During many days that follow I lie prostrate, weak as a little
child, upon my bed. The shock, the thoughts he has called up, the
sure and certain knowledge he has imparted to me of how that part
of the world that knows all my sad story regards my position, has
done much to destroy the poor remains of life and hope that still
cling to me almost unconsciously.
A fresh cold has again attacked me, and brought on with increased
vigor my old cough. By the middle of May, I am a complete wreck
of my once buoyant self.
Rising one Sabbath morning with a curious awesome sense of coming
dissolution upon me, I put on my outdoor things, and slowly
crawl, rather than walk, the little way that separates me from
the rustic, ivy covered church.
The sexton, all prying eyes and gaping mouth, shows me, heavily
veiled as I am, into the Carrington pew, guessing instinctively,
though he has never seen me, that the strange lady of Hazelton
has at last given in and confessed a craving for spiritual
consolation.
I kneel and pray as in a dream. The voices of the village choir
rise up around me, yet scarcely enter my dulled ear. The Litany,
with all its grandeur, all its solemn beauty, fails to impress my
sickened soul.
I sit alone, apart, my veil drawn down, my hands clasped upon my
knees, turning neither to the right nor left, dimly conscious
that the sermon I hear so coldly is far beyond the average of
those usually served up to the congregations of remote, almost
forgotten country towns.
When it is over, and my neighbors have well departed, I move down
the aisle, and make my way down again to my hermitage, unmoved,
unsoftened, by all I have heard and seen.
After the mockery called lunch is at an end, I go to my chosen
sitting-room, and, getting into a window that overlooks a small
inlet of the sea, sit down to my incessant musing.
Presently, far off through the house, comes the sound of
impatient knocking. I cannot hear distinctly, so thick are the
ancient oaken doors that divide me from the hall; but that it is
a double knock I feel small doubt.
This thought, so foreign, being forced upon me, after quite six
months of perfect isolation, raises a nervousness that is near
akin to fear, within my breast. I wait in palpitating expectancy
for what is to follow. Perhaps the vicar, emboldened by my
appearance in his church, has determined to strike while the
iron, in his opinion, must be hot, and has ridden over to try and
gain access to the one hardened sinner who disgraces his parish.
Many conjectures rush through my mind, but this takes root. It
must be so.
Steps in the hall. Is it possible the man has admitted him on his
own responsibility against my orders, or has he forced his way,
setting his duty before him as an excuse for his impertinence?
Steps up the stairs, along the passage--steps almost at the door.
I spring to my feet, and push back my chair. Who is it? Who is it
I hear? I move still farther into the window, I clutch the
curtains to steady myself, I put both my hands up to my head, to
stifle the wild sob that rises in my throat.
Nearer, nearer! I lean against the window-shutters, and am
trembling like one in ague from head to foot, as the door opens,
and Marmaduke comes in.
Our eyes meet, and then of a sudden a great calm falls upon me!
---
"She is dead," says he, wearily, and flings himself into the
chair near which he is standing. He makes no attempt to come
nearer to me, to touch me after that first long eager glance.
As for me, I cannot utter even one poor word. Am I glad? Am I
sorry? Am I half mad with joy at the very sight of him? or am I
altogether indifferent? I hardly know.
"She is dead." The words keep ringing in my ears. My brain echoes
them. "She is dead--dead!"
A clammy moisture, cold and weak, covers my face. My hands fall
to my side lifeless.
"Not,"--I stammer--"not--you did not---"
"Murder her?" supplies he, with a bitter laugh. "No; though I
could have done so with a good will, I refrained from that. When
I reached her she was lying shrouded in her coffin."
"When did she die?" I ask; "and how?"
"In Florence, a fortnight ago, of some malignant fever. I have
come here with as little delay as possible to tell you of it."
I glance at him curiously. It is not the old Marmaduke who has
come back to me. He is travel stained, worn, and thin. His voice
has lost its old ring, his eye its brightness. There is something
dejected in his very attitude.
Such a meeting, after such a parting! I marvel at it inwardly,
though conscious I would not have it otherwise.
Alas! how wrongly things have gone with us during our brief
married life, from beginning to end! Is it indeed true that when
the mist and the rain arise to blot our hopes, nor time nor
vengeance can suffice to make existence quite the same again?
"How can I tell that she is really dead?" say I, moodily: "you
deceived me once. Perhaps some day she will come to life again to
defy and torture me."
"I do not think you have any right to speak to me in this way,"
replies he, quietly. "I may have deceived you passively once in
my life by forbearing to mention what would do no good in the
telling, and might have caused you grief, or at least,
unpleasantness. But to you or any other being I have never lied.
I saw the woman dead with my own eyes. I attended her funeral. I
did not think proofs necessary; but if you require it I can
produce a witness."
He pauses calmly for a reply, being utterly passionless in his
manner; but I give him none. I am still wondering at the change
in him, the change in myself.
"You will not believe me guilty of falsehood in such a case?" he
says. "You surely must see I am speaking the truth."
"I suppose so," I murmur, at length. "Poor woman! She did not
long outlive her revenge." I sigh heavily, and my head droops. My
thin white fingers clasp and unclasp one another aimlessly. My
thoughts are so indistinct I can put them into no shape. The
light falls upon my bent figure, my slight shrunken form.
"Phyllis!" cries Marmaduke, springing to his feet with a sudden,
sharp change of tone, "how white you are! how emaciated! how
altered in every way! Have you been ill? Oh, my darling!"--with
a groan--"I have ruined your life, and broken your heart: have I
destroyed your health also?"
He makes an impetuous movement towards me, as though he would
catch me in his arms.
"Don't do that," I cry, hastily, shrinking further into the
recess of the window. "Do not touch me. Remember you are not--my
husband."
He stops short, and his eager arms fall empty to his sides. His
face grows a shade paler.
"True," he says, in a low voice: "I had forgotten that: you do
well to remind me. Fortunately, it is a matter that can soon be
put right."
"Is it?" I question coldly. "Can any tiling that has once gone
wrong in this world ever be put right again, I wonder."
"This can, at all events." regarding me closely. "We must be
married again here, and without delay. The few who know our
wretched story can be our witnesses, and no one beyond need be a
bit the wiser."
"You forget that walls have ears, and that one's sin must always
find one out."
"There was no premeditated sin in this case, and"--speaking
somewhat curtly--"I do not believe we have been found out. On my
way through London coming down here, I sounded a few of my
acquaintances on the subject, and all seemed ignorant of the real
cause of our separation. However, that is an outside question
altogether. The principal thing now is to put oneself beyond the
reach of scandal. When will you wish the ceremony, Phyllis? Next
week? I fear this being Friday, it will be impossible to arrange
it sooner. You will want some of your friends with you."
He is calm again, but is now watching me narrowly.
"I don't know," I say deliberately, "whether I shall consent to a
second marriage. I have grown accustomed to my present life;
solitude suits me. Now I am free then---"
I have scarcely, I think, rightly calculated the full effect of
my words. Striding forward, Marmaduke seizes me by both arms,
and, turning, forces me to meet his gaze.
"What are you saying?" he cries, fiercely. "What folly is this?
Do you know that for all these past months I have been half mad,
when thinking of the blight I have brought upon your honor, and
are you so insensible to it that you can hesitate about accepting
this one only way of redeeming it? Your dislike to me must have
grown indeed, if at such a time you can shrink from taking my
name."
"You misunderstand me. I only shrink from changing my present
calm mode of living."
"Do you know what the world will do, when sooner or later it
finds out the truth--as it surely will? Do you know it will cut
you, avoid you, wound you in every possible way?"
"Why should I care?" I interrupt, recklessly. "All these months I
have done without companionship; there is no reason why in the
future I should feel the want of it. Besides, they must see it
is through no fault of mine that things have so arranged
themselves."
"The world will never be content with the true version of the
story. It will not rest without adding to it such false outlines
as shall serve to render it more palatable to its scandal-loving
ears. You must be indeed ignorant of its ways if you can imagine
otherwise. It will ask why, when the obstacle was happily
removed, I did not then marry you? What answer will you make to
that?"
"Who will question me? If I shut myself away from every one, how
shall I be affected by the surmises of society?"
"You talk like a foolish child, and like a very selfish one. Am I
unworthy of any consideration? How shall I bear to look on while
society vilifies you to its heart's content and leaves you
without a rag of reputation? You in your present position--a
woman without a name--would have as much chance of admission
within your own circle as the veriest Pariah that could be
produced. I will not listen to your folly. Even if you hate me, I
shall insist upon your marrying me."
"How can you insist!" I ask almost angrily. There is a wild,
unsettled throbbing of my heart that puzzles me I scarcely know
what it is I would or would not wish. All these past mouths of
bitter maddening thought and unbroken loneliness have crushed the
life within my breast and dulled my intellect. "You have no claim
upon me?"
"No," in a changed, softened voice. "I cannot, indeed, insist,
but I can plead--not for myself, Phyllis, but for you. I have
put the case before you truthfully, and now entreat you to become
my wife before the real reason for our separation gets abroad. I
offer you my name alone. Once having put you in possession of
that, I swear I will rid you of my presence forever if you wish
it. Will that content you? Why should the idea be so repugnant to
you? unless, indeed---"
Here he pauses. A deep-red passionate flush suffuses his face.
Placing his hands heavily upon my shoulders he once more compels
me to meet his eyes.
"Unless, indeed, you wish to hold yourself free for another? If I
thought that if during my absence you had seen any one else,
who---"
"Oh, yes!" I interrupt, bitterly; "that is so likely! My married
life has been so pleasant--such a prosperous one that doubtless I
am in a hurry to try it again. No; believe me, I have fixed my
affections on no one during your absence. You are quite safe
there. I am as heart-whole as when you left me. I feel no wild
desire to throw myself into the arms of any man."
He draws a long, deep breath.
"I would kill you," he says, slowly, "if for a moment I doubted
your truth."
"I am hardly worth the killing," return I, with a little, faint,
chill smile, looking upon my wasted hands and fragile figure as
it reflects itself in an opposite mirror. "Why do you want me so
much? I have always been more of a torment to you than a joy, and
now I have lost even those few poor little charms I may once have
thought I possessed. Ice itself cannot be colder than the woman
you wish for the second time to make your own. Why will you not
take the chance of escape I offer?" He makes a movement of
impatience. "You are unwise in letting it slip. What can you see
in me to love?"
"Just what I always saw in you to love. I cannot change. To me,
you are my wife the most precious thing on earth. I will not give
you up."
"And you saw her lying dead?" I say, irrelevantly.
"Yes. Have I not told you so already? Why name her to me?"
"Poor soul! How strange she must have looked," I say, dreamily,
"lying there with those restless, burning eyes forever closed--so
cold, so white, so still. And you looked down upon her. You were
glad to see her there," with a shudder. "You rejoiced that death
had stepped in to conquer her and free you of a chain that
dragged. It is a dreadful picture."
"A very natural one, I think. Glad? Yes I was glad I was more
than that: I was deeply thankful to see her there, powerless to
work her wicked will or pollute the world again. I think--I hope
I forgave her; but I was glad to see her dead."
There is a pause. Weary of standing, I sink into a chair. I push
back my hair from my forehead, which has begun to throb a good
deal, and then let my hands fall listlessly into my lap.
Kneeling down besides me, he takes one of them gently and strokes
it. While he does so, I examine him critically. He has grown more
like himself by this time, and but for the hollows in his cheeks,
and that his moustache is somewhat darker and longer, I see no
great alteration. Verily he has emerged from the fight unscathed,
and triumphant in comparison with me.
"Tell me your real objection to my proposal," he says, softly.
"Does my disinclination to be re-married so much surprise you?" I
ask, slowly and gravely. "Until I saw you I was a light-hearted
child--I feel that now by force of contrast, though often then I
fancied myself ill used; I did not know the meaning of real pain,
of bitter enduring shame--that crudest of all heart-aches. You
enlighten me."
"Phyllis--my love--spare me!"
"Here, in this quiet spot, I am at peace. My life is going from
me slowly: I have little strength left; do not urge me against my
will to enter again into the turmoil and troubles of everyday
existence."
"Oh, my darling, don't speak so hopelessly. The melancholy of
your life has caused you to exaggerate the evils of your state.
Change of air and a good doctor will do wonders for you. Only do
not waste time. Delay is often fatal. Phyllis, think of your
mother. For her sake, promise to marry me again next Monday."
"Very well; you shall have your way," I return, fairly beaten by
his vehemence and determination.
"That is wise! that is sensible!" he says, eagerly. "Any other
course you adopted could only be suggested by weak and morbid
sentiments. Everything later on shall be as you wish. I will go
back to London by the night man to arrange matters. So let me
know now any things you may require--what friends as witnesses,
for instance."
"Harriet and Bebe, I suppose; and Dora and George Ashurst. That
will be sufficient, will it not?"
"Your mother?"
"Mamma? Oh, no! oh, no!" I cry, weeping. "Not mamma. She dressed
me for my first wedding; I will not have her now. We would both
be thinking of that all the time, and it would break her heart.
But go to her, and tell her everything. She may find some
consolation in your tidings."
"I will go to her to-morrow." he whispers soothing. "Afterwards
I may go on to Strangemore. Can I bring you anything from there?"
"Send me Martha. I would like to have her with me, again."
"I will. Phyllis, my dear, dear girl, why do you cry so bitterly?
Of what are you thinking? Surely you must see that I am only
acting for the best. If I consented to what you propose, I would
deserve the name of black-guard; no term would be too harsh to
apply to me. Sooner or later, darling, you will acknowledge this,
and thank me for my firmness."
"I suppose so," making a violent effort to suppress my sobs. "I
am only weak and nervous. Your coming was so unexpected; you
should have warned me. And I have been so quiet here. Remember
you have promised that I shall not be disturbed afterwards. You
will still leave me to myself. I am fit for nothing else. Oh,
this pain--this faintness! Will you ring the bell and get me a
glass of wine?"
He receives me as I totter feebly forward, and lays me on my
couch with the utmost tenderness and a good deal of trepidation.
Then he rings the bell, and as the man enters, gives the order
for the wine in the old clear quick voice, that seems to me to
belong so entirely to Strangemore as to be out of place in this
other home.
Not until I am quite recovered, and apparently little the worse
for my faintness, does he take his leave. Gently kissing my
hands, with the assurance that he will be back again with the
friends I have expressed a wish for, on the coming Sabbath, he
quits the house as quietly as he entered it.
On the Sunday, about the middle of the day, Harriet and Bebe
arrive. Dora and George Ashurst follow them in time for dinner. I
can see they are all more or less shocked at the changes that
have taken place in my appearance, though they refrain from
saying so.
Bebe lays herself out to amuse and arouse me by retailing to my
languid ears all the most secret gossip and raciest pieces of
scandal from the London world, bit by bit, as it occurs to her.
Lord Harry has been at P--- again, and was well received there in
spite of all that has come and gone. Lord Augustus was jilted by
Miss Glanville. George Brooks found the air of Monaco didn't
agree with him, and was obliged to exchange into another and less
desirable regiment, to see what time and India would do for him.
The Duke has made a wretched match in the eyes of the world. But
she is awfully good to look at, and he appears provoking
contented and happy.
"And he really should not do that, you know," says Bebe; "it
isn't good form to be in such high spirits with the tide of
popular opinion so dead against you. To see them in the theatre
is immense fun (I don't believe she ever saw one until she
married him and came to town), he sitting beside her and
explaining everything, she all big eyes and pleasurable
excitement. His delight in her delight is quite pretty."
Lady Blanche Going has had measles, much to her own disgust and
Bebe's enjoyment.
"And how is Chandos?" I ask, presently.
"How can I tell you, my dear, when I see so little of him? He has
been making a grand tour somewhere, and 'raking up old bones,' we
hear; but the 'where' is wrapped in mystery--Jericho, most
probably; it would just suit his dismal disposition."
She speaks heartlessly, but her low, broad forehead wrinkles ever
such a little.
"I hope, wherever he is, he will come back safely," I say,
kindly, ignoring her manner. "I liked him so much. To me he
never appeared dismal. And your Chips: what of him?"
"Ah! my poor Chips? He sailed for India a month ago. Such a
leave-taking as we had! It, would have melted an Amazon. I assure
you I very nearly wept; and I certainly kissed him. So did
Harriet--twice--who was on the spot doing propriety. I thought
that was taking an unfair advantage of me. And he is to shoot
every tiger in Bengal, and to send me the skins. At long last I
shall be embarrassed by my riches."
After dinner, we are all assembled in the drawing-room, we become
aware of some noise that strongly resembles a scuffle in the
hall. It is followed by the sudden opening of the door, and the
apparition of Martha on the threshold, flushed with victory, and
with her bonnet artistically awry.
Seeing me lying on the sofa, she loses all presence of mind (of
which her stock was always small), and, regardless of beholders,
rushes forward, and precipitates herself at my feet.
"Oh, Miss Phyllis! Oh, ma'am!" says she, with a lamentable sniff
and a nice forgetfulness of manners, as she takes note of my
leanness, "oh, Miss Phyllis! my dear, my dear! How terrible bad
you do look, to be shore!"
Here she falls to kissing and to weeping over my hand, finally
breaking into loud sobs. The old spinster appellation, suiting as
it does my present position so neatly--albeit unmeant by my
faithful handmaiden--raises within me a grim sense of amusement.
I check it, however, as being unfit for present company.
"Nonsense, Martha," I say, kindly, "don't go on like that. I dare
say, now you have come to take care of me, I shall recover my
beauty. I shall feel quite insulted if you cry over me any more."
"Martha, come with me," says Bebe, with authority; and Martha,
being, like all the good ones of her class, instinctively
obedient, rises, and leaves the room close at Miss Beatoun's
heels.
"What a dreadful habit those people have got of giving way to
their feelings on every possible occasion!" exclaims the usually
serene Harriet, wrathfully, as the door closes, coming to my side
to shake up my pillows and get rid of her irritation.---
"Really, yes, it is very distressing," chimes in Dora, from the
depths of the large arm-chair, in which her small figure is
almost lost; she speaks as it behoves a pretty baroness to speak,
who now for the first, time is made aware of some of the grosser
habits of the lower classes. Her tone is perfect--having just the
correct amount of surprise and disapproval--no more, "And yet
that woman always used to strike me as being such a very properly
conducted sort of person."
"Don't be so hard on her Harry," say I. "Remember she has known
me all my life, and has had the care of me ever since I was an
infant. She loves me; do not condemn her for that love."
"I was wrong, of course," confesses Harriet, remorsefully. Such
attachment, being rare, should be considered beautiful. I
apologize to your Martha. But I was thinking, not of her, darling
but of you. I did so dread she would excite you over much, and
to-morrow will be such a trying day. Now, lie back again, dear,
and keep silence while we chat to you.
---
It is still the morning of my second wedding day, though a few
minutes since I heard some clock chime the quarter to twelve.
Habited in the darkest gown my wardrobe can produce, I go
downstairs slowly, as in a dream, to the drawing-room, where I
find them all assembled before me.
They all glance at me as I enter, and seem relieved on perceiving
the total lack of nervousness exhibited by my features. Indeed,
it occurs even to myself that I am the only one present
thoroughly unimpressed.
Marmaduke is looking pale but composed, George Ashurst painfully
anxious; but that is only what might be expected of him. The
others are all more or less evidently desirous of getting it over
in a hurry, and appearing at their ease, in which they fail. The
priest, a stranger to me, seems curious.
Bebe comes forward, and taking my hand, leads me before the
impromptu altar. Marmaduke steps to my side, and his old college
chum commences the service. I have obstinately refused to be
remarried by the vicar at home. Bebe dexterously draws off the
wedding ring--that has never yet left my finger since it was
first placed there--and thoughtfully hands it to 'Duke. With a
shudder he flings it from him into the glowing fire, where it
vanishes forever with a faint tinkling noise.
"Not that," he mutters, in a low tone, and brings out a new one
from his pocket.
In a clear voice utterly devoid of emotion, I answer all the
responses. Marmaduke's voice shakes a good deal, and I turn and
look at him surprised. He has had my hand in a warm, close clasp
from the moment the prayer-book was opened, and now, too, I
notice how he trembles as for the second time he binds me to him
with the little golden, emblem of eternity.
Although their voices reach my outward ears, although I myself
say what is required of me with perfect calmness, I do not really
hear or heed one word of the ceremony. Thoughts, frivolous and
unworthy of the solemnity of the occasion, flit through my brain.
I cannot fix my attention on any one thing. I feel no desire to
do so.
I wonder vaguely whether, were a widow going to be married again,
she would feel as indifferent as I do; then I recollect how, in
her case, the bridegroom at least would be a new feature, which
would, without doubt, add a little zest to the affair.
How pretty Dora is looking in that navy blue silk and cashmere
costume--wonderfully pretty and timid! but then everything always
did become Dora.
How nervous that good George appears, and how ridiculously red!
Why, he might almost be painted.
Oh! I have ordered no wedding breakfast. Only fancy! a wedding
without a wedding breakfast! How could I have been so remiss?
They will all think me terribly stupid. I almost confess aloud
this negligence on my part, so little do I heed the sacred words
that are falling on the air; but fortunately some still remaining
sense of propriety restrains me.
The service is nearly at an end; once more Marmaduke Carrington
and I are man and wife. It only waits for the few last sentences
to be read.
Looking up, I catch Bebe's eyes. Why are they so wet? And how
large they are--how large!--why do they grow, and gleam, and burn
into mine, like--like--Ah!
I wrench my hand from Marmaduke, and, turning towards George
Ashurst, fling up my arms somewhat wildly.
"Save--save me!" I gasp.
In another moment he has caught me, and I am lying senseless on
his breast.
When I come to myself, I find them all around me, though most of
them stand at a little distance from the sofa. The strange
clergyman has vanished--no doubt horrified at such unorthodox
behavior.
Marmaduke, with folded arms, is stationed rather apart from the
others, biting his lips, and making a violent effort to conceal
his fear and emotion.
"Are you better, darling?" asks Bebe, whose arm is under my head,
while Dora, supplied with a smelling-bottle, leans over me at the
other side--the very sweetest picture of misery.
"I am," I return, feebly; "I don't know what made me so foolish.
I did not feel nervous; but I was unlike myself all the morning."
"Poor child!" says Harriet, and down come Dora's tiny fingers,
wet with eau-de-cologne, upon my forehead.
"I shall be all right in a minute or two," I go on, smiling as I
regain strength. "It was too bad of me to frighten you all so
much. In the middle of it, I suddenly recollected I had forgotten
to order you any breakfast, and the horror of the thought must
have been too much for me. I grow nervous and fanciful in my old
age. But I am all right again now."
The day wears on; my wedding guests have had their lunch, and are
now in the drawing-room, bidding me farewell before starting for
the train that is to bear them away from the newly-married
couple. How strange, how difficult to comprehend, it all appears!
Dora kisses me with a good deal more than her usual warmth. For
once, her pretty show of sympathy is quite sincere. I think at
this moment, seeing me so sick, and languid, and devoid of all
the old unrestrainable joyousness, she, for the first time,
altogether forgives me my misdoings. George kisses me, too,
heartily, and murmurs a few confused congratulatory words. Even
to his thick brain it has become apparent how strangely apathetic
and indifferent is the bride.
"The continent is the place for you, Phyllis," he says; "any one
can see that with half an eye. Get Carrington to take you there
without delay!"
I smile faintly but make no rejoinder.
"Good-bye, darling," whispers my Bebe, stooping over me, and
rubbing her cheek with a little purring motion to mine. "Be a
good child, and let Marmaduke pet you to his heart's content. You
want an overdose, now you have been so long alone."
At length they are all gene, leaving the house to fall back into
its old silence and calm. All, that is, except Marmaduke, who
lingers purposely.
"There is no reason," he says, in answer to my inquiring look,
"why all those people should know so soon the terms on which we
have arranged to live. By degrees it can make itself known."
I lie idly thinking, idly putting together in my mind the strange
story of my life. Once, looking up, I catch his gaze intently
fixed upon me. Twice, three times, I meet it, and then, growing
irritable through exhaustion and excitement, I say, pettishly:---
"Why do you look at me so? I hate being stared at. One would
imagine I had more heads than one. Is my appearance so very
grotesque, Marmaduke?"
"Was I staring?" he asks, absently, and drawing out his watch,
examines it anxiously, and then commences a slow promenade up and
down the room. He appears distrait, impatient. His eyes are now
turned towards the window that overlooks the avenue. It is as
though he were expectant of some one's arrival.
"If you are not going until the next train," I remark, snubbily,
"you have two full hours to wait: therefore you need hardly
calculate minutes so soon. That is the eighth time you have
examined your watch within the past ten minutes." Certainly I am
not in my most amiable mood.
"I am not returning to London to-night," he says, calmly. "I dare
say I can get a bed at that place in the village."
"Surely, considering this is your own house, you need not throw
yourself on the mercy of the parish for a bed. Martha will see
about a room for you."
"It is your house, not mine. I made you a present of it
when--some time ago. However," quickly, "if you invite me, I
shall gladly put up here."
Turning his face to the window, and away from me he goes on
rapidly:---
"To tell you the truth, Phyllis, the chief reason for my staying
here now is this: I made an appointment with Sir James Smithson
to meet me in this house at four o'clock, to to take a look at
you, and tell me his opinion as to your state of health."
"Sir James Smithson!" I cry, angrily. "Do you mean to tell me you
have brought a doctor to torment me and make me miserable? This
is what comes of marrying you. Oh, why was I so weak as to give
in to your wishes? I won't see him--you may be sure of that."
"My darling, be reasonable," with the humblest entreaty. "It
will only be for a few minutes. Directly he sees you, he will
know the very thing that will set you up again. There is not,
there cannot be, anything seriously wrong with you. Good advice
is all you require. Why will you insist on--on---"
"Dying," I put in, flippantly. "Why don't you say it? I shan't
go to my grave a moment sooner through your mentioning the
unpleasant word."
"You will see him, Phyllis?"
"Oh, if he is really coining, I suppose I must. But, I warn you,
I shall take no nasty, stuffs, politely called tonics, and I will
not go abroad."
In this amiable frame of mind I prepare myself to receive the
great London doctor. As the servant ushers him into my room, I
rise and bow, and am much relieved at finding myself in the
presence of a small, homely, jolly-looking little man, with none
of the signs of greatness about him.
He examines my chest, and asks a question or two that would
certainly suggest themselves to an idiot. He thumps me here and
pats me there, hums and haws, and finally says I want "tone."
"And change of air, my dear Mrs. Carrington, A little pleasure
trip, now--just a little run through all the old spots we know so
well--and then a winter at Pau or even a degree further south, is
all that we want, eh?"
"I will take your tonics," I say, giving in so far, "but,"
determinately, "I will not take change of air. I am happy here: I
will not leave it."
"Dear! dear!" ejaculated Sir James, soothingly, giving me another
tap: "how people differ! Most young ladies, now, would do almost
anything for me, if I would only order them to Pau. Such a lively
place, my dear Mrs. Carrington, so invigorating, so gay; just the
very thing for a woman so young, and, let me add, so very
charming, as yourself. Now pray do reconsider it."
I laugh, and glance at myself in an opposite mirror. A white
face, lean jaws, large unnatural eyes, and pallid lips meet my
view. I am altogether unlovely.
"I shall get well enough here," I say, obstinately. "You may
order me every nasty concoction you can think of, and I will
promise you to drink and eat them all; but go from Hazelton I
will not."
"Well, well, we shall see how you get on," replies Sir James,
cajolingly, patting my hand. He deals in pats and gentle
reassuring nods, but he is a dear old man and I feel some faint
regret that he should leave thinking me unreasonable. He does
leave me, however, presently and seeks my husband, doubtless to
pour into his ears all the unpalatable things he is too gallant
to say to me.
No more is said to me on the subject. I have evidently conquered.
Marmaduke returns to London, taking a run down every now and then
to see how I am getting on. I am not getting on at all. I am
simply stationary, and am no whit more beautiful to behold than
when first his astonished eyes fell upon me, now more than a
mouth ago.
---
I have wandered listlessly down by the sea. It is a dreary day,
raw, chill, unsummerlike. I shiver vaguely as I go, and wish the
night would come to bring us nearer to a more congenial day. All
around is mist, and cheerless damp. Gray sky, gray earth, gray
clouds that cover land and sea: and, oh! gray shadow lying on my
heart, how gray art thou!
I feel more than ordinarily depressed and weary. The tide is far
out: hardly a breath of wind disturbs the surface of the waters.
Seating myself upon a flat rock, I open my book and commence to
read.
But my thoughts will not be controlled. Raising my eyes, I look
seaward, and wonder at the great pale mist that spreads itself
north and south. The horizon sinks into the ocean, and veils of
vapory substance are everywhere.
I sigh, and turning dejectedly from the unvarying scene before
me, discover Marmaduke coming towards me across the sands.
"What a curious light!" he says, without greeting of any kind and
sits down upon the pebbles at my feet.
"Very," I answer, stupidly, and then begin to wonder vaguely what
has brought him to-day from the busy town, and who has betrayed
my favorite hiding-place.
Presently, unconsciously I sigh again, and turn my face from him.
"What is it?" asks he, kindly, taking my hand--not
affectionately, merely reassuringly. "Tell me the truth now
to-day. Is it that you hate me?"
"I hardly know," I return, wearily, "No, it is not hatred, I
think; it is indifference."
We rise, and pace silently homewards.
It is the evening of the same day, My depression of the morning
has vanished, leaving a spirit of provocation in its place. I am
in the drawing-room, lounging idly in a low cushioned chair, with
Fifine, my pet Skye, in my lap. I amuse myself, and gratify the
wickedness within me, by practising upon the long-suffering
animal such mild torments as disturb without maddening her.
'Duke, under the impression that there is a fire in the grate
stands with his back to the fireplace, and stares at me.
"I wish," he remarks presently, without premeditation, "you could
be induced to take Sir James' advice and seek change of air. This
solitary hole must have a bad effect upon your health.
"I have borne the solitude for so many months that I dare day I
can bear it again. Though, indeed," mischievously, "I had company
at times. I could actually have been married, had I so chosen."
"What!" says Marmaduke, in a low tone, flushing.
"I could have been married, had I so chosen," I repeat, with much
gusto. "Why do you look so surprised? I was free, was I not?
There was no reason, then, why I should not listen to any man's
proposal."
"What do you mean, Phyllis?" sternly.
"Just what I say. A friend of ours who is aware of all the
circumstances of our case, came here one day and made me a
handsome offer of his hand and what he is pleased to term his
heart."
"Did Gore come down here to see you?"
"Not so much for that as to ask me to marry him."
"The scoundrel!" says 'Duke, through his closed teeth.
"Why should you call him that? On the contrary, there was
something generous in his wish to bestow his name upon a woman
situated as I was. (No, no, Fifine, you must not lick me. Kiss me
if you will, but keep your little tongue in its proper place.)
Few men would have done it, I fancy. At all events, it convinced
me of the truth and sincerity of his affection for me."
"If you saw so many admirable points in his character why did you
let such a valuable chance of securing them go by?" he asks,
bitterly. He is white with anger by this time. I see his emotion,
but, being fiendishly inclined at the moment, know no remorse.
"One does do a foolish thing now and again," I reply, calmly,
curling Fifine's silky locks the wrong way, to her infinite
disgust. "Afterwards, when it is too late, one repents."
"Am I to understand you repent not having bound yourself for life
to that unmitigated villain?"
I burst out laughing.
"Poor Sir Mark!" I cry. "A scoundrel! a villain! What next? He
tried to do the best he could for me, and gets only abuse in
return. Do I repent not having married him? Well, no. At that
time I was not particularly in love with matrimony; I had no
desire to form new ties. _Now_, indeed--I break off in pretended
confusion.--- My head bends itself a little on one side. I gaze
down consciously into Fifine's lustrous eyes.
"Phyllis," says my husband, with suppressed indignation,
"whatever you may really mean by your words, I must beg that for
the future I may hear no more of it; I---" But here the horrible
pain in my side comes back to me with its usual acute energy, and
mischief fades from me. I push Fifine from my lap, and half rise.
"If you are going to be tragical," I say, "I hope you will leave
me. I care neither for Sir Mark Gore, nor any other man, as you
ought to know. Oh, my side!" I gasp, pressing my hand to it, and
becoming colorless.
My breath and voice fail me. In a moment his kind arms are round
me. My head falls helpless on his shoulder, as though I were a
mere child (and indeed I am little more in his strong grasp, now
sickness has reduced me). He carries me to a sofa, and does for
me all that can be done, until the first unbearable anguish is
past. Then, with his arm under my head, so as to raise me, he
sits waiting in silent watchfulness until rest and ease return.
"You're not rid of me yet," I whisper, with a faint mocking
smile, as I notice the fear and misery in his face. "Don't look
so woebegone."
Suddenly he falls on his knees beside my couch, though still
supporting me.
"I can't bear it any longer." he says, passionately "Darling!
darling! why will you kill yourself? How can I watch you dying by
inches? Have pity for me, if you have none for yourself, and save
me from going mad. Phyllis, dearest?" controlling himself by an
effort, and trying to speak more calmly, "why can you not look
upon me as a cousin, or brother, or father, and let me take you
abroad to some place where you can get change of air and scene,
and where I may at least be near enough to protect you and see
that you want for nothing?"
"My _father_" return I, with an amused laugh: "just compare
yourself with papa; think of the inhuman length of his nose. I am
afraid it would not do. The world, simple as it has shown itself,
would hardly accept you in that light. You grow younger and
fresher every day. It is wonderful how little the agony of your
mind preys upon your body."
"Phyllis," regardless of this taunt, "let me take you to the
south of France."
"Oh, why can't I be let alone?" I cry, pettishly. "Why am I to be
tormented every hour of the day? I hate dirty, foreign towns; and
besides, I know all the journeys I could take would do me no
good; but if I am to get no peace until I consent to leave the
only place that pleases me, I may as well do so at once. I will
go back to Strangemore."
"You mean it darling?" cautiously, and without evincing too much
joy, lest in my pettishness I should repent and go back of my
words.
"Oh, yes: why not? Rather than be perpetually told how obstinate
and self-willed and sullen I am, I would go to Timbuctoo, or Hong
Kong, or any other cheerful spot."
"You would not try a warmer climate first?" with hesitation. "You
know Sir James spoke of---"
"No. I will go to Strangemore, or nowhere. I have always had a
fancy for it. Even long, long ago--how short a time in
reality!--when Billy and I used to go nesting and fishing there,
we thought it the sweetest spot on earth. I almost think it so
still. Is it not odd that I should look with such kindness upon
the scene of my greatest trouble?"
"Hush!" with a shudder: "do not let us think of it."
"Why not? I often do. It seems very far away now. _She_ had her
grievance, too, poor soul!"
"When will you start?" abruptly. "Next week? Monday?"
"To-morrow," with decision. "The sooner the better. If I die on
me way," with cruel gayety, "blame yourself for it and remember
you would have it so."
"To-morrow, then," says 'Duke, with a long sigh.