tennyson's "Sleeping Princess," wrapped in mystic slumber. I am the Sleeping Princess, it having struck me in the early part of the day that thisrole, requiring little beyond extreme inaction, would exactly suit me, and cause me less trepidation.
Upon a crimson lounge, clad all in white, I lie, my long fair brown hair scattered across the cushions and falling to the ground beside me. One hand is thrown above my head, the other hangs listlessly, sleepily, downwards; a deep-red rose has dropped from it, and now blushes, half lost, amidst the tresses on the floor.
Sir Mark, in the character of the Prince, leans over me as though in the act of giving the caress that brings me back from dreamland. His face, I know, is near—so near that, between nervousness and shrinking, I feel a mad desire to break into forbidden laughter; so much so that when the curtain falls I am more than thankful.
Slowly it descends, and as I hear it touch the stage, I cautiously open my eyes—to find Sir Mark has not yet raided himself from his stooping posture.
My eyes look straight into his. There are literally only few inches between his face and mine, and I fancy I can discern a treacherous gleam in them. Something masterful, too, in his expression, as though he would say, "I could an' I would," strikes me. Instantly I resent it, and springing to my feet, stand back from him, crimson with indignation and some undefined fear.
There is no time for words, had I even the desire to speak, which I have not, as at this moment Lady Blanche Going and Marmaduke come from behind the scenes to congratulate us. I try to recover myself hurriedly, but it is too late; my red cheeks and frightened, half shamed eyes attract their notice; and Marmaduke, glancing from me to Sir Mark, regards us earnestly, coloring very slowly himself the while.
"Oh!" exclaims her ladyship, starting, and assuming an air of surprise; then, with an affected laugh, "How foolish of me? But really for the moment, on account of your attitudes and stillness, I fancied I had come on too soon, and that you were still acting."
"How completely you must have forgotten the subject of the late tableau!" replies Sir Mark, in a very calm tone, fixing her with his wonderful keen, dark eyes.
Some instinct of evil makes me go and stand close to Marmaduke.
"Was it a success?" I ask, nervously.
"Without doubt," says 'Duke, rousing himself. "You look fatigued, Phyllis; come and have some wine."
I take his arm and go with him gladly.
"Did anything vex you, darling?" he asks me, quietly, as we go into the next room.
"No; it was imagination. I did not know his face was quite so close, and, in consequence, when I opened my eyes I got a start. It was ridiculous of me."
"Was that all?"
"Yes, that was all." I laugh, though in a rather spiritless way, and feel angry with myself for the vague restraint that is quite discernible in my manner while Marmaduke pours me out some claret-cup, without asking any more questions.
"'Duke—Marmaduke—where are you? Oh, cone, come," cries Bebe, looking in, "we are all waiting for you. How can I pose properly until you get me the slipper? You said you had it somewhere."
So 'Duke flies, and I, putting from me my small vexation, which even already appears half fanciful, follow him to the sides, to see how they look before the curtain rises.
Cinderella (Bebe), clad in picturesque rags, is represented in the act of flying, leaving behind her the magical slipper, which Master Chips is eagerly stooping to pick up. He makes a veritable "Prince Charming," in his scarlet cloak and long silk stockings—got no one knows how—and cap and feathers; while Bebe, glancing backwards in her flight to mark the fate of her shoe, casts upon him a bewitching languishing gaze that (supposing the original Cinderella to be capable of such another) must have had more to do with her being Princess later on than anything in the shape of a vow.
Then we close up Dora, as Constance de Beverley, into an imaginary wall—the poor nun, with raised despairing eyes and downward clasped hands, creating much sympathy. Yet, none of us feel sure this was the spirit in which the real Constance met her doom; only, as the devotional tearful style suits Dora, we conclude it was, and make no unwelcome inquiries; and every one is charmed.
After this comes "Queen Eleanor presenting the agreeable choice of the poisoned bowl or the dagger to the fair but frail Rosamond," represented by Blanche Going and myself; at the conclusion of which Bebe draws me aside to whisper, laughingly, how Blanche had looked the partcon amore.
"I would have given very little for your chance of life had there been any reality about it," she says. "She looked—oh, she looked as—if—-" with a vicious clenching of her small fist, full of meaning.
Bebe as a laughing saucy Beatrice, and Lord Chandos as Benedick, makes a much happier tableau than their last, and eventually we wind up with a scene from the "Queen's Maries" of Whyte Melville, in which everybody generally is brought in, and where Blanche Going, as Mary Stuart, in black velvet and the inevitable cap, is the principal feature; though Bebe makes a very charming Seaton, and even I feel some admiration on beholding Marmaduke as Darnley.
With a sense of relief we come down from the stage and mingle with our audience, accepting modestly the compliments showered upon us from all sides.
Mother, who has not been inside a theatre since she was nineteen, comes up to tell us it was the prettiest sight she ever saw, and to compare us favorably with all the celebrated actors and actresses of her time.
Presently we leave the scene of our triumphs and wander into the great cool ball-room, where the decorations of the foregoing evening are still to be seen. Then somebody orders in a piano, and somebody else sits down and begins to play on it, and in another minute or two we are all dancing.
"I don't believe poor Mary Hamilton ever had your laughing eyes," says Sir Mark to me, during a pause in the dance. "She must have been a sadder, more sedate sort of person altogether. See how differently love works in different people."
"You forget she was unhappy in hers. Besides"—saucily—"how do you know love has anything to do withmyeyes?"
"I don't know, of course; am only supposing—-"
"Never suppose. It is foolish, and—fatiguing. Though now we are on the subject, Monsieur Chastelar, you shall give me your definition of the words 'to love.' If we may accept Whyte Melville's opinion of you, you must be a very competent judge."
"I have no theory of my own; I am a sceptic on that point. I will give you the orthodox definition if you wish, which everybody—in a novel—is bound to accept. It means, I fancy to merge your existence so entirely in that of another as to obliterate oneself and live only for him or her, as the case may be. Also, it would be strictly necessary to feel lost and miserable in the absence of the beloved one. You may callthatfatiguing if you please. Do you like the picture? Horrible, isn't it?"
"Not only horrible, but impracticable, I should say. I might manage to be supremely happy in the presence of the adored; I do not think I could be 'miserable' exactly in his absence." Then laughing, "Is that really 'pure love?' If so, I am a sceptic too. It would be absurdly weak-minded, and would confine one's happiness to too little a world, to indulge in such a belief. It must be wiser to take enjoyment as it comes in every way, and not be so hopelessly dependant on one."
"I entirely agree with you. Indeed I fancy most people would agree with you," replied Sir Mark, carelessly, looking straight before him, with so much meaning in his gaze that instinctively I follow it, until my eyes fall upon Lady Blanche Going, at the other end of the room.
Evidently tired and flushed from dancing, she has sunk with lazy grace into a low chair, and now, half turning, is laughing up into Marmaduke's face as he leans solicitously over her. Even as I look she raises her hand to repossess itself of the bouquet he holds, and to my impatience it seems that an unnecessarily long time elapses before the flowers go from his hand to hers.
My late careless frivolous words appear to mock me. Why does he look at her like that? Why is he always by her side? Are there no other women in the room?
I try to think of something gay and heartless to say to Sir Mark, but just at the moment nothing will come to me.
Again the vague jealously of the evening before returns in twofold force, and I bring my teeth rather tightly together. After all Marmaduke said to me on the balcony last night about making myself conspicuous with one, it is, to say the least of it, rather inconsistent with his own behavior now.
What a perpetual simper that woman keeps up, merely to show the whiteness of her teeth! How pleased 'Duke appears to be with her inane conversation! Now if I had ever loved him this probably would have vexed me, as it—-
Bah! Iwillthink of something else.
I turn to Sir Mark, with a very successful little laugh.
"A living illustration of my text," I say, bending my head in my husband's direction.
"Where? Oh! there." He stares at Lady Blanche reflectively for a minute or so, and then says, "She is certainly good-looking."
"'Good-looking!' How very faint! Surely she is handsome. Are you one of those who consider it impolitic to admire one woman to another?"
"As a rule I believe it to be a mistake," replies he, coolly; "but in this case I had no thought of policy. I am never quite sure that I do think her ladyship handsome. That she is generally thought so I admit. Marmaduke and she were always good friends."
"So I should say."
"At one time we imagined atendressethere, and dreamed of a marriage, but, you see, 'Duke was bent on doing more wisely."
"Thanks. That is a pretty put. Was thetendresseyou speak of on her side or his?"
"A mutual business, I fancy, if it existed at all. But, as we made a mistake in the principal part of it, we probably did so in all. Besides"lightly"I ought not to tell you all this Mrs. Carrington. Tales out of school are malicious. Such mere suppositions as they are too."
"Why surely I may congratulate myself on having gained a victory over so much beauty? It would be a pity to deny me this little gratification."
Nevertheless, at heart, I am sorely vexed, and, through pique and wounded feeling, make myself more than agreeable to Sir Mark for the evening. Not once does 'Duke come near me; nor does he even appear to notice my wilful flirtation.
Just before we break up, indeed, finding myself near to him in the supper-room, a strange desire to test his real mind towards me, to compel him to pay me some attention, seizes me. He is as usual in close attendance on Blanche Going, who has kept him chained to her side—willingly chained, without doubt—during the greater part of the evening.
Having dismissed my partner on some pretext, I look straight at Marmaduke, and, shivering slightly, say, "How cold it is!"
"Cold?" replies he, nonchalantly. "Is it? I thought it warm. Better send some one for a shawl. Here, Gore, will you get Mrs. Carrington something warm to put round her? She finds a draught somewhere."
And, as Sir Mark departs obedient, 'Duke turns once more to his companion, as though forgetful of my very existence. Lady Blanche smiles disagreeably.
Yesterday—surely only yesterday—he would have been kinder; he would have gone for this shawl himself How eagerly, with what extreme tenderness has he ever anticipated my wants! And now the attentions of a stranger are considered good enough for me. Is he tired of me already? Has he so soon discovered the poverty of my charms? Or has that old fascination returned with redoubled power, to make him regret what is, alas! irrevocable?
Sick at heart, and mortified to the last degree, I turn away, yet with lifted head and proud, disdainful lips, lest he or she should rightly guess my thoughts.
----
All the next day a marked coldness exists between me and my husband. We mutually avoid each other, and, the better to do so, fall back for conversation upon those nearest to us. The nearest to me, at all events, is Sir Mark Gore.
Not being by any means a "gushing" pair, this temporary estrangement is unnoticed by the greater part of our guests; to the few, however, it is plainly visible. Bebe sees it, and is vexed and troubled. Sir Mark sees it, and is curious. Lady Blanche sees it, and is triumphant. It is clear that, for whatever end she has in view, all things are working well. Once or twice during the evening I catch her eyes fixed upon me, and as I do so her glance falls slowly, while a malignant, insolent smile creeps round her mouth. At such moments I am pagan in my sentiments, and would, if it were possible, call down all evil things upon my enemy.
Next day, however, the clouds partially disperse. Naturally forgiving, I find a difficulty in maintaining wrath for any lengthened period, and Marmaduke appears only too glad to meet my advances.
The third day, indeed, all seems forgotten; our animosity is laid, and peace is proclaimed, This time, however, there has been no explanation, no kindly reconciliation, and only Marmaduke and I know that underneath our perfect amiability lies a thin stratum of ice, that any chance cold may harden into hopeless solidity.
----
"Phyllis, we have agreed to let the birds hold high holiday to-morrow, if you will promise us a picnic. It seems a pity to let this last glimpse of summer go by unmarked," says Marmaduke, speaking to me from the foot of the dinner-table.
"Oh, how delightful!" cry I, flushing with pleasure, and dodging all the flowers on the table to got a good look at his face. As he is also carefully dodging them in his turn, with the like laudable purpose of beholding me, it is some time before we manage it. When our eyes do meet we smile sympathetically.
I hardly know why I do so, but as I withdraw my gaze from Marmaduke I turn upon Sir Mark Gore, who sits at my right hand. The curiously cold, calculating expression I meet startles and somewhat displeases me.
"Do you not like picnics!" I ask him abruptly.
"Very much indeed. Why should you think otherwise?"
"Your expression just now was not one of pleasure."
"No? It ought to have been. I was inwardly admiring the charming enthusiasm with which you received your husband's proposition."
"Oh!" return I, curtly. "Yes. As I told you once before, when I am pleased I show it; I am more than pleased now; I am enchanted," smiling brightly at the thought. "Do you know I have not been at a picnic since I was a girl—that is, unmarried."
"Not since then? Why, you must almost forget what a picnic means. Shall I refresh your memory? It means salted pies, and sugared fowl, and indescribable jellies and warm fluids, and your knees in your mouth, and flies. I don't myself know anything more enjoyable than a picnic."
"Dear me, how I pity you! Whose picnics have you been at, may I ask?" inquire I with scorn. "To-morrow, I promise you, you shall see a very different specimen."
To-morrow comes to us as fine as though bespoken. Lady Blanche, walking into the breakfast-room in the most charming of morning robes, addresses herself to my husband.
"Well, most noble, what are your plans for to-day?" she asks, with a pretty show of animation.
Though I am in the room, and she knows it, she takes no notice of me whatever—does not even trouble herself so far as to bestow upon me the courtesy of a "good-morning." She looks up at Marmaduke, and smiles at him, and awaits his answer as though he alone were to be consulted. Evidently in her opinion the mistress of the house is of no importance a—mere nonentity in fact; the master is everything.
It occurs to me that she might be even gracious enough to smile in my direction, but she confines her attentions entirely to Marmaduke.
Has any one else in the room noticed her insolence. There is rather a hush I fancy, as I move composedly to my seat and alter the cups and saucers into more regular rows, I wonder curiously whether Marmaduke has remarked her breach of etiquette. Not he! What man ever saw anything wrong where a pretty woman is the transgressor, more especially when that pretty woman's blandishments are directed towards him? He gives back her smile placidly, and then speaks,—-
"I believe we have decided on a picnic."
"The picnic, of course. Butwhere?That is the question."
"Anywhere you like; I am yours to command."
"You really mean it? Then I should like to go right through the country to St. Seebird's Well. It is years since last I was there." She breathes a soft sigh, as though recalling some tender memory connected with her former visit.
"To the Wishing Well?" says 'Duke. "That is a long drive. The day is fine, however, and I see nothing to prevent our doing it. Can we manage it, do you think, Phyllis?"
"I see no obstacle in the way," I answer, indifferently, without raising my eyes.
"Then we may consider it a settled plan—may we, Mrs. Carrington?" says Lady Blanche, sweetly.
This time I do lift my head, and turn my eyes slowly upon her ladyship's.
"Good-morning, Lady Blanche," I say, quietly, and with the utmost composure. In spite of herself, she is disconcerted.
"Oh! good-morning," she says. "I quite fancied I had seen you somewhere before this morning."
"Did you? You take coffee, I think, Sir George? Dora, give Sir George some coffee."
"I think I deserve a vote of thanks for my suggestion." says Lady Blanche, recovering. "I feel in great spirits myself already. The drive will do us good, and make us all as fresh as possible."
"True," says Marmaduke; "we have not had a drive for some time. A picnic near home is, I believe, a mistake. It is a capital idea, Phyllis, is it not?"
He addresses himself to me in a rather anxious, not to gay conciliatory, tone: for the first time he becomes aware of my unusual silence.
"Excellent. Though for my part I hardly require a drive as a tonic. I am always as fresh as I can be." (I cannot resist this one little thrust.) "Mr Thornton,"—to Chips, who has just entered—"come and sit here by me: there is no more room."
For the first time in my life I feel my youth an advantage as I watch the faint color rise to her ladyship's cheeks. Her mouth changes its expression. It is no longer complacent. At this moment I feel she hates me with a bitter hatred, and am partly comforted.
A brief smile quivers beneath Sir Mark's moustache; it is scarcely there when it is gone again, and he drops his eyes discreetly on his plate.
"How shall we go?" asks 'Duke. "We have the coach, and your trap, Ashurst, and the open carriage: will that be enough? Harriet, what will suit you?"
"I shall stay at home, thank you," says Harriet, smiling. "I know I am letting myself down in your estimation horribly, but I confess I detest long drives. I believe I detest anything lengthened. I am naturally fickle." (She is the most sincere creature alive.) "I shall enjoy lounging about at home, looking at the flowers, and reading, and that."
"Indeed, Harriet, you shall not," cry I, impetuously. "We would all be miserable without you."
"That's a fact, Lady Handcock," puts in Chips, heartily.
"Chippendale, you almost make me relent," says Harriet, smiling. "But"—in a piteous aside to me—"do not compel me to go. It is twelve miles there, and twelve miles back, if it is a yard; just think of that. My poor back would not stand it. James shall go and represent me."
"Why not change the place, and name a spot nearer home?" says Dora, quietly. Dora always does the correct thing.
"Just so," exclaims Sir George, who would have thought Jericho a very convenient spot had Dora so named it. "We have another Wishing Well somewhere in the neighborhood; eh, 'Duke?"
"The Deacon's Well," says Sir Mark, "is only seven miles from this. Would that be too far, Lady Handcock?"
"I shall be quite unhappy if you make me the disturber of the peace," says Harriet, in comic despair. "Let me stay at home; I shall do very well; and at present I feel ashamed of myself."
"Nonsense!" says 'Duke. "If you don't come willingly we shall carry you. So you may at well make up your mind to visit the Deacon."
"And it is really the prettier well of the two," says Blanche, gracefully, as she sees her cause fall to the ground.
"Then you and Blanche can keep each ether company on the coach, Phyllis, and any one else that likes. Thornton shall have the horn; it is about the one instrument on which he can perform with marked success."
"I shall take the phaeton and ponies," say I, quietly "They have not been out for two days, and it will do them good. Exercise is the only thing that keeps them in order."
"Oh, nonsense, Phyllis! you will find it much pleasanter with Blanche and the rest of us."
"Without doubt; but then I have set my heart on driving my ponies. They are my hobby at present; so you must excuse my bad taste if I say I prefer being with them to even the good company you mention. That is, if I can get any one to come and take care of me."
"I shall be most happy, Mrs. Carrington, if you will accept me as your escort," says Sir Mark, instantly, as though desirous of being the first to offer his services.
Blanche Going raises her head and regards him fixedly. In the velvet softness of her dark eyes shines for an instant an expression that is half reproach, half passionate anger; only for an instant; then turning her glance on me, she meets my gaze full, and sneers unmistakably. I feel radiant, triumphant. At least I have it in my power to give her sting for sting.
"Thank you," I say to Sir Mark, with a beaming smile. "I shall feel quite safe and happy in my mind with you. At heart I believe I am a coward, so feel it pleasant to know there will be help at hand if the ponies prove refractory."
"You had better take a groom with you, Phyllis," says my husband, shortly.
"Oh, no, thank you. It will be quite unnecessary Sir Mark, I know, it as good as two or three grooms in a case of emergency."
"Nevertheless, I think you had better have a groom. Those ponies are generally skittish after an idleness. I shall tell Markharm to accompany you."
"Pray do not give yourself the trouble," I reply, obstinately: "I shall not need him. You do not think there is any cause for fear, do you, Sir Mark!"
"I think not. I think I am a match for your ponies at any moment," returns he, smiling.
"In my opinion grooms are a mistake in a small carriage" murmurs Lady Blanche, addressing the table generally. "There is something unpleasant in the fact that they are close behind one's back ready to hear and repeat every idle word one may chance to utter." Her smile as she says this is innocence itself.
"I fully agree with you," answer I, equitably; "though Sir Mark and I are above uttering anything idle."
Marmaduke frowns, and the conversation ends.
Meantime, the others have been eagerly discussing their plans. Sir George Ashurst has obtained a promise from Dora to take the seat beside him on his dog-cart. Harriet has decided on the open carriage, and declares her intention of calling and taking up mamma. Lord Chandos alone has had no part in the discussion.
Just then the door opens to admit Bebe, fresh and gay as usual. Positively we have all forgotten Bebe.
"Late—late—so late!" says she, laughing. "Yes, Marmaduke, I know it is actually shocking. Don't say a word, dear; your face is a volume in itself. Good-morning, every body. Phyllisyou don't look formidable. I shall have my chair near you."
The men rise and somebody gets her a seat.
"Bebe, we forgot you," cry I, contritely. "Where shall we put you now?"
"Put me?" says Babe, regarding her chair. "Why, here, I suppose."
"No, no; about our drive to the Wishing Well, I mean we have just been arranging everything, and somehow you got left out."
"I have still two seats at the back of my trap." says Ashurst; "will you accept one, Miss Beatoun? Ami Chandos can have the other."
The faintest possible tinge of color rises to Bebe's cheek.
"A back seat! Oh, Sir George, is that all you can offer me? I was never so insulted in my life. It is positively unkind. Marmaduke, why did not you look after my interests in my absence?"
"I don't know how it happened. First come first served I suppose"
"The unkindest cut of all. 'Duke, you are ungenerous, or else in a bad temper; which? However. I forgive you."
"I would give you the front seat," says good-natured George, "but I fear those very tiny little hands would never be able for the ribbons; and I have given the other to Miss Vernon."
"Miss Beatoun, have my place," says Thornton, eagerly. "I dare say Miss Hastings will get on without me, even if she comes; and Powell can blow the horn."
Dora comes forward gracefully. "Take mine," she says in spite of a reproachful glance from Sir George. "I don't in the least mind where I sit."
"Embarras des richesses!" cries Bebe, laughing, putting up her hands to cover her ears. "Not for all the world, Miss Vernon. Thank you very much all the same. Did you think I was in earnest? If the truth be told, I like nothing better than the back seat on anything, if the horses be fast. There is something delicious, almost sensational, in finding ourself flying through the air without seeing what is taking one. I only hope I shan't fall off."
"It will be Chandos's fault if you do," declares Sir George, "Do you hear, Chandos? You will have to keep your eyes open, and be careful every time we come to a corner."
Bebe colors again, and glances at Lord Chandos, who by a curious coincidence she finds glancing at her. Their eyes meet.
"Will you find the task too arduous?" she asks, mischievously, for once losing sight of her coldness.
"I will tell you that when we return," replies he, answering her smile.
Not until the others have well departed does Markham bring round the ponies; and as he puts the reins into my hands he utters a gentle warning.
"I thought it safer to let the other horses get a bit of a start first, ma'am," he says. "You might spare the whip to-day, I'm thinking; they're that fresh as it will give you enough to do to hold 'em."
"All right, Markham," says my companion, gayly; "I will see your mistress does not irritate them to madness."
The pretty animals in question toss their heads knowingly, then lower them, and finally start away down the avenue, round the corner, pass the beeches, and out into the open road.
The air is fresh and soft, the speed, to say the least of it enlivening, and for a mile or so I know thorough enjoyment then my arms, begin to drag.
"How they do pull!" I say, with a petulant sigh.
"Let me have the reins," exclaims Sir Mark, eagerly; "you will be exhausted if you try to hold those fretful creatures for the next six miles. You are hardly strong enough for the task." And, with a gesture that is almost relief I resign to him my seat.
"That would be the nearest road to Carston, supposing we had started from Summerleas," I say presently, as we come to one particular turn. "Oh, how often, long ago, I used to travel it! What years and years and years seem to have gone by since last spring! What changes have occurred! and yet in reality only a few short months have passed."
"Happy changes, I hope, Mrs. Carrington."
"For me? Yes, indeed. When first you knew me I was the most insignificant person among us at home, and now I think I have all I ever wished for." Sir Mark smiles.
"I never heard any one say that before. Of what use will the Deacon's Well be to you? Do you mean to tell me you have no wish left ungratified?"
"Well, perhaps there are a few things I would willingly put out of my way," I reply, with a faint recurrence in my own mind to Lady Blanche Going.
"Only things? You are unfortunate. When I go in for that useless sort of wishing, it is for people—notthings—I would have removed. Were I you, Mrs. Carrington, I believe I should live in a perpetual state of terror, waiting for some blow to fall to crush such excessive happiness. You know one cannot be prosperous forever."
"I never anticipate evil," return I, lightly. "Surely it is bad enough when it comes, without adding to it by being miserable beforehand. Why, how doleful you look? What is it? You remind me of some youthful swain in love for the first time in his life."
"Perhaps I am."
"In love? How amusing! With whom then? Bebe? Dora? Or some person or persons unknown? Come, surely you may confide with all safety in your hostess."
"She is the last person I would choose as a confidante on this occasion. The sympathy she would accord me would be very scanty."
"Oh, how unjust! Have I proved myself so utterly heartless? And is sympathy so very needful in your case—is it a hopeless one?"
"Quite so."
"Poor Sir Mark! 'If she be not fair to me, what care I how fair she be?' is a very good motto: why not adopt it, and—love again? I have heard there is nothing easier."
"Would you find it easy?"
"I don't know, having never tried. But if the love is to be unhappy, I wonder people ever let themselves fall into the snare."
"You speak as if you yourself were free from the gentle passion," says Sir Mark, with a searching look, under which I color and feel somewhat confused.
"We were talking of second lovers," I say, hurriedly. "One hears of them. I was advising you to turn your attention that way. Surely it would be possible."
"I don't believe in it; at least to me it would be impossible," replies Sir Mark, in a low tone, and silence falls upon me.
Once again I am in the ball-room at Strangemore, listening to a tale of early love. Is Sir Mark thinking of Marmaduke now, I wonder, and the story he then told me, of his old infatuation for his cousin Blanche? Was it more than an infatuation, a passing fancy? Was it an honest, lasting attachment? And have I secured but the tired, worn-out remnant of a once strong passion?
My changeful spirits, so prone to rise, so easy to dash to earth, again forsake me. Discontented and uncertain, I sit with lowered lids and fretful, puckered brow.
"Do you, then, think a man can love but once in his life?" I force myself to ask, though with open hesitation.
"But once? Is it not enough? Would you condemn any one to suffer the restless misery, the unsatisfied longing, a second time?" responds he moodily.
"No; but it is bad for those who come after," I reply with deep dejection.
"They must take their chance. The suffering cannot be all on one side. We must accept our share of misery, as it comes, with the best grace we can."
"I will riot," I cry, passionately. "All my life I have determined to be happy, and I will succeed. Whatever happens, whatever comes of it, I refuse to be miserable."
"What a child you are!" says he, almost pityingly.
"I am not. I am talking quite rationally. I firmly believe we all make half our own grievances."
"And what becomes of the other half?"
"Let us leave the subject," I say petulantly, ignoring my inability to answer him. "You are dull and prosy. If you insist on being a martyr, be one, but do not insist also on my following in your footsteps. Because you choose to imagine yourself unhappy, is no reason why I should not be gay."
"Certainly not," replies he, with increasing gloom, and brings the whip down sharply across the ponies' backs.
Instantly, almost as the lash touches their glossy skins, they resent the insult. The carriage receives a violent shock. They fling themselves backwards on their haunches, and in another moment are flying wildly on, regardless of bit or curb or rein.
As I realize the situation, I grow mad with fright. Losing all sense of self-control, I rise from my seat and prepare to throw myself out of the phaeton. Surely the hard and stony road must be preferable to this reckless deadly flight.
Seeing my intention, Sir Mark rises also.
"Phyllis, are you mad?" cries he, flinging his arms round me. "Your only chance is to remain quiet; Phyllis, be sensible. Sit down when I desire you."
There is an almost savage ring in his tone. He holds me fast and forces me down into my seat. I struggle with all my strength for a moment or two to free myself from his strong grasp, and then a coldness covers me, and I faint.
When my senses return to me, I find I am still in the carriage. The ponies are also to be seen, motionless in their places, except for the trembling that convulses their frames, while a fierce snort, every now and then, and tiny flecks of froth hither and thither and mingle with those already upon their backs and harness, betray their late panic. But we are safe, apparently, quite safe.
Sir Mark's arm is supporting me, while with his other hand he holds something to my lips. It is that detestable thing called brandy, and I turn my head aside.
"Take it," urges he, in a low, trembling tone; "whether you like it or not, it will do you good. Try to swallow some."
I do as I am bid, and presently, feeling better, raise myself and look around for symptoms of a smash.
"What have they done?" I ask, with a shudder, "Have they—-"
"Nothing," replies he, with a laugh that is rather forced. "It was a mere bolt. If you had not fainted you would have known it was all over in a few minutes."
"It was the whip," I whisper, still nervous.
"Yes; it was all my fault. I quite forgot Markham's caution. I have to apologize very sincerely for my mistake."
"Never mind apologies," I say, laughing, "as we are safe. I never remember being so terrified in my life, not even when my steed nearly deposited me in the middle of the High street in Carston. And you," I continue, in a half-amused tone, peering at him from under my hat—"you were frightened too? Confess it."
"I was," returned he, carefully evading my gaze.
"But why, if, as you say, there was no danger?"
"There are worse things than runaway ponies—your fainting, for instance. I thought you were never going to open your eyes again, you looked so horribly white and cold—so like death."
"What a lovely picture!" laughing voluntarily. "Well, console yourself; you have seen what nobody else ever saw Phyllis Carrington fainting. I had no idea I had it in me. I really think I must be growing delicate, or weak-minded."
In silence Sir Mark gathers up the reins, and once more the ponies start forward.
"Now, Dora can faint to perfection," I go on, finding immense enjoyment in my subject. "If she is vexed or troubled in any way, or hears thunder, she can go off gracefully into the arms of whoever happens to be nearest to her at the time. She never fails; it is indeed wonderful how accurately she can measure distance, even at the last moment. While as for me, I do believe if I were scolded until nothing more was left to be said, or if it thundered and lightened from this to to-morrow, it would not have the effect of removing my senses. At least up to this I have found it so. For the future I shall be less certain. But how silent you are, and how cross you look! Still thinking of the obdurate fair one?"
"Of her—and many other things."
"Well, perhaps she too is thinking of you."
"I can imagine nothing more probable," with a grim smile.
"Neither can I." My treacherous spirits are again ascending, "Let me describe her to you as at this moment I almost think I can see her. Seated in a bower, enshrined in roses and honeysuckles, with her hands folded listlessly upon her lap, and her large dreamy black eyes (I am sure her eyes are black) filled with repentant tears, she is now remembering with what cruel coldness she received your advances; while unmolested the pretty earwigs run races all over her simple white dress—simple but elegant, you know."
"H'm—yes."
"And now remorse has proved too much for her; she resolves on writing you a letter expressing contrition for her past heartlessness. She draws toward her paper, pens, and ink (in a three-volume novel the heroine has everything at her hand, even in the most unlikely places; there is never any fuss or scramble), and indites you a perfumed and coronetted note, which you will receive—to-morrow. There! Now, don't you feel better?"
"Infinitely so."
"What! still frowning? still in the lowest depths? I begin to doubt my power to comfort you."
"I don't feel any inclination to jest on the subject," returns Sir Mark, gruffly, making a vicious blow with the whip at an unoffending and nearly lifeless fly.
"Well, there," I gasp, in a sudden access of terror lest he might again incense the ponies, "I will jest no more. And don't despair. Perhaps—who knows?—she may grow fond of you in time."
He laughs, a short, bitter laugh that yet has something in it of dismal merriment. "If I could only tell you," he says, "if you only knew, you would understand what a double mockery are such words coming from your lips."
His fingers close around the whip again. Again frightened, I hastily clutch his arm.
"Don't do that," I entreat; "please do not use that dreadful whip again: remember the last time you did so we were nearly killed."
"I wish we had been altogether so," mutters he, savagely.
I stare at him in speechless surprise. Did that flask containmuchbrandy? What on earth has happened to our careless, debonair Sir Mark?
Even as I gaze in wonder, he turns his head and looks with some degree of shame into my widely-opened, astonished eyes.
"Pardon me," he says, gently. "I don't know what has come to me to-day. I fail to understand myself. I doubt I am an ill-tempered brute, and have hardly any right even to hope for your forgiveness."
But his manner has effectually checked my burst of eloquence, and we keep unbroken silence until we reach our destination.
Here we find Marmaduke and Lady Blanche anxiously on the lookout for us; the others, tired of waiting, have wandered farther afield. Marmaduke is looking rather white and worried, I fancy.
"What has kept you until this hour?" he asks, irritably, pulling out his watch.
"Oh, how long you have been!" supplements Blanche. "We were beginning to wonder—almost to fear an accident had occurred. It is quite a relief to see you in the flesh."
"You were very near not seeing us," I explain. "The ponies behaved very badly—ran away with us for half a mile or so—and frightened me so much that I fainted."
"How distressing!" says Blanche, apparently much concerned. "How terrified you must have been! And so unpleasant, too, without a lady near to help you! You were able to resuscitate Mrs. Carrington, at all events." (To Sir Mark.)
"Well, I don't suppose I would have been of much use without the brandy," replies he, coolly.
"It must have been quite a sentimental scene," remarks her ladyship, with a little laugh. "It reminds one of something one would read; only, to make it perfect, you should be lovers. Now that you are safe it does not seem unkind to laugh, does it?"
Marmaduke by this time is black as night. In spite of myself, I know I have blushed crimson; while Sir Mark, turning abruptly away, goes to explain some trivial break in the harness to one of the coachmen.
"It is a pity, Phyllis, you would not take my advice this morning," says 'Duke, in a voice that trembles a little, either from suppressed anger or some other emotion. "If you had taken a groom, as I begged of you, all this unpleasantness might have been saved."
"I don't see how a groom could have prevented it," I reply, coldly. "Without a second's warning they were off: it was nobody's fault."
"My dear 'Duke, we should be thankful they have escaped so well," murmurs Blanche, in her softest tones, laying a soothing touch upon my husband's arm. Both touch and tone render me furious. "I dare say it was not very serious."
"I dare say not; but it might have been. And, whether or not it has kept every one waiting for at least three-quarters of an hour."
"It might have kept you still longer had I been killed," I return, quietly, moving away in secret indignation.
Marmaduke follows me, leaving Blanche and Sir Mark to come after, and side by side, but speechless, we proceed on our way.
At length, in a rather milder tone, Marmaduke says, "I hope—otherwise—your drive was enjoyable."
"Very much so, thank you. Though I must say I don't care about feeling my life in danger. I hope you enjoyed yours."
"No"—shortly—"I did not. I never enjoyed anything less."
"How unfortunate! Was her ladyship thoughtful, or ill-tempered, or what?"
"She had nothing to do with it. I was thinking of you the entire time."
"Of me? How good of you! I am so sorry I cannot return the compliment, but no one was farther from my thoughts than you. Concluding you were happy, I dismissed you from my memory."
"I had a presentiment about those ponies."
"Ah! it was the ponies occupied your mind—not their mistress. That sounds far more natural."
"They are vicious, and not to be depended upon," continues 'Duke, declining to notice my interruption. "I shall dispose of them the very first opportunity."
"Indeed you shall do nothing of the kind. They are mine, and I will not have them sold."
"Well, keep them, if you insist upon it; but certainly you shall never drive them again."
"Then I certainly shall; and to-morrow, most probably I will not be ordered about as though I were a mere baby."
Marmaduke turns, and regards me so steadily and gravely, that at length, in spite of myself, my eyes submit and drop.
"Phyllis, how changed you are!" says he, presently, in a low tone. "When first I knew you—even two months ago—you were a soft, tender, gentle little girl; and now you are always unjust and bitter to me, at least."
Something rises in my throat and prevents my utterance. Large tears gather in my eyes.
"Iamchanged; I know it." I burst out, suddenly. "Before I married you I was a different person altogether. And how can I help being 'bitter' at times? Even now, when I told you how near death I had been, you showed no feeling of regret—thought of nothing but the delay I had occasioned you and your friends."
"Oh, Phyllis," says 'Duke, in a tone that implies that I have wrung his heart by my false accusations, and before either can again speak we have passed a hillock and are in full view of our guests.
They are all scattered about in twos or threes, though none are very far distant from the others; and the scene is more than usually picturesque. Certainly the old Deacon knew what he was about when he placed his well in this charming spot. It is a little fairy-like nook, fresh and green, and lying forgotten among the hills. A few pieces of broken-down, ivy-covered wall partially conceal the steps leading to the Wishing Well.
"'Duke, let us wish for dinner—and get it—before we wish for anything else," entreats Bebe. "The drive has given me a horrible appetite. I am generally a very nice person—eh, Mr. Thornton?—but just at present I am feeling a downright unladylike desire for food. Phyllis, darling, do say you are hungry."
"I am—starving" I reply, though conscious at the moment that the smallest morsel would choke me. "Yes, by all means. 'Business first, pleasure afterwards,'" quotes Chips, blithely, who is stretched full length by Miss Beatoun's side, with his hat off and a straw in his mouth, looking extremely handsome and unspeakably happy. Lord Chandos is at her other side, though rather farther away.
"What do you say, Phyllis?" says 'Duke, looking at me.
"Do not take me into consideration at all," I return in a suppressed voice. "Dinner now, or in five hours to come, would be quite the same thing to me."
I move quickly away from him towards mamma as I say this, and, sinking down on the turf very close to her, slip my hand into hers; and as I feel her gentle fingers closing upon mine, a sense of safety and relief creeps slowly over me.
Dinner progresses; and, though I will not acknowledge it, I begin to feel decidedly better. Fragments of conversation float here and there.
"I have a great mind to set my little dog at you," says Bebe, in reply to some flagrant compliment bestowed upon her by the devoted Chips. A littlebijouof a dog, with an elaborate collar and beseeching eyes, that sits upon her knee and takes its dinner from her pretty white fingers, is the animal in question.
"Oh, please don't," murmurs Chips, pathetically. "I am so horribly afraid of your little dog. You would not like me to die of nervous excitement, would you?"
"I am not so sure. It would make room for a better man."
"Impossible! There isn't a better fellow going than I am. You ask my mamma when you see her."
"I need not ask anybody; I can see for myself. What do you do all day long but play billiards?"
"I beg your pardon, Miss Beatoun. You estimate my capabilities at a very improper level. I do no end of things besides billiards. I shoot, smoke, eat, and—talk to you."
"What a way to spend one's life!" severely. "I wonder where you think you will go when you die?"
"I hope wherever you go. I say," piteously, "don't scold a fellow on such a splendid day—don't; it's uncommon afflicting of you; and don't put on your gloves for a little longer."
"Why?"
"Because I like looking at your hands, though at the same time they always irritate me. They are the very prettiest I ever saw; and—forgive me for saying it—but I always want to kiss them. Now, don't begin again, please; remember you have lectured me for a good hour.'
"Then I have wasted a good hour and done nothing I give you up; you are past cure."
"I remember coming here once before," breaks in Lottie Hastings's voice, "and wishing for something, and I really got it before the year was out."
"Must one wait a whole year?" asks Sir Mark. "Then I shall have to write mine down. Give you my word that if my own name was suppressed for a year I don't believe I would recollect what it was at the end of it."
"Are we bound by law to name our wishes?" asks Chips, earnestly. "Because, if so, I shall have to sink into the ground with shame. I'm horrid bashful—that is my most glaring fault, you know, Miss Beatoun—and I would not disclose my secret desire for anything you could offer."
"For anything I could offer," repeats Miss Beatoun. "Are you sure? Shall I tempt you? Would you not, for instance, take—-" The eyes say the rest.
"Don't," exclaims Thornton, putting his hands over his ears. "I won't listen to you. I refuse to understand. Miss Hastings, will you permit me to sit by you? Miss Beatoun is behaving with more than her usual cruelty."
"Come," says Miss Hastings, smiling and putting aside her dress to give him room to seat himself on the grass near her.
As Chips leaves Bebe, Lord Chandos quietly slips into his place, to Miss Beatoun's evident surprise.
"Is it fair to encourage that poor boy so very openly?" begins Chandos, calmly.
"What?" says Miss Beatoun.
"Is it kind to flirt so much with young Thornton?" repeats Lord Chandos, still perfectly calm.
"You must make a mistake," says Bebe, provokingly "You know I never flirt. In the first place, I don't consider it good form."
"Neither do I consider it 'good form' for a young lady to talk slang," very gravely and quietly. "I wouldn't do it if I were you."
"How do you know what you would do if you were I?"
"At all events, you must acknowledge that it is not becoming."
"Do you profess to understand what is becoming to young ladies? Have you been studying them? Come, then, if you are so good a judge, I will ask you to tell me if this hat is so very becoming as they all say. Look well, now, before you decide; it is a question of the utmost importance."
This saucy little speech is accompanied by such a bewitching glance from under the said hat that Lord Chandos loses his presence of mind. "I cannot bear to see you flirt so much as you do with every one," he mutters, hastily; "it tortures me. Bebe, why is it?"
Miss Beatoun grows decidedly white, even to her lips, yet is still thoroughly composed.
"But do I flirt?" she says. "I don't believe I do. Do you believe it, my darling, my treasure, my Tito?" to the dog. "Not you. No, no, Lord Chandos; it is not that at all."
"What is it then?" impatiently.
"Why, it is 'every one' who flirts with me, to be sure. And that is not my fault, is it?" with the most bewildering assumption of injured innocence.
And now we all rise and saunter towards the well.
"If you would only wish as I do," whispers Sir George to Dora, "I would be the happiest man alive."
"Would you?" says innocent Dora. "But how shall I know what you are longing for?"
"Can you not guess?"
"I am afraid I cannot. Unless, perhaps—but no, of course it would not be that. Indeed I do not know how to reach your thoughts. One must want so many things."
"I want only one."
"Only one! Oh, how moderate! Only one! Let me see," with a delicious meditative air, and two slender fingers pressed upon her lips.
"Shall I tell you?"
"Oh, no, no," with a pretty show of eager fear. "If you told any one the charm would be broken, and you would not get what you want. Perhaps—who knows?—the boon I am going to demand will be the very thing you would tell me." This with a sufficiently tender glance from the lustrous azure eyes.
"For my part," says Bebe, wilfully. "I shall wish for something I can never get, just to prove how absurd it all is."
"From time to time we every one of us do that," says Chandos. "We hanker after the impossible. I begin to fear I shall never get my heart's desire."
He glances expressively at Bebe.
"Then think of something else," suggests that young lady, smoothly. "Your second venture may be more successful."
"No, I shall keep to my original wish, until I either gain it or else find further hoping folly."
"Phyllis, it is your turn now. Will you not descend and court fortune?" calls Harriet.
I am deeply engaged listening to mamma while she reads to me Billy's last effusion from Eton, to which place he returned the second day after our ball.
"It is a pity to disturb Mrs. Carrington," says Sir Mark. "She told me this morning she had not a wish left ungratified."
Marmaduke raises his head quickly, and, flushing warmly turns a pleased and rather surprised glance at me.