Drip, drip, drip. Patter, patter, patter. How it does rain, to be sure! If it continues pouring at this present rate, there will be but very little rain left in the clouds in half an hour.
"Just twelve o'clock," says Mr. Thornton, with a moody sigh, as he pulls out his watch for the twentieth time. "We are regularly done for if it keeps on five minutes longer, as rain at twelve means rain all day."
"Mere superstition," replies Miss Beatoun, rising to flatten her pretty nose against the window-pane, in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of the blue sky.
It is the next day; and, as we have arranged to visit a skating-rink in a town some few miles from us, the rain is a disappointment—especially to me, as I have never seen a rink.
"I hardly think that you will see one to-day," says Sir Mark, turning to me, with a smile.
"Seems so odd you never having seen one, dear Mrs. Carrington," says Blanche Going, sweetly, "so universal as they now are. When in Paris, and passing through London, I wonder you had not the curiosity to go and spend a few hours at one. Marmaduke, how very neglectful of you not to get Mrs. Carrington into Prince's!"
"Prince's is no longer the fashion," replies Marmaduke, curtly. He is sitting rather apart from the rest of us, and is looking gloomy and ill-tempered. He and I have exchanged no words since our last skirmish—have not even gone through the form of wishing each other a good-day.
"It is getting worse and worse," declares Chips, from his standing-point at the window, where he has joined Miss Beatoun.
"It is always darkest before dawn," says that young lady, with dauntless courage.
"So they say," murmurs Lord Chandos, catching her eye,
"Poor Thornton!" says Sir Mark, with deep sympathy; "I don't wonder at your depression—such a chance thrown away; and you always look so nice on wheels. Our friend Thornton, Mrs. Carrington, is impressed with the belief, and very justly so, that he is an unusually fascinating skater."
"Quite so," returns Chips, ironically. "I wonder what you would all do if you hadn't me to laugh at? You ought to love me, I come in so handy at times and give you so many opportunities of showing off the brilliancy of your wit."
"He grows sarcastic," murmurs Sir Mark. "This weather, instead of damping him, as it would more frivolous mortals, has the effect of developing his hidden powers."
"Let us forget the weather," says Bebe, brightly, turning from the contemplation of it to sink into a seat by the fire, "and then perhaps it will clear. After making up our minds to go to Warminster and visit a rink, and dine at a hotel and drive home again in the dark and have a general spree, I confess, the not being able to do anything has rather put me out."
We are all assembled in the library, it being the least doleful room in the house on a wet day. As Bebe speaks, we all try more or less (Marmaduke being included in the less) to put on a cheerful countenance and enter into light conversation. For the most part we succeed, and almost manage to forget our troubles.
"Bye the bye, Thornton, you used to be a great man on the Turf," presently says Sir Mark, addressing Chips,aproposof something that has gone before. Chips, who is lounging in a chair beside Miss Beatoun, his whole round boyish face one cherubic smile, looks up inquiringly. "Masters told me you were quite an authority."
"Oh, not at all," returns Mr. Thornton, modestly: "I don't pretend to anything. I flatter myself I know a likely animal when I see it—nothing more."
"I always thought you intended making your fortune in that line," continues Sir Mark, lazily. "The last time I met you, in the spring, you were radiant in the possession of so many more hundreds than you ever hoped to obtain."
"Oh, Mr. Thornton, is it possibleyougo in for betting?" murmurs Bebe, with a glance enchantingly reproachful. "I had placed you on such a high pinnacle in my estimation andnow what am I to think? I feelsodisappointed."
"Don't," entreats Chips, sentimentally. "Ifyoubegin to think badly of me, I shall do something desperate. Besides, I really only put on a mere trifle now and then; nothing at all to signify; wouldn't ruin a man if he were at it forever. You should see how some fellows bet. Don't you know—-"
"Did you do well last Ascot?" asks Chandos, in tone that is meant to be genial.
"Well, no; not quite so well as I might wish," with a faint blush. "Fact is, I rather overdid it—risked my little all upon the die—and lost."
"Showing how natural talent has no chance against the whims of fickle fortune. Even the very knowing ones, you see, Mrs. Carrington, have to knock under sometimes," says Sir Mark.
"How was it?" I ask Chips, with a smile.
"Oh! it was a beastly shame," responds that young man. "The horse would have won in a walk if he had got fair play. It was the most outrageous transaction altogether. If the rider had gone straight, there was not an animal in the running could have beaten him. It was the clearest case of pulling you ever saw."
Lady Blanche laughs softly.
"I never knew an unsuccessful bettor who didn't say that," she says. "I was waiting to hear you. Each man believes the horse he fancieswouldhave won only for something. They would die rather than confess themselves ignorant."
"But I always thought everything was fair and above board on a race-course," observes Harriet.
Thornton roars.
"Lady Handcock, you are the most charitable woman alive," he cries, gayly, "but I fear in this instance your faith in the goodness of humanity goes too far. I met Hamilton the other day, and he told me a capital storyaproposof racing honor. You know Hamilton, Chandos?"
"Yes, I think so—middle-sized man, with a fair beard?"
"What a vivid description!" murmurs Miss Beatoun, demurely. "One soseldomsees a middle-sized man, with a fair beard!"
Chandos glanced at her quickly, rather amused, I think, by her impertinence; but her eyes are innocently fixed on Thornton, who is evidently full of his story.
"Go on, Thornton," says Sir Mark, blandly: "we are all miserable till we learn what befell your friend Hamilton."
"It was at Fairy House races, last year," begins Chips, nothing daunted. "Hamilton was over in Dublin at the time, and went down there to back a horse he knew something about. A rather safe thing it was, if rightly done by; and, knowing the jock, who was a devoted adherent of his own, he went up to him on the course, to know if he might put his money on with any chance of success. 'Wait awhile, Misther H.,' says his ingenuous friend, turning a straw in his mouth with much deliberation, 'an' I'll tell ye. Come to me again in ten minutes.' Accordingly, in ten minutes Hamilton, seeing him in the paddock, dressed and mounted, went to him again. 'Well?' said he. 'Wait yet another little bit, Misther H.,' says this imperturbable gentleman; 'the instructions ain't final. Meet me in five minutes at that post,' indicating a certain spot. So Hamilton met him there, and for the third time he asked him impatiently if he meant winning. 'I do, Misther H.' says he, in a mysterious whisper, 'if the reins break!'"
We all laugh heartily, and Bebe, while declaring the story delicious, vows she has lost all faith in mankind for evermore.
"I havenot," stoutly maintains Harriet. "Of course, there must be exceptions, but I believe there is a great deal of goodness among us all in spite of popular opinion. Why do you look so supercilious, Marmaduke? Don't you agree with me?"
"No, I do not," replies 'Duke, promptly. "I think there is very littlerealgoodness going. Taking the general mass, I believe them to be all alike bad. Of course, there is a great deal in training, and some appear better than others, simply because they are afraid of being found out. That is the principal sin in this life. I don't deny that here and there one finds two or three whose nature is tinged with the divine; these reach nearer the heavens, and are the exceptions that prove my rule."
"My dear 'Duke, how shockingly uncharitable!" says his sister, slowly; while I, gazing on my husband with open-eyed amazement, wonder vaguely if last night's disturbance has occasioned this outbreak.
"It is uncharitablealwaysto speak the truth," says 'Duke, with a faint sneer. "You asked me my opinion, and I gave it. Are you acquainted with many beautiful characters, Harry? I confess I know none. Selfishness is our predominant quality; and many of the so-called religious ones among us are those most deeply impregnated with this vice. They follow their religion through fear, not love, because they dread consequences, and object to being uncomfortable hereafter, so do what their hearts loathe through mere selfish terror."
"I had no idea you could be so eloquent," laughs Lady Blanche, mockingly from her low seat. "Pray, go on Marmaduke; I could listen to you forever. You are positively refreshing after so much amiability."
"My dear fellow, you grow bearish," expostulates Sir Mark, with raised brows and an amused glance. "We wither beneath your words. Abuse yourself as much as you please, butdospare the rest of us. We like to think ourselves perfection; it is very rude of you to undeceive us so brusquely. And how can you give utterance to such sweeping assertions in such company? Have you forgotten your wife is present?"
"No"—with a forced smile—"I have not. But I fear even Mrs. Carrington cannot be considered altogether harmless." He points this remark with a curiously unloving expression cast in my direction.
"Never mind, Mrs. Carrington," exclaims Thornton, with his usual vivacity. "At all events you may count upononedevoted admirer, as I, for my part, do not believe you have a fault in the world."
"Thank you," I answer gayly, though secretly I am enraged at Marmaduke's look and tone. "Thank you very much, Mr. Thornton. I consider myself fortunate in having secured your good opinion. But, Marmaduke"—addressing him with the utmost coolness—"how uncivil you can be! I say nothing of my own feelings I know I am hopelessly wicked; but your guests, what must they think? Take Lady Blanche, for instance: is she not looking the very picture of innocence, though no doubt speechless with indignation? Surely you will exonerateher?."
"No, not even Blanche," replies Marmaduke; but even as he condemns her he bends upon her one of his very sweetest smiles.
"I am the more pleased that you do not," says her ladyship, in her low, soft tones, returning his glance fourfold. "Even if it were possible, I would not be altogether good. Perfection in any shape is the one thing of which we most tire."
"The day is clearing; the rain has almost ceased," announces Lord Chandos, solemnly, at this moment.
I spring to my feet.
"No!" cry I, "you don'tmeanit?"
"I am almost sure I do," replies he, sententiously
And there, indeed, amid, the clouds as I run to look at them, shines out a dazzling piece of blue sky that grows and widens as I gaze.
"It still wants a quarter to one," I say, rapidly. "We will have lunch at once—no matter whether we eat it or not—and then we shall start for Warminister, and I shall see my rink after all. But first I must go to the gardens. Sir Mark"—in a coquettishly appealing tone, casting at him a very friendly glance from my gray-blue eyes—"willyoucome with me and take care of me as far as the gates? I have somethingveryparticular to say to—Cummins."
I make the little pause maliciously, and raise my long lashes just so much as permits me to obtain a glimpse of Marmaduke.
He is talking pleasantly to Lady Blanche, and evidently means me to understand that he is ignorant of my conduct. But I can see a frown on his forehead and certain lines about his mouth that tell me plainly he has both seen and heard and condemned, and I am satisfied.
"I shall be delighted," says Sir Mark, with prudent coldness, and together we leave the room.
----
An hour later; lunch is over, and I am rushing up the stairs to don my walking-attire. On the topmost landing stands Bebe, already dressed and about to descend.
As I meet her gaze it arrests me. Surely some expression that closely resembles woe characterizes her face. Her eyebrows are slightly elevated, her lips at the corners curving downwards; her cheeks are innocent of nature's rouge; a suspicious pinkness rests upon her lids.
Dear—dear—dear!is there nothing but trouble in this world? I, of course, am wretched—that goes without telling—but pretty, bright,piquanteBebe, must she too be miserable? What untoward thing can have occurred to bring that wistful look into her eyes?
Turning to my maid, who is following me at a respectful distance, I speak aloud:—
"Martha, I will dispense with your services this afternoon. Miss Beatoun is here, and will give me any assistance I may require."
So saying, I draw my friend into my room and close my door.
"Now, Bebe, what is it?" I ask, pushing her into a lounging-chair, and beginning a vigorous search for my seal-skin jacket. Martha is a good girl the—best of girls—but she can never put anything in the same place twice running.
"Oh, it is nothing—nothing," answers Bebe, in a tone almost comical in its disgust. "My pride has had a slight fall—my conceit has been a little lowered—no more. I hate myself" (with a petulant stamp of the foot) "for taking it so much to heart; but Ido, and that is the fact, and I cannot yet overcome the feeling. If I did not know I must have looked like a foolish culprit all the while, I think I would not so greatly mind; but my color was coming and going in a maddening fashion; and then his tone—so quick—so—-"
"Chandos's tone, I suppose, you mean? But you forget, dear; I know nothing."
"True, of course not. Well, after you left the library that time with Mark, the whole party broke up and dispersed about the house to prepare for this drive, all except myself. I stayed on—unluckily, as it turned out—to finish my novel, until I should be called to lunch. It interested me, and I thought myself sure of solitude for a little time, but in less than three minutes the door was re-opened, and Chandos came in."
"Well?" I say, as she makes a long pause.
"Unfortunately, it struck me that his coming back so soon again to where he knew I was alone looked, you know, rather particular—as if he wished to say something private to me; and—I had no desire to hear it.
"Oh, Bebe?"
"Well, believe me or not, as you will, I really, dreaded his saying anything on the—old topic—to such a degree that I rose and made as though I would instantly quit the room. Oh!" cries she, with an irrestrainable blush and movement of the hand, "I wish I had died before I didthat."
"Why, darling?"
"Oh, need you ask? Don't you see how it betrayed my thoughts? Why, it looked as though I made quite sure he was going to propose again. Can't you understand how horrible it was?" says Bebe, burying her face in her hands, with a hysterical laugh. "Heunderstood it so, at all events. He stopped right before me, and said, deliberately, with his eyes fixed on mine, 'Why do you leave the room? I came for a book, and for nothing else, I assure you.' Thus taken aback, I actually stammered and blushed like a ridiculous schoolgirl, and said, weakly, 'It is almost time to think of dressing. We start so soon. And besides—I—-' Could anything be more foolish? 'One would think I had the plague or the pestilence, the way you rush from a room the moment I enter it,' says he, impatiently.—'I swear I am not going to propose again. I have had enough of it. I have no desire whatever to marry a woman against her will. I asked you to be my wife, for the second time, a week or two ago, thinking my poverty had been the cause of your former refusal, and was justly punished for my conceit. Believe me, I have brains enough, to retain a lesson, once I have learned it; so you may sit down, Miss Beatoun, with the certainty that I shall never again offend you inthatway.' I could never tell you how I felt, Phyllis, during the utterance of these words. My very blood was tingling with shame. My eyes would not be lifted; and, besides, they were full of tears. I felt that I hated both myself and him."
"It was a very curious speech for him to make," say I, feeling both puzzled and indignant with Chandos.
"I think he was quite right," declares she, veering round to resent what seems like an attack on my part. "It must have angered and disgusted him to see me so confident of his lasting affection as to imagine him ready to make a fresh offer every time people left ustete-a-tete. I think any man with spirit would have done just so. No one is to be blamed but myself."
"On the other hand, why should he conclude you thought anything of the sort?" I say, defending her stoutly in spite of herself. "He only proved the idea to be quite as uppermost in his mind as it was in yours. I would have said something to that effect had I been you."
"Said, my dear I could not have eventhoughtof anything at the moment, I was so confused. It is the simplest thing possible to think of what would have been the correct thing to say, and to make up neat little speeches, half an hour after the opportunity for uttering them is passed, but just on the instant how few have presence of mind!"
"It was provoking," say I, "and"—with an irrepressible little laugh—"funny, too. My own impression is hedidcome back to renew his pleadings, but saw by your manner it would be useless. Pity you did not insist on knowing the title of the book he was so anxious to procure. At all events it is nothing to be miserable about, dear Bebe."
"Oh, I shan't be miserable, either. Now that I have told some one I feel better. I have had a good cry, brought on my thorough vexation, and will now dismiss both the occurrence and his lordship from my mind."
"Shall you find that an easy task? The latter part of it, I mean?"
"Quite easy—nothing more so," replies she, with a saucy uplifting of her chin as she leaves me.
As the hat I wish to wear has been locked away in a certain part of a wardrobe where I am certain no hat was ever stowed before, it takes me some time to discover it. When at length I do so, I find I am considerably behind time, and catching up my gloves, run hastily along the gallery, and down the western corridor, that will bring me a degree sooner to the hall below.
As I turn the corner I come without any warning upon Marmaduke and Lady Blanche Going, evidently in deep and interesting converse. I stop short; and both, looking up, see me.
"Rage and indignation fill me at this unexpected rencontre. Whatcanthis woman have to whisper to my husband that might not be said in public?"
Blanche, with the utmost composure, nods her head, smiles, and vanishes down the staircase, leaving me alone with Marmaduke; while he stands frowning heavily, and apparently much annoyed by what has just been said. His black looks deepen as his eyes meet mine; but as, with raised head and naughty lips, I pass him by, he suddenly moves towards me, and, throwing his arms round me, strains me passionately to him, and, turning up my face, kisses me twice, thrice, upon my mouth.
Still smarting under my angry thoughts, I tear myself from his embrace and stand aloof, panting with mortification.
"How dare you?" I gasp. "Don't attempt to touch me."
"What! has your indifferencealreadychanged to hatred?" says he, bitterly, as I walk rapidly away.
----
The sun shines out with redoubled power and brilliancy, and, toiling up Carlisle street, we find ourselves before the door of the principal hotel in Warminster. Such a goodly turnout as ours is seldom seen even in this busy, bustling town, and the waiters and hostlers come out to admire and tender their services. To the enterprising owner of this grand hotel belongs the rink, and thither we bend our footsteps.
To see the world on wheels—to see the latest, newest vanity of the Great Fair—is my ambition. Turning a corner, we enter a gateway adjoining the hotel; we pass the mystic portal, we pay the inevitable shilling, throw ourselves upon the mercies of the movable barrier, and find ourselvesthere.
Just at first the outside circle of admirers prevents our catching sight of the performers, and the dull grating noise of the machines falls unpleasantly upon our ears. We draw nearer the chattering, gaping crowd, and by degrees edge our way in, until we too have a full view of all that is to be seen.
Surely there is a mistake somewhere, and it is wheels, wheels, wheels,notlove, that 'makes the world go round.'
On they come, by twos and threes, in single file, in shaking groups, all equally important, all filled with a desire to get—nowhere. A novice comes running, staggering, balancing towards us; evidently her acquaintance with this new mode of locomotion was of the vaguest half an hour ago. The crowd passes on, and she must follow it; so, with a look of fear upon her face that amounts almost to agony, she totters onward to brave a thousand falls. A sudden rush past her—the faintest touch does it—she reels: her heels (that on ordinary occasions, to judge by their appearance, must be the staunchest of supports) refuse to uphold her now; her lips part to emit a dying gasp, already she smells the ground, when a kindly hand from behind seized her, steadies her with good-natured force, and, with a smile of acknowledgement, that confesses the misery of the foregoing minutes, she once more totters, trips, and scrambles to her fate.
I am delighted, entranced. I find myself presently laughing gayly and with all my heart, the galling remembrance of the last few hours swept completely from my brain. I cry "Oh!" at every casualty, and grasp my companion's arm; I admire and smile upon the successful. I begin to wish that I too could skate.
Here comes the adept, with eyes fixed questioningly upon the watchful crowd. Their approving glances fire him with a mad desire to prove to them how superior he is to his compeers. He will domorethan skate with consummate grace and ease; he will do better than the "out-side edge;" he willwaltz.
Oh, daring thought! Now shall he bring down the well-deserved plaudits of the lookers-on. He turns—one, two, three—it is a swing, a hop, not perhaps a ball-room performance, but at least a success. Eyes become concentrated. He essays it again, and again victory crowns his effort. Yet a third time he makes the attempt—alas I that fatal three. Is it that his heel catches his toe, or his toe catches his heel? The result at least is the same: over he goes; disgrace is on him; with a crash he and the asphalt meet.
"It is monotonous, I think," breathes Sir Mark in my ear, in a deprecating tone, and then looks past me at Bebe.
"It is fatiguing," murmurs Harriet, with a yawn. "James, if you don't get me a chair this instant, I shall faint."
"It is delicious," declare I, enthusiastically; "it is the nicest thing I ever saw. Oh! I wishIcould skate."
"It makes one giddy," says Lady Blanche, affectedly "Do they never turn in this place?" Almost on her words a bell tinkles somewhere in the distance, and as if by magic they all swerve round and move the contrary way—all, that is, except the tyros, who come heavily, and without a moment's warning, to their knees.
And now the band strikes up, and the last waltz comes lingeringly to our ears. Insensibly the musical portion of the community on wheels falls into a gentle winging motion and undulate to the liquid strains of the tender "Manolo."
"This is better," says Lady Handcock, sinking into the chair for which her faithful James had just done battle.
Bebe and Thornton, hand in hand, skim past us.
"Oh! I must, Iwilllearn," I cry, excitedly. "I never saw anything I liked so much. Sir Mark,doget me a pair of skates and let me try. Itlooksquite simple. Oh, if Billy were but here!"
Sir Mark goes to obey my command, and I stand by Harriet's chair, too interested for conversation. How they fly along! the women with more grace in their movements, the men with more science. Here is the fatal corner turn; the numbers are increasing; whirr, crash, down they come, four together, causing an indescribable scene of confusion. Two from the outside circle rush in to succor their fallen darlings. It is a panic—amelee. Yet stay; after all it is nothing; they are up again, flushed but undaunted: it is all the fortune of war.Vogue la galere.
A tall young man, blonde and slight, attracts my notice. Half an hour ago he struck me as being the gayest of the gay; now his expression, as he slowly wends his way through the skaters, is sad and careworn in the extreme; the terrors of the rink are oppressing him sore, anxiety is printed on his brow; he has but one thought from start to finish—how to reach uninjured the chair he has just left. He never takes but one turn at a time round the arena, and never gains his haven of safety without a long-drawn sigh of relief. The fear of ridicule lies heavy upon him. But what will you? Rinking is the fashion, and for what does a young man live if not to follow themode?
I see, too, the elderly gentleman, who, with bent knees and compressed mouth, essays to rival his juniors. Hewillbe young, and he will skate, whether his doctor "will let him or no."Vive la jeunesse!
La jeunesse, in the form of a diminutive damsel, follows closely in his wake; she is of tiny build, and has her hand clasped by one of the tallest young men it has ever been my luck to behold.
"I pity that young man," says Harriet. "Titania has secured him for her own."
And indeed it seems like it. Where she may choose to lead him for the next hour there must he surely go. Were be dying to leave her, to join some other, "nearer and dearer," he will not be able to do so. Can he act the brute and ask her to sit down before she shows any inclination so to do? Can he feign fatigue when she betrays no symptoms of fagging, and regards him with a glance fresh at when they first started? He must only groan and suffer patiently, even though he knows the demon of jealousy is working mischief in the heart of his beloved as she sits silently watching him from a distant corner.
"What wonderful vitality that small creature develops!" says Harriet. "Probably, at home, if asked to rise twice from the chair, she would declare herself fatigued andennuyeeto the last degree; here she keeps in motion for an hour at a stretch, and is still smiling and radiant."
"The game seems hardly worth the candle," remarks Sir James, gazing after Titania's very insipid looking cavalier.
"My dear, it is worth ten thousand candles," returns his wife. "That is young Woodleigh, and you know he came in for all that money on his uncle's death. In such a cause you would not have her countenance fatigue?"
"Here comes her contrast," remarks Sir James, as a slight, dark woman, very pretty, with just asoupconof coloring on her pale cheeks, and enough shading round her lids to make her dark eyes darker, skates by.
"I have been watching her," says Harriet. "She is Mrs. Elton, whose husband died last year—much to her satisfaction, as people say. See, Phyllis, how she is surrounded by admirers: every tenth minute she accepts a new aspirant to her hand, as far as rinking goes. Ah, my dear! see what it is to be a bewitching widow—far better than being a lovely girl. And James positively refuses to give me a chance of trying whether I would be a success if so circumstanced."
Sir James smiles comfortably, and so do I, while watching the gay widow as she beams, and droops, and languishes, according to the mood of each companion—amusing all in turn, and knowing herself as universally adored by the opposite sex as she is detested by her own.
"I had great difficulty in getting your skates. I wonder if these are small enough?" whispers Sir Mark in my ear; and, turning, I behold him fully equipped for the fray, followed by a subdued little boy, who carries under his arm the articles in question. They proved to be the right size, and soon I find myself standing on four wheels (that apparently go every way in the most impartial manner), grasping frantically my Mentor's arm.
"Oh, what is the matter with my heels? They won't stay still!" I cry, desperately, as my body betrays an inclination to lay itself flat upon the ground. "They can't be right, I am sure. Are all the skates like these?"
"Yes. Try to walk a little, and you will find it easier. It is wonderful how soon one gets used to the sensation."
I summon all my pluck, and get round the place three times without stopping or falling, thanks to Sir Mark's strong arm. As I reach my starting-point once more, I pause and sink into a vacant chair.
"I will rest a little," I breathe hastily. "I am dreadfully tired and frightened. I had no idea it would prove so difficult. Go away, Sir Mark, and take a turn by yourself; and perhaps later on, if you come back for me, I will try again. Oh, I wonder how on earth it is all these people manage to keep upright?"
"Don't lose heart," says Sir Mark, smiling. "Once on a time they all felt just as you do now. Indeed, I think you a very promising beginner."
He leaves us, and Harriet and I fall to criticizing the performers again. After all, I think the beginners amuse me most, more especiallynow, when I can "deeply sympathize" with their terrors. The way they stumble against each other, their frequent falls, their earnest faces—earnest as though it were a matter of life and death in which they are engaged—all combine to excite my risible faculties to the last degree.
I laugh merrily and heartily, my color rises, I clap my hands with glee as two fat men, coming into collision, fall prostrate almost at my feet.
"How you enjoy everything!" says Harriet, patting me on the shoulder, and laughing herself through sympathy.
"It is all so new to me," I return, with delight; and, glancing up at her, I also catch Sir James's eyes fixed upon me, filled with pleasant amusement.
There are little boys with spindle legs who look all boots and no body; little boy-rinkers and little girl-rinkers, who do their work so beautifully and show such unlimitedgoas puts their elders to shame.
Sir Mark comes back again, and again I am persuaded to rise and court fortune. In my turn I scramble and totter and push and try to believe I am enjoying the moment. At length I break into a little slide—insensibly, as it seems—and after that matters go more smoothly.
"Ah! now you are getting into the way of it," exclaims Sir Mark, almost growing excited over my progress. "Just keep on like that, and soon you will master, it."
Half an hour elapses. The others of our party, who have been at it longer than I have, and to whom it is a novelty, have tired of skating, and stand once more together in a group.
As I approach them, attended by Sir Mark, I pause to utter a few words.
"It is lovely, delicious. I am getting on capitally. I shall do it perfectly in no time," I gasp, conceitedly; and, instantly slipping, I fall forward helplessly into my companion's arms.
I get a severe shock, but think myself lucky in that I have escaped the ground.
Sir Mark holds me a shade longer, and perhaps a shade more tenderly, than the occasion requires; and, looking up, I catch Blanche Going's eyes, and can see that she wears upon her handsome face a smile, half insolent, wholly suspicious. The others must see it, too.
Extreme anger grows within my breast. Disengaging myself from Sir Mark's support, I stand alone, though insecure, and feel that I am rapidly becoming the color of a rich and full-blown peony. Certainly my bitterest enemy could not accuse me of blushing prettily; and this knowledge, added to what I am already smarting under, renders ma furious.
I repent my first move. I regret having so far given in to popular opinion as to withdraw myself from Sir Mark's sustaining arm. Hastily turning to him again—unmindful of Harriet's kind little speech—I hold out to him my hand, and address him with unwontedempressement.
"Thank you," I say; "but for you I should have come to ignominious grief in the very midst of my boasting. I am in your debt, remember. Will you add to your goodness by taking my hand yet again for a round or two? I want to be a degree more assured. It is not every day," I add, with a gay, coquettish laugh, "a lady will make you a generous offer of her hand."
Marmaduke, as well as Blanche, hears every word. Sir Mark takes my hand very readily, and together we out of sight.
As usual, once my naughtiness isfait accompli, I suffer from remorse. When next I find myself near 'Duke I am mild and submissive as a ringdove. Would he but speak to me now I feel I could pardon and be pardoned with the utmost cheerfulness. Alas! he remains mute and apparently unforgiving, being in the dark as to my softened mood.
A deep curiosity to learn his exact humor towards me seizes hold of me, and for the satisfying of it I determine to open fire and be the first to break down the barrier of silence that has risen between us.
"What a pity we must leave this place so soon!" I say, with exceeding geniality. "It opens again at half-past seven. If we do not start for home, 'Duke, until ten o'clock, why should we not spend another hour here after dinner?"
"At that hour the place will be thronged with shop-keepers and the townfolk generally," replies he, in his coldest tones, without looking at me.
"I should not mind them in the very least," eagerly.
"I dare say not: there are few things youdomind; butI should," returns 'Duke, slowly and decisively, and, walking away, leaves metete-a-tetewith Sir Mark Gore.
All the sweetness within me changes to gall. I am once again angered and embittered; nay, more, I long to revenge myself upon him for the severity of his manner. At such moments who has not found the tempter near?
Sir Mark, bending his head, says, smoothly: "You should remember how tired Marmaduke must be of this kind of thing. He has seen so much of it. It was good enough of him, I think, to drive here to-day at all. No doubt he shudders at the thought of visiting a country rink twice in six or seven hours. Will you allow me to be your escort here to-night? If it proves unbearable we need only stay a few minutes. I am sure Marmaduke would in reality wish you to be gratified—-"
He hesitates, and regards me quietly. I am by no means as sure as he is of Marmaduke's amiability; but at this instant I care for nothing but the opportunity of showing my husband how little I care for his likes or dislikes.
"I dare say you are right," I return, calmly. "Of course it is just the sort of amusement a man would find dull, once the novelty was worn away. It is self-denying of you to offer your services. Yes, I think I will come here to-night for a few minutes, if only to see how the scene looks by lamplight."
"Much gayer than by daylight. That you can imagine." replies he, evenly, his eyes bent upon the ground.
Once having pledged myself to go, I feel no inclination to break my word. All through dinner mutinous thoughts support me in my determination.
Having led my guests back into the reception-room, I pass into the adjoining apartment unnoticed, and, hurriedly putting on my hat and jacket, slip out into the hall, where I find Sir Mark awaiting me.
Now for the first time, looking out into the darkening night, I understand what fear means. My heart sinks. What wild and foolish thing am I about to do? Obstinacy and the shame of confessing myself unnerved alone prevents me from turning back again, and it is with a beating, cowardly pulse, though an undaunted exterior, that I cross the threshold with my companion.
As I have said, the rink adjoins the hotel, and a very few minutes brings us once more within its shelter. During those few minutes my usual talkativeness deserts me; I am silent as the grave. Sir Mark, too, makes no attempt at conversation.
Inside, the laughing, moving crowd somewhat distracts me from my gloomy apprehensions. The bright glare of the lamps, the music of the band, which is playing its liveliest air, render me less fearful of consequences. Sir Mark gets me a pair of skates; he holds out his hand; I move forward; the crush is not so great as I had imagined the music cheers me. After all what harm have I done? I stumble; a merry laugh forces itself from my lips; all is forgotten save the interest of this new pastime.
Can a quarter of an hour have passed away? I am chattering gayly, and clinging to my cavalier, in a fashion innocent, indeed, but rather pronounced, when, looking up, I encounter Marmaduke's eyes fixed upon me from the doorway. There is in them an expression strange, and, to me at least, new—an expression that strikes terror to my heart as I gaze.
Sir Mark, unaware of his presence, continues to issue instructions and guide my quavering footsteps, until we are within a few feet of my husband. Loosing my hands then from his grasp, I precipitate myself upon Marmaduke and cling to him for the support he coolly allows me to take.
Sir Mark, propelled by the push I have given him in parting, skates on some little distance from us, giving me time to gasp, "Oh, 'Duke, don't be angry. I liked it so much to-day and you said we would not start before ten; so I knew I had plenty of time. You are not angry, are you?"
By this time—before 'Duke can reply—if indeed, he would deign to notice me, which I begin to doubt—Sir Mark is returned, and is now addressing my husband with the utmostbonhomie.
"See what it is to be of a dissipated turn, Carrington. In default of more congenial sport I could not resist the pleasures of an obscure rink. I fear it was foolish of me, though, to put it into Mrs. Carrington's head; though I really think there are few draughts anywhere, it is such a lovely night."
He says this as though the only earthly objection that could be raised to my coming out at this hour with him alone, is the fear of my catching cold.
"Don't you think you have had enough of it now?" says 'Duke, calmly—toocalmly—still with that strange expression in his eyes, though perfectly polite. He does not look at me, and the hand I still hold in desperation is limp within my grasp, and takes no heed of the gentle, beseeching pressure I bestow upon it every quarter of a minute. "It is getting rather late"—glancing at his watch; "I fear I must ask you to return at once, as the traps are ordered round; and it will not do for Mrs. Carrington to keep her guests waiting."
"I want a boy to take off my skates," I say, submissively, shocked at the lateness of the hour; it wants but ten minutes to ten.
"True. But boys are never in the way when wanted. Gore, I'm sureyouwill not mind unfastening Mrs. Carrington's skates, just for once," in a queer voice.
"I shall be delighted," says Mark, courteously, going down on his knees before me. As he bows his head I barely catch a certain gleam in his eyes that is neither Laughter nor triumph, yet is a curious mingling of both.
I feel ready to cry with vexation.
"You will follow me as soon as you can," says 'Duke, and, to my amazement, walks steadily away.
"I am afraid I have got you into a scrape," says Mark, in a low tone, as he bends over my left foot, and with slow fingers draws out the leather straps.
"How do you mean?" I ask, haughtily, feeling passionate anger in my heart towards him at the moment, regarding him as the cause of all my misery.
"I mean—of course I don't know—but I fancied Carrington was angry with you for coming here with—that is—so late." His hesitation and stammering are both affected and untrue.
"Not a bit of it," I reply stoutly; "he probably does not like being kept waiting: men never do. He is wonderfully punctual himself, and of course I ought to have been back ages ago. I wish now I had never come. Can't you be a little quicker?" with an impatient movement of my toe. "It don't take the boys hours to get off each skate."
"You are in a desperate hurrynow."
"Iamin a desperate hurry, and I hate vexing Marmaduke. There, hold it tightly, and I will pull my foot out. Now, try and be a little quicker about this one."
"I assure you I am doing my best," sulkily. "I don't want to keep you here, in your present mood, longer than I can help."
"I should think not," say I, with a disagreeable laugh.
As the skate comes off he flings it aside with a savage gesture, and, rising, offers me his arm, which I decline.
"We must run for it," I say, indifferently, "and I never can do that to, my own satisfaction when holding on to any one. I detest jogging."
"Why don't you say at once you detestme?" exclaims Mark, roughly, and summarily disposes of a small boy who is unhappy enough to be in his path at the moment.
"I will if you like," return I, equably; and in silence as complete as when we set out we return to the hotel.
When we arrive, every one is busy getting on his or her outdoor things. My sealskin jacket and velvet hat already adorn my person, so no convenient business of that kind comes to my aid to help me to carry of the confusion and secret fear that are consuming me. I stand somewhat apart from the rest, looking strangely like a culprit. Even Bebe, who is a sure partisan is so standing before a distant mirror, adjusting the most coquettish of head gears as to be unable to see me, while young Thornton chatters to her admiringly upon one side, and Lord Chandos glowers at her from the other.
Presently some one approaches, and to my astonishment Sir James Handcock, with an unusual amount of energy in his eyes and manner, takes up a position near me, and actually volunteers a remark.
"Remember I am old enough to be your father," he begins, abruptly, "and don't be angry with me. I feel that I must speak. I don't want to see you made unhappy. I want you to cut the whole thing. Flirtations however innocent were never meant for tender-hearted little girls like you."
I am so utterly taken aback, so altogether surprised, that I even forget to blush, and can do nothing but stand staring at him in silent bewilderment. Sir James to deliver a lecture! Sir James to take upon him the part of Mentor! it is more than my brain can grasp at a moment's notice. Surely I have been guilty of something horrible, unpardonable, to shake him out of his taciturnity.
Harriet, coming up at this juncture, hastens to assist me out of my dilemma.
"Has he been scolding you?" she asks briskly, with her quick ready smile. "James, I won't have Phyllis frightened to death by a stern old moralist like you. Go and get things together; and if you meet a comfortable motherly gray shawl, remember it is mine."
Thus dismissed, James, ever obedient, departs, casting a kindly glance at me as he goes. Harriet lays her hand lightly on my arm.
"Don't look so horrified, child," she says. "James's voice, from continual disuse, has degenerated into a growl, I own, but it need not reduce you to insensibility. He is awkward, but he means well, as they say in the British drama. Come"—with a faint pressure—"try to look more cheerful, or people will begin to wonder and imagine all sorts of unlikely things. You have made a mistake; but then a mistake is not a crime."
"What have I done?" I ask, rousing myself. "I only wanted to see the rink again, and 'Duke would not take me. He was unkind in his manner, and vexed me. Sir Mark offered to take charge of me, I believe I wanted to show 'Duke I could go in spite of him, but I never thought of—of anything else; and now 'Duke is so angry he will not even speak to me."
"Oh, that is nonsense! of course he will speak to you. You have committed a little folly, that is all. I can quite understand it. Probably, under like circumstances, and at your age, I would have been guilty of the same. But it was foolish nevertheless."
"He should not have spoken to me as he did."
"I dare say not; though I don't know what he said, and do not wish to know. There are always faults on both sides. And now, Phyllis, as we are on the subject, let me say one word. You know I am fond of you—that I think you the dearest little sister-in-law in the world. Therefore you will hear me patiently. Have nothing more to say to Mark Gore. He is very—unfortunate in his—friendships. I do not wish to say anything against him, but no good ever came of being too intimate with him. Are you offended with me? Have I gone too far Phyllis?"
"No, no," anxiously retaining the hand she half withdraws, "I am glad, as it was on your mind, you spoke. But you cannot think—you cannot believe—-" I am too deeply agitated to continue.
"I believe nothing but what is altogether good of you, be sure of that," she answers, heartily. "But I dread your causing yourself any pain through thoughtlessness. Remember 'how easily things go wrong,' and how difficult it is sometimes to set them right again. And—Marmaduke loves you."
"I wish I had never seen this odious rink," I whisper, passionately. "I will never go to one again. I wish I had never laid eyes on Mark Gore. I hate him. I—-"
"Good child" interposes she, calmly, as an antidote to my excitement. "Now, go and make peace with your husband. See, there he is. Marmaduke, Phyllis is too cold in this coat, get her something warm to put round her shoulders."
Mechanically I obey the faint push she gives me, and follow 'Duke into the dimly-lighted hall. He strides on in front, and takes not the slightest notice of my faltering footsteps.
"Marmaduke," I whisper, nervously, "Marmaduke, may I drive home with you?"
"With me! For what?"
His tone is stern and uncompromising. My new-found courage evaporates.
"Because I—I want to—very much," I answer, feebly, much dispirited.
"You came here with Gore. Why not return with him? It seems to me far better for all parties you should do so."
"But I do not wish it. I would rather drive home with any one than Sir Mark Gore. Oh, Marmaduke, please let me go with you."
"It is rather late to think of saving appearances, if you mean that."
"I do not mean it. I am not thinking of anything but you."
He laughs unpleasantly.
"Did Harriet tell you to make that sweet little speech?
"No," in a low tone.
"Do you imagine you are pleasing me by making this request?" he exclaims, angrily, glancing down at me as I stand staring at him, my head barely reaching his shoulder. Reproach and entreaty are in my uplifted eyes, but they do not soften him. "Do you think you are offering me compensation? Pray do not for a moment believe I am either hurt or annoyed by your behavior of this evening. Why should I? You are not the only woman in the world who has suddenly developed a talent for flirtations."
"Marmaduke, what are you saying? Of what are you accusing me?"
I am nearly in tears by this time, and cannot find words to argue or deny the horrid imputation of coquetry.
"Do not let me stand in the way of your amusements. Of course when I chose to marry a child—and a child without a spark of affection for me—I must learn not to cavil at consequences. Understand, Phyllis, it is a matter of indifference to me whether you drive home with Mark Gore or any other man. Do not give yourself any annoyance, under a mistaken impression that you may be gratifying me. Take your Choice of an escort."
"I have taken it," I say, dolefully, "but the one I want won't take me. Marmaduke, how unkind you are! Do you then,refuse, to drive me home?"
"If you insist on sitting beside me you can do so," he yields, ungraciously. "You will find it stupid, as I am in no mood for conversation, and have no desire for your company."
"Nevertheless I will force it on you," I cry, with some faint spark of pride and indignation. "Though you hate me, I will return with no one but you."
And so it is settled, and soon we are driving side by side under the brilliant dancing stars.
It is a long, long drive—much longer, it seems to me, in the chill night than in the glare of day—and not one word does my companion speak. Once, when the moon rushes Out with a white gleam from behind the scudding clouds, I take courage to look at him; but he is biting his mustache, and wears upon his brow a heavy frown that completely freezes on my lips the few silly words I would have uttered.
Once, too, as his hand lies bare upon his knee, I venture to place my fingers timidly upon it, but he shakes them off, under a plain pretense of adjusting the reins; and thus, twice repulsed, I have no heart to make a further advance.
So, in dead silence, we make our journey, listening absently, to the chatter of those behind and the sound of the horses' feet as they bravely cover the ground.
In silence we reach our home, in silence he helps me down, and with the sorriest pain at my heart it has ever yet known I go upstairs and shut myself into my room.
Martha, under a mistaken impression that I am what she is pleased to term "poorly," pours out some eau-de-Cologne and proceeds to bathe my forehead with vigorous concern; and such is the forlornness of my state that I cannot bring myself to bid her begone. When she has put me through the various stages of undressing, has left me ready for bed, and insisted on hearing me say I am immensely better, she departs, to my infinite relief.
I turn dismally in my chair, and begin to wonder what I am to do next. Every minute my crime appears more hideous; I feel more positive he will never forgive me.
Strangely enough, as my own misdemeanors grow in size and importance, his decrease, until at length they sink into utter insignificance. The remembrance of that pink note alone rankles, and perhaps even that could be explained.
The hours slip by. 'Duke's foot is to be heard slowly pacing his own floor.
I must and will compel him to make friends with me. How can I face a long sleepless night such as I know will be mine if I go to bed unpardoned? I will make one more effort, and this time I will not be unsuccessful, As I have not now, and never have had, a particle of pride in my composition, it takes me very little thinking to decide on this course.
I am sitting before my fire as I develop this idea, toasting my bare toes in a rather purposeless manner, preparatory to jumping into bed. Unlike most people, I can endure any amount of heat to the soles of my feet.
Mechanically I slip into my blue slippers, and, rising, go to the glass. Yet, what I see pleases me: I certainly do look nice in my dressing-gown. No other style of garment, no matter how bewitching or elaborate, suits me half as well. This particular gown at which I am now gazing profoundly is of white cashmere, lined and wadded, and trimmed profusely with pale blue. There is a dear little frill round the neck that almost makes me love myself. It is a gift of Marmaduke's. Walking one day in Paris, during our honeymoon, it had attracted our attention in a shop-window, and he had insisted on my going into the shop then and there and making myself the owner of it. Surely when he sees me now he will remember the circumstance, and it will soften him.
Ah! he was very fond of me then, I recollect, with a sigh.
My hair is streaming down my back, far below my waist; I am looking well, but young very young; indeed, I am painfully conscious that, now my high-heeled shoes are lying under a chair, I might easily be mistaken for a child of fourteen.
The thought is distasteful. Hastily putting up my hands, I wind my hair round and round my head until I have reduced it to its everyday decorous fashion; only to find that rolls and smoothness do not accord well with anegligeecostume.
Looking at myself again with a critical eye, I am again dissatisfied. I may appear older, I certainly do not present so pleasing atout ensemble; so, with much vicious haste, I once more draw out the hair-pins and let my straight brown hair hang according to its fancy. Being now at last convinced I am to be seen at my best, I proceed to act upon the thought that has caused all this unwonted vanity, I go softly to Marmaduke's dressing-room door, armed with my brush and begin to batter at it pretty loudly.
"Marmaduke, Marmaduke!" I cry, but obtain no answer. That he is within is beyond all doubt, as every now and then through the thick oaken door I can hear a sound or two.
Again I exercise my lungs, again I batter at the door.
"'Duke—Marmaduke!" I cry once more, impatiently.
"What do you want?" demands my husband, in a voice that sends my heart into my blue slippers.
"I want to get in," I return, as meekly as one can, when one's tone is raised to the highest pitch.
"You cannot now; I am busy."
"But I must. 'Duke, do open the door. I have something of the utmost importance to say to you."
After a moment or two I can hear him coming slowly to the door. In another instant he has unlocked it, and is standing in the doorway in an attitude that is plainly meant to bar my further approach.
"Won't you let me in?" I say. "I want to speak to you; I have something to tell you."
Here I make a dive under the arm he had placed against one side of the door as a prudent barricade, and gain the dressing-room. Having so far succeeded, I pause to glance timidly at him.
He has divested himself of his coat and waistcoat, and has evidently been brushing his hair, as it is smooth to the last degree and has about it a general air of being ready to enter a ball-room at a moment's notice.
"You might be going to a reception, your hair is so beautifully dressed," I say, with a weak attempt at raillery and composure.
"Did you nearly break down the door to come and tell me that?" asked he, without a vestige of a smile.
Once again my eyes seek the carpet. All my affected nonchalance deserts me. I feel frightened. Never before has his voice sounded go harsh when addressed to me. I put my hands behind me, and grasp nervously the torrent of hair that flows down my back. For the second time it occurs to me how abominably young I must be looking. Somehow the word "Doll" writes itself before my lowered eyes.
"No," I say, in a whisper. "I came to ask you to forgive me to tell you I am very sorry for it all."
"Are you? I am glad of that. In my opinion you could not be too sorry."
"Oh, 'Duke, do not betoohard on me. I did not mean to make you so very angry. I did not think there was any harm in what I did."
"No harm?No harm in flirting so outrageously as to bring down upon you the censure of all your guests? No harm in making yourself the subject of light gossip? Do you know that ever since last night, when you chose to disgrace both yourself and me by your conduct, I have felt half maddened.Angry. The word does not express what I feel. A hundred times during these past few hours I have with the utmost difficulty restrained myself."
"I don't see that I have done anything so very terrible; I have not behaved worse than—than others I could name, I don't believe anybody noticed me," I reply, miserably, and most untruthfully.
"Pshaw! How blind you must think people! Do you suppose they will not comment freely on your going to that low place with Gore, at nine o'clock at night,alone. I own my belief in their dulness or good-nature is not as comfortable a one as yours. Blanche Going, at all events, spoke to me openly about it."
I instantly take fire.
"No doubt," I cry, with passion. "Lady Blanche Going has her own reasons for wishing to degrade me in my husband's sight. She is a wicked woman! Were I to dohalfwhat she has done, and is capable of doing, I would be ashamed to look you in the face. Ihateher! If you believe whatshesays, rather than whatI say, of course there is little use in my speaking further in my own defense."
"I believe only what I see," returns my husband, significantly; "and that—I regret to say of you, Phyllis—is more than I can think of with calmness."
He turns from me as he speaks, and begins to pace excitedly up and down the room, a frown born of much anger upon his forehead.
"To think you should have chosenthatfellow, who has hardly a shred of character left, as yourfriend."
It would be impossible to put on paper the amount of scorn he throws into the last word.
"He is no friend of mine," I say, sullenly, beating my foot petulantly against the ground. "I always understood he was a particular favorite of yours. If you consider him such a disreputable creature, why did you invite him to your house!
"Because I was unfortunately under the impression I could ask any man with safety into mywife'shouse," says he, loftily; and the quotation in which Caesar's wife is brought to bear comes to my mind: I am almost tempted to mention it for purposes of provocation, but refrain. In truth, I am really unhappy, and at my wit's end, by this. Surely I cannot have so altogether forgotten myself as he seems to imagine.
"There are worse people here than Mark Gore," I remark, still sullen.
"If there are, I don't know them, and certainly do not wish to discuss them. The misdemeanors of the world do not concern me; it is with you alone I have to deal. Ever since Gore entered the house you have shown an open and most undignified desire for his society. I bore it all in silence, neither thwarting you nor exhibiting my displeasure in any way; but when I see you casting aside common prudence, and making yourself a subject for scandalous remarks, I think it is high time for me to interfere and assert my authority. Were you several years younger than you are, you are still quite old enough to know right from wrong; and for the future"—here he stops short close beside me, and, with his blue eyes flashing, goes on, "for the future, I insist on your conducting yourself as my wife should."
When a man is without his coat and waistcoat, and thinks himself ill-used, he generally looks more than his actual height. Marmaduke, standing before me with uplifted hand to enforce his remarks, and with a very white face, certainly appears uncomfortably tall. He is towering over poor little me, in my heelless shoes and white gown, and for a moment it occurs to me that I ought to feel frightened; the next instant anger has overpowered me, and raised me to his level.
"Howdareyou speak to me like that? By what right doyouuse such language? You who every hour of the day make yourself conspicuous with that horrible cousin of yours? Do you suppose, then, that I have no eyes? that I cannot fathom motives, and actions, and—-`"
"What do you mean?" interrupts he, haughtily.
"That sounds very well; but if, when you accused me of flirting with Mark Gore,Ihad drawn myself up, and asked, in an injured tone, 'what you meant,' you would very soon have told me I knew only too well. Have I not noticed you with Blanche? Do you ever leave her side? Whispering in corridors—lingering in conservatories—letting her write you letters! Oh, I knoweverything!" cry I, absolutely sobbing with long pent-up rage and grief.
"Write me letters!" repeats 'Duke, in utter bewilderment.
"Yes; long,longletters. I saw it."
"Blanche never in her life wrote me a long letter, or any other letter, that I can recollect."
"Oh!When I saw it with my own eyes, and only yesterday, too! How can you deny it? In the morning she pretended she had a headache, and I went up to ask her how she was, and there on the table was a pink note, with three of the pages closely written over, and while I stayed she folded it into a cocked hat; and when I came home in the evening I went into your room—-this room—for some eau-de-Cologne, and it was lyingthereon the table under mynose," I wind up, with passionate vulgarity.
"I think you must be raving," says 'Duke, his own vehemence quieted by mine. "A letter—yet stay," a look of intelligence coming into his face; and, going over to a drawer he rummages there for a moment, and at length produces the very three-cornered note that has caused me so many jealous pangs. "Is this the note you mean?"
"Yes, it is," coming eagerly forward.
"I now recollect finding this in my room, when I returned from shooting yesterday. She asks me to do a commission for her, which, as it happens, quite slipped my memory until now. Take and read it, and see how just were your suspicions."
As I put out my hand, I know that I am acting meanly, but still I do take it, and, opening it, find my three closely-written pages have dwindled down to half a one. Five or six lines, carelessly scrawled, are before me.
"Are you satisfied?" asks 'Duke, who, half sitting on the table with folded arms, is watching me attentively.
"Yes," in a low voice; "I was wrong. This is not the note I saw with her. I now understand she must have meantthatone for—for somebody else, and, knowing I saw it, sent this to you to blind me."
"Moresuspicions, Phyllis? As to what other charges you have brought against me, I can only swear that when I told you a year ago you were the only woman I had ever really loved, I spoke the truth."
"From all you have said to me to-night, I can scarcely imagine you would now repeat those words," I say, in trembling tones.
"Yes, I would. If I live to be an old man, I shall never love again as I have loved, anddolove, you."
"Yet you are always meeting Blanche; you are always with her. Only this very morning I found you both together in the corridor in earnest conversation."
"It was quite by accident we met; I had no idea she was there."
"She was speaking to you of me?"
"She said something about your manner towards Gore the night previous. It was something very kind, I remember, but it angered me to think any one had noticed you, though in my heart I knew it must be so. It was too palpable. She meant nothing hurtful."
"The wretch! 'Duke, listen to me and believe me. If I had not felt positive that note," moving a little nearer and laying my fingers upon it, "was the one I saw with her, I would never have acted towards Mark Gore as I did last night. But I felt wounded and cut to the heart, and tried to torture you as I was being tortured. It was foolish, wicked of me, I know, but it made no one so miserable as myself."
"But then—the rink." He speaks very quietly now, but he has come off the table, and is standing before me, one hand resting on it very close to mine, but not touching. I am gazing earnestly into his face with large, wistful eyes.
"It was the same longing for revenge made me go there—nothing else. I had tried to make up with you by asking you to take me to the rink in the evening, but you would not meet my advances, and answered me very cruelly." My lips tremble. "Your words restored all my anger. I was determined to show you I could go there without your permission. Sir Mark was on the spot, and asked me to go with him; it was all the same to me whom I went with, so long as I could defy you, and I agreed to accompany him—not, as you thought, because I wished to be with him, but only to vex you. I thought of no one but you. It would not trouble me if I never saw Mark Gore again. You believe me, 'Duke? I never told you a wilful lie, did I?" Two heavy tears long gathering roll down my cheeks.
"Never," replies he, hoarsely.
Silence follows his last word. We stand very near, yet separate gazing into each other's eyes. Presently, impulsively, his hand mores, and closes firmly upon mine. For an instant longer we gaze, and then I am in his arms, crying as if my heart would break.
"You don't care for her;sayyou don't care for her," I sob, entreatingly.
"Phyllis, how can you ask me? To care for that worldly-wise woman, when I haveyouto love, my own darling my angel!"
This is comforting; it almost sounds as though he were calling her bad names, and I sob on contentedly from the shelter of his arms.
"And you will never speak to her again, will you,dear'Duke?"
"Oh, my pet! You forget she is a guest in the house. How can I avoid speaking and being civil to her?"
"Of course I don't meanthat. But you will have notete-a-teteand you won't be so attentive to her and you will be very glad when she goes away?"
"I will indeed, be most sincerely delighted, if her staying causes you one moment's unhappiness. She speaks of leaving next week; let us be polite to her for these few remaining days—poor Blanche!—and then we will forget she ever lived."
"Yes," I acquiesce, and then there is a pause in the conversation. Is he not going to touch on the other cause of war? For a little time I am filled with wonderment; then I say, shyly, "You do not ask me about Mark Gore?"
"No." replies he, hastily, "nor will I. I understand everything; I believe all you said. A misconception arose between us: now it is at rest forever, let us refer to it no more. Now that it is at an end, I feel rather flattered at your being so jealous; it tells me you must be getting to care for me a little."
"Oh,caringis a poor thing. I think now I love you better than any one in the world, except—-"
"Billy, and Roly, and mamma," he mimics me, laughing, though he bites his lips, "the old story."
"Wrong: I was going to say mother only. Somehow, Billy and Roly of late do not seem so dear as you." I stroke his face patronizingly.
"Only mother!" he says, with a gay laugh (how many weeks have passed since last I heard that laugh!) "why, that is much better. Billy always appeared the most formidable rival. I am progressing in your good books. In time I may even be able to vanquish mother."
"I am so glad I made that onslaught on your door a little while ago," declare I, merrily, "and I think you were very undecided about letting me in. How good it is to be quite friends again! and we have not been that for a long time. Oh, is not jealousy a horrible pain?"
"'And to be wroth with those we love Doth work like madness on the brain,'"
quotes 'Duke softly.
"It all began by Mark Gore telling me you were once engaged to Blanche Going."
"What a lie!" cries 'Duke, so eagerly that I cannot choose but believe him. "How often am I to tell you I never loved any one but you?"
"That is another thing. Men always imagine when they form a new attachment that the old ones contained no real love. What I should like to know is, how many you asked to marry you." My words are uttered jestingly, yet his face changes, very slightly, ever so little, yet it certainly changes. Only a little pallor, a little faint contraction nothing more. It is gone almost as soon as it is there.
"I never asked Blanche, at all events," he laughs, lightly. And not until many days have come and gone, do I remember his singular hesitation.