"Friendship is constant in all other things,Save in the office and affairs of love."—Much Ado About Nothing.
—Much Ado About Nothing.
"I shouldthink 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"isthe 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 wantmorethan 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;Curaçaowill 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—wherecanhe 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.Onlyhalf!
"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'tlookbored. 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 everythingau 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,Ithink," 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 soabominablymild 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? Theremaybe 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 thelast 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.
"Whatsuperfluoussurprise," says Roger to Dulce, with even a broader sneer than his last. "He alwaysishere, 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 herfiancé.
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 littlenod. Whereon Roger says the same to him in a tone of the utmostbonhommie, 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.Wheredoes 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,notthe gentleman in the Strand.
"Ishe 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. "Hedidn'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 ifIcould 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 alow, 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. Herwhole 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 mustinsiston 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; "shedon'tmean 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 readreallywell 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-knowingsoul;' 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 thegardenwall 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 themelee, 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."
"A vague unrestAnd 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 makeup 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 gentlefrou-frouas 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 thedoor 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 verysanctum 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, thatoncewere 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 advancingtoward 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 isKismet!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; "tookind. 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, withher 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.Isshe 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 yourdressends, and whereyoubegin." 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. Tomakehim 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:
"Doyouthink 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, butdo 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,