CHAPTER XVIII
"Whom would you like to invite here for the shooting?" asks Marmaduke, at breakfast, to my consternation. "I suppose 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 generally contrive to work out their own amusement."
"I have seen so few people in my life," I say, desperately, "and none of them grand people. That is, lords, I mean, and that. I shall be frightened out of my life."
"My acquaintance with lords is not so extensive as you seem 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."
"Nonsense, darling! 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, "but you will be out shooting all day, and I will be left at home to speak to them. I don't mind the men so much, but the women will be dreadful."
This last sentence appears to afford Marmaduke the liveliest amusement. He laughs until I begin to feel 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! because a few people are kind enough to come and pay you a visit. You say I do not '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, Phyllis! 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-up 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; "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; "you shall give us dinner in any earthly style you choose, always provided you let us have a good one. There!"
"And Parsons will see to that," I say, partially consoled, drawing my breath more lightly.
"Now, whom shall we ask?" says 'Duke, seating himself, and drawing out a pencil and pocket-book with an air of business, while I look over his shoulder. "Harriet is staying with old Sir William at present, but next week she will be free. She will come, and James. I am so anxious you should meet each other."
"Oh, Marmaduke, what shall I do if your sister does not like me? It would make me so miserable if she disapproved of me in any way."
"Your modesty, my dear, is quite refreshing in this brazen age. Of course, if Harriet expresses disapprobation of 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 considerable 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."
"I like that. But from what you say she must be a terrible person."
"Then my description belies her. Harriet is very charming and a general favorite. As for Sir James, he simply 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 Italy, so she can't come, which is lucky for us all, as she is a dame terrible. Then we must ask Blanche Going."
"Oh, must 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 veneration 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—she only could."
"I don't think so; she rather gave me the impression that she looked down upon me, as though I were foolish and not worth much consideration."
"Don't be uncharitable, Phyllis; she could not think anything so absurd. Besides, she told me herself one day she liked you immensely—hoped you and she would be tremendous friends, and so on. Blanche is too good-natured to treat any one as you say."
"Perhaps so. But, really, now, Marmaduke—seriously, I mean—would you not wish me to be older? Say twenty-five or so, with a little more knowledge of everything, you know? And, in fact, I mean would it not be better if I were more a woman of the world?"
"Oh, horror of horrors!" cries 'Duke, raising his, hands in affected terror. "How can you suggest anything so cruel! 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, no!—perfection, I mean," seeing me pout. Then suddenly putting his arms round me and drawing me down to him, he whispers, with deep feeling, "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 you care for him?"
"Yes; I liked what I saw of him. And Dora, Marmaduke."
"Dora, of course. And some one to meet her, I suppose? Whom shall we say? I 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 unlimited coin."
"I don't think Dora would like him if he is stupid," I say, doubtfully.
"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?" I say, lifting a finger of conviction.
"Am I? You see what comes of marrying a man of the world. Now, had you seen as much life as I have you might be equally unpleasant."
"But I don't think you unpleasant, 'Duke."
"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; "but he is never in the way when wanted, like other boys. And Roly is in Ireland, by special desire, of course. And I would like mother, only—-"
"Perhaps you would like the whole family?" says my husband, mildly.
"Yes, I would," I return, with alacrity; "every—-" 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 substitute 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 is the use in wishing for what I cannot have?"
"We could get Billy for a week, I dare say, later on," says 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 nightmares, so we have none. Besides, I shall have quite enough to do making 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 you will like, she is so gay and bright: every one is fond of her?"
"How old is she?"
"Very young—not more than nineteen or twenty, and she looks almost as young as you. She 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 flirt. Do not learn that accomplishment from her."
"How shall I be able to help it, if you throw me in the way of it? I think you are acting foolishly," with a wise shake of my head. "What if one of those 'spare men' should chance to fall in love with me?"
"That would be a mere bagatelle to your falling in love with one of the 'spare men.'"
"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 you?"
"No, I think not," I say, lightly, letting him have his kiss without rebuke: "I feel no desire to be a flirt. 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, is 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."