Portia; Or, By Passions Rocked. Duchess

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      "Only Gregory Slyme," returns Dulce, quickly, "you are not frightened at him, poor old thing, are you? Have you not seen him before?"

      "No," says Portia, with a shudder and a backward glance at the shrunken figure creeping away down the corridor as if ashamed of itself.

      "No? – that is strange; but he has affected his own room a good deal of late."

      "But who is he?" anxiously.

      "He was Uncle Christopher's secretary for years, and calls himself that still, but Fabian does all the writing now."

      "What a start he gave me," says Portia, putting her hand hurriedly to her heart as though in pain. "A chill seemed to rush all through my blood. It was as though I had met something that had worked, and would work, me harm!"

      "Fanciful baby," says Dulce, with very superior scorn; "old Slyme could not work ill to anyone. He has lived with us for years; but lately, within the last eight months, he has become – well, a little uncomfortable; indeed, perhaps, unbearable is the word."

      "How so? – what has he done?" asks Portia, unaccountably interested in this shadow that has crossed her path.

      "I think he is very fond of brandy," says Dulce, reluctantly, and in a very grieved little tone. "Poor old Gregory!"

      CHAPTER VI

      "Present mirth hath present laughter,

      What's to come is still unsure."

– Shakespeare.

      "Julia is coming to-day," says Dulce, looking at them all, with the tea-pot poised in her hand. It is evident that this sudden announcement has hitherto been forgotten. "I heard from her this morning," she says, half apologetically, "but never thought of telling you until now. She will be here in time for dinner, and she is bringing the children with her."

      "Only the children?" says Roger, the others are all singularly dumb.

      "Yes. The ayah has gone home. Of course she will bring a nurse of some sort, but not Singa."

      "For even small mercies we should be thankful," says Roger.

      "Who is Julia?" asks Portia, idly.

      "'Who is Julia? What is she

      That all our swains commend her?

      Holy, fair, and wise is she,

      The heavens such grace – '"

      "Oh, that will do," says Dicky Browne, turning impatiently to Roger, who has just delivered himself of the above stanza.

      "Don't be severe," says Dulce, reprovingly; "extravagant praise is always false, and as to the swains, that is what she wants them to do, only they won't."

      "Now, who is severe?" says Roger triumphantly.

      "As yet, you have hardly described her," says Portia.

      "Let me do it," entreats Mr. Browne, airily, "I feel in the very vein for that sort of thing. She is quite a thing to dream of; and she is much too preciously utter, and quite too awfully too-too!"

      "That's obsolete now," says Dulce, "quite out of the market altogether. Too-too has been superseded, you should tell Portia she is very-very!"

      "Odious," says Roger, in a careful aside as though determined to think Miss Blount's speech unfinished.

      "She is like Barbauld's Spring," put in Sir Mark, lazily, coming up to have his cup refilled. "She is the 'sweet daughter of a rough and stormy sire.' Do any of you remember old Charley Blount?"

      Plainly, nobody does. Everybody looks at everybody else, as though they should have known him, but nothing comes of it.

      "Well, he was just the funniest old thing," says Sir Mark, laughing, at some absurd recollection. "Well, he is gone now, and

      'I know it is a sin

      For me to sit and grin

      At him here;

      But the old three-cornered hat

      And the breeches, and all that,

      Were so queer.'

      "And bless me, what a temper he had," says Sir Mark, laughing again at his quotation. "His clothes and his temper were old Blount's principal features. Hideous old monster he was too."

      "Is she hideous?" ask Portia.

      "N-o. She is well enough; she isn't a bit like him, if we forget the clothes and temper. She says her mother was very beautiful."

      "I never knew a woman whose mother wasn't beautiful, once the mother was dead," says Roger. "Sort of thing they tell you the moment they get the chance."

      Five o'clock has struck some time ago. Evening is coming on apace. On the dry, smooth-shaven lawn, outside, the shadows are lengthening, stretching themselves indolently as though weary from all the hide-and-seek they have been playing, since early dawn, in the nooks and corners of the quaint old garden.

      June has not yet quite departed; its soft, fresh glory still gilds the edge of the lake, and lends a deeper splendor to the golden firs that down below are nodding to the evening breeze; it is the happiest time of all the year, for

      "What is so rare as a day in June?

      Then, if ever, come perfect days;

      Then heaven tries the earth, if it be in tune,

      And over it softly her warm ear lays."

      "Well, the mother is dead and gone now, this many a year," says Sir Mark, "and the old fellow went nearly out of his mind when Julia married Beaufort."

      "Oh! she is married?" says Portia.

      "Dear Portia, didn't I tell you she had children?" says Dulce, reproachfully. "She married an Indian Nabob with an aristocratic name and a lac of rupees, as she believed, but there was a flaw somewhere, and – er – how was it Dicky?"

      "Simplest thing out," says Dicky. "He had a lack of rupees, indeed, as she found out when he died. It is only the difference of one letter after all, and that can't count for much."

      "Her father, old Charley, left her everything, so she isn't badly off now," says Sir Mark, "but the Nabob was a sell."

      "I wonder if Portia will like her," says Dulce, meditatively, laying her elbows on the table and letting her chin sink into her palms.

      "Tell me something about her personally," entreats Portia, turning to her with some show of interest.

      "What can I tell you? She is pretty in her own way, and she agrees with everyone, and she never means a word she says; and, when she appears most earnest, that is the time not to believe in her; and she is very agreeable as a rule, and she is Fabian's pet aversion."

      ("Not now," says Portia to herself).

      "I don't think there is anything else I can tell you," continues Dulce, with a little nod.

      "I wonder you have her," says Miss Vibart, disagreeably impressed by this description.

      "Why, she is our cousin! And, of course, she can come whenever she wishes – she knows that," СКАЧАТЬ