ft - UNIT. OF CALIF. LIBRARY. LOS ANGELES PHYLLIS BY THE DUCHESS CHICAGO, NEW YORK, AND SAN FRANCISCO; BELFORD, CLARKE & CO., PUBLISHER*. PHYLLIS, BY THE DUCHESS. Author of " Molly Hawn," " The Baby? Airy Fair} Lilian" etc., etc. "Ah ! Love was never without The pang, the agony, the doubt." BTBOJT. CHAPTER I. , Billy!" I call, eagerly, and at the top of my healthy luugs; but there is no reply. "Where can that boy be?" "Billy, Billy!" I shout again, more lustily this time, and with my neck craned half-way down the kitchen-stair- case, but with a like result. There is a sudden movement on the upper landing, and Dora, appearing above, waves her hand frantically towards me to insure attention, while she murmurs, " Hush ! Hush!" with hurried emphasis. 1 look up, and see she is robed in her best French muslin, the faint blue and white of which contrasts so favorably with her delicate skin. "Hush! There is some one in the drawing-room," saya my lovely sister, with the slightest possible show of irrita- tion. " Who ? " I ask, in my loudest whisper, feeling some- what interested. " Not not Mr. Carrington surely ? " 'Yea,' returns Dora, under her breath; "and really, 2130481 1 FffYL^S. Phyllii, I * Leh you would ot give yourself the habit of " " What ? Already ! " I interrupt, with a gasp of sur- prise. " Well, certainly he has lost no time. Now, Dora, mind you make a conquest of him, whatever you do, as, being our landlord, he may prove formidable." Dora blushes it is a common trick of hers, and she does it very successfully nods, smiles and goes on to vic- tory. The drawing-room door opens and shuts ; I can hear a subdued murmur of voices ; some one laughs. It is a man's laugh, and I feel the growth of curiosity strong within my breast. Oh, for some congenial soul to share my thoughts ! Where on earth is Billy ? " I am about to prosecute my search for him in person, when he suddenly appears, coming towards me from a to- tally unexpected direction. " What's up ? " he asks, in his usual neat style. "Oh, Billy, he is here Mr. Carrington I mean," I ex- claim, eagerly. " Dora and mamma are Avith him. I won- der will they ask him about the wood ? " " Ile'd be sure to refuse if they did," says Billy, gloom- ily. " From all I hear, he must be a regular Tartar. Brewster says he is the hardest landlord in the county turns all the tenants out of doors at a moment's notice, and counts every rabbit in the place. I'm certain he is a mean beast, and I hope Dora won't ask any favor of him." J shift the conversation. " Did you see him come ? Where have you been all this time ? " " Outside. There's a grand trap at the door, and two horses. Brewster says he is awfully rich, and of course he's a screw. If there's one thing I hate it's a miser," " Oh, he is too young to be a miser," say I, in the inno- cence of my heart. " Papa says he cannot be more than eight-and-twenty. Is he dark or fair, Billy ? " " I didn't see him, but I'm sure he's dark and squat, and probably he squints," says Billy, viciously. "Any one that could turn poor old Mother Haggard out of her house in the frost and snow must have a squint." " Bat he was in Italy then: perhaps he didn't know anything about it," I put in, as one giving the benefit of a bare doubt. "Oh, didn't he?' gays Billy, with withering contempt. ** He didn't send hia orders, I suppose ? Oh, no I " Onc PHYLLIS. j iarrly started in h\ Billingsgate strain, it is impossible to say where my brother will choose to draw a line, but for- tunately for Mr. Carrington's character, Martha, our. parlor servant, makes her appearance at t\ Is moment and comes up to us with an all-important expj ession upon her jovial face. " Miss Phyllis, your ma wants ym in the drawing-room at or.cet," she says. The strange gentleman is there, and " " Wants me . ? " I ask, in astonls nment, not being usually regarded as a drawing-room ornament. " Martha, is my hair tidy ? " " 'Tis lovely ! " returns Marth*. And, thus encouraged, I give my dress one or two hasty pulls and follow in Dora's footsteps. A quarter of an hour later J rush back to Billy, and discover him standing, with bent head and shoulders, in a tiny closet that open's off the hall, and is only divided from the drawing-room by the very frailest of partitions. Ilia attitude is crumpled, but his fac-y betrays th liveliest in- terest as he listens assiduously ,o all that is going on in- side. " Well, what is he like ? " ne asks in a stage whisper, !raighteuing himself slightly as ne sees me, and pointing in the direction of the closet. " Very nice," I answer witti decision. " and not dark at ill quite fair. I asked him about the wood wht-n 1 got She chance, and he said we might go there whenever we chose, and that it would give him great pleasure if we would consider it as our own. Then! ! And it was not he turn- ed out old Nancy Haggard : n, was the wretch Simmons, the steward, without any orders ; and Mr. Carrington haa dismissed him, and " Here Billy slips off a jam-pot, on which he has been standing, with a view to raising himself, stumbles heavily, and creates an appalling row ; after which, mindful of con- sequences, he picks himself up sil -ntly, and together w* turn and flee. FHYLU3* CHAPTER II. I AM seventeen not sweet seventeen ; there is notb'r g sweet about me. I am neither fair nor dark, nor tall nor short, nor indeed anything in particular that might dis- tinguish me from the common herd. This is rather hard upon me, as all the rest of us can lay claim to beauty in one form or another. Thus, Roland, my eldest brother, is tall, very aristocratic in appearance, and extremely good to look at ; Dora, who comes next, is small and exquisitely pretty, in a fresh fairy-like style ; while Billy, the youngest born," has one of the handsomest faces imaginable, with liquid brown eyes of a gentle, pleading expression, that smile continually> and utterly belie the character of their owner. Why I was born at all, or why, ray creation being a iettled matter, I was not given to the world as a boy, has puzzled and vexed me for many years. I am entirely with- out any of the little graceful kittenish blandishments of manner that go far to make Dora the charming creature she is ; I have too much of Billy's recklessness, mixed up with a natural carelessness of my own, to make me a success in the family circle. To quote papa in his mildest form, I am a "sad mistake," and one not easy to be rectified, while mother, who is the gentlest soul alive, reproves and com- forts me from morning until n ght, without any result to peak of. I am something over five feet two, with brown hair and a brown skin, and eyes that might be blue or gray, accord- ing to fancy. My feet are small and well shaped, and so are my hands ; but as for seventeen years I have borne an undying hatred towards gloves, these latter cannot be re- garded with admiration. My mouth is of goodly size, and rather determined in expression; while as to my figure, if Roland is to be believed, it resembles nothing so much as a iJahing-rod. But my nose that at least is presentable and worthy of a better resting-place ; it is indeed a most desir- able nose in every way, and, being my only redeeming point, i one of which I am justly proud. Nevertheless, as one swallow makes no summer, so one feature will not beautify a plain face; and in spite of icy FHYLLIS. D Grecian treasure I stiL remain obscure. If not ornamental, however, I manage to be useful ; I am an excellent foil to my sister Dora. She is beyond dispute our bright partio ular star, and revels in that knowledge. To be admired is sun and air and life to Dora, who resembles nothing in thfl world so imich as an exquisite little Dresden tigure, so delicate, so pink and white, sc yellow-haired, and always so bewitchingly attired. She never gets into a passion, it never unduly excited. She is too pretty and too fragile for the idea, else I might be tempted to say that on rare occa- sions she sulks. Still, she is notably good-tempered, and has a positive talent for evading all unpleasant topics that may affect her own peace of mind. Papa is a person to be feared ; mother is not ; conse- quently, we all love mother best. In appearance the head of our family is tall, lean, and unspeakably severe. With him a spade is always a spade, and his nay is indeed nay. According to a tradition among us, that has grown with our growth, in his nose which is singularly large and ob- trusive lies all the harshness that characterizes his every action. Indeed, many a time and oft have Billy and 1 speculated as to whether, were he suddenly shorn of his proboscis, he would also lind himself deprived of his strength of mind. He is calm, and decidedly well-bred, both in manner and expression two charms we do not appreciate, as, on such frequent occasions as when disgrace falls upon one or all of the household, the calmness and breeding be- come so terrible that, without so much as a frown, he can wither us beyond recognition. I am his particular bete noire ; my hoydenish wnys jar every hour of the day upon his sensitive nerves. lie never tires of contrasting me unfavorably with his gentle elegant Dora. He detests gushing people, and I, unhappily for myself, am naturally very affectionate. I feel not only a desire to love, but at times an unconquerable longing to openly declare my love ; and as Roland is generally with his regiment, and Dora is a sort of person who would die if violently embraced, ^arn perforce obliged to expend all my superfluous affection upon our darling mother anJ Billy. Strict economy prevails among us ; more through neces- ity, indeed, than from any unholy desire to save. Our annual income of eight hundred pounds goes but a short way under any circumstances, and the hundred pounds a G PHYLLIS. year out oJt this we allow Roland (who is always in a state of insolvency) leaves us " poor indeed." A new dress is, therefore, a rarity not perhaps so strange a thing to Dora as it is to me and any amusement that costs money would be an unheard of luxury. Out-door conveyances we have none, unless one is compelled to mention a startling vehicle that lies in the coach-house, and was bought no one remem- bers when and where. It is probably an heirloom, and ie popularly supposed to have cost a fabulous sum in the days of its youth and beauty, but it is now ancient and sadly dis- reputable, and not one of us but feels low and dejected when, tucked into it on Sunday mornings, we are driven by papa to attend the parish church. I even remember Dora shedding tears now and then as this ordeal drew nigh ; but that was when the Desmonds or the Cuppaidgos had a young man staying with them, who might reasonably be expected to put in an appearance during the service, and who would be sure to linger and witness our disgrace- ful retreat afterwards. Of course papa has his two hunters. We have been taught that no gentleman could possibly get on without them in a stupid country place, and that it is more from a noble desire to sustain the respectability of the family than from any pleasure that may be derived from them, that they are kept. We try to believe this but we don't. We see very few neighbors, for the simple reason that there are very few to see. This limits dinner parties, and saves expense in many ways, but rather throws us younger fry upon our own resources. No outsiders come to disturb our uninteresting calm ; we have no companions, no friends beyond our hearthstone. No alarming incidents occur to feason our deadened existence; no one ever elopes with the wife of his bosom friend. All is flat, stale and unprofitable. It is, then, with mingled feelings of fear and delight that we hear of Strangemore being put in readiness to re- ceive its master. Mr. Carrington, our new landlord our old one died about five years ago has at length wearied of a foreign sojourn, and ks hastening to the land of his fathers So rin report three weeks before my story opens, and for once truly. He came, he saw, he No, we have aL arranged ages ago it is Dora who is to conquer. u lie is exceedingly to be liked," says mamma that nighi at dinner, addressing pupa, and alludin to our landlord, "and so very distinuished-lookin. I r PHYLLIS. 7 mired Dora ; be never removed his eyes from her face the entire time he stayed." And mother nods and smLes approv ingly at my sister. " That must have been rather embarrassing," says papa^ in his eveii way ; but I know by his tone he too is secretly pleased at Mr. Carrington's rudeness. Dora blushes, utters a faint disclaimer, and then iaughi her own low cooing laugh, that is such a wonderful piece of performance. I have spent hours in my bedroom endeavor, ing patiently to copy that laugh of Dora's, with failure as the only result. " And he is so good-natured ! " I break in, eagerly. ** The very moment I mentioned the subject, he gave us permission to go to Brinsley Wood as often as ever we choose, and seemed quite pleased at my asking him if we might ; didn't he, mother ? " " Yes, dear." " Could you find no more interesting topic to discuss with him than that ? " asked papa with contemptuous dis- pleasure. "Was his first visit a fitting opportunity to de- mand a favor of him ? It is a pity, Phyllis, you cannot put yourself and your own amusements out of sight, even on an occasion. There is no vice so detestable as selfishness." I think of the two hunters, and of how long mother's last black silk has been her best gown, and feel rebellious ; but, long and early training having taught me to subdue my emotions, I accept the snub dutifully and relapse into taciturnity. " It was not he turned out poor old Mother Haggard after all, papa," puts in Billy; "It was Simmons; ana he is to be dismissed immediately." " I am glad of that," says papa, viciously. ** A moje thorough going rascal never disgraced a neighborhood. He will be doing a really sensible thing if he sends that fellow adrift. I am gratified to find Carrington capable of acting with such sound common sense. None of the absurd worn- out prejudices in favor of old servants about him. I have uo doubt he will prove an acquisition to the county." Altogether, it is plainly to be seen, we every one of us intend approving of our new neighbor. " Yes, indeed," says mother, " it is quite delightful ta think of a young man being anywhere near. We are sadly in want of cheerfu. society. \V"h*t a pity he did not come fHYLLTS. home directly his uncle died and left him the property, in- tead of wasting these last five years abroad ! " "I think he was right," returns papa, gracefully 14 there is nothing like seeing life. When hampered with a wife and children, he will regret he did not enjoy more of it before tying himself down irretrievably. 7 * An uncomfortable silence follows this speech. We all feel guiltily conscious that \ve are hampering our father- that but for our unwelcome existence he might at the pres- ent hour be enjoying all the goods and gayeties of lifo : all that is, except Billy, who is insensible to innuendoes, and never sees or feels anything that is not put before him in the plainest terms. He cheerfully puts an end now to the awkward silence. " I can tell you, if you marry Mr, Carrington, you will he on the pig's back," he says, knowingly addressing Dora. Billy is not choice in his expressions. " lie has no end of tin, and the gamcst lot of horses in his stables to be seen Anywhere. Brewster was telling me about it." Nobody says anything. " You will be on the pig's back, I can tell you,'* repeats Billy, with emphasis. Now, this is more than rashness, it is madness on Billy's part ; he is ignorantly offering him- self to the knife. The fact that his vulgarity has been passed by unnoticed once is no reason why leniency should l>e shown towards him a second time. Papa looks up blandly. "May I ask what you mean by being 'on the pig's back ? ' he asks, with a suspicious thirst for information. " Oh, it mean ft being in luck, I suppose," returns Billy, only slightly taken aback. "1 do not think I should consider it a lucky thing if I found myself on a pig's back," says papa, still apparent y abroad, still desirous of having his ignorance enlightened. "J don't suppose you would," responds Billy, gruflly ; and, being an English boy, abhorrent of irony, he makes a most unnecessary clatter with his fork and spoon. " 1 know what papa means," says Dora, sweetly, com ing prettily to the rescue. One of Dora's favorite roles ia to act as peacemaker on such public occasions as the pres- ent, when the innate goodness of her disposition can be successfully paraded* " It is that he wishes you to see how unmeaning are your words, and how vulgar are all hackneyed expressions. " Besides " running back to PHYLLIS. 8 Billy's former speech "you should not believe all Brew- Bter tells you ; he is only a groom, and probably says a good deal more than than he ought." " There ! " erica Billy, with wrathful triumph, " you were just going to say * more than his prayers,' and if thai isn't a ' hackneyed expression,' I don't know what's what. You ought to correct yourself, Miss Dora, before you begin correcting other people." "I was not going to say that," declares Dora, in a rather sharper tone. " Yes, you were, though. It was on the very tip ol your tongue." " I was not" reiterates Dora, her pretty oval cheeks growing pink as the heart of a rose, while her liquid blue eyes changed to steel gray. " That's a " " William, be silent," interrupts papa, with authority, nd so for a time puts a stop to the family feud. CHAPTER III. THE next day Mr. Carrington calls again this time ostensibly on business matters and papa and he discuss turnips and other farm produce in the study, until the in- terview becomes so extended that it occurs to the rest of us they must be faint. Mamma sends in sherry as a res- torative, which tranquillizes our fears and enables us to look with more cheerfulness towards the end. Before leaving, however, Mr. Carrington finds his way to the drawing-room, where Dora and I are seated alone, and, having greeted us, drags a chair lazily after him, until he gets within a few feet of Dora. Here he seats himself. Dora is tatting. Dora is always tatting; she nc\er does anything else; and surely there is no work so pretty, BO becoming to white fingers, as that it. which the swift little shuttle ie brought to bear. Nevertheless, though he is beside my sister, I never raise my heard without encoun- tering his blue eyes fixed upon me. His tyes are very handsome, large and dod we want is reached ; the nutt are in full view ; our object is attained. " Now," asks Billy, with a sigh of delight, c< at which tree shall we begin ?" It is a mere matter of form his ask- ing me this question, as he would think it dsrogatory to his manly dignity to follow any suggestion I might make. All the trees are laden : they more than answer our ex- pectations. Each one appears so much better than the other it is difficult to choose between them. " At this," I say, at length, pointing to one richly clothed that stands before us. " Not at all," returns Billy, contemptuously : " It isn't half as good as this one," naming the companion tree to mine ; and, his being the master-mind, he carries the day. " Very good : don't miss your footing," I say, anxiously, as he begins to climb. There are no lower branches, no projections of any kind to assist his ascent : the task is far from easy. " Here, give me a shove," calls out Billy, impatiently, when he had slipped back to mother earth the fourth time, after severely barking his shins. I give him a vigorous push that raises him successfully to an overhanging limb, after which, being merely hand-over-hand work, he rises rapidly, and soon the spoiler reaches his prey. Down come the little bumping showers ; if on my head or arms so much the greater fun. I dodge; Billy aims ; the birds grow nervous at our unrestrained laughter. Al- ready our basket is more than half full, and Billy is almost out of sight among the thick foliage, so high h&s ho Btounted. Slower, and with more uncertain aim come the nuts. I begin to grow restless. It is not so amusing as it was ten minutes ago, aud I look vaguely around me in search ol newer joys. At no grea, distance from me I spy another nut-tree .iy laden with treasure and far easier of access. Low, bnnust to the ground, some of the branches grow. My eyu fasten upon it ; a keen desire to climb and be myselt a poiler ueues upon me. I iay my basket on the PHYLLIS. 16 and, thought and action being one with me, I steal off with- out a word to Billy and gain the. wished-for spot. Being very little inferior to Billy in the art of climbing long and dearly-bought experience having made run nimble, it is at very little risk and with small difficulty 1 oon find myself at the top of the tree, comfortably seated on a thick arm of wood, plucking my nuts in safety. I feel immensely elated, both at the eminence of my situation and the successful secrecy with which I have carried out my plan. What fun it will be presently to see Billy looking for me everywhere ! lie will at first think I have gone roaming through the woods ; then he will imagine me lost, and be a good deal frightened ; it will be some time before he will suspect the truth. I fairly laugh to myself as these ideas flit through my idle brain more, perhaps, through real gayetyof heart than from, any excellence the joke contains when, suddenly raising my head, I see what makes my mischievous smile freeze upon my lip. From my exalted position I can see a long way before me, and there in the distance, coming with fatal certainty in iny direction, I espy Mr. Carrington ! At the same moment BUly'8 legs push themselves in a dangling fashion through the branches of his tree, and are followed by the remainder of his person a little later. Forgetful of my original de- sign, forgetful of everything but the eternal disgrace that will cling to me through life if found by our landlord in my present unenviable plight, I call to him, intones suppressed indeed, but audible enough to betray my hiding-place, "Billy, here is Mr. Carrington he is coming toward* us. Catch these nuts quickly, while I get down." " Why where on earth " begins Billy, and then gra?p ing the exigencies of the case, refrains from further vitupera- tion, and comes to the rescue. The foe steadily advances. I fling all my collected treasure into Billy's upturned face, and seizing a branch be- gin frantically to beat a retreat. I am half-way down, but sti 1 ! very, very far from the ground at least, so far, that Bi ly can render me no assistance when I inisa my foot- ing, slip a little way down against my will, and then eus tan a check. Some outlying bough, with vicious and spite- ful intent, has laid hold on. my gown in such way that I can not reach to undo it. PHYLLIS. I * Come down, can't you ? " says Billy, with impatience "you are showing a yard and a half of your leg." " I can't ! " I groan ; " I'm caught somewhere Oh, whai hall I do ? " Meantime, Mr. Carrington is coming nearer and neare: As I peer at him through the unlucky branches I can see he is looking it' anything rather handsomer than usual, with his gun on his shoulder and a pipe between his lips. Ash* meets my eyes riveted upon him from my airy perch he takes out the pipe and consigns it to his pocket. If he gets round to the other side of the tree, from which point the horrors of my position are even more forcibly depicted, I feel I shall drop dead. " Why don't you get that lazy boy to do the troublesome part of the business for you ? " calls out our welcome friend, while yet at some distance. Then, becoming suddenly aware of my dilemma, "Are you in any difficulty? Can I help you down ? " He has become preternaturally grave so grave that it occurs to me he may possibly be repressing a smile. Billy, I can see, is inwardly convulsed. I begin to feel very wrathful. " I don't want any help " I say, with determination. " But for my dress I could manage " " Better let me assist you," says Mr. Carrington, making a step forward. In another moment he will have gained the other side, and then all will be indeed lost. "No, no/" I cry, desperately; "I won't be helped. Stay where you are." " Very good," returns he, and, immediately presenting his back to me, makes a kind pretense of studying the land- scape. Now, although this is exactly the thing of all others I most wish him to do, still the voluntary doing of it on hi; part induces me to believe my situation a degree more in- decent than before. 1 feel I shall presently be dissolved ic tears. I tug madly at my unfortunate dress without making the faintest impression upon it. Oh, why is it thai m ton that up to this has been so pr^pe to reduce itsi.lf to -to-day should prove so tough ? My despair i'orces from me a heavy sigh. "Not down yet V " says Mr. Carrington, turning to in< once more. " You will never manage it by yourself l> tensibie, uud let me put you on your /eel." PHYLLIS, H u No," I answer, in an agony ; "it must give way sooa. I shall do it, if if you will only turn your back to m again." It is death to my pride to have to make this request. I nerve myself to try one more heroic effort. The branch I am clinging to gives way with a crash. " Oh! " I shrit-kv frantically, and in another moment fall headlong into Mr Carrington's outstretched arms. " Are you hurt ? " he asks, gazing at mo with anzioui eyes, and still retaining his hold of me. " Yes, I am, " I answered, tearfully. " Look at my arm." I pull up my sleeve cautiously and disclose an arm that looks indeed wonderfully white next the blood that trickles slowly from it. " Oh, horrible ! " says our rich neighbor, with real and intense concern, and, taking out his handkerchief, proceeds to bind up my wound with the extremest tenderness. "Why didn't you let him take you down?" says Bill, reproachfully, who is rather struck by the blood. " It would have been better after all." " Of, course it would," says Mr. Carrington, raising hia head for a moment from the contemplation of his surgical tssk to smile into my eyes. " But some little children are very foolish." " I was seventeen last May," I answered promptly. It is insufferable to be regarded as a child when one is al- most eighteen. There is a touch of asperity in my tone. " Indeed ! /So old ? " says our friend, still smiling. " Mr. Carriugton," I begin, presently, in a rather whim- nering tone, " you won't say anything about this at home will you ? You see, they they might not like the idea of my climbing, and they would be angry. Of course I kmvw it was very unladylike of me, and indeed " very earnestly this " I had no more intention of doing such a thing when I left home than 1 had of Hying. Had I, Billy? " " You had not," says Billy. "I don't know what put the tVought into your head. Why, it is two years since L-.ist you climbed a tree." This is a fearful lie; but the dear boy means well. " You won't betray me ? " I say again to my kind doc- tor. " I would endure the tortures of the rack first," returns he, giving his bandage a final touch. " Be assured they shall never hear 01 u trom me. Yon must lot suspect in 18 PHYLLIS. of being a tale-bearer, Miss Phyllis. Does your arm pain you still ? have I made it more comfortable ? " " I hardly feel it at all now," I answer, gratefully. " 1 don't know what I should have done but for you first catching me as you did, and then dressing my hurt. But how shall I return you your handkerchief?" " May I not call to-morrow to see you are cone the wor^e for your accident? It is a long week since last 1 was at Summerleas. Would I bore you all verj much if I allowed myself there again soon?" "Not at all," I answered warmly, thinking of Dora; " the oftener you come the more we shall be pleased." "Would it please you to see me often?" lie watches me keenly as he asks this question. " Yes, of course it would," I answer, politely, feeling slightly surprised at his tone very slightly. "How long have you known me ? " " Exactly a mouth yesterday," I exclaim, promptly ; "it was on the 25th of August you first oame to see us. 1 remember the date perfectly." " Do you ? " with pleased surprise. " What impressed that uninteresting date upon your memory ? " " Because it was on that day that Billy got home the new pigeons such little beauties, all pure white. They were unlucky, however, as two of them died since. That is how I recollect its being a month," I continue, recurring to his former words. " Oh ! I suppose you would hardly care to remember anything in which Billy was not concerned. Sometimes not always I envy Billy. And so it is really only a mouth since first I saw you ? To me .t seems a year more than a year." "Ah ! what did I tell you," I say, speaking in the eager tone one adopts when triumphantly proving the correct- ness of an early opinion. " I knew you would soon grow tired of us. I said so from the beginning." " Did you ? " in a curious tone. " Yes. It was not a clever guess to make, was it ? Why, there is literally nothing to be done down here, un- less one farms, or talks scandal of one's neighbor, or " " Or goes nutting, and puts one's neck in danger," with a smile. " Surely there can be nothing tame about a place where such glorious exploits can be performed?" Then, changing his manner, " You have described 1'uxley verv PIIYLLJS. 19 accurately, I must confess ; and yet, strange as it may aj> {.ear to you, your opinion was rashly formed, because as j et I am not tired of either it or you." " And yet you find the time drag heavily ? " " When spent at Strangemore yes. Never when spent ari Summerleas." I begin to think Dora has a decided chance. I search my brain eagerly for some more leading question that si nil still further satisfy me on this point, l>ut find nothing. Billy, who has been absent from us for some time, comes leisurely up to us. His presence recalls the hour. " We must be going now," I say, extending my hnnd ; "it is getting late. "Good-bye, Mr. Carrington and thank you again very much," I added, somewhat shyly. " If you persist in thinking there is anything to be grateful for, give me my reward," he says, quickly, "b^ letting me walk with you to the boundary of the wood." "Yes, do," says Billy, effusively. Still Mr. Carrington looks at me, as though determined to take permission fruin my eyes alone. " Come, if you wish it," I say, answering the unspoken look in his eyes, and feeling thoroughly surprised to hear a uian so altogether grown up express a desire for our grace- less society. Thus sanctioned, he turns and walks by my side, conversing in the pleasant, light, easy style peculiar to him, until the boundary he named is reached. Here we pause to bid each other once more good-bye. " And I may come to-morrow ? " he asks, holding my hand closely. " Yes but but I cannot give you the handkerchief oefore mother and Dora," I murmur, blushing hotly. "True, I had forgotten that important handkerchief, But perhaps you could manage to walk with me as far as she entrance-gate, could you ? " " I don't know," I return doubtfully, " If not, I can give it to you some other day. " " So you can. Keep it until T am fortunate enough to meet you again. 1 shall probably get on without it until then." So with a smile and a backward nod and glance, we part. For some time after he has left is, Billy an-d I move on together without speaking, a most unusual thing, when I break the iilence by my faltering tones. 20 PHYLLIS. "Billy," I say, trembling with hope and fear, " Billy tell me the truth. That time, you know, did I show very much of my leg? " " Not more than an inch or two above the garter," he answers, in an encouraging tone, and for a full minute 1 feel that with cheerfulness I cou.d attend the funeral of my brother Billy. I am mortified to the last degree. Unbidden tears rise to my eyes. Even though I might have known a more soothing answer to be false, still with rapture I would have hailed it. There is a brutal enjoyment of the scene in his whole demeanor that stings me sorely. I begin to compare dear Holy with my younger brother in a manner highly un- flattering to the latter. If Roland had been here in Billy's place to day, instead of being as he always is with that tiresome regiment in some forgotten corner, all might hava been different. He at least being a ?wm, would have feit for me, How could I have been mad enough to look for sympathy from a boy ? Dear Roland ! The only fault he has is his extreme and palpable selfishness. But what of that? Are not alt men so aillicted ? Why should he be condemned for what is only to be expected and looked for in the grander sex ? What I detest more than anything else is a person who, while professing to be friends with one, only I grow morose, and decline all further conversation, until we come so near our home that but one turn more hides it from our view. Here Billy remonstrates. "Of course you can sulk if you like," he says in an in- jured tone, " and not speak to a fellow, all for nothing ; but you can't go into the house with your arm like that, unless you wish them to discover the battle in which you have been engaged." J hesitate and look ruefully at my arm. The sleeve ot rny dress is rolled up above the elbow, having refused obstinately to come down over the bandage, and conse- quently I present a dishevelled, not to say startling ap- pearance. " I must undo it, I suppose," I return, disinclination in rny tone, and Billy says, " Of course," with hideous brisk- ness. Therewith he removes the guarding-ptn and proceeds to unfold the handkerchief with an air that savors strongly of pleasurable curiosity, while I stand shrinking beside him. fJFYLLIS. fl nd vowing mentally never again to trust myseli at an un- due distance from mother earth. At length the last fold is undone, and, to my unspeak- able relief, I see that the wound, though crimson round the edges, has ceased to bleed. Hastily and carefully drawing the .sleeve of my dress over it, I thrust the stained handker- chr.ef into my pocket and make for the house. When I have exchanged a word or two with Dora (who is always in the way when not wanted that being the hall at the present moment), I escape upstairs without being taken to task for my damaged garments, and carefully lock rny door. Nevertheless, though now, comparatively speak- ing, in safety, there is still a weight upon my mind. If to- morrow I am to return the handkerchief to its owner, it must in the meantime be washed, and who is to wash it? Try as I will, I cannot bring myself to make a confid- ante of Martha : therefore nothing remains for me but to undertake the purifying of it myself. I have still half an hour clear before the dinner-bell will ring : so, plunging my landlord's cambric into the basin, I boldly commence my work. Five minutes later. I am getting on : it really begins to look almost white again ; the stains have nearly vanished, and only a general pinkiness remains. But what is to be done with the water? if left, it will surely betray me, and betrayal means punishment. I begin to feel like a murderess. In every murder ease I have ever read (and they have a particular fascina- tion for me), the miserable perpetrator of the crime finds a terrible difficulty in getting rid of the water in which he lias washed off the traces of his victim's blood. I now find a similar difficulty in disposing of the water reddened by my own. I open the window, look carefully out, and, seeing no one, Ming the contents of my basin into the air. ." Jt falls to earth I know not where," as I hurriedly draw in my head and get through the remainder of niy self-imposed duty. After that my dressing for dinner is a scramble; but [ got through it in time, and come down serene and innocent, to take my accustomed place at the table. All goes well until towards the close of the festivities, when papa, fixing a piercing eye on me, says, generally, " May I inquire which of you is in the habit of throwing S3 PHYLLIS. water from your bedroom windows upon cLance passers by?" A ghastly silence follows. Dora looks up in meek sur- prise. Billy glances anxiously at me. My krees knoei together, bid it fall upon him? Has he discovered all? " Well, why do I receive no answer ? Wfic did it ? k demands papa, in a voice of suppressed thunder, still with his eye on me. "I threw some out this evening," I acknowledge, in s faint tone, " hut never before I " " Oh ! it was you, was it ? " says papa, with a glare. " I need scarcely have inquired ; 1 might have known the i/ne most likely to commit a disreputable action. Is that an established habit of yours ? Are there no servants to do your bidding? It was the most monstrous proceeding I ever in my life witnessed." "It was only " I begin timidly. " ' It was only ' that it is an utterly impossible thing for you ever to bo a lady," interrupted papa, bitterly. " You are a downright disgrr.ee to your family. At times I find it a difficult matter to believe you a Vernon." Having delivered this withering speech, he leans back in his chair, with a snort that would not have done dis- credit to a war-horse, which signifies that the scene is at an end. Two large tears gather in my eyes and roll heavily down my cheeks. They look like tears of penitence, but in reality are tears of rolief. Oh, if that tell-tale water had but fallen on the breast of his shirt, or on his stainless cuffs, where would the inquiries have terminated ? Billy who, I feel instinctively, has been suffering tor- to.ires during the past five minutes now, through the inten- sity of his joy at my escape, so far forgets himself as to commence a brilliant fantasia on the tablecloth with a dessert-fork. It lasts a full minute without interruption : I urn too depressed to give him a warning glance. At length, " Billy, when you have quite done making that horrid aoisc, perhaps you will ring the bell," says Dora, smoothly, with a view to comfort. Certainly the "tatto is irritating. ' When I have quite done I will," returns Billy, calmly, fld continues his odious oceupatlDn, with now an a>' ' tion to it in the form of an unearthly scraping noise, on , ed by his nails, that makes one's Ilcsh creep. Papa, deep in the perusal of the Tines, heaie and nothing. Mother is absent. fffYLLJS, g3 "Papa," cries DC ra, whose delicate nerves are all un- strung, " will you send Billy out of the room, or else induce him to stop his present employment?" " William," Bays papa, severely, " cease that noise di- rectly." And William, casting a vindictive glance at Dora, lave down the dessert-fork and succumbs. CHAPTER V. I HAVE wandered down to the river side and under the shady trees. As yet, October is so young and mild the leaves refuse to offer tribute, and still quiver and rustle gayly on their branches. It is a week since my adventure in the wood five days since Mr. Carrington's last visit. On tha-t occasion having failed to obtain one minute with him alone, the handker- chief still remains in my possession, and proves a very skel- eton in my closet, the initials M. ,T. C. that stand for Marmaduke John Carrington, as all the world knows staring out boldly from their corner, and threatening at any moment to betray me : so that, through fear and dread of discovery, I carry it about with me, and sleep with it beneath my pillow. Looking back upon it all now, I won- der how I co ild have been so foolish, so wanting in inven- tion. I feel with what ease I could now dispose of any- thing tangible and obnoxious. There is a slight chill in the air, in spite of the pleasant fl'in ; and J half make up my mind to go for a brisk walk, instead of sauntering idly, as I am at present doing, when somebody calls to me from the adjoining field. It is Mr. Carrington. He climbs the wall that separates us, and drops into my territory, a little scrambling Irish terriei at his heels. " Is this a favorite retreat of yours?" he asks, as cur hands meet. " Sometimes. Oh, Mr. Carrington, I am so glad to see yon to-day." "Are you, really? That is better news than I hoped to hear when I left homo this morning." " Because I want to return you your handkerchief. I 24 PHYLLIS. have had it go long, and am so anxious to get rid of it. It it would probably look nicer," I say, with hesitation, slowly withdrawing the article in question from my pocket, " if anybody else had washed it ; but I did not want any one to find out about that day: so I had to do it my elf." Lingering, cautiously, I bring it to light and hold it out to hint. Oh, how dreadfully pink and uncleanly it appears in the broad light of the open air I To me it seems doubly hideous the very last thing a fastidious gentleman would dream of putting to his nose. Mr. Carrington accepts it almost tefiderly. There is not the shadow of a smile upon his face. It would be impossi- ble for me to say how grateful I feel to him for this. " Is it possible you took all that trouble," he says, a certain gentle light, with which I am growing familiar, coming into his eyes as they rest upon my anxious face. ".My dear child, why ? Did you not understand I was only jesting when I expressed a desire to have it again ? Why did you not put it in the fire, or rid yourself of it in some other fashion long ago? So" after a pause "you really washed it with your own hands for rne ?" "One might guess that by looking at it," I answer, with a rather awkward laugh : " still, I think it would not look quite so badly, but that I kept it in my pocket ever since, and that gives it its crumpled appearance." " Ever since? so near to you for five long days ? What a weight it must have been on your tender conscience! Well, at all events no other v> asherwoman " with a eniile " shall ever touch it. I promise you that." He places it carefully in an inside pocket as he speaks. " Oh, please do not say that ! " I cry, dismayed : "you must not keep it as a specimen of my hajidivvork. Once properly washed, you will forget all about it: but if you kc-ep it before your eyes in its present state Mr. Car- rington, do put it rn your clothes-basket the moment you g-> home.** lie only .aughs at this pathetic entreaty, and throws a pebble into the tiny river that runs at our feet. " Why arc you alone ? " he asks, presently. " Why is not the indefatigable Billy with you? " " lie reads with a tutor three times a week. That leavte me very often lonely. I came here to-day just to paas- the time until he can join mo. He don't seem U> car PHYLLIS. 26 mnch about Greek and Latin," I admit, ingenuously ; " and, as he never looks at his lessons until five minutes befor Mr. Caldwood comes, you see be don't get over them very quickly." " And so leaves you disconsolate longer than he nifed, i"our sister, Miss Vernon does she never go for a walk with you ? " Ah ! now he is coming to Dora. " Dora ? Oil, never. She is not fond of walking ? it does not agree with her, she says. You may have noticed she is not very robust, she looks so fragile, so different from me in every respect." " Very different." " Yes, we all see that," I answer, rather disconcerted by his ready acquiescence in this home view. " And so Sretty as she is, too ! Don't you think her very pretty, Ir. Carrington ? " u Extremely so. Even more than merely pretty. Her complexion, I take it, must be quite unrivaled. She is positively lovley in her own style." " I am very glad you admire her ; but indeed you would be singular if you did not do so," I say, with enthusiasm. " Her golden hair and blue eyes make her quite a picture, /think she has the prettiest face I ever saw : don't you? " " No ; not the prettiest. I know another that, to me at least, is far more beautiful." He is looking straight before him, apparently at nothing, and to my attentive ear there is something hidden in hia tone that renders me uneasy for the brilliant future 1 have mapped out for my sister. " You have been so much in the world," I say, with some dejection, " and of course in London and Paris and all the large cities one sees many charming faces from time to time. I should have remembered that. I suppose, away from this little village, Dora's face wouid be but one in a crowd." " It was not in London or Paris, or any large city I saw the face of which I speak. It was in a neighborhood as email yes, quite as small as this. The owner of it was a mere child a little country-girl, knowing nothing of the bu*y world outside her home, but I shall never again see nny ono so altogether sweet and lovable." * " What was she like ? " I ask, curiously. I am not so un- t-isy as I was. If only a child she cannot, of course, inter fure with Dora. " Describe her to me ? " 2 PHYLLIS. " Wliat is she like, yon mean. She is still in the of the living. Dtacribe her I don't believe I could," says my companion, with a light laugh. " If I gave you her exact photograph in words, I dare say I would call down your scorn on my benighted taste. Who ever grew raptur- ous over a description ? If you cross-examine me about hei charms, without doubt I shall fall through. To my way of blinking beauty does not lie in features, in hair, or eyes, 01 mouth. It is there, without one's knowing why ; a look, an expression, a smile, all go to make up the indescribable nometliing that is perfection." "You speak of her as though she were a woman. I don't believe she is a child at all," I say, with a pout. " She is the greatest child I ever met. But tell me " Then, breaking off suddenly, and turning to me, " By the bye," he s.iys, "what may I call you ? Miss Veruon is too formal, and Miss Phyllis I detest." "Yes," return I, laughing, "it reminds me of Martha. You may call me Phyllis if you like." " Thank you ; I shall like it very much. Apropos of photographs, then, a moment ago, Phyllis, did you ever sit for your portrait?" lie is looking at me as he speaks, as though desirous of photographing me upon his brain with- out further loss of time. " Oh, yes, twice," I answer, cheerfully ; " once by a traveling man who came ro'und, and did us all very cheaply indeed (I think for fourpc ice or sixpence a head) ; and once in Carston. I had i dozen taken then ; but when I had given one each to then: all at home, and one to Martha, I found I had no use for tl.e others, and hail only wasted my pocket-money. Perhaps" diffidently ''you would like one?" " Like it ! " saye Mr. Carrington, with most uncalled-for eagerness : " I should rather think I would. Will yon roally give me one, Phyllis?" "Of course," I answer, with surprise : "they are no use to me, and have been tossing about in my drawer tor six months. Will you have a Carston one ? I really think it is the best. Though, if you put your hand over the eyes, tne itinerant's is rather like mo." " What happened to the eyes? " "There is a faint cast in the right one. The man said it wa 4 ,he way I always looked, but I don't think so my- PHYLLIS. 27 self. You don't think 1 have a squint, do you, Mr Car rington?" Here I open my blue-gray eyes to their widest and gaz at ruy companion in anxious inquiry. " No, I don't see it," returns he, when he has subjected the eyes iu question to a close and lingering examination, Thon he laughs a little, and I laugh too, to encourage him. and oecnuse at this time of my life gayety of any sort seeit* good, and tears and laughter are very near to me; and presently we are both making merry over my description of the wanderer's production. " What o'clock is it," I ask, a little later. " It must be time for me to go home, and Billy will be waiting." Having told me the hour, he says : " Have you no watch, Phyllis? " "No." K Don't you find it awkward now and then being igno rant of the time ? Would you like one ? " " Oh, would I not ? " I answer, promptly. " There ia nothing I would like better. Do you know it is the one thing for which I am always wishing." " Phyllis," says Mr. Carrington, eagerly, " let me give you one." I stare at him in silent bewilderment. Is he really in earnest? lie certainly looks so ; and for a moment I revel in the glorious thought. Fancy! what it would be to have a watch of my very osvn; to be able every five minutes to assure myself of the exact hour ! Think of all the malicious pleasure I should enjoy in dangling it before Dora's jealous eyes! what pride in exhibiting it to Billy's delighted ones ! Probably it would be handsomer than Dora's, which has Been service, and, being newer, would surely keep better time. Then the delight passes, and something within me whhpers such joy is not for me. Of course he would only give it to me for Dora's sake, and yet I know I cannot say r-'iy I feel it but I know if I accepted a watch from Mr. Cvxrringtc n all at home would be angry, and it would cause a horrible row. " Thank you," I say mournfully. " Thank you very, very much, Mr. Carrington, but I could not take it from you. It is very kind of you to offer it, and I would accept it if I could, but it would be of no use, At home I know 28 PHYiLTS. they wo-uld not let me have it, and io it would be a pity for yon to spend all your money upon it for nothing." " What nonsense ! " impatiently. " Who would not let you take it ? " " Papa, mamma, every one," I answer, with deepest de jection. (I would so much have liked that watch 1 Why, tony did he put the delightful but transient idea into my bead ?) " They would all say I acted wrongly in taking it, and and they would send it back to you again." " Is there anything else you would like, Phyllis, that I might give you ? " " No, nothing, thank you. I must only wait. Mother has proiniged me her watch upon my wedding morning." " You seem comfortably certain of being married, sooner or later," he says, with a laugh that still shows some vexa- t'.on. " Do you ever think what sort of a husband you would like, Phyllis?" " No, I never think of disagreeable things, if I can help it," is my somewhat tart reply. My merry mood is gone : I feel in some way injured, and inclined towards snappish- ness. "And from what /have seen of husbands 1 think they are all, every one, each more detestable than the other. If I were an heiress I would never marry ; but, being a girl without a fortune, I suppose I must." Mr. Carrington roars. " I never heard anything so absurd," he says, " as such mature sentiments coming from your lips. Why, to hear you talk, one might imagine you a town-bred young woman, one who has p.issed through the fourth campaign ; but to see you You have learned your lesson uncommonly well, though I am sure yon were never taught it by your mother. And how do you know that you may not lose your heart to a curate, and find yourself poorer after your i;ani:u,'e than before?" " That I never will," I return, decisively. " In the first f,lace, I detest curates, and in the next I would not be wife to a poor man, even if I adored him. I will marry a rich man, or I will not marry at all." <; 1 hate to hear you talk like that," says Mr. Carrington, gravely. k ' The ideas are so unsuited to a little loving girl like you. Although I am positive you do not mean oua word of what you say, still it pains me to hear you." " I do mean it," I answei defiantly ; ' but as my convex PHYLLIS. 29 gallon pains you, I will not inflict it on you longer. Good- bye ! " " Good-bye, yon perverse child ; and don't try to imaging yourself mercenary. Are you angry with me? "holding my unwilling hand and smiling into my face. " Don't, I'm not worth it. Come, give me one smile to bear me com- pany until we meet again." Thus abjured, I laugh, and my fingers grow quiet in his grasp. "And when will that be?" continues Mr. Carrington. "To-morrow or next day ? Probably Friday will see me at Suinraerleas. In th meantime, now we are friends again, I must remind yo not to forget your promise about that Carston photo." ** I will remember," I say ; and BO we separate. CHAPTER VI. O*f my return home, to my inexpressible surprise and delight, I find Roland. During my absence he has arrived, totally unexpected by any member of the household ; and the small excitement his appearance causes makes him doubly welcome, as anything that startles us out of our humdrum existence is hailed with positive rapture. Even mother, whose mind is still wonderfully fresh and young, considering all the years she has passed under papa's thumb, enters freely into the general merriment, and for gets for the time being her daily cares. " You see, 1 found I would be here almost as soon as a letter," explains Roland ; " and, as I hate writing like a nightmare, I resolved to take you a little by surprise. ** Mother, radiant, is sitting near him, regarding him witt humid eyes. If dear mother had been married to an indul gent husband she would have been a dreadful goose. E^ea sa it is she possesses a talent for weeping upon all occasions only to be equalled by mine. " How did you manage to get away so soon again, Roly ? " I ask, when I have embraced him as much as he will allow. u 1 hardly know. Luck, I fanoy and the colonel did it. The old boy, you see, has a weakness for me which I return by baring a wenkneas for the old boy's daughttr 80 Mother" languidly "may I marry the old boy's daugh ter? She is an extremely pretty little girl, young, with fifteen tlKmsand pounds; but I would not like to e.ngag myself to her without your full consent." Mother laughs ami passes her hand with a light caiess ing gesture over his charming face. " Conceited hoy ! " she murmurs, fondly ; "there is bl tie chance you will ever do so much good for yourself/ " Don't be too sure. At all events, I have yot r c<. n ent?" " Yes, and my blessing, too," says mother, laughing Again. " Thanks. Then I'll turn it over in my mind when I go back." " Holy," I break in with my accustomed graciousness, " what brought you ? " " The train and an overpowering desire to see Dora's foung man." A laugh and a blush from Dora. "I met him just now," I say, "down by the trout- river. What a pity he did not come home with nre, to satisfy your curiosity without del-ay ! " " Mother, do you think it the correct thing for Phyllis to keep clandestine appointments with her brother-in-law? Dora, is it possible you do not scent mischief iu the air r A person, too, of Phyllis's well-known attractions " " What was lie doing at the trout-river ? " asks Dora, with a smile. She is too secure in the knowledge of her own beauty to dread a rival anywhere, least of all in me. "Nothing, as far as 1 could see. He talked a little, and said he was coming here next Friday." " The day after to-morrow. I shall ask him his inten- tions," says Holy. <> It is most fortunate I am on the spot. One should never let an affair of this kind drag. It will doubtless be a thankless task ; but I make a point of never nhirking duty ; and when we have put our beloved fathet eemfortably under ground " " Roland," interrupts mother, in a shocked tone. There- is a pause. " I quite thought you were going to say something," layg Roland, amiably. 41 1 was mistaken. I will therefor* continue. When we have put our beloved father \vrli under the ground I will then be head of this house, and eat cral guardian to these poor jiear girls and, wiih thii fffYLL/S. g\ prospect in view, I feel even at the present moment a cer tain responsibility, that compels me to look after their in. terest^ and bring this recreant gallant to book." " Roland, my dear, I wish you would not speak so o. your father," puts in mamma, feebly. "Very well, I won't," returns Roly; "and he shan't be put under ground at all, if you don't wish it. Cremation tall be hit) fate, and we shall keep his precious ashes in an u a." " I don't believe Mr. Carrington cares a pin for Dora," snys Billy, irrevelantly. " I think he likes Phyllis twica as well." This remark, though intended to do so, does not act as a bombshell in the family circle; it is regarded as a mere flash in the pan from Billy, and is received with silent contempt. What could a boy know about such mat- ters ? " I have a month's leave," Roland informs us presently " Do you think in that time we could polish it off court- ship, proposal, and wedding? Though," reflectively, " that would be a pity, as by putting off the marriage for a little while I might then screw another month out of the old boy." "Just so," I answer, approvingly. " 1 Ie is such a desirable young man in every way," sayi mother, a propos of Sir. (Harrington ; "so steady, well-tem- pered, and his house is really beautiful. You know it, Roland Strangemore seven miles from this ? " " I think it gloomy," Dora says, quietly. " When I _f I were to that is " " What a charming virtue is modesty ! " I exclaim, notto voce. "Go on, Dora," says Roland, in an encouraging tone. v When you marry Mr. Carrington, .what will you do tLtn?" '' Of course I don't see the smallest prospect of it," mur- murs Dora, with downcast eyes ; " but if I were to become address of Strangemore I would throw more light into all the rooms ; I would open up windows everywhere and take down those heavy pillars." " Then you would ruin it," I cry indignantly ; " its an- cient appearance is its chief charm. You would make it a mere modern dwelling-house j and the pillars 1 think mag nificent." S2 PHYLLIS. ** /don't," says dear Dora, immovably ; "and if ever 1 get the chance 1 will certainly remove them." ** You won't get the chance, then ; you need not think it. Mr. Carrington has not the smallest idea of marry lug you," exclaims Billy, whose Latin and Greek have evidently disa* greed with him. " It is a pity your tutor cannot teach you to bo a gentle* man," retorts Dora, casting a withering glance at our young eat born. "Our dear William's temper appears slightly ruffled," remarks Roland, smoothly. " Evidently the gentleman of the name of Caldwood was lavish with his birch this morn- ing. Come with me, 1'hyllis : I want to visit the stables." I follow him gladly ; and Billy joining us, with a grim countenance,we sally forth, leaving Dora to pour her grie** into mother's gentle bosom. CHAPTER VH. FRIDAY brings Mr. Carrington, who is specially agree- able, and devotes himself a good deal to Roland. There is ft considerable amount of talk about shooting, hunting, and so forth, and we can all see that Roly is favorably impressed. Dora's behavior is perfect her modesty and virtuous bash- fulness apparent. Our visitor rather affects her society than otherwise, but beyond listening to her admiringly when she speaks, shows no marked attention. In the coun- try a visit is indeed a visitation, and several hours elapse before he takes his departure. Once finding myself alone with him in the conservatory, I bestow upon him my prom- ised picture, which he receives with open gratitude and consigns to his pocket as he hears footsteps approaching. Roland's presence has inspired us all with much addi tional cheerfulness. We have never appeared so gay so free from restraint, as on this afternoon, and Mr. Carruig- ton finds it hard to tear himself away. I myself am iu wild epirits, and quite outshine myself every now and then J and Billy, who is not at any time ailHcted with shyness, thinks it a safe opportunity to ask our friend before he leaven if he will some day take us for a drive iu his dog-carU PHYLLIS. S3 "Of Bourse I will," say Mr. Carrington. "How un- pardonable of me never to have thought of it before ! But perhaps," speaking to Billy, but looking at Dora and me, tk perhaps you would prefer four horses and the coach ? It will be a charity to give it a chance to escape trom the moths." "Oh, I say" says Billy, " are you in earnest ?" and, be (j2g reassured on this point, fairly overflows with delight. Dora and I are scarcely less delighted, and Roland is fraciously pleased to say it wilt be rather fun, when ho nds the two Hastings girls are also coming. Somehow nobody thinks of a chaperon, which certainly heightens the enjoyment, and proves what a reputable person Mr. Carrington must be. When the day arrives, and our landlord, clad in a thick light overcoat, drives his four bright bays up to our door, our enthusiasm reaches its final pitch. Imagination can no farther go: our dream is fulfilled. Mr. Carrington helps Dora carefully to the box-seat, and then springs up beside her. Billy and I sit very close to each other. Roland takes his place anywhere, with a view to changing it on the arrival of Miss Lenah Hast- ings. The whip crackles, the bays throw up their heads we are off ! 1 kiss my hands a hundred times to mamma and Martha and Jane, the cook, who have all come out to the door-- steps to see us start; while Brewster at the corner of the . house stands agape with excited surprise. Not that he need have shown astonishment of any sort, considering our expedition ami the manner of it has been ceaselessly dinned into his ears every hour of the day during the past week, by the untiring Billy. At Rylston we take up the Hastings, and their brother, a fat but well-meaning young man, who plants himself on my other side, and makes elephantine attempts at playful- ness. I do not mind him in the least; I find I can pour ont my superfluous spirits upon him quite as well as upon a more companionable person, perhaps better; for with \ iin a-i least I have all the conversation to myself. So I chatter and laugh and talk to Mr. Hastings until I reduce him to a comatose state, leaving him. all eyes and littlb tongue. I have succeeded in captivating his fancy, however, or else it is his usual mode to devote himself for the entire day to whoever may first happen to fall into his clutches; as, when we iescend to Carlton Wood to partake of th lunch our host has provided for us, he etfll clings to me, and outwardly at least ie almost loverlike. Alas that October days should be so fleet! A da) uch as this one might have had forty hours without bring^ ing ennui to any of us ; but at length evening closes in, tho lime is come when we must take our departure. Regret- fully we collect our shawls and move towards the drag. Mr. Hastings, still adoring, scrambles on by my side, panting and putting with the weight of the too solid flesh nature has bestowed upon him and the wraps he is compelled to carry. Mr. Carrington, Dora, and Miss Hastings are close behind; Billy straggles somewhere in the distance; Roland and pretty Lenah follow more to the left. Just as we reach the road Mr. Carrington speaks, and colors a little as he does so. " Miss Phyllis, I think I once heard you say you had never sat on the front of a drag ; will you take it now ? Miss Vernon agrees with me it is a good chance for you to Bee if .you would like it." How good of him to remember that foolish speech of mine, when I know he is longing for Dora's society ! " Oh ! thank you," I say, flushing; "it is very kind of you to think of it ; but Dora likes it too, and I can assure you I was quite happy. I enjoyed myself immensely when coming." " Oh ! in that case " returns Mr. Carrington, coldly, half turning away. " Not but that I would like it," I go on, encouraged by a smile from Dora, who can now afford to be magnanimous, having been made much of and singled out by the poten- tate during the entire day, " if you are sure (to Mr. Car- rington) you wish it." " Come," says he with a pleaded smile, and soon I find ttyself in the coveted position, our landlord in excellent temper beside me. The horses, tired of standing, show a good deal oi friskiness at the set-off, and claim their driver's undivided attention, so that wo have covered at least a half mile of the road before he speaks to me. Then stooping to tuck the rug more closely round me (the evenings have grown Tory chilly) he whispers, with a smile : PHYLLIS. 3ft " Are yon quite sure you would rather be here with me than at the hack with that ' fat boy.' " " Quite positive," I answer, with an emphatic nod. "I was only afraid you would have preferred you would regret you would have liked to return as you came," I wind up, desperately. lie stares at me curiously for a moment almost with suspicion, as it seems to me, in the gathering twilight, " At this moment, believe me, I have no regrets, nc troubles," he says at length, quietly. " Can you say the same ? Did Hasting'e eloquence make no impression Q I couldn't hear what particular line he was taking, but he looked unutterable things. Once or twice 1 thought he was going to weep. The melting mood would just suit a person of his admirable dimensions.' " lie was very kind," I return coldly, " and I don't wish to hear him spoken of in a slighting manner. lie is so attentive and good-natured ; he carried all those wraps without a murmur, though I'm sure he didn't like it, be- cause his face got so red and he he lost his breath so dreadfully as we came along. None of the others overbur- dened themselves, and you, I particularly noticed, carried nothing." " I'm a selfish beast, I know," said Mr. Carrington, com- posedly, " and have always had a rooted objection to car- rying anything, except, perhaps, a gun, and there is no getting out of that. There are so many disagreeable bur- dens in this life that must be borne, that it seems to me weak-minded voluntarily to add to them. Don't scold me any more, Phyllis ; I want to be happy while I can." "Then don't abuse poor Mr. Hastings." " Surely it isn't abuse to say a man is fat when he weighs twenty stone." " It is impossible he can weigh more than fourteen," I exclaim indignantly. " Well, even that is substantial," returns he, with a pro yoking air. Suddenly he laughs. "Don't let us quarrel about Hastings," he says, looking down at me ; " I will make any concessions you like, rather than that. I will say he is slim, refined, a very skeleton, if you wish it, only take that little pucker off your rorehcad it was never meant to wear a frown. Now tell me if yoa have enjoyed your day." * Oh, so much ! " I say, with a sigh for the delights thai J6 PHYLLIS. Ere dead and gone. " You see we have never been accus- tomed to anything but but " I cannot bring myself to mention the disreputable fossil that lies in the coach-hous* at home, so substitute the words " one horse " ; and now, to find one's self behind four, with such a good height between one's self and the ground, is simply bliss I would like tc irivc like this forever." " May I take that as a compliment? " " A compliment ? " My stupidity slightly discomfits my companion. " I only hoped you meant you you would have no ob- jection to engage me as coachman in your never-ending drive," he says, slowly. " My abominable selfishness again, you see. I cannot manage to forget Marmaduke Carring- ton." Then, abruptly. " You shall have the four-in-hand any day you wish, Phyllis, as it pleases you so much ; re- member that. Just name a day whenever you choose, and I shall only be too happy to drive you." What a brother-in-law he will make ! My heart thi obs with delight. This day, then, is to be one of a series. I feel a wild desire to get near Billy, to give him a squeeze in the exuberance of my joy, but in default of him can only look my gratitude by smiling rapturously into Mr. Carriug- ton's dark-blue eyes. " It is awfully good of you," I say, warmly ; " you don't know how much we enjoy it. We have always been so stupid, so tied down, any unexpected amusement like this geems almost too good to be true. But " with hesitation and a blush " we had better not go too often. You see, papa is a little odd at times, and he might forbid it alto- gether if we appeared too anxious for it. Perhaps, in a fortnight, if you would take us again will you? Or would that be too soon ? " " Phyllis, can't you understand how much I wish to bo with you ? " His tone is almost impatient, and he speaks with unnecessary haste. I conclude he is referring to pretty Doia, who sits behind, and is making mild running with Mr. Hastings. J Do you know," I say confidentially, " i am so glad you nave come to live down here. Before, we had literally nothing to think about, now you are always turning up, and even that is something. Actually, it seems to us, papa ap- pears more lively since your arrival ; he don't look so gloomy or prowl about after us so much. And then this PHYLLIS. 87 drive we would never have had the chanae :>f such a thing but for you. It is an immense comfort to know you are going to stay here altogether," " Is it ? Phyllis, look at me." I look at him. " No\? tell me this : if any other fellow, as well off as I am, had come to Strangemore, and had taken you for drives and that, woirld you have been as glad to know him ? Would you have liked him as well as me ? " He is regarding me very earnestly ; his lips are slightly compressed. Evidently he expects me to say something ; but, alas! I don't know what, I feel horribly puzzled, and hesitate. " Go on ; answer me," he says, eagerly. " I don't know. I never thought about it," I murmur, somewhat troubled. "It is such an odd question. You see, if he had come in your place I would not then have known you, and if he had been as kind yes, I suppose I would have liked him just as well," I conclude, quickly. Of course I have said the wrong thing. The moment my speech is finished I know this. Mr. Carriugton's eyes leave mine; he mutters something between his teeth, and brings the whip down sharply on the far leader. " These brutes grow lazier every day," he says with an unmistakable frown. Five six minutes pass, and he does not address me. I feel annoyed with myself, yet innocent of having intention- ally offended. Presently stealing a glance at my compan- ion, I say, contritely, " Have 1 vexed you, Mr. Carrington?" " No, no," he answers, hastily, the smile coming home to his lips. " Don't think so. Surely truthfulness, being so rare a virtue, should be precious. I am an irritable fellow at times, and you are finding out all my faults to- night," he says, rather sadly, laying his hand for an instant upon mine, as it lies bare and small and brown upon the rug. " You have proved me both ill-tenipered and selfish. You will say I am full of defects." " Indeed I will not," I return, earnestly, touched by hia manner: " I do not even see the faults you mention ; and at all events no one was ever before so kind to me as you have been." " I would be kinder if I dared," he says, somewhat un- steadily. While I ponder on what these words may meaa, whil 38 PHYLLIS. the first dim foreboding suspicion what you will enters my iniud, we see Rylston, and pull up to give the Hastings time to alight and bid their adieux. Then we go on again, always in the strange silence that has fallen upon us, and presently find ourselves at home. Mr. Carrington is on the ground in a moment, and comes round to my side to help me down. I hold out my liands and prepare for a good spring (a clear jump at any time is delightful to me) ; but he disappoints my hopes by taking me in his arms and placing me gently on the gravel ; after which he goes instantly to Dora. When we are all safely landed, papa, to our unmitigated astonishment, comes forward, and not only asks but presses Mr. Carrington to stay and dine. Perhaps, considering he has four horses and two grooms in his train, our father guesses he will refuse the invitation. At all events he does so very graciously, and, raising his hat, drives off, leaving us free to surround and relate to mother all the glories of the day. CHAPTEE VOL THE following Monday, as I sit reading in the small parlor we dare to call our own, I am startled by Dora's abrupt entrance. Her outdoor garments are on her ; her whole appearance is full of woe ; suspicious circles surround her eyes. I rise fearfully and hasten towards her. Surely if anything worthy of condemnation has occurred it is im- possible but I must have a prominent part in it. Has the irreproachable Dora committed a crime ? Is she in dis- grace with our domestic tyrant. " Dora, what has happened ? " I ask, breathlessly. '' Oh, nothing," returns Dora, reckless misery in her tone ; " nothing to signify ; only Billy was right I am quite positive he never cared for me has not the slightest inten- tion of proposing to me." " What ? who ? " I demand, in my charming definite way. " Who ? " with impatient reproach. " Wko is tkere in PHYLLIS. 89 this miserable forgotten spot to propose to any one, except Mr. Carrington ? " "What Lave you heard, Dora ?" I ask, light breaking in upon my obscurity. " IleiirJ ? Nothing. I would not have believed it, if I had heard it. I saw it with my own eyes. An hour ago I put on my things and went out for a walk, intending to go down by the river; but just as I came to the shrubberies, and while I was yet hidden from view, I saw Mr. Carring- ton and that horrid dog of his standing on the bank just below me. I hesitated for a moment about going forward. I didn't quite like," says Dora, modestly, " to force myseli upon him for what would look so like a tete-a-tete / and while I waited, unable to make up my mind, he " a sob "took out of his waistcoat a large gold locket and opened it, and " a second heavy sob " and after gazing at it for a long time, as though be were going to eat it " a final sob, and an inclination towards choking " he stooped and kissed it. And, oh ! of course it was some odious woman's hair or picture or something," cries Dora, breaking do\vn altogether, and sinking with rather less than her usual grace into the withered arm-chair that adorns that corner of our room. A terrible suspicion, followed by as awful a sense of conviction, springs to life within me. The word " picture " has struck an icy chill to my heart. Can it by any possi- bility be my photograph he has been so idiotically and pub- licly embracing? Am I the fell betrayer of my sister's happiness? A moment later I almost smile at my own fears. Is it likely any man, more especially one who has seen so much Oi the world as Mr. Carrington, would find anything worth kissing in my insignificant countenance? I find unlimited consolation in this reflection, that at another time would have caused me serious uneasiness. Meantime Dora is still giving signs of poignant anguish, and I look at her apprehensively, while pondering on what will be the most sympathetic thing to say or do under the circumstances. Her nose is growing fainfiy pink, large tears are stand- mg in her eyes, her head inclines a little a very little to one side. Now when I cry I do it with all my heart. The tears fall like rain ; for the time being I abandon myself alto- 40 PHYLLIS. gether to my grief, and a perfect deluge is the consequence Once I have wept my fill, however, I recover almost instan- taneously, feeling as fresh as young grass after a shower. Not so with Dora. When she is afflicted the tears coma one by one, slowly, decorously sailing down her face ; each drop waits politely until the previous one has cleared ofl the premises before presuming to follow in its channel. She never sniffs or gurgles or makes unpleasant noises in her throat ; indeed, the entire performance though perhaps monotonous after the first is fascinating and ladylike in the extreme. In spite of the qualms of conscience that are still faintly pricking me, as I sit mutely opposite my suffer- ing sister, I find myself reckoning each salt drop as it rolls slowly down her cheek. Just as I get to the forty-ninth, Dora speaks again, " If he really is in love with somebody else and I can hardly doubt it after what I have seen I think lie has be- haved very dishonorably to me," she says in a quavering tone. " Ifow so?" I stammer, hardly knowing what to say. "How so? "with mild reproof. " Why, what has lie meant by coming here day after day, and sitting for hours in the drawing-room, and bringing flowers and game, un- less he had some intentions with regard to me? Only that you are so dull, Phyllis, you would not require ine to say all this." " It certainly looks very strange," I acknowledge. " But perhaps, after all, Dora, you are misjudging him. Perhaps it was his sister's Lady Ilandcock's hair he was kissing." " Nonsense ! " says Dora, sharply ; " don't be absurd. Did you ever hear of any brother wasting so much affection npon a sister? Do you suppose Billy or Roland would kaop your face or hair in a locket to kiss and embrace in private ? " 1 certainly cannot flatter myself that they would, so glva u]) this line of argument. " Perhaps the person, whoever she is, is dead," I suggest more brilliantly. " No. He smiled at it quite brightly, as one would never smile at a dead face. He smiled at it as if he adored it," murmurs Dora, hopelessly, and the fiftieth drop splashes into her lap. " I shall tell papa," she goes on presently. " I have no idea of letting him be imagining things when there is no truth in them. I wish we had never soon Mr. PHYLLIS 41 Carrington ! I wish with all my heart something would occur to take him out of this p ace ! I feel as though I hated him," says Dora with unasual vehemence and a rather vicious compression of the lips ; " and, at all events, I hope he will never marry that woman in the locket." And I answer, M BO do I " with rather suspicion! hastek aa in duty bound CHAPTER IX. IT is the evening of the same day, and we ar all seated IM our accustomed places at the dinner table ; all, that is, except papa. It is such an unusual thing for him to be ab- sent, once a bell has sounded summoning us to meals, that we are busy wondering what can be the matter, when the door is Hung violently open, and he enters. It becomes iu- Btanly palpable to every one of us, that, in the words of the old sotig, "sullen glooms his brow ; " Billy alone, with his usual obtuseness, remaining dangerously unconscious of this fact. Papa sits down in a snapping fashion and commences the helping process in silence. Mamma never sits at the head of her table except on those rare and unpleasant oc- casions when the neighbors are asked to dine. Not a word is spoken ; deadly quiet reigns, and all is going on smooth- ly enough, until Billy, unhappily raising his head, sees Dora's crimson lids. " Why, Dora," he exclaims, instantly, in a loud and jovial tone, " what on earth is the matter with you ? Your eyes are as red as fire." Down goes Dora's spoon, up comes Dora's handkerchief to her face, and a stifled sob conveys the remainder of her feelings. It is the last straw. " William ! " cries my father in a voice of thunder, " go to your room." And William does as he is bid. The brown gravy-soup has not yet been removed ; aid, Billy being our youngest, and consequently the last, helped, more than half his allowance of that nutritious fluid still remains upon his plate. His going now means his being dinnerless for this day at least A lump rises in my throat 42 PUYLUS and ray face flushes. For the moment I feel that I hav Dora and papa and my own soup, and, leaning back iu my chair, suffer it to follow Billy's. I am almost on the verge of tears, when, happening to glance upwards, my eyes fall upon lioly's expressive cotn- tenance. In his right eye is screwed the most enormout butcher's penny I ever beheld ; his nose is drawn altogether to one side in a frantic endeavor to maintain it in its pr carious position; his mouth likewise; his left orb is firmly fixed upon our paternal parent. I instantly become hysterical. An awful fear that I am going to break into wild laughter seizes hold of me. I grow cold with fright, and actually gasp with fear, when mother (who always knows by instinct, dear heart, when we are on the brink of disgrace) brings her foot heavily down on mine, and happily turns the current of my thoughts. She checks me just in time ; I wince, and, with- drawing my fascinated gaze from Holy's penny, tix my at- tention on the tablecloth, while she turns an agonizing look of entreaty upon her eldest hope ; but, as his only available eye is warily bent on papa, nothing comes of it. There is an unaccountable delay after the soup has been removed. Can Billy have been adding to his evil doing by any fresh misconduct ? This idea is paramount with me as I sit staring at the house-linen, though all the time in my brain I see Roland's copper regarding me with gloomy at- tention. The silence is becoming positively awful, when papa suddenly raises his head from the contemplation of his nails, and Roland sweeping the penny from his eye with graceful case, utters a languid sigh, and says, mildly : " Shall we say Grace ?"*' " What is the meaning of this delay ? " demands papa, exploding for the second time. " Are we to sit here all night ? Tell cook if this occurs again she can leavo. Three-quarters of an hour between soup and fish is more than I will put up with. If there is no more dinner, let her say so." " Perhaps Mrs. Tully is indisposed," says Holy, Dolite- ly, addressing James. "If so, we ought to make allow- ances for her." Mrs. Tully's admiration for " Old Tom " being a well-known fact to every one in the house except papa. " Be iilent, Roland ; I will have no interference where PHYLLIS. 43 my servants are concerned," declares papa ; and exit James, with his hand to his mouth, to return presently with & very red face and the roast mutton. " Where's the fish?' asks papa, in a terrific tone. " It didn't arrive in time, sir." " Who has the ordering of dinner in this house?" in- quires papa, addressing us all generally, as though ignorant df ihe fact of mother's having done so without a break for the last twenty-six years. " Nobody, I presume, by the manner in which it is served. Now, remember, James, I five strict orders that no more fish is ever taken from that shmonger. Do you hear?" " Yes, sir." And at length we all get some roast mut ton. It seems to me that dinner will never come to an end ; and yet, to watch me, I feel sure no stranger would ever guess at my impatience. Experience has taught me that any attempt at hurry will betray me, and produce an order calculated to prevent my seeing Billy for the entire evening. I therefore smother my feelings, break my wal- nuts, and get through my claret with a great show of cool- ness. Claret is a thing I detest ; but it pleases papa to form our tastes, which means condemning us to eat and drink such things as are nauseous and strictly distasteful to us. At length, however, the welcome word is spoken, and we rise from the table. Once outside the door, I fly to the cook, and, having obtained such delicacies as are procur- able, rush upstairs, and enter Billy's room, to find him seated at the farthest end, the deepest look of dejection upon his features. As our eyes meet, this gloom, vanishes, giving pla'je to an expression of intense relief. " Oh ! " he says, "I thought you were Dora." "No. I could not came sooner, as papa fought over every course. But I have brought you your dinner now, Billy. You must be starving." " I had it long ago," says Billy, drawing a potato from his pocket and a plate from under the dressing-table on which mutton is distinctly visible. I feel rather disap- pointed. " Who brought it to you ? " I ask ; but before I can re- ceive a reply a heavy step upon the stairi strikes tei ror to our hearts. 44 PHYLLIS. Listant.y Billy's dinner goes under the table again, and the dejected depression returns to his face. But I, wba am I to do ? Under the bed I dive, plate and all, thrustiug the plate on before me, and am almost safe, when I tip over a bit of rolled carpet and plunge forward, bringing botn hands into the gravy. In this interesting position I remain, trembling, and afraid to stir or breathe, with my eye* directed through a small hole in the valance. I The door opens noisily, and enter Holy with a cane in his hand and a ferocious gleam in his eyes. " Oh, Itoly ! " I gasp, scrambling out of my hiding-place, " what a fright you gave us ! We were sure it was papa." "Whereon earth have you cdme from?" asked Roly, gazing with undisguised amazement at the figure 1 present. " And don't come any nearer ' paws off, Pompey ' what is the matter with your hands ? " " Oh, I had just brought up Billy some dinner, and when I heard you I ran under the bed and tripped over the carpet and fell splash into the gravy. But it is nothing,' 1 I wind up, airily. "Nothing! I wish it was less. Go wash yourself, you dirty child." Then resuming the ferocious aspect, and with uplifted cane, he advances on Billy. " William " imitating papa's voice to a nicety " I have not yet done with you. What, sir, did you mean by exposing your sensitive sister to the criticisms of a crowded table ? If your own gentlemanly instincts are not sutti- ceintly developed to enable you to understand how unpar- donable are personal remarks, let this castigation, that a sense Ttf duty compels me to bestow, be the means of teach- ing you." Billy grins, and for the third time commences his dinner while lloland leans against the window-shutter and contem- plates him with lazy curiosity. " Billy," he asks, presently, " is mutton when the fat has grown white and the gravy is in tiny lumps a good thing ? " _ " No it ain't/' returns Billy, grumpily, and with rather more than his usual vulgarity. u I ask merely for information," says Holy. " It cer tainly looks odd." ""it's beastly" says Billy. " If the governor goes in for any more of this kind of thing I'll cut and run : that's what I'll do." PHYLLIS. 45 " Why didn t you have some dumpling? " Roland goe on, smoothly. " The whipped cream with it was capital." " Dumpling ? " says Billy, regarding me fixedly ; " dump ling ! Phyllis, was there dumpliug ? " " There was," I reply. " And whi})j>ed cream ! " "Yes," I answer, faintly. * Oh, Phyllis ! " says Billy, in the liveliest tone of re pfoach. The dicker of an amused smile shoots across Roland's face. " Phillis, why did you not oring him some ?" he asks, l0 PHYLLIS "Now, remember," he says again, while a look of it* tense amusement crosses his face, "you have promised V> admire?" " Yes, yes," I answer impatiently; and as he delibm- ately opecs the trinket I lean forward and stare into ti large gray-blue eyes of Phyllis Marian Vernon. Slowly I raise my head and look at my companion. He appears grave now, and rather anxious. J know I am *>s white as death. " So yon have put mt into a locket 00," I say, in a low wone. " Why ? " " Do not use the word ' too,' Phyllis. You have no rival ; I keep no woman's face near me except yours." " Then it was an untruth you told me about that girl ? " " No it was not. Will you not try to understand ? You are that little girl ; it was your face 1 kissed the other day down by the river. There is no face in the world I sold so dear as yours." "Then you had no right to kiss it," I break out indig- nantly, my surprise and bewilderment making me vehe- ment. " I did not give you my picture to put in your locket and treat in that way. How dare you carry me all over the place with you making things so unpleasant everywhere ? And, besides, you are talking very falsely ; it is impossible that any one could think me beautiful." " I do," says he, gently. " I cannot help it. You know we all judge differently. And as to my kissing it, surely that was no grout harm. It became mine, you know, when- you gave it tome; and for me to kiss it now and then cannot injure you or it." He ga/.cs down tenderly upon the face lying in hw hand. " The Phyllis here does not look as if she could be unkind or unjust," ho says, softly. 1 am impressed by the mildness of his reproach. Insen- sibly, I go closer to him, and regard with mingled feelings toe innocent cause 01 all the disturbance. "It certainly looks wonderfully well," I say, with re- luctance. " It never appeared to me so ah jxissablc be- fore. It must be the Hold frame. Somehow I never thought so until to-daj but now it swms much too pretu PHYLLIS. 61 " Remember yonr promise," says Mr. Carrington, de- murely, "to admire and say no disparaging word." "You laid a trap for me," I reply, smiling in spite cf myself, and hard set to prevent the smile turning into a merry laugh as I review the situation. I lean my back against the old tree, and, clasping mj hands loosely before me, begin to piece past events. I have not gone far in my meditations when I become aware that Mr. Carrington has closed the locket, has turned, and ii steadfastly regarding me. My hat lies on the ground be- side me ; the wanton wind has blown a few stray tresses of my hair across my forehead. Involuntarily I raise my head until our eyes meet. Something new, indefinite, in his, makes my heart beat with a sudden fear that yet i nameless. " Phyllis," whispers he, hurriedly, impulsively, " will you marry me ? " A long, long pause. I am still alive, then ! the skies have not fallen ! " What! " cry I, when I recover breath, moving back a step or two, and staring at him with the most open and undisguised amazement. Can I have heard aright? Is it indeed me he is asking to marry him? And if so if my senses have not deceived me who is to tell Dora. This thought surmounts all others. " I want you to say you will marry me," repeats he, rather disconcerted by the emphatic astonishment of my look and tone. As I make no reply this time, he is em- boldened, and, advancing, takes both my hands. " Why do you look so surprised ? " be says. " "Why will you not answer me? Surely for weeks you must have seen I would some time ask you this question. Then why not to-day ? If I waited for years I could not love you more utterly, more madly, if you like, than now. And you, Phyllis say you will be my wife." " I cannot indeed," I reply, earnestly ; " it is out of the question. I never knew you you cared for me in this way I always thought that is, we all thought you " "Yes?" " We were all quite sure I mean none of us imagined you were in love with me." " With whom, then ? with Dora ? " " Well " nervously " I am sure mamma and p|/ thought so, and BO did I." b2 PHYLLIS. " What an alaurd mistake I Ten thousand Do u would not make one Phyllis. Do you know, ever sii ? that first day I saw you in the wood I loved you ? Do y >* remember it ? " " Yes," I say, blushing furiously. " I was hanging frco) the nut tree and nearly went mad with shame and ra^o when I found I could not escape. It puzzlee me to thiuk what you could have seen to admire about me that day, unless my boots." I laugh rather hysterically. " Nevertheless I did love you then, and have gone on nursing the feeling ever since, until I can keep it to myself no longer. But you are silent, Phyllis. Why do you not speak ? I will not remember what you said just now ; I will not take a refusal from you. Darling, ciarling, surely you love me, if only a little ? " " No, I do not love you," I answer, with downcast lids and flaming cheeks. Silence falls upon my cruel words. His hand-clasp loosens, but still he does not let me altogether go ; and, glancing up timidly, I see a face like and yet unlike the face I know a face that is still and white, with lips that tremble slightly beneath the heavy fair mustache. A world of disappointed anguish darkens his blue eyes. Seeing all this, and knowing myself its cause, my heart is touched and a keen pang darts through my breast. I press his hands with reassuring force as I go on hastily : " But I like you, you will understand. J may not love you, but I like you very much indeed better than any other man I ever met, except Roland and Billy, and he is only a boy." This is not a very clear or logical speech, but it does just as well : it brings the blood back to his face, and a smile to his lips, the light and fire to his eyes. " Are you sure of that ? " he asks, eagerly. " Are you certain, Phyllis ? " " Quite sure. But then I have never seen any men ercept Mr. Mangan, you know, and the curate, and Bobby De Vere, and and one or two others." "And these one or two others," jealously "have 1 nothing to fear from them ? Ilave you given them none of your thoughts ? " "Not one," return I, smiling up at him. The smile does more than I intend. " Then you will marry me, Phyllis ? " cries he, with re- newed hope. "If you like me as you say, I will make jo PHYLLIS 51 lno so. And such pretty little ears, too, so pink and delicate 1 Of all the unmanly blackg I beg your pardon, Phyllis : of course it is wrong of me to speak so of your father." " Oh, don't mind me," I say, easily. " Now you are going to be my husband, I do not care about telling you there is very little love lost between me and papa." " Then why not shorten our engagement? Surely it has now lasted long enough. There is no reason why you should submit to any tyranny when you can escape from it. If you dislike your father's rule, cut it and come to me ; you don't dislike me." " No ; but I should dislike being married very much in- deed." " Why ? " impatiently. " I don't know," I return, provokingly ; " but 1 am sure I should. ' Better to bear the ills we have, et cetera.' " "You are trifling," says he, angrily, "why not suy a', Once you detest the idea of having to spend your life with me ? I believe I am simply wasting my time endeavoring to gain an affection that will never be mine." " Then don't waste any more of it," I retort, tapping tho ground petulantly with my foot while fixing my gaze with affected unconcern upon u thick, \\hite cloud that rests fai PHYLLIS. 75 away in the eternal blue. " I h.ive no wish to stand in you? light Pray leave me I shan't mind it in the least and don't throw away anymore of your preci>us moments." " Idle advice. I can't leave you now, and you know it. I mu3t only go on squandering my life, I suppose, Tin til the end. I do believe the greatest misfortune that ever befele me was my meeting with you." " Thank you. You are extremely rude and unkind to me, Marina duke. If this is your way of making love, I must say [ don't like it." " I don't suppose you do, or anything else connected with me Of course it was an unfortunate thing for me, my com- mg down here and falling idiotically in love with a girl who does not care whether I am dead or alive." " That is untrue. I care very much indeed about your being alive." " Oh I common humanity would suggest that speech." lie turns abruptly and walks a few paces away from me. We are both considerably out of temper by this time, and I make a solemn vow to myself not to open my lips again until he offers an apology for what I am pleased to term his odious crossness. Two seconds afterwards I break my vow. " \Vhy on earth could you not have fallen in love with Dora?" I cry, petulantly, to the back of his head. " She would do you some credit, and she wonld love yof, too. Every one would envy you if you married Dora, she never says the wrong thing; and she is elegant and very pretty is she not? "Very pretty," replies he, dryly; "almost lovely, I think, with her fair hair and beautiful complezion and sweet smile. Yes Dora is more than pr3tty." "If you admire her so much, why don't you marry her ? " lay I, sharply. Although I am not in love with ^Marma- duke, I strongly object to his expressing unlimited admira- tion for my sister or any other woman. " Shall I tell you ? " says he, suddenly, coming back to me to take me in his arras and strain me close to him. " Because in my eyes you are ten times lovelier. Because your hair, though darker, pleases me more. Because your complexion, though browner, is to me more fair. Because your smile, though lews uniformly sweet, is merrier and *^i&}er**, and more lovable. There ! have Igiven you enough f6 PHYLLIS. reason for the silly preference I feel for a little girl who does not care a straw about me ? " " Oh, yes, I do : I like you very much," I answer greatly mollified. " I do really better and better every day." " Do you indeed? " rapturously. " My own darling : " Yes," I say, in a thoroughly matter-of-fact tone, with a view to bringing him back to earth again without any unnecessary delay. " But how can you be so fond of me, Marmaduke, when you say I am so cross? Now, tell m this," laying the first finger of my right hand upon his lips, and beating time there with it to each of my words : " why did you first take a fancy to me ?" " Just because you are Phyllis : I have no other reason. If you were any one else, or changed in any way, I would not care in the least for you." " At that rate we are likely to have a happy time of it," I say, sarcastically, " considering I am never the same for two weeks running, and papa says every one's disposition undergoes a complete alteration every seven years." " I'll risk that," says he, laughing. " Seven years are a long way off." " But I shall change in less than seven years," I say, persistently. " Don't you see ? I have done so twice already, at seven, and fourteen, and I shall do so again at twenty-one. Therefore, in four years' time I shall be a different person altogether, and you will cease to care for me." " I shall always adore you, Phyllis," declares my lover, earnestly, " whether we live together for four or fourteen or one hundred and fourteen years." This leaves nothing more to be said, so I am silent for a moment or two, and gaze at him with some degree of pride as he stands beside me, with his blue eyes, tender and impassioned as handsome a man as ever made vain love to a graceless maiden. Still, admirable as he is, I have no desire for him te grow demonstrative so soon again ; therefore continue the conversation hastily. " Were you never in love before ? " I ask, without motive. It occurs to me thai like a flash a faint change crosaen his fac*. rHYLLlS. 77 "All men have fancies," ho answers, and something tells me he is evading a strict reply. " I don't mean a fancy : I inpan a real attachment, Did you ever ask any woman except me to be your wife f i " " Why ? " he asks, with an attempt at laughter that enda in dismal failure beneath my remorseless eyes. " Will yon throw me over if I say, " Yes ? " " No, of course not. But I think you might have told me before. Here have you been pretending all along you never loved any one but me, and now I discover accidentally that long before you knew me you had broken your heart over dozens of women." " I had not," angrily. " Why do you misconstrue my words? " " Oh, of course you had." " I really wish, Phyllis, you would not c^ive yourself the habit of contradicting people BO rudely. 1 tell you I had not." " Well, you were madly in love with one, at all events," I say, viciously. " I could see that by your eyes when I asked you the question." " If a man commits a folly once in his life, he is not to be eternally condemned for it, I suppose?" " I never said it was a folly to love any one ; I only sug- gested it Avas deceitful of you not io have told about it be- fore. I hate secrets of any kind." My companion Avinces visibly. " There don't be uneasy," I say, loftily. ;t I have no desire to pry into any of your affairs." We pace up and down in uncomfortable silence. At length : " I see you are angry, Phyllis," he says. " Oh, dear, no. Why should such an insignificant thing that does not affect me in any way, make me angry ? " " My darling child, I think you are; and, oh, Phyllis, for what? For a hateful passion that is dead and buried this many a year, and bore no faintest resemblance to the deep true affection I fee. for you. Am I the Avorse in your eyes because I once when I was a boy fancied my heart was lost ? Be reasonable, and be kind to me. You have been anything but that all this morning." " Was she dark, or fair?" I ask, in a milder tone, not noticing, however, the hand he holds out to me. " Dark abominably dark." " And tall ? " 78 PHYLLfS. " Detestably so. " You need not abase her now," I say, reprovingly, M You loved her once." " I did not," cries he, with some excitement. " I could never have loved her. It was a mad, boyish infatuation. Let us forget her, Phyllis ; the subject is hateful to me, Ofc ray darling, my pet, no one ever really crept into my aear* except you you small, cold, cruel, little child." I am softened. I make up my mind I will not be cold during the remainder of our day, so I slip my ungloved baud into his, and bring myself close up to his side. " I will forgive you this time," I whisper ; " but Marma- duke, promise me that never in the future will you conceal anything from me." " I promise I swear," says my betrothed, eagerly and I receive, and graciously return, the kiss of reconciliation he lays upon my lips. CHAPTER XV. WE are unmistakably and most remarkably late, but that is scarcely a matter for wonder, considering the animal we drove and the vehicle in which we journeyed. We have been bampcd and jolted and saddened all the way from Summerleas, besides having endured agonies of shame and fear lest any of the grander folk meeting us upon the road should look down upon us from their aristocratic equipages and scorn our dilapidated condition. By taking an unfre- quented route, however, we arrive unseen, and are spared to much humiliation. When Mr. Carrington asked me a week ago if a garden party at Strangemore would give me any pleasure so little *re we accastomed to gaycties of any kind my spirits rose to fever height, and I told him without hesitation nothing on earth he could do for me would occasion me greater delight than his ordering and regulating ajcle in which 1 might bear a part. Afterwards, when I fully understood the consequences of my rash words, how heartily did I ro- them I irm came the battle with papa about the necessary gar FHYLLIS. . 79 to be worn at it gowns we should have and gowns we had not and a skirmish naturally followed. Mamma and Dora undertook to face the foe alone in this instance (it being unanimously decided in conclave that my presence 011 the scene would only hinder any chances of success), and after a severe encounter Dora triumphed as somehow Dora always does triumph though I am bound to admit many tears were shed and many reproaches uttered before victory was declared in our favor. Then came the getting to Strangemore in the disgrace' ful fossil that clings to us like a nightmare, and won t fall to pieces from decay. Half an hour before we start, papa caracoles away on his sprightly roan, got up regardless of expense, leaving Brewster to drive us, with Billy seated beside him on the box-seat ; while we three women sit inside and try to think our dresses are not crushed, while undergoing the hour and a half of anguish, before described, on our way. As we are all fully alive to the fact that to face the hall- door at Strangemore and the assembled county in our shandrydan is more than we can endure, we enter the grounds by a back way ; and having given Brewster strict orders to reach the yard without being seen, and if seen to answer no inconvenient questions, we alight, and shaking out our trains, proceed towards the gardens. My dress is composed of simple batiste, but is a wonder- ful mingling of palest pink and blue, impossible to describe; my hat is also pink and blue, my gloves delicately tinted. Marmaduke's earrings and locket and bracelets and rings are scattered all over my person ; and altogether, I (latter myself, I am looking as well as it is possible for Phyllis V r ernon to look. Dora is in a ravishing costume, of which blue silk forms the principal part, and has put on a half-pouting, just-awak ened expression, that makes her appear a lovely grown up baby. Mamma is looking, as she always looks in my eyes, per- fectly beautiful. She and Dora march in front, while Billy and I bring Up the rear. To my excited imagination it seems as if all the world were met together on the croquet-lawn. I say, " Oh, Billy 1 " in an exhilarated tone, and give his arm a squeeze ; but, as the dear fellow thinks it necessary to b* morose on the occasion, he takes it badly, and tella me, 80 PHYLLIS. angrily, to moderate my transports, or people wil say I have never been at any entertainment before which il people did Bay it would be unusually near the truth. Presently Marmaduke, seeing us, comes quickly up, and, having welcomed mother and Dora, offers me his arm with the fiir of a proprietor, and carries me away from my family. I feel as though treading on air, and am deliciously fai from shyness of any description. Before we have gonf very far, my conversational powers assert themselves. " Marmaduke, don't you think I am looking very nice ?" I say naively. " Very, darling. You always look that." This general praise disappoints me. Whatever an In- fatuated person may have chosen to consider me in the time past, I am satisfied that at the present moment I really am worthy of admiration. " But you cannot have seen my dress," I persist " it came all the way from London : and toe all think it so pretty. Look at it, Marmaduke." lie turns his head willingly in my direction, but his gaze gets little farther than my face. " It is charming," he says, with enthusiam. " That pale green suits you tremendously." " Pale-green ! " and I am all faintest azure. I break into a merry laugh, and give him an imperceptible shake. " Green, you ridiculous boy ! Why, there is not a parti- cle of green about me. I am nothing b\it pink and blue. Do look at me again, Marmaduke, or I shall die of chagrin " " Well, it was the blue I meant," declares my lover, composedly. " Then, come with me to the other side, Phyl- lis : I want to introduce you to Lady Alicia Slate-Gore " " Lady Alicia ! " I gasp, awestruck. " Is is the duke here ? " " No; be is in Scotland. Lady Alicia came by herself. She is an old friend of mine, darling, and I am very fond of her. I want you, therefore, to be particularly charming to her." " II 3V can you expect me to be that under the circum- stances ? " I ask, lightly, glancing up at him from under my laches with a sudden and altogether new touch of co.juetry born of the hour and my gay attire. " How can I be amiable, when you tell me in that bare-faced fashion o/ your adoration for her? Of course I shall be despeiatoly PHYLLIS. 31 jealous and desperately disagreeable during the entire in- terview. Marmaduke's face betrays the intense delight all men feei when receiving flattery from the beloved one. Perhaps, indeed, he appears a trifle sillier than the generality ol them, incense coming from me being so totally unexpectei. I know by his eyes he would give anything to kiss nie, wert it not for shame sake and the gaping crowd. "Is your Lady Alicia very terrific?"! ask, ie&rfully and then, almost before he has time to answer my question, we are standing before a tall, benevolent-looking woman ol forty-five, with a hooked nose, and a scarlet feather in her bonnet, and I am bowing and smirking at Lady Alicia Slate-Goro. She is more than civil she is radiant. She taps me on the cheek with her fan, and calls me " my dear," and asks rne a hundred questions in a breath. She taps Mannnduke on the arm and asks him what he means by making love to a child who ought to be in her nursery dreaming fairy- tales. At this Marmaduke laughs, and says I am older than I look for which I am grateful to him. " Old ! " says my lady, with a rapid bird like glance at me. " The world will soon be upside down. Am I to con- sider fourteen oid ? " " Phyllis will soon be nineteen," says Marmaduke ; for which I feel still more grateful, as it was only two months ago J attained my eighteenth year. "Indeed! indeed! You should give your friends your receipt, child. You have stolen a good five years from Father Time, and just when you least want it. Now, if you could only give us old people a written rrescription,'' etc., etc. Marmaduke leaves us to go and receive some other guests, and her ladyship still chatters on to me ; while I, catching the infection of her spirits, chatter back again to her, until she declares me vastly amusing, and is persuaded Marmaduke has gained a prize in the life-lottery. Then Bobby Do Vere comes up, a little later, and ad- dresses me in his usual florid style; so does fat Mr. Hast- ings ; and presently Lady Alicia appears again, bringing with her a tall, gaunt man with a prickly beard, who, she says, is desirous of being introduced. lie is probably a well-intentioned person, but he is \erf 82 PHYLLIS deaf, and hag evidently mistaken the vhole affair. For example, after a moment or two he electrifies me by saying, " You are fortunate, Mrs. Carrington, in having so magnifi- cent a day for your fete." I color painfully, stamn.er a good deal, and finally ex plain, rather lamely, I am not yet Mrs. Carrington, and that my proper name is Vernon. Upon which he too it covered with confusion and makes a hurried and very unin telligible apology. "Beg pardon, I'm sure. Quite understood from Lady Alicia most awkward inexcusably so. Only arrived at the castle late last night, and am a stranger to every one here. Pray pardon me." I put an end to his misery by smiling and asking him if he would like to walk about a little an invitation he accepts with effusion. There are dear little colored tents scattered all over the place. Bands are playing ; so are fountains ; and flowers are everywhere. I drink iced Moselle and eat strawberries, and am supremely happy. My emaciated cavalier escorts me hither and thither, and does all he knows to entertain me. After an hour or so he leaves me, only shortly to return again, and it becomes evident he is bent on studying human nature in a ntw form as he listens with every appearance of the gravest interest to the ceaseless babble that flows from my lips. The day wears on, and I see hardly anything of Manna- duke ; it is already half-past five, and in another hour my joy must end. I stand at the door of a tent, framed in by blue and white canvas, with a crimson strawberry on its way to my lips, and am vaguely wondering at my lover's absence, when I see him coming towards me, by degrees, and with that guilty air that distinguishes most men when endeavoring secretly to achieve some cherished design. Ifo looks slightly bored, but brightens as his eyes meet mine and hurries his footsteps. As he draws nearer I address to him some commonplace remark, upon which the two or three men who have been amusing me my gaunt companion included sheer oil from me as though I had the plague; it being thoroughly understood on all sides that in me they behold the "coming Queen " of Strangcmore. Their defection, however, disconcert* me not at all I /'// YLL.IS. S3 m too glad, too utterly gay on this glorious afternoon to let any trifles annoy me. "Did you miss me?" asked Marmnduke, tenderly. " Hardly. You see, I had scarcely time I have been enjoying myself so much. It has been a delicious day alto- gether. Have you enjoyed it, Marmaduke?" " No. I was away from you." There is a world of re proach in his ton*. " True ; I had forgotten that," I say, wickedly. Then, ** To tell the truth, 'Duke, I was just beginning to wonder had you forgotten my existence. How did you manage to keep away from me for PO long?" " What unbearable conceit ! I could not come to you a moment sooner. If I had to get through so much hard work every day as was put upon me this afternoon, I be- lieve I should die of a decline. Don't you feel as if you bated all these people, Phyllis ? I do ? " "No, indeed ; I bear them nothing but good will. They have all helped by their presence to make up the sum of my enjoyment." " I am so glad the day has been a success to yon at least. Are you looking at that old turret, darling? There is such a beautiful view of the gardens from one of those windows ? " This last suggestively. " Is there ? " I answer, with careless indifference. Then, good-naturedly, " I think I would like to see it." " Would you ? " much gratified. " Then come with me." In his heart I know he is rejoiced at the prospect of a tete-a-tete alone with me rejoiced, too, at the chance of getting rid for a while of all the turmoil and elegant bustlo of the crowd. I go with him, down the garden path, through the ghrubberies, up the stone steps, and into the large hall, past immodest statues and up interminable stairs, until we reach the small round chamber of which he speaks. I run to the window and look down eagerly upon the brilliant scene below ; and certainly what meets my eyes" rewards me for the treadmill work I have undergone for the purpose-. Beneath me lie the gardens, a mass of glowing color, while far beyond them as the eye can reach stretches the wood in all its green and bronze and brown-tinged glory. Up'>n th right spreads the park soft and verdant. Below 84 PHYLLIS. me the gayly-robed guests pass ceaselessly to and fn, and the sound of their rippling laughter climbs up the old ivy- covered walls and enters the window where I stand. " Oh, how lovely it is? " I cry, delightedly. " Oh, I ara so glad I came ! How far away they all appear, and how small ! " Marmaduke is watching me with open content : k ne^ er seems to tire of my many raptures. Suddenly I lean forward and, with flushed cheeks, fol low the movement of one of the guests, who hitherto has been unnoticed by me. " Surely surely," I cry, with considerable excitemen', " that is Sir Mark Gore." Marmaduke stares. " Sir Mark is here," he says. " L>o you know him ? " " Of course I do," I answer, gayly, craning my neck farther out of the window, the better to watch my new-old acquaintance ; " that is, a little. What a handsome man he is ! How odd he should be here to-day ! " " I don't see the oddness of it," rather coldly. " I have known him intimately for many years. How did you be- come acquainted with him, Phyllis ? " " Oh," I say, laughing, " our first meeting was a very romantic affair almost as romantic as my second inter- view with you." I say this with a glance half shy, half merry ; but Mr. Carrington does not seem as much alive to my drollery as usual. " Billy and I had ridden into Cars- ton I on the old white pony> you know and just as we came to the middle of the High street, Madge shied at a dead sheep, my saddle turned, and but for Sir Mark Gore, who happened to be passing at the moment, I would cer- tainly have fallen off. He rushed to the rescue, caught me in his arms, and deposited me safely on the ground. Wag it not near being a tragedy ? Afterwards he was even con- descending enough to tighten the girths himself, though Billy was well able, and to speed us on our homeward jour- ney. Was it not well he was there ? " " Very well, indeed. And was that all you saw of him ? " " Oh, dear, no ; we became great friends after that. 1 found him wonderfully good-natured and kind " As I speak I am ignorant of the fact that Sir Mark hai the reputation of being the fastest man about town. PHYLLIS. 84 " I have n;> doubt you did," says my letrothed, sarcas- tically. " And where did you meet him again ?" " At a bazaar, a week later. He got Mrs. Leslie, with whom he was staying, to introduce him to me. And theia he called with the Leslies, and I think took a fancy to Dora, as he was continually coming to Summerleas after that. Not that he ever came to the point, you know ; he did not propose to her or that ; which disappointed us all vc'iy much, as Mrs. Leslie told mamma he was enormously rich and a good match." "You seem to think a great deal of a good match," says Marmaduke, very bitterly. " Are you so extremely fond of money?" " Awfully," I say, with charming candor. " What can there be better than a lot of it ? I shall have plenty when I marry you, Marmaduke, shall I not? " " As much as ever you want," replies he ; but there is no warmth in his tones. "Don't make rash promises. Perhaps I shall want ever so much. Do you know I never had more than two pounds all together at a time in my life, and that only once ? My godfather gave it to me the year before last, and it took Billy and me a whole week to decide how we should spend it." "Well?" absently. " Well " utterly unabashed " finally we divided it into four half-sovereigns. With one we bought a present- for mother, and were going to do the same for Dora, only she said she would rather have the money itself than anything we would select. Then Billy bought a puppy he had been longing for for a month with the third, besides a lot ot white rats odious little things with no hair on their tails and a squirrel; and and that's all," I wind up ab- ruptly. " What did you do with the other half-sovereign ? asks 'Duke, more from want of something to say than from any overpowering curiosity. " Oh, nothing nothing," I answer, feeling slightly con- fused, I don't know why. " I cannot remember, it is so long ago." "Only the year before last, by yotr own account, and I know your memory to be excellent. Come, tell me what you did with it." 88 PRYLL1& As he grows obstinate, so do I, and therefore answer with gay evasion. " What would I do with it but one thing ? Of course J bought a present for my sweetheart." Surely some capricious spirit inhabits this roc-m. Fci the second time since we entered it Marmaduke's counter* ance lowers. " Why, what is the matter now ? " I ask, impatiently. " What are you looking so cross about ? " " I am not cross," indignantly. " What is there to make me so ? There is no reason why you should not have innu- merable sweethearts as well as every other woman." " Oh I " I say ; and his last speech having made me aware that the word " sweetheart " has been the cause of all the ill temper, I go on wickedly, " why, none indeed ; and this particular one of whom I speak was such a dai'ling I So good to nae, too, as be was I never received an unkind word or a cross look from him. Ah ! I shall never forget Mm." ' ' You are right there. No virtue is as admirable as sin- cerity. I wonder how you could bring yourself to resign so desirable a lover." " I didn't resign him. Circumstances over which we had no control arose, and separated his lot from mine." Hero I sigh heavily, and cast my eyes upon the ground with such despairing languor as would have done credit to an Amanda or a Dora. " If I am to be considered one of the ' circumstances * in this matter," says my lover, hotly, " I may tell you at once I do not at all envy the position. I have no desire to come between you and your affections." " You do not," 1 return, mildly ; and, but that when a man is jealous he loses all reasoning and perceptive facul- ties, he might see that I am crimson with suppressed laugh ter. *' Had you never appeared on the scene, still a marriage be< tween us would have been impossible." " What is his name ? " asks 'Duke, abruptly. " I would rather not tell you." " I insist upon knowing. I think I have every right to ask." '* Oh, why ? If ( I promised him to keep the matteB secret, surely you would not ask me to break my faith ? " " Once engaged to me, I object to your keeping faitb with any other man, " PHYLLIS. 87 " Well, it is all past and gone now," I murmur, sadly. "Why rake up the old ashes ? Let us forget it." " Forget it ! " cries Marmaduke, savagely. " How easy yon find it to forget ! And you, whom I thought so inno- cent a child you, who told me you never had a lover until 1 came to Strangemore ! I cannot so readily forget what you have now told me. It maddens me to think anotbei man has been making love to you, has hold your hands, haa ooked into your eyes, has has Phyllis" almost fiercely " tell me the truth ; did he ever kiss you ? " My back is turned to him, but I am visibly shaking. I wonder exceedingly why he does not notice it ; but perhaps he does, and puts it down to deep emotion. " No," I say, in a smothered tone, " it never went so far as that." " Then why not tell me his name ?" " Because I cannot." " Will not, you mean. Very good : I will not ask yon again. I think we had better return to the grounds." lie moves a step or two away in the direction of the door. Turning, I burst into a perfect peal of laughter, and laugh until the old room echoes again. "Oh, Marmaduke," I cry, holding out to him my hands, " come back to me, and I will tell you all. It was old Tan- ner, your head gardener, I meant the entire time. lie used to give me all your fruit and flowers before he went to America ; and I bought him an ear-trumpet with my ten shillings, and oh ! oh ! oh ! " " Phyllis, Phyllis ! " cries my lover, with reproachful ten- derness, and, catching me in his arms, presses upon my lips kisses many and passionate, as punishment for my wrong- doing. " How could you do it, darling? How could you make me so miserable for even a few minutes? " " I could not help it. You looked so angry and the idea came into my head. And all about old Tanner 1 Oh !, There there, please don't make me laugh again." Friendly intercourse being thus once more restored, and it being necessary we should now return to the guests, I make a bet with him, in which a dozen pair of gloves count as high as three kisses, and race him down all the stairs, through landings and rooms and corridors, until I arrive breathless but triumphant at the hall-door. Here we pause, flushed and panting, to recover our equanimity, befor &J| ."HYLLIS. marching oat together cilm and decorous to mingle again among our friends. Most of them are standing draped and shawled, only waiting to bid farewell to their host. Almost on the siept we come in contact with Sir Mark Gore. " Miss Vernon,' he exclaims, with a start of surprise, " you here ! How have I missed seeing you all day ? Car rir.gton, when you bring so many people together you should at least give them printed programmes with all their namei inscribed, to let them know whom to seek and whom to avoid. Miss Phyllis, how can I tell you how glad I am to see you again ? " " Don't be too glad," says 'Duke, directing a tender smile at me as I stand beaming pinkly upon Sir Mark, "or 1 shall be jealous." " How ! is it indeed so ! " Sir Mark asks, addressing me. He too has only reached the neighborhood within the last few hours, and knows nothing of what has been goiug on of late in our quiet village. " Yes, it is indeed so," I return, with an assumption of sauciness, though my cheeks are flaming. Then, half shyly, *' Will you not congratulate me ? " " No, I shall congratulate Carrington," replies he, shortly, and after a few more words of the most commonplace de- scription, leaves us. u Mother is on her feet, and has assumed an important expression. She has sent Billy in quest of Dora. Marmaduke crosses over to her, whispers, and expostulates for a moment or two, until at length mother sinks back again upon hei seat with a resigned smile, and sends Billy off a second tiui with a message to Brewster to betake himself and the fossil Lack to Summerleas with all possible speed. And so it comes to pass that when the lawna are again empty Mr. Carrington drives us all, through the still and dewy even- ing, to our home, where he remains to dine and spei d tha rest of thip eventful day fSYLLJS. CHAPTER XVI. IT ig a fortnight later, when the post Doming in one morn Tig brings to Dora an invitation from our aunts, the Missos Vernon, to go and stay with them for an indefinite period. These two old ladies named respectively Aunt Martha and Aunt Priscilla are maiden sisters of my father's, and are, if possible, more disagreeable than he ; so that there is hardly anything short of committing suicide we would nut do to avoid paying them a visit of any lengthened du- ration. Being rich, however, they are powerful, and we have been brought up to understand how inadvisable it would be to offend or annoy them in any way. Dora receives and reads her letter with an unmoved countenance, saying nothing either for or against the prop- osition it contains, so that breakfast goes on smoothly. So does luncheon ; but an hour afterwards, as I happen to be passing through the hall, I hear high words issuing from the library, with now and then between them a disjointed Bob, that I know proceeds from Dora. An tklt?rcation is at all times unpleasant ; but in our household it is doubly so, as it has the effect of making tu* master of it unbearably morose for the remainder of the day or night on which it occurs. Knowing this, and feeling the roof that covers papa to be, in his present state, unsafe, I steal noiselessly to the hall door and, opening it, find refuge in the outer air. As evening falls, however, I am warned of the approach of dinner-hour, and, returning to the house, am safely up the stairs, when Billy comes to meet me, his face full of in- dignant information. " It is a beastly shame," he says, in a subdued whisper, * and I would not submit to it if I were you. When lun- cheon was over, Dora went to papa and told him she would not go to Aunt Martha; and when papa raged and insisted, she began to blubber as usual, and said if you were tc take her place it would do just as well ; and of course papa jumped at the idea, knowing it would be disagreeable, and aaya you *Ao#.go." 90 PHYLLIS. " WTiat ! " cry I, furious at thia new piooe of injuatice I shall, shall I ? He'll see!" 1 turn from iny brother with an ominous expression ol my lips, and move towards my bedroom door. The action means, "Not words, but deeds." "That's right," says Billy, following close in the char acter of a backer-up, and openly delighted at the prospect of a scrimmage. " Fight it out. I would give the governor plenty of cheek if I were you ; he wants it badly. It's a shame, that's what it is; and you engaged and all! And what will Camngton say ? Do you know " mysteriously " it is my opinion Miss Dora thinks she could get inside you, if you were once out of the way? She was always a sneak; so I would not give in on any account. But " despond- ingly " you will never have the pluck to go through with it when it comes to the point. I know you won't." " I will," I return, gazing back at him with stern deter mination in my eyes, and then I go into my room to pre- pare for dinner, leaving him both astonished and pleased at my new-found courage. In this defiant mood I dress and go downstairs. All through dinner Dora is more than usually agreeable. She smiles continually, and converses gayly in her pretty, low- toned elegant way. To me she is particularly attentive, and is apparently deaf to the silence with which I receive her remarks. Nothing is said on the expected subject of Aunt Martha until it is nearly time for us to retire to the drawing-room, and I am almost beginning to fear the battle will be post- poned, when papa, turning to me, says, carelessly, and as though it were a matter of no importance : " As Dora dislikes the idea of going to your aunts, Phyllis, at this time of year, we have decided on sending you for a month in her place." " But I dislike the idea too," I reply, as calmly aa raga will let me. " That is to be regretted, as I will not have your aunts offended. You are the youngest, and must give way." " But the invitation was not sent to me." " That will make little difference, and a sufficient excuse can be offered for Dora. As your marriage does not come off until late in the autumn, there is no reason why you ehould remain at home all the summer." PHYLLIS. 91 c< This is some of your underhand work," I saj, with sup- pressed anger, addressing Dora, " I would not speak of ' undeihand work,'' if I were you," returns she, smoothly, with an almost invisible dash from her innocent blue eyes. "Do not let us discuss the subject further," says papa, in a loud tone. " There is nothing so disagreeable as public recrimination. Understand once for all, Phyllis, the matter u arranged, and you will be ready to go next week." "I will not? "I cry, passionately, rising and flinging my napkin upon the ground. " I have made up my mind, and I will not go to Qualmsley. Not all the fathers in Christendom shall make me." " Phyllis ! " roars papa, making a wild grab at me as I sweep past his chair ; but I avoid him defiantly, and, going out, slam the door with much intentional violence behind mo. I fly through the hall and into the open air, I feel suf- focated, half choked, by my angry emotion ; but the sweet evening breeze revives me. It is eight o'clock, and a deli- cious twilight pervades the land. I run swiftly, an irrepressible sob in my throat, down the lawn, past the paddock, and along the banks of the lit- tle stream, until, as I come to what we call the " short cut " to Briersley, I run myself into Mr. Carrington's arms, who is probably on his way to Suramerleas. Usually my greeting to him is a hand outstretched from my body to the length of my arm. Now I cast myself generously into his embrace. I cling to him with almost affectionate fervor. He is very nearly dear to me at this moment, coming to me as a sure and certain friend. "My darling my life!" he exclaims, "what is it? You are unhappy ; your eyes are full of trouble." His arms are round me ; he presses his lips gently to my forehead; it is a rare thing this kiss, as it is but seldom be caresses me, knowing my antipathy to any demonstra- tive attentions ; but now my evident aflliction removes a barrier. " I want you to marry me at once." I breathe rather than speak, my hasty running and my excitement having wellnigh stifled me. "You will, will you not? You must. I will not stay here a moment longer than I can help. You said once you wished to marry me in June; you must wish it gtilL" 92 PHYLLIS. " I do," he answers, calmly, but his arms tighten round me, and his face flushes. " I "will marry you when and where you please. Do you mean to-morrow ? next week ? when? " "Next month; early next month. I will be ready then. You must tell papa so this evening, and take me away soon. I will show them I will not stay here to be tyrannized over and tormented." I burst into tears, and bury my face in his coat. " You shall not stay an hour longer, if you don't "wish it," returns my lover, rather unsteadily. "Come with mi now, and I will take you to nay sister's, and Will marry you to-morrow." " Oh, no, no," I say, recoiling from him ; ' not that ; I did not mean that. I did 'not want to run away with you. Next month will be soon enough. It was only they in- sisted on my going to Qualmsley, and I was determined I would not." "It is disgraceful your being made ^wretched in this way," exclaims Marmaduke, wrathfully. " Tell me what has vexed you ? " lie is not aware of the Misbes Vernous' existence. " Where is Qualmsley ?" " It is a horrible place, in Yorkshire, where nobody lives, except my aunts. They want me to go to Ptay there next week for a month. The hateful old tilings wrote in- viting Dora, and when she refused to go papa insisted on victim iziug me in her place. If you only knew Aunt Mar- tha and Aunt 1'riscilla, you would understand my abhor- rence my detestation of them. They are papa's sisters ^the very image of him and tread and trample on one at every turn. I would rather die than go to them. I would far rather marry you." I hardly guess the significance of my last words until I lee my lover whiten and wince in the twilight. " Of course I don't mean that," I say, confusedly, " 1 aaly " But, as I don't at all feel sure whao it is I do mean, I Lreak down here ignominiously and relapse into awkward ilence. " Of course not," he answers. " I quite understand." But his voice has lost all its enthusiasm, and somehow bin words drag. " Had you not better come back to the house, Phyllis? lou will catch cold -without your hat and in that li^lit dress." PHYLLIS. &) I am clothed in white muslin, a little open at the throt, and with my arms half bare. A piece of blue ribbou de- fines my waist, a bow of the same hue is in my hair ; the locket that contains his face is round my neck ; a great crimson rose lies upon my bosom. "I am not cold," I reply: "and I am afraid to face papa." We are separated now, and I stand alone, gazing down into the rippling stream that runs noisily at my feet. AJ,> ready two or three bright stars are twinkling overhead ar J shine up at me, reflected from below. Mr. Carrington iet the distance widen between us while regarding me I feel rather than see with moody discontented eyes. " Phyllis," he says, presently, in a low tone, " it seems to me a horrible thing that the idea of your marriage should be so distasteful to you " u No, no ; not distasteful," I interrupt, with deprewstion. " Don't say ' no ' if you mean ' yes.' Put my feelingg out of the question, and tell me honestly if you are unhappy about it." " I am not. It does not make me more unhappy to marry you than to marry any one else." " What an answer ! " exclaims Marmaduke, with a groan. "Is that all the consolation you can offer me? " " That is all. Have I not told you all this long aero ?" I cry, angrily, goaded by the reflection that each wordl speak only makes matters harder. " Why do you bring the sub- ject up again ? Must you too be unkind to me ? You can- not have believed me madly in love with you, as I have told you to the contrary ages ago." " So you did. In my folly I hoped time would change vou. What a contemptible lover I must be, having failed in eight long months to gain even the affections of a child Will you never care for me, Phyllis ? " " I do care for you," I return, doggedly, forcing myself to face him. " After mamma and Billy and Roland, I care for you more than any one else. I like you twenty thousand times better than papa or Dora. I cannot say more." I tap my foot impatiently upon the ground ; my fii_ger seine and take to pieces wantonly the unoffending rose. At 1 pull its crimson leaves asunder I drop them in the brook and watch them float away under the moon's pale raya. I would that my cruel words could so depart. I feel angry, disconsolate, with the knowlelge that Q4 fHYLLIS. through my ywn act 1 am cruelly wounding the man who, 1 must confess it, is my truest friend. I half think of apolo- gizing, of saying something gentle, yet withal truthful, that shall take away the sting I have planted. A few words rise to my lips. I raise rny head to give them utterance. Suddenly his arms are around me ; he is kissing me wiis passion that is full of sadness. There is so much tender Bass mingled with the despair in his face that I, too, am maddened into silence. Repentant, I slip a hand round hii neck and give him back one kiss out of the many. " Don't be sorry,'' I whisper ; " something tells me I shall yet love you with all my heart. Until then bear with me. Or, if you think it a risk, Marmaduke, and would rather put an end to it all now, do so, and I will not be an- gry with you." " More probably you would be thankful to me, ho an- swered, bitterly. " I would not. I would far rather trust myself to you than stay at home after what has passed." My voice is trem- bling, my lips quiver faintly. " But if one of us must be un- happy, let it be me. I release you. I would not " " Don't be foolish, child," he makes answer, roughly, " 1 could not release you, even if I would. You are part of my life and the best part, No ; let us keep to our bargain now, whatever comes of it." " His eyes are fixed on mine ; gradually a softer light creeps into his face. Putting up his hand, ho smoothes back the loose hair from my forehead and kisses me gravely on my lips. " You are my own little girl," he says, " my most pre- cious possession ; I will not have you inconsiderately used. Come, I will speak to yorr father." So hand in hand we return to the dragon's den, where, Mr. Carrington having faced the dragon and successfully bullied him, peace is restored, and it is finally arranged that U three weeks we are to be married And in three weeks we are married. In three short weeki I glide into a new life, in which Phyllis Carrington holds absolute sway, leaving Phyllis Vernon of the old days the ' general receiver " of the blame of the family to b buried out of sight forever. First of all mother takes me up to London, and put* me into the hands of a celebrated modiste, a woman of groat PHYL KJK 96 reputation, with piercing eyes, who scowls at me, prods, taps, and measures me, until I low "right of my own identity and begin to look upon myself as so many inches and fingera and yards embodied. At length, this terrible person ex- pressing herself satisfied with the examination, we may re tarn home again, whither we are short/ y followed by many wicker-framed oil skin-covered trunks,, m which lie the re- 8v Its of all the measuring. Everything is so fresh, so ^ay, so that romantic, all-sufficing devotion of which I have read? I certainly like him immensely. He is everything of the dearest and hest, and kind almost to a fault ; there- fore I ought to adore him; but somehow I cannot quite make up my mind to it. One should love a husband better than all the rest of the world put together ; so I have heard, so 1 believe ; but do I ? .1 lay little plans ; I map out small scenes, to try ho\ far my affection for my husband will go. For instance, I picture to myself Billy or he condemned to start in the morning for Australia, never to return; one or other must go, and the decision rests with me. Which shall I let go, which shall I keep? 1 send Marmadukc, and feel a deep pang at my heart; I send Billy the pang be- comes keenest torture. Again, supposing both to be sentenced to death, and supposing also it is in my power to save one of them : which would I rescue? JVIarmaduke of course! I haul him triumphantly from his gloomy cell; but as I do so my Billy's beautiful eyes, filled with mute despair, shine upon me from out the semi-darkness, and I cease to drag Manna- duke: I cannot leave my brother. When this last picture first presents itself to my vivid imagination I am in bed, and the idea overcomes me to such a degree that I find myself presently in Hoods of tears, unable altogether to suppress my sobs. In a minute or two Marmaduke wakes and turns unea- sily. " What is the matter, Phyllis," he asks, anxiously. " Is anything wrong with you, my darling?" " No, no, nothing," I answer hastily, and bury my nose in the pillow. " But you are crying," he remonstrates, reaching out a kindly hand in the darkness that is meant for my face, but alights unexpectedly upon the back of my head. "Tell me what is troubling you, my pet." " Nothing at all," I say again ; " I was only thinking.' Here I stille a foolish sigh born of my still more foolish tea rt. " Thinking of what ? " PHYLLIS. 101 "Of Hilly " I reply reluctantly. And then, though he Bays nothing, :tnd though I cannot see his face, I know my husband is offended. He goes i.nck to his origina-1 position, and is soon again asleep, while 1 lie awake for half an hour longer, woiryiag my brain with trying to discover what there can be to vex Marmaduke i; t ' care for you ' because I ask you to be civil to two or three women ! ' Here he laughs again a little, though evidently against his will. " Oh, Phyllrj 1 if you are going to cry I will not say another word about it. Come, look up, my pet, and I promise to forget our friends for this autumn at least. We will spend it by ourselves ; though I must confess " regretfully " it seems to me a sin to leave all those birds in peace. Now are you satisfied ? " But I am not : I am only ashamed of myself. Is this childish fear of strangers the proper spirit for a grown-np married woman to betray? I dry my eyes and make a secret determination to go through with it, no matter what it costs me. " No, no," I say, heroically ; (i let them come. It is very stupid of me to feel nervous about it. I dare say I shall like them all immensely when they are once here ; and and perhaps they too will like me." "Small doubt of that," says my husband, heartily. "I only hope the men won't get beyond the liking. Phyllis, you are a darling, and when they leave us you shall tell me how tremendously you enjoyed it all." I am not sufficient hypocrite to coincide with this hopeful idea. I kill a sigh before I next speak. " Duke," I say, with faltering tongue, " must I sit at the head of the table ? " " Of course," again visibly amused. " Surely you would not like to sit at the bottom ? " " No," with deep dejection ; " one is as bad as the other. In either place I shall be horribly conspicuous " Then, after a brief hesitation, and with a decided tendency to fawn upon him, " Marmaduke, we will have all the things handed round ; won't we, now ? I shall never have anything to carve, shall I ? " " Never, ' replies 'Duke ; " ro* shall give us dinnex i* PHYLUM 108 any earthly style you choose, always provided you Ifct UK have # good one. There ! " " And Parsons will see to that," I say, partially con* Boled, drawing my breath more lightly. "Now, whom shall we ask ? " says 'Duke, seating him- self, and drawing out a pencil and pocket-book with an air of business, while I look over his shoulder. " Harriet if staying with old Sir William at present, but next week she will be free. She will come, and James. I am so anxioai you should meet each other." " Oh, Marmaduke, what shall I do if your sister does Dot like me ? It would make me so miserable if she disap- proved of me in any way." " Your modesty, my dear, is quite refreshing in this bra zen age. Of course, if Harriet expresses disapprobation ol my choice, I shall sue for a divorce." I pinch his ear, and perch myself comfortably on the arm of his chair' " Is she anything like you ? " " You could hardly find a greater contrast, I should say, in every way. She is extremely fair quite a blonde not much taller than you are, and rather fat. She has a consider- able amount of spirit, and keeps Sir James in great order ; while I am a dejected being, tyrannized over by the veriest little shrew that ever breathed." " 1 like that. But from what you say she must be a ter- rible person." " Then my description belies her. Harriet is very charming and a general favorite. As for Sir James, he sim- ply adores her. I dare say she will bring Bebe with her." Who is Bebe ? " " Bebe Beatoun ? Oh, Handcock's niece, and Harriet's * most cherished.' Fortunately, her mother is at present in ItaTy, so she can't come, which is lucky for us all, as she is a dame terrible. Then we must ask Blanche Going." " Oh, rmist you ask her?" I exclaim, discontentedly. "I don't think I quite like her ; she is so supercilious, and seems to consider me so so young." " Is that a fault ? I never met any one with such a ven- eration for age as you have. I tell you, Phyllis, there is nothing on earth so desirable as youth. Be glad of it while you have it ; it never lasts. I dare say Blanche herself would not mind taking a little of it off your hands, if tha only could." 104 I'HYLLIS. " I don't think BO ; si---' rather gave rae the irapresiion that she looked down t- t )on me, as though I were foolish and not wDrth much coi sideration." " Don't "be uncbarit able, Phyllis ; she could not think anything so absurd. Besides, she told me herself one day he liked you immensely hoped you and she would be tie- Eaendous friends, and so on. Blanche is too good-natured to troai ar y one as you say.*' * Perhaps so. But, really, now, Marmaduke seriously, I mean would you not wish me to be older? Say twenty- five orao, with a little more knowledge of everything, you know? And, in fact, I mean would it not be better if 1 were more a woman of the world ? " " Oh, horror of horrors 1 " cries 'Duke, raising his,hands in affected terror. "How can you suggest anything so cruel 1 If I were married to a fashionable woman I would either cut and run, or commit suicide in six months." " Then you really think me " I hesitate. "A veritable little goose. No, nol perfection, 1 mean," seeing me pout. Then suddenly putting his arms round me and drawing me down to him, he whispers, with deep feel- ing, "Phyllis, my darling, darling girl, don't you know it ? Must I tell it you over and over again? Cannot you see every hour of your life how fondly I love you, just for what you are ? And you, Phyllis, tell me do you " He stops abruptly and regards me with a curious earnestness for a minute, then, laughing rather constrainedly, puts me gently back from him and goes on : " What other guests shall we name? Mark Gore ; would yon care for him ? " " Yes ; I liked what I saw of him. And Dora, Marma- duke." " Dora, of course. And some one to meet her, I sup- pose? Whom shall we say ? 1 think George Ashurst is an eligible who would just suit her. He is not exactly brilliant, but he is thoroughly good-hearted, and a baronet, with un- limited ccin." " I don't think Dora would like him if he is stupid," 1 iay, doubtfully. 41 Oh, he is not a fool, if you mean that ; and he has as many golden charms as would make a duller man clever." " Ah ! who is mercenary now ? " 1 say, lifting a linger of conviction. " Ain I ? You ace what comes of marrying a man of PHYLLIS. 101 the world. Now, had yon seen as much life a* I hrre you might be cqaily unpleasant." "But /don't think you unpleasant, T)uke. w " Don't you ? There is consolation to be found in that. And now whom would you like to invite, darling? " " I would like Billy," I say, disconsolately ; " hut he is never in the way when wanted, like other boys. And Holy is in Ireland, by special desire, of course. And ] would like mother, only " "Perhaps you would like the whole family?" gays my husband, mildly. " Yes, I would," I return, with alacrity ; " every n I was going to say " man jack of them," but thinking this though purest English to Billy's ears may be considered vulgar by mere outsiders, check myself in time, and substi- tute the words "every one of them," rather tamely. "All, that is, except papa ; I doubt if he could be amiable for two hours together. But where ia the UBO in wishing for what 1 cannot have ? " *' We could get Billy for a week, I dare say, later on,' gays Marmaduke, kindly, " while the rest are here, if only to keep you from despair. Is there any one else? " " No ; papa looked upon friends as nightmare*, so we have none. Besides, I shall have quite enough to do mak- ing myself agreeable to those you have named. I only hope they will not worry me into an early grave." "Well, then, I suppose, with two or three spare men, this list will do ? " " Don't you think you are asking a great many ? " " No ; very few, it seems to me ; at least barely enough to make the house warm. Here is a tip for you, Phyllis : when making up your mind to invite people to stay with you, always ask a good many together, as the more there are the easier it will be to amuse them, and much trouble Is taken off the shoulders of the poor little hostess. Bebe ?ou will like, she is so gay and bright : every one ia fond of her ? " "How old is she?" " Very young not more than nineteen or twenty, and she looks almost as young as you. Sha will suit you, and help you to do the honors. The only thing that can be said against Bebe is, she is such an incorrigible little iiirt- Do not learn that accomplishment from her." " How shall 1 v /e able to help it, if you throw me in tht 106 PHYLLIS, way of it ? I think yon are acting foolishly," with a wise shake of my head. "What if one of those 'spare meu hould chance to fall in love with me ? " " That would be a mere bagatelle to your falling in IOY with one of the ' spare men.' u I see nothing to prevent that either." " Don't you ? Then, half earnestly, taking my face between his hands, " You would not do that, Phyllis, would yon?" " No, I think not," I say, lightly, letting him have hia kiss without rebuke : "I feel no desire to be a tlirt. It must be an awful thing, as it seems to me, to have two or three men in love with you at the same time. I find one bad enough " maliciously " and that is what it comes to, ia it not?" " I suppose so, if one is a successful coquette." " Well," I say, springing to my feet, " I only hope Dora will get a good husband out of all this turmoil, if only to recompense me for the misery I am going to endure." CHAPTER XIX. DUBINO the morning of the day on which Lady Hand- cock is expected to arrive, I feel strangely nervous and un-' settled. I don't seem to care so much for any one's good opinion as for hers. If Marmadtike's sister refuses to like me, I shall take it very hardly indeed, and I do not dare to flatter myself that it may be otherwise. Probably she will be cold and haughty and indifferent, like the generality of grand dames, or, worse still, supercilious and filled with a well-bred mockery only half concealed, like Lady Blanche Going. As she has written to say they will not arrive until five o'clock, I put on my outdoor things after luncheon and wander forth alone in search of good spirits and a frame of mind so altogether radiant as shall help me to conquer fate towards evening. As at four o'clock, however, I retrace my steps, I am oy no means certain I have found anything beyond a brilliant color. PHYLLIS. 101 I crow the threshold and move towards the glair-case with the laudable intention of robing myself for conquest be- fore their coming, when to my consternation I am met by Tynon, the butler, with the pleasing intelligence that " Sir James and Lady Handcock and Miss Beatoun " have already arrived. Have entered my doors with no hostess to receive them or bid them welcome ! What will they think ? How awk- vard it has proved, my going for that stupid walk ! I smother a groan, fling my hat at Tynon, and, just as I am, with my hair slightly disarranged, enter the drawing room. At the upper end stands Marmaduke, laughing and talking gayly to a fair-haired, prettily-dressed woman, who in a lower class of existence, might be termed " buxom." To say she is inclining towards embonpoint will, however, sound less shocking to ears polite. I have heard from my husband that she is about thirty years of age, bat in the quick glance I take at her I decide she might be any ago under that, she is so white and soft and gay. " Oh ! here she is," says 'Duke, gladly, as I enter. " I am so sorry ! " I murmur, with a rising color, com- ing quickly forward ; " but we did not expect you until five o'clock." As I advance, so does she, and when we meet she layi two small plump, jewelled hands upon my shoulders. "It was all my fault," she says, smiling. * When yoa know me better you will understand that I cannot help be- ing in a hurry. However, you must forgive me this time, as my appearing at this hour is in itself a flattery, proving how impatient I was to see you." Then, regarding me at- tentively. " Why, what a child 1 " she ones ; " what a baby ! and what delicious eyes 1 Really, Marnmduke, I hardly know whether most to congratulate or pity you." She speaks with a curiously pretty accent, putting an emphasis on every third or fourth word that fascinates and pleases the listener. ''Pity!" return I, amaredly, making an unsuccessful effort to elude her firm grasp, while the indignant color flames into my cheeks. "You speak as if why should you pity him ? " " Because, cannot yoa fancy what a life you are going to lead him," says her ladyship, with a little arch laugh that op her Grecian no. " Child I too have eyes iOfc PHYLLIS, and 1 can see mischief written in every line of your ugly little face." I try to feel angry, but cannot. It is in her power to make every word she utters an undeveloped compliment. I succumb at ouoe and forever, and give myself up to her merry true-hearted influence. Putting my frowns in my pocket, 1 laugh. "If you keep on saying these things before 'Duke," I say, "he will find mo out, and perhaps in time repent hi bargain." Here I make a little moue at my husband, who is stand ing rather behind his sister, which he returns with interest " How do you know I have not found yon out long ago ? It is my belief I married you for my sins. Harriet, I leave her now in your hands; reform her if yon can." " Go and look after James," says Lady Ilandcoek " He always gets into mischief when left by himself. 1 want to make friends with Phyllis." By and by Miss Beatoun conies in, and I get through another introduction. She is hardly as tall as I am, and wonderfully pretty. No need to disbelieve the report that last season all men raved of her. Her eyes are large and dark and soft, her hair a very, very light brown, though hardly golden, and guiltless of dye. A tiny black mole, somewhat like a Queen Anne's patch, grows close to her left ear. As I look at her, I decide hastily she is more than pretty she is attractive. Her whole face is full of light ; the very corners of her mouth express unuttered laughter; it is altogether the most riante, kissable, lovable face conceiv- able. Her bands and feet are fairy-like in their proportions Nevertheless, her eyes, though unsually soft, betray the coquette; they cannot entirely conceal the mischievous long- ing for mastery that lurks in their velvet depths. " Is she not young, Bebe ? " asks Lady Ilandcoek, indi- jatin^ mo. " Very. Much younger even than I dared to hope. Of course " to mo " we all hoard you were quite a girl ; yet that did not reassure mo, as it can be said of most brides, an J as a rule they are a disagreeable lot. But you have forgotten to give yourself airs, and that is so novel and de- lightful so many young women will go in for that sort of thing. I feel," says Miss Beatoun, gayly, " I am going to a dftlicicai* autumn, and to bo veiy happy." PHYLLIS. 109 "I hope so," I answer, earnestly. "Do you know, Lady Handcock, I quite dreaded your coming? it kept me awake several nights, thinking perhaps you would be cold and difficult, and would not like me ; and now I am go relieved you cannot fancy what a weight is off EJ mind." I eay this with such evident feeling that they both laugh heertily, and Bebe gives it as her opinion that I am a "regular darling." "But you must not call me Lady Handcock,' corrects tay sister-in-law. "My name is Harriet or Harry, for the most part. I do not want to be made an old woman just yet, though Bebe will tell every one 1 am her aunt, instead of saying James is her uncle." "'It is the only hold I have over her you see," exclaims Bebe, " and I keep it as a threat. But for knowing I have it in my power to say that, she would be under no control. And with mamma so given to itinerant habits, and Harry being my natural chaperon^ I have to protect myself as best 1 may." By dinner hour our party is still further enlarged by Dora, Mark Gore, and Sir George Ashurst, a very fair young man, with an aquiline nose, plump face, and a long white moustache, lie at once impresses me with tho belief that he is thoroughly good-natured, and altogether incapa- pable of ill temper of any kind. Perhaps, indeed, if he were to smile a little less frequently, and show some symp- toms of having an opinion of his own, it would be an im- provement. But what will you ? One cannot have every- thing. And ho is chatty and agreeable, and I manage to spend my evenings very comfortably in hia society. The next day Captain Jenkins and Mr. Powell, from the Barracks at Chillington, put in an appearance; and A very youthful gentleman, with a calm and cherubic coun- tenance, arrives from London. This latter is in the i lussars, and ia full of a modest self-appreciation very much to be admired. " Well, Chips, so you have come, in spite of all your engagement*," says Marmaduke, slapping this fair-haired warnor affectionately upon the shoulder, (flia correct name is John Chippinghall Thornton; but his brother officers having elected to call him 110 PHYLLIS "Chip," he usually goes by that appllatien. Though why I have never been able to fathom, as it would be a too palpable flattery to regard this very erratic young man as a " chip of the old block," his father being a peculiarly mild and inoffensive clergyman, residing in a northern village), "What did Lady Emily say to your defection, and Maudie Green, and Carrie, and all the rest of your friends ?" * M Oh, I say, now," says Master Chips, with an ingenuous blush, " it isn't fair to show me up in this light is it ? and before Mrs. Carrington, too. She will have no opinion of me if she listens to all you say." " I am only anxious to hear how you tore yourself away from their fascinations." " Yes, do tell us, Mr. Thornton," says I. " We are so afraid that you ha.ve sacrificed yourself to oblige us." " Don't you believe a word Marmaduke says, Mrs. Car- rington : he is always representing me falsely. I shall be unhappy forever if you won't understand how proud and charmed I was to receive your invitation. Just to show you how he exaggerates, the Carry and Maud he spoke of are my cousins, and that's the same as sisters, you know " " Only far more dangerous," I return, laughing. "Well, at all events, they have every one gone off to Germany or country-houses, so they must do without me. I couldn't go trotting after 'em everywhere, you know : do enough of that in the spring to last the year. And, besides, 1 don't much care for any of that lot now." "No? Tired of them already? What a desperate Don Juan I Really, Chips, 1 shudder to think where you will end. And who is tke idol of the present hour ? some- thing more exquisite still ? " " Not to be named in the game day," says Mr. Thorn- ton, confidingly. " Fact is, she is a sort of connection of your cwn. Met her last season in town, you know, and er " an eloquent sigh " I mean Miss Bcatoun." Marmadnke bursts out laughing, and so do I. "Then, you are all right," says 'Duke. "With your asual luck you have fallen upon your feet. At this instant the same roof covers you and your inamorata" " No ! " cries Chips, eagerly. " You don't mean it ? Of course you are only joking. You're not in earnest, now Marmaduke are you ? " "Seeing ia believing," returns Duke. "But if you -ud dress yourself this very moment you will get PHYLLIS 111 no dinner, and lose a good chance of exercising your fasci- nations upon Miss Beatoun." Later on he takes her in to dinner and is supremely happy ; while Messieurs Jenkins and PoAvell, who have reached their thirty-third year, look on aghast at the young one's " cheek." They are estimable men, and useful in thsir own way, but refuse to shine in conversation. I lhi*i\ they like each other ; I am quite sure they like Marmaduka, who draws them out in a wonderful manner, and makes them marvel at their own unwonted brilliancy j while Har- riet aids and abets him by her gayety. At my right hand sits Sir James, a tall, distinguished- looking man, with hair of iron-gray and deep-set eyes. lie is grave and remarkably silent such an utter contrast to his laughter-loving wife, of whom he never appears to take the smallest notice. To me it is a matter of amazement how he can so systematically ignore her, as he seldom ad- dresses to her a word or lets his eyes rest upon her for any length of time. But for Marmaduke's* assertion that they adore each other I would be inclined to think them at daggers drawn, or at least indifferent ; and it is only now and then when she speaks to him, and I see his eyes light up and smile and suften, that I can accept the gentler idea. Not to his wife alone, however, is he reserved ; all the rest of the world he treats in a similar manner, and 1 corne to the conclusion he abhors.talking, and is a man with no settled taste or pursuits. Hearing, indeed, that hU one passion is hunting, I broach the subject cautiously, and, feeling certain of making a score, express myself desirous of being informed as to the express nature of the " bull- finch." "Explanations always fall short," is his reply. " Some day when we are out I will show you one. That will be 'best." So my ignorance remains unenlightened, and as Le ealmly returns to his dinner, I do the game, and abandon ali hopes of hearing him converse. D >ra is doing the amiable to Sir George Ashurst. Any- thing so simple or innocent as Dora in her white dress and soral ribbons eould hardly be conceived. I am admiring her myself with all my heart, and wondering how it is she does it ; aud I fancy Sir Mark Gore is doing the sa.ua. Once, a*i ebe ruLses ;Lo childish questiouh.j; blue eyes toh 112 PHYLLIS. companion's face, and murmurs some pretty speech in her soft treble, I see Sir Mark smile openly. It is only a mo- mentary merriment, however, as directly afterwards he turns to me, suave and charming as ever. " How becoming white is to your sister! " he says. " It suits her expression so wonderfully. I don't know how it is, but the word ingenue always comes to me wheu I lot k at her." " She is very pretty," I return, coldly. I have not yet quite decided on the nature of that smite. " You do her an injustice. Surely she is more than ' pretty ' a word that means so little in these degenerate days. If I were an artist 1 should like to paint her us ' Moonlight,' with a bunch of lilies in her hands, and just that dress she is now wearing without the ribbons and a little stream running at her feet. I have seldom seen so sweet an expression. One could hardly fancy an unkind word coming from those lips, or a hidden motive in her heart." I think of our " Moonlight's" designs upon Marmaduke and the man who is now so loud in her praise. I think of the many and energetic fracas between her and Hilly, and am silent. I don't know why, but I am positive Sir Mark is amused. I color and look up. " What ages ago it seems since last we met ! " says he, promptly. "Ages? No, months. It was last June we mt, I think and here." "Oh, that was only the barest glimpse; one could hardly call it a meeting. I was referring to my visit to the Leslies two years ago. You remember that little scene in the High street, at Carston?" I laughed meriily. "' I do indeed. Hut for you the finale would have been too ignominious. I shall always owe you a debt of gratitude for your timely appearance. The saddle turned, I recollect, exactly opposite the Bank, and I had a horrid vision of two or three young men gazing at me in eager expectation from some of the windows." " Yos ; and then -.ve met again, and Shall I peed one of these for you ? " " I'ltase." " And I flattered myself you treated me with some dej*re of graciousness ; flattered myself so far that I presumed to 1 1 3 send yon a little volume of poems I bad heard von wish for ami which you returned. That was rather cruel, was it not ? " " I have always./*?^ how rude yon must have thought nu on that occasion." I reply, blushing hotly. "I did so long to tell you all about it, but could not. It was not my fault, however ; I confess I would have kept it if possible : it waa papa, lie said you should not have sent it, and insisted on .ts being returned." " Well, perhaps he was right. Yet it was a very harm- tesg and innocent little volume, after all, containing only the mildest sentiments. (Is that a good one ? ) " " (Very good, thank you). It was Tennyson's ' Idyls ' I remember perfectly ; and it was filled with the prettiest illustrations. Oh, I was so sorry to part with that neat little book ! Do you know I was silly enough to cry the day 1 posted it back to you ? " Sir Mark regards me earnestly, almost curiously. I am laughing at my own past folly, but he does not even smile in sympathy. " I am sorry any act of mine should have cost you a tear," he says, slowly, "But why did you not write a line to ex- plain all this to me when sending it?" "Fancy the iniquity of such a thing! the very sugges- tion would have brought down untold wrath upon my pooi head. To ask permission to write a letter to a gentleman 1 Oh, horror ! " " And you would not but, no, of course you would not," Bays Sir Mark, rather unintelligibly. And then I glance at Lady I landcock, and she glances at me. Sir Mark rises to open the door, and 1 smile and nod gayly at him as 1 cross the threshold and pass into the lighted hall. Wo are all beginning to know each other well, and to b mutually pleased with each other, when, towards the close of the week, Lady Blanche Going joins our party. She is looking considerably handsomer than when I last saw ner in town, and is apparently in good humor with herself and all the rest of the world. How long this comfortable state oi at't'airs may last, however, remains a mystery. She brings with her a horse, a pet-j/oodk', ami a very Fix-neb uiaici, who 114 PHYLLIS makes herself extremely troublesome, and cause* much di seusion in the servants' hall. Sir Mark Gore and her ladyship are evidently old friends, and express a well-bred amount of pleasure on again meet- ing. 1'erhaps her ladyship's expressions are by a shade the warmest. " I had no idea I should meet you here," she winds up, tweetly, when the subject of her satisfaction is exhausted. " Mrs. Carrington, when alluding to her other guests, never mentioned your name." "No? Mrs. Carvington, how unkind of you to dismiss me so completely from your thoughts ! ' Never to mention my name ! ' It is horrible to picture oneself so totally for- gotten." " You could not surely hope to be always in my thoughts ? " I answer, lightly. 1 tor ladyship flashes a sharp glance at us from her long dark eyes. " I might not expect it, certainly ; but I am not to be blamed if I cannot help hoping for anything so desirable." " Vain hope ! " return I saucily, " and a foolish one be- Bideg. Have you never heard that 'familiarity breeds con- tempt ? ' and that ' too much of anything is good for noth- ing? ' Were I to keep you perpetually in my mind I mighc perhaps end by hating you." " what an appalling idea ! " murmurs Lady Blanche, softly, speaking in that peculiar tone of half-suppressed iron) 1 I so greatly detest. u Should anything so dreadful ever occur I doubt if Sir Mark would recover it." " I don't suppose I should,'* replies Sir Mark, rather bluntly, as it seems to me, without turning his head in her direction. There is a moment's rather awkward pause, and then hei 'adyship laughs lightly, and, crossing the room, sits down by Bebe Beatoun. Her laugh is an unpleasant one, .and jars upon me pain fully. Her very manner of rising and leaving me alone witb Sir Mark has something in it so full of insolent meaning that for the instant I hate her. She makes me feel 1 have said something foolish something better left uivsaid, though thoroughly unmeant. I color, bite my lip, ami, without an- other word to my companion, who is looking black as night, I ^0 oat tlirou^h the open window. PHYLLIS. Hi So for the second time the little thorn enters into ray heart and pricks me gently. A seed is sown that heart, m bitter fruit. CHAPTER XX. NOBODY seems to mind me in the least(as a hindrance to their rather open flirtations), though, with the exception of Lady Blanche, all my guests appear prepossessed in my favor. I am no good at all as a chaperon looking at that neo- essary evil in the light of a guardian of morals as no one, I feel utterly positive, would listen to a word of advice given by me, even had I the courage to speak that word, which I feel sure I have not. " Tell you why I like you so much," says Bebe to me, one day, with charming candor (we have become great friends by this time) ; " you have so little of the married woman about you. You don't look the thing at all. No- body would feel in the least put out if you caught them do- ing anything, even a little \>itfi-fi. You'd be afraid to scold, and you are too goodnatured to ' peach.' Now there's mamma; her eyes strike terror to the hearts of the girls she ihaperons. Only let her catch you with your hand in the possession of any Detrimental, however delightful, and it is all up with you half an hour later." " But I suppose your mother is right. I shall remember what you say, and take her as a model from this day forth." " It isn't in you. You would make a horrible mess of it ; and you are infinitely nicer as you are. A strong etare is a necessary ingredient, and you don't possess that You should be able to wither with a look. I hate being scolded, and I would back mamma, once started, to hold Jier own against any of those Billingsgate ladies one hears of. 1 as- rare you the amount of vituperation our night brougham has concealed about its person is enough, one would think, to turn the color of its cloth. No doubt that is why it re- quires doing up so very often." " You don't seem any the better for all the indignation. "No, that is just it. That shows the folly of wasting U* PHYLLIS. BO much valuable breath. I am a born flirt, and as uch 1 Lope I'll die. There ! that is extra naughty, is it not ? So. out of respect for you, I will unsay it, and hope instead 1 may depart this life a calm and decorous matron." " Do you know I never had a flirtation in my life ? " 1 say, almost regretfully. " No? really ! How absurb! " eays Bebe, bursting into a much- amused laugh. "That is just what makes you me curious, dear, darling, little child you are. But you need not be so poverty-stricken any longer unless you please, as any one can see how ejyris with you is Sir Mark Gore." " Nonsense ! " cry 1, blushing furiously. " How can you say anything so untrue ? I have known him this ever so long ; he is quite an old friend." "And a, fast friend," says Bebe, laughing again at her own wit. "Having waited so long you do right to begin your campaign with a seasoned veteran." " You must not say such things : if you do I shall rouse myself and assert my authority as a very dragon among c/Ldperoris ,' and then where will you and Captain Jenkins and Master Chips be? " " No, don't," entreats Bebe, pretending to be frightened. " As you now are you are perfection : were you to change you would not be Phyllis Carrington at all. When /marry 1 intend taking you as an example, and so make myself dear to the hearts of all my spinster friends." "And when will that be, Bebe?" A shade crosses and darkens her face. For a momen* Bhe looks sad ; then it disappears, and she laughs gayly. "Never, probably. I don't get the chance. Generally when I pay my autumn visits, I live in a state of constant dread of being pounced upon by officious matrons, just as I am going in for an hour of thorough enjoyment with a man who has not a penny on earth besides his pay. But here it is different. You would never pounce, my Phyllis, would /our You would make a delightful clitter-clatter, will] those little high-heeled shoes of yours, long before you turned the corner ; there is nothing mean or prowling about you. Phyllis, is all that hair really your own ? I won't be- lieve it till I see it. Let mj pull it down, and do it up again for you in a new style, will you ? I am tremendously good at hair-dressing, really. Harry says I am better than nor French maid. When all trades' fail, and 1 ain a lonolj Old maid, I shall bind myself to a barber. PHYLLIS. 117 With this she pull* my hair all about my shoulders, and makes me endure untold tortures tor at least three-quarters of an hour. Meantime Dora is improving the shining hours with Sir George Ashurst. She is making very fast and likely run- ning, that looks as if it meant to make the altar-rails its joal. As for her victim, he has neither eyes nor tongue nor 1% r s for any one but Dora, and success lends enchantment to my sister's face and form. Always pretty, she has gained from the excitement of the contest an animation hitherto unknown, that adds considerably to her charms. I experience little throbs of satisfaction and delight as I contemplate this promising flirtation ; though as yet I do not dare to think of marriage as its probable termination. I long intensely to discuss the subject with Dora, to learn how far I may beguile myself with hope ; but one day, having touched upon it very delicately, I am met with such an amount of innocent blaukness as effectually deters me from making any further attempt. Nevertheless, speak it I must, or die ; and, coming upon Marruaduke suddenly, directly after receiving Dora's re- buff, I proceed with much caution to sound him about the matter. lie is in his own private den, a little room devoted to rubbish, and containing a motley collection of pipes, guns, whips, actresses (for the most part decent), and spurs. As I enter he is bending over some new favorite among the guns, and is endeavoring, with the assistance of the largest pin I ever saw, to pick dust from some intricate crevice. lie is crimson, either from stooping or anxiety I don't know which, though I incline towards the latter opinion- is on seeing me he says, irritably, " Phyllis, have you a small pin ? I cannot think, flinging the large one angrily from him, " why they choose tc make them this size : they are not of the smallest use to iny fellow who wants to clean a gun." " They may have been designed for some other pur- pose," I suggest, meekly, producing a more reasonably- sized phi, which he seizes with avidity and returns to hia task. T seat myself near him, and for a few minutes content 118 PHYLLIS. myself with watching the loving care he bestows upon hu work. No careless servant's hands should touch those new and shining barrels. "Marmaduke," I say at length, "I don't think Sil George so very stupid." "Don't you, darling ? " absently. " No. Why did you say he was ?" "Did I say it?" Evidently every idea he possesses if centred in that absurd gun. " Dear me, 'Duke, of course you did," I cry, impatiently. " You told me he was not ' brilliant,' and that means the same thing. Don't you remember ? " WelC is he brilliant ? " " No, but he converses very nicely, and is quite aa agreeable as any of the other men, in a general sort of way." " I am very glad you think so. He is a great friend of mine; and, after all, I don't suppose it matters in the least a man's not being able to master his Greek and Latin, or failing to take his degree." " Of course not. I dare say he did not put his mind to it. I am convinced had he done so he would have distin- guished himself as as much as anybody." " Just so." " I think " with hesitation " he would suit Dora very well." " I agree with you there ; more particularly as Dora ia not clever either." "Yes, she is," I cry hotly; "she is exceedingly clever. She can do a great deal more than most girls ; she can do lots of things that I can't do." " Can she ? But perhaps you fail in the cleverness also?" "I think you are excessively rude and disagreeable^' I say, much affronted, and getting up, move with dignity to- wards the door. " If you see Ashursttell him I want him," calls out Mar- maduke as I reach it. " Yes ; and at the same time I shall tell him you said he was a dunce at college," I return, in a withering tone. Marmaduke laughs, and, dropping the precious gun, runs after me, catches and draws me back into his sanctum. "I think Dora and Ashurst two of the most intellectual people it has ever been my good fortune to meet," h e says, PHYLLIS. H8 still laughing, and holding me. " Will that do? Is ycut majesty appeased ? " "I wouldn't tell fibs, if I were you," return I, severely. " Say lies. I hate the word ' fib.' A lie sounds much more honest. But I am really in earnest when I say 1 think Dora clever. I know at least twenty girls who have dona their best to be made Lady Ashurst, and not one of them ever came as near success as she has." " But he has not proposed to her yet." "It is the same thing. Any one can see that he nas Dora on the brain, and I don't think (asking your pardon hum- bly) his brain would stand much pressure. I'd lay any amount she has him at her feet before his visit is concluded." " How delightful ! How pleased mamma will be ! Mar- raaduke, I forgive you. But you must not say slighting things of me again. " Slighting things of you, my own darling ! Cannot you see when I am in fun ? I only wanted to make you pout and look like the baby you are. In reality I think you the brightest, dearest, sweetest, et cetera" Thus my mind is relieved, and I feel I can wait with calmness the desirable end that is evidently in store for Jbora. I am so elated by Marmaduke's concurrence with my hopes that I actually kiss him, and, re-seating myself, con- sent to take the butt-end of the gun upon my lap and hold it carefully, while he rubs the barrels up and down with a dreadfully dirty piece of scarlet flannel soaked in oil. When, however, this monotonous process has been con- tinued for ten minutes or so, and I find I cannot flatter my- self with the belief that it will soon be over, I lose sight of the virtue called patience. " Do you think they would ever grow brighter than they are now ? " I venture mildly. " If you rubbed them for years, Marmaduke, I don't believe they could be further im- proved : do you ? " " Well, indeed, perhaps you are right. I think they will do now," replies he, regarding his new toy with a fond eye ; and then almost with regret, as though loath to part with it, he replaces it in its flannel berth. "J3y the bye, Phyllis, I had a letter from a friend ol mine this morning Chandos telling me of his return ta England, and I have written inviting him here." 120 PHYLLIS. " Have you ? I hope he is nice. Is he Mr. or Captain Chandos, or what?" " Neither : he is Lord Chandos." " What ! " cry I ; " tlic real live lord at last I Now, 1 suppose, we will have to be very seemly in oar conduct, and forget we ever laughed. Is he very old and staid, 'Duke ? " "Very. He is a year older than I am ; and I remcmbei jou once told me I was bordering on my second childhood or something like it. However, in reality you will not fir.:! Chandos formidable. lie has held his honors but a very short time. Last autumn he was only Captain Everett, with nothing to speak of beyond his pay, when fate in the shape of an unsound yacht sailed in, and, having drowned one old man and two young ones, pushed Everett into his present position.' " What a romance ! I suppose one ought to feel sorry for the three drowned men, but somehow I don't. Witu such a story connected with him, your friend ought to be Loth handsome and agreeable. Is he?" " I don t know. I would be afraid to say. You might take me to task and abuse me afterwards, if our opinions dif fered. You know you think George Ashurst a very fasci rating youth. Chandos is a wonderful favorite with women, if that has anything to do with it," " Of course it has everything." " I have been thinking," says 'Duke, " that as a set-off to all the hospitality we have received from the county, \ve ought to give a ball." " A ball ! Oh, delicious ! " cry I, clapping ray hands rapturously. " What lias put such a glorious idea into your head? To dance to a band all down that great, big, ball- room ! Oh, 'Duke ! I am so glad I married you ! " 'Duke laughs and colors slightly. " Are you, really? Do you mean that? Do you never repent it?"" "R'-pent it? Never I not for a single instant. IIov could I, when you are so good to me when you are always thinking of things to make me happy? " " I am doubly, trebly rewarded for anything I nay hive done by hearing such words from your lips. To kt >w you are 'glad you married ine ' is the next best thing to knowing you love me." * And so I do love you, you gttly boy, I am very, 17 PHYLLIS. 121 fond of you. Marmaduke, do you think you could get Billy here for the ball ? " " I will try. I dare say I shall be able to manage it. And now run away and get Blanche Going to help you write out a list of people. She knows every one in the county, and is a capital hand at anything of that sort." " She seems to be a capital hand at most things," I rtply, pettishly, " except at making herself agreeable to me It is always Blanche Going can do this, and Blanche Going can do that. She is a paragon of perfection in your eyes, I do believe. I won't ask her to help me. I hate her." " Well ask any one else you like, then, or no one. But don't hate poor Blanche. What has she done to de- serve it ? " " Nothing. But I hate her for all that. I feel like a cat with its f ur i ubbed up the wrong way whenever I am near her. She has the happy knack of always making mo feel small and foolish. I suppose we are antagonistic to each oilier. And why do you call her 'poor Blanche ? ' 1 don't see that she is in any need of your pity." " llavc you not said she has incurred your displeasure ? What greater misfortune could befall her ?" says 'Duke, smiling tenderly into my cross little face. I relent and' smile in turn. " Oh, believe me, she will not die of that," I say ; " and All events don't you be unhappy, 'Duke," patting his face softly. " I shall never hate you be sure of that." And then catching up my train to facilitate my move- ments, I run through the house in search of Harriet and Bcbe, to make known to them my news and discuss with them all the joys and glories of a ball. Bebc is scarcely less delighted than I am ; and all the rest of that day and the greater part of the next we spend in arranging and dissarranging countless plans. " It shall be a ball," says Bebe, enthusiastically, " such as the county never before attended. We will astonish the rativos. We will get men down from London to settle everything, and the decorations and music and supper shall i.c beyond praise. I know exactly what to do and to crder. 1 have helped Harriet to give balls ever so often, and I am determined, as it will be your first ball as Mrs. Carriugtou, it bh;;ll be a splendid success." " My first ball in every way," I say feeling rather ashamed of myself. " I was at several small dances heioro my inar- 122 PHYLLIS. riage, and at a number of dinner-parties since, but 1 in rny life was at a real large ball." "What!" cries Bebe, literally struck dumb by thii revelation ; then, with a little lady-like shout of laughter, " I never heard of anything half so ludicrous. Why Phyllis. I am a venerable grandmother next to you. Harriet," to Lady Handcock, who has just entered, " just fancy ! Phyllis tells me she was never at a ball ! " " I dare say she is all the better for it," says Harriet, kindly, seeing my color is a little high. " If you had gone to fewer you would be a better girl. How did it happen, Phyllis ? " " No one in our immediate neighborhood ever gave a ball," I hasten to explain, " and we did not visit people who lived far away." I suppress the fact of our having had no respectable vehicle to convey us to those distant ball-givers, had we been ever so inclined to go. " I suppose it appears very odd to you." " Odd !" cries Bebe ; " it is abominable ! I am so envi- ous I can scarcely bring myself to speak to you. I know exactly what I may expect, while you can indulge in the most delightful anticipations. I can remember even now the raptures of my first ball : the reality far exceeded even my wildest flights of fancy, and that is a rare thing. Posi- tively I can smell the flowers and hear the music this mo- ment. And then I had so many partners more I think, than I get now : I could have filled twenty cards instead of one. Why, Phyllis, I am but two years older than you, and yet if I had a pound for every ball I have been at, I would have enough money to tide me over my next season with- out fear of debt." My mind incapable of retaining, even when at its best, more than one idea at a time is now so filled to overflow- ing with the thought of this ball that I quite lose signt of our expected visitor, and forget to mention the advent of Lord Chandos. I talk and dream and think of nothing but the coming gayety. Nevertheless it causes me keen anxiety. I am conceitedly desirous of looking my best on that eventful night ; I am also ambitious of seeming stricken in years, having long ago decided that my juvenile appearance as a married woman is very much against me, and that age brings dignity. I ait down, and, running over all my dresses in my mind, cannot convince myself that any of them, if worn, would PHYLLIS. 118 haye the desired effect of adding years to my face and form, My trousseau, to be just, was desirable in everyway. How she managed it no one could tell, but mother did contrive to screw sufficient money out of papa to set me creditably before the world. Still all my evening robes seem youth- ful and girlish in the extreme as I call them up one by One. After a full half-hour of earnest cogitation, I make 'ijt Jtty mind to a grand purpose, and, stealing downstairs, move rather sneakily to Marmaduke's study. I devoutly trust he will be alone, and as I open the door I find I have my wish. He is busily writing; but, as he is never too busy to attend to me, he lays down his pen and smiles kindly as he sees me. " Come in, little woman. What am I to do for you?" " Marmaduke," I say, nervously, " i have come to ask you a great favor." " That is something refreshingly now. Do you know it will be the first favor you have asked of me, though we have been married more than three months? Say on and 1 swear it shall be yours, whatever it is to the half of my kingdom." " l r ou are quite sure you will not think it queer of me, or or shabby ? " " Quite certain." " Well, then "with an effort" for this ball, I think, Marmaduke, I would like a new dress ; may I send to Lon- don for it?" When I have said it it seems to me so disgracefully soon to ask for new clothes that I bluih crimson, and am to the last degree shamefaced. Marmaduke laughs heartily. " Is that all ? " he says. " Are you really wasting a blush on such a slight request? What an odd little girl you ire ! I believe you are the only wife alive who would feel modest about asking such a question. How much do you want darling? You will require some other things too, I suppose. Shall I give you a hundred pounds, to see how far it will go? Will that be enough?" " Oh, 'Duke ! a great deal too much." "Not a bit too much. 1 d.:n't know ~n hat dresses cost, but I have always hoard a considerable sum. And now, as we are on the subject of money, 1'hy lis ; what would 124 PHYLLIS. you prefer an allowance, or money whenever you want it, or what?" " If you would pay my bills, Marmaduke, 1 would like it best." I have never felt so thoroughly married as at this moment, when I know myself to be dependent on him for every shilling I may spend. " Very well. Whatever you like. Any time you tire of this arrangement you can say so. But at all events you will require some pocket-money," rising from the table and going over to a small safe in the wall. " No, thank you, 'Duke ; I have some." How much ? " * Enough, thank you." " Nonsense, Phyllis ! " almost angrily. " flow absurb you are ! One would think I was not your husband. I wish you would try to remember you have a perfect right to everything I possess. Come here directly and take this," holding out to me a roll of notes and a handful of gold. "Promise me," he says, " when you want more you will come to me for it. It would make me positively Mi-etched if I thought you Avere without money to buy whateAer you fancy." " But I never had fifty I never had ten pounds in my life," 1 say, half amused. " I won't know what to do with it." " I wonder if you will have the same story to relate this time next year?" answers 'Duke, laughing. "The very simplest thing to learn is how to spend money. And now tc'l me I confess I have a little curiosity on the subject what are you going to wear on the twenty-fourth? You will make yourself look your most charming, will you not, Phyllis?" " I shall rover be able to look dignified or imposing, if you mean t.hqt," say I, gloomily. " All the old women about the fcrms who don't know me think I am a visitor here, and call me ' Miss,' just as though I were never mar- ried." " That is very sad, especially as *you will have to wait so many year? for those wrinkles you covet. I dare eay a dealer in cosmetics, however, would lay you on a few for the occasion, if you paid him well; and, with one of your grandmother's gowns, we might perhaps be able to per- suade our guests that I had married a woman ohl enough to be my mother." PHYLLIS. 125 " I know what I should like to wear," I hay, bhyly. "What?" " Black velvet and the diamonds," I say, boldly. JNIarmaduke roars. u What are you laughing at ? M I ask, testily, sornc\vha4 vexed. "At the picture you have drawn. At the idea of velvet and diamonds in conjunction with your baby face. AVhy did you not think of adding on the ermine? Then, in- deed, witli your height you would bo quite majestic ? " " But may I wear it? May I may I?" ask I, impa- tiently. "All my life I have been wanting to wear velvet, and now when 1 have so good an opportunity do let me." "Is that your highest ambition? By all means, my dear child, gratify it. Why not? Probably in such an effective get-up you will take the house by storm." " I really think I shall look very nice and old" I re- turn, reflectively. Then, "'Duke, have you written about Billy?" " Yes ; I said we wished to have him on the nineteenth for a week; that will bring him in time for the slaughter on the twentieth. 1 thought perhaps he might enjoy that." " You think of everything. I know no one so kind or good-natured. 'Duke, don't make a joke about that vel- vet. Don't tell any one what I said, please." " Never fear. I will be silent as the grave. You shall burst upon them as an apparition in all your ancient bravery." That evening we dress early, Bebe and I, for no par- ticular reason, that I can remember, and, coming down- stairs together, seat ourselves before the drawing-room lira to ruin our complexions and have a cozy chat until th others break in upon us. We have discussed many things and expressed various opinions about most of the other guests in the house, until at length we draw breath before entering with vivacity upon some fresh unfortunate. E\en as \\e pause, the door at the end of the room is Hung wide, and a tall >oung man coming in walks straight towards me. The lamps have not yet been lit, and only the crimson flashes from the blazing fire reveal to us his features. Ha is dark, rather more distinguished-looking than handsome, and has wonderful deep, kind, grny eyes. A 26 PHYLLIS. "Lord Chandos," announces Tynon,in the background, speaking from out the darkness, after which, having played his part, he vanishes. I rise and go to meet the new-comer, with extended hand. " This is a surprise, but a pleasant one. I am very glad to bid you welcome," I say, in a shy, old-fashioned man- ner,; but my hand-clasp is warm and genial, and he smilei and looks pleased. '* Thank you ; Mrs. Carrington, I suppose ? " he says^ with some faint hesitation, his eyes travelling over my dreadfully youthful form, that looks even more than usually childish to night in its clothing of white cashmere and blue ribbons. " Yes," I return, laughing and blushing. " Marmaduke should have been here to give us a formal introduction to each other, though indeed it is hardly necessary: I seem to know you quite well from all I have heard about you." A slight rustling near the fire, a faint pause, and then Bebe comes forward. " How d'ye do, Lord Chandos ? " she says. " I hope you have not quite forgotten me." She holds out her hand and tor an instant her eyes look fairly into his only for an instant. She is dressed in some filmy black gown, that clings ^lose to her, and has nothing to relieve its gloom save one spot of blood-red color that rests upon her bosom. Her 4rms shine bare and white to the elbow; in her hair is another fleck of the blood-red ribbon. Is it the flickering uncertain light or my own fancy that makes her face appear o pale ? Her eyes gleam large and dark, and the curious little black siole lying so close to her ear looks blacker than usual n contrast to her white cheek. But her tone rings gay and teady as ever. A smile quivers round her lips. 1 am puzzled, I scarcely know why. I glance at Lord Cl\ai.dos, and surely the firelight to-night is playing fan- tastic tricks his face appears flushed and anxious, I draw conclusions, but cannot make them satisfactory. "I had no idea I should meet you here," he says, in a *ow tone that is studiously polite. Bebe laughs musically. "Nol Then we are mutually astonished. I thoujjltf YOU safe in Itnly. Certainly it is on my mind that some- body told me you were there." " I returned home last week." Then, turning to me, he gays, hurriedly, " I hope Carrington is well ? " " Quite well, thank you. Will you come with me to find him ? lie would have been the first to welcome you, had he known of your coming, but we did not hope to se* you until next week." " I had no idea myself I could have been here so soon. But business, luckily, there was none to detain me, so I came straight on to throw myself on your tender mercies." We have now reached the library door. " Manuadukc," I call out, opening it and entering, " I have brought you Lord Chandos. Now, are you not sur- prised and pleased ? " " Oh ! more pleased than I can say," exclaims 'Duke, heartily, coming eagerly forward to greet his friend. " My dear fellow, what good wind blew you to us so soon ? " When I return to the drawing-room I find the lamps burning cheerily, and most of our party assembled. Lady Blanche, reclining in a \o\vfauteuil, is conversing earnestly with Sir Mark Gore, who stands beside her. See- ing me, she smiles softly at him and motions him to a chair lit ar her. As I move past her trailing skirts a sudden thought of Mons. Kimmel comes to me the delicatest, faint- est perfume reaches me. She runs the fingers of one white hand caressingly across her white arm ; her every move- ment is an essence a grace. Dora, in her favorite white muslin and sweet demure smile, is holding Mr. Powell and Sir George Ashurst in thrall. She is bestowing the greater part of her attention upon the former, to the disgust and bewilderment of honest George, who looks with moody dislike upon his rival. Both men are intent upon taking her down to dinner. There is little need for you to torture yourself with jealous fears, Sii George. When the time comes it is without doubt upon your arm she will lay that little white pink-tinged hand. Bebe is sitting upon a sofa, with the infatuated Chips beside her, and is no longer pale : two crimson spots adorn her cheeks and add brilliancy to her eyes. As I watch her vronderiugly she slowly raises her head, and, meeting my gaze, bestows upon me a glance so full of the liveliest re- proach, not unmixed with indignation, that I am filled \viih 128 PHYLLIS. consternation, What have I done to deserve so withering ft look ? " I would give something to know of whom you are thinking just now," says a voice at uiy elbow. " Not of wie, I trust ? " I turn to find Sir Mark is regarding me earnestly. In gtinctively I glance at the vacant chair beside Lady Blanche, and in doing so encounter her dark eyes bent on mine. Verily, I am not in good odor with my guests to-night. All through dinner I try to attract Bebe's attention, but cannot. I address her, only to receive the coldest of replies. Even afterwards, when we get back once more to the draw- ing-room, I cannot manage an explanation, as she escapes to her own room, and does not appear again until the gen- tlemen have joined us. Neither she nor Lord Chandos exchange one word with each other throughout the entire evening. With a sort of feverish gayety she chatters to young Thornton, to Captain Jenkins, to any one who may chance to be near her, as though she fears a silence. Nevertheless the minutes drag. It is the stupidest night we have known, and I begin to wish I had learned whist or chess or something of that sort. I am out of spirits and though innocent of what it may be, feel myself guilty of some hideous blunder. Presently the dreaded quiet falls. The whist-players are happy, the rest of us are not. Sir Mark, with grave polite- ness, comes to the rescue. " Perhaps Mr. Thornton will kindly favor us with a song?" he says, without a smile. And Mr. Thornton, with a face even more than usually benign, willingly consents, and gives us. " What will you do, love, when 1 am going ? " a propos of his approaching departure for India with much sentimental fervor, and many tender glances directed openly at Miss Beatoun. "Thank you," murmurs that young lady, when tht doleful ditty is finished, having listened to it all throng! with an air of saddened admiration impossible to describe, and unmistakably flattering. " I know no song that touches me so deeply as that." "I know you are laughing at me," eays Chips, frankly, seating himself again beside her, and sinking his voice to a whisper that he fondly but erroneously beiicvua PHYLLIS, 129 to be inaudible ; " but I don't care. I would rather have you to make fun of me than any other girl to love me ! " Oould infatuation further go ? " Perhaps one might find it possible to do both," insin- uates Miss Beatoun, wickedly ; but, this piece of flagrant hypocrisy proving to much even for her, she raises her fan to a level with her lips and subsides with an irrepressible uuile behind it, while poor little Chips murmurs : " Oh, come, now. That is more than any fellow wou.d believe, you know," and grins a pleased and radiant grin. Bebe, being asked to sing, refuses, gently but n'rmly ; and when I have delighted my audience with one or two old English ballads, we give in, and think with animation of our beds. In the corridor above I seize hold of Bebe. " What has vexed you ? " I ask, anxiously. " Why are vou not friends with me ? You must come to my room before you go to bed. Promise." " Very good. I will come," quietly disengaging my hand. Then, before closing the door, "Indeed, Phyllis, I think you might have told me," she says, in a tone of deep reproach. So that is it ! But surely she must have seen his com- ing so unexpectedly was a great surprise. And is there a romance connected with her and Lord Chandos ? I confess to an overpowering feeling of curiosity. I dismiss my maid with more haste than usual, and, sitting in my dressing-gown and slippers, long for Bebe's coming. I am convinced I shall not sleep one wink if she fails to keep this appointment. I am not doomed to a sleepless night, however, as pres- ently she comes in all her beautiful hair loose about hei shoulders. " Now, Bebe " I exclaim, jumping np to give her a good shake, " how could you be so cross all about nothing ? J )'d not know myself he was coming so soon. You made iu miserable the entire evening, and spoiled everything." "But you knew he was coming sometime; why did you not say so ? " " I forgot all about him. I knew no reason why I sh juld attach importance to his presence here. I don't know now either. I was quite ignorant of your previous acquaintance with him. Probably had he waited in London until next week, as he originally intended, it might have occurred Lo 130 ff/YLL/S me to mention his coming, and so I would have spared my- self all the cruelty and neglect and wicked looks so lav : "hlj bestowed upon me this evening " "You have yet to learn," says Miss Beatoun, who i,s, I think, a little ashamed of her pettishness, " that of all things I most detest being taken by surprise. It puts me out dreadfully ; I don't recover myself for ever so long ; and to s^ Lord Chandos here, of all people, when I believed him safe in Italy, took away my breath. Phyllis, I don't know how it is, but I feel I must tell you all about it." " Yes, do. I am so anxious to h^ar. Yet I half guess he is, or was, a lovvr of yours. Is it not so ? And some- thing has gone wrong? " " Very much wrong, indeed," with a rather bitter laugh. " It will be a slight come-down to my pride to tell you this story ; but I can trust you, can I not ? I am not fond of women friends as a rule indeed, Harriet is my only one but you, Phyllis, have exercised upon me some charm, I do believe, as when I am near you I forget to be reserved." " That is because you know how well I like you." " Is it ? Perhaps so. Well, about Lord Chandos. My story is a short one, you will say, and to the point. I met him first two years ago. He fell in love with me, and last year asked me to marry him. That is all ; but you will un- derstand by it how little ambitious I was of meeting him again." " And you " " Refused him, dear. How could I do otherwise ? He was only Captain Everett then, without a prospect on earth ; and I am no heiress. It would have meant poverty scarcely even what is called * genteel poverty ' had I consented to be his wife ; and " with a quick shudder of disgust " I would rather be dead, I think, than endure such a life as that." " Did you love him, Bebe ? M " I liked him well enough to marry him, certainly," s&e limits, slowly, " had circumstances been different." We are silent for a little time ; then Bebe says, in a low tone. " He was so good about it, and I deserved so little ipercy at his hands. I don't deny I had flirted with him horribly, with cruei heartlessness, considering I knew all along when it came to the final move, I would say ' No.' I liked him so well that I coull not make uu my mind to be brave iu i>.ji PHYLLIS. 131 and let him go, never counting the pain I would afterwards have to inflict and bear." Her voice sinks to a whisper. Without turning myhead, I lay my hand on hers. " It all happened one morning," she goes on, presently making a faint pause between each sentence, " quite early. There was nothing poetic or sentimental about it in the way of conservatories or flowers or music. He had conif to pay me his usual visit. It was July, and mamma and I were leaving town the next day. We were not to see each other again for a long time. Perhaps that hastened it. It was a wet day, I remember I can hear the sad drip, drip, of the raindrops now and we felt silent and depressed. Somehow then I hardly know how it all wat said and over." " How sad it was ! " I murmur, stroking the hand I hold with quiet sympathy. "And then " "Then I let him see how utterly false and worthless waa the woman he loved. I let him know that even if I adored him his want of money would be an insurmountable barrier between us. I think I told him so. I am not quite sure of that. I do not recollect distinctly one word I said that day. 1 only know that he went away impressed with the belief that I was a mere contemptible money-worshipper." " Did he say anything reproachful, I mean ? " " That was the hardest part of it. He would not re- proach me. Had he been bitter or hard or cold I could have borne it better ; but he was silent on the head of his wrongs. He only sat there, looking distinctly miserable, without an unkind word on his lips." ' What ? Did he say nothing ? " "Very little. Unless to tell me I had treated him dis gracefully, I don't know that there was anything to be said, He declared that he had expected just such an answer; that he felt he had no right to hope for a happier one. He did not blame me of course I was acting wisely and so on. He never once asked me to reconsider my words. Then ho got up and said he must bid me a long farewell. lie knew a man who would gladly exchange with him and give him a chnn.ce of seeing a little Indian life; he was tired of Eng- land. You can imagine the kind of thing." " Poor fellow ! How did he look ? " "He was very white, and his lips were tightly corn pressed. \nd I think there were tears in his eyes. Oh, 182 PHYLLIS. Phyllis" cries Bobe, passionately, rising to push her chair back sharply, and beginning to pace the room, " when I saw the tears in his eyes I almost gave in. Almost, mark you, not quite. I am too well trained for that." " I think I would have relented." " I am sure you would ; but your education has been c different. Upon this earth," says Bebe, slowly, " there is nothing so mean or so despicable as a woman born and bred 8 I am. Taught from our cradles to look on money and money's worth as the principal good to be obtained in life ; with the watchwords, 'an excellent match,' 'a rich mar- riage,' 'an eligible parti,' drummed into our ears from the time we put on sashes and short frocks. There is something desperately unwholesome about the whole thing." " Did you never see him since ? " ask I, deeply im- pressed by her manner and the love-affair generally. " Never until to-night- You may fancy what a shock it was." " And he didn't even kiss you before going away, as ho thought, forever? " I exclaim, unwisely. "Kiss me," severely. "How do you mean, Phyllis? Of course he did not kiss me : why should he ?" " Oh, I don't know. I suppose it would have been un usual," I return, overwhelmed with confusion. " Only it seemed to me I mean it is so good to be kissed by one wo Jove." " Is it ? " coldly. " I am not fond of kissing." I hasten to change the subject. " When he was gone, how wretched you must have felt ! " "I suppose I did. But I shed no tears ; I wag too un- happy, I think, for mere crying. However," with sudden recklessness " it is all over now, and we have lived through it. Let us forget it. A mouth after the scene I have just described, the old lord and his sons were drowned, and Travers Everett came in for everything. You see what I lest by being mercenary." " I wonder, when he became so rich, he did not corno back directly and ask you all over again." " lie knew rather better than that, I take it," says Bebe, with a slight accession of hauteur ; and for the second time ( feel ashamed of myself and my ignoble sentiments. " He went abroad and stayed there until now. lie don't look as though he had pined over-much, dues he I 1 " with a laugh PHYLLIS. 133 M A broken heart is the most curable thing I know. I thought I had never seen him look so well." " A man cannot pine forever," I say, in defense of the absent. Then, rather nervously, " I wonder when you will marry now, Bebe ? " " Never, most probably," kneeling down on the hcarth- rny. " You see I threw away my good luck. Fortune will scarcely be so complaisant a second time." says Bebe, with a gay laugL, laying her head down upon my lap ; and then in another moment I become aware that she is Bobbing pas- sionately. The tears rise thickly to my own eyes, yet I find no words to comfort her. I keep silence, and suffer my fingers to wander caressingly through her dark tresses as they lie scattered across my knees. Perhaps the greatest eloquence would not have been so acceptable as that silent touch. In a very short time the storm passes, and Bebe, raising her face, covers it with her hands. " I have not been crying," she says, with wilful vehe- mence ; " you must not think I have. If you do, I will never be your friend again. How dare you say I shed tears for any man ? " " I did not say it, Bebe. I will never say it," I return, earnestly. She puts her bare arms around my neck and lays her head upon my shoulder in such a position that I cannot see her face, and so remains, staring thoughtfully into the fire. " I know you will be very angry with me," I say pres- ently, " but I must say it. Perhaps you will marry him some time." " No, never, never. Do you think it. I refused him when he was poor ; I would not accept him now he is rich. How could you ever imagine it? Even were he to ask me again (which, believe me, is the most unlikely thing that could happen), I would give him the same answer. lie may think me heartless; he shall not think me so mean a thing as that." " If he loves you he will think no bad of you." " You do well to say ' if.' I don't suppose he does lo\>e me now. He did once." Her arms tighten around me, although I think for the moment she has forgotten me and everything and is looking back upon the past. After a littl" while she says, aga n, " Yes, he did love me once." " /\ nd does etill. I am sure of it. His whole face changed 134 PHYLLIS. when he saw you this evening. I remarked it, though 1 am not generally famous for keen observation. It is impos- sib.e he can have forgotten you, Bebe." " Of course. There are so few pretty people in the world," with a smile. " The change you saw in him to- night, Phyllis, was probably surprise ; or perhaps disgust, at finding himself so unexpectedly thrown again into my Boeiety. He did not once address me during the evening." " How could he, when you devoted yourself in such a piovokingly open manner to that ridiculous boy, and after- wards allowed Captain Jenkins to monopolize you exclu- sively ? I wish, Bebe, you would not." " Indeed I shall," sa^s Miss Beatoun, petulantly, " I shall flirt as hard as ever I can with every one I meet. He shall not think I am dying of chagrin and disappointment." " And will you not even speak to Lord Chandos ? " " Not if I can help it. So you need not say another word. If you do, I will report you to Marmaduke as a dangerous little match-maker, and perhaps marry Captain Jenkins. I have really met more disagreeable men. And as for Chips," says Bebe, who has seemingly recovered all her wonted gayety, "that boy is the most amusing thing I know. He is perfectly adorable. And so handsome as he is, too I It is quite a pleasure alone to sit and look at him." " Are you going away now?" seeing her rise. " Yes ; it is all hours, or, rather small hours, and Manna- duke will be here in a moment to scold me for keeping you from your beauty-sleep. Good night, dearest, and forget what a goose I made of myself. Promise me." " I cannot promise to forget what I never thought," I reply, giving her a good hug, and i>o we part for somo hours. Still, I do not go to bed. Her story has affected me d ?cply, and sets me pondering. I have seen so little real bona fide sentiment in my home life that probably it in- terests me in a greater degree than it would most girls of my own age differently reared. I sit before my fire, my h uids clasped round my knees, for half an hour, cogitating as to ways and moans of reuniting my friend to her beloved fo? that Lord Chandos has ceased to regard her with feelings of ardent affection is a thing I neither can noi will believe. I am still vaguely planning, when Marmaduke, coming PHYLLIS. 13,-) in, orders me off to my slumbers, declaring my roses wiD degenerate into Iilie8 if I persist in keeping such dissipated hours. CHAPTER XXI. " BCLLY is coming to-day," is the first thought that occurs to me as I spring from my bed on the moruicg of the nine- teenth and run to the window. It is a glorious day outside, sunny and "warm and bright, full of that air of subdued sum- mer that always belongs to September. The flowers below are waving gently in the soft breeze; the trees have a musi- cal rustle they surely lacked on yesterday; the very birds in the air and among the branches are crying, " Coming, com- ing, coming! " Soon I shall see him; soon I shall welcome him to my own home. Alas, alas ! that so many hours must pass be- fore he can enter my expectant arms ! That detestable " Bradshaw " has decreed that no train but the half-past five shall bring him. Bebe, who is immensely amused at my impatience, de- clares herself prepared to fall in love with Billy on the spot, the very moment she sees him. " I am passionately attached to boys," she says, meeting me in the corridor about half-past three (I am in such a ram- bling, unsettled condition as compels me to walk from pillar to post all day) ; " I like their society witness ray devotion to Chips and they like mine. But for all that, I shall bo nowhere with your Billy ; you have another guest in your bouse who will take his heart by storm." " Whom do you mean ? " " Lady Blanche Going. I never yet saw the boy vrhc could resist her. Is not that odd ? Is she not the last per- son one would select as a favorite with youth?" " I hope he will not like her," 1 cry, impulsively ; then, feeling myself, without cause, ungracious, " that is of course I do not mean that only " " Oh, yes, you do," says Miss Beatoun, coolly ; " you would be very sorry if Billy were to waste his affection on her. So would I. You detest her ; so do Why mince matters? But for all that your boy will bo r sworn slave. 130 PHYLLIS. or I am much mistaken. If only to spite you, she will make him her frier,*]." " But why ? Wh.at have I ever done to her? " " Nothing ; only it is intolerable somebody should admir* you so much." And with a mischievous glance, Miss Beatoun disap- pears round the corner. "Marmaduke," say I, seizing my husband by the aim as the dog-cart comes round to the door for final orders, pre- paratory to starting for the station (it is now almost five o'clock), " is William going for Billy? I wish /could go. You don't think he will expect " I hesitate. Marrnaduke reads my face attentively for a minute, then ponders a little. " You think he may be disappointed if welcomed only by a groom?" he says, with a smile. "Take that little pucker off your forehead, Phyllis : I will bring your Billy to you myself," and mounting the dog-cart, drives off to the station without another word. As I have already said, it is now five o'clock. It will take him just half an hour to reach Carston and meet the train. Ten minutes at least must be wasted finding Billy, getting his traps together, and settling things generally; then half an hour more to drive home; so that altogether one hour and ten minutes must go by before I can hope to see them. This appears an interminable age ; all the day has not seemed so long as this last hour and ten minutes. At a quarter to six I run upstairs and get myself dressed for dinner although we do not dine until half-past seven hurrying through my toilet with the most exaggerated haste, as if fearing they may arrive before it is finished ; and I would not miss being the first to greet my boy for all the world contains. When I once more reach the drawing-room it sti'.l wants five minutes to the promised time. Lady Blanche Going and one or two of the men are lounging here. She raises her head as I enter, and scans me languidly. " Do we dine earlier than usual to-night, Mrs. Carring- ton ? " ehe asks, with curiosity. " No ; not earlier than usual. It was a mere whim oi mine getting my dressing over so soon." *' Oh, I quite forgot your brother was coming," she says, with a faint smile, bending over her work again. Sho looks as though she were pitying my youthful enthusiasm PHYLLIS. 187 I make no reply. Taking up a book, I seat myself near a front window, as far as possible from the other occupants of the room, and pretend to read. A quarter past six. Surel} they ought to be here oy this. Twenty-five minutes past six ! I rise, regardless of omment, and gaze up the avenue. Oh, if anything should have prevented his coming 1 Are not masters always tyrants? But even in such a case ought not Marmaduke to be back by this to toll me of it? Or, yet more sickening thought, can any accident have happened to the train, and is Marmaduke afraid to bring me home the evil tidings? I am just picturing to myself Billy's chestnut locks be- dabbled with his gore, when something smites upon mine ear. Siirely it is the sound of wheels. I flatten my nose against the window-panes and strain my eyes into the gathering twilight. Yes, fast as the good horse can bring them they come. A moment, later, and the dog-cart in full swing rounds the corner, -while in it, coated to the chin, and in full posses- sion of the reins, sits my brother, with Marmaduke quite a secondary person smiling beside him. I utter an exclamation, and, llinging my book from me blind to the smiles my guests cannot restrain I rush headlong from the room, and in another instant have Billy folded in my arms. Surely a year has gone by since last I saw him. " Oh, Billy, Billy ! " I cry, clinging to him, the tears in my eyes, while glad smiles fight for mastery upon my lips. " Is it really you ? It seems years and years since last we were together. OL, how tall you have grown, and how good-looking ! " " Oh, I'm all right," returns Billy, graciously giving back my kisses, warmly, it is true, but with none of the lin- gering tenderness that characterizes mine. " I don't think a fellow alters much in a month. Though really, now that I look at you, you appear very tall, too, and thin, I think. We had such a jolly drive over ; never wanted the whip the whole way, except for the flics." ' Yes. And are you glad to see me, Billy ? Were you lonely without me? I was so lonely without you! But come upstairs to your r: om, and I will tell you every thins." As I am drawing him eagerly away I catch sight of 138 PHYLLIS. Marrnaduke's frtce, who has been silently regarding us ali this time, himself unnoticed. Something in his expression touches me with remorse. I run up to him and lay my hand upon his arm. "Thank you for bringing him," I say, earnestly, '''and for letting him have the reins. I noticed that. You have made me very happy to-day." " Have I ? It was easily done. I am glad to know I have made you happy for even one short day." He smiles, but draws his arm gently from my grasp as he speaks, and I know by the line across his forehead some painful thought has jarred upon him. I am feeling self-reproachful and sorry, when Billy's voice recalls me to the joy of the present hour. "Are you coming?" says that autocrat, impatiently, from the first step of the stairs, with about six bulging brown-paper parcels in his arms, that evidently no human power could have induced to enter the portmanteau that stands beside him. " Come," he says, again ; and, lorgetful of everything but the fact of his presence near me, I race him up the stairs and into the bedroom my own hands have made bright for him, while the elegant Thomas and the portmanteau follow more slowly in our rear. " What a capital room ! " says my Billy, " and lots of space. I like that. I hate being cramped, as I always am at home." "I am glad you like it," I reply, bubbling over with satisfaction. " I settled it myself, and had the carpet taken off, because I knew you would prefer the room without it. But I desired them to put that narrow piece all round the bed, lest your feet should be cold. Yon won't object to that ? " " Oh, no ; it may remain, if you have any fancy for it." I am about to suggest that as it is not intended for my bare feet it does not affect me one way or the other ; but, knowing argument with Billy to be worse than useless, 1 refrain. " Have you any dress-clothes? " I ask, presently, some- what nervously. "No; I never had any dress-clothes in my life; where would I get them ? but I have black breeches and a black j'ickut (like a shell-jacket, you know), and a white shirt and i v black tie. That will do, won't it? Langloy says I look PHYLLIS. 139 uncommon well in them \ and you'll see when I'm dressed up and that, I'll be as fit as the best of 'em." It is evident Billy's good opinion of himself has not been lowered since we parted. He holds a generous belief in his own personal attractions ; so does Langley, whoever he may be. " Far nicer than any of them," I respond, with enthu tiasm ; and he does not contradict me. When the garments just described have been laid upon the bed, Billy discloses symptoms of a desire to get into them, I turn to leave the room. But on the threshold I be- think me of another important question, and pause to ask it in a tone not altogether free from trepidation ; for Billy, at times, is a person difficult to deal with. 41 Have you a clean white cambric handkerchief ? " I ask, slowly. " Well, no, I have not," confesses my brother, amica- bly. " You see, all the white ones mother gave me when leaving, I exchanged with another fellow for some of his. And grand handkerchiefs they are really handsome ones, yon know, Phyllis; but they have all got Hags, or sailors, or fat Shahs painted in the corners and in the middle, which makes them look just a leetle conspicuous.' But it won't matter a bit," says Billy, cheerfully, " as I seldom blow my nose (indeed, never, unless I have a cold in my head) ; and if I don't exhibit the Shahs, they will never find me out." " Oh, indeed that would not do," I exclaim, earnestly. " You must let me get you one of Marmaduke's, and then you will feel more easy in your mind. Just suppose you were to sneeze ! I often do it, even without having a cold.'' " All right j you can bring it," says Billy, and I with- draw. When, half an hour later, the drawing-room door opens to admit him, and looking up I see niy brother's well-shaped head and slight boyish figure, a strange pang of delight and admiration touches my heart. He enters boldly, with a., the grace and independence an English boy and especially an Eton boy, if well-bred possesses, and advancing leisurely, comes to a standstill by my side. I introduce him to Harriet, who is nearest to me ; then to Sir George Ashurst, then to Captain Jenkins ; after- wards 1 k-ave him to his own devices. I am glad to hear HO PHYLLIS. him chatting away merrily to kind Sir Gorge, when a voice, addressing him from an opposite sofa, makes *ne turn. The voice belongs to Lady Blanche Going, and she is smiling at him in her laziest, most seductive manner. " Won't you come and speak to me ?" she says, s\veetly, " Mrs. Carrington will not find time to present you to every one, and I cannot wait for a formal introduction. Come here, and let me tell you I like Etonians better than any- thing else in the world." Sir Mark's moustache moves slightly, just sufficient to al- low his lips to form themselves into a faint sneer; while Billy, thus summoned, crosses over and falls into the seat beside her ladyship. " Do you, really ? " he says. " But I'm awfully afraid I shall destroy your good opinion of us. You see, the fact is" he goes on, candidly " I have so little to say for my- self, 1 fear in a very few minutes you will vote me a bore. However, you are quite welcome to anything I have to say ; and when you are tired of me please say so." " Oh, that your elders hud half your wit ! " exclaims her ladyship, with an effective but bewitching shake of her beautiful head. " If they would but come to the point as you do, Mr. Vernon, what a great deal of time might be saved ! " " Oh, I say, don't call me that," says my brother, with an irresistible laugh ; " every one calls me ' Billy.' I shouldn't know myself by any other name. If you insist upon calling me Mr. Vernon I shall fancy you have found reason to dislike me." " And would that be an overwhelming calamity?" " I should certainly regard it in that light. I like being friends with beautiful people," returns Billy, with a faint hesitation, but all a boy's flattering warmth ; and so on. Here Sir James Handcock, wakening from one of his asual fits of somnolence, actually takes the trouble to cioss ihe room and put a question to his wife in an audible whis- per. " Who is that handsome lad ?" he asks, staring kindly at Billy. (lie was absent when my brother first entered the room.) " Mrs. Carrington's brother," returns his wife, with a ympathetu smile. M A really charming face," says Sir Jaraea, criticiiinglj ; PHYLLIS 141 "scarcely a fault. Quite a face for an artist's pencil.' And I feel my heart warm towards Sir J^riies 1 1 and cock. When dinner is announced, Lady Blanche declares her intention of sroing down with no one but her new friend , and Billy, proud and enchanted, conducts her to the din- ing-room ; while Bebc casts a " what did I tell you ? " sort of look at me behind their backs. Indeed, so thorough ate ihu fascinations she exercises upon him that before the even- ing is concluded he is hopelessly and entirely her slave. CHAPTER XXII. IT has come at last the night of my first ball ; and stnely no girlish debutante in her first season ever felt a greater thrill of delight at this mere fact than I, spite of my beLig " wooed an' married an' a'." Behold me in rny room arrayed for conquest. Having once made up my mind to the black velvet though mother and Harriet and Bebe all declare me a great deal too young and too slight for it I persist in my deter- mination, and the dress is ordered and sent down. It is a most delectable old dress, rejoicing greatly in " old point ; " and when I am in it, and Martha has fast- ened the diamonds in my hair and ears and round my throat and wrists and waist, I contemplate myself in a lengthy mirror with feelings akin to admiration. Having dismissed my maid, who professes herself lost in pleased astonishment at the radiant spectacle I present, I go softly to 'Duke's dressing-room door, and, hearing him whistling within, open it quietly. Standing motionless, framed in by the portals, I mur- mur, "Marmaduke." He turns, and for a moment regards me silently. " My darling ! " he says then, in a tone of glad surprise, and comes quickly up to me. " Am I looking well ? " I ask tremulously. " ' Well 1 ' you are looking lovely," returns he, with en- thusiasm, and, taking my hand carefully, as though fearful of doing some injury to my toilet, leada me before his glass. 1 {2 FHYLLfS. " See tl ere," he says, " what a perfect little picture you make." I stare myself out of countenance, and atn thoroughly s.itistied with what I see. " I had no idea I could ever appear so presentable," I Biy, half shy, wholly delighted. " You shall be painted in that dress," declares 'Duke warmly, " and put all those antiquated dames in the pic- t ire-gallery in the shade." " Are not the diamonds beautiful ? " exclaim I. " And my gloves such a good fit! And " anxiously " Marnia- duke, are you sure you like my hair ? " " I like everything about you. I never saw you look half so well. I feel horribly proud of you." " Bestow a little of your admiration on my bouquet, if you please. Sir Mark had it sen', down to me, all the way from London, and his man brought it to me half an hour ago. Was it not thoughtful ? " " Very. I suppose " with a comical sigh " all the men will be making love to you to-night. That's the worst of having a pretty wife ; she is only half one's own." Then, abruptly, changing the subject, " What dear little round babyish arms ! " stooping to press his lips to each in turn. " They might belong to a mere child." " And you really think I am looking downright pretty f " 1 ask desperately, yet withal very wistfully, reading his face for a reply. I do so ardently long to be classed among the well favored people ! "I should rather think I do. Why, Phyllis! of what earthly use is a mirror to you ? " " As as pretty as Dora ? " with hesitation. I am gradually nearing the highest point. "Pshaw! Dora, indeed! She could not hold a caudle to you to be emphatic." " Well, here's a kiss for you," say I, standing on tiptoe Lo deliver it in the exuberance of my satisfaction, feeling for once 'n my life, utterly and disgracefully conceited. ]V1 irmaduke, however, appearing at this moment danger ously desirous of taking me into his arms and giving me a hearty embrace, to the detriment of my finery, I beat a hasty retreat, acd go o.f to exhibit myself to mamma and Dora. PHYLLIS. H3 His Grace the Duke of Chillington and Lady Alicia Slate-Gore have arrived. The rooms begin to look gay and very full. His Grace a well-preserved gentleman, of un- known age adjusts his glass more carefully in his right eye, and coining over, requests from me the pleasure of the first quadrille. I accept, and begin to regard myself as nn important personage. I glance at myself in one of the long mirrors that line tl e walls, and seeing therein a slender figure, robed in velvet and literally flashing with diamonds, I appear good in my eyes, and feel a self-satisfied smirk stealing over my countenance. I am dimly conscious that darling mother is sitting on a sofa somewhat distant from me, looking as pretty as possible and absolutely flushed with pride and pleasure as she beholds me and my illustrious partner. Dora, a little further down, is positively delicious in white silk and pink coral the coral being mine. Her still entertaining for me the old grudge does not prevent her borrowing of me freely such tilings as she deems may suit her child-like beauty ; while I, unable to divest myself of the idea that in some way I have wronged her, and that but for me all these things she borrows would by right be hers, lend to her lavishly from all that I possess. To-night, however, in spite of the bewitching simplicity of her appearance, I feel no jealous pangs. " For this night only," I will consider myself as charming as Dora. " Rather think it will be a severe season. You hunt?'* asks his Grace, in rather high, jerky tones, having come to the conclusion, I presume, that he ought to say something. I answer him to the intent that I do not; that in fact lowering to my pride as it may be to confess it I would rather be afraid to do so. He regards me with much interest and approval. " Quite right ; quite right," he says. " Ladies are ha charming you know, of course, and that but in a hunt- ing-field a mistake." I laugli, and suggest amiably ho is not over-gallant. "No no? really ! Have I said anything rude? Can't apply to you, you know, Mrs. Carington, as you say you have no ambition to be in at the death. Women, as a rule , never are, you know; they are generally in a drain by that time; and if a man sees them, unless he wants to be considered a brute for life, he must stop and pull 'em out It takes nice feemsjs to do that ^racefully, and with HI FL'YI.LTS. * due regard to proper language, in tne middle of a good run. Charming girl, Miss Beatouu." " Very." '* Pretty girl, too, in white silk and the ooral." " Yon mean my sister ? " "Indeed indeed? You must excuse the openness oi my observations. I would never have guessed at the rela- tiouship. Can't discern the slightest family resemblance." lie says this so emphatically that I understand him to mean he considers me far inferior to Dora. I begin to think his Grace an obtuse and undesirable person, sadly wanting in discrimination. No doubt he is thinking my plainness only to be equalled by my dullness. I wish impa- tiently the quadrille would begin and get itself over, that I may be rid of him, more especially as I am longing with a keenness that belongs alone to youth, for a waltz or a galop, or anything fast and inspiriting. At last the band strikes up and we take our places. Marmaduke (who is dancing with Lady Alicia Slate-Gore) and I are the only untitled people in the set. Nevertheless, as I look at my husband I think to myself, with a certain atvsfaction, that not one among us has an appearance so handsome or so distinguished as his. The quadrille being at an end, Sir Mark Gore instantly claims me fur the coming waltz, and, as I place my hand very willingly upon his arm, whispers : " You are like an old picture. I cannot take my eyes off you. Who told you to dress yourself like that ? " 44 Myself. Is it not nice ? " I ask, eagerly, casting another surreptitious glance at my youthful form as we move near a glass. " Don't you think it becoming? " " If I told you all I thought," he exclaims, eagerly then, checking himself with an effort, and a rather forced laugh, continues " you might perhaps read me a lecture." " Not I : I am not in the mood for lectures. I feel half intoxicated with excitement and pleasure, as though nothing eould have power to annoy or vex me to-night. The very music thrills me." " You remind me of Browning's little lady, 'She was the smallest lady alive: Made in a pit-co of nature's madness. 7'uo small almost for the life and That over-filled her.' you remember her ? " rilYLLIS. 1 (5 u Am I the l smallest lady alive?' Why, see, I am quite np to your shoulder. You insult ine, sir. Come, dance, dance, or I will never forgive you." He passes his arm round my waist, and in another moment we are waltzing. Did I ever dance before, I wonder P Oi is this some new sensation ? I hardly touch the ground ; my heart my very pulses beat in unison with the perfect music. I stop, breathless, flushed, radiant, and glance up at Sir Mark, with parted, smiling lips, as though eager to hear Lim say how delightful he too lias found it. He is a little pale, I fancy, and answers my smile rather slowly. " Yes, it has been more than pleasant," he says, divining and answering my thought. He is not enthusiastic ; and I am dissatisfied. u You don't look" I say with inquisitive reproach, " as though you enjoyed it one bit." A curious smile passes over Sir Mark's face. " Don't I ? " he replies, quietly. " No. Decidedly the reverse even. Of course " with a considerable amount of pique " You could have found plenty of better dancers among the people here." " ^Perhaps I could ; although you must permit me to doubt it. I only know I would rather have you for a part- ner than any one else in the room." I am not proof against flattery, A smile is born and grows steadily round my lips, until at length ray whole face beams. " Well, you might try to appear more contented," I say, with a last feeble attempt at remonstrance. "When I get what I want I always look pleased." " I know you do. But I am a thankless being ; the more I get the more I want. When a man is starving, to fjive him a little only adds to the pangs he suffers - " The last bars of the waltz died out with a lingering wail- ing sigh. A little hush falls. . . . Sir George Ashurst, coming up, offers me his arm. l> You will let me put my name down for another before you go?" asks Sir Mark, hurriedly, following us a few I hand him my card. " Keep it for me," I say, " until after the dance. You can then return it." " May I Lave the next after this ? " verj eagerly. 1 16 PHYLLIS. I glance at him over my shoulder. " Yes if 1 am disen gaged, and you care for it," I make answer, forgetful of my character as hostess, of the world's tongue, of everything but the sweet gayety of the present hour. The night wears on. Already it is one hour past mid night. Sir Mark is again my partner. Up to this the evening has fully answered my fondesl expectations. I have danced incessantly. I have been tit terly, thoughtlessly happy, Now a slight contraction about the soles of my feet warns me I begin to experience fatigue. Sir Mark leads me towards a conservatory, dimly lit and exquisitely arranged, at the door of which I stand tc bestow a backward glance upon the ball-room. At a considerable distance I can discern Bebe standing beside Lord Chandos. It is without doubt an interval in their dance, but they are not talking. Miss Beautoun's head is slightly inclined/rom her companion, and it is evident to me she has mounted an exceedingly high horse. Neverthe- less, to see her with him at all gratifies me ; as it is surely a step in the right direction. Dora is waltzing with a " Heavy," and I can see Sir George glowering upon them from a remote corner. Dora Bees him also, and instantly smiles tenderly into her dragoon's light-blue eyes. This too looks promising. My spirits go up another degree, and I indulge in a low pleased laugh. " Still revelling in bliss, Mrs. Carrington ? " Sir Mark's voice recalls me. " No flaw as yet ? " " Not one. Of course not. What a ridiculous question ! I told you nothing should interfere with my enjoyment this evening. Yet, stay " with a demure and dejected shake of the head : " every now and then I am troubled with a faint regret." And it is " " That all this must eome time come to an end. There, ifl not that a haunting thought ? " I laugh, so does he. " I shall have plenty of it in the spring," I continue, presently. " ' Duke says I shall go to London then." "And so lose the keen sense of pleasure you now pos- sess. What a mistake ! Take my advice, and don't go through a London season." PH YLLIS. 1 17 " What stupid advice. Indeed I shall, and enjoy it too, I am only longing for the time to come round. I shall b* dreaming of it from now until then." " You are bent on rushing wildly to your fate," says he, smiling. " Well, do so, and rue it later on. When you come to look on dancing, not as a good thing in itself, but merely as a means to an end, remember I warned you." " I will remember nothing," I say, saucily, " except that I am at this moment without a care in the world. Come, let us go in." Sir Mark hesitates. j " Shall we finish the dance first ? v " No," I am looking longingly into the cool green light of the conservatory beyond me. " See how delicious it is in there. Let us find a seat." Still he hesitates, as though unwilling to move in thede sired direction. " It seems a pity to lose this music," he says. " After- wards we could rest." I turn my eyes mischievously upon him. " TF7i6 PHYLLIS. u l never beheld anything half so lovely." And I dance very nicely?" "Beautifully. Quito like a fairy." Whereupon we botfc laugh merrily, and anger and resentment are forgotten. CHAPTER XXIII. WK are all more or less late for breakfast next morning, Mr. Thornton being the only one who exhibits much symptom of life. lie is, if possible, a degree gayer, mora sprightly than usual, and talks incessantly to any one who will be kind enough to listen to him. " I do think a ball in a country-house the most using-up thing I know," he says, helping himself generously to cold game-pie. " It is twice the fun of a town affair, but it knocks one up no doubt of it makes a fellow feel so seedy and languid, and ruins the appetite." " I think you will do uncommonly well if you finish what you have there," remarks Sir Mark, languidly. Thornton roars : so does Billy. " You have me there," says Chips. " I ought to have known better than to introduce that subject. My appetite is my weak point." " Your strong point, I suppose you mean," puts in Sir Mark, faintly amused. " I think the worse thing about a country ball is this," SITS Bebe ; " one feels so lonely, so purposeless, when it is over. In town one will probably be going to another next evening; here one can do nothing but regret past glorie*. I wish it were all going to happen, over again to-night." " So do 1," says Thornton, casting a sentimental glance at the speaker. " I would go over every hour of it again i^hdly old maids and all for the sake of the few minutes .)! real happiness I enjoyed. There are some people one could dance with /brewer." Lord Chandos, raising his head, bestows a haughty stare u;>on the youtful Chips, which is quite thrown away, ag that gay young Don is staring in turn, with all his might, and with the liveliest admiration, at Miss Beatoun. " Could you ?" asks that fascinating person, innocently PHYLLIS, 157 "Now I could not; at least I tLink I -would Lite to wit dowu now and then. But, Phyllis, dear, seriously, I wish we were going to do something out of the common this evening." " Try charades or tableaux," suggests 'Duke brilliantly. " The very thing ! Tableaux let it be, by all means. Marmaduke, no one can say last night's dissipation ha clouded your intellect. We will have them in the library, where the folding-doors will come in capitally." " You used to be a great man at tableaux, Carrlngton," says Sir George ; " and I shall never forget seeing Lady Blanche once as Guinevere." Her ladyship raises her white fids and smiles faintly. " You were Lancelot, Gore, on that occasion," continues this well-meaning but blundering young man. " You re- member, eh ? " " Distinctly quite as if it happened yesterday,' ' replies Sir Mark, with a studied indifference little suited to the emphatic words. " Have some of this hot cake, Thornton? i r ou are eating nothing." " Thanks : I don't know but I will," says Chips, totally unabashed. " You could hardiy give me anything 1 like so well as hot cake for breakfast." " You will make a point of remembering that, I trust, Mrs. Carrington," says Sir Mark, gravely. " Phyllis, you would look such a good Desderaona," says Bcbe, who is now fairly started. "I am sure she must have been very young to let herself be beguiled into a mar- riage with that horrid Othello." 44 And who would represent the Moor? " " Sir Mark, I suppose : he looks more like it than any one else." " You flatter me, Miss Beatoun," murmurs Sir Mark, with a slight bow. "Oh, I only mean you are darker than any of the others, except James, and I am sure he never could look sufficient!} ferocious," answers Bebe, la-ighing. " And you think I can ? ' " You will have to. When we have blackened you n little, and bent your eyebrows into a murderous sccwl, nnd made you look thoroughly odious, you will do very well." "How one does enjoy the prospect of tableaux. 1 rathui think I shall rival Salvini by the time I ana out of youi hands." ID 8 PHYLLIS. " I hope not. I can't lear Salvini," says Harriet, mildly " That is going rather far, Harry. Why don't you saj you can't bear his figure ? We might believe that." " But I don't want to be smothered," I protest, nervously. " Oh, you must submit to that. When people hear of ' a scene from " Othello " ' they immediately think of pillows They would consider they had been done out of something if we gave them a mere court part. We will have you just dying, murmuring your last poor little words, with Sir Mark looking as if he were longing to try the effect of the bolster next, and Miss Vernon, as Emilia, kneeling beside you." " Now, that is what I call a downright cheerful picture," says Marmaduke. " / call it high tragedy," replies Miss Beatoun, reprov- ingly. " Will you be Emilia, Miss Vernon ? " " I will help you in any way I can," says Dora, with hot usual gentle amiability. " You would make a capital Beatrice, Bebe," says Mar- maduke. " We might have a good scene from ' Much Ado About Nothing.' Who will be Benedick ? Now, don't all speak at once." " I think it would suit me," says Chips, very modestly. We all laugh heartily. " You grow modest, Mr. Thornton," says Sir Mark. " I fear you must be ill. Try a little of this honey ; you will find it excellent." " No, thanks. I teel I shall be able to pull through now until luncheon." " Let us go into the library and arrange everything," I suggest, eagerly ; and we all rise and go there. By degrees, as the afternoon advances, the men show symptoms of fatigue and drop off one by one, while we women still keep together to discuss the all-engrossing idea. Curious odds and ends of old-world finery are dragged from remote closets and brought to light. Clothes that once adorned Marrnaduke's ancestors are now draped around young white arms and necks, and draw forth peals ol laughter from the lookers-on. "But we must have an audience," suggests: Bebe, at length, rather blankly, stopping short, with her hands in the air, from which hangs down an ancient embroidered robe. " True. How shall we manage that ? " " Send a groom instantly with invitations to the Hastings, the Lfshuh, and tin- De Veres, and the Cuppaidges. I ana PHYLLIS. 159 positive they are all dying of ennui this moment, and will nail with rapture any chance of escape from it. They will all come ; and the Leslies have two or three really very pre- sentable young men staying with them." " Yes, that will be best. Dora, will you go and write the notes for me? Now, would it not be a good thing to ex- clude all the non-players from our council? " " Oh," says Harriet, then I must go." " No, no, Harry, we can't do without you," cry I, implor- ingly ; you must stay. We could not get on without some head to guide us and soothe down disappointed actors. You shall be wardrobe-woman and chief secretary and prime minister and stage manager all in one." " Yes," says Bebe, who has got herself into the ancient robe by this ; " and head-centre and peacemaker, and all that sort of thing. " Now, don't I look sweet in this flowered gown ? Ah ! what interesting creatures our great-great- grandmothers must have been ! It almost makes me long to be a great-great-grand mother myself." " But your salary your salary : state your terms," says Harriet. " 1 cannot be all that you have mentioned for nothing." "For love, dearest: call you that nothing?" replies Bebe, as she struts up and down before a long glass. Presently darling mother, who has slept at Strangemore and breakfasted in her room, comes creeping in, and a dis- pute arises as to whether she must be excluded from the cabinet and sent into exile until night reveals our secrets. But she is so amused at everything, and has grown so young and guy in the absence of her bugbear, that we make an excep- tion in her favor also ; and, as she has a real talent for dressing people, and would have made an invaluable ladies' maid, had her lot been cast so low, we find her very useful later on. The invitations are despatched, and acceptances from all brought back ; every one, it appears, will be delighted to come and witness our success or failure, as the case may be. These polite replies cause us faint pangs of consternation laigely tictured with timidity, making us conscious that we are regularly in for something : that much is expected of us ; and that, after all, the performance may prove " flat, stale, and unprofitable." All through dinner we the intended victims, are mys- terious, not to say dcj tressed ; waile Sir James llandoook. 160 PHYLLIS. the two men from the Barracks, and Sir George Ashurst make mild jokes at om expense, and wish us safely out of it. At nine the guests arrive ; at half-past nine all is in readi- ness ; the audience is seated, the impromptu curtains are drawn up, and " Rebecca laying the jewels at liowena't feet " stands revealed. Lady Blanche Going, as the Jewess, is looking positively beautiful, as kneeling at Dora's feet, in many colored gar- ments of crimson and gold and such gorgeous shades, with much gleaming of precious stones, she gazes with saddened curiosity in the face above her ; while Dora, raising her veil my wedding veil with uplifted arms to look down on her, presents such a contrast, with her dead white robe and fair babyish face, to the darker beauty's more glowing style as takes the audience by storm. The applause is loud and lengthened ; and Sir George Ashurst's enthusiasm reaches such a pitch that when it sub- sides he has to retire to his room in search of another pair of glares. The curtain rises for the second time on Lady Blanche again and Sir Mark Gore as " The Huguenots." This, too, is highly successful, albeit her ladyship is too dark for the part. Everybody agrees that Sir Mark, with the sorrowfully determined expression on his face, is perfect ; while Lady Blanche astonishes some of us by the amount of passionate pleading she throws into her eye. And now comes a hitch. The third tableau on which we have decided is " The Last Appeal." There has been considerable difficulty about the arrangement of this from the beginning, and now at the last moment Sir Mark Gore vows he will have nothing to do with it. " I couldn't do it," he says, throwing out his hands. " There is no use urging a fellow. I could look murderous. J might look sentimental : I could not appeal. I won't, and that's all about it. They will say there are no more actora if you send me on again so soon ; and besides, those breeches don't fit me. They will go on Chandos; let him take my part." " How disobliging you are! "says Miss Beatoun, flush- ing. " Then I won't be the person appealed to. I did not want to, all along. It is too bad I should get no parta but those in which rags and ugly dresses are worn. I shall hav to do Cinderella presently in tatters, and in this I have only a short gown, and nasty thick shoes and a pitcher." " What nonsense ! " say I. "You know every one said you looked delicious with that little handkerchief across your shoulders. Lord Chandos, go and dress yourself di- rectly, as Sir Mark will not." " Of what use is it," says Chandos, quietly, " if Miss Bea loun declines to act with me?" " Acting with you has nothing to do with it," returns Bebe, reddening perceptibly. " I only decline the * old clo part of it. Consider how it hurts ray vanity." " Yet you would have worn them had Sir Mark kept his word," I say, in an injured tone. At this Lord Chandos looks expressively at Miss Bea- toun, Miss Beatoun looks witheringly at me, and Marma- duke, utterly innocent, says persuasively : "Come now, Bebe, that's conclusive. Chandos will think you have some reason for it if vou persist in refus- ing." At this unfortunate remark even I feel some dismay. Considering all that has passed between these two, and the nature of the tableau in question, it is unfortunate. Chandos and Bebe color violently ; the latter's fingers close with ner- vous force upon the pretty short gown she is wearing and crumple it recklessly. The loose cambric kerchief on her breast rises and falls with angry motion. Chandos is evi- dently furious. " I shall think nothing of the kind," he says, in a low, distinct tone. " Miss Beatoun should be allowed to please herself. For my part, I think it an odious scene and hack- neyed to the last degree." " Still, as it is on the cards " I murmur, weakly. Marmaduke stares at me in wonderment, and then at Harriet, who is also listening. We are every one of us thoroughly unpleasant. Bebe laughs a rather forced laugh. " I wonder what our friends in the dress circle are thinking all this time ? " bhe says. " Lord Chandos-, go and put on your things and don't let us keep them waiting any longer." "That's right," exclaims Marmaduke, much relieved, moving away to another group in the distance engaged in a hot dispute. Still Chandos lingers. "I am sorry for this," he says to Bebe, in a low tone, al- most haughtily. " But it is not yet too late. If ihe idea 162 PHYLLfS, IB so detestable to you, then give : t up no\v, and I will sup- port you." " Why should it be distasteful to me ? " very coldly. " I will make no further objections." " I hope you exonerate me. I could not help it. I am more vexed about it than you can be." " I think you might have said emphatically just at first you did not wish it. However, it does not matter." " How could I? Such a remark would have been an im- plied rudeness to you." " Then I wish you had been rude." " You are unreasonable, Miss Beatoun," says his lordship, Btiflly. Then in a still lower tone, " There are few things J would not do for you, but that is not one of them." "I think you had better go and put on those garments Sir Mark rejected. We can finish the argument later on," murmurs Bebe, turning away, with a half-smile, and, Lord Chandos hurrying over his toilet, we have them on our minia- ture stage sooner than we dared to hope. But, though they gave in to their own wishes, or rather to their own pride, the performance is a failure, for, though Bebc certainly manages to look the very personification of hardened persistency, Lord Chandos by no means comes up to our idea of the appealing and despairing adorer, and alto- gether there is a stony finish about it that nobody admires. The spectators are, indeed, polite, and say all manner of pretty things, but they say them from the lips alone, which is palpable and not satisfactory. And now comes my turn. The " British public," as Mr. Thornton persists on calling our very select audience, is re- ? nested to turn its kind attention on Tennyson's " Sleeping Mncess," wrapped in mystic slumber. I am the Sleeping Princess, it having struck me in the early part of the day that this role, requiring little beyond extreme inaction, would ex- actly suit me, and cause me less trepidation. Upon a crimson lounge, clad all in white, I lie, my long fair brown hair scattered across the cushions and falling to the ground beside me. One hand is thrown above my head, the other hangs listlessly, sleepily, downwards ; a deep-red rose has dropped from it, and now blushes, half lost, amidst the tresses on the floor. Sir Mark, in the character of the Prince, leans over me as though iu tV act of giving the care&s that brings me back from dreamland. His face, I know, is near so near that, PHYLLIS, I'iS between nervousness and shrinking, I feel a mad desire to break into forbidden laughter ; so much so that when the cur tain falls I am more than thankful. Slowly it descends, and as I hear it touch the stage, I cau tiously open my eyes to find Sir Mark has not yet raided himself from his stooping posture. My eyes look straight into his. There are literally only few inches between his face and mine, and I fancy I can dis- cern a treacherous gleam in them. Something masterful, too, in his expression, as though he would say, " I could an' I would," strikes me. Instantly I resent it, and springing to my feet, stand back from him, crimson with indignation and some undefined fear. There is no time for words, had I even the desire to speak, which I have not, as at this moment Lady Blanche Going and Mannaduke come from behind the scenes to congratulate us. I try to recover myself hurriedly, but it is too late ; my red cheeks and frightened, half shamed eyes attract their notice ; and Mannaduke, glancing from me to Sir Mark, regards us earnestly, coloring very slowly himself the while. " Oh ! " exclaims her ladyship, starting, and assuming an air of surprise ; then, with an affected laugh, " How foolish of me ? But really for the moment, on account of your atti- tudes and stillness, I fancied I had come on too soon, and that you were still acting." " How completely you must have forgotten the subject of the late tableau ! " replies Sir Mark, in a very calm tone, fixing her with his wonderful keen, dark eyes. Some instinct of evil makes me go and stand close to Marmaduke. " Was it a success ? " I ask, nervously. "Without doubt," says 'Duke, rousing himself. "You look fatigued, Phyllis ; come and have some wine." I take his arm and go with him gladly. "Did anything vex you, darling?" he asks me, quietly, as we go into the next room. " No ; it was imagination. I did not know his face w.ia quite so close, and, in consequence, when I opened my eyeg 1 got a start. It was ridiculous of me." M Was that all ? " " Yes, that was all.' I laugh, though in a rather spirit- less way, and feel angry with myself for the vague restraint that is quite discernible in my manner while Marmaduke 164 PHYLLIS. pours me out some claret-cup, without asking any more questions. " 'Duke Marmaduke where are you ? Oh, iorne, come," crie* Bebe, looking in, " we are all waiting for you. How can I pose properly until you get me the slipper ? You slid you had it somewhere." So 'Duke flies, and I, putting from me my small vexa tion, which even already appears half fanciful, follow him to the sides, to see how they look before the curtain rises. Cinderella (Bebe), clad in picturesque rags, is represented in the act of flying, leaving behind her the magical slipper, which Master Chips is eagerly stooping to pick up. He maket a veritable " Prince Charming," in his scarlet cloak and long silk stockings got no one knows how and cap and feathers ; while Bebe, glancing backwards in her flight to mark the fate of her shoe, casts upon him a bewitching languishing gaze that (supposing the original Cinderella to be capable of such another) must have had more to do with her being Princess later on than anything in the shape of a vow. Then we close up Dora, as Constance de Beverley, into an imaginary wall the poor nun, with raised despairing eyes and downward clasped hands, creating much sympathy. Yet, none of us feel sure this was the spirit in which the real Constance met her doom ; only, as the devotional tear- ful style suits Dora, we conclude it was, and make no un- welcome inquiries ; and every one is charmed. After this comes " Queen Eleanor presenting the agree- able choice of the poisoned bowl or the dagger to the fair but frail Rosamond," represented by Blanche Going and myself ; at the conclusion of which Bebe draws me aside to whisper, laughingly, how Blanche had looked the part coil ainore. " I would have given very little for your chance of life had there been any reality about it," she says. " She looked oh, she looked as if " with a vicious clenching of her small fist, full of meaning. Bebe as a laughing saucy Beatrice, and Lord Chandos as Benedick, makes a much happier tableau than their last, and eventually we yind up with a scene from the "Queen's Maries" of Whyte Melville, in which everybody generally is brought in, and where Blanche Going, as Mary Stuart, in black velvet and the inevitable cap, is the principal feature ; though Bebe makes a 't ery charming Seatou, and PHYLLIS. 166 even I feel some admiration on beholding Marmaduke aa Darnley. With a sense of relief we come down from the stage and mingle with our audience, accepting modestly the compli- ments showered upon us from all sides. Mother, who has not been inside a theatre since she wa nineteen, comes up to tell us it was the prettiest sight she ever saw, and to compare us favorably with all the celebra- ted actors arid actresses of her time. Presently we leave the scene of our triumphs and wan- der into the great cool ball-room, where the decorations of the foregoing evening are still to be seen. Then some- body orders in a piano, and somebody else sits down and begins to play on it, and in another minute or two we are all dancing. " I don't believe poor Mary Hamilton ever had your laughing eyes,'' says Sir Mark to me, during a pause in the dance. " She must have been a sadder, more sedate sort of person altogether. See how differently love works in different people." " You forget she was unhappy in hers. Besides " saucily " how do you know love has anything to do with in y eyes ? " " I don't know, of course ; am only supposing " <: Never suppose. It is foolish, and fatiguing. Though now we are on the subject, Monsieur Chnstelar, you shall give me your definition of the words ' to love.' If we may accept Whyte Melville's opinion of you, you must be a very competent judge." " I have no theory of my own ; I am a sceptic on that point. I will give you the orthodox definition if you wish, which everybody in a novel is bound to accept. It means, I fancy to merge your existence so entirely in that of another as to obliterate oneself and live only for him or her, as the case may be. Also, it would be strictly necessary to feel lost and miserable in the absence of the beloved one You may call that fatiguing if you please. Do you like the picture ? Horrible, isn't it ? " " Not only horrible, but impracticable, I should say. I might manage to be supremely happy in the presence of the adored ; I do not think I could be ' miserable' exactly in his absence." Then laughing, "Is that really 'pure love ? ' " If so, I am a sceptic too It would be absurdly weak-minded, and would ccafin one's happiness to too 1(56 J'JiYLUS. little a world, to indulge in such a belief. It must be wisei to take enjoyment as it cornea in every way, and not be so hopelessly dependant on one." " I entirely agree with you. Indeed I fancy most peo pie would agree with you," replied Sir Mark, carelessly, look tug straight before him, with so much meaning in bis faze that instinctively I follow it, until my eyes fall upon iady Blanche Going, at the other end of the room. Evidently tired and flushed from dancing, she has sunk with lazy grace into a low chair, and now, half turning, ia \aughing up into Marmaduke's face as he leans solicitously dver her Even as I look she raises her hand to repossess icrself of the bouquet he holds, and to my impatience it eems that an unnecessarily long time elapses before the lowers go from his hand to hers. My late careless frivolous words appear to m*ck me, AHiy does he look at her like that? Why is he always by ^ier side ? Are there no other women in the room ? 1 try to think of something gay and heartless to say to Sir Mark, but just at the moment nothing will come to me. Again the vague jealously of the evening before returns in twofold force, and I bring my teeth rather tightly to- gether. After all Marmaduke said to me on the balcony last night about making myself conspicuous with one, it is, to say the least of it, rather inconsistent with his own be- havior now What a perpetual simper that woman keeps up, merely to show the whiteness of her teeth ! How pleased 'Duke appears to be with her inane conversation I Now if I had ever loved him this probably would have vexed me, as it Bah ! I will think of something else. I turn to Sir Mark, with a very successful little laugh. "A living illustration of my text," I say, bending my head in my husband's direction. "Where? Oh! there." He stares at Lady Blanche reflectively for a minute or so, and then says, " She is cer- tainly good-looking." " ' Good-looking ! ' How very faint ! Surely she ia handsome. Are you one of those who consider it impolitic to admire :>ne woman to another?" " As a rule I believe it to be a mistake," replies he, coolly; "but in this case I had no thought of policy. J am never quite sure that I do think her ladyship handsoma. fHYLLIS. 107 That she is generally thought so I admit. Marmaduke and she were always good friends/' " So I should say." "At one time we imagined a tendresse there, and dreamed of a marriage, but, you see, 'Duke was bent on doing more wisely." " Thanks. That is a pretty put. Was the tendretM you speak of on her side or his ?" " A mutual business, I fancy, if it existed at all. But, as we made a mistake in the principal part of it, we prob- ably did so in all. Besides " lightly " I ought not to tell you all this Mrs. Carrington. Tales out of school are malicious. Such mere suppositions as they are too." "Why surely I may congratulate myself on having gained a victory over so much beauty? It would be a pity to deny me this little gratification." Nevertheless, at heart, I am sorely vexed, and, through pique and wounded feeling, make myself more than agree- able to Sir Mark for the evening. Not once does 'Duke come near me ; nor does he even appear to notice my wilful flirtation. Just before we break up, indeed, finding myself near to him in the supper-room, a strange desire to test his real mind towards me, to compel him to pay me some attention, seizes me. He is as usual in close attendance on Blanche Going, who has kept him chained to her side willingly chained, without doubt during the greater part of the evening. Having dismissed my partner on some pretext, I look straight at Marmaduke, and, shivering slightly, say, w How cold it is ! " " Cold ? " replies he, nochalantly. " Is it ? I thought it warm. Better send some one for a shawl. Here, Gore. will you get Mrs. Carrington something warm to put round uer ? She finds a draught somewhere." And, as Sir Mark departs obf dient, 'Duke turns once more to his companion, as though forgetful of my very ex- istence. Lady Blanche smiles disagreeably. Yesterday surely only yesterday he would have been kinder ; lie would have gone for this shawl himselL How e,iLM'rly, with what extreme tenderness has lie ever antici- pated my wants ! And now the attentions of a stranger are considered good enough for me. Is he tired of me already? lias he so soon discovered the poverty of my charms ? Or 168 PHYLLIS. has that old fascination returned with redoubled power, tfl make him regret what is, alas ! irrevocable ? Si'.ck at heart, and mortified to the last degree, I turn away, yet with lifted head and proud, disdainful lips, lea* he or she should rightly guess my thoughts. All the next day a marked coldness exists between m and my husband. We mutually avoid each other, and, (he better to do so, fall baok for conversation upon those near- est to us. The nearest to me, at all events, is Sir Mark Not being by any means a " gushing " pair, this tempo- rary estrangement is unnoticed by the greater part of our guests ; to the few, however, it is plainly visible. Bebe sees it, and is vexed and troubled. Sir Mark sees it, and is curious. Lady Blanche sees it, and is triumphant. It is clear that, for whatever end she has in view, all things are working well. Once or twice during the evening I catch her eyes fixed upon me, and as I do so her glance falls slowly, while a malignant, insolent smile creeps round her mouth. At such moments I am pagan in my senti- ments, and would, if it were possible, call down all evil things upon my enemy. Next day, however, the clouds partially disperse. Nat- urally forgiving, I find a difficulty in maintaining wrath for any lengthened period, and Marmaduke appears only too glad to meet my advances. The third day, indeed, all seems forgotten ; our animos- ity is laid, and peace is proclaimed, This time, however, there has been no explanation, no kindly reconciliation, and only Marmaduke and I know that underneath our perfect amiability lies a thin stratum of ice, that any chance cold may harden into hopeless solidity. " 1'hyllib, we have agreed t3 let the birds hold high noli- day to-morrow, if you will promise us a picnic. It seemi a pity to let this last glimpse of summer go by unmarked/' Bays Marmaduke, speaking to me from the foot of the din- ner-table. " "Oh, how delightful!" cry I, flushing with pleasure, PHYLLIS. 169 and dodging all the flowers on the table to got a good look at his face. As lie is also carefully dodging them in his turn, with the like laudable purpose of beholding me, it is some time before we manage it. When our eyes do meet we smile sympathetically. I hardly know why I do so, but as I withdraw my gaze from Marmaduke I turn upon Sir Mark Gore, who sits at my right hand. The curiously cold, calculating expression I meet startles and somewhat displeases me. " Do you not like picnics ! " I ask him abruptly. " Very much indeed. Why should you think other- wise ? " " Your expression just now was not one of pleasure." " No ? It ought to have boen. I was inwardly admir- ing the charming enthusiasm with which you received your husband's proposition." " Oh !" return I, curtly. "Yes. As I told you once before, when I am pleased I show it ; I am more than pleased now ; I am enchanted," smiling brightly at the thought. " Do you know I have not been at a picnic since I was a girl that is, unmarried." " Not since then ? Why, you must almost forget what a picnic means. Shall I refresh your memory? It means salted pies, and sugared fowl, and indescribable jellies and warm fluids, and your knees in your mouth, and flies. I don't myself know anything more enjoyable than a picnic." "Dear me, how I pity you! Whose picnics have you been at, may I ask? " inquire I with scorn. " To-morrow, I promise you, you shall see a very different specimen." To-morrow comes to us as fine as though bespoken. Lady Blanche, walking into the breakfast-room in the most charming of morning robes, addresses herself to my hus- band. " Well, most noble, what are your plans for to-day ? " ihe asks, with a pretty show of animation. Though I am in the room, and she knows it, she take* no notice of me whatever does not even trouble herself so far as to bestow upon me the courtesy of a " good-morn- ing." She looks up at Marmaduke, and smiles at him, and awaits his answer as though he alone were to be consulted. Evidently in her opinion the mistress of the house is of no importance a mere nonentity in fact ; the master is every- thing. It occurs to me that she might be even gracious enough 170 PHYLLIS. to smile in my direction, but she confii es her attentions en tirely to Marrnaduke. Has any one else in the room noticed her insolence There is rather a hush I fancy, as I move composedly to my seat and alter the cups and saucers into more regular rows, I wonder curiously whether Marrnaduke has remarked her breach of etiquette. Not he ! What man ever saw any- thing wrong where a pretty woman is the transgressor, mor especially when that pretty woman's blandishments are di- rected towards him ? lie gives back her smile placidly, and then speaks, "I believe we have decided on a picnic." "The picnic, of course. But where? That is the ques- tion." " Anywhere you like ; I am yours to command." " You really mean it ? Then I ehould like to go right through the country to St. Seebird's Well. It is years since last I was there." She breathes a soft sigh, as though re- calling some tender memory connected with her former visit. " To the Wishing Well ? " says ' Duke. " That is a long drive. The day is fine, however, and I see nothing to pre- vent our doing it. Can we manage it, do you think, Phyl- lis?" " I see no obstacle in the way," I answer, indifferently, without raising my eyes. " Then we may consider it a settled plan may we, Mrs, (Jarrington ? " says Lady Blanche, sweetly. This time I do lift my head, and turn my eyes slowly upon her ladyship's. " Good-morning, Lady Blanche," I say, quietly, and with the utmost composure. In spite of herself, she is discon- certed. " Oh ! good-morning," she says. " I quite fancied I hid seen you somewhere before this morning." " Did you ? You take coffee, I think, Sir George ? Dora, give Sir George some coffee." "I think I deserve a vote of thanks for my suggestion." eays Lady Blanche, recovering. " I feel in great spirits myself already. The drive will do us good, and make us all as fresh as possible." " True," says Marrnaduke ; " we have not had a driv* for some time. A picnic near home is, I believe, a mistak' It is a capital idea, Phyllis, is it not ? " PHYLLIS. 171 He addresses himself to me in a rather anxious, not to gay conciliatory, tone : for the first time he becomes aware of my unusual silence. " Excellent. Though for my part I hardly require a drive as a tonic. I am always as fresh as I can be." (I cannot resist this one little thrust.) "Mr Thornton," to Chips, who has just entered " come and sit here by me : there is no more room." For the first time in my life I feel my youth an advan- tage as I watch the faint color rise to her ladyship's cheeks. Her mouth changes its expression. It is no longer compla- cent. At this moment I feel she hates me with a bitter hatred, and am partly comforted. A brief smile quivers beneath Sir Mark's moustache ; it is scarcely there when it is gone again, and he drops his eyes discreetly on his plate. " How shall we go ? " asks ' Duke. " We have the coach, and your trap, Ashurst, and the open carriage : will that be enough? Harriet, what will suit you?" " I shall stay at home, thank you," says Harriet, smiling. " I know I am letting myself down in your estimation hor- ribly, but I confess I detest long drives. I believe I detest anything lengthened. I am naturally fickle." (Slje is the most sincere creature alive.) " I shall enjoy loungrng about at home, looking at the flowers, and reading, and that." " Indeed, Harriet, you shall not," cry I, impetuously. "We would all be miserable without you." " That's a fact, Lady Handcock," puts in Chips, heart- By- " Chippendale, you almost make me relent," says Harriet, smiling. "But " in a piteous aside to me "do not com- pel me to go. It is twelve miles there, and twelve miles back, if it is a yard ; just think of that. My poor back would not stand it. James shall go and represent me ' ' Why not change the place, and name a spot nearer hofl.e ? " says Dora, quietly. Dora always does the correct thing. " Just so," exclaims Sir George, who would have thought Jericho a veity convenient spot had Dora so named it. " We ha\ e another Wishing Well somewhere in the neighborhoo 1 ; eh, 'Duke ? " " The Deacon's Well," says Sir Mark, " is only seven miles from this. Would that be too far, Lady Handcock ? " " J shall be quite unhappy if you make me the disturber 1T^ PHYLLIS. of the peace," says Harriet, in comic despair. " Let me stay at home ; I shall do very well ; and at present I feel ashamed of myself." " Nonsense ! " says 'Duke. " If you don't come willingly we shall carry you. So you may at well make up ycur mind to visit the Deacon." " And it is really the prettier well of the two," sayi Blanche, gracefully, as she sees her cause fall to the ground. "Then you and Blanche can keep each ether company on the coach, Phyllis, and any one else that likes. Thornton shall have the horn ; it is about the one instrument on which he can perform with marked success." " 1 shall take the pha?ton and ponies," say I, quietly " They have not been out for two days, and it will do them good. Exercise is the only thing that keeps them in or der." "Oh, nonsense, Phyllis! you will find it much pleasantei with Blanche and the rest of us." " Without doubt ; but then I have set my heart on driv- ing my ponies. They are my hobby at present ; so yon must excuse my bad taste if I say 1 prefer being with them to even the good company you mention. That is, if J can get any one to come and take care of me," "I shall be most happy, Mrs. Carrington, if you will accept me as your escort," says Sir Mark, instantly, aa though desirous of being the first to offer his services. Blanche Going raises her head and regards him fixedly. In the velvet softness of her dark eyes shines for an instant an expression that is half reproach, half passionate anger ; only for an instant; then turning her glance on me, she meets my gaze full, and sneers unmistakably. 1 fel radi- ant, triumphant. At least I have it in iny power to give her sting for sting. "Thank you," I say to Sir Mark, with a beaming smile. M I shall feel quite safe and happy in my mind with you. At heart I believe I am a coward, BO feel it pleasant to kn.w there will be help at hand if the ponies prove refrac- tory." " You had better take a groom with you, Phyllis," sayi my husband, shortly. " Oh, no, thank you. It will be quite unnecessary Sir Mark, I know, it aa good as two or three grooms in a case of emergency." "Nevertheless, I think you had better have a groom. PHYLLIS. 175 Those ponies are generally skittish after an id.eness. I shall tell Markhara to accompany you." " Pray do not give yourself the trouble," I reply, obsti- nately : " I shall not need him. You do not think there is any cause for fear, do you, Sir Mark ! " " I think not. I think I am a match for your ponies at any moment," returns he, smiling. " In my opinion grooms are a mistake in a small carriage/' murmurs Lady Blanche, addressing the table generally. ' There is something unpleasant in the fact that they are close behind one's back ready to hear and repeat every idle word one may chance to utter." Her smile as she says this is innocence itself. " I fully agree with you," answer I, equitably ; " though Sir Mark and I are above uttering anything idle." Marmaduke frowns, and the conversation ends. Meantime, the others have been eagerly discussing their plans. Sir George Ashurst has obtained a promise from Dora to take the seat beside him on his dog-cart. Harriet has decided on the open carriage, and declares her intention of calling and taking up mamma. Lord Chandos alone has had no part in the discussion. Just then the door opens to admit Bebe, fresh and gay as usual. Positively we have all forgotten Bebe. " Late late so late ! " says she, laughing. "Yes, Mar- maduke, I know it is actually shocking. Don't say a word, dear; your face is a volume in itself. Good-morning, every oody. Phyllis you don't look formidable. I shall have my chair near you." The men rise and somebody gets her a seat. " Bebe, we forgot you," cry I, contritely. " Where shall we put you now? " "Put me?" says Babe, regarding her chair. "Why, oei a, I suppose. " No, no ; about our drive to the Wishing Well, I mean vVe have just been arranging everything, and somehow you jot left out." " I have still two seats at the back of my trap." says Ashurst ; " will you accept one, Miss Beatoun ? Ami Chandos can have the other." The faintest possible tinge of color rises to Bebe's cheek. " A back seat ! Oh, Sir George, is that all you can offer me ? I was never so insulted in my life. It is positively 174 PHYLLIS. unkind. Marmaduke, why did not you look after my in- terests in my absence ? " " I don't know how it happened. First come first served 1 suppose " " The unkindest cut of all. 'Duke, you are ungenerous, or else in a bad temp3r ; which ? However. I forgive you." " I would give you the front seat," says good-natured George, " but I fear those very tiny little hands would never be able for the ribbons ; and 1 have given the other to Miss Vernon." " Miss Beatoun, have my place," says Thornton, eargerly. " I dare say Miss Hastings will get on without me, oven if she comes ; and Powell can blow the horn." Dora comes forward gracefully. " Take mine," she says in spite of a reproachful glance from Sir George. "I don't in the least mind where I sit." " Embarras des ric/iesses ! " cries Bebe, laughing, put ting up her hands to cover her ears. " Not for all the world, Miss Vernon. Thank you very much all the same. Did you think I was in earnest? If the truth be told, I like nothing better than the back seat on anything, if the horses be fast. There is something delicious, almost sensa- tional, in finding ourself flying through the air without see- ing what is taking one. I only hope I shan't fall off." " It will be Chandos's fault if you do," declares Sir George, " Do you hear, Chandos ? You will have to keep your eves open, and be careful every time we come to a corner. Bebe colors again, and glances at Lord Chandos, who by a curious coincidence she finds glancing at her. Their eyes meet. " Will you find the task too arduous ? " she asks, mis- chievously, for once losing sight of her coldness. " I will tell you that when we return," replies he, ans- wering her smile. Not until the others have well departed does Markham bring round the ponies ; and as he puts the reins into my hands he utters a gentle warn.ng. " I thought it safer to let the other horses get a bit of a start first, ma'am," he says. " Yon might spare the whip to-day, I'm thinking ; they're that fresh as it will give you enough to do to hold 'em." "All right, Markham," says my companion, gayly; "I will Bee your mistress does not irritate them to madness." PHYLLIS. 176 The pretty animals in question toss their heads know- ingly, then lower them, and finally start away down thq avenue, round the corner, pass the beeches, and cut into the open road. The air is fresh and soft, the speed, to say the least of it enlivening, and for a mile or so I know thorough enjoy- ment then my arms, begin to drag. " How they do pull ! " I say, with a petulant sigh. " Let me have the reins," exclaims Sir Mark, eageily ; " you will be exhausted if you try to hold those fretfuJ creatures for the next six miles. You are hardly strong enough for the task." And, with a gesture that is almost relief I resign to him my seat. " That would be the nearest road to Carston, supposing we had started from Summerleas," I say presently, as we come to one particular turn. " Oh, how often, long ago, I used to travel it ! What years and years and years seem to have gone by since last spring ! What changes have oc- curred ! and yet in reality only a few short months have passed." " Happy changes, I hope, Mrs. Carrington." " For me ? Yes, indeed. When first you knew me I was the most insignificant person among us at home, and now I think I have all I ever wished for." Sir Mark smiles. " I never heard any one say that before. Of what use will the Deacon's Well be to you? Do you mean to tell me you have no wish left ungratified ? " " Well, perhaps there are a few things I would willingly put out of my way," I reply, with a faint recurrence in my own mind to Lady Blanche Going. " Only things ? You are unfortunate. When I go in for that useless sort of wishing, it is for people not things I would have removed. Were I you, Mrs. Carrington, I believe I should live in a perpetual state of terror, waiting for some blow to fall to crush such excessive happiness. You know one cannot be prosperous forever." " I never anticipate evil," return I, lightly. " Surely it is bad enough when it comes, without adding to it by being miserable beforehand. Why, how doleful you look? What is it ? You remind me of some youthful swain in love for the first time in his life." "Perhaps I am." " In Jove ? How amusing ! With whom then ? Beb f 178 PHYLLIS. Dora ? Or some person or persons unknown ? surely you may confide with all safety ;n your hostess." "She is the last person I would choose as a confidante on this occasion. The sympathy she would accord me would be very scanty." "Oh, how unjust! Have I proved myself so utterly heartless ? And is sympathy so very needful in your caad is it a hopeless one ? " " Quite so." " Poor Sir Mark ! 'If she be not fair to me, what car I how fair she be ? ' is a vry good motto : why not adopt it, and love again ? I have heard there is nothing easier." " Would you find it easy ? " " I don't know, having never tried. But if the love is to be unhappy, I wonder people ever let themselves fall into the snare." " You speak as if you yourself were free from the gentle passion," says Sir Mark, with a searching look, under which I color and feel somewhat confused. " We were talking of second lovers," I say, hurriedly. " One hears of them. I was advising you */o turn your attention that way. Surely it would be possible." "I don't believe in it; at least to me it would be im- possible," replies Sir Mark, in a low tone, and silence falls upon me. Once again I am in the ball-room at Strangemore, listen- ing to a tale of early love. Is Sir Mark thinking of Marma- duk'j now, I wonder, and the story he then told me, of his old infatuation for his cousin Blanche ? Was it more thar an infatuation, a passing fancy ? Was it an honest, lasting attachment? And have I secured but the tired, worn-out remnant of a once strong passion ? My changeful spirits, so prone to rise, so easy to dash to earth, again forsake me. Discontented and uncertain, I sit w'Ji lowered lids and fretful, puckered brow. " Do you, then, think a man can love but once in his lift- ? " I force myself to ask, though with open hesitation. "But once? Is it not enough? Would you condemn any one to suffer the restless misery, the unsatisfied long- ing, z. second time?" responds he moodily. " No ; but it is bad for those who come after," I reply with deep dejection. " They must take their chance. The suffering cannot PHYLUS. 17 / be all on one side. We must accept our share cf misery, as it comes, with the best grace we can." " I will riot," I cry, passionately. " All my life I have determined to be happy, and I will succeed. Whatever happens, whatever comes of it, I refuse to be miserable." " Wuat a child you are ! " says he, almost pityingly. t( I am not. I am talking quite rationally. I firmly believe we all make half our own grievances." " And what becomes of the other half? " " Let us leave the subject," I say petulantly, ignoring my inability to answer him. " You are dull and prosy. If you insist on being a martyr, be one, but do not insist also on my following in your footsteps. Because you choose to imagine yourself unhappy, is no reason why I should not be gay." " Certainly not," replies he, with increasing gloom, and brings the whip down sharply across the ponies' backs. Instantly, almost as the lash touches their glossy skins, they resent the insult. The carriage receives a violent shock. They fling themselves backwards on their haunches, and in another moment are flying wildly on, regardless of bit 01 curb or rein. As I realize the situation, I grow mad with fright. Los- ing all sense of self-control, I rise from my seat and prepare to throw myself out of the phreton. Surely the hard and stony road must be preferable to this reckless deadly flight. Seeing my intention, Sir Mark rises also. " Phyllis, are you mad '? " cries he, Hinging his arms round mo. " Your only chance is to remain quiet ; Phyllis, be sen- sible. Si* down when I desire you." TliL-ro is an almost savage ring in his tone. He holds me fast and forces me down into my seat. I struggle with all my strength for a moment or two to free myself from his strong grasp, and then a coldness covers me, and I faint. When my senses return to me, I fa'nd I am still in th Carriage. The ponies are also to be seen, motionless in their places, except for the trembling that convulses their frames. \\lule a tierce snort, every now and then, and tiny flecks oi f '"it hither and thither and mingle with those al- roa upon their Lacks and harness, betray theii late But we are safe, apparently, quite sa'e. Sir s arm is supporting me, while witli his. other hand he holds some'hing t<> my lips. It is that detestable i.Liui: called brandy, and I turn my head aside. 178 PHYLLIS " Take it," urges he, in a low, trembling tone ; " whether you like it or not, it will do you good. Try to swallow Borne." I do as I am bid, and presently, feeling better, raise my Belf and look around for symptoms of a smash. "What have they done?" I ask, with a shudder, 14 Have they " " Nothing," replies he, with a laugh that is rather torcod. " It was a meie bolt. If you had not fainted you would Lave known it was all over in a few minutes." " Jt was the whip," I whisper, still nervous. " Yes ; it was all my fault. I quite forgot Markham's caution. I have to apologize very sincerely for my mistake" " Never mind apologies," I say, laughing, " as we are safe. I never remember being so terrified in my life, not even when my steed nearly deposited me in the middle of the High street in Carston. And you," I continue, in a half-amused tone, peering at him from under my hat " you were frightened too ? Confess it." " I was," returned he, carefully evading my gaze. " l>ut why, if, as you say, there was no danger ?" " There are worse things than runaway ponies your fainting, for instance. I thought you were never going to open your eyes again, you looked so horribly white and cold so like death." "What a lovely picture !" laughing voluntarily. "Well, console yourself ; you have seen what nobody else ever saw Phyllis Carrington fainting. I had no idea I had it in me. I really think I must be growing delicate, or weak-minded." In silence Sir Mark gathers up the reins, and once more the ponies start forward. " Now, Dora can faint to perfection," I go on, finding immense enjoyment in my subject. " If she is vexed or troubled in any way, or hears thunder, she can go off grace- fully into the arms of whoever happens to be nearest to her at the tiiiio. She never fails ; it is indeed wonderful how accurately she can measure distance, even at the last mo- ment. While as for me, I do believe if I were scolded until nothing more was left to be said, or if it thundered and lightened from this to to-morrow, it would not have the effect of removing my senses. At least up to this I have found it so. For the future I shall be less certain. Hut how aiicnt you are, and how cross you look! Still thinking oJ the obdurate fair one ?" PHYLLIS. 179 " Of her and many other things." " Well, perhaps she too is thinking of you." " I can imagine nothing more probable," with a grim mile. " Neither can I." My treacherous spirits are again as cending, " Let me describe her to you as at this moment I almost think I can see her. Seated in a bower, enshrined in roses and honeysuckles, with her hands folded listlessly upon her lap, and her large dreamy black eyes (I am sure her eyes are black) filled with re) en tan t tears, she is now remember- ing with what cruel coldness she received your advances ; while unmolested the pretty earwigs run races all over he? simple white dress simple but elegant, you know." H' m _yes." " And now remorse has proved too much for her ; eVie resolves on writing you a letter expressing contrition for her past heartlessness. She draws toward her paper, pens, and ink (in a three-volume novel the heroine has everything at her hand, even in the most unlikely places ; there is never any fuss or scramble), and indites you a perfumed and coronetted note, which you will receive to-morrow. There ! Now, don't you feel better ? " "Infinitely so." " What ! still frowning ? still in the lowest depths ? 1 begin to doubt my power to comfort you." "I don't feel any inclination to jest on the subject," re- turns Sir Mark, gruiHy, making a vicious blow with the whip at an unoffending and nearly lifeless fly. " Well, there," I gasp, in a sudden access of terror lest he might again incense the ponies, " I will jest no more. And don't despair. Perhaps who knows ? she may grow fond of you in time." lie laughs, a short, bitter laugh that yet has something in it of dismal merriment. " If I could only tell you," he says, " if you only knew, you would understand what a double mockery are suet words coming from your lips." His fingers close around the whip again. Again fright- ened, I hastily clutch his arm. " Don't do that," I entreat; "please do not use that dreadful whip again: remember the last time you did so we \vcre nearly killed." " I wish wo had been altogether so," mutters he, sav- agely. 1 stare at him in speechless surprise. Did that flask JftO PHYLLIS. contain much brandy ? Wliat on earth has happened to our careless, debonair Sir Mark? Even as 1 gaze in wonder, he turns his head and look with some degree of shame into my widely-opened, aston- ished eyes. " Pardon me," lie says, gently. " I don't know what has come to me to-day. I fail to understand myself. I doubt I am an ill-tempered brute, and have hardly any right even to hope for your forgiveness." But his manner has effectually checked my burst of elo quence, and we keep unbroken silence until we reach oui destination. Here we find Marmaduke and Lady Blanche anxiously on the lookout for us ; the others, tired of waiting, have wandered farther afield. Marmaduke is looking rather white and worried, I fancy. "What has kept you until this hour?" he asks, irrita- bly, pulling out his watch. " Oh, how long you have been ! " supplements Blanche. " We were beginning to wonder almost to fear an acci- dent had occurred. It is quite a relief to see you in the flesh." " You were very near not seeing us," I explain. " The ponies behaved very badly ran away with us for half a mile or so and frightened me so much that I fainted." " How distressing ! " says Blanche, apparently much concerned. " How terrified you must have been ! And 8") unpleasant, too, without a lady near to help you ! You were able to resuscitate Mrs. Carringtou, at all events." (To Sir Mark.) " Well, I don't suppose I would have been of much use without the brandy," replies he, coolly. " It must have been quite a sentimental scene," remarks her ladyship, with a little laugh. " It reminds one of some- thing one would read; only, to make it perfect, you should be lovers. Now that you are safe it does not seem unkind to laugh, does it, i 1 " Marmaduke by this time is clack as night. In spite ot myself, I know I have blushed crimson ; while Sir Mark, turning abruptly away, goes to explain some trivial break in the harness to one of the coachmen. "It is a pity, Phyllis, you would not take my advice this morning," says 'Duke, in a roiee that trembles a little, either from suppressed anger or some other emotion. " If I 'PHYLLIS. 181 you had taken a groom, as I begged of you, all this un- pleasantness might have been saved." "I don't see how a groom could have prevented it," 1 reply, coldly. "Without a second's warning they were ct' : it was nobody' fault." " My dear 'Duke, we should be thankful they have es- caped so well," murmurs Blanche, in her softest tones, lay- ing a soothing touch upon my husband's arm. Both touch and tone render me furious. " I dare say it was not very serious." " I dare say not ; but it might have been. And, whether or not it has kept every one waiting for at least three- quarters of an hour." " It might have kept you still longer had I been killed," I return, quietly, moving away in secret indignation. Marmaduke follows me, leaving Blanche and Sir Mark to come after, and side by side, but speechless, we proceed on our way. At length, in a rather milder tone, Marmaduke says, " I hope otherwise your drive was enjoyable." " Very much so, thank you. Though I must say I don't care about feeling niy life in danger. I hope you enjoyed yours." " No " shortly " I did not. I never enjoyed anything less." "How unfortunate ! Was her ladyship thoughtful, or ill-tempered, or what ? " " She had nothing to do with it. I was thinking of you the entire time." " Of me ? How good of you I I am so sorry I cannot return the compliment, but no one was farther from my thoughts than you. Concluding you were happy, I dis- missed you from my memory." " I had a presentiment about those ponies." " Ah ! it was the ponies occupied your mind not their mistress. That sounds far more natural." " They are vicious, and not to be depended upon," con- tinues 'Duke, declining to notice my interruption. "I shall dispose of them the very first opportunity." "indeed you shall do nothing of the kind. They are mine, and I will not have them sold." "Well, keep them, if you insist upon it; but certainly you shall never drive them again." " Then i certainly shall ; and to-morrow, most probably 182 PHYLLIS I will not be ordered about as though I were a mere baby/ M;irmnduke turns, and regards me so steadily and gravely, that at length, in spite of myself, my eyes submit and drop. " Phyllis, how changed you are ! " says he, presently, in a low tone. " When first I knew you even two months ago you were a soft, tender, gentle little girl ; and now you are always unjust and bitter to me, at least. Something rises in my tin-oat and prevents my utterance Large tears gather in my eyes. " I am changed ; I know it." I burst out, suddenly. " Before I married you I was a different person altogether. And how can I help being 'bitter' at times? Even now, when I told you how near death I had been, you showed no feeling of regret thought of nothing but the delay I had occasioned you and your friends." "Oh, Phyllis," says 'Duke, in a tone that implies that I have wrung his heart by my false accusations, and before either can again speak we have passed a hillock and are in full view of our guests. They are all scattered about in twos or threes, though none are very far distant from the others ; and the scene is more than usually picturesque. Certainly the old Deacon knew what he was about when he placed his well in this charming spot. It is a little fairy-like nook, fresh and green, and lying forgotten among the hills, A few pieces of broken-down, ivy-covered wall partially conceal the steps leading to the Wishing Well. " 'Duke, let us wish for dinner and get it before we wish for anything else," entreats Bebe. " The drive has given me a horrible appetite. I am generally a very nice person eh, Mr. Thornton ? but just at present I am feel- ing a downright unladylike desire for food. Phyllis, darling, do say you are hungry." " I am starving," I reply, though conscious at the moment that the smallest morsel would choke me. "Yes, by all means. 'Business first, pleasure after- wards,' " quotes Chips, blithely, who is stretched full length by Miss Beatoun's side, with his hat off and a straw in his mouth, looking extremely handsome and unspeakably happy. Lord Chandos is at her other side, though rather farther away. " What do you say, Phyllis ? " says 'Duke, looking at me. PHYLLIS. 133 "Do not take me into consideration at all," I return in a suppressed voice. " Dinner now, or in five hui rs to come, would be quite the same thing to me." I move quickly away from him towards mamma as I say this, and, sinking down on the turf very close to her, slip my hand into hers; and as I feel her gentle fingers closing upon mine, a sense of safety and relief creeps slowly over me. Dinner progresses ; and, though I will not acknowledge it, I begin to feel decidedly better. Fragments of conver- aation float here and there. " I have a great mind to set my little dog at yon," saya Bebe, in reply to some flagrant compliment bestowed upon her by the devoted Chips. A little bijou of a dog, with an elaborate collar and beseeching eyes, that sits upon her knee and takes its dinner from her pretty white fingers, ia the animal in question. "Oh, please don't," murmurs Chips, pathetically. "I am so horribly afraid of your little dog. Foil would not like me to die of nervous excitement, would you ? " " I am not so sure. It would make room for a better man." " Impossible ! There isn't a better fellow going than I am. You ask my mamma when you see her." "I need not ask anybody ; I can see for myself. What do you do all day long but play billiards ? " "I beg your pardon, Miss Beatoun. You estimate my capabilities at a very improper level. I do no end of things besides billiards. I shoot, smoke, eat, and talk to you." " What a way to spend one's life ! " severely. " I won- der where you think you will go when you die?" " I hope wherever you go. I say," piteously, " don't scold a fellow on such a splendid day don't; it's uncom- mon afflicting of you; and don't put on your gloves for a liUlo longer." " Why?" l< Because I like looking at your hands, though at the same time they always irritate me. They are the very pivitiest I ever saw ; and forgive me for saying it but I always want to kiss them. Now, don't begin agaiu, please; remember you have lectured me for a good hour.' " Then I have wasted a good hour and done nothing 1 give you up ; you are past cure." " I remember coming here oiice beforj," brealw in Lov 1&4 PHYLLIS. tie llastings's voice, ''and wishing for something, and J really got it before the year was out." " Most one wait a whole year ? " asks Sir Mark. " Then I shall have to write mine down. Give you ray word that if my own name was suppressed for a jtar I don't belie va I would recollect what it was at the end of it." " Are we bound by law to name our wishes ? " asks Chips, earnestly. " Because, if so, I shall have to sink into the ground with shame. I'm horrid bashful that is my most glaring fault, you know, Miss Beatoun and I would not disclose my secret desire for anything you could offer." " For anything J could offer," repeats Miss Beatoun. " Are you sure ? Shall I tempt you ? Would you not, for instance, take " The eyes say the rest. "Don't," exclaims Thornton, putting his hands over his ears. " I won't listen to you. I refuse to understand. Miss Hastings, will you permit me to sit by you ? Miss Beatoun is behaving with more than her usual cruelty." "Come," says Miss Hastings, smiling and putting aside her dress to give him room to seat himself on the grass near her. As Chips leaves Bebe, Lord Chandos quietly slips into his place, to Miss Beatoun's evident surprise. " Is it fair to encourage that poor boy so very openly? " begins Chandos, calmly. " What?" says Mis Beatoun. "Is it kind to flirt so much with young Thornton?" repeats Lord Chandos, still perfectly calm. " You must make a mistake," says Bebe, provokingly " You know I never flirt. In the first place, I don't con sider it good form." " Neither do I consider it ' good form ' for a young lady to talk slang," very gravely and quietly. "I wouldn't do it if I were you." " How do you know what you would do if you were I ? " "At all events, you must acknowledge that it is not be- coming." " Do you profess to understand what is becoming to young ladies? Have you been studying them? Come, then, if you are so good a judge, I will ask you to tell me if this hat is so very becoming as they all say. Look well, now, before you decide ; it is a question of the utmost im- portance." This saucy little speech is accompanied by such a be- PHYLLIS. 185 witching glance from under the said hat that Lord Chan- dos loses his presence of miud. "I cannot bear to see you flirt so much as you do with every one," he mutters, hast- ily ; " it tortures me. Bebe, why is it?" Miss Beatoun grows decidedly white, even to her lips, yet is still thoroughly composed. " But do I flirt 'I " she says. " I don't bclive I do. Do you believe it, my darling, my treasure, my Tito?" to the dog. " ]S r ot you. No, no, Lord Chandos ; it is not that at all." " What is it then ? " impatiently. " Why, it is 'every one ' who flirts with me, to be sure. And that is not my fault, is it? " with the most bewildering assumption of injured innocence. And now we all rise ami saunter towards the well. "If you would only wish as I do," whispers Sir George to Dora, "I would be the happiest man alive." "Would you?" says innocent Dora. "But how shall I know what you are longing for ? " " Can you not guess ? " " I am afraid I cannot. Unless, perhaps but no, of course it would not be that. Indeed I do not know how to reach your thoughts. One must want so many things." " I want only one." "Only one! Oh, how moderate! Only one! Let me BCC," with a delicious meditative air, and two slender fingers pressed upon her lips. " Shall I tell you ? " "Oh, no, no," with a pretty show of eager fear. "If you told any one the charm would be broken, and you would not get what you want. Perhaps who knows ? the boon I am going to demand will be the very thing you would tell Die." This with a sufficiently tender glance from the lus- trous azure eyes. " For my part," says Bebe, wilfuUy. " I shall wish for lomething J can never get, just to prove how absurd it all is." "From time to time we every one of us do that,' says Chandos. " We hanker after the impossible. I begiu to fear J shall never get my heart's desire." He glances expressively at Bebe. " Then think of something else," suggests that young lady, moothly. " Your second venture may be more successful.' 186 PHYLLIS. " No, I shall keep to ray original wish, until I cithoi gain it or else lind further hoping folly." " Phyllis, it is your turn now. Will you not descend and court fortune ?" calls Harriet. I am deeply engaged listening to mamma while she reads to me Billy's last effusion from Eton, to which place he re- turned the second day after our ball. " It is a pity to disturb Mrs. Carrington," says Sir Mark K She told me this morning she had not a wish left ungrati- fied." Marmaduke raises his head quickly, and, flushing warmly turns a pleased and rather surprised glance at me. " Nevertheless, I will come," I cry incautiously, spring ing to my feet, " and beg for the continuance of my happi ness, which includes everything." "Oh, Phyllis! " cries Bebe. "Oh, Mrs. Carrington," exclaims Sir Mark; "what a rash proceeding ! Why did you say it aloud ? You have destroyed every chance of receiving that good gift." "Yes," say I, "how provoki?ig ! Never mind, content- ment still remains: and that, I have heard, is quite as much to be desired." Everybody laughs heartily, and Marmaduke says, " You will get nothing, Phyllis, if you declare your wants so openly." " Neither happiness nor contentment, hoAV dismal ! " ex- claim I, laughing too. " Well, I shall keep my third and last thought to myself." And having hoped in my own mind that Lord Chandos would very soon again ask Bebe to be his wife, I go through the form of drinking a little of the pure spring water Master Chips oilers me with due solemnity. The principal business of the day being concluded, our party once more breaks up into detachments, some straying *ut of sight in pretenJed search of scenery, some following Lheir example in an opposite direction without any pretense at all. Sinking down again by mother's side, I content myself with her and Harriet, while Marmaduke and Sir James slay to bour affection. If, "Enough has been said," interrupts she, icily "too much. Let my hand go, Lord Chandos. I want to find Mrs. Carrington." (Mrs. Carrington is almost on the verge of lunacy by this time between fright and disappointment.) " Is there, then, no hope ? " asks Chandos, sternly. "Am I to understand that you again reject me ? " " Yes, as you put it in that light. It is your own fault," bursts out Bebe, passionately. " I told you not to speak." " Had all the world told me the same thing, I would still have spoken. Death itself is preferable to suspense. If my persistence has caused you any annoyance, Miss Beatoun, I beg you will forgive me." " I too would be forgiven," falters Bebe, putting oxit a cold white hand. As he stoops to kiss it she goes on, faintly : " Will you promise me to forget you ever cared for me in this way ? " " Impossible," returns he, abruptly, and turning, walks out of the conservatory through the door by which he entered. Now, is it not provoking? I feel my heart touched with pity for Lord Chandos, with resentment towards his cruel love, until, glancing towards the latter, who has stood mo- li'Miless since his departure, with head bent and hands loosely clasped, the resentment fades, and compassion of the deepest takes its place. I would give a.l the world to be ablt to go, meet and comfort her, to twine my arms around her neck, to exprew my sympathy. But how can I ? What a treacherous crea- ture she would think me 1 How mean ! nothing but a piti fui eavesdropper. PHYLLIS. 19< Slowly she raises her head, and, breathing a heavy sigh, slvances until she stands within the drawing-room. She is awfully close to me now : I can almost touch her. IIow on earth am I to meet her again with this secret on my mind ? If I go on feeling as I do now, I shall betray my self a thousand times within an hour. Two large tears gather in her eyes and roll mournfully downwards. I can bear it no longer. Whatever comes of it, I must make my presence known, and, springing from my couch, I dash aside the thick lace curtains and reveal myself. Uttering a sharp cry, she recedes a little, then checks herself to stare at me with mingled haughtiness and aston- ishment. " Yes, I was here all the time," I cry, imploringly, " and I heard every word. I was lying on this sofa, and nothing escaped me. Of course you will never forgive me for it, but indeed I did not mean to listen." "Oh, Phyllis?" There is such a world of reproach in her tone that I hecome distracted. I move towards her and break into a speech of the most incoherent description, my words tailing from me with the rapidity of desperation. " Yes, it is true," I say. " You may look at me as if you hated me, but what was I to do ? When firsr. you came in I was in a dozy, half sleepy sort of state, and not until you and Chandos were in the very middle of your discussion did I fully awake to the horrors of my situation. Had I declared myself then, it surely would have been worse; and, besides, I hoped, I believed you would have been kind to him at the end, and dreaded lest my unex- pected appearance should put a stop to his proposal. How- ever'* pathetically "I suppose you will never forgive me." " Oh, Phyllis, it is all over now ! " is poor Bobe's un looked-for reply, as she throws herself into my a?ms, with a burst of grief. She is forgetful of all but her trouble. How paltry a thing in comparison with it is my small mi* demeanor ! " No, no," I reply, soothingly, patting the back of her neck, which is all I can get at. " Remember the very last thing he said that it would be 'impossible' to forget fOU." ** Ah ! so he said. But when he has time to reflect 198 PHYLLIS. will see how cold and detestable were ray words. He will be glad of his escape from any one so unloving. I myself wonder now, Phyllis, how I could have so spoken to him." " I could have killed you as I listened," I say, vindic- tively. " How you brought yourself to behave so badly to the dear fellow is more than I can understand. And he looked so nice all the time, and was so delightfully in earnest! Oh, I know I would have given in long before he had time to say one-half what he said to you. Bebe, what made you BO sold? I could have gone in and shaken you with all my heart." *' I wish you had," replies she, dolefully. "Yet, per- haps things are better as they are. At all events, he can- not think meanly of me. I have shown him that, whatever else I may be, I am not a mere money-lover." " Well, for all that, I think it a foolish thing to cut off one's nose to vex one's face," return I, with much truth and more vulgarity. " I am not vexing any one," says Bebe. " Yes, you are. You meant to vex Lord Chandos, and you succeeded. And you are vexing yourself dreadfully. And all for what ? For the miserable thing called pride. Now, I never had any of that troublesome commodity about me, and I believe the want of it adds greatly to one's enjoy- ment." " Had I accepted him I would have been wretched," murmurs she, with a sigh. Then, breaking down again : " And now that I have refused him, I am wretched too ; so there is no comfort anywhere." ** I shall always for the future hate that conservatory," exclaim I, half crying. " And what was the use of my wishing at the Deacon's Well, if this is the only answer 1 am to receive ? " " Was your wish about me ? " " Yes. I hoped Lord Chandos would again ask you to marry him. And see, it has happened. I forgot to wish at the same moment that you might be endowed with a little common sense. It never occurred to me that you would be rash enough to murder your happiness a second time." " What a good little thing you are, Phyllis, to think about it at all ! Well, let us not speak of it again to-day. I do not choose he shall see me with reddened lids, like a penitent. And if I cry any more I shall have to borrow PHYLLIS. 11)9 some rouge from the blooming Going to color my pale cheeks. See, I still can laugh ! " " You will marry him yet," retort I, with conviction, re- fusing to notice the negative shake of the head she bestow* upon me as she quite the room. CHAPTER XXV. " HARRIET, I am freezing rapidly : will you ring the bell, as you are so near it, and let us get some more coals ? Tynon "seems to think we require none." Harriet withdraws her hand reluctantly from where it ia lying, warm and perdu, beneath the silky Skye snoozing on her lap, and does as she is bidden. It is terribly cold. Suddenly, and without the usual warning, winter has come upou us. \Wsitshivering around the fire, and abuse unceasingly the roaring logs because they won't roar faster. Already my guests talk of leaving ; already countless in- vitations to spend the coming Christmas in the homes of others have reached Marmaduke and me. Indeed, Harriet and Bebe whoso mother does not return to England until the coming spring will take no refusal. Dora's marriage is arranged to come off about the mid- o o die of the ensuing month ; and even now Hie illustrious per- sonage who deigned to make me presentable on my entrance into fashionable life is busying herself about the 'trousseau, It seems to me a dreary month in which to celebrate a wed. ding, but Sir George and Dora do not see it in this light, and talk gayly of all the delights to be called from a winter in Rome. " Where is Lady Blanche ? " I ask, suddenly awakening to the fact that for some hours I have not seen her. " She complained of a headache shortly after the de- parture of the shooting-party," says Dora, who is as usual tatting, " and went to her own room." " Dear me 1 I hope it is nothing serious," I say, anx- iously, my conscience accusing me of some slight neglect, 200 PHYLLIS. " I thought she did look rather pale when I met her in the hall." " I don't think you need be uneasy, dear," remarks Har- riet,mildly,with a suspicious twiokle in her eyes; " Blanche's headaches never come to anything. Probably she will be quite herself again by dinner-time. " Perhaps she felt a little dull when the gentlemen were gone," suggests dear Dora, very innocently, without raising Evr white lids. Harriet laughs maliciously, and pulls her Skye's ears ; and, thus encouraged, our gentle Dora smiles. " It seems rude, though, not to inquire for her, does it not ?" say I, with hesitation. "I think I will just runup and ask it there is nothing that I can do for her/' So saying, I put down my work a wonderful piece of imagination in the shape of a beaded collar for Cheekie, Bebe's fox-terrier, which ever since its arrival has evinced a decided preference for me beyond its mistress and, going upstairs, knock at the door of the " round " room that Blanche occupies. " Come in," retoros her ladyship's voice, carelessly, evi- dently thinking she is addressing one of the domestics. I turn the handle and enter. At the farther end of the room, robed in a pale blue dressing-gown richly trimmed with lace, sits Blanche, look- ing by no means so ill as I had expected to see her. In- deed, the clearness of her eyes and the general air of live- liness about her agree badly with her tale of a headache. She has before her a tiny writing-table, and in her hand a very elaborate pink sheet of note-paper, heavily mono- grammed. It is covered with close writing, and as I open the door she is in the act of folding it. As her eyes meet mine, however, with a sudden want of presence of mind, scarcely worthy of her, she hesitates, and finally ends by putting it hastily between the leaves of her blotter. She has flushed slightly, and looks put out. Altogether, i cannot help seeing that my visit is as ill-timed as it is un- welcome. She rises to meet me, and in doing so throws a goodly amount of elegant languor into her face and form. " I was sorry to hear of your not feeling well," I hasten to say as sympathetically as I can. " I came to see if I could do anything for you." "So good of you" with a weary smile " to kind to PHYLLIS. 01 take all this trouble ! But, thank you, no. I am a perfect martyr to these attacks, and I find wheii seized with one that rest and entire freedom from conversation are my only cures. I have such a wretched head," putting her hand pathetically to her forehead. " At such times as these I am utterly useless, and the worst companion possible." " A headache must be a miserable thing," say I, think ing all the while how uncommonly well she bears hers. " Yes," resignedly. " You never have one, I suppose." " Oh, never ; I hardly know what it means the sensa- tion you speak of. I am so desperately healthy, you see. I dare say it comes from living in the country all my life and never keeping late hours. Perhaps " smiling " when I get to London I shall learn all too soon." " I hope not, for your own sake." " I fear you will be terribly ennuyee up here all by your- self. If you would come down to the library it would be so much more cheerful for you. There is a good lounge there ; and you need not talk unless you wish it." ' Thank you very much, but indeed I am better where I am. I hate inflicting myself upon my friends when I am so hopelessly out of spirits. Perhaps by and by towards evening I shall lose this feeling of heaviness. I generally do, indeed, if I remain perfectly quiet during the day. Un- til then, dear Mrs. Carrington, I must ask you to excuse me. But " going back to her own seat, withdrawing the coquet- tish little note from its concealment, and proceeding to fold it into a cocked-hat with elaborate openness " will you not sit down for a few minutes ? " I accept the hint. " No, indeed. I will leave you to get a little sleep, so that we may be the more sure of seeing you among us tnis evening." Much pleased with this speech, which sounds to my own ^ars particularly graceful, I move towards the door and finish. " Well, how is she ? " asks Bebe, coming upon me unex- pectedly, and speaking in a suppressed and agitated tone, as though some one were dead or dying in the next room. ' Is she anything better, poor darling ? Does the doctor hold out the faintest chance of her recovery 1 Speak, and relieve my burning anxiety! " " I don't believe she is ill at all," I return, in high di 202 PHYLLIS. gust. " She looks perfectly well, and her oolor quite aa bright as ever." " A hectic flush, dearest. I fear our sweet friend is in a bad way. How could you look at her without seeing the ravages of disease? Dear Phyllis, I doubt you are sadly wanting in discernment. What did our 'stricken deer ' say to you?" " Oh, she put on an affected drawl, and called herself a wretched being, and pressed her forehead tragically, au-1 was meekly resigned in every way, and looked most provo kingly healthy all the time. I know I was not half at sym- pathetic as I ought to have been." Bebe breaks into merry laughter. We have turned a corner, and are on our way downstairs by this. " Look here, Phyllis ! " cries she : " you may take my word for it, the fair Blanche is this moment in as sound health as you or I." " But why, then, immure herself in her room and act thf martyr ? " " Tired of our company, probably, dear. We all undei stand Blanche's vapors by this time. The men have gont out, you see, not to return until dinner-hour, and women are so terribly insipid. My lady's dresses want renovating, it may be, and surely this a capital opportunity to see to them. Voila-tout." " And could she not say so ? Why tell a lie about such a trifle ? " " Blanche has a talent for lying. A pity to let it run altogether to waste, is it not? She enjoys a little mystery now and then ; and, besides, she would die of chargin if she thought we knew she even spent an hour upon the doing up of her things. We all have our ' little weaknesses,' " says Miss Beatoun, comically, as we enter the drawing- room. Somehow, the remembrance of that pink note and the faint confusion exhibited by Blanche Going on my entrance into her room lingers in my mind. I feel a vague dislike tfl that monogrammed epistle. For whom was it meant? Off and on during the remainder of the day this que* tion haunts me, and only a supreme effort of the will pre- vent* my connecting it with the name of " Marmaduke." Surely, surely, I cannot be becoming that most detesta- ble of all things, a jealous, suspicious wife! I am unhappy and restless in spite of ail rny endeavor PHYLLIS. 202 to be otherwise. I wander through the house conversing with feverish gayety with any one I chance to meet, long ing eagerly, I scarcely know why, for the return of the sportsmen. Yet, as the twilight falls and the shades of evening gather, instead of waiting for their coming, I have Dora in full possession of the tea-tray, and, quitting the drawmg-room, go upstairs to pass a solitary and purposeless hour in my boudoir the pretty little sanctum, all blue and lilver, that associations have endeared to me. Finding myself as restless here, however, as elsewhere, I leave it as the clock chimes half-past six, and, turning into the picture gallery, begin to stare stupidly enough upon the grim cavaliers and immodest sheperdesses, who in their turn stare back at me. Suddenly I become conscious that some cold air is blow- ing upon me, and, raising my eyes, perceive the lower window to be partly open. I shiver, and involuntarily move forward to close it. Outside this window runs a balcony, reached by stone Bteps from the ground beneath, and as I draw nearer to it sonnds coming from thence fall upon my ears first a woman's voice, and then a man's. Their words, though softly uttered, are thoroughly dis- tinct ; a fragment of their conversation, unchecked by the chill wind, passes close by me and makes itself heard. " So you thought once. You cannot have altogether forgotten the old times the past memories " It is Blanche Going's voice, and the accent strikes me as being reproachfully, nay tenderly impassioned. For a moment my heart stops beaf.ng. A cold damp- ness covers my face. I cannot move. I hardly dare to breathe. Oh, to whom are these words addressed ? Wtiost roice will give her back an answer ? Sir Mark speaks ; and with a relief that through its in- iensity is for the instant acutest pain, I stagger against the vail near me, and stand motionless to recover calm. " Can anything be more melancholy than ' old times?' ' itarmured Sir Mark, lightly, without the faintest trace of tenderness in his tone. " Believe me, we can have no real happiness in this life until we have learned successfully how to forget." I leave the window noiselessly, but as I go the words and their meaning follow me. "Old times" "past mem- ories " can it indee< be that in the " long ago " lie lov 204 PHYLLIS. passages that were or oo fresh between Lady Blanche and Sir Mark Gore ? Jfit be so, and that the remembrance of them is not yet quite dead in her heart, what becomes of my theory (that of late has been a settled conviction) that she bears an overweening affection for my husband. Surely her tone was utterly sincere : she had not feigned that despairing sadness: those few words had come from a full heart from a woman making a last vain effort to revive a buried love. I gain my own room, and, having locked the outside door, stop to press my hand to my forehead. A sensation that is partly triumph, partly joy, rises within me joy, however, that lasts but for a moment, as, with a groan, I recollect h-ow as yet I have not proved Marmaduke's indifference to her. Of what consequence is it to me to know whether Mar- maduke is or is not the first in Blanche Going's thoughts, unless I be assured that sfie is not the first in his ? Nevertheless, in spite of these dismal doubts, I feel my spirits somewhat lighter. My feelings towards my hus- band take a kindlier shade as I hurry through my dressing with the assistance of my maid being already rather late with my toilet. I hear 'Duke enter his own room. The days are long gone by when he would seek my presence the first thing on his return, and, having given me the kind and tender kiss I prized so little, proceed to tell me all that the day had brought him. Just now this thought forces itself upon me obstinately, bringing a strange, remorseful pang to my heart. I dismiss Martha, and in an unusually softened frame of mind, open the door that separates his room from mine, and say, cheer- fully, " Had you good sport, Marmaduke? " He looks up, plainly surprised, but makes no comment on my unexpected appearance. " Pretty fair. Not so good as we hoped on setting out^ but very respectable for all that. Thornton is a first clasa shot. Any one here to-day? " " Yes, the Do Veres and Murrays. But they stayed no time, and old Mrs. Murray was in a very bad temper. Jt appears Harry is more than ever determined about marry- iug the governess." " I pity the governess, if she goes back to live with the old lady at a daughter-in-law " PHYLLIS. 205 "So do I. Oh, Marmaduke, have you got any eau-de- Cologne ? Martha must have a weaknes for it, as she never leaves me any." " I see plenty in one of these bottles. Come and take it," I walk in, fastening my bracelet as I go. " That's a pretty dress you have on to-night " says Mar mad uke, regarding me critically before going in for a second battle with a refractory tie ; already .three lie in the corner slaughtered. " Fancy your seeing anything about me worth admir- ing ! " I reply ; but, in spite of my words, my laugh is low and pleased. His tone, though quiet, has a ring of cordial- ity in it that for some time has been absent. A smile hovers round my lips; 1 lift my head and am about to make some little, trilling, saucy, honeyed speech, when my eyes fall upon a certain object that lies upon the toilet-table among the numerous other things he had just withdrawn t'rom his pockets. A tiny pale-pink three-cornered note rests, address up- permost, beneath my gaze. "Marmaduke Carrington, Esq." no more. How well I knew it, the detestable, clear, beautiful writing ! I feel my lips compress, my cheeks grow ashy white. Turning abruptly, stung to the quick, I leave the room. " Will you not take the bottle with you ? " calls out Mar- maduke, and I answer, in rather a stifled voice, ' No, thank you," and shut the door between us hastily. Oh that that was all that separated us! I feel half mad with outraged pride and passion. That she should write him billets-doux in ray own house, that he should receive them and treasure them, seems to me in my excited stato ; the very basest treachery. Making tierce love beneath my very eyes, so careless of my feelings, or so convinced of my stupidity j as to take no pains to conceal their double-deal ing! I grow almost reckless, and remember with some sort of satisfaction that at least it is in my power to wound him in turn and her, too, after what I have ovei heard this evening. Although his vaunted love for me if ever there is now gone, I can still touch him where his honor is con- cerned. I rub my pale face until the color returns to it, I bite my quivering lips until they gleam like crimson ber- ries, and, going downstairs, for the first time in my life 1 206 PHYLLTS. let the demon of coquetry rise and hold full sway within my breast, while I go in for an open and decided flirtation with Sir Mark Gore. Yet how miserable I am. How wretched are the mo- ments, when I give myself room for thought ! I note Mar- maduke's dark frown, as, with Hushed cheeks and gloam- ing, sparkling eyes, I encourage and play gayly to Sir Mark's nonsense. I see Bebe's surprised glance and Har- riet's pained one. I watch with exultation the bitter ex- pression that clouds Lady Blanche's brow. I see every- thing around me, and long with a feverish longing for the evening to wear to an end. At length comes the welcome hour of release. "Wo have all wished each other good-night. The men have re- tired to their smoking-room, the women to their bedroom fires and the service of their maids. Martha having pulled my hair to pieces and brushed it vigorously, I give her leave to seek her own couch, and, with a set purpose in my mind, get through the remainder of my night toilet without assistance. An unrestrainable craving to learn all the particulars of Marmaduke's former attachment to Lady Blanche Going (as described by Mark Gore) seizes me ; and Bebe being of all people the one most likely to satisfy my curiosity I de- termine to seek her and gain from her what knowledge 1 can. She is, besides, the only one of whom I would make sacn an inquiry; therefore to her room I prepare to go. I hastily draw on a pale-blue cashmere dressing-gown, prettily trimmed with satin quilting of the same shade, and substitute blue slippers for the black ones I have been wear- ing during the evening. My hair hangs in rich chestnut masses far below my waist; two or three stray rippling locks wander wantonly across my forehead. A heavy blue sord and tassel, confining my gown, completes my costume. Leaving my own room noiselessly, I reach Jiebe's, and knock softly on the door. She too has dismissed her maid, and is sitting before iLe fire in an attitude that bespeaks reverie. Whatever her thoughts, however, she puts them from her on my entrance, and comes forward to greet me, the gay, bright, dcbonnairt Bebe of every day. " I am so glad you have come ! " she says, running to take both my hands and lead me to the fire. M A few mia- PHYLLIS. H)7 %. A*' conversation at this hour of the night i* worth hour* ora kwi 208 PHYLLIS. charms, with her complexion and eyes of ' holy blue.' 1 rerily believe you are a hypocrite. Don't you know all the men here ravo about you ? Don't you know it was a fixed creed in the family that Marmaduke's heart was cased in steel until he destroyed it by marrying you ? " " Oh," I say, with a li< ' t laugh, though my blood it coursing wildly though - 'ns, "you exaggerate slightly there, I think. Was t very much epris with hu cousin, Lady Blanche ^ g, some years ago?" "A mere boy-and-girl attachment. I would as soon dream of lending importance to the passion of a schoolboy in his teens to the passion of my dear Chips, for instance. Besides, she was several years older than he was whatever ahe may be now," e.iys Bebe, with a little grimace. " Was it violent while it lasted ? " "I don't remember anything about it ; but mamma saya it died a natural death after one season. Then she married Colonel Going." " Why does Colonel Going remain away so long? " "Ah ! why, indeed, my dear? that is a thing nobody knows. There was no divorce, no formal separation, no esclandra of any kind ; he merely put the seas between them, and is evidently determined on keeping thein there. To me and my cousins of my own age the colonel is some- thing of a myth ; but mamma knew him w r ell about six years ago, and says he was a very fascinating man, and upright, but rather stern." " What a curiously unpleasant story ! But didn't people talk ? " " Of course they did ; they did even worse they whis pered ; but her ladyship took no notice, and every one had to confess she behaved beautifully on the occasion. She gave out that her extreme delicacy alone (her constitution is of iron) prevented her accompanying him to India, and she withdrew from society, in the very height of the season, (or two whole months. Surely decorum could no further go! ' " And then ? " "Why, then she reappeared, with her beauty much augmented from the enforced quiet and early hours and with her mother." "What is the mother like? One can hardly fancy Blanche with anything so tender as a mother." " Like a fairy godmother, minus the inagio wand and PHYLLIS 20ft the energy of that famous person. A little o?Ck lady with a dark face, and eyes that would be keen and searching but for the discipline she has undergone. She has no opinions and no aims but what are her daughter's; and Blanche rules her as she rules every other member of her household with a rod of iron." " Poor old creature ! What an unhappy age ! So you ay Maruiaduke's admiration for Blanche meant nothing? And she did she like him f " " For ' like ' read ' love ' I suppose ? My dearest Phyl- lis, have you, who have been so long under the same roof with Blanche, yet to discover how impossible it would be for her to love any one but Blanche Going. Yet stay ; I wrong her partly ; once she did love, and does so still, 1 believe.** " Whom do you mean ? " ask I, bending forward eagerly. " Have you no notion ? How surprised you look! You will wonder still more when I tell you the hero of her romance is at present in your house." " Here, in this house ! " I stammer. " Yes. No less a person than Mark Gore." So I am right. And jealousy has been at the root of all her ladyship's open hostility towards me ! " Any casual observer would never think so," I remark, at last, after a very lengthened pause. u That is because Murk's infatuation has come to an end, and he does not care to renew matters. If you watch him you may see what particular pains he takes to avoid a tete- a-tete with her. And yet there was a time when she had considerable influence over him. He was a constant visitor at her house in town so constant that at length it began to be inuoted about how he had the entree there at all hours and seasons, even when an intimate friend might expect a denial. Then people began to whisper again, and shako their wise heads and pity ' that poor colonel,' and watcb aagerly for the denouement. " Why did her mother not interfere ? " " My dear, have I not already told you what a perfectly drilled old lady is the mother? It would be as much as her life is worth to interfere in any of her daughter's arrangements. She is utterly dependant on Blanche, and, therefore, perforce, a nonentity. She is expected to remain in the house as a useful piece of furniture ; and she is also exptoted to have neither ears nor eyes nor tongue. Beaidei, ttO PHYLLIS. it was not a singular case ; Mark was only the last on a long list of admirers. My lady could net exist without a cavalier eervenle" " I think it downright abominable," say I, with much warmth. Bebe looks amused. " So do I. But what will you ? And in spite of all our thoughts Mark came and went unceasingly. Wherever madame appeared, so did her shadow ; at every ball he wag in close attendance ; until, the season dragging to a close, Blanche went abroid for two months, and Mark went down to this part of the world. To 'Duke, was it ? " " No ; if you mean the summer before last, he stayed with the Leslies," I admit, somewhat unwillingly. "1 met him several times." " What ! you knew him, then, before your marriage ? " cries Bebe, with surprise. " Very slightly. Once or twice lie called with the Les- lies, and when he returned to town he sent me an exquisite little volume of Tennyson ; which delicate attention on his part so enraged papa, that he made me return the book, and forbade my writing to thank Sir Mark for it. So ended our acquaintance." " Oh, now I have the secret ; now I understand why B'anche detests you so," exclaims Bebe, clapping her hands merrily. "So he lost his heart to you, did he? And madame heard all about it, and was rightly furious? Oh, how she must have ground her pretty white teeth in impo- tent rage on discovering how she was outdone by a simple village maiden ! I vow it is a tale that Offenbach's niusio might adorn." "How absurd you are, Bebe! How you jump to conclusions I I assure you Sir Mark left our neighborhood as heart-whole as when he came to it." . " Well, I won't dispute the point ; but whether it was your fault or not, when Blanche and he again met all was changed. His love had flown, no one knew whither, lie still continued to pay her visits, it is true, but not every day and all day long. He still attended the balls to which she went, but not as her slave. Blanche fretted and fumed herself thin at his defection ; but it was no use : the spelJ was broken, and Mark was not to be recalled. You will think me a terrible scandal-monger," says Bebe, with a mile, "but when one hears a thing perpetually discussed PHYLLIS. 211 one feels an interest in it at last in spite of oneself. You look shocked, Phyllis. I suppose there is no such thing in this quiet country as polite crime ? " " I don't know about the politeness, but of course there is plenty of crime. For instance, last assizes Bill Grimes, out gardener's son at Suminerleas, was transported for poaching; and eight mouths ago John Iladdon, the black- smith, fired at his landlord; and it is a well-known fact that Mr. De Vere beats his wife dreadfully every now and then ; but there are no such stories as the one you have just told to me. I think it disgraceful. What is the use of it all ? How can it end ?" " Sometimes in an elopement ; sometimes, as in Blanche's case, in nothing. You must understand she is perfectly re- spectable, and that the very nicest people receive her with open arms. But then none of them would be in the least surprised if any morning she was missing. And, indeed, sometimes I wish she would like somebody well enough to quit the country with him. Anything would be decenter than these perpetual intrigues." " Oh, no, Bebe ; nothing could be so bad as that. Little as I care for her, I hope I shall never hear such evil tidings of her." " Phyllis, you are a dear charitable child, and I like you it would bo impossible for me to say how much. Do you know" putting her hand on mine " I have always sneered at the idea of any really sincere attachment existing be- tween women ? But since I have known you I have recanted and confessed myself in error. If you were my sister I could not love you better." Contrasting her secretly wita meek-eyed Dora, I fee] guiltily that to me Bebe is the more congenial of the two. With my natural impulsiveness 1 throw my arms round her Beck and favor her with a warm kiss. " But I am not charitable," goes on Bebe, when she has returned my chaste salute. " and I detest Blanche with all iny heart. There is something so sly and sneaking about her. She would do one an injury, if it suited her, even while accepting a kindness at one's hands. Do you know. Phyllis, she is etill madly in love with Sir Mark, whilo 1 think he is decidedly smitten with you P " My face and throat grow scarlet. " I hope not," I stammer, foolishly. tt I am sure of it. lie never takes his eyes off you, and 21 '2 PHYLLIS. at times my lady is absolutely wild. I never noticed it s