It is the evening of the same day, and we are all seated in our
accustomed places at the dinner table; all, that is, except papa.
It is such an unusual thing for _him_ to be absent, once a bell
has sounded summoning us to meals, that we are busy wondering
what can be the matter, when the door is flung violently open,
and he enters. It becomes instantly palpable to every one of us,
that, in the words of the old song, "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 occasions when the neighbors
are asked to dine. Not a word is spoken; deadly quiet reigns, and
all is going on smoothly 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; and, 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 and my face flushes. For the
moment I feel that I have Dora and papa and my own soup, and,
leaning back in 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 Roly's expressive countenance. In his
right eye is screwed the most enormous butcher's penny I ever
beheld; his nose is drawn altogether to one side in a frantic
endeavor to maintain it in its precarious 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, withdrawing my fascinated gaze from Roly's penny, fix my
attention 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 attention.
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 ease, 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 leave. 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 Roly, politely,
addressing James. "If so, we ought to make allowances for her."
Mrs. Tully's admiration for "Old Tom" being a well-known fact to
every one in the house except papa.
"Be silent, Roland; I will have no interference where my servants
are concerned," declares papa; and exit James, with his hand to
his mouth, to return presently with a 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?" inquires papa,
addressing us all generally, as though ignorant of the 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 give strict orders that no more fish is
ever taken from that fishmonger. Do you hear?"
"Yes, sir." And at length we all get some roast mutton.
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 walnuts, and get through my claret with a
great show of coolness. 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 procurable, 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 place to an
expression of intense relief.
"Oh!" he says, "I thought you were Dora."
"No. I could not come 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 disappointed.
"Who brought it to you?" I ask; but before I can receive a reply
a heavy step upon the stairs strikes terror to our hearts.
Instantly Billy's dinner goes under the table again, and the
dejected depression returns to his face. But I, what am I to do?
Under the bed I dive, plate and all, thrusting the plate on
before me, and am almost safe, when I tip over a bit of rolled
carpet and plunge forward, bringing both hands into the gravy. In
this interesting position I remain, trembling, and afraid to stir
or breathe, with my eyes directed through a small hole in the
valance.
The door opens noisily, and--enter Roly with a cane in his hand
and a ferocious gleam in his eyes.
"Oh, Roly!" I gasp, scrambling out of my hiding-place, "what a
fright you gave us! We were sure it was papa."
"Where on earth have you come from?" asked Roly, gazing with
undisguised amazement at the figure I 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," 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 sufficiently developed to enable
you to understand how unpardonable are personal remarks, let this
castigation, that a sense of duty compels me to bestow, be the
means of teaching you."
Billy grins, and for the third time commences his dinner while
Roland leans against the window-shutter and contemplates 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.
"I ask merely for information," says Roly. "It certainly _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."
"Why didn't you have some dumpling?" Roland goes on, smoothly.
"The whipped cream with it was capital."
"Dumpling?" says Billy, regarding me fixedly; "dumpling! Phyllis,
was there dumpling?"
"There was," I reply.
"And whipped cream!"
"Yes," I answer, faintly.
"Oh, Phyllis!" says Billy, in the liveliest tone of reproach. The
flicker of an amused smile shoots across Roland's face.
"Phyllis, why did you not bring him some?" he asks, in a tone
that reflects Billy's.
"How _could_ I?" I exclaim, indignantly. "I could not carry more
than one plate, and even as it was the gravy was running all
about. I was afraid every minute I would be caught. Besides---"
"Miss Phyllis, Miss Phyllis," comes a sepulchral whisper at the
door, accompanied by a faint knock. In the whisper I recognize
James. Having taken a precautionary peep through the keyhole, I
open the door, and on the threshold discover our faithful friend,
a large plate of apples and cream in his hand, and a considerable
air of mystery about him.
"Miss Phyllis," he says, in a fine undertone, "cook sent this
here to Master Billy; and the mistress says you are to come down
at once, as the master has been asking where you all are."
"I am coming," I return; "and tell cook we are awfully obliged to
her." Whereupon, having deposited the dainties before Billy, I
charge down stairs and into the library; and, having seized hold
of the first book I can see, I collect myself, and enter the
drawing-room with a sedate air.
"Where have you been?" demands papa, twisting his head round
until I wonder his neck doesn't crack.
"In the library, choosing a book."
"What book."
I glance at the volume I carry, and, to my unmitigated horror
find it a treatise on surgery.
"It is by Dr. Batly," I murmur, vaguely.
"Come here and let me see it." Trembling, I advance and surrender
my book.
"Is _this_ a proper subject for a young woman to study?" exclaims
papa, in high disgust, when he has read through the headings of
the chapters. "What an abominable girl you are! Go over there and
sit down, and keep yourself out of mischief for the remainder of
the evening, if you _can_."
"Would you like Tennyson's 'In Memoriam'?" asks Dora, sweetly,
raising her white lids for a moment to hold out to me an elegant
little edition in green and gold.
"No, thank you," I answer, curtly, and, subsiding into my chair,
sulk comfortably until bedtime.