Phyllis. Duchess
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Of course I have said the wrong thing. The moment my speech is finished I know this. Mr. Carrington's eyes leave mine; he mutters something between his teeth, and brings the whip down sharply on the far leader.
"These brutes grow lazier every day," he says with an unmistakable frown.
Five—six minutes pass, and he does not address me. I feel annoyed with myself, yet innocent of having intentionally offended. Presently stealing a glance at my companion, I say, contritely—
"Have I vexed you, Mr. Carrington?"
"No, no," he answers, hastily, the smile coming home to his lips. "Don't think so. Surely truthfulness, being so rare a virtue, should be precious. I am an irritable fellow at times, and you are finding out all my faults to-night," he says, rather sadly, laying his hand for an instant upon mine, as it lies bare and small and brown upon the rug. "You have proved me both ill-tempered and selfish. You will say I am full of defects."
"Indeed I will not," I return, earnestly, touched by his manner: "I do not even see the faults you mention; and at all events no one was ever before so kind to me as you have been."
"I would be kinder if I dared," he says, somewhat unsteadily.
While I ponder on what these words may mean, while the first dim foreboding—suspicion—what you will—enters my mind, we see Rylston, and pull up to give the Hastings time to alight and bid their adieux. Then we go on again, always in the strange silence that has fallen upon us, and presently find ourselves at home.
Mr. Carrington is on the ground in a moment, and comes round to my side to help me down. I hold out my hands and prepare for a good spring (a clear jump at any time is delightful to me); but he disappoints my hopes by taking me in his arms and placing me gently on the gravel; after which he goes instantly to Dora.
When we are all safely landed, papa, to our unmitigated astonishment, comes forward, and not only asks but presses Mr. Carrington to stay and dine. Perhaps, considering he has four horses and two grooms in his train, our father guesses he will refuse the invitation. At all events he does so very graciously, and, raising his hat, drives off, leaving us free to surround and relate to mother all the glories of the day.
CHAPTER VIII
The following Monday, as I sit reading in the small parlor we dare to call our own, I am startled by Dora's abrupt entrance. Her outdoor garments are on her; her whole appearance is full of woe; suspicious circles surround her eyes. I rise fearfully and hasten towards her. Surely if anything worthy of condemnation has occurred it is impossible but I must have a prominent part in it. Has the irreproachable Dora committed a crime? Is she in disgrace with our domestic tyrant.
"Dora, what has happened?" I ask, breathlessly.
"Oh, nothing," returns Dora, reckless misery in her tone; "nothing to signify; only—Billy was right—I am quite positive he never cared for me—has not the slightest intention of proposing to me."
"What? who?" I demand, in my charming definite way.
"Who?" with impatient reproach. "Who is there in this miserable forgotten spot to propose to any one, except—Mr. Carrington?"
"What have you heard, Dora?" I ask, light breaking in upon my obscurity.
"Heard? Nothing. I would not have believed it, if I had heard it. I saw it with my own eyes. An hour ago I put on my things and went out for a walk, intending to go down by the river; but just as I came to the shrubberies, and while I was yet hidden from view, I saw Mr. Carrington and that horrid dog of his standing on the bank just below me. I hesitated for a moment about going forward. I didn't quite like," says Dora, modestly, "to force myself upon him for what would look so like a tete-a-tete; and while I waited, unable to make up my mind, he"—a sob—"took out of his waistcoat a large gold locket and opened it, and"—a second heavy sob—"and after gazing at it for a long time, as though he were going to eat it"—a final sob, and an inclination towards choking—"he stooped and kissed it. And, oh! of course it was some odious woman's hair or picture or something," cries Dora, breaking down altogether, and sinking with rather less than her usual grace into the withered arm-chair that adorns that corner of our room.
A terrible suspicion, followed by as awful a sense of conviction, springs to life within me. The word "picture" has struck an icy chill to my heart. Can it by any possibility be my photograph he has been so idiotically and publicly embracing? Am I the fell betrayer of my sister's happiness?
A moment later I almost smile at my own fears. Is it likely any man, more especially one who has seen so much of the world as Mr. Carrington, would find anything worth kissing in my insignificant countenance? I find unlimited consolation in this reflection, that at another time would have caused me serious uneasiness.
Meantime Dora is still giving signs of poignant anguish, and I look at her apprehensively, while pondering on what will be the most sympathetic thing to say or do under the circumstances.
Her nose is growing faintly pink, large tears are standing in her eyes, her head inclines a little—a very little—to one side.
Now when I cry I do it with all my heart. The tears fall like rain; for the time being I abandon myself altogether to my grief, and a perfect deluge is the consequence. Once I have wept my fill, however, I recover almost instantaneously, feeling as fresh as young grass after a shower.
Not so with Dora. When she is afflicted the tears come one by one, slowly, decorously sailing down her face; each drop waits politely until the previous one has cleared off the premises before presuming to follow in its channel. She never sniffs or gurgles or makes unpleasant noises in her throat; indeed, the entire performance—though perhaps monotonous after the first—is fascinating and ladylike in the extreme. In spite of the qualms of conscience that are still faintly pricking me, as I sit mutely opposite my suffering sister, I find myself reckoning each salt drop as it rolls slowly down her cheek. Just as I get to the forty-ninth, Dora speaks again—
"If he really is in love with somebody else—and I can hardly doubt it after what I have seen—I think he has behaved very dishonorably to me," she says in a quavering tone.
"How so?" I stammer, hardly knowing what to say.
"How so?" with mild reproof. "Why, what has he meant by coming here day after day, and sitting for hours in the drawing-room, and bringing flowers and game, unless he had some intentions with regard to me? Only that you are so dull, Phyllis, you would not require me to say all this."
"It certainly looks very strange," I acknowledge. "But perhaps, after all, Dora, you are misjudging him. Perhaps it was his sister's—Lady Handcock's—hair he was kissing."
"Nonsense!" says Dora, sharply; "don't be absurd. Did you ever hear of any brother wasting so much affection upon a sister? Do you suppose Billy or Roland would keep your face or hair in a locket to kiss and embrace in private?"
I certainly cannot flatter myself that they would, so give up this line of argument.
"Perhaps the person, whoever she is, is dead," I suggest СКАЧАТЬ