Portia; Or, By Passions Rocked. Duchess
sun retiring
flings over her a pale, pink halo, that renders even more delicately fine the beauty of her complexion. A passing breeze flings into her lap a few rose-leaves from a trailing tree that has climbed the balcony, and is now nodding drowsily as the day slowly dies. She is feeling a little sorry for Dulce, who is reciting her family history with such a doleful air.
"Well, I needn't, you know," says that young lady, lightly; "not if I don't choose, you know. I have got until I am twenty-one to think about it, and I am only eighteen now. I daresay I shall cry-off at the last moment; indeed, I am sure I shall," with a wilful shake of the head, "because Roger, at times, is quite too much, and utterly insupportable, yet, in that case, I shall vex Uncle Christopher, and I do so love Uncle Christopher!"
"But he had nothing to do with the arrangement, had he?"
"Nothing. It was his brother, Uncle Humphrey, who made the mistake. He left the property between us on condition we married each other. Whichever of us, at twenty-one, declines to carry out the agreement, gets £500 a year off the property, and the rest goes to the happy rejected. It is a charming place, about six miles from this, all lakes and trees, and the most enchanting gardens. I daresay Roger would be delighted if I would give him up, but" (vindictively) "I shan't. He shall never get those delicious gardens all to himself."
"What an eccentric will," says Portia.
"Well, hardly that. The place is very large, and requires money to keep it up. If he had divided the income between us, and we had been at liberty to go each our own way, the possessor of the house and lands would not have had enough money to keep it in proper order. I think it rather a just will. I wish it had been differently arranged, of course, but it can't be helped now."
"Is he your first cousin? You know I have heard very little about this branch of my family, having lived so long in India."
"No, my second cousin. Fabian is Uncle Christopher's heir, but if – if he died, Roger would inherit title and all. That is another reason why I hate him. Why should he have even a distant claim to anything that belongs to Fabian?"
"But, my dear girl, you are not going to marry a man you hate?" says Portia, sitting up very straight, and forgetting to wave her fan.
"Not exactly," says Dulce, meditatively; "I really don't think I hate him, but he can be disagreeable, I promise you."
"But if you marry him, hardly tolerating him, and afterwards you meet somebody you can love, how will it be with you then?"
"Oh, I shan't do that," she says; "I have felt so married to Roger for years, that it would be positively indecent of me, even now, to fall in love with any one. In fact I couldn't."
"I daresay, after all, you like him well enough," says Miss Vibart, with her low, soft laugh. "Mark Gore says you are exactly suited to each other."
"Mark Gore is a confirmed old bachelor, and knows nothing," says Dulce, contemptuously.
"Yet once, they say, he was hopelessly in love with Phyllis Carrington."
"So he was. It was quite a romance, and he was the hero."
"Phyllis is quite everything she ought to be, and utterly sweet," says Portia, thoughtfully. "But is she the sort of person to create a grande passion in a man like Mark?"
"I daresay. Her eyes are lovely; so babyish, yet so full of latent coquetry. A man of the world, like Mark, would like that sort of thing. But it is all over now, quite a worn-out tale. He visits there at stated times, and she has thoughts only for her baby and her 'Duke,' as she calls her husband."
"I wonder," says Miss Vibart, with a faint yawn, "if at times she doesn't find that a trifle slow?"
Then she grows a little ashamed of herself, as she catches Dulce's quick, puzzled glance.
"It is a very pretty baby," says Dulce, as though anxious to explain matters.
"And what can be more adorable than a pretty baby?" responds her cousin, with a charming smile. "Now do tell me" – quickly, and as though to change the current of her companion's thoughts – "how many people are in this house, and who they are, and everything that is bad and good about them."
Dulce laughs.
"We come and go," she says. "It would be hard to arrange us. I am always here, and Uncle Christopher, and – Fabian. Roger calls this his home, too, but sometimes he goes away for awhile, and Dicky's room is always kept for him. We are all cousins pretty nearly, and there is one peculiarity – I mean, Uncle Christopher makes no one welcome who does not believe – in – Fabian."
Her voice falls slightly as she makes the last remark, and she turns her head aside, and, leaning over the balcony, plays absently with a rosebud that is growing within her reach. In this position she cannot see that Portia has colored warmly, and is watching her with some curiosity.
"You must try to like Fabian," says Dulce, presently. Her voice is sad, but quite composed. She appears mournful, but not disconcerted. "You have no doubt heard his unfortunate story from Auntie Maud, and —you believe in him, don't you?" She raises her eyes to her cousin's face.
"I hardly think I have quite heard the story," says Miss Vibart evasively.
"No? It is a very sad one, and quite unaccountable. If you have heard anything about it, you have heard all I can tell you. Nothing has ever been explained; I am afraid now nothing ever will be. It rests as it did at the beginning – that is the pity of it – but you shall hear."
"Not if it distresses you," says Portia gently. A feeling of utter pity for Fabian's sister, with all her faith and trust so full upon her at this moment, touches her keenly. As for the story itself, she has heard it a score of times, with variations, from Auntie Maud. But then, when brought to bay, what can one say!
"It will not distress me," says Dulce, earnestly; "and I would so much rather you knew everything before you meet him. It will make things smoother. It all happened four long years ago – years that to him must seem a lifetime. He is twenty-nine now, he was only twenty-five then, just the time, I suppose, when life should be sweetest."
"It is mere accident makes life sweet at times," says Portia. "It has nothing to do with years, or place, or beauty. But tell me about your brother."
"He had just come home for his leave. He was so handsome, and so happy – without a care on earth – and was such a pet with the men in his regiment. I was only a child then, but he never seemed too old to talk to me, or to make me his companion. And then one morning it all happened; we were at breakfast – as we might be to-morrow" – says poor Dulce, with a comprehensive gesture, "when one of the men came in and said somebody wanted to speak to Uncle Christopher. When I think of it" – with a long-drawn sigh – "my blood seems to run cold. And even now, whenever Harley comes in at breakfast and bends over Uncle Christopher in a confidential way to tell him – it may be – about the puppies or the last filly, a sensation of faintness creeps over me."
"I don't wonder," says Portia, feelingly. "How could one ever forget it? You are making yourself unhappy; go no farther now, but tell me about it another time."
"As I have begun I shall finish," says Dulce, heroically, "even at the risk of boring you. But" – wistfully – "you will forgive me that."
"Go on; I want to hear," says Portia, strangely moved. Yet it seems cruel to make her repeat what she knows so well already, and what is so bitter to the narrator.
"Well, Uncle Christopher went out to see the man who wanted him, and after a little bit came back again, with a white face, and told us one of the clerks at the County Bank had dared to say Fabian had forged his – Uncle Christopher's – name for £500. I think I hardly understood; but Fabian got up, and first, he grew very red, and then very white, but he said nothing. He only motioned to me not to stir, so I sat quite still, and then he went up to Uncle Christopher, who was very angry, and laid his hand upon his arm and led him out of the room."
She pauses.
"Dulcinea," as yet the more familiar appellation "Dulce" is strange to Miss Vibart. "Dulcinea,"