CHAPTER XIV
We are in the orchard of Summerleas alone, Mr. Carrington and I, with the warm but fitful April 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 be, and is still and heavy as in the heart of summer.
"It will be a good year for fruit," I tell my lover, soberly, "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. He supposes when I come to Strangemore he may dismiss his steward, as probably I will be competent to manage everything there—the master included.
Whereupon I answer, saucely, I need not go to Strangemore for that, as I fancy I have him pretty well under control even as it is. At this he pinches my ear and prophesies the time will yet come when it will be his turn to menace me.
Our orchard has not been altogether sacrificed to the inner man: here and there one comes upon straggling slopes of greenest grass and irregular beds of old-fashioned and time-honored flowers—such flowers as went to deck Ophelia's grave, or grew to grace the bank whereon Titania slept.
High up in the western wall a small green gate gives entrance to another garden—a quaint spot, picturesquely wild, that we children chose to name Queen Elizabeth's Retreat. Long lines of elms grow here, through which some paths are cut—paths innocent of gravel and green as the grass that grows on either side. Here, too, are beds of flowers and rustic benches.
"Come, show me anything as pretty as this in all Strangemore," I say, with triumph, as we seat ourselves on an ancient oaken contrivance that threatens at any moment to bring the unwary to the ground.
"I wonder if you will ever think anything at Strangemore as worthy of admiration as what you have here?" says Marmaduke, passing his arm lightly round my waist.
"Perhaps. But I know every nook and cranny of this old place so well and love it so dearly! I can remember no other home. We came here, you know, when I was very young and Billy only a baby.
"But Strangemore will be your home when you come to live with me. You will try to like it for my sake, will you not? It is dearer to me than either of 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 me 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, with unpleasant truthfulness.
Marmaduke removes his arm from around me and frowns.
"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. I am always saying the wrong thing, and repenting it afterwards. 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 under 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 yourself as long as you can. Every hour you live will make the role more difficult."
"But why? You are older than I am, Marmaduke; would you tell a lie?"
"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 papa 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 your ears?"
I explode at the tragic meaning of his tone.
"Often," I say, merrily, "shoals of times; but that is not half so bad as being sent to bed. However"—reassuringly—"he has not done it now for ever so long—not since I have 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, as I told you before, he never does it now."
"But it maddens me to think of his ever having done so. And such pretty little ears, too, so pink and delicate! 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 indeed."
"Why?" impatiently.
"I don't know," I return, provokingly; "but I am sure I should. 'Better to bear the ills we have, et cetera.'"
"You are trifling," says he, angrily, "why not say at 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 the ground petulantly with my foot while fixing my gaze with affected unconcern upon a thick, white cloud that rests far away in the eternal blue. "I have no wish to stand in your light. Pray leave me—I shan't mind it in the least—and don't throw away any more of your precious moments."
"Idle advice. I can't leave you now, and you know it. I must only go on squandering my life, I suppose, until the end. I do believe the greatest misfortune that ever befell me was my meeting with you."
"Thank you. You are extremely rude and unkind to me, Marmaduke. If this is your way of making love, I must say I 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 coming 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! common humanity would suggest that speech."
He 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.
"Why 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 would love you, 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 complexion and sweet smile. Yes Dora is more than pretty."
"If you admire her so much, why don't you marry her?" say I, sharply. Although I am not in love with Marmaduke, I strongly object to his expressing unlimited admiration for my sister or any other woman.
"Shall I tell you?" says he, suddenly, coming back to me to take me in his arms 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 less uniformly sweet, is merrier and tenderer, and more lovable. There! have I given you enough 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 me 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 to grow demonstrative so soon again; therefore continue the conversation hastily.
"Were you never in love before?" I ask, without motive.
It occurs to me that like a flash a faint change crosses his face.
"All men have fancies," he answers, and something tells me he is evading a strict reply.
"I don't mean a fancy: I mean a real attachment. Did you ever ask any woman except me to be your wife?"
"Why?" he asks, with an attempt at laughter that ends in dismal failure beneath my remorseless eyes. "Will you 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 give yourself the habit of contradicting people so rudely. I 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 suggested it was deceitful of you not too have told about it before. I hate secrets of any kind." My companion winces visibly. "There don't be uneasy," I say, loftily. "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 feel for you. Am I the worse 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?"
"Detestably so."
"You need not abuse her now," I say, reprovingly, "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. Oh my darling, my pet, no one ever really crept into my heart 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 hand into his, and bring myself close up to his side.
"I will forgive you this time," I whisper; "but Marmaduke, 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.