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diff --git a/31825.txt b/31825.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..27e857e --- /dev/null +++ b/31825.txt @@ -0,0 +1,14050 @@ +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: ASCII + +*** 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 + + + + + + + + + +PORTIA; + +OR + +BY PASSIONS ROCKED + + BY + + THE DUCHESS + + Author of "PHYLLIS," "AIRY, FAIRY LILLIAN," ETC + + NEW YORK AND CHICAGO + BUTLER BROTHERS + + TROW'S + PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY, + NEW YORK. + + + + +PORTIA; + +Or, "By Passions Rocked." + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + "A child of our grandmother Eve, a female; or, for + thy more sweet understanding, a woman."--LOVE'S + LABORS LOST. + + +THE 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. + +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. + +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. + +"You have come," she says, cheerily. "I was _so_ afraid something might +have prevented you." + +The person she addresses--a girl about two years older than herself, +says: + +"Yes, I have come," in a tone slow and sweet, almost to languor. + +"_So_ glad," says the pretty girl, with a smile that must be one 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." + +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. + +Having cast one hasty glance round the apartment, Miss Vibart turns to +her young hostess-- + +"You are Dulcinea? isn't it?" she says, questioningly. + +"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. + +"Is Dicky Browne your _fiance_?" asks Miss Vibart, uncertainly; "I know +you are engaged to somebody; Auntie Maud told me that." + +"Dicky Browne! Oh, no!" Then, with the gayest little laugh in the world, +"If you could only _see_ Dicky Browne! He couldn't, by any possibility, +be _anybody's fiance_! You mean Roger, I suppose." But, with a quick +frown and a touch of petulance, "Don't let us talk about _him_. He is +such a worry, and has been making himself so exceedingly unpleasant all +the morning!" + +Miss Vibart stares, forgetting her usually very charming manners for the +moment, and then drops her heavily-fringed lids over her eyes. + +"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. + +Portia Vibart, acknowledging her grace, tells herself this new cousin +will suit very well, and returns her soft embrace with some warmth. She +is feeling tired, used up, _ennuye_ 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. + +"Sit in this chair, and rest a little before thinking of taking off +anything else," says Dulce; "I shall pour out your tea." + +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. + +"You take sugar?" she asks, in a moment or two. + +"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. + +"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_ 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." + +"Who _is_ 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. + +"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 +_such_ a fool!" + +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." + +"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." + +"I rather fancy I was thinking of the man who writes plays," says Miss +Vibart, mildly. "Is he here now?" + +"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 +_beaux yeux_, and your beauty generally." + +"Who wafted so insane a breath as that?" asks Portia, with a suppressed +smile. + +"Mark Gore. He puts in a good deal of his time here, too." + +"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." + +"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--" + +"Oh! please do," says Portia, graciously. "I shall be just a little +strange at first, shan't I?" + +"Strange here? _Indeed_ 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." + +"I shall be ready," says Portia, with determination. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +"The first and the simplest emotion which we discover in the human mind +is curiosity."--BURKE. + + +"YES, I am quite ready," says Portia. + +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. + +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. + +"Ah! Mark was right," says Dulce, with a little sigh of intensest +pleasure. "Come down now (you _cannot_ make yourself more beautiful), +and be made known to Uncle Christopher." + +It is in the library that Miss Vibart makes herself known. Dulce +entering first, with her gay little air, says: + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +"So glad. _So_ glad you have come to us," he says, in a 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--" + +"I wear petticoats still," says Portia, demurely, with a soft laugh, +"and frills sometimes, and often furbelows, I _think_, 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." + +"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." + +"A speech easy to forgive," said Portia, lightly. Then, after a pause, +"I, too, remember what _you_ were like in those old days." + +"What then?" asked Sir Christopher, giving a sudden pull to his collar, +and betraying an increased degree of interest. + +"Nothing like so good-looking as you are to-day," retorts she, with a +quick smile and a little flicker of her eyelids. + +"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. + +"Auntie Maud sent her love to you," said Portia. + +"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 _could_ have thrown herself away upon that little +insignificant--eh?--though he _was_ my brother--eh?" + +"She ought to have had you," says Miss Vibart, with soft audacity. + +"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?" + +"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?--_after_ +six. Now do go up 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. + +Miss Vibart, like Alice, begins to think it all "curiouser and +curiouser;" yet, withal, the house seems full of love. + +"Well, indeed as a rule, I believe I _am_ late," says Sir Christopher, +in a resigned tone. "But I always put it down upon Mylder; he _can't_ +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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"Here you will live forever," says Dulce. "People at ninety-five +consider themselves in the prime of life." + +"Lucky they!" says Portia; "they must 'wear the rose of youth' upon them +forever." + +"Oh! we _can_ 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." + +"Yes," says Uncle Christopher, most cheerfully--he is plainly +unimpressed, and shows an inclination to whistle + + "Golden lads and girls, all must, + As chimney-sweepers come to dust!" + +"I say, Dulce, isn't Portia like that picture of your grand-aunt in the +north gallery?" + +"Like who?" asks Portia, anxiously. + +"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. + +When they have reached again the hall outside (leaving Sir Christopher +to seek the tender mercies of Mylder) Portia turns to her cousin-- + +"I am fortunate," she says, in her usual composed fashion that is yet +neither cold nor repellant, "I find Uncle Christopher, also, altogether +charming!" + +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. + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +"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." + +"Boy?" asks Portia, doubtfully; to her the foregoing speech is full of +difficulty. + +"I daresay _you_ 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 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. + +"But why must you marry him?" asks Portia, opening her large black fan +in an indolent fashion, and waving it to and fro. + +The sun retiring + + "On waves of glory, like an ocean god," + +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. + +"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!" + +"But he had nothing to do with the arrangement, had he?" + +"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 L500 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." + +"What an eccentric will," says Portia. + +"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 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." + +"Is he your first cousin? You know I have heard very little about this +branch of my family, having lived so long in India." + +"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?" + +"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. + +"Not exactly," says Dulce, meditatively; "I really don't think I hate +him, but he can be disagreeable, I promise you." + +"But if you marry him, hardly tolerating him, and afterwards you meet +somebody you can love, how will it be with you then?" + +"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 _now_, to fall +in love with any one. In fact I couldn't." + +"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." + +"Mark Gore is a confirmed old bachelor, and knows nothing," says Dulce, +contemptuously. + +"Yet once, they say, he was hopelessly in love with Phyllis Carrington." + +"So he was. It was quite a romance, and he was the hero." + +"Phyllis is quite everything she ought to be, and utterly sweet," says +Portia, thoughtfully. "But _is_ she the sort of person to create a +_grande passion_ in a man like Mark?" + +"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." + +"I wonder," says Miss Vibart, with a faint yawn, "if at times she +doesn't find that a trifle slow?" + +Then she grows a little ashamed of herself, as she catches Dulce's +quick, puzzled glance. + +"It is a very pretty baby," says Dulce, as though anxious to explain +matters. + +"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." + +Dulce laughs. + +"We come and go," she says. "It would be hard to arrange us. _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." + +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. + +"You must 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--_you_ +believe in him, don't you?" She raises her eyes to her cousin's face. + +"I hardly think I have quite heard the story," says Miss Vibart +evasively. + +"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." + +"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 _can_ one say! + +"It will not distress me," says Dulce, earnestly; "and I 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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"As I have begun I shall finish," says Dulce, heroically, "even at the +risk of boring you. But"--wistfully--"you will forgive me that." + +"Go on; I _want_ 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. + +"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 L500. 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." + +She pauses. + +"Dulcinea," as yet the more familiar appellation "Dulce" 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." + +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. + +"It was quite true that somebody had forged Uncle Christopher's name for +L500, 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 imitation 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." + +"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 me the rest," she +says. + +"Unfortunately at that time Fabian _did_ 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." + +"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!" + +"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 _a la mort_, but Fabian would not allow it, +and I think he was right." + +"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?" + +"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." + +"Ah! he writes like Uncle Christopher," says Portia, slowly, as though +adding another link in her own mind to a conclusion already carefully +formed. + +"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." + +"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. + +"I forgot," she says, quietly, after a moment's reflection, "you have +never seen him." + +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. + +"I wonder he stayed here after it happened," she says, with some faint +acceleration of manner. Haste to Portia, is a word unknown. + +"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 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?" + +"It is all very sad," says Portia. Her eyes are bent, and she is slowly +turning a ring round and round upon her finger. + +"It has ruined Fabian's life, and broken his heart," says Dulce, in a +low tone. "It is more than sad." + +"But if innocent, why should it weigh so heavily upon him?" asks Portia, +gently. + +"_If_," says Dulce, quickly, the hot blood mounting to her cheeks. +Then--very coldly--"There is no 'if' about it; he _is_ 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." + +"I put it badly," says Portia, correcting her mistake with much grace. +"I should have said _as_ he is innocent. Forgive me." + +"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?" + +"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 _am_ 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." + +"You will miss your season, however," says Dulce, regretfully--for +_her_. + +"Yes, _isn't_ that a comfort?" says her cousin, with a devout sigh of +deepest thankfulness. + +"A comfort!" + +"Yes. I am not strong enough to go about much, and Auntie Maud has that +sort of thing on the brain. She is like 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?" + +"No! It is only Dicky Browne and--" + +"Your Roger?" + +"Oh! yes; my Roger," repeats Dulce, with a distasteful shrug. + +Then she leans over the balcony, and says: + +"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!" + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + "Whether youth can be imputed to any man as a + reproach, I will not, sir, assume the province of + determining."--W. PITT. + + +THE 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, +_except_ "the boys," they are evidently full of the enjoyment of some +joke, and are gay with smiles. + +Mr. Browne is especially glad, which convinces 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. + +He is a tall, slight young man, handsome, indolent, with dark eyes, and +a dark moustache, and a very expressive mouth. + +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 _very_ little--good looking, will you understand him? At least +he is beaming with _bonhommie_, and that goes a long way with most +people. + +He seems now rather taken by Dulce's speech, and says: + +"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?' is she 'lovely and divine?'" goes on Mr. +Browne, gaily, as though seeking information. + +"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!" + +"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!" + +"Passable! I told you so!" says Roger, turning to Dicky Browne, with +fine disgust. "Is she aesthetic?" + +"No." + +"Fast?" asks Dicky, anxiously. + +"No." + +"Stupid--dull--impossible?" + +"No, no, no." + +"I thank my stars," says Dicky Browne, devoutly. + +"Can't you describe her?" asks Roger, impatiently staring up from the +sward beneath at Dulce's charming, wicked little face. + +"She has two eyes, and a very remarkable nose," says Miss Blount, with a +nod. + +"Celestial or Roman?" demands Roger, lazily. By this time he and Dicky +are mounting the stone steps of the balcony, and discovery is imminent. + +"I think it is a little unfair," murmurs Portia, in a low whisper, who +is, however, consumed with laughter. + +At this moment they reach the balcony, and Dulce says, blandly, +_apropos_ of Roger's last remark, "Perhaps if you ask her that question, +_as she is here_, she will answer you herself!" + +She waves her hand towards Portia. Portia rises and comes a step +forward, all her soft draperies making a soft _frou-frou_ upon the stone +flooring; and then there is a good deal of consternation! and a +_tableau_ generally. + +"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 it carelessly over the balcony +into the rising mist and night. + +"Whatever you beg you shall have," says Portia, coming nearer to him and +holding out a slim white hand. "How d'ye do, Roger?" + +"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 _might_ 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." + +"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?" + +"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. + +"Miss Vibart--Mr. Browne," says Roger, seriously. But at this Dicky +forgets himself, and throws dignity to the winds. + +"She called _you_ Roger! I'm as much her cousin as ever you were!" he +says, indignantly. "_Mr._ Browne, indeed!" + +At this, both girls laugh merrily, and so, after a bit, does Dicky +himself, to whose soul the mildest mirth is an everlasting joy. + +"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. + +"If you will be so very good," says Dicky Browne. + +"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 _is_ so tiring." + +"It is true," says Portia; then turning to Dicky Browne, with +half-closed lids and a subdued smile, she says, slowly: + +"I am very pleased to make your acquaintance." + +It has its charm, this lowered tone. Dicky gives in to it; +and--metaphorically speaking--instantly prostrates himself at Miss +Vibart's feet. + +Perhaps he might have done so actually without metaphor, Dicky's conduct +being at times uncertain, but for a timely interruption. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +Sir Christopher fusses a little, grows discontented, and finally says +uneasily-- + +"Where is Fabian?" + +"He has a headache, dear," says Dulce, gently. "He hopes we will all +excuse him--especially Portia." + +She turns with a sweet glance to Portia, who murmurs something civil in +return. + +"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. + +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. + +"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." + +"How you _must_ have enjoyed yourself!" says Roger, feelingly. "How I +wish I could have put myself in your place at that moment." + +"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." + +"Clever boy!" says Roger. "For the future I shall know exactly what to +do when the reverend Boer inflicts his small talk on _me_. Dead sell, +though, if he accepted your offer. One would have to sit it out with +him, and, probably, he takes his brandy slowly." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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 _fiasco_ 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." + +"What a wicked humor you must have been in," says Portia. "Tell the +story to us now." + +"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." + +"He is a dreadfully prosy person, and very material," says Portia, when +they have all laughed a little. + +"He is a jolly nuisance," says Mr. Browne. + +"He hasn't got much soul, if you mean that," says Roger-- + + "'A primrose by a river's brim, + A yellow primrose is to him + And it is nothing more.'" + +"That _is_ such utter nonsense," says Dulce, tilting her pretty nose and +casting a slighting glance at her _fiance_ from eyes that are + + "The greenest of things blue, + The bluest of things gray." + +"What more _would_ it be?--a hollyhock, perhaps? or a rhododendron, eh?" + +"Anything you like," says Roger, calmly, which rather finishes the +discussion. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +"What shall I say?" asks Miss Vibart, somewhat taken aback. "Moods are +so difficult." + +"Anything likely to please him." + +"My difficulty just lies there," says Portia. + +"Then _do_ 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." + +"But what can I do?" says Portia, who is rather impressed by Mr. +Browne's earnestness. + +"You hate port, don't you?" asks he, mysteriously. + +"Yes. But what has that got to do with it?" + +"Take some presently. It is poison, and will make you 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 _port_, defiance in his eye!'--that line, I am +convinced, was written for him alone, but modern readers have put a +false construction upon it." + +"It will make me _so_ unhappy," says Portia, looking at Uncle +Christopher with a pitying eye. The pity is for him, not for herself, as +Dicky foolishly imagines. + +"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!'" + +"A very poor one, as a rule," says Portia. + +"Have some strawberries, Portia?" asks Roger at this moment, who has +been sparring with Dulce, mildly, but firmly, all this time. + +"Thank you," says Portia. + +"They don't go well with port, and Portia adores port," says Mr. Browne, +hospitably, smiling blandly at her as he speaks. + +She returns his smile with one of deep reproach. + +"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." + +"Yes--your _poor_ father," says Dicky Browne _sotto voce_, feelingly and +in a tone rich with delicate encouragement. + +"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. + +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 +moonbeams, and bathe her tired hands and forehead in their cool rays. + +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: + +"What is that faint streak of white I see out there, through, and +beyond, the branches?" + +"Our lake," says Dulce, half turning her head in its direction. + +"Our pond," says Roger, calmly. + +"Our _lake_," repeats Dulcinea, firmly; at which Portia, feeling war to +be once more imminent, says hastily-- + +"It looks quite lovely from this--so faint, so silvery." + +"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. + +"I should like to go to it," says Portia, with unusual animation. + +"So you shall, to-morrow." + +"The moon will not be there to-morrow. I want to go now." + +"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. + +"I shall find it very easy to tear myself away to-night," he says, bent +on revenge, and smiling tenderly at Portia. + +"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 _you_ 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. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + "'Tis not mine to forget. Yet can I not + Remember what I would or what were well. + Memory plays tyrant with me, by a wand + I cannot master!" + --G. MELLEN. + + +PAST the roses, past the fragrant mignonette they go, the moon's soft +radiance rendering still more fair the whiteness of their rounded arms. + +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!" + +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. + +The stars are coming out slowly one by one, studding brilliantly the +pale, blue vault of heaven, while from a + + "Thin fleecy cloud, + Like a fair virgin veil'd, the moon looks out + With such serene and sweet benignity + That night unknits his gloomy brows and smiles." + +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. + +Presently, however, she shivers, a passing breeze has cast a chill upon +her. + +"Ah! you are cold," says Dulce, anxiously; "how thoughtless I am; yes, +you are quite pale." + +"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." + +"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." + +"Your command shall be obeyed," says Portia, smiling, and then Dulce, +turning, disappears quickly amongst the shadows, moving as swiftly as +her light young feet can carry her. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +She starts, perceptibly, and, only half-suppressing a faint exclamation +of fear, shrinks backwards. + +"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." + +His voice is reassuring, and Portia, drawing her breath more freely, +feels just a little ashamed of her momentary terror. + +"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. + +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: "It was more than foolish of me; but I +quite forgot, I"--with some uncertainty--"should have remembered." + +"What do you forget? and what should you have remembered?" + +"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." + +"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. + +"Ah! you are Fabian," she says, half-puzzled by his manner. + +"If you will take my word for it." His tone is even more strange as he +says this, and now he _does_ smile, but disagreeably. + +Portia colors faintly. + +"You have not asked me my name?" she says quietly. "I am Portia." + +"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, "_you_ will choose the right +casket." + +"Thank you. That is a very kindly wish." + +"How does it happen that you are here all alone?" + +"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." + +"She is a long time getting it, is she not?" + +"Is she?" says Portia. This speech of his piques her a little. "Does it +seem long?" + +"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." + +"I am sorry you threw away your cigar on my account. I am sure you want +it now." + +"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. + +"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?" + +"It _was_ long. But everything here is so new, so fresh, so sweet, that +I have forgotten to be tired." + +"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. + +"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." + +"People who have never tried it, always do have that desire." + +"You think I shall be _desillusionne_ 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." + +"One feels quite sorry for the old ladies," says Fabian, absently. + +"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 _you_ didn't look upon my +coming with disfavor." + +"What put such a thought as that into your head?" + +"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?" + +"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." + +"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. + +"I hope the country will not disappoint you," he says, after a slight +pause. "It is unwise to begin by expecting too much." + +"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! + +"There is always in the country, the sun, the flowers, and at night, the +moon," she says. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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." + +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 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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +"You here, Fabian?" says Dulce, gladly. "And making friends with Portia? +That's right." + +"Taking a mean advantage of us all I call it," says Dicky Browne. "_We_ +got introduced in the cruel glare of day, with all our imperfections on +our heads. _You_ 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!" + +"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?" + +"Thank you--yes. Your cousin is tired, I think, Dulce. Take her in and +make her rest herself." + +"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." + +"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. + +"She said 'I am a-weary, a-weary; I would I were a-bed,'" 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. + +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? + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + "Oh, how full of briars is this working-day world!" + --"AS YOU LIKE IT." + + +"I WISH you would _try_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +"I _am_ trying," he says, shortly. + +"Well, you needn't tear the book in pieces," says Dulce, severely. + +"I'm not tearing anything," retorts Mr. Dare, indignantly. + +"You look as if you wanted to," says Dulce. + +"I don't want anything except to be let alone," says Mr. Dare. + +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. + +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 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. + +"Have they had such a day this season?" + +"Never! Oh, never!" + +"Have they ever seen so lovely a one?" + +"Never--at least, _hardly_ ever!" + +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. _Never!_ + +Just now he is nodding drowsily over his _Times_, 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. + +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. + +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. + +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, a few +lounging-chairs of modern growth brought in to suit the requirements of +such unaesthetic beings as prefer the comfortable satin-and-down lounge +to the more correct, if more trying oak. + +"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?" + +"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." + +"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 _what_ a +meal! Considering they acknowledge him to be of enormous size and +length!" + +"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." + +Sir Mark Gore, at this dreadful speech, lowers his paper and lifts his +head. Portia looks faintly startled. What can Roger be talking about? + +"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 _roast shoulder_ 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 _shank_?--" + +"The neck is splendid, and, indeed, there is no waste whatever," goes on +Roger, in a wooden tone. + +"No waist whatever! Did you hear that? I always thought poor Sir Garnet +was a lean man," says Dicky, _sotto voce_. "Poor, poor fellow, can +nothing satisfy them but rank and talent?" + +"Not a bit like it," breaks in Dulce, petulantly tapping her foot upon +the floor. She is never petulant with any one but Roger, being indeed, +by nature, the very incarnation of sweetness and light. + +"Give it up," says Roger, rising hope in his tone--hope that, alas, is +never verified. + +"And meet McIlray with such a lame story as that! Certainly not," says +Dulce, warmly. "It must be found out. Do try again." + +"Well, this must be it," says Roger, in despair, "The Marquis of Lorne, +exquisite short neck, smooth skin, very straight, nice white spine." + +At this Sir Mark rises to his feet. + +"Really, my _dear_ Roger!" he says, impulsively--but for the excessive +laziness of his disposition it would have been severely. + +"Ah," says Roger, glad of anything in the shape of a reprieve, even +though it be unpleasant argument. + +"How _can_ 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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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 _couldn't_ 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." + +"The Duke of Connaught," goes on Roger, wearily, hope being stifled in +his breast, "bright green skin, well covered with bloom; small neck +and--" + +"Oh! hang it all, you know," says Dicky Browne, forgetting himself in +the excitement of the moment, "I don't believe his Royal Highness _has_ +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." + +"It's cucumbers," says Miss Blount, with dignity. + +"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 _hadn't_), 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 _dead_ then--there is at least comfort in that +thought." + +"One wouldn't think so, to look at you," said Gore, pleasantly. + +"You can go away, Roger, you really can," says Dulce, irritably. "You +are not the least use to me, and I hate grumblers." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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 _are_ giants in these days." + +"Are there?" says Dulce. "I think there aren't." + +"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_ 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. + +"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." + +"What vile alliteration," says Mr. Browne, unabashed. "Decent, dish, +dinner. You ought to be ashamed of yourself." + +"Well, I'm not," says Dulce. + +"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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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 do they seek the page beneath them, that Fabian +tells himself she must indeed have got to a thrilling part of her tale. + +Her long, dark lashes lie like shadows on her cheeks. Her lips are +closed. The hand that lies beneath the book trembles slightly. + +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. + +Leaning over it, he says, pleasantly: + +"Is that book of James' so very charming as to make you deaf and blind +to us poor mortals?" + +"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. + +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. + +As though compelling himself, he says, with a visible effort: + +"Have you been indoors all this lovely day? Has the sun had no power to +tempt you to come out?" + +"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. + +"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." + +"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. + +"Take your cousin to see the new carp-pond," says Gore, addressing +Fabian, but watching Portia attentively. "You will like to see it, +Portia?" + +"So _very_ much," says Portia. "But if I do go it must be with Dicky." + +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 _might_ 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: + +"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!" + +"I have just been suggesting a quiet stroll," says Sir Mark. + +"The very thing," exclaims Mr. Browne, who is amiability 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." + +This is the unfortunate part of it. It now becomes apparent to every one +that Dicky did _not_ 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. + +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: + +"Take Portia to see the carp-pond; that may interest her." + +"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." + +"Don't trouble Portia," says Fabian, quietly. "_Even she_ could not +persuade me to leave the house to-day, as I have business on hand that +must be done." + +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. + +"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. + +"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." + +"I am sure I don't want you to talk to me if it disagrees with you," +says Roger, with ill-suppressed ire. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 and Gothic chairs, and mediaeval 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. + +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. + +This figure, as it appears in the vague gloaming, is bowed and bent, and +altogether uncanny. + +Portia, shrinking closer to Dulce, lays her hand upon her arm. + +"Ah! what was that?" she says, fearfully. + +"Only Gregory Slyme," returns Dulce, quickly, "you are not frightened at +_him_, poor old thing, are you? Have you not seen him before?" + +"No," says Portia, with a shudder and a backward glance at the shrunken +figure creeping away down the corridor as if ashamed of itself. + +"No?--that is strange; but he has affected his own room a good deal of +late." + +"But who is he?" anxiously. + +"He was Uncle Christopher's secretary for years, and calls himself that +still, but Fabian does all the writing now." + +"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!" + +"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." + +"How so?--what has he done?" asks Portia, unaccountably interested in +this shadow that has crossed her path. + +"I think he is very fond of brandy," says Dulce, reluctantly, and in a +very grieved little tone. "Poor old Gregory!" + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + "Present mirth hath present laughter, + What's to come is still unsure." + --SHAKESPEARE. + + +"JULIA 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." + +"Only the children?" says Roger, the others are all singularly dumb. + +"Yes. The _ayah_ has gone home. Of course she will bring a nurse of some +sort, but not Singa." + +"For even small mercies we should be thankful," says Roger. + +"Who is Julia?" asks Portia, idly. + + "'Who is Julia? What is she + That all our swains commend her? + Holy, fair, and wise is she, + The heavens such grace----'" + +"Oh, that will do," says Dicky Browne, turning impatiently to Roger, who +has just delivered himself of the above stanza. + +"Don't be severe," says Dulce, reprovingly; "extravagant praise is +always false, and as to the swains, that is what she _wants_ them to do, +only they won't." + +"Now, who is severe?" says Roger triumphantly. + +"As yet, you have hardly described her," says Portia. + +"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!" + +"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!" + +"Odious," says Roger, in a careful aside as though determined to think +Miss Blount's speech unfinished. + +"She is like Barbauld's _Spring_," 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?" + +Plainly, nobody does. Everybody looks at everybody else, as though +_they_ should have known him, but nothing comes of it. + +"Well, he was just the funniest old thing," says Sir Mark, laughing, at +some absurd recollection. "Well, he is gone now, and + + 'I know it is a sin + For me to sit and grin + At him here; + But the old three-cornered hat + And the breeches, and all that, + _Were_ so queer.' + +"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." + +"Is she hideous?" ask Portia. + +"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." + +"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." + +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. + +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 + + "What is so rare as a day in June? + Then, if ever, come perfect days; + Then heaven tries the earth, if it be in tune, + And over it softly her warm ear lays." + +"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." + +"Oh! she is married?" says Portia. + +"Dear Portia, didn't I _tell_ you she had children?" says Dulce, +reproachfully. "She married an Indian Nabob with an aristocratic name +and a _lac_ of rupees, as she believed, but there was a flaw somewhere, +and--er--how was it Dicky?" + +"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." + +"Her father, old Charley, left her everything, so she isn't badly off +now," says Sir Mark, "but the Nabob was a sell." + +"I wonder if Portia will like her," says Dulce, meditatively, laying her +elbows on the table and letting her chin sink into her palms. + +"Tell me something about her personally," entreats Portia, turning to +her with some show of interest. + +"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." + +("Not now," says Portia to herself). + +"I don't think there is anything else I can tell you," continues Dulce, +with a little nod. + +"I wonder you have her," says Miss Vibart, disagreeably impressed by +this description. + +"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 _are_ so +sweet." + +"How many of them?" asks Portia, who knows a few things she prefers to +children. + +"Three. Pussy, Jacky, and the Boodie. The Boodie is nothing short of +perfection." + +"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." + +"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. + +"How old is she?" asks Portia--"this little beauty you speak of--this +harmony in blue and gold?" + +"Five, I think. She is not in the least like her mother, who goes in for +aesthetics, with a face like a French doll, and who will love you +forever, if you will only tell a lie, and say you think she resembles +Ellen Terry." + +"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. + +"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; _no_ one could +masticate Julia!" + +"I hope she will be in a good temper when she comes," says Roger. "Last +time she terrified us all into fits." + +"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." + +"And the other thing isn't nice," puts in Dicky, in his pleasantest +tone. + +"Then what shall we do with her just at first?" says Miss Blount, who is +evidently in fear of breakers ahead. + +"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 _will_, you know--and--and there you are. He won't forget it to you +afterwards." + +Sir Mark laughs. Portia unfurls her fan, and smiles faintly behind it. + +"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. + +"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." + +"Come and sit here, Dicky," says Portia, motioning to the footstool near +her. "Your advice is not to be surpassed." + +"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." + +"Dicky says if you drink rum and new milk every morning before +breakfast, you will live forever," says Dulce, thoughtfully. + +"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?" + +"_I_ would," says Dicky, with a sentimental glance at Portia, "if I +might only remain here." + +"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. + +"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." + +"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." + +"I have no friends," says Fabian, suddenly, with a small frown. + +"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." + +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. + +"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, however, turns quickly, and looks at +Roger, a strange gleam in her great, blue eyes. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + "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."--BAILEY. + + +SLOWLY, 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. + +The Boodie (who has not been overdrawn by Dulce and Roger, and who +really _is_ 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. + +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. + +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 mediaeval 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. + +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, 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. + +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? + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _don't_. 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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _always_ so? +She is lost in impossible speculation! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"A narrow escape," says Dicky, in a careful undertone, to Roger, who, +too, has been breathlessly watching the _denouement_. + +"Yes, just like our dismal luck," responds that young man, in an +aggrieved tone. "I'd have bet anything on its catching him by the wig." + +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. + +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. + +"No chance of a breakdown," says Roger, gloomily, fixing, his eye-glass +in his left eye, and surveying with ill concealed disgust the unwieldy +structure before him. + +"You're a brave boy," returns Mr. Browne, with exaggerated admiration. +"Fancy your looking for excitement _here_." + +"It may be nearer than you think," says Roger, _so_ 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. + +Roger forgets his grievance, his _ennui_, 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. + +Dicky Browne is entranced. _Such_ 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. + +"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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +Everyone in the pew gives a decided jump--be the same small or +great--but Pussy alone finds herself equal to the 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. + +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. + +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 cushions 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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _is_ 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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + "None here are happy, but the very fool, + Or very wise: I am not fool enough + To smile in vanities, and hug a shadow; + Nor have I wisdom to elaborate + An artificial happiness from pains."--YOUNG. + + +THEY 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 _so_ disappointed. _Any_ friend +of Roger's"--and so on. + +"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." + +"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." + +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. + +"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 _us_. 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 +soul. I think, perhaps, Portia's father had been "_breezy_" in the way +of temper. + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +Presently, hearing footsteps behind him, he turns, and seeing Portia, +starts perceptibly, and comes to a standstill. + +"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. + +"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." + +"It is late now. If you delay any longer you will miss your luncheon," +says Portia, hurriedly. Her face betrays unmistakable anxiety. + +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. + +"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 '_At home_,' in fact--as all the rest of the week he lies in +bed, and refuses to wash himself." + +"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. + +"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." + +"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. + +"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. + +"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." + +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. + +"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. + +"You remember the last time Dulce went to see _Mrs._ Bowles?" says +Fabian, who has caught Sir Christopher's eye 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. + +"Yes, yes. I remember," he says, hurriedly, "Bowles, as a rule, is not +courteous. My dear child,"--to Portia--"_No_, 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." + +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. + +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. + + "In heat the landscape quivering lies, + The cattle pant beneath the tree:" + +No little kindly breath of air comes to break the monotony of the dead +sultriness that lies on everything. + +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: + +"Here, beneath the trees, where the sun cannot penetrate too severely, +Dulce often takes off her hat. Take off yours." + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _too_ 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. + +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. + +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 the +body can know grief, the "sorrows of the soul are graver still." + +"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?" + +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. + +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. + +"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 _do_ condemn me?" + +He wishes to force her into saying so. She shrinks from him, and raises +one hand to her throat, as though nervous and unhappy. + +"I don't know," she says at last, in a low, hesitating tone. "I know +nothing. Sometimes I don't even know myself." + +"That is always a knowledge difficult of attainment," he says, slowly. +"But about me, in your heart, you are _sure_. 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. + +"I would rather not talk about it," says Portia, faintly. + +By a terrible effort he recovers himself; a quick breath, that is almost +a sigh, escapes him. + +"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. + +Coming to a tiny stream (where he is compelled to offer 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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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: + +"Again!" + +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. + +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. + +"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!" + +His head sinks into its old position on his chest, and with a muttered +curse he continues his way. + +Just as Portia ascends the stone steps that lead to the house, Fabian, +by a gentle touch, detains her. + +"Remember always this," he said slowly and with an attempt at calmness +that is infinitely sad, "that I do not blame you." + +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. + +"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. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + "Young hearts, bright eyes, and rosy lips are there, + And fairy steps, and light and laughing voices, + Ringing like welcome music through the air-- + A sound at which the untroubled heart rejoices." + --HON. MRS. NORTON. + + +PORTIA, dressed in _merveilleux_ 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 _distraite_, 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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _must_ be said, and _soon_. + +"What wretched artichokes!" says Dulce, coming nobly to the front, with +a laudable desire to fill up the yawning gap. + +"Yes--melancholy," says Roger, backing her up, as in duty bound; "out of +all heart, apparently." + +At this weak attempt at a joke Dicky grins approvingly. + +"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. + +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! + +"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. + +"Suet dumpling, Sir Christopher," replies the butler, apologetically. + +"Again!" says Sir Christopher, in an indescribable manner. + +"Surely not _again_," repeats Dulce, with unpleasant animation. "It +_can't_ be that frightful thing _again_, after all I said to cook +yesterday!" + +"I'm afraid it is, 'em," says the butler, very sadly. + +"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?" + +"This is a gooseberry tart, 'em," whispers the butler, respectfully, a +faint shade of encouragement in his voice, laying that delicacy before +her. + +"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." + +Portia laughs. + +"You are like my lord mayor's fool," she says; "you like everything that +is sweet." + +"I do," says Dicky, fondly; "that's why I like you." + +"I think it was very wrong of Miss Gaunt to impose such a woman upon +us," says Dulce, deeply aggrieved. + +"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." + +"She said she was a perfect treasure," exclaims Miss Blount, casting an +indignant glance at him. + +"Send her back her treasure, then, and tell her, as you are not selfish, +you could not think of depriving _her_ of her services." + +"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." + +"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." + +"No such luck," says Sir Mark. + +"Give her anything she wants, Dulce, and send her away," says Sir +Christopher. + +"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. + +"Well, do whatever you like," says Uncle Christopher, wearily. + +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. + +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. + +"Let us all go out," says Julia Beaufort, suddenly, feeling she has +already spent quite too long a time over her biscuit and claret. + +"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." + +"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_ shall court it with +you." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"How foolish of me to be frightened of it--pretty thing," she says, with +a faint blush. "How black it looked." + +"_Every_thing frightens me," says Julia Beaufort pensively, +"_everything_!" + +"Do I?" asks Dicky Browne, in a tone full of abject misery. "Oh! _say_ I +don't." + +"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!" + +"I don't think I ever saw a frog fly," says Dicky Browne, innocently. +"Is it nice to look at? Is it funny?" + +"No! it's only silly--like you!" says Dulce throwing a rosebud at him, +which he catches dexterously. + +"Thank you," he says, meekly, whether for the speech or the flower, he +leaves vague. + +"Stephen Gower is coming over here to-night," says Roger suddenly. + +"To-night? Why didn't you ask him to dinner?" asks Dulce, a note of +surprise in her tone. + +"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." + +"Who is Stephen Gower?" asks Portia, curiously, of no one in particular. +She is leaning back in her chair, and is fanning herself languidly. + +"He is Roger's _Fidus Achates_--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." + +"I thought you knew him, too," says Dulce. "I always believed you and +Roger, and this wonderful Stephen Gower, were all at college together." + +"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." + +"Don't kick me when I'm down," says Dicky, pathetically. "I couldn't +help it--and at least I have _had_ 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." + +"I can't imagine your ever having had hopes of future fame," says Dulce, +laughing. + +"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"-- + +"Oh yes, _we_ know," interrupts Roger, most unfeelingly. + +"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 +_more_ Invincible." + +They all laugh at him. And then he laughs at himself, and seems, indeed, +to enjoy the joke even more than they do. + +"I don't care," he says, at length, valiantly; "no, not a single screw. +I haven't _done_ anything, you know." + +"Oh yes, you have, a lot in your time," murmurs Roger, supportingly. + +"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." + +"Tell us about Stephen Gower," says Dulce, after a pause, "He interests +me, I don't know why. What is he like?" + +"He is + + 'A greenery yallery + Grosvenor gallery + Foot-in-the-grave young man.'" + +quotes Dicky, gaily. + +"An aesthetic! Oh! I _do_ hope not," exclaims Dulce, in a horrified tone. + +"Have they pursued me even down here?" asks Portia, faintly. "I thought, +I _hoped_, they were plants indigenous to London soil alone." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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--_do_ they +smell? _I_ never noticed it. What's it like, Gore?" + +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. + +Roger, crossing over to where she sits, leans his arms on the back of +her chair, and bends his face to hers. + +"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 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?" + +"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." + +"Of course--I know; but I want you to be _particularly_ nice to him," +goes on Roger, though faintly discouraged by her tone. (Now what did he +mean by saying she _wouldn't_ 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." + +"Who are to be married? You and Mr. Gower? It sounded like it," says +Dulce, wilfully. + +"I was thinking of you and myself," he says, a little gravely. + +"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." + +"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." + +"Oh, no doubt," says Miss Blount, disgustedly. "Everyone seems to know +all about this _absurd_ engagement. I can't think how I was ever brought +to consent to it." + +"_Absurd!_" says Mr. Dare, in an impossible tone. + +"Yes, _painfully_ absurd! Quite too ridiculous," with unpleasant force. + +"Oh!" says Mr. Dare. + +"Yes," says Dulce, still defiant, though a little ashamed of herself, +"it is quite enough to make people _hate_ people, all this perpetual +gossip." + +"You are at least honest," he says, bitterly. + +Silence. + +Dulce, whose tempers are always short-lived, after a little reflection +grows very repentant. + +Turning to him, she lays her little hand on his, as it still rests on +the arm of her chair, and says, softly: + +"I have been cross to you. Forgive me. I did not quite mean it. Tell me +again what you want me to do about your friend." + +"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--" + +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. + +But as he turns from her, her fingers tighten upon his, and so she +detains him. + +"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 _mignon_ face sits one of her +very loveliest smiles, conjured up for Roger's special benefit. + +"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 _can_ grant you a +favor." + +"Thank you," says Roger gratefully. Then he regards her meditatively for +a moment, and then says, slowly: + +"Don't be too kind to him." + +"Could I?" says Dulce, naively. + +He laughs a little, and, bending his head, presses his lips to the +little slender hand that still rests within his own. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +"Ah! here you are, Stephen," says Sir Mark, addressing the languid +young man they had met in the morning, who is coming to them across the +grass. "Why didn't you come sooner?" + +"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. + +"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. + +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. + +"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." + +"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. + +"Well, not just now," says Dulce, laughing. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"Where are they," asks Roger. "I never remember seeing blue flowers +there." + +"Oh! _you_ wouldn't notice them," says his _fiancee_, 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 gentian, 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." + +"There was a tiny ledge we might have stood on," says Portia, "but our +courage failed us, and we would not try it." + +"And quite right, too," says Sir Mark. "I detest people who climb +precipices and descend cliffs. It makes my blood run cold." + +"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. + +"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." + +Portia laughs. + +"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." + +"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. + +"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." + +Dulce turns to Mr. Gower. + +"You may smoke if you like," she says, sweetly. "I know you are longing +for a cigarette or something, and _we_ don't mind." + +"Really though?" says Gower. + +"Yes, really. Even our pretty town-lady here," indicating Portia, "likes +the perfume in the open air." + +"Very much indeed," says Portia, graciously, leaning a little toward +Gower, and smiling sweetly. + +"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 _must_ die young." + +As he places the cigar between his lips he leans back again at Dulce's +feet with a sigh suggestive of unutterable bliss. + +"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." + +"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 +_should_ like to know that." + +His manner implies that he would not like to hear the opinion of the +others. + +"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." + +"About _me_!" + +"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,' _too_ much." + +"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?" + +"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." + +"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?" + +"Yes, of course," says Dulce, opening her eyes, and showing 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?" + +This little speech quite dazzles Gower. Not the sauciness of it, but the +undercurrent of kindliness. "_Every_ morning!" Does she really mean that +he may come up to this enchanting spot every morning? + +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. + +"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." + +"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. + +"Where is Fabian?" she asks, suddenly, peering through the dusky gloom. +"Are you there, darling?" + +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. + +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. + +"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?" + +She smiles down upon Mr. Gower, who is still at her feet, and he smiles +up only too willingly at her. + +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. + +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: + +"It is only me," in his usual clear, slow voice. + +Passing by Portia's chair, he drops into her lap a little bunch of dark +blue flowers. + +"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. + +"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?" + +"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. + +"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--" + +"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." + +To Portia it is an easy matter to translate this last remark. He is +giving her plainly to understand that he neither seeks nor desires +thanks from _her_. 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. + +She looks at the flowers again, and with one tapered finger turns them +over and over in her hand. + +"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." + +"What's a catarrh?" asks Dicky Browne, confidentially, of no one in +particular. + +"A cold in your nose," replies Roger, uncompromisingly. + +"I thought it was something to play on," says Mr. Browne unabashed. + +"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." + +"'With thee conversing I forget all time,'" quotes that ardent +personage, with a beautiful smile. "I thought it was only nine." + +Even with this flagrant lie Julia is well pleased. + +"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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +Yet, even with her hand half lifted she hesitates, glances at her own +image again; and finally, turning away, leaves the brooch empty. + +Fabian, entering the drawing-room at this moment with the others, has +had time to notice the action, the hesitation, everything. + +Then comes bed hour. The men prepare to go to the smoking-room--the +women think fondly of their own rooms and their maids. + +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. + +"Have you hurt this?" he asks, lightly touching her right hand as he +speaks. + +"No." She pauses a moment, and then, slowly opening her closed fingers, +shows him the blue flowers lying therein. + +"They are lovely," she says, in a low tone, "and I _did_ wish for them. +But never--_never_--do that again." + +"Do what again?" + +"Endanger your life for me." + +"There was no danger--and you had expressed a wish for them." + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + "Every one is as God made him, and oftentimes a great deal worse!" + --MIGUEL DE CERVANTES. + + +WITH 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. + +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. + +"Just three o'clock," says Dulce, drearily, "and what weather!" + +"It is always bad on your day," says Julia, with a carefully suppressed +yawn. Julia, when yawning, is not pretty. "I remember when I was here +last year, that Thursday, as a rule, was the most melancholy day in the +week." + +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 recherche cap to greet the country, and naught +cometh but the rain. + +"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." + +"It's a pity you can't talk sense," says Dulce, with a small curl of her +upper lip. + +"It's a pity I _can_, 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. + +"It will!" declares Roger, in a tone that perhaps it will be wise not to +go into. + +"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. + +"Nobody," returns Sir Mark, "except the Boers and Miss Gaunt, and _they_ +are utter certainties; they always come; they never fail us; they are +thoroughly safe people in every respect." + +"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." + +"Well I shan't pay it," says Miss Blount, with decision. + +"Well you _ought_. As a rule, the attempts at conversation down here are +calculated to draw tears to the eyes of any intellectual person." + +"But why?" asks Portia, indolently. + +"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 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." + +"I dare say there are worse," says Dulce. + +"You have strong faith," retorts Roger. + +"Well, it would be a nice question to decide," says Sir Mark, amiably, +with a view to restoring order. + +"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. + +"Dicky, I love you," says Dulce, triumphantly. + +"Lucky Dicky," says Roger, with an only half-suppressed sneer, which +brings down upon him a withering glance from his betrothed. + +"How I hate rain," she says, pettishly, tapping the window with two +impatient little fingers. + +"I love it," says Roger, unpleasantly. + +"Love rain!" with an air of utter disbelief. "How can you make such a +ridiculous remark! I never heard of _any_ one who liked rain." + +"Well, you hear of me now. _I_ like it." + +"Oh! nonsense," says Miss Blount, contemptuously. + +"It _isn't_ nonsense!" exclaims he, angrily, "I suppose I am entitled to +my own likes and dislikes. You can hate rain as much as you do _me_ if +you wish it; but at least allow me to--" + +"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 _can_ have a +desire for wet weather." + +"Thank you!" indignantly. "That is simply giving me the lie direct. I +must say you _can_ be uncivil when you choose." + +"Uncivil!" + +"Decidedly uncivil, and even more than that." + +"What do you mean! I insist on knowing what you mean by more." + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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 +_nice_ girl, and one whom they can receive in the spirit of love. + +"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." + +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. + +"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--_now_--what is it +you have just said?" + +"What have I said?" asks Roger, who is plainly frightened. + +"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." + +"What on earth is the matter now with you two children?" asks Sir Mark, +coming for the second time to the rescue. + +"I'm sure _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 _her_." + +"There is some comfort in _that_ thought," says Miss Blount, +vindictively. "One of you in a century is _quite_ sufficient." + +"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." + +"Well, he does nothing but tease me," says Dulce, tearfully. "He makes +my life perfectly wretched to me." + +"How _can_ 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." + +"You hear that?" exclaims Dulce, triumphantly, turning to Sir Mark, who +is trying vainly to edge in one word. + +"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 _can't_ 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!" + +"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 _love_ to trample on you. So make haste"--imperiously, "hurry, +I'm waiting." + +"I shan't," says Dare; "I shan't make myself ridiculous for a girl who +detests me." + +"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." + +"That is not my reason." + +"Then you are afraid of the high-heeled shoes," with a scornful laugh. + +"I am afraid of nothing," hotly. + +"Not even of ridicule?" + +"Well, yes, I _am_ afraid of that. Most fellows are. But I don't wish to +carry on the argument, I have nothing more to say to you." + +"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 +_am_ 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." + +"Tell him so. It will raise him to the seventh heaven of delight, no +doubt," says Roger, in an indescribable tone. + +"I thought it was arranged that we were not to speak to each other +again," says Dulce, with considerable severity. + +Now Portia, being strange to the household, is a little frightened, and +a good deal grieved by this passage at arms. + +"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?" + +"Oh, dear, no!" says Sir Mark, with the fine smile that characterizes +his lean, dark face. "Don't make yourself unhappy; _we_ 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." + +"Ah! you give me hope," says Portia, smiling. + +At this moment Mr. Gower enters the room. + +"Ah! how d'ye do!" says Dulce, nestling up to him, her soft skirts +making a gentle _frou-frou_ as she moves; "_so_ 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. + +"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 known it before. If I am to judge by my own impatience to be +here, I am late, indeed." + +She smiles again at this, and says, softly: + +"You are not wet, I hope? Such a day to come out. It was a little rash, +was it not?" + +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. + +"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. + +"How did you come?" asks she, still charmingly anxious about his +well-being. + +"I rode. A very good mare, too; though it seemed to me she never +traveled so slowly as to-day." + +"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. + +"My _dear_ 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?" + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"I must say I cannot sympathize with your taste," she says, very +petulantly, to Gower; and then, before that young 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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"And the rain has ceased," says Julia. "How nice of it. By-the-by, where +is Fabian?" + +"You know he never sees anyone," says Dulce, a little reproachfully, and +in a very low tone. + +"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. + +Sir Mark, leaning over her chair, says: + +"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. + +"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. + +"How suddenly the rain has ceased," says some one; "it will be a very +charming evening after all." + +"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. + +"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. + +"I hear wheels," says Dicky Browne, suddenly. + +Everybody wakes up at once; and all the women try surreptitiously to get +a glimpse of their hair in the mirrors. + +"Who can it be?" says Dulce, anxiously. + +"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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +"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 _not_ be." + +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. + +"Remember the puddings," says Dicky Browne, in a careful aside, as Dulce +rises to receive her first guest. + +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. + +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. + +Dexterously he leads up the conversation, until culinary matters are +brought into question, when Miss Gaunt says in her slow, crushing +fashion: + +"How do you like that last woman I sent you? Satisfactory, eh?" + +"Cook, do you mean?" asks Dulce, to gain time. + +"Yes--cook," says the old lady, uncompromisingly. "She +was"--severely--"in my opinion, one of the best cooks I ever met." + +"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. + +"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?" + +"Like history; exactly so. Very neat, indeed," says Mr. Browne, +approvingly. + +"Well, in the matter of puddings, she does--rather," says Dulce, +somewhat fearfully. + +"Ah! In point of fact, she doesn't suit you," says Miss Gaunt, fixing +Dulce with a stony glare. + +"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 +_suets_ us tremendously! Doesn't she, Dulce?" + +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. + +"Was Florence unable to come? I hope she is quite well," says Dulce, +with conventional concern. + +"Quite, thank you. But she feared the air." + +"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. + +"Yes. Didn't you hear of it?" says Dicky Browne, confidentially. + +"No," says Julia, also, confidentially. + +"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. + +"Never heard a word of it," says Julia. "Was it in the papers!" + +"N--o. Hardly, I think," says Dicky. + +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. + +"Dear Mr. Boer, _so_ 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." + +Deadly silence follows this outburst. Mr. Boer blushes a dingy red. The +others relapse into an awed calm; all is confusion. + +Portia is the first to recover herself. + +"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 Sevres cups and saucers. + +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. + +"What lovely cups!" she says, therefore, very hurriedly, to Dulce, +pointing to the Sevres 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." + +"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?" + +"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." + +"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 _not_ offended." + +"But still, you have not answered me," says the astute Dulce. "Did you +incite Julia to make that unpleasant speech?" + +"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--" + +"Nonsense," says Dulce. "She made a most disgraceful lot of _her_ +effort, at all events, and I do believe you were the instigator." + +"'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." + +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. + +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-- + +"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. + +"Neither, thank you," says Stephen, gravely. "It was not that brought me +to--" + +"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. + +"No, thank you," says Mr. Gower, decidedly, but gratefully, and with a +very tender smile, meant as a return for hers. + +"Oh, but you must, indeed!" declares she, in a friendly fashion, with a +decisive shake of the head and uplifted brows. + +Now, Mr. Gower, poor soul, hates cake. + +"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." + +"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 _all myself_, 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." + +"Oh! if you really made it _yourself_," 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?" + +"Should I say it, if not sure?" reproachfully; "I even mixed it all up, +_so_," 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." + +"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 dainty hostess. + +"Yes," says Miss Blount, in a somewhat changed tone. "But what do _you_ +know of her?" + +"I think she's a humbug," says Gower, growing more moody every instant. + +"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. + +"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." + +"Really, you liked it? You thought it--" + +"Delicious," with effusion. + +"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--"_this_ piece." + +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. + +"Must I," he says, turning to her with a sudden and almost tearful +change of tone, "must I eat all this?" + +"Yes--all!" says Miss Blount, sternly. + +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. + +When he is gone, Roger gives way to a speech of a somewhat virulent +order. + +"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. + +"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.'" + +"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. + +"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!" + +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. + +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: + +"I say; look at Quail and her new puppies. Who let them out?" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Ha, ha, ha!" says Roger, forgetful of everything but the pretty pups +and their tiny war. + +"Ha, ha, ha!" says Dulce, equally unmindful of the stormy past. "How +sweet they looked, naughty things. And how they _did_ bark and bite. Dr. +Watts should have been here to see them." + +"I wonder will they get that bone back?" says Roger, turning to her, all +animosity forgotten in the pleasurable excitement of the moment. + +"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. + +"We must run if we want to be in time for the finish," says +Roger--"come." + +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. + +"Going out now," says Julia, as they pass the low wicker chair in which +she is lounging, "so late?" + +"Don't be long, Dulce," says Portia, in her plaintive way. "I miss you +when you are out of my sight." + +"I shan't be any time," says Dulce. + +"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." + +"I suppose Gower is not infallible," says Roger, hastily. "I think it +will not rain." + +"I think so too," says Dulce, adorably; "and as for Mr. Gower, I only +know one thing; I shall never give _him_ 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." + +Then they disappear, still hand-in-hand, in search of the refractory +puppies, and Portia, turning to Sir Mark, says softly: + +"What am I to think now? How is it with them? Have they--" + +"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--_and_ the puppies." + +"It is very wonderful," says Portia, still showing some soft surprise. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + "There's something in a flying horse." + --PETER BELL. + + "For of fortunes sharpe adversite, + The worst kind of infortune is this, + A man that hath been in prosperite + And it remember, whan it passed is!" + --CHAUCER. + + +"WHERE are you going, Uncle Christopher?" asks Dulce, as Sir Christopher +enters the small drawing-room, booted and spurred for a long journey. + +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. + +"To Warminster," says Sir Christopher "What shall I bring you girls from +that sleepy little town?" + +"Something sweet," says Dulce, going up to him, and laying her soft arms +lovingly round his neck. + +"Like yourself," says Sir Christopher. + +"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." + +"And what shall I bring the others?" asks Sir Christopher, laughing; +"you have a sweet tooth, you naughty child, perhaps they haven't." + +"_I_ have," says Portia, turning round on her seat. "Bring us as much as +ever you can." + +"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. + +"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. "_Real_ crackers, +mind," she says severely, "that will say c-r-r-rack, and show fire! +those last you brought"--contemptuously--"were a humbug!" + +"Elizabeth!" exclaims her mother in a would-be shocked tone (the Boodie +rejoices in that lengthy name), "what _are_ you saying?" + +"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 +_stamped_ on 'em." + +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. + +"It wasn't my fault, my dear," he says, apologetically; "I quite meant +them to go off. I did, indeed." + +"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. + +Just at this moment Fabian enters the room. + +"Going to drive to Warminster?" he asks his uncle. + +"Yes." + +"Not Bess, I hope?" alluding to a very objectionable young mare in the +stables. + +"Yes," says Sir Christopher again. "Why not?" + +"She is utterly unsafe. About the worst thing in chestnuts 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." + +"Nonsense!" says Sir Christopher, scornfully; "I wouldn't part with her +for any money. She is the greatest beauty this side of the county." + +"Her beauty is her one point; for the rest, she is vindictive and +ill-mannered." + +"Don't do anything foolish, dearest," says Dulce, with her eyes large +and frightened. "Do listen to Fabian." + +"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." + +"'Wilful man must have his way,'" quotes Fabian, with a slight shrug. +"Before I go out, shall I look over those accounts with Slyme?" + +"Where are you going?" + +"To the warren, with the others, to have a few shots at the rabbits; +they overrun the place." + +"Very good. Just ask Slyme about the accounts. By-the-by, he gets more +irregular daily." + +"More drunk, do you mean?" says Fabian. There are moments when his +manner is both cold and uncompromising. + +Portia regards him curiously. + +"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." + +"What story?" asks Portia. + +"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." + +"For the father, perhaps. For the son, he had more than 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. + +"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." + +"He satisfied the one principal creditor, I suppose?" says Fabian, +indifferently. + +"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." + +He nods to Portia and Julia, who smile at him in return, and, kissing +Dulce, quits the room. + +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. + +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. + +"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?" + +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. + +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. + +"Speak," says Fabian, sternly and remorselessly; "you can frame an +answer, I suppose." + +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. + +"You are drunk," says Fabian, with slow scorn--"leave the room." + +Having said this he turns again to his papers, as though from this +moment contemptuously unaware of the other's presence. + +Slyme attempts an explanation: + +"You wrong me, sir," he says, in a thick uncertain voice--"I--I am +ill--; my head is bad at times--I--" + +"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." + +"I assure you, sir," begins Slyme again. But Fabian will not listen: + +"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. + +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. + +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 crosses the threshold, shambles over the hall, and +is lost presently amongst the many passages. + + * * * * * + +Meantime, _ennui_ is reigning triumphantly in the drawing-room, more +conspicuously in the case of Dulce. + +"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." + +"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. + +"I don't know," says Dulce, candidly; "I am only sure of this, that I +want them always." + +Portia says nothing. + +"Well, certainly, at times they are amusing," says Mrs. Beaufort, as +though just awaking to the fact that now and again one _can_ 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." + +"_Even_ Stephen Gower!" repeats Dulce. "Julia, what has that poor young +man done to you, that you should speak thus meanly of him? _Even_, what +an unkind word!" + +"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." + +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. + +"Well, let me see," she says, lazily, "I think, perhaps, like Chaucer's +man, he is a 'veray parfit gentil knight.'" + +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. + +"'And of his port as meke as is a mayde,'" she says, mischievously, +purposely choosing the same poet for her quotation that Dulce had taken +for hers. + +Miss Blount laughs. + +"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?" + +"He is very handsome," says Portia, evasively. + +"He has a charming mouth," says Dulce. + +"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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +And now from beneath the fir trees two figures emerge, and come towards +the stone steps where their hostess is sitting. + +"Are you clean?" asks Dulce, with a charming smile, leaning over the +railings to see them better as they draw closer. + +"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?" + +"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 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?" + +"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. + +"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." + +"But that is worse than anything," says Dulce with a shudder. "However, +come up, and if you keep _very_ far away, I daresay I shan't mind much." + +"Hard conditions," says Gower, in a lower tone. + +So tea is got for them again, and the children, who always seem to +_feel_ when plum-cake is to be had, come trooping noisily up the steps +to join, uninvited, in the festivities. + +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 +ensconced 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. + +"Well, is your Highness satisfied?" says Gower, feeling amused. + +The Boodie takes no notice of this enquiry. She puckers up her smooth +brows as if puzzled, and then says, slowly-- + +"I don't believe one word of it!" + +"Of what?" says Gower. Everybody by this time is looking at the Boodie, +and the Boodie is steadfastly regarding Stephen Gower. + +"It wasn't true what she said," goes on the Boodie, meditatively, +"because you have hair on your lip. _Girls_ don't have hair on their +lips--do they?" + +"Not as a general rule," says Dicky Browne. "There _have_ been noble +exceptions, but unhappily they are rare. Miss Gaunt is perhaps the only +girl down here who can boast 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 + + 'Wears upon her forehead clear + The freedom of a mountaineer.' + +I always--mildly--think Wordsworth must have been acquainted with Miss +Gaunt." + +"Go on," says Stephen to the Boodie, who is still lost in thought. "You +have not yet told me what it is you disbelieve." + +"It was something Portia said," returns the Boodie, composedly. + +"That _I_ said! surely you are mistaken, darling," says Portia. + +"No, I am not," persists the Boodie, in an unmoved tone. + +"Stephen," again turning his face to hers, "are you 'meke'?" + +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? + +"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?" + +"I think it is time all you children ran away to nurse," says Julia, in +answer to an agonized glance from both girls. + +"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." + +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. + +Gower colors, and looks questioningly at Dulce. His expression is not +altogether one of chagrin. The child had 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Towards this the horse is rushing madly. Once on its bank, who shall +tell what next may happen. There will be a mad bound--a crash--a cry, +perhaps, that will pierce through all other sounds--and then--and Sir +Christopher--. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"It is Fabian!" says Portia, in a voice sharp with fear. +"Dulce!--Dulce!" there is positive agony in her tone. + +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. + +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. + +By this time the groom, with Gower and Dicky Browne, have joined them. + +"Get out Sir Christopher," says the groom, in an agitated voice, the +swift run having added to his anxiety. + +"Not a bit of it," says Sir Christopher, indignantly, "I'll take her +back to the stables, or--" + +"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!" + +"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--" + +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. + +Fabian, who is still holding the bridle with both hands, looks at his +uncle, earnestly, almost, it might be said, curiously. + +"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." + +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. + +"You are hurt," says Sir Christopher, anxiously. "How?--where?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"Roger and Sir Mark discharging their guns, I daresay," says Stephen; +"awkward, they should have chosen just that moment to do it." + +"Fate!" says Dicky Browne, solemnly. + +Meantime, Fabian has turned away and gone quickly in the direction of +the house. Dulce, running down the balcony steps, goes up to him with a +very white little face. + +"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." + +"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. + +At this moment, however, Fabian so far wrongs her as to attribute this +inborn quietude to coldness and indifference. He turns again to Dulce. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +Her pallor returns to him, and the fear in her large eyes. Surely he +should have taken note of them first, and not of the calmness and +seeming coldness and her utter composure. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +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: + +"You wronged me just now," she says, in a low voice: "you had an evil +thought about me! But not _now_, I think," regarding him earnestly. "You +have gone over it all again in your own mind, and you understand now you +misjudged me." + +"You are quite right in all you say; I did misjudge you. I have +discovered my error. You will forgive me?" + +"I suppose so." She is looking down now, and is tapping the ground +impatiently with her foot. + +"You ought," says Fabian, quietly. "To misjudge one's neighbor is one of +the commonest failings of mankind." + +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 down, continues her tattoo upon the +oaken flooring of the corridor. + +"You are not very humble," she says at length, "even now, when you have +had to demand my pardon." + +"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. + +"You are hurt," she says, hastily, going nearer to him. "Where?--how?" + +There is deep, unrestrained anxiety in her tone. + +"My arm," confesses Fabian, who is, indeed, suffering greatly, laying +his left hand upon his right arm, high up above the elbow. + +"Is it a sprain or a bruise?" + +"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." + +"Parkins!" says Portia, with fine contempt; "of what use is a man in a +case like this. Why not ask Dulce--" + +"Oh! it is really nothing; and you saw how frightened she was already. I +had pity on her nerves." + +"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." + +"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--" + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"Ah! do not touch it," says Portia, hastily; "the sleeve will only rub +against it and make it worse." + +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 + + "Beyond all women, womanly, + He dreads to think how he should fare + Who came so near as to despair!" + +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. + +And this girl, with her hand on his, and + + "With eyes like open lotus flowers + Bright in the morning rain." + +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? + +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. + +In what a very little space, indeed, lie all our happy moments; even the +most successful of us can count them one by 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. + +"Ce qui nous charme s'en va, et ce qui fait peine reste. La rose vit une +heure, et le cypres cent ans." + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +"Small!" says Fabian. + +"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." + +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 +_is_ studied! + +"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." + +"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. + +"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. + +"I do not mistake you," he says, with slow vehemence; "I am not such a +dullard that I should count your bare charity 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." + +She has grown very pale, and is rather frightened, if her eyes speak +truly. + +"Now that the reaction has set in," he goes on, bitterly, "you believe +you have demeaned yourself in that you have assisted one who----" + +"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. + +"Am I?" exclaims he, passionately. "Say, if you can, that you believe me +innocent of all guilt, and I will believe you!" + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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 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. + +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. + +And what was it he had said to Dulce? "Take example by your cousin; see +how sensible _she_ can be," or something like that. Sensible! When this +terrible pain was tugging at her heart strings, and prolonged +nervousness had made speech impossible. + +And why had he said "_your_ 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-- + +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. + +"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. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + "Friendship is constant in all other things, + Save in the office and affairs of love." + --MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. + + +"I SHOULD 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. + +"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." + +"A dodge!" says Miss Blount, very justly incensed. "What dodge?" + +"Well, look here," says Dicky--"there once was a fellow--" + +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. + +"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" _is_ +the word for it. She is indeed all that. + +"My dear Julia, where have you been!" says Dulce, ignoring the hat. + +"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. + +"Why don't you add your temper," says Dicky Browne, with a mild +smile--which rather spoils the effect of her would-be smartness. + +"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." + +"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." + +"That's your second hint on that subject," says Sir Mark. "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--?" + +"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." + +"And what did his friends do to him then," asks Julia, who is one of +those people who always want _more_ than enough. + +"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." + +"What nonsense you can talk at times," says Mrs. Beaufort, mindful of +his speech of a few moments ago. + +"Not I," says Dicky Browne. + +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. + +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. + +The scent of dying meadow-sweet is on the air, and the hush and the calm +of evening. + +"Dulce, command us to have tea out here," says Sir Mark, removing his +cigarette from his lips for a moment. + +"Dear Dulce, yes; that will be sweet," says Portia, who is very silent +and very pale and very beautiful to-day. + +"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." + +"Thanks; Curacao will do me very nicely," says Dicky, with all the +promptitude that distinguishes him. + +"And Maraschino," suggests Sir Mark, in the mildest tone. + +"And just a suspicion of brandy," puts in Roger, almost affectionately. +Overpowered by their amiability and their suggestions, Dicky turns +towards the house. + +"I fly," he says. "Think of me till my return." + +"Do tell them to hurry, Dicky," says Dulce, anxiously. "They are always +so slow. And tell them to bring lots of cake." + +"You shall have it all in a couple of shakes," says Mr. Browne, +encouragingly, if vulgarly. + +"What's that?" asks Dulce, meaning reproof. "It isn't English, is it? +How soon will it be?" + +"Oh--half a jiff," returns he, totally unabashed. + +Presently tea is brought, and they are all happy, notably Dicky, who +walks round and into the cakes with unceasing fervor. + +"By-the-by, I wonder Stephen hasn't been here to-day," says Julia, +addressing no one in particular. + +"Something better to do, perhaps," says Portia. + +"Yes--where _can_ he be?" says Dulce, waking into sudden animation. +"'Something better to do?' Why, what could that be?" + +"Writing sonnets to your eyebrow," answers Roger in an unpleasant tone. + +"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. _Only_ half! + +"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 _look_ bored. He bears the solitary confinement +very well." + +"There is shooting, isn't there?" suggests Portia. + +"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." + +"How perfectly dreadful!" exclaims Julia, who always takes everything +_au grand serieux_. + +"There is other game in the country besides grouse," says Roger, in a +peculiar tone. + +"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--" + +"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." + +"But it is so old, so picturesque; a perfect dream, _I_ think," says +Dulce, rather affectedly. + +"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." + +"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." + +"And that was?" asks Roger, defiantly. + +"How to get away from it again as soon as possible." + +"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 abominably mild +that it brings Miss Blount to the very verge of open wrath. + +"I think Stephen such a dear fellow," says Julia, at this critical +juncture. "So--er--well read, and that." + +"Yes; though, I think, I have known better," says Sir Mark, looking at +Dulce. + +"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 _may_ be better people, and there may be +worse; but--I like him." + +"Lucky he," says Roger, with a faint but distinct sneer, his temper +forsaking him; "I could almost wish that I were he." + +"I could almost wish it, too," says Dulce, with cruel frankness. + +"Thank you." Roger, by this time, is in a very respectable passion, +though nobody but he and Dulce have heard the last three sentences. +"Perhaps," he says, deliberately, "it will be my most generous course to +resign in favor of--" + +"More tea, Portia?" interrupts Dulce, very quickly, in a tone that +trembles ever so slightly. + +"No, thank you. But, Dulce, I want you near me. Come and sit here." + +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. + +But, Dulce, who is in a very bad mood indeed, will take no notice of +either the entreaty or the grief. + +"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!" + +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. + +"What superfluous surprise," says Roger to Dulce, with even a broader +sneer than his last. "He always _is_ here, isn't he!" + +"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 _fiance_. + +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. + +"How d'ye do?" he says to Roger presently, when that young man comes +within range, bestowing upon him a little nod. Whereon Roger says the +same to him in a tone of the utmost _bonhommie_, which, if hypocritical, +is certainly very well done, after which conversation once more flows +smoothly onwards. + +"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. + +"Wishing myself here," replies Gower, with a readiness that bespeaks +truth. + +"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." + +"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. + +"Now, tell me what you were doing all day?" he says, lightly. + +"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." + +"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. + +"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. + +"But why?" asks he, surprised. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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." + +"No wonder," says Sir Mark, "when you get them made by a fellow out of +the swim altogether. _Where_ does he live? Cheapside or Westbourne +Grove?" + +"No; the Strand," says Mr. Browne, to whom shame is unknown, "if you +mean Jerry." + +"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." + +"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." + +"Who are you talking of in such laudatory terms?" asks Dulce, curiously, +raising her head at this moment. + +"Of Jerry--my tailor," says Dicky, confidentially. + +"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, _not_ the gentleman in the Strand. + +"_Is_ he good?" asks Dicky, somewhat at sea. "A capital fellow to make +trousers, I know, but for his morality I can't vouch." + +"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. "_He_ +didn't make trousers, he only made maxims!" + +"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?" + +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. + +"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. + +"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." + +"A rather useless accomplishment, I should think." + +"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." + +"What on earth would our legs have to do with it," says Miss Blount, +with a gay little laugh, which he echoes. + +"Oh? well, in case we should sprain our right wrists, then. When Mayne +went away I tried if _I_ could make use of my left hand, and succeeded +rather well. Look here, you hold your hand like this." + +"It sounds difficult," says Dulce, doubtfully. + +"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." + +"It will take a good deal of practice and a good deal of guidance, I +shouldn't wonder," says Miss Blount, smiling. + +"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. + +"If you have forgotten how to write, Dulce," he says in a low, strained +voice, "I daresay it will be possible to find a master to re-instruct +you. In the meantime, why trouble Gower?" + +"Does it trouble you, Mr. Gower?" asks she, sweetly, looking straight at +Stephen and ignoring Roger. + +"Need I answer that?" responds he, flushing warmly, and in his turn +ignoring Dare. + +"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." + +"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. + +"Is anything the matter with Roger?" says Gower, slowly. + +"What should be the matter with him?" asks she, coldly. + +"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?" + +"No; and even if I did, what has it to do with Roger?" + +"Nothing--_perhaps_." There is a small fine smile around his lips that +incenses her, she scarcely knows why. + +"Then what does your quotation mean?" + +"Nothing, too, no doubt. Shall we go on with our lesson?" + +"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. + +"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. + +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. + +"Don't do that again," she says, with trembling lips. Her whole +attitude--voice and expression--are undeniably childish, yet she +frightens Gower nearly out of his wits. + +"I beg your pardon," he stammers, eagerly, growing quite white. "I must +_insist_ on your understanding I did not mean it. How could you think +it? I--" + +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. + +"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. + +"Read me something," she says, gently. + +"What shall I select?" asks Stephen, puzzled by the sudden change in her +manner, but anxious to please her. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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." + +She sighs, as though overcome by the perfect picture she has so kindly +drawn for their benefit. + +"I wish to goodness she would move on herself," says Dicky Browne. "It +is enough to make poor Gray turn in his grave." + +"I think she describes rather prettily, and quite as if she meant it," +says Portia, softly. + +"Not a bit of it," growls Dicky; "she _don't_ 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." + +"You underrate yourself, my darling boy," says Roger, fondly. + +"Oh! you get out," says Mr. Brown, most ungratefully. + +"I think to be able to read _really_ 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." + +"So glad she has at last arrived at a just appreciation of her own +powers," says Dicky, _sotto voce_. "I should think she has just half a +mind and no more, to do anything with." + +He is hushed up; and then Stephen goes on again, choosing passages from +Shakespeare this time, for a change, while silence once more reigns. + +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. + +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. + +"'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. + +"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?" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Will you not read us something else?" says Dulce, feeling a little +ashamed of herself. + +"Some other time," returns he. + +"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." + +"Well, I don't know," says Sir Mark, lazily. "We have been taught that +extremes meet, you see." + +"Dicky, how can you stand their impertinence?" asks Dulce, gaily. +"Assert yourself, I entreat you." + +"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 soul;' I do not desire to quote it in this +company. Let us return to the immortal Bill." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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?" + +"Only the children undulating," says Mr. Browne, promptly. + +"What?" says Sir Mark. + +"I have said!" returns Dicky. + +"There is surely something besides children," says Portia, trying to +pierce the gathering darkness. "See, what is that coming towards us +now?" + +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. + +"It is only Jacky on his fact," says Mr. Browne, at length after a +careful examination of this moving form. + +"On what?" asks Roger, curiously. + +"His fact," repeats Dicky, unmoved. + +"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. + +"You ought to know; you gave it to him," declares he. "He's sitting on +it anyhow." + +"Really, Dicky, we must ask you to explain yourself," says Sir Mark, +with dignity. + +"Why, it's only a donkey," says Dulce, "and Jacky is riding him." + +"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." + +"What did it do to you?" asks Julia, who is again in secret fear about +her first born, who every moment draws more near. + +"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 _garden_ wall hurts very much." + +"I wonder where Dicky gets all his stories," says Dulce, admiringly. + +"He evolves them out of his inner consciousness," replies Sir Mark. + +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. + +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. + +"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!" + +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. + +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. + +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 _melee_, +to seize hold of Dulce's hand, and in an abstracted fashion has held it +ever since. + +"That boy deserves a sound whipping," says Sir Mark, indignantly, who +is, nevertheless, a sworn friend of the graceless Jacky. + +"You hear, Julia; you are to whip him at once?" says Roger. + +"Whip him!" says Mrs. Beaufort, resentfully. "Indeed I shall not. I +never whipped one of them in my life, and I never shall." + +"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." + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + + "A vague unrest + And a nameless longing filled her breast." + + +TIME, 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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 up her mind to take some step from +which she shrinks in secret. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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--" + +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 _frou-frou_ as she goes. + +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. + +As she stops at a particular door, his whole face changes, and satisfied +malice takes the place of resentment. + +"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." + +He turns, and shambles onwards towards his own den. + +Portia's steps have grown slower as she gets nearer to the 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. + +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. + +Presently she gets it. "Come in," says Fabian's voice, clear, +indifferent; and slowly turning the handle she enters the room. + +The lamps are alight; a fire is burning in the grate. At the upper table +of this room, that is his study, his very _sanctum sanctorum_, Fabian is +sitting with some papers and books before him. + +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, + +"You!" in accents of the most acute surprise. + +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. + +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 _once_ +were happy? and yet--and yet--of what--what exquisite sweetness is this +evil formed! + +She flushes, first painfully; and then the flush fades, and pallor holds +full sway. + +"I can do something for you?" asks Fabian, not advancing toward her, +not letting even one kindly accent warm his frozen tone, and this when +the silence has grown positively unbearable. + +"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: + +"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." + +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 _Kismet_! 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. + +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. + +"It was kind of you to think of me," says Fabian, coldly; "_too_ kind. +But there are some matters of importance I must get through to-night, +and I fear I shall not have time for fiction." + +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. + +Coming quickly up to her, that he may open the door, he stands between +her and it, and stops her. + +"As you are here," he says, "let me look at you. Remember, I have never +seen you dressed for a ball before." + +As if astonished at his request, she stands quite still, and, letting +her round, bare arms hang loosely before her, with her hands clasped, +she lets him gaze at her sweet fairness in utter silence. It takes him +some time. Then-- + +"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. _Is_ 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. + +"I am always pale," she says, with subdued resentment. + +"Not always. To-night one hardly knows where your _dress_ ends, and +where _you_ 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. + +"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." + +"No, not unbecoming." + +"Well," she says, impatiently, "not becoming, at least." + +"That, of course, is quite a matter of taste," he says, indifferently. + +She laughs unpleasantly. To _make_ 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: + +"Do _you_ think it suits me?" + +He pauses. And then a peculiar smile that, somehow, angers her +excessively, grows round his lips and lingers there. + +"Yes," he answers, slowly; "you are looking admirably--you are looking +all you can possibly desire to-night." + +She is deeply angered. She turns abruptly aside, and, passing him, goes +quickly to the door. + +"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." + +"I am keeping you from your work," says Portia, quietly. "Go back to +it. I know I should not have come here to disturb you, and--" + +"Do not say that," he interrupts her, eagerly. "I deserve it, I know, +but _do not_. 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." + +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. + +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, + + "One not tired with life's long day, but glad + I' the freshness of its morning." + +"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, +_soon_." + +"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 _mignonne_ face, that should, by right, only be glad with +smiles, goes on more gently: "Be happy; I shall do all you ask me." + +"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?" + +"Quite lovely," slowly. + +"And she herself, too," goes on Dulce, enthusiastically, "isn't _she_ +lovely, as well?" + +"Yes," says Fabian, still more slowly. + +"She is like a dream of snow, or purity--or something," says Dulce, +vaguely, but admiringly. + +"Or ice?" says Fabian. + +"Oh, _no_, not _ice_. It is too hard, too unsympathetic, too cold." + +"They are both cold, are they not?" says Portia, with a very faint +smile. "Both ice and snow." + +"Dulce, Dulce!" calls somebody, from without. + +"Now, who _is_ that," says Miss Blount, irritably. "Roger, of _course_. +I really never am allowed one moment to myself 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." + +She runs to him, nevertheless, and Portia moves as if to follow her. + +"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." + +"You forget," she says, with slow reproach, her eyes on the ground. "How +can you hope for anything--even one word--sympathetic from _ice_. Let me +go to Dulce." + +"You _shall_ 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. _You_ 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_ do. I have suffered enough. You must be friends +with me before you go." + +"I came to make friends with you. I wanted to be friends with you, +and--" + +"Yes, I know. I received you ungraciously; I grant it; but was there +nothing for _me_ 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." + +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. + +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. + +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 +_must_ 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!" + +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. + +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? + +"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." + +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. + +She holds out to him, not one, but _two_ hands. His whole face changes; +a gladness, that has in it something of heaven, fills his eyes. + +Taking the little trembling hands softly in his own, he lays them on his +beating heart. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + + "What sudden anger's this? How have I reaped it? + He parted frowning from me, as if ruin leaped from + his eyes."--SHAKESPEARE. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"If they could only have been kept apart for 'this night only,'" says +Sir Mark, in despair, "all might have been well; but the gods ordained +otherwise." + +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. + +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. + +Sir Christopher is looking grave and anxious. Some kind friend has been +making him as uncomfortable about Dulce's future as circumstances will +permit. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +As the above speech will prove, Mr. Browne senior's knowledge of Watts +and Tommy Moore is limited and decidedly mixed. + +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: + +"You are tired, darling. Do not dance any more, unless you wish it." + +"I am not sure, I _don't_ wish it; I don't exactly know what it is I +_do_ 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." + +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. + +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. + +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, _bon gre mal gre_, goes up to them and makes some trivial +remark that neither deserves an answer nor gets one. + +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: + +"Il m'aime--un peu--beaucoup--passionement--pas du tout. Il m'aime--un +peu--" + +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. + +"Yes--just so," she says, with a little hostile glance at Roger, +distinctly seen by Gower--"and such a very little, that it need hardly +count!" + +"What an unsatisfactory lover," says Roger, rather satirically, +returning her glance with interest. "Of whom were you thinking?" + +"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--_you_!" She says this slowly, +and lets her lids fall half over her eyes, that are now gleaming with +undue brilliancy. + +"True!" replies Dare, with maddening concurrence, stroking his mustache +softly. + +"_Isn't_ Roger charming," says Dulce (her own manner deeply aggravating +in its turn), tapping Gower's arm lightly and confidentially with her +fan; "_so_ honest and withal _so_ gracious." + +"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." + +"If not of you, of whom should I be thinking?" retorts she, calmly but +defiantly. + +"Well--Gower, for example," says Roger, with a sneering laugh, and +unpardonable bad taste. "_He_ looks as though he could do a lover's part +at a moment's notice, and without the slightest effort." + +As he makes this objectionable little speech, he turns on his heel and +leaves them. + +Dulce, crimson, and with her breath coming somewhat quickly, still lets +her eyes meet Gower's bravely. + +"I must ask you to excuse my cousin," she says, quietly. "How warm the +rooms are; is there no air anywhere, I wonder?" + +"On the balcony there is," says Gower, gently. "Shall we go there for a +minute or two?" + +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. + +The moon is sailing in all its grandeur overhead. Below, the world is +white with its glory. The music of many rivulets, as they rush +sleepless to the river, sounds sweeter far than even the strains of the +band within. + +It is past midnight. The stars are growing pale. Already the "world's +heart" begins to throb, + + "And a wind blows, + With unknown freshness over lands and seas." + +Something in the silence and majesty of the hour, and something, +perhaps, within her own heart, brings the unbidden tears to Dulce's +eyes. + +"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 _used_ to be a genial sort of fellow." The emphasis is very +expressive. + +"Used he?" says Dulce, in a somewhat expressionless tone. + +"Yes; a right down good sort." + +"Is he so very bad now?" says Dulce, deliberately and dishonestly +ignorant. + +"To you--yes." + +There is a pause. + +"I think I hardly understand you," she says, in a tone that should have +warned him to be silent. + +"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 _anything_? Why should you +trouble yourself about him at all? Why not show that you care as little +for him as he cares for--" + +"Go on," says Dulce, imperiously. + +"As he cares for _you_, then," says Stephen, recklessly. + +"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 daresay it is apparent to the whole world that +I am a matter of perfect indifference to--to--my cousin!" + +"'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--" + +"I remember nothing," interrupts she, haughtily, turning away from him, +deep offence in her eyes. + +But he follows her. + +"Now you are angry with me," he says, miserably, trying to look into her +averted face. + +"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." + +"You speak very hardly," he says. + +"I speak what is in my heart," says Dulce, tremulously. + +"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--" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +"Do you understand me?" he asks, nervously. + +"Yes." + +She feels almost constrained to answer him honestly, so compelling is +the extreme earnestness of his manner. + +"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 _know_ 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?" + +At this she shrinks a little from him, and a distressed look comes into +her beautiful eyes. + +"What are you saying?" she says, in a half-frightened way. "It has been +going on for so long, this engagement--_always_, 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--" + +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! + +This reflection carries its sting; there is madness in it. She closes +her lips firmly, and her breath comes quickly and uncertainly. + +"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 _me_), and save yourself while you can." + +She makes a last faint protest. + +"How do you _know_ 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 +_so_ hard already that we can scarcely do anything more--the worst with +us is over." + +"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--" + +"It is your belief that he does not love me at all?" interrupts she, +tapping her foot impatiently upon the ground. + +"It is my belief," returns he slowly. + +Almost as he speaks, some one steps from the lighted room beyond on the +balcony and approaches them. It is Roger. + +"This is ours, I think," he says, addressing Dulce, and alluding to the +waltz just commencing. + +"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 _he_ dances +charmingly." + +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. + +"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." + +Here, as his own name falls upon his ears, Gower turns and looks at +Roger expectantly. + +"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. + +"Do you?" she says, a peculiar meaning in her tone. + +"From this engagement only," returns he, hastily. + +"Thank you. Of your own free will, then, you resign me, and give me +permission to dance with whom I will." + +The warm blood is flaming in her cheeks. He has thrown her over very +willingly. He is evidently glad to escape the impending waltz. How +shall she be avenged for this indignity? + +"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." + +"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. + +"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. + +"Even if I was, I am at _your_ service now and always," says Gower. + +"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. + +"Go on," says Dulce, coldly, in an ominously calm fashion. "You had more +to say, surely; you do not care to dance them with _me_ you meant to +say. Isn't it?" + +"You can think as you wish, of course." + +"All the world is free to do that. Then I may blot your name from my +card for the rest of the evening?" + +"Certainly." + +"If those dances are free, Miss Blount, may I ask you for them?" says +Stephen, pleasantly. + +"You can have them with pleasure," replies she, smiling kindly at him. + +"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 this careful remembrance of her, this calm and +utterly indifferent concern for her comfort fills her with vehement +anger. + +The blood forsakes her lips, and her eyes grow bright with passionate +tears. + +"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 _brusquerie_ +by this." + +"He wasn't brusque just now," says Dulce. "He was very kind, was he not? +Careful about my catching cold, and that." + +"_Very_," says Gower, significantly. "Yet there are tears in your eyes. +What a baby you are." + +"No, I am not," says Dulce, mournfully. "A baby is an adorable thing, +and I am very far from being that." + +"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. + +"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. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + + "I would that I were low laid in my grave." + --KING JOHN. + + "Proteus, I love thee in my heart of hearts." + --TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. + + +THE 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Here she finds him! + +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. + +Who shall tell what thoughts had been his before kind sleep fell upon +his lids and drove him into soothing slumber + + "The sweetest joy, the wildest woe, is love; + The taint of earth, the odor of the skies + Is in it." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +The light is breaking through the skies; the stars are dying out one by +one. On the crest of the hill, and through the giant firs, soft beams +are coming; and young Apollo, leaping into life, sends out a crimson ray +from the far East. + +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 + + "Kiss of morn, waking the lands." + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +And _yet_ she says nothing, only sits silent there beside him, her other +arm resting on her knees, and her eyes fixed immovably on his. + +Oh! the rapture and the agony of the moment--a rapture that will never +come again, an agony that must be theirs for ever. + +"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. + +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. + +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! + +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 _him_--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? + +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. + +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. + +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. _No!_ + +Her lips quiver. Her heart dies within her. She turns her eyes to the +fast reddening sky, and, with her gaze thus fixed on heaven, registers +an oath. + +"As she may not marry him whom she loves, never will she be wife to +living man!" + +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. + +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. + +"To hear with eyes belongs to Love's rare wit." _He_ 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. + +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? + +Laying his hand upon her shoulders, he looks steadily into her eyes; and +then, after a long pause-- + +"There should be proof," he says, sadly. + +And she says, + +"Yes, there should be proof," in a tone from which all feeling, and +hope, and happiness have fled. + +And yet the world grows brighter. The early morn springs forth and glads +the air. + + "But, nor Orient morn, + Nor fragrant zephyr, nor Arabian climes, + Nor gilded ceilings can relieve the soul + Pining in thraldom." + +A long pause follows her sentence, that to him has savored of death. +Then he speaks: + +"Let me raise your gown," he says, with heart-broken gentleness, "the +dew of morning is on the grass." + +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 _might_ have been, and all that _has_ +been, and all that _is_--a dry sob chokes his voice and, stooping, he +presses his lips passionately to her smooth, cool flesh. + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"I wish there might be death, _soon_," says Portia, and then she looks +upon the awakening land so full of beauty, and growing light, and +promise of all good. + +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. + +"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--" + +She breaks down. + +"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." + +His tone is full of sadness; a sadness without hope. They are standing +hand in hand, and are looking into each other's eyes. + +"It is for the last time," she says, in a broken voice. + +And he says: + +"Yes, for the very last time." + +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. + +"Put your face to mine," she says, _so_ faintly that he can hardly hear +her; and then once more he holds her in his arms, and presses her +against his heart. + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + + "The quarrel is a very pretty quarrel as it stands." + --THE RIVALS. + + +IT 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. + +"I am going to make _jam_" 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. + +"Jam?" says Mr. Browne, growing animated. "What kind of jam?" + +"Plum jam." + +"You don't say so?" says Mr. Browne, with unaffected interest. "Where +are you going to make it?" + +"In the kitchen, of course. Did you think I was going to make it _here_, +you silly boy?" She is giving herself airs now, and is treating Dicky to +some gentle badinage. + +"Are the plums in the kitchen?" asked he, regardless of her new-born +dignity, which is very superior, indeed. + +"I hope so," she says, calmly. + +"Then I'll go and make the jam with you," declares Mr. Browne, genially. + +"Are you really going to make it?" asks Julia, opening her eyes to their +widest. "Really? Who told you how to do it?" + +"Oh, I have known all about it for years," said Dulce, airily. + +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. + +"Does it take _long_ to make jam?" asks Sir Mark, putting in his query +before Stephen Gower, who is also present, can say anything. + +"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, +_she_--experienced as she is in all culinary matters--can manage it in +such a short time as it is not worth talking about. + +Everybody at this is plainly impressed. + +"Cook is _such_ 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?" + +"It is the best jam in the world," says Uncle Christopher, promptly, +and without a blush. "But I hope you won't spoil your pretty white +fingers making it for me." + +"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." + +"I wonder what the nice part of it is?" says Roger, thoughtfully. + +"There is no nice part; it is all work--_hard_ work, from beginning to +end," returns his _fiancee_, severely. + +"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. + +"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 +_me_ go and see you make it; _do_," coaxingly. "I want to get some when +it is _hot_. Mamma's jam is always cold. Darling love of a Dulce, take +me with you and I'll help you to _peel_ them." + +"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. + +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. + +"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?" + +"Jam," says Miss Blount proudly. + +"You give me relief. I breathe again," says Fabian. + +"Come with us," says Dulce, fondly. + +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. + +"Lead, and I follow," he says to Dulce, and once more they all sweep on +towards the lower regions. + +"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, 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." + +"What would she do to us?" asks Dicky, curiously. + +"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." + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +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 _second_ 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. + +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. + +"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 _little_ less with Jane." + +At this Jane looks meekly delighted while the footman turns purple and +slips his weight uneasily from one leg to the other. + +"It isn't all my fault, ma'am," he says at length, in an aggrieved tone. + +"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." + +Here Jane looks crestfallen, and the footman triumphant. + +"I wish you would _both_ try to improve," goes on Dulce, in a tone meant +to be still dignified, but which might almost be termed entreating. +"_Do_ try. You will find it so much pleasanter in the long run." + +Both culprits, though silent, show unmistakable signs of giving in. + +"If you only knew how unhappy these endless dissensions make me, I am +sure you _would_ 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: + +"Then I _will_ try, ma'am," with unlooked-for force. + +"Oh, _thank_ you," says Dulce, with pretty gratitude, under cover of +which the two belligerents make their escape. + +"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." + +"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 _mean_ to go listening to people behind their backs. +It is horrid! And you, too, Portia! So shabby!" + +"Now who is scolding," says Portia; "and after your charming sermon, +too, to Jennings, all about the evil effects of losing one's temper." + +"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. + +"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 to-day. Suppose you make this jam; +and I can make some more some other time." + +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." + +"Come, let us go up-stairs again," says Dulce to her assembled friends, +who have all suddenly grown very grave. + +In silence they follow her, until once more the hall is gained and the +kitchen forgotten. Then Dicky Browne gives way to speech. + +"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 _when_ +I have enjoyed myself so much." + +"We have been disgracefully taken in," says Julia, warmly. + +"And she didn't even offer us a single plum!" says Mr. Browne, +tearfully. + +"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 dance. No one has said anything about it yet." + +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. + +Tea is brought to them presently, and plums for Dicky; and then they are +all, for the most part, happy. + +"Well, I think it was a deadly-lively sort of an evening," says Mr. +Browne, candidly, _apropos_ 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." + +"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, +_some_ times." + +"I don't think I even saw Mrs. George," says Dulce. "Was she here?" + +"You couldn't see her," says Roger; "she spent her entire evening in the +rose-colored ante-room with Gore." + +"What a shameless tarradiddle," says Sir Mark. + +"What did she wear?" asks Julia. + +"I can't remember. I think, however, she was all black and blue." + +"Good gracious!" says Dicky Browne, "has George Mainwaring been at it +again? Poor soul, it _is_ hard on her. I thought the last kicking he had +from her brother would have lasted him longer than a month." + +"Nonsense, Dicky," says Dulce; "I hear they are getting on wonderfully +well together now." + +"I'm glad to hear it," says Dicky, in a tone totally unconvinced. + +"I don't think she is at all respectable," says Mrs. Beaufort, severely; +"she--she--her dress was _very_ odd, I thought--" + +"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. '_Nuda veritas_.' After all, there is nothing like it. 'Honesty +is the best policy,' and all that sort of thing--eh?" + +"Dicky," says Sir Mark, austerely, "go away! We have had quite enough of +you." + +"How did you all like the McPhersons?" Dulce asks, hurriedly. + +"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." + +"Why didn't you get her another partner, if you were tired of her?" + +"I couldn't. I appealed to many friends, but they all deserted 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." + +"Poor girl," says Portia. + +"She isn't poor, she's awfully rich," says Roger. "They are all rich. +They positively look at the world through a golden veil." + +"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. + +"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. + +"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." + +"Well, as bad as she is, I'd make an even bet she will be married before +her sister," says Stephen. + +"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: + + 'Nor am I loth, but pleased at heart, + Sweet (?) Highland girl, from thee to part.'" + +The query represents the expression of Mr. Browne's face as he mentions +the word that goes before it. + +"Well done, Dicky!" says Sir Mark. + +"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?" + +"I'll say it all over again for you, if you like," says Dicky, kindly; +"but for nobody else." + +"Thanks, but later on," says Fabian, smiling. + +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 _loves_, it is Fabian Blount. +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. + +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. + +Making some idle excuse, he brings the reluctant Dicky to his side. + +"Can't you keep away from them?" says Sir Mark, in an angry whisper. + +"Away from whom?" asks Dicky, resentfully. + +"From them," with a gentle motion of the hand in the direction of Portia +and Fabian. + +"What on earth for?" says Dicky Browne, still more resentfully. + +"Don't you see he _likes_ her?" says Sir Mark, meaningly. + +"I suppose he does," says Dicky Browne, obtusely. "I like her too. We +all like her." + +"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 +_alone_ with her." + +"I don't doubt him," says Dicky Browne. "So should I, if I got the +chance." + +Sir Mark shrugs his shoulders; there isn't much to be got out of Dicky. + +"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 _in love_ with her, and _you_ aren't, I suppose?" + +"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 _am_ in love with her." + +"Oh, you be hanged!" says Sir Mark, forcibly, if vulgarly, turning away +from him in high disgust. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +Sir Mark and Dicky Browne are carrying on an argument, that in all human +probability will last their time. + +"I can't bear Mrs. Mildmay," says Dulce, _apropos_ of nothing. Mrs. +Mildmay is the Rector's wife, and a great friend of Roger's. + +"But why?" says Julia, "she is a nice little woman enough, isn't she?" + +"Is she? I don't know. To me she is utterly distasteful; such a voice, +and such--" + +"She is at least gentle and well-mannered," interrupts Roger, +unpleasantly. + +"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. + +"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." + +"I don't believe you can, indeed," says Roger, indignantly. + +"Don't you?" says Dulce. + +"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. + +"_Don't_ eat any more," says Julia, imploringly; "you can't like that +nasty white stuff." + +"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." + +"I did not," says Roger. + +"Yes, he did," declares Dulce, ignoring Roger, and addressing herself +solely to Julia. "He did, indeed, and _denied_ it afterwards, which just +shows what he is capable of." + +"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." + +"Oh! _say_ so," says Miss Blount, ironically. + +"Chocolate creams!" says the small Boodie, emerging from an obscure and +unexpected corner. "What about them? Where are they? Have you any, +mamma?" + +"_You_ ought to know where they are," says Dare, flushing; "you ate +them." + +"When?" asks the Boodie, in a searching tone. + +"Yes, indeed, _when_?" repeats Dulce, unpleasantly. + +"You remember the day Roger gave you some, don't you, darling?" says the +darling's mamma, with the kindly intention of soothing matters. + +"No, I don't," says the uncompromising Boodie, her blue eyes wide, and +her red lips apart. + +"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. + +"Day before yesterday?" murmurs the Boodie, with a glance so far from +the present moment that it might be in Kamtschatka. + +"Yes, exactly, _the day before yesterday_!" says Roger, furiously. + +"How could I remember about that?" says the Boodie, most nonchalantly. + +"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." + +"Shown up! Upon my _life_ 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?" + +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. + +"There is hardly anything you wouldn't do in my opinion," says Dulce, +scornfully. + +A pause. Then: + +"What a temper you have!" exclaims Roger, with the most open contempt. + +"Not so bad as yours, at all events. Your face is as white as death from +badly suppressed rage." + +"It is a pity you can't see your own," says Roger slowly. + +"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." + +"Would you have me tell a deliberate lie?" says Roger, coldly. + +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. + +"I think it is time this most mistaken engagement of ours should come to +an end," she says, quite quietly. + +"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." + +"Your manner is almost a threat," she says. "It will be difficult to +you, no doubt, but _please_ do try to believe it will be a very great +joy to me to part from you 'at once and forever.'" + +"Then nothing more remains to be said; only this: it will be better for +you that Uncle Christopher should be told I was the one to end this +engagement, not--" + +"Why?" impatiently. + +"On account of the will, of course. If you will say I have refused to +marry you, the property will go to you." + +"That you have _refused_ 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." + +"It is utter insanity," says Roger, gravely. "For the sake of a +ridiculous whim, you are voluntarily resigning a great deal of money." + +"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!" + +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. + +"What should I say that for?" asks Roger, rather haughtily. + +"How can I tell? I only know you are longing to say it," returns she, +wilfully. + +"You are too silly to argue with," protests he, turning away with a +shrug. + +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. + +Turning a corner she comes suddenly upon Gower, who is still smoking +cigarettes, and no doubt day-dreaming about her. + +"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. + +"It appears I have not," returns she, bitterly. + +"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. + +"No--no; you can stay with me if you care to," she says, wearily, +ashamed of her petulance. + +"_Care!_" he says, reproachfully; and then, coming nearer to her, "you +are unhappy! Something has happened!" he says, quickly, "what is it?" + +"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." + +"And--" says Stephen. + +"I have broken off my engagement with Roger." + +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. + +"Are you sure?" he says, in a carefully calm tone, "are you _sure_ you +have done wisely?--I mean, will this be for your own _good_?" + +"Yes, yes, of course," with fretful impatience. "It was my own doing, I +wished it." + +"How did it all come about?" asks he, gently. + +"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--" + +"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--" + +"No, never! I am sure of that. This quarrel is for--'_now and +forever!_'" + +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. + +"And you have no regrets?" regarding her keenly. + +"None." + +"And does no faintest spark of love for him rest in your heart? Oh, +Dulce, take care!" + +"Love! I never loved," she says, turning her large eyes full on his. "I +have seen people who loved, and so I know. _They_ 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?" + +She pauses and lays her hand upon her heart. + +"And he?" asks Gower, unwisely. + +She laughs ironically. + +"You have seen him," she says. "Not only that, but you have surely seen +us together often enough to be able to answer your question for +yourself. A very rude question, by-the-by." + +"I beg your pardon," says Gower, heartily ashamed of himself. + +"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 _glad, +thankful_, when I gave him a release; _almost_," steadily, "as glad as I +was to give it!" + +"_Were_ you glad!" asks Gower, eagerly. Going up to her, he takes her +hand and holds it with unconscious force in both his own. + +"Am I to think that you doubt me?" she says with a frown. + +"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." + +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. + +"_You_ 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-- + +"Hate you!" says Gower, with intense feeling. "Whatever joy or sorrow +comes of this hour, I shall always know that I really _lived_ 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." + +"Do not talk to me like that," says Dulce, faintly. + +"Darling, let me speak now, once for all. I am not perhaps just what you +would wish me, but _try_ to like me, will you?" + +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. + +"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, _anything_, but at least yours. I love you! +Say you will marry me some time." + +"Oh, no--_no_--NO!" cries she, softly, but vehemently, covering her eyes +with her hands. + +"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?" + +"No," says Dulce, in a tone so low that he can scarcely hear her. + +"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." + +"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. + +Profiting by this gleam of sunshine, Gower takes possession of her hand +again and draws her gently towards him. + +"You _will_ marry me," he says, "when you think of everything." There is +a meaning in his tone she cannot fail to understand. + +"Would you," she says tremulously, "marry a woman who does not care for +you?" + +"When you are once my wife I will teach you to care for me. Such love as +mine must create a return." + +"You think that now; you feel sure of it. But suppose you failed! No +drawing back. It is too dangerous an experiment." + +"I defy the danger. I will not believe that it exists; and even if it +did--still I should have you." + +"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. + +"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. + +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-- + +"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. + +"Can you think of nothing but him?" he says, bitterly, with a quick +frown. + +"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? _Then_ a possible husband, _now_ a stranger! It is +surely something to let one's mind dwell upon." + +"Well, let us discuss him, then," exclaims he, savagely. "You speak of +his marrying. Perhaps he will bestow his priceless charms on Portia." + +"Oh, no!" hastily; "Portia is quite unsuited to him." + +"Julia, then?" + +"Certainly not _Julia_," disdainfully. + +"Miss Vernon, then? She has position and money and so-called beauty." + +"Maud Vernon! what an absurd idea; he would be wretched with her." + +"Then," with a last remnant of patience, "let us say Lilian Langdale." + +"A fast, horsey, unladylike girl like that! How could you imagine Roger +would even _look_ at her! Nonsense!" + +"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." + +"I did not," indignantly. "It was I, of my own free will, who gave him +up." + +"Prove that to him by accepting _me_." + +"You think he wants proof?" She is facing him now, and her eyes are +flashing in the growing twilight. + +"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 _sorry_ 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--" + +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. + +"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. + +"My beloved, can't you see it?" he says, with deep emotion. + +"Very well, then, I will marry you some day. And--and to-morrow--it must +be _to-morrow_--you will let Roger know I am engaged to you? You quite +understand?" + +He does, though he will not acknowledge it even to himself. + +"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. + +They are so cold and lifeless that they chill him to his very heart. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + + "Too early seen unknown, and known too late!" + --ROMEO AND JULIET. + + "There's neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship in thee." + --HENRY IV. + + +IT is next day. There has been rain in the night--_heavy_ 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. + +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 +"_suspect_" that "crow that flies in Heaven's sweetest air" stalks +rampant up stairs and down, and damps the ardor of everyone. + +Dulce had waked early, had risen from her bed, and--with the curious +feeling full upon her of one who breaks her slumber _knowingly_ 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. + +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. + +She dressed herself with great care. Her prettiest morning gown she +donned, and going into the garden plucked a last Marechal Niel rose and +placed it against her soft cheek, that was tinted as delicate as +itself. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +"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 _never_ came to that. They were meagre to the last degree; +just a little _suspicion_ of lace, and a touch of velvet here and there. +It is absurd--it is a fraud. Did _your_ trimmings ever come to that?" + +"Don't know, I'm sure," says Dulce, impatiently; "I never keep any +accounts of my own money. I make a _point_ 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 _hate_ scolding +myself!" + +"But, my dear child, Madame Grande _must_ have made a mistake. It is all +nonsense; if you would just look it over, if only to convince yourself. +I am not unreasonable." + +"I won't look it over," says Miss Blount, promptly. "I _hate_ looking +over things, and I hate bills, and I hate Madame Grande, and I +hate--everything." + +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 "_you_." + +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. + +"You!" she says, ungraciously. + +"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. + +"Have you done what you promised?" she asks, coldly. + +"No, you mean--?" he hesitates. + +"You _must_ remember. You were to tell Roger next day; _this_ (though it +hardly sounds right) is next day; _have_ you told him that I have +promised to marry you some time?" + +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. + +"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--" + +"No!"--remorselessly--"he shall be told _now--at once_! Remember all you +said about him last evening. _I_ have not forgotten. What!" cries she, +with sudden passion, "do you think I will live another day believing he +imagines me regretful 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." + +"But--" + +"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_ shall not care, and perhaps it will be +better if--" + +Her cruelty stings him into vehement declaration. + +"It will _not_ be better," he says, wrathfully. "I will do anything, +everything, you wish, except"--bitterly--"give you up." + +To him it seems a wretched certainty that it _is_ her wish _already_ to +break the bond formed between them but a few short hours ago. Has she so +soon repented? + +"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. + +How shall he tell this man, who was once his dearest friend, that he has +behaved as a very traitor to him. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"One moment," he says. His tone is haughty, but his eyes are more +searching than unkind. "You meant what 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. + +"Have I given you any reason to doubt it?" she says, coldly. + +"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." + +"It is too late for regrets." She says this so low that he can scarcely +hear her. + +"You are bent, then, upon putting an end to everything between us?" + +"Yes." At this moment it seems impossible to her to answer him in +anything but a monosyllable. Her obstinacy angers him. + +"Perhaps you are equally bent," he says, sneeringly, "upon marrying +Gower?" + +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. + +"Speak," he says roughly. "_Are_ you going to marry him?" + +"Yes." + +The word comes with difficulty from between her pale, dry lips. + +"He has asked you?" + +"He has." + +"You were engaged to him even _before_ you broke off your engagement +with me?" + +"Oh, _no_, NO!" + +"Since when, then? Was it last evening he spoke to you?" + +"Yes." + +"After you had parted from me? Sharp work, upon my life." + +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. + +"You should be glad," she says, slowly. + +"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. + +She makes a movement as though to leave him, but he stops her. + +"No, do not go yet," he says. "Let me congratulate you. _Le roi est +mort, vive le roi._ My successor, it seems, was not difficult to find; +and--By-the-by, why are you alone now? Why is not your _new_ lover by +your side?" + +"My _first_ lover--_not_ my new lover," she says, bitterly, speaking now +with some spirit. + +"I didn't count, I suppose." + +"_You--!_" 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." + +"He is very different, I suppose?" He flushes a dark crimson as he puts +this question. + +"Altogether--_utterly_! At least, I can tell myself, I am to him +something more than a necessary evil, a thing forced upon him by +circumstances. To _you_ I was only that, and _worse_. There were moments +when I believe you _hated_ me." + +"We need not discuss that now," says Dare coldly. "Where is Gower?" + +"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. + +"Why should I quarrel with any man because a woman chooses to prefer him +to me? That is her affair altogether." + +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. + +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. + +"I am going away this evening," he says, at length, very gently. "It is +uncertain when I shall return. Good-by." + +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 +_tete-a-tete_. + +"You were wrong just now," he says, somewhat abruptly, not looking at +her; "there was never one second in my life when I _hated_ you; you need +not have said _that_." + +"Where are you going?" asks she, brokenly. + +"I don't know. It doesn't matter. But before I go, I want to say to +you--that--that--if ever you _want_ me, even if I should be at the end +of the world, _send_ for me, and I will come to you." + +_Are_ 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. + +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. + +This pup is a baby belonging to one of Roger's favorite setters, and is, +therefore, a special pet of his. + +"Put that dog down," he says, insolently. + +"Why?" says Stephen, just as insolently. + +"Because petting is bad for young things, and because _I_ wish it." + +"Oh, nonsense!" says Stephen, rather cavalierly, continuing his +attention to the dog. + +"Look here," says Dare, furiously, "it has nothing to do with the dog, +you will understand--_nothing_--but I want to tell you now what I think +of you, you low, mean, contemptible--" + +Gower literally gasps for breath. Letting go the dog, he rises to his +feet, and coming close to Roger, says, passionately, + +"What do you mean by that?" + +"Have you not been making love to my cousin behind my back? Deny that if +you can!" + +"I won't deny that I love her, certainly." + +"Will you deny anything else? That you have acted as few men would have +done. Without honor--without--" + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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--" + +"At all events, I have told him what I think of him," says Roger, +panting. "Low, underhand sneak." + +"What?" says Stephen, fiercely, making a step forward. + +"I insist on knowing what it is all about," says Sir Mark, +authoritatively. "Of course, one understands a disgraceful scene like +this _always_ means a woman, but _is_ it Dulce?" + +"To come here under the guise of friendship and deliberately make love +to the girl to whom he _knew_ 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?" + +"My dear fellow, you must remember it is apparent to everybody that +_you_ 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 _suppose_, that she prefers some one else 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." + +"Oh? as for _that_, 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 _quite_ 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--" + +"You shall answer to me for this," says Gower, in a white rage; "you +have lied in your statement from beginning to end." + +"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 _really_ 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? + +"No, of course not; you and she and all are quite agreed about _that_," +says Roger, bitterly. + +"My good boy, all your world knows it," says Sir Mark, persistently. + +"My world is wiser than even _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. + +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. + +"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?" + +"Oh, it is worse than that," says Gore, with something that is almost a +groan. + +"It can't be true that she has thrown him over for Mr. Gower?" says +Portia, recoiling. + +"One never knows what a woman will do," says Mark, gloomily, "I think +she has." + +"But what is it all about? How did it begin?" + +"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!" + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + + "The firste vertue, sone, if thou wilt lerne, + Is to restreine, and kepen wel thy tonge." + --THE MANCIPLE'S TALE--CHAUCER. + + +THE 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. + +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; _so_ 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. + +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 restlessly to the young man who left his home +full of anger and indignant grief. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +"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 has fallen upon them, the greater because +of the weakness that had characterised the hour of which I write. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 Keats +longed--not vainly. + +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. + +Naturally such conduct incenses Sir Christopher to the last degree. The +old man has been for years in his service, but 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. + +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." + +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. + +"The fire is the only delicious thing in the house," she says, +fretfully. "_Do_ come here and enjoy it with me." + +"Anything the matter with you?" asks Portia, gently, seating herself on +a low lounging chair at her side. + +"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!" + +"It sounds absurd," says Portia; "but I cannot believe such a paltry +thing as that has separated them. There must have been something else." + +"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." + +Portia turns abruptly toward her. + +"Do you, too, question his innocence?" she says, her breath coming +quickly. + +"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." + +"Go on," says Portia, "you were talking of Fabian, you were saying--" + +"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." + +Portia shivers, and ignores this suggestion. + +"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. + +"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." + +"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. + +"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." + +"How do you know I _do_ 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. + +"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." + +"You mean--" asks Portia. + +"Well, his whole bearing would preclude the thought of 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!" + +She pauses; Portia puzzled, and secretly indignant, says nothing. Seeing +she will not speak, Julia goes on again even more impressively than +before. + +"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." + +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. + +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 women when +in trouble, namely, her own bedroom. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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-- + +No, _not_ Sir Mark! She could not mistake him. However foolish it may +be, certainly his belief in Fabian is genuine. 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. + +Dulce, coming up-stairs, presently, finds her still sitting over the +fire, in an attitude that betokens the very deepest dejection. + +"You here, _tres chere_, 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." + +"I don't want you to make a stranger of me. I like your room as it is," +says Portia, with a smile. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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 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." + +"I am quite well. I am only cold; go on," speaking with some difficulty; +"you were saying something about--Fabian." + +"I _think_ 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." + +"No, I like being here; and--do go on, I like listening to you." + +"Well, I wasn't going to say anything very particular, you know. It has +all been said so often. _So_ 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--_often_--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." + +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. + +"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?" + +This is a downright question to which Portia is constrained to give an +answer. + +"Yes; often," she says, sorely against her will. + +"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?" + +Portia shrinks from her. Must she answer this question, too? + +"Think?" she says, evasively. + +"Yes; what did you think of Fabian?" + +"Very little," says Portia, who has grown quite white; "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." + +"A stranger, yes. But still your cousin--your own blood. I should have +thought much, I think. It was natural, I daresay, but even _then_--you +must recollect--did you believe in him? Did you guess the truth?" + +"I don't think I quite understand," said Portia, faintly. + +Dulce, in a vague fashion, takes note of her confusion. + +"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 _then_, did you believe him innocent?" + +"How can I remember?" says Portia, drawing her breath quickly. + +The distrust grows upon Dulce's tell-tale face. She comes a step nearer +to her cousin. + +"No," she says, slowly--her eyes are fixed attentively upon Portia--"it +is some time ago. But you can at least tell me _this_. Now--_now_--that +you know him--when you have been beneath the same roof with him for some +months, how is it with you? You _feel_ that he is innocent?" + +There is a terrible amount of almost agonized earnestness in her tone. + +"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." + +"In one moment. I want an answer to my question first. Now that you have +seen and known Fabian, do you believe him innocent?" + +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 gleaming eyes of blackest gray are reading her very soul, and +scorching her with their reproachful fire. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"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 +_friends_. And I so trusted you. I so _loved_ you!" + +"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. + +"What a fool I was," she says, in a low concentrated tone. "I watched +all, and I was so _sure_. I thought--the idea will make you laugh, no +doubt--but I thought that you _loved_ 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--" + +She hesitates. It may be emotion, it may be recollection and a thought +that he may not wish further disclosures, check her. + +"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. + +"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--" + +"Dulce--Dulce," cries Portia, throwing out her arms in passionate +protest. "It is not true, I--" + +"I _will_ speak," says Dulce, pressing her back from her, "I _will_ 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!" + +"Listen to me." + +"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 _hundreds_ of cases +where the innocent have suffered for the guilty." + +"I know it," says Portia, feverishly, taking Dulce's hand and trying to +draw her towards her; but the girl recoils. + +"Do not touch me," she says. "There is no longer any friendship between +us." + +"Oh! Dulce, do not say that," entreats Portia, painfully. + +"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 mine also. I will not forgive them. I believe +him a saint, you believe him defiled, and tainted with the crime of +_forgery_." + +She draws her breath quickly; and Portia turns even whiter than before. + +"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; +_he_ 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." + +"Have you no pity?" says Portia, faintly. + +"Have you none? You condemned him willingly." + +"Oh! not willingly!" + +"I don't care, you _have_ condemned him." + +"If you will only think, you will see--" + +"Don't speak to me, I _hate_ 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." + +"There is no need to tell him," says Portia, in so low a tone that Dulce +can scarcely hear her. "He--he knows already!" + +"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!" + +Then, as though some cruel thought strikes her, she suddenly bursts into +tears. + +"Were there not _others_?" 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 _him_? 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!" + +"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. + +"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." + +She moves towards the door. There is a moment's hesitation, and then +Portia intercepts her, and placing her back against the door to bar +egress, she says, in slow, determined tones: + +"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 _nothing_." + +"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." + +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. + +Portia following her, lays her hand upon her arm. She has changed her +tone completely, from command to entreaty. + +"_Do_ not speak to Fabian of this," she says. "Do not let him think we +two have discussed the wretched subject." + +"I shall tell him precisely what has happened," says Dulce, unsoftened. +"That you think him nothing less than a common _felon_." + +"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 _love_ him, to let things rest as they are." + +"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." + +"You will fail," says Portia, hopelessly. "You will only succeed in +hurting him." + +"How sure you are of your power," says Dulce, angrily. "Yet I will not +be disheartened. I will save him if I can." + +"You are quite determined?" + +"Quite." + +"You will go now to meet him, _now_ when your anger is hot, and say to +him what will surely grieve or wound him?" + +"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." + +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. + +"You shall stay there until you promise me to tell nothing of this +hour's conversation to Fabian," she says, with determination. + +"Then I shall probably stay here forever," replies Dulce from within, +with equal determination. + +Portia going over to the fire seats herself by it. Dulce going to the +latticed window inside seats herself by _it_. 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. + +Then Portia, rising, goes to the door of the condemned cell, and speaks +as follows: + +"Dulce." + +There is no answer. + +"Dulce; you are unwise not to answer me." + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"Dulce! _will_ you promise?" she says. And now, to her relief, even +though the words that come are unfavorable, Dulce answers. + +"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." + +"Then I won't let you out," says Portia, feebly, because she knows that +soon dinner will come, and then she _must_ let her out willy-nilly. + +"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." + +"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. + +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 _un_civil) war, and entering it, closes the door, and fastens +it with unmistakable firmness behind her. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + + "We must live our lives, though the sun be set, + Must meet in the masque, where parts we play, + Must cross in the maze of Life's minuet; + Our yea is yea, and our nay is nay: + But while snows of Winter or flowers of May, + Are the sad years' shroud or coronet, + In the season of rose or of violet, + I shall never forget till my dying day!" + --A. LANG. + + +DINNER 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Why may I have this album to-night when I mightn't _last_ night?" asks +the Boodie, shrewdly, her big sapphire eyes bigger than usual. "You +scolded me about it last night, and every 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +She doesn't. + +"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?" + +"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. If he would only amuse himself with +the caricatures of his friends the book contains. + +But he won't. Mr. Browne rises superior to the feeble amusements of the +ordinary drawing-room. + +"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?" + +Here he tries to look sentimental, and succeeds, 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." + +"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 _can_ talk, you know." + +"You can--you can, indeed," says Sir Mark, feelingly. "Dulce, what was +that we were reading yesterday? I remember, now, a quotation from it +_apropos_ of talking, _not apropos_ of our friend Dicky, of course. +'Then he will talk. Good gods, how he will talk!' Wasn't that it?" + +"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. + +"I've rather given it up of late," says Mr. Browne, with a modest air, +and a chuck to his shirt collar. + +"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. + +"Well--er--such a lot of fellows go in for the sickly sentimental; I'm +tired of it," says Dicky, vaguely. + +"You didn't tire of _that_ 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 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!" + +"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." + +"What a fetching description," says Stephen Gower, with a smile. + +"You _will_ 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. + +"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." + +"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. + +"I'm afraid I shan't be able to remember _all_ 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." + +"For small mercies--" says Sir Mark, mildly. + +"Nevertheless I'll try," says Dicky, valiantly, moving toward the piano. + +"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 +_my_ part--hold him tight, some of you, or he will certainly do it +still." + +"Oh! if you don't _want_ 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." + +"Thank you, Dicky," says Sir Mark, sweetly. + +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, and, murmuring to him a little +softly-spoken excuse, glides away from him to the door, opens it, and +disappears. + +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. + +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. + + * * * * * + +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. + +"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." + +He sighs wearily. + +"Who shall blame her?" he says, with deepest melancholy. + +"I blame her," cries Dulce, passionately. "Nay, more, I hate and despise +her. She has seen you, known you. She must, therefore, be +_mad--blind_--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." + +"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_ have +severed you. What have I to do with either she or you? My misfortune is +my own, let it be so. Your tears only aggravate my pain, my dear, +_dear_ little sister." + +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? + +"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--" + +"Spoken of _me_!" + +"Yes, often--often, hundreds of times. She seemed never to tire of you +and your history; I thought she--" + +Dulce hesitates. + +"Go on; you thought she--" + +"Well, then," recklessly, "I thought she was in love with you; I was +_sure_ of it." + +"Dulce," sharply, "you forget yourself. What are you saying? Do you +think your cousin would like you to speak like this?" + +"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, "_your love_." + +"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?" + +"You would defend her!" + +"I would be just. Is she the _only_ 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." + +"Oh, yes, yes, _yes_!" cries she, suddenly. "_He_ had faith in you, _he_ +loved you." Without a word of warning she breaks again into a very +tempest of tears, and sobs bitterly. + +"I would you could have loved him," says Fabian, in a low tone, but she +will not listen. + +"Go on," she says, vehemently, "you were saying something about the +people in this house." + +"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." + +"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--" + +"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." + +"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." + +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. + +"Perhaps I _do_ 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." + +"How do you know that?" + +"I _do_ 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." + +"Oh, Fabian! how can you still love one who--" + +"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 _my_ sake." + +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. + +"Do not ask me that, anything but that;" it is Dulce who is speaking. "I +cannot." + +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 to +seek his, but lets them rest on Dulce, sadly, reproachfully. + +"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?" + +"Yes--forgive." It is Fabian who says this; he lays his hand upon +Dulce's arm, and regards her earnestly. + +"_You_ ask me to forgive--_you_! 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?" + +"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!" + +"You are right," says Fabian, addressing her for the first time, yet +without letting his glance meet hers, "I shall _never forget_!" + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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 corridor outside she stops short, and glances half +resentfully, half with a question on her face, at Portia. + +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. + +"You suffer too--you!" she says, in a whisper full of surprise; "Oh, +Portia! is it that you love him?" + +"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. + +"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. + +"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 love, to know that others distrust +him, and will _forever_ 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, _dear_ Dulce, take me back into +your heart!" + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + + "Time tries the troth in everything." + --THOMAS TUSSER. + + +THE voice comes to her distinctly across the sward, browned by Winter's +frown, and over the evergreens that sway and rustle behind her back. + +"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, _talk_, TALK! 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-- + +"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-- + +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. + +He is flushed and half angry. He is uncertain how to translate the +extreme unconcern with which she hails him. _Did_ 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. + +"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?" + +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. + +Dulce stares at him in a bewildered fashion. Her manner, indeed, +considering all things, is perfect. + +"Why didn't you answer me?" asks Mr. Gower, feeling himself justified in +throwing some indignation into this speech. + +"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 _must_ 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 _anything_." + +This last remark contains more in it than appears to Mr. Gower. + +"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." + +"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. + +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--"_Notes on Tasmanian Cattle!_ It sounds enthralling," he says, +with bitter irony. + +"Yes, doesn't it," says Miss Blount, with such unbounded audacity, and +with such a charming laugh as instantly scatters 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." + +"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. + +"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 _very_ 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?" + +Mr. Gower shakes his head emphatically. No, he does not know the +creepy-creepy feel. + +"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?" + +"Don't I always agree with you?" says Mr. Gower, gloomily. + +"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." + +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. + +"Last night I dreamt of you," says Stephen, at last. + +"And what of me?" asks she, bending slightly down over him, as he lies +at her feet in his favorite position. + +"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. + + "Now what is love, I will thee tell, + It is the fountain and the well + Where pleasure and repentance dwell," + +quotes she, gaily, with a quick, trembling blush. + +"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. + +"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?" + +"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." + +"Naturally," says Miss Blount, calmly. "I'm not even dreaming of being +married yet, why should I? I should hate it." + +"Oh! if you would hate it," says Stephen, stiffly. + +"Yes, hate it," repeats she, undauntedly. "Why, indeed, should we be +married for years? I am quite happy, aren't you?" + +No answer. Then, very severely, "Aren't _you_?" + +"Yes, of course," says Mr. Gower, but in a tone that belies his words. + +"Just so," says Dulce, "then let us continue happy. I am sure all these +past months I have been utterly content." + +"You mean ever since Roger's departure?" asks he, eagerly. + +"Yes; principally, I suppose _because_ 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. + +"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. + +"Why? Who can answer that?" exclaims she, turning 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 _two_ birds +in the hand do not come up to even one sweet, provoking, unattainable +bird in the bush!" + +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. + +Rising slowly to his feet, Gower goes up to her, and, as is his lawful +right, encircles her bonnie round waist with his arm. + +"I don't know about the bird," he says, "but this I _do_ know, that in +my eyes you are worth two of anything in all this wide world." + +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. + +"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 _disliked_ me!" + +"You are always thinking of your cousin," exclaims he, with a quick +frown. "He seems never very far from your thoughts." + +"How can I help that," says Dulce, with an attempt at lightness; "it is +so difficult to rid the mind of a distasteful subject." + +"And," eagerly--"it is a distasteful subject? You are really glad your +engagement with him is at an end?" + +"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!" + +"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." + +"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 +_mistake_. Not only a mistake, but a positive _betise_. It commonizes +everything, and--and--is really death to sentiment in my opinion." + +"Death to it?--an aid to it, I should say," says Mr. Gower, bluntly. + +"Should you? I am sure experience will prove you wrong," says Dulce, +suavely, "and, at all events, I hate being kissed." + +"Do you? Yet twice I saw you let your cousin kiss you," says Stephen, +gloomily. + +"And see what came of it," retorts she, quickly. "He got--that is--we +_both_ got tired of each other. And then we quarrelled--we were always +quarrelling, it seems to me now--and then he--that is, we _both_ 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." + +"Just like him, unmannerly beast!" says Mr. Gower, with deep disgust. + +"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." + +"I rather think so; I'm sure I wonder how you put up with him for so +long," says Gower, contemptuously. + +"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 '_vice versa_,' but cannot remember it at this moment. + +"Never knew when to hold his tongue," says Stephen, who is a rather +silent man; "never met such a beggar to talk." + +"And so headstrong," says Dulce, pettishly. + +"Altogether, I think he is about the greatest ass I ever met in my +life," says Mr. Gower, with touching conviction, and out of the +innocence of his heart. + +"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?" + +"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." + +This is all so fearfully absurd, that at any other time, and under any +other circumstances, it would have moved Dulce to laughter. + +"Isn't the name, Roger, respectable?" asks she, sweetly, as though +desirous of information. + +"Oh, well, it's respectable enough, I suppose; or at least it is hideous +enough for that or anything." + +"Must a thing be hideous to be respectable?" asks she again, turning her +lovely face, crowned with the sunburnt hair, full on his. + +"You don't understand me," he says, with some confusion. "I was only +saying what an ugly name Dare has." + +"Now, _do_ you think so?" wonders Miss Blount, dreamily, "I don't. I +can't endure my cousin, _as you know_, but I really think his name very +pretty, quite the prettiest I know, even," innocently, "prettier than +Stephen!" + +"I'm sorry I can't agree with you," says Stephen, stiffly. + +Miss Blount, with her fingers interlaced, is watching him furtively, a +little petulant expression in her eyes. + +"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. + +"As I told you before, one always thinks most of what is unpleasing to +one." + +"Oh, I daresay!" says Mr. Gower. + +"I don't think I quite understand you. What do you mean by that?" asks +she, with suspicious sweetness. + +"Dulce," says Stephen, miserably, "say you _hate_ Roger." + +"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?" + +"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." + +"What you say is all _too_ true," says Dulce, calmly; then, with most +suspicious gentleness, and a smile that is all "sweetness and light," +"_would_ you mind removing your arm from my waist. It makes me feel +faint. Thanks, _so_ much." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +Mr. Gower grasps his chance. + +"I was saying that though we have been engaged now for some time you +have never once kissed me," he says, hopefully. + +"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?" + +"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 _me_ love _you_ MORE!" + +"Then you could love me more?" with frowning reproach. + +"No, no! I didn't mean that, only--" + +"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." + +"What?" he turns to her, a look of eager expectancy on his face. Is she +going to prove kind at last? + +"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." + +"Do you mean to tell me," indignantly, "you have made up your mind never +to kiss me until we are married?" + +"Until the morning _of_ our marriage," corrects she. + +"You might as well say _never_!" exclaims Gower, very justly incensed. + +"I will, if you like," retorts she, with the utmost _bonhommie_. + +"It is getting too cold for you to stay out any longer," says Stephen, +with great dignity; "come, let us return to the house." + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + + "'Tis impossible to love and be wise." + + +THEY 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. + +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. + +Sir Mark, noting her mood, feels within him a lazy desire to go to her +and break the unusual taciturnity that surrounds her. + +"Why so mute, fair maid?" he asks, dropping into a chair near hers. + +"Am I mute?" she asks in her turn, thereby betraying the fact that she +has been very far from them in her inmost thoughts. + +"Rather," says Sir Mark; "would you think me rude if I asked the subject +of your waking dreams?" + +"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. + +"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 gray 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." + +"You are happy," she says. + +"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?" + +"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. + +"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." + +"I suppose so." Just the same answer, in just the same tone. + +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. + +"You grow apathetic," he says, somewhat sharply. "Soon you will care for +nothing. A bad trick for any girl to learn." + +"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 _not_ +heartless," says Sir Mark to himself, reflectively. "I suppose she is +only acting for my special benefit, and though it is rather a good +performance, it is of no earthly use, as I can see right through her." + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"Never mind that," says Julia; "tell us only--where _have_ you been?" + +"Well, really, I hardly quite know," says Dicky, delightfully vague as +usual. "Round about the place, don't you know." + +"But you must remember where?" + +"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." + +"So we will, Dicky, in a body," says Mark Gore, cheerfully. + +"I like that," says Portia, laughing. "Instead of looking after _you_, +Dicky, I rather think we want some one to look after _us_." + +"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: + + "'Thy elder brother I would be, + Thy _father_, _anything_ to thee!'" + +"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. + +"Down South," says Dicky. "_Not_ in Carolina, exactly, but in Devon. It +_does_ remind one of the ten little nigger 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. + +"Never mind the niggers," he says, "tell us about your father. Where is +he now?" + +"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?" + +"We will," says Julia, directly. Julia is always ready to go anywhere, +children and all, at a moment's notice. + +"Is it a nice place, Dicky?" asks Sir Mark, cautiously. + +"No, it isn't," says Mr. Browne; "not _now_, 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." + +"That's nothing," says Gower. "Anything else against it?" + +"Well, I don't know," replies Dicky, gloomily. "It _smells_, I think." + +"Smells! good gracious, of what?" asks Julia. + +"_Bones!_" says Mr. Browne, mysteriously. "_Dead_ bones!" + +"What sort of bones?" asks Portia, starting into life, and really +growing a little pale, even beneath the crimson glare of the pine logs. + +"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." + +"Thank you. No, I don't think _I'll_ 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." + +"There isn't any more to tell," says Dicky, who is quite content with +his success so far. + +"You haven't yet told us where you were all day," says Portia, lowering +her fan to look at him. + +"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." + +Dulce, in her dark corner, gives no sign that she has heard this +gracious speech. + +"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?'" + +"I shouldn't think one would look for foreign languages from a village +schoolmaster," says Sir Mark, lazily. + +"I _didn't_ 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." + +"What did he say to you, Dicky?" asks Julia, whose curiosity is excited. + +"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 _will_ 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." + +"Peter Greene?" + +"Ye--es. This objectionable young man's name was Peter, though, if the +the schoolmaster is to be believed, he isn't _green_. '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 _au revoir_!' What on earth did he +mean?" says Mr. Browne, turning a face, bright with innocence, upon the +group that surrounds the fire. + +"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 _love_." + +"How sweet it is to study the simplicity, the lack of mercenary thought +in the little child," says Dicky, regarding her with admiration; "now +this dear Boodie of ours would quite as soon have an ugly present as a +pretty one; she thinks only of the affection of the giver of it." + +"I do not," says the Boodie, stoutly, "and I'd _hate_ an ugly present;" +then, with a sudden change of tone, "have you anything for me?" + +"Darling," murmured Julia, with mild reproof. + +"Certainly not," says Mr. Browne, promptly; "I want you to love me for +myself alone!" + +"_Really_ nothing?" persists the Boodie, as if unable to credit her +senses. + +"Really nothing." + +"Then what did you go to London for last week?" demands the irate +Boodie, with rising and totally unsuppressed indignation. + +This question fills Mr. Browne with much secret amusement. + +"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." + +"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." + +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. + +"Oh, _don't_ 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 _will_ 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 +_anything_, if you will only bestow upon me the priceless treasure at +which you have darkly hinted." + +"Well, we'll see," returns the Boodie, in a reserved tone; after which +Mr. Browne once more returns to his seat and his senses. + +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: + +"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!" + +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. + +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. + +Dicky Browne is the first to recover himself. He comes to the rescue +with the most praiseworthy nonchalance. + +"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 _his_ 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." + +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. + +"Nobody would eat Roger," she says. + +"Why not? Like 'the boy, Billie,' he is still 'young and tender.'" + +"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." + +"'He will return, I know him well,'" quotes Mr. Browne. + +This quotation is thrown away upon the Boodie. + +"Yes, he will," she says, in all good faith. "He will be here, I _know_, +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--" + +She hesitates. + +"Because it wouldn't let you. I know what it is, it is chocolate +creams," says Dicky Browne, making this unlucky speech triumphantly. + +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. + +Putting up her hands to her face, she rises precipitately to her feet, +and then, unable to control herself, bursts into tears. + +"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. + +"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 want Roger_." + +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 mantelpiece, she slips out +of Portia's arms and escapes from the room. + +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. + +"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 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?" + +"Yes, we have all noticed that," says Portia, hurriedly, coming nobly to +his assistance. + +Dicky Browne, stooping towards her, whispers, softly: + + "Quoth Hudibras--'It is in vain, + I see, to argue 'gainst the grain!'" + +"I don't understand," says Portia; just because she doesn't want to. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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, + +"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?" + +"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. + +"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." + +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. + +"I give you my word," says 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 _that_ for him," with an emphatic and very eloquent +snap of his fingers. + +"For once in my life, Dicky, I entirely agree with you," says Sir Mark, +gloomily. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + + "Sir, You are very welcome to our house: + It must appear in other ways than words, + Therefore I scant this breathing courtesy." + --SHAKESPEARE. + + +FROM Christmas Day to New Year's Day we all know is but a week--but +_what_ 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. + +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. + +Nobody quite understands how it now is with Dulce and Stephen. That they +have patched up their late quarrel is apparent to everybody, and as far +as an ordinary eye can see, they are on as good terms with each other as +usual. + +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. + +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 "_it_" 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? + +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. + +"What is it?" asks Sir Mark, looking up quickly. + +"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. + +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 languor, 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. + +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. + +Moving her gown to one side, Portia (impelled to this action by some +impulsive force) says, in a low tone: + +"Come and sit here, Fabian," motioning gently to the seat beside her. + +But, thanking her with great courtesy, he declines her invitation, and, +with an unchanged face, goes on with his conversation with Sir Mark. + +Portia, flushing hotly in the kindly dark, shrinks back within herself, +and linking her fingers tightly together, tries bravely to crush the +mingled feelings of shame and regret that rise within her breast. + +"I can stand almost anything myself, I confess, but insolence," Sir Mark +is saying, _a propos_ 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." + +"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." + +"Don't regret that," says Dicky Browne, sympathetically. "_You_ are +repining because he declines to notice your benefits; but think of what +Wordsworth says-- + + 'I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds, + With coldness still returning; + Alas! the _gratitude_ of men + Has oftener left me mourning.' + +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 _that_ isn't pleasant, is it?" + +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. + +"I have done with Slyme," goes on Sir Christopher, hotly. "Yes, +_forever_. 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 _not_ 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, +_do_ you like him? Come now, I defy you to say it." + +Fabian laughs slightly. + +"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--" + +"Oh, never mind that," says Fabian, poking the fire somewhat vigorously. + +"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?" + +"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!" + +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--_now_-- + +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 _truth_ +about him? Was it through _fear_ 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. + +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. + +"Come here, Boodie," says Dicky Browne, insinuatingly. "You used to say +you loved me." + +"So I do," says the Boodie, in fond remembrance of the biggest doll in +Christendom. "But--" + +She hesitates. + +"'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." + +"He will come yet," says the Boodie, undauntedly. + +"'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." + +"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." + +"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; _you_ 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.'" + +"Thank you," says Fabian. + +The Boodie is plainly puzzled. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"It is _Roger_!" 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +The Boodie is in a state of triumph bordering on distraction. "_She_ +had always said he (Roger) would return on New Year's Day; _she_ had +believed in his promise; _she_ 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. + +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. + +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 _other_ "lovely +things" in his portmanteau, suitable to the requirements of Pussy and +her brother, whereon peace is once more restored. + +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. + +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 warm within his +hands, mechanically opens it, even while carrying on his smiling +_tete-a-tete_ with Dulce, but soon the smiles vanish! There, on his open +palm, lies a very serpent, a noisome reptile, a box of chocolate creams! + +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. + +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. + +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. One might easily believe he has +forgotten the manner of their parting, and is now regarding her as his +own particular possession. + +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. + +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 _tete-a-tete_, +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. + +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 good to her, and it becomes +necessary to her to impart her joyousness to all around. _Every one_ +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. + +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 _now_ there is no reason why +he should not remain victor, and keep the prize he had been at such +pains to win. + +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 _him_ (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. + +Not once this evening until the friendly bedroom candlesticks are +produced will he quit her side--never until-- + +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. + +"Stephen, _may_ I ask you to do something for me?" she says, in her +sweetest tones and with her most engaging smile. + +"You may," says Mr. Gower, as in duty bound, and in an awful tone. + +"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. + +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. + +"Poor dear fellow, already he is feeling injured and out of spirits," +says Julia to herself, regarding him with furtive compassion. + +"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. + +So do we misunderstand the feelings and motives of our best friends in +this world. + +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. + +Wild thoughts arise within his breast; something it seems to him must be +done, and that _soon_. 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-- + +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. + +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. + +He takes her in to dinner, certainly, later on, but finds, on seating +himself, that Roger, by some unaccountable chance, 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. + +"You were in Egypt, too? Tell me all about it. I have always so _longed_ +to hear about Egypt," says Dulce, with soft animation. + +"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?" + +"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. + +"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--_No_," with a sudden, almost startling change of tone, "I was _not_ +happy there, or anywhere else, since last I saw you!" + +"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 _could_ 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." + +"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. + +"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?" + +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. + +"They are about the most ill-looking ruffians it has ever been my fate +to see," says Mr. Dare, indifferently. + +"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. + +"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." + +"Perhaps it would be as well if one didn't expect anything," says Dulce. + +"_Better_, no doubt." + +"You take a very discontented view of things; your traveling has made +you cynical, I think." + +"Not my _traveling_?" + +This is almost a challenge, and she accepts it. + +"What then?" she asks, a little coldly. + +"Shall I tell you?" retorts he, with an unpleasant smile. "Well, no; I +will spare you; it would certainly not interest _you_. Let us return to +our subject; you are wondering why I am not in raptures about Egypt; I +am wondering why I should be." + +"No; I was finding fault with you because you gave me the impression +that all places on earth are alike indifferent to you." + +"Perhaps that is true. I don't defend myself. But I know there was a +time when certain scenes were dear to me." + +"There _was_?" + +"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!'" + +"'Ock, 'm?" asks the sedate butler at this emotional moment, in his most +prosaic tones. + +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, who happens to be +miles away in thought from them, and does not hear one word of what is +being said. + +"Portia," says Dicky, presently. + +No answer; Portia's soul is still winging its flight to unseen regions. + +"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. + +"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." + +"You were asking me--?" begins Portia vaguely, with a little soft laugh. + +"'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. + +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. + +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. + +She tells herself that she is glad of this; _very_ 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 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"There now, I have made an island for you," he says. + +Julia overhears him, and thinking this a capital opportunity to show off +the Boodie's learning, says, proudly: + +"Now, darling, tell Dicky what an island really is." + +Dicky feels honestly obliged to her for following up his lead, and so +breaking the awkward silence that has descended upon him and Portia. + +"A tract of land entirely surrounded by water," says the Boodie, +promptly, betraying a faint desire to put her hands behind her back. + +"Not at all," says Mr. Browne, scornfully; "it is a bit of red jelly +entirely surrounded by cream!" + +"It is _not_," 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 _that_?" + +"Why not? I don't see how anyone could possibly desire anything better +to live upon." + +"Just fancy Robinson Crusoe on it," says the Boodie, with a derisive +smile. + +"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_ should like to live on just such an +island for an indefinite number of years." + +"You are extremely silly," says Miss Beaufort, politely; "you know as +well as I do that it wouldn't keep you up." + +"Well, not, perhaps, so strongly as a few other things," acknowledges +Mr. Browne, gracefully; "but I think it _would_ support me for all +that,--for a _time_, at least." + +"Not for one minute. Why, you couldn't stand on it." + +"A prolonged acquaintance with it _alone_ might make me totter, I +confess," says Mr. Browne. "But yet, if I had enough of it, I think I +_could_ stand on it very well." + +"You could _not_," 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." + +"I really beg your pardon," protests Mr. Browne, with dignity. "It is my +belief that I _could_ manage it in time. I'm very fond of jelly." + +"You would go right through it and come out at the other side," persists +the Boodie, nothing daunted. + +"Like the Thames Tunnel. How nice!" says Dicky Browne, amiably. + +"Well, you can't live on it _now_, anyway," says the Boodie, putting the +last bit of the jelly island into her small mouth. + +"No, no, indeed," says Dicky, shaking his head with all the appearance +of one sunk in the very deepest dejection. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + + "I do perceive here a divided duty."--_Othello._ + + +JEALOUSY 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, is holding him in a close +embrace and is swiftly crushing within him all hope and peace and joy. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _distraite_ 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. + +If not his--she shall at least never be Roger's. This he swears to +himself, with white lips and eyes dangerously bright. + +He has her promise, and he will keep her to it. Nothing 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 _only_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _beginning_ to love him, that she _might_ 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. + + "Bring withered Autumn leaves, + Call everything that grieves, + And build a funeral pyre above his head! + Heap there all golden promise that deceives, + Beauty that wins the heart, and then bereaves, + For love is dead. + + "Not slowly did he die. + A meteor from the sky + Falls not so swiftly as his spirit fled-- + When, with regretful, half-averted eye, + He gave one little smile, one little sigh, + And so was sped." + +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 erroneous 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. + +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. + +Some of the _jeunesse doree_ 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. + +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. + +"Why don't you skate, Mark?" asks Portia, turning to him. + +"Too old," says Gore. + +"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." + +"I like waltzing." + +"Ah! and not skating." + +"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?" + +"Inferior drink, if you take enough of it, will do all that sometimes," +says Mr. Browne, innocently. + +"Will it? I don't know anything about it" (severely). "You do, I +shouldn't wonder; you speak so feelingly." + +"If you address me like that again, I shall cry," says Dicky, sadly. + +"Why are not you and Portia skating? It is far too cold to sit still on +this damp grass." + +"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." + +"So do I," says Sir Mark. "It quite warms my heart to see them flitting +to and fro over there like a pretty dream." + +"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. + +Nobody takes any notice of this outrageous speech. It is passed over +very properly in the deadliest silence. + +"By Jove!" says Sir Mark, presently, "there's Macpherson down again. +That's the eighteenth time; I've counted it." + +"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." + +"A well-floured one," responded Sir Mark. + +Portia laughs. Her laugh is always the lowest, softest thing imaginable. + +"Charitable pair," she says. + +"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 _did_. That is to say, he instantly comes a most +tremendous cropper right in front of Portia. + +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. + +"You were right, Dicky," says Sir Mark, when he can speak, "_Any_ fool +could do it. _You_ did it." + +"I did," says Dicky, roaring with laughter; "with a vengeance. Never +mind-- + + 'Only the actions of the just + Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.'" + +"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." + +"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--" + +"Oh, never mind it," says Sir Mark. + +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. + +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. + + "Your eyes are stars of morning, + Your lips are crimson flowers," + +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. + +"What a pretty song that is!" says Miss Blount, carelessly. "I like it +better almost every time I hear it." + +"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. + +"Where is Gower?" asks Roger, at length, somewhat abruptly. + +"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 _is_ 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. + +"He hasn't been at the Court since yesterday--has he?" he asks, somewhat +impatiently. + +"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?" + +"Certainly not. _I_ don't want him," said Roger, with exceeding emphasis +upon the pronoun. + +"Then I don't know anybody else who does," finishes Dulce, biting her +lips. + +"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. + +"YOU do!" he says. To be just to him, he is, and always, I think, will +be, a terribly outspoken young man. + +"_I_ do?" + +"Yes; you looked decidedly cut up just now when I spoke of his not being +here since yesterday." + +"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!) + +"Even more piqued than I supposed," concludes Roger, inwardly. + +"However, I have no doubt we shall see him this evening," goes on Dulce, +calmly. + +"_That_ will be a comfort to you, at all events," murmurs he, gloomily. + +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 of the breakers upon +the rock-bound coast comes up from afar: while up there upon the wooded +hill the + + "Wind, that grand old harper, smites + His thunder-harp of pines." + +"Perhaps we had better return to the others," says Dulce, coldly, making +a movement as though to rise. + +"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." + +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 _hauteur_ of a moment +since vanishes like snow, and compassion takes its place. + +"What is making you wretched?" she asks, in a tone meant to be severe, +but which is only friendly. + +"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. + +"Oh, no; not that," says Dulce, very kindly; "don't call yourself that." + +"There is no other name for me," persists Roger, with increasing +melancholy. "Of course, at _that time_--I knew you didn't particularly +care for me, but," disconsolately, "it never occurred to me you might +care for any other fellow!" + +"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. + +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. + +"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--_rather_ believe she didn't. His voice is growing absolutely +tragic, and, altogether, he is as deplorably unhappy as any young woman +could desire. + +"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!" + +"I wish I had, with all my soul," says Roger, fervently. "However," with +a heavy sigh, "you are engaged to _him_ now, you know, so I suppose +there is no use in talking about it." + +"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 +_misfortune_!" + +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. + +"Your misfortune!" repeats Roger, in a strange tone. "Are you not happy, +then?" + +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. + +"Do you mean to tell me he is not good to you?" asks Roger, seeing she +either cannot or will not speak. + +"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." + +"You have made a second mistake, then?" + +"Not a _second_," in a very low tone. + +"Then let us say, you have again changed your mind?" + +"No." + +"You liked him once?" impatiently. + +"No." + +"You might as well say you _did_ like me," says Roger, with angry +warmth; "and I know I was actually abhorrent in your sight." + +"Oh, no, _no_," says Dulce for the third time, in a tone so low now that +he can hardly hear it; yet he does. + +"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?" + +To this Miss Blount declines to make any reply. + +"I won't leave this spot to-day until you answer me," says Roger, fell +determination on his brow; "Which--is--it?" + +"I'm sure, at least, that I never liked Stephen in _that_ way," +confesses she, faintly. + +"And you did like me?" + +Silence again. + +"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 _you_ feel unhappy? I hope to goodness you +_did_," says Roger, indignantly; "if you endured even one quarter of +what I have suffered, it would be punishment sufficient for you." + +"Had you nothing to do with it?" asks she, nervously. + +"No; it was entirely your own fault," replies he, hastily. Whereupon she +very properly bursts into tears. + +"Every woman," says some one, "is in the wrong till she cries; then, +instantly, she is in the right." + +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. + +"Don't do that," he entreats, earnestly. "Don't Dulce. I have behaved +abominably to you. It was _not_ your fault; it was all mine. But for my +detestable temper--" + +"And the chocolate creams," puts in Dulce, sobbing. + +"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." + +"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 _her_ fault, indeed, when he knows. + +"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." + +This rouses her; she wipes her eyes hastily and looks up. + +"How shall I explain to them?" she asks, anxiously. + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +"I suppose so," dismally; tears are still wetting the sweet eyes she +turns up to his. + +"Dulce! let me understand you," says Roger, gravely. "You are quite sure +you don't care for him?" + +"Quite," says Dulce, without a second's hesitation. + +"Then ask him to give you up--to release you from your promise," says +Roger, brightly. + +"I--I'd be afraid," replies Miss Blount, drooping her head. + +"Nonsense!" says Roger (of course it is not _he_ 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." + +"It doesn't sound simple to me," says Dulce, dolefully. + +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. + +"He can't possibly want to marry you if you don't want to marry him," +says Roger, logically, "and you _don't_?" a little doubtfully still. + +"I don't, indeed," says Dulce, with a sad sigh and a shake of her auburn +head. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +"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. + +"I expect he has eaten something that has disagreed with him," says +Dicky, cheerfully. + +"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." + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + + "Never morning wore + To evening, but some heart did break." + --_In Memoriam._ + + +"DID _he_--I mean did _you_--ever--; Dulce, will you be very angry with +me if I ask you a question?" + +"No. But I hope it won't be a disagreeable one," says Dulce, glancing at +him cautiously. + +"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?" + +"Ye-es. _Quite_ like brother and sister," says Dulce, but somehow this +thought seems to give her no pleasure. + +"Only we are _not_, you know," puts in Roger, rather hastily. + +"No, of course we are _not_," replies she, with equal haste. + +"Well, then, look here--" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Just now she raises her eyes and fixes them inquiringly on Roger. + +"Go on," she says, quietly. "You were surely going to ask me something. +Are you afraid of me?" + +"A little, I confess." + +"You need not." She is still looking at him very earnestly. + +"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?" + +"Never--_never_!" answers Dulce, growing quite pale. + +"I have no right to ask it, I know that," says Roger. "But," +desperately, "did he ever kiss _you_?" + +"Never, indeed." + +"Honor bright?" + +"Honor bright." + +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. + +"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. + +"I don't think I said quite _that_," returns she, coloring faintly. + +"Then"--eagerly--"it was _you_ prevented him!" + +"I don't care much about that sort of thing," says Dulce, with a little +shrug. + +"Don't you? Then I don't believe you care a button about _him_," replies +he, with glad conviction. + +"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." + +"Oh, wouldn't it, though!" says Mr. Dare--"that's all you know about it! +You just try it, that's all." + +"Indeed I shall do nothing of the kind," says Dulce, with much +indignation, and some natural disappointment--that _he_ should recommend +such a course to her! + +"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 _now_," 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. + +"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." + +"_You_ were engaged to me for three whole _years_," 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 _at all_." + +This is a home-thrust. + +"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." + +"Oh, you must not talk to me like this!" entreats she, the tears coming +into her eyes and trembling on her long lashes. + +"I suppose not. But this new-found knowledge is hard to suppress; why +_did_ I not discover it all sooner?" + +"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?" + +"I can feel only sorrow," says Roger, very sadly. "And I have no power." + +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. + +"Dulce!" + +"Well?" She has not looked at him even once during the last five +minutes. + +"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." + +"I don't know what to say to him." + +"Then get some one else to say it. Fabian, or Uncle Christopher." + +"Oh, _no_!" says Dulce, with a true sense of delicacy. "If it is to be +done at all I shall do it myself." + +"Then do it. Promise me if you get the opportunity you will say +something to him about it." + +"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. + +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. + +"It is the oddest thing I ever knew," Julia is saying, as the cousins +come up to the rustic-seat. + +"What is it?" asks Roger, idly. + +"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. + +"He has had since this time yesterday to do it," says Sir Mark. "I +wonder if it takes long to cut one's throat." + +"It entirely depends on whether you have sharpened your razor +sufficiently, and if you know _how_ 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." + +"He was at the lake yesterday," says Portia. "He came up to us from the +southern end of it." + +At this both Dulce and Roger start, and the former changes color +visibly. + +"I really wonder _where_ he can be," says Julia. + +"So do I," murmurs Dulce, faintly, but distinctly, feeling she is in +duty bound to say something. "Stephen never used to miss a day." + +"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." + +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. + +"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. + +"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." + +"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. + +"It was very good of you to remember my existence. Then you were only +wondering at my absence. You did not want me?" + +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. + +"I see. Never mind," says Stephen. "Well, even if you don't want me, I +do want _you_--you will come with me as far as the Beeches?" + +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. + +"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--_you_." 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. + +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. + +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. + +"Do--_do_ you think he has gone mad?" asked Julia, with clasped hands +and tearful eyes. + +"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." + +"I'll go," says Roger, angrily. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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. + +"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 _forte_. Really, one never knows of what these aesthetic-looking +people are capable. He looked murderous." + +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. + +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. + +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 +_knows_ 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. + +"So you wish our engagement at an end?" says Stephen, quite calmly, in a +tone that might almost be termed mechanical. + +He waits remorselessly for an answer. + +"I--you--I didn't tell you so," stammers Dulce. + +"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?" + +For the second time this afternoon speech deserts Dulce. She grows very +white, but answer she has none. + +"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 _told_ they entertain a passion for a man, no matter how +devotedly they adore him. + +Mr. Gower, taking no notice of her silent protest, goes on slowly. + +"What your weakness and foolish pride have cost _me_," he says, "goes +for nothing." + +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. + +"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. + +"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." + +His tone, which is extremely masterful, rouses Dulce to anger. + +"There is one thing I _will_ say," she exclaims, lifting her eyes fairly +to his. "But for _you_ and your false sympathy, and your carefully +chosen and most insidious words that fanned the flame of my unjust +wrath against him, Roger and I would never have been separated." + +"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 _can_. 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." + +"What point? I do not understand you," says Dulce, coldly. + +"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." + +"Oh! You were eavesdropping," says Dulce, indignantly. + +Stephen smiles contemptuously. + +"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 +_freedom_"--with a sudden bitterness, as suddenly suppressed--"on _one_ +condition." + +"And that?" breathlessly. + +"Is, that you will never marry Roger without my consent." + +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 _not_ 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 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. + +"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?" + +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: + +"Yes." + +Even if he _should_ 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 _won't_ keep her to this absurd arrangement +after a while. + +"You swear it?" + +"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. + +"It is an oath," he says again, as if to give her a last chance to +escape. + +"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! + +"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 _keep you to it_! 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?" + +"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. + +"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." + +"You are going abroad?" asks she, very timidly, in her heart devoutly +hoping that this may be the reading of his last words. + +"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, _go_," turning +abruptly away from her; "your being where I can see you only makes +matters worse." + +Some impulse prompts Dulce to go up to him and lay her hand gently on +his arm. + +"Stephen," she says, in a low tone, "if I have caused you any +unhappiness forgive me now." + +"Forgive you?" exclaims he, so fiercely that she recoils from him in +absolute terror. + +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. + +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. + +But if she doesn't return to gratify the curiosity of the puzzled group +on the rustic-seat, somebody else does. + +Jacky, panting, dishevelled, out of breath with quick running rushes up +to them, and precipitates himself upon his mother. + +"It's all right," he cries, triumphantly. "He didn't do a bit to her. I +watched him all the time and he never _touched_ her." + +"Who? What?" demands the bewildered Julia. But Jacky disdains +explanations. + +"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--" + +"_What?_" says Sir Mark. + +"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." + +"How do you know he is talking of Dulce?" says Julia, impatiently. +"Jacky, how _dare_ you say dear Dulce swore at any one?" + +"He _made_ her," says Jacky. + +"He must have behaved awfully bad to her," says Dicky, gravely. + +"He said to her to swear, and she did it at once," continues Jacky, +still greatly excited. + +"_Con amore_," puts in Mr. Browne. + +"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 _murder_ her at all." + +"What on earth is the boy saying?" says Julia, perplexed in the extreme, +"Who didn't try to murder who?" + +"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 +_scratch_ on her." + +Sir Mark and Dicky were consumed with laughter. But Roger, taking the +little champion in his arms, kisses him with all his heart. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + + "For aught that ever I could read, + Could ever hear by tale or history, + The course of true love never did run smooth." + --_Midsummer Night's Dream._ + + +WHEN 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. + +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. + +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 _does_ +say to him under protest. + +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. + +Thus a quarter of an hour goes by, when the door of the 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. + +"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. + +"Dulce! What has happened?" he asks, anxiously, alluding to her late +strange behavior. "Why won't you speak to me?" + +"I don't know," says Dulce, faintly, hanging her head. + +"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--_don't_ 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. + +"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!" + +"He has released you?" Words are too poor to express Roger's profound +astonishment. + +"Yes; on one condition." + +"A condition! What a Jew! Yes; well, go on--?" + +"I _can't_ go on," says Dulce, growing crimson. "I can't, _indeed_," +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, _ever_." + +"Give me even a _hint_," says Roger, coaxingly. + +"No, _no_, NO! The rack wouldn't make me tell it," returns she, with a +stern shake of her red-brown head, but with very pathetic eyes. + +"But what _can_ it be," exclaims Roger, fairly puzzled. + +"_That_ I shall go to my grave without divulging," replies she, +heroically. + +"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--_now_, Dulce, you will marry me?" + +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. + +"I can't do that, either," she says at last, without raising her +afflicted lids. + +"But why?" impatiently. "What is to prevent you?--unless, indeed," +suspiciously, "you really don't care about it." + +"It isn't that, indeed," says Dulce, earnestly, letting her eyes, +suffused with tears, meet his for a moment. + +"Then _what_ is it? You say he has released you, and that you have +therefore regained your liberty, and yet--yet--Dulce, _do_ be rational +and give me an explanation. At least, say why you will not be my wife." + +"If I told that I should tell you the condition, too," says poor Dulce, +in a stifled tone, feeling sorely put to it, "and _nothing_ would induce +me to do that. I told you before I wouldn't." + +"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--" + +"Oh! how did you find it out?" exclaims Dulce, blushing again +generously. + +"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?" + +"Yes," says Dulce. + +"You gave him your word?" + +"Yes." + +"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." + +"I considered _this_ quite quickly," says Dulce: "I said to myself that +_nothing_ could be worse than marrying a man I did not love." + +"Yes, yes, of course," says Roger, warmly. "Nothing could be worse than +marrying Gower." + +"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, _you_ 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." + +"How could you have thought that?" says Roger, deeply grieved. + +"Well, you hadn't said a word, you know," murmurs she, sorrowfully. + +"How could I?" groans Dare. "When you were going of your own free will, +and my folly, to marry another fellow." + +"There was very little free will about it," whispers she, tearfully. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Roger," she says, in a little anxious whisper, that trembles ever so +lightly, "you are not angry with me, are you?" + +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! + +"Angry--with you--my darling!" says Roger, at length, 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, _all!_ and that her dearest dream +of happiness is at last fulfilled. + +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. + +Presently, after a rather prolonged pause, Dulce, drawing a deep but +happy sigh, turns to him, and says, tenderly, though somewhat +regretfully: + +"Ah! if only you had not stolen those chocolate creams!" + +"I didn't steal them," protested Roger, as indignantly as a man can +whose arm is fondly clasped around the beloved of his heart. + +"Well, of course, I mean if you hadn't _eaten_ them," says Dulce, sadly. + +"But, my life, I never _saw_ them!" exclaims poor Roger, vehemently; "I +swear I didn't." + +"Well, then, if I hadn't _said_ you did," says Dulce, mournfully. + +"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." + +"It was a pity we fought about such a trifle," murmurs she, shaking her +head. + +"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. + +"Not a pity we quarreled, and--and lost each other?" 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. + +"No. Though we were rather in a hole now," says Mr. Dare, rather at a +loss for a word. "I am very _glad_ we fought." + +"Oh, Roger!" + +"Aren't you?" + +"How can you ask me such a heartless question?" + +"Don't you see what it has done for us? Has it not taught us that"--very +tenderly this--"we _love_ 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." + +"But when will he see that?" + +"He evidently saw it to-day." + +"Well, he was very far from giving in to-day, or even dreaming of +granting absolution." + +"Well, we must make him see it even _more_ clearly," says Roger, +desperately. + +"But how?" dejectedly. + +"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?" + +"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 _like_ it!" + +This _naive_ speech brings Roger, _if possible_, a little closer to her. + +"I think I must have been utterly without intellect in the old days, not +to have seen then what a darling you are." + +"Oh, no," says Dulce, meekly, which might mean that, in her opinion, +either _he_ is not without intellect, or she is not a darling. + +"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!" + +"_Indeed_ you were not," says Dulce, slipping her arm round 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." + +Rapture; and a prolonged pause. + +"What _shall_ we do if that wretched beggar won't relent and let me +marry you?" says Roger, presently. + +"Only bear it, I suppose," with profoundest resignation; it is _so_ +profound that it strikes Mr. Dare as being philosophical, and displeases +him accordingly. + +"_You_ 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. + +"I don't care?" reproachfully. + +"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--" + +"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." + +This decides everything. He comes here directly, and gives her a little +kiss, and isn't a bit cross. + +"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." + +"But there is my word--I swore to him," returns she, earnestly. "I +cannot forget that. It was an understanding, a bargain." + +"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. + +"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_ can." Drawing her closer to him, +he whispers gently, + + "A smile of thine shall make my bliss!" + +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. + +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. + +"Surely that was old Gregory," says Dulce, after a surprised pause. + +"So it was," returns Roger, "and, _as_ usual, as drunk as a fiddler." + +"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." + +"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." + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + + "Let the dead past bury its dead."--LONGFELLOW. + + +JUST 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. + +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. + +Fortunately, Mark Gore coming into the room smoothed matters over and +drew conversation into a more congenial channel, or lamentable +consequences might have ensued. + +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. + +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 _had_ 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 _almost_ (it never could be _quite_) +balanced by the joy he experienced at departing, and a few more hot +words that very nearly led to bloodshed. + +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. + +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! + +Now Spring has come once more to the old Court, to commence its +triumphant reign, regardless of the fact that no matter 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. + +"We shall have to shake off dull sloth pretty early to-morrow," says +Dicky Browne, suddenly, _apropos_ of nothing that has gone before; his +usual method of introducing a subject. + +"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. + +"The meet, you know," says Dicky. "Long way off. Hate hunting myself, +when I've got to leave my bed for it." + +"You needn't go," says Dulce; "nobody is pressing you." + +"Oh! I'm not like _you_," 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." + +"I had a cold last day, and--and a headache the day before that," +stammers Dulce, blushing scarlet. + +"Nobody could hunt with a headache," says Roger, at which defence Mr. +Browne grins. + +"Well, you've got _them_ over," he says. "What's going to keep you at +home to-morrow?" + +"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." + +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." + +"Do you know," he says, further, as though imparting to her some +information hitherto undiscovered, "joking _apart_, you will understand, +you are--_really_--quite a pretty young woman." + +"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. + +Shortly after this they start, Dulce still in the very gayest spirits, +with Roger on her right hand and Mark Gore on her 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Something rotten in the state of Denmark, _there_," 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?" + +"Wouldn't have him at any price if _I_ were a girl," says Branscombe. "I +don't like his eyes. Murderous sort of beggar." + +"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." + +"I heard it was _he_ gave _her_ 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. + +"Oh, I daresay!" says Branscombe, so ironically, that every one +concludes it will be useless to say anything further. + +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. + +Two hours later many are in a position to acknowledge sadly that the day +they have made has not been exactly up 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Dulce, turning her head accidentally in his direction, is the first to +see him. + +"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?" + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"He is not dead?" she asks at first, in a ghastly whisper, with pale and +trembling lips. + +"I don't know, I'm not sure," says Roger, distractedly. "Oh, if somebody +would _only_ come!" + +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. + +"Have you no brandy?" asks Dulce, who is rubbing the hands of the +senseless man, trying to restore animation by this means. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _then_, 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. + +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. + +Will _no_ one _ever_ come? + +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. + +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 _he_ 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. + +"Stephen! Dear old fellow, you are not _much_ hurt, are you?" asks +Roger, tenderly. "Where is the pain? Where does it hurt you most?" + +"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. + +"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?" + +But Stephen's senses having returned to him by this time, he overhears +and understands the last sentence. + +"No, don't leave me," he entreats, earnestly, though speaking with great +difficulty. "Roger, are you there? Stay with me." + +"There is Dulce," falters Roger. + +"No, no; don't leave me here alone," says the wounded man, with foolish +persistency, and Roger, at his wits' end, hardly knows what to do. + +"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. + +"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. + +"It is very good of you, old man," he whispers, faintly, looking up at +Roger. "I believe you are sorry for me, _after all_." + +The "after all" is full of meaning. + +"Why shouldn't I be sorry for you?" says Roger, huskily, his eyes full +of tears. "Don't talk like that." + +"I know you think I behaved badly to you," goes on Stephen, with painful +slowness. "And perhaps I did." + +"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." + +"With all my heart," says Gower, and his eyes grow glad, and a smile of +real happiness illumines his features for a moment. + +"Now, don't talk any more; don't, there's a good fellow," says Roger, +with deep entreaty. + +"There is--one thing--I must say," whispers Gower, "while I have time. +Tell _her_--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 _you_, I hope." + +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. + +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 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. + +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. + + * * * * * + +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 _no time_. This peculiar date is a favorite one with +the little medico. + +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. + +"Where's nurse?" asks Roger, gazing around. "Has she been dismissed, and +have you applied for the situation?" + +"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." + +"Come down and eat something," says Roger. "You _must_. I shall carry +you if you won't walk, and think how the servants will speak about your +light behavior afterwards! _Do_ come, darling; you know you have eaten +nothing since breakfast." + +"I wonder if he is really in no danger?" says Dulce wistfully. + +"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, 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?" + +"No; I suppose not," says Dulce, blushing vividly. + +"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." + +"Supposing he was _to go back of it all_ when he got well," says Dulce, +timidly. + +"Oh, he _can't_; 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. + +"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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + + "About some act + That has no relish of salvation in't." + --_Hamlet._ + + "Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge." + --_Titus Andronicus._ + + +"BEFORE 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." + +"It was very unfortunate, no doubt," says Fabian, regretfully. "What a +curse the love of drink is!--a madness, a passion." + +"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, "_Unfortunate!_ _that_ 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--_so_ drunk that it was shameful! He reeled! I give +you my word, sir--he _reeled_! 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." + +"After all these years," says Fabian, thoughtfully, thrumming gently on +the table near him with his forefinger. + +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. + +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 portiere leading into another corridor that connects itself with the +servants' part of the house. + +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 threshold, concealed from +observation, not only by the curtain, but by a Japanese screen that is +placed just behind Sir Christopher's head. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"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 _now_, at his age, to _again_ +solicit Fortune's favor. It would be terrible." + +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. + +As the truth breaks in upon his dulled brain that Fabian has actually +been defending his--_his_ 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. + +"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--" + +"The fact that he has contracted this miserable habit of which you speak +is only another reason why you should think _well_ 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." + +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. + +"You are bound, I think," says Fabian, in the same calm way, "to look +after him, to bear with him a little." + +"_You_ 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 _you_ 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." + +"Tut!" says Fabian, "I remember nothing. He was drunk, no doubt, and +said what he did not mean." + +"I believe he did mean it. _In vino veritas._" + +"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." + +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 +portiere could afford. + +"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." + +"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, _long_ 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." + +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. + +"What was that?" asks Sir Christopher, quickly; the smothered cry had +reached his ears. + +"What? I heard nothing," says Fabian, looking up. + +"The storm, perhaps," says his uncle, absently. Then, after a pause, +"Why do you so strongly espouse this man's cause, Fabian?" + +"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." + +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. + +"No misfortune, however heavy, can embitter a _noble_ nature," he says, +gently. "One knows that when one knows _you_. For your sake, +Fabian--because you ask it--Slyme shall remain." + + * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +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." + +They are all assembled in Dulce's boudoir, being under the impression, +perhaps, that while the present incivility of the 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. + +Sir Christopher has just gone through an exaggerated _resume_ 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. + +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. + +"Why, he is here again!" cries Sir Christopher, now incensed beyond +measure. "Even my niece's room is not safe from him." + +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 _purpose_ very foreign to it. + +"Hear me, hear me!" he entreats, with quivering accents, but passionate +haste. "Do not send me away _yet_, I _must_ speak now--now, or never!" + +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. + +"He has come to say something. Let him say it," he says, tapping Sir +Christopher's arm persuasively. + +"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." + +Turning his bleared eyes right and left, he searches every 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. + +"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 _thing_ 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!" + +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. + +"This is mere raving," exclaims Sir Christopher, excitedly; but again +Gore restrains him as he would have gone forward to order Slyme to +retire. + +"To-day," goes on Slyme, always with his heavy eyes on Fabian, "I heard +you speak in my defence--_mine_! Sir, if you could only know how those +words of yours burned into my heart, how they have burned since, how +they are burning _now_," smiting himself, "you would be half avenged. I +listened to you till my brain could bear no more. You spoke kindly of +_me_, you had pity on my old age--upon _mine_, who had no pity on your +youth, who ruthlessly ruined your life, who--" + +"Man, if you have anything to confess--to explain--_say it_!" breaks in +Sir Mark, vehemently, who is half mad with hope and expectancy. + +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 +stands with his back against the mantelpiece, facing Slyme, so +motionless that he might be a figure carved in marble. + +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. + +"It was for _him_ I did it, for _his_ 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. + +"What _did_ 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--_do_!" + +"Curse me! _Kill_ 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!" + +The miserable man, as he makes this confession, falls upon his knees and +covers his face with his hands. + +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. + +"_You!_" 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. "_You!_" 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. + +"Think," says Portia, in a painful whisper. "Think! Fabian, you would +not harm that old man." + +"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." + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Julia instantly undertakes Dicky, who doesn't quite like it; Dulce +appropriates Sir Christopher, who likes it very much. + +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. + +"It is too late," says Fabian, replying to him slowly; "too late." There +is more of settled conviction than of bitterness 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 _too late_!" + +Even as his voice dies away another rises. + +"Do not say that--_anything_ 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, _speak_ to +him!" + +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. + +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? + +And she, who had not trusted him when she _might_, will he care that she +should trust him now when she _must_? + +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 +_her own_ choice) for the past few months. + +"I repeat it," he says, quietly, letting his eyes rest for a moment upon +hers, "it is _too late_!" + +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. + +Portia, sick at heart, moves silently away. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + + "If you have tears, prepare to shed them now." + --_Julius Caesar._ + + "Eyes, look your last; + Arms, take your last embrace!" + --_Romeo and Juliet._ + + +THE 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. + +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 _that_ a big one?" when the +lightning comes, or, "That was the loudest one yet," when the deafening +thunder rolls. + +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. + +"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?" + +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. + +Fabian, who has been delayed in many ways, is almost the 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. + +It is Portia. Her face is very white, her lips are trembling, but her +eyes are full of a strange, feverish fire. + +"May I go, too? Do not prevent me," she says, in an agitated tone, +laying her hand upon his arm. "I _must_ go, I cannot stay here alone; +thinking, thinking." + +"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. + +"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?" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"Close by; a schooner from some furrin' port, with wine, they say." So +shouts the old man back again. + +"And the life-boat?" + +"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." + +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! + +The agony increases. Some run along the beach in frantic 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"Where are you going?" asks Roger, breathlessly, "where?" + +"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--" + +"You _shall_ not go!" cries Roger, frantically. "It is throwing away +your life. There are those whose lives can be better spared; let _them_ +go. Let _me_ go. Fabian, think of that old man at home." + +"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--" + +"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. + +"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." + +He speaks with the utmost cheerfulness, indeed with a subdued gayety +that might emanate from a quiet man just starting on a pleasurable +expedition. + +"Do you know the danger?" says Roger, in a broken voice, clinging to his +hand, but feeling that all remonstrance will be in vain. + +"Tut! why should there be more danger for me than for another? Now go +back to her--she is there, is she not? my _dear_ 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--" + +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. + +Turning, he looks into Portia's eyes. She is haggard, ghastly in her +pallor, but unspeakably beautiful. Her fair hair, having come undone, +is waving lightly in the tempestuous wind. Her lips are parted. + +"You are not going _out there_?" 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 _shall_ not! Do you hear? +Fabian! Fabian! listen to me." + +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. + +"My darling! My best beloved, stay with me!" she cries, wildly. "Hate +me--spurn me--live--_live_! that sea will tear you from me--it will +kill--" + +Stooping over her, with a very gentle movement, but with determination, +he unclasps her clinging arms and raises her to her feet. + +"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." + +"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. + +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. + +"One of the women down there lent it to me," he says, coldly still, but +kindly. "Return it to her when you can." + +With a little passionate gesture she flings it from her, letting it lie +on the ground at her feet. + +"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 _will_ die--forgive me first?" + +"If there is anything to forgive, I have done so long ago. But there is +nothing." + +"Is there nothing in the thought that I love you, either? Has not this +knowledge power to drag you back from the grave?" + + "'Too late for the balm when the heart is broke,'" + +quotes he, sadly. + +"And yet you loved me once," she says, quickly. + +"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. + +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. + +"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!" + +He lays his lips on hers. + +"In heaven, my love, and soon!" returns she, very quietly, and so they +part! + + * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +_His_ 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! + +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 nature is out of place just here. +Noisy grief can have no part in this hopeless sorrow. + +Dicky Browne, bending over her (Roger has taken Dulce home), says: + +"Oh, Portia! that it should end like this, and just now--_now_, 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. + +"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 _certainty_ in it. They are the last +words she ever spoke to _him_. + +"He is very cold," she says then, with a little shiver. + +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. + +"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 _hurt_ him!" + +"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. + +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. + +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 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. + +"She was his lass. Poor soul! poor soul!" says another woman in a hushed +tone, and with deep pathos. + +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. + +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, + + "After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well." + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. + + "'Whom the gods love die young,' was said of yore." + --DON JUAN. + + "Death came with friendly care." + --COLERIDGE. + + +IT 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-- + +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. + +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 + + "Gone before, + To that unknown and silent shore" + +so dimly dreamt of here, because her eyes are gleaming large and clear, +and almost unearthly in their brilliance. + +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. + +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 gain, having +traversed the quiet garden to pluck it from the tiny plot out there she +called her own. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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 _with him_! She was quite dead! + +They said some tissue in her heart had given way, and perhaps it was so, +but surely grief had severed it. + + +THE END. + + + + +The "Best" Tonic + +[Illustration] + +A Concentrated Liquid Extract of Malt and Hops + +RECOMMENDED BY EMINENT PHYSICIANS + +AND FOR SALE BY ALL DRUGGISTS. + + +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. + + _From The American Drug Clerks Journal, Chicago, Ills._ + + + + +[Illustration: AGATE IRON WARE.] + + + +--IS SOLD BY ALL FIRST-CLASS DEALERS IN-- + +HARDWARE, CROCKERY AND HOUSE-FURNISHING GOODS. + +Throughout the World. + +AND UNIVERSALLY ACKNOWLEDGED TO BE THE BEST KITCHEN WARE EVER PRODUCED. + + +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. + + * * * * * + +Transcriber's Notes: + +Obvious punctuation errors repaired. + +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. + +Text uses: _apropos_, _a propos_, _apropos_ 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-a-tete." + +Page 2, "fiance" changed to "fiance" (Dicky Browne your _fiance_?) + +Page 3, "litte" changed to "little" (rest a little) + +Page 11, "mu t" changed to "must" (You must try to) + +Page 13, "initation" changed to "imitation" (the imitation was exactly) + +Page 13, "m he" changed to "me the" (tell me the rest) + +Page 16, "convines" changed to "convinces" (which convinces his pretty) + +Page 37, "amiabilty" changed to "amiability" (who is amiability) + +Page 48, "unwieldly" changed to "unwieldy" (disgust the unweildy) + +Page 50, "cushionss" changed to "cushions" (upon their cushions) + +Page 68, "genitian" changed to "gentian" (of the Alpine gentian) + +Page 72, "taper" changed to "tapered" (and with one tapered) + +Page 86, "dainy" changed to "dainty" (by his dainty hostess) + +Page 96, "esconced" changed to "ensconced" (has ensconced herself upon) + +Page 109, "Curacoa" changed to "Curacao" (Curacao will do me) + +Page 111, "abominally" changed to "abominably" (is so abominably mild) + +Page 112, "superflous" changed to "superfluous" (What superfluous +surprise) + +Page 131, "Ma k" changed to "Mark" (Sir Mark, in despair) + +Page 134, "daresary" changed to "daresay" (judgment. I daresay) + +Page 140, "tho" changed to "the" (the odor of the skies) + +Page 142, redundant "to" removed from text. Original read: (eyes to to +the fast) now reads (eyes to the fast) + +Page 143, "thra dom" changed to "thraldom" (Pining in thraldom) + +Page 149, "dan e" changed to "dance" (thought of our dance) + +Page 152, "B ount" changed to "Blount" (it is Fabian Blount) + +Page 158, "t e" changed to "the" (question, by-the-by) + +Page 173, "Keates" changed to "Keats" (for which Keats longed) + +Page 176, "woman" changed to "women" (dear to all women) + +Page 183, "hesitatien" changed to "hesitation" (is a moment's +hesitation) + +Page 186, "mighn't" changed to "mightn't" (when I mightn't) + +Page 188, "suceeds" changed to "succeeds" (succeeds, at all events) + +Page 193, repeated word "to" removed from text (her eyes to seek his) + +Page 194, "corrider" changed to "corridor" (to reach the corridor) + +Page 204, "gr y" changed to "gray" (whole world gray to you) + +Page 207, "mercernary" changed to "mercenary" (the lack of mercenary) + +Page 210, "mantlepiece" changed to "mantelpiece" (against the +mantelpiece) + +Page 212, "say" changed to "says" (word," says Dicky Browne) + +Page 212, "scout" changed to "scant" (I scant this breathing) + +Page 213, "langour" changed to "languor" (a languor, a listlessness) + +Page 219, "On" changed to "One" (One might easily) + +Page 229, "erroneons" changed to "erroneous" (An erroneous belief) + +Page 233, "occured" changed to "occurred" (never occurred to me) + +Page 238, "a k" changed to "ask" (right to ask it) + +Page 256, " o" changed to "So" ("So it was,") + +Page 267, "threshhold" changed to "threshold" (the threshold, concealed) + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Portia, by Duchess + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PORTIA *** + +***** This file should be named 31825.txt or 31825.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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