"My darling, be reasonable," with the humblest entreaty. "It will only be for a few minutes. Directly he sees you, he will know the very thing that will set you up again. There is not, there cannot be, anything seriously wrong with you. Good advice is all you require. Why will you insist on—on—-"
"Dying," I put in, flippantly. "Why don't you say it? I shan't go to my grave a moment sooner through your mentioning the unpleasant word."
"You will see him, Phyllis?"
"Oh, if he is really coining, I suppose I must. But, I warn you, I shall take no nasty, stuffs, politely called tonics, and I will not go abroad."
In this amiable frame of mind I prepare myself to receive the great London doctor. As the servant ushers him into my room, I rise and bow, and am much relieved at finding myself in the presence of a small, homely, jolly-looking little man, with none of the signs of greatness about him.
He examines my chest, and asks a question or two that would certainly suggest themselves to an idiot. He thumps me here and pats me there, hums and haws, and finally says I want "tone."
"And change of air, my dear Mrs. Carrington, A little pleasure trip, now—just a little run through all the old spots we know so well—and then a winter at Pau or even a degree further south, is all that we want, eh?"
"I will take your tonics," I say, giving in so far, "but," determinately, "I will not take change of air. I am happy here: I will not leave it."
"Dear! dear!" ejaculated Sir James, soothingly, giving me another tap: "how people differ! Most young ladies, now, would do almost anything for me, if I would only order them to Pau. Such a lively place, my dear Mrs. Carrington, so invigorating, so gay; just the very thing for a woman so young, and, let me add, so very charming, as yourself. Now pray do reconsider it."
I laugh, and glance at myself in an opposite mirror. A white face, lean jaws, large unnatural eyes, and pallid lips meet my view. I am altogether unlovely.
"I shall get well enough here," I say, obstinately. "You may order me every nasty concoction you can think of, and I will promise you to drink and eat them all; but go from Hazelton I will not."
"Well, well, we shall see how you get on," replies Sir James, cajolingly, patting my hand. He deals in pats and gentle reassuring nods, but he is a dear old man and I feel some faint regret that he should leave thinking me unreasonable. He does leave me, however, presently and seeks my husband, doubtless to pour into his ears all the unpalatable things he is too gallant to say to me.
No more is said to me on the subject. I have evidently conquered. Marmaduke returns to London, taking a run down every now and then to see how I am getting on. I am not getting on at all. I am simply stationary, and am no whit more beautiful to behold than when first his astonished eyes fell upon me, now more than a mouth ago.
----
I have wandered listlessly down by the sea. It is a dreary day, raw, chill, unsummerlike. I shiver vaguely as I go, and wish the night would come to bring us nearer to a more congenial day. All around is mist, and cheerless damp. Gray sky, gray earth, gray clouds that cover land and sea: and, oh! gray shadow lying on my heart, how gray art thou!
I feel more than ordinarily depressed and weary. The tide is far out: hardly a breath of wind disturbs the surface of the waters. Seating myself upon a flat rock, I open my book and commence to read.
But my thoughts will not be controlled. Raising my eyes, I look seaward, and wonder at the great pale mist that spreads itself north and south. The horizon sinks into the ocean, and veils of vapory substance are everywhere.
I sigh, and turning dejectedly from the unvarying scene before me, discover Marmaduke coming towards me across the sands.
"What a curious light!" he says, without greeting of any kind and sits down upon the pebbles at my feet.
"Very," I answer, stupidly, and then begin to wonder vaguely what has brought him to-day from the busy town, and who has betrayed my favorite hiding-place.
Presently, unconsciously I sigh again, and turn my face from him. "What is it?" asks he, kindly, taking my hand—not affectionately, merely reassuringly. "Tell me the truth now to-day. Is it that you hate me?"
"I hardly know," I return, wearily, "No, it is not hatred, I think; it is indifference."
We rise, and pace silently homewards.
It is the evening of the same day, My depression of the morning has vanished, leaving a spirit of provocation in its place. I am in the drawing-room, lounging idly in a low cushioned chair, with Fifine, my pet Skye, in my lap. I amuse myself, and gratify the wickedness within me, by practising upon the long-suffering animal such mild torments as disturb without maddening her.
'Duke, under the impression that there is a fire in the grate stands with his back to the fireplace, and stares at me.
"I wish," he remarks presently, without premeditation, "you could be induced to take Sir James' advice and seek change of air. This solitary hole must have a bad effect upon your health.
"I have borne the solitude for so many months that I dare day I can bear it again. Though, indeed," mischievously, "I had company at times. I could actually have been married, had I so chosen."
"What!" says Marmaduke, in a low tone, flushing.
"I could have been married, had I so chosen," I repeat, with much gusto. "Why do you look so surprised? I was free, was I not? There was no reason, then, why I should not listen to any man's proposal."
"What do you mean, Phyllis?" sternly.
"Just what I say. A friend of ours who is aware of all the circumstances of our case, came here one day and made me a handsome offer of his hand and what he is pleased to term his heart."
"Did Gore come down here to see you?"
"Not so much for that as to ask me to marry him."
"The scoundrel!" says 'Duke, through his closed teeth.
"Why should you call him that? On the contrary, there was something generous in his wish to bestow his name upon a woman situated as I was. (No, no, Fifine, you must not lick me. Kiss me if you will, but keep your little tongue in its proper place.) Few men would have done it, I fancy. At all events, it convinced me of the truth and sincerity of his affection for me."
"If you saw so many admirable points in his character why did you let such a valuable chance of securing them go by?" he asks, bitterly. He is white with anger by this time. I see his emotion, but, being fiendishly inclined at the moment, know no remorse.
"One does do a foolish thing now and again," I reply, calmly, curling Fifine's silky locks the wrong way, to her infinite disgust. "Afterwards, when it is too late, one repents."
"Am I to understand you repent not having bound yourself for life to that unmitigated villain?"
I burst out laughing.
"Poor Sir Mark!" I cry. "A scoundrel! a villain! What next? He tried to do the best he could for me, and gets only abuse in return. Do I repent not having married him? Well, no. At that time I was not particularly in love with matrimony; I had no desire to form new ties.Now, indeed—I break off in pretended confusion.—- My head bends itself a little on one side. I gaze down consciously into Fifine's lustrous eyes.
"Phyllis," says my husband, with suppressed indignation, "whatever you may really mean by your words, I must beg that for the future I may hear no more of it; I—-" But here the horrible pain in my side comes back to me with its usual acute energy, and mischief fades from me. I push Fifine from my lap, and half rise.
"If you are going to be tragical," I say, "I hope you will leave me. I care neither for Sir Mark Gore, nor any other man, as you ought to know. Oh, my side!" I gasp, pressing my hand to it, and becoming colorless.
My breath and voice fail me. In a moment his kind arms are round me. My head falls helpless on his shoulder, as though I were a mere child (and indeed I am little more in his strong grasp, now sickness has reduced me). He carries me to a sofa, and does for me all that can be done, until the first unbearable anguish is past. Then, with his arm under my head, so as to raise me, he sits waiting in silent watchfulness until rest and ease return.
"You're not rid of me yet," I whisper, with a faint mocking smile, as I notice the fear and misery in his face. "Don't look so woebegone."
Suddenly he falls on his knees beside my couch, though still supporting me.
"I can't bear it any longer." he says, passionately "Darling! darling! why will you kill yourself? How can I watch you dying by inches? Have pity for me, if you have none for yourself, and save me from going mad. Phyllis, dearest?" controlling himself by an effort, and trying to speak more calmly, "why can you not look upon me as a cousin, or brother, or father, and let me take you abroad to some place where you can get change of air and scene, and where I may at least be near enough to protect you and see that you want for nothing?"
"Myfather" return I, with an amused laugh: "just compare yourself with papa; think of the inhuman length of his nose. I am afraid it would not do. The world, simple as it has shown itself, would hardly accept you in that light. You grow younger and fresher every day. It is wonderful how little the agony of your mind preys upon your body."
"Phyllis," regardless of this taunt, "let me take you to the south of France."
"Oh, why can't I be let alone?" I cry, pettishly. "Why am I to be tormented every hour of the day? I hate dirty, foreign towns; and besides, I know all the journeys I could take would do me no good; but if I am to get no peace until I consent to leave the only place that pleases me, I may as well do so at once. I will go back to Strangemore."
"You mean it darling?" cautiously, and without evincing too much joy, lest in my pettishness I should repent and go back of my words.
"Oh, yes: why not? Rather than be perpetually told how obstinate and self-willed and sullen I am, I would go to Timbuctoo, or Hong Kong, or any other cheerful spot."
"You would not try a warmer climate first?" with hesitation. "You know Sir James spoke of—-"
"No. I will go to Strangemore, or nowhere. I have always had a fancy for it. Even long, long ago—how short a time in reality!—when Billy and I used to go nesting and fishing there, we thought it the sweetest spot on earth. I almost think it so still. Is it not odd that I should look with such kindness upon the scene of my greatest trouble?"
"Hush!" with a shudder: "do not let us think of it."
"Why not? I often do. It seems very far away now.Shehad her grievance, too, poor soul!"
"When will you start?" abruptly. "Next week? Monday?"
"To-morrow," with decision. "The sooner the better. If I die on me way," with cruel gayety, "blame yourself for it and remember you would have it so."
"To-morrow, then," says 'Duke, with a long sigh.
CHAPTER XXIX.
As I cross the threshold and enter the old hall at Strangemore, a great passionate rush of unrestrainable rapture flows over me. Sudden recollections and emotions threaten to overpower me. I am at home, at rest, at last! With an impulsive movement I put my hand to my heart. Each well-remembered object sends out to me a thousand welcomes. With silent joy I greet them.
Yet, compelled by the strange wilfulness that sorrow and loneliness have bred within me, I conceal all this from Marmaduke, and, returning the servants' salutations with a courtesy kind but subdued, I go slowly up the stairs and into my own room.
All is changed. I pause and gaze around me with much wonder. Carpets, curtains all are unfamiliar, and where white once mingled with the gold, pale pink appears.
The doors beyond are flung wide. What was formerly 'Duke's dressing-room is now transformed into a boudoir, while the apartment beyond that again is an exquisitely furnished reception-room.
In the boudoir a small fire burns, and though we may count ourselves now well into the summer, still the bright flames look warm and homelike, and involuntarily I stretch out my hands to their friendly warmth.
A knock at the door. Instead of calling out. "Come in," I go forward, and, opening it, find myself face to face with my husband.
"You will not come down to dinner?" he says; but his tone is a question almost an entreaty.
"No!" I return, ungratefully; "I am too tired. I shall be better alone."
His face expresses disappointment.
"I am sure you are right," he says, moving away. "Try to rest, and forget your fatigue."
The remnant of conscience I still retain here smites me.
"My rooms are so pretty," I say, quickly, following him a step or two; "they are lovely. Was it all your own taste? It was so good of you to do it for me."
"You are pleased?" coloring. "I fancied you would like them changed."
"It was more than good of you," I say again, remorsefully. "You think of everything, and I am always ungrateful."
"Nonsense! Get back your old spirits, and I shall be richly rewarded." Then with a sudden, unexpected movement, "You are welcome home, Phyllis," he says, and bending, presses his lips to mine.
It is the very first caress he has offered me since our second marriage; and now it is the lightest, fleetest thing conceivable. Confused and puzzled, I turn back into my room, with a sensation that is almost fear at my heart. What a cold, unloving kiss! A mere touching of the lips, without warmth or lingering pressure. What if he has ceased to love me?
----
We toil, through pain and wrong, We fight, and fly; We love, we lose, and then, ere long, Stone dead we lie. O life! is all thy song Endure—and die?
The sorrowful despairing words repeat themselves over and over again in my brain. They fascinate and yet repel me. Why must the wretchedness of this world so heavily overbalance the good?
I fling the small volume from me with some impatience as Marmaduke comes in.
He has been studiously cold to me of late; indeed, he has shown an open and marked avoidance of my company. It has at times forced itself upon me that he bitterly repents his hasty persistence at Hazelton, and would now gladly sever the tie that binds us, were that possible.
At this moment he is looking bored andennuyeto the last degree, as he goes to one of the windows, and stands idly gazing out over the park and woodlands. Not once, as he crosses the room do his eyes fall upon me.
And yet surely I am now better worth regarding than on those first days at Hazelton, when he appeared so anxious to make me his own. It is the latter end of July, warm sultry, glorious July, and I am once more the Phyllis of old. My cheeks are round and soft and childlike as of yore, my eyes are bright and clear and have lost their unnatural largeness, my figure has regained its original healthy elasticity; yet Marmaduke heeds me not.
Suddenly, with some abruptness, and without turning to look at me, he says:—-
"Don't you think it would be an improvement to ask some people down here, eh? It might make things more cheerful for you. Just the old lot, you know."
So at last he has made an open confession of the dullness that I feel sure has been consuming him; he has discovered that a very little of my society, taken singly, would go a long way. Well, I too will lethimsee how gladly I shall welcome strangers to our hearth.
"I am so glad you mentioned it," I say, briskly; "I have been wishing of late for some break-in on our monotony. Harriet and Bebe will come, I feel sure, and, oh! poor little Chips, I had forgotten he is at present broiling in India; but Chandos will not refuse, I think; and Blanche Going, and Sir Mark Gore." These latter I add with some innocent malice.
"Sir Mark Gore is in Norway," replies 'Duke, stiffly.
"Indeed! Then we must put up with his loss. But Blanche Going—where is she?"
"Probably in Jamaica, for all I know, or care," unaimiably.
"What an answer! Poor Blanche! if she could only hear you. You should remember, 'Duke, that flippancy, though excusable in a woman, is simply brutal in a man. Solitude disagrees with you; you grow downright rude."
"If I was rude, I apologize," returns he, carelessly. Then, having whistled straight through his favorite air most successfully, and wound up with an elaborate flourish, he walks through the open window on to the balcony outside.
"Very good; ask them all as soon as you like," He says, over his shoulder with a languid nod; "and go for a stroll the day is too fine to spend indoors."
----
"I was going to beg an invitation if I did not receive one," says Harriet, a week later, as she returns my kiss of welcome. "I was growing very uneasy about you. But," tapping my cheek, "I might have spared myself any worry on the subject of your health, as you are looking provokingly well."
Bebe declares I have caused them all more trouble than I am worth, whereupon I take her in custody and march her upstairs and run her into her bedroom.
Just before dinner Chandos arrives, having been driven over from a country-house some miles distant, where he has been staying.
Bebe greets him with a light laugh that has nothing in it of nervousness or suppressed pleasure. It is purely indifferent. For the moment I feel puzzled and disappointed.
"Strangemore seems to be our established meeting-ground after long absences," she says, giving him her hand. "Let me congratulate you on having escaped cholera and lawless tribes in the East."
"I have only been a week in England since my return," replies he, ceremoniously, "and have been kept pretty busy all that time, or I would have allowed myself the pleasure of calling upon you and Mrs. Beatoun. I did not know you were again staying with Lady Handcock?"
"Oh, Harriet cannot do without me now," says Bebe, with a little saucy glance at Harry, who smiles and shakes her head. "She finds me invaluable."
"How infinitely obliged your mother must be to Lady Handcock!" says Chandos, mischievously.
"For taking me off her hands? Ah! see what comes of associating with barbarians," retorts Bebe, with a shrug.
Yet, with all their badinage and apparent unconcern, I can perceive an undercurrent of constraint between these two. During all the first week, this forced gayety and determined forgetfulness of the sweet and bitter past continues and then it falls away. Silence and avoidance take their place, and in Chandos especially I notice a distant avoidance of all converse bordering on atete-a-tete.
I am beginning to despair of any good result arising from this second bringing together of them in my house, then one evening shortly before the termination of their visit a something, a mere trifle, occurs, that is yet sufficient to alter the tenor of more lives than one.
It is the 27th of August. Dinner is at an end, and, tired of strolling in the grounds and gardens—so softly perfumed by the night flowers—we three women pass into the lighted drawing-room, while Marmaduke and Chandos linger outside on the balcony to finish their cigars.
I let my fingers wander idly over the piano, and now and again hum softly some old air or ballad.
"Bebe, sing something for us to-night," I say, coaxingly rising from the piano-stool. She is not fond of letting us hear her perfectly beautiful voice. "Anything you like yourself; only sing."
"Don't ask me," she objects, languidly. "It is so long since I have sung that I scarcely know any song correctly. Harriet will tell you I rarely if ever touch the piano."
"But you must," I persist. "Break down if you will, only let me hear your voice. Remember there are no ungenerous critics here, and nobody's singing pleases me so much as yours."
"Do, Miss Beatoun," says some one.
It is Chandos. He and Marmaduke have come in through the open window, and are now standing in its embrasure, framed in by the hanging curtains on either side.
The tone of his voice strikes me as being odd. He is looking eagerly, fixedly at her; will she refuse this sudden unexpected request of his? Coming after his late coldness it surprises even me.
Bebe raises to his a face smiling, but pale.
"Well yes, I will sing you something," she says, and taking my place, strikes a few lingering chords.
"I have no music with me," she continues, with her face turned from us, "so you must be satisfied with what overcomes first to me." Then she begins:—-
'Along the grass sweet airs are sown Our way, this day in spring Of all the songs that we have known, Now which one shall we sing? Not that, my love, ah! no; Not this? my love? why so? Yet both were ours, yet hours will come and go. The branches cross above our eyes, The skies are in a net, And what's the thing beneath the skies We two would most forget? Not birth, my love, no, no, Not death, my love, no, no; The love once ours, but ours long hours ago.'"
As she comes to the last line, a curious wild sadness that is almost despair, mingles with the petulant defiance that has hitherto characterised her tone. And the music, where has she got it—so weird, so pathetic, so full of passionate recklessness.
When she is finished we are silent. I feel horribly inclined to cry, yet scarcely know why, and am certain Marmaduke's eyes are fastened upon me.
Somebody says, "Thank you," and then we all follow suit. Chandos alone is silent.
"Why will you sing sad songs, Bebe?" exclaims 'Duke, Impatiently; and Bebe laughs.
"I suppose because I am such a dismal animal myself" she replies lightly, and, rising, comes over to me.
The moonlight streams across the carpet, rebuking the soft radiance of the lamps, A hush has fallen upon us. Her song's refrain almost repeats itself aloud through the stillness. Two tears fall quietly upon my clasped hands. "The loveonce ours—-"
Pushing the curtain aside with one hand, Chandos says, in a low, determined tone:—-
"Will you come and see how the gardens look by moonlight?"
He addresses no one, he mentions no name, but his eyes are fixed on Bebe; he has forgotten all, everything, but her. Putting my own thoughts from me, I listen with breathless eagerness for her answer. Well do I know it is the third and last appeal. Should she reject this she will indeed lose forever the heart that truly loves her. At length she speaks.
"Yes, if you wish it," she says, letting the words fall from her lips with singular sweetness.
She joins him, and together they go out on the balcony, down the steps, and so disappear.
"I am so rejoiced!" exclaims Harriet, plaintively, when they are well out of hearing. "Now I do hope they will marry each other, and bring their little comedy to a successful close. I am sure we must all confess it has been a sufficiently long run."
----
"Yes, I sang it on purpose. I don't mind acknowledging it to you," cries Bebe, hours afterwards, flinging her arms around my neck, and hiding her face out of sight.
"And was it not well I did?—was it not well? Oh, Phyllis, though I sang it so bravely, there was a terrible fear at my heart all the time. I wished him to know, yet I dreaded his knowing. Can you understand? I dreaded his guessing my motive too clearly, and yet it was my last chance."
"Dearest, I am so glad."
"Ah! what tortures I have endured this past fortnight? I felt convinced he no longer cared for me, and I know I could not be happy without him. But he does love me—more than ever, he says and now I shall have him always." She pauses to indulge in a little rapturous sob. "Phyllis, never mistake obstinacy for pride!"
Harriet and I agree in thinking them the most charming of lovers. Indeed, as an engaged pair, they are a pattern to all lovers similarly afflicted. They never glower at us when we enter the room unexpectedly, and they don't blush. They get rid of all inevitable spooning by going for long walks together, where no one can witness or be distressed by their absurd appreciation of each other's society. And they actually refrain from making eyes at each other across the dining-table. When I say that they manage to keep themselves alive to the fact that there are other people in the world besides themselves, I consider I have spoken volumes in their favor and have done them every justice.
When they leave at the end of the week I positively miss them, and wish them back again; but, as the wedding is to take place almost immediately, further delay in the country is impossible.
Marmaduke and I fall once more into our old ways, seeing as little as may be of each other.
Although I will not confess it even to myself, I am sick at heart. With the return of my good health has come back my old horror of loneliness, and the girlish longing for some one to sympathise with me in all the pleasures and troubles of my daily life. Not even the frequent visits of mother, and Dora—who with her husband is staying at Summerleas—can make up to me for what I believe I have lost.
When it is too late, I learn how precious a thing I have cast away. By my own capricious folly, and through wilful temper, I have forever alienated 'Duke's affection. Very rarely does he speak to me; still more rarely of his accord does he seek my presence. I no longer afford him any joy. It is only too apparent that he has ceased to care for me.
Full of such thoughts and misgivings, I one day creep upstairs to the little turret chamber, where—while still Phyllis Vernon—I once stood with Marmaduke to gaze down upon the crowded parterre beneath. In another tiny apartment opening off this, is a deeply-cushioned window, in which it is my usual practice to sit and read such works as serve to distract my mind from the vague regrets that now forever haunt it.
I have at length brought myself to feel some interest in the hero of my tale, when approaching voices warn me that foes to my solitude draw near. Not wishing to be disturbed I move still further into my window, and pull the curtains across me, so that no one in the adjoining room could by any chance see me.
I can distinguish George Ashurst's jerky tones, and then Marmaduke's, distinct, though low. There seems to me something argumentative in their discourse, and the footsteps come slowly, as though every now and then they stood to dispute a point.
Suddenly now my own name is mentioned, and putting down my book, I wait to hear what will follow.
Of course I know perfectly well in my own mind that I ought to rise at once and honorably declare myself, but decide equally well in my own mind that I will do no such thing. What can 'Duke be saying about me? As they enter the turret, his words ring out plain and stern.
"I tell you Ashurst, I can stand the life I am leading no longer. You cannot understand what it is to see the woman you love—to see your wife—treat you as the very commonest stranger. Good feeling alone, I honestly believe, prevents her from showing me absolute hatred."
"Pooh! my dear fellow," says George, "I don't believe A word of it. She is too kind a little soul to hate any one; and you least of all. Of course the whole thing, you know, was unfortunate, you know, and that, but it will all come right in the end."
"I dare say. When I am in my grave," says Marmaduke, bitterly. "You are a good fellow, George, but you can't know everything, and I am not to be persuaded in this matter. She is right; I should never have insisted on the second marriage: it has only made her life more miserable, and placed a fretting chain around her neck. But indeed I meant it for the best."
"What else could you have done, you know?" interposes kindly George.
I have gained my feet, and am standing, trembling with hope and fear, in my hiding-place, my hand grasping the sheltering curtain for protection and support. At this moment I no longer deceive myself; by my passionate eagerness to hear what more 'Duke may say I know that all my heart is his. And he loves me! Oh, the relief—the almost painful rapture—this certainly causes me! Hush! he speaks again.
"I shall torment her no longer with my presence. I have delayed here too long already, but I hoped recovered health, and the old associations, might give her a kindlier feeling towards me. Now I feel convinced she never loved me. Let her live her life in peace. She will grow gay and bright, and like the child Phyllis I first knew when she feels sure she has seen the last of me."
"Well, well, well," says George, "I suppose there is no use in any one's speaking; but to me it is incomprehensible; why she cannot be content and happy in this charming; place, with the best fellow in the world for her husband, is more than I can fathom. But it seems to me now, Carrington, really, you know—thatyouvery seldom speak toher; eh?"
(Good George—dear George.) "Why should I put myself in the way of a cold reply? I detest forcing myself upon any one—and when she is by her own avowal happier when absent from me. Bah! let us forget the subject: to me it is a hateful one."
"Then why on earth, when you knew all this beforehand, did you insist on marrying her again?"
"Because there was nothing else to be done. Better to bear a name distasteful to her than to bear none at all. I did it for her sake."
"Then do you mean me to understand that you yourself had no interest in the matter?"
There is a pause—a long one—and my heart actually stops beating; at length:—-
"Do not think that," says 'Duke, in a low tone. "The love I felt for her on our first wedding-morning is, if possible, deeper and truer now. Though at times my chains gall and almost madden me, yet I would not exchange them for fetters soft as down. At least she is mine, insomuch that no other man can claim her. And I have this poor consolation in my loneliness, that, though she does not love me, she at all events cares for no one else."
"Poor little Phyllis!" murmurs George Ashurst, tenderly.
"You are a happy man, George," says 'Duke, adopting a lighter tone. "Do not let my troubles depress you."
"Yes: Dora is a perfect wife," declares my brother-in-law, with honest content. "Good-bye Carrington; I will come over about that house either to-night or to-morrow morning early."
"Better come to-night and sleep," urges 'Duke and George, half consenting, goes noiselessly down the stairs.
When he has been gone at least five minutes, I steal from my concealment, and, entering the turret chamber, walk softly towards Marmaduke, who is standing with his back turned to me, gazing down through the window upon the lawn beneath. His attitude betokens deep thought. I go lightly to his side, and let my eyes follow the direction his have taken.
"Dreaming, 'Duke?" I ask, gayly.
He starts violently as I wake him from his reverie, and betrays astonishment not only at my presence at this moment, but also at my altered demeanor.
"Almost, I think," he says, after a moment's hesitation. It is so long since I have addressed him with anything approaching tobonhomie.
"How short the evenings are getting!" I go on, peering out into the dusk. "Marmaduke, do you remember the large party you had in these gardens before we were married?"
"Yes."
"And how we two stood just here and looked down upon them?"
"I remember well." He is evidently intensely puzzled by my manner, which is cordial to the last degree.
"How long ago it seems now! does it not."
"Very long."
I am not progressing; I feel this, and pause for a moment.
"You are dressed for dinner," I remark, presently "So early?"
"Not to very early; It is half-past six."
"Indeed! how the time has flown I Well, let me add this to your appearance to make you perfect." I detach a little red rose-bud from the bosom of my dress, and place it with lingering carefulness in his coat. I believe as I do it he imagines I have developed the crowning phase of my malady, by going mad. "'Duke," with perfect unconcern, and with my head a little on one side to mark the effect made by my rose—"'Duke, don't you think it is time now I should give up my invalid habits, and learn to change my dress every evening like a civilized being?"
"I think you would be very foolish, Phyllis, to try any changes just yet."
"But don't you think me much better and stronger in every way?"
"Very much better. Your face has gained its old color, and your arms have regained the pretty soft roundness they had when you were—that is—before we were married."
I pull up the loose sleeve of my dress and look with some satisfaction upon the "pretty soft roundness." My old weakness for compliments is strong upon me.
"Why did you not finish your sentence?" I ask, slyly: "you were going to say when I was agirl."
"Because you look such a girl still—such a mere child, indeed—that I thought it would sound absurd."
"I am glad of that. I would wish to be young and fresh always.
"There was a time," with a faint smile, "when you longed with equal vigor to be old and worldly-wise."
"Ah, yes! what a goose I was then! But really, though, I am growing horribly fat. My hands, even—see how plump they are."
I lay five slight little fingers in his, confidingly: I can see how he reddens at my touch. He holds them softly, and turns them over to see the pink palm at the other side, and then turns them back again, but he does not speak: very slowly, but with determination, he lets them go.
"No fear of my wedding-ring coming off now," I say, cheerfully, though somewhat disconcerted at the failure of my last little ruse; "not even when I wash my hands does it stir. I won't be able to get rid of it in a hurry."
"That seems rather a pity, does it not?" remarks he, bitterly.
"A pity? Why, I would never forgive myself if I lost it."
"Would you have nothing in the past altered, Phyllis?" he asks, suddenly, and curiously, turning for the first time to confront me.
"Some things—yes. But not my wedding-ring, certainly."
"Good little Phyllis," murmurs he, somewhat sadly, "your recovered health has restored to you your good-nature."
"It was not good-nature," I protest, eagerly, feeling strangely inclined to cry. "I said it because I meant it. But come," hastily, fearing I have said too much, "dinner must be ready: we had better go downstairs."
Marmaduke leaves the window, and moves toward the door, allowing me to follow.
"Have you forgotten your manners?" I cry, playfully. "Will you not conduct me downstairs? Give me your arm, 'Duke."
"Your spirits are very high to-night, are they not?" he says, smiling. "I am glad to see you so like your old self, as now I can with a clear conscience leave home."
"Are you leaving?"
"Yes. You know I promised myself to go abroad in the autumn. I will arrange with Billy or your mother to stay with you while I am away."
"If you are going, well and good," I return, quietly, "but do not arrange matters for me. I will have no one to stay with me in your absence."
"What! not even Billy?"
"Not even Billy," I say firmly.
----
We get through dinner almost without a comment. My sudden overflow of geniality has entirely forsaken me. I am as mute, as depressed, as in those first days at Hazelton.
Rising from the table as soon as custom will permit me I make my way to the drawing-room, where I sit in moody discontent.
I am wretched—most miserable; doubly so in that I can see no plan of escape from my troubles lying clear before me. I rest my aching head on my hands and try to think; bit always his saddened face and averted eyes are to be seen. We are so close, yet so divided. Only a wall or two, a door, a passage, but miles might be said to separate us, so far apart are we in sympathy. At this moment I know he is sitting in the library, silent, companionless.
And then a great desire rises within me. Throwing aside my book, with a nervous determination, I walk down the drawing-room, through the door, across the hall, never pausing until I find myself before the library door.
I knock hurriedly, lest by any chance my ebbing courage should entirely evaporate; and my heart almost dies within me, as the well-known voice calls out, "Come in."
I open, and advance a few steps into the room. A slight fire is burning in the grate it is the beginning of September, and already the evenings show symptoms of coming cold; Marmaduke is seated at the table, busily engaged, with writing materials all around him.
"What is it, Phyllis?" he asks, expectantly, the pen still in his hand.
"Oh, nothing," I return, awkwardly, failing miserably as I come to the point; "nothing to signify; another time will do. You are busy now. What are you writing, 'Duke?"
"I was drawing out my will," he replies, smiling. "I thought it better to do so before leaving home for—for an indefinite time. No one knows what may happen. I am glad you have come in just now, as you may as well hear what I have written and see if you wish anything altered. Now listen."
"I will not!" I cry petulantly. "I hate wills and testaments, and all that kind of thing. I won't listen to a word of it; and—and I hope with all my heartIshall die before you."
"My dear Phyllis," then quickly, "you are excited; you have something on your mind. What did you come to me for just now, Phyllis? tell me."
Now or never. I am conscious of a chill feeling at my heart, but I close one hand over the other tightly and, thus supported, go on bravely.
"Yes, I did come to tell you something. That—that I love you. And oh, 'Duke—if you leave me again, you will kill me."
Here I burst into a perfect passion of weeping, and cover my face with my hands.
There is not a movement in the room, not a sound, except my heavy bursting sobs. Then some one puts an arm round me, and presses my head down upon his breast, I look up into Marmaduke's face. He is white as death; and though he is evidently putting a terrible restraint upon himself, I can see that his lips, beneath his fair moustache, are trembling.
"You are tired, Phyllis, over-fatigued," he says, soothingly. "Lie still here, and you will be better presently."
"It is not that," I cry passionately, "not that at all. Oh, Marmaduke, hear me now: do not punish me for my past coldness. I love you with all my heart; try to believe me."
"I cannot," he whispers, huskily, "I have been too long living in the other belief. To hope again, only to be cast down, would be my death. I do not dare imagine it possible you love me."
"But I do! I do!" I sob, piteously, flinging my arms around his neck. "I always, always liked you better than any one else, but during these past few months I have learned to love you so well that I cannot be happy without you. When I heard you say this evening you intended leaving me again, I thought my heart would have broken."
Turning up my face so that the full glare of the lamp falls upon it, Marmaduke gazes at me as though he would read the innermost workings of my heart.
"Is this the truth?" he asks. "Are you sure you are not deceiving yourself and me?"
"Must I say it again? Can you not see by me how it is?" I answer, still crying: I am a perfect Niobe by this time, and am dismally conscious that the tip of my nose is degenerating into a warm pink. "I am sure I am unhappy enough for anything."
Not noticing the rather ungracious tendency of this last remark, 'Duke draws me closer to him, and, stooping his head, presses his cheek to my wet one.
"My love! my life!" he whispers, and holds me as though he never meant again to let me go.
We are quite silent for a few minutes—during which a great content, such as I have never before know creeps into my heart. Then 'Duke, with a long, happy sigh, partly releases me. His eyelashes I can see are wet with tears, but there is the very sweetest and tenderest smile upon his lips. "I have not waited in vain," he says. "At last I can call you mine; at last: and just when I had given up all hope—darling—darling!"
It is half an hour later, and we are now thoroughly comfortable, full of rest and quiet joy.
We are sitting before the library fire, I on a low stool, with my head leaning against 'Duke's knee, he with one hand round my neck, while with the other he every now and then ruffles, or, as he fondly believes, smoothes, my "nut-brown locks." For the last three or four minutes no words have passed between us. I think we are too happy to give way to the mere expression of our feelings.
Suddenly, all in one moment, as it seems to us, without any warning, we hear a loud voice outside the door, a heavy footstep, a rapid turning of the handle, and George Ashurst is in the room.
I make one desperate effort to rise and recover the dignity my attitude has destroyed, but Duke, with a strong detaining grasp, prevents me. I get only as far as my knees, and from that position glare at my brother-in-law as though I would willingly devour him.
"I took your offer of a bed, after all," he is beginning, when something in the situation strikes him as odd. He meets my eyes, and breaks down. "Oh, ah! I had no idea—I didn't know, you know." He stops, hopelessly, looking as ludicrously silly and puzzled as even I could wish him.
"Neither did I," declares Marmaduke, with a laugh, "until half an hour ago. But it is all right, Ashurst; we have made it up; and when I do go abroad, I will take my wife with me."
"Didn't I tell you all along how it was?" cries George, enthusiastically (he had not; but by a superhuman effort I refrain from contradicting him). "I declare to you," says he subsiding into a chair, "I was never so glad of anything in all my life before."
There is a minute's pause. Then 'Duke, turning, lays a light caressing touch upon my shoulder as I kneel beside him. He speaks in a very low tone.
"We are all very glad, I think—and thankful," he says, with the softest, tenderest smile.
All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow;All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing;All the dull, deep pain, and constant, anguish of patience!