Phyllis

by Duchess

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 is 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 upon us. We sit shivering around the fire, and abuse unceasingly the roaring logs because they won't roar faster.

Already my guests talk of leaving; already countless invitations to spend the coming Christmas in the homes of others have reached Marmaduke and me. Indeed, Harriet and Bebe—whose mother does not return to England until the coming spring—will take no refusal.

Dora's marriage is arranged to come off about the middle of the ensuing month; and even now the illustrious personage 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 wedding, 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 departure of the shooting-party," says Dora, who is as usual tatting, "and went to her own room."

"Dear me! I hope it is nothing serious," I say, anxiously, my conscience accusing me of some slight neglect, "I thought she did look rather pale when I met her in the hall."

"I don't think you need be uneasy, dear," remarks Harriet, mildly, with a suspicious twinkle 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 her 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 run up 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," returns her ladyship's voice, carelessly, evidently 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, looking by no means so ill as I had expected to see her. Indeed, the clearness of her eyes and the general air of liveliness 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 monogrammed. 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 unwelcome.

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—"so kind to take all this trouble! But, thank you, no. I am a perfect martyr to these attacks, and I find when 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, thinking 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 sensation 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 yourself. 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. Until then, dear Mrs. Carrington, I must ask you to excuse me. But"—going back to her own seat, withdrawing the coquettish 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 this evening."

Much pleased with this speech, which sounds to my own ears particularly graceful, I move towards the door and vanish.

"Well, how is she?" asks Bebe, coming upon me unexpectedly, 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 I Speak, and relieve my burning anxiety!"

"I don't believe she is ill at all," I return, in high disgust. "She looks perfectly well, and her color quite as 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, and was meekly resigned in every way, and looked most provokingly healthy all the time. I know I was not half at sympathetic 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 the martyr?"

"Tired of our company, probably, dear. We all understand Blanche's vapors by this time. The men have gone 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 chagrin 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 to that monogrammed epistle. For whom was it meant?

Off and on during the remainder of the day this question haunts me, and only a supreme effort of the will prevents my connecting it with the name of "Marmaduke."

Surely, surely, I cannot be becoming that most detestable of all things, a jealous, suspicious wife!

I am unhappy and restless in spite of all my endeavors to be otherwise. I wander through the house conversing with feverish gayety with any one I chance to meet, longing 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 drawing-room, go upstairs to pass a solitary and purposeless hour in my boudoir—the pretty little sanctum, all blue and silver, 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 shepherdesses, who in their turn stare back at me.

Suddenly I become conscious that some cold air is blowing 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 steps from the ground beneath, and as I draw nearer to it sounds coming from thence fall upon my ears—first a woman's voice, and then a man's.

Their words, though softly uttered, are thoroughly distinct; 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 beating. A cold dampness covers my face. I cannot move. I hardly dare to breathe. Oh, to whom are these words addressed? Whose voice will give her back an answer?

Sir Mark speaks; and with a relief that through its intensity is for the instant acutest pain, I stagger against the wall near me, and stand motionless to recover calm.

"Can anything be more melancholy than 'old times?'" murmured 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 memories"—can it indeed be that in the "long ago" lie love passages that were once fresh between Lady Blanche and Sir Mark Gore?

If it 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 how as yet I have not proved Marmaduke's indifference to her.

Of what consequence is it to me to know whether Marmaduke is or is not the first in Blanche Going's thoughts, unless I be assured that she is not the first in his?

Nevertheless, in spite of these dismal doubts, I feel my spirits somewhat lighter. My feelings towards my husband 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, cheerfully, "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 class shot. Any one here to-day?"

"Yes, the De Veres and Murrays. But they stayed no time, and old Mrs. Murray was in a very bad temper. It appears Harry is more than ever determined about marrying the governess."

"I pity the governess, if she goes back to live with the old lady as a daughter-in-law."

"So do I. Oh, Marmaduke, have you got any eau-de-Cologne? Martha must have a weakness 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 Marmaduke, 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 admiring!" I reply; but, in spite of my words, my laugh is low and pleased. His tone, though quiet, has a ring of cordiality in it that for some time has been absent. A smile hovers round my lips; I 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 from his pockets.

A tiny pale-pink three-cornered note rests, address uppermost, 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 Marmaduke, 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 my own house, that he should receive them and treasure them, seems to me in my excited state; the very basest treachery. Making fierce love beneath my very eyes, so careless of my feelings, or so convinced of my stupidity, as to take no pains to conceal their double-dealing!

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 overheard this evening. Although his vaunted love for me—if ever there—is now gone, I can still touch him where his honor is concerned. I rub my pale face until the color returns to it, I bite my quivering lips until they gleam like crimson berries, and, going downstairs, for the first time in my life I 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 moments, when I give myself room for thought! I note Marmaduke's dark frown, as, with flushed cheeks and gloaming, sparkling eyes, I encourage and play gayly to Sir Mark's nonsense. I see Bebe's surprised glance and Harriet's pained one. I watch with exultation the bitter expression that clouds Lady Blanche's brow. I see everything around me, and long—with a feverish longing—for the evening to wear to an end.

At length comes the welcome hour of release. We have all wished each other good-night. The men have retired 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 determine to seek her and gain from her what knowledge I can. She is, besides, the only one of whom I would make such 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 wearing 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 cord and tassel, confining my gown, completes my costume.

Leaving my own room noiselessly, I reach Bebe's, and knock softly on the door.

She too has dismissed her maid, and is sitting before the 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, debonnaire 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. "A few minutes conversation at this hour of the night is worth hours of the day. And, oh, Phyllis, how pretty you look!"

"Nonsense!" 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 cashmere, 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 scorn she throws into her manner.

Her words, though I know they are spoken in jest, coming 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 within 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 of ugly women. Phyllis, you are too modest. You give me 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 so. 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 infinitely more attractive in my eyes; though I admit Dora has charms, with her complexion and eyes of 'holy blue.' I verily believe you are a hypocrite. Don't you know all the men here rave 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 light laugh, though my blood is coursing wildly though my veins, "you exaggerate slightly there, I think. Was he not very much epris with his cousin, Lady Blanche Going, 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 she may be now," says Bebe, with a little grimace.

"Was it violent while it lasted?"

"I don't remember anything about it; but mamma says 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 esclandre of any kind; he merely put the seas between them, and is evidently determined on keeping them there. To me and my cousins of my own age the colonel is something of a myth; but mamma knew him well 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 whispered; 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, for 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 magic wand and the energy of that famous person. A little old 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 say Marmaduke's admiration for Blanche meant nothing? And she—did she like him?"

"For 'like' read 'love' I suppose? My dearest Phyllis, 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, I 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.

"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 mooted 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 shake their wise heads and pity 'that poor colonel,' and watch eagerly 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 expected to have neither ears nor eyes nor tongue. Besides, it was not a singular case; Mark was only the last on a long list of admirers. My lady could not exist without a cavalier servente."

"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 was in close attendance; until, the season dragging to a close, Blanche went abroad 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. "I met him several times."

"What! you knew him, then, before your marriage?" cries Bebe, with surprise.

"Very slightly. Once or twice he called with the Leslies, 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 Blanche 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 impotent rage on discovering how she was outdone by a simple village maiden! I vow it is a tale that Offenbach's music might adorn."

"How absurd you are, Bebe! How you jump to conclusions! 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, he 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 spell was broken, and Mark was not to be recalled. You will think me a terrible scandal-monger," says Bebe, with a smile, "but when one hears a thing perpetually discussed 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 Summerleas, was transported for poaching; and eight months ago John Haddon, 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 respectable, 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 be 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 between 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 with meek-eyed Dora, I feel guiltily that to me Bebe is the more congenial of the two. With my natural impulsiveness I throw my arms round her neck 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 my 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 still madly in love with Sir Mark, while I think he is decidedly smitten with you?"

My face and throat grow scarlet.

"I hope not," I stammer, foolishly.

"I am sure of it. He never takes his eyes off you, and at times my lady is absolutely wild. I never noticed it so plainly as this 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 reply, petulantly; "I hardly know what I said or did. Something was on my mind and made my actions 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 absurdities," 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 Bebe: "there is nothing so difficult to re-light as a dead love."

A shadow crosses her 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 seem 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 long side of which I must pass to get to my own room. Fancying, when half-way, that 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 Mark Gore.

He is three yards distant from me. His face wears a surprised and somewhat amused expression, that quickly changes to one deeper, as his eyes travel all over my pretty gown, my slippers, and my disordered hair.

Naturally I am covered with confusion, and, having had time to feel ashamed of my behavior during the evening, feel how especially unfortunate is this encounter.

"Do you often indulge in midnight rambles?" he asks, gayly, stopping in front of me.

"No," I return, as unconcernedly as I well can, considering my perturbation; "but to-night Miss Beatoun and I found so much to say about our friends that we forgot the 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 the same 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 Sir 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 in little drops of dew.'"

"My hair golden yellow!" exclaim I, ungraciously, "Who could call it so? It is distinctly brown. I cannot say you strike me as being particularly happy in the suitability 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 observer that Sir Mark is endeavoring to keep me.

Raising my head suddenly at this juncture, I see Marmaduke coming slowly up the stairs. Our eyes meet; I blush scarlet, and, with my usual clear common sense, drag my hand in a marked and guilty manner out of my companion's. Once more I stammer, "Good-night," very awkwardly, and make & dart towards my own room, while Sir 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 have no patience with men who are forever cropping up just when they are least wanted."

"Do you know how late it is?" says Marmaduke, coming in from his dressing-room, with an ominous frown in his blue eyes.

"Yes; I was thinking what a scandalously late hour it is for you to be still up smoking," I retort, determined to fight it out, and meanly trying to make my own cause 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 accidentally."

Though my tone is defiant, I still feel I am excusing myself, 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. But 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 I 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 I should connect such a word with your conduct. Were I obliged to do so, the same roof would not cover us both for half an hour longer be assured of that."

I laugh wickedly.

"Which of us would go?" I ask. "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 snowdrift. And all because I crossed a corridor at midnight 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. He is as black as night with rage. Standing opposite 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.) "You may do as you like, I suppose? You cannot err; while I can 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 '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 discovery 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 papa and more disagreeable." Here I give my shoulders an impertinent shrug, and fairly turn my back upon him. An instant later, and he has slammed the door between us, and I see him no more that night.