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But the pattern, it seemed, was cut differently. She went to the doctor's office the day after Portia took her mother away, and discovered the cause of her physical wretchedness. She was pregnant. Rodney heard young Craig, who deviled up law for him, saying good night to the stenographer; glanced at his watch and opened the door to his outer office. "You may go home, Miss Beach," he said.
And there was laughing among these ladies to think, when they got home, how they would tax their husbands with giving away their rings and swear that they had given them as a present to some woman. Portia, when she returned, was in that happy temper of mind which never fails to attend the consciousness of having performed a good action.
But the money-lender's only answer was "If every ducat in six thousand ducats, Were in six parts, and every part a ducat, I would not draw them, I would have my bond." It was then that Portia arrived in her disguise, and not even her own husband knew her. The Duke gave her welcome on account of the great Bellario's introduction, and left the settlement of the case to her.
"We must run if we want to be in time for the finish," says Roger "come." He takes her hand, and together they move towards the door. They are, apparently, as happy and as good friends as if no harsh words had ever passed between them. "Going out now," says Julia, as they pass the low wicker chair in which she is lounging, "so late?" "Don't be long, Dulce," says Portia, in her plaintive way.
Between times they bought up the town's supply of "The Merchant of Venice," "not to learn any part, you know, but because we're interested in our play," each purchaser explained to her friends. For there is no use in proclaiming your aspirations to be a Portia or a Shylock until you are sure that your dramatic talent is going to be appreciated.
"All the same," Miss Maitland presently went on, "there are times, I confess, when I get so tired of some of the things I do that I feel as though I couldn't possibly do them again." Isabel nodded understandingly. "Is there anything in particular that you are so tired of?" she insinuatingly asked. "Yes, Miss Portia, there is. And furthermore you know as well as I do what that something is."
You may think me to be hasty in forming this opinion, but I am persuaded you will agree with me when you shall have seen more at length the grounds upon which I rest it, as they are laid down in my last letter to Portia. But I did not mean to say these things when I sat down to my tablets, but rather to tell you of myself, and what I have seen and done since I last wrote.
"I believe you to be less pure than him, less noble, less self-denying; he would be slow to believe evil of anyone. And this one thing I am resolved on. He shall no longer be left in ignorance of your scorn; he shall not any more spend his affection upon one who regards him with disdain; he shall know the truth before the day dies." "Have you no pity?" says Portia, faintly. "Have you none?
Was he asleep or awake? Was it only a delusion, as so many other fancied resemblances had been, or was it after all after all He rose to his feet, that dazed look of a sleep-walker, suddenly aroused, on his face. "Now, then, Sir Victor," the sharp, clear voice of Lady Portia said, at his side, "your martyrdom is ended. We are ready to go."
Faithful to her husband to the last, according to her idea of fidelity, one can but lament that she had not the knowledge of a purer faith than that of paganism. She was worthy of a better fate and brighter age. Lucretia and Portia adorned private life, and except in the manner of their respective deaths were model matrons, the equals of their husbands in integrity and understanding.
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