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diff --git a/31825-h/31825-h.htm b/31825-h/31825-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..096bb29 --- /dev/null +++ b/31825-h/31825-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,15858 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Portia, by The Duchess. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + + p {margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + text-indent: 1.25em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + img {border: 0;} + .tnote {border: dashed 1px; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; padding-right: .5em;} + ins {text-decoration:none; border-bottom: thin dotted gray;} + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + .pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + } /* page numbers */ + .copyright {text-align: center; font-size: 70%;} + .blockquot{margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; text-align: justify;} + + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .unindent {margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + .right {text-align: right;} + .poem {margin-left: 30%; margin-right: 10%; text-align: left;} + .poem2 {margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 10%; text-align: left;} + .sig {margin-right: 15%; text-align: right;} + .hang1 {text-indent: -3em; margin-left: 7em;} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Portia, by Duchess + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Portia + or By Passions Rocked + +Author: Duchess + +Release Date: March 30, 2010 [EBook #31825] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PORTIA *** + + + + +Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Emmy and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + + + + + +<h1>PORTIA;</h1> + +<h3>OR</h3> + +<h2><span class="smcap">By Passions Rocked</span></h2> + +<h3>BY</h3> + +<h2>THE DUCHESS</h2> + +<div class='center'>Author of "PHYLLIS," "AIRY, FAIRY LILLIAN," ETC<br /><br /> + +<br /><br /><br /> +NEW YORK AND CHICAGO<br /> +<big>BUTLER BROTHERS</big><br /> +</div> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class='copyright'><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> +TROW'S<br /> +PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY,<br /> +NEW YORK.<br /></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p> + +<h2>PORTIA;<br /> +Or, "By Passions Rocked."</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER I.</h2> + +<div class="hang1">"A child of our grandmother Eve, a female; or, for thy more sweet understanding, a +woman."—<span class="smcap">Love's Labors Lost.</span></div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> gates are thrown wide open, and the carriage rolls +smoothly down the long dark avenue, beneath the waving +branches of the tall elms and the copper beeches, through +which the dying sun is flinging its parting rays.</p> + +<p>The horses, sniffing the air of home, fling up their heads +and make still greater haste, until presently, rounding the +curve, they draw up before the hall door.</p> + +<p>It stands open, and on the high, stone steps that lead to it, +a very pretty girl looks down upon the carriage from under +her palm, with a face eager and expectant. When she has +barely glanced at it, she says, "Ah!" in a tone of deep satisfaction, +and running down the steps and over the gravel, +turns the handle of the carriage door and looks anxiously at +its occupant.</p> + +<p>"You have come," she says, cheerily. "I was <i>so</i> afraid +something might have prevented you."</p> + +<p>The person she addresses—a girl about two years older +than herself, says:</p> + +<p>"Yes, I have come," in a tone slow and sweet, almost to +languor.</p> + +<p>"<i>So</i> glad," says the pretty girl, with a smile that must be one<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span> +of her sweetest charms, it is so full of life and gaiety; "come +out of this dreadful old sarcophagus and upstairs with me; I +have your tea in your own room for you."</p> + +<p>Miss Vibart, stepping out of the brougham, follows her +hostess into the house, through the grand old hall, and up +the wide, oak staircase, into a room huge and old-fashioned—but +delicious and cozy, and comfortable to the last +degree.</p> + +<p>Having cast one hasty glance round the apartment, Miss +Vibart turns to her young hostess—</p> + +<p>"You are Dulcinea? isn't it?" she says, questioningly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I am Dulcinea as a rule—(may I be your maid, just +for once—you will be so much happier without your hat)—but +I have so many other names, that it takes me all my time +to remember which one I really belong to. Uncle Christopher +calls me Baby! and Mark Gore, when he is here, calls +me Duchess, and Dicky Browne calls me Tom, and Roger +calls me—I really quite forget what it is Roger calls me," +with a slight shrug of her shoulders.</p> + +<p>"Is Dicky Browne your <i><ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'fiance'">fiancé</ins>?</i>" asks Miss Vibart, uncertainly; +"I know you are engaged to somebody; Auntie +Maud told me that."</p> + +<p>"Dicky Browne! Oh, no!" Then, with the gayest little +laugh in the world, "If you could only <i>see</i> Dicky Browne! +He couldn't, by any possibility, be <i>anybody's fiancé!</i> You +mean Roger, I suppose." But, with a quick frown and a +touch of petulance, "Don't let us talk about <i>him</i>. He is +such a worry, and has been making himself so exceedingly +unpleasant all the morning!"</p> + +<p>Miss Vibart stares, forgetting her usually very charming +manners for the moment, and then drops her heavily-fringed +lids over her eyes.</p> + +<p>"By-the-by," says Dulce, breaking in upon what threatens +to be an awkward pause, "how d'ye do? I don't believe I +have said that yet." Her whole tone and expression have +changed as if by magic; the suggestion of ill-temper is gone; +the former vivacity re-asserts itself. She lays her hands +upon her visitor's shoulders with a light, caressing gesture, +and leans towards her. "I shall give you a little kiss for +your welcome, my dear cousin, if I may," she says, very +prettily.</p> + +<p>Portia Vibart, acknowledging her grace, tells herself this<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span> +new cousin will suit very well, and returns her soft embrace +with some warmth. She is feeling tired, used up, <i>ennuye</i> to +the last degree; even the two or three weeks she has had in +town have been too much for her, and she has come down to +her uncle's house nearly ready to confess to herself that she +is seriously ill. Here, in the stillness, in this great room, +with the elms swaying to and fro outside her windows, and +the distant cawing of the rooks in the branches high up out +of sight, she feels rest, and comfort, and a curious longing, +that has a strange pleasure in it, to stretch out her arms and +sigh deeply and contentedly.</p> + +<p>"Sit in this chair, and rest a <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'litte'">little</ins> before thinking of +taking off anything else," says Dulce; "I shall pour out +your tea."</p> + +<p>She goes, with the quick undulating step that belongs +to her, to a small, round table, and makes a little fuss over +the delicate fat little cups that stand on the tray.</p> + +<p>"You take sugar?" she asks, in a moment or two.</p> + +<p>"No, thank you," says Portia, slowly; she is looking at her +cousin still, whose hair is as nearly red as it can be, without +being exactly so; it comes very, very close to it, but it is only +the rude who have ever called it so.</p> + +<p>"But of course not," says Dulcinea. "One might know +that by looking at you. It isn't a good thing to take sugar +in one's tea nowadays, is it?—it almost touches on immorality;" +she is standing with the sugar-tongs poised in her +right hand, and is glancing at Portia over her shoulder. "<i>I</i> +take it, you know—any amount of it, and I have yet the grace +to be ashamed of myself afresh, at every new lump. Dicky +Browne likes it, too."</p> + +<p>"Who <i>is</i> Dicky Browne?" demands Portia, suddenly: +if she is going to live in this rather mixed household, she +had better learn some particulars about the inhabitants at +once.</p> + +<p>"Not know Dicky? it argues yourself unknown. He is +our celebrity. He is really immensely clever, about always +doing the wrong thing, and indeed is inestimable in most +ways. He is your cousin, too, as much as he is mine, which +really," declares she airily, "isn't much. But he is such a +pet all through that we magnify the third-cousinship into a +first. He rides very straight and smokes the very prettiest +cigarettes, and he is <i>such</i> a fool!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span></p> + +<p>Miss Vibart is amused. "What a very charming description," +she says, with the low laugh she allows herself; "he +sounds like something I have seen somewhere, and he certainly +would be a treasure to Byron."</p> + +<p>"Lord Byron?" asks Dulce, with lifted brows; "I don't +myself think he would show off much as a Conrad, or a +Giaour, or a Lara."</p> + +<p>"I rather fancy I was thinking of the man who writes +plays," says Miss Vibart, mildly. "Is he here now?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. He spends most of his time here. Both he and +Roger are consumed with a desire to see you. You must +know," says Dulcinea, laughing over her cups at her cousin, +"that a breath from the outer world came to us, whispering +of your success in town, and how every one raves of your +<i>beaux yeux</i>, and your beauty generally."</p> + +<p>"Who wafted so insane a breath as that?" asks Portia, +with a suppressed smile.</p> + +<p>"Mark Gore. He puts in a good deal of his time here, +too."</p> + +<p>"Mark Gore never talks anything but the very utterest +nonsense," says Portia with a faint blush. "No one minds +him. I shall be quite afraid to go down-stairs to present myself +to Dicky Browne after all you have said. Consider his +disappointment."</p> + +<p>"I shan't," says Dulce, calmly, "and you needn't fear him. +He is only Dicky. Well, it is five now, and we dine at seven. +I shall send your maid to you, and I shall call back for you +in an hour, if you wish, to bring you down stairs with me. +But, perhaps—"</p> + +<p>"Oh! please do," says Portia, graciously. "I shall be just +a little strange at first, shan't I?"</p> + +<p>"Strange here? <i>Indeed</i> no," says Dulcinea, earnestly. +"Nobody knows the meaning of that word in this old Court. +We all get friends with each other at once, and I don't +think we ever fall asunder again. Now at six do try to be +ready, and I will take you to see Uncle Christopher, who is +sure to be in just then."</p> + +<p>"I shall be ready," says Portia, with determination.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER II.</h2> + +<div class='blockquot'><p>"The first and the simplest emotion which we discover in the human mind is +curiosity."—<span class="smcap">Burke.</span></p></div> + + +<p>"<span class="smcap">Yes</span>, I am quite ready," says Portia.</p> + +<p>The hour has flown, and Dulcinea, standing in the doorway +of her cousin's room, gazes on her with undisguised admiration. +To Dulcinea, anything lovely, be it man, or +beast, or flower, is an intense and everlasting delight, and +now Portia enchants her. In very truth so well she might, +as a fairer picture than she presents at this moment can +hardly be imagined.</p> + +<p>She is standing before a large glass, let into the wall on +one side of the room from ceiling to floor, and, with a back +glass in her hand, is leaning slightly to one side, as though +lost in admiration of the soft mass of fair, brown hair that +lies coiled low down on her neck in high-art fashion. She +is like a soft harmony in black and gold, with her filmy robes +clinging closely round her, and the old gold, that is so like +tarnished yellow, touching her here and there.</p> + +<p>"Ah! Mark was right," says Dulce, with a little sigh of +intensest pleasure. "Come down now (you <i>cannot</i> make +yourself more beautiful), and be made known to Uncle +Christopher."</p> + +<p>It is in the library that Miss Vibart makes herself known. +Dulce entering first, with her gay little air, says:</p> + +<p>"This is Portia, Uncle Christopher." Thereupon a tall +old man, rising from a chair, comes quickly up to them and +takes Portia's hand, and, stooping very low, presses his lips +to her forehead.</p> + +<p>He is a remarkably handsome old man, with light hair, and +a rather warm complexion, and choleric, but kindly eyes. +Even at the first glance Portia tells herself he would be as +harsh a foe as he would be a champion true, and in so far +she reads him right. He is hot-tempered, obstinate, at moments +perhaps unjust, but at all times kind-hearted, and +deserving of tenderest regard.</p> + +<p>Now he is holding his new niece's hand, and is gazing +down at her with animated eyes, that no age will ever quite +dim.</p> + +<p>"So glad. <i>So</i> glad you have come to us," he says, in a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span> +tone that reminds her of Dulce's, though it is so deep and +strong and masculine, and hers so very much the reverse in +every way, "Bless me, how days go by! Just last week, as +it seems to me, I saw you a little girl in short petticoats and +frills, and furbelows, and now—"</p> + +<p>"I wear petticoats still," says Portia, demurely, with a +soft laugh, "and frills sometimes, and often furbelows, I +<i>think</i>, though I don't in the least know what they mean, but +they sound nice. So, after all, I should be now very much +as I was."</p> + +<p>"Very much. But forgive me," says Sir Christopher, "if +I say you were not anything like as good-looking then as you +are to-day."</p> + +<p>"A speech easy to forgive," said Portia, lightly. Then, +after a pause, "I, too, remember what <i>you</i> were like in those +old days."</p> + +<p>"What then?" asked Sir Christopher, giving a sudden +pull to his collar, and betraying an increased degree of interest.</p> + +<p>"Nothing like so good-looking as you are to-day," retorts +she, with a quick smile and a little flicker of her eyelids.</p> + +<p>"Ah! we shall be friends," cries Sir Christopher, gaily. +"Baby and you and I will ride roughshod over all the others; +and we have wanted somebody to help us, haven't we, +Baby?" Then he turns more entirely to Dulce; "Eh, a +sharp wit, isn't it?" he says.</p> + +<p>"Auntie Maud sent her love to you," said Portia.</p> + +<p>"Eh? Much obliged, I'm sure," says Sir Christopher. +"Very good of her; mine to her in return. A most estimable +woman she always was, if short of nose. How she +<i>could</i> have thrown herself away upon that little insignificant—eh?—though +he <i>was</i> my brother—eh?"</p> + +<p>"She ought to have had you," says Miss Vibart, with soft +audacity.</p> + +<p>"Eh? eh?" says Sir Christopher, plainly delighted. +"Now, what a rogue!" He turns to Dulce, as he always +does on every occasion, be it sweet or bitter. "You hear +her, Dulce. She flatters me, eh?"</p> + +<p>"Uncle Christopher, you are a sad, sad flirt," says Dulce, +patting his cheek. "I am glad poor Auntie Maud escaped +your fascinations. You would have forgotten her in a week. +Do you know what o'clock it is?—<i>after</i> six. Now do go up<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span> +and get ready for dinner, and try to be in time for once, if +only to do honor to Portia. He is so irregular," says Dulcinea, +turning to Portia.</p> + +<p>Miss Vibart, like Alice, begins to think it all "curiouser +and curiouser;" yet, withal, the house seems full of love.</p> + +<p>"Well, indeed as a rule, I believe I <i>am</i> late," says Sir +Christopher, in a resigned tone. "But I always put it down +upon Mylder; he <i>can't</i> tie a cravat!" Then, to Portia, "You +are pale and thin, child. You must get rosy and fat, and +above all things healthy, before we are done with you."</p> + +<p>"She must, indeed," says Dulce, "though I doubt if she +will thank us for it by-and-by; when she finds herself (as +she shall) with rose-colored cheeks like a dairy-maid, she will +be very angry with us all."</p> + +<p>"I shall never have red cheeks," says Portia; "and I +shall never be angry with you; but I shall surely get strong +in this charming air."</p> + +<p>"Here you will live forever," says Dulce. "People at +ninety-five consider themselves in the prime of life."</p> + +<p>"Lucky they!" says Portia; "they must 'wear the rose +of youth' upon them forever."</p> + +<p>"Oh! we <i>can</i> die young," says Dulce, hastily, as though +anxious to take a stigma off her country-side. "We have +been known to do it, but not much; and the happiest have +gone the soonest."</p> + +<p>"Yes," says Uncle Christopher, most cheerfully—he is +plainly unimpressed, and shows an inclination to whistle</p> + +<div class='poem'> +"Golden lads and girls, all must,<br /> +As chimney-sweepers come to dust!"<br /> +</div> + +<p>"I say, Dulce, isn't Portia like that picture of your grand-aunt +in the north gallery?"</p> + +<p>"Like who?" asks Portia, anxiously.</p> + +<p>"Like the handsomest woman in Europe, of her time," +says Sir Christopher, earnestly, with a low, profound bow +that might perhaps have been acceptable to "the handsomest +woman in Europe," but only serves now to raise wild mirth +in the breasts of her degenerate grand-nieces.</p> + +<p>When they have reached again the hall outside (leaving +Sir Christopher to seek the tender mercies of Mylder) Portia +turns to her cousin—</p> + +<p>"I am fortunate," she says, in her usual composed fashion<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span> +that is yet neither cold nor repellant, "I find Uncle Christopher, +also, altogether charming!"</p> + +<p>The "also" is very happy. It is not to be misunderstood, +and is full of subtle flattery. Dulcinea yields to it, and turns, +eyes and lips bright with a warm smile, upon Miss Vibart.</p> + +<p>"Yes; he is quite everything that is nice," she says, gracefully +ignoring the compliment to herself. "Now, shall we +come and sit on the balcony until dinner is ready; as a rule, +we assemble there in Summer instead of in the drawing-room, +which, of course, is more convenient, and decidedly +more gloomy."</p> + +<p>"I have an all-conquering curiosity to know everything +about everybody down here," says Portia, as they reach the +balcony. Dulce pushes a low, sleepy-looking chair toward +her, and, sinking gracefully into it, she turns her eyes up to +her cousin. "Tell me all about your Roger," she says, languidly. +"As I must begin with somebody, I think I shall +prefer beginning with—with—what shall I call him? Your +young man?"</p> + +<p>"It sounds like Martha's baker's boy," says Dulce, laughing; +"but you may call Roger what you like. I wish with +all my heart you could call him husband, as that would take +him out of my way."</p> + +<p>They are standing on the balcony, and are looking toward +the South. Beyond them stretch the lawns, green and +sloping; from below, the breath of the sleeping flowers comes +up to greet them; through the trees in the far, far distance +comes to them a glimpse of the great ocean as it lies calm +and silent, almost to melancholy, but for the soft lap, lapping +of the waves upon the pebbly shore.</p> + +<p>"Some one told me he was very handsome," says Portia, +at a venture. Perhaps she has heard this, perhaps she hasn't. +It even seems to her there is more truth in the "has" than in +the "hasn't."</p> + +<p>"I have seen uglier people," admits Dulcinea, regretfully; +"when he has his face washed, and his hair brushed, he isn't +half a bad boy."</p> + +<p>"Boy?" asks Portia, doubtfully; to her the foregoing speech +is full of difficulty.</p> + +<p>"I daresay <i>you</i> would call him a man," says Dulce, with a +shrug of her soft shoulders; "but really he isn't. If you had +grown up with him, as I have, you would never think of him<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span> +as being anything but an overgrown baby, and a very cross +one. That is the worst of being brought up with a person, +and being told one is to marry him by-and-by. It rather +takes the gilt off him, I think," says Dulce with a small +smile.</p> + +<p>"But why must you marry him?" asks Portia, opening +her large black fan in an indolent fashion, and waving it to +and fro.</p> + +<p>The sun retiring</p> + +<div class='center'> +"On waves of glory, like an ocean god,"<br /> +</div> + +<div class='unindent'>flings over her a pale, pink halo, that renders even more delicately +fine the beauty of her complexion. A passing breeze +flings into her lap a few rose-leaves from a trailing tree that +has climbed the balcony, and is now nodding drowsily as the +day slowly dies. She is feeling a little sorry for Dulce, who +is reciting her family history with such a doleful air.</div> + +<p>"Well, I needn't, you know," says that young lady, lightly; +"not if I don't choose, you know. I have got until I am +twenty-one to think about it, and I am only eighteen now. +I daresay I shall cry-off at the last moment; indeed, I am +sure I shall," with a wilful shake of the head, "because +Roger, at times, is quite too much, and utterly insupportable, +yet, in that case, I shall vex Uncle Christopher, and I +do so love Uncle Christopher!"</p> + +<p>"But he had nothing to do with the arrangement, had +he?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing. It was his brother, Uncle Humphrey, who +made the mistake. He left the property between us on condition +we married each other. Whichever of us, at twenty-one, +declines to carry out the agreement, gets £500 a year +off the property, and the rest goes to the happy rejected. It +is a charming place, about six miles from this, all lakes and +trees, and the most enchanting gardens. I daresay Roger +would be delighted if I would give him up, but" (vindictively) +"I shan't. He shall never get those delicious gardens +all to himself."</p> + +<p>"What an eccentric will," says Portia.</p> + +<p>"Well, hardly that. The place is very large, and requires +money to keep it up. If he had divided the income between +us, and we had been at liberty to go each our own way, the +possessor of the house and lands would not have had enough<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span> +money to keep it in proper order. I think it rather a just +will. I wish it had been differently arranged, of course, but +it can't be helped now."</p> + +<p>"Is he your first cousin? You know I have heard very +little about this branch of my family, having lived so long in +India."</p> + +<p>"No, my second cousin. Fabian is Uncle Christopher's +heir, but if—if he died, Roger would inherit title and all. +That is another reason why I hate him. Why should he +have even a distant claim to anything that belongs to Fabian?"</p> + +<p>"But, my dear girl, you are not going to marry a man you +hate?" says Portia, sitting up very straight, and forgetting +to wave her fan.</p> + +<p>"Not exactly," says Dulce, meditatively; "I really don't +think I hate him, but he can be disagreeable, I promise +you."</p> + +<p>"But if you marry him, hardly tolerating him, and afterwards +you meet somebody you can love, how will it be with +you then?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I shan't do that," she says; "I have felt so married +to Roger for years, that it would be positively indecent of +me, even <i>now</i>, to fall in love with any one. In fact I +couldn't."</p> + +<p>"I daresay, after all, you like him well enough," says Miss +Vibart, with her low, soft laugh. "Mark Gore says you +are exactly suited to each other."</p> + +<p>"Mark Gore is a confirmed old bachelor, and knows +nothing," says Dulce, contemptuously.</p> + +<p>"Yet once, they say, he was hopelessly in love with Phyllis +Carrington."</p> + +<p>"So he was. It was quite a romance, and he was the +hero."</p> + +<p>"Phyllis is quite everything she ought to be, and utterly +sweet," says Portia, thoughtfully. "But <i>is</i> she the sort of person +to create a <i>grande passion</i> in a man like Mark?"</p> + +<p>"I daresay. Her eyes are lovely; so babyish, yet so full +of latent coquetry. A man of the world, like Mark, would +like that sort of thing. But it is all over now, quite a worn-out +tale. He visits there at stated times, and she has thoughts +only for her baby and her 'Duke,' as she calls her husband."</p> + +<p>"I wonder," says Miss Vibart, with a faint yawn, "if at +times she doesn't find that a trifle slow?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span></p> + +<p>Then she grows a little ashamed of herself, as she catches +Dulce's quick, puzzled glance.</p> + +<p>"It is a very pretty baby," says Dulce, as though anxious +to explain matters.</p> + +<p>"And what can be more adorable than a pretty baby?" +responds her cousin, with a charming smile. "Now do tell +me"—quickly, and as though to change the current of her +companion's thoughts—"how many people are in this house, +and who they are, and everything that is bad and good about +them."</p> + +<p>Dulce laughs.</p> + +<p>"We come and go," she says. "It would be hard to arrange +us. <i>I</i> am always here, and Uncle Christopher, and—Fabian. +Roger calls this his home, too, but sometimes he +goes away for awhile, and Dicky's room is always kept for +him. We are all cousins pretty nearly, and there is one peculiarity—I +mean, Uncle Christopher makes no one welcome +who does not believe—in—Fabian."</p> + +<p>Her voice falls slightly as she makes the last remark, and +she turns her head aside, and, leaning over the balcony, plays +absently with a rosebud that is growing within her reach. In +this position she cannot see that Portia has colored warmly, +and is watching her with some curiosity.</p> + +<p>"You <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'mu t'">must</ins> try to like Fabian," says Dulce, presently. +Her voice is sad, but quite composed. She appears mournful, +but not disconcerted. "You have no doubt heard his +unfortunate story from Auntie Maud, and—<i>you</i> believe in +him, don't you?" She raises her eyes to her cousin's face.</p> + +<p>"I hardly think I have quite heard the story," says Miss +Vibart evasively.</p> + +<p>"No? It is a very sad one, and quite unaccountable. If +you have heard anything about it, you have heard all I can +tell you. Nothing has ever been explained; I am afraid now +nothing ever will be. It rests as it did at the beginning—that +is the pity of it—but you shall hear."</p> + +<p>"Not if it distresses you," says Portia gently. A feeling +of utter pity for Fabian's sister, with all her faith and trust so +full upon her at this moment, touches her keenly. As for +the story itself, she has heard it a score of times, with variations, +from Auntie Maud. But then, when brought to bay, +what <i>can</i> one say!</p> + +<p>"It will not distress me," says Dulce, earnestly; "and I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span> +would so much rather you knew everything before you meet +him. It will make things smoother. It all happened four +long years ago—years that to him must seem a lifetime. He +is twenty-nine now, he was only twenty-five then, just the +time, I suppose, when life should be sweetest."</p> + +<p>"It is mere accident makes life sweet at times," says Portia. +"It has nothing to do with years, or place, or beauty. +But tell me about your brother."</p> + +<p>"He had just come home for his leave. He was so handsome, +and so happy—without a care on earth—and was such a pet +with the men in his regiment. I was only a child then, but +he never seemed too old to talk to me, or to make me his companion. +And then one morning it all happened; we were +at breakfast—as we might be to-morrow"—says poor Dulce, +with a comprehensive gesture, "when one of the men came +in and said somebody wanted to speak to Uncle Christopher. +When I think of it"—with a long-drawn sigh—"my blood +seems to run cold. And even now, whenever Harley comes +in at breakfast and bends over Uncle Christopher in a confidential +way to tell him—it may be—about the puppies or the +last filly, a sensation of faintness creeps over me."</p> + +<p>"I don't wonder," says Portia, feelingly. "How could one +ever forget it? You are making yourself unhappy; go no +farther now, but tell me about it another time."</p> + +<p>"As I have begun I shall finish," says Dulce, heroically, +"even at the risk of boring you. But"—wistfully—"you +will forgive me that."</p> + +<p>"Go on; I <i>want</i> to hear," says Portia, strangely moved. +Yet it seems cruel to make her repeat what she knows so +well already, and what is so bitter to the narrator.</p> + +<p>"Well, Uncle Christopher went out to see the man who +wanted him, and after a little bit came back again, with a +white face, and told us one of the clerks at the County Bank +had dared to say Fabian had forged his—Uncle Christopher's—name +for £500. I think I hardly understood; but +Fabian got up, and first, he grew very red, and then very +white, but he said nothing. He only motioned to me not to +stir, so I sat quite still, and then he went up to Uncle Christopher, +who was very angry, and laid his hand upon his arm +and led him out of the room."</p> + +<p>She pauses.</p> + +<p>"Dulcinea," as yet the more familiar appellation "Dulce"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span> +is strange to Miss Vibart. "Dulcinea," she says, very sweetly, +holding out a soft, pale, jewelled hand, with tender meaning, +"come and sit here beside me."</p> + +<p>Dulce is grateful for the unspoken sympathy, but instead +of accepting half the lounging chair, which is of a goodly +size, she sits down upon a cushion at Portia's feet, and leans +her auburn head against her knee.</p> + +<p>"It was quite true that somebody had forged Uncle Christopher's +name for £500, but who it was has never transpired. +Uncle Christopher wanted to hush it up, but Fabian +would not let him. The writing was certainly Fabian's, I +mean the <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'initation'">imitation</ins> was exactly like it. I saw it myself; it +was so like Fabian's that no one could possibly know one +from the other. You see"—wistfully—"I am terribly +honest, am I not? I do not pretend to see a necessary flaw."</p> + +<p>"I like you the better for that," says Portia; involuntarily +she lays her hand on Dulcinea's throat, just under her chin, +and presses her gently towards her. "If it will make you +happier tell <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'm he'">me the</ins> rest," she says.</p> + +<p>"Unfortunately at that time Fabian <i>did</i> want money. Not +much you know, but the fact that he wanted it at all was +fatal. He had lost something over the Grand National—or +one of those horrid races—and people heard of it; and then, +even after long waiting and strictest inquiry, we could not +discover who had been the real offender, and that was worst +of all. It seemed to lay the crime forever upon Fabian's +shoulders. He nearly went mad at that time, and we, who +loved him, could do nothing to comfort him."</p> + +<p>"Ah! that was hard," says Portia, leaning over her. "Not +to be able to lift the burden from those whose life is dear to +us as our own is almost more than one can bear!"</p> + +<p>"How you understand," says Dulce, gratefully. "And +then, you see, somehow every one got to know about it; Fabian +could not prove his innocence, and—I suppose—the +story sounded badly in alien ears. And then there came a +day when somebody—Lord Ardley I think—cut Fabian publicly, +and that made an end of all things. Uncle Christopher +wanted to take notice of that, too—wanted I think" +(with a wan smile that has no mirth in it) "to challenge +Lord Ardley and carry him over to France and fight it out +with him <i>à la mort</i>, but Fabian would not allow it, and I +think he was right."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Quite right." There was quite a ring in Miss Vibart's +tone as she says this, but Dulce is too occupied with sad retrospect +to notice anything at this moment. "How could the +writing have so exactly resembled Fabian's?" she says, presently; +"it was Uncle Christopher's name was forged, was it +not?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, but Fabian writes exactly like him. He makes his +capitals quite the same. Anyone trying to copy Uncle Christopher's +writing would probably succeed in imitating Fabian's +perfectly."</p> + +<p>"Ah! he writes like Uncle Christopher," says Portia, +slowly, as though adding another link in her own mind to a +conclusion already carefully formed.</p> + +<p>"You will like him, I think," says Dulce, getting up from her +low position as though restless and desirous of change. She +leans her back against the balcony and faces her cousin. +"Though he is terribly altered; so different to what he used +to be. He is so grave now, and silent and moody. He +seems to be ever brooding over the mystery of his own life, +and trying—trying to get away from everybody. Oh! how +he suffered, how we all suffered just then, knowing him to be +innocent."</p> + +<p>"You knew he was innocent?" says Miss Vibart. Unfortunately +her tone is one of inquiry. She has her hands +clasped in her lap and is looking steadily at Dulce, who is +watching her intently from the railings of the balcony, where +she stands framed in by roses. Miss Vibart's fan has slipped +to the ground; she is really interested in this story. May +not the hero of it prove an absorbing study? Her tone, +however, grates upon the ears of the "absorbing study's" +sister. Dulce flushes perceptibly; opens her lips hastily as +though to speak, and then suppresses herself.</p> + +<p>"I forgot," she says, quietly, after a moment's reflection, +"you have never seen him."</p> + +<p>The faith in this small remark touches Portia keenly—the +more in that she has already formed her own opinion on the +subject in hand.</p> + +<p>"I wonder he stayed here after it happened," she says, +with some faint acceleration of manner. Haste to Portia, is +a word unknown.</p> + +<p>"He is a hero, a martyr," says Dulce, earnestly, two large +tears gathering in her eyes. "He was in the K.D.Gs., as you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span> +know, but of course he flung up his commission then, and +was going abroad, when Uncle Christopher fell ill. So ill, +that we despaired of him. And when even the doctor from +London refused him hope, he called Fabian to his bedside +and made him swear he would not leave him while he lived—and +then he recovered. But he has always held Fabian to his +word; and, indeed, it was a very necessary promise, because +I don't think Uncle Christopher could live without him now. +It is all terribly sad; but it would be worse if Fabian were +really in fault, would it not?"</p> + +<p>"It is all very sad," says Portia. Her eyes are bent, and +she is slowly turning a ring round and round upon her finger.</p> + +<p>"It has ruined Fabian's life, and broken his heart," says +Dulce, in a low tone. "It is more than sad."</p> + +<p>"But if innocent, why should it weigh so heavily upon +him?" asks Portia, gently.</p> + +<p>"<i>If</i>," says Dulce, quickly, the hot blood mounting to her +cheeks. Then—very coldly—"There is no 'if' about it; he +<i>is</i> innocent. However mysterious his unhappy story may +sound in a strang— in your ears, nevertheless, our Fabian +has nothing to do with disgrace. It could not touch him."</p> + +<p>"I put it badly," says Portia, correcting her mistake with +much grace. "I should have said <i>as</i> he is innocent. Forgive +me."</p> + +<p>"It was all a mistake," says Dulce, who is now very pale, +"But we are so unaccustomed to even the faintest doubt of +Fabian. Even Mark Gore, the sceptic, believes in him. +How tired you look; would you like another cushion to your +back?"</p> + +<p>"No, thank you. I am quite comfortable and quite +happy. Do you know," with a slow, lovely smile, "I rather +mean that last conventional phrase: I <i>am</i> happy; I feel at +rest. I know I shall feel no want here in this delicious old +place—with you!" This is prettily toned, and Dulce smiles +again. "I am so tired of town and its ways."</p> + +<p>"You will miss your season, however," says Dulce, regretfully—for +<i>her</i>.</p> + +<p>"Yes, <i>isn't</i> that a comfort?" says her cousin, with a devout +sigh of deepest thankfulness.</p> + +<p>"A comfort!"</p> + +<p>"Yes. I am not strong enough to go about much, and +Auntie Maud has that sort of thing on the brain. She is like<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span> +the brook—she goes on for ever, nothing stops her. Ah! +See now, for example, who are those coming across the lawn? +Is one your brother?"</p> + +<p>"No! It is only Dicky Browne and—"</p> + +<p>"Your Roger?"</p> + +<p>"Oh! yes; my Roger," repeats Dulce, with a distasteful +shrug.</p> + +<p>Then she leans over the balcony, and says:</p> + +<p>"Roger, come up here directly; for once in your life you +are wanted by somebody. And you are to come, too, +Dicky, and please put on your Sunday manners, both you +boys, because I am going to introduce you to Portia!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER III.</h2> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Whether youth can be imputed to any man as a reproach, I will not, sir, assume the +province of determining."—<span class="smcap">W. Pitt</span>.</p></div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> boys, as Miss Blount—that is Dulce—irreverently +terms them, are coming slowly across the grass, trampling the +patient daisies. The sun has "dropped down" and the +"day is dead," and twilight, coming up, is covering all the +land. A sort of subtle sadness lies on everything, <i>except</i> "the +boys," they are evidently full of the enjoyment of some joke, +and are gay with smiles.</p> + +<p>Mr. Browne is especially glad, which <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'convines'">convinces</ins> his pretty +cousin on the balcony that he has been the perpetrator of +the "good thing" just recorded. At her voice, both he and +his companion start, and Roger, raising his eyes, meets hers.</p> + +<p>He is a tall, slight young man, handsome, indolent, with +dark eyes, and a dark moustache, and a very expressive mouth.</p> + +<p>Dicky is distinctly different, and perhaps more difficult of +description. If I say he is a little short, and a little stout, +and a little—a <i>very</i> little—good looking, will you understand +him? At least he is beaming with <i>bonhommie</i>, and that goes a +long way with most people.</p> + +<p>He seems now rather taken by Dulce's speech, and says:</p> + +<p>"No! Has she really come?" in a loud voice, that is +cheery and comfortable to the last degree. He can't see +Portia, as she is sitting down, and is quite hidden from view +by the trailing roses. "Is she 'all your fancy painted her?'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span> +is she 'lovely and divine?'" goes on Mr. Browne, gaily, as +though seeking information.</p> + +<p>"Beauties are always overrated," says Roger, sententiously, +in an even louder voice—indeed, at the very top of his strong +young lungs—"just tell somebody that somebody else thinks +so-and-so fit to pose as a Venus, and the thing is done, and +so-and-so becomes a beauty on the spot! I say, Dulce, I bet +you anything she is as ordinary as you please, from the crown +of her head to the sole of her foot!"</p> + +<p>"I can't follow up that bet," says Dulce, who has changed +her position so as effectually to conceal Portia from view, and +who is evidently deriving intense joy from the situation, +"because I have only seen her face and her hands; and +they, to say the least, are passable!"</p> + +<p>"Passable! I told you so!" says Roger, turning to Dicky +Browne, with fine disgust. "Is she æsthetic?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Fast?" asks Dicky, anxiously.</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Stupid—dull—impossible?"</p> + +<p>"No, no, no."</p> + +<p>"I thank my stars," says Dicky Browne, devoutly.</p> + +<p>"Can't you describe her?" asks Roger, impatiently staring +up from the sward beneath at Dulce's charming, wicked little +face.</p> + +<p>"She has two eyes, and a very remarkable nose," says Miss +Blount, with a nod.</p> + +<p>"Celestial or Roman?" demands Roger, lazily. By this +time he and Dicky are mounting the stone steps of the balcony, +and discovery is imminent.</p> + +<p>"I think it is a little unfair," murmurs Portia, in a low +whisper, who is, however, consumed with laughter.</p> + +<p>At this moment they reach the balcony, and Dulce says, +blandly, <i>àpropos</i> of Roger's last remark, "Perhaps if you ask +her that question, <i>as she is here</i>, she will answer you herself!"</p> + +<p>She waves her hand towards Portia. Portia rises and comes +a step forward, all her soft draperies making a soft <i>frou-frou</i> +upon the stone flooring; and then there is a good deal of +consternation! and a <i>tableau</i> generally.</p> + +<p>"I'm sure I beg your pardon," says Roger, when breath +returns to him, casting an annihilating glance at Dulce, who +catches it deftly, plays with it for a moment, and then flings<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span> +it carelessly over the balcony into the rising mist and night.</p> + +<p>"Whatever you beg you shall have," says Portia, coming +nearer to him and holding out a slim white hand. "How +d'ye do, Roger?"</p> + +<p>"It is quite too good of you to forgive me so soon," says +that young man, pressing with deep gratitude the slim, +friendly hand. "It was beastly mean of Dulce, she <i>might</i> +have told us"—this with another glance, meant to wither, +at that mischievous maiden, who rather revels in her guilt. +"My only apology is that I didn't know you—had never +seen you, or I could not so have expressed myself."</p> + +<p>"What a clever apology," murmurs Portia. "And what +flattering emphasis!" She smiles at him pleasantly through +the fast gathering gloom. "You will now introduce me to +your friend, will you not?"</p> + +<p>"Dicky, come forward and make your best bow," says +Dulce. Whereupon, Mr. Browne, with a shamefaced laugh, +comes to the front, and, standing before Miss Vibart like a +criminal at the bar of justice, bends very low.</p> + +<p>"Miss Vibart—Mr. Browne," says Roger, seriously. But +at this Dicky forgets himself, and throws dignity to the winds.</p> + +<p>"She called <i>you</i> Roger! I'm as much her cousin as ever +you were!" he says, indignantly. "<i>Mr.</i> Browne, indeed!"</p> + +<p>At this, both girls laugh merrily, and so, after a bit, does +Dicky himself, to whose soul the mildest mirth is an everlasting +joy.</p> + +<p>"I am then to call you Dicky?" asks Portia, smiling, and +lifting her eyes as though half-reluctantly to his; she has +quite entered into the spirit of the thing.</p> + +<p>"If you will be so very good," says Dicky Browne.</p> + +<p>"You really had better," says Dulce, "because you are +likely to see a good deal of him, and perpetually addressing +people by their proper names <i>is</i> so tiring."</p> + +<p>"It is true," says Portia; then turning to Dicky Browne, +with half-closed lids and a subdued smile, she says, slowly:</p> + +<p>"I am very pleased to make your acquaintance."</p> + +<p>It has its charm, this lowered tone. Dicky gives in to it; +and—metaphorically speaking—instantly prostrates himself +at Miss Vibart's feet.</p> + +<p>Perhaps he might have done so actually without metaphor, +Dicky's conduct being at times uncertain, but for a timely +interruption.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Any chance of dinner to-night?" says a cheery old voice +behind them, and turning, they see Sir Christopher standing +inside the open window of the drawing room, smiling upon +them with the utmost benignity. "Portia, my dear," he +says, genially, as though he and she have been intimate for +years, "we are all so young here, we hardly require sustenance. +Nevertheless, let me take you into the dining-room, +if only to see what cook has provided for us."</p> + +<p>Portia lays her hand upon his arm, and, followed by the +others (who are plainly quarreling in a warm, if subdued +fashion), goes into the grand old dining-room. Roger takes +the foot of the table; Dicky seats himself next Portia; Dulce, +as she always does when no foreign guests are present, or, as +she terms it, on "off-days," seats herself near Uncle Christopher.</p> + +<p>One place, however, is empty; by right it is Roger's, who, +except when Fabian is absent, never sits at the foot of the +table.</p> + +<p>Sir Christopher fusses a little, grows discontented, and +finally says uneasily—</p> + +<p>"Where is Fabian?"</p> + +<p>"He has a headache, dear," says Dulce, gently. "He +hopes we will all excuse him—especially Portia."</p> + +<p>She turns with a sweet glance to Portia, who murmurs +something civil in return.</p> + +<p>"He would be better here than moping in his own room," +says Sir Christopher, in a low voice. His spirits are evidently +damped, though he makes an effort to suppress the +fact; his smile grows faded, and less frequent, and presently +dies away altogether. Every one makes a noble effort at +conversation, and every one, after a bit, breaks down ignominiously +and looks at his or her fish, as though in it lies +some hidden charm.</p> + +<p>Dicky Browne alone remains unimpressed by the gloom of +the surroundings. He is thinking the filleted sole very good +indeed, and is lost to all other ideas.</p> + +<p>"Tell you who I saw to-day," he says, airily, "Boer. +That clergyman fellow, you know, who married that annoying +girl who used to be always at Chetwoode. I spent half an +hour with him in the High Street, just opposite the club."</p> + +<p>"How you <i>must</i> have enjoyed yourself!" says Roger, feelingly. +"How I wish I could have put myself in your place +at that moment."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Don't you! Not being selfish, I would willingly have +resigned to you the intellectual treat I endured! All things +have their end, however, even my patience, which is known +to be elastic like my conscience; so, as a last resource, I +offered him a brandy and soda, and, as it turned out, it was +quite the best thing I could have done under the circumstances. +He looked awfully angry, and went away directly."</p> + +<p>"Clever boy!" says Roger. "For the future I shall know +exactly what to do when the reverend Boer inflicts his small +talk on <i>me</i>. Dead sell, though, if he accepted your offer. +One would have to sit it out with him, and, probably, he +takes his brandy slowly."</p> + +<p>"I don't believe he ever took any in his life," says Dulce, +idly. "That is why the chill has never been removed from +him. How I wish he could be thawed."</p> + +<p>"I always feel so sorry for Florence," says Portia, languidly; +she is feeling very tired, and is hardly eating anything. +From time to time she looks at Sir Christopher, and +wonders vaguely if it is her presence has kept Fabian from +dinner to-night. "But Mr. Boer reads very well."</p> + +<p>"When he doesn't turn over two pages at once," says +Dicky Browne. "That is a favorite amusement of his, and +it rather makes a mess of the meaning contained in holy +writ. He is rather touchy about that last little <i>fiasco</i> of his +when reading before the bishop the other day, so I thought +I would tell him a story to-day that chimed in deliciously +with his own little mistake, and, I doubt not, brought it fresh +to his mind."</p> + +<p>"What a wicked humor you must have been in," says Portia. +"Tell the story to us now."</p> + +<p>"You have heard it, I daresay. I only repeated it to +Boer in the fond hope he would go away if I did, but it +failed me. It was about the fellow who was reading the +morning lesson—and he came to the words, 'and he took +unto him a wife'—then he turned over two pages by mistake, +and went on, 'and he pitched her with pitch within and +without!' I don't think Boer liked my little story, but still +he wouldn't go away."</p> + +<p>"He is a dreadfully prosy person, and very material," says +Portia, when they have all laughed a little.</p> + +<p>"He is a jolly nuisance," says Mr. Browne.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span></p> + +<p>"He hasn't got much soul, if you mean that," says +Roger—</p> + +<div class='poem'> +"'A primrose by a river's brim,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">A yellow primrose is to him</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">And it is nothing more.'"</span><br /> +</div> + +<p>"That <i>is</i> such utter nonsense," says Dulce, tilting her +pretty nose and casting a slighting glance at her <i>fiancé</i> +from eyes that are</p> + +<div class='poem'> +"The greenest of things blue,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">The bluest of things gray."</span><br /> +</div> + +<p>"What more <i>would</i> it be?—a hollyhock, perhaps? or a +rhododendron, eh?"</p> + +<p>"Anything you like," says Roger, calmly, which rather +finishes the discussion.</p> + +<p>The night belongs to warm, lovable June; all the windows +are wide open; the perfume of flowers comes to them from +the gardens beneath, that are flooded with yellow moonshine. +So still it is, so calm, that one can almost hear the love-song +the languid breeze is whispering to the swaying boughs.</p> + +<p>Across the table come the dreamy sighs of night, and sink +into Portia's heart, as she sits silent, pleased, listening to all +around, yet a little grieved in that her host is strangely silent, +too, and looks as one might who is striving to hear the +sound of a distant footstep, that comes not ever.</p> + +<p>"He is always that way when Fabian absents himself," +says Dicky Browne, with so little preface that Portia starts. +"He adores the ground he walks on, and all that sort of +thing. Speak to him and get him out of it."</p> + +<p>"What shall I say?" asks Miss Vibart, somewhat taken +aback. "Moods are so difficult."</p> + +<p>"Anything likely to please him."</p> + +<p>"My difficulty just lies there," says Portia.</p> + +<p>"Then <i>do</i> something, if you can't say it. Exertion, I +know, is unpleasant, especially in June, but one must sacrifice +one's self sometimes," says Dicky Browne. "He'll be +awfully bad presently if he isn't brought up pretty short by +somebody during the next minute or so."</p> + +<p>"But what can I do?" says Portia, who is rather impressed +by Mr. Browne's earnestness.</p> + +<p>"You hate port, don't you?" asks he, mysteriously.</p> + +<p>"Yes. But what has that got to do with it?"</p> + +<p>"Take some presently. It is poison, and will make you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span> +dreadfully ill; but that don't count when duty calls. We +all hate it, but he likes it, and will feel positively benevolent +if you will only say you like it too. 'Pride in his <i>port</i>, defiance +in his eye!'—that line, I am convinced, was written +for him alone, but modern readers have put a false construction +upon it."</p> + +<p>"It will make me <i>so</i> unhappy," says Portia, looking at +Uncle Christopher with a pitying eye. The pity is for him, +not for herself, as Dicky foolishly imagines.</p> + +<p>"Don't think about that," he says, valiantly. "Petty inconveniences +sink into nothingness when love points the +way. Take your port, and try to look as if you liked it, and +always remember, 'Virtue is its own reward!'"</p> + +<p>"A very poor one, as a rule," says Portia.</p> + +<p>"Have some strawberries, Portia?" asks Roger at this +moment, who has been sparring with Dulce, mildly, but +firmly, all this time.</p> + +<p>"Thank you," says Portia.</p> + +<p>"They don't go well with port, and Portia adores port," +says Mr. Browne, hospitably, smiling blandly at her as he +speaks.</p> + +<p>She returns his smile with one of deep reproach.</p> + +<p>"Eh? No, do you really?" asks Sir Christopher, waking +as if by magic from his distasteful reverie. "Then, my +dear, I can recommend this. Very old. Very fruity. Just +what your poor father used to like."</p> + +<p>"Yes—your <i>poor</i> father," says Dicky Browne <i>sotto voce</i>, +feelingly and in a tone rich with delicate encouragement.</p> + +<p>"Thank you. Half a glass please. I—I never take more," +say Portia, hastily but sweetly, to Sir Christopher, who is +bent on giving her a goodly share of what he believes to be +her heart's desire. Then she drinks it to please him, and +smiles faintly behind her fan and tells herself Dicky Browne +is the very oddest boy she has ever met in her life, and amusing, +if a little troublesome.</p> + +<p>Sir Christopher once roused, chatters on ceaselessly about the +old days when he and Charles Vibart, her father, were boys together, +and before pretty Clara Blount fell in love with +Vibart and married him. And Portia listens dreamily, and +gazing through the open window lets part of the music of the +scene outside sink into his ancient tales, and feels a great +longing rise within her to get up and go out into the mystic<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span> +moonbeams, and bathe her tired hands and forehead in their +cool rays.</p> + +<p>Dulce and Roger are, as usual, quarreling in a deadly, if +carefully-subdued fashion. Dicky Browne, as usual, too, +is eating anything and everything that comes within his +reach, and is apparently supremely happy. At this moment +Portia's longing having mastered her, she turns to Dulce +and asks softly:</p> + +<p>"What is that faint streak of white I see out there, through, +and beyond, the branches?"</p> + +<p>"Our lake," says Dulce, half turning her head in its +direction.</p> + +<p>"Our pond," says Roger, calmly.</p> + +<p>"Our <i>lake</i>," repeats Dulcinea, firmly; at which Portia, +feeling war to be once more imminent, says hastily—</p> + +<p>"It looks quite lovely from this—so faint, so silvery."</p> + +<p>"It shows charmingly when the moon is up, through that +tangled mass of roses, far down there," says Dulce, with a +gesture toward the tangle.</p> + +<p>"I should like to go to it," says Portia, with unusual animation.</p> + +<p>"So you shall, to-morrow."</p> + +<p>"The moon will not be there to-morrow. I want to go +now."</p> + +<p>"Then so you shall," says Dulce, rising; "have you had +enough strawberries? Yes? Will you not finish your wine? +No? Come with me, then, and the boys may follow us when +they can tear themselves away from their claret!" This, with +a scornful glance at Roger, who returns it generously.</p> + +<p>"I shall find it very easy to tear myself away to-night," he +says, bent on revenge, and smiling tenderly at Portia.</p> + +<p>"So!" says Dulce, with a shrug and a light laugh that reduces +his attempt at scorn to a puerile effort unworthy of +notice; "a compliment to <i>you</i> Portia; and—the other thing +to me. We thank you, Roger. Come." She lays her hand +on Portia's, and draws her toward the window. Passing by +Uncle Christopher's chair, she lets her fingers fall upon his +shoulder, and wander across it, so as just to touch his neck, +with a caressing movement. Then she steps out on the verandah, +followed by Portia, and both girls running down the +stone steps are soon lost to sight among the flowers.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER IV.</h2> + +<div class='poem'> +"'Tis not mine to forget. Yet can I not<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Remember what I would or what were well.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Memory plays tyrant with me, by a wand</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">I cannot master!"</span><br /> +<div class='sig'>—<span class="smcap">G. Mellen.</span></div><br /> +</div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Past</span> the roses, past the fragrant mignonette they go, the +moon's soft radiance rendering still more fair the whiteness +of their rounded arms.</p> + +<p>The dew lies heavy on leaf and flower. Motionless stand +the roses, and the drooping lilies, and the pansies, purple and +yellow. "God Almighty," says Bacon, "first planted a garden; +and indeed it is the purest of human pleasures; it is the +greatest refreshment to the spirits of man!"</p> + +<p>Here, now, in this particular garden, where all is so deeply +tranquil, it seems as if life itself is at a standstill, and sin and +suffering, joy and ambition, are alike unknown. A "pure +pleasure" it is indeed to gaze upon it, and a great refreshment +to any soul tired, or overwrought, or sorrowful.</p> + +<p>The stars are coming out slowly one by one, studding +brilliantly the pale, blue vault of heaven, while from a</p> + +<div class='poem'> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">"Thin fleecy cloud,</span><br /> +Like a fair virgin veil'd, the moon looks out<br /> +With such serene and sweet benignity<br /> +That night unknits his gloomy brows and smiles."<br /> +</div> + +<p>Dulce, plucking some pale blossom, lifts it to her lips, and +kisses it lightly. Portia, drawing a deep breath of intensest +satisfaction, stands quite still, and letting her clasped hands +fall loosely before her, contemplates the perfect scene in +mute delight.</p> + +<p>Presently, however, she shivers, a passing breeze has cast a +chill upon her.</p> + +<p>"Ah! you are cold," says Dulce, anxiously; "how thoughtless +I am; yes, you are quite pale."</p> + +<p>"Am I?" says Portia. "It was the standing here, I fancy. +India gave me bad habits, that, after three years, I find myself +unable to conquer. Every silly little wind strikes a chill +to my heart."</p> + +<p>"I shall get you a shawl in no time," says Dulcinea; "but +keep walking up and down while I am away, so as to keep +your blood warm."</p> + +<p>"Your command shall be obeyed," says Portia, smiling,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span> +and then Dulce, turning, disappears quickly amongst the +shadows, moving as swiftly as her light young feet can carry +her.</p> + +<p>Portia, left alone, prepares to keep her promise, and walks +slowly along the graveled path once more. Turning a corner, +again a glimpse of the distant lake comes to her. It is +entrancing; calm as sleep, and pure as the moon above, +whose image lies upon its breast.</p> + +<p>Even as she looks the image fades—the "fleecy cloud" +(jealous, perhaps, of the beauty of the divine Artemis, and of +Portia's open admiration of her) has floated over her again, +and driven her, for a little moment, into positive obscurity.</p> + +<p>The path grows dark, the lake loses its color. Portia, with +a sigh, moves on, confessing to herself the mutability of +all things, and pushing aside some low-lying branches of a +heavily-scented shrub, finds herself face to face with a tall +young man, who, apparently, is as lost in wonder at her appearance +as she is at his!</p> + +<p>She starts, perceptibly, and, only half-suppressing a faint +exclamation of fear, shrinks backwards.</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon," says the stranger, hastily. "I am +afraid I have frightened you. But, really, it was all the fault +of the moon."</p> + +<p>His voice is reassuring, and Portia, drawing her breath +more freely, feels just a little ashamed of her momentary +terror.</p> + +<p>"I am not frightened now," she says, with an upward glance, +trying to read, through the darkness, the face of him she addresses. +The clouds are scurrying swiftly across the sky, and +now the moon shines forth again triumphant, and all things +grow clearer. She can see that he is tall, dark, handsome, +with a strange expression round his mouth that is surely +more acquired than natural, as it does not suit his other +features at all, and may be termed hard and reckless, and +almost defiant. His jaw is exquisitely turned. In his eyes is +a settled melancholy—altogether his face betrays strong emotions, +severely repressed, and is half-morbid and wholly sad, +and, when all is said, more attractive than forbidding.</p> + +<p>Portia, gazing at him with interest, tells herself that years +of mental suffering could alone have produced the hard lines +round the lips and the weariness in the eyes. She has no +time for further speculation, however, and goes on quickly:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span> +"It was more than foolish of me; but I quite forgot, I"—with +some uncertainty—"should have remembered."</p> + +<p>"What do you forget? and what should you have remembered?"</p> + +<p>"I forgot that burglars do not, as a rule, I suppose, go +about in evening clothes; and I should have remembered"—with +a smile—"that there was yet another cousin to whom I +had not been introduced."</p> + +<p>"Yes; I am Fabian Blount," he says indifferently. He +does not return her smile. Almost he gives her the impression +that at this moment he would gladly have substituted +another name for his own.</p> + +<p>"Ah! you are Fabian," she says, half-puzzled by his +manner.</p> + +<p>"If you will take my word for it." His tone is even more +strange as he says this, and now he <i>does</i> smile, but disagreeably.</p> + +<p>Portia colors faintly.</p> + +<p>"You have not asked me my name?" she says quietly. "I +am Portia."</p> + +<p>"What a very pretty name!" He has had a half-smoked cigar +behind his back all this time; now remembering it, he looks +at it, and flings it far from him. "It reminds one of many +things; Shakespeare, I suppose principally. I hope," looking +at her, "<i>you</i> will choose the right casket."</p> + +<p>"Thank you. That is a very kindly wish."</p> + +<p>"How does it happen that you are here all alone?"</p> + +<p>"I was cold; I always am. Dulcinea saw me shiver, I +think, and ran to get a shawl or some covering for me. That +is all."</p> + +<p>"She is a long time getting it, is she not?"</p> + +<p>"Is she?" says Portia. This speech of his piques her a +little. "Does it seem long?"</p> + +<p>"Very long, if one is to shiver all the time," replies he, +calmly, reading her resentment in her face, but taking no +notice of it. "Much too long to be out in this chilly night-air +without sufficient clothing, and with a wholesome dread +of possible burglars full upon you. May I stay with you till +Dulce returns, and will you walk on a little? It is foolish to +stand still."</p> + +<p>"I am sorry you threw away your cigar on my account. I +am sure you want it now."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I don't believe I ever want anything," says Fabian, +slowly; and then they walk on again, returning by the way +she had come. The night-wallflower is flinging its perfume +abroad, the seringas are making sweet the air, a light eager +wind rushes softly past them.</p> + +<p>"It was a long drive," says Fabian, presently, with all the +air of a man who is determined to rouse himself—however +against his will—and carry on conversation of some sort. +"Are you tired?"</p> + +<p>"It <i>was</i> long. But everything here is so new, so fresh, so +sweet, that I have forgotten to be tired."</p> + +<p>"You are one of those, perhaps, who always find variety +charming." As he speaks he carefully removes a drooping +branch of roses out of her way.</p> + +<p>"Not quite always." She smiles as she defends herself. +"I like old friends, and old songs best. I am not absolutely +fickle. But I have always had a great desire to live in the +country."</p> + +<p>"People who have never tried it, always do have that +desire."</p> + +<p>"You think I shall be <i>desillusionne</i> in a week? But I +shall not. When George had to return to India, I was so +unhappy in the thought that perhaps I should have to live in +town until his return. Of course I could have gone somewhere +to live by myself, and could have found some charming +old lady to take care of me, but I am not fond of my +own society, and I can't bear charming old ladies."</p> + +<p>"One feels quite sorry for the old ladies," says Fabian, +absently.</p> + +<p>"I was afraid I should have to put in my two years of +waiting for George, with Auntie Maud, and that would have +been terrible. It would mean seasons, and months at fashionable +watering-places, which would be only town out of +town—the same thing all over again. I was so glad when Uncle +Christopher wrote to say he would like me to come here. I +have often wondered since," she says, suddenly—smiling +somewhat wistfully, and flushing a warm crimson,—"whether +all of <i>you</i> didn't look upon my coming with disfavor."</p> + +<p>"What put such a thought as that into your head?"</p> + +<p>"A very natural one I think. A stranger coming to a +household always makes such a difference; and you had never +met me, and you might not like me, and—. Did any of you +resent my coming?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span></p> + +<p>"No," says Fabian. There is no energy in his reply, yet it +is impossible to doubt that he means exactly what he says. +"You must not begin by thinking unkindly of us," he goes +on, gently. "You may believe me when I say none of us felt +anything but pleasure at the idea of your coming."</p> + +<p>"Yes? That was very good of you all." She is longing +to say, "Yet you see I kept you from dinner to-night," but +after a moment's reflection leaves it unsaid.</p> + +<p>"I hope the country will not disappoint you," he says, after +a slight pause. "It is unwise to begin by expecting too much."</p> + +<p>"How can it disappoint?" says Portia, with some intensity. +She says nothing more, but she lifts her lovely face to the +starry sky, and puts out her hands with a faint gesture, fraught +with admiration, towards the heavy flowers, the distant lake, +the statues half hidden by the drooping shrubs, and the +moonlight sleeping upon all!</p> + +<p>"There is always in the country, the sun, the flowers, and +at night, the moon," she says.</p> + +<p>"Yet, the day will come, even for you, when there will be +no sun, and when the moon will refuse to give its light." He +speaks peculiarly and as though his thoughts are wandering +far from her to other scenes in which she holds no part.</p> + +<p>"Still, there will always be the flowers," she says, quickly, +impressed by his tone, and with a strange anxiety to prove +to herself that surely all things are not in vain.</p> + +<p>"Oh, no! They are the frailest of the three," returns he; +"they are like our dearest hopes. At the very time they +should prove true, when the cold Winter of our discontent is +full upon us, they forsake us—never to return."</p> + +<p>"Never? Does not the Summer bring them again?" She +has stopped in the middle of the path, and is asking her +question with an anxiety that astonishes even herself. "This +rose bush," she says, pointing to one close beside her, "now +rich in glory, and warm with golden wealth, will it not bloom +again next year, in spite of the death that must pass over it?"</p> + +<p>"It may. But you will never see again those roses over +there, that you love and rejoice in now! Others may be +like them, but they cannot be quite the same."</p> + +<p>Portia makes no reply. The moonlight is full upon him, +and she can see that his lips have lost their hardness, and are +as full of melancholy as his eyes. She is looking curiously +at him, regarding him perhaps in the light of a study—he is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span> +looking, not at her at all, but at something that surely has no +place in this quiet garden, lying so calm and peaceful beneath +the light of heaven.</p> + +<p>A terrible expression, that is despair and grief commingled, +covers his face. Some past horror, that has yet power +to sting, is holding him captive. He has forgotten Portia, +the beauty of the night, everything! He is wrapt in some +miserable memory that will not be laid. Surely, "the heart +may break, yet brokenly live on."</p> + +<p>Be he guilty (as she believes him) of this crime that has +darkened his life, or only the victim of unhappy circumstances, +at this moment Portia pities him with all her heart.</p> + +<p>Voices in the distance! Roger and Dulce still high in +argument; a faint perfume of cigarettes; Dicky Browne's irrepressible +laugh; and then they all come round the corner, +and somebody says, "Ah, here she is," and Dicky Browne +places a shawl round Portia's shoulders.</p> + +<p>"You here, Fabian?" says Dulce, gladly. "And making +friends with Portia? That's right."</p> + +<p>"Taking a mean advantage of us all I call it," says Dicky +Browne. "<i>We</i> got introduced in the cruel glare of day, +with all our imperfections on our heads. <i>You</i> waited for +moonshine, balmy air, scent of roses, poetical effect, and so +on! That's why you stayed away from dinner. And to +think none of us saw through you! Well, I always said I +was very innocent; quite unfit to go about alone!"</p> + +<p>"Not a doubt of it," said Roger, cheerfully. "But you +won't have to complain of that long. We are all on the +look-out for a keeper for you, and a straight waistcoat." +Then, turning to Fabian, "Your headache better, old man?"</p> + +<p>"Thank you—yes. Your cousin is tired, I think, Dulce. +Take her in and make her rest herself."</p> + +<p>"Ah! You are worn out," says Dulce to Portia, with +contrition. "I have been so long getting you the shawl; +but I could not help it. You must not stay up, you know, to +do manners to us, you must go straight to bed this moment, +and come down like a rose in the morning. Now confess +you are tired."</p> + +<p>"Well, yes, I am afraid I am," says Portia, who is feeling +faintly disappointed for the first time since her arrival. Why, +she scarcely knows.</p> + +<p>"She said 'I am a-weary, a-weary; I would I were a-bed,'"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span> +quotes Mr. Browne, feelingly. Whereupon everyone feels +it his duty to take Portia at once back to the house, less Mr. +Browne, by any ill-luck, should commit himself still further.</p> + +<p>It is only when Portia is at last alone in her own room that +she recollects that Fabian forgot to shake hands with her. +Or was it she with Fabian?</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER V.</h2> + +<div class='poem'> +"Oh, how full of briars is this working-day world!"<br /> +<div class='sig'>—"<span class="smcap">As You Like It.</span>"</div><br /> +</div> + + +<p>"<span class="smcap">I wish</span> you would <i>try</i> to remember," says Dulce, a little +hastily. She is sitting in a rather Gothic chair, and the day +is ultra-hot, and the strain upon her mental powers is greater +than she can bear. Hence the haste.</p> + +<p>She is leaning back in the uneasy chair now, pencil in +hand, and is looking up at Roger, who is leaning over the +table, in a somewhat supercilious manner, and is plainly giving +him to understand that she thinks him a very stupid person, +indeed.</p> + +<p>This is irritating, and Roger naturally resents it. A few +puckers show themselves upon his forehead, and he turns +over a page or two of the gardener's book before him with a +movement suggestive of impatience.</p> + +<p>"I <i>am</i> trying," he says, shortly.</p> + +<p>"Well, you needn't tear the book in pieces," says Dulce, +severely.</p> + +<p>"I'm not tearing anything," retorts Mr. Dare, indignantly.</p> + +<p>"You look as if you wanted to," says Dulce.</p> + +<p>"I don't want anything except to be let alone," says Mr. +Dare.</p> + +<p>The windows are all wide open. They were flung wide an +hour ago, in the fond hope that some passing breeze might +enter through them. But no breeze cometh—is not, indeed, +born—and the windows yawn for it in vain. Outside, all +Nature seems asleep; inside, the very curtains are motionless.</p> + +<p>In a low rocking-chair, clad in the very lightest of garments +permitted by civilization, sits Sir Mark Gore. He arrived at +the Court only yesterday, in a perfect torrent of passionate +rain, and was accused on all sides of having brought ill weather<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span> +in his train. But to-day having asserted itself, and dawned +fairly, and later on having burst into matchless beauty, and +heat of the most intense, he is enabled to turn the tables +upon his accusers, who look small and rather crushed.</p> + +<p>"Have they had such a day this season?"</p> + +<p>"Never! Oh, never!"</p> + +<p>"Have they ever seen so lovely a one?"</p> + +<p>"Never—at least, <i>hardly</i> ever!"</p> + +<p>They are vanquished. Whereupon he tells them they +were distinctly ungrateful yesterday, and that he will never +put in a good word for them with the clerk of the weather +again. <i>Never!</i></p> + +<p>Just now he is nodding drowsily over his <i>Times</i>, and is +vainly trying to remember whether the last passage read was +about Midhat Pasha, or that horrid railway murder, or the +Irish Land League.</p> + +<p>In the next window sits Portia, clad in a snowy gown that +suits her to perfection. She has been here now for a fortnight, +and feels as if she had been here forever, and almost +wonders if in reality she ever knew another home. She is +lounging in the very easiest of cushioned chairs, and is making +a base attempt at reading, which attempt is held up to public +scorn every other minute by Dicky Browne, who is sitting at +her feet.</p> + +<p>He is half in and half out of the room. His feet being on +the verandah, his head and shoulders in the room. He is +talking a little, and fidgeting a little, and laughing a little, +and, in fact, doing everything in the world except thinking a +little. Thought and Dicky Browne are two.</p> + +<p>The room in which they are all sitting is long and very +handsome, with three windows and two fire-places. It is always +called the blue room at the Court, for no earthly reason +that any one can see, except that it is painted green—the +very most impossible green, calculated to create rapture in +the breasts of Oscar and his fellows; a charming color, too, +soothing, and calm, and fashionable, which, of course, is +everything. There are tiny cabinets everywhere, gay with +majolica ware and many a Palissy dish; while Wedgewood, +and Derby, and priceless Worcester shine out from every +corner. There are Eastern rugs, and Japanese screens, and, +indeed, everything that isn't Japanese is old English, and +everything that isn't old English is Japanese—except, perhaps,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span> +a few lounging-chairs of modern growth brought in to +suit the requirements of such unæsthetic beings as prefer the +comfortable satin-and-down lounge to the more correct, if +more trying oak.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps it was the Duke of Edinburgh," says Roger, +breaking the silence that has lasted now for a full minute. +"I see he is very handsome, of robust habit and constitution, +and of enormous size and length. Is that what you +want?"</p> + +<p>"No; I am sure it was not the Duke of Edinburgh. It +doesn't sound like him. I wonder why you can't think of it. +I am sure if I once eat anything I should remember all about +it."</p> + +<p>"Good gracious!" says Dicky Browne, from his lowly +seat, glancing solemnly at Portia, "have they eaten the Duke +of Edinburgh? It sounds like it, doesn't it? They must +have done it on the sly. And <i>what</i> a meal! Considering +they acknowledge him to be of enormous size and length!"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps it was Sir Garnet Wolseley," says Roger, moodily, +in the discontented tone of one who is following out a +task utterly repugnant to his feelings. "He has an excellent +flavor, but is entirely destitute of shank or shoulder."</p> + +<p>Sir Mark Gore, at this dreadful speech, lowers his paper +and lifts his head. Portia looks faintly startled. What can +Roger be talking about?</p> + +<p>"Ain't it awful," says Mr. Browne, "who'd have thought +it of them. They look quite mild—and—er—like other +people. Positively they are cannibals! And (did you remark?) +it is <i>roast shoulder</i> they prefer, because they are +grumbling at the want of it in the unfortunate General who +has evidently been enticed from his home and coldly murdered +by them. I wonder it wasn't in the papers—but +doubtless the family hushed it up. And how heartlessly they +speak! But, by the way, what on earth is a <i>shank?</i>—"</p> + +<p>"The neck is splendid, and, indeed, there is no waste +whatever," goes on Roger, in a wooden tone.</p> + +<p>"No waist whatever! Did you hear that? I always +thought poor Sir Garnet was a lean man," says Dicky, <i>sotto +voce</i>. "Poor, poor fellow, can nothing satisfy them but rank +and talent?"</p> + +<p>"Not a bit like it," breaks in Dulce, petulantly tapping +her foot upon the floor. She is never petulant with any one<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span> +but Roger, being indeed, by nature, the very incarnation of +sweetness and light.</p> + +<p>"Give it up," says Roger, rising hope in his tone—hope +that, alas, is never verified.</p> + +<p>"And meet McIlray with such a lame story as that! Certainly +not," says Dulce, warmly. "It must be found out. +Do try again."</p> + +<p>"Well, this must be it," says Roger, in despair, "The Marquis +of Lorne, exquisite short neck, smooth skin, very straight, +nice white spine."</p> + +<p>At this Sir Mark rises to his feet.</p> + +<p>"Really, my <i>dear</i> Roger!" he says, impulsively—but for +the excessive laziness of his disposition it would have been +severely.</p> + +<p>"Ah," says Roger, glad of anything in the shape of a +reprieve, even though it be unpleasant argument.</p> + +<p>"How <i>can</i> Dulcinea find any interest in the color of the +Marquis's spine?" says Sir Mark, reprovingly. "Forgive me +if I say I think you are going a little too far."</p> + +<p>"I shall have to go farther," says Roger, desperately, +"There is no knowing where I shall end. She can't find it +out, and neither can I, and I see no hope of our arriving at +anything except a lunatic asylum."</p> + +<p>"I can look it up by myself," says Miss Blount, grandly, +"I don't want your help—much. I daresay I can manage +by myself, after all. And even if I can't, I daresay Mark +will come to my assistance if you forsake me."</p> + +<p>"I won't," says Gore, decidedly; "I won't indeed. I +would do anything in the world for you, Dulcinea, as you +know, but for this work unfortunately I am too modest. I +<i>couldn't</i> go about making inquiries about the color of people's +spines. I couldn't, indeed. As a matter of science I daresay +it would be interesting to know the exact number of +shades, but—I feel I am unequal to the task."</p> + +<p>"The Duke of Connaught," goes on Roger, wearily, hope +being stifled in his breast, "bright green skin, well covered +with bloom; small neck and—"</p> + +<p>"Oh! hang it all, you know," says Dicky Browne, forgetting +himself in the excitement of the moment, "I don't believe +his Royal Highness <i>has</i> a green skin, do you, Portia?—saw +him only a fortnight ago, and he looked all right then, +just as white as the rest of us."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It's cucumbers," says Miss Blount, with dignity.</p> + +<p>"Yes, cucumbers," responds Mr. Dare, with a sigh; he is +evidently in the last stage of exhaustion. "McIlray has forgotten +the name of some particular seed he planted in the +Spring that we all liked immensely (how I wish we <i>hadn't</i>), +and he has compelled Dulce to try and discover it. So we +are looking for it in these infer—I mean these very prettily-illustrated +books that the seedsman has kindly sent us (how I +wish he hadn't), and hope to find it before the millenium. I +daresay any time next month you will still find us here poring +over these identical books, but we shall be <i>dead</i> then—there +is at least comfort in that thought."</p> + +<p>"One wouldn't think so, to look at you," said Gore, +pleasantly.</p> + +<p>"You can go away, Roger, you really can," says Dulce, +irritably. "You are not the least use to me, and I hate +grumblers."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps it is the Empress of India," says Dicky Browne, +who has come over to the table, driven by sheer curiosity, +and is now leaning on Roger's shoulder. "She 'is of +enormous length, and the handsomest this year. She is +beautifully shaped throughout, with scarcely any handle.' +Oh, I say, hasn't the Queen a handle to her name? What an +aspersion upon her royal dignity."</p> + +<p>"Ah! here is Fabian! Now, you may go away, all of +you," said Dulce, with fine contempt. "He will really be of +some use to me. Fabian, what is the name of the cucumber +that tiresome McIlray wants? I am worn out, almost in hysterics, +trying to remember it."</p> + +<p>"What a pity you didn't ask me sooner," says Fabian. +"It is all right. I made it out this morning, and told +McIlray. He says now he remembers all about it perfectly."</p> + +<p>"Fabian, may I shake hands with you. You are a man +and a brother," says Roger, effusively, with a sudden return +of animation. "I should, indeed, like to kiss you, but it +might betray undue exhilaration. You have saved me from +worse than death. Bless me, isn't it warm?"</p> + +<p>"Just a little sultry," says Mr. Browne. "Show me that +book you were looking at? Carter's, eh? How I love a +work of that sort! I think I love Carter himself. I daresay +it is he designs those improbable vegetables and fruits that +would make their fortunes as giants at a penny show. You +see there <i>are</i> giants in these days."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Are there?" says Dulce. "I think there aren't."</p> + +<p>"Well, it's just as simple," says Dicky, amiably. "Not a +bit more trouble. It is quite as easy to suppose there aren't, +as to suppose there are. <i>I</i> don't mind. But to return to our +muttons. I really do esteem our Carter—in anticipation. +It occurs to me he yet may grow peaches as big as my head, +and then what a time we'll 'ave, eh?—Eating fruit is my +forte," says Mr. Browne, with unction.</p> + +<p>"So it is," says Dulce. "Nobody will dispute that +point with you. You never leave us any worth speaking +about. McIlray says you have eaten all the cherries, and +that he can't even give us a decent dish for dinner."</p> + +<p>"What vile alliteration," says Mr. Browne, unabashed. +"Decent, dish, dinner. You ought to be ashamed of yourself."</p> + +<p>"Well, I'm not," says Dulce.</p> + +<p>"Just shows your moral depravity. If you aren't you ought +to be. Three great big D's in a breath! Shocking, shocking," +says Dicky, gravely.</p> + +<p>"What a heavenly day, and how depressing. We are +never satisfied," says Mark Gore, flinging his arms above his +head with a lazy gesture, and looking with almost comic despair +at the pale-blue-and-gold glory in the heavens above.</p> + +<p>Fabian, who has been standing near him, lost in a daydream, +starts perceptibly at his tone, and moves as though he +would go towards the door. Then, though still a little absent, +and still wrapt in the dream from which he has sought to free +himself, he looks round the room as though in search of something. +Perhaps he finds it as his eyes light upon the window +where Portia sits, because they linger there, and the restless +expression, that has characterized his face up to this, vanishes.</p> + +<p>He hesitates; pushes a book upon a table near him backwards +and forwards gently two or three times, as though in +doubt, and then walks straight to the window where Portia +is, leans against the sash, just where he can see the lovely, +downcast face before him.</p> + +<p>After Dicky's defection (or was it on Fabian's entrance?) +Miss Vibart returned to her neglected book, and has been +buried in it ever since. Even when Fabian comes and stands +close to her, she is so engrossed with the beauty of the story +that she forgets to lift her eyes to look at him. So determinedly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span> +do they seek the page beneath them, that Fabian +tells himself she must indeed have got to a thrilling part of +her tale.</p> + +<p>Her long, dark lashes lie like shadows on her cheeks. Her +lips are closed. The hand that lies beneath the book trembles +slightly.</p> + +<p>They are all laughing at the upper end of the room at one +of Dicky's absurdities. Down here by the far window, there +is a silence marked enough to make itself felt. I think at +last even Mark Gore feels it, because he rises from his comfortable +rocking-chair with a faint yawn, and, walking down +the room, comes to anchor behind Portia's chair.</p> + +<p>Leaning over it, he says, pleasantly:</p> + +<p>"Is that book of James' so very charming as to make you +deaf and blind to us poor mortals?"</p> + +<p>"I am never deaf or blind to you," says Portia, sweetly, +glancing up at him over her shoulder. Her rounded chin is +slightly tilted, a soft smile curves her lips.</p> + +<p>At the Court Mark is a special favorite, yet so pretty a +speech coming from Portia, who is usually so cold and indolent, +strikes one as strange. Fabian regards her earnestly. +How beautiful she is, yet how unsympathetic; has she no +soul, no feeling? Surely her eyes, so large, so deep, so intense, +belie this thought.</p> + +<p>As though compelling himself, he says, with a visible +effort:</p> + +<p>"Have you been indoors all this lovely day? Has the +sun had no power to tempt you to come out?"</p> + +<p>"No;" she shakes her head as she answers him, and smiles, +too, but the smile is cold as death, and though perfect, is +altogether different from the one bestowed only a minute +since upon Sir Mark.</p> + +<p>"Then come out now," says Gore, as though pleasantly impressed +by the suggestion conveyed in Fabian's speech. +"Let us all shake off dull sloth and make a tour right round +the gardens."</p> + +<p>"A charming idea," says Portia, sitting more upright, and +brightening visibly. She grows even animated, and animation, +even of the faintest, is to be commended on such a day +as this.</p> + +<p>"Take your cousin to see the new carp-pond," says Gore, +addressing Fabian, but watching Portia attentively. "You +will like to see it, Portia?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span></p> + +<p>"So <i>very</i> much," says Portia. "But if I do go it must be +with Dicky."</p> + +<p>Her manner as she says this gives both the men fully to understand +that early in the day she had pledged herself to go +for a walk some time in the afternoon. So far, so good—it +<i>might</i> have so explained itself—but, unfortunately, at this +moment Dicky Browne (who, as Dulce says, is always in +the wrong place at the wrong time) comes up behind them, +and addresses them generally:</p> + +<p>"What are you all conspiring about?" he says, genially. +"Roger and Dulce, for the fourteenth time to-day, have +again agreed to differ, so I seek refuge here. Take me in, +will you? And, by-the-by, what shall we do with ourselves +this grilling day!"</p> + +<p>"I have just been suggesting a quiet stroll," says Sir Mark.</p> + +<p>"The very thing," exclaims Mr. Browne, who is <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'amiabilty'">amiability</ins> +itself. "Why on earth didn't we think of that before? Portia, +if you will come with me, if you have not promised," +with a glance at Sir Mark, "to go with anyone else, I will +show you a new tennis court that will draw tears of admiration +from your eyes."</p> + +<p>This is the unfortunate part of it. It now becomes apparent +to every one that Dicky did <i>not</i> ask her early in the +morning to go for a walk anywhere. Silence follows Dicky's +speech. A faint-pink color, delicate but distinct, creeps into +Portia's cheeks; she does not lower her head, however, or +her eyes either, but gazes steadily through the open window +at the hills in the far, far distance, misty with heat and coming +rain.</p> + +<p>She feels that Fabian's eyes are on her, and inwardly resents +his scrutiny. As for Fabian himself, his brow contracts, +and a somewhat unpleasant expression mars the beauty of his +face; yet, turning to Dicky with the utmost composure, he +says, calmly:</p> + +<p>"Take Portia to see the carp-pond; that may interest her."</p> + +<p>"So I will," says Dicky. "But you come, too, old man; +won't you? You understand all about fish, you know, and +that, and I don't a little screw. Make him come, Portia; he +talks like a book when he has got to explain things."</p> + +<p>"Don't trouble Portia," says Fabian, quietly. "<i>Even she</i> +could not persuade me to leave the house to-day, as I have +business on hand that must be done."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span></p> + +<p>There is the very faintest touch of sarcasm in his tone. +The "even she," though very slightly done, is full of it. +Portia, at least, is conscious of it. She unfurls her huge, +black fan with a lazy gesture, and then turns her large eyes +full upon him.</p> + +<p>"So sorry my persuasions have failed," she says, slowly, +not having persuaded him at all; and, satisfied with this +speech, waves the fan indolently to and fro, and with half-closed +eyes watches the merry little sunbeams outside as they +run hither and thither over the grass.</p> + +<p>"Oh! let us do something," says Dulce, from the distance. +"I shall go mad if I am left here to talk to Roger all day."</p> + +<p>"I am sure I don't want you to talk to me if it disagrees +with you," says Roger, with ill-suppressed ire.</p> + +<p>Then they tell her they are going for a gentle stroll before +tea is ready, and she consents to go with them if Sir Mark +will walk with her instead of Roger; and Roger, having indignantly +disclaimed all anxiety to be her companion on +this occasion, peace is restored, and they all sally forth +armed with big, white umbrellas, to inspect the stupid carp.</p> + +<p>Fabian alone remains indoors to transact the mysterious +business, that I think would have been gladly laid aside had +Portia so willed it. That she had absolutely refused to have +him as her companion in her walk, was so evident at the time +of her expressed desire to go to see the carp with Dicky +Browne, that Fabian could not be blind to it. Standing in +the window of the library now, with the dying sunset reddening +the scene without, and shedding upon the flowers its +tenderest tints of fair array, Fabian reminds himself of each +word she had said, of each smallest smile and glance that had +belonged to her, and at this moment hates her with a hatred +that is exceptionally bitter.</p> + +<p>Then a little wave flows over his soul, and he tells himself +how that he is unjust, and a stranger cannot be reasonably +expected to think him innocent of a crime he himself has +been unable to refute.</p> + +<p>The day wanes. Twilight falls; a flush of soft violet color +deepens the sky. The sound of footsteps echoes again in the +long hall without; they have returned from the carp and the +new tennis ground, and are asking eagerly for their tea. The +sun has gone down behind the Western hills, and the stained-glass +windows are throwing a sombre light over the antlers<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span> +and Gothic chairs, and mediæval furniture, in which the +halls delight. Fabian, hearing the footsteps, pulls himself +together somewhat roughly, and, opening a door that leads +to a passage in little use, makes his way to a distant office, +where he tells himself, bitterly, he is "far from the madding +crowd," and free from intrusion.</p> + +<p>Dulce and Portia, crossing the hall, go down the north +corridor that leads to the library Fabian has just vacated. A +heavy crimson curtain conceals a door on one side, and, as +they pass, a figure, emerging from behind it, brushes somewhat +brusquely against Portia, filling her with sudden alarm.</p> + +<p>This figure, as it appears in the vague gloaming, is bowed +and bent, and altogether uncanny.</p> + +<p>Portia, shrinking closer to Dulce, lays her hand upon her +arm.</p> + +<p>"Ah! what was that?" she says, fearfully.</p> + +<p>"Only Gregory Slyme," returns Dulce, quickly, "you are +not frightened at <i>him</i>, poor old thing, are you? Have you +not seen him before?"</p> + +<p>"No," says Portia, with a shudder and a backward glance +at the shrunken figure creeping away down the corridor as +if ashamed of itself.</p> + +<p>"No?—that is strange; but he has affected his own room +a good deal of late."</p> + +<p>"But who is he?" anxiously.</p> + +<p>"He was Uncle Christopher's secretary for years, and calls +himself that still, but Fabian does all the writing now."</p> + +<p>"What a start he gave me," says Portia, putting her hand +hurriedly to her heart as though in pain. "A chill seemed +to rush all through my blood. It was as though I had met +something that had worked, and would work, me harm!"</p> + +<p>"Fanciful baby," says Dulce, with very superior scorn; +"old Slyme could not work ill to anyone. He has lived +with us for years; but lately, within the last eight months, +he has become—well, a little uncomfortable; indeed, perhaps, +unbearable is the word."</p> + +<p>"How so?—what has he done?" asks Portia, unaccountably +interested in this shadow that has crossed her path.</p> + +<p>"I think he is very fond of brandy," says Dulce, reluctantly, +and in a very grieved little tone. "Poor old Gregory!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER VI.</h2> + +<div class='poem'> +"Present mirth hath present laughter,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">What's to come is still unsure."</span><br /> +<div class='sig'>—<span class="smcap">Shakespeare.</span></div><br /> +</div> + + +<p>"<span class="smcap">Julia</span> is coming to-day," says Dulce, looking at them all, +with the tea-pot poised in her hand. It is evident that this +sudden announcement has hitherto been forgotten. "I heard +from her this morning," she says, half apologetically, "but +never thought of telling you until now. She will be here in +time for dinner, and she is bringing the children with her."</p> + +<p>"Only the children?" says Roger, the others are all singularly +dumb.</p> + +<p>"Yes. The <i>ayah</i> has gone home. Of course she will +bring a nurse of some sort, but not Singa."</p> + +<p>"For even small mercies we should be thankful," says +Roger.</p> + +<p>"Who is Julia?" asks Portia, idly.</p> + +<div class='poem'> +"'Who is Julia? What is she<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">That all our swains commend her?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: .5em;">Holy, fair, and wise is she,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">The heavens such grace——'"</span><br /> +</div> + +<p>"Oh, that will do," says Dicky Browne, turning impatiently +to Roger, who has just delivered himself of the +above stanza.</p> + +<p>"Don't be severe," says Dulce, reprovingly; "extravagant +praise is always false, and as to the swains, that is what she +<i>wants</i> them to do, only they won't."</p> + +<p>"Now, who is severe?" says Roger triumphantly.</p> + +<p>"As yet, you have hardly described her," says Portia.</p> + +<p>"Let me do it," entreats Mr. Browne, airily, "I feel in +the very vein for that sort of thing. She is quite a thing to +dream of; and she is much too preciously utter, and quite too +awfully too-too!"</p> + +<p>"That's obsolete now," says Dulce, "quite out of the +market altogether. Too-too has been superseded, you should +tell Portia she is very-very!"</p> + +<p>"Odious," says Roger, in a careful aside as though determined +to think Miss Blount's speech unfinished.</p> + +<p>"She is like Barbauld's <i>Spring</i>," put in Sir Mark, lazily, +coming up to have his cup refilled. "She is the 'sweet +daughter of a rough and stormy sire.' Do any of you remember +old Charley Blount?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span></p> + +<p>Plainly, nobody does. Everybody looks at everybody +else, as though <i>they</i> should have known him, but nothing +comes of it.</p> + +<p>"Well, he was just the funniest old thing," says Sir Mark, +laughing, at some absurd recollection. "Well, he is gone +now, and</p> + +<div class='poem'> +'I know it is a sin<br /> +For me to sit and grin<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">At him here;</span><br /> +But the old three-cornered hat<br /> +And the breeches, and all that,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Were</i> so queer.'</span><br /> +</div> + +<p>"And bless me, what a temper he had," says Sir Mark, +laughing again at his quotation. "His clothes and his +temper were old Blount's principal features. Hideous old +monster he was too."</p> + +<p>"Is she hideous?" ask Portia.</p> + +<p>"N-o. She is well enough; she isn't a bit like him, if we +forget the clothes and temper. She says her mother was very +beautiful."</p> + +<p>"I never knew a woman whose mother wasn't beautiful, +once the mother was dead," says Roger. "Sort of thing they +tell you the moment they get the chance."</p> + +<p>Five o'clock has struck some time ago. Evening is coming +on apace. On the dry, smooth-shaven lawn, outside, the +shadows are lengthening, stretching themselves indolently as +though weary from all the hide-and-seek they have been +playing, since early dawn, in the nooks and corners of the +quaint old garden.</p> + +<p>June has not yet quite departed; its soft, fresh glory still +gilds the edge of the lake, and lends a deeper splendor to the +golden firs that down below are nodding to the evening +breeze; it is the happiest time of all the year, for</p> + +<div class='poem'> +"What is so rare as a day in June?<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Then, if ever, come perfect days;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Then heaven tries the earth, if it be in tune,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And over it softly her warm ear lays."</span><br /> +</div> + +<p>"Well, the mother is dead and gone now, this many a +year," says Sir Mark, "and the old fellow went nearly out of +his mind when Julia married Beaufort."</p> + +<p>"Oh! she is married?" says Portia.</p> + +<p>"Dear Portia, didn't I <i>tell</i> you she had children?" says +Dulce, reproachfully. "She married an Indian Nabob with +an aristocratic name and a <i>lac</i> of rupees, as she believed, but +there was a flaw somewhere, and—er—how was it Dicky?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Simplest thing out," says Dicky. "He had a lack of +rupees, indeed, as she found out when he died. It is only +the difference of one letter after all, and that can't count for +much."</p> + +<p>"Her father, old Charley, left her everything, so she +isn't badly off now," says Sir Mark, "but the Nabob was a +sell."</p> + +<p>"I wonder if Portia will like her," says Dulce, meditatively, +laying her elbows on the table and letting her chin +sink into her palms.</p> + +<p>"Tell me something about her personally," entreats Portia, +turning to her with some show of interest.</p> + +<p>"What can I tell you? She is pretty in her own way, +and she agrees with everyone, and she never means a word +she says; and, when she appears most earnest, that is the +time not to believe in her; and she is very agreeable as a +rule, and she is Fabian's pet aversion."</p> + +<p>("Not now," says Portia to herself).</p> + +<p>"I don't think there is anything else I can tell you," continues +Dulce, with a little nod.</p> + +<p>"I wonder you have her," says Miss Vibart, disagreeably +impressed by this description.</p> + +<p>"Why, she is our cousin! And, of course, she can come +whenever she wishes—she knows that," says Dulce. "It is +not with her, as with you, you know. You are a joy, she is a +duty. But the children <i>are</i> so sweet."</p> + +<p>"How many of them?" asks Portia, who knows a few +things she prefers to children.</p> + +<p>"Three. Pussy, Jacky, and the Boodie. The Boodie is +nothing short of perfection."</p> + +<p>"That is the one solitary point on which Dulce and I +agree," says Roger. "We both adore the Boodie. Wait till +you see her; she is all gold hair, and blue eyes, and creamy +skin, and her nose is a fortune in itself. I can't think where +Julia found her."</p> + +<p>"Fabian is so fond of her," says Dulce, whose thoughts +never wander very far from the brother for whose ruined life +she grieves incessantly, day after day.</p> + +<p>"How old is she?" asks Portia—"this little beauty you +speak of—this harmony in blue and gold?"</p> + +<p>"Five, I think. She is not in the least like her mother, +who goes in for æsthetics, with a face like a French doll, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span> +who will love you forever, if you will only tell a lie, and say +you think she resembles Ellen Terry."</p> + +<p>"With a soul given entirely to French bonnets and Louis +Quinze shoes, she would be thought ultra-mundane," says Sir +Mark, who is trying to make Dulce's little toy terrier, Gilly, +stand on his hind legs, in search of cake.</p> + +<p>"My goodness! what a long word," says Dicky Browne, +who is now eating bread and butter, because he has finished +the cake. "Does it mean anything edible? Because if so, +I don't quite follow you; <i>no</i> one could masticate Julia!"</p> + +<p>"I hope she will be in a good temper when she comes," +says Roger. "Last time she terrified us all into fits."</p> + +<p>"If the children have behaved nicely in the train, and if +anyone has taken any notice of her, she will be charming," +says Dulce, moodily. "If not, she will be—the other thing."</p> + +<p>"And the other thing isn't nice," puts in Dicky, in his +pleasantest tone.</p> + +<p>"Then what shall we do with her just at first?" says Miss +Blount, who is evidently in fear of breakers ahead.</p> + +<p>"Look here," says Mr. Browne, who couldn't hold his +tongue to save his life, "I'll tell you the first thing to say to +any fellow who arrives at your house. Don't go worrying +him about the health of his sister, and his cousins, and his +aunts, but just ask him if he will have a B. and S. He <i>will</i>, +you know—and—and there you are. He won't forget it to +you afterwards."</p> + +<p>Sir Mark laughs. Portia unfurls her fan, and smiles faintly +behind it.</p> + +<p>"Julia isn't a fellow, and I'm sure she wouldn't like brandy," +says Dulce, who is feeling a little hopeless as she contemplates +the coming of this new guest.</p> + +<p>"The more fool she," says Dicky. "Try Madeira, then. +She has a tenderness for Madeira; and tell her her hat is +lovely. That'll fetch her."</p> + +<p>"Come and sit here, Dicky," says Portia, motioning to the +footstool near her. "Your advice is not to be surpassed."</p> + +<p>"It's not so bad," says Mr. Browne, comfortably settling +himself on the cushion at her feet, just as Fabian enters the +room; "but I'm sorry she won't entertain the brandy idea. +That never fails. It's friendly, homely, you know, and that."</p> + +<p>"Dicky says if you drink rum and new milk every morning +before breakfast, you will live forever," says Dulce, +thoughtfully.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span></p> + +<p>"What a miserable idea," says Fabian, in his usual soft +voice, that has yet something stern about it. "It suggests +the Wandering Jew, and other horrors. Who would live forever?"</p> + +<p>"<i>I</i> would," says Dicky, with a sentimental glance at Portia, +"if I might only remain here."</p> + +<p>"Get up, Dicky, and don't make an ass of yourself," says +Sir Mark, a little sharply for him, considering his natural +laziness, and his tendency to let all things slide. As a rule he +makes indolence his god, and sacrifices everything to it. +Now, some superior influence compels him to make this +speech, and to regard Dicky with a glance that bespeaks disfavor. +Fabian is standing somewhat apart, his eyes as usual +fixed upon the flickering shadows and the touch of green in +the ocean beyond, but with his mind many leagues away. +Yet now he turns, and looks with wonder at Sir Mark, as though +astonished at his tone, and Sir Mark looks at him. There is +a certain amount of longing, and hope, and affection, in Sir +Mark's glance.</p> + +<p>"At all events she will be in time for our ball," says Roger, +"and, besides that, there will be another element of amusement. +Stephen Gower is coming back to the Fens at last. +She can get up a little flirtation with him, and as he is a right-down +good sort. I daresay, if I gave him the right cue, he +would take her off our hands for a little while."</p> + +<p>"Is your friend coming?" says Dulce, with some surprise. +"You never told us. And that pretty place is to have a +master at last? I am rather glad, do you know; especially as +he is a friend, too, of Fabian's."</p> + +<p>"I have no friends," says Fabian, suddenly, with a small +frown.</p> + +<p>"Oh yes, you have, whether you like it or not," says Gore, +quickly. "I can swear to one at least. My dear fellow, this +is one of your bad days; come with me; a walk through the +evening dews will restore you to reason once more."</p> + +<p>He passes his arm through Fabian's, and leads him down +the balcony steps into the dew-steeped gardens. A moan +from the sea comes up to greet them as they go. No other +sound disturbs the calm of the evening air.</p> + +<p>"I think Fabian has the most perfect face I ever saw," +says Roger, suddenly. But Portia makes no reply. She is +watching Fabian's figure as it disappears in the dusk. Dulce,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span> +however, turns quickly, and looks at Roger, a strange gleam +in her great, blue eyes.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER VII.</h2> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"He is a fool who is not for love and beauty. I speak unto the young, for I am +of them, and always shall be."—<span class="smcap">Bailey.</span></p></div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Slowly</span>, decorously, they march into church, one by one—Dulce +first, and then Sir Christopher, and then Julia Beaufort +and Portia, and so on, down to the children, who are +evidently consumed with a desire to know more than seems, +and who are evincing a dangerous longing to waltz up the +smooth stone aisle.</p> + +<p>The Boodie (who has not been overdrawn by Dulce and +Roger, and who really <i>is</i> like an angel, with her sapphire +eyes and corn-colored hair, and the big white bonnet, with +its blue bow, that surrounds her face like a cloud) rather +loses her presence of mind. It is either this, or a sudden accession +of ambition, that overcomes her, because, without a +moment's notice, she turns gently on her left heel, and executes +a tiny pirouette on her small Hessian boots. A frown +from her mother suppresses further evolutions, and, with a +sigh, she returns to decorum and the family pew.</p> + +<p>In a corner of it the children are comfortably stowed away, +while all the others following suit, fall into their proper +places. They are only barely in time. The organ plays +them up the aisle, and they have only just a second to scramble +through the preliminary prayers (so distinct a token of +respectability), when the rector's voice breaks forth.</p> + +<p>Portia, who has not been to church before, looks up at Mr. +Grainger, while he is confessing everybody in a tone severe +but bilious, and tells herself he is as like a superannuated old +crow as ever he can be. He is flanked by the curate, a +mediæval young man, with a pallid countenance and an irreproachable +gown, cut in the latest fashion, who stands in an +attitude of the most approved, with his eyes fixed immovably +upon a side pillar. The fixity of his gaze is so intense as to +suggest the idea that he never again means to remove it until +death claims him for his own.</p> + +<p>Then a hymn is sung by the village choir, led by the organist's +high soprano. It is a hymn very unique in its way,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span> +and sung with much fervor, if little tune, and pierces even +to the brains of its hearers. The organ beats a solemn accompaniment +to this delicacy, and whether the strains from the +ancient instrument—that squeaks like a dilapidated bagpipes—is +too much for the curate, I know not; but, at the last +verse, he removes his eyes from the pillar of the church and +concentrates them upon Portia.</p> + +<p>Portia, at this particular moment, I regret to say, is smiling +broadly. A brilliant smile that illuminates her whole face, +rendering her as lovely as a dream. She is plainly deriving +great consolation from the village choir?</p> + +<p>The curate, smitten by the sight of her levity, or by the +consciousness of his own lapse from the path of duty, in so +far letting his mind wander to mundane matters, turns pale, +and, lowering his eyes until they reach the tesselated pavement +at his feet, grows sad and thoughtful, and perhaps decides +on eating no meat again to-day as punishment for his +fault.</p> + +<p>The church is old, quaint, curious. It is like a thing forgotten. +It looks as if it had been dug up by somebody and +planted just here, no one knows why. The windows are narrow +and elongated, and admit but little light. The pillars in +the more distant corners are wrapt in gloom. A cobweb falling +from the roof, spun by some enterprising spider, hangs +over the gaunt pulpit, as though desirous of coming in contact +with whosoever may enter it.</p> + +<p>The cobweb, as it waves lazily backward and forward with +every breeze that assails it, is a thing of joy to Roger and +Dicky Browne, who are sitting side by side. It is an unspeakable +boon, a sweet attraction, an everlasting resource to +them throughout the service. As it goes to and fro their eyes +follow it; they would willingly bet upon it were such a thing +practicable; and they wait in a charmed suspense until such +time as some one will enter the pulpit, to see whether the +some one will attack the cobweb, or the cobweb attack the +some one.</p> + +<p>Besides the cobweb there is a clerk and a sexton. Sometimes +they say Amen when the idea strikes them; sometimes they +don't; it is awkward when they <i>don't</i>. Then a lull in the +performance makes itself felt, though it is always somewhat +broken by the voice of the curate, which is monotonous in +the extreme.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span></p> + +<p>A few stray sunbeams are straggling in through the narrow +windows, and are holding high festival in Dulce's bonnet; a +perfect crown of glory envelops her head. The day being +exceptionally warm, everything and every one is drowsy and +sleepy, and a trifle inattentive.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, the service progresses surely, if slowly. Uncle +Christopher's head is courting his chest; Fabian, who always +sits next to him, is unmistakably wide-awake, but has his head +lowered, and his eyes fixed moodily upon the carpet at his +feet. He looks attentive, but is really miles away from the +Commandments and from everything.</p> + +<p>Portia, in her white gown, is looking more than ordinarily +lovely, and just now is gazing oddly at Fabian. She is +vaguely wondering how he would look if he permitted himself +to smile. He is always so preternaturally grave that she +is curious to know if a smile—once indulged in—would imbitter +or sweeten his face. Yes; Roger was quite right when +he said the other day that Fabian's face was perfect. Perhaps +even the smile she desires to see upon it could not improve +it. Nay, it might even mar it, so severe are its lines; +but were they <i>always</i> so? She is lost in impossible speculation!</p> + +<p>Dulce, clad all in severe black, with her hands crossed +upon her knees, like a small devotee, is looking straight before +her at nothing particular, and is utterly unconscious that the +strange young man in the "Fens" pew is regarding her with +an amount of attention he has certainly not expended on his +prayers.</p> + +<p>The children have behaved wonderfully well, all things +considered. The Boodie has only once laughed out loud, +and only twice have Jacky and Pussy indulged in a deadly +scuffle; altogether, there is deep cause for thankfulness.</p> + +<p>The cobweb is still waving to and fro, and now (as Mr. +Grainger ascends the stairs and enters the pulpit), driven, +perhaps, by some stronger current of air, moves rapidly to +the right, so that the rector reaches his place and arranges +himself therein, without coming into collision with it, to +Roger's and Dicky's everlasting chagrin.</p> + +<p>"A narrow escape," says Dicky, in a careful undertone, to +Roger, who, too, has been breathlessly watching the <i>denouement</i>.</p> + +<p>"Yes, just like our dismal luck," responds that young man,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span> +in an aggrieved tone. "I'd have bet anything on its catching +him by the wig."</p> + +<p>Mr. Grainger standing up, after a short and private prayer, +looks as if he was making his bow to the audience, and having +surveyed them leisurely for an embarrassing moment +(during which the farmers' wives fidget, and look as if they +would gladly inhabit their boots), he gives forth his text.</p> + +<p>Silence ensues; the curate arranges himself in a purely +ascetic attitude; the rector stamps his foot, in a preparatory +sort of way, on the floor of the massive pulpit, which is as +hideous as it is clumsy to the last degree. There are a few +meagre little carvings all round it, suggestive of tares, and +wheat, and good Samaritans, and there is an impossible donkey +in the foreground. It is a very depressing pulpit, but certainly +solid.</p> + +<p>"No chance of a breakdown," says Roger, gloomily, fixing, +his eye-glass in his left eye, and surveying with ill concealed +disgust the <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'unwieldly'">unwieldy</ins> structure before him.</p> + +<p>"You're a brave boy," returns Mr. Browne, with exaggerated +admiration. "Fancy your looking for excitement +<i>here</i>."</p> + +<p>"It may be nearer than you think," says Roger, <i>so</i> meaningly, +that his companion applies himself to the translating +of his glance. It is fixed, and fixed on the cobweb, too, +which is slowly, slowly floating towards the rector's head. +It comes nearer to it, catches in a rising lock (that has elevated +itself, no doubt, because of the preacher's eloquence), +and lingers there, as though bent on lifting pulpit, Grainger +and all to the ceiling with the next puff of wind.</p> + +<p>Roger forgets his grievance, his <i>ennui</i>, everything! The +situation has its charm. To his delight he finds Dicky as +wrapt in the possible result as himself. The cobweb sticks +fast. Mr. Grainger, lifting his hand, smooths his ear, under +the mistaken impression that the ticking feeling is there, and +then goes on solemnly with his discourse, which is dryer than +the weather, which is saying a good deal. He moves his +head impatiently from side to side, but gains nothing by this, +as the cobweb is apparently of an affectionate disposition, +and goes with him wherever he listeth.</p> + +<p>Dicky Browne is entranced. <i>Such</i> an interlude was more +than he had hoped for. Involuntarily he lays his hand on +Dulce's arm, and, giving her a mild pinch, shows her the +cause of his apparent joy.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span></p> + +<p>"If the flooring gives way he'll die the death of Absalom," +he says, gravely, whereupon Miss Blount also, I grieve +to say, gives way to silent but wild mirth.</p> + +<p>The rector waxes warm. The cobweb, giving up the hair +as a bad job, has relinquished its hold, and is now mildly +touching his cheek, in a somewhat coquettish fashion. Mr. +Grainger, with a short but decisive gesture, drags it, and its +many yards of spider-workmanship to the ground. The +cobweb and the spider suffer—but they have their revenge. +Mr. Grainger is embarrassed with the cobweb, which has +twined itself loving round his finger, and not until he has lost +his place in his sermon and grown very red in the face, is serenity +restored.</p> + +<p>The rural congregation shows every symptom of being +able to fall at a moment's notice into the arms of Morpheus. +The curate grows leaner, more toil-worn, more ascetic. The +rector drones away. The Boodie, having walked up and +down the pew several times, has finally come to anchor in +Uncle Christopher's arms, and having flung her little white +bonnet from her, has now snuggled her head inside his coat, +and is intently listening to what appears to be a very lengthened +whisper from him. It seems to be a whisper without +an end, and one undesirous of response. Indeed, there is a +legend extant that Uncle Christopher employs his time during +the sermon, whenever the Boodie is with him, in telling +her tales of fairyland, not to be surpassed by Grimm or +Andersen!</p> + +<p>The rector bleats on incessantly; faintly and more faintly +his voice seems to reach his flock. The sun beats with undying +fervor upon the gables outside and the bald heads of +the parishioners within. There is a great sense of quiet +everywhere, with only the rector's voice to disturb it, when +suddenly upon the startled ear falls a sound, ambiguous, but +distinct.</p> + +<p>It is a snore! An undeniable snore! and it emanates from +Jacky! He has succumbed to heat and Mr. Grainger, and is +now travelling in lands where we poor waking mortals cannot +enter. Apparently he is happy, but he certainly is not as +pretty as he need be, with his short and somewhat aggressive +nose uplifted, and his mouth at its widest stretch.</p> + +<p>Everyone in the pew gives a decided jump—be the same +small or great—but Pussy alone finds herself equal to the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span> +occasion. She is a child of extreme promise, and, seeing her +opportunity, at once embraces it. She seizes Jacky mildly, +but firmly, by the hair, and administers to him three severe +shocks.</p> + +<p>The result is everything she can possibly have desired. +Jacky, awakening, comes to his senses with the aid of a partially +suppressed yell, and falling upon Pussy with an evident +desire to exterminate her there and then, rolls with her off +the seat, and disappears with her heavily under it.</p> + +<p>An awful moment, fraught with agony for the survivors +ensue: and then the belligerents are once more brought to +light by Fabian; who, after much search and expostulation, +restores them to their proper places. Being nearest to them, +he plants them again upon their <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'cushionss'">cushions</ins> with only this precaution—that +he himself now sits between them. This is +hardly to their liking, and from their several positions, and +right across poor Fabian's chest, they breathe fire and war, +and death and destruction upon each other.</p> + +<p>How it will all end everyone refuses to dwell upon; but, +just at the most critical moment, Fabian, stooping his dark, +grave face, whispers something to the irate little damsel that, +as if by magic, reduces her to order.</p> + +<p>She looks at him a little while, then sighs, and finally, slipping +her hand through his arm, lays her blonde head against +him, and is the personification of all things peaceful, until +the service ends.</p> + +<p>She looks up at him, too, as though desirous of his forgiveness, +and Fabian, taking her slim little baby hand in his, +assures her with a glance that she <i>is</i> forgiven; and then she +smiles at him, and nestles a degree closer, and then Fabian, +though always unsmilingly, passes his arm round the child, +and draws her into a more comfortable position.</p> + +<p>Portia, who has watched it all, feels a strange pang +at her heart; it is as though he is glad to be friends +with these children, to be at peace with them, because +they, at least (sweet, trusting souls), believe in him. And +what a tenderness he betrays towards them! this dark, +moody, concentrated man, whose whole life is burdened with +an unsavory mystery. What a power, too, he possesses over +them; even that untractable Pussy was calmed, charmed into +submission by a word, a glance. Yet children and dogs, they +say, have keenest instincts!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span></p> + +<p>While she still wonders, Fabian lifts his eyes and meets +hers, and as though drawn by some magnetic influence each +towards the other, though sorely against their wills, they +gaze into each other's faces for more time than they care to +calculate afterwards, until at last Fabian (who is the first to +recover himself) lets his glance fall, and so the spell is +broken.</p> + +<p>After this, Portia sits quiet and thoughtful until the last +Amen is uttered, and they all go eagerly, but with a meritorious +attempt at regret, into the open air once more.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> + +<div class='poem'> +"None here are happy, but the very fool,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Or very wise: I am not fool enough</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">To smile in vanities, and hug a shadow;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Nor have I wisdom to elaborate</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">An artificial happiness from pains."—<span class="smcap">Young.</span></span><br /> +</div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">They</span> are all standing in the porch, saying "How d'ye +do" to half a dozen of their neighbors, and being introduced +to the dark young man in the Fens pew. He is a very +handsome young man, and very light-hearted apparently, +and looks very frequently at Miss Blount, who smiles at him +very graciously, and tells him he must "really come up to +luncheon at the Court, or Uncle Christopher will be <i>so</i> disappointed. +<i>Any</i> friend of Roger's"—and so on.</p> + +<p>"Portia," says Sir Christopher, suddenly—when Stephen +Gower has expressed his extreme pleasure at the thought of +lunching at the Court, always with his dark eyes fixed curiously +upon Dulce—"Come with me; I want to show you +your poor mother's last resting-place."</p> + +<p>"Ah! yes; I shall like to see that," says Portia, tenderly, +though the dead mother is only a bare memory to her. +"Yes, take me to see it."</p> + +<p>They separate from the others, and go around an angle of +the old church, and past an ivied corner, and so come to the +quiet spot where stands the vault of the Blounts.</p> + +<p>"It was too far to send her to the Vibarts' burying-place," +says Sir Christopher; "at least we tried to think so, because +we tried to keep her with <i>us</i>. And your father was dead. +And at the very last, she murmured something about being +laid beside her mother; poor, dear girl!" To Sir Christopher, +Portia's mother has always been a girl, and a poor<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span> +soul. I think, perhaps, Portia's father had been "<i>breezy</i>" +in the way of temper.</p> + +<p>Then Portia asks many questions, trivial in themselves, +yet of mighty interest to these two, to whom the dead had +been dear. And the questions and answers occupy some +time, insomuch that when at length they return to the church +porch, they find the others have all disappeared, and the +sexton preparing to lock the church door.</p> + +<p>"Where have all my people gone to?" asks Sir Christopher +of this functionary, in an elevated tone, the functionary +being, as he himself would describe it, "hard of hearing." +Whereupon they are informed that the "Court folk" +went "away home through yon small iron gate," and into +the woods beyond, and are now presumably sauntering lazily +homeward beneath the shade of the spreading oaks and +elms.</p> + +<p>"Then we cannot do better than follow their example," +says Sir Christopher, but almost before they come to the iron +gate they see Fabian, who, unmindful of their presence, nay, +rather, utterly unaware of it, is walking steadily, but slowly, +onward, as though lost in thought.</p> + +<p>Presently, hearing footsteps behind him, he turns, and +seeing Portia, starts perceptibly, and comes to a standstill.</p> + +<p>"I thought you would all be at home long before this," he +says, involuntarily. Involuntarily also his tone conveys the +idea that his wish was "father to his thought." There is a +note in it that is distinct disappointment. Portia lets her lids +fall over her eyes, and lets her lips form themselves into an +almost imperceptible smile. Plainly he had loitered in the +churchyard in the fond hope of avoiding them all (her especially +it may be), and here is the result.</p> + +<p>"We thought the same of you," says Sir Christopher, +cheerily, coming to the front bravely, "we believed you at +the Court before this. Very lucky you aren't though, as I +want you to see Portia home. I must go and interview Bowles +about that boy of his—a duty I hardly admire."</p> + +<p>"It is late now. If you delay any longer you will miss +your luncheon," says Portia, hurriedly. Her face betrays +unmistakable anxiety.</p> + +<p>It is now Fabian's turn to smile, but his lips are rigid, and +the commonest observer may read, that mirth of even the +grimmest description is far from him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Luncheon, eh? I don't care a fig about luncheon," +says Uncle Christopher, gaily, "unless I'm shooting, or that. +No. Better see Bowles now if I am to see him at all. Sunday +is his only visible day, I've been told. His '<i>At home</i>,' in +fact—as all the rest of the week he lies in bed, and refuses +to wash himself."</p> + +<p>"Horrid man!" says Miss Vibart, merely for the sake of +saying something. In reality had Bowles felt it his duty to lie +a-bed all the year round, and never indulge in the simplest +ablutions, it would not have given her a passing thought.</p> + +<p>"On the Sabbath he rouses himself, and in a spotless +shirt (washed by that idiot of a wife of his, who still will believe +in him), and with a pipe in his mouth, he struts up and +down the pavement before the door of his palatial residence," +says Uncle Christopher. "I am sure to find him +to-day."</p> + +<p>"Let me go with you," says Portia, as a last resource. "I +should like to be made acquainted with this incomparable +Bowles." She smiles as she speaks, but the smile is somewhat +artificial, and is plainly conjured up with difficulty for +the occasion.</p> + +<p>"Well, come," says Sir Christopher, who always says "yes," +to every one, and who would encourage you warmly if you +expressed a desire to seek death and the North Pole.</p> + +<p>"It is quite impossible," says Fabian, quietly, not raising +his voice, and not moving as he speaks. "Portia cannot go +with you to Bowles' house. The man is insupportable."</p> + +<p>Portia has her hand upon Sir Christopher's arm; her eyes +are alight; something within her—some contradictory power—awakens +a determination to see this Bowles. Yet it is +hardly so keen a desire to see a man in a clean shirt and a +"churchwarden" that possesses her, as a desire to circumvent +the man who has opposed her expressed wish. Fabian, on his +part, though pained, is equally determined that she shall not +be brought face to face with the unpleasant Bowles. She has +her eyes on him, but he has his on Sir Christopher.</p> + +<p>"I should like to go with you," she says, in clear tones, +taking no heed of Fabian's last remark; "I like country people, +and strange village characters, and—and that." This is somewhat +vague.</p> + +<p>"You remember the last time Dulce went to see <i>Mrs.</i> +Bowles?" says Fabian, who has caught Sir Christopher's eye<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span> +by this. Whatever Dulce may have endured during that +memorable visit is unknown to Portia, but the recollection of +it, as forced upon Sir Christopher's memory, is all-powerful +to prevent her accompanying him on his mission to-day.</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes. I remember," he says, hurriedly, "Bowles, as +a rule, is not courteous. My dear child,"—to Portia—"<i>No</i>, +you cannot, I regret to say, come with me. This man can +be uncomfortable in many ways. You understand, eh? +You wouldn't like him. People in shirt-sleeves, however +clean, are always out of it, eh? There, good-by to both of +you. Take her home, Fabian, and explain my absence to +the others, especially to Roger's friend, that new young fellow, +Gower, of the Fens."</p> + +<p>So saying, he marched away to do battle with the objectionable +Bowles, with his fine old shoulders well squared, and +a world of defiance in his gait. There is no help for it! The +two left behind feel this acutely, and Fabian pushing open +the little iron gate, Portia goes down the stone steps and +enters presently upon a wood all green, and soft and verdure-clad.</p> + +<p>The trees are interlaced above their heads. Through them +the calm, blue sky looks down in wonder, and sheds a scintillating +radiance on their path.</p> + +<div class='poem'> +"In heat the landscape quivering lies,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">The cattle pant beneath the tree:"</span><br /> +</div> + +<div class='unindent'>No little kindly breath of air comes to break the monotony +of the dead sultriness that lies on everything.</div> + +<p>Portia sighs, and with a small, but expressive, gesture +pushes her hat somewhat off her forehead. He is quick to +notice the faintest sign of wrong in those with whom he +associates, and now turning to her, says, gravely:</p> + +<p>"Here, beneath the trees, where the sun cannot penetrate +too severely, Dulce often takes off her hat. Take off yours."</p> + +<p>"If you think it will do any good," says Portia, doubtfully; +and as though fearful of seeming ungracious, she +does take off her hat, and walks along beside him, bare-headed.</p> + +<p>She is feeling sad and depressed. For the first time +since her arrival she is wishing herself back again with +Auntie Maud, who is anything but after her own taste. Yet +to live on here in the shadow of a living lie is bitter to her; +more bitter than she had ever supposed possible.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span></p> + +<p>She had come down to the Court fully aware that Fabian +(according to the lights of those with whom she had lived) +was guilty of the crime imputed to him. He had always +been discussed in her immediate circle with bated breath, +as one who had eternally disgraced the good old name of +Blount, and dragged it cruelly in the dust.</p> + +<p>To be innocent and not to be able to prove one's innocence, +had seemed (and even now does seem to Auntie +Maud and her set) a thing not to be entertained for a moment. +It would be <i>too</i> preposterous! He had rendered +their name hideous, but he should not impose upon them +with his absurd stories of utter ignorance. They believed +he had wilfully committed the forgery, trusting he would +never be discovered, because of the unfortunate similarity +between his writing and that of Sir Christopher. But he had +failed, in spite of his ingenuity, and had been found out; +and, though none of the forged notes had been discovered +in his possession (which only proved the more to his distant +relatives that he possessed the cleverness of the practised +schemer), still they one and all sat upon him in solemn conclave, +and pronounced him outside the pale of respectability.</p> + +<p>That Christopher should elect to leave the beautiful old +Court to such a one seems little less than a crime to the +"cousins and aunts." To leave it to a man shunned by the +entire county (and very properly too!), a man ashamed to +lift his head amongst his fellow men, and who had never +tried to live down his disgrace or brave it out. In this fact—the +certainty of his being pusillanimous about his accusation—lies +the proof of his guilt, to them.</p> + +<p>Portia is going over the whole sad story now again, while +the sinner walks beside her. Once she lifts her eyes, and +looks at him, and tells herself Roger was indeed right when +he made much of his beauty. Yet Satan dwells in comely +bodies! How sad that a face so inclined to nobility should +be stamped with the lines of care, born of dishonor. Tears +fill her eyes as she looks at him, and she turns her head +quickly away, but not before he has seen and marked the +signs of distress within her beautiful eyes. A spasm crosses +his face; he recoils a little from her, as though fear possesses +him. He frowns; and a curious light—half grief, half anger—grows +upon him, and expresses itself upon his quiet lips. +Something that is almost agony is in his eyes; truly though<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span> +the body can know grief, the "sorrows of the soul are +graver still."</p> + +<p>"What is it that has risen between us?" he asks, suddenly; +there is something intense in his tone. "Have you?"—he +pauses, and then goes on with an effort—"have you in your +heart so utterly condemned me?"</p> + +<p>They have come to a stand-still; and Fabian, as he asks +this question, is standing with his back against a huge oak +tree, his eyes fixed upon his companion. His face is as white +as death.</p> + +<p>She makes him no answer. A very fine shade of color, so +faint as to be almost imperceptible, dyes her cheek for a +moment and then vanishes as suddenly as it came, leaving +her quite as pallid as he is himself.</p> + +<p>"It is the most natural thing in the world to condemn," +he goes on, somewhat excitedly. "It is only human. One +feels how easy it is. If one hears a damning story about an +acquaintance, a story almost unsupported, how readily one +inclines to the cruel side. It is not worse in one than in another. +We all have a touch of savagery about us—a thirst +for blood. For the most part, if placed in a certain set number +of circumstances, we all think and act alike. That we +should be cast in one mould with the very commonest of our +brethren is a humiliating thought, but strictly within the +lines of truth. You <i>do</i> condemn me?"</p> + +<p>He wishes to force her into saying so. She shrinks from +him, and raises one hand to her throat, as though nervous and +unhappy.</p> + +<p>"I don't know," she says at last, in a low, hesitating tone. +"I know nothing. Sometimes I don't even know myself."</p> + +<p>"That is always a knowledge difficult of attainment," he +says, slowly. "But about me, in your heart, you are <i>sure</i>. +You believe you do know. You think me guilty." As he +says the word he clenches one hand so firmly that the nails +crush into the flesh.</p> + +<p>"I would rather not talk about it," says Portia, faintly.</p> + +<p>By a terrible effort he recovers himself; a quick breath, that +is almost a sigh, escapes him.</p> + +<p>"That, of course, shall be as you wish," he says, quietly; +and, rousing himself, they walk on together beneath the +branching elms, in silence, painful as it is prolonged.</p> + +<p>Coming to a tiny stream (where he is compelled to offer<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span> +and she to accept, his hand to help her over), she glances at +him, but her glance is not returned, and then she sees that he +has forgotten her very existence, and is, in thought, miles +away from her. He has entered into some ideal realm of his +own—captured during his long years of isolation from the +world.</p> + +<p>As she is silently watching him and wondering, a dark +figure, moving from between the shrubs that hide off one +angle of the house, comes into their path, and, seeing them, +makes a skulking movement to the right as though it would +gladly escape observation.</p> + +<p>"Good evening, Slyme," says Fabian, in half kindly, half +contemptuous tone. The old man murmurs something in return. +His eyes refuse to meet Fabian's, his hands join each +other, and rub palm to palm in an uneasy, shuffling fashion. +His voice is husky and slightly uncertain. His dull old eyes +roam from Fabian to Portia in an odd, questioning way, as if +debating some strange matter. Yet, though looking at them, +it is at their arms or chests he looks, rather than at their +faces.</p> + +<p>Portia (who had stopped when Fabian had) now turns a +little to one side and plucks a flower lazily from a neighboring +shrub, and sighs a little as if weary, and as if she would +gladly be at home.</p> + +<p>At this, Fabian, who is quick to notice anything concerning +her, rouses himself from his prolonged stare at Gregory, +and, noting the instability of the old man's gait, says, suddenly, +with his dark gaze full upon him:</p> + +<p>"Again!"</p> + +<p>His tone this time is all contempt; no kindliness mingles +with it. The old man seems to wither beneath it, and puts +out his hands with a gesture suggestive of deprecation. +Fabian, taking no notice of it, walks away from him, Portia +gladly following.</p> + +<p>Then the secretary's face changes. Standing in the centre +of the pathway, he looks after their retreating figures with a +half-drunken scrutiny, full of malice.</p> + +<p>"Ay," he says, bitterly, beneath his breath, "as a dog I +am in his sight! So he has destroyed his only hope this +many a time!"</p> + +<p>His head sinks into its old position on his chest, and with +a muttered curse he continues his way.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span></p> + +<p>Just as Portia ascends the stone steps that lead to the +house, Fabian, by a gentle touch, detains her.</p> + +<p>"Remember always this," he said slowly and with an attempt +at calmness that is infinitely sad, "that I do not blame +you."</p> + +<p>Tears spring to her eyes. She is at least generous, and now +a great longing to be able to believe in him, to be able to +assure him of her unbounded faith in his honor possesses her. +But, alas! faith is neither to be invoked nor purchased, and to +lie to him, and tell him a soothing falsehood against her conscience +would be worse than useless. The tears having +gathered, two of them roll slowly down her cheeks. She +turns hastily aside. Catching her hand he holds it for a +short moment in his own.</p> + +<p>"They at least are mine," he says, meaning the tears, his +voice deeply agitated, and then she draws her hand from his, +and an instant later, is lost to sight.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER IX.</h2> + +<div class='poem'> +"Young hearts, bright eyes, and rosy lips are there,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">And fairy steps, and light and laughing voices,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Ringing like welcome music through the air—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">A sound at which the untroubled heart rejoices."</span><br /> +<div class='sig'>—<span class="smcap">Hon. Mrs. Norton.</span></div><br /> +</div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Portia</span>, dressed in <i>merveilleux</i> of a cream shade, with a +soft, yellow rose in her hair, is looking her loveliest. She is a +little languid after her walk, and a little <i>distraite</i>, but desirable +beyond words. She is coquetting with her dinner, rather than +eating it, and is somewhat uncomfortably conscious that +Fabian's eyes are perpetually wandering in her direction.</p> + +<p>Dicky Browne is talking gaily, and is devoting himself with +an ardor worthy of a better cause to Julia Beaufort, who is +chattering inanely about many things, and who is in her +element, and a blood-colored gown.</p> + +<p>They have all the conversation to themselves, these two, +as the others are depressed, or rather impressed, by Sir +Christopher's silence, who has one of his brooding fits upon +him. Either the redoubtable Bowles disagreed with him, or +he disagreed with Bowles, because clouds have crowned his +brow since his return home.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span></p> + +<p>Mrs. Beaufort by this time has got to Sardou's last comedy, +and Dicky, who never heard of it or its author, comes to a +conversational stand-still. This means uninterrupted quiet all +round, as nobody else is saying anything. The footsteps of +the solemn butler, and his equally solemn assistant, is all the +sound one hears, and presently they all wake to the fact that +something <i>must</i> be said, and <i>soon</i>.</p> + +<p>"What wretched artichokes!" says Dulce, coming nobly +to the front, with a laudable desire to fill up the yawning +gap.</p> + +<p>"Yes—melancholy," says Roger, backing her up, as in +duty bound; "out of all heart, apparently."</p> + +<p>At this weak attempt at a joke Dicky grins approvingly.</p> + +<p>"I know few people so altogether sufficing as our Roger," +he says patronizingly, addressing nobody in particular; and +as nobody in particular appears to think it necessary to +answer him, conversation once more languishes.</p> + +<p>Sir Mark—who can always find resources in his dinner, +whatever else may fail him—is placidly happy, so is Mrs. +Beaufort, though, perhaps, she is a little sorry that her sleeves +have not been made as tight as Portia's, and with the second +puffing, which is certainly beyond all praise!</p> + +<p>"What's this?" asks Sir Christopher, addressing the butler +in a resigned tone, and looking at a round, soft mass that has +just been laid before him.</p> + +<p>"Suet dumpling, Sir Christopher," replies the butler, apologetically.</p> + +<p>"Again!" says Sir Christopher, in an indescribable manner.</p> + +<p>"Surely not <i>again</i>," repeats Dulce, with unpleasant animation. +"It <i>can't</i> be that frightful thing <i>again</i>, after all I said +to cook yesterday!"</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid it is, 'em," says the butler, very sadly.</p> + +<p>"And this is the cook Miss Gaunt so highly recommended!" +says Dulce, wrathfully. "Save me from my friends, say I; +can't she make anything else, Martin?"</p> + +<p>"This is a gooseberry tart, 'em," whispers the butler, respectfully, +a faint shade of encouragement in his voice, laying +that delicacy before her.</p> + +<p>"That means sugar—lots of sugar," says Dicky Browne, +who is sitting close to her. "I'm glad of that, I like lots of +sugar."</p> + +<p>Portia laughs.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You are like my lord mayor's fool," she says; "you like +everything that is sweet."</p> + +<p>"I do," says Dicky, fondly; "that's why I like you."</p> + +<p>"I think it was very wrong of Miss Gaunt to impose such +a woman upon us," says Dulce, deeply aggrieved.</p> + +<p>"Never trust an old maid," says Roger; "I spend my life +giving you good advice, which you won't take; and such an +old maid, too, as Miss Gaunt! She is as good (or as bad) +as two rolled into one."</p> + +<p>"She said she was a perfect treasure," exclaims Miss Blount, +casting an indignant glance at him.</p> + +<p>"Send her back her treasure, then, and tell her, as you are +not selfish, you could not think of depriving <i>her</i> of her services."</p> + +<p>"Is that a sample of your good advice?" asks she, with considerable +scorn. "Besides, I can't; I have agreed with this +woman to stay here for a month."</p> + +<p>"Fancy suet dumplings every day for a month," says +Dicky Browne, unfeelingly; "that means four weeks—thirty-one +days! We shall be dead, I shouldn't wonder, long before +that."</p> + +<p>"No such luck," says Sir Mark.</p> + +<p>"Give her anything she wants, Dulce, and send her away," +says Sir Christopher.</p> + +<p>"But she will think me so unkind and capricious," protests +Dulce, who is an arrant little coward, and is afraid to +tell cook she no longer requires her. The cook is a big +Scotchwoman, with very large bones, and a great many of +them.</p> + +<p>"Well, do whatever you like," says Uncle Christopher, +wearily.</p> + +<p>The night is fine, calm, and cool, and sweet with many +perfumes. Some of them at table cast lingering glances at +the lawn without, and long, silently, to be standing on it. +The moon has risen, and cast across it great streaks of +silver light that brighten and darken as clouds race each +other o'er Astarte's sacred brow.</p> + +<p>There is great silence on the air, broken only by a "murmuring +winde, much like the sowne of swarming bees." A +little rivulet in the far distance runs musically.</p> + +<p>"Let us all go out," says Julia Beaufort, suddenly, feeling +she has already spent quite too long a time over her biscuit +and claret.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Ah! thank you," says Portia, quickly, turning to her +almost before she had finished speaking—her great, soft eyes +even larger than usual. "I have been so longing to say that +for the last five minutes."</p> + +<p>"The 'lost chord' has been struck again," says Dicky +Browne. "Mrs. Beaufort, I won't be deserted in this barefaced +fashion. If you are determined to court death +through night dews, <i>I</i> shall court it with you."</p> + +<p>Julia simpers, and looks delighted. Then they all rise +from the table, and move towards the balcony; all—that is—except +Sir Mark, who (though he would have dearly liked to +accompany them into the mystic moonlight) still lingers behind +to bear company with Sir Christopher, and strive to +lay the ghost that so plainly is haunting him to-night.</p> + +<p>Joyously they all descend the steps, and then break into a +little run as their feet touch the velvet grass. The sky is +bright with pale blue light, the air is soft and warm as sultry +noon. A little baby wind—that ought to be in bed, so +sweet and tender it is—is roaming here and there amongst +the flowers, playing with the scented grasses, and losing +itself amongst the bracken, lower down.</p> + +<p>One can hear the roar of the distant ocean breaking itself +against the giant rocks; one can hear, too, in strange contrast, +the chirp, chirp of the green grasshopper.</p> + +<p>As they come within view of the fountain, all their mouths +form themselves into many round Os, and they say, "Ah!" +as with one breath.</p> + +<p>The scene is indeed charming beyond description. The +water of the fountain is bright as silver, great patches of +purest moonlight lying on it as calm as though in death. +The water-lilies tremble faintly, as it might be in terror of +the little gods who are leaning over them. A shadow from +the trees in the background falls athwart a crouching Venus. +Some pretty, low chairs are standing scattered about, and +Portia sinking into one, the others all follow her example, +and seating themselves on chairs on the soft sward begin to +enjoy themselves.</p> + +<p>The men produce cigars, and are presently happy in their +own way. Roger or Dicky asks every one, indiscriminately, +if she would like a cigarette; a question responded to in the +negative by all, though in truth Dulce would have dearly +liked one.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span></p> + +<p>Fabian, who has come with them, is lying full length upon +the grass, with his hands behind his head, gazing dreamily at +the glimpse of the far-off sea, that shows through the dark-green +firs. Dulce's silvery laugh is waking an echo lower +down. There is a great sense of rest and happiness in the +hour.</p> + +<p>A big, lazy bumblebee, tumbling sleepily into Portia's lap, +wakes her into life. It lies upon her, looking larger and +blacker than its wont, as it shows against the pallor of her +gown. She starts, and draws herself up with a half-suppressed +cry.</p> + +<p>Fabian, lifting the bee from her knees, flings it high into +the air, and sends it off on the errand it was probably bound +on before it fell in love with Portia.</p> + +<p>"How foolish of me to be frightened of it—pretty thing," +she says, with a faint blush. "How black it looked."</p> + +<p>"<i>Every</i>thing frightens me," says Julia Beaufort pensively, +"<i>everything!</i>"</p> + +<p>"Do I?" asks Dicky Browne, in a tone full of abject +misery. "Oh! <i>say</i> I don't."</p> + +<p>"I meant insects you know, and frogs, and horrid things +like that," lisps Julia. "And they always will come flying +round one just on a perfect night like this, when"—sentimentally—"Nature +is wrapt in its profoundest beauty!"</p> + +<p>"I don't think I ever saw a frog fly," says Dicky Browne, +innocently. "Is it nice to look at? Is it funny?"</p> + +<p>"No! it's only silly—like you!" says Dulce throwing a rosebud +at him, which he catches dexterously.</p> + +<p>"Thank you," he says, meekly, whether for the speech or +the flower, he leaves vague.</p> + +<p>"Stephen Gower is coming over here to-night," says Roger +suddenly.</p> + +<p>"To-night? Why didn't you ask him to dinner?" asks +Dulce, a note of surprise in her tone.</p> + +<p>"I did ask him, but, for some reason I now forget, he +could not come. He confessed he was lonely, however, in +that big barn of a house, and said he would feel deeply +grateful if you would permit him to drop in later on. I said +you would; and advised him to drop in by all means, though +how people do that has always been a puzzle to me."</p> + +<p>"Who is Stephen Gower?" asks Portia, curiously, of no +one in particular. She is leaning back in her chair, and is +fanning herself languidly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span></p> + +<p>"He is Roger's <i>Fidus Achates</i>—his second self—his very +soul!" says Dicky Browne, enthusiastically. "He is a thing +apart. We must, in fact, be careful of him, lest he break. +At least so I have been told."</p> + +<p>"I thought you knew him, too," says Dulce. "I always +believed you and Roger, and this wonderful Stephen Gower, +were all at college together."</p> + +<p>"You wronged Dicky, albeit unwittingly," says Mr. Dare, +taking his cigar from between his lips to give more emphasis +to his words. "We at Cambridge were too frivolous for +such superior beings as Dicky. It was at Oxford he commenced +his honorable career; it was there he indulged in +those high hopes of future fame that have been so splendidly +realized in his maturer years."</p> + +<p>"Don't kick me when I'm down," says Dicky, pathetically. +"I couldn't help it—and at least I have <i>had</i> my hopes. +That must be always something. It's any amount soothing, +do you know, to look back upon your past, and remember +what a jolly ass you once were."</p> + +<p>"I can't imagine your ever having had hopes of future +fame," says Dulce, laughing.</p> + +<p>"Well I had, do you know, any amount of 'em. In the +early dawn, when I was awake—which, perhaps, wasn't so +often as it sounds, except when I was returning from—er—a +friend's house. I used to sit up with them, you know, whenever +they had scarla"—</p> + +<p>"Oh yes, <i>we</i> know," interrupts Roger, most unfeelingly.</p> + +<p>"Well, in the early dawn," continues Dicky, quite unmoved, +"when the little birds were singing, I used to think I +could be happy as General Sir Richard Browne, at the head +of a gallant corps, with a few darkies in the foreground fleeing +before my trusty blade. By breakfast time, however, all +that would be changed, and I would glory in the belief that +one day would see me seated on the wool-sack. By dinnertime +I was clothed in sanctimonious lawn; and long before +the small hours, I felt myself a second Drake, starting to conquer +another Armada, only one even <i>more</i> Invincible."</p> + +<p>They all laugh at him. And then he laughs at himself, +and seems, indeed, to enjoy the joke even more than they +do.</p> + +<p>"I don't care," he says, at length, valiantly; "no, not a +single screw. I haven't <i>done</i> anything, you know."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh yes, you have, a lot in your time," murmurs Roger, +supportingly.</p> + +<p>"But I must come in for the title and the estate when the +old boy, my cousin, 'shuffles off this mortal coil,' and in the +meantime the governor stands to me decently enough, and +I'm pretty jolly all round."</p> + +<p>"Tell us about Stephen Gower," says Dulce, after a pause, +"He interests me, I don't know why. What is he like?"</p> + +<p>"He is</p> + +<div class='poem'> +'A greenery yallery<br /> +Grosvenor gallery<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Foot-in-the-grave young man.'"</span><br /> +</div> + +<div class='unindent'>quotes Dicky, gaily.</div> + +<p>"An æsthetic! Oh! I <i>do</i> hope not," exclaims Dulce, in a +horrified tone.</p> + +<p>"Have they pursued me even down here?" asks Portia, +faintly. "I thought, I <i>hoped</i>, they were plants indigenous to +London soil alone."</p> + +<p>"He is nothing of the sort," says Roger, indignantly. +"He is about the best fellow I know. He would be ashamed +to go round (like those idiots you speak of) with flowers and +flowing locks. He leaves all that sort of thing"—contemptuously—"to +girls."</p> + +<p>"Who is talking of Stephen Gower?" asks Sir Mark, +coming towards them over the path of moonlight that lies +upon the smooth lawn. "Happy man to be discussed by so +fair a trio, 'beneath the sweet-smelling starlight,' as James +has it."</p> + +<p>"Bless me," says Dicky, "I had no idea dry monopole +would have had such an effect on Gore. He is talking poetry, +I think; I never could understand it myself. Now for example, +about those stars—<i>do</i> they smell? <i>I</i> never noticed it. +What's it like, Gore?"</p> + +<p>Everyone disdains to take notice of this sally—all, that is, +except Dulce, who is always only too delighted to laugh +whenever the barest chance of being able to do so presents +itself.</p> + +<p>Roger, crossing over to where she sits, leans his arms on the +back of her chair, and bends his face to hers.</p> + +<p>"Look here," he says, in the conciliatory tone of one who +is going to make a request and is not quite sure it will be +granted. "If Gower comes down by-and-by, I wish you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span> +would promise me to be good to him. He is a very old chum +of mine, and a very good fellow, and—be civil to him, will +you?"</p> + +<p>"What do you suppose I am going to do to him?" asks +Miss Blount, opening her eyes. "Was I bad to him at +luncheon? Are you afraid I shall bite him? I shan't. You +may be happy about that."</p> + +<p>"Of course—I know; but I want you to be <i>particularly</i> +nice to him," goes on Roger, though faintly discouraged by +her tone. (Now what did he mean by saying she <i>wouldn't</i> +bite him. It sounds as if she would bite me!) "He is the +oldest friend I have; and—er—as we are to be married some +time or other, I want him to like you very much."</p> + +<p>"Who are to be married? You and Mr. Gower? It +sounded like it," says Dulce, wilfully.</p> + +<p>"I was thinking of you and myself," he says, a little +gravely.</p> + +<p>"Well, what is it you want me to do?" asks she, moving +restlessly in her seat. She is, in spite of herself, disturbed by +his gravity. "Am I to make love to him, or am I to let him +make love to me? Your devotion to this old friend is quite +touching."</p> + +<p>"He would be very unlikely indeed to make love to you," +replies Roger, rather stiffly. "He understands perfectly +how matters are between you and me."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no doubt," says Miss Blount, disgustedly. "Everyone +seems to know all about this <i>absurd</i> engagement. I +can't think how I was ever brought to consent to it."</p> + +<p>"<i>Absurd!</i>" says Mr. Dare, in an impossible tone.</p> + +<p>"Yes, <i>painfully</i> absurd! Quite too ridiculous," with unpleasant +force.</p> + +<p>"Oh!" says Mr. Dare.</p> + +<p>"Yes," says Dulce, still defiant, though a little ashamed of +herself, "it is quite enough to make people <i>hate</i> people, all +this perpetual gossip."</p> + +<p>"You are at least honest," he says, bitterly.</p> + +<p>Silence.</p> + +<p>Dulce, whose tempers are always short-lived, after a little +reflection grows very repentant.</p> + +<p>Turning to him, she lays her little hand on his, as it still +rests on the arm of her chair, and says, softly:</p> + +<p>"I have been cross to you. Forgive me. I did not quite<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span> +mean it. Tell me again what you want me to do about your +friend."</p> + +<p>"It was only a little matter," says Roger, in a low tone, +"and it was, I think, the first favor I ever asked of you; and +I thought, perhaps—"</p> + +<p>He pauses. And raising himself from his lounging position, +on her chair, moves as though he would go away from her, +having abandoned all hope of having his request acceded to.</p> + +<p>But as he turns from her, her fingers tighten upon his, and +so she detains him.</p> + +<p>"What is it now?" he asks, coldly, trying to keep up his +dignity, but as his glance meets hers, he melts. And, in +truth, just now she could have thawed a much harder heart, +for on her <i>mignon</i> face sits one of her very loveliest smiles, +conjured up for Roger's special benefit.</p> + +<p>"Don't go away," she entreats, prettily, "and listen to +me. I shall be charming to your friend. I shall devote myself +exclusively to him if it will please you; and if only to +prove to you that I <i>can</i> grant you a favor."</p> + +<p>"Thank you," says Roger gratefully. Then he regards +her meditatively for a moment, and then says, slowly:</p> + +<p>"Don't be too kind to him."</p> + +<p>"Could I?" says Dulce, naively.</p> + +<p>He laughs a little, and, bending his head, presses his lips +to the little slender hand that still rests within his own.</p> + +<p>The caress is so unusual that Dulce glances at him curiously +from under her long lashes. A faint, pink glow creeps +into her cheeks. She is surprised; perhaps, too, a little +pleased, because once again this evening she bestows upon +him a smile, soft and radiant.</p> + +<p>Mr. Browne is rambling on in some incoherent fashion to +Julia Beaufort. Sir Mark is telling Portia some quaint little +stories. Fabian is silently listening to them stretched at +Portia's feet.</p> + +<p>The last glimpse of day has gone. "Death's twin sister, +Sleep," has fallen upon the earth. One by one the sweet +stars come out in the dusky vault above, "spirit-like, infinite."</p> + +<p>In amongst the firs that stand close together in a huge +clump at the end of the lawn, great shadows are lying, that +stretching ever and ever further, form at last a link between +the land and the sea.</p> + +<p>"Ah! here you are, Stephen," says Sir Mark, addressing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span> +the languid young man they had met in the morning, who is +coming to them across the grass. "Why didn't you come +sooner?"</p> + +<p>"They wouldn't give me any dinner until about an hour +ago," says the languid young man in a subdued voice. He +glances from Portia to Julia Beaufort, and then to Dulce. +There his glance rests. It is evident he has found what he +seeks.</p> + +<p>"Dulce, I think I told you Stephen Gower was coming +to-night," says Roger, simply. And then Dulce rises and +rustles up to him, and filled with the determination to keep +sacred her promise to be particularly nice to Roger's friend, +holds out to him a very friendly hand, and makes him warmly +welcome.</p> + +<p>Then Portia makes him a little bow, and Julia simpers at +him, and presently he finds himself accepted by and admitted +to the bosom of the family, which, indeed, is a rather nondescript +one. After a few moments of unavoidable hesitation, +he throws himself at Dulce's feet, and, leaning on his elbow, +tells himself country life, after all, isn't half a bad thing.</p> + +<p>"What a heavenly night it is," says Dulce, smiling down +on him, still bent on fulfilling her word to Roger. Perhaps +she is hardly aware how encouraging her smile can be. "See +the ocean down there," pointing with a rounded, soft, bare +arm, that gleams like snow in the moonlight, to where the +sea is shining between the trees. "How near it seems, though +we know it is quite far away."</p> + +<p>"It is nearer to you than I am," says Mr. Gower, in a tone +that might imply the idea that he thinks the ocean in better +care than himself.</p> + +<p>"Well, not just now," says Dulce, laughing.</p> + +<p>"Not just now," returns he, echoing her laugh. "I suppose +we should be thankful for small mercies; but I wish the +Fens was a little nearer to this place than it is."</p> + +<p>"Portia, can you see Inca's Cliff from this?" asks Dulce, +looking at her cousin. "You remember the spot where we +saw the little blue flowers yesterday, that you so coveted. +How clearly it stands out now beneath the moonbeams."</p> + +<p>"Like burnished silver," says Portia, dreamily, always +with a lazy motion wafting her black fan to and fro. "And +those flowers—how I longed for them, principally, I suppose, +because they were beyond my reach."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Where are they," asks Roger. "I never remember seeing +blue flowers there."</p> + +<p>"Oh! <i>you</i> wouldn't notice them," says his <i>fiancée</i>, a fine +touch of petulance in her tone, that makes Gower lift his +head to look at her; "but they were there nevertheless. They +were the very color of the Alpine <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'genitian'">gentian</ins>, and so pretty. +We quite fell in love with them, Portia and I, Portia +especially; but we could not get at them, they were so low +down."</p> + +<p>"There was a tiny ledge we might have stood on," says +Portia, "but our courage failed us, and we would not try it."</p> + +<p>"And quite right, too," says Sir Mark. "I detest people +who climb precipices and descend cliffs. It makes my blood +run cold."</p> + +<p>"Then what made you climb all those Swiss mountains, +two years ago?" asks Julia Beaufort, who has a talent for saying +the wrong thing, and who has quite forgotten the love +affair that drove Sir Mark abroad at that time.</p> + +<p>"I don't know," replies he, calmly; "I never shall, I suppose. +I perfectly hated it all the while, especially the guides, +who were more like assassins than anything else. I think they +hated me, too, and would have given anything to pitch me +over some of the passes."</p> + +<p>Portia laughs.</p> + +<p>"I can sympathize with you," she says. "Danger of any +sort has no charm for me. Yet I wanted those flowers. I +think"—idly—"I shall always want them, simply because I +can't get them."</p> + +<p>"You shall have them in three seconds if you will only say +the word," says Dicky Browne, who is all but fast asleep, and +who looks quite as like descending a rugged cliff as Portia +herself.</p> + +<p>"I am so glad I don't know the 'word,'" says Portia, with +a little grimace. "It would be a pity to endanger a valuable +life like yours."</p> + +<p>Dulce turns to Mr. Gower.</p> + +<p>"You may smoke if you like," she says, sweetly. "I know +you are longing for a cigarette or something, and <i>we</i> don't +mind."</p> + +<p>"Really though?" says Gower.</p> + +<p>"Yes, really. Even our pretty town-lady here," indicating +Portia, "likes the perfume in the open air."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Very much indeed," says Portia, graciously, leaning a +little toward Gower, and smiling sweetly.</p> + +<p>"A moment ago I told myself I could not be happier," +says Stephen, glancing at Dulce. "And indeed I wanted +nothing further—but if I may smoke—if I have your permission +to light this," producing a cigar, "I shall feel that +my end is near; I shall know that the gods love me, and that +therefore I <i>must</i> die young."</p> + +<p>As he places the cigar between his lips he leans back again +at Dulce's feet with a sigh suggestive of unutterable bliss.</p> + +<p>"We were talking about you just before you came," says +Dulce, with a little friendly nod, bending over his recumbent +form, and making him a present of a very adorable smile. +"We had all, you know, formed such different opinions +about you."</p> + +<p>"What was your opinion," asks he, rising to a sitting +posture with an alacrity not to be expected from a youth of +his indolence. In this last attitude, however, it is easier to +see Dulce's charming face. "I <i>should</i> like to know that."</p> + +<p>His manner implies that he would not like to hear the +opinion of the others.</p> + +<p>"It was nothing very flattering, I am afraid," said Dulce, +with a little laugh. "I was—to confess the truth—just in +the very faintest degree nervous about you."</p> + +<p>"About <i>me!</i>"</p> + +<p>"Yes," she laughed softly again; "I thought you might +be a 'blue-and-white young man,' and that idea filled me +with dismay. I don't think I like a 'soul-ful eyed young man,' +<i>too</i> much."</p> + +<p>"I'm so glad I'm of the 'threepenny 'bus' lot," says Gower, +with a smile. "Ye gods! what a shocking thought is the +other. Look at my hair, I entreat you, Miss Blount, and tell +me does it resemble the lanky locks of Oscar?"</p> + +<p>"No, it is anything but wylde," says Dulce, glancing at +his shaven crown, that any hermit might be proud of: "and +do you know I am glad of your sanity; I should quite hate +you if you were a disciple of that school."</p> + +<p>"Poor school," says Gower, pityingly, "for the first time I +feel deep sympathy for it. But with regard to myself, I am +flattered you troubled yourself to think of me at all. Did it +really matter to you what my convictions might be?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, of course," says Dulce, opening her eyes, and showing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span> +herself half in fun, half in earnest, and wholly desirable. +"Such a near neighbor as you must be. I suppose we shall +see a good deal of you—at least"—sweetly—"I hope we +shall; and how would it be with us if you called here every +morning with lanky tresses, and a cadaverous face, and +words culled from a language obsolete?"</p> + +<p>This little speech quite dazzles Gower. Not the sauciness +of it, but the undercurrent of kindliness. "<i>Every</i> morning!" +Does she really mean that he may come up to this +enchanting spot every morning?</p> + +<p>It had, of course, occurred to him, during prayers, in the +early part of the day, when he had sat out the dreary service +with exemplary patience, and his eyes fixed on the Blount +pew, that, perhaps, he might be allowed to call once a week +at the Hall, without being considered by the inmates an absolute +nuisance—but every day! this sounds too good to be +true, and is, therefore, received by him with caution.</p> + +<p>"You needn't be afraid of me," he says, apropos of Dulce's +last remark. "I can speak no language but my own, and +that badly."</p> + +<p>"What a comfort," says Miss Blount. She is now wondering +if she has done her duty by her new guest, and if she +has been everything to him that she ought to have been, considering +her promise to Roger.</p> + +<p>"Where is Fabian?" she asks, suddenly, peering through +the dusky gloom. "Are you there, darling?"</p> + +<p>But no one answers her. It seems to them, that, tiring of +their company, he has betaken himself to solitude and the +house, once more. No one has seen him go, but, during the +last few minutes, a gray black cloud has been slowly wandering +over the pale-faced moon, and forms and features have +been more indistinct. Perhaps Portia, who is sitting on the +outer edge of the group, might have noticed his departure, +but, if so, she says nothing of it.</p> + +<p>Time runs on. Some one yawns, and then tries vainly to +turn it into a sigh. The bell from some distant steeple in +the little slumbering village far below in the plain, tolls slowly, +solemnly, as though to warn them that eleven more hours have +slipped into the great and fathomless sea of Eternity.</p> + +<p>"Ah! so late!" says Dulce, with a little start. "How +swiftly time has gone to-night. I never knew it fly with +such hot haste. That proves I have been happy, does it +not?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span></p> + +<p>She smiles down upon Mr. Gower, who is still at her feet, +and he smiles up only too willingly at her.</p> + +<p>At this moment a dark figure emerges from amongst the +moaning firs, and comes toward them. In the uncertain +and somewhat ghostly light it appears of an unusually large +size. Dulce draws her breath a little quickly, and Julia, +feeling her duty lies in this direction, gives way to a dainty +scream. Portia, whose eyes have been upon this new comer +for a full minute before the others noticed him, only turns +her head away, and lets it sink a degree more lazily into the +cushion of her chair.</p> + +<p>The firs mounting high into the sky, stand out boldly +against their azure background. Fabian, in answer to Julia's +touch of affectation, advances with more haste, and says:</p> + +<p>"It is only me," in his usual clear, slow voice.</p> + +<p>Passing by Portia's chair, he drops into her lap a little +bunch of dark blue flowers.</p> + +<p>"Ah!" she says quickly, then checks herself. Taking up +the deeply-dyed blossoms, she lays them in her pink palm, +and, bending her face over them, examines them silently. +Sir Mark, regarding her curiously from the background, +wonders whether she is thinking of them or of their donor.</p> + +<p>"Why, those are the flowers we were talking about," says +Dulce, with a faint contraction of her brows. "Fabian! Did +you risk your life to get them?"</p> + +<p>"Your life!" says Portia, in an indescribable tone, and as +if the words are drawn from her against her will. I think +she had made up her mind to keep utter silence, but some +horror connected with Dulce's hasty remark has unbound her +lips. She turns her eyes upon him, and he can see by the +moonlight that her face is very white.</p> + +<p>"My dear fellow," says Sir Mark, "you grow more eccentric +daily. Now this last act was rashness itself. That cliff +is very nearly impassable, and in this uncertain light—"</p> + +<p>"It was the simplest thing in the world," says Fabian, +coldly. "There was the ledge Dulce told you of, and plenty +of tough heather to hold on by. I assure you, if there was +the smallest danger, I should not have attempted it. And, +besides, I was fully rewarded for any trouble I undertook. +The view up there to-night is magnificent."</p> + +<p>To Portia it is an easy matter to translate this last remark. +He is giving her plainly to understand that he neither seeks<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span> +nor desires thanks from <i>her</i>. The view has sufficed him. It +was to let his eyes feast upon the glorious riches nature had +spread before him that led him up the mountain-side, not a +foolish longing to gratify her whim at any cost to himself.</p> + +<p>She looks at the flowers again, and with one <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'taper'">tapered</ins> finger +turns them over and over in her hand.</p> + +<p>"Well, good people," says Sir Mark, rising to his feet, +"as it is eleven o'clock, and as the dew is falling, and as you +are all plainly bent on committing suicide by means of +rheumatism, neuralgia and catarrhs generally, I shall leave +you and seek my virtuous couch."</p> + +<p>"What's a catarrh?" asks Dicky Browne, confidentially, +of no one in particular.</p> + +<p>"A cold in your nose," replies Roger, uncompromisingly.</p> + +<p>"I thought it was something to play on," says Mr. Browne +unabashed.</p> + +<p>"Dear me! Is it really eleven?" asks Julia. "I should +never have thought it,"—in reality she thought it was twelve—"why +did you not tell me?"—this to the attentive Dicky, +who is placing a shawl round her shoulders—"you must +have known."</p> + +<p>"'With thee conversing I forget all time,'" quotes that +ardent personage, with a beautiful smile. "I thought it was +only nine."</p> + +<p>Even with this flagrant lie Julia is well pleased.</p> + +<p>"Dulce, tuck up your gown, the grass is really wet," says +Roger, carelessly, "and put this round you." He goes up +to her, as he speaks, with a soft white scarf in his hands.</p> + +<p>"Thank you; Mr. Gower will put it on for me," says +Dulce, rather more wilfully than coquettishly handing the +wrap to Stephen, who takes it as if it were some sacred symbol, +and, with nervous care, smothers her slender figure in +it. Roger, with a faint shrug, turns away, and devotes his +attentions to Sir Mark.</p> + +<p>Portia, still with the flowers in her hand, has wandered +away from the others, and entering the drawing-room before +they have mounted the balcony steps, goes up to a mirror +and regards herself attentively for a moment.</p> + +<p>A little gold brooch, of Indian workmanship, is fastening +the lace at her bosom. She loosens it, and then raises the +flowers (now growing rather crushed and drooping) as if with +the evident intention of placing them, by means of the +brooch, against her neck.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span></p> + +<p>Yet, even with her hand half lifted she hesitates, glances at +her own image again; and finally, turning away, leaves the +brooch empty.</p> + +<p>Fabian, entering the drawing-room at this moment with +the others, has had time to notice the action, the hesitation, +everything.</p> + +<p>Then comes bed hour. The men prepare to go to the +smoking-room—the women think fondly of their own rooms +and their maids.</p> + +<p>Fabian, lighting a candle, takes it up to Portia. They are +all standing in the hall now, beneath the light of the hanging +lamps. She smiles her thanks without letting her eyes meet +his, and lets him place the candle in her left hand.</p> + +<p>"Have you hurt this?" he asks, lightly touching her right +hand as he speaks.</p> + +<p>"No." She pauses a moment, and then, slowly opening +her closed fingers, shows him the blue flowers lying therein.</p> + +<p>"They are lovely," she says, in a low tone, "and I <i>did</i> wish +for them. But never—<i>never</i>—do that again."</p> + +<p>"Do what again?"</p> + +<p>"Endanger your life for me."</p> + +<p>"There was no danger—and you had expressed a wish for +them."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER X.</h2> + +<div class='poem2'> +"Every one is as God made him, and oftentimes a great deal worse!"<br /> +<div class='sig'>—<span class="smcap">Miguel de Cervantes.</span></div><br /> +</div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">With</span> a continuous sob and a roar from the distant ocean +the storm beats on. All night it has hurled itself upon path +and lawn with impotent fury; towards morning it still rages, +and even now, when noonday is at its height, its anger is +not yet expended.</p> + +<p>The rain falls in heavy torrents, the trees bow and creak +most mournfully, the rose leaves—sweet-scented and pink as +glowing morn—are scattered along the walks, or else, lifted +high in air by vehement gusts of wind, are dashed hither and +thither in a mazy dance full of passion and despair.</p> + +<p>"Just three o'clock," says Dulce, drearily, "and what +weather!"</p> + +<p>"It is always bad on your day," says Julia, with a carefully +suppressed yawn. Julia, when yawning, is not pretty.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span> +"I remember when I was here last year, that Thursday, as a +rule, was the most melancholy day in the week."</p> + +<p>Indeed, as she speaks, she looks more than melancholy, +almost aggrieved. She has donned her most sensational garments +(there is any amount of red about them) and her most +recherché cap to greet the country, and naught cometh but +the rain.</p> + +<p>"I don't know anything more melancholy at any time than +one's at-home day," says Dicky Browne, meditatively, and +very sorrowfully; "It is like Sunday, it puts every one out of +sorts, and creates evil tempers all round. I never yet knew +any family that didn't go down to zero when brought face to +face with the fact that to-day they must receive their friends."</p> + +<p>"It's a pity you can't talk sense," says Dulce, with a small +curl of her upper lip.</p> + +<p>"It's a pity I <i>can</i>, you mean. I am too above-board, too +genuine for the times in which we live. My candor will be +my ruin!" says Mr. Browne, hopelessly unabashed.</p> + +<p>"It will!" declares Roger, in a tone that perhaps it will +be wise not to go into.</p> + +<p>"I suppose nobody will come here to-day," says Portia, +somewhat disappointedly; they have been indoors all day, +and have become so low in spirit, that even the idea of possible +visitors is to be welcomed with delight.</p> + +<p>"Nobody," returns Sir Mark, "except the Boers and Miss +Gaunt, and <i>they</i> are utter certainties; they always come; they +never fail us; they are thoroughly safe people in every +respect."</p> + +<p>"If Miss Gaunt inflicts herself upon us to-day (which the +gods forbid), be sure you pitch into her about the cook she +sent you," says Roger, gloomily, turning to Dulce. "That +will be a topic of conversation at all events; you owe me a +debt of gratitude for suggesting it."</p> + +<p>"Well I shan't pay it," says Miss Blount, with decision.</p> + +<p>"Well you <i>ought</i>. As a rule, the attempts at conversation +down here are calculated to draw tears to the eyes of any intellectual +person."</p> + +<p>"But why?" asks Portia, indolently.</p> + +<p>"It is utterly simple," says Roger, mildly. "There is +nothing to talk about; you cannot well ask people what they +had for dinner yesterday, without being rude, and there are +no theatres, or concerts, or clubs to discuss, and nobody ever<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span> +dies (the country is fatally healthy), and nobody ever gets +married (because there is nobody to marry), and nothing is +ever born, because they were all born years ago, or else have +made up their minds never to be born at all. It is, in fact, +about as unsatisfactory a neighborhood as any one could wish +to inhabit."</p> + +<p>"I dare say there are worse," says Dulce.</p> + +<p>"You have strong faith," retorts Roger.</p> + +<p>"Well, it would be a nice question to decide," says Sir +Mark, amiably, with a view to restoring order.</p> + +<p>"I don't think it is half a bad place," says Dicky Browne, +genially, addressing nobody in particular, and talking for +the mere sake of hearing his own voice.</p> + +<p>"Dicky, I love you," says Dulce, triumphantly.</p> + +<p>"Lucky Dicky," says Roger, with an only half-suppressed +sneer, which brings down upon him a withering glance from +his betrothed.</p> + +<p>"How I hate rain," she says, pettishly, tapping the window +with two impatient little fingers.</p> + +<p>"I love it," says Roger, unpleasantly.</p> + +<p>"Love rain!" with an air of utter disbelief. "How can you +make such a ridiculous remark! I never heard of <i>any</i> one who +liked rain."</p> + +<p>"Well, you hear of me now. <i>I</i> like it."</p> + +<p>"Oh! nonsense," says Miss Blount, contemptuously.</p> + +<p>"It <i>isn't</i> nonsense!" exclaims he, angrily, "I suppose I am +entitled to my own likes and dislikes. You can hate rain as +much as you do <i>me</i> if you wish it; but at least allow me to—"</p> + +<p>"Love it, as you do me," with an artificial laugh, and a +soft shrug of her rounded shoulders. "It is perfectly absurd, +in spite of your obstinate determination to say you do, +I don't believe you <i>can</i> have a desire for wet weather."</p> + +<p>"Thank you!" indignantly. "That is simply giving me +the lie direct. I must say you <i>can</i> be uncivil when you +choose."</p> + +<p>"Uncivil!"</p> + +<p>"Decidedly uncivil, and even more than that."</p> + +<p>"What do you mean! I insist on knowing what you +mean by more."</p> + +<p>"They're at it again," says Mr. Browne, at this auspicious +moment, waving his hand in an airy fashion in the direction +of our two belligerents.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span></p> + +<p>Mr. Browne is a person who can always say and do what he +likes for several reasons, the principal being that nobody pays +the smallest attention to either his sayings or doings. +Everybody likes Dicky, and Dicky, as a rule, likes everybody. +He has a father and a home somewhere, but where +(especially with regard to the former), is vague.</p> + +<p>The home, certainly, is kept up for nobody except the +servants, as neither Dicky nor his father ever put in an appearance +there. The latter (who has never yet mastered the +fact that he is growing old), spends all his time in the favorite +window of his Club in Pall Mall, with his nose pressed +against the pane and his attention irrevocably fixed upon the +passers-by on the other side of the way. This is his sole +occupation from morning till night; unless one can take +notice of a dismal and most diabolical tattoo that at unfortunate +moments he is in the habit of inflicting upon the window, +and the nerves of the other occupants of the room in +which he may be.</p> + +<p>Dicky puts in most of his time at Blount Hall. Indeed, it +has grown to be a matter of speculation with the Blount's +whether in the event of his marriage he will not elect to +bring his bride also to stay with them for good and all! They +have even gone so far as to hope he will marry a <i>nice</i> girl, and +one whom they can receive in the spirit of love.</p> + +<p>"I don't think they really ever quite enjoy themselves, +until they are on the verge of bloodshed," says Sir Mark, in +answer to Dicky's remark. "They are the very oddest pair +I ever met."</p> + +<p>All this is said quite out loud, but so promising is the +quarrel by this time, that neither Dulce nor Roger hear one +word of it.</p> + +<p>"You do it on purpose," Dulce is saying in a tone in +which tears and extreme wrath fight for mastery, "You +torment me from morning till night. You are both rude and +unkind to me. And now—<i>now</i>—what is it you have just +said?"</p> + +<p>"What have I said?" asks Roger, who is plainly frightened.</p> + +<p>"What indeed! I should be ashamed to repeat it. But I +know you said I was uncivil, and that I told lies, and any +amount of things that were even worse."</p> + +<p>"What on earth is the matter now with you two children?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span> +asks Sir Mark, coming for the second time to the +rescue.</p> + +<p>"I'm sure <i>I</i> don't know," says Roger, desperately. "It +was all about the rain, I think. She is angry because I like +it. How can I help that? I can't be born again with other +preferences just to oblige <i>her</i>."</p> + +<p>"There is some comfort in <i>that</i> thought," says Miss +Blount, vindictively. "One of you in a century is <i>quite</i> +sufficient."</p> + +<p>"Oh! come now, Dulce," protests Sir Mark, kindly. +"You don't mean that, you know. And besides only pretty +speeches should come from pretty lips."</p> + +<p>"Well, he does nothing but tease me," says Dulce, tearfully. +"He makes my life perfectly wretched to me."</p> + +<p>"How <i>can</i> you say that!" exclaims Dare, indignantly. "I +spend my whole time trying to please you—in vain! It is +your own temper is at fault."</p> + +<p>"You hear that?" exclaims Dulce, triumphantly, turning +to Sir Mark, who is trying vainly to edge in one word.</p> + +<p>"I maintain what I say," goes on Roger, hurriedly, fearful +lest Sir Mark if he gets time, will say something to support +Dulce's side of the question. "It <i>can't</i> be my fault. You +know I am very fond of you. There have even been moments," +says Mr. Dare, superbly, "when if you had asked me +to lie down and let you trample on me, I should have +done it!"</p> + +<p>"Then do it!" says Dulce, with decision. "Now this +moment. I am in an awful temper, and my heels are an +inch and a half high. I should perfectly <i>love</i> to trample +on you. So make haste"—imperiously, "hurry, I'm waiting."</p> + +<p>"I shan't," says Dare; "I shan't make myself ridiculous +for a girl who detests me."</p> + +<p>"Now, isn't that just like him?" says Dulce, appealing to +the company at large, who are enjoying themselves intensely—notably +Mr. Brown. "Simply because I told him it would +give me some slight pleasure if he fulfilled his promise, he +has decided on breaking it. He has refused to keep his +solemn word, just to vex me."</p> + +<p>"That is not my reason."</p> + +<p>"Then you are afraid of the high-heeled shoes," with a +scornful laugh.</p> + +<p>"I am afraid of nothing," hotly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Not even of ridicule?"</p> + +<p>"Well, yes, I <i>am</i> afraid of that. Most fellows are. But I +don't wish to carry on the argument, I have nothing more to +say to you."</p> + +<p>"Nor I to you. I hope you will never address me again +as long as you live. Ah!" glancing out of the window, with +an assumption of the most extreme relief and joy—"Here is +Mr. Gower coming across the lawn. I <i>am</i> glad. Now, at +least, I shall have some one to talk to me, who will not scold +and quarrel incessantly, and who can sometimes behave like +a gentleman."</p> + +<p>"Tell him so. It will raise him to the seventh heaven of +delight, no doubt," says Roger, in an indescribable tone.</p> + +<p>"I thought it was arranged that we were not to speak to +each other again," says Dulce, with considerable severity.</p> + +<p>Now Portia, being strange to the household, is a little +frightened, and a good deal grieved by this passage at arms.</p> + +<p>"Is it really so bad as they would have us think?" she +says, in a low tone, to Sir Mark, whom she has beckoned to +her side. "Is it really all over between them?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, dear, no!" says Sir Mark, with the fine smile that +characterizes his lean, dark face. "Don't make yourself +unhappy; <i>we</i> are quite accustomed to their idiosyncrasies by +this time; you, of course, have yet much to learn. But, +when I tell you that, to my certain knowledge, they have +bid each other an eternal adieu every week during the past +three years, you will have your first lesson in the art of understanding +them."</p> + +<p>"Ah! you give me hope," says Portia, smiling.</p> + +<p>At this moment Mr. Gower enters the room.</p> + +<p>"Ah! how d'ye do!" says Dulce, nestling up to him, her +soft skirts making a gentle <i>frou-frou</i> as she moves; "<i>so</i> glad +you have come. You are late, are you not?" She gives +him her hand, and smiles up into his eyes. To all the others +her excessive cordiality means only a desire to chagrin Dare, +to Stephen Gower it means—well, perhaps, at this point of +their acquaintance he hardly knows what it means—but it +certainly heightens her charms in his sight.</p> + +<p>"Am I?" he says, in answer to her remark. "That is +just what has been puzzling me. My watch has gone to the +bad, and all the way here I have felt as if the distance between +my place and the Hall was longer than I had ever<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span> +known it before. If I am to judge by my own impatience to +be here, I am late, indeed."</p> + +<p>She smiles again at this, and says, softly:</p> + +<p>"You are not wet, I hope? Such a day to come out. It +was a little rash, was it not?"</p> + +<p>With the gentlest air of solicitude she lays one little white +jeweled hand upon his coat sleeve, as though to assure herself +no rain had alighted there. Gower laughs gaily.</p> + +<p>"Wet? No," he says, gazing at her with unmistakable +admiration. His eyes betray the fact that he would gladly +have lifted the small jeweled hand from his arm to his lips; +but, as it is, he does not dare so much as to touch it though +never so lightly. "Rain does me more good than harm," he +says.</p> + +<p>"How did you come?" asks she, still charmingly anxious +about his well-being.</p> + +<p>"I rode. A very good mare, too; though it seemed to me +she never traveled so slowly as to-day."</p> + +<p>"You rode? Ah! then you got all that last heavy shower," +says Dulce, who has plainly made up her mind to go in for +compassion of the very purest and simplest.</p> + +<p>"My <i>dear</i> fellow!" puts in Roger at this juncture, "you +don't half consider yourself. Why on earth didn't you order +out the covered carriage and a few fur rugs?"</p> + +<p>Gower colors; but Roger is smiling so naturally that he +cannot, without great loss of courtesy, take offence. Treating +Dare's remark, however, as beneath notice, he turns and addresses +himself solely to Dulce.</p> + +<p>"To tell you the truth," he says, calmly, "I adore rain. +A sunny hour is all very well in its way, and possesses its +charms, no doubt, but for choice give me a rattling good +shower."</p> + +<p>To Roger, of course, this assertion, spoken so innocently, +is quite too utterly delicious. Indeed, everybody smiles +more or less, as he or she remembers the cause of the quarrel +a moment since. Had Gower been thinking for ever, he +could hardly have made a speech so calculated to annoy +Dulce as that just made. To add to her discomfiture, Roger +laughs aloud, a somewhat bitter, irritating laugh, that galls +her to the quick.</p> + +<p>"I must say I cannot sympathize with your taste," she +says, very petulantly, to Gower; and then, before that young<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span> +man has time to recover from the shock received through the +abrupt change of her manner from "sweetness and light" to +transcendental gloom, she finishes his defeat by turning her +back upon him, and sinking into a chair beside Portia.</p> + +<p>"A gleam of sunshine at last," exclaims Sir Mark, at this +moment, coming for the third time to the surface, in the fond +hope of once more restoring peace to those around.</p> + +<p>"Ah, yes, it is true," says Portia, holding up her hand to +let the solitary beam light upon it. It lies there willingly +enough, and upon her white gown, and upon her knitting +needles, that sparkle like diamonds beneath its touch.</p> + +<p>"And the rain has ceased," says Julia. "How nice of it. +By-the-by, where is Fabian?"</p> + +<p>"You know he never sees anyone," says Dulce, a little +reproachfully, and in a very low tone.</p> + +<p>"But why?" asks Portia, turning her face to Dulce. Even +as she speaks she regrets her question, and she colors a hot, +beautiful crimson as the quick vehemence of her tone strikes +on her own ears.</p> + +<p>Sir Mark, leaning over her chair, says:</p> + +<p>"Two lessons in one day? Ambitious pupil! Well, if you +must learn, know this: Fabian never goes anywhere, except +to church, and never receives anybody even in his own home, +for a reason that, I suppose, even you are acquainted with." +He looks keenly at her as he speaks.</p> + +<p>"Yes—I know—that is, I have heard, of course," says +Portia, in a very still fashion, bending her eyes upon her +knitting once more.</p> + +<p>"How suddenly the rain has ceased," says some one; "it +will be a very charming evening after all."</p> + +<p>"The flowers are already beginning to hold up their poor +heads," says Dulce, gazing down anxiously at the "garden +quaint and fair" that stretches itself beneath the window. +The skies are clearing, the clouds are melting away, far up +above in the dark blue dome that overshadows the earth.</p> + +<p>"The great Minister of Nature, that upon the world imprints +the virtue of the heaven, and doles out Time for us +with his beam," is coming slowly into view from between +two dusky clouds, and is flinging abroad his yellow gleams of +light.</p> + +<p>"I hear wheels," says Dicky Browne, suddenly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span></p> + +<p>Everybody wakes up at once; and all the women try surreptitiously +to get a glimpse of their hair in the mirrors.</p> + +<p>"Who can it be?" says Dulce, anxiously.</p> + +<p>"If we went to the upper window we could see," says +Dicky Browne, kindly, whereupon they all rise in a body, +and, regardless of tempers and dignity, run to the window +that overlooks the avenue, and gaze down upon the gravel +to see who fate may be bringing them.</p> + +<p>It brings them a vehicle that fills them with consternation—a +vehicle that it would be charitable to suppose was built in +the dark ages, and had never seen the light until now. It is +more like a sarcophagus than anything else, and is drawn by +the fossilized remains of two animals that perhaps in happier +times were named horses. For to-day, to enable their mistress +to reach Blount Hall, they have plainly been galvanized, +and have, in fact, traversed the road that lies between +the Hall and Blount Hollow on strictly scientific principles.</p> + +<p>"The Gaunt equipage!" says Dicky Browne, in an awestruck +tone. Nobody answers him. Everybody is overfilled +with a sense of oppression, because of the fact; that the +ancient carriage beneath contains a still more ancient female, +fatally familiar to them all. Smiles fade from their faces. +All is gloom.</p> + +<p>Meantime, the coachman (who has evidently come straight +from the Ark), having turned some handle that compels the +galvanized beasts to come to a standstill, descends, with +slow and fearful steps, to the ground.</p> + +<p>He has thrown the reins to another old man who is sitting +on the box beside him, and who, though only ten years his +junior, is always referred to by him as "the boy." Letting +down a miraculous amount of steps, he gives his arm to a +dilapidated old woman, who, with much dignity, and more +difficulty, essays to reach the gravel.</p> + +<p>"Some day or other, when out driving," says Dicky +Browne, meditatively, "those three old people will go to +sleep, and those animated skeletons will carry them to the +land where they would <i>not</i> be."</p> + +<p>Then a step is heard outside, and they all run back to their +seats and sink into them, and succeed in looking exactly as +if they had never quitted them for the past three hours, as +the door opens and the man announces Miss Gaunt.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Remember the puddings," says Dicky Browne, in a careful +aside, as Dulce rises to receive her first guest.</p> + +<p>She is tall—and gaunt as her name. She is old, but +strong-minded. She affects women's rights, and all that sort +of thing, and makes herself excessively troublesome at times. +Women, in her opinion, are long-suffering, down-trodden +angels; all men are brutes! Meetings got up for the purpose +of making men and women detest each other are generously +encouraged by her. It is useless to explain her further, as +she has little to do with the story, and, of course, you have +all met her once (I hope not twice) in your lifetimes.</p> + +<p>Dulce goes up to greet her with her usual gracious smile. +Then she is gently reminded that she once met Julia Beaufort +before, and then she is introduced to Portia. To the +men she says little, regarding them probably as beings beneath +notice, all, that is, excepting Dicky Browne, who insists +on conversing with her, and treating her with the most +liberal cordiality, whether she likes it or not.</p> + +<p>Dexterously he leads up the conversation, until culinary +matters are brought into question, when Miss Gaunt says in +her slow, crushing fashion:</p> + +<p>"How do you like that last woman I sent you? Satisfactory, +eh?"</p> + +<p>"Cook, do you mean?" asks Dulce, to gain time.</p> + +<p>"Yes—cook," says the old lady, uncompromisingly. "She +was"—severely—"in my opinion, one of the best cooks I +ever met."</p> + +<p>"Yes, of course, I dare say. We just think her cooking a +little monotonous," says poor Dulce, feeling as if she is a culprit +fresh brought to the bar of justice.</p> + +<p>"Monotonous!" says Miss Gaunt, in an affronted tone, +giving her bonnet an indignant touch that plants it carefully +over her left ear. "I don't think I understand. A monotonous +cook! In my day there were bad cooks, and good +cooks, and indifferent cooks, but monotonous cooks—never! +Am I to believe by your accusation that she repeats herself?"</p> + +<p>"Like history; exactly so. Very neat, indeed," says Mr. +Browne, approvingly.</p> + +<p>"Well, in the matter of puddings, she does—rather," says +Dulce, somewhat fearfully.</p> + +<p>"Ah! In point of fact, she doesn't suit you," says Miss +Gaunt, fixing Dulce with a stony glare.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span></p> + +<p>"There you are wrong," puts in Mr. Browne, regardless of +the fact that she has treated all his other overtures with open +contempt, "that is exactly what she does. Don't take a +false impression of the case. She <i>suets</i> us tremendously! +Doesn't she, Dulce?"</p> + +<p>Here Miss Blount, I regret to say, laughs out loud, so does +Sir Mark, to everybody's horror. Mr. Browne alone maintains +a dignified silence. What Miss Gaunt might or might +not have said on this occasion must now forever remain unknown, +as Sir Christopher enters at this moment, and shortly +after him Mr. Boer.</p> + +<p>"Was Florence unable to come? I hope she is quite +well," says Dulce, with conventional concern.</p> + +<p>"Quite, thank you. But she feared the air."</p> + +<p>"The heir?" says Julia Beaufort, inquiringly, turning to +Dicky, who is now unhappily quite close to her. Julia, who +never listens to anything, has just mastered the fact that +Florence Boer is under discussion, and has heard the word +"air" mentioned in connection with her.</p> + +<p>"Yes. Didn't you hear of it?" says Dicky Browne, confidentially.</p> + +<p>"No," says Julia, also, confidentially.</p> + +<p>"Why, it is common talk now," says Dicky, as if surprised +at her ignorance on a subject so well known to the rest of +the community.</p> + +<p>"Never heard a word of it," says Julia. "Was it in the +papers!"</p> + +<p>"N—o. Hardly, I think," says Dicky.</p> + +<p>Even as he ceases speaking, three words, emanating from +Mr. Boer's ecclesiastical lips, attract Julia's attention. They +are as follows: "sun and air!" He, poor man, has just been +telling Dulce that his wife (who is slightly hypochondriacal) +is very susceptible to the influences of both light and wind. +Julia misunderstands. Misled by Dicky's wilfully false insinuation +about Florence, whose incessant grievance it is that +no baby has come to bless her fireside, she turns to the unfortunate +curate and says blandly.</p> + +<p>"Dear Mr. Boer, <i>so</i> glad! I never knew of it until this +very instant, when I heard you telling Dulce of your sweet +little son and heir. I congratulate you. Of course"—coquettishly—"you +are very proud of it. Having had three +dear babies of my own I can quite rejoice with you and Mrs. +Boer."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span></p> + +<p>Deadly silence follows this outburst. Mr. Boer blushes a +dingy red. The others relapse into an awed calm; all is +confusion.</p> + +<p>Portia is the first to recover herself.</p> + +<p>"Dear Dulce, may we have our tea?" she says, sweetly, +pointing to the table in the distance, where the man, five +minutes ago, had placed the pretty Sèvres cups and saucers.</p> + +<p>By this time Julia has awakened to the fact that she has +committed herself in some way unknown to her; has, in fact, +taken a false step not now to be retrieved.</p> + +<p>"What lovely cups!" she says, therefore, very hurriedly, +to Dulce, pointing to the Sèvres on the distant table, with a +view to covering her confusion; "so chaste—so unique. I +adore old china. I myself am something of a connoisseur. +Whenever I have a spare penny," with an affected little +laugh, "I go about collecting it."</p> + +<p>"I wish she would collect herself," says Dicky Browne, in +a careful aside; "I'm sure it is quite awful the way she has +just behaved to poor Boer. Putting him in such an awkward +position, you know. He looks just as if he had been found +guilty of some social misdemeanor. Look at him, Dulce, he +isn't going to have a fit, is he?"</p> + +<p>"I hope not," says Dulce, with a furtive glance at the discomfited +Boer, "but what could have induced Julia to make +that unlucky speech? Dicky, you horrid boy, I believe +you could tell the truth about it if you would."</p> + +<p>"I object to your insinuation," says Mr. Browne, "and I +object also to being called a boy. Though, after all"—reflectively—"I +don't see why I should. The difference between +the boy and man is so slight that nobody need +create a feud about it. A boy has apples, toffy, twine and +penknives in his pocket—a young man has a pipe instead. It +is really of no consequence, and perhaps the pipe is the +cleanest. I give in, therefore, and I am <i>not</i> offended."</p> + +<p>"But still, you have not answered me," says the astute +Dulce. "Did you incite Julia to make that unpleasant +speech?"</p> + +<p>"I'd scorn to answer such a question," says Mr. Browne, +loftily. "What a likely thing, indeed. If I had incited her +she would have made a great deal more of her opportunity. +'Success,' says James, 'is passionate effort.' I made no +effort, but—"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Nonsense," says Dulce. "She made a most disgraceful +lot of <i>her</i> effort, at all events, and I do believe you were the +instigator."</p> + +<p>"'You wrong me every way, you wrong me, Brutus,'" +quotes Mr. Browne, reproachfully. "However, let that pass. +Tea is ready, I think. Pour it out, and be merciful."</p> + +<p>Thus adjured, Miss Blount pours it out. She looks so utterly +sweet in her soft leaf-green tea gown as she does it, that +Mr. Gower, in spite of her unkindness of an hour agone, feels +sufficient courage to advance and offer himself a candidate +for unlimited cups of tea.</p> + +<p>He is quite three minutes at her elbow before she deigns +to notice him. Then she turns; and letting her eyes rest on +him as though she is for the first time made aware of his +proximity, though in truth she has known of it for the past +sixty seconds, she says, calmly—</p> + +<p>"Bread and butter, or cake, Mr. Gower?" quite as innocently +as if she is ignorant (which she is not) of his desire to +be near her.</p> + +<p>"Neither, thank you," says Stephen, gravely. "It was +not that brought me to—"</p> + +<p>"But, please, do have some cake," says Miss Blount, lifting +her eyes to his, and making him a present of a sweet and +most unexpected smile. As she says this, she holds out to +him on a plate a pretty little bit of plum cake, which she +evidently expects him to devour with relish. It is evident, +too, that she presents it to him as a peace-offering, and as a +sign that all animosity is at an end between them.</p> + +<p>"No, thank you," says Mr. Gower, decidedly, but gratefully, +and with a very tender smile, meant as a return for hers.</p> + +<p>"Oh, but you must, indeed!" declares she, in a friendly +fashion, with a decisive shake of the head and uplifted brows.</p> + +<p>Now, Mr. Gower, poor soul, hates cake.</p> + +<p>"Thanks, awfully," he says, in a deprecating tone, "I +know it's nice, very nice, but—er—the fact is I can't bear +cake. It—it's horrid, I think."</p> + +<p>"Not this one," says Dulce remorselessly—"you have +never eaten a cake like this. Let me let you into a little secret; +I am very fond of cooking, and I made this cake <i>all myself</i>, +with my own hands, every bit of it! There! Now, you +really must eat it, you know, or I shall think you are slighting +my attempts at housewifery."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh! if you really made it <i>yourself</i>," says the doomed +young man, in a resigned tone, trying to light his rejected +countenance with an artificial smile, "that makes such a +difference, you know. I shall quite enjoy it now. But—er"—glancing +doubtfully at her small white hands, "did you really +make it yourself?"</p> + +<p>"Should I say it, if not sure?" reproachfully; "I even +mixed it all up, <i>so</i>," with a pantomimic motion of her fingers, +that suggests the idea of tearing handfuls of hair out of somebody's +head. "I put in the raisins and currants and everything +myself, while cook looked on. And she says I shall be +quite a grand cook myself presently if—if I keep to it; she +says, too, I have quite the right turn in my wrists for making +cakes."</p> + +<p>"Is this the cook you don't like?" asks he, gloomily, while +sadly consuming the cake she has pressed upon him. He is +eating it slowly and with care; there is, indeed, no exuberant +enjoyment in his manner, no touch of refined delight as he +partakes of the delicacy manufactured by his <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'dainy'">dainty</ins> hostess.</p> + +<p>"Yes," says Miss Blount, in a somewhat changed tone. +"But what do <i>you</i> know of her?"</p> + +<p>"I think she's a humbug," says Gower, growing more moody +every instant.</p> + +<p>"Then you mean, of course, that she didn't mean one word +she said to me, and that—that in effect, I can't make cakes?" +says Dulce, opening her large eyes, and regarding him in a +manner that embarrasses him to the last degree. He rouses +himself, and makes a supreme effort to retrieve his position.</p> + +<p>"How could you imagine I meant that?" he says, putting +the last morsel of the cake, with a thankful heart, into his +mouth. "I don't know when I have enjoyed anything so +much as this."</p> + +<p>"Really, you liked it? You thought it—"</p> + +<p>"Delicious," with effusion.</p> + +<p>"Have some more!" says Dulce, generously, holding out +to him the cake plate near her. "Take a big bit. Take"—she +has her eyes fixed rather searchingly upon his—"<i>this</i> +piece."</p> + +<p>Something in her manner warns him it will be unwise to +refuse; with a sinking heart he takes the large piece of cake +she has pointed out to him, and regards it as one might +prussic acid. His courage fails him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Must I," he says, turning to her with a sudden and almost +tearful change of tone, "must I eat all this?"</p> + +<p>"Yes—all!" says Miss Blount, sternly.</p> + +<p>Sadly, and in silence, he completes his task. But so slowly +that when it is finished he finds Mr. Boer and Miss Gaunt +have risen, and are making their adieux to their pretty hostess, +and perforce he is bound to follow their example.</p> + +<p>When he is gone, Roger gives way to a speech of a somewhat +virulent order.</p> + +<p>"I must say I think Gower has turned out the most insufferable +puppy I ever met," he says, an ill-subdued flash in his +handsome eyes.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Gower!" exclaims Dulce, in soft tones of wonder, and +with a somewhat mocking smile. "Why, it is only a week or +two ago since you told me he was your greatest chum or pal, +or—I can't really remember at this moment the horrid slang +word you used, but I suppose its English was 'friend.'"</p> + +<p>"Fellows at school and fellows at college are very different +from fellows when they are grown up and launched on their +own hook," says Mr. Dare with a frown.</p> + +<p>"What an abominably arranged sentence," says Sir Mark, +with his fine smile, coming to the rescue for the third time +to-day. "I couldn't follow it up. How many fellows were +at school?—and how many at college?—and how many were +grown up? It sounds like a small army!"</p> + +<p>At this Roger laughs, and moves away to the upper end of +the room, where Julia is sitting. Dulce shrugs her wilful +little shoulders, and taking up the huge white cat that lies on +the rug at her feet, kisses it, and tells it in an undertone that +it is a "dear sweet" and a "puss of snow," and that all the +wide world is cross and cranky, and disagreeable, except its +own lovely self.</p> + +<p>She has just arrived at this uncomplimentary conclusion +about mankind generally, when Dicky Browne, who is standing +at one of the lower windows, says abruptly:</p> + +<p>"I say; look at Quail and her new puppies. Who let them +out?"</p> + +<p>At this Miss Blount drops the white cat suddenly, and, +cruelly regardless of her indignant mew, rushes to catch a +glimpse of the new pups; Roger rises precipitately from his +chair, on the same purpose bent. As all the other windows +are occupied, except the one nearest the fireplace, both he +and Dulce make for it together.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span></p> + +<p>Quail the red setter, proud and happy, is marching past +on the gravel outside, her two sons beside her. The yellowest +puppy has purloined a bone from some unknown quarter, +and is carrying it with him triumphantly. His brother, +eyeing him furtively from time to time, is plainly filled with +envy because of his good luck, and is inwardly consumed +with a desire to make the delicacy above-mentioned his own.</p> + +<p>At length avarice conquers prudence; there is a snap, two +snarls, and a violent tussle, during which both puppies roll +over and over each other on the damp path, and finally, the +mother interfering, seizes the bone of contention as her own, +and in canine language, desires the two culprits to follow her +with hang-dog looks and lowered tails, to their kennel.</p> + +<p>"Ha, ha, ha!" says Roger, forgetful of everything but the +pretty pups and their tiny war.</p> + +<p>"Ha, ha, ha!" says Dulce, equally unmindful of the +stormy past. "How sweet they looked, naughty things. And +how they <i>did</i> bark and bite. Dr. Watts should have been +here to see them."</p> + +<p>"I wonder will they get that bone back?" says Roger, +turning to her, all animosity forgotten in the pleasurable excitement +of the moment.</p> + +<p>"Let us come and see," exclaims she, with considerable +animation, and in the friendliest tone imaginable. She +glances up at him from under her long lashes with one of her +brightest and sunniest smiles, and moves a step nearer to him.</p> + +<p>"We must run if we want to be in time for the finish," +says Roger—"come."</p> + +<p>He takes her hand, and together they move towards the +door. They are, apparently, as happy and as good friends +as if no harsh words had ever passed between them.</p> + +<p>"Going out now," says Julia, as they pass the low wicker +chair in which she is lounging, "so late?"</p> + +<p>"Don't be long, Dulce," says Portia, in her plaintive way. +"I miss you when you are out of my sight."</p> + +<p>"I shan't be any time," says Dulce.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Gower said it was going to rain, and it is a long +way to the yard," says Julia again. "Stay here, and keep +dry."</p> + +<p>"I suppose Gower is not infallible," says Roger, hastily. +"I think it will not rain."</p> + +<p>"I think so too," says Dulce, adorably; "and as for Mr.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span> +Gower, I only know one thing; I shall never give <i>him</i> any +of my own cake again, because he looked just as if he was +going to die, or have a tooth drawn, all the time he was eating +it to-day."</p> + +<p>Then they disappear, still hand-in-hand, in search of the +refractory puppies, and Portia, turning to Sir Mark, says +softly:</p> + +<p>"What am I to think now? How is it with them? Have +they—"</p> + +<p>"Yes; quite that," says Sir Mark, airily. "All is forgotten; +the storm is over—not even a breeze remains. The delicate +charms of two snarling puppies have put an end to strife—for +the present. Let us be grateful for small mercies—<i>and</i> the +puppies."</p> + +<p>"It is very wonderful," says Portia, still showing some soft +surprise.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XI.</h2> + +<div class='poem'> +"There's something in a flying horse."<br /> +<div class='sig'>—<span class="smcap">Peter Bell.</span></div><br /> +</div> + +<div class='poem'> +"For of fortunes sharpe adversite,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">The worst kind of infortune is this,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">A man that hath been in prosperite</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">And it remember, whan it passed is!"</span><br /> +<div class='sig'>—<span class="smcap">Chaucer.</span></div><br /> +</div> + + +<p>"<span class="smcap">Where</span> are you going, Uncle Christopher?" asks Dulce, +as Sir Christopher enters the small drawing-room, booted +and spurred for a long journey.</p> + +<p>Portia, in the distance, bending over an easel; Julia is forming +some miraculous flower, that never yet was seen by land +or sea, on a coarse towel, with some crewel wools; the Boodie +is lying on her little fat stomach, drawing diligently with a +slate and pencil; Dulce, charmingly idle, is leaning back in a +lounging chair, doing nothing.</p> + +<p>"To Warminster," says Sir Christopher "What shall I +bring you girls from that sleepy little town?"</p> + +<p>"Something sweet," says Dulce, going up to him, and +laying her soft arms lovingly round his neck.</p> + +<p>"Like yourself," says Sir Christopher.</p> + +<p>"Now that is sarcasm," says Miss Dulce, patting his fresh +old cheek very fondly. "I meant chocolates, or burnt almonds, +or even everton toffy, if all things fail."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span></p> + +<p>"And what shall I bring the others?" asks Sir Christopher, +laughing; "you have a sweet tooth, you naughty child, perhaps +they haven't."</p> + +<p>"<i>I</i> have," says Portia, turning round on her seat. "Bring +us as much as ever you can."</p> + +<p>"Burnt almonds are my chief delight," murmurs Julia, +affectedly and somewhat absently, being sick with grief, because +she cannot reconcile it to her conscience that the stem +of an arum lily should be peacock blue.</p> + +<p>"Bring some crackers," says the Boodie, suddenly warming +into life, and so far condescending to notice Sir Christopher +as to roll round her portly person until she lies prone +upon her back. From this dignified position she eyes Sir +Christopher magisterially. "<i>Real</i> crackers, mind," she says +severely, "that will say c-r-r-rack, and show fire! those last +you brought"—contemptuously—"were a humbug!"</p> + +<p>"Elizabeth!" exclaims her mother in a would-be shocked +tone (the Boodie rejoices in that lengthy name), "what <i>are</i> +you saying?"</p> + +<p>"The truth," says the Boodie, unflinchingly; "the last he +brought were a reg'lar swindle—ask Jacky; why they wouldn't +go off even if you <i>stamped</i> on 'em."</p> + +<p>She so plainly—by the severity of her glance—conveys to +every one the impression that she believes Sir Christopher on +that last unfortunate occasion had purposely bought for them +crackers beneath notice, that the poor old gentleman, though +innocent of offence, feels himself growing warm beneath her +relentless gaze.</p> + +<p>"It wasn't my fault, my dear," he says, apologetically; "I +quite meant them to go off. I did, indeed."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps so. Take care, however, it doesn't occur again," +says the Boodie, with so careful, though unconscious, an +imitation of her mother's manner when addressing her maid, +that they all laugh, whereupon she rolls back again to her +former position, and takes no further notice of them.</p> + +<p>Just at this moment Fabian enters the room.</p> + +<p>"Going to drive to Warminster?" he asks his uncle.</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Not Bess, I hope?" alluding to a very objectionable +young mare in the stables.</p> + +<p>"Yes," says Sir Christopher again. "Why not?"</p> + +<p>"She is utterly unsafe. About the worst thing in chestnuts<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span> +I ever met. I took her out myself the other day—rode +her straight from this to Grange; and I confess, I should +not care to do it again. Take one of the other horses, and +let that beast lie quiet until you can get rid of her."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense!" says Sir Christopher, scornfully; "I +wouldn't part with her for any money. She is the greatest +beauty this side of the county."</p> + +<p>"Her beauty is her one point; for the rest, she is vindictive +and ill-mannered."</p> + +<p>"Don't do anything foolish, dearest," says Dulce, with her +eyes large and frightened. "Do listen to Fabian."</p> + +<p>"And let myself be conquered by a pettish chestnut, at my +age," says Sir Christopher, lightly—he had been a famous +horseman in his day. "My dear child, you don't understand, +and there are moments when Fabian romances. To +satisfy you, however, I shall take George with me."</p> + +<p>"'Wilful man must have his way,'" quotes Fabian, with +a slight shrug. "Before I go out, shall I look over those +accounts with Slyme?"</p> + +<p>"Where are you going?"</p> + +<p>"To the warren, with the others, to have a few shots at +the rabbits; they overrun the place."</p> + +<p>"Very good. Just ask Slyme about the accounts. By-the-by, +he gets more irregular daily."</p> + +<p>"More drunk, do you mean?" says Fabian. There are +moments when his manner is both cold and uncompromising.</p> + +<p>Portia regards him curiously.</p> + +<p>"Yes! yes! Just so," says Sir Christopher, hastily. "But +for the melancholy story that attaches itself to him—and +that, of course, is some excuse for him—I really should not +feel myself justified in keeping him here much longer."</p> + +<p>"What story?" asks Portia.</p> + +<p>"Oh! well; it all lies in a nutshell. It is an old story, too; +one has so often heard it. A bad son—dissipated—in perpetual +hot water. A devoted father. Then, one day, a very +bad story comes, and the son has to fly the country. And +then, some time afterward, news comes of his death. Slyme +never saw him again. He broods over that, I think; at least, +he has never been the same man since the son, Matthew, left +England. It was all a very unhappy business."</p> + +<p>"For the father, perhaps. For the son, he had more than<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span> +ordinary luck to die as soon as he did," says Fabian. He +does not speak at all bitterly. Only hopelessly, and without +heart or feeling.</p> + +<p>"Nobody knows how old Gregory got him out of the +country so cleverly," says Sir Christopher. "It was a marvel +how he managed to elude the grasp of the law."</p> + +<p>"He satisfied the one principal creditor, I suppose?" +says Fabian, indifferently.</p> + +<p>"Oh! impossible," says Sir Christopher. "It came to +hundreds, you know; and he hadn't a farthing. Well, good-by; +I'm off. Expect me and the bon-bons about dinner-hour."</p> + +<p>He nods to Portia and Julia, who smile at him in return, +and, kissing Dulce, quits the room.</p> + +<p>Fabian, following him, goes on to the library; and, having +desired one of the men to send the secretary, Slyme, to him, +sits down at one of the tables and turns over leisurely the pages +of accounts that lie there.</p> + +<p>After a brief examination, he tells himself impatiently that +they are somewhat muddled, or have, at least, been attended +to in a most slovenly manner. He has just discovered a serious +mistake in the row of figures that adorns the end of the +second page, when the door opens slowly, and Gregory Slyme +comes in.</p> + +<p>"Wait one moment, Slyme," says Fabian, without looking +up from the figures before him. A moment passes in utter +silence. Then Fabian, still with his eyes upon the account, +says, somewhat sharply: "Why, it is altogether wrong. It +has been attended to with extreme carelessness. Did you, +yourself, see to this matter of Younge's?"</p> + +<p>He waits, apparently for an answer but none comes. Lifting +his eyes he fixes them scrutinizingly on the old man before +him, and having fixed them, lets them rest there in displeased +surprise.</p> + +<p>Slyme, beneath this steady gaze, grows visibly uneasy. +His eyes shift uncomfortably from one object in the room to +another; his limbs are unsteady; the hand resting on the +table near him is shaking. His face betrays vacancy mixed +with a cunning desire to hide from observation the heaviness +and sluggishness that is overpowering him.</p> + +<p>"Speak," says Fabian, sternly and remorselessly; "you +can frame an answer, I suppose."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span></p> + +<p>The old man mutters something that is almost unintelligible, +so thick and husky are his tones. His eyes grow more +restless;—mechanically, and as though unconscious of the act, +he leans his body stupidly against the book-case near him.</p> + +<p>"You are drunk," says Fabian, with slow scorn—"leave +the room."</p> + +<p>Having said this he turns again to his papers, as though +from this moment contemptuously unaware of the other's +presence.</p> + +<p>Slyme attempts an explanation:</p> + +<p>"You wrong me, sir," he says, in a thick uncertain +voice—"I—I am ill—; my head is bad at times—I—"</p> + +<p>"That will do," says Fabian, such ineffable disgust in his +whole manner as makes the miserable, besotted old wretch +before him actually cower. "No more lies. I have spoken +to you already twice this week—and—; do you know what +hour it is?—twelve o'clock! you begin your day early."</p> + +<p>"I assure you, sir," begins Slyme again. But Fabian will +not listen:</p> + +<p>"Go," he says, briefly, with a disdainful motion of the +hand, and in a tone not to be disobeyed. Slyme moves +towards the door in his usual slouching fashion, but, as he +reaches it, pauses, and for one instant lifts his heavy eyes, and +lets them rest upon the young man at the distant table.</p> + +<p>This one instant reveals his thoughts. In his glance there +is fear, distrust, and, above and beyond all, a malignant and +undying hatred—such a hatred as might project itself from +the eyes of the traitor upon his victim. There is, too, upon +Slyme's face a contortion of the muscles, that it would +be sacrilege to call a smile, that is revengeful, and somehow +suggests the possibility that this man, however impotent he +may now appear, has, in some strange fashion, acquired a +hidden and terrible power over the young man, who a moment +since had treated him with such scorn and contumely.</p> + +<p>The old secretary's countenance for this fateful moment is +one brilliant, if wicked phantasmagoria, in which the ghosts +of long sustained thoughts appear and disappear, going from +fear and its brother, hatred, to lasting revenge. Then all +vanish; the usual soddened look returns to the man's face; +he opens the door, and once more, instead of the evil genius +he looked a second ago, a broken-down, drunken old creature<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span> +crosses the threshold, shambles over the hall, and is lost +presently amongst the many passages.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Meantime, <i>ennui</i> is reigning triumphantly in the drawing-room, +more conspicuously in the case of Dulce.</p> + +<p>"Hey-day," she says, with a little, idle yawn; "how I do +wish everybody would not go out shooting, all at once. I +think they might take it by turns. But all men are selfish; +they never consider how lonely we may be."</p> + +<p>"Why should one miss them?" says Julia, who in her +soul considers every moment unoccupied by the society of a +man (that is a possible lover) as time misspent.</p> + +<p>"I don't know," says Dulce, candidly; "I am only sure of +this, that I want them always."</p> + +<p>Portia says nothing.</p> + +<p>"Well, certainly, at times they are amusing," says Mrs. +Beaufort, as though just awaking to the fact that now and +again one <i>can</i> find a man with some wit or humor in him—"and +I honestly confess"—with a little laugh and a great +assumption of candor—"that I wish even Stephen Gower +would drop in now and help us to pass away an hour or +two."</p> + +<p>"<i>Even</i> Stephen Gower!" repeats Dulce. "Julia, what has +that poor young man done to you, that you should speak thus +meanly of him? <i>Even</i>, what an unkind word!"</p> + +<p>"I don't believe I quite meant it, do you know," says +Julia, relenting. "I like Stephen Gower very much. By-the-by, +what do you think of him? I never yet heard you +express an opinion, good or bad, about him. Do it now."</p> + +<p>Leaning back in her chair, Dulce slowly and thoughtfully +raises her arms in the air, with her fingers tipping each other, +until presently they fall indolently behind her head, where +she lets them lie.</p> + +<p>"Well, let me see," she says, lazily, "I think, perhaps, like +Chaucer's man, he is a 'veray parfit gentil knight.'"</p> + +<p>Portia lifts her eyes from her painting and turns them +slowly upon her cousin; she regards her very silently for a +moment or two, and then she smiles, and leaning forward, +opens her lips.</p> + +<p>"'And of his port as meke as is a mayde,'" she says, mischievously,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span> +purposely choosing the same poet for her quotation +that Dulce had taken for hers.</p> + +<p>Miss Blount laughs.</p> + +<p>"You, too, are severe upon our neighbor," she says, defending +him more from obstinacy than from real desire to see justice +done. "I confess he is at times a trifle too mild, but not +effeminate, surely?"</p> + +<p>"He is very handsome," says Portia, evasively.</p> + +<p>"He has a charming mouth," says Dulce.</p> + +<p>"I think you ought only to look at Roger's mouth," says +Julia, prudishly, whereupon Dulce shrugs her shoulders, impatiently, +and, turning, devotes herself for the next ten minutes +to the small artist lying at her feet—an attention received +by the imperturbable Boodie with the most exasperating unconcern.</p> + +<p>The afternoon wanes; day is sinking to its rest. Behind +the tall dark firs "the great gold sun-god, blazing through the +sky" may still be seen, but now he grows aweary, and would +fain give place to his sister, the pale moon.</p> + +<p>"The sweet keen smell—the sighing sound" of coming +night is on the air. The restless ocean is rolling inland with +a monotonous roar; there is scarcely sufficient breeze to ruffle +the leaves of the huge chestnut that stands near one corner +of the old house, not far from the balcony outside the drawing-room +windows, where Mrs. Beaufort and the two girls are +sitting.</p> + +<p>The children are playing somewhere in the distance. Their +sweet and merry voices come up to the balcony now and +then, and mingle with the breath of descending night.</p> + +<p>And now from beneath the fir trees two figures emerge, +and come towards the stone steps where their hostess is sitting.</p> + +<p>"Are you clean?" asks Dulce, with a charming smile, +leaning over the railings to see them better as they draw +closer.</p> + +<p>"To confess a horrid truth, I don't believe we are," says +Stephen Gower, glancing up at her, and regarding his rough +shooting coat somewhat ruefully. "Will that admission exclude +us from Paradise?"</p> + +<p>"Dulce," says Dicky Browne, who is the second of the +two figures, "I'm worn out. I've been walking all day, a +thing I very seldom do; I have been firing off an unlimited<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span> +number of cartridges, without, I am bound to confess—I am, +as experience has doubtless taught you, a remarkably truthful +person—without any very brilliant consequences, and I feel +that very little more fatigue will be my death. Have compassion +on us. We faint, we die; show mercy and give us +some tea and some cake. You're awfully hungry, Gower, +aren't you?"</p> + +<p>"Well, not very," says Mr. Gower, too occupied in his +contemplation of Dulce's charming face to be quite alive to +what is so plainly expected of him.</p> + +<p>"Oh, nonsense! He is tremendously hungry," says Dicky +Browne. "Let us up, Dulce, and we will sit out there on +the balcony, and won't soil anything. Except gore, there +isn't much staining about us."</p> + +<p>"But that is worse than anything," says Dulce with a +shudder. "However, come up, and if you keep <i>very</i> far +away, I daresay I shan't mind much."</p> + +<p>"Hard conditions," says Gower, in a lower tone.</p> + +<p>So tea is got for them again, and the children, who always +seem to <i>feel</i> when plum-cake is to be had, come trooping +noisily up the steps to join, uninvited, in the festivities.</p> + +<p>Great content follows, and, indeed, all is peace until something +said by the Boodie creates a confusion that sweeps calm +to the winds. She has <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'esconced'">ensconced</ins> herself on Mr. Gower's +knee, without saying so much as "by your leave" or "with +your leave," and now, raising one soft little dimpled hand to +his chin, turns his face towards her own, and for a full minute +regards him with silent curiosity.</p> + +<p>"Well, is your Highness satisfied?" says Gower, feeling +amused.</p> + +<p>The Boodie takes no notice of this enquiry. She puckers +up her smooth brows as if puzzled, and then says, slowly—</p> + +<p>"I don't believe one word of it!"</p> + +<p>"Of what?" says Gower. Everybody by this time is looking +at the Boodie, and the Boodie is steadfastly regarding +Stephen Gower.</p> + +<p>"It wasn't true what she said," goes on the Boodie, meditatively, +"because you have hair on your lip. <i>Girls</i> don't +have hair on their lips—do they?"</p> + +<p>"Not as a general rule," says Dicky Browne. "There +<i>have</i> been noble exceptions, but unhappily they are rare. +Miss Gaunt is perhaps the only girl down here who can boast<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span> +of hirsute adornment, and the growth upon her upper lip is +not to be despised. But then she belongs to the higher and +more powerful class of females, in fact, as Wordsworth so +touchingly expresses it, she</p> + +<div class='poem'> +'Wears upon her forehead clear<br /> +The freedom of a mountaineer.'<br /> +</div> + +<div class='unindent'>I always—mildly—think Wordsworth must have been acquainted +with Miss Gaunt."</div> + +<p>"Go on," says Stephen to the Boodie, who is still lost in +thought. "You have not yet told me what it is you disbelieve."</p> + +<p>"It was something Portia said," returns the Boodie, composedly.</p> + +<p>"That <i>I</i> said! surely you are mistaken, darling," says +Portia.</p> + +<p>"No, I am not," persists the Boodie, in an unmoved tone.</p> + +<p>"Stephen," again turning his face to hers, "are you +'meke'?"</p> + +<p>At this word all the truth becomes at once known to Portia +and Dulce. The Boodie had been in the room when they +were discussing Stephen with her mother. She had heard +everything. She is a little pitcher—she has long ears. Can +nothing be done to stop her further speech?</p> + +<p>"He is a very nice boy, but I'm not prepared to go as far +as calling him meek," says Dicky Browne, who begins to +scent mischief in the air. "Who applied that word to +him?"</p> + +<p>"I think it is time all you children ran away to nurse," +says Julia, in answer to an agonized glance from both girls.</p> + +<p>"It was Portia," says the Boodie to Dicky Browne, in her +sweet innocent treble. "Dulce said first he was a 'knight,' +and then Portia said he was a 'meek maid.' She said something, +too, about 'port,' but I don't think she meant Uncle +Christopher's port; I think she meant Stephen's."</p> + +<p>Deadly silence follows this bombshell. As Mr. Gower, +only the day before, had been reading the "Canterbury +Tales" for them in his very best old English style, it is impossible +to believe the two quotations from them, used in the +morning, are not now alive in his memory.</p> + +<p>Gower colors, and looks questioningly at Dulce. His expression +is not altogether one of chagrin. The child had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span> +said she (Dulce) had called him a knight—"a veray parfit +gentil knight" it must have been. There is comfort, and +even gladness in this thought; so much comfort, that he +even feels inclined to forgive Portia for comparing him to a +"mayde." Still, some awkwardness is naturally felt by all—except +the Boodie, who yawns indifferently, and finally follows +the other children up to the nursery—and every one is +vainly trying to think of some commonplace remark, that, +when uttered, shall have the effect of restoring conversation +once more into a safe channel, when an interruption occurs +that puts chagrin and awkwardness out of their minds for the +rest of the evening.</p> + +<p>First upon the air the reports of two guns being fired off +quickly, one after the other; then the quick flinty sound of +a horse's galloping hoofs.</p> + +<p>Nearer they came, and still nearer, with that mad haste +belonging to them, that suggests unmanageable fury in the +brute beast; and as all on the balcony rise simultaneously +and press forward to see what may be coming, Bess and the +dog-cart turn the corner near the chestnut tree, and dash onwards +towards the lower lawn.</p> + +<p>Sir Christopher, grim and as full of rage as the animal in +whose power he now finds himself, is still holding the reins—but +more for form's sake than anything else, as he has no +control whatever over the infuriated chestnut, that, with reddened +nostrils, and foam-covered flanks, is rushing madly +down the green slope.</p> + +<p>A sudden rise in the velvet lawn, causing the dog-cart to +sway rather much to one side, unseats the groom, who is +flung somewhat heavily to the ground. Being fortunately, +however, unhurt, he rises hastily, and runs frantically after +the mare, as though in foolish hope, that he may yet overtake +her and be of some service to his master. With a smothered +exclamation, Gower and Dicky Browne dash down the balcony +steps to join him in his vain pursuit.</p> + +<p>Vain, indeed! At the lower end, by the long lawn, runs +a river, small, but swift, and turbulent, that flows for two +miles through park, and waving field, and glowing valley, to +throw itself finally into the arms of the thirsty ocean.</p> + +<p>Towards this the horse is rushing madly. Once on its +bank, who shall tell what next may happen. There will be a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span> +mad bound—a crash—a cry, perhaps, that will pierce through +all other sounds—and then—and Sir Christopher—.</p> + +<p>As these thoughts force themselves upon the girls, they +shudder, and involuntarily move closer to each other. Dulce +covers her face with her hands, as though to shut out some +dreadful sight, and a low dry sob escapes her. Portia, deadly +pale, but calm and wide-eyed, is clinging to the balcony +rails, and is gazing in speechless fear at the chestnut, that +every instant is bringing nearer to the fateful goal. Julia, +from time to time, emits short little shrieks of terror, she +being the sort of person who, in moments of peril, would be +always safe to scream.</p> + +<p>Onward flies the mare. Sir Christopher (as yet bolt upright +in his seat, and apparently, from the back view they +can get of him, still so possessed with rage as to be unconscious +of fear) is trying hopelessly to manage her.</p> + +<p>Nearer and nearer to the brink of the stream they draw; +now they are within a few yards of it; soon help will be of +little use, and the panting groom and the two young men who +are following him will only be in time to witness more closely +the disaster. All seems, indeed, hopeless, when a man, +springing from behind the thick laurel hedge that grows on +the right, rushes forward, and, seizing Bess by the head by +sheer force of mind and body, forces her upon her haunches.</p> + +<p>"It is Fabian!" says Portia, in a voice sharp with fear. +"Dulce!—Dulce!" there is positive agony in her tone.</p> + +<p>Dulce, letting her hands fall from her face, looks up. +Julia forgets to scream; all three watch with intensest +anxiety the scene being enacted below.</p> + +<p>And now ensues a struggle between man and beast; a +struggle sharp but short. The beast, frightened, or, perhaps, +with fury exhausted, it may be, compelled against its will to +acknowledge the superior power of mind over matter—gives +way, and after a good deal of prancing stands tolerably +quiet, though still trembling from excitement and violent +temper.</p> + +<p>By this time the groom, with Gower and Dicky Browne, +have joined them.</p> + +<p>"Get out Sir Christopher," says the groom, in an agitated +voice, the swift run having added to his anxiety.</p> + +<p>"Not a bit of it," says Sir Christopher, indignantly, "I'll +take her back to the stables, or—"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Get down at once," says Fabian, in a quick, decided +tone. "Don't delay, she is dangerous still and may bolt +again at any moment. Besides, you have had enough of it, +surely!"</p> + +<p>"I'm not going to be conquered by any mare born," says +the old Baronet, obstinacy setting it at this point; "what d'ye +think I bred her for, eh? To be made a laughing-stock for +the county, I suppose, eh? Nothing of the sort. She shall own +me as master if I die for it. Here, get out of my way all you +boys—"</p> + +<p>It is plain Sir Christopher is as yet undaunted, though, in +truth, there is danger still; the chestnut is flinging up her head +in an uncertain, frightened fashion, scattering angry foam as +she does so, and her eyes are showing more white than is seemly.</p> + +<p>Fabian, who is still holding the bridle with both hands, +looks at his uncle, earnestly, almost, it might be said, curiously.</p> + +<p>"If you are bent on taking this brute round yourself, of +course, I shall go with you," he says, indifferently. "Hold +her head, George, for a moment."</p> + +<p>Even as he speaks the mare moves uneasily, and, as the +groom approaches, throws up her head impatiently, and in +so doing touches Fabian's right arm somewhat roughly. In +spite of his self-control he winces perceptibly.</p> + +<p>"You are hurt," says Sir Christopher, anxiously. "How?—where?"</p> + +<p>"This arm," says Fabian, touching the injured part lightly. +"A mere scratch, no doubt, but it hurts. Nevertheless, if +you persist, I daresay I shall be able to hold her in check +with the other."</p> + +<p>"Here, George, lead her home," says Sir Christopher, hurriedly, +throwing the reins he still holds to the groom, and +hastily descending from the dog-cart. "To drive, indeed, +with an injured arm! stuff and nonsense!" he says, severely. +"Some people have no sense, eh? though I must say I believe +that poor brute is maligned. But for those shots fired +off just as I was entering the gates nothing would have happened."</p> + +<p>"Roger and Sir Mark discharging their guns, I daresay," +says Stephen; "awkward, they should have chosen just that +moment to do it."</p> + +<p>"Fate!" says Dicky Browne, solemnly.</p> + +<p>Meantime, Fabian has turned away and gone quickly in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span> +direction of the house. Dulce, running down the balcony +steps, goes up to him with a very white little face.</p> + +<p>"Darling, how brave you were. I thought something +dreadful was going to happen to you. It was a horrid moment. +If that wicked Bess had persisted she might have +thrown you down and killed you."</p> + +<p>"Well, she didn't, you see," says Fabian, lightly—but he +shrinks a little from her embrace, and moves so that she cannot +touch his right arm. His eyes are fixed upon the balcony +above, where Portia still stands, pale as an early snowdrop +and thoroughly unnerved. There is, however, about her a +certain calm, that is part of her nature, and that, perhaps, in +her very greatest emergency, and in her bitterest hour of need, +would still be hers.</p> + +<p>At this moment, however, Fabian so far wrongs her as to +attribute this inborn quietude to coldness and indifference. +He turns again to Dulce.</p> + +<p>"Take that terrified look off your face," he says, somewhat +languidly, with a smile that is faintly bitter. "You should +show more self-control. Take example by your cousin; see +how composed she can be, and how sensible."</p> + +<p>He smiles again, and indicates Portia by a glance. For an +instant his eyes meet hers. Is he wrong in thinking she is +even a shade paler now than she was a moment since? He +is not sure; and he has not time given him to make the +thought a certainty, as Miss Vibart, turning slowly, goes towards +one of the drawing-room windows, and presently is lost to +sight.</p> + +<p>There was something in her eyes, in the hurried glance he +got at them, that saddens Fabian. Almost forgetful of +Dulce's presence, he walks away from her, and, having +gained the house, goes moodily up the stairs towards his own +room.</p> + +<p>His soul is disquieted; an agony of unrest, that even in +his first days of despair had not visited him, is on him now; +a longing, a craving, for what he knows (ah! the deep grief +of that!) can never be obtained.</p> + +<p>Why had her soft eyes looked so reproachful a while ago? +Why had she turned so quickly away from him when he had +spoken those few harsh words, for which he hates himself +now?</p> + +<p>Her pallor returns to him, and the fear in her large eyes.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span> +Surely he should have taken note of them first, and not of +the calmness and seeming coldness and her utter composure.</p> + +<p>And then a strange soft light comes into his face, as he +remembers how sweet she looked standing there, half leaning +over the balcony, and looking down on him—unworthy, pale, +but full of beauty.</p> + +<p>It may be that other women have been lovely in his eyes, +but, surely, none have reached her standard. One, indeed, +in the past years had appeared to him (though he had not +loved her) as nearly perfect as a woman can be; but, now +comparing her with Portia, as he has often done of late, she—the +former beauty—had paled in comparison.</p> + +<p>He has been reading some old book of late, and now, thinking +of both women, a description in it of some ancient queen +and one of her court comes to him as being applicable to the +train of thought in which he is indulging.</p> + +<p>"One, amongst other purposes, said unto them of late, +that she (the queen) 'excelleth as far the duchess as the +golden sun excelleth the silver moon,' which appeareth in +the gravity of her face. Thus say they that have seen them +both."</p> + +<p>As he reaches the corridor, and gains the threshold of his +own room, a light step behind him, causing him to turn, he +finds himself looking once again into Portia's eyes.</p> + +<p>She is very pale still, and there is something pathetic about +her mouth. Slowly she comes up to him, without uttering a +word, until she is so close to him that she can touch him, if +she will. Then she speaks:</p> + +<p>"You wronged me just now," she says, in a low voice: +"you had an evil thought about me! But not <i>now</i>, I think," +regarding him earnestly. "You have gone over it all again +in your own mind, and you understand now you misjudged +me."</p> + +<p>"You are quite right in all you say; I did misjudge you. +I have discovered my error. You will forgive me?"</p> + +<p>"I suppose so." She is looking down now, and is tapping +the ground impatiently with her foot.</p> + +<p>"You ought," says Fabian, quietly. "To misjudge one's +neighbor is one of the commonest failings of mankind."</p> + +<p>There is meaning in his tone. She acknowledges unwillingly +the fact that she comprehends this meaning by a sign, +silent but perceptible: she colors deeply, and, still looking<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span> +down, continues her tattoo upon the oaken flooring of the +corridor.</p> + +<p>"You are not very humble," she says at length, "even +now, when you have had to demand my pardon."</p> + +<p>"Am I not?" says Fabian, with a partly suppressed sigh. +"I should be. Forgive me that, too, and—" He pauses to +draw his breath quickly, as if in pain. At this she lifts her +head, and something she sees in his expression tells her the +truth.</p> + +<p>"You are hurt," she says, hastily, going nearer to him. +"Where?—how?"</p> + +<p>There is deep, unrestrained anxiety in her tone.</p> + +<p>"My arm," confesses Fabian, who is, indeed, suffering +greatly, laying his left hand upon his right arm, high up above +the elbow.</p> + +<p>"Is it a sprain or a bruise?"</p> + +<p>"A little of both, perhaps. I came up-stairs just now to +ring for Parkins to help me off with my coat, and do something +for me."</p> + +<p>"Parkins!" says Portia, with fine contempt; "of what use +is a man in a case like this. Why not ask Dulce—"</p> + +<p>"Oh! it is really nothing; and you saw how frightened she +was already. I had pity on her nerves."</p> + +<p>"Then let me be Parkins for a few minutes," says Portia, +with a little smile. "I used to be of great use to George" +(her brother, Colonel Vibart) "occasionally when he came +to grief at football, or in the hunting field. Let me see if +my hand has lost its cunning."</p> + +<p>"You won't like it," says Blount, hesitating; "it will look +nasty, you know, and there will be blood, I think, and perhaps +it will be better for me to—"</p> + +<p>"This is my sitting-room," interrupts Portia, calmly, +throwing open a door on the opposite side of the corridor. +"Come in here, and let me see what has happened to you."</p> + +<p>Fabian follows her obediently. It all seems to him something +like a dream, that this girl, usually so listless, should +now brighten into life, and grow energetic and anxious for +his sake.</p> + +<p>With gentle fingers she helps him to take off his coat, and, +in a business-like, very matter-of-fact fashion, unfastens the +gold link at his wrist, and, though paling a little as she sees +the blood upon his sleeve, resolutely rolls it up and lays bare +the injured arm.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span></p> + +<p>It is looking dark and swollen, and the skin has been +knocked off it in several places. The flesh has been a good +deal bruised, and altogether the wound is an ugly one +without being in any way serious. In spite of her efforts to +the contrary, she blanches perceptibly, and shudders, and +lets her lids droop rather heavily over her eyes.</p> + +<p>"You are unfit for this sort of work," says Fabian, angry +with himself, as he marks her agitation. "It was unpardonable +of me even to permit you to attempt it." He moves +back from her, and tries his shirt sleeve once more over his +injured arm.</p> + +<p>"Ah! do not touch it," says Portia, hastily; "the sleeve +will only rub against it and make it worse."</p> + +<p>Involuntarily she lays her hand on his to prevent his covering +the wound, and looks at him with a glance full of sympathy +and entreaty. So standing, with her eyes large and +dark with pity, and her soft white hand trembling upon his, +she seems to him so far</p> + +<div class='poem'> +"Beyond all women, womanly,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">He dreads to think how he should fare</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Who came so near as to despair!"</span><br /> +</div> + +<p>A pang desolates his heart. Alas! is not despair the only +portion that can be meted out for him! The joy and the +gladness of living, and the one great treasure of all—the +heart's love—that beautifies and refines all it touches, can +never be his; never for him, while this shadow rests upon +him, will there be home or "hearthstone," or that deeper, +more perfected sense of fellowship that exists between two +souls only.</p> + +<p>And this girl, with her hand on his, and</p> + +<div class='poem'> +"With eyes like open lotus flowers<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Bright in the morning rain."</span><br /> +</div> + +<div class='unindent'>looking straight up at him, with gentlest concern in her regard, +how might it have been with him and her, if life had +flowed in a pleasant stream, and no turbulent waves had +come to disturb its calm and musical ripple?</div> + +<p>How short have been his days of grace, how long must be +his years of misery; just in the very opening of his life, in the +silken morning of his youth, the blow had fallen, deadening +his sky, and rendering all things gray.</p> + +<p>In what a very little space, indeed, lie all our happy moments; +even the most successful of us can count them one by<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span> +one, as it might be, on the fingers of one hand; and how +tardy, how wearying, are those where sorrow, and trouble, +and despair hold their own.</p> + +<p>"Ce qui nous charme s'en va, et ce qui fait peine reste. +La rose vit une heure, et le cyprès cent ans."</p> + +<p>Portia has gone into an inner room, and now returns with +a basin and a sponge. Very gently (and as though afraid +each movement may increase his pain) she bathes his arm, +glancing up at him every now and then to see if, indeed, she +is adding to or decreasing his agony.</p> + +<p>If the truth be told, I believe he feels no agony at all, so +glad he is to know her touch, and see her face. When she +has sponged his arm with excessive tenderness, she brings a +cambric handkerchief, and, tearing it into strips, winds it +round and round the torn flesh.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps that will do until Dr. Bland can see it," she says +hopefully. "At least tell me you are in less pain now, and +that I have done you some small good."</p> + +<p>"Small!" says Fabian.</p> + +<p>"Ah! well," she says, lightly, "then I suppose I have succeeded, +but you must promise me, nevertheless, that you will +have a doctor to look at you."</p> + +<p>Her tone is still exquisitely kind; but there is now a +studied indifference about it that hurts him keenly. Perhaps +in his surprise at this sudden change of manner he overlooks +the fact that the difference <i>is</i> studied!</p> + +<p>"I have given you too much trouble," he says, stupidly, +in a leaden sort of way. "But, as you say, you have been +successful, I feel hardly any pain now."</p> + +<p>"Then I suppose I may dismiss you," she says, with a +frugal little smile, just glancing at the half opened door. The +nervousness, the sympathy is over, and she remembers how +lost to social consideration is the man to whose comfort she +has been contributing for the past twenty minutes.</p> + +<p>"I have taken up too much of your time already," he says +in a frozen tone, and then he turns and goes toward the door. +But, after a moment's reflection, he faces round again abruptly, +and comes up to her, and stands before her with set lips +and eyes aflame. His nostrils are dilated, there is intense +mental pressure discernible in every line of his face.</p> + +<p>"I do not mistake you," he says, with slow vehemence; "I +am not such a dullard that I should count your bare charity<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span> +as friendship. You have succoured me, as you would, of your +grace, no doubt have succoured the vilest criminal that walks +the earth, were he in death or pain."</p> + +<p>She has grown very pale, and is rather frightened, if her +eyes speak truly.</p> + +<p>"Now that the reaction has set in," he goes on, bitterly, +"you believe you have demeaned yourself in that you have +assisted one who——"</p> + +<p>"You are saying what is not true," she says, in a low but +clear voice; speaking slowly, and with difficulty, because her +lips are white and dry.</p> + +<p>"Am I?" exclaims he, passionately. "Say, if you can, +that you believe me innocent of all guilt, and I will believe +you!"</p> + +<p>He pauses—she is silent. A terrible moment ensues, +fraught with agony for Fabian, and still she makes no sign. +Her hands, tightly clasped, are hanging before her; her head +is turned aside; her eyes persistently seek the floor. As if +every nerve in her body is strung to excess, she stands so +motionless that she might almost be a statue cut in marble.</p> + +<p>Her silence is painfully eloquent. Fabian, in an excess of +passion, tears off the cambric bandages from his arm, and +flings them at her feet.</p> + +<p>"I will have none of your charity," he says, with pale lips, +and, throwing wide the door, strides down the corridor, and +is soon beyond recall.</p> + +<p>When the last echo of his feet has died away Portia rouses +herself, and, moving towards a low chair near the fireplace, +sinks into it, and presses her hands convulsively against her +heart.</p> + +<p>Now that she is at last alone, the excitement of the last +hour begins to tell upon her. Her cheeks and lips, that up +to this have been positively bloodless, now grow dyed with +richest crimson, that is certainly not of this earth—earthy, as +it gives no promise of health or youthful strength. She +leans back in her chair as if exhausted; and, in truth, in the +fair shell that harbors her soul but very little power remains +to battle with the varied thoughts that rise within her.</p> + +<p>Scene by scene the events of the last hour spread themselves +before her: the maddened brute rushing violently over +the soft, smooth lawn to where the treacherous stream awaits +him, running gently between its damp green banks—Sir<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span> +Christopher's danger—Fabian's unexpected interference—the +short, but terrible fear for him—and then the sudden +fall from the extreme agony of suspense to comparative +calm.</p> + +<p>And yet, perhaps, all this does not haunt her so much as +one or two other things, that, in reality, were of little moment. +That time, for instance, when he—Fabian—stood beneath +the balcony, and when he, with a glance, a half-spoken word, +accused her of coldness and indifference. He had condemned +her all too willingly. But this was only fair, no +doubt. Had not she, in her innermost heart, condemned +him, unheard, unquestioned.</p> + +<p>And what was it he had said to Dulce? "Take example +by your cousin; see how sensible <i>she</i> can be," or something +like that. Sensible! When this terrible pain was tugging +at her heart strings, and prolonged nervousness had made +speech impossible.</p> + +<p>And why had he said "<i>your</i> cousin," instead of "our +cousin?" Was it that he did not care to claim kinship with +her, or because—because—he did not count himself worthy—to—</p> + +<p>Again she raises her hand, and presses it with undue force +against her left side. She is unhappy and alone, and full of +a vague uncertainty.</p> + +<p>"Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows," and all +the shadows of her grief seem now to hem her in, and encompass +her on every side. The old troublesome pain in her +heart, that drove her from the dissipations of town life to +seek a shelter in the quiet country, returns to her again. At +this moment the pain of which I speak grows almost past +endurance. A faint, gray pallor supersedes the vivid carmine +of a while ago. She sighs with evident difficulty, and +sinks back heavily amongst her cushions.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XII.</h2> + +<div class='poem'> +"Friendship is constant in all other things,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Save in the office and affairs of love."</span><br /> +<div class='sig'>—<span class="smcap">Much Ado About Nothing.</span></div><br /> +</div> + + +<p>"<span class="smcap">I should</span> think if we are going to give our dance at all, +it ought to be soon," says Dulce, with a shrug and a somewhat +listless little yawn.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span></p> + +<p>"So we ought," says Dicky Browne, briskly. It seems the +most natural thing in the world that he should use the first +person plural, and that he should appear to be the chief promoter +of the dance in question. "We've been talking of it +a considerable lot, you know," he goes on, confidentially, +"and they will all think it a dodge on your part if you don't +give it within the next fortnight."</p> + +<p>"A dodge!" says Miss Blount, very justly incensed. +"What dodge?"</p> + +<p>"Well, look here," says Dicky—"there once was a fellow—"</p> + +<p>He breaks off at this interesting juncture, and, fixing his +glass in his best eye, stares at a figure coming slowly towards +them from the house. They all follow his gaze, and find +themselves criticising the approaching form in a vague, surprised +fashion.</p> + +<p>"Great hat! look at Julia!" says Dicky, at last, giving way +to speech that will not be repressed. The exclamation is quite +in keeping with the scene. Julia, in a head gear of the style +usually described as a Rubens, of the very largest description, +comes simpering up to them, filled with the belief that +now, if ever, she is looking her very best. "Great" <i>is</i> the +word for it. She is indeed all that.</p> + +<p>"My dear Julia, where have you been!" says Dulce, ignoring +the hat.</p> + +<p>"Searching every room in the house for that last book of +Ouida's," says Julia, promptly, who has in reality been posing +before a mirror in her own room, crowned with a +Rubens. "I'm always losing my things, you know—and my +way; my boat, for example, and my train, and my umbrella." +She is plainly impressed with the belief that she is saying +something smart, and looks conscious of it.</p> + +<p>"Why don't you add your temper," says Dicky Browne, +with a mild smile—which rather spoils the effect of her would-be +smartness.</p> + +<p>"We were talking about our ball," says Dulce, somewhat +quickly. "Dicky seems to think that we shall lose caste in +the neighborhood if we put it off much longer."</p> + +<p>"You'll create ill feeling," says Mr. Browne. "The +Stanley girls have new gowns, and they want to show them. +They'll say nasty things about you."</p> + +<p>"That's your second hint on that subject," says Sir Mark.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span> +"Get it out, Dicky, you are dying to say something. What +was it you were going to say a few minutes ago about some +fellow who—?"</p> + +<p>"Who for seven years was going to give a ball, and was +asked everywhere on the strength of it. His friends hoped +against hope, don't you see, but nothing ever came of it. At +the end of the seven years he was as far off it as ever."</p> + +<p>"And what did his friends do to him then," asks Julia, +who is one of those people who always want <i>more</i> than enough.</p> + +<p>"Deponent sayeth not," says Mr. Browne. "Perhaps it +was too dark a tale for publication. I suppose they either +smote him between the joints of his harness till he died, or +else they fell upon him in a body and rent him in pieces."</p> + +<p>"What nonsense you can talk at times," says Mrs. Beaufort, +mindful of his speech of a few moments ago.</p> + +<p>"Not I," says Dicky Browne.</p> + +<p>It is about four o'clock, and already the shadows are lengthening +upon the grass, the soft, cool grass upon which they are +all sitting beneath the shade of the huge chestnut trees, that +fling their branches in all directions, some east, some west, +some heavenwards.</p> + +<p>A little breeze is blowing towards them sweet essences of +pinewood and dark fir. Above in the clear sky the fleecy +clouds assume each moment a new form—a yet more tender +color—now pale blue, now gray, now a soft pink that verges +upon crimson. Down far in the hollows a white mist is floating +away, away, to the ocean, and there, too, can be seen +(playing hide and seek amongst the great trunks of the giant +elms) the flitting forms of the children dancing fantastically +to and fro.</p> + +<p>The scent of dying meadow-sweet is on the air, and the +hush and the calm of evening.</p> + +<p>"Dulce, command us to have tea out here," says Sir Mark, +removing his cigarette from his lips for a moment.</p> + +<p>"Dear Dulce, yes; that will be sweet," says Portia, who is +very silent and very pale and very beautiful to-day.</p> + +<p>"Dicky, go and tell some one to bring tea here directly," +says Dulce; "and say they are to bring peaches for Portia, +because she loves them, and say anything else you like for +yourself."</p> + +<p>"Thanks; <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'Curaçoa'">Curaçao</ins> will do me very nicely," says Dicky, +with all the promptitude that distinguishes him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span></p> + +<p>"And Maraschino," suggests Sir Mark, in the mildest tone.</p> + +<p>"And just a suspicion of brandy," puts in Roger, almost +affectionately. Overpowered by their amiability and their +suggestions, Dicky turns towards the house.</p> + +<p>"I fly," he says. "Think of me till my return."</p> + +<p>"Do tell them to hurry, Dicky," says Dulce, anxiously. +"They are always so slow. And tell them to bring lots of +cake."</p> + +<p>"You shall have it all in a couple of shakes," says Mr. +Browne, encouragingly, if vulgarly.</p> + +<p>"What's that?" asks Dulce, meaning reproof. "It isn't +English, is it? How soon will it be?"</p> + +<p>"Oh—half a jiff," returns he, totally unabashed.</p> + +<p>Presently tea is brought, and they are all happy, notably +Dicky, who walks round and into the cakes with unceasing +fervor.</p> + +<p>"By-the-by, I wonder Stephen hasn't been here to-day," +says Julia, addressing no one in particular.</p> + +<p>"Something better to do, perhaps," says Portia.</p> + +<p>"Yes—where <i>can</i> he be?" says Dulce, waking into sudden +animation. "'Something better to do?' Why, what could +that be?"</p> + +<p>"Writing sonnets to your eyebrow," answers Roger in an +unpleasant tone.</p> + +<p>"How clever you are!" retorts she, in a tone even more unpleasant, +letting her white lids fall until they half-conceal the +scorn in her eyes. <i>Only</i> half!</p> + +<p>"He is such a jail bird—I beg his pardon, a town bird," +says Sir Mark, lazily, "that I didn't think anything could +keep him in the country so long. Yet, he doesn't <i>look</i> bored. +He bears the solitary confinement very well."</p> + +<p>"There is shooting, isn't there?" suggests Portia.</p> + +<p>"Any amount of it," says Dicky; "but that don't solve +the mystery. He couldn't shoot a haystack flying, not if his +life depended on it. It's suicide to go out with him! He'd +as soon shoot you or me as anything else. I always say the +grouse ought to love him; because I don't believe he knows +the barrel of his gun from the stock."</p> + +<p>"How perfectly dreadful!" exclaims Julia, who always +takes everything <i>au grand serieux</i>.</p> + +<p>"There is other game in the country besides grouse," says +Roger, in a peculiar tone.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I dare say he can't bear to leave that dear old house now +he has got into it," says Dulce; "it is so lovely, so quaint, +so—"</p> + +<p>"Now, is it?" asks Dicky Browne, meditatively. "I've +seen nicer, I think. I always feel, when there, as if everything, +ceilings, roof and all were coming down on my unfortunate +head."</p> + +<p>"But it is so old, so picturesque; a perfect dream, <i>I</i> think," +says Dulce, rather affectedly.</p> + +<p>"It isn't half a bad place, but not to be compared to The +Moors, surely," says Sir Mark, gently, looking with some reproof +at Dulce—reproof the spoiled child resents—The +Moors is Roger's home. "I think The Moors one of the +most beautiful places in England."</p> + +<p>"And one of the draughtiest," says Miss Blount, ungraciously. +"I was there once. It was a year ago. It occurred +to me, I remember, that the sun had forgotten it; indeed, I +had but one thought all the time I stayed."</p> + +<p>"And that was?" asks Roger, defiantly.</p> + +<p>"How to get away from it again as soon as possible."</p> + +<p>"I am sorry my old home found such disfavor in your sight," +says Roger, so quietly that remorse wakes within her breast, +bringing with it, however, no good result, rather adding +fuel to the flame that has been burning brightly since breakfast +time. His rebuke is so <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'abominally'">abominably</ins> mild that it brings +Miss Blount to the very verge of open wrath.</p> + +<p>"I think Stephen such a dear fellow," says Julia, at this +critical juncture. "So—er—well read, and that."</p> + +<p>"Yes; though, I think, I have known better," says Sir +Mark, looking at Dulce.</p> + +<p>"Poor Mr. Gower," says that young lady, airily; "everyone +seems determined to decry him. What has he done to +everybody, and why should comparisons be drawn? There +<i>may</i> be better people, and there may be worse; but—I like +him."</p> + +<p>"Lucky he," says Roger, with a faint but distinct sneer, +his temper forsaking him; "I could almost wish that I were +he."</p> + +<p>"I could almost wish it, too," says Dulce, with cruel frankness.</p> + +<p>"Thank you." Roger, by this time, is in a very respectable +passion, though nobody but he and Dulce have heard the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span> +last three sentences. "Perhaps," he says, deliberately, "it +will be my most generous course to resign in favor of—"</p> + +<p>"More tea, Portia?" interrupts Dulce, very quickly, in a +tone that trembles ever so slightly.</p> + +<p>"No, thank you. But, Dulce, I want you near me. Come +and sit here."</p> + +<p>There is anxiety, mixed with entreaty, in her tone. She +has noticed the anger in Roger's face, and the defiance +in Dulce's soft eyes, and she is grieved and sorry for them +both.</p> + +<p>But, Dulce, who is in a very bad mood indeed, will take +no notice of either the entreaty or the grief.</p> + +<p>"How can I?" she says, with a slow lifting of her brows. +"Who will give anybody any tea, if I go away from this? +And—" Here she pauses, and her eyes fix themselves upon a +break in the belt of firs, low down, at the end of the lawn. +"Ah," she says, with a swift blush, "you see I shall be wanted +at my post for a little while longer, because—here is Mr. +Gower, at last!"</p> + +<p>The "at last" is intolerably flattering, though it is a question +if the new comer hears it. He is crossing over the soft +grass; his hat is in his hand; his eyes dark and smiling. He +looks glad, expectant, happy.</p> + +<p>"What <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'superflous'">superfluous</ins> surprise," says Roger to Dulce, with +even a broader sneer than his last. "He always <i>is</i> here, isn't +he!"</p> + +<p>"Yes; isn't it good of him to come," says Miss Blount, +with a suspicious dulness—Stephen has not yet come quite +close to them. "We are always so wretchedly stupid here, +and he is so charming, and so good to look at, and always in +such a perfect temper!" As she finishes her sentence she +turns her large eyes full on her <i>fiancé</i>.</p> + +<p>Roger, muttering something untranslatable between his +teeth, moves away, and then Gower comes up, and Dulce +gives him her hand and her prettiest smile, and presently he +sinks upon the grass at her feet, and lies there in a graceful +position that enables him to gaze without trouble upon her +piquante face. He is undeniably handsome, and is very +clean-limbed, and has something peculiar about his smile +that takes women as a rule.</p> + +<p>"How d'ye do?" he says to Roger presently, when that +young man comes within range, bestowing upon him a little<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span> +nod. Whereon Roger says the same to him in a tone of +the utmost <i>bonhommie</i>, which, if hypocritical, is certainly very +well done, after which conversation once more flows smoothly +onwards.</p> + +<p>"What were you doing all day?" asks Dulce of the knight +at her feet, throwing even kinder feeling than usual into +her tone, as she becomes aware that Roger's eyes are fixed +upon her.</p> + +<p>"Wishing myself here," replies Gower, with a readiness +that bespeaks truth.</p> + +<p>"What a simple thing to say," murmurs Dulce, with a half-smile, +glancing at him from under her long lashes. "But how +difficult to believe. After all," with a wilful touch of coquetry, +"I don't believe you ever do mean anything you say."</p> + +<p>"Don't you," says Gower, with an eagerness that might be +born of either passion or amusement. "You wrong me then. +And some day—some day, perhaps, I shall be able to prove +to you that what I say I mean." Then, probably, the recollection +of many things comes to him, and the quick, warm +light dies out of his eyes, and it is with an utter change of +tone and manner he speaks next.</p> + +<p>"Now, tell me what you were doing all day?" he says, +lightly.</p> + +<p>"Not very much; the hours dragged a little, I think. Just +now, as you came to us, we were discussing—" it is almost +on her lips the word "you," but she suppresses it in time, +and goes on easily—"a dance we must give as soon as +possible."</p> + +<p>"An undertaking down here, I suppose?" says Gower, +doubtfully; "yet a change, after all. And, of course, you +are fond of dancing?" with a passing glance, that is almost +a caress, at her lithe, svelte figure.</p> + +<p>"Yes, very; but I don't care about having a ball here." +She says this with a sigh; then she pauses, and a shade saddens +her face.</p> + +<p>"But why?" asks he, surprised.</p> + +<p>"There are many reasons—many. And you might not +understand," she says, rather confusedly. She turns her face +away from his, and in doing so meets Portia's eyes. She has +evidently been listening to what Dulce has just said, and now +gives back her cousin's gaze as though against her will. After +a moment she slowly averts her face, as if seeking to hide the +pallor that is rendering even her lips white.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Both my evening suits are unwearable," says Dicky +Browne, mournfully. "I shall have to run up to town to get +some fresh things." He says this deprecatingly, as though +utterly assured of the fact that every one will miss him horribly.</p> + +<p>"You won't be long away, Dicky, will you?" says Roger, +tearfully; at which Dulce, forgetful for the instant of the +late feud, laughs aloud.</p> + +<p>"I can't think what's the matter with me," says Dicky, +still mournful; "my clothes don't last any time. A month +seems to put 'em out of shape, and make 'em unwearable."</p> + +<p>"No wonder," says Sir Mark, "when you get them made +by a fellow out of the swim altogether. <i>Where</i> does he live? +Cheapside or Westbourne Grove?"</p> + +<p>"No; the Strand," says Mr. Browne, to whom shame is +unknown, "if you mean Jerry."</p> + +<p>"Dicky employs Jerry because his name is Browne," says +Roger. "He's a hanger-on of the family, and is popularly +supposed to be a poor relation, a sort of country cousin. +Dicky proudly supports him in spite or public opinion. It +is very noble of him."</p> + +<p>"The governor sent me to him when I was a young chap—for +punishment, I think," says Dicky, mildly, "and I don't +like to give him up now. He is such a fetching old thing, +and so conversational, and takes such an interest in my +nether limbs."</p> + +<p>"Who are you talking of in such laudatory terms?" asks +Dulce, curiously, raising her head at this moment.</p> + +<p>"Of Jerry—my tailor," says Dicky, confidentially.</p> + +<p>"Ah! A good man, but—er—tiresome," says Julia, +vaguely, with a cleverly suppressed yawn; she is evidently +under the impression that they are discussing Jeremy Taylor, +<i>not</i> the gentleman in the Strand.</p> + +<p>"<i>Is</i> he good?" asks Dicky, somewhat at sea. "A capital +fellow to make trousers, I know, but for his morality I can't +vouch."</p> + +<p>"I am speaking of the divine, Jeremy Taylor," says Julia, +very justly shocked at what she believes to be levity on the +part of Dicky. "<i>He</i> didn't make trousers, he only made +maxims!"</p> + +<p>"Poor soul!" says Mr. Browne, with heartfelt pity in his +tone, to whom Jeremy Taylor is a revelation, and a sad one. +"Did he die of 'em?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span></p> + +<p>Of this frivolous remark Julia deigns to take no notice. +And, indeed, they are all too accustomed to Mr. Browne's +eccentricities of style to spend time trying to unravel them.</p> + +<p>"You haven't yet explained to me the important business +that kept you at home all day," Dulce is saying to Mr. +Gower. She is leaning slightly forward, and is looking +down into his eyes.</p> + +<p>"Tenants and a steward, and such like abominations," he +says, rather absently. Then, his glance wandering to her +little white, slender fingers, that are idly trifling with her fan, +"By-the-by," he goes on, "the steward—Mayne, you know—can +write with both hands. Odd, isn't it? Just as well +with his left as with his right."</p> + +<p>"A rather useless accomplishment, I should think."</p> + +<p>"I don't know. It occurred to me we should all learn +how to do it, in case we should break our arms, or our legs, +or anything."</p> + +<p>"What on earth would our legs have to do with it," says +Miss Blount, with a gay little laugh, which he echoes.</p> + +<p>"Oh? well, in case we should sprain our right wrists, then. +When Mayne went away I tried if <i>I</i> could make use of my +left hand, and succeeded rather well. Look here, you hold +your hand like this."</p> + +<p>"It sounds difficult," says Dulce, doubtfully.</p> + +<p>"It isn't though, really. Will you try?" Taking a pencil +and an envelope from his pocket, he lays the latter on her +knee, and hands her the former. "Now let me hold your +hand just at first to guide you, and you will soon see how simple +it is. Only practice is required."</p> + +<p>"It will take a good deal of practice and a good deal of +guidance, I shouldn't wonder," says Miss Blount, smiling.</p> + +<p>"That will be my gain," returns he in a low tone. As he +speaks he lays his hand on hers, and directs the pencil; so +the lesson begins; and so it continues uninterrupted for +several minutes; Dulce is getting on quite smoothly; Mr. +Gower is plainly interested in a very high degree, when Roger, +coming up to them, lays his hand lightly upon Dulce's +shoulder. He is still passionately angry, and almost unable +to control himself. To see Dulce's fingers clasped by those +of Gower, however innocently, has fired his wrath, and +driven him to open expression of his displeasure.</p> + +<p>"If you have forgotten how to write, Dulce," he says in a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span> +low, strained voice, "I daresay it will be possible to find a +master to re-instruct you. In the meantime, why trouble +Gower?"</p> + +<p>"Does it trouble you, Mr. Gower?" asks she, sweetly, +looking straight at Stephen and ignoring Roger.</p> + +<p>"Need I answer that?" responds he, flushing warmly, and +in his turn ignoring Dare.</p> + +<p>"Then you need not worry yourself to get me a master, +Roger," says Dulce, still quite sweetly. "It is very good of +you to wish to take such trouble about me, but you see I +have got one already."</p> + +<p>"Not a master—a slave!" says Gower, impulsively. +There's such evident and earnest meaning in his tone that +she colors violently, and, with a rather open manifestation of +shrinking, withdraws her hand from his clasp; the pencil +falls to the ground, but Roger has turned aside, and this last +act on her part is unseen by him.</p> + +<p>"Is anything the matter with Roger?" says Gower, slowly.</p> + +<p>"What should be the matter with him?" asks she, coldly.</p> + +<p>"Do you remember what we were reading yesterday? Do +you remember even one particular line? It comes to me +now. 'So loving jealous.' You recollect?"</p> + +<p>"No; and even if I did, what has it to do with Roger?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing—<i>perhaps</i>." There is a small fine smile around +his lips that incenses her, she scarcely knows why.</p> + +<p>"Then what does your quotation mean?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing, too, no doubt. Shall we go on with our +lesson?"</p> + +<p>"No, I am tired of it," she says, petulantly. "I like +nothing, I think, for very long." She has grown somewhat +restless, and her eyes are wistful. They are following Roger, +who has thrown himself at Portia's feet.</p> + +<p>"Are your friendships, too, short-lived?" asks Gower, biting +his lips. You can see that he is lounging on the grass, and at +this moment, having raised his hand, it falls again, by chance +upon her instep.</p> + +<p>Remorse and regret have been companions of her bosom +for the past minute, now they quicken into extreme anger. +Pushing back the garden chair on which she has been sitting, +she stands up and confronts the stricken Gower with indignant +eyes.</p> + +<p>"Don't do that again," she says, with trembling lips. Her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span> +whole attitude—voice and expression—are undeniably childish, +yet she frightens Gower nearly out of his wits.</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon," he stammers, eagerly, growing quite +white. "I must <i>insist</i> on your understanding I did not mean +it. How could you think it? I—"</p> + +<p>At this instant Roger laughs. The laugh comes to Dulce +as she stands before Gower grieved and angry and repentant, +and her whole face changes. The grief and the repentance +vanish, the very anger fades into weariness.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I believe you—I was foolish—it doesn't matter," she +says, heavily; and then she sinks into her seat again, and +taking a small volume of selected poetry from a rustic table +at her elbow, throws it into his lap.</p> + +<p>"Read me something," she says, gently.</p> + +<p>"What shall I select?" asks Stephen, puzzled by the sudden +change in her manner, but anxious to please her.</p> + +<p>"Anything. It hardly matters; they are all pretty," she +says, disconnectedly, and so indifferently that he is fairly +piqued; his reading being one of his strongest points; and +taking up the book, he opens it at random, and begins to +read in a low, sweet, rhyming voice that certainly carries its +own charm.</p> + +<p>Dulce, in spite of herself, is by degrees drawn to listen to +it; yet though the words so softly spoken attract her and +chain her attention, there is always a line of discontent +around her lovely mouth, and a certain angry petulance +within her eyes, and in the gesture with which she furls and +unfurls her huge black fan.</p> + +<p>Dicky Browne, who has confiscated all the cake, and is +therefore free to go where he lists, has drawn near to her, and, +under cover of a cigarette, is pretending to be absorbed in +the poetry. Gower has fallen now upon Gray's Elegy in a +Churchyard, and is getting through it most effectively. All +the others have grown silent, either touched by the beauty of +the dying daylight, or the tender lines that are falling on the +air. When at length Stephen finishes the poem, and his +voice ceases to break the stillness of the coming eve, no one +stirs, and an utter calm ensues. It is broken by the irrepressible +Julia.</p> + +<p>"What a charming thing that is," she says, alluding, they +presume, to the Elegy. She pauses here, but no one takes +her up or seems to care to continue the praise of what is +almost beyond it. But Julia is not easily discouraged.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span></p> + +<p>"One can almost see the gaunt trees," she says, sentimentally, +"and the ivied walls of the old church, and the +meadows beyond, and the tinkling of the tiny bells, and the +soft white sheep as they move perpetually onward in the far, +far distance."</p> + +<p>She sighs, as though overcome by the perfect picture she +has so kindly drawn for their benefit.</p> + +<p>"I wish to goodness she would move on herself," says +Dicky Browne. "It is enough to make poor Gray turn in +his grave."</p> + +<p>"I think she describes rather prettily, and quite as if she +meant it," says Portia, softly.</p> + +<p>"Not a bit of it," growls Dicky; "she <i>don't</i> mean it; she +couldn't; It's all put on—regular plaster! She doesn't feel +it; she knows as much about poetry as I do."</p> + +<p>"You underrate yourself, my darling boy," says Roger, +fondly.</p> + +<p>"Oh! you get out," says Mr. Brown, most ungratefully.</p> + +<p>"I think to be able to read <i>really</i> well is an intense +charm," goes on Julia, glancing sweetly at Stephen. "If one +had only some one to give one a kindly hint now and then +about the correct intonation and emphasis and that, it would +be a regular study, of course. I really have half a mind to +go in for it."</p> + +<p>"So glad she has at last arrived at a just appreciation of +her own powers," says Dicky, <i>sotto voce</i>. "I should think she +has just half a mind and no more, to do anything with."</p> + +<p>He is hushed up; and then Stephen goes on again, choosing +passages from Shakespeare this time, for a change, while +silence once more reigns.</p> + +<p>Roger is looking sulky and unkindly critical. Sir Mark +has been guilty of a small yawn or two. Julia, in spite of +the most heroic efforts to the contrary, is openly and disgracefully +sleepy. Portia's eyes are full of tears. Dicky +Browne, who is tired of not hearing his own voice, and +whose only belief in the divine William is that he gave him +"a jolly lot of trouble in his schooldays," is aweary, and is +only waiting an opportunity to cut in and make himself +heard, in spite of all opposition.</p> + +<p>It comes—the opportunity—and Dicky seizes it. Mr. +Gower is at his very best. He has thrown his whole soul into +his voice, and is even himself wrapt up in the piece he has +before him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span></p> + +<p>"'Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,'" his voice +rings out clear and full of melancholy prophecy; it is a voice +that should have impressed any right-minded individual, but +Dicky's mind is below par.</p> + +<p>"I should think he'd lie considerably more uneasy without +it," he says, cheerfully. "He'd feel like being scalped, +wouldn't he? And get dreaming about Comanches and +tomahawks and Fenimore Cooper, eh?"</p> + +<p>For once Dicky scores. The men have grown tired of Mr. +Gower's performance, and hail the interruption with delight. +Roger turns on his side, and laughs aloud. This attention, +so unprecedented on his part, fills Dicky's soul with rapture. +He instantly bestows upon his supporter a smile rich with +gratitude; yet perhaps it is not Mr. Browne's wit alone that +has called forth such open manifestation of mirth from Roger. +There is, I think, just the faintest touch of malice in his merriment.</p> + +<p>And then the faithless Dulce laughs too; the most musical, +ringing little laugh in the world, but none the less galling +for all its sweetness. It is the last straw. Mr. Gower, suppressing +a very natural inclination, lays the book down gently +on the grass beside him (he would have given anything to be +able to fling it far from him), and makes some casual remark +about the excessive beauty of the evening.</p> + +<p>And, indeed, it is beautiful; all down the Western slope of +the fir-crowned hill, the fading rays of light still wander, +though even now in the clear heavens the evening star has +risen, and is shining calm and clear as a soul entered on its +eternal rest.</p> + +<p>"Will you not read us something else?" says Dulce, feeling +a little ashamed of herself.</p> + +<p>"Some other time," returns he.</p> + +<p>"Dicky rather took the sentiment out of it," says Roger, +still maliciously mirthful. "I hardly think he and the Swan +of Avon would be congenial souls."</p> + +<p>"Well, I don't know," says Sir Mark, lazily. "We have +been taught that extremes meet, you see."</p> + +<p>"Dicky, how can you stand their impertinence?" asks +Dulce, gaily. "Assert yourself, I entreat you."</p> + +<p>"There is such a thing as silent contempt," says Mr. +Browne, untouched by their darts. "There is also a passage +somewhere that alludes to an 'unlettered small-knowing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span> +soul;' I do not desire to quote it in this company. Let us +return to the immortal Bill."</p> + +<p>But they are all laughing still, and in the face of laughter, +it is difficult to get back to tragedy. And so no one encourages +Gower to continue his work, and this, in despite of the +fact that the light growing as it is toward the gloaming, +seems in keeping with dismal tales and softly-mouthed +miseries.</p> + +<p>Every moment the evening star grows brighter, gaining +glory as the day declines. The mist has died away into the +ocean, the breeze has sunk to slumber, only the song of many +birds hymning themselves to roost amongst the quiet thickets +disturbs the tranquility of the air.</p> + +<p>Dead leaves that speak of Autumn and coming dissolution +float toward the loiterers on the lawn, and, sinking at their +feet, preach to them a lesson of the life that lasts not, and +of that other life that in all its splendor may yet dawn upon +them.</p> + +<p>A soft and sullen roar from the ocean makes the silence +felt. The sea, clothed round with raiment of white waves, +and rich with sparkling life, dashing itself along the beach, +breathes a monotonous murmur that wafts itself inland and +falls with vague music upon the listening ear. Thoughts +arise within the breast, born of the sweet solemnity of the +hour, and the sadness that belongs to all life—but in this +changeable world nothing lasts, and presently seeing something +in the lawn below that puzzles her sight, Julia says, +quickly: "What are the moving forms I see down there?"</p> + +<p>"Only the children undulating," says Mr. Browne, +promptly.</p> + +<p>"What?" says Sir Mark.</p> + +<p>"I have said!" returns Dicky.</p> + +<p>"There is surely something besides children," says Portia, +trying to pierce the gathering darkness. "See, what is that +coming towards us now?"</p> + +<p>They all peer eagerly in the direction of the firs, from between +which a flying mass may be seen emerging, and approaching +rapidly to where they are all seated.</p> + +<p>"It is only Jacky on his fact," says Mr. Browne, at length +after a careful examination of this moving form.</p> + +<p>"On what?" asks Roger, curiously.</p> + +<p>"His fact," repeats Dicky, unmoved.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span></p> + +<p>"What's that?" asks Jacky's mamma, somewhat anxiously—if +a careless, it must be to her credit said, that Julia is +a very kindly mother, and is now rather upset by Mr. +Browne's mysterious declaration.</p> + +<p>"You ought to know; you gave it to him," declares he. +"He's sitting on it anyhow."</p> + +<p>"Really, Dicky, we must ask you to explain yourself," +says Sir Mark, with dignity.</p> + +<p>"Why, it's only a donkey," says Dulce, "and Jacky is riding +him."</p> + +<p>"Just so," says Mr. Browne, equably; "and a very large +donkey, too; I always call them facts because they are stubborn +things. At least, that one is, because I rode it yesterday—at +least I tried to—and it behaved very ill indeed. +It's—it's a very nasty animal, and painfully unamiable."</p> + +<p>"What did it do to you?" asks Julia, who is again in +secret fear about her first born, who every moment draws +more near.</p> + +<p>"Well, I got on him, incited thereto by Jacky and the +Boodie, and when I had beaten him unceasingly for a full +quarter of an hour, in the vain hope of persuading him to +undertake even a gentle walk, he turned treacherously to the +right, and squeezed my best leg against the garden wall. I +bore it heroically, because I knew the Boodie was regarding +me sternly, but I could have wept bitterly; I don't know if +all walls are the same, but the <i>garden</i> wall hurts very much."</p> + +<p>"I wonder where Dicky gets all his stories," says Dulce, +admiringly.</p> + +<p>"He evolves them out of his inner consciousness," replies +Sir Mark.</p> + +<p>Meantime, Jacky draws nearer and nearer. He advances +on the donkey—and on them, at a furious pace. Surely, never +was a lazy ass so ridden before! Perhaps those watching him are +under the impression that when closer to them he will guide +his steed to their right or to their left, or at least steer clear +of them in some way, but if so they are mistaken.</p> + +<p>Jacky is in his element. He gallops wildly up to them, +with arms and legs flying north and south, and his cap many +miles behind. That hidden sense that tells the young and +artless one that the real meaning of all fun is to take some one +by surprise and frighten the life out of him, is full upon him +now.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Out of my way," he shrieks, in frenzied accents almost, +as he bears down upon them. "Out of my way, I say, or +he'll kill you; I can't pull him in. He is running away with +me!"</p> + +<p>With this the wily young hypocrite gives the donkey a +final kick with his right heel, and dashes ungallantly into +the very midst of them.</p> + +<p>The confusion that follows is all his heart can desire. +Great indeed is the rout. Camp chairs are scattered broadcast; +shawls strew the lawn; Julia flies to the right, Dulce +to the left; Portia instinctively finds refuge behind Dicky +Browne, who shows great gallantry on this memorable occasion, +and devotes himself to the service of the frail and +weak. Indeed, it is on record, that, in the height of his zeal, +he encircled Portia's waist with his arm, and cried aloud to +the foe to "come on," as he waited for victory or death.</p> + +<p>Jacky flies past, and is presently seen urging on his wild +career in the little glade that leads to the wood. Once more +they breathe, and order is restored, to Gower's deep regret, +as he has managed, in the <i>melee</i>, to seize hold of Dulce's +hand, and in an abstracted fashion has held it ever since.</p> + +<p>"That boy deserves a sound whipping," says Sir Mark, +indignantly, who is, nevertheless, a sworn friend of the graceless +Jacky.</p> + +<p>"You hear, Julia; you are to whip him at once?" says +Roger.</p> + +<p>"Whip him!" says Mrs. Beaufort, resentfully. "Indeed I +shall not. I never whipped one of them in my life, and I +never shall."</p> + +<p>"You'd be afraid," says Dicky Browne. "You should see +Julia when the Boodie attacks her; she literally goes into +her boots, and stays there. It is, indeed, a pitiable exhibition. +By-the-by, does anybody want dinner; because, if so, he +may as well go and dress. It is quite half-past six."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> + +<div class='poem'> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">"A vague unrest</span><br /> +And a nameless longing filled her breast."<br /> +</div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Time</span>, as a rushing wind, slips by, and brings us Dulce's +ball. The night is lovely and balmy as any evening in the +Summer months gone by, though now September shakes the +leaves to their fall. A little breeze sweeps up from the +ocean, where the "lights around the shore" show mystical +and bright; while overhead, all down the steeps of heaven, +myriad stars are set, to flood the sleeping world with their +cold, clear beauty.</p> + +<p>Upon the walls, and all along the balconies, lie patches of +broken moonshine; and in the garden the pale beams revel +and kiss the buds until they wake; and "all flowers that blow +by day come forth, as t'were high noon."</p> + +<p>In the library the lamps are lowered. Nobody has come +down-stairs yet, and the footman, giving the last lingering +touch to the little sweet gossiping fire that warns them of +Winter's approach, turns to leave the room. On the threshold, +however, he stands aside to let Miss Vibart enter.</p> + +<p>She is dressed in a white satin gown, creamy in shade, and +rather severe in its folds. Some pale water-lilies lie upon it, +as though cast there by some lucky chance, and cling to it +lovingly, as if glad to have found so soft a resting place. +There is no flower in her hair, and no jewels anywhere, except +three rows of priceless pearls, that clasp her slender +throat. Throwing her gloves and fan upon the centre table, +she walks slowly to a mirror, and examines herself somewhat +critically.</p> + +<p>As if ungratefully dissatisfied with the lovely vision it presents +to her, she turns away again, with an impatient sigh, +and trifles absently with a paper knife near her. There is a +discontented line about her mouth, a wistful, restless expression +in her eyes. She moves slowly, too, as if gladness is far +from her, and shows, in every glance and movement, a +strange amount of languor.</p> + +<p>As though her thoughts compel her to action, she walks +aimlessly from place to place; and now, as if she is listening +for something to come; and now, as if she is trying to make<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span> +up her mind to take some step from which she shrinks in +secret.</p> + +<p>At last, drawing her breath with a sudden quickness, born +of determination, she opens a drawer in a cabinet, and, taking +from it a little volume in the Tauchnitz binding, she opens +the library door, and, turning to the right, walks swiftly down +the corridor.</p> + +<p>From out the shadow a figure advances toward her, a +figure bent and uncomely, that tries in vain to avoid the +meeting with her, and to get out of sight before recognition +sets in.</p> + +<p>It is the old man Slyme. As she sees him there returns to +Portia the memory of many other times when she has met +him here in this corridor, with apparently no meaning for +his presence. Some unaccountable and utterly vague feeling +of dislike for this man has been hers ever since she first +saw him. He is repugnant to her in a remarkable degree, +considering how little he has to do with her life in any way.</p> + +<p>"He seems to haunt this part of the house," she says to herself +now, uncomfortably. "If I were Fabian I should hate +to know there was a chance of meeting him every time I +opened my door. Has he, perhaps, a passion for Fabian—or—"</p> + +<p>Instinctively she throws an additional touch of hauteur +into her shapely head, and without deigning to notice the +old man, sweeps by him, her glimmering white skirts making +a gentle <i>frou-frou</i> as she goes.</p> + +<p>When she has passed, the secretary raises his eyes and +watches her departing form, furtively. There is great cunning +mixed with malignity and resentment in his glance. He +mutters something inaudible, that carries no blessing in its +tone, but yet, as though fascinated by her beauty, he stands +still and follows each step she takes upon the polished oaken +flooring.</p> + +<p>As she stops at a particular door, his whole face changes, +and satisfied malice takes the place of resentment.</p> + +<p>"Even such pride can stoop," he mutters, with a half-drunken +chuckle. "And it is I, my fine lady—who can +scarce breathe when I am by—that have power to ring your +proud heart."</p> + +<p>He turns, and shambles onwards towards his own den.</p> + +<p>Portia's steps have grown slower as she gets nearer to the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span> +door before which Slyme has seen her stop. Her eyes have +sought the ground; all along the floor her image may be +seen, lengthened, but clear; almost with every step she +seems to tread upon herself. As she reaches the door she +hesitates, and then lifts her hand as if with the intention +of knocking. But again she pauses, and her hand drops to +her side. As if more nervous than she cares to own, she +leans against the lintel of the door, as one might, desirous of +support.</p> + +<p>Then the weakness vanishes; fastening her teeth upon her +under lip, she rouses herself, and tapping gently but distinctly +upon one of the panels, awaits an answer.</p> + +<p>Presently she gets it. "Come in," says Fabian's voice, +clear, indifferent; and slowly turning the handle she enters +the room.</p> + +<p>The lamps are alight; a fire is burning in the grate. At +the upper table of this room, that is his study, his very <i>sanctum +sanctorum</i>, Fabian is sitting with some papers and books +before him.</p> + +<p>At first, being unconscious of who his visitor is, he does not +lift his head, but now, seeing her, he rises quickly to his feet, +and says,</p> + +<p>"You!" in accents of the most acute surprise.</p> + +<p>She is standing barely inside the door with the little volume +pressed closely, almost convulsively, between her fingers, +and for a moment makes him no reply. It is the first time +they have ever been alone since that day when he had injured +his arm through the running away of Sir Christopher's +mare.</p> + +<p>Now, his face, his tone, is so unfriendly that a great fear +falls upon her. Is he very angry with her still? Has she +sinned past forgiveness? Will he, perhaps, order her to leave +the room? She tries to rally her power of resistance against +what fate—relentless, implacable—is preparing for her; but +in vain. A terrible fear of him (the man regarding her with +such stern eyes) and of herself crushes her. Her heart dies +within her; what evil has fallen upon her days, that <i>once</i> +were happy? and yet—and yet—of what—what exquisite +sweetness is this evil formed!</p> + +<p>She flushes, first painfully; and then the flush fades, and +pallor holds full sway.</p> + +<p>"I can do something for you?" asks Fabian, not advancing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span> +toward her, not letting even one kindly accent warm +his frozen tone, and this when the silence has grown positively +unbearable.</p> + +<p>"Thank you—no." Her little cold hands are nervously +twined around the book she holds. Speech has cruelly +deserted her; a sob has risen in her throat, and she is battling +with it so fiercely, that for a moment she can say +nothing. Then she conquers, and almost piteously she lays +the book upon the very edge of the table nearest her, and +says with difficulty:</p> + +<p>"I brought you this. At breakfast this morning you said +you had not read it; and to-night I knew you would be +alone, and I thought—it is 'The Europeans'—it might help +you to while away an hour."</p> + +<p>Her voice dies away and again silence follows it. She is +really frightened now. She has met many men, has been +the acknowledged beauty of a London season, has had +great homage laid at her feet; but no man has had power to +make her heart waken, until she met this man, upon whom +disgrace lies heavy. It is <i>Kismet!</i> She feels cold now, and +miserable, and humbled before him who should surely be +humbled before her. What has she meant by coming to his +room without so much as an invitation; to him—who in her +sight is guilty, indeed, of an offense not to be forgiven in the +world.</p> + +<p>She grows tired and very weary, and the old pain at her +heart, that always comes to her when she is miserable or perplexed, +is tormenting her now, making her feel sick of life +and dispirited.</p> + +<p>"It was kind of you to think of me," says Fabian, coldly; +"<i>too</i> kind. But there are some matters of importance I must +get through to-night, and I fear I shall not have time for +fiction."</p> + +<p>She takes up the book again, the little instrument that betrays +his determination to accept no benefits at her hands, +and moves toward the door.</p> + +<p>Coming quickly up to her, that he may open the door, he +stands between her and it, and stops her.</p> + +<p>"As you are here," he says, "let me look at you. Remember, +I have never seen you dressed for a ball before."</p> + +<p>As if astonished at his request, she stands quite still, and, +letting her round, bare arms hang loosely before her, with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span> +her hands clasped, she lets him gaze at her sweet fairness in +utter silence. It takes him some time. Then—</p> + +<p>"You are very pale," he says—no more. Not a word of +praise escapes him. She is woman enough to feel chagrin at +this, and discontent. Has her glass lied to her, then? One +small word of approbation, even about her gown, would have +been sweet to her at this moment. <i>Is</i> she so very pale? Is +it that this white gown does not become her? A quick dislike +to the beautiful robe—and only an hour ago she had regarded +it with positive affection—now takes possession of +her.</p> + +<p>"I am always pale," she says, with subdued resentment.</p> + +<p>"Not always. To-night one hardly knows where your +<i>dress</i> ends, and where <i>you</i> begin." She has hardly time to +wonder if this is a compliment or the other thing, when he +goes on again: "I don't think I ever saw you in white +before?" he says.</p> + +<p>"No; and it is probable you will never see me in it again," +she says, petulantly. "I dislike it. It is cold and unbecoming, +I think."</p> + +<p>"No, not unbecoming."</p> + +<p>"Well," she says, impatiently, "not becoming, at least."</p> + +<p>"That, of course, is quite a matter of taste," he says, indifferently.</p> + +<p>She laughs unpleasantly. To <i>make</i> him give a decided +opinion upon her appearance has now grown to be a settled +purpose with her. She moves her foot impatiently upon the +ground, then, suddenly, she lifts her eyes to his—the large, +sweet, wistful eyes he has learned to know so well, and that +now are quick with defiance—and says, obstinately:</p> + +<p>"Do <i>you</i> think it suits me?"</p> + +<p>He pauses. And then a peculiar smile that, somehow, +angers her excessively, grows round his lips and lingers there.</p> + +<p>"Yes," he answers, slowly; "you are looking admirably—you +are looking all you can possibly desire to-night."</p> + +<p>She is deeply angered. She turns abruptly aside, and, +passing him, goes quickly to the door.</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon," he says, hastily, following her, with +a really contrite expression on his face. "Of course I know +you did not want me to say that—yet—what was it you did +want me to say? You challenged me, you know."</p> + +<p>"I am keeping you from your work," says Portia, quietly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span> +"Go back to it. I know I should not have come here to +disturb you, and—"</p> + +<p>"Do not say that," he interrupts her, eagerly. "I deserve +it, I know, but <i>do not</i>. I have lost all interest in my work. +I cannot return to it to-night. And that book you brought, +let me have it now, will you? I shall be glad of it by-and-by."</p> + +<p>Before she can refuse, a sound of footsteps without makes +itself heard; there is a tinkling, as of many bangles, and +then the door is thrown wide, and Dulce enters.</p> + +<p>She is looking very pretty in a gown of palest azure. There +is a brightness, a joyousness, about her that must attract and +please the eye; she is, indeed,</p> + +<div class='poem'> +"One not tired with life's long day, but glad<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">I' the freshness of its morning."</span><br /> +</div> + +<p>"I have come to say good-night to you, Fabian," she says, +regarding her brother with loving, wistful eyes. "I suppose +I shan't be able to see you again until to-morrow. Promise +me you will go to bed, and to sleep, <i>soon</i>."</p> + +<p>"That is the very simplest promise one can give," returns +he, mockingly. "Why should not one sleep?" Then, +seeing the extreme sadness that has settled on her <i>mignonne</i> +face, that should, by right, only be glad with smiles, goes on +more gently: "Be happy; I shall do all you ask me."</p> + +<p>"Ah, Portia, you here, too," says Dulce, smiling gratefully +at her. "How sweet you are looking to-night—and +your gown—how perfect. Isn't it lovely, Fabian?"</p> + +<p>"Quite lovely," slowly.</p> + +<p>"And she herself, too," goes on Dulce, enthusiastically, +"isn't <i>she</i> lovely, as well?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," says Fabian, still more slowly.</p> + +<p>"She is like a dream of snow, or purity—or something," +says Dulce, vaguely, but admiringly.</p> + +<p>"Or ice?" says Fabian.</p> + +<p>"Oh, <i>no</i>, not <i>ice</i>. It is too hard, too unsympathetic, too +cold."</p> + +<p>"They are both cold, are they not?" says Portia, with a +very faint smile. "Both ice and snow."</p> + +<p>"Dulce, Dulce!" calls somebody, from without.</p> + +<p>"Now, who <i>is</i> that," says Miss Blount, irritably. "Roger, +of <i>course</i>. I really never am allowed one moment to myself<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span> +when he is in the house. He spends his entire time, first +calling me, and then quarreling with me when he finds me. +He does it on purpose, I think. He can't bear me to have +even one peaceful or happy instant. I never met any one so +utterly provoking as Roger."</p> + +<p>She runs to him, nevertheless, and Portia moves as if to +follow her.</p> + +<p>"Don't leave me in anger," entreats Fabian, in some agitation, +detaining her by a gesture full of entreaty. "Do anything +but that. Think of the long hours I shall have to put +in here, by myself, with nothing but my own thoughts; and +say something kind to me before you go."</p> + +<p>"You forget," she says, with slow reproach, her eyes on +the ground. "How can you hope for anything—even one +word—sympathetic from <i>ice</i>. Let me go to Dulce."</p> + +<p>"You <i>shall</i> not leave me like this," dictates he, desperately, +shutting the door with sudden passion, and deliberately +placing his back against it. "Am I not sufficiently unhappy +that you should seek to make me even more so; to add, indeed, +a very crown to my misery. I will not face the long +night alone with this fresh grief! The remembrance of your +face as it now looks at me, of your eyes, so calm, so unforgiving, +would fill the weary hours with madness. <i>You</i> don't +know what it is to endure the pangs of Tantalus, to have a +perpetual hunger at your heart that can never be satisfied. +<i>I</i> do. I have suffered enough. You must be friends with +me before you go."</p> + +<p>"I came to make friends with you. I wanted to be friends +with you, and—"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I know. I received you ungraciously; I grant it; +but was there nothing for <i>me</i> to forgive? And even if I was +unpardonably ungrateful for your kindness, is that so heavy +a crime that I should be punished for it with what is worse +than death? Portia, I entreat you, once again, put your +hand in mine before you leave me."</p> + +<p>He is very pale, and there is a very agony of expectation +in his dark eyes. But yet she stands irresolute, not seeing +his agony, because her head is bent, with her fair arms still +hanging before her, with her fingers closely intertwined.</p> + +<p>He can look unrebuked upon her beauty, upon the rounded +whiteness of her arms, upon the tumultuous rise and fall of +her bosom, upon the little shapely, perfect head, that might +well have graced a throne.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span></p> + +<p>Each rich charm in her lovely downcast face is clear to +him; a great yearning takes possession of his breast, an unconquerable +desire to tell her all he feels for her. There +have been moments when he has thought he <i>must</i> fall at her +feet, and laying hold of the hem of her garment, cry aloud +to her from out his heart's wild longing, "I have gone mad! +I love you! Let me die!"</p> + +<p>This is such a moment. Oh! to be able to take her in his +arms for even one brief instant, and hold her close to his +breaking heart—this silent girl, with her pride, and her +beauty, and her cruel tenderness.</p> + +<p>He sighs heavily, and turns his head away. Still no word +escapes her. She might almost be cut in marble, so quiet, +so motionless she stands. Is she indifferent to his pain; or +careless of it—or ignorant?</p> + +<p>"Go, then," he says, without looking at her, in a voice +from which all warmth and feeling of any sort, be it anger +or regret, has flown. "There is no reason at all why you +should waste even one kind word or touch upon me. I was +mad to ask it."</p> + +<p>At this, life returns to her. Her lips quiver; she lifts her +eyes to his, and such is the force of her regard that he is constrained, +sorely against his will, to return it. Then he can +see her eyes are full of tears—great liquid loving drops that +tremble to their fall; and even as he watches them, in +painful wonder, they part from her lids and run all down her +pale but rounded checks.</p> + +<p>She holds out to him, not one, but <i>two</i> hands. His whole +face changes; a gladness, that has in it something of heaven, +fills his eyes.</p> + +<p>Taking the little trembling hands softly in his own, he lays +them on his beating heart.</p> + +<p>For a moment only, then he lets them fall; and then, before +this divine joy has quite left him, he finds himself, once +more alone.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"What sudden anger's this? How have I reaped it? He parted frowning from +me, as if ruin leaped from his eyes."—<span class="smcap">Shakespeare.</span></p></div> + + +<p>The night wears on. By this time everybody is either +pleased or disappointed with the evening. For the most +part, of course, they looked pleased, because frowns are unbecoming; +but, then, looks go for so little.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span></p> + +<p>Julia, who has impounded a middle-aged baronet, is radiant. +The middle-aged baronet is not! He evidently regards +Julia as a sort of modern albatross, that hangs heavily +to his neck, and withers beneath her touch. She has been +telling him all about her early life in India, and her troubles, +and the way she suffered with her servants, and various other +private matters; and the poor baronet doesn't seem to see +it, and is very fatigued indeed. But Julia has him fast, +and so there is little hope for him.</p> + +<p>Dulce and Roger have been at open war ever since the +second dance. From their eyes, when directed at each other, +have darted forked lightning since that fatal dance.</p> + +<p>"If they could only have been kept apart for 'this night +only,'" says Sir <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'Ma k'">Mark</ins>, in despair, "all might have been well; +but the gods ordained otherwise."</p> + +<p>Perhaps the careless gods had Stephen Gower's case in consideration; +at all events, that calm young man, profiting by +the dispute between the betrothed pair, has been making decided, +if smothered, love to Dulce, all the evening.</p> + +<p>By this time, indeed, the whole room has noticed his infatuation, +and covert remarks about the probability of her +carrying on to a successful finish her first engagement are +whispered here and there.</p> + +<p>Sir Christopher is looking grave and anxious. Some kind +friend has been making him as uncomfortable about Dulce's +future as circumstances will permit.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, Dulce herself, with a bright flush upon her +cheeks and a light born of defiance in her blue-green eyes, is +dancing gaily with Stephen, and is looking charming enough +to draw all eyes upon her.</p> + +<p>Dicky Browne, of course, is in his element. He is dancing +with everybody, talking to everybody, flirting with everybody, +and is, as he himself declares, "as jolly as a sand boy." +He is making love indiscriminately all round—with old maids +and young—married and single—with the most touching impartiality.</p> + +<p>"Dicky is like the bee amongst the flowerets. By Jove, if +he improves the shining hours, he ought to make a good +match yet," says Dicky's papa, who has condescended to +forsake his club for one night, and grace Dulce's ball with +his somewhat attenuated charms.</p> + +<p>As the above speech will prove, Mr. Browne senior's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span> +knowledge of Watts and Tommy Moore is limited and decidedly +mixed.</p> + +<p>Among all the fair women assembled at the Hall to-night, +to Portia, beyond dispute, must the golden apple be awarded. +She is still pale, but exceedingly beautiful. The wistful, +tired expression that darkens her eyes only serves to heighten +her loveliness, and throw out the delicate tinting of her fair +skin. Dulce, noticing her extreme pallor, goes up to her, +and whispers gently:</p> + +<p>"You are tired, darling. Do not dance any more, unless +you wish it."</p> + +<p>"I am not sure, I <i>don't</i> wish it; I don't exactly know what +it is I <i>do</i> wish," says Portia, with a rather broken smile. "I +daresay, like most other things in this life, I shall find out all +about it when it is too late. But finish your waltz, dearest, +and don't puzzle your brain about me."</p> + +<p>All the windows are thrown wide open. Outside the +heavens are alight with stars. The air is heavy with the +breath of dying flowers, and the music—faint and low at +times, and again wild and sweet—rises and swells as the +director waves to and fro his magic wand.</p> + +<p>Inside, in the conservatories, the lamps are burning low; +the tender blossoms are hanging down their heads. Between +the dark green branches of the shrubs, lights blue and red +and yellow gleam softly. In the distance may be heard the +plaintive drip-drip of many fountains.</p> + +<p>Roger, passing through one of the halls, and seeing Dulce +and Mr. Gower standing before a huge Chelsea bowl of flowers, +stops short, hesitates, and then, <i>bon gre mal gre</i>, goes up +to them and makes some trivial remark that neither deserves +an answer nor gets one.</p> + +<p>Dulce is apparently wrapped up in the contemplation of a +flower she has taken from the old bowl—that looks something +like an indoor Marguerite; she is plucking it slowly to pieces, +and as she so mutilates it, whispers softly the incantation that +will help to declare her fortune:</p> + +<p>"Il m'aime—un peu—beaucoup—passionément—pas du +tout. Il m'aime—un peu—"</p> + +<p>The petals are all gone; nothing remains but the very +heart of the poor flower, which now, as she breaks it mercilessly +in two, flutters sadly to her feet, and dies there.</p> + +<p>"Yes—just so," she says, with a little hostile glance at<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span> +Roger, distinctly seen by Gower—"and such a very little, +that it need hardly count!"</p> + +<p>"What an unsatisfactory lover," says Roger, rather satirically, +returning her glance with interest. "Of whom were +you thinking?"</p> + +<p>"My dear Roger, you forget," says Miss Blount, with admirable +promptitude; "how could I think of any one in that +light! I have never had a lover in my life. I have only had—<i>you!</i>" +She says this slowly, and lets her lids fall half over +her eyes, that are now gleaming with undue brilliancy.</p> + +<p>"True!" replies Dare, with maddening concurrence, stroking +his mustache softly.</p> + +<p>"<i>Isn't</i> Roger charming," says Dulce (her own manner +deeply aggravating in its turn), tapping Gower's arm lightly +and confidentially with her fan; "<i>so</i> honest and withal <i>so</i> gracious."</p> + +<p>"A compliment from you is, indeed, worth having," says +Roger, who is in a dreadful temper; "but a truce to them +now. By-the-by, were you really thinking of me just now +when you plucked that unoffending flower to pieces? I can +hardly bring myself to believe it."</p> + +<p>"If not of you, of whom should I be thinking?" retorts +she, calmly but defiantly.</p> + +<p>"Well—Gower, for example," says Roger, with a sneering +laugh, and unpardonable bad taste. "<i>He</i> looks as though +he could do a lover's part at a moment's notice, and without +the slightest effort."</p> + +<p>As he makes this objectionable little speech, he turns on +his heel and leaves them.</p> + +<p>Dulce, crimson, and with her breath coming somewhat +quickly, still lets her eyes meet Gower's bravely.</p> + +<p>"I must ask you to excuse my cousin," she says, quietly. +"How warm the rooms are; is there no air anywhere, I +wonder?"</p> + +<p>"On the balcony there is," says Gower, gently. "Shall +we go there for a minute or two?"</p> + +<p>She lays her hand upon his arm, and goes with him +through the lighted, heavily-perfumed rooms on to the balcony, +where the cool air is blowing, and where the fresh +scent from the waving pines makes itself felt.</p> + +<p>The moon is sailing in all its grandeur overhead. Below, +the world is white with its glory. The music of many rivulets,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span> +as they rush sleepless to the river, sounds sweeter far +than even the strains of the band within.</p> + +<p>It is past midnight. The stars are growing pale. Already +the "world's heart" begins to throb,</p> + +<div class='poem'> +"And a wind blows,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">With unknown freshness over lands and seas."</span><br /> +</div> + +<p>Something in the silence and majesty of the hour, and +something, perhaps, within her own heart, brings the unbidden +tears to Dulce's eyes.</p> + +<p>"What can be the matter with Roger?" asks Stephen, +presently, in a low tone. "We used to be such good friends, +long ago. I never saw anyone so changed. He <i>used</i> to be a +genial sort of fellow." The emphasis is very expressive.</p> + +<p>"Used he?" says Dulce, in a somewhat expressionless tone.</p> + +<p>"Yes; a right down good sort."</p> + +<p>"Is he so very bad now?" says Dulce, deliberately and +dishonestly ignorant.</p> + +<p>"To you—yes."</p> + +<p>There is a pause.</p> + +<p>"I think I hardly understand you," she says, in a tone that +should have warned him to be silent.</p> + +<p>"Have you forgotten the scene of a moment since?" he +asks her, eagerly. "His voice, his glance, his whole manner +were unbearable; you bore it like an angel—but—why should +you bear <i>anything?</i> Why should you trouble yourself about +him at all? Why not show that you care as little for him as +he cares for—"</p> + +<p>"Go on," says Dulce, imperiously.</p> + +<p>"As he cares for <i>you</i>, then," says Stephen, recklessly.</p> + +<p>"You have been studying us to some purpose, evidently," +exclaims Dulce, turning to him with extreme bitterness. "I +suppose, indeed, you are not alone in your judgment. I <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'daresary'">daresay</ins> +it is apparent to the whole world that I am a matter of +perfect indifference to—to—my cousin!"</p> + +<p>"'Who runs may read,'" says Stephen with quiet determination. +"Why should I lie to you? He must be blind and +deaf, I think—it is not to be accounted for in any other way. +Why, that other morning in the garden, you remember how +he then—"</p> + +<p>"I remember nothing," interrupts she, haughtily, turning +away from him, deep offence in her eyes.</p> + +<p>But he follows her.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Now you are angry with me," he says, miserably, trying +to look into her averted face.</p> + +<p>"Why should I be angry?" she says, petulantly. "Is it +because you tell me Roger does not care for me? Do you +think I did not know that before? It is, indeed, a question +with me whether I am or am not an object of aversion to the +man I have promised to marry."</p> + +<p>"You speak very hardly," he says.</p> + +<p>"I speak what is in my heart," says Dulce, tremulously.</p> + +<p>"Nevertheless, I should not have said what I did," says +Stephen, remorsefully, "I know that. Whatever I might +have thought, I should have kept it to myself; but"—in a +low tone—"it maddens me to see you give yourself voluntarily +to one incapable of appreciating the treasure that has +fallen to his share—a treasure beyond price—when there are +others who, for a word, a glance, a smile, would barter—"</p> + +<p>He pauses. His voice is trembling. His eyes are bent +upon the ground as though he is half afraid to meet her +glance. There is genuine feeling in his tone.</p> + +<p>Dulce, impressed by his open agitation, in spite of herself, +leans over the balcony, and lets her fingers wander nervously +amongst the leaves of the Virginian creeper that has intertwined +itself in the ironwork, and is now fluttering within +her reach. It is gleaming blood-red beneath the kiss of the +fickle moonbeams, that dance hither and thither amidst its +crimson foliage.</p> + +<p>Plucking two or three of the reddest leaves, she trifles with +them gently, and concentrating all her attention on them, +gives herself an excuse for avoiding Stephen's earnest gaze. +Her hands are unsteady. She is affected by the sincerity of +his manner; and just now, too, she is feeling hurt and wounded, +and, perhaps, a little reckless. Her self-pride (that dearest +possession of a woman) has sustained a severe shock; for the +first time she has been awakened to the fact that the whole +country considers her as naught in the eyes of the man whose +wife she has promised to be.</p> + +<p>To prove to the country that she is as indifferent to Roger as +he (it appears) is to her, becomes a settled desire within her +heart; the more she dwells upon this, the more sweet it seems +to her that there should be another man willing to be her +slave; another in whose sight she is all that a woman should +be, and to whom each tone of her voice, each glance of her +soft eyes, is as a touch of heaven!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span></p> + +<p>Her silence emboldening Gower, he bends over her, and lays +his hand upon the slender fingers that are still holding the +scarlet leaves of the Virginian creeper.</p> + +<p>"Do you understand me?" he asks, nervously.</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>She feels almost constrained to answer him honestly, so +compelling is the extreme earnestness of his manner.</p> + +<p>"It seems a paltry thing now to say that I love you," goes +on Gower in an impassioned tone that carries her away with +it, now that she is sore at heart; "You <i>know</i> that. You +have known it for weeks." He puts aside with a gesture her +feeble attempt at contradiction. "Every thought of my heart +is yours; I live only in the hope that I shall soon see you again. +Tell me now honestly, would it be possible to break off this +engagement with your cousin?"</p> + +<p>At this she shrinks a little from him, and a distressed look +comes into her beautiful eyes.</p> + +<p>"What are you saying?" she says, in a half-frightened way. +"It has been going on for so long, this engagement—<i>always</i>, +as it seems to me. How should I break it off? And then +there is Uncle Christopher, he would be unhappy; he would +not forgive, and—besides—"</p> + +<p>Her voice dies away. Memory vague but sharp, comes to +her. If she should now deliberately discard Roger, how will +it be with her in the future? And yet what if he should be +glad of his freedom; should welcome it with open arms? If, +indeed, he should be only waiting for her to take the initiative, +and give him his release!</p> + +<p>This reflection carries its sting; there is madness in it. +She closes her lips firmly, and her breath comes quickly and +uncertainly.</p> + +<p>"It will be better for you later on," breaks in Gower, +tempting her, surely but quietly. "When you are married—it +is all very well for you now, when escape at any moment is +possible; but when you are irrevocably bound to an unloving +husband how will it be with you? Other women have tried +it, and how has it ended with them? Not as it will with you, +I know; you are far above the many; but still your life will +drag with you—there will be no joy! no sympathy! no—Dulce +have pity on yourself (I do not say on <i>me</i>), and save +yourself while you can."</p> + +<p>She makes a last faint protest.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span></p> + +<p>"How do you <i>know</i> he does not love me?" she asks, painfully. +"How can you be sure?—and at least"—wistfully—"we +are accustomed to each other, we have known each +other all our lives, and we have quarrelled <i>so</i> hard already +that we can scarcely do anything more—the worst with us is +over."</p> + +<p>"It will be different then," says Gower—he is speaking +from his heart in all honesty. "Now you belong to him only +in an improbable fashion; then—"</p> + +<p>"It is your belief that he does not love me at all?" interrupts +she, tapping her foot impatiently upon the ground.</p> + +<p>"It is my belief," returns he slowly.</p> + +<p>Almost as he speaks, some one steps from the lighted room +beyond on the balcony and approaches them. It is Roger.</p> + +<p>"This is ours, I think," he says, addressing Dulce, and +alluding to the waltz just commencing.</p> + +<p>"Is it—what a pity; I had quite forgotten," she says, +wilfully. "I am afraid I have half promised it to Mr. Gower, +and you know <i>he</i> dances charmingly."</p> + +<p>The emphasis not to be mistaken. The remark, of +course, is meant alone for Roger, and he alone hears it. +Gower has gone away from them a yard or two and is buried +in thought. As Roger dances divinely her remark is most +uncalled for and vexes him more than he would care to +confess.</p> + +<p>"Don't let me interfere with you and your new friend," +he says, lifting his brows. "If you want to dance all night +with Gower, by all means do it; there is really no earthly +reason why you shouldn't."</p> + +<p>Here, as his own name falls upon his ears, Gower turns and +looks at Roger expectantly.</p> + +<p>"I absolve you willingly from your engagement to me," +goes on Roger, his eyes fixed upon his wilful cousin, his face +cold and hard. The extreme calmness of his tone misleads +her. Her lips tighten. A light born of passionate anger +darkens her gray eyes.</p> + +<p>"Do you?" she says, a peculiar meaning in her tone.</p> + +<p>"From this engagement only," returns he, hastily.</p> + +<p>"Thank you. Of your own free will, then, you resign me, +and give me permission to dance with whom I will."</p> + +<p>The warm blood is flaming in her cheeks. He has thrown +her over very willingly. He is evidently glad to escape the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span> +impending waltz. How shall she be avenged for this indignity?</p> + +<p>"Mr. Gower," she says, turning prettily to Stephen, "will +you get me out of my difficulty? and will you dance this +waltz with me? You see," with a brave effort to suppress +some emotion that is threatening to overpower her, "I have +to throw myself upon your mercy."</p> + +<p>"You confer a very great honor upon me," says Gower, +gently. The courtesy of his manner is such a contrast to +Roger's ill-temper, that the latter loses the last grain of self-control +he possesses. There is, too, a little smile of conscious +malice upon Gower's lips that grows even stronger as +his eyes rest upon the darkened countenance of his whilom +friend. His whilom friend, seeing it, lets wrath burn even +fiercer within his breast.</p> + +<p>"You are not engaged to any one else?" says Dulce, +sweetly, forgetting how a moment since she had told Roger +she had half promised Gower the dance in question.</p> + +<p>"Even if I was, I am at <i>your</i> service now and always," +says Gower.</p> + +<p>"As my dancing displeases you so excessively," says +Roger, slowly, "it seems a shame to condemn you to keep +the rest of your engagements with me. I think I have my +name down upon your card for two more waltzes. Forget +that, and give them to Gower, or any one else that suits you. +For my part I do not care to—" He checks himself too +late.</p> + +<p>"Go on," says Dulce, coldly, in an ominously calm fashion. +"You had more to say, surely; you do not care to dance +them with <i>me</i> you meant to say. Isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"You can think as you wish, of course."</p> + +<p>"All the world is free to do that. Then I may blot your +name from my card for the rest of the evening?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly."</p> + +<p>"If those dances are free, Miss Blount, may I ask you for +them?" says Stephen, pleasantly.</p> + +<p>"You can have them with pleasure," replies she, smiling +kindly at him.</p> + +<p>"Don't stay too long in the night air, Dulce," says Roger, +with the utmost unconcern, turning to go indoors again. +This is the unkindest cut of all. If he had gone away angry, +silent, revengeful, she might perhaps have forgiven him, but<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span> +this careful remembrance of her, this calm and utterly indifferent +concern for her comfort fills her with vehement anger.</p> + +<p>The blood forsakes her lips, and her eyes grow bright with +passionate tears.</p> + +<p>"Why do you take things so much to heart?" says Stephen, +in a low voice. "Do you care so greatly then about an unpleasant +speech from him? I should have thought you +might have grown accustomed to his <i>brusquerie</i> by this."</p> + +<p>"He wasn't brusque just now," says Dulce. "He was +very kind, was he not? Careful about my catching cold, +and that."</p> + +<p>"<i>Very</i>," says Gower, significantly. "Yet there are tears +in your eyes. What a baby you are."</p> + +<p>"No, I am not," says Dulce, mournfully. "A baby is an +adorable thing, and I am very far from being that."</p> + +<p>"If babies are to be measured by their adorableness, I +should say you are the very biggest baby I ever saw," declares +Mr. Gower, with such an amount of settled conviction +in his tone that Dulce, in spite of the mortification that is +still rankling in her breast, laughs aloud. Delighted with +his success, Gower laughs, too, and taking her hand draws it +within his arm.</p> + +<p>"Come, do not let us forget Roger gave you to me for +this dance," he says. "If only for that act of grace, I +forgive him all his misdeeds." With a last lingering glance +at the beauty of the night, together they return to the ballroom.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XV.</h2> + +<div class='poem'> +"I would that I were low laid in my grave."<br /> +<div class='sig'>—<span class="smcap">King John.</span></div><br /> +</div> + +<div class='poem'> +"Proteus, I love thee in my heart of hearts."<br /> +<div class='sig'>—<span class="smcap">Two Gentlemen of Verona.</span></div><br /> +</div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> last guest has departed. Portia has wished "good-night" +to a very sleepy Dulce, and has gone upstairs to her +own room. In the corridor where she sleeps, Fabian sleeps +too, and as she passes his door lightly and on tip-toe, she +finds that his door is half open, and, hesitating, wonders, +with a quick pang at her heart, why this should be the case.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span></p> + +<p>Summoning courage she advances softly over his threshold, +and then sees that the bed within is unoccupied, that +to-night, at least, its master is unknown to it.</p> + +<p>A shade darkens her face; stepping back on to the corridor +she thinks deeply for a moment, and then, laying her +candle on a bracket near, she goes noiselessly down the stairs +again, across the silent halls, and, opening the hall door, steps +out into the coming dawn.</p> + +<p>Over the gravel, over the grass, through the quiet pleasaunce +she goes unswervingly, past the dark green laurels into +the flower garden, and close to the murmuring streamlet to +where a little patch of moss-grown sward can be seen, surrounded +by aged elms.</p> + +<p>Here she finds him!</p> + +<p>He is asleep! He is lying on his back, with his arms behind +his tired head, and his beautiful face uplifted to the +heavens. Upon his long dark lashes lie signs of bitter tears.</p> + +<p>Who shall tell what thoughts had been his before kind +sleep fell upon his lids and drove him into soothing slumber</p> + +<div class='poem'> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">"The sweetest joy, the wildest woe, is love;</span><br /> +The taint of earth, <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'tho'">the</ins> odor of the skies<br /> +Is in it."<br /> +</div> + +<p>So sings Bailey. More of wild woe than joy must have +been in Fabian's heart before oblivion came to him. Was he +thinking of her—of Portia? For many days his heart has +been "darkened by her shadow," and to-night—when all his +world was abroad, and he alone was excluded from prostrating +himself at her shrine—terrible despair had come to lodge +with him, and grief, and passionate protest.</p> + +<p>Stooping over him, Portia gazes on him long and earnestly, +and then, as no dew lies upon the grass, she sits down +beside him, and taking her knees into her embrace, stays +there silent but close to him, her eyes fixed upon the +"patient stars," that are at last growing pale with thought of +the coming morn.</p> + +<p>The whole scene is full of fantastic beauty—the dawning +day; the man lying full length upon the soft green moss in +an attitude suggestive of death; the girl, calm, passionless, +clad in her white clinging gown, with her arms crossed, and her +pale, upturned face beautiful as the dawn itself.</p> + +<p>The light is breaking through the skies; the stars are dying +out one by one. On the crest of the hill, and through<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span> +the giant firs, soft beams are coming; and young Apollo, +leaping into life, sends out a crimson ray from the far East.</p> + +<p>Below, the ocean is at rest—wrapt in sullen sleep. "The +singing of the soft blue waves is hushed, or heard no more." +And no sound comes to disturb the unearthly solemnity of +the hour. Only a little breeze comes from the south, soft +and gentle, and full of tenderest love that is as the</p> + +<div class='poem'> +"Kiss of morn, waking the lands."<br /> +</div> + +<p>He stirs! His eyes open. He turns restlessly, and then a +waking dream is his. But is it a dream? He is looking into +Portia's eyes, and she—she does not turn from him, but in a +calm, curious fashion returns his gaze, as one might to whom +hope and passion are as things forgotten.</p> + +<p>No word escapes him. He does not even change his position, +but lies, looking up at her in silent wonder. Presently +he lifts his hand, and slowly covers it with one of hers lying +on the grass near his head.</p> + +<p>She does not draw it away—everything seems forgotten—there +is only for her at this moment the pale dawn, and the +sweet calm, and the solitude and the love so fraught with pain +that overfills her soul!</p> + +<p>He draws her hand nearer to him—still nearer—until her +bare soft arm (chilled by the early day) is lying upon his lips. +There he lets it rest, as though he would fain drink into his +thirsty heart all the tender sweetness of it.</p> + +<p>And <i>yet</i> she says nothing, only sits silent there beside him, +her other arm resting on her knees, and her eyes fixed immovably +on his.</p> + +<p>Oh! the rapture and the agony of the moment—a rapture +that will never come again, an agony that must be theirs for +ever.</p> + +<p>"My life! my love!" he murmurs at last, the words passing +his lips as if they were one faint sigh, but yet not so faint but +she may hear them.</p> + +<p>She sighs, too; and a smile, fine and delicate, parts her +lips, and into her eyes comes a strange fond gleam, born of +passion and nearness and the sweetness of loving and living.</p> + +<p>The day is deepening. More rosy grows the sky, more +fragrant the early breeze. Her love is at her feet, her arm +upon his lips; and on the fair naked arm his breath is coming +and going quickly, unevenly—the feel of it makes glad her +very soul!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span></p> + +<p>Then comes the struggle. Oh! the sweetness, the perfectness +of life if spent alone with the beloved. To sacrifice +all things—to go away to some far distant spot with <i>him</i>—to +know each opening hour will be their very own: they +two, with all the world forgotten and well lost—what bliss +could equal it?</p> + +<p>Her arm trembles in his embrace; almost she turns to give +herself into his keeping for ever, when a sound, breaking the +great stillness, changes the face of all things.</p> + +<p>Was it a twig snapping, or the rush of the brooklet beyond? +or the clear first notes of an awakening bird? She never +knows. But all at once remembrance returns to her, and +knowledge and wisdom is with her again.</p> + +<p>To live with a stained life, however dear; to feel his shame +day by day; to distrust a later action because of a former +one; to draw miserable and degrading conclusions from a +sin gone by. <i>No!</i></p> + +<p>Her lips quiver. Her heart dies within her. She turns her +eyes <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'to to'">to</ins> the fast reddening sky, and, with her gaze thus fixed +on heaven, registers an oath.</p> + +<p>"As she may not marry him whom she loves, never will she +be wife to living man!"</p> + +<p>And this is her comfort and her curse, that in her heart, +until her dying day will nestle her sullied love. Hidden +away and wept over in secret, and lamented bitterly at times, +but dearer far, for all that, than anything the earth can offer.</p> + +<p>Gently—very gently—without looking at him, she draws +her arm from his touch and rises to her feet. He, too, rises, +and stands before her silently as one might who awaits his +doom.</p> + +<p>"To hear with eyes belongs to Love's rare wit." <i>He</i> seems +to know all that is now passing in her soul, her weakness—her +longing—her love—her strength—her oath—her grief; it is +all laid bare to him.</p> + +<p>And she herself; she is standing before him, her rich satin +gown trailing on the green grass, her face pale, her eyes large +and mournful. Her soft white neck gleams like snow in the +growing light; upon it the strings of pearls rise and fall tumultuously. +How strange—how white she seems—like a vision +from fairy, or dreamland. Shall he ever forget it?</p> + +<p>Laying his hand upon her shoulders, he looks steadily into +her eyes; and then, after a long pause<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span>—</p> + +<p>"There should be proof," he says, sadly.</p> + +<p>And she says,</p> + +<p>"Yes, there should be proof," in a tone from which all +feeling, and hope, and happiness have fled.</p> + +<p>And yet the world grows brighter. The early morn springs +forth and glads the air.</p> + +<div class='poem'> +<span style="margin-left: 5em;">"But, nor Orient morn,</span><br /> +Nor fragrant zephyr, nor Arabian climes,<br /> +Nor gilded ceilings can relieve the soul<br /> +Pining in <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'thra dom'">thraldom</ins>."<br /> +</div> + +<p>A long pause follows her sentence, that to him has savored +of death. Then he speaks:</p> + +<p>"Let me raise your gown," he says, with heart-broken +gentleness, "the dew of morning is on the grass."</p> + +<p>He lifts her train as he says this, and lays it across the bare +and lovely arm that had been his for some blessed minutes. +As he sees it, and remembers everything—all that <i>might</i> have +been, and all that <i>has</i> been, and all that <i>is</i>—a dry sob chokes +his voice and, stooping, he presses his lips passionately to her +smooth, cool flesh.</p> + +<p>At this she bursts into bitter weeping; and, letting her +glimmering white gown fall once again in its straight, cold +folds around her, gives way to uncontrollable sorrow.</p> + +<p>"Must there be grief for you, too, my own sweetheart?" +says Fabian; and then he lays his arms around her and draws +her to him, and holds her close to his heart until her sobs +die away through pure exhaustion. But he never bends his +head to hers, or seeks to press his lips to those—that are +sweet and dear beyond expression—but that never can be +his. Even at this supreme moment he strives to spare her a +passing pang.</p> + +<p>"Were she to kiss me now," he tells himself, "out of the +depths of her heart, when the cold, passionless morning came +to her she would regret it," and so he refrains from the embrace +he would have sold his best to gain.</p> + +<p>"I wish there might be death, <i>soon</i>," says Portia, and then +she looks upon the awakening land so full of beauty, and +growing light, and promise of all good.</p> + +<p>The great sun, climbing up aloft, strikes upon her gaze, +and the swaying trees, and the music of all things that live +comes to her ears, and with them all comes, too, a terrible +sense of desolation that overwhelms her.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span></p> + +<p>"How can the world be so fair?" she says. "How can it +smile, and grow, and brighten into life, when there is no +life—for—"</p> + +<p>She breaks down.</p> + +<p>"For us?" he finishes for her, slowly; and there is great +joy in the blending of her name with his. "Yes, I know; it +is what you would have said. Forgive me, my best beloved; +but I am glad in the thought that we grieve together."</p> + +<p>His tone is full of sadness; a sadness without hope. They +are standing hand in hand, and are looking into each other's +eyes.</p> + +<p>"It is for the last time," she says, in a broken voice.</p> + +<p>And he says:</p> + +<p>"Yes, for the very last time."</p> + +<p>He never tries to combat her resolution—to slay the foe +that is desolating his life and hers. He submits to cruel fate +without a murmur.</p> + +<p>"Put your face to mine," she says, <i>so</i> faintly that he can +hardly hear her; and then once more he holds her in his +arms, and presses her against his heart.</p> + +<p>How long she lies there neither of them ever knows; but +presently, with a sigh, she comes back to the sad present, and +lifts her head, and looks mournfully upon the quiet earth.</p> + +<p>And even as she looks the day breaks at last with a rush, +and the red sunshine, coming up from the unknown, floods +all the world with beauty.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XVI.</h2> + +<div class='poem'> +"The quarrel is a very pretty quarrel as it stands."<br /> +<div class='sig'>—<span class="smcap">The Rivals.</span></div><br /> +</div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> is two days later. Everyone you know is in the drawing-room +at the Court—that is, everyone except Dulce. But +presently the door opens, and that stormy young person enters, +with her sleeves tucked up and a huge apron over her +pretty cashmere gown, that simply envelops her in its folds.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I am going to make <i>jam</i>" she says, unmistakable pride +in her tone. She is looking hopelessly conceited, and is +plainly bent on posing as one of the most remarkable housekeepers +on record—as really, perhaps, she is.</p> + +<p>"Jam?" says Mr. Browne, growing animated. "What kind +of jam?"</p> + +<p>"Plum jam."</p> + +<p>"You don't say so?" says Mr. Browne, with unaffected interest. +"Where are you going to make it?"</p> + +<p>"In the kitchen, of course. Did you think I was going to +make it <i>here</i>, you silly boy?" She is giving herself airs now, +and is treating Dicky to some gentle badinage.</p> + +<p>"Are the plums in the kitchen?" asked he, regardless of +her new-born dignity, which is very superior, indeed.</p> + +<p>"I hope so," she says, calmly.</p> + +<p>"Then I'll go and make the jam with you," declares Mr. +Browne, genially.</p> + +<p>"Are you really going to make it?" asks Julia, opening +her eyes to their widest. "Really? Who told you how +to do it?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I have known all about it for years," said Dulce, +airily.</p> + +<p>Every one is getting interested now—even Roger looks up +from his book. His quarrel with Dulce on the night of her +ball has been tacitly put aside by both, and though it still +smoulders and is likely at any moment to burst again into a +flame, is carefully pushed out of sight for the present.</p> + +<p>"Does it take <i>long</i> to make jam?" asks Sir Mark, putting +in his query before Stephen Gower, who is also present, can +say anything.</p> + +<p>"Well—it quite depends," says Dulce, vaguely. She conveys +to the astonished listeners the idea that though it might +take some unfortunately ignorant people many days to produce +a decent pot of jam, <i>she</i>—experienced as she is in all +culinary matters—can manage it in such a short time as it is +not worth talking about.</p> + +<p>Everybody at this is plainly impressed.</p> + +<p>"Cook is <i>such</i> a bad hand at plum jam," goes on Miss +Blount, with increasing affectation, that sits funnily on her, +"and Uncle Christopher does so love mine. Don't you, +Uncle Christopher?"</p> + +<p>"It is the best jam in the world," says Uncle Christopher,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span> +promptly, and without a blush. "But I hope you won't +spoil your pretty white fingers making it for me."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, I shan't," says Dulce, shaking her head sweetly. +"Cook does all the nasty part of it; she is good enough at +that."</p> + +<p>"I wonder what the nice part of it is?" says Roger, +thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>"There is no nice part; it is all work—<i>hard</i> work, from +beginning to end," returns his <i>fiancée</i>, severely.</p> + +<p>"I shan't eat any more of it if it gives you such awful +trouble," says Dicky Browne, gallantly but insincerely; +whereupon Roger turns upon him a glance warm with disgust.</p> + +<p>"Dulce," says the Boodie, who is also in the room, going +up to Miss Blount, whom she adores, and clasping her arms +round her waist; "let <i>me</i> go and see you make it; <i>do</i>," coaxingly. +"I want to get some when it is <i>hot</i>. Mamma's jam is +always cold. Darling love of a Dulce, take me with you and +I'll help you to <i>peel</i> them."</p> + +<p>"Let us all go in a body and see how it is done," says Sir +Mark, brilliantly. A proposal received with acclamations by +the others, and accepted by Dulce as a special compliment to +herself.</p> + +<p>They all rise (except Sir Christopher) and move towards +the hall. Here they meet Fabian coming towards them from +the library. Seeing the cavalcade, he stops short to regard +them with very pardonable astonishment.</p> + +<p>"Where on earth are you all going?" he asks; "and why +are Dulce's arms bare at this ungodly hour? Are you going +in for housepainting, Dulce, or for murder?"</p> + +<p>"Jam," says Miss Blount proudly.</p> + +<p>"You give me relief. I breathe again," says Fabian.</p> + +<p>"Come with us," says Dulce, fondly.</p> + +<p>He hesitates. Involuntarily his eyes seek Portia's. Hers +are on the ground. But even as he looks (as though compelled +to meet his earnest gaze) she raises her head, and +turns a sad, little glance upon him.</p> + +<p>"Lead, and I follow," he says to Dulce, and once more +they all sweep on towards the lower regions.</p> + +<p>"After all, you know," says Dulce, suddenly stopping +short on the last step of the kitchen stairs to harangue the +politely dressed mob that follows at her heels, "it might,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span> +perhaps, be as well if I went on first and prepared cook for +your coming. She is not exactly impossible you see, but to +confess the truth she can be at times difficult."</p> + +<p>"What would she do to us?" asks Dicky, curiously.</p> + +<p>"Oh! nothing, of course; but," with an apologetic gesture, +"she might object to so many people taking possession +of her kingdom without warning. Wait one moment while +I go and tell her about you. You can follow me in a minute +or two."</p> + +<p>They wait. They wait a long time. Stephen Gower, with +watch in hand, at last declares that not one or two, but +quite five minutes have dragged out their weary length.</p> + +<p>"Don't be impatient; we'll see her again some time or +other," says Roger, sardonically, whereupon Mr. Gower does +his best to wither him with a scornful stare.</p> + +<p>"Let us look up the cook," says Sir Mark, at which they +all brighten up again and stream triumphantly towards the +kitchen. As they reach the door a sensation akin to nervousness +makes them all move more slowly, and consequently +with so little noise that Dulce does not hear their approach. +She is so standing, too, that she cannot see them, and as she +is talking with much spirit and condescension they all stop +again to hear what she is saying.</p> + +<p>She has evidently made it straight with cook, as that formidable +old party is standing at her right hand with her arms +akimbo, and on her face a fat and genial smile. She has, +furthermore, been so amiable as to envelop Dulce in a <i>second</i> +apron; one out of her own wardrobe, an article of the very +hugest dimensions, in which Dulce's slender figure is utterly +and completely lost. It comes up in a little square upon her +bosom and makes her look like a delicious over-grown baby, +with her sleeves tucked up and her bare arms gleaming like +snow-flakes.</p> + +<p>Opposite to her is the footman, and very near her the upper +housemaid. Dulce being in her most moral mood, has seized +this opportunity to reform the manners of the household.</p> + +<p>"You are most satisfactory, you know, Jennings," she is +saying in her soft voice that is trying so hard to be mistress-like, +but is only sweet. "Most so! Sir Christopher and I +both think that, but I do wish you would try to quarrel just +a <i>little</i> less with Jane."</p> + +<p>At this Jane looks meekly delighted while the footman<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span> +turns purple and slips his weight uneasily from one leg to the +other.</p> + +<p>"It isn't all my fault, ma'am," he says at length, in an +aggrieved tone.</p> + +<p>"No, I can quite believe that," says his mistress, kindly. +"I regret to say I have noticed several signs of ill temper +about Jane of late."</p> + +<p>Here Jane looks crestfallen, and the footman triumphant.</p> + +<p>"I wish you would <i>both</i> try to improve," goes on Dulce, in +a tone meant to be still dignified, but which might almost be +termed entreating. "<i>Do</i> try. You will find it so much +pleasanter in the long run."</p> + +<p>Both culprits, though silent, show unmistakable signs of +giving in.</p> + +<p>"If you only knew how unhappy these endless dissensions +make me, I am sure you <i>would</i> try," says Miss Blount, earnestly, +which, of course, ends all things. The maid begins +to weep copiously behind the daintiest of aprons; while the +footman mutters, huskily:</p> + +<p>"Then I <i>will</i> try, ma'am," with unlooked-for force.</p> + +<p>"Oh, <i>thank</i> you," says Dulce, with pretty gratitude, under +cover of which the two belligerents make their escape.</p> + +<p>"Well done," says Sir Mark at this moment; "really, +Dulce, I didn't believe it was in you. Such dignity, such +fervor, such tact, such pathos! We are all very nearly in +tears. I would almost promise not to blow up Jane myself, +if you asked me like that."</p> + +<p>"What a shame!" exclaims Dulce, starting and growing +crimson, as she becomes aware they have all been listening to +her little lecture. "I call it right down <i>mean</i> to go listening +to people behind their backs. It is horrid! And you, too, +Portia! So shabby!"</p> + +<p>"Now who is scolding," says Portia; "and after your +charming sermon, too, to Jennings, all about the evil effects +of losing one's temper."</p> + +<p>"If you only knew how unhappy it makes us," says Dicky +Browne, mimicking Dulce's own manner of a moment since +so exactly that they all laugh aloud; and Dulce, forgetting +her chagrin, laughs, too, even more heartily than they do.</p> + +<p>"You shan't have one bit of my jam," she says, threatening +Dicky with a huge silver spoon; "see if you do! After +all, cook," turning to that portly matron, "I think I'm tired<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span> +to-day. Suppose you make this jam; and I can make some +more some other time."</p> + +<p>As she says this, she unfastens both the aprons and flings +them far from her, and pulls down her sleeves over her +pretty white arms, to Gower's everlasting regret, who cannot +take his eyes off them, and to whom they are a "joy forever."</p> + +<p>"Come, let us go up-stairs again," says Dulce to her assembled +friends, who have all suddenly grown very grave.</p> + +<p>In silence they follow her, until once more the hall is +gained and the kitchen forgotten. Then Dicky Browne +gives way to speech.</p> + +<p>"I am now quite convinced," he says, slowly, "that to +watch the making of plum jam is the most enthralling sport +in the world. It was so kind of you, dear Dulce, to ask us +to go down to see it. I don't know <i>when</i> I have enjoyed +myself so much."</p> + +<p>"We have been disgracefully taken in," says Julia, warmly.</p> + +<p>"And she didn't even offer us a single plum!" says Mr. +Browne, tearfully.</p> + +<p>"You shall have some presently, with your tea," says Dulce, +remorsefully. "Let us go and sit upon the verandah, and say +what we thought of our <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'dan e'">dance</ins>. No one has said anything +about it yet."</p> + +<p>Though late in September, it is still "one of those +heavenly days that cannot die." The sun is warm in the +heavens, though gradually sinking, poor tired god, toward +his hard-earned rest. There are many softly-colored clouds +on the sky.</p> + +<p>Tea is brought to them presently, and plums for Dicky; +and then they are all, for the most part, happy.</p> + +<p>"Well, I think it was a deadly-lively sort of an evening," +says Mr. Browne, candidly, <i>apropos</i> of the ball. "Every one +seemed cross, I think, and out of sorts. For my own part, +there were moments when I suffered great mental anguish."</p> + +<p>"Well, I don't know," says Sir Mark, "for my part, I enjoyed +myself rather above the average. Good music, good +supper—the champagne I must congratulate you about, +Dulce—and very pretty women. What more could even a +Sybarite like Dicky desire? Mrs. George Mainwaring was +there, and I got on capitally with her. I like a woman who +prefers sitting it out, <i>some</i> times."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I don't think I even saw Mrs. George," says Dulce. "Was +she here?"</p> + +<p>"You couldn't see her," says Roger; "she spent her entire +evening in the rose-colored ante-room with Gore."</p> + +<p>"What a shameless tarradiddle," says Sir Mark.</p> + +<p>"What did she wear?" asks Julia.</p> + +<p>"I can't remember. I think, however, she was all black +and blue."</p> + +<p>"Good gracious!" says Dicky Browne, "has George Mainwaring +been at it again? Poor soul, it <i>is</i> hard on her. I +thought the last kicking he had from her brother would have +lasted him longer than a month."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense, Dicky," says Dulce; "I hear they are getting +on wonderfully well together now."</p> + +<p>"I'm glad to hear it," says Dicky, in a tone totally unconvinced.</p> + +<p>"I don't think she is at all respectable," says Mrs. Beaufort, +severely; "she—she—her dress was <i>very</i> odd, I +thought—"</p> + +<p>"There might, perhaps, have been a little more of it," +says Dicky Browne. "I mean, it was such a pretty gown, +that we should have been glad to be able to admire another +yard or two of it. But perhaps that terrible George won't +give it to her; and perhaps she liked herself as she was. +'<i>Nuda veritas</i>.' After all, there is nothing like it. 'Honesty +is the best policy,' and all that sort of thing—eh?"</p> + +<p>"Dicky," says Sir Mark, austerely, "go away! We have +had quite enough of you."</p> + +<p>"How did you all like the McPhersons?" Dulce asks, +hurriedly.</p> + +<p>"Now, there was one thing," says Dicky, who is not to be +repressed, "how could any fellow enjoy himself in the room +with the McPhersons? That eldest girl clings on to one like +ivy—and precious tough old ivy too. She clung to me until +I was fain to sit down upon the ground and shed salt and bitter +tears. I wish she had stayed amongst her gillies, and her +Highland flings, and those nasty men who only wear breeks, +instead of coming down here to inflict herself upon a quiet, +easy-going county."</p> + +<p>"Why didn't you get her another partner, if you were tired +of her?"</p> + +<p>"I couldn't. I appealed to many friends, but they all deserted<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span> +me in my hour of need. They wouldn't look at her. +She was 'single in the field, yon solitary Highland lass.' She +wasn't in the swim at all; she would have been as well—I +mean, much better—at home."</p> + +<p>"Poor girl," says Portia.</p> + +<p>"She isn't poor, she's awfully rich," says Roger. "They +are all rich. They positively look at the world through a +golden veil."</p> + +<p>"They'd want it," says Dicky, with unrelenting acrimony; +"I christened 'em the Heirs and Graces—the boys are so +rich, and the girls think themselves so heavenly sweet. It is +quite my own joke, I assure you. Nobody helped me." +Here he laughs gaily, with a charming appreciation of his +own wit.</p> + +<p>"Did she dance well?" asks Stephen, waking up suddenly +from a lengthened examination of the unconscious Dulce's +fair features. An examination, however, overseen by Roger, +and bitterly resented by him.</p> + +<p>"She didn't dance at all, she only galumphed," says +Dicky, wrathfully. "She regularly took the curl out of me; +I was never so fatigued in my life. And she is so keen about +it, too; she will dance, and keeps on saying, 'Isn't it a pity +to lose this lovely music?'—and so on. I wished myself in +the silent grave many times."</p> + +<p>"Well, as bad as she is, I'd make an even bet she will be +married before her sister," says Stephen.</p> + +<p>"I don't think either of them will be married before the +other," says Mr. Browne, gloomily; "one might go much +farther than them without faring worse. I laughed aloud +when at last I got rid of the elder one; I gave way to appropriate +quotation; I fell back on my Wordsworth; I said:</p> + +<div class='poem'> +'Nor am I loth, but pleased at heart,<br /> +Sweet (?) Highland girl, from thee to part.'"<br /> +</div> + +<p>The query represents the expression of Mr. Browne's face +as he mentions the word that goes before it.</p> + +<p>"Well done, Dicky!" says Sir Mark.</p> + +<p>"What has Dicky been saying now?" asks Fabian, who +has been wandering in a very sad dreamland, and just come +back to a sadder earth at this moment. "Has he been excelling +himself?"</p> + +<p>"I'll say it all over again for you, if you like," says Dicky, +kindly; "but for nobody else."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Thanks, but later on," says Fabian, smiling.</p> + +<p>He is sitting near Portia, but not very near. Now Dicky, +filled with a desire to converse with Miss Vibart, gets off his +seat and flings himself on a rug at her feet. Sir Mark, who is +always kindly, though a trifle cynical at times, and thoughtful +towards those he likes, is displeased at this change that Dicky +has made. Fabian he likes—nay, if there be one friend in +the world he <i>loves</i>, it is Fabian <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'B ount'">Blount</ins>. Portia, too, is a favorite +of his, so great a favorite that he would gladly see her +throw some sunshine into Fabian's life. To make these two +come together, and by Portia's influence to induce Fabian to +fling away from him and to conquer the terrible depression +that has desolated his life ever since the fatal affair of the +forged check, has become one of Sir Mark's dearest dreams.</p> + +<p>Now it seems to him that when Fabian has so far overcome +his settled determination to avoid society as to find a +seat beside Portia, and to keep it for at least an hour, it is a +vile thing in the thoughtless Dicky to intrude his person +where so plainly it is not wanted.</p> + +<p>Making some idle excuse, he brings the reluctant Dicky +to his side.</p> + +<p>"Can't you keep away from them?" says Sir Mark, in an +angry whisper.</p> + +<p>"Away from whom?" asks Dicky, resentfully.</p> + +<p>"From them," with a gentle motion of the hand in the direction +of Portia and Fabian.</p> + +<p>"What on earth for?" says Dicky Browne, still more resentfully.</p> + +<p>"Don't you see he <i>likes</i> her?" says Sir Mark, meaningly.</p> + +<p>"I suppose he does," says Dicky Browne, obtusely. "I +like her too. We all like her."</p> + +<p>"Of course, my dear fellow, one can quite understand +that she is about as likeable a person as I know; but—er—don't +you see—he wants to be <i>alone</i> with her."</p> + +<p>"I don't doubt him," says Dicky Browne. "So should I, +if I got the chance."</p> + +<p>Sir Mark shrugs his shoulders; there isn't much to be got +out of Dicky.</p> + +<p>"That goes without telling," he says; "you are always +prowling around after her, for no reason that I can see. +But you haven't grasped my idea, he—he's <i>in love</i> with her, +and <i>you</i> aren't, I suppose?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I don't see why you should suppose anything of the +kind," says Dicky, bitterly aggrieved because of the word +"prowling." "I can be as much in love with her as another, +can't I, if I like? In fact," valiantly, "I think I <i>am</i> in +love with her."</p> + +<p>"Oh, you be hanged!" says Sir Mark, forcibly, if vulgarly, +turning away from him in high disgust.</p> + +<p>"Well, you needn't cut up so rough about nothing," says +Dicky, following him. "He has had his chance of being +alone with her, now, hasn't he? and see the result."</p> + +<p>And when Sir Mark turns his eyes in the direction where +Portia sits, lo! he finds Fabian gone, and Miss Vibart sitting +silent and motionless as a statue, and as pale and cold +as one, with a look of fixed determination in her beautiful +eyes, that yet hardly hides the touch of anguish that lies beneath.</p> + +<p>Meantime Dulce and Roger are sparring covertly, but decidedly, +while Julia, who never sees anything, is fostering the +dispute by unmeant, but most ill judging remarks. Stephen +Gower has gone away from them to have a cigarette in the +shrubberies.</p> + +<p>Sir Mark and Dicky Browne are carrying on an argument, +that in all human probability will last their time.</p> + +<p>"I can't bear Mrs. Mildmay," says Dulce, <i>apropos</i> of +nothing. Mrs. Mildmay is the Rector's wife, and a great +friend of Roger's.</p> + +<p>"But why?" says Julia, "she is a nice little woman +enough, isn't she?"</p> + +<p>"Is she? I don't know. To me she is utterly distasteful; +such a voice, and such—"</p> + +<p>"She is at least gentle and well-mannered," interrupts +Roger, unpleasantly.</p> + +<p>"Well, yes, there is a great deal in that," says Julia, +which innocent remark incenses Dulce to the last degree, as +it gives her the impression that Julia is taking Roger's part +against her.</p> + +<p>"I daresay she is an angel," she says, fractiously; "but I +am not sufficiently heavenly-minded myself to admire her inanities. +Do you know," looking broadly at Roger, "there +are some people one hates without exactly knowing why? It +is, I suppose, a Doctor Fell sort of dislike, 'the reason why I +cannot tell,' and all that sort of thing."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I don't believe you can, indeed," says Roger, indignantly.</p> + +<p>"Don't you?" says Dulce.</p> + +<p>"My dear Roger, if you eat any more sugar, you will ruin +your teeth," says Julia. Roger, who has the sugar bowl near +him, and is helping himself from it generously, laughs a little. +Julia is a person who, if you wore a smoking cap even once +in your life, would tell you it would make you bald; or +if you went out without a veil, you would have freckles for +the rest of your life—and so on.</p> + +<p>"<i>Don't</i> eat any more," says Julia, imploringly; "you can't +like that nasty white stuff."</p> + +<p>"Oh! doesn't he?" says Dulce, sarcastically. "He'd eat +anything sweet. It isn't three days ago since he stole all my +chocolate creams, and ate them every one."</p> + +<p>"I did not," says Roger.</p> + +<p>"Yes, he did," declares Dulce, ignoring Roger, and addressing +herself solely to Julia. "He did, indeed, and <i>denied</i> +it afterwards, which just shows what he is capable of."</p> + +<p>"I repeat that I did not," says Roger, indignantly. "I +found them certainly in your room up-stairs—your sitting-room—but +I gave them to the Boodie."</p> + +<p>"Oh! <i>say</i> so," says Miss Blount, ironically.</p> + +<p>"Chocolate creams!" says the small Boodie, emerging +from an obscure and unexpected corner. "What about +them? Where are they? Have you any, mamma?"</p> + +<p>"<i>You</i> ought to know where they are," says Dare, flushing; +"you ate them."</p> + +<p>"When?" asks the Boodie, in a searching tone.</p> + +<p>"Yes, indeed, <i>when?</i>" repeats Dulce, unpleasantly.</p> + +<p>"You remember the day Roger gave you some, don't +you, darling?" says the darling's mamma, with the kindly +intention of soothing matters.</p> + +<p>"No, I don't," says the uncompromising Boodie, her blue +eyes wide, and her red lips apart.</p> + +<p>"Do you mean to tell me I didn't give you a whole box +full the day before yesterday?" exclaims Mr. Dare, wrathfully, +going up to the stolid child, and looking as if he would +like to shake her.</p> + +<p>"Day before yesterday?" murmurs the Boodie, with a +glance so far from the present moment that it might be in +Kamtschatka.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes, exactly, <i>the day before yesterday!</i>" says Roger, +furiously.</p> + +<p>"How could I remember about that?" says the Boodie, +most nonchalantly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, don't scold the poor child," says Dulce, mildly, +"she won't like it; and I am sure she is not in fault. Go +away, Boodie, Roger doesn't like being shown up."</p> + +<p>"Shown up! Upon my <i>life</i> I gave her those vile bon-bons," +says Mr. Dare, distractedly, "If I wanted them +couldn't I buy them? Do you suppose I go round the world +stealing chocolate creams?"</p> + +<p>At this, poor Julia getting frightened, and considering the +case hopeless, rises from her seat and beats a most undignified +retreat. This leaves the combatants virtually alone.</p> + +<p>"There is hardly anything you wouldn't do in my +opinion," says Dulce, scornfully.</p> + +<p>A pause. Then:</p> + +<p>"What a temper you have!" exclaims Roger, with the +most open contempt.</p> + +<p>"Not so bad as yours, at all events. Your face is as white +as death from badly suppressed rage."</p> + +<p>"It is a pity you can't see your own," says Roger slowly.</p> + +<p>"Don't speak to me like that, Roger," says Dulce, quickly, +her eyes flashing; "and—and say at once," imperiously, +"that you know perfectly well I have the temper of an +angel, in comparison with yours."</p> + +<p>"Would you have me tell a deliberate lie?" says Roger, +coldly.</p> + +<p>This brings matters to a climax. Silence follows, that +lasts for a full minute (a long time in such a case), and then +Dulce speaks again. Her voice is quite changed; out of it all +passion and excitement have been carefully withdrawn.</p> + +<p>"I think it is time this most mistaken engagement of ours +should come to an end," she says, quite quietly.</p> + +<p>"That is as you wish, of course," replies he. "But fully +understand me; if you break with me now, it shall be at +once and forever."</p> + +<p>"Your manner is almost a threat," she says. "It will be +difficult to you, no doubt, but <i>please</i> do try to believe it will +be a very great joy to me to part from you 'at once and forever.'"</p> + +<p>"Then nothing more remains to be said; only this: it will<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span> +be better for you that Uncle Christopher should be told I +was the one to end this engagement, not—"</p> + +<p>"Why?" impatiently.</p> + +<p>"On account of the will, of course. If you will say I have +refused to marry you, the property will go to you."</p> + +<p>"That you have <i>refused</i> me!" says Miss Blount, with extreme +indignation. "Certainly, I shall never say that—never! +You can say with truth I have refused to marry +you, but nothing else."</p> + +<p>"It is utter insanity," says Roger, gravely. "For the sake +of a ridiculous whim, you are voluntarily resigning a great +deal of money."</p> + +<p>"I would resign the mines of Golconda rather than do +that. I would far rather starve than give you the satisfaction +of saying you had given me up!"</p> + +<p>As she has a very considerable fortune of her own that +nothing can interfere with, she finds it naturally the very +simplest thing in the world to talk lightly about starvation.</p> + +<p>"What should I say that for?" asks Roger, rather haughtily.</p> + +<p>"How can I tell? I only know you are longing to say +it," returns she, wilfully.</p> + +<p>"You are too silly to argue with," protests he, turning +away with a shrug.</p> + +<p>Running down the steps of the balcony, Dulce, with her +wrath still burning hotly within her, goes along the garden +path and so past the small bridge, and the river, and the +mighty beeches that are swaying to and fro.</p> + +<p>Turning a corner she comes suddenly upon Gower, +who is still smoking cigarettes, and no doubt day-dreaming +about her.</p> + +<p>"You have escaped from everybody," he says to her, in +some surprise, Dulce being a person very little given to solitude +or her own society undiluted.</p> + +<p>"It appears I have not," returns she, bitterly.</p> + +<p>"Well, I shan't trouble you long; I can take myself off +in no time," he says, good-humoredly, drawing to one side +to let her pass.</p> + +<p>"No—no; you can stay with me if you care to," she says, +wearily, ashamed of her petulance.</p> + +<p>"<i>Care!</i>" he says, reproachfully; and then, coming nearer +to her, "you are unhappy! Something has happened!" he +says, quickly, "what is it?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Nothing unhappy," says Dulce, in a dear, soft voice; +"certainly not that. Something very different; something, +indeed, I have been longing and hoping for, for weeks, +for months, nay, all my life, I think."</p> + +<p>"And—" says Stephen.</p> + +<p>"I have broken off my engagement with Roger."</p> + +<p>A great, happy gleam awakes within his dark eyes. Instinctively +he takes a step nearer to her, then checks himself, +and draws his breath quickly.</p> + +<p>"Are you sure?" he says, in a carefully calm tone, "are +you <i>sure</i> you have done wisely?—I mean, will this be for +your own <i>good?</i>"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, of course," with fretful impatience. "It was +my own doing, I wished it."</p> + +<p>"How did it all come about?" asks he, gently.</p> + +<p>"I don't know. He has an abominable temper, as you +know; and I—well, I have an abominable temper, too," she +says, with a very wintry little smile, that seems made up of +angry, but remorseful tears. "And—"</p> + +<p>"If you are going to say hard things of yourself I shall +not listen," interrupts Gower, tenderly; "you and Roger +have quarreled, but perhaps, when time makes you see things +in a new light, you will forgive, and—"</p> + +<p>"No, never! I am sure of that. This quarrel is for—'<i>now +and forever!</i>'"</p> + +<p>She repeats these last four words mechanically—words +that bear but the commonest meaning to him, but are linked +in her mind with associations full of bitterness.</p> + +<p>"And you have no regrets?" regarding her keenly.</p> + +<p>"None."</p> + +<p>"And does no faintest spark of love for him rest in your +heart? Oh, Dulce, take care!"</p> + +<p>"Love! I never loved," she says, turning her large eyes +full on his. "I have seen people who loved, and so I know. +<i>They</i> seem to live, think, breathe for each other alone; +the very air seemed full of ecstasy to them; every hour of +their day was a divine joy; but I—what have I known of all +that?"</p> + +<p>She pauses and lays her hand upon her heart.</p> + +<p>"And he?" asks Gower, unwisely.</p> + +<p>She laughs ironically.</p> + +<p>"You have seen him," she says. "Not only that, but you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span> +have surely seen us together often enough to be able to answer +your question for yourself. A very rude question, by-<ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 't e'">the</ins>-by."</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon," says Gower, heartily ashamed of +himself.</p> + +<p>"Oh, it doesn't matter," says Dulce, throwing out one +hand in a quick, nervous fashion. "Nothing matters much, +does it? And now that we are on it, I will answer your +question. I believe if I were the only woman in the +world, Roger would never have even liked me! He seemed +<i>glad, thankful</i>, when I gave him a release; <i>almost</i>," steadily, +"as glad as I was to give it!"</p> + +<p>"<i>Were</i> you glad!" asks Gower, eagerly. Going up to +her, he takes her hand and holds it with unconscious force +in both his own.</p> + +<p>"Am I to think that you doubt me?" she says with a +frown.</p> + +<p>"Shall I ever have occasion to doubt you?" says Gower, +with sudden passion. "Dulce! now that you are free, will +you listen to me? I have only one thought in the world, +and that is you, always you! Have I any chance with you? +My darling, my own, be kind to me and try to take me to +your heart."</p> + +<p>The tears well into her eyes. She does not turn from him, +but there is no joy in her face at this honest outburst, only +trouble and perplexity, and a memory that stings. There +is, too, some very keen gratitude.</p> + +<p>"<i>You</i> at least do not hate me," she says, with a faint, +sobbing cadence in her voice, that desolates, but sweetens it. +Her lips quiver. In very truth she is thankful to him in a +measure. Her heart warms to him. There is to her a comfort +in the thought (a comfort she would have shrunk from +acknowledging even to herself) in the certainty that he would +be only too proud, too pleased, to be to her what another +might have tried to be but would not. Here is this man before +her, willing at a word from her to prostrate himself at +her feet, while Roger—</p> + +<p>"Hate you!" says Gower, with intense feeling. "Whatever +joy or sorrow comes of this hour, I shall always know +that I really <i>lived</i> in the days when I knew you. My heart, +and soul and life, are all yours to do with as you will. I am +completely at your mercy."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Do not talk to me like that," says Dulce, faintly.</p> + +<p>"Darling, let me speak now, once for all. I am not perhaps +just what you would wish me, but <i>try</i> to like me, will you?"</p> + +<p>He is so humble in his wooing that he would have touched +the hearts of most women. Dulce grows very pale, and +moves a step away from him. A half-frightened expression +comes into her eyes, and shrinking still farther away, she releases +her hand from his grasp.</p> + +<p>"You are angry with me," says Stephen, anxiously, trying +bravely not to betray the grief and pain her manner has +caused him; "but hear me. I will be your true lover till my +life's end; your will shall be my law. It will be my dearest +privilege to be at your feet forever. Let me be your slave, +your servant, <i>anything</i>, but at least yours. I love you! Say +you will marry me some time."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no—<i>no</i>—<span class="smcap">no</span>!" cries she, softly, but vehemently, +covering her eyes with her hands.</p> + +<p>"You shall not say that," exclaims he passionately; "why +should I not win my way with you as well as another, now +that you say that you are heart whole. Let me plead my +cause?" Here he hesitates, and then plays his last card. +"You tell me you have discarded Roger," he says, slowly; +"when you did so (forgive me), did he appeal against your +decision?"</p> + +<p>"No," says Dulce, in a tone so low that he can scarcely +hear her.</p> + +<p>"Forgive me once more," he says, "if I say that he never +appreciated you. And you—where is your pride? Will you +not show him now that what he treated with coldness another +is only too glad to give all he has for in exchange? Think +of this, Dulce. If you wished it I would die for you."</p> + +<p>"I almost think I do wish it," says Dulce, with a faint +little laugh; but there is a kindness in her voice new to it, +and just once she lifts her eyes and looks at him shyly, but +sweetly.</p> + +<p>Profiting by this gleam of sunshine, Gower takes possession +of her hand again and draws her gently towards him.</p> + +<p>"You <i>will</i> marry me," he says, "when you think of +everything." There is a meaning in his tone she cannot fail +to understand.</p> + +<p>"Would you," she says tremulously, "marry a woman who +does not care for you?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span></p> + +<p>"When you are once my wife I will teach you to care for +me. Such love as mine must create a return."</p> + +<p>"You think that now; you feel sure of it. But suppose +you failed! No drawing back. It is too dangerous an experiment."</p> + +<p>"I defy the danger. I will not believe that it exists; and +even if it did—still I should have you."</p> + +<p>"Yes, that is just it," she says, wearily. "But how would +it be with me? I should have you, too, but—" Her pause +is full of eloquence.</p> + +<p>"Try to trust me," he says, in a rather disheartened tone. +He is feeling suddenly cast down and dispirited, in spite of his +determination to be cool and brave, and to win her against +all odds.</p> + +<p>To this she says nothing, and silence falls upon them. +Her eyes are on the ground; her face is grave and thoughtful. +Watching her with deepest anxiety, he tells himself +that perhaps after all he may still be victor—that his fears a +moment since were groundless. Is she not content to be +with him? Her face—how sweet, how calm it is! She is +thinking, it may be, of him, of what he has said, of his great +and lasting love for her, of—</p> + +<p>"I wonder whom Roger will marry now," she says, +dreamily, breaking in cruelly upon his fond reverie, and +dashing to pieces by this speech all the pretty Spanish castles +he has been building in mid-air.</p> + +<p>"Can you think of nothing but him?" he says, bitterly, +with a quick frown.</p> + +<p>"Why should I not think of him?" says Dulce, quite as +bitterly. "Is it not natural? An hour ago I looked upon +him as my future husband; now he is less to me than nothing! +A sudden transition, is it not, from one character to another? +<i>Then</i> a possible husband, <i>now</i> a stranger! It is surely something +to let one's mind dwell upon."</p> + +<p>"Well, let us discuss him, then," exclaims he, savagely. +"You speak of his marrying. Perhaps he will bestow his +priceless charms on Portia."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no!" hastily; "Portia is quite unsuited to him."</p> + +<p>"Julia, then?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly not <i>Julia</i>," disdainfully.</p> + +<p>"Miss Vernon, then? She has position and money and +so-called beauty."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Maud Vernon! what an absurd idea; he would be +wretched with her."</p> + +<p>"Then," with a last remnant of patience, "let us say Lilian +Langdale."</p> + +<p>"A fast, horsey, unladylike girl like that! How could +you imagine Roger would even <i>look</i> at her! Nonsense!"</p> + +<p>"It seems to me," says Stephen, with extreme acrimony, +"that no one in this county is good enough for Roger; even +you, it appears, fell short."</p> + +<p>"I did not," indignantly. "It was I, of my own free will, +who gave him up."</p> + +<p>"Prove that to him by accepting <i>me</i>."</p> + +<p>"You think he wants proof?" She is facing him now, +and her eyes are flashing in the growing twilight.</p> + +<p>"I do," says Stephen, defiantly. "For months he has +treated you with all the airs of a proprietor, and you have +submitted to it. All the world could see it. He will believe +you <i>sorry</i> by-and-by for what has now happened; and if he +should marry before you, what will they all say—what will +you feel? What—"</p> + +<p>She is now as pale as death. She lifts her hand and lays it +impulsively against his lips, as though to prevent his further +speech. She is trembling a little (from anger, she tells herself), +and her breath is coming quickly and unevenly, so she +stands for a moment collecting herself, with her fingers +pressed against his lips, and then the agitation dies, and a +strange coldness takes its place.</p> + +<p>"You are sure you love me?" she asks, at length, in a hard, +clear voice, so unlike her usual soft tones, that it startles +even herself.</p> + +<p>"My beloved, can't you see it?" he says, with deep emotion.</p> + +<p>"Very well, then, I will marry you some day. And—and +to-morrow—it must be <i>to-morrow</i>—you will let Roger know +I am engaged to you? You quite understand?"</p> + +<p>He does, though he will not acknowledge it even to +himself.</p> + +<p>"Dulce, my own soul!" he says, brokenly; and, kneeling +on the grass at her feet, he lifts both her hands and presses +them passionately to his lips.</p> + +<p>They are so cold and lifeless that they chill him to his +very heart.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XVII.</h2> + +<div class='poem'> +"Too early seen unknown, and known too late!"<br /> +<div class='sig'>—<span class="smcap">Romeo and Juliet.</span></div><br /> +</div> + +<div class='poem'> +"There's neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship in thee."<br /> +<div class='sig'>—<span class="smcap">Henry IV.</span></div><br /> +</div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> is next day. There has been rain in the night—<i>heavy</i> +rain—and the earth looks soaked and brown and desolate. +Great storms, too, had arisen, and scattered the unoffending +leaves far and wide, until all the paths are strewn with rustling +types of death. Just now the drops are falling, too—not +so angrily as at the midnight past, but persistently, and +with a miserable obstinacy that defies all hope of sunshine. +"The windy night" has made "a rainy morrow," and sorrowful, +indeed, is the face of Nature.</p> + +<p>Sorrowful, too, is the household. A lack of geniality +pervades it from garret to basement; no one seems quite to +know what is the matter, but "<i>suspect</i>" that "crow that flies +in Heaven's sweetest air" stalks rampant up stairs and down, +and damps the ardor of everyone.</p> + +<p>Dulce had waked early, had risen from her bed, and—with +the curious feeling full upon her of one who breaks her +slumber <i>knowingly</i> that some grief had happened to her +over night, the remembrance of which eludes her in a tantalizing +fashion—had thrown wide her window, and gazed with +troubled eyes upon the dawning world.</p> + +<p>Then knowledge came to her, and the thought that she had +made a new contract that must influence all her life, and +with this knowledge a sinking of the heart, but no drawing +back and no repentance. She dressed herself; she knelt +down and said her prayers, but peace did not come to her, +or rest or comfort of any sort, only an unholy feeling of revenge, +and an angry satisfaction that should not have found +a home in her gentle breast.</p> + +<p>She dressed herself with great care. Her prettiest morning +gown she donned, and going into the garden plucked a +last Maréchal Niel rose and placed it against her soft cheek, +that was tinted as delicate as itself.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span></p> + +<p>And then came breakfast. And with a defiant air, but with +some inward shrinking she took her place behind the urn, +and prepared to pour out tea for the man who yesterday was +her affianced husband, but who for the future must be less +than nothing to her.</p> + +<p>But as fate ordains it she is not called upon to administer +bohea to Roger this morning. Mr. Dare does not put in appearance, +and breakfast is got through—without, indeed, an +outbreak of any sort, but in a dismal fashion that bespeaks +breakers ahead, and suggests hidden but terrible possibilities +in the future.</p> + +<p>Dulce is decidedly cross; a sense of depression is weighing +her down, a miserable state of melancholy that renders her +unjust in her estimate of all those around her. She tells herself +she hates Roger; and then again that she hates Stephen, +too; and then the poor child's eyes fill with tears born of a +heartache and difficult of repression; to analyze them she +knows instinctively would be madness, so she blinks them +bravely back again to their native land, and having so got rid +of them, gives herself up to impotent and foolish rage, and +rails inwardly against the world and things generally.</p> + +<p>Even to Portia she is impatient, and Julia she has annihilated +twice. The latter has been lamenting all the morning +over a milliner's bill that in length and heaviness has far exceeded +her anticipations.</p> + +<p>But this is nothing; Julia is always so lamenting, and indeed, +I never yet saw the milliner's bill, however honest, that +wasn't considered a downright swindle, and three times as +exorbitant as it ought to be!</p> + +<p>"Now look at this, my dear Dulce," says the unobservant +Julia, holding out a strip of paper about half a yard in length +to Miss Blount, who has been ominously silent for the past +hour. "I assure you the trimmings on that dress <i>never</i> came +to that. They were meagre to the last degree; just a little +<i>suspicion</i> of lace, and a touch of velvet here and there. It is +absurd—it is a fraud. Did <i>your</i> trimmings ever come to +that?"</p> + +<p>"Don't know, I'm sure," says Dulce, impatiently; "I +never keep any accounts of my own money. I make a +<i>point</i> of not doing that. If it's spent, it's spent, you know, +and one gains nothing by thinking of it. It only shows one +how extravagant one has been, and I do so <i>hate</i> scolding +myself!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span></p> + +<p>"But, my dear child, Madame Grande <i>must</i> have made a +mistake. It is all nonsense; if you would just look it over, if +only to convince yourself. I am not unreasonable."</p> + +<p>"I won't look it over," says Miss Blount, promptly. "I +<i>hate</i> looking over things, and I hate bills, and I hate Madame +Grande, and I hate—everything."</p> + +<p>After this outburst she makes for the door, and the morning-room +knows her no more for a considerable time. Portia +looks up from her painting in some surprise, and Julia tries +to smother the thought that the final expression of hatred +should have ended in the word "<i>you</i>."</p> + +<p>In the hall outside, Dulce almost runs into Stephen's arms, +who has come up to see her very early, being in a restless +and most unsatisfactory mood. His eyes brighten and he +flushes warmly as he meets her, but she, drawing back from +him, gives him to understand by the very faintest of imperative +gestures that he is to come no nearer.</p> + +<p>"You!" she says, ungraciously.</p> + +<p>"Yes—you expected me?" This question suggests the +possibility that he fears he is not altogether welcome. She +waives it, and goes on as though she had not heard him.</p> + +<p>"Have you done what you promised?" she asks, coldly.</p> + +<p>"No, you mean—?" he hesitates.</p> + +<p>"You <i>must</i> remember. You were to tell Roger next day; +<i>this</i> (though it hardly sounds right) is next day; <i>have</i> you told +him that I have promised to marry you some time?"</p> + +<p>There is not the faintest nervousness or girlish confusion in +her tone. Stephen, watching her closely, feels a terrible despair +that threatens to overwhelm him. If only one little +blush would mantle her cheek, if for one second her beautiful, +feverishly bright eyes would droop before his! He battles +with the growing misery, and for the time being, allays it.</p> + +<p>"Not yet;" he says. Then he colors hotly, and his eyes +leaving her face seek the ground. A sense of shame betrays +itself in every feature. "It is early yet," he says, in a strange +reluctant tone; "and if—if you think it better to put it off +for a day or two, or even to let him find out for himself by +degrees—or—"</p> + +<p>"No!"—remorselessly—"he shall be told <i>now—at once!</i> +Remember all you said about him last evening. <i>I</i> have not +forgotten. What!" cries she, with sudden passion, "do you +think I will live another day believing he imagines me regretful<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span> +of my decision—cut to the heart, perhaps, that I am +no longer anything to him? I tell you no! The very +thought is intolerable."</p> + +<p>"But—"</p> + +<p>"There must be no hesitation," she says, interrupting him +with a quick gesture. "It was in our agreement that he +should be told to-day. If one part of that agreement is to be +broken, why then, let us break it all; it is not too late yet. <i>I</i> +shall not care, and perhaps it will be better if—"</p> + +<p>Her cruelty stings him into vehement declaration.</p> + +<p>"It will <i>not</i> be better," he says, wrathfully. "I will do +anything, everything, you wish, except"—bitterly—"give +you up."</p> + +<p>To him it seems a wretched certainty that it <i>is</i> her wish +<i>already</i> to break the bond formed between them but a few +short hours ago. Has she so soon repented?</p> + +<p>"Where is Roger?" he asks, turning from her, all the +lover's gladness gone from his eyes. He is looking stern and +pale, and as a man might who is determined to do that +against which his soul revolts.</p> + +<p>How shall he tell this man, who was once his dearest friend, +that he has behaved as a very traitor to him.</p> + +<p>"In the stables, no doubt," replies she, scornfully. The +change in his manner has not touched her; nay, he tells himself +it has not so much as been noticed by her.</p> + +<p>Moving abruptly away, he goes down the hall and out of +the open door, and down the stone steps across the gleaming +sunshine, and so is lost to sight.</p> + +<p>Dulce watches him until the portico outside hides him +from view, and then, walking very slowly and with bent +head, she goes in the direction of Fabian's room. She is so +absorbed in her own reflections that she hardly hears approaching +footsteps, until they are quite close to her. Looking +up, with a quick start, she finds herself face to face with +Roger.</p> + +<p>The surprise is so sudden that she has not time to change +color until she has passed him. Involuntarily she moves +more quickly, as though to escape him, but he follows her, +and standing right before her, compels her to stop and confront +him.</p> + +<p>"One moment," he says. His tone is haughty, but his +eyes are more searching than unkind. "You meant what<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span> +you said last evening?" he asks, quickly, and there is a ring +in his voice that tells her he will be glad if she can answer +him in the negative. Hearing it, she grows even paler, and +shrinks back from him.</p> + +<p>"Have I given you any reason to doubt it?" she says, +coldly.</p> + +<p>"No—certainly not." His tone has grown even haughtier. +"I wish, however, to let you know I regret anything +uncivil I may have said to you on—that is—at our last +interview."</p> + +<p>"It is too late for regrets." She says this so low that he +can scarcely hear her.</p> + +<p>"You are bent, then, upon putting an end to everything +between us?"</p> + +<p>"Yes." At this moment it seems impossible to her to +answer him in anything but a monosyllable. Her obstinacy +angers him.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps you are equally bent," he says, sneeringly, +"upon marrying Gower?"</p> + +<p>I suppose he has expected an indignant denial to this +question, because, when silence follows it, he starts, and +placing both his hands upon her shoulders, draws her deliberately +over to a side window, and stares into her downcast +face.</p> + +<p>"Speak," he says roughly. "<i>Are</i> you going to marry +him?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>The word comes with difficulty from between her pale, +dry lips.</p> + +<p>"He has asked you?"</p> + +<p>"He has."</p> + +<p>"You were engaged to him even <i>before</i> you broke off your +engagement with me?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, <i>no</i>, <span class="smcap">no</span>!"</p> + +<p>"Since when, then? Was it last evening he spoke to +you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"After you had parted from me? Sharp work, upon my +life."</p> + +<p>He laughs—a short, unmirthful laugh—and taking his +hands from her shoulders, moves back from her, yet always +with his eyes on her face.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You should be glad," she says, slowly.</p> + +<p>"No doubt. So he was your confidant—your father-confessor, +was he? All my misdemeanors were laid bare to +him. And then came pity for one linked to such an unsympathetic +soul as mine, and then naturally came what pity is +akin to! It is a pretty story. And for its hero 'mine own +familiar friend.'" He laughs again.</p> + +<p>She makes a movement as though to leave him, but he +stops her.</p> + +<p>"No, do not go yet," he says. "Let me congratulate you. +<i>Le roi est mort, vive le roi.</i> My successor, it seems, was not +difficult to find; and—By-the-by, why are you alone now? +Why is not your <i>new</i> lover by your side?"</p> + +<p>"My <i>first</i> lover—<i>not</i> my new lover," she says, bitterly, +speaking now with some spirit.</p> + +<p>"I didn't count, I suppose."</p> + +<p>"<i>You—!</i>" She draws her breath quickly, and, then, having +subdued the indignation that had almost overcome her, goes +on quietly: "you never loved me. There was never a moment +in all my knowledge of you when I could have flattered +myself with the thought that I was more to you than a +cousin."</p> + +<p>"He is very different, I suppose?" He flushes a dark +crimson as he puts this question.</p> + +<p>"Altogether—<i>utterly!</i> At least, I can tell myself, I am +to him something more than a necessary evil, a thing forced +upon him by circumstances. To <i>you</i> I was only that, and +<i>worse</i>. There were moments when I believe you <i>hated</i> +me."</p> + +<p>"We need not discuss that now," says Dare coldly. +"Where is Gower?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know; at least, I am not sure. What do you +want with him? There is no use in quarreling with him," she +says, nervously.</p> + +<p>"Why should I quarrel with any man because a woman +chooses to prefer him to me? That is her affair altogether."</p> + +<p>He walks away from her, and she, moving into the deep +embrasure of the large bow window, stands staring blankly +upon the sunlit landscape without.</p> + +<p>But presently he returns and, standing beside her, gazes out, +too, upon the flowers that are bowing and simpering as the +light wind dances over them.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I am going away this evening," he says, at length, very +gently. "It is uncertain when I shall return. Good-by."</p> + +<p>He holds out his hand, awkwardly enough, and even when, +after a momentary hesitation, she lays hers in it, hardly +presses it. Yet still, though he has paid his adieux, he lingers +there, and loiters aimlessly, as if he finds a difficulty in putting +an end to the miserable <i>tete-a-tete</i>.</p> + +<p>"You were wrong just now," he says, somewhat abruptly, +not looking at her; "there was never one second in my life +when I <i>hated</i> you; you need not have said <i>that</i>."</p> + +<p>"Where are you going?" asks she, brokenly.</p> + +<p>"I don't know. It doesn't matter. But before I go, I +want to say to you—that—that—if ever you <i>want</i> me, even +if I should be at the end of the world, <i>send</i> for me, and I +will come to you."</p> + +<p><i>Are</i> there tears in his eyes? He drops her hand, and +turning hastily away, goes down the corridor, and is beyond +recall before she can muster courage to say anything to him +kind or forgiving.</p> + +<p>Going into the yard to order the dog-cart to take him to +the station to catch the up-train, he encounters Stephen +Gower (who, by-the-by, had gone to encounter him), on his +knees before a kennel, fondling a two-months old setter pup.</p> + +<p>This pup is a baby belonging to one of Roger's favorite +setters, and is, therefore, a special pet of his.</p> + +<p>"Put that dog down," he says, insolently.</p> + +<p>"Why?" says Stephen, just as insolently.</p> + +<p>"Because petting is bad for young things, and because <i>I</i> +wish it."</p> + +<p>"Oh, nonsense!" says Stephen, rather cavalierly, continuing +his attention to the dog.</p> + +<p>"Look here," says Dare, furiously, "it has nothing to do +with the dog, you will understand—<i>nothing</i>—but I want to +tell you now what I think of you, you low, mean, contemptible—"</p> + +<p>Gower literally gasps for breath. Letting go the dog, he +rises to his feet, and coming close to Roger, says, passionately,</p> + +<p>"What do you mean by that?"</p> + +<p>"Have you not been making love to my cousin behind +my back? Deny that if you can!"</p> + +<p>"I won't deny that I love her, certainly."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Will you deny anything else? That you have acted as +few men would have done. Without honor—without—"</p> + +<p>This of course puts an end to even enforced civility; Mr. +Gower instantly and most naturally strikes out with the most +exemplary vigor, and presently these two most mistaken +young men are clasped in an embrace, warm indeed, but +hardly so loving as one might desire.</p> + +<p>How things might have ended, whether with death or only +with bloody noses, no one now can tell, because Sir Mark +Gore, coming on the scene just at this awful moment, seizes +Roger by the shoulder and by sheer force of arm and will, +forces him back from his adversary.</p> + +<p>"What do you two boys mean by this burst of insanity?" +he says, angrily. "Such an example to the young fellows in +the yard; you ought to be ashamed of yourself, Roger." +This is plainly meant for two stable boys in the distance, +who, with open mouths, are staring at the combatants, and +have been plainly enjoying themselves to the utmost.</p> + +<p>"Well, I'm not," says Roger, doggedly, who is still thirsting +for blood. "If shame should attach itself to any one, it +should be to that fellow there," pointing contemptuously to +Gower.</p> + +<p>"Well, I forbid any more of this," says Sir Mark. "Stop +it at once. It is all about that child indoors, I suppose; I +never heard of—"</p> + +<p>"At all events, I have told him what I think of him," says +Roger, panting. "Low, underhand sneak."</p> + +<p>"What?" says Stephen, fiercely, making a step forward.</p> + +<p>"I insist on knowing what it is all about," says Sir Mark, +authoritatively. "Of course, one understands a disgraceful +scene like this <i>always</i> means a woman, but <i>is</i> it Dulce?"</p> + +<p>"To come here under the guise of friendship and deliberately +make love to the girl to whom he <i>knew</i> I was engaged; +was there ever such treachery since the world began?" says +Roger. "Would any fellow, with any claim to the word +gentleman, do that? Now, I leave it to you, Gore?"</p> + +<p>"My dear fellow, you must remember it is apparent to +everybody that <i>you</i> don't want her," says Sir Mark, taking +Stephen's part, though in his soul he is on Roger's side. +"Would you act the part of the dog in the manger? You +don't affect her yourself, yet nobody else must look at her. +She has found out, I <i>suppose</i>, that she prefers some one else<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span> +to you. Women, as a rule, will choose for themselves, and +who shall blame them! When, later on, you choose for +yourself too, you will be very grateful to her and Stephen +for this hour. Just now self-love is disagreeing with you. If +I were you I should clear out of this for a bit."</p> + +<p>"Oh? as for <i>that</i>, I'm going," says Roger; "but I'm glad +I have had a chance of speaking to him before I go; he +undermined me, and poisoned her mind with regard to me +from first to last. I wasn't <i>quite</i> blind, though I said nothing. +He spoke evilly of me behind my back, I have no doubt, +and maligned me most falsely when there was a chance; a +more blackguardly transaction—"</p> + +<p>"You shall answer to me for this," says Gower, in a white +rage; "you have lied in your statement from beginning to +end."</p> + +<p>"No one shall answer for anything," says Sir Mark, +promptly; "I won't hear of it. Are you both gentlemen! +and to dream of dragging a woman's name into a scandalous +quarrel of this kind? For shame! Take my advice, Roger, +and go abroad, or to the—or anywhere you like for a month +or two, and see what that will do for you. You know you +are only trying to make a grievance out of nothing; you never +<i>really</i> cared for her, as a man should for his wife." Sir +Mark's eyes sadden as he says this, and an irrepressible sigh +escapes him; is he thinking of the time when he could have +cared for a woman with all his heart and soul?</p> + +<p>"No, of course not; you and she and all are quite agreed +about <i>that</i>," says Roger, bitterly.</p> + +<p>"My good boy, all your world knows it," says Sir Mark, +persistently.</p> + +<p>"My world is wiser than even <i>I</i> gave it credit for," says +Roger, sneeringly. But there is a sob in his voice as he +turns away that sends a pang through Sir Mark's heart. +What has happened? Have they all been mistaken, then? +Even have the principal actors in this small drama been +blind until now, when the awakening has come too late.</p> + +<p>Without another word to Stephen, Sir Mark goes slowly +indoors, and, passing through the hall, meets Portia coming +toward him, a troubled expression in her large sad eyes.</p> + +<p>"What is it, Mark?" she says, laying her hand on his arm, +"Something has happened to Dulce; she is lying on her +bed, and will not speak to me or any one. Has she really +quarreled finally with Roger?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh, it is worse than that," says Gore, with something +that is almost a groan.</p> + +<p>"It can't be true that she has thrown him over for Mr. +Gower?" says Portia, recoiling.</p> + +<p>"One never knows what a woman will do," says Mark, +gloomily, "I think she has."</p> + +<p>"But what is it all about? How did it begin?"</p> + +<p>"With a chocolate cream," says Sir Mark, sententiously. +"I assure you, my dear Portia, for the sake of a paltry box +of bon-bons she has sacrificed the entire happiness of her +life!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XVIII.</h2> + +<div class='poem'> +"The firste vertue, sone, if thou wilt lerne,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Is to restreine, and kepen wel thy tonge."</span><br /> +<div class='sig'>—<span class="smcap">The Manciple's Tale—Chaucer.</span></div><br /> +</div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> days have grown shorter and shorter. Daylight now +is to be prized, not sported with, as in the gay and happy +Summer. "The inaudible and noiseless foot of Time" has +carried us from "Golden September" to bleakest Winter, +and into that month which claims Christmas for its own.</p> + +<p>At the hall, everything is very much the same as it was +when last we saw it, if we except the fact that Roger is absent. +He is abroad; <i>so</i> much abroad, indeed, that nobody +knows where he is. A week after his departure he had written +to Sir Christopher, and the week after that again to Mark +Gore; but, beyond these two meagre attempts at correspondence, +no news has been heard of him. Whether, as +Mr. Browne has elegantly expressed it, "he is up the Nile, or +up the Spout," is a matter of speculation.</p> + +<p>Sir Christopher is looking a little older, a little graver. +He is not so testy as of yore, a change that fills Dulce's heart +with misgivings. That he has fretted greatly over her broken +engagement with Roger (who is to the old Baronet as dear +as his own son should have been, and second only to Fabian +in his affections) she well knows; she well knows, too, how +magnanimously—to please her—he has tried to be civil to +Stephen Gower, and to welcome him with cordiality as his +future nephew. But the effort to do all this has aged and +saddened him; and from time to time his mind wanders<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span> +restlessly to the young man who left his home full of anger +and indignant grief.</p> + +<p>As for Stephen, living in his "Fool's Paradise, he drinks +delight," nor heeds how false is all the happiness that seems +to surround him. Bitter is the fruit he feeds on, though he +will not acknowledge it even to himself; and, looking on his +dainty lady-love, he is still happy, and content to bear all +things, and suffer all things, for the few grains of adulterated +sweetness doled out by her every now and then with a niggard +hand. He will see no cloud on his horizon, although +it sits there heavily; nor will he notice aught but what is good +and lovable in this girl, upon whom he has centred all his +dearest hopes.</p> + +<p>For the rest, there has been but little change amongst +them. Julia Beaufort and the children had gone away for a +month, but returned to the Hall a fortnight ago, and are +now—that is, the children, at all events—anxiously awaiting +Christmas Day with all its affectations of gaiety and goodwill, +and its hideous paddings.</p> + +<p>Sir Mark did pretty much the same as Julia. He went +away, too, and came back again, thus filling up the measure +of his days. Mr. Browne had declined to stir for any pretense +whatever, and has been enjoying himself to the utmost, +now at Portia's feet, now at Dulce's, and, when all things +fail, at Julia's.</p> + +<p>Perhaps to Fabian the days have seemed longest. He is +silent, cold, self-contained as ever; but now there is something +else, a settled melancholy, that yet has in it a mixture +of extreme pride, that forbids any approach to it; a melancholy +born of despair, and the knowledge that there is laid +upon him "a burden greater than he can bear."</p> + +<p>"Time, the subtle thief of youth," is stealing from him +his best years; his life is going, and with it all chance of joy +and gladness. Ever since that memorable evening in the +garden, after the ball, a strange reserve has arisen between +him and Portia. That morning, as the soft pink dawn came +up from behind the hills—when passion, pale but triumphant, +had held full sway—has never been forgiven by either. +A sense of terror has possessed Portia ever since—the knowledge +of a danger barely overcome; and with him there has +been the memory of pain, and terrible self-restraint that has +scathed him as it passed him by. And withal a settled coldness<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span> +has fallen upon them, the greater because of the weakness +that had characterised the hour of which I write.</p> + +<p>He does not condemn her, but in his heart he does not +forgive her want of faith, her almost openly avowed distrust. +Of his own will he never lets his eyes rest upon the fair +beauty of her face, and turns aside when unlucky chance +has flung him in her path.</p> + +<p>And she—a contempt for her own want of self-control, +together with the miserable knowledge that her heart is irrevocably +his, has rendered her almost repellent in her manner +toward him. When he is near, her eyelids droop, her +lips take a harder curve, she is dumb, silent, unsympathetic; +and yet when he is gone, when the door has closed behind +him, the fever of her blood runs high, and but for social +training, she would gladly rise, and, in spite of all things, +call to him and implore him to return to her side once more.</p> + +<p>To a casual observer, of course, all this is not apparent; +but to these two, between whom Fate sits relentless, the pain +and sorrow of it is deep and cruel. More deep, more sorrowful +for him, of course. His whole life is a ruin; he had +thought of many things when first the blight fell upon him; +but that he should fall in love, and because of this curse that +has blasted his best days, should be compelled to turn aside +from the love of his heart, had not occurred to him. His life +has grown too bitter to be borne with fortitude, almost he is +"half in love with easeful death." Oh, the joy—the rapture! +to pass away from all the tortures of this "work-a-day world" +to a land unknown, but surely full of rest. To die—to disappear! +To court a glad forgetfulness! In this alone lies +hope, and, that sweetest of all sweet things, indifference.</p> + +<p>Not coward enough to compel death, he still longs for it; +he would slip away from all and sink into oblivion, and gladly +deem himself and his sad history forgotten. "To cease upon +the midnight with no pain?" What sweeter, kinder fate could +visit him than that for which <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'Keates'">Keats</ins> longed—not vainly.</p> + +<p>Into his life, too, some smaller worries are thrown. The +old man Slyme, the secretary, has been going rapidly from +bad to worse, of late. His intemperate habits are growing on +him, and now seldom comes the day when he is not discovered +to be unfit for duty of any kind.</p> + +<p>Naturally such conduct incenses Sir Christopher to the last +degree. The old man has been for years in his service, but<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span> +time wears out all things, and even regard and use can be +forgotten. Fabian, falling into the breach, seeks to mend it, +although Slyme has never been a favorite of his, and although +he is fully aware that he is very distasteful to the secretary for +reasons unknown; still he pleads his cause, principally because +the man is old and friendless; and this, too, he does secretly, +the secretary being ignorant of the force brought to bear +upon his delinquencies, a force that keeps a roof over his +head, and leaves him a competence without which the world +would be a barren spot to him indeed, with only the poor-house—that +most degrading of all places—to which to turn.</p> + +<p>To-day is melancholy, cold and bleak. The winds are +sighing; the earth is bare and naked; no vestige of a fresh +and coming life can yet be seen. Upon the gray sands, far +away, the white waves dash themselves tumultuously, the sea +birds shriek, and, "blasting keen and loud, roll the white +surges to the sounding shore."</p> + +<p>Indoors there is warmth and comfort. Julia, sitting over +the fire, finding she cannot get Dulce to gossip with—Dulce, +indeed, is not come-at-able of late—turns gratefully to Portia, +who happens to come into the room at this moment.</p> + +<p>"The fire is the only delicious thing in the house," she +says, fretfully. "<i>Do</i> come here and enjoy it with me."</p> + +<p>"Anything the matter with you?" asks Portia, gently, +seating herself on a low lounging chair at her side.</p> + +<p>"Oh! nothing, nothing. But Dulce is very strange of late, +is she not? Ever since Roger's going, don't you think? And +all that affair was quite absurd, according to my lights. +Stephen won't suit her half as well. Fancy any woman throwing +over the man she likes, for a mere chimera. Wrecking +her entire happiness for the sake of a chocolate cream!"</p> + +<p>"It sounds absurd," says Portia; "but I cannot believe +such a paltry thing as that has separated them. There must +have been something else."</p> + +<p>"Well, perhaps so. Sir Christopher, one can see, is very +distressed about it. He is unfortunate about them all, is he +not? poor old man. Fabian's affair was so wretched, so unlooked +for, too," says Julia, in the comfortably gossiping +tone one knows so well, drawing her chair a little nearer +to the fire. "I can't think what could have tempted him to +do it."</p> + +<p>Portia turns abruptly toward her.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Do you, too, question his innocence?" she says, her breath +coming quickly.</p> + +<p>"Well—er—you see one doesn't like to talk about it," says +Mrs. Beaufort with a faint yawn. "It seems pleasanter to +look upon him as a suffering angel, but there are some who +don't believe in him you know. Do come closer to the fire, +Portia, and let us have a good chat."</p> + +<p>"Go on," says Portia, "you were talking of Fabian, you +were saying—"</p> + +<p>"Yes, just so. Was I uncharitable? It doesn't make him +a bit the worse in my eyes, you know, not a bit. It is all +done and over years ago, and why remember nasty things. +Really, do you know, Portia—it may be horrid of me—but +really I think the whole story only makes him a degree more +interesting."</p> + +<p>Portia shivers, and ignores this suggestion.</p> + +<p>"Do other people doubt him, too?" she asks in a strangely +cold tone. Though she may disbelieve in him herself, yet it +is agony to her that others should do the same.</p> + +<p>"My dear, yes, of course; a great many; in fact, pretty +nearly everybody but just those you see here—Sir Mark +excepted, I think, and then Dicky Browne. But Dicky +hasn't enough brains to believe or disbelieve in anybody."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" says Portia. She leans back in her chair, and holds +up a fan between her and the fire and Julia. She can hardly +analyze her own thoughts; but, even at this moment, when +all her finest feelings are ajar, she tells herself that surely—surely +she cordially detests Julia Beaufort. She tells herself, +too, that she loves Mark Gore.</p> + +<p>"You see, in your doubt of him, you are not a solitary +exception," says Julia, with elephantine playfulness. +"Others think with you. It is the plainest case in the world, +I think. I don't blame you."</p> + +<p>"How do you know I <i>do</i> doubt him?" asks Portia, suddenly, +turning her large eyes upon her, that are glittering in +the firelight. At this Julia recoils a little and looks somewhat +uncomfortable.</p> + +<p>"Your voice, your manner, led me to believe so," she +says, slowly, and with hesitation. "If you don't, of course +it is so much to your credit."</p> + +<p>"You mean—" asks Portia.</p> + +<p>"Well, his whole bearing would preclude the thought of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span> +dishonor of any kind," says Julia, boldly, and with the utmost +effrontery, considering all she had said a moment since. +"Suspicion could hardly rest with such a man as Fabian. Of +course, the whole thing is a wretched mistake, that will be +cleared up sooner or later, let us hope sooner, as surely he +has suffered enough already, poor dear fellow!"</p> + +<p>She pauses; Portia puzzled, and secretly indignant, says +nothing. Seeing she will not speak, Julia goes on again even +more impressively than before.</p> + +<p>"I never entertained a shadow of a doubt with regard to +him," she says, nobly, "never! Who could? I was always +one of his very warmest supporters."</p> + +<p>This is too much! Portia murmuring something civil, but +distinct, rises abruptly, and, going to the door, opens it, and +is soon beyond call, and beyond hearing of the voice that +has grown hateful to her.</p> + +<p>Just at this moment, Julia's absurd shufflings, and equivocations, +and barefaced changes from one asseveration to +another fill her with wrath. She is distressed, and at war +with her own heart; and so, crossing the hall, makes for the +one room that is especially dear to all <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'woman'">women</ins> when in trouble, +namely, her own bedroom.</p> + +<p>But passing by Dulce's door, and finding it open, she +pauses before it, and finally, after some hesitation, she crosses +the threshold only to find it empty.</p> + +<p>The fire is burning brightly; a little crushed glove lies +upon the hearth-rug, showing how its owner but lately had +knelt before the fire, or stood near it to gaze into its depths, +and call up fancied faces from its coals.</p> + +<p>A little low chair attracts her attention; sinking into it, +she lets her chin fall into the palm of her hands, and presently +is lost in painful and half-angry reflection.</p> + +<p>"Pretty nearly everybody." The words ring in her ears; +does the whole county, then, look upon Fabian with averted +eyes? And perhaps—who knows—the very people beneath +the roof may distrust him, too; she had not known until this +evening Julia's private opinion; the others may agree with +her, but naturally shrink from saying so. Roger, perhaps, +believed him guilty; and Dicky Browne, it may be, in his +secret soul, regards him with contempt, and Sir Mark—</p> + +<p>No, <i>not</i> Sir Mark! She could not mistake him. However +foolish it may be, certainly his belief in Fabian is genuine.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span> +And somehow of late, she has grown rather fond of +Sir Mark; and here she sighs, and laying her hand upon her +heart, presses it convulsively against it as though to still the +pain that has sprung into life there, because of the agitation +that has been hers for the past half hour.</p> + +<p>Dulce, coming up-stairs, presently, finds her still sitting +over the fire, in an attitude that betokens the very deepest +dejection.</p> + +<p>"You here, <i>très chère</i>, and alone," she says, gaily, stooping +over her in caressing fashion. "Naughty girl. You +should have told me you were going to honor me with your +presence, and I would have made my room gay to receive +you."</p> + +<p>"I don't want you to make a stranger of me. I like your +room as it is," says Portia, with a smile.</p> + +<p>"Well, don't sit crouching over the fire; it will spoil your +complexion; come over to the window and see what the +storm has done, and how lovely nature can look even when +robed in Winter's garb."</p> + +<p>Portia, rising, follows her to the window, but as she reaches +it she sinks again wearily into a lounging chair, with all the +air of one whose limbs refuse obstinately to support her.</p> + +<p>As both girls gaze out upon the chilly landscape, white +here and there with the snow that fell last night, Fabian, +coming from between the dark green branches of an ancient +lauristinus, with two red setters at his heels, and a gun upon +his shoulder, passes beneath the window, going in the direction +of the home wood.</p> + +<p>Leaning forward, Dulce taps lightly on the pane, and Fabian, +heating the quick sound, stops short, and lifts his eyes +to the window. As he sees his pretty sister, he nods to her, +and a bright smile creeps round his lips, rendering his always +handsome face actually beautiful for the moment.</p> + +<p>Only for a moment; his gaze wandering, instinctively, +falls on Portia, standing pale and calm beside her cousin. +Their eyes meet, and, as if by magic, the smile dies, his lips +grow straight and cold again, and, without another glance, +he whistles to his dogs, and, turning the corner, is rapidly out +of sight.</p> + +<p>"Dear Fabian—poor darling," says Dulce, tenderly, who +has noticed only the kindly smile vouchsafed to her. "How +sad he always looks. Even his smile is more mournful than<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span> +the tears of others. What a terrible pressure Fate has laid +upon him. He——; how pale you are, Portia! What is it, +dearest? I am sure you are not well to-day."</p> + +<p>"I am quite well. I am only cold; go on," speaking with +some difficulty; "you were saying something about—Fabian."</p> + +<p>"I <i>think</i> so much of him that it is a relief to talk sometimes; +but I won't make you doleful. Come over to the fire +if you are cold."</p> + +<p>"No, I like being here; and—do go on, I like listening to +you."</p> + +<p>"Well, I wasn't going to say anything very particular, you +know. It has all been said so often. <i>So</i> often, and to no +use. What a little thing, Portia, gives rise to the most terrible +consequences; the mere fact that two people wrote alike, +and formed their capitals in the same fashion, has been the +utter ruin of a man's life. It sounds dreadful—cruel! sometimes—<i>often</i>—I +lie awake thinking of it all, and wondering +can nothing be done, and no hope ever comes to me. That +is the saddest part of it, it will go on like this forever, he will +go to his grave," mournfully, "and his very memory will be +associated with disgrace."</p> + +<p>She pauses and sighs heavily, and folds her fingers tightly +together. Not Stephen, nor Roger, but this dishonored +brother, is the love of her life—as yet.</p> + +<p>"Of course you heard a good deal about it in town," she +says, sadly. "He had many friends there at one time. Fair-weather +friends! They, as a rule, are cruellest when evil +comes; and they never remember. You heard him often +discussed?"</p> + +<p>This is a downright question to which Portia is constrained +to give an answer.</p> + +<p>"Yes; often," she says, sorely against her will.</p> + +<p>"Aunt Maud would enlarge upon it, of course," says +Dulce, bitterly. "She likes whisperings and slanderous +tongues. And you, when first you heard it, what did you +think?"</p> + +<p>Portia shrinks from her. Must she answer this question, +too?</p> + +<p>"Think?" she says, evasively.</p> + +<p>"Yes; what did you think of Fabian?"</p> + +<p>"Very little," says Portia, who has grown quite white;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span> +"why should I think at all? I did not know him then. It +was most natural, was it not? He was a stranger to me."</p> + +<p>"A stranger, yes. But still your cousin—your own blood. +I should have thought much, I think. It was natural, I daresay, +but even <i>then</i>—you must recollect—did you believe in +him? Did you guess the truth?"</p> + +<p>"I don't think I quite understand," said Portia, faintly.</p> + +<p>Dulce, in a vague fashion, takes note of her confusion.</p> + +<p>"Not understand! But it is such a simple matter," she +says, in a changed tone. She looks puzzled, surprised, and a +distressed look comes into her eyes. "I mean even <i>then</i>, +did you believe him innocent?"</p> + +<p>"How can I remember?" says Portia, drawing her breath +quickly.</p> + +<p>The distrust grows upon Dulce's tell-tale face. She comes +a step nearer to her cousin.</p> + +<p>"No," she says, slowly—her eyes are fixed attentively +upon Portia—"it is some time ago. But you can at least +tell me <i>this</i>. Now—<i>now</i>—that you know him—when you +have been beneath the same roof with him for some months, +how is it with you? You <i>feel</i> that he is innocent?"</p> + +<p>There is a terrible amount of almost agonized earnestness +in her tone.</p> + +<p>"How you catechise one," says Portia, with a painfully +bald attempt at indifference that does not impose upon the +slowly awakening suspicions of the other for one instant. +"Let us change the subject."</p> + +<p>"In one moment. I want an answer to my question first. +Now that you have seen and known Fabian, do you believe +him innocent?"</p> + +<p>A most fatal silence follows. Had the question referred to +any one else—had even any one else asked the question, +she might have evaded it successfully, or even condescended +to an actual misstatement of her real thoughts on the subject +rather than give pain or be guilty of a social error. She +would, in all probability, have smiled and said, "Yes, oh! +yes; one must see that he is incapable of such an act," and +so on. But just now she seems tongue-tied, unable to say +one word to allay her companion's fears. A strange sense of +oppression that weighs upon her breast grows heavier and +more insupportable at each moment, and Dulce's great<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span> +gleaming eyes of blackest gray are reading her very soul, +and scorching her with their reproachful fire.</p> + +<p>"Speak," she cries at last, in a vehement tone, laying her +hand on Portia's arm, and holding her with unconscious +force. "Say—say," with a miserable attempt at entreaty, +and a cruel sob, "that you do not believe him guilty of this +cursed thing."</p> + +<p>Portia's lips are so dry and parched that they absolutely +refuse to give utterance to any words. In vain she tries to +conquer the deadness that is overpowering her, but without +avail. She lifts her eyes beseechingly, and then grows literally +afraid of the girl leaning over her, so intense and bitter is the +hatred and scorn that mar the beauty of her usually fair, +childish face.</p> + +<p>This upward, nervous glance, breaks the spell of silence, +and gives voice to Dulce's wrath. It does more, it betrays +to her the truth—the bitter fact—that in Portia's eyes her +brother—her beloved—is neither more nor less than a successful +criminal.</p> + +<p>"No, do not trouble yourself to answer me," she says, in +cold, cutting tones. "I want no lies, no pretty speeches. I +thank you, at least, that you have spared me those. In your +soul—I can see—you think him guilty of this shameful deed. +Oh! it is horrible!" She covers her face with both her +hands, and sways a little, as one might, who is, indeed, hurt +to death. "And you, too," she says, faintly; "the only one +of all our <i>friends</i>. And I so trusted you. I so <i>loved</i> you!"</p> + +<p>"Dulce!" cries poor Portia, in an agonized tone. "Hear +me!" She springs to her feet, but Dulce, removing her +hands from her face, holds them both towards her in such a +repellant manner, that she dares not approach. In the last +half hour, this girl, so pliant, so prone to laughter and childish +petulance, has sprung from the happy insolence of youth +into the sad gravity of womanhood.</p> + +<p>"What a fool I was," she says, in a low concentrated tone. +"I watched all, and I was so <i>sure</i>. I thought—the idea will +make you laugh, no doubt—but I thought that you <i>loved</i> +him. Yet why should you laugh," she says with a sudden +passion of remembrance. "Many women have loved him, +the best, the loveliest—nay, all the world loved him, till this +false blight fell upon him. And even since—"</p> + +<p>She hesitates. It may be emotion, it may be recollection<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span> +and a thought that he may not wish further disclosures, check +her.</p> + +<p>"Yes, and even since?" echoes Portia, bending eagerly +forward. Some feeling even greater than the anguish of the +moment compels her to ask the question. But it is never +answered. Dulce, with quivering lips and flashing eyes, +follows out her own train of thought.</p> + +<p>"I congratulate you upon your complete success as a coquette," +she says. "No doubt, a London season can develop +talents of that sort. You at least deserve praise as an +apt pupil. Step by step, day by day, you led him on to his +destruction—nay, I am not blind—until at last he laid his +whole heart at your feet; you made him adore you only +to—"</p> + +<p>"Dulce—Dulce," cries Portia, throwing out her arms in +passionate protest. "It is not true, I—"</p> + +<p>"I <i>will</i> speak," says Dulce, pressing her back from her, +"I <i>will</i> tell you what I think of you. Scorning him in your +heart you still encouraged him, until his very soul was your +own. Do you think I can't see how it is? Have you forgotten +he is my own flesh and blood, and that I can read +him as no one else can? He thinks you sweet and noble, +and perfect, no doubt. Alas! how he has been deceived!"</p> + +<p>"Listen to me."</p> + +<p>"No, I will not listen. I have trusted you too far already. +Oh!" piteously, "you who have seen him, and have noticed +the beauty, the sweetness of his life, how could you have misjudged +him? But," with vehement anger, "your narrow +mind could not appreciate his! You lack generosity. You +could not grasp the fact that there might be in this wide +world such a thing as undiscovered wrong. You condemned +without a hearing. Why," growing calmer, "there have been +<i>hundreds</i> of cases where the innocent have suffered for the +guilty."</p> + +<p>"I know it," says Portia, feverishly, taking Dulce's hand +and trying to draw her towards her; but the girl recoils.</p> + +<p>"Do not touch me," she says. "There is no longer any +friendship between us."</p> + +<p>"Oh! Dulce, do not say that," entreats Portia, painfully.</p> + +<p>"I will say it. All is at an end as far as love between us +is concerned. Fabian is part of me. I cannot separate myself +from him. His friends are mine. His detractors are<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span> +mine also. I will not forgive them. I believe him a saint, +you believe him defiled, and tainted with the crime of +<i>forgery</i>."</p> + +<p>She draws her breath quickly; and Portia turns even +whiter than before.</p> + +<p>"Whereas I protest to you," goes on Dulce, rapidly losing +all constraint, and letting her only half-suppressed passion +have full sway. "I believe you to be less pure than him, less +noble, less self-denying; <i>he</i> would be slow to believe evil of +anyone. And this one thing I am resolved on. He shall no +longer be left in ignorance of your scorn; he shall not any +more spend his affection upon one who regards him with +disdain; he shall know the truth before the day dies."</p> + +<p>"Have you no pity?" says Portia, faintly.</p> + +<p>"Have you none? You condemned him willingly."</p> + +<p>"Oh! not willingly!"</p> + +<p>"I don't care, you <i>have</i> condemned him."</p> + +<p>"If you will only think, you will see—"</p> + +<p>"Don't speak to me, I <i>hate</i> you," says Miss Blount, growling +undignified because of her deep grief and agitation. +"And don't think you can turn me from my purpose. I +shall tell him what you think of him before this evening +passes, be sure of that."</p> + +<p>"There is no need to tell him," says Portia, in so low a +tone that Dulce can scarcely hear her. "He—he knows +already!"</p> + +<p>"What!" cries Dulce, aghast. But her rout only lasts for +a moment. "I don't care," she says, recklessly, "that is only +another reason why I should warn him to beware of you!"</p> + +<p>Then, as though some cruel thought strikes her, she suddenly +bursts into tears.</p> + +<p>"Were there not <i>others?</i>" she sobs, bitterly. "If a slave +was indispensable to your happiness, was there not Roger, or +Stephen, or Dicky Browne, or even Sir Mark, that you must +needs claim <i>him?</i> He was heart-whole when you came; if +not happy, he had at least conquered the first awful pain; +could there be greater wickedness than to add another grief +to his life? He had suffered as no man ever yet suffered, +and yet you came to add another pang, and to destroy him, +body and soul! When I think of it all, and the deliberate +cruelty of it," cries she, with a gesture of uncontrollable passion, +"if I could lay you dead at my feet this moment by +a word I would do it!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I wish you could do it," says Portia, quite calmly. The +terrible grief of the poor child before her is almost more than +she can bear. Her calmness that is born of despair, brings +Dulce back to something that resembles quietude.</p> + +<p>"I shall go now," she says; "you have had enough of me, +no doubt; but remember I shall tell Fabian all that has +passed. I warn you of this, honestly."</p> + +<p>She moves towards the door. There is a moment's <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'hesitatien'">hesitation</ins>, +and then Portia intercepts her, and placing her back +against the door to bar egress, she says, in slow, determined +tones:</p> + +<p>"You shall tell him nothing. You shall not leave this +room until you promise to keep secret all that has passed +here. Do you understand?—you are to tell him <i>nothing</i>."</p> + +<p>"Oh! yes, I shall," says Miss Blount, contemptuously, +knowing herself much the stronger of the two. "And even +sooner than I first intended. I shall go to meet him on his +return from the wood, and tell him then."</p> + +<p>She turns back; and, crossing the room again, goes towards +another door; that opening discloses a large closet beyond, +in which many dresses and other articles of feminine attire +are hanging, like so many Blue Beard's wives. A little window, +lattice-paned, illumines this tiny chamber.</p> + +<p>Portia following her, lays her hand upon her arm. She has +changed her tone completely, from command to entreaty.</p> + +<p>"<i>Do</i> not speak to Fabian of this," she says. "Do not let +him think we two have discussed the wretched subject."</p> + +<p>"I shall tell him precisely what has happened," says Dulce, +unsoftened. "That you think him nothing less than a common +<i>felon</i>."</p> + +<p>"Oh! do not put it into language," says Portia, sharp pain +in her voice; she puts up her hands as she speaks, as, though +to ward off a blow. "And I implore you, as you <i>love</i> him, to +let things rest as they are."</p> + +<p>"And so to give you scope to practise your wiles without +hindrance," says Dulce, with a short, unlovely laugh. "No, +I shall try my very utmost to lower you in his esteem, and so +kill his fatal infatuation for you."</p> + +<p>"You will fail," says Portia, hopelessly. "You will only +succeed in hurting him."</p> + +<p>"How sure you are of your power," says Dulce, angrily. +"Yet I will not be disheartened. I will save him if I can."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You are quite determined?"</p> + +<p>"Quite."</p> + +<p>"You will go now to meet him, <i>now</i> when your anger is +hot, and say to him what will surely grieve or wound him?"</p> + +<p>"Let us talk sense," says Dulce, impatiently. "I shall +simply warn him to have nothing more to do with a woman +who looks upon him with scorn and contempt."</p> + +<p>As she speaks she enters the closet that is nothing more +than a big wardrobe, and, as she does so, Portia, quick as +thought follows her, and, closing the door behind her, turns +the key in the lock.</p> + +<p>"You shall stay there until you promise me to tell nothing +of this hour's conversation to Fabian," she says, with determination.</p> + +<p>"Then I shall probably stay here forever," replies Dulce +from within, with equal determination.</p> + +<p>Portia going over to the fire seats herself by it. Dulce +going to the latticed window inside seats herself by <i>it</i>. An +hour goes by. The little clock up over the mantelpiece +chimes five. A gun is fired off in the growing dark outside. +There is a sound as of many voices in the hall far down below. +A laugh that belongs to Dicky Browne floats upwards, +and makes itself heard in the curious stillness of the room +above where the jailer sits guarding her prisoner.</p> + +<p>Then Portia, rising, goes to the door of the condemned +cell, and speaks as follows:</p> + +<p>"Dulce."</p> + +<p>There is no answer.</p> + +<p>"Dulce; you are unwise not to answer me."</p> + +<p>Still no answer; whereupon Portia, going back to the fire, +lets another half hour pass in silence. Then she says, "Dulce!" +again, and again receives no reply.</p> + +<p>Time flies!—and now at last the dressing bell rings loud +and clear through the house, warning the inmates that the +best time in the day draws on apace.</p> + +<p>"Dulce," says Portia, in despair, rising for the third time. +To tell the truth, she is growing a little frightened at the persistent +silence, and begins to wonder nervously if Dulce +could get smothered in the small room, because of all the +clothes that surround her.</p> + +<p>"Dulce! <i>will</i> you promise?" she says. And now, to her +relief, even though the words that come are unfavorable, +Dulce answers.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Never. Not if I stayed here till Doomsday," says Miss +Blount, in uncompromising tones, and quite as unconcernedly +as if she was sitting in the room outside instead of having +been ignominiously incarcerated for the last two hours. +"The very moment you open the door, I shall go down-stairs +and tell him everything."</p> + +<p>"Then I won't let you out," says Portia, feebly, because +she knows that soon dinner will come, and then she <i>must</i> let +her out willy-nilly.</p> + +<p>"I didn't ask you," says the rebel. "Dress yourself now, +I would advise you, and go down to dinner. I hope you will +enjoy it. When they make inquiries about my non-appearance, +I should think you will have to explain it later on."</p> + +<p>"Come out," says Portia, with a sigh of utter weariness; +and then she opens the door and the incarcerated one steps +forth, and sails past her with the air of a haughty queen, and +with an unlowered crest.</p> + +<p>Miss Vibart is vanquished. Even to her own soul she confesses +so much. Dulce, passing her in dignified silence, goes +toward the bedroom that opens off the boudoir, where they +have been carrying on this most civil (or rather <i>un</i>civil) +war, and entering it, closes the door, and fastens it with unmistakable +firmness behind her.</p> + +<p>Conquered and subdued, and sick at heart, Portia traverses +the corridor that divides her room from Dulce's, and prepares +with languid interest to make her dinner toilette.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XIX.</h2> + +<div class='poem'> +"We must live our lives, though the sun be set,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Must meet in the masque, where parts we play,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Must cross in the maze of Life's minuet;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Our yea is yea, and our nay is nay:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">But while snows of Winter or flowers of May,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Are the sad years' shroud or coronet,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">In the season of rose or of violet,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">I shall never forget till my dying day!"</span><br /> +<div class='sig'><span class="smcap">A. Lang.</span></div><br /> +</div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dinner</span> to-night, so far as Dulce and Portia are concerned, +is gone through in utter silence. Not a word escapes either. +To Portia, even to say yes or no to the butler, is a wearying +of the flesh; to Dulce, it is an open annoyance. Their positive +determination to enter into no conversation might have +been observed sooner or later by somebody, but for Dicky +Browne. He talks for everybody, and is, indeed, in such a +genial mood, that their unusual silence passes unnoticed.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span></p> + +<p>Fabian, too, for a wonder, has risen above his usual taciturnity +and is almost talkative. A change so delightful to +Sir Christopher, that he, in his turn, brightens up, and grows +more festive than he has been for many a day. In fact, for +all but the two girls, the dinner may be counted a distinct +success.</p> + +<p>Portia, who is dressed in filmy black, is looking white and +nervous, and has in her eyes an intense wrapt expression, such +as one might have whose nerves are all unstrung, and who is +in momentary expectation of something unpleasant, that may +or may not happen. Dulce on the contrary is flushed and +angry. Her eyes are brilliant, and round her generally soft +lips lies a touch of determination foreign to them, and hardly +becoming.</p> + +<p>Presently dinner comes to an end, and then the three +women rise and rustle away toward the drawing-room, where +follows a dreary half hour, indeed.</p> + +<p>Julia, who is always drowsy after her claret, sinks complacently +into the embrace of the cosiest arm-chair she can +find, and under pretence of saving her priceless complexion +(it really does cost a good deal) from the fire, drops into a +gentle slumber behind her fan.</p> + +<p>This makes things even harder for Portia and Dulce. I +need hardly say they are not on speaking terms—that has +explained itself, I hope. Thrown now, therefore, upon their +own resources, they look anxiously around for a chance of +mitigating the awkwardness of the situation that has thrust +itself upon them.</p> + +<p>At such trying moments as these how blessed is the society +of children. Even crusty old bachelors, educated to the belief +that the young and innocent are only one gigantic +fraud, have been known on occasions like the present to bestow +upon them a careful, not to say artful, attention.</p> + +<p>To-night, Portia, Jacky and the Boodie are having it all +their own way. "Quite a bully time, don't you know," says +Master Jacky, later, to the all-suffering nurse, whose duty it is +to look after them and put them to bed. They are talked +to and caressed and made much of by both girls, to their excessive +surprise; surprise that later on mounts to distrust.</p> + +<p>"Why may I have this album to-night when I <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'mighn't'">mightn't</ins> <i>last</i> +night?" asks the Boodie, shrewdly, her big sapphire eyes bigger +than usual. "You scolded me about it last night, and every<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span> +other time I touched it. And what's the matter with your +eyes?" staring up at Portia, who has turned a page in the forbidden +album, and is now gazing at a portrait of Fabian that +is smiling calmly up at her.</p> + +<p>It is a portrait taken in that happy time when all the world +was fair to him, and when no "little rift" had come to make +mute the music of his life. Portia is gazing at it intently. +She has forgotten the child—the book—everything, even the +fear of observation, and her eyes are heavy with unshed tears, +and her hands are trembling.</p> + +<p>Then the child's questioning voice comes to her; across +the bridge of past years she has been vainly trying to travel, +and perforce she gives up her impossible journey, and returns +to the sure but sorry present.</p> + +<p>Involuntarily she tightens her hand upon the Boodie's. +There is entreaty in her pressure, and the child (children, as +a rule, are very sympathetic), after a second stare at her, +shorter than the first, understands, in a vague fashion, that +silence is implored of her, and makes no further attempts at +investigation.</p> + +<p>After a little while the men come; all except Fabian. +Their entrance is a relief to the girls, whatever it may be to +Julia. She rouses herself by a supreme effort to meet the +exigencies of the moment, and really succeeds in looking +quite as if she has not been in the land of Nod for the past +sweet thirty minutes.</p> + +<p>"You have broken in upon a really delicious little bit of +gossip," she says to Sir Mark, coquettishly; whereupon Sir +Mark, as in duty bound, entreats her to retail it again to him.</p> + +<p>She doesn't.</p> + +<p>"I hope you have been miserable without us," says Dicky +Browne, sinking into a chair beside Portia, and lifting the +Boodie on to his knee. (It would be impossible to Dicky +Browne to see a child anywhere without lifting it on to his +knee). "We've been wretched in the dining-room; we +thought Sir Christopher would never tip us the wink—I +mean," correcting himself with assumed confusion, "give us +the word to join you. What are you looking at? An album?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; you may look at it, too," says Portia, pushing it +anxiously towards him. She cannot talk to-night. There is +a mental strain upon her brain that compels her to silence.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span> +If he would only amuse himself with the caricatures of his +friends the book contains.</p> + +<p>But he won't. Mr. Browne rises superior to the feeble +amusements of the ordinary drawing-room.</p> + +<p>"No, thank you," he says, promptly. "Nothing on earth +offends me more than being asked to look at an album. Why +look at paper beauties when there are living ones in the +room?"</p> + +<p>Here he tries to look sentimental, and <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'suceeds'">succeeds</ins>, at all events, +in looking extremely funny. He has been having a good +deal of champagne, and a generous amount of Burgundy, and +is now as happy and contented as even his nearest and dearest +could desire. Don't mistake me for a moment; nobody ever +saw Mr. Browne in the very faintest degree as—well, as he +ought not to be; but there is no denying that after dinner +he is gaiety itself, and (as Dulce's governess used to say of +him), "very excellent company indeed."</p> + +<p>"I always feel," he goes on airily, still alluding to the despised +album, "when any one asks me to look at a book of +this kind, as if they thought I was a dummy and couldn't +talk. And I <i>can</i> talk, you know."</p> + +<p>"You can—you can, indeed," says Sir Mark, feelingly. +"Dulce, what was that we were reading yesterday? I +remember, now, a quotation from it <i>àpropos</i> of talking, <i>not +àpropos</i> of our friend Dicky, of course. 'Then he will +talk. Good gods, how he will talk!' Wasn't that it?"</p> + +<p>"Sing us something, Dicky, do. You used to sing long +ago," says Julia, insinuatingly, who thinks she might be able +to accomplish another surreptitious doze under cover of the +music.</p> + +<p>"I've rather given it up of late," says Mr. Browne, with a +modest air, and a chuck to his shirt collar.</p> + +<p>"You used to sing 'Ye banks and braes o' bonny Doon' +sweetly," says Julia, when she has recovered from a vigorous +yawn, got through quite safely behind her sheet anchor—I +mean her fan.</p> + +<p>"Well—er—such a lot of fellows go in for the sickly sentimental; +I'm tired of it," says Dicky, vaguely.</p> + +<p>"You didn't tire of <i>that</i> song until that little girl of the +Plunkets asked you what a 'brae' was and you couldn't tell +her. She told me about it afterwards, and said you were a +very amusing boy, but, she feared, uneducated. You gave<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span> +her the impression, I think," says Sir Mark, pleasantly, "that +you believed the word had something to do with that noble +(if tough) animal, the donkey!"</p> + +<p>"I never told her anything of the kind," says Dicky, indignantly. +"I never speak to her at all if I can help it. A +most unpleasant girl, with a mouth from ear to ear and always +laughing."</p> + +<p>"What a fetching description," says Stephen Gower, with +a smile.</p> + +<p>"You <i>will</i> sing us something?" says Portia, almost entreatingly. +She wants to be alone; she wants to get rid of +Dicky and his artless prattle at any price.</p> + +<p>"Certainly," says Mr. Browne, but with very becoming +hesitation. "If I could only be sure what style of thing you +prefer. I know a comic song or two, if you would like to +hear them."</p> + +<p>"Heavens and Earth!" murmurs Sir Mark, with a groan. +He throws his handkerchief over his face, and places himself +in an attitude suggestive of the deepest resignation.</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid I shan't be able to remember <i>all</i> the words," +says Dicky, regretfully. "There is any amount of verses, +and all as funny as they can be. But I've a shocking memory."</p> + +<p>"For small mercies—" says Sir Mark, mildly.</p> + +<p>"Nevertheless I'll try," says Dicky, valiantly, moving toward +the piano.</p> + +<p>"No don't, Dicky," exclaims Sir Mark, with tearful entreaty. +"It would break my heart if Portia were to hear you +for the first time at a disadvantage. 'I had rather than forty +shillings you had your book of songs and sonnets here,' but +as you haven't, why, wait till you have. Now," says Sir Mark, +casting a warning look upon the others; "I've done <i>my</i> part—hold +him tight, some of you, or he will certainly do it +still."</p> + +<p>"Oh! if you don't <i>want</i> to hear me," returns Dicky, with +unruffled good humor. "Why can't you say so at once, +without so much beating about the bush. I don't want to +sing."</p> + +<p>"Thank you, Dicky," says Sir Mark, sweetly.</p> + +<p>Stephen is sitting close to Dulce, and is saying something +to her in a low tone. Her answers, to say the least of them, +are somewhat irrelevant and disconnected. Now she rises,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span> +and, murmuring to him a little softly-spoken excuse, glides +away from him to the door, opens it, and disappears.</p> + +<p>At this Portia, who has never ceased to watch her, grows +even paler than she was before, and closes one hand so +tightly on her fan that part of the ivory breaks with a little +click.</p> + +<p>Five minutes pass; to her they might be five interminable +hours; and then, when she has electrified Mr. Browne by +saying "yes" twice and "no" three times in the wrong +places, she, too, gets up from her seat and leaves the room.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Before the fire in his own room Fabian is standing, with +Dulce crying her heart out upon his breast. He has one +arm around her, but his eyes are looking into a sad futurity, +and he is gently, absently, tapping her shoulder with his left +hand. He is frowning, not angrily, but thoughtfully, and +there is an expression in his dark eyes that suggests a +weariness of the flesh, and a longing to flee away and be at +rest.</p> + +<p>"Do not take this thing so much to heart," he says, in a +rather mechanical tone, addressing his little sister, who is +grieving so bitterly because of the slight that has been cast +upon him from so unexpected a quarter. "She told you the +truth; the very first moment my eyes met hers I knew she +had heard all, and—had condemned."</p> + +<p>He sighs wearily.</p> + +<p>"Who shall blame her?" he says, with deepest melancholy.</p> + +<p>"I blame her," cries Dulce, passionately. "Nay, more, I +hate and despise her. She has seen you, known you. She +must, therefore, be <i>mad—blind</i>—to credit so vile a thing of +you. And you, my saint, my darling, what have you not endured +all this time! Knowing everything, bearing everything, +without a murmur or reproach. Her scorn, her contempt. +Oh, Fabian! at least you do not suffer alone, for I +suffer with you."</p> + +<p>"That only adds another drop to my cup," replies he, +gently. "It does not comfort me. I had some faint pleasure +in the thought that you and she were friends, and now, even +that belief is denied me. <i>I</i> have severed you. What have I +to do with either she or you? My misfortune is my own, let<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span> +it be so. Your tears only aggravate my pain, my dear, <i>dear</i> +little sister."</p> + +<p>He draws her closer to him, and kisses her warmly. Is she +not the one being who has clung to him, and loved him, and +believed in him through good and evil report?</p> + +<p>"Who could dream she was so deceitful?" says Dulce, +tearfully, alluding to the unhappy Portia. "I never once +even suspected the real truth. Why, over and over again +she has spoken of you, has compelled me to discuss you, has +seemed to court the subject of—"</p> + +<p>"Spoken of <i>me!</i>"</p> + +<p>"Yes, often—often, hundreds of times. She seemed never +to tire of you and your history; I thought she—"</p> + +<p>Dulce hesitates.</p> + +<p>"Go on; you thought she—"</p> + +<p>"Well, then," recklessly, "I thought she was in love with +you; I was <i>sure</i> of it."</p> + +<p>"Dulce," sharply, "you forget yourself. What are you +saying? Do you think your cousin would like you to speak +like this?"</p> + +<p>"I don't care what she likes," cries the rebel, angrily; "as +I am speaking like this, I hope she wouldn't. When I think +how good you have always been to her, how you gave her +your friendship—your—" her voice fails her, and in a whisper, +she adds, "<i>your love</i>."</p> + +<p>"Do not let us discuss this subject any more," says Fabian; +though he speaks quickly one can hear the keen anguish in +his tone. "Why could I not give her my friendship? Is it +her fault that she cannot believe?"</p> + +<p>"You would defend her!"</p> + +<p>"I would be just. Is she the <i>only</i> one who feels distrust, +who only half credits my version of the miserable story? +Here, in this very house, are there none who hesitate between +faith and unfaith? You have faith in me, and Roger +had."</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, yes, <i>yes!</i>" cries she, suddenly. "<i>He</i> had faith +in you, <i>he</i> loved you." Without a word of warning she +breaks again into a very tempest of tears, and sobs bitterly.</p> + +<p>"I would you could have loved him," says Fabian, in a +low tone, but she will not listen.</p> + +<p>"Go on," she says, vehemently, "you were saying something +about the people in this house."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span></p> + +<p>"That, probably, after you and Roger, I have Dicky on +my side," continues Fabian, obediently, a still deeper grief +within his haggard eyes, "and, of course, Christopher and +Mark Gore; but does Julia quite understand me? or Stephen +Gower! Forgive me, dearest, for this last."</p> + +<p>"Don't speak to me like that," entreats she, mournfully; +"what is Stephen—what is anyone to me in comparison with +you. Yet I will vouch for Stephen. But what is it you say +of Julia—surely—"</p> + +<p>"Yes—no doubt," impatiently. "But is her mind really +satisfied? If to-morrow my innocence were shown up incontrovertibly +to all the world, she would say triumphantly, +'I told you so.' And if my guilt were established, she would +say just as triumphantly, 'I told you so,' in the very same +tone."</p> + +<p>"You wrong her, I think. She has lived with you in this +house off and on for many months, and few have so mean a +heart as Portia."</p> + +<p>Someone, who a minute ago opened the door very gently, +and is now standing irresolute upon the threshold, turns +very pale at this last speech and lays her hand upon her heart, +as though fearing, though longing, to go forward.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps I <i>do</i> wrong Julia," says Fabian, indifferently. +"It hardly matters. But you must not wrong Portia. Our +suspicions, as our likes and dislikes, are not under our control; +now, for example, there is old Slyme; he hates me, as +all the world can see, yet he would swear to my innocence +to-morrow."</p> + +<p>"How do you know that?"</p> + +<p>"I <i>do</i> know it; by instinct, I suppose; I am one of those +unhappy people who can see through their neighbors. In +spite of the hatred he entertains for me (why I know not) his +eyes betray the fact that he thinks me guiltless of the crime +imputed to me. So you see, vulgar prejudice has nothing to +do with it, and Portia is not to be censured because she can +not take me on trust."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Fabian! how can you still love one who—"</p> + +<p>"My dear, love and I are not to be named together, you +forget that. I must live my life apart. You can only pray +that my misery may be of short duration. But I would have +you forgive Portia," he says, gently—nay, as her name falls +from his lips, a certain tenderness characterises both his face +and tone—"if only for <i>my</i> sake."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span></p> + +<p>At this, the silent figure in the doorway draws her breath, +painfully, and catches hold of the lintel as though to steady +herself. Her lips tremble, a momentary fear that she may be +going to faint terrifies her; then a voice, cold and uncompromising +falling on her ears, restores her to something like composure.</p> + +<p>"Do not ask me that, anything but that;" it is Dulce who +is speaking. "I cannot."</p> + +<p>At this, the girl standing in the doorway, as though unable +to endure more, comes slowly forward, and advances until +she is within the full glare of the lamplight. It is Portia. +She is deadly pale; and her black robes clinging round +her render the pallor of her face even more ghastly. She +has raised one hand, and is trifling nervously with the +string of pearls that always lies round her white throat; +she does not look at Fabian, not even for one instant does she +permit her eyes <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'to to'">to</ins> seek his, but lets them rest on Dulce, +sadly, reproachfully.</p> + +<p>"Why can you not forgive me?" she says; "is not your +revenge complete? You have, indeed, kept your word. +Now that I am sad at heart, why will you not try to forgive?"</p> + +<p>"Yes—forgive." It is Fabian who says this; he lays his +hand upon Dulce's arm, and regards her earnestly.</p> + +<p>"<i>You</i> ask me to forgive—<i>you!</i> You would have me be +kind to this traitress!" returns she, passionately, glancing +back at Portia, over her shoulder, with angry eyes. "Do you +forgive her yourself?"</p> + +<p>"I am beyond the pale of forgiveness so far as he is concerned," +says Portia, slowly. "It is to you I appeal. I have +loved you well, that should count for something. As for your +brother, I understand—I know that he will never forgive and +never forget!"</p> + +<p>"You are right," says Fabian, addressing her for the first +time, yet without letting his glance meet hers, "I shall <i>never +forget!</i>"</p> + +<p>A sob rises in Portia's throat; there is a terrible sadness in +his tone, the more terrible because of the stern restraint he +has laid upon himself.</p> + +<p>"Go to her," he says to Dulce, and the girl who has never +disobeyed a wish of his in all her life goes up to Portia and +lays her hand in hers.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span></p> + +<p>Palm to palm, slender hands clasped close together, they +move toward the door; Dulce, with bent head, trying to stay +the mournful tears that are falling silently, one by one, down +her cheeks; Portia, with head erect, but with an anguish in +her lovely eyes sadder than any tears.</p> + +<p>Just as she reaches the door she turns her head, and, with +a passionate eagerness that will not be repressed, looks at +Fabian. Their eyes meet. He makes a step toward her; he +has forgotten everything but that he loves her, and that she—dearest +but most agonizing of certainties—loves him, and +that she is near him, searching, as it were, into his very soul; +then remembrance comes to him, and, with a smothered +groan, he turns from her, and, leaning his arms on the +chimney-piece, buries his face in them.</p> + +<p>Portia, to check the sob that rises in her throat, tightens +her clasp on Dulce's hand and draws the girl quickly from +the room. Perhaps, too, she seeks to hide his grief from +other eyes than hers. The unwonted sharpness of her pressure, +however, rouses Dulce from her sad thoughts, and as +they reach the <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'corrider'">corridor</ins> outside she stops short, and glances +half resentfully, half with a question on her face, at Portia.</p> + +<p>The extreme pain and grief she sees in Portia's eyes awakens +her to the truth; she draws her breath a little quickly +and lays her hand impulsively upon her cousin's bare white arm.</p> + +<p>"You suffer too—you!" she says, in a whisper full of surprise; +"Oh, Portia! is it that you love him?"</p> + +<p>"Has it taken you so long to discover that," says Portia, +reproachfully, who has grown somewhat reckless because of +the misery of the past few hours. The self-contained, proud +girl is gone; a woman sick at heart, to whom the best good of +this world is as naught, has taken her place. There is so +much genuine pain in her voice that Dulce is touched; she +forgets all, condones all; to see a fellow-creature in pain is +terrible to this hot-blooded little shrew. The anger and disdain +die out of her eyes, and coming even closer to Portia, +she looks long and earnestly at her beautiful face.</p> + +<p>"Oh, that you could believe in him," she says, at last, +the expression of her desire coming from her in the form of +a sigh.</p> + +<p>"If I could, I should be too deeply blessed. Yet is it +that I do not believe, or that I dread the world's disbelief? +That is the sting. To know that a stain lies on the man I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span> +love, to know that others distrust him, and will <i>forever</i> pass +him by on the other side. That is the horror. Dulce, I am +ignoble, I fear many things; the future terrifies me; but yet, +as I am so wretched, dear, <i>dear</i> Dulce, take me back into +your heart!"</p> + +<p>She bursts into tears. They are so strange to her and have +been so long denied, that by their very vehemence they +frighten Dulce. She takes Portia in her arms, and clings to +her; and, pressing her lips to her cheek, whispers to her +fondly that she is forgiven, and that from her soul she pities +her. Thus peace is restored between these two.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XX.</h2> + +<div class='poem'> +"Time tries the troth in everything."<br /> +<div class='sig'>—<span class="smcap">Thomas Tusser.</span></div><br /> +</div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> voice comes to her distinctly across the sward, browned +by Winter's frown, and over the evergreens that sway and +rustle behind her back.</p> + +<p>"Shall I answer?" says Dulce to herself, half uncertainly; +and then she hesitates, and then belies the old adage because +she is not lost, but decides on maintaining a discreet silence. +"If he comes," she tells herself, "he will only talk, <i>talk</i>, <span class="smcap">talk</span>! +and, at his best, he is tiresome; and then he worries so that +really life becomes a burden with him near. And the day, +though cold, is bright and frosty and delicious, and all it +should be at Christmas time, and when one is wrapped in +furs one doesn't feel the cold," and she really means to enjoy +herself with her book, and now—</p> + +<p>"Dulce!" comes the voice again, only nearer this time, +and even more pathetic in its anxiety, and Dulce moves uneasily. +Perhaps, after all, she ought to answer. Has she not +promised many things. Shall she answer or not, or—</p> + +<p>This time her hesitation avails her nothing; a step can be +heard dangerously close, and then a figure comes up to her +very back, and peers through the thick hedge of evergreens, +and finally Stephen makes his way through them and stands +before her.</p> + +<p>He is flushed and half angry. He is uncertain how to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span> +translate the extreme unconcern with which she hails him. +<i>Did</i> she hear him call, or did she not? That is the question. +And Stephen very properly feels that more than the +fate of a nation depends upon the solution of this mystery.</p> + +<p>"Oh! here you are at last," he says, in a distinctly aggrieved +tone. "I have been calling you for the last hour. Didn't +you hear me?"</p> + +<p>When one has been straining one's lungs in a vain endeavor +to be heard by a beloved object, one naturally magnifies five +minutes into an hour.</p> + +<p>Dulce stares at him in a bewildered fashion. Her manner, +indeed, considering all things, is perfect.</p> + +<p>"Why didn't you answer me?" asks Mr. Gower, feeling +himself justified in throwing some indignation into this +speech.</p> + +<p>"Were you calling me?" she asks, with the utmost innocence, +letting her large eyes rest calmly upon his, and +bravely suppressing the smile that is dying to betray her; +"really? How was it I didn't hear you? I was sitting here +all the time. These evergreens <i>must</i> be thick! Do you +know I am horribly afraid I shall grow deaf in my old age, +because there are moments even now—such, for example, as +the present—when I cannot bring myself to hear <i>anything</i>."</p> + +<p>This last remark contains more in it than appears to Mr. +Gower.</p> + +<p>"Yet, only last night," he says resentfully, "you told me +it would be dangerous to whisper secrets near you to another, +as you had the best ears in the world."</p> + +<p>"Did I say all that? Well, perhaps. I am troublesome in +that way sometimes," says Miss Blount, shifting her tactics +without a quiver. "Just now," glancing at a volume that lies +upon her lap, "I daresay it was the book that engrossed my +attention; I quite lose myself in a subject when it is as interesting +as this one is," with another glance at the dark +bound volume on her knee.</p> + +<p>Gower stoops and reads the title of the book that had +come between him and the thoughts of his beloved. He +reads it aloud, slowly and with grim meaning—"<i>Notes on +Tasmanian Cattle!</i> It sounds enthralling," he says, with +bitter irony.</p> + +<p>"Yes, doesn't it," says Miss Blount, with such unbounded +audacity, and with such a charming laugh as instantly scatters<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span> +all clouds. "You must know I adore cattle, especially +Tasmanian cattle." As a mere matter of fact she had brought +out this book by mistake, thinking it was one of George Eliot's, +because of its cover, and had not opened it until now. "Come +and sit here beside me," she says, sweetly, bent on making +up for her former ungraciousness, "I have been so dull all +the morning, and you wouldn't come and talk to me. So unfeeling +of you."</p> + +<p>"Much you care whether I come to talk to you or not," +says Mr. Gower, with a last foolish attempt at temper. This +foolish attempt makes Miss Blount at once aware that the +day is her own.</p> + +<p>"You may sit on the edge of my gown," she says, generously—she +herself is sitting on a garden-chair made for one +that carefully preserves her from all damp arising from the +damp, wintry grass; "on the <i>very</i> edge, please. Yes, just +there," shaking out her skirts; "I can't bear people close to +me, it gives me a creepy-creepy feel. Do you know it?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Gower shakes his head emphatically. No, he does not +know the creepy-creepy feel.</p> + +<p>"Besides," goes on Dulce, confidentially, "one can see +the person one is conversing with so much better at a little +distance. Don't you agree with me?"</p> + +<p>"Don't I always agree with you?" says Mr. Gower, +gloomily.</p> + +<p>"Well, then, don't look so discontented, it makes me +think you are only answering me as you think I want to be +answered, and no woman could stand that."</p> + +<p>Silence. The short day is already coming to a close. A +bitter wind has sprung from the East and is now flitting +with icy ardor over the grass and streamlet; through the +bare branches of the trees, too, it flies, creating music of a +mournful kind as it rushes onward.</p> + +<p>"Last night I dreamt of you," says Stephen, at last.</p> + +<p>"And what of me?" asks she, bending slightly down over +him, as he lies at her feet in his favorite position.</p> + +<p>"This one great thing: I dreamt that you loved me. I +flattered myself in my dreams, did I not?" says Gower, with +an affectation of unconcern that does not disguise the fear +that is consuming him lest some day he shall prove his dream +untrue.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span></p> + +<div class='poem'> +"Now what is love, I will thee tell,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">It is the fountain and the well</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Where pleasure and repentance dwell,"</span><br /> +</div> + +<p>quotes she, gaily, with a quick, trembling blush.</p> + +<p>"I expect some fellows do all the repentance," says +Stephen, moodily. Then, with a sudden accession of animation +born of despair, he says, "Dulce, once for all, tell +me if you can care for me even a little." He has taken her +hand—of course her right hand on which a ring is—and is +clasping it in the most energetic manner. The ring has a +sharp diamond in it, and consequently the pressure creates +pain. She bears it, however, like a Cranmer.</p> + +<p>"I don't think even my angelic temper would stand a +cross-examination on such a day as this," she says, with a +slight frown; it might be slighter but for the diamond. "Besides, +I have made answer to that question a thousand times. +Did I not, indeed, answer it in the most satisfactory manner +of all when I promised to marry you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, you promised to marry me, I know that, but when?" +asks he, quickly. "Up to this you have always declined to +name any particular date."</p> + +<p>"Naturally," says Miss Blount, calmly. "I'm not even +dreaming of being married yet, why should I? I should +hate it."</p> + +<p>"Oh! if you would hate it," says Stephen, stiffly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, hate it," repeats she, undauntedly. "Why, indeed, +should we be married for years? I am quite happy, aren't +you?"</p> + +<p>No answer. Then, very severely, "Aren't <i>you?</i>"</p> + +<p>"Yes, of course," says Mr. Gower, but in a tone that belies +his words.</p> + +<p>"Just so," says Dulce, "then let us continue happy. I +am sure all these past months I have been utterly content."</p> + +<p>"You mean ever since Roger's departure?" asks he, eagerly.</p> + +<p>"Yes; principally, I suppose <i>because</i> of his departure." +There is a good deal of unnecessary warmth in this speech. +Yet the flush has faded from her cheeks now, and she is looking +down toward the sea with a little set expression round +her usually mobile lips.</p> + +<p>"We are happy now, but why should we not be even happier +if we were married?" asks Stephen, presently, trying to read +her averted face.</p> + +<p>"Why? Who can answer that?" exclaims she, turning<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span> +her face inland again, with a little saucy smile. Her thoughts +of a moment since are determinately put out of sight, resolutely +banished. "You surely don't believe at this time of +day that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush? That +is old-world rubbish! Take my word for it, that <i>two</i> birds +in the hand do not come up to even one sweet, provoking, +unattainable bird in the bush!"</p> + +<p>She has risen, and is now standing before him, as she says +this, with her hands clasping each other behind her head, +and her body well thrown back. Perhaps she does not know +how charming her figure appears in this position. Perhaps +she does. She is smiling down at Gower in a half defiant, +wholly tantalizing fashion, and is as like the "sweet, provoking, +unattainable bird" as ever she can be.</p> + +<p>Rising slowly to his feet, Gower goes up to her, and, +as is his lawful right, encircles her bonnie round waist with +his arm.</p> + +<p>"I don't know about the bird," he says, "but this I <i>do</i> +know, that in my eyes you are worth two of anything in all +this wide world."</p> + +<p>His tone is so full of feeling, so replete with real, unaffected +earnestness and affection that she is honestly touched. +She even suffers his arm to embrace her (for the time being), +and turns her eyes upon him kindly enough.</p> + +<p>"How fond you are of me," she says, regretfully. "Too +fond. I am not worth it." Then, in a curious tone, "How +strange it is that you should love me so dearly when Roger +actually <i>disliked</i> me!"</p> + +<p>"You are always thinking of your cousin," exclaims he, +with a quick frown. "He seems never very far from your +thoughts."</p> + +<p>"How can I help that," says Dulce, with an attempt at +lightness; "it is so difficult to rid the mind of a distasteful +subject."</p> + +<p>"And," eagerly—"it is a distasteful subject? You are +really glad your engagement with him is at an end?"</p> + +<p>"Of course I am glad," says Miss Blount, impatiently; +"why should I be otherwise? How often have you told me +yourself that he and I were unsuited to each other—and +how many times have you reminded me of his unbearable +temper! I hope," with passionate energy, "I shall never +see him again!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Let us forget him," says Gower, gently; "there are plenty +of other things to discuss besides him. For one thing, let +me tell you this—that though we have been engaged for a +long time now, you have never once kissed me."</p> + +<p>"Yes—and don't you know why?" asks Miss Blount, sweetly, +and with all the air of one who is about to impart the most +agreeable intelligence—"Can't you guess? It is because I +think kissing a <i>mistake</i>. Not only a mistake, but a positive +<i>bétise</i>. It commonizes everything, and—and—is really death +to sentiment in my opinion."</p> + +<p>"Death to it?—an aid to it, I should say," says Mr. +Gower, bluntly.</p> + +<p>"Should you? I am sure experience will prove you wrong," +says Dulce, suavely, "and, at all events, I hate being kissed."</p> + +<p>"Do you? Yet twice I saw you let your cousin kiss you," +says Stephen, gloomily.</p> + +<p>"And see what came of it," retorts she, quickly. "He got—that +is—we <i>both</i> got tired of each other. And then we +quarrelled—we were always quarrelling, it seems to me now—and +then he—that is, we <i>both</i> grew to hate each other, and +that of course ended everything. I really think," says Miss +Blount, with suppressed passion, "I am the one girl in the +world he cordially dislikes and despises. He almost told me +so before—before we parted."</p> + +<p>"Just like him, unmannerly beast!" says Mr. Gower, with +deep disgust.</p> + +<p>"It was just as well we found it all out in time," says +Dulce, with a short, but heavily-drawn sigh—probably, let +us hope so, at least—one of intense relief, "because he was +really tiresome in most ways."</p> + +<p>"I rather think so; I'm sure I wonder how you put up +with him for so long," says Gower, contemptuously.</p> + +<p>"Force of habit, I suppose. He was always in the way +when he wasn't wanted. And—and—and the other thing," +says Miss Blount, broadly, who wants to say '<i>vice versa</i>,' but +cannot remember it at this moment.</p> + +<p>"Never knew when to hold his tongue," says Stephen, +who is a rather silent man; "never met such a beggar to +talk."</p> + +<p>"And so headstrong," says Dulce, pettishly.</p> + +<p>"Altogether, I think he is about the greatest ass I ever<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span> +met in my life," says Mr. Gower, with touching conviction, +and out of the innocence of his heart.</p> + +<p>"Is he?" asks Dulce, with a sudden and most unexpected +change of tone. A frown darkens the fair face. Is it that +she is looking back with horror upon the time when she was +engaged to this "ass," or is it—"You have met a good many, +no doubt?"</p> + +<p>"Well, a considerable few in my time," replies he. "But +I must say I never saw a poorer specimen of his kind—and +his name, too, such an insane thing. Reminds one of that +romping old English dance and nothing else. Why on earth +couldn't the fellow get a respectable name like any other +fellow."</p> + +<p>This is all so fearfully absurd, that at any other time, and +under any other circumstances, it would have moved Dulce +to laughter.</p> + +<p>"Isn't the name, Roger, respectable?" asks she, sweetly, as +though desirous of information.</p> + +<p>"Oh, well, it's respectable enough, I suppose; or at least +it is hideous enough for that or anything."</p> + +<p>"Must a thing be hideous to be respectable?" asks she +again, turning her lovely face, crowned with the sunburnt +hair, full on his.</p> + +<p>"You don't understand me," he says, with some confusion. +"I was only saying what an ugly name Dare has."</p> + +<p>"Now, <i>do</i> you think so?" wonders Miss Blount, dreamily, +"I don't. I can't endure my cousin, <i>as you know</i>, but I +really think his name very pretty, quite the prettiest I know, +even," innocently, "prettier than Stephen!"</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry I can't agree with you," says Stephen, stiffly.</p> + +<p>Miss Blount, with her fingers interlaced, is watching him +furtively, a little petulant expression in her eyes.</p> + +<p>"It seems to me you think more of your absent cousin +than of—of anyone in the world," says Gower, sullenly. +Fear of what her answer may be has induced him to leave +his own name out of the question altogether.</p> + +<p>"As I told you before, one always thinks most of what is +unpleasing to one."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I daresay!" says Mr. Gower.</p> + +<p>"I don't think I quite understand you. What do you +mean by that?" asks she, with suspicious sweetness.</p> + +<p>"Dulce," says Stephen, miserably, "say you <i>hate</i> Roger."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I have often said it. I detest him. Why," with a sudden +touch of passion, "do you make me repeat it over and over +again? Why do you make me think of him at all?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know," sadly. "It is madness on my part, I +think; and yet I believe I have no real cause to fear him. +He is so utterly unworthy of you. He has behaved so badly +to you from first to last."</p> + +<p>"What you say is all <i>too</i> true," says Dulce, calmly; then, +with most suspicious gentleness, and a smile that is all "sweetness +and light," "<i>would</i> you mind removing your arm from +my waist. It makes me feel faint. Thanks, <i>so</i> much."</p> + +<p>After this silence again reigns. Several minutes go by, +and nothing can be heard save the soughing of the rising +wind, and the turbulent rushing of the stream below. Dulce +is turning the rings round and round upon her pretty fingers; +Stephen is looking out to sea with a brow as black as thunder, +or any of the great gaunt rocks far out to the West, that are +frowning down upon the unconscious ocean.</p> + +<p>Presently something—perhaps it is remorse—strikes upon +Dulce's heart and softens her. She goes nearer to him and +slips one small, perfect hand through his arm, she even +presses his arm to her softly, kindly, with a view to restoring +its owner to good temper.</p> + +<p>This advance on her part has the desired effect. Stephen +forgets there is such a thing as a sea, and, taking up the little, +penitent hand, presses it tenderly to his lips.</p> + +<p>"Now, do not let us be disagreeable any more," says +Dulce, prettily. "Let us try to remember what we were +talking about before we began to discuss Roger."</p> + +<p>Mr. Gower grasps his chance.</p> + +<p>"I was saying that though we have been engaged now +for some time you have never once kissed me," he says, +hopefully.</p> + +<p>"And would you," reproachfully, "after all I have said, +risk the chance of making me, perhaps, hate you, too? I +have told you how I detest being kissed, yet now you +would argue the point. Oh, Stephen! is this your vaunted +love?"</p> + +<p>"But it is a curious view you take of it, isn't it, darling?" +suggests Gower, humbly, "to say a kiss would raise hatred in +your breast. I am perfectly certain it would make <i>me</i> love +<i>you</i> <span class="smcap">more</span>!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Then you could love me more?" with frowning reproach.</p> + +<p>"No, no! I didn't mean that, only—"</p> + +<p>"I must say I am greatly disappointed in you," says Miss +Blount, with lowered eyes. "I shouldn't have believed it +of you. Well, as you are bent on rushing on your fate, I'll +tell you what I will do."</p> + +<p>"What?" he turns to her, a look of eager expectancy on +his face. Is she going to prove kind at last?</p> + +<p>"Sometime," begins she, demurely, "no doubt I shall +marry you—some time, that is, in the coming century—and +then, when the time is finally arranged, just the very morning +of our marriage, you shall kiss me, not before. That will +prevent our having time to quarrel and part."</p> + +<p>"Do you mean to tell me," indignantly, "you have made +up your mind never to kiss me until we are married?"</p> + +<p>"Until the morning <i>of</i> our marriage," corrects she.</p> + +<p>"You might as well say <i>never!</i>" exclaims Gower, very +justly incensed.</p> + +<p>"I will, if you like," retorts she, with the utmost <i>bonhommie</i>.</p> + +<p>"It is getting too cold for you to stay out any longer," +says Stephen, with great dignity; "come, let us return to the +house."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXI.</h2> + +<div class='center'> +"'Tis impossible to love and be wise."<br /> +</div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">They</span> return. The early Winter night has fallen, and in +the smaller drawing-room the curtains are already drawn, +and though no lamps are lit, a sweet, chattering, gossiping +fire sheds a radiance round that betrays all things to the +view.</p> + +<p>As Dulce enters the room everyone says, "Well, Dulce," +in the pleasantest way possible, and makes way for her, but +Miss Blount goes into the shade and sits there in a singularly +silent fashion.</p> + +<p>Sir Mark, noting her mood, feels within him a lazy desire +to go to her and break the unusual taciturnity that surrounds +her.</p> + +<p>"Why so mute, fair maid?" he asks, dropping into a chair +near hers.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Am I mute?" she asks in her turn, thereby betraying +the fact that she has been very far from them in her inmost +thoughts.</p> + +<p>"Rather," says Sir Mark; "would you think me rude if I +asked the subject of your waking dreams?"</p> + +<p>"No; I was merely thinking what an unsatisfactory place +this world is." She says this slowly, turning her large eyes +somewhat wistfully on his. If she likes any one on earth +honestly it is Mark Gore.</p> + +<p>"What a morbid speech," returns he. "Do you want a +footstool, or a cup of tea, or what? Evidently something +has made the whole world <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'gr y'">gray</ins> to you. And I can't even +agree with you, I think this present world an uncommonly +good old place, all things considered. Rough on us now +and then, but quite passible."</p> + +<p>"You are happy," she says.</p> + +<p>"And you?"—he lets his keen eyes seek hers—"of what +can you complain? You seem one of fortune's favorites. +Have you not got as your most devoted slave the man of +your heart?"</p> + +<p>"I suppose so." There is a thorough lack of enthusiasm +in her tone, that irritates him. He puts the end of his mustache +into his mouth and chews it slowly, a certain sign that +he is both grieved and annoyed. Then he changes his glass +from his right eye to his left, after all of which he feels better +for the moment.</p> + +<p>"And besides," he says, with a valiant determination to +follow his cross-examination to its bitter end, "you have +successfully got rid of the man you hate. I refer to Roger."</p> + +<p>"I suppose so." Just the same answer, in just the same +tone.</p> + +<p>Sir Mark is plainly indignant. Perhaps he had hoped to +see her betray some emotion on the mention of her cousin's +name, but if so he is disappointed.</p> + +<p>"You grow apathetic," he says, somewhat sharply. "Soon +you will care for nothing. A bad trick for any girl to +learn."</p> + +<p>"I have learned that trick already. I care for very little +now," says Dulce, in a perfectly even tone. Her hands, +lying in her lap, are without motion. Her eyelids are without +a tremor. "And yet she is <i>not</i> heartless," says Sir Mark +to himself, reflectively. "I suppose she is only acting for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span> +my special benefit, and though it is rather a good performance, +it is of no earthly use, as I can see right through her."</p> + +<p>Nevertheless he is angry with her, and presently rising, +he goes away from her to where Dicky Browne is holding +high revelry amongst his friends.</p> + +<p>Dicky has only just arrived. He has been absent all day, +and is now being questioned—desired to give an account of +himself and his time ever since breakfast-time.</p> + +<p>"It is something new to be asked where I have been," says +Mr. Browne, who also thinks it will be as new as it is nice for +him to take the aggrieved tone and go in heavily on the ill-used +tack.</p> + +<p>"Never mind that," says Julia; "tell us only—where <i>have</i> +you been?"</p> + +<p>"Well, really, I hardly quite know," says Dicky, delightfully +vague as usual. "Round about the place, don't you +know."</p> + +<p>"But you must remember where?"</p> + +<p>"As a rule," says Mr. Browne, meditatively, "I come and +go, and no account is taken of my wanderings. To-night +all is different, now I am put under a cross-examination that +reduces me to despair. This is unfair, it is cruel. If you +would always act thus it would be gratifying, but to get up +an interest in me on rare occasions such as the present, is, to +say the least of it, embarrassing. I am half an orphan, some +of you might be a father to me sometimes."</p> + +<p>"So we will, Dicky, in a body," says Mark Gore, cheerfully.</p> + +<p>"I like that," says Portia, laughing. "Instead of looking +after <i>you</i>, Dicky, I rather think we want some one to look +after <i>us</i>."</p> + +<p>"Well, I'll do that with pleasure," says Mr. Browne. "It +is my highest ambition. To be allowed to look after you has +been the dream of my life for months:</p> + +<div class='poem'> +"'Thy elder brother I would be,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Thy <i>father</i>, <i>anything</i> to thee!'"</span><br /> +</div> + +<p>"By-the-by, Dicky, where is your father now?" asks +Stephen Gower, who is leaning against the mantelpiece in +Dulce's vicinity, but not quite close to her. Ill-temper, +called dignity, forbids his nearer approach to his goddess.</p> + +<p>"Down South," says Dicky. "<i>Not</i> in Carolina, exactly, +but in Devon. It <i>does</i> remind one of the ten little nigger<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span> +boys, doesn't it?" Then he begins with a quite uncalled for +amount of energy, "'Eight little nigger boys traveling in +Devon, one overslept hisself, and then there were seven,'" +and would probably have continued the dismal ditty up to +the bitter end, but that Sir Mark calls him up sharp.</p> + +<p>"Never mind the niggers," he says, "tell us about your +father. Where is he now?"</p> + +<p>"Down at the old place, cursing his fate, no doubt. By-the-bye, +talking of my ancestral home, I wish some day you +would all come and put in a month there. Will you?"</p> + +<p>"We will," says Julia, directly. Julia is always ready to +go anywhere, children and all, at a moment's notice.</p> + +<p>"Is it a nice place, Dicky?" asks Sir Mark, cautiously.</p> + +<p>"No, it isn't," says Mr. Browne; "not <i>now</i>, you know. I +hear it used to be; but there's no believing old people, they +lie like fun. I'll get it settled up for all of you, if you'll +promise to come, but just at present it isn't much. It is an +odd old place, all doors and dust, and rats, I shouldn't wonder."</p> + +<p>"That's nothing," says Gower. "Anything else against it?"</p> + +<p>"Well, I don't know," replies Dicky, gloomily. "It <i>smells</i>, +I think."</p> + +<p>"Smells! good gracious, of what?" asks Julia.</p> + +<p>"<i>Bones!</i>" says Mr. Browne, mysteriously. "<i>Dead</i> bones!"</p> + +<p>"What sort of bones?" asks Portia, starting into life, and +really growing a little pale, even beneath the crimson glare +of the pine logs.</p> + +<p>"Human bones!" says Dicky, growing more gloomy as +he says this, and marks with rapture the impression it makes +upon his audience. "It reminds one of graves, and sarcophaguses, +and cemeteries, and horrid things that rustle in +coffin cloths, and mop and mow in corners. But if you will +come, I will make you all heartily welcome."</p> + +<p>"Thank you. No, I don't think <i>I'll</i> come," says Julia, +casting an uneasy glance behind her; the recesses of the +room are but dimly lit, and appear ghostlike, highly suggestive +of things uncanny from where she sits. "Dicky," pathetically, +not to say affrightedly, "you have told us plenty +about your horrid old house; don't tell us any more."</p> + +<p>"There isn't any more to tell," says Dicky, who is quite +content with his success so far.</p> + +<p>"You haven't yet told us where you were all day," says +Portia, lowering her fan to look at him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span></p> + +<p>"In the village for the most part—I dote on the village—interviewing +the school and the children. Mr. Redmond got hold +of me, and took me in to see the infants. It was your class +I saw, I think, Dulce; it was so uncommonly badly behaved."</p> + +<p>Dulce, in her dark corner, gives no sign that she has heard +this gracious speech.</p> + +<p>"I don't think much of your schoolmaster either," goes +on Mr. Browne, unabashed. "His French, I should say, is +not his strong point. Perhaps he speaks it 'after the scole +of Stratford-atte-Bowe,' for certainly 'Frenche of Paris, is to +him unknowe?'"</p> + +<p>"I shouldn't think one would look for foreign languages +from a village schoolmaster," says Sir Mark, lazily.</p> + +<p>"I <i>didn't</i> look for it, my good fellow, he absolutely showered +it upon me; and in the oddest fashion. I confess I +didn't understand him. He has evidently a trick of coloring +his conversation with fine words—a trick beyond me."</p> + +<p>"What did he say to you, Dicky?" asks Julia, whose curiosity +is excited.</p> + +<p>"He told me a story," says Mr. Browne; "I'll tell it +again to you now, if you like, but I don't suppose you <i>will</i> +like, because, as I said before, I don't understand it myself. +It was hardly a story either, it was more a diatribe about his +assistant."</p> + +<p>"Peter Greene?"</p> + +<p>"Ye—es. This objectionable young man's name was +Peter, though, if the the schoolmaster is to be believed, he +isn't <i>green</i>. 'Sir,' said he to me, 'that Peter is a bad lot—no +worse. He can teach the Latin, and the Greek, and the +astronomy, fust-class; but as for probity or truth, or honest +dealin's of any sort, he is <i>au revoir!</i>' What on earth did he +mean?" says Mr. Browne, turning a face, bright with innocence, +upon the group that surrounds the fire.</p> + +<p>"To-morrow will be Christmas Day," says the Boodie, +suddenly. She is lying, as usual, full length upon the hearth-rug, +with her chin sunk between both her palms, and her +eyes fixed upon the fire. This remark she addresses apparently +to a glowing cinder. "I wonder if I shall get many +presents," she says, "and if they will be things to <i>love</i>."</p> + +<p>"How sweet it is to study the simplicity, the lack of <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'mercernary'">mercenary</ins> +thought in the little child," says Dicky, regarding her +with admiration; "now this dear Boodie of ours would quite<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span> +as soon have an ugly present as a pretty one; she thinks only +of the affection of the giver of it."</p> + +<p>"I do not," says the Boodie, stoutly, "and I'd <i>hate</i> an ugly +present;" then, with a sudden change of tone, "have you +anything for me?"</p> + +<p>"Darling," murmured Julia, with mild reproof.</p> + +<p>"Certainly not," says Mr. Browne, promptly; "I want you +to love me for myself alone!"</p> + +<p>"<i>Really</i> nothing?" persists the Boodie, as if unable to +credit her senses.</p> + +<p>"Really nothing."</p> + +<p>"Then what did you go to London for last week?" demands +the irate Boodie, with rising and totally unsuppressed indignation.</p> + +<p>This question fills Mr. Browne with much secret amusement.</p> + +<p>"There have been rare occasions," he says, mildly, "on +which I have gone to town to do a few other things besides +purchasing gifts for you."</p> + +<p>"I never heard anything so mean," says the Boodie, alluding +to his unprofitable visit to the metropolis, "I wouldn't"—with +the finest, the most withering disgust—"have believed +it of you! And let me tell you this, Dicky Browne, I'll take +very good care I don't give you the present I have been keeping +for you for a whole week; and by-and-bye, when you +hear what it is, you will be sorrier than ever you were in your +life."</p> + +<p>This awful speech she delivers with the greatest gusto. Mr. +Browne, without a moment's hesitation, flings himself upon +his knees before her in an attitude suggestive of the direst +despair.</p> + +<p>"Oh, <i>don't</i> do me out of my Christmas-box," he entreats, +tearfully; "I know what your gifts are like, and I would not +miss one for any earthly consideration. My lovely Boodie! +reconsider your words. I <i>will</i> give you a present to-morrow" +(already the biggest doll in Christendom is in her nurse's +possession, with strict injunctions to let her have it, with his +love and a kiss, the first thing in the morning); "I'll do <i>anything</i>, +if you will only bestow upon me the priceless treasure +at which you have darkly hinted."</p> + +<p>"Well, we'll see," returns the Boodie, in a reserved tone;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span> +after which Mr. Browne once more returns to his seat and his +senses.</p> + +<p>But, unfortunately, the Boodie has not yet quite finished +all she has to say. Rolling her little, lithe body over until she +rests upon her back, and letting her arms fall behind her +sunny head in one of her graceful, kittenish ways, she says, +pathetically:</p> + +<p>"Oh, how I wish Roger was here! He always was good +to us, wasn't he, Pussy?" to her sister, who is striving hard to +ruin her sight by stringing glass beads in the flickering firelight. +"I wonder where he is now!"</p> + +<p>As Roger Dare's name has been tabooed amongst them of +late, this direct and open allusion to him falls like a thunderbolt +in their midst.</p> + +<p>Nobody says anything. Nobody does anything. Only in +one dark corner, where the light does not penetrate, one +white hand closes nervously upon another, and the owner of +both draws her breath hurriedly.</p> + +<p>Dicky Browne is the first to recover himself. He comes +to the rescue with the most praiseworthy nonchalance.</p> + +<p>"Didn't you hear about him?" he asks the Boodie, in a +tone replete with melancholy. "He traveled too far, his +hankering after savages was as extraordinary as it was dangerous; +in <i>his</i> case it has been fatal. One lovely morning, when +the sun was shining, and all the world was alight with smiles, +they caught him. It was breakfast hour, and they were +hungry; therefore they ate him (it is their playful habit), +nicely fried in tomato sauce."</p> + +<p>At this doleful tale, Jacky, who is lying about in some +other corner, explodes merrily, Pussy following suit; but the +Boodie, who is plainly annoyed at this frivolous allusion to +her favorite, maintains her gravity and her dignity at the +same time.</p> + +<p>"Nobody would eat Roger," she says.</p> + +<p>"Why not? Like 'the boy, Billie,' he is still 'young and +tender.'"</p> + +<p>"Nobody would be unkind to Roger," persists the Boodie, +unmoved. "And besides, when he was going away he told +me he would be back on New Year's Day, and Roger never +told a lie."</p> + +<p>"'He will return, I know him well,'" quotes Mr. Browne.</p> + +<p>This quotation is thrown away upon the Boodie.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes, he will," she says, in all good faith. "He will be +here, I <i>know</i>, to-morrow week. I am going to keep the present +I have for him, until then. I'm afraid I won't be able to keep +it any longer," says the Boodie, regretfully, "because—"</p> + +<p>She hesitates.</p> + +<p>"Because it wouldn't let you. I know what it is, it is +chocolate creams," says Dicky Browne, making this unlucky +speech triumphantly.</p> + +<p>It is too much! The bare mention of these sweetmeats, +fraught as they are to her with bitterest memories, awake a +long slumbering grief within Dulce's breast. Fretted by her +interview with Stephen; sore at heart because of the child's +persistent allusion to her absent cousin, this last stab, this +mention of the curious cause of their parting, quite overcomes +her.</p> + +<p>Putting up her hands to her face, she rises precipitately to +her feet, and then, unable to control herself, bursts into tears.</p> + +<p>"Dulce! what is it?" exclaims Portia, going quickly to +her, and encircling her with her arms. Stephen, too, makes +a step forward, and then stops abruptly.</p> + +<p>"It is nothing—nothing," sobs Dulce, struggling with her +emotion; and then, finding the conflict vain, and that grief +has fairly conquered her, she lays down her arms, and clinging +to Portia, whispers audibly, with all the unreasoning sorrow +of a tired child, "<i>I want Roger</i>."</p> + +<p>Even as she makes it, the enormity of her confession comes +home to her, and terrifies her. Without daring to cast a +glance at Stephen, who is standing rigid and white as death +against the <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'mantlepiece'">mantelpiece</ins>, she slips out of Portia's arms and +escapes from the room.</p> + +<p>Another awkward pause ensues. Decidedly this Christmas +Eve is not a successful one. To tell the truth, everyone +is very much frightened, and is wondering secretly how +Stephen will take it. When the silence has become positively +unbearable, Sir Mark rises to the situation.</p> + +<p>"That is just like Dulce," he says—and really the amount +of feigned amusement he throws into his tone is worthy +of all admiration; though to be quite honest I must confess +it imposes upon nobody—"when she is out of spirits +she invariably asks for somebody on whom she is in +the habit of venting her spleen. Poor Roger! he is well +out of it to-night, I think. We have all noticed, have we<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span> +not," turning, with abject entreaty in his eyes, to every one +in the room except Stephen, "that Dulce has been very much +depressed during the last hour?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, we have all noticed that," says Portia, hurriedly, +coming nobly to his assistance.</p> + +<p>Dicky Browne, stooping towards her, whispers, softly:</p> + +<div class='poem'> +"Quoth Hudibras—'It is in vain,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">I see, to argue 'gainst the grain!'"</span><br /> +</div> + +<p>"I don't understand," says Portia; just because she doesn't +want to.</p> + +<p>"Don't you?—well, you ought. Can't you see that, in +spite of her determination to hate Roger, she loves him a +thousand times better than that fellow over there?—and I'm +very glad of it," winds up Dicky, viciously, who has always +sorely missed Roger, and, though when with him quarrelled +from dawn to dewy eve, he still looks upon him as the one +friend in the world to whom his soul cleaveth.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I, too, have noticed her curious silence. Who could +have vexed her! Was it you, Stephen?" asks Julia, who is +as clever as Dicky at always saying the wrong thing.</p> + +<p>"Not that I am aware of," replies Gower, haughtily. Calling +to mind his late conversation with his betrothed, he +naturally looks upon himself as the aggrieved party. All she +had said then, her coldness, her petulance—worse than all, +her indifference—are still fresh with him, and rankles within +his breast. Coming a little more into the ruddy light of the +fire, he says, slowly, addressing Portia,</p> + +<p>"As—as Miss Blount seems rather upset about something, +I think I shall not stay to dinner to-night. Will you excuse +me to her?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, do stay!" says Portia, uncertain how to act. She +says this, too, in spite of a pronounced prod from Dicky +Browne, who is plainly desirous of increasing the rupture between +Stephen and Dulce. May not such a rupture reinstate +Roger upon his former throne? Oddly enough, Dicky, who +has no more perspicacity than an owl, has arranged within +himself that Roger would be as glad to renew his old relations +with Dulce as she would be to renew hers with him.</p> + +<p>"There are other things that will take me home to-night, +irrespective of Dulce," says Stephen, smiling upon Portia, +and telling his lie valiantly. "Good night, Miss Vibart."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span></p> + +<p>And then he bids adieu to the others, quite composedly, +though his brain is on fire with jealousy, not even omitting +the children. Sir Mark and Dicky, feeling some vague compassion +for him, go with him to the hall door, and there, having +bidden him a hearty farewell, send him on his way.</p> + +<p>"I give you my word," <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'say'">says</ins> Dicky Browne, confidentially +detaining Sir Mark, forcibly, "we haven't had a happy day +since she engaged herself to Gower; I mean since Roger's +departure. Look here, Gore, it is my opinion she doesn't +care <i>that</i> for him," with an emphatic and very eloquent +snap of his fingers.</p> + +<p>"For once in my life, Dicky, I entirely agree with you," +says Sir Mark, gloomily.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXII.</h2> + +<div class='poem'> +"Sir, You are very welcome to our house:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">It must appear in other ways than words,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Therefore I <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'scout'">scant</ins> this breathing courtesy."</span><br /> +<div class='sig'>—<span class="smcap">Shakespeare.</span></div><br /> +</div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">From</span> Christmas Day to New Year's Day we all know is +but a week—but <i>what</i> a week it is! For my part I think +this season of supposed jollity the most uncomfortable and +forlorn of any in the year. During all these seven interminable +days the Boodie still clings to her belief in Roger, and +vows he will surely return before the first day of '82 shall +have come to an end. It is very nearly at an end now; the +shadows have fallen long ago; the night wind has arisen; the +snow that all day long has been falling slowly and steadily, +still falls, as if quite determined never again to leave off.</p> + +<p>They are all sitting in the library, it being considered a +snugger room on such a dreary evening that the grander +drawing-room. Stephen Gower, who has just come in, is +standing by the centre-table with his back to it, and is telling +them some little morsel of scandal about a near neighbor. +It is a bare crumb, yet it is received with avidity and gratitude, +and much laughter, so devoid of interest have been all +the other hours of the day.</p> + +<p>Nobody quite understands how it now is with Dulce and +Stephen. That they have patched up their late quarrel is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span> +apparent to everybody, and as far as an ordinary eye can see, +they are on as good terms with each other as usual.</p> + +<p>Just now she is laughing even more merrily than the rest +at his little story, when the door opens, and Sir Christopher +and Fabian enter together.</p> + +<p>Sir Christopher is plainly very angry, and is declaring in +an extremely audible voice that "he will submit to it no +longer;" he furthermore announces that he has "seen too +much of it," whatever "<i>it</i>" may be, and that for the future +he "will turn over a very different leaf." I wonder how +many times in the year this latter declaration is made by +everybody?</p> + +<p>Fabian, who is utterly unmoved by his vehemence, laying +his hand upon his uncle's shoulder, leads him up to the fireplace +and into the huge arm-chair, that is his perpetual +abiding-place.</p> + +<p>"What is it?" asks Sir Mark, looking up quickly.</p> + +<p>"Same old story," says Fabian, in a low voice, with a slight +shrug of his shoulders. "Slyme. Drink. Accounts anyhow. +And tipsy insolence, instead of proper explanation." As +Fabian finishes, he draws his breath hastily, as though heartily +sick and tired of the whole business.</p> + +<p>Now that he is standing within the glare of the fire, one +can see how altered he is of late. His cheeks are sunken, +his lips pale. There is, too, a want of energy about him, +a <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'langour'">languor</ins>, a listlessness, that seems to have grown upon him +with strange rapidity, and which suggests the possibility that +life has become rather a burden than a favor.</p> + +<p>If I say he looks as dead tired as a man might look who +has been for many hours engaged in a labor trying both to soul +and body, you will, perhaps, understand how Fabian looks +now to the eyes that are gazing wistfully upon him from out +the semi-darkness.</p> + +<p>Moving her gown to one side, Portia (impelled to this action +by some impulsive force) says, in a low tone:</p> + +<p>"Come and sit here, Fabian," motioning gently to the seat +beside her.</p> + +<p>But, thanking her with great courtesy, he declines her invitation, +and, with an unchanged face, goes on with his conversation +with Sir Mark.</p> + +<p>Portia, flushing hotly in the kindly dark, shrinks back +within herself, and linking her fingers tightly together, tries<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span> +bravely to crush the mingled feelings of shame and regret +that rise within her breast.</p> + +<p>"I can stand almost anything myself, I confess, but insolence," +Sir Mark is saying, <i>à propos</i> of the intoxicated old +secretary. "It takes it out of one so. I have put up with the +most gross carelessness rather than change any man, but insolence +from that class is insufferable. I suppose," says Sir +Mark, meditatively, shifting his glass from his left to his right +eye, "it is because one can't return it."</p> + +<p>"One can dismiss the fellow, though," says Sir Christopher, +still fuming. "And go Slyme shall. After all my kindness +to him, too, to speak as he did to-night! The creature is +positively without gratitude."</p> + +<p>"Don't regret that," says Dicky Browne, sympathetically. +"<i>You</i> are repining because he declines to notice your benefits; +but think of what Wordsworth says—</p> + +<div class='poem'> +'I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With coldness still returning;</span><br /> +Alas! the <i>gratitude</i> of men<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Has oftener left me mourning.'</span><br /> +</div> + +<div class='unindent'>Look here, Sir Christopher, my experience is, that if once +you do a fellow a good turn he'll stick to you through life, +and make you feel somehow as if he belonged to you, and +<i>that</i> isn't pleasant, is it?"</div> + +<p>Dicky pauses. Wordsworth is his strong point, and freely +he quotes and misquotes him on all occasions. Indeed, I +am of the opinion he is the only poet Dicky ever read in his +life, and that because he was obliged to.</p> + +<p>"I have done with Slyme," goes on Sir Christopher, hotly. +"Yes, <i>forever</i>. Now, not a word, Fabian; when my mind is +made up (as you all know) it is made up, and nothing can +alter it." This is just what they do <i>not</i> all know. "As for +you," continues Sir Christopher, indignantly, addressing himself +solely to Fabian, "you plead for that miserable old sot +out of nothing but sheer obstinacy—not because you like +him. Now, <i>do</i> you like him? Come now, I defy you to say +it."</p> + +<p>Fabian laughs slightly.</p> + +<p>"There, I knew it!" exclaims Sir Christopher, triumphantly, +though Fabian in reality has said nothing; "and as +for him, he positively detests you. What did he say just +now?—that he—"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh, never mind that," says Fabian, poking the fire somewhat +vigorously.</p> + +<p>"Do let us hear it," says Julia, in her usual lisping manner. +"Horrid old man; I am quite afraid of him, he looks +so like a gnome, or—or—one of those ugly things the Germans +write about. What did he say of dear Fabian?"</p> + +<p>"That he had him in his power," thunders Sir Christopher, +angrily. "That he could make or unmake him, as +the fancy seized him, and so on. Give you my honor," +says Sir Christopher, almost choking with rage, "it was +as much as ever I could do to keep my hands off the fellow!"</p> + +<p>Portia, sinking further into her dark corner, sickens with +apprehension at these words. Suspicion, that now, alas! has +become a certainty, is crushing her. Perhaps before this she +has had her doubts—vague doubts, indeed, and blessed in +the fact that they may admit of contradiction. But now—<i>now</i>—</p> + +<p>What was it Slyme had said? That he could either +"make or unmake him," that he "had him in his power." +Does Slyme, then, know the—the <i>truth</i> about him? Was it +through <i>fear</i> of the secretary that Fabian had acted as his +defender, supporting him against Sir Christopher's honest +judgment? How quickly he had tried to turn the conversation; +how he had seemed to shrink from deeper investigation +of Slyme's impertinence. All seems plain to her, and with +her supposed knowledge comes a pain, too terrible almost to +be borne in secret.</p> + +<p>Fabian, in the meantime, had seated himself beside Julia, +and is listening to some silly remarks emanated by her. The +Boodie, who is never very far from Fabian when he is in the +room, is sitting on his knee with her arms around his neck.</p> + +<p>"Come here, Boodie," says Dicky Browne, insinuatingly. +"You used to say you loved me."</p> + +<p>"So I do," says the Boodie, in fond remembrance of the +biggest doll in Christendom. "But—"</p> + +<p>She hesitates.</p> + +<p>"'I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not Fabian +more,'" parodies Mr. Browne, regretfully. "Well, I forgive +you. But I thought it was Roger on whom you had set your +young affections. By the by, he has disappointed you, hasn't +he? Here is New Year's Day, and he has not returned to +redeem his promise."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span></p> + +<p>"He will come yet," says the Boodie, undauntedly.</p> + +<p>"'He will return; I know him well,'" again quotes Mr. +Browne; "that's your motto, I suppose, like the idiotic young +woman in the idiotic song. Well, I admire faith myself; +there's nothing like it."</p> + +<p>"Don't mind him," says Fabian, tenderly, placing his arm +round the discomfited Boodie, and pressing her pretty blonde +head down upon his breast. "I don't understand him, so, +of course, you don't."</p> + +<p>"But why?" says Dicky Browne, who is evidently bent on +mischief; "she has a great deal more brains than you have. +Don't be aspersed by him, Boodie; <i>you</i> can understand me, +I know, but I dare say I can soar higher than he can follow, +and what I say to you contains 'thoughts that lie beyond the +reach of his few words of English speech.'"</p> + +<p>"Thank you," says Fabian.</p> + +<p>The Boodie is plainly puzzled.</p> + +<p>"I don't know what you mean," she says to Dicky; "I +only know this," defiantly, "that I am certain Roger will return +to-night, even if I am in bed when he comes."</p> + +<p>The words are hardly out of her mouth when the door +opens and somebody appears upon the threshold. This +somebody has had an evident tussle with the butler outside, +who, perhaps, would fain have announced him, but having +conquered the king of the servants' hall, the somebody advances +slowly until he is midway between the centre of the +room and the direct glare of the firelight.</p> + +<p>Every one grows very silent. It is as though a spell has +fallen upon them all; all, that is, except Dulce. She, rising +hurriedly from her seat, goes toward the stranger.</p> + +<p>"It is <i>Roger!</i>" she cries suddenly, in so glad a voice, in a +voice so full of delight and intense thankfulness, that every +one is struck by it.</p> + +<p>Then Roger is in their midst, a very sunburnt Roger, but +just at first his eyes are only upon Dulce, and after a little bit +it becomes apparent to everybody that it is Dulce alone he +sees; and that she is in fact the proud possessor of all the +sight he owns.</p> + +<p>He has taken between both his the two little trembling +hands she has extended to him, and is pressing them warmly, +openly, without the slightest idea of concealing the happiness +he feels in being at her side again.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span></p> + +<p>A little happy smile wreathes her lips as she sees this, and +with her white fingers she smooths down the gray sleeve of +his coat, as if he were a priceless treasure, once lost, but now +restored to her again.</p> + +<p>I think Dare likes being looked upon as a long-lost priceless +treasure, because he does not move, and keeps his eyes +still on her as though he would never like to remove them, +and makes no objection to his sleeve being brushed up the +wrong way.</p> + +<p>"It seems like a hundred thousand years since you went +away," says Dulce, with a little happy sigh, after which +every one crowds around him, and he is welcomed with extreme +joy into the family circle again. Indeed, the Boodie +exhibits symptoms of insanity, and dances round him with +a vivacity that a dervish might be proud of.</p> + +<p>This is, of course, very delightful, specially to Stephen +Gower, who is sitting glooming upon space, and devoured +with something he calls disgust, but might be more generally +termed the commonest form of jealousy. The others are all +crowding round Roger, and are telling him, in different language, +but in one breath, how welcome he is.</p> + +<p>This universal desire to light mythical tar-barrels in honor +of the wanderer's return suggests at last to Mr. Gower the +necessity of expressing his delight likewise. Rising, therefore, +from his seat, he goes up to Roger, and insists on shaking +him cordially by the hand. This proceeding on his part, +I am bound to say, is responded to by Roger in a very niggardly +manner—a manner that even undergoes no improvement +when Mr. Gower expresses his overwhelming satisfaction +at seeing him home again.</p> + +<p>"We are all more pleased to see you again than we can say," +declares Mr. Gower, purposely forgetful of that half-hour in +the back-yard, when they had been bent on pommeling +each other, and doubtless would have done so but for Sir +Mark.</p> + +<p>He says this very well indeed, and with quite an overflow +of enthusiasm—perhaps rather too great an overflow; because +Roger, looking at him out of his dark eyes, decides within +himself that this whilom friend of his is now his bitterest +enemy, hating him with all the passionate hatred of a jealous +heart.</p> + +<p>The Boodie is in a state of triumph bordering on distraction.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span> +"<i>She</i> had always said he (Roger) would return on New +Year's Day; <i>she</i> had believed in his promise; <i>she</i> had known +he would not disappoint," and so on. Every now and then +she creeps up to the returned wanderer, to surreptitiously pat +his sleeve or his cheek, looking unutterable things all the +time. Finally she crowns herself by pressing into his hand a +neatly tied little square parcel, with a whisper to the effect +that it is his Christmas-box, that she has been keeping for +him all the week.</p> + +<p>At this Roger takes her up in his arms and kisses her +warmly, and tells her he has "something lovely" for her up-stairs +in his portmanteau, and that after dinner she must come +up with him to his room, and they will unpack it together.</p> + +<p>This announcement is very near being the cause of bloodshed. +Jacky and Pussy, who have been listening intently to +every word of it, now glare fiendishly upon the favored +Boodie, and sullenly, but with fell determination, make a +movement toward her. In another moment all might have +been over, and the poor Boodie a mangled corse, but that +Roger, coming hurriedly to the rescue, declares there are two +<i>other</i> "lovely things" in his portmanteau, suitable to the +requirements of Pussy and her brother, whereon peace is once +more restored.</p> + +<p>To Sir Christopher this unexpected return of Roger is an +indescribable blessing. His mind at once rises above all +things disagreeable; Slyme and his impertinence fade out of +remembrance, at least for the present. He sees and thinks +of nothing but his handsome lad, who has returned to him +safe and sound. There is quite a confusion indeed just at +first; every one is talking together, and nobody is dreaming +of listening to anybody. All Dulce's heart seems to go out +to Roger, as she marks the glad light that brightens his dark +eyes as he returns Fabian's greeting.</p> + +<p>After a little while every one sobers down, and Roger, who +is looking brown and healthy, if a trifle thin, seats himself +besides Dulce upon the small ottoman, that, as a rule, is supposed +to be only equal to the support of one individual at a +time. As neither Dulce nor Roger, however, appear in the +very slightest degree uncomfortable upon it, a doubt is at +once and forever afterwards thrown upon this supposition. +Once only a little hitch occurs that throws a slight damp upon +their content. Roger, feeling the Boodie's offering growing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span> +warm within his hands, mechanically opens it, even while +carrying on his smiling <i>tete-a-tete</i> with Dulce, but soon the +smiles vanish! There, on his open palm, lies a very serpent, +a noisome reptile, a box of chocolate creams!</p> + +<p>A most improper word escapes him. He precipitately +drops the box (it is a very pretty box with a lovely young +lady on the cover), chocolates and all, behind the ottoman, +where they fall softly, being in a high state of decay and +damp, and looks gloomily at Dulce. She responds with fervor; +she is, indeed, perhaps, a trifle the gloomiest, and for a +moment silence is unbroken.</p> + +<p>Then they sigh, then they look again, then they try to pretend +that nothing has happened to disturb them, and presently +so far succeed that conversation once more falls into +an easy channel and flows on unbrokenly.</p> + +<p>She is smiling up at him in a happy fashion, long unknown +to her, and he is looking down at her with such an amount +of satisfaction and content in his gaze as cannot be mistaken. +<ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'On'">One</ins> might easily believe he has forgotten the manner of their +parting, and is now regarding her as his own particular possession.</p> + +<p>When this sort of thing has gone on for five minutes, +Gower, feeling he can stand it no longer, draws his breath +quickly, and going over to the small ottoman seats himself +upon a low chair, quite close to his betrothed; this effort he +makes to assert his position, with all the air of a man who +is determined to do or die. Her fan is lying on her knee. +Taking it up, with a defiant glance at Roger, he opens it, and +trifles with it idly, in a sort of proprietary fashion.</p> + +<p>Yet even while he does it, his heart is sad within him and +filled with a dire foreboding. The thought that he is unwelcome, +that his presence at this moment is probably being +regarded in the light of an intrusion by these two, so near +to him, fills him with bitterness; he is almost afraid to look +at Dulce, lest he shall read in her eyes a cold disapprobation +of his conduct in thus interrupting her <i>tete-à-tete</i>, when to +his surprise a little hand is laid upon his arm, and Dulce's +voice asks him a question that instantly draws him into the +conversation.</p> + +<p>She is smiling very kindly at him; more kindly indeed than +she has done for many days; she is in such a happy mood, in +such wonderfully gay, bright spirits, that all the world seems<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span> +good to her, and it becomes necessary to her to impart her +joyousness to all around. <i>Every one</i> must be happy to-night, +she tells herself; and so, as I have said before, she smiles on +Gower, and pats him gently on the arm, and raises him at +once to the seventh heaven out of the very lowest depths of +despair.</p> + +<p>The change is so sudden that Stephen naturally loses his +head a little. He draws his chair even nearer to the ottoman. +He determines to outsit Roger. In five minutes—in half an +hour, at all events—the fellow will be obliged to go and +speak to somebody else, if only for decency's sake. And +then there is every chance that the dressing-bell will soon +ring. Dulce's extreme delight, so innocently expressed at +her cousin's return had certainly given him a severe shock, +but <i>now</i> there is no reason why he should not remain victor, +and keep the prize he had been at such pains to win.</p> + +<p>All is going well. Even with Roger freshly returned by +her side, she has shown kindness to him, she has smiled upon +him with a greater warmth than usual. I daresay she is +determined to show her cousin her preference for <i>him</i> +(Stephen). This thought makes him positively glow with +hope and pride. By guarding against any insidious advances +on the part of the enemy, by being ever at Dulce's +side to interpose between her and any softly worded sentimental +converse, he may conquer and drive the foe from off +the field.</p> + +<p>Not once this evening until the friendly bedroom candlesticks +are produced will he quit her side—never until—</p> + +<p>In one moment his designs are frustrated. All his plans +are laid low. The voice of Julia breaks upon his ear like a +death-knell. She, being fully convinced in her own mind +that "poor dear Stephen" is feeling himself in the cold, and +is, therefore, inconceivably wretched, determines, with most +mistaken kindness, to come to the rescue.</p> + +<p>"Stephen, <i>may</i> I ask you to do something for me?" she +says, in her sweetest tones and with her most engaging smile.</p> + +<p>"You may," says Mr. Gower, as in duty bound, and in an +awful tone.</p> + +<p>"Then do come and help me to wind this wool," says Julia, +still in her most fetching manner, holding out for his inspection +about as much scarlet wool as it would take an +hour to wind, doing it at one's utmost speed.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span></p> + +<p>With a murderous expression Stephen crosses the room to +where she is sitting—at the very antipodes from where he +would be, that is, from Dulce—and drops sullenly into a +chair at her side.</p> + +<p>"Poor dear fellow, already he is feeling injured and out +of spirits," says Julia to herself, regarding him with furtive +compassion.</p> + +<p>"Beast! she is in a plot against me!" says Mr. Gower to +his own soul, feeling he could willingly strangle her with her +red wool.</p> + +<p>So do we misunderstand the feelings and motives of our +best friends in this world.</p> + +<p>Dulce and Roger thus left to their own resources, continue +to be openly and unrestrainedly happy. Every now and +then a laugh from one or other of them comes to the +stricken Stephen, sitting on his stool of repentance, winding +the endless wool. By and by it becomes worse when no +laugh is heard, and when the two upon the ottoman seem to +be conversing in a tone that would be a whisper if it dared. +To Gower it is already a whisper, and frenzy ensues.</p> + +<p>Wild thoughts arise within his breast; something it seems +to him must be done, and that <i>soon</i>. Shall he throw this +vile wool, this scarlet abomination, in Julia's placid face, and +with a naughty word defy her to hold him prisoner any +longer? Or shall he fling himself bodily upon Roger and exterminate +him? Or shall he publicly upbraid Dulce with +her perfidy? No; this last is too mild a course, and something +tells him would not create the havoc that alone can +restore peace to his bosom. Shall he—</p> + +<p>Oh, blessed sound, the dressing bell. Now she must tear +herself away from this new-found cousin and go up-stairs—doubtless +to array herself in her choicest garments for his +delectation later on. He grinds his teeth again, as this +thought comes to torment him.</p> + +<p>Regardless of Julia's cry of horror and remonstrance, he +drops the wool and rises to his feet, leaving it a hopeless mass +on the carpet. He makes a step in Dulce's direction, but +she, too, has got up, and before he can reach her has disappeared +through the doorway, and is half-way up the old oak +staircase.</p> + +<p>He takes her in to dinner, certainly, later on, but finds, +on seating himself, that Roger, by some unaccountable chance,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span> +has secured the seat on her other side. He finds out, too, +presently, that she is devoting all her conversation to her +cousin, and seems curiously inquisitive about his travels. +She appears indeed positively athirst for information on this +subject; and the soup is as naught, and the fish as sawdust, +in the eyes of Mr. Gower.</p> + +<p>"You were in Egypt, too? Tell me all about it. I have +always so <i>longed</i> to hear about Egypt," says Dulce, with soft +animation.</p> + +<p>"Egypt?" says Roger, with some natural hesitation as to +how to begin; Egypt is a big place, and just now seems a +long way off. "Well, there is a good deal of it, you know; +what do you want to know most?"</p> + +<p>"Whether you enjoyed yourself—whether you were happy +there?" replies she, promptly. I daresay it isn't quite the +answer he had expected, because he looks at her for half a +minute or so very intently.</p> + +<p>"Happy? That includes such a great deal," he says, at +length. "It is a very interesting country beyond doubt, and +there are Pyramids, you know; you heard of 'em once or +twice, I shouldn't wonder; and there are beggars and robbers, +and more sand than I ever saw in my life, and—<i>No</i>," +with a sudden, almost startling change of tone, "I was <i>not</i> +happy there, or anywhere else, since last I saw you!"</p> + +<p>"Robbers!" says Dulce, hastily, with a rather forced little +laugh; "regular brigands, do you mean, going about in +hordes, with tunics, and crimson sashes, and daggers. How +<i>could</i> one be happy with such terrible people turning up at +every odd corner? I daresay," trifling nervously with a +wine glass, "it would make one often wish to be at home +again."</p> + +<p>"I often wished to be at home again." Somehow his manner +gives her to understand that the gentlemen in crimson +sashes had nothing whatever to do with this wish.</p> + +<p>"I fancied brigands belonged exclusively to Greece and +Italy," says Dulce, still intent upon the wine-glass. "Are they +very picturesque, and do they really go about dressed in all +the colors of the rainbow?"</p> + +<p>Plainly Miss Blount has been carefully studying the highly-colored +prints in the old school-books, in which the lawless +Greeks are depicted as the gayest of the gay.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span></p> + +<p>"They are about the most ill-looking ruffians it has ever +been my fate to see," says Mr. Dare, indifferently.</p> + +<p>"How disappointing! I don't believe you liked being in +Egypt after all," says Dulce, who cannot resist returning to +tread once more the dangerous ground.</p> + +<p>"I think one place is about as good as another," says Mr. +Dare, discontentedly, "and about as bad. One shouldn't +expect too much, you know."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps it would be as well if one didn't expect anything," +says Dulce.</p> + +<p>"<i>Better</i>, no doubt."</p> + +<p>"You take a very discontented view of things; your traveling +has made you cynical, I think."</p> + +<p>"Not my <i>traveling?</i>"</p> + +<p>This is almost a challenge, and she accepts it.</p> + +<p>"What then?" she asks, a little coldly.</p> + +<p>"Shall I tell you?" retorts he, with an unpleasant smile. +"Well, no; I will spare you; it would certainly not interest +<i>you</i>. Let us return to our subject; you are wondering why I +am not in raptures about Egypt; I am wondering why I +should be."</p> + +<p>"No; I was finding fault with you because you gave me +the impression that all places on earth are alike indifferent +to you."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps that is true. I don't defend myself. But I +know there was a time when certain scenes were dear to +me."</p> + +<p>"There <i>was?</i>"</p> + +<p>"Yes; I've outgrown it, I suppose; or else memory, rendering +all things bitter, is to blame. It is our cruelest +enemy, I dare say we might all be pretty comfortable forever +if we could only 'Quaff the kind Nepenthe, and forget +our lost Lenores!'"</p> + +<p>"'Ock, 'm?" asks the sedate butler at this emotional moment, +in his most prosaic tones.</p> + +<p>Dulce starts perceptibly, and says "No," though she means +"Yes." Roger starts too, and, being rather absent altogether, +mistakes the sedate butler's broken English for good +German, and says, "Hockheim?" in a questioning voice; +whereupon Dicky Browne, who has overheard him, laughs +immoderately and insists upon repeating the little joke to +everybody. They all laugh with him, except, indeed, Portia,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span> +who happens to be miles away in thought from them, and +does not hear one word of what is being said.</p> + +<p>"Portia," says Dicky, presently.</p> + +<p>No answer; Portia's soul is still winging its flight to unseen +regions.</p> + +<p>"Still deaf to my entreaties," says Mr. Browne, eyeing her +fixedly. Something in his tone rouses her this time from her +day-dreams, and, with a rather absent smile, she turns her +face to his. Fabian, who has been listening to one of Mark +Gore's rather pronounced opinions upon a subject that +doesn't concern us here, looks up at this moment and lets his +eyes rest upon her.</p> + +<p>"Will you not deign to bestow even one word upon your +slave?" asks Dicky, sweetly. "Do. He pines for it. And +after all the encouragement, too, you have showered upon me +of late, this behavior—this studied avoidance is strange."</p> + +<p>"You were asking me—?" begins Portia vaguely, with a +little soft laugh.</p> + +<p>"'Why art thou silent? Is thy love a plant?'" quotes Mr. +Browne, with sentimental reproach. As usual, he attacks his +favorite author, and, as usual also, gives to that good man's +words a meaning unknown to him.</p> + +<p>Portia, raising her head, meets Fabian's eyes regarding +her earnestly, and then and there colors hotly; there is no +earthly reason why she should change color, yet she does so +unmistakably, nay, painfully. She is feeling nervous and unstrung, +and—not very well to-night, and even this light mention +of the word love has driven all the blood from her heart +to her cheeks. A moment ago they were pale as Lenten +lilies, now they are dyed as deep as a damask rose.</p> + +<p>For a moment only. She draws her breath quickly, full of +anger at her own want of self-control, and then the flush +fades, and she is even paler than she was before. Again she +glances at Fabian, but not again do her eyes meet his. He +has seemingly forgotten her very existence and has returned +to his discussion with Sir Mark. He is apparently deeply +interested, nay, animated, and even as she watches him he +laughs aloud, a rare thing for him.</p> + +<p>She tells herself that she is glad of this; <i>very</i> glad, because +it may prove he has not noticed her emotion. Her awkward +blush, doubtless, was unseen by him. Yet I think she is +piqued at his indifference, because her eyes grow duller and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span> +her lips sadder, and there is a small, but painful, flutter at her +heart, that reminds her of the days before she came to Old +Court, and that compels her to press her fingers tightly together, +under cover of the table-cloth, in a vain effort to +subdue it.</p> + +<p>Dicky, who had noticed her quick transitions of color, and +who feels there is something wrong, without knowing what, +and who also understands that he himself, however unwittingly, +has been the cause of it, grows annoyed with himself, +and, to distract attention, turns to the Boodie, who is +generally to be found at his elbow when anything sweet is to +be had.</p> + +<p>The butler and his attendant are politely requesting the +backs of all the heads to try a little jelly, or cream, or so on. +This, at the Court, is virtually the children's hour, as Sir +Christopher—who adores them—is of opinion that they prefer +puddings to fruit, and that, as they should be made free +of both, they are to put in an appearance with the first sweet +every evening.</p> + +<p>The Boodie, whose "vanity" is whipped cream, has just +been helped to it, and Dicky, at this moment (that he may +give Portia time to recover herself) turning to the golden-haired +fairy beside him, adds to her felicity by dropping some +crimson jelly into the centre of the cream.</p> + +<p>"There now, I have made an island for you," he says.</p> + +<p>Julia overhears him, and thinking this a capital opportunity +to show off the Boodie's learning, says, proudly:</p> + +<p>"Now, darling, tell Dicky what an island really is."</p> + +<p>Dicky feels honestly obliged to her for following up his +lead, and so breaking the awkward silence that has descended +upon him and Portia.</p> + +<p>"A tract of land entirely surrounded by water," says the +Boodie, promptly, betraying a faint desire to put her hands +behind her back.</p> + +<p>"Not at all," says Mr. Browne, scornfully; "it is a bit of +red jelly entirely surrounded by cream!"</p> + +<p>"It is <i>not</i>," says the Boodie, with a scorn that puts his in +the shade. To be just to the Boodie, she is always eager for +the fray. Not a touch of cowardice about her. "How," demands +she, pointing to the jelly, with a very superior smile, +"how do you think one could live upon <i>that?</i>"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Why not? I don't see how anyone could possibly desire +anything better to live upon."</p> + +<p>"Just fancy Robinson Crusoe on it," says the Boodie, +with a derisive smile.</p> + +<p>"I could fancy him very fat on it; I could also fancy him +considering himself in great luck when he found it, or discovered +it. They always discovered islands, didn't they? <i>I</i> +should like to live on just such an island for an indefinite +number of years."</p> + +<p>"You are extremely silly," says Miss Beaufort, politely; +"you know as well as I do that it wouldn't keep you up."</p> + +<p>"Well, not, perhaps, so strongly as a few other things," +acknowledges Mr. Browne, gracefully; "but I think it <i>would</i> +support me for all that,—for a <i>time</i>, at least."</p> + +<p>"Not for one minute. Why, you couldn't stand on it."</p> + +<p>"A prolonged acquaintance with it <i>alone</i> might make me +totter, I confess," says Mr. Browne. "But yet, if I had +enough of it, I think I <i>could</i> stand on it very well."</p> + +<p>"You could <i>not</i>," says the Boodie, indignant at being so +continuously contradicted on a point so clear. "If you had +ten whole jellies—if you had one as big as this house—you +couldn't manage it."</p> + +<p>"I really beg your pardon," protests Mr. Browne, with dignity. +"It is my belief that I <i>could</i> manage it in time. I'm +very fond of jelly."</p> + +<p>"You would go right through it and come out at the other +side," persists the Boodie, nothing daunted.</p> + +<p>"Like the Thames Tunnel. How nice!" says Dicky +Browne, amiably.</p> + +<p>"Well, you can't live on it <i>now</i>, anyway," says the Boodie, +putting the last bit of the jelly island into her small mouth.</p> + +<p>"No, no, indeed," says Dicky, shaking his head with all +the appearance of one sunk in the very deepest dejection.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXIII.</h2> + +<div class='center'> +"I do perceive here a divided duty."—<i>Othello.</i><br /> +</div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Jealousy</span> is the keenest, the most selfish, the most poignant +of all sufferings. "It is," says Milton, "the injured +lover's hell." This monster having now seized upon Stephen,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span> +is holding him in a close embrace and is swiftly crushing +within him all hope and peace and joy.</p> + +<p>To watch Dulce day after day in her cousin's society, to +mark her great eyes grow brighter when he comes, is now +more than he can endure. To find himself second where he +had been first is intolerable to him, and a shrinking feeling +that warns him he is being watched and commented upon by +all the members of the Blount household, renders him at +times half mad with rage and wounded pride.</p> + +<p>Not that Dulce slights him in any way, or is cold to him, +or gives him to understand, even indirectly, that she would +gladly know her engagement at an end. She is both kind +and gentle—much more so than before—but any doubt he +had ever entertained about her having a real affection for him +has now become a certainty.</p> + +<p>He had won her unfairly. He had wrought upon her feelings +in an evil hour, when her heart was torn with angry +doubts and her self-love grievously hurt; when all her +woman's soul was aflame with the thought that she was the +unwelcome property of a man who would gladly be rid of +her.</p> + +<p>Her parting with Roger, and the unexpected emotion he +had then betrayed, had opened her eyes in part, and had +shown her how she had flung away the thing she desired, to gain—naught. +Even now, I think she hardly knows how well +she loves her cousin, or how well he loves her, so openly displayed +is her pleasure in his society, so glad is the smile that +welcomes him whenever he enters the room where she is, or +seats himself beside her—which is very often—or when he +addresses her, which means whenever he has anything at all +to say to anybody.</p> + +<p>At first he had fought manfully against his growing fears, +but when a week had gone by and he had had it forced upon +him that the girl he loved was every day becoming more +silent and <i>distraite</i> in his presence, and when he had seen +how she would gladly have altogether avoided his coming if +she could, he lost all heart, and, flinging up his cards, let a +bitter revengeful feeling enter and take possession of his +heart—where love, alone, before, had held full sway.</p> + +<p>If not his—she shall at least never be Roger's. This he +swears to himself, with white lips and eyes dangerously bright.</p> + +<p>He has her promise, and he will keep her to it. Nothing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span> +shall induce him to release her from it; or if he has to consent +to her not fulfilling her engagement with him, it shall be +<i>only</i> on condition that she will never marry Dare. Even +should she come to him with tears in her eyes and on her +bended knees to ask him to alter this decision, she will beg +in vain. He registers a bitter vow that Roger shall not triumph +where he has failed.</p> + +<p>He knows Dulce sufficiently well to understand that she +will think a good deal of breaking the word she gave him of +her own free will, even though she gave it in anger and to +her own undoing. He can calculate to a nicety the finer +shades of remorse and self-contempt that will possess her +when he lays his case in all its nakedness before her. She is +a wilful, hot-tempered little thing, but the Blounts for generations +have been famed for a strain of honor toward friend +and foe that runs in their blood, and is dear to them as their +lives. Therefore he knows her word will be as sacred to her +as her bond.</p> + +<p>To Stephen just at this time the world is a howling wilderness; +there is no sun anywhere, and every spring is dry. He +has fallen into the habit of coming very seldom to the Court, +where he used to be morning, noon, and night, ever since +his unlucky engagement; indeed, no one in the house or out +of it has seen him since the day before yesterday.</p> + +<p>Sitting at home, brooding over his wrongs, with a short +and well-blackened pipe in his mouth, he is giving himself +up a victim to despair and rage. That he can still love her +with even, it seems to him, a deeper intensity than before, +is the bitterest drop in his cup. It was all so sudden, so unexpected. +He tortures himself now with the false belief +that she was <i>beginning</i> to love him, that she <i>might</i> have loved +him had time been given him, and had Egypt held Roger +but a few months longer in her foster arms. In a little flash +it had all come to him, and now his life is barren, void of interest, +and full of ceaseless pain.</p> + +<div class='poem'> +"Bring withered Autumn leaves,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Call everything that grieves,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And build a funeral pyre above his head!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Heap there all golden promise that deceives,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Beauty that wins the heart, and then bereaves,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">For love is dead.</span><br /> +<br /> +"Not slowly did he die.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">A meteor from the sky</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Falls not so swiftly as his spirit fled—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">When, with regretful, half-averted eye,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">He gave one little smile, one little sigh,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And so was sped."</span><br /> +</div><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span></p> + +<p>These verses, and such as these, he reads between his doleful +musings. It gives him some wretched comfort to believe +Dulce had actually some sparks of love for him before her +cousin's return. An <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'erroneons'">erroneous</ins> belief, as she had never cared +for him in that way at all, and at her best moments had only +a calm friendship for him. It is my own opinion that even +if Roger had never returned she yet would have found an +excuse at some time to break off her engagement with Gower, +or, at least, to let him understand that she would wish it +broken.</p> + +<p>To-day is fine, though frosty, and everybody, the children +included, are skating on the lake, which is to be found about +half a mile from the house at the foot of a "wind-beaten hill." +The sun is shining coldly, as though steadily determined to +give no heat, and a sullen wind is coming up from the distant +shore. "Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound," and +must now, therefore, be happy, as Boreas is asserting himself +nobly, both on land and sea.</p> + +<p>Some of the <i>jeunesse doree</i> of the neighborhood, who have +been lunching at the Court, are with the group upon the +lake, and are cutting (some of them) the most remarkable +figures, in every sense of the word, to their own and everybody +else's delight.</p> + +<p>Dulce, who is dressed in brown velvet and fur, is gliding +gracefully hither and thither with her hand fast locked in +Roger's. Julia is making rather an exhibition of herself, and +Portia, who skates—as she does everything else—to perfection, +but who is easily tired, is just now sitting upon the +bank with the devoted Dicky by her side. Sir Mark, coming +up to these last two, drops lazily down on the grass at Portia's +other side.</p> + +<p>"Why don't you skate, Mark?" asks Portia, turning to +him.</p> + +<p>"Too old," says Gore.</p> + +<p>"Nonsense! You are not too old for other things that +require far greater exertion. For one example, you will +dance all night and never show sign of fatigue."</p> + +<p>"I like waltzing."</p> + +<p>"Ah! and not skating."</p> + +<p>"It hurts when one falls," says Mark, with a yawn; "and +why put oneself in a position likely to create stars before one's +eyes, and a violent headache at any moment?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Inferior drink, if you take enough of it, will do all that +sometimes," says Mr. Browne, innocently.</p> + +<p>"Will it? I don't know anything about it" (severely). +"You do, I shouldn't wonder; you speak so feelingly."</p> + +<p>"If you address me like that again, I shall cry," says Dicky, +sadly.</p> + +<p>"Why are not you and Portia skating? It is far too cold +to sit still on this damp grass."</p> + +<p>"I am tired," says Portia, smiling rather languidly. "It +sounds very affected, doesn't it? but really I am very easily +fatigued. The least little exertion does me up. Town life, I +suppose. But I enjoy sitting here and watching the others."</p> + +<p>"So do I," says Sir Mark. "It quite warms my heart to +see them flitting to and fro over there like a pretty dream."</p> + +<p>"What part of your heart?" asks Mr. Browne, with a suppressed +chuckle—"the cockles of it?" It is plain he has not +yet forgotten his snubbing of a minute since.</p> + +<p>Nobody takes any notice of this outrageous speech. It is +passed over very properly in the deadliest silence.</p> + +<p>"By Jove!" says Sir Mark, presently, "there's Macpherson +down again. That's the eighteenth time; I've counted it."</p> + +<p>"He can't skate a little screw," says Dicky. "It's a pity +to be looking at him. It only raises angry passions in one's +breast. He ought to go home and put his head in a bag."</p> + +<p>"A well-floured one," responded Sir Mark.</p> + +<p>Portia laughs. Her laugh is always the lowest, softest +thing imaginable.</p> + +<p>"Charitable pair," she says.</p> + +<p>"Why, the fellow can't stand," says Mr. Browne, irritably. +"And he looks so abominably contented with himself and +his deplorable performance. That last time he was merely +trying to get from that point there to that," waving his hand +in both directions. "Any fool could do it. See, I'll show +you." He jumps to his feet, gets on to the ice, essays to do +what Captain Macpherson had tried to do, and succeeds in +doing exactly what Captain Macpherson <i>did</i>. That is to +say, he instantly comes a most tremendous cropper right in +front of Portia.</p> + +<p>Red, certainly, but consumed with laughter at his own defeat, +he returns to her side. There is no use in attempting +it, nothing earthly could have power to subdue Dicky's +spirits. He is quite as delighted at his own discomfiture as if +it had happened to somebody else.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You were right, Dicky," says Sir Mark, when he can +speak, "<i>Any</i> fool could do it. <i>You</i> did it."</p> + +<p>"I did," says Dicky, roaring with laughter; "with a vengeance. +Never mind—</p> + +<div class='poem'> +'Only the actions of the just<br /> +Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.'"<br /> +</div> + +<p>"I hardly think I follow you," says Sir Mark. "Where's +the dust, Dicky, and where's the just? I can't see either of +them."</p> + +<p>"My dear fellow, never be literal; nothing is so—so +boring," says Mr. Browne, with conviction. "I'm," striking +his chest, "the dust, and there," pointing to the lake, "is +the just, and—no, by-the-by, that don't sound right—I +mean—"</p> + +<p>"Oh, never mind it," says Sir Mark.</p> + +<p>Dulce and Roger having skated by this time past all the +others, and safely over a rather shaky part of the ice that +leaves them at the very farthest corner of the lake, stop +somewhat out of breath and look at each other triumphantly.</p> + +<p>Dulce is looking, if possible, more bonny than usual. Her +blood is aglow, and tingling with the excitement of her late +exertion; her hair, without actually having come undone, is +certainly under less control than it was an hour ago, and is +glinting and changing from auburn to brown, and from +brown to a warm yellow, beneath the sad kisses of the Wintry +sun. One or two riotous locks have escaped from under her +otter-skin cap and are straying lovingly across her fair forehead, +suggesting an idea of coquetry in the sweet eyes below +shaded by their long dark lashes.</p> + +<div class='poem'> +"Your eyes are stars of morning,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Your lips are crimson flowers,"</span><br /> +</div> + +<div class='unindent'>says Roger softly, as they still stand hand in hand. He is +looking at her intently, with a new meaning in his glance as +he says this.</div> + +<p>"What a pretty song that is!" says Miss Blount, carelessly. +"I like it better almost every time I hear it."</p> + +<p>"It was you made me think of it now," says Roger; and +then they seat themselves upon a huge stone near the brink, +that looks as if it was put there on purpose for them.</p> + +<p>"Where is Gower?" asks Roger, at length, somewhat abruptly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes—where?" returns she, in a tone suggestive of the +idea that now for the first time she had missed him. She says +it quite naturally and without changing color. The fact is it +really <i>is</i> the first time she has thought of him to-day, but I +regret to say Roger firmly believes she is acting, and that +she is doing it uncommonly well.</p> + +<p>"He hasn't been at the Court since yesterday—has he?" +he asks, somewhat impatiently.</p> + +<p>"N—o. But I dare say he will turn up by-and-by. Why?" +with a quick glance at him from under her heavy lashes. +"Do you want him?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly not. <i>I</i> don't want him," said Roger, with exceeding +emphasis upon the pronoun.</p> + +<p>"Then I don't know anybody else who does," finishes +Dulce, biting her lips.</p> + +<p>"She is regularly piqued because the fellow hasn't turned +up—a lover's quarrel, I suppose," says Mr. Dare, savagely, to +himself, reading wrongly that petulant movement of her +lips.</p> + +<p>"<span class="smcap">You</span> do!" he says. To be just to him, he is, and always, +I think, will be, a terribly outspoken young man.</p> + +<p>"<i>I</i> do?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; you looked decidedly cut up just now when I spoke +of his not being here since yesterday."</p> + +<p>"You are absurdly mistaken," declares Miss Blount, with +dignity. "It is a matter of the most perfect indifference to +me whether he comes or goes." (Oh, if he could only know +how true this is!)</p> + +<p>"Even more piqued than I supposed," concludes Roger, +inwardly.</p> + +<p>"However, I have no doubt we shall see him this evening," +goes on Dulce, calmly.</p> + +<p>"<i>That</i> will be a comfort to you, at all events," murmurs +he, gloomily.</p> + +<p>Silence follows this. Nothing is heard save the distant +laughter of the skaters at the other end of the lake and the +scraping noise of their feet. The storm is rising steadily in +the hills above, but as yet has not descended on the quiet +valley. The gaunt trees are swaying and bending ominously, +and through them one catches glimpses of the angry sky +above, across which clouds are scudding tempestuously. The +dull sun has vanished: all is gray and cheerless. The roar<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span> +of the breakers upon the rock-bound coast comes up from +afar: while up there upon the wooded hill the</p> + +<div class='poem'> +"Wind, that grand old harper, smites<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">His thunder-harp of pines."</span><br /> +</div> + +<p>"Perhaps we had better return to the others," says Dulce, +coldly, making a movement as though to rise.</p> + +<p>"Now I have offended you," exclaims Roger, miserably, +catching her hand, and drawing her down to the stone beside +him again. "I don't know what's the matter with me; +I only know I am as wretched as ever I can be. Forgive +me, if you can."</p> + +<p>He pulls his hat over his eyes and sighs deeply. At this +moment his whole appearance is so decidedly suicidal that no +true woman could look at him unmoved. Miss Blount is a +true woman, her <i>hauteur</i> of a moment since vanishes like +snow, and compassion takes its place.</p> + +<p>"What is making you wretched?" she asks, in a tone meant +to be severe, but which is only friendly.</p> + +<p>"When I remember what a fool I have been," begins +Roger, rather as if he is following out a train of thought than +answering her.</p> + +<p>"Oh, no; not that," says Dulce, very kindly; "don't call +yourself that."</p> + +<p>"There is no other name for me," persists Roger, with +increasing melancholy. "Of course, at <i>that time</i>—I knew +you didn't particularly care for me, but," disconsolately, "it +never <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'occured'">occurred</ins> to me you might care for any other fellow!"</p> + +<p>"I didn't!" said Miss Blount, suddenly; and then, as suddenly, +she remembers everything, her engagement to Stephen, +her horror of that engagement, all that her last words have +admitted, and, growing as red as a rose, she seeks to hide her +confusion by burying her rounded chin as deep as she can +in her soft furs. At the same time she lowers her lids over +her shamed eyes and gazes at her boots as if she never saw +small twos before.</p> + +<p>Roger, I need hardly say, is too much of a gentleman to +take any notice of this impulsive admission on her part. +Besides, he hardly gets as much consolation out of it as he +should. He is in that stage when to pile up the agony becomes +a melancholy satisfaction, and when the possibility +of comfort in any form takes the shape of a deliberate insult.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Did you ever once think of me all the time I was away?" +he asks, presently, in a low tone that distinctly gives her to +understand he believes she didn't. That in fact he would—in +in his present frame of mind—<i>rather</i> believe she didn't. +His voice is growing absolutely tragic, and, altogether, he +is as deplorably unhappy as any young woman could desire.</p> + +<p>"I wish," says poor Dulce, her voice quivering, "that you +would not speak to me like this now, or—or that you had +spoken like it long ago!"</p> + +<p>"I wish I had, with all my soul," says Roger, fervently. +"However," with a heavy sigh, "you are engaged to <i>him</i> +now, you know, so I suppose there is no use in talking about +it."</p> + +<p>"If I do know it, why tell me again about it?" says Dulce +reproachfully, her eyes full of tears. "Just like you to remind +me—of—my <i>misfortune!</i>"</p> + +<p>It is out. She has been dying to tell him for the last half-hour +of this trouble that has been pressing upon her for +months, of this most distasteful engagement, and now that +she has told him, though frightened, yet she would hardly recall +her words. Her lashes linger on her cheeks, and she +looks very much as if she would like to cry but for the disgrace +of the thing.</p> + +<p>"Your misfortune!" repeats Roger, in a strange tone. +"Are you not happy, then?"</p> + +<p>He has risen to his feet in his surprise and agitation, and +is looking down on her as she sits trembling before him, her +hands tightly clasped together.</p> + +<p>"Do you mean to tell me he is not good to you?" asks +Roger, seeing she either cannot or will not speak.</p> + +<p>"He is too good to me; you must not think that," exclaims +she, earnestly. "It is only—that I don't care about his +goodness—I don't care," desperately, "for anything connected +with him."</p> + +<p>"You have made a second mistake, then?"</p> + +<p>"Not a <i>second</i>," in a very low tone.</p> + +<p>"Then let us say, you have again changed your mind?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"You liked him once?" impatiently.</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"You might as well say you <i>did</i> like me," says Roger, with +angry warmth; "and I know I was actually abhorrent in your +sight."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh, no, <i>no</i>," says Dulce for the third time, in a tone so +low now that he can hardly hear it; yet he does.</p> + +<p>"Dulce! do you know what you are implying?" asks he, in +deep agitation. "It is one of two things now: either that +you never liked Stephen, and always lov—liked me, or else +you are trying to make a fool of me for the second time. +Which is it?"</p> + +<p>To this Miss Blount declines to make any reply.</p> + +<p>"I won't leave this spot to-day until you answer me," says +Roger, fell determination on his brow; "Which—is—it?"</p> + +<p>"I'm sure, at least, that I never liked Stephen in <i>that</i> way," +confesses she, faintly.</p> + +<p>"And you did like me?"</p> + +<p>Silence again.</p> + +<p>"Then," says Mr. Dare, wrathfully, "for the sake of a mere +whim, a caprice, you flung me over and condemned me to +months of misery? Did you know what you were doing? +Did <i>you</i> feel unhappy? I hope to goodness you <i>did</i>," says +Roger, indignantly; "if you endured even one quarter of +what I have suffered, it would be punishment sufficient for +you."</p> + +<p>"Had you nothing to do with it?" asks she, nervously.</p> + +<p>"No; it was entirely your own fault," replies he, hastily. +Whereupon she very properly bursts into tears.</p> + +<p>"Every woman," says some one, "is in the wrong till she +cries; then, instantly, she is in the right."</p> + +<p>So it is with Dulce. No sooner does Roger see "her tears +down fa'" than, metaphorically speaking, he is on his knees +before her. I am sure but for the people on the lake, who +might find an unpleasant amount of amusement in the tableau, +he would have done so literally.</p> + +<p>"Don't do that," he entreats, earnestly. "Don't Dulce. +I have behaved abominably to you. It was <i>not</i> your fault; +it was all mine. But for my detestable temper—"</p> + +<p>"And the chocolate creams," puts in Dulce, sobbing.</p> + +<p>"It would never have occurred. Forgive me," implores +he, distractedly, seeing her tears are rather on the increase +than otherwise. "I must be a brute to speak to you as I have +done."</p> + +<p>"I won't contradict you," says Miss Blount, politely, still +sobbing. There is plainly a great deal of indignation +mingled with her grief. To say it was all <i>her</i> fault, indeed, +when he knows.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Don't cry any more," says Roger, coaxingly, trying to +draw her hands down from her eyes; "don't, now, you have +got to go back to the others, you know, and they will be wondering +what is the matter with you. They will think you had +a bad fall."</p> + +<p>This rouses her; she wipes her eyes hastily and looks up.</p> + +<p>"How shall I explain to them?" she asks, anxiously.</p> + +<p>"We won't explain at all. Let me take off your skates, +and we will walk up and down here until your eyes are all +right again. Why, really," stooping to look at them, "they +are by no means bad; they will be as good as ever in five +minutes."</p> + +<p>Inexpressibly consoled, she lets him take off her skates, +and commences a gentle promenade with him up and down +the brown and stunted grass that lies upon the path.</p> + +<p>"There was a time," says Roger, after a pause, "when I +might have dared to kiss away your tears, but I suppose that +time is gone forever."</p> + +<p>"I suppose so," dismally; tears are still wetting the sweet +eyes she turns up to his.</p> + +<p>"Dulce! let me understand you," says Roger, gravely. +"You are quite sure you don't care for him?"</p> + +<p>"Quite," says Dulce, without a second's hesitation.</p> + +<p>"Then ask him to give you up—to release you from your +promise," says Roger, brightly.</p> + +<p>"I—I'd be afraid," replies Miss Blount, drooping her +head.</p> + +<p>"Nonsense!" says Roger (of course it is not <i>he</i> who has +to do it). "Why should you feel nervous about a thing like +that? You don't want to marry him, therefore say so. +Nothing can be simpler."</p> + +<p>"It doesn't sound simple to me," says Dulce, dolefully.</p> + +<p>Just at this moment a young man, dressed in gray, emerges +from the group of alders that line the south edge of the lake, +very near to where Dulce and Roger are standing. He is so +situated that he is still concealed from view, though quite +near enough to the cousins to hear what they are saying. +The last two sentences having fallen on his ears, he stands +as if spell-bound, and waits eagerly for what may come next.</p> + +<p>"He can't possibly want to marry you if you don't want +to marry him," says Roger, logically, "and you <i>don't?</i>" a +little doubtfully still.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I don't, indeed," says Dulce, with a sad sigh and a shake +of her auburn head.</p> + +<p>At this the young man in the gray suit, with a bitter curse, +turns away, and, retracing his steps, gets to the other side +of the lake without being seen by either Dulce or his companion.</p> + +<p>Here he declines to stay or converse with anyone. Passing +by Portia and the two men who are still attending to her, he +bows slightly, and pretends not to hear Dicky's voice as it +calls to him to stop.</p> + +<p>"He is like that contemptible idiot who went round with +the 'banner with the strange device,'" says Dicky Browne, +looking after him; "nothing will stop him."</p> + +<p>"What's up with him now?" asks Sir Mark, squeezing his +glass into his eye, the better to watch Stephen's figure, as it +hurriedly disappears.</p> + +<p>"I expect he has eaten something that has disagreed with +him," says Dicky, cheerfully.</p> + +<p>"Well, really, he looked like it," says Gore. "A more +vinegary aspect it has seldom been my lot to gaze upon, +for which I acknowledge my gratitude. My dear Portia, +unless you intend to go in for rheumatics before your time, +you will get up from that damp grass and come home with +me."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXIV.</h2> + +<div class='poem'> +<span style="margin-left: 7.5em;">"Never morning wore</span><br /> +To evening, but some heart did break."<br /> +<div class='sig'>—<i>In Memoriam.</i></div><br /> +</div> + + +<p>"<span class="smcap">Did</span> <i>he</i>—I mean did <i>you</i>—ever—; Dulce, will you be +very angry with me if I ask you a question?"</p> + +<p>"No. But I hope it won't be a disagreeable one," says +Dulce, glancing at him cautiously.</p> + +<p>"That is just as you may look at it," says Roger. "But I +suppose I may say it—after all, we are like brother and +sister are we not?"</p> + +<p>"Ye-es. <i>Quite</i> like brother and sister," says Dulce, but +somehow this thought seems to give her no pleasure.</p> + +<p>"Only we are <i>not</i>, you know," puts in Roger, rather hastily.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span></p> + +<p>"No, of course we are <i>not</i>," replies she, with equal haste.</p> + +<p>"Well, then, look here—"</p> + +<p>But even now that he has got so far, he hesitates again, +looks earnestly at her, and pulls his mustache uncertainly, +as if half afraid to go any further.</p> + +<p>It is the afternoon of the next day, and as the sun has +come out in great force, and the mildness of the day almost +resembles Spring in its earliest stages; they are all about the +place, strolling hither and thither, whithersoever pleasant +fancy guides them.</p> + +<p>Roger and Dulce, after lingering for some time in the +Winter garden looking at the snowdrops, and such poor +foster-babes as have thrust their pallid faces above the warm +earth, that, like a cruel stepmother, has driven them too +early from her breast, have moved slowly onwards until they +find themselves beside a fountain that used to be a favorite +haunt of theirs long ago.</p> + +<p>Dulce, seating herself upon the stone-work that surrounds +it, though the water is too chilly to be pleasant, still toys +lightly with it with her idle fingers, just tipping it coquettishly +now and then, with her eyes bent thoughtfully upon +as it sways calmly to and fro beneath the touch of the cold +wind that passes over it.</p> + +<p>Just now she raises her eyes and fixes them inquiringly on +Roger.</p> + +<p>"Go on," she says, quietly. "You were surely going to +ask me something. Are you afraid of me?"</p> + +<p>"A little, I confess."</p> + +<p>"You need not." She is still looking at him very earnestly.</p> + +<p>"Well, then," says Roger, as though nerving himself for a +struggle—"tell me this." He leaves where he is standing +and comes closer to her. "Did—did you ever kiss Gower?"</p> + +<p>"Never—<i>never!</i>" answers Dulce, growing quite pale.</p> + +<p>"I have no right to <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'a k'">ask</ins> it, I know that," says Roger. +"But," desperately, "did he ever kiss <i>you?</i>"</p> + +<p>"Never, indeed."</p> + +<p>"Honor bright?"</p> + +<p>"Honor bright."</p> + +<p>A long silence. Miss Blount's fingers are quite deep in +the water now, and I think she does not even feel the cold +of it.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span></p> + +<p>"He has been engaged to you for three months and more +and never wanted to kiss you!" exclaims Roger at last, in a +tone expressive of great amazement and greater contempt.</p> + +<p>"I don't think I said quite <i>that</i>," returns she, coloring +faintly.</p> + +<p>"Then"—eagerly—"it was <i>you</i> prevented him!"</p> + +<p>"I don't care much about that sort of thing," says Dulce, +with a little shrug.</p> + +<p>"Don't you? Then I don't believe you care a button +about <i>him</i>," replies he, with glad conviction.</p> + +<p>"That is mere surmise on your part. Different people"—vaguely—"are +different. I don't believe if I had any affection +for a person that a mere formal act like kissing would +increase the feeling."</p> + +<p>"Oh, wouldn't it, though!" says Mr. Dare—"that's all you +know about it! You just try it, that's all."</p> + +<p>"Indeed I shall do nothing of the kind," says Dulce, with +much indignation, and some natural disappointment—that +<i>he</i> should recommend such a course to her!</p> + +<p>"I didn't mean that you should—should—I didn't, in the +least, that you should be a bit civiller to Gower, or any one, +than you are <i>now</i>," says Roger, hastily, greatly shocked at +the construction she has put upon his words, and rather +puzzled for language in which to explain himself more +clearly. At this the cloud disappears from her pretty face, +and she bestows a smile upon him that at once restores him +to equanimity.</p> + +<p>"I can't say I think much of Gower as a lover," he says, +after a while, a touch of scorn in his voice. "To be engaged +to you for three whole months, and never once to kiss +you."</p> + +<p>"<i>You</i> were engaged to me for three whole <i>years</i>," replies +his cousin, quietly, yet with a flash from her deep gray eyes +that means much, "and I cannot remember that you ever +cared to kiss me <i>at all</i>."</p> + +<p>This is a home-thrust.</p> + +<p>"I don't know what was the matter with me then," he says, +making no attempt at denial, though there certainly were +one or two occasions he might have referred to; "I don't +believe"—in a low tone—"I ever knew I was fond of you +until—until I lost you."</p> + +<p>"Oh, you must not talk to me like this!" entreats she, the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span> +tears coming into her eyes and trembling on her long lashes.</p> + +<p>"I suppose not. But this new-found knowledge is hard to +suppress; why <i>did</i> I not discover it all sooner?"</p> + +<p>"Better late than never," says Dulce, with a poor attempt +at lightness and a rather artificial little laugh, meant to conceal +the sorrow that is consuming her. "I think you ought +to feel gladness in the thought that you know it at last. +Knowledge is power, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"I can feel only sorrow," says Roger, very sadly. "And +I have no power."</p> + +<p>Dulce's wretched fingers are getting absolutely benumbed +in the cold water, yet she seems to feel nothing. Roger, +however, stooping over her, lifts the silly little hand and dries +it very tenderly, and holds it fast between both his own; +doubtless only with the intention of restoring some heat to it. +It is quite amazing the length of time it takes to do this.</p> + +<p>"Dulce!"</p> + +<p>"Well?" She has not looked at him even once during +the last five minutes.</p> + +<p>"If you are unhappy in your present engagement—and I +think you are—why not break with Gower? I spoke to you +of this yesterday, and I say the same thing to-day. You are +doing both him and yourself an injustice in letting it go on +any longer."</p> + +<p>"I don't know what to say to him."</p> + +<p>"Then get some one else to say it. Fabian, or Uncle Christopher."</p> + +<p>"Oh, <i>no!</i>" says Dulce, with a true sense of delicacy. "If +it is to be done at all I shall do it myself."</p> + +<p>"Then do it. Promise me if you get the opportunity you +will say something to him about it."</p> + +<p>"I promise," says Dulce, very faintly. Then she withdraws +the hand from his, and without another word, not even +a hint at what the gaining of her freedom may mean to +either—or rather both—of them, they go slowly back to the +garden, where they meet all the others sitting in a group upon +a huge circular rustic seat beneath a branching evergreen; +all, that is, except Fabian, who of late has become more and +more solitary in his habits.</p> + +<p>As Stephen has not put in an appearance at the Court +now for fully two days, speculation is rife as to what has become +of him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It is the oddest thing I ever knew," Julia is saying, as +the cousins come up to the rustic-seat.</p> + +<p>"What is it?" asks Roger, idly.</p> + +<p>"Stephen's defection. He used to be as true as the morning +post, and now—I hope he hasn't made away with himself," +says Dicky Browne.</p> + +<p>"He has had since this time yesterday to do it," says Sir +Mark. "I wonder if it takes long to cut one's throat."</p> + +<p>"It entirely depends on whether you have sharpened your +razor sufficiently, and if you know <i>how</i> to sharpen it. I +should think a fellow devoid of hirsute adornment would +take a good while to it," returns Mr. Browne, with all the air +of one who knows. "He wouldn't be up to it, you know. +But our late lamented Stephen was all right. He shaved +regular."</p> + +<p>"He was at the lake yesterday," says Portia. "He came up +to us from the southern end of it."</p> + +<p>At this both Dulce and Roger start, and the former +changes color visibly.</p> + +<p>"I really wonder <i>where</i> he can be," says Julia.</p> + +<p>"So do I," murmurs Dulce, faintly, but distinctly, feeling +she is in duty bound to say something. "Stephen never +used to miss a day."</p> + +<p>"Here I am, if you want me," says Stephen, coming leisurely +up to them from between the laurels. "I thought I +heard somebody mention my name."</p> + +<p>He is looking pale and haggard, and altogether unlike the +languid, unemotional Stephen of a month ago. There are +dark circles under his eyes, and his mouth looks strangely +compressed, and full of an unpleasant amount of determination.</p> + +<p>"I mentioned it," says Dulce. She is compelled to say +this, because he has fixed his eyes upon her, and plainly +everybody expects her to reply to him.</p> + +<p>"Did you want me?" asks he, casting a scrutinizing glance +upon her. So absorbed is he in his contemplation of her that +he has positively forgotten the fact that he has omitted to bid +any one a "fair good-morrow."</p> + +<p>"I was certainly wondering where you were," says Dulce, +evasively. She is frightened and subdued—she scarcely +knows why. There is something peculiar in his manner that +overawes her.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It was very good of you to remember my existence. +Then you were only wondering at my absence. You did not +want me?"</p> + +<p>Dulce makes no reply. She would have given anything to +be able to make some civil, commonplace rejoinder, but at +this moment her wits cruelly desert her.</p> + +<p>"I see. Never mind," says Stephen. "Well, even if you +don't want me, I do want <i>you</i>—you will come with me as far +as the Beeches?"</p> + +<p>His tone is more a command than a question. Hearing +it, Roger moves involuntarily a step forward, that brings him +nearer to Dulce. He even puts out his hand as though to lay +it upon her arm, when Stephen, by a gesture, checks him.</p> + +<p>"Don't be alarmed," he says, with a low, sneering laugh, +every vestige of color gone from his face. "I shall do her +no harm. I shan't murder her, I give you my word. Be +comforted, she will be quite as safe with me as she would +even be with—<i>you</i>." He laughs again, dismisses Roger from +his thoughts by an indescribable motion of his hand, and +once more concentrates his attention upon the girl near him, +who, with lowered eyes and a pale, distressed face, is waiting +unwillingly for what he may say next.</p> + +<p>All this is so unusual, and really, every one is so full of +wonder at Stephen's extraordinary conduct, that up to this +none of the spectators have said one word. At this juncture, +however, Sir Mark clears his throat as if to say something, +and, coming forward, would probably have tried the +effect of a conciliatory speech, but that Stephen, turning +abruptly away from them, takes Dulce's hand in his, and +leads her in silence and with a brow dark as Erebus, up the +gravelled path, and past the chilly fountain, and thus out of +sight.</p> + +<p>It is as though some terrible ogre from out of a fairy tale +had descended upon them and plucked their fairest damsel +from their midst, to incarcerate her in a 'donjon keep' and +probably eat her by and by, when she is considered fit to kill.</p> + +<p>"Do—<i>do</i> you think he has gone mad?" asked Julia, with +clasped hands and tearful eyes.</p> + +<p>"My dear Mark, I think something ought to be done,—some +one ought to go after her," says Portia, nervously. +"He really looked quite dreadful."</p> + +<p>"I'll go," says Roger, angrily.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span></p> + +<p>"No, you won't," says Sir Mark, catching hold of him. +"Let them have it out,—it is far the best thing. And if she +gets a regular, right-down, uncommonly good scolding, as I +hope she will"—viciously,—"I can only say she richly deserves +it."</p> + +<p>"I can only say I don't know whether I am standing on +my head or on my heels," says Mr. Browne, drawing a long +breath; "I feel cheap. Any one might have me now for +little or nothing—quite a bargain."</p> + +<p>"I don't think you'd be a bargain at any price," says Sir +Mark; but this touching tribute to his inestimable qualities +is passed over by Mr. Browne in a silence that is almost sublime.</p> + +<p>"To think Stephen could look like that!" he goes on, as +evenly as if Sir Mark had never spoken. "Why, Irving is +a fool to him. Tragedy is plainly his <i>forte</i>. Really, one +never knows of what these æsthetic-looking people are capable. +He looked murderous."</p> + +<p>At this awful word the children—who have been silent +and most attentive spectators of the late scene, and who have +been enchanted with it—turn quite pale, and whisper together +in a subdued fashion. When the whispering has +reached a certain point, the Boodie gives Jacky an encouraging +push, whereupon that young hero darts away from her +side like an arrow from a bow, and disappears swiftly round +the corner.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, having arrived at the Beeches, a rather remote +part of the ground, beautiful in Summer because of the +luxuriant foliage of the trees, but now bleak and bare beneath +the rough touch of Winter, Stephen stops short and +faces his companion steadily. His glance is stern and unforgiving; +his whole bearing relentless and forbidding.</p> + +<p>To say Miss Blount is feeling nervous would be saying very +little. She is looking crushed in anticipation by the weight +of the thunderbolt she <i>knows</i> is about to fall. Presently it +descends, and once down, she acknowledges to herself it was +only a shock after all, worse in the fancy than in the reality; +as are most of our daily fears.</p> + +<p>"So you wish our engagement at an end?" says Stephen, +quite calmly, in a tone that might almost be termed mechanical.</p> + +<p>He waits remorselessly for an answer.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I—you—I didn't tell you so," stammers Dulce.</p> + +<p>"No prevarications, please. There has been quite enough +deception of late." Dulce looks at him curiously. "Let +us adhere to the plain truth now at least. This is how the case +stands. You never loved me; and now your cousin has returned +you find you do love him; that all your former professions +of hatred toward him were just so much air—or, let +us say, so much wounded vanity. You would be released +from me. You would gladly forget I ever played even a +small part in the drama of your life. Is not all this true?"</p> + +<p>For the second time this afternoon speech deserts Dulce. +She grows very white, but answer she has none.</p> + +<p>"I understand your silence to mean yes," goes on Stephen, +in the same monotonous tone he had just used, out of which +every particle of feeling has been absolutely banished. "It +would, let me say, have saved you much discomfort, and your +cousin some useless traveling, if you had discovered your +passion for him sooner." At this Dulce draws her breath +quickly, and throws up her head with a haughty gesture. +Very few women like being <i>told</i> they entertain a passion for +a man, no matter how devotedly they adore him.</p> + +<p>Mr. Gower, taking no notice of her silent protest, goes on +slowly.</p> + +<p>"What your weakness and foolish pride have cost <i>me</i>," he +says, "goes for nothing."</p> + +<p>There is something in his face now that makes Dulce sorry +for him. It is a want of hope. His eyes, too, look sunk and +wearied as if from continued want of sleep.</p> + +<p>"If by my reprehensible pride and weakness, of which +you justly accuse me, I have caused you pain—" she begins +tremulously, but he stops her at once.</p> + +<p>"That will do," he says, coldly. "Your nature is incapable +of comprehending all you have done. We will not +discuss that subject. I have not brought you here to talk of +myself, but of you. Let us confine ourselves to the business +that has brought me to-day—for the last time, I hope—to the +Court."</p> + +<p>His tone, which is extremely masterful, rouses Dulce to +anger.</p> + +<p>"There is one thing I <i>will</i> say," she exclaims, lifting her +eyes fairly to his. "But for <i>you</i> and your false sympathy, +and your carefully chosen and most insidious words that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span> +fanned the flame of my unjust wrath against him, Roger and +I would never have been separated."</p> + +<p>"You can believe what you like about that," says Gower, +indifferently, unmoved by her vehement outburst. "Believe +anything that will make your conduct look more +creditable to you, anything that will make you more comfortable +in your mind—if you <i>can</i>. But as I have no wish +to detain you here longer than is strictly necessary, and as I +am sure you have no wish to be detained, let us not waste +time in recriminations, but come at once to the point."</p> + +<p>"What point? I do not understand you," says Dulce, +coldly.</p> + +<p>"Yesterday, when passing by the southern end of the lake, +hidden by some shrubs, I came upon you and your cousin +unawares, and heard you distinctly tell him (what I must be, +indeed, a dullard, not to have known before) that you did not +love me. This was the substance of what you said, but your +tone conveyed far more. It led me to believe you held me +in positive detestation."</p> + +<p>"Oh! You were eavesdropping," says Dulce, indignantly.</p> + +<p>Stephen smiles contemptuously.</p> + +<p>"No, I was not," he says, calmly. He takes great comfort +to his soul in the remembrance that he might have heard +much more that was not intended for his ears had he stayed +in his place of concealment yesterday, which he had not. +"Accident brought me to that part of the lake, and brought, +too, your words to my ears. When I heard them I remembered +many trivial things, that at the moment of their occurrence +had seemed as naught. But now my eyes are opened. +I am no longer blind. I have brought you here to tell you +I will give you back your promise to marry me, your <i>freedom</i>"—with +a sudden bitterness, as suddenly suppressed—"on +<i>one</i> condition."</p> + +<p>"And that?" breathlessly.</p> + +<p>"Is, that you will never marry Roger without my consent."</p> + +<p>The chance of regaining her liberty is so sweet to Dulce +at this first moment that it chases from her all other considerations. +Oh, to be free again! In vain she strives to hide +her gladness. It will <i>not</i> be hidden. Her eyes gleam; her +lips get back their color; there is such an abandonment of +joy and exultation in her face that the man at her side—the +man who is now resigning all that makes life sweet to him—feels<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span> +his heart grow mad with bitter hatred of her, himself, +and all the world as he watches her with miserable eyes. And +he—poor fool!—had once hoped he might win the priceless +treasure of this girl's love! No words could convey the contempt +and scorn with which he regards himself.</p> + +<p>"Do not try to restrain your relief," he says, in a hoarse, +unnatural tone, seeing she has turned her head a little aside, +as though to avoid his searching gaze. "You know the condition +I impose—you are prepared to abide by it?"</p> + +<p>Dulce hesitates. "Later on he will forget all this, and give +his consent to my marrying—any one," she thinks, hurriedly, +in spite of the other voice within her, that bids her beware. +Then out loud she says, quietly:</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>Even if he <i>should</i> prove unrelenting, she tells herself, it +will be better to be an old maid than an unloving wife. She +will be rid of this hateful entanglement that has been embittering +her life for months, and—and, of course, he <i>won't</i> keep +her to this absurd arrangement after a while.</p> + +<p>"You swear it?"</p> + +<p>"I swear it," says Dulce, answering as one might in a +dream. Hers is a dream, happy to recklessness, in which she +is fast losing herself.</p> + +<p>"It is an oath," he says again, as if to give her a last +chance to escape.</p> + +<p>"It is," replies she, softly, still wrapt in her dream of freedom. +She may now love Roger without any shadow coming +between them, and—ah! how divine a world it is!—he may +perhaps love her too!</p> + +<p>"Remember," says Gower, sternly, letting each word drop +from him as if with the settled intention of imprinting or +burning them upon her brain, "I shall never relent about +this. You have given me your solemn oath, and—I shall +<i>keep you to it!</i> I shall never absolve you from it, as I have +absolved you from your first promise to-day. Never. Do +not hope for that. Should you live to be a hundred years +old, you cannot marry your cousin without my consent, and +that I shall never give. You quite understand?"</p> + +<p>"Quite." But her tone has grown faint and uncertain. +What has she done? Something in his words, his manner, +has at last awakened her from the happy dream in which she +was reveling.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Now you can return to your old lover," says Stephen, +with an indescribably bitter laugh, "and be happy. For your +deeper satisfaction, too, let me tell you that for the future +you shall see very little of me."</p> + +<p>"You are going abroad?" asks she, very timidly, in her +heart devoutly hoping that this may be the reading of his last +words.</p> + +<p>"No; I shall stay here. But the Court I shall trouble with +my presence seldom. I don't know," exclaims he, for the first +time losing his wonderful self control and speaking querulously, +"what is the matter with me. Energy has deserted +me with all the rest. You have broken my heart, I suppose, +and that explains everything. There, <i>go</i>," turning abruptly +away from her; "your being where I can see you only makes +matters worse."</p> + +<p>Some impulse prompts Dulce to go up to him and lay her +hand gently on his arm.</p> + +<p>"Stephen," she says, in a low tone, "if I have caused you +any unhappiness forgive me now."</p> + +<p>"Forgive you?" exclaims he, so fiercely that she recoils +from him in absolute terror.</p> + +<p>Lifting her fingers from his arm as though they burn him, +he flings them passionately away, and, plunging into the +short thick underwood, is soon lost to sight.</p> + +<p>Dulce, pale and frightened, returns by the path by which +she had come, but not to those she had left. She is in no +humor now for questions or curious looks; gaining the house +without encountering any one, she runs up-stairs, and seeks +refuge in her own room.</p> + +<p>But if she doesn't return to gratify the curiosity of the +puzzled group on the rustic-seat, somebody else does.</p> + +<p>Jacky, panting, dishevelled, out of breath with quick +running rushes up to them, and precipitates himself upon +his mother.</p> + +<p>"It's all right," he cries, triumphantly. "He didn't do a +bit to her. I watched him all the time and he never <i>touched</i> +her."</p> + +<p>"Who? What?" demands the bewildered Julia. But +Jacky disdains explanations.</p> + +<p>"He only talked, and talked, and talked," he goes on, fluently; +"and he said she did awful things to him. And he +made her swear at him—and—and—"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span></p> + +<p>"<i>What?</i>" says Sir Mark.</p> + +<p>"It's impossible to know anybody," sighs Dicky Browne, +regretfully, shaking his head at this fresh instance of the +frailty of humanity. "Who could have believed Dulce capable +of using bad language? I hope her school-children and +her Sunday class won't hear it, poor little things. It would +shake their faith forever."</p> + +<p>"How do you know he is talking of Dulce?" says Julia, +impatiently. "Jacky, how <i>dare</i> you say dear Dulce swore +at any one?"</p> + +<p>"He <i>made</i> her," says Jacky.</p> + +<p>"He must have behaved awfully bad to her," says Dicky, +gravely.</p> + +<p>"He said to her to swear, and she did it at once," continues +Jacky, still greatly excited.</p> + +<p>"<i>Con amore</i>," puts in Mr. Browne.</p> + +<p>"And he scolded her very badly," goes on Jacky, at which +Roger frowns angrily; "and he said she broke something +belonging to him, but I couldn't hear what; and then he told +her to go away, and when she was going she touched his arm, +and he pushed her away awfully roughly, but he didn't try to +<i>murder</i> her at all."</p> + +<p>"What on earth is the boy saying?" says Julia, perplexed +in the extreme, "Who didn't try to murder who?"</p> + +<p>"I'm telling you about Dulce and Stephen," says Jacky, +in an aggrieved tone, though still ready to burst with importance. +"When he took her away from this, I followed 'm; I +kept my eyes on 'm. Dicky said Stephen looked murderous; +so I went to see if I could help her. But I suppose he got +sorry, because he let her off. She is all right; there isn't a +<i>scratch</i> on her."</p> + +<p>Sir Mark and Dicky were consumed with laughter. But +Roger, taking the little champion in his arms, kisses him with +all his heart.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXV.</h2> + +<div class='poem'> +<span style="margin-left: 5em;">"For aught that ever I could read,</span><br /> +Could ever hear by tale or history,<br /> +The course of true love never did run smooth."<br /> +<div class='sig'>—<i>Midsummer Night's Dream.</i></div><br /> +</div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">When</span> dinner comes Dulce is wonderfully silent. That is +the misfortune of being a rather talkative person, when you +want to be silent you can't, without attracting universal attention. +Every one now stares at Dulce secretly, and +speculates about what Stephen may, or may not, have said +to her.</p> + +<p>She says yes and no quite correctly to everything, but +nothing more, and seems to find no comfort in her dinner—which +is rather a good one. This last sign of depression appears +to Dicky Browne a very serious one, and he watches her +with the gloomiest doubts as he sees dish after dish offered +her, only to be rejected.</p> + +<p>This strange fit of silence, however, is plainly not to be +put down to ill temper. She is kindly, nay, even affectionate, +in her manner to all around, except, indeed, to Roger, whom +she openly avoids, and whose repeated attempts at conversation +she returns with her eyes on the table-cloth, and a general +air about her of saying anything she <i>does</i> say to him under +protest.</p> + +<p>To Roger this changed demeanor is maddening; from it +he instantly draws the very blackest conclusions; and, in +fact, so impressed is he by it that later on, in the drawing-room, +when he finds his tenderest glances and softest advances +still met with coldness and resistance, and when his +solitary effort at explanation is nervously, but remorselessly, +repulsed, he caves in altogether, and, quitting the drawing-room, +makes his way to the deserted library, where, with a +view to effacing himself for the remainder of the evening, he +flings himself into an arm-chair, and gives himself up a prey +to evil forebodings.</p> + +<p>Thus a quarter of an hour goes by, when the door of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span> +library is opened by Dulce. Roger, sitting with his back to +it, does not see her enter, or, indeed, heed her entrance, so +wrapt is he in his unhappy musings. Not until she has lightly +and timidly touched his shoulder does he start, and, looking +round, become aware of her presence.</p> + +<p>"It is I," she says, in a very sweet little voice, that brings +Roger to his feet and the end of his musings in no time.</p> + +<p>"Dulce! What has happened?" he asks, anxiously, alluding +to her late strange behavior. "Why won't you speak to +me?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know," says Dulce, faintly, hanging her head.</p> + +<p>"What can I have done? Ever since you went away with +Stephen, down to the Beeches to-day, your manner toward +me has been utterly changed. Don't—<i>don't</i> say you have +been persuaded by him to name your wedding day!" He +speaks excitedly, as one might who is at last giving words to +a fear that has been haunting him for long.</p> + +<p>"So far from it," says Miss Blount, with slow solemnity, +"that he sought an opportunity to-day to formally release me +from my promise to him!"</p> + +<p>"He has released you?" Words are too poor to express +Roger's profound astonishment.</p> + +<p>"Yes; on one condition."</p> + +<p>"A condition! What a Jew! Yes; well, go on—?"</p> + +<p>"I <i>can't</i> go on," says Dulce, growing crimson. "I can't, +<i>indeed</i>," putting up her hands as she sees him about to protest; +"it is of no use asking me. I neither can or will tell +you about that condition, <i>ever</i>."</p> + +<p>"Give me even a <i>hint</i>," says Roger, coaxingly.</p> + +<p>"No, <i>no</i>, <span class="smcap">no</span>! The rack wouldn't make me tell it," returns +she, with a stern shake of her red-brown head, but with very +pathetic eyes.</p> + +<p>"But what <i>can</i> it be," exclaims Roger, fairly puzzled.</p> + +<p>"<i>That</i> I shall go to my grave without divulging," replies +she, heroically.</p> + +<p>"Well, no matter," says Roger, after a minute's reflection, +resolved to take things philosophically. "You are free, that +is the great point. And now—<i>now</i>, Dulce, you will marry +me?"</p> + +<p>At this Miss Blount grows visibly affected (as they say of +ladies in the dock), and dropping into the nearest chair, +lets her hands fall loosely clasped upon her knees, and so remains, +the very picture of woe.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I can't do that, either," she says at last, without raising +her afflicted lids.</p> + +<p>"But why?" impatiently. "What is to prevent you?—unless, +indeed," suspiciously, "you really don't care about +it."</p> + +<p>"It isn't that, indeed," says Dulce, earnestly, letting her +eyes, suffused with tears, meet his for a moment.</p> + +<p>"Then <i>what</i> is it? You say he has released you, and that +you have therefore regained your liberty, and yet—yet—Dulce, +<i>do</i> be rational and give me an explanation. At least, +say why you will not be my wife."</p> + +<p>"If I told that I should tell you the condition, too," says +poor Dulce, in a stifled tone, feeling sorely put to it, "and +<i>nothing</i> would induce me to do that. I told you before I +wouldn't."</p> + +<p>"You needn't," says Roger, softly. "I see it now. And +anything more sneaking— So he has given you your liberty, +but has taken good care you sha'n't be happy in it. I +never heard of a lower transaction. I—"</p> + +<p>"Oh! how did you find it out?" exclaims Dulce, blushing +again generously.</p> + +<p>"I don't know," replies he, most untruthfully, "I guessed +it, I think; it was so like him. You—did you agree to his +condition, Dulce?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," says Dulce.</p> + +<p>"You gave him your word?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Then he'll keep you to it, be sure of that. What a pity +you did not take time to consider what you would do."</p> + +<p>"I considered <i>this</i> quite quickly," says Dulce: "I said to +myself that <i>nothing</i> could be worse than marrying a man I did +not love."</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, of course," says Roger, warmly. "Nothing +could be worse than marrying Gower."</p> + +<p>"And then I thought that perhaps he might relent; and +then, besides—I didn't know what to do, because," here two +large tears fall down her cheeks and break upon her clasped +hands, "because, you see, <i>you</i> had not asked me to marry +you, and I thought that perhaps you never might ask me, and +that so my promise meant very little."</p> + +<p>"How could you have thought that?" says Roger, deeply +grieved.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Well, you hadn't said a word, you know," murmurs she, +sorrowfully.</p> + +<p>"How could I?" groans Dare. "When you were going +of your own free will, and my folly, to marry another fellow."</p> + +<p>"There was very little free will about it," whispers she, +tearfully.</p> + +<p>"Well, I'm sure I don't know what's going to be done +now," says Mr. Dare, despairingly, sinking into a chair near +the table, and letting his head fall in a distracting fashion +into his hands.</p> + +<p>He seems lost in thought, sunk in a very slough of despond, +out of which it seems impossible to him he can ever +be extricated. He has turned away his face, lest he shall see +the little disconsolate figure in the other arm-chair, that looked +so many degrees too large for it.</p> + +<p>To gaze at Dulce is to bring on a state of feeling even +more keenly miserable than the present one. She is looking +particularly pretty to-night, her late encounter with Stephen, +and her perplexity, and the anxiety about telling it all to +Roger, having added a wistfulness to her expression that +heightens every charm she possesses. She is dressed in a +white gown of Indian muslin made high to the throat, but +with short sleeves, and has in her hair a diamond star, that +once belonged to her mother.</p> + +<p>Her hands are folded in her lap, and she is gazing with a +very troubled stare at the bright fire. Presently, as though +the thoughts in which she has been indulging have proved too +much for her, she flings up her head impatiently, and, rising +softly, goes to the back of Roger's chair and leans over it.</p> + +<p>"Roger," she says, in a little anxious whisper, that trembles +ever so lightly, "you are not angry with me, are you?"</p> + +<p>Impulsively, as she asks this, she raises one of her soft, naked +arms and lays it round his neck. In every action of Dulce's +there is something so childlike and loving, that it appeals +straight to the heart. The touch of her cool, sweet flesh, as +it brushes against his cheek, sends a strange thrill through +Roger—a thrill hitherto unknown to him. He turns his face +to hers; their eyes meet; and then, in a moment, he has +risen, and he has her in his arms, and has laid his lips on hers; +and they have given each other a long, long kiss, a kiss of +youth and love!</p> + +<p>"Angry—with you—my darling!" says Roger, at length,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span> +in a low tone, when he has collected his scattered senses a +little. He is gazing at her with the most infinite tenderness, +and Dulce, with her head pressed close against his heart, feels +with a keen sense of relief that she can defy Stephen, the +world, cruel Fate, <i>all!</i> and that her dearest dream of happiness +is at last fulfilled.</p> + +<p>When they have asked each other innumerable questions +about different matters that would concern the uninitiated +world but little, but are fraught with the utmost importance +to them, they grow happily silent; and, sitting hand in +hand, look dreamily into the glowing embers of the fire. +Trifles light as air rise before them, and strengthen them in +the belief at which they have just arrived, that they have +been devoted to each other for years. All the old hasty +words and angry looks are now to be regarded as vague expressions +of a love suppressed, because fearful of a disdainful +reception.</p> + +<p>Presently, after a rather prolonged pause, Dulce, drawing a +deep but happy sigh, turns to him, and says, tenderly, though +somewhat regretfully:</p> + +<p>"Ah! if only you had not stolen those chocolate creams!"</p> + +<p>"I didn't steal them," protested Roger, as indignantly as a +man can whose arm is fondly clasped around the beloved of +his heart.</p> + +<p>"Well, of course, I mean if you hadn't <i>eaten</i> them," says +Dulce, sadly.</p> + +<p>"But, my life, I never <i>saw</i> them!" exclaims poor Roger, +vehemently; "I swear I didn't."</p> + +<p>"Well, then, if I hadn't <i>said</i> you did," says Dulce, mournfully.</p> + +<p>"Ah! that indeed," says Mr. Dare, with corresponding +gloom. "If you hadn't all might now be well; as it is— Do +you know I have never since seen one of those loathsome +sweets without feeling positively murderous, and shall hate +chocolate to my dying day."</p> + +<p>"It was a pity we fought about such a trifle," murmurs +she, shaking her head.</p> + +<p>"Was it?" Turning to her, he lifts her face with his hand +and gazes intently into her eyes. Whatever he sees in those +clear depths seem to satisfy him and make glad his heart. +"After all, I don't believe it was," he says.</p> + +<p>"Not a pity we quarreled, and—and lost each other?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span> +Considering the extremely close proximity to each other at +this moment, the allusion to the loss they are supposed to have +sustained is not very affecting.</p> + +<p>"No. Though we were rather in a hole now," says Mr. +Dare, rather at a loss for a word. "I am very <i>glad</i> we +fought."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Roger!"</p> + +<p>"Aren't you?"</p> + +<p>"How can you ask me such a heartless question?"</p> + +<p>"Don't you see what it has done for us? Has it not taught +us that"—very tenderly this—"we <i>love</i> each other?" His +tone alone would have brought her round to view anything in +his light. "And somehow," he goes on, after a necessary +pause—"I mean," with an effort that speaks volumes for his +sense of propriety, "Gower will give in, and absolve you from +your promise. He may as well, you know, when he sees the +game is up."</p> + +<p>"But when will he see that?"</p> + +<p>"He evidently saw it to-day."</p> + +<p>"Well, he was very far from giving in to-day, or even +dreaming of granting absolution."</p> + +<p>"Well, we must make him see it even <i>more</i> clearly," says +Roger, desperately.</p> + +<p>"But how?" dejectedly.</p> + +<p>"By making violent love to me all day long, and by letting +me make it to you. It will wear him out," says Mr. Dare +confidently. "He won't be able to stand it. Would—would +you much mind trying to make violent love to me?"</p> + +<p>"Mind it?" says Dulce, enthusiastically, plainly determined +to render herself up a willing (very willing) sacrifice +upon the altar of the present necessity. "I should <i>like</i> it!"</p> + +<p>This <i>naïve</i> speech brings Roger, <i>if possible</i>, a little closer +to her.</p> + +<p>"I think I must have been utterly without intellect in the +old days, not to have seen then what a darling you are."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no," says Dulce, meekly, which might mean that, in +her opinion, either <i>he</i> is not without intellect, or she is not a +darling.</p> + +<p>"I was abominable to you then," persists Roger, with the +deepest self-abasement. "I wonder you can look with +patience at me now. I was a perfect bear to you!"</p> + +<p>"<i>Indeed</i> you were not," says Dulce, slipping her arm round<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span> +his neck. "You couldn't have been, because I am sure I +loved you even then; and besides," with a little soft, coaxing +smile, "I won't listen to you at all if you call my own boy +bad names."</p> + +<p>Rapture; and a prolonged pause.</p> + +<p>"What <i>shall</i> we do if that wretched beggar won't relent +and let me marry you?" says Roger, presently.</p> + +<p>"Only bear it, I suppose," with profoundest resignation; +it is <i>so</i> profound that it strikes Mr. Dare as being philosophical, +and displeases him accordingly.</p> + +<p>"<i>You</i> don't seem to care much," he says, in an offended +tone, getting up and standing with his back to the mantelpiece, +and his face turned to her, as though determined to +keep an eye on her.</p> + +<p>"I don't care?" reproachfully.</p> + +<p>"Not to any very great extent, I think; and of course it is +not to be wondered at. I'm not much, I allow, and perhaps +there are others—"</p> + +<p>"Now that is not at all a pretty speech," interrupts Dulce, +sweetly; "so you sha'n't finish it. Come here directly and +give me a little kiss, and don't be cross."</p> + +<p>This decides everything. He comes here directly, and +gives her a little kiss, and isn't a bit cross.</p> + +<p>"Why shouldn't you defy him and marry me?" says Roger, +defiantly. "What right has he to extort such a promise +from you? Once we were man and wife he would be powerless."</p> + +<p>"But there is my word—I swore to him," returns she, +earnestly. "I cannot forget that. It was an understanding, +a bargain."</p> + +<p>"Well, but," begins he again; and then he sees something +in the little, pale, but determined face gazing pathetically up +into his that deters him from further argument. She will be +quite true to her word once pledged, he knows that; and +though the knowledge is bitter to him, yet he respects her so +highly for it, that he vows to himself he will no longer strive +to tempt her from her sense of right. Lifting one of her +hands, he lays it upon his lips, as though to keep himself by +her dear touch from further speech.</p> + +<p>"Never mind," he says, caressing her soft fingers tenderly. +"We may be able to baffle him yet, and even if not, we can +be happy together in spite of him. Can we not. I know <i>I</i><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span> +can." Drawing her closer to him, he whispers gently,</p> + +<div class='center'> +"A smile of thine shall make my bliss!"<br /> +</div> + +<p>After a while it occurs to them that they ought to return +to the drawing-room and the prosaic humdrumedness of +everyday life. It is wonderful how paltry everything has +become in their sight, how it is dwarfed and stunted by +comparison with the great light of love that is surrounding +them. All outside this mist seems lost in a dull haze, seems +pale, expressionless.</p> + +<p>Opening the library-door with slow, reluctant fingers, they +almost stumble against a figure crouching near the lintel. +This figure starts into nervous life at their appearance, and, +muttering something inaudible in a heavy indistinct tone, +shuffles away from them, and is lost to sight round a corner +of the corridor.</p> + +<p>"Surely that was old Gregory," says Dulce, after a surprised +pause.</p> + +<p>"<ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads ' o'">So</ins> it was," returns Roger, "and, <i>as</i> usual, as drunk as a +fiddler."</p> + +<p>"Isn't it dreadful of him?" says Dulce. "Do you know, +Roger, his manner is so strange of late, that I verily believe +that man is going mad."</p> + +<p>"Well, he won't have far to go, at any rate," says Mr. Dare, +cheerfully. "He has been on the road, I should say, a considerable +time."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXVI.</h2> + +<div class='center'> +"Let the dead past bury its dead."—<span class="smcap">Longfellow.</span><br /> +</div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Just</span> at first it is so delightful to Dulce to have Roger +making actual love to her, and so delightful to Roger to be +able to make it, that they are content with their present and +heedless of their future.</p> + +<p>Not that everything goes quite smoothly with them, even +now. Little skirmishes, as of old, arise between them, threatening +to dim the brightness of their days. It was, indeed, +only yesterday that a very serious rupture was near taking +place, all occasioned by a difference of opinion about the +respective merits of Mr. Morton's and Messrs. Crosse & +Blackwell's pickles; Dulce declaring for the former, Roger +for the latter.</p> + +<p>Fortunately, Mark Gore coming into the room smoothed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</a></span> +matters over and drew conversation into a more congenial +channel, or lamentable consequences might have ensued.</p> + +<p>They hold to their theory about the certainty of Stephen's +relenting in due time until they grow tired of it; and as the +days creep on, and Gower sitting alone in his castle in sullen +silence refuses to see or speak to them, or give any intimation +of a desire to soften towards them, they lose heart altogether, +and give themselves up a prey to despair.</p> + +<p>Roger one morning had plucked up courage, and had gone +over to the Fens, and had forced himself into the presence of +its master and expostulated with him "mildly but firmly," as +he assured Dulce afterwards, when she threw out broad hints +to the effect that she believed he had lost his temper on the +occasion. Certainly, from all accounts, a good deal of temper +<i>had</i> been lost, and nothing indeed came of the interview +beyond a select amount of vituperation from both sides, an +openly avowed declaration on Mr. Gower's part that as he +had not requested the pleasure of his society on this, or any +other, occasion, he hoped it would be the last time Roger +would present himself at the Fens; an equally honest avowal +on the part of Mr. Dare to the effect that the discomfort he +felt in coming was <i>almost</i> (it never could be <i>quite</i>) balanced by +the joy he experienced at departing, and a few more hot +words that very nearly led to bloodshed.</p> + +<p>When Roger thought it all over dispassionately next morning, +he told himself that now indeed all things were at an end, +that no hope lay anywhere; and now February is upon them, +and Spring begins to assert itself, and the land has learned +to smile again, and all the pretty early buds are swelling in +the hedgerows.</p> + +<p>I wonder they don't get tired of swelling only to die in +the long run. What does their perseverance gain for them? +There is a little sunshine, a little warmth, the songs of a few +birds flung across their trailing beauty, and then one heavy +shower, and then—death! What a monotonous thing is nature, +when all is told? Each year is but a long day; each +life but a long year: at morn we rise, at night we lay our +weary heads upon our pillows: at morn we rise again, and so +on. As Winter comes our flowers fade and die; Spring +brings them back again; again the Winter kills them, and so—forever!</p> + +<p>Now Spring has come once more to the old Court, to commence +its triumphant reign, regardless of the fact that no matter<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</a></span> +how bright its day may be while it lasts, still dissolution +stares it in the face. The young grass is thrusting its head +above ground, a few brave birds are singing on the barren +branches. There is a stir, a strange vague flutter everywhere +of freshly-opening life.</p> + +<p>"We shall have to shake off dull sloth pretty early to-morrow," +says Dicky Browne, suddenly, <i>apropos</i> of nothing +that has gone before; his usual method of introducing a subject.</p> + +<p>"Why?" asks Portia, almost startled. It is nearly five +o'clock, and Mr. Browne, having sequestrated the remainder +of the cake, the last piece being the occasion of a most undignified +skirmish between him and the Boodie, the Boodie +proving victor, is now at liberty to enter into light and cheerful +conversation.</p> + +<p>"The meet, you know," says Dicky. "Long way off. +Hate hunting myself, when I've got to leave my bed for it."</p> + +<p>"You needn't go," says Dulce; "nobody is pressing you."</p> + +<p>"Oh! I'm not like <i>you</i>," says Mr. Browne, contemptuously, +"liking a thing to-day and hating it to-morrow. You +used to be a sort of modern—I mean—decent Diana, but +lately you have rather shirked the whole thing."</p> + +<p>"I had a cold last day, and—and a headache the day before +that," stammers Dulce, blushing scarlet.</p> + +<p>"Nobody could hunt with a headache," says Roger, at +which defence Mr. Browne grins.</p> + +<p>"Well, you've got <i>them</i> over," he says. "What's going to +keep you at home to-morrow?"</p> + +<p>"I don't understand you, Dicky," says Miss Blount, with +dignity. "I am going hunting to-morrow; there is nothing +that I know of likely to keep me at home."</p> + +<p>She is true to her word. Next morning they find her +ready equipped at a very early hour, "Taut and trim," as +Dicky tells her, "from her hat to her boots."</p> + +<p>"Do you know," he says, further, as though imparting to +her some information hitherto undiscovered, "joking <i>apart</i>, +you will understand, you are—<i>really</i>—quite a pretty young +woman."</p> + +<p>"Thank you, Dicky," says she, very meekly; and as a more +substantial mark of her gratitude for this gracious speech, she +drops a fourth lump of sugar into his coffee.</p> + +<p>Shortly after this they start, Dulce still in the very gayest +spirits, with Roger on her right hand and Mark Gore on her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span> +left. But, as they near the happy hunting-grounds, her brightness +flags; she grows silent and preoccupied, and each fresh +hoof upon the road behind her makes her betray a desire to +hide herself behind somebody.</p> + +<p>Of late, indeed, hunting has lost its charm for her, and +the meets have become a source of confusion and discomfort. +Her zest for the chase has sustained a severe check, so +great that her favorite hounds have solicited the usual biscuit +from her hands in vain.</p> + +<p>And all this is because the one thing dear to the soul of +the gloomy Stephen is the pursuit of the wily fox, and that +therefore on the field of battle it becomes inevitable that she +must meet her whilom lover face to face.</p> + +<p>Looking round fearfully now, she sees him at a little distance, +seated on an irreproachable mount. His brows are +knitted moodily, his very attitude is repellant. He responds +to the pleasant salutations showered upon him from all quarters +by a laconic "How d'ye do," or a still more freezing +nod. Even Sir Christopher's hearty "Good-morning, lad," +has no effect up on him.</p> + +<p>"Something rotten in the state of Denmark, <i>there</i>," says +the master, Sir Guy Chetwoode, turning to Dorian Branscombe. +"Surely, eh? Rather a safe thing for that pretty +girl of Blount's to have given him the go-by, eh?"</p> + +<p>"Wouldn't have him at any price if <i>I</i> were a girl," says +Branscombe. "I don't like his eyes. Murderous sort of +beggar."</p> + +<p>"Faith, I don't know," says Geoffrey Rodney, who is +riding by them, and who is popularly supposed always to employ +this expletive, because his wife is Irish. "I rather like +the fellow myself; so does Mona. It's rough on him, you +know, all the world knowing he has been jilted."</p> + +<p>"I heard it was <i>he</i> gave <i>her</i> up," says Teddy Luttrel, who +has been fighting so hard with a refractory collar up to this +that he has not been able to edge in a word.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I daresay!" says Branscombe, so ironically, that +every one concludes it will be useless to say anything further.</p> + +<p>And now the business of the day is begun. Every one has +settled him or herself into the saddle and is preparing to +make a day of it.</p> + +<p>Two hours later many are in a position to acknowledge +sadly that the day they have made has not been exactly up<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span> +to the mark. The various positions of these many are, for +the most part, more remarkable than elegant. Some are reclining +gracefully in a ditch; some are riding dolefully +homeward with much more forehead than they started with +in the morning; some, and these are the saddest of all, are +standing forlorn in the middle of an empty meadow, gazing +helplessly at the flying tail of the animal they bestrode only +a short five minutes ago.</p> + +<p>The field is growing decidedly thin. Lady Chetwoode, well +to the front, is holding her own bravely. Sir Guy is out of +sight, having just disappeared over the brow of the small hill +opposite. Dicky Browne, who rides like a bird, is going at a +rattling pace straight over anything and everything that comes +in his way, with the most delightful impartiality, believing, as +he has never yet come a very violent cropper, that the gods +are on his side.</p> + +<p>Roger and Dulce got a little way from the others, and are +now riding side by side across a rather hilly field. Right +before them rises a wall, small enough in itself, but in parts +dangerous, because of the heavy fall the other side, hidden +from the eye by some brambles growing on the top of the +stone-work.</p> + +<p>Lower down, this wall proves itself even more treacherous, +hiding even more effectually the drop into the adjoining +field, which is here too deep for any horse, however good, to +take with safety. It is a spot well known by all the sportsmen +in the neighborhood as one to be avoided, ever since +Gort, the farmer, some years before, had jumped it for the +sake of an idle bet, and had been carried home from it a dead +man, leaving his good brown mare with a broken back behind +him.</p> + +<p>It would seem, however, that either ignorance or recklessness +is carrying one of the riders to-day towards this fatal +spot. He is now bearing down upon it with the evident intention +of clearing the traitorous wall and so gaining upon +the hounds, who are streaming up the hill beyond, unaware +that almost certain destruction awaits him at the point +towards which he is riding so carelessly.</p> + +<p>Dulce, turning her head accidentally in his direction, is +the first to see him.</p> + +<p>"Oh, see there!" she cries, in a frightened tone, to Roger, +pointing to the lower part of the field. "Who is that going +to take Gort's Fall?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</a></span></p> + +<p>Roger, following her glance, pulls up short, and stares fixedly +at the man below, now drawing terribly near to the condemned +spot. And, as he looks, his face changes, the blood +forsakes it, and a horrified expression creeps into his eyes.</p> + +<p>"By Jove! it is Stephen," he says at last, in an indescribable +tone; and then, knowing he cannot reach him in time to +prevent the coming catastrophe, he stands up in his stirrups +and shouts to the unconscious Stephen, with all the strength +of his fresh, young lungs, to turn back before it is too late.</p> + +<p>But all in vain; Stephen either does not or cannot hear. +He has by this time reached the wall; his horse, the gallant +animal, responds to his touch. He rises—there is a crash, a +dull thud, and then all is still.</p> + +<p>Involuntarily Dulce has covered her eyes with her hand, +and by a supreme effort has suppressed the cry that has risen +from her heart. A sickening sensation of weakness is overpowering +her. When at length she gains courage to open +her eyes again she finds Roger has forsaken her, and is riding +like one possessed across the open field, and—there beyond, +where the sun is glinting in small patches upon the dry grass, +she sees, too, a motionless mass of scarlet cloth, and a dark +head lying—oh! so strangely quiet.</p> + +<p>Roger having safely cleared the unlucky wall higher up, +has flung himself from his saddle, and is now on his knees beside +Gower, and has lifted his head upon his arm.</p> + +<p>"Stephen, Stephen!" he cries, brokenly. But Stephen is +beyond hearing. He is quite insensible, and deaf to the +voice that in the old days used to have a special charm for +him. Laying him gently down again, Roger rises to his feet, +and looks wildly round. Dulce has arrived by this time +and, having sprung to her feet, has let her horse, too, go to +the winds.</p> + +<p>"He is not dead?" she asks at first, in a ghastly whisper, +with pale and trembling lips.</p> + +<p>"I don't know, I'm not sure," says Roger, distractedly. +"Oh, if somebody would <i>only</i> come!"</p> + +<p>Not a soul is in sight. By this time every one has disappeared +over the hill, and not a human being is to be seen far +or near.</p> + +<p>"Have you no brandy?" asks Dulce, who is rubbing the +hands of the senseless man, trying to restore animation by +this means.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[262]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, I had forgotten," says Roger, and then he +kneels down once again, and takes Stephen into his arms, and +raising his head on his knee, tries to force a few drops of the +brandy between his pallid lips.</p> + +<p>At this supreme moment all is forgotten—all the old heartaches, +the cruel taunts, the angry words. Once again he is +his earliest friend; the boy, the youth, the man, he had loved, +until a woman had come between them. Everything rushes +back upon him, as he stoops over Gower, and gazes, with +passionate fear and grief, upon his marble face.</p> + +<p>After all, there had been more good points than bad about +Stephen, more good, indeed, than about most fellows. How +fond he had been of him in the old days; how angry he +would have been with any one who had dared then to accuse +him of acting shabbily, or— Well, well, no use in raking +up old grievances, now, and no doubt there was great temptation; +and besides, too, uncivil things had been said to him, +and he (Roger) had certainly not been up to the mark himself +in many ways.</p> + +<p>Memories of school and college life crowd upon Roger +now, as he gazes with ever-increasing fear upon the rigid +features below him; little scenes, insignificant in themselves, +but enriched by honest sentiment, and tenderly connected +With the dawn of manhood, when the fastidious Gower had +been attracted and fascinated by the bolder and more +reckless qualities of Dare, recur to him now with a clearness +that, under the present miserable circumstances, is almost +painful.</p> + +<p>He tries to shake off those tormenting recollections; to bury +his happy college life out of sight, only to find his mind once +more busy on a fresh field.</p> + +<p>Again he is at school, with Stephen near him, and all the +glory of an Eton fight before him. What glorious old days +they were! so full of life and vigor! and now, it is with exceeding +pathos he calls to mind one memorable day on which +he had banged Stephen most triumphantly about the head +with a Latin grammar—Stephen's grammar, be it understood, +which had always seemed to add an additional zest to the +affair; and then the free fight afterwards, in which he, Roger, +had been again victorious; and Stephen had not taken it +badly either; had resented neither the Latin banging nor the +victory later on. No, he was certainly not ill-tempered <i>then</i>,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span> +dear old chap. Even before the blood had been wiped from +their injured noses on that never-to-be-forgotten occasion +Stephen had shaken hands with him, and they had sworn +publicly a life-long friendship.</p> + +<p>And here is the end of it! His sworn friend is lying stark +and motionless in his embrace, with a deathly pallor on his +face that is awfully like death, and with a heart, if it still +beats, filled with angry thoughts of him, as he bends, scarcely +less bloodless than himself, above him.</p> + +<p>Will <i>no</i> one <i>ever</i> come?</p> + +<p>Roger glares despairingly at Dulce, who is still trying to +get some brandy down the wounded man's throat, and even +as she does so Stephen's eyes unclose, and a heavy sobbing +sigh escapes him.</p> + +<p>Strangely enough, as the two bend over him, and his gaze +wanders from one face to the other, it rests finally, with a +great sense of content, not on Dulce's face but Roger's. Instinctively +he turns in his hour of need from the woman who +had wronged him to the man whom <i>he</i> had wronged in the +first instance, and who—though he had suffered many things +at his hands of late—brings to him now a breath from that +earlier and happier life, where love—which has proved so +bitter—was unknown.</p> + +<p>"Stephen! Dear old fellow, you are not <i>much</i> hurt, are +you?" asks Roger, tenderly. "Where is the pain? Where +does it hurt you most?"</p> + +<p>"Here!" says Stephen, faintly, trying to lift one of his +arms to point to his left side; but, with a groan, the arm +falls helpless, and then they know, with sickening feeling of +horror, that it is broken. Stephen loses consciousness again +for a moment.</p> + +<p>"It is broken!" says Roger. "And I am afraid there +must be some internal injury besides. What on earth is to +be done, Dulce?" in a frantic tone; "we shall have him here +all night unless we do something. Will you stay with him +while I run and try to find somebody?"</p> + +<p>But Stephen's senses having returned to him by this time, +he overhears and understands the last sentence.</p> + +<p>"No, don't leave me," he entreats, earnestly, though speaking +with great difficulty. "Roger, are you there? Stay +with me."</p> + +<p>"There is Dulce," falters Roger.</p> + +<p>"No, no; don't leave me here alone," says the wounded<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[264]</a></span> +man, with foolish persistency, and Roger, at his wits' end, +hardly knows what to do.</p> + +<p>"Are you anything easier now?" he asks, raising Stephen's +head ever so gently. Dulce, feeling her presence has been +thoroughly ignored, and fearing lest the very sight of her +may irritate her late lover, draws back a little, and stands +where he can no longer see her.</p> + +<p>"Try to drink this," says Roger, holding the flask again +to Gower's lips and forcing a few drops between them. +They are of some use, as presently a slight, a very slight +tinge of red comes into his cheek, and his eyes show more +animation.</p> + +<p>"It is very good of you, old man," he whispers, faintly, +looking up at Roger. "I believe you are sorry for me, <i>after +all</i>."</p> + +<p>The "after all" is full of meaning.</p> + +<p>"Why shouldn't I be sorry for you?" says Roger, huskily, +his eyes full of tears. "Don't talk like that."</p> + +<p>"I know you think I behaved badly to you," goes on +Stephen, with painful slowness. "And perhaps I did."</p> + +<p>"As to that," interrupted Roger, quickly, "we're quits +there, you know; nothing need be said about that. Why +can't we forget it? Come, Stephen, forget it all, and be +friends again."</p> + +<p>"With all my heart," says Gower, and his eyes grow glad, +and a smile of real happiness illumines his features for a moment.</p> + +<p>"Now, don't talk any more; don't, there's a good fellow," +says Roger, with deep entreaty.</p> + +<p>"There is—one thing—I must say," whispers Gower, +"while I have time. Tell <i>her</i>—that I have behaved like a +coward to her, and that I give her back her promise. Tell +her she may marry whom she pleases." He gasps for breath, +and then, pressing Roger's hand with his own uninjured one, +says, with a last effort, "And that will be <i>you</i>, I hope."</p> + +<p>The struggle to say this proves too much for his exhausted +strength; his head drops back again upon Roger's arm, and, +for the third time, he falls into a dead faint.</p> + +<p>The tears are running down Roger's cheeks by this time, +and he is gazing with ever-increasing terror at the deathly +face below him, when looking up to address some remark to +Dulce, he finds she is nowhere to be seen. Even as he looks +round for her in consternation, he sees two or three men<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[265]</a></span> +hurrying toward him, and two others following more slowly +with something that looks like a shutter or door between +them. Dulce, while he was listening to Stephen's last heavily-uttered +words, had hurried away, and, climbing over all that +came in her way, had descended into a little valley not far +from the scene of the accident, where at a farmhouse she had +told her tale, and pressed into her service the men now coming +quickly toward Roger.</p> + +<p>With their help the wounded man (still happily unconscious) +is carried to the farm-house, where he remains until, +the carriage from the Court having arrived, they take him +home in it as carefully as can be managed.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>In a few hours the worst is known; and, after all, the worst +is not so very bad. His arm is broken and two of his ribs, +and there is rather a severe contusion on his left shoulder. +Little Dr. Bland has pledged them his word in the most +solemn manner, however, that there is no internal injury, +and that his patient only requires time and care to be quite +himself again in <i>no time</i>. This peculiar date is a favorite +one with the little medico.</p> + +<p>The household being reassured by this comfortable news, +every one grows more tranquil, and dinner having proved a +distinct failure, supper is proposed; and Roger having +hunted the whole house unsuccessfully for Dulce, to compel +her to come in and eat something, unearths her at last in the +nursery, where she is sitting all alone, staring at the sleeping +children.</p> + +<p>"Where's nurse?" asks Roger, gazing around. "Has she +been dismissed, and have you applied for the situation?"</p> + +<p>"She has gone down for a message. I came here," +says Dulce, "because I didn't want to speak to anybody. I +feel so strange still, and so frightened."</p> + +<p>"Come down and eat something," says Roger. "You +<i>must</i>. I shall carry you if you won't walk, and think how the +servants will speak about your light behavior afterwards! +<i>Do</i> come, darling; you know you have eaten nothing since +breakfast."</p> + +<p>"I wonder if he is really in no danger?" says Dulce +wistfully.</p> + +<p>"He certainly is not. I have it from Bland himself; and, +Dulce," and here he hesitates, as if uncertain whether he +ought to proceed or not, "now it is all right, you know,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[266]</a></span> +and—and that—and when we have heard he is on the safe +road to recovery, it can't be any harm to say what is on my +mind, can it?"</p> + +<p>"No; I suppose not," says Dulce, blushing vividly.</p> + +<p>"Well, then, just say you will marry me the very moment +he is on his feet again," says Roger, getting this out with considerable +rapidity. "It will seem ungracious of us, I think, +not to take advantage of his kindness as soon as possible."</p> + +<p>"Supposing he was <i>to go back of it all</i> when he got well," +says Dulce, timidly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, he <i>can't;</i> a promise is a promise, you know—as he +has made us feel. Poor old Stephen!" this last hastily, lest +he shall seem hard on his newly-recovered friend.</p> + +<p>"If you think that," says Dulce, going close up to him and +looking at him with soft love-lit eyes, "I will marry you just +whenever you like." To make this sweet assurance doubly +sweet, she stands on tiptoe, and, slipping her arms round her +lover's neck, kisses him with all her heart.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXVII.</h2> + +<div class='poem'> +<span style="margin-left: 6.5em;">"About some act</span><br /> +That has no relish of salvation in't."<br /> +<div class='sig'>—<i>Hamlet.</i></div><br /> +</div> + +<div class='poem'> +"Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 10.5em;">—<i>Titus Andronicus.</i></span><br /> +</div> + + +<p>"<span class="smcap">Before</span> you begin, Fabian, it is only fair to tell you that +I will not listen favorably to one word in his defense. Under +the farsical term of secretary, Slyme has been a disgrace and +a torment to me for years; and last night has finished everything."</p> + +<p>"It was very unfortunate, no doubt," says Fabian, regretfully. +"What a curse the love of drink is!—a madness, a +passion."</p> + +<p>"I have told him he must go," says Sir Christopher, who is +in a white heat of rage, and is walking up and down the +room with an indignant frown upon his face. Just now, +stopping short before Fabian, he drops into a seat and says, +testily, "<i>Unfortunate!</i> <i>that</i> is no word to use about it. Why, +look you how it stands; you invite people to your house to +dine, and on your way to your dining-room, with a lady on +your arm, you are accosted and insolently addressed by one +of your household—your secretary, forsooth—<i>so</i> drunk that +it was shameful! He reeled! I give you my word, sir—he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[267]</a></span> +<i>reeled!</i> I thought Lady Chetwoode would have fainted: she +turned as pale as her gown, and but for her innate pluck +would have cried aloud. It was insufferable, Fabian. Waste +no more words over him, for go he shall."</p> + +<p>"After all these years," says Fabian, thoughtfully, thrumming +gently on the table near him with his forefinger.</p> + +<p>All night long the storm has raged with unexampled fury, +and even yet its anger is fierce and high as when first it hurled +itself upon a sleeping world. The raindrops are pattering +madly against the window-panes, through the barren branches +of the elms the wind is shrieking, now rising far above the +heads of the tallest trees, now descending to the very bosom +of the earth, and, flying over it, drives before its mighty breath +all such helpless things as are defenceless and at its mercy.</p> + +<p>Perhaps the noise of this tempest outside drowns the keen +sense of hearing in those within, because neither Fabian nor +Sir Christopher stir, or appear at all conscious of the opening +of a door at the upper end of the library, where they are +sitting. It is a small door hidden by a portière leading into +another corridor that connects itself with the servants' part +of the house.</p> + +<p>As this door is gently pushed open, a head protrudes itself +cautiously into the room, though, on account of the hanging +curtains, it is quite invisible to the other occupants of the +apartment. A figure follows the head, and stands irresolutely +on the <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'threshhold'">threshold</ins>, concealed from observation, not only by +the curtain, but by a Japanese screen that is placed just behind +Sir Christopher's head.</p> + +<p>It is a crouching, forlorn, debased figure, out of which all +manliness and fearlessness have gone. A figure crowned by +gray hair, yet gaining no reverence thereby, but rather an +additional touch of degradation. There is, too, an air of +despondency and alarm about this figure to-day new to it. It +looks already an outcast, a miserable waif, turned out to +buffet with the angry winds of fortune at the very close of +his life's journey. There is a wildness in his bloodshot eyes, +and a nervous tremor in his bony hand, as it clutches at the +curtain for support, that betrays the haunting terror that is +desolating him.</p> + +<p>"I don't care," says Sir Christopher, obdurately. "I have +suffered too much at his hands; I owe him nothing but discomfort. +I tell you my mind is made up, Fabian; he leaves +me at once, and forever."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[268]</a></span></p> + +<p>At this, the crouching figure in the doorway shivers, and +shakes his wretched old head, as though all things for him are +at an end. The storm seems to burst with redoubled fury, +and flings itself against the panes, as though calling upon him +to come out and be their pastime and their sport.</p> + +<p>"My dear Sir Christopher," says Fabian, very quietly, yet +with an air of decision that can be heard above the fury of +the storm, "it is impossible you can turn the old man out +<i>now</i>, at his age, to <i>again</i> solicit Fortune's favor. It would be +terrible."</p> + +<p>At this calm, but powerful intervention of Fabian's, the +old head in the doorway (bowed with fear and anxiety) +raises itself abruptly, as though unable to believe the words +that have just fallen upon his ears. He has crept here to +listen with a morbid longing to contemptuous words uttered +of him by the lips that have just spoken; and lo! these very +lips have been opened in his behalf, and naught but kindly +words have issued from them.</p> + +<p>As the truth breaks in upon his dulled brain that Fabian +has actually been defending his—<i>his</i> case, a ghastly pallor +overspreads his face, and it is with difficulty he suppresses a +groan. He controls himself, however, and listens eagerly for +what may follow.</p> + +<p>"Do you mean to tell me I am bound to keep a depraved +drunkard beneath my roof?" demands Sir Christopher, +vehemently. "A fellow who insults my guests, who—"</p> + +<p>"The fact that he has contracted this miserable habit of +which you speak is only another reason why you should think +<i>well</i> before you discard him now, in his old age," says Fabian, +with increasing earnestness. "He will starve—die in a garret +or by the wayside, if you fling him off. He is not in a +fit state to seek another livelihood. Who would employ him? +And you he has served faithfully for years—twenty years, I +think; and of all the twenty only three or four have been +untrustworthy. You should think of that, Christopher. He +was your right hand fur a long time, and—and he has done +neither you nor yours a real injury."</p> + +<p>Here the unhappy figure in the doorway raises his hand and +beats his clenched fist in a half-frantic, though silent, manner +against his forehead.</p> + +<p>"You are bound, I think," says Fabian, in the same calm +way, "to look after him, to bear with him a little."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[269]</a></span></p> + +<p>"<i>You</i> defend him!" exclaims Sir Christopher, irritably, +"yet I believe that in his soul he hates you—would do you +a harm if he could. It is his treatment of <i>you</i> at times," +says Sir Christopher, coming at last to the real germ of the +danger he is cherishing against Slyme, "that—that— Remember +what he said only last week about you."</p> + +<p>"Tut!" says Fabian, "I remember nothing. He was +drunk, no doubt, and said what he did not mean."</p> + +<p>"I believe he did mean it. <i>In vino veritas.</i>"</p> + +<p>"Well, even so; if he does believe in the story that has +blasted my life, why"—with a sigh—"so do many others. +I don't think the poor old fellow would really work me any +mischief, but I doubt I have been harsh to him at times, +have accused him somewhat roughly, I dare say, of his unfortunate +failing; and for that, it may be, he owes me a grudge. +Nothing more. His bark is worse than his bite. It is my +opinion, Christopher, that underneath his sullen exterior there +lurks a great deal of good."</p> + +<p>The trembling figure in the doorway is growing more and +more bowed. It seems now as if it would gladly sink into +the earth through very shame. His hand has left the curtain +and is now clinging to the lintel of the door, as though anxious +of more support than the soft velvet of the portière could +afford.</p> + +<p>"Well, as you seem bent on supporting a most unworthy +object," says Sir Christopher, "I shall pension Slyme, and +send him adrift to drink himself to death as soon as suits +him."</p> + +<p>"Why do that?" says Fabian, as quietly as ever, but with +all the determination that characterizes his every word and +action. "This house is large, and can hide him somewhere. +Besides, he is accustomed to it, and would probably feel +lost elsewhere. He has been here for the third of a lifetime—a +long, <i>long</i> time." (He sighs again. Is he bringing to +mind the terrible length of the days that have made up the +sum of the last five years of his life?) "Give him two rooms +in the West wing, it is seldom used, and give him to understand +he must remain there; but do not cast him out now +that he is old and helpless."</p> + +<p>At this last gentle mark of thoughtfulness on Fabian's part +the figure in the doorway loses all self-control. With a stifled +cry he flings his arms above his head, and staggers away +down the corridor outside to his own den.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[270]</a></span></p> + +<p>"What was that?" asks Sir Christopher, quickly; the +smothered cry had reached his ears.</p> + +<p>"What? I heard nothing," says Fabian, looking up.</p> + +<p>"The storm, perhaps," says his uncle, absently. Then, +after a pause, "Why do you so strongly espouse this man's +cause, Fabian?"</p> + +<p>"Because from my soul I pity him. He has had many +things of late to try him. The death of his son a year ago, +upon whom every thought of his heart was centered, was a +terrible blow, and then this wretched passion for strong +drink having first degraded, has, of course, finished by embittering +his nature. I do not blame him. He has known +much misfortune."</p> + +<p>Sir Christopher, going up to him, places his hands upon the +young man's shoulder and gazes earnestly, with love unutterable, +in his eyes. His own are full of tears.</p> + +<p>"No misfortune, however heavy, can embitter a <i>noble</i> +nature," he says, gently. "One knows that when one knows +<i>you</i>. For your sake, Fabian—because you ask it—Slyme +shall remain."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>It grows towards evening, and still the rain descends in +torrents. Small rivers are running on the gravel-walks outside, +the snow-drops and crocuses are all dead or dying, +crushed and broken by the cruel wind.</p> + +<p>Down below in the bay the sea has risen, and with a roaring +sound rushes inland to dash itself against the rocks. Now +and then a flash of lightning illumines its turbulent breast +and lets one see how the "ambitious ocean" can "swell, and +rage, and foam, to be exalted with the threatening clouds." +The sailors and boatmen generally, in the small village, are +going anxiously to and fro, as though fearful of what such a +night as this may produce.</p> + +<p>Now a loud peal of thunder rattles overhead, rendering insignificant +the wild howling of the wind that only a moment +since had almost been deafening. And then the thunder +dies away for a while, and the storm shrieks again, and the +windows rattle, and the gaunt trees groan and sway, and the +huge drops upon the window panes beating incessantly, make +once more a "mournful music for the mind."</p> + +<p>They are all assembled in Dulce's boudoir, being under the +impression, perhaps, that while the present incivility of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[271]</a></span> +elements continues, it is cosier to be in a small room than a +large one. It may be this, or the fact that both Dulce and +Portia have declined to come down stairs or enter any other +room, until dinner shall be announced, under any pretext +whatever. And so as the mountain won't come to Mohammed, +Mohammed has come to the mountain.</p> + +<p>Sir Christopher has just gone through an exaggerated <i>resume</i> +of old Slyme's disgraceful conduct last night, when the door +is opened, and they all become aware that the hero of the story +is standing before them.</p> + +<p>Yes, there stands Gregory Slyme, pale, breathless, and with +one hand already uplifted, as though to deprecate censure, and +to stay the order to "begone," that he plainly expects from +every lip.</p> + +<p>"Why, he is here again!" cries Sir Christopher, now incensed +beyond measure. "Even my niece's room is not safe +from him."</p> + +<p>He points angrily to the secretary, who cowers before his +angry look, yet shows no intention of retiring. With all his +air of hopeless sottishness, that clings to him like a spotted +garment, there is still something strange about the man that +attracts the attention of Mark Gore. He has been closely +watching him ever since his entrance, and he can see that the +head usually buried in the chest is now uplifted, that in the +sunken eyes there is a new meaning, a fire freshly kindled, +born of acute mental disturbance; and indeed in his whole +bearing there is a settled <i>purpose</i> very foreign to it.</p> + +<p>"Hear me, hear me!" he entreats, with quivering accents, +but passionate haste. "Do not send me away <i>yet</i>, I <i>must</i> +speak now—now, or never!"</p> + +<p>The final word sinks almost out of hearing. His hands fall +to his sides. Once again his head sinks to its old place upon +his breast. Sir Christopher, believing him to be again under +the influence of drink, opens his lips with the evident intention +of ordering him from his presence, when Sir Mark interposes.</p> + +<p>"He has come to say something. Let him say it," he says, +tapping Sir Christopher's arm persuasively.</p> + +<p>"Ay, let me," says Slyme, in a low tone, yet always with +the remnant of a wasted passion in it. "It has lain heavy on +my heart for years. I shall fling it from me now, if the effort +to do it kills me."</p> + +<p>Turning his bleared eyes right and left, he searches every<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[272]</a></span> +face slowly until he comes to Fabian. Here his examination +comes to an end. Fastening his eyes on Fabian, he lets them +rest there, and never again removes them during the entire +interview. He almost seems to forget, or to be unaware, that +there is any other soul in the room, save the man at whom he +is gazing so steadfastly. It is to him alone he addresses himself.</p> + +<p>"I call you to witness," he says, now striking himself upon +his breast, "that whatever I have done has not gone unpunished. +If my crime has been vile, my sufferings have been +terrible. I have endured torments. I want no sympathy—none. +I expect only detestation and revenge, but yet I would +have you remember that there was a time when I was a man, +not the soddened, brutish, contemptible <i>thing</i> I have become. +I would ask you to call to mind all you have ever heard about +remorse; its stings, its agony, its despair, and I would have +you know that I have felt it all; yea, more, a thousand times +more!"</p> + +<p>All this time he has had his hand pressed against his chest +in a rigid fashion. His lips have grown livid, his face pale as +any corpse.</p> + +<p>"This is mere raving," exclaims Sir Christopher, excitedly; +but again Gore restrains him as he would have gone forward +to order Slyme to retire.</p> + +<p>"To-day," goes on Slyme, always with his heavy eyes on +Fabian, "I heard you speak in my defence—<i>mine!</i> Sir, if +you could only know how those words of yours burned into +my heart, how they have burned since, how they are burning +<i>now</i>," smiting himself, "you would be half avenged. I +listened to you till my brain could bear no more. You spoke +kindly of <i>me</i>, you had pity on my old age—upon <i>mine</i>, who +had no pity on your youth, who ruthlessly ruined your life, +who—"</p> + +<p>"Man, if you have anything to confess—to explain—<i>say +it!</i>" breaks in Sir Mark, vehemently, who is half mad with +hope and expectancy.</p> + +<p>Portia has risen from her low seat, and forgetful or regardless +of comment, is gazing with large, white eyes at the old +man. Sir Christopher has grasped Mark Gore's arm with +almost painful force, and is trembling so violently that Gore +places his other arm gently round him, and keeps it there as +a support. All, more or less, are agitated. Fabian alone +makes no movement; with a face white to the very lips, he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[273]</a></span> +stands with his back against the mantelpiece, facing Slyme, +so motionless that he might be a figure carved in marble.</p> + +<p>Really deaf and blind to all except Fabian, the secretary +takes no heed of Sir Mark's violent outburst. He has paused, +indeed, at the interruption, some vague sense telling him he +will not be heard while it continues, but now it has subsided +he goes on again, addressing himself solely to Fabian, as +though it had never occurred.</p> + +<p>"It was for <i>him</i> I did it, for <i>his</i> sake," he says, monotonously. +He is losing his head a little now, and his mind is +wandering back to earlier days. "For my boy, my son—to +save him. It was a sore temptation; and he never knew, he +never knew." A gleam of something like comfort comes into +his eyes as he says this.</p> + +<p>"What <i>did</i> you do?" demands Dicky Browne, in an agony +of hope and doubt. "Can't you say it at once and be done +with it? Speak out, man—<i>do!</i>"</p> + +<p>"Curse me! <i>Kill</i> me if you will!" cries Slyme, with sudden +vehemence, stretching out his hands to Fabian, and still +deaf to any voice but his. "You have been deceived, falsely +accused, most treacherously dealt with. It was I forged that +check—not you!"</p> + +<p>The miserable man, as he makes this confession, falls upon +his knees and covers his face with his hands.</p> + +<p>A terrible cry bursts from Dulce; she springs to her feet, +and would have rushed to Fabian but that Roger, catching +her in his arms, prevents her. And indeed, it is no time to +approach Fabian. He has wakened at last into life out of his +curious calm, and the transition from his extreme quietude of +a moment since to the state of ungovernable passion in which +he now finds himself is as swift as it is dangerous.</p> + +<p>"<i>You!</i>" he says, staring at the abject figure kneeling before +him, in a tone so low as to be almost inaudible, yet with such +an amount of condensed fury in it as terrifies the listeners. +"<i>You!</i>" He makes a step forward as though he would +verily fall upon his enemy and rend him in pieces, and so +annihilate him from the face of the earth; but before he can +touch him, a slight body throws itself between him and Slyme, +and two small, white hands are laid upon his breast. These +little hands, small and powerless as they are, yet have strength +to force him backwards.</p> + +<p>"Think," says Portia, in a painful whisper. "Think! +Fabian, you would not harm that old man."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[274]</a></span></p> + +<p>"My dear fellow, don't touch him," says Dicky Browne. +"Don't. In your present frame of mind a gentle push of +yours would be his death."</p> + +<p>"Death!" says old Slyme, in such a strange voice that instinctively +they all listen to him. "It has no terrors for me." +He has raised his head from his hands, and is now gazing +again at Fabian, as though fascinated, making a wretched and +withal a piteous picture, as his thin white locks stream behind +him. "What have I to live for?" he cries, miserably. "The +boy I slaved for, sinned for, for whom I ruined you and my +own soul, is dead, cold in his grave. Have pity on me, therefore, +and send me where I may rejoin him."</p> + +<p>Either the excitement of his confession, or the nervous +dread of the result of it, has proved too much for him; because +just as the last word passes his lips, he flings his arms +wildly into the air, and, with a muffled cry, falls prone, a +senseless mass, upon the ground.</p> + +<p>When they lift him, they find clutched in his hand a written +statement of all he has confessed so vaguely. They are +very gentle in their treatment of him, but when he has recovered +consciousness and has been carried by the servants to +his own room, it must be acknowledged that they all breathe +more freely.</p> + +<p>Sir Christopher is crying like a child, and so is Dicky +Browne. The tears are literally running in little rivulets all +down Dicky's plump cheeks, but he is not in the least ashamed +of them—as indeed, why should he be? As in between his +sobs he insists on telling everybody he is so glad—so awfully +glad, his apparent grief, had they been in the mood for it, +would have struck them all as being extremely comic.</p> + +<p>The effect of their tears upon the women has the most desirable +result. It first surprises, and then soothes them inexpressibly. +It leaves indeed a new field entirely open to them. +Instead of being petted, they can pet.</p> + +<p>Julia instantly undertakes Dicky, who doesn't quite like +it; Dulce appropriates Sir Christopher, who likes it very much.</p> + +<p>Fabian, now that his one burst of passion is at an end, is +again strangely silent. Mark Gore, laying his hand upon his +shoulder, says something to him in a low tone unheard by the +rest, who are all talking together and so making a solitude for +these two.</p> + +<p>"It is too late," says Fabian, replying to him slowly; "too +late." There is more of settled conviction than of bitterness<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[275]</a></span> +in his tone, which only renders it the more melancholy. "He +was right. He has ruined my life. Were I to live twice the +allotted time given to man, I should never forget these last +five horrible years. They have killed me; that is, the best of +me. I tell you, deliverance has come <i>too late!</i>"</p> + +<p>Even as his voice dies away another rises.</p> + +<p>"Do not say that—<i>anything</i> but that," entreats Portia, in +deep agitation. Once more this evening she lays her small, +jeweled hand upon his breast and looks into his eyes. +"Fabian, there is renewed hope, a fresh life before you; take +courage. Remember—Oh, Mark, <i>speak</i> to him!"</p> + +<p>She is trembling violently, and her breath is coming with +suspicious difficulty. Her lips are quivering, and pain, actual +physical pain, dimming the lustre of her violet eyes. The old +ache is tugging angrily at her heart strings now.</p> + +<p>Still Fabian does not relent. As yet the very salve that +has cured his hurt has only made the hurt more unendurable +by dragging it into public notice. Now that he is free, emancipated +from the shadow of this crime that has encompassed +him as a cloud for so long, its proportions seem to grow and +increase until they reach a monstrous size. To have been +wounded in the body, or deprived of all one's earthly goods +at a stroke, or bereaved of one's nearest and dearest, would +all have been sore trials no doubt. But, alas! to make him a +fixed figure for scorn to point his slow, unmoving finger at. +What agony, with misfortune, could cope with that?</p> + +<p>And she, who had not trusted him when she <i>might</i>, will he +care that she should trust him now when she <i>must?</i></p> + +<p>Slowly he lifts the pale, slender hand, and very gently lets +it fall by her side. His meaning is not to be misunderstood; +he will none of her. Henceforth their paths shall lie as +widely apart as they have lain (of <i>her own</i> choice) for the +past few months.</p> + +<p>"I repeat it," he says, quietly, letting his eyes rest for a +moment upon hers, "it is <i>too late!</i>"</p> + +<p>And outside the wild winds, flying past with an even fiercer +outbreak of wrath, seem to echo those fatal words, "Too +late!" The very rain, being full of them, seeks to dash them +against the window panes. A sudden roar of thunder resounding +overhead comes as a fit adjunct to the despair embodied +in them. All nature is awake, and the air seems full of its +death-knells.</p> + +<p>Portia, sick at heart, moves silently away.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[276]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXVIII.</h2> + +<div class='poem'> +"If you have tears, prepare to shed them now."<br /> +<div class='sig'>—<i>Julius Cæsar.</i></div><br /> +</div> + +<div class='poem'> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Eyes, look your last;</span><br /> +Arms, take your last embrace!"<br /> +<div class='sig'>—<i>Romeo and Juliet.</i></div><br /> +</div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> night closes in, the rain has ceased, or only now and +then declares itself in fitful bursts, but still the wind rages and +the storm beats upon land and sea, as though half its fury is +not yet expended. The clouds are scudding hurriedly toward +the West, and now and then, as they separate, one catches a +glimpse of a pale, dying moon trying to shine in the dark +vaults above, her sickly gleam only rendering more terrible +the aspect of the land below.</p> + +<p>Still the lightning comes and goes, and the thunder kills +the sacred calm of night; Dulce and Julia, standing in the +window, gaze fearfully towards the angry heavens, and speak +to each other in whispers. Portia, who is sitting in an arm-chair, +with her colorless face uplifted and her head thrown +back, is quite silent, waiting with a kind of morbid longing +for each returning flash. The very children are subdued, and, +lying in a pretty group upon the hearth-rug, forget to laugh +or play, or do anything save cry aloud, "Ah! wasn't <i>that</i> a +big one?" when the lightning comes, or, "That was the loudest +one yet," when the deafening thunder rolls.</p> + +<p>The men are standing in another window, talking in low +tones of Fabian's exculpation, when Fabian himself comes in, +eagerly, excitedly, and so unlike the Fabian of old that Portia +gazes at him in silent wonder.</p> + +<p>"There's a ship in sore trouble down there," he says, pointing +as though he can see the sea down below, where now the +angry surf is rolling in, mountains high, hoarsely roaring as +it comes. "Brown from the coast-guard station has just run +up to tell us of it. They are about to man the life-boat; who +will come down to the beach with me?"</p> + +<p>They have all come forward by this time, and now the +men, going eagerly to seize on any coats and hats nearest to +them, make themselves ready to go down and render any assistance +that may be required of them. The station is but a +little one, the coast-guards few, and of late a sort of intermittent +fever has laid many of the fishermen low, so that their +help may, for all they yet can know, be sorely needed.</p> + +<p>Fabian, who has been delayed in many ways, is almost the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[277]</a></span> +last to leave the house. Hurrying now to the doorway, he is +stopped by a slight figure, that coming up to him in the +gloom of the night, that rushes in upon him from the opened +hall-door, seems like some spirit of the storm.</p> + +<p>It is Portia. Her face is very white, her lips are trembling, +but her eyes are full of a strange, feverish fire.</p> + +<p>"May I go, too? Do not prevent me," she says, in an +agitated tone, laying her hand upon his arm. "I <i>must</i> go, +I cannot stay here alone; thinking, thinking."</p> + +<p>"You!" interrupts he; "and on such a night as this! +Certainly not. Go back to the drawing-room at once." Involuntarily +he puts out his hand across the doorway, as though +to bar her egress. Then suddenly recollection forces itself +upon him, he drops his extended arm, and coldly averts his +eyes from hers.</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon," he says; "Why should I dictate to +you? You will do as you please, of course; by what right do +I advise or forbid you?"</p> + +<p>Oppressed by the harshness of his manner and his determined +coldness, that amounts almost to dislike, Portia makes +no reply. When first he spoke, his words, though unloving, +had still been full of a rough regard for her well-being, but +his sudden change to the indifferent tone of an utter +stranger had struck cold upon her heart. Cast down and disheartened, +she now shrinks a little to one side, and by a faint +gesture of the hand motions him to the open door.</p> + +<p>As though unconscious, or cruelly careless of the wound he +has inflicted, Fabian turns away from her and goes out into +the sullen, stormy night, and, reaching the side-path that +leads direct through the wood to the shore, is soon lost to +sight.</p> + +<p>Upon the beach dark forms are hurrying to and fro. Now +and then can be heard the sound of a distant signal-gun; +small knots of fishermen are congregated together, and can +be seen talking anxiously when the lurid lightning, flashing +overhead, breaks in upon the darkness.</p> + +<p>There is terrible confusion everywhere. Hurried exclamations +and shrill cries of fear and pity rise above the angry +moaning of the wind, as now and then a faint lull comes in +the storm; then, too, can be heard the bitter sobs and lamentations +of two women, who are clinging to their men, as though +by their weak arms they would hold them from battling with +the waves to-night.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[278]</a></span></p> + +<p>The sea is dashing itself in wildest fury against rock and +boulder, and rushing in headlong up from the sands only to +recede again in haste, as though in a hurry to fly back again +to swell the power of the cruel waves that would willingly deal +out death with every stroke.</p> + +<p>The clouds, having changed from black to murky yellow, +are hanging heavily in mid-air, as though undecided as to +whether they will not fall in a body and so overwhelm the +trembling earth. The spray, dashed inland by the terrific +force of the wind, lighting on the lips of those who stand with +straining eyes looking seaward, fills their mouths with its saltness, +and blinds their aching sight.</p> + +<p>All the people from the little village are on the shore, and +are talking and gesticulating violently. Some of them have +fathers, brothers, and, perhaps, "nearer and dearer ones still +than all others," on the point of incurring deathly danger to-night. +Some of them are standing, with clinched hands and +stony eyes, watching as though fascinated by the cruel, crawling +sea, as it runs up to their feet, gaily, boisterously, heedless of +the unutterable misery in their pallid faces. But for the most +part, people are full of energy, and are shouting from one to +the other, and examining ropes or asking eager questions of +grizzled old sailors, who, with plug in cheek and stoical +features, are staring at the sea.</p> + +<p>"Where is the ship?" asks Dicky Browne, laying his hand +on the arm of one of those ancient mariners to steady himself, +while the old salt, who is nearly thrice his age, stands steady +as a rock.</p> + +<p>"Close by; a schooner from some furrin' port, with wine, +they say." So shouts the old man back again.</p> + +<p>"And the life-boat?"</p> + +<p>"Is manned an' away. 'Twill be a tussle to-night, sir; no +boat can live in such a sea, I'm thinking. Hark to the roar +of it."</p> + +<p>The dull moon, forcing itself through the hanging clouds, +casts at this moment a pallid gleam upon the turbid ocean, +making the terrors of the hour only more terrible. Now at +last they can see the doomed vessel; the incessant dashing of +the waves is slowly tearing it in pieces; some figure with flowing +hair can be seen near one of the dismantled masts. Is it +a woman? and what is that she holds aloft?—a child! a little +child!</p> + +<p>The agony increases. Some run along the beach in frantic<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[279]</a></span> +impotency, calling upon heaven to show pity now, in tones +that even pierce the ghastly howling of the wind. Anon, the +quivering lightning comes again, shedding a blue radiance +over all.</p> + +<p>Twice has the life-boat been repulsed and beaten back, in +spite of the strenuous efforts of its gallant crew. The second +time a cry goes up that strikes dismay to the hearts of those +around, as a man is laid upon the damp beach, who had gone +forth full of courage with his fellows, but now lies stiffening +into the marble calm of death.</p> + +<p>Dulce, who has run down to the strand without a word to +any one, and who is now standing a little apart with Roger's +arm round her, hearing this unearthly cry, covers her face +with her hands and shivers violently in every limb. The +darting lightning has shown her the ghastly outline of the +poor, brave figure on the sand, now hushed in its last sleep.</p> + +<p>At this moment, Portia, creeping up to where they are +standing, with hands uplifted to her forehead, tries to pierce +the gloom. The spray from a projecting rock being flung +back upon them, drenches them thoroughly. Roger, putting +out his hand hurriedly, draws Dulce out of its reach, and +would have persuaded Portia to come to a more sheltered +spot, but she resists his entreaty, and, waving him from her +impatiently, still continues her eye-search for something that +she evidently supposes to be upon the beach. Where she is +standing, a shadow from a huge rock so covers her that she is +invisible to any comer.</p> + +<p>Now some one is advancing towards them through the +darkness and clinging mist. Dulce, who is sitting on the +ground and weeping bitterly, does not see him, but Roger +goes quickly toward him. It is Fabian, pale, but quite composed, +and with a certain high resolve in his dark eyes. There +is, indeed, in this settled resolve something that might be +almost termed gladness.</p> + +<p>"Ah! it is you," he says, hurriedly beckoning to Roger to +come farther away from Dulce, which sign Roger obeying +brings both him and Fabian a degree nearer to Portia. Yet, +standing motionless as she does within the gloom, they neither +see her nor feel her presence.</p> + +<p>"Here, catch my watch," says Fabian, quickly, in a business-like +tone; "and," with a short laugh, "keep it if I don't +get back." He flings him the watch as he speaks.</p> + +<p>"Where are you going?" asks Roger, breathlessly, "where?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[280]</a></span></p> + +<p>"With those fellows in the life-boat. They want another +hand now poor Jenkins has been bowled over, and I +shall go; they are losing heart, but my going with them will +change all that. Tell Dulce—"</p> + +<p>"You <i>shall</i> not go!" cries Roger, frantically. "It is +throwing away your life. There are those whose lives can be +better spared; let <i>them</i> go. Let <i>me</i> go. Fabian, think of +that old man at home."</p> + +<p>"My dear fellow, don't bury me in such a hurry," says +Fabian, lightly. "These poor fellows below have wives and +families depending on them, and no one implores them not to +go. I will take my chance with them. Now listen—"</p> + +<p>"But not alone!" says Roger; "you shall not go alone. +I will go with you. To venture in such a sea—but, of course, +that should not be considered. Well, come then, come!" +The poor boy, in spite of himself, does consider it, but bravely +pushes forward in the vague thought that if he goes he may +be of use to his friend, his brother.</p> + +<p>"Impossible!" says Fabian. "There is not room for another. +If we come back again unsuccessful, I promise you, you shall +try your chance then. Here, don't look so gloomy, but hold +my coat, and keep it dry, as I daresay I shall be chilly enough +when I get back to you."</p> + +<p>He speaks with the utmost cheerfulness, indeed with a subdued +gayety that might emanate from a quiet man just starting +on a pleasurable expedition.</p> + +<p>"Do you know the danger?" says Roger, in a broken voice, +clinging to his hand, but feeling that all remonstrance will be +in vain.</p> + +<p>"Tut! why should there be more danger for me than for +another? Now go back to her—she is there, is she not? my +<i>dear</i> little Dulce. Tell her from me— No!—tell her nothing. +Good-by, old man; wish me a safe return till I come; and—and—be +good to her—always love her—"</p> + +<p>He turns abruptly aside, and, springing down from the rock +where he has been standing, finds himself again on the beach. +He is hurrying once more toward the boat, which having +sustained some slight injuries in its last attempt is not quite +seaworthy, but requires some looking after by the men before +they can start afresh, when he is stopped by the pressure of +two soft hands upon his arm.</p> + +<p>Turning, he looks into Portia's eyes. She is haggard, +ghastly in her pallor, but unspeakably beautiful. Her fair<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[281]</a></span> +hair, having come undone, is waving lightly in the tempestuous +wind. Her lips are parted.</p> + +<p>"You are not going <i>out there?</i>" she says, pointing with a +shudder to the tumultuous waves, and speaking in a tone so +full of agony and reckless misery that it chills him. "You +<i>shall</i> not! Do you hear? Fabian! Fabian! listen to me."</p> + +<p>It is so dark and wild that no one can see her; no ears but +his can hear. She flings herself in a passion of despair upon +her knees before him, and encircles him with her arms.</p> + +<p>"My darling! My best beloved, stay with me!" she cries, +wildly. "Hate me—spurn me—live—<i>live!</i> that sea will tear +you from me—it will kill—"</p> + +<p>Stooping over her, with a very gentle movement, but with +determination, he unclasps her clinging arms and raises her +to her feet.</p> + +<p>"You must not kneel there on the wet sand," he says, +quietly; "and forgive me if I remind you of it, but you will +not care to remember all this to-morrow."</p> + +<p>"I shall not remember it to-morrow," replies she, in a +strange, dreamy tone, her hands falling nerveless at her sides. +She does not seek to touch or persuade him again, only gazes +earnestly up at him, through the wretched mist that enshrouds +them, with a face that is as the faces of the dead.</p> + +<p>Upon his arm is a shawl one of the women below (he is +very dearly beloved in the village) had forced upon him an +hour ago. He is bringing it back now to return it to her before +starting, but, a thought striking him, he unfolds it, and +crosses it over Portia's bosom.</p> + +<p>"One of the women down there lent it to me," he says, +coldly still, but kindly. "Return it to her when you can."</p> + +<p>With a little passionate gesture she flings it from her, letting +it lie on the ground at her feet.</p> + +<p>"It is too late—the coldness of death is upon me," she +says, vehemently. Then in an altered tone, calmed by despair, +she whispers, slowly, "Fabian, if you <i>will</i> die—forgive +me first?"</p> + +<p>"If there is anything to forgive, I have done so long ago. +But there is nothing."</p> + +<p>"Is there nothing in the thought that I love you, either? +Has not this knowledge power to drag you back from the +grave?"</p> + +<div class='center'> +"'Too late for the balm when the heart is broke,'"<br /> +</div> + +<div class='unindent'>quotes he, sadly.</div><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[282]</a></span></p> + +<p>"And yet you loved me once," she says, quickly.</p> + +<p>"I love you now as I never loved you," returns he, with +sudden, eager passion. Her arms are round his neck, her +head is thrown back, her lovely eyes, almost terrible now in +their intensity, are gazing into his. Instinctively his arms +close around her—he bends forward.</p> + +<p>A shout from the beach! The boat is launched, and they +only await him to go upon their perilous journey. When +death is near, small things of earth grow even less.</p> + +<p>"They call me! All is over now between us," he murmurs, +straining her to his heart. Then he puts her a little away +from him—still holding her—and looks once more into her +large, tearless eyes. "If life on earth is done," he says, +solemnly, "then in heaven, my soul, we meet again!"</p> + +<p>He lays his lips on hers.</p> + +<p>"In heaven, my love, and soon!" returns she, very quietly, +and so they part!</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>It is but a little half-hour afterwards when they bring him +back again, and lay him gently and in silence upon the wet +sand—cold and dead! Some spar had struck him, they hardly +know what, and had left him as they brought him home.</p> + +<p>Many voices are uplifted at this sad return, but all grow +hushed and quiet as a girl with bare head presses her way +resolutely through the crowd, and, moving aside those who +would mercifully have delayed her, having reached her dead, +sits down upon the sand beside him, and, lifting his head in +her arms, dank and dripping with sea-foam, lays it tenderly +upon her knees. Stooping over it, she presses it lovingly +against her breast, and with tender fingers smooths back from +the pale forehead the short, wet masses of his dark hair. She +is quite calm, her fingers do not even tremble, but there is a +strange, strange look in her great eyes.</p> + +<p><i>His</i> eyes are closed. No ugly stain of blood mars the +beauty of his face. He lies calm and placid in her embrace, +as though wrapt in softest slumber—but oh! how irresponsive +to the touch that once would have thrilled his every sense with +rapture!</p> + +<p>There is something so awful in the muteness of her despair, +that a curious hush falls upon those grouped around her—and +him. The whole scene is so fraught with a weird horror, that +when one woman in the background bursts into bitter weeping, +she is pushed out of sight, as though emotion of a demonstrative<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[283]</a></span> +nature is out of place just here. Noisy grief can have +no part in this hopeless sorrow.</p> + +<p>Dicky Browne, bending over her (Roger has taken Dulce +home), says:</p> + +<p>"Oh, Portia! that it should end like this, and just now—<i>now</i>, +when life had opened out afresh for him!" His voice +is choked and almost inaudible. Now that he is gone, they +all know how dear he has been to them, how interwoven with +theirs has been his quiet melancholy life.</p> + +<p>"I knew it," says Portia, not quickly, but yet with some +faint, soft vehemence. "I am not surprised, I am not +grieved." She whispers something else after this repeatedly, +and Dicky, bending lower, hears the words, "And soon—and +soon." She repeats them in an ecstatic undertone; there is +joy and an odd <i>certainty</i> in it. They are the last words she +ever spoke to <i>him</i>.</p> + +<p>"He is very cold," she says then, with a little shiver.</p> + +<p>Sir Mark, seeing the tears are running down Dicky's cheeks +and that he is incapable of saying anything further, pushes +him gently to one side, and murmurs something in Portia's +ear. She seems quite willing to do anything they may desire.</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes. He must come home. It will be better. I +will come home with him." And then with a long-drawn +sigh, "Poor Uncle Christopher!" This is the last time her +thoughts ever wander away from her dead love. "It will be +well to take him away from the cruel sea," she says, lifting +her eyes to the rough but kindly faces of the boatmen who +surround her. "But," piteously, "oh! do not <i>hurt</i> him!"</p> + +<p>"Never fear, missy," says one old sailor, in a broken voice; +and a young fellow, turning aside, whispers to a comrade that +he was "her man" in tones of heartfelt pity.</p> + +<p>Still keeping his head within her arms, she rises slowly to +her knees, and then the men, careful to humor her, so lift the +body that she—even when she has gained her feet—has still +this dear burden in her keeping. At the very last, when +they have laid him upon the rude bier they have constructed +for him in a hurry, she still hesitates, and regards with +anguish the hard spot where she must lay her burden down.</p> + +<p>She gazes distressfully around her, and then plucks with a +little mournful, helpless fashion at a dainty, fleecy thing that +lies close to her throat, and is her only covering from the +angry blast. One of the women divining her purpose, presses +forward, and, in silence, folds her own woollen shawl and lays<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[284]</a></span> +it on the bier, and then unfastening the white Shetland fabric +round Portia's neck, lays that upon her own offering, so that +the dead man's cheek will rest on it. Her womanly soul has +grasped the truth, that the girl wants his resting-place to be +made softer by some gift of hers; and when her task is completed, +and the men, gathering up their load, silently prepare +to move with it towards the old Court, Portia turns upon this +woman a smile so sweet, so full of gratitude, that she breaks +into bitter weeping, and, flinging her apron over her honest, +kindly, sunburnt face, runs hurriedly away.</p> + +<p>"She was his lass. Poor soul! poor soul!" says another +woman in a hushed tone, and with deep pathos.</p> + +<p>Holding his dead hand in hers, Portia, with steady steps, +walks beside the rough bier, and so the sad procession winds +its solemn way up to the old Court, with Sir Mark at its head +and Dicky Browne at his feet, and Portia, with bare uplifted +head and wrapt eyes, still clinging fondly to the poor clay, +so well beloved by all.</p> + +<p>Silently, with breaking hearts, they carry him into the +grand old hall, and lay him reverently upon the marble flooring. +Silently, they gaze upon his unmarred beauty. Not a +sound—not a sob—disturbs the sacred stillness. Portia, always +with his hand in hers, falls upon her knees, and, pressing +it against her breast, raises her eyes devoutly heavenward. +One by one, they all withdraw—Sir Mark, to break the terrible +news to the old man. She is alone with her dead! With +a little sigh she crouches close to him, and lays her cheek +against his. The icy contact conveys no terror to her mind. +She does not shrink from him, but softly, tenderly, caresses +him from time to time, and yet he moves not, nor wakens into +life beneath her gentle touch. Truly,</p> + +<div class='center'> +"After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well."<br /> +</div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXIX.</h2> + +<div class='poem'> +"'Whom the gods love die young,' was said of yore."<br /> +<div class='sig'>—<span class="smcap">Don Juan.</span></div><br /> +</div> + +<div class='poem'> +"Death came with friendly care."<br /> +<div class='sig'>—<span class="smcap">Coleridge.</span></div><br /> +</div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> all happened only yesterday, yet how long ago it seems +already; and now the sun is shining again, bravely, cheerily, +as though life is all made up of joy and gladness, and as +though storms that despoil the earth, and heavier storms that +wreck the soul, are miseries unknown; and yet he is dead, +and she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[285]</a></span>—</p> + +<p>In silence they had carried him to his own chamber, and +had laid him on his bed, she going with him always with his +clay-cold hand in hers, and never a moan from her pale lips.</p> + +<p>The storm had gone down by that, and a strange mournful +stillness, terrible after the late rioting of the elements, covered +all the land. The silence might be felt, and through it they +listened eagerly for her sighs, and hoped for the tears that +should have come to ease her stricken heart, but all in vain; +and watching her they knew at last that the springs of grief +within her were frozen, and that the blessed healing waters +that can cool the burning fever of despair were not to flow for +her. Only a certain curious calm lay on her, killing all outward +demonstrations of grief. She spoke to no one, she was +hardly, perhaps, at times, aware of the presence of those +around her. Dulce's sobs did not rouse her. She showed no +symptom of emotion when Sir Christopher bent his white head +in inexplicable woe over the form of the man who had been +dear to him as his own soul. As she knelt beside the corpse, +she moved now and then, and her breath came and went +softly, regularly, but her eyes never departed from the face +before her, with its closed eyes and sad, solemn smile. Perhaps, +in her strange musings, she was trying to follow him in +spirit to where he had</p> + +<div class='poem'> +<span style="margin-left: 7em;">"Gone before,</span><br /> +To that unknown and silent shore"<br /> +</div> + +<div class='unindent'>so dimly dreamt of here, because her eyes are gleaming large +and clear, and almost unearthly in their brilliance.</div> + +<p>At first, though somewhat in awe of her, they had sought by +tenderest means to draw her from the room. But she had +resisted, or rather been utterly deaf to all entreaties, and, +kneeling by the bed that held all that she had loved or ever +could love, still fed her eager gaze with sight of him, and +pressed from time to time his ice-cold hand to her cheeks, her +lips, her eyes.</p> + +<p>Then Sir Mark had admonished them to let her be, and +sinking into a chair, with a heavy sigh, had kept her vigil with +her. Tall candles gleamed on distant tables. The night wind +sighed without; footsteps came and went, and heart-broken +sighs and ill-suppressed sobs disturbed the air. The little +child he had loved—the poor Boodie—would not be forbidden, +and, creeping into the sad room, had stolen to the bedside, +and had laid upon his breast a little pallid blossom she had, +secretly and alone, braved all the terrors of the dark night to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[286]</a></span> +gain, having traversed the quiet garden to pluck it from the +tiny plot out there she called her own.</p> + +<p>She had not been frightened when she saw him, but had +stood gazing in some wonder at the indescribably pathetic +smile that glorified his lips, after which she had given her hand +obediently to Dicky Browne, and had gone back with him to +her nursery, content, and far less sad than when she came.</p> + +<p>Sometimes they all came and gazed on him together; Julia +trembling, but subdued; Dulce with her hand in Roger's; the +old man inconsolable. Now Dicky Browne whispers feeble +but well-meant words of comfort to him, now Sir Mark touches +his arm in silent sympathy. But they all keep somewhat apart +from Portia; she has grown suddenly sacred in their eyes, as +one to whom the beloved dead more especially belongs.</p> + +<p>One of them, Sir Mark, I believe, seeing a little bit of dark-hued +ribbon round his neck, bent forward, and, loosening it, +draws to light a flat gold locket with the initials P. V. sunk +deeply in it. His hand shook at this discovery; he hesitated; +then, some fine instinct revealing to him that it might contain +some hidden charm strong enough to rouse her from her unnatural +calm, he touched Portia's shoulder and laid the locket +in her hand.</p> + +<p>Mechanically she opened it, yet testily too, as if unwilling +or unable to keep her eyes for even the shortest space of time +from the lifeless face so dear to her. But, once opened, her +glance riveted itself upon its contents. Her own face looked +up at her, her own eyes smiled at her. It was her portrait +that she saw, painted by him, no doubt, sadly and in secret, +and worn against his heart ever since.</p> + +<p>Long she gazed at it. Her whole face changed. The +terrible calm has broken up, but no grief came in its place. +There was only joy unutterable and a rapture most blessed +and divine.</p> + +<p>"My love, I knew it without this," she said, softly. Her +eyes once more returned to him; a quick but lengthened sigh +escaped her; her head fell forward on his breast.</p> + +<p>They waited. The minutes grew, but still she never stirred. +Some one, whispering comfort to her, tried to raise her head, +but comfort from heaven itself had reached her. She was +<i>with him!</i> She was quite dead!</p> + +<p>They said some tissue in her heart had given way, and perhaps +it was so, but surely grief had severed it.</p> + + +<h3>THE END.</h3> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 216px;"> +<img src="images/tonic.png" width="216" height="400" alt="The Best Tonic" title="" /> +</div> + + +<h2>RECOMMENDED BY EMINENT PHYSICIANS<br /> + +AND FOR SALE BY ALL DRUGGISTS.</h2> + + +<p>The American Drug Clerks Journal acknowledges the receipt of a case of The "Best" +Tonic. The "Best" Tonic is manufactured from the best malt and choicest hops, and although +it has been in the market but a short time, seems to be already in quite lively demand. +While two rival eastern houses have resorted to the courts to settle the question, +"which is genuine," we would suggest to the trade the wisdom of recommending their customers +to buy The "Best." Some philosopher has said that the best is always the cheapest. +We are sure that the "Best" is just as cheap, and that no question has ever been raised in +regards to it being "genuine." Always sell the one which is "Best" in more senses than +one.</p> + +<div class='center'> +<i>From The American Drug Clerks Journal, Chicago, Ills.</i><br /> +</div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/agate.png" width="500" height="247" alt="AGATE IRON WARE." title="" /> +<span class="caption">AGATE IRON WARE.</span> +</div> +<h3>—IS SOLD BY ALL FIRST-CLASS DEALERS IN—</h3> + +<h2>HARDWARE, CROCKERY AND HOUSE-FURNISHING GOODS.<br /> + +Throughout the World.<br /> + +AND UNIVERSALLY ACKNOWLEDGED TO BE THE BEST KITCHEN WARE EVER PRODUCED.</h2> + + +<p>The articles are made of Sheet iron pressed into shape and coated with a pure vitreous enamel, which for tenacity and power of resisting the action +of acids has no equal.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<div class='tnote'><h3>Transcriber's Notes:</h3> + +<p>Approximately halfway through the text, the printer began placing +em-dashes (—) before the sources of the quotes that begin each chapter. +These dashes have now been added to the first half of the text's sources +for consistency.</p> +<p>Text uses: <i>àpropos</i>, <i>à propos</i>, <i>apropos</i> and apropos. This was retained. Text +also uses "Virginian creeper" instead of the more common "Virginia creeper." Text uses both: "tete-a-tete" +and "tete-à-tete."</p> +<p>Obvious punctuation errors repaired.</p> + +<p>The remaining corrections made are indicated by dotted lines under the corrections. Scroll the mouse over the word and the original text will <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'apprear'">appear</ins>.</p></div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Portia, by Duchess + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PORTIA *** + +***** This file should be named 31825-h.htm or 31825-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/1/8/2/31825/ + +Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Emmy and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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