Our engagement having received the openly expressed though
secretly unwilling sanction of my father, Mr. Carrington comes
over every other day to our house, where he of course meets with
overpowering sweetness from everybody--Dora excepted. Not that
she shows him any demonstrative dislike. If she happens to be in
the room when he arrives she is as civil as the occasion calls
for, but at the first opportunity she makes her exit, not to
return again during his stay, and, if possible, avoids his
society altogether. A heavy sense of injury is upon her,
impossible to lift.
To me she has said little or nothing on the subject. Once, two
days after my engagement was made known, happening to find
herself alone with me, she said, curiously:---
"Was it your photograph I saw Mr. Carrington kissing that day?"
And when I answered "Yes," rather shamefacedly, she turned from
me with lowered lids and a curved smile that suggested many
thoughts. Like most even-tempered people, Dora, when roused, is
singularly obstinate and unforgiving.
At times I am a little unhappy, but very seldom. On such
occasions the horrible doubt that I am marrying Marmaduke for his
money crushes me. Every now and then I catch myself revelling in
the thought of what I shall do for Billy and Roly and all of
them, when plenty of gold is at my disposal. I try to think how
much I like him, how handsome he is, how kind, how good to me,
but always at the end of my cogitations I find my thoughts
reverting to the grand house in which I am to reign as queen, or
to the blue velvet dress I mean to wear as soon as I can afford
to buy it.
I now glory in an engagement ring that sparkles fairly and gives
me much pleasure. I have also an enormous locket, on which the
letters P. M. V. are marked out by brilliants. This latter
contains an exquisitely painted miniature of my betrothed, and is
given to me by him in a manner that betokens doubt of its being
acceptable.
"I don't suppose you will care for the picture part of it," he
says with a laugh and a rather heightened color.
But I _do_ care for it, picture and all, and tell him so, to his
lasting satisfaction, though it must be confessed I look oftener
at the _outside_ of that locket than at any other part of it.
Thus by degrees I find myself laden with gifts of all kinds--for
the most part costly; and, as trinkets are scarce with us and
jewels imaginary, it will be understood that each new ornament
added to my store raises me higher in the social scale.
So time speeds and Christmas passes and gentle spring grows
apace.
"Come out," says Billy one morning early in April, thrusting a
disheveled head into my room; "come out: it is almost warm."
Whereupon I don my hat and sally forth, my Billy in attendance.
Mechanically we make for the small belt of trees that encircles
and bounds our home, and is by courtesy "our wood." It is my
favorite retreat--the spot most dear to me at Summerleas. Ah! how
sweet is everything to-day, how fragrant! The primrose gold in
its mossy bed, supported by its myriad friends; the pretty purple
violet--the white one prettier still. I sigh and look about me
sadly.
"This is the very last spring I shall ever spend at home," I say,
at length, being in one of my sentimental and regretful moods.
"Yes," returns Billy; "this time next year, I suppose, you will
be holding high court at Strangemore. How funny you will look?
you are so small! Why, you will be an out-and-out swell then,
Phyllis, and can cut the country if you choose. What are you so
doleful about? Ain't you glad?"
"No, I am not," I reply emphatically; "I am sorry! I am
_wretched!_ Everything will be so new and big and strange,
and--_you_ will not be there. Oh, Billy!" flinging my arms around
his neck, "I feel _that_ worst of all. I am _too_ fond of you,
and that's a fact."
"Well, and I am awfully fond of you too," says Billy, giving me a
bear-like hug that horribly disarranges my appearance, but is
sweet to me, so much do I adore my "boy Billee."
We seat ourselves on a grassy knoll and give ourselves up to
gloomy foreboding.
"It is a beastly nuisance, your getting married at all," says
Billy, grumpily. "If it had been Dora, now, it would have been a
cause for public rejoicing; but you are different. What I am to
do without you in this stupid hole is more than I can tell. I
shall get papa to send me to a boarding-school when you go." (The
Eton plan has not yet been divulged.) "Why on earth did you take
a fancy to that fellow, Phyllis? Were you not very well as you
were?"
"It was _he_ took a fancy to _me_, if you please. I never thought
of such a thing. But there is little use discussing that now.
Marry him I must before the year is out; and really, perhaps,
after all, I shall be very happy."
"Oh, yes, I dare say, if being happy means settling down and
having a lot of squalling brats before you can say Jack Robinson.
_I_ know how it will be," says Billy, moodily "you will be an old
woman before your time."
"Indeed I shall not," I cry, with much indignation, viewing with
discomfort the ruins to which he has reduced my handsome castle.
"I intend to keep young for _ever_ so long. Why, I am only
eighteen now, and I shan't be old until I am _thirty_. And,
Billy," coaxingly, "you shall see what I shall do for _you_ when
I marry him: I will send you to _Eton_. There!"
"Why don't you say you will send me to the moon?" replies he,
with withering contempt.
"But I will really; Marmaduke _says_ I shall; and you are to
spend all of your holidays at Strangemore; and I will keep a gun
for you, and a dog; and maybe he will let me give you a _horse_."
"Oh, fiddlesticks!" says the dear boy. "Draw a line somewhere.
You have said too much; and I've outgrown my belief in the
'Arabian Nights.' I will be quite content with the dog and gun."
"Well, you shall see. And Roland shall have money every now and
then to pay his debts; and Dora shall have as many new dresses as
she can wear; and for Mamma I will get one of those delightful
easy-chairs we saw in the shop-window in Carston, the one that
moves up and down, you know--and--- Oh, Billy! I think it is a
glorious thing to be rich. If I could only do all I say, I
believe I would marry him were he as ugly as sin."
In the enthusiasm of the moment I spring to my feet, and as I do
so become fatally aware that not two yards from me stands
Marmaduke, leaning against a tree. There is a curious, not
altogether amiable, expression upon his face, that assures me he
has overheard our conversation. Yet one cannot accuse him of
eavesdropping, as if we had only taken the trouble to raise our
heads our eyes must inevitably have met his.
I am palsied with shame and horror; I am stricken dumb; and
Billy, looking lazily upwards from where he is stretched full
length upon the sward to discover the cause, in his turn becomes
aware of the enemy's presence. A moment later he is on his feet
and has beaten a retreat, leaving me alone to face the foe.
Mr. Carrington comes slowly forward.
"Yes, I heard every word," he says, calmly, anger and reproach in
his eyes.
I make no reply: I feel myself incapable of speech. Indeed,
looking back upon it now, I think silence was the better part,
as, under the circumstances, I don't quite see what I could have
said.
"So this is the light in which you regard our marriage!" he goes
on bitterly: "as a means to an end--no more. At the close of six
months I find myself as far from having gained a place in your
affections as when we first met. I may well despair. Your heart
seems full of thought and love for every one, Phyllis, except for
the man you have promised to marry."
"Then give me up," I say, defiantly, though my false courage
sinks as I remember what a row there will be at home if he takes
me at my word.
"No, I will _not_ give you up. I will marry you in spite of your
coldness: I am more determined on it now than ever," he makes
answer, almost fiercely.
I feel uneasy, not to say unhappy. I have heard of men marrying
women for spite and revenging themselves upon them afterwards.
This recollection is not reassuring. I glance at Marmaduke
furtively, and persuade myself he is looking downright
vindictive.
"Yes," I murmur, doubtfully, "and perhaps, afterwards, when I was
your wife, you would be cruel to me, and---"
"Phyllis," he interrupts me, hastily, "what are you saying? Who
has put such a detestable idea into your head? _I_ unkind to you,
or cruel! Child, can you not even _imagine_ the depth of the love
I bear you?"
I know I am going to cry. Already are my eyes suffusing; my nose
develops a tickling sensation. I am indignant with myself at the
bare thought, but nevertheless I feel assured if I open my mouth
it will be to give utterance to a sob. If I cry before him now he
will think---
"Phyllis, do you really wish to marry me?" asks Mr. Carrington,
suddenly, trying to read my hot and averted face. "If you repent
your promise, say so: it is not yet too late to withdraw. Better
bear pain now than lasting misery hereafter. Answer me truly: do
you wish to be my wife?"
"I do," I return, earnestly. "I shall be happier with you, who
are always kind to me, than I am at home. It is only at times I
feel regretful. But of course--if you don't want to marry me---"
I pause, overcome by the ignominy of this thought.
Mr. Carrington takes my hand.
"I would give half my possessions to gain your love," he says,
softly; "but, even as it is, no bribe on earth could induce me to
relinquish you. Don't talk about my giving you up. That is out of
the question. I could as easily part with my life as with my
Phyllis. Perhaps," with a rather sad little smile, "some time in
the future you may deem me worthy to be placed in the category
with Billy and Roland and the rest of them."
A mournful sound breaks from me. I search my pocket for a
handkerchief wherewith to wipe away the solitary tear that
meanders down my cheek. Need I say it is not there? Mr.
Carrington, guessing my want, produces a very snowy article from
somewhere and hands it to me.
"Do you want one?" he asks, tenderly, and presently I am
dissolved in tears, my nose buried in my lover's cambric.
"I am sure you must hate me," I whisper, dismally. "I make you
unhappy almost every time we meet. Mr. Carrington, will you try
to forget what I said just now, and forgive me?"
"How can I forgive you anything when you call me Mr. Carrington?"
"Marmaduke, then." He presses me closer to him, and I rub my
stained and humid countenance up and down against his coat. I am
altogether penitent.
"After all, Marmaduke, may be I didn't say anything so very
dreadful," I venture, at the end of a slight pause. "I was only
thinking, and deciding on what I would like to give everybody
when--when I was your wife. Was that very bad?"
"No; there was nothing to vex me in all that; it only showed me
what a loving, generous little heart my pet has. But then,
Phyllis, why did you give me so plainly to understand you were
marrying me only for the sake of my odious money, by saying--what
you did in your last speech?"
"What did I say?"
"That for the sake of being rich you would marry me (or any one
else, your tone meant) even were I 'as ugly as sin.'"
"If I said that, it was an untruth, because if you were us ugly
as Bobby De Vere, for instance, I most certainly would not marry
you. I detest plain people."
"Well, at all events, I think you owe me some reparation for the
pain you have inflicted."
"I do, indeed," I admit, eagerly. "Lay any penance you like upon
me, and I will not shrink from it. I will do whatever you ask."
"Will you?" quickly. "Then kiss me of your own accord. I don't
believe up to this, Phyllis, you have ever yet done so of your
own sweet will."
"I will do it now, then," I return, heroically, and straight
away, raising myself on tiptoe, without the smallest pretense at
prudery, I fling myself into his arms and kiss him with all my
heart.
No accomplished coquette seeking after effect could have achieved
a more complete success by her arts than I have by this simple
act, which is with me an everyday occurrence where the boys are
concerned. By it I have obtained a thousand pardons, if need be.
He is evidently surprised, and grows a little pale, then smiles,
and strains me to him with passionate fervor.
"My darling--my own! Oh, Phyllis! if I could only make you love
me!" he whispers, longingly.
"Marmaduke," I say presently, in a rather bashful tone, trifling
with the lapel of his coat.
"Well, my pet?"
"I have something to say to you."
"Have you, darling?"
"I want to tell you that I think I must be growing fond of you."
"My angel!"
"Yes. And do you know why I think so?"
"No. I cannot imagine how anything so unlikely and desirable
should come to pass."
"I will tell you. Do you remember how, long ago when first you
kissed me, I disliked it so much that it made me cry?"
"Yes."
"Well, now I find I don't mind it one bit!"
Instead of being struck with the good sense of this discovery,
Marmaduke roars with laughter.
"Oh, you needn't laugh," I say, slightly offended: "it is a very
good sign. I have read in books how girls shudder and shiver when
kissed by a man they don't like; and, as I never shudder or
shiver when you kiss me, of course that means that I like you
immensely. Don't you see?"
"I do," says Marmaduke, who is still laughing heartily. "And I
also see it is an excellent reason why I should instantly kiss
you again. Oh, Phyllis! I think if we looked into the family
Bible we would discover we had all mistaken your age, and that
you are only ten instead of eighteen."
"Why?"
"For many reasons. Come; let us walk on."
As lunch-hour approaches, we retrace our steps until we reach the
principal avenue. Here Mr. Carrington declines my invitation to
enter the house and partake of such light refreshments as may be
going, and departs with a promise to take us for a drive the
following day.
Nature tells me the luncheon-hour must be past, and, impelled by
hunger, I run down the gravel sweep at the top of my speed; but,
just as I get to the thick bunch of laurels that conceals the
house from view, Billy's voice, coming from nowhere in
particular, stops me. Presently from between the evergreens his
head emerges.
"I thought he was with you," he says, with an air of intense
relief. "Well?"
"Well?" I reiterate.
"Why don't you tell me," cries Billy, angrily, "instead of
standing there with your mouth open? Did he hear what we said?"
"Yes, every word."
"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" with a dismal groan. "And who is to tell
them at home, I would like to know?"
"Tell them what?"
"Why, about,--- Surely you don't mean to tell me he is going to
marry you after all that?" exclaims Billy, his eyes enlarged to
twice their usual size.
"Yes, of course he is," I reply, with much dignity and
indignation combined. "When a man loves a woman he does not give
her up for a trifle."
"A trifle! Well, I never," murmurs Billy floored for once in his
life.