We are all more or less late for breakfast next morning, Mr.
Thornton being the only one who exhibits much symptom of life. He
is, if possible, a degree gayer, more sprightly than usual, and
talks incessantly to any one who will be kind enough to listen to
him.
"I do think a ball in a country-house the most using-up thing I
know," he says, helping himself generously to cold game-pie. "It
is twice the fun of a town affair, but it knocks one up--no doubt
of it--makes a fellow feel so seedy and languid, and ruins the
appetite."
"I think you will do uncommonly well if you finish what you have
there," remarks Sir Mark, languidly.
Thornton roars: so does Billy.
"You have me there," says Chips. "I ought to have known better
than to introduce _that_ subject. My appetite is my weak point."
"Your strong point, I suppose you mean," puts in Sir Mark,
faintly amused.
"I think the worse thing about a country ball is this," says
Bebe; "one feels so lonely, so purposeless, when it is over. In
town one will probably be going to another next evening; _here_
one can do nothing but regret past glories. I wish it were all
going to happen, over again to-night."
"So do I," says Thornton, casting a sentimental glance at the
speaker. "I would go over every hour of it again gladly--old
maids and all--for the sake of the few minutes for the sake of
the few minutes of real happiness I enjoyed. There are _some_
people one could dance with _forever_."
Lord Chandos, raising his head, bestows a haughty stare upon the
youthful Chips, which is quite thrown away, as that gay young Don
is staring in turn, with all his might, and with the liveliest
admiration, at Miss Beatoun.
"Could you?" asks that fascinating person, innocently "Now I
could not; at least I think I would like to sit down now and
then. But, Phyllis, dear, seriously, I wish we were going to do
something out of the common this evening."
"Try charades or tableaux," suggests 'Duke brilliantly. "The very
thing! Tableaux let it be, by all means. Marmaduke, no one can
say last night's dissipation has clouded your intellect. We will
have them in the library, where the folding-doors will come in
capitally."
"You used to be a great man at tableaux, Carrington," says Sir
George; "and I shall never forget seeing Lady Blanche once as
Guinevere."
Her ladyship raises her white lids and smiles faintly.
"You were Lancelot, Gore, on that occasion," continues this
well-meaning but blundering young man. "You remember, eh?"
"Distinctly--quite as if it happened yesterday," replies Sir
Mark, with a studied indifference little suited to the emphatic
words. "Have some of this hot cake, Thornton? You are eating
nothing."
"Thanks: I don't know but I will," says Chips, totally unabashed.
"You could hardly give me anything I like so well as hot cake for
breakfast."
"You will make a point of remembering that, I trust, Mrs.
Carrington," says Sir Mark, gravely.
"Phyllis, you would look such a good Desdemona," says Bebe, who
is now fairly started. "I am sure she must have been _very_ young
to let herself be beguiled into a marriage with that horrid
Othello."
"And who would represent the Moor?"
"Sir Mark, I suppose: he looks more like it than any one else."
"You flatter me, Miss Beatoun," murmurs Sir Mark, with a slight
bow.
"Oh, I only mean you are darker than any of the others, except
James, and I am sure he never could look sufficiently ferocious,"
answers Bebe, laughing.
"And you think I can?"
"You will have to. When we have blackened you a little, and bent
your eyebrows into a murderous scowl, and made you look
thoroughly odious, you will do very well."
"How one _does_ enjoy the prospect of tableaux. I rather think I
shall rival Salvini by the time I am out of your hands."
"I hope not. I can't bear Salvini," says Harriet, mildly.
"That is going rather far, Harry. Why don't you say you can't
bear his figure? We _might_ believe that."
"But I don't want to be smothered," I protest, nervously.
"Oh, you _must_ submit to that. When people hear of 'a scene from
"Othello"' they immediately think of pillows. They would consider
they had been done out of something if we gave them a mere court
part. We will have you just dying, murmuring your last poor
little words, with Sir Mark looking as if he were longing to try
the effect of the bolster next, and Miss Vernon, as Emilia,
kneeling beside you."
"Now, that is what I call a downright cheerful picture," says
Marmaduke.
"_I_ call it high tragedy," replies Miss Beatoun, reprovingly.
"_Will_ you be Emilia, Miss Vernon?"
"I will help you in any way I can," says Dora, with her usual
gentle amiability.
"You would make a capital Beatrice, Bebe," says Marmaduke. "We
might have a good scene from 'Much Ado About Nothing.' Who will
be Benedick? Now, don't all speak at once."
"I think it would suit me," says Chips, very modestly.
We all laugh heartily.
"You grow modest, Mr. Thornton," says Sir Mark. "I fear you must
be ill. Try a little of this honey; you will find it excellent."
"No, thanks. I feel I shall be able to pull through now until
luncheon."
"Let us go into the library and arrange everything," I suggest,
eagerly; and we all rise and go there.
By degrees, as the afternoon advances, the men show symptoms of
fatigue and drop off one by one, while we women still keep
together to discuss the all-engrossing idea.
Curious odds and ends of old-world finery are dragged from remote
closets and brought to light. Clothes that once adorned
Marmaduke's ancestors are now draped around young white arms and
necks, and draw forth peals of laughter from the lookers-on.
"But we must have an audience," suggests: Bebe, at length, rather
blankly, stopping short, with her hands in the air, from which
hangs down an ancient embroidered robe.
"True. How shall we manage that?"
"Send a groom instantly with invitations to the Hastings, the
Leslies, and the De Veres, and the Cuppaidges. I am positive they
are all dying of _ennui_ this moment, and will hail with rapture
any chance of escape from it. They will all come; and the Leslies
have two or three really very presentable young men staying with
them."
"Yes, that will be best. Dora, will you go and write the notes
for me? Now, would it not be a good thing to exclude all the
non-players from our council?"
"Oh," says Harriet, "then _I_ must go."
"No, no, Harry, we can't do without you," cry I, imploringly;
"you must stay. We could not get on without some head to guide us
and soothe down disappointed actors. You shall be wardrobe-woman
and chief secretary and prime minister and stage manager all in
one."
"Yes," says Bebe, who has got herself into the ancient robe by
this; "and head-centre and peacemaker, and all that sort of
thing. Now, don't I look sweet in this flowered gown? Ah! what
interesting creatures our great-great-grandmothers must have
been! It almost makes me long to be a great-great-grand mother
myself."
"But your salary--your salary: state your terms," says Harriet.
"I cannot be all that you have mentioned for nothing."
"For love, dearest: call you _that_ nothing?" replies Bebe, as
she struts up and down before a long glass.
Presently darling mother, who has slept at Strangemore and
breakfasted in her room, comes creeping in, and a dispute arises
as to whether she must be excluded from the cabinet and sent into
exile until night reveals our secrets. But she is so amused at
everything, and has grown so young and gay in the absence of her
bugbear, that we make an exception in her favor also; and, as she
has a real talent for dressing people, and would have made an
invaluable ladies' maid, had her lot been cast so low, we find
her very useful later on.
The invitations are despatched, and acceptances from all brought
back; every one, it appears, will be delighted to come and
witness our success or failure, as the case may be. These polite
replies cause us faint pangs of consternation largely tinctured
with timidity, making us conscious that we are regularly in for
something: that much is expected of us; and that, after all, the
performance may prove "flat, stale, and unprofitable."
All through dinner we--the intended victims, are mysterious, not
to say depressed; while Sir James Handcock, the two men from the
Barracks, and Sir George Ashurst make mild jokes at our expense,
and wish us safely out of it.
At nine the guests arrive; at half-past nine all is in readiness;
the audience is seated, the impromptu curtains are drawn up, and
"Rebecca laying the jewels at Rowena's feet" stands revealed.
Lady Blanche Going, as the Jewess, is looking positively
beautiful, as kneeling at Dora's feet, in many colored garments
of crimson and gold and such gorgeous shades, with much gleaming
of precious stones, she gazes with saddened curiosity in the face
above her; while Dora, raising her veil--my wedding veil--with
uplifted arms to look down on her, presents such a contrast, with
her dead white robe and fair babyish face, to the darker beauty's
more glowing style as takes the audience by storm.
The applause is loud and lengthened; and Sir George Ashurst's
enthusiasm reaches such a pitch that when it subsides he has to
retire to his room in search of another pair of gloves.
The curtain rises for the second time on Lady Blanche again and
Sir Mark Gore as "The Huguenots." This, too, is highly
successful, albeit her ladyship is too dark for the part.
Everybody agrees that Sir Mark, with the sorrowfully determined
expression on his face, is perfect; while Lady Blanche astonishes
some of us by the amount of passionate pleading she throws into
her eye.
And now comes a hitch. The third tableau on which we have decided
is "The Last Appeal." There has been considerable difficulty
about the arrangement of this from the beginning, and now at the
last moment Sir Mark Gore vows he will have nothing to do with
it.
"I couldn't do it," he says, throwing out his hands. "There is
no use urging a fellow. I could look murderous. I might look
sentimental: I could not appeal. I won't, and that's all about
it. They will say there are no more actors if you send me on
again so soon; and besides, those breeches don't fit me. They
will go on Chandos; let him take my part."
"How disobliging you are!" says Miss Beatoun, flushing. "Then I
won't be the person appealed to. I did not want to, all along. It
is too bad I should get no parts but those in which rags and ugly
dresses are worn. I shall have to do Cinderella presently in
tatters, and in this I have only a short gown, and nasty thick
shoes and a pitcher."
"What nonsense!" say I. "You know every one said you looked
delicious with that little handkerchief across your shoulders.
Lord Chandos, go and dress yourself directly, as Sir Mark will
not."
"Of what use is it," says Chandos, quietly, "if Miss Beatoun
declines to act with me?"
"Acting with you has nothing to do with it," returns Bebe,
reddening perceptibly. "I only decline the 'old clo' part of it.
Consider how it hurts my vanity."
"Yet you would have worn them had Sir Mark kept his word," I say,
in an injured tone.
At this Lord Chandos looks expressively at Miss Beatoun, Miss
Beatoun looks witheringly at me, and Marmaduke, utterly innocent,
says persuasively:---
"Come now, Bebe, that's conclusive. Chandos will think you have
some reason for it if you persist in refusing."
At this unfortunate remark even I feel some dismay. Considering
all that has passed between these two, and the nature of the
tableau in question, it _is_ unfortunate. Chandos and Bebe color
violently; the latter's fingers close with nervous force upon the
pretty short gown she is wearing and crumple it recklessly. The
loose cambric kerchief on her breast rises and falls with angry
motion. Chandos is evidently furious.
"I shall think nothing of the kind," he says, in a low, distinct
tone. "Miss Beatoun should be allowed to please herself. For my
part, I think it an odious scene and hackneyed to the last
degree."
"Still, as it is on the cards---" I murmur, weakly.
Marmaduke stares at me in wonderment, and then at Harriet, who is
also listening. We are every one of us thoroughly unpleasant.
Bebe laughs a rather forced laugh. "I wonder what our friends in
the dress circle are thinking all this time?" she says. "Lord
Chandos, go and put on your things and don't let us keep them
waiting any longer."
"That's right," exclaims Marmaduke, much relieved, moving away to
another group in the distance engaged in a hot dispute. Still
Chandos lingers.
"I am sorry for this," he says to Bebe, in a low tone, almost
haughtily. "But it is not yet too late. If the idea is so
detestable to you, then give it up now, and I will support you."
"Why should it be distasteful to me?" very coldly. "I will make
no further objections."
"I hope you exonerate me. I could not help it. I am more vexed
about it than you can be."
"I think you might have said emphatically just at first you did
not wish it. However, it does not matter."
"How could I? Such a remark would have been an implied rudeness
to you."
"Then I wish you had been rude."
"You are unreasonable, Miss Beatoun," says his lordship, stiffly.
Then in a still lower tone, "There are few things I would not do
for you, but that is not one of them."
"I think you had better go and put on those garments Sir Mark
rejected. We can finish the argument later on," murmurs Bebe,
turning away, with a half-smile, and, Lord Chandos hurrying over
his toilet, we have them on our miniature stage sooner than we
dared to hope.
But, though they gave in to their own wishes, or rather to their
own pride, the performance is a failure, for, though Bebe
certainly manages to look the very personification of hardened
persistency, Lord Chandos by no means comes up to our idea of the
appealing and despairing adorer, and altogether there is a stony
finish about it that nobody admires. The spectators are, indeed,
polite, and say all manner of pretty things, but they say them
from the lips alone, which is palpable and not satisfactory.
And now comes my turn. The "British public," as Mr. Thornton
persists on calling our very select audience, is requested to
turn its kind attention on Tennyson's "Sleeping Princess,"
wrapped in mystic slumber. I am the Sleeping Princess, it having
struck me in the early part of the day that this _role_,
requiring little beyond extreme inaction, would exactly suit me,
and cause me less trepidation.
Upon a crimson lounge, clad all in white, I lie, my long fair
brown hair scattered across the cushions and falling to the
ground beside me. One hand is thrown above my head, the other
hangs listlessly, sleepily, downwards; a deep-red rose has
dropped from it, and now blushes, half lost, amidst the tresses
on the floor.
Sir Mark, in the character of the Prince, leans over me as though
in the act of giving the caress that brings me back from
dreamland. His face, I know, is near--so near that, between
nervousness and shrinking, I feel a mad desire to break into
forbidden laughter; so much so that when the curtain falls I am
more than thankful.
Slowly it descends, and as I hear it touch the stage, I
cautiously open my eyes--to find Sir Mark has not yet raided
himself from his stooping posture.
My eyes look straight into his. There are literally only few
inches between his face and mine, and I fancy I can discern a
treacherous gleam in them. Something masterful, too, in his
expression, as though he would say, "I could an' I would,"
strikes me. Instantly I resent it, and springing to my feet,
stand back from him, crimson with indignation and some undefined
fear.
There is no time for words, had I even the desire to speak, which
I have not, as at this moment Lady Blanche Going and Marmaduke
come from behind the scenes to congratulate us. I try to recover
myself hurriedly, but it is too late; my red cheeks and
frightened, half shamed eyes attract their notice; and Marmaduke,
glancing from me to Sir Mark, regards us earnestly, coloring very
slowly himself the while.
"Oh!" exclaims her ladyship, starting, and assuming an air of
surprise; then, with an affected laugh, "How foolish of me? But
really for the moment, on account of your attitudes and
stillness, I fancied I had come on too soon, and that you were
still acting."
"How completely you must have forgotten the subject of the late
tableau!" replies Sir Mark, in a very calm tone, fixing her with
his wonderful keen, dark eyes.
Some instinct of evil makes me go and stand close to Marmaduke.
"Was it a success?" I ask, nervously.
"Without doubt," says 'Duke, rousing himself. "You look fatigued,
Phyllis; come and have some wine."
I take his arm and go with him gladly.
"Did anything vex you, darling?" he asks me, quietly, as we go
into the next room.
"No; it was imagination. I did not know his face was quite so
close, and, in consequence, when I opened my eyes I got a start.
It was ridiculous of me."
"Was that all?"
"Yes, that was all." I laugh, though in a rather spiritless way,
and feel angry with myself for the vague restraint that is quite
discernible in my manner while Marmaduke pours me out some
claret-cup, without asking any more questions.
"'Duke--Marmaduke--where are you? Oh, cone, come," cries Bebe,
looking in, "we are all waiting for you. How can I pose properly
until you get me the slipper? You said you had it somewhere."
So 'Duke flies, and I, putting from me my small vexation, which
even already appears half fanciful, follow him to the sides, to
see how they look before the curtain rises.
Cinderella (Bebe), clad in picturesque rags, is represented in
the act of flying, leaving behind her the magical slipper, which
Master Chips is eagerly stooping to pick up. He makes a veritable
"Prince Charming," in his scarlet cloak and long silk
stockings--got no one knows how--and cap and feathers; while
Bebe, glancing backwards in her flight to mark the fate of her
shoe, casts upon him a bewitching languishing gaze that
(supposing the original Cinderella to be capable of such another)
must have had more to do with her being Princess later on than
anything in the shape of a vow.
Then we close up Dora, as Constance de Beverley, into an
imaginary wall--the poor nun, with raised despairing eyes and
downward clasped hands, creating much sympathy. Yet, none of us
feel sure this was the spirit in which the real Constance met her
doom; only, as the devotional tearful style suits Dora, we
conclude it was, and make no unwelcome inquiries; and every one
is charmed.
After this comes "Queen Eleanor presenting the agreeable choice
of the poisoned bowl or the dagger to the fair but frail
Rosamond," represented by Blanche Going and myself; at the
conclusion of which Bebe draws me aside to whisper, laughingly,
how Blanche had looked the part _con amore_.
"I would have given very little for your chance of life had there
been any reality about it," she says. "She looked--oh, she looked
as--if---" with a vicious clenching of her small fist, full of
meaning.
Bebe as a laughing saucy Beatrice, and Lord Chandos as Benedick,
makes a much happier tableau than their last, and eventually we
wind up with a scene from the "Queen's Maries" of Whyte Melville,
in which everybody generally is brought in, and where Blanche
Going, as Mary Stuart, in black velvet and the inevitable cap, is
the principal feature; though Bebe makes a very charming Seaton,
and even I feel some admiration on beholding Marmaduke as
Darnley.
With a sense of relief we come down from the stage and mingle
with our audience, accepting modestly the compliments showered
upon us from all sides.
Mother, who has not been inside a theatre since she was nineteen,
comes up to tell us it was the prettiest sight she ever saw, and
to compare us favorably with all the celebrated actors and
actresses of her time.
Presently we leave the scene of our triumphs and wander into the
great cool ball-room, where the decorations of the foregoing
evening are still to be seen. Then somebody orders in a piano,
and somebody else sits down and begins to play on it, and in
another minute or two we are all dancing.
"I don't believe poor Mary Hamilton ever had your laughing eyes,"
says Sir Mark to me, during a pause in the dance. "She must have
been a sadder, more sedate sort of person altogether. See how
differently love works in different people."
"You forget she was unhappy in hers. Besides"--saucily--"how do
you know love has anything to do with _my_ eyes?"
"I don't know, of course; am only supposing---"
"Never suppose. It is foolish, and--fatiguing. Though now we are
on the subject, Monsieur Chastelar, you shall give me your
definition of the words 'to love.' If we may accept Whyte
Melville's opinion of you, you must be a very competent judge."
"I have no theory of my own; I am a sceptic on that point. I will
give you the orthodox definition if you wish, which everybody--in
a novel--is bound to accept. It means, I fancy to merge your
existence so entirely in that of another as to obliterate oneself
and live only for him or her, as the case may be. Also, it would
be strictly necessary to feel lost and miserable in the absence
of the beloved one. You may call _that_ fatiguing if you please.
Do you like the picture? Horrible, isn't it?"
"Not only horrible, but impracticable, I should say. I might
manage to be supremely happy in the presence of the adored; I do
not think I could be 'miserable' exactly in his absence." Then
laughing, "Is that really 'pure love?' If so, I am a sceptic
too. It would be absurdly weak-minded, and would confine one's
happiness to too little a world, to indulge in such a belief. It
must be wiser to take enjoyment as it comes in every way, and not
be so hopelessly dependant on one."
"I entirely agree with you. Indeed I fancy most people would
agree with you," replied Sir Mark, carelessly, looking straight
before him, with so much meaning in his gaze that instinctively I
follow it, until my eyes fall upon Lady Blanche Going, at the
other end of the room.
Evidently tired and flushed from dancing, she has sunk with lazy
grace into a low chair, and now, half turning, is laughing up
into Marmaduke's face as he leans solicitously over her. Even as
I look she raises her hand to repossess itself of the bouquet he
holds, and to my impatience it seems that an unnecessarily long
time elapses before the flowers go from his hand to hers.
My late careless frivolous words appear to mock me. Why does he
look at her like that? Why is he always by her side? Are there no
other women in the room?
I try to think of something gay and heartless to say to Sir Mark,
but just at the moment nothing will come to me.
Again the vague jealously of the evening before returns in
twofold force, and I bring my teeth rather tightly together.
After all Marmaduke said to me on the balcony last night about
making myself conspicuous with one, it is, to say the least of
it, rather inconsistent with his own behavior now.
What a perpetual simper that woman keeps up, merely to show the
whiteness of her teeth! How pleased 'Duke appears to be with her
inane conversation! Now if I had ever loved him this probably
would have vexed me, as it---
Bah! I _will_ think of something else.
I turn to Sir Mark, with a very successful little laugh.
"A living illustration of my text," I say, bending my head in my
husband's direction.
"Where? Oh! there." He stares at Lady Blanche reflectively for a
minute or so, and then says, "She is certainly good-looking."
"'Good-looking!' How very faint! Surely she is handsome. Are you
one of those who consider it impolitic to admire one woman to
another?"
"As a rule I believe it to be a mistake," replies he, coolly;
"but in this case I had no thought of policy. I am never quite
sure that I do think her ladyship handsome. That she is generally
thought so I admit. Marmaduke and she were always good friends."
"So I should say."
"At one time we imagined a _tendresse_ there, and dreamed of a
marriage, but, you see, 'Duke was bent on doing more wisely."
"Thanks. That is a pretty put. Was the _tendresse_ you speak of on
her side or his?"
"A mutual business, I fancy, if it existed at all. But, as we
made a mistake in the principal part of it, we probably did so in
all. Besides"_lightly_"I ought not to tell you all this Mrs.
Carrington. Tales out of school are malicious. Such mere
suppositions as they are too."
"Why surely I may congratulate myself on having gained a victory
over so much beauty? It would be a pity to deny me this little
gratification."
Nevertheless, at heart, I am sorely vexed, and, through pique and
wounded feeling, make myself more than agreeable to Sir Mark for
the evening. Not once does 'Duke come near me; nor does he even
appear to notice my wilful flirtation.
Just before we break up, indeed, finding myself near to him in
the supper-room, a strange desire to test his real mind towards
me, to compel him to pay me some attention, seizes me. He is as
usual in close attendance on Blanche Going, who has kept him
chained to her side--willingly chained, without doubt--during the
greater part of the evening.
Having dismissed my partner on some pretext, I look straight at
Marmaduke, and, shivering slightly, say, "How cold it is!"
"Cold?" replies he, nonchalantly. "Is it? I thought it warm.
Better send some one for a shawl. Here, Gore, will you get Mrs.
Carrington something warm to put round her? She finds a draught
somewhere."
And, as Sir Mark departs obedient, 'Duke turns once more to his
companion, as though forgetful of my very existence. Lady Blanche
smiles disagreeably.
Yesterday--surely only yesterday--he would have been kinder; he
would have gone for this shawl himself How eagerly, with what
extreme tenderness has he ever anticipated my wants! And now the
attentions of a stranger are considered good enough for me. Is he
tired of me already? Has he so soon discovered the poverty of my
charms? Or has that old fascination returned with redoubled
power, to make him regret what is, alas! irrevocable?
Sick at heart, and mortified to the last degree, I turn away, yet
with lifted head and proud, disdainful lips, lest he or she
should rightly guess my thoughts.
---
All the next day a marked coldness exists between me and my
husband. We mutually avoid each other, and, the better to do so,
fall back for conversation upon those nearest to us. The nearest
to me, at all events, is Sir Mark Gore.
Not being by any means a "gushing" pair, this temporary
estrangement is unnoticed by the greater part of our guests; to
the few, however, it is plainly visible. Bebe sees it, and is
vexed and troubled. Sir Mark sees it, and is curious. Lady
Blanche sees it, and is triumphant. It is clear that, for
whatever end she has in view, all things are working well. Once
or twice during the evening I catch her eyes fixed upon me, and
as I do so her glance falls slowly, while a malignant, insolent
smile creeps round her mouth. At such moments I am pagan in my
sentiments, and would, if it were possible, call down all evil
things upon my enemy.
Next day, however, the clouds partially disperse. Naturally
forgiving, I find a difficulty in maintaining wrath for any
lengthened period, and Marmaduke appears only too glad to meet my
advances.
The third day, indeed, all seems forgotten; our animosity is
laid, and peace is proclaimed, This time, however, there has been
no explanation, no kindly reconciliation, and only Marmaduke and
I know that underneath our perfect amiability lies a thin stratum
of ice, that any chance cold may harden into hopeless solidity.
-----
"Phyllis, we have agreed to let the birds hold high holiday
to-morrow, if you will promise us a picnic. It seems a pity to
let this last glimpse of summer go by unmarked," says Marmaduke,
speaking to me from the foot of the dinner-table.
"Oh, how delightful!" cry I, flushing with pleasure, and dodging
all the flowers on the table to got a good look at his face. As
he is also carefully dodging them in his turn, with the like
laudable purpose of beholding me, it is some time before we
manage it. When our eyes do meet we smile sympathetically.
I hardly know why I do so, but as I withdraw my gaze from
Marmaduke I turn upon Sir Mark Gore, who sits at my right hand.
The curiously cold, calculating expression I meet startles and
somewhat displeases me.
"Do you not like picnics!" I ask him abruptly.
"Very much indeed. Why should you think otherwise?"
"Your expression just now was not one of pleasure."
"No? It ought to have been. I was inwardly admiring the charming
enthusiasm with which you received your husband's proposition."
"Oh!" return I, curtly. "Yes. As I told you once before, when I
am pleased I show it; I am more than pleased now; I am
enchanted," smiling brightly at the thought. "Do you know I have
not been at a picnic since I was a girl--that is, unmarried."
"Not since then? Why, you must almost forget what a picnic means.
Shall I refresh your memory? It means salted pies, and sugared
fowl, and indescribable jellies and warm fluids, and your knees
in your mouth, and flies. I don't myself know anything more
enjoyable than a picnic."
"Dear me, how I pity you! Whose picnics have you been at, may I
ask?" inquire I with scorn. "To-morrow, I promise you, you shall
see a very different specimen."
To-morrow comes to us as fine as though bespoken. Lady Blanche,
walking into the breakfast-room in the most charming of morning
robes, addresses herself to my husband.
"Well, most noble, what are your plans for to-day?" she asks,
with a pretty show of animation.
Though I am in the room, and she knows it, she takes no notice of
me whatever--does not even trouble herself so far as to bestow
upon me the courtesy of a "good-morning." She looks up at
Marmaduke, and smiles at him, and awaits his answer as though he
alone were to be consulted. Evidently in her opinion the
mistress of the house is of no importance a--mere nonentity in
fact; the master is everything.
It occurs to me that she might be even gracious enough to smile
in my direction, but she confines her attentions entirely to
Marmaduke.
Has any one else in the room noticed her insolence. There is
rather a hush I fancy, as I move composedly to my seat and alter
the cups and saucers into more regular rows, I wonder curiously
whether Marmaduke has remarked her breach of etiquette. Not he!
What man ever saw anything wrong where a pretty woman is the
transgressor, more especially when that pretty woman's
blandishments are directed towards him? He gives back her smile
placidly, and then speaks,---
"I believe we have decided on a picnic."
"The picnic, of course. But _where?_ That is the question."
"Anywhere you like; I am yours to command."
"You really mean it? Then I should like to go right through the
country to St. Seebird's Well. It is years since last I was
there." She breathes a soft sigh, as though recalling some tender
memory connected with her former visit.
"To the Wishing Well?" says 'Duke. "That is a long drive. The day
is fine, however, and I see nothing to prevent our doing it. Can
we manage it, do you think, Phyllis?"
"I see no obstacle in the way," I answer, indifferently, without
raising my eyes.
"Then we may consider it a settled plan--may we, Mrs.
Carrington?" says Lady Blanche, sweetly.
This time I do lift my head, and turn my eyes slowly upon her
ladyship's.
"Good-morning, Lady Blanche," I say, quietly, and with the utmost
composure. In spite of herself, she is disconcerted.
"Oh! good-morning," she says. "I quite fancied I had seen you
somewhere before this morning."
"Did you? You take coffee, I think, Sir George? Dora, give Sir
George some coffee."
"I think I deserve a vote of thanks for my suggestion." says Lady
Blanche, recovering. "I feel in great spirits myself already. The
drive will do us good, and make us all as fresh as possible."
"True," says Marmaduke; "we have not had a drive for some time. A
picnic near home is, I believe, a mistake. It is a capital idea,
Phyllis, is it not?"
He addresses himself to me in a rather anxious, not to gay
conciliatory, tone: for the first time he becomes aware of my
unusual silence.
"Excellent. Though for my part I hardly require a drive as a
tonic. I am always as fresh as I can be." (I cannot resist this
one little thrust.) "Mr Thornton,"--to Chips, who has just
entered--"come and sit here by me: there is no more room."
For the first time in my life I feel my youth an advantage as I
watch the faint color rise to her ladyship's cheeks. Her mouth
changes its expression. It is no longer complacent. At this
moment I feel she hates me with a bitter hatred, and am partly
comforted.
A brief smile quivers beneath Sir Mark's moustache; it is
scarcely there when it is gone again, and he drops his eyes
discreetly on his plate.
"How shall we go?" asks 'Duke. "We have the coach, and your trap,
Ashurst, and the open carriage: will that be enough? Harriet,
what will suit you?"
"I shall stay at home, thank you," says Harriet, smiling. "I
know I am letting myself down in your estimation horribly, but I
confess I detest long drives. I believe I detest anything
lengthened. I am naturally fickle." (She is the most sincere
creature alive.) "I shall enjoy lounging about at home, looking
at the flowers, and reading, and that."
"Indeed, Harriet, you shall not," cry I, impetuously. "We would
all be miserable without you."
"That's a fact, Lady Handcock," puts in Chips, heartily.
"Chippendale, you almost make me relent," says Harriet, smiling.
"But"--in a piteous aside to me--"do not compel me to go. It is
twelve miles there, and twelve miles back, if it is a yard; just
think of that. My poor back would not stand it. James shall go
and represent me."
"Why not change the place, and name a spot nearer home?" says
Dora, quietly. Dora always does the correct thing.
"Just so," exclaims Sir George, who would have thought Jericho a
very convenient spot had Dora so named it. "We have another
Wishing Well somewhere in the neighborhood; eh, 'Duke?"
"The Deacon's Well," says Sir Mark, "is only seven miles from
this. Would that be too far, Lady Handcock?"
"I shall be quite unhappy if you make me the disturber of the
peace," says Harriet, in comic despair. "Let me stay at home; I
shall do very well; and at present I feel ashamed of myself."
"Nonsense!" says 'Duke. "If you don't come willingly we shall
carry you. So you may at well make up your mind to visit the
Deacon."
"And it is really the prettier well of the two," says Blanche,
gracefully, as she sees her cause fall to the ground.
"Then you and Blanche can keep each ether company on the coach,
Phyllis, and any one else that likes. Thornton shall have the
horn; it is about the one instrument on which he can perform with
marked success."
"I shall take the phaeton and ponies," say I, quietly "They have
not been out for two days, and it will do them good. Exercise is
the only thing that keeps them in order."
"Oh, nonsense, Phyllis! you will find it much pleasanter with
Blanche and the rest of us."
"Without doubt; but then I have set my heart on driving my
ponies. They are my hobby at present; so you must excuse my bad
taste if I say I prefer being with them to even the good company
you mention. That is, if I can get any one to come and take care
of me."
"I shall be most happy, Mrs. Carrington, if you will accept me as
your escort," says Sir Mark, instantly, as though desirous of
being the first to offer his services.
Blanche Going raises her head and regards him fixedly. In the
velvet softness of her dark eyes shines for an instant an
expression that is half reproach, half passionate anger; only for
an instant; then turning her glance on me, she meets my gaze
full, and sneers unmistakably. I feel radiant, triumphant. At
least I have it in my power to give her sting for sting.
"Thank you," I say to Sir Mark, with a beaming smile. "I shall
feel quite safe and happy in my mind with you. At heart I
believe I am a coward, so feel it pleasant to know there will be
help at hand if the ponies prove refractory."
"You had better take a groom with you, Phyllis," says my husband,
shortly.
"Oh, no, thank you. It will be quite unnecessary Sir Mark, I
know, it as good as two or three grooms in a case of emergency."
"Nevertheless, I think you had better have a groom. Those ponies
are generally skittish after an idleness. I shall tell Markharm
to accompany you."
"Pray do not give yourself the trouble," I reply, obstinately: "I
shall not need him. You do not think there is any cause for fear,
do you, Sir Mark!"
"I think not. I think I am a match for your ponies at any
moment," returns he, smiling.
"In my opinion grooms are a mistake in a small carriage" murmurs
Lady Blanche, addressing the table generally. "There is
something unpleasant in the fact that they are close behind one's
back ready to hear and repeat every idle word one may chance to
utter." Her smile as she says this is innocence itself.
"I fully agree with you," answer I, equitably; "though Sir Mark
and I are above uttering anything idle."
Marmaduke frowns, and the conversation ends.
Meantime, the others have been eagerly discussing their plans.
Sir George Ashurst has obtained a promise from Dora to take the
seat beside him on his dog-cart. Harriet has decided on the open
carriage, and declares her intention of calling and taking up
mamma. Lord Chandos alone has had no part in the discussion.
Just then the door opens to admit Bebe, fresh and gay as usual.
Positively we have all forgotten Bebe.
"Late--late--so late!" says she, laughing. "Yes, Marmaduke, I
know it is actually shocking. Don't say a word, dear; your face
is a volume in itself. Good-morning, every body. Phyllis _you_
don't look formidable. I shall have my chair near you."
The men rise and somebody gets her a seat.
"Bebe, we forgot you," cry I, contritely. "Where shall we put you
now?"
"Put me?" says Babe, regarding her chair. "Why, here, I suppose."
"No, no; about our drive to the Wishing Well, I mean we have just
been arranging everything, and somehow you got left out."
"I have still two seats at the back of my trap." says Ashurst;
"will you accept one, Miss Beatoun? Ami Chandos can have the
other."
The faintest possible tinge of color rises to Bebe's cheek.
"A back seat! Oh, Sir George, is that all you can offer me? I was
never so insulted in my life. It is positively unkind. Marmaduke,
why did not you look after my interests in my absence?"
"I don't know how it happened. First come first served I suppose"
"The unkindest cut of all. 'Duke, you are ungenerous, or else in
a bad temper; which? However. I forgive you."
"I would give you the front seat," says good-natured George, "but
I fear those very tiny little hands would never be able for the
ribbons; and I have given the other to Miss Vernon."
"Miss Beatoun, have my place," says Thornton, eagerly. "I dare
say Miss Hastings will get on without me, even if she comes; and
Powell can blow the horn."
Dora comes forward gracefully. "Take mine," she says in spite of
a reproachful glance from Sir George. "I don't in the least mind
where I sit."
"_Embarras des richesses!_" cries Bebe, laughing, putting up her
hands to cover her ears. "Not for all the world, Miss Vernon.
Thank you very much all the same. Did you think I was in
earnest? If the truth be told, I like nothing better than the
back seat on anything, if the horses be fast. There is something
delicious, almost sensational, in finding ourself flying through
the air without seeing what is taking one. I only hope I shan't
fall off."
"It will be Chandos's fault if you do," declares Sir George, "Do
you hear, Chandos? You will have to keep your eyes open, and be
careful every time we come to a corner."
Bebe colors again, and glances at Lord Chandos, who by a curious
coincidence she finds glancing at her. Their eyes meet.
"Will you find the task too arduous?" she asks, mischievously,
for once losing sight of her coldness.
"I will tell you that when we return," replies he, answering her
smile.
Not until the others have well departed does Markham bring round
the ponies; and as he puts the reins into my hands he utters a
gentle warning.
"I thought it safer to let the other horses get a bit of a start
first, ma'am," he says. "You might spare the whip to-day, I'm
thinking; they're that fresh as it will give you enough to do to
hold 'em."
"All right, Markham," says my companion, gayly; "I will see your
mistress does not irritate them to madness."
The pretty animals in question toss their heads knowingly, then
lower them, and finally start away down the avenue, round the
corner, pass the beeches, and out into the open road.
The air is fresh and soft, the speed, to say the least of it
enlivening, and for a mile or so I know thorough enjoyment then
my arms, begin to drag.
"How they do pull!" I say, with a petulant sigh.
"Let me have the reins," exclaims Sir Mark, eagerly; "you will be
exhausted if you try to hold those fretful creatures for the next
six miles. You are hardly strong enough for the task." And, with
a gesture that is almost relief I resign to him my seat.
"That would be the nearest road to Carston, supposing we had
started from Summerleas," I say presently, as we come to one
particular turn. "Oh, how often, long ago, I used to travel it!
What years and years and years seem to have gone by since last
spring! What changes have occurred! and yet in reality only a few
short months have passed."
"Happy changes, I hope, Mrs. Carrington."
"For me? Yes, indeed. When first you knew me I was the most
insignificant person among us at home, and now I think I have all
I ever wished for." Sir Mark smiles.
"I never heard any one say that before. Of what use will the
Deacon's Well be to you? Do you mean to tell me you have no wish
left ungratified?"
"Well, perhaps there are a few things I would willingly put out
of my way," I reply, with a faint recurrence in my own mind to
Lady Blanche Going.
"Only things? You are unfortunate. When I go in for that useless
sort of wishing, it is for people--not _things_--I would have
removed. Were I you, Mrs. Carrington, I believe I should live in
a perpetual state of terror, waiting for some blow to fall to
crush such excessive happiness. You know one cannot be
prosperous forever."
"I never anticipate evil," return I, lightly. "Surely it is bad
enough when it comes, without adding to it by being miserable
beforehand. Why, how doleful you look? What is it? You remind me
of some youthful swain in love for the first time in his life."
"Perhaps I am."
"In love? How amusing! With whom then? Bebe? Dora? Or some person
or persons unknown? Come, surely you may confide with all safety
in your hostess."
"She is the last person I would choose as a confidante on this
occasion. The sympathy she would accord me would be very scanty."
"Oh, how unjust! Have I proved myself so utterly heartless? And
is sympathy so very needful in your case--is it a hopeless one?"
"Quite so."
"Poor Sir Mark! 'If she be not fair to me, what care I how fair
she be?' is a very good motto: why not adopt it, and--love again?
I have heard there is nothing easier."
"Would you find it easy?"
"I don't know, having never tried. But if the love is to be
unhappy, I wonder people ever let themselves fall into the
snare."
"You speak as if you yourself were free from the gentle passion,"
says Sir Mark, with a searching look, under which I color and
feel somewhat confused.
"We were talking of second lovers," I say, hurriedly. "One hears
of them. I was advising you to turn your attention that way.
Surely it would be possible."
"I don't believe in it; at least to me it would be impossible,"
replies Sir Mark, in a low tone, and silence falls upon me.
Once again I am in the ball-room at Strangemore, listening to a
tale of early love. Is Sir Mark thinking of Marmaduke now, I
wonder, and the story he then told me, of his old infatuation for
his cousin Blanche? Was it more than an infatuation, a passing
fancy? Was it an honest, lasting attachment? And have I secured
but the tired, worn-out remnant of a once strong passion?
My changeful spirits, so prone to rise, so easy to dash to earth,
again forsake me. Discontented and uncertain, I sit with lowered
lids and fretful, puckered brow.
"Do you, then, think a man can love but once in his life?" I
force myself to ask, though with open hesitation.
"But once? Is it not enough? Would you condemn any one to suffer
the restless misery, the unsatisfied longing, a second time?"
responds he moodily.
"No; but it is bad for those who come after," I reply with deep
dejection.
"They must take their chance. The suffering cannot be all on one
side. We must accept our share of misery, as it comes, with the
best grace we can."
"I will riot," I cry, passionately. "All my life I have
determined to be happy, and I will succeed. Whatever happens,
whatever comes of it, I refuse to be miserable."
"What a child you are!" says he, almost pityingly.
"I am not. I am talking quite rationally. I firmly believe we all
make half our own grievances."
"And what becomes of the other half?"
"Let us leave the subject," I say petulantly, ignoring my
inability to answer him. "You are dull and prosy. If you insist
on being a martyr, be one, but do not insist also on my following
in your footsteps. Because you choose to imagine yourself
unhappy, is no reason why I should not be gay."
"Certainly not," replies he, with increasing gloom, and brings
the whip down sharply across the ponies' backs.
Instantly, almost as the lash touches their glossy skins, they
resent the insult. The carriage receives a violent shock. They
fling themselves backwards on their haunches, and in another
moment are flying wildly on, regardless of bit or curb or rein.
As I realize the situation, I grow mad with fright. Losing all
sense of self-control, I rise from my seat and prepare to throw
myself out of the phaeton. Surely the hard and stony road must be
preferable to this reckless deadly flight.
Seeing my intention, Sir Mark rises also.
"Phyllis, are you mad?" cries he, flinging his arms round me.
"Your only chance is to remain quiet; Phyllis, be sensible. Sit
down when I desire you."
There is an almost savage ring in his tone. He holds me fast and
forces me down into my seat. I struggle with all my strength for
a moment or two to free myself from his strong grasp, and then a
coldness covers me, and I faint.
When my senses return to me, I find I am still in the carriage.
The ponies are also to be seen, motionless in their places,
except for the trembling that convulses their frames, while a
fierce snort, every now and then, and tiny flecks of froth hither
and thither and mingle with those already upon their backs and
harness, betray their late panic. But we are safe, apparently,
quite safe.
Sir Mark's arm is supporting me, while with his other hand he
holds something to my lips. It is that detestable thing called
brandy, and I turn my head aside.
"Take it," urges he, in a low, trembling tone; "whether you like
it or not, it will do you good. Try to swallow some."
I do as I am bid, and presently, feeling better, raise myself and
look around for symptoms of a smash.
"What have they done?" I ask, with a shudder, "Have they---"
"Nothing," replies he, with a laugh that is rather forced. "It
was a mere bolt. If you had not fainted you would have known it
was all over in a few minutes."
"It was the whip," I whisper, still nervous.
"Yes; it was all my fault. I quite forgot Markham's caution. I
have to apologize very sincerely for my mistake."
"Never mind apologies," I say, laughing, "as we are safe. I never
remember being so terrified in my life, not even when my steed
nearly deposited me in the middle of the High street in Carston.
And you," I continue, in a half-amused tone, peering at him from
under my hat--"you were frightened too? Confess it."
"I was," returned he, carefully evading my gaze.
"But why, if, as you say, there was no danger?"
"There are worse things than runaway ponies--your fainting, for
instance. I thought you were never going to open your eyes again,
you looked so horribly white and cold--so like death."
"What a lovely picture!" laughing voluntarily. "Well, console
yourself; you have seen what nobody else ever saw Phyllis
Carrington fainting. I had no idea I had it in me. I really
think I must be growing delicate, or weak-minded."
In silence Sir Mark gathers up the reins, and once more the
ponies start forward.
"Now, Dora can faint to perfection," I go on, finding immense
enjoyment in my subject. "If she is vexed or troubled in any way,
or hears thunder, she can go off gracefully into the arms of
whoever happens to be nearest to her at the time. She never
fails; it is indeed wonderful how accurately she can measure
distance, even at the last moment. While as for me, I do believe
if I were scolded until nothing more was left to be said, or if
it thundered and lightened from this to to-morrow, it would not
have the effect of removing my senses. At least up to this I have
found it so. For the future I shall be less certain. But how
silent you are, and how cross you look! Still thinking of the
obdurate fair one?"
"Of her--and many other things."
"Well, perhaps she too is thinking of you."
"I can imagine nothing more probable," with a grim smile.
"Neither can I." My treacherous spirits are again ascending, "Let
me describe her to you as at this moment I almost think I can see
her. Seated in a bower, enshrined in roses and honeysuckles, with
her hands folded listlessly upon her lap, and her large dreamy
black eyes (I am sure her eyes are black) filled with repentant
tears, she is now remembering with what cruel coldness she
received your advances; while unmolested the pretty earwigs run
races all over her simple white dress--simple but elegant, you
know."
"H'm--yes."
"And now remorse has proved too much for her; she resolves on
writing you a letter expressing contrition for her past
heartlessness. She draws toward her paper, pens, and ink (in a
three-volume novel the heroine has everything at her hand, even
in the most unlikely places; there is never any fuss or
scramble), and indites you a perfumed and coronetted note, which
you will receive--to-morrow. There! Now, don't you feel better?"
"Infinitely so."
"What! still frowning? still in the lowest depths? I begin to
doubt my power to comfort you."
"I don't feel any inclination to jest on the subject," returns
Sir Mark, gruffly, making a vicious blow with the whip at an
unoffending and nearly lifeless fly.
"Well, there," I gasp, in a sudden access of terror lest he might
again incense the ponies, "I will jest no more. And don't
despair. Perhaps--who knows?--she may grow fond of you in time."
He laughs, a short, bitter laugh that yet has something in it of
dismal merriment. "If I could only tell you," he says, "if you
only knew, you would understand what a double mockery are such
words coming from your lips."
His fingers close around the whip again. Again frightened, I
hastily clutch his arm.
"Don't do that," I entreat; "please do not use that dreadful whip
again: remember the last time you did so we were nearly killed."
"I wish we had been altogether so," mutters he, savagely.
I stare at him in speechless surprise. Did that flask contain
_much_ brandy? What on earth has happened to our careless,
debonair Sir Mark?
Even as I gaze in wonder, he turns his head and looks with some
degree of shame into my widely-opened, astonished eyes.
"Pardon me," he says, gently. "I don't know what has come to me
to-day. I fail to understand myself. I doubt I am an ill-tempered
brute, and have hardly any right even to hope for your
forgiveness."
But his manner has effectually checked my burst of eloquence, and
we keep unbroken silence until we reach our destination.
Here we find Marmaduke and Lady Blanche anxiously on the lookout
for us; the others, tired of waiting, have wandered farther
afield. Marmaduke is looking rather white and worried, I fancy.
"What has kept you until this hour?" he asks, irritably, pulling
out his watch.
"Oh, how long you have been!" supplements Blanche. "We were
beginning to wonder--almost to fear an accident had occurred. It
is quite a relief to see you in the flesh."
"You were very near not seeing us," I explain. "The ponies
behaved very badly--ran away with us for half a mile or so--and
frightened me so much that I fainted."
"How distressing!" says Blanche, apparently much concerned. "How
terrified you must have been! And so unpleasant, too, without a
lady near to help you! You were able to resuscitate Mrs.
Carrington, at all events." (To Sir Mark.)
"Well, I don't suppose I would have been of much use without the
brandy," replies he, coolly.
"It must have been quite a sentimental scene," remarks her
ladyship, with a little laugh. "It reminds one of something one
would read; only, to make it perfect, you should be lovers. Now
that you are safe it does not seem unkind to laugh, does it?"
Marmaduke by this time is black as night. In spite of myself, I
know I have blushed crimson; while Sir Mark, turning abruptly
away, goes to explain some trivial break in the harness to one of
the coachmen.
"It is a pity, Phyllis, you would not take my advice this
morning," says 'Duke, in a voice that trembles a little, either
from suppressed anger or some other emotion. "If you had taken a
groom, as I begged of you, all this unpleasantness might have
been saved."
"I don't see how a groom could have prevented it," I reply,
coldly. "Without a second's warning they were off: it was
nobody's fault."
"My dear 'Duke, we should be thankful they have escaped so well,"
murmurs Blanche, in her softest tones, laying a soothing touch
upon my husband's arm. Both touch and tone render me furious. "I
dare say it was not very serious."
"I dare say not; but it might have been. And, whether or not it
has kept every one waiting for at least three-quarters of an
hour."
"It might have kept you still longer had I been killed," I
return, quietly, moving away in secret indignation.
Marmaduke follows me, leaving Blanche and Sir Mark to come after,
and side by side, but speechless, we proceed on our way.
At length, in a rather milder tone, Marmaduke says, "I
hope--otherwise--your drive was enjoyable."
"Very much so, thank you. Though I must say I don't care about
feeling my life in danger. I hope you enjoyed yours."
"No"--shortly--"I did not. I never enjoyed anything less."
"How unfortunate! Was her ladyship thoughtful, or ill-tempered,
or what?"
"She had nothing to do with it. I was thinking of you the entire
time."
"Of me? How good of you! I am so sorry I cannot return the
compliment, but no one was farther from my thoughts than you.
Concluding you were happy, I dismissed you from my memory."
"I had a presentiment about those ponies."
"Ah! it was the ponies occupied your mind--not their mistress.
That sounds far more natural."
"They are vicious, and not to be depended upon," continues 'Duke,
declining to notice my interruption. "I shall dispose of them the
very first opportunity."
"Indeed you shall do nothing of the kind. They are mine, and I
will not have them sold."
"Well, keep them, if you insist upon it; but certainly you shall
never drive them again."
"Then I certainly shall; and to-morrow, most probably I will not
be ordered about as though I were a mere baby."
Marmaduke turns, and regards me so steadily and gravely, that at
length, in spite of myself, my eyes submit and drop.
"Phyllis, how changed you are!" says he, presently, in a low
tone. "When first I knew you--even two months ago--you were a
soft, tender, gentle little girl; and now you are always unjust
and bitter to me, at least."
Something rises in my throat and prevents my utterance. Large
tears gather in my eyes.
"I _am_ changed; I know it." I burst out, suddenly. "Before I
married you I was a different person altogether. And how can I
help being 'bitter' at times? Even now, when I told you how near
death I had been, you showed no feeling of regret--thought of
nothing but the delay I had occasioned you and your friends."
"Oh, Phyllis," says 'Duke, in a tone that implies that I have
wrung his heart by my false accusations, and before either can
again speak we have passed a hillock and are in full view of our
guests.
They are all scattered about in twos or threes, though none are
very far distant from the others; and the scene is more than
usually picturesque. Certainly the old Deacon knew what he was
about when he placed his well in this charming spot. It is a
little fairy-like nook, fresh and green, and lying forgotten
among the hills. A few pieces of broken-down, ivy-covered wall
partially conceal the steps leading to the Wishing Well.
"'Duke, let us wish for dinner--and get it--before we wish for
anything else," entreats Bebe. "The drive has given me a horrible
appetite. I am generally a very nice person--eh, Mr.
Thornton?--but just at present I am feeling a downright
unladylike desire for food. Phyllis, darling, do say you are
hungry."
"I am--starving" I reply, though conscious at the moment that the
smallest morsel would choke me. "Yes, by all means. 'Business
first, pleasure afterwards,'" quotes Chips, blithely, who is
stretched full length by Miss Beatoun's side, with his hat off
and a straw in his mouth, looking extremely handsome and
unspeakably happy. Lord Chandos is at her other side, though
rather farther away.
"What do you say, Phyllis?" says 'Duke, looking at me.
"Do not take me into consideration at all," I return in a
suppressed voice. "Dinner now, or in five hours to come, would be
quite the same thing to me."
I move quickly away from him towards mamma as I say this, and,
sinking down on the turf very close to her, slip my hand into
hers; and as I feel her gentle fingers closing upon mine, a sense
of safety and relief creeps slowly over me.
Dinner progresses; and, though I will not acknowledge it, I begin
to feel decidedly better. Fragments of conversation float here
and there.
"I have a great mind to set my little dog at you," says Bebe, in
reply to some flagrant compliment bestowed upon her by the
devoted Chips. A little _bijou_ of a dog, with an elaborate
collar and beseeching eyes, that sits upon her knee and takes its
dinner from her pretty white fingers, is the animal in question.
"Oh, please don't," murmurs Chips, pathetically. "I am so
horribly afraid of your little dog. You would not like me to die
of nervous excitement, would you?"
"I am not so sure. It would make room for a better man."
"Impossible! There isn't a better fellow going than I am. You ask
my mamma when you see her."
"I need not ask anybody; I can see for myself. What do you do all
day long but play billiards?"
"I beg your pardon, Miss Beatoun. You estimate my capabilities at
a very improper level. I do no end of things besides billiards. I
shoot, smoke, eat, and--talk to you."
"What a way to spend one's life!" severely. "I wonder where you
think you will go when you die?"
"I hope wherever you go. I say," piteously, "don't scold a fellow
on such a splendid day--don't; it's uncommon afflicting of you;
and don't put on your gloves for a little longer."
"Why?"
"Because I like looking at your hands, though at the same time
they always irritate me. They are the very prettiest I ever saw;
and--forgive me for saying it--but I always want to kiss them.
Now, don't begin again, please; remember you have lectured me for
a good hour.'
"Then I have wasted a good hour and done nothing I give you up;
you are past cure."
"I remember coming here once before," breaks in Lottie Hastings's
voice, "and wishing for something, and I really got it before the
year was out."
"Must one wait a whole year?" asks Sir Mark. "Then I shall have
to write mine down. Give you my word that if my own name was
suppressed for a year I don't believe I would recollect what it
was at the end of it."
"Are we bound by law to name our wishes?" asks Chips, earnestly.
"Because, if so, I shall have to sink into the ground with shame.
I'm horrid bashful--that is my most glaring fault, you know, Miss
Beatoun--and I would not disclose my secret desire for anything
you could offer."
"For anything I could offer," repeats Miss Beatoun. "Are you
sure? Shall I tempt you? Would you not, for instance, take---"
The eyes say the rest.
"Don't," exclaims Thornton, putting his hands over his ears. "I
won't listen to you. I refuse to understand. Miss Hastings, will
you permit me to sit by you? Miss Beatoun is behaving with more
than her usual cruelty."
"Come," says Miss Hastings, smiling and putting aside her dress
to give him room to seat himself on the grass near her.
As Chips leaves Bebe, Lord Chandos quietly slips into his place,
to Miss Beatoun's evident surprise.
"Is it fair to encourage that poor boy so very openly?" begins
Chandos, calmly.
"What?" says Miss Beatoun.
"Is it kind to flirt so much with young Thornton?" repeats Lord
Chandos, still perfectly calm.
"You must make a mistake," says Bebe, provokingly "You know I
never flirt. In the first place, I don't consider it good form."
"Neither do I consider it 'good form' for a young lady to talk
slang," very gravely and quietly. "I wouldn't do it if I were
you."
"How do you know what you would do if you were I?"
"At all events, you must acknowledge that it is not becoming."
"Do you profess to understand what is becoming to young ladies?
Have you been studying them? Come, then, if you are so good a
judge, I will ask you to tell me if this hat is so very becoming
as they all say. Look well, now, before you decide; it is a
question of the utmost importance."
This saucy little speech is accompanied by such a bewitching
glance from under the said hat that Lord Chandos loses his
presence of mind. "I cannot bear to see you flirt so much as you
do with every one," he mutters, hastily; "it tortures me. Bebe,
why is it?"
Miss Beatoun grows decidedly white, even to her lips, yet is
still thoroughly composed.
"But do I flirt?" she says. "I don't believe I do. Do you believe
it, my darling, my treasure, my Tito?" to the dog. "Not you. No,
no, Lord Chandos; it is not that at all."
"What is it then?" impatiently.
"Why, it is 'every one' who flirts with me, to be sure. And that
is not my fault, is it?" with the most bewildering assumption of
injured innocence.
And now we all rise and saunter towards the well.
"If you would only wish as I do," whispers Sir George to Dora, "I
would be the happiest man alive."
"Would you?" says innocent Dora. "But how shall I know what you
are longing for?"
"Can you not guess?"
"I am afraid I cannot. Unless, perhaps--but no, of course it
would not be that. Indeed I do not know how to reach your
thoughts. One must want so many things."
"I want only one."
"Only one! Oh, how moderate! Only one! Let me see," with a
delicious meditative air, and two slender fingers pressed upon
her lips.
"Shall I tell you?"
"Oh, no, no," with a pretty show of eager fear. "If you told any
one the charm would be broken, and you would not get what you
want. Perhaps--who knows?--the boon I am going to demand will be
the very thing you would tell me." This with a sufficiently
tender glance from the lustrous azure eyes.
"For my part," says Bebe, wilfully. "I shall wish for something I
can never get, just to prove how absurd it all is."
"From time to time we every one of us do that," says Chandos. "We
hanker after the impossible. I begin to fear I shall never get my
heart's desire."
He glances expressively at Bebe.
"Then think of something else," suggests that young lady,
smoothly. "Your second venture may be more successful."
"No, I shall keep to my original wish, until I either gain it or
else find further hoping folly."
"Phyllis, it is your turn now. Will you not descend and court
fortune?" calls Harriet.
I am deeply engaged listening to mamma while she reads to me
Billy's last effusion from Eton, to which place he returned the
second day after our ball.
"It is a pity to disturb Mrs. Carrington," says Sir Mark. "She
told me this morning she had not a wish left ungratified."
Marmaduke raises his head quickly, and, flushing warmly turns a
pleased and rather surprised glance at me.
"Nevertheless, I will come," I cry incautiously, springing to my
feet, "and beg for the continuance of my happiness, which
includes everything."
"Oh, Phyllis!" cries Bebe.
"Oh, Mrs. Carrington," exclaims Sir Mark; "what a rash
proceeding! Why did you say it aloud? You have destroyed every
chance of receiving that good gift."
"Yes," say I, "how provoking! Never mind, contentment still
remains: and that, I have heard, is quite as much to be desired."
Everybody laughs heartily, and Marmaduke says, "You will get
nothing, Phyllis, if you declare your wants so openly."
"Neither happiness nor contentment, how dismal!" exclaim I,
laughing too. "Well, I shall keep my third and last thought to
myself."
And having hoped in my own mind that Lord Chandos would very soon
again ask Bebe to be his wife, I go through the form of drinking
a little of the pure spring water Master Chips offers me with due
solemnity.
The principal business of the day being concluded, our party once
more breaks up into detachments, some straying out of sight in
pretended search of scenery, some following their example in an
opposite direction without any pretense at all.
Sinking down again by mother's side, I content myself with her
and Harriet, while Marmaduke and Sir James stay to bear us
company, and smoke unlimited cigars, while offering a lazy remark
every now and then.
"Do you feel no desire to investigate the neighborhood?" asks Sir
Mark of me, carelessly, as he passes by; and as I answer, "No,"
with a smile and shake of my head, he saunters off towards Lottie
Hastings, with whom he commences a flirtation, calm but vigorous.
Somehow it is a peaceful hour we spend, and one that drives me
from the vague irritation that before tormented me. In the quiet
of the present I forget all life's vexations, and remember only
such good things as are within my grasp. How paltry now seem the
troubles that oppress me! I fear--yet know not what it is I fear.
I doubt--yet, if compelled to do so, would find a difficulty in
giving my doubt a name.
This sweeter mood continues, and travels home with me, although
we do not reach Strangemore until it is nearly nine.
Here, at an early supper, we all find ourselves in the wildest
spirits. Glancing curiously at Dora, attracted by some nameless
new expression in her eyes, I feel convinced the day has been to
her one of unmixed triumph, and that already the Wishing Well has
granted her desire.
As I get near her in the drawing-room, I manage to whisper, "What
is it, Dora? did he? Are you---"
"Yes he _did_, and I _am_" responded Dora, with a smile of
unusual liveliness for her. "To-night you shall know all."
---
"How was it, Dora? How did it happen?" I ask, two hours later, as
I sit opposite to her, my hands embracing my knees, in my
favorite position, my head bent forward in eager anticipation of
her news.
"I hardly know. It was all that Wishing Well, I fancy. For the
future I shall feel it my duty to be superstitious. At all
events, it surely helped to bring it about, as he only wanted the
opportunity to declare himself," says Dora, complacently.
"What did he say, Dora? Was he nervous--or---"
"Very nervous. He seemed quite afraid to come to the point. You
see I am always so distant in my manner," says my modest sister,
"he had no way of judging what my answer was likely to be."
"I am sure whatever he said was just what it should be, he is so
thoroughly sincere," I remark, still anxious to get at the root
of the matter.
"I am afraid I cannot altogether satisfy your curiosity Phyllis,
it has all got so mixed up. Of course he told me principally what
I knew before--that he adores me, for instance, and was desirous
of marrying me, and so forth. Ha was slightly incoherent, I
thought; but it really signified very little whether his English
was good or bad, so long as I managed to understand what he
meant."
"Of course not, darling. Oh, Dora, I am so sorry we let mamma go
without telling her."
"I did tell her, dear. At least, that is, he--George told her."
She brings out the Christian name of her beloved with a charming
amount of diffidence. "He said he would like to make sure of me;
and indeed I thought myself it might perhaps be as well he should
be the one to mention it to her as a settled thing. You
understand?"
I do, and begin to entertain rather an admiration for Dora's
astuteness.
"You will forgive me now, Dora?" I say, suddenly leaning over to
put my hand on hers.
"Forgive you? Forgive what?"
"Well, dear, when I married 'Duke, you know, I thought you were
rather vexed--you said so many things; and sometimes I have
fancied, since, you still think I was in the wrong."
"My dear Phyllis, what a curious girl you are! 'Forgive you!' as
if I had not done so, ages and ages ago--if indeed there was
anything to forgive. Surely you couldn't have thought me so
vindictive, so unchristian, as to retain bitter feelings against
you all this time?"
She has opened her childish blue eyes to their widest, and is
gazing at me plaintively, as though grieved I should imagine her
capable of any vile feeling.
"I sometimes feared---" I stammer, utterly abashed in the
presence of so much sweetness.
"You must put such ideas out of your head, Phyllis; they are very
unworthy. I never harbor unforgiving thoughts, I should hope,
towards any one--least of all towards you, my sister. Besides, I
ought really to be thankful to you, if anything. Marmaduke and I
would have been most unsuited to each other. He is far too
_exigeant_ and masterful for my taste. George is in every way
more desirable."
I don't quite see all this, but reserve my sentiments.
"He is greatly to be liked," I say, with truth--honest,
good-natured George Ashurst having won his way into my affections
long since. "I don't know that I was ever more delighted about
anything in my life."
"Yes, everybody will be pleased, I imagine--papa and mamma
especially. I don't see how papa can make the faintest objection
in any way. He must be gratified."
I think of Sir George's rent-roll, and have the words, "I should
think so, indeed," upon the tip of my tongue, but, being desirous
of keeping up friendly relations with Dora, refrain from uttering
them. She evidently takes her good fortune as a matter of course,
having ever rated herself at a high price, and believes she has
got her bare deserts--no more.
"I hope you--that is, I hope he will be very good to you," I say,
making the correction in time.
"I hope we will be very good to each other. Indeed, I see nothing
to prevent our being quite happy and--comfortable. Don't you
think he appears very fond of me?"
"More than that: I think he appears to love you very dearly."
"Yes, I really think he does," says my sister, running her
fingers lazily through her silken yellow hair.
"And you, Dora--do you love him?"
"Of course, dear. Would I marry him else? Am I the sort of person
to sell myself for mere money's sake?" Indignation of the mild
and virtuous order is in her tone. "No," says Dora, calmly
looking me fair in the eyes, "I would not marry a man unless I
loved him--not if he had the mines of Golconda."
This ennobling sentiment is, I feel, aimed at me, and justly
judge it will be unwise to press the matter farther: so I say, "I
am so glad, darling!" but say it very weakly.
"Nevertheless," goes on Dora, after a moment's pause, "as I do
love him, it is very fortunate he should be so well off.
Yesterday he told me he had twenty thousand pound a year. Rather
more than you have, dear, is it not?"
No, Dora has not yet forgiven me.
"A great deal more," I say, warmly; "we have only fifteen
thousand. But then, Dora, it was only to be expected you would
make a far better match than I could."
"Well, yes--perhaps so," admits Dora, casting an admiring glance
at her own pretty shell-pink face as it smiles back at her from
an opposite mirror.
The door opens, and Marmaduke comes in. "Oh, 'Duke," I cry,
rising, "just fancy! Dora is--but you shall guess my news--what
is she?"
"That is a rather embarrassing question," says he, smiling. "Were
I to tell you all that Dora is in my eyes, we would get no sleep
to-night."
Dora laughs, and I say:---
"Nonsense! A list of her perfections would be no news; we all
know them. Tell me what you think has occurred to her since this
morning."
"I think she has become engaged to George Ashurst," returns
'Duke, coolly. "Why, you foolish child, do you call that news?
Ashurst has told every one in the house of his good luck by this
time. If I were you, Dora, I would breakfast in my own room
to-morrow morning. You will never be able to stand all the
congratulations."
"How can he be so absurd?" murmurs Dora, for once in her life
genuinely confused, and a rich red coloring her cheeks.
"I congratulate you with all my heart," says 'Duke, kindly,
kissing her. "You have got as good a husband as any girl could
desire, and as rich a one, too, without doubt. We shall be small
people, Phyllis, you and I, next to my Lady Ashurst."
"I must not stay to hear any more flattery. Thank you very much
for all you have said," replies Dora, gracefully, and, having
bidden us both good-night goes off to her own room.
Every one in the house is immensely delighted. An engagement,
even when everything belonging to it goes smoothly, and suitably,
cannot fail to awaken interest in the heart of a woman; and,
Dora's lover being uncoveted by any of us, no jealousy shows
itself to mar the universal good feeling.
We chatter about it all next day, and tell each other we had seen
how it would end from the very beginning. We dilate on the
charming place he has in Surrey, his palace in the North; and
then we whisper of what a detestable creature is his mother;
while Bebe hopes Dora will have courage to put a veto at once
against any lengthened visiting on her part.
"Because," says Miss Beatoun, "we _all_ know where _that_ will
lead. When Ashurst's brother married Lady Octavia Dering, his
mother invited herself to pay them a month's visit; and she
stayed ten; and it was the doctor and the nurse, eventually, who
insisted on putting her out, shortly after the boy was born. They
say poor Lady Octavia nearly went out of her mind one morning
when, on going into her nursery, she found the old lady
deliberately pouring some nauseous allopathic medicine down the
child's throat. Octavia told me herself, with tears in her eyes,
the poor little fellow was all but in a fit for two hours
afterwards. She is really a very shocking old person, and should
be suppressed. I do hope dear Dora will gather together all her
pluck and try to be a match for her."
Secretly, I feel so assured of dear Dora's being a "match" for
any mother-in-law alive that I endure no uneasy pangs on this
count. She bears the congratulations and the little good-natured
banterings admirably, is modest without being stupidly shy, and
prettily conscious without betraying any symptoms of _gaucherie_.
She is indeed as perfect in her new _role_ of bride-elect as
though she had sustained the part for years.
"Sir George must be a favorite with the gods: let us hope he
won't die young," says Sir Mark, bending over Dora some time
during the evening, "He has had everything he could possibly
desire from his cradle upwards--money, friends, position; and now
he must get _you_. I think"--in a playfully injured tone--"the
good things of this life are very unequally divided. In common
justice, Ashurst should have been forced into matrimony with a
woman as ugly, ill-tempered, and altogether disenchanting as--his
manners, instead of which---"
He sighs audibly, and makes an eloquent pause.
Dora smiles, her usual soft serene smile, untouched by coquetry
that experience has taught me means so little--and raises one
white hand in deprecation. Dora's hands are faultless,
filbert-nailed, creamy-white, pink-tinged, with just sufficient
blue tracery of the most delicate kind here and there to call
attention to their beauty.
"_Is_ Lady Ashurst all that you say?--so _very_ terrific? How
unhappy you make me!" she murmurs, plaintively, demurely ignoring
other parts of his speech.