Portia Part 48

"It was just as well we found it all out in time," says Dulce, with a short, but heavily-drawn sigh--probably, let us hope so, at least--one of intense relief, "because he was really tiresome in most ways."

"I rather think so; I'm sure I wonder how you put up with him for so long," says Gower, contemptuously.

"Force of habit, I suppose. He was always in the way when he wasn't wanted. And--and--and the other thing," says Miss Blount, broadly, who wants to say '_vice versa_,' but cannot remember it at this moment.

"Never knew when to hold his tongue," says Stephen, who is a rather silent man; "never met such a beggar to talk."

"And so headstrong," says Dulce, pettishly.

"Altogether, I think he is about the greatest a.s.s I ever met in my life," says Mr. Gower, with touching conviction, and out of the innocence of his heart.

"Is he?" asks Dulce, with a sudden and most unexpected change of tone. A frown darkens the fair face. Is it that she is looking back with horror upon the time when she was engaged to this "a.s.s," or is it--"You have met a good many, no doubt?"

"Well, a considerable few in my time," replies he. "But I must say I never saw a poorer specimen of his kind--and his name, too, such an insane thing. Reminds one of that romping old English dance and nothing else. Why on earth couldn't the fellow get a respectable name like any other fellow."

This is all so fearfully absurd, that at any other time, and under any other circ.u.mstances, it would have moved Dulce to laughter.

"Isn't the name, Roger, respectable?" asks she, sweetly, as though desirous of information.

"Oh, well, it's respectable enough, I suppose; or at least it is hideous enough for that or anything."

"Must a thing be hideous to be respectable?" asks she again, turning her lovely face, crowned with the sunburnt hair, full on his.

"You don't understand me," he says, with some confusion. "I was only saying what an ugly name Dare has."

"Now, _do_ you think so?" wonders Miss Blount, dreamily, "I don't. I can't endure my cousin, _as you know_, but I really think his name very pretty, quite the prettiest I know, even," innocently, "prettier than Stephen!"

"I'm sorry I can't agree with you," says Stephen, stiffly.

Miss Blount, with her fingers interlaced, is watching him furtively, a little petulant expression in her eyes.

"It seems to me you think more of your absent cousin than of--of anyone in the world," says Gower, sullenly. Fear of what her answer may be has induced him to leave his own name out of the question altogether.

"As I told you before, one always thinks most of what is unpleasing to one."

"Oh, I daresay!" says Mr. Gower.

"I don't think I quite understand you. What do you mean by that?" asks she, with suspicious sweetness.

"Dulce," says Stephen, miserably, "say you _hate_ Roger."

"I have often said it. I detest him. Why," with a sudden touch of pa.s.sion, "do you make me repeat it over and over again? Why do you make me think of him at all?"

"I don't know," sadly. "It is madness on my part, I think; and yet I believe I have no real cause to fear him. He is so utterly unworthy of you. He has behaved so badly to you from first to last."

"What you say is all _too_ true," says Dulce, calmly; then, with most suspicious gentleness, and a smile that is all "sweetness and light,"

"_would_ you mind removing your arm from my waist. It makes me feel faint. Thanks, _so_ much."

After this silence again reigns. Several minutes go by, and nothing can be heard save the soughing of the rising wind, and the turbulent rushing of the stream below. Dulce is turning the rings round and round upon her pretty fingers; Stephen is looking out to sea with a brow as black as thunder, or any of the great gaunt rocks far out to the West, that are frowning down upon the unconscious ocean.

Presently something--perhaps it is remorse--strikes upon Dulce's heart and softens her. She goes nearer to him and slips one small, perfect hand through his arm, she even presses his arm to her softly, kindly, with a view to restoring its owner to good temper.

This advance on her part has the desired effect. Stephen forgets there is such a thing as a sea, and, taking up the little, penitent hand, presses it tenderly to his lips.

"Now, do not let us be disagreeable any more," says Dulce, prettily.

"Let us try to remember what we were talking about before we began to discuss Roger."

Mr. Gower grasps his chance.

"I was saying that though we have been engaged now for some time you have never once kissed me," he says, hopefully.

"And would you," reproachfully, "after all I have said, risk the chance of making me, perhaps, hate you, too? I have told you how I detest being kissed, yet now you would argue the point. Oh, Stephen! is this your vaunted love?"

"But it is a curious view you take of it, isn't it, darling?" suggests Gower, humbly, "to say a kiss would raise hatred in your breast. I am perfectly certain it would make _me_ love _you_ MORE!"

"Then you could love me more?" with frowning reproach.

"No, no! I didn't mean that, only--"

"I must say I am greatly disappointed in you," says Miss Blount, with lowered eyes. "I shouldn't have believed it of you. Well, as you are bent on rushing on your fate, I'll tell you what I will do."

"What?" he turns to her, a look of eager expectancy on his face. Is she going to prove kind at last?

"Sometime," begins she, demurely, "no doubt I shall marry you--some time, that is, in the coming century--and then, when the time is finally arranged, just the very morning of our marriage, you shall kiss me, not before. That will prevent our having time to quarrel and part."

"Do you mean to tell me," indignantly, "you have made up your mind never to kiss me until we are married?"

"Until the morning _of_ our marriage," corrects she.

"You might as well say _never_!" exclaims Gower, very justly incensed.

"I will, if you like," retorts she, with the utmost _bonhommie_.

"It is getting too cold for you to stay out any longer," says Stephen, with great dignity; "come, let us return to the house."

CHAPTER XXI.

"'Tis impossible to love and be wise."

THEY return. The early Winter night has fallen, and in the smaller drawing-room the curtains are already drawn, and though no lamps are lit, a sweet, chattering, gossiping fire sheds a radiance round that betrays all things to the view.

As Dulce enters the room everyone says, "Well, Dulce," in the pleasantest way possible, and makes way for her, but Miss Blount goes into the shade and sits there in a singularly silent fashion.

Sir Mark, noting her mood, feels within him a lazy desire to go to her and break the unusual taciturnity that surrounds her.