It is four o'clock. There is a delicious hush all over the house
and grounds, a hush that betrays the absence of the male bird
from his nest, and bespeaks security. Billy and I, hat in hand,
stand upon the door-step and look with caution round us,
preparatory to taking flight to Brinsley Wood. Ever since my
unlucky confession of having asked Mr. Carrington's permission to
wander through the grounds--thereby betraying the pleasure I feel
in such wanderings--we have found it strangely difficult to get
beyond the precincts of our home. Obstacles the most unforeseen
crop up to stay our steps, some supernatural agency being
apparently at work, by which papa becomes cognizant of even our
most secret intentions.
To-day, however, brings us such a chance of freedom as we may not
have again, business having called our father to an adjoining
village, from which he cannot possibly return until the shades of
evening have well fallen. Our evil genius, too, has for once been
kind, having forgotten to suggest to him before starting the
advisability of regulating our movements during the hours he will
be absent. We are, therefore, unfettered, and with a glow of
pleasure not unmixed with triumph we sally off towards the deep
green woods.
It is that sweetest month of the twelve, September--a glorious
ripe September, that has never yet appeared so sweet and
golden-brown as on this afternoon, that brings us so near the
close of it. High in the trees hang clusters of filberts, that
have tempted our imagination for some time, and now, with a
basket slung between us, that links us as we walk, we meditate a
raid.
As with light, exultant footsteps we hurry onwards, snatches of
song fall from my lips--a low, soft contralto voice being my one
charm. We are utterly, carelessly, recklessly happy, with that
joyous forgetfulness of all that has gone before, and may yet
follow, that belongs alone to youth. Now and then Billy's high,
boyish notes join mine, making the woods ring, until the song
comes to sudden grief through lack of memory when gay laughter
changes the echo's tone. Here a bunch of late and luscious
blackberries claim our attention. And once we have a mad race
after a small brown squirrel that evades us cleverly, and
presently revenges itself for its enforced haste by grinning at
us provokingly from an inaccessible branch.
At last the wood we want is reached; the nuts are in full view;
our object is attained.
"Now," asks Billy, with a sigh of delight, "at which tree shall
we begin?" It is a mere matter of form his asking me this
question, as he would think it derogatory to his manly dignity to
follow any suggestion I might make.
All the trees are laden: they more than answer our expectations.
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. Already our basket is more than
half full, and Billy is almost out of sight among the thick
foliage, so high has he mounted.
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,
and I look vaguely around me in search of newer joys.
At no great distance from me I spy another nut-tree equally laden
with treasure and far easier of access. Low, almost to the
ground, some of the branches grow. My eyes fasten upon it; a keen
desire to climb and be myself a spoiler seizes upon me. I lay my
basket on the ground, and, thought and action being one with me,
I steal off without 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 me nimble, it is at very
little risk and with small difficulty I soon 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! He 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 gayety of 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 my
direction, I espy Mr. Carrington! At the same moment Billy's 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 design, 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, in tones suppressed indeed, but audible enough to betray my
hiding-place.
"Billy, here is Mr. Carrington--he is coming towards us. Catch
these nuts quickly, while I get down."
"Why where on earth---" begins Billy, and then grasping the
exigencies of the case, refrains from further vituperation, and
comes to the rescue.
The foe steadily advances. I fling all my collected treasure into
Billy's upturned face, and seizing a branch begin frantically to
beat a retreat. I am half-way down, but still very, _very_ far
from the ground--at least, so far, that Billy can render me no
assistance--when I miss my footing, slip a little way down
against my will, and then sustain a check. Some outlying bough,
with vicious and spiteful intent, has laid hold on my gown in
such way that I can not reach to undo it.
"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, _what_ shall I
do?"
Meantime, Mr. Carrington is coming nearer and nearer. As I peer
at him through the unlucky branches I can see he is looking if
anything rather handsomer than usual, with his gun on his
shoulder and a pipe between his lips. As he 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 landscape.
Now, although this is exactly the thing of all others I most wish
him to do, still the voluntary doing of it on his part induces me
to believe my situation a degree more indecent than before. I
feel I shall presently be dissolved in tears. I tug madly at my
unfortunate dress without making the faintest impression upon it.
Oh, why is it that my cotton--that up to this has been so prone
to reduce itself to rags--to-day should prove so tough? My
despair forces from me a heavy sigh.
"Not down yet?" says Mr. Carrington, turning to me once more.
"You will never manage it by yourself. Be sensible, and let me
put you on your feet."
"No," I answer, in an agony; "it _must_ give way soon. I shall do
it, if--if--you will only turn your back to me 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 shriek frantically, and in another moment
fall headlong into Mr. Carrington's outstretched arms.
"Are you hurt?" he asks, gazing at me with anxious 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 his head for
a moment from the contemplation of his surgical task 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 almost
eighteen. There is a touch of asperity in my tone.
"Indeed! _So_ old?" says our friend, still smiling.
"Mr. Carrington," I begin, presently, in a rather whimpering
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 know 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 I had of flying. Had I,
Billy?"
"You had not," says Billy. "I don't know what put the thought
into your head. Why, it is two years since last 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 doctor.
"I would endure the tortures of the rack first," returns he,
giving his bandage a final touch. "Be assured they shall never
hear of it from me. You must not suspect me 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. "I 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 none the worse for your
accident? It is a long week since last I was at Summerleas. Would
I bore you all very 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?" He 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 month yesterday," I exclaim, promptly; "it was on the
25th of August you first came to see us. I 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 month since first I saw you?
To_ me_ it 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 correctness 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, unless 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 Puxley very accurately, I must confess; and
yet, strange as it may appear to you, your opinion was rashly
formed, because as yet 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 at Summerleas."
I begin to think Dora has a decided chance. I search my brain
eagerly for some more leading question that shall still further
satisfy me on this point, but 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 hand; "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, "by 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 from my eyes alone.
"Come, if you wish it," I say, answering the unspoken look in his
eyes, and feeling thoroughly surprised to hear a man so
altogether grown up express a desire for our graceless 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 before 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 I am fortunate enough to meet you
again. I 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 us, Billy and I move on together
without speaking, a most unusual thing, when I break the silence
by my faltering tones.
"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 I feel that with
cheerfulness I could 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 Roly with my younger brother
in a manner highly unflattering 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
have been different. _He_ at least being a _man_, would have felt
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_ all_ men so
afflicted? 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 injured 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."
I hesitate and look ruefully at my arm. The sleeve of my dress is
rolled up above the elbow, having refused obstinately to come
down over the bandage, and consequently I present a dishevelled,
not to say startling appearance.
"I must undo it, I suppose," I return, disinclination in my tone,
and Billy says, "Of course," with hideous briskness. Therewith he
removes the guarding-pin and proceeds to unfold the handkerchief
with an air that savors strongly of pleasurable curiosity, while
I stand shrinking beside him, and vowing mentally never again to
trust myself at an undue distance from mother earth.
At length the last fold is undone, and, to my unspeakable 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 handkerchief 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 my door. Nevertheless,
though now, comparatively speaking, 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 confidante 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 case I have
ever read (and they have a particular fascination for me), the
miserable perpetrator of the crime finds a terrible difficulty in
getting rid of the water in which he has 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, fling the contents of my basin
into the air. "It falls to earth I know not where," as I
hurriedly draw in my head and get through the remainder of my
self-imposed duty.
After that my dressing for dinner is a scramble; but I get
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 water
from your bedroom windows upon chance passers by?"
A ghastly silence follows. Dora looks up in meek surprise. Billy
glances anxiously at me. My knees knock together. Did it fall
upon _him_? Has he discovered all?
"Well, why do I receive no answer? _Who_ did it?" demands papa,
in a voice of suppressed thunder, still with his eye on me.
"I threw some out this evening," I acknowledge, in a faint tone,
"but never before--I---"
"Oh! it was_ you_, was it?" says papa, with a glare. "I need
scarcely have inquired; I might have known the one 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 be a lady," interrupted papa, bitterly. "You are a
downright disgrace 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 discredit 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
relief. 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 tortures
during the past five minutes--now, through the intensity 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 am too depressed to
give him a warning glance. At length,---
"Billy, when you have quite done making that horrid noise,
perhaps you will ring the bell," says Dora, smoothly, with a view
to comfort. Certainly the tattoo _is_ irritating.
"When I have quite done I will," returns Billy, calmly, and
continues his odious occupation, with now an addition to it in
the form of an unearthly scraping noise, caused by his nails,
that makes one's flesh creep.
Papa, deep in the perusal of the _Times_, hears and sees nothing.
Mother is absent.
"Papa," cries Dora, whose delicate nerves are all unstrung, "will
you send Billy out of the room, or else induce him to stop his
present employment?"
"William," says papa, severely, "cease that noise directly." And
William, casting a vindictive glance at Dora, lays down the
dessert-fork and succumbs.