Portia; Or, By Passions Rocked. Duchess
and are presently happy in their own way. Roger or Dicky asks every one, indiscriminately, if she would like a cigarette; a question responded to in the negative by all, though in truth Dulce would have dearly liked one.
Fabian, who has come with them, is lying full length upon the grass, with his hands behind his head, gazing dreamily at the glimpse of the far-off sea, that shows through the dark-green firs. Dulce's silvery laugh is waking an echo lower down. There is a great sense of rest and happiness in the hour.
A big, lazy bumblebee, tumbling sleepily into Portia's lap, wakes her into life. It lies upon her, looking larger and blacker than its wont, as it shows against the pallor of her gown. She starts, and draws herself up with a half-suppressed cry.
Fabian, lifting the bee from her knees, flings it high into the air, and sends it off on the errand it was probably bound on before it fell in love with Portia.
"How foolish of me to be frightened of it – pretty thing," she says, with a faint blush. "How black it looked."
"Everything frightens me," says Julia Beaufort pensively, "everything!"
"Do I?" asks Dicky Browne, in a tone full of abject misery. "Oh! say I don't."
"I meant insects you know, and frogs, and horrid things like that," lisps Julia. "And they always will come flying round one just on a perfect night like this, when" – sentimentally – "Nature is wrapt in its profoundest beauty!"
"I don't think I ever saw a frog fly," says Dicky Browne, innocently. "Is it nice to look at? Is it funny?"
"No! it's only silly – like you!" says Dulce throwing a rosebud at him, which he catches dexterously.
"Thank you," he says, meekly, whether for the speech or the flower, he leaves vague.
"Stephen Gower is coming over here to-night," says Roger suddenly.
"To-night? Why didn't you ask him to dinner?" asks Dulce, a note of surprise in her tone.
"I did ask him, but, for some reason I now forget, he could not come. He confessed he was lonely, however, in that big barn of a house, and said he would feel deeply grateful if you would permit him to drop in later on. I said you would; and advised him to drop in by all means, though how people do that has always been a puzzle to me."
"Who is Stephen Gower?" asks Portia, curiously, of no one in particular. She is leaning back in her chair, and is fanning herself languidly.
"He is Roger's Fidus Achates– his second self – his very soul!" says Dicky Browne, enthusiastically. "He is a thing apart. We must, in fact, be careful of him, lest he break. At least so I have been told."
"I thought you knew him, too," says Dulce. "I always believed you and Roger, and this wonderful Stephen Gower, were all at college together."
"You wronged Dicky, albeit unwittingly," says Mr. Dare, taking his cigar from between his lips to give more emphasis to his words. "We at Cambridge were too frivolous for such superior beings as Dicky. It was at Oxford he commenced his honorable career; it was there he indulged in those high hopes of future fame that have been so splendidly realized in his maturer years."
"Don't kick me when I'm down," says Dicky, pathetically. "I couldn't help it – and at least I have had my hopes. That must be always something. It's any amount soothing, do you know, to look back upon your past, and remember what a jolly ass you once were."
"I can't imagine your ever having had hopes of future fame," says Dulce, laughing.
"Well I had, do you know, any amount of 'em. In the early dawn, when I was awake – which, perhaps, wasn't so often as it sounds, except when I was returning from – er – a friend's house. I used to sit up with them, you know, whenever they had scarla" —
"Oh yes, we know," interrupts Roger, most unfeelingly.
"Well, in the early dawn," continues Dicky, quite unmoved, "when the little birds were singing, I used to think I could be happy as General Sir Richard Browne, at the head of a gallant corps, with a few darkies in the foreground fleeing before my trusty blade. By breakfast time, however, all that would be changed, and I would glory in the belief that one day would see me seated on the wool-sack. By dinnertime I was clothed in sanctimonious lawn; and long before the small hours, I felt myself a second Drake, starting to conquer another Armada, only one even more Invincible."
They all laugh at him. And then he laughs at himself, and seems, indeed, to enjoy the joke even more than they do.
"I don't care," he says, at length, valiantly; "no, not a single screw. I haven't done anything, you know."
"Oh yes, you have, a lot in your time," murmurs Roger, supportingly.
"But I must come in for the title and the estate when the old boy, my cousin, 'shuffles off this mortal coil,' and in the meantime the governor stands to me decently enough, and I'm pretty jolly all round."
"Tell us about Stephen Gower," says Dulce, after a pause, "He interests me, I don't know why. What is he like?"
"He is
'A greenery yallery
Grosvenor gallery
Foot-in-the-grave young man.'"
quotes Dicky, gaily.
"An æsthetic! Oh! I do hope not," exclaims Dulce, in a horrified tone.
"Have they pursued me even down here?" asks Portia, faintly. "I thought, I hoped, they were plants indigenous to London soil alone."
"He is nothing of the sort," says Roger, indignantly. "He is about the best fellow I know. He would be ashamed to go round (like those idiots you speak of) with flowers and flowing locks. He leaves all that sort of thing" – contemptuously – "to girls."
"Who is talking of Stephen Gower?" asks Sir Mark, coming towards them over the path of moonlight that lies upon the smooth lawn. "Happy man to be discussed by so fair a trio, 'beneath the sweet-smelling starlight,' as James has it."
"Bless me," says Dicky, "I had no idea dry monopole would have had such an effect on Gore. He is talking poetry, I think; I never could understand it myself. Now for example, about those stars —do they smell? I never noticed it. What's it like, Gore?"
Everyone disdains to take notice of this sally – all, that is, except Dulce, who is always only too delighted to laugh whenever the barest chance of being able to do so presents itself.
Roger, crossing over to where she sits, leans his arms on the back of her chair, and bends his face to hers.
"Look here," he says, in the conciliatory tone of one who is going to make a request and is not quite sure it will be granted. "If Gower comes down by-and-by, I wish you would promise me to be good to him. He is a very old chum of mine, and a very good fellow, and – be civil to him, will you?"
"What do you suppose I am going to do to him?" asks Miss Blount, opening her eyes. "Was I bad to him at luncheon? Are you afraid I shall bite him? I shan't. You may be happy about that."
"Of course – I know; but I want you to be particularly nice to him," goes on Roger, though faintly discouraged by her tone. (Now what did he mean by saying she wouldn't bite him. It sounds as if she would bite me!) "He is the oldest friend I have; and – er – as we are to be married some time or other, I want him to like you very much."
"Who are to be married? You and Mr. Gower? It sounded like it," says Dulce, wilfully.
"I was thinking of you and myself," he says, a little gravely.
"Well, what is it you want me to do?" asks she, moving restlessly in her seat. She is, in spite of herself, disturbed by his gravity. "Am I to make love to him, or am I to let him make love to me? Your devotion to this old friend is quite touching."
"He would be very unlikely indeed to make love to you," replies Roger, rather stiffly. "He understands perfectly how matters are between you and me."
"Oh, no doubt," says Miss Blount, disgustedly. "Everyone seems to know all about this absurd engagement. I can't think how I was ever brought