He pauses, and, putting his hand under my chin, turns up my face until my head leans against his arm and my eyes look straight into his. His face is dangerously close to mine; it comes closer, closer, until suddenly, without a word of warning, his lips meet mine in a long, eager, passionate kiss.
It is the first time a lover's kiss has been laid upon my lips. I do not struggle or seek to free myself. I only burst into a storm of tears. I am frightened, troubled, and lie trembling and sobbing in his arms, hardly knowing what I feel, hardly conscious of anything but a sense of shame and fear. I know, too, that Marmaduke's heart is beating wildly against my cheek.
"Phyllis, what is it? what have I done?" he asks, very anxiously. "My darling, was I too abrupt? Did I frighten you? Forgive me, sweet; I forgot what a mere timid child you are."
I sob on bitterly.
"It shall not happen again; I promise you that, Phyllis, I will never kiss you again until you give me permission. Now surely you will forgive me. My darling, why should it grieve you so terribly?"
"I don't know," I whisper, "only I do not want to be married, or have a lover, or anything."
Marmaduke lays his cheek very gently against mine, and for a long time there is silence between us. After awhile my sobs cease, and he once more breaks the silence by saying:—
"You will marry me, Phyllis?" and I answer, "Yes," very quietly, somehow feeling as if that kiss had sealed my fate, and put it out of my power to answer "No."
"Then look at me," says Marmaduke, tenderly. "Will you not let me see my dear wife's face?"
I raise a face flushed and tear-stained and glance at him shyly for a moment. Evidently its dimmed appearance makes no difference to him, as there is unmistakable rapture and triumph in his gaze as he regards it. I hide it again with a sigh, though now the Rubicon being actually passed, I feel a sense of rest I had not known before.
"Who is to tell them at home?" I ask presently.
"I will. Shall I go back with you now and tell them at once?"
"No, no," I cry, hastily, shrinking from the contemplation of the scene that will inevitably follow his announcement. "It is too late now. To-morrow—about four o'clock—you can come and get it over. And, Mr. Carrington, will, will you please be sure to tell them I knew nothing of it—never suspected, I mean, that you cared for me?"
"That I loved you? It would be a pity to suppress so evident a fact. Though how you could have been so blind, my pet, puzzles me. Well, then, to-morrow let it be. And now I will walk home with you, lest any hobgoblin, jealous of my joy should spirit you away from me."
Together and rather silently we go through the wood and out into the road beyond. I am conscious that every now and then Marmaduke's eyes seek my face and dwell there with a smile in them that betrays his extreme and utter satisfaction. As for me, I am neither glad nor sorry, nor anything, but rather fearful of the consequence when my engagement shall be made public in the home circle. As yet my marriage is a thing so faint, so far away in the dim distance, that it causes me little or no annoyance.
Suddenly I stop short in the middle of the road and burst into irrepressible laughter.
"What is it?" asks Mr. Carrington, who is smiling in sympathy.
"Oh that sneeze!" I say when I can speak "coming just in the middle of your proposal. Could anything have been so unsuitable, so utterly out of place? That odious little convulsion! I shall always think of the whole scene with abhorrence."
"Suppose I propose to you all over again?" suggests Mr. Carrington. "It is impossible you can bring it in so unfortunately a second time; and you can then recollect the important event with more complaisance."
"No, no. A second addition would be flat, stale, and unprofitable; and besides, it does not really matter, does it? Only I suppose it would be more correct to feel grave and tearful, instead of comical, on such occasions."
"Nothing matters," exclaims Marmaduke, fervently, seizing my hand and kissing it, "since you have promised to be my wife. And soon Phyllis—is it not so?"
"Oh, no; certainly not soon," I return, decidedly. "There is plenty of time. There is no hurry; and I do not want to be married for ever so long."
My lover's countenance falls.
"What do you mean by 'ever so long?'" he asks.
"Two or three years, perhaps."
"Phyllis! how can you be so unreasonable, so absurd?" says he, his face flushing. "Two years! It is an eternity. Say six months, if you will; though even that is a ridiculous delay."
"If you talk like that," I say, stopping to stare fixedly at him, "I will not marry you at all. We had better decide the question at once. If you mean to say you think seriously I will marry you in six months, all I can say is, you are very much mistaken. I would not marry the Prince of Wales in six months; there! If you once mention the subject to papa, and he discovers I do not wish to be hurried into the marriage, I have no doubt, he will insist on my becoming a bride in six days. But rather than submit to any tyranny in the matter I would run away and drown myself."
I utter this appalling threat with every outward demonstration of seriousness. Really the last hour has developed in a wonderful manner my powers of conversation.
"Do you suppose," cried Marmaduke, with indignation, "I have any desire to force you into anything? You may rest assured I will never mention the subject to your father. What do you take me for? You shall do just as you think fit. But, Phyllis, darling"—very tenderly, "won't you consider me a little? Remember how I shall be longing for you, and how unhappy will be every day spent away from you. Oh, darling, you cannot comprehend how every thought of my heart is wrapped up in you—how passionate and devoted is my love."
He looks so handsome, so much in earnest, as he says this, with his face flushed and his dark eyes alight, that I feel myself relenting. He sees his advantage and presses it.
"You won't be cruel, darling, will you? Remember you have all the power in your own hands. I would not, if I could, compel you to marry me a day sooner than you wish. And, Phyllis, will you not try to think it is for your happiness as well as for mine? In time you will learn to love me as well—no, that would be impossible—but almost as well as I love you. The entire devotion of a man's life must meet with some return; and I swear it shall not be my fault if every hour you spend is not happier than the last. Speak, Phyllis, and say you will come to me in—"
"A year," I interrupt, hastily. "Yes, that is a great concession; I said three years first, and now by a word I take off two. That is twenty-four long months. Think of it. You cannot expect more."
"It will never pass," says Marmaduke, desperately.
"It will pass, all too soon," say I, with a heavy sigh.
CHAPTER XII.
All that evening and all the next day I creep about as one oppressed with sin. As the hour approaches that shall lay bare my secret I feel positively faint, and heartily wish myself in my grave. I am as wretched as though some calamity had befallen me; and verily I begin to think it has. With what intense longing do I wish undone all that happened yesterday!
Almost