[Transcriber's Note: spelling and punctuation are eccentric.
Exclamation marks and dashes are copious inside sentences.
Occasional British and archaic spellings are used
(ploughboys, dulness).
Some words are invented or unusual ('decenter' to mean more
decent; 'irrevelantly'). Thanks to
https://babel.hathitrust.org for original scan and OCR.]
PHYLLIS
THE DUCHESS
CHICAGO, NEW YORK, AND SAN FRANCISCO;
BELFORD, CLARKE & CO.,
PUBLISHERS.
TROW'S
PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY,
NEW YORK.
PHYLLIS.
BY THE DUCHESS.
Author of "_Molly Bawn,_" "_The Baby,_" "_Airy Fairy Lilian,_"
etc., etc.
"Ah! Love was never without
The pang, the agony, the doubt."--BYRON.
---
CHAPTER I.
"Billy, Billy!" I call, eagerly, and at the top of my healthy
lungs; 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. I 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," says my lovely
sister, with the slightest possible show of irritation.
"Who?" I ask, in my loudest whisper, feeling somewhat interested.
"Not--not Mr. Carrington--surely?"
'Yes,' returns Dora, under her breath; "and really, Phyllis, I
wish you would not give yourself the habit of---"
"What? Already!" I interrupt, with a gasp of surprise. "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 victory. 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 totally unexpected
direction.
"What's up?" he asks, in his usual neat style.
"Oh, Billy, he is here--Mr. Carrington I mean," I exclaim,
eagerly. "Dora and mamma are with him. I wonder will they ask him
about the wood?"
"He'd be sure to refuse if they did," says Billy, gloomily. "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." I 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 innocence 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."
"But 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?" says Billy, with withering contempt. "He didn't
send his orders, I suppose? Oh, no!" Once fairly started in his
Billingsgate strain, it is impossible to say where my brother
will choose to draw a line, but fortunately for Mr. Carrington's
character, Martha, our parlor servant, makes her appearance at
this moment and comes up to us with an all-important expression
upon her jovial face.
"Miss Phyllis, your ma wants you in the drawing-room at once,"
she says. "The strange gentleman is there, and---"
"Wants _me_?" I ask, in astonishment, not being usually regarded
as a drawing-room ornament. "Martha, is my hair tidy?"
"'Tis lovely!" returns Martha. And, thus encouraged, I give my
dress one or two hasty pulls and follow in Dora's footsteps.
A quarter of an hour later I rush back to Billy, and discover him
standing, with bent head and shoulders, in a tiny closet that
opens off the hall, and is only divided from the drawing-room by
the very frailest of partitions. His attitude is crumpled, but
his face betrays the liveliest interest as he listens assiduously
to all that is going on inside.
"Well, what is he like?" he asks in a stage whisper,
straightening himself slightly as he sees me, and pointing in the
direction of the closet.
"Very nice," I answer with decision, "and not dark at all--quite
fair. I asked him about the wood when I got the 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. There! And
it was not he turned out old Nancy Haggard: it was the wretch
Simmons, the steward, without any orders; and Mr. Carrington has
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 consequences, he picks
himself up silently, and together we turn and flee.