"At last! How late you are! I thought you were _never_ coming,"
is Mr. Carrington's somewhat impatient greeting next evening, as
he advances to meet me from under the old oak-tree. My cheeks are
flushed with the rapidity of my walk; my breath rushes from me in
short, quick, little gasps.
"I was so busy, I could not come a moment sooner. I would not be
here at all but that I promised, and was afraid you would think
me out of my senses yesterday," I say, laughing and panting.
"I certainly thought you rather tragical, and have been puzzling
my brain ever since to discover the cause. Now, tell it to me."
"If I do you will think me horribly conceited." I hesitate and
blush uneasily. For the first time it occurs to me that I have a
very uncomfortable story to relate.
"I will not," says Mr. Carrington, amiably.
"Well then, the fact is, down at the trout-river, the day before
yesterday, somebody saw you kissing a picture in a locket, and I
feared if you mentioned having _my_ portrait they might--they
take up such ridiculous fancies at home--they _might_ think it
was _mine_."
"Is it possible they would imagine anything so unlikely?"
"Of _course_"--with eager haste--"_I_ know it was not, but they
might choose to think differently; and, besides, something has
whispered to me two or three times since that perhaps I was wrong
in giving my photograph to you at all. Was I?" wistfully.
"That is a hard question to ask _me_, Phyllis, who am so happy in
the possession of it. I certainly do not think you were."
"Then you would see no harm in my giving my picture to any one?"
"Of course I do not say it would be right of you to go about
giving it to every man you meet."
"No? Then why should I give it to you in particular. After all,
I believe I was wrong."
"Oh, that is quite another thing altogether," says Mr.
Carrington, biting his lip. "You have known me a long time; I may
almost be considered an old friend. And, besides, you can be
quite sure that I will prize it as it deserves."
"That is saying very little," I return, gloomily. His reasoning
seems to me poor and unsatisfactory. I begin to wish my wretched
likeness back again in my untidy drawer.
"But why are you so sure it was _not_ your picture I was caught
admiring the other day?" asks Mr. Carrington, presently, with an
ill-suppressed smile.
"Nonsense!" I reply angrily. (I hate being laughed at). "For what
possible reason would you put _my_ face into your locket? I
_knew_ you would think me vain when I began, but I am
_not_--and--and I am very sorry I took the trouble to explain it
to you at all."
"Forgive me, Phyllis. I did not mean to offend you, and I do
_not_ think you vain. I was merely imagining what a fatuous fool
I must have looked when discovered in the act you describe. But
have you no curiosity to learn who it _really_ was I was so
publicly embracing?"
"I _know_," I return, with a nod; "it was that little girl you
told me of some time since--the village maiden, you remember,
whose face was so dear to you. Am I not right!"
"Quite right. What a capital guess you made!"
"May I see her?" I ask, coaxingly. "Do let me get just one little
peep at her. I am sure she is lovely, from what you say; and I do
so like pretty people?"
"You would only be disappointed, and then you would say so, and I
could not bear to hear one disparaging word said of my beauty."
"I will _not_ be disappointed. Of course you have had so much
experience to guide you--your taste must be better than mine.
Please let me see her."
"You promise faithfully not to scorn the face I will show you?
You will say no slighting word?"
"I will not indeed. How could you think I would be so rude?"
"Very good." He raises his watch-chain and detaches from it a
plain gold locket. I draw near and gaze at it eagerly. What will
she be like, this rival of Dora's?
"Now, remember," he says again, while a look of intense amusement
crosses his face, "you have promised to admire?"
"Yes, yes," I answer impatiently; and as he deliberately opens
the trinket I lean forward and stare into the large gray-blue
eyes of Phyllis Marian Vernon.
---
Slowly I raise my head and look at my companion. He appears grave
now, and rather anxious. I know I am as white as death.
"So you have put _me_ into a locket _too_," I say, in a low tone.
"Why?"
"Do not use the word 'too,' Phyllis. You have no rival; I keep no
woman's face near me except yours."
"Then it was an untruth you told me about that girl?"
"No it was not. Will you not try to understand? _You_ are that
little girl; it was your face I kissed the other day down by the
river. There is no face in the world I hold so dear as yours."
"Then you had no _right_ to kiss it," I break out indignantly, my
surprise and bewilderment making me vehement. "I did not give you
my picture to put in your locket and treat in that way. How dare
you carry me all over the place with you--making things so
unpleasant everywhere? And, besides, you are talking very
falsely; it is impossible that _any one_ could think me
beautiful."
"_I_ do," says he, gently. "I cannot help it. You know we all
judge differently. And as to my kissing it, surely that was no
great harm. It became mine, you know, when you gave it to me; and
for me to kiss it now and then cannot injure you or it." He gazes
down tenderly upon the face lying in his hand. "The Phyllis here
does not look as if she could be unkind or unjust," he says,
softly.
I am impressed by the mildness of his reproach. Insensibly, I go
closer to him, and regard with mingled feelings the innocent
cause of all the disturbance.
"It certainly looks wonderfully well," I say, with reluctance.
"It never appeared to me so--ah--_passable_ before. It must be
the gold frame. Somehow--I never thought so until to-day--but now
it seems much too pretty for me."
"Remember your promise," says Mr. Carrington, demurely, "to
admire and say no disparaging word."
"You laid a trap for me," I reply, smiling in spite of myself,
and hard set to prevent the smile turning into a merry laugh as I
review the situation.
I lean my back against the old tree, and, clasping my hands
loosely before me, begin to piece past events. I have not gone
far in my meditations when I become aware that Mr. Carrington has
closed the locket, has turned, and is steadfastly regarding me.
My hat lies on the ground beside me; the wanton wind has blown a
few stray tresses of my hair across my forehead. Involuntarily I
raise my head until our eyes meet. Something new, indefinite, in
his, makes my heart beat with a sudden fear that yet is nameless.
"Phyllis," whispers he, hurriedly, impulsively, "will you marry
me?"
A long, long pause.
I am still alive, then! the skies have _not_ fallen!
"_What!_" cry I, when I recover breath, moving back a step or
two, and staring at him with the most open and undisguised
amazement. _Can_ I have heard aright? Is it indeed me he is
asking to marry him? And if so--if my senses have not deceived
me--who is to tell Dora. This thought surmounts all others.
"I want you to say you will marry me," repeats he, rather
disconcerted by the emphatic astonishment of my look and tone. As
I make no reply this time, he is emboldened, and, advancing,
takes both my hands.
"Why do you look so surprised?" he says. "Why will you not answer
me? Surely for weeks you must have seen I would some time ask you
this question. Then why not to-day? If I waited for years I could
not love you more utterly, more madly, if you like, than now. And
you, Phyllis--say you will be my wife."
"I cannot indeed," I reply, earnestly; "it is out of the
question. I never knew you--you cared for me in this way--I
always thought--that is, we all thought--you---"
"Yes?"
"We were all quite sure--I mean none of us imagined you were in
love with _me_."
"With whom, then?--with Dora?"
"Well"--nervously--"I am sure mamma and papa thought so, and so
did I."
"What an absurd mistake! Ten thousand Doras would not make one
Phyllis. Do you know, ever since that first day I saw you in the
wood I loved you? Do you remember it?"
"Yes," I say, blushing furiously. "I was hanging from the nut
tree and nearly went mad with shame and rage when I found I could
not escape. It puzzles me to think what you could have seen to
admire about me _that_ day, unless my boots." I laugh rather
hysterically.
"Nevertheless I _did_ love you then, and have gone on nursing the
feeling ever since, until I can keep it to myself no longer. But
you are silent, Phyllis. Why do you not speak? I _will_ not
remember what you said just now; I _will_ not take a refusal
from you. Darling, darling, surely you love me, if only a
little?"
"No, I do not love you," I answer, with downcast lids and flaming
cheeks.
Silence falls upon my cruel words. His hand-clasp loosens, but
still he does not let me altogether go; and, glancing up timidly,
I see a face like and yet unlike the face I know--a face that is
still and white, with lips that tremble slightly beneath the
heavy fair mustache. A world of disappointed anguish darkens his
blue eyes.
Seeing all this, and knowing myself its cause, my heart is
touched and a keen pang darts through my breast. I press his
hands with reassuring force as I go on hastily:---
"But I _like_ you, you will understand. I may not _love_ you, but
I _like_ you very much indeed--better than any other man I ever
met, except Roland and Billy, and _he_ is only a boy." This is
not a very clear or logical speech, but it does just as well: it
brings the blood back to his face, and a smile to his lips, the
light and fire to his eyes.
"Are you sure of that?" he asks, eagerly. "Are you certain,
Phyllis?"
"Quite sure. But then I have never seen any men except Mr.
Mangan, you know, and the curate, and Bobby De Vere, and--and one
or two others."
"And these one or two others,"--jealously--"have I nothing to
fear from them? Have you given _them_ none of your thoughts?"
"Not one," return I, smiling up at him. The smile does more than
I intend.
"Then you _will_ marry me, Phyllis?" cries he, with renewed hope.
"If you _like_ me as you say, I will make you love me when you
are once my own. No man could love as I do without creating some
answering affection. Phyllis," he goes on, passionately, "look at
me and say you believe all this. Oh, my life, my darling, how I
have longed for you! How I have watched the hours that would
bring me to your side! How I have hated the evenings that parted
you from me! Say one little kind word to me to make me happy."
His tone is so full of hope and joy that almost I feel myself
drifting with the current of his passion. But Dora's face rising
before me checks the coming words. I draw back.
"Phyllis, put me out of pain," he says, entreatingly. I begin to
find the situation trying, being a mere novice in the art of
receiving and refusing proposals with propriety.
"I--I don't think I want to get married yet," I say, at length,
with nervous gentleness. I am very fearful of hurting him again.
"At home, when I ask to go anywhere, they tell me I am still a
child, and you are much older than me. I don't mean that you are
_old_," I add anxiously, "only a good deal older than I am; and
perhaps when it was too late you would repent the step you had
taken and wish you had chosen a wife older and wiser."
I stop, amazed at my own eloquence and rather proud of myself.
Never before have I made so long and so connected a speech.
Really the "older and wiser" could scarcely have done better. The
marrying in haste and repenting at leisure allusion appears to me
very neat, and _ought_ to be effective.
All is going on very well indeed, and I feel I could continue
with dignity to the end, but that just at this moment I become
conscious I am going to sneeze. Oh, horrible, unromantic thought!
Will _nothing_ put it back for ten minutes--for even _five?_ I
feel myself turning crimson, and certain admonitory twitchings in
my nose warn me the catastrophe is close at hand.
"Of course," says Mr. Carrington, in a low tone, "I know you
_are_ very young" (it is coming) "only seventeen. And,
and"--(_surely_ coming)--"I suppose twenty eight appears quite
old to you." (In another instant I shall be disgraced forever.)
"I look even older than I am. But good gracious Phyllis, is
anything the matter with you?"
"Nothing, nothing," I murmur, with a last frantic effort at pride
and dignity, "only a--a--snee--eeze--atchu--atchu--atchu!"
There is a most awful pause, and then Mr. Carrington, after a
vain endeavor to suppress it, bursts into an unrestrained fit of
laughter, in which without hesitation I join him. Indeed, now the
crisis is over and my difficult and new-born dignity is a thing
of the past, I feel much more comfortable and pleasanter in every
way.
"But, Phyllis, all this time you are keeping me in suspense,"
says Mr. Carrington, presently, in an anxious tone: "and I will
not leave you again without a decided answer. The uncertainty
kills me. Darling, I feel glad and thankful when I remember how
happy I can make your life, if you will only let me. You shall
never have a wish ungratified that is in my power to grant.
Strangemore shall be yours, and you shall make what alterations
there you choose. You shall have your own rooms, and furnish them
as your own taste directs. You shall reign there as the very
sweetest queen that ever came within its walls."
He has passed his arm lightly round my waist, and is keenly
noting the effect of his words.
"I remember the other day you told me how you longed to visit
foreign lands. I will take you abroad, and you shall stay there
as long as you wish--until you have seen everything your fancy
has pictured to you. You will like all this, Phyllis; it pleases
you."
There is no use in denying it. All this _does_ please me. Nay,
more; it intoxicates me. I am heart-whole, and can therefore
freely yield myself up to the enjoyment of the visions he has
conjured up before me. I feel I am giving in swiftly and surely.
My refusing to marry him will not make him a whit more anxious to
marry Dora; and instinct tells me now she is utterly unsuited to
him. Still I am reluctant.
"Would you let me have Billy and mamma and Dora with me very
often?" I ask faintly.
His arm round me tightens suddenly.
"As often as ever you wish," he says, with strange calmness. "I
tell you you shall be my queen at Strangemore, and your wishes
shall be law."
"And"--here I blush crimson, and my voice sinks to a
whisper--"there is something else I want very, very much. Will
you do it for me?"
"I will. Tell me what it is."
His tone is so quiet, so kind, I am encouraged; yet I know by the
trembling of the hand that holds mine that the quiet is enforced.
"Will you send Billy to Eton for me?" I say, my voice shaking
terribly. "I know it is a very great thing to ask, but he so
_longs_ to go."
"I will do better than that," he answers softly, drawing me
closer to him as he sees how soon I shall be his by my own
consent. "I will settle on you any money you wish, and _you_
shall send Billy to Eton, and afterwards to Oxford or Cambridge."
This assurance, given at any other time, would have driven me
half mad with delight. Now, though my heart feels a strong throb
of pleasure, it is largely mingled with what I know is pain. Am I
selling myself?
Some finer instinct within me whispers to me to pause before
giving myself irrevocably to a man whom I certainly do not love
as a woman should love the one with whom she elects to buffet all
the storms and trials of life. A horrible thought comes to me and
grows on my lips. I feel I _must_ give it utterance.
"Suppose," I say, suddenly, "suppose--afterwards--when I have
married you, I see some one to love with all my heart and mind:
what then?"
He shivers. He draws me passionately, almost fiercely to him, as
though defying my miserable words to come true.
"What put such a detestable idea into your head?" he asks
hoarsely, with pale lips. "Are you trying to frighten me? Shall I
tell you how _that_ would end? You would be my murderess as
surely as though you drove a knife into my heart. What an evil
thought! But I defy it," he says, forcing a smile. "Once you are
mine, once you belong to me altogether, I will hold you against
yourself--against the world. Oh Phyllis, my child, my _love_---"
He pauses, and, putting his hand under my chin, turns up my face
until my head leans against his arm and my eyes look straight
into his. His face is dangerously close to mine; it comes closer,
closer, until suddenly, without a word of warning, his lips meet
mine in a long, eager, passionate kiss.
It is the first time a lover's kiss has been laid upon my lips. I
do not struggle or seek to free myself. I only burst into a storm
of tears. I am frightened, troubled, and lie trembling and
sobbing in his arms, hardly knowing what I feel, hardly conscious
of anything but a sense of shame and fear. I know, too, that
Marmaduke's heart is beating wildly against my cheek.
"Phyllis, what is it? what have I done?" he asks, very anxiously.
"My darling, was I too abrupt? Did I frighten you? Forgive me,
sweet; I forgot what a mere timid child you are."
I sob on bitterly.
"It shall not happen again; I promise you that, Phyllis, I will
never kiss you again until you give me permission. Now surely you
will forgive me. My darling, why should it grieve you so
terribly?"
"I don't know," I whisper, "only I do not want to be married, or
have a lover, or _anything_."
Marmaduke lays his cheek very gently against mine, and for a long
time there is silence between us. After awhile my sobs cease, and
he once more breaks the silence by saying:---
"You will marry me, Phyllis?" and I answer, "Yes," very quietly,
somehow feeling as if that kiss had sealed my fate, and put it
out of my power to answer "No."
"Then look at me," says Marmaduke, tenderly. "Will you not let me
see my dear wife's face?"
I raise a face flushed and tear-stained and glance at him shyly
for a moment. Evidently its dimmed appearance makes no difference
to him, as there is unmistakable rapture and triumph in his gaze
as he regards it. I hide it again with a sigh, though now the
Rubicon being actually passed, I feel a sense of rest I had not
known before.
"Who is to tell them at home?" I ask presently.
"I will. Shall I go back with you now and tell them at once?"
"No, no," I cry, hastily, shrinking from the contemplation of the
scene that will inevitably follow his announcement. "It is too
late now. To-morrow--about four o'clock--you can come and get it
over. And, Mr. Carrington, will, will you please be _sure_ to
tell them I knew nothing of it--never suspected, I mean, that you
_cared_ for me?"
"That I _loved_ you? It would be a pity to suppress so evident a
fact. Though how you could have been so blind, my pet, puzzles
me. Well, then, to-morrow let it be. And now I will walk home
with you, lest any hobgoblin, jealous of my joy should spirit you
away from me."
Together and rather silently we go through the wood and out into
the road beyond. I am conscious that every now and then
Marmaduke's eyes seek my face and dwell there with a smile in
them that betrays his extreme and utter satisfaction. As for me,
I am neither glad nor sorry, nor anything, but rather fearful of
the consequence when my engagement shall be made public in the
home circle. As yet my marriage is a thing so faint, so far away
in the dim distance, that it causes me little or no annoyance.
Suddenly I stop short in the middle of the road and burst into
irrepressible laughter.
"What is it?" asks Mr. Carrington, who is smiling in sympathy.
"Oh that sneeze!" I say when I can speak "coming just in the
middle of your proposal. Could anything have been so unsuitable,
so utterly out of place? That odious little convulsion! I shall
always think of the whole scene with abhorrence."
"Suppose I propose to you all over again?" suggests Mr.
Carrington. "It is impossible you can bring it in so
unfortunately a second time; and you can then recollect the
important event with more complaisance."
"No, no. A second addition would be flat, stale, and
unprofitable; and besides, it does not really matter, does it?
Only I suppose it would be more correct to feel grave and
tearful, instead of comical, on such occasions."
"_Nothing_ matters," exclaims Marmaduke, fervently, seizing my
hand and kissing it, "since you have promised to be my wife. And
_soon_ Phyllis--is it not so?"
"Oh, no; _certainly_ not _soon_," I return, decidedly. "There is
plenty of time. There is no hurry; and I do not want to be
married for _ever_ so long."
My lover's countenance falls.
"What do you mean by 'ever so long?'" he asks.
"Two or three years, perhaps."
"Phyllis! how can you be so unreasonable, so _absurd?_" says he,
his face flushing. "_Two years!_ It is an eternity. Say six
months, if you will; though even _that_ is a ridiculous delay."
"If you talk like that," I say, stopping to stare fixedly at him,
"I will not marry you at all. We had better decide the question
at once. If you mean to say you think seriously I will marry you
in _six months_, all I can say is, you are very much mistaken. I
would not marry the Prince of Wales in six months; _there!_ If
you once mention the subject to papa, and he discovers I do not
wish to be hurried into the marriage, I have no doubt, he will
insist on my becoming a bride in six _days_. But rather than
submit to any tyranny in the matter I would run away and _drown_
myself."
I utter this appalling threat with every outward demonstration of
seriousness. Really the last hour has developed in a wonderful
manner my powers of conversation.
"Do you suppose," cried Marmaduke, with indignation, "I have any
desire to _force_ you into anything? You may rest assured I will
never mention the subject to your father. What do you take me
for? You shall do just as you think fit. But, Phyllis,
_darling_"--very tenderly, "won't you consider _me_ a little?
Remember how I shall be longing for you, and how unhappy will be
every day spent away from you. Oh, darling, you cannot comprehend
how every thought of my heart is wrapped up in you--how
passionate and devoted is my love."
He looks so handsome, so much in earnest, as he says this, with
his face flushed and his dark eyes alight, that I feel myself
relenting. He sees his advantage and presses it.
"You won't be cruel, darling, will you? Remember you have all the
power in your own hands. I would not, if I could, compel you to
marry me a day sooner than you wish. And, Phyllis, will you not
try to think it is for your happiness as well as for mine? In
time you will learn to love me as well--no, _that_ would be
impossible--but almost as well as I love you. The entire devotion
of a man's life _must_ meet with some return; and I swear it
shall not be my fault if every hour you spend is not happier than
the last. Speak, Phyllis, and say you will come to me in---"
"A year," I interrupt, hastily. "Yes, that is a great concession;
I said _three_ years first, and now by a word I take off two.
That is twenty-four long months. _Think_ of it. You cannot expect
more."
"It will _never_ pass," says Marmaduke, desperately.
"It will pass, all too soon," say I, with a heavy sigh.