"'Tis not mine to forget. Yet can I not
Remember what I would or what were well.
Memory plays tyrant with me, by a wand
I cannot master!"
--G. MELLEN.
PAST the roses, past the fragrant mignonette they go, the moon's soft
radiance rendering still more fair the whiteness of their rounded arms.
The dew lies heavy on leaf and flower. Motionless stand the roses, and
the drooping lilies, and the pansies, purple and yellow. "God Almighty,"
says Bacon, "first planted a garden; and indeed it is the purest of
human pleasures; it is the greatest refreshment to the spirits of man!"
Here, now, in this particular garden, where all is so deeply tranquil,
it seems as if life itself is at a standstill, and sin and suffering,
joy and ambition, are alike unknown. A "pure pleasure" it is indeed to
gaze upon it, and a great refreshment to any soul tired, or overwrought,
or sorrowful.
The stars are coming out slowly one by one, studding brilliantly the
pale, blue vault of heaven, while from a
"Thin fleecy cloud,
Like a fair virgin veil'd, the moon looks out
With such serene and sweet benignity
That night unknits his gloomy brows and smiles."
Dulce, plucking some pale blossom, lifts it to her lips, and kisses it
lightly. Portia, drawing a deep breath of intensest satisfaction, stands
quite still, and letting her clasped hands fall loosely before her,
contemplates the perfect scene in mute delight.
Presently, however, she shivers, a passing breeze has cast a chill upon
her.
"Ah! you are cold," says Dulce, anxiously; "how thoughtless I am; yes,
you are quite pale."
"Am I?" says Portia. "It was the standing here, I fancy. India gave me
bad habits, that, after three years, I find myself unable to conquer.
Every silly little wind strikes a chill to my heart."
"I shall get you a shawl in no time," says Dulcinea; "but keep walking
up and down while I am away, so as to keep your blood warm."
"Your command shall be obeyed," says Portia, smiling, and then Dulce,
turning, disappears quickly amongst the shadows, moving as swiftly as
her light young feet can carry her.
Portia, left alone, prepares to keep her promise, and walks slowly along
the graveled path once more. Turning a corner, again a glimpse of the
distant lake comes to her. It is entrancing; calm as sleep, and pure as
the moon above, whose image lies upon its breast.
Even as she looks the image fades--the "fleecy cloud" (jealous, perhaps,
of the beauty of the divine Artemis, and of Portia's open admiration of
her) has floated over her again, and driven her, for a little moment,
into positive obscurity.
The path grows dark, the lake loses its color. Portia, with a sigh,
moves on, confessing to herself the mutability of all things, and
pushing aside some low-lying branches of a heavily-scented shrub, finds
herself face to face with a tall young man, who, apparently, is as lost
in wonder at her appearance as she is at his!
She starts, perceptibly, and, only half-suppressing a faint exclamation
of fear, shrinks backwards.
"I beg your pardon," says the stranger, hastily. "I am afraid I have
frightened you. But, really, it was all the fault of the moon."
His voice is reassuring, and Portia, drawing her breath more freely,
feels just a little ashamed of her momentary terror.
"I am not frightened now," she says, with an upward glance, trying to
read, through the darkness, the face of him she addresses. The clouds
are scurrying swiftly across the sky, and now the moon shines forth
again triumphant, and all things grow clearer. She can see that he is
tall, dark, handsome, with a strange expression round his mouth that is
surely more acquired than natural, as it does not suit his other
features at all, and may be termed hard and reckless, and almost
defiant. His jaw is exquisitely turned. In his eyes is a settled
melancholy--altogether his face betrays strong emotions, severely
repressed, and is half-morbid and wholly sad, and, when all is said,
more attractive than forbidding.
Portia, gazing at him with interest, tells herself that years of mental
suffering could alone have produced the hard lines round the lips and
the weariness in the eyes. She has no time for further speculation,
however, and goes on quickly: "It was more than foolish of me; but I
quite forgot, I"--with some uncertainty--"should have remembered."
"What do you forget? and what should you have remembered?"
"I forgot that burglars do not, as a rule, I suppose, go about in
evening clothes; and I should have remembered"--with a smile--"that
there was yet another cousin to whom I had not been introduced."
"Yes; I am Fabian Blount," he says indifferently. He does not return her
smile. Almost he gives her the impression that at this moment he would
gladly have substituted another name for his own.
"Ah! you are Fabian," she says, half-puzzled by his manner.
"If you will take my word for it." His tone is even more strange as he
says this, and now he _does_ smile, but disagreeably.
Portia colors faintly.
"You have not asked me my name?" she says quietly. "I am Portia."
"What a very pretty name!" He has had a half-smoked cigar behind his
back all this time; now remembering it, he looks at it, and flings it
far from him. "It reminds one of many things; Shakespeare, I suppose
principally. I hope," looking at her, "_you_ will choose the right
casket."
"Thank you. That is a very kindly wish."
"How does it happen that you are here all alone?"
"I was cold; I always am. Dulcinea saw me shiver, I think, and ran to
get a shawl or some covering for me. That is all."
"She is a long time getting it, is she not?"
"Is she?" says Portia. This speech of his piques her a little. "Does it
seem long?"
"Very long, if one is to shiver all the time," replies he, calmly,
reading her resentment in her face, but taking no notice of it. "Much
too long to be out in this chilly night-air without sufficient clothing,
and with a wholesome dread of possible burglars full upon you. May I
stay with you till Dulce returns, and will you walk on a little? It is
foolish to stand still."
"I am sorry you threw away your cigar on my account. I am sure you want
it now."
"I don't believe I ever want anything," says Fabian, slowly; and then
they walk on again, returning by the way she had come. The
night-wallflower is flinging its perfume abroad, the seringas are making
sweet the air, a light eager wind rushes softly past them.
"It was a long drive," says Fabian, presently, with all the air of a man
who is determined to rouse himself--however against his will--and carry
on conversation of some sort. "Are you tired?"
"It _was_ long. But everything here is so new, so fresh, so sweet, that
I have forgotten to be tired."
"You are one of those, perhaps, who always find variety charming." As he
speaks he carefully removes a drooping branch of roses out of her way.
"Not quite always." She smiles as she defends herself. "I like old
friends, and old songs best. I am not absolutely fickle. But I have
always had a great desire to live in the country."
"People who have never tried it, always do have that desire."
"You think I shall be _desillusionne_ in a week? But I shall not. When
George had to return to India, I was so unhappy in the thought that
perhaps I should have to live in town until his return. Of course I
could have gone somewhere to live by myself, and could have found some
charming old lady to take care of me, but I am not fond of my own
society, and I can't bear charming old ladies."
"One feels quite sorry for the old ladies," says Fabian, absently.
"I was afraid I should have to put in my two years of waiting for
George, with Auntie Maud, and that would have been terrible. It would
mean seasons, and months at fashionable watering-places, which would be
only town out of town--the same thing all over again. I was so glad when
Uncle Christopher wrote to say he would like me to come here. I have
often wondered since," she says, suddenly--smiling somewhat wistfully,
and flushing a warm crimson,--"whether all of _you_ didn't look upon my
coming with disfavor."
"What put such a thought as that into your head?"
"A very natural one I think. A stranger coming to a household always
makes such a difference; and you had never met me, and you might not
like me, and--. Did any of you resent my coming?"
"No," says Fabian. There is no energy in his reply, yet it is impossible
to doubt that he means exactly what he says. "You must not begin by
thinking unkindly of us," he goes on, gently. "You may believe me when I
say none of us felt anything but pleasure at the idea of your coming."
"Yes? That was very good of you all." She is longing to say, "Yet you
see I kept you from dinner to-night," but after a moment's reflection
leaves it unsaid.
"I hope the country will not disappoint you," he says, after a slight
pause. "It is unwise to begin by expecting too much."
"How can it disappoint?" says Portia, with some intensity. She says
nothing more, but she lifts her lovely face to the starry sky, and puts
out her hands with a faint gesture, fraught with admiration, towards the
heavy flowers, the distant lake, the statues half hidden by the drooping
shrubs, and the moonlight sleeping upon all!
"There is always in the country, the sun, the flowers, and at night, the
moon," she says.
"Yet, the day will come, even for you, when there will be no sun, and
when the moon will refuse to give its light." He speaks peculiarly and
as though his thoughts are wandering far from her to other scenes in
which she holds no part.
"Still, there will always be the flowers," she says, quickly, impressed
by his tone, and with a strange anxiety to prove to herself that surely
all things are not in vain.
"Oh, no! They are the frailest of the three," returns he; "they are like
our dearest hopes. At the very time they should prove true, when the
cold Winter of our discontent is full upon us, they forsake us--never to
return."
"Never? Does not the Summer bring them again?" She has stopped in the
middle of the path, and is asking her question with an anxiety that
astonishes even herself. "This rose bush," she says, pointing to one
close beside her, "now rich in glory, and warm with golden wealth, will
it not bloom again next year, in spite of the death that must pass over
it?"
"It may. But you will never see again those roses over there, that you
love and rejoice in now! Others may be like them, but they cannot be
quite the same."
Portia makes no reply. The moonlight is full upon him, and she can see
that his lips have lost their hardness, and are as full of melancholy as
his eyes. She is looking curiously at him, regarding him perhaps in the
light of a study--he is looking, not at her at all, but at something
that surely has no place in this quiet garden, lying so calm and
peaceful beneath the light of heaven.
A terrible expression, that is despair and grief commingled, covers his
face. Some past horror, that has yet power to sting, is holding him
captive. He has forgotten Portia, the beauty of the night, everything!
He is wrapt in some miserable memory that will not be laid. Surely, "the
heart may break, yet brokenly live on."
Be he guilty (as she believes him) of this crime that has darkened his
life, or only the victim of unhappy circumstances, at this moment Portia
pities him with all her heart.
Voices in the distance! Roger and Dulce still high in argument; a faint
perfume of cigarettes; Dicky Browne's irrepressible laugh; and then they
all come round the corner, and somebody says, "Ah, here she is," and
Dicky Browne places a shawl round Portia's shoulders.
"You here, Fabian?" says Dulce, gladly. "And making friends with Portia?
That's right."
"Taking a mean advantage of us all I call it," says Dicky Browne. "_We_
got introduced in the cruel glare of day, with all our imperfections on
our heads. _You_ waited for moonshine, balmy air, scent of roses,
poetical effect, and so on! That's why you stayed away from dinner. And
to think none of us saw through you! Well, I always said I was very
innocent; quite unfit to go about alone!"
"Not a doubt of it," said Roger, cheerfully. "But you won't have to
complain of that long. We are all on the look-out for a keeper for you,
and a straight waistcoat." Then, turning to Fabian, "Your headache
better, old man?"
"Thank you--yes. Your cousin is tired, I think, Dulce. Take her in and
make her rest herself."
"Ah! You are worn out," says Dulce to Portia, with contrition. "I have
been so long getting you the shawl; but I could not help it. You must
not stay up, you know, to do manners to us, you must go straight to bed
this moment, and come down like a rose in the morning. Now confess you
are tired."
"Well, yes, I am afraid I am," says Portia, who is feeling faintly
disappointed for the first time since her arrival. Why, she scarcely
knows.
"She said 'I am a-weary, a-weary; I would I were a-bed,'" quotes Mr.
Browne, feelingly. Whereupon everyone feels it his duty to take Portia
at once back to the house, less Mr. Browne, by any ill-luck, should
commit himself still further.
It is only when Portia is at last alone in her own room that she
recollects that Fabian forgot to shake hands with her. Or was it she
with Fabian?