We are unmistakably and most remarkably late, but that is
scarcely a matter for wonder, considering the animal we drove and
the vehicle in which we journeyed. We have been bumped and jolted
and saddened all the way from Summerleas, besides having endured
agonies of shame and fear lest any of the grander folk meeting us
upon the road should look down upon us from their aristocratic
equipages and scorn our dilapidated condition. By taking an
unfrequented route, however, we arrive unseen, and are spared so
much humiliation.
When Mr. Carrington asked me a week ago if a garden party at
Strangemore would give me any pleasure--so little are we
accustomed to gayeties of any kind--my spirits rose to fever
height, and I told him without hesitation nothing on earth he
could do for me would occasion me greater delight than his
ordering and regulating _a fete_ in which I might bear a part.
Afterwards, when I fully understood the consequences of my rash
words, how heartily did I repent them!
First came the battle with papa about the necessary garments to
be worn at it--gowns we should have and gowns we had not--and a
skirmish naturally followed. Mamma and Dora undertook to face the
foe alone in this instance (it being unanimously decided in
conclave that my presence on the scene would only hinder any
chances of success), and after a severe encounter Dora
triumphed--as somehow Dora always does triumph--though I am bound
to admit many tears were shed and many reproaches uttered before
victory was declared in our favor.
Then came the getting to Strangemore in the disgraceful fossil
that clings to us like a nightmare, and won't fall to pieces from
decay.
Half an hour before we start, papa caracoles away on his
sprightly roan, got up regardless of expense, leaving Brewster to
drive us, with Billy seated beside him on the box-seat; while we
three women sit inside and try to think our dresses are not
crushed, while undergoing the hour and a half of anguish, before
described, on our way.
As we are all fully alive to the fact that to face the hall-door
at Strangemore and the assembled county in our shandrydan is more
than we can endure, we enter the grounds by a back way; and
having given Brewster strict orders to reach the yard without
being seen, and if seen to answer no inconvenient questions, we
alight, and shaking out our trains, proceed towards the gardens.
My dress is composed of simple batiste, but is a wonderful
mingling of palest pink and blue, impossible to describe; my hat
is also pink and blue, my gloves delicately tinted. Marmaduke's
earrings and locket and bracelets and rings are scattered all
over my person; and altogether, I flatter myself, I am looking as
well as it is possible for Phyllis Vernon to look.
Dora is in a ravishing costume, of which blue silk forms the
principal part, and has put on a half-pouting, just-awakened
expression, that makes her appear a lovely grown up baby.
Mamma is looking, as she always looks in my eyes, perfectly
beautiful.
She and Dora march in front, while Billy and I bring up the rear.
To my excited imagination it seems as if all the world were met
together on the croquet-lawn. I say, "Oh, Billy!" in an
exhilarated tone, and give his arm a squeeze; but, as the dear
fellow thinks it necessary to be morose on the occasion, he takes
it badly, and tells me, angrily, to moderate my transports, or
people will say I have never been at any entertainment
before--which if people did say it would be unusually near the
truth.
Presently Marmaduke, seeing us, comes quickly up, and, having
welcomed mother and Dora, offers me his arm with the air of a
proprietor, and carries me away from my family.
I feel as though treading on air, and am deliciously far from
shyness of any description. Before we have gone very far, my
conversational powers assert themselves.
"Marmaduke, don't you think I am looking very nice?" I say
naively.
"Very, darling. You always look that."
This general praise disappoints me. Whatever an infatuated person
may have chosen to consider me in the time past, I am satisfied
that at the present moment I really am worthy of admiration.
"But you cannot have seen my dress," I persist; "it came all the
way from London: and _we_ all think it so pretty. Look at it,
Marmaduke."
He turns his head willingly in my direction, but his gaze gets
little farther than my face.
"It is charming," he says, with enthusiasm. "That pale green
suits you tremendously."
"Pale-green!" and I am all faintest azure. I break into a merry
laugh, and give him an imperceptible shake.
"Green, you ridiculous boy! Why, there is not a particle of green
about me. I am nothing but pink and blue. Do look at me again,
Marmaduke, or I shall die of chagrin."
"Well, it was the blue I meant," declares my lover, composedly.
"Then, come with me to the other side, Phyllis: I want to
introduce you to Lady Alicia Slate-Gore."
"Lady Alicia!" I gasp, awestruck. "Is--is the duke here?"
"No; he is in Scotland. Lady Alicia came by herself. She is an
old friend of mine, darling, and I am very fond of her. I want
you, therefore, to be particularly charming to her."
"How can you expect me to be that--under the circumstances?" I
ask, lightly, glancing up at him from under my lashes with a
sudden and altogether new touch of coquetry born of the hour and
my gay attire. "How can I be amiable, when you tell me in that
bare-faced fashion of your adoration for her? Of course I shall
be desperately jealous and desperately disagreeable during the
entire interview."
Marmaduke's face betrays the intense delight all men feel when
receiving flattery from the beloved one. Perhaps, indeed, he
appears a trifle sillier than the generality of them, incense
coming from me being so totally unexpected. I know by his eyes he
would give anything to kiss me, were it not for shame sake and
the gaping crowd.
"Is your Lady Alicia very terrific?" I ask, fearfully and then,
almost before he has time to answer my question, we are standing
before a tall, benevolent-looking woman of forty-five, with a
hooked nose, and a scarlet feather in her bonnet, and I am bowing
and smirking at Lady Alicia Slate-Gore.
She is more than civil--she is radiant. She taps me on the cheek
with her fan, and calls me "my dear," and asks me a hundred
questions in a breath. She taps Marmaduke on the arm and asks him
what he means by making love to a child who ought to be in her
nursery dreaming fairy-tales.
At this Marmaduke laughs, and says I am older than I look--for
which I am grateful to him.
"Old!" says my lady, with a rapid bird like glance at me. "The
world will soon be upside down. Am I to consider fourteen old?"
"Phyllis will soon be nineteen," says Marmaduke; for which I feel
still more grateful, as it was only two months ago I attained my
eighteenth year.
"Indeed! indeed! You should give your friends your receipt,
child. You have stolen a good five years from Father Time, and
just when you least want it. Now, if you could only give us old
people a written prescription," etc., etc.
Marmaduke leaves us to go and receive some other guests, and her
ladyship still chatters on to me; while I, catching the infection
of her spirits, chatter back again to her, until she declares me
vastly amusing, and is persuaded Marmaduke has gained a prize in
the life-lottery.
Then Bobby De Vere comes up, a little later, and addresses me in
his usual florid style; so does fat Mr. Hastings; and presently
Lady Alicia appears again, bringing with her a tall, gaunt man
with a prickly beard, who, she says, is desirous of being
introduced.
He is probably a well-intentioned person, but he is very deaf,
and has evidently mistaken the whole affair. For example, after a
moment or two he electrifies me by saying, "You are fortunate,
Mrs. Carrington, in having so magnificent a day for your _fete_."
I color painfully, stammer a good deal, and finally explain,
rather lamely, I am not yet Mrs. Carrington, and that my proper
name is Vernon. Upon which he too is covered with confusion and
makes a hurried and very unintelligible apology.
"Beg pardon, I'm sure. Quite understood from Lady Alicia--most
awkward--inexcusably so. Only arrived at the castle late last
night, and am a stranger to every one here. Pray pardon me."
I put an end to his misery by smiling and asking him if he would
like to walk about a little--an invitation he accepts with
effusion.
There are dear little colored tents scattered all over the place.
Bands are playing; so are fountains; and flowers are everywhere.
I drink iced Moselle and eat strawberries, and am supremely
happy.
My emaciated cavalier escorts me hither and thither, and does all
he knows to entertain me. After an hour or so he leaves me, only
shortly to return again, and it becomes evident he is bent on
studying human nature in a new form as he listens with every
appearance of the gravest interest to the ceaseless babble that
flows from my lips.
The day wears on, and I see hardly anything of Marmaduke; it is
already half-past five, and in another hour my joy must end. I
stand at the door of a tent, framed in by blue and white canvas,
with a crimson strawberry on its way to my lips, and am vaguely
wondering at my lover's absence, when I see him coming towards
me, by degrees, and with that guilty air that distinguishes most
men when endeavoring secretly to achieve some cherished design.
He looks slightly bored, but brightens as his eyes meet mine and
hurries his footsteps.
As he draws nearer I address to him some commonplace remark, upon
which the two or three men who have been amusing me--my gaunt
companion included--sheer off from me as though I had the plague;
it being thoroughly understood on all sides that in me they
behold the "coming Queen" of Strangemore.
Their defection, however, disconcerts me not at all. I am too
glad, too utterly gay on this glorious afternoon to let any
trifles annoy me.
"Did you miss me?" asked Marmaduke, tenderly.
"Hardly. You see, I had scarcely time--I have been enjoying
myself so much. It has been a delicious day altogether. Have you
enjoyed it, Marmaduke?"
"No. I was away from you." There is a world of reproach in his
tone.
"True; I had forgotten that," I say, wickedly. Then, "To tell the
truth, 'Duke, I was just beginning to wonder had you forgotten my
existence. How did you manage to keep away from me for so long?"
"What unbearable conceit! I could not come to you a moment
sooner. If I had to get through so much hard work every day as
was put upon me this afternoon, I believe I should die of a
decline. Don't you feel as if you hated all these people,
Phyllis? I do."
"No, indeed; I bear them nothing but good will. They have all
helped by their presence to make up the sum of my enjoyment."
"I am so glad the day has been a success--to you at least. Are
you looking at that old turret, darling? There is such a
beautiful view of the gardens from one of those windows?" This
last suggestively.
"Is there?" I answer, with careless indifference. Then,
good-naturedly, "I think I would like to see it."
"Would you?" much gratified. "Then come with me."
In his heart I know he is rejoiced at the prospect of a
_tete-a-tete_ alone with me--rejoiced, too, at the chance of
getting rid for a while of all the turmoil and elegant bustle of
the crowd.
I go with him, down the garden path, through the shrubberies, up
the stone steps, and into the large hall, past immodest statues
and up interminable stairs, until we reach the small round
chamber of which he speaks.
I run to the window and look down eagerly upon the brilliant
scene below; and certainly what meets my eyes rewards me for the
treadmill work I have undergone for the purpose.
Beneath me lie the gardens, a mass of glowing color, while far
beyond them as the eye can reach stretches the wood in all its
green and bronze and brown-tinged glory. Upon the right spreads
the park soft and verdant. Below me the gayly-robed guests pass
ceaselessly to and fro, and the sound of their rippling laughter
climbs up the old ivy-covered walls and enters the window where I
stand.
"Oh, how lovely it is?" I cry, delightedly. "Oh, I am so glad I
came! How far away they all appear, and how small!"
Marmaduke is watching me with open content: he never seems to
tire of my many raptures.
Suddenly I lean forward and, with flushed cheeks, follow the
movement of one of the guests, who hitherto has been unnoticed by
me.
"Surely--surely," I cry, with considerable excitement, "that is
Sir Mark Gore."
Marmaduke stares. "Sir Mark is here," he says. "Do you know him?"
"Of course I do," I answer, gayly, craning my neck farther out of
the window, the better to watch my new-old acquaintance; "that
is, a little. What a handsome man he is! How odd he should be
here to-day!"
"I don't see the oddness of it," rather coldly. "I have known him
intimately for many years. How did you become acquainted with
him, Phyllis?"
"Oh," I say, laughing, "our first meeting was a very romantic
affair--almost as romantic as my second interview with you." I
say this with a glance half shy, half merry; but Mr. Carrington
does not seem as much alive to my drollery as usual. "Billy and I
had ridden into Carston--I on the old white pony, you know--and
just as we came to the middle of the High street, Madge shied at
a dead sheep, my saddle turned, and but for Sir Mark Gore, who
happened to be passing at the moment, I would certainly have
fallen off. He rushed to the rescue, caught me in his arms, and
deposited me safely on the ground. Was it not near being a
tragedy? Afterwards he was even condescending enough to tighten
the girths himself, though Billy was well able, and to speed us
on our homeward journey. Was it not well he was there?"
"Very well, indeed. And was that all you saw of him?"
"Oh, dear, no; we became great friends after that. I found him
wonderfully good-natured and kind."
As I speak I am ignorant of the fact that Sir Mark has the
reputation of being the fastest man about town.
"I have no doubt you did," says my betrothed, sarcastically.
"And where did you meet him again?"
"At a bazaar, a week later. He got Mrs. Leslie, with whom he was
staying, to introduce him to me. And then he called with the
Leslies, and I think took a fancy to Dora, as he was continually
coming to Summerleas after that. Not that he ever came to the
point, you know; he did not propose to her or that; which
disappointed us all very much, as Mrs. Leslie told mamma he was
enormously rich and a good match."
"You seem to think a great deal of a good match," says Marmaduke,
very bitterly. "Are you so extremely fond of money?"
"Awfully," I say, with charming candor. "What can there be better
than a lot of it? I shall have plenty when I marry you,
Marmaduke, shall I not?"
"As much as ever you want," replies he; but there is no warmth in
his tones.
"Don't make rash promises. Perhaps I shall want ever so much. Do
you know I never had more than two pounds all together at a time
in my life, and that only once? My godfather gave it to me the
year before last, and it took Billy and me a whole week to decide
how we should spend it."
"Well?" absently.
"Well"--utterly unabashed--"finally we divided it into four
half-sovereigns. With one we bought a present for mother, and
were going to do the same for Dora, only she said she would
rather have the money itself than anything we would select. Then
Billy bought a puppy he had been longing for for a month with the
third, besides a lot of white rats--odious little things with no
hair on their tails--and a squirrel; and--and that's all," I wind
up abruptly.
"What did you do with the other half-sovereign? asks 'Duke, more
from want of something to say than from any overpowering
curiosity.
"Oh, nothing--nothing," I answer, feeling slightly confused, I
don't know why. "I cannot remember, it is so long ago."
"Only the year before last, by your own account, and I know your
memory to be excellent. Come, tell me what you did with it."
As he grows obstinate, so do I, and therefore answer with gay
evasion.
"What would I do with it but one thing? Of course I bought a
present for my sweetheart."
Surely some capricious spirit inhabits this room. For the second
time since we entered it Marmaduke's countenance lowers.
"Why, what is the matter now?" I ask, impatiently. "What are you
looking so cross about?"
"I am not cross," indignantly. "What is there to make me so?
There is no reason why you should not have innumerable
sweethearts as well as every other woman."
"Oh!" I say; and his last speech having made me aware that the
word "sweetheart" has been the cause of all the ill temper, I go
on wickedly, "why, none indeed; and this particular one of whom I
speak was such a darling! So good to me, too, as he was--I never
received an unkind word or a cross look from him. Ah! I shall
never forget him."
"You are right there. No virtue is as admirable as sincerity. I
wonder how you could bring yourself to resign so desirable a
lover."
"I didn't resign him. Circumstances over which we had no control
arose, and separated his lot from mine." Here I sigh heavily, and
cast my eyes upon the ground with such despairing languor as
would have done credit to an Amanda--or a Dora.
"If I am to be considered one of the 'circumstances' in this
matter," says my lover, hotly, "I may tell you at once I do not
at all envy the position. I have no desire to come between you
and your affections."
"You do not," I return, mildly; and, but that when a man is
jealous he loses all reasoning and perceptive faculties, he might
see that I am crimson with suppressed laughter. "Had you never
appeared on the scene, still a marriage between us would have
been impossible."
"What is his name?" asks 'Duke, abruptly.
"I would rather not tell you."
"I insist upon knowing. I think I have every right to ask."
"Oh, why? If I promised him to keep the matter secret, surely you
would not ask me to break my faith?"
"Once engaged to me, I object to your keeping faith with any
other man."
"Well, it is all past and gone now," I murmur, sadly. "Why rake
up the old ashes? Let us forget it."
"Forget it!" cries Marmaduke, savagely. "How easy you find it to
forget! And you, whom I thought so innocent a child--you, who
told me you never had a lover until I came to Strangemore! I
cannot so readily forget what you have now told me. It maddens me
to think another man has been making love to you, has held your
hands, has looked into your eyes, has--has--Phyllis"--- almost
fiercely--"tell me the truth; did he ever kiss you?"
My back is turned to him, but I am visibly shaking. I wonder
exceedingly why he does not notice it; but perhaps he does, and
puts it down to deep emotion.
"No," I say, in a smothered tone, "it never went so far as that."
"Then why not tell me his name?"
"Because--I--cannot."
"Will not, you mean. Very good: I will not ask you again. I think
we had better return to the grounds."
He moves a step or two away in the direction of the door.
Turning, I burst into a perfect peal of laughter, and laugh until
the old room echoes again.
"Oh, Marmaduke," I cry, holding out to him my hands, "come back
to me, and I will tell you all. It was old Tanner, your head
gardener, I meant the entire time. He used to give me all your
fruit and flowers before he went to America; and I bought him an
ear-trumpet with my ten shillings, and--oh! oh! oh!"
"Phyllis, Phyllis!" cries my lover, with reproachful tenderness,
and, catching me in his arms, presses upon my lips kisses many
and passionate, as punishment for my wrongdoing.
"How could you do it, darling? How could you make me so miserable
for even a few minutes?"
"I could not help it. You looked so angry and the idea came into
my head. And all about old Tanner! Oh! There--there, please don't
make me laugh again."
Friendly intercourse being thus once more restored, and it being
necessary we should now return to the guests, I make a bet with
him, in which a dozen pair of gloves count as high as three
kisses, and race him down all the stairs, through landings and
rooms and corridors, until I arrive breathless but triumphant at
the hall-door. Here we pause, flushed and panting, to recover our
equanimity, before marching out together calm and decorous to
mingle again among our friends.
Most of them are standing draped and shawled, only waiting to bid
farewell to their host. Almost on the steps we come in contact
with Sir Mark Gore.
"Miss Vernon," he exclaims, with a start of surprise, "you here!
How have I missed seeing you all day? Carrington, when you bring
so many people together you should at least give them printed
programmes with all their names inscribed, to let them know whom
to seek and whom to avoid. Miss Phyllis, how can I tell you how
glad I am to see you again?"
"Don't be too glad," says 'Duke, directing a tender smile at me
as I stand beaming pinkly upon Sir Mark, "or I shall be jealous."
"How! is it indeed so!" Sir Mark asks, addressing me. He too has
only reached the neighborhood within the last few hours, and
knows nothing of what has been going on of late in our quiet
village.
"Yes, it is indeed so," I return, with an assumption of
sauciness, though my cheeks are flaming. Then, half shyly, "Will
you not congratulate me?"
"No, I shall congratulate Carrington," replies he, shortly, and
after a few more words of the most commonplace description,
leaves us.
Mother is on her feet, and has assumed an important expression.
She has sent Billy in quest of Dora. Marmaduke crosses over to
her, whispers, and expostulates for a moment or two, until at
length mother sinks back again upon her seat with a resigned
smile, and sends Billy off a second time with a message to
Brewster to betake himself and the fossil back to Summerleas with
all possible speed. And so it comes to pass that when the lawns
are again empty Mr. Carrington drives us all, through the still
and dewy evening, to our home, where he remains to dine and spend
the rest of this eventful day.