"What a charming thing that is," she says, alluding, they presume, to the Elegy. She pauses here, but no one takes her up or seems to care to continue the praise of what is almost beyond it. But Julia is not easily discouraged.
"One can almost see the gaunt trees," she says, sentimentally, "and the ivied walls of the old church, and the meadows beyond, and the tinkling of the tiny bells, and the soft white sheep as they move perpetually onward in the far, far distance."
She sighs, as though overcome by the perfect picture she has so kindly drawn for their benefit.
"I wish to goodness she would move on herself," says Dicky Browne. "It is enough to make poor Gray turn in his grave."
"I think she describes rather prettily, and quite as if she meant it," says Portia, softly.
"Not a bit of it," growls Dicky; "she don't mean it; she couldn't; It's all put on – regular plaster! She doesn't feel it; she knows as much about poetry as I do."
"You underrate yourself, my darling boy," says Roger, fondly.
"Oh! you get out," says Mr. Brown, most ungratefully.
"I think to be able to read really well is an intense charm," goes on Julia, glancing sweetly at Stephen. "If one had only some one to give one a kindly hint now and then about the correct intonation and emphasis and that, it would be a regular study, of course. I really have half a mind to go in for it."
"So glad she has at last arrived at a just appreciation of her own powers," says Dicky, sotto voce. "I should think she has just half a mind and no more, to do anything with."
He is hushed up; and then Stephen goes on again, choosing passages from Shakespeare this time, for a change, while silence once more reigns.
Roger is looking sulky and unkindly critical. Sir Mark has been guilty of a small yawn or two. Julia, in spite of the most heroic efforts to the contrary, is openly and disgracefully sleepy. Portia's eyes are full of tears. Dicky Browne, who is tired of not hearing his own voice, and whose only belief in the divine William is that he gave him "a jolly lot of trouble in his schooldays," is aweary, and is only waiting an opportunity to cut in and make himself heard, in spite of all opposition.
It comes – the opportunity – and Dicky seizes it. Mr. Gower is at his very best. He has thrown his whole soul into his voice, and is even himself wrapt up in the piece he has before him.
"'Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,'" his voice rings out clear and full of melancholy prophecy; it is a voice that should have impressed any right-minded individual, but Dicky's mind is below par.
"I should think he'd lie considerably more uneasy without it," he says, cheerfully. "He'd feel like being scalped, wouldn't he? And get dreaming about Comanches and tomahawks and Fenimore Cooper, eh?"
For once Dicky scores. The men have grown tired of Mr. Gower's performance, and hail the interruption with delight. Roger turns on his side, and laughs aloud. This attention, so unprecedented on his part, fills Dicky's soul with rapture. He instantly bestows upon his supporter a smile rich with gratitude; yet perhaps it is not Mr. Browne's wit alone that has called forth such open manifestation of mirth from Roger. There is, I think, just the faintest touch of malice in his merriment.
And then the faithless Dulce laughs too; the most musical, ringing little laugh in the world, but none the less galling for all its sweetness. It is the last straw. Mr. Gower, suppressing a very natural inclination, lays the book down gently on the grass beside him (he would have given anything to be able to fling it far from him), and makes some casual remark about the excessive beauty of the evening.
And, indeed, it is beautiful; all down the Western slope of the fir-crowned hill, the fading rays of light still wander, though even now in the clear heavens the evening star has risen, and is shining calm and clear as a soul entered on its eternal rest.
"Will you not read us something else?" says Dulce, feeling a little ashamed of herself.
"Some other time," returns he.
"Dicky rather took the sentiment out of it," says Roger, still maliciously mirthful. "I hardly think he and the Swan of Avon would be congenial souls."
"Well, I don't know," says Sir Mark, lazily. "We have been taught that extremes meet, you see."
"Dicky, how can you stand their impertinence?" asks Dulce, gaily. "Assert yourself, I entreat you."
"There is such a thing as silent contempt," says Mr. Browne, untouched by their darts. "There is also a passage somewhere that alludes to an 'unlettered small-knowing soul;' I do not desire to quote it in this company. Let us return to the immortal Bill."
But they are all laughing still, and in the face of laughter, it is difficult to get back to tragedy. And so no one encourages Gower to continue his work, and this, in despite of the fact that the light growing as it is toward the gloaming, seems in keeping with dismal tales and softly-mouthed miseries.
Every moment the evening star grows brighter, gaining glory as the day declines. The mist has died away into the ocean, the breeze has sunk to slumber, only the song of many birds hymning themselves to roost amongst the quiet thickets disturbs the tranquility of the air.
Dead leaves that speak of Autumn and coming dissolution float toward the loiterers on the lawn, and, sinking at their feet, preach to them a lesson of the life that lasts not, and of that other life that in all its splendor may yet dawn upon them.
A soft and sullen roar from the ocean makes the silence felt. The sea, clothed round with raiment of white waves, and rich with sparkling life, dashing itself along the beach, breathes a monotonous murmur that wafts itself inland and falls with vague music upon the listening ear. Thoughts arise within the breast, born of the sweet solemnity of the hour, and the sadness that belongs to all life – but in this changeable world nothing lasts, and presently seeing something in the lawn below that puzzles her sight, Julia says, quickly: "What are the moving forms I see down there?"
"Only the children undulating," says Mr. Browne, promptly.
"What?" says Sir Mark.
"I have said!" returns Dicky.
"There is surely something besides children," says Portia, trying to pierce the gathering darkness. "See, what is that coming towards us now?"
They all peer eagerly in the direction of the firs, from between which a flying mass may be seen emerging, and approaching rapidly to where they are all seated.
"It is only Jacky on his fact," says Mr. Browne, at length after a careful examination of this moving form.
"On what?" asks Roger, curiously.
"His fact," repeats Dicky, unmoved.
"What's that?" asks Jacky's mamma, somewhat anxiously – if a careless, it must be to her credit said, that Julia is a very kindly mother, and is now rather upset by Mr. Browne's mysterious declaration.
"You ought to know; you gave it to him," declares he. "He's sitting on it anyhow."
"Really, Dicky, we must ask you to explain yourself," says Sir Mark, with dignity.
"Why, it's only a donkey," says Dulce, "and Jacky is riding him."
"Just so," says Mr. Browne, equably; "and a very large donkey, too; I always call them facts because they are stubborn things. At least, that one is, because I rode it yesterday – at least I tried to – and it behaved very ill indeed. It's – it's a very nasty animal, and painfully unamiable."
"What did it do to you?" asks Julia, who is again in secret fear about her first born, who every moment draws more near.
"Well, I got on him, incited thereto by Jacky and the Boodie, and when I had beaten him unceasingly for a full quarter of an hour, in the vain hope of persuading him to undertake even a gentle walk, he turned treacherously to the right, and squeezed my best leg against the garden wall. I bore it heroically, because I knew the Boodie was regarding me sternly, but I could have wept bitterly; I don't know if all walls are the same, but the garden wall hurts very much."
"I wonder where Dicky gets all his stories," says Dulce, admiringly.
"He evolves them out of his inner consciousness," replies Sir Mark.
Meantime, Jacky draws nearer and nearer. He advances on the donkey – and on them, at a furious pace. Surely, never was a lazy ass so ridden before! Perhaps those watching him are under the impression that when closer to them he will guide his steed to their right or to their left, or at least steer clear of them in some way, but if so they are mistaken.
Jacky is in his element. He gallops wildly up to them, with arms and legs flying north and south, and his cap many miles behind. That hidden sense that tells the young and artless one that the real meaning of all fun is to take some one by surprise and frighten the life out of him, is full upon him now.
"Out of my way," he shrieks, in frenzied accents almost, as he bears down upon them. "Out of my way, I say, or he'll kill you; I can't pull him in. He is running away with me!"
With this the wily young hypocrite gives the donkey a final kick with his right heel, and dashes ungallantly into the very midst of them.
The confusion that follows is all his heart can desire. Great indeed is the rout. Camp chairs are scattered broadcast; shawls strew the lawn; Julia flies to the right, Dulce to the left; Portia instinctively finds refuge behind Dicky Browne, who shows great gallantry on this memorable occasion, and devotes himself to the service of the frail and weak. Indeed, it is on record, that, in the height of his zeal, he encircled Portia's waist with his arm, and cried aloud to the foe to "come on," as he waited for victory or death.
Jacky flies past, and is presently seen urging on his wild career in the little glade that leads to the wood. Once more they breathe, and order is restored, to Gower's deep regret, as he has managed, in the melee, to seize hold of Dulce's hand, and in an abstracted fashion has held it ever since.
"That boy deserves a sound whipping," says Sir Mark, indignantly, who is, nevertheless, a sworn friend of the graceless Jacky.
"You hear, Julia; you are to whip him at once?" says Roger.
"Whip him!" says Mrs. Beaufort, resentfully. "Indeed I shall not. I never whipped one of them in my life, and I never shall."
"You'd be afraid," says Dicky Browne. "You should see Julia when the Boodie attacks her; she literally goes into her boots, and stays there. It is, indeed, a pitiable exhibition. By-the-by, does anybody want dinner; because, if so, he may as well go and dress. It is quite half-past six."
CHAPTER XIII
"A vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast."
Time, as a rushing wind, slips by, and brings us Dulce's ball. The night is lovely and balmy as any evening in the Summer months gone by, though now September shakes the leaves to their fall. A little breeze sweeps up from the ocean, where the "lights around the shore" show mystical and bright; while overhead, all down the steeps of heaven, myriad stars are set, to flood the sleeping world with their cold, clear beauty.
Upon the walls, and all along the balconies, lie patches of broken moonshine; and in the garden the pale beams revel and kiss the buds until they wake; and "all flowers that blow by day come forth, as t'were high noon."
In the library the lamps are lowered. Nobody has come down-stairs yet, and the footman, giving the last lingering touch to the little sweet gossiping fire that warns them of Winter's approach, turns to leave the room. On the threshold, however, he stands aside to let Miss Vibart enter.
She is dressed in a white satin gown, creamy in shade, and rather severe in its folds. Some pale water-lilies lie upon it, as though cast there by some lucky chance, and cling to it lovingly, as if glad to have found so soft a resting place. There is no flower in her hair, and no jewels anywhere, except three rows of priceless pearls, that clasp her slender throat. Throwing her gloves and fan upon the centre table, she walks slowly to a mirror, and examines herself somewhat critically.
As if ungratefully dissatisfied with the lovely vision it presents to her, she turns away again, with an impatient sigh, and trifles absently with a paper knife near her. There is a discontented line about her mouth, a wistful, restless expression in her eyes. She moves slowly, too, as if gladness is far from her, and shows, in every glance and movement, a strange amount of languor.
As though her thoughts compel her to action, she walks aimlessly from place to place; and now, as if she is listening for something to come; and now, as if she is trying to make up her mind to take some step from which she shrinks in secret.
At last, drawing her breath with a sudden quickness, born of determination, she opens a drawer in a cabinet, and, taking from it a little volume in the Tauchnitz binding, she opens the library door, and, turning to the right, walks swiftly down the corridor.
From out the shadow a figure advances toward her, a figure bent and uncomely, that tries in vain to avoid the meeting with her, and to get out of sight before recognition sets in.
It is the old man Slyme. As she sees him there returns to Portia the memory of many other times when she has met him here in this corridor, with apparently no meaning for his presence. Some unaccountable and utterly vague feeling of dislike for this man has been hers ever since she first saw him. He is repugnant to her in a remarkable degree, considering how little he has to do with her life in any way.
"He seems to haunt this part of the house," she says to herself now, uncomfortably. "If I were Fabian I should hate to know there was a chance of meeting him every time I opened my door. Has he, perhaps, a passion for Fabian – or – "
Instinctively she throws an additional touch of hauteur into her shapely head, and without deigning to notice the old man, sweeps by him, her glimmering white skirts making a gentle frou-frou as she goes.
When she has passed, the secretary raises his eyes and watches her departing form, furtively. There is great cunning mixed with malignity and resentment in his glance. He mutters something inaudible, that carries no blessing in its tone, but yet, as though fascinated by her beauty, he stands still and follows each step she takes upon the polished oaken flooring.
As she stops at a particular door, his whole face changes, and satisfied malice takes the place of resentment.
"Even such pride can stoop," he mutters, with a half-drunken chuckle. "And it is I, my fine lady – who can scarce breathe when I am by – that have power to ring your proud heart."
He turns, and shambles onwards towards his own den.
Portia's steps have grown slower as she gets nearer to the door before which Slyme has seen her stop. Her eyes have sought the ground; all along the floor her image may be seen, lengthened, but clear; almost with every step she seems to tread upon herself. As she reaches the door she hesitates, and then lifts her hand as if with the intention of knocking. But again she pauses, and her hand drops to her side. As if more nervous than she cares to own, she leans against the lintel of the door, as one might, desirous of support.
Then the weakness vanishes; fastening her teeth upon her under lip, she rouses herself, and tapping gently but distinctly upon one of the panels, awaits an answer.
Presently she gets it. "Come in," says Fabian's voice, clear, indifferent; and slowly turning the handle she enters the room.
The lamps are alight; a fire is burning in the grate. At the upper table of this room, that is his study, his very sanctum sanctorum, Fabian is sitting with some papers and books before him.
At first, being unconscious of who his visitor is, he does not lift his head, but now, seeing her, he rises quickly to his feet, and says,
"You!" in accents of the most acute surprise.
She is standing barely inside the door with the little volume pressed closely, almost convulsively, between her fingers, and for a moment makes him no reply. It is the first time they have ever been alone since that day when he had injured his arm through the running away of Sir Christopher's mare.
Now, his face, his tone, is so unfriendly that a great fear falls upon her. Is he very angry with her still? Has she sinned past forgiveness? Will he, perhaps, order her to leave the room? She tries to rally her power of resistance against what fate – relentless, implacable – is preparing for her; but in vain. A terrible fear of him (the man regarding her with such stern eyes) and of herself crushes her. Her heart dies within her; what evil has fallen upon her days, that once were happy? and yet – and yet – of what – what exquisite sweetness is this evil formed!
She flushes, first painfully; and then the flush fades, and pallor holds full sway.
"I can do something for you?" asks Fabian, not advancing toward her, not letting even one kindly accent warm his frozen tone, and this when the silence has grown positively unbearable.
"Thank you – no." Her little cold hands are nervously twined around the book she holds. Speech has cruelly deserted her; a sob has risen in her throat, and she is battling with it so fiercely, that for a moment she can say nothing. Then she conquers, and almost piteously she lays the book upon the very edge of the table nearest her, and says with difficulty:
"I brought you this. At breakfast this morning you said you had not read it; and to-night I knew you would be alone, and I thought – it is 'The Europeans' – it might help you to while away an hour."
Her voice dies away and again silence follows it. She is really frightened now. She has met many men, has been the acknowledged beauty of a London season, has had great homage laid at her feet; but no man has had power to make her heart waken, until she met this man, upon whom disgrace lies heavy. It is Kismet! She feels cold now, and miserable, and humbled before him who should surely be humbled before her. What has she meant by coming to his room without so much as an invitation; to him – who in her sight is guilty, indeed, of an offense not to be forgiven in the world.
She grows tired and very weary, and the old pain at her heart, that always comes to her when she is miserable or perplexed, is tormenting her now, making her feel sick of life and dispirited.
"It was kind of you to think of me," says Fabian, coldly; "too kind. But there are some matters of importance I must get through to-night, and I fear I shall not have time for fiction."
She takes up the book again, the little instrument that betrays his determination to accept no benefits at her hands, and moves toward the door.
Coming quickly up to her, that he may open the door, he stands between her and it, and stops her.
"As you are here," he says, "let me look at you. Remember, I have never seen you dressed for a ball before."
As if astonished at his request, she stands quite still, and, letting her round, bare arms hang loosely before her, with her hands clasped, she lets him gaze at her sweet fairness in utter silence. It takes him some time. Then —
"You are very pale," he says – no more. Not a word of praise escapes him. She is woman enough to feel chagrin at this, and discontent. Has her glass lied to her, then? One small word of approbation, even about her gown, would have been sweet to her at this moment. Is she so very pale? Is it that this white gown does not become her? A quick dislike to the beautiful robe – and only an hour ago she had regarded it with positive affection – now takes possession of her.
"I am always pale," she says, with subdued resentment.
"Not always. To-night one hardly knows where your dress ends, and where you begin." She has hardly time to wonder if this is a compliment or the other thing, when he goes on again: "I don't think I ever saw you in white before?" he says.
"No; and it is probable you will never see me in it again," she says, petulantly. "I dislike it. It is cold and unbecoming, I think."
"No, not unbecoming."
"Well," she says, impatiently, "not becoming, at least."
"That, of course, is quite a matter of taste," he says, indifferently.
She laughs unpleasantly. To make him give a decided opinion upon her appearance has now grown to be a settled purpose with her. She moves her foot impatiently upon the ground, then, suddenly, she lifts her eyes to his – the large, sweet, wistful eyes he has learned to know so well, and that now are quick with defiance – and says, obstinately:
"Do you think it suits me?"
He pauses. And then a peculiar smile that, somehow, angers her excessively, grows round his lips and lingers there.
"Yes," he answers, slowly; "you are looking admirably – you are looking all you can possibly desire to-night."
She is deeply angered. She turns abruptly aside, and, passing him, goes quickly to the door.
"I beg your pardon," he says, hastily, following her, with a really contrite expression on his face. "Of course I know you did not want me to say that – yet – what was it you did want me to say? You challenged me, you know."
"I am keeping you from your work," says Portia, quietly. "Go back to it. I know I should not have come here to disturb you, and – "
"Do not say that," he interrupts her, eagerly. "I deserve it, I know, but do not. I have lost all interest in my work. I cannot return to it to-night. And that book you brought, let me have it now, will you? I shall be glad of it by-and-by."
Before she can refuse, a sound of footsteps without makes itself heard; there is a tinkling, as of many bangles, and then the door is thrown wide, and Dulce enters.
She is looking very pretty in a gown of palest azure. There is a brightness, a joyousness, about her that must attract and please the eye; she is, indeed,
"One not tired with life's long day, but glad
I' the freshness of its morning."
"I have come to say good-night to you, Fabian," she says, regarding her brother with loving, wistful eyes. "I suppose I shan't be able to see you again until to-morrow. Promise me you will go to bed, and to sleep, soon."
"That is the very simplest promise one can give," returns he, mockingly. "Why should not one sleep?" Then, seeing the extreme sadness that has settled on her mignonne face, that should, by right, only be glad with smiles, goes on more gently: "Be happy; I shall do all you ask me."
"Ah, Portia, you here, too," says Dulce, smiling gratefully at her. "How sweet you are looking to-night – and your gown – how perfect. Isn't it lovely, Fabian?"
"Quite lovely," slowly.
"And she herself, too," goes on Dulce, enthusiastically, "isn't she lovely, as well?"
"Yes," says Fabian, still more slowly.
"She is like a dream of snow, or purity – or something," says Dulce, vaguely, but admiringly.
"Or ice?" says Fabian.
"Oh, no, not ice. It is too hard, too unsympathetic, too cold."
"They are both cold, are they not?" says Portia, with a very faint smile. "Both ice and snow."
"Dulce, Dulce!" calls somebody, from without.
"Now, who is that," says Miss Blount, irritably. "Roger, of course. I really never am allowed one moment to myself when he is in the house. He spends his entire time, first calling me, and then quarreling with me when he finds me. He does it on purpose, I think. He can't bear me to have even one peaceful or happy instant. I never met any one so utterly provoking as Roger."
She runs to him, nevertheless, and Portia moves as if to follow her.
"Don't leave me in anger," entreats Fabian, in some agitation, detaining her by a gesture full of entreaty. "Do anything but that. Think of the long hours I shall have to put in here, by myself, with nothing but my own thoughts; and say something kind to me before you go."
"You forget," she says, with slow reproach, her eyes on the ground. "How can you hope for anything – even one word – sympathetic from ice. Let me go to Dulce."
"You shall not leave me like this," dictates he, desperately, shutting the door with sudden passion, and deliberately placing his back against it. "Am I not sufficiently unhappy that you should seek to make me even more so; to add, indeed, a very crown to my misery. I will not face the long night alone with this fresh grief! The remembrance of your face as it now looks at me, of your eyes, so calm, so unforgiving, would fill the weary hours with madness. You don't know what it is to endure the pangs of Tantalus, to have a perpetual hunger at your heart that can never be satisfied. I do. I have suffered enough. You must be friends with me before you go."
"I came to make friends with you. I wanted to be friends with you, and – "
"Yes, I know. I received you ungraciously; I grant it; but was there nothing for me to forgive? And even if I was unpardonably ungrateful for your kindness, is that so heavy a crime that I should be punished for it with what is worse than death? Portia, I entreat you, once again, put your hand in mine before you leave me."
He is very pale, and there is a very agony of expectation in his dark eyes. But yet she stands irresolute, not seeing his agony, because her head is bent, with her fair arms still hanging before her, with her fingers closely intertwined.
He can look unrebuked upon her beauty, upon the rounded whiteness of her arms, upon the tumultuous rise and fall of her bosom, upon the little shapely, perfect head, that might well have graced a throne.
Each rich charm in her lovely downcast face is clear to him; a great yearning takes possession of his breast, an unconquerable desire to tell her all he feels for her. There have been moments when he has thought he must fall at her feet, and laying hold of the hem of her garment, cry aloud to her from out his heart's wild longing, "I have gone mad! I love you! Let me die!"
This is such a moment. Oh! to be able to take her in his arms for even one brief instant, and hold her close to his breaking heart – this silent girl, with her pride, and her beauty, and her cruel tenderness.
He sighs heavily, and turns his head away. Still no word escapes her. She might almost be cut in marble, so quiet, so motionless she stands. Is she indifferent to his pain; or careless of it – or ignorant?
"Go, then," he says, without looking at her, in a voice from which all warmth and feeling of any sort, be it anger or regret, has flown. "There is no reason at all why you should waste even one kind word or touch upon me. I was mad to ask it."
At this, life returns to her. Her lips quiver; she lifts her eyes to his, and such is the force of her regard that he is constrained, sorely against his will, to return it. Then he can see her eyes are full of tears – great liquid loving drops that tremble to their fall; and even as he watches them, in painful wonder, they part from her lids and run all down her pale but rounded checks.
She holds out to him, not one, but two hands. His whole face changes; a gladness, that has in it something of heaven, fills his eyes.
Taking the little trembling hands softly in his own, he lays them on his beating heart.
For a moment only, then he lets them fall; and then, before this divine joy has quite left him, he finds himself, once more alone.