It is a fortnight later, when the post coming in one morning
brings to Dora an invitation from our aunts, the Misses Vernon,
to go and stay with them for an indefinite period.
These two old ladies--named respectively Aunt Martha and Aunt
Priscilla--are maiden sisters of my father's, and are, if
possible, more disagreeable than he; so that there is hardly
anything--short of committing suicide--we would not do to avoid
paying them a visit of any lengthened duration.
Being rich, however, they are powerful, and we have been brought
up to understand how inadvisable it would be to offend or annoy
them in any way.
Dora receives and reads her letter with an unmoved countenance,
saying nothing either for or against the proposition it contains,
so that breakfast goes on smoothly. So does luncheon; but an hour
afterwards, as I happen to be passing through the hall, I hear
high words issuing from the library, with now and then between
them a disjointed sob, that I know proceeds from Dora.
An altercation is at all times unpleasant; but in our household
it is doubly so, as it has the effect of making the master of it
unbearably morose for the remainder of the day or night on which
it occurs.
Knowing this, and feeling the roof that covers papa to be, in his
present state, unsafe, I steal noiselessly to the hall door and,
opening it, find refuge in the outer air.
As evening falls, however, I am warned of the approach of
dinner-hour, and, returning to the house, am safely up the
stairs, when Billy comes to meet me, his face full of indignant
information.
"It is a beastly shame," he says, in a subdued whisper, "and I
would not submit to it if I were you. When luncheon was over,
Dora went to papa and told him she would not go to Aunt Martha;
and when papa raged and insisted, she began to blubber as usual,
and said if you were to take her place it would do just as well;
and of course papa jumped at the idea, knowing it would be
disagreeable, and says you _shall_ go."
"What!" cry I, furious at this new piece of injustice. "I shall,
shall I? He'll see!"
I turn from my brother with an ominous expression on my lips, and
move towards my bedroom door. The action means, "Not words, but
deeds."
"That's right," says Billy, following close in the character of a
backer-up, and openly delighted at the prospect of a scrimmage.
"Fight it out. I would give the governor plenty of cheek if I
were you; he wants it badly. It's a shame, that's what it is; and
you engaged and all! And what will Carrington say? Do you
know"--mysteriously--"it is my opinion Miss Dora thinks she could
get inside you, if you were once out of the way? She was always a
sneak; so I would not give in on any account.
But"--despondingly--"you will never have the pluck to go through
with it when it comes to the point. I know you won't."
"I will," I return, gazing back at him with stern determination
in my eyes, and then I go into my room to prepare for dinner,
leaving him both astonished and pleased at my new-found courage.
In this defiant mood I dress and go downstairs. All through
dinner Dora is more than usually agreeable. She smiles
continually, and converses gayly in her pretty, low-toned elegant
way. To me she is particularly attentive, and is apparently deaf
to the silence with which I receive her remarks.
Nothing is said on the expected subject of Aunt Martha until it
is nearly time for us to retire to the drawing-room, and I am
almost beginning to fear the battle will be postponed, when papa,
turning to me, says, carelessly, and as though it were a matter
of no importance:--
"As Dora dislikes the idea of going to your aunts, Phyllis, at
this time of year, we have decided on sending you for a month in
her place."
"But I dislike the idea too," I reply, as calmly as rage will let
me.
"That is to be regretted, as I will not have your aunts offended.
You are the youngest, and must give way."
"But the invitation was not sent to me."
"That will make little difference, and a sufficient excuse can be
offered for Dora. As your marriage does not come off until late
in the autumn, there is no reason why you should remain at home
all the summer."
"This is some of your underhand work," I say, with suppressed
anger, addressing Dora.
"I would not speak of 'underhand work,' if I were _you_," returns
she, smoothly, with an almost invisible flash from her innocent
blue eyes.
"Do not let us discuss the subject further," says papa, in a loud
tone. "There is nothing so disagreeable as public recrimination.
Understand once for all, Phyllis, the matter is arranged, and you
will be ready to go next week."
"I will not?" I cry, passionately, rising and flinging my napkin
upon the ground. "I have made up my mind, and I will not go to
Qualmsley. Not all the fathers in Christendom shall make me."
"Phyllis!" roars papa, making a wild grab at me as I sweep past
his chair; but I avoid him defiantly, and, going out, slam the
door with much intentional violence behind me.
I fly through the hall and into the open air, I feel suffocated,
half choked, by my angry emotion; but the sweet evening breeze
revives me. It is eight o'clock, and a delicious twilight
pervades the land.
I run swiftly, an irrepressible sob in my throat, down the lawn,
past the paddock, and along the banks of the little stream,
until, as I come to what we call the "short cut" to Briersley, I
run myself into Mr. Carrington's arms, who is probably on his way
to Summerleas.
Usually my greeting to him is a hand outstretched from my body to
the length of my arm. Now I cast myself generously into his
embrace. I cling to him with almost affectionate fervor. He is
very nearly dear to me at this moment, coming to me as a sure and
certain friend.
"My darling--my life!" he exclaims, "what is it? You are unhappy;
your eyes are full of trouble."
His arms are round me; he presses his lips gently to my forehead;
it is a rare thing this kiss, as it is but seldom he caresses me,
knowing my antipathy to any demonstrative attentions; but now my
evident affliction removes a barrier.
"I want you to marry me--at once." I breathe rather than speak,
my hasty running and my excitement having wellnigh stifled me.
"You will, will you not? You must. I will not stay here a moment
longer than I can help. You said once you wished to marry me in
June; you must wish it still."
"I do," he answers, calmly, but his arms tighten round me, and
his face flushes. "I will marry you when and where you please. Do
you mean to-morrow?--next week?--when?"
"Next month; early next month. I will be ready then. You must
tell papa so this evening, and take me away soon. I will show
them I will not stay here to be tyrannized over and tormented."
I burst into tears, and bury my face in his coat.
"You shall not stay an hour longer, if you don't wish it,"
returns my lover, rather unsteadily. "Come with me now, and I
will take you to my sister's, and will marry you to-morrow."
"Oh, no, no," I say, recoiling from him; "not that; I did not
mean that. I did not want to run away with you. Next month will
be soon enough. It was only they insisted on my going to
Qualmsley, and I was determined I would not."
"It is disgraceful your being made wretched in this way,"
exclaims Marmaduke, wrathfully. "Tell me what has vexed you?" He
is not aware of the Misses Vernons' existence. "Where is
Qualmsley?"
"It is a horrible place, in Yorkshire, where nobody lives, except
my aunts. They want me to go to stay there next week for a month.
The hateful old things wrote inviting Dora, and when she refused
to go papa insisted on victimizing me in her place. If you only
knew Aunt Martha and Aunt Priscilla, you would understand my
abhorrence--my detestation--of them. They are papa's sisters--the
very image of him--and tread and trample on one at every turn. I
would rather die than go to them. I would far rather marry you."
I hardly guess the significance of my last words until I see my
lover whiten and wince in the twilight.
"Of course I don't mean that," I say, confusedly, "I only---"
But, as I don't at all feel sure what it is I do mean, I break
down here ignominiously and relapse into awkward silence.
"Of course not," he answers. "I quite understand." But his voice
has lost all its enthusiasm, and somehow his words drag. "Had you
not better come back to the house, Phyllis? You will catch cold
without your hat and in that light dress."
I am clothed in white muslin, a little open at the throat, and
with my arms half bare. A piece of blue ribbon defines my waist,
a bow of the same hue is in my hair; the locket that contains his
face is round my neck; a great crimson rose lies upon my bosom.
"I am not cold," I reply: "and I am afraid to face papa."
We are separated now, and I stand alone, gazing down into the
rippling stream that runs noisily at my feet. Already two or
three bright stars are twinkling overhead and shine up at me,
reflected from below. Mr. Carrington lets the distance widen
between us while regarding me I feel rather than see--with moody
discontented eyes.
"Phyllis," he says, presently, in a low tone, "it seems to me a
horrible thing that the idea of your marriage should be so
distasteful to you---"
"No, no; not distasteful," I interrupt, with deprecation.
"Don't say 'no' if you mean 'yes.' Put my feelings out of the
question, and tell me honestly if you are unhappy about it."
"I am not. It does not make me more unhappy to marry you than to
marry any one else."
"What an answer!" exclaims Marmaduke, with a groan. "Is that all
the consolation you can offer me?"
"That is all. Have I not told you all this long ago?" I cry,
angrily, goaded by the reflection that each word I speak only
makes matters harder. "Why do you bring the subject up again?
Must you too be unkind to me? You cannot have believed me madly
in love with you, as I have told you to the contrary ages ago."
"So you did. In my folly I hoped time would change you. What a
contemptible lover I must be, having failed in eight long months
to gain even the affections of a child. Will you never care for
me, Phyllis?"
"I do care for you," I return, doggedly, forcing myself to face
him. "After mamma and Billy and Roland, I care for you more than
any one else. I like you twenty thousand times better than papa
or Dora. I cannot say more."
I tap my foot impatiently upon the ground; my fingers seize and
take to pieces wantonly the unoffending rose. As I pull its
crimson leaves asunder I drop them in the brook and watch them
float away under the moon's pale rays. I would that my cruel
words could so depart.
I feel angry, disconsolate, with the knowledge that through my
own act I am cruelly wounding the man who, I must confess it, is
my truest friend. I half think of apologizing, of saying
something gentle, yet withal truthful, that shall take away the
sting I have planted. A few words rise to my lips. I raise my
head to give them utterance.
Suddenly his arms are around me; he is kissing me with passion
that is full of sadness. There is so much tenderness mingled with
the despair in his face that I, too, am saddened into silence.
Repentant, I slip a hand round his neck and give him back one
kiss out of the many.
"Don't be sorry," I whisper; "something tells me I shall yet love
you with all my heart. Until then bear with me. Or, if you think
it a risk, Marmaduke, and would rather put an end to it all now,
do so, and I will not be angry with you."
"More probably you would be thankful to me," he answered,
bitterly.
"I would not. I would far rather trust myself to you than stay at
home after what has passed." My voice is trembling, my lips
quiver faintly. "But if one of us must be unhappy, let it be me.
I release you. I would not---"
"Don't be foolish, child," he makes answer, roughly, "I could not
release you, even if I would. You are part of my life and the
best part, No; let us keep to our bargain now, whatever comes of
it."
His eyes are fixed on mine; gradually a softer light creeps into
his face. Putting up his hand, he smoothes back the loose hair
from my forehead and kisses me gravely on my lips.
"You are my own little girl," he says, "my most precious
possession; I will not have you inconsiderately used. Come, I
will speak to your father."
So hand in hand we return to the dragon's den, where, Mr.
Carrington having faced the dragon and successfully bullied him,
peace is restored, and it is finally arranged that in three weeks
we are to be married.
---
And in three weeks we _are_ married. In three short weeks I glide
into a new life, in which Phyllis Carrington holds absolute sway,
leaving Phyllis Vernon of the old days--the "general receiver" of
the blame of the family--to be buried out of sight forever.
First of all mother takes me up to London, and puts me into the
hands of a celebrated _modiste_, a woman of great reputation,
with piercing eyes, who scowls at me, prods, taps, and measures
me, until I lose sight of my own identity and begin to look upon
myself as so many inches and fingers and yards embodied. At
length, this terrible person expressing herself satisfied with
the examination, we may return home again, whither we are shortly
followed by many wicker-framed oil skin-covered trunks, in which
lie the results of all the measuring.
Everything is so fresh, so gay, so dainty, that I, who have been
kept on such low diet with regard to clothing, am enraptured, and
as I dress myself in each new gown and survey myself in mother's
long glass, sustain a sensation of pleasurable admiration that
must be conceit in an "ugly duckling."
As Madame charmingly and rather shoppily expresses it, my
wedding-dress is "a marvel of elegance and grace"--and lace, she
might have added, as Brussels is everywhere. Indeed, as I see it
and think of the bill that must follow, the old deadly fear of a
row creeps over me, chilling my joy, until I happily and
selfishly remember that when it does fall due I shall be far from
Summerleas and papa's wrath, when I become once more enthusiastic
in my praise. I even insist on exhibiting myself in it to
Marmaduke three nights before my wedding, though all in the house
tell me it is unlucky so to do; and Mrs. Tully, the cook, with
her eyes full of brandy-and-water, implores me not to be
headstrong.
Presents come in from all sides, Bobby De Vere's and Mr.
Hastings' being conspicuous more from size than taste. Papa so
far overcomes his animosity as to present me with an astonishing
travelling-desk, the intricacies of which it takes me months to
master, even with the help of Marmaduke. Roland, coming from
Ireland for the ceremony, brings with him from the Emerald Isle a
necklet too handsome for his purse; while Billy, with tears of
love in his dark eyes, puts into my arms a snow-white rabbit that
for six long months has been the joy of his heart.
Dora, who at first declared her determination of leaving home
during the festivities, on second thoughts changes her mind,
having discovered that by absenting herself the loss of a new
dress is all she will gain: she even consents frostily to be
chief bridesmaid. The two Hastings girls, with Bobby De Vere's
sister and two of Marmaduke's cousins, also assist; and Sir Mark
Gore is chief mourner.
As the eventful day breaks, I wake, and, rising, get through the
principal part of my dressing without aid, a proceeding that much
disappoints mother, who at this last hour of my childhood feels
as though I were once more her baby, and would have liked, with
lingering touches, to dress me bit by bit.
At eight o'clock Martha knocks at my bedroom door and hands in to
us a sealed packet, with "Marmaduke's love" written on the
outside, and opening it we disclose to view the Carrington
diamonds, reset, remodelled, and magnificent in their brilliancy.
This is a happy thought on his part, and raises our spirits for
twenty minutes at least: though after this some chance word makes
our eyes grow moist again, and we weep systematically all through
the morning--during the dressing, and generally up to the very
last moment--so that when at length I make my appearance in
church and walk up tho aisle on papa's arm, I am so white and
altogether dejected that I may be considered ghastly.
Marmaduke is also extremely pale, but perfectly calm and
self-possessed, and has even a smile upon his lips. As he sees me
he comes quickly forward, and taking me from papa, leads me
himself to the altar--a proceeding that causes much excitement
among the lower members of the congregation, who, in loud
whispers, approve his evident fondness for me.
So the holy words are read, and the little mystical golden fetter
encircles my finger. I write myself Phyllis Marian Vernon for the
last time; and Sir Mark Gore, coming up to me in the vestry-room,
slips a beautiful bracelet on my arm, and whispers, smiling:---
"I hope you will accept all good wishes with this--_Mrs.
Carrington_."
I start and blush faintly as the new title strikes upon my ears,
and almost forget to thank him in wondering at its strangeness.
Then Marmaduke kisses me gravely, and, giving me his arm leads me
back to the carriage, and it is all over!
Am I indeed no longer a child? Is my wish accomplished, and am I
at last "grown up?" How short a time ago I stood in my bridal
robes in mother's room, still Phyllis Vernon--still a girl and
now--Why, it was only a few minutes ago---
"Oh, Marmaduke, am I _really_ married?" I say, gazing at him with
half-frightened eyes; and he says---
"Yes, I think so," with an amused smile, and puts his arm round
me and kisses me very gently. "And now we are going to be happy
ever after," he says, laughing a little.
All through breakfast I am in a haze--a dream. I cut what they
put upon my plate, but I cannot eat. I listen to Marmaduke's few
words as he makes the customary speech and think of him as though
it were yesterday and not to-day. I cannot realize that my
engagement is over, that what we have been preparing for these
nine months past is at last a settled fact.
I listen to Sir Mark's clever, airy little oration that makes
everybody laugh, especially Miss De Vere, and wonder to myself
that I too can laugh.
Billy--who has managed to get close up to me--keeps on helping me
indefatigably to champagne, under the mistaken impression he is
doing me a last service. I catch mamma's sad eyes fixed upon me
from the opposite side, and then I know I am going to cry again,
and, rising from the table, get away in safety to my own room,
whither I am followed by her, and we say our few final, farewell
words in private.
Three hours later I have embraced mother for the last time, and
am speeding away from home and friends and childhood to I know
not what.