Phyllis. Duchess

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СКАЧАТЬ off, Pompey'—what is the matter with your hands?"

      "Oh, I had just brought up Billy some dinner, and when I heard you I ran under the bed and tripped over the carpet and fell splash into the gravy. But it is nothing," I wind up, airily.

      "Nothing! I wish it was less. Go wash yourself, you dirty child." Then resuming the ferocious aspect, and with uplifted cane, he advances on Billy.

      "William"—imitating papa's voice to a nicety—"I have not yet done with you. What, sir, did you mean by exposing your sensitive sister to the criticisms of a crowded table? If your own gentlemanly instincts are not sufficiently developed to enable you to understand how unpardonable are personal remarks, let this castigation, that a sense of duty compels me to bestow, be the means of teaching you."

      Billy grins, and for the third time commences his dinner while Roland leans against the window-shutter and contemplates him with lazy curiosity.

      "Billy," he asks, presently, "is mutton—when the fat has grown white and the gravy is in tiny lumps—a good thing?"

      "No it ain't," returns Billy, grumpily, and with rather more than his usual vulgarity.

      "I ask merely for information," says Roly. "It certainly looks odd."

      "It's beastly," says Billy. "If the governor goes in for any more of this kind of thing I'll cut and run; that's what I'll do."

      "Why didn't you have some dumpling?" Roland goes on, smoothly. "The whipped cream with it was capital."

      "Dumpling?" says Billy, regarding me fixedly; "dumpling! Phyllis, was there dumpling?"

      "There was," I reply.

      "And whipped cream!"

      "Yes," I answer, faintly.

      "Oh, Phyllis!" says Billy, in the liveliest tone of reproach. The flicker of an amused smile shoots across Roland's face.

      "Phyllis, why did you not bring him some?" he asks, in a tone that reflects Billy's.

      "How could I?" I exclaim, indignantly. "I could not carry more than one plate, and even as it was the gravy was running all about. I was afraid every minute I would be caught. Besides—"

      "Miss Phyllis, Miss Phyllis," comes a sepulchral whisper at the door, accompanied by a faint knock. In the whisper I recognize James. Having taken a precautionary peep through the keyhole, I open the door, and on the threshold discover our faithful friend, a large plate of apples and cream in his hand, and a considerable air of mystery about him.

      "Miss Phyllis," he says, in a fine undertone, "cook sent this here to Master Billy; and the mistress says you are to come down at once, as the master has been asking where you all are."

      "I am coming," I return; "and tell cook we are awfully obliged to her." Whereupon, having deposited the dainties before Billy, I charge down stairs and into the library; and, having seized hold of the first book I can see, I collect myself, and enter the drawing-room with a sedate air.

      "Where have you been?" demands papa, twisting his head round until I wonder his neck doesn't crack.

      "In the library, choosing a book."

      "What book."

      I glance at the volume I carry, and, to my unmitigated horror find it a treatise on surgery.

      "It is by Dr. Batly," I murmur, vaguely.

      "Come here and let me see it." Trembling, I advance and surrender my book.

      "Is this a proper subject for a young woman to study?" exclaims papa, in high disgust, when he has read through the headings of the chapters. "What an abominable girl you are! Go over there and sit down, and keep yourself out of mischief for the remainder of the evening, if you can."

      "Would you like Tennyson's 'In Memoriam'?" asks Dora, sweetly, raising her white lids for a moment to hold out to me an elegant little edition in green and gold.

      "No, thank you," I answer, curtly, and, subsiding into my chair, sulk comfortably until bedtime.

CHAPTER X.

       Table of Contents

      The next day Dora is still low—very low indeed—and sighs heavily at intervals. We might, however, in spite of this, have managed to knock some enjoyment out of our lives, but, unfortunately, whatever communication she had made to papa on the subject of Mr. Carrington's treachery has had the effect of rendering him almost unbearable.

      At breakfast the playfulness of his remarks can only be equalled by the sweetness of his expression; and by lunch-hour he is so much worse that (as far at least as I am concerned) the food before me is as dust and ashes. I think Roland rather enjoys the murkiness of our atmosphere than otherwise, and takes a small but evident pleasure in winking at me as he presses the vinegar and pepper upon our already highly-seasoned father.

      The latter, knowing my nomadic tendencies, is successful in bringing to light during the day a dozen unhemmed cambric handkerchiefs, and before going to his customary afternoon ride leaves strict injunctions behind him that by my fingers they are to be begun and ended before his return. About four o'clock, therefore, behold me sitting in state in the drawing-room, in company with mamma and Dora, hard at work at my enforced task.

      The conversation is limited; it dwindles, indeed, until it gets so sparse that at length we are ashamed of it and relapse into silence. Dora broods with tender melancholy upon her woes; mother thinks of us; while I, were I to give a voice to my thoughts, would demand of mother the name of the evil genius that possessed her when she walked to the altar with papa.

      The needle runs into my finger; it does so pretty regularly after every fifth stitch, but this time it had got under my nail, and causes me for the moment keen anguish. I groan, and mutter something under my breath; and mother says, "Phyllis, darling, be careful," in a dreamy tone. Surely we are more than ordinarily dull.

      Suddenly there comes a rattle of horses' hoofs upon the gravel outside. We raise our heads simultaneously and question each other by our looks. A little later, and Mr. Carrington's voice striking on our ears sets speculation at rest. Mamma glances furtively at Dora, and Dora breathes a faint sigh and blushes pale pink, while suffering an aggrieved expression to characterize her face.

      A horrible thought comes into my head. Suppose—of course it is impossible—but suppose Mr. Carrington were to come in now, and in the course of conversation mention my photograph: what will not mother and Dora think? What is to prevent their drawing a conclusion about what happened yesterday? Although I do not in the least believe it was my picture Mr. Carrington was seen embracing, still the very idea that it might be, and that he might at any time speak of it turns me cold. Something must be done, and that quickly. Without further hesitation I rise from my seat, put down my work, and make for the door. No one attempts to detain me, and in an instant I am in the hall, face to face with our visitor.

      I lay my hand upon the front of his coat, and whisper hurriedly:—

      "Do not say a word about my picture, not a word. Do you understand?" СКАЧАТЬ