"Listen,"—trying to speak calmly, and seizing hold of my hands again; "why should you make this wretched story public? As yet, no one is the wiser; you and I alone hold the secret. This woman, this fend, will go anywhere will do anything, for sufficient money, and I can make it worth her while to be forever silent. When she returns to Italy, who then will know the truth?"
"The truth—ah! yes—-"
"Are you not my wife? Has not my love bound you to me by stronger ties than any church laws? Why should this former detested bond ruin both our lives?"
"A little while ago you spoke of yourself as an 'over-honorable' man. Is what you now propose honorable or right? Marmaduke, it is impossible. As our lives have shaped themselves, so must they be. I cannot live with you."
"Think of what the world will say. Phyllis, can you bear their cruel speeches? It is not altogether for my own sake I plead, though the very thought of losing you is more than I can bear. It is for you, yourself, I entreat. Remember what your position will be. Have pity upon yourself."
"No, no! I will not listen to you. I will not, Marmaduke."
He flings himself on his knees before me.
"Darling, darling, do not forsake me," he whispers despairingly.
"Let me go," I cry wildly. "Is this your love for me? Oh, the selfishness of it. Would you have me live with you as—-"
"Be silent!" exclaims he, in a terrible voice. A spasm of pain contracts his face. Slowly he regains his feet.
"You madden me," he goes on, in an altered tone. "I forget that you, who have never loved, cannot feel as I do. Phyllis, tell me the truth; have you no affection for me. Are you quite cold?"
"I am not!" I cry, suddenly waking from my unnatural apathy, and bursting into bitter tears, the first I have shed to-day. As the whole horrible truth comes home to me, I rise impulsively and fling myself into my husband's arms—for my husband he has been for six long months. "I do love you, 'Duke—'Duke; but, oh! what can I do? What words can I use to tell you all I feel? I am young, and silly, and ridiculous in many ways, I know; but yet there is something within me I dare not disobey—something that makes me know the life you propose would be a life of sin, one on which no blessing could fall. Help me, therefore, to do the right, and do not make my despair greater than it is."
He is silent, as he holds me clasped passionately to his breast.
"We must part," I go on, more steadily. "I must leave you: but, oh, Duke, do not send me home. I could not go there."
I shudder violently in his embrace at the bare thought of such a home-coming. How could I summon courage to meet all the whispers, the suppressed looks, the very kindnesses, that day by day I should see?
"And here I could not stay, either," I sob, mournfully: "memory would kill me. 'Duke, where shall I go? Send me, you—somewhere."
I wait for his answer with my head pillowed on his chest. I wait a long time. Whatever struggle is going on within him takes place silently. He makes no sign of agony; he does not move; his very heart, on which I lean, has almost ceased to beat. At length he speaks, and as the words cross his lips I know that he has conquered, but at the expense of youth and joy and hope.
"There is Hazelton," he says; "it is a pretty place. It was my mother's. Will you go there? And—-"
"Yes, I will go there," I answer, brokenly.
"What servants will you take with you?" he asks me, presently, in a dull, subdued way; all impatience and passion have died within him.
"I will take none," I reply, "not one from this place. You must go to Hazelton and get me a few from the neighborhood round it—just three or four, who will know nothing of me, and seek to know nothing."
"Oh, my darling, at least take your own maid with you, who has known you all your life. And Tynon, he is an old and valued servant; he will watch over you, and take care of you."
"I will not be watched," I say, pettishly; "and I detest being taken care of. I am not ill. Even when a heart is sick unto death, there is no cure for it. And I would not have Tynon on any account. Every time I met his eyes I would know what he was thinking about. I would read pity in every glance and gesture, and I will not be made more wretched than I am by sympathy."
"Then take Martha. You know how attached to you she is.—-"
"No; I will have no one to remind me of the old life. Do not urge me, 'Duke. Give me my own way in this. Believe me, if you do, I shall have a far better chance of—peace."
"I wish, for your sake, I was dead," says 'Duke, hoarsely.
At this I begin to cry again, weakly. I am almost worn out.
"You will at least write to me, now and then, Phyllis?"
"It will be better not."
"Why? I have sworn not to see you again, but I must and will have some means of knowing whether you are dead or alive. Promise me that twice a year, once in every six months, you will let me have a letter. It is only a little thing to ask, out of all the happy past."
"I promise. But you—will you stay here?"
"Here?" he echoes, bitterly. "What do you take me for? In this house, where every room and book and flower would remind me of your sweet presence? No, we will leave it together: I shall look my last on it with you I will not stay to see it desolate and gray and cold without its mistress. You must let me be your escort to your new home, that people may have less to wonder at."
"And where will you go?"
"Abroad—India, Australia, America—anywhere: what does it matter? If I travelled to the ends of the earth, I could not fly my thoughts."
"And"—timidly—"what ofher?"
"Nothing," he answers, roughly: "I will not talk of her again toyou."
There is a low, apologetic knock at the door. Instantly I seat myself on the sofa in as dignified an attitude as I can assume, considering my hair is all awry and my eyelids crimson. 'Duke lowers the lamp prudently, and falls back to the hearthrug, standing with his hands clasped carelessly behind him, before he says, in a clear, distinct tone:—-
"Come in."
"Dinner is served," announces Tynon, softly, with the vaguest, discreetest of coughs. How is it that servants always know everything?
"Very good," returns Marmaduke, in his ordinary voice. "Let Mrs. Vernon know." Then, as though acting on a second thought:—-
"Tynon."
"Yes, sir."
"It may be as well to let you know now that Mrs. Carrington and I are leaving home next week for some time.
"Indeed, sir? yes, sir." Tynon's face is perfectly impassive, except at the extreme corners of the mouth: these being slightly down-drawn indicate regret and some distress.
"We both feel much disappointed at being obliged to leave home at this particular time the Christmas season being so close at hand; but the business that takes us is important, and will admit of no delay. I shall leave behind me the usual sum of money for the poor, with an additional gift from Mrs. Carrington, which I will trust you and Mrs. Benson" (the housekeeper) "to see properly distributed."
"Thank you, sir: it shall be carefully attended to."
"I am quite sure of that," kindly. Then, with a return to the rather forced and stilted manner that has distinguished his foregoing speech, he goes on: "It is altogether uncertain when we shall be able to come back to Strangemore, as the business of which I speak will necessitate my going abroad; and as Mrs. Carrington's health will not allow her to accompany me, and as she has been ordered change of air, she will go to Hazelton, which she has not seen, and await my return there. You quite understand, Tynon?"
"Perfectly, sir," replies the old butler, with his eyes on the ground. And as I watch him, I know how perfectly indeed he understands, not only what is being said, but also what is not being said.
'Duke weary of lying, draws his hand across his forehead. "You will please let the other servants know of our movements. Although my absence may be more prolonged than I think, I shall wish them all to remain as they now are so that the house may be in readiness to receive us at any moment. But," turning his gaze for the first time fully upon Tynon and speaking very sternly, "I will have no whispering or gossiping about things that don't concern them: mind that. I leave you in charge, Tynon, and I desire that all such conduct be punished with instant dismissal. You hear?"
"Yes, sir; you may be sure there shall be no gossiping or whispering going on in this house."
"I hope not." Then, having noticed the quavering voice and depressed air of this old servitor, who has known him from his youth up, he adds more gently, "you may go now. I know I can trust you. I do not think I have any more directions to give you at present."
Tynon bows in a shaky, dispirited way, and leaves the room. Outside in the dusk of the corridor, I can see him put his hand to his eyes. But he is staunch, and even now compels himself to turn and say, with deference and with a praiseworthy show of ignorance of what the preceding conversation may mean:—-
"I hope you will excuse my mentioning it, sir, but if there is one thing beyond another that raises Mrs. Cook's irritableness, and makes her perverse towards the rest of the household, it is to hear the soup was allowed to grow cold."
"All right, Tynon: Mrs. Harrison's nerves shall not be upset this evening. We will go down now," says 'Duke, with a smile—a very impoverished specimen of its kind, I must own, but still a smile.
I rush into the next room—my dressing-room is off my boudoir—and having bathed my poor eyes and hastily brushed my hair and given myself a general air of prosperity make for the dining-room. On the stairs we encounter mother, looking so pale and wan, and almost terrified, that I take my hand off Marmaduke's arm and slip it round her waist. It will never do for her to present such a woful countenance to the criticism of servants.
"Try to look a little more cheerful, darling," I whisper, eagerly; "it will not be for long: as it has to be gone through, let us be brave in the doing of it."
She looks at me with a relieved astonishment; and truly the strength of will that bears me through this interminable evening amazes no one so much as myself.
----
Hazelton down by the sea, I have gained your shelter at last. Only yesterday, Marmaduke and I finished our miserable journey here, and took a long, a last, farewell of each other.
How can I write of it, how describe the anguish of those few minutes, in which a whole year's keenest torture was compressed? How paint word by word the mad but hopeless clinging, the lingering touch of hands that never more should join, the despair, the passion, of the final embrace.
It is over, and he is gone, and I have fallen into a settled state of apathy, and indifference to what is going on around me, that surely bears some resemblance to a melancholy madness.
Hazelton is a very pretty, old-fashioned house, about half the size of Strangemore—with many straggling rooms well wainscoted almost three parts up each wall. Some of the floors are of gleaming polished oak, some richly, heavily carpeted. It is a picturesque old place, that at any other time, and under any other circumstances, would have filled me with admiration.
Afar off one can catch a glimpse of the sea. From the parlor windows it is plainly visible; in the other rooms a rising hill, and in summer the foliage, intercept the view, In reality, it is only a mile and a half distant from the house, so that at night when the wind is high, the sullen roar of it comes to the listening ear.
The few servants who have had the house in charge have been retained, and three more have been added. These have evidently made up their minds to receive me with open arms; but as a week passes, and I show no signs of interest in them, or their work, or the gardens, or anything connected with my life, they are clearly puzzled and disappointed. This I notice in a dull wondering fashion. Why can they not be as indifferent to me as I am to them?
All the visitors that should call do call; it is not a populous neighborhood, but as I decline, seeing them, and do not return their visits the would-be acquaintance drops. On Monday, the vicar, a slight, intellectual-looking man, rides up to the door, and, being refused admittance, leaves his card, and expresses his intention of coming again some day soon. Which message, being conveyed to me by the respectable person who reigns here as butler, raises my ire, and induces me to give an order on the spot that never, on any pretence whatever, is any one—vicar or no vicar—to be admitted to my presence.
Sunday comes, but I feel no inclination to clothe myself and go forth to confess my sins and pour out my griefs in the house of prayer. All days are alike to me, and I shrink with a morbid horror from presenting myself to the eyes of my fellows. In this quiet retreat I can bury myself, and nurse my wrongs, and brood over my troubles without interference from a cruel world.
I find some half-finished work among my things, and taking it to my favorite room, bend over it hour by hour more often it falls unheeded on my lap, while I let memory wander backward, and ask myself, sadly, if such a being ever really lived as wild, merry careless Phyllis Vernon.
The days go by, and I feel no wish for outdoor exercise, My color slowly fades.
One morning, the woman who has taken Martha's place, and who finds much apparent delight in the binding and twisting of my hair into impossible fashions, takes courage` to address me.
"The gardens here, ma'am, are so pretty, the prettiest for miles round."
"Are they? I must go and see them."
"'Deed, m'm, and it would do you good. A smart walk now once in a way is better'n medicine, so I'm told. And the grounds round here is rare and pretty to look at, though to be sure winter has a dispiritin' effect on everything."
"It is cold," I say, with a shiver.
"It is, m'm surely"—leaving the mighty edifice she is erecting on the top of my head to give the fire a vigorous poke—"but with your fur cloak and hat you won't feel it. Shall I bring them to you after breakfast, ma'am?"
"Very well; do," reply I, with a sigh of resignation.
Much pleased with her success, the damsel retreats, and punctually to the moment, as I rise from my breakfast-table, appears again, armed with cloak and gloves and hat. Thus constrained, I sally forth, and make a tour round the gardens that surround what must be for evermore my home.
And very delicious old gardens they are, as old-fashioned as the house, and quite as picturesque. There is a total want of method, of precision, in the arrangement of them, that instinctively charms the eyes. I wander from orchard into flower-garden, and from flower-garden on again to orchard, without a break of any sort—no gates divide them: it is all one pretty happy medley.
The walks, though scrupulously neat, are ungravelled, and here and there a dead leaf, crisp and dry, displays itself. The very trees, though bereft of leaves, do not appear so foolish, so melancholy, in this free land of theirs, as they always look elsewhere.
I feel some animation creeping in my blood; my step is more springy. At the garden gate the father of all this sweetness steps up to me. He is a rosy-checked, good-humored-looking man, a brilliant contrast to the unapproachable Cummins; he presents me with a small bouquet of winter flowers.
"I am proud to see you ma'am," he says, with a touch of interest in his tone. "I am sorry I have nothing better worth offering you than these 'ere." He tenders the bouquet as he speaks—a very marvel of a bouquet, considering the time of year.
"Thank you," I say, with a gracious smile, born of my brisk and pleasant promenade: "it is lovely. It is far prettier in my eyes than the summer one, because so unexpected."
"I pass on, leaving him, bowing and scraping and much gratified, in the middle of the path, with the unwonted smile still upon my lips."
But, as the evening draws on, this faintest, glimmer of renewed hope dies, and I sink back once more into my accustomed gloom.
----
"What will you please to order for dinner to-day, mum?" asks cook from the doorway. I have never yet given directions for that meal, much to that worthy creatures despair, whose heart and thoughts are in her stew-pans.
I glance up with languid surprise.
"Anything you please," I say; "you are always very satisfactory. I told you I would leave everything to you. Why do you ask me to-day in particular?"
"Law, mum, sure it's Christmas day, and I thought may be as 'ow—-"
"Christmas-day, is it," I exclaim, curiously. "Then I have been a whole fortnight in this place."
"Yes, mum. A whole fortnight and one day, by five o'clock this hevening, precisely. I took the liberty of asking you to order dinner for this one night, thinking as you might put a name to something or other dainty that you fancies."
"Indeed I have no choice, cook, and I am not at all hungry."
"Likely enough, mum, considering it is now only twelve o'clock; but for a lady like yourself, as eats no luncheon to speak of, you will for certain be starved by seven."
"I thought a Christmas dinner never varied, cook. You can have the usual thing, I suppose."
"In course, mum," says cook, undaunted. She is a fine, fat, healthy-looking woman, with a large eye, and a slightly wheezy intonation, as though she were constantly trying to swallow some of her own good things that had inadvertently stuck in her throat. It seems to me that I ought to love this comfortable creature, who is so obstinately bent on flattering me against my will. "But whatever folks may say, a plum pudding for a delicate lady like you is uncommon 'eavy on the 'art and mind when bed-hour comes. If you would just say anything that would please you—something light that I might try my hand on—an ice-pudding, now?"—this with as near an attempt at coaxing as respect will permit.
But the word "ice-pudding" calls up old memories: I remember my ancient weakness for that particular confection. My brows contract; a sharp pain fills my breast.
"No, no! anything but ice-pudding," I say, hastily: "I—hate it."
"Dear me, mum! now do you? Most of the quality loves it. Then what would you say? I'm a first-class hand in the pastry line—-"
"Make me—a meringue," I murmur, in despair, seeing I shall have to give in, or else go through a list from the cookery book, and fortunately remembering how I once heard a clever housekeeper say there were few sweets so difficult to bring to perfection. But the difficulty, if there is any, only enchants my goddess of the range.
"Very good, mum; you shall 'ave it," she says, rapturously; and retires with flying colors, having beaten me ignominiously.
A month—two months—go by, and still my self-imposed seclusion is unbroken.
Now and again I receive a letter from former friends, but these I discourage. From mother I hear regularly once a week, whether I answer her or not. Poor mother! She has begged and prayed for permission to visit me, to see how time is using me, whether I am well or ill; but all to no avail. I will not be dragged out of the gloomy solitude in which I have chosen to bury myself.
From Dora, on her return from Rome, comes such a kindly, tender letter as I had not believed it possible the chilly Dora could pen. It is wound up by a postscript from Sir George, as warm-hearted in tone as he is himself. It touches me, in a far-off, curious manner; but I shrink from the invitation to join them that it contains, and refuse it in such a way as must prevent a repetition of it.
Monotonous as is my existence, I hardly note how time flies. March winds rush by me, and I scarcely heed them. But for the hurtful racking cough they leave me as a legacy, ere taking their final departure, I would not have known they had been among us. This cough grows and increases steadily, rendering more pallid my already colorless cheeks, while the little flesh that still cleaves to my bones becomes less and less as the hours go on. It tears my slight frame with a cruel force, and leaves me sleepless when all the rest of the world is wrapped in slumber.
Oh, the weary days; the more than weary nights, when oblivion never comes to drown my thoughts, or, coming, only wraps me in dreams from which I wake, damply cold, or sobbing with a horror too deep for words!
There are times when I fight with Fate, with all that has brought me to this pass; when I cry aloud and wring my hands and call on death to rescue me, in the privacy of my own room, from the misery that weighs me down and keeps me languishing in the dust. But these times are rare, and come to me but seldom—at such weak moments as when a feeling of deadly sickness or overpowering regret gains mastery over me.
In very truth, my life is a sad one—a mistake—a blot, there is no proper place for me in the universe that seems so great. There is no happiness within me, no spring of hope. I appear to myself a thing apart—innocent, yet marked with a disgraceful brand. With an old writer—whom I now forget—I can truly say:—-
"For the world, I count it not an inn, but an hospital; and a place not to live, but to die in."
At last I wake to the fact that I am ill—dreadfully ill. There can be no doubt of it; and yet my malady has no name. I have lost all appetite; my strength has deserted me; great hollows have grown in my cheeks, above which my eyes gleam large and feverish. When I sit down I feel no desire to rise again.
Towards the middle of April I rally a little, and an intense craving for air is ever on me. Down by the sea I wander daily, getting as close to it as my strength will allow, the mile that separates me from it being now looked upon as a journey by my impoverished strength. Somewhat nearer to me than the shore is a high, level plain of sand and earth and grass, that runs back inland from a precipice that overlooks the ocean. On this I sit, and drawing sometimes up to the edge, peer over, and amuse myself counting the waves as they dash on to the beach far, far below.
This plain, forming part of the grounds belonging to Hazelton, possesses the double charm of being easier of access than the strand, and of being strictly private.
It is the 17th of April—a cold day, but fresh, with little sunshine anywhere. I am sauntering along my usual path to my sandy plain, thoughtless of anything in the present, innocent of presentiments, when suddenly before me, as though arisen out of the earth, stands Sir Mark Gore.
How long is it since last I saw him?—not months surely?—it seems more like yesterday. Why do I feel no surprise, no emotion? Is the mind within me indeed dead? I am more puzzled by my own unnatural calmness at this moment than even by an event so unexpected as his presence here.
We both stand still and gaze at each other. As far as I am concerned, time dies; I forget these weary months at Hazelton. I think of our parting at Strangemore. His eyes are reading, examining with undisguised pain, the changes in my face and form. At length he speaks.
"I hardly thought to meet you here, Mrs. Carrington," he says, advancing slowly, and addressing me in the low, hushed tone one adopts towards the sick or dying. He appears agitated.
I regard him with fixed coldness.
"You, who know all," I say, with quiet emphasis, "why do you call me by that name? Call me Phyllis; that, at least still remains to me."
He flushes crimson, and a pained look comes into hie eyes.
"I suppose," I go on, curiously, "that last warning you gave Marmaduke at the library door at home—at Strangemore," correcting myself without haste, "had reference to—that woman? Am I right?"
"Yes; I regret now having ever uttered it."
"Regrets are useless, and your words did no harm. Thinking of things since, I knew they must have meant an allusion to her."
"How calmly you speak of it!" he says, amazed.
"I speak as I feel," I reply.
There is rather an awkward pause. Now that he is here, the question naturally presents itself—for what reason has he come? At length—-
"Will you not say you are glad to see me?" ventures Sir Mark, uneasily.
"I am neither glad nor sorry," is my unmoved return; "I have forgotten to be emotional. I believe my real feeling just now is indifference. Considering how unlooked-for is your presence here, it astonishes even myself that I can call up so little surprise. Curious, is it not? You look thin, I think, and older—not so well as when last we met."
He grows a shade paler.
"Do I?" Then, drawing a hard, quick breath—"And you, child, what have you been doing with yourself? Except for your eyes, it is hardly you I see. So white, so worn, so changed; this place is killing you."
"It is a very quiet place. It suits me better than any other could."
"I tell you it is killing you," he repeats, angrily. "Better to face and endure the world's talk at once, than linger here until body and soul part."
"I shall never face the world," return I, quietly. "Here is my convent; at least within its walls I find peace. I see no one, therefore hear no evil talk. I have no wish to be disturbed."
"So you think now; but as time goes on you must—you cannot fail to tire of it. Is it natural to one so young to lock herself voluntarily away from people of her own age? Why, how old are you, child?"
"Almost nineteen."
"Almost, nineteen!" cries he, with an unmirthful laugh, "and you may live for fifty years! Are you going to immure yourself within these same four walls for fifty years."
"I shall not live for fifty years."
"But you may; without excitement of any description I see no reason why you should not live for a century."
"I shall not live for two years," returned I, impressively.
"Phyllis what are you saying?" cries he, with a shudder.
"The truth. I am dying slowly, and I know it. I am glad of it. I have no energy, no hope, no wish for life. Do you wonder much? At times I have a strange fancy that I am already dead; and then—-" I break off dreamily.
"What abominable morbid fancy! It is horrible!" exclaims Sir Mark, excitedly. "You must see a doctor without delay; if you were well no such mournful ideas would occur to you."
"Mournful!" I smile a little. "Yes, perhaps so—when I wake again to—find I am alive."
"Nonsense," impatiently. "Why have your people left you so much alone? It is shameful, unheard of! Phyllis, promise me you will see a doctor if I send one."
"Who shall minister to a mind diseased?" say I, still smiling. "No, I will not see your doctor. My ailment has no name; I do not suffer; quiet is my best medicine."
We walk on a little way in silence.
"You do not ask after your friends," says he, abruptly.
"Have I still any left? Well, tell me. I should like to know how is Marmaduke? and where?"
"Do you not hear from him, then?" turning to gaze suspiciously in my face.
"No; why should I? We parted forever when he brought me here. Oh," with a sudden, sharp uplifting of my voice—"how long ago it seems! what years, and years, and years! Tell me you—where is he?"
"Abroad somewhere; we none of us know where. You think of him incessantly?" still with his eyes searching and reading my face; "it is for him the color has left your cheeks, the light has died from your eyes? Is it the old life, or is it merely him you regret?"
"I think I regret nothing but my youth," return I, wearily.
"Had you never, at any time, any idea of the truth?" asks he, in a low tone, presently.
"Never. How should I. He kept it from me, fearing it would cause me pain."
"He deceived you grossly."
"Yes but, as he thought, for my good. Where was the use of enlightening me? The story was told; the woman was dead—or so he believed. He chose to hide it from me."
"Yes, he hid it from you."
"Well, what of that?" I cry, impatiently; "it was a mistake, I think, but a kindly one. He was always thinking of my happiness. It was perhaps a worse shock to him than it was to me. He had no faintest thought of her being alive until she stood before him."
He is silent. Something in his manner, in the very way he keeps his eyes bent resolutely upon the ground, chills me. Upon his face a curiously determined expression has gathered and grown.
"No faintest thought," I repeat, sharply, watching him now as keenly as he watched me before; "of course he had not. He had heard of her death years before he ever met me. Had he even doubted on the subject, his treachery would have been unequalled. But you cannot think that: it is impossible you can think it: therefore say so!"
Still he is silent—ominously so, as it seems to me. His eyes are still downcast; the evil determination in his face is stronger; his cane is digging deep furrows in the sandy loam.
"Why don't you speak," cried I, fiercely; "what do you mean by standing there silent, with that hateful expression upon your face? Do you mean to insinuate that there was a doubt in his mind? Look at me, and answer truly. Do you believe Marmaduke knew that woman to be living when he married me?"
I am half mad with suspense and fear. Placing both my hands upon his arm, I put forth all my puny strength, and actually compel him, strong man as he is, to meet my gaze.
For a moment he hesitates—a long moment—and then the right triumphs. Though in his own mind he is firmly convinced that can he but endue my mind with this doubt of Marmaduke's integrity he will substantially aid his own cause, still, being a gentleman born and bred, he finds a difficulty in bringing his lips to utter the miserable falsehood.
"No: I don't believe he did know," he answers, doggedly.
"You are sure of this?" I ask, feverishly.
"I would give my oath of it," he replies, with increased sullenness.
"Coward!" murmur I bitterly, taking my hands from his arm, and turning away.
The excitement of the past few minutes has been terrible to my weakened frame; I feel a vague dizziness, a coldness creeping over me. I am a good half-mile from home: should I faint, there will be nothing for it but for Sir Mark to carry me there, and to have that man's arms round me for so long a time is more than I could endure. The bare thought of it nerves me to action.
Hurriedly drawing a pin from some secret fold of my dress, I press it deep into my arm, so deep that presently I feel a warm sluggish drop ooze out and trickle slowly down my flesh, Until it sinks into the lining of my sleeve. The little dull pain that follows rouses me, and puts an end to all fear of my becoming insensible.
I draw a long breath and gradually awaken to the fact that my companion is again speaking.
"In spite of all that, he has wronged you horribly," he is saying with much deliberation. "What has he made you? A woman without a name—one whom the virtuous world would not recognize. He has driven you to bury yourself in this remote corner of the earth, cut off from all that makes life acceptable. He has destroyed your youth, and ruined your health: this is all you have to thank him for."
"The undeniable truth of your words renders them all the more pleasing." I say, bitterly. "Have you come all the way down here to tell me what I know so well already?"
"Yes, and for something more, to ask you to be my wife. Hush! let me speak. I know the answer you would make me, but I do not think you have fully weighed everything. Were you to endure this life you are now leading but for a season, for a year, even for several years, I would say nothing; but until this woman, this Carlotta, dies, you can never be his wife. Remember that. And who ever knew any one to die quickly whose death was longed for? Look at annuitants, for instance; they live forever: therefore this isolation of yours will know no end."
I am motionless, speechless, from rage and amazement.
"Then by your own words and actions," he goes on in the same measured fashion, suppressing forcibly the fire and agitation that lie beneath his cold exterior, "I have seen a hundred times how little real affection you entertain for Carrington; therefore you are not bound to him by the ties of love. Will you not consider for your own sake? I offer you my name, my rank, everything that I possess. Few men would be tempted to do as much, perhaps."
"Sir," say I, feeling half choked, "believe me, I fully appreciate all the sacrifices you would make for my sake. Pray spare both me and yourself the recital of them."
"Sacrifices?" interrupts he, eagerly: "no, indeed! I never thought of it in that light. I only meant to put the case clearly before you exactly as it is, without any false lights. I tell you that so far from my present proposition to you being a sacrifice on my part, I would gladly go on my knees to you this moment, if by doing so I could gain your consent to my plans. I will take you to any part of the world you may choose to name, at home or abroad. I shall be prouder, more blest than I can say, if you will consent to be my wife."
"Have you quite done?" say I, in a tone treacherously calm. "Have you anything more to say? No? Are you sure? Now listen to me. Even if the circumstances were totally different—if I were free as air—if you were the last man on earth I would not marry you. Whether I do or do not love Marmaduke, is a question I decline to answer to you. At all events, to my own way of thinking, I am his wife now, and shall ever remain so—until death divides us. But as to whether or not I love you, I feel no hesitation about answering that. I look upon you as the lowest, the meanest of men, to come here behind your friend's back to traduce him, and insinuate lies about him, so as to do him injury in the eyes of the woman he loves. I loathe and detest you, with all my heart."
I am staring him valiantly in the face as I utter these denunciations. My cheeks are crimson with rage, my eyes are flashing; for the moment all my old strength, and more than my old spirit have returned to me. I have worked myself through the force of my eloquence into such a passion that I literally tremble from head to foot. I feel humbled and insulted in my own eyes. All these months of lonely weariness have failed to bring home to me the fact that I am not a married woman. This man's complete acceptance of it has maddened me.
"Thank you," says he, slowly; "but pray do not stop yet. There must be something more you wish to say. Don't mind me; don't take my feelings into consideration."
"I don't," I reply, viciously stamping my foot. "But, as it happens, I have said all I ever wish to say to you. You may take from my lips now the very last words I shall condescend to utter to you. Leave me; I hate and despise you!"
"I will," cries he, furiously, losing sight of all the self-imposed restraint that has bound him daring the last fifteen minutes. "But I shall take something else too. As you decree we shall part here never to meet again, I shall at least kiss you in farewell, for the insolence you have shown me."
His face is full of anger and settled purpose; he is white to the lips; his eyes gleam steadily. There is no sign of wavering or relenting about him.
Oh, how I regret my intemperate speech. An awful fear seizes hold of me. I can almost fancy his committing murder with that look in his eyes. I forget all but a wild desire to escape, and, breaking from him, I rush madly towards the bare, unwalled cliff that overhangs the sea.
But a very little space divides me from the edge, as his hand catches and closes on my arm and drags me roughly backwards.
"Are you mad?" he pants hoarsely, all the passion gone from his face, leaving only cold horror in its place. "Are you out of your senses? Come home directly. What! would you prefer death to a kiss from me? At last you have effectually put an end to my absurd infatuation. I have no great fancy for any woman's loathing."
So saying, he leads me homewards, tired, worn out with conflicting emotions. His hand still clutches my arm, as though he fears I will again break loose and try to accomplish my wicked purpose.
Silent and obedient I go with him, until we reach the small gate by which I generally leave and return.
Here he stops, and, putting me inside, shuts the wicket again between us, he being on the outside.
"Now go home," he says, sternly, "and go to bed. You are as white as death. Do you hear me?"
I answer, "Yes," very meekly, feeling somewhat frightened and subdued.
"As I shall take very good care not to put myself in your way again," he goes on, in the same tone, "I would wish to say, before leaving, that in the future, when you stigmatize me as mean and dishonorable, I would have you also remember that to-day I came to do you the kindest turn any man could do you under the circumstances."
After this remark, without further glance or gesture he turns and leaves me.
During many days that follow I lie prostrate, weak as a little child, upon my bed. The shock, the thoughts he has called up, the sure and certain knowledge he has imparted to me of how that part of the world that knows all my sad story regards my position, has done much to destroy the poor remains of life and hope that still cling to me almost unconsciously.
A fresh cold has again attacked me, and brought on with increased vigor my old cough. By the middle of May, I am a complete wreck of my once buoyant self.
Rising one Sabbath morning with a curious awesome sense of coming dissolution upon me, I put on my outdoor things, and slowly crawl, rather than walk, the little way that separates me from the rustic, ivy covered church.
The sexton, all prying eyes and gaping mouth, shows me, heavily veiled as I am, into the Carrington pew, guessing instinctively, though he has never seen me, that the strange lady of Hazelton has at last given in and confessed a craving for spiritual consolation.
I kneel and pray as in a dream. The voices of the village choir rise up around me, yet scarcely enter my dulled ear. The Litany, with all its grandeur, all its solemn beauty, fails to impress my sickened soul.
I sit alone, apart, my veil drawn down, my hands clasped upon my knees, turning neither to the right nor left, dimly conscious that the sermon I hear so coldly is far beyond the average of those usually served up to the congregations of remote, almost forgotten country towns.
When it is over, and my neighbors have well departed, I move down the aisle, and make my way down again to my hermitage, unmoved, unsoftened, by all I have heard and seen.
After the mockery called lunch is at an end, I go to my chosen sitting-room, and, getting into a window that overlooks a small inlet of the sea, sit down to my incessant musing.
Presently, far off through the house, comes the sound of impatient knocking. I cannot hear distinctly, so thick are the ancient oaken doors that divide me from the hall; but that it is a double knock I feel small doubt.
This thought, so foreign, being forced upon me, after quite six months of perfect isolation, raises a nervousness that is near akin to fear, within my breast. I wait in palpitating expectancy for what is to follow. Perhaps the vicar, emboldened by my appearance in his church, has determined to strike while the iron, in his opinion, must be hot, and has ridden over to try and gain access to the one hardened sinner who disgraces his parish. Many conjectures rush through my mind, but this takes root. It must be so.
Steps in the hall. Is it possible the man has admitted him on his own responsibility against my orders, or has he forced his way, setting his duty before him as an excuse for his impertinence?
Steps up the stairs, along the passage—steps almost at the door.
I spring to my feet, and push back my chair. Who is it? Who is it I hear? I move still farther into the window, I clutch the curtains to steady myself, I put both my hands up to my head, to stifle the wild sob that rises in my throat.
Nearer, nearer! I lean against the window-shutters, and am trembling like one in ague from head to foot, as the door opens, and Marmaduke comes in.
Our eyes meet, and then of a sudden a great calm falls upon me!
----
"She is dead," says he, wearily, and flings himself into the chair near which he is standing. He makes no attempt to come nearer to me, to touch me after that first long eager glance.
As for me, I cannot utter even one poor word. Am I glad? Am I sorry? Am I half mad with joy at the very sight of him? or am I altogether indifferent? I hardly know.
"She is dead." The words keep ringing in my ears. My brain echoes them. "She is dead—dead!"
A clammy moisture, cold and weak, covers my face. My hands fall to my side lifeless.
"Not,"—I stammer—"not—you did not—-"
"Murder her?" supplies he, with a bitter laugh. "No; though I could have done so with a good will, I refrained from that. When I reached her she was lying shrouded in her coffin."
"When did she die?" I ask; "and how?"
"In Florence, a fortnight ago, of some malignant fever. I have come here with as little delay as possible to tell you of it."
I glance at him curiously. It is not the old Marmaduke who has come back to me. He is travel stained, worn, and thin. His voice has lost its old ring, his eye its brightness. There is something dejected in his very attitude.
Such a meeting, after such a parting! I marvel at it inwardly, though conscious I would not have it otherwise.
Alas! how wrongly things have gone with us during our brief married life, from beginning to end! Is it indeed true that when the mist and the rain arise to blot our hopes, nor time nor vengeance can suffice to make existence quite the same again?
"How can I tell that she is really dead?" say I, moodily: "you deceived me once. Perhaps some day she will come to life again to defy and torture me."
"I do not think you have any right to speak to me in this way," replies he, quietly. "I may have deceived you passively once in my life by forbearing to mention what would do no good in the telling, and might have caused you grief, or at least, unpleasantness. But to you or any other being I have never lied. I saw the woman dead with my own eyes. I attended her funeral. I did not think proofs necessary; but if you require it I can produce a witness."
He pauses calmly for a reply, being utterly passionless in his manner; but I give him none. I am still wondering at the change in him, the change in myself.
"You will not believe me guilty of falsehood in such a case?" he says. "You surely must see I am speaking the truth."
"I suppose so," I murmur, at length. "Poor woman! She did not long outlive her revenge." I sigh heavily, and my head droops. My thin white fingers clasp and unclasp one another aimlessly. My thoughts are so indistinct I can put them into no shape. The light falls upon my bent figure, my slight shrunken form.
"Phyllis!" cries Marmaduke, springing to his feet with a sudden, sharp change of tone, "how white you are! how emaciated! how altered in every way! Have you been ill? Oh, my darling!"—with a groan—"I have ruined your life, and broken your heart: have I destroyed your health also?"
He makes an impetuous movement towards me, as though he would catch me in his arms.
"Don't do that," I cry, hastily, shrinking further into the recess of the window. "Do not touch me. Remember you are not—my husband."
He stops short, and his eager arms fall empty to his sides. His face grows a shade paler.
"True," he says, in a low voice: "I had forgotten that: you do well to remind me. Fortunately, it is a matter that can soon be put right."
"Is it?" I question coldly. "Can any tiling that has once gone wrong in this world ever be put right again, I wonder."
"This can, at all events." regarding me closely. "We must be married again here, and without delay. The few who know our wretched story can be our witnesses, and no one beyond need be a bit the wiser."
"You forget that walls have ears, and that one's sin must always find one out."
"There was no premeditated sin in this case, and"—speaking somewhat curtly—"I do not believe we have been found out. On my way through London coming down here, I sounded a few of my acquaintances on the subject, and all seemed ignorant of the real cause of our separation. However, that is an outside question altogether. The principal thing now is to put oneself beyond the reach of scandal. When will you wish the ceremony, Phyllis? Next week? I fear this being Friday, it will be impossible to arrange it sooner. You will want some of your friends with you."
He is calm again, but is now watching me narrowly.
"I don't know," I say deliberately, "whether I shall consent to a second marriage. I have grown accustomed to my present life; solitude suits me. Now I am free then—-"
I have scarcely, I think, rightly calculated the full effect of my words. Striding forward, Marmaduke seizes me by both arms, and, turning, forces me to meet his gaze.
"What are you saying?" he cries, fiercely. "What folly is this? Do you know that for all these past months I have been half mad, when thinking of the blight I have brought upon your honor, and are you so insensible to it that you can hesitate about accepting this one only way of redeeming it? Your dislike to me must have grown indeed, if at such a time you can shrink from taking my name."
"You misunderstand me. I only shrink from changing my present calm mode of living."
"Do you know what the world will do, when sooner or later it finds out the truth—as it surely will? Do you know it will cut you, avoid you, wound you in every possible way?"
"Why should I care?" I interrupt, recklessly. "All these months I have done without companionship; there is no reason why in the future I should feel the want of it. Besides, they must see it is through no fault of mine that things have so arranged themselves."
"The world will never be content with the true version of the story. It will not rest without adding to it such false outlines as shall serve to render it more palatable to its scandal-loving ears. You must be indeed ignorant of its ways if you can imagine otherwise. It will ask why, when the obstacle was happily removed, I did not then marry you? What answer will you make to that?"
"Who will question me? If I shut myself away from every one, how shall I be affected by the surmises of society?"
"You talk like a foolish child, and like a very selfish one. Am I unworthy of any consideration? How shall I bear to look on while society vilifies you to its heart's content and leaves you without a rag of reputation? You in your present position—a woman without a name—would have as much chance of admission within your own circle as the veriest Pariah that could be produced. I will not listen to your folly. Even if you hate me, I shall insist upon your marrying me."
"How can you insist!" I ask almost angrily. There is a wild, unsettled throbbing of my heart that puzzles me I scarcely know what it is I would or would not wish. All these past mouths of bitter maddening thought and unbroken loneliness have crushed the life within my breast and dulled my intellect. "You have no claim upon me?"
"No," in a changed, softened voice. "I cannot, indeed, insist, but I can plead—not for myself, Phyllis, but for you. I have put the case before you truthfully, and now entreat you to become my wife before the real reason for our separation gets abroad. I offer you my name alone. Once having put you in possession of that, I swear I will rid you of my presence forever if you wish it. Will that content you? Why should the idea be so repugnant to you? unless, indeed—-"
Here he pauses. A deep-red passionate flush suffuses his face. Placing his hands heavily upon my shoulders he once more compels me to meet his eyes.
"Unless, indeed, you wish to hold yourself free for another? If I thought that if during my absence you had seen any one else, who—-"
"Oh, yes!" I interrupt, bitterly; "that is so likely! My married life has been so pleasant—such a prosperous one that doubtless I am in a hurry to try it again. No; believe me, I have fixed my affections on no one during your absence. You are quite safe there. I am as heart-whole as when you left me. I feel no wild desire to throw myself into the arms of any man."
He draws a long, deep breath.
"I would kill you," he says, slowly, "if for a moment I doubted your truth."
"I am hardly worth the killing," return I, with a little, faint, chill smile, looking upon my wasted hands and fragile figure as it reflects itself in an opposite mirror. "Why do you want me so much? I have always been more of a torment to you than a joy, and now I have lost even those few poor little charms I may once have thought I possessed. Ice itself cannot be colder than the woman you wish for the second time to make your own. Why will you not take the chance of escape I offer?" He makes a movement of impatience. "You are unwise in letting it slip. What can you see in me to love?"
"Just what I always saw in you to love. I cannot change. To me, you are my wife the most precious thing on earth. I will not give you up."
"And you saw her lying dead?" I say, irrelevantly.
"Yes. Have I not told you so already? Why name her to me?"
"Poor soul! How strange she must have looked," I say, dreamily, "lying there with those restless, burning eyes forever closed—so cold, so white, so still. And you looked down upon her. You were glad to see her there," with a shudder. "You rejoiced that death had stepped in to conquer her and free you of a chain that dragged. It is a dreadful picture."
"A very natural one, I think. Glad? Yes I was glad I was more than that: I was deeply thankful to see her there, powerless to work her wicked will or pollute the world again. I think—I hope I forgave her; but I was glad to see her dead."
There is a pause. Weary of standing, I sink into a chair. I push back my hair from my forehead, which has begun to throb a good deal, and then let my hands fall listlessly into my lap.
Kneeling down besides me, he takes one of them gently and strokes it. While he does so, I examine him critically. He has grown more like himself by this time, and but for the hollows in his cheeks, and that his moustache is somewhat darker and longer, I see no great alteration. Verily he has emerged from the fight unscathed, and triumphant in comparison with me.
"Tell me your real objection to my proposal," he says, softly.
"Does my disinclination to be re-married so much surprise you?" I ask, slowly and gravely. "Until I saw you I was a light-hearted child—I feel that now by force of contrast, though often then I fancied myself ill used; I did not know the meaning of real pain, of bitter enduring shame—that crudest of all heart-aches. You enlighten me."
"Phyllis—my love—spare me!"
"Here, in this quiet spot, I am at peace. My life is going from me slowly: I have little strength left; do not urge me against my will to enter again into the turmoil and troubles of everyday existence."
"Oh, my darling, don't speak so hopelessly. The melancholy of your life has caused you to exaggerate the evils of your state. Change of air and a good doctor will do wonders for you. Only do not waste time. Delay is often fatal. Phyllis, think of your mother. For her sake, promise to marry me again next Monday."
"Very well; you shall have your way," I return, fairly beaten by his vehemence and determination.
"That is wise! that is sensible!" he says, eagerly. "Any other course you adopted could only be suggested by weak and morbid sentiments. Everything later on shall be as you wish. I will go back to London by the night man to arrange matters. So let me know now any things you may require—what friends as witnesses, for instance."
"Harriet and Bebe, I suppose; and Dora and George Ashurst. That will be sufficient, will it not?"
"Your mother?"
"Mamma? Oh, no! oh, no!" I cry, weeping. "Not mamma. She dressed me for my first wedding; I will not have her now. We would both be thinking of that all the time, and it would break her heart. But go to her, and tell her everything. She may find some consolation in your tidings."
"I will go to her to-morrow." he whispers soothing. "Afterwards I may go on to Strangemore. Can I bring you anything from there?"
"Send me Martha. I would like to have her with me, again."
"I will. Phyllis, my dear, dear girl, why do you cry so bitterly? Of what are you thinking? Surely you must see that I am only acting for the best. If I consented to what you propose, I would deserve the name of black-guard; no term would be too harsh to apply to me. Sooner or later, darling, you will acknowledge this, and thank me for my firmness."
"I suppose so," making a violent effort to suppress my sobs. "I am only weak and nervous. Your coming was so unexpected; you should have warned me. And I have been so quiet here. Remember you have promised that I shall not be disturbed afterwards. You will still leave me to myself. I am fit for nothing else. Oh, this pain—this faintness! Will you ring the bell and get me a glass of wine?"
He receives me as I totter feebly forward, and lays me on my couch with the utmost tenderness and a good deal of trepidation.
Then he rings the bell, and as the man enters, gives the order for the wine in the old clear quick voice, that seems to me to belong so entirely to Strangemore as to be out of place in this other home.
Not until I am quite recovered, and apparently little the worse for my faintness, does he take his leave. Gently kissing my hands, with the assurance that he will be back again with the friends I have expressed a wish for, on the coming Sabbath, he quits the house as quietly as he entered it.
On the Sunday, about the middle of the day, Harriet and Bebe arrive. Dora and George Ashurst follow them in time for dinner. I can see they are all more or less shocked at the changes that have taken place in my appearance, though they refrain from saying so.
Bebe lays herself out to amuse and arouse me by retailing to my languid ears all the most secret gossip and raciest pieces of scandal from the London world, bit by bit, as it occurs to her.
Lord Harry has been at P—- again, and was well received there in spite of all that has come and gone. Lord Augustus was jilted by Miss Glanville. George Brooks found the air of Monaco didn't agree with him, and was obliged to exchange into another and less desirable regiment, to see what time and India would do for him. The Duke has made a wretched match in the eyes of the world. But she is awfully good to look at, and he appears provoking contented and happy.
"And he really should not do that, you know," says Bebe; "it isn't good form to be in such high spirits with the tide of popular opinion so dead against you. To see them in the theatre is immense fun (I don't believe she ever saw one until she married him and came to town), he sitting beside her and explaining everything, she all big eyes and pleasurable excitement. His delight in her delight is quite pretty."
Lady Blanche Going has had measles, much to her own disgust and Bebe's enjoyment.
"And how is Chandos?" I ask, presently.
"How can I tell you, my dear, when I see so little of him? He has been making a grand tour somewhere, and 'raking up old bones,' we hear; but the 'where' is wrapped in mystery—Jericho, most probably; it would just suit his dismal disposition."
She speaks heartlessly, but her low, broad forehead wrinkles ever such a little.
"I hope, wherever he is, he will come back safely," I say, kindly, ignoring her manner. "I liked him so much. To me he never appeared dismal. And your Chips: what of him?"
"Ah! my poor Chips? He sailed for India a month ago. Such a leave-taking as we had! It, would have melted an Amazon. I assure you I very nearly wept; and I certainly kissed him. So did Harriet—twice—who was on the spot doing propriety. I thought that was taking an unfair advantage of me. And he is to shoot every tiger in Bengal, and to send me the skins. At long last I shall be embarrassed by my riches."
After dinner, we are all assembled in the drawing-room, we become aware of some noise that strongly resembles a scuffle in the hall. It is followed by the sudden opening of the door, and the apparition of Martha on the threshold, flushed with victory, and with her bonnet artistically awry.
Seeing me lying on the sofa, she loses all presence of mind (of which her stock was always small), and, regardless of beholders, rushes forward, and precipitates herself at my feet.
"Oh, Miss Phyllis! Oh, ma'am!" says she, with a lamentable sniff and a nice forgetfulness of manners, as she takes note of my leanness, "oh, Miss Phyllis! my dear, my dear! How terrible bad you do look, to be shore!"
Here she falls to kissing and to weeping over my hand, finally breaking into loud sobs. The old spinster appellation, suiting as it does my present position so neatly—albeit unmeant by my faithful handmaiden—raises within me a grim sense of amusement. I check it, however, as being unfit for present company.
"Nonsense, Martha," I say, kindly, "don't go on like that. I dare say, now you have come to take care of me, I shall recover my beauty. I shall feel quite insulted if you cry over me any more."
"Martha, come with me," says Bebe, with authority; and Martha, being, like all the good ones of her class, instinctively obedient, rises, and leaves the room close at Miss Beatoun's heels.
"What a dreadful habit those people have got of giving way to their feelings on every possible occasion!" exclaims the usually serene Harriet, wrathfully, as the door closes, coming to my side to shake up my pillows and get rid of her irritation.—-
"Really, yes, it is very distressing," chimes in Dora, from the depths of the large arm-chair, in which her small figure is almost lost; she speaks as it behoves a pretty baroness to speak, who now for the first, time is made aware of some of the grosser habits of the lower classes. Her tone is perfect—having just the correct amount of surprise and disapproval—no more, "And yet that woman always used to strike me as being such a very properly conducted sort of person."
"Don't be so hard on her Harry," say I. "Remember she has known me all my life, and has had the care of me ever since I was an infant. She loves me; do not condemn her for that love."
"I was wrong, of course," confesses Harriet, remorsefully. Such attachment, being rare, should be considered beautiful. I apologize to your Martha. But I was thinking, not of her, darling but of you. I did so dread she would excite you over much, and to-morrow will be such a trying day. Now, lie back again, dear, and keep silence while we chat to you.
----
It is still the morning of my second wedding day, though a few minutes since I heard some clock chime the quarter to twelve. Habited in the darkest gown my wardrobe can produce, I go downstairs slowly, as in a dream, to the drawing-room, where I find them all assembled before me.
They all glance at me as I enter, and seem relieved on perceiving the total lack of nervousness exhibited by my features. Indeed, it occurs even to myself that I am the only one present thoroughly unimpressed.
Marmaduke is looking pale but composed, George Ashurst painfully anxious; but that is only what might be expected of him. The others are all more or less evidently desirous of getting it over in a hurry, and appearing at their ease, in which they fail. The priest, a stranger to me, seems curious.
Bebe comes forward, and taking my hand, leads me before the impromptu altar. Marmaduke steps to my side, and his old college chum commences the service. I have obstinately refused to be remarried by the vicar at home. Bebe dexterously draws off the wedding ring—that has never yet left my finger since it was first placed there—and thoughtfully hands it to 'Duke. With a shudder he flings it from him into the glowing fire, where it vanishes forever with a faint tinkling noise.
"Not that," he mutters, in a low tone, and brings out a new one from his pocket.
In a clear voice utterly devoid of emotion, I answer all the responses. Marmaduke's voice shakes a good deal, and I turn and look at him surprised. He has had my hand in a warm, close clasp from the moment the prayer-book was opened, and now, too, I notice how he trembles as for the second time he binds me to him with the little golden, emblem of eternity.
Although their voices reach my outward ears, although I myself say what is required of me with perfect calmness, I do not really hear or heed one word of the ceremony. Thoughts, frivolous and unworthy of the solemnity of the occasion, flit through my brain. I cannot fix my attention on any one thing. I feel no desire to do so.
I wonder vaguely whether, were a widow going to be married again, she would feel as indifferent as I do; then I recollect how, in her case, the bridegroom at least would be a new feature, which would, without doubt, add a little zest to the affair.
How pretty Dora is looking in that navy blue silk and cashmere costume—wonderfully pretty and timid! but then everything always did become Dora.
How nervous that good George appears, and how ridiculously red! Why, he might almost be painted.
Oh! I have ordered no wedding breakfast. Only fancy! a wedding without a wedding breakfast! How could I have been so remiss? They will all think me terribly stupid. I almost confess aloud this negligence on my part, so little do I heed the sacred words that are falling on the air; but fortunately some still remaining sense of propriety restrains me.
The service is nearly at an end; once more Marmaduke Carrington and I are man and wife. It only waits for the few last sentences to be read.
Looking up, I catch Bebe's eyes. Why are they so wet? And how large they are—how large!—why do they grow, and gleam, and burn into mine, like—like—Ah!
I wrench my hand from Marmaduke, and, turning towards George Ashurst, fling up my arms somewhat wildly.
"Save—save me!" I gasp.
In another moment he has caught me, and I am lying senseless on his breast.
When I come to myself, I find them all around me, though most of them stand at a little distance from the sofa. The strange clergyman has vanished—no doubt horrified at such unorthodox behavior.
Marmaduke, with folded arms, is stationed rather apart from the others, biting his lips, and making a violent effort to conceal his fear and emotion.
"Are you better, darling?" asks Bebe, whose arm is under my head, while Dora, supplied with a smelling-bottle, leans over me at the other side—the very sweetest picture of misery.
"I am," I return, feebly; "I don't know what made me so foolish. I did not feel nervous; but I was unlike myself all the morning."
"Poor child!" says Harriet, and down come Dora's tiny fingers, wet with eau-de-cologne, upon my forehead.
"I shall be all right in a minute or two," I go on, smiling as I regain strength. "It was too bad of me to frighten you all so much. In the middle of it, I suddenly recollected I had forgotten to order you any breakfast, and the horror of the thought must have been too much for me. I grow nervous and fanciful in my old age. But I am all right again now."
The day wears on; my wedding guests have had their lunch, and are now in the drawing-room, bidding me farewell before starting for the train that is to bear them away from the newly-married couple. How strange, how difficult to comprehend, it all appears!
Dora kisses me with a good deal more than her usual warmth. For once, her pretty show of sympathy is quite sincere. I think at this moment, seeing me so sick, and languid, and devoid of all the old unrestrainable joyousness, she, for the first time, altogether forgives me my misdoings. George kisses me, too, heartily, and murmurs a few confused congratulatory words. Even to his thick brain it has become apparent how strangely apathetic and indifferent is the bride.
"The continent is the place for you, Phyllis," he says; "any one can see that with half an eye. Get Carrington to take you there without delay!"
I smile faintly but make no rejoinder.
"Good-bye, darling," whispers my Bebe, stooping over me, and rubbing her cheek with a little purring motion to mine. "Be a good child, and let Marmaduke pet you to his heart's content. You want an overdose, now you have been so long alone."
At length they are all gene, leaving the house to fall back into its old silence and calm. All, that is, except Marmaduke, who lingers purposely.
"There is no reason," he says, in answer to my inquiring look, "why all those people should know so soon the terms on which we have arranged to live. By degrees it can make itself known."
I lie idly thinking, idly putting together in my mind the strange story of my life. Once, looking up, I catch his gaze intently fixed upon me. Twice, three times, I meet it, and then, growing irritable through exhaustion and excitement, I say, pettishly:—-
"Why do you look at me so? I hate being stared at. One would imagine I had more heads than one. Is my appearance so very grotesque, Marmaduke?"
"Was I staring?" he asks, absently, and drawing out his watch, examines it anxiously, and then commences a slow promenade up and down the room. He appears distrait, impatient. His eyes are now turned towards the window that overlooks the avenue. It is as though he were expectant of some one's arrival.
"If you are not going until the next train," I remark, snubbily, "you have two full hours to wait: therefore you need hardly calculate minutes so soon. That is the eighth time you have examined your watch within the past ten minutes." Certainly I am not in my most amiable mood.
"I am not returning to London to-night," he says, calmly. "I dare say I can get a bed at that place in the village."
"Surely, considering this is your own house, you need not throw yourself on the mercy of the parish for a bed. Martha will see about a room for you."
"It is your house, not mine. I made you a present of it when—some time ago. However," quickly, "if you invite me, I shall gladly put up here."
Turning his face to the window, and away from me he goes on rapidly:—-
"To tell you the truth, Phyllis, the chief reason for my staying here now is this: I made an appointment with Sir James Smithson to meet me in this house at four o'clock, to to take a look at you, and tell me his opinion as to your state of health."
"Sir James Smithson!" I cry, angrily. "Do you mean to tell me you have brought a doctor to torment me and make me miserable? This is what comes of marrying you. Oh, why was I so weak as to give in to your wishes? I won't see him—you may be sure of that."