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.

CHAPTER XXIV.

Fresh and keen, and decidedly chilly, blows the October wind. The
men have all deserted us, and gone out shooting. The women are
scattered through the house.

Crossing the hall and the smaller drawing-room, I meet no one,
and entering the larger apartment beyond, seek my favorite seat
in the bow-window, where, book in hand, I ensconce myself behind
the curtains, and, stretching myself upon a lounge, prepare to be
lazily happy. The lace draperies falling round me entirely
conceal me from view; I can see right into the conservatory
without turning my head, and the seductive breath of flowers
stealing towards me adds one more thrill to my enjoyment.

Steadily I turn page after page. I feel I am growing interested,
a very little later I feel I am growing sleepy. My lids droop.
Putting my book down, upon my lap, with of course the settled
intention of taking it up again directly, I yawn mildly.

The door opens: with a start I become aware of Bebe's entrance.
To admit I am present means conversation--and conversation with
this drowsy fit upon me means misery. I therefore keep breathless
silence, and Bebe, all unconscious, saunters past me, basket and
scissors in hand, goes into the conservatory.

I watch her dreamily, as with a business-like air she drags the
light garden-ladder forward, and, mounting, commences to clip my
very choicest blossoms for her own secret purposes.

One by one they fall into her basket. Has she no conscience? Or
has she forgotten it is already October, and the flowers grow
scarce? I confess to some faint indignation as I regard her, and
have almost decided on rousing to remonstrate with her in person,
when a firm but hasty footstep upon the gravel outside excites my
curiosity.

A moment later Lord Chandos pushes open the door of the
conservatory, and, entering, stops short, his gaze fixed upon
Miss Beatoun.

As for Bebe, between looking suddenly round and surprise at his
unexpected presence there, she loses all idea of balance, and is
in the act of coming with undue hurry to the ground, when Lord
Chandos, stepping quickly forward, catches her and lifts her
lightly down. Perhaps he is a trifle longer in the performance of
this deed than is strictly necessary.

"Oh! how could you frighten one so?" exclaims Bebe, coloring, and
speaking ungratefully, as it seems to me, considering he has just
saved her from a heavy fall. "I thought you were out shooting
with the others."

"So I was; but--I forgot something, and had to return for it."

"What did you forget?--your pipe?"

"No, my gun," replies he, in the most barefaced fashion possible.

"Oh! cries Miss Beatoun lengthily, and then they both laugh.

"Why don't you admit at once you had no intention of shooting
to-day? It would have been much honester."

"Because admissions are dangerous. It is always better policy to
leave people in doubt. Yet, as I never class you in my own mind
under the head of 'people,' I will confess to you it is not so
much forgetfulness causes my presence here just now as a settled
determination not to remember.  My conscience was anything but
clean when I said I had mislaid something, and should come back
to find it."

"Was it really your gun?"

"No; I think I put it on cartridges, or a handkerchief, or--I am
not clear what."

"And why? What was your motive? I fancied you an indefatigable
sportsman--one impossible to turn aside from your prey."

"Shall I tell you my motive?" asks Chandos, in such an utterly
changed low tone that Miss Beatoun, standing near the ladder,
lays her hand suddenly upon it to steady herself, and retreats a
step.

"Better not," she says, in a voice that trembles apprehensively,
in spite of all her efforts to be calm. "Remember what you said a
moment since: 'Admissions are dangerous.' Better leave me in
doubt."

"I cannot. Besides, you are not in doubt. You know what it is I
am going to say. I have come back here again to-day to tell you
how I have tried, and found it impossible, to crush the love I
bear you."

At this juncture I become aware I am in for a scene. The
certainty is horrible to me. I am in such an unhappy position as
enables me to see them without myself being seen. I can also hear
every word they utter. In fact, there are but very few yards
between us.

With shame I now recollect that Bebe once said of me that never
would I be accused of "pouncing" upon delicate situations; yet,
if I go out now, I shall cover them both with everlasting
confusion.

What shall I do? I put my fingers in my ears as a last resource
and tightly close my eyes, but somehow they will not keep shut.
Every now and then I cannot help glancing to see if they are gone
or going--I cannot resist removing my fingers to hear if the
conversation has taken a cooler turn.

Every moment I linger only makes my declaring myself more
difficult. I end by giving in, and staring and listening with all
my might.

"Ah! why does Bebe look so determined? Why can't she yield
gracefully and be happy? I would at once, were I in her place,
and feel no degradation in so doing. She is flushed and miserable
to look at, her large eyes seeming larger and darker than usual
through pained excitement.  Yet still there is so much mistaken
pride impressed upon her features as makes me fear for the part
she will take in the interview. If she would but listen to her
heart's dictation!

"Lord Chandos, I implore you to desist," entreats Bebe, hastily,
raising one hand, to prevent his further speech. "It is worse
than useless."

But he only imprisons the warning hand and continues: "Nay, hear
me--that is all I ask--and then, if I am again to be rejected, be
it so. But surely I have been wretched long enough, and you---"

"I will not listen," murmurs Bebe, more deeply agitated. "The
answer I gave you when you were poor is the only answer I can
ever give you now." Her voice dies way, almost to a whisper.

"What do you mean by that?" exclaims Chandos, passionately. "Is
the very money that I hailed with delight, principally because I
dreamed it might bring me closer to you, to prove a barrier
between us? Presumptuous as it may sound, I dare to believe I am
not quite indifferent to you. Your manner when we parted, your
eyes when we met again down here, have fostered this belief, and
yet you shrink from me."

A little inarticulate cry escapes her. One hand goes to her
throat; she tries vainly to withdraw the other from his grasp.

"Contradict me--if you can," he says, in a low but vehement tone.

"This is ungenerous--unmanly," she falters, her words half choked
with emotion.

"Contradict me," he reiterates.

"I can; I do," murmurs she, but so weakly that her voice can
scarcely be heard.

"Is that the truth, Bebe?" says Chandos, more quietly.  "Is pride
to come between us now? Darling, listen to me.  If you for one
moment imagine I think badly of you because you refused to marry
a poor man, you wrong me. I think you acted rightly. Even as I
asked you that day I felt myself a coward in doing so. Was it
honorable of me to seek to drag you down from all the luxuries
and enjoyments to which you had been accustomed, to such a life
as it was only in my power to offer? Had your answer been
different, do you believe we would have been happy? I do not."

"You strike at the very root of all romance," protests Bebe, with
a rather sad smile.

"I decline to countenance a great deal of rubbish," returns he
vigorously. "Poverty is the surest foe that love can have, I
stoutly maintain, in spite of all the poets that ever wrote. But
now that it no longer stands in the way, Bebe, be my wife, and
let us forget the past."

"Do you think we should either of us ever forget it?" demands
she, raising a small white mournful face to his.  "Do you not see
how it would come between us every hour of our lives? Even
supposing what you say to be true, that I love you, it would be
all the greater reason why I should now refuse to be persuaded
into doing as you wish. Could I bear to know, day by, that my
husband thought me mercenary?"

"Mercenary! I shall never think you that. How could I? How could
any man blame you for shrinking from such a selfish proposal as
mine? I tell you again I think you behaved rightly in the
matter."

"Very rightly, no doubt, and very wisely, and very,
prudently--for myself," replies Bebe, in a cold, bitter way "Why
seek to disguise the truth? If it be true what you have supposed,
that I returned your affection, I only proved myself one of those
who fear to endure even the smallest privation for the sake of
him they love; and what a love that must be!" She laughs
contemptuously. "I fear, Lord Chandos, I am not of the stuff of
which heroines are made."

"If, as you hint, I am wrong," exclaims Chandos, eagerly catching
at a last chance, "if all along I have been deceiving myself in
the belief that you cared for me, let me begin again now, and at
least try to obtain your affection.  If, when---"

"Enough has been said," interrupts she, icily--"too much. Let my
hand go, Lord Chandos. I want to find Mrs. Carrington."

(Mrs. Carrington is almost on the verge of lunacy by this time
between fright and disappointment.)

"Is there, then, no hope?" asks Chandos, sternly. "Am I to
understand that you again reject me?"

"Yes, as you put it in that light. It is your own fault," bursts
out Bebe, passionately. "I told you not to speak."

"Had all the world told me the same thing, I would still have
spoken. Death itself is preferable to suspense. If my persistence
has caused you any annoyance, Miss Beatoun, I beg you will
forgive me."

"I too would be forgiven," falters Bebe, putting out a cold white
hand. As he stoops to kiss it she goes on, faintly: "Will you
promise me to forget you ever cared for me--in this way?"

"Impossible," returns he, abruptly, and turning, walks out of the
conservatory through the door by which he entered.

Now, is it not provoking? I feel my heart touched with pity for
Lord Chandos, with resentment towards his cruel love, until,
glancing towards the latter, who has stood motionless since his
departure, with head bent and hands loosely clasped, the
resentment fades, and compassion of the deepest takes its place.

I would give all the world to be able to go, meet and comfort
her, to twine my arms around her neck, to express my sympathy.
But how can I? What a treacherous creature she would think me!
How mean! nothing but a pitiful eavesdropper. Slowly she raises
her head, and, breathing a heavy sigh, advances until she stands
within the drawing-room.

She is awfully close to me now: I can almost touch her. How on
earth am I to meet her again with this secret on my mind? If I go
on feeling as I do now, I shall betray my self a thousand times
within an hour.

Two large tears gather in her eyes and roll mournfully downwards.

I can bear it no longer. Whatever comes of it, I must make my
presence known, and, springing from my couch, I dash aside the
thick lace curtains and reveal myself.

Uttering a sharp cry, she recedes a little, then checks herself
to stare at me with mingled haughtiness and astonishment.

"Yes, I was here all the time," I cry, imploringly, "and I heard
every word. I was lying on this sofa, and nothing escaped me. Of
course you will never forgive me for it, but indeed I did not
mean to listen."

"Oh, Phyllis?"

There is such a world of reproach in her tone that I become
distracted. I move towards her and break into a speech of the
most incoherent description, my words tailing from me with the
rapidity of desperation.

"Yes, it is true," I say. "You may look at me as if you hated me,
but what was I to do? When first you came in I was in a dozy,
half sleepy sort of state, and not until you and Chandos were in
the very middle of your discussion did I fully awake to the
horrors of my situation. Had I declared myself then, it surely
would have been worse; and, besides, I hoped, I believed you
would have been kind to him at the end, and dreaded lest my
unexpected appearance should put a stop to his proposal.
However"--pathetically--"I suppose you will never forgive me."

"Oh, Phyllis, it is all over now!" is poor Bebe's unlooked-for
reply, as she throws herself into my arms, with a burst of grief.
She is forgetful of all but her trouble. How paltry a thing in
comparison with it is my small misdemeanor!

"No, no," I reply, soothingly, patting the back of her neck,
which is all I can get at. "Remember the very last thing he
said--that it would be 'impossible' to forget you."

"Ah! so he said. But when he has time to reflect will see how
cold and detestable were my words. He will be glad of his escape
from any one so unloving. I myself wonder now, Phyllis, how I
could have so spoken to him."

"I could have killed you as I listened," I say, vindictively.
"How you brought yourself to behave so badly to the dear fellow
is more than I can understand. And he looked so nice all the
time, and was so delightfully in earnest! Oh, I know I would have
given in long before he had time to say one-half what he said to
you. Bebe, what made you so cold? I could have gone in and shaken
you with all my heart."

"I wish you had," replies she, dolefully. "Yet, perhaps things
are better as they are. At all events, he cannot think meanly of
me. I have shown him that, whatever else I may be, I am not a
mere money-lover."

"Well, for all that, I think it a foolish thing to cut off one's
nose to vex one's face," return I, with much truth and more
vulgarity.

"I am not vexing any one," says Bebe.

"Yes, you are. You meant to vex Lord Chandos, and you succeeded.
And you are vexing yourself dreadfully. And all for what? For the
miserable thing called pride. Now, I never had any of that
troublesome commodity about me, and I believe the want of it adds
greatly to one's enjoyment."

"Had I accepted him I would have been wretched," murmurs she,
with a sigh. Then, breaking down again: "And now that I have
refused him, I am wretched too; so there is no comfort anywhere."

"I shall always for the future hate that conservatory," exclaim
I, half crying. "And what was the use of my wishing at the
Deacon's Well, if this is the only answer I am to receive?"

"Was your wish about me?"

"Yes. I hoped Lord Chandos would again ask you to marry him. And
see, it has happened. I forgot to wish at the same moment that
you might be endowed with a little common sense. It never
occurred to me that you would be rash enough to murder your
happiness a second time."

"What a good little thing you are, Phyllis, to think about it at
all! Well, let us not speak of it again to-day. I do not choose
he shall see me with reddened lids, like a penitent. And if I cry
any more I shall have to borrow some rouge from the blooming
Going to color my pale cheeks. See, I still can laugh!"

"You will marry him yet," retort I, with conviction, refusing to
notice the negative shake of the head she bestows upon me as she
quits the room.

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.

CHAPTER XXVI.

Drip, drip, drip. Patter, patter, patter. How it does rain, to be
sure! If it continues pouring at this present rate, there will be
but very little rain left in the clouds in half an hour.

"Just twelve o'clock," says Mr. Thornton, with a moody sigh, as
he pulls out his watch for the twentieth time. "We are regularly
done for if it keeps on five minutes longer, as rain at twelve
means rain all day."

"Mere superstition," replies Miss Beatoun, rising to flatten her
pretty nose against the window-pane, in the vain hope of catching
a glimpse of the blue sky.

It is the next day; and, as we have arranged to visit a
skating-rink in a town some few miles from us, the rain is a
disappointment--especially to me, as I have never seen a rink.

"I hardly think that you will see one to-day," says Sir Mark,
turning to me, with a smile.

"Seems so odd you never having seen one, dear Mrs. Carrington,"
says Blanche Going, sweetly, "so universal as they now are. When
in Paris, and passing through London, I wonder you had not the
curiosity to go and spend a few hours at one. Marmaduke, how very
neglectful of you not to get Mrs. Carrington into Prince's!"

"Prince's is no longer the fashion," replies Marmaduke, curtly.
He is sitting rather apart from the rest of us, and is looking
gloomy and ill-tempered. He and I have exchanged no words since
our last skirmish--have not even gone through the form of wishing
each other a good-day.

"It is getting worse and worse," declares Chips, from his
standing-point at the window, where he has joined Miss Beatoun.

"It is always darkest before dawn," says that young lady, with
dauntless courage.

"So they say," murmurs Lord Chandos, catching her eye,

"Poor Thornton!" says Sir Mark, with deep sympathy; "I don't
wonder at your depression--such a chance thrown away; and you
always look so nice on wheels. Our friend Thornton, Mrs.
Carrington, is impressed with the belief, and very justly so,
that he is an unusually fascinating skater."

"Quite so," returns Chips, ironically. "I wonder what you would
all do if you hadn't me to laugh at? You ought to love me, I come
in so handy at times and give you so many opportunities of
showing off the brilliancy of your wit."

"He grows sarcastic," murmurs Sir Mark. "This weather, instead of
damping him, as it would more frivolous mortals, has the effect
of developing his hidden powers."

"Let us forget the weather," says Bebe, brightly, turning from
the contemplation of it to sink into a seat by the fire, "and
then perhaps it will clear. After making up our minds to go to
Warminster and visit a rink, and dine at a hotel and drive home
again in the dark and have a general spree, I confess, the not
being able to do anything has rather put me out."

We are all assembled in the library, it being the least doleful
room in the house on a wet day. As Bebe speaks, we all try more
or less (Marmaduke being included in the less) to put on a
cheerful countenance and enter into light conversation. For the
most part we succeed, and almost manage to forget our troubles.

"Bye the bye, Thornton, you used to be a great man on the Turf,"
presently says Sir Mark, addressing Chips, _apropos_ of something
that has gone before. Chips, who is lounging in a chair beside
Miss Beatoun, his whole round boyish face one cherubic smile,
looks up inquiringly.  "Masters told me you were quite an
authority."

"Oh, not at all," returns Mr. Thornton, modestly: "I don't
pretend to anything. I flatter myself I know a likely animal when
I see it--nothing more."

"I always thought you intended making your fortune in that line,"
continues Sir Mark, lazily. "The last time I met you, in the
spring, you were radiant in the possession of so many more
hundreds than you ever hoped to obtain."

"Oh, Mr. Thornton, is it possible _you_ go in for betting?"
murmurs Bebe, with a glance enchantingly reproachful. "I had
placed you on such a high pinnacle in my estimation and _now_
what am I to think? I feel _so_ disappointed."

"Don't," entreats Chips, sentimentally. "If _you_ begin to think
badly of me, I shall do something desperate. Besides, I really
only put on a mere trifle now and then; nothing at all to
signify; wouldn't ruin a man if he were at it forever. You should
see how some fellows bet. Don't you know---"

"Did you do well last Ascot?" asks Chandos, in tone that is meant
to be genial.

"Well, no; not quite so well as I might wish," with a faint
blush. "Fact is, I rather overdid it--risked my little all upon
the die--and lost."

"Showing how natural talent has no chance against the whims of
fickle fortune. Even the very knowing ones, you see, Mrs.
Carrington, have to knock under sometimes," says Sir Mark.

"How was it?" I ask Chips, with a smile.

"Oh! it was a beastly shame," responds that young man.  "The
horse would have won in a walk if he had got fair play. It was
the most outrageous transaction altogether.  If the rider had
gone straight, there was not an animal in the running could have
beaten him. It was the clearest case of pulling you ever saw."

Lady Blanche laughs softly.

"I never knew an unsuccessful bettor who didn't say that," she
says. "I was waiting to hear you. Each man believes the horse he
fancies _would_ have won only for something. They would die
rather than confess themselves ignorant."

"But I always thought everything was fair and above board on a
race-course," observes Harriet.

Thornton roars.

"Lady Handcock, you are the most charitable woman alive," he
cries, gayly, "but I fear in this instance your faith in the
goodness of humanity goes too far. I met Hamilton the other day,
and he told me a capital story _apropos_ of racing honor. You
know Hamilton, Chandos?"

"Yes, I think so--middle-sized man, with a fair beard?"

"What a vivid description!" murmurs Miss Beatoun, demurely. "One
so _seldom_ sees a middle-sized man, with a fair beard!"

Chandos glanced at her quickly, rather amused, I think, by her
impertinence; but her eyes are innocently fixed on Thornton, who
is evidently full of his story.

"Go on, Thornton," says Sir Mark, blandly: "we are all miserable
till we learn what befell your friend Hamilton."

"It was at Fairy House races, last year," begins Chips, nothing
daunted. "Hamilton was over in Dublin at the time, and went down
there to back a horse he knew something about. A rather safe
thing it was, if rightly done by; and, knowing the jock, who was
a devoted adherent of his own, he went up to him on the course,
to know if he might put his money on with any chance of success.
'Wait awhile, Misther H.,' says his ingenuous friend, turning a
straw in his mouth with much deliberation, 'an' I'll tell ye.
Come to me again in ten minutes.' Accordingly, in ten minutes
Hamilton, seeing him in the paddock, dressed and mounted, went to
him again. 'Well?' said he. 'Wait yet another little bit, Misther
H.,' says this imperturbable gentleman; 'the instructions ain't
final. Meet me in five minutes at that post,' indicating a
certain spot. So Hamilton met him there, and for the third time
he asked him impatiently if he meant winning. 'I do, Misther H.'
says he, in a mysterious whisper, '_if the reins break!_'"

We all laugh heartily, and Bebe, while declaring the story
delicious, vows she has lost all faith in mankind for evermore.

"I have _not_," stoutly maintains Harriet. "Of course, there must
be exceptions, but I believe there is a great deal of goodness
among us all in spite of popular opinion. Why do you look so
supercilious, Marmaduke? Don't you agree with me?"

"No, I do not," replies 'Duke, promptly. "I think there is very
little _real_ goodness going. Taking the general mass, I believe
them to be all alike bad. Of course, there is a great deal in
training, and some appear better than others, simply because they
are afraid of being found out.  That is the principal sin in this
life. I don't deny that here and there one finds two or three
whose nature is tinged with the divine; these reach nearer the
heavens, and are the exceptions that prove my rule."

"My dear 'Duke, how shockingly uncharitable!" says his sister,
slowly; while I, gazing on my husband with open-eyed amazement,
wonder vaguely if last night's disturbance has occasioned this
outbreak.

"It is uncharitable _always_ to speak the truth," says 'Duke,
with a faint sneer. "You asked me my opinion, and I gave it. Are
you acquainted with many beautiful characters, Harry? I confess I
know none. Selfishness is our predominant quality; and many of
the so-called religious ones among us are those most deeply
impregnated with this vice. They follow their religion through
fear, not love, because they dread consequences, and object to
being uncomfortable hereafter, so do what their hearts loathe
through mere selfish terror."

"I had no idea you could be so eloquent," laughs Lady Blanche,
mockingly from her low seat. "Pray, go on Marmaduke; I could
listen to you forever. You are positively refreshing after so
much amiability."

"My dear fellow, you grow bearish," expostulates Sir Mark, with
raised brows and an amused glance. "We wither beneath your words.
Abuse yourself as much as you please, but _do_ spare the rest of
us. We like to think ourselves perfection; it is very rude of you
to undeceive us so brusquely. And how can you give utterance to
such sweeping assertions in such company? Have you forgotten your
wife is present?"

"No"--with a forced smile--"I have not. But I fear even Mrs.
Carrington cannot be considered altogether harmless." He points
this remark with a curiously unloving expression cast in my
direction.

"Never mind, Mrs. Carrington," exclaims Thornton, with his usual
vivacity. "At all events you may count upon _one_ devoted
admirer, as I, for my part, do not believe you have a fault in
the world."

"Thank you," I answer gayly, though secretly I am enraged at
Marmaduke's look and tone. "Thank you very much, Mr. Thornton. I
consider myself fortunate in having secured your good opinion.
But, Marmaduke"--addressing him with the utmost coolness--"how
uncivil you can be! I say nothing of my own feelings I know I am
hopelessly wicked; but your guests, what must they think?  Take
Lady Blanche, for instance: is she not looking the very picture
of innocence, though no doubt speechless with indignation? Surely
you will exonerate _her?_."

"No, not even Blanche," replies Marmaduke; but even as he
condemns her he bends upon her one of his very sweetest smiles.

"I am the more pleased that you do not," says her ladyship, in
her low, soft tones, returning his glance fourfold. "Even if it
were possible, I would not be altogether good. Perfection in any
shape is the one thing of which we most tire."

"The day is clearing; the rain has almost ceased," announces Lord
Chandos, solemnly, at this moment.

I spring to my feet.

"No!" cry I, "you don't _mean_ it?"

"I am almost sure I do," replies he, sententiously

And there, indeed, amid, the clouds as I run to look at them,
shines out a dazzling piece of blue sky that grows and widens as
I gaze.

"It still wants a quarter to one," I say, rapidly. "We will have
lunch at once--no matter whether we eat it or not--and then we
shall start for Warminister, and I shall see my rink after all.
But first I must go to the gardens.  Sir Mark"--in a coquettishly
appealing tone, casting at him a very friendly glance from my
gray-blue eyes--"will _you_ come with me and take care of me as
far as the gates? I have something _very_ particular to say
to--Cummins."

I make the little pause maliciously, and raise my long lashes
just so much as permits me to obtain a glimpse of Marmaduke.

He is talking pleasantly to Lady Blanche, and evidently means me
to understand that he is ignorant of my conduct.  But I can see a
frown on his forehead and certain lines about his mouth that tell
me plainly he has both seen and heard and condemned, and I am
satisfied.

"I shall be delighted," says Sir Mark, with prudent coldness, and
together we leave the room.

---

An hour later; lunch is over, and I am rushing up the stairs to
don my walking-attire. On the topmost landing stands Bebe,
already dressed and about to descend.

As I meet her gaze it arrests me. Surely some expression that
closely resembles woe characterizes her face.  Her eyebrows are
slightly elevated, her lips at the corners curving downwards; her
cheeks are innocent of nature's rouge; a suspicious pinkness
rests upon her lids.

Dear--dear--_dear!_ is there nothing but trouble in this world?
I, of course, am wretched--that goes without telling--but pretty,
bright, _piquante_ Bebe, must she too be miserable? What untoward
thing can have occurred to bring that wistful look into her eyes?

Turning to my maid, who is following me at a respectful distance,
I speak aloud:--

"Martha, I will dispense with your services this afternoon. Miss
Beatoun is here, and will give me any assistance I may require."

So saying, I draw my friend into my room and close my door.

"Now, Bebe, what is it?" I ask, pushing her into a
lounging-chair, and beginning a vigorous search for my seal-skin
jacket. Martha is a good girl the--best of girls--but she can
never put anything in the same place twice running.

"Oh, it is nothing--nothing," answers Bebe, in a tone almost
comical in its disgust. "My pride has had a slight fall--my
conceit has been a little lowered--no more. I hate myself" (with
a petulant stamp of the foot) "for taking it so much to heart;
but I _do_, and that is the fact, and I cannot yet overcome the
feeling. If I did not know I must have looked like a foolish
culprit all the while, I think I would not so greatly mind; but
my color was coming and going in a maddening fashion; and then
his tone--so quick--so---"

"Chandos's tone, I suppose, you mean? But you forget, dear; I
know nothing."

"True, of course not. Well, after you left the library that time
with Mark, the whole party broke up and dispersed about the house
to prepare for this drive, all except myself. I stayed
on--unluckily, as it turned out--to finish my novel, until I
should be called to lunch. It interested me, and I thought myself
sure of solitude for a little time, but in less than three
minutes the door was re-opened, and Chandos came in."

"Well?" I say, as she makes a long pause.

"Unfortunately, it struck me that his coming back so soon again
to where he knew I was alone looked, you know, rather
particular--as if he wished to say something private to me;
and--I had no desire to hear it.

"Oh, Bebe?"

"Well, believe me or not, as you will, I really, dreaded his
saying anything on the--old topic--to such a degree that I rose
and made as though I would instantly quit the room. Oh!" cries
she, with an irrestrainable blush and movement of the hand, "I
wish I had died before I did _that_."

"Why, darling?"

"Oh, need you ask? Don't you see how it betrayed my thoughts?
Why, it looked as though I made quite sure he was going to
propose again. Can't you understand how horrible it was?" says
Bebe, burying her face in her hands, with a hysterical laugh.
"_He_ understood it so, at all events.  He stopped right before
me, and said, deliberately, with his eyes fixed on mine, 'Why do
you leave the room? I came for a book, and for nothing else, I
assure you.' Thus taken aback, I actually stammered and blushed
like a ridiculous schoolgirl, and said, weakly, 'It is almost
time to think of dressing. We start so soon. And besides--I---'
Could anything be more foolish? 'One would think I had the plague
or the pestilence, the way you rush from a room the moment I
enter it,' says he, impatiently.--'I swear I am not going to
propose again. I have had enough of it. I have no desire whatever
to marry a woman against her will. I asked you to be my wife, for
the second time, a week or two ago, thinking my poverty had been
the cause of your former refusal, and was justly punished for my
conceit. Believe me, I have brains enough, to retain a lesson,
once I have learned it; so you may sit down, Miss Beatoun, with
the certainty that I shall never again offend you in _that_ way.'
I could never tell you how I felt, Phyllis, during the utterance
of these words. My very blood was tingling with shame. My eyes
would not be lifted; and, besides, they were full of tears. I
felt that I hated both myself and him."

"It was a very curious speech for him to make," say I, feeling
both puzzled and indignant with Chandos.

"I think he was quite right," declares she, veering round to
resent what seems like an attack on my part. "It must have
angered and disgusted him to see me so confident of his lasting
affection as to imagine him ready to make a fresh offer every
time people left us _tete-a-tete_. I think any man with spirit
would have done just so. No one is to be blamed but myself."

"On the other hand, why should he conclude you thought anything
of the sort?" I say, defending her stoutly in spite of herself.
"He only proved the idea to be quite as uppermost in his mind as
it was in yours. I would have said something to that effect had I
been you."

"_Said_, my dear I could not have even _thought_ of anything at
the moment, I was so confused. It is the simplest thing possible
to think of what would have been the correct thing to say, and to
make up neat little speeches, half an hour after the opportunity
for uttering them is passed, but just on the instant how few have
presence of mind!"

"It was provoking," say I, "and"--with an irrepressible little
laugh--"funny, too. My own impression is he _did_ come back to
renew his pleadings, but saw by your manner it would be useless.
Pity you did not insist on knowing the title of the book he was
so anxious to procure. At all events it is nothing to be
miserable about, dear Bebe."

"Oh, I shan't be miserable, either. Now that I have told some one
I feel better. I have had a good cry, brought on my thorough
vexation, and will now dismiss both the occurrence and his
lordship from my mind."

"Shall you find that an easy task? The latter part of it, I
mean?"

"Quite easy--nothing more so," replies she, with a saucy
uplifting of her chin as she leaves me.

As the hat I wish to wear has been locked away in a certain part
of a wardrobe where I am certain no hat was ever stowed before,
it takes me some time to discover it. When at length I do so, I
find I am considerably behind time, and catching up my gloves,
run hastily along the gallery, and down the western corridor,
that will bring me a degree sooner to the hall below.

As I turn the corner I come without any warning upon Marmaduke
and Lady Blanche Going, evidently in deep and interesting
converse. I stop short; and both, looking up, see me.

"Rage and indignation fill me at this unexpected rencontre. What
_can_ this woman have to whisper to my husband that might not be
said in public?"

Blanche, with the utmost composure, nods her head, smiles, and
vanishes down the staircase, leaving me alone with Marmaduke;
while he stands frowning heavily, and apparently much annoyed by
what has just been said. His black looks deepen as his eyes meet
mine; but as, with raised head and naughty lips, I pass him by,
he suddenly moves towards me, and, throwing his arms round me,
strains me passionately to him, and, turning up my face, kisses
me twice, thrice, upon my mouth.

Still smarting under my angry thoughts, I tear myself from his
embrace and stand aloof, panting with mortification.

"How dare you?" I gasp. "Don't attempt to touch me."

"What! has your indifference _already_ changed to hatred?" says
he, bitterly, as I walk rapidly away.

---

The sun shines out with redoubled power and brilliancy, and,
toiling up Carlisle street, we find ourselves before the door of
the principal hotel in Warminster. Such a goodly turnout as ours
is seldom seen even in this busy, bustling town, and the waiters
and hostlers come out to admire and tender their services. To the
enterprising owner of this grand hotel belongs the rink, and
thither we bend our footsteps.

To see the world on wheels--to see the latest, newest vanity of
the Great Fair--is my ambition. Turning a corner, we enter a
gateway adjoining the hotel; we pass the mystic portal, we pay
the inevitable shilling, throw ourselves upon the mercies of the
movable barrier, and find ourselves _there_.

Just at first the outside circle of admirers prevents our
catching sight of the performers, and the dull grating noise of
the machines falls unpleasantly upon our ears. We draw nearer the
chattering, gaping crowd, and by degrees edge our way in, until
we too have a full view of all that is to be seen.

Surely there is a mistake somewhere, and it is wheels, wheels,
wheels, _not_ love, that 'makes the world go round.'

On they come, by twos and threes, in single file, in shaking
groups, all equally important, all filled with a desire to
get--nowhere. A novice comes running, staggering, balancing
towards us; evidently her acquaintance with this new mode of
locomotion was of the vaguest half an hour ago. The crowd passes
on, and she must follow it; so, with a look of fear upon her face
that amounts almost to agony, she totters onward to brave a
thousand falls. A sudden rush past her--the faintest touch does
it--she reels: her heels (that on ordinary occasions, to judge by
their appearance, must be the staunchest of supports) refuse to
uphold her now; her lips part to emit a dying gasp, already she
smells the ground, when a kindly hand from behind seized her,
steadies her with good-natured force, and, with a smile of
acknowledgement, that confesses the misery of the foregoing
minutes, she once more totters, trips, and scrambles to her fate.

I am delighted, entranced. I find myself presently laughing gayly
and with all my heart, the galling remembrance of the last few
hours swept completely from my brain. I cry "Oh!" at every
casualty, and grasp my companion's arm; I admire and smile upon
the successful. I begin to wish that I too could skate.

Here comes the adept, with eyes fixed questioningly upon the
watchful crowd. Their approving glances fire him with a mad
desire to prove to them how superior he is to his compeers. He
will do _more_ than skate with consummate grace and ease; he will
do better than the "out-side edge;" he will _waltz_.

Oh, daring thought! Now shall he bring down the well-deserved
plaudits of the lookers-on. He turns--one, two, three--it is a
swing, a hop, not perhaps a ball-room performance, but at least a
success. Eyes become concentrated. He essays it again, and again
victory crowns his effort. Yet a third time he makes the
attempt--alas I that fatal three. Is it that his heel catches his
toe, or his toe catches his heel? The result at least is the
same: over he goes; disgrace is on him; with a crash he and the
asphalt meet.

"It is monotonous, I think," breathes Sir Mark in my ear, in a
deprecating tone, and then looks past me at Bebe.

"It is fatiguing," murmurs Harriet, with a yawn.  "James, if you
don't get me a chair this instant, I shall faint."

"It is delicious," declare I, enthusiastically; "it is the nicest
thing I ever saw. Oh! I wish _I_ could skate."

"It makes one giddy," says Lady Blanche, affectedly "Do they
never turn in this place?" Almost on her words a bell tinkles
somewhere in the distance, and as if by magic they all swerve
round and move the contrary way--all, that is, except the tyros,
who come heavily, and without a moment's warning, to their knees.

And now the band strikes up, and the last waltz comes lingeringly
to our ears. Insensibly the musical portion of the community on
wheels falls into a gentle winging motion and undulate to the
liquid strains of the tender "Manolo."

"This is better," says Lady Handcock, sinking into the chair for
which her faithful James had just done battle.

Bebe and Thornton, hand in hand, skim past us.

"Oh! I must, I _will_ learn," I cry, excitedly. "I never saw
anything I liked so much. Sir Mark, _do_ get me a pair of skates
and let me try. It _looks_ quite simple. Oh, if Billy were but
here!"

Sir Mark goes to obey my command, and I stand by Harriet's chair,
too interested for conversation. How they fly along! the women
with more grace in their movements, the men with more science.
Here is the fatal corner turn; the numbers are increasing; whirr,
crash, down they come, four together, causing an indescribable
scene of confusion.  Two from the outside circle rush in to
succor their fallen darlings. It is a panic--a _melee_. Yet stay;
after all it is nothing; they are up again, flushed but
undaunted: it is all the fortune of war. _Vogue la galere_.

A tall young man, blonde and slight, attracts my notice.  Half an
hour ago he struck me as being the gayest of the gay; now his
expression, as he slowly wends his way through the skaters, is
sad and careworn in the extreme; the terrors of the rink are
oppressing him sore, anxiety is printed on his brow; he has but
one thought from start to finish--how to reach uninjured the
chair he has just left.  He never takes but one turn at a time
round the arena, and never gains his haven of safety without a
long-drawn sigh of relief. The fear of ridicule lies heavy upon
him.  But what will you? Rinking is the fashion, and for what
does a young man live if not to follow the _mode?_

I see, too, the elderly gentleman, who, with bent knees and
compressed mouth, essays to rival his juniors. He _will_ be
young, and he will skate, whether his doctor "will let him or
no." _Vive la jeunesse!_

_La jeunesse_, in the form of a diminutive damsel, follows
closely in his wake; she is of tiny build, and has her hand
clasped by one of the tallest young men it has ever been my luck
to behold.

"I pity that young man," says Harriet. "Titania has secured him
for her own."

And indeed it seems like it. Where she may choose to lead him for
the next hour there must he surely go. Were be dying to leave
her, to join some other, "nearer and dearer," he will not be able
to do so. Can he act the brute and ask her to sit down before she
shows any inclination so to do? Can he feign fatigue when she
betrays no symptoms of fagging, and regards him with a glance
fresh at when they first started? He must only groan and suffer
patiently, even though he knows the demon of jealousy is working
mischief in the heart of his beloved as she sits silently
watching him from a distant corner.

"What wonderful vitality that small creature develops!" says
Harriet. "Probably, at home, if asked to rise twice from the
chair, she would declare herself fatigued and _ennuyee_ to the
last degree; here she keeps in motion for an hour at a stretch,
and is still smiling and radiant."

"The game seems hardly worth the candle," remarks Sir James,
gazing after Titania's very insipid looking cavalier.

"My dear, it is worth ten thousand candles," returns his wife.
"That is young Woodleigh, and you know he came in for all that
money on his uncle's death. In such a cause you would not have
her countenance fatigue?"

"Here comes her contrast," remarks Sir James, as a slight, dark
woman, very pretty, with just a _soupcon_ of coloring on her pale
cheeks, and enough shading round her lids to make her dark eyes
darker, skates by.

"I have been watching her," says Harriet. "She is Mrs. Elton,
whose husband died last year--much to her satisfaction, as people
say. See, Phyllis, how she is surrounded by admirers: every tenth
minute she accepts a new aspirant to her hand, as far as rinking
goes. Ah, my dear! see what it is to be a bewitching widow--far
better than being a lovely girl. And James positively refuses to
give me a chance of trying whether I would be a success if so
circumstanced."

Sir James smiles comfortably, and so do I, while watching the gay
widow as she beams, and droops, and languishes, according to the
mood of each companion--amusing all in turn, and knowing herself
as universally adored by the opposite sex as she is detested by
her own.

"I had great difficulty in getting your skates. I wonder if these
are small enough?" whispers Sir Mark in my ear; and, turning, I
behold him fully equipped for the fray, followed by a subdued
little boy, who carries under his arm the articles in question.
They proved to be the right size, and soon I find myself standing
on four wheels (that apparently go every way in the most
impartial manner), grasping frantically my Mentor's arm.

"Oh, what is the matter with my heels? They won't stay still!" I
cry, desperately, as my body betrays an inclination to lay itself
flat upon the ground. "They can't be right, I am sure. Are all
the skates like these?"

"Yes. Try to walk a little, and you will find it easier.  It is
wonderful how soon one gets used to the sensation."

I summon all my pluck, and get round the place three times
without stopping or falling, thanks to Sir Mark's strong arm. As
I reach my starting-point once more, I pause and sink into a
vacant chair.

"I will rest a little," I breathe hastily. "I am dreadfully tired
and frightened. I had no idea it would prove so difficult. Go
away, Sir Mark, and take a turn by yourself; and perhaps later
on, if you come back for me, I will try again. Oh, I wonder how
on earth it is all these people manage to keep upright?"

"Don't lose heart," says Sir Mark, smiling. "Once on a time they
all felt just as you do now. Indeed, I think you a very promising
beginner."

He leaves us, and Harriet and I fall to criticizing the
performers again. After all, I think the beginners amuse me most,
more especially _now_, when I can "deeply sympathize" with their
terrors. The way they stumble against each other, their frequent
falls, their earnest faces--earnest as though it were a matter of
life and death in which they are engaged--all combine to excite
my risible faculties to the last degree.

I laugh merrily and heartily, my color rises, I clap my hands
with glee as two fat men, coming into collision, fall prostrate
almost at my feet.

"How you enjoy everything!" says Harriet, patting me on the
shoulder, and laughing herself through sympathy.

"It is all so new to me," I return, with delight; and, glancing
up at her, I also catch Sir James's eyes fixed upon me, filled
with pleasant amusement.

There are little boys with spindle legs who look all boots and no
body; little boy-rinkers and little girl-rinkers, who do their
work so beautifully and show such unlimited _go_ as puts their
elders to shame.

Sir Mark comes back again, and again I am persuaded to rise and
court fortune. In my turn I scramble and totter and push and try
to believe I am enjoying the moment. At length I break into a
little slide--insensibly, as it seems--and after that matters go
more smoothly.

"Ah! now you are getting into the way of it," exclaims Sir Mark,
almost growing excited over my progress. "Just keep on like that,
and soon you will master, it."

Half an hour elapses. The others of our party, who have been at
it longer than I have, and to whom it is a novelty, have tired of
skating, and stand once more together in a group.

As I approach them, attended by Sir Mark, I pause to utter a few
words.

"It is lovely, delicious. I am getting on capitally. I shall do
it perfectly in no time," I gasp, conceitedly; and, instantly
slipping, I fall forward helplessly into my companion's arms.

I get a severe shock, but think myself lucky in that I have
escaped the ground.

Sir Mark holds me a shade longer, and perhaps a shade more
tenderly, than the occasion requires; and, looking up, I catch
Blanche Going's eyes, and can see that she wears upon her
handsome face a smile, half insolent, wholly suspicious. The
others must see it, too.

Extreme anger grows within my breast. Disengaging myself from Sir
Mark's support, I stand alone, though insecure, and feel that I
am rapidly becoming the color of a rich and full-blown peony.
Certainly my bitterest enemy could not accuse me of blushing
prettily; and this knowledge, added to what I am already smarting
under, renders ma furious.

I repent my first move. I regret having so far given in to
popular opinion as to withdraw myself from Sir Mark's sustaining
arm. Hastily turning to him again--unmindful of Harriet's kind
little speech--I hold out to him my hand, and address him with
unwonted _empressement_.

"Thank you," I say; "but for you I should have come to
ignominious grief in the very midst of my boasting. I am in your
debt, remember. Will you add to your goodness by taking my hand
yet again for a round or two? I want to be a degree more assured.
It is not every day," I add, with a gay, coquettish laugh, "a
lady will make you a generous offer of her hand."

Marmaduke, as well as Blanche, hears every word. Sir Mark takes
my hand very readily, and together we out of sight.

As usual, once my naughtiness is _fait accompli_, I suffer from
remorse. When next I find myself near 'Duke I am mild and
submissive as a ringdove. Would he but speak to me now I feel I
could pardon and be pardoned with the utmost cheerfulness. Alas!
he remains mute and apparently unforgiving, being in the dark as
to my softened mood.

A deep curiosity to learn his exact humor towards me seizes hold
of me, and for the satisfying of it I determine to open fire and
be the first to break down the barrier of silence that has risen
between us.

"What a pity we must leave this place so soon!" I say, with
exceeding geniality. "It opens again at half-past seven. If we do
not start for home, 'Duke, until ten o'clock, why should we not
spend another hour here after dinner?"

"At that hour the place will be thronged with shop-keepers and
the townfolk generally," replies he, in his coldest tones,
without looking at me.

"I should not mind them in the very least," eagerly.

"I dare say not: there are few things you _do_ mind; but _I_
should," returns 'Duke, slowly and decisively, and, walking away,
leaves me _tete-a-tete_ with Sir Mark Gore.

All the sweetness within me changes to gall. I am once again
angered and embittered; nay, more, I long to revenge myself upon
him for the severity of his manner. At such moments who has not
found the tempter near?

Sir Mark, bending his head, says, smoothly: "You should remember
how tired Marmaduke must be of this kind of thing. He has seen so
much of it. It was good enough of him, I think, to drive here
to-day at all. No doubt he shudders at the thought of visiting a
country rink twice in six or seven hours. Will you allow me to be
your escort here to-night? If it proves unbearable we need only
stay a few minutes. I am sure Marmaduke would in reality wish you
to be gratified---"

He hesitates, and regards me quietly. I am by no means as sure as
he is of Marmaduke's amiability; but at this instant I care for
nothing but the opportunity of showing my husband how little I
care for his likes or dislikes.

"I dare say you are right," I return, calmly. "Of course it is
just the sort of amusement a man would find dull, once the
novelty was worn away. It is self-denying of you to offer your
services. Yes, I think I will come here to-night for a few
minutes, if only to see how the scene looks by lamplight."

"Much gayer than by daylight. That you can imagine." replies he,
evenly, his eyes bent upon the ground.

Once having pledged myself to go, I feel no inclination to break
my word. All through dinner mutinous thoughts support me in my
determination.

Having led my guests back into the reception-room, I pass into
the adjoining apartment unnoticed, and, hurriedly putting on my
hat and jacket, slip out into the hall, where I find Sir Mark
awaiting me.

Now for the first time, looking out into the darkening night, I
understand what fear means. My heart sinks. What wild and foolish
thing am I about to do? Obstinacy and the shame of confessing
myself unnerved alone prevents me from turning back again, and it
is with a beating, cowardly pulse, though an undaunted exterior,
that I cross the threshold with my companion.

As I have said, the rink adjoins the hotel, and a very few
minutes brings us once more within its shelter. During those few
minutes my usual talkativeness deserts me; I am silent as the
grave. Sir Mark, too, makes no attempt at conversation.

Inside, the laughing, moving crowd somewhat distracts me from my
gloomy apprehensions. The bright glare of the lamps, the music of
the band, which is playing its liveliest air, render me less
fearful of consequences. Sir Mark gets me a pair of skates; he
holds out his hand; I move forward; the crush is not so great as
I had imagined the music cheers me. After all what harm have I
done? I stumble; a merry laugh forces itself from my lips; all is
forgotten save the interest of this new pastime.

Can a quarter of an hour have passed away? I am chattering gayly,
and clinging to my cavalier, in a fashion innocent, indeed, but
rather pronounced, when, looking up, I encounter Marmaduke's eyes
fixed upon me from the doorway. There is in them an expression
strange, and, to me at least, new--an expression that strikes
terror to my heart as I gaze.

Sir Mark, unaware of his presence, continues to issue
instructions and guide my quavering footsteps, until we are
within a few feet of my husband. Loosing my hands then from his
grasp, I precipitate myself upon Marmaduke and cling to him for
the support he coolly allows me to take.

Sir Mark, propelled by the push I have given him in parting,
skates on some little distance from us, giving me time to gasp,
"Oh, 'Duke, don't be angry. I liked it so much to-day and you
said we would not start before ten; so I knew I had plenty of
time. You are not angry, are you?"

By this time--before 'Duke can reply--if indeed, he would deign
to notice me, which I begin to doubt--Sir Mark is returned, and
is now addressing my husband with the utmost _bonhomie_.

"See what it is to be of a dissipated turn, Carrington.  In
default of more congenial sport I could not resist the pleasures
of an obscure rink. I fear it was foolish of me, though, to put
it into Mrs. Carrington's head; though I really think there are
few draughts anywhere, it is such a lovely night."

He says this as though the only earthly objection that could be
raised to my coming out at this hour with him alone, is the fear
of my catching cold.

"Don't you think you have had enough of it now?" says 'Duke,
calmly--_too_ calmly--still with that strange expression in his
eyes, though perfectly polite. He does not look at me, and the
hand I still hold in desperation is limp within my grasp, and
takes no heed of the gentle, beseeching pressure I bestow upon it
every quarter of a minute.  "It is getting rather late"--glancing
at his watch; "I fear I must ask you to return at once, as the
traps are ordered round; and it will not do for Mrs. Carrington
to keep her guests waiting."

"I want a boy to take off my skates," I say, submissively,
shocked at the lateness of the hour; it wants but ten minutes to
ten.

"True. But boys are never in the way when wanted.  Gore, I'm sure
_you_ will not mind unfastening Mrs. Carrington's skates, just
for once," in a queer voice.

"I shall be delighted," says Mark, courteously, going down on his
knees before me. As he bows his head I barely catch a certain
gleam in his eyes that is neither Laughter nor triumph, yet is a
curious mingling of both.

I feel ready to cry with vexation.

"You will follow me as soon as you can," says 'Duke, and, to my
amazement, walks steadily away.

"I am afraid I have got you into a scrape," says Mark, in a low
tone, as he bends over my left foot, and with slow fingers draws
out the leather straps.

"How do you mean?" I ask, haughtily, feeling passionate anger in
my heart towards him at the moment, regarding him as the cause of
all my misery.

"I mean--of course I don't know--but I fancied Carrington was
angry with you for coming here with--that is--so late." His
hesitation and stammering are both affected and untrue.

"Not a bit of it," I reply stoutly; "he probably does not like
being kept waiting: men never do. He is wonderfully punctual
himself, and of course I ought to have been back ages ago. I wish
now I had never come. Can't you be a little quicker?" with an
impatient movement of my toe. "It don't take the boys hours to
get off each skate."

"You are in a desperate hurry _now_."

"I _am_ in a desperate hurry, and I hate vexing Marmaduke. There,
hold it tightly, and I will pull my foot out.  Now, try and be a
little quicker about this one."

"I assure you I am doing my best," sulkily. "I don't want to keep
you here, in your present mood, longer than I can help."

"I should think not," say I, with a disagreeable laugh.

As the skate comes off he flings it aside with a savage gesture,
and, rising, offers me his arm, which I decline.

"We must run for it," I say, indifferently, "and I never can do
that to, my own satisfaction when holding on to any one. I detest
jogging."

"Why don't you say at once you detest _me?_" exclaims Mark,
roughly, and summarily disposes of a small boy who is unhappy
enough to be in his path at the moment.

"I will if you like," return I, equably; and in silence as
complete as when we set out we return to the hotel.

When we arrive, every one is busy getting on his or her outdoor
things. My sealskin jacket and velvet hat already adorn my
person, so no convenient business of that kind comes to my aid to
help me to carry of the confusion and secret fear that are
consuming me. I stand somewhat apart from the rest, looking
strangely like a culprit. Even  Bebe, who is a sure partisan is
so standing before a distant mirror, adjusting the most
coquettish of head gears as to be unable to see me, while young
Thornton chatters to her admiringly upon one side, and Lord
Chandos glowers at her from the other.

Presently some one approaches, and to my astonishment Sir James
Handcock, with an unusual amount of energy in his eyes and
manner, takes up a position near me, and actually volunteers a
remark.

"Remember I am old enough to be your father," he begins,
abruptly, "and don't be angry with me. I feel that I must speak.
I don't want to see you made unhappy. I want you to cut the whole
thing. Flirtations however innocent were never meant for
tender-hearted little girls like you."

I am so utterly taken aback, so altogether surprised, that I even
forget to blush, and can do nothing but stand staring at him in
silent bewilderment. Sir James to deliver a lecture! Sir James to
take upon him the part of Mentor!  it is more than my brain can
grasp at a moment's notice.  Surely I have been guilty of
something horrible, unpardonable, to shake him out of his
taciturnity.

Harriet, coming up at this juncture, hastens to assist me out of
my dilemma.

"Has he been scolding you?" she asks briskly, with her quick
ready smile. "James, I won't have Phyllis frightened to death by
a stern old moralist like you. Go and get things together; and if
you meet a comfortable motherly gray shawl, remember it is mine."

Thus dismissed, James, ever obedient, departs, casting a kindly
glance at me as he goes. Harriet lays her hand lightly on my arm.

"Don't look so horrified, child," she says. "James's voice, from
continual disuse, has degenerated into a growl, I own, but it
need not reduce you to insensibility. He is awkward, but he means
well, as they say in the British drama. Come"--with a faint
pressure--"try to look more cheerful, or people will begin to
wonder and imagine all sorts of unlikely things. You have made a
mistake; but then a mistake is not a crime."

"What have I done?" I ask, rousing myself. "I only wanted to see
the rink again, and 'Duke would not take me. He was unkind in his
manner, and vexed me. Sir Mark offered to take charge of me, I
believe I wanted to show 'Duke I could go in spite of him, but I
never thought of--of anything else; and now 'Duke is so angry he
will not even speak to me."

"Oh, that is nonsense! of course he will speak to you. You have
committed a little folly, that is all. I can quite understand it.
Probably, under like circumstances, and at your age, I would have
been guilty of the same. But it was foolish nevertheless."

"He should not have spoken to me as he did."

"I dare say not; though I don't know what he said, and do not
wish to know. There are always faults on both sides. And now,
Phyllis, as we are on the subject, let me say one word. You know
I am fond of you--that I think you the dearest little
sister-in-law in the world. Therefore you will hear me patiently.
Have nothing more to say to Mark Gore. He is very--unfortunate in
his--friendships. I do not wish to say anything against him, but
no good ever came of being too intimate with him. Are you
offended with me? Have I gone too far Phyllis?"

"No, no," anxiously retaining the hand she half withdraws, "I am
glad, as it was on your mind, you spoke. But you cannot
think--you cannot believe---" I am too deeply agitated to
continue.

"I believe nothing but what is altogether good of you, be sure of
that," she answers, heartily. "But I dread your causing yourself
any pain through thoughtlessness. Remember 'how easily things go
wrong,' and how difficult it is sometimes to set them right
again. And--Marmaduke loves you."

"I wish I had never seen this odious rink," I whisper,
passionately. "I will never go to one again. I wish I had never
laid eyes on Mark Gore. I hate him. I---"

"Good child" interposes she, calmly, as an antidote to my
excitement. "Now, go and make peace with your husband.  See,
there he is. Marmaduke, Phyllis is too cold in this coat, get her
something warm to put round her shoulders."

Mechanically I obey the faint push she gives me, and follow 'Duke
into the dimly-lighted hall. He strides on in front, and takes
not the slightest notice of my faltering footsteps.

"Marmaduke," I whisper, nervously, "Marmaduke, may I drive home
with you?"

"With me! For what?"

His tone is stern and uncompromising. My new-found courage
evaporates.

"Because I--I want to--very much," I answer, feebly, much
dispirited.

"You came here with Gore. Why not return with him? It seems to me
far better for all parties you should do so."

"But I do not wish it. I would rather drive home with any one
than Sir Mark Gore. Oh, Marmaduke, please let me go with you."

"It is rather late to think of saving appearances, if you mean
that."

"I do not mean it. I am not thinking of anything but you."

He laughs unpleasantly.

"Did Harriet tell you to make that sweet little speech?

"No," in a low tone.

"Do you imagine you are pleasing me by making this request?" he
exclaims, angrily, glancing down at me as I stand staring at him,
my head barely reaching his shoulder.  Reproach and entreaty are
in my uplifted eyes, but they do not soften him. "Do you think
you are offering me compensation? Pray do not for a moment
believe I am either hurt or annoyed by your behavior of this
evening. Why should I? You are not the only woman in the world
who has suddenly developed a talent for flirtations."

"Marmaduke, what are you saying? Of what are you accusing me?"

I am nearly in tears by this time, and cannot find words to argue
or deny the horrid imputation of coquetry.

"Do not let me stand in the way of your amusements.  Of course
when I chose to marry a child--and a child without a spark of
affection for me--I must learn not to cavil at consequences.
Understand, Phyllis, it is a matter of indifference to me whether
you drive home with Mark Gore or any other man. Do not give
yourself any annoyance, under a mistaken impression that you may
be gratifying me. Take your Choice of an escort."

"I have taken it," I say, dolefully, "but the one I want won't
take me. Marmaduke, how unkind you are! Do you then, _refuse_, to
drive me home?"

"If you insist on sitting beside me you can do so," he yields,
ungraciously. "You will find it stupid, as I am in no mood for
conversation, and have no desire for your company."

"Nevertheless I will force it on you," I cry, with some faint
spark of pride and indignation. "Though you hate me, I will
return with no one but you."

And so it is settled, and soon we are driving side by side under
the brilliant dancing stars.

It is a long, long drive--much longer, it seems to me, in the
chill night than in the glare of day--and not one word does my
companion speak. Once, when the moon rushes Out with a white
gleam from behind the scudding clouds, I take courage to look at
him; but he is biting his mustache, and wears upon his brow a
heavy frown that completely freezes on my lips the few silly
words I would have uttered.

Once, too, as his hand lies bare upon his knee, I venture to
place my fingers timidly upon it, but he shakes them off, under a
plain pretense of adjusting the reins; and thus, twice repulsed,
I have no heart to make a further advance.

So, in dead silence, we make our journey, listening absently, to
the chatter of those behind and the sound of the horses' feet as
they bravely cover the ground.

In silence we reach our home, in silence he helps me down, and
with the sorriest pain at my heart it has ever yet known I go
upstairs and shut myself into my room.

Martha, under a mistaken impression that I am what she is pleased
to term "poorly," pours out some eau-de-Cologne and proceeds to
bathe my forehead with vigorous concern; and such is the
forlornness of my state that I cannot bring myself to bid her
begone. When she has put me through the various stages of
undressing, has left me ready for bed, and insisted on hearing me
say I am immensely better, she departs, to my infinite relief.

I turn dismally in my chair, and begin to wonder what I am to do
next. Every minute my crime appears more hideous; I feel more
positive he will never forgive me.

Strangely enough, as my own misdemeanors grow in size and
importance, his decrease, until at length they sink into utter
insignificance. The remembrance of that pink note alone rankles,
and perhaps even that could be explained.

The hours slip by. 'Duke's foot is to be heard slowly pacing his
own floor.

I must and will compel him to make friends with me.  How can I
face a long sleepless night such as I know will be mine if I go
to bed unpardoned? I will make one more effort, and this time I
will not be unsuccessful, As I have not now, and never have had,
a particle of pride in my composition, it takes me very little
thinking to decide on this course.

I am sitting before my fire as I develop this idea, toasting my
bare toes in a rather purposeless manner, preparatory to jumping
into bed. Unlike most people, I can endure any amount of heat to
the soles of my feet.

Mechanically I slip into my blue slippers, and, rising, go to the
glass. Yet, what I see pleases me: I certainly do look nice in my
dressing-gown. No other style of garment, no matter how
bewitching or elaborate, suits me half as well. This particular
gown at which I am now gazing profoundly is of white cashmere,
lined and wadded, and trimmed profusely with pale blue. There is
a dear little frill round the neck that almost makes me love
myself. It is a gift of Marmaduke's. Walking one day in Paris,
during our honeymoon, it had attracted our attention in a
shop-window, and he had insisted on my going into the shop then
and there and making myself the owner of it. Surely when he sees
me now he will remember the circumstance, and it will soften him.

Ah! he was very fond of me then, I recollect, with a sigh.

My hair is streaming down my back, far below my waist; I am
looking well, but young very young; indeed, I am painfully
conscious that, now my high-heeled shoes are lying under a chair,
I might easily be mistaken for a child of fourteen.

The thought is distasteful. Hastily putting up my hands, I wind
my hair round and round my head until I have reduced it to its
everyday decorous fashion; only to find that rolls and smoothness
do not accord well with a _negligee_ costume.

Looking at myself again with a critical eye, I am again
dissatisfied. I may appear older, I certainly do not present so
pleasing a _tout ensemble_; so, with much vicious haste, I once
more draw out the hair-pins and let my straight brown hair hang
according to its fancy. Being now at last convinced I am to be
seen at my best, I proceed to act upon the thought that has
caused all this unwonted vanity, I go softly to Marmaduke's
dressing-room door, armed with my brush and begin to batter at it
pretty loudly.

"Marmaduke, Marmaduke!" I cry, but obtain no answer. That he is
within is beyond all doubt, as every now and then through the
thick oaken door I can hear a sound or two.

Again I exercise my lungs, again I batter at the door.

"'Duke--Marmaduke!" I cry once more, impatiently.

"What do you want?" demands my husband, in a voice that sends my
heart into my blue slippers.

"I want to get in," I return, as meekly as one can, when one's
tone is raised to the highest pitch.

"You cannot now; I am busy."

"But I must. 'Duke, do open the door. I have something of the
utmost importance to say to you."

After a moment or two I can hear him coming slowly to the door.
In another instant he has unlocked it, and is standing in the
doorway in an attitude that is plainly meant to bar my further
approach.

"Won't you let me in?" I say. "I want to speak to you; I have
something to tell you."

Here I make a dive under the arm he had placed against one side
of the door as a prudent barricade, and gain the dressing-room.
Having so far succeeded, I pause to glance timidly at him.

He has divested himself of his coat and waistcoat, and has
evidently been brushing his hair, as it is smooth to the last
degree and has about it a general air of being ready to enter a
ball-room at a moment's notice.

"You might be going to a reception, your hair is so beautifully
dressed," I say, with a weak attempt at raillery and composure.

"Did you nearly break down the door to come and tell me that?"
asked he, without a vestige of a smile.

Once again my eyes seek the carpet. All my affected nonchalance
deserts me. I feel frightened. Never before has his voice sounded
go harsh when addressed to me. I put my hands behind me, and
grasp nervously the torrent of hair that flows down my back. For