Drip, drip, drip. Patter, patter, patter. How it does rain, to be
sure! If it continues pouring at this present rate, there will be
but very little rain left in the clouds in half an hour.
"Just twelve o'clock," says Mr. Thornton, with a moody sigh, as
he pulls out his watch for the twentieth time. "We are regularly
done for if it keeps on five minutes longer, as rain at twelve
means rain all day."
"Mere superstition," replies Miss Beatoun, rising to flatten her
pretty nose against the window-pane, in the vain hope of catching
a glimpse of the blue sky.
It is the next day; and, as we have arranged to visit a
skating-rink in a town some few miles from us, the rain is a
disappointment--especially to me, as I have never seen a rink.
"I hardly think that you will see one to-day," says Sir Mark,
turning to me, with a smile.
"Seems so odd you never having seen one, dear Mrs. Carrington,"
says Blanche Going, sweetly, "so universal as they now are. When
in Paris, and passing through London, I wonder you had not the
curiosity to go and spend a few hours at one. Marmaduke, how very
neglectful of you not to get Mrs. Carrington into Prince's!"
"Prince's is no longer the fashion," replies Marmaduke, curtly.
He is sitting rather apart from the rest of us, and is looking
gloomy and ill-tempered. He and I have exchanged no words since
our last skirmish--have not even gone through the form of wishing
each other a good-day.
"It is getting worse and worse," declares Chips, from his
standing-point at the window, where he has joined Miss Beatoun.
"It is always darkest before dawn," says that young lady, with
dauntless courage.
"So they say," murmurs Lord Chandos, catching her eye,
"Poor Thornton!" says Sir Mark, with deep sympathy; "I don't
wonder at your depression--such a chance thrown away; and you
always look so nice on wheels. Our friend Thornton, Mrs.
Carrington, is impressed with the belief, and very justly so,
that he is an unusually fascinating skater."
"Quite so," returns Chips, ironically. "I wonder what you would
all do if you hadn't me to laugh at? You ought to love me, I come
in so handy at times and give you so many opportunities of
showing off the brilliancy of your wit."
"He grows sarcastic," murmurs Sir Mark. "This weather, instead of
damping him, as it would more frivolous mortals, has the effect
of developing his hidden powers."
"Let us forget the weather," says Bebe, brightly, turning from
the contemplation of it to sink into a seat by the fire, "and
then perhaps it will clear. After making up our minds to go to
Warminster and visit a rink, and dine at a hotel and drive home
again in the dark and have a general spree, I confess, the not
being able to do anything has rather put me out."
We are all assembled in the library, it being the least doleful
room in the house on a wet day. As Bebe speaks, we all try more
or less (Marmaduke being included in the less) to put on a
cheerful countenance and enter into light conversation. For the
most part we succeed, and almost manage to forget our troubles.
"Bye the bye, Thornton, you used to be a great man on the Turf,"
presently says Sir Mark, addressing Chips, _apropos_ of something
that has gone before. Chips, who is lounging in a chair beside
Miss Beatoun, his whole round boyish face one cherubic smile,
looks up inquiringly. "Masters told me you were quite an
authority."
"Oh, not at all," returns Mr. Thornton, modestly: "I don't
pretend to anything. I flatter myself I know a likely animal when
I see it--nothing more."
"I always thought you intended making your fortune in that line,"
continues Sir Mark, lazily. "The last time I met you, in the
spring, you were radiant in the possession of so many more
hundreds than you ever hoped to obtain."
"Oh, Mr. Thornton, is it possible _you_ go in for betting?"
murmurs Bebe, with a glance enchantingly reproachful. "I had
placed you on such a high pinnacle in my estimation and _now_
what am I to think? I feel _so_ disappointed."
"Don't," entreats Chips, sentimentally. "If _you_ begin to think
badly of me, I shall do something desperate. Besides, I really
only put on a mere trifle now and then; nothing at all to
signify; wouldn't ruin a man if he were at it forever. You should
see how some fellows bet. Don't you know---"
"Did you do well last Ascot?" asks Chandos, in tone that is meant
to be genial.
"Well, no; not quite so well as I might wish," with a faint
blush. "Fact is, I rather overdid it--risked my little all upon
the die--and lost."
"Showing how natural talent has no chance against the whims of
fickle fortune. Even the very knowing ones, you see, Mrs.
Carrington, have to knock under sometimes," says Sir Mark.
"How was it?" I ask Chips, with a smile.
"Oh! it was a beastly shame," responds that young man. "The
horse would have won in a walk if he had got fair play. It was
the most outrageous transaction altogether. If the rider had
gone straight, there was not an animal in the running could have
beaten him. It was the clearest case of pulling you ever saw."
Lady Blanche laughs softly.
"I never knew an unsuccessful bettor who didn't say that," she
says. "I was waiting to hear you. Each man believes the horse he
fancies _would_ have won only for something. They would die
rather than confess themselves ignorant."
"But I always thought everything was fair and above board on a
race-course," observes Harriet.
Thornton roars.
"Lady Handcock, you are the most charitable woman alive," he
cries, gayly, "but I fear in this instance your faith in the
goodness of humanity goes too far. I met Hamilton the other day,
and he told me a capital story _apropos_ of racing honor. You
know Hamilton, Chandos?"
"Yes, I think so--middle-sized man, with a fair beard?"
"What a vivid description!" murmurs Miss Beatoun, demurely. "One
so _seldom_ sees a middle-sized man, with a fair beard!"
Chandos glanced at her quickly, rather amused, I think, by her
impertinence; but her eyes are innocently fixed on Thornton, who
is evidently full of his story.
"Go on, Thornton," says Sir Mark, blandly: "we are all miserable
till we learn what befell your friend Hamilton."
"It was at Fairy House races, last year," begins Chips, nothing
daunted. "Hamilton was over in Dublin at the time, and went down
there to back a horse he knew something about. A rather safe
thing it was, if rightly done by; and, knowing the jock, who was
a devoted adherent of his own, he went up to him on the course,
to know if he might put his money on with any chance of success.
'Wait awhile, Misther H.,' says his ingenuous friend, turning a
straw in his mouth with much deliberation, 'an' I'll tell ye.
Come to me again in ten minutes.' Accordingly, in ten minutes
Hamilton, seeing him in the paddock, dressed and mounted, went to
him again. 'Well?' said he. 'Wait yet another little bit, Misther
H.,' says this imperturbable gentleman; 'the instructions ain't
final. Meet me in five minutes at that post,' indicating a
certain spot. So Hamilton met him there, and for the third time
he asked him impatiently if he meant winning. 'I do, Misther H.'
says he, in a mysterious whisper, '_if the reins break!_'"
We all laugh heartily, and Bebe, while declaring the story
delicious, vows she has lost all faith in mankind for evermore.
"I have _not_," stoutly maintains Harriet. "Of course, there must
be exceptions, but I believe there is a great deal of goodness
among us all in spite of popular opinion. Why do you look so
supercilious, Marmaduke? Don't you agree with me?"
"No, I do not," replies 'Duke, promptly. "I think there is very
little _real_ goodness going. Taking the general mass, I believe
them to be all alike bad. Of course, there is a great deal in
training, and some appear better than others, simply because they
are afraid of being found out. That is the principal sin in this
life. I don't deny that here and there one finds two or three
whose nature is tinged with the divine; these reach nearer the
heavens, and are the exceptions that prove my rule."
"My dear 'Duke, how shockingly uncharitable!" says his sister,
slowly; while I, gazing on my husband with open-eyed amazement,
wonder vaguely if last night's disturbance has occasioned this
outbreak.
"It is uncharitable _always_ to speak the truth," says 'Duke,
with a faint sneer. "You asked me my opinion, and I gave it. Are
you acquainted with many beautiful characters, Harry? I confess I
know none. Selfishness is our predominant quality; and many of
the so-called religious ones among us are those most deeply
impregnated with this vice. They follow their religion through
fear, not love, because they dread consequences, and object to
being uncomfortable hereafter, so do what their hearts loathe
through mere selfish terror."
"I had no idea you could be so eloquent," laughs Lady Blanche,
mockingly from her low seat. "Pray, go on Marmaduke; I could
listen to you forever. You are positively refreshing after so
much amiability."
"My dear fellow, you grow bearish," expostulates Sir Mark, with
raised brows and an amused glance. "We wither beneath your words.
Abuse yourself as much as you please, but _do_ spare the rest of
us. We like to think ourselves perfection; it is very rude of you
to undeceive us so brusquely. And how can you give utterance to
such sweeping assertions in such company? Have you forgotten your
wife is present?"
"No"--with a forced smile--"I have not. But I fear even Mrs.
Carrington cannot be considered altogether harmless." He points
this remark with a curiously unloving expression cast in my
direction.
"Never mind, Mrs. Carrington," exclaims Thornton, with his usual
vivacity. "At all events you may count upon _one_ devoted
admirer, as I, for my part, do not believe you have a fault in
the world."
"Thank you," I answer gayly, though secretly I am enraged at
Marmaduke's look and tone. "Thank you very much, Mr. Thornton. I
consider myself fortunate in having secured your good opinion.
But, Marmaduke"--addressing him with the utmost coolness--"how
uncivil you can be! I say nothing of my own feelings I know I am
hopelessly wicked; but your guests, what must they think? Take
Lady Blanche, for instance: is she not looking the very picture
of innocence, though no doubt speechless with indignation? Surely
you will exonerate _her?_."
"No, not even Blanche," replies Marmaduke; but even as he
condemns her he bends upon her one of his very sweetest smiles.
"I am the more pleased that you do not," says her ladyship, in
her low, soft tones, returning his glance fourfold. "Even if it
were possible, I would not be altogether good. Perfection in any
shape is the one thing of which we most tire."
"The day is clearing; the rain has almost ceased," announces Lord
Chandos, solemnly, at this moment.
I spring to my feet.
"No!" cry I, "you don't _mean_ it?"
"I am almost sure I do," replies he, sententiously
And there, indeed, amid, the clouds as I run to look at them,
shines out a dazzling piece of blue sky that grows and widens as
I gaze.
"It still wants a quarter to one," I say, rapidly. "We will have
lunch at once--no matter whether we eat it or not--and then we
shall start for Warminister, and I shall see my rink after all.
But first I must go to the gardens. Sir Mark"--in a coquettishly
appealing tone, casting at him a very friendly glance from my
gray-blue eyes--"will _you_ come with me and take care of me as
far as the gates? I have something _very_ particular to say
to--Cummins."
I make the little pause maliciously, and raise my long lashes
just so much as permits me to obtain a glimpse of Marmaduke.
He is talking pleasantly to Lady Blanche, and evidently means me
to understand that he is ignorant of my conduct. But I can see a
frown on his forehead and certain lines about his mouth that tell
me plainly he has both seen and heard and condemned, and I am
satisfied.
"I shall be delighted," says Sir Mark, with prudent coldness, and
together we leave the room.
---
An hour later; lunch is over, and I am rushing up the stairs to
don my walking-attire. On the topmost landing stands Bebe,
already dressed and about to descend.
As I meet her gaze it arrests me. Surely some expression that
closely resembles woe characterizes her face. Her eyebrows are
slightly elevated, her lips at the corners curving downwards; her
cheeks are innocent of nature's rouge; a suspicious pinkness
rests upon her lids.
Dear--dear--_dear!_ is there nothing but trouble in this world?
I, of course, am wretched--that goes without telling--but pretty,
bright, _piquante_ Bebe, must she too be miserable? What untoward
thing can have occurred to bring that wistful look into her eyes?
Turning to my maid, who is following me at a respectful distance,
I speak aloud:--
"Martha, I will dispense with your services this afternoon. Miss
Beatoun is here, and will give me any assistance I may require."
So saying, I draw my friend into my room and close my door.
"Now, Bebe, what is it?" I ask, pushing her into a
lounging-chair, and beginning a vigorous search for my seal-skin
jacket. Martha is a good girl the--best of girls--but she can
never put anything in the same place twice running.
"Oh, it is nothing--nothing," answers Bebe, in a tone almost
comical in its disgust. "My pride has had a slight fall--my
conceit has been a little lowered--no more. I hate myself" (with
a petulant stamp of the foot) "for taking it so much to heart;
but I _do_, and that is the fact, and I cannot yet overcome the
feeling. If I did not know I must have looked like a foolish
culprit all the while, I think I would not so greatly mind; but
my color was coming and going in a maddening fashion; and then
his tone--so quick--so---"
"Chandos's tone, I suppose, you mean? But you forget, dear; I
know nothing."
"True, of course not. Well, after you left the library that time
with Mark, the whole party broke up and dispersed about the house
to prepare for this drive, all except myself. I stayed
on--unluckily, as it turned out--to finish my novel, until I
should be called to lunch. It interested me, and I thought myself
sure of solitude for a little time, but in less than three
minutes the door was re-opened, and Chandos came in."
"Well?" I say, as she makes a long pause.
"Unfortunately, it struck me that his coming back so soon again
to where he knew I was alone looked, you know, rather
particular--as if he wished to say something private to me;
and--I had no desire to hear it.
"Oh, Bebe?"
"Well, believe me or not, as you will, I really, dreaded his
saying anything on the--old topic--to such a degree that I rose
and made as though I would instantly quit the room. Oh!" cries
she, with an irrestrainable blush and movement of the hand, "I
wish I had died before I did _that_."
"Why, darling?"
"Oh, need you ask? Don't you see how it betrayed my thoughts?
Why, it looked as though I made quite sure he was going to
propose again. Can't you understand how horrible it was?" says
Bebe, burying her face in her hands, with a hysterical laugh.
"_He_ understood it so, at all events. He stopped right before
me, and said, deliberately, with his eyes fixed on mine, 'Why do
you leave the room? I came for a book, and for nothing else, I
assure you.' Thus taken aback, I actually stammered and blushed
like a ridiculous schoolgirl, and said, weakly, 'It is almost
time to think of dressing. We start so soon. And besides--I---'
Could anything be more foolish? 'One would think I had the plague
or the pestilence, the way you rush from a room the moment I
enter it,' says he, impatiently.--'I swear I am not going to
propose again. I have had enough of it. I have no desire whatever
to marry a woman against her will. I asked you to be my wife, for
the second time, a week or two ago, thinking my poverty had been
the cause of your former refusal, and was justly punished for my
conceit. Believe me, I have brains enough, to retain a lesson,
once I have learned it; so you may sit down, Miss Beatoun, with
the certainty that I shall never again offend you in _that_ way.'
I could never tell you how I felt, Phyllis, during the utterance
of these words. My very blood was tingling with shame. My eyes
would not be lifted; and, besides, they were full of tears. I
felt that I hated both myself and him."
"It was a very curious speech for him to make," say I, feeling
both puzzled and indignant with Chandos.
"I think he was quite right," declares she, veering round to
resent what seems like an attack on my part. "It must have
angered and disgusted him to see me so confident of his lasting
affection as to imagine him ready to make a fresh offer every
time people left us _tete-a-tete_. I think any man with spirit
would have done just so. No one is to be blamed but myself."
"On the other hand, why should he conclude you thought anything
of the sort?" I say, defending her stoutly in spite of herself.
"He only proved the idea to be quite as uppermost in his mind as
it was in yours. I would have said something to that effect had I
been you."
"_Said_, my dear I could not have even _thought_ of anything at
the moment, I was so confused. It is the simplest thing possible
to think of what would have been the correct thing to say, and to
make up neat little speeches, half an hour after the opportunity
for uttering them is passed, but just on the instant how few have
presence of mind!"
"It was provoking," say I, "and"--with an irrepressible little
laugh--"funny, too. My own impression is he _did_ come back to
renew his pleadings, but saw by your manner it would be useless.
Pity you did not insist on knowing the title of the book he was
so anxious to procure. At all events it is nothing to be
miserable about, dear Bebe."
"Oh, I shan't be miserable, either. Now that I have told some one
I feel better. I have had a good cry, brought on my thorough
vexation, and will now dismiss both the occurrence and his
lordship from my mind."
"Shall you find that an easy task? The latter part of it, I
mean?"
"Quite easy--nothing more so," replies she, with a saucy
uplifting of her chin as she leaves me.
As the hat I wish to wear has been locked away in a certain part
of a wardrobe where I am certain no hat was ever stowed before,
it takes me some time to discover it. When at length I do so, I
find I am considerably behind time, and catching up my gloves,
run hastily along the gallery, and down the western corridor,
that will bring me a degree sooner to the hall below.
As I turn the corner I come without any warning upon Marmaduke
and Lady Blanche Going, evidently in deep and interesting
converse. I stop short; and both, looking up, see me.
"Rage and indignation fill me at this unexpected rencontre. What
_can_ this woman have to whisper to my husband that might not be
said in public?"
Blanche, with the utmost composure, nods her head, smiles, and
vanishes down the staircase, leaving me alone with Marmaduke;
while he stands frowning heavily, and apparently much annoyed by
what has just been said. His black looks deepen as his eyes meet
mine; but as, with raised head and naughty lips, I pass him by,
he suddenly moves towards me, and, throwing his arms round me,
strains me passionately to him, and, turning up my face, kisses
me twice, thrice, upon my mouth.
Still smarting under my angry thoughts, I tear myself from his
embrace and stand aloof, panting with mortification.
"How dare you?" I gasp. "Don't attempt to touch me."
"What! has your indifference _already_ changed to hatred?" says
he, bitterly, as I walk rapidly away.
---
The sun shines out with redoubled power and brilliancy, and,
toiling up Carlisle street, we find ourselves before the door of
the principal hotel in Warminster. Such a goodly turnout as ours
is seldom seen even in this busy, bustling town, and the waiters
and hostlers come out to admire and tender their services. To the
enterprising owner of this grand hotel belongs the rink, and
thither we bend our footsteps.
To see the world on wheels--to see the latest, newest vanity of
the Great Fair--is my ambition. Turning a corner, we enter a
gateway adjoining the hotel; we pass the mystic portal, we pay
the inevitable shilling, throw ourselves upon the mercies of the
movable barrier, and find ourselves _there_.
Just at first the outside circle of admirers prevents our
catching sight of the performers, and the dull grating noise of
the machines falls unpleasantly upon our ears. We draw nearer the
chattering, gaping crowd, and by degrees edge our way in, until
we too have a full view of all that is to be seen.
Surely there is a mistake somewhere, and it is wheels, wheels,
wheels, _not_ love, that 'makes the world go round.'
On they come, by twos and threes, in single file, in shaking
groups, all equally important, all filled with a desire to
get--nowhere. A novice comes running, staggering, balancing
towards us; evidently her acquaintance with this new mode of
locomotion was of the vaguest half an hour ago. The crowd passes
on, and she must follow it; so, with a look of fear upon her face
that amounts almost to agony, she totters onward to brave a
thousand falls. A sudden rush past her--the faintest touch does
it--she reels: her heels (that on ordinary occasions, to judge by
their appearance, must be the staunchest of supports) refuse to
uphold her now; her lips part to emit a dying gasp, already she
smells the ground, when a kindly hand from behind seized her,
steadies her with good-natured force, and, with a smile of
acknowledgement, that confesses the misery of the foregoing
minutes, she once more totters, trips, and scrambles to her fate.
I am delighted, entranced. I find myself presently laughing gayly
and with all my heart, the galling remembrance of the last few
hours swept completely from my brain. I cry "Oh!" at every
casualty, and grasp my companion's arm; I admire and smile upon
the successful. I begin to wish that I too could skate.
Here comes the adept, with eyes fixed questioningly upon the
watchful crowd. Their approving glances fire him with a mad
desire to prove to them how superior he is to his compeers. He
will do _more_ than skate with consummate grace and ease; he will
do better than the "out-side edge;" he will _waltz_.
Oh, daring thought! Now shall he bring down the well-deserved
plaudits of the lookers-on. He turns--one, two, three--it is a
swing, a hop, not perhaps a ball-room performance, but at least a
success. Eyes become concentrated. He essays it again, and again
victory crowns his effort. Yet a third time he makes the
attempt--alas I that fatal three. Is it that his heel catches his
toe, or his toe catches his heel? The result at least is the
same: over he goes; disgrace is on him; with a crash he and the
asphalt meet.
"It is monotonous, I think," breathes Sir Mark in my ear, in a
deprecating tone, and then looks past me at Bebe.
"It is fatiguing," murmurs Harriet, with a yawn. "James, if you
don't get me a chair this instant, I shall faint."
"It is delicious," declare I, enthusiastically; "it is the nicest
thing I ever saw. Oh! I wish _I_ could skate."
"It makes one giddy," says Lady Blanche, affectedly "Do they
never turn in this place?" Almost on her words a bell tinkles
somewhere in the distance, and as if by magic they all swerve
round and move the contrary way--all, that is, except the tyros,
who come heavily, and without a moment's warning, to their knees.
And now the band strikes up, and the last waltz comes lingeringly
to our ears. Insensibly the musical portion of the community on
wheels falls into a gentle winging motion and undulate to the
liquid strains of the tender "Manolo."
"This is better," says Lady Handcock, sinking into the chair for
which her faithful James had just done battle.
Bebe and Thornton, hand in hand, skim past us.
"Oh! I must, I _will_ learn," I cry, excitedly. "I never saw
anything I liked so much. Sir Mark, _do_ get me a pair of skates
and let me try. It _looks_ quite simple. Oh, if Billy were but
here!"
Sir Mark goes to obey my command, and I stand by Harriet's chair,
too interested for conversation. How they fly along! the women
with more grace in their movements, the men with more science.
Here is the fatal corner turn; the numbers are increasing; whirr,
crash, down they come, four together, causing an indescribable
scene of confusion. Two from the outside circle rush in to
succor their fallen darlings. It is a panic--a _melee_. Yet stay;
after all it is nothing; they are up again, flushed but
undaunted: it is all the fortune of war. _Vogue la galere_.
A tall young man, blonde and slight, attracts my notice. Half an
hour ago he struck me as being the gayest of the gay; now his
expression, as he slowly wends his way through the skaters, is
sad and careworn in the extreme; the terrors of the rink are
oppressing him sore, anxiety is printed on his brow; he has but
one thought from start to finish--how to reach uninjured the
chair he has just left. He never takes but one turn at a time
round the arena, and never gains his haven of safety without a
long-drawn sigh of relief. The fear of ridicule lies heavy upon
him. But what will you? Rinking is the fashion, and for what
does a young man live if not to follow the _mode?_
I see, too, the elderly gentleman, who, with bent knees and
compressed mouth, essays to rival his juniors. He _will_ be
young, and he will skate, whether his doctor "will let him or
no." _Vive la jeunesse!_
_La jeunesse_, in the form of a diminutive damsel, follows
closely in his wake; she is of tiny build, and has her hand
clasped by one of the tallest young men it has ever been my luck
to behold.
"I pity that young man," says Harriet. "Titania has secured him
for her own."
And indeed it seems like it. Where she may choose to lead him for
the next hour there must he surely go. Were be dying to leave
her, to join some other, "nearer and dearer," he will not be able
to do so. Can he act the brute and ask her to sit down before she
shows any inclination so to do? Can he feign fatigue when she
betrays no symptoms of fagging, and regards him with a glance
fresh at when they first started? He must only groan and suffer
patiently, even though he knows the demon of jealousy is working
mischief in the heart of his beloved as she sits silently
watching him from a distant corner.
"What wonderful vitality that small creature develops!" says
Harriet. "Probably, at home, if asked to rise twice from the
chair, she would declare herself fatigued and _ennuyee_ to the
last degree; here she keeps in motion for an hour at a stretch,
and is still smiling and radiant."
"The game seems hardly worth the candle," remarks Sir James,
gazing after Titania's very insipid looking cavalier.
"My dear, it is worth ten thousand candles," returns his wife.
"That is young Woodleigh, and you know he came in for all that
money on his uncle's death. In such a cause you would not have
her countenance fatigue?"
"Here comes her contrast," remarks Sir James, as a slight, dark
woman, very pretty, with just a _soupcon_ of coloring on her pale
cheeks, and enough shading round her lids to make her dark eyes
darker, skates by.
"I have been watching her," says Harriet. "She is Mrs. Elton,
whose husband died last year--much to her satisfaction, as people
say. See, Phyllis, how she is surrounded by admirers: every tenth
minute she accepts a new aspirant to her hand, as far as rinking
goes. Ah, my dear! see what it is to be a bewitching widow--far
better than being a lovely girl. And James positively refuses to
give me a chance of trying whether I would be a success if so
circumstanced."
Sir James smiles comfortably, and so do I, while watching the gay
widow as she beams, and droops, and languishes, according to the
mood of each companion--amusing all in turn, and knowing herself
as universally adored by the opposite sex as she is detested by
her own.
"I had great difficulty in getting your skates. I wonder if these
are small enough?" whispers Sir Mark in my ear; and, turning, I
behold him fully equipped for the fray, followed by a subdued
little boy, who carries under his arm the articles in question.
They proved to be the right size, and soon I find myself standing
on four wheels (that apparently go every way in the most
impartial manner), grasping frantically my Mentor's arm.
"Oh, what is the matter with my heels? They won't stay still!" I
cry, desperately, as my body betrays an inclination to lay itself
flat upon the ground. "They can't be right, I am sure. Are all
the skates like these?"
"Yes. Try to walk a little, and you will find it easier. It is
wonderful how soon one gets used to the sensation."
I summon all my pluck, and get round the place three times
without stopping or falling, thanks to Sir Mark's strong arm. As
I reach my starting-point once more, I pause and sink into a
vacant chair.
"I will rest a little," I breathe hastily. "I am dreadfully tired
and frightened. I had no idea it would prove so difficult. Go
away, Sir Mark, and take a turn by yourself; and perhaps later
on, if you come back for me, I will try again. Oh, I wonder how
on earth it is all these people manage to keep upright?"
"Don't lose heart," says Sir Mark, smiling. "Once on a time they
all felt just as you do now. Indeed, I think you a very promising
beginner."
He leaves us, and Harriet and I fall to criticizing the
performers again. After all, I think the beginners amuse me most,
more especially _now_, when I can "deeply sympathize" with their
terrors. The way they stumble against each other, their frequent
falls, their earnest faces--earnest as though it were a matter of
life and death in which they are engaged--all combine to excite
my risible faculties to the last degree.
I laugh merrily and heartily, my color rises, I clap my hands
with glee as two fat men, coming into collision, fall prostrate
almost at my feet.
"How you enjoy everything!" says Harriet, patting me on the
shoulder, and laughing herself through sympathy.
"It is all so new to me," I return, with delight; and, glancing
up at her, I also catch Sir James's eyes fixed upon me, filled
with pleasant amusement.
There are little boys with spindle legs who look all boots and no
body; little boy-rinkers and little girl-rinkers, who do their
work so beautifully and show such unlimited _go_ as puts their
elders to shame.
Sir Mark comes back again, and again I am persuaded to rise and
court fortune. In my turn I scramble and totter and push and try
to believe I am enjoying the moment. At length I break into a
little slide--insensibly, as it seems--and after that matters go
more smoothly.
"Ah! now you are getting into the way of it," exclaims Sir Mark,
almost growing excited over my progress. "Just keep on like that,
and soon you will master, it."
Half an hour elapses. The others of our party, who have been at
it longer than I have, and to whom it is a novelty, have tired of
skating, and stand once more together in a group.
As I approach them, attended by Sir Mark, I pause to utter a few
words.
"It is lovely, delicious. I am getting on capitally. I shall do
it perfectly in no time," I gasp, conceitedly; and, instantly
slipping, I fall forward helplessly into my companion's arms.
I get a severe shock, but think myself lucky in that I have
escaped the ground.
Sir Mark holds me a shade longer, and perhaps a shade more
tenderly, than the occasion requires; and, looking up, I catch
Blanche Going's eyes, and can see that she wears upon her
handsome face a smile, half insolent, wholly suspicious. The
others must see it, too.
Extreme anger grows within my breast. Disengaging myself from Sir
Mark's support, I stand alone, though insecure, and feel that I
am rapidly becoming the color of a rich and full-blown peony.
Certainly my bitterest enemy could not accuse me of blushing
prettily; and this knowledge, added to what I am already smarting
under, renders ma furious.
I repent my first move. I regret having so far given in to
popular opinion as to withdraw myself from Sir Mark's sustaining
arm. Hastily turning to him again--unmindful of Harriet's kind
little speech--I hold out to him my hand, and address him with
unwonted _empressement_.
"Thank you," I say; "but for you I should have come to
ignominious grief in the very midst of my boasting. I am in your
debt, remember. Will you add to your goodness by taking my hand
yet again for a round or two? I want to be a degree more assured.
It is not every day," I add, with a gay, coquettish laugh, "a
lady will make you a generous offer of her hand."
Marmaduke, as well as Blanche, hears every word. Sir Mark takes
my hand very readily, and together we out of sight.
As usual, once my naughtiness is _fait accompli_, I suffer from
remorse. When next I find myself near 'Duke I am mild and
submissive as a ringdove. Would he but speak to me now I feel I
could pardon and be pardoned with the utmost cheerfulness. Alas!
he remains mute and apparently unforgiving, being in the dark as
to my softened mood.
A deep curiosity to learn his exact humor towards me seizes hold
of me, and for the satisfying of it I determine to open fire and
be the first to break down the barrier of silence that has risen
between us.
"What a pity we must leave this place so soon!" I say, with
exceeding geniality. "It opens again at half-past seven. If we do
not start for home, 'Duke, until ten o'clock, why should we not
spend another hour here after dinner?"
"At that hour the place will be thronged with shop-keepers and
the townfolk generally," replies he, in his coldest tones,
without looking at me.
"I should not mind them in the very least," eagerly.
"I dare say not: there are few things you _do_ mind; but _I_
should," returns 'Duke, slowly and decisively, and, walking away,
leaves me _tete-a-tete_ with Sir Mark Gore.
All the sweetness within me changes to gall. I am once again
angered and embittered; nay, more, I long to revenge myself upon
him for the severity of his manner. At such moments who has not
found the tempter near?
Sir Mark, bending his head, says, smoothly: "You should remember
how tired Marmaduke must be of this kind of thing. He has seen so
much of it. It was good enough of him, I think, to drive here
to-day at all. No doubt he shudders at the thought of visiting a
country rink twice in six or seven hours. Will you allow me to be
your escort here to-night? If it proves unbearable we need only
stay a few minutes. I am sure Marmaduke would in reality wish you
to be gratified---"
He hesitates, and regards me quietly. I am by no means as sure as
he is of Marmaduke's amiability; but at this instant I care for
nothing but the opportunity of showing my husband how little I
care for his likes or dislikes.
"I dare say you are right," I return, calmly. "Of course it is
just the sort of amusement a man would find dull, once the
novelty was worn away. It is self-denying of you to offer your
services. Yes, I think I will come here to-night for a few
minutes, if only to see how the scene looks by lamplight."
"Much gayer than by daylight. That you can imagine." replies he,
evenly, his eyes bent upon the ground.
Once having pledged myself to go, I feel no inclination to break
my word. All through dinner mutinous thoughts support me in my
determination.
Having led my guests back into the reception-room, I pass into
the adjoining apartment unnoticed, and, hurriedly putting on my
hat and jacket, slip out into the hall, where I find Sir Mark
awaiting me.
Now for the first time, looking out into the darkening night, I
understand what fear means. My heart sinks. What wild and foolish
thing am I about to do? Obstinacy and the shame of confessing
myself unnerved alone prevents me from turning back again, and it
is with a beating, cowardly pulse, though an undaunted exterior,
that I cross the threshold with my companion.
As I have said, the rink adjoins the hotel, and a very few
minutes brings us once more within its shelter. During those few
minutes my usual talkativeness deserts me; I am silent as the
grave. Sir Mark, too, makes no attempt at conversation.
Inside, the laughing, moving crowd somewhat distracts me from my
gloomy apprehensions. The bright glare of the lamps, the music of
the band, which is playing its liveliest air, render me less
fearful of consequences. Sir Mark gets me a pair of skates; he
holds out his hand; I move forward; the crush is not so great as
I had imagined the music cheers me. After all what harm have I
done? I stumble; a merry laugh forces itself from my lips; all is
forgotten save the interest of this new pastime.
Can a quarter of an hour have passed away? I am chattering gayly,
and clinging to my cavalier, in a fashion innocent, indeed, but
rather pronounced, when, looking up, I encounter Marmaduke's eyes
fixed upon me from the doorway. There is in them an expression
strange, and, to me at least, new--an expression that strikes
terror to my heart as I gaze.
Sir Mark, unaware of his presence, continues to issue
instructions and guide my quavering footsteps, until we are
within a few feet of my husband. Loosing my hands then from his
grasp, I precipitate myself upon Marmaduke and cling to him for
the support he coolly allows me to take.
Sir Mark, propelled by the push I have given him in parting,
skates on some little distance from us, giving me time to gasp,
"Oh, 'Duke, don't be angry. I liked it so much to-day and you
said we would not start before ten; so I knew I had plenty of
time. You are not angry, are you?"
By this time--before 'Duke can reply--if indeed, he would deign
to notice me, which I begin to doubt--Sir Mark is returned, and
is now addressing my husband with the utmost _bonhomie_.
"See what it is to be of a dissipated turn, Carrington. In
default of more congenial sport I could not resist the pleasures
of an obscure rink. I fear it was foolish of me, though, to put
it into Mrs. Carrington's head; though I really think there are
few draughts anywhere, it is such a lovely night."
He says this as though the only earthly objection that could be
raised to my coming out at this hour with him alone, is the fear
of my catching cold.
"Don't you think you have had enough of it now?" says 'Duke,
calmly--_too_ calmly--still with that strange expression in his
eyes, though perfectly polite. He does not look at me, and the
hand I still hold in desperation is limp within my grasp, and
takes no heed of the gentle, beseeching pressure I bestow upon it
every quarter of a minute. "It is getting rather late"--glancing
at his watch; "I fear I must ask you to return at once, as the
traps are ordered round; and it will not do for Mrs. Carrington
to keep her guests waiting."
"I want a boy to take off my skates," I say, submissively,
shocked at the lateness of the hour; it wants but ten minutes to
ten.
"True. But boys are never in the way when wanted. Gore, I'm sure
_you_ will not mind unfastening Mrs. Carrington's skates, just
for once," in a queer voice.
"I shall be delighted," says Mark, courteously, going down on his
knees before me. As he bows his head I barely catch a certain
gleam in his eyes that is neither Laughter nor triumph, yet is a
curious mingling of both.
I feel ready to cry with vexation.
"You will follow me as soon as you can," says 'Duke, and, to my
amazement, walks steadily away.
"I am afraid I have got you into a scrape," says Mark, in a low
tone, as he bends over my left foot, and with slow fingers draws
out the leather straps.
"How do you mean?" I ask, haughtily, feeling passionate anger in
my heart towards him at the moment, regarding him as the cause of
all my misery.
"I mean--of course I don't know--but I fancied Carrington was
angry with you for coming here with--that is--so late." His
hesitation and stammering are both affected and untrue.
"Not a bit of it," I reply stoutly; "he probably does not like
being kept waiting: men never do. He is wonderfully punctual
himself, and of course I ought to have been back ages ago. I wish
now I had never come. Can't you be a little quicker?" with an
impatient movement of my toe. "It don't take the boys hours to
get off each skate."
"You are in a desperate hurry _now_."
"I _am_ in a desperate hurry, and I hate vexing Marmaduke. There,
hold it tightly, and I will pull my foot out. Now, try and be a
little quicker about this one."
"I assure you I am doing my best," sulkily. "I don't want to keep
you here, in your present mood, longer than I can help."
"I should think not," say I, with a disagreeable laugh.
As the skate comes off he flings it aside with a savage gesture,
and, rising, offers me his arm, which I decline.
"We must run for it," I say, indifferently, "and I never can do
that to, my own satisfaction when holding on to any one. I detest
jogging."
"Why don't you say at once you detest _me?_" exclaims Mark,
roughly, and summarily disposes of a small boy who is unhappy
enough to be in his path at the moment.
"I will if you like," return I, equably; and in silence as
complete as when we set out we return to the hotel.
When we arrive, every one is busy getting on his or her outdoor
things. My sealskin jacket and velvet hat already adorn my
person, so no convenient business of that kind comes to my aid to
help me to carry of the confusion and secret fear that are
consuming me. I stand somewhat apart from the rest, looking
strangely like a culprit. Even Bebe, who is a sure partisan is
so standing before a distant mirror, adjusting the most
coquettish of head gears as to be unable to see me, while young
Thornton chatters to her admiringly upon one side, and Lord
Chandos glowers at her from the other.
Presently some one approaches, and to my astonishment Sir James
Handcock, with an unusual amount of energy in his eyes and
manner, takes up a position near me, and actually volunteers a
remark.
"Remember I am old enough to be your father," he begins,
abruptly, "and don't be angry with me. I feel that I must speak.
I don't want to see you made unhappy. I want you to cut the whole
thing. Flirtations however innocent were never meant for
tender-hearted little girls like you."
I am so utterly taken aback, so altogether surprised, that I even
forget to blush, and can do nothing but stand staring at him in
silent bewilderment. Sir James to deliver a lecture! Sir James to
take upon him the part of Mentor! it is more than my brain can
grasp at a moment's notice. Surely I have been guilty of
something horrible, unpardonable, to shake him out of his
taciturnity.
Harriet, coming up at this juncture, hastens to assist me out of
my dilemma.
"Has he been scolding you?" she asks briskly, with her quick
ready smile. "James, I won't have Phyllis frightened to death by
a stern old moralist like you. Go and get things together; and if
you meet a comfortable motherly gray shawl, remember it is mine."
Thus dismissed, James, ever obedient, departs, casting a kindly
glance at me as he goes. Harriet lays her hand lightly on my arm.
"Don't look so horrified, child," she says. "James's voice, from
continual disuse, has degenerated into a growl, I own, but it
need not reduce you to insensibility. He is awkward, but he means
well, as they say in the British drama. Come"--with a faint
pressure--"try to look more cheerful, or people will begin to
wonder and imagine all sorts of unlikely things. You have made a
mistake; but then a mistake is not a crime."
"What have I done?" I ask, rousing myself. "I only wanted to see
the rink again, and 'Duke would not take me. He was unkind in his
manner, and vexed me. Sir Mark offered to take charge of me, I
believe I wanted to show 'Duke I could go in spite of him, but I
never thought of--of anything else; and now 'Duke is so angry he
will not even speak to me."
"Oh, that is nonsense! of course he will speak to you. You have
committed a little folly, that is all. I can quite understand it.
Probably, under like circumstances, and at your age, I would have
been guilty of the same. But it was foolish nevertheless."
"He should not have spoken to me as he did."
"I dare say not; though I don't know what he said, and do not
wish to know. There are always faults on both sides. And now,
Phyllis, as we are on the subject, let me say one word. You know
I am fond of you--that I think you the dearest little
sister-in-law in the world. Therefore you will hear me patiently.
Have nothing more to say to Mark Gore. He is very--unfortunate in
his--friendships. I do not wish to say anything against him, but
no good ever came of being too intimate with him. Are you
offended with me? Have I gone too far Phyllis?"
"No, no," anxiously retaining the hand she half withdraws, "I am
glad, as it was on your mind, you spoke. But you cannot
think--you cannot believe---" I am too deeply agitated to
continue.
"I believe nothing but what is altogether good of you, be sure of
that," she answers, heartily. "But I dread your causing yourself
any pain through thoughtlessness. Remember 'how easily things go
wrong,' and how difficult it is sometimes to set them right
again. And--Marmaduke loves you."
"I wish I had never seen this odious rink," I whisper,
passionately. "I will never go to one again. I wish I had never
laid eyes on Mark Gore. I hate him. I---"
"Good child" interposes she, calmly, as an antidote to my
excitement. "Now, go and make peace with your husband. See,
there he is. Marmaduke, Phyllis is too cold in this coat, get her
something warm to put round her shoulders."
Mechanically I obey the faint push she gives me, and follow 'Duke
into the dimly-lighted hall. He strides on in front, and takes
not the slightest notice of my faltering footsteps.
"Marmaduke," I whisper, nervously, "Marmaduke, may I drive home
with you?"
"With me! For what?"
His tone is stern and uncompromising. My new-found courage
evaporates.
"Because I--I want to--very much," I answer, feebly, much
dispirited.
"You came here with Gore. Why not return with him? It seems to me
far better for all parties you should do so."
"But I do not wish it. I would rather drive home with any one
than Sir Mark Gore. Oh, Marmaduke, please let me go with you."
"It is rather late to think of saving appearances, if you mean
that."
"I do not mean it. I am not thinking of anything but you."
He laughs unpleasantly.
"Did Harriet tell you to make that sweet little speech?
"No," in a low tone.
"Do you imagine you are pleasing me by making this request?" he
exclaims, angrily, glancing down at me as I stand staring at him,
my head barely reaching his shoulder. Reproach and entreaty are
in my uplifted eyes, but they do not soften him. "Do you think
you are offering me compensation? Pray do not for a moment
believe I am either hurt or annoyed by your behavior of this
evening. Why should I? You are not the only woman in the world
who has suddenly developed a talent for flirtations."
"Marmaduke, what are you saying? Of what are you accusing me?"
I am nearly in tears by this time, and cannot find words to argue
or deny the horrid imputation of coquetry.
"Do not let me stand in the way of your amusements. Of course
when I chose to marry a child--and a child without a spark of
affection for me--I must learn not to cavil at consequences.
Understand, Phyllis, it is a matter of indifference to me whether
you drive home with Mark Gore or any other man. Do not give
yourself any annoyance, under a mistaken impression that you may
be gratifying me. Take your Choice of an escort."
"I have taken it," I say, dolefully, "but the one I want won't
take me. Marmaduke, how unkind you are! Do you then, _refuse_, to
drive me home?"
"If you insist on sitting beside me you can do so," he yields,
ungraciously. "You will find it stupid, as I am in no mood for
conversation, and have no desire for your company."
"Nevertheless I will force it on you," I cry, with some faint
spark of pride and indignation. "Though you hate me, I will
return with no one but you."
And so it is settled, and soon we are driving side by side under
the brilliant dancing stars.
It is a long, long drive--much longer, it seems to me, in the
chill night than in the glare of day--and not one word does my
companion speak. Once, when the moon rushes Out with a white
gleam from behind the scudding clouds, I take courage to look at
him; but he is biting his mustache, and wears upon his brow a
heavy frown that completely freezes on my lips the few silly
words I would have uttered.
Once, too, as his hand lies bare upon his knee, I venture to
place my fingers timidly upon it, but he shakes them off, under a
plain pretense of adjusting the reins; and thus, twice repulsed,
I have no heart to make a further advance.
So, in dead silence, we make our journey, listening absently, to
the chatter of those behind and the sound of the horses' feet as
they bravely cover the ground.
In silence we reach our home, in silence he helps me down, and
with the sorriest pain at my heart it has ever yet known I go
upstairs and shut myself into my room.
Martha, under a mistaken impression that I am what she is pleased
to term "poorly," pours out some eau-de-Cologne and proceeds to
bathe my forehead with vigorous concern; and such is the
forlornness of my state that I cannot bring myself to bid her
begone. When she has put me through the various stages of
undressing, has left me ready for bed, and insisted on hearing me
say I am immensely better, she departs, to my infinite relief.
I turn dismally in my chair, and begin to wonder what I am to do
next. Every minute my crime appears more hideous; I feel more
positive he will never forgive me.
Strangely enough, as my own misdemeanors grow in size and
importance, his decrease, until at length they sink into utter
insignificance. The remembrance of that pink note alone rankles,
and perhaps even that could be explained.
The hours slip by. 'Duke's foot is to be heard slowly pacing his
own floor.
I must and will compel him to make friends with me. How can I
face a long sleepless night such as I know will be mine if I go
to bed unpardoned? I will make one more effort, and this time I
will not be unsuccessful, As I have not now, and never have had,
a particle of pride in my composition, it takes me very little
thinking to decide on this course.
I am sitting before my fire as I develop this idea, toasting my
bare toes in a rather purposeless manner, preparatory to jumping
into bed. Unlike most people, I can endure any amount of heat to
the soles of my feet.
Mechanically I slip into my blue slippers, and, rising, go to the
glass. Yet, what I see pleases me: I certainly do look nice in my
dressing-gown. No other style of garment, no matter how
bewitching or elaborate, suits me half as well. This particular
gown at which I am now gazing profoundly is of white cashmere,
lined and wadded, and trimmed profusely with pale blue. There is
a dear little frill round the neck that almost makes me love
myself. It is a gift of Marmaduke's. Walking one day in Paris,
during our honeymoon, it had attracted our attention in a
shop-window, and he had insisted on my going into the shop then
and there and making myself the owner of it. Surely when he sees
me now he will remember the circumstance, and it will soften him.
Ah! he was very fond of me then, I recollect, with a sigh.
My hair is streaming down my back, far below my waist; I am
looking well, but young very young; indeed, I am painfully
conscious that, now my high-heeled shoes are lying under a chair,
I might easily be mistaken for a child of fourteen.
The thought is distasteful. Hastily putting up my hands, I wind
my hair round and round my head until I have reduced it to its
everyday decorous fashion; only to find that rolls and smoothness
do not accord well with a _negligee_ costume.
Looking at myself again with a critical eye, I am again
dissatisfied. I may appear older, I certainly do not present so
pleasing a _tout ensemble_; so, with much vicious haste, I once
more draw out the hair-pins and let my straight brown hair hang
according to its fancy. Being now at last convinced I am to be
seen at my best, I proceed to act upon the thought that has
caused all this unwonted vanity, I go softly to Marmaduke's
dressing-room door, armed with my brush and begin to batter at it
pretty loudly.
"Marmaduke, Marmaduke!" I cry, but obtain no answer. That he is
within is beyond all doubt, as every now and then through the
thick oaken door I can hear a sound or two.
Again I exercise my lungs, again I batter at the door.
"'Duke--Marmaduke!" I cry once more, impatiently.
"What do you want?" demands my husband, in a voice that sends my
heart into my blue slippers.
"I want to get in," I return, as meekly as one can, when one's
tone is raised to the highest pitch.
"You cannot now; I am busy."
"But I must. 'Duke, do open the door. I have something of the
utmost importance to say to you."
After a moment or two I can hear him coming slowly to the door.
In another instant he has unlocked it, and is standing in the
doorway in an attitude that is plainly meant to bar my further
approach.
"Won't you let me in?" I say. "I want to speak to you; I have
something to tell you."
Here I make a dive under the arm he had placed against one side
of the door as a prudent barricade, and gain the dressing-room.
Having so far succeeded, I pause to glance timidly at him.
He has divested himself of his coat and waistcoat, and has
evidently been brushing his hair, as it is smooth to the last
degree and has about it a general air of being ready to enter a
ball-room at a moment's notice.
"You might be going to a reception, your hair is so beautifully
dressed," I say, with a weak attempt at raillery and composure.
"Did you nearly break down the door to come and tell me that?"
asked he, without a vestige of a smile.
Once again my eyes seek the carpet. All my affected nonchalance
deserts me. I feel frightened. Never before has his voice sounded
go harsh when addressed to me. I put my hands behind me, and
grasp nervously the torrent of hair that flows down my back. For
the second time it occurs to me how abominably young I must be
looking. Somehow the word "Doll" writes itself before my lowered
eyes.
"No," I say, in a whisper. "I came to ask you to forgive me to
tell you I am very sorry for it all."
"Are you? I am glad of that. In my opinion you could not be too
sorry."
"Oh, 'Duke, do not be _too_ hard on me. I did not mean to make
you so very angry. I did not think there was any harm in what I
did."
"_No harm?_ No harm in flirting so outrageously as to bring down
upon you the censure of all your guests? No harm in making
yourself the subject of light gossip? Do you know that ever since
last night, when you chose to disgrace both yourself and me by
your conduct, I have felt half maddened. _Angry_. The word does
not express what I feel. A hundred times during these past few
hours I have with the utmost difficulty restrained myself."
"I don't see that I have done anything so very terrible; I have
not behaved worse than--than others I could name, I don't believe
anybody noticed me," I reply, miserably, and most untruthfully.
"Pshaw! How blind you must think people! Do you suppose they will
not comment freely on your going to that low place with Gore, at
nine o'clock at night, _alone_. I own my belief in their dulness
or good-nature is not as comfortable a one as yours. Blanche
Going, at all events, spoke to me openly about it."
I instantly take fire.
"No doubt," I cry, with passion. "Lady Blanche Going has her own
reasons for wishing to degrade me in my husband's sight. She is a
wicked woman! Were I to do _half_ what she has done, and is
capable of doing, I would be ashamed to look you in the face. I
_hate_ her! If you believe what _she_ says, rather than what _I_
say, of course there is little use in my speaking further in my
own defense."
"I believe only what I see," returns my husband, significantly;
"and that--I regret to say of you, Phyllis--is more than I can
think of with calmness."
He turns from me as he speaks, and begins to pace excitedly up
and down the room, a frown born of much anger upon his forehead.
"To think you should have chosen _that_ fellow, who has hardly a
shred of character left, as your _friend_."
It would be impossible to put on paper the amount of scorn he
throws into the last word.
"He is no friend of mine," I say, sullenly, beating my foot
petulantly against the ground. "I always understood he was a
particular favorite of yours. If you consider him such a
disreputable creature, why did you invite him to your house!
"Because I was unfortunately under the impression I could ask any
man with safety into my _wife's_ house," says he, loftily; and
the quotation in which Caesar's wife is brought to bear comes to
my mind: I am almost tempted to mention it for purposes of
provocation, but refrain. In truth, I am really unhappy, and at
my wit's end, by this. Surely I cannot have so altogether
forgotten myself as he seems to imagine.
"There are worse people here than Mark Gore," I remark, still
sullen.
"If there are, I don't know them, and certainly do not wish to
discuss them. The misdemeanors of the world do not concern me; it
is with you alone I have to deal. Ever since Gore entered the
house you have shown an open and most undignified desire for his
society. I bore it all in silence, neither thwarting you nor
exhibiting my displeasure in any way; but when I see you casting
aside common prudence, and making yourself a subject for
scandalous remarks, I think it is high time for me to interfere
and assert my authority. Were you several years younger than you
are, you are still quite old enough to know right from wrong; and
for the future"--here he stops short close beside me, and, with
his blue eyes flashing, goes on, "for the future, I insist on
your conducting yourself as my wife should."
When a man is without his coat and waistcoat, and thinks himself
ill-used, he generally looks more than his actual height.
Marmaduke, standing before me with uplifted hand to enforce his
remarks, and with a very white face, certainly appears
uncomfortably tall. He is towering over poor little me, in my
heelless shoes and white gown, and for a moment it occurs to me
that I ought to feel frightened; the next instant anger has
overpowered me, and raised me to his level.
"How _dare_ you speak to me like that? By what right do _you_ use
such language? You who every hour of the day make yourself
conspicuous with that horrible cousin of yours? Do you suppose,
then, that I have no eyes? that I cannot fathom motives, and
actions, and---`"
"What do you mean?" interrupts he, haughtily.
"That sounds very well; but if, when you accused me of flirting
with Mark Gore, _I_ had drawn myself up, and asked, in an injured
tone, 'what you meant,' you would very soon have told me I knew
only too well. Have I not noticed you with Blanche? Do you ever
leave her side? Whispering in corridors--lingering in
conservatories--letting her write you letters! Oh, I know
_everything!_" cry I, absolutely sobbing with long pent-up rage
and grief.
"Write me letters!" repeats 'Duke, in utter bewilderment.
"Yes; long, _long_ letters. I saw it."
"Blanche never in her life wrote me a long letter, or any other
letter, that I can recollect."
"_Oh!_ When I saw it with my own eyes, and only yesterday, too!
How can you deny it? In the morning she pretended she had a
headache, and I went up to ask her how she was, and there on the
table was a pink note, with three of the pages closely written
over, and while I stayed she folded it into a cocked hat; and
when I came home in the evening I went into your room---_this_
room--for some eau-de-Cologne, and it was lying _there_ on the
table under my _nose_," I wind up, with passionate vulgarity.
"I think you must be raving," says 'Duke, his own vehemence
quieted by mine. "A letter--yet stay," a look of intelligence
coming into his face; and, going over to a drawer he rummages
there for a moment, and at length produces the very
three-cornered note that has caused me so many jealous pangs. "Is
this the note you mean?"
"Yes, it is," coming eagerly forward.
"I now recollect finding this in my room, when I returned from
shooting yesterday. She asks me to do a commission for her,
which, as it happens, quite slipped my memory until now. Take and
read it, and see how just were your suspicions."
As I put out my hand, I know that I am acting meanly, but still I
do take it, and, opening it, find my three closely-written pages
have dwindled down to half a one. Five or six lines, carelessly
scrawled, are before me.
"Are you satisfied?" asks 'Duke, who, half sitting on the table
with folded arms, is watching me attentively.
"Yes," in a low voice; "I was wrong. This is not the note I saw
with her. I now understand she must have meant _that_ one
for--for somebody else, and, knowing I saw it, sent this to you
to blind me."
"_More_ suspicions, Phyllis? As to what other charges you have
brought against me, I can only swear that when I told you a year
ago you were the only woman I had ever really loved, I spoke the
truth."
"From all you have said to me to-night, I can scarcely imagine
you would now repeat those words," I say, in trembling tones.
"Yes, I would. If I live to be an old man, I shall never love
again as I have loved, and _do_ love, you."
"Yet you are always meeting Blanche; you are always with her.
Only this very morning I found you both together in the corridor
in earnest conversation."
"It was quite by accident we met; I had no idea she was there."
"She was speaking to you of me?"
"She said something about your manner towards Gore the night
previous. It was something very kind, I remember, but it angered
me to think any one had noticed you, though in my heart I knew it
must be so. It was too palpable. She meant nothing hurtful."
"The wretch! 'Duke, listen to me and believe me. If I had not
felt positive that note," moving a little nearer and laying my
fingers upon it, "was the one I saw with her, I would never have
acted towards Mark Gore as I did last night. But I felt wounded
and cut to the heart, and tried to torture you as I was being
tortured. It was foolish, wicked of me, I know, but it made no
one so miserable as myself."
"But then--the rink." He speaks very quietly now, but he has come
off the table, and is standing before me, one hand resting on it
very close to mine, but not touching. I am gazing earnestly into
his face with large, wistful eyes.
"It was the same longing for revenge made me go there--nothing
else. I had tried to make up with you by asking you to take me to
the rink in the evening, but you would not meet my advances, and
answered me very cruelly." My lips tremble. "Your words restored
all my anger. I was determined to show you I could go there
without your permission. Sir Mark was on the spot, and asked me
to go with him; it was all the same to me whom I went with, so
long as I could defy you, and I agreed to accompany him--not, as
you thought, because I wished to be with him, but only to vex
you. I thought of no one but you. It would not trouble me if I
never saw Mark Gore again. You believe me, 'Duke? I never told
you a wilful lie, did I?" Two heavy tears long gathering roll
down my cheeks.
"Never," replies he, hoarsely.
Silence follows his last word. We stand very near, yet separate
gazing into each other's eyes. Presently, impulsively, his hand
mores, and closes firmly upon mine. For an instant longer we
gaze, and then I am in his arms, crying as if my heart would
break.
"You don't care for her; _say_ you don't care for her," I sob,
entreatingly.
"Phyllis, how can you ask me? To care for that worldly-wise
woman, when I have _you_ to love, my own darling my angel!"
This is comforting; it almost sounds as though he were calling
her bad names, and I sob on contentedly from the shelter of his
arms.
"And you will never speak to her again, will you, _dear_ 'Duke?"
"Oh, my pet! You forget she is a guest in the house. How can I
avoid speaking and being civil to her?"
"Of course I don't mean _that_. But you will have no
_tete-a-tete_ and you won't be so attentive to her and you will
be very glad when she goes away?"
"I will indeed, be most sincerely delighted, if her staying
causes you one moment's unhappiness. She speaks of leaving next
week; let us be polite to her for these few remaining days--poor
Blanche!--and then we will forget she ever lived."
"Yes," I acquiesce, and then there is a pause in the
conversation. Is he not going to touch on the other cause of war?
For a little time I am filled with wonderment; then I say, shyly,
"You do not ask me about Mark Gore?"
"No." replies he, hastily, "nor will I. I understand everything;
I believe all you said. A misconception arose between us: now it
is at rest forever, let us refer to it no more. Now that it is at
an end, I feel rather flattered at your being so jealous; it
tells me you must be getting to care for me a little."
"Oh, _caring_ is a poor thing. I think now I love you better than
any one in the world, except---"
"Billy, and Roly, and mamma," he mimics me, laughing, though he
bites his lips, "the old story."
"Wrong: I was going to say mother only. Somehow, Billy and Roly
of late do not seem so dear as you." I stroke his face
patronizingly.
"Only mother!" he says, with a gay laugh (how many weeks have
passed since last I heard that laugh!) "why, that is much better.
Billy always appeared the most formidable rival. I am progressing
in your good books. In time I may even be able to vanquish
mother."
"I am so glad I made that onslaught on your door a little while
ago," declare I, merrily, "and I think you were very undecided
about letting me in. How good it is to be quite friends again!
and we have not been that for a long time. Oh, is not jealousy a
horrible pain?"
"'And to be wroth with those we love
Doth work like madness on the brain,'"
quotes 'Duke softly.
"It all began by Mark Gore telling me you were once engaged to
Blanche Going."
"What a lie!" cries 'Duke, so eagerly that I cannot choose but
believe him. "How often am I to tell you I never loved any one
but you?"
"That is another thing. Men always imagine when they form a new
attachment that the old ones contained no real love. What I
should like to know is, how many you asked to marry you." My
words are uttered jestingly, yet his face changes, very slightly,
ever so little, yet it certainly changes. Only a little pallor, a
little faint contraction nothing more. It is gone almost as soon
as it is there.
"I never asked Blanche, at all events," he laughs, lightly. And
not until many days have come and gone, do I remember his
singular hesitation.