Portia; Or, By Passions Rocked
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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 gladI' the freshness of its morning.""I have come to say good-night to you, Fabian," she says, regarding her brother with loving, wistful eyes. "I suppose I shan't be able to see you again until to-morrow. Promise me you will go to bed, and to sleep, soon."
"That is the very simplest promise one can give," returns he, mockingly. "Why should not one sleep?" Then, seeing the extreme sadness that has settled on 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.
CHAPTER XIV
"What sudden anger's this? How have I reaped it? He parted frowning from me, as if ruin leaped from his eyes." – Shakespeare.
The night wears on. By this time everybody is either pleased or disappointed with the evening. For the most part, of course, they looked pleased, because frowns are unbecoming; but, then, looks go for so little.
Julia, who has impounded a middle-aged baronet, is radiant. The middle-aged baronet is not! He evidently regards Julia as a sort of modern albatross, that hangs heavily to his neck, and withers beneath her touch. She has been telling him all about her early life in India, and her troubles, and the way she suffered with her servants, and various other private matters; and the poor baronet doesn't seem to see it, and is very fatigued indeed. But Julia has him fast, and so there is little hope for him.
Dulce and Roger have been at open war ever since the second dance. From their eyes, when directed at each other, have darted forked lightning since that fatal dance.
"If they could only have been kept apart for 'this night only,'" says Sir Mark, in despair, "all might have been well; but the gods ordained otherwise."
Perhaps the careless gods had Stephen Gower's case in consideration; at all events, that calm young man, profiting by the dispute between the betrothed pair, has been making decided, if smothered, love to Dulce, all the evening.
By this time, indeed, the whole room has noticed his infatuation, and covert remarks about the probability of her carrying on to a successful finish her first engagement are whispered here and there.
Sir Christopher is looking grave and anxious. Some kind friend has been making him as uncomfortable about Dulce's future as circumstances will permit.
Meanwhile, Dulce herself, with a bright flush upon her cheeks and a light born of defiance in her blue-green eyes, is dancing gaily with Stephen, and is looking charming enough to draw all eyes upon her.
Dicky Browne, of course, is in his element. He is dancing with everybody, talking to everybody, flirting with everybody, and is, as he himself declares, "as jolly as a sand boy." He is making love indiscriminately all round – with old maids and young – married and single – with the most touching impartiality.
"Dicky is like the bee amongst the flowerets. By Jove, if he improves the shining hours, he ought to make a good match yet," says Dicky's papa, who has condescended to forsake his club for one night, and grace Dulce's ball with his somewhat attenuated charms.
As the above speech will prove, Mr. Browne senior's knowledge of Watts and Tommy Moore is limited and decidedly mixed.
Among all the fair women assembled at the Hall to-night, to Portia, beyond dispute, must the golden apple be awarded. She is still pale, but exceedingly beautiful. The wistful, tired expression that darkens her eyes only serves to heighten her loveliness, and throw out the delicate tinting of her fair skin. Dulce, noticing her extreme pallor, goes up to her, and whispers gently:
"You are tired, darling. Do not dance any more, unless you wish it."
"I am not sure, I don't wish it; I don't exactly know what it is I do wish," says Portia, with a rather broken smile. "I daresay, like most other things in this life, I shall find out all about it when it is too late. But finish your waltz, dearest, and don't puzzle your brain about me."
All the windows are thrown wide open. Outside the heavens are alight with stars. The air is heavy with the breath of dying flowers, and the music – faint and low at times, and again wild and sweet – rises and swells as the director waves to and fro his magic wand.
Inside, in the conservatories, the lamps are burning low; the tender blossoms are hanging down their heads. Between the dark green branches of the shrubs, lights blue and red and yellow gleam softly. In the distance may be heard the plaintive drip-drip of many fountains.
Roger, passing through one of the halls, and seeing Dulce and Mr. Gower standing before a huge Chelsea bowl of flowers, stops short, hesitates, and then, bon gre mal gre, goes up to them and makes some trivial remark that neither deserves an answer nor gets one.
Dulce is apparently wrapped up in the contemplation of a flower she has taken from the old bowl – that looks something like an indoor Marguerite; she is plucking it slowly to pieces, and as she so mutilates it, whispers softly the incantation that will help to declare her fortune:
"Il m'aime – un peu – beaucoup – passionément – pas du tout. Il m'aime – un peu – "
The petals are all gone; nothing remains but the very heart of the poor flower, which now, as she breaks it mercilessly in two, flutters sadly to her feet, and dies there.
"Yes – just so," she says, with a little hostile glance at Roger, distinctly seen by Gower – "and such a very little, that it need hardly count!"
"What an unsatisfactory lover," says Roger, rather satirically, returning her glance with interest. "Of whom were you thinking?"
"My dear Roger, you forget," says Miss Blount, with admirable promptitude; "how could I think of any one in that light! I have never had a lover in my life. I have only had —you!" She says this slowly, and lets her lids fall half over her eyes, that are now gleaming with undue brilliancy.
"True!" replies Dare, with maddening concurrence, stroking his mustache softly.
"Isn't Roger charming," says Dulce (her own manner deeply aggravating in its turn), tapping Gower's arm lightly and confidentially with her fan; "so honest and withal so gracious."
"A compliment from you is, indeed, worth having," says Roger, who is in a dreadful temper; "but a truce to them now. By-the-by, were you really thinking of me just now when you plucked that unoffending flower to pieces? I can hardly bring myself to believe it."
"If not of you, of whom should I be thinking?" retorts she, calmly but defiantly.
"Well – Gower, for example," says Roger, with a sneering laugh, and unpardonable bad taste. "He looks as though he could do a lover's part at a moment's notice, and without the slightest effort."
As he makes this objectionable little speech, he turns on his heel and leaves them.
Dulce, crimson, and with her breath coming somewhat quickly, still lets her eyes meet Gower's bravely.
"I must ask you to excuse my cousin," she says, quietly. "How warm the rooms are; is there no air anywhere, I wonder?"
"On the balcony there is," says Gower, gently. "Shall we go there for a minute or two?"
She lays her hand upon his arm, and goes with him through the lighted, heavily-perfumed rooms on to the balcony, where the cool air is blowing, and where the fresh scent from the waving pines makes itself felt.
The moon is sailing in all its grandeur overhead. Below, the world is white with its glory. The music of many rivulets, as they rush sleepless to the river, sounds sweeter far than even the strains of the band within.
It is past midnight. The stars are growing pale. Already the "world's heart" begins to throb,
"And a wind blows,With unknown freshness over lands and seas."Something in the silence and majesty of the hour, and something, perhaps, within her own heart, brings the unbidden tears to Dulce's eyes.
"What can be the matter with Roger?" asks Stephen, presently, in a low tone. "We used to be such good friends, long ago. I never saw anyone so changed. He used to be a genial sort of fellow." The emphasis is very expressive.
"Used he?" says Dulce, in a somewhat expressionless tone.
"Yes; a right down good sort."
"Is he so very bad now?" says Dulce, deliberately and dishonestly ignorant.
"To you – yes."
There is a pause.
"I think I hardly understand you," she says, in a tone that should have warned him to be silent.
"Have you forgotten the scene of a moment since?" he asks her, eagerly. "His voice, his glance, his whole manner were unbearable; you bore it like an angel – but – why should you bear anything? Why should you trouble yourself about him at all? Why not show that you care as little for him as he cares for – "
"Go on," says Dulce, imperiously.
"As he cares for you, then," says Stephen, recklessly.
"You have been studying us to some purpose, evidently," exclaims Dulce, turning to him with extreme bitterness. "I suppose, indeed, you are not alone in your judgment. I daresay it is apparent to the whole world that I am a matter of perfect indifference to – to – my cousin!"
"'Who runs may read,'" says Stephen with quiet determination. "Why should I lie to you? He must be blind and deaf, I think – it is not to be accounted for in any other way. Why, that other morning in the garden, you remember how he then – "
"I remember nothing," interrupts she, haughtily, turning away from him, deep offence in her eyes.
But he follows her.
"Now you are angry with me," he says, miserably, trying to look into her averted face.
"Why should I be angry?" she says, petulantly. "Is it because you tell me Roger does not care for me? Do you think I did not know that before? It is, indeed, a question with me whether I am or am not an object of aversion to the man I have promised to marry."
"You speak very hardly," he says.
"I speak what is in my heart," says Dulce, tremulously.
"Nevertheless, I should not have said what I did," says Stephen, remorsefully, "I know that. Whatever I might have thought, I should have kept it to myself; but" – in a low tone – "it maddens me to see you give yourself voluntarily to one incapable of appreciating the treasure that has fallen to his share – a treasure beyond price – when there are others who, for a word, a glance, a smile, would barter – "
He pauses. His voice is trembling. His eyes are bent upon the ground as though he is half afraid to meet her glance. There is genuine feeling in his tone.
Dulce, impressed by his open agitation, in spite of herself, leans over the balcony, and lets her fingers wander nervously amongst the leaves of the Virginian creeper that has intertwined itself in the ironwork, and is now fluttering within her reach. It is gleaming blood-red beneath the kiss of the fickle moonbeams, that dance hither and thither amidst its crimson foliage.
Plucking two or three of the reddest leaves, she trifles with them gently, and concentrating all her attention on them, gives herself an excuse for avoiding Stephen's earnest gaze. Her hands are unsteady. She is affected by the sincerity of his manner; and just now, too, she is feeling hurt and wounded, and, perhaps, a little reckless. Her self-pride (that dearest possession of a woman) has sustained a severe shock; for the first time she has been awakened to the fact that the whole country considers her as naught in the eyes of the man whose wife she has promised to be.
To prove to the country that she is as indifferent to Roger as he (it appears) is to her, becomes a settled desire within her heart; the more she dwells upon this, the more sweet it seems to her that there should be another man willing to be her slave; another in whose sight she is all that a woman should be, and to whom each tone of her voice, each glance of her soft eyes, is as a touch of heaven!
Her silence emboldening Gower, he bends over her, and lays his hand upon the slender fingers that are still holding the scarlet leaves of the Virginian creeper.
"Do you understand me?" he asks, nervously.
"Yes."
She feels almost constrained to answer him honestly, so compelling is the extreme earnestness of his manner.
"It seems a paltry thing now to say that I love you," goes on Gower in an impassioned tone that carries her away with it, now that she is sore at heart; "You know that. You have known it for weeks." He puts aside with a gesture her feeble attempt at contradiction. "Every thought of my heart is yours; I live only in the hope that I shall soon see you again. Tell me now honestly, would it be possible to break off this engagement with your cousin?"
At this she shrinks a little from him, and a distressed look comes into her beautiful eyes.
"What are you saying?" she says, in a half-frightened way. "It has been going on for so long, this engagement —always, as it seems to me. How should I break it off? And then there is Uncle Christopher, he would be unhappy; he would not forgive, and – besides – "
Her voice dies away. Memory vague but sharp, comes to her. If she should now deliberately discard Roger, how will it be with her in the future? And yet what if he should be glad of his freedom; should welcome it with open arms? If, indeed, he should be only waiting for her to take the initiative, and give him his release!
This reflection carries its sting; there is madness in it. She closes her lips firmly, and her breath comes quickly and uncertainly.
"It will be better for you later on," breaks in Gower, tempting her, surely but quietly. "When you are married – it is all very well for you now, when escape at any moment is possible; but when you are irrevocably bound to an unloving husband how will it be with you? Other women have tried it, and how has it ended with them? Not as it will with you, I know; you are far above the many; but still your life will drag with you – there will be no joy! no sympathy! no – Dulce have pity on yourself (I do not say on me), and save yourself while you can."
She makes a last faint protest.
"How do you know he does not love me?" she asks, painfully. "How can you be sure? – and at least" – wistfully – "we are accustomed to each other, we have known each other all our lives, and we have quarrelled so hard already that we can scarcely do anything more – the worst with us is over."
"It will be different then," says Gower – he is speaking from his heart in all honesty. "Now you belong to him only in an improbable fashion; then – "
"It is your belief that he does not love me at all?" interrupts she, tapping her foot impatiently upon the ground.
"It is my belief," returns he slowly.
Almost as he speaks, some one steps from the lighted room beyond on the balcony and approaches them. It is Roger.
"This is ours, I think," he says, addressing Dulce, and alluding to the waltz just commencing.
"Is it – what a pity; I had quite forgotten," she says, wilfully. "I am afraid I have half promised it to Mr. Gower, and you know he dances charmingly."
The emphasis not to be mistaken. The remark, of course, is meant alone for Roger, and he alone hears it. Gower has gone away from them a yard or two and is buried in thought. As Roger dances divinely her remark is most uncalled for and vexes him more than he would care to confess.
"Don't let me interfere with you and your new friend," he says, lifting his brows. "If you want to dance all night with Gower, by all means do it; there is really no earthly reason why you shouldn't."
Here, as his own name falls upon his ears, Gower turns and looks at Roger expectantly.
"I absolve you willingly from your engagement to me," goes on Roger, his eyes fixed upon his wilful cousin, his face cold and hard. The extreme calmness of his tone misleads her. Her lips tighten. A light born of passionate anger darkens her gray eyes.