CHAPTER XIV
"What sudden anger's this? How have I reaped it? He parted frowning from me, as if ruin leaped from his eyes." – Shakespeare.
The night wears on. By this time everybody is either pleased or disappointed with the evening. For the most part, of course, they looked pleased, because frowns are unbecoming; but, then, looks go for so little.
Julia, who has impounded a middle-aged baronet, is radiant. The middle-aged baronet is not! He evidently regards Julia as a sort of modern albatross, that hangs heavily to his neck, and withers beneath her touch. She has been telling him all about her early life in India, and her troubles, and the way she suffered with her servants, and various other private matters; and the poor baronet doesn't seem to see it, and is very fatigued indeed. But Julia has him fast, and so there is little hope for him.
Dulce and Roger have been at open war ever since the second dance. From their eyes, when directed at each other, have darted forked lightning since that fatal dance.
"If they could only have been kept apart for 'this night only,'" says Sir Mark, in despair, "all might have been well; but the gods ordained otherwise."
Perhaps the careless gods had Stephen Gower's case in consideration; at all events, that calm young man, profiting by the dispute between the betrothed pair, has been making decided, if smothered, love to Dulce, all the evening.
By this time, indeed, the whole room has noticed his infatuation, and covert remarks about the probability of her carrying on to a successful finish her first engagement are whispered here and there.
Sir Christopher is looking grave and anxious. Some kind friend has been making him as uncomfortable about Dulce's future as circumstances will permit.
Meanwhile, Dulce herself, with a bright flush upon her cheeks and a light born of defiance in her blue-green eyes, is dancing gaily with Stephen, and is looking charming enough to draw all eyes upon her.
Dicky Browne, of course, is in his element. He is dancing with everybody, talking to everybody, flirting with everybody, and is, as he himself declares, "as jolly as a sand boy." He is making love indiscriminately all round – with old maids and young – married and single – with the most touching impartiality.
"Dicky is like the bee amongst the flowerets. By Jove, if he improves the shining hours, he ought to make a good match yet," says Dicky's papa, who has condescended to forsake his club for one night, and grace Dulce's ball with his somewhat attenuated charms.
As the above speech will prove, Mr. Browne senior's knowledge of Watts and Tommy Moore is limited and decidedly mixed.
Among all the fair women assembled at the Hall to-night, to Portia, beyond dispute, must the golden apple be awarded. She is still pale, but exceedingly beautiful. The wistful, tired expression that darkens her eyes only serves to heighten her loveliness, and throw out the delicate tinting of her fair skin. Dulce, noticing her extreme pallor, goes up to her, and whispers gently:
"You are tired, darling. Do not dance any more, unless you wish it."
"I am not sure, I don't wish it; I don't exactly know what it is I do wish," says Portia, with a rather broken smile. "I daresay, like most other things in this life, I shall find out all about it when it is too late. But finish your waltz, dearest, and don't puzzle your brain about me."
All the windows are thrown wide open. Outside the heavens are alight with stars. The air is heavy with the breath of dying flowers, and the music – faint and low at times, and again wild and sweet – rises and swells as the director waves to and fro his magic wand.
Inside, in the conservatories, the lamps are burning low; the tender blossoms are hanging down their heads. Between the dark green branches of the shrubs, lights blue and red and yellow gleam softly. In the distance may be heard the plaintive drip-drip of many fountains.
Roger, passing through one of the halls, and seeing Dulce and Mr. Gower standing before a huge Chelsea bowl of flowers, stops short, hesitates, and then, bon gre mal gre, goes up to them and makes some trivial remark that neither deserves an answer nor gets one.
Dulce is apparently wrapped up in the contemplation of a flower she has taken from the old bowl – that looks something like an indoor Marguerite; she is plucking it slowly to pieces, and as she so mutilates it, whispers softly the incantation that will help to declare her fortune:
"Il m'aime – un peu – beaucoup – passionément – pas du tout. Il m'aime – un peu – "
The petals are all gone; nothing remains but the very heart of the poor flower, which now, as she breaks it mercilessly in two, flutters sadly to her feet, and dies there.
"Yes – just so," she says, with a little hostile glance at Roger, distinctly seen by Gower – "and such a very little, that it need hardly count!"
"What an unsatisfactory lover," says Roger, rather satirically, returning her glance with interest. "Of whom were you thinking?"
"My dear Roger, you forget," says Miss Blount, with admirable promptitude; "how could I think of any one in that light! I have never had a lover in my life. I have only had —you!" She says this slowly, and lets her lids fall half over her eyes, that are now gleaming with undue brilliancy.
"True!" replies Dare, with maddening concurrence, stroking his mustache softly.
"Isn't Roger charming," says Dulce (her own manner deeply aggravating in its turn), tapping Gower's arm lightly and confidentially with her fan; "so honest and withal so gracious."
"A compliment from you is, indeed, worth having," says Roger, who is in a dreadful temper; "but a truce to them now. By-the-by, were you really thinking of me just now when you plucked that unoffending flower to pieces? I can hardly bring myself to believe it."
"If not of you, of whom should I be thinking?" retorts she, calmly but defiantly.
"Well – Gower, for example," says Roger, with a sneering laugh, and unpardonable bad taste. "He looks as though he could do a lover's part at a moment's notice, and without the slightest effort."
As he makes this objectionable little speech, he turns on his heel and leaves them.
Dulce, crimson, and with her breath coming somewhat quickly, still lets her eyes meet Gower's bravely.
"I must ask you to excuse my cousin," she says, quietly. "How warm the rooms are; is there no air anywhere, I wonder?"
"On the balcony there is," says Gower, gently. "Shall we go there for a minute or two?"
She lays her hand upon his arm, and goes with him through the lighted, heavily-perfumed rooms on to the balcony, where the cool air is blowing, and where the fresh scent from the waving pines makes itself felt.
The moon is sailing in all its grandeur overhead. Below, the world is white with its glory. The music of many rivulets, as they rush sleepless to the river, sounds sweeter far than even the strains of the band within.
It is past midnight. The stars are growing pale. Already the "world's heart" begins to throb,
"And a wind blows,
With unknown freshness over lands and seas."
Something in the silence and majesty of the hour, and something, perhaps, within her own heart, brings the unbidden tears to Dulce's eyes.
"What can be the matter with Roger?" asks Stephen, presently, in a low tone. "We used to be such good friends, long ago. I never saw anyone so changed. He used to be a genial sort of fellow." The emphasis is very expressive.
"Used he?" says Dulce, in a somewhat expressionless tone.
"Yes; a right down good sort."
"Is he so very bad now?" says Dulce, deliberately and dishonestly ignorant.
"To you – yes."
There is a pause.
"I think I hardly understand you," she says, in a tone that should have warned him to be silent.
"Have you forgotten the scene of a moment since?" he asks her, eagerly. "His voice, his glance, his whole manner were unbearable; you bore it like an angel – but – why should you bear anything? Why should you trouble yourself about him at all? Why not show that you care as little for him as he cares for – "
"Go on," says Dulce, imperiously.
"As he cares for you, then," says Stephen, recklessly.
"You have been studying us to some purpose, evidently," exclaims Dulce, turning to him with extreme bitterness. "I suppose, indeed, you are not alone in your judgment. I daresay it is apparent to the whole world that I am a matter of perfect indifference to – to – my cousin!"
"'Who runs may read,'" says Stephen with quiet determination. "Why should I lie to you? He must be blind and deaf, I think – it is not to be accounted for in any other way. Why, that other morning in the garden, you remember how he then – "
"I remember nothing," interrupts she, haughtily, turning away from him, deep offence in her eyes.
But he follows her.
"Now you are angry with me," he says, miserably, trying to look into her averted face.
"Why should I be angry?" she says, petulantly. "Is it because you tell me Roger does not care for me? Do you think I did not know that before? It is, indeed, a question with me whether I am or am not an object of aversion to the man I have promised to marry."
"You speak very hardly," he says.
"I speak what is in my heart," says Dulce, tremulously.
"Nevertheless, I should not have said what I did," says Stephen, remorsefully, "I know that. Whatever I might have thought, I should have kept it to myself; but" – in a low tone – "it maddens me to see you give yourself voluntarily to one incapable of appreciating the treasure that has fallen to his share – a treasure beyond price – when there are others who, for a word, a glance, a smile, would barter – "
He pauses. His voice is trembling. His eyes are bent upon the ground as though he is half afraid to meet her glance. There is genuine feeling in his tone.
Dulce, impressed by his open agitation, in spite of herself, leans over the balcony, and lets her fingers wander nervously amongst the leaves of the Virginian creeper that has intertwined itself in the ironwork, and is now fluttering within her reach. It is gleaming blood-red beneath the kiss of the fickle moonbeams, that dance hither and thither amidst its crimson foliage.
Plucking two or three of the reddest leaves, she trifles with them gently, and concentrating all her attention on them, gives herself an excuse for avoiding Stephen's earnest gaze. Her hands are unsteady. She is affected by the sincerity of his manner; and just now, too, she is feeling hurt and wounded, and, perhaps, a little reckless. Her self-pride (that dearest possession of a woman) has sustained a severe shock; for the first time she has been awakened to the fact that the whole country considers her as naught in the eyes of the man whose wife she has promised to be.
To prove to the country that she is as indifferent to Roger as he (it appears) is to her, becomes a settled desire within her heart; the more she dwells upon this, the more sweet it seems to her that there should be another man willing to be her slave; another in whose sight she is all that a woman should be, and to whom each tone of her voice, each glance of her soft eyes, is as a touch of heaven!
Her silence emboldening Gower, he bends over her, and lays his hand upon the slender fingers that are still holding the scarlet leaves of the Virginian creeper.
"Do you understand me?" he asks, nervously.
"Yes."
She feels almost constrained to answer him honestly, so compelling is the extreme earnestness of his manner.
"It seems a paltry thing now to say that I love you," goes on Gower in an impassioned tone that carries her away with it, now that she is sore at heart; "You know that. You have known it for weeks." He puts aside with a gesture her feeble attempt at contradiction. "Every thought of my heart is yours; I live only in the hope that I shall soon see you again. Tell me now honestly, would it be possible to break off this engagement with your cousin?"
At this she shrinks a little from him, and a distressed look comes into her beautiful eyes.
"What are you saying?" she says, in a half-frightened way. "It has been going on for so long, this engagement —always, as it seems to me. How should I break it off? And then there is Uncle Christopher, he would be unhappy; he would not forgive, and – besides – "
Her voice dies away. Memory vague but sharp, comes to her. If she should now deliberately discard Roger, how will it be with her in the future? And yet what if he should be glad of his freedom; should welcome it with open arms? If, indeed, he should be only waiting for her to take the initiative, and give him his release!
This reflection carries its sting; there is madness in it. She closes her lips firmly, and her breath comes quickly and uncertainly.
"It will be better for you later on," breaks in Gower, tempting her, surely but quietly. "When you are married – it is all very well for you now, when escape at any moment is possible; but when you are irrevocably bound to an unloving husband how will it be with you? Other women have tried it, and how has it ended with them? Not as it will with you, I know; you are far above the many; but still your life will drag with you – there will be no joy! no sympathy! no – Dulce have pity on yourself (I do not say on me), and save yourself while you can."
She makes a last faint protest.
"How do you know he does not love me?" she asks, painfully. "How can you be sure? – and at least" – wistfully – "we are accustomed to each other, we have known each other all our lives, and we have quarrelled so hard already that we can scarcely do anything more – the worst with us is over."
"It will be different then," says Gower – he is speaking from his heart in all honesty. "Now you belong to him only in an improbable fashion; then – "
"It is your belief that he does not love me at all?" interrupts she, tapping her foot impatiently upon the ground.
"It is my belief," returns he slowly.
Almost as he speaks, some one steps from the lighted room beyond on the balcony and approaches them. It is Roger.
"This is ours, I think," he says, addressing Dulce, and alluding to the waltz just commencing.
"Is it – what a pity; I had quite forgotten," she says, wilfully. "I am afraid I have half promised it to Mr. Gower, and you know he dances charmingly."
The emphasis not to be mistaken. The remark, of course, is meant alone for Roger, and he alone hears it. Gower has gone away from them a yard or two and is buried in thought. As Roger dances divinely her remark is most uncalled for and vexes him more than he would care to confess.
"Don't let me interfere with you and your new friend," he says, lifting his brows. "If you want to dance all night with Gower, by all means do it; there is really no earthly reason why you shouldn't."
Here, as his own name falls upon his ears, Gower turns and looks at Roger expectantly.
"I absolve you willingly from your engagement to me," goes on Roger, his eyes fixed upon his wilful cousin, his face cold and hard. The extreme calmness of his tone misleads her. Her lips tighten. A light born of passionate anger darkens her gray eyes.
"Do you?" she says, a peculiar meaning in her tone.
"From this engagement only," returns he, hastily.
"Thank you. Of your own free will, then, you resign me, and give me permission to dance with whom I will."
The warm blood is flaming in her cheeks. He has thrown her over very willingly. He is evidently glad to escape the impending waltz. How shall she be avenged for this indignity?
"Mr. Gower," she says, turning prettily to Stephen, "will you get me out of my difficulty? and will you dance this waltz with me? You see," with a brave effort to suppress some emotion that is threatening to overpower her, "I have to throw myself upon your mercy."
"You confer a very great honor upon me," says Gower, gently. The courtesy of his manner is such a contrast to Roger's ill-temper, that the latter loses the last grain of self-control he possesses. There is, too, a little smile of conscious malice upon Gower's lips that grows even stronger as his eyes rest upon the darkened countenance of his whilom friend. His whilom friend, seeing it, lets wrath burn even fiercer within his breast.
"You are not engaged to any one else?" says Dulce, sweetly, forgetting how a moment since she had told Roger she had half promised Gower the dance in question.
"Even if I was, I am at your service now and always," says Gower.
"As my dancing displeases you so excessively," says Roger, slowly, "it seems a shame to condemn you to keep the rest of your engagements with me. I think I have my name down upon your card for two more waltzes. Forget that, and give them to Gower, or any one else that suits you. For my part I do not care to – " He checks himself too late.
"Go on," says Dulce, coldly, in an ominously calm fashion. "You had more to say, surely; you do not care to dance them with me you meant to say. Isn't it?"
"You can think as you wish, of course."
"All the world is free to do that. Then I may blot your name from my card for the rest of the evening?"
"Certainly."
"If those dances are free, Miss Blount, may I ask you for them?" says Stephen, pleasantly.
"You can have them with pleasure," replies she, smiling kindly at him.
"Don't stay too long in the night air, Dulce," says Roger, with the utmost unconcern, turning to go indoors again. This is the unkindest cut of all. If he had gone away angry, silent, revengeful, she might perhaps have forgiven him, but this careful remembrance of her, this calm and utterly indifferent concern for her comfort fills her with vehement anger.
The blood forsakes her lips, and her eyes grow bright with passionate tears.
"Why do you take things so much to heart?" says Stephen, in a low voice. "Do you care so greatly then about an unpleasant speech from him? I should have thought you might have grown accustomed to his brusquerie by this."
"He wasn't brusque just now," says Dulce. "He was very kind, was he not? Careful about my catching cold, and that."
"Very," says Gower, significantly. "Yet there are tears in your eyes. What a baby you are."
"No, I am not," says Dulce, mournfully. "A baby is an adorable thing, and I am very far from being that."
"If babies are to be measured by their adorableness, I should say you are the very biggest baby I ever saw," declares Mr. Gower, with such an amount of settled conviction in his tone that Dulce, in spite of the mortification that is still rankling in her breast, laughs aloud. Delighted with his success, Gower laughs, too, and taking her hand draws it within his arm.
"Come, do not let us forget Roger gave you to me for this dance," he says. "If only for that act of grace, I forgive him all his misdeeds." With a last lingering glance at the beauty of the night, together they return to the ballroom.
CHAPTER XV
"I would that I were low laid in my grave."
– King John.
"Proteus, I love thee in my heart of hearts."
– Two Gentlemen of Verona.
The last guest has departed. Portia has wished "good-night" to a very sleepy Dulce, and has gone upstairs to her own room. In the corridor where she sleeps, Fabian sleeps too, and as she passes his door lightly and on tip-toe, she finds that his door is half open, and, hesitating, wonders, with a quick pang at her heart, why this should be the case.
Summoning courage she advances softly over his threshold, and then sees that the bed within is unoccupied, that to-night, at least, its master is unknown to it.
A shade darkens her face; stepping back on to the corridor she thinks deeply for a moment, and then, laying her candle on a bracket near, she goes noiselessly down the stairs again, across the silent halls, and, opening the hall door, steps out into the coming dawn.
Over the gravel, over the grass, through the quiet pleasaunce she goes unswervingly, past the dark green laurels into the flower garden, and close to the murmuring streamlet to where a little patch of moss-grown sward can be seen, surrounded by aged elms.
Here she finds him!
He is asleep! He is lying on his back, with his arms behind his tired head, and his beautiful face uplifted to the heavens. Upon his long dark lashes lie signs of bitter tears.
Who shall tell what thoughts had been his before kind sleep fell upon his lids and drove him into soothing slumber
"The sweetest joy, the wildest woe, is love;
The taint of earth, the odor of the skies
Is in it."
So sings Bailey. More of wild woe than joy must have been in Fabian's heart before oblivion came to him. Was he thinking of her – of Portia? For many days his heart has been "darkened by her shadow," and to-night – when all his world was abroad, and he alone was excluded from prostrating himself at her shrine – terrible despair had come to lodge with him, and grief, and passionate protest.
Stooping over him, Portia gazes on him long and earnestly, and then, as no dew lies upon the grass, she sits down beside him, and taking her knees into her embrace, stays there silent but close to him, her eyes fixed upon the "patient stars," that are at last growing pale with thought of the coming morn.
The whole scene is full of fantastic beauty – the dawning day; the man lying full length upon the soft green moss in an attitude suggestive of death; the girl, calm, passionless, clad in her white clinging gown, with her arms crossed, and her pale, upturned face beautiful as the dawn itself.
The light is breaking through the skies; the stars are dying out one by one. On the crest of the hill, and through the giant firs, soft beams are coming; and young Apollo, leaping into life, sends out a crimson ray from the far East.
Below, the ocean is at rest – wrapt in sullen sleep. "The singing of the soft blue waves is hushed, or heard no more." And no sound comes to disturb the unearthly solemnity of the hour. Only a little breeze comes from the south, soft and gentle, and full of tenderest love that is as the
"Kiss of morn, waking the lands."
He stirs! His eyes open. He turns restlessly, and then a waking dream is his. But is it a dream? He is looking into Portia's eyes, and she – she does not turn from him, but in a calm, curious fashion returns his gaze, as one might to whom hope and passion are as things forgotten.
No word escapes him. He does not even change his position, but lies, looking up at her in silent wonder. Presently he lifts his hand, and slowly covers it with one of hers lying on the grass near his head.
She does not draw it away – everything seems forgotten – there is only for her at this moment the pale dawn, and the sweet calm, and the solitude and the love so fraught with pain that overfills her soul!
He draws her hand nearer to him – still nearer – until her bare soft arm (chilled by the early day) is lying upon his lips. There he lets it rest, as though he would fain drink into his thirsty heart all the tender sweetness of it.
And yet she says nothing, only sits silent there beside him, her other arm resting on her knees, and her eyes fixed immovably on his.
Oh! the rapture and the agony of the moment – a rapture that will never come again, an agony that must be theirs for ever.
"My life! my love!" he murmurs at last, the words passing his lips as if they were one faint sigh, but yet not so faint but she may hear them.
She sighs, too; and a smile, fine and delicate, parts her lips, and into her eyes comes a strange fond gleam, born of passion and nearness and the sweetness of loving and living.
The day is deepening. More rosy grows the sky, more fragrant the early breeze. Her love is at her feet, her arm upon his lips; and on the fair naked arm his breath is coming and going quickly, unevenly – the feel of it makes glad her very soul!
Then comes the struggle. Oh! the sweetness, the perfectness of life if spent alone with the beloved. To sacrifice all things – to go away to some far distant spot with him– to know each opening hour will be their very own: they two, with all the world forgotten and well lost – what bliss could equal it?
Her arm trembles in his embrace; almost she turns to give herself into his keeping for ever, when a sound, breaking the great stillness, changes the face of all things.
Was it a twig snapping, or the rush of the brooklet beyond? or the clear first notes of an awakening bird? She never knows. But all at once remembrance returns to her, and knowledge and wisdom is with her again.
To live with a stained life, however dear; to feel his shame day by day; to distrust a later action because of a former one; to draw miserable and degrading conclusions from a sin gone by. No!
Her lips quiver. Her heart dies within her. She turns her eyes to the fast reddening sky, and, with her gaze thus fixed on heaven, registers an oath.
"As she may not marry him whom she loves, never will she be wife to living man!"
And this is her comfort and her curse, that in her heart, until her dying day will nestle her sullied love. Hidden away and wept over in secret, and lamented bitterly at times, but dearer far, for all that, than anything the earth can offer.
Gently – very gently – without looking at him, she draws her arm from his touch and rises to her feet. He, too, rises, and stands before her silently as one might who awaits his doom.
"To hear with eyes belongs to Love's rare wit." He seems to know all that is now passing in her soul, her weakness – her longing – her love – her strength – her oath – her grief; it is all laid bare to him.
And she herself; she is standing before him, her rich satin gown trailing on the green grass, her face pale, her eyes large and mournful. Her soft white neck gleams like snow in the growing light; upon it the strings of pearls rise and fall tumultuously. How strange – how white she seems – like a vision from fairy, or dreamland. Shall he ever forget it?
Laying his hand upon her shoulders, he looks steadily into her eyes; and then, after a long pause —
"There should be proof," he says, sadly.
And she says,
"Yes, there should be proof," in a tone from which all feeling, and hope, and happiness have fled.
And yet the world grows brighter. The early morn springs forth and glads the air.
"But, nor Orient morn,
Nor fragrant zephyr, nor Arabian climes,
Nor gilded ceilings can relieve the soul
Pining in thraldom."
A long pause follows her sentence, that to him has savored of death. Then he speaks:
"Let me raise your gown," he says, with heart-broken gentleness, "the dew of morning is on the grass."
He lifts her train as he says this, and lays it across the bare and lovely arm that had been his for some blessed minutes. As he sees it, and remembers everything – all that might have been, and all that has been, and all that is– a dry sob chokes his voice and, stooping, he presses his lips passionately to her smooth, cool flesh.
At this she bursts into bitter weeping; and, letting her glimmering white gown fall once again in its straight, cold folds around her, gives way to uncontrollable sorrow.
"Must there be grief for you, too, my own sweetheart?" says Fabian; and then he lays his arms around her and draws her to him, and holds her close to his heart until her sobs die away through pure exhaustion. But he never bends his head to hers, or seeks to press his lips to those – that are sweet and dear beyond expression – but that never can be his. Even at this supreme moment he strives to spare her a passing pang.
"Were she to kiss me now," he tells himself, "out of the depths of her heart, when the cold, passionless morning came to her she would regret it," and so he refrains from the embrace he would have sold his best to gain.
"I wish there might be death, soon," says Portia, and then she looks upon the awakening land so full of beauty, and growing light, and promise of all good.
The great sun, climbing up aloft, strikes upon her gaze, and the swaying trees, and the music of all things that live comes to her ears, and with them all comes, too, a terrible sense of desolation that overwhelms her.
"How can the world be so fair?" she says. "How can it smile, and grow, and brighten into life, when there is no life – for – "
She breaks down.
"For us?" he finishes for her, slowly; and there is great joy in the blending of her name with his. "Yes, I know; it is what you would have said. Forgive me, my best beloved; but I am glad in the thought that we grieve together."
His tone is full of sadness; a sadness without hope. They are standing hand in hand, and are looking into each other's eyes.
"It is for the last time," she says, in a broken voice.
And he says:
"Yes, for the very last time."
He never tries to combat her resolution – to slay the foe that is desolating his life and hers. He submits to cruel fate without a murmur.
"Put your face to mine," she says, so faintly that he can hardly hear her; and then once more he holds her in his arms, and presses her against his heart.
How long she lies there neither of them ever knows; but presently, with a sigh, she comes back to the sad present, and lifts her head, and looks mournfully upon the quiet earth.
And even as she looks the day breaks at last with a rush, and the red sunshine, coming up from the unknown, floods all the world with beauty.