The next day Dora is still low--very low indeed--and sighs
heavily at intervals. We might, however, in spite of this, have
managed to knock some enjoyment out of our lives, but,
unfortunately, whatever communication she had made to papa on the
subject of Mr. Carrington's treachery has had the effect of
rendering him almost unbearable.
At breakfast the playfulness of his remarks can only be equalled
by the sweetness of his expression; and by lunch-hour he is so
much worse that (as far at least as I am concerned) the food
before me is as dust and ashes. I think Roland rather enjoys the
murkiness of our atmosphere than otherwise, and takes a small but
evident pleasure in winking at me as he presses the vinegar and
pepper upon our already highly-seasoned father.
The latter, knowing my nomadic tendencies, is successful in
bringing to light during the day a dozen unhemmed cambric
handkerchiefs, and before going to his customary afternoon ride
leaves strict injunctions behind him that by my fingers they are
to be begun and ended before his return. About four o'clock,
therefore, behold me sitting in state in the drawing-room, in
company with mamma and Dora, hard at work at my enforced task.
The conversation is limited; it dwindles, indeed, until it gets
so sparse that at length we are ashamed of it and relapse into
silence. Dora broods with tender melancholy upon her woes; mother
thinks of us; while I, were I to give a voice to my thoughts,
would demand of mother the name of the evil genius that possessed
her when she walked to the altar with papa.
The needle runs into my finger; it does so pretty regularly after
every fifth stitch, but this time it had got under my nail, and
causes me for the moment keen anguish. I groan, and mutter
something under my breath; and mother says, "Phyllis, darling, be
careful," in a dreamy tone. Surely we are more than ordinarily
dull.
Suddenly there comes a rattle of horses' hoofs upon the gravel
outside. We raise our heads simultaneously and question each
other by our looks. A little later, and Mr. Carrington's voice
striking on our ears sets speculation at rest. Mamma glances
furtively at Dora, and Dora breathes a faint sigh and blushes
pale pink, while suffering an aggrieved expression to
characterize her face.
A horrible thought comes into my head. Suppose--of _course_ it is
impossible--but _suppose_ Mr. Carrington were to come in now, and
in the course of conversation mention my photograph: what will
not mother and Dora think? What is to prevent their drawing a
conclusion about what happened yesterday? Although I do not in
the least believe it _was_ my picture Mr. Carrington was seen
embracing, still the very idea that it _might_ be, and that he
might at any time speak of it turns me cold. Something must be
done, and that quickly. Without further hesitation I rise from my
seat, put down my work, and make for the door. No one attempts to
detain me, and in an instant I am in the hall, face to face with
our visitor.
I lay my hand upon the front of his coat, and whisper
hurriedly:---
"Do not say a word about my picture, not a _word_. Do you
understand?" I have raised my face very close to his in my
anxiety, and shake him slightly to emphasize my words.
"I do;" replies he, placing his hand over mine as it lies almost
unconsciously upon his breast. "Of course I will not.
But--why---"
"Nothing," I say; "at least only a fancy. Go now. I will tell you
some other time."
"Phyllis, will you meet me at the oak-tree to-morrow evening at
five--at _four?_" he asks, eagerly, detaining me as I seek to
escape; and I say, "Yes," with impatient haste, and, tearing my
hand out of his, I turn my back upon him and gladly disappear.