THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 PORTIA; 
 
 OR. 
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKE D."
 
 BALI.ANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON
 
 PORTIA; 
 
 OK, 
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 ''PHYLLIS^ ''MRS. GEOFFREY," 
 "MOLLY BAWN," d-^. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. IIL 
 
 LONDON: 
 SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE. 
 
 1883. 
 [AH rights reserved. '\
 
 V. 3 
 
 PORTIA; 
 
 OR, 
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 
 
 
 ') 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 ** We must live our lives, though the sun be set, 
 Must meet in the masque, where parts we play, 
 Must cross in the maze of Life's minuet ; 
 
 Our yea is yea, and our nay is nay : 
 But while snows of winter or flowers of May 
 Are the sad years' shroud or coronet, 
 In the season of rose or of violet, 
 I shall never forget till my dying day ! " 
 
 A. Lang. 
 
 Dinner to-night, so far as Dulce and Portia 
 are concerned, is gone through in utter silence. 
 Not a word escapes either. To Portia, even 
 to say yes or no to the butler is a wearying 
 
 VOL. III. A 

 
 2 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 of the flesh ; to Dulce, it is an open annoy- 
 ance. Their positive determination to enter 
 into no conversation might have been observed 
 sooner or later by somebody, but for Dicky 
 Browne. He talks for everybody, and is, 
 indeed, in such a genial mood, that their un- 
 usual silence passes unnoticed. 
 
 Fabian, too, for a wonder, has risen above 
 his usual taciturnity and is almost talkative. 
 A change so delightful to Sir Christopher, 
 that he in his turn brightens up, and grows 
 more festive than he has been for many a 
 day. In fact, for all but the two girls, the 
 dinner may be counted a distinct success. 
 
 Portia, who is dressed in filmy black, is 
 looking white and nervous, and has in her 
 eyes an intense wrapt expression, such as 
 one micrht have whose nerves are all un- 
 strung and who is in momentary expecta- 
 tion of something unpleasant, that may or
 
 " I5Y PASSIONS ROCKED," 
 
 may not happen. Dulce, on the contrary, is 
 flushed and angry. Her eyes are brilHant, 
 and round her generally soft lips lies a 
 touch of determination foreign to them, and 
 hardly becoming. 
 
 Presently dinner comes to an end, and 
 then the three women rise and rustle away 
 towards the drawing-room, where follows 
 a dreary half-hour indeed. 
 
 Julia, who is always drowsy after her 
 claret, sinks complacently into the embrace 
 of the cosiest arm-chair she can find, and, 
 under pretence of saving her priceless com- 
 plexion (it really does cost a good deal) 
 from the fire, drops into a gentle slumber 
 behind her fan. 
 
 This makes thinors even harder for Portia 
 and Dulce. I need hardly say they are 
 not on speaking terms — that has explained 
 itself, I hope. Thrown now, therefore, upon
 
 4 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 their own resources, they look anxiously 
 around for a chance of mitig-atino- the awk- 
 wardness of the situation that has thrust 
 itself upon them. 
 
 At such trying moments as these how 
 blessed is the society of children. Even 
 crusty old bachelors, educated to the belief 
 that the young and innocent are only one 
 Qfiofantic fraud, have been known on occa- 
 sions like the present to bestow upon them 
 a careful, not to say artful, attention. 
 
 To-night Portia, Jacky, and the Boodie are 
 having it all their own way. " Quite a bully 
 time, don't you know," says Master Jacky, 
 later, to the all-suffering nurse, whose duty it 
 is to look after them and put them to bed. 
 They are talked to and caressed and made 
 much of by both girls, to their excessive sur- 
 prise ; surprise that later on mounts to dis- 
 trust.
 
 "by passions rocked." 
 
 "Why may I have this album to-night 
 when I mightn't last night ? " asks the Boodie 
 shrewdly, her big sapphire eyes bigger than 
 usual. " You scolded me about it last night, 
 and every other time I touched it. And 
 what's the matter with your eyes ? " staring 
 up at Portia, who has turned a page in the 
 forbidden album, and is now gazing at a por- 
 trait of Fabian that is smiling calmly up at 
 her. 
 
 It is a portrait taken in that happy time 
 when all the world was fair to him, and when 
 no "little rift" had come to make mute the 
 music of his life. Portia is gazing^at it in- 
 tently. She has forgotten the child — the 
 book — everything, even the fear of observa- 
 tion, and her eyes are heavy jwith unshed 
 tears, and her hands are trembling. 
 
 Then the child's questioning voice comes 
 to her ; across the bridge of past years she
 
 6 PORTIA; OR, 
 
 has been vainly trying to travel, and per- 
 force she gives up her impossible journey, 
 and returns to the sure but sorry present. 
 
 Involuntarily she tightens her hand upon 
 the Boodie's. There is entreaty in her 
 pressure, and the child (children, as a rule, 
 are very sympathetic), after a second stare 
 at her, shorter than the first, understands, 
 in a vague fashion, that silence is implored 
 of her, and makes no further attempts at 
 investio-ation. 
 
 After a little while the men come ; all 
 except Fabian. Their entrance is a relief 
 to the girls, whatever it may be to Julia. 
 She rouses herself by a supreme effort to 
 meet the exigencies of the moment, and 
 really succeeds in looking quite as if she 
 has not been in the land of Nod for the 
 past sweet thirty minutes. 
 
 "You have broken in upon a really deli-
 
 "by passions rocked." 
 
 cious little bit of gossip," she says to Sir 
 Mark coqiiettishly ; whereupon Sir Mark, 
 as in duty bound, entreats her to retail it 
 aofain to him. 
 
 She doesn't. 
 
 " I hope you have been miserable without 
 us," says Dicky Browne, sinking into a chair 
 beside Portia, and lifting the Boodle on to 
 his knee. (It would be Impossible to Dicky 
 Browne to see a child anywhere without 
 lifting it on to his knee.) "We've been 
 wretched in the dining-room ; we thought 
 Sir Christopher would never tip us the wink 
 — I mean," correcting himself with assumed 
 confusion, "give us the word to join you. 
 What are you looking at ? An album ? " 
 
 "Yes; you may look at it, too," says 
 Portia, pushing it anxiously towards him. 
 She cannot talk to-nio^ht. There Is a mental 
 strain upon her brain that compels her to
 
 8 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 silence. If^he would only amuse himself 
 with the caricatures of his friends the book 
 contains ! 
 
 But he won't. Mr. Browne rises superior 
 to the feeble amusements of the ordinary 
 drawing-room. 
 
 *' No, thank you," he says promptly. 
 " Nothing on earth offends me more than 
 being asked to look at an album. Why look 
 at paper beauties when there are living ones 
 in the room ? " 
 
 Here he tries to look sentimental, and 
 succeeds, at all events, in looking extremely 
 funny. He has been having a good deal of 
 champagne, and a generous amount of Bur- 
 gundy, and is now as happy and contented 
 as even his nearest and dearest could desire. 
 Don't mistake me for a moment; nobody 
 ever saw Mr. Browne in the very faintest 
 degree as — well, as he ought not to be ; but
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 
 
 there is no denying that after dinner he is 
 gaiety itself, and (as Dulce's governess used 
 to say of him) " very excellent company 
 indeed." 
 
 " I always feel," he goes on airily, still 
 alluding to the despised album, "when any 
 one asks me to look at a book of this 
 kind, as if they thought I was a dummy 
 and couldn't talk. And I can talk, you 
 know." 
 
 " You can — you can, indeed," says Sir 
 Mark feelingly. " Dulce, what was that 
 we were reading yesterday ? I remember, 
 now, a quotation from it apropos of talking, 
 not apropos of our friend Dicky, of course. 
 * Then he will talk. Good gods, how he 
 will talk ! ' Wasn't that it ? " 
 
 " Sing us something, Dicky, do. You 
 used to sing long ago," says Julia insiniv 
 atingly, who thinks she might be able to
 
 lO PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 accomplish another surreptitious doze under 
 cover of the music. 
 
 " I've rather given it up of late," says 
 Mr. Browne, with a modest air, and a 
 chuck to his shirt collar. 
 
 " You used to sin^ ' Ye banks and braes 
 o' bonny Doon ' sweetly," says Julia, when 
 she has recovered from a vigorous yawn, 
 got through quite safely behind her sheet 
 anchor — I mea^j her fan. 
 
 " Well — er — such a lot of fellows q-q in 
 for the sickly sentimental ; I'm tired of it," 
 says Dicky vaguely. 
 
 " You didn't tire of that sonof until that 
 little girl of the Plunkets asked you what 
 a * brae ' was, and you couldn't tell her. 
 She told me about it afterwards, and said 
 you were a very amusing boy, but she 
 feared uneducated. You gave her the im- 
 pression, I think," says Sir Mark plea-
 
 " BY PASSIONS ROCKED." I I 
 
 santly, " that you believed the word had 
 something to do with that noble — if tough — 
 animal, the donkey ! " 
 
 " I never told her anything of the kind," 
 says Dicky indignantly. " I never speak to 
 her at all if I can help it. A most unplea- 
 sant girl, with a mouth from ear to ear, and 
 always laughing." . 
 
 " What a fetching description ! " says 
 Stephen Gower, with a smile. 
 
 " You will sing us something ? " says 
 Portia, almost entreatingly. She wants to 
 be alone ; she wants to get rid of Dicky and 
 his artless prattle at any price. 
 
 "Certainly," says Mr. Browne, but with 
 very becoming hesitation. " If I could only 
 be sure what style of thing you prefer. I 
 know a comic song or two, if you would like 
 to hear them." 
 
 " Heavens and earth ! ". murmurs Sir Mark
 
 12 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 with a groan. He throws his handkerchief 
 over his face, and places himself in an 
 attitude suggestive of the deepest resig- 
 nation. 
 
 " I'm afraid I shan't be able to remem- 
 ber all the words," says Dicky regretfully. 
 " There are any amount of verses, and all 
 as funny as they can be. But I've a shock- 
 ing memory." 
 
 " For small mercies " says Sir Mark 
 
 mildly. 
 
 "Nevertheless Til try," says Dicky vali- 
 antly, moving towards the piano. 
 
 " No, don't, Dicky," exclaims Sir Mark, 
 with tearful entreaty. "It would break my 
 heart if Portia were to hear you for the first 
 time at a disadvantacre. ' I had rather than 
 forty shillings you had your book of songs 
 and sonnets here,' but as you haven't, why, 
 wait till you have. Now," says Sir Mark,
 
 <( 
 
 BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 1 3 
 
 ceisting a warning look upon the others ; 
 " I've done my part — hold him tight, some 
 of you, or he will certainly do it still," 
 
 " Oh ! if you don't want to hear me," re- 
 turns Dicky, with unruffled good-humour, 
 " why can't you say so at once, without 
 so much beating about the bush ? I don't 
 want to sing." 
 
 " Thank you, Dicky," says Sir Mark 
 sweetly. 
 
 Stephen is sitting close to Dulce, and is 
 saying something to her in a low tone. 
 Her answers, to say the least of them, are 
 somewhat irrelevant and disconnected. Now 
 she rises, and, murmuring to him a little 
 softly spoken excuse, glides away from him 
 to the door, opens it, and disappears. 
 
 At this, Portia, who has never ceased to 
 watch her, grows even paler than she was 
 before, and closes one hand so tightly on
 
 14 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 her fan, that part of the ivory breaks with 
 a little click. 
 
 Five minutes pass ; to her they might 
 be five interminable hours ; and then, when 
 she has electrified Mr. Browne by saying 
 "yes "twice, and "no" three times in the 
 wrong places, she too gets up from her seat, 
 and leaves the room. 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 Before the fire in his own room Fabian 
 is standing, with Dulce crying her heart 
 out uDon his breast. He has one arm 
 around her, but his eyes are looking into 
 a sad futurity, and he is gently, absently, 
 tapping her shoulder with his left hand. 
 He is frowning, not angrily, but thought- 
 fully, and there is an expression in his dark 
 eyes that suggests a weariness of the fiesh, 
 and a longing to flee away and be at rest. 
 
 " Do not take this thins: so much to
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 1 5 
 
 heart," he says in a rather mechanical tone, 
 addressing the Httle sister who is grieving 
 so bitterly because of the slight that has 
 been cast upon him from so unexpected a 
 quarter. " She told you the truth ; the very 
 first moment my eyes met hers, I knew she 
 had heard all, and — had condemned." 
 
 He sighs wearily. 
 
 "Who shall blame her?" he says with 
 deepest melancholy. 
 
 " I blame her," cries Dulce passionately. 
 " Nay, more, I hate and despise her. She 
 has seen you, known you. She must there- 
 fore be mad — blind — to credit so vile a thing 
 of you. And you, my saint, my darling, 
 what have you not endured all this time ! 
 Knowing everything, bearing everything, 
 without a murmur or reproach. ,Her scorn, 
 her contempt. Oh, Fabian ! at least you do 
 not suffer alone, for I suffer with you."
 
 1 6 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 '' That only adds another drop to my 
 cup," replies he gently. " It does not com- 
 fort me. I had some faint pleasure in the 
 thought that you and she were friends, and 
 now, even that belief is denied me. I have 
 severed you. What have I to do with 
 either she or you ? My misfortune is my 
 own, let it be so. Your tears only aggra- 
 vate my pain, my dear, dear little sister." 
 
 He draws her closer to him, and kisses 
 her warmly. Is she not the one being 
 who has clung to him, and loved him, and 
 believed in him through good and evil report ? 
 
 " Who could dream she was so deceit- 
 ful ? " says Dulce tearfully, alluding to the 
 unhappy Portia. " I never once even sus- 
 pected the real truth. Why, over and over 
 again she has spoken of you, has compelled 
 me to discuss you, has seemed to court the 
 subject of"
 
 " BY PASSIONS ROCKED." I 7 
 
 " Spoken of me ? " 
 
 "Yes, often — often, hundreds of times. 
 She seemed never to tire of you and your 
 history ; I thought she " 
 
 Dulce hesitates. 
 
 " Go on ; you thought she " 
 
 "Well, then," recklessly, "I thought she 
 was in love with you ; I was sure of it." 
 
 " Dulce," sharply, " you forget yourself. 
 What are you saying ? Do you think your 
 cousin would like you to speak like this ? " 
 
 " I don't care what she likes," cries the 
 rebel angrily; " as I am speaking like this, 
 I hope she wouldn't. When I think how 
 good you have always been to her, how 
 you gave her your friendship — your " — her 
 voice fails her, and in a whisper, she adds, 
 '' your love." 
 
 " Do not let us discuss this subject any 
 more," says Fabian ; though he speaks 
 
 VOL. III. B
 
 l8 PORTIA; OR, 
 
 quickly one can hear the keen anguish in his 
 tone. "Why should I not give her my 
 friendship ? Is it her fault that she cannot 
 believe ? " 
 
 "You would defend her!" 
 
 " I would be just. Is she the only one 
 who feels distrust, who only half credits my 
 version of the miserable story ? Here, in 
 this very house, are there none who hesitate 
 between faith and unfaith ? You have faith 
 in me and Rosier had." 
 
 "Oh, yes, yes, yes!" cries she suddenly. 
 " He had faith in you, he loved you." With- 
 out a word of warnins: she breaks ao-ain into 
 a very tempest of tears, and sobs bitterly. 
 
 " I would you could have loved him," says 
 Fabian in a low tone, but she will not listen. 
 
 " Go on," she says vehemently, " you 
 were saying something about the people in 
 this house."
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED. I9 
 
 " That probably, after you and Roger, I 
 have Dicky on my side," continues Fabian 
 obediently, a still deeper grief within his 
 haggard eyes, "and, of course, Christopher 
 and Mark Gore; but does Julia quite under- 
 stand me ? or Stephen Gower ? Forgive 
 me, dearest, for this last." 
 
 " Don't speak to me like that," entreats 
 she mournfully; "what is Stephen — what 
 is any one to me in comparison with you ? 
 Yet I will vouch for Stephen. But what is 
 it you say of Julia — surely " 
 
 " Yes — no doubt," impatiently. " But is 
 her mind really satisfied ? If to-morrow 
 my innocence were shown up incontrovert- 
 ibly to all the world, she would say trium- 
 phantly, ' I told you so.' And if my guilt 
 were established, she would say just as 
 triumphantly, ' I told you so,' in the very 
 same tone."
 
 20 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 "You wrong her, I think. She has lived 
 with you in this house off and on for many- 
 months, and few have so mean a heart as 
 Portia." 
 
 Some one, who a minute ago opened the 
 door very gently and is now standing irre- 
 solute upon the threshold, turns very pale 
 at this last speech, and lays her hand upon 
 her heart, as though fearing, though longing, 
 to go forward. 
 
 " Perhaps I do wrong Julia," says Fabian 
 indifferently. "It hardly matters. But you 
 must not wrong Portia. Our suspicions, 
 as our likes and dislikes, are not under our 
 control ; now, for example, there is old 
 Slyme ; he hates me, as all the world can 
 see, yet he would swear to my innocence 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " How do you know that ? " 
 
 " I do know it ; by instinct, I suppose ;
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 2 1 
 
 1 am one of those unhappy people who 
 can see through their neighbours. In spite 
 of the hatred he entertains for me (why I 
 know not), his eyes betray the fact that 
 he thinks me guiltless of the crime imputed 
 to me. So you see, vulgar prejudice has 
 nothing to do with it, and Portia is not to 
 be censured because she cannot take me 
 on trust." 
 
 " Oh, Fabian ? how can you still love one 
 who " 
 
 " My dear, love and I are not to be named 
 together, you forget that. I must live my 
 life apart. You can only pray that my 
 misery may be of short duration. But I 
 would have you forgive Portia," he says 
 gently — nay, as her name falls from his lips, 
 a certain tenderness characterises both his 
 face and tone — "if only for my sake." 
 
 At this, the silent figure in the doorway
 
 o "> 
 
 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 draws her breath painfully, and catches 
 hold of the lintel as though to steady her- 
 self. Her lips tremble, a momentary fear 
 that she may be going to faint terrifies her ; 
 then a voice, cold and uncompromising, fall- 
 ing on her ears, restores her to something 
 like composure. 
 
 " Do not ask me that, anything but that ; " 
 it is Dulce who is speaking. " I cannot." 
 
 At this the girl standing in the doorway, 
 as though unable to endure more, comes 
 slowly forward, and advances until she is 
 within the full glare of the lamplight. It is 
 Portia. She is deadly pale ; and her black 
 robes clinging round her render the pallor of 
 her face even more ghastly. She has raised 
 one hand and is trifling nervously with the 
 string of pearls that always lies round her 
 white throat ; she does not look at Fabian, 
 not even for one instant does she permit her
 
 "by passions rocked. 23 
 
 eyes to seek his, but lets them rest on 
 Dulce, sadly, reproachfully. 
 
 " Why can you not forgive me ? " she 
 says ; "is not your revenge complete ? 
 You have, indeed, kept your word. Now 
 that I am sad at heart, why will you not 
 try to forgive ? " 
 
 "Yes — forgive." It is Fabian who says 
 this ; he lays his hand upon Dulce's arm, 
 and regards her earnestly. 
 
 " You ask me to forgive — you ! You 
 would have me be kind to this traitress ! " 
 returns she passionately, glancing back at 
 Portia over her shoulder with angry eyes. 
 " Do you forgive her yourself ? " 
 
 " I am beyond the pale of forgiveness so 
 far as he is concerned," says Portia slowly. 
 " It is to you I appeal. I have loved you 
 well ; that should count for something. As 
 for your brother, I understand 1 know
 
 24 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 that he will never fororive and never for- 
 o-et ! " 
 
 " You are right," says Fabian, addressing 
 her for the first time, yet without letting his 
 o-lance meet hers, " I shall never forofet ! " 
 
 A sob rises in Portia's throat ; there is a 
 terrible sadness in his tone, the more terrible 
 because of the stern restraint he has laid 
 upon himself. 
 
 " Go to her," he says to Dulce, and the 
 girl who has never disobeyed a wish of his 
 in all her life goes up to Portia and lays her 
 hand in hers. 
 
 Palm to palm, slender hands clasped close 
 together, they move towards the door ; 
 Dulce with bent head trying to stay the 
 mournful tears that are falling silently one 
 by one down her cheeks ; Portia with head 
 erect, but with an anguish in her lovely 
 eyes sadder than any tears.
 
 " BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 25 
 
 Just as she reaches the door she turns her 
 head, and, with a passionate eagerness that 
 will not be repressed, looks at Fabian. 
 Their eyes meet. He makes a step towards 
 her ; he has forgotten everything but that 
 he loves her, and that she — dearest but most 
 agonising of certainties — loves him, and that 
 she is near him, searching as it were into his 
 very soul ; then remembrance comes to him, 
 and with a smothered groan he turns from 
 her, and leaning his arms on the chimney- 
 piece, buries his face in them. 
 
 Portia, to check the sob that rises in her 
 throat, tightens her clasp on Dulce's hand, 
 and draws the girl quickly from the room. 
 Perhaps, too, she seeks to hide his grief from 
 other eyes than hers. The unwonted sharp- 
 ness of her pressure, however, rouses Dulce 
 from her sad thoughts, and as they reach the 
 corridor outside she stops short, and glances
 
 26 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 half resentfully, half with a question on her 
 face, at Portia. 
 
 The extreme pain and grief she sees in 
 Portia's eyes awakens her to the truth ; she 
 draws her breath a little quickly and lays her 
 hand impulsively upon her cousin's bare 
 white arm. 
 
 " You suffer, too — you ! " she says, in a 
 whisper full of surprise; "Oh, Portia! is it 
 that you love him ? " 
 
 " Has it taken you so long to discover 
 that ? " says Portia reproachfully, who has 
 grown somewhat reckless because of the 
 misery of the past few hours. The self-con- 
 tained, proud girl is gone ; a woman sick at 
 heart, to whom the best good of this world is 
 as nought, has taken her place. There is so 
 much genuine pain in her voice that Dulce is 
 touched ; she forgets all, condones all ; to see 
 a fellow-creature in pain is terrible to this
 
 "by passions rocked." 27 
 
 hot-blooded little shrew. The anger and 
 disdain dies out of her eyes, and coming 
 even closer to Portia she looks long and ear- 
 nestly at her beautiful face. 
 
 " Oh, that you could believe in him," she 
 says at last, the expression of her desire 
 coming from her in the form of a sigh. 
 
 "If I could, I should be too deeply 
 blessed. Yet is it that I do not believe, or 
 that I dread the world's disbelief.'* That is 
 the stinof. To know that a stain lies on the 
 man I love, to know that others distrust 
 him, and will for ever pass him by on the 
 other side. That is the horror. Dulce, I 
 am ignoble, I fear many things ; the future 
 terrifies me ; but yet, as I am so wretched, 
 dear, dear Dulce, take me back into your 
 heart ! " 
 
 She bursts into tears. They are so 
 strange to her, and have been so long
 
 28 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 denied, that by their very vehemence they 
 frighten Dulce. She takes Portia in her 
 arms, and cHngs to her ; and pressing her 
 hps to her cheek, whispers to her fondly 
 that she is forgiven, and that from her soul 
 she pities her. Thus peace is restored be- 
 tween these two.
 
 t i 
 
 BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 29 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 " Time tries the troth iu everything." — Thomas Tusser. 
 
 The voice comes to her distinctly across the 
 sward, browned by winter's frown, and over 
 the evergreens that sway and rustle behind 
 her back. 
 
 " Shall I answer ?" says Dulce to herself, 
 half uncertainly ; and then she hesitates, and 
 then belies the old adacje because she is not 
 lost, but decides on maintaining a discreet 
 silence. If he comes, she tells herself, he 
 will only " talk, talk, talk ! " and at his best 
 he is tiresome ; and then he worries so that 
 really life becomes a burden with him near. 
 And the day, though cold, is bright and
 
 30 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 frosty and delicious, and all it should be at 
 Christmas time, and when one is wrapped 
 in furs one doesn't feel the cold, and she 
 really means to enjoy herself with her book, 
 and now 
 
 " Dulce ! " comes the voice again, only 
 nearer this time, and even more pathetic 
 in its anxiety, and Dulce moves uneasily. 
 Perhaps, after all, she ought to answer. 
 Has she not promised many things ? Shall 
 she answer or not, or 
 
 This time her hesitation avails her no- 
 thing ; a step can be heard dangerously 
 close, and then a figure comes up to her 
 very back and peers through the thick 
 hedge of evergreens, and finally Stephen 
 makes his way through them and stands 
 before her. 
 
 He is flushed and half angry. He is 
 uncertain how to translate the extreme un-
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 3 1 
 
 Goncern with which she hails him. Did 
 she hear him call, or did she not ? That is 
 the question. And Stephen very properly 
 feels that more than the fate of a nation 
 depends upon the solution of this mystery. 
 
 " Oh ! here you are at last," he says, in a dis- 
 tinctly aggrieved tone. " I have been calling 
 you for the last hour. Didn't you hear me ? " 
 
 When one has been straining one's lungs 
 in a vain endeavour to be heard by a beloved 
 object, one naturally magnifies five minutes 
 into an hour. 
 
 Dulce stares at him in a bewildered fashion. 
 Her manner, indeed, considering all things, 
 is perfect. 
 
 " Why didn't you answer me ?" asks Mr. 
 Gower, feeling himself justified in throwing 
 some indignation into this speech. 
 
 "Were you calling me?" she asks with 
 the utmost innocence, letting her large eyes
 
 o 
 
 2 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 rest calmly upon his, and bravely suppressing 
 the smile that is dying to betray her ; " really ? 
 How was it I didn't hear you ? I was sit- 
 ting here all the time. These evergreens 
 must be thick. Do you know I am horribly 
 afraid I shall grow deaf in my old age, be- 
 cause there are moments even now — such, 
 for example, as the present — when I cannot 
 bring myself to hear anything." 
 
 This last remark contains more in it than 
 appears to Mr. Gower. 
 
 " Yet only last night," he says resentfully, 
 " you told me it would be dangerous to whis- 
 per secrets near you to another, as you had 
 the best ears in the world." 
 
 " Did I say all that ? Well, perhaps I am 
 troublesome in that way sometimes," says 
 Miss Blount, shifting her tactics without a 
 quiver. "Just now," glancing at a volume 
 that lies upon her lap, " I daresay it was the
 
 "by passions rocked. 33 
 
 book that engrossed my attention ; I quite 
 lose myself in a subject when it is as interest- 
 ing as this one is," with another glance at 
 the dark-bound volume on her knee. 
 
 Gower stoops and reads the title of the 
 book that had come between him and the 
 thouorhts of his beloved. He reads it aloud 
 slowly and with grim meaning, " ' Notes on 
 Tasmanian Cattle! ' It sounds enthralling," 
 he says with bitter irony. 
 
 " Yes, doesn't it ?" says Miss Blount, with 
 such unbounded audacity, and with such a 
 charming laugh as instantly scatters all 
 clouds. " You must know I adore cattle, 
 especially Tasmanian cattle." As a mere 
 matter of fact she had brouo^ht out this book 
 by mistake, thinking it was one of George 
 Eliot's, because of its cover, and had not 
 opened it until now. " Come and sit here 
 beside me," she says sweetly, bent on mak- 
 
 VOL. III. c
 
 34 PORTIA ; OR,' 
 
 ing up for her former ungraciousness, " I 
 have been so dull all the morning, and you 
 wouldn't come and talk to me. So unfeel- 
 ing of you." 
 
 " Much you care whether I come to talk 
 to you or not," says Mr. Gower with a last 
 foolish attempt at temper. This foolish 
 attempt makes Miss Blount at once aware 
 that the day is her own. 
 
 *' You may sit on the edge of my gown," 
 she says generously — she herself is sitting 
 on a garden- chair made for one, that care- 
 fully preserves her from all damp arising 
 from the moist, wintry grass ; " on the very 
 edge, please. Yes, just there," shaking out 
 her skirts ; " I can't bear people close to 
 me, it gives me a creepy-creepy feel. Do 
 you know it ? " 
 
 Mr. Gower shakes his head emphatically. 
 No, he does not know the creepy-creepy feel.
 
 " BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 35 
 
 " Besides," goes on Dulce confidentially, 
 " one can see the person one is conversing 
 with so much better at a little distance. 
 Don't you agree with me?" 
 
 " Don't I always agree with you } " says 
 Mr. Gower gloomily. 
 
 " Well then, don't look so discontented ; it 
 makes me think you are only answering me 
 as you think I want to be answered, and no 
 woman could stand that." 
 
 Silence. The short day is already coming 
 to a close. A bitter wind has sprung from 
 the east and is now flitting with icy ardour 
 over grass and streamlet ; through the bare 
 branches of the trees, too, it flies, creating 
 music of a mournful kind as it rushes on- 
 wards. 
 
 '* Last night I dreamt of you," says Stephen 
 at last. 
 
 "And what of me?" asks she, bending
 
 36 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 slightly down over him as he lies at her feet 
 in his favourite position. 
 
 " This one great thing : I dreamt that you 
 loved me. I flattered myself in my dreams, 
 did I not ? " says Gower with an affectation 
 of unconcern that does not disguise the fear 
 that is consuming him lest some day he shall 
 prove his dream untrue. 
 
 Duke lauehs. 
 
 \s 
 
 " Now what is love ? I will thee tell, 
 It is the fountain and the well 
 Where pleasure and repentance dwell," 
 
 quotes she gaily, with a quick, trembling- 
 blush. 
 
 " I expect some fellows do all the repent- 
 ance," says Stephen moodily. Then, with a 
 sudden accession of animation born of de- 
 spair, he says, " Dulce, once for all, tell me if 
 you can care for me even a little." He has 
 .taken her hand — of course her right hand on
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 37 
 
 which a ring is — and is clasping it in the 
 most energetic manner. The ring has a 
 sharp diamond in it, and consequently the 
 pressure creates pain. She bears it, how- 
 ever, like a Cranmer. 
 
 " I don't think even my angelic temper 
 would stand a cross-examination on such a 
 day as this," she says with a slight frown ; 
 it mieht be slio-hter but for the diamond. 
 " Besides, I have made answer to that ques- 
 tion a thousand times. Did I not, indeed, 
 answer it in the most satisfactory manner 
 of all when I promised to marry you } " 
 
 " Yes, you promised to marry me, I know 
 that, but when.-*" asks he quickly. "Up 
 to this you have always declined to name 
 any particular date." 
 
 " Naturally," says Miss Blount calmly. 
 " I'm not even dreamincj of beino- married 
 yet, why should I ? I should hate it."
 
 ;^8 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 " Oh ! if you would hate it," says Stephen 
 stiffly. 
 
 " Yes, hate it," repeats she undauntedly. 
 " Why, indeed, should v\^e be married for 
 years ? I am quite happy, aren't you ? " 
 
 No answer. Then very severely : "Aren't 
 you : 
 
 " Yes, of course," says Mr. Gower, but 
 in a tone that belies his words. 
 
 " Just so," says Dulce, "then let us con- 
 tinue happy. I am sure all these past 
 months I have been utterly content." 
 
 "You mean ever since Roger's depar- 
 ture ? " asks he eagerly. 
 
 " Yes ; principally, I suppose, because of 
 his departure." There is a good deal of 
 unnecessary warmth in this speech. Yet 
 the flush has faded from her cheeks now, 
 and she is looking down towards the sea 
 with a little set expression round her usually 
 mobile lips.
 
 " BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 39 
 
 "We are happy now, but why should we 
 not be even happier if we were married ? " 
 asks Stephen presently, trying to read her 
 averted face. 
 
 "Why? Who can answer that?" ex- 
 claims she, turning her face inland again, 
 with a little saucy smile. Her thoughts 
 of a moment since are determinately put 
 out of sight, resolutely banished. " You 
 surely don't believe at this time of day that 
 a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush ? 
 That is old-world rubbish ! Take my word 
 for it, that two birds in the hand do not 
 come up to even one sweet, provoking, 
 unattainable bird in the bush ! " 
 
 She has risen, and is now standing be- 
 fore him, as she says this, with her hands 
 clasping each other behind her head, and 
 her body well thrown back. Perhaps she 
 does not know how charmincj her figrure
 
 40 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 appears in this position. Perhaps she does. 
 She is smiHng down at Gower in a half- 
 defiant, wholly tantalising fashion, and is as 
 like the "sweet, provoking, unattainable 
 bird " as ever she can be. 
 
 Rising slowly to his feet, Gower goes up 
 to her, and, as is his lawful right, encircles 
 her bonnie round waist with his arm. 
 
 " I don't know about the bird," he says, 
 "but this I do know, that in my eyes you 
 are worth two of anything in all this wide 
 world." 
 
 His tone is so full of feeling, so replete 
 with real, unaffected earnestness and affec- 
 tion that she is honestly touched. She even 
 suffers his arm to embrace her (for the time 
 being), and turns her eyes upon him kindly 
 enough. 
 
 " How fond you are of me," she says 
 regretfully. " Too fond. I am not worth
 
 'BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 4I 
 
 it." Then, in a curious tone : " How strange 
 it is that you should love me so dearly when 
 Roger actually disliked me ! " 
 
 " You are always thinking of your cousin," 
 exclaims he, with a quick frown. " He 
 seems never very far from your thoughts." 
 
 " How can I help that ?" says Dulce, with 
 an attempt at lightness ; " it is so difficult to 
 rid the mind of a distasteful subject." 
 
 "And," eagerly, "it is a distasteful sub- 
 ject ? You are really glad your engagement 
 with him is at an end ? " 
 
 " Of course I am glad," says Miss Blount 
 impatiently ; " why should I be otherwise ? 
 How often have you told me yourself that 
 he and I were unsuited to each other — 
 and how many times have you reminded 
 me of his unbearable temper ? I hope," 
 with passionate energy, " I shall never see 
 him again ! "
 
 42 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 " Let us forget him," says Gower gently 
 — "there are plenty of other things to 
 discuss besides him. For one thinof, let 
 me tell you this — that though we have been 
 engaged for a long time now, you have 
 never once kissed me." 
 
 "Yes — and don't you know why.'*" asks 
 Miss Blount sweetly, and with all the air 
 of one who is about to impart the most 
 agreeable intelligence. " Can't you guess ? 
 It is because I think kissing a mistake. 
 Not only a mistake, but a positive betise. 
 It commonises everything, and — and — is 
 really death to sentiment in my opinion." 
 
 "Death to it? — an aid to it, I should 
 say," says Mr. Gower bluntly. 
 
 " Should you .'* I am sure experience will 
 j)rove you wrong," says Dulce suavely, 
 "and at all events I hate being kissed!"
 
 (I 
 
 BV PASSIONS ROCKED. 43 
 
 " Do you ? Yet twice I saw you let your 
 cousin kiss you," says Stephen gloomily. 
 
 " And see what came of it," retorts she 
 quickly. " He got— that is — we both got 
 tired of each other. And then we quarrelled 
 — we were always quarrelling, it seems to 
 me now — and then he — that is, we both 
 grew to hate each other, and that of course 
 ended everything. I really think," says 
 Miss Blount with suppressed passion, " I 
 am the one girl in the world he cordially 
 dislikes and despises. He almost told me 
 so before — before we parted ! " 
 
 "Just like him, unmannerly beast !" says 
 Mr. Gower with deep disgust. ; 
 
 "It was just as well we found it all out 
 in time," says Duke, 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."
 
 44 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 "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 versd^' 
 but can't remember it at this moment. 
 
 " Never knew when to hold his toneue," 
 says Stephen, who is a rather silent man ; 
 "never met such a beggar to talk." 
 
 "And so headstrong," says Dulce pet- 
 tishly. 
 
 "Altogether, I think he is about the 
 greatest ass 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
 
 1 1 
 
 BY PASSIONS ROCKIiD. 45 
 
 looking back with horror upon the time 
 when she was engaged to this "ass," 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 circum- 
 stances, it would have moved Dulce to 
 lautrhter. 
 
 *' Isn't the name Roger respectable ?" asks 
 she sweetly, as though desirous of informa- 
 tion. 
 
 " Oh, well, it's respectable enough, I sup-
 
 46 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 pose, or at least it is hideous enough for 
 that or anything." 
 
 " Must a thing be hideous to be respec- 
 table ? " 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.
 
 " BY PASSIONS ROCKKD." ^J 
 
 "It seems to me you think more of your 
 absent cousin than of — of any one 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 alto- 
 gether. 
 
 "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 passion, "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
 
 48 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 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 aQ^ain reiens. 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 re-
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 49 
 
 morse — 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 a little, peni- 
 tent 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 becjan to discuss Roeer." 
 
 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 makino- 
 
 VOL. III. D
 
 50 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 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 only 
 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 witli 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 upon his face. Is she going to 
 prove kind at last ?
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 5 I 
 
 " Some time," 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 morn- 
 ing 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 bonhomie. 
 
 "It is getting too cold for you to stay 
 out any longer," says Stephen with great 
 dignity ; " come, let us return to the 
 house."
 
 52 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 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 every one says, 
 "Well, Dulce," in the pleasantest way pos- 
 sible, and makes way for her, but Miss Blount 
 goes into the shade and sits there in a singu- 
 larly silent fashion. 
 
 Sir Mark, noting her mood, feels within
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 53 
 
 him a lazy desire to go to her and break the 
 unusual taciturnity that surrounds her. 
 
 " Why so mute, fair maid ? " he asks, drop- 
 ping into a chair near hers. 
 
 " Am I mute ? " she asks in her turn, there- 
 by betraying the fact that she has been very 
 far from them in her inmost thouofhts. 
 
 " Rather," says Sir Mark ; " would you 
 think me rude if I asked the subject of your 
 waking dreams ? " 
 
 " No ; I was merely thinking what an un- 
 satisfactory place this world is." She says 
 this slowly, turning her large eyes somewhat 
 wistfully on his. If she likes any one on earth 
 honestly, it is Mark Gore. 
 
 "What a morbid speech," returns he. 
 " Do you want a footstool, or a cup of 
 tea, or what ? Evidently something has 
 made the whole world grey to you. And 
 I can't even agree with you ; I think this
 
 54 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 present world an uncommonly good old 
 place, all things considered. Rough on us 
 now and then, but quite possible." 
 
 " You are happy," she says. 
 
 " And you ? " — he lets his keen eyes seek 
 hers — " of what can you complain ? You 
 seem one of fortune's favourites. Have 
 you not got as your most devoted slave 
 the man of your heart ? " 
 
 " I suppose so." There is a thorough 
 lack of enthusiasm in her tone that irritates 
 him. He puts the end of his moustache 
 into his mouth and chews it slowly, a certain 
 sign that he is both grieved and annoyed. 
 Then he chano^es his Qrlass from his ri(jht 
 eye to his left, after all which he feels better 
 for the moment. 
 
 " And besides," he says with a valiant 
 determination to follow his cross-examina- 
 tion to its bitter end, "you have success-
 
 "by passions rocked. 55 
 
 fully got rid of the man you hate. I refer 
 to Roofer." 
 
 ** I suppose so." Just the same answer, 
 in just the same tone. 
 
 Sir Mark is plainly indignant. Perhaps 
 he had hoped to see her betray some emo- 
 tion on the mention of her cousin's name, 
 but if so he is disappointed. 
 
 ** You grow apathetic," he says somewhat 
 sharply. " Soon you will care for nothing. 
 A bad trick for any girl to learn." 
 
 " I have learned that trick already. I 
 care for very little now ? " says Dulce in 
 a perfectly even tone. Her hands, lying 
 in her lap, are without motion. Her eye- 
 lids are without a tremor. "And yet she 
 is not heartless," says Sir Mark to himself 
 reflectively. " I suppose she is only acting 
 for my special benefit, and though it is rather 
 a good performance it is of no earthly use, 
 as I can see rio-ht throuo^h her."
 
 56 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 Nevertheless he is angry with her, and 
 presently rising, he goes away from her to 
 where Dicky Browne is holding high revelry 
 amonorst his friends. 
 
 Dicky has only just arrived. He has been 
 absent all day, and is now being questioned — 
 desired to give an account of himself and his 
 time ever since breakfast-time. 
 
 " It is something new to be asked where I 
 have been," says Mr. Browne, who also thinks 
 it will be as new as it is nice for him to take 
 the aggrieved tone and go in heavily on the 
 ill-used tack. 
 
 " Never mind that," says Julia ; " tell us 
 only — where have you been ? " 
 
 " Well, really, I hardly quite know," says 
 Dicky, delightfully vague as usual. " Round 
 about the place, don't you know .-* " 
 
 " But you must remember where ? " 
 
 " As a rule," says Mr. Browne medita-
 
 "by passions rocked. 57 
 
 tively, " I come and go, and no account is 
 taken of my wanderings. To-night all is 
 different, now I am put under a cross-exami- 
 nation that reduces me to despair. This 
 is unfair; it is cruel. If you would always 
 act thus it would be gratifying, but to get 
 up an interest in me on rare occasions such 
 as the present is, to say the least of it, 
 embarrassing. I am half an orphan, some of 
 you might be a father to me sometimes." 
 
 "So we will, Dicky, in a body," says 
 Mark Gore cheerfully. 
 
 " I like that," says Portia laughing. " In- 
 stead of looking after you, Dicky, I rather 
 think we want some one to look after 
 us." 
 
 "Well, I'll do that with pleasure," says 
 Mr. Browne. "It is my highest ambition. 
 To be allowed to look after you has been 
 the dream of my life for months :
 
 58 rORTIA; OR, 
 
 <( ( 
 
 Thy elder brother I would be, 
 Thy father, anything to thee ! ' " 
 
 " By-the-by, Dicky, where is your father 
 now ? " asks Stephen Gower, who is leaning 
 against the mantel-piece in Dulce's vicinity, 
 but not quite close to her. Ill-temper, 
 called dignity, forbids his nearer approach 
 to his oroddess. 
 
 " Down South," says Dicky. " Not in 
 Carolina exactly, but in Devon. It does 
 remind one of the ten little nigger boys, 
 doesn't it ? " Then he begins, with a quite 
 uncalled-for amount of energy, " ' Eight little 
 nigger boys travelling in Devon, one over- 
 slept hisself, and then there were seven,' " 
 and would probably have continued the 
 dismal ditty up to the bitter end, but that 
 Sir Mark calls him up sharp. 
 
 "Never mind the niggers," he says, "tell 
 us about your father. Where is he now ?"
 
 " BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 59 
 
 " Down at the old place, cursing his 
 fate, no doubt. By-the-by, talking of my 
 ancestral home, I wish some day you would 
 all come and put in a month there. Will 
 you r 
 
 "We will," says Julia directly. Julia is 
 always ready to go anywhere, children and 
 all, at a moment's notice. 
 
 "Is it a nice place, Dicky?" asks Sir 
 Mark cautiously. 
 
 "No, it isn't," says Mr. Browne; "not 
 now, you know. I hear it used to be ; but 
 there's no believing old people, they lie like 
 fun. I'll get it settled up for all of you, if 
 you'll promise to come, but just at present 
 it isn't much. It is an odd old place, all 
 doors, and dust, and rats, I shouldn't 
 wonder." 
 
 "That's nothing," says Gower. "Any- 
 thing else against it?"
 
 60 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 "Well, I don't know," replies Dicky 
 gloomily. " It smells, I think." 
 
 " Smells, good gracious, of what ? " asks 
 Julia. 
 
 "Bones!" says Mr. Browne mysteriously. 
 "Dead bones!" 
 
 "What sort of bones V asks Portia, start- 
 ing into life, and really growing a little pale 
 even beneath the crimson glare of the pine 
 los^s. 
 
 " Human bones," says Dicky, growing 
 more gloomy as he says this, and marks 
 with rapture the impression it makes upon 
 his audience. "It reminds one of graves, and 
 sarcophaguses, and cemeteries, and horrid 
 things that rustle in coffin cloths, and mop 
 and mow in corners. But if you will come 
 I will make you all heartily welcome." 
 
 "Thank you. No, I don't think I'll 
 come," says Julia, casting an uneasy glance
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 6 1 
 
 behind her ; the recesses of the room are 
 but dimly lit, and appear ghostlike, highly- 
 suggestive of things uncanny from where 
 she sits. " Dicky," pathetically, not to say 
 affrightedly, " you have told us plenty 
 about your horrid old house ; don't tell us 
 any more." 
 
 " There isn't any more to tell," says Dicky, 
 who is quite content with his success so far. 
 
 " You haven't yet told us where you 
 were all day," says Portia, lowering her fan 
 to look at him. 
 
 "In the village for the most part — I dote 
 on the village — interviewing the school and 
 the children. Mr. Redmond got hold of 
 me, and took me in to see the infants. It 
 was your class I saw, I think, Dulce ; it 
 was so uncommonly badly behaved." 
 
 Dulce, in her dark corner, gives no sign 
 that she has heard this gracious speech.
 
 62 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 " I don't think much of your school- 
 master either," goes on Mr. Browne un- 
 abashed. " His French, I should say, is 
 not his strong point. Perhaps he speaks 
 it 'after the scole of Stratford-atte-Bowe,' 
 for certainly ' Frenche of Paris is to him 
 unknowe ? ' " 
 
 " I shouldn't think one would look for 
 foreicfn lano'uao^es from a vilWe school- 
 master," says Sir Mark lazily. 
 
 " I didn't look for it, my good fellow, he 
 absolutely showered it upon me ; and in the 
 oddest fashion. I confess I didn't under- 
 stand him. He has evidently a trick of 
 colouring his conversation with fine words 
 — a trick beyond me." 
 
 "What did he say to you, Dicky?" asks 
 Julia, whose curiosity is excited. 
 
 " He told me a story," says Mr. Browne; 
 " I'll tell it again to you now, if you like, but
 
 " BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 6.^ 
 
 J 
 
 I don't suppose you will like, because, as I 
 said before, I don't understand it myself. 
 It was hardly a story either, it was more a 
 diatribe about his assistant." 
 " Peter Greene ?" 
 
 " Ye — es. This objectionable young 
 man's name was Peter, though, if the school- 
 master is to be believed, he isn't green. 
 'Sir,' said he to me, 'that Peter is a bad 
 lot ; — no worse. He can teach the Latin, 
 and the Greek, and the astronomy, fust- 
 class ; but as for probity or truth, or honest 
 dealin's of any sort, he is azi. revoir ! ' What 
 on earth did he mean?" says Mr. Browne, 
 turning a face, bright with innocence, upon 
 the group that surrounds the fire. 
 
 "To-morrow will be Christmas Day," says 
 the Boodie suddenly. She is lying, as usual, 
 full length upon the hearthrug, with her chin 
 sunk between both her palms, and her eyes
 
 64 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 fixed upon the fire. This remark she ad- 
 dresses apparently to a glowing cinder. " I 
 wonder if I shall get many presents," she 
 says, "and if they will be things to love." 
 
 " How sweet it is to study the simplicity, 
 the lack of mercenary thought in the little 
 child," says Dicky, regarding her with ad- 
 miration ; "now this dear Boodie of ours 
 would quite as soon have an ugly present 
 as a pretty one ; she thinks only of the 
 affection that instis^ated the oriver of it." 
 
 " I do not," says the Boodie stoutly, 
 "and I'd hate an ugly present;" then, 
 with a sudden change of tone, "have you 
 anything for me ? " 
 
 " Darling ! " murmurs Julia, with mild 
 reproof. 
 
 " Certainly not," says Mr. Browne 
 promptly ; "I want you to love me for 
 myself alone ! "
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 65 
 
 " Really nothing ? " persists the Boodie, 
 as if unable to credit her senses. 
 
 " Really nothing." 
 
 '* Then what did you go to London for 
 last week?" demands the irate Boodie, with 
 rising and totally unsuppressed indignation. 
 
 This question fills Mr. Browne with much 
 secret amusement. 
 
 " There have been rare occasions," he 
 says mildly, "on which I have gone to town 
 to do a few other things besides purchasing 
 gifts for you." 
 
 " I never heard anything so mean," says 
 the Boodie, alluding to his unprofitable visit 
 to the metropolis, "I wouldn't" — with the 
 finest and most withering disgust — " have 
 believed it of you ! And let me tell you 
 this, Dicky Browne, I'll take very good 
 care I don't give you the present I have 
 been keeping for you for a whole week ; 
 
 VOL. III. E
 
 66 PORTIA; OR, 
 
 and by-and-by, when you hear what it is, 
 you will be sorrier than ever you were in 
 your life." 
 
 This awful speech she delivers with the 
 greatest gusto. Mr. Browne, without a mo- 
 ment's hesitation, flings himself upon his 
 knees before her in an attitude suggestive 
 of the direst despair. 
 
 " Oh, don't do me out of my Christmas- 
 box," he entreats tearfully ; "I know what 
 your gifts are like, and I would not miss 
 one for any earthly consideration. My lovely 
 Boodie ! reconsider your words. I will give 
 you a present to-morrow " (already the big- 
 gest doll in Christendom is in her nurse's 
 possession, with strict injunctions to let her 
 have it, with his love and a kiss, the first 
 thing in the morning) ; "I'll do anything, if 
 you will only bestow upon me the priceless 
 treasure at which you have darkly hinted."
 
 << 
 
 BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 67 
 
 "Well, we'll see," returns the Boodie, in a 
 reserved tone; after which Mr. Browne once 
 more returns to his seat and his senses. 
 
 But, unfortunately, the Boodie has not yet 
 quite finished all she has to say. Rolling 
 her little, lithe body over until she rests 
 upon her back, and letting her arms fall 
 behind her sunny head in one of her grace- 
 ful, kittenish ways, she says pathetically : 
 
 " Oh, how I wish Roger was here ! He 
 always was good to us, wasn't he, Pussy .'* " 
 to her sister, who is striving hard to ruin 
 her sight by stringing glass beads in the 
 nickering firelight. " I wonder where he 
 
 is now ! " 
 
 As Roger Dare's name has been tabooed 
 amongst them of late, this direct and open 
 allusion to him falls like a thunderbolt in 
 their midst. 
 
 Nobody says anything. Nobody does
 
 68 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 anything. Only in one dark corner, 
 where the light does not penetrate, one 
 white hand closes nervously upon another, 
 and the owner of both draws her breath 
 hurriedly. 
 
 Dicky Browne is the first to recover him- 
 self. He comes to the rescue with the most 
 praiseworthy nonchalance. 
 
 "Didn't you hear about him?" he asks 
 the Boodie, in a tone replete with melan- 
 choly. "He travelled too far, his hankering 
 after savages was as extraordinary as it was 
 dangerous ; in his case it has been fatal. 
 One lovely morning, when the sun was 
 shining, and all the world was alight with 
 smiles, they caught him. It was breakfast 
 hour, and they were hungry ; therefore, they 
 ate him (it is their playful habit), nicely fried 
 in tomato sauce." 
 
 At this doleful tale, Jacky, who is lying
 
 (( 
 
 BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 69 
 
 about in some other corner, explodes merrily, 
 Pussy following suit ; but the Boodie, who 
 is plainly annoyed at this frivolous allusion 
 to her favourite, maintains her gravity and 
 her dignity at the same time. 
 
 " Nobody would eat Roger," she says. 
 
 "Why not? Like 'the boy, Billie,' he 
 is still 'young and tender.'" 
 
 " Nobody would be unkind to Roger," 
 persists the Boodie, unmoved. " And be- 
 sides, when he was going away he told me 
 he would be back on New Year's Day, and 
 Roger never told a lie." 
 
 " ' He will return, I know him well,' " 
 quotes Mr. Browne. 
 
 This quotation is thrown away upon the 
 Boodie. 
 
 "Yes, he will," she says in all good faith. 
 " He will be here, I know, to-morrow week. 
 I am going to keep the present I have for
 
 70 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 him until then. I'm afraid I won't be able 
 to keep it any longer," says the Boodie 
 regretfully ; " because " 
 
 She hesitates. 
 
 " Because it wouldn't let you. I know 
 what it is, it is chocolate creams," says 
 Dicky Browne, making this unlucky speech 
 triumphantly. 
 
 It is too much ! The bare mention of 
 these sweetmeats, fraught as they are to 
 her with bitterest memories, awake a long 
 slumbering grief within Duke's breast. 
 Fretted by her interview with Stephen ; 
 sore at heart because of the child's persist- 
 ent allusion to her absent cousin, this last 
 stab, this mention of the curious cause of 
 their parting, quite overcomes her. 
 
 Putting up her hands to her face, she rises 
 precipitately to her feet, and then, unable to 
 control herself, bursts into tears.
 
 " BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 7 I 
 
 " Dulce ! what is it?" exclaims Portia, 
 going quickly to her, and encircling her with 
 her arms. Stephen, too, makes a step for- 
 ward, and then stops abruptly. 
 
 ** It is nothing — nothing," sobs Dulce, 
 strucrelinof with her emotion ; and then, 
 finding the conflict vain, and that grief 
 has fairly conquered her, she lays down 
 her arms, and clinging to Portia, whispers 
 audibly, with all the unreasoning sorrow of 
 a tired child, " I want Roger." 
 
 Even as she makes it, the enormity of her 
 confession comes home to her, and terrifies 
 her. Without daring to cast a glance at 
 Stephen, who is standing rigid and white 
 as death against the mantel-piece, she slips 
 out of Portia's arms and escapes from the 
 room. 
 
 Another awkward pause ensues. De- 
 cidedly this Christmas Eve is not a success-
 
 72 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 ful one. To tell the truth, every one Is very- 
 much frightened and is wondering secretly 
 how Stephen will take it. When the silence 
 has become positively unbearable, Sir Mark 
 rises to the situation. 
 
 " That is just like Dulce," he says — and 
 really the amount of feigned amusement he 
 throws into his tone is worthy of all ad- 
 miration ; though to be quite honest I must 
 confess it imposes upon nobody — "when 
 she is out of spirits she invariably asks for 
 somebody on whom she is in the habit of 
 venting her spleen. Poor Roger ! he is well 
 out of it to-night, I think. We have all 
 noticed, have we not," turning with abject 
 entreaty in his eyes, to every one in the 
 room except Stephen, "that Dulce has 
 been very much depressed during the last 
 hour ? " 
 
 " Yes, we have all noticed that," says
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED. y 2> 
 
 Portia hurriedly, coming nobly to his assist- 
 ance. 
 
 Dicky Browne, stooping towards her, 
 whispers softly : 
 
 '•' Quoth Hudibras — ' It is in vain, 
 I see, to argue 'gainst the grain ! ' " 
 
 " I don't understand," says Portia ; just 
 because she doesn't want to. 
 
 " Don't you ? — well, you ought. Can't 
 you see that, in spite of her determination 
 to hate Roger, she loves him a thousand 
 times better than that fellow over there ? 
 — and I'm very glad of it," winds up Dicky 
 viciously, who has always sorely missed 
 Roger, and, though when with him quar- 
 relled from dawn to dewy eve, he still looks 
 upon him as the one friend in the world 
 to whom his soul cleaveth. 
 
 "Yes, I, too, have noticed her curious 
 silence^ Who could have vexed her ? Was
 
 74 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 it you, Stephen?" asks Julia, who is as 
 clever as Dicky at always saying the wrong 
 thin Of. 
 
 " Not that I am aware of," replies Gower 
 haughtily. Calling to mind his late con- 
 versation with his betrothed, he naturally 
 looks upon himself as the aggrieved party. 
 All she had said then, her coldness, her 
 petulance — worse than all, her indifference 
 — is still fresh with him, and rankles within 
 his breast. Comincr a little more into the 
 ruddy light of the fire, he says slowly, 
 addressing Portia : 
 
 "As — as Miss Blount seems rather upset 
 about something, I think I shall not stay to 
 dinner to-night. Will you excuse me to 
 her ? " 
 
 *' Oh, do stay ! " says Portia, uncertain 
 how to act. She says this, too, in spite of 
 a pronounced prod from Dicky Browne,
 
 "by passions rocked. 75 
 
 who is plainly desirous of increasing the 
 rupture between Stephen and Dulce. May 
 not such a rupture reinstate Roger upon his 
 former throne ? Oddly enough, Dicky, 
 who has no more perspicacity than an owl, 
 has arranired within himself that Roirer 
 would be as Mad to renew his old relations 
 with Dulce as she would be to renew hers 
 with him. 
 
 "There are other thinors that will take me 
 home to-night, irrespective of Dulce," says 
 Stephen, smiling upon Portia, and telling his 
 lie valiantly. "Good night. Miss Vibart." 
 
 And then he bids adieu to the others, 
 quite composedly, though his brain is on fire 
 with jealousy, not even omitting the chil- 
 dren. Sir Mark and Dicky, feeling some 
 vague compassion for him, go with him to 
 the hall door, and there, having bidden him 
 a hearty farewell, send him on his way.
 
 76 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 " I give you my word," says Dicky 
 Browne confidentially, detaining Sir Mark 
 forcibly, "we haven't had a happy day since 
 she engaged herself to Gower ; I mean, 
 since Roger's departure. Look here. Gore, 
 it is my opinion she doesn't care that for 
 him," with an emphatic and very eloquent 
 snap of his fingers. 
 
 " For once in my life, Dicky, I entirely 
 agree with you," says Sir Mark gloomily.
 
 "by passions rocked." *]'] 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 •' Sir, you are very welcome to our house ; 
 
 It must appear in other ways than words ; 
 Therefore I scout this breathing courtesy." 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 From Christmas Day to New Year's Day 
 we all know is but a week — but what a week 
 it is ! For my part I think this season of 
 supposed jollity the most uncomfortable and 
 forlorn of any in the year. During all these 
 seven interminable days, the Boodie still 
 clings to her belief in Roger, and vows he 
 will surely return before the first day of '82 
 shall have come to an end. It is very nearly 
 at an end now ; the shadows have fallen long 
 ago ; the night wind has arisen ; the snow that 
 all day long has been falling slowly and stead-
 
 78 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 ily, still falls, as If quite determined never 
 asain to leave off. 
 
 They are all sitting in the library, it being 
 considered a snugger room on such a dreary 
 evening than the grander drawing-room. 
 Stephen Gower, who has just come in, is 
 standing by the centre table with his back to 
 it, and is tellinsf them some little morsel of 
 scandal about a near neighbour. It is a bare 
 crumb, yet it is received with avidity, and 
 gratitude, and much laughter, so devoid of 
 interest have been all the other hours of the 
 day. 
 
 Nobody quite understands how it now is 
 with Dulce and Stephen. That they have 
 patched up their late quarrel is apparent to 
 everybody, and as far as an ordinary eye can 
 see, they are on as good terms with each 
 other as usual.
 
 " BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 79 
 
 Just now she is laughing even more mer- 
 rily than the rest, at his little story, when the 
 door opens, and Sir Christopher and Fabian 
 enter together. 
 
 Sir Christopher is plainly very angry, and 
 is declaring in an extremely audible voice, 
 that " he will submit to it no longer ; " he fur- 
 thermore announces that he has " seen too 
 much of it," whatever " it," may be, and that 
 for the future he will " turn over a very dif- 
 ferent leaf." I wonder how many times in 
 the year this latter declaration is made by 
 everybody ? 
 
 Fabian, who is utterly unmoved by his 
 vehemence, laying his hand upon his uncle's 
 shoulder, leads him up to the fireplace and 
 into the huge arm-chair, that is his perpetual 
 abiding-place.
 
 8o PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 " What is it ?" asks Sir Mark, looking up, 
 quickly. 
 
 " Same old story," says Fabian in a low 
 voice, with a slight shrug of his shoulders. 
 " Slyme. Drink. Accounts anyhow. And 
 tipsy insolence, instead of proper explanation." 
 As Fabian finishes, he draws his breath has- 
 tily, as though heartily sick and tired of the 
 whole business. 
 
 Now that he Is standing within the glare 
 of the fire, one can see how altered he is of 
 late. His cheeks are sunken, his lips pale. 
 There is, too, a want of energy about him, a 
 languor, a listlessness, that seems to have 
 grown upon him with strange rapidity, and 
 which suggests the possibility that life has 
 become rather a burden than a favour. 
 
 If I say he looks as dead tired as a man 
 might look who has been for many hours
 
 "by passions rocked." 8r 
 
 engaged in a labour, trying both to soul 
 and body, you will, perhaps, understand 
 how Fabian looks now to the eyes that are 
 gazing wistfully upon him from out the semi- 
 darkness. 
 
 Moving her gown to one side, Portia 
 (impelled to this action by some impulsive 
 force) says in a low tone : 
 
 " Come and sit here, Fabian," motioning 
 gently to the seat beside her. 
 
 But, thanking her with grave courtesy, 
 he declines her invitation, and, with an un- 
 changed face, goes on with his conversation 
 with Sir Mark. 
 
 Portia, flushing hotly in the kindly dark, 
 shrinks back within herself, and linking her 
 fingers tightly together, tries bravely to crush 
 the mingled feelings of shame and regret 
 that rise within her breast. 
 
 VOL. III. F
 
 82 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 " I can stand almost anything myself, I 
 confess, but insolence," Sir Mark is saying, 
 apropos of the intoxicated old secretary. 
 " It takes it out of one so. I have put 
 up with the most gross carelessness rather 
 than change my man, but insolence from 
 that class is insufferable. I suppose," says 
 Sir Mark meditatively, shifting his glass 
 from his left to his right eye, "it is because 
 one can't return it." 
 
 " One can dismiss the fellow, though," 
 says Sir Christopher, still fuming. "And 
 go Slyme shall. After all my kindness to 
 him, too, to speak as he did to-night ! The 
 creature is positively without gratitude." 
 
 " Don't regret that," says Dicky Browne 
 sympathetically. " You are repining be- 
 cause he declines to notice your benefits; 
 but think of what Wordsworth says :
 
 " BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 83 
 
 " ' I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds 
 With coldness still returning ; 
 Alas! the gratitude of men, 
 Has oftener left me mourning.' 
 
 Look here, Sir Christopher, my experience 
 is, that if once you do a fellow a good turn 
 he'll stick to you through life, and make 
 you feel somehow as if he belonged to you, 
 and that isn't pleasant, is it ? " 
 
 Dicky pauses. Wordsworth is his strong 
 point, and freely he quotes and misquotes 
 him on all occasions. Indeed, I am of 
 opinion he is the only poet Dicky ever 
 read in his life, and that because he was 
 obliored to. 
 
 O 
 
 " I have done with Slyme," goes on Sir 
 Christopher hotly. "Yes, for ever. Now, 
 not a word, Fabian ; when my mind is made 
 up (as you all know) it is made up, and 
 nothing can alter it." This is just what
 
 S4 PORTIA; OR, 
 
 they do not all know. " As for you," con- 
 tinues Sir Christopher indignantly, address- 
 ing himself solely to Fabian, " you plead 
 for that miserable old sot out of nothing 
 but sheer obstinacy — not because you like 
 him. Now, do you like him .f* Come now, 
 I defy you to say it," 
 
 Fabian laughs slightly, 
 
 " There, I knew it," exclaims Sir Christo- 
 pher triumphantly, though Fabian in reality 
 has said nothing, " and as for him, he posi- 
 tively detests you. What did he say just 
 now ? — that he " 
 
 " Oh ! never mind that," says Fabian, pok- 
 ing the fire somewhat vigorously. 
 
 " Do let us hear it," says Julia, in her 
 usual lisping manner. " Horrid old man ! I 
 am quite afraid of him ; he looks so like a 
 gnome, or — or— one of those ugly things the
 
 "by passions rocked." 85 
 
 Germans write about. What did he say of 
 dear Fabian ? " 
 
 " That he had him in his power," thunders 
 Sir Christopher angrily. " That lie could 
 make or unmake him, as the fancy seized 
 him, and so on. Give you m}- honour," says 
 Sir Christopher, almost chokinof with racre. 
 " it was as much as ever I could do to keep 
 my hands off the fellow." 
 
 Portia, sinking further into her dark corner, 
 sickens with apprehension at these words. 
 Suspicion, that now, alas ! has become a cer- 
 tainty, is crushing her. Perhaps before this 
 she has had her doubts — vaeue doubts, 
 indeed, and blessed in the fact that they may 
 admit of contradiction. But now — now 
 
 What was it Slyme had said ? That he 
 could either " make or unmake him ; " that 
 he " had him in his power." Does Slyme,
 
 86 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 then, know the — the truth about him ? Was 
 it through fear of the secretary that Fabian 
 had acted as his defender, supporting him 
 against Sir Christopher's honest judgment ? 
 How quickly he had tried to turn the con- 
 versation — how he had seemed to shrink 
 from deeper investigation of Slyme's im- 
 pertinence ! All seems plain to her, and 
 with her supposed knowledge comes a pain, 
 too terrible almost to be borne in secret. 
 
 Fabian, in the meantime, has seated him- 
 self beside Julia, and is listening to some 
 silly remarks emanated by her. The Boodie, 
 who is never very far from Fabian when he 
 is in the room, is sitting on his knee with 
 her arms round his neck. 
 
 " Come here, Boodie," says Dicky Browne 
 insinuatingly. "You used to say you loved 
 me."
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 87 
 
 " So I do," says the Boodie, in fond re- 
 membrance of the biggest doll in Christen- 
 dom, " But " 
 
 She hesitates. 
 
 " ' I could not love thee, dear, so much, 
 loved I not Fabian more,'" parodies Mr. 
 Browne regretfully. " Well, I forgive you. 
 But I thought it was Roger on whom you 
 had set your young affections. By-the-by, 
 he has disappointed you, hasn't he ? Here 
 is New Year's Day, and he has not returned 
 to redeem his promise." 
 
 " He will come yet," says the Boodie un- 
 dauntedly. 
 
 " ' He will return, I know him well,' " 
 again quotes Mr. Browne; "that's your 
 motto, I suppose, like the idiotic young 
 woman in the idiotic song. Well, I admire 
 faith myself; there's nothing like it."
 
 S8 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 "Don't mind him," says Fabian tenderly, 
 placing his arm round the discomfited Boodie, 
 and pressing her pretty blonde head down 
 upon his breast. " I don't understand him, 
 so of course you don't." 
 
 " But why ? " says Dicky Browne, who is 
 evidently bent on mischief; "she has a 
 great deal more brains than you have. 
 Don't be aspersed by him, Boodie ; you 
 can understand me, I know, but I daresay 
 I soar higher than he can follow, and what 
 I say to you contains ' thoughts that lie be- 
 yond the reach of his few words of English 
 speech.' " 
 
 " Thank you," says Fabian. 
 
 The Boodie is plainly puzzled. 
 
 " I don't know what you mean," she says 
 to Dicky ; " I only know this," defiantly, 
 " that I am certain Roeer will return
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 89 
 
 to-nioht, even if I am in bed when he 
 comes." 
 
 The words are hardly out of her mouth 
 when the door opens, and somebody ap- 
 pears upon the threshold. This somebody has 
 had an evident tussle with the butler outside, 
 who, perhaps, would fain have announced 
 him. but having conquered the king of the ser- 
 vants' hall, the somebody advances slowly 
 until he is midway between the centre of the 
 room and the direct glare of the fire-light. 
 
 Every one grows very silent. It is as 
 though a spell has fallen upon them all ; all, 
 that is, except Dulce. She, rising hurriedly 
 from her seat, goes towards the stranger. 
 
 " It is Roger ! " she cries suddenly, in so 
 o-lad a voice, in a voice so full of delight and 
 intense thankfulness, that every one is struck 
 by it.
 
 90 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 Then Roger is in their midst, a very 
 sunburnt Roger, but just at first his eyes 
 are only upon Duke, and after a Httle bit 
 it becomes apparent to everybody that it is 
 Dulce alone he sees ; and that she is in fact 
 the proud possessor of all the sight he owns. 
 
 He has taken between both his the two 
 little trembling hands she has extended to 
 him, and is pressing them warmly, openly, 
 without the slitrhtest idea of concealine the 
 happiness he feels at being at her side 
 ao^ain. 
 
 A little happy smile wreathes her lips 
 as she sees this, and with her white fingers 
 she smooths down the grey sleeve of his 
 coat, as if he were a priceless treasure, once 
 lost, but now restored to her again. 
 
 I think Dare likes being looked upon 
 as a long - lost priceless treasure, because
 
 " BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 9 1 
 
 he does not move, and keeps his eyes still 
 on her as thoucjh he would never like to 
 remove them, and makes no objection to 
 his sleeve being brushed up the wrong 
 way. 
 
 "It seems like a hundred thousand years 
 since you went away," says Dulce, with a 
 little happy sigh, after which every one 
 crowds around him, and he is welcomed 
 with extreme joy into the family circle 
 again. Indeed the Boodie exhibits symp- 
 toms of insanity, and dances round him 
 with a vivacity that a dervish might be 
 proud of. 
 
 This is of course all very dehghtful, speci- 
 ally to Stephen Gower, who is sitting gloom- 
 ing upon space, and devoured with some- 
 thing he calls disgust, but might be more 
 generally termed the commonest form of
 
 92 rORTIA ; OR, 
 
 jealousy. The others are all crowding round 
 Roger, and are telling him, in different 
 language, but in one breath, how welcome 
 he is. 
 
 This universal desire to light mythical tar- 
 barrels in honour of the wanderer's return 
 suggests at last to Mr. Gower the necessity 
 of expressing his delight likewise. Rising, 
 therefore, from his seat, he goes up to 
 Roger, and insists on shaking him cordially 
 by the hand. This proceeding on his part. 
 I am bound to say, is responded to by 
 Roger in a very niggardly manner. A 
 manner that even undergoes no improve- 
 ment when Mr. Gower expresses his over- 
 whelminof satisfaction at seeing him home 
 again. 
 
 " We are all more pleased to see you again 
 than we can say," declares Mr. Gower, pur-
 
 " BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 93 
 
 posely forgetful of that half-hour in the back- 
 yard, when they had been bent on pommelling 
 each other, and doubtless would have done 
 so but for Sir Mark. 
 
 He says this very well indeed, and with 
 quite an overflow of enthusiasm — perhaps 
 rather too great an overflow, because Roger, 
 looking at him out of his dark eyes, decides 
 within himself that this whilom friend of his 
 is now his bitterest enemy, hating him with 
 all the passionate hatred of a jealous heart. 
 
 The Boodie is in a state of triumph border- 
 ing on distraction. " She had always said he 
 (Roger) would return on New Year's Day; 
 she had believed in his promise ; she had 
 known he would not disappoint," and so on. 
 Every now and then she creeps up to the 
 returned wanderer to surreptitiously pat his 
 sleeve or his cheek, looking unutterable things
 
 94 • PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 all the time. Finally she crowns herself by 
 pressing into his hand a neatly tied little 
 square parcel, with a whisper to the effect 
 that it is his Christmas-box, that she has been 
 keeping for him all the week. 
 
 At this Roger takes her up in his arms and 
 kisses her warmly, and tells her he has " some- 
 thing lovely" for her upstairs in his portman- 
 teau, and that after dinner she must come up 
 with him to his room and they will unpack it 
 together. 
 
 This announcement is very near being the 
 cause of bloodshed. Jacky and Pussy, who 
 have been listening intently to every word of 
 it, now glower fiendishly upon the favoured 
 Boodie, and sullenly, but with fell determina- 
 tion, make a movement towards her. In an- 
 other moment all might have been over, and 
 the poor Boodie a mangled corse, but that
 
 < ( 
 
 BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 95 
 
 Roger, coming hurriedly to the rescue, de- 
 clares there are two other " lovely things " in 
 his portmanteau, suitable to the requirements 
 of Pussy and her brother, whereon peace is 
 once more restored. 
 
 To Sir Christopher this unexpected return 
 of Roger is an indescribable blessing. His 
 mind at once rises above all things disagree- 
 able ; Slyme and his impertinence fade out 
 of remembrance, at least for the present. 
 He sees and thinks of nothine but his hand- 
 some lad, who has returned to him safe and 
 sound. There is quite a confusion, indeed, 
 just at first ; every one is talking together, 
 and nobody is dreaming of listening to any- 
 body. All Dulce's heart seems to go out 
 to Roo;er, as she marks the Mad hVht that 
 brightens his dark eyes as he returns 
 Fabian's s^reetina. >
 
 96 roRTiA ; or, 
 
 After a little while every one sobers 
 clown, and Roger, who is looking brown 
 and healthy, if a trifle thin, seats himself 
 beside Dulce upon the small ottoman, that, 
 as a rule, is supposed to be only equal to 
 the support of one individual at a time. 
 As neither Dulce nor Roger, however, 
 appear in the very slightest degree un- 
 comfortable upon it, a doubt is at once 
 and for ever afterwards thrown upon this 
 supposition. Once only a little hitch occurs 
 that throws a slight damp upon their con- 
 tent. Roger, feelincr the Boodie's offerine 
 growing warm within his hands, mechanic- 
 ally opens it, even while carrying on his 
 smiling tete-a-tete with Dulce. But soon the 
 smiles vanish. There on his open palm, 
 lies a very serpent, a noisome reptile, a box 
 of chocolate creams !
 
 (( 
 
 BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 97 
 
 A most improper word escapes him. He 
 precipitately drops the box (it is a very 
 pretty box with a lovely young lady on the 
 cover), chocolates and all, behind the otto- 
 man, where they fall softly, being in a high 
 state of decay and damp, and looks gloomily 
 at Dulce. She responds with fervour ; she 
 is, indeed, perhaps, a trifle the gloomiest, 
 and for a minute silence is unbroken. 
 
 Then they sigh, then they look again, 
 then they try to pretend that nothing has 
 happened to disturb them, and presently so 
 far succeed that conversation once more 
 falls into an easy channel and flows on un- 
 brokenly. 
 
 She is smiling up at him in a happy 
 fashion, long unknown to her, and he is 
 looking down at her with such an amount of 
 satisfaction and content in his oraze as can- 
 
 o 
 
 VOL. III. G
 
 98 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 not be mistaken. One might easily believe 
 he has forgotten the manner of their parting, 
 and is now regarding her as his own parti- 
 cular possession. 
 
 When this sort of thincr has orone on for 
 five minutes, Gower, feeling he can stand it 
 no longer, draws his breath quickly, and 
 gfoinor over to the small ottoman seats him- 
 self upon a low chair, quite close to his be- 
 trothed ; this effort he makes to assert his 
 position, with all the air of a man who is 
 determined to do or die. Her fan is lying 
 on her knee. Taking it up, with a defiant 
 glance at Roger, he opens it, and trifles with 
 it idly, in a sort of proprietary fashion. 
 
 Yet even while he does it, his heart is sad 
 within him, and filled with a dire foreboding. 
 The thought that he is unwelcome, that his 
 presence at this moment is probably being
 
 <( 
 
 BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 99 
 
 regarded in the light of an intrusion by these 
 two, so near to him, fills him with bitter- 
 ness ; he is almost afraid to look at Dulce, 
 lest he shall read in her eyes a cold disap- 
 probation of his conduct in thus interrupting 
 her tete-d-tete, when to his surprise a little 
 hand is laid upon his arm, and Dulce's voice 
 asks him a question that instantly draws him 
 into the conversation. 
 
 She is smiling very kindly at him ; more 
 kindly indeed than she had done for many 
 days ; she is in such a happy mood, in such 
 wonderfully gay, bright spirits, that all the 
 world seems good to her, and it becomes 
 necessary to her to impart her joyousness to 
 all around. Every one must be happy to- 
 night, she tells herself; and so, as I have 
 said before, she smiles on Gower, and pats 
 him gently on the arm, and raises him at
 
 lOO PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 once to the seventh heaven, out of the very- 
 lowest depths of despair. 
 
 The change is so sudden, that Stephen 
 naturally loses his head a little. He draws 
 his chair even nearer to the ottoman. He 
 determines to outsit Roger. In five minutes 
 — in half an hour, at all events — the fellow 
 will be obliged to go and speak to somebody- 
 else, if only for decency's sake. And then 
 there is every chance that the dressing-bell 
 will soon ring. Dulce's extreme delight, so 
 innocently expressed, at her cousin's return, 
 had certainly given him a severe shock, but 
 now there is no reason why he should not 
 remain victor, and keep the prize he had 
 been at such pains to win. 
 
 All is going well. Even with Roger 
 freshly returned by her side, she has shown 
 kindness to him, she has smiled upon him
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED." Id 
 
 with a greater warmth than usual. I dare- 
 say she is determined to show her cousin 
 her preference for him (Stephen). This 
 thought makes him positively glow with 
 hope and pride. By guarding against any 
 insidious advances on the part of the enemy, 
 by being ever at Dulce's side to interpose 
 between her and any softly worded senti- 
 mental converse, he may conquer, and drive 
 the foe from off the field. 
 
 Not once this evening until the friendly 
 bedroom candlesticks are produced will he 
 quit her side — never until 
 
 In one moment his designs are frustrated. 
 All his plans are laid low. The voice of 
 Julia breaks upon his ear like a death-knell. 
 She, being fully convinced in her own mind, 
 that "poor dear Stephen " is feeling himseli 
 in the cold, and is therefore inconceivably
 
 102 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 wretched, determines, with most mistaken 
 kindness, to come to the rescue. 
 
 "Stephen, may I ask you to do some- 
 thing for me?" she says, in her sweetest 
 tones, and with her most engaging smile. 
 
 " You may," says Mr. Gower, as in duty 
 bound, and in an awful tone. 
 
 " Then do come and help me to wind 
 this wool," says Julia, still in her most fetch- 
 ing manner, holding out for his inspection 
 about as much scarlet wool as it would 
 take an hour to wind, doincr it at one's 
 utmost speed. 
 
 With a murderous expression Stephen 
 crosses the room to where she is sittinof — 
 at the very antipodes from where he would 
 be, that is from Dulce — and drops sullenly 
 into a chair at her side. 
 
 " Poor dear fellow, already he is feeling
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED. IO3 
 
 injured and out of spirits," says Julia to 
 herself, regarding him with furtive compas- 
 sion. 
 
 "Beast! she is in a plot against me!" 
 says Mr. Gower to his own soul, feeling 
 he could willingly strangle her with her 
 red wool. 
 
 So do we misunderstand the feelings 
 and motives of our best friends in this 
 world. 
 
 Dulce and Roger, thus left to their own 
 resources, continue to be openly and unre- 
 strainedly happy. Every now and then a 
 laugh from one or other of them comes to 
 the stricken Stephen, sitting on his stool of 
 repentance, winding the endless wool. By- 
 and-by it becomes worse, when no laugh 
 is heard, and when the two upon the otto- 
 rrian seem to be conversing in a tone that
 
 I04 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 would be a whisper if it dared. To Gower 
 it is already a whisper, and frenzy ensues. 
 
 Wild thoughts arise within his breast ; 
 something it seems to him must be done, 
 and that soon. Shall he throw this vile 
 wool, this scarlet abomination, in Julia's 
 placid face, and with a naughty word defy 
 her to hold him prisoner any longer ? Or 
 shall he fling himself bodily upon Roger, 
 and exterminate him ? Or shall he publicly 
 upbraid Dulce with her perhdy ? No ; this 
 last is too mild a course, and something 
 tells him would not create the havoc that 
 alone can restore peace to his bosom. 
 Shall he , 
 
 Oh! blessed sound, the dressing - bell ! 
 Now she must tear herself away from this 
 new-found cousin, and go upstairs ; doubt- 
 less to array herself in her choicest garments
 
 " BY PASSIONS ROCKED. IO5 
 
 for his delectation later on. He grinds his 
 teeth aofain as this thou^jht comes to torment 
 him. 
 
 Regardless of Julia's cry of horror and 
 remonstrance, he drops the wool and rises 
 to his feet, leaving it a hopeless mass on 
 the carpet. He makes a step in Dulce's 
 direction, but she too has got up, and 
 before he can reach her, has disappeared 
 through the doorway, and is halfway up 
 the old oak staircase. 
 
 He takes her in to dinner, certainly, later 
 on, but finds on seating himself that Roger 
 by some unaccountable chance has secured 
 the seat on her other side. He finds out 
 too, presently, that she is devoting all her 
 conversation to her cousin, and seems curi- 
 ously inquisitive about his travels. She 
 appears indeed positively athirst for infor-
 
 106 PORTIA; OR, 
 
 mation on this subject ; and the soup is as 
 nouorht, and the fish as sawdust, in the 
 eyes of Mr. Gower. 
 
 "You were in Egypt too ? Tell me about 
 it. I have always so longed to hear about 
 Egypt," says Dulce, with soft animation. 
 
 "Egypt?" says Roger, with some natural 
 hesitation as to how to begin ; Egypt is a 
 big place, and just now seems a long way 
 off "Well, there's a good deal of it, you 
 know ; what do you want to know most .'* " 
 
 " Whether you enjoyed yourself — whether 
 you were happy there?" replies she promptly. 
 I daresay it isn't quite the answer he had 
 expected, because he looks at her for half 
 a minute or so very intently. 
 
 "Happy? That includes such a great 
 deal," he says at length. "It is a very 
 interesting country beyond doubt, and there
 
 (( 
 
 BY PASSIONS ROCKED. IO7 
 
 are Pyramids, you know — you've heard of 
 'em once or twice, I shouldn't wonder ; and 
 there are beggars and robbers, and more 
 sand than I ever saw in my Hfe, and — no," 
 with a sudden, almost startling change of 
 tone, " I was not happy there, or anywhere 
 else, since last I saw you ! " 
 
 " Robbers ! " says Dulce hastily, with a 
 rather forced little laugh ; " regular brigands, 
 do you mean, going about in hordes, with 
 tunics, and crimson sashes, and daggers ? 
 How could one be happy with such terrible 
 people turning up at every odd corner ? I 
 daresay," trifling nervously with a wine- 
 glass, " it would make one often wish to 
 be at home again." 
 
 " I often wished to be at home again." 
 Somehow his manner gives her to under- 
 stand that the eentlemen in crimson sashes
 
 I08 . PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 had nothing whatever to do with this 
 wish. 
 
 " I fancied brigands belonged exclusively 
 to Greece and Italy," says Dulce, still in- 
 tent upon the wine-glass. " Are they very 
 picturesque, and do they really go about 
 dressed in all the colours of the rain- 
 bow ? " 
 
 Plainly Miss Blount has been carefully 
 studying the highly coloured prints in the old 
 school-books, in which the lawless Greeks 
 are depicted as the gayest of the gay. 
 
 " They are about the most ill-looking 
 ruffians it has ever been my fate to see," 
 says Mr. Dare indifferently. 
 
 " How disappointing! I don't believe you 
 liked being in Egypt after all," says Dulce, 
 who cannot resist returning to tread once 
 more the dangerous ground.
 
 "by passions rocked. 109 
 
 " I think one place is about as good as 
 another," says Mr. Dare discontentedly, 
 "and about as bad. One shouldn't expect 
 too much, you know." 
 
 " Perhaps it would be as well if one didn't 
 expect anything-," says Dulce. 
 
 " Better, no doubt." 
 
 "You take a very discontented view of 
 things ; your travelling has made you cyni- 
 cal, I think." 
 
 "Not my travelling!" 
 
 This is almost a challenge, and she ac- 
 cepts it. 
 
 "What then?" she asks a little coldly. 
 
 " Shall I tell you ? " retorts he with an 
 unpleasant smile. "Well, no; I will spare 
 you ; it would certainly not interest you. 
 Let us return to our subject ; you are won-
 
 no PORTIA; OR, 
 
 dering why I am not in raptures about 
 Egypt; I am wondering why I should be." 
 
 " No ; I was finding fault with you be- 
 cause you gave me the impression that all 
 places on earth are alike indifferent to you." 
 
 " Perhaps that is true. I don't defend my- 
 self. But I know there was a time when 
 certain scenes were dear to me." 
 
 " There was ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I've outgrown it, I suppose ; or 
 else, memory, rendering all things bitter, is 
 to blame. It is our cruellest enemy; I dare- 
 say we might all be pretty comfortable for 
 ever, if we could only 'quaff the kind Ne- 
 penthe, and forget our lost Lenores ! ' " 
 
 " 'Ock, 'm ? " asks the sedate butler at this 
 emotional moment, in his most prosaic tones. 
 
 Dulce starts perceptibly and says, " No," 
 though she means, " Yes." Roger starts too,
 
 BY PASSIONS ROCKED. I I I 
 
 and. being rather absent altogether, mistakes 
 the sedate butler's broken English for good 
 German, and says, " Hockheim ? " in a ques- 
 tioning voice ; whereupon Dicky Browne, 
 who has overheard him, laughs immoderately 
 and insists upon repeating the little joke to 
 everybody. They all laugh with him except, 
 indeed, Portia, who happens to be miles 
 away in thought from them, and does not 
 hear one word of what is being said. 
 
 "Portia," says Dicky presently. 
 
 No answer ; Portia's soul is still winging 
 its flight to unseen regions. 
 
 " Still deaf to my entreaties," says Mr. 
 Browne, eyeing her fixedly. Something in 
 his tone rouses her this time from her day- 
 dreams, and with a rather absent smile, she 
 turns her face to his. Fabian, who has been 
 listening to one of Mark Gore's rather pro-
 
 112, PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 nounced opinions upon a subject that doesn't 
 concern us here, looks up at this moment and 
 lets his eyes rest upon her. 
 ■ " Will you not deign to bestow even one 
 word upon your slave ? " asks Dicky sweetly. 
 " Do. He pines for it. And after all the 
 encouragement too you have showered upon 
 me of late, this behaviour — this studied avoid- 
 ance is strange." 
 
 " You were asking me?" begins Por- 
 tia vaguely, with a little soft laugh. 
 
 "'Why art thou silent? Is thy love a 
 plant ? ' " quotes Mr. Browne, with sentimen- 
 tal reproach. As usual he attacks his favour- 
 ite author, and, as usual also, gives to that 
 good man's words a meaning unknown to 
 him. 
 
 Portia, raising her head, meets Fabian's 
 eyes regarding her earnestly, and then and
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED. II3 
 
 there colours hotly ; there is no earthly- 
 reason why she should change colour — yet 
 she does so unmistakably, nay painfully. 
 She is feeling nervous and unstrung, and 
 — not very well to-night, and even this light 
 mention of the word love has driven all 
 the blood from her heart to her cheeks. 
 A moment ago they were pale as Lenten 
 lilies, now they are dyed as deep as a 
 damask rose. 
 
 For a moment only. She draws her breath 
 quickly, full of anger at her own want of self- 
 control, and then the flush fades, and she is 
 even paler than she was before. Again she 
 glances at Fabian, but not Eigain do her eyes 
 meet his. He has seemingly forgotten her 
 very existence, and has returned to his discus- 
 sion with Sir Mark. He is apparently deeply 
 interested, nay animated, and even as she 
 
 VOL. HI. H
 
 114 PORTIA; OR, 
 
 watches him, he laughs aloud, a rare thing 
 for him. 
 
 She tells herself that she is glad of this — 
 very glad, because it may prove he has not 
 noticed her emotion. Her awkward blush, 
 doubtless, was unseen by him. Yet I think 
 she is piqued at his indifference, because her 
 eyes grow duller, and her lips sadder, and 
 there is a small but painful flutter at her 
 heart, that reminds her of the days before 
 she came to Old Court, and that compels her 
 to press ^ her fingers tightly together under 
 cover of the table-cloth, in a vain effort to 
 subdue it. 
 
 Dicky, who had noticed her quick transi- 
 tions of colour, and who feels there is some- 
 thing wrong without knowing what, and who 
 also understands that he himself, however 
 unwittingly, has been the cause of it, grows
 
 " BY PASSIONS ROCKED." I I 5 
 
 annoyed with himself, and to distract atten- 
 tion turns to the Boodie, who is generally to 
 be found at his elbow when anything sweet 
 is to be had. 
 
 The butler and his attendant are politely 
 requesting the backs of all the heads to try 
 a little jelly, or cream, or so on. This, at 
 the Court, is virtually the children's hour, as 
 Sir Christopher — who adores them — is of 
 opinion that they prefer puddings to fruit, 
 and that, as they should be made free of 
 both, they are to put in an appearance with 
 the first sweet every evening. 
 
 The Boodie, whose "vanity" is whipped 
 cream, has just been helped to it, and Dicky, 
 at this moment (that he may give Portia 
 time to recover herself), turning to the 
 golden-haired fairy beside him, adds to her
 
 Il6 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 felicity by dropping some crimson jelly into 
 the centre of the cream. 
 
 " There now, I have made an island for 
 you," he says. 
 
 Julia overhears him, and thinking this a 
 capital opportunity to show off the Boodie's 
 learning, says proudly : 
 
 " Now, darling, tell Dicky what an island 
 really is." 
 
 Dicky feels honestly obliged to her for 
 following up his lead, and so breaking the 
 awkward silence that has descended upon 
 him and Portia. 
 
 " A tract of land, entirely surrounded by 
 water," says the Boodie promptly, betraying a 
 faint desire to put her hands behind her back. 
 
 ** Not at all," says Mr. Browne scorn- 
 fully ; "it is a bit of red jelly entirely sur- 
 rounded by cream ! "
 
 "by passions rocked.' 117 
 
 " It is not," says the Boodie, with a scorn 
 that puts his in the shade. To be just to 
 the Boodie, she is always eager for the 
 fray. Not a touch of cowardice about her. 
 " How," demands she, pointing to the jelly 
 with a very superior smile, " how do you 
 think one could live upon that ? " 
 
 "Why not? I don't see how any one 
 could possibly desire anything better to live 
 upon." 
 
 "Just fancy Robinson Crusoe on it," says 
 the Boodie with a derisive smile. 
 
 "I could fancy him very fat on it ; I 
 could also fancy him considering himself in 
 great luck when he found it, or discovered 
 it. They always discovered islands, didn't 
 they ? I should like to live on just such an 
 island for an indefinite number of years." 
 
 " You are extremely silly," says Miss
 
 I 1 8 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 Beaufort politely; "you know as well as I 
 do that it wouldn't keep you up." 
 
 "Well, not, perhaps, so strongly as a few 
 other things," acknowledges Mr. Browne 
 gracefully; "but I think it would support 
 me for all that — for a time, at least."' 
 
 "Not for one minute. Why, you couldn't 
 stand on it." 
 
 " A prolonged acquaintance with it alone 
 might make me totter, I confess," says Mr. 
 Browne. " But yet, if I had enough of it, 
 I think I could stand on it very well." 
 
 " You could not," says the Boodie, indig- 
 nant at being so continuously contradicted 
 on a point so clear. "If you had ten whole 
 jellies — if you had one as big as this house 
 — you couldn't manage it." 
 
 " I really beg your pardon," protests Mr. 
 Browne, with dignity. " It is my belief that
 
 ** BY PASSIONS ROCKED." II9 
 
 I could manage it in time. I'm very fond 
 of jelly." 
 
 "You would go right through it and come 
 out at the other side," persists the Boodie, 
 nothinof daunted. 
 
 " Like the Thames Tunnel. How nice," 
 says Dicky Browne amiably. 
 
 "Well, you can't live on it now, anyway," 
 says the Boodie, putting the last bit of the 
 jelly island into her small mouth. 
 
 " No, no, indeed," says Dicky, shaking his 
 head with all the appearance of one sunk 
 in the very deepest dejection.
 
 I20 PORTIA; OR, 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 " I do perceive here a divided duty." — Othello. 
 
 Jealousy is the keenest, the most selfish, 
 the most poignant of all sufferings. "It 
 is," says Milton, '' the injured lover's hell." 
 This monster having now seized upon 
 Stephen, is holding him in a close embrace, 
 and is swifty crushing within him all hope 
 and peace and joy. 
 
 To watch Dulce day after day, in her 
 cousin's society, to mark her great eyes 
 grow brighter when he comes, is now more 
 than he can endure. To find himself second 
 where he had been first is intolerable to him,
 
 "by passions rocked." 121 
 
 and a shrinkinor feelinor- that warns him he 
 is being watched and commented upon by 
 all the members of the Blount household, 
 renders him at times half mad with rage 
 and wounded pride. 
 
 Not that Dulce slights him in any way, or 
 is cold to him, or gives him to understand, 
 even indirectly, that she would gladly know 
 her enofaofement at an end. She is both 
 kind and grentlc — much more so than before 
 ■ — but any doubt he had ever entertained 
 about her havincr a real affection for him 
 has now become a certainty. 
 
 He had won her unfairly. He had 
 wrought upon her feelings in an evil hour, 
 when her heart was torn with angry 
 doubts, and her self-love grievously hurt ; 
 when all her woman's soul was aflame with 
 the thoucrht that she was the unwelcome
 
 122 PORTIA; OR, 
 
 property of a man who would gladly be 
 rid of her. 
 
 Her parting with Roger, and the unex- 
 pected emotion he had then betrayed, had 
 opened her eyes in part, and had shown 
 her how she had flung away the thing 
 desired, to gain — nought. Even now, I 
 think she hardly knows how well she loves 
 her cousin, or how well he loves her, so 
 openly displayed is her pleasure in his 
 society, so glad is the smile that welcomes 
 him, whenever he enters the room where 
 she is, or seats himself beside her — which 
 is very often — or when he addresses her, 
 which means whenever he has anything at 
 all to say to anybody. 
 
 At first he had fought manfully against his 
 growing fears, but when a week had gone 
 by, and he had had it forced upon him that
 
 (( 
 
 BY PASSIONS ROCKED. I 2 3 
 
 the girl he loved was every day becoming 
 more silent and distraite in his presence, 
 and when he had seen how she would 
 gladly have altogether avoided his com- 
 ing if she could, he lost all heart, and 
 flinging up his cards, let a bitter re- 
 vengeful feeling enter and take possession 
 of his heart — where love alone, before, had 
 held full sway. 
 
 If not his — she shall at least never be 
 Roger's. This he swears to himself with 
 white lips, and eyes dangerously bright. 
 
 He has her promise, and he will keep her 
 to it. Nothinof shall induce him to release 
 her from it ; or if he has to consent to her not 
 fulfilling her engagement with him, it shall be 
 only on condition that she will never marry 
 Dare. Even should she come to him with 
 tears in her eyes, and on her bended knees.
 
 124 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 to ask him to alter this decision, she will 
 beof in vain. He reo:isters a bitter vow 
 that Roger shall not triumph where he has 
 failed. 
 
 He knows Dulce sufficiently well to 
 understand that she will think a good deal 
 of breakino^ the word she orave him of her 
 own free will, even though she gave it in 
 aneer and to her own undoins;- ! He can 
 calculate to a nicety the finer shades of re- 
 morse and self-contempt that will possess her 
 when he lays his case in all its nakedness 
 before her. She is a wilful, hot-tempered 
 little thing, but the Blounts for generations 
 have been famed for a strain of honour to- 
 wards friend and foe that runs In their blood 
 and is dear to them as their lives. There- 
 fore, he knows her word will be as sacred to 
 her as her bond.
 
 "by passions rocked." 125 
 
 To Stephen just at this time the world is 
 a howling wilderness ; there is no sun any- 
 where, and every spring is dry. He has 
 fallen into the habit of coming very seldom 
 to the Court, where he used to be mornino-, 
 noon, and night, ever since his unlucky en- 
 gagement ; indeed, no one in the house or 
 out of it has seen him since the day before 
 yesterday. 
 
 Sitting at home, brooding over his wrongs, 
 with a short and well-blackened pipe in his 
 mouth, he is giving himself up a victim 
 to despair and rage. That he can still 
 love her with even, it seems to him, a 
 deeper intensity than before, is the bitter- 
 est drop in his cup. It was all so sudden, 
 so unexpected. He tortures himself now 
 with the false belief that she was beginning 
 to love him, that she might have loved him,
 
 126 PORTIA; OR, 
 
 had time been given him, and had Egypt 
 held Roger but a few months longer in her 
 foster arms. In a little flash it had all come 
 to him, and now his life is barren, void of 
 interest, but full of ceaseless pain. 
 
 " Bring withered autumn leaves, 
 Call everything that grieves, 
 
 And build a funeral pyre above his head ! 
 Heap there all golden promise that deceives, 
 Beauty that wins the heart, and then bereaves. 
 For Love is dead. 
 
 " Not slowly did he die : 
 A meteor from the sky 
 
 Falls not so swiftly as his spirit fled. 
 When, with regretful, half-averted eye. 
 He gave one little smile, one little sigh, 
 
 And so was sped." 
 
 These verses, and such as these, he reads 
 between his doleful musings. It gives him 
 some wretched comfort to believe Dulce 
 had actually some sparks of love for him
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED." I 27 
 
 before her cousin's return. An erroneous 
 belief, as she had never cared for him in 
 that way at all, and, at her best moments, 
 had only a calm friendship for him. It 
 is my own opinion that even if Roger had 
 never returned, she yet would have found 
 an excuse at some time to break off her 
 engagement with Gower, or, at least, to 
 let him understand that she would wish it 
 broken. 
 
 To-day is fine, though frosty, and every- 
 body, the children included, are skating on 
 the lake, which is to be found about half 
 a mile from the house at the foot of a 
 "wind-beaten hill." The sun is shininor 
 coldly, as though steadily determined to 
 eive no heat, and a sullen wind is cominof 
 up from the distant shore. " Stern winter 
 loves a dirge-like sound," and must now.
 
 128 PORTIA; OR, 
 
 therefore, be happy, as Boreas is asserting 
 himself nobly both on land and sea. 
 
 Some of the jeunesse dorde of the neigh- 
 bourhood, who have been lunching at the 
 Court, are with the group upon the lake, 
 and are cutting (some of them) the most re- 
 markable figures in every sense of the word, 
 to their own, and everybody else's delight. 
 
 Dulce, who is dressed in brown velvet 
 and fur, is gliding gracefully hither and 
 thither, with her hand fast locked in Roger's. 
 Julia is making rather an exhibition of her- 
 self, and Portia, who skates — as she does 
 everything else — to perfection, but who is 
 easily tired, Is just now sitting upon the 
 bank with the devoted Dicky by her side. 
 Sir Mark, coming up to these last two, drops 
 lazily down on the grass at Portia's other 
 side.
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 129 
 
 " Why don't you skate, Mark ? " asks 
 Portia, turning to him. 
 
 '* Too old," says Gore. 
 
 " Nonsense. You are not too old for 
 other things that require far greater exer- 
 tion. For one example, you will dance all 
 night and never show sign of fatigue." 
 
 " I like waltzing." 
 
 "Ah, and not skating." 
 
 "It hurts when one falls," says Mark, with 
 a yawn ; "and why put oneself in a position 
 likely to create stars before one's eyes, and 
 a violent headache at any moment ? " 
 
 " Inferior drink, if you take enough of 
 it, will do all that sometimes," says Mr. 
 Browne innocently. 
 
 " Will it } I don't know anything about 
 it," severely. "You do, I shouldn't wonder; 
 you speak so feelingly." 
 
 VQL. ni. I
 
 130 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 • "If you address me like that again; I 
 shall cry," says Dicky sadly. 
 
 "Why are not you and Portia skating? 
 It is far too cold to sit still on this damp 
 grass." 1 
 
 " I am tired," says Portia, smiling rather 
 languidly. "It sounds very affected, doesn't 
 it ? but really I am very easily fatigued. 
 The least little exertion does me up. Town 
 life, I suppose. But I enjoy sitting here and 
 watching the others." 
 
 "So do I," says Sir Mark. "It quite 
 warms my heart to see them flitting to and 
 fro over there like a pretty dream." 
 
 "What part of your heart?" asks Mr. 
 Browne with a suppressed chuckle ; " the 
 cockles of it?" It is plain he has not yet 
 forgotten his snubbing of a minute since. ; 
 
 Nobody takes any notice of this outrage-
 
 " BV PASSIONS ROCKED." !M 
 
 ous speech. It is passed over very' properly 
 in the deadHest silence. 
 
 ''By Jove," says Sir Mark presently; 
 "there's McPherson down again. That's 
 the eighteenth time ; I've counted it." 
 
 " He can't skate a little screw," says 
 Dicky. " It's a pity to be looking at him. 
 It only raises angry passions in one's breast. 
 He ought to go home and put his head in a 
 bag." 
 
 *' A well-floured one," responds Sir Mark. 
 
 Portia laughs. Her laugh is always the 
 lowest, softest thing imaginable. 
 
 " Charitable pair," she says. 
 
 "Why, the fellow can't stand," says Mr. 
 Browne irritably. " And he looks so abomi- 
 nably contented with himself and his deplor- 
 able performance. That last time he was 
 merely trying to get from that point there to
 
 132 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 that," waving his hand in both directions. 
 " Any fool could do it. See, I'll show 
 
 you. 
 
 He jumps to his feet, gets on to the ice, 
 essays to do what Captain McPherson had 
 tried to do, and succeeds in doing exactly 
 what Captain McPherson did. That is to 
 say, he instantly comes a most tremendous 
 cropper, right in front of Portia. 
 
 Red, certainly, but consumed with laughter 
 at his own defeat, he returns to her side. 
 There is no use in attempting it, nothing 
 earthly could have power to subdue Dicky's 
 spirits. He is quite as delighted at his own 
 discomfiture, as if it had happened to some- 
 body else. 
 
 " You were right, Dicky," says Sir Mark, 
 when he can speak. "Any fool could do it. 
 You did it."
 
 (( 
 
 BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 1 33 
 
 " I did," says Dicky, roaring with lauohter ; 
 " with a vengeance. Never mind, 
 
 ' Only the actions of the just 
 Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.' " 
 
 " I hardly think I follow you," says Sir 
 Mark. " Where's the dust, Dicky, and 
 where's the just ? I can't see either of 
 them." 
 
 " My dear fellow, never be literal ; nothing 
 is so — so boring," says Mr. Browne, with 
 cooviction. "I'm," striking his chest, "the 
 dust, and there," pointing to the lake, " is the 
 JQSt, and — no, by-the-by, that don't sound 
 right — I mean" 
 
 " Oh, never mind it," says Sir Mark. 
 
 Dulce and Roger having skated by this 
 time past all the others, and safely over a 
 rather shaky part of the ice that leaves
 
 134 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 them at the very farthest corner of the lake, 
 stop somewhat out of breath, and look . at 
 each other triumphantly. 
 
 Dulce is looking, if possible, more bonny 
 than usual. Her blood is aglow, and ting- 
 ling with the excitement of her late exertion; 
 her hair, without actually having come un- 
 done, is certainly under less control than it 
 was an hour ago, and is glinting and chang- 
 ing from auburn to brown, and from brown 
 to a warm yellow, beneath the sad kisses of 
 the wintry sun. One or two riotous locks 
 have escaped from under her otter-skin cap, 
 and are straying lovingly across her fair fore- 
 head, suggesting an idea of coquetry in the 
 sweet eyes below shaded by their long dark 
 lashes. 
 
 " Your eyes are stars of morning, 
 Your lips are crimson flowers,"
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED. I 35 
 
 says Roger softly, as they still stand hand 
 in hand. He is looking at her intently, 
 with a new meaning in his glance as he says 
 this. 
 
 "What a pretty song that is," says Miss 
 ■Blount carelessly. " I like it better almost 
 every time I hear it." 
 
 . " It was you made me think of it now," 
 says Roger ; and then they seat themselves 
 upon a huge stone near the brink, that looks 
 as if it was put there on purpose for them. 
 
 " Where is Gower ? '" asks Roger at length, 
 ■somewhat abruptly. 
 
 "Yes — where?" returns she, in a tone 
 suggestive of the idea that now for the first 
 time she has missed him. She says it quite 
 naturally and without changing colour. The 
 fact is, it really is the first time she has 
 thought of him to-day, but I regret to say
 
 136 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 Roger firmly believes she is acting, and that 
 she is doinor it uncommonly well. 
 
 " He hasn't been at the Court since 
 yesterday — has he?" he asks, somewhat 
 impatiently. 
 
 " N — o. But I daresay he will turn up 
 by-and-by. Why ? " with a quick glance at 
 him from under her heavy lashes — " Do 
 you want him ? " 
 
 "Certainly not. /don't want him," says 
 Roger, with exceeding emphasis upon the 
 pronoun. 
 
 '' Then I don't know anybody else who 
 does," finishes Dulce, biting her lips. 
 
 "She is regularly piqued because the 
 fellow hasn't turned up — a lover's quarrel, 
 I suppose," says Mr. Dare savagely to him 
 self, reading wrongly that petulant move- 
 ment of her lips.
 
 " PV PASSIONS ROCKED. 137 
 
 " You do ! " he says. To be just to him 
 he is, and always, I think, will be, a terribly 
 outspoken young man. 
 
 "I do?" 
 
 "Yes; you looked decidedly cut up just 
 now, when I spoke of his not being here 
 since yesterday." 
 
 " You are absurdly mistaken," declares 
 Miss Blount with dignity. " It is a matter 
 of the most perfect indifference to me 
 whether he comes or goes." (Oh! if he 
 could only know how true this is !) 
 
 " Even more piqued than I supposed," 
 concludes RoQfer inwardlv\ 
 
 " However, I have no doubt we shall see 
 him this evening," goes on Dulce calmly. 
 
 " That will be a comfort to you, at all 
 events," murmurs he gloomily. 
 
 Silence follows this. Nothing is heard
 
 l^S PORTIA ; OK, 
 
 save the distant laughter of the skaters at 
 the other end of the lake, and the scraping 
 noise of their feet. The storm is rising 
 steadily in the hills above, but as yet has not 
 descended on the quiet valley. The gaunt 
 trees are swaying and bending ominously, 
 and through them one catches glimpses of 
 the angry sky above, across which clouds are 
 scudding tempestuously. The dull sun has 
 vanished : all is grey and cheerless. The 
 roar of the breakers upon the rock-bound 
 coast comes up from afar ; while up there 
 upon the wooded hill the 
 
 " Wind, that grand old harper, smites 
 His thunder-harp of pines." 
 
 " Perhaps we had better return to the 
 others," says Dulce coldly, making a move- 
 ment as though to rise. 
 , "Now I have offended you," exclaims
 
 " P>Y PASSIONS ROCKED. T 39 
 
 Roger miserably, catching her hand and draw- 
 ing her down to the stone beside him again. 
 " I don't know what's the matter with mc ; 
 I only know I am as wretched as ever I can 
 be. Forgive me, if you can." 
 
 He pulls his hat over his eyes and sighs 
 deeply. At this moment his whole appear- 
 ance is so decidedly suicidal that no true 
 woman could look at him unmoved. Miss 
 Blount is a true woman ; her hauteur of a 
 moment since vanishes like snow, and com- 
 passion takes its place. 
 
 " What is making you wretched } " she 
 asks, in a tone meant to be severe, but 
 which is only friendly. 
 
 " When I remember what a fool I have 
 been," begins Roger, rather as if he is 
 following out a train of thought than 
 answerinor her. 
 
 O
 
 140 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 " Oh, no ; not that," says Dulce, very- 
 kindly ; " don't call yourself that." 
 
 " There is no other name for me," persists 
 Roger, with increasing melancholy. " Of 
 course, at that time — I knew you didn't 
 particularly care for me, but," disconso- 
 lately, " it never occurred to me you might 
 care for any other fellow ! " 
 
 " I didn't!" says Miss Blount suddenly ; 
 and then, as suddenly, she remembers 
 everything, her engagement to Stephen, 
 her horror of that engagement, all that her 
 last words have admitted, and o-rowinar as 
 red as a rose, she seeks to hide her con- 
 fusion by burying her rounded chin as deep 
 as she can in her soft furs. At the same 
 time she lowers her lids over her shamed 
 eyes, and gazes at her boots, as if she 
 never saw small twos before.
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED. I^I 
 
 • Roger, I need hardly say, is too much of 
 a gentleman to take any notice of this im- 
 pulsive admission on her part. Besides he 
 hardly gets as much consolation out of it 
 as he should. He is in that stage when 
 to pile up the agony becomes a melancholy 
 satisfaction, and when the possibility of 
 comfort in any form takes the shape of a 
 deliberate insult. 
 
 " Did you ever once think of me all the 
 time I was away ? " he asks presently, in a 
 low tone that distinctly gives her to under- 
 stand he believes she didn't. That, in fact, 
 he would — in his present frame of mind- 
 rather believe she didn't. His voice is 
 growing absolutely tragic, and altogether 
 he is as deplorably unhappy as any young 
 woman could desire, 
 
 " I wish, " says poor Dulce, her voice
 
 142 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 quivering, "that you would not speak to me 
 like this now, or — or that you had spoken 
 like it long ago ! " 
 
 "I wish I had, with all my soul." says 
 Roger fervently. " However," with a heavy 
 sigh,, "you are engaged to him now, you 
 know, so I suppose there is no use in talking 
 about it." 
 
 " If I do know it, why tell me again about 
 it ? " says Dulce reproachfully, her eyes full 
 of tears. "Just like you to remind me — of 
 — of mv — misfortune ! " 
 
 . It is out. She has been dying to tell him 
 for the last half- hour of this trouble that has 
 been pressing upon her for months, of this 
 most distasteful engagement, and now that 
 she has told him, though frightened, yet she 
 would hardly recall her words. Her lashes 
 linger on her cheeks, and she looks very
 
 " r.Y PASSIONS ROCKED. I43 
 
 much as if she would like to cry but for the 
 disofrace of the thino-, 
 
 " Your misfortune ! " repeats Roger, in a 
 strange tone ; " are you not happy, then ? " 
 
 He has risen to his feet in his surprise 
 and agitation, and is looking down at her as 
 she sits trembling before him, her hands' 
 tightly clasped together. 
 
 "Do you mean to .tell me he is not good 
 to you ? " asks Roger, seeing she either can- 
 not or will not speak. 
 
 "He is too good to me ; you must not 
 think that," exclaims she earnestly. "It is 
 only — that I don't care about his goodness 
 — I don't care," desperately, "for anything; 
 connected with him." i 
 
 ■ : " You have made a second mistake,! 
 then ? " ' . 
 
 " Not a second," in a very low tone. i
 
 144 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 " Then, let us say, you have again changed 
 your mind ? " 
 
 : "No." 
 
 "You Yiked him once?" impatiently, 
 
 "No." 
 
 "You might as well say you did like me," 
 says Roger, with angry warmth, "and I 
 know, I was actually abhorrent in your 
 sight." 
 
 " Oh, no, no," says Dulce, for the third 
 time, in a tone so low now, that he can 
 hardly hear it ; yet he does. 
 . " Dulce ! do you know what you are im- 
 plying?" asks he, in deep agitation. "It 
 is one of two things now ; either that you 
 
 never liked Stephen, and always lov 
 
 liked me, or else you are trying to make 
 a fool of me for the second time. Which 
 is It f
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED. I45 
 
 To this Miss Blount declines to make any 
 reply. 
 
 " I won't leave this spot to-day until you 
 answer me," says Roger, fell determination 
 on his brow ; " which — is — it ? " 
 
 " I'm sure, at least, that I never liked 
 Stephen in that way," confesses she faintly. 
 
 "And you did like me?" 
 
 Silence again. 
 
 "Then," says Mr. Dare wrathfully, "for 
 the sake of a mere whim, a caprice, you 
 flung me over and condemned me to months 
 of misery. Did you know what you were 
 doing ? Did you feel unhappy ? I hope to 
 goodness you did," says Roger indignantly ; 
 " if you endured even one quarter of what 
 I have suffered, it would be punishment 
 sufficient for you." 
 
 "Had you nothing to do with k?" asks 
 she nervously. 
 
 VOL. in. K
 
 146 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 " No ; it was entirely your own fault," 
 replies he hastily ; whereupon she very 
 properly bursts into tears. 
 
 " Every woman," says some one, " is ifi 
 the wrong till she cries ; then, instantly, 
 she is in the right ! " 
 
 So it is with Dulce. No sooner does 
 Roger see " her tears down fa' " than, 
 metaphorically speaking, he is on his knees 
 before her. I am sure but for the people 
 on the lake, who might find an unpleasant 
 amount of amusement in the tableau, he 
 would have done so literally. 
 
 " Don't do that." he entreats earnestly ; 
 " don't, Dulce. I have behaved abomin- 
 ably to you. It was not your fault ; it was all 
 
 mine ; but for my detestable temper " 
 
 . "And the chocolate creams," put in Dulce 
 sobbing.
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 1 47 
 
 " It would never have occurred. Forgive 
 me, " implores he distractedly, seeing her 
 tears are rather on the increase than other- 
 wise. " I must be a brute to speak to you 
 as I have done." 
 
 " I won't contradict you, " says Miss 
 Blount politely, still sobbing. There is 
 plainly a good deal of indignation mingled 
 with her grief. To say it was all her fault, 
 indeed, when he knows. 
 
 " Don't cry any more," says Roger coax- 
 ingly, trying to draw her hands down from 
 her eyes; "don't now, you've got to go 
 back to the others, you know, and they will 
 be wondering what is the matter with you. 
 They will think you had a bad fall. ' 
 
 This rouses her ; she wipes her eyes 
 hastily and looks up.
 
 148 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 • " How shall I explain to them ? " she asks 
 anxiously, 
 
 " We won't explain at all. Let me take 
 off your skates, and we will walk up and 
 down here until your eyes are all right agaia. 
 Why, really," stooping to look at them, 
 " they are by no means bad ; they will be as 
 good as ever in five minutes." 
 
 Inexpressibly consoled, she lets him take 
 off her skates, and commences a gentle pro- 
 menade with him up and down the brown 
 and stunted grass that lies upon the path. 
 
 " There was a time," says Roger after 
 a pause — " when I might have dared to 
 kiss away your tears, but I suppose that 
 time is o-one for ever." 
 
 . .^' I suppose so," dismally ; tears are still 
 wetting the sweet eyes she turns up to 
 his.
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 1 49 
 
 " Dulce ! let me understand you," says 
 Roger gravely. " You are quite sure you 
 don't care for him ? " 
 
 " Quite," says Dulce without a second's 
 hesitation. 
 
 " Then ask him to give you up — to re- 
 lease you from your promise," says Roger 
 brightly. 
 
 "I — I'd be afraid," replies Miss Blount, 
 drooping her head. 
 
 " Nonsense," says Roger (of course it is 
 not he who has to do it). "Why should 
 you feel nervous about a thing like that ? 
 You don't want to marry him, therefore 
 say so. Nothing can be simpler." 
 
 " It doesn't sound simple to me," says 
 Dulce dolefully. 
 
 Just at this moment a young man, dressed
 
 J50 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 in grey, emeraes from the group of alders 
 that line the south edge of the lake, very 
 near to where Dulce and Roo-er are stand- 
 inor. He is so situated that he is still con- 
 cealed from view, though quite near enough, 
 to the cousins to hear what they are saying. 
 The last two sentences having fallen on 
 his ears he stands as if spellbound, and 
 waits eagerly for what may come next. 
 
 " He can't possibly want to marry you, if 
 you don't want to marry him," says Roger 
 logically, " and you don't ? " a little doubt- 
 fully still. 
 
 " I don't, indeed," says Dulce, with a sad 
 sigh and a shake of her auburn head. 
 
 At this the young man in the grey suit, 
 with a bitter curse, turns away, and, retracing 
 his steps, gets to the other side of the lake
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED. I5I 
 
 witliout being seen by either Dare or his 
 companion. 
 
 Here he dedines to stay or converse with 
 any one. Passing by Portia and the two 
 men who are still attending on her, he bows 
 slightly and pretends not to hear Dicky's 
 voice, as it calls to him to stop. 
 
 " He is like that contemptible idiot who 
 went round with the ' banner with a strange 
 device,' " says Dicky Browne, looking after 
 him ; " nothing will stop him." 
 
 " What's up with him now ? " asks Sir 
 Mark, squeezing his glass into his eye, the 
 better to watch Stephen's figure as it hur- 
 riedly disappears, 
 
 " I expect he has eaten something that has 
 disagreed with him," says Dicky cheerfully. 
 
 " Well, really, he looked like it," says Gore ; 
 *' a more vinegary aspect it has seldom been
 
 152 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 my lot to gaze upon, for which I acknow- 
 ledge my gratitude. My dear Portia, unless 
 you intend to go in for rheumatics before 
 your time, you will get up from that damp 
 grass and come home with me."
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED." J 5, 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 " Never morning wore 
 To evening, but some heart did break." 
 
 In Memoriam. 
 
 " Did he — I mean did you — ever Dulce, 
 
 will you be very angry with me if I ask you 
 a question ? " 
 
 " No. But I hope it won't be a dis- 
 agreeable one," says Dulce, glancing at him 
 cautiously. 
 
 " That is just as you may look at it," 
 says Roger. " But I suppose I may say it 
 — after all we are like brother and sister, 
 are we not ? " 
 
 " Ye-es. Quite like brother and sister,"
 
 154 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 says Dalce, but somehow this thought 
 seems to give her no pleasure. 
 
 " Only we are not, you know," puts in 
 Roger, rather hastily. 
 
 " No, of course we are not," replies she, 
 with equal haste. 
 
 " Well then, look here " 
 
 But even now that he has got so far, he 
 hesitates again, looks earnestly at her, and 
 pulls his moustache uncertainly, as if half 
 afraid to go any farther. 
 
 It is the afternoon of the next day, and 
 as the sun has come out in great force, 
 and the mildness of the day almost re- 
 sembles Spring in its earliest stages, they 
 are all about the place, strolling hither and 
 thither, whithersoever pleasant fancy guides 
 them. 
 
 Roger and Dulce, after lingering for some
 
 "by passions rocked. 155 
 
 time in the winter garden looking at the 
 snowdrops, and such poor foster babes as 
 have thrust their palHd faces above the 
 warm earth, that hke a cruel stepmother 
 has driven them too early from her breast, 
 have moved slowly onwards until they find 
 themselves beside a fountain that used 
 to be a favourite haunt of theirs long 
 ago. 
 
 Dulce, seating herself upon the stone 
 work that surrounds it, though the water 
 is too chilly to be pleasant, still toys lighdy 
 with it with her idle fingers, just tipping 
 it coquettishly now and then, with her eyes 
 bent thoughtfully upon it, as it sways calmly 
 to and fro beneath the touch of the cold 
 wind that passes over it. 
 
 Just now she raises her eyes and fixes 
 them inquiringly on Roger.
 
 156 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 "Go on," she says quietly; "you were 
 surely going to ask me something. Are 
 you afraid of me ? " 
 
 "A little, I confess !" 
 . "You need not." She is still looking at 
 him very earnestly. 
 
 "Well, then," says Roger, as though 
 nerving himself for a struggle — "tell me 
 this." He leaves where he is standing, and 
 comes closer to her, " Did — did you ever 
 kiss Gower ? " 
 
 "Never — never!" answers Dulce, grow- 
 ing quite pale. 
 
 " I have no right to ask it, I know that," 
 says Roger. "But" — desperately — "did he 
 ever kiss you." 
 
 " Never, indeed," 
 
 " Honour bright ? " 
 
 " Honour bright."
 
 "by passions rocked. 157 
 
 A lone silence. Miss Blount's fincrers are 
 quite deep in the water now, and I think 
 she does not even feel the cold of it. 
 
 "He has been engaged to you for three 
 months and more, and never wanted to kiss 
 you!" exclaims Roger at last, in a tone 
 expressive of great amazement and greater 
 contempt. 
 
 " I don't think I said quite that," returns 
 she, colouring faintly. 
 
 "Then" — eagerly — "it was you who 
 prevented him ? " 
 
 " I don't care much about that sort of 
 thing," says Dulce with a little shrug. 
 
 *' Don't you ? Then I don't believe you 
 care a button about him," replies he with 
 alad conviction. 
 
 " That is mere surmise on your part. 
 Different people" — vaguely — "are different.
 
 158 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 I don't believe if I had any affection for 
 a person that a mere formal act like kiss- 
 ino- would increase the feeling-." 
 
 " Oh ! wouldn't it, though ! " says Mr. 
 Dare — "that's all you know about it ! You 
 just try it, that's all." 
 
 " Indeed I shall do nothing of the kind," 
 says Dulce, with much indignation, and 
 some natural disappointment — that he should 
 recommend such a course to her ! 
 .. " I didn't mean that you should — should 
 — I didn't mean in the least that you should 
 be a bit civiller to Gower, or any one, than 
 you are now," says Roger hastily, greatly 
 shocked at the construction she has put 
 upon his words, and rather puzzled for 
 language in which to explain himself more 
 clearly. At this the cloud disappears from 
 her pretty face, and she bestows a smile
 
 BY PASSIONS ROCKED." I 59 
 
 upon him that at once restores him to 
 equanimity. 
 
 " I can't say I think much of Gower as a 
 lover." he says after a while, a touch of 
 scorn in his voice. "To be engaged to you 
 for three whole months, and never once to 
 kiss you," 
 
 " You were engaged to me for three whole 
 years," replies his cousin quietly, yet with a 
 flash frorn her deep grey eyes that means 
 much, "and I cannot remember that you 
 ever cared to kiss me at all." 
 
 This is a home thrust. 
 
 " I don't know what was the matter with 
 me then," he says, making no attempt at 
 denial ; though there certainly were one or 
 two occasions he might have referred to ; "I 
 don't believe ' — in a low tone — " I ever
 
 l6o PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 knew I was fond of you, until— until I lost 
 vou ! 
 
 " Oh ! you must not talk to me like this ? " 
 entreats she, the tears coming into her eyes, 
 and trembling on her long lashes. 
 
 " I suppose not. But this new-found 
 knowledge is hard to suppress ; why did I 
 not discover it all sooner ? " 
 
 " Better late than never," says Dulce, 
 with a poor attempt at lightness and a rather 
 artificial little laugh, meant to conceal the 
 sorrow that is consuming her ; " I think you 
 ought to feel gladness in the thought that 
 you know it at last. Knowledge is power, 
 isn t It : 
 
 " I can feel only sorrow," says Roger, 
 very sadly. " And I have no power." 
 
 Duke's wretched fingers are getting abr 
 solutely benumbed in the cold water ; yet
 
 "by passions rocked." i6i 
 
 she seems to feel nothing. Roger, however, 
 stooping over her, hfts the silly little hand 
 and dries it very tenderly, and holds it fast 
 between both his own ; doubtless only with 
 the intention of restoring some heat to it. It 
 is quite amazing the length of time it takes 
 to do this. 
 
 "Dulce!" 
 
 ** Well ? " She has not looked at him 
 even once durinsf the last five minutes. 
 
 "If you are unhaj^py in your present 
 engagement — and I think you are — why not 
 break with Gower ? I spoke to you of this 
 yesterday, and I say the same thing to- 
 day. You are doing both him and yourself 
 an injustice in letting it go on any longer." 
 
 " I don't know what to say to him." 
 
 " Then get some one else to say it. 
 Fabian, or Uncle Christopher." 
 
 VOL. in. L
 
 I 62 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 "Oh no!" says Dulce, with a true sense 
 of delicacy. " If it is to be done at all I 
 shall do it myself." 
 
 " Then do it. Promise me if you get 
 the opportunity you will say something to 
 him about it." 
 
 " I promise," says Dulce very faintly. 
 Then she withdraws the hand from his, 
 and without another word, not even a hint 
 at what the gaining of her freedom may 
 mean to either — or rather both — of them, 
 they go slowly back to the garden, where 
 they meet all the others sitting in a group 
 upon a huge circular rustic seat beneath a 
 branching evergreen ; all, that is except 
 Fabian, who of late has become more and 
 more solitary in his habits. 
 
 As Stephen has not put in an appear- 
 ance at the Court now for fully two days,
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 1 63 
 
 speculation is rife as to what has become 
 of him. 
 
 " It is the oddest thinof I ever knew." 
 Julia is saying, as the cousins come up to 
 the rustic seat. 
 
 " What is ? " asks Roger idly. 
 
 " Stephen's defection. He used to be 
 as true as the morning post, and now — 
 I hope he hasn't made away with himself," 
 says Dicky Browne. 
 
 "He has had since this time yesterday 
 to do it," says Sir Mark ; " I wonder if 
 it takes lonor to cut one's throat ? " 
 
 "It entirely depends on whether you 
 have sharpened your razor sufficiently, and 
 if you know how to sharpen it. I should 
 think a fellow devoid of hirsute adornment 
 would take a good while to it," returns 
 Mr. Browne, with all the air of one who
 
 164 PORTIA; OR, 
 
 knows. " He wouldn't be up to it, you 
 know. But our late lamented Stephen was 
 all rioht. He shaved reo-ular." 
 
 "He was at the lake yesterday," says 
 Portia. " He came up to us from the 
 southern end of it." 
 
 At this both Dulce and Roger start, 
 and the former changes colour visibly. 
 
 " I really wonder where he can be ? " 
 says Julia. 
 
 "So do I," murmurs Dulce faintly, but 
 distinctly, feeling she is in duty bound 
 to say something. " Stephen never used 
 to miss a day." 
 
 " Here I am, if you want me," says 
 Stephen, coming leisurely up to them from 
 between the laurels. " I thought I heard 
 somebody mention my name." 
 
 He is looking pale and haggard, and alto-
 
 "by passions rocked." 165 
 
 gether unlike the languid, unemotional Ste- 
 phen of a month ago. There are dark circles 
 under his eyes, and his mouth looks strangely- 
 compressed, and full of an unpleasant amount 
 of determination. 
 
 " I mentioned it," says Dulce. She is com- 
 pelled to say this, because he has fixed his 
 eyes upon her, and plainly everybody expects 
 her to reply to him. 
 
 " Did you want me ? " asks he, casting a 
 scrutinising glance upon her. So absorbed 
 is he in his contemplation of her that he has 
 positively forgotten the fact that he has omit- 
 ted to bid any one a " fair good-morrow." 
 
 " I was certainly wondering where you 
 were," says Dulce evasively. She is fright- 
 ened and subdued — she scarcely knows why. 
 There is something peculiar in his manner 
 that overawes her.
 
 l66 PORTIA; OR, 
 
 "It was very good of you to remember my 
 existence. Then you were only wondering- 
 at my absence ? You did not want me ? " 
 
 Dulce makes no reply. She would have 
 given anything to be able to make some civile 
 commonplace rejoinder, but at this moment 
 her wits cruelly desert her. 
 
 " I see. Never mind," says Stephen. 
 "Well, even if you don't want me, I do 
 want you — you will come with me as far as 
 the Beeches ? " 
 
 His tone is more a command than a ques- 
 tion. Hearing it, Roger moves involuntarily 
 a step forward, that brings him nearer to 
 Dulce. He even puts out his hand as though 
 to lay it upon her arm, when Stephen by a 
 gesture checks him. 
 
 "Don't be alarmed," he says, with a low, 
 sneering laugh, every vestige of colour gone
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 167 
 
 from his face, " I shall do her no harm. I 
 shan't murder her, I give you my word. Be 
 comforted, she will be quite as safe with me 
 as she could even be with — you." He 
 lauo-hs again, dismisses Roger from his 
 thoughts by an indescribable motion of his 
 hand, and once more concentrates his atten- 
 tion upon the girl near him who, with low- 
 ered eyes and a pale, distressed face, is wait- 
 ing unwillingly for what he may say next. 
 
 All this is so unusual, and really every one 
 is so full of wonder at Stephen's extraordi- 
 nary conduct, that up to this none of the spec- 
 tators have said one word. At this juncture, 
 however, Sir Mark clears his throat as if to 
 say something, and coming forward would 
 probably have tried the effect of a con- 
 ciliatory speech, but that Stephen, turning 
 abruptly away from them, takes Dulce's
 
 1 68 PORTIA; OR, 
 
 hand in his, and leads her in silence and 
 with a brow dark as Erebus, up the gravelled 
 path, and past the chilly fountain, and thus 
 out of sight. 
 
 It is as though some terrible ogre from 
 out a fairy tale has descended upon them, 
 and plucked their fairest damsel from their 
 midst, to incarcerate her in a "donjon keep," 
 and probably eat her by-and-by, when she 
 is considered fit to kill. 
 
 "Do — do you think he has gone mad?" 
 asks Julia, with clasped hands and tearful 
 eyes. 
 
 "My dear Mark, I think something ought 
 to be done — some one ought to go after 
 her," says Portia nervously. " He really 
 looked quite dreadful." 
 
 "I'll go," says Roger angrily. 
 
 " No, you won't," says Sir Mark, catch-
 
 "by passions rocked." 169 
 
 inof hold of him. " Let them have it 
 out — it is far the best thinor. And if she 
 gets a regular, right-down, uncommonly- 
 good scolding, as I hope she will " — 
 viciously — " I can only say she richly 
 deserves it." 
 
 " I can only say I don't know whether 
 I am standing on my head or my heels," 
 says Mr. Browne, drawing a long breath ; 
 *' I feel cheap. Any one might have me 
 now for little or nothing — quite a bargain." 
 
 " I don't think you'd be a bargain at 
 any price," says Sir Mark, but this touch- 
 ing tribute to his inestimable qualities is 
 passed over by Mr. Browne in a silence 
 that is almost sublime. 
 
 " To think Stephen could look like that," 
 he goes on as evenly as if Sir Mark 
 had never spoken. "Why, Irving is a
 
 I 70 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 fool to him. Tragedy is plainly his forte. 
 Really one never knows what these aesthetic- 
 looking people are capable of. He looked 
 murderous." 
 
 At this awful word the children — who 
 had been silent and most attentive spec- 
 tators of the late scene, and who have 
 been enchanted with it — turn quite pale, 
 and whisper together in a subdued fashion. 
 When the whispering has reached a certain 
 point, the Boodie gives Jacky an encourag- 
 ing push, whereupon that young hero darts 
 away from her side like an arrow from 
 a bow, and disappears swiftly round the 
 corner. 
 
 Meanwhile, having arrived at the Beeches, 
 a rather remote part of the grounds — beauti- 
 ful in summer because of the luxuriant 
 foliage of the trees, but now bleak and
 
 " BY PASSIONS ROCKED. I 7 I 
 
 bare beneath the rough touch of winter — 
 Stephen stops short and faces his com- 
 panion steadily. His glance is stern and 
 unforgiving ; his whole bearing relentless 
 and forbidding. 
 
 To say Miss Blount is feeling nervous 
 would be saying very little. She is look- 
 ing crushed in anticipation, by the weight 
 of the thunderbolt she knows is about to 
 fall. Presently it descends, and once down, 
 she acknowledges to herself it was only a 
 shock after all, worse in the fancy than 
 in the reality ; as are most of our daily 
 fears. 
 
 " So you wish our engagement at an 
 end?" says Stephen quite calmly, in a 
 tone that might almost be termed me- 
 chanical. 
 
 He waits remorselessly for an answer.
 
 172 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 " I — you — I didn't tell you so," stammers 
 Dulce. 
 
 "No prevarications, please. There has 
 been quite enough deception of late." 
 Dulce looks at him curiously. " Let us 
 adhere to the plain truth now at least. 
 This is how the case stands. You never 
 loved me ; and now your cousin has 
 returned you find you do love him ; that 
 all your former professions of hatred to- 
 wards him were just so much air — or, let 
 us say, so much wounded vanity. You 
 would be released from me. You would 
 gladly forget I ever played even a small 
 part in the drama of your life. Is not all 
 this true ? " 
 
 For the second time this afternoon speech 
 deserts Dulce. She grows very white, but 
 answer she has none.
 
 "by passions rocked." 173 
 
 " I understand your silence to mean yes," 
 goes on Stephen in the same monotonous 
 tone he has just used, out of which every 
 particle of feeling has been resolutely ban- 
 ished. "It would, let me say, have saved 
 you much discomfort, and your cousin some 
 useless travelling, if you had discovered 
 your passion for him sooner." At this 
 Dulce draws her breath quickly, and 
 throws up her head with a haughty ges- 
 ture. Very few women like being told they 
 entertain a passion for a man, no matter 
 how devotedly they may adore him. 
 
 Mr. Gower, taking no notice of her silent 
 protest, goes on slowly. 
 
 "What your weakness and foolish pride 
 have cost me," he says, "goes for nothing." 
 
 There is somethinof in his face now that 
 makes Dulce sorry for him. It is a loss of
 
 174 PORTIA; OR, 
 
 hope. His eyes, too, look sunk and wearied 
 as if from continued want of sleep. 
 
 " If by my reprehensible pride and weak- 
 ness, of which you justly accuse me, I have 
 caused you pain — " she begins tremulously, 
 but he stops her at once. 
 
 '* That will do," he says coldly. " Your 
 nature is incapable of comprehending all you 
 have done. We will not discuss that sub- 
 ject. I have not brought you here to talk of 
 myself but of you. Let us confine ourselves 
 to the business that has brought me to-day — 
 for the last time, I hope — to the Court." 
 
 His tone, which is extremely masterful, 
 rouses Dulce to ancfer. 
 
 " There is one thing I will say," she ex- 
 claims, lifting her eyes fairly to his. " But 
 for you and your false sympathy, and your 
 carefully chosen and most insidious words
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED." I 75 
 
 that fanned the flame of my unjust wrath 
 against him — Roger and I would never have 
 been separated." 
 
 " You can believe what you like about 
 that," says Gower indifferently, unmoved by 
 her vehement outburst. " Believe anything 
 that will make your conduct look more credi- 
 table to you, anything that will make you 
 more comfortable in your mind — if you can. 
 But as I have no wish to detain you here 
 longer than is strictly necessary, and as I am 
 sure you have no wish to be detained, let us 
 not waste time in recriminations, but come at 
 once to the point." 
 
 " What point ? I do not understand 
 you," says Dulce coldly. 
 
 " Yesterday, when passing by the southern 
 end of the lake, hidden by some shrubs, I 
 came upon you and your cousin unawares.
 
 176 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 and heard you distinctly tell him (what 
 I must be indeed a dullard not to have 
 known before) that you did not love me. 
 This was the substance of what you said, 
 but your tone conveyed far more. It led 
 me to believe you held me in positive 
 detestation." 
 
 " So ! You were eavesdropping ! " says 
 Dulce indignantly. 
 
 Stephen smiles contemptuously. 
 
 " No, I was not," he says calmly. He 
 takes great comfort to his soul in the 
 remembrance that he mioht have heard 
 much more that was not intended for 
 his ears had he stayed in his place of 
 concealment yesterday, which he had not. 
 " Accident brought mc to that part of 
 the lake, and brought, too, your words to 
 my ears. When I heard them I remem-
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED. I 77 
 
 bered many trivial things, that at the 
 moment of their occurrence had seemed 
 as nought. But now my eyes are open. 
 I am no long-er bhnd. I have broug-ht 
 you here to tell you, I will give you 
 back your promise to marry me, your 
 freedom " — with a sudden bitterness, as 
 suddenly suppressed — "on one condition." 
 
 " And that ? " breathlessly. 
 
 " Is, that you will never marry Roger 
 without my consent." 
 
 The chance of regaining her liberty is so 
 sweet to Dulce at this first moment, that it 
 chases from her all other considerations. 
 Oh! to be free again! In vain she strives 
 to hide her gladness. It will not be hidden. 
 Her eyes gleam ; her lips get back their 
 colour ; there is such an abandonment of joy 
 and exultation in her face, that the man at 
 
 VOL. UI. M
 
 178 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 her side — the man who now is resigning all 
 that makes Hfe sweet to him — feels his heart 
 grow mad with bitter hatred of her, himself, 
 and all the world, as he watches her with 
 miserable eyes. And he — poor fool ! — had 
 once hoped he might win the priceless 
 treasure of this girl's love ! No words could 
 convey the contempt and scorn with which 
 he regards himself 
 
 " Do not try to restrain your relief," he 
 says, in a hoarse, unnatural tone, seeing she 
 has turned her head a little aside, as though 
 to avoid his searching gaze. "You know 
 the condition I impose — you are prepared to 
 abide by it ? " 
 
 Duke hesitates. " Later on he will forget 
 all this, and give his consent to my marrying 
 — any one," she thinks hurriedly, in spite of
 
 BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 1 79 
 
 the Other voice within that bids her beware. 
 Then out loud she says quietly : 
 
 ''Yes." 
 
 Even if he should prove unrelenting, she 
 tells herself, it will be better to be an old 
 maid than an unloving wife. She will be 
 rid of this hateful entanglement that has 
 been embittering her life for months, and — 
 and of course he won't keep her to this 
 absurd arrano-ement after a while. 
 
 " You swear it } " 
 
 "I swear it," says Dulce, answering as 
 one might in a dream. Hers is a dream, 
 happy to recklessness, in which she is fast 
 losing herself. 
 
 " It is an oath," he says again, as if to 
 give her a last chance of escape. 
 
 " It is," replies she softly, still wrapt in 
 her dream of freedom. She may now love
 
 l8o PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 Roger without any shadow coming between 
 them, and — ah ! how divine a world it is ! 
 — he may perhaps love her too ! 
 
 "Remember," says Govver sternly, letting 
 each word drop from him as if with the 
 settled intention of imprinting, or burning 
 them upon her brain, " I shall never relent 
 about this. You have given me your solemn 
 oath, and — I shall keep you to it ! I shall 
 never absolve you from it, as I have absolved 
 you from your first promise to-day. Never. 
 Do not hope for that. Should you live to 
 be a hundred years old, you cannot marry 
 your cousin without my consent, and that 
 I shall never give. You quite under- 
 stand ? " 
 
 " Quite." But her tone has grown faint 
 and uncertain. What has she done } Some- 
 thing^ in his words, his manner, has at last
 
 (( 
 
 BY PASSIONS ROCKED." l8l 
 
 awakened her from the happy dream in 
 which she was revelhno-. 
 
 " Now you can return to your old lover," 
 says Stephen with an indescribably bitter 
 laugh, " and be happy. For your deeper 
 satisfaction, too, let me tell you, that for 
 the future you shall see very little of me." 
 
 ''You are going abroad?" asks she, very 
 timidly, in her heart devoutly hoping that 
 this may be the reading of his last words. 
 
 "No; I shall stay here. But the Court 
 I shall trouble with my presence seldom. I 
 don't know," exclaims he, for the first time 
 losing his wonderful self-control and speak- 
 ing querulously, "what is the matter with 
 me. Energy has deserted me with all the 
 rest. You have broken my heart, I sup- 
 pose, and that explains everything. There, 
 go," turning abruptly away from her, "your
 
 1 82 PORTIA; OR, 
 
 being where 1 can see you only makes 
 matters worse." 
 
 Some impulse prompts Dulce to go up 
 to him and lay her hand gently on his 
 arm. 
 
 "Stephen," she says, in a low tone, "if 
 I have caused you any unhappiness forgive 
 me now." 
 
 " Forgive you ! " exclaims he, so fiercely 
 that she recoils from him in absolute terror. 
 
 Lifting her fingers from his arm as though 
 they burn him, he flings them passionately 
 away, and plunging into the short thick 
 underwood is soon lost to sieht 
 
 Dulce, pale and frightened, returns by 
 the path by which she had come, but not 
 to those she had left. She is in no humour 
 now for questions or curious looks ; gaining 
 the house without encountering any one, she
 
 BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 1 83 
 
 runs upstairs, and seeks refuge in her own 
 room. 
 
 But if she doesn't return to gratify the 
 curiosity of the puzzled group on the rustic 
 seat, somebody else does. 
 
 Jacky, panting, dishevelled, out of breath 
 with quick running, rushes up to them, and 
 precipitates himself upon his mother. 
 
 " It's all right," he cries triumphantly. 
 " He didn't do a bit to her. I watched 
 him all the time, and he never touched 
 her." 
 
 " Who ? What ? " demands the be- 
 wildered Julia. But Jacky disdains ex- 
 planations. 
 
 " He only talked, and talked, and talked," 
 he goes on fluently ; " and he said she did 
 awful things to him. And he made her 
 swear at him — and"
 
 184 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 " What ? " says Sir Mark. 
 
 " It's impossible to know anybody," sighs 
 Dicky Browne regretfully, shaking his head 
 at this fresh instance of the frailty of 
 humanity. "Who could have believed 
 Dulce capable of using bad language ? I 
 hope her school children and her Sunday 
 class won't hear it, poor little things. It 
 would shake their faith for ever." 
 
 " How do you know he is talking of 
 Dulce.-*" says Julia impatiently. " Jacky, 
 how dare you say dear Dulce swore at 
 any one ? " 
 
 " He made her," says Jacky. 
 
 " He must have behaved awfully badly 
 to her," says Dicky gravely. 
 
 "He said to her to swear, and she did 
 it at once," continues Jacky, still greatly 
 excited.
 
 ( ( 
 
 i;V PASSIONS ROCKED." 1 85 
 
 " Con amore'' puts in Mr. Browne. 
 
 " And he scolded her very badly," goes 
 on Jacky, at which Roger frowns angrily, 
 " and he said she broke something belong- 
 ing to him, but I couldn't hear what ; 
 and then he told her to go away, and 
 when she was going she touched his arm, 
 and he pushed her away awfully roughly, 
 but he didn't try to murder her at all." 
 
 "On earth what is the boy saying?" 
 says Julia, perplexed in the extreme. " Who 
 didn't try to murder who ? " 
 
 " I'm telling you about Dulce and Stephen," 
 says Jacky in an aggrieved tone, though still 
 ready to burst with importance. "When he 
 took her away from this, I followed 'em ; I 
 kept my eyes on 'em. Dicky said Stephen 
 looked murderous ; so I went to see if I 
 could help her. But I suppose he got sorry,
 
 1 86 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 because he let her off. She is all right ; there 
 isn't a scratch on her." 
 
 Sir Mark and Dicky are consumed with 
 laughter. But Roger, taking the little 
 champion in his arms, kisses him with all 
 his heart.
 
 (( 
 
 BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 187 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 " For aught that ever I could read, 
 Could ever hear by tale or history, 
 The course of true love never did run smooth." 
 
 Midsummer Night's Dream. 
 
 When dinner comes, Dulce is wonderfully 
 silent. That is the misfortune of being a 
 rather talkative person, when you want to 
 be silent you can't, without attracting uni- 
 versal attention. Every one now stares at 
 Dulce secretly, and speculates about what 
 Stephen may, or may not, have said to 
 her. 
 
 She says Yes and No quite correctly to 
 everything, but nothing more, and seems 
 to find no comfort in her dinner — which is
 
 I 88 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 rather a good one. This last sign of de- 
 pression appears to Dicky Browne a very- 
 serious one, and he watches her with the 
 gloomiest doubts as he sees dish after dish 
 offered her, only to be rejected. 
 
 This strange fit of silence, however, is 
 plainly not to be put down to ill-temper. 
 She is kindly, nay, even affectionate, in 
 her manner to all around, except indeed 
 to Roger, whom she openly avoids, and 
 whose repeated attempts at conversation 
 she returns with her eyes on the table- 
 cloth, and a general air about her of saying 
 anything she does say to him under protest. 
 
 To Roger this changed demeanour is 
 maddening ; from it he instantly draws 
 the very blackest conclusions ; and, in fact, 
 so impressed is he by it that later on, in the 
 drawing-room, when he finds his tenderest
 
 "by passions rocked." 189 
 
 glances and softest advances still met with 
 coldness and resistance, and when his soli- 
 tary effort at explanation is nervously, but 
 remorsely repulsed, he caves in altogether, 
 and quitting the drawing-room, makes his 
 way to the deserted library, where, with a 
 view to effacins: himself for the remainder 
 of the evening, he flings himself into an 
 arm-chair, and gives himself up a prey to 
 evil foreboding-s. 
 
 Thus a quarter of an hour goes by, when 
 the door of the library is gently opened by 
 Dulce. Roger, sitting with his back to it, 
 does not see her enter, or indeed heed her 
 entrance, so wrapt is he in his unhappy 
 musings. Not until she has lightly and 
 timidly touched his shoulder does he start, 
 and looking round, become aware of her 
 presence.
 
 190 PORTIA ; OR. 
 
 "It is I," she says, in a very sweet little 
 voice, that brings Roger to his feet and the 
 end of his musings in no time. 
 
 " Dulce ! What has happened ? " he 
 asks anxiously, alluding to her late strange 
 behaviour. " Why won't you speak to 
 me : 
 
 " I don't know," says Dulce faintly, hang- 
 ing her head. 
 
 " What can I have done ? Ever since you 
 went away with Stephen down to the Beeches 
 to-day, your manner towards me has been 
 utterly changed. Don't — don't say you have 
 been persuaded by him to name your wed- 
 ding day ! " He speaks excitedly, as one 
 might who is at last giving words to a fear 
 that has been haunting him for long. 
 
 " So far from it," says Miss Blount, with 
 slow solemnity, " that he sought an oppor-
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED. I9I 
 
 tunity to-day to formally release me from my 
 promise to him ! " 
 
 ** He has released you ? " Words are too 
 poor to express Roger's profound astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 "Yes; on one condition." 
 
 " A condition. What a Jew! Yes; well, 
 
 ofo on — ? " 
 
 " I can't go on," says Dulce, growing crim- 
 son. " I can't indeed," putting up her hands 
 as she sees him about to protest ; " it is of no 
 use askinor me. I neither can nor will tell 
 you about that condition, ever." 
 
 " Give me even a hint ! " says Roger, coax- 
 ingly. 
 
 " No, no, no ! The rack wouldn't make 
 me tell it," returns she, with a stern shake of 
 her red-brown head, but with very pathetic 
 eyes.
 
 192 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 "But what can it be?" exclaims Roger, 
 fairly puzzled. 
 
 " That I shall go to my grave without 
 divulging," replies she heroically. 
 
 " Well, no matter," says Roger, after a 
 minute's reflection, resolved to take things 
 philosophically. " You are free, that is the 
 great point. And now, now, Dulce, you will 
 marry me ? " 
 
 At this Miss Blount grows visibly affected 
 (as they say of ladies in the dock), and drop- 
 ping into the nearest chair, lets her hands 
 fall loosely clasped upon her knees, and so 
 remains, the very picture of woe. 
 
 " I can't do that either," she says at last, 
 without raising her afflicted lids. 
 
 " But why ? " impatiently, " What is to 
 prevent you ? — unless indeed," suspiciously, 
 "you really don't care about it."
 
 "by passions rocked." 193 
 
 " It isn't that, indeed," says Dulce ear- 
 nestly, letting her eyes suffused with tears 
 meet his for a moment. 
 
 " Then what is it ? You say he has 
 released you, and that you have therefore 
 
 regained your liberty, and yet — yet 
 
 Dulce, do be rational, and give me an 
 explanation. At least, say why you will 
 not be my wife." 
 
 " If I told you that, I should tell you the 
 condition too," says poor Dulce, in a stifled 
 tone, feeling sorely put to it, "and nothing 
 would induce me to do that. I told you 
 before I wouldn't." 
 
 "You needn't," says Roger softly. "I 
 see it now. And anything more sneak- 
 ing So, he has given you your liberty, 
 
 but has taken good care you shan't be happy 
 
 VOL. HI. N
 
 194 fortia; or, 
 
 in it ! I never heard of a lower transaction, 
 I" 
 
 " Oh ! how did you find it out ? " exclaims 
 Dulce, blushing again generously. 
 
 " I don't know," replies he, most untruth- 
 fully. " I guessed it, I think ; it was so like 
 him. You — did you agree to his condition, 
 Dulce?" 
 
 " Yes," says Dulce. 
 
 *' You gave him your word ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Then he'll keep you to it, be sure of 
 that. What a pity you did not take time 
 to consider what you would do ! " 
 
 " I considered this quite quickly," "says 
 Dulce; " I said to myself that nothing could 
 be worse than marrying a man I did not 
 love." 
 
 " Yes, yes, of course," says Roger warmly.
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 1 95 
 
 " Nothing could be worse than marrying 
 Gower." 
 
 "And then I thought that perhaps he 
 might relent; and then, besides — I didn't 
 know what to do. because," here two laro-e 
 tears fall down her cheeks and break upon 
 her clasped hands, " because, you see, you had 
 not asked me to marry you, and I thought 
 that perhaps you never might ask me, and 
 that so my promise meant very little," 
 
 "How could you have thought that?" 
 says Roger, deeply grieved. 
 
 "Well, you hadn't said a word, you know," 
 murmurs she sorrowfully. 
 
 "How could I," groans Dare, "when 
 you were going, of your own free-will and 
 my folly, to marry another fellow } " 
 
 " There was very little free-will about it," 
 whispers she tearfully.
 
 196 PORTIA; OR, 
 
 "Well, I'm sure I don't know what's 
 going to be done now," says Mr. Dare 
 despairingly, sinking into a chair near the 
 table, and letting his head fall in a dis- 
 tracting fashion into his hands. 
 
 He seems lost in thought, — sunk in a 
 very slough of despond, out of which it 
 seems impossible to him he can ever be 
 extricated. He has turned away his face, 
 lest he shall see the little disconsolate figure 
 in the other arm-chair, that looked so many 
 degfrees too laro-e for it. 
 
 To graze at Dulce is to brinor on a state 
 of feeling even more keenly miserable than 
 the present one. She is looking particularly 
 pretty to-night ; her late encounter with 
 Stephen, and her perplexity, and the an- 
 xiety about telling it all to Roger, having 
 added a wistfulness to her expression, that
 
 BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 1 97 
 
 heightens every charm she possesses. She 
 is dressed in a white crown of Indian mus- 
 hn made high to the throat but with short 
 sleeves, and has in her hair a diamond star, 
 'that once beloncjed to her mother. 
 
 Her hands are folded in her lap, and 
 she is gazing with a very troubled stare at 
 the bright fire. Presently, as though the 
 thouofhts in which she has been indul^inpf 
 have proved too much for her, she flings 
 up her head impatiently, and, rising softly, 
 goes to the back of Roger's chair and leans 
 over it. 
 
 " Roger," she says, in a little anxious 
 whisper, that trembles ever so slightly ; 
 "you are not angry with me, are you.'*" 
 
 Impulsively, as she asks this, she raises 
 one of her soft naked arms and lays it round 
 his neck. In every action of Dulce's there
 
 198 PORTIA; OR, 
 
 is somethingf so childlike and lovin^, that it 
 appeals straight to the heart. The touch of 
 her cool, sweet flesh as it brushes against 
 his cheek, sends a strange thrill through 
 Roger, a thrill hitherto unknown to him. 
 He turns his face to hers; their eyes meet; 
 and then in a moment he has risen, and he 
 has her in his arms and has laid his lips on 
 hers, and they have given each other a long, 
 long kiss, a kiss of youth and love ! 
 
 " Angry — with you — my darling ! " says 
 Roger, at length in a low tone, when he 
 has collected his scattered senses a little. 
 He is gazing at her with the most infinite 
 tenderness, and Dulce, with her head pressed 
 close against his heart, feels with a keen 
 sense of relief that she can defy Stephen, 
 the world, cruel Fate, all ! and that her dear- 
 est dream of happiness is at last fulfilled.
 
 ( ( 
 
 BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 1 99 
 
 When they have asked each other in- 
 numerable questions about different matters, 
 that would concern the uninitiated world but 
 little, but are fraught with the utmost im- 
 portance to them, they grow happily silent, 
 and sitting hand in hand look dreamily into 
 the Qflowinof embers of the fire. Trifles lig^ht 
 as air rise before them, and strengthen them 
 in the belief at which they have just arrived, 
 that they have been devoted to each other 
 for years. All the old hasty w^ords and 
 angry looks are now to be regarded as vague 
 expressions of a love suppressed, because 
 fearful of a disdainful reception. 
 
 Presently, after a rather prolonged pause, 
 Dulce, drawing a deep but happy sigh, turns 
 to him, and says tenderly, though somewhat 
 regretfully :
 
 200 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 "Ah! if only you had not stolen those 
 chocolate creams ! " 
 
 " I didn't steal them," protests Roger, as 
 indignantly as a man can whose arm is 
 fondly clasped around the beloved of his 
 heart. 
 
 "Well, of course, I mean if you hadn't 
 eaten them," says Dulce sadly. 
 
 " But, my life, I never saw them," exclaims 
 poor Roger vehemently ; " I swear I didn't." 
 
 "Well, then, if I hadn't said you did," 
 says Dulce mournfully. 
 
 " Ah ! that indeed," says Mr. Dare with 
 corresponding gloom. " If you hadn't, all 
 
 might now be well — as it is Do you 
 
 know I have never since seen one of 
 those loathsome sweets, without feeling 
 positively murderous, and shall hate choco- 
 late to my dying day ? "
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 201 
 
 " It was a pity we fouf;ht about sucli 
 a trifle," murmurs she, shaking her head. 
 
 " Was it } " Turning- to her, he Hfts her 
 face with his hand, and gazes intently into 
 her eyes. Whatever he sees in those clear 
 depths seems to satisfy him, and make 
 glad his heart. " After all, I don't believe 
 it was," he says. 
 
 " Not a pity we quarrelled, and — and lost 
 each other ? " Considering their extremely 
 close proximity to each other at this moment, 
 the allusion to the loss they are supposed 
 to have sustained is not very affecting. 
 
 " No. Though we are rather in a hole 
 now," says Mr. Dare, somewhat at a loss 
 for a word. " I am very glad we 
 fought ! " 
 
 "Oh, Roger !" 
 
 " Aren't you } "
 
 202 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 " How can you ask me such a heart- 
 less question ? " 
 
 " Don't you see what it has done for 
 us ? Has it not taught us that " — very 
 tenderly this — " we love each other." His 
 tone alone would have brouo-ht her round 
 to view anything in his light. " And 
 somehow," he goes on, after a necessary 
 pause, " I feel sure that after awhile that 
 — that — I mean," with an effort that speaks 
 volumes for his sense of propriety, " Gower 
 will give in, and absolve you from your 
 promise. He may as well, you know, when 
 he sees the game is up." 
 
 " But when will he see that ? " 
 " He evidently saw it to-day." 
 " Well, he was very far from giving in 
 to-day, or even dreaming of granting abso- 
 lution."
 
 " BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 203 
 
 " Well, we must make him see it even 
 more clearly," says Roger desperately. 
 
 " But how ? " dejectedly. 
 
 " By making violent love to me all day 
 long, and by letting me make it to you. It 
 will wear him out," says Mr. Dare confi- 
 dently. "He won't be able to stand it. 
 Would — would you much mind trying to 
 make violent love to me ^ " 
 
 "Mind it?" says Dulce enthusiastically, 
 plainly determined to render herself up a 
 willing (very willing) sacrifice upon the altar 
 of the present necessity. " I should like it !" 
 
 This 7zawe speech brings Roger, if possible, 
 a little closer to her. 
 
 " I think I must have been utterly without 
 intellect in the old days, not to have seen 
 then what a darling you are." 
 
 " Oh, no," says Dulce meekly, which might
 
 204 roRTiA ; ok, 
 
 mean that, in her opinion, either he is not 
 without intellect, or she is not a darhng. 
 
 " I was abominable to you then," persists 
 Roger, with the deepest self-abasement. " I 
 wonder you can look with patience at me 
 now. I was a perfect bear to you ! " 
 
 " Indeed you were not," says Dulce, slip- 
 ping her arm round his neck. " You 
 couldn't have been, because I am sure I 
 loved you even then, and besides," with a 
 little, soft, coaxing smile, " I won't listen to 
 you at all, if you call my own boy bad 
 names ! " 
 
 Rapture ; and a prolonged pause. 
 
 "What shall we do if that wretched 
 beggar won't relent, and let me marry 
 you," says Roger presently. 
 
 " Only bear it, I suppose," with profound- 
 est resignation ; it is so profound that it
 
 " BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 20 = 
 
 Strikes Mr. Dare as being philosophical, 
 and displeases him accordingly. 
 
 "You don't seem to care much," he says 
 in an offended tone, getting up and standing 
 with his back to the mantelpiece, and his 
 face turned to her, as though determined 
 to keep an eye on her. 
 
 " I don't care ? " reproachfully. 
 
 " Not to any very great extent, I think, 
 and of course it is not to be wondered at. 
 I'm not much, I allow, and perhaps there 
 are others " 
 
 "Now that is not at all a prett)' speech," 
 interrupts Dulce sweetly; "so you shan't 
 finish it. Come here directly and give me 
 a little kiss, and don't be cross." 
 
 This decides everything. He comes here 
 directly, and gives her a little kiss, and isn't 
 a bit cross.
 
 206 PORTIA ; OR. 
 
 "Why shouldn't you defy him, and marry 
 me ? " says Roger defiantly. " What right 
 has he to extort such a promise from you ? 
 Once we were man and wife, he would be 
 powerless." 
 
 " But there is my word — I swore to him," 
 returns she earnestly. '* I cannot forget 
 that. It was an understanding, a bargain." 
 
 "Well, but." begins he again; and then 
 he sees something in the little pale, but 
 determined face, gazing pathetically up into 
 his, that deters him from further argument. 
 She will be quite true to her word once 
 pledged, he knows that ; and though the 
 knowledge is bitter to him, yet he respects 
 her so highly for it, that he vows to himself 
 he will no longer strive to tempt her from 
 her sense of right. Lifting one of her
 
 " BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 207 
 
 hands, he lays it upon his lips, as though 
 to keep himself by her dear touch from 
 further speech. 
 
 " Never mind," he says, caressing her soft 
 fingers tenderly. " We may be able to baffle 
 him yet, and even if not, we can be happy 
 together in spite of him. Can we not ? I 
 know I can," drawing her closer to him, he 
 whispers gently : 
 
 " ' A smile of thine, shall make my bliss ! ' " 
 
 After a while it occurs to them that they 
 ought to return to the drawing-room and the 
 prosaic humdrumedness of everyday life. It 
 is wonderful how paltry everything has be- 
 come in their sight, how it is dwarfed and 
 stunted by comparison with the great light 
 of love that is surroundincr them. All outside
 
 2o8 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 this mist seems lost in a dull haze, seems 
 pale — expressionless. 
 
 Opening the library door with slow, re- 
 luctant fingers, they almost stumble against 
 a figure crouching near the lintel. This 
 figure starts into nervous life at their appear- 
 ance, and, muttering something inaudible in 
 a heavy indistinct tone, shuft^es away from 
 them, and is lost to sight round a corner of 
 the corridor. 
 
 " Surely that was old Gregory," says 
 Dulce, after a surprised pause. 
 
 "So it was," returns Roger, "and, as 
 usual, as drunk as a fiddler." 
 
 " Isn't it dreadful of him ? " says Dulce. 
 " Do you know, Roger, his manner is so 
 strange of late, that I verily believe that 
 
 ' -i " 
 
 man is going mad ?
 
 BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 209 
 
 "Well, he won't hav^e far to go, at any 
 rate," says Mr. Dare cheerfully. " He has 
 been on the road, I should say, a consider- 
 able time." 
 
 VOL. HI. o
 
 2 10 PORTIA; OR, 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 " Let the dead past bury its dead." 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 Just at first it is so delightful to Dulce to 
 have Roger making actual love to her, and 
 so delightful to Roger to be able to make it, 
 that they are content with their present, and 
 heedless of their future. 
 
 Not that everything goes quite smoothly 
 with them, even now. Little skirmishes, as 
 of old, arise between them, threatening to dim 
 the brightness of their days. It was, indeed, 
 only yesterday that a very serious rupture 
 was near taking place, all occasioned by a 
 difference of opinion about the respective
 
 " BY PASSIONS ROCKED. ' 2 11 
 
 merits of Mr. Morton's and Messrs. Crosse 
 & Blackwell's pickles ; Dulce declaring for 
 the former, Roger for the latter. 
 
 Fortunately, Mark Gore coming into the 
 room smoothed matters over, and drew con- 
 versation into a more congenial channel, or 
 lamentable consequences might have ensued. 
 
 They hold to their theory about the cer- 
 tainty of Stephen's relenting in due time, 
 until they grow tired of it ; and as the days 
 creep on, and Gower sitting alone in his own 
 castle in sullen silence refuses to see, or 
 speak to them, or give any intimation of a 
 desire to soften towards them, they lose heart 
 altogether, and give themselves up a prey to 
 despair. 
 
 Roger one morning had plucked up cour- 
 age, and had gone over to the Fens, and 
 had forced himself into the presence of its
 
 2 I 2 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 master and expostulated with him " mildly 
 but firmly," as he assured Dulce afterwards, 
 when she threw out broad hints to the effect 
 that she believed he had lost his temper on 
 the occasion. Certainly, from all accounts, 
 a good deal of temper had been lost, and 
 nothing indeed came of the interview be- 
 yond a select amount of vituperation from 
 both sides, an openly avowed declaration 
 on Mr. Gower's part that as he had not 
 requested the pleasure of his society on 
 this, or any other, occasion, he hoped it 
 would be the last time Roger would pre- 
 sent himself at the Fens ; an equally honest 
 avowal on the part of Mr. Dare to the effect 
 tliat the discomfort he felt in cominof was 
 almost (it never could be quite) balanced by 
 the joy he experienced at departing, and a
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 21^ 
 
 few more hot words that very nearly led to 
 bloodshed. 
 
 When Roger thought it all over dispas- 
 sionately next morning, he told himself that 
 now indeed all things were at an end, that 
 no hope lay anywhere ; and now February 
 is upon them, and Spring begins to assert 
 itself, and the land has learned to smile 
 again, and all the pretty early buds are 
 swelling in the hedgerows. 
 
 I wonder they don't get tired of swelling 
 only to die in the long run. What does 
 their perseverance gain for them ? There 
 is a little sunshine, a little warmth, the 
 song of a bird or two chanted across their 
 trailing beauty, and then one heavy shower, 
 and then — death ! What a monotonous 
 thing is Nature, when all is told ! Each 
 year is but a long day ; each life but a long
 
 214 PORTIA; OR, 
 
 year : at morn we rise, at night we lay our 
 weary heads upon our pillows : at morn we 
 rise again, and so on. As Winter comes 
 our flowers fade and die ; Spring brings them 
 back again ; again the Winter kills them, and 
 so — for ever ! 
 
 Now Spring has come once more to the 
 old Court to commence its triumphant reign, 
 regardless of the fact that no matter how 
 bright its day may be while it lasts, still 
 dissolution stares it in the face. The young 
 grass is thrusting its head above ground, 
 a few brave birds are sinofinof- on the barren 
 branches. There is a stir, a strange vague 
 flutter everywhere of freshly opening life. 
 
 " We shall have to shake off dull sloth 
 pretty early to-morrow," says Dicky Browne 
 suddenly, apropos of nothing that has gone
 
 * BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 21 5 
 
 before, his usual method of introducing a 
 subject. 
 
 "Why?" asks Portia, almost startled. It 
 is nearly five o'clock, and Mr. Browne, 
 having sequestrated the remainder of the 
 cake, the last piece being the occasion of a 
 most undio^nified skirmish between him and 
 the Boodie, the Boodie proving victor, is 
 now at liberty to enter into light and cheer- 
 ful conversation. 
 
 " The meet, you know," says Dicky. 
 " Long way off. Hate hunting myself, when 
 I've got to leave my bed for it." 
 
 "You needn't go," says Dulce ; "nobody 
 is pressing you," 
 
 " Oh ! I'm not like you," says Mr. 
 Browne contemptuously, " liking a thing 
 to-day, and hating it to-morrow. You 
 used to be a sort of modern — I mean,
 
 2l6 PORTIA ; OR 
 
 decent Diana, but lately you have rather 
 shirked the whole thinij." 
 
 " I had a cold last day, and — and a 
 headache the day before that," stammers 
 Dulce, blushing scarlet. 
 
 " Nobody could hunt with a headache," 
 says Roger, at which defence Mr Browne 
 grins. 
 
 " Well, youVe got them over," he says. 
 " What's going to keep you at home to- 
 morrow ? " 
 
 " I don't understand you, Dicky," says 
 Miss Blount with dignity. " I am going 
 hunting to-morrow ; there is nothing that 
 I know of likely to keep me at home." 
 
 She is true to her word. Next morn- 
 ing they find her ready equipped at a 
 very early hour, " Taut and trim," as 
 Dicky tells, " from her hat to her boots."
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 2 I y 
 
 " Do you know," he says further, as 
 though imparting to her some information 
 hitherto undiscovered, "joking apart, you 
 will understand, you are — really — quite a 
 pretty young woman ? " 
 
 " Thank you, Dicky," says she very 
 meekly, and as a more substantial mark 
 of her gratitude for this gracious speech, 
 she drops a fourth lump of sugar into his 
 coffee. 
 
 Shortly after this they start, Dulce still 
 in the very gayest spirits, with Roger on 
 her right hand, and Mark Gore on her 
 left. But as they near the happy hunting- 
 grounds, her brightness flags, she grows 
 silent and preoccupied, and each fresh 
 hoof upon the road behind her makes 
 her betray a desire to hide herself behind 
 somebody.
 
 2l8 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 Of late, indeed, hunting has lost its charm 
 for her, and the meets have become a source 
 of confusion and discomfort. Her zest for 
 the chase has sustained a severe check, 
 so great that her favourite hounds have 
 solicited the usual biscuit from her hands 
 in vain. 
 
 And all this is because the one thing dear 
 to the soul of the gloomy Stephen is the 
 pursuit of the wily fox, and that therefore 
 on the field of battle it becomes inevitable 
 that she must meet her whilom lover face 
 to face. 
 
 Looking round fearfully now, she sees him 
 at a little distance, seated on an irreproach- 
 able mount. His brows are knitted moodily, 
 his very attitude is repellent. He responds 
 to the pleasant salutations showered upon 
 him from all quarters by a laconic "How
 
 ( 1 
 
 »> 
 
 BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 219 
 
 d'ye do." or a still more freezing nod. Even 
 Sir Christopher's hearty "Good-morning, 
 lad," has no effect upon him. 
 
 " Something rotten in the state of Den- 
 mark, there," says the Master, Sir Guy 
 Chetwoode, turninQ^ to Dorian Branscombe. 
 " Surly, eh ? Rather a safe thing for that 
 pretty girl of Blount's to have given him 
 the go-by, eh ? " 
 
 "Wouldn't have him at any price if I 
 were a girl," says Branscombe. " I don't 
 like his eyes. Murderous sort of beggar." 
 
 "Faith, I don't know," says Geoffrey 
 Rodney, who is riding by them, and who 
 is popularly supposed always to employ 
 this expletive because his wife is Irish. " I 
 rather like the fellow myself; so does Mona. 
 It's rough on him, you know, all the world 
 knowing he has been jilted."
 
 2 20 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 " I heard it was he gave her up," says 
 Teddy Luttrel, who has been fighting so 
 hard with a refractory collar up to this that 
 he has not been able to edge in a word. 
 
 "Oh! I daresay!" says Branscombe, so 
 ironically that every one concludes it will be 
 useless to say anything further. 
 
 And now the business of the day is begun. 
 Every one has settled him or herself into the 
 saddle, and is preparing to make a day of it. 
 
 Two hours later many are in a position to 
 acknowledge sadly that the day they have 
 made has not been exactly up to the mark. 
 The various positions of these many are, for 
 the most part, more remarkable than elegant. 
 Some are reclining gracefully in a ditch ; 
 some are riding dolefully homewards with 
 much more forehead than they started with 
 in the morning ; some, and these are the
 
 "by passions rocked. 22 1 
 
 saddest of all, are standing forlorn in the 
 middle of an empty meadow, gazing help- 
 lessly at the flying tail of the animal they 
 bestrode only a short five minutes ago. 
 
 The field is growing decidedly thin. 
 Lady Chetwoode, well to the front, is hold- 
 ing her own bravely. Sir Guy is out of sight, 
 having just disappeared over the brow of the 
 small hill opposite. Dicky Browne, who 
 rides like a bird, is going at a rattling pace 
 straight over anything and everything that 
 comes in his way, with the most delightful 
 impartiality, believing, as he has never yet 
 come a very violent cropper, that the gods 
 are on his side. 
 
 Roger and Dulce have got a little away 
 from the others, and are now riding side 
 by side across a rather hilly held. Right 
 before them rises a wall, small enough in
 
 2 22 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 itself, but in parts dangerous, because of 
 the heavy fall at the other side, hidden 
 from the eye by some brambles growing 
 on the top of the stonework. 
 
 Lower down, this wall proves itself even 
 more treacherous, as there it effectually 
 hides the drop into the adjoining field, 
 which is here too deep for any horse, 
 however good, to take with safety. It is 
 a spot well known by all the sportsmen 
 in the neighbourhood, as one to be avoided, 
 ever since Gort, the farmer, some years 
 before, had jumped it for the sake of an 
 idle bet, and had been carried home from 
 it a dead man, leaving his good brown 
 mare with a broken back behind him. 
 
 It would seem, however, that either 
 ignorance or recklessness is carrying one 
 of the riders to-day towards this fatal spot.
 
 BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 223 
 
 He is now bearing down upon it with the 
 evident intention of clearinor the traitorous 
 wall, and so gaining upon the hounds, 
 who are streaming up the hill beyond, 
 unaware that almost certain destruction 
 awaits him at the point towards which he 
 is riding so carelessly. 
 
 Dulce, turning her head accidentally in 
 his direction, is the first to see him. 
 
 "Oh, see there!" she cries, in a fright- 
 ened tone to Roger, pointing to the lower 
 part of the field. " Who is that going to 
 take Gort's Fall ? " 
 
 Roger, following her glance, pulls up 
 short, and stares fixedly at the man below, 
 now drawing terribly near to the con- 
 demned spot. And, as he looks, his face 
 changes, the blood forsakes it, and a horrified 
 expression creeps into his eyes.
 
 2 24 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 " By Jove ! it is Stephen," he says at last, 
 in an indescribable tone ; and then, knowing 
 he cannot reach him in time to prevent the 
 coming catastrophe, he stands up in his stir- 
 rups and shouts to the unconscious Stephen, 
 with all the strength of his fresh, young 
 lungs, to turn back before it is too late. 
 
 But all in vain ; Stephen either does 
 not or cannot hear. He has by this time 
 reached the wall, his horse, the gallant 
 animal, responds to his touch. He rises — 
 there is a crash, a dull thud, and then all 
 is still. 
 
 Involuntarily Dulce has covered her eyes 
 with her hand, and by a supreme effort has 
 suppressed the cry that has risen from her 
 heart. A sickenino- sensation of faintness 
 is overpowering her. When at length she 
 gains courage to open her eyes again she
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 225 
 
 finds RoQfer has forsaken her, and is ridinof 
 Hke one possessed across the open field, and 
 — there beyond, where the sun is ghnting 
 in small patches upon the dry grass, she 
 sees, too, a motionless mass of scarlet cloth, 
 and a dark head lying — oh ! so strangely 
 quiet. 
 
 Roger, having safely cleared the unlucky 
 wall higher up, has flung himself from his 
 saddle, and is now on his knees beside 
 Gower, and has lifted his head upon his 
 arm. 
 
 "Stephen, Stephen," he cries brokenly. 
 But Stephen is beyond hearing. He is 
 quite insensible, and deaf to the voice that 
 in the old days used to have a special charm 
 for him. Laying him gently down again, 
 Roger rises to his feet, and looks wildly 
 round. Duke has arrived by this time, 
 
 VOL. Ill, p
 
 2 26 PORTIA; OR, 
 
 and, having sprung to her feet, has let her 
 horse, too, go to the winds. 
 
 " He is not dead ? " she asks at first, in 
 a ghastly whisper, with pale and trembling 
 lips. 
 
 " I don't know, I'm not sure," says Roger 
 distractedly. " Oh, if somebody would only 
 come ! 
 
 Not a soul is in sight. By this time every 
 one has disappeared over the hill, and not 
 a human being is to be seen far or near. 
 
 " Have you no brandy ? " asks Dulce, 
 who is rubbincT the hands of the senseless 
 man, trying to restore animation by this 
 means. 
 
 "Yes, yes, I had forgotten," says Roger, 
 and then he kneels down once again, and 
 takes Stephen into his arms, and raising 
 his head on his knee, tries to force a few
 
 * BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 22 7 
 
 drops of the brandy between his pallid 
 lips. 
 
 At this supreme moment all is forgotten. 
 All the old heartaches, the cruel taunts, the 
 angry words. Once again he is his earliest 
 friend ; the boy, the youth, the man, he had 
 loved, until a woman had come between 
 them. Everything rushes back upon him, 
 as he stoops over Gower, and gazes, with 
 passionate fear and grief, upon his marble 
 face. 
 
 After all, there had been more good points 
 than bad about Stephen, more good, indeed, 
 than about most fellows. How fond he had 
 been of him in the old days ; how angry he 
 would have been with any one who had dared 
 then to accuse him of acting shabbily, or — 
 well, well, no use of raking up old grievances 
 now, and no doubt there was great tempta-
 
 2 28 PORTIA; OR, 
 
 tlon, and besides, too, uncivil things had 
 been said to him, and he (Roger) had cer- 
 tainly not been up to the mark himself in 
 many ways. 
 
 Memories of school and college life crowd 
 upon Roger now, as he gazes with ever in- 
 creasing fear upon the rigid features below 
 him ; little scenes, insignificant in them- 
 selves, but enriched by honest sentiment, 
 and tenderly connected with the dawn of man- 
 hood, when the fastidious Gower had been 
 attracted and fascinated by the bolder and 
 more reckless qualities of Dare, recur to him 
 now with a clearness that, under the present 
 miserable circumstances, is almost painful. 
 
 He tries to shake off these tormenting re- 
 collections, to bury his happy college life out 
 of sight, only to fmd his mind once more 
 busy on a fresh field.
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 229 
 
 Again he is at school, with Stephen near 
 him, and all the glory of an Eton fight 
 before him. What glorious old days they 
 were, so full of life and vigour, and now ! 
 It is with exceeding pathos he calls to mind 
 one memorable day on which he had banged 
 Stephen most triumphantly about the head 
 with a Latin grammar — Stephen's grammar, 
 be it understood, which had always seemed 
 to add an additional zest to the affair; and 
 then the free fight afterwards, in which he, 
 Roger, had been again victorious ; and 
 Stephen had not taken it badly either : had 
 resented neither the Latin banmnof, nor the 
 victory later on. No, he was certainly not 
 ill-tempered then, dear old chap. Even 
 before the blood had been wiped from their 
 injured noses on that never-to-be-forgotten 
 occasion, Stephen had shaken hands with
 
 230 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 him, and they had sworn publicly a life-long 
 friendship. 
 
 And here is the end of it! His sworn 
 friend is lying stark and motionless in his 
 embrace, with a deathly pallor on his face, 
 that is awfully like death, and with a heart, 
 if it still beats, filled with angry thoughts 
 of him, as he bends, with a face scarcely 
 less bloodless than his, above him. 
 
 Will no one ever come ? 
 
 Roger glances despairingly at Dulce, who 
 is still trying to get some brandy down the 
 wounded man's throat, and even as she does 
 so, Stephen's eyes unclose, and a heavy 
 sobbing sigh escapes him. 
 
 Strangely enough, as the two bend over 
 him, and his cfaze wanders from one face to 
 the other, it rests finally, with a great sense 
 of content, not on Dulce's face, but on
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 23 I 
 
 Roger's. Instinctively he turns in his hour 
 of need, from the woman who had wronged 
 him, to the man whom he had wronged in 
 the first instance, and who — though he has 
 suffered many things at his hands of late 
 — brines to him now a breath from that 
 earlier and happier life, where love — who 
 has proved so bitter — was unknown. 
 
 "Stephen! Dear old fellow, you are not 
 much hurt, are you ? " asks Roger tenderly. 
 " Where is the pain ? Where does it hurt 
 you most ? " 
 
 " Here ! " says Stephen faintly, trying to 
 lift one of his arms to point to his left side, 
 but, with a groan, the arm falls helpless, and 
 then they know, with a sickening feeling of 
 horror, that it is broken. Stephen loses con- 
 sciousness aeain for a moment. 
 
 "It is broken!" says Roger. "And I
 
 232 PORTIA; OR, 
 
 am afraid there must be some internal in- 
 jury besides. Wliat on earth is to be done, 
 Dulce?" in a frantic tone; " we shall have 
 him here all niorht, unless we do somethinsf. 
 Will you stay with him, while I run and try 
 to find somebody?" 
 
 But Stephen's senses having returned to 
 him by this time, he overhears and under- 
 stands the last sentence. 
 
 " No, don't leave me," he entreats ear- 
 nestly, though speaking with great difficulty. 
 " Roger, are you there? — stay with me." 
 
 " There is Dulce," falters Roger. 
 
 " No, no ; don't leave me here alone," says 
 the wounded man, with foolish persistency ; 
 and Roger, at his wits' end, hardly knows 
 what to do. 
 
 " Are you anything easier now ? " he asks, 
 raising Stephen's head ever so gently. Dulce,
 
 " BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 233 
 
 feeling her presence has been thoroughly 
 ignored, and fearing lest the very sight of 
 her may irritate her late lover, draws back a 
 little, and stands where he can no longer see 
 her. 
 
 " Try to drink this," says Roger, holding 
 the flask again to Gower's lips, and forcing a 
 few drops between them. They are of some 
 use, as presently a slight, a very slight, tinge 
 of red comes into his cheek, and his eyes 
 show more animation. 
 
 "It is very good of you, old man," he 
 whispers faintly, looking up at Roger. " I 
 believe you are sorry for me, after all." 
 
 The " after all " is full of meanine. 
 
 " Why shouldn't I be sorry for you ? " 
 says Roger, huskily, his eyes full of tears. 
 '' Don't talk like that." 
 
 " I know you think I behaved badly to
 
 2 34 PORTIA; OR, 
 
 you," goes on Stephen, with painful slowness. 
 " And perhaps I did." 
 
 "As to that," interrupted Roger quickly, 
 " we're quits there, you know ; nothing need 
 be said about that. Why can't we forget it 
 all, Stephen, and be friends again ? " 
 
 " With all my heart," says Gower, and his 
 eyes grow glad, and a faint smile, short but 
 full of real happiness, illumines his features 
 a moment. 
 
 " Now, don't talk any more, don't, there's 
 a good fellow," says Roger with deep en- 
 treaty. 
 
 "There is — one thing — I must say," 
 whispers Gower, "while I have time. Tell 
 her — that I have behaved like a coward to 
 her, and that I give her back her promise. 
 Tell her she may marry whom she pleases." 
 He gasps for breath ; and then, pressing
 
 -JO 
 
 BY PASSIONS ROCKED. '> ^ 
 
 Roger's hand with his own uninjured one, 
 says, with a last effort, "And that will be 
 you, I hope." 
 
 The struggle to say this proves too much 
 for his exhausted strength, his head drops 
 back again upon Roger's arm, and for the 
 third time he falls into a dead faint. 
 
 The tears are runninof down Roller's cheeks 
 by this time, and he is gazing with ever 
 increasing terror at the deathly face below 
 him, when, looking up to address some re- 
 mark to Dulce, he finds she is nowhere to 
 be seen. Even as he looks round for her 
 in consternation, he sees two or three men 
 hurrying towards him, and two others follow- 
 ing more slowly with something that looks 
 like a shutter or a door between them. 
 Dulce, while he was listening to Stephen's 
 last heavily uttered words, had hurried away.
 
 2^6 PORTIA; OR, 
 
 and, climbing over all that came in her way, 
 had descended into a little valley not far 
 from the scene of the accident, where at a 
 farm-house she had told her tale, and pressed 
 into her service the men now coming quickly 
 towards Roger. 
 
 With their help the wounded man (still 
 happily unconscious) is carried to the farm- 
 house, where he remains until the carriage 
 from the Court having arrived, they take 
 him home in it as carefully as can be man- 
 aged. 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 In a few hours the worst is known; and, 
 after all, the worst is not so very bad. His 
 arm is broken, and two of his ribs, and 
 there is rather a severe contusion on his 
 left shoulder. Little Doctor Bland has 
 pledged them his word in the most solemn
 
 "by passions rocked." 237 
 
 manner, however, that there is no internal 
 injury, and that his patient only requires 
 time and care to be quite himself again in 
 no time. This peculiar date is a favourite 
 one with the little medico. 
 
 The household being reassured by this 
 comfortable news, every one grows more 
 tranquil, and dinner having proved a distinct 
 failure, supper is proposed. Roger having 
 hunted the whole house unsuccessfully for 
 Dulce, to compel her to come in and eat 
 something, unearths her at last in the nursery, 
 where she is sitting all alone, staring at the 
 sleeping children. 
 
 "Where's nurse?" asks Ro2:er, e^zinsf 
 round. " Has she been dismissed, and 
 have you applied for the situation ? " 
 
 "She has gone down for a message. I 
 came here," says Dulce, "because I didn't
 
 2^8 rORTIA ; OR, 
 
 want to speak to anybody. I feel so strange 
 still, and so frightened," 
 
 "Come down and eat something," says 
 Roger. " You must. I shall carry you, 
 if you won't walk, and think how the ser- 
 vants will speak about your light behaviour 
 afterwards ! Do come, darling ; you know 
 you have eaten nothing since breakfast." 
 
 " I wonder if he is really in no danger," 
 says Dulce wistfully. 
 
 "He certainly is not. I have it from 
 Bland himself; and, Dulce," and here he 
 hesitates, as if uncertain whether he ought 
 to proceed or not, " now it is all right, you 
 know, and — and that ; and when we have 
 heard he is on the safe road to recovery, it 
 can't be any harm to say what is on my 
 mind, can it ? " 
 
 " No ; I suppose not," says Dulce, blushing 
 
 vividly.
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 239 
 
 "Well then, just say you will marry me 
 the very moment he is on his feet again/' 
 says Roger, getting this out with consider- 
 able rapidity. "It will seem ungracious of 
 us, I think, not to take advantage of his 
 kindness as soon as possible." 
 
 " Supposing he was to go back of it all 
 when he got well," says Dulce timidly. 
 
 "Oh! he can't; a promise is a promise, 
 you know — as he has made us feel. Poor 
 old Stephen," this last hastily, lest he shall 
 seem hard on his newly recovered friend. 
 
 " If you think that," says Dulce, going 
 close up to him, and looking at him with soft 
 love-lit eyes, " I will marry you, just when- 
 ever you like." To make this sweet assur- 
 ance doubly sweet, she stands on tiptoe, and 
 slipping her arms round her lover's neck, 
 kisses him with all her heart.
 
 240 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 "About some act 
 That has no relish of salvation in't." 
 
 Hamlet. 
 " Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge." 
 
 Titus Andronicus. 
 
 " Before you begin, Fabian, it is only fair 
 to tell you that I will not listen favourably 
 to one word in his defence. Under the 
 farcical term of secretary, Slyme has been 
 a disgrace and a torment to me for years ; 
 and last night has finished everything." 
 
 " It was very unfortunate, no doubt," says 
 Fabian regretfully. " What a curse the love 
 of drink is — a madness, a passion." 
 
 " I have told hini he must go," says Sir
 
 ' BV PASSIONS ROCKED. 24! 
 
 Christopher, who is in a white heat of rage, 
 and is walking up and down the room with 
 an indignant frown upon his face ; just now 
 stopping short before Fabian, he drops into 
 a seat, and says testily — "'Unfortunate!' 
 that is no word to use about it. Why, 
 look you how it stands ; you invite people 
 to your house to dine, and on your way to 
 your dining-room, with a lady on your arm, 
 you are accosted and insolently addressed 
 by one of your own household — )'our secre- 
 tary, forsooth — so drunk that it was shame- 
 ful ! He reeled ! — I give you my word, sir 
 — he reeled ! I thought Lady Chetw^oode 
 would have fainted, she turned as pale as 
 her gown, and but for her innate pluck 
 would have cried aloud. It was insuffer- 
 able, Fabian ; waste no more words over 
 him, for go he shall." 
 
 VOL. HI. o
 
 242 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 "After all these years," says Fabian 
 thoughtfully, thrumming gently on the table 
 near him with his forefinofer. 
 
 All night long the storm has raged with 
 unexampled fury, and ev^en yet its anger 
 is fierce and Ki^h as when first it hurled 
 itself upon a sleeping world. The raindrops 
 are pattering madly against the window- 
 panes ; through the barren branches of the 
 elms the wind is shriekinor • now risins: far 
 above the heads of the tallest trees, now- 
 descending to the very bosom of the earth, 
 and flying over it, it drives before its mighty 
 breath all such helpless things as are de- 
 fenceless and at its mercy. 
 
 Perhaps the noise of this tempest outside 
 drowns the keen sense of hearing in those 
 within, because neither Fabian nor Sir 
 Christopher stir, or appear at all conscious
 
 >( 
 
 )> 
 
 BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 243 
 
 of the opening of a door at the upper end 
 of the library, where they are sitting. It 
 is a small door hidden by a portiere, leading- 
 into another corridor that connects itself 
 with the servants' part of the house. 
 
 As this door is gently pushed open, a 
 head protrudes itself cautiously into the 
 room, though, on account of the hanging 
 curtains, it is quite invisible to the other 
 occupants of the apartment. A figure fol- 
 lows the head, and stands irresolutely on 
 the threshold, concealed from observation, 
 not only by the curtain, but by a Japanese 
 screen, that is placed just behind Sir Chris- 
 topher's head. 
 
 It is a crouching, forlorn, debased figure, 
 out of which all manliness and fearlessness 
 have gone. A figure crowned by grey hair, 
 yet gaining no reverence thereby, but rather
 
 244 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 an additional touch of degradation. There 
 is, too, an air of despondency and alarm 
 about this figure to-day, new to it. It looks 
 already an outcast, a miserable waif, turned 
 out to buffet with the angry winds of fortune 
 at the very close of its life's journey. There 
 is a wildness in his bloodshot eyes, and a 
 nervous tremor in his bony hand as it 
 clutches at the curtain for support, that 
 betrays the haunting terror that is deso- 
 lating him. 
 
 " I don't care," says Sir Christopher ob- 
 durately, " I have suffered too much at his 
 hands ; I owe him nothing but discomfort. 
 I tell you my mind is made up, Fabian ; he 
 leaves me at once, and for ever." 
 
 At this, the crouching figure in the door- 
 way shivers, and shakes his wretched old 
 head, as though all things for him are at an
 
 "by passions rocked. " 245 
 
 end. The storm seems to burst with re- 
 doubled fury, and flings itself against the 
 panes, as though calling upon him to come 
 out and be their pastime and their sport. 
 
 " My dear Christopher," says Fabian very 
 quietly, yet with an air of decision that can 
 be heard above the fury of the storm, " it 
 is impossible you can turn the old man out, 
 now, at his age, to again solicit Fortune's 
 favour. It would be terrible." 
 
 At this calm but powerful intervention 
 of Fabian's, the old head in the doorway 
 (bowed with fear and anxiety) raises itself 
 abruptly, as though unable to believe the 
 words that have just fallen upon his ears. 
 He has crept here to listen with a morbid 
 longing to contemptuous words uttered of 
 him by the lips that have just spoken ; and 
 lo ! these very lips have been opened in his
 
 246 PORTIA ; OK, 
 
 behalf, and nought but kindly words have 
 issued from them ! 
 
 As the truth breaks in upon his dulled 
 brain that Fabian has actually been defend- 
 ing his — his case, a ghastly pallor over- 
 spreads his face, and it is with difficulty he 
 suppresses a groan. He controls himself, 
 however, and listens eagerly for what may 
 follow. 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me I am bound to 
 keep a depraved drunkard beneath my roof?" 
 demands Sir Christopher vehemently. "A 
 fellow who insults my guests, who " 
 
 " The fact that he has contracted this 
 miserable habit of which you speak, is only 
 another reason why you should think well 
 before you discard him now, in his old age," 
 says Fabian, with increasing earnestness. 
 " He will starve — die in a garret or by the
 
 " BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 247 
 
 wayside, if you fling him off. He is not in 
 a fit state to seek another HveHhood. Who 
 would employ him.'^ And you he has served 
 faithfully for years — twenty years, I think ; 
 and of all the twenty only three or four have 
 been untrustworthy. You should think of 
 that, Christopher. He was your right hand 
 for a long time, and — and he has done 
 neither you nor yours a real injury." 
 
 Here the unhappy figure in the doorway 
 raises his hand and beats his clenched fist in 
 a half-frantic, though silent, manner against 
 his forehead. 
 
 "You are bound, I think," says Fabian in 
 the same calm way, " to look after him, to 
 bear with him a little." 
 
 " You defend him," exclaims Sir Chris- 
 topher irritably, "yet I believe that in his 
 soul he hates you — would do you a harm if
 
 248 PORTIA ; OR. 
 
 he could. It is his treatment of you at 
 times," says Sir Christopher, coming at last 
 to the real crerm of the anofer he is cherish- 
 ing against Slyme, "that — that Re- 
 member what he said only last week about 
 you." 
 
 " Tut ! " says Fabian, " I remember no- 
 thing. He was drunk, no doubt, and said 
 what he did not mean." 
 
 " I believe he did mean it. In vino Veri- 
 tas y 
 
 "Well, even so; if he does believe in 
 the story that has blasted my life, why " — ■ 
 with a sigh — "so do many others. I don't 
 think the poor old fellow would really work 
 me any mischief, but I doubt I have been 
 harsh to him at times, have accused him 
 somewhat roughly, I daresay, of his unfor- 
 tunate failing ; and for that, it may be, he
 
 " RV PASSIONS ROCKED. 249 
 
 owes me a grudge. Nothing more. His 
 bark is worse than his bite. It is my 
 opinion, Christopher, that underneath his 
 sullen exterior there lurks a great deal of 
 good." 
 
 The trembling figure in the doorway is 
 growing more and more bowed. It seems 
 now as if it would gladly sink into the earth 
 through very shame. His hand has left the 
 curtain and is now clinqrinof to the lintel of 
 the door, as though anxious of more sure 
 support than the soft velvet of the portiere 
 could afford. : 
 
 "Well, as you seem bent on supporting a 
 most unworthy object," says Sir Christopher, 
 " I shall pension Slyme, and send him adrift 
 to drink himself to death as soon as suits 
 him." 
 
 " Why do that ? " says Fabian, as quietly
 
 250 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 as ever, but with all the determination that 
 characterises his every word and action ; 
 " this house is large, and can hide him some- 
 where. Besides, he is accustomed to it, and 
 would probably feel lost elsewhere. He has 
 been here for the third of a lifetime, a long, 
 long time." He sighs again. Is he bring- 
 ing to mind the terrible length of the days 
 that have made up the sum of the last five 
 years of his life? "Give him two rooms in 
 the west wing — it is seldom used — and give 
 him to understand he must remain there ; 
 but do not cast him out now that he is old 
 and helpless." 
 
 At this last gentle mark of thoughtful- 
 ness on Fabian's part the figure in the 
 doorway loses all self-control. With a 
 stifled cry he flings his arms above his
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 25 I 
 
 head and staggers away down the corridor 
 outside to his own den. 
 
 "What was that?" asks Sir Christopher 
 quickly ; the smothered cry had reached 
 his ears. 
 
 " What ? I heard nothing," says Fabian, 
 looking up. 
 
 " The storm, perhaps," says his uncle ab- 
 sently. Then after a pause, " Why do you so 
 strongly espouse this man's cause, Fabian ? " 
 
 " Because from my soul I pity him. He 
 has had many things of late to try him. 
 The death of his son, a year ago, upon 
 whom every thought of his heart was 
 centred, was a terrible blow, and then this 
 wretched passion for strong drink having 
 first degraded, has of course finished by 
 embittering his nature. I do not blame 
 him. He has known much misfortune."
 
 252 PORTIA ; OR. 
 
 Sir Christopher, going up to him, places 
 his hands upon the young man's shoulders, 
 and gazes earnestly, with love unutterable, 
 into his eyes. His own are full of tears. 
 
 " No misfortune, however heavy, can 
 embitter a noble nature," he says gently. 
 " One knows that, when one knows you. 
 For your sake, Fabian — because you ask 
 it — Slyme shall remain." 
 
 * • • • • 
 
 It grows towards evening, and still the 
 rain descends in torrents. Small rivers are 
 runninor on the o-ravel walks outside, the 
 snowdrops and crocuses are all dead or 
 (lying, crushed and broken by the cruel 
 wind. 
 
 Down below in the bay the sea has risen, 
 and with a roarino^ sound rushes inland to 
 dash itself aeainst the rocks. Now and
 
 " BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 253 
 
 then a flash of lightning illumines its turbu- 
 lent breast and lets one see how the "ambi- 
 tious ocean " can "swell and rage, and foam, 
 to be exalted with the threatening clouds." 
 The sailors and boatmen generally in the 
 small village are going anxiously to and fro, 
 as though fearful of what such a night as 
 this may produce. 
 
 Now a loud peal of thunder rattles over- 
 head rendering insignificant the wild howl- 
 ing of the wind that only a moment since 
 had been almost deafening. And then the 
 thunder dies away for a while, and the storm 
 shrieks again, and the windows rattle, and 
 the gaunt trees groan and sway, and the 
 huge drops upon the window panes beating 
 incessantly, make once more a " mournful 
 music for the mind." 
 
 They are all assembled in Dulce's boudoir,
 
 2 54 PORTIA; OR, 
 
 being under the impression, perhaps, that 
 while the present incivihty of the elements 
 continues it Is cosier to be in a small room 
 than a large one. It may be this, or the 
 fact that both Dulce and Portia have de- 
 clined to come downstairs or enter any 
 other room, until dinner shall be announced, 
 under any pretext whatsoever. And so as 
 the mountain won't come to Mahomet, 
 Mahomet has come to the mountain. 
 
 Sir Christopher has just gone through an 
 exaggerated rdsumS of old Slyme's disgrace- 
 ful conduct last night, when the door is 
 opened, and they all become aware that 
 the hero of the story is standing before 
 them. 
 
 Yes, there stands Gregory Slyme, pale, 
 breathless, and with one hand already up- 
 lifted as though to deprecate censure, and
 
 BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 255 
 
 to Stay the order "to be gone," that he 
 plainly expects from every lip. 
 
 " Why, here he is again ! " cries Sir Chris- 
 topher, now incensed beyond measure. 
 " Even my niece's room is not safe from 
 him." 
 
 He points angrily to the secretary, who 
 cowers before his angry look, yet shows 
 no intention of retirinij. With all his air 
 of hopeless sottishness, that clings to him 
 like a spotted garment, there is still some- 
 thing strange about the man that attracts 
 the attention of Mark Gore. He has been 
 closely watching him ever since his entrance, 
 and he can see that the head usually buried 
 on the chest is now uplifted, that in the 
 sunken eyes there is a new meaning, a fire 
 freshly kindled, born of acute mental dis- 
 turbance ; and indeed in his whole bcarintr
 
 256 PORTIA; OR, 
 
 there is a settled purpose, very foreign to 
 it. 
 
 " Hear me, hear me," he entreats with 
 quavering accents, but passionate haste. 
 " Do not send me away yet ; I must speak 
 now now, or never ! " 
 
 Tlie final word sinks almost out of hear- 
 inof. His hands fall to his sides. Once 
 again his head sinks to its old place upon 
 his breast. Sir Christopher, believing him 
 to be ag^ain under the influence of drink, 
 opens his lips with the evident intention 
 of ordering him from his presence, when 
 Sir Mark interposes. 
 
 "He has come to say something. Let 
 him say it," he says, tapping Sir Chris- 
 topher's arm persuasively. 
 
 " Ay, let me," says Slyme, in a low tone, 
 yet always with the remnant of a wasted
 
 "by passions rocked." 257 
 
 passion In it. "It has lain heavy on my 
 heart for years. I shall fling it from me 
 now, if the effort to do it kills me." 
 
 Turning his bleared eyes right and left, 
 he searches every face slowly until he 
 comes to Fabian. Here his examination 
 comes to an end. Fastening his eyes on 
 Fabian, he lets them rest there, and never 
 aofain removes them durin;;?- the entire in- 
 terview. He almost seems to forget, or 
 to be unaware, that there is any other soul 
 in the room save the man at whom he is 
 gazing so steadfastly. It is to him alone 
 he addresses himself 
 
 " I call you to witness," he says, now strik- 
 ing himself upon his breast, " that whatever 
 I have done has not gone unpunished. If 
 my crime has been vile my sufferings have 
 been terrible. I have endured torments. I 
 
 VOL. III. R
 
 258 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 want no sympathy — none. I expect only 
 detestation and revenge, but yet I would 
 have you remember that there was a time 
 when I was a man, not the soddened, brutish, 
 contemptible thing I have become. I would 
 ask you to call to mind all you have ever 
 heard about remorse — its stings, its agony, 
 its despair, and I would have you know that 
 I have felt it all ; yea, more, a thousand 
 times more ! " 
 
 All this time he has had his hand pressed 
 against his chest in a rio^id fashion. His 
 lips have grown livid, his face pale as any 
 corpse. 
 
 " This is mere raving," exclaims Sir Chris- 
 topher excitedly ; but again Gore restrains 
 him, as he would have gone forward to order 
 Slyme to retire. 
 
 " To-day," goes on Slyme, always with his
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED, 259 
 
 heavy eyes on P'abian, " I heard you speak 
 in my defence — mine ! Sir, if you could 
 only know how those words of yours burned 
 into my heart, how they have burned since, 
 how they are burning now," smiting himself, 
 " you would be half avenged. I listened to 
 you till my brain could bear no more. You 
 spoke kindly of me, you had pity on my 
 old age — upon mine, who had no pity on 
 your youth, who ruthlessly ruined your life, 
 who " 
 
 " Man, if you have anything to confess — 
 to explain — say it ! " breaks in Sir Mark, 
 vehemently, who is half mad with hope and 
 expectancy. 
 
 Portia has risen from her low seat, and 
 forgetful, or regardless of comment, is gaz- 
 ing with large, wild eyes at the old man. 
 Sir Christopher has grasped Mark Gore's
 
 26o PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 arm with almost painful force, and is trem- 
 bling so violently that Gore places his other 
 arm gently round him, and keeps it there as 
 a support. All, more or less, are agitated. 
 Fabian alone makes no movement ; with a 
 face white to the very lips, he stands with 
 his back against the mantelpiece, facing 
 Slyme, so motionless that he might be a 
 fisfure carved in marble. 
 
 Really deaf and bhnd to all except Fabian, 
 the secretary takes no heed of Sir Mark's 
 violent outburst. He has paused, indeed, 
 at the interruption, some vague sense telling 
 him he will not be heard while it continues, 
 but now it has subsided, he goes on again, 
 addressing himself solely to Fabian, as 
 thoucrh it had never occurred. 
 
 ** It was for him I did it, for his sake," he 
 says monotonously. He is losing his head
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 261 
 
 a little now, and his mind is wandering back 
 to earlier days. " For my boy, my son, to 
 save him. It was a sore temptation ; and 
 he never knew, he never knew." A gleam 
 of something like comfort comes into his 
 eyes as he says this. 
 
 "What did you do?" demands Dicky 
 Browne, in an agony of hope and doubt. 
 " Can't you say it at once and be done with 
 it. Speak out, man — do." 
 
 " Curse me ! Kill me if you will ! " cries 
 Slyme, with sudden vehemence, stretching 
 out his hands to Fabian, and still deaf to 
 any voice but his. "You have been de- 
 ceived, falsely accused, most treacherously 
 dealt with. It was I forged that cheque — 
 not you ! " 
 
 The miserable man, as he makes this
 
 262 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 confession, falls upon his knees, and covers 
 his face with his hands. 
 
 A terrible cry bursts from Dulce ; she 
 springs to her feet, and would have rushed 
 to Fabian, but that Roger, catching her 
 in his arms, prevents her. And indeed it 
 is no time to approach Fabian. He has 
 wakened at last into life out of his curious 
 calm, and the transition from his extreme 
 quietude of a moment since to the state 
 of ungovernable passion in which he now 
 finds himself, is as swift as it is dangerous. 
 
 " You ! " he says, staring at the abject 
 figure kneeling before him, in a tone so 
 low as to be almost inaudible, yet with 
 such an amount of condensed fury in it 
 as terrifies the listeners. "You!" He 
 makes a step forward as though he would 
 verily fall upon his enemy and rend him
 
 "by passions rocked. 263 
 
 in pieces, and so annihilate him from the 
 face of the earth ; but before he can touch 
 him, a sHght body flings itself between 
 him and Slyme, and two small, white 
 hands are laid upon his breast. These 
 little hands, small and powerless as they 
 are, yet have strength to force him back- 
 wards. 
 
 " Think," says Portia in a painful whisper. 
 *' Think ! Fabian, you would not harm that 
 old man." 
 
 " My dear fellow, don't touch him," says 
 Dicky Browne. *' Don't — in your present 
 frame of mind a gentle push of yours would 
 be his death." 
 
 "Death!" says old Slyme, in such a strange 
 voice that Instinctively they all listen to him. 
 " It has no terrors for me." He has raised 
 his head from his hands, and is now gazing
 
 264 PORTIA; OR, 
 
 again at Fabian, as though fascinated, making 
 a wretched and withal a piteous picture, as his 
 thin white locks stream behind him. " What 
 have I to live for ? " he cries miserably. " The 
 boy I slaved for, sinned for, for whom I ruined 
 you and my own soul, is dead, cold in his 
 grave. Have pity on me, therefore, and send 
 me where I may rejoin him." 
 
 Either the excitement of his confession, or 
 the nervous dread of the result of it, has 
 proved too much for him ; because just as 
 the last word passes his lips, he flings his 
 arms wildly into the air, and with a muffled 
 cry, falls prone, a senseless mass, upon the 
 crround. 
 
 When they lift him, they find clutched in 
 his hand a written statement of all he has 
 confessed so vaguely. They are very gentle 
 in their treatment of him, but when he has
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 265 
 
 recovered consciousness and has been carried 
 by the servants to his own room, it must be 
 acknowledged that they all breathe more 
 freely. 
 
 Sir Christopher is crying like a child, and 
 so is Dicky Browne. The tears are lite- 
 rally running in little rivulets all down Dicky's 
 plump cheeks, but he is not in the least 
 ashamed of them — as indeed, why should he 
 be .'* As in between his sobs, he insists on 
 telling everybody he is so glad — so awfully 
 glad — his apparent grief, had they been in 
 the mood for it, would have struck them all 
 as being extremely comic. 
 
 The effect of their tears upon the women 
 has the most desirable result. It first sur- 
 prises, and then soothes them inexpressibly. 
 It leaves indeed a new field entirely open to 
 them. Instead of being petted, they can pet.
 
 266 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 Julia instantly undertakes Dicky, who 
 doesn't quite like it ; Dulce appropriates Sir 
 Christopher, who likes it very much. 
 
 Fabian, now that his one burst of passion 
 is at an end, is again strangely silent. Mark 
 Gore, laying his hand upon his shoulder, says 
 something to him in a low tone unheard by 
 the rest, who are all talking together, and so 
 makinof a solitude for these two. 
 
 " It is too late," says Fabian, replying to 
 him slowly, "too late." There is more of 
 settled conviction than of bitterness in his 
 tone, which only renders it the more melan- 
 choly. " He was right. He has ruined my 
 life. Were I to live twice the allotted time 
 given to man I should never forget these last 
 five horrible years. They have killed me ; 
 that is, the best of me ! I tell you deliver- 
 ance has come too late ! "
 
 << 
 
 BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 26/ 
 
 Even as his voice dies away another rises. 
 
 " Do not say that — anything but that," 
 entreats Portia in deep agitation. Once 
 more this evening she lays her small, jew- 
 elled hand upon his breast, and looks into 
 his eyes : " Fabian, there is renewed hope, 
 a fresh life before you ; take courage. Re- 
 member Oh ! Mark, speak to him." 
 
 She is trembling violently, and her breath 
 is coming with suspicious difficulty. Her 
 lips are quivering ; and pain, actual physical 
 pain, is dimming the lustre of her violet eyes. 
 The old ache is tugging angrily at her heart- 
 strincrs now. 
 
 Still Fabian does not relent. As yet 
 the very salve that has cured his hurt has 
 only made the hurt more unendurable by 
 draeeine it into public notice. Now that 
 he is free, emancipated from the shadow
 
 268 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 of this crime that has encompassed him 
 as a cloud for so long, its proportions 
 seem to grow and increase until they reach 
 a monstrous size. To have been wounded 
 in the body, or deprived of all one's earthly 
 ofoods at a stroke, or bereaved of one's 
 nearest and dearest would all have been 
 sore trials no doubt. 
 
 "But alas! to make me a fixed figure 
 for the time of scorn to point his slow 
 unmoving finger at." What agony, with 
 misfortune, could cope with that ? 
 
 And she, who had not trusted him when 
 she might, will he care that she should 
 trust him now when she must ? 
 
 Slowly he lifts the pale, slender hand, 
 and very gently lets it fall by her side. 
 His meaning is not to be misunderstood : 
 he will none of her. Henceforth their
 
 •'BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 269 
 
 paths shall lie as widely apart as they 
 have lain (of her own choice) for the past 
 few months. 
 
 " I repeat it," he says quietly, letting 
 his eyes rest for a moment upon hers, " it 
 is too late ! " 
 
 And outside the wild wind, flying past 
 with an even fiercer outbreak of wrath, 
 seems to echo those fatal words, " Too 
 late." The very rain, being full of them, 
 seeks to dash them against the window 
 panes. A sudden roar of thunder resound- 
 ing overhead, comes as a fit adjunct to 
 the despair embodied in them. All Nature 
 is awake, and the air seems full of its death- 
 knells. 
 
 Portia, sick at heart, moves silently away.
 
 270 PORTIA; OR 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 "If you have tears, prepare to shed them now." 
 
 Julius C^sar. 
 
 ' ' Eyes, look your last ; 
 Arms, take your last embrace ! " 
 
 Romeo and Juliet. 
 
 The night closes in, the rain has ceased, or 
 only now and then declares itself in fitful 
 bursts, but still the wind rages and the storm 
 beats upon land and sea, as though half its 
 fury is not yet expended. The clouds are 
 scudding hurriedly towards the west, and 
 now and then, as they separate, one catches 
 a glimpse of a pale dying moon, trying to 
 shine in the dark vaults above, her sickly
 
 "by passions rocked. 271 
 
 gleam only rendering more terrible the 
 aspect of the land below. 
 
 Still the lightning comes and goes, and 
 the thunder kills the sacred calm of night ; 
 Dulce and Julia, standing in the window, 
 gaze fearfully towards the angry heavens, and 
 speak to each other in whispers. Portia, 
 who is sitting in an arm-chair, with her 
 colourless face uplifted and her head thrown 
 back, is quite silent, waiting with a kind of 
 morbid longing for each returning Hash. 
 The very children are subdued, and, lying 
 in a pretty group upon the hearthrug, forget 
 to laugh or play, or do anything save cry 
 aloud, "Ah! wasn't that a big one?" when 
 the lightning comes, or, " That was the 
 loudest one yet," when the deafening thun- 
 der rolls. 
 
 The men are standing in another window,
 
 272 PORTIA; OR, 
 
 talking in low tones of Fabian's exculpation, 
 when Fabian himself comes in, eagerly, ex- 
 citedly, and so unlike the Fabian of old that 
 Portia gazes at him in silent wonder. 
 
 " There is a ship in sore trouble down 
 there," he says, pointing as though he can 
 see the sea down below, where now the 
 angry surf is rolling in, mountains high, 
 hoarsely roaring as it comes; "Brown from 
 the coast-guard station has just run up to 
 tell us of it. They are about to man the 
 lifeboat ; who will come down to the beach 
 with me ? " 
 
 They have all come forward by this time, 
 and now the men, going eagerly to seize on 
 any coats and hats nearest to them, make 
 themselves ready to go down and render 
 any assistance that may be required of 
 them. The station is but a little one, the
 
 "by passions rocked." 27^ 
 
 coast-guards few, and of late a sort of 
 intermittent fever has laid many of the 
 fishermen low, so that their help may, for 
 all they yet can know, be sorely needed. 
 
 Fabian, who has been delayed in many 
 ways, is almost the last to leave the house. 
 Hurrying now to the doorway, he is stopped 
 by a slight figure, that coming up to him in 
 the gloom of the night, that rushes in upon 
 him from the opened hall-door, seems like 
 some spirit of the storm. 
 
 It is Portia. Her face is very white, her 
 lips are trembling, but her eyes are full of 
 a stranofe, feverish fire. 
 
 " May I go too ? Do not prevent me," 
 she says in an agitated tone, laying her 
 hand upon his arm. " I must go. I can- 
 not stay here, alone ; thinking, thinking." 
 
 " You ! " interrupts he ; " and on such a 
 
 VOI^ in. !i
 
 2 74 PORTIA; OR, 
 
 night as this ! Certainly not. Go back to 
 the drawing-room at once." Involuntarily, 
 he puts out his hand across the doorway, as 
 though to bar her egress. Then suddenly 
 recollection forces itself upon him, he drops 
 his extended arm, and coldly averts his eyes 
 from hers. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he says. " Why 
 should I dictate to you, you will do as you 
 please, of course ; by what right do I advise 
 or forbid you ? " 
 
 Oppressed by the harshness of his manner 
 and his determined coldness, that amounts 
 almost to dislike, Portia makes no reply. 
 When first he spoke, his words, though un- 
 loving, had still been full of a rough regard 
 for her well-beincj, but his suddenxhanoe to 
 the indifferent tone of an utter stranger has 
 struck cold upon her heart. Cast down, and
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 275 
 
 disheartened, she now shrinks a little to one 
 side, and by a faint gesture of the hand mo- 
 tions him to the open door. 
 
 As though unconscious or cruelly careless 
 of the wound he has inflicted, Fabian turns 
 away from her, and goes out into the sullen, 
 stormy night, and, reaching the side path that 
 leads direct through the wood to the shore, 
 is soon lost to sight. 
 
 Upon the beach, dark forms are hurrying 
 to and fro. Now and then can be heard the 
 sound of a distant signal gun, small knots of 
 fishermen are congregated together, and can 
 be seen talking anxiously, when the lurid 
 lightning, flashing overhead, breaks in upon 
 the darkness. 
 
 There is terrible confusion everywhere. 
 Hurried exclamations, and shrill cries of 
 fear and pity rise above the angry moaning
 
 276 PORTIA; OR, 
 
 of the wind, as now and then a faint lull 
 comes in the storm ; then, too, can be heard 
 the bitter sobs and lamentations of two 
 women, who are clinging to their men as 
 though by their weak arms they would hold 
 them from battlinof with the waves to-ni^ht. 
 
 The sea is dashing itself in wildest fury 
 against rock and boulder, and rushing in 
 headlong form up the sands only to recede 
 again in haste as though in a hurry to fly 
 back to swell the power of the cruel waves 
 that would willingly deal out death with every 
 stroke. 
 
 The clouds, having changed from black 
 to murky yellow, are hanging heavily in mid- 
 air, as though undecided as to whether they 
 will not fall in a liody, and so overwhelm 
 the trembling earth. The spray, dashed 
 inland b)' the terrific force of the wind, light-
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 277 
 
 ing on the lips of those who stand with strain- 
 ing eyes looking seaward, fills their mouths 
 with its saltness, and blinds their aching 
 sight. 
 
 All the people from the little village are 
 on the shore, and are talking and gesticu- 
 lating violently. Some of them have fathers, 
 brothers, and, perhaps, "nearer and dearer 
 ones still than all others," on the point of 
 incurring deathly clanger to-night. Some 
 of them are standing, with clenched hands 
 and stony eyes, watching as though fascinated 
 by the cruel crawling sea, as it runs up to 
 their feet, gaily, boisterously, heedless of 
 the unutterable misery in their pallid faces. 
 But for the most part, people are full of 
 energy, and are shouting from one to the 
 other, and examining ropes, or asking eager 
 questions of grizzled old sailors, who with
 
 2/8 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 plug in cheek, and stoical features, are staring 
 at the sea. 
 
 "Where is the ship ?" asks Dicky Browne, 
 laying his hand on the arm of one of these 
 ancient mariners to steady himself, whilst 
 the old salt, who is nearly thrice his age, 
 stands steady as a rock. 
 
 " Close by — a schooner from some furrin 
 port, with wine, they say." So shouts the 
 old man back. 
 
 "And the lifeboat?" 
 
 " Is manned, an' away. 'Twill be a tussle 
 to-night, sir ; no boat could live in such a 
 sea, I'm thinking. Hark to the roar of it." 
 
 The dull moon forcinc: itself throu<^h the 
 hanging clouds, casts at this moment a pallid 
 gleam upon the turbid ocean, making the 
 terror of the hour only more terrible. Now 
 at last they can see the doomed vessel ; the
 
 "by passions rocked. 279 
 
 incessant dashing of the waves is slowly- 
 tearing it in pieces; momentarily its side 
 is in dancrer of beino- driven in. At this 
 piteous sight men cry aloud, and women 
 fall upon their knees ; some figure with flow- 
 ing hair can be seen near one of the dis- 
 mantled masts. Is it a woman ? and what 
 is that she holds aloft ? — a child ! a little 
 child ! 
 
 The agony increases. Some run along 
 the beach in frantic impotency, calling upon 
 Heaven to show pity now, in tones that 
 even pierce the ghastly howling of the wind. 
 Anon, the quivering lightning comes again, 
 sheddinof a blue radiance over all. 
 
 Twice has the lifeboat been repulsed and 
 beaten back, in spite of the strenuous efforts 
 of its gallant crew. The second time a cry 
 goes up that strikes dismay to the hearts
 
 28o PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 of those around, as a man is laid upon the 
 damp beach, who had gone forth full of 
 courage with his fellows, but now lies stiffen- 
 ing into the marble calm of death. 
 
 Dulce, who has run down to the strand 
 without a word to any one, and who is 
 now standing a little apart, with Roger's 
 arm roiind her, hearing this unearthly cry, 
 covers her face with her hands, and shivers 
 violently in every limb. The darting lio-ht- 
 ning has shown her the ghastly outline of 
 the poor brave figure on the sand, now 
 hushed in its last sleep. 
 
 At this moment, Portia, creeping up to 
 where they are standing, with hands uplifted 
 to her forehead, tries to pierce the gloom. 
 The spray from a projecting rock being 
 flung back upon them drenches them 
 thoroughly. Roger, putting out his hand
 
 "by passions rocked." 281 
 
 hurriedly, draws Dulce out of its reach and 
 would have persuaded Portia to come to 
 a more sheltered spot, but she resists his 
 entreaty, and, waiving him from her im- 
 patiently, still continues her eye-search for 
 something that she evidently supposes to 
 be upon the beach. Where she is standing, 
 a shadow from a huo'e rock so covers her 
 that she is invisible to any comer. 
 
 Now some one is advancing towards them 
 throuorh the darkness and clineine mist. 
 Dulce, who is sittino- on the ground and 
 weeping bitterly, does not see him, but 
 Roger goes quickly towards him. It is 
 Fabian, pale, but quite composed, and with 
 a certain high resolve in his dark eyes. 
 There is, indeed, in this setded resolve 
 something that might be almost termed 
 gladness.
 
 282 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 " Ah ! it is you," he says, hurriedly 
 beckoning to Roger to come farther away 
 from Dulce, which sign Roger obeying 
 brino;s both him and Fabian a deoree 
 nearer to Portia. Yet, standing motionless 
 as she does within the gloom, they neither 
 see her nor feel her presence. 
 
 " Here, catch my watch," says Fabian 
 quickly, in a business-like tone; "and," 
 with a short laugh, "keep it if I don't 
 ofet back." He flines him the watch as 
 he speaks. 
 
 " Where are you going ? " asks Roger 
 breathlessly, " where ? " 
 
 " With those fellows in the lifeboat. They 
 want another hand now poor Jenkins has 
 been bowled over, and I shall go ; they 
 are losing heart, but my going with them 
 will chancre all that. Tell Dulce"
 
 " BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 283 
 
 " You shall not o;o," cries Rog^er frantic- 
 ally. "It is throwing away your life. 
 There are those whose lives can be better 
 spared ; let them go. Let me go. Fabian, 
 think of that old man at home." 
 
 " My dear fellow, don't bury me in such 
 a hurry," says Fabian lightly. " Those 
 poor fellows below have wives and families 
 depending on them, and no one implores 
 them not to go. I will take my chance 
 with them. Now listen " 
 
 " But not alone ! " says Roger ; " you 
 shall not go alone. I will go with you. 
 To venture in such a sea — but, of course, 
 that should not be considered. Well, come 
 then, come ! " The poor boy, in spite of 
 himself, does consider it, but bravely pushes 
 forward in the vac^ue thouorht that if he
 
 284 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 goes he may be of use to his friend, his 
 brother. 
 
 " Impossible," says Fabian. " There is 
 not room for another. If we come back 
 again unsuccessful, I promise you, you shall 
 try your chance then. Here, don't look so 
 gloomy, but hold my coat, and keep it dry, 
 as I daresay I shall be chilly enough when 
 I get back to you." 
 
 He speaks with the utmost cheerfulness, 
 indeed with subdued gaiety that might 
 emanate from a quiet man just starting on 
 a pleasurable expedition. 
 
 " Do you know the danger ? " says Roger 
 in a broken voice, clinging to his hand, but 
 feeling that all remonstrance will be in 
 vain. 
 
 " Tut ! why should there be more danger 
 for me than for another. Now go back to
 
 "by passions rocked." 285 
 
 her — she is there, is she not ? my dear little 
 
 Dulce. Tell her from me No ! — tell 
 
 her nothing. Good-bye, old man, wish me 
 a safe return till I come ; and — and — be 
 good to her — always love her" 
 
 He turns abruptly aside, and, springing 
 down from the rock where he has been 
 standing, finds himself again on the beach. 
 He is hurrying once more towards the boat, 
 which having sustained" some slight injuries 
 in its last attempt is not yet quite seaworthy, 
 but requires some looking after by the men 
 before they can start afresh, when he is 
 stopped by the pressure of two soft hands 
 upon his arm. 
 
 Turning, he looks into Portia's eyes. She 
 is haggard, ghastly in her pallor, but unspeak- 
 ably beautiful. Her fair hair, havinor come
 
 286 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 undone, is waving lightly in the tempestuous 
 wind. Her lips are parted, 
 
 " You are not going out there ? " she says, 
 pointing with a shudder to the tumultuous 
 waves, and speaking in a tone so full of agony 
 and reckless misery that it chills him, " You 
 shall not ! Do you hear ? Fabian ! Fabian ! 
 listen to me," 
 
 It is so dark and wild, that no one can 
 see her ; no ears but his can hear. She flings 
 herself in a passion of despair upon her knees 
 before him, and encircles him with her arms. 
 
 " My darling ! my best beloved, stay with 
 me," she cries wildly. " Hate me — spurn 
 me — live — live ! that sea will tear you from 
 me — it will kill — but" 
 
 Stooping over her, with a very gentle move- 
 ment, but with determination, he unclasps her 
 clinging arms, and raises her to her feet.
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED." 287 
 
 " You must not kneel there on the wet 
 sand," he says quietly; "and forgive me, if 
 I remind you of it, but you will not care to 
 remember all this to-morrow." 
 
 " I shall not remember it to-morrow," re- 
 plies she, in a strange, dreamy tone, her hands 
 falling nerveless at het sides. She does not 
 seek to touch or persuade him again, only 
 gazes earnestly up at him, through the 
 wretched mist that enshrouds them, with a 
 face that is as the faces of the dead. 
 
 Upon his arm is a shawl one of the women 
 below (he is very dearly beloved in the vil- 
 lage) had forced upon him an hour ago. He 
 is bringing it back now to return it to her 
 before starting, but, a thought striking him, 
 he unfolds it, and crosses it over Portia's 
 bosom. 
 
 " One of the women down there lent it to
 
 288 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 me," he says, coldly still, but kindly. " Re- 
 turn it to her when you can." 
 
 With a little passionate gesture she flings 
 it from her, letting it lie on the ground at 
 her feet. 
 
 "It is too late — the coldness of death is 
 upon me," she says vehemently. Then in 
 an altered tone, calmed by despair, she 
 whispers slowly, " Fabian, if you will die 
 — foro^ive me first ? " 
 
 "If there is anything to forgive, I have 
 done so long ago. But there is nothing." 
 
 "Is there nothing in the thought that I 
 love you either? Has not this knowledge 
 power to drag you back from the grave ? " 
 
 "'Too late for the balm when the heart 
 is broke,' " quotes he sadly. 
 
 "And yet you loved me once," she says 
 quickly.
 
 "by passions rocked." 289 
 
 " I love you now, as I never loved you," 
 returns he, with sudden, eager passion. Her 
 arms are round his neck, her head is thrown 
 back, her lovely eyes, almost terrible now 
 in their intensity, are gazing into his. In- 
 stinctively his arms close round her — he 
 bends forward. 
 
 A shout from the beach ! The boat is 
 launched, and they only await him to go 
 upon their perilous journey. When death 
 is near, small things of earth grow even less. 
 
 " They call me ! All is over now between 
 us," he murmurs, straining her to his heart. 
 Then he puts her a little away from him — 
 still holding her — and looks once more into 
 her large tearless eyes. "If life on earth 
 is done," he says solemnly, "then in heaven 
 my"soul, we meet again!" 
 
 He lays his lips on hers. 
 
 VOL. III. T
 
 290 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 "In heaven, my love, and soon!" returns 
 she very quietly, and so they part ! 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 It is but a little half-hour afterwards when 
 they bring him back again, and lay him 
 gently and in silence upon the wet sand — 
 cold and dead ! Some spar had struck him 
 — they hardly know what — and had left him 
 as they brought him home. 
 
 Many voices are uplifted at this sad re- 
 turn, but all grow hushed and quiet, as a girl 
 with bare head presses her way resolutely 
 through the crowd, and, moving aside those 
 who would mercifully have delayed her, 
 having reached her dead, sits down upon the 
 sand beside him, and lifting his head in her 
 arms, dank and dripping with sea foam, lays 
 it tenderly upon her knees. Stooping over 
 it, she presses it lovingly against her breast,
 
 I5V PASSIONS ROCKED. 29 1 
 
 and with tender fincrers smooths back from 
 the pale forehead the short wet masses of his 
 dark hair. She is quite cahn, her fingers do 
 not even tremble, but there is a strange — 
 strange look in her great eyes. 
 
 His eyes are closed. No ugly stain of 
 blood mars the beauty of his face. He lies 
 calm and placid in her embrace, as though 
 wrapt in softest slumber — but, oh ! how irre- 
 sponsive to the touch that once would have 
 thrilled his every sense with rapture. 
 
 There is somethinsf so awful in the mute- 
 ness of her despair, that a curious hush falls 
 upon those grouped around her — and him. 
 The whole scene is so frausfht with a weird 
 horror, that when one woman in the back- 
 ground bursts into bitter weeping, she is 
 pushed out of sight, as though emotion of a 
 demonstrative nature is out of place here.
 
 292 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 Noisy grief can have no part in this hope- 
 less sorrow. 
 
 Dicky Browne, bending over her (Roger 
 has taken Dulce home), says : 
 
 " Oh, Portia ! that it should end like this, 
 and jtist now — now, when life had opened 
 out afresh for him!" His voice is choked 
 and almost inaudible. Now that he is Qrone 
 they all know how dear he has been to them, 
 how interwoven with theirs has been his 
 quiet melancholy life. 
 
 " I knew it," says Portia, not quickly, but 
 yet with some faint, soft vehemence. " I 
 am not surprised, I am not grieved." She 
 whispers something else after this repeatedly, 
 and Dicky, bending lower, hears the words, 
 " And soon — and soon." She repeats them 
 in an ecstatic undertone ; there is joy and an
 
 "by passions rocked." 293 
 
 odd certainty in it. They are the last words 
 she ever spoke to him. 
 
 " He is very cold," she says then, with a 
 little shiver. 
 
 Sir Mark, seeino- the tears are runninof 
 down Dicky's cheeks, and that he is incap- 
 able of saying anything further, pushes him 
 gently to one side, and murmurs something 
 in Portia's ear. She seems quite willing to 
 do anything they may desire. 
 
 "Yes, yes. He must come home. It 
 will be better. I will come home with him." 
 And then with a long-drawn sigh, " Poor 
 Uncle Christopher." This is the last time her 
 thoughts ever wander away from her dead 
 love. "It will be well to take him away' from 
 the cruel sea," she says, lifting her eyes to 
 the rough but kindly faces of the boatmen
 
 294 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 who surround her. "But," piteously, "oht 
 do not hurt him." 
 
 " Never fear, missy," says one old sailor 
 in a broken voice, and a young fellow, turn- 
 ing aside, whispers to a comrade that he was 
 "her man," in tones of heart-felt pity. 
 
 Still keeping his head within her arms, 
 she rises slowly to her knees, and then the 
 men, careful to humour her, so lift the body^ 
 that she — even when she has gained her 
 feet — has still this clear burden in her keep- 
 ing. At the very last when they have laid 
 him upon the rude bier they have con- 
 structed for him in a hurry, she still hesi- 
 tates, and regards with anguish the hard 
 spot where she must lay her burden down. 
 
 She gazes distressfully around her, and 
 then [)lucks witli a little mournful, helpless 
 fashion, at a dainty fleecy thing that lies
 
 BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 295 
 
 close to her throat, and Is her only covering 
 from the angry blast. One of the women 
 divining her purpose, presses forward and 
 in silence folds her own woollen shawl, and 
 lays it on the bier, and then unfastening 
 the white Shetland fabric round Portia's 
 neck, lays that upon her own offering, so 
 that the dead man's cheek will rest on it. 
 Her womanly soul has grasped the truth, 
 that the girl wants his resting-place to be 
 made softer by some gift of hers ; and when 
 her task is completed, and the men gather- 
 ing up their load, silently prepare to move 
 with it towards the old Court, Portia turns 
 upon this woman a smile so sweet, so full 
 of gratitude, that she breaks into bitter 
 weeping, and, flinging her apron over her 
 honest, kindly, sunburnt face, runs hurriedly 
 away.
 
 296 PORTIA; OR, 
 
 "She was his lass. Poor soul — poor 
 soul," says another woman in a hushed 
 tone, and with deep pathos. 
 
 Holding his dead hand in hers, Portia, 
 with steady step, walks beside the rough 
 bier, and so the sad procession winds its 
 solemn way up to the old Court, with Sir 
 Mark at its head, and Dicky Browne at 
 his feet, and Portia, with bare uplifted head 
 and wrapt eyes, still clinging fondly to the 
 poor clay, so well beloved by all. 
 
 Silently, with breaking hearts, they carry 
 him into the grand old hall, and lay him re- 
 verently upon the marble flooring. Silently, 
 they gaze upon his unmarred beauty. Not 
 a sound — not a sob — disturbs the sacred 
 stillness. Portia, always with his hand in 
 hers, falls upon her knees, and, pressing it 
 against her breast, raises her eyes devoutly
 
 "by passions rocked." 297 
 
 heavenwards. One by one they all with- 
 draw, — Sir Mark to break the terrible news 
 to the old man. She is alone with her 
 dead ! With a little sigh, she crouches 
 close to him, and lays her cheek against 
 his. The icy contact conveys no terror to 
 her mind. She does not shrink from him, 
 but softly, tenderly, caresses him from time 
 to time ; and yet he moves not, nor wakens 
 into life beneath her gentle touch. Truly, 
 
 "After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well."
 
 298 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 " ' Whom the gods love die young,' was said of yore." 
 
 Don Juan. 
 
 " Death came with friendly care." 
 
 Coleridge. 
 
 It all happened only yesterday, yet how 
 long ago it seems already ; and now the 
 sun is shining again, bravely, cheerily, as 
 though life is all made up of joy and glad- 
 ness, and as though storms that despoil the 
 earth, and heavier storms that wreck the 
 soul are miseries unknown ; and yet he is 
 
 dead, and she 
 
 In silence they had carried him to his 
 own chamber, and had laid him on his bed, 
 she going with him always with his clay-
 
 i;y passions rocked. 299 
 
 cold hand in hers, and never a moan from 
 her pale lips. 
 
 The storm had gone down by that, and 
 a strange mournful stillness, terrible after 
 the late rioting of the elements, covered 
 all the land. The silence micrht be felt, 
 and through it they listened eagerly for 
 her sighs, and hoped for the tears that 
 should have come to ease her stricken 
 heart ; but all in vain, and watching her 
 they knew at last that the springs of grief 
 within her were frozen, and that the blessed 
 healinir waters that can cool the burninof 
 fever of despair were not to flow for her. 
 Only a certain curious calm lay on her, 
 killing all outward demonstrations of grief 
 She spoke to no one, she was hardly, 
 perhaps, at times aware of the presence 
 of those around her. Dulce's sobs did not 
 rouse her. She showed no symptom of
 
 300 PORTIA; OR, 
 
 emotion when Sir Christopher bent his 
 white head in inexpHcable woe over the 
 form of the man who had been dear to 
 him as his own soul. As she knelt beside 
 the corpse, she moved now and then, and 
 her breath came and went softly, regularly, 
 but her eyes never departed from the face 
 before her, with its closed eyes, and sad, 
 solemn smile. Perhaps, in her strange 
 musings, she was trying to follow him in 
 spirit to where he had 
 
 " Gone before. 
 To that unknown and silent shore," 
 
 so dimly dreamt of here, because her eyes 
 were gleaming large and clear, and almost 
 unearthly in their brilliance. 
 
 At first, though somewhat in awe of her, 
 they had sought by tenderest means to 
 draw her from the room. But she had 
 resisted, or rather been utterly deaf to all
 
 "by passions rocked." 301 
 
 entreaties, and, kneeling by the bed tliat 
 held all that she had loved or ever could 
 love, still fed her eacjer o^aze with sieht 
 of him, and pressed from time to time 
 his ice-cold hand to her cheeks, her lips, 
 her eyes. 
 
 Then Sir Mark had admonished them 
 to let her be, and sinking- into a chair, 
 with a heavy sigh, had kept her vigil with 
 her. Tall candles gleamed on distant tables. 
 The night wind sighed without ; footsteps 
 came and went, and heart-broken sighs, 
 and ill-suppressed sobs disturbed the air. 
 The little child he had loved — the poor 
 Boodie — would not be forbidden, and, creep- 
 ing into the sad room, had stolen to the 
 bedside, and had laid upon his breast a little 
 pallid blossom she had secretly and alone 
 braved all the terrors of the dark night to 
 gain, having traversed the quiet garden to
 
 o 
 
 02 PORTIA ; OR, 
 
 pluck it from the tiny plot out there she 
 called her own. 
 
 She had not been frightened when she 
 saw him, but had stood gazing in some 
 wonder at the indescribably pathetic smile 
 that glorified his lips, after which she had 
 given her hand obediently to Dicky Browne, 
 and had gone back with him to her nursery 
 content, and far less sad than when she 
 came. 
 
 Sometimes they all came and gazed upon 
 him together ; Julia trembling, but subdued ; 
 Dulce with her hand in Roger's ; the old 
 man inconsolable. Now Dicky Browne 
 whispers feeble but well-meant words of 
 comfort to him, now Sir Mark touches his 
 arm in silent sympathy. But they all keep 
 somewhat apart from Portia ; she has grown 
 suddenly sacred in their eyes, as one to 
 whom the beloved dead more especially 
 belongs.
 
 "BY PASSIONS ROCKED. 303 
 
 One of them, Sir Mark, I think, seeing a 
 Httle bit of dark-hued ribbon round his neck, 
 bent forward and loosening it, drew to Hght 
 a flat gold locket with the initials P. V. sunk 
 deeply in it. His hand shook at this dis- 
 covery ; he hesitated ; then, some fine instinct 
 revealinof to him that it mio-ht contain some 
 hidden charm strono- enouo-h to rouse her 
 from her unnatural calm, he touched Portia's 
 shoulder and laid the locket in her hand. 
 
 Mechanically she opened it, yet testily too, 
 as if unwilling or unable to keep her eyes for 
 even the shortest space of time from the life- 
 less face so dear to her. But, once opened, 
 her glance riveted itself upon its contents. 
 Her own face looked up at her, her own eyes 
 smiled at her. It was her portrait that she 
 saw, painted by him, no doubt, sadly and in 
 secret, and worn against his heart ever since. 
 
 Long she gazed at it. Her whole face
 
 304 PORTIA; OR, "by passions rocked. 
 
 changed. The terrible calm was broken up, 
 but no grief came in its place. There was 
 only joy unutterable and a rapture most 
 blessed and divine. 
 
 " My love, I knew it without this," she 
 said softly ; her eyes once more returned to 
 him ; a quick but lengthened sigh escaped 
 her ; her head fell forward on his breast. 
 
 They waited. The minutes grew, but still 
 she never stirred. Some one, whispering 
 comfort to her, tried to raise her head, but 
 comfort from Heaven itself had reached her. 
 She was with him ! She was quite dead ! 
 
 They said some tissue in her heart had 
 given way, and perhaps it was so, but surely 
 o-rief had severed it. 
 
 o 
 
 THE END. 
 
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