"Whom would you like to invite here for the shooting?" asks
Marmaduke, at breakfast, to my consternation. "I suppose we had
better fill the house?"
"Oh, 'Duke," I cry, in terror, "must you do that? And must I
entertain them all?"
"I suppose so," replies he, laughing; "though I dare say if you
will let them alone they will entertain themselves. If you get a
good many men and women together they generally contrive to work
out their own amusement."
"I have seen so few people in my life," I say, desperately, "and
none of them grand people. That is, lords, I mean, and that. I
shall be frightened out of my life."
"My acquaintance with lords is not so extensive as you seem to
imagine. I know a few other people. We will limit the lords, if
you wish to."
"Baronets and very rich people are just as bad."
"Nonsense, darling! I will be here to help you if they grow very
dangerous, and get altogether beyond control."
"Oh, that is all very well," I say, feeling inclined to cry, "but
you will be out shooting all day, and I will be left at home to
speak to them. I don't mind the men so much, but the women will
be dreadful."
This last sentence appears to afford Marmaduke the liveliest
amusement. He laughs until I begin to feel really hurt at his
want of sympathy.
"You don't care for me," I cry, with petulant reproach, "or you
would not try to make me so unhappy."
"My darling child, how can you say so? Unhappy! because a few
people are kind enough to come and pay you a visit. You say I do
not 'care for you' because I ask you to be civil to two or three
women!" Here he laughs again a little, though evidently against
his will. "Oh, Phyllis! if you are going to cry I will not say
another word about it. Come, look up, my pet, and I promise to
forget our friends for this autumn at least. We will spend it by
ourselves; though I must confess"--regretfully--"it seems to me a
sin to leave all those birds in peace. Now are you satisfied?"
But I am not: I am only ashamed of myself. Is this childish fear
of strangers the proper spirit for a grown-up married woman to
betray? I dry my eyes and make a secret determination to go
through with it, no matter what it costs me.
"No, no," I say, heroically; "let them come. It is very stupid of
me to feel nervous about it. I dare say I shall like them all
immensely when they are once here; and--and--perhaps they too
will like me."
"Small doubt of that," says my husband, heartily. "I only hope
the men won't get beyond the liking. Phyllis, you are a darling,
and when they leave us you shall tell me how tremendously you
enjoyed it all."
I am not sufficient hypocrite to coincide with this hopeful idea.
I kill a sigh before I next speak.
"Duke," I say, with faltering tongue, "must I sit at the head of
the table?"
"Of course," again visibly amused. "Surely you would not like to
sit at the bottom?"
"No," with deep dejection; "one is as bad as the other. In either
place I shall be horribly conspicuous." Then, after a brief
hesitation, and with a decided tendency to fawn upon him,
"Marmaduke, we will have all the things handed round; won't we,
now? I shall never have anything to carve, shall I?"
"Never," replies 'Duke; "you shall give us dinner in any earthly
style you choose, always provided you let us have a good one.
There!"
"And Parsons will see to that," I say, partially consoled,
drawing my breath more lightly.
"Now, whom shall we ask?" says 'Duke, seating himself, and
drawing out a pencil and pocket-book with an air of business,
while I look over his shoulder. "Harriet is staying with old Sir
William at present, but next week she will be free. She will
come, and James. I am so anxious you should meet each other."
"Oh, Marmaduke, what shall I do if your sister does not like me?
It would make me so miserable if she disapproved of me in any
way."
"Your modesty, my dear, is quite refreshing in this brazen age.
Of course, if Harriet expresses disapprobation of my choice, I
shall sue for a divorce."
I pinch his ear, and perch myself comfortably on the arm of his
chair.
"Is she anything like you?"
"You could hardly find a greater contrast, I should say, in every
way. She is extremely fair--quite a blonde--not much taller than
you are, and rather fat. She has a considerable amount of spirit,
and keeps Sir James in great order; while I am a dejected being,
tyrannized over by the veriest little shrew that ever breathed."
"I like that. But from what you say she must be a terrible
person."
"Then my description belies her. Harriet is very charming and a
general favorite. As for Sir James, he simply adores her. I dare
say she will bring Bebe with her."
"Who is Bebe?"
"Bebe Beatoun? Oh, Handcock's niece, and Harriet's 'most
cherished.' Fortunately, her mother is at present in Italy, so
_she_ can't come, which is lucky for us all, as she is a _dame
terrible_. Then we must ask Blanche Going."
"Oh, _must_ you ask her?" I exclaim, discontentedly. "I don't
think I quite like her; she is so supercilious, and seems to
consider me so--so _young_."
"Is that a fault? I never met any one with such a veneration for
age as you have. I tell you, Phyllis, there is nothing on earth
so desirable as youth. Be glad of it while you have it; it never
lasts. I dare say Blanche herself would not mind taking a little
of it off your hands, if--she only could."
"I don't think so; she rather gave me the impression that she
looked down upon me, as though I were foolish and not worth much
consideration."
"Don't be uncharitable, Phyllis; she could not think anything so
absurd. Besides, she told me herself one day she liked you
immensely--hoped you and she would be tremendous friends, and so
on. Blanche is too good-natured to treat any one as you say."
"Perhaps so. But, really, now, Marmaduke--seriously, I
mean--would you not wish me to be older? Say twenty-five or so,
with a little more knowledge of everything, you know? And, in
fact, I mean would it not be better if I were more a woman of the
world?"
"Oh, horror of horrors!" cries 'Duke, raising his, hands in
affected terror. "How can you suggest anything so cruel! If I
were married to a fashionable woman I would either cut and run,
or commit suicide in six months."
"Then you really think me---" I hesitate.
"A veritable little goose. No, no!--perfection, I mean," seeing
me pout. Then suddenly putting his arms round me and drawing me
down to him, he whispers, with deep feeling, "Phyllis, my
darling, darling girl, don't you know it? Must I tell it you over
and over again? Cannot you see every hour of your life how fondly
I love you, just for what you are? And _you_, Phyllis, tell
me--do _you_---" He stops abruptly and regards me with a curious
earnestness for a minute, then, laughing rather constrainedly,
puts me gently back from him and goes on: "What other guests
shall we name? Mark Gore; would you care for him?"
"Yes; I liked what I saw of him. And Dora, Marmaduke."
"Dora, of course. And some one to meet her, I suppose? Whom shall
we say? I think George Ashurst is an eligible who would just suit
her. He is not exactly brilliant, but he is thoroughly
good-hearted, and a baronet, with unlimited coin."
"I don't think Dora would like him if he is stupid," I say,
doubtfully.
"Oh, he is not a fool, if you mean that; and he has as many
golden charms as would make a duller man clever."
"Ah! who is mercenary now?" I say, lifting a finger of
conviction.
"Am I? You see what comes of marrying a _man_ of the world. Now,
had you seen as much life as I have you might be equally
unpleasant."
"But _I_ don't think you unpleasant, 'Duke."
"Don't you? There is consolation to be found in that. And now
whom would you like to invite, darling?"
"I would like Billy," I say, disconsolately; "but he is never in
the way when wanted, like other boys. And Roly is in Ireland, by
special desire, of course. And I would like mother, only---"
"Perhaps you would like the whole family?" says my husband,
mildly.
"Yes, I would," I return, with alacrity; "every---" I was going
to say "man jack of them," but thinking this--though purest
English to Billy's ears--may be considered vulgar by mere
outsiders, check myself in time, and substitute the words "every
one of them," rather tamely. "All, that is, except papa; I doubt
if he could be amiable for two hours together. But where is the
use in wishing for what I cannot have?"
"We could get Billy for a week, I dare say, later on," says
Marmaduke, kindly, "while the rest are here, if only to keep you
from despair. Is there any one else?"
"No; papa looked upon friends as nightmares, so we have none.
Besides, I shall have quite enough to do making myself agreeable
to those you have named. I only hope they will not worry me into
an early grave."
"Well, then, I suppose, with two or three spare men, this list
will do?"
"Don't you think you are asking a great many?"
"No; very few, it seems to me; at least barely enough to make the
house warm. Here is a tip for you, Phyllis: when making up your
mind to invite people to stay with you, always ask a good many
together, as the more there are the easier it will be to amuse
them, and much trouble is taken off the shoulders of the poor
little hostess. Bebe you will like, she is so gay and bright:
every one is fond of her?"
"How old is she?"
"Very young--not more than nineteen or twenty, and she looks
almost as young as you. She will suit you, and help you to do the
honors. The only thing that can be said against Bebe is, she is
such an incorrigible little flirt. Do not learn that
accomplishment from her."
"How shall I be able to help it, if you throw me in the way of
it? I think you are acting foolishly," with a wise shake of my
head. "What if one of those 'spare men' should chance to fall in
love with me?"
"That would be a mere bagatelle to _your_ falling in love with
one of the 'spare men.'"
"I see nothing to prevent that either."
"Don't you?" Then, half earnestly, taking my face between his
hands, "You would not do that, Phyllis, would you?"
"No, I think not," I say, lightly, letting him have his kiss
without rebuke: "I feel no desire to be a flirt. It must be an
awful thing, as it seems to me, to have two or three men in love
with you at the same time. I find _one_ bad
enough"--maliciously--"and that is what it comes to, is it not?"
"I suppose so, if one is a successful coquette."
"Well," I say, springing to my feet, "I only hope Dora will get a
good husband out of all this turmoil, if only to recompense me
for the misery I am going to endure."