Portia; Or, By Passions Rocked. Duchess

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      "I would rather not talk about it," says Portia, faintly.

      By a terrible effort he recovers himself; a quick breath, that is almost a sigh, escapes him.

      "That, of course, shall be as you wish," he says, quietly; and, rousing himself, they walk on together beneath the branching elms, in silence, painful as it is prolonged.

      Coming to a tiny stream (where he is compelled to offer and she to accept, his hand to help her over), she glances at him, but her glance is not returned, and then she sees that he has forgotten her very existence, and is, in thought, miles away from her. He has entered into some ideal realm of his own – captured during his long years of isolation from the world.

      As she is silently watching him and wondering, a dark figure, moving from between the shrubs that hide off one angle of the house, comes into their path, and, seeing them, makes a skulking movement to the right as though it would gladly escape observation.

      "Good evening, Slyme," says Fabian, in half kindly, half contemptuous tone. The old man murmurs something in return. His eyes refuse to meet Fabian's, his hands join each other, and rub palm to palm in an uneasy, shuffling fashion. His voice is husky and slightly uncertain. His dull old eyes roam from Fabian to Portia in an odd, questioning way, as if debating some strange matter. Yet, though looking at them, it is at their arms or chests he looks, rather than at their faces.

      Portia (who had stopped when Fabian had) now turns a little to one side and plucks a flower lazily from a neighboring shrub, and sighs a little as if weary, and as if she would gladly be at home.

      At this, Fabian, who is quick to notice anything concerning her, rouses himself from his prolonged stare at Gregory, and, noting the instability of the old man's gait, says, suddenly, with his dark gaze full upon him:

      "Again!"

      His tone this time is all contempt; no kindliness mingles with it. The old man seems to wither beneath it, and puts out his hands with a gesture suggestive of deprecation. Fabian, taking no notice of it, walks away from him, Portia gladly following.

      Then the secretary's face changes. Standing in the centre of the pathway, he looks after their retreating figures with a half-drunken scrutiny, full of malice.

      "Ay," he says, bitterly, beneath his breath, "as a dog I am in his sight! So he has destroyed his only hope this many a time!"

      His head sinks into its old position on his chest, and with a muttered curse he continues his way.

      Just as Portia ascends the stone steps that lead to the house, Fabian, by a gentle touch, detains her.

      "Remember always this," he said slowly and with an attempt at calmness that is infinitely sad, "that I do not blame you."

      Tears spring to her eyes. She is at least generous, and now a great longing to be able to believe in him, to be able to assure him of her unbounded faith in his honor possesses her. But, alas! faith is neither to be invoked nor purchased, and to lie to him, and tell him a soothing falsehood against her conscience would be worse than useless. The tears having gathered, two of them roll slowly down her cheeks. She turns hastily aside. Catching her hand he holds it for a short moment in his own.

      "They at least are mine," he says, meaning the tears, his voice deeply agitated, and then she draws her hand from his, and an instant later, is lost to sight.

      CHAPTER IX

      Portia, dressed in merveilleux of a cream shade, with a soft, yellow rose in her hair, is looking her loveliest. She is a little languid after her walk, and a little distraite, but desirable beyond words. She is coquetting with her dinner, rather than eating it, and is somewhat uncomfortably conscious that Fabian's eyes are perpetually wandering in her direction.

      Dicky Browne is talking gaily, and is devoting himself with an ardor worthy of a better cause to Julia Beaufort, who is chattering inanely about many things, and who is in her element, and a blood-colored gown.

      They have all the conversation to themselves, these two, as the others are depressed, or rather impressed, by Sir Christopher's silence, who has one of his brooding fits upon him. Either the redoubtable Bowles disagreed with him, or he disagreed with Bowles, because clouds have crowned his brow since his return home.

      Mrs. Beaufort by this time has got to Sardou's last comedy, and Dicky, who never heard of it or its author, comes to a conversational stand-still. This means uninterrupted quiet all round, as nobody else is saying anything. The footsteps of the solemn butler, and his equally solemn assistant, is all the sound one hears, and presently they all wake to the fact that something must be said, and soon.

      "What wretched artichokes!" says Dulce, coming nobly to the front, with a laudable desire to fill up the yawning gap.

      "Yes – melancholy," says Roger, backing her up, as in duty bound; "out of all heart, apparently."

      At this weak attempt at a joke Dicky grins approvingly.

      "I know few people so altogether sufficing as our Roger," he says patronizingly, addressing nobody in particular; and as nobody in particular appears to think it necessary to answer him, conversation once more languishes.

      Sir Mark – who can always find resources in his dinner, whatever else may fail him – is placidly happy, so is Mrs. Beaufort, though, perhaps, she is a little sorry that her sleeves have not been made as tight as Portia's, and with the second puffing, which is certainly beyond all praise!

      "What's this?" asks Sir Christopher, addressing the butler in a resigned tone, and looking at a round, soft mass that has just been laid before him.

      "Suet dumpling, Sir Christopher," replies the butler, apologetically.

      "Again!" says Sir Christopher, in an indescribable manner.

      "Surely not again," repeats Dulce, with unpleasant animation. "It can't be that frightful thing again, after all I said to cook yesterday!"

      "I'm afraid it is, 'em," says the butler, very sadly.

      "And this is the cook Miss Gaunt so highly recommended!" says Dulce, wrathfully. "Save me from my friends, say I; can't she make anything else, Martin?"

      "This is a gooseberry tart, 'em," whispers the butler, respectfully, a faint shade of encouragement in his voice, laying that delicacy before her.

      "That means sugar – lots of sugar," says Dicky Browne, who is sitting close to her. "I'm glad of that, I like lots of sugar."

      Portia laughs.

      "You are like my lord mayor's fool," she says; "you like everything that is sweet."

      "I do," says Dicky, fondly; "that's why I like you."

      "I think it was very wrong of Miss Gaunt to impose such a woman upon us," says Dulce, deeply aggrieved.

      "Never trust an old maid," says Roger; "I spend my life giving you good advice, which you won't take; and such an old maid, СКАЧАТЬ