A WILFUL MAID.

Auckland Star, Volume XLII, Issue 204, 28 August 1911, Page 10

A WILFUL MAID.

BY CHARLES GARVICE,

AUTHOB OF "Claire.'' "Elaine," "Her Ransom," "My Lady Pride," "A Woman's Soul," etc. CHAPTER X. "Just time to dress," remarks Philippa, business-like in a moment. "Oh, Lord Cecil, 1 want to ask you: would; you like to have your dinner served | in your own room?" "I should prefer to join you," he Bay*-, 'that is, if I shall not be intruding." and he looks at Carrie. But Carrie is too much occupied in examining her bat to notice the look, and Philippa answers genially—"Of nourse not. We shall be very pleased. Father especially; will he not, Carrie?" "Oh, yes," says Carrie, still intent on her bat. "In that case," says Lord Cecil, "1 shall bt glad to come. Just time, did you say? Then I must hurry. Goodmorning, Fairfold." "Oh, Willie will stay," says Philippa, as a matter of course. "I can't dine in my flannels," says Willie, ruefully. "We'll give you ten minutes' grace," says Philippa, amiably. "Shall 1. came, Miss Carrie?" he asks, with a fervent glance at the beautiful downcast face. "If you like," says Carrie. "Why do you ask me?" with sudden irritability, and having received this ungracious permission, poor Willie dashes off to make the necessary change in his attire. "Well, my dear," says Philippa, cheerfully, as she enters the room where Carrie is slowly and meditatively donning her best dress. "What do you think of 'my lord' now?" ""What do I think of him ?" repeats Carrie, without turning her head from the glass. "What do you mean? Why do you come and ask conundrums at this untimely hour?" ■ Philippa laughs at the irritation displayed in the tone. "I think he has behaved nobly, quite like one of the heroes one reads of in a society novel." "Do you? Then what does it matter What I t&ink?" says Carrie, shortly. "I merely asked from curiosity, my sister," says_ Philippa, placidly. "You have abused him so consistently since' his arrival, that I thought you would' like to have an opportunity of recanting and singing Jus praises." "You do that quite sufficiently," says Carrie. "Then you still think him a conceited prig?'' says Philippa. "T think you are an"extremely troublesonic person," says Carrie, defiantly. "As to Lord Cecil- " " ' She ;iauses. "Well,, as io: Lord Cecil?" says Philippa. persistently'. ' _ * "He behaved just as a- gentleman should have behaved, no more. Lady Bel!airs is- " ,- "Pray don't hesitate on my account, my dear." *£.' "Lady Bellairs is a snob," says Carrie, emphatically. "And Lord Cecil would have been as great a snob if he hadn't snubbed her." "Ah! and what a snub it was!" says Philippa, with quiet, reflective enjoyment. "Her ladyship's face was a study when he persisted in introducing us! Itwas beautifully done If I had been her ladyship, I should have dug a hole in the tennis lawn with my sunshade and crawled into i't." "You would have to dig a very big hole." says Carrie. Philippa laughs quietly. "If we go to this ball we shall be pretty well cut by her ladyship," "Who cares?" "Exactly. But, Carrie, I want to speak to you." "What- have you been doing for the last five minutes? If you would come and help me with this collar, it 'would be more to the purpose than sitting there singing Lord Cecil's praises," says Carrie, pettishly. "How you do dislike that poor young .man!" says Philippa, rising and pinning the obstinate collar. "But, Carrie—about Willie!" "Wbat about him?" demands surveying herself critically, and fastening a bracelet on her white arm. "What about him!" echoes Philippa . mimicking the indifferent tone of the clear, crisp voice. "As if you needed to aslr. This about him; what do youj 1 intend to do?" ! "I intend to bave my dinner directly, and then go to bed," says Carrie, with exasperating coolness. j "Yes, but do you mean to go on' • playing football with that worthy young -man's heart?"- says Philippa, with an "effort at severity. j .'.. "I don't play football," says Carrie. ] """Donl be ridiculous, Philippa 1" "Ridiculous! lam merely speaking from the fullness of my sense of justice | and mercy—qualities, my dear Carrie,' which you do not appear to possess." "I don't need them, seeing that you bave enough for all the. family," say? Carrie. "But don't let me interrupt you, Philippa dear. I • always notice that when you have a few minutes to spare ' you utilise theni'-by reading me a lecture. Now it amuses you and it doesn't hurt me; therefore why should I be so merciless as to deprive you of your little innocent recreation. Go on, Philippa, dear, my monitor and friend. We have had the 'firstly,' now proceed to the 'secondly,' and so on till the dinnerbell rings, which I trust it will do soon, for I am foniishcd." . " 1 Philippa laughs, 'halt Vexed, half amused. ... , ' "Carrie, if I didn't know better, I should be tempted to think sometimes that you have no heart;" Carrie holds up one white hand, and regards the rings upon it pensively. "That sounds dreadfully severe, Phil-' ippa." she 6ays softly, in the sweetest of voices. "On what 'do you ground |» Jiard an r.oo-ssation,* Bister liave you ever seen' me catching flies, or pulling the cat's tail, or sticking pins on the seats of the chairs?" "Hli-ir-a laughs impatiently. "He serious, Carrie! I know that you know what I mean! You behave to ponr Willie as if you absolutely have no heart! No, don't interrupt me. Carrie. Willie loves you most devotedly." "lias he told you this afternoon? He has never told me so." demurely. "Tt doesn't need telling, it" is patent to all the world. Why do you play fast nnd loose with him —all sweetness one day and all coldness the next? My dear, _ love is a serious thing." |fe, Carrie smiles Boftly. Hj\ "So are measles and whooping-cough; Hi your tone infers that you class love among the epidemics."

"A serious thing," continues Philippa, lightly disregarding the interruption; "it means the happiness or misery of a life; it means —ah, Carrie, dear, neither you nor I know fully what it means—certainly not you." The shapely head, with its soft, silken hair, droops thoughtfully. "What a mystery it is, Philippa," she says, looking dreamily out of the window at the setting sun, whose rays light up the beautiful young face and cast a glow around it that might befit "a saint in a stained window." "This love that books—and you, Philippa—are always talking about. According to the books, it. is the one thing wanted to perfect life; the one thing that rounds existence off and makes it worth having! This love! What a tyrant it is! I suppose you would have me believe that poor Willie is, and will be, desperately unhappy unless I—love him! That he is wretched when he is away from me; that he wants me to be with him always; that he longs to make me —his wife I It is strange, passing strange, the poet says! No, I don't understand it!" "Not yet!" says Philippa, sagely, and with a prophetic tone. "But the time will come! I could almost wish that it might never come for you!" "No? Why?" asks Carrie, softly, and glancing at her with the same dreamy look. "Because," says Philippa, with half a smile and half a sigh, "when it does come you will 'take it' so badly."

"Like the measles,' murmurs Carrie. "You will feel it so acutely! It is just your natures that suffer so severely when the hour comes. Ah! Carrie, you will understand then how much pool Willie suffers now! When that hour comes, when the moment and the man arrive, and throw their glamour over you, so that the world is dark when he is not near, and all life seems death if he be not with you 'to vivify it, then you will understand, Carrie! My dear, I seem to see you " "In my mind's eye, Horatio," murmurs Carrie, but there is a touch of seriousness in her tone, as if she had caught the spirit of Philippa's prophecy. " —I seem to see you then, tossed on a wave-rocked sea, swayed by a passion which is as tyrannical as a despot, and at the mercy of the unknown he, whoever he may be! If that time comes, Carrie, you will remember how you jeered at the sacred, mystic passion, and suffer qualms of remorse!" There is silence for a moment, as Philippa ceases her homily; silence during which the beautiful eyes are downcast'and at rest, then Carrie raises her head and smiles. But it is a smile that is rather forced, and it sits on a face that is unusually pale. "Philippa,-you are a bird of ill omen You are a raven croaking over a churchyard elm. What have I done that you should prophesy such evil days for met Love! You paint it in such doleful colours that it affrights me! I am half inclined to register a vow that for all my days I will have nothing to say to it! And if, as you say, I have no heart, perhaps I might make that vow with safetv. Love 1 shall never hear the word without a.shudder! No, Philippa, love and I will remain strangers, thank you all the same! No «"indtossed sea for me, old raven! No!— she stops, and Philippa, lifting her eyes, sees, with much astonishment, that the bright orbs confronting her are dim with unshed tears, that the lovely face is pale, and the red lips quivering. "Carrie! My dear!" she murmurs, with keen self-reproach, and going toward her with outstretched arms. But Carrie steps back and evades the penitent embrace. "Philippa," she says, "you would make a. splendid tragedienne! Don't touch me! Don't touch me! You bave already spoiled my dinner. Be satisfied! Love! If hiSfe be what you eay it is, Heaven keep ft-far from me!"

CHAPTER XI. It is the evening of the sixteenth, the evening of the regimental ball, and Thorpe Hampstead and its neighbourhood is in a pleasant state of excitement. The ball—folc it is the only one which in any way merits the term public—is the great event in the lives of the inhabitants of Maltfleld; the one white spot of revelry, the pne red-letter night in a grey and sober year. Everyone who can get an invitation—and one must be very "shady"' or unim-j portant not to be able to do | a point of donning war-paint and putting in an appearance. On this one night, gentle and simple, lords and commoners meet, if not as equals, at any rate in the same room,- | and mingle in the same dance. I To miss the regimental ball means calamity, disappointment, woe. Even Mr Harrington, who lives only for his farm, and regards balls and 'such-like vafiities as sheer waste of time, money, and energy, is compelled to put on an ancient, swallow-tailed coat, and escort his two daughters. ' He protests against it every year, makes an annual row that ''this shall! positively be the very last time, Philip- 1 I pa!" but the protest is uttered in vain, and when the night comes round again the vow is broken, generally at the inl stance of Carrie, who invariably declares that she will not go without him, and that if she stays at home she will break her heart, and, therefore, that her death will be at his door. To-night, with much grumbling and sundry expressions of impatience atthe whole business, he is getting into the antique dress-coat, and trying to persuade himself that. it is still quite in the fashion, while the two girls are attiring themselves in the new and elaborate dresses which have only that! day come down from London. That is to say, Carrie is dressing, and | Philippa, who has completed her toilet some twenty minutes earlier, is helping her. *' To Philippa, a ball dress is of no more importance than any other, and takes no longer in the donning; but to Carrie the matter assumes quite a different complexion. To her every little detail must be Studied and decided satisfactorily. As she says, "it is the only night in the year she can wear the war-paint, and she likes it to be becoming." Now Bhe stands in the middle of the room, her tall, slim figure, robed in shimmering satin and creamy lace, her ten-buttoned lemon kid gloves all fastened, her fan —a present from Philippa, who is content with an old and somewhat dilapidated one —a white bud or two in her hair, and one scarlet camel*" lia just under her snowy throat, she still feels uncertain and unusually restless and undesided. "Bo you really think it will do, Philippa?" she asks, Abe straight brows knitted questioningly. * "Don't you think 1 should; have been wiser to have chosen something with a little more colourt Yon know how horrid one looks if one gets warm; how red and hot and Maydayish one's face looks above the delicate cream and whiter"

"My dear, you look"—says Philippa, with a smile of concentrated admiration —"No, I can't tell you what you look like At present, in your fit of modesty —which I am aware is but temporary — there is an added charm. I won't make you rain and conceited. But—in a word —you will do!" "You think so?" says Carrie, with a short sigh. "I dont feel quite sure, and you know I should like to do so." "And you do generally; why should you be so dissatisfied to-night?" asks Philippa. A faint tinge of colour comes into Carrie's face, and she laughs softly. "Why? I don't know. Philippa, 1 should like to be the prettiest and best-dressed woman in the room tonight." ' "No doubt," assents Philippa, seizing the opportunity of Carrie's absence from the glass to take a glance at her own get-up. "The very best," says Carrie, opening and shutting her fan and regarding it meditatively. "But that's impossible, of course, seeing the number of grandees who will be there. I dare say'Euphemia Bellairs, for instance, will have a costume from Worth." "Probably," assents Philippa. "And carry a jewellerli shop of diamonds." "Most certainly." "To say nothing of the Donomores from the Hall, and the rest of the aristocrats. After all. do what one will, one cannot look dressed, really dressed, beside such people. Philippa, I detest aristocrats." "Especially when they are better attired than yourself. You seem in an amiable frame of mind. Perhaps you had better stay at home, my child!" (Continued daily. J