Chapter XXIII (2)

"And now remorse has proved too much for her; she resolves on writing you a letter expressing contrition for her past heartlessness. She draws toward her paper, pens, and ink (in a three-volume novel the heroine has everything at her hand, even in the most unlikely places; there is never any fuss or scramble), and indites you a perfumed and coronetted note, which you will receive--to-morrow. There! Now, don't you feel better?"

"Infinitely so."

"What! still frowning? still in the lowest depths? I begin to doubt my power to comfort you."

"I don't feel any inclination to jest on the subject," returns Sir Mark, gruffly, making a vicious blow with the whip at an unoffending and nearly lifeless fly.

"Well, there," I gasp, in a sudden access of terror lest he might again incense the ponies, "I will jest no more. And don't despair. Perhaps--who knows?--she may grow fond of you in time."

He laughs, a short, bitter laugh that yet has something in it of dismal merriment. "If I could only tell you," he says, "if you only knew, you would understand what a double mockery are such words coming from your lips."

His fingers close around the whip again. Again frightened, I hastily clutch his arm.

"Don't do that," I entreat; "please do not use that dreadful whip again: remember the last time you did so we were nearly killed."

"I wish we had been altogether so," mutters he, savagely.

I stare at him in speechless surprise. Did that flask contain _much_ brandy? What on earth has happened to our careless, debonair Sir Mark?

Even as I gaze in wonder, he turns his head and looks with some degree of shame into my widely-opened, astonished eyes.

"Pardon me," he says, gently. "I don't know what has come to me to-day. I fail to understand myself. I doubt I am an ill-tempered brute, and have hardly any right even to hope for your forgiveness."

But his manner has effectually checked my burst of eloquence, and we keep unbroken silence until we reach our destination.

Here we find Marmaduke and Lady Blanche anxiously on the lookout for us; the others, tired of waiting, have wandered farther afield. Marmaduke is looking rather white and worried, I fancy.

"What has kept you until this hour?" he asks, irritably, pulling out his watch.

"Oh, how long you have been!" supplements Blanche. "We were beginning to wonder--almost to fear an accident had occurred. It is quite a relief to see you in the flesh."

"You were very near not seeing us," I explain. "The ponies behaved very badly--ran away with us for half a mile or so--and frightened me so much that I fainted."

"How distressing!" says Blanche, apparently much concerned. "How terrified you must have been! And so unpleasant, too, without a lady near to help you! You were able to resuscitate Mrs. Carrington, at all events." (To Sir Mark.)

"Well, I don't suppose I would have been of much use without the brandy," replies he, coolly.

"It must have been quite a sentimental scene," remarks her ladyship, with a little laugh. "It reminds one of something one would read; only, to make it perfect, you should be lovers. Now that you are safe it does not seem unkind to laugh, does it?"

Marmaduke by this time is black as night. In spite of myself, I know I have blushed crimson; while Sir Mark, turning abruptly away, goes to explain some trivial break in the harness to one of the coachmen.

"It is a pity, Phyllis, you would not take my advice this morning," says 'Duke, in a voice that trembles a little, either from suppressed anger or some other emotion. "If you had taken a groom, as I begged of you, all this unpleasantness might have been saved."

"I don't see how a groom could have prevented it," I reply, coldly. "Without a second's warning they were off: it was nobody's fault."

"My dear 'Duke, we should be thankful they have escaped so well," murmurs Blanche, in her softest tones, laying a soothing touch upon my husband's arm. Both touch and tone render me furious. "I dare say it was not very serious."

"I dare say not; but it might have been. And, whether or not it has kept every one waiting for at least three-quarters of an hour."

"It might have kept you still longer had I been killed," I return, quietly, moving away in secret indignation.

Marmaduke follows me, leaving Blanche and Sir Mark to come after, and side by side, but speechless, we proceed on our way.

At length, in a rather milder tone, Marmaduke says, "I hope--otherwise--your drive was enjoyable."

"Very much so, thank you. Though I must say I don't care about feeling my life in danger. I hope you enjoyed yours."

"No"--shortly--"I did not. I never enjoyed anything less."

"How unfortunate! Was her ladyship thoughtful, or ill-tempered, or what?"

"She had nothing to do with it. I was thinking of you the entire time."

"Of me? How good of you! I am so sorry I cannot return the compliment, but no one was farther from my thoughts than you. Concluding you were happy, I dismissed you from my memory."

"I had a presentiment about those ponies."

"Ah! it was the ponies occupied your mind--not their mistress. That sounds far more natural."

"They are vicious, and not to be depended upon," continues 'Duke, declining to notice my interruption. "I shall dispose of them the very first opportunity."

"Indeed you shall do nothing of the kind. They are mine, and I will not have them sold."

"Well, keep them, if you insist upon it; but certainly you shall never drive them again."

"Then I certainly shall; and to-morrow, most probably I will not be ordered about as though I were a mere baby."

Marmaduke turns, and regards me so steadily and gravely, that at length, in spite of myself, my eyes submit and drop.

"Phyllis, how changed you are!" says he, presently, in a low tone. "When first I knew you--even two months ago--you were a soft, tender, gentle little girl; and now you are always unjust and bitter to me, at least."

Something rises in my throat and prevents my utterance. Large tears gather in my eyes.

"I _am_ changed; I know it." I burst out, suddenly. "Before I married you I was a different person altogether. And how can I help being 'bitter' at times? Even now, when I told you how near death I had been, you showed no feeling of regret--thought of nothing but the delay I had occasioned you and your friends."

"Oh, Phyllis," says 'Duke, in a tone that implies that I have wrung his heart by my false accusations, and before either can again speak we have passed a hillock and are in full view of our guests.

They are all scattered about in twos or threes, though none are very far distant from the others; and the scene is more than usually picturesque. Certainly the old Deacon knew what he was about when he placed his well in this charming spot. It is a little fairy-like nook, fresh and green, and lying forgotten among the hills. A few pieces of broken-down, ivy-covered wall partially conceal the steps leading to the Wishing Well.

"'Duke, let us wish for dinner--and get it--before we wish for anything else," entreats Bebe. "The drive has given me a horrible appetite. I am generally a very nice person--eh, Mr. Thornton?--but just at present I am feeling a downright unladylike desire for food. Phyllis, darling, do say you are hungry."

"I am--starving" I reply, though conscious at the moment that the smallest morsel would choke me. "Yes, by all means. 'Business first, pleasure afterwards,'" quotes Chips, blithely, who is stretched full length by Miss Beatoun's side, with his hat off and a straw in his mouth, looking extremely handsome and unspeakably happy. Lord Chandos is at her other side, though rather farther away.

"What do you say, Phyllis?" says 'Duke, looking at me.

"Do not take me into consideration at all," I return in a suppressed voice. "Dinner now, or in five hours to come, would be quite the same thing to me."

I move quickly away from him towards mamma as I say this, and, sinking down on the turf very close to her, slip my hand into hers; and as I feel her gentle fingers closing upon mine, a sense of safety and relief creeps slowly over me.

Dinner progresses; and, though I will not acknowledge it, I begin to feel decidedly better. Fragments of conversation float here and there.

"I have a great mind to set my little dog at you," says Bebe, in reply to some flagrant compliment bestowed upon her by the devoted Chips. A little _bijou_ of a dog, with an elaborate collar and beseeching eyes, that sits upon her knee and takes its dinner from her pretty white fingers, is the animal in question.

"Oh, please don't," murmurs Chips, pathetically. "I am so horribly afraid of your little dog. You would not like me to die of nervous excitement, would you?"

"I am not so sure. It would make room for a better man."

"Impossible! There isn't a better fellow going than I am. You ask my mamma when you see her."

"I need not ask anybody; I can see for myself. What do you do all day long but play billiards?"

"I beg your pardon, Miss Beatoun. You estimate my capabilities at a very improper level. I do no end of things besides billiards. I shoot, smoke, eat, and--talk to you."

"What a way to spend one's life!" severely. "I wonder where you think you will go when you die?"

"I hope wherever you go. I say," piteously, "don't scold a fellow on such a splendid day--don't; it's uncommon afflicting of you; and don't put on your gloves for a little longer."

"Why?"

"Because I like looking at your hands, though at the same time they always irritate me. They are the very prettiest I ever saw; and--forgive me for saying it--but I always want to kiss them. Now, don't begin again, please; remember you have lectured me for a good hour.'

"Then I have wasted a good hour and done nothing I give you up; you are past cure."

"I remember coming here once before," breaks in Lottie Hastings's voice, "and wishing for something, and I really got it before the year was out."

"Must one wait a whole year?" asks Sir Mark. "Then I shall have to write mine down. Give you my word that if my own name was suppressed for a year I don't believe I would recollect what it was at the end of it."

"Are we bound by law to name our wishes?" asks Chips, earnestly. "Because, if so, I shall have to sink into the ground with shame. I'm horrid bashful--that is my most glaring fault, you know, Miss Beatoun--and I would not disclose my secret desire for anything you could offer."

"For anything I could offer," repeats Miss Beatoun. "Are you sure? Shall I tempt you? Would you not, for instance, take---" The eyes say the rest.

"Don't," exclaims Thornton, putting his hands over his ears. "I won't listen to you. I refuse to understand. Miss Hastings, will you permit me to sit by you? Miss Beatoun is behaving with more than her usual cruelty."

"Come," says Miss Hastings, smiling and putting aside her dress to give him room to seat himself on the grass near her.

As Chips leaves Bebe, Lord Chandos quietly slips into his place, to Miss Beatoun's evident surprise.

"Is it fair to encourage that poor boy so very openly?" begins Chandos, calmly.

"What?" says Miss Beatoun.

"Is it kind to flirt so much with young Thornton?" repeats Lord Chandos, still perfectly calm.

"You must make a mistake," says Bebe, provokingly "You know I never flirt. In the first place, I don't consider it good form."

"Neither do I consider it 'good form' for a young lady to talk slang," very gravely and quietly. "I wouldn't do it if I were you."

"How do you know what you would do if you were I?"

"At all events, you must acknowledge that it is not becoming."

"Do you profess to understand what is becoming to young ladies? Have you been studying them? Come, then, if you are so good a judge, I will ask you to tell me if this hat is so very becoming as they all say. Look well, now, before you decide; it is a question of the utmost importance."

This saucy little speech is accompanied by such a bewitching glance from under the said hat that Lord Chandos loses his presence of mind. "I cannot bear to see you flirt so much as you do with every one," he mutters, hastily; "it tortures me. Bebe, why is it?"

Miss Beatoun grows decidedly white, even to her lips, yet is still thoroughly composed.

"But do I flirt?" she says. "I don't believe I do. Do you believe it, my darling, my treasure, my Tito?" to the dog. "Not you. No, no, Lord Chandos; it is not that at all."

"What is it then?" impatiently.

"Why, it is 'every one' who flirts with me, to be sure. And that is not my fault, is it?" with the most bewildering assumption of injured innocence.

And now we all rise and saunter towards the well.

"If you would only wish as I do," whispers Sir George to Dora, "I would be the happiest man alive."

"Would you?" says innocent Dora. "But how shall I know what you are longing for?"

"Can you not guess?"

"I am afraid I cannot. Unless, perhaps--but no, of course it would not be that. Indeed I do not know how to reach your thoughts. One must want so many things."

"I want only one."

"Only one! Oh, how moderate! Only one! Let me see," with a delicious meditative air, and two slender fingers pressed upon her lips.

"Shall I tell you?"

"Oh, no, no," with a pretty show of eager fear. "If you told any one the charm would be broken, and you would not get what you want. Perhaps--who knows?--the boon I am going to demand will be the very thing you would tell me." This with a sufficiently tender glance from the lustrous azure eyes.

"For my part," says Bebe, wilfully. "I shall wish for something I can never get, just to prove how absurd it all is."

"From time to time we every one of us do that," says Chandos. "We hanker after the impossible. I begin to fear I shall never get my heart's desire."

He glances expressively at Bebe.

"Then think of something else," suggests that young lady, smoothly. "Your second venture may be more successful."

"No, I shall keep to my original wish, until I either gain it or else find further hoping folly."

"Phyllis, it is your turn now. Will you not descend and court fortune?" calls Harriet.

I am deeply engaged listening to mamma while she reads to me Billy's last effusion from Eton, to which place he returned the second day after our ball.

"It is a pity to disturb Mrs. Carrington," says Sir Mark. "She told me this morning she had not a wish left ungratified."

Marmaduke raises his head quickly, and, flushing warmly turns a pleased and rather surprised glance at me.

"Nevertheless, I will come," I cry incautiously, springing to my feet, "and beg for the continuance of my happiness, which includes everything."

"Oh, Phyllis!" cries Bebe.

"Oh, Mrs. Carrington," exclaims Sir Mark; "what a rash proceeding! Why did you say it aloud? You have destroyed every chance of receiving that good gift."

"Yes," say I, "how provoking! Never mind, contentment still remains: and that, I have heard, is quite as much to be desired."

Everybody laughs heartily, and Marmaduke says, "You will get nothing, Phyllis, if you declare your wants so openly."

"Neither happiness nor contentment, how dismal!" exclaim I, laughing too. "Well, I shall keep my third and last thought to myself."

And having hoped in my own mind that Lord Chandos would very soon again ask Bebe to be his wife, I go through the form of drinking a little of the pure spring water Master Chips offers me with due solemnity.

The principal business of the day being concluded, our party once more breaks up into detachments, some straying out of sight in pretended search of scenery, some following their example in an opposite direction without any pretense at all.

Sinking down again by mother's side, I content myself with her and Harriet, while Marmaduke and Sir James stay to bear us company, and smoke unlimited cigars, while offering a lazy remark every now and then.

"Do you feel no desire to investigate the neighborhood?" asks Sir Mark of me, carelessly, as he passes by; and as I answer, "No," with a smile and shake of my head, he saunters off towards Lottie Hastings, with whom he commences a flirtation, calm but vigorous.

Somehow it is a peaceful hour we spend, and one that drives me from the vague irritation that before tormented me. In the quiet of the present I forget all life's vexations, and remember only such good things as are within my grasp. How paltry now seem the troubles that oppress me! I fear--yet know not what it is I fear. I doubt--yet, if compelled to do so, would find a difficulty in giving my doubt a name.

This sweeter mood continues, and travels home with me, although we do not reach Strangemore until it is nearly nine.

Here, at an early supper, we all find ourselves in the wildest spirits. Glancing curiously at Dora, attracted by some nameless new expression in her eyes, I feel convinced the day has been to her one of unmixed triumph, and that already the Wishing Well has granted her desire.

As I get near her in the drawing-room, I manage to whisper, "What is it, Dora? did he? Are you---"

"Yes he _did_, and I _am_" responded Dora, with a smile of unusual liveliness for her. "To-night you shall know all."

---

"How was it, Dora? How did it happen?" I ask, two hours later, as I sit opposite to her, my hands embracing my knees, in my favorite position, my head bent forward in eager anticipation of her news.

"I hardly know. It was all that Wishing Well, I fancy. For the future I shall feel it my duty to be superstitious. At all events, it surely helped to bring it about, as he only wanted the opportunity to declare himself," says Dora, complacently.

"What did he say, Dora? Was he nervous--or---"

"Very nervous. He seemed quite afraid to come to the point. You see I am always so distant in my manner," says my modest sister, "he had no way of judging what my answer was likely to be."

"I am sure whatever he said was just what it should be, he is so thoroughly sincere," I remark, still anxious to get at the root of the matter.

"I am afraid I cannot altogether satisfy your curiosity Phyllis, it has all got so mixed up. Of course he told me principally what I knew before--that he adores me, for instance, and was desirous of marrying me, and so forth. Ha was slightly incoherent, I thought; but it really signified very little whether his English was good or bad, so long as I managed to understand what he meant."

"Of course not, darling. Oh, Dora, I am so sorry we let mamma go without telling her."

"I did tell her, dear. At least, that is, he--George told her." She brings out the Christian name of her beloved with a charming amount of diffidence. "He said he would like to make sure of me; and indeed I thought myself it might perhaps be as well he should be the one to mention it to her as a settled thing. You understand?"

I do, and begin to entertain rather an admiration for Dora's astuteness.

"You will forgive me now, Dora?" I say, suddenly leaning over to put my hand on hers.

"Forgive you? Forgive what?"

"Well, dear, when I married 'Duke, you know, I thought you were rather vexed--you said so many things; and sometimes I have fancied, since, you still think I was in the wrong."

"My dear Phyllis, what a curious girl you are! 'Forgive you!' as if I had not done so, ages and ages ago--if indeed there was anything to forgive. Surely you couldn't have thought me so vindictive, so unchristian, as to retain bitter feelings against you all this time?"

She has opened her childish blue eyes to their widest, and is gazing at me plaintively, as though grieved I should imagine her capable of any vile feeling.

"I sometimes feared---" I stammer, utterly abashed in the presence of so much sweetness.

"You must put such ideas out of your head, Phyllis; they are very unworthy. I never harbor unforgiving thoughts, I should hope, towards any one--least of all towards you, my sister. Besides, I ought really to be thankful to you, if anything. Marmaduke and I would have been most unsuited to each other. He is far too _exigeant_ and masterful for my taste. George is in every way more desirable."

I don't quite see all this, but reserve my sentiments.

"He is greatly to be liked," I say, with truth--honest, good-natured George Ashurst having won his way into my affections long since. "I don't know that I was ever more delighted about anything in my life."

"Yes, everybody will be pleased, I imagine--papa and mamma especially. I don't see how papa can make the faintest objection in any way. He must be gratified."

I think of Sir George's rent-roll, and have the words, "I should think so, indeed," upon the tip of my tongue, but, being desirous of keeping up friendly relations with Dora, refrain from uttering them. She evidently takes her good fortune as a matter of course, having ever rated herself at a high price, and believes she has got her bare deserts--no more.

"I hope you--that is, I hope he will be very good to you," I say, making the correction in time.

"I hope we will be very good to each other. Indeed, I see nothing to prevent our being quite happy and--comfortable. Don't you think he appears very fond of me?"

"More than that: I think he appears to love you very dearly."

"Yes, I really think he does," says my sister, running her fingers lazily through her silken yellow hair.

"And you, Dora--do you love him?"

"Of course, dear. Would I marry him else? Am I the sort of person to sell myself for mere money's sake?" Indignation of the mild and virtuous order is in her tone. "No," says Dora, calmly looking me fair in the eyes, "I would not marry a man unless I loved him--not if he had the mines of Golconda."

This ennobling sentiment is, I feel, aimed at me, and justly judge it will be unwise to press the matter farther: so I say, "I am so glad, darling!" but say it very weakly.

"Nevertheless," goes on Dora, after a moment's pause, "as I do love him, it is very fortunate he should be so well off. Yesterday he told me he had twenty thousand pound a year. Rather more than you have, dear, is it not?"

No, Dora has not yet forgiven me.

"A great deal more," I say, warmly; "we have only fifteen thousand. But then, Dora, it was only to be expected you would make a far better match than I could."

"Well, yes--perhaps so," admits Dora, casting an admiring glance at her own pretty shell-pink face as it smiles back at her from an opposite mirror.

The door opens, and Marmaduke comes in. "Oh, 'Duke," I cry, rising, "just fancy! Dora is--but you shall guess my news--what is she?"

"That is a rather embarrassing question," says he, smiling. "Were I to tell you all that Dora is in my eyes, we would get no sleep to-night."

Dora laughs, and I say:---

"Nonsense! A list of her perfections would be no news; we all know them. Tell me what you think has occurred to her since this morning."

"I think she has become engaged to George Ashurst," returns 'Duke, coolly. "Why, you foolish child, do you call that news? Ashurst has told every one in the house of his good luck by this time. If I were you, Dora, I would breakfast in my own room to-morrow morning. You will never be able to stand all the congratulations."

"How can he be so absurd?" murmurs Dora, for once in her life genuinely confused, and a rich red coloring her cheeks.

"I congratulate you with all my heart," says 'Duke, kindly, kissing her. "You have got as good a husband as any girl could desire, and as rich a one, too, without doubt. We shall be small people, Phyllis, you and I, next to my Lady Ashurst."

"I must not stay to hear any more flattery. Thank you very much for all you have said," replies Dora, gracefully, and, having bidden us both good-night goes off to her own room.

Every one in the house is immensely delighted. An engagement, even when everything belonging to it goes smoothly, and suitably, cannot fail to awaken interest in the heart of a woman; and, Dora's lover being uncoveted by any of us, no jealousy shows itself to mar the universal good feeling.

We chatter about it all next day, and tell each other we had seen how it would end from the very beginning. We dilate on the charming place he has in Surrey, his palace in the North; and then we whisper of what a detestable creature is his mother; while Bebe hopes Dora will have courage to put a veto at once against any lengthened visiting on her part.

"Because," says Miss Beatoun, "we _all_ know where _that_ will lead. When Ashurst's brother married Lady Octavia Dering, his mother invited herself to pay them a month's visit; and she stayed ten; and it was the doctor and the nurse, eventually, who insisted on putting her out, shortly after the boy was born. They say poor Lady Octavia nearly went out of her mind one morning when, on going into her nursery, she found the old lady deliberately pouring some nauseous allopathic medicine down the child's throat. Octavia told me herself, with tears in her eyes, the poor little fellow was all but in a fit for two hours afterwards. She is really a very shocking old person, and should be suppressed. I do hope dear Dora will gather together all her pluck and try to be a match for her."

Secretly, I feel so assured of dear Dora's being a "match" for any mother-in-law alive that I endure no uneasy pangs on this count. She bears the congratulations and the little good-natured banterings admirably, is modest without being stupidly shy, and prettily conscious without betraying any symptoms of _gaucherie_. She is indeed as perfect in her new _role_ of bride-elect as though she had sustained the part for years.

"Sir George must be a favorite with the gods: let us hope he won't die young," says Sir Mark, bending over Dora some time during the evening, "He has had everything he could possibly desire from his cradle upwards--money, friends, position; and now he must get _you_. I think"--in a playfully injured tone--"the good things of this life are very unequally divided. In common justice, Ashurst should have been forced into matrimony with a woman as ugly, ill-tempered, and altogether disenchanting as--his manners, instead of which---"

He sighs audibly, and makes an eloquent pause.

Dora smiles, her usual soft serene smile, untouched by coquetry that experience has taught me means so little--and raises one white hand in deprecation. Dora's hands are faultless, filbert-nailed, creamy-white, pink-tinged, with just sufficient blue tracery of the most delicate kind here and there to call attention to their beauty.

"_Is_ Lady Ashurst all that you say?--so _very_ terrific? How unhappy you make me!" she murmurs, plaintively, demurely ignoring other parts of his speech.