Читать книгу Phyllis - Duchess - Страница 6

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It is four o'clock. There is a delicious hush all over the house and grounds, a hush that betrays the absence of the male bird from his nest, and bespeaks security. Billy and I, hat in hand, stand upon the door-step and look with caution round us, preparatory to taking flight to Brinsley Wood. Ever since my unlucky confession of having asked Mr. Carrington's permission to wander through the grounds—thereby betraying the pleasure I feel in such wanderings—we have found it strangely difficult to get beyond the precincts of our home. Obstacles the most unforeseen crop up to stay our steps, some supernatural agency being apparently at work, by which papa becomes cognizant of even our most secret intentions.

To-day, however, brings us such a chance of freedom as we may not have again, business having called our father to an adjoining village, from which he cannot possibly return until the shades of evening have well fallen. Our evil genius, too, has for once been kind, having forgotten to suggest to him before starting the advisability of regulating our movements during the hours he will be absent. We are, therefore, unfettered, and with a glow of pleasure not unmixed with triumph we sally off towards the deep green woods.

It is that sweetest month of the twelve, September—a glorious ripe September, that has never yet appeared so sweet and golden-brown as on this afternoon, that brings us so near the close of it. High in the trees hang clusters of filberts, that have tempted our imagination for some time, and now, with a basket slung between us, that links us as we walk, we meditate a raid.

As with light, exultant footsteps we hurry onwards, snatches of song fall from my lips—a low, soft contralto voice being my one charm. We are utterly, carelessly, recklessly happy, with that joyous forgetfulness of all that has gone before, and may yet follow, that belongs alone to youth. Now and then Billy's high, boyish notes join mine, making the woods ring, until the song comes to sudden grief through lack of memory when gay laughter changes the echo's tone. Here a bunch of late and luscious blackberries claim our attention. And once we have a mad race after a small brown squirrel that evades us cleverly, and presently revenges itself for its enforced haste by grinning at us provokingly from an inaccessible branch.

At last the wood we want is reached; the nuts are in full view; our object is attained.

"Now," asks Billy, with a sigh of delight, "at which tree shall we begin?" It is a mere matter of form his asking me this question, as he would think it derogatory to his manly dignity to follow any suggestion I might make.

All the trees are laden: they more than answer our expectations. Each one appears so much better than the other it is difficult to choose between them.

"At this," I say, at length, pointing to one richly clothed that stands before us.

"Not at all," returns Billy, contemptuously: "It isn't half as good as this one," naming the companion tree to mine; and, his being the master-mind, he carries the day.

"Very good: don't miss your footing," I say, anxiously, as he begins to climb. There are no lower branches, no projections of any kind to assist his ascent: the task is far from easy.

"Here, give me a shove," calls out Billy, impatiently, when he had slipped back to mother earth the fourth time, after severely barking his shins. I give him a vigorous push that raises him successfully to an overhanging limb, after which, being merely hand-over-hand work, he rises rapidly, and soon the spoiler reaches his prey.

Down come the little bumping showers; if on my head or arms so much the greater fun. I dodge; Billy aims; the birds grow nervous at our unrestrained laughter. Already our basket is more than half full, and Billy is almost out of sight among the thick foliage, so high has he mounted.

Slower, and with more uncertain aim come the nuts. I begin to grow restless. It is not so amusing as it was ten minutes ago, and I look vaguely around me in search of newer joys.

At no great distance from me I spy another nut-tree equally laden with treasure and far easier of access. Low, almost to the ground, some of the branches grow. My eyes fasten upon it; a keen desire to climb and be myself a spoiler seizes upon me. I lay my basket on the ground, and, thought and action being one with me, I steal off without a word to Billy and gain the wished-for spot.

Being very little inferior to Billy in the art of climbing—long and dearly-bought experience having made me nimble, it is at very little risk and with small difficulty I soon find myself at the top of the tree, comfortably seated on a thick arm of wood, plucking my nuts in safety. I feel immensely elated, both at the eminence of my situation and the successful secrecy with which I have carried out my plan. What fun it will be presently to see Billy looking for me everywhere! He will at first think I have gone roaming through the woods; then he will imagine me lost, and be a good deal frightened; it will be some time before he will suspect the truth.

I fairly laugh to myself as these ideas flit through my idle brain—more, perhaps, through real gayety of heart than from any excellence the joke contains—when, suddenly raising my head, I see what makes my mischievous smile freeze upon my lip.

From my exalted position I can see a long way before me, and there in the distance, coming with fatal certainty in my direction, I espy Mr. Carrington! At the same moment Billy's legs push themselves in a dangling fashion through the branches of his tree, and are followed by the remainder of his person a little later. Forgetful of my original design, forgetful of everything but the eternal disgrace that will cling to me through life if found by our landlord in my present unenviable plight, I call to him, in tones suppressed indeed, but audible enough to betray my hiding-place.

"Billy, here is Mr. Carrington—he is coming towards us. Catch these nuts quickly, while I get down."

"Why where on earth—" begins Billy, and then grasping the exigencies of the case, refrains from further vituperation, and comes to the rescue.

The foe steadily advances. I fling all my collected treasure into Billy's upturned face, and seizing a branch begin frantically to beat a retreat. I am half-way down, but still very, very far from the ground—at least, so far, that Billy can render me no assistance—when I miss my footing, slip a little way down against my will, and then sustain a check. Some outlying bough, with vicious and spiteful intent, has laid hold on my gown in such way that I can not reach to undo it.

"Come down, can't you?" says Billy, with impatience "you are showing a yard and a half of your leg."

"I can't!" I groan; "I'm caught somewhere. Oh, what shall I do?"

Meantime, Mr. Carrington is coming nearer and nearer. As I peer at him through the unlucky branches I can see he is looking if anything rather handsomer than usual, with his gun on his shoulder and a pipe between his lips. As he meets my eyes riveted upon him from my airy perch he takes out the pipe and consigns it to his pocket. If he gets round to the other side of the tree, from which point the horrors of my position are even more forcibly depicted, I feel I shall drop dead.

"Why don't you get that lazy boy to do the troublesome part of the business for you?" calls out our welcome friend, while yet at some distance. Then, becoming suddenly aware of my dilemma, "Are you in any difficulty? Can I help you down?"

He has become preternaturally grave—so grave that it occurs to me he may possibly be repressing a smile. Billy, I can see, is inwardly convulsed. I begin to feel very wrathful.

"I don't want any help" I say, with determination. "But for my dress I could manage—"

"Better let me assist you," says Mr. Carrington, making a step forward. In another moment he will have gained the other side, and then all will be indeed lost.

"No, no!" I cry, desperately; "I won't be helped. Stay where you are."

"Very good," returns he, and, immediately presenting his back to me, makes a kind pretense of studying the landscape.

Now, although this is exactly the thing of all others I most wish him to do, still the voluntary doing of it on his part induces me to believe my situation a degree more indecent than before. I feel I shall presently be dissolved in tears. I tug madly at my unfortunate dress without making the faintest impression upon it. Oh, why is it that my cotton—that up to this has been so prone to reduce itself to rags—to-day should prove so tough? My despair forces from me a heavy sigh.

"Not down yet?" says Mr. Carrington, turning to me once more. "You will never manage it by yourself. Be sensible, and let me put you on your feet."

"No," I answer, in an agony; "it must give way soon. I shall do it, if—if—you will only turn your back to me again." It is death to my pride to have 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 his whole demeanor that stings me sorely. I begin to compare dear Roly with my younger brother in a manner highly unflattering to the latter. If Roland had been here in Billy's place to day, instead of being as he always is with that tiresome regiment in some forgotten corner, all might have been different. He at least being a man, would have felt for me. How could I have been mad enough to look for sympathy from a boy?

Dear Roland! The only fault he has is his extreme and palpable selfishness. But what of that? Are not all men so afflicted? Why should he be condemned for what is only to be expected and looked for in the grander sex? What I detest more than anything else is a person who, while professing to be friends with one, only—

I grow morose, and decline all further conversation, until we come so near our home that but one turn more hides it from our view.

Here Billy remonstrates.

"Of course you can sulk if you like," he says in an injured tone, "and not speak to a fellow, all for nothing; but you can't go into the house with your arm like that, unless you wish them to discover the battle in which you have been engaged."

I hesitate and look ruefully at my arm. The sleeve of my dress is rolled up above the elbow, having refused obstinately to come down over the bandage, and consequently I present a dishevelled, not to say startling appearance.

"I must undo it, I suppose," I return, disinclination in my tone, and Billy says, "Of course," with hideous briskness. Therewith he removes the guarding-pin and proceeds to unfold the handkerchief with an air that savors strongly of pleasurable curiosity, while I stand shrinking beside him, and vowing mentally never again to trust myself at an undue distance from mother earth.

At length the last fold is undone, and, to my unspeakable relief, I see that the wound, though crimson round the edges, has ceased to bleed. Hastily and carefully drawing the sleeve of my dress over it, I thrust the stained handkerchief into my pocket and make for the house.

When I have exchanged a word or two with Dora (who is always in the way when not wanted—that being the hall at the present moment), I escape upstairs without being taken to task for my damaged garments, and carefully lock my door. Nevertheless, though now, comparatively speaking, in safety, there is still a weight upon my mind. If to-morrow I am to return the handkerchief to its owner, it must in the meantime be washed, and who is to wash it?

Try as I will, I cannot bring myself to make a confidante of Martha: therefore nothing remains for me but to undertake the purifying of it myself. I have still half an hour clear before the dinner-bell will ring: so, plunging my landlord's cambric into the basin, I boldly commence my work. Five minutes later. I am getting on: it really begins to look almost white again; the stains have nearly vanished, and only a general pinkiness remains. But what is to be done with the water?—if left, it will surely betray me, and betrayal means punishment.

I begin to feel like a murderess. In every murder case I have ever read (and they have a particular fascination for me), the miserable perpetrator of the crime finds a terrible difficulty in getting rid of the water in which he has washed off the traces of his victim's blood. I now find a similar difficulty in disposing of the water reddened by my own. I open the window, look carefully out, and, seeing no one, fling the contents of my basin into the air. "It falls to earth I know not where," as I hurriedly draw in my head and get through the remainder of my self-imposed duty.

After that my dressing for dinner is a scramble; but I get through it in time, and come down serene and innocent, to take my accustomed place at the table.

All goes well until towards the close of the festivities, when papa, fixing a piercing eye on me, says, generally—

"May I inquire which of you is in the habit of throwing water from your bedroom windows upon chance passers by?"

A ghastly silence follows. Dora looks up in meek surprise. Billy glances anxiously at me. My knees knock together. Did it fall upon him? Has he discovered all?

"Well, why do I receive no answer? Who did it?" demands papa, in a voice of suppressed thunder, still with his eye on me.

"I threw some out this evening," I acknowledge, in a faint tone, "but never before—I—"

"Oh! it was you, was it?" says papa, with a glare. "I need scarcely have inquired; I might have known the one most likely to commit a disreputable action. Is that an established habit of yours? Are there no servants to do your bidding? It was the most monstrous proceeding I ever in my life witnessed."

"It was only—" I begin timidly.

"'It was only' that it is an utterly impossible thing for you ever to be a lady," interrupted papa, bitterly. "You are a downright disgrace to your family. At times I find it a difficult matter to believe you a Vernon."

Having delivered this withering speech, he leans back in his chair, with a snort that would not have done discredit to a war-horse, which signifies that the scene is at an end. Two large tears gather in my eyes and roll heavily down my cheeks. They look like tears of penitence, but in reality are tears of relief. Oh, if that tell-tale water had but fallen on the breast of his shirt, or on his stainless cuffs, where would the inquiries have terminated?

Billy—who, I feel instinctively, has been suffering tortures during the past five minutes—now, through the intensity of his joy at my escape, so far forgets himself as to commence a brilliant fantasia on the tablecloth with a dessert-fork. It lasts a full minute without interruption: I am too depressed to give him a warning glance. At length—

"Billy, when you have quite done making that horrid noise, perhaps you will ring the bell," says Dora, smoothly, with a view to comfort. Certainly the tattoo is irritating.

"When I have quite done I will," returns Billy, calmly, and continues his odious occupation, with now an addition to it in the form of an unearthly scraping noise, caused by his nails, that makes one's flesh creep.

Papa, deep in the perusal of the Times, hears and sees nothing. Mother is absent.

"Papa," cries Dora, whose delicate nerves are all unstrung, "will you send Billy out of the room, or else induce him to stop his present employment?"

"William," says papa, severely, "cease that noise directly." And William, casting a vindictive glance at Dora, lays down the dessert-fork and succumbs.