CHAPTER XIII.
Our engagement having received the openly expressed though secretly unwilling sanction of my father, Mr. Carrington comes over every other day to our house, where he of course meets with overpowering sweetness from everybody—Dora excepted. Not that she shows him any demonstrative 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 altogether. A heavy sense of injury is upon her, impossible to lift.
To me she has said little or nothing on the subject. Once, two days after my engagement was made known, happening 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, Dora, 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 Marmaduke for his money crushes me. Every now and then I catch myself revelling in the thought of what I shall do for Billy and Roly and all of them, when plenty of gold is at my disposal. I try to think how much I like him, how handsome he 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 miniature of my betrothed, and is given to me by him in a manner that betokens doubt of its being acceptable.
"I don't suppose you will care for the picture part of it," he says with a laugh and a rather heightened color.
But I do care for it, picture and all, and tell him so, to his lasting satisfaction, though it must be confessed I look oftener at the outside of that locket than at any other part of it. Thus by degrees I find myself laden with gifts of all kinds—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 the social scale.
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 is almost warm." Whereupon I don my hat and sally forth, my Billy in attendance.
Mechanically we make for the small belt of trees that encircles and bounds our home, and is by courtesy "our wood." It is my favorite retreat—the spot most dear to me at Summerleas. Ah! how sweet is everything to-day, how fragrant! The primrose gold in its mossy 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 regretful moods.
"Yes," returns Billy; "this time next year, I suppose, you will be holding high court 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 you too," says Billy, giving me a bear-like hug that horribly disarranges my appearance, 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," says Billy, grumpily. "If it had been Dora, now, it would have 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. I shall get papa to send me to a boarding-school when you go." (The Eton plan has not yet been divulged.) "Why on earth did you take a fancy to that fellow, Phyllis? Were you not very well as you were?"
"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; and really, perhaps, after all, I shall be very happy."
"Oh, yes, I dare say, if being happy means settling down and having a lot of squalling brats before you can say Jack Robinson. I know how it will be," says Billy, moodily "you will be an old woman before your time."
"Indeed I shall not," I cry, with much indignation, viewing with discomfort the ruins to which he has reduced my 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 I shall do for you when I marry him: I will send you to Eton. 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.
I am palsied with shame and horror; I am stricken dumb; and Billy, looking lazily upwards from where he is 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. Carrington comes slowly forward.
"Yes, I heard every word," he says, calmly, anger and reproach in his eyes.
I make no reply: I feel myself incapable of speech. Indeed, 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!" 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 place 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 ever," he makes answer, almost fiercely.
I feel uneasy, not to say unhappy. I have heard of men marrying women for spite and revenging themselves upon them afterwards. This recollection is not reassuring. I glance at Marmaduke furtively, and persuade myself he is looking downright vindictive.
"Yes," I murmur, doubtfully, "and perhaps, afterwards, when I was your wife, you would be cruel to me, and—-"
"Phyllis," he interrupts me, hastily, "what are you saying? Who has put such a detestable idea into your head? I 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 suffusing; my nose develops a tickling sensation. I am indignant 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 I 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 averted face. "If you repent your promise, say so: it is not yet too late to withdraw. Better bear pain now than lasting misery hereafter. Answer me truly: do you wish 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 regretful. But of course—if you don't want to marry me—-" I pause, overcome by the ignominy of this thought.
Mr. 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 could induce me to relinquish you. Don't talk about my giving you up. That is out of the question. I could as easily part with my life as with my Phyllis. Perhaps," with a rather sad little smile, "some time in the future you may deem me worthy to be placed in the category with Billy 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 cambric.
"I am sure you must hate me," I whisper, dismally. "I make you unhappy almost every time we meet. Mr. Carrington, 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." He 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 I didn't say anything so very dreadful," I venture, at the end of a slight pause. "I was only thinking, and deciding on what I would like to give everybody when—when I was your wife. Was that very bad?"
"No; there was nothing to vex me in all that; it only showed me what a loving, generous little heart my pet has. But then, Phyllis, why did you give me so plainly to understand you were marrying me only for the sake of my odious money, by saying—what you did in your last speech?"
"What did I say?"
"That for the sake of being rich you would marry me (or any one else, your tone meant) even were I 'as ugly as sin.'"
"If I said that, it was an untruth, because if you were us ugly as Bobby De Vere, for instance, I most certainly would not marry you. I detest plain people."
"Well, at all events, I think you owe me some reparation for the pain you have inflicted."
"I do, indeed," I admit, eagerly. "Lay any penance 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 accord. I don't believe up to this, Phyllis, you have ever yet done so of your own sweet will."
"I will do it now, then," I return, heroically, and straight away, 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 occurrence where the boys are concerned. By it I have obtained a thousand pardons, if need be.
He is evidently surprised, 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!" 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."
"Have you, darling?"
"I want to tell you that I think I must be growing fond of you."
"My angel!"
"Yes. And do you know why I think so?"
"No. I cannot imagine how anything so unlikely and desirable should come to pass."
"I will tell you. Do you remember how, long ago when first you kissed me, I disliked it so much that it made me cry?"
"Yes."
"Well, now I find I don't mind it one bit!"
Instead of being struck with the good sense of this discovery, Marmaduke roars with laughter.
"Oh, you needn't laugh," I say, slightly offended: "it is a very good sign. I have read in books how girls shudder and shiver when kissed by a man they don't like; and, 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 instantly kiss you again. Oh, Phyllis! I think if we looked into the family Bible we would discover we had all mistaken your age, and that you are only ten instead of eighteen."
"Why?"
"For many reasons. Come; let us walk on."
As lunch-hour approaches, we retrace our steps until we 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 between the evergreens his head emerges.
"I thought he was with you," he says, with an air of intense 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 indignation combined. "When a man loves a woman he does not give her up for a trifle."
"A trifle! Well, I never," murmurs Billy floored for once in his life.