"One not tired with life's long day, but gladI' 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 hermignonneface, 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'tshelovely, 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, notice. 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, whoisthat," says Miss Blount, irritably. "Roger, ofcourse. I really never am allowed one moment to myselfwhen 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 fromice. Let me go to Dulce."
"Youshallnot 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.Youdon't know what it is to endure the pangs of Tantalus, to have a perpetual hunger at your heart that can never be satisfied.Ido. 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 formeto 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 hemustfall 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, buttwohands. 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.
"What sudden anger's this? How have I reaped it? He parted frowning from me, as if ruin leaped from his eyes."—Shakespeare.
"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 SirMark, 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'sknowledge 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, Idon'twish it; I don't exactly know what it is Idowish," 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—passionément—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 atRoger, 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'tRoger charming," says Dulce (her own manner deeply aggravating in its turn), tapping Gower's arm lightly and confidentially with her fan; "sohonest and withalsogracious."
"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. "Helooks 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. Heusedto 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 bearanything?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 foryou, 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. Idaresayit 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; "Youknowthat. 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 onme), and save yourself while you can."
She makes a last faint protest.
"How do youknowhe 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 quarrelledsohard 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 knowhedances 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 theimpending 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 atyourservice 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 withmeyou 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, butthis 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 hisbrusquerieby 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.
"I would that I were low laid in my grave."—King John.
—King John.
"Proteus, I love thee in my heart of hearts."—Two Gentlemen of Verona.
—Two Gentlemen of Verona.
Thelast 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,theodor of the skiesIs 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 throughthe 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.
Andyetshe 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 withhim—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 eyestothe 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."Heseems 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 soulPining inthraldom."
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 thatmighthave been, and all thathasbeen, and all thatis—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,sofaintly 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.
"The quarrel is a very pretty quarrel as it stands."—The Rivals.
—The Rivals.
Itis 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 makejam" 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 ithere, 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 takelongto 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 issucha 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—hardwork, from beginning to end," returns hisfiancée, 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; "letmego and see you make it;do," coaxingly. "I want to get some when it ishot. Mamma's jam is always cold. Darling love of a Dulce, take me with you and I'll help you topeelthem."
"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 asecondapron; 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 alittleless with Jane."
At this Jane looks meekly delighted while the footmanturns 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 wouldbothtry to improve," goes on Dulce, in a tone meant to be still dignified, but which might almost be termed entreating. "Dotry. 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 youwouldtry," 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 Iwilltry, ma'am," with unlooked-for force.
"Oh,thankyou," 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 downmeanto 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 tiredto-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 knowwhenI 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 ourdance. 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,aproposof 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,sometimes."
"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, itishard 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 wasveryodd, 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 desertedme 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: