We are in the orchard of Summerleas alone, Mr. Carrington and I,
with the warm but fitful April sun pouring heavily down upon us.
All around is one great pink and white sheet of blossoms; the
very path beneath our feet seems covered with tinted snow.
It is one of those pet days that, coming too soon, make us
discontented to think to-morrow may again be damp and chill--a
day that brings with it an early foretaste of what will be, and
is still and heavy as in the heart of summer.
"It will be a good year for fruit," I tell my lover, soberly,
"the trees are showing such a fair promise." And my lover laughs,
and tells me I am a wonderful child; that he has not yet half
dived into the deep stores of private knowledge I possess. He
supposes when I come to Strangemore he may dismiss his steward,
as probably I will be competent to manage everything there--the
master included.
Whereupon I answer, saucely, I need not go to Strangemore for
_that_, as I fancy I have him pretty well under control even as
it is. At this he pinches my ear and prophesies the time will yet
come when it will be his turn to menace _me_.
Our orchard has not been altogether sacrificed to the inner man:
here and there one comes upon straggling slopes of greenest grass
and irregular beds of old-fashioned and time-honored
flowers--such flowers as went to deck Ophelia's grave, or grew to
grace the bank whereon Titania slept.
High up in the western wall a small green gate gives entrance to
another garden--a quaint spot, picturesquely wild, that we
children chose to name Queen Elizabeth's Retreat. Long lines of
elms grow here, through which some paths are cut--paths innocent
of gravel and green as the grass that grows on either side. Here,
too, are beds of flowers and rustic benches.
"Come, show me anything as pretty as this in all Strangemore," I
say, with triumph, as we seat ourselves on an ancient oaken
contrivance that threatens at any moment to bring the unwary to
the ground.
"I wonder if you will ever think anything at Strangemore as
worthy of admiration as what you have here?" says Marmaduke,
passing his arm lightly round my waist.
"Perhaps. But I know every nook and cranny of this old place so
well and love it so dearly! I can remember no other home. We came
here, you know, when I was very young and Billy only a baby.
"But Strangemore will be your home when you come to live with me.
You will try to like it for my sake, will you not? It is dearer
to me than either of the other places, although they say Luxton
is handsomer. Don't you think you will be able to love it,
Phyllis?"
"Yes, but not for a long time. I can like things at once, but it
takes me years and years and years to love any thing."
"Does that speech apply to persons? If so, I have a pleasant
prospect before me. You have known me but a few months; will it
take you 'years and years' to love me?"
There is lingering hope in his tone, expectancy in his eyes.
"You? Oh, I don't know. Perhaps so," I reply, with unpleasant
truthfulness.
Marmaduke removes his arm from around me and frowns.
"You are candor itself," he says, with a slight tinge of
bitterness. "Certainly I can never hereafter accuse you of having
concealed the true state of your feelings towards me. Whatever
else you may be, you are honest."
"I am," I return reluctantly; "I wish I were not. I am always
saying the wrong thing, and repenting it afterwards. Papa says my
candor makes me downright vulgar. Marmaduke, do you think honesty
is the best policy?"
I glance up at him with questioning eyes from under the flapping
hat that has braved so many summers.
"I do," he answers, warmly; "I think there is nothing on earth so
sweet or so rare as perfect truthfulness. Be open and true and
honest, darling, and like yourself as long as you can. Every hour
you live will make the _role_ more difficult."
"But why? You are older than I am, Marmaduke; would you tell a
lie?"
"No, not a direct lie, perhaps, but I might pretend to what I did
not feel."
"Oh, but that is nothing. I would do that myself," I exclaim,
confidentially. "Many and many a time I have pretended not to
know where Billy was when I knew papa was going to box his ears.
There is no great harm in that. And Billy has done it for me."
"You don't mean to say Mr. Vernon ever boxed your ears?"
I explode at the tragic meaning of his tone.
"Often," I say, merrily, "shoals of times; but that is not half
so bad as being sent to bed. However"--reassuringly--"he has not
done it now for ever so long--not since I have been engaged to
you."
"I should hope not, indeed," hotly. "Phyllis, why won't you marry
me at once? Surely you would be happier with me
than--than--living as you now do."
"No, no," edging away from him; "I would not. I am not a bit
unhappy as I am. You mistake me; and, as I told you before, he
never does it now."
"But it maddens me to think of his ever having done so. And such
pretty little ears, too, so pink and delicate! Of all the unmanly
blackg--- I beg your pardon, Phyllis: of course it is wrong of me
to speak so of your father."
"Oh, don't mind me," I say, easily. "Now you are going to be my
husband, I do not care about telling you there is very little
love lost between me and papa."
"Then why not shorten our engagement? Surely it has now lasted
long enough. There is no reason why you should submit to any
tyranny when you can escape from it. If you dislike your father's
rule, cut it and come to me; you don't dislike _me_."
"No; but I should dislike being married very much indeed."
"Why?" impatiently.
"I don't know," I return, provokingly; "but I am sure I should.
'Better to bear the ills we have, _et cetera_.'"
"You are trifling," says he, angrily, "why not say at once you
detest the idea of having to spend your life with me? I believe I
am simply wasting my time endeavoring to gain an affection that
will never be mine."
"Then don't waste any more of it," I retort, tapping the ground
petulantly with my foot while fixing my gaze with affected
unconcern upon a thick, white cloud that rests far away in the
eternal blue. "I have no wish to stand in your light. Pray leave
me--I shan't mind it in the least--and don't throw away any more
of your precious moments."
"Idle advice. I can't leave you now, and you know it. I must
only go on squandering my life, I suppose, until the end. I do
believe the greatest misfortune that ever befell me was my
meeting with you."
"Thank you. You are extremely rude and unkind to me, Marmaduke.
If this is your way of making love, I must say I don't like it."
"I don't suppose you do, or anything else connected with me Of
course it was an unfortunate thing for me, my coming down here and
falling idiotically in love with a girl who does not care whether
I am dead or alive."
"That is untrue. I care very much indeed about your being alive."
"Oh! common humanity would suggest that speech."
He turns abruptly and walks a few paces away from me. We are both
considerably out of temper by this time, and I make a solemn vow
to myself not to open my lips again until he offers an apology
for what I am pleased to term his odious crossness. Two seconds
afterwards I break my vow.
"Why on earth could you not have fallen in love with Dora?" I
cry, petulantly, to the back of his head. "She would do you some
credit, and she would love you, too. Every one would envy you if
you married Dora, she never says the wrong thing; and she is
elegant and very pretty--is she not?
"Very pretty," replies he, dryly; "almost lovely, I think, with
her fair hair and beautiful complexion and sweet smile. Yes Dora
is more than pretty."
"If you admire her so much, why don't you marry her?" say I,
sharply. Although I am not in love with Marmaduke, I strongly
object to his expressing unlimited admiration for my sister or
any other woman.
"Shall I tell you?" says he, suddenly, coming back to me to take
me in his arms and strain me close to him. "Because in my eyes
you are ten times lovelier. Because your hair, though darker,
pleases me more. Because your complexion, though browner, is to
me more fair. Because your smile, though less uniformly sweet, is
merrier and tenderer, and more lovable. There! have I given you
enough reason for the silly preference I feel for a little girl
who does not care a straw about me?"
"Oh, yes, I do: I like you very much," I answer greatly
mollified. "I do really--better and better every day."
"Do you indeed?" rapturously. "My own darling."
"Yes," I say, in a thoroughly matter-of-fact tone, with a view to
bringing him back to earth again without any unnecessary delay.
"But how can you be so fond of me, Marmaduke, when you say I am
so cross? Now, tell me this," laying the first finger of my right
hand upon his lips, and beating time there with it to each of my
words: "why did you first take a fancy to me?"
"Just because you are Phyllis: I have no other reason. If you
were any one else, or changed in any way, I would not care in the
least for you."
"At that rate we are likely to have a happy time of it," I say,
sarcastically, "considering I am never the same for two weeks
running, and papa says every one's disposition undergoes a
complete alteration every seven years."
"I'll risk that," says he, laughing. "Seven years are a long way
off."
"But I shall change in less than seven years," I say,
persistently. "Don't you see? I have done so twice already, at
seven, and fourteen, and I shall do so again at twenty-one.
Therefore, in four years' time I shall be a different person
altogether, and you will cease to care for me."
"I shall always adore you, Phyllis," declares my lover,
earnestly, "whether we live together for four or fourteen or one
hundred and fourteen years."
This leaves nothing more to be said, so I am silent for a moment
or two, and gaze at him with some degree of pride as he stands
beside me, with his blue eyes, tender and impassioned--as
handsome a man as ever made vain love to a graceless maiden.
Still, admirable as he is, I have no desire for him to grow
demonstrative so soon again; therefore continue the conversation
hastily.
"Were you never in love before?" I ask, without motive.
It occurs to me that like a flash a faint change crosses his
face.
"All men have fancies," he answers, and something tells me he is
evading a strict reply.
"I don't mean a fancy: I mean a real attachment. Did you ever ask
any woman except me to be your wife?"
"Why?" he asks, with an attempt at laughter that ends in dismal
failure beneath my remorseless eyes. "Will you throw me over if I
say, 'Yes?'"
"No, of course not. But I think you might have told me before.
Here have you been pretending all along you never loved any one
but me, and now I discover accidentally that long before you knew
me you had broken your heart over dozens of women."
"I had not," angrily. "Why do you misconstrue my words?"
"Oh, of course you had."
"I really wish, Phyllis, you would not give yourself the habit of
contradicting people so rudely. I tell you I had not."
"Well, you were madly in love with one, at all events," I say,
viciously. "I could see that by your eyes when I asked you the
question."
"If a man commits a folly once in his life, he is not to be
eternally condemned for it, I suppose?"
"I never said it was a folly to love any one; I only suggested it
was deceitful of you not too have told about it before. I hate
secrets of any kind." My companion winces visibly. "There don't
be uneasy," I say, loftily. "I have no desire to pry into any of
your affairs."
We pace up and down in uncomfortable silence. At length:---
"I see you are angry, Phyllis," he says.
"Oh, dear, no. Why should such an insignificant thing that does
not affect me in any way, make me angry?"
"My darling child, I think you are; and, oh, Phyllis, for what?
For a hateful passion that is dead and buried this many a year,
and bore no faintest resemblance to the deep true affection I
feel for you. Am I the worse in your eyes because I once--when I
was a boy--fancied my heart was lost? Be reasonable, and be kind
to me. You have been anything but that all this morning."
"Was she dark, or fair?" I ask, in a milder tone, not noticing,
however, the hand he holds out to me.
"Dark--abominably dark."
"And tall?"
"Detestably so."
"You need not abuse her now," I say, reprovingly, "you loved her
once."
"I did not," cries he, with some excitement. "I could never have
loved her. It was a mad, boyish infatuation. Let us forget her,
Phyllis; the subject is hateful to me. Oh my darling, my pet, no
one ever really crept into my heart except you--you small, cold,
cruel, little child."
I am softened. I make up my mind I will not be cold during the
remainder of our day, so I slip my ungloved hand into his, and
bring myself close up to his side.
"I will forgive you this time," I whisper; "but Marmaduke,
promise me that never in the future will you conceal anything
from me."
"I promise--I swear," says my betrothed, eagerly and I receive,
and graciously return, the kiss of reconciliation he lays upon my
lips.