"Oh, how full of briars is this working-day world!"
--"AS YOU LIKE IT."
"I WISH you would _try_ to remember," says Dulce, a little hastily. She
is sitting in a rather Gothic chair, and the day is ultra-hot, and the
strain upon her mental powers is greater than she can bear. Hence the
haste.
She is leaning back in the uneasy chair now, pencil in hand, and is
looking up at Roger, who is leaning over the table, in a somewhat
supercilious manner, and is plainly giving him to understand that she
thinks him a very stupid person, indeed.
This is irritating, and Roger naturally resents it. A few puckers show
themselves upon his forehead, and he turns over a page or two of the
gardener's book before him with a movement suggestive of impatience.
"I _am_ trying," he says, shortly.
"Well, you needn't tear the book in pieces," says Dulce, severely.
"I'm not tearing anything," retorts Mr. Dare, indignantly.
"You look as if you wanted to," says Dulce.
"I don't want anything except to be let alone," says Mr. Dare.
The windows are all wide open. They were flung wide an hour ago, in the
fond hope that some passing breeze might enter through them. But no
breeze cometh--is not, indeed, born--and the windows yawn for it in
vain. Outside, all Nature seems asleep; inside, the very curtains are
motionless.
In a low rocking-chair, clad in the very lightest of garments permitted
by civilization, sits Sir Mark Gore. He arrived at the Court only
yesterday, in a perfect torrent of passionate rain, and was accused on
all sides of having brought ill weather in his train. But to-day having
asserted itself, and dawned fairly, and later on having burst into
matchless beauty, and heat of the most intense, he is enabled to turn
the tables upon his accusers, who look small and rather crushed.
"Have they had such a day this season?"
"Never! Oh, never!"
"Have they ever seen so lovely a one?"
"Never--at least, _hardly_ ever!"
They are vanquished. Whereupon he tells them they were distinctly
ungrateful yesterday, and that he will never put in a good word for them
with the clerk of the weather again. _Never!_
Just now he is nodding drowsily over his _Times_, and is vainly trying
to remember whether the last passage read was about Midhat Pasha, or
that horrid railway murder, or the Irish Land League.
In the next window sits Portia, clad in a snowy gown that suits her to
perfection. She has been here now for a fortnight, and feels as if she
had been here forever, and almost wonders if in reality she ever knew
another home. She is lounging in the very easiest of cushioned chairs,
and is making a base attempt at reading, which attempt is held up to
public scorn every other minute by Dicky Browne, who is sitting at her
feet.
He is half in and half out of the room. His feet being on the verandah,
his head and shoulders in the room. He is talking a little, and
fidgeting a little, and laughing a little, and, in fact, doing
everything in the world except thinking a little. Thought and Dicky
Browne are two.
The room in which they are all sitting is long and very handsome, with
three windows and two fire-places. It is always called the blue room at
the Court, for no earthly reason that any one can see, except that it is
painted green--the very most impossible green, calculated to create
rapture in the breasts of Oscar and his fellows; a charming color, too,
soothing, and calm, and fashionable, which, of course, is everything.
There are tiny cabinets everywhere, gay with majolica ware and many a
Palissy dish; while Wedgewood, and Derby, and priceless Worcester shine
out from every corner. There are Eastern rugs, and Japanese screens,
and, indeed, everything that isn't Japanese is old English, and
everything that isn't old English is Japanese--except, perhaps, a few
lounging-chairs of modern growth brought in to suit the requirements of
such unaesthetic beings as prefer the comfortable satin-and-down lounge
to the more correct, if more trying oak.
"Perhaps it was the Duke of Edinburgh," says Roger, breaking the silence
that has lasted now for a full minute. "I see he is very handsome, of
robust habit and constitution, and of enormous size and length. Is that
what you want?"
"No; I am sure it was not the Duke of Edinburgh. It doesn't sound like
him. I wonder why you can't think of it. I am sure if I once eat
anything I should remember all about it."
"Good gracious!" says Dicky Browne, from his lowly seat, glancing
solemnly at Portia, "have they eaten the Duke of Edinburgh? It sounds
like it, doesn't it? They must have done it on the sly. And _what_ a
meal! Considering they acknowledge him to be of enormous size and
length!"
"Perhaps it was Sir Garnet Wolseley," says Roger, moodily, in the
discontented tone of one who is following out a task utterly repugnant
to his feelings. "He has an excellent flavor, but is entirely destitute
of shank or shoulder."
Sir Mark Gore, at this dreadful speech, lowers his paper and lifts his
head. Portia looks faintly startled. What can Roger be talking about?
"Ain't it awful," says Mr. Browne, "who'd have thought it of them. They
look quite mild--and--er--like other people. Positively they are
cannibals! And (did you remark?) it is _roast shoulder_ they prefer,
because they are grumbling at the want of it in the unfortunate General
who has evidently been enticed from his home and coldly murdered by
them. I wonder it wasn't in the papers--but doubtless the family hushed
it up. And how heartlessly they speak! But, by the way, what on earth is
a _shank_?--"
"The neck is splendid, and, indeed, there is no waste whatever," goes on
Roger, in a wooden tone.
"No waist whatever! Did you hear that? I always thought poor Sir Garnet
was a lean man," says Dicky, _sotto voce_. "Poor, poor fellow, can
nothing satisfy them but rank and talent?"
"Not a bit like it," breaks in Dulce, petulantly tapping her foot upon
the floor. She is never petulant with any one but Roger, being indeed,
by nature, the very incarnation of sweetness and light.
"Give it up," says Roger, rising hope in his tone--hope that, alas, is
never verified.
"And meet McIlray with such a lame story as that! Certainly not," says
Dulce, warmly. "It must be found out. Do try again."
"Well, this must be it," says Roger, in despair, "The Marquis of Lorne,
exquisite short neck, smooth skin, very straight, nice white spine."
At this Sir Mark rises to his feet.
"Really, my _dear_ Roger!" he says, impulsively--but for the excessive
laziness of his disposition it would have been severely.
"Ah," says Roger, glad of anything in the shape of a reprieve, even
though it be unpleasant argument.
"How _can_ Dulcinea find any interest in the color of the Marquis's
spine?" says Sir Mark, reprovingly. "Forgive me if I say I think you are
going a little too far."
"I shall have to go farther," says Roger, desperately, "There is no
knowing where I shall end. She can't find it out, and neither can I, and
I see no hope of our arriving at anything except a lunatic asylum."
"I can look it up by myself," says Miss Blount, grandly, "I don't want
your help--much. I daresay I can manage by myself, after all. And even
if I can't, I daresay Mark will come to my assistance if you forsake
me."
"I won't," says Gore, decidedly; "I won't indeed. I would do anything in
the world for you, Dulcinea, as you know, but for this work
unfortunately I am too modest. I _couldn't_ go about making inquiries
about the color of people's spines. I couldn't, indeed. As a matter of
science I daresay it would be interesting to know the exact number of
shades, but--I feel I am unequal to the task."
"The Duke of Connaught," goes on Roger, wearily, hope being stifled in
his breast, "bright green skin, well covered with bloom; small neck
and--"
"Oh! hang it all, you know," says Dicky Browne, forgetting himself in
the excitement of the moment, "I don't believe his Royal Highness _has_
a green skin, do you, Portia?--saw him only a fortnight ago, and he
looked all right then, just as white as the rest of us."
"It's cucumbers," says Miss Blount, with dignity.
"Yes, cucumbers," responds Mr. Dare, with a sigh; he is evidently in the
last stage of exhaustion. "McIlray has forgotten the name of some
particular seed he planted in the Spring that we all liked immensely
(how I wish we _hadn't_), and he has compelled Dulce to try and discover
it. So we are looking for it in these infer--I mean these very
prettily-illustrated books that the seedsman has kindly sent us (how I
wish he hadn't), and hope to find it before the millenium. I daresay any
time next month you will still find us here poring over these identical
books, but we shall be _dead_ then--there is at least comfort in that
thought."
"One wouldn't think so, to look at you," said Gore, pleasantly.
"You can go away, Roger, you really can," says Dulce, irritably. "You
are not the least use to me, and I hate grumblers."
"Perhaps it is the Empress of India," says Dicky Browne, who has come
over to the table, driven by sheer curiosity, and is now leaning on
Roger's shoulder. "She 'is of enormous length, and the handsomest this
year. She is beautifully shaped throughout, with scarcely any handle.'
Oh, I say, hasn't the Queen a handle to her name? What an aspersion upon
her royal dignity."
"Ah! here is Fabian! Now, you may go away, all of you," said Dulce, with
fine contempt. "He will really be of some use to me. Fabian, what is the
name of the cucumber that tiresome McIlray wants? I am worn out, almost
in hysterics, trying to remember it."
"What a pity you didn't ask me sooner," says Fabian. "It is all right. I
made it out this morning, and told McIlray. He says now he remembers all
about it perfectly."
"Fabian, may I shake hands with you. You are a man and a brother," says
Roger, effusively, with a sudden return of animation. "I should, indeed,
like to kiss you, but it might betray undue exhilaration. You have saved
me from worse than death. Bless me, isn't it warm?"
"Just a little sultry," says Mr. Browne. "Show me that book you were
looking at? Carter's, eh? How I love a work of that sort! I think I love
Carter himself. I daresay it is he designs those improbable vegetables
and fruits that would make their fortunes as giants at a penny show. You
see there _are_ giants in these days."
"Are there?" says Dulce. "I think there aren't."
"Well, it's just as simple," says Dicky, amiably. "Not a bit more
trouble. It is quite as easy to suppose there aren't, as to suppose
there are. _I_ don't mind. But to return to our muttons. I really do
esteem our Carter--in anticipation. It occurs to me he yet may grow
peaches as big as my head, and then what a time we'll 'ave, eh?--Eating
fruit is my forte," says Mr. Browne, with unction.
"So it is," says Dulce. "Nobody will dispute that point with you. You
never leave us any worth speaking about. McIlray says you have eaten all
the cherries, and that he can't even give us a decent dish for dinner."
"What vile alliteration," says Mr. Browne, unabashed. "Decent, dish,
dinner. You ought to be ashamed of yourself."
"Well, I'm not," says Dulce.
"Just shows your moral depravity. If you aren't you ought to be. Three
great big D's in a breath! Shocking, shocking," says Dicky, gravely.
"What a heavenly day, and how depressing. We are never satisfied," says
Mark Gore, flinging his arms above his head with a lazy gesture, and
looking with almost comic despair at the pale-blue-and-gold glory in the
heavens above.
Fabian, who has been standing near him, lost in a daydream, starts
perceptibly at his tone, and moves as though he would go towards the
door. Then, though still a little absent, and still wrapt in the dream
from which he has sought to free himself, he looks round the room as
though in search of something. Perhaps he finds it as his eyes light
upon the window where Portia sits, because they linger there, and the
restless expression, that has characterized his face up to this,
vanishes.
He hesitates; pushes a book upon a table near him backwards and forwards
gently two or three times, as though in doubt, and then walks straight
to the window where Portia is, leans against the sash, just where he can
see the lovely, downcast face before him.
After Dicky's defection (or was it on Fabian's entrance?) Miss Vibart
returned to her neglected book, and has been buried in it ever since.
Even when Fabian comes and stands close to her, she is so engrossed with
the beauty of the story that she forgets to lift her eyes to look at
him. So determinedly do they seek the page beneath them, that Fabian
tells himself she must indeed have got to a thrilling part of her tale.
Her long, dark lashes lie like shadows on her cheeks. Her lips are
closed. The hand that lies beneath the book trembles slightly.
They are all laughing at the upper end of the room at one of Dicky's
absurdities. Down here by the far window, there is a silence marked
enough to make itself felt. I think at last even Mark Gore feels it,
because he rises from his comfortable rocking-chair with a faint yawn,
and, walking down the room, comes to anchor behind Portia's chair.
Leaning over it, he says, pleasantly:
"Is that book of James' so very charming as to make you deaf and blind
to us poor mortals?"
"I am never deaf or blind to you," says Portia, sweetly, glancing up at
him over her shoulder. Her rounded chin is slightly tilted, a soft smile
curves her lips.
At the Court Mark is a special favorite, yet so pretty a speech coming
from Portia, who is usually so cold and indolent, strikes one as
strange. Fabian regards her earnestly. How beautiful she is, yet how
unsympathetic; has she no soul, no feeling? Surely her eyes, so large,
so deep, so intense, belie this thought.
As though compelling himself, he says, with a visible effort:
"Have you been indoors all this lovely day? Has the sun had no power to
tempt you to come out?"
"No;" she shakes her head as she answers him, and smiles, too, but the
smile is cold as death, and though perfect, is altogether different from
the one bestowed only a minute since upon Sir Mark.
"Then come out now," says Gore, as though pleasantly impressed by the
suggestion conveyed in Fabian's speech. "Let us all shake off dull sloth
and make a tour right round the gardens."
"A charming idea," says Portia, sitting more upright, and brightening
visibly. She grows even animated, and animation, even of the faintest,
is to be commended on such a day as this.
"Take your cousin to see the new carp-pond," says Gore, addressing
Fabian, but watching Portia attentively. "You will like to see it,
Portia?"
"So _very_ much," says Portia. "But if I do go it must be with Dicky."
Her manner as she says this gives both the men fully to understand that
early in the day she had pledged herself to go for a walk some time in
the afternoon. So far, so good--it _might_ have so explained
itself--but, unfortunately, at this moment Dicky Browne (who, as Dulce
says, is always in the wrong place at the wrong time) comes up behind
them, and addresses them generally:
"What are you all conspiring about?" he says, genially. "Roger and
Dulce, for the fourteenth time to-day, have again agreed to differ, so I
seek refuge here. Take me in, will you? And, by-the-by, what shall we do
with ourselves this grilling day!"
"I have just been suggesting a quiet stroll," says Sir Mark.
"The very thing," exclaims Mr. Browne, who is amiability itself. "Why on
earth didn't we think of that before? Portia, if you will come with me,
if you have not promised," with a glance at Sir Mark, "to go with anyone
else, I will show you a new tennis court that will draw tears of
admiration from your eyes."
This is the unfortunate part of it. It now becomes apparent to every one
that Dicky did _not_ ask her early in the morning to go for a walk
anywhere. Silence follows Dicky's speech. A faint-pink color, delicate
but distinct, creeps into Portia's cheeks; she does not lower her head,
however, or her eyes either, but gazes steadily through the open window
at the hills in the far, far distance, misty with heat and coming rain.
She feels that Fabian's eyes are on her, and inwardly resents his
scrutiny. As for Fabian himself, his brow contracts, and a somewhat
unpleasant expression mars the beauty of his face; yet, turning to Dicky
with the utmost composure, he says, calmly:
"Take Portia to see the carp-pond; that may interest her."
"So I will," says Dicky. "But you come, too, old man; won't you? You
understand all about fish, you know, and that, and I don't a little
screw. Make him come, Portia; he talks like a book when he has got to
explain things."
"Don't trouble Portia," says Fabian, quietly. "_Even she_ could not
persuade me to leave the house to-day, as I have business on hand that
must be done."
There is the very faintest touch of sarcasm in his tone. The "even she,"
though very slightly done, is full of it. Portia, at least, is conscious
of it. She unfurls her huge, black fan with a lazy gesture, and then
turns her large eyes full upon him.
"So sorry my persuasions have failed," she says, slowly, not having
persuaded him at all; and, satisfied with this speech, waves the fan
indolently to and fro, and with half-closed eyes watches the merry
little sunbeams outside as they run hither and thither over the grass.
"Oh! let us do something," says Dulce, from the distance. "I shall go
mad if I am left here to talk to Roger all day."
"I am sure I don't want you to talk to me if it disagrees with you,"
says Roger, with ill-suppressed ire.
Then they tell her they are going for a gentle stroll before tea is
ready, and she consents to go with them if Sir Mark will walk with her
instead of Roger; and Roger, having indignantly disclaimed all anxiety
to be her companion on this occasion, peace is restored, and they all
sally forth armed with big, white umbrellas, to inspect the stupid carp.
Fabian alone remains indoors to transact the mysterious business, that I
think would have been gladly laid aside had Portia so willed it. That
she had absolutely refused to have him as her companion in her walk, was
so evident at the time of her expressed desire to go to see the carp
with Dicky Browne, that Fabian could not be blind to it. Standing in the
window of the library now, with the dying sunset reddening the scene
without, and shedding upon the flowers its tenderest tints of fair
array, Fabian reminds himself of each word she had said, of each
smallest smile and glance that had belonged to her, and at this moment
hates her with a hatred that is exceptionally bitter.
Then a little wave flows over his soul, and he tells himself how that he
is unjust, and a stranger cannot be reasonably expected to think him
innocent of a crime he himself has been unable to refute.
The day wanes. Twilight falls; a flush of soft violet color deepens the
sky. The sound of footsteps echoes again in the long hall without; they
have returned from the carp and the new tennis ground, and are asking
eagerly for their tea. The sun has gone down behind the Western hills,
and the stained-glass windows are throwing a sombre light over the
antlers and Gothic chairs, and mediaeval furniture, in which the halls
delight. Fabian, hearing the footsteps, pulls himself together somewhat
roughly, and, opening a door that leads to a passage in little use,
makes his way to a distant office, where he tells himself, bitterly, he
is "far from the madding crowd," and free from intrusion.
Dulce and Portia, crossing the hall, go down the north corridor that
leads to the library Fabian has just vacated. A heavy crimson curtain
conceals a door on one side, and, as they pass, a figure, emerging from
behind it, brushes somewhat brusquely against Portia, filling her with
sudden alarm.
This figure, as it appears in the vague gloaming, is bowed and bent, and
altogether uncanny.
Portia, shrinking closer to Dulce, lays her hand upon her arm.
"Ah! what was that?" she says, fearfully.
"Only Gregory Slyme," returns Dulce, quickly, "you are not frightened at
_him_, poor old thing, are you? Have you not seen him before?"
"No," says Portia, with a shudder and a backward glance at the shrunken
figure creeping away down the corridor as if ashamed of itself.
"No?--that is strange; but he has affected his own room a good deal of
late."
"But who is he?" anxiously.
"He was Uncle Christopher's secretary for years, and calls himself that
still, but Fabian does all the writing now."
"What a start he gave me," says Portia, putting her hand hurriedly to
her heart as though in pain. "A chill seemed to rush all through my
blood. It was as though I had met something that had worked, and would
work, me harm!"
"Fanciful baby," says Dulce, with very superior scorn; "old Slyme could
not work ill to anyone. He has lived with us for years; but lately,
within the last eight months, he has become--well, a little
uncomfortable; indeed, perhaps, unbearable is the word."
"How so?--what has he done?" asks Portia, unaccountably interested in
this shadow that has crossed her path.
"I think he is very fond of brandy," says Dulce, reluctantly, and in a
very grieved little tone. "Poor old Gregory!"