"Wind, that grand old harper, smitesHis 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, herhauteurof 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, atthat time—I knew you didn't particularly care for me, but," disconsolately, "it neveroccurredto 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—ratherbelieve 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 tohimnow, 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—mymisfortune!"
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 asecond," 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 youdidlike 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 inthatway," 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? Didyoufeel unhappy? I hope to goodness youdid," 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 wasnotyour 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 allherfault, 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 nothewho 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 youdon'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."
"Never morning woreTo evening, but some heart did break."—In Memoriam.
—In Memoriam.
"Didhe—I mean didyou—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.Quitelike brother and sister," says Dulce, but somehow this thought seems to give her no pleasure.
"Only we arenot, you know," puts in Roger, rather hastily.
"No, of course we arenot," 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 toaskit, I know that," says Roger. "But," desperately, "did he ever kissyou?"
"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 quitethat," returns she, coloring faintly.
"Then"—eagerly—"it wasyouprevented 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 abouthim," 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—thatheshould 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 arenow," 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."
"Youwere engaged to me for three wholeyears," 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 meat 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, thetears coming into her eyes and trembling on her long lashes.
"I suppose not. But this new-found knowledge is hard to suppress; whydidI 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 knowhowto 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 wonderwherehe 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 wantyou—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—doyou 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 hisforte. Really, one never knows of what these æsthetic-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 sheknowsis 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 beingtoldthey 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 costme," 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 Iwillsay," she exclaims, lifting her eyes fairly to his. "But foryouand your false sympathy, and your carefully chosen and most insidious words thatfanned 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 youcan. 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, yourfreedom"—with a sudden bitterness, as suddenly suppressed—"ononecondition."
"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 willnotbe 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—feelshis 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 heshouldprove 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, hewon'tkeep 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 shallkeep 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 nevertouchedher."
"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, howdareyou say dear Dulce swore at any one?"
"Hemadeher," 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 tomurderher 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 ascratchon her."
Sir Mark and Dicky were consumed with laughter. But Roger, taking the little champion in his arms, kisses him with all his heart.
"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.
—Midsummer Night's Dream.
Whendinner 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 shedoessay 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 thelibrary 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'tsay 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—?"
"Ican'tgo 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 ahint," 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 whatcanit be," exclaims Roger, fairly puzzled.
"ThatI 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.
"Thenwhatis it? You say he has released you, and that you have therefore regained your liberty, and yet—yet—Dulce,dobe 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, "andnothingwould 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 consideredthisquite quickly," says Dulce: "I said to myself thatnothingcould 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,youhad 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'teatenthem," says Dulce, sadly.
"But, my life, I neversawthem!" exclaims poor Roger, vehemently; "I swear I didn't."
"Well, then, if I hadn'tsaidyou 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 verygladwe 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—"weloveeach 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 evenmoreclearly," 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 shouldlikeit!"
Thisnaïvespeech 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, eitherheis 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!"
"Indeedyou were not," says Dulce, slipping her arm roundhis 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.
"Whatshallwe 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 issoprofound that it strikes Mr. Dare as being philosophical, and displeases him accordingly.
"Youdon'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 knowIcan." Drawing her closer to him, he whispers gently,