"A vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast."
TIME, as a rushing wind, slips by, and brings us Dulce's ball. The night
is lovely and balmy as any evening in the Summer months gone by, though
now September shakes the leaves to their fall. A little breeze sweeps up
from the ocean, where the "lights around the shore" show mystical and
bright; while overhead, all down the steeps of heaven, myriad stars are
set, to flood the sleeping world with their cold, clear beauty.
Upon the walls, and all along the balconies, lie patches of broken
moonshine; and in the garden the pale beams revel and kiss the buds
until they wake; and "all flowers that blow by day come forth, as t'were
high noon."
In the library the lamps are lowered. Nobody has come down-stairs yet,
and the footman, giving the last lingering touch to the little sweet
gossiping fire that warns them of Winter's approach, turns to leave the
room. On the threshold, however, he stands aside to let Miss Vibart
enter.
She is dressed in a white satin gown, creamy in shade, and rather severe
in its folds. Some pale water-lilies lie upon it, as though cast there
by some lucky chance, and cling to it lovingly, as if glad to have found
so soft a resting place. There is no flower in her hair, and no jewels
anywhere, except three rows of priceless pearls, that clasp her slender
throat. Throwing her gloves and fan upon the centre table, she walks
slowly to a mirror, and examines herself somewhat critically.
As if ungratefully dissatisfied with the lovely vision it presents to
her, she turns away again, with an impatient sigh, and trifles absently
with a paper knife near her. There is a discontented line about her
mouth, a wistful, restless expression in her eyes. She moves slowly,
too, as if gladness is far from her, and shows, in every glance and
movement, a strange amount of languor.
As though her thoughts compel her to action, she walks aimlessly from
place to place; and now, as if she is listening for something to come;
and now, as if she is trying to make up her mind to take some step from
which she shrinks in secret.
At last, drawing her breath with a sudden quickness, born of
determination, she opens a drawer in a cabinet, and, taking from it a
little volume in the Tauchnitz binding, she opens the library door, and,
turning to the right, walks swiftly down the corridor.
From out the shadow a figure advances toward her, a figure bent and
uncomely, that tries in vain to avoid the meeting with her, and to get
out of sight before recognition sets in.
It is the old man Slyme. As she sees him there returns to Portia the
memory of many other times when she has met him here in this corridor,
with apparently no meaning for his presence. Some unaccountable and
utterly vague feeling of dislike for this man has been hers ever since
she first saw him. He is repugnant to her in a remarkable degree,
considering how little he has to do with her life in any way.
"He seems to haunt this part of the house," she says to herself now,
uncomfortably. "If I were Fabian I should hate to know there was a
chance of meeting him every time I opened my door. Has he, perhaps, a
passion for Fabian--or--"
Instinctively she throws an additional touch of hauteur into her shapely
head, and without deigning to notice the old man, sweeps by him, her
glimmering white skirts making a gentle _frou-frou_ as she goes.
When she has passed, the secretary raises his eyes and watches her
departing form, furtively. There is great cunning mixed with malignity
and resentment in his glance. He mutters something inaudible, that
carries no blessing in its tone, but yet, as though fascinated by her
beauty, he stands still and follows each step she takes upon the
polished oaken flooring.
As she stops at a particular door, his whole face changes, and satisfied
malice takes the place of resentment.
"Even such pride can stoop," he mutters, with a half-drunken chuckle.
"And it is I, my fine lady--who can scarce breathe when I am by--that
have power to ring your proud heart."
He turns, and shambles onwards towards his own den.
Portia's steps have grown slower as she gets nearer to the door before
which Slyme has seen her stop. Her eyes have sought the ground; all
along the floor her image may be seen, lengthened, but clear; almost
with every step she seems to tread upon herself. As she reaches the door
she hesitates, and then lifts her hand as if with the intention of
knocking. But again she pauses, and her hand drops to her side. As if
more nervous than she cares to own, she leans against the lintel of the
door, as one might, desirous of support.
Then the weakness vanishes; fastening her teeth upon her under lip, she
rouses herself, and tapping gently but distinctly upon one of the
panels, awaits an answer.
Presently she gets it. "Come in," says Fabian's voice, clear,
indifferent; and slowly turning the handle she enters the room.
The lamps are alight; a fire is burning in the grate. At the upper table
of this room, that is his study, his very _sanctum sanctorum_, Fabian is
sitting with some papers and books before him.
At first, being unconscious of who his visitor is, he does not lift his
head, but now, seeing her, he rises quickly to his feet, and says,
"You!" in accents of the most acute surprise.
She is standing barely inside the door with the little volume pressed
closely, almost convulsively, between her fingers, and for a moment
makes him no reply. It is the first time they have ever been alone since
that day when he had injured his arm through the running away of Sir
Christopher's mare.
Now, his face, his tone, is so unfriendly that a great fear falls upon
her. Is he very angry with her still? Has she sinned past forgiveness?
Will he, perhaps, order her to leave the room? She tries to rally her
power of resistance against what fate--relentless, implacable--is
preparing for her; but in vain. A terrible fear of him (the man
regarding her with such stern eyes) and of herself crushes her. Her
heart dies within her; what evil has fallen upon her days, that _once_
were happy? and yet--and yet--of what--what exquisite sweetness is this
evil formed!
She flushes, first painfully; and then the flush fades, and pallor holds
full sway.
"I can do something for you?" asks Fabian, not advancing toward her,
not letting even one kindly accent warm his frozen tone, and this when
the silence has grown positively unbearable.
"Thank you--no." Her little cold hands are nervously twined around the
book she holds. Speech has cruelly deserted her; a sob has risen in her
throat, and she is battling with it so fiercely, that for a moment she
can say nothing. Then she conquers, and almost piteously she lays the
book upon the very edge of the table nearest her, and says with
difficulty:
"I brought you this. At breakfast this morning you said you had not read
it; and to-night I knew you would be alone, and I thought--it is 'The
Europeans'--it might help you to while away an hour."
Her voice dies away and again silence follows it. She is really
frightened now. She has met many men, has been the acknowledged beauty
of a London season, has had great homage laid at her feet; but no man
has had power to make her heart waken, until she met this man, upon whom
disgrace lies heavy. It is _Kismet_! She feels cold now, and miserable,
and humbled before him who should surely be humbled before her. What has
she meant by coming to his room without so much as an invitation; to
him--who in her sight is guilty, indeed, of an offense not to be
forgiven in the world.
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 glad
I' 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.