ft 
 
 - 
 
 
 UNIT. OF CALIF. LIBRARY. LOS ANGELES
 
 PHYLLIS 
 
 
 
 BY 
 
 THE DUCHESS 
 
 CHICAGO, NEW YORK, AND SAN FRANCISCO; 
 
 BELFORD, CLARKE & CO., 
 PUBLISHER*.
 
 PHYLLIS, 
 
 BY THE DUCHESS. 
 
 Author of " Molly Hawn," " The Baby? Airy Fair} 
 Lilian" etc., etc. 
 
 "Ah ! Love was never without 
 The pang, the agony, the doubt." BTBOJT. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 , Billy!" I call, eagerly, and at the top of my 
 healthy luugs; but there is no reply. "Where can that 
 boy be?" 
 
 "Billy, Billy!" I shout again, more lustily this time, 
 and with my neck craned half-way down the kitchen-stair- 
 case, but with a like result. There is a sudden movement 
 on the upper landing, and Dora, appearing above, waves 
 her hand frantically towards me to insure attention, while 
 she murmurs, " Hush ! Hush!" with hurried emphasis. 1 
 look up, and see she is robed in her best French muslin, 
 the faint blue and white of which contrasts so favorably 
 with her delicate skin. 
 
 "Hush! There is some one in the drawing-room," saya 
 my lovely sister, with the slightest possible show of irrita- 
 tion. 
 
 " Who ? " I ask, in my loudest whisper, feeling some- 
 what interested. " Not not Mr. Carrington surely ? " 
 
 'Yea,' returns Dora, under her breath; "and really, 
 
 2130481
 
 1 FffYL^S. 
 
 Phyllii, I * Leh you would ot give yourself the habit 
 
 of " 
 
 " What ? Already ! " I interrupt, with a gasp of sur- 
 prise. " Well, certainly he has lost no time. Now, Dora, 
 mind you make a conquest of him, whatever you do, as, 
 being our landlord, he may prove formidable." 
 
 Dora blushes it is a common trick of hers, and she 
 does it very successfully nods, smiles and goes on to vic- 
 tory. The drawing-room door opens and shuts ; I can 
 hear a subdued murmur of voices ; some one laughs. It is 
 a man's laugh, and I feel the growth of curiosity strong 
 within my breast. Oh, for some congenial soul to share 
 my thoughts ! Where on earth is Billy ? " 
 
 I am about to prosecute my search for him in person, 
 when he suddenly appears, coming towards me from a to- 
 tally unexpected direction. 
 
 " What's up ? " he asks, in his usual neat style. 
 "Oh, Billy, he is here Mr. Carrington I mean," I ex- 
 claim, eagerly. " Dora and mamma are Avith him. I won- 
 der will they ask him about the wood ? " 
 
 " Ile'd be sure to refuse if they did," says Billy, gloom- 
 ily. " From all I hear, he must be a regular Tartar. 
 Brewster says he is the hardest landlord in the county 
 turns all the tenants out of doors at a moment's notice, and 
 counts every rabbit in the place. I'm certain he is a mean 
 beast, and I hope Dora won't ask any favor of him." 
 J shift the conversation. 
 
 " Did you see him come ? Where have you been all this 
 time ? " 
 
 " Outside. There's a grand trap at the door, and two 
 horses. Brewster says he is awfully rich, and of course 
 he's a screw. If there's one thing I hate it's a miser," 
 
 " Oh, he is too young to be a miser," say I, in the inno- 
 cence of my heart. " Papa says he cannot be more than 
 eight-and-twenty. Is he dark or fair, Billy ? " 
 
 " I didn't see him, but I'm sure he's dark and squat, and 
 probably he squints," says Billy, viciously. "Any one that 
 could turn poor old Mother Haggard out of her house in 
 the frost and snow must have a squint." 
 
 " Bat he was in Italy then: perhaps he didn't know 
 anything about it," I put in, as one giving the benefit of a 
 bare doubt. 
 
 "Oh, didn't he?' gays Billy, with withering contempt. 
 ** He didn't send hia orders, I suppose ? Oh, no I " Onc
 
 PHYLLIS. j 
 
 iarrly started in h\ Billingsgate strain, it is impossible to 
 say where my brother will choose to draw a line, but for- 
 tunately for Mr. Carrington's character, Martha, our. parlor 
 servant, makes her appearance at t\ Is moment and comes 
 up to us with an all-important expj ession upon her jovial 
 face. 
 
 " Miss Phyllis, your ma wants ym in the drawing-room 
 at or.cet," she says. The strange gentleman is there, 
 and " 
 
 " Wants me . ? " I ask, in astonls nment, not being usually 
 regarded as a drawing-room ornament. " Martha, is my 
 hair tidy ? " 
 
 " 'Tis lovely ! " returns Marth*. And, thus encouraged, 
 I give my dress one or two hasty pulls and follow in Dora's 
 footsteps. 
 
 A quarter of an hour later J rush back to Billy, and 
 discover him standing, with bent head and shoulders, in a 
 tiny closet that open's off the hall, and is only divided from 
 the drawing-room by the very frailest of partitions. Ilia 
 attitude is crumpled, but his fac-y betrays th liveliest in- 
 terest as he listens assiduously ,o all that is going on in- 
 side. 
 
 " Well, what is he like ? " ne asks in a stage whisper, 
 !raighteuing himself slightly as ne sees me, and pointing in 
 the direction of the closet. 
 
 " Very nice," I answer witti decision. " and not dark at 
 ill quite fair. I asked him about the wood wht-n 1 got 
 She chance, and he said we might go there whenever we 
 chose, and that it would give him great pleasure if we would 
 consider it as our own. Then! ! And it was not he turn- 
 ed out old Nancy Haggard : n, was the wretch Simmons, 
 the steward, without any orders ; and Mr. Carrington haa 
 dismissed him, and " 
 
 Here Billy slips off a jam-pot, on which he has been 
 standing, with a view to raising himself, stumbles heavily, 
 and creates an appalling row ; after which, mindful of con- 
 sequences, he picks himself up sil -ntly, and together w* 
 turn and flee.
 
 FHYLU3* 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 I AM seventeen not sweet seventeen ; there is notb'r g 
 sweet about me. I am neither fair nor dark, nor tall nor 
 short, nor indeed anything in particular that might dis- 
 tinguish me from the common herd. This is rather hard 
 upon me, as all the rest of us can lay claim to beauty in 
 one form or another. Thus, Roland, my eldest brother, is 
 tall, very aristocratic in appearance, and extremely good 
 to look at ; Dora, who comes next, is small and exquisitely 
 pretty, in a fresh fairy-like style ; while Billy, the youngest 
 born," has one of the handsomest faces imaginable, with 
 liquid brown eyes of a gentle, pleading expression, that smile 
 continually> and utterly belie the character of their owner. 
 
 Why I was born at all, or why, ray creation being a 
 iettled matter, I was not given to the world as a boy, has 
 puzzled and vexed me for many years. I am entirely with- 
 out any of the little graceful kittenish blandishments of 
 manner that go far to make Dora the charming creature 
 she is ; I have too much of Billy's recklessness, mixed up 
 with a natural carelessness of my own, to make me a success 
 in the family circle. To quote papa in his mildest form, I 
 am a "sad mistake," and one not easy to be rectified, while 
 mother, who is the gentlest soul alive, reproves and com- 
 forts me from morning until n ght, without any result to 
 peak of. 
 
 I am something over five feet two, with brown hair and 
 a brown skin, and eyes that might be blue or gray, accord- 
 ing to fancy. My feet are small and well shaped, and so 
 are my hands ; but as for seventeen years I have borne an 
 undying hatred towards gloves, these latter cannot be re- 
 garded with admiration. My mouth is of goodly size, and 
 rather determined in expression; while as to my figure, if 
 Roland is to be believed, it resembles nothing so much as a 
 iJahing-rod. But my nose that at least is presentable and 
 worthy of a better resting-place ; it is indeed a most desir- 
 able nose in every way, and, being my only redeeming point, 
 i one of which I am justly proud. 
 
 Nevertheless, as one swallow makes no summer, so one 
 feature will not beautify a plain face; and in spite of icy
 
 FHYLLIS. D 
 
 Grecian treasure I stiL remain obscure. If not ornamental, 
 however, I manage to be useful ; I am an excellent foil to 
 my sister Dora. She is beyond dispute our bright partio 
 ular star, and revels in that knowledge. To be admired is 
 sun and air and life to Dora, who resembles nothing in thfl 
 world so imich as an exquisite little Dresden tigure, so 
 delicate, so pink and white, sc yellow-haired, and always so 
 bewitchingly attired. She never gets into a passion, it 
 never unduly excited. She is too pretty and too fragile for 
 the idea, else I might be tempted to say that on rare occa- 
 sions she sulks. Still, she is notably good-tempered, and 
 has a positive talent for evading all unpleasant topics that 
 may affect her own peace of mind. 
 
 Papa is a person to be feared ; mother is not ; conse- 
 quently, we all love mother best. In appearance the head 
 of our family is tall, lean, and unspeakably severe. With 
 him a spade is always a spade, and his nay is indeed nay. 
 According to a tradition among us, that has grown with 
 our growth, in his nose which is singularly large and ob- 
 trusive lies all the harshness that characterizes his every 
 action. Indeed, many a time and oft have Billy and 1 
 speculated as to whether, were he suddenly shorn of his 
 proboscis, he would also lind himself deprived of his strength 
 of mind. He is calm, and decidedly well-bred, both in 
 manner and expression two charms we do not appreciate, 
 as, on such frequent occasions as when disgrace falls upon 
 one or all of the household, the calmness and breeding be- 
 come so terrible that, without so much as a frown, he can 
 wither us beyond recognition. 
 
 I am his particular bete noire ; my hoydenish wnys jar 
 every hour of the day upon his sensitive nerves. lie never 
 tires of contrasting me unfavorably with his gentle elegant 
 Dora. He detests gushing people, and I, unhappily for 
 myself, am naturally very affectionate. I feel not only a 
 desire to love, but at times an unconquerable longing to 
 openly declare my love ; and as Roland is generally with 
 his regiment, and Dora is a sort of person who would die 
 if violently embraced, ^arn perforce obliged to expend all 
 my superfluous affection upon our darling mother anJ 
 Billy. 
 
 Strict economy prevails among us ; more through neces- 
 ity, indeed, than from any unholy desire to save. Our 
 annual income of eight hundred pounds goes but a short 
 way under any circumstances, and the hundred pounds a
 
 G PHYLLIS. 
 
 year out oJt this we allow Roland (who is always in a state 
 of insolvency) leaves us " poor indeed." A new dress is, 
 therefore, a rarity not perhaps so strange a thing to Dora 
 as it is to me and any amusement that costs money would 
 be an unheard of luxury. Out-door conveyances we have 
 none, unless one is compelled to mention a startling vehicle 
 that lies in the coach-house, and was bought no one remem- 
 bers when and where. It is probably an heirloom, and ie 
 popularly supposed to have cost a fabulous sum in the days 
 of its youth and beauty, but it is now ancient and sadly dis- 
 reputable, and not one of us but feels low and dejected 
 when, tucked into it on Sunday mornings, we are driven 
 by papa to attend the parish church. I even remember 
 Dora shedding tears now and then as this ordeal drew 
 nigh ; but that was when the Desmonds or the Cuppaidgos 
 had a young man staying with them, who might reasonably 
 be expected to put in an appearance during the service, 
 and who would be sure to linger and witness our disgrace- 
 ful retreat afterwards. 
 
 Of course papa has his two hunters. We have been 
 taught that no gentleman could possibly get on without 
 them in a stupid country place, and that it is more from a 
 noble desire to sustain the respectability of the family than 
 from any pleasure that may be derived from them, that they 
 are kept. We try to believe this but we don't. 
 
 We see very few neighbors, for the simple reason that 
 there are very few to see. This limits dinner parties, and 
 saves expense in many ways, but rather throws us younger 
 fry upon our own resources. No outsiders come to disturb 
 our uninteresting calm ; we have no companions, no friends 
 beyond our hearthstone. No alarming incidents occur to 
 feason our deadened existence; no one ever elopes with the 
 wife of his bosom friend. All is flat, stale and unprofitable. 
 
 It is, then, with mingled feelings of fear and delight 
 that we hear of Strangemore being put in readiness to re- 
 ceive its master. Mr. Carrington, our new landlord our 
 old one died about five years ago has at length wearied of 
 a foreign sojourn, and ks hastening to the land of his fathers 
 So rin report three weeks before my story opens, and for 
 
 once truly. He came, he saw, he No, we have aL 
 
 arranged ages ago it is Dora who is to conquer. 
 
 u lie is exceedingly to be liked," says mamma that nighi 
 at dinner, addressing pupa, and alludin to our landlord, 
 "and so very distinuished-lookin. I r
 
 PHYLLIS. 7 
 
 mired Dora ; be never removed his eyes from her face the 
 entire time he stayed." And mother nods and smLes approv 
 ingly at my sister. 
 
 " That must have been rather embarrassing," says papa^ 
 in his eveii way ; but I know by his tone he too is secretly 
 pleased at Mr. Carrington's rudeness. 
 
 Dora blushes, utters a faint disclaimer, and then iaughi 
 her own low cooing laugh, that is such a wonderful piece 
 of performance. I have spent hours in my bedroom endeavor, 
 ing patiently to copy that laugh of Dora's, with failure as the 
 only result. 
 
 " And he is so good-natured ! " I break in, eagerly. 
 ** The very moment I mentioned the subject, he gave us 
 permission to go to Brinsley Wood as often as ever we 
 choose, and seemed quite pleased at my asking him if we 
 might ; didn't he, mother ? " 
 
 " Yes, dear." 
 
 " Could you find no more interesting topic to discuss 
 with him than that ? " asked papa with contemptuous dis- 
 pleasure. "Was his first visit a fitting opportunity to de- 
 mand a favor of him ? It is a pity, Phyllis, you cannot put 
 yourself and your own amusements out of sight, even on an 
 occasion. There is no vice so detestable as selfishness." 
 
 I think of the two hunters, and of how long mother's 
 last black silk has been her best gown, and feel rebellious ; 
 but, long and early training having taught me to subdue 
 my emotions, I accept the snub dutifully and relapse into 
 taciturnity. 
 
 " It was not he turned out poor old Mother Haggard 
 after all, papa," puts in Billy; "It was Simmons; ana he 
 is to be dismissed immediately." 
 
 " I am glad of that," says papa, viciously. ** A moje 
 thorough going rascal never disgraced a neighborhood. He 
 will be doing a really sensible thing if he sends that fellow 
 adrift. I am gratified to find Carrington capable of acting 
 with such sound common sense. None of the absurd worn- 
 out prejudices in favor of old servants about him. I have 
 uo doubt he will prove an acquisition to the county." 
 
 Altogether, it is plainly to be seen, we every one of us 
 intend approving of our new neighbor. 
 
 " Yes, indeed," says mother, " it is quite delightful ta 
 think of a young man being anywhere near. We are sadly 
 in want of cheerfu. society. \V"h*t a pity he did not come
 
 fHYLLTS. 
 
 home directly his uncle died and left him the property, in- 
 tead of wasting these last five years abroad ! " 
 
 "I think he was right," returns papa, gracefully 
 14 there is nothing like seeing life. When hampered with a 
 wife and children, he will regret he did not enjoy more of it 
 before tying himself down irretrievably. 7 * 
 
 An uncomfortable silence follows this speech. We all 
 feel guiltily conscious that \ve are hampering our father- 
 that but for our unwelcome existence he might at the pres- 
 ent hour be enjoying all the goods and gayeties of lifo : all 
 that is, except Billy, who is insensible to innuendoes, and 
 never sees or feels anything that is not put before him in 
 the plainest terms. He cheerfully puts an end now to the 
 awkward silence. 
 
 " I can tell you, if you marry Mr, Carrington, you will 
 he on the pig's back," he says, knowingly addressing Dora. 
 Billy is not choice in his expressions. " lie has no end of 
 tin, and the gamcst lot of horses in his stables to be seen 
 Anywhere. Brewster was telling me about it." 
 
 Nobody says anything. 
 
 " You will be on the pig's back, I can tell you,'* repeats 
 Billy, with emphasis. Now, this is more than rashness, it 
 is madness on Billy's part ; he is ignorantly offering him- 
 self to the knife. The fact that his vulgarity has been 
 passed by unnoticed once is no reason why leniency should 
 l>e shown towards him a second time. Papa looks up 
 blandly. 
 
 "May I ask what you mean by being 'on the pig's 
 back ? ' he asks, with a suspicious thirst for information. 
 
 " Oh, it mean ft being in luck, I suppose," returns Billy, 
 only slightly taken aback. 
 
 "1 do not think I should consider it a lucky thing if I 
 found myself on a pig's back," says papa, still apparent y 
 abroad, still desirous of having his ignorance enlightened. 
 
 "J don't suppose you would," responds Billy, gruflly ; 
 and, being an English boy, abhorrent of irony, he makes a 
 most unnecessary clatter with his fork and spoon. 
 
 " 1 know what papa means," says Dora, sweetly, com 
 ing prettily to the rescue. One of Dora's favorite roles ia 
 to act as peacemaker on such public occasions as the pres- 
 ent, when the innate goodness of her disposition can be 
 successfully paraded* " It is that he wishes you to see 
 how unmeaning are your words, and how vulgar are all 
 hackneyed expressions. " Besides " running back to
 
 PHYLLIS. 8 
 
 Billy's former speech "you should not believe all Brew- 
 Bter tells you ; he is only a groom, and probably says a 
 good deal more than than he ought." 
 
 " There ! " erica Billy, with wrathful triumph, " you 
 were just going to say * more than his prayers,' and if thai 
 isn't a ' hackneyed expression,' I don't know what's what. 
 You ought to correct yourself, Miss Dora, before you begin 
 correcting other people." 
 
 "I was not going to say that," declares Dora, in a 
 rather sharper tone. 
 
 " Yes, you were, though. It was on the very tip ol 
 your tongue." 
 
 " I was not" reiterates Dora, her pretty oval cheeks 
 growing pink as the heart of a rose, while her liquid blue 
 eyes changed to steel gray. 
 
 " That's a " 
 
 " William, be silent," interrupts papa, with authority, 
 nd so for a time puts a stop to the family feud. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE next day Mr. Carrington calls again this time 
 ostensibly on business matters and papa and he discuss 
 turnips and other farm produce in the study, until the in- 
 terview becomes so extended that it occurs to the rest of 
 us they must be faint. Mamma sends in sherry as a res- 
 torative, which tranquillizes our fears and enables us to 
 look with more cheerfulness towards the end. 
 
 Before leaving, however, Mr. Carrington finds his way to 
 the drawing-room, where Dora and I are seated alone, and, 
 having greeted us, drags a chair lazily after him, until he 
 gets within a few feet of Dora. Here he seats himself. 
 
 Dora is tatting. Dora is always tatting; she nc\er 
 does anything else; and surely there is no work so pretty, 
 BO becoming to white fingers, as that it. which the swift 
 little shuttle ie brought to bear. Nevertheless, though he 
 is beside my sister, I never raise my heard without encoun- 
 tering his blue eyes fixed upon me. 
 
 His tyes are very handsome, large and d<rk, and won- 
 derfully Kind, eyes that let oue see into th* true heart beyond,
 
 10 PHYLLIS. 
 
 indeed, his whole fnce is full of beauty. Tie makes no un 
 wise attempt to hide it, beyond the cultivation of a fair 
 brown mustache that does not altogether conceal the deli- 
 cately-formed mouth beneath, the lips of which are fine 
 and almost sensitive enough to be womanish, but for a cer- 
 tain touch of quiet determination about them and the lower 
 jaw. He is tall and rather slightly molded, and has a very 
 clean-shaped head. 1 [is hands are white and thin, but large 
 his feet very passable. 
 
 "Do you know," he is saying to sympathetic Dora, 
 wbile I take the above inventory of his charms, " I have 
 quite an affection for this house ? I was born here, and 
 lived in it until my father died." 
 
 "Yes, I knew that," said Dora softly, with a liquid 
 glance. "And all yesterday, after you had left, I kept 
 wondering whether you felt it very strange and sad, seeing 
 new faces in your old home." 
 
 " Did you really bestow a thought upon me when I wan 
 out of sight ?" with mild surprise. "Areyouiu earnest!' 
 Do you know, Miss Vernon, I begin to believe it is a foolish 
 thing to stay too long away from one's native land away 
 from the society of one's own countrymen ; a man feels so 
 dangerously pleased with any little stray kind word that 
 may bo said to him on his return. I have been living a 
 rather up-and-down sort of life, not quite so civili/ed as 
 might have been, Hear, and it now seems absolutely strange 
 that anyone should take the trouble to think about me." 
 He says all this in a slow, rather effective tone, looking 
 pensively at Dora the while. 
 
 Here is an opportunity not to be wasted, and Dora in- 
 stantly blushes her very best blush ; then becoming charm- 
 ingly confused, lets her glance once more fall on her tatting. 
 
 " That is awfully pretty work you are doing," says Mr 
 Carrington, taking up the extreme edge of it and examining 
 it Avith grave interest. " I like to see women working, 
 when their hands are soft and white. But tlis looks a 
 difficult task : it must have taken you a long time to master 
 the intricacies." 
 
 " Oh, no. It is quite simple just in and out, you see 
 like this. Any one could learn it, if they just put their 
 mind to it." 
 
 " Do you think you could teach me, if I put my mind to 
 It?" aaka Mr. Carrington. And then their eyes meet;
 
 PHYLLIS. U 
 
 their heads are close together over the work ; they smila, 
 and continue the gaze until Dora's lids droop bashfully. 
 
 I am disgusted. Evidently they regard me in thi 
 light of a babe or a puppy, so little do they allow iny pres- 
 ence to interfere with the ripple of their inane conversation, 
 I am more nettled by their indifference than I care to con- 
 fess even to myself, and come to the uncharitable conclusion 
 that Mr. Carrington is an odious flirt, and my sister Dora 
 a fool. 
 
 "When you left this house, where did you go then?" 
 asks Dora presently, returning to the charge. 
 
 " To Strangemore to my uncle. Then Ada that ia 
 my sister, Lady Handcock married, and I went into the 
 Guards. You see I am determined to make friends with 
 you," he says pleasantly, " so I begin by telling you all I 
 know about myself." 
 
 " I am glad you wish us to be your friends," murmured 
 Dora innocently. " But I am afraid you will find us very 
 stupid. You, who have seen so much of the world, will 
 hardly content yourself in country quarters, with only 
 country neighbors." Another glance from the large childish 
 eyes. 
 
 "Judging by what I have already seen," says Mr, Car- 
 rington, returning the glance with interest, " I believe I 
 shall feel not only content, but thoroughly happy in my 
 new home." 
 
 " Why did you leave your regiment?" I break in, 
 irrelevantly, tired of being left out in the cold, and anxious 
 to hear my own voice again, after the longest silence 1 have 
 ever kept. 
 
 Dora sighs gently and goes back to the tatting. Mr. 
 Carrington turns quickly to me. 
 
 "Because I am tired of the life ; the ceaseless monotony 
 was more than I could endure. So when my uncle died 
 wnd 1 came in for the property, five years ago, I cut it, and 
 *zOok to foreign travelling instead." 
 
 "I think if I were a man I would rather be a soldier 
 than anything," I say, with effusion. " I cannot imagine 
 any one disliking the life ; it seems to me such a gay one, 
 so good in every respect. And surely anything would be 
 preferable to being aa idler." 
 
 I am unraveling a quantity of scarlet wool that has been 
 cleverly tangled by Cheekie, my fox-terrier, and so between 
 weariness and the fidgets brought on by the execution o*
 
 H PWYLLIS, 
 
 a task that is utterly foreign to my tastes I feel 
 and have pointed my last remark. Dora looks up 'in mili 
 horror, and casts a deprecating glance at our visitor. Mr. 
 Carrin^ton laughs a short, thoroughly amused laugh. 
 
 " But I am not an idler," he says; " one may find some.' 
 thing to do in life besides taking the Queen's money. Pray 
 Hiss Phyllis, do not add to my many vices one of which 1 
 am innocent. I cannot accuse myself of having wasted 
 even five minutes since my return home. Do you believ* 
 me?" 
 
 I hasten to apologize. 
 
 "Oh, I did not mean it, indeed," I say earnestly; "i 
 assure you I do not. Of course you have plenty to do. 
 You must think me very rude." 
 
 I am covered with confusion. Ilad he taken my words 
 in an unfriendly spirit I might have rallied and rather en- 
 joyed my triumph ; but his laugh has upset me. I feel 
 odiously, horribly young, both in manner and appearance. 
 Unaccustomed to the society of men, I have not had oppor- 
 tunities of cultivating the well-bred insouciance that dis- 
 tinguishes the woman of the world, and therefore betray 
 hopelessly the shyness that is consuming me. lie appean 
 cruelly cognizant of the fact, and is evidently highly de- 
 lighted with nay embarrassment. 
 
 " Thank you," he says ; " I am glad you exonerate me. 
 I felt sure you did not wish to crush me utterly. If you 
 entertained a bad opinion of me, Miss Phyllis, it would hurt 
 me more than I can say." 
 
 A faint pause, during which I know his eyes are still 
 fixed with open amusement upon my crimson countenance. 
 I begin to hate him. 
 
 "Have you seen the gardens ?" asks Dora musically, 
 " Perhaps to walk through them would give you pleasure, 
 as they cannot fail to recall old days, aud the remembrance 
 cf a past that has been happy is so sweet.'' Dora sighs, as 
 though she were in the habit of remembering perretusJ! 
 happy pasts. 
 
 " 1 shall bo glad tc visit them again," answers Mr. Car 
 rirgtori, rising, as my sister lays down the ivory shuttle. 
 He glances wistfully at me, but I have not yet recovered 
 ruy equanimity, and rivet my gaze upon my wool re entlewlj 
 as he passes through the open window.
 
 fffYLLIS. It 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 
 
 IT is four o'clock. There is a delicious hush aL over the 
 feouso and grounds, a hush that betrays the absence of the 
 Kale bird from his nest, and bespeaks security. Billy and 
 I, hat in hand, stand upon the door-step and look with 
 caution round us, preparatory to taking flight to Brinsley 
 Wood. Ever since ray unlucky confession of having asked 
 Mr. Carrington's permission to wander through the groundg 
 thereby betraying the pleasure I feel in such wanderings 
 we have found it strangely difficult to get beyond the 
 precincts of our home. Obstacles the most unforeseen 
 crop up to stay our steps, some supernatural agency being 
 apparently at work, by which papa becomes cognizant of 
 even our most secret intentions. 
 
 To-day, however, brings us such a chance of freedom as 
 we may not have again, business having called our father 
 to an adjoining village, from which he cannot possibly re- 
 wurn until the shades of evening have well fallen. Our evil 
 genius, too, has for once been kind, having forgotten to 
 suggest to him before starting the advisability of regulating 
 our movements during the hours he will be absent. Wo 
 are, therefore, unfettered, and with a glow of pleasiu-e not 
 unmixed with triumph we sally off towards the deep green 
 woods. 
 
 It is that sweetest month of the twelve, September a 
 glorious ripe September, that has never yet appeared so 
 sweet and golden-brown as on this afternoon, that brings us 
 so near the close of it. High in the trees hang clusters of 
 filberts, that have tempted our imagination for some time, 
 nd now, with a basket slung between us, that links us as 
 we walk, we meditate a raid. 
 
 As with light, exultant footsteps we hurry onwards, 
 snatches of song fall from my lips a low, soft conn alto 
 voice being my one charm. We are utterly, carelessly, 
 recklessly happy, with that joyous forgetfnlness of all that 
 has gone before, and may yet follow, that belongs alone to 
 youth. Now and then Billy's high, boyish notes join mine, 
 making the woods ring, until the song comes to sudden 
 grief through lack of memory wheu gay laughter changes
 
 X4 FHYLLI3. 
 
 the echo'i tone. Here a bunch of late and luscious black- 
 berries claim our attention. And once we have a mad race 
 after a small brown squirrel that evades us cleverly, and 
 presently revenges itself for its enforced haste by grinning 
 at us provokiugly from an inaccessible branch. 
 
 At last the w :>od we want is reached ; the nutt are in 
 full view ; our object is attained. 
 
 " Now," asks Billy, with a sigh of delight, c< at which 
 tree shall we begin ?" It is a mere matter of form his ask- 
 ing me this question, as he would think it dsrogatory to his 
 manly dignity to follow any suggestion I might make. 
 
 All the trees are laden : they more than answer our ex- 
 pectations. Each one appears so much better than the 
 other it is difficult to choose between them. 
 
 " At this," I say, at length, pointing to one richly clothed 
 that stands before us. 
 
 " Not at all," returns Billy, contemptuously : " It isn't 
 half as good as this one," naming the companion tree to 
 mine ; and, his being the master-mind, he carries the day. 
 
 " Very good : don't miss your footing," I say, anxiously, 
 as he begins to climb. There are no lower branches, no 
 projections of any kind to assist his ascent : the task is far 
 from easy. 
 
 " Here, give me a shove," calls out Billy, impatiently, 
 when he had slipped back to mother earth the fourth time, 
 after severely barking his shins. I give him a vigorous 
 push that raises him successfully to an overhanging limb, 
 after which, being merely hand-over-hand work, he rises 
 rapidly, and soon the spoiler reaches his prey. 
 
 Down come the little bumping showers ; if on my head 
 or arms so much the greater fun. I dodge; Billy aims ; 
 the birds grow nervous at our unrestrained laughter. Al- 
 ready our basket is more than half full, and Billy is almost 
 out of sight among the thick foliage, so high h&s ho 
 Btounted. 
 
 Slower, and with more uncertain aim come the nuts. I 
 begin to grow restless. It is not so amusing as it was ten 
 minutes ago, aud I look vaguely around me in search ol 
 newer joys. 
 
 At no grea, distance from me I spy another nut-tree 
 
 .iy laden with treasure and far easier of access. Low, 
 
 bnnust to the ground, some of the branches grow. My eyu 
 
 fasten upon it ; a keen desire to climb and be myselt a 
 
 poiler ueues upon me. I iay my basket on the
 
 PHYLLIS. 16 
 
 and, thought and action being one with me, I steal off with- 
 out a word to Billy and gain the. wished-for spot. 
 
 Being very little inferior to Billy in the art of climbing 
 long and dearly-bought experience having made run 
 nimble, it is at very little risk and with small difficulty 1 
 oon find myself at the top of the tree, comfortably seated 
 on a thick arm of wood, plucking my nuts in safety. I feel 
 immensely elated, both at the eminence of my situation and 
 the successful secrecy with which I have carried out my 
 plan. What fun it will be presently to see Billy looking 
 for me everywhere ! lie will at first think I have gone 
 roaming through the woods ; then he will imagine me lost, 
 and be a good deal frightened ; it will be some time before 
 he will suspect the truth. 
 
 I fairly laugh to myself as these ideas flit through my 
 idle brain more, perhaps, through real gayetyof heart than 
 from, any excellence the joke contains when, suddenly 
 raising my head, I see what makes my mischievous smile 
 freeze upon my lip. 
 
 From my exalted position I can see a long way before 
 me, and there in the distance, coming with fatal certainty in 
 iny direction, I espy Mr. Carrington ! At the same moment 
 BUly'8 legs push themselves in a dangling fashion through 
 the branches of his tree, and are followed by the remainder 
 of his person a little later. Forgetful of my original de- 
 sign, forgetful of everything but the eternal disgrace that 
 will cling to me through life if found by our landlord in my 
 present unenviable plight, I call to him, intones suppressed 
 indeed, but audible enough to betray my hiding-place, 
 
 "Billy, here is Mr. Carrington he is coming toward* 
 us. Catch these nuts quickly, while I get down." 
 
 " Why where on earth " begins Billy, and then gra?p 
 ing the exigencies of the case, refrains from further vitupera- 
 tion, and comes to the rescue. 
 
 The foe steadily advances. I fling all my collected 
 treasure into Billy's upturned face, and seizing a branch be- 
 gin frantically to beat a retreat. I am half-way down, but 
 sti 1 ! very, very far from the ground at least, so far, that 
 Bi ly can render me no assistance when I inisa my foot- 
 ing, slip a little way down against my will, and then eus 
 tan a check. Some outlying bough, with vicious and spite- 
 ful intent, has laid hold on. my gown in such way that I can 
 not reach to undo it.
 
 PHYLLIS. 
 
 I 
 
 * Come down, can't you ? " says Billy, with impatience 
 "you are showing a yard and a half of your leg." 
 
 " I can't ! " I groan ; " I'm caught somewhere Oh, whai 
 hall I do ? " 
 
 Meantime, Mr. Carrington is coming nearer and neare: 
 As I peer at him through the unlucky branches I can see he 
 is looking it' anything rather handsomer than usual, with 
 his gun on his shoulder and a pipe between his lips. Ash* 
 meets my eyes riveted upon him from my airy perch he 
 takes out the pipe and consigns it to his pocket. If he gets 
 round to the other side of the tree, from which point the 
 horrors of my position are even more forcibly depicted, I 
 feel I shall drop dead. 
 
 " Why don't you get that lazy boy to do the troublesome 
 part of the business for you ? " calls out our welcome friend, 
 while yet at some distance. Then, becoming suddenly aware 
 of my dilemma, "Are you in any difficulty? Can I help 
 you down ? " 
 
 He has become preternaturally grave so grave that it 
 occurs to me he may possibly be repressing a smile. Billy, 
 I can see, is inwardly convulsed. I begin to feel very 
 wrathful. 
 
 " I don't want any help " I say, with determination. " But 
 for my dress I could manage " 
 
 " Better let me assist you," says Mr. Carrington, making 
 a step forward. In another moment he will have gained 
 the other side, and then all will be indeed lost. 
 
 "No, no/" I cry, desperately; "I won't be helped. 
 Stay where you are." 
 
 " Very good," returns he, and, immediately presenting 
 his back to me, makes a kind pretense of studying the land- 
 scape. 
 
 Now, although this is exactly the thing of all others I 
 most wish him to do, still the voluntary doing of it on hi; 
 part induces me to believe my situation a degree more in- 
 decent than before. 1 feel I shall presently be dissolved ic 
 tears. I tug madly at my unfortunate dress without making 
 the faintest impression upon it. Oh, why is it thai m 
 ton that up to this has been so pr^pe to reduce itsi.lf to 
 -to-day should prove so tough ? My despair i'orces 
 from me a heavy sigh. 
 
 "Not down yet V " says Mr. Carrington, turning to in< 
 once more. " You will never manage it by yourself l> 
 tensibie, uud let me put you on your /eel."
 
 PHYLLIS, H 
 
 u No," I answer, in an agony ; "it must give way sooa. 
 I shall do it, if if you will only turn your back to m 
 again." It is death to my pride to have to make this request. 
 I nerve myself to try one more heroic effort. The branch 
 I am clinging to gives way with a crash. " Oh! " I shrit-kv 
 frantically, and in another moment fall headlong into Mr 
 Carrington's outstretched arms. 
 
 " Are you hurt ? " he asks, gazing at mo with anzioui 
 eyes, and still retaining his hold of me. 
 
 " Yes, I am, " I answered, tearfully. " Look at my arm." 
 I pull up my sleeve cautiously and disclose an arm that 
 looks indeed wonderfully white next the blood that trickles 
 slowly from it. 
 
 " Oh, horrible ! " says our rich neighbor, with real and 
 intense concern, and, taking out his handkerchief, proceeds 
 to bind up my wound with the extremest tenderness. 
 
 "Why didn't you let him take you down?" says Bill, 
 reproachfully, who is rather struck by the blood. " It would 
 have been better after all." 
 
 " Of, course it would," says Mr. Carrington, raising hia 
 head for a moment from the contemplation of his surgical 
 tssk to smile into my eyes. " But some little children are 
 very foolish." 
 
 " I was seventeen last May," I answered promptly. It 
 is insufferable to be regarded as a child when one is al- 
 most eighteen. There is a touch of asperity in my tone. 
 
 " Indeed ! /So old ? " says our friend, still smiling. 
 
 " Mr. Carriugton," I begin, presently, in a rather whim- 
 nering tone, " you won't say anything about this at home 
 will you ? You see, they they might not like the idea of 
 my climbing, and they would be angry. Of course I kmvw 
 it was very unladylike of me, and indeed " very earnestly 
 this " I had no more intention of doing such a thing when 
 I left home than 1 had of Hying. Had I, Billy? " 
 
 " You had not," says Billy. "I don't know what put 
 the tVought into your head. Why, it is two years since 
 L-.ist you climbed a tree." 
 
 This is a fearful lie; but the dear boy means well. 
 
 " You won't betray me ? " I say again to my kind doc- 
 tor. 
 
 " I would endure the tortures of the rack first," returns 
 he, giving his bandage a final touch. " Be assured they 
 shall never hear 01 u trom me. Yon must lot suspect in
 
 18 PHYLLIS. 
 
 of being a tale-bearer, Miss Phyllis. Does your arm pain 
 you still ? have I made it more comfortable ? " 
 
 " I hardly feel it at all now," I answer, gratefully. " 1 
 don't know what I should have done but for you first 
 catching me as you did, and then dressing my hurt. But 
 how shall I return you your handkerchief?" 
 
 " May I not call to-morrow to see you are cone the 
 wor^e for your accident? It is a long week since last 1 
 was at Summerleas. Would I bore you all verj much if I 
 allowed myself there again soon?" 
 
 "Not at all," I answered warmly, thinking of Dora; 
 " the oftener you come the more we shall be pleased." 
 
 "Would it please you to see me often?" lie watches 
 me keenly as he asks this question. 
 
 " Yes, of course it would," I answer, politely, feeling 
 slightly surprised at his tone very slightly. 
 
 "How long have you known me ? " 
 
 " Exactly a mouth yesterday," I exclaim, promptly ; 
 "it was on the 25th of August you first oame to see us. 1 
 remember the date perfectly." 
 
 " Do you ? " with pleased surprise. " What impressed 
 that uninteresting date upon your memory ? " 
 
 " Because it was on that day that Billy got home the 
 new pigeons such little beauties, all pure white. They 
 were unlucky, however, as two of them died since. That 
 is how I recollect its being a month," I continue, recurring 
 to his former words. 
 
 " Oh ! I suppose you would hardly care to remember 
 anything in which Billy was not concerned. Sometimes 
 not always I envy Billy. And so it is really only a mouth 
 since first I saw you ? To me .t seems a year more than 
 a year." 
 
 "Ah ! what did I tell you," I say, speaking in the eager 
 tone one adopts when triumphantly proving the correct- 
 ness of an early opinion. " I knew you would soon grow 
 tired of us. I said so from the beginning." 
 
 " Did you ? " in a curious tone. 
 
 " Yes. It was not a clever guess to make, was it ? 
 Why, there is literally nothing to be done down here, un- 
 less one farms, or talks scandal of one's neighbor, or " 
 
 " Or goes nutting, and puts one's neck in danger," with 
 a smile. " Surely there can be nothing tame about a place 
 where such glorious exploits can be performed?" Then, 
 changing his manner, " You have described 1'uxley verv
 
 PIIYLLJS. 19 
 
 accurately, I must confess ; and yet, strange as it may aj> 
 {.ear to you, your opinion was rashly formed, because as 
 j et I am not tired of either it or you." 
 
 " And yet you find the time drag heavily ? " 
 
 " When spent at Strangemore yes. Never when spent 
 ari Summerleas." 
 
 I begin to think Dora has a decided chance. I search 
 my brain eagerly for some more leading question that si nil 
 still further satisfy me on this point, l>ut find nothing. 
 Billy, who has been absent from us for some time, comes 
 leisurely up to us. His presence recalls the hour. 
 
 " We must be going now," I say, extending my hnnd ; 
 "it is getting late. "Good-bye, Mr. Carrington and 
 thank you again very much," I added, somewhat shyly. 
 
 " If you persist in thinking there is anything to be 
 grateful for, give me my reward," he says, quickly, "b^ 
 letting me walk with you to the boundary of the wood." 
 
 "Yes, do," says Billy, effusively. Still Mr. Carrington 
 looks at me, as though determined to take permission fruin 
 my eyes alone. 
 
 " Come, if you wish it," I say, answering the unspoken 
 look in his eyes, and feeling thoroughly surprised to hear a 
 uian so altogether grown up express a desire for our grace- 
 less society. Thus sanctioned, he turns and walks by my 
 side, conversing in the pleasant, light, easy style peculiar to 
 him, until the boundary he named is reached. Here we 
 pause to bid each other once more good-bye. 
 
 " And I may come to-morrow ? " he asks, holding my 
 hand closely. 
 
 " Yes but but I cannot give you the handkerchief 
 oefore mother and Dora," I murmur, blushing hotly. 
 
 "True, I had forgotten that important handkerchief, 
 But perhaps you could manage to walk with me as far as 
 she entrance-gate, could you ? " 
 
 " I don't know," I return doubtfully, " If not, I can 
 give it to you some other day. " 
 
 " So you can. Keep it until T am fortunate enough to 
 meet you again. 1 shall probably get on without it until 
 then." 
 
 So with a smile and a backward nod and glance, we 
 part. 
 
 For some time after he has left is, Billy an-d I move 
 on together without speaking, a most unusual thing, when 
 I break the iilence by my faltering tones.
 
 20 PHYLLIS. 
 
 "Billy," I say, trembling with hope and fear, " Billy 
 tell me the truth. That time, you know, did I show very 
 much of my leg? " 
 
 " Not more than an inch or two above the garter," he 
 answers, in an encouraging tone, and for a full minute 1 
 feel that with cheerfulness I cou.d attend the funeral of my 
 brother Billy. 
 
 I am mortified to the last degree. Unbidden tears rise 
 to my eyes. Even though I might have known a more 
 soothing answer to be false, still with rapture I would have 
 hailed it. There is a brutal enjoyment of the scene in his 
 whole demeanor that stings me sorely. I begin to compare 
 dear Holy with my younger brother in a manner highly un- 
 flattering to the latter. If Roland had been here in Billy's 
 place to day, instead of being as he always is with that 
 tiresome regiment in some forgotten corner, all might hava 
 been different. He at least being a ?wm, would have feit 
 for me, How could I have been mad enough to look for 
 sympathy from a boy ? 
 
 Dear Roland ! The only fault he has is his extreme 
 and palpable selfishness. But what of that? Are not alt 
 men so aillicted ? Why should he be condemned for what 
 is only to be expected and looked for in the grander sex ? 
 What I detest more than anything else is a person who, 
 while professing to be friends with one, only 
 
 I grow morose, and decline all further conversation, 
 until we come so near our home that but one turn more 
 hides it from our view. 
 
 Here Billy remonstrates. 
 
 "Of course you can sulk if you like," he says in an in- 
 jured tone, " and not speak to a fellow, all for nothing ; 
 but you can't go into the house with your arm like that, 
 unless you wish them to discover the battle in which you 
 have been engaged." 
 
 J hesitate and look ruefully at my arm. The sleeve ot 
 rny dress is rolled up above the elbow, having refused 
 obstinately to come down over the bandage, and conse- 
 quently I present a dishevelled, not to say startling ap- 
 pearance. 
 
 " I must undo it, I suppose," I return, disinclination in 
 rny tone, and Billy says, " Of course," with hideous brisk- 
 ness. Therewith he removes the guarding-ptn and proceeds 
 to unfold the handkerchief with an air that savors strongly 
 of pleasurable curiosity, while I stand shrinking beside him.
 
 fJFYLLIS. fl 
 
 nd vowing mentally never again to trust myseli at an un- 
 due distance from mother earth. 
 
 At length the last fold is undone, and, to my unspeak- 
 able relief, I see that the wound, though crimson round the 
 edges, has ceased to bleed. Hastily and carefully drawing 
 the .sleeve of my dress over it, I thrust the stained handker- 
 chr.ef into my pocket and make for the house. 
 
 When I have exchanged a word or two with Dora (who 
 is always in the way when not wanted that being the hall 
 at the present moment), I escape upstairs without being 
 taken to task for my damaged garments, and carefully lock 
 rny door. Nevertheless, though now, comparatively speak- 
 ing, in safety, there is still a weight upon my mind. If to- 
 morrow I am to return the handkerchief to its owner, it 
 must in the meantime be washed, and who is to wash it? 
 
 Try as I will, I cannot bring myself to make a confid- 
 ante of Martha : therefore nothing remains for me but to 
 undertake the purifying of it myself. I have still half an 
 hour clear before the dinner-bell will ring : so, plunging my 
 landlord's cambric into the basin, I boldly commence my 
 work. 
 
 Five minutes later. I am getting on : it really begins 
 to look almost white again ; the stains have nearly vanished, 
 and only a general pinkiness remains. But what is to be 
 done with the water? if left, it will surely betray me, and 
 betrayal means punishment. 
 
 I begin to feel like a murderess. In every murder 
 ease I have ever read (and they have a particular fascina- 
 tion for me), the miserable perpetrator of the crime finds a 
 terrible difficulty in getting rid of the water in which he 
 lias washed off the traces of his victim's blood. I now find 
 a similar difficulty in disposing of the water reddened by 
 my own. I open the window, look carefully out, and, 
 seeing no one, Ming the contents of my basin into the air. 
 ." Jt falls to earth I know not where," as I hurriedly draw in 
 my head and get through the remainder of niy self-imposed 
 duty. 
 
 After that my dressing for dinner is a scramble; but [ 
 got through it in time, and come down serene and innocent, 
 to take my accustomed place at the table. 
 
 All goes well until towards the close of the festivities, 
 when papa, fixing a piercing eye on me, says, generally, 
 
 " May I inquire which of you is in the habit of throwing
 
 S3 PHYLLIS. 
 
 water from your bedroom windows upon cLance passers 
 by?" 
 
 A ghastly silence follows. Dora looks up in meek sur- 
 prise. Billy glances anxiously at me. My krees knoei 
 together, bid it fall upon him? Has he discovered all? 
 
 " Well, why do I receive no answer ? Wfic did it ? k 
 demands papa, in a voice of suppressed thunder, still with 
 his eye on me. 
 
 "I threw some out this evening," I acknowledge, in s 
 faint tone, " hut never before I " 
 
 " Oh ! it was you, was it ? " says papa, with a glare. 
 " I need scarcely have inquired ; 1 might have known the 
 i/ne most likely to commit a disreputable action. Is that an 
 established habit of yours ? Are there no servants to do 
 your bidding? It was the most monstrous proceeding I 
 ever in my life witnessed." 
 
 "It was only " I begin timidly. 
 
 " ' It was only ' that it is an utterly impossible thing for 
 you ever to bo a lady," interrupted papa, bitterly. " You 
 are a downright disgrr.ee to your family. At times I find 
 it a difficult matter to believe you a Vernon." 
 
 Having delivered this withering speech, he leans back 
 in his chair, with a snort that would not have done dis- 
 credit to a war-horse, which signifies that the scene is at an 
 end. Two large tears gather in my eyes and roll heavily 
 down my cheeks. They look like tears of penitence, but in 
 reality are tears of rolief. Oh, if that tell-tale water had 
 but fallen on the breast of his shirt, or on his stainless cuffs, 
 where would the inquiries have terminated ? 
 
 Billy who, I feel instinctively, has been suffering tor- 
 to.ires during the past five minutes now, through the inten- 
 sity of his joy at my escape, so far forgets himself as to 
 commence a brilliant fantasia on the tablecloth with a 
 dessert-fork. It lasts a full minute without interruption : I 
 urn too depressed to give him a warning glance. At length, 
 " Billy, when you have quite done making that horrid 
 aoisc, perhaps you will ring the bell," says Dora, smoothly, 
 with a view to comfort. Certainly the "tatto is irritating. 
 
 ' When I have quite done I will," returns Billy, calmly, 
 fld continues his odious oceupatlDn, with now an a>' ' tion 
 to it in the form of an unearthly scraping noise, on , ed by 
 his nails, that makes one's Ilcsh creep. 
 
 Papa, deep in the perusal of the Tines, heaie and 
 nothing. Mother is absent.
 
 fffYLLJS, g3 
 
 "Papa," cries DC ra, whose delicate nerves are all un- 
 strung, " will you send Billy out of the room, or else induce 
 him to stop his present employment?" 
 
 " William," Bays papa, severely, " cease that noise di- 
 rectly." And William, casting a vindictive glance at 
 Dora, lave down the dessert-fork and succumbs. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 I HAVE wandered down to the river side and under the 
 shady trees. As yet, October is so young and mild the 
 leaves refuse to offer tribute, and still quiver and rustle 
 gayly on their branches. 
 
 It is a week since my adventure in the wood five days 
 since Mr. Carrington's last visit. On tha-t occasion having 
 failed to obtain one minute with him alone, the handker- 
 chief still remains in my possession, and proves a very skel- 
 eton in my closet, the initials M. ,T. C. that stand for 
 Marmaduke John Carrington, as all the world knows 
 staring out boldly from their corner, and threatening at 
 any moment to betray me : so that, through fear and dread 
 of discovery, I carry it about with me, and sleep with it 
 beneath my pillow. Looking back upon it all now, I won- 
 der how I co ild have been so foolish, so wanting in inven- 
 tion. I feel with what ease I could now dispose of any- 
 thing tangible and obnoxious. 
 
 There is a slight chill in the air, in spite of the pleasant 
 fl'in ; and J half make up my mind to go for a brisk walk, 
 instead of sauntering idly, as I am at present doing, when 
 somebody calls to me from the adjoining field. It is Mr. 
 Carrington. He climbs the wall that separates us, and 
 drops into my territory, a little scrambling Irish terriei at 
 his heels. 
 
 " Is this a favorite retreat of yours?" he asks, as cur 
 hands meet. 
 
 " Sometimes. Oh, Mr. Carrington, I am so glad to see 
 yon to-day." 
 
 "Are you, really? That is better news than I hoped 
 to hear when I left homo this morning." 
 
 " Because I want to return you your handkerchief. I
 
 24 PHYLLIS. 
 
 have had it go long, and am so anxious to get rid of it. It 
 it would probably look nicer," I say, with hesitation, 
 slowly withdrawing the article in question from my pocket, 
 " if anybody else had washed it ; but I did not want any 
 one to find out about that day: so I had to do it my 
 elf." 
 
 Lingering, cautiously, I bring it to light and hold it out 
 to hint. Oh, how dreadfully pink and uncleanly it appears 
 in the broad light of the open air I To me it seems doubly 
 hideous the very last thing a fastidious gentleman would 
 dream of putting to his nose. 
 
 Mr. Carrington accepts it almost tefiderly. There is not 
 the shadow of a smile upon his face. It would be impossi- 
 ble for me to say how grateful I feel to him for this. 
 
 " Is it possible you took all that trouble," he says, a 
 certain gentle light, with which I am growing familiar, 
 coming into his eyes as they rest upon my anxious face. 
 ".My dear child, why ? Did you not understand I was 
 only jesting when I expressed a desire to have it again ? 
 Why did you not put it in the fire, or rid yourself of it in 
 some other fashion long ago? So" after a pause "you 
 really washed it with your own hands for rne ?" 
 
 "One might guess that by looking at it," I answer, with 
 a rather awkward laugh : " still, I think it would not look 
 quite so badly, but that I kept it in my pocket ever since, 
 and that gives it its crumpled appearance." 
 
 " Ever since? so near to you for five long days ? What 
 a weight it must have been on your tender conscience! 
 Well, at all events no other v> asherwoman " with a eniile 
 " shall ever touch it. I promise you that." He places 
 it carefully in an inside pocket as he speaks. 
 
 " Oh, please do not say that ! " I cry, dismayed : "you 
 must not keep it as a specimen of my hajidivvork. Once 
 properly washed, you will forget all about it: but if you 
 kc-ep it before your eyes in its present state Mr. Car- 
 rington, do put it rn your clothes-basket the moment you 
 g-> home.** 
 
 lie only .aughs at this pathetic entreaty, and throws a 
 pebble into the tiny river that runs at our feet. 
 
 " Why arc you alone ? " he asks, presently. " Why is 
 not the indefatigable Billy with you? " 
 
 " lie reads with a tutor three times a week. That 
 leavte me very often lonely. I came here to-day just to 
 paas- the time until he can join mo. He don't seem U> car
 
 PHYLLIS. 26 
 
 mnch about Greek and Latin," I admit, ingenuously ; " and, 
 as he never looks at his lessons until five minutes befor 
 Mr. Caldwood comes, you see be don't get over them very 
 quickly." 
 
 " And so leaves you disconsolate longer than he nifed, 
 i"our sister, Miss Vernon does she never go for a walk 
 with you ? " 
 
 Ah ! now he is coming to Dora. 
 
 " Dora ? Oil, never. She is not fond of walking ? it 
 does not agree with her, she says. You may have noticed 
 she is not very robust, she looks so fragile, so different 
 from me in every respect." 
 
 " Very different." 
 
 " Yes, we all see that," I answer, rather disconcerted 
 by his ready acquiescence in this home view. " And so 
 
 Sretty as she is, too ! Don't you think her very pretty, 
 Ir. Carrington ? " 
 
 u Extremely so. Even more than merely pretty. Her 
 complexion, I take it, must be quite unrivaled. She is 
 positively lovley in her own style." 
 
 " I am very glad you admire her ; but indeed you would 
 be singular if you did not do so," I say, with enthusiasm. 
 " Her golden hair and blue eyes make her quite a picture, 
 /think she has the prettiest face I ever saw : don't you? " 
 
 " No ; not the prettiest. I know another that, to me at 
 least, is far more beautiful." 
 
 He is looking straight before him, apparently at nothing, 
 and to my attentive ear there is something hidden in hia 
 tone that renders me uneasy for the brilliant future 1 have 
 mapped out for my sister. 
 
 " You have been so much in the world," I say, with some 
 dejection, " and of course in London and Paris and all the 
 large cities one sees many charming faces from time to time. 
 I should have remembered that. I suppose, away from this 
 little village, Dora's face wouid be but one in a crowd." 
 
 " It was not in London or Paris, or any large city I saw 
 the face of which I speak. It was in a neighborhood as 
 email yes, quite as small as this. The owner of it was a 
 mere child a little country-girl, knowing nothing of the 
 bu*y world outside her home, but I shall never again see 
 nny ono so altogether sweet and lovable." 
 
 * " What was she like ? " I ask, curiously. I am not so un- 
 t-isy as I was. If only a child she cannot, of course, inter 
 fure with Dora. " Describe her to me ? "
 
 2 PHYLLIS. 
 
 " Wliat is she like, yon mean. She is still in the 
 of the living. Dtacribe her I don't believe I could," says 
 my companion, with a light laugh. " If I gave you her 
 exact photograph in words, I dare say I would call down 
 your scorn on my benighted taste. Who ever grew raptur- 
 ous over a description ? If you cross-examine me about hei 
 charms, without doubt I shall fall through. To my way of 
 blinking beauty does not lie in features, in hair, or eyes, 01 
 mouth. It is there, without one's knowing why ; a look, an 
 expression, a smile, all go to make up the indescribable 
 nometliing that is perfection." 
 
 "You speak of her as though she were a woman. I 
 don't believe she is a child at all," I say, with a pout. 
 
 " She is the greatest child I ever met. But tell me " 
 
 Then, breaking off suddenly, and turning to me, " By the 
 bye," he s.iys, "what may I call you ? Miss Veruon is too 
 formal, and Miss Phyllis I detest." 
 
 "Yes," return I, laughing, "it reminds me of Martha. 
 You may call me Phyllis if you like." 
 
 " Thank you ; I shall like it very much. Apropos of 
 photographs, then, a moment ago, Phyllis, did you ever sit 
 for your portrait?" lie is looking at me as he speaks, as 
 though desirous of photographing me upon his brain with- 
 out further loss of time. 
 
 " Oh, yes, twice," I answer, cheerfully ; " once by a 
 traveling man who came ro'und, and did us all very cheaply 
 indeed (I think for fourpc ice or sixpence a head) ; and 
 once in Carston. I had i dozen taken then ; but when I 
 had given one each to then: all at home, and one to Martha, 
 I found I had no use for tl.e others, and hail only wasted 
 my pocket-money. Perhaps" diffidently ''you would 
 like one?" 
 
 " Like it ! " saye Mr. Carrington, with most uncalled-for 
 eagerness : " I should rather think I would. Will yon 
 roally give me one, Phyllis?" 
 
 "Of course," I answer, with surprise : "they are no use 
 to me, and have been tossing about in my drawer tor six 
 months. Will you have a Carston one ? I really think it 
 is the best. Though, if you put your hand over the eyes, 
 tne itinerant's is rather like mo." 
 
 " What happened to the eyes? " 
 
 "There is a faint cast in the right one. The man said 
 it wa 4 ,he way I always looked, but I don't think so my-
 
 PHYLLIS. 27 
 
 self. You don't think 1 have a squint, do you, Mr Car 
 
 rington?" 
 
 Here I open my blue-gray eyes to their widest and gaz 
 at ruy companion in anxious inquiry. 
 
 " No, I don't see it," returns he, when he has subjected 
 the eyes iu question to a close and lingering examination, 
 Thon he laughs a little, and I laugh too, to encourage him. 
 and oecnuse at this time of my life gayety of any sort seeit* 
 good, and tears and laughter are very near to me; and 
 presently we are both making merry over my description 
 of the wanderer's production. 
 
 " What o'clock is it," I ask, a little later. " It must be 
 time for me to go home, and Billy will be waiting." 
 
 Having told me the hour, he says : 
 
 " Have you no watch, Phyllis? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 K Don't you find it awkward now and then being igno 
 rant of the time ? Would you like one ? " 
 
 " Oh, would I not ? " I answer, promptly. " There ia 
 nothing I would like better. Do you know it is the one 
 thing for which I am always wishing." 
 
 " Phyllis," says Mr. Carrington, eagerly, " let me give 
 you one." 
 
 I stare at him in silent bewilderment. Is he really in 
 earnest? lie certainly looks so ; and for a moment I revel 
 in the glorious thought. Fancy! what it would be to have 
 a watch of my very osvn; to be able every five minutes to 
 assure myself of the exact hour ! Think of all the malicious 
 pleasure I should enjoy in dangling it before Dora's jealous 
 eyes! what pride in exhibiting it to Billy's delighted ones ! 
 Probably it would be handsomer than Dora's, which has 
 Been service, and, being newer, would surely keep better 
 time. 
 
 Then the delight passes, and something within me 
 whhpers such joy is not for me. Of course he would only 
 give it to me for Dora's sake, and yet I know I cannot 
 say r-'iy I feel it but I know if I accepted a watch from 
 Mr. Cvxrringtc n all at home would be angry, and it would 
 cause a horrible row. 
 
 " Thank you," I say mournfully. " Thank you very, 
 very much, Mr. Carrington, but I could not take it from 
 you. It is very kind of you to offer it, and I would accept 
 it if I could, but it would be of no use, At home I know
 
 28 PHYiLTS. 
 
 they wo-uld not let me have it, and io it would be a pity 
 for yon to spend all your money upon it for nothing." 
 
 " What nonsense ! " impatiently. " Who would not let 
 you take it ? " 
 
 " Papa, mamma, every one," I answer, with deepest de 
 jection. (I would so much have liked that watch 1 Why, 
 tony did he put the delightful but transient idea into my 
 bead ?) " They would all say I acted wrongly in taking it, 
 and and they would send it back to you again." 
 
 " Is there anything else you would like, Phyllis, that I 
 might give you ? " 
 
 " No, nothing, thank you. I must only wait. Mother 
 has proiniged me her watch upon my wedding morning." 
 
 " You seem comfortably certain of being married, sooner 
 or later," he says, with a laugh that still shows some vexa- 
 t'.on. " Do you ever think what sort of a husband you 
 would like, Phyllis?" 
 
 " No, I never think of disagreeable things, if I can help 
 it," is my somewhat tart reply. My merry mood is gone : 
 I feel in some way injured, and inclined towards snappish- 
 ness. "And from what /have seen of husbands 1 think 
 they are all, every one, each more detestable than the other. 
 If I were an heiress I would never marry ; but, being a girl 
 without a fortune, I suppose I must." 
 
 Mr. Carrington roars. 
 
 " I never heard anything so absurd," he says, " as such 
 mature sentiments coming from your lips. Why, to hear 
 you talk, one might imagine you a town-bred young woman, 
 one who has p.issed through the fourth campaign ; but to 
 
 see you You have learned your lesson uncommonly 
 
 well, though I am sure yon were never taught it by your 
 mother. And how do you know that you may not lose 
 your heart to a curate, and find yourself poorer after your 
 i;ani:u,'e than before?" 
 
 " That I never will," I return, decisively. " In the first 
 f,lace, I detest curates, and in the next I would not be wife 
 to a poor man, even if I adored him. I will marry a rich 
 man, or I will not marry at all." 
 
 <; 1 hate to hear you talk like that," says Mr. Carrington, 
 gravely. k ' The ideas are so unsuited to a little loving girl 
 like you. Although I am positive you do not mean oua 
 word of what you say, still it pains me to hear you." 
 
 " I do mean it," I answei defiantly ; ' but as my convex
 
 PHYLLIS. 29 
 
 gallon pains you, I will not inflict it on you longer. Good- 
 bye ! " 
 
 " Good-bye, yon perverse child ; and don't try to imaging 
 yourself mercenary. Are you angry with me? "holding 
 my unwilling hand and smiling into my face. " Don't, I'm 
 not worth it. Come, give me one smile to bear me com- 
 pany until we meet again." Thus abjured, I laugh, and 
 my fingers grow quiet in his grasp. "And when will that 
 be?" continues Mr. Carrington. "To-morrow or next 
 day ? Probably Friday will see me at Suinraerleas. In 
 th meantime, now we are friends again, I must remind yo 
 not to forget your promise about that Carston photo." 
 ** I will remember," I say ; and BO we separate. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 O*f my return home, to my inexpressible surprise and 
 delight, I find Roland. During my absence he has arrived, 
 totally unexpected by any member of the household ; and 
 the small excitement his appearance causes makes him 
 doubly welcome, as anything that startles us out of our 
 humdrum existence is hailed with positive rapture. Even 
 mother, whose mind is still wonderfully fresh and young, 
 considering all the years she has passed under papa's 
 thumb, enters freely into the general merriment, and for 
 gets for the time being her daily cares. 
 
 " You see, 1 found I would be here almost as soon as a 
 letter," explains Roland ; " and, as I hate writing like a 
 nightmare, I resolved to take you a little by surprise. ** 
 
 Mother, radiant, is sitting near him, regarding him witt 
 humid eyes. If dear mother had been married to an indul 
 gent husband she would have been a dreadful goose. E^ea 
 sa it is she possesses a talent for weeping upon all occasions 
 only to be equalled by mine. 
 
 " How did you manage to get away so soon again, 
 Roly ? " I ask, when I have embraced him as much as he 
 will allow. 
 
 u 1 hardly know. Luck, I fanoy and the colonel did 
 it. The old boy, you see, has a weakness for me which I 
 return by baring a wenkneas for the old boy's daughttr
 
 80 
 
 Mother" languidly "may I marry the old boy's daugh 
 ter? She is an extremely pretty little girl, young, with 
 fifteen tlKmsand pounds; but I would not like to e.ngag 
 myself to her without your full consent." 
 
 Mother laughs ami passes her hand with a light caiess 
 ing gesture over his charming face. 
 
 " Conceited hoy ! " she murmurs, fondly ; "there is bl 
 tie chance you will ever do so much good for yourself/ 
 
 " Don't be too sure. At all events, I have yot r c<. n 
 ent?" 
 
 " Yes, and my blessing, too," says mother, laughing 
 Again. 
 
 " Thanks. Then I'll turn it over in my mind when I go 
 back." 
 
 " Holy," I break in with my accustomed graciousness, 
 " what brought you ? " 
 
 " The train and an overpowering desire to see Dora's 
 foung man." 
 
 A laugh and a blush from Dora. 
 
 "I met him just now," I say, "down by the trout- 
 river. What a pity he did not come home with nre, to 
 satisfy your curiosity without del-ay ! " 
 
 " Mother, do you think it the correct thing for Phyllis 
 to keep clandestine appointments with her brother-in-law? 
 Dora, is it possible you do not scent mischief iu the air r 
 A person, too, of Phyllis's well-known attractions " 
 
 " What was lie doing at the trout-river ? " asks Dora, with 
 a smile. She is too secure in the knowledge of her own 
 beauty to dread a rival anywhere, least of all in me. 
 
 "Nothing, as far as 1 could see. He talked a little, and 
 said he was coming here next Friday." 
 
 " The day after to-morrow. I shall ask him his inten- 
 tions," says Holy. <> It is most fortunate I am on the spot. 
 One should never let an affair of this kind drag. It will 
 doubtless be a thankless task ; but I make a point of never 
 nhirking duty ; and when we have put our beloved fathet 
 
 eemfortably under ground " 
 
 " Roland," interrupts mother, in a shocked tone. There- 
 is a pause. 
 
 " I quite thought you were going to say something," 
 layg Roland, amiably. 41 1 was mistaken. I will therefor* 
 continue. When we have put our beloved father \vrli 
 under the ground I will then be head of this house, and 
 eat cral guardian to these poor jiear girls and, wiih thii
 
 fffYLL/S. g\ 
 
 prospect in view, I feel even at the present moment a cer 
 tain responsibility, that compels me to look after their in. 
 terest^ and bring this recreant gallant to book." 
 
 " Roland, my dear, I wish you would not speak so o. 
 your father," puts in mamma, feebly. 
 
 "Very well, I won't," returns Roly; "and he shan't be 
 put under ground at all, if you don't wish it. Cremation 
 tall be hit) fate, and we shall keep his precious ashes in an 
 u a." 
 
 " I don't believe Mr. Carrington cares a pin for Dora," 
 snys Billy, irrevelantly. " I think he likes Phyllis twica 
 as well." This remark, though intended to do so, does 
 not act as a bombshell in the family circle; it is regarded 
 as a mere flash in the pan from Billy, and is received with 
 silent contempt. What could a boy know about such mat- 
 ters ? 
 
 " I have a month's leave," Roland informs us presently 
 " Do you think in that time we could polish it off court- 
 ship, proposal, and wedding? Though," reflectively, " that 
 would be a pity, as by putting off the marriage for a little 
 while I might then screw another month out of the old 
 boy." 
 
 "Just so," I answer, approvingly. 
 
 " 1 Ie is such a desirable young man in every way," sayi 
 mother, a propos of Sir. (Harrington ; "so steady, well-tem- 
 pered, and his house is really beautiful. You know it, 
 Roland Strangemore seven miles from this ? " 
 
 " I think it gloomy," Dora says, quietly. " When I 
 _f I were to that is " 
 
 " What a charming virtue is modesty ! " I exclaim, notto 
 voce. 
 
 "Go on, Dora," says Roland, in an encouraging tone. 
 v When you marry Mr. Carrington, .what will you do 
 tLtn?" 
 
 '' Of course I don't see the smallest prospect of it," mur- 
 murs Dora, with downcast eyes ; " but if I were to become 
 address of Strangemore I would throw more light into all 
 the rooms ; I would open up windows everywhere and take 
 down those heavy pillars." 
 
 " Then you would ruin it," I cry indignantly ; " its an- 
 cient appearance is its chief charm. You would make it a 
 mere modern dwelling-house j and the pillars 1 think mag 
 nificent."
 
 S2 PHYLLIS. 
 
 ** /don't," says dear Dora, immovably ; "and if ever 1 
 get the chance 1 will certainly remove them." 
 
 ** You won't get the chance, then ; you need not think it. 
 Mr. Carrington has not the smallest idea of marry lug you," 
 exclaims Billy, whose Latin and Greek have evidently disa* 
 greed with him. 
 
 " It is a pity your tutor cannot teach you to bo a gentle* 
 man," retorts Dora, casting a withering glance at our young 
 eat born. 
 
 "Our dear William's temper appears slightly ruffled," 
 remarks Roland, smoothly. " Evidently the gentleman of 
 the name of Caldwood was lavish with his birch this morn- 
 ing. Come with me, 1'hyllis : I want to visit the stables." 
 
 I follow him gladly ; and Billy joining us, with a grim 
 countenance,we sally forth, leaving Dora to pour her grie** 
 into mother's gentle bosom. 
 
 CHAPTER VH. 
 
 FRIDAY brings Mr. Carrington, who is specially agree- 
 able, and devotes himself a good deal to Roland. There is 
 ft considerable amount of talk about shooting, hunting, and 
 so forth, and we can all see that Roly is favorably impressed. 
 Dora's behavior is perfect her modesty and virtuous bash- 
 fulness apparent. Our visitor rather affects her society 
 than otherwise, but beyond listening to her admiringly 
 when she speaks, shows no marked attention. In the coun- 
 try a visit is indeed a visitation, and several hours elapse 
 before he takes his departure. Once finding myself alone 
 with him in the conservatory, I bestow upon him my prom- 
 ised picture, which he receives with open gratitude and 
 consigns to his pocket as he hears footsteps approaching. 
 
 Roland's presence has inspired us all with much addi 
 tional cheerfulness. We have never appeared so gay so 
 free from restraint, as on this afternoon, and Mr. Carruig- 
 ton finds it hard to tear himself away. I myself am iu 
 wild epirits, and quite outshine myself every now and then J 
 and Billy, who is not at any time ailHcted with shyness, 
 thinks it a safe opportunity to ask our friend before he leaven 
 if he will some day take us for a drive iu his dog-carU
 
 PHYLLIS. S3 
 
 "Of Bourse I will," say Mr. Carrington. "How un- 
 pardonable of me never to have thought of it before ! But 
 perhaps," speaking to Billy, but looking at Dora and me, 
 tk perhaps you would prefer four horses and the coach ? It 
 will be a charity to give it a chance to escape trom the 
 moths." 
 
 "Oh, I say" says Billy, " are you in earnest ?" and, be 
 (j2g reassured on this point, fairly overflows with delight. 
 
 Dora and I are scarcely less delighted, and Roland is 
 
 fraciously pleased to say it wilt be rather fun, when ho 
 nds the two Hastings girls are also coming. Somehow 
 nobody thinks of a chaperon, which certainly heightens 
 the enjoyment, and proves what a reputable person Mr. 
 Carrington must be. 
 
 When the day arrives, and our landlord, clad in a thick 
 light overcoat, drives his four bright bays up to our door, 
 our enthusiasm reaches its final pitch. Imagination can no 
 farther go: our dream is fulfilled. 
 
 Mr. Carrington helps Dora carefully to the box-seat, 
 and then springs up beside her. Billy and I sit very close 
 to each other. Roland takes his place anywhere, with a 
 view to changing it on the arrival of Miss Lenah Hast- 
 ings. The whip crackles, the bays throw up their heads 
 we are off ! 
 
 1 kiss my hands a hundred times to mamma and Martha 
 and Jane, the cook, who have all come out to the door-- 
 steps to see us start; while Brewster at the corner of the 
 . house stands agape with excited surprise. Not that he 
 need have shown astonishment of any sort, considering our 
 expedition ami the manner of it has been ceaselessly dinned 
 into his ears every hour of the day during the past week, by 
 the untiring Billy. 
 
 At Rylston we take up the Hastings, and their brother, 
 a fat but well-meaning young man, who plants himself on 
 my other side, and makes elephantine attempts at playful- 
 ness. I do not mind him in the least; I find I can pour 
 ont my superfluous spirits upon him quite as well as upon 
 a more companionable person, perhaps better; for with 
 \ iin a-i least I have all the conversation to myself. So I 
 chatter and laugh and talk to Mr. Hastings until I reduce 
 him to a comatose state, leaving him. all eyes and littlb 
 tongue. 
 
 I have succeeded in captivating his fancy, however, or 
 else it is his usual mode to devote himself for the entire day
 
 to whoever may first happen to fall into his clutches; as, 
 when we iescend to Carlton Wood to partake of th 
 lunch our host has provided for us, he etfll clings to me, 
 and outwardly at least ie almost loverlike. 
 
 Alas that October days should be so fleet! A da) 
 uch as this one might have had forty hours without bring^ 
 ing ennui to any of us ; but at length evening closes in, tho 
 lime is come when we must take our departure. Regret- 
 fully we collect our shawls and move towards the drag. 
 
 Mr. Hastings, still adoring, scrambles on by my side, 
 panting and putting with the weight of the too solid flesh 
 nature has bestowed upon him and the wraps he is compelled 
 to carry. Mr. Carrington, Dora, and Miss Hastings are 
 close behind; Billy straggles somewhere in the distance; 
 Roland and pretty Lenah follow more to the left. 
 
 Just as we reach the road Mr. Carrington speaks, and 
 colors a little as he does so. 
 
 " Miss Phyllis, I think I once heard you say you had 
 never sat on the front of a drag ; will you take it now ? 
 Miss Vernon agrees with me it is a good chance for you to 
 Bee if .you would like it." 
 
 How good of him to remember that foolish speech of 
 mine, when I know he is longing for Dora's society ! 
 
 " Oh ! thank you," I say, flushing; "it is very kind of 
 you to think of it ; but Dora likes it too, and I can assure 
 you I was quite happy. I enjoyed myself immensely when 
 coming." 
 
 " Oh ! in that case " returns Mr. Carrington, coldly, 
 
 half turning away. 
 
 " Not but that I would like it," I go on, encouraged by 
 a smile from Dora, who can now afford to be magnanimous, 
 having been made much of and singled out by the poten- 
 tate during the entire day, " if you are sure (to Mr. Car- 
 rington) you wish it." 
 
 " Come," says he with a pleaded smile, and soon I find 
 ttyself in the coveted position, our landlord in excellent 
 temper beside me. 
 
 The horses, tired of standing, show a good deal oi 
 friskiness at the set-off, and claim their driver's undivided 
 attention, so that wo have covered at least a half mile of 
 the road before he speaks to me. Then stooping to tuck 
 the rug more closely round me (the evenings have grown 
 Tory chilly) he whispers, with a smile :
 
 PHYLLIS. 3ft 
 
 " Are yon quite sure you would rather be here with me 
 than at the hack with that ' fat boy.' " 
 
 " Quite positive," I answer, with an emphatic nod. "I 
 was only afraid you would have preferred you would 
 regret you would have liked to return as you came," I 
 wind up, desperately. 
 
 lie stares at me curiously for a moment almost with 
 suspicion, as it seems to me, in the gathering twilight, 
 
 " At this moment, believe me, I have no regrets, nc 
 troubles," he says at length, quietly. " Can you say the 
 same ? Did Hasting'e eloquence make no impression Q I 
 couldn't hear what particular line he was taking, but he 
 looked unutterable things. Once or twice 1 thought he 
 was going to weep. The melting mood would just suit a 
 person of his admirable dimensions.' 
 
 " lie was very kind," I return coldly, " and I don't wish 
 to hear him spoken of in a slighting manner. lie is so 
 attentive and good-natured ; he carried all those wraps 
 without a murmur, though I'm sure he didn't like it, be- 
 cause his face got so red and he he lost his breath so 
 dreadfully as we came along. None of the others overbur- 
 dened themselves, and you, I particularly noticed, carried 
 nothing." 
 
 " I'm a selfish beast, I know," said Mr. Carrington, com- 
 posedly, " and have always had a rooted objection to car- 
 rying anything, except, perhaps, a gun, and there is no 
 getting out of that. There are so many disagreeable bur- 
 dens in this life that must be borne, that it seems to me 
 weak-minded voluntarily to add to them. Don't scold me 
 any more, Phyllis ; I want to be happy while I can." 
 
 "Then don't abuse poor Mr. Hastings." 
 
 " Surely it isn't abuse to say a man is fat when he weighs 
 twenty stone." 
 
 " It is impossible he can weigh more than fourteen," I 
 exclaim indignantly. 
 
 " Well, even that is substantial," returns he, with a pro 
 yoking air. Suddenly he laughs. 
 
 "Don't let us quarrel about Hastings," he says, looking 
 down at me ; " I will make any concessions you like, rather 
 than that. I will say he is slim, refined, a very skeleton, if 
 you wish it, only take that little pucker off your rorehcad 
 it was never meant to wear a frown. Now tell me if yoa 
 have enjoyed your day." 
 
 * Oh, so much ! " I say, with a sigh for the delights thai
 
 J6 PHYLLIS. 
 
 Ere dead and gone. " You see we have never been accus- 
 tomed to anything but but " I cannot bring myself to 
 
 mention the disreputable fossil that lies in the coach-hous* 
 at home, so substitute the words " one horse " ; and now, to 
 find one's self behind four, with such a good height between 
 one's self and the ground, is simply bliss I would like tc 
 irivc like this forever." 
 
 " May I take that as a compliment? " 
 
 " A compliment ? " 
 
 My stupidity slightly discomfits my companion. 
 
 " I only hoped you meant you you would have no ob- 
 jection to engage me as coachman in your never-ending 
 drive," he says, slowly. " My abominable selfishness again, 
 you see. I cannot manage to forget Marmaduke Carring- 
 ton." Then, abruptly. " You shall have the four-in-hand 
 any day you wish, Phyllis, as it pleases you so much ; re- 
 member that. Just name a day whenever you choose, and 
 I shall only be too happy to drive you." 
 
 What a brother-in-law he will make ! My heart thi obs 
 with delight. This day, then, is to be one of a series. I 
 feel a wild desire to get near Billy, to give him a squeeze in 
 the exuberance of my joy, but in default of him can only 
 look my gratitude by smiling rapturously into Mr. Carriug- 
 ton's dark-blue eyes. 
 
 " It is awfully good of you," I say, warmly ; " you don't 
 know how much we enjoy it. We have always been so 
 stupid, so tied down, any unexpected amusement like this 
 geems almost too good to be true. But " with hesitation 
 and a blush " we had better not go too often. You see, 
 papa is a little odd at times, and he might forbid it alto- 
 gether if we appeared too anxious for it. Perhaps, in a 
 fortnight, if you would take us again will you? Or would 
 that be too soon ? " 
 
 " Phyllis, can't you understand how much I wish to bo 
 with you ? " His tone is almost impatient, and he speaks 
 with unnecessary haste. I conclude he is referring to pretty 
 Doia, who sits behind, and is making mild running with 
 Mr. Hastings. 
 
 J Do you know," I say confidentially, " i am so glad 
 you nave come to live down here. Before, we had literally 
 nothing to think about, now you are always turning up, and 
 even that is something. Actually, it seems to us, papa ap- 
 pears more lively since your arrival ; he don't look so 
 gloomy or prowl about after us so much. And then this
 
 PHYLLIS. 87 
 
 drive we would never have had the chanae :>f such a thing 
 but for you. It is an immense comfort to know you are 
 going to stay here altogether," 
 
 " Is it ? Phyllis, look at me." I look at him. " No\? 
 tell me this : if any other fellow, as well off as I am, had 
 come to Strangemore, and had taken you for drives and 
 that, woirld you have been as glad to know him ? Would 
 you have liked him as well as me ? " 
 
 He is regarding me very earnestly ; his lips are slightly 
 compressed. Evidently he expects me to say something ; 
 but, alas! I don't know what, I feel horribly puzzled, 
 and hesitate. 
 
 " Go on ; answer me," he says, eagerly. 
 
 " I don't know. I never thought about it," I murmur, 
 somewhat troubled. "It is such an odd question. You 
 see, if he had come in your place I would not then have 
 known you, and if he had been as kind yes, I suppose I 
 would have liked him just as well," I conclude, quickly. 
 
 Of course I have said the wrong thing. The moment 
 my speech is finished I know this. Mr. Carriugton's eyes 
 leave mine; he mutters something between his teeth, and 
 brings the whip down sharply on the far leader. 
 
 " These brutes grow lazier every day," he says with an 
 unmistakable frown. 
 
 Five six minutes pass, and he does not address me. I 
 feel annoyed with myself, yet innocent of having intention- 
 ally offended. Presently stealing a glance at my compan- 
 ion, I say, contritely, 
 
 " Have 1 vexed you, Mr. Carrington?" 
 
 " No, no," he answers, hastily, the smile coming home 
 to his lips. " Don't think so. Surely truthfulness, being 
 so rare a virtue, should be precious. I am an irritable 
 fellow at times, and you are finding out all my faults to- 
 night," he says, rather sadly, laying his hand for an instant 
 upon mine, as it lies bare and small and brown upon the rug. 
 " You have proved me both ill-tenipered and selfish. You 
 will say I am full of defects." 
 
 " Indeed I will not," I return, earnestly, touched by hia 
 manner: " I do not even see the faults you mention ; and at 
 all events no one was ever before so kind to me as you have 
 been." 
 
 " I would be kinder if I dared," he says, somewhat un- 
 steadily. 
 
 While I ponder on what these words may meaa, whil
 
 38 PHYLLIS. 
 
 the first dim foreboding suspicion what you will enters 
 my iniud, we see Rylston, and pull up to give the Hastings 
 time to alight and bid their adieux. Then we go on again, 
 always in the strange silence that has fallen upon us, and 
 presently find ourselves at home. 
 
 Mr. Carrington is on the ground in a moment, and 
 comes round to my side to help me down. I hold out my 
 liands and prepare for a good spring (a clear jump at any 
 time is delightful to me) ; but he disappoints my hopes by 
 taking me in his arms and placing me gently on the gravel ; 
 after which he goes instantly to Dora. 
 
 When we are all safely landed, papa, to our unmitigated 
 astonishment, comes forward, and not only asks but presses 
 Mr. Carrington to stay and dine. Perhaps, considering he 
 has four horses and two grooms in his train, our father 
 guesses he will refuse the invitation. At all events he does 
 so very graciously, and, raising his hat, drives off, leaving 
 us free to surround and relate to mother all the glories of 
 the day. 
 
 CHAPTEE VOL 
 
 THE following Monday, as I sit reading in the small 
 parlor we dare to call our own, I am startled by Dora's 
 abrupt entrance. Her outdoor garments are on her ; her 
 whole appearance is full of woe ; suspicious circles surround 
 her eyes. I rise fearfully and hasten towards her. Surely 
 if anything worthy of condemnation has occurred it is im- 
 possible but I must have a prominent part in it. Has the 
 irreproachable Dora committed a crime ? Is she in dis- 
 grace with our domestic tyrant. 
 
 " Dora, what has happened ? " I ask, breathlessly. 
 
 '' Oh, nothing," returns Dora, reckless misery in her tone ; 
 " nothing to signify ; only Billy was right I am quite 
 positive he never cared for me has not the slightest inten- 
 tion of proposing to me." 
 
 " What ? who ? " I demand, in my charming definite 
 way. 
 
 " Who ? " with impatient reproach. " Wko is tkere in
 
 PHYLLIS. 89 
 
 this miserable forgotten spot to propose to any one, except 
 Mr. Carrington ? " 
 
 "What Lave you heard, Dora ?" I ask, light breaking 
 in upon my obscurity. 
 
 " IleiirJ ? Nothing. I would not have believed it, if I 
 had heard it. I saw it with my own eyes. An hour ago I 
 put on my things and went out for a walk, intending to go 
 down by the river; but just as I came to the shrubberies, 
 and while I was yet hidden from view, I saw Mr. Carring- 
 ton and that horrid dog of his standing on the bank just 
 below me. I hesitated for a moment about going forward. 
 I didn't quite like," says Dora, modestly, " to force myseli 
 upon him for what would look so like a tete-a-tete / and 
 while I waited, unable to make up my mind, he " a sob 
 "took out of his waistcoat a large gold locket and opened 
 it, and " a second heavy sob " and after gazing at it for 
 a long time, as though be were going to eat it " a final 
 sob, and an inclination towards choking " he stooped and 
 kissed it. And, oh ! of course it was some odious woman's 
 hair or picture or something," cries Dora, breaking do\vn 
 altogether, and sinking with rather less than her usual grace 
 into the withered arm-chair that adorns that corner of our 
 room. 
 
 A terrible suspicion, followed by as awful a sense of 
 conviction, springs to life within me. The word " picture " 
 has struck an icy chill to my heart. Can it by any possi- 
 bility be my photograph he has been so idiotically and pub- 
 licly embracing? Am I the fell betrayer of my sister's 
 happiness? 
 
 A moment later I almost smile at my own fears. Is it 
 likely any man, more especially one who has seen so much 
 Oi the world as Mr. Carrington, would find anything worth 
 kissing in my insignificant countenance? I find unlimited 
 consolation in this reflection, that at another time would 
 have caused me serious uneasiness. 
 
 Meantime Dora is still giving signs of poignant anguish, 
 and I look at her apprehensively, while pondering on what 
 will be the most sympathetic thing to say or do under the 
 circumstances. 
 
 Her nose is growing fainfiy pink, large tears are stand- 
 mg in her eyes, her head inclines a little a very little to 
 one side. 
 
 Now when I cry I do it with all my heart. The tears 
 fall like rain ; for the time being I abandon myself alto-
 
 40 PHYLLIS. 
 
 gether to my grief, and a perfect deluge is the consequence 
 Once I have wept my fill, however, I recover almost instan- 
 taneously, feeling as fresh as young grass after a shower. 
 
 Not so with Dora. When she is afflicted the tears coma 
 one by one, slowly, decorously sailing down her face ; each 
 drop waits politely until the previous one has cleared ofl 
 the premises before presuming to follow in its channel. She 
 never sniffs or gurgles or makes unpleasant noises in her 
 throat ; indeed, the entire performance though perhaps 
 monotonous after the first is fascinating and ladylike in 
 the extreme. In spite of the qualms of conscience that are 
 still faintly pricking me, as I sit mutely opposite my suffer- 
 ing sister, I find myself reckoning each salt drop as it rolls 
 slowly down her cheek. Just as I get to the forty-ninth, 
 Dora speaks again, 
 
 " If he really is in love with somebody else and I can 
 hardly doubt it after what I have seen I think lie has be- 
 haved very dishonorably to me," she says in a quavering 
 tone. 
 
 " Ifow so?" I stammer, hardly knowing what to say. 
 
 "How so? "with mild reproof. " Why, what has lie 
 meant by coming here day after day, and sitting for hours 
 in the drawing-room, and bringing flowers and game, un- 
 less he had some intentions with regard to me? Only that 
 you are so dull, Phyllis, you would not require ine to say 
 all this." 
 
 " It certainly looks very strange," I acknowledge. " But 
 perhaps, after all, Dora, you are misjudging him. Perhaps 
 it was his sister's Lady Ilandcock's hair he was kissing." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " says Dora, sharply ; " don't be absurd. 
 Did you ever hear of any brother wasting so much affection 
 npon a sister? Do you suppose Billy or Roland would 
 kaop your face or hair in a locket to kiss and embrace in 
 private ? " 
 
 1 certainly cannot flatter myself that they would, so 
 glva u]) this line of argument. 
 
 " Perhaps the person, whoever she is, is dead," I suggest 
 more brilliantly. 
 
 " No. He smiled at it quite brightly, as one would 
 never smile at a dead face. He smiled at it as if he adored 
 it," murmurs Dora, hopelessly, and the fiftieth drop splashes 
 into her lap. " I shall tell papa," she goes on presently. 
 " I have no idea of letting him be imagining things when 
 there is no truth in them. I wish we had never soon Mr.
 
 PHYLLIS 41 
 
 Carrington ! I wish with all my heart something would 
 occur to take him out of this p ace ! I feel as though I 
 hated him," says Dora with unasual vehemence and a 
 rather vicious compression of the lips ; " and, at all events, 
 I hope he will never marry that woman in the locket." 
 
 And I answer, M BO do I " with rather suspicion! hastek 
 aa in duty bound 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 IT is the evening of the same day, and we ar all seated 
 IM our accustomed places at the dinner table ; all, that is, 
 except papa. It is such an unusual thing for him to be ab- 
 sent, once a bell has sounded summoning us to meals, that 
 we are busy wondering what can be the matter, when the 
 door is Hung violently open, and he enters. It becomes iu- 
 Btanly palpable to every one of us, that, in the words of the 
 old sotig, "sullen glooms his brow ; " Billy alone, with his 
 usual obtuseness, remaining dangerously unconscious of 
 this fact. 
 
 Papa sits down in a snapping fashion and commences 
 the helping process in silence. Mamma never sits at the 
 head of her table except on those rare and unpleasant oc- 
 casions when the neighbors are asked to dine. Not a word 
 is spoken ; deadly quiet reigns, and all is going on smooth- 
 ly enough, until Billy, unhappily raising his head, sees 
 Dora's crimson lids. 
 
 " Why, Dora," he exclaims, instantly, in a loud and 
 jovial tone, " what on earth is the matter with you ? Your 
 eyes are as red as fire." 
 
 Down goes Dora's spoon, up comes Dora's handkerchief 
 to her face, and a stifled sob conveys the remainder of her 
 feelings. It is the last straw. 
 
 " William ! " cries my father in a voice of thunder, " go 
 to your room." And William does as he is bid. 
 
 The brown gravy-soup has not yet been removed ; aid, 
 Billy being our youngest, and consequently the last, helped, 
 more than half his allowance of that nutritious fluid still 
 remains upon his plate. His going now means his being 
 dinnerless for this day at least A lump rises in my throat
 
 42 PUYLUS 
 
 and ray face flushes. For the moment I feel that I hav 
 Dora and papa and my own soup, and, leaning back iu my 
 chair, suffer it to follow Billy's. 
 
 I am almost on the verge of tears, when, happening to 
 glance upwards, my eyes fall upon lioly's expressive cotn- 
 tenance. In his right eye is screwed the most enormout 
 butcher's penny I ever beheld ; his nose is drawn altogether 
 to one side in a frantic endeavor to maintain it in its pr 
 carious position; his mouth likewise; his left orb is firmly 
 fixed upon our paternal parent. 
 
 I instantly become hysterical. An awful fear that I am 
 going to break into wild laughter seizes hold of me. I 
 grow cold with fright, and actually gasp with fear, when 
 mother (who always knows by instinct, dear heart, when 
 we are on the brink of disgrace) brings her foot heavily 
 down on mine, and happily turns the current of my 
 thoughts. She checks me just in time ; I wince, and, with- 
 drawing my fascinated gaze from Holy's penny, tix my at- 
 tention on the tablecloth, while she turns an agonizing look 
 of entreaty upon her eldest hope ; but, as his only available 
 eye is warily bent on papa, nothing comes of it. 
 
 There is an unaccountable delay after the soup has been 
 removed. Can Billy have been adding to his evil doing by 
 any fresh misconduct ? This idea is paramount with me 
 as I sit staring at the house-linen, though all the time in my 
 brain I see Roland's copper regarding me with gloomy at- 
 tention. 
 
 The silence is becoming positively awful, when papa 
 suddenly raises his head from the contemplation of his 
 nails, and Roland sweeping the penny from his eye with 
 graceful case, utters a languid sigh, and says, mildly : 
 
 " Shall we say Grace ?"*' 
 
 " What is the meaning of this delay ? " demands papa, 
 exploding for the second time. " Are we to sit here all 
 night ? Tell cook if this occurs again she can leavo. 
 Three-quarters of an hour between soup and fish is more 
 than I will put up with. If there is no more dinner, let 
 her say so." 
 
 " Perhaps Mrs. Tully is indisposed," says Holy, Dolite- 
 ly, addressing James. "If so, we ought to make allow- 
 ances for her." Mrs. Tully's admiration for " Old Tom " 
 being a well-known fact to every one in the house except 
 papa. 
 
 " Be iilent, Roland ; I will have no interference where
 
 PHYLLIS. 43 
 
 my servants are concerned," declares papa ; and exit 
 James, with his hand to his mouth, to return presently with 
 & very red face and the roast mutton. 
 
 " Where's the fish?' asks papa, in a terrific tone. 
 
 " It didn't arrive in time, sir." 
 
 " Who has the ordering of dinner in this house?" in- 
 quires papa, addressing us all generally, as though ignorant 
 df ihe fact of mother's having done so without a break for 
 the last twenty-six years. " Nobody, I presume, by the 
 manner in which it is served. Now, remember, James, I 
 
 five strict orders that no more fish is ever taken from that 
 shmonger. Do you hear?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." And at length we all get some roast mut 
 ton. 
 
 It seems to me that dinner will never come to an 
 end ; and yet, to watch me, I feel sure no stranger would 
 ever guess at my impatience. Experience has taught me 
 that any attempt at hurry will betray me, and produce an 
 order calculated to prevent my seeing Billy for the entire 
 evening. I therefore smother my feelings, break my wal- 
 nuts, and get through my claret with a great show of cool- 
 ness. Claret is a thing I detest ; but it pleases papa to 
 form our tastes, which means condemning us to eat and 
 drink such things as are nauseous and strictly distasteful 
 to us. 
 
 At length, however, the welcome word is spoken, and we 
 rise from the table. Once outside the door, I fly to the 
 cook, and, having obtained such delicacies as are procur- 
 able, rush upstairs, and enter Billy's room, to find him seated 
 at the farthest end, the deepest look of dejection upon his 
 features. 
 
 As our eyes meet, this gloom, vanishes, giving pla'je to 
 an expression of intense relief. 
 
 " Oh ! " he says, "I thought you were Dora." 
 
 "No. I could not came sooner, as papa fought over 
 every course. But I have brought you your dinner now, 
 Billy. You must be starving." 
 
 " I had it long ago," says Billy, drawing a potato from 
 his pocket and a plate from under the dressing-table on 
 which mutton is distinctly visible. I feel rather disap- 
 pointed. 
 
 " Who brought it to you ? " I ask ; but before I can re- 
 ceive a reply a heavy step upon the stairi strikes tei ror to 
 our hearts.
 
 44 PHYLLIS. 
 
 Listant.y Billy's dinner goes under the table again, and 
 the dejected depression returns to his face. But I, wba 
 am I to do ? Under the bed I dive, plate and all, thrustiug 
 the plate on before me, and am almost safe, when I tip over 
 a bit of rolled carpet and plunge forward, bringing botn 
 hands into the gravy. In this interesting position I remain, 
 trembling, and afraid to stir or breathe, with my eye* 
 directed through a small hole in the valance. I 
 
 The door opens noisily, and enter Holy with a cane in 
 his hand and a ferocious gleam in his eyes. 
 
 " Oh, Itoly ! " I gasp, scrambling out of my hiding-place, 
 " what a fright you gave us ! We were sure it was papa." 
 
 "Whereon earth have you cdme from?" asked Roly, 
 gazing with undisguised amazement at the figure 1 present. 
 " And don't come any nearer ' paws off, Pompey ' 
 what is the matter with your hands ? " 
 
 " Oh, I had just brought up Billy some dinner, and when 
 I heard you I ran under the bed and tripped over the carpet 
 and fell splash into the gravy. But it is nothing,' 1 I wind 
 up, airily. 
 
 "Nothing! I wish it was less. Go wash yourself, you 
 dirty child." Then resuming the ferocious aspect, and with 
 uplifted cane, he advances on Billy. 
 
 " William " imitating papa's voice to a nicety " I 
 have not yet done with you. What, sir, did you mean by 
 exposing your sensitive sister to the criticisms of a crowded 
 table ? If your own gentlemanly instincts are not sutti- 
 ceintly developed to enable you to understand how unpar- 
 donable are personal remarks, let this castigation, that a 
 sense Ttf duty compels me to bestow, be the means of teach- 
 ing you." 
 
 Billy grins, and for the third time commences his dinner 
 while lloland leans against the window-shutter and contem- 
 plates him with lazy curiosity. 
 
 " Billy," he asks, presently, " is mutton when the fat 
 has grown white and the gravy is in tiny lumps a good 
 thing ? " _ 
 
 " No it ain't/' returns Billy, grumpily, and with rather 
 more than his usual vulgarity. 
 
 u I ask merely for information," says Holy. " It cer 
 tainly looks odd." 
 
 ""it's beastly" says Billy. " If the governor goes in for 
 any more of this kind of thing I'll cut and run : that's what 
 I'll do."
 
 PHYLLIS. 45 
 
 " Why didn t you have some dumpling? " Roland goe 
 on, smoothly. " The whipped cream with it was capital." 
 
 " Dumpling ? " says Billy, regarding me fixedly ; " dump 
 ling ! Phyllis, was there dumpliug ? " 
 
 " There was," I reply. 
 
 " And whi})j>ed cream ! " 
 
 "Yes," I answer, faintly. 
 
 * Oh, Phyllis ! " says Billy, in the liveliest tone of re 
 pfoach. The dicker of an amused smile shoots across 
 Roland's face. 
 
 " Phillis, why did you not oring him some ?" he asks, l<n 
 a tone that reflects Billy's. 
 
 " How could I ? " I exclaim, indignantly. " I could not 
 carry more than one plate, and even as it was the gravy was 
 running all about. I was afraid every minute I would be 
 caught. Besides " 
 
 " Miss Phyllis, Miss Phyllis," comes a sepulchral whisper 
 at the door, accompanied by a faint knock. In the whisper 
 I recognize James. Having taken a precautionary poop 
 through the keyhole, I open the door, and on the thieshold 
 discover our faithful friend, a large plate of apples and cream 
 in his hand, and a considerable air of mystery about him. 
 
 "Miss Phyllis," he says, in a fine undertone, "cook sent 
 this here to Master Billy ; and the mistress says you are to 
 come down at oncet, as the master has been asking where 
 you all are." 
 
 " I am coming," I return ; " and tell cook we are awfully 
 obliged to her." Whereupon, having deposited the dainties 
 before Billy, I charge down stairs and into the library ; and, 
 having seized hold of the first book I can see, I collecf my- 
 self, and enter the drawing-room with a sedate air. 
 
 " Where have you been ? " demands papa, twisting his 
 head round until I wonder his neck doesn't crack. 
 
 "In the library, choosing a book." 
 
 " What book." 
 
 I glance at the volume I carry, and, to my unmitigated 
 horror find it a treatise on surgery. 
 
 ' It is by Dr. Batly," I murmur, vaguely. 
 
 " Come here and let me see it." Trembling, I advance 
 and surrender my book. 
 
 " Is this a proper subject fora young wcman to study ? '' 
 exclaims papa, in high disgust, when he has read through 
 the headings of the chapters. " What an abominable girl
 
 40 PHYLLIS. 
 
 you are ! Go over Ihcro and sit down, and Keep yourself 
 out of mischief for the remainder of the evening, if you can" 
 
 " Would you like Tennyson's ' Jr. Meraoriam ' ? " asku 
 Do^a, sweetly, raising her white lids for a moment to hold 
 out to me an elegant little edition in green and gold. 
 
 'No, thank \ou, ? ' I answer, curtly, and, subsiding into 
 ay ohalr, euik uouuortabl) autil bedtime 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE next day Dora is still low very low indeed and 
 Bighs heavily at intervals. We might, however, in spite of 
 this, have managed to knock some enjoyment out of our 
 lives, but, unfortunately, whatever communication she had 
 made to papa on the subject of Mr. Carrington's treachery 
 has had the effect of rendering him almost unbearable. 
 
 At breakfast the playfulness of his remarks can only be 
 equalled by the sweetness of his expression ; and by lunch- 
 hour he is so much worse that (as far at least as I aui con- 
 cerned) the food before me is as dust and ashes. I think 
 Roland rather enjoys the murkiness of our atmosphere than 
 otherwise, and takes a small but evident pleasure in winking 
 at me as he presses the vinegar and pepper upon our already 
 highly-seasoned father. 
 
 The latter, knowing my nomadic tendencies, is successful 
 in bringing to light during the day a dozen unhemmed cam- 
 bric handkerchiefs, and before going to his customary after- 
 noon ride leaves strict injunctions behind him that by my 
 fingers they are to be begun and ended before his return. 
 Abrut four o'clock, therefore, behold me sitting in state in 
 tLe drawing-room, in company with mamma and Dora, hard 
 ft word at my enforced task. 
 
 The conversation is limited ; it dwindles, indeed, until 
 it, gets so sparse that at length we are ashamed of it and 
 relapse into silence. Dora broods with tender melancholy 
 upon her woes ; mother thinks of us ; while I, were I to give 
 a voice to my thoughts, would demand of mother the name 
 of the evil genius that possessed her when she walked to the 
 altar with papa. 
 
 The needle runs into my finger ; it doe BO pretty regn-
 
 PHVLLIS. 47 
 
 larly after every fifth stitch, but this time it had got under 
 my nail, and causes me for the moment keen anguish. 1 
 groan, and mutter something under my breath ; and molkfl* 
 gays, " Phyllis, darling, be careful," in a dreamy tone* 
 Surely we are more than ordinarily dull. 
 
 Suddenly there comes a rattle of horses' hoofs upon tL 
 gravel outside. We raise our heads simultaneously and 
 question each other by our looks. A little later, and Mr. 
 Carrington's voice striking on our ears sets speculation at 
 rest. Mamma glances furtively at Dora, and Dora breathes 
 a faint sigh and blushes pale pink, while suffering an ag 
 grieved expression to characterize her face. 
 
 A horrible thought comes into my head. Suppose of 
 course it is impossible but suppose Mr. Carrington 
 were to come in now, and in the course of conversation 
 mention my photograph : what will not mother and Dora 
 think ? What is to prevent their drawing a conclusion 
 about what happened yesterday ? Although I do not in the 
 least believe it was my picture Mr. Carrington was seen em- 
 bracing, still the very idea that it might be, and that he 
 might at any time speak of it turns me cold. Something 
 must be done, and that quickly. Without further hesitation 
 I rise from my seat, put down my work, and make for the 
 door. No one attempts to detain me, and in an instant I 
 am in the hall, face to face with our visitor. 
 
 1 lay my hand upon the front of his coat, and whisper 
 hurriedly : 
 
 " Do not say a word about my picture, not a word. Do 
 you understand ? " I have raised my face very close to 
 his in my anxiety, and shake him slightly to emphasize my 
 Words. 
 
 " I do ; " replies he, placing his hand over mine as it -lea 
 almost unconsciously upon his breast. " Of course I will 
 net. But why " 
 
 " Nothing," I say ; " at least only a fancy. Go now. I 
 will tell you.some other time." 
 
 " Phyllis, will you meet me at the oak-tree to-morrow 
 evening at fivo at four?" he asks, eagerly, detaining me 
 as I seek to escape ; and I say, " Yes," with impatient haste, 
 and, tearing my hand out of his, I turn my bi*ck upon him 
 arxl gladly disappear
 
 fHYLLIS. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 At last ! How late you are ! I thought yon wen 
 coming," is Mr Carrington's somewhat impatien 4 , 
 greeting next evening, as he advances to meet me from un- 
 der the old oak-tree. My cheeks are flushed with the 
 lapidity of my walk; my breath rushes from me in short, 
 quick, little gasps. 
 
 " I was so busy, I could not come a moment sooner. I 
 would not be here at all but that I promised, and was afraid 
 you would think me out of my senses yesterday," I say, 
 laughing and panting. 
 
 " I certainly thought you rather tragical, and have been 
 puzzling n y brain ever since to discover the cause. Now, 
 tell it to me." 
 
 " If I do you will think me horribly conceited." I hcsi 
 tate and blush uneasily. For the first time it occurs to me 
 that I have a very uncomfortable story to relate. 
 
 " I will not," says Mr. Carrington, amiably. 
 
 " Well then, the fact is, down at the troutrriver, the day 
 before yesterday, somebody saw you kissing a picture in a 
 locket, and I feared if you mentioned having my portrait 
 they might they take up such ridiculous fancies at home 
 they might think it was mine" 
 
 " Is it possible they would imagine anything BO un- 
 likely?" 
 
 "Of course " with eager haste " I know it was not, 
 but they might choose to think differently ; and, besides, 
 something has whispered to me two or three times since 
 that perhaps I was wrong in giving my photograph to y^a 
 t all. Was If" wistfully. 
 
 " That is a hard question to ask me, Phyllis, who am so 
 happy in the possession of it. I certainly do not think you 
 were. ' 
 
 " Then you would see no harm in my gi\ ing my picture 
 to any one?" 
 
 " Of course I do not say it would be rig] t of you to go 
 abgut giving it to every inuu you
 
 PHYLLIS. 49 
 
 " No? Then why should I give it to you in particular * 
 After all, I believe 1 was wrong." 
 
 " Oh, that is quite another thing altogether," says Mr. 
 Carrington, biting his lip. " You have known me a long 
 time I may almost be considered an old friend. And, 
 besides, you can be quite sure that I will prize it as it le- 
 erves." 
 
 " That is saying very little," I return, gloomily. His 
 reasoning seems to me poor and unsatisfactory. I begin 
 to wish my wretched likeness back again in my untidy 
 drawer. 
 
 " But why are you so sure it was not your picture I was 
 caught admiring the other day ?" asks Mr. Carrington, pres- 
 ently, with an ill-suppressed smile. 
 
 " Nonsense ! " I reply angrily. (I hate being laughed 
 at). " For what possible reason would you put my face 
 into your locket? I knew you would think me vain when 
 I began, but I am not and and I am very sorry I took 
 the trouble to explain it to you at all." 
 
 " Forgive me, Phyllis. I did not mean to offend you, 
 and I do not think you vain. I was merely imagining what 
 a fatuous fool I must have looked when discovered in the 
 act you describe. But have you no curiosity to learn who 
 ii really was I was so publicly embracing?" 
 
 " I know" I return, with a nod ; " it was that little girl 
 you told me of some time since the village maiden, you re- 
 member, whose face was so dear to you. Am I not right !' 
 
 " Quite right. What a capital guess you made !" 
 
 " May I see her ? " I ask, coaxingly. " Bo let me get 
 just one little peep at her. I am sure she is lovely, frcui 
 what you say ; and I do so like pretty people ? " 
 
 " You would only be disappointed, and then you would 
 say so, and I could not bear to hear one disparaging word 
 eaid of my beauty." 
 
 " I will not be disappointed. Of course you have had 
 no much experience to guide you your taste must be better 
 than mine. Please let me see her." 
 
 " You promise faithfully not to scorn the face I will 
 show you ? You will say no slighting word ? " 
 
 " I will not indeed. How could you think I would tx 
 o rude ? " 
 
 " Very good." ITe raises his watch-chain and detacher 
 from it a plain gold locket. 1 draw near and gaze at vt 
 eagerly. What will shw be like, this rival of Dora's ? "
 
 ?>0 PHYLLIS 
 
 "Now, remember," he says again, while a look of it* 
 tense amusement crosses his face, "you have promised V> 
 admire?" 
 
 " Yes, yes," I answer impatiently; and as he delibm- 
 ately opecs the trinket I lean forward and stare into ti 
 large gray-blue eyes of Phyllis Marian Vernon. 
 
 Slowly I raise my head and look at my companion. He 
 appears grave now, and rather anxious. J know I am *>s 
 white as death. 
 
 " So yon have put mt into a locket 00," I say, in a low 
 wone. " Why ? " 
 
 " Do not use the word ' too,' Phyllis. You have no 
 rival ; I keep no woman's face near me except yours." 
 
 " Then it was an untruth you told me about that girl ? " 
 
 " No it was not. Will you not try to understand ? 
 You are that little girl ; it was your face 1 kissed the other 
 day down by the river. There is no face in the world I 
 sold so dear as yours." 
 
 "Then you had no right to kiss it," I break out indig- 
 nantly, my surprise and bewilderment making me vehe- 
 ment. " I did not give you my picture to put in your locket 
 and treat in that way. How dare you carry me all over the 
 place with you making things so unpleasant everywhere ? 
 And, besides, you are talking very falsely ; it is impossible 
 that any one could think me beautiful." 
 
 " I do," says he, gently. " I cannot help it. You 
 know we all judge differently. And as to my kissing it, 
 surely that was no grout harm. It became mine, you know, 
 when- you gave it tome; and for me to kiss it now and 
 then cannot injure you or it." He ga/.cs down tenderly 
 upon the face lying in hw hand. " The Phyllis here does 
 not look as if she could be unkind or unjust," ho says, 
 softly. 
 
 1 am impressed by the mildness of his reproach. Insen- 
 sibly, I go closer to him, and regard with mingled feelings 
 toe innocent cause 01 all the disturbance. 
 
 "It certainly looks wonderfully well," I say, with re- 
 luctance. " It never appeared to me so ah jxissablc be- 
 fore. It must be the Hold frame. Somehow I never 
 thought so until to-daj but now it swms much too pretu
 
 PHYLLIS. 61 
 
 " Remember yonr promise," says Mr. Carrington, de- 
 murely, "to admire and say no disparaging word." 
 
 "You laid a trap for me," I reply, smiling in spite cf 
 myself, and hard set to prevent the smile turning into a 
 merry laugh as I review the situation. 
 
 I lean my back against the old tree, and, clasping mj 
 hands loosely before me, begin to piece past events. I have 
 not gone far in my meditations when I become aware that 
 Mr. Carrington has closed the locket, has turned, and ii 
 steadfastly regarding me. My hat lies on the ground be- 
 side me ; the wanton wind has blown a few stray tresses of 
 my hair across my forehead. Involuntarily I raise my 
 head until our eyes meet. Something new, indefinite, in 
 his, makes my heart beat with a sudden fear that yet i 
 nameless. 
 
 " Phyllis," whispers he, hurriedly, impulsively, " will you 
 marry me ? " 
 
 A long, long pause. 
 
 I am still alive, then ! the skies have not fallen ! 
 
 " What! " cry I, when I recover breath, moving back a 
 step or two, and staring at him with the most open and 
 undisguised amazement. Can I have heard aright? Is it 
 indeed me he is asking to marry him? And if so if my 
 senses have not deceived me who is to tell Dora. This 
 thought surmounts all others. 
 
 " I want you to say you will marry me," repeats he, 
 rather disconcerted by the emphatic astonishment of my 
 look and tone. As I make no reply this time, he is em- 
 boldened, and, advancing, takes both my hands. 
 
 " Why do you look so surprised ? " be says. " "Why 
 will you not answer me? Surely for weeks you must have 
 seen I would some time ask you this question. Then why 
 not to-day ? If I waited for years I could not love you 
 more utterly, more madly, if you like, than now. And 
 you, Phyllis say you will be my wife." 
 
 " I cannot indeed," I reply, earnestly ; " it is out of the 
 question. I never knew you you cared for me in this 
 way I always thought that is, we all thought you " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " We were all quite sure I mean none of us imagined 
 you were in love with me." 
 
 " With whom, then ? with Dora ? " 
 
 " Well " nervously " I am sure mamma and p|/ 
 thought so, and BO did I."
 
 b2 PHYLLIS. 
 
 " What an alaurd mistake I Ten thousand Do u 
 would not make one Phyllis. Do you know, ever sii ? 
 that first day I saw you in the wood I loved you ? Do y >* 
 remember it ? " 
 
 " Yes," I say, blushing furiously. " I was hanging frco) 
 the nut tree and nearly went mad with shame and ra^o 
 when I found I could not escape. It puzzlee me to thiuk 
 what you could have seen to admire about me that day, 
 unless my boots." I laugh rather hysterically. 
 
 " Nevertheless I did love you then, and have gone on 
 nursing the feeling ever since, until I can keep it to myself 
 no longer. But you are silent, Phyllis. Why do you not 
 speak ? I will not remember what you said just now ; I 
 will not take a refusal from you. Darling, ciarling, surely 
 you love me, if only a little ? " 
 
 " No, I do not love you," I answer, with downcast lids 
 and flaming cheeks. 
 
 Silence falls upon my cruel words. His hand-clasp 
 loosens, but still he does not let me altogether go ; and, 
 glancing up timidly, I see a face like and yet unlike the 
 face I know a face that is still and white, with lips that 
 tremble slightly beneath the heavy fair mustache. A world 
 of disappointed anguish darkens his blue eyes. 
 
 Seeing all this, and knowing myself its cause, my 
 heart is touched and a keen pang darts through my breast. 
 I press his hands with reassuring force as I go on hastily : 
 
 " But I like you, you will understand. J may not love 
 you, but I like you very much indeed better than any 
 other man I ever met, except Roland and Billy, and he is 
 only a boy." This is not a very clear or logical speech, 
 but it does just as well : it brings the blood back to his 
 face, and a smile to his lips, the light and fire to his eyes. 
 
 " Are you sure of that ? " he asks, eagerly. " Are you 
 certain, Phyllis ? " 
 
 " Quite sure. But then I have never seen any men 
 ercept Mr. Mangan, you know, and the curate, and Bobby 
 De Vere, and and one or two others." 
 
 "And these one or two others," jealously "have 1 
 nothing to fear from them ? Ilave you given them none of 
 your thoughts ? " 
 
 "Not one," return I, smiling up at him. The smile 
 does more than I intend. 
 
 " Then you will marry me, Phyllis ? " cries he, with re- 
 newed hope. "If you like me as you say, I will make jo
 
 PHYLLIS 51 
 
 l<r e me when you arc once my own. No man could love 
 as f do without creating some answering affection. Phyl- 
 lis," lie goes on, passionately, " look at me and say you be- 
 lieve all this. Oh, my life, my darling, how 1 have longed 
 for you ! How I have watched the hours that would bring 
 me to your side! How I have hated the evenings that 
 parted you from me 1 Say one little kind word to me to 
 make me happy." 
 
 Ilia tone is so full of hope and ^oy that almost I feel 
 myself drifting with the current of his passion. But Dora'a 
 face rising before me checks the coming words. I draw 
 back. 
 
 " Phyllis, put me out of pain," he says, entreatingly. I 
 begin to find the situation trying, being a mere novice in 
 the art of receiving and refusing proposals with propriety. 
 
 " I I don't think I want to get married yet," I say, at 
 length, with nervous gentleness. I am very fearful of 
 hurting him again. " At home, when I ask to go any- 
 where, they tell me I am still a child, and you 'are much 
 older than me. I don't mean that you are old," I add anx- 
 iously, " only a good deal older than I am ; and perhaps 
 when it was too late you would repent the step you had 
 taken and wish you had chosen a wife older and wiser." 
 
 I stop, amazed at my own eloquence and rather proud 
 of myself. Never before have I made so long and so con- 
 nected a speech. Really the " older and wiser " could 
 scarcely have done better. The marrying in haste and re- 
 penting at leisure allusion appears to me very neat, and 
 ought to be effective. 
 
 All is going on very well indeed, and I feel I could con- 
 tinue with dignity to the end, but that just at this moment 
 1 become conscious I am going to sneeze. Oh, horrible, 
 unromantic thought ! Will nothing put it back for ten 
 minutes for even five ? I feel myself turning crimson, 
 and certain admonitory twitchings in my nose warn me 
 the catastrophe is close at hand. 
 
 *' Of course," says Mr. Carringtcn, in a low tone, " I 
 know you are very young" (it is comiug) " only seven- 
 teen. And, and" (surely coming) " I suppose twenty 
 eight appears quite old to you." (In another instant I 
 shall be disgraced forever.) " I look even older than I am, 
 But good gracious Phyllis, is anything the matter with you ? 
 
 " Nothing, netting," I murmur, with a last frantic effort
 
 M PHYLLIS 
 
 at pride and dignity, "only a a snee ecze atchu 
 atchu atchu ! " 
 
 There is a most awful pause, and then Mr Can ington, 
 after a vain endeavor to suppress it, bursts into an unre- 
 strained fit of laughter, in which without hesitation I join 
 him. Indeed, now the crisis is over and my difficult and 
 new-born dignity is a thing of the past, I feel much inoia 
 comfortable and pleasanter in every way. 
 
 "But, Phyllis, all this time you are keeping me in 6 is- 
 pense," says Mr. Carrington, presently, in an anxious tone : 
 " and I will not leave you again without a decided answer 
 The uncertainty kills me. Darling, I feel glad and thank- 
 ful when I remember how happy I can make your life, if 
 you will only let me. You shall never have a wish un- 
 gratified that is in my power to grant. Strangemore shall 
 be yours, and you shall make what alterations there you 
 choose. You shall have your own rooms, and furnish them 
 as your own taste directs. You shall reign there as the 
 very sweetest queen that ever came within its walls." 
 
 He has passed his arm lightly round my waist, and is 
 keenly noting the effect of his words. 
 
 " I remember the other day you told me how you longed 
 to visit foreign lands. I will take you abroad, and you 
 shall stay there as long as you wish until you have seen 
 everything your fancy has pictured to you. You will like 
 all this, Phyllis ; it pleases you." 
 
 There is no use in denying it. All this does please me. 
 Nay, more ; it intoxicates me. I am heart-whole, and can 
 therefore freely yield myself up to the enjoyment of the 
 visions he has conjured up before me. I feel I am giving 
 in swiftly and surely. My refusing to marry him will not 
 make him a whit more anxious to marry Dora ; and instinct 
 tells me now she is utterly unsuited to him. Still I ain re- 
 luctant. 
 
 " Would you let me have Billy and mamma and Dora 
 with me very often ? " I ask faintly. 
 
 His arm round me tightens suddenly. 
 
 "As often as ever you wish," he says, with strange 
 calmness. " I tell you you shall be my queen at Strange- 
 more, and your wishes shall be law." 
 
 " And" here I blush crimson, and my voice sinks to a 
 whisper " there is something else I want very, very much. 
 Will you do it for me?" 
 
 M I will Tell me what it is."
 
 PHYLLIS. if 
 
 His tone IS so quiet, so kind, I am encouraged; yet I 
 know by the trembling of the hand that holds mine that 
 the quiet is enforced. 
 
 " Will you send Billy to Eton for me ? " I gay, my voice 
 shaking terribly. "I know it is a very great thing to ask, 
 but he so longs to go." 
 
 " I will do better than that," I e answers softly, drawing 
 me closer to him as he sees how soon I shall be his by my 
 wn consent. " I will settle on you any money you wish, 
 and you shall send Billy to Eton, and afterwards to Oxford 
 or Cambridge." 
 
 This assurance, given at any other time, would have 
 driven me half mad with delight. Now, though my heart 
 feels a strong throb of pleasure, it is largely mingled with 
 what I know is pain. Am I selling myself ? 
 
 Some finer instinct within me whispers to me to pause 
 before giving myself irrevocably to a man whom I certainly 
 do not love as a woman should love the one with whom 
 she elects to buffet all the storms and trials of life. A 
 horrible thought comes to me and grows on my lips. I feel 
 I must give it utterance. 
 
 " Suppose," I gay, suddenly, " suppose afterwards 
 when I iiuve married you, I see some one to love with all 
 my heart and mind : what then ? " 
 
 He shivers. lie draws me passionately, almost fiercely 
 to him, as though defying my miserable words to come true. 
 
 " What put such a detestable idea into your head ? " he 
 asks hoarsely, with pale lips. "Are you trying to frighten 
 me ? Shall I tell you how that would end ? You would be 
 my murderess as surely as though you drove a knife into my 
 heart What an evil thought ! But I defy it," he says, 
 forcing a smile. " Once you are mine, once you belong to 
 me altogether, I will hold you against yourself against the 
 world Oh Phyllis, my child, my love " 
 
 lie pa .ses, and, putting his hand under my chin, turns 
 up my face until my head leans against his arm and my eyes 
 look straight into his. His face is dangerously close to 
 mine ; it comes closer, closer, until suddenly, without a word 
 of warning, his lips meet mine in a long, eager, passionate 
 kiss. 
 
 It is the first time a lover's kiss has been laid upon my 
 lips. I do not struggle or seek to free myself. I only burst 
 into a storm of tears. I am frightened, troubled, and lie 
 trembling and sobbing in his arms, hardly knowing M hat 1
 
 56 PHYLLIS. 
 
 feel, hardly conscious of anything but a sense of shame and 
 fear. I know, too, that Manna luke's heart la beating wildly 
 against my cheek. 
 
 " Phyllis, what is it? what have I done?" he asks, very 
 anxiousl) " My darling, was I too abrupt ? Did I frighten 
 you ? Forgive me, sweet ; I forgot what a mere timid chili 
 you are." 
 
 I sob on bitterly. 
 
 " It shall not happen again ; I promise yon that, Phyllis, 
 I will never kiss you again until you give me permission 
 Now surely you will forgive me. My darling, why should 
 it grieve you so terribly ? " 
 
 " I don't know," I whisper, " only I do not want to be 
 married, or have a lover, or anything" 
 
 Marmaduke lays his cheek very gently against mine, and 
 for a long time there is silence between us. After awhile 
 my sobs cease, and he once more breaks the silence by say- 
 ing: 
 
 '* You will marry me, Phyllis ? " and I answer, " Yes," 
 very quietly, somehow feeling as if that kiss had sealed my 
 fate, and put it out of my power to answer " No." 
 
 " Then look at me," says Marmaduke, tenderly. " Will 
 you not let me see my dear wife's face ? " 
 
 I raise a face flushed and tear-stained and glance at 
 him shyly for a moment. Evidently its dimmed appearance 
 makes no difference to him, as there is unmistakable rap- 
 ture and triumph in his gaze as he regards it. I hide it 
 again with a sigh, though now the Rubicon being actually 
 passed, I feel a sense of rest I had not known before. 
 
 " Who is to tell them at home ? " I ask presently. 
 
 " I will. Shall I go back with you now and tell them at 
 once?" 
 
 " No, no," I cry, hastily, shrinking from the contempla- 
 tion of the scene that will inevitably follow his announce- 
 ment, ft is too late now. To-morrow about four 
 o'clock you can come and get it over. And, Mr. Carring- 
 feon, will, will you please be sure to tell them I knew noth- 
 ing of it never suspected, I mean, that you cared for 
 me?" 
 
 " That I loved you ? It would be a pity to suppress so 
 evident a fact. Though how you could have been so blind, 
 my pet, puzzles me. Well, then, to-morrow let it be. And 
 now I will walk home with you, lest any hobgoblin, jealoo* 
 of ray joy should spirit you away from me."
 
 PHYLLIS. 57 
 
 Together and rathei silently we go through the wood 
 and out into the road beyond. I am conscious that every 
 now and then Harmaduke's eyes seek my face and dwell 
 there with a smile in them that betrays his extreme and 
 utter satisfaction. As for me, I am neither glad nor 
 sorry, nor anything, but rather fearful of the consequence 
 when my engagement shall be made public in the home cir- 
 cle As yet my marriage is a thing so faint, so far away in 
 the dim distance, that it causes me little or no annoyance. 
 
 Suddenly I stop short in the middle of the road and 
 burst into irrepressible laughter. 
 
 " What is it ? " asks Mr. Carrington, who is smiling in 
 sympathy. 
 
 " Oh that sneeze 1 " I say when I can cpeak " coming 
 just in the middle of your proposal. Could anything have 
 been so unsuitable, so utterly out of place ? That odious 
 little convulsion ! I shall always think of the whole scene 
 with abhorrence." 
 
 " Suppose I propose to you all over again ? " suggests 
 Mr. Carringtou. " It is impossible you can bring it in so 
 unfortunately a second time ; and you can then recollect 
 the important event with more complaisance." 
 
 " No, no. A second addition would be flat, stale, and 
 unprofitable ; and besides, it does not really matter, does 
 it ? Only I suppose it would be more correct to feel grave 
 and tearful, instead of comical, on such occasions." 
 
 ''Nothing matters," exclaims Marmaduke, fervently, 
 geifctng my hand and kissing it, " since you have promised 
 to be my wife. And soon Phyllis is it not so ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ; certainly not soon," I return, decidedly. 
 M There is plenty of time. There is no hurry ; and I do not 
 want to be married for ever so long." 
 
 My lover's countenance falls. 
 
 " What do you mean by ' ever so long ? ' " he askg. 
 
 "Two or three years, perhaps." 
 
 " Phyllis! how can you be so unreasonable, so absurd?" 
 lays he, his face flushing. * Two years \ It is an eternity. 
 Say six months, if you will ; though even that ia a ridicu- 
 lous delay." 
 
 " If you talk like that," I say, stopping to stare fixedly 
 nt him, " I will not marry you at all. We had better decide 
 the question at once. If you mean to say you think seri- 
 ously I will marry you in six months, all I can say is, you 
 are very much mistaken. I would not marry the Prince of
 
 b8 PHYLLIS. 
 
 Wales in six months ; there ! If you once mention the ub- 
 ject to papa, and he discovers 1 do not wish to be hurried 
 into the marriage, I have no doubt, he will insist on my be- 
 coming a bride in six days. But rather than submit to any 
 tyranny in the matter I would run away and drown my 
 self." 
 
 1 utter this appalling threat with every outward demoa- 
 itration of seriousness. Really the last hour has developed 
 in a wonderful manner my powers of conversation. 
 
 "Do you suppose," cried Marmaduke, with indignation! 
 "I have any desire to force you into anything? You may 
 rest assured I will never mention the subject to your father. 
 What do you take me for? You shall do just as you think 
 fit. But, 1'hyllis, darling " very tenderly, " won't you 
 consider me a little ? Remember how I shall be longing 
 for you, and how unhappy will be every day spent away 
 from you. Oh, darling, you cannot comprehend how every 
 thought of my heart is wrapped up in you how passionate 
 and devoted is my love." 
 
 He looks so handsome, so much in earnest, as he says 
 this, with his face flushed and his dark eyes alight, that I 
 feel myself relenting. He sees his advantage and presses 
 it. 
 
 " You won't be cruel, darling, will you ? Remember you 
 have all the power in your own hands. I would not, if I 
 could, compel you to marry me a day sooner than you wiah. 
 And, Phyllis, will you not try to think it is for your happi- 
 ness as well as for mine? In time you will learn to love 
 me as well no, that would be impossible but almost as 
 well as I love you. The entire devotion of a man's life 
 must meet with some return ; and I swear it shall not be 
 my fault if every hour you spend is not happier than the 
 last. Speak, Phyllis, and say you will come to me in " 
 
 "A year," I interrupt, hastily. "Yes, that is a great 
 concession ; I said three years first, and now by a word I 
 take off two. That is twenty-four long months. Think ol 
 It. You cannot expect more." 
 
 " It will never pass," says Marmaduke, desperately. 
 " It will pass, all too soon," say I, with a heavy Big 
 
 igh.
 
 PHYLLIS. 69 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 ALL that evening and all the next day I creep about at 
 cne oppressed with sin. As the hour approaches that shall 
 lay bare my secret I feel positively fa'nt, and heartily wish 
 myself in my grave. I am as wretched as though some 
 calamity had befallen me ; and verily I begin to think it 
 has. With what intense longing do I wish undone all that 
 happened yesterday! 
 
 Almost as the hall-clock, with its customary uncouthness 
 clangs out four strokes, Mr. Carrington rides up to the doon 
 
 As I sit in an upper chamber like Elaine, but with 
 what different emotions! watching my lover's coming, I 
 can see he is looking oppressively radiant, and is actually 
 whistling. I begin to hate him. How detestable a man 
 looks when whistling ! Plovghboya whistle ! 
 
 lie knocks a loud, determined, and, as it seems to me 
 in my morbid fright, a triumphant knock at the door, and 
 rings the bell until it sends forth a merry peal that echoes 
 through the passages. A funny empty sensation comes into 
 the tops of my fingers and across my forehead, as though 
 the blood was receding, and, rising swiftly, I hurry to my 
 own room and lock the door. 
 
 Now he is in the hall, and Billy and he are laughing 
 at some stupid joke, no doubt. Now he is in the library; 
 now he lias told papa it is a line day ; and now it must b 
 aH over ! 
 
 1 am too frightened to cry. Half an hour, an hour, go 
 by. 1 long, yet fear, to open the door. Another quarter of 
 an hour elapses, and then mother's step somes slowly along 
 the corridor outside. 
 
 " Phyllis, are you within, open the door." 
 
 It is mother's voice, but it sounds strangely cold. I open 
 to her, and present a woebegone face to her inspection. 
 She comes in and comforts me for a moment silently. Then, 
 ihe speaks. 
 
 " Phyllis, I never thought you deceitful," she says, as 
 severely as it is in her to say anything, and with :i look of 
 ronroach in her dear eyes that cuts me to the hearv.
 
 60 PHYLLIS, 
 
 " Mother," J cry passionately, " don't look at mo like 
 that. Indeed, indeed 1 am not deceitful. 1 knew nothing 
 about it when he asked me yesterday to marry him. I was 
 a great deal more surprised than even you are now. I 
 always thought it was Dora (and I wish with all my heart 
 it was Dora) ; but, though I refused him at first, he said so 
 much afterwards that I was induced to give in. Oh, 
 mother, won't you believe me ? " 
 
 " But you must have met him many times, Phyllis, be- 
 fore he asked you in marriage many times of which w* 
 know nothing" 
 
 " I did not, indeed. Whenever I saw him I told you 
 except on-ce, a long time ago when we met in the wood, 
 with Billy. But I was climbing a nut-tree that day, and 
 was afraid to say anything of it, lest I should get into dis- 
 grace. And when we went for that drive; and two or 
 three times we met here ; and that was all. I am sure I 
 don't know what made him fall in love with me, and Dora 
 so much prettier and more charming in every way. I don't 
 believe he knows himself." 
 
 " It is certainly most extraordinary," says mother, " and, 
 I must add, very unfortunate. You will acknowledge it 
 looks suspicious. Your father is much disturbed about it 
 and I really think Dora's heart must be broken, she is cry 
 ing so bitterly. If we had not all made up our minds so 
 securely about Dora it would not be so bad ; but she was 
 sure of it. And his visits here were so frequent. I really 
 do think he has behaved very badly." 
 
 " It was a mistake altogether," I murmur feebly. 
 
 " Yes, and a most unhappy one. I am sure I don't 
 know what is to be done about Dora. She insists upon it 
 that you secretly encouraged and took him away from her; 
 and your father appears to sympathize with her." 
 
 " That goes without telling," I reply bitterly. 
 
 Then there follows a pause, during which mother sighs 
 heavily once or twice, and I do severe battle with my con- 
 science. At the end of it I cry, suddenly, 
 
 " Mother, there is one thing for which I do blame my- 
 self, but at first it did not occur to me that it might be 
 wrong. One day wo were talking of photographs, Mr. Car- 
 rington and I, and two days afterwards I gave him mine. 
 He put it in his locket, and when Dora saw him down by 
 the river it was it he was kissing. I never dreamed it oould 
 be mine until he showed it to me yesterday.'
 
 PHYLLIS. 61 
 
 " I had forgotten to ask you about that. Dora and your 
 father were discussing it just now, and Dora declared she 
 was certain it had happened as you have now stated. 
 Phyllis, if there has not been actual duplicity in your con- 
 duct, there has at least been much imprudence." . 
 
 " I know that, mother," I return disconsolately. 
 
 " This will greatly add to your discredit in the affair : 
 you must see that. Really," says mother, sinking into ft 
 chair, and sighing again, " this engagement, that should 
 cause UB all such pride and joy, is only a source of annoy- 
 ance and pain." 
 
 " Then I won't marry him at all, mother," I cry, reck- 
 lessly. " I don't want to one bit : and probably if I tell 
 him to-morrow I hate and despise him he will not want to 
 either, Or shall I write ? A letter will go far quicker." 
 
 But mother is aghast at this daring proposal. Because 
 he has disappointed her hopes in one quarter is no reason 
 why she should lose him altogether as a son-in-law. 
 
 " No, no," she says in a slightly altered tone. " Let 
 things remain as they now are. It is a good match for you 
 'n every sense of the word ; and setting him free would 
 give Dora no satisfaction. But I wish it had all come about 
 aifferenty." 
 
 With that she turns from me and goes towards the 
 door. My heart feels breaking. 
 
 "Oh, mother, you are not going to leave me like this, 
 are you ? " I burst out, miserably. " When other girls get 
 engaged, people are kind and say nice things to them ; but 
 nobody seems to care about me, nobody wishes me joy. 
 Am I nothing to you ? Am I to get only hard and cruel 
 words ? " Piteous sobs interrupt me. I cover my face 
 with my hands. 
 
 Of course in another moment \ am folded in mother's 
 arms, and her soft hands press my graceless head dcwi 
 upon the bosom that never yet in all my griefs has fa.'kxi 
 tne. Two of her tears fall upon my cheek. 
 
 "My darling child," she whispers, " have I been too ru*. 
 kind to you ? I did not mean it, Phyllis ; but I have been 
 made so miserable by all I have heard." 
 
 " But you don't think me deceitful, mother ? " 
 
 "No, not now not at any time, I think; but I ^as 
 greatly upset by poor Dora's disappointment. My darii.ig, 
 I hope you will be happy in your choice and in my heart 
 [ believe you will. At all events, he is not blind to the
 
 62 PHYLLIS. 
 
 virtues of my dear girl. He loves yon very dearly, Phyl 
 iia. Arc you sure, my dearest, that you love him ? " 
 
 " Did you love papa very much, darling, when yon mar 
 tied him?" 
 
 w Of course, dear," with a faint blush. 
 
 " Oh, mother, did you really ? " Then, with a reflectivi 
 sigh, " At that rate I am glad I do not love Mr. Carriixg. 
 ton." 
 
 " Phyllis ! what are you saying ? It ia the first duty ol 
 every woman to love her husband. You must try to re- 
 gard Mr. Carrington in that light." 
 
 " I like him, and that is better. You were blind to 
 papa's faults because you loved him ; that was a mistake. 
 Now, I shall not be blind to Marmaduke's ; and if he doea 
 anything very horrid, or develops unpleasant symptoms, I 
 shall be able to give him up before it is too late. If you 
 had been fully alive to papa's litttle tempers, mother, I 
 don't suppose you would ever have married him ; would 
 you?" 
 
 "Phyllis, I cannot allow you to discuss your father in 
 this manner. It is neither dutiful nor proper j and it vexes 
 me very much." 
 
 " Then I won't vex you. But I read in a book the 
 other day. ' It is better to respect your husband than to 
 love him.' " 
 
 " One should do both, of course ; but, oh. Phyllis, try to 
 love him ; that is the great softener in the married life. It 
 IB BO easy to forgive when love urges. You are wrong, my 
 pet, but you have a tender heart, and so 1 pray all may be 
 well with you. Yet when I think of your leaving me to 
 face the wide world I feel .onely. I fancy I could have 
 better spared Dora than my OM'n wild Phyllis." 
 
 She whispers this soothingly into my ear, kisses me at 
 only a mother can kiss, and leaves me presently wholly 
 comforted. If mother indeed loves me, the scapegrace, 
 better than her model Dora, I have reason to feel glad and 
 grateful. 
 
 Meanwhile the household is divided. " The boy Billee, 1 
 as Roland calls him, has been sent for two hours into soli- 
 tary confinement, because, on hearing the great news, he 
 exclaimed, "Didn't I tell you all along how it would be? " 
 in a heartleas v. triumphant manner, thua adding iun^I 
 \r Dora 8 injury.
 
 PHYLLIS. 6S 
 
 Roly also is on my side, and comes upstairs to tell me 
 to. 
 
 " You have twice the spirit, you know," he says, in ft 
 tone meant to compliment. * Dora is too dead-and-alive ; 
 no man born would be tormented with her. 1 am awfully 
 ghid, Phyllis." 
 
 And then he speaks of poor " Dora," and a moment 
 later goes into convulsions of laughter over " poor Dora's ' 
 liscomfiture. 
 
 " She made so sure, don't you know, and that ; had up- 
 set and re-arranged Strangemore and Carringtou and every- 
 thing to her own entire satisfaction. " Oh, by Jove, it la 
 the best joke I ever heard in my life I " And so on. 
 
 When by chance during the evening papa and I meet, 
 though his manner is frozen, he makes no offensive re- 
 marks ; and, strange as it appears to me, I seem to have 
 gained some dignity in his eyes. So the long hours of that 
 day drag by, and night falls at last. 
 
 After dinner Dora comes creeping in, her eyelids red 
 and swollen, her dainty cheeks berefi of their usual soft 
 pink. Misery and despair are depicted in every line of her 
 face and figure. 
 
 Papa rises ostentatiously and pushes an easy chair to- 
 wards the fire for her (already the touch of winter is upon 
 us.) Mamma pours out a glass of papa's own port. Even 
 Billy proclaims a truce for the time being, and places a soft 
 stool beneath my injured sister's feet, while I sit apart and 
 feel myself a murderess. 
 
 I begin to vaguely wonder whether, were I in Dora's 
 place, all these delicate attentions would be showered upon 
 me. I also try to decide whether, if I had been slighted by 
 my beloved, I would publish the fact upon the house-tops 
 and coine down to the bosom of my family with scarlet eyes 
 and pallid face and hair effectively loosened : or whether I 
 would hide my sorrow with my life and endure all in heroic 
 lilence. I have got so far as the Spartan boy in my medi- 
 tations, when Roland, bringing his fingers to meet upon the 
 fleshy part of my arm, causes me to spring from my seat and 
 give utterance to an emphatic " Oh ! " while Cheekie, the 
 Fox-terrier, who is crouching in her favorite position at my 
 feet, coming in for a full share of my weight, sets up a cor 
 responding howl, and altogether the confusion is complete. 
 
 When it has subsided there ensues an awful jpauie. Then 
 papa speak*.
 
 61 PHYLLIS. 
 
 u It would be waste of time to appeal to your better 
 feelings, Phyllis: you have none! But that you are hope- 
 lessly wanting in all delicacy of sentiment, you would under- 
 stand that this ie no time to indulge in a vulgar overflow ol 
 spirits. Do you not see how your sister is suffering? Your 
 heartlessness is downright disgusting. Leave the room." 
 
 I instantly avail myself of the permission to withdraw 
 cnly too glad of the excuse, and retire, followed closely bj 
 Roland, who I can see is choking with suppressed laughter. 
 
 ** llow could you do it ? " I ask, reproachfully, as we gain 
 the hall-door. * They are all angry enough as it is." 
 
 "I could not help it," returns Roly, still struggling with 
 his merriment ; " the solemnity of the whole thing was to 
 much for me. I knew I was going to laugh out loud, s 
 pinched you to draw off attention." 
 
 " I think you might have chosen Billy." 
 
 "He was too far off; you were the most convenient." 
 
 " And so you sacrificed me to save yourself ? " I exclaim, 
 indignantly. 
 
 Like all men, Roland is unutterably selfish; unlike aL 
 men, he is ever ready to make atonement, once the selfish 
 act is accomplished. 
 
 " Even so," he says now. " But look here, Phyllis : I'll 
 make it up to you. Here's ten bob." And he tries to forct 
 the money into my unwilling hand. 
 
 " No, keep it," I return, softened by the gift; "I can do 
 without it, and I am sure you want it yourself." 
 
 " I don't really," says Roland, looking fair into my eyes. 
 " I have plenty for a while ; and you know you said yes- 
 terday you had spent your last penny. When you are Mrs. 
 Carrington you can stand to me. Here : no nonsense : if 
 you don't take it this moment, I'll chuck it into the pond." 
 
 Thus threatened, I take it ; and then together we stroll 
 into the kitchen-garden, where Roland reduces his laughter- 
 loving mind to order with the aid of the fragrant wee 1. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Chm ngagement having received tne openly 
 though secretly unwilling sanction of my father, Mr.
 
 PHYLLIS. 68 
 
 rington comes over every other day to our house, where ha 
 of course meets with overpowering sweetness from every- 
 body Dora excepted. Kot that she shows him any demon- 
 strative dislike. If she happens to be in the room when he 
 arrives she is as civil as the occasion calls for, but at the 
 first opportunity she makes her exit, not to return again 
 during his stay, and, if possible, avoids his society altogetl er, 
 A heavy sense of injury is upon her, impossible to lift. 
 
 To me she has said little or nothing on the subject. Once, 
 iwo days after my engagement was made known, happen- 
 ing to find herself alone with me, she said, curiously : 
 
 " Was it your photograph I saw Mr. Carrington kissing 
 that day?" 
 
 And when I answered "Yes," rather shamefacedly, she 
 turned from me with lowered lids and a curved smile that 
 suggested many thoughts. Like most even-tempered people, 
 Dura, when roused, is singularly obstinate and unforgiving. 
 
 At times I am a little unhappy, but very seldom. On 
 such occasions the horrible doubt that I am marrying Mar-' 
 mnduke for his money crushes me. Every now and then I 
 catch myself revelling in the thought of what I shall do for 
 Billy and Holy and all of them, when plenty of gold is at my 
 disposal. I try to think how much I like him, how hand- 
 some lie is, how kind, how good to me, but always at the 
 end of my cogitations I find my thoughts reverting to the 
 grand house in which I am to reign as queen, or to the 
 blue velvet dress I mean to wear as soon as I can afford to 
 buy it. 
 
 I now glory in an engagement ring that sparkles fairly 
 and gives me much pleasure. I have also an enormous 
 locket, on which the letters P. M. V. are marked out by 
 brilliants. This latter contains an exquisitely painted minia- 
 ture of my betrothed, and is given to me by him in a manner 
 that betokens doubt of its being acceptable. 
 
 " J don't suppose you will care for the picture part sf it," 
 ho sa\s. with a laugh and a rather heightened color. 
 
 But I do care for it, picture and all, and tell him so, to 
 hi* lasting satisfaction, though it must be confessed I look 
 ot'tenor at the outside of th.tt locket than at any other part 
 of it. Thus by degrees I find myself laden with gifts of all 
 kind.s for the most part costly; and, as trinkets are scarce 
 with us and jewels imaginary, it will be understood that 
 each new ornament added to my store raises me higher in 
 tha
 
 66 PHYLLIS 
 
 So time speeds and Christmas passes and gentle spring 
 grows apace. 
 
 " Come out," says Billy one morning early in April, 
 thrusting a disheveled head into my room ; " come out : it il 
 almost warm." Whereupon I don my hat and sally forth, 
 my Billy in attendance. 
 
 Mechanically we make for the small belt of trees that en- 
 tircles and bounds our home, and is by courtesy " oui 
 wood." It io my favorite retreat the spot most clear to me 
 at Summerleas. Ah ! how sweet is everything to-day, how 
 fragrant! The primrose gold in its mOvS.sy bed, supported 
 by its myriad friends ; the pretty purple violet the white 
 one prettier still. I sigh and look about me sadly. 
 
 " This is the very last spring I shall ever spend at home," 
 I say, at length, being in one of my sentimental and regretr 
 ful moods. 
 
 V Yes," returns Billy; "this time next year, I suppose, 
 yon will be holding high conrt at Strangemore. How funny 
 you will look? you are so small ! Why, you will be an out- 
 and-out swell then, Phyllis, and can cut the country if you 
 choose. What are you so doleful about ? Ain't you glad ? " 
 
 " No, I am not," I reply emphatically ; " I am sorry ! I 
 am wretched! Everything will be so new and big and 
 strange, and you will not be there. Oh, Billy ! " flinging 
 my arms around his neck, " I feel that worst of all. I am 
 too fond of you, and that's a fact." 
 
 " Well, and I am awfully fond of yon too," says Billy, 
 giving me a bear-like hug that horribly disarranges my ap- 
 pearance, but is sweet to me, so much do I adore my "boy 
 Billee." 
 
 We seat ourselves on a grassy knoll and give ourselves 
 up to gloomy foreboding. 
 
 " It is a beastly nuisance, your getting married at all,' 
 ays Billy, grumpily. " If it had been Dora, now, it would 
 aave been a cause for public rejoicing ; but you are different. 
 What I am to do without you in this stupid hole is more 
 than I can tell. 1 shall get papa to send me to a boarding- 
 school when you go." (The Eton plan has not yet been di- 
 vulged.) " W*hy on earth did you take a fancy to that fel- 
 low, Phyllis ? Were you not very well as you wore ? " 
 
 " It was he took a fancy to me, if you please I never 
 thought of such a thing. But there is little use discussing 
 that now. Marry him I must before the year is out ; ana 
 really, perhaps, after ell, I shall be very happy."
 
 PHYLLIS. (H 
 
 "Oh, yes, I dare say, if being happy means settling down 
 and having a ijtof squalling brats before you can say Jack 
 Kobiuson. / know how it will be," says Billy, moodily 
 " you will be an old woman bcfoi-e your time." 
 
 " Indeed I shall not," I cry, with much indignation, view 
 ing with discomfort the ruins to which he has reduced mj 
 handsome castle. " I intend to keep young for ever so long 
 Why, I am only eighteen now, and I shan't be old until i 
 am thirty. And, Billy," coaxingly, " you shall see what 1 
 shall do for you when I in any him : I will send you to JKlon. 
 There ! " 
 
 " Why don't you say you will send me to the moon ? " 
 replies he, with withering contempt." 
 
 "But I will really; Marmaduke says I shall; and you 
 are to spend all of your holidays at Strangemore ; and I 
 will keep a gun for you, and a dog ; and maybe he will let 
 me give you a horse." 
 
 "Oh, fiddlesticks!" says the dear boy. " Draw a line 
 somewhere. You have said too much ; and I've outgrown 
 my belief in the 'Arabian Nights.' I will be quite content 
 with the dog and gun." 
 
 " Well, you shall see. And Roland shall have money 
 every now and then to pay his debts ; and Dora shall have 
 as many new dresses as she can wear ; and for Mamma I 
 will get one of those delightful easy-chairs we saw in the 
 shop-window in Carston, the one that moves up and down, 
 
 you know and Oh, Billy ! I think it is a glorious 
 
 thing to be rich. If I could only do all I say, I believe I 
 would marry him were he as ugly as sin." 
 
 In the enthusiasm of the moment I spring to my feet, 
 and as I do so become fatally aware that not two yards 
 from me stands Marmaduke, leaning against a tree. There 
 is a curious, not altogether amiable, expression upon his 
 face, that assures me he has overheard our conversation. 
 Yet one cannot accuse him of eavesdropping, as if we had 
 only taken the trouble to raise our heads our eyes must 
 inevitably have met his. 
 
 lam palsied with shame and horror; I am stiicken 
 dumb ; and Billy, looking lazily upwards from where he ia 
 stretched full length upon the sward to discover the cause, 
 in his turn becomes aware of the enemy's presence. A 
 moment later he is on his feet and has beaten a 
 retreat, leaving me alone to face the foe. 
 
 Mr. Carrinffton conies slowl forward.
 
 68 PHYLLIS. 
 
 " Yes, I heard every word," he says, calmly, anger and 
 reproach in his eyes. 
 
 I make no reply: I feel myself incapable of speech, in 
 deed, looking back upon it now, I think silence was the 
 better part, as, under the circumstances, I don't quite see 
 what I could have said. 
 
 " So this is the light in which you regard our marriage ! H 
 he goes on bitterly : " as a means to an end no more. At 
 the close of six months I find myself as far from having 
 gained a piace in your affections as when we first met. I 
 may well despair. Your heart seems full of thought and 
 love for every one, Phyllis, except for the man you have 
 promised to marry." 
 
 " Then give me up," I say, defiantly, though my false 
 courage sinks as I remember what a row there will be at 
 home if he takes me at my word. 
 
 " No, I will not give you up. I will marry you in spite 
 of your coldness : I am more determined on it now than 
 evr," he makes answer, almost fiercely. 
 
 J feel uneasy, not to say unhappy. I have heard of nen 
 marrying women for spite and revenging themselves upon 
 them afterwards. This recollection is not reassuring. 1 
 glance at Marmaduke furtively, and persuade myself he in 
 looking downright vindictive. 
 
 " Yes," I murmur, doubtfully, " and perhaps, afterwards, 
 when I was your wife, you would be cruel to me, and 
 
 " Phyllis," lie interrupts me, hastily, " what are you say- 
 ing? Who has put such a detestable idea into your head ? 
 / unkind to you, or cruel ! Child, can you not even imagine 
 the depth of the love I bear you ?" 
 
 I know I am going to cry. Already are my eyes suffus- 
 ing; my nose developes a tickling sensation. I arn indig- 
 nant with myself at the bare thought, but nevertheless I 
 feel assured if I open my mouth it will be to give utterance 
 to a sob. If J cry before him now he will think 
 
 "Phyllis, do you really wish to marry me?" asks 
 Mr Carrington, suddenly, trying to read my hot and 
 fcverted face. i( If you repent your promise, say BO : it IP 
 not yet too la 4 ;*: to withdraw. Better bear pain now than 
 lasting miserj uereafter. Answer me truly : do you wisb 
 to be my wife ? " 
 
 " I do," I return, earnestly. " I shall be happier with 
 you, who are always kind to me, than I am at home. It is 
 Only at times I feel regre'ful. Jjut of course if you don't
 
 PH YLUS. (ft 
 
 want to marry me " I pause, overcome by the igno 
 
 winy of this thought. 
 
 Air. Carrington takes my hand. 
 
 " I would give half my possessions to gain your love." 
 he says, softly ; " but, even as it is, no bribe on earth couU 
 induce me to relinquish ycu. Don't talk about my giving 
 you up. That is out of the question. I could as en^ilj 
 part with my life as with my Phyllis. Perhaps," with a 
 rather sad little smile, "some time in the future you maj 
 deem me worthy to be placed in the category with Bill) 1 
 and Roland and the rest of them." 
 
 A mournful sound breaks from me. I search my pocket 
 for a handkerchief wherewith to wipe away the solitary tear 
 that meanders down my cheek. Need I say it is not there? 
 Mr. Carrington, guessing my want, produces a very snowy 
 article from somewhere and hands it to me. 
 
 "Do you want one?" he asks, tenderly, and presently 
 I am dissolved in tears, my nose buried in my lover's cam- 
 bric. 
 
 " I am snre you mnst hate me," I whisper, dismally. " I 
 make you unhappy almost every time we meet. Mr. Car- 
 rington, will you try to forget what I said just now, and 
 forgive me ? " 
 
 " How can I forgive you anything when you call me Mr 
 Carrington ? " 
 
 "Marmaduke, then." Tie presses me closer to him, and 
 I rub my stained and humid countenance up and down 
 against his coat. I am altogether penitent. 
 
 ** After all, Marmaduke, may be T didn't say anything so 
 very dreadful," I venture, at the end of a slight pause. " \ 
 was only thinking, and deciding on what I would like to 
 give everybody when when I was your wife. Was thai 
 very bad ? " 
 
 " No ; there was nothing to vex me in all that ; it ot:l ; 
 showed me what a loving, generous little heart my pet ha- 
 "But then, Phyllis, why did you give me so plainly to undo 
 stand you were marrying me only for the sake of my cdi<m 
 money, by saying what you did in your last speech?" 
 
 "What did I say?" ' 
 
 "That for the sake of being rich you would marry i,i< 
 (or any one else, your tone meant) even were I ' as ugly ;i. 
 sin. 1 " 
 
 "If I said that, it was an untruth, because if you wer?
 
 70 FHYLLIS. 
 
 us ugly as Bobby Do Vere. for instance, I most certainly 
 would not marry you. I detest plain people." 
 
 " Well, at all events, I think you owe me some rcpar* 
 tion for the pain you have inflicted." 
 
 " I do, indeed," I admit, eagerly. " Lay any penanc 
 you like upon me, and I will not shrink from it. I will do 
 whatever you ask." 
 
 " Will you ? " quickly. " Then kiss me of your own ac- 
 cord I don't believe up to this, Phillis, you have ever yet 
 done so of your own sweet will." 
 
 " I will do it now, then," I return, heroically, and strnigh- 
 way, raising myself on tiptoe, without the smallest pretense 
 at prudery, I fling myself into his arms and kiss him with 
 all my heart. 
 
 No accomplished coquette seeking after effect could have 
 achieved a more complete success by her arts than I have 
 by this simple act, which is with me an everyday occur- 
 rence where the boys are concerned. By it 1 have obtained 
 a thousand pardons, if need be. 
 
 He is evidently snrprised, and grows a little pale, then 
 smiles, and strains me to him with passionate fervor. 
 
 " My darling my own ! Oh, Phyllis ! if I could only 
 make you love me 1 " he whispers, longingly. 
 
 " Marmaduke," I say presently, in a rather bashful tone, 
 trifling with the lapel of his coat. 
 
 'Well, my pet?" 
 
 " I have something to say to you. w 
 
 " Have you, darling ? " 
 
 " I want to tell you that I think I must be growing fond 
 of you. 
 
 " M? angel ! " 
 
 " Yes. And do you know why I think so ? " 
 
 " No. I cannot imagine how anything so unlikely and 
 desirable should come to pass." 
 
 " 1 will tell you. Do you remember how, long ag<* 
 w I. :ii first you kissed me, I disliked it so much that it mada 
 tne <. ry ? " 
 
 " Wrll, now I find 1 doii't mind it one bitl " 
 Instead of being struck with the good sense of this dis- 
 covery, Marmaduke roars with laughter. 
 
 " Oh, you needn't laugh," I say, slightly offended : " it 
 is a rery good sign. I have read in books how girls shud- 
 der and shiver when kissed by a man they don't like ; and,
 
 PHYLLIS. 11 
 
 as I never shudder or shiver when you kiss me, of course 
 that means that I like you immensely. Don't you see?" 
 
 " I do," says Marmaduke, who is still laughing heartily. 
 " And I also see it is an excellent reason why I should in- 
 stantly kiss you again. Oh, Phyllis ! I think if we looked 
 into the family Bible we would discover we had all mis- 
 taken ycur age, and that you are only ten instead of eigb 
 teen." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " For many reasons. Come ; let us walk on." 
 
 As lunch-hour approaches, we retrace our steps until vrt 
 reach the principal avenue. Here Mr. Carrington declines 
 my invitation to enter the house and partake of such light 
 refreshments as may be going, and departs with a promise 
 to take us for a drive the following day. 
 
 Nature tells me the luncheon-hour must be past, and, 
 impelled by hunger, I run down the gravel sweep at the top 
 of my speed ; but, just as I get to the thick bunch of laurels 
 that conceals the house from view, Billy's voice, coming 
 from nowhere in particular, stops me. Presently from be- 
 tween the evergreens his head emerges. 
 
 " I thought he was with you," he says, with an air of in- 
 tense relief. " Well ? " 
 
 Well ? " I reiterate. 
 
 " Why don't you tell me," cries Billy, angrily, " instead 
 of standing there with your mouth open ? Did he hear what 
 we said '( " 
 
 " Yes, every word." 
 
 "Oh, dear! oh, dear!" with a dismal groan. "And 
 who is to tell them at home, I would like to know ?" 
 
 " Tell them what ? " 
 
 " Why, about, Surely you don't mean to tell me he 
 
 is going to marry you after all that? " exclaims Billy, his 
 eyes enlarged to twice their usual size. 
 
 "Yes, of course he is," I reply, with much dignity and 
 itdiguation combined. " When a man loves a woman he 
 does not give her up for a trifle." 
 
 " A tritle ! Well, I never," murmurs Billy floored foi 
 once in his life.
 
 PHYLLIS. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 WE are in the orc,.Kird of Summerleas alone, Mr. Car 
 yington and I, with the warm but fitful Ap/il sun pouring 
 heavily down upon us. All around is one great pink -and 
 white sheet of blossoms ; the very path beneath our feet 
 seems covered with tinted snow. 
 
 It is one of those pet days that, coming too soon, make 
 us discontented to think to-morrow may again be damp and 
 chill a day that brings with it an early foretaste of what 
 will bo, and is still and heavy as in the heart of summer. 
 
 " It will be a good year for fruit," I tell my lover, so- 
 berly, " the trees are showing such a fair promise." And 
 my lover laughs, and tells me I am a wonderful child ; that 
 he has not yet half dived into the deep stores of private 
 knowledge I possess. lie supposes when I come to Strange- 
 more he may dismiss his steward, as probably I will be com- 
 petent to manage everything there the master included. 
 
 Whereupon I answer, saucely, I need not go to Strange- 
 more for t/tat, as I fancy I have him pretty well under con- 
 trol even as it is. At this he pinches my ear and prophe- 
 sies the time will yet come when it will be his turn to 
 menace me. 
 
 Our orchard has not been altogether sacrificed to (lie 
 inner man : here and there one comes upon straying 
 elopes of greenest grass and irregular beds of old-fashioned 
 and time-honored flowers such flowers as went to dirk 
 Ophelia's grave, or grew to grace the bank whereon Titania 
 olept. 
 
 High up in the western wall a small green gate gives 
 entrance to another garder a quaint spot, picturesquely 
 yild, that wo children chose to name Queen Elizabeth's Ke- 
 ireat. Lon^ lines of elms grow here, through which some 
 paths are cut paths innocent of gravel and green as the 
 grass that grows on either ?ide. Here, too, are beds of 
 flowers and rustic benches. 
 
 more., 
 
 " Come, show me anything as pretty as this in all Strrmgo- 
 TO," 1 say, with triumph, as we seat ourselves oo an
 
 PHYLLIS* 73 
 
 ancient oaken contrivance that threatens at any moment to 
 bring the unwary to the ground. 
 
 " I wonder if you will ever think anything at Strange- 
 more as worthy of admiration as what you have here ? r 
 says Marmaduke, passing his arm lightly round my waist. 
 
 "Perhaps. But I know every nouk and cranny of this 
 old place so well and love it so dearly ! I can remembei 
 no other home. We came here, you know, when I was verj 
 young and Billy only a baby. 
 
 " But Strangemore will be your home when you come 
 \o live with me. You will try to like it for my sake, will 
 /ou not ? It is dearer to me than either cf the other places, 
 although they say Luxton is handsomer. Don't you think 
 you will be able to love it, Phyllis ? " 
 
 " Yes, but not for a long time I can like things at 
 once, but it takes me years and years and years to love any 
 thing." 
 
 "Does that speech apply to persons? If so, I have a 
 pleasant prospect before me. You have known mo but a 
 few months; " will it take you ' years and years' to love 
 me ? " 
 
 There is lingering hope in his tone, expectancy in his 
 eyes. 
 
 "You? Oh, I don't know. Perhaps so," I reply, \viih 
 unpleasant truthfulness. 
 
 Marinaduke removes his arm from around me and 
 fro\v;-is. 
 
 " You are candor itself," he says, with a slight tinge of 
 bitterness. " Certainly I can never hereafter accuse . you of 
 having concealed the true state of your feelings towards 
 me. Whatever else you may be, you are honest." 
 
 " I am," I return reluctantly; " I wish I were not. 1 
 am always saying the wrong thing, and icpenting it after- 
 wards. Papa says my candor makes me downright vulgar. 
 Marmaduke, do you think honesty is the best policy ? " 
 
 I glance up at him with questioning eyes from undei 
 the flapping hat that has braved so many summers. 
 
 " I do," he answers, warmly ; " I think there is nothing 
 on earth so sweet or so rare as perfect truthfulness. Be open 
 and true and honest, darling, and like yo\;rself as long as 
 you can. Every hour you live will make the role more dif 
 ficult." 
 
 " But why ? You are older than I am, Marmaduke 5 
 would you tell a lie ? "
 
 74 PHYLLJS* 
 
 "No, not a direct lie, perhaps, but I might pretend to 
 what I did not feel." 
 
 " Oh, but that is nothing. I would do that myself," I 
 exclaim, confidentially. "Many and many a time I have 
 pretended not to know where Billy was when I knew paps 
 was going to box his ears. There is no great harm in that 
 And Billy has done it for me." 
 
 " You don't mean to say Mr. Vernon ever boxed you) 
 ears ? " 
 
 I explode at the tragic meaning of his tone. 
 
 "Often," I say, merrily, "shoals of times; but thnt is 
 not half so bad as being sent to bed. However " reassur- 
 ingly " he has not done it now for ever so long not since 
 I hnve been engaged to you." 
 
 " I (should hope not, indeed," hotly. "Phyllis, why won't 
 you marry me at once? Surely you would be happier with 
 me than than living as you now do." 
 
 " No, no," edging away from him ; " I would not. I 
 am not a bit unhappy as I am. You mistake me ; and, OH 
 I told you before, he never does it now." 
 
 "But it maddens me to think of his ever having <L>no 
 so. And such pretty little ears, too, so pink and delicate 1 
 
 Of all the unmanly blackg I beg your pardon, Phyllis : 
 
 of course it is wrong of me to speak so of your father." 
 
 " Oh, don't mind me," I say, easily. " Now you are 
 going to be my husband, I do not care about telling you 
 there is very little love lost between me and papa." 
 
 " Then why not shorten our engagement? Surely it has 
 now lasted long enough. There is no reason why you should 
 submit to any tyranny when you can escape from it. If you 
 dislike your father's rule, cut it and come to me ; you don't 
 dislike me." 
 
 " No ; but I should dislike being married very much in- 
 deed." 
 
 " Why ? " impatiently. 
 
 " I don't know," I return, provokingly ; " but 1 am sure 
 I should. ' Better to bear the ills we have, et cetera.' " 
 
 "You are trifling," says he, angrily, "why not suy a', 
 Once you detest the idea of having to spend your life with 
 me ? I believe I am simply wasting my time endeavoring 
 to gain an affection that will never be mine." 
 
 " Then don't waste any more of it," I retort, tapping tho 
 ground petulantly with my foot while fixing my gaze with 
 affected unconcern upon u thick, \\hite cloud that rests fai
 
 PHYLLIS. 75 
 
 away in the eternal blue. " I h.ive no wish to stand in you? 
 light Pray leave me I shan't mind it in the least and 
 don't throw away anymore of your preci>us moments." 
 
 " Idle advice. I can't leave you now, and you know it. 
 I mu3t only go on squandering my life, I suppose, Tin til the 
 end. I do believe the greatest misfortune that ever befele 
 me was my meeting with you." 
 
 " Thank you. You are extremely rude and unkind to me, 
 Marina duke. If this is your way of making love, I must say 
 [ don't like it." 
 
 " I don't suppose you do, or anything else connected with 
 me Of course it was an unfortunate thing for me, my com- 
 mg down here and falling idiotically in love with a girl who 
 does not care whether I am dead or alive." 
 
 " That is untrue. I care very much indeed about your 
 being alive." 
 
 " Oh I common humanity would suggest that speech." 
 
 lie turns abruptly and walks a few paces away from 
 me. We are both considerably out of temper by this time, 
 and I make a solemn vow to myself not to open my lips 
 again until he offers an apology for what I am pleased to 
 term his odious crossness. Two seconds afterwards I 
 break my vow. 
 
 " \Vhy on earth could you not have fallen in love with 
 Dora?" I cry, petulantly, to the back of his head. " She 
 would do you some credit, and she wonld love yof, too. 
 Every one would envy you if you married Dora, she never 
 says the wrong thing; and she is elegant and very pretty 
 is she not? 
 
 "Very pretty," replies he, dryly; "almost lovely, I 
 think, with her fair hair and beautiful complezion and 
 sweet smile. Yes Dora is more than pr3tty." 
 
 "If you admire her so much, why don't you marry her ? " 
 lay I, sharply. Although I am not in love with ^Marma- 
 duke, I strongly object to his expressing unlimited admira- 
 tion for my sister or any other woman. 
 
 " Shall I tell you ? " says he, suddenly, coming back to 
 me to take me in his arras and strain me close to him. 
 " Because in my eyes you are ten times lovelier. Because 
 your hair, though darker, pleases me more. Because your 
 complexion, though browner, is to me more fair. Because 
 your smile, though lews uniformly sweet, is merrier and 
 *^i&}er**, and more lovable. There ! have Igiven you enough
 
 f6 PHYLLIS. 
 
 reason for the silly preference I feel for a little girl who 
 does not care a straw about me ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I do : I like you very much," I answer 
 greatly mollified. " I do really better and better every 
 day." 
 
 " Do you indeed? " rapturously. " My own darling : 
 
 " Yes," I say, in a thoroughly matter-of-fact tone, with 
 a view to bringing him back to earth again without any 
 unnecessary delay. " But how can you be so fond of me, 
 Marmaduke, when you say I am so cross? Now, tell m 
 this," laying the first finger of my right hand upon his lips, 
 and beating time there with it to each of my words : " why 
 did you first take a fancy to me ?" 
 
 " Just because you are Phyllis : I have no other reason. 
 If you were any one else, or changed in any way, I would 
 not care in the least for you." 
 
 " At that rate we are likely to have a happy time of it," 
 I say, sarcastically, " considering I am never the same for 
 two weeks running, and papa says every one's disposition 
 undergoes a complete alteration every seven years." 
 
 " I'll risk that," says he, laughing. " Seven years are a 
 long way off." 
 
 " But I shall change in less than seven years," I say, 
 persistently. " Don't you see ? I have done so twice 
 already, at seven, and fourteen, and I shall do so again at 
 twenty-one. Therefore, in four years' time I shall be a 
 different person altogether, and you will cease to care for 
 me." 
 
 " I shall always adore you, Phyllis," declares my lover, 
 earnestly, " whether we live together for four or fourteen 
 or one hundred and fourteen years." 
 
 This leaves nothing more to be said, so I am silent for 
 a moment or two, and gaze at him with some degree of 
 pride as he stands beside me, with his blue eyes, tender and 
 impassioned as handsome a man as ever made vain love to 
 a graceless maiden. 
 
 Still, admirable as he is, I have no desire for him te 
 grow demonstrative so soon again ; therefore continue the 
 conversation hastily. 
 
 " Were you never in love before ? " I ask, without 
 motive. 
 
 It occurs to me thai like a flash a faint change crosaen 
 his fac*.
 
 rHYLLlS. 77 
 
 "All men have fancies," ho answers, and something 
 
 tells me he is evading a strict reply. 
 
 " I don't mean a fancy : I inpan a real attachment, 
 Did you ever ask any woman except me to be your wife f i " 
 
 " Why ? " he asks, with an attempt at laughter that enda 
 in dismal failure beneath my remorseless eyes. " Will yon 
 throw me over if I say, " Yes ? " 
 
 " No, of course not. But I think you might have told 
 me before. Here have you been pretending all along you 
 never loved any one but me, and now I discover accidentally 
 that long before you knew me you had broken your heart 
 over dozens of women." 
 
 " I had not," angrily. " Why do you misconstrue my 
 words? " 
 
 " Oh, of course you had." 
 
 " I really wish, Phyllis, you would not c^ive yourself the 
 habit of contradicting people BO rudely. 1 tell you I had 
 not." 
 
 " Well, you were madly in love with one, at all events," 
 I say, viciously. " I could see that by your eyes when I 
 asked you the question." 
 
 " If a man commits a folly once in his life, he is not to 
 be eternally condemned for it, I suppose?" 
 
 " I never said it was a folly to love any one ; I only sug- 
 gested it Avas deceitful of you not io have told about it be- 
 fore. I hate secrets of any kind." My companion Avinces 
 visibly. " There don't be uneasy," I say, loftily. ;t I have 
 no desire to pry into any of your affairs." 
 
 We pace up and down in uncomfortable silence. At 
 length : 
 
 " I see you are angry, Phyllis," he says. 
 
 " Oh, dear, no. Why should such an insignificant thing 
 that does not affect me in any way, make me angry ? " 
 
 " My darling child, I think you are; and, oh, Phyllis, 
 for what? For a hateful passion that is dead and buried 
 this many a year, and bore no faintest resemblance to the 
 deep true affection I fee. for you. Am I the Avorse in your 
 eyes because I once when I was a boy fancied my heart 
 was lost ? Be reasonable, and be kind to me. You have 
 been anything but that all this morning." 
 
 " Was she dark, or fair?" I ask, in a milder tone, not 
 noticing, however, the hand he holds out to me. 
 " Dark abominably dark." 
 " And tall ? "
 
 78 PHYLLfS. 
 
 " Detestably so. 
 
 " You need not abase her now," I say, reprovingly, 
 M You loved her once." 
 
 " I did not," cries he, with some excitement. " I could 
 never have loved her. It was a mad, boyish infatuation. 
 Let us forget her, Phyllis ; the subject is hateful to me, Ofc 
 ray darling, my pet, no one ever really crept into my aear* 
 except you you small, cold, cruel, little child." 
 
 I am softened. I make up my mind I will not be cold 
 during the remainder of our day, so I slip my ungloved 
 baud into his, and bring myself close up to his side. 
 
 " I will forgive you this time," I whisper ; " but Marma- 
 duke, promise me that never in the future will you conceal 
 anything from me." 
 
 " I promise I swear," says my betrothed, eagerly and 
 I receive, and graciously return, the kiss of reconciliation 
 he lays upon my lips. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 WE are unmistakably and most remarkably late, but that 
 is scarcely a matter for wonder, considering the animal we 
 drove and the vehicle in which we journeyed. We have 
 been bampcd and jolted and saddened all the way from 
 Summerleas, besides having endured agonies of shame and 
 fear lest any of the grander folk meeting us upon the road 
 should look down upon us from their aristocratic equipages 
 and scorn our dilapidated condition. By taking an unfre- 
 quented route, however, we arrive unseen, and are spared 
 to much humiliation. 
 
 When Mr. Carrington asked me a week ago if a garden 
 party at Strangemore would give me any pleasure so little 
 *re we accastomed to gaycties of any kind my spirits rose 
 to fever height, and I told him without hesitation nothing 
 on earth he could do for me would occasion me greater 
 delight than his ordering and regulating ajcle in which 1 
 might bear a part. Afterwards, when I fully understood 
 the consequences of my rash words, how heartily did I ro- 
 them I 
 irm came the battle with papa about the necessary gar
 
 FHYLLIS. . 79 
 
 to be worn at it gowns we should have and gowns 
 we had not and a skirmish naturally followed. Mamma 
 and Dora undertook to face the foe alone in this instance 
 (it being unanimously decided in conclave that my presence 
 011 the scene would only hinder any chances of success), and 
 after a severe encounter Dora triumphed as somehow Dora 
 always does triumph though I am bound to admit many 
 tears were shed and many reproaches uttered before victory 
 was declared in our favor. 
 
 Then came the getting to Strangemore in the disgrace' 
 ful fossil that clings to us like a nightmare, and won t fall 
 to pieces from decay. 
 
 Half an hour before we start, papa caracoles away on 
 his sprightly roan, got up regardless of expense, leaving 
 Brewster to drive us, with Billy seated beside him on the 
 box-seat ; while we three women sit inside and try to think 
 our dresses are not crushed, while undergoing the hour 
 and a half of anguish, before described, on our way. 
 
 As we are all fully alive to the fact that to face the hall- 
 door at Strangemore and the assembled county in our 
 shandrydan is more than we can endure, we enter the 
 grounds by a back way ; and having given Brewster strict 
 orders to reach the yard without being seen, and if seen to 
 answer no inconvenient questions, we alight, and shaking 
 out our trains, proceed towards the gardens. 
 
 My dress is composed of simple batiste, but is a wonder- 
 ful mingling of palest pink and blue, impossible to describe; 
 my hat is also pink and blue, my gloves delicately tinted. 
 Marmaduke's earrings and locket and bracelets and rings 
 are scattered all over my person ; and altogether, I (latter 
 myself, I am looking as well as it is possible for Phyllis 
 V r ernon to look. 
 
 Dora is in a ravishing costume, of which blue silk forms 
 the principal part, and has put on a half-pouting, just-awak 
 ened expression, that makes her appear a lovely grown up 
 baby. 
 
 Mamma is looking, as she always looks in my eyes, per- 
 fectly beautiful. 
 
 She and Dora march in front, while Billy and I bring 
 Up the rear. To my excited imagination it seems as if all 
 the world were met together on the croquet-lawn. I say, 
 " Oh, Billy 1 " in an exhilarated tone, and give his arm a 
 squeeze ; but, as the dear fellow thinks it necessary to b* 
 morose on the occasion, he takes it badly, and tella me,
 
 80 PHYLLIS. 
 
 angrily, to moderate my transports, or people wil say I 
 have never been at any entertainment before which il 
 people did Bay it would be unusually near the truth. 
 
 Presently Marmaduke, seeing us, comes quickly up, and, 
 having welcomed mother and Dora, offers me his arm with 
 the fiir of a proprietor, and carries me away from my family. 
 
 I feel as though treading on air, and am deliciously fai 
 from shyness of any description. Before we have gonf 
 very far, my conversational powers assert themselves. 
 
 " Marmaduke, don't you think I am looking very nice ?" 
 I say naively. 
 
 " Very, darling. You always look that." 
 
 This general praise disappoints me. Whatever an In- 
 fatuated person may have chosen to consider me in the 
 time past, I am satisfied that at the present moment I really 
 am worthy of admiration. 
 
 " But you cannot have seen my dress," I persist " it 
 came all the way from London : and toe all think it so 
 pretty. Look at it, Marmaduke." 
 
 lie turns his head willingly in my direction, but his 
 gaze gets little farther than my face. 
 
 " It is charming," he says, with enthusiam. " That pale 
 green suits you tremendously." 
 
 " Pale-green ! " and I am all faintest azure. I break 
 into a merry laugh, and give him an imperceptible shake. 
 
 " Green, you ridiculous boy ! Why, there is not a parti- 
 cle of green about me. I am nothing b\it pink and blue. 
 Do look at me again, Marmaduke, or I shall die of chagrin " 
 
 " Well, it was the blue I meant," declares my lover, 
 composedly. " Then, come with me to the other side, Phyl- 
 lis : I want to introduce you to Lady Alicia Slate-Gore " 
 
 " Lady Alicia ! " I gasp, awestruck. " Is is the duke 
 here ? " 
 
 " No; be is in Scotland. Lady Alicia came by herself. 
 She is an old friend of mine, darling, and I am very fond 
 of her. I want you, therefore, to be particularly charming 
 to her." 
 
 " II 3V can you expect me to be that under the circum- 
 stances ? " I ask, lightly, glancing up at him from under 
 my laches with a sudden and altogether new touch of 
 co.juetry born of the hour and my gay attire. " How can 
 I be amiable, when you tell me in that bare-faced fashion o/ 
 your adoration for her? Of course I shall be despeiatoly
 
 PHYLLIS. 31 
 
 jealous and desperately disagreeable during the entire in- 
 terview. 
 
 Marmaduke's face betrays the intense delight all men 
 feei when receiving flattery from the beloved one. Perhaps, 
 indeed, he appears a trifle sillier than the generality ol 
 them, incense coming from me being so totally unexpectei. 
 I know by his eyes he would give anything to kiss nie, wert 
 it not for shame sake and the gaping crowd. 
 
 "Is your Lady Alicia very terrific?"! ask, ie&rfully 
 and then, almost before he has time to answer my question, 
 we are standing before a tall, benevolent-looking woman ol 
 forty-five, with a hooked nose, and a scarlet feather in her 
 bonnet, and I am bowing and smirking at Lady Alicia 
 Slate-Goro. 
 
 She is more than civil she is radiant. She taps me on 
 the cheek with her fan, and calls me " my dear," and asks 
 rne a hundred questions in a breath. She taps Mannnduke 
 on the arm and asks him what he means by making love to 
 a child who ought to be in her nursery dreaming fairy- 
 tales. 
 
 At this Marmaduke laughs, and says I am older than I 
 look for which I am grateful to him. 
 
 " Old ! " says my lady, with a rapid bird like glance at 
 me. " The world will soon be upside down. Am I to con- 
 sider fourteen oid ? " 
 
 " Phyllis will soon be nineteen," says Marmaduke ; for 
 which I feel still more grateful, as it was only two months 
 ago J attained my eighteenth year. 
 
 "Indeed! indeed! You should give your friends your 
 receipt, child. You have stolen a good five years from 
 Father Time, and just when you least want it. Now, if 
 you could only give us old people a written rrescription,'' 
 etc., etc. 
 
 Marmaduke leaves us to go and receive some other 
 guests, and her ladyship still chatters on to me ; while I, 
 catching the infection of her spirits, chatter back again to 
 her, until she declares me vastly amusing, and is persuaded 
 Marmaduke has gained a prize in the life-lottery. 
 
 Then Bobby Do Vere comes up, a little later, and ad- 
 dresses me in his usual florid style; so does fat Mr. Hast- 
 ings ; and presently Lady Alicia appears again, bringing 
 with her a tall, gaunt man with a prickly beard, who, she 
 says, is desirous of being introduced. 
 
 lie is probably a well-intentioned person, but he is \erf
 
 82 PHYLLIS 
 
 deaf, and hag evidently mistaken the vhole affair. For 
 example, after a moment or two he electrifies me by saying, 
 " You are fortunate, Mrs. Carrington, in having so magnifi- 
 cent a day for your fete." 
 
 I color painfully, stamn.er a good deal, and finally ex 
 plain, rather lamely, I am not yet Mrs. Carrington, and 
 that my proper name is Vernon. Upon which he too it 
 covered with confusion and makes a hurried and very unin 
 telligible apology. 
 
 "Beg pardon, I'm sure. Quite understood from Lady 
 Alicia most awkward inexcusably so. Only arrived at 
 the castle late last night, and am a stranger to every one 
 here. Pray pardon me." 
 
 I put an end to his misery by smiling and asking him if 
 he would like to walk about a little an invitation he 
 accepts with effusion. 
 
 There are dear little colored tents scattered all over the 
 place. Bands are playing ; so are fountains ; and flowers 
 are everywhere. I drink iced Moselle and eat strawberries, 
 and am supremely happy. 
 
 My emaciated cavalier escorts me hither and thither, 
 and does all he knows to entertain me. After an hour or 
 so he leaves me, only shortly to return again, and it becomes 
 evident he is bent on studying human nature in a ntw 
 form as he listens with every appearance of the gravest 
 interest to the ceaseless babble that flows from my lips. 
 
 The day wears on, and I see hardly anything of Manna- 
 duke ; it is already half-past five, and in another hour my 
 joy must end. I stand at the door of a tent, framed in by 
 blue and white canvas, with a crimson strawberry on its 
 way to my lips, and am vaguely wondering at my lover's 
 absence, when I see him coming towards me, by degrees, 
 and with that guilty air that distinguishes most men when 
 endeavoring secretly to achieve some cherished design. Ifo 
 looks slightly bored, but brightens as his eyes meet mine 
 and hurries his footsteps. 
 
 As he draws nearer I address to him some commonplace 
 remark, upon which the two or three men who have been 
 amusing me my gaunt companion included sheer oil 
 from me as though I had the plague; it being thoroughly 
 understood on all sides that in me they behold the "coming 
 Queen " of Strangcmore. 
 
 Their defection, however, disconcert* me not at all I
 
 /'// YLL.IS. S3 
 
 m too glad, too utterly gay on this glorious afternoon to 
 let any trifles annoy me. 
 
 "Did you miss me?" asked Marmnduke, tenderly. 
 
 " Hardly. You see, I had scarcely time I have been 
 enjoying myself so much. It has been a delicious day alto- 
 gether. Have you enjoyed it, Marmaduke?" 
 
 " No. I was away from you." There is a world of re 
 proach in his ton*. 
 
 " True ; I had forgotten that," I say, wickedly. Then, 
 ** To tell the truth, 'Duke, I was just beginning to wonder 
 had you forgotten my existence. How did you manage to 
 keep away from me for PO long?" 
 
 " What unbearable conceit ! I could not come to you 
 a moment sooner. If I had to get through so much hard 
 work every day as was put upon me this afternoon, I be- 
 lieve I should die of a decline. Don't you feel as if you 
 bated all these people, Phyllis ? I do ? " 
 
 "No, indeed ; I bear them nothing but good will. They 
 have all helped by their presence to make up the sum of 
 my enjoyment." 
 
 " I am so glad the day has been a success to yon at 
 least. Are you looking at that old turret, darling? There 
 is such a beautiful view of the gardens from one of those 
 windows ? " This last suggestively. 
 
 " Is there ? " I answer, with careless indifference. Then, 
 good-naturedly, " I think I would like to see it." 
 
 " Would you ? " much gratified. " Then come with 
 me." 
 
 In his heart I know he is rejoiced at the prospect of a 
 tete-a-tete alone with me rejoiced, too, at the chance of 
 getting rid for a while of all the turmoil and elegant bustlo 
 of the crowd. 
 
 I go with him, down the garden path, through the 
 ghrubberies, up the stone steps, and into the large hall, past 
 immodest statues and up interminable stairs, until we reach 
 the small round chamber of which he speaks. 
 
 I run to the window and look down eagerly upon the 
 brilliant scene below ; and certainly what meets my eyes" 
 rewards me for the treadmill work I have undergone for 
 the purpose-. 
 
 Beneath me lie the gardens, a mass of glowing color, 
 while far beyond them as the eye can reach stretches the 
 wood in all its green and bronze and brown-tinged glory. 
 Up'>n th right spreads the park soft and verdant. Below
 
 84 PHYLLIS. 
 
 me the gayly-robed guests pass ceaselessly to and fn, and 
 the sound of their rippling laughter climbs up the old ivy- 
 covered walls and enters the window where I stand. 
 
 " Oh, how lovely it is? " I cry, delightedly. " Oh, I ara 
 so glad I came ! How far away they all appear, and how 
 small ! " 
 
 Marmaduke is watching me with open content : k 
 ne^ er seems to tire of my many raptures. 
 
 Suddenly I lean forward and, with flushed cheeks, fol 
 low the movement of one of the guests, who hitherto has 
 been unnoticed by me. 
 
 " Surely surely," I cry, with considerable excitemen', 
 " that is Sir Mark Gore." 
 
 Marmaduke stares. " Sir Mark is here," he says. " L>o 
 you know him ? " 
 
 " Of course I do," I answer, gayly, craning my neck 
 farther out of the window, the better to watch my new-old 
 acquaintance ; " that is, a little. What a handsome man 
 he is ! How odd he should be here to-day ! " 
 
 " I don't see the oddness of it," rather coldly. " I have 
 known him intimately for many years. How did you be- 
 come acquainted with him, Phyllis ? " 
 
 " Oh," I say, laughing, " our first meeting was a very 
 romantic affair almost as romantic as my second inter- 
 view with you." I say this with a glance half shy, half 
 merry ; but Mr. Carrington does not seem as much alive to 
 my drollery as usual. " Billy and I had ridden into Cars- 
 ton I on the old white pony> you know and just as we 
 came to the middle of the High street, Madge shied at a 
 dead sheep, my saddle turned, and but for Sir Mark Gore, 
 who happened to be passing at the moment, I would cer- 
 tainly have fallen off. He rushed to the rescue, caught me 
 in his arms, and deposited me safely on the ground. Wag 
 it not near being a tragedy ? Afterwards he was even con- 
 descending enough to tighten the girths himself, though 
 Billy was well able, and to speed us on our homeward jour- 
 ney. Was it not well he was there ? " 
 
 " Very well, indeed. And was that all you saw of 
 him ? " 
 
 " Oh, dear, no ; we became great friends after that. 1 
 found him wonderfully good-natured and kind " 
 
 As I speak I am ignorant of the fact that Sir Mark hai 
 the reputation of being the fastest man about town.
 
 PHYLLIS. 84 
 
 " I have n;> doubt you did," says my letrothed, sarcas- 
 tically. " And where did you meet him again ?" 
 
 " At a bazaar, a week later. He got Mrs. Leslie, with 
 whom he was staying, to introduce him to me. And theia 
 he called with the Leslies, and I think took a fancy to 
 Dora, as he was continually coming to Summerleas after 
 that. Not that he ever came to the point, you know ; he 
 did not propose to her or that ; which disappointed us all 
 vc'iy much, as Mrs. Leslie told mamma he was enormously 
 rich and a good match." 
 
 "You seem to think a great deal of a good match," says 
 Marmaduke, very bitterly. " Are you so extremely fond of 
 money?" 
 
 " Awfully," I say, with charming candor. " What can 
 there be better than a lot of it ? I shall have plenty when 
 I marry you, Marmaduke, shall I not? " 
 
 " As much as ever you want," replies he ; but there is 
 no warmth in his tones. 
 
 "Don't make rash promises. Perhaps I shall want ever 
 so much. Do you know I never had more than two pounds 
 all together at a time in my life, and that only once ? My 
 godfather gave it to me the year before last, and it took 
 Billy and me a whole week to decide how we should spend 
 it." 
 
 "Well?" absently. 
 
 " Well " utterly unabashed " finally we divided it into 
 four half-sovereigns. With one we bought a present- for 
 mother, and were going to do the same for Dora, only she 
 said she would rather have the money itself than anything 
 we would select. Then Billy bought a puppy he had been 
 longing for for a month with the third, besides a lot ot 
 white rats odious little things with no hair on their tails 
 and a squirrel; and and that's all," I wind up ab- 
 ruptly. 
 
 " What did you do with the other half-sovereign ? asks 
 'Duke, more from want of something to say than from any 
 overpowering curiosity. 
 
 " Oh, nothing nothing," I answer, feeling slightly con- 
 fused, I don't know why. " I cannot remember, it is so 
 long ago." 
 
 "Only the year before last, by yotr own account, and I 
 know your memory to be excellent. Come, tell me what 
 you did with it."
 
 88 PRYLL1& 
 
 As he grows obstinate, so do I, and therefore answer with 
 gay evasion. 
 
 " What would I do with it but one thing ? Of course J 
 bought a present for my sweetheart." 
 
 Surely some capricious spirit inhabits this roc-m. Fci 
 the second time since we entered it Marmaduke's counter* 
 ance lowers. 
 
 " Why, what is the matter now ? " I ask, impatiently. 
 " What are you looking so cross about ? " 
 
 " I am not cross," indignantly. " What is there to make 
 me so ? There is no reason why you should not have innu- 
 merable sweethearts as well as every other woman." 
 
 " Oh I " I say ; and his last speech having made me 
 aware that the word " sweetheart " has been the cause of 
 all the ill temper, I go on wickedly, " why, none indeed ; 
 and this particular one of whom I speak was such a dai'ling I 
 So good to nae, too, as be was I never received an unkind 
 word or a cross look from him. Ah ! I shall never forget 
 Mm." 
 
 ' ' You are right there. No virtue is as admirable as sin- 
 cerity. I wonder how you could bring yourself to resign so 
 desirable a lover." 
 
 " I didn't resign him. Circumstances over which we had 
 no control arose, and separated his lot from mine." Hero 
 I sigh heavily, and cast my eyes upon the ground with such 
 despairing languor as would have done credit to an Amanda 
 or a Dora. 
 
 " If I am to be considered one of the ' circumstances * 
 in this matter," says my lover, hotly, " I may tell you at 
 once I do not at all envy the position. I have no desire to 
 come between you and your affections." 
 
 " You do not," 1 return, mildly ; and, but that when a 
 man is jealous he loses all reasoning and perceptive facul- 
 ties, he might see that I am crimson with suppressed laugh ter. 
 *' Had you never appeared on the scene, still a marriage be< 
 tween us would have been impossible." 
 
 " What is his name ? " asks 'Duke, abruptly. 
 
 " I would rather not tell you." 
 
 " I insist upon knowing. I think I have every right to 
 ask." 
 
 '* Oh, why ? If ( I promised him to keep the matteB 
 secret, surely you would not ask me to break my faith ? " 
 
 " Once engaged to me, I object to your keeping faitb 
 with any other man, "
 
 PHYLLIS. 87 
 
 " Well, it is all past and gone now," I murmur, sadly. 
 "Why rake up the old ashes ? Let us forget it." 
 
 " Forget it ! " cries Marmaduke, savagely. " How easy 
 yon find it to forget ! And you, whom I thought so inno- 
 cent a child you, who told me you never had a lover until 
 1 came to Strangemore ! I cannot so readily forget what 
 you have now told me. It maddens me to think anotbei 
 man has been making love to you, has hold your hands, haa 
 
 ooked into your eyes, has has Phyllis" almost 
 
 fiercely " tell me the truth ; did he ever kiss you ? " 
 
 My back is turned to him, but I am visibly shaking. I 
 wonder exceedingly why he does not notice it ; but perhaps 
 he does, and puts it down to deep emotion. 
 
 " No," I say, in a smothered tone, " it never went so far 
 as that." 
 
 " Then why not tell me his name ?" 
 
 " Because I cannot." 
 
 " Will not, you mean. Very good : I will not ask yon 
 again. I think we had better return to the grounds." 
 
 lie moves a step or two away in the direction of the door. 
 Turning, I burst into a perfect peal of laughter, and laugh 
 until the old room echoes again. 
 
 "Oh, Marmaduke," I cry, holding out to him my hands, 
 " come back to me, and I will tell you all. It was old Tan- 
 ner, your head gardener, I meant the entire time. lie used 
 to give me all your fruit and flowers before he went to 
 America ; and I bought him an ear-trumpet with my ten 
 shillings, and oh ! oh ! oh ! " 
 
 " Phyllis, Phyllis ! " cries my lover, with reproachful ten- 
 derness, and, catching me in his arms, presses upon my lips 
 kisses many and passionate, as punishment for my wrong- 
 doing. 
 
 " How could you do it, darling? How could you make 
 me so miserable for even a few minutes? " 
 
 " I could not help it. You looked so angry and the 
 idea came into my head. And all about old Tanner 1 Oh !, 
 There there, please don't make me laugh again." 
 
 Friendly intercourse being thus once more restored, and 
 it being necessary we should now return to the guests, I 
 make a bet with him, in which a dozen pair of gloves count 
 as high as three kisses, and race him down all the stairs, 
 through landings and rooms and corridors, until I arrive 
 breathless but triumphant at the hall-door. Here we pause, 
 flushed and panting, to recover our equanimity, befor
 
 &J| ."HYLLIS. 
 
 marching oat together cilm and decorous to mingle again 
 among our friends. 
 
 Most of them are standing draped and shawled, only 
 waiting to bid farewell to their host. Almost on the siept 
 we come in contact with Sir Mark Gore. 
 
 " Miss Vernon,' he exclaims, with a start of surprise, 
 " you here ! How have I missed seeing you all day ? Car 
 rir.gton, when you bring so many people together you should 
 at least give them printed programmes with all their namei 
 inscribed, to let them know whom to seek and whom to 
 avoid. Miss Phyllis, how can I tell you how glad I am to 
 see you again ? " 
 
 " Don't be too glad," says 'Duke, directing a tender 
 smile at me as I stand beaming pinkly upon Sir Mark, "or 
 1 shall be jealous." 
 
 " How ! is it indeed so ! " Sir Mark asks, addressing me. 
 He too has only reached the neighborhood within the last 
 few hours, and knows nothing of what has been goiug on of 
 late in our quiet village. 
 
 " Yes, it is indeed so," I return, with an assumption of 
 sauciness, though my cheeks are flaming. Then, half shyly, 
 *' Will you not congratulate me ? " 
 
 " No, I shall congratulate Carrington," replies he, shortly, 
 and after a few more words of the most commonplace de- 
 scription, leaves us. 
 
 u Mother is on her feet, and has assumed an important 
 expression. She has sent Billy in quest of Dora. Marmaduke 
 crosses over to her, whispers, and expostulates for a moment 
 or two, until at length mother sinks back again upon hei 
 seat with a resigned smile, and sends Billy off a second tiui 
 with a message to Brewster to betake himself and the fossil 
 Lack to Summerleas with all possible speed. And so it 
 comes to pass that when the lawna are again empty Mr. 
 Carrington drives us all, through the still and dewy even- 
 ing, to our home, where he remains to dine and spei d tha 
 rest of thip eventful day
 
 fSYLLJS. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 IT ig a fortnight later, when the post Doming in one morn 
 Tig brings to Dora an invitation from our aunts, the Missos 
 Vernon, to go and stay with them for an indefinite period. 
 
 These two old ladies named respectively Aunt Martha 
 and Aunt Priscilla are maiden sisters of my father's, and 
 are, if possible, more disagreeable than he ; so that there is 
 hardly anything short of committing suicide we would 
 nut do to avoid paying them a visit of any lengthened du- 
 ration. 
 
 Being rich, however, they are powerful, and we have 
 been brought up to understand how inadvisable it would 
 be to offend or annoy them in any way. 
 
 Dora receives and reads her letter with an unmoved 
 countenance, saying nothing either for or against the prop- 
 osition it contains, so that breakfast goes on smoothly. 
 So does luncheon ; but an hour afterwards, as I happen to 
 be passing through the hall, I hear high words issuing from 
 the library, with now and then between them a disjointed 
 Bob, that I know proceeds from Dora. 
 
 An tklt?rcation is at all times unpleasant ; but in our 
 household it is doubly so, as it has the effect of making tu* 
 master of it unbearably morose for the remainder of the day 
 or night on which it occurs. 
 
 Knowing this, and feeling the roof that covers papa to 
 be, in his present state, unsafe, I steal noiselessly to the hall 
 door and, opening it, find refuge in the outer air. 
 
 As evening falls, however, I am warned of the approach 
 of dinner-hour, and, returning to the house, am safely up 
 the stairs, when Billy comes to meet me, his face full of in- 
 dignant information. 
 
 " It is a beastly shame," he says, in a subdued whisper, 
 * and I would not submit to it if I were you. When lun- 
 cheon was over, Dora went to papa and told him she would 
 not go to Aunt Martha; and when papa raged and insisted, 
 she began to blubber as usual, and said if you were tc take 
 her place it would do just as well ; and of course papa 
 jumped at the idea, knowing it would be disagreeable, and 
 aaya you *Ao#.go."
 
 90 PHYLLIS. 
 
 " WTiat ! " cry I, furious at thia new piooe of injuatice 
 I shall, shall I ? He'll see!" 
 
 1 turn from iny brother with an ominous expression ol 
 my lips, and move towards my bedroom door. The action 
 means, "Not words, but deeds." 
 
 "That's right," says Billy, following close in the char 
 acter of a backer-up, and openly delighted at the prospect 
 of a scrimmage. " Fight it out. I would give the governor 
 plenty of cheek if I were you ; he wants it badly. It's a 
 shame, that's what it is; and you engaged and all! And 
 what will Camngton say ? Do you know " mysteriously 
 " it is my opinion Miss Dora thinks she could get inside you, 
 if you were once out of the way? She was always a sneak; 
 so I would not give in on any account. But " despond- 
 ingly " you will never have the pluck to go through with it 
 when it comes to the point. I know you won't." 
 
 " I will," I return, gazing back at him with stern deter 
 mination in my eyes, and then I go into my room to pre- 
 pare for dinner, leaving him both astonished and pleased at 
 my new-found courage. 
 
 In this defiant mood I dress and go downstairs. All 
 through dinner Dora is more than usually agreeable. She 
 smiles continually, and converses gayly in her pretty, low- 
 toned elegant way. To me she is particularly attentive, and 
 is apparently deaf to the silence with which I receive her 
 remarks. 
 
 Nothing is said on the expected subject of Aunt Martha 
 until it is nearly time for us to retire to the drawing-room, 
 and I am almost beginning to fear the battle will be post- 
 poned, when papa, turning to me, says, carelessly, and as 
 though it were a matter of no importance : 
 
 " As Dora dislikes the idea of going to your aunts, Phyllis, 
 at this time of year, we have decided on sending you for a 
 month in her place." 
 
 " But I dislike the idea too," I reply, as calmly aa raga 
 will let me. 
 
 " That is to be regretted, as I will not have your aunts 
 offended. You are the youngest, and must give way." 
 
 " But the invitation was not sent to me." 
 
 " That will make little difference, and a sufficient excuse 
 can be offered for Dora. As your marriage does not come 
 off until late in the autumn, there is no reason why you 
 ehould remain at home all the summer."
 
 PHYLLIS. 91 
 
 c< This is some of your underhand work," I saj, with sup- 
 pressed anger, addressing Dora, 
 
 " I would not speak of ' undeihand work,'' if I were you," 
 returns she, smoothly, with an almost invisible dash from 
 her innocent blue eyes. 
 
 "Do not let us discuss the subject further," says papa, 
 in a loud tone. " There is nothing so disagreeable as public 
 recrimination. Understand once for all, Phyllis, the matter 
 u arranged, and you will be ready to go next week." 
 
 "I will not? "I cry, passionately, rising and flinging 
 my napkin upon the ground. " I have made up my mind, 
 and I will not go to Qualmsley. Not all the fathers in 
 Christendom shall make me." 
 
 " Phyllis ! " roars papa, making a wild grab at me as I 
 sweep past his chair ; but I avoid him defiantly, and, going 
 out, slam the door with much intentional violence behind 
 mo. 
 
 I fly through the hall and into the open air, I feel suf- 
 focated, half choked, by my angry emotion ; but the sweet 
 evening breeze revives me. It is eight o'clock, and a deli- 
 cious twilight pervades the land. 
 
 I run swiftly, an irrepressible sob in my throat, down 
 the lawn, past the paddock, and along the banks of the lit- 
 tle stream, until, as I come to what we call the " short 
 cut " to Briersley, I run myself into Mr. Carrington's arms, 
 who is probably on his way to Suramerleas. 
 
 Usually my greeting to him is a hand outstretched from 
 my body to the length of my arm. Now I cast myself 
 generously into his embrace. I cling to him with almost 
 affectionate fervor. He is very nearly dear to me at this 
 moment, coming to me as a sure and certain friend. 
 
 "My darling my life!" he exclaims, "what is it? 
 You are unhappy ; your eyes are full of trouble." 
 
 His arms are round me ; he presses his lips gently to 
 my forehead; it is a rare thing this kiss, as it is but seldom 
 be caresses me, knowing my antipathy to any demonstra- 
 tive attentions ; but now my evident aflliction removes a 
 barrier. 
 
 " I want you to marry me at once." I breathe rather 
 than speak, my hasty running and my excitement having 
 wellnigh stifled me. "You will, will you not? You 
 must. I will not stay here a moment longer than I can 
 help. You said once you wished to marry me in June; 
 you must wish it gtilL"
 
 92 PHYLLIS. 
 
 " I do," he answers, calmly, but his arms tighten round 
 me, and his face flushes. " I "will marry you when and 
 where you please. Do you mean to-morrow ? next week ? 
 when? " 
 
 "Next month; early next month. I will be ready 
 then. You must tell papa so this evening, and take me 
 away soon. I will show them I will not stay here to be 
 tyrannized over and tormented." 
 
 I burst into tears, and bury my face in his coat. 
 
 " You shall not stay an hour longer, if you don't "wish 
 it," returns my lover, rather unsteadily. "Come with mi 
 now, and I will take you to nay sister's, and Will marry you 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " Oh, no, no," I say, recoiling from him ; ' not that ; I 
 did not mean that. I did 'not want to run away with you. 
 Next month will be soon enough. It was only they in- 
 sisted on my going to Qualmsley, and I was determined I 
 would not." 
 
 "It is disgraceful your being made ^wretched in this 
 way," exclaims Marmaduke, wrathfully. " Tell me what 
 has vexed you ? " lie is not aware of the Misbes Vernous' 
 existence. " Where is Qualmsley ?" 
 
 " It is a horrible place, in Yorkshire, where nobody 
 lives, except my aunts. They want me to go to Ptay there 
 next week for a month. The hateful old tilings wrote in- 
 viting Dora, and when she refused to go papa insisted on 
 victim iziug me in her place. If you only knew Aunt Mar- 
 tha and Aunt 1'riscilla, you would understand my abhor- 
 rence my detestation of them. They are papa's sisters 
 ^the very image of him and tread and trample on one at 
 every turn. I would rather die than go to them. I would 
 far rather marry you." 
 
 I hardly guess the significance of my last words until I 
 lee my lover whiten and wince in the twilight. 
 
 " Of course I don't mean that," I say, confusedly, " 1 
 aaly " 
 
 But, as I don't at all feel sure whao it is I do mean, I 
 Lreak down here ignominiously and relapse into awkward 
 ilence. 
 
 " Of course not," he answers. " I quite understand." 
 But his voice has lost all its enthusiasm, and somehow bin 
 words drag. " Had you not better come back to the house, 
 Phyllis? lou will catch cold -without your hat and in that 
 li^lit dress."
 
 PHYLLIS. &) 
 
 I am clothed in white muslin, a little open at the throt, 
 and with my arms half bare. A piece of blue ribbou de- 
 fines my waist, a bow of the same hue is in my hair ; the 
 locket that contains his face is round my neck ; a great 
 crimson rose lies upon my bosom. 
 
 "I am not cold," I reply: "and I am afraid to face 
 papa." 
 
 We are separated now, and I stand alone, gazing down 
 into the rippling stream that runs noisily at my feet. AJ,> 
 ready two or three bright stars are twinkling overhead ar J 
 shine up at me, reflected from below. Mr. Carrington iet 
 the distance widen between us while regarding me I feel 
 rather than see with moody discontented eyes. 
 
 " Phyllis," he says, presently, in a low tone, " it seems 
 to me a horrible thing that the idea of your marriage should 
 be so distasteful to you " 
 
 u No, no ; not distasteful," I interrupt, with deprewstion. 
 
 " Don't say ' no ' if you mean ' yes.' Put my feelingg 
 out of the question, and tell me honestly if you are unhappy 
 about it." 
 
 " I am not. It does not make me more unhappy to marry 
 you than to marry any one else." 
 
 " What an answer ! " exclaims Marmaduke, with a groan. 
 "Is that all the consolation you can offer me? " 
 
 " That is all. Have I not told you all this long aero ?" I 
 cry, angrily, goaded by the reflection that each wordl speak 
 only makes matters harder. " Why do you bring the sub- 
 ject up again ? Must you too be unkind to me ? You can- 
 not have believed me madly in love with you, as I have told 
 you to the contrary ages ago." 
 
 " So you did. In my folly I hoped time would change 
 vou. What a contemptible lover I must be, having failed 
 in eight long months to gain even the affections of a child 
 Will you never care for me, Phyllis ? " 
 
 " I do care for you," I return, doggedly, forcing myself 
 to face him. " After mamma and Billy and Roland, I care 
 for you more than any one else. I like you twenty thousand 
 times better than papa or Dora. I cannot say more." 
 
 I tap my foot impatiently upon the ground ; my fii_ger 
 seine and take to pieces wantonly the unoffending rose. At 
 1 pull its crimson leaves asunder I drop them in the brook 
 and watch them float away under the moon's pale raya. I 
 would that my cruel words could so depart. 
 
 I feel angry, disconsolate, with the knowlelge that
 
 Q4 fHYLLIS. 
 
 through my ywn act 1 am cruelly wounding the man who, 1 
 must confess it, is my truest friend. I half think of apolo- 
 gizing, of saying something gentle, yet withal truthful, that 
 shall take away the sting I have planted. A few words rise 
 to my lips. I raise rny head to give them utterance. 
 
 Suddenly his arms are around me ; he is kissing me wiis 
 passion that is full of sadness. There is so much tender 
 Bass mingled with the despair in his face that I, too, am 
 maddened into silence. Repentant, I slip a hand round hii 
 neck and give him back one kiss out of the many. 
 
 " Don't be sorry,'' I whisper ; " something tells me I 
 shall yet love you with all my heart. Until then bear with 
 me. Or, if you think it a risk, Marmaduke, and would 
 rather put an end to it all now, do so, and I will not be an- 
 gry with you." 
 
 " More probably you would be thankful to me, ho an- 
 swered, bitterly. 
 
 " I would not. I would far rather trust myself to you 
 than stay at home after what has passed." My voice is trem- 
 bling, my lips quiver faintly. " But if one of us must be un- 
 happy, let it be me. I release you. I would not " 
 
 " Don't be foolish, child," he makes answer, roughly, " 1 
 could not release you, even if I would. You are part of my 
 life and the best part, No ; let us keep to our bargain now, 
 whatever comes of it." 
 
 " His eyes are fixed on mine ; gradually a softer light 
 creeps into his face. Putting up his hand, ho smoothes back 
 the loose hair from my forehead and kisses me gravely on 
 my lips. 
 
 " You are my own little girl," he says, " my most pre- 
 cious possession ; I will not have you inconsiderately used. 
 Come, I will speak to yorr father." 
 
 So hand in hand we return to the dragon's den, where, 
 Mr. Carrington having faced the dragon and successfully 
 bullied him, peace is restored, and it is finally arranged that 
 U three weeks we are to be married 
 
 And in three weeks we are married. In three short weeki 
 I glide into a new life, in which Phyllis Carrington holds 
 absolute sway, leaving Phyllis Vernon of the old days 
 the ' general receiver " of the blame of the family to b 
 buried out of sight forever. 
 
 First of all mother takes me up to London, and put* me 
 into the hands of a celebrated modiste, a woman of groat
 
 PHYL KJK 96 
 
 reputation, with piercing eyes, who scowls at me, prods, 
 taps, and measures me, until I low "right of my own identity 
 and begin to look upon myself as so many inches and fingera 
 and yards embodied. At length, this terrible person ex- 
 pressing herself satisfied with the examination, we may re 
 tarn home again, whither we are short/ y followed by many 
 wicker-framed oil skin-covered trunks,, m which lie the re- 
 8v Its of all the measuring. 
 
 Everything is so fresh, so ^ay, so <minty, that I, who 
 have been kept on such low diet with r\wrd to clothing, 
 am enraptured, and as I dress myself in each new gown 
 and survey myself in mother's lo&; glass, sustain a sensation 
 of pleasurable admiration that must be coneoit in an " ugly 
 duckling." 
 
 As Madame charmingly and rther shojrpily expresses 
 it, my wedding-dress is " a marvel of elegance *vid grace " 
 and lace, she might have added, as Brussels is everywhere. 
 Indeed, as I see it and think of the bill that x^nst follow, 
 the old deadly fear of a row creeps over me, chilling my 
 joy, until I happily and selfishly remember tlv^t when it 
 docs fall due I shall be far from Summerleas and papa's 
 wrath, when I become once more enthusiastic in ray praise. 
 I even insist on exhibiting myself in it toMarmarfnke three 
 nights before my wedding, though all MX the houwa tell me 
 it is unlucky so to do ; and Mrs. Tu-lly, tfoo cook, with her 
 eyes full of brandy-and-water, implores mo not to b head- 
 strong. 
 
 Presents come in from all sides, Bobby De VerwV wid 
 Mr. Hastings' being conspicuous more from size tharv !<** 
 Papa so far overcomes his animosity as to present m/ v?th 
 an astonishing travelling-desk, the intricacies of wbioh it 
 takes me months to master, even with the help of Marina- 
 duke. Roland, coming from Ireland for the ceremony, 
 brings with him from the Emerald Isle a necklet too hand- 
 some for his purse ; while Billy, with tears of love in hi* 
 dark eyes, puts into my arms a snow-white rabbit that for 
 ix long months has been the joy of his heart. 
 
 Dora, who at first declared her determination of leaving 
 home during the festivities, on second thoughts changes her 
 mind, having discovered that by absenting herself the loss 
 of a new dress is all she will gain : she even consents frostily 
 to be chief bridesmaid . The two Hastings girls, with Bobby 
 De Vere's sister and two of Marmaduke'i oouiTCi*, 
 ; and Sir Mark Gore is chief moumr.
 
 (Mf PHYLIJS* 
 
 As the eventful day breaks, I rake, and, riling, get 
 through the principal part of my dressing without aid, a pro- 
 ceeding that much disappoints mother, who at this last 
 hour of my childhood feels as though 1 were once more her 
 baby, and would have liked, with lingering touches, to 
 dress me bit by bit. 
 
 At eight o'clock Martha knocks at my bedroom dcor and 
 hands in to us a sealed packet, with " Marmaduke's love * 
 written on the outside, and opening it we disclose to view 
 tho Carringtou diamonds, reset, remodelled, and magnificent 
 in their brilliancy. This is a happy thought on his part, 
 and raises our spirits for twenty minutes at least : though 
 after this some chance word makes our eyes grow moist 
 again, and we weep systematically all through the morning 
 during the dressing, and generally up to the very last 
 moment so that when at length I make my appearance 
 in church and walk up tho aisle- on papa's arm, I am so 
 white and altogether dejected that I may be considered 
 ghastly. 
 
 Marmaduke is also extremely pale, but perfectly calm 
 and self-possessed, and has even a smile upon his lips. As 
 he sees me he comes quickly forw:fcnl, and taking me from 
 papa, leads me himself to the altar a proceeding that 
 causes much excitement among the lower members of tho 
 congregation, who, in loud whispers, approve his evident 
 fondness for me. 
 
 So the holy words are read, and the little mystical golden 
 fetter encircles my finger. I write myself Phyllis Marian 
 Vernon for the last time ; and Sir Mark Gore, coming up 
 to me in the vestry-room, slips a beautiful bracelet oa my 
 arm, and whispers, smiling: 
 
 " I hope yoi will accept all good wishes with this 
 Mrs. Carrinyton." 
 
 1 start and blish faintly as the new title strikes upon 
 ray ears, and almost forgjt to thank him in wondering at 
 iti strangeness. Then Marmaduke kisses mo gravely, and, 
 giving me his arm leads mo back to the carriage, and it ia 
 all over ! 
 
 Am I indeed no longer a child ? Is my wish accom- 
 plished, and am I at last " grown up ? " How short a 
 time ago I stood in my bridal robes in mother's room, still 
 Phyllis Vernon still a girl and now Why, it wst 
 niy a few minutes ago
 
 PHYLLIS. 9] 
 
 " Oh, Marroaduke, am I really married? " I say, gazing 
 at him with half-frightened eyes; i-nd he says 
 
 "Yes, I think so," with an amused smile, and puts his 
 arm round me and kisses me very gently. "And now we 
 are going to be happy ever after," he says, laughing a little. 
 
 All through breakfast I am in a haze a dream. I cut 
 what they put upon my plate, but I cannot eat. 1 listen to 
 Marmaduke's few words as he makes the customary speech 
 and think of him as though it were yesterday and not to- 
 day. I cannot realize that iny engagement is over, thai 
 what we have been preparing for these nine months past ia 
 at last a settled fact. 
 
 I listen to Sir Mark's clever, airy little oration that makes 
 everybody laugh, especially Miss l)e Vere, and wonder to 
 myself that I too can laugh. 
 
 Billy who has managed to get close up to me keeps 
 on helping me indefatigably to champagne, under the mis- 
 taken impression he is doing me a last service. I catch 
 mamma's sad eyes fixed upon me from the opposite side, 
 and then I know I am going to cry again, and, rising 
 from the table, get away in safety to my own room, whither 
 I am followed by her, and wo say our few final, farewell 
 words in private. 
 
 Three hours later I have embraced mother for the last 
 time, and am speeding away from home and friends and 
 childhood to I know not what. 
 
 CIIAPTEKXVfl. 
 
 have been married nearly three months, and are 
 going on very comfortably. As yet no cross or angry woida 
 have arisen between us ; all is smooth as unruffled waters* 
 Though Marmaduke is, if anything, fonder of me than at 
 first, he is perhaps a shade less slavishly attentive. For 
 example, he can now enjoy his Times at breakfast and read 
 it straight through without raising his eyes between every 
 paragraph, to make sure I am still behind the teapot and 
 have not vanished into mid air, or to ask me tenderly if 1 
 would wish to do this or care to go there. 
 
 He has also learned which is more satisfactory still-
 
 98 PHYLLIS 
 
 tha-t it is possible to know enjoyment eyen when I am oul 
 of Bight. 
 
 Two months of delicious thoughtless idleness we spend 
 in Spain and Switzerland, and then we pine for home 
 This latter secretly, and with a sworn determination that 
 each will be the last to confess it. 
 
 One calm glorious evening, however, after dinner, as 1 
 stand at the window of our hotel, gazing over the Lake oi 
 Geneva, something within me compelg the following speech : 
 44 How beautiful Strangemore must bo locking now ! "- 
 I feel slightly doubtful of the wisdom of my words when 
 they were uttered, and would have recalled them ; but the 
 encouraging amiability with which Marmaduke receives my 
 remark speedily reassures me. 
 
 " Yes," he says, with energy, "it neyer looki BO well as 
 just at this time of year." 
 " So I should think." 
 A long pause. 
 
 "English scenery is always at ita best in the autumn. 
 After all, there is no place like England I mean, of course 
 for a continuance. Don't you agree with me, darling ? " 
 
 " I do indeed. Dear Briersley Wood ! How fond Billy 
 and I were of it. You remember the clump of nut-trees, 
 'Duke ? " 
 
 " Is it likely I should forget it ? " sentimentally. " For 
 my own part, I think the wood on the other side oi Strange- 
 more handsomer than Briereley; but of course it was too 
 far away from Summerleas for you to know it well." 
 
 Another pause, longer than the last, and more eloquent. 
 " How I should like to see it now/ " I murmur, with 
 faint emphasis and a heroically suppressed sigh. 
 
 " Would you really ? " rising eagerly, and coming into 
 tha embrasure of the window. " Would you like to get 
 back, darling ? Not yet for a little while, of course," with 
 
 quick correction ** but later on, when " 
 
 " I would like tc start at once," I cry, frankly, flinging 
 hesitation to the winds ; " as soon as possible. I am long- 
 ing to see every one ; and you know, 'Duke," sweetly, " J 
 have yet to make a near acquaintance with our home." 
 
 I smile up to him, and am satisfied my words have* 
 caused nothing but the extremest content. 
 
 " Very good. It is easily arranged ; and next year wo 
 can come and get through what we now leave undone, 
 They must be wanting us at home, I fancy ; thart are th
 
 PHYLLIS. 9f 
 
 and everything,' concludes Marmaduke, in a reflective 
 tone, which is the nearest approach to a return of reason he 
 has yet shown. 
 
 We spend a fortnight in London on our way back, when 
 I am presented to some of my husband's relations. His 
 lister, Lady Ilandcock, I do not see, as she has been in 
 Canada for the last two years with Sir James, and, though 
 now travelling homewards and expected every day, doei 
 not arrive during our stay in the Great Babylon. 
 
 Cousins and aunts and friends, however, are numerous, 
 and for the most part so kind that restraint vanishes, and I 
 tell myself people-in-law are not so formidable as I have 
 been led to believe. One thorn, however, remains among 
 my roses and pricks me gently. 
 
 Lady Blanche Going with whom we stay a week of 
 all the cousins interests me most ; though it must be con- 
 fessed the interest is of a disagreeable nature. She has a 
 charming house in Park Lane, and the softest, most fascina- 
 ting manners ; she is in every point such as a well-bred 
 woman ought to be, yet with her alone I am not happy. 
 For the most part looking barely twenty-five, there are 
 times odd moments when the invariable smile is off her 
 face when I could fancy her at least seven years older. 
 Now and then, too, a suspicious gleam too warm, as com- 
 ing from a decorous matron falls from her sleepy almond- 
 shaped eyes upon some favorite among the " stronger " sex, 
 aud I cannot forgive her in that she makes me appear the 
 most unsophisticated, childish bride that ever left a nur- 
 sery. So that I am glad when we leave her and move 
 farther south to our beautiful home. 
 
 Oh, the delight, the rapture, of the first meeting, when 
 the first day after our return, I drive over to Summerleas : 
 The darling mother's tearful welcome, the "boy Billee's " 
 more boisterous one. Even Dora, for a moment or two 
 forgets her elegance and her wrongs, and gives me a hearty 
 embrf*"?. And how well I am looking, and how happy 1 
 And OP"*" p:v v r~y dress is, and how becoming! And 
 hew they have all ruisseo. me ', And just fancy ! Koland is 
 rtfi'bj engaged to the " old boy ' .In^M.er, after all ; and 
 the t.-olonel himself writes about it, as though quite pleased, 
 i r . spite of her having such a good fortune. Though, in- 
 Jeod, why should he not? for where could he find any one 
 hant'somer, cr dearer, or more charming than our Roly ? 
 ?rul so OU.
 
 100 FinLLIS. 
 
 All too swift in its happiness flies the day, and Marma. 
 duke comes to reclaim me. Yet the strange souses of rest 
 a^d completeness that fills me, in the presence of the old 
 1-MCVC-d, distresses me. Why can 1 not feel for Marma- 
 d;.Vr> that romantic, all-sufficing devotion of which I have 
 read? I certainly like him immensely. He is everything 
 of the dearest and hest, and kind almost to a fault ; there- 
 fore I ought to adore him; but somehow I cannot quite 
 make up my mind to it. One should love a husband better 
 than all the rest of the world put together ; so I have heard, 
 so 1 believe ; but do I ? 
 
 .1 lay little plans ; I map out small scenes, to try ho\ 
 far my affection for my husband will go. 
 
 For instance, I picture to myself Billy or he condemned 
 to start in the morning for Australia, never to return; one 
 or other must go, and the decision rests with me. Which 
 shall I let go, which shall I keep? 1 send Marmadukc, and 
 feel a deep pang at my heart; I send Billy the pang be- 
 comes keenest torture. 
 
 Again, supposing both to be sentenced to death, and 
 supposing also it is in my power to save one of them : 
 which would I rescue? JVIarmaduke of course! I haul 
 him triumphantly from his gloomy cell; but as I do so my 
 Billy's beautiful eyes, filled with mute despair, shine upon 
 me from out the semi-darkness, and I cease to drag Manna- 
 duke: I cannot leave my brother. 
 
 When this last picture first presents itself to my vivid 
 imagination I am in bed, and the idea overcomes me to 
 such a degree that I find myself presently in Hoods of tears, 
 unable altogether to suppress my sobs. 
 
 In a minute or two Marmaduke wakes and turns unea- 
 sily. 
 
 " What is the matter, Phyllis," he asks, anxiously. " Is 
 anything wrong with you, my darling?" 
 
 " No, no, nothing," I answer hastily, and bury my nose 
 in the pillow. 
 
 " But you are crying," he remonstrates, reaching out a 
 kindly hand in the darkness that is meant for my face, but 
 alights unexpectedly upon the back of my head. "Tell me 
 what is troubling you, my pet." 
 
 " Nothing at all," I say again ; " I was only thinking.' 
 Here I stille a foolish sigh born of my still more foolish 
 tea rt. 
 
 " Thinking of what ? "
 
 PHYLLIS. 101 
 
 "Of Hilly " I reply reluctantly. And then, though he 
 Bays nothing, :tnd though I cannot see his face, I know my 
 husband is offended. 
 
 He goes i.nck to his origina-1 position, and is soon again 
 asleep, while 1 lie awake for half an hour longer, woiryiag 
 my brain with trying to discover what there can be to vex 
 Marmaduke i; <ny weeping over Billy. 
 
 Still I am happy, utterly so, as one must be who is with 
 out care or som-w, whose lightest wish meets instant 'fulfil- 
 ment, and less and less frequently am I haunted by the 
 vague fear of ingratitude by the thought of how poor a 
 return I make fo* all the good showered upon me, as I see 
 how sufficient I am for my husband's happiness : while only 
 on rare occasions does he betray his passionate longing for 
 a more perfect hold upon my heart by the suppressed but 
 evident jealomy with whicn he regards my love for mv 
 family. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 you like to invite here for the shooting ? " 
 Marmaduke, at breakfast, to my consternation. " 1 
 iuppoee we had better fill the house ? " 
 
 "Oh, 'Duke," I cry, in terror, " must you do that? And 
 must I entertain them all ? " 
 
 " I suppose so," replies he, laughing ; * though I dare say 
 if you will let them alone they will entertain themselves. 
 If you get a good many men and women together they gen- 
 erally contrive to work out their ewn amusement." 
 
 " I have seen BO few people in my life," I say, desperately, 
 "and none of them grand people. That is, lords, I mean, 
 fcnd that. I shall be frightened out of my life." 
 
 "My acquaintance with lords is not so extensive as you 
 eem to* imagine. I know a few other people. We will 
 limit the lords, if you wish to.'* 
 
 " Baronets and very rich people are just as bad." 
 
 u Nonsense, darling 1 I will be here to help you if they 
 grow very dangerous, and get altogether beyond control." 
 
 " Oh, that is all very well," I say, feeling inclined to cry, 
 *bni you will be out shooting all day, and I will be left *
 
 102 PHYLLIS. 
 
 homo to speak to them. I don't mind the mon BO much, bat 
 the women will be dreadful." 
 
 This last sentence appears to affcrd Marmadu'ko the live- 
 liest amusement. He laughs until I begin to leel really hurt 
 at his want of sympathy. 
 
 " You don't care for me " I cry, with petulant reproach, 
 * or you would not try to make me so unhappy." 
 
 "My darling child, how can you say so? Unhappy! be- 
 cause a few people are kind enough to come and pay you a 
 visit. You say I do n >t ' care for you ' because I ask you 
 to be civil to two or three women ! ' Here he laughs 
 again a little, though evidently against his will. " Oh, 
 Phyllrj 1 if you are going to cry I will not say another word 
 about it. Come, look up, my pet, and I promise to forget 
 our friends for this autumn at least. We will spend it by 
 ourselves ; though I must confess " regretfully " it seems 
 to me a sin to leave all those birds in peace. Now are you 
 satisfied ? " 
 
 But I am not : I am only ashamed of myself. Is this 
 childish fear of strangers the proper spirit for a grown-np 
 married woman to betray? I dry my eyes and make a 
 secret determination to go through with it, no matter what 
 it costs me. 
 
 " No, no," I say, heroically ; (i let them come. It is very 
 stupid of me to feel nervous about it. I dare say I shall 
 like them all immensely when they are once here ; and and 
 perhaps they too will like me." 
 
 "Small doubt of that," says my husband, heartily. "I 
 only hope the men won't get beyond the liking. Phyllis, 
 you are a darling, and when they leave us you shall tell me 
 how tremendously you enjoyed it all." 
 
 I am not sufficient hypocrite to coincide with this hopeful 
 idea. I kill a sigh before I next speak. 
 
 " Duke," I say, with faltering tongue, " must I sit at the 
 head of the table ? " 
 
 " Of course," again visibly amused. " Surely you would 
 not like to sit at the bottom ? " 
 
 " No," with deep dejection ; " one is as bad as the other. 
 In either place I shall be horribly conspicuous " Then, after 
 a brief hesitation, and with a decided tendency to fawn 
 upon him, " Marmaduke, we will have all the things handed 
 round ; won't we, now ? I shall never have anything to 
 carve, shall I ? " 
 
 " Never, ' replies 'Duke ; " ro* shall give us dinnex i*
 
 PHYLUM 108 
 
 any earthly style you choose, always provided you Ifct UK 
 have # good one. There ! " 
 
 " And Parsons will see to that," I say, partially con* 
 Boled, drawing my breath more lightly. 
 
 "Now, whom shall we ask ? " says 'Duke, seating him- 
 self, and drawing out a pencil and pocket-book with an air 
 of business, while I look over his shoulder. " Harriet if 
 staying with old Sir William at present, but next week she 
 will be free. She will come, and James. I am so anxioai 
 you should meet each other." 
 
 " Oh, Marmaduke, what shall I do if your sister does 
 Dot like me ? It would make me so miserable if she disap- 
 proved of me in any way." 
 
 " Your modesty, my dear, is quite refreshing in this bra 
 zen age. Of course, if Harriet expresses disapprobation ol 
 my choice, I shall sue for a divorce." 
 
 I pinch his ear, and perch myself comfortably on the arm 
 of his chair' 
 
 " Is she anything like you ? " 
 
 " You could hardly find a greater contrast, I should say, 
 in every way. She is extremely fair quite a blonde not 
 much taller than you are, and rather fat. She has a consider- 
 able amount of spirit, and keeps Sir James in great order ; 
 while I am a dejected being, tyrannized over by the veriest 
 little shrew that ever breathed." 
 
 " 1 like that. But from what you say she must be a ter- 
 rible person." 
 
 " Then my description belies her. Harriet is very 
 charming and a general favorite. As for Sir James, he sim- 
 ply adores her. I dare say she will bring Bebe with her." 
 
 Who is Bebe ? " 
 
 " Bebe Beatoun ? Oh, Handcock's niece, and Harriet's 
 * most cherished.' Fortunately, her mother is at present in 
 ItaTy, so she can't come, which is lucky for us all, as she is a 
 dame terrible. Then we must ask Blanche Going." 
 
 " Oh, rmist you ask her?" I exclaim, discontentedly. "I 
 don't think I quite like her ; she is so supercilious, and seems 
 to consider me so so young." 
 
 " Is that a fault ? I never met any one with such a ven- 
 eration for age as you have. I tell you, Phyllis, there is 
 nothing on earth so desirable as youth. Be glad of it while 
 you have it ; it never lasts. I dare say Blanche herself 
 would not mind taking a little of it off your hands, if tha 
 only could."
 
 104 I'HYLLIS. 
 
 " I don't think BO ; si---' rather gave rae the irapresiion 
 that she looked down t- t )on me, as though I were foolish 
 and not wDrth much coi sideration." 
 
 " Don't "be uncbarit able, Phyllis ; she could not think 
 anything so absurd. Besides, she told me herself one day 
 he liked you immensely hoped you and she would be tie- 
 Eaendous friends, and so on. Blanche is too good-natured to 
 troai ar y one as you say.*' 
 
 * Perhaps so. But, really, now, Marmaduke seriously, 
 I mean would you not wish me to be older? Say twenty- 
 five orao, with a little more knowledge of everything, you 
 know? And, in fact, I mean would it not be better if 1 
 were more a woman of the world ? " 
 
 " Oh, horror of horrors 1 " cries 'Duke, raising his,hands 
 in affected terror. "How can you suggest anything so 
 cruel 1 If I were married to a fashionable woman I would 
 either cut and run, or commit suicide in six months." 
 
 " Then you really think me " I hesitate. 
 
 "A veritable little goose. No, nol perfection, 1 mean," 
 seeing me pout. Then suddenly putting his arms round me 
 and drawing me down to him, he whispers, with deep feel- 
 ing, "Phyllis, my darling, darling girl, don't you know it ? 
 Must I tell it you over and over again? Cannot you see 
 every hour of your life how fondly I love you, just for what 
 
 you are ? And you, Phyllis, tell me do you " He stops 
 
 abruptly and regards me with a curious earnestness for a 
 minute, then, laughing rather constrainedly, puts me gently 
 back from him and goes on : " What other guests shall we 
 name? Mark Gore ; would yon care for him ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I liked what I saw of him. And Dora, Marma- 
 duke." 
 
 " Dora, of course. And some one to meet her, I sup- 
 pose? Whom shall we say ? 1 think George Ashurst is an 
 eligible who would just suit her. He is not exactly brilliant, 
 but he is thoroughly good-hearted, and a baronet, with un- 
 limited ccin." 
 
 " I don't think Dora would like him if he is stupid," 1 
 iay, doubtfully. 
 
 41 Oh, he is not a fool, if you mean that ; and he has as 
 many golden charms as would make a duller man clever." 
 
 " Ah ! who is mercenary now ? " 1 say, lifting a linger 
 of conviction. 
 
 " Ain I ? You ace what comes of marrying a man of
 
 PHYLLIS. 101 
 
 the world. Now, had yon seen as much life a* I hrre you 
 might be cqaily unpleasant." 
 
 "But /don't think you unpleasant, T)uke. w 
 
 " Don't you ? There is consolation to be found in that. 
 And now whom would you like to invite, darling? " 
 
 " I would like Billy," I say, disconsolately ; " hut he 
 is never in the way when wanted, like other boys. And 
 Holy is in Ireland, by special desire, of course. And ] 
 would like mother, only " 
 
 "Perhaps you would like the whole family?" gays my 
 husband, mildly. 
 
 " Yes, I would," I return, with alacrity ; " every n I 
 was going to say " man jack of them," but thinking this 
 though purest English to Billy's ears may be considered 
 vulgar by mere outsiders, check myself in time, and substi- 
 tute the words "every one of them," rather tamely. "All, 
 that is, except papa ; I doubt if he could be amiable for two 
 hours together. But where ia the UBO in wishing for what 
 1 cannot have ? " 
 
 *' We could get Billy for a week, I dare say, later on,' 
 gays Marmaduke, kindly, " while the rest are here, if only 
 to keep you from despair. Is there any one else? " 
 
 " No ; papa looked upon friends as nightmare*, so we 
 have none. Besides, I shall have quite enough to do mak- 
 ing myself agreeable to those you have named. I only 
 hope they will not worry me into an early grave." 
 
 "Well, then, I suppose, with two or three spare men, 
 this list will do ? " 
 
 " Don't you think you are asking a great many ? " 
 
 " No ; very few, it seems to me ; at least barely enough 
 to make the house warm. Here is a tip for you, Phyllis : 
 when making up your mind to invite people to stay with 
 you, always ask a good many together, as the more there 
 are the easier it will be to amuse them, and much trouble 
 Is taken off the shoulders of the poor little hostess. Bebe 
 ?ou will like, she is so gay and bright : every one ia fond of 
 her ? " 
 
 "How old is she?" 
 
 " Very young not more than nineteen or twenty, and 
 she looks almost as young as you. Sha will suit you, and 
 help you to do the honors. The only thing that can be 
 said against Bebe is, she is such an incorrigible little iiirt- 
 Do not learn that accomplishment from her." 
 
 " How shall 1 v /e able to help it, if you throw me in tht
 
 106 PHYLLIS, 
 
 way of it ? I think yon are acting foolishly," with a wise 
 shake of my head. "What if one of those 'spare meu 
 hould chance to fall in love with me ? " 
 
 " That would be a mere bagatelle to your falling in IOY 
 with one of the ' spare men.' 
 
 u I see nothing to prevent that either." 
 
 " Don't you ? Then, half earnestly, taking my face 
 between his hands, " You would not do that, Phyllis, would 
 yon?" 
 
 " No, I think not," I say, lightly, letting him have hia 
 kiss without rebuke : "I feel no desire to be a tlirt. It 
 must be an awful thing, as it seems to me, to have two or 
 three men in love with you at the same time. I find one 
 bad enough " maliciously " and that is what it comes to, 
 ia it not?" 
 
 " I suppose so, if one is a successful coquette." 
 
 " Well," I say, springing to my feet, " I only hope Dora 
 will get a good husband out of all this turmoil, if only to 
 recompense me for the misery I am going to endure." 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 DUBINO the morning of the day on which Lady Hand- 
 cock is expected to arrive, I feel strangely nervous and un-' 
 settled. I don't seem to care so much for any one's good 
 opinion as for hers. If Marmadtike's sister refuses to like 
 me, I shall take it very hardly indeed, and I do not dare to 
 flatter myself that it may be otherwise. Probably she will 
 be cold and haughty and indifferent, like the generality of 
 grand dames, or, worse still, supercilious and filled with a 
 well-bred mockery only half concealed, like Lady Blanche 
 Going. 
 
 As she has written to say they will not arrive until five 
 o'clock, I put on my outdoor things after luncheon and 
 wander forth alone in search of good spirits and a frame of 
 mind so altogether radiant as shall help me to conquer fate 
 towards evening. As at four o'clock, however, I retrace 
 my steps, I am oy no means certain I have found anything 
 beyond a brilliant color.
 
 PHYLLIS. 101 
 
 I crow the threshold and move towards the glair-case 
 with the laudable intention of robing myself for conquest be- 
 fore their coming, when to my consternation I am met by 
 Tynon, the butler, with the pleasing intelligence that " Sir 
 James and Lady Handcock and Miss Beatoun " have already 
 arrived. 
 
 Have entered my doors with no hostess to receive them 
 or bid them welcome ! What will they think ? How awk- 
 vard it has proved, my going for that stupid walk ! 
 
 I smother a groan, fling my hat at Tynon, and, just as I 
 am, with my hair slightly disarranged, enter the drawing 
 room. 
 
 At the upper end stands Marmaduke, laughing and 
 talking gayly to a fair-haired, prettily-dressed woman, who 
 in a lower class of existence, might be termed " buxom." 
 To say she is inclining towards embonpoint will, however, 
 sound less shocking to ears polite. I have heard from my 
 husband that she is about thirty years of age, bat in the 
 quick glance I take at her I decide she might be any ago 
 under that, she is so white and soft and gay. 
 
 " Oh ! here she is," says 'Duke, gladly, as I enter. 
 
 " I am so sorry ! " I murmur, with a rising color, com- 
 ing quickly forward ; " but we did not expect you until five 
 o'clock." 
 
 As I advance, so does she, and when we meet she layi 
 two small plump, jewelled hands upon my shoulders. 
 
 "It was all my fault," she says, smiling. * When yoa 
 know me better you will understand that I cannot help be- 
 ing in a hurry. However, you must forgive me this time, 
 as my appearing at this hour is in itself a flattery, proving 
 how impatient I was to see you." Then, regarding me at- 
 tentively. " Why, what a child 1 " she ones ; " what a 
 baby ! and what delicious eyes 1 Really, Marnmduke, I 
 hardly know whether most to congratulate or pity you." 
 
 She speaks with a curiously pretty accent, putting an 
 emphasis on every third or fourth word that fascinates and 
 pleases the listener. 
 
 ''Pity!" return I, amaredly, making an unsuccessful 
 effort to elude her firm grasp, while the indignant color 
 flames into my cheeks. "You speak as if why should you 
 pity him ? " 
 
 " Because, cannot yoa fancy what a life you are going 
 to lead him," says her ladyship, with a little arch laugh that 
 op her Grecian no. " Child I too have eyes
 
 iOfc PHYLLIS, 
 
 and 1 can see mischief written in every line of your ugly 
 little face." 
 
 I try to feel angry, but cannot. It is in her power to 
 make every word she utters an undeveloped compliment. 
 I succumb at ouoe and forever, and give myself up to her 
 merry true-hearted influence. Putting my frowns in my 
 pocket, 1 laugh. 
 
 "If you keep on saying these things before 'Duke," I 
 say, "he will find mo out, and perhaps in time repent hi 
 bargain." 
 
 Here I make a little moue at my husband, who is stand 
 ing rather behind his sister, which he returns with interest 
 
 " How do you know I have not found yon out long ago ? 
 It is my belief I married you for my sins. Harriet, I leave 
 her now in your hands; reform her if yon can." 
 
 " Go and look after James," says Lady Ilandcoek 
 " He always gets into mischief when left by himself. 1 
 want to make friends with Phyllis." 
 
 By and by Miss Beatoun conies in, and I get through 
 another introduction. 
 
 She is hardly as tall as I am, and wonderfully pretty. 
 No need to disbelieve the report that last season all men 
 raved of her. Her eyes are large and dark and soft, her 
 hair a very, very light brown, though hardly golden, and 
 guiltless of dye. A tiny black mole, somewhat like a Queen 
 Anne's patch, grows close to her left ear. 
 
 As I look at her, I decide hastily she is more than pretty 
 she is attractive. Her whole face is full of light ; the 
 very corners of her mouth express unuttered laughter; it is 
 altogether the most riante, kissable, lovable face conceiv- 
 able. Her bands and feet are fairy-like in their proportions 
 
 Nevertheless, her eyes, though unsually soft, betray the 
 coquette; they cannot entirely conceal the mischievous long- 
 ing for mastery that lurks in their velvet depths. 
 
 " Is she not young, Bebe ? " asks Lady Ilandcoek, indi- 
 jatin^ mo. 
 
 " Very. Much younger even than I dared to hope. Of 
 course " to mo " we all hoard you were quite a girl ; yet 
 that did not reassure mo, as it can be said of most brides, 
 an J as a rule they are a disagreeable lot. But you have 
 forgotten to give yourself airs, and that is so novel and de- 
 lightful so many young women will go in for that sort of 
 thing. I feel," says Miss Beatoun, gayly, " I am going to 
 a dftlicicai* autumn, and to bo veiy happy."
 
 PHYLLIS. 109 
 
 "I hope so," I answer, earnestly. "Do you know, 
 Lady Handcock, I quite dreaded your coming? it kept 
 me awake several nights, thinking perhaps you would be 
 cold and difficult, and would not like me ; and now I am 
 go relieved you cannot fancy what a weight is off EJ 
 
 mind." 
 
 I eay this with such evident feeling that they both 
 laugh heertily, and Bebe gives it as her opinion that I am a 
 "regular darling." 
 
 "But you must not call me Lady Handcock,' corrects 
 tay sister-in-law. "My name is Harriet or Harry, for the 
 most part. I do not want to be made an old woman just 
 yet, though Bebe will tell every one 1 am her aunt, instead 
 of saying James is her uncle." 
 
 "'It is the only hold I have over her you see," exclaims 
 Bebe, " and I keep it as a threat. But for knowing I have 
 it in my power to say that, she would be under no control. 
 And with mamma so given to itinerant habits, and Harry 
 being my natural chaperon^ I have to protect myself as best 
 1 may." 
 
 By dinner hour our party is still further enlarged by 
 Dora, Mark Gore, and Sir George Ashurst, a very fair 
 young man, with an aquiline nose, plump face, and a long 
 white moustache, lie at once impresses me with tho belief 
 that he is thoroughly good-natured, and altogether incapa- 
 pable of ill temper of any kind. Perhaps, indeed, if he 
 were to smile a little less frequently, and show some symp- 
 toms of having an opinion of his own, it would be an im- 
 provement. But what will you ? One cannot have every- 
 thing. And ho is chatty and agreeable, and I manage to 
 spend my evenings very comfortably in hia society. 
 
 The next day Captain Jenkins and Mr. Powell, from 
 the Barracks at Chillington, put in an appearance; and 
 A very youthful gentleman, with a calm and cherubic coun- 
 tenance, arrives from London. This latter is in the i lussars, 
 and ia full of a modest self-appreciation very much to be 
 admired. 
 
 " Well, Chips, so you have come, in spite of all your 
 engagement*," says Marmaduke, slapping this fair-haired 
 warnor affectionately upon the shoulder, (flia correct 
 name is John Chippinghall Thornton; but his 
 brother officers having elected to call him
 
 110 PHYLLIS 
 
 "Chip," he usually goes by that appllatien. Though why 
 I have never been able to fathom, as it would be a too 
 palpable flattery to regard this very erratic young man as a 
 " chip of the old block," his father being a peculiarly mild 
 and inoffensive clergyman, residing in a northern village), 
 
 "What did Lady Emily say to your defection, and 
 Maudie Green, and Carrie, and all the rest of your friends ?" 
 * M Oh, I say, now," says Master Chips, with an ingenuous 
 blush, " it isn't fair to show me up in this light is it ? and 
 before Mrs. Carrington, too. She will have no opinion of 
 me if she listens to all you say." 
 
 " I am only anxious to hear how you tore yourself away 
 from their fascinations." 
 
 " Yes, do tell us, Mr. Thornton," says I. " We are so 
 afraid that you ha.ve sacrificed yourself to oblige us." 
 
 " Don't you believe a word Marmaduke says, Mrs. Car- 
 rington : he is always representing me falsely. I shall be 
 unhappy forever if you won't understand how proud and 
 charmed I was to receive your invitation. Just to show 
 you how he exaggerates, the Carry and Maud he spoke of 
 are my cousins, and that's the same as sisters, you know " 
 
 " Only far more dangerous," I return, laughing. 
 
 "Well, at all events, they have every one gone off to 
 Germany or country-houses, so they must do without me. 
 I couldn't go trotting after 'em everywhere, you know : do 
 enough of that in the spring to last the year. And, besides, 
 1 don't much care for any of that lot now." 
 
 "No? Tired of them already? What a desperate 
 Don Juan I Really, Chips, 1 shudder to think where you 
 will end. And who is tke idol of the present hour ? some- 
 thing more exquisite still ? " 
 
 " Not to be named in the game day," says Mr. Thorn- 
 ton, confidingly. " Fact is, she is a sort of connection of 
 your cwn. Met her last season in town, you know, and 
 er " an eloquent sigh " I mean Miss Bcatoun." 
 
 Marmadnke bursts out laughing, and so do I. 
 
 "Then, you are all right," says 'Duke. "With your 
 asual luck you have fallen upon your feet. At this instant 
 the same roof covers you and your inamorata" 
 
 " No ! " cries Chips, eagerly. " You don't mean it ? Of 
 course you are only joking. You're not in earnest, now 
 Marmaduke are you ? " 
 
 "Seeing ia believing," returns Duke. "But if you 
 -ud dress yourself this very moment you will get
 
 PHYLLIS 111 
 
 no dinner, and lose a good chance of exercising your fasci- 
 nations upon Miss Beatoun." 
 
 Later on he takes her in to dinner and is supremely 
 happy ; while Messieurs Jenkins and PoAvell, who have 
 reached their thirty-third year, look on aghast at the young 
 one's " cheek." They are estimable men, and useful in 
 thsir own way, but refuse to shine in conversation. I lhi*i\ 
 they like each other ; I am quite sure they like Marmaduka, 
 who draws them out in a wonderful manner, and makes 
 them marvel at their own unwonted brilliancy j while Har- 
 riet aids and abets him by her gayety. 
 
 At my right hand sits Sir James, a tall, distinguished- 
 looking man, with hair of iron-gray and deep-set eyes. lie 
 is grave and remarkably silent such an utter contrast to 
 his laughter-loving wife, of whom he never appears to take 
 the smallest notice. To me it is a matter of amazement 
 how he can so systematically ignore her, as he seldom ad- 
 dresses to her a word or lets his eyes rest upon her for any 
 length of time. 
 
 But for Marmaduke's* assertion that they adore each 
 other I would be inclined to think them at daggers drawn, 
 or at least indifferent ; and it is only now and then when 
 she speaks to him, and I see his eyes light up and smile 
 and suften, that I can accept the gentler idea. 
 
 Not to his wife alone, however, is he reserved ; all the 
 rest of the world he treats in a similar manner, and 1 corne 
 to the conclusion he abhors.talking, and is a man with no 
 settled taste or pursuits. Hearing, indeed, that hU one 
 passion is hunting, I broach the subject cautiously, and, 
 feeling certain of making a score, express myself desirous 
 of being informed as to the express nature of the " bull- 
 finch." 
 
 "Explanations always fall short," is his reply. " Some 
 day when we are out I will show you one. That will be 
 'best." 
 
 So my ignorance remains unenlightened, and as Le 
 ealmly returns to his dinner, I do the game, and abandon 
 ali hopes of hearing him converse. 
 
 D >ra is doing the amiable to Sir George Ashurst. Any- 
 thing so simple or innocent as Dora in her white dress and 
 soral ribbons eould hardly be conceived. I am admiring 
 her myself with all my heart, and wondering how it is she 
 does it ; aud I fancy Sir Mark Gore is doing the sa.ua. 
 Once, a*i ebe ruLses ;Lo childish questiouh.j; blue eyes toh
 
 112 PHYLLIS. 
 
 companion's face, and murmurs some pretty speech in her 
 soft treble, I see Sir Mark smile openly. It is only a mo- 
 mentary merriment, however, as directly afterwards he 
 turns to me, suave and charming as ever. 
 
 " How becoming white is to your sister! " he says. " It 
 suits her expression so wonderfully. I don't know how it 
 is, but the word ingenue always comes to me wheu I lot k 
 at her." 
 
 " She is very pretty," I return, coldly. I have not yet 
 quite decided on the nature of that smite. 
 
 " You do her an injustice. Surely she is more than 
 ' pretty ' a word that means so little in these degenerate 
 days. If I were an artist 1 should like to paint her us 
 ' Moonlight,' with a bunch of lilies in her hands, and just 
 that dress she is now wearing without the ribbons and a 
 little stream running at her feet. I have seldom seen so 
 sweet an expression. One could hardly fancy an unkind 
 word coming from those lips, or a hidden motive in her 
 heart." 
 
 I think of our " Moonlight's" designs upon Marmaduke 
 and the man who is now so loud in her praise. I think of 
 the many and energetic fracas between her and Hilly, and 
 am silent. I don't know why, but I am positive Sir Mark 
 is amused. I color and look up. 
 
 " What ages ago it seems since last we met ! " says he, 
 promptly. 
 
 "Ages? No, months. It was last June we mt, I 
 think and here." 
 
 "Oh, that was only the barest glimpse; one could 
 hardly call it a meeting. I was referring to my visit to the 
 Leslies two years ago. You remember that little scene in 
 the High street, at Carston?" 
 
 I laughed meriily. 
 
 "' I do indeed. Hut for you the finale would have been 
 too ignominious. I shall always owe you a debt of gratitude 
 for your timely appearance. The saddle turned, I recollect, 
 exactly opposite the Bank, and I had a horrid vision of two 
 or three young men gazing at me in eager expectation from 
 some of the windows." 
 
 " Yos ; and then -.ve met again, and Shall I peed 
 
 one of these for you ? " 
 
 " I'ltase." 
 
 " And I flattered myself you treated me with some dej*re 
 of graciousness ; flattered myself so far that I presumed to
 
 1 1 3 
 
 send yon a little volume of poems I bad heard von wish for 
 ami which you returned. That was rather cruel, was it 
 not ? " 
 
 " I have always./*?^ how rude yon must have thought nu 
 on that occasion." I reply, blushing hotly. "I did so long 
 to tell you all about it, but could not. It was not my fault, 
 however ; I confess I would have kept it if possible : it waa 
 papa, lie said you should not have sent it, and insisted on 
 .ts being returned." 
 
 " Well, perhaps he was right. Yet it was a very harm- 
 tesg and innocent little volume, after all, containing only the 
 mildest sentiments. (Is that a good one ? ) " 
 
 " (Very good, thank you). It was Tennyson's ' Idyls ' 
 I remember perfectly ; and it was filled with the prettiest 
 illustrations. Oh, I was so sorry to part with that neat little 
 book ! Do you know I was silly enough to cry the day 1 
 posted it back to you ? " 
 
 Sir Mark regards me earnestly, almost curiously. I am 
 laughing at my own past folly, but he does not even smile 
 in sympathy. 
 
 " I am sorry any act of mine should have cost you a tear," 
 he says, slowly, "But why did you not write a line to ex- 
 plain all this to me when sending it?" 
 
 "Fancy the iniquity of such a thing! the very sugges- 
 tion would have brought down untold wrath upon my pooi 
 head. To ask permission to write a letter to a gentleman 1 
 Oh, horror ! " 
 
 " And you would not but, no, of course you would not," 
 Bays Sir Mark, rather unintelligibly. 
 
 And then I glance at Lady I landcock, and she glances at 
 me. Sir Mark rises to open the door, and 1 smile and nod 
 gayly at him as 1 cross the threshold and pass into the 
 lighted hall. 
 
 Wo are all beginning to know each other well, and to b 
 mutually pleased with each other, when, towards the close 
 of the week, Lady Blanche Going joins our party. She is 
 looking considerably handsomer than when I last saw ner in 
 town, and is apparently in good humor with herself and all 
 the rest of the world. How long this comfortable state oi 
 at't'airs may last, however, remains a mystery. She brings 
 with her a horse, a pet-j/oodk', ami a very Fix-neb uiaici, who
 
 114 PHYLLIS 
 
 makes herself extremely troublesome, and cause* much di 
 seusion in the servants' hall. 
 
 Sir Mark Gore and her ladyship are evidently old friends, 
 and express a well-bred amount of pleasure on again meet- 
 ing. 1'erhaps her ladyship's expressions are by a shade the 
 warmest. 
 
 " I had no idea I should meet you here," she winds up, 
 tweetly, when the subject of her satisfaction is exhausted. 
 " Mrs. Carrington, when alluding to her other guests, never 
 mentioned your name." 
 
 "No? Mrs. Carvington, how unkind of you to dismiss 
 me so completely from your thoughts ! ' Never to mention 
 my name ! ' It is horrible to picture oneself so totally for- 
 gotten." 
 
 " You could not surely hope to be always in my 
 thoughts ? " I answer, lightly. 
 
 1 tor ladyship flashes a sharp glance at us from her long 
 dark eyes. 
 
 " I might not expect it, certainly ; but I am not to be 
 blamed if I cannot help hoping for anything so desirable." 
 
 " Vain hope ! " return I saucily, " and a foolish one be- 
 Bideg. Have you never heard that 'familiarity breeds con- 
 tempt ? ' and that ' too much of anything is good for noth- 
 ing? ' Were I to keep you perpetually in my mind I mighc 
 perhaps end by hating you." 
 
 " what an appalling idea ! " murmurs Lady Blanche, 
 softly, speaking in that peculiar tone of half-suppressed iron) 1 
 I so greatly detest. u Should anything so dreadful ever 
 occur I doubt if Sir Mark would recover it." 
 
 " I don't suppose I should,'* replies Sir Mark, rather 
 bluntly, as it seems to me, without turning his head in her 
 direction. 
 
 There is a moment's rather awkward pause, and then hei 
 'adyship laughs lightly, and, crossing the room, sits down by 
 Bebe Beatoun. 
 
 Her laugh is an unpleasant one, .and jars upon me pain 
 fully. Her very manner of rising and leaving me alone witb 
 Sir Mark has something in it so full of insolent meaning 
 that for the instant I hate her. She makes me feel 1 have 
 said something foolish something better left uivsaid, though 
 thoroughly unmeant. I color, bite my lip, ami, without an- 
 other word to my companion, who is looking black as night, 
 I ^0 oat tlirou^h the open window.
 
 PHYLLIS. Hi 
 
 So for the second time the little thorn enters into ray 
 heart and pricks me gently. A seed is sown that heart, m 
 bitter fruit. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 NOBODY seems to mind me in the least(as a hindrance 
 to their rather open flirtations), though, with the exception 
 of Lady Blanche, all my guests appear prepossessed in my 
 favor. 
 
 I am no good at all as a chaperon looking at that neo- 
 essary evil in the light of a guardian of morals as no one, 
 I feel utterly positive, would listen to a word of advice 
 given by me, even had I the courage to speak that word, 
 which I feel sure I have not. 
 
 " Tell you why I like you so much," says Bebe to me, 
 one day, with charming candor (we have become great 
 friends by this time) ; " you have so little of the married 
 woman about you. You don't look the thing at all. No- 
 body would feel in the least put out if you caught them do- 
 ing anything, even a little \>itfi-fi. You'd be afraid to scold, 
 and you are too goodnatured to ' peach.' Now there's 
 mamma; her eyes strike terror to the hearts of the girls she 
 ihaperons. Only let her catch you with your hand in the 
 possession of any Detrimental, however delightful, and it is 
 all up with you half an hour later." 
 
 " But I suppose your mother is right. I shall remember 
 what you say, and take her as a model from this day forth." 
 
 " It isn't in you. You would make a horrible mess of 
 it ; and you are infinitely nicer as you are. A strong etare 
 is a necessary ingredient, and you don't possess that You 
 should be able to wither with a look. I hate being scolded, 
 and I would back mamma, once started, to hold Jier own 
 against any of those Billingsgate ladies one hears of. 1 as- 
 rare you the amount of vituperation our night brougham 
 has concealed about its person is enough, one would think, 
 to turn the color of its cloth. No doubt that is why it re- 
 quires doing up so very often." 
 
 " You don't seem any the better for all the indignation. 
 
 "No, that is just it. That shows the folly of wasting
 
 U* PHYLLIS. 
 
 BO much valuable breath. I am a born flirt, and as uch 1 
 Lope I'll die. There ! that is extra naughty, is it not ? So. 
 out of respect for you, I will unsay it, and hope instead 1 
 may depart this life a calm and decorous matron." 
 
 " Do you know I never had a flirtation in my life ? " 1 
 say, almost regretfully. 
 
 " No? really ! How absurb! " eays Bebe, bursting into 
 a much- amused laugh. "That is just what makes you me 
 curious, dear, darling, little child you are. But you need 
 not be so poverty-stricken any longer unless you please, as 
 any one can see how ejyris with you is Sir Mark Gore." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " cry 1, blushing furiously. " How can you 
 say anything so untrue ? I have known him this ever so 
 long ; he is quite an old friend." 
 
 "And a, fast friend," says Bebe, laughing again at her 
 own wit. "Having waited so long you do right to begin 
 your campaign with a seasoned veteran." 
 
 " You must not say such things : if you do I shall rouse 
 myself and assert my authority as a very dragon among 
 c/Ldperoris ,' and then where will you and Captain Jenkins 
 and Master Chips be? " 
 
 " No, don't," entreats Bebe, pretending to be frightened. 
 " As you now are you are perfection : were you to change 
 you would not be Phyllis Carrington at all. When /marry 
 1 intend taking you as an example, and so make myself 
 dear to the hearts of all my spinster friends." 
 
 "And when will that be, Bebe?" 
 
 A shade crosses and darkens her face. For a momen* 
 Bhe looks sad ; then it disappears, and she laughs gayly. 
 
 "Never, probably. I don't get the chance. Generally 
 when I pay my autumn visits, I live in a state of constant 
 dread of being pounced upon by officious matrons, just as I 
 am going in for an hour of thorough enjoyment with a man 
 who has not a penny on earth besides his pay. But here it 
 is different. You would never pounce, my Phyllis, would 
 /our You would make a delightful clitter-clatter, will] 
 those little high-heeled shoes of yours, long before you 
 turned the corner ; there is nothing mean or prowling about 
 you. Phyllis, is all that hair really your own ? I won't be- 
 lieve it till I see it. Let mj pull it down, and do it up 
 again for you in a new style, will you ? I am tremendously 
 good at hair-dressing, really. Harry says I am better than 
 nor French maid. When all trades' fail, and 1 ain a lonolj 
 Old maid, I shall bind myself to a barber.
 
 PHYLLIS. 117 
 
 With this she pull* my hair all about my shoulders, and 
 makes me endure untold tortures tor at least three-quarters 
 of an hour. 
 
 Meantime Dora is improving the shining hours with Sir 
 George Ashurst. She is making very fast and likely run- 
 ning, that looks as if it meant to make the altar-rails its 
 joal. 
 
 As for her victim, he has neither eyes nor tongue nor 
 1% r s for any one but Dora, and success lends enchantment 
 to my sister's face and form. Always pretty, she has 
 gained from the excitement of the contest an animation 
 hitherto unknown, that adds considerably to her charms. 
 
 I experience little throbs of satisfaction and delight as I 
 contemplate this promising flirtation ; though as yet I do 
 not dare to think of marriage as its probable termination. 
 I long intensely to discuss the subject with Dora, to learn 
 how far I may beguile myself with hope ; but one day, 
 having touched upon it very delicately, I am met with such 
 an amount of innocent blaukness as effectually deters me 
 from making any further attempt. 
 
 Nevertheless, speak it I must, or die ; and, coming upon 
 Marruaduke suddenly, directly after receiving Dora's re- 
 buff, I proceed with much caution to sound him about the 
 matter. 
 
 lie is in his own private den, a little room devoted to 
 rubbish, and containing a motley collection of pipes, guns, 
 whips, actresses (for the most part decent), and spurs. As 
 I enter he is bending over some new favorite among the 
 guns, and is endeavoring, with the assistance of the largest 
 pin I ever saw, to pick dust from some intricate crevice. 
 lie is crimson, either from stooping or anxiety I don't 
 know which, though I incline towards the latter opinion- 
 is on seeing me he says, irritably, 
 
 " Phyllis, have you a small pin ? I cannot think, 
 flinging the large one angrily from him, " why they choose 
 tc make them this size : they are not of the smallest use to 
 iny fellow who wants to clean a gun." 
 
 " They may have been designed for some other pur- 
 pose," I suggest, meekly, producing a more reasonably- 
 sized phi, which he seizes with avidity and returns to hia 
 task. 
 
 T seat myself near him, and for a few minutes content
 
 118 PHYLLIS. 
 
 myself with watching the loving care he bestows upon hu 
 work. No careless servant's hands should touch those new 
 and shining barrels. 
 
 "Marmaduke," I say at length, "I don't think Sil 
 George so very stupid." 
 
 "Don't you, darling ? " absently. 
 
 " No. Why did you say he was ?" 
 
 "Did I say it?" Evidently every idea he possesses if 
 centred in that absurd gun. 
 
 " Dear me, 'Duke, of course you did," I cry, impatiently. 
 " You told me he was not ' brilliant,' and that means the 
 same thing. Don't you remember ? " 
 
 WelC is he brilliant ? " 
 
 " No, but he converses very nicely, and is quite aa 
 agreeable as any of the other men, in a general sort of way." 
 
 " I am very glad you think so. He is a great friend of 
 mine; and, after all, I don't suppose it matters in the least 
 a man's not being able to master his Greek and Latin, or 
 failing to take his degree." 
 
 " Of course not. I dare say he did not put his mind to 
 it. I am convinced had he done so he would have distin- 
 guished himself as as much as anybody." 
 
 " Just so." 
 
 " I think " with hesitation " he would suit Dora very 
 well." 
 
 " I agree with you there ; more particularly as Dora ia 
 not clever either." 
 
 "Yes, she is," I cry hotly; "she is exceedingly clever. 
 She can do a great deal more than most girls ; she can do 
 lots of things that I can't do." 
 
 " Can she ? But perhaps you fail in the cleverness 
 also?" 
 
 "I think you are excessively rude and disagreeable^' I 
 say, much affronted, and getting up, move with dignity to- 
 wards the door. 
 
 " If you see Ashursttell him I want him," calls out Mar- 
 maduke as I reach it. 
 
 " Yes ; and at the same time I shall tell him you said he 
 was a dunce at college," I return, in a withering tone. 
 
 Marmaduke laughs, and, dropping the precious gun, runs 
 after me, catches and draws me back into his sanctum. 
 
 "I think Dora and Ashurst two of the most intellectual 
 people it has ever been my good fortune to meet," h e says,
 
 PHYLLIS. H8 
 
 still laughing, and holding me. " Will that do? Is ycut 
 majesty appeased ? " 
 
 "I wouldn't tell fibs, if I were you," return I, severely. 
 
 " Say lies. I hate the word ' fib.' A lie sounds much 
 more honest. But I am really in earnest when I say 1 think 
 Dora clever. I know at least twenty girls who have dona 
 their best to be made Lady Ashurst, and not one of them 
 ever came as near success as she has." 
 
 " But he has not proposed to her yet." 
 
 "It is the same thing. Any one can see that he nas Dora 
 on the brain, and I don't think (asking your pardon hum- 
 bly) his brain would stand much pressure. I'd lay any 
 amount she has him at her feet before his visit is concluded." 
 
 " How delightful ! How pleased mamma will be ! Mar- 
 raaduke, I forgive you. But you must not say slighting 
 things of me again. 
 
 " Slighting things of you, my own darling ! Cannot you 
 see when I am in fun ? I only wanted to make you pout 
 and look like the baby you are. In reality I think you the 
 brightest, dearest, sweetest, et cetera" 
 
 Thus my mind is relieved, and I feel I can wait with 
 calmness the desirable end that is evidently in store for 
 Jbora. 
 
 I am so elated by Marmaduke's concurrence with my 
 hopes that I actually kiss him, and, re-seating myself, con- 
 sent to take the butt-end of the gun upon my lap and hold 
 it carefully, while he rubs the barrels up and down with a 
 dreadfully dirty piece of scarlet flannel soaked in oil. 
 
 When, however, this monotonous process has been con- 
 tinued for ten minutes or so, and I find I cannot flatter my- 
 self with the belief that it will soon be over, I lose sight of 
 the virtue called patience. 
 
 " Do you think they would ever grow brighter than they 
 are now ? " I venture mildly. " If you rubbed them for 
 years, Marmaduke, I don't believe they could be further im- 
 proved : do you ? " 
 
 " Well, indeed, perhaps you are right. I think they will 
 do now," replies he, regarding his new toy with a fond eye ; 
 and then almost with regret, as though loath to part with it, 
 he replaces it in its flannel berth. 
 
 "J3y the bye, Phyllis, I had a letter from a friend ol 
 mine this morning Chandos telling me of his return ta 
 England, and I have written inviting him here."
 
 120 PHYLLIS. 
 
 " Have you ? I hope he is nice. Is he Mr. or Captain 
 Chandos, or what?" 
 
 " Neither : he is Lord Chandos." 
 
 " What ! " cry I ; " tlic real live lord at last I Now, 1 
 suppose, we will have to be very seemly in oar conduct, and 
 forget we ever laughed. Is he very old and staid, 'Duke ? " 
 
 "Very. He is a year older than I am ; and I remcmbei 
 jou once told me I was bordering on my second childhood 
 or something like it. However, in reality you will not fir.:! 
 Chandos formidable. lie has held his honors but a very 
 short time. Last autumn he was only Captain Everett, with 
 nothing to speak of beyond his pay, when fate in the shape 
 of an unsound yacht sailed in, and, having drowned one old 
 man and two young ones, pushed Everett into his present 
 position.' 
 
 " What a romance ! I suppose one ought to feel sorry 
 for the three drowned men, but somehow I don't. Witu 
 such a story connected with him, your friend ought to be 
 Loth handsome and agreeable. Is he?" 
 
 " I don t know. I would be afraid to say. You might 
 take me to task and abuse me afterwards, if our opinions dif 
 fered. You know you think George Ashurst a very fasci 
 rating youth. Chandos is a wonderful favorite with women, 
 if that has anything to do with it," 
 
 " Of course it has everything." 
 
 " I have been thinking," says 'Duke, " that as a set-off 
 to all the hospitality we have received from the county, \ve 
 ought to give a ball." 
 
 " A ball ! Oh, delicious ! " cry I, clapping ray hands 
 rapturously. " What lias put such a glorious idea into your 
 head? To dance to a band all down that great, big, ball- 
 room ! Oh, 'Duke ! I am so glad I married you ! " 
 
 'Duke laughs and colors slightly. 
 
 " Are you, really? Do you mean that? Do you never 
 repent it?"" 
 
 "R'-pent it? Never I not for a single instant. IIov 
 could I, when you are so good to me when you are always 
 thinking of things to make me happy? " 
 
 " I am doubly, trebly rewarded for anything I nay 
 hive done by hearing such words from your lips. To kt >w 
 you are 'glad you married ine ' is the next best thing to 
 knowing you love me." 
 
 * And so I do love you, you gttly boy, I am very, 17
 
 PHYLLIS. 121 
 
 fond of you. Marmaduke, do you think you could get 
 Billy here for the ball ? " 
 
 " I will try. I dare say I shall be able to manage it. 
 And now run away and get Blanche Going to help you 
 write out a list of people. She knows every one in the 
 county, and is a capital hand at anything of that sort." 
 
 " She seems to be a capital hand at most things," I 
 rtply, pettishly, " except at making herself agreeable to me 
 It is always Blanche Going can do this, and Blanche Going 
 can do that. She is a paragon of perfection in your eyes, 
 I do believe. I won't ask her to help me. I hate her." 
 
 " Well ask any one else you like, then, or no one. But 
 don't hate poor Blanche. What has she done to de- 
 serve it ? " 
 
 " Nothing. But I hate her for all that. I feel like a 
 cat with its f ur i ubbed up the wrong way whenever I am 
 near her. She has the happy knack of always making mo 
 feel small and foolish. I suppose we are antagonistic to 
 each oilier. And why do you call her 'poor Blanche ? ' 1 
 don't see that she is in any need of your pity." 
 
 " llavc you not said she has incurred your displeasure ? 
 What greater misfortune could befall her ?" says 'Duke, 
 smiling tenderly into my cross little face. 
 
 I relent and' smile in turn. 
 
 " Oh, believe me, she will not die of that," I say ; " and 
 All events don't you be unhappy, 'Duke," patting his face 
 softly. " I shall never hate you be sure of that." 
 
 And then catching up my train to facilitate my move- 
 ments, I run through the house in search of Harriet and 
 Bcbe, to make known to them my news and discuss with 
 them all the joys and glories of a ball. 
 
 Bebc is scarcely less delighted than I am ; and all the rest 
 of that day and the greater part of the next we spend in 
 arranging and dissarranging countless plans. 
 
 " It shall be a ball," says Bebe, enthusiastically, " such 
 as the county never before attended. We will astonish the 
 rativos. We will get men down from London to settle 
 everything, and the decorations and music and supper shall 
 i.c beyond praise. I know exactly what to do and to crder. 
 1 have helped Harriet to give balls ever so often, and I am 
 determined, as it will be your first ball as Mrs. Carriugtou, 
 it bh;;ll be a splendid success." 
 
 " My first ball in every way," I say feeling rather ashamed 
 of myself. " I was at several small dances heioro my inar-
 
 122 PHYLLIS. 
 
 riage, and at a number of dinner-parties since, but 1 
 in rny life was at a real large ball." 
 
 "What!" cries Bebe, literally struck dumb by thii 
 revelation ; then, with a little lady-like shout of laughter, 
 " I never heard of anything half so ludicrous. Why Phyllis. 
 I am a venerable grandmother next to you. Harriet," to 
 Lady Handcock, who has just entered, " just fancy ! Phyllis 
 tells me she was never at a ball ! " 
 
 " I dare say she is all the better for it," says Harriet, 
 kindly, seeing my color is a little high. " If you had gone 
 to fewer you would be a better girl. How did it happen, 
 Phyllis ? " 
 
 " No one in our immediate neighborhood ever gave a 
 ball," I hasten to explain, " and we did not visit people 
 who lived far away." I suppress the fact of our having 
 had no respectable vehicle to convey us to those distant 
 ball-givers, had we been ever so inclined to go. " I suppose 
 it appears very odd to you." 
 
 " Odd !" cries Bebe ; " it is abominable ! I am so envi- 
 ous I can scarcely bring myself to speak to you. I know 
 exactly what I may expect, while you can indulge in the 
 most delightful anticipations. I can remember even now 
 the raptures of my first ball : the reality far exceeded even 
 my wildest flights of fancy, and that is a rare thing. Posi- 
 tively I can smell the flowers and hear the music this mo- 
 ment. And then I had so many partners more I think, 
 than I get now : I could have filled twenty cards instead of 
 one. Why, Phyllis, I am but two years older than you, and 
 yet if I had a pound for every ball I have been at, I would 
 have enough money to tide me over my next season with- 
 out fear of debt." 
 
 My mind incapable of retaining, even when at its best, 
 more than one idea at a time is now so filled to overflow- 
 ing with the thought of this ball that I quite lose signt of 
 our expected visitor, and forget to mention the advent of 
 Lord Chandos. I talk and dream and think of nothing but 
 the coming gayety. 
 
 Nevertheless it causes me keen anxiety. I am conceitedly 
 desirous of looking my best on that eventful night ; I am 
 also ambitious of seeming stricken in years, having long ago 
 decided that my juvenile appearance as a married woman 
 is very much against me, and that age brings dignity. 
 
 I ait down, and, running over all my dresses in my mind, 
 cannot convince myself that any of them, if worn, would
 
 PHYLLIS. 118 
 
 haye the desired effect of adding years to my face and form, 
 My trousseau, to be just, was desirable in everyway. How 
 she managed it no one could tell, but mother did contrive 
 to screw sufficient money out of papa to set me creditably 
 before the world. Still all my evening robes seem youth- 
 ful and girlish in the extreme as I call them up one by 
 One. 
 
 After a full half-hour of earnest cogitation, I make 'ijt 
 Jtty mind to a grand purpose, and, stealing downstairs, 
 move rather sneakily to Marmaduke's study. I devoutly 
 trust he will be alone, and as I open the door I find I have 
 my wish. 
 
 He is busily writing; but, as he is never too busy to 
 attend to me, he lays down his pen and smiles kindly as he 
 sees me. 
 
 " Come in, little woman. What am I to do for you?" 
 
 " Marmaduke," I say, nervously, " i have come to ask 
 you a great favor." 
 
 " That is something refreshingly now. Do you know it 
 will be the first favor you have asked of me, though we 
 have been married more than three months? Say on and 
 1 swear it shall be yours, whatever it is to the half of my 
 kingdom." 
 
 " l r ou are quite sure you will not think it queer of me, 
 or or shabby ? " 
 
 " Quite certain." 
 
 " Well, then "with an effort" for this ball, I think, 
 Marmaduke, I would like a new dress ; may I send to Lon- 
 don for it?" 
 
 When I have said it it seems to me so disgracefully soon 
 to ask for new clothes that I bluih crimson, and am to the 
 last degree shamefaced. 
 
 Marmaduke laughs heartily. 
 
 " Is that all ? " he says. " Are you really wasting a 
 blush on such a slight request? What an odd little girl you 
 ire ! I believe you are the only wife alive who would feel 
 modest about asking such a question. How much do you 
 want darling? You will require some other things too, I 
 suppose. Shall I give you a hundred pounds, to see how 
 far it will go? Will that be enough?" 
 
 " Oh, 'Duke ! a great deal too much." 
 
 "Not a bit too much. 1 d.:n't know ~n hat dresses cost, 
 but I have always hoard a considerable sum. And now, 
 as we are on the subject of money, 1'hy lis ; what would
 
 124 PHYLLIS. 
 
 you prefer an allowance, or money whenever you want it, 
 or what?" 
 
 " If you would pay my bills, Marmaduke, 1 would like it 
 best." I have never felt so thoroughly married as at this 
 moment, when I know myself to be dependent on him for 
 every shilling I may spend. 
 
 " Very well. Whatever you like. Any time you tire 
 of this arrangement you can say so. But at all events you 
 will require some pocket-money," rising from the table and 
 going over to a small safe in the wall. 
 
 " No, thank you, 'Duke ; I have some." 
 
 How much ? " 
 
 * Enough, thank you." 
 
 " Nonsense, Phyllis ! " almost angrily. " flow absurb 
 you are ! One would think I was not your husband. I 
 wish you would try to remember you have a perfect right 
 to everything I possess. Come here directly and take this," 
 holding out to me a roll of notes and a handful of gold. 
 "Promise me," he says, " when you want more you will 
 come to me for it. It would make me positively Mi-etched 
 if I thought you Avere without money to buy whateAer you 
 fancy." 
 
 " But I never had fifty I never had ten pounds in my 
 life," 1 say, half amused. " I won't know what to do with 
 it." 
 
 " I wonder if you will have the same story to relate this 
 time next year?" answers 'Duke, laughing. "The very 
 simplest thing to learn is how to spend money. And now 
 tc'l me I confess I have a little curiosity on the subject 
 what are you going to wear on the twenty-fourth? You 
 will make yourself look your most charming, will you not, 
 Phyllis?" 
 
 " I shall rover be able to look dignified or imposing, if 
 you mean t.hqt," say I, gloomily. " All the old women 
 about the fcrms who don't know me think I am a visitor 
 here, and call me ' Miss,' just as though I were never mar- 
 ried." 
 
 " That is very sad, especially as *you will have to wait 
 so many year? for those wrinkles you covet. I dare eay a 
 dealer in cosmetics, however, would lay you on a few for 
 the occasion, if you paid him well; and, with one of your 
 grandmother's gowns, we might perhaps be able to per- 
 suade our guests that I had married a woman ohl enough 
 to be my mother."
 
 PHYLLIS. 125 
 
 " I know what I should like to wear," I hay, bhyly. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Black velvet and the diamonds," I say, boldly. 
 
 JNIarmaduke roars. 
 
 u What are you laughing at ? M I ask, testily, sornc\vha4 
 vexed. 
 
 "At the picture you have drawn. At the idea of velvet 
 and diamonds in conjunction with your baby face. AVhy 
 did you not think of adding on the ermine? Then, in- 
 deed, witli your height you would bo quite majestic ? " 
 
 " But may I wear it? May I may I?" ask I, impa- 
 tiently. "All my life I have been wanting to wear velvet, 
 and now when 1 have so good an opportunity do let me." 
 
 "Is that your highest ambition? By all means, my 
 dear child, gratify it. Why not? Probably in such an 
 effective get-up you will take the house by storm." 
 
 " I really think I shall look very nice and old" I re- 
 turn, reflectively. Then, "'Duke, have you written about 
 Billy?" 
 
 " Yes ; I said we wished to have him on the nineteenth 
 for a week; that will bring him in time for the slaughter 
 on the twentieth. 1 thought perhaps he might enjoy 
 that." 
 
 " You think of everything. I know no one so kind or 
 good-natured. 'Duke, don't make a joke about that vel- 
 vet. Don't tell any one what I said, please." 
 
 " Never fear. I will be silent as the grave. You shall 
 burst upon them as an apparition in all your ancient 
 bravery." 
 
 That evening we dress early, Bebe and I, for no par- 
 ticular reason, that I can remember, and, coming down- 
 stairs together, seat ourselves before the drawing-room lira 
 to ruin our complexions and have a cozy chat until th 
 others break in upon us. We have discussed many things 
 and expressed various opinions about most of the other 
 guests in the house, until at length we draw breath before 
 entering with vivacity upon some fresh unfortunate. E\en 
 as \\e pause, the door at the end of the room is Hung wide, 
 and a tall >oung man coming in walks straight towards 
 me. 
 
 The lamps have not yet been lit, and only the crimson 
 flashes from the blazing fire reveal to us his features. Ha 
 is dark, rather more distinguished-looking than handsome, 
 and has wonderful deep, kind, grny eyes.
 
 A 26 PHYLLIS. 
 
 "Lord Chandos," announces Tynon,in the background, 
 speaking from out the darkness, after which, having played 
 his part, he vanishes. 
 
 I rise and go to meet the new-comer, with extended 
 hand. 
 
 " This is a surprise, but a pleasant one. I am very glad 
 to bid you welcome," I say, in a shy, old-fashioned man- 
 ner,; but my hand-clasp is warm and genial, and he smilei 
 and looks pleased. 
 
 '* Thank you ; Mrs. Carrington, I suppose ? " he says^ 
 with some faint hesitation, his eyes travelling over my 
 dreadfully youthful form, that looks even more than usually 
 childish to night in its clothing of white cashmere and blue 
 ribbons. 
 
 " Yes," I return, laughing and blushing. " Marmaduke 
 should have been here to give us a formal introduction to 
 each other, though indeed it is hardly necessary: I seem to 
 know you quite well from all I have heard about you." 
 
 A slight rustling near the fire, a faint pause, and then 
 Bebe comes forward. 
 
 " How d'ye do, Lord Chandos ? " she says. " I hope 
 you have not quite forgotten me." 
 
 She holds out her hand and tor an instant her eyes look 
 fairly into his only for an instant. 
 
 She is dressed in some filmy black gown, that clings 
 ^lose to her, and has nothing to relieve its gloom save one 
 spot of blood-red color that rests upon her bosom. Her 
 4rms shine bare and white to the elbow; in her hair is 
 another fleck of the blood-red ribbon. Is it the flickering 
 uncertain light or my own fancy that makes her face appear 
 o pale ? 
 
 Her eyes gleam large and dark, and the curious little 
 black siole lying so close to her ear looks blacker than usual 
 n contrast to her white cheek. But her tone rings gay and 
 teady as ever. A smile quivers round her lips. 
 
 1 am puzzled, I scarcely know why. I glance at Lord 
 Cl\ai.dos, and surely the firelight to-night is playing fan- 
 tastic tricks his face appears flushed and anxious, I draw 
 conclusions, but cannot make them satisfactory. 
 
 "I had no idea I should meet you here," he says, in a 
 *ow tone that is studiously polite. 
 
 Bebe laughs musically. 
 
 "Nol Then we are mutually astonished. I thoujjltf
 
 YOU safe in Itnly. Certainly it is on my mind that some- 
 body told me you were there." 
 
 " I returned home last week." Then, turning to me, he 
 gays, hurriedly, " I hope Carrington is well ? " 
 
 " Quite well, thank you. Will you come with me to 
 find him ? lie would have been the first to welcome you, 
 had he known of your coming, but we did not hope to se* 
 you until next week." 
 
 " I had no idea myself I could have been here so soon. 
 But business, luckily, there was none to detain me, so I 
 came straight on to throw myself on your tender mercies." 
 
 We have now reached the library door. 
 
 " Manuadukc," I call out, opening it and entering, " I 
 have brought you Lord Chandos. Now, are you not sur- 
 prised and pleased ? " 
 
 " Oh ! more pleased than I can say," exclaims 'Duke, 
 heartily, coming eagerly forward to greet his friend. " My 
 dear fellow, what good wind blew you to us so soon ? " 
 
 When I return to the drawing-room I find the lamps 
 burning cheerily, and most of our party assembled. 
 
 Lady Blanche, reclining in a \o\vfauteuil, is conversing 
 earnestly with Sir Mark Gore, who stands beside her. See- 
 ing me, she smiles softly at him and motions him to a chair 
 lit ar her. As I move past her trailing skirts a sudden 
 thought of Mons. Kimmel comes to me the delicatest, faint- 
 est perfume reaches me. She runs the fingers of one white 
 hand caressingly across her white arm ; her every move- 
 ment is an essence a grace. 
 
 Dora, in her favorite white muslin and sweet demure 
 smile, is holding Mr. Powell and Sir George Ashurst in 
 thrall. She is bestowing the greater part of her attention 
 upon the former, to the disgust and bewilderment of honest 
 George, who looks with moody dislike upon his rival. Both 
 men are intent upon taking her down to dinner. There is 
 little need for you to torture yourself with jealous fears, 
 Sii George. When the time comes it is without doubt 
 upon your arm she will lay that little white pink-tinged 
 hand. 
 
 Bebe is sitting upon a sofa, with the infatuated Chips 
 beside her, and is no longer pale : two crimson spots adorn 
 her cheeks and add brilliancy to her eyes. As I watch her 
 vronderiugly she slowly raises her head, and, meeting my 
 gaze, bestows upon me a glance so full of the liveliest re- 
 proach, not unmixed with indignation, that I am filled \viih
 
 128 PHYLLIS. 
 
 consternation, What have I done to deserve so withering 
 ft look ? 
 
 " I would give something to know of whom you are 
 thinking just now," says a voice at uiy elbow. " Not of 
 wie, I trust ? " 
 
 I turn to find Sir Mark is regarding me earnestly. In 
 gtinctively I glance at the vacant chair beside Lady Blanche, 
 and in doing so encounter her dark eyes bent on mine. 
 Verily, I am not in good odor with my guests to-night. 
 
 All through dinner I try to attract Bebe's attention, but 
 cannot. I address her, only to receive the coldest of replies. 
 Even afterwards, when we get back once more to the draw- 
 ing-room, I cannot manage an explanation, as she escapes 
 to her own room, and does not appear again until the gen- 
 tlemen have joined us. 
 
 Neither she nor Lord Chandos exchange one word with 
 each other throughout the entire evening. With a sort of 
 feverish gayety she chatters to young Thornton, to Captain 
 Jenkins, to any one who may chance to be near her, as 
 though she fears a silence. 
 
 Nevertheless the minutes drag. It is the stupidest 
 night we have known, and I begin to wish I had learned 
 whist or chess or something of that sort. I am out of spirits 
 and though innocent of what it may be, feel myself guilty 
 of some hideous blunder. 
 
 Presently the dreaded quiet falls. The whist-players are 
 happy, the rest of us are not. Sir Mark, with grave polite- 
 ness, comes to the rescue. 
 
 " Perhaps Mr. Thornton will kindly favor us with a 
 song?" he says, without a smile. 
 
 And Mr. Thornton, with a face even more than usually 
 benign, willingly consents, and gives us. " What will you 
 do, love, when 1 am going ? " a propos of his approaching 
 departure for India with much sentimental fervor, and 
 many tender glances directed openly at Miss Beatoun. 
 
 "Thank you," murmurs that young lady, when tht 
 doleful ditty is finished, having listened to it all throng! 
 with an air of saddened admiration impossible to describe, 
 and unmistakably flattering. " I know no song that touches 
 me so deeply as that." 
 
 "I know you are laughing at me," eays Chips, 
 frankly, seating himself again beside her, and sinking his 
 voice to a whisper that he fondly but erroneously beiicvua
 
 PHYLLIS, 129 
 
 to be inaudible ; " but I don't care. I would rather have 
 you to make fun of me than any other girl to love me ! " 
 
 Oould infatuation further go ? 
 
 " Perhaps one might find it possible to do both," insin- 
 uates Miss Beatoun, wickedly ; but, this piece of flagrant 
 hypocrisy proving to much even for her, she raises her fan 
 to a level with her lips and subsides with an irrepressible 
 uuile behind it, while poor little Chips murmurs : 
 
 " Oh, come, now. That is more than any fellow wou.d 
 believe, you know," and grins a pleased and radiant grin. 
 
 Bebe, being asked to sing, refuses, gently but n'rmly ; 
 and when I have delighted my audience with one or two 
 old English ballads, we give in, and think with animation of 
 our beds. 
 
 In the corridor above I seize hold of Bebe. 
 
 " What has vexed you ? " I ask, anxiously. " Why are 
 vou not friends with me ? You must come to my room 
 before you go to bed. Promise." 
 
 " Very good. I will come," quietly disengaging my 
 hand. Then, before closing the door, "Indeed, Phyllis, I 
 think you might have told me," she says, in a tone of deep 
 reproach. 
 
 So that is it ! But surely she must have seen his com- 
 ing so unexpectedly was a great surprise. And is there a 
 romance connected with her and Lord Chandos ? 
 
 I confess to an overpowering feeling of curiosity. I 
 dismiss my maid with more haste than usual, and, sitting in 
 my dressing-gown and slippers, long for Bebe's coming. I 
 am convinced I shall not sleep one wink if she fails to keep 
 this appointment. 
 
 I am not doomed to a sleepless night, however, as pres- 
 ently she comes in all her beautiful hair loose about hei 
 shoulders. 
 
 " Now, Bebe " I exclaim, jumping np to give her a good 
 shake, " how could you be so cross all about nothing ? J 
 )'d not know myself he was coming so soon. You made 
 iu miserable the entire evening, and spoiled everything." 
 
 "But you knew he was coming sometime; why did 
 you not say so ? " 
 
 " I forgot all about him. I knew no reason why I sh juld 
 attach importance to his presence here. I don't know now 
 either. I was quite ignorant of your previous acquaintance 
 with him. Probably had he waited in London until next 
 week, as he originally intended, it might have occurred Lo
 
 130 ff/YLL/S 
 
 me to mention his coming, and so I would have spared my- 
 self all the cruelty and neglect and wicked looks so lav : "hlj 
 bestowed upon me this evening " 
 
 "You have yet to learn," says Miss Beatoun, who i,s, I 
 think, a little ashamed of her pettishness, " that of all things 
 I most detest being taken by surprise. It puts me out 
 dreadfully ; I don't recover myself for ever so long ; and 
 to s^ Lord Chandos here, of all people, when I believed 
 him safe in Italy, took away my breath. Phyllis, I don't 
 know how it is, but I feel I must tell you all about it." 
 
 " Yes, do. I am so anxious to h^ar. Yet I half guess 
 he is, or was, a lovvr of yours. Is it not so ? And some- 
 thing has gone wrong? " 
 
 " Very much wrong, indeed," with a rather bitter laugh. 
 " It will be a slight come-down to my pride to tell you this 
 story ; but I can trust you, can I not ? I am not fond of 
 women friends as a rule indeed, Harriet is my only one 
 but you, Phyllis, have exercised upon me some charm, I do 
 believe, as when I am near you I forget to be reserved." 
 
 " That is because you know how well I like you." 
 
 " Is it ? Perhaps so. Well, about Lord Chandos. My 
 story is a short one, you will say, and to the point. I met 
 him first two years ago. He fell in love with me, and last 
 year asked me to marry him. That is all ; but you will un- 
 derstand by it how little ambitious I was of meeting him 
 again." 
 
 " And you " 
 
 " Refused him, dear. How could I do otherwise ? He 
 was only Captain Everett then, without a prospect on earth ; 
 and I am no heiress. It would have meant poverty scarcely 
 even what is called * genteel poverty ' had I consented to 
 be his wife ; and " with a quick shudder of disgust " I 
 would rather be dead, I think, than endure such a life as 
 that." 
 
 " Did you love him, Bebe ? M 
 
 " I liked him well enough to marry him, certainly," s&e 
 limits, slowly, " had circumstances been different." 
 
 We are silent for a little time ; then Bebe says, in a low 
 tone. 
 
 " He was so good about it, and I deserved so little ipercy 
 at his hands. I don't deny I had flirted with him horribly, 
 with cruei heartlessness, considering I knew all along when 
 it came to the final move, I would say ' No.' I liked him so 
 well that I coull not make uu my mind to be brave iu i>.ji
 
 PHYLLIS. 131 
 
 and let him go, never counting the pain I would afterwards 
 have to inflict and bear." 
 
 Her voice sinks to a whisper. Without turning myhead, 
 I lay my hand on hers. 
 
 " It all happened one morning," she goes on, presently 
 making a faint pause between each sentence, " quite early. 
 There was nothing poetic or sentimental about it in the 
 way of conservatories or flowers or music. He had conif 
 to pay me his usual visit. It was July, and mamma 
 and I were leaving town the next day. We were not 
 to see each other again for a long time. Perhaps that 
 hastened it. It was a wet day, I remember I can hear the 
 sad drip, drip, of the raindrops now and we felt silent and 
 depressed. Somehow then I hardly know how it all wat 
 said and over." 
 
 " How sad it was ! " I murmur, stroking the hand I hold 
 with quiet sympathy. "And then " 
 
 "Then I let him see how utterly false and worthless waa 
 the woman he loved. I let him know that even if I adored 
 him his want of money would be an insurmountable barrier 
 between us. I think I told him so. I am not quite sure of 
 that. I do not recollect distinctly one word I said that day. 
 1 only know that he went away impressed with the belief 
 that I was a mere contemptible money-worshipper." 
 
 " Did he say anything reproachful, I mean ? " 
 
 " That was the hardest part of it. He would not re- 
 proach me. Had he been bitter or hard or cold I could have 
 borne it better ; but he was silent on the head of his wrongs. 
 He only sat there, looking distinctly miserable, without an 
 unkind word on his lips." 
 
 ' What ? Did he say nothing ? " 
 
 "Very little. Unless to tell me I had treated him dis 
 gracefully, I don't know that there was anything to be said, 
 He declared that he had expected just such an answer; that 
 he felt he had no right to hope for a happier one. He did 
 not blame me of course I was acting wisely and so on. 
 He never once asked me to reconsider my words. Then ho 
 got up and said he must bid me a long farewell. lie knew 
 a man who would gladly exchange with him and give him a 
 chnn.ce of seeing a little Indian life; he was tired of Eng- 
 land. You can imagine the kind of thing." 
 
 " Poor fellow ! How did he look ? " 
 
 "He was very white, and his lips were tightly corn 
 pressed. \nd I think there were tears in his eyes. Oh,
 
 182 PHYLLIS. 
 
 Phyllis" cries Bobe, passionately, rising to push her chair 
 back sharply, and beginning to pace the room, " when I saw 
 the tears in his eyes I almost gave in. Almost, mark you, 
 not quite. I am too well trained for that." 
 
 " I think I would have relented." 
 
 " I am sure you would ; but your education has been c 
 different. Upon this earth," says Bebe, slowly, " there is 
 nothing so mean or so despicable as a woman born and bred 
 8 I am. Taught from our cradles to look on money and 
 money's worth as the principal good to be obtained in life ; 
 with the watchwords, 'an excellent match,' 'a rich mar- 
 riage,' 'an eligible parti,' drummed into our ears from the 
 time we put on sashes and short frocks. There is something 
 desperately unwholesome about the whole thing." 
 
 " Did you never see him since ? " ask I, deeply im- 
 pressed by her manner and the love-affair generally. 
 
 " Never until to-night- You may fancy what a shock it 
 was." 
 
 " And he didn't even kiss you before going away, as ho 
 thought, forever? " I exclaim, unwisely. 
 
 "Kiss me," severely. "How do you mean, Phyllis? 
 Of course he did not kiss me : why should he ?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. I suppose it would have been un 
 usual," I return, overwhelmed with confusion. " Only it 
 seemed to me I mean it is so good to be kissed by one wo 
 Jove." 
 
 " Is it ? " coldly. " I am not fond of kissing." 
 
 I hasten to change the subject. " When he was gone, 
 how wretched you must have felt ! " 
 
 "I suppose I did. But I shed no tears ; I wag too un- 
 happy, I think, for mere crying. However," with sudden 
 recklessness " it is all over now, and we have lived through 
 it. Let us forget it. A mouth after the scene I have just 
 described, the old lord and his sons were drowned, and 
 Travers Everett came in for everything. You see what I 
 lest by being mercenary." 
 
 " I wonder, when he became so rich, he did not corno 
 back directly and ask you all over again." 
 
 " lie knew rather better than that, I take it," says Bebe, 
 with a slight accession of hauteur ; and for the second time 
 ( feel ashamed of myself and my ignoble sentiments. " He 
 went abroad and stayed there until now. lie don't look as 
 though he had pined over-much, dues he I 1 " with a laugh
 
 PHYLLIS. 133 
 
 M A broken heart is the most curable thing I know. I 
 thought I had never seen him look so well." 
 
 " A man cannot pine forever," I say, in defense of the 
 absent. Then, rather nervously, " I wonder when you will 
 marry now, Bebe ? " 
 
 " Never, most probably," kneeling down on the hcarth- 
 rny. " You see I threw away my good luck. Fortune will 
 scarcely be so complaisant a second time." says Bebe, with 
 a gay laugL, laying her head down upon my lap ; and then 
 in another moment I become aware that she is Bobbing pas- 
 sionately. 
 
 The tears rise thickly to my own eyes, yet I find no 
 words to comfort her. I keep silence, and suffer my fingers 
 to wander caressingly through her dark tresses as they lie 
 scattered across my knees. Perhaps the greatest eloquence 
 would not have been so acceptable as that silent touch. 
 
 In a very short time the storm passes, and Bebe, raising 
 her face, covers it with her hands. 
 
 " I have not been crying," she says, with wilful vehe- 
 mence ; " you must not think I have. If you do, I will never 
 be your friend again. How dare you say I shed tears for 
 any man ? " 
 
 " I did not say it, Bebe. I will never say it," I return, 
 earnestly. 
 
 She puts her bare arms around my neck and lays her 
 head upon my shoulder in such a position that I cannot see 
 her face, and so remains, staring thoughtfully into the fire. 
 
 " I know you will be very angry with me," I say pres- 
 ently, " but I must say it. Perhaps you will marry him 
 some time." 
 
 " No, never, never. Do you think it. I refused him 
 when he was poor ; I would not accept him now he is rich. 
 How could you ever imagine it? Even were he to ask me 
 again (which, believe me, is the most unlikely thing that 
 could happen), I would give him the same answer. lie may 
 think me heartless; he shall not think me so mean a thing 
 as that." 
 
 " If he loves you he will think no bad of you." 
 
 " You do well to say ' if.' I don't suppose he does lo\>e 
 me now. He did once." Her arms tighten around me, 
 although I think for the moment she has forgotten me and 
 everything and is looking back upon the past. After a littl" 
 while she says, aga n, " Yes, he did love me once." 
 
 " /\ nd does etill. I am sure of it. His whole face changed
 
 134 PHYLLIS. 
 
 when he saw you this evening. I remarked it, though 1 
 am not generally famous for keen observation. It is impos- 
 sib.e he can have forgotten you, Bebe." 
 
 " Of course. There are so few pretty people in the 
 world," with a smile. " The change you saw in him to- 
 night, Phyllis, was probably surprise ; or perhaps disgust, 
 at finding himself so unexpectedly thrown again into my 
 Boeiety. He did not once address me during the evening." 
 " How could he, when you devoted yourself in such a 
 piovokingly open manner to that ridiculous boy, and after- 
 wards allowed Captain Jenkins to monopolize you exclu- 
 sively ? I wish, Bebe, you would not." 
 
 " Indeed I shall," sa^s Miss Beatoun, petulantly, " I 
 shall flirt as hard as ever I can with every one I meet. He 
 shall not think I am dying of chagrin and disappointment." 
 " And will you not even speak to Lord Chandos ? " 
 " Not if I can help it. So you need not say another 
 word. If you do, I will report you to Marmaduke as a 
 dangerous little match-maker, and perhaps marry Captain 
 Jenkins. I have really met more disagreeable men. And 
 as for Chips," says Bebe, who has seemingly recovered all 
 her wonted gayety, "that boy is the most amusing thing I 
 know. He is perfectly adorable. And so handsome as he 
 is, too I It is quite a pleasure alone to sit and look at him." 
 " Are you going away now?" seeing her rise. 
 " Yes ; it is all hours, or, rather small hours, and Manna- 
 duke will be here in a moment to scold me for keeping you 
 from your beauty-sleep. Good night, dearest, and forget 
 what a goose I made of myself. Promise me." 
 
 " I cannot promise to forget what I never thought," 
 I reply, giving her a good hug, and i>o we part for somo 
 hours. 
 
 Still, I do not go to bed. Her story has affected me 
 d ?cply, and sets me pondering. I have seen so little real 
 bona fide sentiment in my home life that probably it in- 
 terests me in a greater degree than it would most girls of 
 my own age differently reared. I sit before my fire, my 
 h uids clasped round my knees, for half an hour, cogitating 
 as to ways and moans of reuniting my friend to her beloved 
 fo? that Lord Chandos has ceased to regard her with 
 feelings of ardent affection is a thing I neither can noi will 
 believe. 
 
 I am still vaguely planning, when Marmaduke, coming
 
 PHYLLIS. 13,-) 
 
 in, orders me off to my slumbers, declaring my roses wiD 
 degenerate into Iilie8 if I persist in keeping such dissipated 
 hours. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 " BCLLY is coming to-day," is the first thought that occurs 
 to me as I spring from my bed on the moruicg of the nine- 
 teenth and run to the window. It is a glorious day outside, 
 sunny and "warm and bright, full of that air of subdued sum- 
 mer that always belongs to September. The flowers below 
 are waving gently in the soft breeze; the trees have a musi- 
 cal rustle they surely lacked on yesterday; the very birds in 
 the air and among the branches are crying, " Coming, com- 
 ing, coming! " 
 
 Soon I shall see him; soon I shall welcome him to my 
 own home. Alas, alas ! that so many hours must pass be- 
 fore he can enter my expectant arms ! That detestable 
 " Bradshaw " has decreed that no train but the half-past five 
 shall bring him. 
 
 Bebe, who is immensely amused at my impatience, de- 
 clares herself prepared to fall in love with Billy on the spot, 
 the very moment she sees him. 
 
 " I am passionately attached to boys," she says, meeting 
 me in the corridor about half-past three (I am in such a ram- 
 bling, unsettled condition as compels me to walk from pillar 
 to post all day) ; " I like their society witness ray devotion 
 to Chips and they like mine. But for all that, I shall bo 
 nowhere with your Billy ; you have another guest in your 
 bouse who will take his heart by storm." 
 
 " Whom do you mean ? " 
 
 " Lady Blanche Going. I never yet saw the boy vrhc 
 could resist her. Is not that odd ? Is she not the last per- 
 son one would select as a favorite with youth?" 
 
 " I hope he will not like her," 1 cry, impulsively ; then, 
 feeling myself, without cause, ungracious, " that is of course 
 I do not mean that only " 
 
 " Oh, yes, you do," says Miss Beatoun, coolly ; " you 
 would be very sorry if Billy were to waste his affection on 
 her. So would I. You detest her ; so do Why mince 
 matters? But for all that your boy will bo r sworn slave.
 
 130 PHYLLIS. 
 
 or I am much mistaken. If only to spite you, she will 
 make him her frier,*]." 
 
 " But why ? Wh.at have I ever done to her? " 
 
 " Nothing ; only it is intolerable somebody should admir* 
 you so much." 
 
 And with a mischievous glance, Miss Beatoun disap- 
 pears round the corner. 
 
 "Marmaduke," say I, seizing my husband by the aim as 
 the dog-cart comes round to the door for final orders, pre- 
 paratory to starting for the station (it is now almost five 
 o'clock), " is William going for Billy? I wish /could go. 
 You don't think he will expect " I hesitate. 
 
 Marrnaduke reads my face attentively for a minute, 
 then ponders a little. 
 
 " You think he may be disappointed if welcomed only 
 by a groom?" he says, with a smile. "Take that little 
 pucker off your forehead, Phyllis : I will bring your Billy 
 to you myself," and mounting the dog-cart, drives off to 
 the station without another word. 
 
 As I have already said, it is now five o'clock. It will 
 take him just half an hour to reach Carston and meet the 
 train. Ten minutes at least must be wasted finding Billy, 
 getting his traps together, and settling things generally; 
 then half an hour more to drive home; so that altogether 
 one hour and ten minutes must go by before I can hope to 
 see them. This appears an interminable age ; all the day 
 has not seemed so long as this last hour and ten minutes. 
 
 At a quarter to six I run upstairs and get myself dressed 
 for dinner although we do not dine until half-past seven 
 hurrying through my toilet with the most exaggerated 
 haste, as if fearing they may arrive before it is finished ; 
 and I would not miss being the first to greet my boy for 
 all the world contains. 
 
 When I once more reach the drawing-room it sti'.l 
 wants five minutes to the promised time. Lady Blanche 
 Going and one or two of the men are lounging here. She 
 raises her head as I enter, and scans me languidly. 
 
 " Do we dine earlier than usual to-night, Mrs. Carring- 
 ton ? " ehe asks, with curiosity. 
 
 " No ; not earlier than usual. It was a mere whim oi 
 mine getting my dressing over so soon." 
 
 *' Oh, I quite forgot your brother was coming," she 
 says, with a faint smile, bending over her work again. Sho 
 looks as though she were pitying my youthful enthusiasm
 
 PHYLLIS. 187 
 
 I make no reply. Taking up a book, I seat myself near a 
 front window, as far as possible from the other occupants 
 of the room, and pretend to read. 
 
 A quarter past six. Surel} they ought to be here oy 
 this. Twenty-five minutes past six ! I rise, regardless of 
 omment, and gaze up the avenue. 
 
 Oh, if anything should have prevented his coming 1 
 Are not masters always tyrants? But even in such a case 
 ought not Marmaduke to be back by this to toll me of it? 
 
 Or, yet more sickening thought, can any accident have 
 happened to the train, and is Marmaduke afraid to bring 
 me home the evil tidings? 
 
 I am just picturing to myself Billy's chestnut locks be- 
 dabbled with his gore, when something smites upon 
 mine ear. Siirely it is the sound of wheels. I flatten my 
 nose against the window-panes and strain my eyes into the 
 gathering twilight. 
 
 Yes, fast as the good horse can bring them they come. 
 A moment, later, and the dog-cart in full swing rounds the 
 corner, -while in it, coated to the chin, and in full posses- 
 sion of the reins, sits my brother, with Marmaduke quite 
 a secondary person smiling beside him. 
 
 I utter an exclamation, and, llinging my book from me 
 blind to the smiles my guests cannot restrain I rush 
 headlong from the room, and in another instant have Billy 
 folded in my arms. Surely a year has gone by since last I 
 saw him. 
 
 " Oh, Billy, Billy ! " I cry, clinging to him, the tears in 
 my eyes, while glad smiles fight for mastery upon my lips. 
 " Is it really you ? It seems years and years since last we 
 were together. OL, how tall you have grown, and how 
 good-looking ! " 
 
 " Oh, I'm all right," returns Billy, graciously giving 
 back my kisses, warmly, it is true, but with none of the lin- 
 gering tenderness that characterizes mine. " I don't think a 
 fellow alters much in a month. Though really, now that I 
 look at you, you appear very tall, too, and thin, I think. 
 We had such a jolly drive over ; never wanted the whip 
 the whole way, except for the flics." 
 
 ' Yes. And are you glad to see me, Billy ? Were you 
 lonely without me? I was so lonely without you! But 
 come upstairs to your r: om, and I will tell you every 
 thins." 
 
 As I am drawing him eagerly away I catch sight of
 
 138 PHYLLIS. 
 
 Marrnaduke's frtce, who has been silently regarding us ali 
 this time, himself unnoticed. 
 
 Something in his expression touches me with remorse. 
 I run up to him and lay my hand upon his arm. 
 
 "Thank you for bringing him," I say, earnestly, '''and 
 for letting him have the reins. I noticed that. You have 
 made me very happy to-day." 
 
 " Have I ? It was easily done. I am glad to know I 
 have made you happy for even one short day." 
 
 He smiles, but draws his arm gently from my grasp as 
 he speaks, and I know by the line across his forehead some 
 painful thought has jarred upon him. 
 
 I am feeling self-reproachful and sorry, when Billy's 
 voice recalls me to the joy of the present hour. 
 
 "Are you coming?" says that autocrat, impatiently, 
 from the first step of the stairs, with about six bulging 
 brown-paper parcels in his arms, that evidently no human 
 power could have induced to enter the portmanteau that 
 stands beside him. " Come," he says, again ; and, lorgetful 
 of everything but the fact of his presence near me, I race 
 him up the stairs and into the bedroom my own hands have 
 made bright for him, while the elegant Thomas and the 
 portmanteau follow more slowly in our rear. 
 
 " What a capital room ! " says my Billy, " and lots of 
 space. I like that. I hate being cramped, as I always am at 
 home." 
 
 "I am glad you like it," I reply, bubbling over with 
 satisfaction. " I settled it myself, and had the carpet taken 
 off, because I knew you would prefer the room without it. 
 But I desired them to put that narrow piece all round the 
 bed, lest your feet should be cold. Yon won't object to 
 that ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ; it may remain, if you have any fancy for it." 
 
 I am about to suggest that as it is not intended for my 
 bare feet it does not affect me one way or the other ; but, 
 knowing argument with Billy to be worse than useless, 1 
 refrain. 
 
 " Have you any dress-clothes? " I ask, presently, some- 
 what nervously. 
 
 "No; I never had any dress-clothes in my life; where 
 would I get them ? but I have black breeches and a black 
 j'ickut (like a shell-jacket, you know), and a white shirt and 
 i v black tie. That will do, won't it? Langloy says I look
 
 PHYLLIS. 139 
 
 uncommon well in them \ and you'll see when I'm dressed 
 up and that, I'll be as fit as the best of 'em." 
 
 It is evident Billy's good opinion of himself has not 
 been lowered since we parted. He holds a generous belief 
 in his own personal attractions ; so does Langley, whoever 
 he may be. 
 
 " Far nicer than any of them," I respond, with enthu 
 tiasm ; and he does not contradict me. 
 
 When the garments just described have been laid upon 
 the bed, Billy discloses symptoms of a desire to get into 
 them, I turn to leave the room. But on the threshold I be- 
 think me of another important question, and pause to ask it 
 in a tone not altogether free from trepidation ; for Billy, at 
 times, is a person difficult to deal with. 
 
 41 Have you a clean white cambric handkerchief ? " I ask, 
 slowly. 
 
 " Well, no, I have not," confesses my brother, amica- 
 bly. " You see, all the white ones mother gave me when 
 leaving, I exchanged with another fellow for some of his. 
 And grand handkerchiefs they are really handsome ones, 
 yon know, Phyllis; but they have all got Hags, or sailors, 
 or fat Shahs painted in the corners and in the middle, 
 which makes them look just a leetle conspicuous.' But it 
 won't matter a bit," says Billy, cheerfully, " as I seldom 
 blow my nose (indeed, never, unless I have a cold in my 
 head) ; and if I don't exhibit the Shahs, they will never find 
 me out." 
 
 " Oh, indeed that would not do," I exclaim, earnestly. 
 " You must let me get you one of Marmaduke's, and then 
 you will feel more easy in your mind. Just suppose you 
 were to sneeze ! I often do it, even without having a cold.'' 
 
 " All right j you can bring it," says Billy, and I with- 
 draw. 
 
 When, half an hour later, the drawing-room door opens 
 to admit him, and looking up I see niy brother's well-shaped 
 head and slight boyish figure, a strange pang of delight and 
 admiration touches my heart. 
 
 He enters boldly, with a., the grace and independence 
 an English boy and especially an Eton boy, if well-bred 
 possesses, and advancing leisurely, comes to a standstill by 
 my side. 
 
 I introduce him to Harriet, who is nearest to me ; then 
 to Sir George Ashurst, then to Captain Jenkins ; after- 
 wards 1 k-ave him to his own devices. I am glad to hear
 
 HO PHYLLIS. 
 
 him chatting away merrily to kind Sir Gorge, when a 
 voice, addressing him from an opposite sofa, makes *ne 
 turn. 
 
 The voice belongs to Lady Blanche Going, and she is 
 smiling at him in her laziest, most seductive manner. 
 
 " Won't you come and speak to me ?" she says, s\veetly, 
 " Mrs. Carrington will not find time to present you to every 
 one, and I cannot wait for a formal introduction. Come 
 here, and let me tell you I like Etonians better than any- 
 thing else in the world." 
 
 Sir Mark's moustache moves slightly, just sufficient to al- 
 low his lips to form themselves into a faint sneer; while 
 Billy, thus summoned, crosses over and falls into the seat 
 beside her ladyship. 
 
 " Do you, really ? " he says. " But I'm awfully afraid I 
 shall destroy your good opinion of us. You see, the fact 
 is" he goes on, candidly " I have so little to say for my- 
 self, 1 fear in a very few minutes you will vote me a bore. 
 However, you are quite welcome to anything I have to 
 say ; and when you are tired of me please say so." 
 
 " Oh, that your elders hud half your wit ! " exclaims 
 her ladyship, with an effective but bewitching shake of her 
 beautiful head. " If they would but come to the point as 
 you do, Mr. Vernon, what a great deal of time might be 
 saved ! " 
 
 " Oh, I say, don't call me that," says my brother, with 
 an irresistible laugh ; " every one calls me ' Billy.' I 
 shouldn't know myself by any other name. If you insist 
 upon calling me Mr. Vernon I shall fancy you have found 
 reason to dislike me." 
 
 " And would that be an overwhelming calamity?" 
 
 " I should certainly regard it in that light. I like being 
 friends with beautiful people," returns Billy, with a faint 
 hesitation, but all a boy's flattering warmth ; and so on. 
 
 Here Sir James Handcock, wakening from one of his 
 asual fits of somnolence, actually takes the trouble to cioss 
 ihe room and put a question to his wife in an audible whis- 
 per. 
 
 " Who is that handsome lad ?" he asks, staring kindly 
 at Billy. (lie was absent when my brother first entered 
 the room.) 
 
 " Mrs. Carrington's brother," returns his wife, with a 
 ympathetu smile. 
 
 M A really charming face," says Sir Jaraea, criticiiinglj ;
 
 PHYLLIS 141 
 
 "scarcely a fault. Quite a face for an artist's pencil.' 
 And I feel my heart warm towards Sir J^riies 1 1 and cock. 
 
 When dinner is announced, Lady Blanche declares her 
 intention of sroing down with no one but her new friend , 
 and Billy, proud and enchanted, conducts her to the din- 
 ing-room ; while Bebc casts a " what did I tell you ? " sort 
 of look at me behind their backs. Indeed, so thorough ate 
 ihu fascinations she exercises upon him that before the even- 
 ing is concluded he is hopelessly and entirely her slave. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 IT has come at last the night of my first ball ; and 
 stnely no girlish debutante in her first season ever felt a 
 greater thrill of delight at this mere fact than I, spite of my 
 beLig " wooed an' married an' a'." 
 
 Behold me in rny room arrayed for conquest. 
 
 Having once made up my mind to the black velvet 
 though mother and Harriet and Bebe all declare me a great 
 deal too young and too slight for it I persist in my deter- 
 mination, and the dress is ordered and sent down. 
 
 It is a most delectable old dress, rejoicing greatly in 
 " old point ; " and when I am in it, and Martha has fast- 
 ened the diamonds in my hair and ears and round my 
 throat and wrists and waist, I contemplate myself in a 
 lengthy mirror with feelings akin to admiration. 
 
 Having dismissed my maid, who professes herself lost 
 in pleased astonishment at the radiant spectacle I present, 
 I go softly to 'Duke's dressing-room door, and, hearing him 
 whistling within, open it quietly. 
 
 Standing motionless, framed in by the portals, I mur- 
 mur, "Marmaduke." 
 
 He turns, and for a moment regards me silently. 
 
 " My darling ! " he says then, in a tone of glad surprise, 
 and comes quickly up to me. 
 
 " Am I looking well ? " I ask tremulously. 
 
 " ' Well 1 ' you are looking lovely," returns he, with en- 
 thusiasm, and, taking my hand carefully, as though fearful 
 of doing some injury to my toilet, leada me before his glass.
 
 1 {2 FHYLLfS. 
 
 " See tl ere," he says, " what a perfect little picture you 
 make." 
 
 I stare myself out of countenance, and atn thoroughly 
 s.itistied with what I see. 
 
 " I had no idea I could ever appear so presentable," I 
 Biy, half shy, wholly delighted. 
 
 " You shall be painted in that dress," declares 'Duke 
 warmly, " and put all those antiquated dames in the pic- 
 t ire-gallery in the shade." 
 
 " Are not the diamonds beautiful ? " exclaim I. " And 
 my gloves such a good fit! And " anxiously " Marnia- 
 duke, are you sure you like my hair ? " 
 
 " I like everything about you. I never saw you look 
 half so well. I feel horribly proud of you." 
 
 " Bestow a little of your admiration on my bouquet, if 
 you please. Sir Mark had it sen', down to me, all the way 
 from London, and his man brought it to me half an hour 
 ago. Was it not thoughtful ? " 
 
 " Very. I suppose " with a comical sigh " all the 
 men will be making love to you to-night. That's the worst 
 of having a pretty wife ; she is only half one's own." Then, 
 abruptly, changing the subject, " What dear little round 
 babyish arms ! " stooping to press his lips to each in turn. 
 " They might belong to a mere child." 
 
 " And you really think I am looking downright pretty f " 
 1 ask desperately, yet withal very wistfully, reading his 
 face for a reply. I do so ardently long to be classed among 
 the well favored people ! 
 
 "I should rather think I do. Why, Phyllis! of what 
 earthly use is a mirror to you ? " 
 
 " As as pretty as Dora ? " with hesitation. I am 
 gradually nearing the highest point. 
 
 "Pshaw! Dora, indeed! She could not hold a caudle 
 to you to be emphatic." 
 
 " Well, here's a kiss for you," say I, standing on tiptoe 
 Lo deliver it in the exuberance of my satisfaction, feeling for 
 once 'n my life, utterly and disgracefully conceited. 
 
 ]V1 irmaduke, however, appearing at this moment danger 
 ously desirous of taking me into his arms and giving me a 
 hearty embrace, to the detriment of my finery, I beat a 
 hasty retreat, acd go o.f to exhibit myself to mamma and 
 Dora.
 
 PHYLLIS. H3 
 
 His Grace the Duke of Chillington and Lady Alicia 
 Slate-Gore have arrived. The rooms begin to look gay and 
 very full. His Grace a well-preserved gentleman, of un- 
 known age adjusts his glass more carefully in his right 
 eye, and coining over, requests from me the pleasure of the 
 first quadrille. I accept, and begin to regard myself as nn 
 important personage. I glance at myself in one of the 
 long mirrors that line tl e walls, and seeing therein a slender 
 figure, robed in velvet and literally flashing with diamonds, 
 I appear good in my eyes, and feel a self-satisfied smirk 
 stealing over my countenance. 
 
 I am dimly conscious that darling mother is sitting on a 
 sofa somewhat distant from me, looking as pretty as possible 
 and absolutely flushed with pride and pleasure as she beholds 
 me and my illustrious partner. 
 
 Dora, a little further down, is positively delicious in 
 white silk and pink coral the coral being mine. Her still 
 entertaining for me the old grudge does not prevent her 
 borrowing of me freely such tilings as she deems may suit 
 her child-like beauty ; while I, unable to divest myself of 
 the idea that in some way I have wronged her, and that 
 but for me all these things she borrows would by right be 
 hers, lend to her lavishly from all that I possess. 
 
 To-night, however, in spite of the bewitching simplicity 
 of her appearance, I feel no jealous pangs. " For this night 
 only," I will consider myself as charming as Dora. 
 
 " Rather think it will be a severe season. You hunt?'* 
 asks his Grace, in rather high, jerky tones, having come to 
 the conclusion, I presume, that he ought to say something. 
 
 I answer him to the intent that I do not; that in fact 
 lowering to my pride as it may be to confess it I would 
 rather be afraid to do so. 
 
 He regards me with much interest and approval. 
 
 " Quite right ; quite right," he says. " Ladies are ha 
 charming you know, of course, and that but in a hunt- 
 ing-field a mistake." 
 
 I laugli, and suggest amiably ho is not over-gallant. 
 
 "No no? really ! Have I said anything rude? Can't 
 apply to you, you know, Mrs. Carington, as you say you 
 have no ambition to be in at the death. Women, as a 
 rule , never are, you know; they are generally in a drain 
 by that time; and if a man sees them, unless he wants to 
 be considered a brute for life, he must stop and pull 'em 
 out It takes nice feemsjs to do that ^racefully, and with
 
 HI FL'YI.LTS. 
 
 * due regard to proper language, in tne middle of a good 
 run. Charming girl, Miss Beatouu." 
 
 " Very." 
 
 '* Pretty girl, too, in white silk and the ooral." 
 
 " Yon mean my sister ? " 
 
 "Indeed indeed? You must excuse the openness oi 
 my observations. I would never have guessed at the rela- 
 tiouship. Can't discern the slightest family resemblance." 
 
 lie says this so emphatically that I understand him to 
 mean he considers me far inferior to Dora. I begin to 
 think his Grace an obtuse and undesirable person, sadly 
 wanting in discrimination. No doubt he is thinking my 
 plainness only to be equalled by my dullness. I wish impa- 
 tiently the quadrille would begin and get itself over, that I 
 may be rid of him, more especially as I am longing with a 
 keenness that belongs alone to youth, for a waltz or a galop, 
 or anything fast and inspiriting. 
 
 At last the band strikes up and we take our places. 
 Marmaduke (who is dancing with Lady Alicia Slate-Gore) 
 and I are the only untitled people in the set. Nevertheless, 
 as I look at my husband I think to myself, with a certain 
 atvsfaction, that not one among us has an appearance so 
 handsome or so distinguished as his. 
 
 The quadrille being at an end, Sir Mark Gore instantly 
 claims me fur the coming waltz, and, as I place my hand 
 very willingly upon his arm, whispers : 
 
 " You are like an old picture. I cannot take my eyes 
 off you. Who told you to dress yourself like that ? " 
 
 44 Myself. Is it not nice ? " I ask, eagerly, casting another 
 surreptitious glance at my youthful form as we move near 
 a glass. " Don't you think it becoming? " 
 
 " If I told you all I thought," he exclaims, eagerly 
 then, checking himself with an effort, and a rather forced 
 laugh, continues " you might perhaps read me a lecture." 
 
 " Not I : I am not in the mood for lectures. I feel half 
 intoxicated with excitement and pleasure, as though nothing 
 eould have power to annoy or vex me to-night. The very 
 music thrills me." 
 
 " You remind me of Browning's little lady, 
 
 'She was the smallest lady alive: 
 Made in a pit-co of nature's madness. 
 7'uo small almost for the life and 
 That over-filled her.' 
 
 you remember her ? "
 
 rilYLLIS. 1 (5 
 
 u Am I the l smallest lady alive?' Why, see, I am quite 
 np to your shoulder. You insult ine, sir. Come, dance, 
 dance, or I will never forgive you." 
 
 He passes his arm round my waist, and in another 
 moment we are waltzing. 
 
 Did I ever dance before, I wonder P Oi is this some 
 new sensation ? I hardly touch the ground ; my heart 
 my very pulses beat in unison with the perfect music. 
 
 I stop, breathless, flushed, radiant, and glance up at Sir 
 Mark, with parted, smiling lips, as though eager to hear 
 Lim say how delightful he too lias found it. 
 
 He is a little pale, I fancy, and answers my smile rather 
 slowly. 
 
 " Yes, it has been more than pleasant," he says, divining 
 and answering my thought. 
 
 He is not enthusiastic ; and I am dissatisfied. 
 
 u You don't look" I say with inquisitive reproach, " as 
 though you enjoyed it one bit." 
 
 A curious smile passes over Sir Mark's face. 
 
 " Don't I ? " he replies, quietly. 
 
 " No. Decidedly the reverse even. Of course " with a 
 considerable amount of pique " You could have found 
 plenty of better dancers among the people here." 
 
 " ^Perhaps I could ; although you must permit me to 
 doubt it. I only know I would rather have you for a part- 
 ner than any one else in the room." 
 
 I am not proof against flattery, A smile is born and 
 grows steadily round my lips, until at length ray whole face 
 beams. 
 
 " Well, you might try to appear more contented," I say, 
 with a last feeble attempt at remonstrance. "When I get 
 what I want I always look pleased." 
 
 " I know you do. But I am a thankless being ; the 
 more I get the more I want. When a man is starving, to 
 fjive him a little only adds to the pangs he suffers - " 
 
 The last bars of the waltz died out with a lingering wail- 
 ing sigh. A little hush falls. . . . Sir George Ashurst, 
 coming up, offers me his arm. 
 
 l> You will let me put my name down for another before 
 you go?" asks Sir Mark, hurriedly, following us a few 
 
 I hand him my card. " Keep it for me," I say, " until 
 after the dance. You can then return it." 
 
 " May I Lave the next after this ? " verj eagerly.
 
 1 16 PHYLLIS. 
 
 I glance at him over my shoulder. " Yes if 1 am disen 
 gaged, and you care for it," I make answer, forgetful of my 
 character as hostess, of the world's tongue, of everything 
 but the sweet gayety of the present hour. 
 
 The night wears on. Already it is one hour past mid 
 night. Sir Mark is again my partner. 
 
 Up to this the evening has fully answered my fondesl 
 expectations. I have danced incessantly. I have been tit 
 terly, thoughtlessly happy, Now a slight contraction about 
 the soles of my feet warns me I begin to experience fatigue. 
 
 Sir Mark leads me towards a conservatory, dimly lit 
 and exquisitely arranged, at the door of which I stand tc 
 bestow a backward glance upon the ball-room. 
 
 At a considerable distance I can discern Bebe standing 
 beside Lord Chandos. It is without doubt an interval in 
 their dance, but they are not talking. Miss Beautoun's head 
 is slightly inclined/rom her companion, and it is evident to 
 me she has mounted an exceedingly high horse. Neverthe- 
 less, to see her with him at all gratifies me ; as it is surely a 
 step in the right direction. 
 
 Dora is waltzing with a " Heavy," and I can see Sir 
 George glowering upon them from a remote corner. Dora 
 Bees him also, and instantly smiles tenderly into her 
 dragoon's light-blue eyes. This too looks promising. My 
 spirits go up another degree, and I indulge in a low pleased 
 laugh. 
 
 " Still revelling in bliss, Mrs. Carrington ? " Sir Mark's 
 voice recalls me. " No flaw as yet ? " 
 
 " Not one. Of course not. What a ridiculous question ! 
 I told you nothing should interfere with my enjoyment 
 this evening. Yet, stay " with a demure and dejected 
 shake of the head : " every now and then I am troubled 
 with a faint regret." 
 
 And it is " 
 
 " That all this must eome time come to an end. There, 
 ifl not that a haunting thought ? " 
 
 I laugh, so does he. 
 
 " I shall have plenty of it in the spring," I continue, 
 presently. " ' Duke says I shall go to London then." 
 
 "And so lose the keen sense of pleasure you now pos- 
 sess. What a mistake ! Take my advice, and don't go 
 through a London season."
 
 PH YLLIS. 1 17 
 
 " What stupid advice. Indeed I shall, and enjoy it too, 
 I am only longing for the time to come round. I shall b* 
 dreaming of it from now until then." 
 
 " You are bent on rushing wildly to your fate," says he, 
 smiling. " Well, do so, and rue it later on. When you 
 come to look on dancing, not as a good thing in itself, but 
 merely as a means to an end, remember I warned you." 
 
 " I will remember nothing," I say, saucily, " except 
 that I am at this moment without a care in the world. 
 Come, let us go in." 
 
 Sir Mark hesitates. j 
 
 " Shall we finish the dance first ? v 
 
 " No," I am looking longingly into the cool green light 
 of the conservatory beyond me. " See how delicious it is 
 in there. Let us find a seat." 
 
 Still he hesitates, as though unwilling to move in thede 
 sired direction. 
 
 " It seems a pity to lose this music," he says. " After- 
 wards we could rest." 
 
 I turn my eyes mischievously upon him. 
 
 " TF7i<? is keen about dancing now ?" I ask, gayly. " Not 
 I. For my part, I pine for a sofa. As you will have it, 
 I confess I am just a little wee bit tired." 
 
 We walk on through the outer nest of flowers into the 
 smaller one beyond, which is if anything dimlier lit, calmer, 
 more subtly perfumed. The nameless fragrance is every- 
 where, the splash, splash of a small fountain falls soothingly 
 on the ear; the music, though distinct, is strangely, dreamily 
 distant. 
 
 Some tall shrubs are dispersed here and there ; behind 
 them cozy seats are hidden; shadows of a darker shade 
 envelope them. 
 
 As with purposeless steps I pass by a rather larger one 
 of these I suddenly find myself face to face with Lady 
 Blanche Going and Marmaduke. 
 
 Now there is no earthly reason why they should not be 
 here alone together ; hundreds of other couples, tired and 
 warm from dancing, have probably done the same ; yet, as 
 my eyes fall upon them, a strange feeling that is partly 
 anger, partly pain, troubles me. All my gay wild spirits 
 gink and disappear. I know my face has lost its vivacity 
 and expresses only surprise and chagrin. 
 
 As my glance fastens more directly upon Duke, I see he 
 too is looking unlike hiraself. There is a dark, almost tierc
 
 US PHYLLI\ 
 
 expression in his eyes ; his lips are compressed. A slight 
 movement of the thin nostrils as he draws his breath telle 
 me he is evidently suppressing some strong emotion. 
 
 Her ladyship, exquisitely lovely in deep cream-colored 
 silk, with something scarlet in her dark hair, is nestling 
 among the crimson cushions of the lounge, and does not 
 deign to raise herself as we approach. Her eyes are a de- 
 gree larger, more languid than usual ; her complexion, 
 always good, is perfect in. this soft light. Her fan is in my 
 husband's hands. 
 
 It is impossible for me, without being guilty of positive 
 rudeness, to turn and leave them without a word. I stand, 
 therefore, silent, a pale, slight child, next to her, in all her 
 supercilious beauty with little of the woman about me ex- 
 cept my trailing velvet and golden ring, and glittering, 
 gleaming jewels. 
 
 " Are you having a good time, Mrs. Carrington ?" asks 
 Lady Blanche, sweetly. 
 
 " Very, thank you," with extreme coldness. " I had no 
 idea I could enjoy anything so much." 
 
 " You look happy," with increased amiability and a soft, 
 indulgent smile, such as one would use toward an excitable 
 child. "I suppose you still find pleasure in dancing?" 
 
 " Yes. I believe I have a good many years yet to run 
 before I must, for decency's sake, declare myself tired of 
 it." 
 
 " Until you are quite an old married woman like me ?'* 
 Fes," with much complacency. " You are fortunate in your 
 partner. All the world acknowledges Sir Mark to be above 
 praise in the dancing line. Even I " with a sudden and 
 to me utterly inexplicable glance at the gentleman in ques- 
 tion " can remember how desirable he used to be." 
 
 Dead silence, and a slight bow on the part of Sir Mark. 
 
 " Indeed? " say I, turning a smile of exaggerated friend- 
 liness upon him. " Then consider how doubly good it is of 
 tim to waste so much of his time upon a mere novice like 
 me." 
 
 I hardly know what prompts this speech. Perhaps a 
 faint remembrance of how at certain times, when conversing 
 with Mark Gore, I have looked across the rooms or gardens, 
 or wherever we might chance to be, and seen a glance that 
 was almost hatred fall on me from her ladyship's eyes. Now, 
 however, my spiteful little speech has no greater effect than
 
 PHYLLIS. H'J 
 
 to cause Marmaduke's fingers to slose with vicious fores 
 around the painted satin toy he holds. 
 
 Why does he not speak ? Why wil he not even suffer 
 his gaze to meet mine ? I feel angry and reckless. He ia 
 sitting a little forward, with his head slightly bent and a 
 detennined expression upon his face. Is he anxious for my 
 departure? Have I disturbed his interesting tete-a-tete/ 
 
 I will show him how little power he has over me for 
 either joy or sorrow. 
 
 I turn away, and with a backward careless nod at Lady 
 Blanche, say lightly, 
 
 " Take eare you don't suffer for sitting there. There are 
 so many draughts in a conservatory, we even consider the 
 open air safer." 
 
 And with that, though it was by no means my original 
 intention, I go out through the glass door into the silent 
 starlight night, and even manage to laugh gayly before we 
 are beyond earshot. 
 
 As we touch the gravel, however, I face Sir Mark, and, 
 foolishly unmindful of how my words may impress him, cry 
 fiercely, "Did you bring me there on purpose?" 
 
 " Where ? " he asks, with such wide astonishment as in- 
 stantly brings me to my senses. I feel overpowered with 
 shame, and try to turn it off, clumsily enough. 
 
 " Into Lady Blanche's presence," I say, fretfully. " You 
 knov; that woman always puts me out." 
 
 " Was it not yourself who insisted on going there ? " 
 Sir Mark reminds me, gravely. 
 
 " True," I reply, and then I laugh a little, and, taking 
 higher ground, continue, " You are horrified at my ill tem- 
 per, are you not ? And indeed I have behaved disgrace- 
 fully. After all, I don't know why I should feel bitterly 
 towards her ; it is a mere unfounded prejudice on my part. 
 You think me wretchedly pettish?" 
 
 " I do not, indeed," very quietly. " Of course I can fully 
 understand how utterly impossible it would be for you and 
 Blanche Going to have a single idea in common." 
 
 " She is so clever you mean," with a small frown. 
 
 " She is such an intriguante, I mean," replies my compan- 
 ion, quite coolly. 
 
 "Let us go in, it is cold," I say, with a quick shiver. Sft 
 we go round by the hall door, and soon again find ourselves 
 in the ball-room. As we enter 1 determinately put from 
 m all thought of 'Duke's dark, passionate face. I wiU b
 
 150 PHYLLIS. 
 
 happy. I will wrench from the flying hours all they have 
 worth taking. Why should I care, who never really loved, 
 whether or not he finds contentment in another woman's 
 Bociety. 
 
 I am tired, and somewhat dispirited. The rooms are 
 growing thinner. A voice at my side makes me start and 
 turn. 
 
 " If not engaged, will you give me this ? " asks 'Duke, 
 ceremoniously. 
 
 " Certainly, if you wish it. But are you so badly off 
 for a partner ? To dance with one's wife must be to say 
 the least cf it insipid." 
 
 lie makes no reply, but places his arm around my waist 
 in silence. It is a waltz, 
 
 " Do you know this is the first time I ever danced with 
 you? " I say, struck myself by the oddness of the idea. 
 
 " I know." And in another moment we are keeping 
 time to one of the dreamiest airs of Strauss. No, not even 
 M;irk Gore is a better dancer than Marmaduke. 
 
 When we have taken just one bare turn round the room, 
 'Duke stops short and leads me on to a balcony that by 
 some chance is vacant. 
 
 " There ! I won't inflict myself upon you any longer," he 
 says, quietly. " You dance very well. After all practice 
 has nothing to do with it. Will you sit down ? Or shall I 
 find you a partner for the remainder of this waltz ? " 
 
 "Are you in such a hurry to be gone ? " 
 
 "No ; certainly not," seating himself beside me. 
 
 Silence. 
 
 "I really wish, Marmaduke," I burst out, petulantly, 
 " you would say what has aggrieved you, instead of sitting 
 there frowning and glowering at one and making people feel 
 uncomfortable If you want to scold me, do so. I dare say 
 I shall survive it." 
 
 This piece of impertinence rouses no wrath in the person 
 addressed, and draws no reply. 
 
 " Well, what is it ? " I go on. " I have been quite happy 
 all the evening until now. Every one else has been civil 
 to me. If you must be disagreeable, be so at once. What 
 have I done ? " 
 
 " I have accused you of nothing, Phyllis."
 
 PHYLLIS. Ifn 
 
 " No " \f\ an agitated tone " I wish you would. 1 
 might then know why you are looking so cross." 
 
 " Of course I am quite aware you can be supremely 
 happy without me. There was no necessity for you to hint 
 at it so broadly." 
 
 " And you cannot without me, I suppose ? You appeared 
 very comfortable in the conservatory some time ago." 
 
 " Did I " with a quick return of the angry expression he 
 had then worn. " My face belied mo then. I could hardly 
 feel comfortable when I saw you laying yourself open to tho 
 ill-natured comments of the entire room." 
 
 " What do you mean Marmaduke ? M 
 
 " You know what I mean. Is it the correct thing to 
 dance the whole evening with one man ! " 
 
 " What man ? " 
 
 " Gore, of course. Every one remarked it. I wish you 
 would try to be a little more dignified, and remember how 
 censorious is the world in which we are living." 
 
 " Do you want me to understand that you think I waa 
 flirting with Sir Mark Gore ? " I am literally trembling with 
 indignation. 
 
 " No, I merely wish you to see how foolishly you have 
 acted." 
 
 " Was it with such base insinuations against your wife 
 Lady Blanche amused you to night ? Do you think it was 
 becoming conduct on your part to listen to such lies being 
 uttered without rebuke ? " 
 
 I have risen, and, with folded hands and white lips, am 
 looking down upon him. 
 
 " Phyllis ! How can you suppose that I would listen 
 calmly to any one who could speak evil of you ?" 
 
 " I can readily suppose anything after what you have 
 taid. Is it not worse of you to think evil of me ? "Flirting ! 
 You beyond all people are in a position to acquit me of 
 that. I had plenty of opportunities : did I ever flirt with 
 jou ? " 
 
 " You did not, indeed. I tell you 1 don't for a moment 
 
 suspect you of such a thing ; only " 
 
 Here, looking up, we both became aware of Sir Mark's 
 approach. He is still some distance from us. 
 
 "Are you engaged to him for this, Phyllis?" asks mj 
 husband, in a low hurried tone. 
 
 " Yes."
 
 l.v_i PHYLLIS. 
 
 " Don't dunce it, then," imploringly. "Say you *ill 
 not, if only to oblige me." 
 
 Why ? What excuse can I offer ? You ask me to 
 be rude to him, and yet give no reason why I should b 
 so." 
 
 ' You intend dancing it with him then ? " sternly. 
 
 " Certainly," in a freezing tone. 
 
 " Very good. Do so." And, turning on his heel, he 
 walks quietly and slowly away. 
 
 " I fear I have displaced a better man," says Sir Mark, 
 lightly, as he joins me. " Will you forgive me? I could 
 not resist reminding you of your promise af this." 
 
 " I fear I must undo that promise," I return, gayly. 
 " I am really fatigued. To dance with me now would be 
 no advantage to any one." 
 
 " Am I to thank Carrington for this disappointment ? 
 Was he fearful of your being over-tired ? " He is cour- 
 teous as ever, yet it seems to me the very faintest suspicion 
 of a sneer comes to his lips so faint that a moment later I 
 doubt it has ever been. 
 
 "No," I return, calmly. "You give him credit for too 
 much thoughtfulness. So far from dreaming of fatigue, be 
 even asked me just now to dance with him was not that 
 self-denying of him? but I only took one small turn. You 
 forget I am not yet in proper training. I have had very 
 little practice in my time." 
 
 " Let me get you an ice. No ? Some champagne, 
 then ? Iced water ? " 
 
 " Nothing thank you." 
 
 " At least let me stay and talk to you." 
 
 " I shall be glad of that. You never met any one with 
 such a rooted objection to her own society as I have," I 
 answer, laughing. 
 
 Then the strain loosens; the smile dies off my lips. 
 flow ardently do I long to be alone! Why does not this 
 lurm get up and leave me ? At all events, Marmaduke will 
 S3e I have repented of my ill temper, and am not dancing. 
 
 As I sit moodily staring through the window at the gay 
 scene within, it so happens the Duke of Chillington, with 
 one or two other men, passes slowly by. 
 
 "Our cousin of Chillington," says Sir Mark, with an 
 amused air he is a second cousin of his Grace "has ex 
 pressed himself enraptured with his hostess." 
 
 I rake my eyebrows and betray some i^ight surprise.
 
 PHYLLIS. 153 
 
 "I thin* you must mistake. When speaking to him, in 
 the earlier part of the evening, he gave me to understand - 
 politely, it is true, but none the less plainly that he con- 
 sidered me a very mediocre sort of person." 
 
 " In that case I fear we must believe his lordship to be 
 an arch old hypocrite, as he told me he thought your man- 
 ner and expression above all praise." 
 
 " Well, I think him a very stupid old gentleman," I 
 reply, ungraciously. 
 
 Sir Mark turns his eyes upon me thoughtfully. 
 
 " Have you found that ' little rift ' after all, Mrs. Car- 
 rington ? " asks he gravely. 
 
 "Yes I suppose so," with impatience. Really the man 
 grows very tiresome. " I must have been mad to hope we 
 wretched mortals could have five whole hours of unbroken 
 happiness." 
 
 "True: 
 
 ' Every white must have its blacke, 
 An d every sweete its soure.' " 
 
 " Another quotation ? " superciliously. I am not in an 
 amiable mood. " You seem to have them ready for all 
 emergencies. How closely you must attend to your poetical 
 studies ! How fond of them you must be ! " 
 
 " I am. Does that surprise you ? Do you find a diffi- 
 culty in associating me with polite verse ? " 
 
 He has his elbow on his knee; his fingers caress his 
 heavy black mustache. He is regarding me with the pro- 
 foundest interest. 
 
 " I really never thought about it," I return, wearily, 
 with a rather petulant movement of the head. 
 
 Oh that this hateful ball was at an end ! 
 
 The last guest has departed. We of the household have 
 gone up to our rooms. Now that it is all over, I feel strange- 
 ly inclined to sit down and have a good cry. In the soli- 
 tude of my own room Marmaduke's words and glances come 
 back to me, making me miserable, now that excitement ia 
 no longer at hand to help me to forget. One by one they 
 return with cruel clearness. 
 
 If he would only come up from that horrid smoking- 
 room and bo good-natured once more and make friends with
 
 154 FHYLLte 
 
 me ! I think I could forgive and forget everything, and loofc 
 upon the remembrance of this ball with much delight and 
 satisfaction. 
 
 My slight jealously of Blanche Going has disappeared, 
 and weighs not at all in the scale with my other miseries. 
 Indeed, I have almost forgotten the incident in which she 
 Igured. 
 
 Hark ! a distant door bangs. Now surely he is coming 
 Will lie enter my room first, I wonder, to speak to me as 
 he always does? Or will he at once shut himself morosely 
 into his dressing-room ? 
 
 Steps upon the stairs, steps along the corridor. A 
 laugh. 
 
 " Good-night " from Sir Mark Gore. " Good-night," 
 heartily returned by Marmaduke. Bah ! how needlessly ] 
 have worried myself ! He is not angry at all. If he can 
 jest and talk so easily with the cause of all our dispute, he 
 can certainly entertain no bitter thoughts towards me. 
 
 I hear Marmaduke cross the inside room and approach 
 mine. I feel confident he is coining to "make it up" with 
 me. I turn my chair so as to face the door and be ready 
 to meet him half-way in the reconciliation ; though lest he 
 may think me too eager I find it my duty to let a gently 
 aggrieved shadow fall upon my face. 
 
 The door opens, and he comes in, walks deliberately to 
 my dressing-table, lights a candle, and then, without so 
 much as a glance at the fireplace, where I sit, prepares to 
 return to his room. 
 
 " Marmakuke ! " I cry, in dismay, springing to my feet. 
 
 He stops and regards me coldly. 
 
 " Do you want me ? Can I do anything for you ? " 
 
 " 'Duke ! how can you be so unkind, so unforgiving, so 
 so cruel to me ? " I exclaim, going a little nearer, a sus- 
 picion of tears in my voice, large visible drops in my eyes. 
 " Are you going away without saying one word to me ?" 
 
 "What have I to say? You have left me notljng. 
 When last we spoke I asked you to do a very simple thing 
 to please me, and you refused." 
 
 " I know. But afterwards I was sorry. I you must 
 have seen I did not mean to vex you." 
 
 u I saw nothing. The knowledge of what I icas to see 
 in defiance of my entreaty was not reassuring, 1 left the 
 ball-room then and did not return to it again. I was
 
 there was no necsssity why I should do so : they were all 
 going." 
 
 " Then you do not know I did not dance with Sir 
 Mark after all ? " I ask, eagerly, laying the bare tips of my 
 fingers upon his arm. 
 
 ' No ! " laying down the candle, while his color grows i 
 lhade deeper. " Did you refuse him, then ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I said I was too tired ; I said " 
 
 " Oh ! Phyllis ! darling darling ! " cries 'Duke, catch 
 ing me in his arms before I can finish my confession, and 
 straining me to his heart. 
 
 " So you see you need not have been so very cold to me," 
 I whisper from this safe retreat, feeling much relieved. It 
 is positive torture to me to quarrel with any one. 
 
 " Forgive me, my own. It is our first disagreement ; it 
 shall be our last. What a miserable hour and a half I might 
 have spared myself had I but known ! " 
 
 " liut 'Duke, you said 1 behaved foolishly all the even- 
 ing." 
 
 " Never mind what I said." 
 
 " liut I must know who put it into your head. Was it 
 Blanche Going ? " 
 
 " She said something about it, certainly. It was a mere 
 careless remark she made, but it struck me. I don't believe 
 she knew she said it." 
 
 " I guessed rightly, then. That woman hates me. She 
 was trying to make mischief between you and I." 
 
 "Oh, no, darling. Do not misjudge her. I am con- 
 vinced she had no hidden meaning in what she said. It 
 was only a passing word, and probably I took it up wrongly. 
 She has no thought for you but kindness." 
 
 "Then I don't likelier kindness, and I will notha\e 
 you listening to her remarks about me. She never says 
 anything without a meaning. You do not think I was 
 dining, 'Duke '( " 
 
 " My darling, of course not. No ; but I love you so 
 dearly it is positive agony to imagine any one miyht y by 
 chance, misinterpret your conduct." 
 
 " And you will never be cross to me again ? " 
 
 " Never." 
 
 "And you are deeply grieved you behaved so infamously 
 to me ? " 
 
 " I am indeed." 
 
 "And I looked lovely all the evening?"
 
 l.">6 PHYLLIS. 
 
 u l never beheld anything half so lovely." 
 And I dance very nicely?" 
 
 "Beautifully. Quito like a fairy." Whereupon we botfc 
 laugh merrily, and anger and resentment are forgotten. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 WK are all more or less late for breakfast next morning, 
 Mr. Thornton being the only one who exhibits much 
 symptom of life. lie is, if possible, a degree gayer, mora 
 sprightly than usual, and talks incessantly to any one who 
 will be kind enough to listen to him. 
 
 " I do think a ball in a country-house the most using-up 
 thing I know," he says, helping himself generously to cold 
 game-pie. " It is twice the fun of a town affair, but it knocks 
 one up no doubt of it makes a fellow feel so seedy and 
 languid, and ruins the appetite." 
 
 " I think you will do uncommonly well if you finish 
 what you have there," remarks Sir Mark, languidly. 
 
 Thornton roars : so does Billy. 
 
 " You have me there," says Chips. " I ought to have 
 known better than to introduce that subject. My appetite 
 is my weak point." 
 
 " Your strong point, I suppose you mean," puts in Sir 
 Mark, faintly amused. 
 
 " I think the worse thing about a country ball is this," 
 SITS Bebe ; " one feels so lonely, so purposeless, when it is 
 over. In town one will probably be going to another next 
 evening; here one can do nothing but regret past glorie*. 
 I wish it were all going to happen, over again to-night." 
 
 " So do 1," says Thornton, casting a sentimental glance 
 at the speaker. " I would go over every hour of it again 
 i^hdly old maids and all for the sake of the few minutes 
 .)! real happiness I enjoyed. There are some people one 
 could dance with /brewer." 
 
 Lord Chandos, raising his head, bestows a haughty stare 
 u;>on the youtful Chips, which is quite thrown away, ag 
 that gay young Don is staring in turn, with all his might, 
 and with the liveliest admiration, at Miss Beatoun. 
 
 " Could you ?" asks that fascinating person, innocently
 
 PHYLLIS, 157 
 
 "Now I could not; at least I tLink I -would Lite to wit 
 dowu now and then. But, Phyllis, dear, seriously, I wish 
 we were going to do something out of the common this 
 evening." 
 
 " Try charades or tableaux," suggests 'Duke brilliantly. 
 
 " The very thing ! Tableaux let it be, by all means. 
 Marmaduke, no one can say last night's dissipation ha 
 clouded your intellect. We will have them in the library, 
 where the folding-doors will come in capitally." 
 
 " You used to be a great man at tableaux, Carrlngton," 
 says Sir George ; " and I shall never forget seeing Lady 
 Blanche once as Guinevere." 
 
 Her ladyship raises her white fids and smiles faintly. 
 
 " You were Lancelot, Gore, on that occasion," continues 
 this well-meaning but blundering young man. " You re- 
 member, eh ? " 
 
 " Distinctly quite as if it happened yesterday,' ' replies 
 Sir Mark, with a studied indifference little suited to the 
 emphatic words. " Have some of this hot cake, Thornton? 
 i r ou are eating nothing." 
 
 " Thanks : I don't know but I will," says Chips, totally 
 unabashed. " You could hardiy give me anything 1 like so 
 well as hot cake for breakfast." 
 
 " You will make a point of remembering that, I trust, 
 Mrs. Carrington," says Sir Mark, gravely. 
 
 " Phyllis, you would look such a good Desderaona," 
 says Bcbe, who is now fairly started. "I am sure she must 
 have been very young to let herself be beguiled into a mar- 
 riage with that horrid Othello." 
 
 44 And who would represent the Moor? " 
 
 " Sir Mark, I suppose : he looks more like it than any 
 one else." 
 
 " You flatter me, Miss Beatoun," murmurs Sir Mark, 
 with a slight bow. 
 
 "Oh, I only mean you are darker than any of the others, 
 except James, and I am sure he never could look sufficient!} 
 ferocious," answers Bebe, la-ighing. 
 
 " And you think I can ? ' 
 
 " You will have to. When we have blackened you n 
 little, and bent your eyebrows into a murderous sccwl, nnd 
 made you look thoroughly odious, you will do very well." 
 
 "How one does enjoy the prospect of tableaux. 1 rathui 
 think I shall rival Salvini by the time I ana out of youi 
 hands."
 
 ID 8 PHYLLIS. 
 
 " I hope not. I can't lear Salvini," says Harriet, mildly 
 
 " That is going rather far, Harry. Why don't you saj 
 you can't bear his figure ? We might believe that." 
 
 " But I don't want to be smothered," I protest, nervously. 
 
 " Oh, you must submit to that. When people hear of ' a 
 scene from " Othello " ' they immediately think of pillows 
 They would consider they had been done out of something 
 if we gave them a mere court part. We will have you just 
 dying, murmuring your last poor little words, with Sir Mark 
 looking as if he were longing to try the effect of the bolster 
 next, and Miss Vernon, as Emilia, kneeling beside you." 
 
 " Now, that is what I call a downright cheerful picture," 
 says Marmaduke. 
 
 " / call it high tragedy," replies Miss Beatoun, reprov- 
 ingly. " Will you be Emilia, Miss Vernon ? " 
 
 " I will help you in any way I can," says Dora, with hot 
 usual gentle amiability. 
 
 " You would make a capital Beatrice, Bebe," says Mar- 
 maduke. " We might have a good scene from ' Much Ado 
 About Nothing.' Who will be Benedick ? Now, don't all 
 speak at once." 
 
 " I think it would suit me," says Chips, very modestly. 
 
 We all laugh heartily. 
 
 " You grow modest, Mr. Thornton," says Sir Mark. " I 
 fear you must be ill. Try a little of this honey ; you will 
 find it excellent." 
 
 " No, thanks. I teel I shall be able to pull through now 
 until luncheon." 
 
 " Let us go into the library and arrange everything," I 
 suggest, eagerly ; and we all rise and go there. 
 
 By degrees, as the afternoon advances, the men show 
 symptoms of fatigue and drop off one by one, while we 
 women still keep together to discuss the all-engrossing idea. 
 
 Curious odds and ends of old-world finery are dragged 
 from remote closets and brought to light. Clothes that once 
 adorned Marrnaduke's ancestors are now draped around 
 young white arms and necks, and draw forth peals ol 
 laughter from the lookers-on. 
 
 "But we must have an audience," suggests: Bebe, at 
 length, rather blankly, stopping short, with her hands in the 
 air, from which hangs down an ancient embroidered robe. 
 
 " True. How shall we manage that ? " 
 
 " Send a groom instantly with invitations to the Hastings, 
 the Lfshuh, and tin- De Veres, and the Cuppaidges. I ana
 
 PHYLLIS. 159 
 
 positive they are all dying of ennui this moment, and will 
 nail with rapture any chance of escape from it. They will 
 all come ; and the Leslies have two or three really very pre- 
 sentable young men staying with them." 
 
 " Yes, that will be best. Dora, will you go and write the 
 notes for me? Now, would it not be a good thing to ex- 
 clude all the non-players from our council? " 
 
 " Oh," says Harriet, then I must go." 
 
 " No, no, Harry, we can't do without you," cry I, implor- 
 ingly ; you must stay. We could not get on without some 
 head to guide us and soothe down disappointed actors. You 
 shall be wardrobe-woman and chief secretary and prime 
 minister and stage manager all in one." 
 
 " Yes," says Bebe, who has got herself into the ancient 
 robe by this ; " and head-centre and peacemaker, and all 
 that sort of thing. " Now, don't I look sweet in this flowered 
 gown ? Ah ! what interesting creatures our great-great- 
 grandmothers must have been ! It almost makes me long 
 to be a great-great-grand mother myself." 
 
 " But your salary your salary : state your terms," says 
 Harriet. " 1 cannot be all that you have mentioned for 
 nothing." 
 
 "For love, dearest: call you that nothing?" replies 
 Bebe, as she struts up and down before a long glass. 
 
 Presently darling mother, who has slept at Strangemore 
 and breakfasted in her room, comes creeping in, and a dis- 
 pute arises as to whether she must be excluded from the 
 cabinet and sent into exile until night reveals our secrets. But 
 she is so amused at everything, and has grown so young and 
 guy in the absence of her bugbear, that we make an excep- 
 tion in her favor also ; and, as she has a real talent for 
 dressing people, and would have made an invaluable ladies' 
 maid, had her lot been cast so low, we find her very useful 
 later on. 
 
 The invitations are despatched, and acceptances from all 
 brought back ; every one, it appears, will be delighted to 
 come and witness our success or failure, as the case may be. 
 These polite replies cause us faint pangs of consternation 
 laigely tictured with timidity, making us conscious that 
 we are regularly in for something : that much is expected of 
 us ; and that, after all, the performance may prove " flat, 
 stale, and unprofitable." 
 
 All through dinner we the intended victims, are mys- 
 terious, not to say dcj tressed ; waile Sir James llandoook.
 
 160 PHYLLIS. 
 
 the two men from the Barracks, and Sir George Ashurst 
 make mild jokes at om expense, and wish us safely out of 
 it. 
 
 At nine the guests arrive ; at half-past nine all is in readi- 
 ness ; the audience is seated, the impromptu curtains are 
 drawn up, and " Rebecca laying the jewels at liowena't 
 feet " stands revealed. 
 
 Lady Blanche Going, as the Jewess, is looking positively 
 beautiful, as kneeling at Dora's feet, in many colored gar- 
 ments of crimson and gold and such gorgeous shades, with 
 much gleaming of precious stones, she gazes with saddened 
 curiosity in the face above her ; while Dora, raising her veil 
 my wedding veil with uplifted arms to look down on 
 her, presents such a contrast, with her dead white robe and 
 fair babyish face, to the darker beauty's more glowing style 
 as takes the audience by storm. 
 
 The applause is loud and lengthened ; and Sir George 
 Ashurst's enthusiasm reaches such a pitch that when it sub- 
 sides he has to retire to his room in search of another pair of 
 glares. 
 
 The curtain rises for the second time on Lady Blanche 
 again and Sir Mark Gore as " The Huguenots." This, too, 
 is highly successful, albeit her ladyship is too dark for the 
 part. 
 
 Everybody agrees that Sir Mark, with the sorrowfully 
 determined expression on his face, is perfect ; while Lady 
 Blanche astonishes some of us by the amount of passionate 
 pleading she throws into her eye. 
 
 And now comes a hitch. The third tableau on which 
 we have decided is " The Last Appeal." There has been 
 considerable difficulty about the arrangement of this from 
 the beginning, and now at the last moment Sir Mark Gore 
 vows he will have nothing to do with it. 
 
 " I couldn't do it," he says, throwing out his hands. 
 " There is no use urging a fellow. I could look murderous. 
 J might look sentimental : I could not appeal. I won't, and 
 that's all about it. They will say there are no more actora 
 if you send me on again so soon ; and besides, those breeches 
 don't fit me. They will go on Chandos; let him take my 
 part." 
 
 " How disobliging you are! "says Miss Beatoun, flush- 
 ing. " Then I won't be the person appealed to. I did not 
 want to, all along. It is too bad I should get no parta but 
 those in which rags and ugly dresses are worn. I shall hav
 
 to do Cinderella presently in tatters, and in this I have only 
 a short gown, and nasty thick shoes and a pitcher." 
 
 " What nonsense ! " say I. "You know every one said 
 you looked delicious with that little handkerchief across 
 your shoulders. Lord Chandos, go and dress yourself di- 
 rectly, as Sir Mark will not." 
 
 " Of what use is it," says Chandos, quietly, " if Miss Bea 
 loun declines to act with me?" 
 
 " Acting with you has nothing to do with it," returns 
 Bebe, reddening perceptibly. " I only decline the * old clo 
 part of it. Consider how it hurts ray vanity." 
 
 " Yet you would have worn them had Sir Mark kept his 
 word," I say, in an injured tone. 
 
 At this Lord Chandos looks expressively at Miss Bea- 
 toun, Miss Beatoun looks witheringly at me, and Marma- 
 duke, utterly innocent, says persuasively : 
 
 "Come now, Bebe, that's conclusive. Chandos will 
 think you have some reason for it if vou persist in refus- 
 ing." 
 
 At this unfortunate remark even I feel some dismay. 
 Considering all that has passed between these two, and the 
 nature of the tableau in question, it is unfortunate. Chandos 
 and Bebe color violently ; the latter's fingers close with ner- 
 vous force upon the pretty short gown she is wearing and 
 crumple it recklessly. The loose cambric kerchief on her 
 breast rises and falls with angry motion. Chandos is evi- 
 dently furious. 
 
 " I shall think nothing of the kind," he says, in a low, 
 distinct tone. " Miss Beatoun should be allowed to please 
 herself. For my part, I think it an odious scene and hack- 
 neyed to the last degree." 
 
 " Still, as it is on the cards " I murmur, weakly. 
 
 Marmaduke stares at me in wonderment, and then at 
 Harriet, who is also listening. We are every one of us 
 thoroughly unpleasant. 
 
 Bebe laughs a rather forced laugh. " I wonder what 
 our friends in the dress circle are thinking all this time ? " 
 bhe says. " Lord Chandos-, go and put on your things and 
 don't let us keep them waiting any longer." 
 
 "That's right," exclaims Marmaduke, much relieved, 
 moving away to another group in the distance engaged in a 
 hot dispute. Still Chandos lingers. 
 
 "I am sorry for this," he says to Bebe, in a low tone, al- 
 most haughtily. " But it is not yet too late. If ihe idea
 
 162 PHYLLfS, 
 
 IB so detestable to you, then give : t up no\v, and I will sup- 
 port you." 
 
 " Why should it be distasteful to me ? " very coldly. " I 
 will make no further objections." 
 
 " I hope you exonerate me. I could not help it. I am 
 more vexed about it than you can be." 
 
 " I think you might have said emphatically just at first 
 you did not wish it. However, it does not matter." 
 
 " How could I? Such a remark would have been an im- 
 plied rudeness to you." 
 
 " Then I wish you had been rude." 
 
 " You are unreasonable, Miss Beatoun," says his lordship, 
 Btiflly. Then in a still lower tone, " There are few things J 
 would not do for you, but that is not one of them." 
 
 "I think you had better go and put on those garments 
 Sir Mark rejected. We can finish the argument later on," 
 murmurs Bebe, turning away, with a half-smile, and, Lord 
 Chandos hurrying over his toilet, we have them on our minia- 
 ture stage sooner than we dared to hope. 
 
 But, though they gave in to their own wishes, or rather to 
 their own pride, the performance is a failure, for, though 
 Bebc certainly manages to look the very personification of 
 hardened persistency, Lord Chandos by no means comes up 
 to our idea of the appealing and despairing adorer, and alto- 
 gether there is a stony finish about it that nobody admires. 
 The spectators are, indeed, polite, and say all manner of 
 pretty things, but they say them from the lips alone, which 
 is palpable and not satisfactory. 
 
 And now comes my turn. The " British public," as Mr. 
 Thornton persists on calling our very select audience, is re- 
 
 ? nested to turn its kind attention on Tennyson's " Sleeping 
 Mncess," wrapped in mystic slumber. I am the Sleeping 
 Princess, it having struck me in the early part of the day that 
 this role, requiring little beyond extreme inaction, would ex- 
 actly suit me, and cause me less trepidation. 
 
 Upon a crimson lounge, clad all in white, I lie, my long fair 
 brown hair scattered across the cushions and falling to the 
 ground beside me. One hand is thrown above my head, the 
 other hangs listlessly, sleepily, downwards ; a deep-red rose 
 has dropped from it, and now blushes, half lost, amidst the 
 tresses on the floor. 
 
 Sir Mark, in the character of the Prince, leans over me as 
 though iu tV act of giving the care&s that brings me back 
 from dreamland. His face, I know, is near so near that,
 
 PHYLLIS, I'iS 
 
 between nervousness and shrinking, I feel a mad desire to 
 break into forbidden laughter ; so much so that when the cur 
 tain falls I am more than thankful. 
 
 Slowly it descends, and as I hear it touch the stage, I cau 
 tiously open my eyes to find Sir Mark has not yet raided 
 himself from his stooping posture. 
 
 My eyes look straight into his. There are literally only 
 few inches between his face and mine, and I fancy I can dis- 
 cern a treacherous gleam in them. Something masterful, too, 
 in his expression, as though he would say, " I could an' I 
 would," strikes me. Instantly I resent it, and springing to 
 my feet, stand back from him, crimson with indignation and 
 some undefined fear. 
 
 There is no time for words, had I even the desire to speak, 
 which I have not, as at this moment Lady Blanche Going and 
 Mannaduke come from behind the scenes to congratulate us. 
 I try to recover myself hurriedly, but it is too late ; my red 
 cheeks and frightened, half shamed eyes attract their notice ; 
 and Mannaduke, glancing from me to Sir Mark, regards us 
 earnestly, coloring very slowly himself the while. 
 
 " Oh ! " exclaims her ladyship, starting, and assuming an 
 air of surprise ; then, with an affected laugh, " How foolish of 
 me ? But really for the moment, on account of your atti- 
 tudes and stillness, I fancied I had come on too soon, and 
 that you were still acting." 
 
 " How completely you must have forgotten the subject 
 of the late tableau ! " replies Sir Mark, in a very calm tone, 
 fixing her with his wonderful keen, dark eyes. 
 
 Some instinct of evil makes me go and stand close to 
 Marmaduke. 
 
 " Was it a success ? " I ask, nervously. 
 
 "Without doubt," says 'Duke, rousing himself. "You 
 look fatigued, Phyllis ; come and have some wine." 
 
 I take his arm and go with him gladly. 
 
 "Did anything vex you, darling?" he asks me, quietly, 
 as we go into the next room. 
 
 " No ; it was imagination. I did not know his face w.ia 
 quite so close, and, in consequence, when I opened my eyeg 
 1 got a start. It was ridiculous of me." 
 
 M Was that all ? " 
 
 " Yes, that was all.' I laugh, though in a rather spirit- 
 less way, and feel angry with myself for the vague restraint 
 that is quite discernible in my manner while Marmaduke
 
 164 PHYLLIS. 
 
 pours me out some claret-cup, without asking any more 
 questions. 
 
 " 'Duke Marmaduke where are you ? Oh, iorne, 
 come," crie* Bebe, looking in, " we are all waiting for you. 
 How can I pose properly until you get me the slipper ? 
 You slid you had it somewhere." 
 
 So 'Duke flies, and I, putting from me my small vexa 
 tion, which even already appears half fanciful, follow him 
 to the sides, to see how they look before the curtain rises. 
 
 Cinderella (Bebe), clad in picturesque rags, is represented 
 in the act of flying, leaving behind her the magical slipper, 
 which Master Chips is eagerly stooping to pick up. He 
 maket a veritable " Prince Charming," in his scarlet cloak 
 and long silk stockings got no one knows how and cap 
 and feathers ; while Bebe, glancing backwards in her flight 
 to mark the fate of her shoe, casts upon him a bewitching 
 languishing gaze that (supposing the original Cinderella to 
 be capable of such another) must have had more to do with 
 her being Princess later on than anything in the shape of a 
 vow. 
 
 Then we close up Dora, as Constance de Beverley, into 
 an imaginary wall the poor nun, with raised despairing 
 eyes and downward clasped hands, creating much sympathy. 
 Yet, none of us feel sure this was the spirit in which the 
 real Constance met her doom ; only, as the devotional tear- 
 ful style suits Dora, we conclude it was, and make no un- 
 welcome inquiries ; and every one is charmed. 
 
 After this comes " Queen Eleanor presenting the agree- 
 able choice of the poisoned bowl or the dagger to the fair 
 but frail Rosamond," represented by Blanche Going and 
 myself ; at the conclusion of which Bebe draws me aside 
 to whisper, laughingly, how Blanche had looked the part 
 coil ainore. 
 
 " I would have given very little for your chance of life 
 had there been any reality about it," she says. " She 
 
 looked oh, she looked as if " with a vicious clenching 
 
 of her small fist, full of meaning. 
 
 Bebe as a laughing saucy Beatrice, and Lord Chandos as 
 Benedick, makes a much happier tableau than their last, 
 and eventually we yind up with a scene from the "Queen's 
 Maries" of Whyte Melville, in which everybody generally 
 is brought in, and where Blanche Going, as Mary Stuart, 
 in black velvet and the inevitable cap, is the principal 
 feature ; though Bebe makes a 't ery charming Seatou, and
 
 PHYLLIS. 166 
 
 even I feel some admiration on beholding Marmaduke aa 
 Darnley. 
 
 With a sense of relief we come down from the stage and 
 mingle with our audience, accepting modestly the compli- 
 ments showered upon us from all sides. 
 
 Mother, who has not been inside a theatre since she wa 
 nineteen, comes up to tell us it was the prettiest sight she 
 ever saw, and to compare us favorably with all the celebra- 
 ted actors arid actresses of her time. 
 
 Presently we leave the scene of our triumphs and wan- 
 der into the great cool ball-room, where the decorations of 
 the foregoing evening are still to be seen. Then some- 
 body orders in a piano, and somebody else sits down and 
 begins to play on it, and in another minute or two we are 
 all dancing. 
 
 " I don't believe poor Mary Hamilton ever had your 
 laughing eyes,'' says Sir Mark to me, during a pause in the 
 dance. " She must have been a sadder, more sedate sort of 
 person altogether. See how differently love works in 
 different people." 
 
 " You forget she was unhappy in hers. Besides " 
 saucily " how do you know love has anything to do with 
 in y eyes ? " 
 
 " I don't know, of course ; am only supposing " 
 
 <: Never suppose. It is foolish, and fatiguing. Though 
 now we are on the subject, Monsieur Chnstelar, you shall 
 give me your definition of the words ' to love.' If we may 
 accept Whyte Melville's opinion of you, you must be a very 
 competent judge." 
 
 " I have no theory of my own ; I am a sceptic on that 
 point. I will give you the orthodox definition if you wish, 
 which everybody in a novel is bound to accept. It 
 means, I fancy to merge your existence so entirely in that 
 of another as to obliterate oneself and live only for him or 
 her, as the case may be. Also, it would be strictly necessary 
 to feel lost and miserable in the absence of the beloved one 
 You may call that fatiguing if you please. Do you like the 
 picture ? Horrible, isn't it ? " 
 
 " Not only horrible, but impracticable, I should say. I 
 might manage to be supremely happy in the presence of 
 the adored ; I do not think I could be ' miserable' exactly 
 in his absence." Then laughing, "Is that really 'pure 
 love ? ' " If so, I am a sceptic too It would be absurdly 
 weak-minded, and would ccafin one's happiness to too
 
 1(56 J'JiYLUS. 
 
 little a world, to indulge in such a belief. It must be wisei 
 to take enjoyment as it cornea in every way, and not be so 
 hopelessly dependant on one." 
 
 " I entirely agree with you. Indeed I fancy most peo 
 pie would agree with you," replied Sir Mark, carelessly, look 
 tug straight before him, with so much meaning in bis 
 
 faze that instinctively I follow it, until my eyes fall upon 
 iady Blanche Going, at the other end of the room. 
 
 Evidently tired and flushed from dancing, she has sunk 
 with lazy grace into a low chair, and now, half turning, ia 
 \aughing up into Marmaduke's face as he leans solicitously 
 dver her Even as I look she raises her hand to repossess 
 icrself of the bouquet he holds, and to my impatience it 
 eems that an unnecessarily long time elapses before the 
 lowers go from his hand to hers. 
 
 My late careless frivolous words appear to m*ck me, 
 AHiy does he look at her like that? Why is he always by 
 ^ier side ? Are there no other women in the room ? 
 
 1 try to think of something gay and heartless to say to 
 Sir Mark, but just at the moment nothing will come to me. 
 
 Again the vague jealously of the evening before returns 
 in twofold force, and I bring my teeth rather tightly to- 
 gether. After all Marmaduke said to me on the balcony 
 last night about making myself conspicuous with one, it is, 
 to say the least of it, rather inconsistent with his own be- 
 havior now 
 
 What a perpetual simper that woman keeps up, merely 
 to show the whiteness of her teeth ! How pleased 'Duke 
 appears to be with her inane conversation I Now if I had 
 ever loved him this probably would have vexed me, as it 
 
 Bah ! I will think of something else. 
 
 I turn to Sir Mark, with a very successful little laugh. 
 
 "A living illustration of my text," I say, bending my 
 head in my husband's direction. 
 
 "Where? Oh! there." He stares at Lady Blanche 
 reflectively for a minute or so, and then says, " She is cer- 
 tainly good-looking." 
 
 " ' Good-looking ! ' How very faint ! Surely she ia 
 handsome. Are you one of those who consider it impolitic 
 to admire :>ne woman to another?" 
 
 " As a rule I believe it to be a mistake," replies he, 
 coolly; "but in this case I had no thought of policy. J 
 am never quite sure that I do think her ladyship handsoma.
 
 fHYLLIS. 107 
 
 That she is generally thought so I admit. Marmaduke and 
 she were always good friends/' 
 
 " So I should say." 
 
 "At one time we imagined a tendresse there, and 
 dreamed of a marriage, but, you see, 'Duke was bent on 
 doing more wisely." 
 
 " Thanks. That is a pretty put. Was the tendretM 
 you speak of on her side or his ?" 
 
 " A mutual business, I fancy, if it existed at all. But, 
 as we made a mistake in the principal part of it, we prob- 
 ably did so in all. Besides " lightly " I ought not to 
 tell you all this Mrs. Carrington. Tales out of school are 
 malicious. Such mere suppositions as they are too." 
 
 "Why surely I may congratulate myself on having 
 gained a victory over so much beauty? It would be a pity 
 to deny me this little gratification." 
 
 Nevertheless, at heart, I am sorely vexed, and, through 
 pique and wounded feeling, make myself more than agree- 
 able to Sir Mark for the evening. Not once does 'Duke 
 come near me ; nor does he even appear to notice my 
 wilful flirtation. 
 
 Just before we break up, indeed, finding myself near to 
 him in the supper-room, a strange desire to test his real 
 mind towards me, to compel him to pay me some attention, 
 seizes me. He is as usual in close attendance on Blanche 
 Going, who has kept him chained to her side willingly 
 chained, without doubt during the greater part of the 
 evening. 
 
 Having dismissed my partner on some pretext, I look 
 straight at Marmaduke, and, shivering slightly, say, w How 
 cold it is ! " 
 
 " Cold ? " replies he, nochalantly. " Is it ? I thought 
 it warm. Better send some one for a shawl. Here, Gore. 
 will you get Mrs. Carrington something warm to put round 
 uer ? She finds a draught somewhere." 
 
 And, as Sir Mark departs obf dient, 'Duke turns once 
 more to his companion, as though forgetful of my very ex- 
 istence. Lady Blanche smiles disagreeably. 
 
 Yesterday surely only yesterday he would have been 
 kinder ; lie would have gone for this shawl himselL How 
 e,iLM'rly, with what extreme tenderness has lie ever antici- 
 pated my wants ! And now the attentions of a stranger are 
 considered good enough for me. Is he tired of me already? 
 lias he so soon discovered the poverty of my charms ? Or
 
 168 PHYLLIS. 
 
 has that old fascination returned with redoubled power, tfl 
 make him regret what is, alas ! irrevocable ? 
 
 Si'.ck at heart, and mortified to the last degree, I turn 
 away, yet with lifted head and proud, disdainful lips, lea* 
 he or she should rightly guess my thoughts. 
 
 All the next day a marked coldness exists between m 
 and my husband. We mutually avoid each other, and, (he 
 better to do so, fall baok for conversation upon those near- 
 est to us. The nearest to me, at all events, is Sir Mark 
 
 Not being by any means a " gushing " pair, this tempo- 
 rary estrangement is unnoticed by the greater part of our 
 guests ; to the few, however, it is plainly visible. Bebe 
 sees it, and is vexed and troubled. Sir Mark sees it, and 
 is curious. Lady Blanche sees it, and is triumphant. It 
 is clear that, for whatever end she has in view, all things 
 are working well. Once or twice during the evening I 
 catch her eyes fixed upon me, and as I do so her glance 
 falls slowly, while a malignant, insolent smile creeps round 
 her mouth. At such moments I am pagan in my senti- 
 ments, and would, if it were possible, call down all evil 
 things upon my enemy. 
 
 Next day, however, the clouds partially disperse. Nat- 
 urally forgiving, I find a difficulty in maintaining wrath for 
 any lengthened period, and Marmaduke appears only too 
 glad to meet my advances. 
 
 The third day, indeed, all seems forgotten ; our animos- 
 ity is laid, and peace is proclaimed, This time, however, 
 there has been no explanation, no kindly reconciliation, and 
 only Marmaduke and I know that underneath our perfect 
 amiability lies a thin stratum of ice, that any chance cold 
 may harden into hopeless solidity. 
 
 " 1'hyllib, we have agreed t3 let the birds hold high noli- 
 day to-morrow, if you will promise us a picnic. It seemi 
 a pity to let this last glimpse of summer go by unmarked/' 
 Bays Marmaduke, speaking to me from the foot of the din- 
 ner-table. " 
 
 "Oh, how delightful!" cry I, flushing with pleasure,
 
 PHYLLIS. 169 
 
 and dodging all the flowers on the table to got a good look 
 at his face. As lie is also carefully dodging them in his 
 turn, with the like laudable purpose of beholding me, it is 
 some time before we manage it. When our eyes do meet 
 we smile sympathetically. 
 
 I hardly know why I do so, but as I withdraw my gaze 
 from Marmaduke I turn upon Sir Mark Gore, who sits at 
 my right hand. The curiously cold, calculating expression 
 I meet startles and somewhat displeases me. 
 
 " Do you not like picnics ! " I ask him abruptly. 
 
 " Very much indeed. Why should you think other- 
 wise ? " 
 
 " Your expression just now was not one of pleasure." 
 
 " No ? It ought to have boen. I was inwardly admir- 
 ing the charming enthusiasm with which you received your 
 husband's proposition." 
 
 " Oh !" return I, curtly. "Yes. As I told you once 
 before, when I am pleased I show it ; I am more than 
 pleased now ; I am enchanted," smiling brightly at the 
 thought. " Do you know I have not been at a picnic since 
 I was a girl that is, unmarried." 
 
 " Not since then ? Why, you must almost forget what 
 a picnic means. Shall I refresh your memory? It means 
 salted pies, and sugared fowl, and indescribable jellies and 
 warm fluids, and your knees in your mouth, and flies. I 
 don't myself know anything more enjoyable than a picnic." 
 
 "Dear me, how I pity you! Whose picnics have you 
 been at, may I ask? " inquire I with scorn. " To-morrow, 
 I promise you, you shall see a very different specimen." 
 
 To-morrow comes to us as fine as though bespoken. 
 Lady Blanche, walking into the breakfast-room in the most 
 charming of morning robes, addresses herself to my hus- 
 band. 
 
 " Well, most noble, what are your plans for to-day ? " 
 ihe asks, with a pretty show of animation. 
 
 Though I am in the room, and she knows it, she take* 
 no notice of me whatever does not even trouble herself so 
 far as to bestow upon me the courtesy of a " good-morn- 
 ing." She looks up at Marmaduke, and smiles at him, and 
 awaits his answer as though he alone were to be consulted. 
 Evidently in her opinion the mistress of the house is of no 
 importance a mere nonentity in fact ; the master is every- 
 thing. 
 
 It occurs to me that she might be even gracious enough
 
 170 PHYLLIS. 
 
 to smile in my direction, but she confii es her attentions en 
 tirely to Marrnaduke. 
 
 Has any one else in the room noticed her insolence 
 There is rather a hush I fancy, as I move composedly to my 
 seat and alter the cups and saucers into more regular rows, 
 I wonder curiously whether Marrnaduke has remarked her 
 breach of etiquette. Not he ! What man ever saw any- 
 thing wrong where a pretty woman is the transgressor, mor 
 especially when that pretty woman's blandishments are di- 
 rected towards him ? lie gives back her smile placidly, and 
 then speaks, 
 
 "I believe we have decided on a picnic." 
 
 "The picnic, of course. But where? That is the ques- 
 tion." 
 
 " Anywhere you like ; I am yours to command." 
 
 " You really mean it ? Then I ehould like to go right 
 through the country to St. Seebird's Well. It is years since 
 last I was there." She breathes a soft sigh, as though re- 
 calling some tender memory connected with her former 
 visit. 
 
 " To the Wishing Well ? " says ' Duke. " That is a long 
 drive. The day is fine, however, and I see nothing to pre- 
 vent our doing it. Can we manage it, do you think, Phyl- 
 lis?" 
 
 " I see no obstacle in the way," I answer, indifferently, 
 without raising my eyes. 
 
 " Then we may consider it a settled plan may we, Mrs, 
 (Jarrington ? " says Lady Blanche, sweetly. 
 
 This time I do lift my head, and turn my eyes slowly 
 upon her ladyship's. 
 
 " Good-morning, Lady Blanche," I say, quietly, and with 
 the utmost composure. In spite of herself, she is discon- 
 certed. 
 
 " Oh ! good-morning," she says. " I quite fancied I hid 
 seen you somewhere before this morning." 
 
 " Did you ? You take coffee, I think, Sir George ? 
 Dora, give Sir George some coffee." 
 
 "I think I deserve a vote of thanks for my suggestion." 
 eays Lady Blanche, recovering. " I feel in great spirits 
 myself already. The drive will do us good, and make us 
 all as fresh as possible." 
 
 " True," says Marrnaduke ; " we have not had a driv* 
 for some time. A picnic near home is, I believe, a mistak' 
 It is a capital idea, Phyllis, is it not ? "
 
 PHYLLIS. 171 
 
 He addresses himself to me in a rather anxious, not to 
 gay conciliatory, tone : for the first time he becomes aware 
 of my unusual silence. 
 
 " Excellent. Though for my part I hardly require a 
 drive as a tonic. I am always as fresh as I can be." (I 
 cannot resist this one little thrust.) "Mr Thornton," to 
 Chips, who has just entered " come and sit here by me : 
 there is no more room." 
 
 For the first time in my life I feel my youth an advan- 
 tage as I watch the faint color rise to her ladyship's cheeks. 
 Her mouth changes its expression. It is no longer compla- 
 cent. At this moment I feel she hates me with a bitter 
 hatred, and am partly comforted. 
 
 A brief smile quivers beneath Sir Mark's moustache ; it 
 is scarcely there when it is gone again, and he drops his eyes 
 discreetly on his plate. 
 
 " How shall we go ? " asks ' Duke. " We have the coach, 
 and your trap, Ashurst, and the open carriage : will that be 
 enough? Harriet, what will suit you?" 
 
 " I shall stay at home, thank you," says Harriet, smiling. 
 " I know I am letting myself down in your estimation hor- 
 ribly, but I confess I detest long drives. I believe I detest 
 anything lengthened. I am naturally fickle." (Slje is the 
 most sincere creature alive.) " I shall enjoy loungrng about 
 at home, looking at the flowers, and reading, and that." 
 
 " Indeed, Harriet, you shall not," cry I, impetuously. 
 "We would all be miserable without you." 
 
 " That's a fact, Lady Handcock," puts in Chips, heart- 
 By- 
 
 " Chippendale, you almost make me relent," says Harriet, 
 smiling. "But " in a piteous aside to me "do not com- 
 pel me to go. It is twelve miles there, and twelve miles 
 back, if it is a yard ; just think of that. My poor back would 
 not stand it. James shall go and represent me ' 
 
 ' Why not change the place, and name a spot nearer 
 hofl.e ? " says Dora, quietly. Dora always does the correct 
 thing. 
 
 " Just so," exclaims Sir George, who would have thought 
 Jericho a veity convenient spot had Dora so named it. " We 
 ha\ e another Wishing Well somewhere in the neighborhoo 1 ; 
 eh, 'Duke ? " 
 
 " The Deacon's Well," says Sir Mark, " is only seven 
 miles from this. Would that be too far, Lady Handcock ? " 
 
 " J shall be quite unhappy if you make me the disturber
 
 1T^ PHYLLIS. 
 
 of the peace," says Harriet, in comic despair. " Let me stay 
 at home ; I shall do very well ; and at present I feel ashamed 
 of myself." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " says 'Duke. " If you don't come willingly 
 we shall carry you. So you may at well make up ycur 
 mind to visit the Deacon." 
 
 " And it is really the prettier well of the two," sayi 
 Blanche, gracefully, as she sees her cause fall to the ground. 
 
 "Then you and Blanche can keep each ether company 
 on the coach, Phyllis, and any one else that likes. Thornton 
 shall have the horn ; it is about the one instrument on which 
 he can perform with marked success." 
 
 " 1 shall take the pha?ton and ponies," say I, quietly 
 " They have not been out for two days, and it will do them 
 good. Exercise is the only thing that keeps them in or 
 der." 
 
 "Oh, nonsense, Phyllis! you will find it much pleasantei 
 with Blanche and the rest of us." 
 
 " Without doubt ; but then I have set my heart on driv- 
 ing my ponies. They are my hobby at present ; so yon 
 must excuse my bad taste if I say 1 prefer being with them 
 to even the good company you mention. That is, if J can 
 get any one to come and take care of me," 
 
 "I shall be most happy, Mrs. Carrington, if you will 
 accept me as your escort," says Sir Mark, instantly, aa 
 though desirous of being the first to offer his services. 
 
 Blanche Going raises her head and regards him fixedly. 
 In the velvet softness of her dark eyes shines for an instant 
 an expression that is half reproach, half passionate anger ; 
 only for an instant; then turning her glance on me, she 
 meets my gaze full, and sneers unmistakably. 1 fel radi- 
 ant, triumphant. At least I have it in iny power to give 
 her sting for sting. 
 
 "Thank you," I say to Sir Mark, with a beaming smile. 
 M I shall feel quite safe and happy in my mind with you. 
 At heart I believe I am a coward, BO feel it pleasant to 
 kn.w there will be help at hand if the ponies prove refrac- 
 tory." 
 
 " You had better take a groom with you, Phyllis," sayi 
 my husband, shortly. 
 
 " Oh, no, thank you. It will be quite unnecessary Sir 
 Mark, I know, it aa good as two or three grooms in a case 
 of emergency." 
 
 "Nevertheless, I think you had better have a groom.
 
 PHYLLIS. 175 
 
 Those ponies are generally skittish after an id.eness. I shall 
 tell Markhara to accompany you." 
 
 " Pray do not give yourself the trouble," I reply, obsti- 
 nately : " I shall not need him. You do not think there is 
 any cause for fear, do you, Sir Mark ! " 
 
 " I think not. I think I am a match for your ponies at 
 any moment," returns he, smiling. 
 
 " In my opinion grooms are a mistake in a small carriage/' 
 murmurs Lady Blanche, addressing the table generally. 
 ' There is something unpleasant in the fact that they are 
 close behind one's back ready to hear and repeat every idle 
 word one may chance to utter." Her smile as she says this 
 is innocence itself. 
 
 " I fully agree with you," answer I, equitably ; " though 
 Sir Mark and I are above uttering anything idle." 
 
 Marmaduke frowns, and the conversation ends. 
 
 Meantime, the others have been eagerly discussing their 
 plans. Sir George Ashurst has obtained a promise from 
 Dora to take the seat beside him on his dog-cart. Harriet 
 has decided on the open carriage, and declares her intention 
 of calling and taking up mamma. Lord Chandos alone 
 has had no part in the discussion. 
 
 Just then the door opens to admit Bebe, fresh and gay 
 as usual. Positively we have all forgotten Bebe. 
 
 " Late late so late ! " says she, laughing. "Yes, Mar- 
 maduke, I know it is actually shocking. Don't say a word, 
 dear; your face is a volume in itself. Good-morning, every 
 oody. Phyllis you don't look formidable. I shall have my 
 chair near you." 
 
 The men rise and somebody gets her a seat. 
 
 " Bebe, we forgot you," cry I, contritely. " Where 
 shall we put you now? " 
 
 "Put me?" says Babe, regarding her chair. "Why, 
 oei a, I suppose. 
 
 " No, no ; about our drive to the Wishing Well, I mean 
 vVe have just been arranging everything, and somehow you 
 jot left out." 
 
 " I have still two seats at the back of my trap." says 
 Ashurst ; " will you accept one, Miss Beatoun ? Ami 
 Chandos can have the other." 
 
 The faintest possible tinge of color rises to Bebe's cheek. 
 
 " A back seat ! Oh, Sir George, is that all you can offer 
 me ? I was never so insulted in my life. It is positively
 
 174 PHYLLIS. 
 
 unkind. Marmaduke, why did not you look after my in- 
 terests in my absence ? " 
 
 " I don't know how it happened. First come first served 
 1 suppose " 
 
 " The unkindest cut of all. 'Duke, you are ungenerous, 
 or else in a bad temp3r ; which ? However. I forgive you." 
 
 " I would give you the front seat," says good-natured 
 George, " but I fear those very tiny little hands would 
 never be able for the ribbons ; and 1 have given the other 
 to Miss Vernon." 
 
 " Miss Beatoun, have my place," says Thornton, 
 eargerly. " I dare say Miss Hastings will get on without 
 me, oven if she comes ; and Powell can blow the horn." 
 
 Dora comes forward gracefully. " Take mine," she says 
 in spite of a reproachful glance from Sir George. "I don't 
 in the least mind where I sit." 
 
 " Embarras des ric/iesses ! " cries Bebe, laughing, put 
 ting up her hands to cover her ears. " Not for all the 
 world, Miss Vernon. Thank you very much all the same. 
 Did you think I was in earnest? If the truth be told, I 
 like nothing better than the back seat on anything, if the 
 horses be fast. There is something delicious, almost sensa- 
 tional, in finding ourself flying through the air without see- 
 ing what is taking one. I only hope I shan't fall off." 
 
 " It will be Chandos's fault if you do," declares Sir 
 George, " Do you hear, Chandos ? You will have to keep 
 your eves open, and be careful every time we come to a 
 corner. 
 
 Bebe colors again, and glances at Lord Chandos, who by 
 a curious coincidence she finds glancing at her. Their eyes 
 meet. 
 
 " Will you find the task too arduous ? " she asks, mis- 
 chievously, for once losing sight of her coldness. 
 
 " I will tell you that when we return," replies he, ans- 
 wering her smile. 
 
 Not until the others have well departed does Markham 
 bring round the ponies ; and as he puts the reins into my 
 hands he utters a gentle warn.ng. 
 
 " I thought it safer to let the other horses get a bit of a 
 start first, ma'am," he says. " Yon might spare the whip 
 to-day, I'm thinking ; they're that fresh as it will give you 
 enough to do to hold 'em." 
 
 "All right, Markham," says my companion, gayly; "I 
 will Bee your mistress does not irritate them to madness."
 
 PHYLLIS. 176 
 
 The pretty animals in question toss their heads know- 
 ingly, then lower them, and finally start away down thq 
 avenue, round the corner, pass the beeches, and cut into the 
 open road. 
 
 The air is fresh and soft, the speed, to say the least of it 
 enlivening, and for a mile or so I know thorough enjoy- 
 ment then my arms, begin to drag. 
 
 " How they do pull ! " I say, with a petulant sigh. 
 
 " Let me have the reins," exclaims Sir Mark, eageily ; 
 " you will be exhausted if you try to hold those fretfuJ 
 creatures for the next six miles. You are hardly strong 
 enough for the task." And, with a gesture that is almost 
 relief I resign to him my seat. 
 
 " That would be the nearest road to Carston, supposing 
 we had started from Summerleas," I say presently, as we 
 come to one particular turn. " Oh, how often, long ago, I 
 used to travel it ! What years and years and years seem 
 to have gone by since last spring ! What changes have oc- 
 curred ! and yet in reality only a few short months have 
 passed." 
 
 " Happy changes, I hope, Mrs. Carrington." 
 
 " For me ? Yes, indeed. When first you knew me I 
 was the most insignificant person among us at home, and 
 now I think I have all I ever wished for." 
 Sir Mark smiles. 
 
 " I never heard any one say that before. Of what use 
 will the Deacon's Well be to you? Do you mean to tell 
 me you have no wish left ungratified ? " 
 
 " Well, perhaps there are a few things I would willingly 
 put out of my way," I reply, with a faint recurrence in my 
 own mind to Lady Blanche Going. 
 
 " Only things ? You are unfortunate. When I go in 
 for that useless sort of wishing, it is for people not things 
 I would have removed. Were I you, Mrs. Carrington, I 
 believe I should live in a perpetual state of terror, waiting 
 for some blow to fall to crush such excessive happiness. 
 You know one cannot be prosperous forever." 
 
 " I never anticipate evil," return I, lightly. " Surely it 
 is bad enough when it comes, without adding to it by being 
 miserable beforehand. Why, how doleful you look? What 
 is it ? You remind me of some youthful swain in love for 
 the first time in his life." 
 
 "Perhaps I am." 
 
 " In Jove ? How amusing ! With whom then ? Beb f
 
 178 PHYLLIS. 
 
 Dora ? Or some person or persons unknown ? 
 surely you may confide with all safety ;n your hostess." 
 
 "She is the last person I would choose as a confidante 
 on this occasion. The sympathy she would accord me 
 would be very scanty." 
 
 "Oh, how unjust! Have I proved myself so utterly 
 heartless ? And is sympathy so very needful in your caad 
 is it a hopeless one ? " 
 
 " Quite so." 
 
 " Poor Sir Mark ! 'If she be not fair to me, what car 
 I how fair she be ? ' is a vry good motto : why not adopt 
 it, and love again ? I have heard there is nothing easier." 
 
 " Would you find it easy ? " 
 
 " I don't know, having never tried. But if the love is 
 to be unhappy, I wonder people ever let themselves fall 
 into the snare." 
 
 " You speak as if you yourself were free from the gentle 
 passion," says Sir Mark, with a searching look, under which 
 I color and feel somewhat confused. 
 
 " We were talking of second lovers," I say, hurriedly. 
 " One hears of them. I was advising you */o turn your 
 attention that way. Surely it would be possible." 
 
 "I don't believe in it; at least to me it would be im- 
 possible," replies Sir Mark, in a low tone, and silence falls 
 upon me. 
 
 Once again I am in the ball-room at Strangemore, listen- 
 ing to a tale of early love. Is Sir Mark thinking of Marma- 
 duk'j now, I wonder, and the story he then told me, of his 
 old infatuation for his cousin Blanche ? Was it more thar 
 an infatuation, a passing fancy ? Was it an honest, lasting 
 attachment? And have I secured but the tired, worn-out 
 remnant of a once strong passion ? 
 
 My changeful spirits, so prone to rise, so easy to dash to 
 earth, again forsake me. Discontented and uncertain, I sit 
 w'Ji lowered lids and fretful, puckered brow. 
 
 " Do you, then, think a man can love but once in his 
 lift- ? " I force myself to ask, though with open hesitation. 
 
 "But once? Is it not enough? Would you condemn 
 any one to suffer the restless misery, the unsatisfied long- 
 ing, z. second time?" responds he moodily. 
 
 " No ; but it is bad for those who come after," I reply 
 with deep dejection. 
 
 " They must take their chance. The suffering cannot
 
 PHYLUS. 17 / 
 
 be all on one side. We must accept our share cf misery, as 
 it comes, with the best grace we can." 
 
 " I will riot," I cry, passionately. " All my life I have 
 determined to be happy, and I will succeed. Whatever 
 happens, whatever comes of it, I refuse to be miserable." 
 
 " Wuat a child you are ! " says he, almost pityingly. 
 
 t( I am not. I am talking quite rationally. I firmly 
 believe we all make half our own grievances." 
 
 " And what becomes of the other half? " 
 
 " Let us leave the subject," I say petulantly, ignoring 
 my inability to answer him. " You are dull and prosy. If 
 you insist on being a martyr, be one, but do not insist also 
 on my following in your footsteps. Because you choose to 
 imagine yourself unhappy, is no reason why I should not 
 be gay." 
 
 " Certainly not," replies he, with increasing gloom, and 
 brings the whip down sharply across the ponies' backs. 
 
 Instantly, almost as the lash touches their glossy skins, 
 they resent the insult. The carriage receives a violent shock. 
 They fling themselves backwards on their haunches, and in 
 another moment are flying wildly on, regardless of bit 01 
 curb or rein. 
 
 As I realize the situation, I grow mad with fright. Los- 
 ing all sense of self-control, I rise from my seat and prepare 
 to throw myself out of the phreton. Surely the hard and 
 stony road must be preferable to this reckless deadly flight. 
 
 Seeing my intention, Sir Mark rises also. 
 
 " Phyllis, are you mad '? " cries he, Hinging his arms round 
 mo. " Your only chance is to remain quiet ; Phyllis, be sen- 
 sible. Si* down when I desire you." 
 
 TliL-ro is an almost savage ring in his tone. He holds 
 me fast and forces me down into my seat. I struggle with 
 all my strength for a moment or two to free myself from his 
 strong grasp, and then a coldness covers me, and I faint. 
 
 When my senses return to me, I fa'nd I am still in th 
 Carriage. The ponies are also to be seen, motionless in their 
 places, except for the trembling that convulses their frames. 
 \\lule a tierce snort, every now and then, and tiny flecks oi 
 f '"it hither and thither and mingle with those al- 
 
 roa upon their Lacks and harness, betray theii 
 
 late But we are safe, apparently, quite sa'e. 
 
 Sir s arm is supporting me, while witli his. other 
 
 hand he holds some'hing t<> my lips. It is that detestable 
 i.Liui: called brandy, and I turn my head aside.
 
 178 PHYLLIS 
 
 " Take it," urges he, in a low, trembling tone ; " whether 
 you like it or not, it will do you good. Try to swallow 
 Borne." 
 
 I do as I am bid, and presently, feeling better, raise my 
 Belf and look around for symptoms of a smash. 
 
 "What have they done?" I ask, with a shudder, 
 14 Have they " 
 
 " Nothing," replies he, with a laugh that is rather torcod. 
 " It was a meie bolt. If you had not fainted you would 
 Lave known it was all over in a few minutes." 
 
 " Jt was the whip," I whisper, still nervous. 
 
 " Yes ; it was all my fault. I quite forgot Markham's 
 caution. I have to apologize very sincerely for my mistake" 
 
 " Never mind apologies," I say, laughing, " as we are 
 safe. I never remember being so terrified in my life, not 
 even when my steed nearly deposited me in the middle of 
 the High street in Carston. And you," I continue, in a 
 half-amused tone, peering at him from under my hat " you 
 were frightened too ? Confess it." 
 
 " I was," returned he, carefully evading my gaze. 
 
 " l>ut why, if, as you say, there was no danger ?" 
 
 " There are worse things than runaway ponies your 
 fainting, for instance. I thought you were never going to 
 open your eyes again, you looked so horribly white and cold 
 so like death." 
 
 "What a lovely picture !" laughing voluntarily. "Well, 
 console yourself ; you have seen what nobody else ever saw 
 Phyllis Carrington fainting. I had no idea I had it in me. 
 I really think I must be growing delicate, or weak-minded." 
 
 In silence Sir Mark gathers up the reins, and once more 
 the ponies start forward. 
 
 " Now, Dora can faint to perfection," I go on, finding 
 immense enjoyment in my subject. " If she is vexed or 
 troubled in any way, or hears thunder, she can go off grace- 
 fully into the arms of whoever happens to be nearest to her 
 at the tiiiio. She never fails ; it is indeed wonderful how 
 accurately she can measure distance, even at the last mo- 
 ment. While as for me, I do believe if I were scolded until 
 nothing more was left to be said, or if it thundered and 
 lightened from this to to-morrow, it would not have the 
 effect of removing my senses. At least up to this I have 
 found it so. For the future I shall be less certain. Hut how 
 aiicnt you are, and how cross you look! Still thinking oJ 
 the obdurate fair one ?"
 
 PHYLLIS. 179 
 
 " Of her and many other things." 
 
 " Well, perhaps she too is thinking of you." 
 
 " I can imagine nothing more probable," with a grim 
 mile. 
 
 " Neither can I." My treacherous spirits are again as 
 cending, " Let me describe her to you as at this moment I 
 almost think I can see her. Seated in a bower, enshrined in 
 roses and honeysuckles, with her hands folded listlessly upon 
 her lap, and her large dreamy black eyes (I am sure her eyes 
 are black) filled with re) en tan t tears, she is now remember- 
 ing with what cruel coldness she received your advances ; 
 while unmolested the pretty earwigs run races all over he? 
 simple white dress simple but elegant, you know." 
 
 H' m _yes." 
 
 " And now remorse has proved too much for her ; eVie 
 resolves on writing you a letter expressing contrition for 
 her past heartlessness. She draws toward her paper, pens, 
 and ink (in a three-volume novel the heroine has everything 
 at her hand, even in the most unlikely places ; there is 
 never any fuss or scramble), and indites you a perfumed 
 and coronetted note, which you will receive to-morrow. 
 There ! Now, don't you feel better ? " 
 
 "Infinitely so." 
 
 " What ! still frowning ? still in the lowest depths ? 1 
 begin to doubt my power to comfort you." 
 
 "I don't feel any inclination to jest on the subject," re- 
 turns Sir Mark, gruiHy, making a vicious blow with the 
 whip at an unoffending and nearly lifeless fly. 
 
 " Well, there," I gasp, in a sudden access of terror lest 
 he might again incense the ponies, " I will jest no more. 
 And don't despair. Perhaps who knows ? she may grow 
 fond of you in time." 
 
 lie laughs, a short, bitter laugh that yet has something 
 in it of dismal merriment. " If I could only tell you," he 
 says, " if you only knew, you would understand what a 
 double mockery are suet words coming from your lips." 
 
 His fingers close around the whip again. Again fright- 
 ened, I hastily clutch his arm. 
 
 " Don't do that," I entreat; "please do not use that 
 dreadful whip again: remember the last time you did so 
 we \vcre nearly killed." 
 
 " I wish wo had been altogether so," mutters he, sav- 
 agely. 
 
 1 stare at him in speechless surprise. Did that flask
 
 JftO PHYLLIS. 
 
 contain much brandy ? Wliat on earth has happened to 
 our careless, debonair Sir Mark? 
 
 Even as 1 gaze in wonder, he turns his head and look 
 with some degree of shame into my widely-opened, aston- 
 ished eyes. 
 
 " Pardon me," lie says, gently. " I don't know what 
 has come to me to-day. I fail to understand myself. I 
 doubt I am an ill-tempered brute, and have hardly any 
 right even to hope for your forgiveness." 
 
 But his manner has effectually checked my burst of elo 
 quence, and we keep unbroken silence until we reach oui 
 destination. 
 
 Here we find Marmaduke and Lady Blanche anxiously 
 on the lookout for us ; the others, tired of waiting, have 
 wandered farther afield. Marmaduke is looking rather 
 white and worried, I fancy. 
 
 "What has kept you until this hour?" he asks, irrita- 
 bly, pulling out his watch. 
 
 " Oh, how long you have been ! " supplements Blanche. 
 " We were beginning to wonder almost to fear an acci- 
 dent had occurred. It is quite a relief to see you in the 
 flesh." 
 
 " You were very near not seeing us," I explain. " The 
 ponies behaved very badly ran away with us for half a 
 mile or so and frightened me so much that I fainted." 
 
 " How distressing ! " says Blanche, apparently much 
 concerned. " How terrified you must have been ! And 
 8") unpleasant, too, without a lady near to help you ! You 
 were able to resuscitate Mrs. Carringtou, at all events." 
 (To Sir Mark.) 
 
 " Well, I don't suppose I would have been of much use 
 without the brandy," replies he, coolly. 
 
 " It must have been quite a sentimental scene," remarks 
 her ladyship, with a little laugh. " It reminds one of some- 
 thing one would read; only, to make it perfect, you should 
 be lovers. Now that you are safe it does not seem unkind 
 to laugh, does it, i 1 " 
 
 Marmaduke by this time is clack as night. In spite ot 
 myself, I know I have blushed crimson ; while Sir Mark, 
 turning abruptly away, goes to explain some trivial break 
 in the harness to one of the coachmen. 
 
 "It is a pity, Phyllis, you would not take my advice 
 this morning," says 'Duke, in a roiee that trembles a little, 
 either from suppressed anger or some other emotion. " If
 
 I 
 
 'PHYLLIS. 181 
 
 you had taken a groom, as I begged of you, all this un- 
 pleasantness might have been saved." 
 
 "I don't see how a groom could have prevented it," 1 
 reply, coldly. "Without a second's warning they were 
 ct' : it was nobody' fault." 
 
 " My dear 'Duke, we should be thankful they have es- 
 caped so well," murmurs Blanche, in her softest tones, lay- 
 ing a soothing touch upon my husband's arm. Both touch 
 and tone render me furious. " I dare say it was not very 
 serious." 
 
 " I dare say not ; but it might have been. And, whether 
 or not it has kept every one waiting for at least three- 
 quarters of an hour." 
 
 " It might have kept you still longer had I been killed," 
 I return, quietly, moving away in secret indignation. 
 
 Marmaduke follows me, leaving Blanche and Sir Mark 
 to come after, and side by side, but speechless, we proceed 
 on our way. 
 
 At length, in a rather milder tone, Marmaduke says, 
 " I hope otherwise your drive was enjoyable." 
 
 " Very much so, thank you. Though I must say I don't 
 care about feeling niy life in danger. I hope you enjoyed 
 yours." 
 
 " No " shortly " I did not. I never enjoyed anything 
 less." 
 
 "How unfortunate ! Was her ladyship thoughtful, or 
 ill-tempered, or what ? " 
 
 " She had nothing to do with it. I was thinking of you 
 the entire time." 
 
 " Of me ? How good of you I I am so sorry I cannot 
 return the compliment, but no one was farther from my 
 thoughts than you. Concluding you were happy, I dis- 
 missed you from my memory." 
 
 " I had a presentiment about those ponies." 
 
 " Ah ! it was the ponies occupied your mind not their 
 mistress. That sounds far more natural." 
 
 " They are vicious, and not to be depended upon," con- 
 tinues 'Duke, declining to notice my interruption. "I shall 
 dispose of them the very first opportunity." 
 
 "indeed you shall do nothing of the kind. They are 
 mine, and I will not have them sold." 
 
 "Well, keep them, if you insist upon it; but certainly 
 you shall never drive them again." 
 
 " Then i certainly shall ; and to-morrow, most probably
 
 182 PHYLLIS 
 
 I will not be ordered about as though I were a mere baby/ 
 M;irmnduke turns, and regards me so steadily and 
 gravely, that at length, in spite of myself, my eyes submit 
 and drop. 
 
 " Phyllis, how changed you are ! " says he, presently, in 
 a low tone. " When first I knew you even two months 
 ago you were a soft, tender, gentle little girl ; and now 
 you are always unjust and bitter to me, at least. 
 
 Something rises in my tin-oat and prevents my utterance 
 Large tears gather in my eyes. 
 
 " I am changed ; I know it." I burst out, suddenly. 
 " Before I married you I was a different person altogether. 
 And how can I help being 'bitter' at times? Even now, 
 when I told you how near death I had been, you showed no 
 feeling of regret thought of nothing but the delay I had 
 occasioned you and your friends." 
 
 "Oh, Phyllis," says 'Duke, in a tone that implies that I 
 have wrung his heart by my false accusations, and before 
 either can again speak we have passed a hillock and are in 
 full view of our guests. 
 
 They are all scattered about in twos or threes, though 
 none are very far distant from the others ; and the scene is 
 more than usually picturesque. Certainly the old Deacon 
 knew what he was about when he placed his well in this 
 charming spot. It is a little fairy-like nook, fresh and 
 green, and lying forgotten among the hills, A few pieces 
 of broken-down, ivy-covered wall partially conceal the 
 steps leading to the Wishing Well. 
 
 " 'Duke, let us wish for dinner and get it before we 
 wish for anything else," entreats Bebe. " The drive has 
 given me a horrible appetite. I am generally a very nice 
 person eh, Mr. Thornton ? but just at present I am feel- 
 ing a downright unladylike desire for food. Phyllis, darling, 
 do say you are hungry." 
 
 " I am starving," I reply, though conscious at the 
 moment that the smallest morsel would choke me. 
 
 "Yes, by all means. 'Business first, pleasure after- 
 wards,' " quotes Chips, blithely, who is stretched full length 
 by Miss Beatoun's side, with his hat off and a straw in his 
 mouth, looking extremely handsome and unspeakably 
 happy. Lord Chandos is at her other side, though rather 
 farther away. 
 
 " What do you say, Phyllis ? " says 'Duke, looking at 
 me.
 
 PHYLLIS. 133 
 
 "Do not take me into consideration at all," I return in 
 a suppressed voice. " Dinner now, or in five hui rs to come, 
 would be quite the same thing to me." 
 
 I move quickly away from him towards mamma as I say 
 this, and, sinking down on the turf very close to her, slip 
 my hand into hers; and as I feel her gentle fingers closing 
 upon mine, a sense of safety and relief creeps slowly over 
 me. 
 
 Dinner progresses ; and, though I will not acknowledge 
 it, I begin to feel decidedly better. Fragments of conver- 
 aation float here and there. 
 
 " I have a great mind to set my little dog at yon," saya 
 Bebe, in reply to some flagrant compliment bestowed upon 
 her by the devoted Chips. A little bijou of a dog, with an 
 elaborate collar and beseeching eyes, that sits upon her 
 knee and takes its dinner from her pretty white fingers, ia 
 the animal in question. 
 
 "Oh, please don't," murmurs Chips, pathetically. "I 
 am so horribly afraid of your little dog. Foil would not 
 like me to die of nervous excitement, would you ? " 
 
 " I am not so sure. It would make room for a better 
 man." 
 
 " Impossible ! There isn't a better fellow going than I 
 am. You ask my mamma when you see her." 
 
 "I need not ask anybody ; I can see for myself. What 
 do you do all day long but play billiards ? " 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Miss Beatoun. You estimate my 
 capabilities at a very improper level. I do no end of things 
 besides billiards. I shoot, smoke, eat, and talk to you." 
 
 " What a way to spend one's life ! " severely. " I won- 
 der where you think you will go when you die?" 
 
 " I hope wherever you go. I say," piteously, " don't 
 scold a fellow on such a splendid day don't; it's uncom- 
 mon afflicting of you; and don't put on your gloves for a 
 liUlo longer." 
 
 " Why?" 
 
 l< Because I like looking at your hands, though at the 
 same time they always irritate me. They are the very 
 pivitiest I ever saw ; and forgive me for saying it but I 
 always want to kiss them. Now, don't begin agaiu, please; 
 remember you have lectured me for a good hour.' 
 
 " Then I have wasted a good hour and done nothing 
 1 give you up ; you are past cure." 
 
 " I remember coming here oiice beforj," brealw in Lov
 
 1&4 PHYLLIS. 
 
 tie llastings's voice, ''and wishing for something, and J 
 really got it before the year was out." 
 
 " Most one wait a whole year ? " asks Sir Mark. " Then 
 I shall have to write mine down. Give you ray word that 
 if my own name was suppressed for a jtar I don't belie va 
 I would recollect what it was at the end of it." 
 
 " Are we bound by law to name our wishes ? " asks 
 Chips, earnestly. " Because, if so, I shall have to sink into 
 the ground with shame. I'm horrid bashful that is my 
 most glaring fault, you know, Miss Beatoun and I would 
 not disclose my secret desire for anything you could offer." 
 
 " For anything J could offer," repeats Miss Beatoun. 
 " Are you sure ? Shall I tempt you ? Would you not, for 
 instance, take " The eyes say the rest. 
 
 "Don't," exclaims Thornton, putting his hands over 
 his ears. " I won't listen to you. I refuse to understand. 
 Miss Hastings, will you permit me to sit by you ? Miss 
 Beatoun is behaving with more than her usual cruelty." 
 
 "Come," says Miss Hastings, smiling and putting aside 
 her dress to give him room to seat himself on the grass 
 near her. 
 
 As Chips leaves Bebe, Lord Chandos quietly slips into 
 his place, to Miss Beatoun's evident surprise. 
 
 " Is it fair to encourage that poor boy so very openly? " 
 begins Chandos, calmly. 
 
 " What?" says Mis Beatoun. 
 
 "Is it kind to flirt so much with young Thornton?" 
 repeats Lord Chandos, still perfectly calm. 
 
 " You must make a mistake," says Bebe, provokingly 
 " You know I never flirt. In the first place, I don't con 
 sider it good form." 
 
 " Neither do I consider it ' good form ' for a young lady 
 to talk slang," very gravely and quietly. "I wouldn't do 
 it if I were you." 
 
 " How do you know what you would do if you were I ? " 
 
 "At all events, you must acknowledge that it is not be- 
 coming." 
 
 " Do you profess to understand what is becoming to 
 young ladies? Have you been studying them? Come, 
 then, if you are so good a judge, I will ask you to tell me 
 if this hat is so very becoming as they all say. Look well, 
 now, before you decide ; it is a question of the utmost im- 
 portance." 
 
 This saucy little speech is accompanied by such a be-
 
 PHYLLIS. 185 
 
 witching glance from under the said hat that Lord Chan- 
 dos loses his presence of miud. "I cannot bear to see you 
 flirt so much as you do with every one," he mutters, hast- 
 ily ; " it tortures me. Bebe, why is it?" 
 
 Miss Beatoun grows decidedly white, even to her lips, 
 yet is still thoroughly composed. 
 
 " But do I flirt 'I " she says. " I don't bclive I do. Do 
 you believe it, my darling, my treasure, my Tito?" to the 
 dog. " ]S r ot you. No, no, Lord Chandos ; it is not that at 
 all." 
 
 " What is it then ? " impatiently. 
 
 " Why, it is 'every one ' who flirts with me, to be sure. 
 And that is not my fault, is it? " with the most bewildering 
 assumption of injured innocence. 
 
 And now we all rise ami saunter towards the well. 
 
 "If you would only wish as I do," whispers Sir George 
 to Dora, "I would be the happiest man alive." 
 
 "Would you?" says innocent Dora. "But how shall 
 I know what you are longing for ? " 
 
 " Can you not guess ? " 
 
 " I am afraid I cannot. Unless, perhaps but no, of 
 course it would not be that. Indeed I do not know how to 
 reach your thoughts. One must want so many things." 
 
 " I want only one." 
 
 "Only one! Oh, how moderate! Only one! Let me 
 BCC," with a delicious meditative air, and two slender fingers 
 pressed upon her lips. 
 
 " Shall I tell you ? " 
 
 "Oh, no, no," with a pretty show of eager fear. "If you 
 told any one the charm would be broken, and you would 
 not get what you want. Perhaps who knows ? the boon 
 I am going to demand will be the very thing you would tell 
 Die." This with a sufficiently tender glance from the lus- 
 trous azure eyes. 
 
 " For my part," says Bebe, wilfuUy. " I shall wish for 
 lomething J can never get, just to prove how absurd it all 
 is." 
 
 "From time to time we every one of us do that,' says 
 Chandos. " We hanker after the impossible. I begiu to 
 fear J shall never get my heart's desire." 
 
 He glances expressively at Bebe. 
 
 " Then think of something else," suggests that young lady, 
 moothly. " Your second venture may be more successful.'
 
 186 PHYLLIS. 
 
 " No, I shall keep to ray original wish, until I cithoi 
 gain it or else lind further hoping folly." 
 
 " Phyllis, it is your turn now. Will you not descend and 
 court fortune ?" calls Harriet. 
 
 I am deeply engaged listening to mamma while she reads 
 to me Billy's last effusion from Eton, to which place he re- 
 turned the second day after our ball. 
 
 " It is a pity to disturb Mrs. Carrington," says Sir Mark 
 K She told me this morning she had not a wish left ungrati- 
 fied." 
 
 Marmaduke raises his head quickly, and, flushing warmly 
 turns a pleased and rather surprised glance at me. 
 
 " Nevertheless, I will come," I cry incautiously, spring 
 ing to my feet, " and beg for the continuance of my happi 
 ness, which includes everything." 
 
 "Oh, Phyllis! " cries Bebe. 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Carrington," exclaims Sir Mark; "what a 
 rash proceeding ! Why did you say it aloud ? You have 
 destroyed every chance of receiving that good gift." 
 
 "Yes," say I, "how provoki?ig ! Never mind, content- 
 ment still remains: and that, I have heard, is quite as much 
 to be desired." 
 
 Everybody laughs heartily, and Marmaduke says, " You 
 will get nothing, Phyllis, if you declare your wants so 
 openly." 
 
 " Neither happiness nor contentment, hoAV dismal ! " ex- 
 claim I, laughing too. " Well, I shall keep my third and 
 last thought to myself." 
 
 And having hoped in my own mind that Lord Chandos 
 would very soon again ask Bebe to be his wife, I go through 
 the form of drinking a little of the pure spring water Master 
 Chips oilers me with due solemnity. 
 
 The principal business of the day being concluded, our 
 party once more breaks up into detachments, some straying 
 *ut of sight in pretenJed search of scenery, some following 
 Lheir example in an opposite direction without any pretense 
 at all. 
 
 Sinking down again by mother's side, I content myself 
 with her and Harriet, while Marmaduke and Sir James slay 
 to b<?ar us company, and smoke unlimited cigars, while offer- 
 ing a lazy remark every now and then. 
 
 " Do you feel no desire U*wivestigate the neighborhood ? " 
 asks Sir Mark of me, carelessly, as he passes by ; and as I 
 answer, " No," with a smile and shake of my head, ha
 
 PHYLLIS. 137 
 
 saunters off towards Lottie Hastings, witL whom he com- 
 mences a flirtation, calm but vigorous. 
 
 Somehow it is a peaceful hour we spend, and one that 
 drives me from the vague irritation that before tormented 
 me. In the quiet of the present I forget all life's vexations, 
 and remember only such good things as are within my grasp. 
 How paltry now seem the troubles that oppress me ! I fear 
 yet know not what it is I fear. I doubt yet, if com- 
 pelled to do so, would find a difficulty in giving my doubt 
 a name. 
 
 Tliis sweeter mood continues, and travels home with me, 
 although we do not reach Strangemore until it is nearly 
 nine. 
 
 Here, at an early supper, we all find ourselves in the wild- 
 est spirits. Glancing curiously at Dora, attracted by some 
 nameless new expression in her eyes, I feel convinced the 
 day has been to her one of unmixed triumph, and that 
 already the Wishing Well has granted her desire. 
 
 As I get near her in the drawing-room, I manage to 
 whisper, " What is it, Dora? did he? Are you " 
 
 " Yes he did, and I am" responded Dora, with a smile 
 of unusual liveliness for her. " To-night you shall know 
 all." 
 
 " How was it, Dora ? How did it happen ? " I ask, two 
 hours later, as I sit opposite to her, my hands embracing my 
 knees, in my favorite position, my head bent forward ill 
 eager anticipation of her news. 
 
 " I hardly know. It was all that Wishing Well, I fancy. 
 For the future I shall feel it my duty to be superstitious. 
 At all events, it surely helped to bring it about, as he only 
 wanted the opportunity to declare himself," says Dora, com 
 placently, 
 
 " What did he say, Dora? Was he nervous or ' 
 
 " Very nervous. He seemed quite afraid to come to the 
 point. You see I am always so distant in my manner," 
 says my modest sister, " he had no way of judging what my 
 answer was likely 10 be." 
 
 " I am sure whatever he said was just what it should 
 be, he is so thoroughly sincere," I remark, still anxious to get 
 at the root of the matter. 
 
 "I am afraid 1 cannot altogether satisfy yomr curiosity 
 Phyllis, it has all got so mixed up. Of course he told me
 
 188 PHYLLIS. 
 
 principally what I knew before that he adores me, for in- 
 stance, and was desirous of marrying me, and so forth. Ha 
 was slightly incoherent, I thought ; but it really signified 
 very little whether his English was good or bad. so long as 
 I managed to understand what he meant." 
 
 " Of course not, darling. Oh, Dora, I am 80 sorry wa 
 let rnamma'go without telling her." 
 
 " I did tell her, dear. At least, that is, he George told 
 her." She brings out the Christian name of her beloved 
 with a charming amount of diffidence. " He said he would 
 like to make sure of me; and indeed I thought myself it 
 might perhaps be as well he should be the one to mention 
 it to her as a settled thing. You understand ? " 
 
 I do, and begin to entertain rather an admiration for 
 Dora's astuteness. 
 
 " You will forgive me now, Dora ? " I say, suddenly 
 leaning over to put my hand on hers. 
 
 " Forgive you ? Forgive what?" 
 
 " Well, dear, when I married 'Duke, you know, I 
 thought you were rather vexed you said so many things ; 
 and sometimes I have fancied, since, you still think I was in 
 the wrong." 
 
 '' My dear Phyllis, what a curious girl you are ! ' Forgive 
 you ! ' as if I had not done so, ages and ages ago if in- 
 deed tiere was anything to forgive. Sure)y you couldn't 
 have thought me so vindictive, so unchristian, as to retain 
 bitter feelings against you all this time?" 
 
 She has opened her childish blue eyes to their widest, 
 ami is gazing at me plaintively, as though grieved I should 
 iir.igine her capable of any vile feeling. 
 
 " I s.ometimes feared " 1 stammer, utterly abashed 
 
 in the presence of so much sweetness. 
 
 ' You must put such ideas out of your head, Phyllis \ 
 {}-,(. y are very unworthy. I never harbor unforgiving 
 thoughts, I should hope, towards any one least of ali 
 lo wards you, my sister. Besides, I ought really to be 
 :h:uikful to you, if an/thing. Marmaduke and I would 
 have been most unsuited to each other. lie is far too 
 CM (/cant and masterful for my taste. George is in every 
 way more desirable." 
 
 1 don't quite see all this, but reserve my sentiments 
 
 " lie is greatly to be liked," I say, with truth honest, 
 good-natured George Ashurst having won hi* way into my
 
 PHYLLIS. \Wt 
 
 Rffoctions long since. " I rlon't know that I was ever more 
 d flighted ;il)out anything in my life." 
 
 kk \Vs, everybody will be pleased, I imagine papa and 
 mamma especially. I don't see how papa can make the 
 faintest objection in airy way. He must feel gratified." 
 
 I think of Sir George's rent-roll, and have the words, " I 
 should think so, indeed," upon the tip of my tongue, bat, 
 being desirous of keeping up friendly relations with Dora, 
 refrain from uttering them. She evidently takes her good 
 fortune as a matter of course, having ever rated herself at 
 a high price, and believes she has got her bare deserts no 
 more. 
 
 " I hope you that is, I hope he will be very good to 
 you," I say, making the correction in time. 
 
 " I hope we will be very good to each other. Indeed, I 
 see nothing to prevent our being quite happy and comfort- 
 able. Do-n't you think lie appears very fond of me?" 
 
 " More than that : I think he appears to love you very 
 dearly." 
 
 " Yes, I really think he does,' says my sister, running 
 her fingers lazily through her silken yellow hair. 
 
 " And you, Dora do you love him ? " 
 
 " Of course, dear. Would I marry him else ? Am I the 
 sort of person to sell myself for mere money's sake ? " In- 
 dignation of the mild and virtuous order is in her tone. 
 " No," says Dora, calmly looking me fair in the eyes, " I 
 would not marry a man unless I loved him not if he had 
 the mines of Golconda." 
 
 This ennobling sentiment is, I feel, aimed at me, and 
 justly judge it will be unwise to pi-ess the matter farther : 
 SD I say, " I am so glad, darling ! " but say it very weakly. 
 
 " ^ evertheless," goes on Dora, after a moment's pause, 
 " as I do love him, it is very fortunate he should be so well 
 off. Yesterday he told me he had twenty thousand pound* 
 a year. Rather more than you have, dear, is it not?" 
 
 No, Dora has not yet forgiven me. 
 
 " A great deal more," I say, warmly ; " we have snly 
 fifteen thousand. But then, Dora, it was only to be expected 
 you would make a far better match than I could." 
 
 I' Well, yes perhaps so," admits Dora, casting an ad- 
 miring glance at her own pretty shell-pink face as it smilwi 
 ack at her from an opposite mirror. 
 
 The door opens, and Marmaduke comes in.
 
 190 PHYLLIS. 
 
 " Oh, 'Duke," I cry, rising, " just fancy ! Dora is but 
 
 you shall guess my news what is she? " 
 
 ** That is a rather embarrassing question," says he, smil- 
 ing. ' Were I to tell you all that Dora is in my eyes, w 
 would get 110 sleep to-night." 
 
 Dora laughs, and I say : 
 
 " Nonsense ! A liet of her perfections would be no news; 
 we all know them. Tell me what you think has occurred 
 to her since this morning." 
 
 " I think she has become engaged to George Ashurst," 
 returns 'Duke, coolly. " Why, you foolishschild, do you call 
 that news? Ashurst has told every one in the house of hia 
 crood luck by this time. If I were you, Dora, I would 
 meakfast in my own room to-morrow morning. You will 
 never be able to stand all the congratulations." 
 
 " How can he be so absurd ? " murmurs Dora, for once 
 in Ivor life genuinely confused, and a rich red coloring her 
 cheeks. 
 
 " I congratulate you with all my heart," says 'Duke, 
 kindly, kissing her. " You have got as good a husband as 
 any girl could desire, and as rich a one, too, without doubt. 
 We shall be small people, Phyllis, you and I, next to my 
 Lady Ashurst." 
 
 " I must not stay to hear any more flattery. Thank you 
 very much for all you have said," replies Dora, gracefully, 
 and, having bidden us both good-night goes off to her own 
 room. 
 
 Every one in the house is immensely delighted. An en- 
 gagement, even when everything belonging to it goes 
 smoothly, and suitably, cannot fail to awaken interest in the 
 heart of a woman ; and, Dora's lover being uncoveted by 
 any of us, no jealousy shows itself to mar the universal good 
 teeling. 
 
 We chatter about it all next day, and tell each other we 
 bad seen how it would end from the very beginning. We 
 dilate on the charming place he has in Surrey, his palace in 
 the North ; and then we whisper of what a detestable creature 
 is his mother ; while Bebe hopes Dora will have courage to 
 put a veto at once against any lengthened visiting on her 
 part. 
 
 " Because," says Miss Beatoun, " we all know where that 
 will lead. When Ashurst's brother married Lady Oclavia 
 Derinir, his mother invited herself to pay them a month's 
 visit ; and she stayed ten ; and it was the doctor and the
 
 PHYLLIS. 191 
 
 nurse, eventually, who insisted on putting her out, shortly 
 after the boy was born. They say poor Lady Oetavia 
 nearly \sent out of her mind one morning when, on going 
 into her nursery, she found the old lady deliberately pour- 
 ing some nauseous allopathic medicine down the child's 
 throat. Ootavia told me herself, with tears in her eyes, 
 Ihe poor little fellow was all but in a fit for two hours af- 
 terwards. She is really a very shocking old person, and 
 should be suppressed. I do hope dear Dora will gather 
 together all her pluck and try to be a match for her." 
 
 Secretly, I feel so assured of dear Dora's being a 
 " match " for any moflier-in-law alive that I endure no un- 
 easy pangs on this count. She bears the congratulations 
 and the little good-natured banterings admirably, is modest 
 without being stupidly shy, and prettily conscious without 
 betraying any symptoms of gaucherie. She is indeed as 
 perfect in her new role of bride-elect as though she had sus- 
 tained the part for years. 
 
 " Sir George must be a favorite with the gods : let us 
 hope he Avon't die young," says Sir Mark, bending over 
 Dora some time during the evening, "lie has had every- 
 thing he could possibly desire from his cradle upwards 
 money, friends, position ; and now he must get you. I 
 think" in a playfully injured tone "the good things of 
 this life are very unequally divided. In common justice, 
 Ashurst should have been forced into matrimony with a 
 woman as ugly, ill-tempered, and altogether disenchanting 
 as his manners, instead of which " 
 
 lie sighs audibly, and makes an eloquent pause. 
 
 Dora smiles, her usual soft serene sruile, untouched by 
 coquetry that experience has taught me means so little 
 and raises one white hand in deprecation. Dora's handa 
 are faultless, filbert-nailed, creamy-white, pink-tinged, with 
 just suilicient blue tracery of the most delicate kind here 
 nd there to call attention to their beauty. 
 
 " Is Lady Ashurst all that you say? so very terrific t 
 flow unhappy you make me ! ' she murmurs, plaintively, 
 lemurely ignoring other parts of his speech.
 
 192 PHYLLIS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIY. 
 
 FKESH and keen, and decidedly chilly, blows th Octo- 
 ber wind. The men have all deserted us, and gone oal 
 shooting. The women are scattered through the house. 
 
 Crossing the hall and the smaller drawing-room, I meet 
 no one, and entering the larger apartment beyond, seek my 
 favorite seat in the bow-window, where, book ki hand, 1 
 ensconce myself behind the curtains, and, stretching my- 
 self upon a lounge, prepare to be lazily happy. The lace 
 draperies falling round me entirolv conceal me from view; 
 J can see right into the conservatory without turning my 
 hend, and the seductive breath of flowers stealing towards 
 me adds one more thrill to my enjoyment. 
 
 Steadily I turn page after page. I feel I am growing 
 interested , a very little later I feel I am growing sleepy. 
 My lids droop. Putting my book down, upon my lap, with 
 of course the settled intention of taking it up again direct- 
 ly, I yawn mildly. 
 
 The door opens : with a start I become aware of Bebe'a 
 entrance, To admit I am present means conversation -and 
 conversation with this drowsy fit upon me means mi.- ry. 
 I therefore keep breathless silence, and Bebe, all un 
 scious, saunters past me, basket and scissors in hand, 
 goes into tin conservatory. 
 
 I watch her dreamily, as with a business-like air she 
 drags the light garden-ladder forward, and, mounting, com- 
 mences to clip my very choicest blossoms for her own se- 
 cret purposes. 
 
 One by one they fall into her basket. Has she no con- 
 science? Or has she forgotten it is already October, and 
 the flowers grow scarce ? I confess to some faint indigna- 
 tion as I regard her, and have almost decided on rousing 
 to remonstrate with her in person, when a firm but hasty 
 foctstep upon the gravel outside excites my curiosity. 
 
 A moment later Lord Chandos pushes open the door of 
 the conservatory, and, entering, stops short, his gaze fixed 
 upon Miss Beatoun. 
 
 As for Bebe, between looking suddenly round and sur- 
 prise at his unex] scted presence there, she loses all idea of
 
 PHYLLIS. 193 
 
 balance, and is in the act of coming with undue hurry to 
 the ground, when Lord Chandos, stepping quickly forward, 
 catches her and lifts her lightly down. Perhaps he is a 
 fc rifle longer in the performance of this deed than is strictly 
 accessary. 
 
 ' Oh ! how could you frighten one BO ? " exclaims Bebe, 
 coloring, and speaking ungratefully, as it seems to me, con 
 eidering he has just saved her from a heavy fall. " I thought 
 you were out shooting with the others." 
 
 " So 1 was ; but I forgot something, and had to return 
 for it." 
 
 " What did you forget ? your pipe ? " 
 
 " No, my gun," replies he, in the most barefaced fashion 
 possible. 
 
 " Oh ! " cries Miss Beatoun lengthily, and then they both 
 laugh. 
 
 " Why don't you admit at once you had no intention of 
 ehooting to-day? It would have been much honester." 
 
 " Because admissions are dangerous. It is always better 
 policy to leave people in doubt. Yet, as I never class you 
 in my own mind under the head of ' people,' I will confess 
 to you it is not so much forgetfulness causes my presence 
 here just now as a settled determination not to remember. 
 My conscience was anything but clean when I said I had 
 mislaid something, and should come back to find it." 
 
 " Was it really your gun ?" 
 
 " No ; I think I put it on cartridges, or a handkerchief, 
 or I am not clear what." 
 
 "And why ? What was your motive? I fancied you 
 an indefatigable sportsman one impossible to turn aside 
 from your prey." 
 
 " Shall I tell you my motive ? " asks Chandos, in sucfa 
 an utterly changed low tone that Miss Beatoun, standing 
 near the ladder, lays her hand suddenly upon it to steady 
 herself, and retreats a step. 
 
 " Better not," sbo says, in a voiee that trembles appre- 
 hensively, in spite of all her efforts to becalm. "Remember 
 vhat you said a moment since : ' Admissions are dangerous.' 
 Better leave me in doubt." 
 
 " I cannot. Besides, you are not in doubt. You know 
 what it is I am going to say. I have come back here agam 
 fco-day to tell you how I have tried, and found it impossible, 
 to crush the love I bear you." 
 
 At this juncture I become aware I ata w fur a sc
 
 194 PHYLLIS 
 
 The certainty is horrible to me. I am in such an unhappy 
 position as enable? me to see them without mj self being 
 seen. I can also hear every word they utter. In fact, there 
 are but very few yards between us. 
 
 With shame I now recollect that Bebe once said of me 
 that never would I be accused of " pouncing " upon delicate 
 aituations ; yet, if I go out now, I shall cover them both 
 with everlasting confusion. 
 
 What shall I do ? I put my fingers in my ears as a last 
 resource and tightly close my eyes, but somehow they will 
 not keep shut. Every now and then I cannot help glanc- 
 ing to see if they are gone or going- I cannot lesist re- 
 moving my fingers to hear if the conversation has taken a 
 cooler turn. 
 
 Every moment I linger only makes my declaring myself 
 more difficult. I end by giving in, and staring and listen- 
 ing with all my might. 
 
 " Ah ! why does Bebe look so determined ? Why can't 
 she yield gracefully arid be happy ? I would at once, were 
 I in her place, and feel no degradation in so doing. She 
 is flushed and miserable to look at, her large eyes seeming 
 larger and darker than usual through pained excitement. 
 Yet still there is so much mistaken pride impressed upon 
 her features as makes me fear for the part she will take in 
 the interview. If she would but listen to her heart's dicta- 
 tion ! 
 
 " Lord Chandos, I implore you to desist," entreats Bebe, 
 hastily, raising one hand, to prevent his further speech. " It 
 is worse than useless." 
 
 But he only imprisons the warning hand and continues: 
 ** Nay, hear me that is all I ask and then, if I am again 
 to be rejected, be it so. But surely I have been wretched 
 Icng enough, and you " 
 
 " I will not listen," murmurs Bebe, more deeply agita- 
 ted. " The answer I gave you when you were poor is the 
 only answer I can ever give you now." Her voice dies 
 way, almost to a whisper. 
 
 " What do you mean by that ? " exclaims Chandos, 
 passionately. " Is the very money that I hailed with de- 
 light, principally because I dreamed it might bring me 
 closer to you, to prove a barrier between us ? Presumptuous 
 as it may sound, I dare to believe I am not quite indifferent 
 to you. Your manner when we parted, your eyes when w
 
 PHYLLIS. 19t, 
 
 met ngnin down bore, have fostered this belief, and yet you 
 brink from me." 
 
 A little inarticulate cry escapes her. One hand goes to 
 her throat ; she tries vainly to withdraw the other from his 
 grasp. 
 
 "Contradict me if you can," he says, in a .ow tat 
 vehement tone. 
 
 " This is ungenerous unmanly, ** she falters, her words 
 half choked with emotion. 
 
 " Contradict me," he reiterates. 
 
 " 1 can ; I do," murmurs she, but so weakly that her 
 voice can scarcely be heard. 
 
 "Is that the truth, Bebe? " says Chandos, more quietly. 
 " Is pride to come between us now? Darling, listen to me. 
 If you for one moment imagine I think badly of you be- 
 cause you refused to marry a poor man, you wrong me. I 
 think you acted rightly. Even as I asked you that day I 
 felt myself a coward in doing so. Was it honorable of me 
 to seek to drag you down from all the luxuries and enjoy- 
 ments to which you had been accustomed, to such a life as 
 it was only in my power to offer? Had your answer been 
 different, do you believe we would have been happy? I do 
 not." 
 
 " You strike at the very root of all romance," protests 
 Bebe, with a rather sad smile. 
 
 " I decline to countenance a great deal of rubbish," 
 returns he vigorously. "Poverty is the surest foe that love 
 can have, I stoutly maintain, in spite of all the poets that 
 ever wrote. But now that it no longer stands in the way, 
 Bebe, be my wife, and let us forget the past." 
 
 " Do you think we should either of us ever forget it ? " 
 demands she, raising a small white mournful face to his. 
 " Do you net see how it would come between us every 
 hour of our lives? Even supposing what you say to be 
 true, that I love you, it would be all the greater reason w^j 
 I should now refuse to be persuaded into doing as you wish 
 Could I bear to know, day by, that my husband thought 
 me mercenary ? " 
 
 " Mercenary ! I shall never think you that. Row could 
 I? How could any man blame you for shrinking from 
 such a selfish proposal as mine ? I tell you again I think 
 you l.ehaved rightly in the matter." 
 
 " Very rightly, no doubt, and very wisely, and very, 
 prudently for myself," replies Bebe, in a oold, bitter way
 
 196 PHYLLIS 
 
 "Why o^ek to disguise the truth? If it be true vjh.*t you 
 have supposed, that I returned your affection, I only proved 
 myself one of those who fear to endure even the smallest 
 privation for the sake of him they love ; and what a love 
 that must be!" She laughs contemptuously. "I fear, 
 Lord Chandos, I am not of the stuff of which heroines ara 
 m&de." 
 
 " If, as you hint, I am wrong," exclaims Chandos, 
 eagerly catching at a last chance, " if all along I have been 
 deceiving myself in the belief that you cared for me, let me 
 begin again now, and at least try to obtain _>our affection. 
 If, 
 
 "Enough has been said," interrupts she, icily "too 
 much. Let my hand go, Lord Chandos. I want to find 
 Mrs. Carrington." 
 
 (Mrs. Carrington is almost on the verge of lunacy by 
 this time between fright and disappointment.) 
 
 " Is there, then, no hope ? " asks Chandos, sternly. "Am 
 I to understand that you again reject me ? " 
 
 " Yes, as you put it in that light. It is your own 
 fault," bursts out Bebe, passionately. " I told you not to 
 speak." 
 
 " Had all the world told me the same thing, I would 
 still have spoken. Death itself is preferable to suspense. 
 If my persistence has caused you any annoyance, Miss 
 Beatoun, I beg you will forgive me." 
 
 " I too would be forgiven," falters Bebe, putting oxit a 
 cold white hand. As he stoops to kiss it she goes on, 
 faintly : " Will you promise me to forget you ever cared 
 for me in this way ? " 
 
 " Impossible," returns he, abruptly, and turning, walks 
 out of the conservatory through the door by which he 
 entered. 
 
 Now, is it not provoking? I feel my heart touched with 
 pity for Lord Chandos, with resentment towards his cruel 
 love, until, glancing towards the latter, who has stood mo- 
 li'Miless since his departure, with head bent and hands 
 loosely clasped, the resentment fades, and compassion of 
 the deepest takes its place. 
 
 I would give a.l the world to be ablt to go, meet and 
 comfort her, to twine my arms around her neck, to exprew 
 my sympathy. But how can I ? What a treacherous crea- 
 ture she would think me 1 How mean ! nothing but a piti 
 fui eavesdropper.
 
 PHYLLIS. 19< 
 
 Slowly she raises her head, and, breathing a heavy sigh, 
 slvances until she stands within the drawing-room. 
 
 She is awfully close to me now : I can almost touch her. 
 IIow on earth am I to meet her again with this secret on 
 my mind ? If I go on feeling as I do now, I shall betray 
 my self a thousand times within an hour. 
 
 Two large tears gather in her eyes and roll mournfully 
 downwards. 
 
 I can bear it no longer. Whatever comes of it, I must 
 make my presence known, and, springing from my couch, 
 I dash aside the thick lace curtains and reveal myself. 
 
 Uttering a sharp cry, she recedes a little, then checks 
 herself to stare at me with mingled haughtiness and aston- 
 ishment. 
 
 " Yes, I was here all the time," I cry, imploringly, " and 
 I heard every word. I was lying on this sofa, and nothing 
 escaped me. Of course you will never forgive me for it, 
 but indeed I did not mean to listen." 
 
 "Oh, Phyllis?" 
 
 There is such a world of reproach in her tone that I 
 hecome distracted. I move towards her and break into a 
 speech of the most incoherent description, my words tailing 
 from me with the rapidity of desperation. 
 
 " Yes, it is true," I say. " You may look at me as if 
 you hated me, but what was I to do ? When firsr. you 
 came in I was in a dozy, half sleepy sort of state, and not 
 until you and Chandos were in the very middle of your 
 discussion did I fully awake to the horrors of my situation. 
 Had I declared myself then, it surely would have been 
 worse; and, besides, I hoped, I believed you would have 
 been kind to him at the end, and dreaded lest my unex- 
 pected appearance should put a stop to his proposal. How- 
 ever'* pathetically "I suppose you will never forgive 
 me." 
 
 " Oh, Phyllis, it is all over now ! " is poor Bobe's un 
 looked-for reply, as she throws herself into my a?ms, with 
 a burst of grief. She is forgetful of all but her trouble. 
 How paltry a thing in comparison with it is my small mi* 
 demeanor ! 
 
 " No, no," I reply, soothingly, patting the back of her 
 neck, which is all I can get at. " Remember the very last 
 thing he said that it would be 'impossible' to forget 
 
 fOU." 
 
 ** Ah ! so he said. But when he has time to reflect
 
 198 PHYLLIS. 
 
 will see how cold and detestable were ray words. He will 
 be glad of his escape from any one so unloving. I myself 
 wonder now, Phyllis, how I could have so spoken to him." 
 " I could have killed you as I listened," I say, vindic- 
 tively. " How you brought yourself to behave so badly to 
 the dear fellow is more than I can understand. And he 
 looked so nice all the time, and was so delightfully in earnest! 
 Oh, I know I would have given in long before he had time 
 to say one-half what he said to you. Bebe, what made you 
 BO sold? I could have gone in and shaken you with all my 
 heart." 
 
 *' I wish you had," replies she, dolefully. "Yet, per- 
 haps things are better as they are. At all events, he can- 
 not think meanly of me. I have shown him that, whatever 
 else I may be, I am not a mere money-lover." 
 
 " Well, for all that, I think it a foolish thing to cut off 
 one's nose to vex one's face," return I, with much truth 
 and more vulgarity. 
 
 " I am not vexing any one," says Bebe. 
 " Yes, you are. You meant to vex Lord Chandos, and 
 you succeeded. And you are vexing yourself dreadfully. 
 And all for what ? For the miserable thing called pride. 
 Now, I never had any of that troublesome commodity about 
 me, and I believe the want of it adds greatly to one's enjoy- 
 ment." 
 
 " Had I accepted him I would have been wretched," 
 murmurs she, with a sigh. Then, breaking down again : 
 " And now that I have refused him, I am wretched too ; so 
 there is no comfort anywhere." 
 
 ** I shall always for the future hate that conservatory," 
 exclaim I, half crying. " And what was the use of my 
 wishing at the Deacon's Well, if this is the only answer 1 am 
 to receive ? " 
 
 " Was your wish about me ? " 
 
 " Yes. I hoped Lord Chandos would again ask you to 
 marry him. And see, it has happened. I forgot to wish 
 at the same moment that you might be endowed with a 
 little common sense. It never occurred to me that you 
 would be rash enough to murder your happiness a second 
 time." 
 
 " What a good little thing you are, Phyllis, to think 
 about it at all ! Well, let us not speak of it again to-day. 
 I do not choose he shall see me with reddened lids, like a 
 penitent. And if I cry any more I shall have to borrow
 
 PHYLLIS. 11)9 
 
 some rouge from the blooming Going to color my pale 
 cheeks. See, I still can laugh ! " 
 
 " You will marry him yet," retort I, with conviction, re- 
 fusing to notice the negative shake of the head she bestow* 
 upon me as she quite the room. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 " HARRIET, I am freezing rapidly : will you ring the bell, 
 as you are so near it, and let us get some more coals ? Tynon 
 "seems to think we require none." 
 
 Harriet withdraws her hand reluctantly from where it ia 
 lying, warm and perdu, beneath the silky Skye snoozing on 
 her lap, and does as she is bidden. 
 
 It is terribly cold. Suddenly, and without the usual 
 warning, winter has come upou us. \Wsitshivering around 
 the fire, and abuse unceasingly the roaring logs because they 
 won't roar faster. 
 
 Already my guests talk of leaving ; already countless in- 
 vitations to spend the coming Christmas in the homes of 
 others have reached Marmaduke and me. Indeed, Harriet 
 and Bebe whoso mother does not return to England until 
 the coming spring will take no refusal. 
 
 Dora's marriage is arranged to come off about the mid- 
 
 o o 
 
 die of the ensuing month ; and even now Hie illustrious per- 
 sonage who deigned to make me presentable on my entrance 
 into fashionable life is busying herself about the 'trousseau, 
 It seems to me a dreary month in which to celebrate a wed. 
 ding, but Sir George and Dora do not see it in this light, 
 and talk gayly of all the delights to be called from a winter 
 in Rome. 
 
 " Where is Lady Blanche ? " I ask, suddenly awakening 
 to the fact that for some hours I have not seen her. 
 
 " She complained of a headache shortly after the de- 
 parture of the shooting-party," says Dora, who is as usual 
 tatting, " and went to her own room." 
 
 " Dear me 1 I hope it is nothing serious," I say, anx- 
 iously, my conscience accusing me of some slight neglect,
 
 200 PHYLLIS. 
 
 " I thought she did look rather pale when I met her in the 
 
 hall." 
 
 " I don't think you need be uneasy, dear," remarks Har- 
 riet,mildly,with a suspicious twiokle in her eyes; " Blanche's 
 headaches never come to anything. Probably she will be 
 quite herself again by dinner-time. 
 
 " Perhaps she felt a little dull when the gentlemen were 
 gone," suggests dear Dora, very innocently, without raising 
 Evr white lids. 
 
 Harriet laughs maliciously, and pulls her Skye's ears ; 
 and, thus encouraged, our gentle Dora smiles. 
 
 " It seems rude, though, not to inquire for her, does it 
 not ?" say I, with hesitation. "I think I will just runup 
 and ask it there is nothing that I can do for her/' 
 
 So saying, I put down my work a wonderful piece of 
 imagination in the shape of a beaded collar for Cheekie, 
 Bebe's fox-terrier, which ever since its arrival has evinced a 
 decided preference for me beyond its mistress and, going 
 upstairs, knock at the door of the " round " room that 
 Blanche occupies. 
 
 " Come in," retoros her ladyship's voice, carelessly, evi- 
 dently thinking she is addressing one of the domestics. 
 
 I turn the handle and enter. 
 
 At the farther end of the room, robed in a pale blue 
 dressing-gown richly trimmed with lace, sits Blanche, look- 
 ing by no means so ill as I had expected to see her. In- 
 deed, the clearness of her eyes and the general air of live- 
 liness about her agree badly with her tale of a headache. 
 
 She has before her a tiny writing-table, and in her hand 
 a very elaborate pink sheet of note-paper, heavily mono- 
 grammed. It is covered with close writing, and as I open 
 the door she is in the act of folding it. As her eyes meet 
 mine, however, with a sudden want of presence of mind, 
 scarcely worthy of her, she hesitates, and finally ends by 
 putting it hastily between the leaves of her blotter. 
 
 She has flushed slightly, and looks put out. Altogether, 
 i cannot help seeing that my visit is as ill-timed as it is un- 
 welcome. 
 
 She rises to meet me, and in doing so throws a goodly 
 amount of elegant languor into her face and form. 
 
 " I was sorry to hear of your not feeling well," I hasten 
 to say as sympathetically as I can. " I came to see if I could 
 do anything for you." 
 
 "So good of you" with a weary smile " to kind to
 
 PHYLLIS. 01 
 
 take all this trouble ! But, thank you, no. I am a perfect 
 martyr to these attacks, and I find wheii seized with one 
 that rest and entire freedom from conversation are my only 
 cures. I have such a wretched head," putting her hand 
 pathetically to her forehead. " At such times as these I am 
 utterly useless, and the worst companion possible." 
 
 " A headache must be a miserable thing," say I, think 
 ing all the while how uncommonly well she bears hers. 
 
 " Yes," resignedly. " You never have one, I suppose." 
 
 " Oh, never ; I hardly know what it means the sensa- 
 tion you speak of. I am so desperately healthy, you see. I 
 dare say it comes from living in the country all my life and 
 never keeping late hours. Perhaps " smiling " when I 
 get to London I shall learn all too soon." 
 
 " I hope not, for your own sake." 
 
 " I fear you will be terribly ennuyee up here all by your- 
 self. If you would come down to the library it would be 
 so much more cheerful for you. There is a good lounge 
 there ; and you need not talk unless you wish it." 
 
 ' Thank you very much, but indeed I am better where 
 I am. I hate inflicting myself upon my friends when I am 
 so hopelessly out of spirits. Perhaps by and by towards 
 evening I shall lose this feeling of heaviness. I generally 
 do, indeed, if I remain perfectly quiet during the day. Un- 
 til then, dear Mrs. Carrington, I must ask you to excuse me. 
 But " going back to her own seat, withdrawing the coquet- 
 tish little note from its concealment, and proceeding to fold 
 it into a cocked-hat with elaborate openness " will you not 
 sit down for a few minutes ? " 
 
 I accept the hint. 
 
 " No, indeed. I will leave you to get a little sleep, so 
 that we may be the more sure of seeing you among us tnis 
 evening." 
 
 Much pleased with this speech, which sounds to my own 
 ^ars particularly graceful, I move towards the door and 
 finish. 
 
 " Well, how is she ? " asks Bebe, coming upon me unex- 
 pectedly, and speaking in a suppressed and agitated tone, 
 as though some one were dead or dying in the next room. 
 ' Is she anything better, poor darling ? Does the doctor 
 hold out the faintest chance of her recovery 1 Speak, and 
 relieve my burning anxiety! " 
 
 " I don't believe she is ill at all," I return, in high di
 
 202 PHYLLIS. 
 
 gust. " She looks perfectly well, and her oolor quite aa 
 bright as ever." 
 
 " A hectic flush, dearest. I fear our sweet friend is in 
 a bad way. How could you look at her without seeing the 
 ravages of disease? Dear Phyllis, I doubt you are sadly 
 wanting in discernment. What did our 'stricken deer ' say 
 to you?" 
 
 " Oh, she put on an affected drawl, and called herself a 
 wretched being, and pressed her forehead tragically, au-1 
 was meekly resigned in every way, and looked most provo 
 kingly healthy all the time. I know I was not half at sym- 
 pathetic as I ought to have been." 
 
 Bebe breaks into merry laughter. We have turned a 
 corner, and are on our way downstairs by this. " Look here, 
 Phyllis ! " cries she : " you may take my word for it, the fair 
 Blanche is this moment in as sound health as you or I." 
 
 " But why, then, immure herself in her room and act thf 
 martyr ? " 
 
 " Tired of our company, probably, dear. We all undei 
 stand Blanche's vapors by this time. The men have gont 
 out, you see, not to return until dinner-hour, and women 
 are so terribly insipid. My lady's dresses want renovating, 
 it may be, and surely this a capital opportunity to see to 
 them. Voila-tout." 
 
 " And could she not say so ? Why tell a lie about such 
 a trifle ? " 
 
 " Blanche has a talent for lying. A pity to let it run 
 altogether to waste, is it not? She enjoys a little mystery 
 now and then ; and, besides, she would die of chargin if she 
 thought we knew she even spent an hour upon the doing 
 up of her things. We all have our ' little weaknesses,' " 
 says Miss Beatoun, comically, as we enter the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 Somehow, the remembrance of that pink note and the 
 faint confusion exhibited by Blanche Going on my entrance 
 into her room lingers in my mind. I feel a vague dislike tfl 
 that monogrammed epistle. For whom was it meant? 
 
 Off and on during the remainder of the day this que* 
 tion haunts me, and only a supreme effort of the will pre- 
 vent* my connecting it with the name of " Marmaduke." 
 
 Surely, surely, I cannot be becoming that most detesta- 
 ble of all things, a jealous, suspicious wife! 
 
 I am unhappy and restless in spite of ail rny endeavor
 
 PHYLLIS. 202 
 
 to be otherwise. I wander through the house conversing 
 with feverish gayety with any one I chance to meet, long 
 ing eagerly, I scarcely know why, for the return of the 
 sportsmen. Yet, as the twilight falls and the shades of 
 evening gather, instead of waiting for their coming, I have 
 Dora in full possession of the tea-tray, and, quitting the 
 drawmg-room, go upstairs to pass a solitary and purposeless 
 hour in my boudoir the pretty little sanctum, all blue and 
 lilver, that associations have endeared to me. 
 
 Finding myself as restless here, however, as elsewhere, 
 I leave it as the clock chimes half-past six, and, turning into 
 the picture gallery, begin to stare stupidly enough upon the 
 grim cavaliers and immodest sheperdesses, who in their 
 turn stare back at me. 
 
 Suddenly I become conscious that some cold air is blow- 
 ing upon me, and, raising my eyes, perceive the lower 
 window to be partly open. I shiver, and involuntarily 
 move forward to close it. 
 
 Outside this window runs a balcony, reached by stone 
 Bteps from the ground beneath, and as I draw nearer to it 
 sonnds coming from thence fall upon my ears first a 
 woman's voice, and then a man's. 
 
 Their words, though softly uttered, are thoroughly dis- 
 tinct ; a fragment of their conversation, unchecked by the 
 chill wind, passes close by me and makes itself heard. 
 
 " So you thought once. You cannot have altogether 
 forgotten the old times the past memories " 
 
 It is Blanche Going's voice, and the accent strikes me 
 as being reproachfully, nay tenderly impassioned. 
 
 For a moment my heart stops beaf.ng. A cold damp- 
 ness covers my face. I cannot move. I hardly dare to 
 breathe. Oh, to whom are these words addressed ? Wtiost 
 roice will give her back an answer ? 
 
 Sir Mark speaks ; and with a relief that through its in- 
 iensity is for the instant acutest pain, I stagger against the 
 vail near me, and stand motionless to recover calm. 
 
 " Can anything be more melancholy than ' old times?' ' 
 itarmured Sir Mark, lightly, without the faintest trace of 
 tenderness in his tone. " Believe me, we can have no real 
 happiness in this life until we have learned successfully how 
 to forget." 
 
 I leave the window noiselessly, but as I go the words 
 and their meaning follow me. "Old times" "past mem- 
 ories " can it indee< be that in the " long ago " lie lov
 
 204 PHYLLIS. 
 
 passages that were or oo fresh between Lady Blanche and 
 
 Sir Mark Gore ? 
 
 Jfit be so, and that the remembrance of them is not yet 
 quite dead in her heart, what becomes of my theory (that 
 of late has been a settled conviction) that she bears an 
 overweening affection for my husband. Surely her tone 
 was utterly sincere : she had not feigned that despairing 
 sadness: those few words had come from a full heart 
 from a woman making a last vain effort to revive a buried 
 love. 
 
 I gain my own room, and, having locked the outside door, 
 stop to press my hand to my forehead. A sensation that 
 is partly triumph, partly joy, rises within me joy, however, 
 that lasts but for a moment, as, with a groan, I recollect 
 h-ow as yet I have not proved Marmaduke's indifference to 
 her. 
 
 Of what consequence is it to me to know whether Mar- 
 maduke is or is not the first in Blanche Going's thoughts, 
 unless I be assured that sfie is not the first in his ? 
 
 Nevertheless, in spite of these dismal doubts, I feel my 
 spirits somewhat lighter. My feelings towards my hus- 
 band take a kindlier shade as I hurry through my dressing 
 with the assistance of my maid being already rather late 
 with my toilet. I hear 'Duke enter his own room. The 
 days are long gone by when he would seek my presence 
 the first thing on his return, and, having given me the kind 
 and tender kiss I prized so little, proceed to tell me all that 
 the day had brought him. 
 
 Just now this thought forces itself upon me obstinately, 
 bringing a strange, remorseful pang to my heart. I dismiss 
 Martha, and in an unusually softened frame of mind, open 
 the door that separates his room from mine, and say, cheer- 
 fully, " Had you good sport, Marmaduke? " 
 
 He looks up, plainly surprised, but makes no comment 
 on my unexpected appearance. 
 
 " Pretty fair. Not so good as we hoped on setting out^ 
 but very respectable for all that. Thornton is a first clasa 
 shot. Any one here to-day? " 
 
 " Yes, the Do Veres and Murrays. But they stayed no 
 time, and old Mrs. Murray was in a very bad temper. Jt 
 appears Harry is more than ever determined about marry- 
 iug the governess." 
 
 " I pity the governess, if she goes back to live with the 
 old lady at a daughter-in-law "
 
 PHYLLIS. 205 
 
 "So do I. Oh, Marmaduke, have you got any eau-de- 
 Cologne ? Martha must have a weaknes for it, as she never 
 leaves me any." 
 
 " I see plenty in one of these bottles. Come and take 
 it," 
 
 I walk in, fastening my bracelet as I go. 
 
 " That's a pretty dress you have on to-night " says Mar 
 mad uke, regarding me critically before going in for a 
 second battle with a refractory tie ; already .three lie in the 
 corner slaughtered. 
 
 " Fancy your seeing anything about me worth admir- 
 ing ! " I reply ; but, in spite of my words, my laugh is low 
 and pleased. His tone, though quiet, has a ring of cordial- 
 ity in it that for some time has been absent. A smile 
 hovers round my lips; 1 lift my head and am about to 
 make some little, trilling, saucy, honeyed speech, when my 
 eyes fall upon a certain object that lies upon the toilet-table 
 among the numerous other things he had just withdrawn 
 t'rom his pockets. 
 
 A tiny pale-pink three-cornered note rests, address up- 
 permost, beneath my gaze. "Marmaduke Carrington, 
 Esq." no more. How well I knew it, the detestable, 
 clear, beautiful writing ! 
 
 I feel my lips compress, my cheeks grow ashy white. 
 Turning abruptly, stung to the quick, I leave the room. 
 " Will you not take the bottle with you ? " calls out Mar- 
 maduke, and I answer, in rather a stifled voice, ' No, thank 
 you," and shut the door between us hastily. 
 
 Oh that that was all that separated us! I feel half mad 
 with outraged pride and passion. That she should write 
 him billets-doux in ray own house, that he should receive 
 them and treasure them, seems to me in my excited stato ; 
 the very basest treachery. Making tierce love beneath my 
 very eyes, so careless of my feelings, or so convinced of my 
 stupidity j as to take no pains to conceal their double-deal 
 ing! 
 
 I grow almost reckless, and remember with some sort 
 of satisfaction that at least it is in my power to wound him 
 in turn and her, too, after what I have ovei heard this 
 evening. Although his vaunted love for me if ever there 
 is now gone, I can still touch him where his honor is con- 
 cerned. I rub my pale face until the color returns to it, I 
 bite my quivering lips until they gleam like crimson ber- 
 ries, and, going downstairs, for the first time in my life 1
 
 206 PHYLLTS. 
 
 let the demon of coquetry rise and hold full sway within 
 my breast, while I go in for an open and decided flirtation 
 with Sir Mark Gore. 
 
 Yet how miserable I am. How wretched are the mo- 
 ments, when I give myself room for thought ! I note Mar- 
 maduke's dark frown, as, with Hushed cheeks and gloam- 
 ing, sparkling eyes, I encourage and play gayly to Sir 
 Mark's nonsense. I see Bebe's surprised glance and Har- 
 riet's pained one. I watch with exultation the bitter ex- 
 pression that clouds Lady Blanche's brow. I see every- 
 thing around me, and long with a feverish longing for 
 the evening to wear to an end. 
 
 At length comes the welcome hour of release. "Wo 
 have all wished each other good-night. The men have re- 
 tired to their smoking-room, the women to their bedroom 
 fires and the service of their maids. 
 
 Martha having pulled my hair to pieces and brushed it 
 vigorously, I give her leave to seek her own couch, and, 
 with a set purpose in my mind, get through the remainder 
 of my night toilet without assistance. 
 
 An unrestrainable craving to learn all the particulars of 
 Marmaduke's former attachment to Lady Blanche Going 
 (as described by Mark Gore) seizes me ; and Bebe being of 
 all people the one most likely to satisfy my curiosity I de- 
 termine to seek her and gain from her what knowledge 1 
 can. She is, besides, the only one of whom I would make 
 sacn an inquiry; therefore to her room I prepare to go. 
 
 I hastily draw on a pale-blue cashmere dressing-gown, 
 prettily trimmed with satin quilting of the same shade, and 
 substitute blue slippers for the black ones I have been wear- 
 ing during the evening. My hair hangs in rich chestnut 
 masses far below my waist; two or three stray rippling 
 locks wander wantonly across my forehead. A heavy blue 
 sord and tassel, confining my gown, completes my costume. 
 
 Leaving my own room noiselessly, I reach Jiebe's, and 
 knock softly on the door. 
 
 She too has dismissed her maid, and is sitting before 
 iLe fire in an attitude that bespeaks reverie. Whatever her 
 thoughts, however, she puts them from her on my entrance, 
 and comes forward to greet me, the gay, bright, dcbonnairt 
 Bebe of every day. 
 
 " I am so glad you have come ! " she says, running to 
 take both my hands and lead me to the fire. M A few mia-
 
 PHYLLIS. H)7 
 
 %. A*' conversation at this hour of the night i* worth hour* 
 <jf the day. And, oh, Phyllis, how pretty you look ! " 
 
 " Nonsense 1 " return I, mightily pleased, nevertheless ; 
 and, going over to the cheval glass, I proceed to examine 
 myself with a critical eye. 
 
 " Wonderfully pretty," repeats Bebe, with emphasis. 
 " My dearest Phyllis, you should always wear blue cash* 
 mere, and let your hair fall down your back just so. You 
 look exactly fourteen, and very charming." 
 
 " Well, even at the best of times I was never considered 
 pretty," declared I, modestly. " Now and then, when 
 wearing a new dress or that, I may have appeared good- 
 looking ; but even Marmaduke never told me I was that" 
 
 " Never told you you were pretty ! " cries Bebe, in a 
 voice of horror. " Never told you you were the sweetest 
 and loveliest creature upon earth ? What a miserable 
 lover ! " It would be impossible to describe the amount of 
 Boom she throws into her manner. 
 
 Her words, though I know they are spoken in jest, com- 
 ing thus hotly on my new suspicions, rankle sorely. 
 
 " I don't see that his telling me a lie would have done 
 any good," I expostulate, somewhat warmly, feeling 
 passionately aggrieved at the thought that he has fallen 
 short in his wooing. Surely once, if for ever so little a 
 time, I was all in all to him. 
 
 " Yes, it would an immensity of good. It would be 
 only fit and proper. That is just one of the things about 
 which a man ought to be able to lie well ; though, indeed, 
 in most cases I doubt if it would be a lie. Change a friend 
 into a lover, awaken with.n him the desire to make you his 
 wife, and, such is the vanity and self-complacency of man, 
 he will at once (in regarding you as his possible property) 
 magnify your charms, and end by contrasting you favorably 
 with every other wife of his acquaintance. You do not 
 come within the pale of my remarks, however, as I speak 
 af ugly tvomen. Phyllis, you are too modest. You give 
 nie the impression that all your life through you have been 
 more or less sat upon. Is it not so ? " 
 
 "I believe it is," I answer, laughing; "but I think 
 justly BO. Why, only look at my nose; it turns right up; 
 and and then, you know, Dora was always on the spot to 
 eclipse me." 
 
 " Indeed I know nothing of the kind. You are infia- 
 mor attractive in iny eyes ; though I admit l>ora kwi
 
 208 PHYLLIS. 
 
 charms, with her complexion and eyes of ' holy blue.' 1 
 rerily believe you are a hypocrite. Don't you know all the 
 men here ravo about you ? Don't you know it was a fixed 
 creed in the family that Marmaduke's heart was cased in 
 steel until he destroyed it by marrying you ? " 
 
 " Oh," I say, with a li< ' t laugh, though my blood it 
 coursing wildly though - 'ns, "you exaggerate slightly 
 there, I think. Was t very much epris with hu 
 
 cousin, Lady Blanche ^ g, some years ago?" 
 
 "A mere boy-and-girl attachment. I would as soon 
 dream of lending importance to the passion of a schoolboy 
 in his teens to the passion of my dear Chips, for instance. 
 Besides, she was several years older than he was whatever 
 ahe may be now," e.iys Bebe, with a little grimace. 
 
 " Was it violent while it lasted ? " 
 
 "I don't remember anything about it ; but mamma saya 
 it died a natural death after one season. Then she married 
 Colonel Going." 
 
 " Why does Colonel Going remain away so long? " 
 
 "Ah ! why, indeed, my dear? that is a thing nobody 
 knows. There was no divorce, no formal separation, no 
 esclandra of any kind ; he merely put the seas between 
 them, and is evidently determined on keeping thein there. 
 To me and my cousins of my own age the colonel is some- 
 thing of a myth ; but mamma knew him w r ell about six 
 years ago, and says he was a very fascinating man, and 
 upright, but rather stern." 
 
 " What a curiously unpleasant story ! But didn't 
 people talk ? " 
 
 " Of course they did ; they did even worse they whis 
 pered ; but her ladyship took no notice, and every one had 
 to confess she behaved beautifully on the occasion. She 
 gave out that her extreme delicacy alone (her constitution 
 is of iron) prevented her accompanying him to India, and 
 she withdrew from society, in the very height of the season, 
 (or two whole months. Surely decorum could no further 
 go! ' 
 
 " And then ? " 
 
 "Why, then she reappeared, with her beauty much 
 augmented from the enforced quiet and early hours and 
 with her mother." 
 
 "What is the mother like? One can hardly fancy 
 Blanche with anything so tender as a mother." 
 
 " Like a fairy godmother, minus the inagio wand and
 
 PHYLLIS 20ft 
 
 the energy of that famous person. A little o?Ck lady with a 
 dark face, and eyes that would be keen and searching but 
 for the discipline she has undergone. She has no opinions 
 and no aims but what are her daughter's; and Blanche 
 rules her as she rules every other member of her household 
 with a rod of iron." 
 
 " Poor old creature ! What an unhappy age ! So you 
 ay Maruiaduke's admiration for Blanche meant nothing? 
 And she did she like him f " 
 
 " For ' like ' read ' love ' I suppose ? My dearest Phyl- 
 lis, have you, who have been so long under the same roof 
 with Blanche, yet to discover how impossible it would be 
 for her to love any one but Blanche Going. Yet stay ; I 
 wrong her partly ; once she did love, and does so still, 1 
 believe.** 
 
 " Whom do you mean ? " ask I, bending forward eagerly. 
 
 " Have you no notion ? How surprised you look! You 
 will wonder still more when I tell you the hero of her 
 romance is at present in your house." 
 
 " Here, in this house ! " I stammer. 
 
 " Yes. No less a person than Mark Gore." 
 
 So I am right. And jealousy has been at the root of all 
 her ladyship's open hostility towards me ! 
 
 " Any casual observer would never think so," I remark, 
 at last, after a very lengthened pause. 
 
 u That is because Murk's infatuation has come to an end, 
 and he does not care to renew matters. If you watch him 
 you may see what particular pains he takes to avoid a tete- 
 a-tete with her. And yet there was a time when she had 
 considerable influence over him. He was a constant visitor 
 at her house in town so constant that at length it began 
 to be inuoted about how he had the entree there at all hours 
 and seasons, even when an intimate friend might expect a 
 denial. Then people began to whisper again, and shako 
 their wise heads and pity ' that poor colonel,' and watcb 
 aagerly for the denouement. 
 
 " Why did her mother not interfere ? " 
 
 " My dear, have I not already told you what a perfectly 
 drilled old lady is the mother? It would be as much as 
 her life is worth to interfere in any of her daughter's 
 arrangements. She is utterly dependant on Blanche, and, 
 therefore, perforce, a nonentity. She is expected to remain 
 in the house as a useful piece of furniture ; and she is also 
 exptoted to have neither ears nor eyes nor tongue. Beaidei,
 
 ttO PHYLLIS. 
 
 it was not a singular case ; Mark was only the last on a long 
 list of admirers. My lady could net exist without a cavalier 
 eervenle" 
 
 " I think it downright abominable," say I, with much 
 warmth. 
 
 Bebe looks amused. 
 
 " So do I. But what will you ? And in spite of all our 
 thoughts Mark came and went unceasingly. Wherever 
 madame appeared, so did her shadow ; at every ball he wag 
 in close attendance ; until, the season dragging to a close, 
 Blanche went abroid for two months, and Mark went down 
 to this part of the world. To 'Duke, was it ? " 
 
 " No ; if you mean the summer before last, he stayed 
 with the Leslies," I admit, somewhat unwillingly. "1 met 
 him several times." 
 
 " What ! you knew him, then, before your marriage ? " 
 cries Bebe, with surprise. 
 
 " Very slightly. Once or twice lie called with the Les- 
 lies, and when he returned to town he sent me an exquisite 
 little volume of Tennyson ; which delicate attention on his 
 part so enraged papa, that he made me return the book, 
 and forbade my writing to thank Sir Mark for it. So ended 
 our acquaintance." 
 
 " Oh, now I have the secret ; now I understand why 
 B'anche detests you so," exclaims Bebe, clapping her hands 
 merrily. "So he lost his heart to you, did he? And 
 madame heard all about it, and was rightly furious? Oh, 
 how she must have ground her pretty white teeth in impo- 
 tent rage on discovering how she was outdone by a simple 
 village maiden ! I vow it is a tale that Offenbach's niusio 
 might adorn." 
 
 "How absurd you are, Bebe! How you jump to 
 conclusions I I assure you Sir Mark left our neighborhood 
 as heart-whole as when he came to it." 
 . " Well, I won't dispute the point ; but whether it was 
 your fault or not, when Blanche and he again met all was 
 changed. His love had flown, no one knew whither, lie 
 still continued to pay her visits, it is true, but not every 
 day and all day long. He still attended the balls to which 
 she went, but not as her slave. Blanche fretted and fumed 
 herself thin at his defection ; but it was no use : the spelJ 
 was broken, and Mark was not to be recalled. You will 
 think me a terrible scandal-monger," says Bebe, with a 
 mile, "but when one hears a thing perpetually discussed
 
 PHYLLIS. 211 
 
 one feels an interest in it at last in spite of oneself. You look 
 shocked, Phyllis. I suppose there is no such thing in this 
 quiet country as polite crime ? " 
 
 " I don't know about the politeness, but of course there 
 is plenty of crime. For instance, last assizes Bill Grimes, 
 out gardener's son at Suminerleas, was transported for 
 poaching; and eight mouths ago John Iladdon, the black- 
 smith, fired at his landlord; and it is a well-known fact that 
 Mr. De Vere beats his wife dreadfully every now and then ; 
 but there are no such stories as the one you have just told 
 to me. I think it disgraceful. What is the use of it all ? 
 How can it end ?" 
 
 " Sometimes in an elopement ; sometimes, as in Blanche's 
 case, in nothing. You must understand she is perfectly re- 
 spectable, and that the very nicest people receive her with 
 open arms. But then none of them would be in the least 
 surprised if any morning she was missing. And, indeed, 
 sometimes I wish she would like somebody well enough to 
 quit the country with him. Anything would be decenter 
 than these perpetual intrigues." 
 
 " Oh, no, Bebe ; nothing could be so bad as that. Little 
 as I care for her, I hope I shall never hear such evil tidings 
 of her." 
 
 " Phyllis, you are a dear charitable child, and I like you 
 it would bo impossible for me to say how much. Do you 
 know" putting her hand on mine " I have always sneered 
 at the idea of any really sincere attachment existing be- 
 tween women ? But since I have known you I have recanted 
 and confessed myself in error. If you were my sister I 
 could not love you better." 
 
 Contrasting her secretly wita meek-eyed Dora, I fee] 
 guiltily that to me Bebe is the more congenial of the two. 
 With my natural impulsiveness 1 throw my arms round her 
 Beck and favor her with a warm kiss. 
 
 " But I am not charitable," goes on Bebe, when she has 
 returned my chaste salute. " and I detest Blanche with all 
 iny heart. There is something so sly and sneaking about 
 her. She would do one an injury, if it suited her, even 
 while accepting a kindness at one's hands. Do you know. 
 Phyllis, she is etill madly in love with Sir Mark, whilo 1 
 think he is decidedly smitten with you P " 
 
 My face and throat grow scarlet. 
 
 " I hope not," I stammer, foolishly. 
 
 tt I am sure of it. lie never takes his eyes off you, and
 
 21 '2 PHYLLIS. 
 
 at times my lady is absolutely wild. I never noticed it s<i 
 plainly as thia evening; and by the bye, ma mie" very 
 gently and kindly "I confess it occurred to me were you 
 flirting with Mark just a little? " 
 
 " I don't know what came over me this evening," I re 
 ply, petulantly ; "I hardly know what I said or did. Some* 
 thing was on my mind and made my act : ons false. I don't 
 care a bit for Mark Gore, but still I let it seem as if I did,' 
 
 "Don't make yourself unhappy by imagining absurdi. 
 ties," says Bebe, quietly, apropos of nothing that I could 
 see, and without looking at me ; " and take care of Blanche ; 
 she would make a dangerous enemy. Not that I think she 
 could harm you ; but sometimes her soft eyes betray her, 
 and she looks as if she could cheerfully stab you. To me 
 it is a little comedy, and I enjoy it immensely. I can see 
 she would do anything to bring back Mark to his allegiance, 
 and for that purpose makes love to Marmaduke before his 
 eyes, in the vain hope of rendering him jealous. And " 
 with a swift shrewd glance at me "what can poor 'Duke 
 do but pretend to accept her advances and be civil to her? " 
 
 I think of the pink billet and of all the other trifles light 
 as air that go far to make me believe the pretense to be a 
 pleasant one for 'Duke, but say nothing. He certainly finds 
 it more than easy to be " civil " to her. 
 
 '* However, her pains go for naught," continues Bebs : 
 "there is nothing so difficult to re-light as a dead love." 
 
 A shadow crosses \\cr piquante face. She draws in her 
 lips and bravely smothers a sigh. A door bangs loudly in 
 the distance. 
 
 I start to my feet. 
 
 " It must be later than I thought," I say. " The men 
 ieem to have tired of their cigars. Good night, dear Bebe." 
 
 " Good-night," she murmurs, and with a hurried embrace 
 we part. 
 
 I gain the corridor, down one loi.g side of which I must 
 pass to get to my own room. Fancying, when half-way, 
 ihat I hear a noise behind me, I stop to glance back and 
 ascertain the cause ; but no capped or frisetted head pushes 
 itself out of any door to mark my doings. Some one of the 
 indescribable noises belonging to the night had misled me. 
 
 Reassured, I turn again to find myself face to face with 
 Maik Gore. 
 
 He is three yards distant from me. ITis face woars a 
 surprised and somewhat amused expression, that quickly
 
 PHYLLIS. 213 
 
 GAangeg to one deeper, as his eyes travel all over my previj 
 gjown, my slippers, ami my disordered hair. 
 
 Natarally I am covered with confusion, and, having had 
 time to fcel ashamed of my behavior during the evening, 
 feel how especially unfortunate is this encounter. 
 
 " Do you often indulge in midnight rambles?" he ask*, 
 gayly, stopping in front of me. 
 
 " No," I return, as unconcernedly as I well can, consid 
 ering my perturbation ; " but to-night Miss Beatoun and 
 found so much to say about our friends that we forgot th 
 hour. Don't let me detain you, Sir Mark. Good-night." 
 
 " Good-night," holding out his hand, into which I am 
 constrained to put mine. As I make a movement to go on, 
 he detains me for a moment to say, quietly, " I never saw 
 you before with your hair down. You make one lose faith 
 in coiffeurs. And why do you not oftener wear blue?" 
 
 There is not the faintest shadow of disrespect in his 
 tone ; he speaks as though merely seeking information ; and, 
 though the flattery is openly apparent, it is not of a sort 
 calculated to offend. Still, I feel irritated and impatient. 
 
 " Fancy any one appearing perpetually robed in thf 
 game hue ? " I say, snubbily ; " like the * woman in white, 
 or the ' dark girl dressed in blue! ' ' 
 
 " You remind me of Buchanan's words," goes on Sil 
 Mark, not taking the slightest notice of my tone. " Do you 
 remember them ? " 
 
 ' ' My hair was golden yellow, and It floated to my shoe.; 
 
 My eyes were like two harebells bathed iu little drops of dew.'" 
 
 " My hair golden yellow ! " exclaim I, ungraciously, 
 u Who could call it so? It is distinctly brown. I cannot 
 eay you strike me as being particularly happy in the suita- 
 bility of your quotations." 
 
 All this time he has not let go my hand. He has either 
 forgotten to do so, or else it pleases him to retain it ; and, 
 as we have moved several steps apart, and are at least half 
 a yard asunder, our positions would suggest to a casual ob- 
 server that Sir Mark is endeavoring to keep me. 
 
 Raising my head suddenly at this juncture, I see Mar- 
 maduke coming slowly up the stairs. Our eyes meet ; I 
 blush scarlet, and, with my usual clear common sense, drag 
 my hand in a marked ?.nd guilty manner out of my com- 
 panion's. Once more I stammer, " Good-night," very awk
 
 314 PHYLLIS. 
 
 wardly, and make & dart towards my own room, while Sil 
 Mark, totally unaware of the real cause of my confusion, 
 goes on his way, conceitedly convinced that the fascination 
 of his manner has alone been sufficient to bring the color to 
 my brow. 
 
 Inside my door I literally stamp my feet with vexation- 
 " Could anything be more provoking ? What a nuisance 
 that Sir Mark is, with his meaningless compliments ! I havi 
 no patience with men who are forever cropping up just 
 when they are least wanted." 
 
 " Do you know how late it is ?" says Marmsduke, com- 
 ing in from hia dressing-roon, with an ominous frown in hia 
 blue eyea. 
 
 " Yes ; I was thinking what a scandalously late hour it 
 is for you to be still up smoking," 1 retort, detennined to 
 fight it out, and meanly trying to make my own caust better 
 by throwing some blame on him. 
 
 " I thought you in bed at least an hour ago.'* 
 
 " Well, you thought wrong. I had something particular 
 to say to Bebe and went to her room. That delayed me. 
 We neither of us guessed how the time had run away until 
 we heard the study-door close, or the smoking-room, or 
 wherever you were. Coming out I met Sir Mark acciden- 
 tally." 
 
 Though my tone is defiant, I still feel I am excusing my- 
 self, and this does not sweeten my temper. 
 
 " Oh ! " says Marmaduke, dryly. 
 
 " Why do you speak in that tone, Marmaduke ? *' 
 
 " I am not aware I am using any particular tone. Bu$ 
 I admit I most strongly object to your going up and down 
 the corridors at this hour of night in your dressing-gown." 
 
 " You mean you disapprove of my meeting Sir Mark 
 Gore. I could not help that. It happened unfortunately, I 
 allow ; but when the man stopped me to bid a civil good- 
 night, I could not bring myself to pass him as though he 
 were an assassin or a midnight marauder. Of course 3 
 answered him politely. I can see nothing improper in that, 
 to make you scowl as you are scowling now." 
 
 " I am not talking of impropriety," says 'Duke, very 
 haughtily. " It is impossible \ should connect such a word 
 with your conduct. Were I obliged to do so, the same rooi 
 would not cover us both for half an hour longt r be assured 
 of that." 
 
 I laugh wickedly.
 
 PHYLLIS. 211 
 
 " WTiich of us would go ? " I aak. " Would you turn me 
 out ? Wait a little longer, until the frost and snow are on the 
 ground : then you can do it with effect. The tale would be 
 wanting in interest unless I perished before morning in a 
 Bnowdnft. And all because I crossed a corridor at mid- 
 night in a blue dressing-gown. Poor gown ! who would 
 guess that there was so much mischief in you ? Sir Mark 
 aid it was a very pretty dressing-gown." 
 
 I sink my hands in the pockets of the luckless gown and 
 look up at Duke with a " now then ! " expression on my 
 face. lie is as black as night with rage. Standing oppo- 
 site to him, even in my high-heeled shoes, I want quite an 
 inch of being as tall as his shoulder, yet I defy him as coolly 
 as though he were the pigmy and I the giant. 
 
 "I don't in the least want to know what Gore said or 
 did not say to you," says he, in a low, suppressed voice ; 
 "keep such information to yourself. But I forbid you to 
 go into Bebe's room another night so late." 
 
 " Forbid me, indeed ! " cry I, indignantly. " And have 
 I nothing to forbid?" (Here I think of the cocked-hat 
 note.) u You may do as you like, I suppose ? You cannot 
 err ; while I arn to be scolded and ill-treated because I say 
 good-night to a friend. I never heard anything so unjust ; 
 and I won't be forbidden; so there ! " 
 
 " It strikes me it must have been a very l civil ' good- 
 night to necessitate his holding your hand for such a length 
 of time, and to bring a blush to your cheeks." 
 
 " It was not Sir Mark made me blush," 
 
 " No ? Who, then ? " 
 
 " You." This remark is as unwise as it is true a dis- 
 covery I make a moment later. 
 
 " Why ? " asks 'Duke, sternly. " What was there in the 
 unexpected presence of your husband to bring the blood to 
 your face ? I had no idea I was such a bugbear. It looks 
 very much as though you were ashamed of yourself." 
 
 ' Well, then, yes I was ashamed of myself," I confess, 
 with vehement petulance, tapping the ground with my foot. 
 *' I was ashamed of being caught out there en deshabille, if 
 you want to know. And now, that you have made me 
 acknowledge my crime, I really do wish you would go 
 back to your own room, Marmaduke, because you are in an 
 awful temper, and I detest being cross-examined and 
 brought to task. You are ten times worse than papaj and 
 more disagreeable."
 
 216 PHYLLIS. 
 
 Here I give my shoulders an impertinent shrug, and 
 fairly turn rny back upon him. An instant later, and h6 
 has slammed the door between us, and I gee him no inorf 
 that night. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 DKIP, drip, drip. Patter, patter, patter. How it doei 
 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 flat- 
 ten her pretty nose "-"i^st the window-pane, in the vain 
 hope of catching a j: ^^ 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. Car- 
 rington," 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 ex- 
 changed 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 Misa 
 Beatoun. 
 
 "It is always darkest before dawn," says that young 
 lady, with dauntless courage.
 
 PHYLLIS. 217 
 
 M So they say," murmurs Lore! Chaoios, catching her 
 eye, 
 
 " Poor Thornton I " 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 whafc 
 you would all do if you hadn't me to laugh at ? You ought 
 to love m*, I come in so handy at times and give you so 
 many opportunities of showing off the brilliancy of your 
 wit." 
 
 " Tie grows sarcastic," murmurs Sir Mark. " This 
 weather, instead of damping him, as it would more frivo- 
 lous 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) \c- Miit on a cheerful countenance and enter into light 
 convt : For the most part we succeed, and almost man- 
 age t< ,ct our troubles. 
 
 " l>y the bye, Thornton, you used to be a great man on 
 the Turf," presently says Sir Mark, addressing 5 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 
 BO 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. ** 1
 
 218 PHYLLIS. 
 
 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. " II you begin 
 to think badly of me, I shall do something desperate. Be- 
 sides, I really only put on a mere trifle now and then ; noth 
 ing at all to signify ; wouldn't ruin a man if he were at it for- 
 ever. 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 * 
 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 
 Bee, 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 animus 
 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 mar 
 believes the horse he fancies would have won only for some- 
 thing. 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 Ilandcock, 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 1 " murmurs Miss Beatoun, 
 demurely. " One so seldom sees a middle-sized man, with 
 a fair beard 1 " 
 
 Chandos glanced at her quickly, rather amused, I think,
 
 PHYLLIS. 218 
 
 by her impertinence ; but her eyes arc 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 Hamil- 
 ton." 
 
 " It was at Fairy House races, last ytar,'' begins Chips, 
 ncthing daunted. " Hamilton was orer in Dublin at the 
 time, and went down there to back a horse he knew some- 
 thing 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 hia 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 II.,' says this imperturbable 
 gentleman; 'the instructions ain't final. Meet me in five 
 minutes at that post,' indicating a certain spot. So Hamil- 
 ton met him there, and for the third time he asked him im- 
 patiently if he meant winning. ' I c/o, Misther II.,' 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 foi 
 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 
 tho 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 disturbano 
 Las occasioned this outbreak.
 
 j>20 PHYLLIS. 
 
 " It is uncharitable always to speak the truth," sayi 
 'Duke, with a faint sneer. " You asked me my opinion, 
 and I gave it. Are you acquainted with many beautiful 
 characters, Harry? 1 confess I know none. Selfishness is 
 our predominant quality ; and many of the so-called reli- 
 gious 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. " I'ray, go on Mar- 
 maduke ; 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 brus'i'i.'ly. And how can you give utterance to such 
 sweeping ;i.>.-i.-i tions 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 un- 
 loving 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 be- 
 lieve 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 hav- 
 ing secured your good opinion. But, Marmaduke" ad- 
 dressing 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 f " 
 
 " No, not even Blanche," replies Marmaduke ; but even 
 AS he condemns her he bends upon her one of his very 
 weetest smiles. 
 
 " T am the more pleased that you dt not," eaya her lady
 
 PHYLLIS. 
 
 ibip, IP aer low, soft tones, returning 
 ' Eveu k it were possible, I would not 
 
 his glance fourfold, 
 not be altogether good. 
 
 Per' Action in any shape is the one thing of which w 
 'xmest tire." 
 
 " The day is clearing ; the rain has almost ceased," & 
 nounces Loid 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, senteE*uou*lr 
 
 And there, indeed, amid, the clouds as I run to look at 
 them, shines out a dazzling piece of blue sky that growl 
 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 sometlang 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. 
 
 lie 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 
 gtairs 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 ex- 
 pression 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 I is there nothing but trouble in this 
 world ? I, of course, am Avretched that goes without tell- 
 ing but pretty, bright, piquante Bebe, must she too be
 
 222 PHYLLIS. 
 
 miserable ? What untoward thing can La*e occurred to 
 bring that wistful look into her eyes? 
 
 Turning to my maid, who is following me at a respect* 
 ful distance, I gpeak aloud : 
 
 " Martha, I will dispense with your services this after* 
 noon. Miss Beatoun is here, and will give me any assis- 
 tance I may require." 
 
 So saying, I draw my friend into my room and clofo 
 fcy 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 
 ehe can never put anything in the same place twice run- 
 ning. 
 
 "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. 1 
 hate myself" (with a petulant stamp of the foot) "for tak- 
 ing it so much to heart; but I do, and that is the fact, and 
 I cannot yet overcome the feeling. If I did cot 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 theo \is tone so 
 quick so " 
 
 " Chandos's tone, I suppose, you mean ? But you for- 
 get, dear; I know nothing." 
 
 " True, of course not. Well, after you left the library 
 that time with Mark, the whole party broke up and dis- 
 persed 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 
 Boon 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 irrestrainjkble blush and
 
 fSTLJLTS, 223 
 
 of the hand, ** I iriah I had died before I did 
 fiat." 
 
 " Why, darling ? " 
 
 " Oh, need you ask? Don't you see how it betraye-1 
 my thoughts? Why, it looked as though I made quite sure 
 be 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. 
 lie stopped right before me, and said, deliberately, with 
 his eyes fired 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 con- 
 ceit. Believe me, I have brains enough, to retain a lesson, 
 once I have learned it ; so you may sit down, Miss Bea- 
 toun, with the certainty that I shall never again offend you 
 in that way.' I could never tell you how I felt, Phyllis, dur- 
 ing 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," nay 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. " lie only proved the idea to be quite 
 as uppermost in his mind as it was in your*. I would havfl 
 aid something to that effect had I been you."
 
 334 /'-/} LL1S. 
 
 u fiaid, my dear I could not have even thcught ol 
 anything at the moment, I was so confused. It is the sim- 
 plest 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 thorn is 
 passed, but just on the instant how few have presence of 
 mind 1 " 
 
 " It was provoking," say I, " and ' with an irrrepres- 
 sible little laugh " funny, too. My own impression is h 
 did come back to renew his pleadings, but saw by your 
 manner it would be useless. Pity you did not insist or 
 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 cer- 
 tain 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 
 do* r n 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 recon- 
 tre. What can this woman have to whisper to my hushand 
 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 
 raiaed head and naughty lips, I pass him by, he suddenly 
 move* towards me, and, throwitg his arms round me, str&ini
 
 PHYLLIS. 
 
 me passionately to him, and, turning up my face, kisaes m 
 twice, thrice, uj>on my mouth. 
 
 Still smarting under my angry thoughts, I tear mysli 
 from his embrace and stand aloof, panting with mortifica- 
 tion. 
 
 " 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 ourtelves before the 
 door of the principal hotel in Wai-minster. 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 foot- 
 steps. 
 
 To Bee 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 our- 
 selves 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 
 ^orld go round." 
 
 On they come, by twos and threes, in single file, in shak- 
 ing groups, all equally important, all filled with a desire to 
 get nowhere. A novice comes running, staggering, bal- 
 ancing towards us ; evidently her acquaintance with this 
 new mode of locomotion was of the vaguest half an Lour 
 ago. The crowd passes on, and she must follow it; so, 
 with a look of fear upon her face that amounts almost to 
 agony, ghe totters onward to brave a thousand falla. A 
 sudden ru*h past her the faintest touch doea it the real*:
 
 her heels (that on ordinary occasions, to judge by their 
 appearance, must be the stanchest of supports) refuse to 
 uphold her now ; her lipa 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 acknowledgment, 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 remem- 
 brance of the last few hours swept completely from my 
 brain. I cry " Oh I " at every casualty, and grasp my com- 
 panion's arm ; I admire and smile upon the successful. I 
 begin to wish that I too could skate. 
 
 Here cornes the adept, with eyes fixed quefttioningly 
 upon the watchful crowd. Their approving glances fire 
 him with a mad desire to prove to them how superor he is 
 to his compeers. He will do more than skate with con- 
 summate grace and ease ; he will do better than the " out- 
 side edg^e ; " he will waltz, 
 
 Oh, 'daring thought 1 Now shall lie 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 concen- 
 trated. 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 
 &icest thing I ever saw. Ob 1 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 
 ia, except the tyros, who come heavily, and without a mo- 
 ment's warning, to their knees. 
 
 And now the band strikes up, and the last
 
 FJ.IYLLIS. 227 
 
 wait* comes lingringly 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 ITandcock, sinking into th 
 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. fc I never 
 saw anything I liked so much. Sir Mark, do get me a ] air 
 of skates and let me try. It looks quite simple. Oh, il 
 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 yalere. 
 
 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 bow 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 
 Bigh of relief. The fear of ridicule lies heavy upon him. 
 But what will you ? Kinking is the fashion, and for what 
 does a young man live if not to follow the mode f 
 
 I see, too, the elderly gentleman, who, with bent kneee 
 ind compressed mouth, essays to rival his juniors. He will 
 be young, and he will skate, whether his doctor " will let 
 him or no." Vive lajeunessel 
 
 La jeunesss, 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 hai 
 ecurea him for her own," 
 
 And indeed it seems like it. Where she may choose to
 
 333 PHYLLIS. 
 
 lead him for the next hour there must he surely go. Wer 
 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 
 BO to do? Can he feign fatigue when she betrays no symp- 
 toms of fagging, and regards him with a glance fresh at 
 when they first started ? Tie must only groan and sufler 
 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 I" 
 eays 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 caudle," remarks 
 Sir James, gazing after Titania's very insipid-looking cava- 
 lier. 
 
 " 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 sur- 
 rounded by admirers : every tenth minute she accepts anew 
 aspirant to her hand, as far asrinking goes. Ah, my dearl 
 see what it is to b 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 ii BO 
 circumstanced." 
 
 Sir James smiles comfortably, and so do I, while watch- 
 ing 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 op- 
 posite sex as she is detested by her own. 
 
 u I bad great difficulty in getting your skates. I won 
 der 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 curries under hia arm
 
 the articles in question. They proved to be the right size, 
 and BOOH I find myself standing on four wheels (that appar- 
 ently 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 
 itay still ! " 1 cry, desperately, as my body betrays an in- 
 clination 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 IB 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 dread- 
 fully tired and frightened. I had no idea it would prove 
 BO difficult. Go away, Sir Mark, and take a turn by your- 
 self ; 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 ? " 
 
 "f)on't lose heart," says Sir Mark, smiling. " Once on 
 a tims they all felt just as you do now. Indeed, I think you 
 a very promising beginner." 
 
 lie 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 sympa- 
 thize " 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 rieible 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 boot* 
 and no body ; little boy-rinkers and little girl-riukers, who 
 do their work BO beautifully and show Buch unlimited (/e 
 as put* their elders to shame. 
 
 Sir Mark oomee back again, and again I am persuaded
 
 2SO PHYLLIS. 
 
 to riie and court fortune. In my tuin 1 scramble and 
 totter and push and try to believe I ani enjoying the mo- 
 ment. At length I break into a little slide insensibly, ai 
 it seems and a/ter that matters go more smoothly. 
 
 " Ah ! now you are getting into the way of it," exclaims 
 Sir Mark, almost growing excited over my progress. u 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 n 
 novelty, have tired of skating, and stand once more togethei 
 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 com- 
 panion'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 shado 
 more tenderly, than the occasion requires ; and, looking up, 
 I catch Blanche Going's eyes, and can see that she wearn 
 upon her handsome face a smile, half insolent, wholly sus- 
 picious. The others must see it, too. 
 
 Extreme anger grows within my breast. Disengaging 
 myself from Sir Mark's support, I stand alone, though inse- 
 cure, 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 
 jO popular opinion as to withdraw myself from Sir Mark'u 
 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 good 
 ness 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 yo 
 a generous offer of her hand." 
 
 Mannaduke, && well as Blanche, liearg every word. Su
 
 PHYLLIS. 
 
 Mark takes my hand very readily, and together we 
 out of sight. 
 
 As usual, once ray naughtiness is &fh\t accompli, I suffer 
 from remorse. When next I find myself near 'Duke I ara 
 mild and submissive as a ringdove. Would he but speak to 
 me now I feel I could pardon and be pardoned with the ut- 
 most 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 ri&en 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 cold- 
 est 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 nund ; but 
 /should," returns 'Duke, slowly and decisively, and, walk- 
 ing 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, 1 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. lie has seen so much of it. It was good 
 enough of him, I think, to drive here to-day at alL No doubt 
 ne 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 stajf 
 a few minutes. I am sure Marmaduke would in realit> 
 wish you to be gratified " 
 
 lie hesitates, and regards me quietly. I am by no mean* 
 as sure as he is of Marinaduke's amiability; but at thia in 
 jtant I care for n ut the opportunity of showing my 
 
 husband how little his likei or dislikes. 
 
 " I dare say yo t," I return, calmly. " Of course 
 
 it i* just the sort of ent a man would find dull, ono 
 
 the novelty was iron. ay. It is self-denying of you to
 
 232 JTVYLLJS. 
 
 offer your senriees. Teg, I think I will como 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 thought* 
 iupport me in my determination. 
 
 Having led my guests back into the reception-room, 1 
 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, cow- 
 ardly 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 live- 
 liest air, render me less fearful of consequences. Sir Mark 
 gets m-e a pair of skates ; he holds out his hand ; I move for- 
 ward ; 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 for- 
 gotten save the interest of this new pastime. 
 
 Can a quarter of an hour have passed away ? I am chat- 
 tering gayly, and clinging to my cavalier, in a fashion in- 
 nocent, indeed, but rather pronounced, when, looking up, I 
 encountei Marmaduke's eyes fixed upon me from the door- 
 way. 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 in- 
 structions and guide my quavering footsteps, until we ar 
 within a few feet of my husband. Loosing my handi lhe
 
 fHYLLIS. 
 
 from his j^rasp, 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 part- 
 ing, skates on some little distance from us, giving me time 
 to ppsp, " 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 
 Alark 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 rmk. I fear it was foolish of me, 
 though, to put it into Mrs. Carrington's head; though I 
 roaliy 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 ex- 
 pression in his eyes, though perfectly polite. lie 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, beseech- 
 ing 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 onoe, as the traps are ordered 
 round ; and it will not do for Mrs. Cairington to keep her 
 guests waiting." 
 
 " I want a boy to take off my skates," I say, submis- 
 sively, shocked at the lateness of the hour ; it wants but ten 
 minutes to ten. 
 
 "True. But boys are never in the way when wanted. 
 9ore, I'm sure you will not mind unfastening Mrs. Carring- 
 ton's skates, just for once," in a queer voice. 
 
 " I shall be delighted," says Mark, courteously, going 
 Jown on his knees before me. As he bows his head I 
 oarely 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," j 'Dakt, 
 and, to in 7 amazement, walks steadily away.
 
 234 fHYLL/S. 
 
 " I am afraid 1 have got you into a scrape," gays Mark, 
 in a low tone, as he bends over my left foot, and with slow 
 fingers draws out the leather straps. 
 
 14 How do you mean? " I ask, haughtily, fee'.'ng passion- 
 ate anger in my heart towards him at the moment, regard- 
 ing him as the cause of all my misery. 
 
 " I mean of course I don't know but I fancied Car 
 rington was angry with you for coining here with that ia 
 HO late." His hesitation and stammering are both af 
 fected and untrue. 
 
 " Not a bit of it," I reply stoutly ; " he probably does 
 not like being kept waiting : men never do. He is won- 
 derfully punctual himself, and of course I ought to huve 
 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 Marina- 
 duke. There, hold it tightly, and I will pull my foot out. 
 Now, try and be a little quicker about this one." 
 
 " I assure you J 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 f " 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. Ever? 
 Bcbe, who is a sure partisan is so standing before a distant 
 mirror, unjusting the most coquettish of head gears as to 
 be unable to see me, while young Thornton cbatUri U her
 
 PHYLLTS. 28fl 
 
 admiringly upon one side, and Lord Chandos glowers at her 
 from the other. 
 
 Presently some one approaches, and to my astonish- 
 ment Sir James Handcock, with an unusual amount of en- 
 ergy 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 be- 
 gins, abruptly, " and don't be angry with me. I feel that [ 
 must speak. I don't want to see you made unhappy. I 
 want you to cut the whole thing. Flirtations however inno- 
 cent 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, unpardon- 
 able, 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 fright- 
 ened to death by a stern old moralist like you. Go and 
 get things together ; and if you meet a comfortable moth- 
 erly 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 ia 
 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 
 eorts of unlikely things. You have made a mistake ; but 
 then a mistake is not a crime." 
 
 " WTiat have I done ? " I ask, rousing myself. " I only 
 wanted to see the rink again, and 'Duke would not take 
 me. lie 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 to wigry h will 
 not eTen tpak to me."
 
 FHYLLJ3. 
 
 "Oh, that is nonsense ! of course he will speak to 
 You have committed a little folly, that is all. I can quite 
 understand it. Probably, under like circurn stances, 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 eister-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 with- 
 draws, " 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. Ilemem- 
 bcr ' how easily things go wrong,' and how difficult it is 
 sometimes to set them right again. And Marinaduke 
 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. Marinaduke, Phyllis is too o: d in thii 
 coat, get her something warm to put round her shoul* 
 ders." 
 
 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 f oot- 
 steps. 
 
 " Marmadnke/' I whisper, nervously, "Marmaduke, 
 may I drive home with you ? " 
 
 " With me ! For what ? " 
 
 His tone is stern and uncompromijing. My new-found 
 courage evaport*.
 
 FHYLLIS. 287 
 
 " Because I I want to very much, 1 I answer, feebly, 
 
 much dispirited. 
 
 " You came here with Gore. Why not return with him ? 
 It seema 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 swet 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 com- 
 pensation ? 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 co- 
 quetry. 
 
 " Do not let me stand in the way of your amusements. 
 Of course when I chose to marry a child and a child with- 
 out a spark of affection forme I must learn not to cavil at 
 consequences. Understand, Phyllis, it is a matter of in- 
 difference to me whether you drive homo with Mark Gore 
 or any other man. Do not give yourself any annoyance, 
 tinder 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 ara ! 
 Do you then, refute, 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.' 
 
 I will foro it OB you," I cry, vitk SOUL*
 
 238 
 
 faint spark of prido and indignation. " Though you ht 
 me, I will return with no one but ycra." 
 
 And so it is settled, and soon we are driving side by sidt 
 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 ut- 
 tered. 
 
 Once, too, as his hand lies bare npon 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 ab- 
 sently, 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 undreising, has left me 
 ready for bed, and insisted on hearing me say I am im- 
 mensely 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 
 ue 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 ex- 
 plained. 
 
 The hours Iip 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 wiU 
 be mine if I go to bed unpardoned ? I will make one more 
 ftffort, and thii time I will not b unsuccessful, A* I havt
 
 fffYLUS, 221 
 
 act now, and never have had, a particle cf prxJe ir my com. 
 position, it takes me very little thinking to decide on thii 
 coarse. 
 
 I am sitting before my fire as I develop this idea, toast* 
 ing my bare toes in a rather purposeless manner, prepara- 
 tory to jumping into bed. Unlike most people, I can en 
 dure any amount of heat to the soles of my feet. 
 
 Mechanically I slip into my blue slipper*, and, rising, 
 go to the glass. Yet, what I see pleases me : I certainly 
 da look nice in my dressing-gown. No other style of gar- 
 ment, no matter how bewitching or elaborate, suits mo half as 
 well. This particular gown at which I am now gazing pro- 
 foundly 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-win- 
 dow, 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 2 he was very fond of me then, I recollect, with a 
 igh. 
 
 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 & chair, I might easily be mistaken for a 
 ehild of fourteen. 
 
 The thought is distasteful. Hastilv putting up my 
 hands, I wind my hair round and round my head until I 
 have reduced it to ito everyday decorous fashion ; only to 
 find that rolls and smoothness do not accord well with a 
 neglige costume. 
 
 Looking at myself again with a critical eye, I am again 
 dissatisfied. I may appear older, I certainly do not pre- 
 sent so pleasing a tout entemble ; so, with much vicioui 
 haste, I once more draw out the hair-pins and let arf 
 straight brown hair hang according to its fancy. Being 
 now at last convinced I am to be seen at my best, I pro- 
 ceed to act upon the thought that has caused all this un- 
 wonted vanity, I go softly to Marmaduke's dressing-room 
 door, armed with my brush and begin to bat T er at it pretty 
 loudly. 
 
 " Marmadake, Manmdakd I " I cry, bui obtain no acsww
 
 340 fSYLLJS. 
 
 That he ia within ia leyond 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 Marniaduke 1 " I cry once more, impatiently. 
 
 " What do you want ? " demands iny husband, in a voic 
 that sends my heart into my blue slippers. 
 
 " I want to get in," I return, as meekly as one can, whea 
 one's tone is raised to the highest pitch. 
 
 " You cannot now ; I am busy." 
 
 "But I must. 'Duke, do open the door. I hare some- 
 thing of the utmost importance to say to you." 
 
 After a moment or two 1 can hear him coming slowly to 
 the door. In another instant he has unlocked it, and ii 
 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." 
 
 Ilere 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 graap 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 lowerea 
 eyes. 
 
 " No," I say, in a whisper. " I came to ask you to for- 
 give 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." 
 
 " Ob, Duk, do not be too hard to ua. I did net !iiao
 
 to make you so very angry. I did not think there was any 
 harm in what I did." 
 
 " No harm f 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 dii 
 
 frace both yourself and me by your conduct, I ha\e felt 
 alf maddened. Angry. The word does not eipress what I 
 feel. A hundred times during these past few hours I hare 
 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," 1 reply, miserably, 
 and most untruthfully. 
 
 " Pshaw 1 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 duluess or good-nature is not as com- 
 fortable 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 wh;>t 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 de- 
 fenae." 
 
 " I believe only what I see," returns my husband, signi- 
 ficantly ; " and that I regret to say of you, Phyllis it 
 more than I can think of with calmness." 
 
 lie turns from mo as he speaks, and begins to pace ex- 
 iitedly up and down the room, a frown born of much anger 
 spon his forehead. 
 
 " To think you should have chosen that fel-low, who hai 
 hardly a shred of character left, as your jriend." 
 
 It w)uld be impossible to put on paper the amount of 
 ooorn he throws into the last word. 
 
 " lie is no friend of mine," I say, sullenly, beating my 
 foot petulantly against the ground. " I always understood 
 he ir&s a particular favorite of yours. If you consider him 
 laoh a disreputable creature, why did you inrita him to
 
 242 PHYLLIS. 
 
 " Because I was unfortunately under the impression I 
 could ask any man with safety into my wife's house," sayi 
 he, loftily ; and the quotation in which Caesar's wife ii 
 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 thii. 
 Surely I cannot have so altogether forgotten myself aa hJ 
 eemi to imagine. 
 
 " There are worse people here than Mark Gore," I re- 
 mark, still sullen. 
 
 " If there are, I don't know tiem, 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 displeas- 
 ure in any way ; but when I see you casting aside common 
 prudence, and making yourself a subject for scandalous re- 
 marks, 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 up- 
 lifted hand to enforce his remarks, and with a very white 
 face, certainly appears uncomfortably tall. He is tower- 
 ing over poor little me, in my heelless shoes and white 
 j*own, 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 
 d D 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 hy told me I knew only too well. Have I not noticed 
 you with BUnchd ? Do yon ever learo her aide ? Whispering
 
 PHYU^IS. 243 
 
 m coiridors lingering in conservatories letting her writ* 
 you letters ! Oh, I know everything I n cry I, absolutely 
 cobbing with long pent-up rage and grief. 
 
 " Write me letters 1 " repeats 'Duke, in utter bewilder 
 raent. 
 
 " Yes ; long, long letters. I saw it." 
 
 " Blanche never in her life wrote me a long letter, of 
 any other letter, that I can recollect." 
 
 " Oh / When I saw it with my own eyes, and only ye- 
 terday, too ! How can you deny it ? In the morning eh 
 pretended she had a headache, and I went up to ask her 
 now she was, and there on the table was a pink note, with 
 three of the pages closely witten 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 vehe- 
 mence quieted by mine. " A letter yet stay," a look of in- 
 telligence 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," coining eagerly forward. 
 
 " I now recollect finding this in my room, when I re- 
 turned from shooting yesterday. She asks me to do a com- 
 mission 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 th 
 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 
 1 told you a year ago yau were the only woman I had ever 
 really loved, I spoke the truth." 
 
 " From aJJ you have said to me to-night, I can scarcely
 
 244 PHYLLTS. 
 
 imagine you would now repeat those words," I say, in tren> 
 bling tones. 
 
 " Yes, I would. If I live to be an old man, I shal" nevei 
 love again as I have loved, and do love, you." 
 
 " Yet you are always meeting Blanche ; you are alwayi 
 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 the 
 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." lie 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 ask- 
 ing 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 y:m. I thought of no one but you. It would 
 *ot trouble me if I never saw Mark Gore again. You be- 
 lieve me, 'Duke ? I never told you a wilful lie, did I ? ' 
 Two heavy tears long gathering roll down my cheek"*. 
 
 M Never," replies he, hoarsely. 
 
 Silence follows his last word. We stand very near, yet 
 ep&rava gating into each other'i eye*. i*rwMwtly, impul
 
 lively, his hand more*, and cloae firmly upon mine. Foi 
 an instant longer we naze, and then I am in bis arms, crying 
 as if my heart would break. 
 
 " You don't care for her ; say you don't care for her," 
 I sob, entreatingly. 
 
 1 Phyllis, how can you ask me ? To 3are 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 th 
 ihelter of his arms. 
 
 " And you will never speak to her again, will you, char 
 '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 t hat . But you will have no 
 tete-a-teU 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 stay- 
 ing causes you one moment's unhappiness. She speaks of 
 leaving next week ; let us be polite to her for these few re- 
 maining days poor Blanche 1 and then ire will forget she 
 ever lived." 
 
 " Yes," I acquiesce, and then there is a pause in the con- 
 versation. 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 f " 
 
 " No." replies he, hastily, " nor will 1. 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 
 eare for me a little." 
 
 " Oh, car\ng 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, laugh- 
 ing, though he bites his lips", "the old story." 
 
 " Wrong : I was going to say mother only. Somehow, 
 Billy and Holy of late do not seem so dear as you." I 
 stroke his face patronizingly. 
 
 " Only mother 1 * he says, with a gay laugh (how many 
 weeks have passed since last I heardthat laugh!) "why, 
 that is much better Billy always appeared tke most for
 
 246 PHYLL.TS. 
 
 midable rival. I am progressing in your good book*. In 
 time I may even be able to vanquish mother." 
 
 " I am BO 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 f " 
 
 " ' And to b wroth with thoM w IOT 
 Doth work like madness 0n Uie brain, ' " 
 
 quotes 'Duke softly. 
 
 " It all began by Mark Gore telling me you were OD 
 engaged to Blanche Going." 
 
 "What a lie 1 " 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 
 lace 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 a'l events," he laughs, lightly. 
 And not until many days have come and gone, do I remem- 
 ber hia singular hesitation. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 Two days have passed two days that have brought 
 back to me all the light and life and gladness of my girl- 
 hood. Never since my marriage have I been so happy aa 
 now. 
 
 Marmaduke and I are the best of friends, there is not so 
 much as a shadow of a cloud between us, and I have con- 
 vinced myself that, as I was the most foolish girl in the 
 world, so am I now the luckiest, and that 'Duke is the dear- 
 est old boy to be found anywhere. If I still feel guilty of 
 having no passionate attachment for my htub&nd, I oousolt
 
 ftfYLLSS. 47 
 
 mytelf -with the thought that I am probably incapable of ft 
 grand pauion, and that haply I shall get through life all the 
 more comfortably in consequence. 
 
 Harriet and Bebe notice the new relations existing be- 
 tween me and my husband with undisguised pleasure, but 
 wisely make no comment. Sir James sees it too, and once, 
 in passing me, smiles, and pats me approvingly on the 
 houlder. Dora and George Ashurst are too much take* 
 op with each other and their approaching nuptials to no- 
 tice anything but their own tastes and predilections. But 
 Blanche Goirg sees it with an evil ineer. 
 
 It ii three o'clock in the afternoon. OuUide, the worM 
 is looking cold and uninviting; inside, all IB warmth and 
 apparent contentment. 
 
 Some of us are in the billiard-room, knocking about th 
 balls, but doinjr more talk than honest work. I for my part 
 am starting for a brisk run to the gardens, with a view Ho 
 bringing Cummins to order. 
 
 Cummins is an ancient Scotchman, old, crusty, and valu- 
 able, who has lived as head gardener at Strangemore for 
 mc^o years than he can remember, and who has grown BOUI 
 in *ho Carrington service. Having made himself more than 
 usually obnoxious to-day, and declined to part with some 
 treasured article of his rearing for any one's benefit, th 
 cook has tearfully appealed to me, and I have promised to 
 exert myself and coax my own gardener into giving m 
 ome of my own property. Throwing round me, there- 
 fore, a coxy shawl, fur-lined, and covering my head with 
 the wannest velvet hat I own, I sally forth, bent on con 
 quest. 
 
 The air is keen and frostbitten. As I hurry along on 
 of the smaller paths, hedged in on either side by giant ever- 
 greens, with my chin well buried in my fur, I come sufl- 
 aenly upon Sir Mark Gore, leisurely strolling, and smoking 
 cigar. 
 
 Ever sicce my explanation with Marmaduke I have care- 
 fully avoided Sir Mark. Not once has he had an opportu- 
 nity of speaking with me alone. Not once have I suffered 
 him to draw me into penonal conversation. Consequently, 
 1 am doubly put out and annoyed by toil rencontre com-
 
 science tolling me he earea more for me than is at all to lx 
 desired. 
 
 Seeing me, he flinga the cigar over the hedge and comet 
 more quickly forward. 
 
 " Oh, don't do that," I say, as unconcernedly as I well 
 can ; " you have recklessly wasted a good cigar. I am in 
 A desperate hurry, and cannot stay to interfere with your 
 smoking." 
 
 " It IB the simplest thing in the world to light another," 
 replied he, coolly. " But what a day for you to be out ! I 
 heard you say at lunch you meant going, uut felt positive 
 this bitter wind would daunt you. May I accompany you 
 in your desperate hurry ? Is it an errand of mercy a case 
 of Uf e or death ? M 
 
 Ilis eaay manner reassures me. 
 
 " I am going to entreat Cummins," I say, laughing. 
 " Don't you pity me ? Cannot you understand what a dif- 
 ficult task I have laid out for myself ? No, I think you 
 had better not come. I shall be able to use more persuasive 
 arts if left to deal with him alone." 
 
 " I would back you to win were he the King of the C- 
 nibal Islands himself. If I must not witness your triump*,, 
 may I at least be your escort on the road to it ? " 
 
 I can see ho is obstinately bent on being my companion, 
 and grow once more disquieted. 
 
 " Ye-es, if you wish it," I say, with obvious unwilling- 
 ness ; " but it is such a little way now it scarcely seems 
 worth your while." 
 
 " I think it very well worth my while, and accept your 
 gracious permission," replies Sir Mark, with a quiet stress 
 on the adjective, and a determination not to notice my evi- 
 dent objection to his company. So there is no help for it, 
 and we walk on aide by side in silence. 
 
 Presently, in a low voioe, he says, suddenly and without 
 preface : 
 
 " Why do you avoid me, Mrs. Carrington ? What have 
 I done to be tabooed aa I have been for the last two days ? 
 Have I offended you in any way ? " 
 
 " Offended me ? " I atammer (when people are unerpect- 
 edly asked an obnorioua question, what would they do if 
 they could not repeat their questioner's last words i*). " Of 
 course you have not offended me. How could you r What 
 can have put such a ridiculous idea into your head ? " 
 
 " Your own conduct. Do you think I have not
 
 PHYLLJS. J49 
 
 and felt, your changed manner ? " Ee it speaking almost 
 in an undertone. " Were I your greatest enemy, you oould 
 not treat me with more distant coolness. You scarcely deign 
 to speak to me ; your eyes carefully avoid aine , you hardly 
 answer when I address you. Surely you most have a mo- 
 tive for all this." 
 
 " In the first place, I do not acknowledge your ' thi*. 
 You only imagine my manner changed. I certainly har* 
 no motive for being rude to you." 
 
 " Then I think you have treated me very cruelly very 
 capriciously, considering all things." 
 
 The last words are barely distinct ; he ig evidently using 
 great self-control ; but, in my present nervous state, all 
 sounds are very clear to me. 
 
 " What things, Sir Mark ? " I demand, with an irrepres 
 gible touch of hauteur. He is looking steadily at me so 
 steadily that, in spite of myself, to my mortification and 
 disgust, I feel I am blushing furiously. Still I hold my 
 ground; I absolutely decline to let my eyes fall before 
 his. 
 
 " I suppose," says Sir Mark, very quietly still, " when a 
 woman has led a man on to love her until he is mad enough 
 to lose his head, and imagine he has awakened in her mind 
 some faint interest in himself, she is not to be held reupon- 
 sible for any mischief that may come of it. I say I suppose 
 not. But it is, perhaps, a little hard on the man." 
 
 " I do not understand you," I say, with as much calm- 
 ness as I can summon, though, in truth, I am horribly 
 frightened, and can feel my heart beating heavily against 
 my side. 
 
 "Do you not?" exclaims he, with a rapid vehement 
 change of tone. " Then I shall explain. I am not so blind 
 but I can see now all that has been happening here during 
 the past month. Were you jealous of Marmaduke ? Did 
 you imagine he could love another, when you were ever be- 
 fore him ? Did you seek to revenge yourself upon him by 
 turning your sweet looks and sweeter words upon me, by 
 howering upon me all the childish maddening graces of 
 which you are capable, until you stole the very heart out of 
 my body ? " 
 
 M Oh, don't ! " I cry, tremulously, recoiling from him, a 
 look of horrified amazement on my face. " You do not 
 know what you are Baying. It is terrible. I frill not littea 
 toyou/ 1
 
 250 
 
 u Ye you will," fiercely. " Does it hurt you to hei 
 me? Does it distress you to know that I love you I, 
 who have never loved any one that I love you with a 
 passion that no words could describe ? You have ruined 
 my life, and now that you have attained your object, have 
 satisfied yourself of Marmaduke's affection, you throw me, 
 your victim, aside, as something old, worn out, worthless, 
 careless of the agony you have inflicted. It is cold, crr.ei, 
 innocent children like you, who do all the real mischief in 
 thin life. Do you remember those word* of Moore's ' they 
 haunt me every time I see you ; 
 
 " ' Too bright *nd filr 
 To let wild pjuion write] 
 One wrong with there.' 
 
 I believe you are incapable of loving, though o lovable in 
 yourself." 
 
 " You have said enough : is it manly of you to compel 
 me to hear such words ? Surely you must have exhausted 
 all your bitterness by this." 
 
 " ' Reproach is infinite and knows no end.' Yet of 
 what use to reproach you ? You have a heart that cannot 
 be touched. Possibly you do not even feel regret for 
 what you have done." 
 
 " bir Mark, 1 entreat I desire you to cease." 
 
 " You shall be obeyed; for I have finished. There is 
 nothing more to be said. I was determined you should at 
 least hear, and know what you have done. Now you can 
 go home happy in the thought that you have added one 
 more fool to your list. Yes, I will cease. Have you any- 
 thing to say ? " 
 
 " Only this : I desire you will leave my house without 
 delay." " 
 
 My lips are white and trembling, but it is anger, not 
 B.ervousness, that affects me now. 
 
 " Thi* moment, if you wish it," with a short laugh. 
 
 " No ; I will have no comment* made. You can 6*siiy 
 make a reasonable excuse out of your letters to-morrow 
 morning. After all you have said, I hope I shall never 
 nee your face again." 
 
 " You never shall, if it depend* on me." 
 
 " I regret that I ever ' 
 
 * Oh, pray leave all the reft unttid, Mr*. Carrington," ht
 
 Interrupts, bitterly. "I can fancy It. You regret, of 
 course, you ever admitted such a fallen character within 
 your doors ; I have insulted and wounded you in every 
 possible way. So be it. You say so, therefore it must be 
 true. At the same time I would have you remember, what 
 is also true, that I would die to save you from any grief 
 or harm. If,* sinking his voice, and speaking in a slow, 
 peculiar tone, " if you are ever in deep trouble, and I can 
 help you, think of me." 
 
 I am impressed without knowing why. It is as though 
 some one had laid a curse upon me. I grow as white aa 
 death, and my breath conies from me in short, quick gasps. 
 At this moment, a deadly fear of something intangible, far 
 off, of something lying in the mystic future, passes over 
 me like a cold wind. 
 
 Sir Mark, raising his hat, draws near. He takes my 
 chilled gloveless hand. 
 
 " May I ? " he asks, humbly, and with the natural grace 
 that belongs to him. " It is a farewell." 
 
 Oppressed with my nameless terror, I cannot reply. I 
 icarcely hear him. Stooping, he lays his lips lightly on 
 my hand. 
 
 The touch recalls me. With a shudder I snatch away 
 my fingers, and drawing back, sweep past him in eager 
 haste to rid myself of him and the evil fears to which hi* 
 words have given rise. 
 
 I hurry on with parted lips and trembling pulses, 
 anxious to escape. Crossing the rustic bridge that spans 
 a small stream at the end of a pathway, I glance instinct- 
 ively backwards. He is still standing motionless on the 
 exact spot where we parted, his arms folded, his head bare, 
 his eyes fixed upon my retreating form. Agaii I shudder 
 and tauten oat of light. 
 
 I nave said, " I will never see his face again." 
 Te carry out this design 1 determine on suffering from 
 headache for once in my life, and by this means absent 
 myself from dinner. Armed with this resolution, I go 
 swiftly to my room as the early night closes in, having 
 lingered in the gardens as long as prudence would permit. 
 
 Throwing myself upon a sofa, I summoned the faithfm] 
 Martha, and declare myself unwell. They hardly conati.
 
 tnte a lie, these words of mine, as my temples, through 
 excitement and uneasiness, are throbbing painfully. 1 feel 
 feverish, and miserably restless, though my foolish supersti- 
 tion of a few hours since has resolved itself into thin air 
 and vanished. Still, how can I draw breath freely wkile 
 " that man M continues to haunt the house ? " 
 
 "Dear, dear me, m'm," says Martha, coming to th 
 front, as usual, with mournful vehemence, and an unlimited 
 supply of remedies'. " You do look bad, to be sure. Yon 
 really should get advice, m'm. There is young Dr. Manley 
 in the village, as is that clever, I do hear, as he can cure any- 
 thing ; and you are getting them headaches dreadful fre- 
 quent. Only two days since 1 used a whole bottle of ody- 
 collun upon your pore forehead. But vinegar is an elegant 
 thing, and much stronger than the ody. Shall I try it, 
 m'm ? " 
 
 " No thank you, Martha," I say, feeling hysterical : ** I 
 prefer the ' Ody ; ' " whereupon Jean Maria Farina is pro- 
 duced, and I am gently bathed for five minutes. 
 
 Marmaduke comes softly in. 
 
 "A headache, darling," he says, with tender commisera- 
 tion : " that is too bad. Martha give me the bottle. I will 
 eee to your mistress. 
 
 "The delicatest touch possible, if you please, sir," says 
 Martha, warningly, who doesn't believe in men, as she 
 leaves the room. She is dreadfully old-maidish, this favor- 
 ite attendant of mine, but she adores me, and with me to 
 be loved is a necessity. 
 
 I have made up my mind to say nothing to 'Duke on 
 the subject of Sir Mark until the latter is well out of the 
 house. So for the present I permit my husband to think 
 my slight indisposition about the worst of its kind ever 
 known. 
 
 " What can have given it to you?" he says, damping 
 ray tot brow with more than a woman's gentleness. "I 
 told you, Phyllis, it was very foolkh of you to venture out 
 af doors to-day ; I hope you have not got a chill. 
 
 " I don't think so. I put on very warm things. But, 
 Marmaduke, I would like not to go down to dinner. Do 
 you think my staying away would appear odd ( ? " 
 
 " Certainly no., pet. I will explain to every one. Bed 
 is the best place for you. Promise me you will go to sleep 
 <M ioon as you can." 
 
 M Aa soon u ever I can. Oh, 'Dak?- thor LI t quarter'
 
 PHYLLIS. 26* 
 
 pact chiming, and you not dressed yet. Hurry : it will be 
 dreadful if neither of us can show at the proper moment." 
 
 " I won't be an instant," says 'Duke, and scrambles 
 through the performance with marvellous rapidity, getting 
 down to the drawing-room before the second gong sounds. 
 
 I have accomplished my purpose, and will probably, 
 nay, certainly, not be called upon to see the dreaded feat 
 ures of Sir Mark again. Early to-morrow morning, I 
 trust, he will be beyond recall. It never occurs to me to 
 think what hours the trains leave Carston, which is our 
 nearest railway station. To-morrow, too, I shall explain 
 everything to 'Duke : to conceal the real facts of the case 
 from him, even for so short a time, grieves me sorely. 
 
 I begin presently to fancy what they may be saying and 
 doing down in the dining-room ; and, so fancying, it sud- 
 denly comes to me that I am healthily and decidedly 
 hungry. When going in for a violent headache, I certainly 
 had not counted upon this, and laugh to myself at the trap 
 of my own making, into which I have fallen, 111 or not ill, 
 however, dinner I must and will have. 
 
 I ring the bell and summon Martha. 
 
 " Well, m'm, are you anything better ? " asks that dam- 
 sel, stealing in on tiptoe, and speaking in a stage whisper. 
 
 " I am," I respond, briskly, sitting up ; " and oh, 
 Martha, it is odd, is it not, but I do feel so awfully hungry." 
 
 " No, do you really, m'm ? " exclaims Martha, delighted, 
 " that's a rare good sign. I don't hold with no appetite, 
 myself. Lie down again, m'm, quiet-like, and I'll bring you 
 up a tray as '1 tempt you, in two minutes. A little bit of 
 fowl, now, and a slice of am, will be the lightest for you ; 
 and will you take Moselle, m'm, or Champagne? " 
 
 "Moselle," I reply, feeling something of the pleasurable 
 excitement of long ago, when Billy used to smuggle eata- 
 bles into my chamber of punishment ; " and Martha, if ther 
 is any orange pudding, or iced pudding, you know, yoa 
 might " 
 
 " I'll bring it, m'm," sayi Martha. And presently I am 
 doing full justice to as dainty a little dinner as Martha's 
 love could procure. 
 
 I sleep well, but permit myself to be persuaded ; Jito 
 staying in my room for breakfast. After that meal down- 
 stairs, Marmaduke comes tramping up to see how I am. It 
 is eleven o'clock ; surely Sir Mark can have made his excusea 
 and taken his departure by this tune.
 
 264 farms. 
 
 u Is he gone ? " I a*k, in a hollow whiipcr, as 'Duke eiv 
 tera my room. 
 
 Who ?" 
 [ "Mark Gore." 
 
 "No, not yet. Did you know he was going ? " looking 
 mnch surprised, and seating himself on the edge of the bed. 
 
 "I did. I desired him to go. Shut the door close; and 
 I will tell you all about it. But, first, 'Duke, before I say 
 one word, make me a vow you will not be angry with him 
 r take any notice of what he has done." 
 
 " What has he done ? " demands 'Duke, growing a trifle 
 paler. 
 
 " No harm to any one. Make me your vow first." 
 
 " I vow, then," says he, impatiently. And I forthwith 
 repeat to him word for word all that passed between Sir 
 Mark and me, in the evergreen walk. 
 
 "The scoundrel! " says 'Duke, when I have finished. 
 
 "Yes, just so," say I. "I really think he must have 
 gone mad. However, there was no excuse for it, so I sim- 
 ply ordered him out :>f the house. He looked dreadfully 
 unhappy. After all, perhaps he could not help it." 
 
 'Duke laughs in spite of his anger, which is extreme. 
 
 " Of all the conceited little women ! " he says. " What 
 gave you the headache hist night? Was it his conduct?" 
 
 " W ell, I think it was founded on a determination not 
 to see him again. But I was afraid to tell you anything 
 then, lest you might refuse to sit at table with him, or be 
 uncivil, or have a row in any way. You will remember 
 your promise, 'Duke, and let him go quietly aw-ay. An ex- 
 planation would do no good. Once he is gone, it will not 
 signify." 
 
 "fie used to be such a good fellow," says 'Duke, in a 
 puzzled, provoked tone. 
 
 " Well, he is anything hut that now," reply I, with de- 
 oision. " If you go away now, 'Duke, I think I will get up. 
 1 dare say he will be on his way to London by the time 1 
 am dressed." 
 
 I get through my toilet with a good deal of deliberation. 
 I am in no great hurry to find myself downstairs ; I am de 
 iermined to afford him every chance of getting clear of the 
 premises before I make my appearance. 
 
 When dressed to Martha's satisfaction, I go cautiously 
 through tho house, and, contrary to my usual custom, make 
 itraight for Marmaduke's study. Opening the door with
 
 PHYLLIS. 266 
 
 out knocking, I find myself face to face with Marmaduke 
 and Sir Mark Gore, 
 
 I feel petrified, and somewhat guilty. Of what use my 
 condemning myself to solitary confinement for so many 
 hours, if the close of thsrn only brings me in contact with 
 what I have so striven to avoid ? 
 
 Marmad ake's blue eyes are flashing, and his lips are 
 white and compressed. Sir Mark, always dark and super- 
 cilious, is looking much the same as usual, except for a cer- 
 tain bitter expression that adorns the corners of his mouth. 
 Both men regard mo fixedly as I enter, but with what dif- 
 ferent feelings ! 
 
 Marmaduke holds out his hand to me, and the flash dies 
 in his eyes. Sir Mark's lips form the one word " false." 
 
 " No, I am not false," I protest, vehemently, putting my 
 hand through Marmaduke's arm, and glancing at my oppo- 
 nent defiantly from my shelter; "'Duke is my husband; 
 why should I hide anything from him ? I told you I would 
 conceal nothing." 
 
 " AVhat charming wifely conduct ! " says Sir Mark, with 
 a sneer ; " not only do you confide to him all your own little 
 affairs, but you are ready also at a moment's notice to for- 
 give him any peccadilloes of which he has been guilty." 
 
 I feel 'Duke quiver with rage, but laying a warning 
 pressure on his arm, I succeed in restraining him. 
 
 " lie has been guilty of none," I cry, indignantly. " He 
 never cared for any one but me, a& you well know." 
 
 Sir Mark looks down, and smiles meaningly ; I redden 
 with anger. 
 
 " Why are you not gone? M I ask, inhospitably ; " you 
 promised you would leave early this morning. 
 
 " Grant me a little grace, Mrs. Carringtou. Had I had 
 time, I might, indeed, have ordered a special train, but, as 
 matters stand, I am compelled to be your guest until one 
 be allowed by the authorities to start. But for your en 
 krance here just now, which I did not anticipate, I would 
 not have troubled you by my presence again. However, it 
 is the last time you shall be so annoyed. Perhaps you will 
 bid me good-bye, and grant me your forgiveness before I 
 go. You at least should find it easy to pardon, ai it was 
 my unfortunate and undue admiration for yourself cauied 
 me to err." 
 
 His tone is light ans mocking, there is even a half smil* 
 upon his lips. lie treats Marmaduke's presence aa though
 
 56 PHYLLIS, 
 
 he were utterly unaware of it. Yet still something b 
 neath his sneering manner makes me know he does repent, 
 either his false step, or its consequences. 
 
 It is with amazement I discover I bear him no ill-wilL 
 Indeed, I might almost be said to feel sorrow for him at 
 this present moment. I shall be intensely relieved and 
 glad when he is no longer before me ; but he has been 
 kind and pleasant to me, in many ways, during these past 
 two months, and I forgive him. I put my hand in hia, and 
 gay " good-bye," gently. He holds it tightly for an in- 
 Btant, then drops it. 
 
 " Good-bye, Carrington," he says, coolly : " I hope when 
 next we meet time will have softened your resentment." 
 
 He Moves towards the door with his usual careless grace- 
 ful step. 
 
 " And I hope," says 'Duke, in a voice clear and quiet, 
 yet full of suppressed passion, " that the day we meet again 
 is far distant. I have no desire to renew acquaintance in 
 the future with a man who has so basely abused the rights 
 of friendship and hospitality. You have chosen to act the 
 part of a scoundrel. Keep to it, therefore, and avoid the 
 gociety of honest men. For myself, I shall endeavor to 
 forget I ever knew any one so contemptible." 
 
 " Take care/' says Sir Mark, in a low, fierce tone. 
 "Don't try mo too far, ' Honest men 1 ' Remember one 
 thing, Carrington : you owe me something for my forbear- 
 ance." 
 
 For a full minute the two men glare at each other, then 
 the door is flung open, and Mark is gone. 
 
 " WLat did he mean by that ? " ask I, frightened and 
 tearful. " What was that he said about forbearance ? Tell 
 me, 'Duke." 
 
 Marmaduke'a face is white as death. 
 
 " Nothing," he answers, with an effort. " It is only a 
 tagy way he has of speaking. Let us forget him." 
 
 So Mark Gore drops out of our life for the present.. 
 Three days later Lady Blanche Going also takes her de 
 parture. 
 
 As we asRemble in the hall to bid her good-bye I, from 
 an oppressive sense of what is demanded by the laws of 
 courtesy, the othera through the dawdling idleness that bo
 
 PHYLLIS. 257 
 
 longs to a country house she sweeps up to me, and, with 
 an unusually bewitching smiles, says, sweetly: 
 
 " Good-bye, dear Mrs. Carriugton. Thank you so much 
 for all your kindness to me. I really don't remember when 
 I have enjoyed myself so well as here at dear old Strange- 
 more with you." 
 
 Here she stoops forward, as though she would press her 
 lips to my cheek. Instantaneously dropping both her 
 hand and my handkerchief, I bend to pick up the latter ; 
 when I raise myself again, she has wisely passed on, and so 
 I escape the hypocritical salute. 
 
 Marmaduke puts her, maids, traps, and all, into the car- 
 riage. The door is shut, the horses start ; I am well rid of 
 another troublesome guest. I draw a deep sigh of relief 
 as two ideas present themselves before my mind. One is, 
 that I am better out of it all than I deserve ; the second, 
 that never again, under any circumstances, shall she enter 
 my doors. 
 
 It is the night before Harriet's departure, and almost 
 all our guests have vanished. Our two military friends 
 have resumed their regimental duties a week ago ; Sir 
 George Ashurst has gone to London for a little while ; Dora 
 has decided on burying herself at Summerleas during his 
 absence I suppose to meditate soberly upon the coming 
 event. 
 
 It is nine o'clock. Dinner is a thing of the past. Even 
 the gentlemen, having tiled of each other, or the wine, or 
 the politics, have strolled into the drawing-room, and are 
 DOW indulging in such light converse as they deem suitable 
 to our feeble understandings. 
 
 Suddenly the door is flung wide, and Bebe comes hur- 
 riedly in so hurriedly that we all refrain from speech, and 
 raise our eyes to rivet them upon her. She is nervous 
 half laughing yet evidently scared. 
 
 " Oh, Marmaduke ! " she says, with a little gasp, and 
 going up to him and fastening her fingers on his arm, " I 
 have seen a ghost ! " 
 
 " A what f " says 'Duke. 
 
 " A ghost a downright, veritable ghost . Now don't 
 .ook so incre ulous I am thoroughly in earnest. I wai 
 never in my hie before so frightened. I tell you I aaw it 
 plainly, aud quite close. Oh, how I ran ! "
 
 258 PR r -LfS. 
 
 She puts her other hand o her heart, and draws a long 
 breath. 
 
 Naturally wo all stare at her, and feel interested directly. 
 A real spectre is not a thing of everyday occurrence. I feei 
 something stronger than w Merest; I am terrified beyond 
 measure, and rising from my seat, I look anxiously at 
 'Duke. 
 
 " I never heard there was a ghost here before," I say, re- 
 proachfully. " Is the house haunted ? Oh, 'Duke ! you 
 never told me of it and I have gone about it at all Loura, 
 and sometimes even without a light I" 
 
 I conclude there is loraething comical in my dismay, aa 
 Marmaduke and Lord Chandos burst out laughing, Thorn- 
 ton fairly roars, while Sir James gets as near an outburst 
 of merriment as he ever did in his life. 
 
 " Is there a ghost in your family ? " I demand, rathei 
 sharply, feeling nettled at their heartless mirth. 
 
 " No ; I am afraid we have nothing belonging to us hall 
 BO respectable. A'l the ancestors I ever heard of died most 
 amiably, either on the battle-field, or on the gallows, or in 
 their beds. We cannot lay claim to a single murderer or 
 suicide ; there is not even a solitary instance of a duel being 
 fought within these walls. I doubt we are a tame race. 
 There is not a ppark of romance about us. Bebe's imagin- 
 ation has run r ot." 
 
 " I tell yor I saw it," persists Bebe, indignantly. " Am 
 I to disbeliev > my own sight ? I was walking along the 
 corridor off the picture-gallery quite quietly, thinking of 
 anything ir the world but supernatural subjects, when all 
 at once, a I got near the window, I saw a face looking in 
 at me fr<yn the balcony outside." 
 
 " Oh, Bebe ! " I cry, faintly, casting a nervous glance 
 behind tie, as I edge closer to Lord Chandos, who happens 
 to be tbe one nearest me. 
 
 " It was a horrible face, wicked, but handsome. The 
 bead -fras covered with something dark, and it was only 
 the e es I noticed, they were unearthly so large, and 
 black, and revengeful ; they had murder in them." Bebe 
 tops, shuddering. 
 
 " Ideally, Carrington, it is too bad of you," says Chips, 
 reprovingly. "If you keep them at all they should at least 
 be a? liable. I wonder Mis." Beatoun lives to tell the tale. 
 Pray go on : it is positively enthralling. Did the eyes spit 
 fire?"
 
 PHYLLIS. 259 
 
 " The head vanished while I stared, and then I dropped 
 my candle and ran downstairs, as though I were hunted, 
 Oh, I shall never forgot it ! " 
 
 " Probably some poor tramp prowling about," says 'Duke 
 seeing I am nearly in tears. 
 
 "it was nothing living," declares Miss Beatoun with a 
 settled conviction that sends a cold chill through my 
 veins. 
 
 " Bebe, how can you be so stupid?" exclaims 'Duko, 
 almost provoked. "Ghosts, indeed! I thought you had 
 more sense. Come let us go in a body and exorcise this 
 thing, whatever it is. I believe an apparition should be 
 spoken of respectfully in capitals as IT. She may still 
 be on the balcony." 
 
 I think it improbable," says Chips: "she would see by 
 the aid of of Miss Beatoun's candle that it is an unlikely spot 
 for silver spoons." 
 
 " Wei!, if we fail, I shall give orders for a couple of men 
 to search the shrubberies. And whatever they find they 
 shall bring straight to Bcbe." 
 
 " They will find nothing," *ays Bebe, with an obstinacy 
 quite foreign to her. 
 
 I take Marmaduke's arm and cling to him. He looks 
 dovn at me amused. 
 
 " Why, you are trembling you little goose. Perhaps 
 you had better stay here." 
 
 " What ! all alone ! " I cry, aghast. ' Never I would 
 be dead by the time you came back. No, 1 would rather 
 see it out." 
 
 So we all march solemnly upstairs, armed with lights, to 
 investigate this awful mystery. 
 
 Sir James and Thornton take the lead, as I decline to 
 separate from Marmaduke or to go anywhere but in the mid- 
 dle. Not for worlds would I head the procession and be tha 
 first to come up with what may be store for us WitL 
 an equal horror I shrink from being last fearful of being 
 grabbed by something uncanny in the background. 
 
 The whole scene is evidently an intense amusement to 
 the men, and even Harriet, to my disgust, finds some ele- 
 ment of the burlesque about it. The lamps upon the stair- 
 case and along the corridors throw shadows everywhere, 
 and are not reassuring. Once Mr. Thornton, stalking on in 
 front, gives way to a dismal howl, and, stopping short, 
 throws himself into an attitude of abject fear that canget
 
 2(50 PHYLLIS. 
 
 me to nearly weep : so I entreat him, in touching aoonU, 
 not to do it again witlio it reason. 
 
 Another time, either Harriet or Bebe who are walking 
 close behind me (having ordered Lord Chandos to the ex- 
 treme rear, as a further precaution) lays her hand lightly 
 on my shoulder, whereupon I shriek aloud and precipitate 
 myself into Marmaduke's arms. 
 
 At length we reach the dreaded spot, and Thornton, 
 after a few whispered words with Sir James, flings up the 
 window, and, with what appears to me reckless courage, 
 steps out upon the darksome balcony alone. 
 
 He is a long time absent. To me it seems ages. We 
 three women stand waiting in breathless suspense. Bob? 
 titters nervously. 
 
 " He is without doubt making a thorough examination,' 
 says Sir James, gravely. 
 
 We strain our eyes into the night, and even as we do so, 
 something supernaturally tall black, gaunt, with a white 
 plume waving from its haughty head advances slowly to- 
 wards us, from out the gloom. I feel paralyzed with fright, 
 although instinct tells me it is not the thing. 
 
 " Who are ye, that come to disturb my nightly revel ? " 
 says the plumed figure; and then we all know we are gaz- 
 ing at Mr. Thornton, lengthened by a sweeping-brush cov- 
 ered with a black garment, which he holds high above his 
 head. 
 
 "Thornton, I protest you are incorrigible," exclnirm 
 JVIannaduke, when at length he can command his voice ; 
 " and I thought better of you, James, than to aid and abet 
 him." 
 
 I am on the very verge of hysterics ; a pinch, adminis- 
 tered by Bebe, alone restrains me : as it is, the tears of 
 alarm are mingling with the laughter I cannot suppress. 
 
 "My new black Cashmere wrap, I protest! " cries Har- 
 riot, pouncing upon Chips and his sweeping-brush. " Wei), 
 
 feally, Chippendale And the feather out of my bcsi 
 
 bonnet. Oh, this comes of having one's room off a balcony, 
 Why, you wicked boy, you have been upsetting all my goods 
 and chattels. Who gave you permission, sir, to enter my 
 bedroom ? " 
 
 " Sir James," replies Chips, demurely, who has emerged, 
 from his disguise, and is vntly trying to reduce his ai 
 bevelled locks to order. "AL *** to convenient."
 
 PHYLLIS. 2C1 
 
 w Oh, James ! ' says his wife, with a lively reproach, 
 * have I lived to see you perpetrate a joke ? " 
 
 "But where is the spectre ? " I venture to remark. 
 
 " You must really ask Miss Beatoun," says Chips. 'I 
 have done my duty valiantly ; no one can say I funked it. 
 I have done my very best to produce a respectable bonajick 
 bogy ; and if 1 have failed, I am not to be blamed. Now 
 I insist on Miss Beatoun's producing hers. We cannot 
 possibly go back to the domestics (who, I feel positive, are 
 cowering upon the lowest stair) empty-handed. Miss Bea- 
 toun, you have brought us all here at the peril of our lives 
 Now where is he ? " 
 
 " It was not a man," says Bebe. 
 
 "Then where is she?" 
 
 " 1 am not sure it was a woman either," with some hesi- 
 tation. 
 
 " Ye powers ! " cries Chips. " Then what was it ? a 
 mermaid ? an undiscovered gender? The plot thickens. I 
 shan't be able to sleep a wink to-night unless you be more 
 explicit." 
 
 " Then you may stay wide awake," retorts Miss Bea- 
 touu, " as I remember nothing but those horrid eyes. You 
 have chosen to turn it all into ridicule ; and who ever heard 
 of a ghost appearing amidst shouts of laughter? Plow 
 dreadfully cold it is ! Do shut that window and let us go 
 back to the drawing-room fire." 
 
 " 1 hope your next venture will be more successful," says 
 Chips, meekly. And then we all troop down again to the 
 cozy room we have quitted, by no means wiser than when 
 we started. 
 
 Somehow I think no more about it, and, except that I 
 keep Martha busied in my room until I hear Marmaduke's 
 step, next door, I show no further cowardice. The general 
 air of disbelief around me quenches my fears, and the bid- 
 ding farewell to the guests I have got to like so well occupies 
 me to the exclusion of all other matters. 
 
 Then follows Dora's wedding, a very quiet but very 
 charming little affair, remarkable for nothing beyond the 
 fact that during the inevitable breakfast speeches my father 
 actually contrives to squeeze out two small tears. 
 
 The happy pair start for the Continent the bride aH 
 smiles and brown velvet and lace, the bridegroom, perhaps; 
 a trifle pale and we at home fall once more into our usual
 
 62 PHYLLIS 
 
 ways, and try to forget that Dora Vernon wr.s ever anj 
 thing but Lady Ashurst. 
 
 Marmaduke and I, having decided on accepting no in 
 vitations until after Christmas, being filled with a desire to 
 spend this season (which will be our first together) in our 
 awn home, settle down tor a short time into a lazy Darby- 
 Mid-Joan existence. 
 
 It is the second of December ; th? little ormolu toy np 
 on the mantle-piece has chimed out a quarter to five ; it is 
 almost quite dark, yet there is still a glimmer of daylight 
 that might, perhaps, be even more pronounced but for the 
 blazing fire within that puts it to shame. 
 
 " What a cosy little room it is ! " says 'Duke from the 
 doorway. *' You make one hate the outer world." 
 
 " Oh, you have come," I cry well pleased, " and in time 
 for tea. That is right. Have you taken off your shooting- 
 thing* ? I cannot see anything distinctly where you now 
 are/ 
 
 " I am quite clean, if you mean that," says he, laughing 
 and advancing. "1 shall do no injury to your sanctum. 
 But it is too early to go through the regular business of 
 dressing yet." 
 
 " Had you a good day ? " 
 
 " Very good indeed, and a pleasant one altogether. 
 Jenkins was with me, and would have come in to pay you 
 his respects, but thought he was hardly fit for so dainty a 
 lady's inspection. Have you been lonely, darling? IIo\t 
 have you occupied yourself all day ? " 
 
 " Very happhy," I say, surrendering one of my warm 
 hands into his cold ones. And then I proceed to recount 
 all the weighty affairs of business with which I have been 
 employed during his absence. 
 
 But even as I speak the words freeze upon my lips. 
 Between me and the dreary landscape outside rises some- 
 thing that chills every thought of my heart. 
 
 U is a head, closely covered with some dark clothing 
 the faintest outlines of a face a pair of eyes that gleam 
 like living coals. As I gaze horror-stricken, it disappears, 
 io suddenly, so utterly, as to almost make me think it wai 
 a mere trick of the imagination. Almost, but not quite 
 the eyes still burn and gleam before me, but to my memory 
 oome Bebe's marvellous tale.
 
 PHYLLIS. 261 
 
 " Thite, 'Duke," I cry rising, " what is it ? What hav* 
 I seen ? Oh ! I am horribly frightened ! " I cling to him, 
 aud point eagerly towards the window. 
 
 " Frightened at what ? " asks 'Duke, startled by my 
 manner, and gazing ignorantly in the direction I have in- 
 dicated. 
 
 " A face," I say nervously. " It was there only & 
 moment ago. I saw it quite distinctly, and eyes so piercing. 
 Marmaduke," shrinking closer to him, " do you reinembei 
 Bebe's story ? " 
 
 " My darling girl, how can you be so absurd," exclaims 
 'Duke, kindly, ' letting that stupid tale upset you so ? You 
 only imagined a face, my dearest. You have been too much 
 alone all day. There can be nothing." 
 
 " There was," I declare, postively. " I could not be so 
 deceived." 
 
 " Nonsense, Phyllis ! Come with me to the window 
 and look out. If there really was any one, she must be in 
 VIP\ still." 
 
 He leads me to the window rather against my will, and 
 makes me look out. I do so to please him, standing safely 
 ensconced behind his arm. 
 
 " The lawn is bare," he says convincingly ; " there is no 
 cover until one reaches the shrubberies beyond ; and no 
 one could have reached them since, I think. Now come 
 with me to the other window.** 
 
 I follow him submissively with the same result ; and 
 finally we finish our researches in the bow-window, at the 
 farthest end of the room. 
 
 The prospect without is dreary in the extreme. A storm 
 is steadily rising, and the wind is soughing mournfully 
 through the trees. Great sullen drops of rain fall with 
 vindictive force against the panes. 
 
 " Now, confess, you are the most foolish child in the 
 world," says 'Duke, cheerfully, seeing I am still depressed. 
 " Who would willingly be out such an evening as this I 
 Not even a dog, if he could help it ; and certainly a spec- 
 tre would have far too much sense." 
 
 " If it was fancy, it was very vivid," I say, reluctantly, 
 " and, besides, I am not fanciful at all. I was a little un- 
 lucky, I think ; it reminded me of of " 
 
 "A Banshee?" asks 'Duke, laughing. 
 
 "Well, yes, something like that," I admit seriously.
 
 2(\4 PHYLLIS. 
 
 "Oa. Marmadukc, I hope no bad fortune is in store for us. 
 I feel a strange foreboding at my heart. 
 
 " You feel a good deal of folly," says my husband. 
 "Phyllis, I am ashamed of you. The idea of being super- 
 stitious in tne nineteenth century ! I shall give you a good 
 scolding for this, and at the same time some brandy-and- 
 urater. Your nerves are unstrung, my dearest; that is all. 
 Come, sit down here, and try to be sensible, while I ring 
 the bell." 
 
 As he speaks he rings it. 
 
 *'Tynon, have the grounds searched again directly. It 
 ie very annoying that tramps should be allowed the run of 
 the place. A stop must be put to it. Half a glass of brandy 
 and a bottle of soda." 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 "Don't give me brandy and soda-water," I say, with 
 some energy. I do so hate it." 
 
 " How do you know ? " 
 
 "Because I tested yours the other evening, and thought 
 it a horrible concoction. I was tired of hearing men praise 
 it as a drink, so thought I would try if it was really aa 
 good as they said. But it was not: it was extremely di&- 
 agreeable." 
 
 " It was the soda you disliked. I will put very little in, 
 and then you will like it better." 
 
 " But indeed, Marmaduke, I would rather not have any- 
 thing." 
 
 " But indeed, Phyllis, I must insist on your taking it. If 
 we are going to be so ultra-fashionable as to encourage a 
 real ghost on the premises, we must only increase our 
 allowance of spirits, and fortify ourselves to meet it. By 
 the by, have you decided on the sex ? Bebe was rather 
 hazy on that point." 
 
 " I don't know," I say, shuddering ; " I wish you would 
 not jest about it." 
 
 Then I drink what he has prepared for me, and, in spite 
 3f my dislike to it, feel presently somewhat happier in my 
 Blind 
 
 The world is only three days older, when, ns I sit alone 
 in my own room reading, Tynon opens the door, and 
 addresses me in the semi-mysterious manner he af:
 
 PHYLLIS. 2G5 
 
 "There's a woman downstairs, ma'am, as particularly 
 wants to speak with you." 
 
 " A -woman ? " I reply, lazily. " What sort of a woman 
 Tynon?" 
 
 " Well, ma'am, a handsome woman as far as I can judge, 
 A furriner, I would say. A woman of a fine presence 
 as might be a lady; but I ain't quite certain on that point." 
 
 " Oh, Tynon, show her up," I say, nastily, feeling dis- 
 mnycd, as I picture to myself a lady left standing in the 
 hall while Tynon makes up his mind as to what her proper 
 position in society may be. 
 
 lie obeys my behest with alacrity, and in a very few 
 moments " the woman " and I are face to face ; nay, as she 
 comes slowly forward, and throws back her veil, and fixes 
 upon me her wonderful eyes, I know, with a sinking of the 
 heart, that I am face to face with Bebe's ghost. 
 
 "I am startled and impressed uncomfortably iin 
 pressed as I gaze on the remains of what must once have 
 been an extraordinary beauty. I haA r e risen on her entrance, 
 and we now stand my strange visitor and I staring at 
 each other in silence, with only the little work-table be- 
 tween us. 
 
 She is dressed in deepest black of a good texture; I am 
 in rich brown velvet. She is tall and full truly, as Tvnon 
 had described her, w a woman of a fine presence ; " I am 
 small and very slight. Her eyes are large, and dark, and 
 burning such eyes as belong to the South alone; mine, 
 large too, are gray-blue, and soft and calm. 
 
 I feel fascinated, and slightly terrified. At last I speak. 
 
 " Is there anything I can do ? I believe you wished to 
 speak to me ! " I venture, weakly, and with hesitation. 
 
 " I do," says my strange visitor, never removing her 
 piercing gnze from my face. " I also wished to see you dose. 
 So you are his wife, are you ? A child, a mere doll 1 " 
 
 I am so taken aback I can find no reply tc ranke to this 
 ipeech: every moment renders me more amazed, more 
 thoroughly frightened. 
 
 " You are Airs. Carrington of Strangem Dre," she goei 
 or 1 ., in the purest English, out with an unmistakably foreign 
 accent. " Well, Mrs. Carrington, I have come here to-day 
 to teli you something I fear will be unpalatable to your 
 dainty ears." 
 
 At this instant it occurs tc me that I have admitted to 
 my presence, and am shut up with, an escaped lunatic. At
 
 this thought my blood curdles in my vo ns ; I move * ste 
 backwards, ana cast a lingering, longing glance at th bell 
 handle. Watching my every gesture, she immediately di 
 vines my intention. 
 
 " If you will take my advice," she says, " you will not 
 touch that bell. What I have to say might furnish too much 
 gossip for your servant's hall. No, I am not mad. Pouf i 
 what a fool it is, trembling in every limb ! Pray restrain 
 yourself Mrs. Carrington : you will require all your oourag* 
 to sustain you by and by." 
 
 She is speaking very insolently, and there is a fiendish 
 triumph in her black eyes ; I can hear a subtle mockery in 
 her tone as she utters my married name. 
 
 " If you will be so kind as to state your business without 
 any further delay," I remark, with as much hauteur as lean 
 summon to my aid, " I shall feel obliged." 
 
 "Good," says she, with a vicious smile : "you recover. 
 The white mouse has found its squeak. Listen, then." She 
 scats herself before the small table that divides us, leans her 
 elbows upon it, and takes her face between her hands. Her 
 eyes are still riveted upon mine; not for a second does she 
 relax the vigilance of her gaze. " Who do you think I am ? " 
 she asks, slowly. 
 
 " I have not the faintest idea," I reply, still haughty, 
 though thoroughly upset, and nervous. 
 
 " I am Marinaduke Carrington'g lawful wife," 
 she says, biting out the words with cruel emphasis, and 
 nodding her head at me between each pause. 
 
 I neither stagger nor faint, nor cry out: I simply don't 
 believe her. She is mad, then, after all. Oh, if Tynon, or 
 Harris, or any one, would only come! I calculate my 
 chance of being able to rush past her and gain the door in 
 nafety, but am disheartened by her watchfulness. I remem- 
 ber, too, how fatal a thing it is to show symptoms of terroi 
 before a maniac, and with an effort collect myself 
 
 " If you have nothing better to say than such idiot.a 
 nonsense," I return, calmly, " I think this interview may as 
 well come to an cud." As I utter this speech in fear and 
 trembling, I once more go slowly in the direction of the bell. 
 
 "Oh! must you then see my marriage-lines?" says the 
 woman with a sneer, drawing from her bosom a folded 
 paper. " Is th,ere too much of the Htago about my little dec- 
 laration ? Come, then, behold thorn ; but at a distance, 
 arita, at a disunce."
 
 PHYLLIS. 267 
 
 She spreads open the paper upon the table before me. 
 Impelled by some hideous curiosity, I draw near. With 
 ore brown but shapely finger, she traces the characters, and 
 J read I read with dull eyes, the terrible words that seal 
 my fate. No thought of a forgery cornea to sooth me ; I 
 know in that one long awful moment that my eyes have 
 leen the truth. 
 
 Mechanically I put out my hand to seize the paper, but 
 ilie pushed me roughly back. 
 
 " No, no, ma belle," she laughs coolly ; " not that I " 
 
 " It is a lie," I cry, fiercely ; " a lie ! " 
 
 Where now is all my nervousness, my childish terror? 
 My blood flames into life. For the time I am actually mad 
 with passion, as mad as I imagined her a little while ago. 
 A cruel, uncontrollable longing to kill her to silence for- 
 ever the bitter, mocking tones, to shut the vindictive eyes 
 that seem to draw great drops of blood from my heart 
 takes possession of me. I catch hold of a heavy ruler that 
 lies on a Davenport near, and make a spring towards her. 
 
 But I am as an infant in the hands of my opponent ; I 
 feel myself flung violently to one side against a wall, while 
 the ruler falls crashing into an opposite corner. 
 
 " Bah 1 " she cries through her teeth. " Can English 
 blood get warm ? I did not believe it until now. So you 
 love the handsome husband, do you ? That, after all, ia 
 not a husband, see you, but a lover. This is my house, 
 Mees I This is my room ! Leave it, I command you! " 
 
 She laughs long and loudly ; but all my fury has died 
 out. 
 
 " I do not believe one word of all your vile story," I 
 declare, doggedly, knowing I am lying as I speak ; " it 
 flavors too much of the melodrama to bo real. You are an 
 impostor ; but you calculate foolishly when you think to 
 gain money from me by your false tale. You have been 
 een more than once about these grounds before now " 
 
 "Ay" interrupting me with a rapid shrug of her 
 finely formed shoulders " I pined, I hungered for a sight 
 of your English baby face. I the mistress of it all skulked 
 about these walls, anft was hunted through your shrubberies 
 like a common thief. Twice was I near detection ; twice 
 through my native cunning I evaded your stupid bulldogs 
 of men. And each time I hugged myself to think I had the 
 revenge here" laying both hands lightly on bar boora 
 wherw the fatal paper once more liei.
 
 268 PHYLLIS 
 
 " I do not believe you," I reiterate, stupidly : " it ia 
 nothing but a wicked invention of your own. I am silly 
 to feel even annoyance. My husband will soon be in 
 then we shall hoar the truth." 
 
 " We shall the whole truth. His face will betray it. 
 Then you shall hear of the happy evenings spent Jn 
 Florence, beneath the eternal blue of the sky, when Carlotta 
 Veschi lay with her dark head reclined upon her English 
 lover's breast ; when words of love fell hotly upon the 
 twilight air ; when vows were interchanged ; when hit 
 lips were pressed, warmly, tenderly, to mine." 
 
 " Be silent, woman ! " I cry, passionately, breathing 
 hard and painfully. Oh, the anguish ! the torture ! I 
 raise my head a little higher, but my hand goes out and 
 grasps unconsciouly a friendly chair, to steady my failing 
 limbs. 
 
 " Does it distress you, Anima, all these loving details? 
 From his lips they will possibly fall more sweetly. I am 
 but an interloper only the despised worm that crawls 
 into the rose's heart. Mine is the hand (unhappy one thai 
 I am) to lay waste the nest of the doves." 
 
 " Here he is 1 " I cry joyfully, as I hear my husband's 
 footsteps pass the window. The very crunching of the 
 gravel beneath his heel rouses me. Hope once again 
 springs warm within my breast. It is not, it cannot be 
 true. He will send this horrible woman away, and reduce 
 all my ridiculous fears to ashes. 
 
 I run to him with unusual eagerness as he enters, and, 
 smiling, he holds out his arms. But even before I can 
 throw myself into them, what is it that comes across his 
 face? What is this awful whiteness, this deadly look of 
 terror ? Why docs he stagger back against the wall ? 
 Why do his hands fall lifeless to his sides ? Why do hia 
 eyes grow large with unearthly horror ? 
 
 The woman stands where last she stood. She has not 
 moved on his entrance, or made the faintest advance, 
 Though slightly paler, the evil mockery still lingers is 
 her eyes. 
 
 She rakes one finger slowly, tragicaLy, and pointa it at 
 him. 
 
 " I have found you," she says. " My husband 1 " 
 
 No reply. Both his shaking hands go up to hide hi 
 face. I run to him, and fling my arms around his neck. 
 
 " Mariuaduke, speak 1 " I cry. " Tell her she lies.
 
 PHYLLIS. -tf9 
 
 'Duke, 'Duke, raise your head and send her from this place. 
 Why are you silent? Why will you not look at me? It 
 is only I your own Phyllis. Oh, Marmaduke, I am hor 
 ribly frightened. Why don't you tell her to begone ? " 
 
 " Because he dare not," says my visitor, slowly. " Well, 
 Marmaduke, have you no welcome for your wife ?" 
 
 He puts me roughly from him, and, going over to her, 
 seizes her by the wrists and drags her into the full light of 
 the window. 
 
 " You fiend ! " he hisses, beneath his breath. " It was 
 nil false, then, the news of your death ? You are alivo ? 
 You are still left to contaminate the earth ? Who wrote 
 the tidings that set me, as I believed, free ? " 
 
 " I did," replies the woman, quietly. " I was tired 
 of you. Your milk-and-watery affection, even at the very 
 first, sickened me. I wished to see you no more. I had 
 begun to hate you, and so took that means of ridding my- 
 Belf of you forever. But when I heard of the rich uncle's 
 death of the money, the grandeur, all that had come to 
 you I regretted my folly, and started to claim my rights. 
 I am here: repudiate me if you can." 
 
 I have crept closer ; I am staring at Marmaduke. I 
 cannot, I will not, still believe. 
 
 "Marmaduke, say she is not your wife, " I demand, im- 
 periously. 
 
 " Ay, say it, " says the woman, with a smile. 
 
 I go nearer, and attempt to take his h:md. 
 
 " ' Duke, say it, say it! " I cry, feverishly. 
 
 " Do not touch me ! M exclaims he, hoarsely, shrinking 
 away from me. 
 
 I feel turned to stone not faint or sick ; only numbed, 
 and unable to reason. The Italian bursts into a ringing 
 laugh. 
 
 "What a situation ! " cries she. " What a scene ! It is 
 A tragedy, and the peasant is the heroine. I Carlotta am 
 the wife, while the white, delicate, proud ruiladi is only the 
 mist " 
 
 Befor the vile word can leave her lips, Marmaduke's 
 hand is on her throat. Ilis face is distorted with passion 
 and madness : there is upon it a settled expression of de- 
 termination that terrifies me more than all that has gone 
 before. His thin nostrils are dilated with rage. His very 
 lips are gray. Already the woman's features are growing 
 dmooJored
 
 270 fffYLLlS. 
 
 " Marmaduke ! " I shriek, tearing at the hand that 
 pinions her to the shutter, " Marmaduke, for my sake- 
 remember have pity. Oh, what i.s it you would do?" 
 
 By a superhuman effort my weak fingers succeed in 
 dragging his hand away, lie shivers, and falls back a step 
 or two, while the Italian slowly recovers. 
 
 "Would you murder me?" she gasps. "Ah! wretch 
 dog beast ! But I have a revenge I " 
 
 She stalks towards the door as she utters thia threat, 
 and quickly vanishes. 
 
 I turn to my to Marmaduke. 
 
 " It is true ? " I ask. 
 
 " It is true, " he replies, and as he speaks I can scarcely 
 believe the man who stands before me, crushed and aged 
 and heart-broken, is the same gay, handsome young man 
 who entered the room all smiles a few minutes ago. 
 
 " If she is your wife, what am If " I ask, with unnatural 
 almness. 
 
 " Phyllis ! Phyllis ! my life ! forgive me ! " he cries, in 
 an anguished tone; and then the room grows suddenly 
 dark;l fall heavily forward into the blackness, and all is 
 forgotten. 
 
 When I recover consciousness, I find myself in my own 
 room, lying upon my bed. The blinds are all drawn down, 
 to cause a soothing darkness. There is a general feel of 
 dampness about my hair and forehead ; somebodv is bending 
 anxiously over me. liaising my eyes in languid scrutiny, 
 I discover it is my mother. 
 
 " Is that you, mamma ? " 
 
 "Yes, my darling. " 
 
 " I did not know you were coming to-day. How is it 
 you are here just now? and why am I lying on my bed ?" 
 
 I uplift myself upon my elbow, and peer at her curiously. 
 Cler eyelids are crimson ; her voice is full of the thick and 
 husky sound that comes of much weeping. 
 
 " What has happened ? Why am I here ? " I repeat. 
 
 "You were not well, dearest. A mere faint nothing 
 jaore : but we thought you would feel better if kept quiet 
 quiet. I was diiving over to see you to day, and very 
 fortunately arrived just as I was wanted. Lie down gam 
 and try to sleep. "
 
 PffYLLIS. 271 
 
 "No, I cannot. What has vex el you mother ? You 
 have been crying." 
 
 " Oh, no, darling," iu trembling tones ; " you only imag- 
 ine it. Perhaps it is the uncertain light." 
 
 "Nonsense," I insist angrily; " you know you have. I 
 can see it in your eye, I can hear it in your voice. Why do 
 you try to deceive me ! Something has happened I feel 
 it -and you are keeping it from me. Let me think " 
 
 With a nervous gesture mother raises a cup from a 
 table near, and puts it to my lips. 
 
 "Drink this first, and think afterwards,'' she says; " it 
 will do you good." 
 
 " No, I shall think first. There is something weighing 
 on my brain, and on my heart. Why don't you help me 
 to remember ? " 
 
 I put my hands to my head in deep perplxity. Slowly, 
 slowly the truth comes back to me; slowly ad the past hor- 
 rible scene revives itself. 
 
 " Ah ! " I gasp, aff rightedly. " I remember ! I know it 
 
 all now. I can see her again ! iShe said But," seizing 
 
 mother's wrists fiercely, "It is not true, mother? Oh 
 mother ! say it is not true 1 Oh ! mother ! mother ! " 
 
 " Phyllis, my child my lamb I what shall 1 say to com- 
 fort you ? " 
 
 " Deny it ! " I cry, passionately flinging my arm* around 
 her waist, and throwing back my head that I may watch 
 her face. Poor face ! so filled with the bitterest of all 
 griefs, the want of power to solace those we love. " Why 
 do you cry? Why don't you say at once it was a lie? 
 You are as bad as Marmadake; he stood there too, deaf as 
 a stick or a stone to my entreaties. Oh, will no one help 
 tne ? Oh, it is true then ! it is true ! " 
 
 I push her from me, and. burying my head on my arms 
 rock myself to and fro, in a silent agony of despair. Not a 
 sound breaks the stillness, but mother's low suppressed 
 sobbing ; it maddens me. 
 
 " What are you crying for? " 1 ask, roughly, raising my 
 tearless face ; " my eyes are dry. It is my sorrow, not 
 your& not any one's. What do you mean by making 
 moan ? " 
 
 She makes no arswer, and my head drops occe more 
 upon my arms. I continue my ceaseless, miserable n>c>ing. 
 iuiuu there is silence.
 
 272 fHYLLI-S. 
 
 A door bangs somewhere in the distance. 
 
 " I will not see him ! " I cry, starting up wildly 
 "Nothing on earth shall induce me. I cannot, mother, 
 Tell him he must not come in here." 
 
 "Darling, he is not coining. But even if he were, Phyl- 
 lis, surely you would be kind to him. If you could only 
 ee his despair ! He was quite innocent of it. Phyllis, I 
 implore you, do not foster bitter thoughts in your heart to- 
 wards Marmaduke." 
 
 " It is not that. You mistake me. Only it is all so 
 horrible I fear to see him. Yesterday he was my husband 
 no, no I mean I thought he was my husband ; to-day 
 what is he ? " 
 
 " Oh, darling ! try to be calm." 
 
 " I am calm. See, my hand does not even tremble," 
 nolding it up before her. " Oh, what have I done, that this 
 should happen to me ? What odious crime have I commit- 
 ted, that I should be so punished ? Only six months mar- 
 ried married, did I say I must learn to forget that 
 ivord 1 " 
 
 " Oh, Phyllis, hush ! If you would but try to sleep, my 
 poor iove ! " 
 
 " Shall I ever sleep again, I wonder, with that scene be- 
 fore me always? It has withered me. Her eyes how they 
 ourned into mine ! Her very touch had venom in it ! And 
 > et why should I be so hard on her, poor creature ? Was 
 ne not in the right? lie is her husband, not mine. She 
 tas the prior claim. She is the deserted wife, while I ana 
 
 "Phyllis! Phyllis!" 
 
 " And all my life before me ! " I cry, with passionate 
 elf-phy, clasping my hands. " How shall I bear it ? What 
 are those words, mother ? Do you recollect ? Something 
 beginning, 
 
 ' So young, so young, 
 I am not used to tears to-night, 
 Instead of slumber; nor to prayer 
 With sobbing breath, and hauda out- wrung. 
 
 " Phyllis, do you want to kill me ? " says mother, hex 
 obi breaking forth afresh.
 
 PHYLLIS. 273 
 
 " Poor mother ! do I make you sad ? Do your tears re- 
 Jieve you ? I suppose so, as I have none. I think my sor 
 row is too great for that. It was like a dream, the whole 
 thing. I could not realize it then. It is only now I, fully 
 understand how alone I am in the world." 
 
 " My own girl, you still have me." 
 
 "And so I have, dear, dearest mother; but I will live 
 alone, for all that. Disgrace lias fallen upon me, but I will 
 not ask others to bear my burden. Was it not well Dora's 
 marriage took place last month ? My position cannot affect 
 hers now." 
 
 " Oh Phyllis ! do not talk of disgrace. What disgrace 
 can attach to you, my poor innocent child?" 
 
 "I cannot lie here any longer," I say, abruptly, getting 
 off the bed ; " I shall go mad, if I stay still and think. And 
 my hair," fretfully " it has all come down ; it must be 
 settled again. Oh, no ; I cannot have Martha ; she would 
 look doleful and sympathetic, as if she knew everything, 
 and I should feel inclined to kill her." 
 
 " Let me do it, darling. Your arms are tired," says 
 mother, meekly, and proceeds to shake out and comb with 
 softest touch the heavy masses of hair that only yesterday 
 I gloried in. Even this morning, when it lay all about my 
 shoulders, how happy I was ! 
 
 " Do you know, mother," I say, drearily, " it seems to 
 me now as though between me and this morning a whole 
 century had rolled ? " 
 
 "P'hyllis," says mamma, earnestly, " I don't like your 
 manner. I don't like the way yon are taking all this. A 
 little while ago your grief was vehement, but natural ; now 
 there is an indiffereuce about you that frightens me. You 
 will be ill, darling, if you don't give way a little." 
 
 "111? with a chance of dying you mean? Why, tint 
 would be famous ! But don't fear, mother : no such good 
 fortune is in store for mo. I shall probably outlive every 
 one of you." I laugh a little. "How nicely you use the 
 brush I you do not drag a single hair. And it is nearly 
 seven months now since last you brushed my hair ; and I 
 was then almost a child, was not I? And we have never 
 thought, you and I, such bad luck was in store for the poor 
 little scapegrace of the family. Yes, roll it back like that. Oh! 
 did you ever see so miserable a face ? I hate it," making a faint 
 , ice at my own image iu the glass. "How white it is ! "
 
 t, i t / // YLL1S, 
 
 "Too white!" 
 
 " Yes, but not so white as hers ; and her eyes, so large 
 and black. I have read that Italian women are revenge- 
 ful. I think if she had had a knife then she would have 
 killed me." 
 
 "Phyllis, you are overwrought. Darling, do let me put 
 you into bed again, and try to swallow some of this compos- 
 ing draught. Or see, this comfortable couch will you lie 
 here?" coaxingly. 
 
 "Do you think she will come back again, mother? that 
 would be worse than anything. She muttered some bad 
 words, or some threat, as she was leaving the room : and 
 yet do you know it was my hand kept Marmaduke from 
 murdering her? Murder ; has not that an ugly sound? 
 Poor 'Duke ! he was half mad, I think." 
 
 " Of course he was. Do not let your mind dwell on it. 
 Look what large soft cushions ; only put your head on them, 
 and you will sleep. And I will tuck you up, and sing to you, 
 and imagine you my own little baby Phyllis again." 
 
 <; But what an old, old baby ! I feel as old as yourself 
 to-day. This morning I remember I laughed for nearly five 
 minutes without stopping over some absurd story of Martha's. 
 I fear I offended her at last ; but I am punished now ; much 
 laughing, you know, goes before crying. Shall I cry much, 
 later on I wonder V " 
 
 " No, no, my love, I hope not. Come ; if you will lie 
 down here, and drink this, I will lie with you, and then you 
 will not be lonely." 
 
 " No, I want to walk. I feel so restless. Where is my 
 hat, mother ? Can you see it ? Ah ! you are not inucb 
 better than Martha after all ; she never knows where any- 
 thing is. How light my head feels ! Do not pity me, mother? 
 
 is it not harJ to bear ? Ah " I fling my arms above my 
 
 head, and fall senseless at her feet. 
 
 It is evening of the same day a dark sullen December 
 evening, dark as the thoughts that throng my breast. I fee] 
 unsympathetic, cold, almost dead. Much as I have tried 
 during the past few hours, I cannot quite reconcile myself 
 to the idea that it is I 1 myself who am principally con- 
 cerned in all this horror that has taken place. 
 
 1 wtrue in uiv owu miud. I ruurcsenl the case as for a
 
 PHYLLIS. 275 
 
 third person. I cannot realize that the one most to b 
 pitied is I Phyllis Phyllis what ? 
 
 I have at length consented to see Marmaduke, and am 
 lying upon a sofa in a hopelessly dishevelled state, as he en- 
 ters. I have not shed a single tear ; yet the black hollows 
 beneath my eyes might have come from ceaseless weeping. 
 
 I half rise as he comes across the room, yet cannot raise 
 my head to meet his gaze. I dread the havoc despair and 
 self torture will have wrought in his face. He moves slowly, 
 lingeringly, until he reaches the hearthrug, and there stands 
 and regard me imploringly. This 1 feel and know, though 
 through some other sense beside sight. 
 
 " Will you not even look at me ? " he says, presently 
 in a change, almost agonized, tone. 
 
 I force my eyes to meet his, but drop them again almost 
 immediately. 
 
 " Is forgiveness quite out of the question ? " 
 
 " No," I return ; " of course I forgive you. It was not 
 your fault. There is nothing to forgive. But in the first 
 instance you deceive me ; that I feel the hardest. Even 
 to myself my voice sounds cold and strange. 
 
 " I acknowledge it. But how was I to tell this would 
 be the end of it ? It appeared impossible you should ever 
 know the truth. It was only known to myself and oua 
 other " 
 
 " And that was " 
 
 " Mark Gore. The woman, as I believed, was dead, and 
 who could betray the secret ? The whole miserable story 
 was so hateful to me that to repeat it to you whom I so 
 devotedly loved was more than I had courage for. How 
 could I tell you such a sickening tale ! How could I watch 
 the changes the dislike, it might be that would cloud 
 your face as I related it ? By your own confession, I knew 
 you bore me none of that love that would have helped me 
 safely through even a worse revelation, and I dreaded lest 
 the bare liking you entertained for me should have an end, 
 and that you, a young girl, would shrink from a widoer., 
 ami the hero of such a story." 
 
 " Still, it would have been better if you had spoken ; I 
 can forgive anything but deceit." 
 
 " Once or twice I tried to tell you the only secret I had 
 from you, but you would not listen, or else at the moment 
 spoke such words as made me doubt the expediency of ever
 
 276 PHYLLIS. 
 
 mentioning the affair at all. But now that it is too late, 1 
 regret my duplicity, or cowardice, or whatever it waa that 
 Bwayed me." 
 
 " Too late, indeed ! " I repeat almost mechanically. 
 
 After a minute or two, he says, in a low voice : 
 
 " Have you no interest, no curiosity, that-you do not 
 ask ? Will you let me tell you now all the real circum- 
 stances of the case ? " 
 
 " What need ? " I answer wearily. " Of course it ia 
 the old story. I seem to have heard it a hundred times. 
 You were a boy, she was a designing woman ; she entrapped 
 you : it is the whole thing." 
 
 " I was no boy ; I was an over-honorable man. She was 
 an Italian woman, with some little learning, of rather 
 respectable parentage, and who (a wonderful thing among 
 her class) could speak a good deal of English. She waa 
 handsome, and for the time I fancied I loved her. No 
 thought of evil towards her entered my heart ; I asked her 
 to marry me and the ceremony was performed, privately 
 but surely, in the little chapel near her home, her brother 
 being the principal witness. Hardly a month had passed 
 before I fully understood the horrible mistake I had made 
 before I learned how detestable was the woman with 
 whom I had linked my fate. Her coarse, harsh manner, 
 her vile, insolent tongue, her habits of drunkenness, nay, 
 more, her evident preference for a low, illiterate cousin, 
 were all too apparent. I left her, she declaring herself as 
 glad to see the last of me as I was to be rid of her. Dooi 
 the whole thing disgust you, Phyllis ? " 
 
 He pauses, and draws his hand wearily across his fore- 
 head. 
 
 I shake my head, but make no further reply ; and 
 presently he goes on again in a low tone : 
 
 " I was, comparatively speaking, poor then ; yet, out of 
 the allowance my uncle had made me, I sent her regularly 
 as much, indeed, more, than I could afford ; but dread of 
 discovery forced me to be generous. Then one day came 
 the tidings of her death. Even now, Phyllis now, when 
 I am utterly crushed and heart-broken I can feel again 
 the wild passion of delight that overcame me as I pictured 
 tnyself once more free. Again I mixed with the world I 
 bad for some time avoided, and was received with open 
 arms, my uncle's death having made me a rich man ; and
 
 PHYLLIS. 277 
 
 then then I met you. Oh, Phyllis, surely my story in a 
 sad one, and deserving of some pity." 
 
 " It is sad," 1 say, monotonously, " but not so sad aa 
 mine." 
 
 Coming over, *e kneels down beside my sofa, and gent.y, 
 almost fearfully, hi takes one of my hands in both his. 
 
 " Oh not so sad as yours, my poor love, my own darl- 
 ing," he murmurs painfully, " but still unhappy enough. 
 To think that I, who would willingly have shielded you 
 with my life, should be the one to bring misery upon 
 you I " 
 
 He hides his face upon the far edge of the cushion on 
 which my aching j>ead is reclining. I can no longer see 
 him, but can feel t>N3 whole frame trembling with suppressed 
 emotion. With 8"tne far-off, indistinct sensation of pity, I 
 press the hand tha* still holds mine. 
 
 Presently I ronse myself, and, rising to a sitting pos- 
 ture, I fix my dvl) eyes upon the opposite wall, and speak. 
 
 " I suppose it v* to my old home I must go." 
 
 As though V>o words stung him, Marmaduke gets up 
 impetuously, vad walks back to his former position upon 
 the he.".rthr->. I noticed that his face has grown, if possi- 
 ble, a chad-> paler than before. A sudden look of fear has 
 overt-Tread it. 
 
 " Ves. yes ; of course you shall go home for a little time 
 if y:"\ v?}r\ it," he says, nervously. 
 
 " tf o* tor a little time ; forever," I return. A horrible 
 paj is *ging at my heart. 
 
 * PV-^ilis," cries he almost fiercely, " what are you say- 
 ing ? ^ou cannot mean it. Forever ? Do you know what 
 that rrotus ? If you can live without me, I tell you plainly 
 I wouM rather ten thousand times be dead than exist with- 
 out you. Are you utterly heartless, that you can torture 
 oae lifte this ? Never to see you again ; is that what you 
 would say ? " Coming nearer, so close that he touches me, 
 wLile his eyes seek and read with desperate eagerness my 
 face, " Speak, speak, and^ tell me you were only trying to 
 frighten me." 
 
 " I cannot. I meant just what I said," I gasp, consumed 
 by a sudden dread of I scarcely know what. " Why do 
 you disbelieve ? What other course is open to mo ? " 
 
 " Listen," trying to speak calmly, and seizing hold of 
 my hands again ; " why should you make this wretched
 
 278 PHYLLIS. 
 
 story public ? As jet, no one is the wiser ; you and I alone 
 hold the secret. This woman, this fend, will go anywhere 
 will do anything, for sufficient money, and I can make it 
 worth her while to be forever silent. When she returns to 
 Italy, who then will know the truth ? " 
 
 The truth ah ! yes " 
 
 "Are you not my wife? Has not my love bound you 
 to me by stronger ties than any church laws ? Why should 
 this former detested bond ruin both our lives?" 
 
 " A little while ago you spoke of yourself as an ' over- 
 honorable* man. Is what you now propose honorable or 
 right? Marmaduke, it is impossible. As our lives have 
 shaped themselves, so must they be. I cannot live with 
 you." 
 
 " Think of what the world will say. Phyllis, can you 
 bear their cruel speeches ? It is not altogether for my own 
 sake I plead, though the very thought of losing you is more 
 than I can bear. It is for you, yourself, I entreat. Remem- 
 ber what your position will be. Have pity upon your- 
 self." 
 
 " No, no ! I will not listen to you. I will not, Manna- 
 duke." 
 
 He flings himself on his knees before me. 
 
 "Darling, darling, do not forsake me," he whispers de- 
 spairingly. 
 
 " Let me go," I cry wildly. " Is this your love for me ? 
 Oh, the selfishness of it. Would you have me live with 
 you as " 
 
 " Be silent ! " exclaims he, in a terrible voice. A spasm 
 of pain contracts his face. Slowly he regains his feet. 
 
 " You madden me," he goes on, in an altered tone. " I 
 forget that you, who have never loved, cannot feel as I do. 
 Phyllis, tell me the truth ; have you no affection for me 
 Are you quite cold ? " 
 
 " I am not ! " I cry, suddenly waking from my unnatu- 
 ra. apathy, and bursting into bitter tears, the first I have 
 shed to-day. As the whole horrible truth comes home to 
 me, I rise impulsively and fling myself into my husband's 
 arms for my husband he has been for six long months. 
 ** I do love you, 'Duke 'Duke ; but, oh ! what can I do ? 
 What words can I use to tell you all I feel ? I am young, 
 and silly, and ridiculous in many ways, I know ; but yet 
 there is something within me I dare not disobey some
 
 PHYLLIS. 279 
 
 thing that makes me know the life you propose would be a 
 life of sin, one on which no blessing could fall. Help me, 
 therefore, to do the right, and do not make iny despair 
 greater than it is." 
 
 He is silent, as he holds me clasped passionately to his 
 breast. 
 
 " We must part," I go on, more steadily. " 1 must 
 leave you : but, oh, Duke, do not send me home. I could 
 Bot go there." 
 
 I shudder violently in his embrace at the bare thought 
 of such a hoine-coming. How could I summon courage to 
 meet all the whispers, the suppressed looks, the very kind- 
 nesses, that day by day I should see ? 
 
 " And here I could not stay, either," I sob, mournfully : 
 "memory would kill me. 'Duke, where shall I go ? Send 
 me, you somewhere." 
 
 I wait for his answer with my head pillowed on his 
 chest. I wait a long time. Whatever struggle is going on 
 within him takes place silently. He makes no sign of 
 ?.gony ; he does not move ; his very heart, on which I lean, 
 has almost ceased to beat. At length he speaks, and as 
 the words cross his lips I know that he has conquered, but 
 at the expense of youth and joy and hope. 
 
 " There is Hazelton," he says ; " it is a pretty place. It 
 was my mother's. Will you go there ? And " 
 
 " Yes, I will go there," I answer, brokenly. 
 
 " What servants will you take with you ? " he asks me, 
 presently, in a dull, subdued way ; all impatience and pas- 
 sion have died within him. 
 
 " I will take none," I reply, "not one from this place. 
 You must go to Ilazelton and get me a few from the neigh- 
 borhood round it just three or four, who will know noth- 
 ing of me, and seek to know nothing." 
 
 " Oh, my darling, at least take your own maid with you, 
 who lias known you all your life. And Tynon, he is an old 
 and valued servant; he will watch over you, and take care 
 of you." 
 
 " I will not be watched," I say, pettishly ; " and I detest 
 being taken care of. I am not ill. Even when a heart is 
 sick unto death, there is no cure for it. And I would not 
 have Tynon on any account. Every time I met his eyes I 
 would know what he was thinking about. I would read 
 pity in every glance and gesture, and I will not be mad* 
 more wretched than I am by sympathy."
 
 230 PHYLLIS. 
 
 " Then take Martha You know how attached to yoi 
 he is " 
 
 " No ; I will have nc one to remind me of the old life, 
 Do not urge me, 'Duke. Give me my own way in this. 
 Believe me, if you do, I shall have a far better chance of 
 peace." 
 
 " I wish, for your sake, I was dead," says 'Duke, hoarsely 
 
 At this I begin to cry again, weakly. I am almost won 
 out. 
 
 " You will at least write to me, now and then, Phyllis ? " 
 
 " It will be better not." 
 
 " Why ? I have sworn not to see you again, but 1 must 
 and will have soms means of knowing whether you are dead 
 or alive. Promise me that twice a year, once in every six 
 months, you will let me have a letter. It is only a little 
 thing to ask, out of all the happy past." 
 
 " I promise. But you will you stay here? " 
 
 " Here ? " he echoes, bitterly. " What do you take me 
 for ? In this house, where every room and book and flower 
 would remind me of your sweet presence ? No, we will 
 leave it together : I shall look my last on it with you I will 
 not stay to see it desolate and gray and cold without its 
 mistress. You must let me be your escort to your new home, 
 that people may have less to wonder at." 
 
 " And where will you go ? " 
 
 "Abroad India, Australia, America anywhere: what 
 does it matter? If I travelled to the ends of the earth, I 
 could not fly my thoughts." 
 
 "And "timidly" what of her ? " 
 
 "Nothing," he answers, roughly : " I will not talk of her 
 again to you." 
 
 There is a low, apologetic knock at the door. Instantly 
 I seat myself on the sofa in as dignified an attitude as I can 
 assume, considering my hair is all awry and my eyelids 
 crimson. 'Duke lowers the lamp prudently, and falls back 
 to the hearthrug, standing with his hands clasped carelessly 
 behind him, before he says, in a clear, distinct tone : , 
 
 " Come in." 
 
 " Dinner is served," announces Tynon, softly, with the 
 vaguest, discreetest of coughs. How is it that servant! 
 always know everything ? 
 
 " Very good," returns Marmaduke, in his ordinary voice. 
 " Let Mrs. Vernon know." Then, as though acting on 
 second thought :
 
 PHYLLIS. 281 
 
 " Tynon." 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 "It may be as well to let you know now that Mrs. Car 
 rington and I are leaving home next week for some time. 
 
 " Indeed, sir ? yes, sir." Tynon's face is perfectly impas- 
 live, except at the extreme corners of the mouth : these 
 being slightly down-drawn indicate regret and some di. 
 tress. 
 
 " We both feel much disappointed at being obliged to 
 leave home at this particular time^ the Christmas season 
 being so close at hand ; but the business that takes us is 
 important, and will admit of no delay. I shall leave behind 
 rne the usual sura of money for the poor, with an additional 
 gift from Mrs. Carrington, which I will trust you and Mrs. 
 Benson " (the housekeeper) "to see properly distributed.' 
 
 "Thank you, sir: it shall be carefully attended to." 
 
 " I am quite sure of that," kindly. Then, with a return 
 to the rather forced and stilted mariner that has distinguished 
 hia foregoing speech, he goes on : " It is altogether un- 
 certain when we shall be able to come back to Strangemore, 
 as the business of which I speak will necessitate my going 
 abroad ; and as Mrs. Carringtou's health will not allow her 
 to accompany me, and as she has been ordered change of air, 
 she will go to Ilazelton, which she has not seen, and await 
 my return there. You quite understand, Tynon?" 
 
 " Perfectly, sir," replies the old butler, with his eyes 
 on the ground. And as I watch him, I know how per- 
 fectly indeed he understands, not only what is being said, 
 but also what is not being said. 
 
 'Duke weary of lying, draws his hand across his fore- 
 head. " You will please let the other servants know of 
 our movements. Although my absence may be more pro- 
 longed than I think, I shall wish them all to remain as 
 they now are so that the house may be in readiness to re- 
 ceive us at any moment. But," turning his gaze for the 
 first time fully upon Tynon and speaking very sternly, " I 
 will have no whispering or gossiping about things that 
 don't concern them : mind that. I leave you in charge, 
 Tynon, and I desire that all such conduct be punished with 
 instant dismissal. You hear ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; you may be sure there shall be no gossiping 
 or whispering going on in this house." 
 
 " I hope not." Then, having noticed the quavering 
 voice and depressed ah" of this old servitor, who has knowu
 
 282 PHYLLIS. 
 
 him from his youth up, he adds more gently, "you maj 
 go now. I know I can trust you. I do not think I have 
 any more directions to give you at present." 
 
 Tynon bows in a shaky, dispirited way, and leaves the 
 room. Outside in the dusk of the corridor, I can see him 
 put his hand to his eyes. But he is staunch, and even now 
 compels himself to turn and say, with deference and with 
 a praiseworthy show of ignorance of what the preceding 
 conversation may mean : 
 
 " I hope you will excuse my mentioning it, sir, but if 
 there is one thing beyond another that raises Mrs. Cook's 
 irritableness, and makes her perverse towards the rest of 
 the household, it is to hear the soup was allowed to grow 
 cold." 
 
 " All right, Tynon : Mrs. Harrison's nerves shall not be 
 upset this evening. We will go down now," says 'Duke, 
 with a smile a very impoverished specmen of its kind, J 
 must own, but still a smile. 
 
 I rush into the next room my dressing-room is off mj 
 boudoir and having bathed my poor eyes and hastily 
 brushed my hair and given myself a general air of pros 
 pcrity make for the dining-room. On the stairs we en 
 counter mother, looking so pale and wan, and almost 
 terrified, that I take my hand off Marmaduke's arm and 
 slip it round her waist. It will never do for her to preseu* 
 such a woful countenance to the criticism of servants. 
 
 " Try to look a little more cheerful, darling," I whisper, 
 eagerly ; " it will not be for long : as it has to be gone 
 through, let us be brave in the doing of it." 
 
 She looks at me with a relieved astonishment ; and 
 truly the strength of will that bears me through this inter 
 miu able evening amazes no one so much as myself. 
 
 ITazelton down by the sea, I have gained your she.te 
 at last. Only yesterday, Marmaduke and I finished our 
 miserable journey he r e, and took a long, a last, farewe^ oi 
 each other. 
 
 Hew can I write of it, how describe the anguish of 
 those few minutes, in which a whole year's keenest torture 
 was compressed? How paint word by word the mad but hopo- 
 less clinging, the lingering touch of hands that never more 
 ihould join, the despair, the passion, of the final embrac*
 
 PHYLLIS. 283 
 
 It is over, anil he is gone, and I have fallen into a 
 settled state of apathy, and indifference to what is going 
 on around me, that surely bears some resemblance to a 
 melancholy madness. 
 
 Hazelton is a very pretty, old-fashioned house, about 
 half the size of Strangemore with many straggling roomi 
 well wainscoted almost three parts up each wall. Some ol 
 the floors are of gleaming polished oak, some richly, heavily 
 carpeted . it is a picturesque old place, that at any other 
 time, and under any other circumstances, would have 
 filled me with admiration. 
 
 Afar off one can catch a glimpse of the sea. From the 
 parlor windows it is plainly visible ; in the other rooms a 
 rising hill, and in summer the foliage, intercept the view, 
 In reality, it is only a mile and a half distant from the 
 house, so that at night when the wind is high, the sullen 
 roar of it conies to the listening ear. 
 
 The few servants who have had the honse in charge 
 have been retained, and three more have been added. These 
 have evidently made up their minds to receive me with open 
 arms; but as a week passes, and I show no signs of inter- 
 est in them, or their work, or the gardens, or anything con- 
 nected with my life, they are clearly puzzled and disap- 
 pointed. This I notice in a dull wondering fashion. Why 
 can they not be as indifferent to me as I am to them ? 
 
 All the visitors that should call do call ; it is not a popu- 
 lous neighborhood, but as I decline, seeing them, and do not 
 return their visits the would-be acquaintance drops. On 
 Monday, the vicar, a slight, intellectual-looking man, rides 
 up to the door, and, being refused admittance, leaves his 
 card, and expresses his intention of coming again some day 
 soon. Which message, being conveyed to me by the res- 
 pectable person who reigns here as butler, raises my ire, 
 md induces me to give an order on the spot that never, on 
 any pretence whatever, is any one vicar or no vicar to 
 bt admitted to my presence. 
 
 Sunday comes, out I feel no inclination to clothe myself 
 and go forth to confess my sins and pour out my griefs in 
 the house of prayer. All days are alike to me, and I shrink 
 with a morbid horror from presenting myself to the eyei 
 of my fellows. In this quiet retreat I can bury myself, and 
 nurne my wrongs, and brood over my troubles without in- 
 terference from a cruel world. 
 
 1 tiud some half-finished work among my things, and
 
 I'M PHYLLIS. 
 
 taking it to my favorite room, bend over it hour by hour 
 more often it falls unheeded on my lap, while 1 let memory 
 wander backward, and ask myself, sadly, if such a being 
 ever really lived as wild, merry careless Phyllis Vernon. 
 
 The days go by, and I feel no wish for outdoor exercise, 
 My color slowly fades. 
 
 One morning, the woman who has taken Martha's place^ 
 and who finds much apparent delight in the binding an<? 
 twisting of my hair into impossible fashions, takes courags 
 to address me, 
 
 " The gardens here, ma'am, are so pretty, the prettiest 
 for miles round." 
 
 " Are they ? I must go and see them." 
 
 " ' Deed, rn'm, and it would do you good. A smart 
 walk now once in a way is better'n medicine, so I'm told 
 And the grounds round here is rare and pretty to look at, 
 though to be sure winter has a dispiritin' effect on every- 
 thing." 
 
 " It is cold," I say, with a shiver. 
 
 " It is, m'm surely" leaving the mighty edifice she la 
 erecting on the top of my head to give the fire a vigorous 
 poke " but with your fur cloak and hat you won't feel it. 
 Shall I bring them to you after breakfast, ma'am ? " 
 
 " Very well; do," reply I, with a sigh of resignation. 
 
 Much pleased with her success, the damsel retreats, 
 and punctually to the moment, as I rise from niy breakfast- 
 table, appears again, armed with cloak and gloves and hat. 
 Thus constrained, I sally forth, and make a tour round the 
 gardens that surround what must be for evermore my 
 tome. 
 
 And very delicious old gardens they are, as old-fash- 
 ioned as the house, and quite as picturesque. There is a 
 total want of method, of precision, in the arrangement of 
 them, that instinctively charms the eyes. 1 wander from 
 orchard into flower-garden, and from flower-garden on again 
 to orchard, without a break of any sort no gates divide 
 iliem : it is all one pretty happy medley. 
 
 The walks, though scrupulously neat, are ungravolled, 
 and here and there a dead leaf, crisp and dry, displays it 
 self. The very trees, though bereft of leaves, do not ap- 
 pear so foolish, so melancholy, in this free land of theirs, 
 as they always look elsewhere. 
 
 I feel some animation creeping in my blood ; my step 
 in mure springy. Ai thu garden gate the fatter of all this
 
 PHYLLIS. 285 
 
 sweetness steps up to me. He is a rosy-shecked, good- 
 humored-looking man, a brilliant contrast to the unapproach- 
 able Cummins ; he presents me with a srnafl bouquet of 
 winter flowers. 
 
 " I am proud to see you ma'am," he says, with a tour.h 
 of interest in his tone. " I am sorry I have nothing better 
 worth offering you than these 'ere." He tenders the bou- 
 quet as he speaks a very marvel of a bouquet, considering 
 the time of year. 
 
 " Thank you," I say, with a gracious smile, born of my 
 brisk and pleasant promenade : " it is lovely. It is far pret- 
 tier in my eyes than the summer one, because so unex- 
 pected." 
 
 " I pass on, leaving him, bowing and scraping and much 
 gratified, in the middle of the path, with the unwonted 
 smile still upon my lips. 
 
 But, as the evening draws on, this faintest, glimmer of 
 renewed hope dies, and I sink back once more into my ac- 
 customed gloom. 
 
 " What will you please to order for dinner to-day, 
 mum ? " asks cook from the doorway. I have never yet 
 given directions for that meal, much to that worthy crea- 
 tures despair, whose heart and thoughts are in her stew- 
 pans. 
 
 I glance up with languid surprise. 
 
 " Anything you please," I say ; " you are always very 
 satisfactory. I told you I would leave everything to you. 
 Why do you ask me to-day in particular ? " 
 
 " Law, mum, sure it's Christmas day, and I thought may 
 be as ' ow " 
 
 " Christmas-day, is it " I exclaim, curiously. " Then I 
 have been a whole fortnight in this place." 
 
 " Yes, mum. A whole fortnight and one day, by 
 five o'clock this heavening, precisely. I took the liberty ol 
 asking you to order dinner for this one night, thinking aa 
 you might put a name to something or other dainty that 
 you fancies." 
 
 " Indeed I have no choice, cook, and I am not at all 
 hungry." 
 
 " Likely enough, mum, considering it is now only twelve 
 o'clock; but for a lady like yourself, as eats ro luncheon to 
 speak of, you will for certain be starved by seven."
 
 288 PHYLLIS. 
 
 " I thought a Christmas dinner never varied, cook. To* 
 can have the usual thing, I suppose." 
 
 " In course, mum," says cook, undaunted. She is a fine, 
 fat, healthy-looking woman, with a large eye, and a slightlj 
 wheezy intonation, as thougk she were constantly trying to 
 swallow some of her own good things that had inadvertently 
 stuck in her throat. It seems to me that I ought to love this 
 comfortable creature, who is so obstinacy bent on flatter- 
 ing me against my will. " But whatever folks may say, a 
 pltm pudding for a delicate lady like you is oncommon 
 1 eavy on the ' art and mind when bed-hour comes. If you 
 would just say anything that would please you something 
 light that I might try my hand on an ice-pudding, now 9 " 
 this with as near an attempt at coaxing as respect will 
 permit. 
 
 But the word " ice-pudding M calls up old memories : I 
 remember my ancient weakness for that particular confec- 
 tion. My brows contract ; a sharp pain fills my breast. 
 
 " No, no ! anything but ice-pudding," I say, hastily : " I 
 hate it." 
 
 " Dear me, mum ! now do you ? Most of the quality 
 loves it. Then what would you say ? I'm a first-class hand 
 in the pastry line " 
 
 " Make me a meringue," I murmur, in despair, seeing 
 I shall have to give in, or else go through a list from the 
 cookery book, and fortunately remembering how I once 
 heard a clever housekeeper say there were few sweets so 
 ^difficult to bring to perfection. But the difliculty, if there 
 is any, only enchants my goddess of the range. 
 
 " Very good, mum ; you shall 'aveit," she says, raptur- 
 ously ; and retires with flying colors, having beaten me ig- 
 nominiouslv* 
 
 A month two months go by, and still my self-imposed 
 seclusion is unbroken. 
 
 Xow and again I receive a letter from former friends, 
 but these I discourage. From mother I hear regularly once 
 a week, whether I answer her or not. Poor mother 1 She 
 has begged and prayed for permission to visit me, to see 
 how time is using me, whether I am well or ill ; but all to 
 no avail. I will not be dragged out of the gloomy solitude 
 in which I have chosen to bury myself. 
 
 From Dora, on her return from Rome, comes such ft 
 kindly, lender leiter as I had not believed it possible the 
 chilly Dora could pen. It is wound up by m pocucript
 
 297 
 
 from Sir George, as warm-hearted in tone as he is himself. 
 It touches me, in a far-off, curions manner ; but I shrink 
 from the invitation to join them that it contains, and refuse 
 it in such a way as must prevent a repetition of it. 
 
 Monotonous as is my existence, I hardly note how thno 
 flies. March winds rush by me, and I scarcely heed them. 
 But for the hurtful racking cou^h they leave me as a legacy, 
 ere taking their final departure, I would not have known 
 they had been among us. This cough grows and increase* 
 Bteadily, rendering more pallid my already colorless cheeks, 
 while the little flesh that still cleaves to my bones becomes 
 less and less as the hours go on. It tears my slight frame 
 with a cruel force, and leaves me sleepless when all the real 
 of the world is wrapped in slumber. 
 
 Oh, the weary days ; the more than weary nights, when 
 oblivion never comes to drown my thoughts, or, coming, 
 only wraps me in dreams from which I wake, damply cold, 
 or sobbing with a horror too deep for words ! 
 
 There are times when I fight with Fate, with all that has 
 brought me to this pass ; when I cry aloud and wring my 
 hands and call on death to rescue me, in the privacy of rny 
 own room, from the misery that weighs me down and keepa 
 me languishing in the dust. But these times are rare, and 
 come to me but seldom at such weak moments as when a 
 feeling of deadly sickness or overpowering regret gains mas- 
 tery over me. 
 
 In very truth, my life is a sad one a mistake a blot, 
 there is no proper place for me in the universe that seems 
 so great. There is no happiness within me, no spring of 
 hope. I appear to myself a thing apart innocent, yet 
 marked with a disgraceful brand. With &n old writer 
 whom I now forget I can iruiy say : 
 
 " For the world, I count it not an inn, but an hospital ; 
 and a place- not to live, but to die in." 
 
 At last I wake to the fact that I am ill dreadfully ill. 
 There can be no doubt of it ; and yet my malady has 1:0 
 name. I have lost all appetite; my strength has de- 
 Bi-rted me ; great hollows have grown in my cheeks, above 
 which my eyes gleam large and feverish. When I sit dov? n 
 1 feel no desire to rise again. 
 
 Towards the middle of April I rally a little, aixl an in- 
 tense craving for air is ever on me. Down by the sea i 
 wjmdor dayly, getting as close to it as my strength will 
 -iiow, the mile that separates me frum it being now lookud
 
 288 PHYLLIS. 
 
 upon as a journey by my impoverished strength. Somewhat 
 nearer to me than the shore is a high, level plain of sand 
 and earth and grass, that runs back inland from a precipice 
 that overlooks the ocean. On this I sit, and drawing some- 
 times up to the edge, peer over, and amuse myself counting 
 the waves as they dash on to the beach far, far below. 
 
 This plain, forming part of the grounds belonging ic 
 Hazelton, possesses the double charm of being easier of ac- 
 cess than the strand, and of being strictly private. 
 
 It is the 17th of April a cold day, but fresh, with little 
 sunshine anywhere. I am sauntering along my usual path 
 to my sandy plain, thoughtless of anything in the present, 
 innocent of presentiments, when suddenly befoi'e me, as 
 though arisen out of the earth, stands Sir Mark Gore. 
 
 How long is it since last I saw him ? not months surely ? 
 it seems more like yesterday. Why do I feel no surprise, 
 no emotion ? Is the mind within rne indeed dead ? I am 
 more puzzled by my own unnatural calmness at this moment 
 than even by an event so unexpected as his presence here. 
 
 We both stand still and gaze at each other. As far as 
 I am concerned, time dies ; I forget these weary months at 
 Hazelton. I think of our parting at Strangemore. His 
 eyes are reading, examining with undisguised pain, the 
 changes in my face and form. At length he speaks. 
 
 " I hardly thought to meet you here, Mrs. Carrington," 
 he says, advancing slowly, and addressing me in the low, 
 hushed tone one adopts towards the sick or dying. lie ap- 
 pears agitated. 
 
 I regard him with fixed coldness. 
 
 " You, who know all," I say, with quiet emphasis, " why 
 do you call me by that name? Call me Phyllis; that, at 
 least still remains to me." 
 
 He flushes crimson, and a pained look comes into hie 
 eyes. 
 
 "I suppose," I go on, curiously, " that last warning yo* 
 gave Marmaduko at the library door at home at Strange 
 more," correcting myself without haste, " had reference U- 
 that woman ? Am I right ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I regret now having ever uttered it." 
 
 " Regrets are useless, and your words did no harm. 
 Thinking of things since, I knew they must have meant a 
 allusion to her." 
 
 " How calmly you speak of it ! " he says, amazed. 
 
 " I speak is I feel," i reply.
 
 PHYLLIS. 28fi 
 
 There is rather an awkward pause. Now that he is 
 here, the question naturally presents itself- for what reason 
 has he come ? At length 
 
 " Will you not say you are glad to see me ? " ventures 
 Sir Mark, uneasily. 
 
 " I am neither glad nor sorry," is my unmoved return ; 
 u I have forgotten to be emotional. I believe my real feel- 
 ing just now is indifference. Considering how unlooked-for 
 Is your presence here, it a&eonishes even myself that I can 
 call up so little surprise. Curious, is it not? You look 
 thin, I think, and older not so well as when last we met." 
 
 He grows a shade paler. 
 
 " Do I ? " Then, drawing a hard, quick breath " And 
 you, child, what have you been doing with yourself ? Ex- 
 cept for your eyes, it is hardly you I see. So white, so 
 worn, so changed ; this place is killing you." 
 
 " It is a very quiet place. It suits me better than any 
 other could." 
 
 " I tell you it is killing you," he repeats, angrily. " Bet- 
 ter to face and endure the world's talk a-t once, than linger 
 acre until body and soul part." 
 
 " I shall never face the world," return I, quietly, 
 ' Here is my convent ; at least within its walls I find peace. 
 I see no one, therefore hear no evil talk. I have no wish 
 to be disturbed." 
 
 " So you think now ; but as time goes on you must 
 you cannot fail to tire of it. Is it natural to one so young 
 to lock herself voluntarily away from people of her own 
 age ? Why, how old are you, child ? " 
 
 "Almost nineteen." 
 
 " Almost, nineteen ! " cries he, with an unmirthful 
 laugh, " and you may live for fifty years ! Are you going 
 to immure yourself within these same four walls for fifty 
 years." 
 
 "I shall not live for fifty years." 
 
 " But you may ; without excitement of any description 
 1 see no reason why you should not live for a century." 
 
 " I shall not live for two years," returned I, impress- 
 ively. 
 
 " Phyllis what are you saying ? " cris he, with a shud- 
 der. 
 
 " The truth. I am dying slowly, and T know it. I ant 
 glad of it. I have no energy, no hope, co wish for life
 
 290 PHYLLIS. 
 
 Do you wonder much ? At times I hare ft straner* fancy 
 that I am already dead ; and then " I bre*k of! dreamily. 
 
 "What abominable morbid fancy! It is horrible!" 
 exclaims Sir Mark, excitedly. " You muit see a doctor 
 without delay ; if you were well no suoh mournful idea* 
 would occur to you." 
 
 " Mournful 1 " I smile a little. " Yes, perhaps so when 
 I wake again to find I am alive." 
 
 "Nonsense," impatiently. "Why have your peoj 1 
 left you so much alone ? It ia shameful, unheard of ! Pbyl- 
 lis, promise me you will see a doctor if I send one." 
 
 " Who shall minister to a mind diseased ?" say I, still 
 smiling. "No, I will not see your doctor. My ailment 
 has no name ; I do not suffer ; quiet is my best medicine." 
 
 We walk on a little way in silence. 
 
 " You do not ask after your friends," says he, abruptly. 
 
 " Have I still any left ? Well, tell me. " I should like 
 to know how is Marmaduke ? and where ?" 
 
 " Do you not hear from him, then ? " turning to gaze 
 suspiciously in my face. 
 
 " No ; why should I ? We parted forever when he 
 brought me here. Oh," with a sudden, sharp uplifting of 
 my voice " how long ago it seems ! what yeara, and years, 
 and years ! Tell mo you where is he ? " 
 
 "Abroad somewhere; we none of us know where. 
 You think of him incessantly ? " still with hia eyes search- 
 ing and reading my face ; " it is for him the color has left 
 your cheeks, the light has died from your eyes ? la it the 
 old life, or is it merely him you regret ? " 
 
 " I think I regret nothing but my youth," return I, 
 wearily. 
 
 " Had you never, at any time, any idea of the truth ? " 
 asks he, in a low tone, presently. 
 
 " Never. How should I. Ho kept it from me, fearing 
 it would cause mo pain." 
 
 " lie deceived you grossly." 
 
 " Yes but, as he thought, far my good. Where was the 
 use of enlightening me ? The story was told ; the woman WM 
 dead or so he believed. lie chow to hide it from me." 
 
 " Yes, ho hid it from you." 
 
 "Well, what of that?" I cry, impatiently^ "it was a 
 mistake, I think, but a kindly one. He was always thick- 
 ing of my happiness. It was perhaps a worse shock to him
 
 thn it was to me. He had no faintest thought of her be- 
 ing alive until she stood before him." 
 
 He is silent. Something in his manner, in the very way 
 he keeps his eyes bent resolutely upon the ground, chills 
 me. Upon his face a curiously determined expression has 
 gathered and grown. 
 
 " No faintest thought," I repeat, sharply, watching him 
 aow as keenly as he watched me before ; " of course he had 
 not. He had heard of her death years before he ever met 
 me. Had he even doubted on the subject, his treachery 
 would have beea unequalled. But you cannot think that : 
 it is impossible you can think it : therefore say so ! " 
 
 Still he is silent ominously so, as it seems to me. His 
 eyes are still downcast ; the evil determination in his face 
 is stronger ; his cane is digging deep furrows in the sandy 
 loam. 
 
 " Why don't you speak," cried I, fiercely ; " what do 
 you mean by standing there silent, with that hateful ex- 
 pression upon your face ? Do you mean to insinuate that 
 there was a doubt in his mind ? Look at me, and answer 
 t,ruly. Do you believe Marmaduke knew that woman to be 
 living when he married me ? " 
 
 I am half mad with suspense and fear. Placing both 
 <ny hands upon his arm, I put forth all my puny strength, 
 and actually compel him, strong man as he is, to meet my 
 gaze. 
 
 For a moment he hesitates a long moment and then 
 the right triumphs. Though in his own mind he is firmly 
 convinced that can he but en < 7 tie my mind with this doubt 
 of Marmaduke's integrity. : *ill substantially aid his own 
 cause, still, being a gen 1 .*n born and bred, he finds a 
 difficulty in bringing his lips to utter the miserable false- 
 hood. 
 
 " No : I don't believe he did know," he answers, dog- 
 godly. 
 
 " You are sure of this ? " I ask, feverishly. 
 
 " I would eive my oath of it," he replies, with increased 
 Bullenncss, 
 
 " Coward! " murmur I bitterly, taking my hands from 
 his arm, and turning away. 
 
 The excitement of the past few minutes has been ter- 
 r.ble to my weakened frame ; I feel a vague dizziness, a 
 coldness creeping over me. I am a good half-mile from 
 home : should I faint, there will be nothing for it but for
 
 29^ PHYLLIS. 
 
 Sir Mark to carry me there, and to have that man's armi 
 round me for so long a time is more than I could endure, 
 The bare thought of it nerves me tc action. 
 
 Hurridly drawing a pin from some secret fold of my 
 dress, I press it deep into my arm, so deep that presently 1 
 feeA a warm sluggish drop ooze out and trickle slowly down 
 my flesh, Until it sinks into the lining of my sleeve. The 
 little dull pain that follows rouses me, and puts an end to 
 all fear of my becoming insensible. 
 
 I draw a long dreath and gradually awaken to the fact 
 that my companion is again speaking. 
 
 " In spite of all that, he has wronged you horribly," he 
 is saying with much deliberation. " What has he made 
 you ? A woman without a name one whom the virtuoui 
 world would not recognize. He has driven you to bury 
 yourself in this remote comer of the earth, cut off from all 
 that makes life acceptable. He has destroyed your youth, 
 and ruined your health: this is all you have to thank him 
 for." 
 
 " The undeniable truth of your words renders them all 
 the more pleasing." I say, bitterly. " Have you come all 
 the way down here to tell me what I know so well already ? " 
 
 "Yes, and for something more, to ask you to be my 
 wife. Hush! let me speak. I know the answer you would 
 make me, but I do not think you have fully weighed every- 
 thing. Were you to endure this life you are now leading but 
 for a season, for a year, even for several years, I would say 
 nothing ; but until this woman, this Oarlotta, dies, you can 
 never be his wife. Remember that. And who ever knew 
 any one to die quickly whose death was longed for ? Look 
 at annuitants, for instance ; they live forever : therefore 
 this isolation of yours will know no end." 
 
 I am motionless, speechless, from rage and amazement, 
 
 " Then by your own words and actions," he goes on in 
 the same measured fashion, suppressing forcibly the fire 
 and agitation that lie beneath his cold exterior, " I have 
 seen a hundred times how little real affection you entertain 
 for Carrington ; therefore you are not bound to him by the 
 ties of love. Will you not consider for your own sake? 
 I offer you my name, my rank, everything that I possess. 
 Few men would be tempted to do as much, perhaps." 
 
 " Sir," say I, feeling half choked, " believe me, I fulh 
 appreciate all the sacrifices you would make for my sake 
 1'ray spare both me and yourself the recital of them."
 
 PHYLLIS. 298 
 
 " Sacrifices ? " interrupts he, eagerly : " no, indeed ! 1 
 never thought of it in that light. I only meant to put the 
 case clearly before you exactly as it is, without any false 
 lights. I tell you that so far from my present proposition 
 to you being a sacrifice on my part, I would gladly go on 
 my knees to you this moment, if by doing so I could gain 
 your consent to my plans. I will take you to any part of 
 the world you may choose to name, at home or abroad. I 
 shall be prouder, more blest than I can say, if you will con- 
 sent to be my wife." 
 
 " Have you quite done ? " say I, in a tone treacherously 
 calm. " Have you anything more to say ? No ? Are you sure ? 
 Now listen to me. Even if the circumstances were totally 
 different if I were free as air if you were the last man on 
 earth I would not marry you. Whether I do or do not 
 love Marmaduke, is a question I decline to answer to you. 
 At all events, to my own way of thinking, I am his wife 
 now, and shall ever remain so until death divides us. But 
 as to whether or not I love you, I feel no hesitation about 
 answering that. I look upon you as the lowest, the mean- 
 est of men, to come here behind your friend's back to tra- 
 duce him, and insinuate lies about him, so as to do him in- 
 jury in the eyes of the woman he loves. I loathe and 
 aetest you, with all my heart. 
 
 I am staring him valiantly in the face as I utter these 
 denunciations. My cheeks are crimson with rage, my eyes 
 are Hashing ; for the moment all rny old strength, and more 
 than my old spirit have returned to me. I have worked 
 myself through the force of my eloquence into such a pas- 
 eiun that I literally tremble from head to foot. I feel hum- 
 bled and insulted in my own eyes. All these months of 
 lonely weariness have failed to bring home to me the fact 
 that I am not a married woman. This man's complete ac- 
 ceptance of it has maddened me. 
 
 "Thank you," says he, slowly; "but pray do not stop s 
 ye:. There must be something more you wish to guy, 
 JJua't mind me; don't take my feelings into consideration." 
 
 " I don't," I reply, viciously stamping my foot. " But, 
 as it happens, I have said all I ever wish to say to you. You 
 may take from my lips now the very last wo^ds I shall con- 
 descend to utter to you. Leave me ; I hate and despise 
 you ! " 
 
 "I will," cries he, furiously, losing sight of all tne self- 
 imposed restraint that has bound him daring the last fifteen
 
 PHYLLIS. 
 
 minutes. "But 1 shall take something else too. As yoa 
 decree we shall part here never to meet again, I shall at least 
 kiss you in farewell, for the insolence you have shown me." 
 
 His face is full of anger and settled purpose ; he is while 
 to the lips ; his eyes glenm steadily. There is no sign 01 
 wavering or relenting about him. 
 
 Oh, how I regret my intemperate speech. An awfnl 
 fear seizes hold of me. I can almost fancy his committing 
 murder with that look in his eyes. I forget all but a wild 
 desire to escape, and, breaking from him, I rush madly to- 
 wards the bare, unwalled cliff that overhangs the sea. 
 
 But a very little space divides me from the edge, as his 
 hand catches and closes on my arm and drags me roughly 
 backwards. 
 
 " Are you mad ? " he pants hoarselj, all the passion gone 
 from his face, leaving only cold horror in its place. " Are 
 you out of your senses 'f Come home directly. What I 
 would you prefer death to a kiss from me ? At last you 
 have effectually put an end to my absurd infatuation. I 
 have no great fancy for any woman's loathing." 
 
 So saying, he leads me homewards, tired, worn out with 
 conflicting emotions. His hand still clutches my arm, ae 
 though he fears I will again break loose and try to accom- 
 plish my wicked purpose. 
 
 Silent and obedient I go with him, until we reach the 
 small gate by which I generally leave and return. 
 
 Here he stops, and, putting me inside, shuts the wicket 
 again between us, he being on the outside. 
 
 " Now go home," he says, sternly, " and go to bed. You 
 are as white as death. Do you hear me?" 
 
 I answer, " Yes," very meekly, feeling somewhat fright- 
 ened and subdued. 
 
 "As I shall take very good care not to put myself in 
 your way again," he goes on, in the same tone, " I would 
 wish to say, before leaving, that in the future, when you 
 stigmatize rue as mean and dishonorable, I would have you 
 also remember that to-day I came to do you the kindest turn 
 any man could do you under the circumstances." 
 
 After this remark, without further glance or gestur* 
 ha turns and leaves me.
 
 PHYLLIS. 295 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 DURING many days that follow I lie prostrate, weak as 
 % .ittle child, upon my bed. The shock, the thoughts he Las 
 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 tresh 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, showa 
 me, heavily veiled as I am, into the Carrington pew, guess- 
 ing instinctively, though he has never seen me, that the 
 etrange lady of Ilazelton has at last given in and confessed 
 a craviiig for spiritual consolation. 
 
 I kneel and pray as in a dream. The voices of the vil- 
 lage 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 over- 
 looks a smaU 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 ar
 
 296 PinLLls. 
 
 cne ancient oaken doors that divide me from the hall ; hut 
 that it is a doable 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 pa. 
 pita:ing expectancy for what is to follow. Perhaps the vi- 
 car, emboldened by my appearance in his church, has deter- 
 mined to strike while the iron, in his opinion, must be hot. 
 and has ridden over to try and gain access to the one hard- 
 cned sinner who disgraces his parish. Many conjecture.* 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 win- 
 dow, 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 tho 
 door opens, and Marmaduke comes in. 
 
 Our eyes meet, and then of a sudden a great calm falls 
 upon me 1 
 
 " She is dead," says he, wearily, and flings himself into 
 the chair near which he is standing. lie 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 har<l;y 
 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 risiued
 
 PHYLLIS. 297 
 
 horn that. When I reached her she was lyir g 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 yoa 
 of it. " 
 
 I glance at him curiously. It is not the old Manna- 
 duke who has come back to me. He is travel stained, worn, 
 and thin. His voice has lost its old ring, his eye its bright- 
 ness. 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, mood- 
 ily : " 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 mentioi what 
 would do EK> 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 nnrmur, 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 Marmadukc, springing to his feet with 
 a sudden, sharp change cf tone, " how white you are ! how 
 tmaciated ! how altered in every way ! Have you Seen ill?
 
 208 PHYLLIS. 
 
 Oh, ray darling!" with a groan "I have mined you! 
 life, and broken your heart : have I destroyed your health 
 also ? " 
 
 He makes an impetuous movement towards me, as 
 tlough he would catch me in his arms. 
 
 " Don't do that, " I cry, hastily, shrinking further into th< 
 recess of the window. "Do not touch mo. Remember 
 you are not my husband. J> 
 
 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 lelievc 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 prin- 
 cipal thing now is to put oneself beyond the reach of scan- 
 dal. 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, Alarmaduke seixes mi by 
 both arms, and, turning, forces me to meet his gaze. 
 
 " What are you saying?" he cries, fiercely. " WLat 
 folly is this? Do you know that for all these past month* 
 I have been half mad, when thinking of the blight I h:un
 
 brought npon your honor, and are yon so insensible to it 
 that you can hesitate about accepting this one oaly way of 
 redeeming it ? Your dislike to me must have grown in- 
 deed, if at such a time you can shrink from taking my 
 came." 
 
 " You misunderstand mo. I only shrink from changing 
 my present calm mode of living." 
 
 " Do you know what the world will do, when sooner 01 
 kiter it finds nut the truth as it surely will? Do yon 
 know it will cut you, avoid you, wound you in every possi- 
 ble 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 
 narry 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 so- 
 ciety?" 
 
 " 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 circli 
 as the veriest Pariah that could be produced. I will not 
 listen to your folly. Even if you hate me, I shall insist 
 aj >!) your marrying me." 
 
 " How can you insist ! " I ask almost angrily. There 
 in 3 wild, unsettled throbbing of my heart that puzzles me 
 I scarcely know what it is I would or would not wish. Ail 
 these past mouths of bitter maddening thought and tin- 
 broken loneliness have crushed the life within my breast 
 and dulled ray 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
 
 300 PHYLLIS. 
 
 you to become my wife before the real reason for OUT sep> 
 aration gets abroad. I offer you my name alone. Ouce 
 baring 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 ? un- 
 less, indeed " 
 
 Here he pauses. A deep-red passionate flish suffuse* 
 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 an- 
 other ? If I thought that if during my absence you haa 
 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." 
 
 lie 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 lit- 
 tle, 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 let- 
 ting 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. I lave I not told you so already? Why nam 
 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
 
 PHYLLIS. gOl 
 
 *onquer 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 
 cLair. 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 some- 
 what 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 sur- 
 prise you?" I ask, slowly and gravely. "Until I saw ycd 
 I waa 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 go- 
 ing 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 mel 
 ancholy of your life has caused you to exaggerate the evils 
 of your state. Change of air and a good doctor will do 
 uronders for you. Only do not waste time. Delay is often 
 fatal. Phyllis, think of your mother. For her sake, pronv 
 ise to marry me again next Monday." 
 
 " Very well ; you (mail 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 bo suggested 
 by weak and morbid sentiments. Everything later on shall 
 bi as you wish. I will go back to Lonlon by the night
 
 502 PHYLLIS. 
 
 man to arrange matters. So let ino know now any thingi 
 you may require what friends as witnesses, for instance." 
 
 " Harriet and Bebe, I suppose ; and Dora and Georg* 
 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 tk<) 
 time, and it would break her heart. But go toher, and te!- 
 her everything. She may find some consolation in your 
 tidings." 
 
 " I will go toher to-morrow." he whispers soothing!/. 
 " Afterwards I may go on to Straugeinore. Can 1 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 ervr 
 so bitterly? Of what are you thinking? Surely you 
 must see that I am only acting for the best. If I conscnt/'d 
 to what you propose, I would deserve the name of black- 
 guard ; no terra 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 
 Bobs. "I am only weak and nervous. Your coming was 
 so unexpected ; you should have Avarncd me. And I haA-e 
 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 ? " 
 
 Ho receives me as I totter feebly forward, and lays me 
 on my couch with the utmost tenderness and a good deal 
 ef trepidation. 
 
 Then he rings the bell, and as the man enters, gives the 
 order for the wine in the old clear quick voice, that Kccrrs 
 to me to belong so entirely to Strangemore as to bo out cf 
 jilace in this other home. 
 
 Not until I am quite recovered, and apparently little 1 
 the worse for my faintness, does he take his .enve. 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, ho qniU the house as quietly as he on 
 tered it.
 
 PHYLLIS, 80S 
 
 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. 
 
 Bube lays herself out to amuse and arouse me by retail- 
 ing to my languid ears all the most secret gossip aad <-aciest 
 pieces of scandal from the London world, bit by ok, as it 
 occurs to her. 
 
 Lord Harry has been at P again, and was well re- 
 ceived 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 regi- 
 ment, 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 provok- 
 ing 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? lie has been making a grand tour somewhere, and 
 4 raking up old bones,' we hear ; but the ' where ' ia 
 wrapped in mystery Jericho, most probably ; it would just 
 suit his dismal disposition." 
 
 She speaks heartlessly, but her low, broad fcrehea 1 
 ^r'nkles ever such a little. 
 
 " I hope, wherever he is, he will come back safely," I 
 say, kindly, ignoring her manner. " I liked him BO much. 
 To me he never appeared dismal. And your Chips : what 
 of hiwi ? " 
 
 "Ah! my poor Chips? He sailed for India a month 
 
 ago. Such a leave-taking as Ave had! It, would have melted 
 
 an Amazon. I assure you I very nearly wept ; and I cer- 
 
 ainly kissed him. So did Harriet twioe who was on
 
 304 rnvius. 
 
 the spot doing propriety. I thought that was taking an 
 unfair advantage of me. Arid he is to shoot e\ery tige) in 
 Bengal, and to send me the skins. At long last I shall be 
 em harassed 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 jf 
 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, regard less 
 of beholders, rushes forward, and precipiwues herself at my 
 feet. 
 
 "Oh, Miss Phyllis! Oh, ma'am I" says she, with a 
 lamentable sniff and a nice forgotfulnesh 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 appella- 
 tion, 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, in- 
 stinctively 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 r.d of 
 her irritatioa. 
 
 " Really, yes, h 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 sur- 
 l>rL and disapproval no more, " And yot that woman
 
 PHYLLIS. 80ft 
 
 always used to strike me as being such a very properly con. 
 iucted 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, remorse- 
 fully. Such attachment, being rare, should be considered 
 beautiful. I apologize to your Martha. But I was think- 
 ing, 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 
 Asliurst 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 be- 
 fore 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. 
 B?be dexterously draws off the wedding ring that has 
 r.evar yet left my finger since it was first placed there and 
 thoughtfully hands it to 'Duke. With a shudder he flings 
 it fr >m him into the glowing fire, where it vanishes forever 
 with a faint tinkling noise. 
 
 " Not that," he mutters, iu a low tone, and brings out a 
 uew one from his pocket. 
 
 In a clear voice utterly devoid of emotion, I answer all 
 ihfc responses. Maruiadukc's voice shakes a good deal, and
 
 6 PHYLLIS, 
 
 turn and look at him surprised. He has had my hand in 
 a warm, close clasp from the moment the prayer-book wai 
 opened, and now, too, I notice how he trembles as for th 
 second time he binds me to him with the little golden ,'sm 
 blem of eternity. 
 
 Although their voices reach my outward ears, although 
 I myself say what is required of me with perfect calmneHS, 
 I do not really hear or heed one word of the ceremony, 
 Thoughts, frivolous and unworthy of the solemnity of th< 
 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 
 bo 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 ridicu- 
 lously red ! Why, he might almost be painted. 
 
 Oh 1 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 fulling 
 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 the} 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 
 ofa. The strange clergyman has vanished no doubt ho' 
 <iiied :ii such unorthodox behavior.
 
 PHYLLIS. Bu7 
 
 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 pictura 
 of misery. 
 
 " I am," I return, feobly ; " I don't know what made 
 me so foolish. I did not feel nervous ; but I was unlike 
 myself ali the morning." 
 
 " Poor child ! " says Harriet, and down come Dora'a 
 tjny lingers, 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 fare- 
 well before starting for the train that is to bear them 
 away from the newly-married couple. How strange, how 
 dillicult 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 joyous- 
 ness, 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 cvei 
 me, and rubbing her cheek with a little purring motion to 
 mine. " Be a good child, and let Mannaduke pet you to 
 his heart's content. You want an uverdoee, now you 
 have been so long alone." 
 
 At length they are all gene, leaving the h?'i*e to fall
 
 |0g rtfYLLfS. 
 
 back into its old silence and calm. All, that is, e accept 
 Marin:uluke, who lingers purposely. 
 
 " There is no reason," he says, in answer to my inquir- 
 ing 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, Mannaduke ?" 
 
 " 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 thu 
 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 mj 
 staying here now is this : I made an appointment with Sii 
 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 ru 
 tnd make me miserable ? This is what comes of marry
 
 PIfYLL/S, 30VJ 
 
 ing you. Oh, why was I so weak as to give in to youi 
 wishes ? I won't sec 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 
 cm " 
 
 " Dying," 1 put in, flippantly. " Why don't you say it ? 
 I shan't go to my grave a moment sooner through your men 
 tioning the unpleasant word." 
 
 *' You will see him, Phyllis?" 
 
 " Oh, if he is really coining, I suppose 1 must. But, 1 
 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 ruy 
 room, I rise and bow, and am much relieved at finding my- 
 self in the presence of a small, homely, jolly-looking little 
 man, with none of the signs of greatness about him. 
 
 lie 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 fin- 
 ally 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 foftne, if I would only order 
 them to Pau. Such a lively place, my dear Mrs. Carring- 
 ton, so invigorating, eo 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 
 jn/ order me every nasty concoction you can think of, and
 
 310 PHYLLIS. 
 
 ( will promise you to drink and eat them all ; but go frora 
 Hazelton I will not," 
 
 " Well, well, we shall see how you get on," replies Sii 
 James, cajolingly, patting my hand. He deals in pats and 
 gentle reassurfng nods, but he is a dear old man and I feel 
 some faint regret that he should leave thinking me unreason 
 able. 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. 
 
 JS r o 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 1 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 ine, 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 1 
 
 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 every- 
 where. 
 
 I sigh, and turning dejectedly from the unvarying scene 
 before me, discover Marmaduke coming towards me acrco* 
 the sands. 
 
 "What a curious light ! " he says, without greeting of 
 any kind and sits down upon the pebbles at my feet. 
 
 " Very, M 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. 
 
 Prebently, unconsciously I sigh again, and turn my fact 
 from hia.
 
 rirYLLrs, 31* 
 
 " Whatie it?" asks he, kindly, taking my hand not af 
 fectionately, 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 jn 
 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 tor. 
 ments 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," mischiev- 
 ously, " 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, 
 1 fancy. At all events, it convinced me of the truth f ud 
 sincerity of his affection for me." 
 
 41 If you saw so many admirable points in his chai-aotP
 
 812 PHYLLIS. 
 
 why did you let sach a valuable chance of securing them 
 go by ? " he asks, bitterly. He is white with anger by mis 
 time. I sec 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 in- 
 finite disgust. " Afterwards, when it is too late, one re 
 pents." 
 
 " 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 indig- 
 nation, " 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 balf rise. 
 
 " If you are going to be tragical," 1 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 ! M I gasp, press- 
 ing 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 mo yet," I whisper, with a faint mock, 
 ing 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 
 tm supporting me. 
 
 " I can't bear it any longer." he says, passionately
 
 PHYLLIS. 313 
 
 u Darling ! darling ! why will you kLl yourself? How can 
 I watch you dying by inches ? Have pity for me, if you 
 have none for yourself, and save me from going niad. 
 Phyllis, dearest? "controlling himself by an effort, and try- 
 ing to speak more calmly, " why can you not .ook upon 1119 
 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 com- 
 pare 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 rne 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 un- 
 til I consent to leave the only place that pleases me, I may 
 as well do so at once. I will go back to Strangcmore." 
 
 " You mean it darling?" cautiously, and without evinc- 
 ing 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 I long Kong, or any other cheerful spot." 
 
 "You would not try a warmer climate first?" with 
 hesitation. " You know Sir James spoke of " 
 
 " Xo. 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 ami 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 
 "vtth 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 ? Mon- 
 
 ?" 
 
 c - 7 v>morrow," with decision. " The sooner the better
 
 3H PHYLLIS. 
 
 If I die on me way," with cruel gayety, ' blame youneU 
 fer it, and remember you would have it so." 
 
 u To-morrow, then," says ' Duke, with a long gigh. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 As I cross the threshold and enter the old Lall at 
 Strangemore, a great passionate rush of unrestrainable rap- 
 ture flows over me. Sudden recollections and emotions 
 threaten to overpower me. I am at home, at rest, at last! 
 With an impulsive movement I put my hand to my heart. 
 Each well-remembered object sends out to me a thousand 
 welcomes. With silent joy I greet them. 
 
 Yet, compelled by the strange wilfulness that sorrow 
 and loneliness have bred within me, I conceal all this from 
 Marmaduke, and, returning the servants' salutations with a 
 courtesy kind but subdued, I go slowly up the stairs and in 
 to my own room. 
 
 All is changed. I pause and gaze around me with 
 much wonder. Carpets, curtains all are unfamiliar, and 
 where white once mingled with the gold, pale pink appears. 
 
 The doors beyond are flung wide. What was formerly 
 ' Duke's dressing-room is now transformed into a boudoir, 
 while the apartment beyond that again is an exquisitely fur- 
 nished reception-room. 
 
 In the boudoir a small fire burns, and though we may 
 count ourselves now well into the summer, still the bright 
 flames look warm and homelike, and involuntarily I stretch 
 out my hands to their friendly warmth. 
 
 A knock at the door. Instead of calling out. " Come 
 in, "I go forward, and, opening it, find myself face to face 
 with my husband. 
 
 " You will not come down to dinner ?" ho says ; but his 
 tone is a question almost an entreaty. 
 
 " No 1 " I return, ungratefully ; " I am too tired. I shall 
 be better alone." 
 
 His face expresses disappointment. 
 
 " I am sure you are right," he says, moving away. " Trj 
 to rest, and forget your fatigue." 
 
 The remnant of conscience I still retain here smite/' . o
 
 PHYLLIS M3 
 
 ** My rooms are BO pretty," I say, quickly, following him 
 ft itep or two ; " they are lovely. Was it all your own taste ? 
 It was so good of you to do it for me." 
 
 "You are pleased ?" coloring. "I fancied you would 
 like them changed." 
 
 " It was more than good of you," I say again, remorse- 
 fully. " You think of everything, and I am always ungrate- 
 ful." 
 
 " Nonsense ! Get back your old spirits, and I shall be 
 richly rewarded." Then with a sudden, unexpected move- 
 ment, " You are welcome home, Phyllis," he says, and bend- 
 ing, presses his lips to mine. 
 
 It is the very first caress he has offered me since our 
 second marriage ; and now it is the lightest, fleetest thing 
 conceivable. Confused and puzzled, I turn back into my 
 room, with a sensation that is almost fear at my heart. 
 What a cold, unloving kiss! A mere touching of the lips, 
 without warmth or lingering pressure. What if he has 
 ceased to love me ? 
 
 We toil, through pain and wrong, 
 
 We fight, aud fly ; 
 We love, we lose, and then, erelong, 
 
 Ktone dead we lie. 
 O life! is all thy song 
 
 Endure aud die? 
 
 The sorrowful despairing words repeat themselves over 
 and over again in my brain. They fascinate and yet repel 
 me. Why must the wretchedness of this world so heavily 
 overbalance the good ? 
 
 I fling the small volume from me with some impatience 
 as Marmaduke comes in. 
 
 lie has been studiously cold to me of late ; indeed, he 
 has shown an open and marked avoidance of my company. 
 It has at times forced itself upon me that he bitterly repents 
 his hasty persistence at Hazelton, and would now gladly 
 sever the tie that binds us, were that possible. 
 
 At this moment he is looking bored and ennuye to the 
 last degree, as he goes to one of the windows, and stands 
 idly gazing out over the park and woodlands. Not once, 
 as he crosses the room do his eyes fall upon me. 
 
 And yet surely I am now better worth regarding than 
 o those first days at Hazelton, when he appeared so anxioui 
 V make me his own. It is the latter end of July, warm.
 
 316 PHYLLIS. 
 
 iultry, glorious July, and I am once more the Phyllis of old 
 My checks are round and soft and childlike as of yore, m^ 
 eyes are bright and clear and have lost their unnatural 
 largeness, my figure has regained its original healthy elasti- 
 city; yet Marmaduke heeds me not. 
 
 Suddenly, with some abruptness, and without turning 
 to look at me, he says : 
 
 " Don't you think it would be an improvement to ask 
 some people down here, eh ? It might make things more 
 cheerful for you. Just the old lot, you know." 
 
 So at last he has made an open confession of the dul- 
 ness that I feel sure has been consuming him; he has dis- 
 covered that a very little of my society, taken singly, 
 would go a long way. Well, I too will let him see how 
 gladly I shall welcome strangers to our hearth. 
 
 " I am so glad you mentioned it," I say, briskly ; " I 
 have been wishing of late for some break-in on our mono- 
 tony. Harriet and Bebe will come, I feel sure, and, oh ! 
 poor little Chips, I had forgotten he is at present broiling 
 in India ; but Chandos will not refuse, I think ; and Blanche 
 Going, and Sir Mark Gore." These latter I add with some 
 innocent malice. 
 
 " Sir Mark Gore is in Norway," replies 'Duke, stiffly. 
 
 " Indeed ! Then we must put up with his loss. But 
 Blanche Going where is she ? " 
 
 " Probably in Jamaica, for all I know, or care," unam 
 iably. 
 
 "What an answer! Poor Blanche! if she could onlj 
 hear you. Yo-u should remember, 'Duke, that flippancy, 
 though excusable in a woman, is simply brutal in a man 
 Solitude disagrees with you ; you grow downright rude." 
 
 " If I was rude, I apologize," returns he, carelessly 
 Then, having whistled straight through his favorite ah 
 most successfully, and wound up with an elaborate flourish, 
 he walks through the open window on to the balcony out- 
 side. 
 
 " Very good ; ask them all as soon as you like," lie sayn, 
 over his shoulder with a languid nod ; " and go for a stroll 
 the day is too fine to spend indoors." 
 
 i was going to beg an invitation if I did not receive 
 ' ays llarrk-t, a week later, as she returns my kiss oi
 
 PHYLLIS. '.\\1 
 
 welcome. (4 1 was growing very uneasy about you. But," 
 tapping my check, " I might have spared myself any worry 
 on the subject of your health, as you are looking provokingly 
 well." 
 
 Bebe declares I have caused them all more trouble than 
 I am worth, whereupon I take her in custody and march bfti 
 opstairs and run her into her bedroom. 
 
 J ist before dinner Chandos arrives, having been driven 
 over from a country-house some miles distant, where he has 
 been staying. 
 
 Bebe greets him with a light laugh that has nothing in 
 it of nervousness or suppressed pleasure. It is purely in- 
 different. For the moment I feel puzzled and disappointed. 
 
 " Strangemore seems to be our established meeting- 
 ground after long absences," she says, giving him her hand. 
 " Let me congratulate you on having escaped cholera and 
 lawless tribes in the East." 
 
 " I have only been a week in England since my return," 
 replies he, ceremoniously, " and have been kept pretty busy 
 all that time, or I would have allowed myself the pleasure 
 of calling upon you and Mrs. Beatoun. I did not know 
 you were again staying with Lady Handcock ? " 
 
 " Oh, Harriet cannot do without me now," says Bebe, 
 with a little saucy glance at Harry, who smiles and shakes 
 her head. " She finds me invaluable." 
 
 " How infinitely obliged your mother must be to Lady 
 [landcock !" says Chandos, mischievously. 
 
 " For taking me off her hands ? Ah ! see what comes 
 of associating with barbarians," retorts Bebe, with a shrug. 
 
 5Tet, with all their badinage and apparent unconcern, I 
 can perceive an undercurrent of constraint between these 
 two. During all the first week, this forced gayety and de- 
 termined forgetfulness of the sweet and bitter past con- 
 tinues and then it falls away. Silence and avoidance take 
 thair place, and in Chandos especially I notice a distan' 
 avoidance of all converse bordering on a tete-a-tete. 
 
 I am beginning to despair of any good result arising 
 from this second bringing together of them in my house, 
 \hen one evening shortly before the termination of their 
 visit a something, a mere trifle, occurs, that is yet sufficient 
 to alter the tenor of more lives than one. 
 
 It is the 27th of August. Dinner is at an end, and, tired 
 of strolling in the grounds and gardens so softly perfumed 
 by the night flowera wo three women pass into the lighted
 
 Ji . i PHYLLIS. 
 
 drawing-room, while Mnrmaduko and Chandos linger ouV 
 side on the balcony to finish their cigars. 
 
 I let my fingers wander idly over the piano, and now 
 and again hum softly some old air or ballad. 
 
 " Bebe, sing something for us to-night," I say, coaxingly 
 rising from the piano-stool. She is not fond of letting ui 
 hear her perfectly beautiful voice. "Anything you like 
 j ouraelf ; only sing." 
 
 " Don't ask me," she objects, languidly. " It is so long 
 since I have sung that I scarcely know any song correctly. 
 Harriet will tell you I rarely if ever touch the piano." 
 
 " But you must," I persist. "Break down if you will, 
 only let me hear your voice. Remember there are no un- 
 generous critics here, and nobody's singing pleases me so 
 much as yours." 
 
 *' Do, Miss Beatoun," says some one. 
 
 It is Clmndos. He and Mannaduke have come in 
 through the open window, and are now standing in its em- 
 brasure, framed in by the hanging curtains on either side. 
 
 The tone of his voice strikes me as being odd. lie is 
 looking eagerly, fixedly at her; will she refuse this sudden 
 unexpected request of his? Coming after his late coldness 
 ft surprises even me. 
 
 Bebe raises to his a fa< o smiling, but pale. 
 
 " Well yes, I will sing yon something," she says, and 
 taking my place, strikes a few lingering chords. 
 
 " I have no music with me," she continues, with hei 
 lace turned from us, " so you must be satisfied with what 
 overcomes first to me." Then she begins : 
 
 "Along the grass sweet airs are >iown 
 
 Our way, thif day in spring 
 Of all the songs Uaa*. we have known, 
 
 Now which one shall we *ing ? 
 Not that, iny love, ah ! no ; 
 Not this? my love? why so? 
 Yet both were ouri, yet hours will com* &nfl go. 
 
 The branches cross aV>ve our eyes, 
 
 The skies are in a net, 
 And what's the thing beneath the skiei 
 
 We two would most forget ? 
 Not birth, my love, no, no, 
 Not death, my love, no, uo ; 
 The love once ours, but ourr long hours ago." 
 
 a she comes to the last line, a curious wild sad:.rsa,
 
 PHYLLIS. Ht 
 
 * 
 
 that i* almost despair, mingles with the petulant defiance 
 that has hitherto characterised her tone. And the musie, 
 where has she got it ? so weird, so pathetic, so full of pas- 
 sionate recklessness. 
 
 When she is finished we are silent. I feel horribly in- 
 clined to cry, yet scarcely know why, and am certain Mar- 
 maduke's eyes are fastened upon me. 
 
 Somebody says, " Thank you," and then we all follow 
 iuit. Chaudos alone is silent. 
 
 " Why will you sing s^d songs, Bebe ? " exclaims 'Duke, 
 Impatiently ; and Bebe laughs. 
 
 " I suppose because I am such a dismal animal myself," 
 she replies lightly, and, rising, comes over to me. 
 
 The moonlight streams across the carpet, rebuking tha 
 no ft radiance of the lamps, A hush has fallen upon us. 
 Her song's refrain almost repeats itself aloud through the 
 ttillness. Two tears fall quietly upon my clasped hands. 
 The love onc ours " 
 
 Pushing the curtain aside with one hand, Chandos says, 
 IB a low, determined tone : 
 
 " Will you come and see how the gardens look by moon- 
 light ? " 
 
 lie addresses no one, he mentions no name, but his eyes 
 are fixed on Bebt; he has forgotten all, everything, but her. 
 Putting my own thoughts from me, I listen with breathless 
 eagerness for her answer. Well do I know it is the third 
 and last appeal. Should she reject this she will indeed lose 
 forever the heart that truly loves her. At length sho 
 peaks. 
 
 " Yes, if you wish it," she says, letting th words fall 
 from her lips with singular sweetness. 
 
 She joina him, ana together they go out on the balcony, 
 down the steps, and so disappear. 
 
 " I am 00 rejoiced ! " exclaims Harriet, plaintively, when 
 they are well out of hearing. " Now I do hope they will 
 marry each other, and biing their little comedy to a suoots- 
 ful close. I am sure w must all oonfea* it hM kvi a 
 tuffioDVly long rua." 
 
 a Yet, I t*ng it on purpose. I don't mmd acknowledg- 
 ing it \A you," criet Bebe, hours afterwtrdt, flinging her 
 *rcu are and my neck, and hiding her Lfcoa uui of tight.
 
 f20 PHYLLIS. 
 
 " And was it not well I did ? was it not well ? Oh, Ph yl 
 lis, though I sang it BO bravely, there wa a terrible feal 
 at my heart all the time. I wished him to know, yet J 
 dreaded his knowing. Can you understand? I dreaded 
 his guessing my motive too clarly, and yet it WM my last 
 ohance." 
 
 * Dearest, I am so glad." 
 
 " Ah ! what tortures I have endured this past fortnight ? 
 I felt convinced he no longer cared for me, and I know I 
 could not be happy without him. But he does love me 
 more than ever, he says and now I shall have him always." 
 She pauses to indulge in a little rapturous sob. " Phyllis, 
 never mistake obstinacy for pride 1 ' 
 
 Harriet and I agree in thinking them the most charming 
 of lovers. Indeed, as an engaged pair, they are a pattern 
 to all lovers similarly afflicted. They never glower at 
 us when we enter the room unexpectedly, and they don't 
 blush. They get rid of all inevitable spooning by going 
 for long walks together, where no one can witness or be 
 distressed by their absurd appreciation of each other's so- 
 ciety. And they actually refrain from making eyes at 
 each other across the dining-table. When I say that they 
 manage to keep themselves alive to the fact that there are 
 other people in the world besides themselves, I consider I 
 have spoken volumes in their favor and have done them 
 every justice. 
 
 When they leave at the end of the week I positively 
 miss them, and wiah them back again ; but, as the wedding 
 is to take place almost immediately, further delay in the 
 country is impossible. 
 
 Marmaduke and I fall once more into our old ways, see- 
 ing as little as may be of each other. 
 
 Although I will not confess it even to myself, I am sick 
 at heart. With the return of my good health has come 
 back my old horror of loneliness, and the girlish longing for 
 some one to sympathise with me in all the pleasures and 
 troubles of my daily life. Not even the frequent visits of 
 mother, and I^Ht-who with her husband is staying at 
 Bummerleaa caM&ake up to me for what I believe I hare 
 lost. 
 
 When it is too late, I learn how precious a thing I have 
 east away. By my own capricious folly, and through wilful 
 temper, I have forever alienated 'Duke's affection. Very 
 rarely does he pe&k to me ; still more rarely of his accord
 
 PHYLLIS. 121 
 
 does he seek my presence. I no longer afford him any joy. 
 It is only too apparent that he has ceased to care for inc. 
 
 Full of such thoughts and misgivings, I one day creep 
 upstairs to the little turret chamber, where while still 
 Phyllis Vernon I once stood with Marmaduke to gaze 
 down upon the crowded parterre beneath. In another tiny 
 apartment opening off this, is a deeply-cushioned window, 
 in which it is my usual practice to sit and read such work* 
 as serve to distract my mind from the vague regrets that 
 no w forever haunt it. 
 
 I have at length brought myself to feel some interest in 
 the hero of my tale, when approaching voices warn me that 
 foes to my solitude draw near. Not wishing to be disturbed 
 1 move still further into my window, and pull the cur- 
 tains across me, so that no one in the adjoining room could 
 by any chance see me. 
 
 I can distinguish George Ashurst's jerky tones, and then 
 Marmaduke's, distinct, though low. There seems to me 
 aomething argumentative in their discourse, and the foot- 
 steps come slowly, as though every now and then they stood 
 to dispute a point. 
 
 Suddenly now my own name is mentioned, and putting 
 down my book, I wait to hear what will follow. 
 
 Of course 1 know perfectly well in my own mind that I 
 ought to rise at once and honorably declare myself, but 
 decide equally well in my own mind that I will do no such 
 thing. What can 'Duke be saying about me ? As they enter 
 the turret, his words ring out plain and stern. 
 
 " I tell you Ashurst, I can stand the life I am leading no 
 longer. You cannot understand what it is to see the 
 woman you love to see your wife treat you as the very 
 commonest stranger. Good feeling alone, I honestly be- 
 lieve, prevents her from showing me absolute hatred." 
 
 " Pooh ! my dear fellow," says George, " I don't believe 
 A word of it. She is too kind a little soul to hate any one ; 
 and you least of all. Of course the whole thing, you 
 know, was unfortunate, you know, and that, but it will 
 all come right in the end." 
 
 I dare say. When I am in mj . ave," says Marma- 
 duke, bitterly. " You are a good i AKW, George, but you 
 can't know everything, and I am not to be persuaded in 
 this matter. She is right; I should never have insisted 
 on the second marriage : it has only made her life mor
 
 22 PHYLLIS. 
 
 miserable, and placed a fretting chain around her neck 
 But indeed I meant it for the beat." 
 
 " What else could you have done, you know ? " inter 
 poaes kindly George. 
 
 I have gained my feet, and am standing, trembling witk 
 nope and fear, in my hiding-place, my hand grasping th 
 iheltering curtain for protection and support. At this mo- 
 ment I no longer deceive myself ; by my passionate eager 
 ness to hear what more 'Duke may say I know that all my 
 heart is his. And he loves me 1 Oh, the relief the almost 
 painful rapturethis certainly causes me I Ilushl he 
 speaks again. 
 
 " I shall torment her no longer with my presence. I have 
 delayed here too long already, but I hoped recovered health, 
 and the old associations, might give her a kindlier feeling 
 towards me. Now I feel convinced she never loved me. 
 Let her live her life in peace. She will grow gay and 
 bright, and like the child Phyllis I first knew when she feels 
 sure she has seen the last of mo." 
 
 " Well, well, well," says George, " I suppose there is n 
 use in any one's speaking ; but to me it is incomprehensi- 
 ble ; why she cannot be content and happy in this charming; 
 place, with the best fellow in the world for her husband, is 
 more than I can fathom. But it seems to me now, Car- 
 rington, really, you know that you very seldom speak to 
 her; eh?" 
 
 (Good George de ir George.) " Why should I put my- 
 self in the way of a cold reply ? I detest forcing myself 
 upon any one and when she is by her own avowal happier 
 when absent from me. Bah 1 let us forget the subject: to 
 me it is a hateful one." 
 
 " Then why on earth, when you knew all this before- 
 hand, did you insist on marrying her again ? " 
 
 " Because there was nothing else to be done. Better te 
 bear a name distasteful to her than to bear none at all. I 
 did it for her sake." 
 
 " Then do you mean me to understand that you yourself 
 had no interest in the matter ? " 
 
 There is a pauie a long one and my heart actually 
 stops beating ; at length : 
 
 " Do not think that," says 'Duke, in a low tone. " The 
 love I felt for her on our first wedding-morning it, if possi 
 bio, deeper and truer now. Thongh at times my chains 
 and akaoat madden me, yet I would not exchange there
 
 PIIYILIS. 82J 
 
 for fetters soft as down. At least she is mine, insomuch 
 that no other man can claim her. And I have this pooi 
 consolation in my loneliness, that, though she does not love 
 m, she at all events cares for no one else." 
 
 " Poor little Phyllis 1 " murmurs George Ashurst, tea- 
 derly. 
 
 " You are a happy man, George," says 'Duke, adopting 
 * lighter tone. " Do not let my troubles depress you." 
 
 " Yes : Dora is a perfect wife," declares my brother- in- 
 law, with honest content. " Good-bye Carrington ; I will 
 come over about that house either to-night or to-morrow 
 morning early." 
 
 "Better come to-night and sleep," urges 'Duke and 
 George, half consenting, goes noiselessly down the stairs, 
 
 When he has been gone at least five minutes, I steal 
 from my concealment, and, entering the turret chamber, 
 walk softly towards Marmaduke, who is standing with his 
 back turned to me, gazing down through the window upon 
 the lawn beneath. His attitude betokens deep thought. I 
 go lightly to his side, and let my eyes follow the direction 
 his have taken. 
 
 " Dreaming, 'Duke ?" T ask, gayly. 
 
 He starts violently as 1 wake him from his reverie, and 
 betrays astonishment not only at my presence at this mo- 
 ment, but also at my altered demeanor. 
 
 " Almost, I think," he says, after a moment's hesitation. 
 It is so long since I have addressed him with anything ap- 
 proaching to bonhomie. 
 
 " How short the evenings are getting ! " I go on, peer- 
 ing out into the dusk. "Marmaduke, do you remember the 
 large party you had in these gardens before we were mar- 
 ried ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And how we two stood just here and looked down upoa 
 them ? " 
 
 " I remember well." He is evidently intensely puwded 
 by my manner, which is cordial to the last degree. 
 
 " How long ago it seems now 1 does it not." 
 
 " Very long." 
 
 I am not progressing ; I feel this, and pause for a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 " You are dressed for dinner," I remark, presently 
 M So early ? " 
 
 " Not to rery early ; It LI h&lf-paat six."
 
 824 PHYLLIS. 
 
 " Indeed ! how tho time has flown I Well, let me add 
 this to your appearance to make you perfect." I detach a 
 little red rose-bud from the bosom of my dress, and plac 
 it with lingering carefulness in his coat. I believe as I do 
 o he imagines I have developed the crowning phase of my 
 malady, by going mad. " 'Duke," with perfect unconcern, 
 and with my head a little on one side to mark the effect 
 made by my rose " 'Duke, don't you think it is time now 
 I should give up my invalid habits, and learn to change ray 
 dress every evening like a civilized beingj 1 " 
 
 "I think you would be very foolish, jPhyllis, to try any 
 changes just vet." 
 
 "But don t you think me much better and stronger in 
 every way?" 
 
 " Very much better. Tour face has gained its old color, 
 and your arms have regained the pretty soft roundness they 
 had when you were that is before we were married." 
 
 I pull up the loose sleeve of my dress and look with 
 gome satisfaction upon the " pretty soft roundness." My 
 old weakness for compliments is strong upon me. 
 
 " Why did you not finish your sentence ? " I ask, slyly : 
 " you were going to say when I was a ffirl" 
 
 " Because you look such a girl still uch a mere child, 
 indeed that I thought it would sound absurd." 
 
 " I am glad of that. I would wish to be young and 
 fresh always. 
 
 " There was a time," with a faint smile, " when you 
 longed with equal vigor to be old and worldly-wise." 
 
 " Ah, yes ! what a goose I was then 1 But really, though, 
 I am growing horribly fat. My hands, even see how 
 plump they are." 
 
 I lay five slight little fingers in his, confidingly : I can 
 see how he reddens at my touch. lie holds them softly, 
 and turns them over to see the pink palm at the other 
 ide, and then turns them back again, but he does not 
 peak : very slowly, but with determination, he lets them 
 
 g- 
 
 "No fear of my wedding-ring coming off now," I say, 
 
 cheerfully, though somewhat disconcerted at the failure of 
 niy last little ruse ; "not even when I wash my hands cloei 
 it stir. I won't be able to get rid of it in a hurry." 
 
 " That Mmi rather a pity, doe it not ? " remarks he, 
 bitterly.
 
 PfffLLIS. 826 
 
 "A pity? Why, I would nerer forjpre niytelf if J 
 lost it." 
 
 " Would you have nothing in the past altered, Phyllis? n 
 he asks, suddenly, and curiously, turning for the first tim 
 to confront me. 
 
 "Some things yes. But not my wedding-ring, oer- 
 teinly." 
 
 " Good little Phyllis," murmurs he, somewhat sadly, 
 "your recovered health has restored to you your good- 
 mature." 
 
 " It was not good-nature," I protest, eagerly, feeling 
 strangely inclined to cry. " I said it because I meant it. 
 But come," hastily, fearing I have said too much, " dinner 
 must be ready : we had better go downstairs." 
 
 Marmaduke leaves the window, and moves toward th 
 door, allowing me to follow. 
 
 " Have you forgotten your manners ? " I cry, playfully. 
 " Will you not conduct me downstairs ? Give me your arm, 
 'Duke." 
 
 " Your spirits are very high to-night, are they not ? " he 
 Bays, smiling. " I am glad to see you so like your old self, 
 as now I can with a clear conscience leave home." 
 
 " Are you leaving ? " 
 
 " Yes. You know I promised myself to go abroad in 
 the autumn. I will arrange with Billy or your mother to 
 stay with you while I am away." 
 
 " If you are going, well and good," I return, quietly, 
 " but do not arrange matters for me. I will have uo one 
 to stay with me in your absence." 
 
 " What 1 not even Billy ? " 
 
 "Not even Billy," I say firmly. 
 
 We get through dinner almost without a comment. My 
 sudden overflow of geniality has entirely forsaken me. I 
 am as mute, as depressed, as in those first days at Hazelton. 
 
 Rising from the table as soon as custom will permit me 
 I make my way to the drawing-room, where I sit in moody 
 discontent. 
 
 lam wretched most miserable; doubly so in that I 
 can see no plan of escape from my troubles lying clear be- 
 fore me. I rest my aching head on my hands and try to 
 think ; bit always his saddened face and averted eyes ar
 
 PHYLLIS. 
 
 to b seen. We are go close, yet so divided. Only a wall 
 or two, a door, a passage, but miles might be said* to sep- 
 arate us, so far apart are we in sympatky. At this moment 
 I know he is sitting in the library, silont, companionless. 
 
 And then a great desire rises within me. Throwing 
 aside my book, with a nervous determination, I walk doitn 
 the drawing-room, through the door, across the hall, nevei 
 pausing until I find myself before the library door. 
 
 I knock hurriedly, lest by any chance my ebbing conr&gt 
 should entirely yporate ; and my heart almost dies with- 
 in me, as the well-known voice calls out, " Come in." 
 
 I open, and advance a few steps into the room. A 
 slight fire is burning in the grate it is the beginning of 
 September, and already the evenings show symptoms of 
 coming cold ; Marmaduke is seated at the table, busily tn- 
 gaged, with writing materials all around him. 
 
 " What is it, Phyllis ? " he asks, expectantly, the pen 
 still in his hand. 
 
 " Oh, nothing,'* I return, awkwardly, failing miserably 
 as I come to the point ; " nothing to signify ; another time 
 will do. You are busy now. What are you writing, 
 'Duke ? " 
 
 " I was drawing out my will," he replies, smiling. *' I 
 thought it better to do so before leaving home for for an 
 indefinite time. No one knows what may happen. I am 
 glad you have come in just now, as you may as well hear 
 what I have written and see if you wish anything altered. 
 Now listen." 
 
 " I will not ! " I cry petulantly. " I hate wills and tes- 
 taments, and all that kind of thing. I won't listen to a 
 word of it ; and and I hopo with all my heart J. shall die 
 before you." 
 
 " My dear Phyllis," then quickly, " you are excited ; 
 you have something on your mind. What did you come 
 to me for just now, Phyllis ? tell me." 
 
 Now or never. I am conscious of a chill feeling at my 
 heart, but I close one hand over the other tightly and, thm 
 supported, go on bravely. 
 
 I " Yes, I did come to tell you something. That that I 
 lTe you. And oh, 'Duke if you leave ire again, yon 
 irill kill me." 
 
 ' Here I bunt into a perfect passion of creeping, and 
 cover my face with my hands. 
 
 There i* H6t * movement ic -lie room, not a sound, ex
 
 PHYLLIS. 121 
 
 cept my heavy bursting sobs. Then iom one puts an arm 
 round me, and pressea ray head down upon hit breast, i 
 look up into Marmaduke's face. He is white a* death ; and 
 though he is evidently putting a terrible restraint upon 
 himself, I can see that hia lips, beneath his fair moustache, 
 ire trembling. 
 
 " You are tired, Phyllis, over-fatigued," he says, sooth- 
 ingly. " Lie etill here, and you will be better presently." 
 
 " It is not that," I cry passionately, " not that at al . 
 Oh, Marmaduke, hear me now: do not punish me for my 
 past coldness. I love you with all my heart ; try to be- 
 lieve me." 
 
 " I cannot," he whispers, huskily, " I have been too 
 long living in the other belief. To hope again, only to be 
 cast down, would be my death. I do not dare imagine it 
 possible you love me." 
 
 " But I do 1 I do ! " I sob, piteously, flinging my arms 
 around his neck. " I always, always liked you better than 
 any one else, but during these past few months I have 
 earned to love you so well that I cannot be happy with- 
 out you. When I heard you say this evening you intended 
 leaving me again, I thought my heart would have 
 broken." 
 
 Turning up my face so that the full glare of the lamp 
 falls upon it, Marmaduke gazes at me as though he would 
 read the innermost workings of my heart. 
 
 " Is this the truth ? " he asks. " Are you sure you ar 
 not deceiving yourself and me ? " 
 
 " Must I say it again ? Can you not see by me how it 
 is?" I answer, still crying: I am a perfect Niobe by thii 
 time, and am dismally conscious that the tip of my nos 
 is degenerating into a warm pink. " I am sure I am un- 
 happy enough for anything." 
 
 Not noticing the rather ungracious tendency of thU 
 last remark, 'Duke draws me closer to him, and, stooping 
 hia head, presses his cheek to my wet one. 
 
 " My love 1 my life ! " he whispers, and holds me a* 
 though he never meant again to let me go. 
 
 We are quite silent for a few minutes during which a 
 great content, such as I have never before know a, creeps 
 into my heart. Then ' Duke, with a long, happy sigh, partly 
 releases me. Hia eyelashes I can see are wet with tears, 
 but there ii the rerj iweeteat and tendereit mil upon Mi 
 lips.
 
 328 
 
 " I havtj not waited in vain," he Bays. " At last I eai 
 call you mine ; at last : and just when I had given up aJj 
 hope darling darling I " 
 
 It is half an hour later, and we are now thoroughly co-a 
 fortable, full of rest and quiet joy. 
 
 We are sitting before the library fire, I on a low stool, 
 with my head leaning against ' Duke's knee, he with on* 
 hand round my neck, while with the other he every now 
 and then ruffles, or, as he fondly believes, smoothes, mj 
 * nut-brown locks." For the last three or four minutes no 
 words have passed between us. I think we are too happy 
 to give way to the mere expression of our feelings. 
 
 Suddenly, all in one moment, as it seems to us, without 
 any warning, we hear a loud voice outside the door, a heavy 
 footstep, a rapid turning of the handle, and George Ashurst 
 is in the room. 
 
 I make one desperate effort to rise and recover the dig- 
 nity my attitude has destroyed, but Duke, with a strong de- 
 taining grasp, prevents me. I get only as far as my knees, 
 and from that position glare at my brother-in-law as though 
 I would willingly devour him. 
 
 " I took your offer of a bed, after all," he is beginning, 
 when something in the situation strikes him as odd. he 
 meets iny eyes, and breaks down. " Oh, ah ! I had no idea 
 I didn't know, you know." lie stops, hopelessly, looking 
 as ludicrously silly and puzzled as even I could wish him. 
 
 " Neither did I," declares Marmaduke, with a laugh, 
 " until half an hour ago. But it is all right, Ashurst ; w* 
 have made it up ; and when I do go abroad, I will take in 3 
 wife with me." 
 
 " Didn't I tell you all along how k was ? * cries George, 
 enthusiastically (he had not ; but by a superhuman effort I 
 refrain from contradicting him). "I declare to you," says 
 he subsiding into a chair, " I was never so glad of anything 
 in all my life before." 
 
 There is a minute's pause. Then ' Duke, turning, lays 
 a light caressing touch upon my shoulder as I kneel besid 
 aim. He speaks in a very low tone. 
 
 " We are all very glad, I think and thankful," he. says, 
 with the softest, tenderest smile. 
 
 Ail was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow ; 
 
 All the achjng of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing ; 
 
 All the dull, deep pain, and constant, anguish of patieuc* I ;
 
 1