DULCIE'S NEW FRIEND.
And how fared it with Dulcie at Craigengowan?
The season was the early days of April; but in the Mearns they are
usually more like last days of March, when the Bervie, the Finella
River, and their tributaries were hurrying towards the sea in haste,
as if they had no time to dally with the pebbles and boulders that
impeded them; when the early-yeaned lambs begin to gambol and play,
and the cloud and sunshine seem to chase each other over the tender
grass; and when violets, as Shakspeare has it, 'sweeter than the lids
of Juno's eyes,' give their fragrance to the passing breeze.
As yet Dulcie knew nothing of what had exactly befallen Florian, like
many others who had deep and thrilling interest in the lists of the
sergeants, rank and file.
Like Finella, Shafto knew that Hammersley's name had not appeared in
the list of casualties, and he remembered him--jealousy apart--with a
bitter hatred; for latterly the former, even before the affair of the
cards, had been very cold, and many a time, notwithstanding Shafto's
position in the house, used to honour him with only a calm and
supercilious stare. Now it has been said truly that there are few
things more irritating to one's vanity than to be calmly ignored.
'Argument, disagreement, even insolence, are each in their way easier
to bear than that species of lofty indifference intended to convey a
sensation of inferiority and of belonging to a lower class of beings
altogether. It gives the feeling of there being something _wrong_
about you without your exactly knowing _what_.'
But Shafto felt the falsehood of his position whenever he was with
supposed equals and failed to assume perfect confidence or proper
dignity.
Though comfortable enough in her new surroundings, Dulcie was
somewhat changed from the winsome and impulsive Dulcie whom we first
described in the sailor's hat and blue serge suit at Revelstoke.
Though her keener grief had subsided, anxiety about Florian, who had
not another creature in the world to love him but herself, and a
natural doubt about her own future had stolen the roundness from her
cheeks, and the roseleaf tints too, while her skin in its delicate
whiteness had become waxen in aspect, and the coils of her red golden
hair seemed almost too heavy for her shapely head and slender neck.
But she was far from idle. She had 'my lady's' lap-dog, a snarling
little brute whose teeth filled her with terror, to feed and comb
daily; she had much 'lovely china' to dust; a wardrobe to attend to,
and rich laces to darn; she had notes innumerable to write; and be
always smiling and lively as well as useful when her heart was full
of dull pain and despondency concerning the unfortunate Florian,
which at night especially put her in a species of fever, and made her
turn and toss restlessly on her pillow, and start from sleep with a
little cry of terror as she flung out her arms as if to ward off the
frightful thoughts of what might be happening, or had happened
already, so far, far away. And all this was the harder to bear
because she was then without a friend or confidant with whom she
could share the burden of her secret sorrow.
She had been some time at Cravengowan before she discovered in its
place of honour the portrait of young Lennard Melfort, which had been
so long relegated to a lumber-attic, and its resemblance to 'Major
MacIan,' even in his elder years, startled and amazed her; moreover,
it was still more wonderful that it so closely resembled Florian,
whom all at Revelstoke were astounded to hear was only the Major's
nephew, and not his son, while Shafto, she saw, bore no likeness to
the picture at all.
She was never weary of looking at it, and asking questions of Finella
about Lennard, which that young lady was unable to answer, as that
which had happened to him occurred long before she was born.
As for Shafto, he never dared to look at this work of art. Though
the portrait of a young man, and his last memory of the Major was
that of a prematurely old one, the likeness between the two was
marvellous; and its deep, thoughtful eyes seemed to follow, to haunt,
and to menace him. He loathed it; and though one of the best efforts
of Sir Daniel Macnee, the President of the Royal Scottish Academy, he
would fain, if he could, have found some plan for its destruction.
He avoided, however, as much as possible, the apartment in which it
hung.
To his annoyance, one morning, he found Dulcie radiant with joy, and
an ugly word hovered on his lips when he discovered the cause thereof.
She had been reading about the march of the relieving column towards
Etschowe under Lord Chelmsford, and saw Florian's name mentioned in
connection with a brilliant scouting exploit of the Mounted Infantry
under Captain Hammersley; and a great happiness thrilled her heart,
for now she knew that, up to the date given, he was alive and well,
and she thought of writing to him, but would he ever get the
letter?--she knew nothing of the camp postal arrangements, and feared
it might be futile to do so. Moreover, she had an irrepressible
dread of Lady Fettercairn, whose bearing to her was as cold as that
of Finella was kind and warm.
'Don't you ever wear flowers in your hair, Miss Carlyon?' said the
latter, as she regarded with honest admiration the glories of
Dulcie's ruddy hair shot with gold.
'No.'
'Why?'
'So few tints go well with my hair: people call it red,' said Dulcie.
'People who are your enemies.'
'I never had an enemy,' said Dulcie simply.
'That I can well believe. Then it must be those who are envious of
your loveliness,' added Finella frankly.
'A pink or crimson rose would never do in my hair, Miss Melfort.'
'But a white one would,' said Finella, selecting a creamy white rose
from a conservatory vase, and pinning it in Dulcie's hair, giving it
a kindly pat as she did so. 'Look, grandmamma; doesn't she look
lovely now?'
And the frank and impulsive girl would have kissed poor Dulcie but
for a cold and somewhat discouraging stare she encountered in the
eyes of Lady Fettercairn.
'Somehow, Miss Carlyon,' she whispered after a time, 'I don't get on
well with grandmamma. It is my fault, of course: I suppose I am a
little wretch!'
The friendship of these--though one was a wealthy heiress and the
other but a poor companion--grew rapidly apace; both were too warm
hearted, too affectionate and impulsive by habit, for it to be
otherwise, and it enabled them to pass hours together--though young
girls, like older ones, dearly love a little gossip of their own
kind--without any sense of embarrassment or weariness; for ere long
it came to pass that they shared their mutual confidence; and, as we
shall show, Finella came to speak of Vivian Hammersley to Dulcie, and
the latter to her of Florian. But there was something in Dulcie's
sweet soft face that made people older than Finella confide to her
their troubles and difficulties, for she was quick to sympathise with
and to understand all kinds of grief and sorrow.
One evening as they walked together on the terrace, and tossed
biscuit to a pair of stately long-necked swans, the white plumage of
which gleamed like snow in the setting sun as they swam gently to and
fro in an ornamental pond (a portion of the old moat) that lay in
front of the house, Dulcie said, with tears of gratitude glittering
in her blue eyes--
'You have done me a world of good by your great kindness of heart to
me, Finella--oh, I beg your pardon--Miss Melfort I mean--the name
escaped me,' exclaimed Dulcie, covered with confusion.
'Call me always Finella,' said the other emphatically.
'Oh, I dare not do so before Lady Fettercairn.'
'Then do so at other times, Dulcie. You talk of doing you good--I do
not believe anyone could have the heart to do you harm.'
'Why?'
'You seem so good--so pure, so simple. Oh, I do love you, Dulcie!'
she exclaimed, with true girlish effusiveness.
'I thank you very much; and yet we think you Scotch folks are cold
and stiff.'
'_We_--who?'
'The English, I mean.'
'They must be like the Arab who had never seen the world, and thought
it must be all his father's tent,' said Finella laughing; 'the
insular, untravelled English, I mean.'
'Such kindness is delightful to a lonely creature like me. I have
fortunately only myself to work for, however.'
'And no one else to think of?'
'Oh--yes--yes,' said the girl sadly and passionately; 'but he is far,
far away, and every day seems to make the void in my heart deeper,
the ache keener, the silence more hard to bear.'
'Our emotions seem somehow the same,' said Finella, after a pause.
Then thinking that she had perhaps admitted too much, or laid a
secret uselessly bare, Dulcie blushed, and thought to change the
subject by saying reflectively, 'How many great and pleasant things
one might do if one had the chance of doing so; but such chances
never come in my way, for every change with me has been for the
worse.'
'Not, I hope, in coming to Craigengowan?'
'Oh no; they are painful matters I refer to. First, I lost my dear
papa, and was thereby cast on the world penniless. Since then I have
lost one who loved me quite as well as papa did.'
'Another?' said Finella inquiringly.
'Yes; but let me not speak of that,' replied Dulcie hastily, and
colouring deeply again; so Finella, like a lady, thought to drop the
subject, but somehow, with the instinctive curiosity of her sex,
unconsciously revived it again, after a time.
Dulcie, however, perhaps forgetting her present position, and
remembering chiefly her old acquaintance with Shafto, was mystified.
She thought 'the cousins' were free to marry, so why don't they? If
engaged, they act strangely to each other--Finella to him
especially--thus she said:--
'Is there anything between Mr. Shafto and you, Finella?'
'Yes,' replied the latter, growing pale with anger.
'What is it?'
'Hatred on my part!'
'And on his?'
'Pretended love and--and--avarice. He knows I am rich.'
'But why hatred?' asked Dulcie, without surprise.
'That is my secret, Dulcie.'
'I beg your pardon, I have no right to question you. Surely you are
one of those people who always get what they wish for.'
'Why?--for riches do not always give happiness.'
'I mean because you are so good and sweet.'
But Finella shook her pretty head sadly as she thought of Vivian
Hammersley, and replied:
'Young says in his "Night Thoughts:"
'"Wishing of all employment is the worst!"
and Young was right, perhaps.'