CHAPTER XVI
It is a fortnight later, when the post coming in one morning brings to Dora an invitation from our aunts, the Misses 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 not do to avoid paying them a visit of any lengthened duration.
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 proposition 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 sob, that I know proceeds from Dora.
An altercation is at all times unpleasant; but in our household it is doubly so, as it has the effect of making the 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 indignant information.
"It is a beastly shame," he says, in a subdued whisper, "and I would not submit to it if I were you. When luncheon 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 to take her place it would do just as well; and of course papa jumped at the idea, knowing it would be disagreeable, and says you shall go."
"What!" cry I, furious at this new piece of injustice. "I shall, shall I? He'll see!"
I turn from my brother with an ominous expression on my lips, and move towards my bedroom door. The action means, "Not words, but deeds."
"That's right," says Billy, following close in the character 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 Carrington 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"—despondingly—"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 determination in my eyes, and then I go into my room to prepare 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 postponed, 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 as rage 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 should remain at home all the summer."
"This is some of your underhand work," I say, with suppressed anger, addressing Dora.
"I would not speak of 'underhand work,' if I were you," returns she, smoothly, with an almost invisible flash 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 is 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 me.
I fly through the hall and into the open air, I feel suffocated, half choked, by my angry emotion; but the sweet evening breeze revives me. It is eight o'clock, and a delicious 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 little 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 Summerleas.
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 he caresses me, knowing my antipathy to any demonstrative attentions; but now my evident affliction 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 still."
"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 me now, and I will take you to my 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 insisted 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?" He is not aware of the Misses Vernons' existence. "Where is Qualmsley?"
"It is a horrible place, in Yorkshire, where nobody lives, except my aunts. They want me to go to stay there next week for a month. The hateful old things wrote inviting Dora, and when she refused to go papa insisted on victimizing me in her place. If you only knew Aunt Martha and Aunt Priscilla, you would understand my abhorrence—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 see my lover whiten and wince in the twilight.
"Of course I don't mean that," I say, confusedly, "I only—-"
But, as I don't at all feel sure what it is I do mean, I break down here ignominiously and relapse into awkward silence.
"Of course not," he answers. "I quite understand." But his voice has lost all its enthusiasm, and somehow his words drag. "Had you not better come back to the house, Phyllis? You will catch cold without your hat and in that light dress."
I am clothed in white muslin, a little open at the throat, and with my arms half bare. A piece of blue ribbon defines 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. Already two or three bright stars are twinkling overhead and shine up at me, reflected from below. Mr. Carrington lets 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—-"
"No, no; not distasteful," I interrupt, with deprecation.
"Don't say 'no' if you mean 'yes.' Put my feelings 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 ago?" I cry, angrily, goaded by the reflection that each word I speak only makes matters harder. "Why do you bring the subject up again? Must you too be unkind to me? You cannot 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 you. 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 fingers seize and take to pieces wantonly the unoffending rose. As I pull its crimson leaves asunder I drop them in the brook and watch them float away under the moon's pale rays. I would that my cruel words could so depart.
I feel angry, disconsolate, with the knowledge that through my own act I am cruelly wounding the man who, I must confess it, is my truest friend. I half think of apologizing, 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 my head to give them utterance.
Suddenly his arms are around me; he is kissing me with passion that is full of sadness. There is so much tenderness mingled with the despair in his face that I, too, am saddened into silence. Repentant, I slip a hand round his 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 angry with you."
"More probably you would be thankful to me," he answered, bitterly.
"I would not. I would far rather trust myself to you than stay at home after what has passed." My voice is trembling, my lips quiver faintly. "But if one of us must be unhappy, let it be me. I release you. I would not—-"
"Don't be foolish, child," he makes answer, roughly, "I 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, he 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 precious possession; I will not have you inconsiderately used. Come, I will speak to your 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 in three weeks we are to be married.
----
And in three weeks we are married. In three short weeks 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 be buried out of sight forever.
First of all mother takes me up to London, and puts me into the hands of a celebrated modiste, a woman of great reputation, with piercing eyes, who scowls at me, prods, taps, and measures me, until I lose sight of my own identity and begin to look upon myself as so many inches and fingers and yards embodied. At length, this terrible person expressing herself satisfied with the examination, we may return home again, whither we are shortly followed by many wicker-framed oil skin-covered trunks, in which lie the results of all the measuring.
Everything is so fresh, so gay, so dainty, that I, who have been kept on such low diet with regard to clothing, am enraptured, and as I dress myself in each new gown and survey myself in mother's long glass, sustain a sensation of pleasurable admiration that must be conceit in an "ugly duckling."
As Madame charmingly and rather shoppily expresses it, my wedding-dress is "a marvel of elegance and grace"—and lace, she might have added, as Brussels is everywhere. Indeed, as I see it and think of the bill that must follow, the old deadly fear of a row creeps over me, chilling my joy, until I happily and selfishly remember that when it does fall due I shall be far from Summerleas and papa's wrath, when I become once more enthusiastic in my praise. I even insist on exhibiting myself in it to Marmaduke three nights before my wedding, though all in the house tell me it is unlucky so to do; and Mrs. Tully, the cook, with her eyes full of brandy-and-water, implores me not to be headstrong.
Presents come in from all sides, Bobby De Vere's and Mr. Hastings' being conspicuous more from size than taste. Papa so far overcomes his animosity as to present me with an astonishing travelling-desk, the intricacies of which it takes me months to master, even with the help of Marmaduke. Roland, coming from Ireland for the ceremony, brings with him from the Emerald Isle a necklet too handsome for his purse; while Billy, with tears of love in his dark eyes, puts into my arms a snow-white rabbit that for six 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's cousins, also assist; and Sir Mark Gore is chief mourner.
As the eventful day breaks, I wake, and, rising, get through the principal part of my dressing without aid, a proceeding that much disappoints mother, who at this last hour of my childhood feels as though I 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 door and hands in to us a sealed packet, with "Marmaduke's love" written on the outside, and opening it we disclose to view the Carrington 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 forward, and taking me from papa, leads me himself to the altar—a proceeding that causes much excitement among the lower members of the 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 on my arm, and whispers, smiling:—-
"I hope you will accept all good wishes with this—Mrs. Carrington."
I start and blush faintly as the new title strikes upon my ears, and almost forget to thank him in wondering at its strangeness. Then Marmaduke kisses me gravely, and, giving me his arm leads me back to the carriage, and it is all over!
Am I indeed no longer a child? Is my wish accomplished, 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 was only a few minutes ago—-
"Oh, Marmaduke, am I really married?" I say, gazing at him with half-frightened eyes; and 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. I 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 my engagement is over, that what we have been preparing for these nine months past is at last a settled fact.
I listen to Sir Mark's clever, airy little oration that makes everybody laugh, especially Miss De 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 mistaken 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 we 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.