It has come at last--the night of my first ball; and surely no
girlish _debutante_ in her first season ever felt a greater
thrill of delight at this mere fact than I, spite of my being
"wooed an' married an' a'."
Behold me in my room arrayed for conquest.
Having once made up my mind to the black velvet--though mother
and Harriet and Bebe all declare me a great deal too young and
too slight for it--I persist in my determination, and the dress
is ordered and sent down.
It is a most delectable old dress, rejoicing greatly in "old
point;" and when I am in it, and Martha has fastened the diamonds
in my hair and ears and round my throat and wrists and waist, I
contemplate myself in a lengthy mirror with feelings akin to
admiration.
Having dismissed my maid, who professes herself lost in pleased
astonishment at the radiant spectacle I present, I go softly to
'Duke's dressing-room door, and, hearing him whistling within,
open it quietly.
Standing motionless, framed in by the portals, I murmur,
"Marmaduke."
He turns, and for a moment regards me silently.
"My darling!" he says then, in a tone of glad surprise, and comes
quickly up to me.
"Am I--looking--well?" I ask tremulously.
"'Well!' you are looking lovely," returns he, with enthusiasm,
and, taking my hand carefully, as though fearful of doing some
injury to my toilet, leads me before his glass. "See there," he
says, "what a perfect little picture you make."
I stare myself out of countenance, and am thoroughly satisfied
with what I see.
"I had no idea I could ever appear so--presentable," I say, half
shy, wholly delighted.
"You shall be painted in that dress," declares 'Duke warmly, "and
put all those antiquated dames in the picture-gallery in the
shade."
"Are not the diamonds beautiful?" exclaim I. "And my gloves such
a good fit! And"--anxiously--"Marmaduke, are you _sure_ you like
my hair?"
"I like everything about you. I never saw you look half so well.
I feel horribly proud of you."
"Bestow a little of your admiration on my bouquet, if you please.
Sir Mark had it sent down to me, all the way from London, and his
man brought it to me half an hour ago. Was it not thoughtful?"
"Very. I suppose"--with a comical sigh--"all the men will be
making love to you to-night. That's the worst of having a pretty
wife; she is only half one's own." Then, abruptly, changing the
subject, "What dear little round babyish arms!" stooping to press
his lips to each in turn. "They might belong to a mere child."
"And you really think I am looking _downright pretty?_" I ask
desperately, yet withal very wistfully, reading his face for a
reply. I do so ardently long to be classed among the well favored
people!
"I should rather think I do. Why, Phyllis! of what earthly use is
a mirror to you?"
"As--as pretty as Dora?" with hesitation. I am gradually nearing
the highest point.
"Pshaw! Dora, indeed! She could not hold a candle to you--to be
emphatic."
"Well, here's a kiss for you," say I, standing on tiptoe to
deliver it in the exuberance of my satisfaction, feeling for once
in my life, utterly and disgracefully conceited.
Marmaduke, however, appearing at this moment dangerously desirous
of taking me into his arms and giving me a hearty embrace, to the
detriment of my finery, I beat a hasty retreat, and go off to
exhibit myself to mamma and Dora.
His Grace the Duke of Chillington and Lady Alicia Slate-Gore have
arrived. The rooms begin to look gay and very full. His Grace
a--well-preserved gentleman, of unknown age--adjusts his glass
more carefully in his right eye, and coining over, requests from
me the pleasure of the first quadrille. I accept, and begin to
regard myself as an important personage. I glance at myself in
one of the long mirrors that line the walls, and seeing therein a
slender figure, robed in velvet and literally flashing with
diamonds, I appear good in my eyes, and feel a self-satisfied
smirk stealing over my countenance.
I am dimly conscious that darling mother is sitting on a sofa
somewhat distant from me, looking as pretty as possible and
absolutely flushed with pride and pleasure as she beholds me and
my illustrious partner.
Dora, a little further down, is positively delicious in white
silk and pink coral--the coral being mine. Her still entertaining
for me the old grudge does not prevent her borrowing of me freely
such things as she deems may suit her child-like beauty; while I,
unable to divest myself of the idea that in some way I have
wronged her, and that but for me all these things she borrows
would by right be hers, lend to her lavishly from all that I
possess.
To-night, however, in spite of the bewitching simplicity of her
appearance, I feel no jealous pangs. "For this night only," I
will consider myself as charming as Dora.
"Rather think it will be a severe season. You hunt?" asks his
Grace, in rather high, jerky tones, having come to the
conclusion, I presume, that he ought to say something.
I answer him to the intent that I do not; that in fact--lowering
to my pride as it may be to confess it--I would rather be afraid
to do so.
He regards me with much interest and approval.
"Quite right; quite right," he says. "Ladies are--ha--charming
you know, of course, and that--but in a hunting-field--a
mistake."
I laugh, and suggest amiably he is not over-gallant.
"No--no? really! Have I said anything rude? Can't apply to you,
you know, Mrs. Carrington, as you say you have no ambition to be
in at the death. Women, as a rule, never _are_, you know; they
are generally in a drain by that time; and if a man sees them,
unless he wants to be considered a brute for life, he must stop
and pull 'em out It takes nice feelings to do that gracefully,
and with a due regard to proper language, in the middle of a good
run. Charming girl, Miss Beatoun."
"Very."
"Pretty girl, too, in white silk and the coral."
"You mean my sister?"
"Indeed indeed? You must excuse the openness of my observations.
I would never have guessed at the relationship. Can't discern the
slightest family resemblance."
He says this so emphatically that I understand him to mean he
considers me far inferior to Dora. I begin to think his Grace an
obtuse and undesirable person, sadly wanting in discrimination.
No doubt he is thinking my plainness only to be equalled by my
dullness. I wish impatiently the quadrille would begin and get
itself over, that I may be rid of him, more especially as I am
longing with a keenness that belongs alone to youth, for a waltz
or a galop, or anything fast and inspiriting.
At last the band strikes up and we take our places. Marmaduke
(who is dancing with Lady Alicia Slate-Gore) and I are the only
untitled people in the set. Nevertheless, as I look at my husband
I think to myself, with a certain satisfaction, that not one
among us has an appearance so handsome or so distinguished as
his.
The quadrille being at an end, Sir Mark Gore instantly claims me
for the coming waltz, and, as I place my hand very willingly upon
his arm, whispers:---
"You are like an old picture. I cannot take my eyes off you. Who
told you to dress yourself like that?"
"Myself. Is it not nice?" I ask, eagerly, casting another
surreptitious glance at my youthful form as we move near a glass.
"Don't you think it becoming?"
"If I told you all I thought," he exclaims, eagerly then,
checking himself with an effort, and a rather forced laugh,
continues--"you might perhaps read me a lecture."
"Not I: I am not in the mood for lectures. I feel half
intoxicated with excitement and pleasure, as though nothing could
have power to annoy or vex me to-night. The very music thrills
me."
"You remind me of Browning's little lady,---
'She was the smallest lady alive:
Made in a piece of nature's madness.
_Too_ small almost for the life and gladness
That over-filled her.'
You remember her?"
"Am I the 'smallest lady alive?' Why, see, I am quite up to your
shoulder. You insult me, sir. Come, dance, _dance_, or I will
never forgive you."
He passes his arm round my waist, and in another moment we are
waltzing.
Did I ever dance before, I wonder? Or is this some new sensation?
I hardly touch the ground; my heart--my very pulses--beat in
unison with the perfect music.
I stop, breathless, flushed, radiant, and glance up at Sir Mark,
with parted, smiling lips, as though eager to hear him say how
delightful he too has found it.
He is a little pale, I fancy, and answers my smile rather slowly.
"Yes, it has been _more_ than pleasant," he says, divining and
answering my thought.
He is not enthusiastic; and I am dissatisfied.
"You don't _look_" I say with inquisitive reproach, "as though
you enjoyed it one bit."
A curious smile passes over Sir Mark's face.
"Don't I?" he replies, quietly.
"No. Decidedly the reverse even. Of _course_"--with a
considerable amount of pique--"You could have found plenty of
better dancers among the people here."
"Perhaps I could; although you must permit me to doubt it. I only
know I would rather have you for a partner than any one else in
the room."
I am not proof against flattery, A smile is born and grows
steadily round my lips, until at length my whole face beams.
"Well, you might try to _appear_ more contented," I say, with a
last feeble attempt at remonstrance. "When I get what I want I
always look pleased."
"I know you do. But I am a thankless being; the more I get the
more I want. When a man is starving, to give him a _little_ only
adds to the pangs he suffers---"
The last bars of the waltz died out with a lingering wailing
sigh. A little hush falls. . . . Sir George Ashurst, coming up,
offers me his arm.
"You will let me put my name down for another before you go?"
asks Sir Mark, hurriedly, following us a few steps.
I hand him my card. "Keep it for me," I say, "until after the
dance. You can then return it."
"May I have the next after this?" very eagerly.
I glance at him over my shoulder. "Yes--if I am disengaged, and
you care for it," I make answer, forgetful of my character as
hostess, of the world's tongue, of everything but the sweet
gayety of the present hour.
---
The night wears on. Already it is one hour past midnight. Sir
Mark is again my partner.
Up to this the evening has fully answered my fondest
expectations. I have danced incessantly. I have been utterly,
thoughtlessly happy. Now a slight contraction about the soles of
my feet warns me I begin to experience fatigue.
Sir Mark leads me towards a conservatory, dimly lit and
exquisitely arranged, at the door of which I stand to bestow a
backward glance upon the ball-room.
At a considerable distance I can discern Bebe standing beside
Lord Chandos. It is without doubt an interval in their dance, but
they are not talking. Miss Beautoun's head is slightly inclined
_from_ her companion, and it is evident to me she has mounted an
exceedingly high horse. Nevertheless, to see her with him at all
gratifies me; as it is surely a step in the right direction.
Dora is waltzing with a "Heavy," and I can see Sir George
glowering upon them from a remote corner. Dora sees him also, and
instantly smiles tenderly into her dragoon's light-blue eyes.
This too looks promising. My spirits go up another degree, and I
indulge in a low pleased laugh.
"Still revelling in bliss, Mrs. Carrington?" Sir Mark's voice
recalls me. "No flaw as yet?"
"Not one. Of course not. What a ridiculous question! I told you
nothing should interfere with my enjoyment this evening. Yet,
stay"--with a demure and dejected shake of the head: "every now
and then I _am_ troubled with a faint regret."
"And it--is---"
"That all this must some time come to an end. There, is not that
a haunting thought?"
I laugh, so does he.
"I shall have plenty of it in the spring," I continue, presently.
"'Duke says I shall go to London then."
"And so lose the keen sense of pleasure you now possess. What a
mistake! Take my advice, and don't go through a London season."
"What stupid advice. Indeed I _shall_, and enjoy it too, I am
only longing for the time to come round. I shall be dreaming of
it from now until then."
"You are bent on rushing wildly to your fate," says he, smiling.
"Well, do so, and rue it later on. When you come to look on
dancing, not as a good thing in itself, but merely as a means to
an end, remember I warned you."
"I will remember nothing," I say, saucily, "except that I am at
this moment without a care in the world. Come, let us go in."
Sir Mark hesitates.
"Shall we finish the dance first?"
"No," I am looking longingly into the cool green light of the
conservatory beyond me. "See how delicious it is in there. Let us
find a seat."
Still he hesitates, as though unwilling to move in the desired
direction.
"It seems a pity to lose this music," he says. "Afterwards we
could rest."
I turn my eyes mischievously upon him.
"_Who?_ is keen about dancing now?" I ask, gayly. "Not _I_. For
my part, I pine for a sofa. As you _will_ have it, I confess I am
just a little wee bit tired."
We walk on through the outer nest of flowers into the smaller one
beyond, which is if anything dimlier lit, calmer, more subtly
perfumed. The nameless fragrance is everywhere, the splash,
splash of a small fountain falls soothingly on the ear; the
music, though distinct, is strangely, dreamily distant.
Some tall shrubs are dispersed here and there; behind them cozy
seats are hidden; shadows of a darker shade envelope them.
As with purposeless steps I pass by a rather larger one of these
I suddenly find myself face to face with Lady Blanche Going
and--Marmaduke.
Now there is no earthly reason why they should not be here alone
together; hundreds of other couples, tired and warm from dancing,
have probably done the same; yet, as my eyes fall upon them, a
strange feeling that is partly anger, partly pain, troubles me.
All my gay wild spirits sink and disappear. I know my face has
lost its vivacity and expresses only surprise and chagrin.
As my glance fastens more directly upon Duke, I see he too is
looking unlike himself. There is a dark, almost fierce expression
in his eyes; his lips are compressed. A slight movement of the
thin nostrils as he draws his breath tells me he is evidently
suppressing some strong emotion.
Her ladyship, exquisitely lovely in deep cream-colored silk, with
something scarlet in her dark hair, is nestling among the crimson
cushions of the lounge, and does not deign to raise herself as we
approach. Her eyes are a degree larger, more languid than usual;
her complexion, always good, is perfect in this soft light. Her
fan is in my husband's hands.
It is impossible for me, without being guilty of positive
rudeness, to turn and leave them without a word. I stand,
therefore, silent, a pale, slight child, next to her, in all her
supercilious beauty--with little of the woman about me except my
trailing velvet and golden ring, and glittering, gleaming jewels.
"Are you having a good time, Mrs. Carrington?" asks Lady Blanche,
sweetly.
"Very, thank you," with extreme coldness. "I had no idea I could
enjoy anything so much."
"You _look_ happy," with increased amiability and a soft,
indulgent smile, such as one would use toward an excitable child.
"I suppose you still find pleasure in dancing?"
"Yes. I believe I have a good many years yet to run before I
must, for decency's sake, declare myself tired of it."
"Until you are quite an old married woman like me? Yes," with
much complacency. "You are fortunate in your partner. All the
world acknowledges Sir Mark to be above praise--in the dancing
line. Even I"--with a sudden and to _me_ utterly inexplicable
glance at the gentleman in question--"can remember how desirable
he used to be."
Dead silence, and a slight bow on the part of Sir Mark.
"Indeed?" say I, turning a smile of exaggerated friendliness upon
him. "Then consider how doubly good it is of him to waste _so
much_ of his time upon a mere novice like me."
I hardly know what prompts this speech. Perhaps a faint
remembrance of how at certain times, when conversing with Mark
Gore, I have looked across the rooms or gardens, or wherever we
might chance to be, and seen a glance that was almost hatred fall
on me from her ladyship's eyes. Now, however, my spiteful little
speech has no greater effect than to cause Marmaduke's fingers to
close with vicious force around the painted satin toy he holds.
Why does he not speak? Why will he not even suffer his gaze to
meet mine? I feel angry and reckless. He is sitting a little
forward, with his head slightly bent and a determined expression
upon his face. Is he anxious for my departure? Have I disturbed
his interesting _tete-a-tete!_
I will show him how little power he has over me for either joy or
sorrow.
I turn away, and with a backward careless nod at Lady Blanche,
say lightly,---
"Take care you don't suffer for sitting there. There are so
_many_ draughts in a conservatory, _We_ even consider the open
air safer."
And with that, though it was by no means my original intention, I
go out through the glass door into the silent starlight night,
and even manage to laugh gayly before we are beyond earshot.
As we touch the gravel, however, I face Sir Mark, and, foolishly
unmindful of how my words may impress him, cry fiercely, "Did you
bring me there on purpose?"
"_Where?_" he asks, with such wide astonishment as instantly
brings me to my senses. I feel overpowered with shame, and try to
turn it off, clumsily enough.
"Into Lady Blanche's presence," I say, fretfully. "You _know_
that woman always puts me out."
"Was it not yourself who _insisted_ on going there?" Sir Mark
reminds me, gravely.
"True," I reply, and then I laugh a little, and, taking higher
ground, continue, "You are horrified at my ill temper, are you
not? And indeed I have behaved disgracefully. After all, I don't
know why I should feel bitterly towards her; it is a mere
unfounded prejudice on my part. You think me wretchedly pettish?"
"I do not, indeed," very quietly. "Of course I can fully
understand how utterly impossible it would be for you and Blanche
Going to have a single idea in common."
"She is so clever you mean," with a small frown.
"She is such an _intrigante_, I mean," replies my companion,
quite coolly.
"Let us go in, it is cold," I say, with a quick shiver. So we go
round by the hall door, and soon again find ourselves in the
ball-room. As we enter I determinately put from me all thought of
'Duke's dark, passionate face. I _will_ be happy. I _will_ wrench
from the flying hours all they have worth taking. Why should I
care, who never really loved, whether or not he finds contentment
in another woman's society.
---
I am tired, and somewhat dispirited. The rooms are growing
thinner. A voice at my side makes me start and turn.
"If not engaged, will you give me this?" asks 'Duke,
ceremoniously.
"Certainly, if you _wish_ it. But are you so _badly_ off for a
partner? To dance with one's wife must be--to say the least of
it--insipid."
He makes no reply, but places his arm around my waist in silence.
It is a waltz.
"Do you know this is the first time I ever danced with you?" I
say, struck myself by the oddness of the idea.
"I know." And in another moment we are keeping time to one of the
dreamiest airs of Strauss. No, not even Mark Gore is a better
dancer than Marmaduke.
When we have taken just one bare turn round the room, 'Duke stops
short and leads me on to a balcony that by some chance is vacant.
"There! I won't inflict myself upon you any longer," he says,
quietly. "You dance very well. After all practice has nothing to
do with it. Will you sit down? Or shall I find you a partner for
the remainder of this waltz?"
"Are you in such a hurry to be gone?"
"No; certainly not," seating himself beside me.
Silence.
"I really wish, Marmaduke," I burst out, petulantly, "you would
say what has aggrieved you, instead of sitting there frowning and
glowering at one and making people feel uncomfortable If you want
to scold me, do so. I dare say I shall survive it."
This piece of impertinence rouses no wrath in the person
addressed, and draws no reply.
"Well, what is it?" I go on. "I have been _quite_ happy all the
evening--until now. Every one else has been civil to me. If you
_must_ be disagreeable, be so at once. What have I done?"
"I have accused you of nothing, Phyllis."
"No"--in an agitated tone--"I wish you would. I might then know
why you are looking so cross."
"Of course I am quite aware you can be supremely happy without
me. There was no necessity for you to hint at it so broadly."
"And you _cannot_ without _me_, I suppose? You appeared very
comfortable in the conservatory some time ago."
"Did I" with a quick return of the angry expression he had then
worn. "My face belied me then. I could hardly feel comfortable
when I saw you laying yourself open to the ill-natured comments
of the entire room."
"What do you mean Marmaduke?"
"You know what I mean. Is it the correct thing to dance the whole
evening with one man!"
"What man?"
"Gore, of course. Every one remarked it. I wish you would try to
be a little more dignified, and remember how censorious is the
world in which we are living."
"Do you want me to understand that _you_ think I was _flirting_
with Sir Mark Gore?" I am literally trembling with indignation.
"No, I merely wish you to see how foolishly you have acted."
"Was it with such base insinuations against your wife Lady
Blanche amused you to night? Do you think it was becoming conduct
on your part to listen to such lies being uttered without
rebuke?"
I have risen, and, with folded hands and white lips, am looking
down upon him.
"Phyllis! How can you suppose that I would listen calmly to _any
one_ who could speak evil of _you?_"
"I can readily suppose anything after what you have said. Is it
not worse of _you_ to _think_ evil of me? _Flirting!_ _You_
beyond all people are in a position to acquit me of that. I had
plenty of opportunities: did I ever flirt with you?"
"You did not, indeed. I tell you I don't for a moment suspect you
of such a thing; only---"
Here, looking up, we both became aware of Sir Mark's approach. He
is still some distance from us.
"Are you engaged to him for this, Phyllis?" asks my husband, in a
low hurried tone.
"Yes."
"Don't dance it, then," imploringly. "Say you will not, if only
to oblige me."
"Why? What excuse can I offer? You ask me to be rude to him, and
yet give no reason why I should be so."
"You intend dancing it with him then?" sternly.
"Certainly," in a freezing tone.
"Very good. Do so." And, turning on his heel, he walks quietly
and slowly away.
"I fear I have displaced a better man," says Sir Mark, lightly,
as he joins me. "Will you forgive me? I could not resist
reminding you of your promise of this."
"I fear I must undo that promise," I return, gayly. "I am really
fatigued. To dance with me now would be no advantage to any one."
"Am I to thank Carrington for this disappointment? Was he
fearful of your being over-tired?" He is courteous as ever, yet
it seems to me the very faintest suspicion of a sneer comes to
his lips--so faint that a moment later I doubt it has ever been.
"No," I return, calmly. "You give him credit for too much
thoughtfulness. So far from dreaming of fatigue, he even asked me
just now to dance with him--was not that self-denying of
him?--but I only took one small turn. You forget I am not yet in
proper training. I have had very little practice in my time."
"Let me get you an ice. No? Some champagne, then? Iced water?"
"Nothing thank you."
"At least let me stay and talk to you."
"I shall be glad of that. You never met any one with such a
rooted objection to her own society as I have," I answer,
laughing.
Then the strain loosens; the smile dies off my lips. How
ardently do I long to be alone! Why does not this man get up and
leave me? At all events, Marmaduke will see I have repented of my
ill temper, and am not dancing.
As I sit moodily staring through the window at the gay scene
within, it so happens the Duke of Chillington, with one or two
other men, passes slowly by.
"Our cousin of Chillington," says Sir Mark, with an amused
air--he is a second cousin of his Grace--"has expressed himself
enraptured with his hostess."
I raise my eyebrows and betray some slight surprise.
"I think you must mistake. When speaking to him, in the earlier
part of the evening, he gave me to understand--politely, it is
true, but none the less plainly--that he considered me a very
mediocre sort of person."
"In that case I fear we must believe his lordship to be an arch
old hypocrite, as he told _me_ he thought your manner and
expression above all praise."
"Well, I think him a very stupid old gentleman," I reply,
ungraciously.
Sir Mark turns his eyes upon me thoughtfully.
"Have you found that 'little rift' after all, Mrs. Carrington?"
asks he gravely.
"Yes--I suppose so," with impatience. Really the man grows very
tiresome. "I must have been mad to hope we wretched mortals could
have five whole hours of unbroken happiness."
"True:
'Every white must have its blacke,
And every sweete its soure.'"
"Another quotation?" superciliously. I am not in an amiable mood.
"You seem to have them ready for all emergencies. How closely you
must attend to your poetical studies! How fond of them you must
be!"
"I am. Does that surprise you? Do you find a difficulty in
associating me with polite verse?"
He has his elbow on his knee; his fingers caress his heavy black
mustache. He is regarding me with the profoundest interest.
"I really never thought about it," I return, wearily, with a
rather petulant movement of the head.
Oh that this hateful ball was at an end!
---
The last guest has departed. We of the household have gone up to
our rooms. Now that it is all over, I feel strangely inclined to
sit down and have a good cry. In the solitude of my own room
Marmaduke's words and glances come back to me, making me
miserable, now that excitement is no longer at hand to help me to
forget. One by one they return with cruel clearness.
If he would only come up from that horrid smoking-room and be
good-natured once more and make friends with me! I think I could
forgive and forget everything, and look upon the remembrance of
this ball with much delight and satisfaction.
My slight jealously of Blanche Going has disappeared, and weighs
not at all in the scale with my other miseries. Indeed, I have
almost forgotten the incident in which she figured.
Hark! a distant door bangs. Now surely he is coming. Will He
enter my room first, I wonder, to speak to me as he always does?
Or will he at once shut himself morosely into his dressing-room?
Steps upon the stairs, steps along the corridor. A laugh.
"Good-night" from Sir Mark Gore. "Good-night," heartily returned
by Marmaduke. Bah! how needlessly I have worried myself! He is
not angry at all. If he can jest and talk so easily with the
cause of all our dispute, he can certainly entertain no bitter
thoughts towards me.
I hear Marmaduke cross the inside room and approach mine. I feel
confident he is coming to "make it up" with me. I turn my chair
so as to face the door and be ready to meet him half-way in the
reconciliation; though--lest he may think me too eager--I find it
my duty to let a gently aggrieved shadow fall upon my face.
The door opens, and he comes in, walks deliberately to my
dressing-table, lights a candle, and then, without so much as a
glance at the fireplace, where I sit, prepares to return to his
room.
"Marmaduke!" I cry, in dismay, springing to my feet.
He stops and regards me coldly.
"Do you want me? Can I do anything for you?"
"'Duke! how can you be so unkind, so unforgiving, so--so cruel to
me?" I exclaim, going a little nearer, a suspicion of tears in my
voice, large visible drops in my eyes. "Are you going away
without saying one word to me?"
"What _have_ I to say? You have left me nothing. When last we
spoke I asked you to do a very simple thing to please me, and you
refused."
"I know. But afterwards I was sorry. I--you must have seen--I did
not mean to vex you."
"I saw nothing. The knowledge of what I _was_ to see in defiance
of my entreaty was not reassuring, I left the ball-room then and
did not return to it again. I was glad there was no necessity why
I should do so: they were all going."
"Then you do not know--I did not dance with Sir Mark--after all?"
I ask, eagerly, laying the bare tips of my fingers upon his arm.
"No!" laying down the candle, while his color grows a shade
deeper. "Did you refuse him, then?"
"Yes; I said I was too tired; I said---"
"Oh! Phyllis! darling--darling!" cries 'Duke, catching me in his
arms before I can finish my confession, and straining me to his
heart.
"So you see you need not have been so very cold to me," I whisper
from this safe retreat, feeling much relieved. It is positive
torture to me to quarrel with any one.
"Forgive me, my own. It is our first disagreement; it shall be
our last. What a miserable hour and a half I might have spared
myself had I but known!"
"But 'Duke, you said I behaved foolishly all the evening."
"Never mind what I said."
"But I must know who put it into your head. Was it Blanche
Going?"
"She said something about it, certainly. It was a mere careless
remark she made, but it struck me. I don't believe she knew she
said it."
"I guessed rightly, then. That woman hates me. She was trying to
make mischief between you and I."
"Oh, no, darling. Do not misjudge her. I am convinced she had no
hidden meaning in what she said. It was only a passing word, and
probably I took it up wrongly. She has no thought for you but
kindness."
"Then I don't like her kindness, and I will not have you
listening to her remarks about me. She never says anything
without a meaning. You do not think I was flirting, 'Duke?"
"My darling, of course not. No; but I love you so dearly it is
positive agony to imagine any one _might_, by chance,
misinterpret your conduct."
"And you will never be cross to me again?"
"Never."
"And you are deeply grieved you behaved so infamously to me?"
"I am indeed."
"And I looked lovely _all_ the evening?"
"I never beheld anything half so lovely."
"And I dance very nicely?"
"Beautifully. Quito like a fairy." Whereupon we both laugh
merrily, and anger and resentment are forgotten.