"You won't like it," says Blount, hesitating; "it will look nasty, you know, and there will be blood, I think, and perhaps it will be better for me to – "
"This is my sitting-room," interrupts Portia, calmly, throwing open a door on the opposite side of the corridor. "Come in here, and let me see what has happened to you."
Fabian follows her obediently. It all seems to him something like a dream, that this girl, usually so listless, should now brighten into life, and grow energetic and anxious for his sake.
With gentle fingers she helps him to take off his coat, and, in a business-like, very matter-of-fact fashion, unfastens the gold link at his wrist, and, though paling a little as she sees the blood upon his sleeve, resolutely rolls it up and lays bare the injured arm.
It is looking dark and swollen, and the skin has been knocked off it in several places. The flesh has been a good deal bruised, and altogether the wound is an ugly one without being in any way serious. In spite of her efforts to the contrary, she blanches perceptibly, and shudders, and lets her lids droop rather heavily over her eyes.
"You are unfit for this sort of work," says Fabian, angry with himself, as he marks her agitation. "It was unpardonable of me even to permit you to attempt it." He moves back from her, and tries his shirt sleeve once more over his injured arm.
"Ah! do not touch it," says Portia, hastily; "the sleeve will only rub against it and make it worse."
Involuntarily she lays her hand on his to prevent his covering the wound, and looks at him with a glance full of sympathy and entreaty. So standing, with her eyes large and dark with pity, and her soft white hand trembling upon his, she seems to him so far
"Beyond all women, womanly,
He dreads to think how he should fare
Who came so near as to despair!"
A pang desolates his heart. Alas! is not despair the only portion that can be meted out for him! The joy and the gladness of living, and the one great treasure of all – the heart's love – that beautifies and refines all it touches, can never be his; never for him, while this shadow rests upon him, will there be home or "hearthstone," or that deeper, more perfected sense of fellowship that exists between two souls only.
And this girl, with her hand on his, and looking straight up at him, with gentlest concern in her regard, how might it have been with him and her, if life had flowed in a pleasant stream, and no turbulent waves had come to disturb its calm and musical ripple?
"With eyes like open lotus flowers
Bright in the morning rain."
How short have been his days of grace, how long must be his years of misery; just in the very opening of his life, in the silken morning of his youth, the blow had fallen, deadening his sky, and rendering all things gray.
In what a very little space, indeed, lie all our happy moments; even the most successful of us can count them one by one, as it might be, on the fingers of one hand; and how tardy, how wearying, are those where sorrow, and trouble, and despair hold their own.
"Ce qui nous charme s'en va, et ce qui fait peine reste. La rose vit une heure, et le cyprès cent ans."
Portia has gone into an inner room, and now returns with a basin and a sponge. Very gently (and as though afraid each movement may increase his pain) she bathes his arm, glancing up at him every now and then to see if, indeed, she is adding to or decreasing his agony.
If the truth be told, I believe he feels no agony at all, so glad he is to know her touch, and see her face. When she has sponged his arm with excessive tenderness, she brings a cambric handkerchief, and, tearing it into strips, winds it round and round the torn flesh.
"Perhaps that will do until Dr. Bland can see it," she says hopefully. "At least tell me you are in less pain now, and that I have done you some small good."
"Small!" says Fabian.
"Ah! well," she says, lightly, "then I suppose I have succeeded, but you must promise me, nevertheless, that you will have a doctor to look at you."
Her tone is still exquisitely kind; but there is now a studied indifference about it that hurts him keenly. Perhaps in his surprise at this sudden change of manner he overlooks the fact that the difference is studied!
"I have given you too much trouble," he says, stupidly, in a leaden sort of way. "But, as you say, you have been successful, I feel hardly any pain now."
"Then I suppose I may dismiss you," she says, with a frugal little smile, just glancing at the half opened door. The nervousness, the sympathy is over, and she remembers how lost to social consideration is the man to whose comfort she has been contributing for the past twenty minutes.
"I have taken up too much of your time already," he says in a frozen tone, and then he turns and goes toward the door. But, after a moment's reflection, he faces round again abruptly, and comes up to her, and stands before her with set lips and eyes aflame. His nostrils are dilated, there is intense mental pressure discernible in every line of his face.
"I do not mistake you," he says, with slow vehemence; "I am not such a dullard that I should count your bare charity as friendship. You have succoured me, as you would, of your grace, no doubt have succoured the vilest criminal that walks the earth, were he in death or pain."
She has grown very pale, and is rather frightened, if her eyes speak truly.
"Now that the reaction has set in," he goes on, bitterly, "you believe you have demeaned yourself in that you have assisted one who – "
"You are saying what is not true," she says, in a low but clear voice; speaking slowly, and with difficulty, because her lips are white and dry.
"Am I?" exclaims he, passionately. "Say, if you can, that you believe me innocent of all guilt, and I will believe you!"
He pauses – she is silent. A terrible moment ensues, fraught with agony for Fabian, and still she makes no sign. Her hands, tightly clasped, are hanging before her; her head is turned aside; her eyes persistently seek the floor. As if every nerve in her body is strung to excess, she stands so motionless that she might almost be a statue cut in marble.
Her silence is painfully eloquent. Fabian, in an excess of passion, tears off the cambric bandages from his arm, and flings them at her feet.
"I will have none of your charity," he says, with pale lips, and, throwing wide the door, strides down the corridor, and is soon beyond recall.
When the last echo of his feet has died away Portia rouses herself, and, moving towards a low chair near the fireplace, sinks into it, and presses her hands convulsively against her heart.
Now that she is at last alone, the excitement of the last hour begins to tell upon her. Her cheeks and lips, that up to this have been positively bloodless, now grow dyed with richest crimson, that is certainly not of this earth – earthy, as it gives no promise of health or youthful strength. She leans back in her chair as if exhausted; and, in truth, in the fair shell that harbors her soul but very little power remains to battle with the varied thoughts that rise within her.
Scene by scene the events of the last hour spread themselves before her: the maddened brute rushing violently over the soft, smooth lawn to where the treacherous stream awaits him, running gently between its damp green banks – Sir Christopher's danger – Fabian's unexpected interference – the short, but terrible fear for him – and then the sudden fall from the extreme agony of suspense to comparative calm.
And yet, perhaps, all this does not haunt her so much as one or two other things, that, in reality, were of little moment. That time, for instance, when he – Fabian – stood beneath the balcony, and when he, with a glance, a half-spoken word, accused her of coldness and indifference. He had condemned her all too willingly. But this was only fair, no doubt. Had not she, in her innermost heart, condemned him, unheard, unquestioned.
And what was it he had said to Dulce? "Take example by your cousin; see how sensible she can be," or something like that. Sensible! When this terrible pain was tugging at her heart strings, and prolonged nervousness had made speech impossible.
And why had he said "your cousin," instead of "our cousin?" Was it that he did not care to claim kinship with her, or because – because – he did not count himself worthy – to —
Again she raises her hand, and presses it with undue force against her left side. She is unhappy and alone, and full of a vague uncertainty.
"Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows," and all the shadows of her grief seem now to hem her in, and encompass her on every side. The old troublesome pain in her heart, that drove her from the dissipations of town life to seek a shelter in the quiet country, returns to her again. At this moment the pain of which I speak grows almost past endurance. A faint, gray pallor supersedes the vivid carmine of a while ago. She sighs with evident difficulty, and sinks back heavily amongst her cushions.
CHAPTER XII
"Friendship is constant in all other things,
Save in the office and affairs of love."
– Much Ado About Nothing.
"I should think if we are going to give our dance at all, it ought to be soon," says Dulce, with a shrug and a somewhat listless little yawn.
"So we ought," says Dicky Browne, briskly. It seems the most natural thing in the world that he should use the first person plural, and that he should appear to be the chief promoter of the dance in question. "We've been talking of it a considerable lot, you know," he goes on, confidentially, "and they will all think it a dodge on your part if you don't give it within the next fortnight."
"A dodge!" says Miss Blount, very justly incensed. "What dodge?"
"Well, look here," says Dicky – "there once was a fellow – "
He breaks off at this interesting juncture, and, fixing his glass in his best eye, stares at a figure coming slowly towards them from the house. They all follow his gaze, and find themselves criticising the approaching form in a vague, surprised fashion.
"Great hat! look at Julia!" says Dicky, at last, giving way to speech that will not be repressed. The exclamation is quite in keeping with the scene. Julia, in a head gear of the style usually described as a Rubens, of the very largest description, comes simpering up to them, filled with the belief that now, if ever, she is looking her very best. "Great" is the word for it. She is indeed all that.
"My dear Julia, where have you been!" says Dulce, ignoring the hat.
"Searching every room in the house for that last book of Ouida's," says Julia, promptly, who has in reality been posing before a mirror in her own room, crowned with a Rubens. "I'm always losing my things, you know – and my way; my boat, for example, and my train, and my umbrella." She is plainly impressed with the belief that she is saying something smart, and looks conscious of it.
"Why don't you add your temper," says Dicky Browne, with a mild smile – which rather spoils the effect of her would-be smartness.
"We were talking about our ball," says Dulce, somewhat quickly. "Dicky seems to think that we shall lose caste in the neighborhood if we put it off much longer."
"You'll create ill feeling," says Mr. Browne. "The Stanley girls have new gowns, and they want to show them. They'll say nasty things about you."
"That's your second hint on that subject," says Sir Mark. "Get it out, Dicky, you are dying to say something. What was it you were going to say a few minutes ago about some fellow who – ?"
"Who for seven years was going to give a ball, and was asked everywhere on the strength of it. His friends hoped against hope, don't you see, but nothing ever came of it. At the end of the seven years he was as far off it as ever."
"And what did his friends do to him then," asks Julia, who is one of those people who always want more than enough.
"Deponent sayeth not," says Mr. Browne. "Perhaps it was too dark a tale for publication. I suppose they either smote him between the joints of his harness till he died, or else they fell upon him in a body and rent him in pieces."
"What nonsense you can talk at times," says Mrs. Beaufort, mindful of his speech of a few moments ago.
"Not I," says Dicky Browne.
It is about four o'clock, and already the shadows are lengthening upon the grass, the soft, cool grass upon which they are all sitting beneath the shade of the huge chestnut trees, that fling their branches in all directions, some east, some west, some heavenwards.
A little breeze is blowing towards them sweet essences of pinewood and dark fir. Above in the clear sky the fleecy clouds assume each moment a new form – a yet more tender color – now pale blue, now gray, now a soft pink that verges upon crimson. Down far in the hollows a white mist is floating away, away, to the ocean, and there, too, can be seen (playing hide and seek amongst the great trunks of the giant elms) the flitting forms of the children dancing fantastically to and fro.
The scent of dying meadow-sweet is on the air, and the hush and the calm of evening.
"Dulce, command us to have tea out here," says Sir Mark, removing his cigarette from his lips for a moment.
"Dear Dulce, yes; that will be sweet," says Portia, who is very silent and very pale and very beautiful to-day.
"Dicky, go and tell some one to bring tea here directly," says Dulce; "and say they are to bring peaches for Portia, because she loves them, and say anything else you like for yourself."
"Thanks; Curaçao will do me very nicely," says Dicky, with all the promptitude that distinguishes him.
"And Maraschino," suggests Sir Mark, in the mildest tone.
"And just a suspicion of brandy," puts in Roger, almost affectionately. Overpowered by their amiability and their suggestions, Dicky turns towards the house.
"I fly," he says. "Think of me till my return."
"Do tell them to hurry, Dicky," says Dulce, anxiously. "They are always so slow. And tell them to bring lots of cake."
"You shall have it all in a couple of shakes," says Mr. Browne, encouragingly, if vulgarly.
"What's that?" asks Dulce, meaning reproof. "It isn't English, is it? How soon will it be?"
"Oh – half a jiff," returns he, totally unabashed.
Presently tea is brought, and they are all happy, notably Dicky, who walks round and into the cakes with unceasing fervor.
"By-the-by, I wonder Stephen hasn't been here to-day," says Julia, addressing no one in particular.
"Something better to do, perhaps," says Portia.
"Yes – where can he be?" says Dulce, waking into sudden animation. "'Something better to do?' Why, what could that be?"
"Writing sonnets to your eyebrow," answers Roger in an unpleasant tone.
"How clever you are!" retorts she, in a tone even more unpleasant, letting her white lids fall until they half-conceal the scorn in her eyes. Only half!
"He is such a jail bird – I beg his pardon, a town bird," says Sir Mark, lazily, "that I didn't think anything could keep him in the country so long. Yet, he doesn't look bored. He bears the solitary confinement very well."
"There is shooting, isn't there?" suggests Portia.
"Any amount of it," says Dicky; "but that don't solve the mystery. He couldn't shoot a haystack flying, not if his life depended on it. It's suicide to go out with him! He'd as soon shoot you or me as anything else. I always say the grouse ought to love him; because I don't believe he knows the barrel of his gun from the stock."
"How perfectly dreadful!" exclaims Julia, who always takes everything au grand serieux.
"There is other game in the country besides grouse," says Roger, in a peculiar tone.
"I dare say he can't bear to leave that dear old house now he has got into it," says Dulce; "it is so lovely, so quaint, so – "
"Now, is it?" asks Dicky Browne, meditatively. "I've seen nicer, I think. I always feel, when there, as if everything, ceilings, roof and all were coming down on my unfortunate head."
"But it is so old, so picturesque; a perfect dream, I think," says Dulce, rather affectedly.
"It isn't half a bad place, but not to be compared to The Moors, surely," says Sir Mark, gently, looking with some reproof at Dulce – reproof the spoiled child resents – The Moors is Roger's home. "I think The Moors one of the most beautiful places in England."
"And one of the draughtiest," says Miss Blount, ungraciously. "I was there once. It was a year ago. It occurred to me, I remember, that the sun had forgotten it; indeed, I had but one thought all the time I stayed."
"And that was?" asks Roger, defiantly.
"How to get away from it again as soon as possible."
"I am sorry my old home found such disfavor in your sight," says Roger, so quietly that remorse wakes within her breast, bringing with it, however, no good result, rather adding fuel to the flame that has been burning brightly since breakfast time. His rebuke is so abominably mild that it brings Miss Blount to the very verge of open wrath.
"I think Stephen such a dear fellow," says Julia, at this critical juncture. "So – er – well read, and that."
"Yes; though, I think, I have known better," says Sir Mark, looking at Dulce.
"Poor Mr. Gower," says that young lady, airily; "everyone seems determined to decry him. What has he done to everybody, and why should comparisons be drawn? There may be better people, and there may be worse; but – I like him."
"Lucky he," says Roger, with a faint but distinct sneer, his temper forsaking him; "I could almost wish that I were he."
"I could almost wish it, too," says Dulce, with cruel frankness.
"Thank you." Roger, by this time, is in a very respectable passion, though nobody but he and Dulce have heard the last three sentences. "Perhaps," he says, deliberately, "it will be my most generous course to resign in favor of – "
"More tea, Portia?" interrupts Dulce, very quickly, in a tone that trembles ever so slightly.
"No, thank you. But, Dulce, I want you near me. Come and sit here."
There is anxiety, mixed with entreaty, in her tone. She has noticed the anger in Roger's face, and the defiance in Dulce's soft eyes, and she is grieved and sorry for them both.
But, Dulce, who is in a very bad mood indeed, will take no notice of either the entreaty or the grief.
"How can I?" she says, with a slow lifting of her brows. "Who will give anybody any tea, if I go away from this? And – " Here she pauses, and her eyes fix themselves upon a break in the belt of firs, low down, at the end of the lawn. "Ah," she says, with a swift blush, "you see I shall be wanted at my post for a little while longer, because – here is Mr. Gower, at last!"
The "at last" is intolerably flattering, though it is a question if the new comer hears it. He is crossing over the soft grass; his hat is in his hand; his eyes dark and smiling. He looks glad, expectant, happy.
"What superfluous surprise," says Roger to Dulce, with even a broader sneer than his last. "He always is here, isn't he!"
"Yes; isn't it good of him to come," says Miss Blount, with a suspicious dulness – Stephen has not yet come quite close to them. "We are always so wretchedly stupid here, and he is so charming, and so good to look at, and always in such a perfect temper!" As she finishes her sentence she turns her large eyes full on her fiancé.
Roger, muttering something untranslatable between his teeth, moves away, and then Gower comes up, and Dulce gives him her hand and her prettiest smile, and presently he sinks upon the grass at her feet, and lies there in a graceful position that enables him to gaze without trouble upon her piquante face. He is undeniably handsome, and is very clean-limbed, and has something peculiar about his smile that takes women as a rule.
"How d'ye do?" he says to Roger presently, when that young man comes within range, bestowing upon him a little nod. Whereon Roger says the same to him in a tone of the utmost bonhommie, which, if hypocritical, is certainly very well done, after which conversation once more flows smoothly onwards.
"What were you doing all day?" asks Dulce of the knight at her feet, throwing even kinder feeling than usual into her tone, as she becomes aware that Roger's eyes are fixed upon her.
"Wishing myself here," replies Gower, with a readiness that bespeaks truth.
"What a simple thing to say," murmurs Dulce, with a half-smile, glancing at him from under her long lashes. "But how difficult to believe. After all," with a wilful touch of coquetry, "I don't believe you ever do mean anything you say."
"Don't you," says Gower, with an eagerness that might be born of either passion or amusement. "You wrong me then. And some day – some day, perhaps, I shall be able to prove to you that what I say I mean." Then, probably, the recollection of many things comes to him, and the quick, warm light dies out of his eyes, and it is with an utter change of tone and manner he speaks next.
"Now, tell me what you were doing all day?" he says, lightly.
"Not very much; the hours dragged a little, I think. Just now, as you came to us, we were discussing – " it is almost on her lips the word "you," but she suppresses it in time, and goes on easily – "a dance we must give as soon as possible."
"An undertaking down here, I suppose?" says Gower, doubtfully; "yet a change, after all. And, of course, you are fond of dancing?" with a passing glance, that is almost a caress, at her lithe, svelte figure.
"Yes, very; but I don't care about having a ball here." She says this with a sigh; then she pauses, and a shade saddens her face.
"But why?" asks he, surprised.
"There are many reasons – many. And you might not understand," she says, rather confusedly. She turns her face away from his, and in doing so meets Portia's eyes. She has evidently been listening to what Dulce has just said, and now gives back her cousin's gaze as though against her will. After a moment she slowly averts her face, as if seeking to hide the pallor that is rendering even her lips white.
"Both my evening suits are unwearable," says Dicky Browne, mournfully. "I shall have to run up to town to get some fresh things." He says this deprecatingly, as though utterly assured of the fact that every one will miss him horribly.
"You won't be long away, Dicky, will you?" says Roger, tearfully; at which Dulce, forgetful for the instant of the late feud, laughs aloud.
"I can't think what's the matter with me," says Dicky, still mournful; "my clothes don't last any time. A month seems to put 'em out of shape, and make 'em unwearable."
"No wonder," says Sir Mark, "when you get them made by a fellow out of the swim altogether. Where does he live? Cheapside or Westbourne Grove?"
"No; the Strand," says Mr. Browne, to whom shame is unknown, "if you mean Jerry."
"Dicky employs Jerry because his name is Browne," says Roger. "He's a hanger-on of the family, and is popularly supposed to be a poor relation, a sort of country cousin. Dicky proudly supports him in spite or public opinion. It is very noble of him."
"The governor sent me to him when I was a young chap – for punishment, I think," says Dicky, mildly, "and I don't like to give him up now. He is such a fetching old thing, and so conversational, and takes such an interest in my nether limbs."
"Who are you talking of in such laudatory terms?" asks Dulce, curiously, raising her head at this moment.
"Of Jerry – my tailor," says Dicky, confidentially.
"Ah! A good man, but – er – tiresome," says Julia, vaguely, with a cleverly suppressed yawn; she is evidently under the impression that they are discussing Jeremy Taylor, not the gentleman in the Strand.
"Is he good?" asks Dicky, somewhat at sea. "A capital fellow to make trousers, I know, but for his morality I can't vouch."
"I am speaking of the divine, Jeremy Taylor," says Julia, very justly shocked at what she believes to be levity on the part of Dicky. "He didn't make trousers, he only made maxims!"
"Poor soul!" says Mr. Browne, with heartfelt pity in his tone, to whom Jeremy Taylor is a revelation, and a sad one. "Did he die of 'em?"
Of this frivolous remark Julia deigns to take no notice. And, indeed, they are all too accustomed to Mr. Browne's eccentricities of style to spend time trying to unravel them.
"You haven't yet explained to me the important business that kept you at home all day," Dulce is saying to Mr. Gower. She is leaning slightly forward, and is looking down into his eyes.
"Tenants and a steward, and such like abominations," he says, rather absently. Then, his glance wandering to her little white, slender fingers, that are idly trifling with her fan, "By-the-by," he goes on, "the steward – Mayne, you know – can write with both hands. Odd, isn't it? Just as well with his left as with his right."
"A rather useless accomplishment, I should think."
"I don't know. It occurred to me we should all learn how to do it, in case we should break our arms, or our legs, or anything."
"What on earth would our legs have to do with it," says Miss Blount, with a gay little laugh, which he echoes.
"Oh? well, in case we should sprain our right wrists, then. When Mayne went away I tried if I could make use of my left hand, and succeeded rather well. Look here, you hold your hand like this."
"It sounds difficult," says Dulce, doubtfully.
"It isn't though, really. Will you try?" Taking a pencil and an envelope from his pocket, he lays the latter on her knee, and hands her the former. "Now let me hold your hand just at first to guide you, and you will soon see how simple it is. Only practice is required."
"It will take a good deal of practice and a good deal of guidance, I shouldn't wonder," says Miss Blount, smiling.
"That will be my gain," returns he in a low tone. As he speaks he lays his hand on hers, and directs the pencil; so the lesson begins; and so it continues uninterrupted for several minutes; Dulce is getting on quite smoothly; Mr. Gower is plainly interested in a very high degree, when Roger, coming up to them, lays his hand lightly upon Dulce's shoulder. He is still passionately angry, and almost unable to control himself. To see Dulce's fingers clasped by those of Gower, however innocently, has fired his wrath, and driven him to open expression of his displeasure.
"If you have forgotten how to write, Dulce," he says in a low, strained voice, "I daresay it will be possible to find a master to re-instruct you. In the meantime, why trouble Gower?"
"Does it trouble you, Mr. Gower?" asks she, sweetly, looking straight at Stephen and ignoring Roger.
"Need I answer that?" responds he, flushing warmly, and in his turn ignoring Dare.
"Then you need not worry yourself to get me a master, Roger," says Dulce, still quite sweetly. "It is very good of you to wish to take such trouble about me, but you see I have got one already."
"Not a master – a slave!" says Gower, impulsively. There's such evident and earnest meaning in his tone that she colors violently, and, with a rather open manifestation of shrinking, withdraws her hand from his clasp; the pencil falls to the ground, but Roger has turned aside, and this last act on her part is unseen by him.
"Is anything the matter with Roger?" says Gower, slowly.
"What should be the matter with him?" asks she, coldly.
"Do you remember what we were reading yesterday? Do you remember even one particular line? It comes to me now. 'So loving jealous.' You recollect?"
"No; and even if I did, what has it to do with Roger?"
"Nothing —perhaps." There is a small fine smile around his lips that incenses her, she scarcely knows why.
"Then what does your quotation mean?"
"Nothing, too, no doubt. Shall we go on with our lesson?"
"No, I am tired of it," she says, petulantly. "I like nothing, I think, for very long." She has grown somewhat restless, and her eyes are wistful. They are following Roger, who has thrown himself at Portia's feet.
"Are your friendships, too, short-lived?" asks Gower, biting his lips. You can see that he is lounging on the grass, and at this moment, having raised his hand, it falls again, by chance upon her instep.
Remorse and regret have been companions of her bosom for the past minute, now they quicken into extreme anger. Pushing back the garden chair on which she has been sitting, she stands up and confronts the stricken Gower with indignant eyes.
"Don't do that again," she says, with trembling lips. Her whole attitude – voice and expression – are undeniably childish, yet she frightens Gower nearly out of his wits.
"I beg your pardon," he stammers, eagerly, growing quite white. "I must insist on your understanding I did not mean it. How could you think it? I – "
At this instant Roger laughs. The laugh comes to Dulce as she stands before Gower grieved and angry and repentant, and her whole face changes. The grief and the repentance vanish, the very anger fades into weariness.
"Yes, I believe you – I was foolish – it doesn't matter," she says, heavily; and then she sinks into her seat again, and taking a small volume of selected poetry from a rustic table at her elbow, throws it into his lap.
"Read me something," she says, gently.
"What shall I select?" asks Stephen, puzzled by the sudden change in her manner, but anxious to please her.
"Anything. It hardly matters; they are all pretty," she says, disconnectedly, and so indifferently that he is fairly piqued; his reading being one of his strongest points; and taking up the book, he opens it at random, and begins to read in a low, sweet, rhyming voice that certainly carries its own charm.
Dulce, in spite of herself, is by degrees drawn to listen to it; yet though the words so softly spoken attract her and chain her attention, there is always a line of discontent around her lovely mouth, and a certain angry petulance within her eyes, and in the gesture with which she furls and unfurls her huge black fan.
Dicky Browne, who has confiscated all the cake, and is therefore free to go where he lists, has drawn near to her, and, under cover of a cigarette, is pretending to be absorbed in the poetry. Gower has fallen now upon Gray's Elegy in a Churchyard, and is getting through it most effectively. All the others have grown silent, either touched by the beauty of the dying daylight, or the tender lines that are falling on the air. When at length Stephen finishes the poem, and his voice ceases to break the stillness of the coming eve, no one stirs, and an utter calm ensues. It is broken by the irrepressible Julia.