"We must live our lives, though the sun be set,
Must meet in the masque, where parts we play,
Must cross in the maze of Life's minuet;
Our yea is yea, and our nay is nay:
But while snows of Winter or flowers of May,
Are the sad years' shroud or coronet,
In the season of rose or of violet,
I shall never forget till my dying day!"
--A. LANG.
DINNER to-night, so far as Dulce and Portia are concerned, is gone
through in utter silence. Not a word escapes either. To Portia, even to
say yes or no to the butler, is a wearying of the flesh; to Dulce, it is
an open annoyance. Their positive determination to enter into no
conversation might have been observed sooner or later by somebody, but
for Dicky Browne. He talks for everybody, and is, indeed, in such a
genial mood, that their unusual silence passes unnoticed.
Fabian, too, for a wonder, has risen above his usual taciturnity and is
almost talkative. A change so delightful to Sir Christopher, that he, in
his turn, brightens up, and grows more festive than he has been for many
a day. In fact, for all but the two girls, the dinner may be counted a
distinct success.
Portia, who is dressed in filmy black, is looking white and nervous, and
has in her eyes an intense wrapt expression, such as one might have
whose nerves are all unstrung, and who is in momentary expectation of
something unpleasant, that may or may not happen. Dulce on the contrary
is flushed and angry. Her eyes are brilliant, and round her generally
soft lips lies a touch of determination foreign to them, and hardly
becoming.
Presently dinner comes to an end, and then the three women rise and
rustle away toward the drawing-room, where follows a dreary half hour,
indeed.
Julia, who is always drowsy after her claret, sinks complacently into
the embrace of the cosiest arm-chair she can find, and under pretence of
saving her priceless complexion (it really does cost a good deal) from
the fire, drops into a gentle slumber behind her fan.
This makes things even harder for Portia and Dulce. I need hardly say
they are not on speaking terms--that has explained itself, I hope.
Thrown now, therefore, upon their own resources, they look anxiously
around for a chance of mitigating the awkwardness of the situation that
has thrust itself upon them.
At such trying moments as these how blessed is the society of children.
Even crusty old bachelors, educated to the belief that the young and
innocent are only one gigantic fraud, have been known on occasions like
the present to bestow upon them a careful, not to say artful, attention.
To-night, Portia, Jacky and the Boodie are having it all their own way.
"Quite a bully time, don't you know," says Master Jacky, later, to the
all-suffering nurse, whose duty it is to look after them and put them to
bed. They are talked to and caressed and made much of by both girls, to
their excessive surprise; surprise that later on mounts to distrust.
"Why may I have this album to-night when I mightn't _last_ night?" asks
the Boodie, shrewdly, her big sapphire eyes bigger than usual. "You
scolded me about it last night, and every other time I touched it. And
what's the matter with your eyes?" staring up at Portia, who has turned
a page in the forbidden album, and is now gazing at a portrait of Fabian
that is smiling calmly up at her.
It is a portrait taken in that happy time when all the world was fair to
him, and when no "little rift" had come to make mute the music of his
life. Portia is gazing at it intently. She has forgotten the child--the
book--everything, even the fear of observation, and her eyes are heavy
with unshed tears, and her hands are trembling.
Then the child's questioning voice comes to her; across the bridge of
past years she has been vainly trying to travel, and perforce she gives
up her impossible journey, and returns to the sure but sorry present.
Involuntarily she tightens her hand upon the Boodie's. There is entreaty
in her pressure, and the child (children, as a rule, are very
sympathetic), after a second stare at her, shorter than the first,
understands, in a vague fashion, that silence is implored of her, and
makes no further attempts at investigation.
After a little while the men come; all except Fabian. Their entrance is
a relief to the girls, whatever it may be to Julia. She rouses herself
by a supreme effort to meet the exigencies of the moment, and really
succeeds in looking quite as if she has not been in the land of Nod for
the past sweet thirty minutes.
"You have broken in upon a really delicious little bit of gossip," she
says to Sir Mark, coquettishly; whereupon Sir Mark, as in duty bound,
entreats her to retail it again to him.
She doesn't.
"I hope you have been miserable without us," says Dicky Browne, sinking
into a chair beside Portia, and lifting the Boodie on to his knee. (It
would be impossible to Dicky Browne to see a child anywhere without
lifting it on to his knee). "We've been wretched in the dining-room; we
thought Sir Christopher would never tip us the wink--I mean," correcting
himself with assumed confusion, "give us the word to join you. What are
you looking at? An album?"
"Yes; you may look at it, too," says Portia, pushing it anxiously
towards him. She cannot talk to-night. There is a mental strain upon her
brain that compels her to silence. If he would only amuse himself with
the caricatures of his friends the book contains.
But he won't. Mr. Browne rises superior to the feeble amusements of the
ordinary drawing-room.
"No, thank you," he says, promptly. "Nothing on earth offends me more
than being asked to look at an album. Why look at paper beauties when
there are living ones in the room?"
Here he tries to look sentimental, and succeeds, at all events, in
looking extremely funny. He has been having a good deal of champagne,
and a generous amount of Burgundy, and is now as happy and contented as
even his nearest and dearest could desire. Don't mistake me for a
moment; nobody ever saw Mr. Browne in the very faintest degree as--well,
as he ought not to be; but there is no denying that after dinner he is
gaiety itself, and (as Dulce's governess used to say of him), "very
excellent company indeed."
"I always feel," he goes on airily, still alluding to the despised
album, "when any one asks me to look at a book of this kind, as if they
thought I was a dummy and couldn't talk. And I _can_ talk, you know."
"You can--you can, indeed," says Sir Mark, feelingly. "Dulce, what was
that we were reading yesterday? I remember, now, a quotation from it
_apropos_ of talking, _not apropos_ of our friend Dicky, of course.
'Then he will talk. Good gods, how he will talk!' Wasn't that it?"
"Sing us something, Dicky, do. You used to sing long ago," says Julia,
insinuatingly, who thinks she might be able to accomplish another
surreptitious doze under cover of the music.
"I've rather given it up of late," says Mr. Browne, with a modest air,
and a chuck to his shirt collar.
"You used to sing 'Ye banks and braes o' bonny Doon' sweetly," says
Julia, when she has recovered from a vigorous yawn, got through quite
safely behind her sheet anchor--I mean her fan.
"Well--er--such a lot of fellows go in for the sickly sentimental; I'm
tired of it," says Dicky, vaguely.
"You didn't tire of _that_ song until that little girl of the Plunkets
asked you what a 'brae' was and you couldn't tell her. She told me about
it afterwards, and said you were a very amusing boy, but, she feared,
uneducated. You gave her the impression, I think," says Sir Mark,
pleasantly, "that you believed the word had something to do with that
noble (if tough) animal, the donkey!"
"I never told her anything of the kind," says Dicky, indignantly. "I
never speak to her at all if I can help it. A most unpleasant girl, with
a mouth from ear to ear and always laughing."
"What a fetching description," says Stephen Gower, with a smile.
"You _will_ sing us something?" says Portia, almost entreatingly. She
wants to be alone; she wants to get rid of Dicky and his artless prattle
at any price.
"Certainly," says Mr. Browne, but with very becoming hesitation. "If I
could only be sure what style of thing you prefer. I know a comic song
or two, if you would like to hear them."
"Heavens and Earth!" murmurs Sir Mark, with a groan. He throws his
handkerchief over his face, and places himself in an attitude suggestive
of the deepest resignation.
"I'm afraid I shan't be able to remember _all_ the words," says Dicky,
regretfully. "There is any amount of verses, and all as funny as they
can be. But I've a shocking memory."
"For small mercies--" says Sir Mark, mildly.
"Nevertheless I'll try," says Dicky, valiantly, moving toward the piano.
"No don't, Dicky," exclaims Sir Mark, with tearful entreaty. "It would
break my heart if Portia were to hear you for the first time at a
disadvantage. 'I had rather than forty shillings you had your book of
songs and sonnets here,' but as you haven't, why, wait till you have.
Now," says Sir Mark, casting a warning look upon the others; "I've done
_my_ part--hold him tight, some of you, or he will certainly do it
still."
"Oh! if you don't _want_ to hear me," returns Dicky, with unruffled good
humor. "Why can't you say so at once, without so much beating about the
bush. I don't want to sing."
"Thank you, Dicky," says Sir Mark, sweetly.
Stephen is sitting close to Dulce, and is saying something to her in a
low tone. Her answers, to say the least of them, are somewhat irrelevant
and disconnected. Now she rises, and, murmuring to him a little
softly-spoken excuse, glides away from him to the door, opens it, and
disappears.
At this Portia, who has never ceased to watch her, grows even paler than
she was before, and closes one hand so tightly on her fan that part of
the ivory breaks with a little click.
Five minutes pass; to her they might be five interminable hours; and
then, when she has electrified Mr. Browne by saying "yes" twice and "no"
three times in the wrong places, she, too, gets up from her seat and
leaves the room.
* * * * *
Before the fire in his own room Fabian is standing, with Dulce crying
her heart out upon his breast. He has one arm around her, but his eyes
are looking into a sad futurity, and he is gently, absently, tapping her
shoulder with his left hand. He is frowning, not angrily, but
thoughtfully, and there is an expression in his dark eyes that suggests
a weariness of the flesh, and a longing to flee away and be at rest.
"Do not take this thing so much to heart," he says, in a rather
mechanical tone, addressing his little sister, who is grieving so
bitterly because of the slight that has been cast upon him from so
unexpected a quarter. "She told you the truth; the very first moment my
eyes met hers I knew she had heard all, and--had condemned."
He sighs wearily.
"Who shall blame her?" he says, with deepest melancholy.
"I blame her," cries Dulce, passionately. "Nay, more, I hate and despise
her. She has seen you, known you. She must, therefore, be
_mad--blind_--to credit so vile a thing of you. And you, my saint, my
darling, what have you not endured all this time! Knowing everything,
bearing everything, without a murmur or reproach. Her scorn, her
contempt. Oh, Fabian! at least you do not suffer alone, for I suffer
with you."
"That only adds another drop to my cup," replies he, gently. "It does
not comfort me. I had some faint pleasure in the thought that you and
she were friends, and now, even that belief is denied me. _I_ have
severed you. What have I to do with either she or you? My misfortune is
my own, let it be so. Your tears only aggravate my pain, my dear,
_dear_ little sister."
He draws her closer to him, and kisses her warmly. Is she not the one
being who has clung to him, and loved him, and believed in him through
good and evil report?
"Who could dream she was so deceitful?" says Dulce, tearfully, alluding
to the unhappy Portia. "I never once even suspected the real truth. Why,
over and over again she has spoken of you, has compelled me to discuss
you, has seemed to court the subject of--"
"Spoken of _me_!"
"Yes, often--often, hundreds of times. She seemed never to tire of you
and your history; I thought she--"
Dulce hesitates.
"Go on; you thought she--"
"Well, then," recklessly, "I thought she was in love with you; I was
_sure_ of it."
"Dulce," sharply, "you forget yourself. What are you saying? Do you
think your cousin would like you to speak like this?"
"I don't care what she likes," cries the rebel, angrily; "as I am
speaking like this, I hope she wouldn't. When I think how good you have
always been to her, how you gave her your friendship--your--" her voice
fails her, and in a whisper, she adds, "_your love_."
"Do not let us discuss this subject any more," says Fabian; though he
speaks quickly one can hear the keen anguish in his tone. "Why could I
not give her my friendship? Is it her fault that she cannot believe?"
"You would defend her!"
"I would be just. Is she the _only_ one who feels distrust, who only
half credits my version of the miserable story? Here, in this very
house, are there none who hesitate between faith and unfaith? You have
faith in me, and Roger had."
"Oh, yes, yes, _yes_!" cries she, suddenly. "_He_ had faith in you, _he_
loved you." Without a word of warning she breaks again into a very
tempest of tears, and sobs bitterly.
"I would you could have loved him," says Fabian, in a low tone, but she
will not listen.
"Go on," she says, vehemently, "you were saying something about the
people in this house."
"That, probably, after you and Roger, I have Dicky on my side,"
continues Fabian, obediently, a still deeper grief within his haggard
eyes, "and, of course, Christopher and Mark Gore; but does Julia quite
understand me? or Stephen Gower! Forgive me, dearest, for this last."
"Don't speak to me like that," entreats she, mournfully; "what is
Stephen--what is anyone to me in comparison with you. Yet I will vouch
for Stephen. But what is it you say of Julia--surely--"
"Yes--no doubt," impatiently. "But is her mind really satisfied? If
to-morrow my innocence were shown up incontrovertibly to all the world,
she would say triumphantly, 'I told you so.' And if my guilt were
established, she would say just as triumphantly, 'I told you so,' in the
very same tone."
"You wrong her, I think. She has lived with you in this house off and on
for many months, and few have so mean a heart as Portia."
Someone, who a minute ago opened the door very gently, and is now
standing irresolute upon the threshold, turns very pale at this last
speech and lays her hand upon her heart, as though fearing, though
longing, to go forward.
"Perhaps I _do_ wrong Julia," says Fabian, indifferently. "It hardly
matters. But you must not wrong Portia. Our suspicions, as our likes and
dislikes, are not under our control; now, for example, there is old
Slyme; he hates me, as all the world can see, yet he would swear to my
innocence to-morrow."
"How do you know that?"
"I _do_ know it; by instinct, I suppose; I am one of those unhappy
people who can see through their neighbors. In spite of the hatred he
entertains for me (why I know not) his eyes betray the fact that he
thinks me guiltless of the crime imputed to me. So you see, vulgar
prejudice has nothing to do with it, and Portia is not to be censured
because she can not take me on trust."
"Oh, Fabian! how can you still love one who--"
"My dear, love and I are not to be named together, you forget that. I
must live my life apart. You can only pray that my misery may be of
short duration. But I would have you forgive Portia," he says,
gently--nay, as her name falls from his lips, a certain tenderness
characterises both his face and tone--"if only for _my_ sake."
At this, the silent figure in the doorway draws her breath, painfully,
and catches hold of the lintel as though to steady herself. Her lips
tremble, a momentary fear that she may be going to faint terrifies her;
then a voice, cold and uncompromising falling on her ears, restores her
to something like composure.
"Do not ask me that, anything but that;" it is Dulce who is speaking. "I
cannot."
At this, the girl standing in the doorway, as though unable to endure
more, comes slowly forward, and advances until she is within the full
glare of the lamplight. It is Portia. She is deadly pale; and her black
robes clinging round her render the pallor of her face even more
ghastly. She has raised one hand, and is trifling nervously with the
string of pearls that always lies round her white throat; she does not
look at Fabian, not even for one instant does she permit her eyes to
seek his, but lets them rest on Dulce, sadly, reproachfully.
"Why can you not forgive me?" she says; "is not your revenge complete?
You have, indeed, kept your word. Now that I am sad at heart, why will
you not try to forgive?"
"Yes--forgive." It is Fabian who says this; he lays his hand upon
Dulce's arm, and regards her earnestly.
"_You_ ask me to forgive--_you_! You would have me be kind to this
traitress!" returns she, passionately, glancing back at Portia, over her
shoulder, with angry eyes. "Do you forgive her yourself?"
"I am beyond the pale of forgiveness so far as he is concerned," says
Portia, slowly. "It is to you I appeal. I have loved you well, that
should count for something. As for your brother, I understand--I know
that he will never forgive and never forget!"
"You are right," says Fabian, addressing her for the first time, yet
without letting his glance meet hers, "I shall _never forget_!"
A sob rises in Portia's throat; there is a terrible sadness in his tone,
the more terrible because of the stern restraint he has laid upon
himself.
"Go to her," he says to Dulce, and the girl who has never disobeyed a
wish of his in all her life goes up to Portia and lays her hand in
hers.
Palm to palm, slender hands clasped close together, they move toward the
door; Dulce, with bent head, trying to stay the mournful tears that are
falling silently, one by one, down her cheeks; Portia, with head erect,
but with an anguish in her lovely eyes sadder than any tears.
Just as she reaches the door she turns her head, and, with a passionate
eagerness that will not be repressed, looks at Fabian. Their eyes meet.
He makes a step toward her; he has forgotten everything but that he
loves her, and that she--dearest but most agonizing of certainties--loves
him, and that she is near him, searching, as it were, into his very
soul; then remembrance comes to him, and, with a smothered groan, he
turns from her, and, leaning his arms on the chimney-piece, buries his
face in them.
Portia, to check the sob that rises in her throat, tightens her clasp on
Dulce's hand and draws the girl quickly from the room. Perhaps, too, she
seeks to hide his grief from other eyes than hers. The unwonted
sharpness of her pressure, however, rouses Dulce from her sad thoughts,
and as they reach the corridor outside she stops short, and glances half
resentfully, half with a question on her face, at Portia.
The extreme pain and grief she sees in Portia's eyes awakens her to the
truth; she draws her breath a little quickly and lays her hand
impulsively upon her cousin's bare white arm.
"You suffer too--you!" she says, in a whisper full of surprise; "Oh,
Portia! is it that you love him?"
"Has it taken you so long to discover that," says Portia, reproachfully,
who has grown somewhat reckless because of the misery of the past few
hours. The self-contained, proud girl is gone; a woman sick at heart, to
whom the best good of this world is as naught, has taken her place.
There is so much genuine pain in her voice that Dulce is touched; she
forgets all, condones all; to see a fellow-creature in pain is terrible
to this hot-blooded little shrew. The anger and disdain die out of her
eyes, and coming even closer to Portia, she looks long and earnestly at
her beautiful face.
"Oh, that you could believe in him," she says, at last, the expression
of her desire coming from her in the form of a sigh.
"If I could, I should be too deeply blessed. Yet is it that I do not
believe, or that I dread the world's disbelief? That is the sting. To
know that a stain lies on the man I love, to know that others distrust
him, and will _forever_ pass him by on the other side. That is the
horror. Dulce, I am ignoble, I fear many things; the future terrifies
me; but yet, as I am so wretched, dear, _dear_ Dulce, take me back into
your heart!"
She bursts into tears. They are so strange to her and have been so long
denied, that by their very vehemence they frighten Dulce. She takes
Portia in her arms, and clings to her; and, pressing her lips to her
cheek, whispers to her fondly that she is forgiven, and that from her
soul she pities her. Thus peace is restored between these two.