Phyllis. Duchess

I sit in an upper chamber—like Elaine, but with what different emotions!—watching my lover's coming, I can see he is looking oppressively radiant, and is actually whistling. I begin to hate him. How detestable a man looks when whistling! Ploughboys whistle!

      He knocks a loud, determined, and, as it seems to me in my morbid fright, a triumphant knock at the door, and rings the bell until it sends forth a merry peal that echoes through the passages. A funny empty sensation comes into the tops of my fingers and across my forehead, as though the blood was receding, and, rising swiftly, I hurry to my own room and lock the door.

      Now he is in the hall, and Billy and he are laughing—at some stupid joke, no doubt. Now he is in the library; now he has told papa it is a fine day; and now it must be all over!

      I am too frightened to cry. Half an hour, an hour, go by. I long, yet fear, to open the door. Another quarter of an hour elapses, and then mother's step comes slowly along the corridor outside.

      "Phyllis, are you within, open the door."

      It is mother's voice, but it sounds strangely cold. I open to her, and present a woebegone face to her inspection. She comes in and comforts me for a moment silently. Then she speaks.

      "Phyllis, I never thought you deceitful," she says, as severely as it is in her to say anything, and with a look of reproach in her dear eyes that cuts me to the heart.

      "Mother," I cry passionately, "don't look at me like that. Indeed, indeed I am not deceitful. I knew nothing about it when he asked me yesterday to marry him. I was a great deal more surprised than even you are now. I always thought it was Dora (and I wish with all my heart it was Dora); but, though I refused him at first, he said so much afterwards that I was induced to give in. Oh, mother, won't you believe me?"

      "But you must have met him many times, Phyllis, before he asked you in marriage—many times of which we know nothing."

      "I did not, indeed. Whenever I saw him I told you—except once, a long time ago when we met in the wood, with Billy. But I was climbing a nut-tree that day, and was afraid to say anything of it, lest I should get into disgrace. And when we went for that drive; and two or three times we met here; and that was all. I am sure I don't know what made him fall in love with me, and Dora so much prettier and more charming in every way. I don't believe he knows himself."

      "It is certainly most extraordinary," says mother, "and, I must add, very unfortunate. You will acknowledge it looks suspicious. Your father is much disturbed about it and I really think Dora's heart must be broken, she is crying so bitterly. If we had not all made up our minds so securely about Dora it would not be so bad; but she was sure of it. And his visits here were so frequent. I really do think he has behaved very badly."

      "It was a mistake altogether," I murmur feebly.

      "Yes, and a most unhappy one. I am sure I don't know what is to be done about Dora. She insists upon it that you secretly encouraged and took him away from her; and your father appears to sympathize with her."

      "That goes without telling," I reply bitterly.

      Then there follows a pause, during which mother sighs heavily once or twice, and I do severe battle with my conscience. At the end of it I cry, suddenly—

      "Mother, there is one thing for which I do blame myself, but at first it did not occur to me that it might be wrong. One day we were talking of photographs, Mr. Carrington and I, and—two days afterwards I gave him mine. He put it in his locket, and when Dora saw him down by the river it was it he was kissing. I never dreamed it could be mine until he showed it to me yesterday."

      "I had forgotten to ask you about that. Dora and your father were discussing it just now, and Dora declared she was certain it had happened as you have now stated. Phyllis, if there has not been actual duplicity in your conduct, there has at least been much imprudence."

      "I know that, mother," I return disconsolately.

      "This will greatly add to your discredit in the affair: you must see that. Really," says mother, sinking into a chair, and sighing again, "this engagement, that should cause us all such pride and joy, is only a source of annoyance and pain."

      "Then I won't marry him at all, mother," I cry, recklessly. "I don't want to one bit: and probably if I tell him to-morrow I hate and despise him he will not want to either. Or shall I write? A letter will go far quicker."

      But mother is aghast at this daring proposal. Because he has disappointed her hopes in one quarter is no reason why she should lose him altogether as a son-in-law.

      "No, no," she says in a slightly altered tone. "Let things remain as they now are. It is a good match for you in every sense of the word; and setting him free would give Dora no satisfaction. But I wish it had all come about differently."

      With that she turns from me and goes towards the door. My heart feels breaking.

      "Oh, mother, you are not going to leave me like this, are you?" I burst out, miserably. "When other girls get engaged, people are kind and say nice things to them; but nobody seems to care about me, nobody wishes me joy. Am I nothing to you? Am I to get only hard and cruel words?" Piteous sobs interrupt me. I cover my face with my hands.

      Of course in another moment I am folded in mother's arms, and her soft hands press my graceless head down upon the bosom that never yet in all my griefs has failed me. Two of her tears fall upon my cheek.

      "My darling child," she whispers, "have I been too unkind to you? I did not mean it, Phyllis; but I have been made so miserable by all I have heard."

      "But you don't think me deceitful, mother?"

      "No, not now—not at any time, I think; but I was greatly upset by poor Dora's disappointment. My darling, I hope you will be happy in your choice and in my heart I believe you will. At all events, he is not blind to the virtues of my dear girl. He loves you very dearly, Phyllis. Are you sure, my dearest, that you love him?"

      "Did you love papa very much, darling, when you married him?"

      "Of course, dear," with a faint blush.

      "Oh, mother, did you really?" Then, with a reflective sigh, "At that rate I am glad I do not love Mr. Carrington."

      "Phyllis! what are you saying? It is the first duty of every woman to love her husband. You must try to regard Mr. Carrington in that light."

      "I like him, and that is better. You were blind to papa's faults because you loved him; that was a mistake. Now, I shall not be blind to Marmaduke's; and if he does anything very horrid, or develops unpleasant symptoms, I shall be able to give him up before it is too late. If you had been fully alive to papa's little tempers, mother, I don't suppose you would ever have married him; would you?"

      "Phyllis, I cannot allow you to discuss your father in this manner. It is neither dutiful nor proper; and it vexes me very much."

      "Then I won't vex you. But I read in a book the other day. 'It is better to respect your husband than to love him.'"

      "One should do both, of course; but, oh, Phyllis, try to love him; that is the great softener in the married life. It is so easy to forgive when love urges. You are wrong, my pet, but you have a tender heart, and so I pray all may be well with you. Yet when I think of your leaving me to face the wide world I feel lonely. I fancy I could have better spared Dora than my own wild Phyllis."