"I do perceive here a divided duty."--_Othello._
JEALOUSY is the keenest, the most selfish, the most poignant of all
sufferings. "It is," says Milton, "the injured lover's hell." This
monster having now seized upon Stephen, is holding him in a close
embrace and is swiftly crushing within him all hope and peace and joy.
To watch Dulce day after day in her cousin's society, to mark her great
eyes grow brighter when he comes, is now more than he can endure. To
find himself second where he had been first is intolerable to him, and a
shrinking feeling that warns him he is being watched and commented upon
by all the members of the Blount household, renders him at times half
mad with rage and wounded pride.
Not that Dulce slights him in any way, or is cold to him, or gives him
to understand, even indirectly, that she would gladly know her
engagement at an end. She is both kind and gentle--much more so than
before--but any doubt he had ever entertained about her having a real
affection for him has now become a certainty.
He had won her unfairly. He had wrought upon her feelings in an evil
hour, when her heart was torn with angry doubts and her self-love
grievously hurt; when all her woman's soul was aflame with the thought
that she was the unwelcome property of a man who would gladly be rid of
her.
Her parting with Roger, and the unexpected emotion he had then betrayed,
had opened her eyes in part, and had shown her how she had flung away
the thing she desired, to gain--naught. Even now, I think she hardly
knows how well she loves her cousin, or how well he loves her, so openly
displayed is her pleasure in his society, so glad is the smile that
welcomes him whenever he enters the room where she is, or seats himself
beside her--which is very often--or when he addresses her, which means
whenever he has anything at all to say to anybody.
At first he had fought manfully against his growing fears, but when a
week had gone by and he had had it forced upon him that the girl he
loved was every day becoming more silent and _distraite_ in his
presence, and when he had seen how she would gladly have altogether
avoided his coming if she could, he lost all heart, and, flinging up his
cards, let a bitter revengeful feeling enter and take possession of his
heart--where love, alone, before, had held full sway.
If not his--she shall at least never be Roger's. This he swears to
himself, with white lips and eyes dangerously bright.
He has her promise, and he will keep her to it. Nothing shall induce
him to release her from it; or if he has to consent to her not
fulfilling her engagement with him, it shall be _only_ on condition that
she will never marry Dare. Even should she come to him with tears in her
eyes and on her bended knees to ask him to alter this decision, she will
beg in vain. He registers a bitter vow that Roger shall not triumph
where he has failed.
He knows Dulce sufficiently well to understand that she will think a
good deal of breaking the word she gave him of her own free will, even
though she gave it in anger and to her own undoing. He can calculate to
a nicety the finer shades of remorse and self-contempt that will possess
her when he lays his case in all its nakedness before her. She is a
wilful, hot-tempered little thing, but the Blounts for generations have
been famed for a strain of honor toward friend and foe that runs in
their blood, and is dear to them as their lives. Therefore he knows her
word will be as sacred to her as her bond.
To Stephen just at this time the world is a howling wilderness; there is
no sun anywhere, and every spring is dry. He has fallen into the habit
of coming very seldom to the Court, where he used to be morning, noon,
and night, ever since his unlucky engagement; indeed, no one in the
house or out of it has seen him since the day before yesterday.
Sitting at home, brooding over his wrongs, with a short and
well-blackened pipe in his mouth, he is giving himself up a victim to
despair and rage. That he can still love her with even, it seems to him,
a deeper intensity than before, is the bitterest drop in his cup. It was
all so sudden, so unexpected. He tortures himself now with the false
belief that she was _beginning_ to love him, that she _might_ have loved
him had time been given him, and had Egypt held Roger but a few months
longer in her foster arms. In a little flash it had all come to him, and
now his life is barren, void of interest, and full of ceaseless pain.
"Bring withered Autumn leaves,
Call everything that grieves,
And build a funeral pyre above his head!
Heap there all golden promise that deceives,
Beauty that wins the heart, and then bereaves,
For love is dead.
"Not slowly did he die.
A meteor from the sky
Falls not so swiftly as his spirit fled--
When, with regretful, half-averted eye,
He gave one little smile, one little sigh,
And so was sped."
These verses, and such as these, he reads between his doleful musings.
It gives him some wretched comfort to believe Dulce had actually some
sparks of love for him before her cousin's return. An erroneous belief,
as she had never cared for him in that way at all, and at her best
moments had only a calm friendship for him. It is my own opinion that
even if Roger had never returned she yet would have found an excuse at
some time to break off her engagement with Gower, or, at least, to let
him understand that she would wish it broken.
To-day is fine, though frosty, and everybody, the children included, are
skating on the lake, which is to be found about half a mile from the
house at the foot of a "wind-beaten hill." The sun is shining coldly, as
though steadily determined to give no heat, and a sullen wind is coming
up from the distant shore. "Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound," and
must now, therefore, be happy, as Boreas is asserting himself nobly,
both on land and sea.
Some of the _jeunesse doree_ of the neighborhood, who have been lunching
at the Court, are with the group upon the lake, and are cutting (some of
them) the most remarkable figures, in every sense of the word, to their
own and everybody else's delight.
Dulce, who is dressed in brown velvet and fur, is gliding gracefully
hither and thither with her hand fast locked in Roger's. Julia is making
rather an exhibition of herself, and Portia, who skates--as she does
everything else--to perfection, but who is easily tired, is just now
sitting upon the bank with the devoted Dicky by her side. Sir Mark,
coming up to these last two, drops lazily down on the grass at Portia's
other side.
"Why don't you skate, Mark?" asks Portia, turning to him.
"Too old," says Gore.
"Nonsense! You are not too old for other things that require far greater
exertion. For one example, you will dance all night and never show sign
of fatigue."
"I like waltzing."
"Ah! and not skating."
"It hurts when one falls," says Mark, with a yawn; "and why put oneself
in a position likely to create stars before one's eyes, and a violent
headache at any moment?"
"Inferior drink, if you take enough of it, will do all that sometimes,"
says Mr. Browne, innocently.
"Will it? I don't know anything about it" (severely). "You do, I
shouldn't wonder; you speak so feelingly."
"If you address me like that again, I shall cry," says Dicky, sadly.
"Why are not you and Portia skating? It is far too cold to sit still on
this damp grass."
"I am tired," says Portia, smiling rather languidly. "It sounds very
affected, doesn't it? but really I am very easily fatigued. The least
little exertion does me up. Town life, I suppose. But I enjoy sitting
here and watching the others."
"So do I," says Sir Mark. "It quite warms my heart to see them flitting
to and fro over there like a pretty dream."
"What part of your heart?" asks Mr. Browne, with a suppressed
chuckle--"the cockles of it?" It is plain he has not yet forgotten his
snubbing of a minute since.
Nobody takes any notice of this outrageous speech. It is passed over
very properly in the deadliest silence.
"By Jove!" says Sir Mark, presently, "there's Macpherson down again.
That's the eighteenth time; I've counted it."
"He can't skate a little screw," says Dicky. "It's a pity to be looking
at him. It only raises angry passions in one's breast. He ought to go
home and put his head in a bag."
"A well-floured one," responded Sir Mark.
Portia laughs. Her laugh is always the lowest, softest thing imaginable.
"Charitable pair," she says.
"Why, the fellow can't stand," says Mr. Browne, irritably. "And he looks
so abominably contented with himself and his deplorable performance.
That last time he was merely trying to get from that point there to
that," waving his hand in both directions. "Any fool could do it. See,
I'll show you." He jumps to his feet, gets on to the ice, essays to do
what Captain Macpherson had tried to do, and succeeds in doing exactly
what Captain Macpherson _did_. That is to say, he instantly comes a most
tremendous cropper right in front of Portia.
Red, certainly, but consumed with laughter at his own defeat, he returns
to her side. There is no use in attempting it, nothing earthly could
have power to subdue Dicky's spirits. He is quite as delighted at his
own discomfiture as if it had happened to somebody else.
"You were right, Dicky," says Sir Mark, when he can speak, "_Any_ fool
could do it. _You_ did it."
"I did," says Dicky, roaring with laughter; "with a vengeance. Never
mind--
'Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.'"
"I hardly think I follow you," says Sir Mark. "Where's the dust, Dicky,
and where's the just? I can't see either of them."
"My dear fellow, never be literal; nothing is so--so boring," says Mr.
Browne, with conviction. "I'm," striking his chest, "the dust, and
there," pointing to the lake, "is the just, and--no, by-the-by, that
don't sound right--I mean--"
"Oh, never mind it," says Sir Mark.
Dulce and Roger having skated by this time past all the others, and
safely over a rather shaky part of the ice that leaves them at the very
farthest corner of the lake, stop somewhat out of breath and look at
each other triumphantly.
Dulce is looking, if possible, more bonny than usual. Her blood is
aglow, and tingling with the excitement of her late exertion; her hair,
without actually having come undone, is certainly under less control
than it was an hour ago, and is glinting and changing from auburn to
brown, and from brown to a warm yellow, beneath the sad kisses of the
Wintry sun. One or two riotous locks have escaped from under her
otter-skin cap and are straying lovingly across her fair forehead,
suggesting an idea of coquetry in the sweet eyes below shaded by their
long dark lashes.
"Your eyes are stars of morning,
Your lips are crimson flowers,"
says Roger softly, as they still stand hand in hand. He is looking at
her intently, with a new meaning in his glance as he says this.
"What a pretty song that is!" says Miss Blount, carelessly. "I like it
better almost every time I hear it."
"It was you made me think of it now," says Roger; and then they seat
themselves upon a huge stone near the brink, that looks as if it was put
there on purpose for them.
"Where is Gower?" asks Roger, at length, somewhat abruptly.
"Yes--where?" returns she, in a tone suggestive of the idea that now for
the first time she had missed him. She says it quite naturally and
without changing color. The fact is it really _is_ the first time she
has thought of him to-day, but I regret to say Roger firmly believes she
is acting, and that she is doing it uncommonly well.
"He hasn't been at the Court since yesterday--has he?" he asks, somewhat
impatiently.
"N--o. But I dare say he will turn up by-and-by. Why?" with a quick
glance at him from under her heavy lashes. "Do you want him?"
"Certainly not. _I_ don't want him," said Roger, with exceeding emphasis
upon the pronoun.
"Then I don't know anybody else who does," finishes Dulce, biting her
lips.
"She is regularly piqued because the fellow hasn't turned up--a lover's
quarrel, I suppose," says Mr. Dare, savagely, to himself, reading
wrongly that petulant movement of her lips.
"YOU do!" he says. To be just to him, he is, and always, I think, will
be, a terribly outspoken young man.
"_I_ do?"
"Yes; you looked decidedly cut up just now when I spoke of his not being
here since yesterday."
"You are absurdly mistaken," declares Miss Blount, with dignity. "It is
a matter of the most perfect indifference to me whether he comes or
goes." (Oh, if he could only know how true this is!)
"Even more piqued than I supposed," concludes Roger, inwardly.
"However, I have no doubt we shall see him this evening," goes on Dulce,
calmly.
"_That_ will be a comfort to you, at all events," murmurs he, gloomily.
Silence follows this. Nothing is heard save the distant laughter of the
skaters at the other end of the lake and the scraping noise of their
feet. The storm is rising steadily in the hills above, but as yet has
not descended on the quiet valley. The gaunt trees are swaying and
bending ominously, and through them one catches glimpses of the angry
sky above, across which clouds are scudding tempestuously. The dull sun
has vanished: all is gray and cheerless. The roar of the breakers upon
the rock-bound coast comes up from afar: while up there upon the wooded
hill the
"Wind, that grand old harper, smites
His thunder-harp of pines."
"Perhaps we had better return to the others," says Dulce, coldly, making
a movement as though to rise.
"Now I have offended you," exclaims Roger, miserably, catching her hand,
and drawing her down to the stone beside him again. "I don't know what's
the matter with me; I only know I am as wretched as ever I can be.
Forgive me, if you can."
He pulls his hat over his eyes and sighs deeply. At this moment his
whole appearance is so decidedly suicidal that no true woman could look
at him unmoved. Miss Blount is a true woman, her _hauteur_ of a moment
since vanishes like snow, and compassion takes its place.
"What is making you wretched?" she asks, in a tone meant to be severe,
but which is only friendly.
"When I remember what a fool I have been," begins Roger, rather as if he
is following out a train of thought than answering her.
"Oh, no; not that," says Dulce, very kindly; "don't call yourself that."
"There is no other name for me," persists Roger, with increasing
melancholy. "Of course, at _that time_--I knew you didn't particularly
care for me, but," disconsolately, "it never occurred to me you might
care for any other fellow!"
"I didn't!" said Miss Blount, suddenly; and then, as suddenly, she
remembers everything, her engagement to Stephen, her horror of that
engagement, all that her last words have admitted, and, growing as red
as a rose, she seeks to hide her confusion by burying her rounded chin
as deep as she can in her soft furs. At the same time she lowers her
lids over her shamed eyes and gazes at her boots as if she never saw
small twos before.
Roger, I need hardly say, is too much of a gentleman to take any notice
of this impulsive admission on her part. Besides, he hardly gets as much
consolation out of it as he should. He is in that stage when to pile up
the agony becomes a melancholy satisfaction, and when the possibility of
comfort in any form takes the shape of a deliberate insult.
"Did you ever once think of me all the time I was away?" he asks,
presently, in a low tone that distinctly gives her to understand he
believes she didn't. That in fact he would--in in his present frame of
mind--_rather_ believe she didn't. His voice is growing absolutely
tragic, and, altogether, he is as deplorably unhappy as any young woman
could desire.
"I wish," says poor Dulce, her voice quivering, "that you would not
speak to me like this now, or--or that you had spoken like it long ago!"
"I wish I had, with all my soul," says Roger, fervently. "However," with
a heavy sigh, "you are engaged to _him_ now, you know, so I suppose
there is no use in talking about it."
"If I do know it, why tell me again about it?" says Dulce reproachfully,
her eyes full of tears. "Just like you to remind me--of--my
_misfortune_!"
It is out. She has been dying to tell him for the last half-hour of this
trouble that has been pressing upon her for months, of this most
distasteful engagement, and now that she has told him, though
frightened, yet she would hardly recall her words. Her lashes linger on
her cheeks, and she looks very much as if she would like to cry but for
the disgrace of the thing.
"Your misfortune!" repeats Roger, in a strange tone. "Are you not happy,
then?"
He has risen to his feet in his surprise and agitation, and is looking
down on her as she sits trembling before him, her hands tightly clasped
together.
"Do you mean to tell me he is not good to you?" asks Roger, seeing she
either cannot or will not speak.
"He is too good to me; you must not think that," exclaims she,
earnestly. "It is only--that I don't care about his goodness--I don't
care," desperately, "for anything connected with him."
"You have made a second mistake, then?"
"Not a _second_," in a very low tone.
"Then let us say, you have again changed your mind?"
"No."
"You liked him once?" impatiently.
"No."
"You might as well say you _did_ like me," says Roger, with angry
warmth; "and I know I was actually abhorrent in your sight."
"Oh, no, _no_," says Dulce for the third time, in a tone so low now that
he can hardly hear it; yet he does.
"Dulce! do you know what you are implying?" asks he, in deep agitation.
"It is one of two things now: either that you never liked Stephen, and
always lov--liked me, or else you are trying to make a fool of me for
the second time. Which is it?"
To this Miss Blount declines to make any reply.
"I won't leave this spot to-day until you answer me," says Roger, fell
determination on his brow; "Which--is--it?"
"I'm sure, at least, that I never liked Stephen in _that_ way,"
confesses she, faintly.
"And you did like me?"
Silence again.
"Then," says Mr. Dare, wrathfully, "for the sake of a mere whim, a
caprice, you flung me over and condemned me to months of misery? Did you
know what you were doing? Did _you_ feel unhappy? I hope to goodness you
_did_," says Roger, indignantly; "if you endured even one quarter of
what I have suffered, it would be punishment sufficient for you."
"Had you nothing to do with it?" asks she, nervously.
"No; it was entirely your own fault," replies he, hastily. Whereupon she
very properly bursts into tears.
"Every woman," says some one, "is in the wrong till she cries; then,
instantly, she is in the right."
So it is with Dulce. No sooner does Roger see "her tears down fa'" than,
metaphorically speaking, he is on his knees before her. I am sure but
for the people on the lake, who might find an unpleasant amount of
amusement in the tableau, he would have done so literally.
"Don't do that," he entreats, earnestly. "Don't Dulce. I have behaved
abominably to you. It was _not_ your fault; it was all mine. But for my
detestable temper--"
"And the chocolate creams," puts in Dulce, sobbing.
"It would never have occurred. Forgive me," implores he, distractedly,
seeing her tears are rather on the increase than otherwise. "I must be a
brute to speak to you as I have done."
"I won't contradict you," says Miss Blount, politely, still sobbing.
There is plainly a great deal of indignation mingled with her grief. To
say it was all _her_ fault, indeed, when he knows.
"Don't cry any more," says Roger, coaxingly, trying to draw her hands
down from her eyes; "don't, now, you have got to go back to the others,
you know, and they will be wondering what is the matter with you. They
will think you had a bad fall."
This rouses her; she wipes her eyes hastily and looks up.
"How shall I explain to them?" she asks, anxiously.
"We won't explain at all. Let me take off your skates, and we will walk
up and down here until your eyes are all right again. Why, really,"
stooping to look at them, "they are by no means bad; they will be as
good as ever in five minutes."
Inexpressibly consoled, she lets him take off her skates, and commences
a gentle promenade with him up and down the brown and stunted grass that
lies upon the path.
"There was a time," says Roger, after a pause, "when I might have dared
to kiss away your tears, but I suppose that time is gone forever."
"I suppose so," dismally; tears are still wetting the sweet eyes she
turns up to his.
"Dulce! let me understand you," says Roger, gravely. "You are quite sure
you don't care for him?"
"Quite," says Dulce, without a second's hesitation.
"Then ask him to give you up--to release you from your promise," says
Roger, brightly.
"I--I'd be afraid," replies Miss Blount, drooping her head.
"Nonsense!" says Roger (of course it is not _he_ who has to do it). "Why
should you feel nervous about a thing like that? You don't want to marry
him, therefore say so. Nothing can be simpler."
"It doesn't sound simple to me," says Dulce, dolefully.
Just at this moment a young man, dressed in gray, emerges from the group
of alders that line the south edge of the lake, very near to where Dulce
and Roger are standing. He is so situated that he is still concealed
from view, though quite near enough to the cousins to hear what they are
saying. The last two sentences having fallen on his ears, he stands as
if spell-bound, and waits eagerly for what may come next.
"He can't possibly want to marry you if you don't want to marry him,"
says Roger, logically, "and you _don't_?" a little doubtfully still.
"I don't, indeed," says Dulce, with a sad sigh and a shake of her auburn
head.
At this the young man in the gray suit, with a bitter curse, turns away,
and, retracing his steps, gets to the other side of the lake without
being seen by either Dulce or his companion.
Here he declines to stay or converse with anyone. Passing by Portia and
the two men who are still attending to her, he bows slightly, and
pretends not to hear Dicky's voice as it calls to him to stop.
"He is like that contemptible idiot who went round with the 'banner with
the strange device,'" says Dicky Browne, looking after him; "nothing
will stop him."
"What's up with him now?" asks Sir Mark, squeezing his glass into his
eye, the better to watch Stephen's figure, as it hurriedly disappears.
"I expect he has eaten something that has disagreed with him," says
Dicky, cheerfully.
"Well, really, he looked like it," says Gore. "A more vinegary aspect it
has seldom been my lot to gaze upon, for which I acknowledge my
gratitude. My dear Portia, unless you intend to go in for rheumatics
before your time, you will get up from that damp grass and come home
with me."