Phyllis. Duchess

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СКАЧАТЬ to make this request. I nerve myself to try one more heroic effort. The branch I am clinging to gives way with a crash. "Oh!" I shriek frantically, and in another moment fall headlong into Mr. Carrington's outstretched arms.

      "Are you hurt?" he asks, gazing at me with anxious eyes, and still retaining his hold of me.

      "Yes, I am," I answered, tearfully. "Look at my arm." I pull up my sleeve cautiously and disclose an arm that looks indeed wonderfully white next the blood that trickles slowly from it.

      "Oh, horrible!" says our rich neighbor, with real and intense concern, and, taking out his handkerchief, proceeds to bind up my wound with the extremest tenderness.

      "Why didn't you let him take you down?" says Bill, reproachfully, who is rather struck by the blood. "It would have been better after all."

      "Of, course it would," says Mr. Carrington, raising his head for a moment from the contemplation of his surgical task to smile into my eyes. "But some little children are very foolish."

      "I was seventeen last May," I answered promptly. It is insufferable to be regarded as a child when one is almost eighteen. There is a touch of asperity in my tone.

      "Indeed! So old?" says our friend, still smiling.

      "Mr. Carrington," I begin, presently, in a rather whimpering tone, "you won't say anything about this at home—will you? You see, they—they might not like the idea of my climbing, and they would be angry. Of course I know it was very unladylike of me, and indeed"—very earnestly this—"I had no more intention of doing such a thing when I left home than I had of flying. Had I, Billy?"

      "You had not," says Billy. "I don't know what put the thought into your head. Why, it is two years since last you climbed a tree."

      This is a fearful lie; but the dear boy means well.

      "You won't betray me?" I say again to my kind doctor.

      "I would endure the tortures of the rack first," returns he, giving his bandage a final touch. "Be assured they shall never hear of it from me. You must not suspect me of being a tale-bearer, Miss Phyllis. Does your arm pain you still? have I made it more comfortable?"

      "I hardly feel it at all now," I answer, gratefully. "I don't know what I should have done but for you—first catching me as you did, and then dressing my hurt. But how shall I return you your handkerchief?"

      "May I not call to-morrow to see you are none the worse for your accident? It is a long week since last I was at Summerleas. Would I bore you all very much if I allowed myself there again soon?"

      "Not at all," I answered warmly, thinking of Dora; "the oftener you come the more we shall be pleased."

      "Would it please you to see me often?" He watches me keenly as he asks this question.

      "Yes, of course it would," I answer, politely, feeling slightly surprised at his tone—very slightly.

      "How long have you known me?"

      "Exactly a month yesterday," I exclaim, promptly; "it was on the 25th of August you first came to see us. I remember the date perfectly."

      "Do you?" with pleased surprise. "What impressed that uninteresting date upon your memory?"

      "Because it was on that day that Billy got home the new pigeons—such little beauties, all pure white. They were unlucky, however, as two of them died since. That is how I recollect its being a month," I continue, recurring to his former words.

      "Oh! I suppose you would hardly care to remember anything in which Billy was not concerned. Sometimes—not always—I envy Billy. And so it is really only a month since first I saw you? To me it seems a year—more than a year."

      "Ah! what did I tell you," I say, speaking in the eager tone one adopts when triumphantly proving the correctness of an early opinion. "I knew you would soon grow tired of us. I said so from the beginning."

      "Did you?" in a curious tone.

      "Yes. It was not a clever guess to make, was it? Why, there is literally nothing to be done down here, unless one farms, or talks scandal of one's neighbor, or—"

      "Or goes nutting, and puts one's neck in danger," with a smile. "Surely there can be nothing tame about a place where such glorious exploits can be performed?" Then, changing his manner, "You have described Puxley very accurately, I must confess; and yet, strange as it may appear to you, your opinion was rashly formed, because as yet I am not tired of either it or—you."

      "And yet you find the time drag heavily?"

      "When spent at Strangemore—yes. Never when spent at Summerleas."

      I begin to think Dora has a decided chance. I search my brain eagerly for some more leading question that shall still further satisfy me on this point, but find nothing. Billy, who has been absent from us for some time, comes leisurely up to us. His presence recalls the hour.

      "We must be going now," I say, extending my hand; "it is getting late. Good-bye, Mr. Carrington—and thank you again very much," I added, somewhat shyly.

      "If you persist in thinking there is anything to be grateful for, give me my reward," he says, quickly, "by letting me walk with you to the boundary of the wood."

      "Yes, do," says Billy, effusively. Still Mr. Carrington looks at me, as though determined to take permission from my eyes alone.

      "Come, if you wish it," I say, answering the unspoken look in his eyes, and feeling thoroughly surprised to hear a man so altogether grown up express a desire for our graceless society. Thus sanctioned, he turns and walks by my side, conversing in the pleasant, light, easy style peculiar to him, until the boundary he named is reached. Here we pause to bid each other once more good-bye.

      "And I may come to-morrow?" he asks, holding my hand closely.

      "Yes—but—but—I cannot give you the handkerchief before mother and Dora," I murmur, blushing hotly.

      "True, I had forgotten that important handkerchief. But perhaps you could manage to walk with me as far as she entrance-gate, could you?"

      "I don't know," I return doubtfully, "If not, I can give it to you some other day."

      "So you can. Keep it until I am fortunate enough to meet you again. I shall probably get on without it until then."

      So with a smile and a backward nod and glance, we part.

      For some time after he has left us, Billy and I move on together without speaking, a most unusual thing, when I break the silence by my faltering tones.

      "Billy," I say, trembling with hope and fear, "Billy tell me the truth. That time, you know, did I show very much of my leg?"

      "Not more than an inch or two above the garter," he answers, in an encouraging tone, and for a full minute I feel that with cheerfulness I could attend the funeral of my brother Billy.

      I am mortified to the last degree. Unbidden tears rise to my eyes. Even though I might have known a more soothing answer to be false, still with rapture I would have hailed it. There is a brutal enjoyment of the scene in СКАЧАТЬ