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 that occasion having failed to obtain
one minute with him alone, the handkerchief still remains in my
possession, and proves a very skeleton in my closet, the initials
M. J. 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 wonder how I
could have been so foolish, so wanting in invention. I feel with
what ease I could now dispose of anything tangible and obnoxious.
There is a slight chill in the air, in spite of the pleasant sun;
and I 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 terrier at his heels.
"Is this a favorite retreat of yours?" he asks, as our hands
meet.
"Sometimes. Oh, Mr. Carrington, I am so glad to see you to-day."
"Are you, really? That is better news than I hoped to hear when I
left home this morning."
"Because I want to return you your handkerchief. I have had it so
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 myself."
Lingering, cautiously, I bring it to light and hold it out to
him. Oh, how dreadfully pink and uncleanly it appears in the
broad light of the open air! 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 tenderly. There is not the
shadow of a smile upon his face. It would be impossible 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 me?"
"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_ washerwoman"--with a smile--"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 handiwork. Once properly washed, you will
forget all about it: but if you keep it before your eyes in its
present state--- Mr. Carrington, _do_ put it in your
clothes-basket the moment you go home."
He only laughs at this pathetic entreaty, and throws a pebble
into the tiny river that runs at our feet.
"Why are you alone?" he asks, presently. "Why is not the
indefatigable Billy with you?"
"He reads with a tutor three times a week. That leaves me very
often lonely. I came here to-day just to pass the time until he
can join me. He don't seem to care much about Greek and Latin," I
admit, ingenuously; "and, as he never looks at his lessons until
five minutes before Mr. Caldwood comes, you see he don't get over
them very quickly."
"And so leaves you disconsolate longer than he need. Your sister,
Miss Vernon--does she never go for a walk with you?"
Ah! now he is coming to Dora.
"Dora? Oh, 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 pretty as she is,
too! Don't you think her very pretty, Mr. Carrington?"
"Extremely so. Even more than merely pretty. Her complexion, I
take it, must be quite unrivaled. She is positively lovely--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. _I_ 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 his tone that
renders me uneasy for the brilliant future I 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 would 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 small--yes, _quite_
as small as this. The owner of it was a mere child--a little
country-girl, knowing nothing of the busy world outside her home,
but I shall never again see any one so altogether sweet and
lovable."
"What was she like?" I ask, curiously. I am not so uneasy as I
was. If only a child she cannot, of course, interfere with Dora.
"Describe her to me?"
"What _is_ she like, you mean. She is still in the land of the
living. _Describe_ 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 rapturous over a description?
If you cross-examine me about her charms, without doubt I shall
fall through. To my way of thinking beauty does not lie in
features, in hair, or eyes, or mouth. It is _there_, without
one's knowing why; a look, an expression, a smile, all go to make
up the indescribable something 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 says,
"what may I call you? Miss Vernon 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?"
He is looking at me as he speaks, as though desirous of
photographing me upon his brain without further loss of time.
"Oh, yes, twice," I answer, cheerfully; "once by a travelling man
who came round, and did us all very cheaply indeed (I think for
fourpence or sixpence a head); and once in Carston. I had a dozen
taken then; but when I had given one each to them all at home,
and one to Martha, I found I had no use for the others, and had
only wasted my pocket-money. Perhaps"--diffidently--"_ you_ would
like one?"
"_Like_ it!" says Mr. Carrington, with most uncalled-for
eagerness: "I should rather think I would. Will you really give
me one, Phyllis?"
"Of course," I answer, with surprise: "they are no use to me, and
have been tossing about in my drawer for six months. Will you
have a Carston one? I really think it is the best. Though, if you
put your hand over the eyes, the itinerant's is rather like me."
"What happened to the eyes?"
"There is a faint cast in the right one. The man said it was the
way I always looked, but I don't think so myself. _You_ don't
think I have a squint, do you, Mr. Carrington?"
Here I open my blue-gray eyes to their widest and gaze at my
companion in anxious inquiry.
"No, I don't see it," returns he, when he has subjected the eyes
in question to a close and lingering examination, Then he laughs
a little, and I laugh too, to encourage him, and because at this
time of my life gayety of any sort seems 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."
"Don't you find it awkward now and then being ignorant of the
time? Would you like one?"
"Oh, would I not?" I answer, promptly. "There is 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?
He 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 own;
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 seen service, and, being newer, would surely
keep better time.
Then the delight passes, and something within me whispers 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 _why_ I feel it--but
I _know_ if I accepted a watch from Mr. Carrington 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 they would not let me have it, and
so it would be a pity for you 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 dejection. (I
would so _much_ have liked that watch! Why, _why_ did he put the
delightful but transient idea into my head?) "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 promised 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 vexation. "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 snappishness. "And from what _I_
have seen of husbands I 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 passed
through the fourth campaign; but to _see_ you--- You have learned
your lesson uncommonly well, though I am sure you 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
marriage than before?"
"That I never will," I return, decisively. "In the first place, 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."
"I hate to hear you talk like that," says Mr. Carrington,
gravely. "The ideas are so unsuited to a little loving girl like
you. Although I am positive you do not mean one word of what you
say, still it pains me to hear you."
"I _do_ mean it," I answer defiantly; "but as my conversation
pains you, I will not inflict it on you longer. Good-bye!"
"Good-bye, you perverse child; and don't try to _imagine_
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 company 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 Summerleas. In the meantime,
now we are friends again, I must remind you not to forget your
promise about that Carston photo."
"I will remember," I say; and so we separate.