"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; Curacao 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 _fiance_.
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.
"What a charming thing that is," she says, alluding, they presume, to
the Elegy. She pauses here, but no one takes her up or seems to care to
continue the praise of what is almost beyond it. But Julia is not easily
discouraged.
"One can almost see the gaunt trees," she says, sentimentally, "and the
ivied walls of the old church, and the meadows beyond, and the tinkling
of the tiny bells, and the soft white sheep as they move perpetually
onward in the far, far distance."
She sighs, as though overcome by the perfect picture she has so kindly
drawn for their benefit.
"I wish to goodness she would move on herself," says Dicky Browne. "It
is enough to make poor Gray turn in his grave."
"I think she describes rather prettily, and quite as if she meant it,"
says Portia, softly.
"Not a bit of it," growls Dicky; "she _don't_ mean it; she couldn't;
It's all put on--regular plaster! She doesn't feel it; she knows as much
about poetry as I do."
"You underrate yourself, my darling boy," says Roger, fondly.
"Oh! you get out," says Mr. Brown, most ungratefully.
"I think to be able to read _really_ well is an intense charm," goes on
Julia, glancing sweetly at Stephen. "If one had only some one to give
one a kindly hint now and then about the correct intonation and emphasis
and that, it would be a regular study, of course. I really have half a
mind to go in for it."
"So glad she has at last arrived at a just appreciation of her own
powers," says Dicky, _sotto voce_. "I should think she has just half a
mind and no more, to do anything with."
He is hushed up; and then Stephen goes on again, choosing passages from
Shakespeare this time, for a change, while silence once more reigns.
Roger is looking sulky and unkindly critical. Sir Mark has been guilty
of a small yawn or two. Julia, in spite of the most heroic efforts to
the contrary, is openly and disgracefully sleepy. Portia's eyes are full
of tears. Dicky Browne, who is tired of not hearing his own voice, and
whose only belief in the divine William is that he gave him "a jolly lot
of trouble in his schooldays," is aweary, and is only waiting an
opportunity to cut in and make himself heard, in spite of all
opposition.
It comes--the opportunity--and Dicky seizes it. Mr. Gower is at his very
best. He has thrown his whole soul into his voice, and is even himself
wrapt up in the piece he has before him.
"'Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,'" his voice rings out clear
and full of melancholy prophecy; it is a voice that should have
impressed any right-minded individual, but Dicky's mind is below par.
"I should think he'd lie considerably more uneasy without it," he says,
cheerfully. "He'd feel like being scalped, wouldn't he? And get dreaming
about Comanches and tomahawks and Fenimore Cooper, eh?"
For once Dicky scores. The men have grown tired of Mr. Gower's
performance, and hail the interruption with delight. Roger turns on his
side, and laughs aloud. This attention, so unprecedented on his part,
fills Dicky's soul with rapture. He instantly bestows upon his supporter
a smile rich with gratitude; yet perhaps it is not Mr. Browne's wit
alone that has called forth such open manifestation of mirth from Roger.
There is, I think, just the faintest touch of malice in his merriment.
And then the faithless Dulce laughs too; the most musical, ringing
little laugh in the world, but none the less galling for all its
sweetness. It is the last straw. Mr. Gower, suppressing a very natural
inclination, lays the book down gently on the grass beside him (he would
have given anything to be able to fling it far from him), and makes some
casual remark about the excessive beauty of the evening.
And, indeed, it is beautiful; all down the Western slope of the
fir-crowned hill, the fading rays of light still wander, though even now
in the clear heavens the evening star has risen, and is shining calm and
clear as a soul entered on its eternal rest.
"Will you not read us something else?" says Dulce, feeling a little
ashamed of herself.
"Some other time," returns he.
"Dicky rather took the sentiment out of it," says Roger, still
maliciously mirthful. "I hardly think he and the Swan of Avon would be
congenial souls."
"Well, I don't know," says Sir Mark, lazily. "We have been taught that
extremes meet, you see."
"Dicky, how can you stand their impertinence?" asks Dulce, gaily.
"Assert yourself, I entreat you."
"There is such a thing as silent contempt," says Mr. Browne, untouched
by their darts. "There is also a passage somewhere that alludes to an
'unlettered small-knowing soul;' I do not desire to quote it in this
company. Let us return to the immortal Bill."
But they are all laughing still, and in the face of laughter, it is
difficult to get back to tragedy. And so no one encourages Gower to
continue his work, and this, in despite of the fact that the light
growing as it is toward the gloaming, seems in keeping with dismal tales
and softly-mouthed miseries.
Every moment the evening star grows brighter, gaining glory as the day
declines. The mist has died away into the ocean, the breeze has sunk to
slumber, only the song of many birds hymning themselves to roost amongst
the quiet thickets disturbs the tranquility of the air.
Dead leaves that speak of Autumn and coming dissolution float toward the
loiterers on the lawn, and, sinking at their feet, preach to them a
lesson of the life that lasts not, and of that other life that in all
its splendor may yet dawn upon them.
A soft and sullen roar from the ocean makes the silence felt. The sea,
clothed round with raiment of white waves, and rich with sparkling life,
dashing itself along the beach, breathes a monotonous murmur that wafts
itself inland and falls with vague music upon the listening ear.
Thoughts arise within the breast, born of the sweet solemnity of the
hour, and the sadness that belongs to all life--but in this changeable
world nothing lasts, and presently seeing something in the lawn below
that puzzles her sight, Julia says, quickly: "What are the moving forms
I see down there?"
"Only the children undulating," says Mr. Browne, promptly.
"What?" says Sir Mark.
"I have said!" returns Dicky.
"There is surely something besides children," says Portia, trying to
pierce the gathering darkness. "See, what is that coming towards us
now?"
They all peer eagerly in the direction of the firs, from between which a
flying mass may be seen emerging, and approaching rapidly to where they
are all seated.
"It is only Jacky on his fact," says Mr. Browne, at length after a
careful examination of this moving form.
"On what?" asks Roger, curiously.
"His fact," repeats Dicky, unmoved.
"What's that?" asks Jacky's mamma, somewhat anxiously--if a careless, it
must be to her credit said, that Julia is a very kindly mother, and is
now rather upset by Mr. Browne's mysterious declaration.
"You ought to know; you gave it to him," declares he. "He's sitting on
it anyhow."
"Really, Dicky, we must ask you to explain yourself," says Sir Mark,
with dignity.
"Why, it's only a donkey," says Dulce, "and Jacky is riding him."
"Just so," says Mr. Browne, equably; "and a very large donkey, too; I
always call them facts because they are stubborn things. At least, that
one is, because I rode it yesterday--at least I tried to--and it behaved
very ill indeed. It's--it's a very nasty animal, and painfully
unamiable."
"What did it do to you?" asks Julia, who is again in secret fear about
her first born, who every moment draws more near.
"Well, I got on him, incited thereto by Jacky and the Boodie, and when I
had beaten him unceasingly for a full quarter of an hour, in the vain
hope of persuading him to undertake even a gentle walk, he turned
treacherously to the right, and squeezed my best leg against the garden
wall. I bore it heroically, because I knew the Boodie was regarding me
sternly, but I could have wept bitterly; I don't know if all walls are
the same, but the _garden_ wall hurts very much."
"I wonder where Dicky gets all his stories," says Dulce, admiringly.
"He evolves them out of his inner consciousness," replies Sir Mark.
Meantime, Jacky draws nearer and nearer. He advances on the donkey--and
on them, at a furious pace. Surely, never was a lazy ass so ridden
before! Perhaps those watching him are under the impression that when
closer to them he will guide his steed to their right or to their left,
or at least steer clear of them in some way, but if so they are
mistaken.
Jacky is in his element. He gallops wildly up to them, with arms and
legs flying north and south, and his cap many miles behind. That hidden
sense that tells the young and artless one that the real meaning of all
fun is to take some one by surprise and frighten the life out of him, is
full upon him now.
"Out of my way," he shrieks, in frenzied accents almost, as he bears
down upon them. "Out of my way, I say, or he'll kill you; I can't pull
him in. He is running away with me!"
With this the wily young hypocrite gives the donkey a final kick with
his right heel, and dashes ungallantly into the very midst of them.
The confusion that follows is all his heart can desire. Great indeed is
the rout. Camp chairs are scattered broadcast; shawls strew the lawn;
Julia flies to the right, Dulce to the left; Portia instinctively finds
refuge behind Dicky Browne, who shows great gallantry on this memorable
occasion, and devotes himself to the service of the frail and weak.
Indeed, it is on record, that, in the height of his zeal, he encircled
Portia's waist with his arm, and cried aloud to the foe to "come on," as
he waited for victory or death.
Jacky flies past, and is presently seen urging on his wild career in the
little glade that leads to the wood. Once more they breathe, and order
is restored, to Gower's deep regret, as he has managed, in the _melee_,
to seize hold of Dulce's hand, and in an abstracted fashion has held it
ever since.
"That boy deserves a sound whipping," says Sir Mark, indignantly, who
is, nevertheless, a sworn friend of the graceless Jacky.
"You hear, Julia; you are to whip him at once?" says Roger.
"Whip him!" says Mrs. Beaufort, resentfully. "Indeed I shall not. I
never whipped one of them in my life, and I never shall."
"You'd be afraid," says Dicky Browne. "You should see Julia when the
Boodie attacks her; she literally goes into her boots, and stays there.
It is, indeed, a pitiable exhibition. By-the-by, does anybody want
dinner; because, if so, he may as well go and dress. It is quite
half-past six."