"Nevertheless, I will come," I cry incautiously, springing to my feet, "and beg for the continuance of my happiness, which includes everything."
"Oh, Phyllis!" cries Bebe.
"Oh, Mrs. Carrington," exclaims Sir Mark; "what a rash proceeding! Why did you say it aloud? You have destroyed every chance of receiving that good gift."
"Yes," say I, "how provoking! Never mind, contentment still remains: and that, I have heard, is quite as much to be desired."
Everybody laughs heartily, and Marmaduke says, "You will get nothing, Phyllis, if you declare your wants so openly."
"Neither happiness nor contentment, how dismal!" exclaim I, laughing too. "Well, I shall keep my third and last thought to myself."
And having hoped in my own mind that Lord Chandos would very soon again ask Bebe to be his wife, I go through the form of drinking a little of the pure spring water Master Chips offers me with due solemnity.
The principal business of the day being concluded, our party once more breaks up into detachments, some straying out of sight in pretended search of scenery, some following their example in an opposite direction without any pretense at all.
Sinking down again by mother's side, I content myself with her and Harriet, while Marmaduke and Sir James stay to bear us company, and smoke unlimited cigars, while offering a lazy remark every now and then.
"Do you feel no desire to investigate the neighborhood?" asks Sir Mark of me, carelessly, as he passes by; and as I answer, "No," with a smile and shake of my head, he saunters off towards Lottie Hastings, with whom he commences a flirtation, calm but vigorous.
Somehow it is a peaceful hour we spend, and one that drives me from the vague irritation that before tormented me. In the quiet of the present I forget all life's vexations, and remember only such good things as are within my grasp. How paltry now seem the troubles that oppress me! I fear—yet know not what it is I fear. I doubt—yet, if compelled to do so, would find a difficulty in giving my doubt a name.
This sweeter mood continues, and travels home with me, although we do not reach Strangemore until it is nearly nine.
Here, at an early supper, we all find ourselves in the wildest spirits. Glancing curiously at Dora, attracted by some nameless new expression in her eyes, I feel convinced the day has been to her one of unmixed triumph, and that already the Wishing Well has granted her desire.
As I get near her in the drawing-room, I manage to whisper, "What is it, Dora? did he? Are you—-"
"Yes hedid, and Iam" responded Dora, with a smile of unusual liveliness for her. "To-night you shall know all."
----
"How was it, Dora? How did it happen?" I ask, two hours later, as I sit opposite to her, my hands embracing my knees, in my favorite position, my head bent forward in eager anticipation of her news.
"I hardly know. It was all that Wishing Well, I fancy. For the future I shall feel it my duty to be superstitious. At all events, it surely helped to bring it about, as he only wanted the opportunity to declare himself," says Dora, complacently.
"What did he say, Dora? Was he nervous—or—-"
"Very nervous. He seemed quite afraid to come to the point. You see I am always so distant in my manner," says my modest sister, "he had no way of judging what my answer was likely to be."
"I am sure whatever he said was just what it should be, he is so thoroughly sincere," I remark, still anxious to get at the root of the matter.
"I am afraid I cannot altogether satisfy your curiosity Phyllis, it has all got so mixed up. Of course he told me principally what I knew before—that he adores me, for instance, and was desirous of marrying me, and so forth. Ha was slightly incoherent, I thought; but it really signified very little whether his English was good or bad, so long as I managed to understand what he meant."
"Of course not, darling. Oh, Dora, I am so sorry we let mamma go without telling her."
"I did tell her, dear. At least, that is, he—George told her." She brings out the Christian name of her beloved with a charming amount of diffidence. "He said he would like to make sure of me; and indeed I thought myself it might perhaps be as well he should be the one to mention it to her as a settled thing. You understand?"
I do, and begin to entertain rather an admiration for Dora's astuteness.
"You will forgive me now, Dora?" I say, suddenly leaning over to put my hand on hers.
"Forgive you? Forgive what?"
"Well, dear, when I married 'Duke, you know, I thought you were rather vexed—you said so many things; and sometimes I have fancied, since, you still think I was in the wrong."
"My dear Phyllis, what a curious girl you are! 'Forgive you!' as if I had not done so, ages and ages ago—if indeed there was anything to forgive. Surely you couldn't have thought me so vindictive, so unchristian, as to retain bitter feelings against you all this time?"
She has opened her childish blue eyes to their widest, and is gazing at me plaintively, as though grieved I should imagine her capable of any vile feeling.
"I sometimes feared—-" I stammer, utterly abashed in the presence of so much sweetness.
"You must put such ideas out of your head, Phyllis; they are very unworthy. I never harbor unforgiving thoughts, I should hope, towards any one—least of all towards you, my sister. Besides, I ought really to be thankful to you, if anything. Marmaduke and I would have been most unsuited to each other. He is far tooexigeantand masterful for my taste. George is in every way more desirable."
I don't quite see all this, but reserve my sentiments.
"He is greatly to be liked," I say, with truth—honest, good-natured George Ashurst having won his way into my affections long since. "I don't know that I was ever more delighted about anything in my life."
"Yes, everybody will be pleased, I imagine—papa and mamma especially. I don't see how papa can make the faintest objection in any way. He must be gratified."
I think of Sir George's rent-roll, and have the words, "I should think so, indeed," upon the tip of my tongue, but, being desirous of keeping up friendly relations with Dora, refrain from uttering them. She evidently takes her good fortune as a matter of course, having ever rated herself at a high price, and believes she has got her bare deserts—no more.
"I hope you—that is, I hope he will be very good to you," I say, making the correction in time.
"I hope we will be very good to each other. Indeed, I see nothing to prevent our being quite happy and—comfortable. Don't you think he appears very fond of me?"
"More than that: I think he appears to love you very dearly."
"Yes, I really think he does," says my sister, running her fingers lazily through her silken yellow hair.
"And you, Dora—do you love him?"
"Of course, dear. Would I marry him else? Am I the sort of person to sell myself for mere money's sake?" Indignation of the mild and virtuous order is in her tone. "No," says Dora, calmly looking me fair in the eyes, "I would not marry a man unless I loved him—not if he had the mines of Golconda."
This ennobling sentiment is, I feel, aimed at me, and justly judge it will be unwise to press the matter farther: so I say, "I am so glad, darling!" but say it very weakly.
"Nevertheless," goes on Dora, after a moment's pause, "as I do love him, it is very fortunate he should be so well off. Yesterday he told me he had twenty thousand pound a year. Rather more than you have, dear, is it not?"
No, Dora has not yet forgiven me.
"A great deal more," I say, warmly; "we have only fifteen thousand. But then, Dora, it was only to be expected you would make a far better match than I could."
"Well, yes—perhaps so," admits Dora, casting an admiring glance at her own pretty shell-pink face as it smiles back at her from an opposite mirror.
The door opens, and Marmaduke comes in. "Oh, 'Duke," I cry, rising, "just fancy! Dora is—but you shall guess my news—what is she?"
"That is a rather embarrassing question," says he, smiling. "Were I to tell you all that Dora is in my eyes, we would get no sleep to-night."
Dora laughs, and I say:—-
"Nonsense! A list of her perfections would be no news; we all know them. Tell me what you think has occurred to her since this morning."
"I think she has become engaged to George Ashurst," returns 'Duke, coolly. "Why, you foolish child, do you call that news? Ashurst has told every one in the house of his good luck by this time. If I were you, Dora, I would breakfast in my own room to-morrow morning. You will never be able to stand all the congratulations."
"How can he be so absurd?" murmurs Dora, for once in her life genuinely confused, and a rich red coloring her cheeks.
"I congratulate you with all my heart," says 'Duke, kindly, kissing her. "You have got as good a husband as any girl could desire, and as rich a one, too, without doubt. We shall be small people, Phyllis, you and I, next to my Lady Ashurst."
"I must not stay to hear any more flattery. Thank you very much for all you have said," replies Dora, gracefully, and, having bidden us both good-night goes off to her own room.
Every one in the house is immensely delighted. An engagement, even when everything belonging to it goes smoothly, and suitably, cannot fail to awaken interest in the heart of a woman; and, Dora's lover being uncoveted by any of us, no jealousy shows itself to mar the universal good feeling.
We chatter about it all next day, and tell each other we had seen how it would end from the very beginning. We dilate on the charming place he has in Surrey, his palace in the North; and then we whisper of what a detestable creature is his mother; while Bebe hopes Dora will have courage to put a veto at once against any lengthened visiting on her part.
"Because," says Miss Beatoun, "weallknow wherethatwill lead. When Ashurst's brother married Lady Octavia Dering, his mother invited herself to pay them a month's visit; and she stayed ten; and it was the doctor and the nurse, eventually, who insisted on putting her out, shortly after the boy was born. They say poor Lady Octavia nearly went out of her mind one morning when, on going into her nursery, she found the old lady deliberately pouring some nauseous allopathic medicine down the child's throat. Octavia told me herself, with tears in her eyes, the poor little fellow was all but in a fit for two hours afterwards. She is really a very shocking old person, and should be suppressed. I do hope dear Dora will gather together all her pluck and try to be a match for her."
Secretly, I feel so assured of dear Dora's being a "match" for any mother-in-law alive that I endure no uneasy pangs on this count. She bears the congratulations and the little good-natured banterings admirably, is modest without being stupidly shy, and prettily conscious without betraying any symptoms ofgaucherie. She is indeed as perfect in her newroleof bride-elect as though she had sustained the part for years.
"Sir George must be a favorite with the gods: let us hope he won't die young," says Sir Mark, bending over Dora some time during the evening, "He has had everything he could possibly desire from his cradle upwards—money, friends, position; and now he must getyou. I think"—in a playfully injured tone—"the good things of this life are very unequally divided. In common justice, Ashurst should have been forced into matrimony with a woman as ugly, ill-tempered, and altogether disenchanting as—his manners, instead of which—-"
He sighs audibly, and makes an eloquent pause.
Dora smiles, her usual soft serene smile, untouched by coquetry that experience has taught me means so little—and raises one white hand in deprecation. Dora's hands are faultless, filbert-nailed, creamy-white, pink-tinged, with just sufficient blue tracery of the most delicate kind here and there to call attention to their beauty.
"IsLady Ashurst all that you say?—soveryterrific? How unhappy you make me!" she murmurs, plaintively, demurely ignoring other parts of his speech.
Fresh and keen, and decidedly chilly, blows the October wind. The men have all deserted us, and gone out shooting. The women are scattered through the house.
Crossing the hall and the smaller drawing-room, I meet no one, and entering the larger apartment beyond, seek my favorite seat in the bow-window, where, book in hand, I ensconce myself behind the curtains, and, stretching myself upon a lounge, prepare to be lazily happy. The lace draperies falling round me entirely conceal me from view; I can see right into the conservatory without turning my head, and the seductive breath of flowers stealing towards me adds one more thrill to my enjoyment.
Steadily I turn page after page. I feel I am growing interested, a very little later I feel I am growing sleepy. My lids droop. Putting my book down, upon my lap, with of course the settled intention of taking it up again directly, I yawn mildly.
The door opens: with a start I become aware of Bebe's entrance. To admit I am present means conversation—and conversation with this drowsy fit upon me means misery. I therefore keep breathless silence, and Bebe, all unconscious, saunters past me, basket and scissors in hand, goes into the conservatory.
I watch her dreamily, as with a business-like air she drags the light garden-ladder forward, and, mounting, commences to clip my very choicest blossoms for her own secret purposes.
One by one they fall into her basket. Has she no conscience? Or has she forgotten it is already October, and the flowers grow scarce? I confess to some faint indignation as I regard her, and have almost decided on rousing to remonstrate with her in person, when a firm but hasty footstep upon the gravel outside excites my curiosity.
A moment later Lord Chandos pushes open the door of the conservatory, and, entering, stops short, his gaze fixed upon Miss Beatoun.
As for Bebe, between looking suddenly round and surprise at his unexpected presence there, she loses all idea of balance, and is in the act of coming with undue hurry to the ground, when Lord Chandos, stepping quickly forward, catches her and lifts her lightly down. Perhaps he is a trifle longer in the performance of this deed than is strictly necessary.
"Oh! how could you frighten one so?" exclaims Bebe, coloring, and speaking ungratefully, as it seems to me, considering he has just saved her from a heavy fall. "I thought you were out shooting with the others."
"So I was; but—I forgot something, and had to return for it."
"What did you forget?—your pipe?"
"No, my gun," replies he, in the most barefaced fashion possible.
"Oh! cries Miss Beatoun lengthily, and then they both laugh.
"Why don't you admit at once you had no intention of shooting to-day? It would have been much honester."
"Because admissions are dangerous. It is always better policy to leave people in doubt. Yet, as I never class you in my own mind under the head of 'people,' I will confess to you it is not so much forgetfulness causes my presence here just now as a settled determination not to remember. My conscience was anything but clean when I said I had mislaid something, and should come back to find it."
"Was it really your gun?"
"No; I think I put it on cartridges, or a handkerchief, or—I am not clear what."
"And why? What was your motive? I fancied you an indefatigable sportsman—one impossible to turn aside from your prey."
"Shall I tell you my motive?" asks Chandos, in such an utterly changed low tone that Miss Beatoun, standing near the ladder, lays her hand suddenly upon it to steady herself, and retreats a step.
"Better not," she says, in a voice that trembles apprehensively, in spite of all her efforts to be calm. "Remember what you said a moment since: 'Admissions are dangerous.' Better leave me in doubt."
"I cannot. Besides, you are not in doubt. You know what it is I am going to say. I have come back here again to-day to tell you how I have tried, and found it impossible, to crush the love I bear you."
At this juncture I become aware I am in for a scene. The certainty is horrible to me. I am in such an unhappy position as enables me to see them without myself being seen. I can also hear every word they utter. In fact, there are but very few yards between us.
With shame I now recollect that Bebe once said of me that never would I be accused of "pouncing" upon delicate situations; yet, if I go out now, I shall cover them both with everlasting confusion.
What shall I do? I put my fingers in my ears as a last resource and tightly close my eyes, but somehow they will not keep shut. Every now and then I cannot help glancing to see if they are gone or going—I cannot resist removing my fingers to hear if the conversation has taken a cooler turn.
Every moment I linger only makes my declaring myself more difficult. I end by giving in, and staring and listening with all my might.
"Ah! why does Bebe look so determined? Why can't she yield gracefully and be happy? I would at once, were I in her place, and feel no degradation in so doing. She is flushed and miserable to look at, her large eyes seeming larger and darker than usual through pained excitement. Yet still there is so much mistaken pride impressed upon her features as makes me fear for the part she will take in the interview. If she would but listen to her heart's dictation!
"Lord Chandos, I implore you to desist," entreats Bebe, hastily, raising one hand, to prevent his further speech. "It is worse than useless."
But he only imprisons the warning hand and continues: "Nay, hear me—that is all I ask—and then, if I am again to be rejected, be it so. But surely I have been wretched long enough, and you—-"
"I will not listen," murmurs Bebe, more deeply agitated. "The answer I gave you when you were poor is the only answer I can ever give you now." Her voice dies way, almost to a whisper.
"What do you mean by that?" exclaims Chandos, passionately. "Is the very money that I hailed with delight, principally because I dreamed it might bring me closer to you, to prove a barrier between us? Presumptuous as it may sound, I dare to believe I am not quite indifferent to you. Your manner when we parted, your eyes when we met again down here, have fostered this belief, and yet you shrink from me."
A little inarticulate cry escapes her. One hand goes to her throat; she tries vainly to withdraw the other from his grasp.
"Contradict me—if you can," he says, in a low but vehement tone.
"This is ungenerous—unmanly," she falters, her words half choked with emotion.
"Contradict me," he reiterates.
"I can; I do," murmurs she, but so weakly that her voice can scarcely be heard.
"Is that the truth, Bebe?" says Chandos, more quietly. "Is pride to come between us now? Darling, listen to me. If you for one moment imagine I think badly of you because you refused to marry a poor man, you wrong me. I think you acted rightly. Even as I asked you that day I felt myself a coward in doing so. Was it honorable of me to seek to drag you down from all the luxuries and enjoyments to which you had been accustomed, to such a life as it was only in my power to offer? Had your answer been different, do you believe we would have been happy? I do not."
"You strike at the very root of all romance," protests Bebe, with a rather sad smile.
"I decline to countenance a great deal of rubbish," returns he vigorously. "Poverty is the surest foe that love can have, I stoutly maintain, in spite of all the poets that ever wrote. But now that it no longer stands in the way, Bebe, be my wife, and let us forget the past."
"Do you think we should either of us ever forget it?" demands she, raising a small white mournful face to his. "Do you not see how it would come between us every hour of our lives? Even supposing what you say to be true, that I love you, it would be all the greater reason why I should now refuse to be persuaded into doing as you wish. Could I bear to know, day by, that my husband thought me mercenary?"
"Mercenary! I shall never think you that. How could I? How could any man blame you for shrinking from such a selfish proposal as mine? I tell you again I think you behaved rightly in the matter."
"Very rightly, no doubt, and very wisely, and very, prudently—for myself," replies Bebe, in a cold, bitter way "Why seek to disguise the truth? If it be true what you have supposed, that I returned your affection, I only proved myself one of those who fear to endure even the smallest privation for the sake of him they love; and what a love that must be!" She laughs contemptuously. "I fear, Lord Chandos, I am not of the stuff of which heroines are made."
"If, as you hint, I am wrong," exclaims Chandos, eagerly catching at a last chance, "if all along I have been deceiving myself in the belief that you cared for me, let me begin again now, and at least try to obtain your affection. If, when—-"
"Enough has been said," interrupts she, icily—"too much. Let my hand go, Lord Chandos. I want to find Mrs. Carrington."
(Mrs. Carrington is almost on the verge of lunacy by this time between fright and disappointment.)
"Is there, then, no hope?" asks Chandos, sternly. "Am I to understand that you again reject me?"
"Yes, as you put it in that light. It is your own fault," bursts out Bebe, passionately. "I told you not to speak."
"Had all the world told me the same thing, I would still have spoken. Death itself is preferable to suspense. If my persistence has caused you any annoyance, Miss Beatoun, I beg you will forgive me."
"I too would be forgiven," falters Bebe, putting out a cold white hand. As he stoops to kiss it she goes on, faintly: "Will you promise me to forget you ever cared for me—in this way?"
"Impossible," returns he, abruptly, and turning, walks out of the conservatory through the door by which he entered.
Now, is it not provoking? I feel my heart touched with pity for Lord Chandos, with resentment towards his cruel love, until, glancing towards the latter, who has stood motionless since his departure, with head bent and hands loosely clasped, the resentment fades, and compassion of the deepest takes its place.
I would give all the world to be able to go, meet and comfort her, to twine my arms around her neck, to express my sympathy. But how can I? What a treacherous creature she would think me! How mean! nothing but a pitiful eavesdropper. Slowly she raises her head, and, breathing a heavy sigh, advances until she stands within the drawing-room.
She is awfully close to me now: I can almost touch her. How on earth am I to meet her again with this secret on my mind? If I go on feeling as I do now, I shall betray my self a thousand times within an hour.
Two large tears gather in her eyes and roll mournfully downwards.
I can bear it no longer. Whatever comes of it, I must make my presence known, and, springing from my couch, I dash aside the thick lace curtains and reveal myself.
Uttering a sharp cry, she recedes a little, then checks herself to stare at me with mingled haughtiness and astonishment.
"Yes, I was here all the time," I cry, imploringly, "and I heard every word. I was lying on this sofa, and nothing escaped me. Of course you will never forgive me for it, but indeed I did not mean to listen."
"Oh, Phyllis?"
There is such a world of reproach in her tone that I become distracted. I move towards her and break into a speech of the most incoherent description, my words tailing from me with the rapidity of desperation.
"Yes, it is true," I say. "You may look at me as if you hated me, but what was I to do? When first you came in I was in a dozy, half sleepy sort of state, and not until you and Chandos were in the very middle of your discussion did I fully awake to the horrors of my situation. Had I declared myself then, it surely would have been worse; and, besides, I hoped, I believed you would have been kind to him at the end, and dreaded lest my unexpected appearance should put a stop to his proposal. However"—pathetically—"I suppose you will never forgive me."
"Oh, Phyllis, it is all over now!" is poor Bebe's unlooked-for reply, as she throws herself into my arms, with a burst of grief. She is forgetful of all but her trouble. How paltry a thing in comparison with it is my small misdemeanor!
"No, no," I reply, soothingly, patting the back of her neck, which is all I can get at. "Remember the very last thing he said—that it would be 'impossible' to forget you."
"Ah! so he said. But when he has time to reflect will see how cold and detestable were my words. He will be glad of his escape from any one so unloving. I myself wonder now, Phyllis, how I could have so spoken to him."
"I could have killed you as I listened," I say, vindictively. "How you brought yourself to behave so badly to the dear fellow is more than I can understand. And he looked so nice all the time, and was so delightfully in earnest! Oh, I know I would have given in long before he had time to say one-half what he said to you. Bebe, what made you so cold? I could have gone in and shaken you with all my heart."
"I wish you had," replies she, dolefully. "Yet, perhaps things are better as they are. At all events, he cannot think meanly of me. I have shown him that, whatever else I may be, I am not a mere money-lover."
"Well, for all that, I think it a foolish thing to cut off one's nose to vex one's face," return I, with much truth and more vulgarity.
"I am not vexing any one," says Bebe.
"Yes, you are. You meant to vex Lord Chandos, and you succeeded. And you are vexing yourself dreadfully. And all for what? For the miserable thing called pride. Now, I never had any of that troublesome commodity about me, and I believe the want of it adds greatly to one's enjoyment."
"Had I accepted him I would have been wretched," murmurs she, with a sigh. Then, breaking down again: "And now that I have refused him, I am wretched too; so there is no comfort anywhere."
"I shall always for the future hate that conservatory," exclaim I, half crying. "And what was the use of my wishing at the Deacon's Well, if this is the only answer I am to receive?"
"Was your wish about me?"
"Yes. I hoped Lord Chandos would again ask you to marry him. And see, it has happened. I forgot to wish at the same moment that you might be endowed with a little common sense. It never occurred to me that you would be rash enough to murder your happiness a second time."
"What a good little thing you are, Phyllis, to think about it at all! Well, let us not speak of it again to-day. I do not choose he shall see me with reddened lids, like a penitent. And if I cry any more I shall have to borrow some rouge from the blooming Going to color my pale cheeks. See, I still can laugh!"
"You will marry him yet," retort I, with conviction, refusing to notice the negative shake of the head she bestows upon me as she quits the room.
"Harriet, I am freezing rapidly: will you ring the bell, as you are so near it, and let us get some more coals? Tynon seems to think we require none."
Harriet withdraws her hand reluctantly from where it is lying, warm and perdu, beneath the silky Skye snoozing on her lap, and does as she is bidden.
It is terribly cold. Suddenly, and without the usual warning, winter has come upon us. We sit shivering around the fire, and abuse unceasingly the roaring logs because they won't roar faster.
Already my guests talk of leaving; already countless invitations to spend the coming Christmas in the homes of others have reached Marmaduke and me. Indeed, Harriet and Bebe—whose mother does not return to England until the coming spring—will take no refusal.
Dora's marriage is arranged to come off about the middle of the ensuing month; and even now the illustrious personage who deigned to make me presentable on my entrance into fashionable life is busying herself about thetrousseau. It seems to me a dreary month in which to celebrate a wedding, but Sir George and Dora do not see it in this light, and talk gayly of all the delights to be called from a winter in Rome.
"Where is Lady Blanche?" I ask, suddenly awakening to the fact that for some hours I have not seen her.
"She complained of a headache shortly after the departure of the shooting-party," says Dora, who is as usual tatting, "and went to her own room."
"Dear me! I hope it is nothing serious," I say, anxiously, my conscience accusing me of some slight neglect, "I thought she did look rather pale when I met her in the hall."
"I don't think you need be uneasy, dear," remarks Harriet, mildly, with a suspicious twinkle in her eyes; "Blanche's headaches never come to anything. Probably she will be quite herself again by dinner-time."
"Perhaps she felt a little dull—when the gentlemen were gone," suggests dear Dora, very innocently, without raising her white lids.
Harriet laughs maliciously, and pulls her Skye's ears; and, thus encouraged, our gentle Dora smiles.
"It seems rude, though, not to inquire for her, does it not?" say I, with hesitation. "I think I will just run up and ask it there is nothing that I can do for her."
So saying, I put down my work—a wonderful piece of imagination in the shape of a beaded collar for Cheekie, Bebe's fox-terrier, which ever since its arrival has evinced a decided preference for me beyond its mistress—and, going upstairs, knock at the door of the "round" room that Blanche occupies.
"Come in," returns her ladyship's voice, carelessly, evidently thinking she is addressing one of the domestics.
I turn the handle and enter.
At the farther end of the room, robed in a pale blue dressing-gown richly trimmed with lace, sits Blanche, looking by no means so ill as I had expected to see her. Indeed, the clearness of her eyes and the general air of liveliness about her agree badly with her tale of a headache.
She has before her a tiny writing-table, and in her hand a very elaborate pink sheet of note-paper, heavily monogrammed. It is covered with close writing, and as I open the door she is in the act of folding it. As her eyes meet mine, however, with a sudden want of presence of mind, scarcely worthy of her, she hesitates, and finally ends by putting it hastily between the leaves of her blotter.
She has flushed slightly, and looks put out. Altogether, I cannot help seeing that my visit is as ill-timed as it is unwelcome.
She rises to meet me, and in doing so throws a goodly amount of elegant languor into her face and form.
"I was sorry to hear of your not feeling well," I hasten to say as sympathetically as I can. "I came to see if I could do anything for you."
"So good of you"—with a weary smile—"so kind to take all this trouble! But, thank you, no. I am a perfect martyr to these attacks, and I find when seized with one that rest and entire freedom from conversation are my only cures. I have such a wretched head," putting her hand pathetically to her forehead. "At such times as these I am utterly useless, and the worst companion possible."
"A headache must be a miserable thing," say I, thinking all the while how uncommonly well she bears hers.
"Yes," resignedly. "You never have one, I suppose."
"Oh, never; I hardly know what it means—the sensation you speak of. I am so desperately healthy, you see. I dare say it comes from living in the country all my life and never keeping late hours. Perhaps"—smiling—"when I get to London I shall learn all too soon."
"I hope not, for your own sake."
"I fear you will be terriblyennuyeeup here all by yourself. If you would come down to the library it would be so much more cheerful for you. There is a good lounge there; and you need not talk unless you wish it."
"Thank you very much, but indeed I am better where I am. I hate inflicting myself upon my friends when I am so hopelessly out of spirits. Perhaps by and by—towards evening—I shall lose this feeling of heaviness. I generally do, indeed, if I remain perfectly quiet during the day. Until then, dear Mrs. Carrington, I must ask you to excuse me. But"—going back to her own seat, withdrawing the coquettish little note from its concealment, and proceeding to fold it into a cocked-hat with elaborate openness—"will you not sit down for a few minutes?"
I accept the hint.
"No, indeed. I will leave you to get a little sleep, so that we may be the more sure of seeing you among us this evening."
Much pleased with this speech, which sounds to my own ears particularly graceful, I move towards the door and vanish.
"Well, how is she?" asks Bebe, coming upon me unexpectedly, and speaking in a suppressed and agitated tone, as though some one were dead or dying in the next room. "Is she anything better, poor darling? Does the doctor hold out the faintest chance of her recovery I Speak, and relieve my burning anxiety!"
"I don't believe she is ill at all," I return, in high disgust. "She looks perfectly well, and her color quite as bright as ever."
"A hectic flush, dearest. I fear our sweet friend is in a bad way. How could you look at her without seeing the ravages of disease? Dear Phyllis, I doubt you are sadly wanting in discernment. What did our 'stricken deer' say to you?"
"Oh, she put on an affected drawl, and called herself a wretched being, and pressed her forehead tragically, and was meekly resigned in every way, and looked most provokingly healthy all the time. I know I was not half at sympathetic as I ought to have been."
Bebe breaks into merry laughter. We have turned a corner, and are on our way downstairs by this. "Look here, Phyllis!" cries she: "you may take my word for it, the fair Blanche is this moment in as sound health as you or I."
"But why, then, immure herself in her room and act the martyr?"
"Tired of our company, probably, dear. We all understand Blanche's vapors by this time. The men have gone out, you see, not to return until dinner-hour, and women are so terribly insipid. My lady's dresses want renovating, it may be, and surely this a capital opportunity to see to them.Voila-tout."
"And could she not say so? Why tell a lie about such a trifle?"
"Blanche has a talent for lying. A pity to let it run altogether to waste, is it not? She enjoys a little mystery now and then; and, besides, she would die of chagrin if she thought we knew she even spent an hour upon the doing up of her things. We all have our 'little weaknesses,'" says Miss Beatoun, comically, as we enter the drawing-room.
Somehow, the remembrance of that pink note and the faint confusion exhibited by Blanche Going on my entrance into her room lingers in my mind. I feel a vague dislike to that monogrammed epistle. For whom was it meant?
Off and on during the remainder of the day this question haunts me, and only a supreme effort of the will prevents my connecting it with the name of "Marmaduke."
Surely, surely, I cannot be becoming that most detestable of all things, a jealous, suspicious wife!
I am unhappy and restless in spite of all my endeavors to be otherwise. I wander through the house conversing with feverish gayety with any one I chance to meet, longing eagerly, I scarcely know why, for the return of the sportsmen. Yet, as the twilight falls and the shades of evening gather, instead of waiting for their coming, I have Dora in full possession of the tea-tray, and, quitting the drawing-room, go upstairs to pass a solitary and purposeless hour in my boudoir—the pretty little sanctum, all blue and silver, that associations have endeared to me.
Finding myself as restless here, however, as elsewhere, I leave it as the clock chimes half-past six, and, turning into the picture gallery, begin to stare stupidly enough upon the grim cavaliers and immodest shepherdesses, who in their turn stare back at me.
Suddenly I become conscious that some cold air is blowing upon me, and, raising my eyes, perceive the lower window to be partly open. I shiver, and involuntarily move forward to close it.
Outside this window runs a balcony, reached by stone steps from the ground beneath, and as I draw nearer to it sounds coming from thence fall upon my ears—first a woman's voice, and then a man's.
Their words, though softly uttered, are thoroughly distinct; a fragment of their conversation, unchecked by the chill wind, passes close by me and makes itself heard.
"Soyouthoughtonce. You cannot have altogether forgotten the old times—the past memories—-"
It is Blanche Going's voice, and the accent strikes me as being reproachfully, naytenderlyimpassioned.
For a moment my heart stops beating. A cold dampness covers my face. Icannotmove. I hardly dare to breathe. Oh, to whom are these words addressed?Whosevoice will give her back an answer?
Sir Mark speaks; and with a relief that through its intensity is for the instant acutest pain, I stagger against the wall near me, and stand motionless to recover calm.
"Can anything be more melancholy than 'old times?'" murmured Sir Mark, lightly, without the faintest trace of tenderness in his tone. "Believe me, we can have no real happiness in this life until we have learned successfully how to forget."
I leave the window noiselessly, but as I go the words and their meaning follow me. "Old times"—"past memories"—can it indeed be that in the "long ago" lie love passages that were once fresh between Lady Blanche and Sir Mark Gore?
Ifit be so, and that the remembrance of them is not yet quite dead inherheart, what becomes of my theory (that of late has been a settled conviction) that she bears an overweening affection for my husband. Surely her tone was utterly sincere: she had not feigned that despairing sadness: those few words had come from a full heart—from a woman making a last vain effort to revive a buried love.
I gain my own room, and, having locked the outside door, stop to press my hand to my forehead. A sensation that is partly triumph, partly joy, rises within me—joy, however, that lasts but for a moment, as, with a groan, I recollect how as yet I have not proved Marmaduke's indifference toher.
Of what consequence is it to me to know whether Marmaduke is or is not the first in Blanche Going's thoughts, unless I be assured thatsheis not the first inhis?
Nevertheless, in spite of these dismal doubts, I feel my spirits somewhat lighter. My feelings towards my husband take a kindlier shade as I hurry through my dressing with the assistance of my maid—being already rather late with my toilet. I hear 'Duke enter his own room. The days are long gone by when he would seek my presence the first thing on his return, and, having given me the kind and tender kiss I prized so little, proceed to tell me all that the day had brought him.
Just now this thought forces itself upon me obstinately, bringing a strange, remorseful pang to my heart. I dismiss Martha, and in an unusually softened frame of mind, open the door that separates his room from mine, and say, cheerfully, "Had you good sport, Marmaduke?"
He looks up, plainly surprised, but makes no comment on my unexpected appearance.
"Pretty fair. Not so good as we hoped on setting out, but very respectable for all that. Thornton is a first class shot. Any one here to-day?"
"Yes, the De Veres and Murrays. But they stayed no time, and old Mrs. Murray was in a very bad temper. It appears Harry is more than ever determined about marrying the governess."
"I pity the governess, if she goes back to live with the old lady as a daughter-in-law."
"So do I. Oh, Marmaduke, have you got any eau-de-Cologne? Martha must have a weakness for it, as she never leaves me any."
"I see plenty in one of these bottles. Come and take it,"
I walk in, fastening my bracelet as I go.
"That's a pretty dress you have on to-night" says Marmaduke, regarding me critically before going in for a second battle with a refractory tie; already three lie in the corner slaughtered.
"Fancyyourseeing anything about me worth admiring!" I reply; but, in spite of my words, my laugh is low and pleased. His tone, though quiet, has a ring of cordiality in it that for some time has been absent. A smile hovers round my lips; I lift my head and am about to make some little, trilling, saucy, honeyed speech, when my eyes fall upon a certain object that lies upon the toilet-table among the numerous other things he had just withdrawn from his pockets.
A tiny pale-pink three-cornered note rests, address uppermost, beneath my gaze. "Marmaduke Carrington, Esq."—no more. How well I knew it, the detestable, clear, beautiful writing!
I feel my lips compress, my cheeks grow ashy white. Turning abruptly, stung to the quick, I leave the room. "Will you not take the bottle with you?" calls out Marmaduke, and I answer, in rather a stifled voice, "No, thank you," and shut the door between us hastily.
Oh thatthatwas all that separated us! I feel half mad with outraged pride and passion. That she should write himbillets-douxin my own house, thatheshould receive them and treasure them, seems to me in my excited state; the very basest treachery. Making fierce love beneath my very eyes, so careless of my feelings, or so convinced of my stupidity, as to take no pains to conceal their double-dealing!
I grow almost reckless, and remember with some sort of satisfaction that at least it is in my power to wound him in turn and her, too, after what I have overheard this evening. Although his vaunted love for me—if ever there—is now gone, I can still touch him where his honor is concerned. I rub my pale face until the color returns to it, I bite my quivering lips until they gleam like crimson berries, and, going downstairs, for the first time in my life I let the demon of coquetry rise and hold full sway within my breast, while I go in for an open and decided flirtation with Sir Mark Gore.
Yet how miserable I am. How wretched are the moments, when I give myself room for thought! I note Marmaduke's dark frown, as, with flushed cheeks and gloaming, sparkling eyes, I encourage and play gayly to Sir Mark's nonsense. I see Bebe's surprised glance and Harriet's pained one. I watch with exultation the bitter expression that clouds Lady Blanche's brow. I see everything around me, and long—with a feverish longing—for the evening to wear to an end.
At length comes the welcome hour of release. We have all wished each other good-night. The men have retired to their smoking-room, the women to their bedroom fires and the service of their maids.
Martha having pulled my hair to pieces and brushed it vigorously, I give her leave to seek her own couch, and, with a set purpose in my mind, get through the remainder of my night toilet without assistance.
An unrestrainable craving to learn all the particulars of Marmaduke's former attachment to Lady Blanche Going (as described by Mark Gore) seizes me; and Bebe being of all people the one most likely to satisfy my curiosity I determine to seek her and gain from her what knowledge I can. She is, besides, the only one of whom I would make such an inquiry; therefore to her room I prepare to go.
I hastily draw on a pale-blue cashmere dressing-gown, prettily trimmed with satin quilting of the same shade, and substitute blue slippers for the black ones I have been wearing during the evening. My hair hangs in rich chestnut masses far below my waist; two or three stray rippling locks wander wantonly across my forehead. A heavy blue cord and tassel, confining my gown, completes my costume.
Leaving my own room noiselessly, I reach Bebe's, and knock softly on the door.
She too has dismissed her maid, and is sitting before the fire in an attitude that bespeaks reverie. Whatever her thoughts, however, she puts them from her on my entrance, and comes forward to greet me, the gay, bright,debonnaireBebe of every day.
"I am so glad you have come!" she says, running to take both my hands and lead me to the fire. "A few minutes conversation at this hour of the night is worthhoursof the day. And, oh, Phyllis, how pretty you look!"
"Nonsense!" return I, mightily pleased, nevertheless; and, going over to the cheval glass, I proceed to examine myself with a critical eye.
"Wonderfullypretty," repeats Bebe, with emphasis. "My dearest Phyllis, you shouldalwayswear blue cashmere, and let your hair fall down your back just so. You look exactly fourteen, and very charming."
"Well, even at the best of times I was never considered pretty," declared I, modestly. "Now and then, when wearing a new dress or that, I may have appeared good-looking; but even Marmaduke never told me I wasthat."
"Never told you you werepretty!" cries Bebe, in a voice of horror. "Never told you you were the sweetest and loveliest creature upon earth? What amiserablelover!" It would be impossible to describe the amount of scorn she throws into her manner.
Her words, though I know they are spoken in jest, coming thus hotly on my new suspicions, rankle sorely.
"I don't see that his telling me a lie would have done any good," I expostulate, somewhat warmly, feeling passionately aggrieved at the thought that he has fallen short in his wooing. Surely once, if for ever so little a time, I was all in all to him.
"Yes, it would—an immensity of good. It would be only fit and proper. That is just one of the things about which a man ought to be able to liewell;though, indeed, in most cases I doubt if itwouldbe a lie. Change a friend into a lover, awaken within him the desire to make you his wife, and, such is the vanity and self-complacency of man, he will at once (in regarding you ashispossible property) magnify your charms, and end by contrasting you favorably with every other wife of his acquaintance.Youdo not come within the pale of my remarks, however, as I speak of ugly women. Phyllis, you are too modest. You give me the impression that all your life through you have been more or less sat upon. Is it not so?"
"I believe it is," I answer, laughing; "but I think justly so. Why, only look at my nose; it turns right up; and—and then, you know, Dora was always on the spot to eclipse me."
"Indeed I know nothing of the kind.Youare infinitely more attractive in my eyes; though I admit Dora has charms, with her complexion and eyes of 'holy blue.' I verily believe you are a hypocrite. Don't you know all the men here rave about you? Don't you know it was a fixed creed in the family that Marmaduke's heart was cased in steel until he destroyed it by marrying you?"
"Oh," I say, with a light laugh, though my blood is coursing wildly though my veins, "you exaggerate slightly there, I think. Was he not very muchepriswith his cousin, Lady Blanche Going, some years ago?"
"A mere boy-and-girl attachment. I would as soon dream of lending importance to the passion of a schoolboy in his teens—to the passion of my dear Chips, for instance. Besides, she was several years older than he was—whatever she may be now," says Bebe, with a little grimace.
"Was it violent while it lasted?"
"I don't remember anything about it; but mamma says it died a natural death after one season. Then she married Colonel Going."
"Why does Colonel Going remain away so long?"
"Ah! why, indeed, my dear? that is a thing nobody knows. There was no divorce, no formal separation, noesclandreof any kind; he merely put the seas between them, and is evidently determined on keeping them there. To me and my cousins of my own age the colonel is something of a myth; but mamma knew him well about six years ago, and says he was a very fascinating man, and upright, but rather stern."
"What a curiously unpleasant story! But didn't people talk?"
"Of course they did; they did even worse—they whispered; but her ladyship took no notice, and every one had to confess she behaved beautifully on the occasion. She gave out that her extreme delicacy alone (her constitution is of iron) prevented her accompanying him to India, and she withdrew from society, in the very height of the season, for two whole months. Surely decorum could no further go!"
"And then?"
"Why, then she reappeared, with her beauty much augmented from the enforced quiet and early hours—and with her mother."
"What is the mother like? One can hardly fancy Blanche with anything so tender as a mother."
"Like a fairy godmother, minus the magic wand and the energy of that famous person. A little old lady with a dark face, and eyes that would be keen and searching but for the discipline she has undergone. She has no opinions and no aims but what are her daughter's; and Blanche rulesher—as she rules every other member of her household—with a rod of iron."
"Poor old creature! What an unhappy age! So you say Marmaduke's admiration for Blanche meant nothing? And she—did she likehim?"
"For 'like' read 'love' I suppose? My dearest Phyllis, have you, who have been so long under the same roof with Blanche, yet to discover how impossible it would be for her to love any one but Blanche Going. Yet stay; I wrong her partly;onceshedid love, and does so still, I believe."
"Whom do you mean?" ask I, bending forward eagerly.
"Have you no notion? How surprised you look! You will wonder still more when I tell you the hero of her romance is at present in your house."
"Here, inthishouse!" I stammer.
"Yes. No less a person than Mark Gore."
So I am right. And jealousy has been at the root of all her ladyship's open hostility towards me!
"Any casual observer would never think so," I remark, at last, after a very lengthened pause.
"That is because Murk's infatuation has come to an end, and he does not care to renew matters. If you watch him you may see what particular pains he takes to avoid atete-a-tetewith her. And yet there was a time when she had considerable influence over him. He was a constant visitor at her house in town—so constant that at length it began to be mooted about how he had theentreethere at all hours and seasons, even when an intimate friend might expect a denial. Then people began to whisper again, and shake their wise heads and pity 'that poor colonel,' and watch eagerly for thedenouement.
"Why did her mother not interfere?"
"My dear, have I not already told you what a perfectly drilled old lady is the mother? It would be as much as her life is worth to interfere in any of her daughter's arrangements. She is utterly dependant on Blanche, and, therefore, perforce, a nonentity. She is expected to remain in the house as a useful piece of furniture; and she is also expected to have neither ears nor eyes nor tongue. Besides, it was not a singular case; Mark was only the last on a long list of admirers. My lady could not exist without acavalier servente."
"I think it downright abominable," say I, with much warmth.
Bebe looks amused.
"So do I. But what will you? And in spite of all our thoughts Mark came and went unceasingly. Wherever madame appeared, so did her shadow; at every ball he was in close attendance; until, the season dragging to a close, Blanche went abroad for two months, and Mark went down to this part of the world. To 'Duke, was it?"
"No; if you mean the summer before last, he stayed with the Leslies," I admit, somewhat unwillingly. "I met him several times."
"What! you knew him, then, before your marriage?" cries Bebe, with surprise.
"Very slightly. Once or twice he called with the Leslies, and when he returned to town he sent me an exquisite little volume of Tennyson; which delicate attention on his part so enraged papa, that he made me return the book, and forbade my writing to thank Sir Mark for it. So ended our acquaintance."
"Oh,nowI have the secret;nowI understand why Blanche detests you so," exclaims Bebe, clapping her hands merrily. "So he lost his heart to you, did he? And madame heard all about it, and was rightly furious? Oh, how she must have ground her pretty white teeth in impotent rage on discovering how she was outdone by a simple village maiden! I vow it is a tale that Offenbach's music might adorn."
"How absurd you are, Bebe! How you jump to conclusions! I assure you Sir Mark left our neighborhood as heart-whole as when he came to it."
"Well, I won't dispute the point; but whether it was your fault or not, when Blanche and he again met all was changed. His love had flown, no one knew whither, he still continued to pay her visits, it is true, but not every day and all day long. He still attended the balls to which she went, butnotas her slave. Blanche fretted and fumed herself thin at his defection; but it was no use: the spell was broken, and Mark was not to be recalled. You will think me a terrible scandal-monger," says Bebe, with a smile, "but when one hears a thing perpetually discussed one feels an interest in it at last in spite of oneself. You look shocked, Phyllis. I suppose there is no such thing in this quiet country as polite crime?"
"I don't know about the politeness, but of course there is plenty of crime. For instance, last assizes Bill Grimes, out gardener's son at Summerleas, was transported for poaching; and eight months ago John Haddon, the black-smith, fired at his landlord; and it is a well-known fact that Mr. De Vere beats his wife dreadfully every now and then; but there are no such stories as the one you have just told to me. I think it disgraceful. What is the use of it all? How can it end?"
"Sometimes in an elopement; sometimes, as in Blanche's case, in nothing. You must understand she is perfectly respectable, and that the very nicest people receive her with open arms. But then none of them would be in the least surprised if any morning she was missing. And, indeed, sometimes I wish shewouldlike somebody well enough to quit the country with him. Anything would be decenter than these perpetual intrigues."
"Oh, no, Bebe; nothing could be so bad as that. Little as I care for her, I hope I shall never hear such evil tidings of her."
"Phyllis, you are a dear charitable child, and I like you—it would be impossible for me to say how much. Do you know"—putting her hand on mine—"I have always sneered at the idea of any really sincere attachment existing between women? But since I have known you I have recanted and confessed myself in error. If you were my sister I could not love you better."
Contrasting her secretly with meek-eyed Dora, I feel guiltily that to me Bebe is the more congenial of the two. With my natural impulsiveness I throw my arms round her neck and favor her with a warm kiss.
"But I am not charitable," goes on Bebe, when she has returned my chaste salute, "and I detest Blanche with all my heart. There is something so sly and sneaking about her. She would do one an injury, if it suited her, even while accepting a kindness at one's hands. Do you know. Phyllis, she is still madly in love with Sir Mark, while I thinkheis decidedly smitten with you?"
My face and throat grow scarlet.
"I hope not," I stammer, foolishly.
"I am sure of it. He never takes his eyes off you, and at times my lady is absolutely wild. I never noticed it so plainly as this evening; and by the bye,ma mie"—very gently and kindly—"I confess it occurred to me—were you flirting with Mark—just a little?"
"I don't know what came over me this evening," I reply, petulantly; "I hardly know what I said or did. Something was on my mind and made my actions false. I don't care a bit for Mark Gore, but still I let it seem as if I did."
"Don't make yourself unhappy by imagining absurdities," says Bebe, quietly,aproposof nothing that I could see, and without looking at me; "and take care of Blanche; she would make a dangerous enemy. Not that I think she could harm you; but sometimes her soft eyes betray her, and she looks as if she could cheerfully stab you. To me it is a little comedy, and I enjoy it immensely. I can see she would do anything to bring back Mark to his allegiance, and for that purpose makes love to Marmaduke before his eyes, in the vain hope of rendering him jealous. And"—with a swift shrewd glance at me—"what can poor 'Duke do but pretend to accept her advances and be civil to her?"
I think of the pink billet and of all the other trifles light as air that go far to make me believe the pretense to be a pleasant one for 'Duke, but say nothing. He certainly finds it more than easy to be "civil" to her.
"However,herpains go for naught," continues Bebe: "there is nothing so difficult to re-light as a dead love."
A shadow crosses herpiquanteface. She draws in her lips and bravely smothers a sigh. A door bangs loudly in the distance.
I start to my feet.
"It must be later than I thought," I say. "The men seem to have tired of their cigars. Good night, dear Bebe."
"Good-night," she murmurs, and with a hurried embrace we part.
I gain the corridor, down one long side of which I must pass to get to my own room. Fancying, when half-way, that I hear a noise behind me, I stop to glance back and ascertain the cause; but no capped or frisetted head pushes itself out of any door to mark my doings. Some one of the indescribable noises belonging to the night had misled me.
Reassured, I turn again—to find myself face to face with Mark Gore.
He is three yards distant from me. His face wears a surprised and somewhat amused expression, that quickly changes to one deeper, as his eyes travel all over my pretty gown, my slippers, and my disordered hair.
Naturally I am covered with confusion, and, having had time to feel ashamed of my behavior during the evening, feel how especially unfortunate is this encounter.
"Do you often indulge in midnight rambles?" he asks, gayly, stopping in front of me.
"No," I return, as unconcernedly as I well can, considering my perturbation; "but to-night Miss Beatoun and I found so much to say about our friends that we forgot the hour. Don't let me detain you, Sir Mark. Good-night."
"Good-night," holding out his hand, into which I am constrained to put mine. As I make a movement to go on, he detains me for a moment to say, quietly, "I never saw you before with your hair down. You make one lose faith in coiffeurs. And why do you not oftener wear blue?"
There is not the faintest shadow of disrespect in his tone; he speaks as though merely seeking information; and, though the flattery is openly apparent, it is not of a sort calculated to offend. Still, I feel irritated and impatient.
"Fancy any one appearing perpetually robed in the same hue?" I say, snubbily; "like the 'woman in white', or the 'dark girl dressed in blue!'"
"You remind me of Buchanan's words," goes on Sir Mark, not taking the slightest notice of my tone. "Do you remember them?"
"'My hair was golden yellow, and it floated to my shoe; My eyes were like two harebells bathed in little drops of dew.'"
"Myhair golden yellow!" exclaim I, ungraciously, "Who could call it so? It is distinctly brown. I cannot say you strike me as being particularly happy in the suitability of your quotations."
All this time he has not let go my hand. He has either forgotten to do so, or else it pleases him to retain it; and, as we have moved several steps apart, and are at least half a yard asunder, our positions would suggest to a casual observer that Sir Mark is endeavoring to keep me.
Raising my head suddenly at this juncture, I see Marmaduke coming slowly up the stairs. Our eyes meet; I blush scarlet, and, with my usual clear common sense, drag my hand in a marked and guilty manner out of my companion's. Once more I stammer, "Good-night," very awkwardly, and make & dart towards my own room, while Sir Mark, totally unaware of the real cause of my confusion, goes on his way, conceitedly convinced that the fascination of his manner has alone been sufficient to bring the color to my brow.
Inside my door I literally stamp my feet with vexation. "Could anything be more provoking? What a nuisance that Sir Mark is, with his meaningless compliments! I have no patience with men who are forever cropping up just when they are least wanted."
"Do you know how late it is?" says Marmaduke, coming in from his dressing-room, with an ominous frown in his blue eyes.
"Yes; I was thinking what a scandalously late hour it is for you to be still up smoking," I retort, determined to fight it out, and meanly trying to make my own cause better by throwing some blame on him.
"I thought you in bed at least an hour ago."
"Well, you thought wrong. I had something particular to say to Bebe and went to her room. That delayed me. We neither of us guessed how the time had run away until we heard the study-door close, or the smoking-room, or wherever you were. Coming out I met Sir Mark accidentally."
Though my tone is defiant, I still feel I am excusing myself, and this does not sweeten my temper.
"Oh!" says Marmaduke, dryly.
"Why do you speak in that tone, Marmaduke?"
"I am not aware I am using any particular tone. But I admit I most strongly object to your going up and down the corridors at this hour of night in your dressing-gown."
"You mean you disapprove of my meeting Sir Mark Gore. I could not help that. It happened unfortunately, I allow; but when the man stopped me to bid a civil good-night, I could not bring myself to pass him as though he were an assassin or a midnight marauder. Of course I answered him politely. I can see nothing improper in that, to make you scowl as you are scowling now."
"I am not talking of impropriety," says 'Duke, very haughtily. "It isimpossibleI should connect such a word with your conduct. Were I obliged to do so, the same roof would not cover us both for half an hour longer be assured of that."
I laugh wickedly.
"Which of us would go?" I ask. "Would you turn me out? Wait a little longer, until the frost and snow are on the ground: then you can do it with effect. The tale would be wanting in interest unless I perished before morning in a snowdrift. And all because I crossed a corridor at midnight in a blue dressing-gown. Poor gown! who would guess that there was so much mischief in you? Sir Mark aid it was a very pretty dressing-gown."
I sink my hands in the pockets of the luckless gown and look up at Duke with a "now then!" expression on my face. He is as black as night with rage. Standing opposite to him, even in my high-heeled shoes, I want quite an inch of being as tall as his shoulder, yet I defy him as coolly as though he were the pigmy and I the giant.
"I don't in the least want to know what Gore said or did not say to you," says he, in a low, suppressed voice; "keep such information to yourself. But Iforbidyou to go into Bebe's room another night so late."
"Forbid me, indeed!" cry I, indignantly. "And haveInothing to forbid?" (Here I think of the cocked-hat note.) "Youmay do as you like, I suppose?You cannoterr; while I can to be scolded and ill-treated because I say good-night to a friend. I never heard anything so unjust; and Iwon'tbe forbidden; so there!"
"It strikes me it must have been avery'civil' good-night to necessitate his holding your hand for such a length of time, and to bring a blush to your cheeks."
"It was not Sir Mark made me blush,"
"No? Who, then?"
"You." This remark is as unwise as it is true a discovery I make a moment later.
"Why?" asks 'Duke, sternly. "What was there in the unexpected presence of your husband to bring the blood to your face? I had no idea I was such a bugbear. It looks very much as though you were ashamed of yourself."
"Well, then, yes Iwasashamed of myself," I confess, with vehement petulance, tapping the ground with my foot. "I was ashamed of being caught out thereen deshabille, if you want to know. And now, that you have made me acknowledge my crime, I really do wish you would go back to your own room, Marmaduke, because you are in an awful temper, and I detest being cross-examined and brought to task. You are ten times worse than papa and more disagreeable." Here I give my shoulders an impertinent shrug, and fairly turn my back upon him. An instant later, and he has slammed the door between us, and I see him no more that night.