Fresh and keen, and decidedly chilly, blows the October wind. The
men have all deserted us, and gone out shooting. The women are
scattered through the house.
Crossing the hall and the smaller drawing-room, I meet no one,
and entering the larger apartment beyond, seek my favorite seat
in the bow-window, where, book in hand, I ensconce myself behind
the curtains, and, stretching myself upon a lounge, prepare to be
lazily happy. The lace draperies falling round me entirely
conceal me from view; I can see right into the conservatory
without turning my head, and the seductive breath of flowers
stealing towards me adds one more thrill to my enjoyment.
Steadily I turn page after page. I feel I am growing interested,
a very little later I feel I am growing sleepy. My lids droop.
Putting my book down, upon my lap, with of course the settled
intention of taking it up again directly, I yawn mildly.
The door opens: with a start I become aware of Bebe's entrance.
To admit I am present means conversation--and conversation with
this drowsy fit upon me means misery. I therefore keep breathless
silence, and Bebe, all unconscious, saunters past me, basket and
scissors in hand, goes into the conservatory.
I watch her dreamily, as with a business-like air she drags the
light garden-ladder forward, and, mounting, commences to clip my
very choicest blossoms for her own secret purposes.
One by one they fall into her basket. Has she no conscience? Or
has she forgotten it is already October, and the flowers grow
scarce? I confess to some faint indignation as I regard her, and
have almost decided on rousing to remonstrate with her in person,
when a firm but hasty footstep upon the gravel outside excites my
curiosity.
A moment later Lord Chandos pushes open the door of the
conservatory, and, entering, stops short, his gaze fixed upon
Miss Beatoun.
As for Bebe, between looking suddenly round and surprise at his
unexpected presence there, she loses all idea of balance, and is
in the act of coming with undue hurry to the ground, when Lord
Chandos, stepping quickly forward, catches her and lifts her
lightly down. Perhaps he is a trifle longer in the performance of
this deed than is strictly necessary.
"Oh! how could you frighten one so?" exclaims Bebe, coloring, and
speaking ungratefully, as it seems to me, considering he has just
saved her from a heavy fall. "I thought you were out shooting
with the others."
"So I was; but--I forgot something, and had to return for it."
"What did you forget?--your pipe?"
"No, my gun," replies he, in the most barefaced fashion possible.
"Oh! cries Miss Beatoun lengthily, and then they both laugh.
"Why don't you admit at once you had no intention of shooting
to-day? It would have been much honester."
"Because admissions are dangerous. It is always better policy to
leave people in doubt. Yet, as I never class you in my own mind
under the head of 'people,' I will confess to you it is not so
much forgetfulness causes my presence here just now as a settled
determination not to remember. My conscience was anything but
clean when I said I had mislaid something, and should come back
to find it."
"Was it really your gun?"
"No; I think I put it on cartridges, or a handkerchief, or--I am
not clear what."
"And why? What was your motive? I fancied you an indefatigable
sportsman--one impossible to turn aside from your prey."
"Shall I tell you my motive?" asks Chandos, in such an utterly
changed low tone that Miss Beatoun, standing near the ladder,
lays her hand suddenly upon it to steady herself, and retreats a
step.
"Better not," she says, in a voice that trembles apprehensively,
in spite of all her efforts to be calm. "Remember what you said a
moment since: 'Admissions are dangerous.' Better leave me in
doubt."
"I cannot. Besides, you are not in doubt. You know what it is I
am going to say. I have come back here again to-day to tell you
how I have tried, and found it impossible, to crush the love I
bear you."
At this juncture I become aware I am in for a scene. The
certainty is horrible to me. I am in such an unhappy position as
enables me to see them without myself being seen. I can also hear
every word they utter. In fact, there are but very few yards
between us.
With shame I now recollect that Bebe once said of me that never
would I be accused of "pouncing" upon delicate situations; yet,
if I go out now, I shall cover them both with everlasting
confusion.
What shall I do? I put my fingers in my ears as a last resource
and tightly close my eyes, but somehow they will not keep shut.
Every now and then I cannot help glancing to see if they are gone
or going--I cannot resist removing my fingers to hear if the
conversation has taken a cooler turn.
Every moment I linger only makes my declaring myself more
difficult. I end by giving in, and staring and listening with all
my might.
"Ah! why does Bebe look so determined? Why can't she yield
gracefully and be happy? I would at once, were I in her place,
and feel no degradation in so doing. She is flushed and miserable
to look at, her large eyes seeming larger and darker than usual
through pained excitement. Yet still there is so much mistaken
pride impressed upon her features as makes me fear for the part
she will take in the interview. If she would but listen to her
heart's dictation!
"Lord Chandos, I implore you to desist," entreats Bebe, hastily,
raising one hand, to prevent his further speech. "It is worse
than useless."
But he only imprisons the warning hand and continues: "Nay, hear
me--that is all I ask--and then, if I am again to be rejected, be
it so. But surely I have been wretched long enough, and you---"
"I will not listen," murmurs Bebe, more deeply agitated. "The
answer I gave you when you were poor is the only answer I can
ever give you now." Her voice dies way, almost to a whisper.
"What do you mean by that?" exclaims Chandos, passionately. "Is
the very money that I hailed with delight, principally because I
dreamed it might bring me closer to you, to prove a barrier
between us? Presumptuous as it may sound, I dare to believe I am
not quite indifferent to you. Your manner when we parted, your
eyes when we met again down here, have fostered this belief, and
yet you shrink from me."
A little inarticulate cry escapes her. One hand goes to her
throat; she tries vainly to withdraw the other from his grasp.
"Contradict me--if you can," he says, in a low but vehement tone.
"This is ungenerous--unmanly," she falters, her words half choked
with emotion.
"Contradict me," he reiterates.
"I can; I do," murmurs she, but so weakly that her voice can
scarcely be heard.
"Is that the truth, Bebe?" says Chandos, more quietly. "Is pride
to come between us now? Darling, listen to me. If you for one
moment imagine I think badly of you because you refused to marry
a poor man, you wrong me. I think you acted rightly. Even as I
asked you that day I felt myself a coward in doing so. Was it
honorable of me to seek to drag you down from all the luxuries
and enjoyments to which you had been accustomed, to such a life
as it was only in my power to offer? Had your answer been
different, do you believe we would have been happy? I do not."
"You strike at the very root of all romance," protests Bebe, with
a rather sad smile.
"I decline to countenance a great deal of rubbish," returns he
vigorously. "Poverty is the surest foe that love can have, I
stoutly maintain, in spite of all the poets that ever wrote. But
now that it no longer stands in the way, Bebe, be my wife, and
let us forget the past."
"Do you think we should either of us ever forget it?" demands
she, raising a small white mournful face to his. "Do you not see
how it would come between us every hour of our lives? Even
supposing what you say to be true, that I love you, it would be
all the greater reason why I should now refuse to be persuaded
into doing as you wish. Could I bear to know, day by, that my
husband thought me mercenary?"
"Mercenary! I shall never think you that. How could I? How could
any man blame you for shrinking from such a selfish proposal as
mine? I tell you again I think you behaved rightly in the
matter."
"Very rightly, no doubt, and very wisely, and very,
prudently--for myself," replies Bebe, in a cold, bitter way "Why
seek to disguise the truth? If it be true what you have supposed,
that I returned your affection, I only proved myself one of those
who fear to endure even the smallest privation for the sake of
him they love; and what a love that must be!" She laughs
contemptuously. "I fear, Lord Chandos, I am not of the stuff of
which heroines are made."
"If, as you hint, I am wrong," exclaims Chandos, eagerly catching
at a last chance, "if all along I have been deceiving myself in
the belief that you cared for me, let me begin again now, and at
least try to obtain your affection. If, when---"
"Enough has been said," interrupts she, icily--"too much. Let my
hand go, Lord Chandos. I want to find Mrs. Carrington."
(Mrs. Carrington is almost on the verge of lunacy by this time
between fright and disappointment.)
"Is there, then, no hope?" asks Chandos, sternly. "Am I to
understand that you again reject me?"
"Yes, as you put it in that light. It is your own fault," bursts
out Bebe, passionately. "I told you not to speak."
"Had all the world told me the same thing, I would still have
spoken. Death itself is preferable to suspense. If my persistence
has caused you any annoyance, Miss Beatoun, I beg you will
forgive me."
"I too would be forgiven," falters Bebe, putting out a cold white
hand. As he stoops to kiss it she goes on, faintly: "Will you
promise me to forget you ever cared for me--in this way?"
"Impossible," returns he, abruptly, and turning, walks out of the
conservatory through the door by which he entered.
Now, is it not provoking? I feel my heart touched with pity for
Lord Chandos, with resentment towards his cruel love, until,
glancing towards the latter, who has stood motionless since his
departure, with head bent and hands loosely clasped, the
resentment fades, and compassion of the deepest takes its place.
I would give all the world to be able to go, meet and comfort
her, to twine my arms around her neck, to express my sympathy.
But how can I? What a treacherous creature she would think me!
How mean! nothing but a pitiful eavesdropper. Slowly she raises
her head, and, breathing a heavy sigh, advances until she stands
within the drawing-room.
She is awfully close to me now: I can almost touch her. How on
earth am I to meet her again with this secret on my mind? If I go
on feeling as I do now, I shall betray my self a thousand times
within an hour.
Two large tears gather in her eyes and roll mournfully downwards.
I can bear it no longer. Whatever comes of it, I must make my
presence known, and, springing from my couch, I dash aside the
thick lace curtains and reveal myself.
Uttering a sharp cry, she recedes a little, then checks herself
to stare at me with mingled haughtiness and astonishment.
"Yes, I was here all the time," I cry, imploringly, "and I heard
every word. I was lying on this sofa, and nothing escaped me. Of
course you will never forgive me for it, but indeed I did not
mean to listen."
"Oh, Phyllis?"
There is such a world of reproach in her tone that I become
distracted. I move towards her and break into a speech of the
most incoherent description, my words tailing from me with the
rapidity of desperation.
"Yes, it is true," I say. "You may look at me as if you hated me,
but what was I to do? When first you came in I was in a dozy,
half sleepy sort of state, and not until you and Chandos were in
the very middle of your discussion did I fully awake to the
horrors of my situation. Had I declared myself then, it surely
would have been worse; and, besides, I hoped, I believed you
would have been kind to him at the end, and dreaded lest my
unexpected appearance should put a stop to his proposal.
However"--pathetically--"I suppose you will never forgive me."
"Oh, Phyllis, it is all over now!" is poor Bebe's unlooked-for
reply, as she throws herself into my arms, with a burst of grief.
She is forgetful of all but her trouble. How paltry a thing in
comparison with it is my small misdemeanor!
"No, no," I reply, soothingly, patting the back of her neck,
which is all I can get at. "Remember the very last thing he
said--that it would be 'impossible' to forget you."
"Ah! so he said. But when he has time to reflect will see how
cold and detestable were my words. He will be glad of his escape
from any one so unloving. I myself wonder now, Phyllis, how I
could have so spoken to him."
"I could have killed you as I listened," I say, vindictively.
"How you brought yourself to behave so badly to the dear fellow
is more than I can understand. And he looked so nice all the
time, and was so delightfully in earnest! Oh, I know I would have
given in long before he had time to say one-half what he said to
you. Bebe, what made you so cold? I could have gone in and shaken
you with all my heart."
"I wish you had," replies she, dolefully. "Yet, perhaps things
are better as they are. At all events, he cannot think meanly of
me. I have shown him that, whatever else I may be, I am not a
mere money-lover."
"Well, for all that, I think it a foolish thing to cut off one's
nose to vex one's face," return I, with much truth and more
vulgarity.
"I am not vexing any one," says Bebe.
"Yes, you are. You meant to vex Lord Chandos, and you succeeded.
And you are vexing yourself dreadfully. And all for what? For the
miserable thing called pride. Now, I never had any of that
troublesome commodity about me, and I believe the want of it adds
greatly to one's enjoyment."
"Had I accepted him I would have been wretched," murmurs she,
with a sigh. Then, breaking down again: "And now that I have
refused him, I am wretched too; so there is no comfort anywhere."
"I shall always for the future hate that conservatory," exclaim
I, half crying. "And what was the use of my wishing at the
Deacon's Well, if this is the only answer I am to receive?"
"Was your wish about me?"
"Yes. I hoped Lord Chandos would again ask you to marry him. And
see, it has happened. I forgot to wish at the same moment that
you might be endowed with a little common sense. It never
occurred to me that you would be rash enough to murder your
happiness a second time."
"What a good little thing you are, Phyllis, to think about it at
all! Well, let us not speak of it again to-day. I do not choose
he shall see me with reddened lids, like a penitent. And if I cry
any more I shall have to borrow some rouge from the blooming
Going to color my pale cheeks. See, I still can laugh!"
"You will marry him yet," retort I, with conviction, refusing to
notice the negative shake of the head she bestows upon me as she
quits the room.