Portia Part 35

"Let us look up the cook," says Sir Mark, at which they all brighten up again and stream triumphantly towards the kitchen. As they reach the door a sensation akin to nervousness makes them all move more slowly, and consequently with so little noise that Dulce does not hear their approach. She is so standing, too, that she cannot see them, and as she is talking with much spirit and condescension they all stop again to hear what she is saying.

She has evidently made it straight with cook, as that formidable old party is standing at her right hand with her arms akimbo, and on her face a fat and genial smile. She has, furthermore, been so amiable as to envelop Dulce in a _second_ ap.r.o.n; one out of her own wardrobe, an article of the very hugest dimensions, in which Dulce's slender figure is utterly and completely lost. It comes up in a little square upon her bosom and makes her look like a delicious over-grown baby, with her sleeves tucked up and her bare arms gleaming like snow-flakes.

Opposite to her is the footman, and very near her the upper housemaid.

Dulce being in her most moral mood, has seized this opportunity to reform the manners of the household.

"You are most satisfactory, you know, Jennings," she is saying in her soft voice that is trying so hard to be mistress-like, but is only sweet. "Most so! Sir Christopher and I both think that, but I do wish you would try to quarrel just a _little_ less with Jane."

At this Jane looks meekly delighted while the footman turns purple and slips his weight uneasily from one leg to the other.

"It isn't all my fault, ma'am," he says at length, in an aggrieved tone.

"No, I can quite believe that," says his mistress, kindly. "I regret to say I have noticed several signs of ill temper about Jane of late."

Here Jane looks crestfallen, and the footman triumphant.

"I wish you would _both_ try to improve," goes on Dulce, in a tone meant to be still dignified, but which might almost be termed entreating.

"_Do_ try. You will find it so much pleasanter in the long run."

Both culprits, though silent, show unmistakable signs of giving in.

"If you only knew how unhappy these endless dissensions make me, I am sure you _would_ try," says Miss Blount, earnestly, which, of course, ends all things. The maid begins to weep copiously behind the daintiest of ap.r.o.ns; while the footman mutters, huskily:

"Then I _will_ try, ma'am," with unlooked-for force.

"Oh, _thank_ you," says Dulce, with pretty grat.i.tude, under cover of which the two belligerents make their escape.

"Well done," says Sir Mark at this moment; "really, Dulce, I didn't believe it was in you. Such dignity, such fervor, such tact, such pathos! We are all very nearly in tears. I would almost promise not to blow up Jane myself, if you asked me like that."

"What a shame!" exclaims Dulce, starting and growing crimson, as she becomes aware they have all been listening to her little lecture. "I call it right down _mean_ to go listening to people behind their backs.

It is horrid! And you, too, Portia! So shabby!"

"Now who is scolding," says Portia; "and after your charming sermon, too, to Jennings, all about the evil effects of losing one's temper."

"If you only knew how unhappy it makes us," says d.i.c.ky Browne, mimicking Dulce's own manner of a moment since so exactly that they all laugh aloud; and Dulce, forgetting her chagrin, laughs, too, even more heartily than they do.

"You shan't have one bit of my jam," she says, threatening d.i.c.ky with a huge silver spoon; "see if you do! After all, cook," turning to that portly matron, "I think I'm tired to-day. Suppose you make this jam; and I can make some more some other time."

As she says this, she unfastens both the ap.r.o.ns and flings them far from her, and pulls down her sleeves over her pretty white arms, to Gower's everlasting regret, who cannot take his eyes off them, and to whom they are a "joy forever."

"Come, let us go up-stairs again," says Dulce to her a.s.sembled friends, who have all suddenly grown very grave.

In silence they follow her, until once more the hall is gained and the kitchen forgotten. Then d.i.c.ky Browne gives way to speech.

"I am now quite convinced," he says, slowly, "that to watch the making of plum jam is the most enthralling sport in the world. It was so kind of you, dear Dulce, to ask us to go down to see it. I don't know _when_ I have enjoyed myself so much."

"We have been disgracefully taken in," says Julia, warmly.

"And she didn't even offer us a single plum!" says Mr. Browne, tearfully.

"You shall have some presently, with your tea," says Dulce, remorsefully. "Let us go and sit upon the verandah, and say what we thought of our dance. No one has said anything about it yet."

Though late in September, it is still "one of those heavenly days that cannot die." The sun is warm in the heavens, though gradually sinking, poor tired G.o.d, toward his hard-earned rest. There are many softly-colored clouds on the sky.

Tea is brought to them presently, and plums for d.i.c.ky; and then they are all, for the most part, happy.

"Well, I think it was a deadly-lively sort of an evening," says Mr.

Browne, candidly, _apropos_ of the ball. "Every one seemed cross, I think, and out of sorts. For my own part, there were moments when I suffered great mental anguish."

"Well, I don't know," says Sir Mark, "for my part, I enjoyed myself rather above the average. Good music, good supper--the champagne I must congratulate you about, Dulce--and very pretty women. What more could even a Sybarite like d.i.c.ky desire? Mrs. George Mainwaring was there, and I got on capitally with her. I like a woman who prefers sitting it out, _some_ times."

"I don't think I even saw Mrs. George," says Dulce. "Was she here?"

"You couldn't see her," says Roger; "she spent her entire evening in the rose-colored ante-room with Gore."

"What a shameless tarradiddle," says Sir Mark.

"What did she wear?" asks Julia.

"I can't remember. I think, however, she was all black and blue."

"Good gracious!" says d.i.c.ky Browne, "has George Mainwaring been at it again? Poor soul, it _is_ hard on her. I thought the last kicking he had from her brother would have lasted him longer than a month."

"Nonsense, d.i.c.ky," says Dulce; "I hear they are getting on wonderfully well together now."

"I'm glad to hear it," says d.i.c.ky, in a tone totally unconvinced.

"I don't think she is at all respectable," says Mrs. Beaufort, severely; "she--she--her dress was _very_ odd, I thought--"

"There might, perhaps, have been a little more of it," says d.i.c.ky Browne. "I mean, it was such a pretty gown, that we should have been glad to be able to admire another yard or two of it. But perhaps that terrible George won't give it to her; and perhaps she liked herself as she was. '_Nuda veritas_.' After all, there is nothing like it. 'Honesty is the best policy,' and all that sort of thing--eh?"

"d.i.c.ky," says Sir Mark, austerely, "go away! We have had quite enough of you."

"How did you all like the McPhersons?" Dulce asks, hurriedly.

"Now, there was one thing," says d.i.c.ky, who is not to be repressed, "how could any fellow enjoy himself in the room with the McPhersons? That eldest girl clings on to one like ivy--and precious tough old ivy too.

She clung to me until I was fain to sit down upon the ground and shed salt and bitter tears. I wish she had stayed amongst her gillies, and her Highland flings, and those nasty men who only wear breeks, instead of coming down here to inflict herself upon a quiet, easy-going county."

"Why didn't you get her another partner, if you were tired of her?"

"I couldn't. I appealed to many friends, but they all deserted me in my hour of need. They wouldn't look at her. She was 'single in the field, yon solitary Highland la.s.s.' She wasn't in the swim at all; she would have been as well--I mean, much better--at home."

"Poor girl," says Portia.

"She isn't poor, she's awfully rich," says Roger. "They are all rich.

They positively look at the world through a golden veil."

"They'd want it," says d.i.c.ky, with unrelenting acrimony; "I christened 'em the Heirs and Graces--the boys are so rich, and the girls think themselves so heavenly sweet. It is quite my own joke, I a.s.sure you.

n.o.body helped me." Here he laughs gaily, with a charming appreciation of his own wit.