"The firste vertue, sone, if thou wilt lerne,
Is to restreine, and kepen wel thy tonge."
--THE MANCIPLE'S TALE--CHAUCER.
THE days have grown shorter and shorter. Daylight now is to be prized,
not sported with, as in the gay and happy Summer. "The inaudible and
noiseless foot of Time" has carried us from "Golden September" to
bleakest Winter, and into that month which claims Christmas for its own.
At the hall, everything is very much the same as it was when last we saw
it, if we except the fact that Roger is absent. He is abroad; _so_ much
abroad, indeed, that nobody knows where he is. A week after his
departure he had written to Sir Christopher, and the week after that
again to Mark Gore; but, beyond these two meagre attempts at
correspondence, no news has been heard of him. Whether, as Mr. Browne
has elegantly expressed it, "he is up the Nile, or up the Spout," is a
matter of speculation.
Sir Christopher is looking a little older, a little graver. He is not so
testy as of yore, a change that fills Dulce's heart with misgivings.
That he has fretted greatly over her broken engagement with Roger (who
is to the old Baronet as dear as his own son should have been, and
second only to Fabian in his affections) she well knows; she well knows,
too, how magnanimously--to please her--he has tried to be civil to
Stephen Gower, and to welcome him with cordiality as his future nephew.
But the effort to do all this has aged and saddened him; and from time
to time his mind wanders restlessly to the young man who left his home
full of anger and indignant grief.
As for Stephen, living in his "Fool's Paradise, he drinks delight," nor
heeds how false is all the happiness that seems to surround him. Bitter
is the fruit he feeds on, though he will not acknowledge it even to
himself; and, looking on his dainty lady-love, he is still happy, and
content to bear all things, and suffer all things, for the few grains of
adulterated sweetness doled out by her every now and then with a niggard
hand. He will see no cloud on his horizon, although it sits there
heavily; nor will he notice aught but what is good and lovable in this
girl, upon whom he has centred all his dearest hopes.
For the rest, there has been but little change amongst them. Julia
Beaufort and the children had gone away for a month, but returned to the
Hall a fortnight ago, and are now--that is, the children, at all
events--anxiously awaiting Christmas Day with all its affectations of
gaiety and goodwill, and its hideous paddings.
Sir Mark did pretty much the same as Julia. He went away, too, and came
back again, thus filling up the measure of his days. Mr. Browne had
declined to stir for any pretense whatever, and has been enjoying
himself to the utmost, now at Portia's feet, now at Dulce's, and, when
all things fail, at Julia's.
Perhaps to Fabian the days have seemed longest. He is silent, cold,
self-contained as ever; but now there is something else, a settled
melancholy, that yet has in it a mixture of extreme pride, that forbids
any approach to it; a melancholy born of despair, and the knowledge that
there is laid upon him "a burden greater than he can bear."
"Time, the subtle thief of youth," is stealing from him his best years;
his life is going, and with it all chance of joy and gladness. Ever
since that memorable evening in the garden, after the ball, a strange
reserve has arisen between him and Portia. That morning, as the soft
pink dawn came up from behind the hills--when passion, pale but
triumphant, had held full sway--has never been forgiven by either. A
sense of terror has possessed Portia ever since--the knowledge of a
danger barely overcome; and with him there has been the memory of pain,
and terrible self-restraint that has scathed him as it passed him by.
And withal a settled coldness has fallen upon them, the greater because
of the weakness that had characterised the hour of which I write.
He does not condemn her, but in his heart he does not forgive her want
of faith, her almost openly avowed distrust. Of his own will he never
lets his eyes rest upon the fair beauty of her face, and turns aside
when unlucky chance has flung him in her path.
And she--a contempt for her own want of self-control, together with the
miserable knowledge that her heart is irrevocably his, has rendered her
almost repellent in her manner toward him. When he is near, her eyelids
droop, her lips take a harder curve, she is dumb, silent, unsympathetic;
and yet when he is gone, when the door has closed behind him, the fever
of her blood runs high, and but for social training, she would gladly
rise, and, in spite of all things, call to him and implore him to return
to her side once more.
To a casual observer, of course, all this is not apparent; but to these
two, between whom Fate sits relentless, the pain and sorrow of it is
deep and cruel. More deep, more sorrowful for him, of course. His whole
life is a ruin; he had thought of many things when first the blight fell
upon him; but that he should fall in love, and because of this curse
that has blasted his best days, should be compelled to turn aside from
the love of his heart, had not occurred to him. His life has grown too
bitter to be borne with fortitude, almost he is "half in love with
easeful death." Oh, the joy--the rapture! to pass away from all the
tortures of this "work-a-day world" to a land unknown, but surely full
of rest. To die--to disappear! To court a glad forgetfulness! In this
alone lies hope, and, that sweetest of all sweet things, indifference.
Not coward enough to compel death, he still longs for it; he would slip
away from all and sink into oblivion, and gladly deem himself and his
sad history forgotten. "To cease upon the midnight with no pain?" What
sweeter, kinder fate could visit him than that for which Keats
longed--not vainly.
Into his life, too, some smaller worries are thrown. The old man Slyme,
the secretary, has been going rapidly from bad to worse, of late. His
intemperate habits are growing on him, and now seldom comes the day when
he is not discovered to be unfit for duty of any kind.
Naturally such conduct incenses Sir Christopher to the last degree. The
old man has been for years in his service, but time wears out all
things, and even regard and use can be forgotten. Fabian, falling into
the breach, seeks to mend it, although Slyme has never been a favorite
of his, and although he is fully aware that he is very distasteful to
the secretary for reasons unknown; still he pleads his cause,
principally because the man is old and friendless; and this, too, he
does secretly, the secretary being ignorant of the force brought to bear
upon his delinquencies, a force that keeps a roof over his head, and
leaves him a competence without which the world would be a barren spot
to him indeed, with only the poor-house--that most degrading of all
places--to which to turn.
To-day is melancholy, cold and bleak. The winds are sighing; the earth
is bare and naked; no vestige of a fresh and coming life can yet be
seen. Upon the gray sands, far away, the white waves dash themselves
tumultuously, the sea birds shriek, and, "blasting keen and loud, roll
the white surges to the sounding shore."
Indoors there is warmth and comfort. Julia, sitting over the fire,
finding she cannot get Dulce to gossip with--Dulce, indeed, is not
come-at-able of late--turns gratefully to Portia, who happens to come
into the room at this moment.
"The fire is the only delicious thing in the house," she says,
fretfully. "_Do_ come here and enjoy it with me."
"Anything the matter with you?" asks Portia, gently, seating herself on
a low lounging chair at her side.
"Oh! nothing, nothing. But Dulce is very strange of late, is she not?
Ever since Roger's going, don't you think? And all that affair was quite
absurd, according to my lights. Stephen won't suit her half as well.
Fancy any woman throwing over the man she likes, for a mere chimera.
Wrecking her entire happiness for the sake of a chocolate cream!"
"It sounds absurd," says Portia; "but I cannot believe such a paltry
thing as that has separated them. There must have been something else."
"Well, perhaps so. Sir Christopher, one can see, is very distressed
about it. He is unfortunate about them all, is he not? poor old man.
Fabian's affair was so wretched, so unlooked for, too," says Julia, in
the comfortably gossiping tone one knows so well, drawing her chair a
little nearer to the fire. "I can't think what could have tempted him to
do it."
Portia turns abruptly toward her.
"Do you, too, question his innocence?" she says, her breath coming
quickly.
"Well--er--you see one doesn't like to talk about it," says Mrs.
Beaufort with a faint yawn. "It seems pleasanter to look upon him as a
suffering angel, but there are some who don't believe in him you know.
Do come closer to the fire, Portia, and let us have a good chat."
"Go on," says Portia, "you were talking of Fabian, you were saying--"
"Yes, just so. Was I uncharitable? It doesn't make him a bit the worse
in my eyes, you know, not a bit. It is all done and over years ago, and
why remember nasty things. Really, do you know, Portia--it may be horrid
of me--but really I think the whole story only makes him a degree more
interesting."
Portia shivers, and ignores this suggestion.
"Do other people doubt him, too?" she asks in a strangely cold tone.
Though she may disbelieve in him herself, yet it is agony to her that
others should do the same.
"My dear, yes, of course; a great many; in fact, pretty nearly everybody
but just those you see here--Sir Mark excepted, I think, and then Dicky
Browne. But Dicky hasn't enough brains to believe or disbelieve in
anybody."
"Ah!" says Portia. She leans back in her chair, and holds up a fan
between her and the fire and Julia. She can hardly analyze her own
thoughts; but, even at this moment, when all her finest feelings are
ajar, she tells herself that surely--surely she cordially detests Julia
Beaufort. She tells herself, too, that she loves Mark Gore.
"You see, in your doubt of him, you are not a solitary exception," says
Julia, with elephantine playfulness. "Others think with you. It is the
plainest case in the world, I think. I don't blame you."
"How do you know I _do_ doubt him?" asks Portia, suddenly, turning her
large eyes upon her, that are glittering in the firelight. At this Julia
recoils a little and looks somewhat uncomfortable.
"Your voice, your manner, led me to believe so," she says, slowly, and
with hesitation. "If you don't, of course it is so much to your credit."
"You mean--" asks Portia.
"Well, his whole bearing would preclude the thought of dishonor of any
kind," says Julia, boldly, and with the utmost effrontery, considering
all she had said a moment since. "Suspicion could hardly rest with such
a man as Fabian. Of course, the whole thing is a wretched mistake, that
will be cleared up sooner or later, let us hope sooner, as surely he has
suffered enough already, poor dear fellow!"
She pauses; Portia puzzled, and secretly indignant, says nothing. Seeing
she will not speak, Julia goes on again even more impressively than
before.
"I never entertained a shadow of a doubt with regard to him," she says,
nobly, "never! Who could? I was always one of his very warmest
supporters."
This is too much! Portia murmuring something civil, but distinct, rises
abruptly, and, going to the door, opens it, and is soon beyond call, and
beyond hearing of the voice that has grown hateful to her.
Just at this moment, Julia's absurd shufflings, and equivocations, and
barefaced changes from one asseveration to another fill her with wrath.
She is distressed, and at war with her own heart; and so, crossing the
hall, makes for the one room that is especially dear to all women when
in trouble, namely, her own bedroom.
But passing by Dulce's door, and finding it open, she pauses before it,
and finally, after some hesitation, she crosses the threshold only to
find it empty.
The fire is burning brightly; a little crushed glove lies upon the
hearth-rug, showing how its owner but lately had knelt before the fire,
or stood near it to gaze into its depths, and call up fancied faces from
its coals.
A little low chair attracts her attention; sinking into it, she lets her
chin fall into the palm of her hands, and presently is lost in painful
and half-angry reflection.
"Pretty nearly everybody." The words ring in her ears; does the whole
county, then, look upon Fabian with averted eyes? And perhaps--who
knows--the very people beneath the roof may distrust him, too; she had
not known until this evening Julia's private opinion; the others may
agree with her, but naturally shrink from saying so. Roger, perhaps,
believed him guilty; and Dicky Browne, it may be, in his secret soul,
regards him with contempt, and Sir Mark--
No, _not_ Sir Mark! She could not mistake him. However foolish it may
be, certainly his belief in Fabian is genuine. And somehow of late, she
has grown rather fond of Sir Mark; and here she sighs, and laying her
hand upon her heart, presses it convulsively against it as though to
still the pain that has sprung into life there, because of the agitation
that has been hers for the past half hour.
Dulce, coming up-stairs, presently, finds her still sitting over the
fire, in an attitude that betokens the very deepest dejection.
"You here, _tres chere_, and alone," she says, gaily, stooping over her
in caressing fashion. "Naughty girl. You should have told me you were
going to honor me with your presence, and I would have made my room gay
to receive you."
"I don't want you to make a stranger of me. I like your room as it is,"
says Portia, with a smile.
"Well, don't sit crouching over the fire; it will spoil your complexion;
come over to the window and see what the storm has done, and how lovely
nature can look even when robed in Winter's garb."
Portia, rising, follows her to the window, but as she reaches it she
sinks again wearily into a lounging chair, with all the air of one whose
limbs refuse obstinately to support her.
As both girls gaze out upon the chilly landscape, white here and there
with the snow that fell last night, Fabian, coming from between the dark
green branches of an ancient lauristinus, with two red setters at his
heels, and a gun upon his shoulder, passes beneath the window, going in
the direction of the home wood.
Leaning forward, Dulce taps lightly on the pane, and Fabian, heating the
quick sound, stops short, and lifts his eyes to the window. As he sees
his pretty sister, he nods to her, and a bright smile creeps round his
lips, rendering his always handsome face actually beautiful for the
moment.
Only for a moment; his gaze wandering, instinctively, falls on Portia,
standing pale and calm beside her cousin. Their eyes meet, and, as if by
magic, the smile dies, his lips grow straight and cold again, and,
without another glance, he whistles to his dogs, and, turning the
corner, is rapidly out of sight.
"Dear Fabian--poor darling," says Dulce, tenderly, who has noticed only
the kindly smile vouchsafed to her. "How sad he always looks. Even his
smile is more mournful than the tears of others. What a terrible
pressure Fate has laid upon him. He----; how pale you are, Portia! What
is it, dearest? I am sure you are not well to-day."
"I am quite well. I am only cold; go on," speaking with some difficulty;
"you were saying something about--Fabian."
"I _think_ so much of him that it is a relief to talk sometimes; but I
won't make you doleful. Come over to the fire if you are cold."
"No, I like being here; and--do go on, I like listening to you."
"Well, I wasn't going to say anything very particular, you know. It has
all been said so often. _So_ often, and to no use. What a little thing,
Portia, gives rise to the most terrible consequences; the mere fact that
two people wrote alike, and formed their capitals in the same fashion,
has been the utter ruin of a man's life. It sounds dreadful--cruel!
sometimes--_often_--I lie awake thinking of it all, and wondering can
nothing be done, and no hope ever comes to me. That is the saddest part
of it, it will go on like this forever, he will go to his grave,"
mournfully, "and his very memory will be associated with disgrace."
She pauses and sighs heavily, and folds her fingers tightly together.
Not Stephen, nor Roger, but this dishonored brother, is the love of her
life--as yet.
"Of course you heard a good deal about it in town," she says, sadly. "He
had many friends there at one time. Fair-weather friends! They, as a
rule, are cruellest when evil comes; and they never remember. You heard
him often discussed?"
This is a downright question to which Portia is constrained to give an
answer.
"Yes; often," she says, sorely against her will.
"Aunt Maud would enlarge upon it, of course," says Dulce, bitterly. "She
likes whisperings and slanderous tongues. And you, when first you heard
it, what did you think?"
Portia shrinks from her. Must she answer this question, too?
"Think?" she says, evasively.
"Yes; what did you think of Fabian?"
"Very little," says Portia, who has grown quite white; "why should I
think at all? I did not know him then. It was most natural, was it not?
He was a stranger to me."
"A stranger, yes. But still your cousin--your own blood. I should have
thought much, I think. It was natural, I daresay, but even _then_--you
must recollect--did you believe in him? Did you guess the truth?"
"I don't think I quite understand," said Portia, faintly.
Dulce, in a vague fashion, takes note of her confusion.
"Not understand! But it is such a simple matter," she says, in a changed
tone. She looks puzzled, surprised, and a distressed look comes into her
eyes. "I mean even _then_, did you believe him innocent?"
"How can I remember?" says Portia, drawing her breath quickly.
The distrust grows upon Dulce's tell-tale face. She comes a step nearer
to her cousin.
"No," she says, slowly--her eyes are fixed attentively upon Portia--"it
is some time ago. But you can at least tell me _this_. Now--_now_--that
you know him--when you have been beneath the same roof with him for some
months, how is it with you? You _feel_ that he is innocent?"
There is a terrible amount of almost agonized earnestness in her tone.
"How you catechise one," says Portia, with a painfully bald attempt at
indifference that does not impose upon the slowly awakening suspicions
of the other for one instant. "Let us change the subject."
"In one moment. I want an answer to my question first. Now that you have
seen and known Fabian, do you believe him innocent?"
A most fatal silence follows. Had the question referred to any one
else--had even any one else asked the question, she might have evaded it
successfully, or even condescended to an actual misstatement of her real
thoughts on the subject rather than give pain or be guilty of a social
error. She would, in all probability, have smiled and said, "Yes, oh!
yes; one must see that he is incapable of such an act," and so on. But
just now she seems tongue-tied, unable to say one word to allay her
companion's fears. A strange sense of oppression that weighs upon her
breast grows heavier and more insupportable at each moment, and Dulce's
great gleaming eyes of blackest gray are reading her very soul, and
scorching her with their reproachful fire.
"Speak," she cries at last, in a vehement tone, laying her hand on
Portia's arm, and holding her with unconscious force. "Say--say," with a
miserable attempt at entreaty, and a cruel sob, "that you do not believe
him guilty of this cursed thing."
Portia's lips are so dry and parched that they absolutely refuse to give
utterance to any words. In vain she tries to conquer the deadness that
is overpowering her, but without avail. She lifts her eyes beseechingly,
and then grows literally afraid of the girl leaning over her, so intense
and bitter is the hatred and scorn that mar the beauty of her usually
fair, childish face.
This upward, nervous glance, breaks the spell of silence, and gives
voice to Dulce's wrath. It does more, it betrays to her the truth--the
bitter fact--that in Portia's eyes her brother--her beloved--is neither
more nor less than a successful criminal.
"No, do not trouble yourself to answer me," she says, in cold, cutting
tones. "I want no lies, no pretty speeches. I thank you, at least, that
you have spared me those. In your soul--I can see--you think him guilty
of this shameful deed. Oh! it is horrible!" She covers her face with
both her hands, and sways a little, as one might, who is, indeed, hurt
to death. "And you, too," she says, faintly; "the only one of all our
_friends_. And I so trusted you. I so _loved_ you!"
"Dulce!" cries poor Portia, in an agonized tone. "Hear me!" She springs
to her feet, but Dulce, removing her hands from her face, holds them
both towards her in such a repellant manner, that she dares not
approach. In the last half hour, this girl, so pliant, so prone to
laughter and childish petulance, has sprung from the happy insolence of
youth into the sad gravity of womanhood.
"What a fool I was," she says, in a low concentrated tone. "I watched
all, and I was so _sure_. I thought--the idea will make you laugh, no
doubt--but I thought that you _loved_ him. Yet why should you laugh,"
she says with a sudden passion of remembrance. "Many women have loved
him, the best, the loveliest--nay, all the world loved him, till this
false blight fell upon him. And even since--"
She hesitates. It may be emotion, it may be recollection and a thought
that he may not wish further disclosures, check her.
"Yes, and even since?" echoes Portia, bending eagerly forward. Some
feeling even greater than the anguish of the moment compels her to ask
the question. But it is never answered. Dulce, with quivering lips and
flashing eyes, follows out her own train of thought.
"I congratulate you upon your complete success as a coquette," she says.
"No doubt, a London season can develop talents of that sort. You at
least deserve praise as an apt pupil. Step by step, day by day, you led
him on to his destruction--nay, I am not blind--until at last he laid
his whole heart at your feet; you made him adore you only to--"
"Dulce--Dulce," cries Portia, throwing out her arms in passionate
protest. "It is not true, I--"
"I _will_ speak," says Dulce, pressing her back from her, "I _will_ tell
you what I think of you. Scorning him in your heart you still encouraged
him, until his very soul was your own. Do you think I can't see how it
is? Have you forgotten he is my own flesh and blood, and that I can read
him as no one else can? He thinks you sweet and noble, and perfect, no
doubt. Alas! how he has been deceived!"
"Listen to me."
"No, I will not listen. I have trusted you too far already. Oh!"
piteously, "you who have seen him, and have noticed the beauty, the
sweetness of his life, how could you have misjudged him? But," with
vehement anger, "your narrow mind could not appreciate his! You lack
generosity. You could not grasp the fact that there might be in this
wide world such a thing as undiscovered wrong. You condemned without a
hearing. Why," growing calmer, "there have been _hundreds_ of cases
where the innocent have suffered for the guilty."
"I know it," says Portia, feverishly, taking Dulce's hand and trying to
draw her towards her; but the girl recoils.
"Do not touch me," she says. "There is no longer any friendship between
us."
"Oh! Dulce, do not say that," entreats Portia, painfully.
"I will say it. All is at an end as far as love between us is concerned.
Fabian is part of me. I cannot separate myself from him. His friends are
mine. His detractors are mine also. I will not forgive them. I believe
him a saint, you believe him defiled, and tainted with the crime of
_forgery_."
She draws her breath quickly; and Portia turns even whiter than before.
"Whereas I protest to you," goes on Dulce, rapidly losing all
constraint, and letting her only half-suppressed passion have full sway.
"I believe you to be less pure than him, less noble, less self-denying;
_he_ would be slow to believe evil of anyone. And this one thing I am
resolved on. He shall no longer be left in ignorance of your scorn; he
shall not any more spend his affection upon one who regards him with
disdain; he shall know the truth before the day dies."
"Have you no pity?" says Portia, faintly.
"Have you none? You condemned him willingly."
"Oh! not willingly!"
"I don't care, you _have_ condemned him."
"If you will only think, you will see--"
"Don't speak to me, I _hate_ you," says Miss Blount, growling
undignified because of her deep grief and agitation. "And don't think
you can turn me from my purpose. I shall tell him what you think of him
before this evening passes, be sure of that."
"There is no need to tell him," says Portia, in so low a tone that Dulce
can scarcely hear her. "He--he knows already!"
"What!" cries Dulce, aghast. But her rout only lasts for a moment. "I
don't care," she says, recklessly, "that is only another reason why I
should warn him to beware of you!"
Then, as though some cruel thought strikes her, she suddenly bursts into
tears.
"Were there not _others_?" she sobs, bitterly. "If a slave was
indispensable to your happiness, was there not Roger, or Stephen, or
Dicky Browne, or even Sir Mark, that you must needs claim _him_? He was
heart-whole when you came; if not happy, he had at least conquered the
first awful pain; could there be greater wickedness than to add another
grief to his life? He had suffered as no man ever yet suffered, and yet
you came to add another pang, and to destroy him, body and soul! When I
think of it all, and the deliberate cruelty of it," cries she, with a
gesture of uncontrollable passion, "if I could lay you dead at my feet
this moment by a word I would do it!"
"I wish you could do it," says Portia, quite calmly. The terrible grief
of the poor child before her is almost more than she can bear. Her
calmness that is born of despair, brings Dulce back to something that
resembles quietude.
"I shall go now," she says; "you have had enough of me, no doubt; but
remember I shall tell Fabian all that has passed. I warn you of this,
honestly."
She moves towards the door. There is a moment's hesitation, and then
Portia intercepts her, and placing her back against the door to bar
egress, she says, in slow, determined tones:
"You shall tell him nothing. You shall not leave this room until you
promise to keep secret all that has passed here. Do you understand?--you
are to tell him _nothing_."
"Oh! yes, I shall," says Miss Blount, contemptuously, knowing herself
much the stronger of the two. "And even sooner than I first intended. I
shall go to meet him on his return from the wood, and tell him then."
She turns back; and, crossing the room again, goes towards another door;
that opening discloses a large closet beyond, in which many dresses and
other articles of feminine attire are hanging, like so many Blue Beard's
wives. A little window, lattice-paned, illumines this tiny chamber.
Portia following her, lays her hand upon her arm. She has changed her
tone completely, from command to entreaty.
"_Do_ not speak to Fabian of this," she says. "Do not let him think we
two have discussed the wretched subject."
"I shall tell him precisely what has happened," says Dulce, unsoftened.
"That you think him nothing less than a common _felon_."
"Oh! do not put it into language," says Portia, sharp pain in her voice;
she puts up her hands as she speaks, as, though to ward off a blow. "And
I implore you, as you _love_ him, to let things rest as they are."
"And so to give you scope to practise your wiles without hindrance,"
says Dulce, with a short, unlovely laugh. "No, I shall try my very
utmost to lower you in his esteem, and so kill his fatal infatuation for
you."
"You will fail," says Portia, hopelessly. "You will only succeed in
hurting him."
"How sure you are of your power," says Dulce, angrily. "Yet I will not
be disheartened. I will save him if I can."
"You are quite determined?"
"Quite."
"You will go now to meet him, _now_ when your anger is hot, and say to
him what will surely grieve or wound him?"
"Let us talk sense," says Dulce, impatiently. "I shall simply warn him
to have nothing more to do with a woman who looks upon him with scorn
and contempt."
As she speaks she enters the closet that is nothing more than a big
wardrobe, and, as she does so, Portia, quick as thought follows her,
and, closing the door behind her, turns the key in the lock.
"You shall stay there until you promise me to tell nothing of this
hour's conversation to Fabian," she says, with determination.
"Then I shall probably stay here forever," replies Dulce from within,
with equal determination.
Portia going over to the fire seats herself by it. Dulce going to the
latticed window inside seats herself by _it_. An hour goes by. The
little clock up over the mantelpiece chimes five. A gun is fired off in
the growing dark outside. There is a sound as of many voices in the hall
far down below. A laugh that belongs to Dicky Browne floats upwards, and
makes itself heard in the curious stillness of the room above where the
jailer sits guarding her prisoner.
Then Portia, rising, goes to the door of the condemned cell, and speaks
as follows:
"Dulce."
There is no answer.
"Dulce; you are unwise not to answer me."
Still no answer; whereupon Portia, going back to the fire, lets another
half hour pass in silence. Then she says, "Dulce!" again, and again
receives no reply.
Time flies!--and now at last the dressing bell rings loud and clear
through the house, warning the inmates that the best time in the day
draws on apace.
"Dulce," says Portia, in despair, rising for the third time. To tell the
truth, she is growing a little frightened at the persistent silence, and
begins to wonder nervously if Dulce could get smothered in the small
room, because of all the clothes that surround her.
"Dulce! _will_ you promise?" she says. And now, to her relief, even
though the words that come are unfavorable, Dulce answers.
"Never. Not if I stayed here till Doomsday," says Miss Blount, in
uncompromising tones, and quite as unconcernedly as if she was sitting
in the room outside instead of having been ignominiously incarcerated
for the last two hours. "The very moment you open the door, I shall go
down-stairs and tell him everything."
"Then I won't let you out," says Portia, feebly, because she knows that
soon dinner will come, and then she _must_ let her out willy-nilly.
"I didn't ask you," says the rebel. "Dress yourself now, I would advise
you, and go down to dinner. I hope you will enjoy it. When they make
inquiries about my non-appearance, I should think you will have to
explain it later on."
"Come out," says Portia, with a sigh of utter weariness; and then she
opens the door and the incarcerated one steps forth, and sails past her
with the air of a haughty queen, and with an unlowered crest.
Miss Vibart is vanquished. Even to her own soul she confesses so much.
Dulce, passing her in dignified silence, goes toward the bedroom that
opens off the boudoir, where they have been carrying on this most civil
(or rather _un_civil) war, and entering it, closes the door, and fastens
it with unmistakable firmness behind her.
Conquered and subdued, and sick at heart, Portia traverses the corridor
that divides her room from Dulce's, and prepares with languid interest
to make her dinner toilette.