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diff --git a/33312-h/33312-h.htm b/33312-h/33312-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ce46b9c --- /dev/null +++ b/33312-h/33312-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,16706 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Faith And Unfaith. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + .pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + } /* page numbers */ + + .subhead {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + .blockquot{margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 10%;} + + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + .u {text-decoration: underline;} + + .caption {font-weight: bold;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .poem {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; text-align: left;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i1 {display: block; margin-left: 1em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 2em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i3 {display: block; margin-left: 3em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 4em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i10 {display: block; margin-left: 10em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i12 {display: block; margin-left: 12em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i17 {display: block; margin-left: 17em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i20 {display: block; margin-left: 20em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i6 {display: block; margin-left: 6em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i8 {display: block; margin-left: 8em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + + p.author {text-align: right;} + p.regards {text-align: right; margin-right: 2em;} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Faith and Unfaith, by Duchess + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Faith and Unfaith + +Author: Duchess + +Release Date: August 1, 2010 [EBook #33312] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FAITH AND UNFAITH *** + + + + +Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + + + + +<h1>FAITH AND UNFAITH</h1> + +<h3>A NOVEL</h3> + +<h5>BY THE AUTHOR OF<br /> + +"PHYLLIS," "MOLLY BAWN," "AIRY FAIRY LILLIAN," "BEAUTY'S +DAUGHTERS," "MRS. GEOFFREY," ETC.</h5> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10">"In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours,<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers:<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all."—<span class="smcap">Tennyson.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<h4>NEW YORK AND CHICAGO<br /> +BUTLER BROTHERS</h4> + + +<h5>TROW'S<br /> +PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY,<br /> +NEW YORK.</h5> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span></p> +<h1>FAITH AND UNFAITH.</h1> + + +<hr style="width: 15%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER I.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"A heap of dust alone remains of thee:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!"—<span class="smcap">Pope</span>.<br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p>In an upper chamber, through the closed blinds of which +the sun is vainly striving to enter, Reginald Branscombe, +fifth Earl of Sartoris, lies dead. The sheet is reverently +drawn across the motionless limbs; the once restless, now +quiet, face is hidden; all around is wrapt in solemn unutterable +silence,—the silence that belongs to death alone!</p> + +<p>A sense of oppressive calm is upon everything,—a feeling +of loneliness, vague and shadowy. The clock has +ticked its last an hour ago, and now stands useless in its +place. The world without moves on unheeding; the world +within knows time no more! Death reigns triumphant! +Life sinks into insignificance!</p> + +<p>Once, a little flickering golden ray, born of the hot sun +outside, flashes in through some unknown chink, and casts +itself gleefully upon the fair white linen of the bed. It +trembles vivaciously now here, now there, in uncontrollable +joyousness, as though seeking in its gayety to mock +the grandeur of the King of Terrors! At least so it seems +to the sole watcher in the lonely chamber, as with an impatient +sigh he raises his head, and, going over to the window, +draws the curtains still closer to shut out the obnoxious +light; after which he comes back to where he has +been standing, gazing down upon, and thinking of, the +dead.</p> + +<p>He is an old man, tall and gaunt, with kind but passion<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span>ate +eyes, and a mouth expressive of impatience. His +hands—withered but still sinewy—are clasped behind his +back; every feature in his face is full of sad and anxious +thought.</p> + +<p>What changes the passing of a few short hours have +wrought—so he muses. Yesterday the man now chilled +and silent for evermore was as full of animation as he—his +brother—who to-day stands so sorrowfully beside his +corpse. His blood had run as freely in his veins, his +pulses throbbed as evenly, his very voice had been sounding +strong and clear and hearty, when Death, remorseless, +claimed him for his own.</p> + +<p>Poor Reginald! Had he known of the fell disease that +had nestled so long within his heart?—or had no symptoms +ever shown themselves to give him kindly warning? Certainly +no hint of it had ever passed his lips, even to those +most near and dear to him. He had lived apparently +free from care or painful forebodings of any kind,—a good +and useful life too, leaving nothing for those behind (who +loved him) to regret. Indeed, of late he had appeared +even gayer, happier, than before; and now—</p> + +<p>It seems such a little time ago since they both were +lads together. A tiny space taken from the great eternity, +when all is told. How well the living man remembers +at this moment many a boyish freak and light-hearted +jest, many a kindness shown and gift bestowed by the +dead, that until now had wellnigh been forgotten!</p> + +<p>He thinks of the good old college days, when they +worked little, and fought hard, and trained their fresh +young limbs to mighty deeds, and walked, and rode, and +held their own with the best, and showed open defiance of +dons and deans and proctors; he lingers, too, on the day +still farther on, when Reginald, having attained to his +kingdom, lavished with no meagre hand upon his more +extravagant brother the money so sorely needed.</p> + +<p>Now Reginald is gone, and he, Arthur, reigns in his +stead, and——Alas! alas! poor Reggy!—Poor, dear old +fellow!</p> + +<p>He rouses himself with an effort, and, going very softly +to a small door that opens from the apartment, beckons +gently to somebody beyond.</p> + +<p>An old woman, dressed in deepest mourning, and of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span> +the housekeeper type, answers his summons, her eyes red +with excessive weeping.</p> + +<p>"I am going now," Lord Sartoris whispers to her in a +low tone. "I have finished everything. You will remain +here until my return."</p> + +<p>"Yes, Mr. Arthur,—yes, my Lord," she answers, nervously; +and then, as she gives the old title for the first +time to the man before her, she bursts out crying afresh, +yet silently, in a subdued fashion, as though ashamed of +her emotion.</p> + +<p>Sartoris pats her shoulder kindly, and then with a sigh +turns away, and passes from the room with bent head and +hands still clasped behind him, as has become a habit +with him of late years.</p> + +<p>Down the stairs and along the hall he goes, until, reaching +a door at the lower end, he pauses before it, and, opening +it, enters a room, half library, half boudoir, furnished +in a somewhat rococo style.</p> + +<p>It is a room curiously built, being a complete oval, with +two French windows opening to the ground, and a glass +door between them—partly stained—that leads to the +parterre outside. It is filled with mediæval furniture, +uncompromising and as strictly uncomfortable as should +be, and has its walls (above the wooden dado) covered with +a high-art paper, on which impossible storks, and unearthly +birds of all descriptions, are depicted as rising out of +blue-green rushes.</p> + +<p>This room is known as "my lady's chamber,"—having +ever been the exclusive property of the mistress of the +house, until Mrs. Dorian Branscombe, in default of any +other mistress, had made her own of it during her frequent +visits to Hythe, and had refurnished it to suit her own +tastes, which were slightly Æsthetic.</p> + +<p>Now, she too is dead and gone, and the room, though +never entirely closed or suffered to sink into disrepair, is +seldom used by any of the household.</p> + +<p>As Lord Sartoris goes in, a young man, who has been +standing at one of the windows, turns and comes quickly +to meet him. He is of good height, and is finely formed, +with brown hair cut closely to his head, a brown moustache, +and deep-blue eyes. His whole appearance is perhaps +more pleasing and aristocratic than strictly handsome, his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span> +mouth being too large and his nose too pronounced for +any particular style of beauty.</p> + +<p>Yet it is his eyes—perfect as they are in shape and +color—that betray the chief faults of his disposition. He +is too easy-going, too thoughtless of consequences, too +much given to letting things go,—without consideration or +fear of what the end may bring; too full of life and spirits +to-day, to dream of a sadder morrow;—so happy in the +present that the future troubles him not at all.</p> + +<p>"How ill you look!" he says, anxiously, addressing +his uncle. "My dear Arthur, you have been overdoing +it. You should not have remained so long in that room +alone."</p> + +<p>"Well, it is all over now," Sartoris says, wearily, sinking +into a chair near him. "I was glad to finish it once +for all. Those private papers he kept in his own room +should be examined sooner or later; and now my task is +at an end I feel more contented."</p> + +<p>"Was there anything beyond?——"</p> + +<p>"Very little. Just one letter sealed and directed to me. +It contained a desire that poor Maud's letters should be +buried with him. I found them in a drawer by themselves +neatly tied with pale-blue ribbon,—her favorite color,—and +with them an old likeness of her, faded almost white."</p> + +<p>"For how long he remembered her!" says the young +man, in a tone of slow astonishment.</p> + +<p>"Too long for our present day," returns his uncle, absently. +Then there is silence for a moment or two, broken +only by the chatter of the birds in the sunlit garden outside. +Presently Sartoris speaks again. "Where is Horace?" +he asks, indifferently.</p> + +<p>"He was here, half an hour ago, with Clarissa. She +came over when she heard of——our sad news. They +went out together,—to the stables, I think. Shall I find +him for you?"</p> + +<p>"No, I do not want him," says Sartoris, a little impatiently. +"How strange no one told me of Clarissa's +coming! And why did you not go with her to the stables, +Dorian? Surely you know more about horses than he +does."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>About twenty years before my story opens, Dorian,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span> +fourth Lord Sartoris, died, leaving behind him three sons,—Reginald +(who now, too, has passed into the land of +shadows), Arthur, the present earl, and Dorian, the +younger.</p> + +<p>This Dorian alone, of all the brothers, had married. +But his wife (who was notable for nothing beyond her +deceitful temper and beautiful face, being as false as she +was fair) having died too, in giving birth to her second +child Horace, and her husband having followed her to the +grave about three years later, the care of the children +developed upon their uncle Reginald, who had been appointed +guardian.</p> + +<p>But Reginald—being a somewhat careless man in +many respects, and little given to children—took small +heed of them, and, beyond providing masters for them at +first, and later on sending them to school and college, +and giving them choice of professions, had left them very +much to their own devices.</p> + +<p>True, when college debts accumulated, and pressing +bills from long-suffering tradespeople came pouring in, he +would rouse himself sufficiently to remonstrate with them +in a feeble fashion, and, having received promises of +amendment from both boys, he would pay their bills, +make each a handsome present (as atonement for the +mild scolding), and, having thus dropped a sop to Cerberus,—or +conscience,—would dismiss money matters, +nephews, and all from his thoughts.</p> + +<p>So the children grew, from youth to boyhood, from boyhood +to early manhood, with no one to whom to appeal +for sympathy, with no woman's voice to teach them right +from wrong,—with few hardships, fewer troubles, and no +affections.</p> + +<p>Arthur Branscombe, indeed, who had come back from +India six months after his father's death, and had stayed +at Hythe for two interminable years (as they seemed to +him), had during that time so worked himself into the +heart of the eldest boy Dorian, and had so far taken him +into his own in return, that long years had failed to efface +the fondness of either. Indeed, now that he has returned +from abroad (only, as fate has willed it, to take his +brother's place), he finds the love he had grafted in the +child still warm in the heart of the man.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span></p> + +<p>Horace, the younger, had chosen his profession, and +gone in heavily for law. But Dorian, who inherited two +thousand a year from his father, and a charming residence,—situated +about three miles from Hythe, and two +from the pretty village of Pullingham,—had elected to +try his hand at farming, and was at first honestly believed +in by confiding tenants, who discussed him as a being up +to his eyes in agricultural lore and literally steeped in +new and improved projects for the cultivation of land.</p> + +<p>But time undeceived these good souls. And now, +though they love him better, they believe in him not at +all. To adore one's horses, and to be a perfect slave to +one's dogs, is one thing; to find a tender interest in the +price of guano, and a growing admiration for prize pigs, is +quite another. When Dorian had tried it for six months, +he acknowledged, reluctantly, that to him mangels were +an abomination, and over-fed cattle a wearying of the +flesh!</p> + +<p>Every now and then, indeed, he tells himself that he +must "look about him," as he calls it, and, smothering a +sigh, starts for a quick walk across his land, and looks at +a field or two, or into the nearest paddock, and asks his +steward how things are going on, and if all is as satisfactory +now as in the old days when his father held the reins +of government, and, having listened absently to comfortable +answers and cheerful predictions for the future, strolls +away again, thoroughly content, not caring to investigate +matters further.</p> + +<p>He is fond of London life, and spends a good deal of +his time there; is courted and petted and made much of +by enterprising dowagers with marriageable daughters, as +a young man charming, well bred, altogether <i>chic</i>, and undoubted +heir to an earldom; for of Arthur Sartoris's ever +marrying, now he has so long passed the prime of life, no +one ever dreams.</p> + +<p>He knows all the best people in town, and puts in a +good time when there; is a fair hand at whist, and can +beat most men at billiards; will now and then put money +on a favorite for the Oaks or the Grand National, but cannot +be said to regard gambling as an amusement. He is +extravagant in many ways, but thoroughly unselfish and +kind-hearted, and generous to a fault. He is much af<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span>fected +by women, and adored by children, who instinctively +accept him as a true friend.</p> + +<p>Horace, both in face and in figure, is strangely like his +brother,—in character very different. He is tall and well +built, with eyes large, dark, and liquid, but rather too +closely set to be pleasing. His mouth is firm and somewhat +hard, his smile soft, but uncertain. He is always +charming to women, being outwardly blind to their +caprices and an admirer of their follies, and is therefore +an immense favorite with a certain class of them, whose +minds are subservient to their bodies. Yet to every rule +there is an exception. And by women good and true, +and loyal, Horace has been, and is, well beloved.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>As Lord Sartoris and Dorian cross the hall, they meet +Horace, and a pretty girl—tall, slender, and graceful—coming +towards them. She appears sad, and slightly distressed, +but scarcely unnerved: there is a suspicion of +tears about her large gray eyes. Her gown, of violet velvet +(for, though they are in the merry month of May, the +days are still cold and fretful), sits closely to her perfect +figure; a Langtry bonnet, to match her dress, covers her +head and suits admirably her oval face and Grecian nose +and soft peach-like complexion.</p> + +<p>Going up, with impulsive grace, to Lord Sartoris, she +lays both her ungloved hands upon his shoulders, and +presses her lips with tender sympathy to his cheek.</p> + +<p>"How sad it all is!" she says, with a little break in +her voice. "How can I tell you all I feel for you? If +you had only had the faintest warning! But it was all so +sudden, so dreadful."</p> + +<p>"What a kind child you are, Cissy!" says Sartoris, +gently; "and to come to us <i>so soon</i>, that was so good of +you."</p> + +<p>"Was it?" says Clarissa, quickly. "That is what has +been troubling me. We only heard the terrible news +this morning, and papa said it would be intrusive to call +so early; but I—I could not keep away."</p> + +<p>"Your presence in this gloomy house is an undeniable +comfort," says Sartoris, sadly. "I am glad you understood +us well enough to know that. It is my greatest +wish that you should regard us all with affection."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span></p> + +<p>He glances from her to Dorian, as he speaks, with anxious +meaning. But Dorian's gaze is fixed thoughtfully +upon the stained-glass window that is flinging its crimson +and purple rays upon the opposite wall, and has obviously +been deaf to all that has been passing. As for Clarissa, +she has turned, and is looking into Horace's dark eyes.</p> + +<p>Sartoris, catching the glance, drops Miss Peyton's +hand with a sigh. She notices the half-petulant action, +and compresses her lips slightly.</p> + +<p>"Now I have seen you, I shall feel better," she says, +sweetly. "And—I think I must be going."</p> + +<p>"Will you desert us so soon?" says Sartoris, reproachfully. +"At least stay to luncheon——." He pauses, and +sighs profoundly. Just now the idea that the routine of +daily life must be carried on whether our beloved lie dead +upon their couches or stand living in our path, is hateful +to him.</p> + +<p>"I hardly like," says Clarissa, nervously; "I fear——"</p> + +<p>Dorian, rousing himself from his thoughts, comes back +to the present moment.</p> + +<p>"Oh, stay, Clarissa," he says, hurriedly. "You really +must, you know. You cannot imagine what a relief you +are to us: you help us to bear our gloomy memories. +Besides, Arthur has tasted nothing for hours, and your +being here may tempt him, perhaps, to eat."</p> + +<p>"If I can be of any use——," says Clarissa, kindly. +Whereupon Sartoris gives her his arm, and they all adjourn +to the dining-room.</p> + +<p>It is a large, old-fashioned, stately apartment, oak-panelled, +with large mullioned windows, and a massive marble +chimney-piece that reaches high as a man's head. A +pleasant, sociable room at ordinary times, but now impregnated +with the vague gloom that hangs over all the +house and seeks even here to check the gaudy brightness +of the sun that, rushing in, tries to illuminate it.</p> + +<p>At the sideboard stands Simon Gale, the butler and +oldest domestic of Hythe, who has lived with the dead +lord as man and boy, and now regrets him with a grief +more strongly resembling the sorrowing of one for a +friend than for a master.</p> + +<p>With downcast eyes and bowed head he stands, thinking +sadly how much too old he is for new cares and fresh<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span> +faces. Reginald had been all the world to him: the new +man is as nothing. Counting friendships as of little worth +unless years have gone to prove their depth and sincerity, +he feels no leaning towards the present possessor,—knows +him too short a time to like or dislike, to praise or +blame.</p> + +<p>Now, as his eyes wander down the long table, to +where he can see the empty chair of him who rests with +such unearthly tranquillity in the silent chamber above, +the thought of how soon a comparative stranger will fill it +causes him a bitter pang. And, as he so muses, the door +opens, and they all come in,—Sartoris first, with Clarissa, +pale, and quiet; the brothers—so like, yet so unlike—following.</p> + +<p>Old Simon, rousing himself, watches with jealous eyes +to see the place so long occupied by Reginald usurped by +another. But he watches in vain. Sartoris, without so +much as a glance in its direction, takes the chair at the +lower end of the table; and the others, following his lead, +seat themselves at the sides without comment of any kind; +whereupon Gale draws a long breath, and vows fidelity to +his new lord upon the spot.</p> + +<p>It is a dismal meal, dull, and dispiriting. The ghastly +Egyptian mummy seems present in full force, if not in the +letter at least in the spirit. Sartoris, having taken a glass +of sherry, trifles with the meat upon his plate, but literally +eats nothing. No one appears possessed with a desire to +speak, and indeed there is little to be said. When luncheon +is nearly over, a small dark object, hitherto unseen, +creeps out from some forgotten corner, and stretches itself +forlornly; it is poor Reginald's favorite dog, that ever since +his death has lain crouching out of sight, but now, driven +by the pain of hunger, comes creeping forward, whining +piteously.</p> + +<p>He goes up to the accustomed chair, but, finding it for +the first time empty and deaf to his complainings, turns +disconsolately away, and passes from seat to seat, without +accepting food at any of their hands, until he comes to Clarissa. +She, stooping, raises him to her knee (her lashes +wet with tears), and feeds him tenderly with the dainty +scraps upon her plate.</p> + +<p>The whole scene, though simple, is suggestive of loss<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> +and loneliness. Sartoris, leaving the table with some +haste, goes to the window to hide his emotion. Dorian +follows him. Whereupon Horace, rising too, crosses to +where Clarissa sits, and, bending over her, says something +in a low tone.</p> + +<p>The moments fly. A clock upon the mantel-piece chimes +half-past four. Some bird, in the exuberance of its mad +joy, scurries wildly past the windows. Sartoris, with a +sigh, turns from the light, and, seeing Miss Peyton and +Horace still deep in conversation, frowns slightly.</p> + +<p>"Horace, will you tell Durkin I want to see him at once, +in the library," he says, very quietly, yet with some latent +irritability.</p> + +<p>"In one moment," replies Horace, unmoved, going back +to the low-toned dialogue he has been carrying on with +Clarissa.</p> + +<p>"I am afraid I must lay myself open to the charge of +rudeness," says Sartoris, still very quietly, but with a peculiar +smile. "But it is important, and I must see Durkin +at once. My dear Horace, oblige me in this matter."</p> + +<p>"Shall I not see Clarissa to her carriage first?" says +Horace, raising his dark eyes for one moment to his uncle's +face.</p> + +<p>"Dorian will see to that," says the old man, slowly, but +so decisively that Horace, bidding the girl a silent but +warm farewell, with a bad grace departs.</p> + +<p>"How late it grows," says Miss Peyton, glancing at the +clock; and, drawing from a side-pocket her own watch, +she examines it attentively, as though to assure herself the +huge timepiece on the mantel-shelf has not told a deliberate +lie. "I must go home! Papa will wonder where I +have been all this long time. Good-by, Mr. Branscombe" +(she is still, naturally, forgetful of the new title). "I hope," +very sweetly, "you will come to see us as soon as ever +you can."</p> + +<p>"Thank you, yes, I shall come very soon," says Sartoris; +and then she bids him good-by, and Dorian follows her +from the room into the great dark hall outside.</p> + +<p>"How changed he is!" she says, turning suddenly to +him, and indicating, by a little backward motion of her +head towards the room she had just left, the person of whom +she speaks. "How altered!—Arthur, I mean. Not now,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> +not by this grief; it isn't that: his manner, to me especially, +has been altogether different for a fortnight past. Ever +since that last picnic at Anadale—you remember it—he +has not been quite the same to me."</p> + +<p>"Let me see; that, I think, was the evening you and +Horace drove home alone together, with that rather uncertain +brown mare, was it not?" says Dorian, with no apparent +meaning in his tone. "My dear child, I dare say +you are mistaken about Arthur. Your imagination is +leading you astray."</p> + +<p>"No, it is not. I am the least imaginative person alive," +says Miss Peyton, with an emphatic shake of her pretty +head. "I can't bear that sort of people myself; they +are always seeing something that isn't there, and are generally +very tiresome all around. I'm rather vexed about +Arthur, do you know?"</p> + +<p>"Don't mind him," says Branscombe, easily. "He'll +come all right in time. He is a peculiar fellow in many +ways, and when he sets his heart on any hobby, rides it to +the death."</p> + +<p>"Has he a hobby now?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. He has just formed, and is now trying to work +out, a gigantic scheme, and cuts up a little rough every +now and then because all the world won't see it in the +light that he does."</p> + +<p>"Poor man!" says Clarissa, sympathetically, "No wonder +he seems strange at times: it is so depressing to be +baffled. Why don't you help him, Dorian?"</p> + +<p>"It would take two to help him," says Mr. Branscombe, +looking faintly amused.</p> + +<p>"Could I be of any use?"—eagerly. "I would do anything +I could for him."</p> + +<p>"No, would you?" says Branscombe, his amusement +growing more perceptible. "I'm sure that's very good of +you. I dare say, if Arthur could hear you say that, he +would go wild with joy. 'Anything' is such a comprehensive +word. You're sure you won't go back of it?"</p> + +<p>"Quite sure,"—with some surprise.</p> + +<p>"My dear Clarissa, is it possible you have not yet seen +through Arthur's latest and greatest design?"</p> + +<p>"If you intend to tell me anything, do so: beating +about the bush always fatigues me to death," says Miss<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> +Peyton, in a tone of dignified rebuke. "What does Arthur +want?"</p> + +<p>"A little thing,—a mere trifle. He simply wants you +to marry me."</p> + +<p>"Really, Dorian," says Clarissa, coloring slowly, but +warmly, "I think you might find some other subject to +jest on."</p> + +<p>"I never made a joke in my life; I hope I never shall," +returns Branscombe, reproachfully. "What have I done, +that you should accuse me of such a crime? I have only +spoken the plain, unvarnished truth. To see you my wife +is the dream of Arthur's life, his sole ambition. And just +now, you know, you said you were quite prepared to do +anything for him. You can't, with any sense of honor, +back out of your given word."</p> + +<p>"I never heard anything so absurd, so foolish, so nonsensical!" +says Miss Peyton, resentfully.</p> + +<p>"Nonsensical! My dear Clarissa! pray consider +my——"</p> + +<p>"It is more! it is right down stupid of him," says Clarissa, +who plainly declines to consider any one's feelings.</p> + +<p>"You needn't pile up my agony any higher," interposes +Branscombe, meekly. "To my everlasting regret I acknowledge +myself utterly unworthy of you. But why tell +me so in such round terms? I assure you I feel excessively +hurt and offended. Am I to understand, then, +that you have refused me?"</p> + +<p>"You shall understand something worse, if you say +another word," says Clarissa, holding, up before him a +little clinched hand in a would-be threatening manner. +And then they both laugh in a subdued fashion; and she +moves on towards the open hall-door, he following.</p> + +<p>"Well, I forgive you," he says, as she steps into her +low phaeton, and he arranges the rug carefully around +her. "Though you don't deserve it. (What ridiculous +little hands to guide such refractory ponies!) Sure you +are quite comfortable? Well, good-by; and look here,"—teasingly,—"I +should think it over if I were you. You +may not get so excellent a chance again; and Arthur will +never forgive you."</p> + +<p>"Your uncle, though charming, and a very dear, is also +a goose," says Miss Peyton, somewhat irreverently.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> +"Marry you, indeed! Why, I should quite as soon dream +of marrying my brother!"</p> + +<p>"Well, as I can't be your husband, it would be rather +nice to be your brother," says Mr. Branscombe, cheerfully. +"Your words give me hope that you regard me in +that light. I shall always think of you for the future as +my sister, and so I am sure"—with an eloquent and +rather mischievous pause—"will Horace!"</p> + +<p>Miss Peyton blushes again,—much more vividly this +time,—and, gathering up the reins hastily, says "good-by" +for the second time, without turning her flushed face to +his, and drives rapidly up the avenue.</p> + +<p>Branscombe stands on the steps watching her until she +is quite lost to sight behind the rhododendrons, and then +strokes his moustache thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>"That has quite arranged itself, I should fancy," he +says, slowly. "Well, I hope he will be very good to her, +dear little thing!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER II.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Her form was fresher than the morning rose<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the dew wets its leaves."—<span class="smcap">Thomson.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + + +<p>Pullingham-on-the-Moors is a small, untidy, picturesque +little village, situated on the side of a hill. It boasts +a railway-station, a police-barrack, a solitary hotel, and +two or three well-sized shops. It is old-fashioned, stationary, +and, as a rule, hopelessly harmless, though now +and then, dissensions, based principally on religious +grounds, will arise.</p> + +<p>These can scarcely be avoided, as one-half of the parish +trips lightly after Mr. Redmond, the vicar (who has a +subdued passion for wax candles, and a craving for floral +decorations), and looks with scorn upon the other half, as, +with solemn step and slow, it descends the high hill that +leads, each Sabbath, to the "Methody" Chapel beneath.</p> + +<p>It never grows older, this village, and never younger; +is seldom cast down or elated, surprised or demonstrative, +about anything. In a quaint, sleepy fashion, it has its +dissipations, and acknowledges its festive seasons,—such<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> +as Christmas-tide when all the shops burst into a general +bloom of colored cards, and February, when valentines +adorn every pane. It has also its fair days, when fat cattle +and lean sugar-sticks seem to be everywhere.</p> + +<p>A marriage is reckoned an event, and causes some gossip: +a birth does not,—possibly because of the fact that +it is a weekly occurrence. Indeed, the babies in Pullingham +are a "joy forever." They have their season all the +year round, and never by any chance "go out;" though I +have heard people very foolishly liken them to flowers. +They grow, and thrive, and blossom all over the place, +which no doubt is greatly to the credit of the inhabitants. +Occasionally, too, some one is good enough to cause a +little pleasurable excitement by dying, but very seldom, +as the place is fatally healthy, and people live here until +they become a social nuisance, and almost wish themselves +dead. There is, I believe, some legend belonging to the +country, about an old woman who had to be shot, so aggressively +old did she become; but this is obscure.</p> + +<p>About two miles from the town, one comes to Sartoris, +the residence of Dorian Branscombe, which runs in a line +with the lands of Scrope Royal, the property of Sir James +Scrope.</p> + +<p>Sir James is a tall, rather old-young man of thirty-two +with a calm, expressive face, kindly eyes, and a somewhat +lanky figure. He has a heart of gold, a fine estate, and——a +step-sister.</p> + +<p>Miss Jemima Scrope is not as nice as she might be. +She has a face as hard as her manners, and, though considerably +over forty, is neither fat nor fair. She has a +perfect talent for making herself obnoxious to all unhappy +enough to come within her reach, a temper like +"Kate the Curst," and a nose like the Duke of Wellington.</p> + +<p>Somewhere to the left, on a hill as high and pompous +as itself, stands the castle, where three months out of the +twelve the Duke and Duchess of Spendleton, and some of +their family, put in a dreary time. They give two balls, +one fancy bazaar, a private concert, and three garden-parties—neither +more nor less—every year. Nobody likes +them very much, because nobody knows them. Nobody +dislikes them very much, for just the same reason.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span></p> + +<p>The castle is beautifully situated, and is correct in every +detail. There are Queen Anne rooms, and Gothic apartments, +and Elizabethan anterooms, and staircases of the +most vague. There are secret passages, and panels, and +sliding doors, and trap-doors, and, in fact, every sort of +door you could mention, and all other abominations. Artists +revel in it, and grow frenzied with joy over its impossibilities, +and almost every year some room is painted +from it and sent to the Academy, But outside lies its +chief beauty, for there are the swelling woods, and the +glimpse of the far-off ocean as it gleams, now green, now +steel-blue, beneath the rays of the setting sun. And beyond +it is Gowran, where Clarissa lives with her father, George +Peyton.</p> + +<p>Clarissa is all that is charming. She is tall, slight, +<i>svelte</i>: indeed, earth has not anything to show more fair. +She is tender, too, and true, and very earnest,—perhaps a +degree too earnest, too intense, for every-day life. Her +eyes, "twin stars of beauty," are deep and gray; her hair +is dark; her mouth, though somewhat large, is perfect; +and her smile is indescribable, so sweet it is, so soft and +lingering.</p> + +<p>Her mother died when she was nine years old, and from +that time until she was twelve she spent most of her life +with the Branscombe boys,—riding, fishing, sometimes even +shooting, with them. The effect of such training began +to make itself felt. She was fast degenerating into a tomboy +of the first water (indeed, one of the purest gems of +its kind), when James Scrope, who even then was a serious +young man, came to the rescue, and induced her +father to send her from Gowran to a school at Brussels.</p> + +<p>"Virtue is its own reward," they tell us: let us hope +Scrope felt rewarded! Whether he did or not, I know he +was considerably frightened when Clarissa (having discovered +who had been the instigator of this "plot" to drive +her from her beloved Gowran) came down to Scrope Hall, +and, dashing into his presence like a small whirlwind, +abused him for his well-meant interference in good round +terms, and, having refused even to say good-by to him, +had slammed the door in his face, and, starting from +home next morning, had seen no more of him for six long +years.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span></p> + +<p>At seventeen, her aunt, the Hon. Mrs. Greville, had +brought her back from Brussels to her own house in town, +where she kept her for twelve months, and where she once +more renewed acquaintance with her old friends, Dorian +and Horace Branscombe. Mrs. Greville took her to all the +most desirable balls of her season, to concerts and "small +and earlies," to high-art entertainments of the most "too, +too," and, having given her free scope to break the hearts +of half the men in town, had sent her at last to her father, +hopelessly in love with a detrimental.</p> + +<p>The detrimental was Horace Branscombe. Mrs. Greville +was intensely annoyed and disgusted. After all her +care, all her trouble, to have this happen! She had married +her own girls with the greatest <i>éclat</i>, had not made +one false move with regard to any of them, and now to see +Clarissa (who, with her beauty and fortune, might have +married any one) throw herself away upon a penniless barrister +seemed to her to savor of positive crime.</p> + +<p>Horace, certainly, so far, had not proposed in form, but +Mrs. Greville was not to be hoodwinked. He meant it. +He was not always at her niece's side for nothing; and, +sooner or later, Clarissa, with all her money, would go +over to him. When she thought of this shocking waste of +money, she groaned aloud; and then she washed her hands +of the whole affair, and sent Clarissa back to Gowran, +where her father received her with open arms, and made +much of her.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER III.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"O Helen, fair beyond compare!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I'll make a garland of thy hair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall bind my heart for evermair,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Until the day I die!"<br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p>Across the lawn the shadows move slowly, and with a +vague grace that adds to their charm. The birds are +drowsy from the heat, and, sitting half hidden in the green +branches, chant their songs in somewhat lazy fashion. +All nature has succumbed to the fierce power of Phœbus +Apollo.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The morn is merry June, I trow:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The rose is budding fain."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Each flower in the sunlit garden is holding up its head, +and breathing fragrant sighs as the hours slip by, unheeded, +yet full of a vague delight.</p> + +<p>Miss Peyton, in her white gown, and with some soft rich +roses lying on her lap, is leaning back in a low chair in +the deep embrasure of the window, making a poor attempt +at working.</p> + +<p>Her father, with a pencil in his hand, and some huge +volumes spread out before him, is making a few desultory +notes. Into the library—the coseyest, if not the handsomest, +room at Gowran—the hot sun is rushing, dancing +lightly over statuettes and pictures, and lingering with +pardonable delay upon Clarissa's bowed head.</p> + +<p>"Who is this coming up the avenue?" she says, presently, +in slow, sleepy tones, that suit the day. "It is—no, +it isn't—and yet it is—it must be James Scrope!"</p> + +<p>"I dare say. He was to have returned yesterday. He +would come here as soon as possible, of course." Rising, +he joins her at the window, and watches the coming visitor +as he walks his horse leisurely down the drive.</p> + +<p>"What a dear little modest speech!" says Miss Peyton, +maliciously. "Now, if I had been the author of it, I know +some one who would have called me vain! But I will +generously let that pass. How brown Jim has grown! +Has he not?"</p> + +<p>"Has he? I can scarcely see so far. What clear eyes +you must have, child, and what a faithful memory to recollect +him without hesitation, after all these years!"</p> + +<p>"I never forget," says Clarissa, simply, which is quite +the truth. "And he has altered hardly anything. He +was always so old, you know, he really couldn't grow +much older. What is his age now, papa? Ninety?"</p> + +<p>"Something over thirty, I fancy," says papa, uncertainly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, nonsense!" says Miss Peyton. "Surely you romance, +or else you are an invaluable friend. When I +grow brown and withered, I hope you will prove equally +good to me. I shall expect you to say all sorts of impossible +things, and not to blush when saying them. Ah!—here +is Sir James" as the door opens, and Scrope—healthy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> +and bronzed from foreign travel—enters quietly, staid and +calm as ever.</p> + +<p>When he has shaken hands with, and been warmly welcomed +by, Mr. Peyton, he turns with some diffidence +towards the girl in the clinging white gown, who is smiling +at him from the window, with warm red lips, half parted +and some faint amusement in her friendly eyes.</p> + +<p>"Why, you have forgotten me," she says, presently, in +a low tone of would-be reproach. "While I—I knew you +at once."</p> + +<p>"I have not forgotten," says Scrope, taking her hand +and holding it, as though unconsciously. "I was only +surprised, puzzled. You are so changed. All seems so +different. A little child when last I saw you, and now a +lady grown."</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, I am quite grown up," says Miss Peyton, demurely. +"I can't do any more of that sort of thing, to +oblige anybody,—even though papa—who adores a Juno, +and thinks all women should be divinely tall—has often +asked me to try. But," maliciously, "are you not going +to ask me how I have progressed (isn't that the right +word?) with my studies? You ought, you know, as it was +you who sent me to school."</p> + +<p>"I?" says Sir James, rather taken aback at this unexpected +onslaught.</p> + +<p>"Yes, you," repeats she, with a little nod. "Papa +would never have had the cruelty even to think of such a +thing. I am glad you have still sufficient grace left to +blush for your evil conduct. Do you remember," with a +gay laugh, "what a terrible scolding I gave you before +leaving home?"</p> + +<p>"I shall remember it to my dying day," says Sir James. +"I was never so thoroughly frightened before, or since. +Then and there, I registered a vow never again to interfere +with any one's daughter."</p> + +<p>"I hope you will keep that vow," says Miss Peyton, +with innocent malice, and a smile only half suppressed, +that torments him in memory for many a day. And then +George Peyton asks some question, and presently Sir +James is telling him certain facts about the Holy Land, +and Asia generally, that rather upset his preconceived +ideas.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yet I still believe it must be the most interesting +spot on earth," he says, still clinging to old thoughts and +settled convictions.</p> + +<p>"Well, it's novel, you know, and the fashion, and that," +says Sir James, rather vaguely. "In fact, you are nowhere +nowadays if you haven't done the East; but it's fatiguing, +there isn't a doubt. The people aren't as nice as +they might be, and honesty is not considered the best +policy out there, and dirt is the prevailing color, and +there's a horrid lot of sand."</p> + +<p>"What a dismal ending!" says Clarissa, in a tone suggestive +of disappointment. "But how lovely it looks in +pictures!—I don't mean the sand, exactly, but the East."</p> + +<p>"Most things do. There is an old grandaunt of mine +hung in the gallery at Scrope——"</p> + +<p>"How shocking!" interrupted Miss Peyton, with an affected +start. "And in the house, too! So unpleasant! +Did she do it herself, or who hanged her?"</p> + +<p>"Her picture, you know," says Scrope, with a laugh. +"To hear that she had made away with herself would be +too good to be true. She looks absolutely lovely in this +picture I speak of, almost too fine for this work-a-day +world; yet my father always told me she was ugly as a +nightmare. Never believe in paint."</p> + +<p>"Talking of Scrope," says Clarissa, "do you know, +though I have been home now for some months, I have +never been through it since I was a child? I have rather +a passion for revisiting old haunts, and I want to see it +again. That round room in the tower used to be my +special joy. Will you show it to me?—some day?—any +day?"</p> + +<p>"What day will you come?" asks Scrope, thinking it unnecessary +to express the gladness it will be to him to point +put the beauties of his home to this new-old friend,—this +friend so full of fresh and perfect beauty, yet so replete +with all the old graces and witcheries of the child he once +so fondly loved.</p> + +<p>"I am just the least little bit in the world afraid of Miss +Scrope," says Clarissa, with an irrepressible smile. "So +I shall prefer to come some time when you are in. On +Thursday, if that will suit you. Or Friday; or, if not then, +why, Saturday."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Make it Thursday. That day comes first," said +Scrope.</p> + +<p>"Now, that is a very pretty speech," declares Miss Peyton, +vast encouragement in her tone. "Eastern air, in +spite of its drawbacks, has developed your intellect, Jim. +Hasn't it?"</p> + +<p>The old familiar appellation, and the saucy smile that +has always in it something of tenderness, smites some half-forgotten +chord in Scrope's heart. He makes no reply, +but gazes with an earnestness that almost amounts to scrutiny +at Clarissa, as she stands in the open window leaning +against a background of ivy, through which pale rose-buds +are struggling into view. Within her slender fingers the +knitting-needles move slowly, glinting and glistening in the +sun's hot rays, until they seem to emit tiny flashes as they +cross and recross each other. Her eyes are downcast, the +smile still lingers on her lips, her whole attitude, and her +pretty graceful figure, clad in its white gown, is</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Like a picture rich and rare."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>"On Thursday, then, I shall see you," he says, not because +he has tired of looking at her, but because she has +raised her eyes and is evidently wondering at his silence. +"Good-by."</p> + +<p>"Good-by," says Clarissa, genially. Then she lays down +the neglected knitting (that, indeed, is more a pretence +than a reality), and comes out into the middle of the room. +"For the sake of old days I shall see you to the hall door," +she says, brightly. "No, papa, do not ring: I myself shall +do the honors to Jim."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER IV.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"All thoughts, all passions, all delights,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Whatever stirs this mortal frame,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All are but ministers of Love,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And feed his sacred flame."—<span class="smcap">Coleridge.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + + +<p>All round the drawing-room windows at Scrope a wide +balcony has been built up, over which the creepers climb +and trail. Stone steps leads to it from the scented garden<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> +beneath, and up these runs Clarissa, gayly, when Thursday +morning had dawned, and deepened, and given place +to noon.</p> + +<p>Within the drawing-room, before a low table, sits Miss +Scrope, tatting industriously. Tatting is Miss Scrope's +forte. She never does anything else. Multitudinous antimacassars, +of all shapes, patterns, and dimensions, grow +beneath her untiring touch with the most alarming rapidity. +When finished, nobody knows what becomes of them, as +they instantly disappear from view and are never heard +of afterwards. They are as good as a ghost in Pullingham, +and obstinately refuse to be laid. It was charitably, if +weakly, suggested at one time, by a member of the stronger +sex, that probably she sent them out in bales as coverings +for the benighted heathen; but when it was explained to +this misguided being that tatted antimacassars, as a rule, +run to holes, and can be seen through, even he desisted +from further attempts to solve the mystery.</p> + +<p>Miss Peyton, throwing up one of the window-sashes, +steps boldly into the drawing-room and confronts this eminent +tatter.</p> + +<p>"Good-morning," she says, sweetly, advancing with +smiling lips.</p> + +<p>Miss Scrope, who has not heard her enter, turns slowly +round: to say she started would be a gross calumny. Miss +Scrope never starts. She merely raises her head with a +sudden accession of dignity. Her dignity, as a rule, is not +fascinating, and might go by another name.</p> + +<p>"Good-afternoon, Clarissa," she says, austerely. "I am +sorry you should have been forced to make an entrance +like a burglar. Has the hall door been removed? It +used to stand in the front of the house."</p> + +<p>"I think it is there still," Miss Peyton ventures, meekly. +"But"—prettily—"coming in through the window enabled +me to see you at least one moment sooner. Shall I close +it again?"</p> + +<p>"I beg you will not distress yourself about it," says +Miss Scrope, rising to ring the bell. "When Collins comes +in he will see to it."</p> + +<p>It is a wild day, though warm and sweet, and the wind +outside is tearing madly over lawn and shrubberies into the +wood beyond.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span></p> + +<p>"But in the mean time you will perhaps catch cold, of +rheumatism, or something," says Clarissa, hesitating.</p> + +<p>"Rheumatism! pugh! nonsense!" says Miss Scrope, +disdainfully. "I simply don't believe in rheumatism. It +is nothing but nerves. I don't have those ridiculous pains +and aches people hug nowadays, and I don't believe they +have either; it employs their idle time trying to invent +them."</p> + +<p>"Is Jim in?" asks Clarissa, presently, having seated +herself in a horribly comfortless but probably artistic +chair.</p> + +<p>"<i>James is</i> in," says Miss Scrope, severely. "Do you +mean my brother? It is really almost impossible to understand +young people of the present age."</p> + +<p>"Don't you like the name Jim?" asks Clarissa, innocently, +leaning slightly forward, and taking up the edge of +Miss Scrope's last antimacassar to examine it with tender +interest. "I think it such a dear little name, and so happily +wanting in formality. I have never called him anything +else since I can remember, so it comes most naturally +to me."</p> + +<p>"I think it a most unmaidenly way of addressing any +gentleman whose priest christened him James," says Miss +Scrope, unflinchingly. "What would you think of him +werehe to call you by some hideous pet name, or, more +properly speaking, nickname?"</p> + +<p>"I shouldn't mind it in the least; indeed, I think I should +rather like it," returns Clarissa, mildly.</p> + +<p>"I believe that to be highly probable," retorts Miss Jemima, +with considerable scorn.</p> + +<p>Clarissa laughs,—not an irritating laugh, by any means, +but a little soft, low, girlish laugh, very good to hear.</p> + +<p>"If you scold me any more I shall cry," she says, +lightly. "I always give way to tears when driven into a +corner. It saves time and trouble. Besides," returning +with some slight perversity to the charge, "shall I tell you +a secret? Your brother likes that little name. He does, +indeed. He has told me so a thousand times in the days +gone by. Very frivolous of him, isn't it? But—ah! here +he is," as the door opens, and Sir James comes in. "You +are a little late, are you not?" leaning back in her chair +with a certain amount of languid, but pleasing, grace, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> +holding out to him a slender ungloved hand, on which +some rings sparkle brilliantly.</p> + +<p>"Have I kept you waiting?" asks he, eagerly, foolishly, +glad because of her last words, that seem to imply so +much and really mean so little. Has she been anxious for +his coming? Have the minutes appeared tedious because +of his absence? "I hurried all I knew," he says; "but +stewards will be stewards."</p> + +<p>"I have been quite happy with Miss Scrope; you need +not look so penitent," says Clarissa. "And who am I, +that I should compete with a steward? We have been +having quite a good time, and an excellent argument. +Come here, and tell your sister that you think Jim the +prettiest name in the world."</p> + +<p>"Did any one throw a doubt on the subject? Lives +there a soul so dead to euphony as not to recognize the +music in those three letters?—Jim! Why, it is poetry itself," +says Sir James, who is not so absent that he cannot +scent battle on the breeze. As he speaks, he smiles: and +when James Scrope smiles he is almost handsome.</p> + +<p>"Some day you will regret encouraging that child in +her folly," remarks Miss Scrope, severely. At which the +child makes a saucy little grimace unseen, and rises to her +feet.</p> + +<p>"What a solemn warning!" says Scrope, with a shrug. +"I hope," turning to Clarissa, "you have taken it to +heart, and that it will keep you out of imaginary mischief. +It ought, you know. It would be a shabby thing to bring +down public censure on the head of one who has so nobly +espoused your cause."</p> + +<p>"My conduct from this day forth shall be above suspicion," +says Clarissa. "Good-by, Miss Scrope," stooping +to press her fresh warm lips to the withered cross old cheek +beneath her: "I am going to tread old ground with—James."</p> + +<p>She follows him across hall and corridor, through two +modern rooms, and past a <i>portière</i>, into another and larger +hall beyond. Here, standing before a heavy oaken doer, +he turns the handle of it, and, as it swings back slowly and +sleepily, they pass into another room, so unexpectedly and +so strangely different from any they have yet entered, as almost +to make one start.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span></p> + +<p>It is a huge old-fashioned apartment, stone-floored and +oak panelled, that once, in olden days, must have been a refectory. +Chairs carved in oak, and built like bishops' +thrones, line the walls, looking as though no man for many +a hundred years has drawn them from their present position. +Massive cabinets and cupboards, cunningly devised +by crafty hands in by-gone days, look out from dusky corners, +the hideous faces carved upon them wreathed in their +eternal ghastly smiles. From narrow, painted windows +great gleams of sunset from the gay world without pour in, +only to look sadly out of place in the solemn gloomy room. +But one small door divides it from the halls outside; yet +centuries seem to roll between it and them.</p> + +<p>In one corner a door lies half open, and behind it a narrow +flight of stairs runs upward to a turret chamber above,—a +tiny stairway, heavily balustraded and uncarpeted, that +creates in one a mad desire to ascend and learn the secrets +that may lie at its top.</p> + +<p>Miss Peyton, scarce noticing the monkish refectory, +runs to the stairs and mounts them eagerly, Sir James following +her in a more leisurely fashion.</p> + +<p>"Now for my own room," she says, with some degree of +quickness in her tone. She reaches the turret chamber as +she speaks, and looks around her. It is quite a circle, and +apparently of the same date as the one they have just quitted. +Even the furniture, though of lighter make and size, +is of a similar age and pattern. Ugly little chairs and unpleasantly +solid tables are dotted here and there, a perfect +wealth of Old-World work cut into them. Everything is +carved, and to an unsympathetic observer it might occur +that the carver must have been a person subject to fiendish +visions and unholy nightmares. But no doubt the +beauty of his designs lies in their ugliness, and his heads +are a marvel of art, and his winged creatures priceless!</p> + +<p>The high chimney-piece is <i>en rapport</i> with all the rest, +and scowls unceasingly; and the very windows—long and +deep—have little faces carved on either side of them, of the +most diabolical.</p> + +<p>Miss Peyton is plainly entranced with the whole scene, +and for a full minute says nothing.</p> + +<p>"I feel as though I were a child again," she says, presently, +as though half regretful. "Everything comes back<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span> +to me with such a strange yet tender vividness. This, I remember, +was my favorite table, this my favorite chair. +And that little winged monster over there, he used to whisper +in my ears more thrilling tales than either Grimm or +Andersen. Have you never moved anything in all these +years?"</p> + +<p>"Never. It is your own room by adoption, and no one +shall meddle with it. When I went abroad I locked it, and +carried the key of it with me wherever I went; I hardly know +why myself." He glances at her curiously, but her face is +averted, and she is plainly thinking less of him than of the +many odd trifles scattered around. "When I returned, +dust reigned, and spiders; but it has been made spick and +span to day for its mistress. Does it still please you? or +will you care to alter anything?"</p> + +<p>"No, nothing. I shall pay a compliment to my childish +taste by letting everything stay just as it is. I must have +been rather a nice child, Jim, don't you think? if one passes +over the torn frocks and the shrewish tongue."</p> + +<p>"I don't think I ever saw a tear in your frocks," says +Sir James, simply, "and if your tongue was shrewish I never +found it out."</p> + +<p>Miss Peyton gives way to mirth. She sits down on a +wretchedly uncomfortable, if delightfully mediæval, chair +and laughs a good deal.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To see oursels as others see us!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>she quotes, gayly. "Those lines, meant by poor Burns as +a censure on frail humanity, rather fall short at this moment. +Were I to see myself as you see me, Jim, I should +be a dreadfully conceited person, and utterly unbearable +What a good friend you make!"</p> + +<p>"A bad one, you mean. A real friend, according to my +lights, is a fellow who says unpleasant things all round and +expects you to respect his candor. By and by, when I +tell you a few home truths, perhaps you will not like me as +you do now."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I shall always like you," says Clarissa. "Long +ago, when you used to scold me, I never bore malice. I +suppose you are one of those rare people who can say the +ungracious thing in such a manner that it doesn't grate.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span> +But then you are old, you know, Jim, very old,—though, in +appearance, wonderfully young for your years. I do hope +papa, at your age, will look as fresh."</p> + +<p>She has risen, and has slipped her hand through his +arm, and is smiling up at him gayly and with a sweetness +irresistible. Sir James looks as pleased as though he had +received a florid compliment.</p> + +<p>"What a baby you are!" he says, after a pause, looking +down at her admiringly. Judging by his tone, babies, in +his eyes, must possess very superior attractions. "There +are a good many babies in the world, don't you think?" +he goes on, presently. "You are one, and Geoffrey Branscombe +is another. I don't suppose he will ever quite grow +up."</p> + +<p>"And Horace," says Clarissa, idly, "is he another?"</p> + +<p>But Sir James, though unconsciously, resents the question.</p> + +<p>"Oh, no!" he says, hastily. "He does not come within +the category at all. Why," with a faint smile, "he is +even older than I am! There is no tender baby-nonsense +about him."</p> + +<p>"No, he is so clever,—so far above us all, where intellect +is concerned," she says, absently. A slight smile +plays about her lips, and a light, that was not there a moment +since, comes to life within her eyes. With an effort, +she arouses herself from what were plainly happy daydreams, +and comes back to the present, which, just now, +is happy too.</p> + +<p>"I think nature meant me to be a nun," she says, smiling. +"This place subdues and touches me so. The +sombre lights and shadows are so impressive! If it were +indeed mine (in reality), I should live a great part of my +time in it. Here, I should write my pleasantest letters, +and read my choicest books, take my afternoon tea, and +make welcome my dearest friends,—you among them. In +fact, if it were practicable," nodding her pretty head emphatically, +"I should steal this room. There is hardly +anything I would not do to make it my own."</p> + +<p>Scrope regards her earnestly, with a certain amount of +calm inquiry. Is she a coquette, or merely unthinking? +If, indeed, the face be the index of the mind, one must<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span> +account her free of all unworthy thought or frivolous design. +Here is</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"A countenance in which do meet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sweet records, promises as sweet."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Her eyes are still smiling up at him; her whole expression +is full of a gentle friendliness; and in his heart, at +this moment, arises a sensation that is not hope, or gladness, +or despair, but yet is a faint wild mingling of all three.</p> + +<p>As for Clarissa, she stands a little apart, unconscious of +all that is passing in his heart, and gazes lovingly upon the +objects that surround her, as one will gaze now and then +on things that have been fondly remembered through the +haze of many years. She is happy, wrapped in memories +of a past all sunshine and no shade, and is ignorant of +the meaning he would gladly attach to her last words.</p> + +<p>"While I stay here I sin,—that is, I covet," she says, at +length, surprised by his silence, "and it grows late. Come, +walk with me a little way through the park: I have not +yet seen the old path we used to call the 'short cut' to +Gowran, long ago."</p> + +<p>So, down the dark stairs he follows her, across the stone +flooring, and into the hall outside, that seems so brilliant +by contrast, and so like another world, all is so changed, so +different. Behind, lie silence, unbroken, perfect, a sad +and dreamy light, Old-World grandeur; here, all is restless +life, full of uncertain sounds, and distant footsteps, +and voices faint but positive.</p> + +<p>"Is it not like a dream?" says Clarissa, stopping to +point backwards to the turret they have just quitted.</p> + +<p>"The past is always full of dreams," replies he, thoughtfully.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER V.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"A violet by a mossy stone<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Half hidden from the eye!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fair as a star, when only one<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Is shining in the sky."—<span class="smcap">Wordsworth</span>.<br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p>The baby morn has flung aside its robes, and grown to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span> +perfect strength. The day is well advanced. Already it +is making rapid strides towards rest and evening; yet still +no cooling breeze has come to refresh the heart of man.</p> + +<p>Below, in the quiet fields, the cattle are standing, knee-deep +in water, beneath the spreading branches of the kindly +alder. They have no energy to eat, but munch, sleepily, the +all-satisfying cud, and, with gentle if expressionless eyes, +look out afar for evening and the milkmaid.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">"'Tis raging noon; and, vertical, the sun<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Darts on the head direct his forceful rays.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O'er heaven and earth, far as the ranging eye<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Can sweep, a dazzling deluge reigns; and all,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From pole to pole, is undistinguished blaze.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Distressful Nature pants!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The very streams look languid from afar,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or, through th' unsheltered glade, impatient, seem<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To hurl into the covert of the grove."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>A tender stillness reigns over everything. The very birds +are mute. Even the busy mill-wheel has ceased to move.</p> + +<p>Bright flashes of light, that come and go ere one can +catch them, dart across the gray walls of the old mill,—that +holds its gaunt and stately head erect, as though defying +age,—and, slanting to the right, fall on the cottage, +quaint and ivy-clad, that seems to nestle at its feet. The +roses that climb its walls are drooping; the casements all +stand wide. No faintest breath of air comes to flutter +Ruth's white gown, as she leans against the rustic gate.</p> + +<p>All millers' daughters should be pretty. It is a duty imposed +upon them by tradition. Romance, of the most floral +description, at once attaches itself to a miller's daughter. +I am not at all sure it does not even cast a halo round the +miller himself. Ruth Annersley at least acknowledges +this fact, and does her duty nobly; she gives the lie to no +old legends or treasured nursery superstitions; she is as +pretty as heart can desire,—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Fresh as the month, and as the morning fair."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>She is small, piquant, timid, with large almond-shaped +eyes and light-brown hair, a rounded supple figure, and +hands delicately white. Perhaps there is a lack of force +in her face, an indefinable want, that hardly detracts from +her beauty, yet sets one wondering, vaguely, where it lies,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> +and what it can be. The mouth, mobile and slightly parted, +betrays it most.</p> + +<p>Her lashes, covering her brown eyes, are very long, and +lie a good deal on her cheeks. Her manner, without a +suspicion of <i>gaucherie</i>, is nervous, almost appealing; and +her smile, because so rare, is very charming, and apt to +linger in the memory.</p> + +<p>She is an only child, and all through her young life has +been petted and caressed rather more than is good for +any one. Her father had married, somewhat late in life, +a woman in every way his superior, and, she dying two +years after her marriage, he had fallen back for consolation +upon the little one left to his sole care. To him, she +was a pride, a delight, a creature precious beyond words, +on whom the sun must shine gently and the rain fall not +at all.</p> + +<p>A shy child from the first, Ruth had declined acquaintance +with the villagers, who would, one and all, have been +glad to succor the motherless girl. Perhaps the little drop +of gentle blood inherited from her mother had thriven in +her veins, and thus rendered her distant and somewhat +repellent in her manners to those in her own rank of life.</p> + +<p>She had been sent early to a private school, had been +carefully educated far above her position, and had come +home again to her father, with all the pretty airs and unconscious +softness of manner that, as a rule, belong to +good birth.</p> + +<p>She is warm-hearted, passionate, impulsive, and singularly +reserved,—so much so that few guess at the terrible +power to love, or hate, or suffer, in silence, that lies within +her. She is a special favorite with Miss Peyton and the +vicarage people (Mr. and Mrs Redmond and their five +children), with those at Hythe, and indeed with most of +the country people, Miss Scrope excepted, who gives it +freely as her opinion that she will come to no good "with +her books and her high society and general fiddle-faddling." +Nobody knows what this last means, and every +one is afraid to ask.</p> + +<p>Just now, with her pretty head bare, and her hand shading +her eyes, she is gazing down the dusty road. Her +whole attitude denotes expectancy. Every feature (she is +off her guard) expresses intense and hopeful longing,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span>—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Fiery Titan, who<br /></span> +<span class="i2">——with his peccant heat<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Has dried up the lusty liquor new<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Upon the herbis in the greene mead,"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>has plainly fallen in love with her to-day, as he has clothed +her in all his glory, and seems reluctant to pass her by on +his homeward journey.</p> + +<p>The heat has made her pale and languid; but just at this +moment a faint delicate color springs into her face; and +as the figure of a young man, tall and broad-shouldered, +turns the corner of the road, she raises her hand to her +cheek with a swift involuntary gesture. A moment later, +as the figure comes closer, so near that the face is discernible, +she pales again, and grows white as an early snow +drop.</p> + +<p>"Good-morning, Ruth," says Dorian Branscombe, with +a smile, apparently oblivious of the fact that morning has +given place to noon many hours agone.</p> + +<p>Ruth returns his salutation gently, and lets her hand lie +for an instant in his.</p> + +<p>"This is a summer's day, with a vengeance," says +Dorian, genially, proceeding to make himself comfortable +on the top of the low wall near which she is standing. He +is plainly making up his mind to a long and exhaustive conversation. +"Talk of India!" he says disparagingly; +"this beats it to fits!"</p> + +<p>Ruth acquiesces amiably.</p> + +<p>"It is warm,—very," she says, calmly, but indifferently.</p> + +<p>"'Ot I call it,—werry 'ot," returns he, making his quotation +as genially as though she understands it, and, plucking +a little rose-bud from a tree near him, proceeds to adorn +his coat with it.</p> + +<p>"It seems a long time since I have seen you," he goes +on, presently; and, as he speaks, his eyes again seek hers. +Something in her face touches some chord in his careless +kindly nature.</p> + +<p>"How pale you are!" he says, abruptly.</p> + +<p>"Am I? The heat, no doubt,"—with a faint smile.</p> + +<p>"But thin, too, are you not? And—and—" he pauses. +"Anything wrong with you, Ruth?"</p> + +<p>"Wrong? No! How should there be?" retorts she, +in a curious tone, in which fear and annoyance fight for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span> +mastery. Then the storm dies away, and the startled look +fades from her pretty face.</p> + +<p>"Why should you think me unhappy because I am a little +pale?" she asks, sullenly.</p> + +<p>Branscombe looks surprised.</p> + +<p>"You altogether mistake me," he says, gently. "I never +associated you in my mind with unhappiness. I merely +meant, had you a headache, or any other of those small ills +that female flesh is heir to? I beg your pardon, I'm sure, +if I have offended you."</p> + +<p>He has jumped off the wall, and is now standing before +her, with only the little gate between them. Her face is +still colorless, and she is gazing up at him with parted lips, +as though she would fain say something difficult to form +into satisfactory speech. At this moment, Lord Sartoris, +coming suddenly round the angle of the road, sees them.</p> + +<p>Ruth lowers her eyes, and some slight transient color +creeps into her cheeks. Sartoris, coming quickly up to +them, makes some conventional speech to her, and then +turns to his nephew.</p> + +<p>"Where are you going?" he asks, coldly.</p> + +<p>"I was going to Hythe," returned the young man, easily. +"Just as well I didn't, eh? Should have found you out."</p> + +<p>"Found me out,—yes," repeats his uncle, looking at him +strangely. How long—how long it takes to find out some +people, on whom our very hearts are set. "I am going to +the village."</p> + +<p>"Then so am I," says Branscombe. "Though I should +think it would run the original 'deserted' one close on such +a day as this. Good-by, Ruth."</p> + +<p>He holds out his hand; and the girl, silently returning +his warm pressure, makes a faint courtesy to Lord Sartoris. +There is no servility, but some nervousness, in the slight +salutation.</p> + +<p>"How is your father, Ruth?" asks he, detaining her +by a quick movement of the hand.</p> + +<p>"Quite well, thank you, my lord." Some timidity is discernible +in her tone, caused by the unmistakable reproof +and sternness in his.</p> + +<p>"I am glad to hear it. There is no worthier man in all +the parish than John Annersley. I hope nothing will ever +occur to grieve or sadden that good old man."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I hope not, my lord," returns she, steadily, although +his voice has meaning in it. In another moment she is +gone.</p> + +<p>"How does your farming go on, Dorian?" asks Lord +Sartoris, presently, rousing himself from a puzzling revery.</p> + +<p>"Quite in the model line," says Dorian, cheerful. +"That Sawyer is an invaluable fellow. Does all the work, +you know,—which is most satisfactory. Looks after the +men, pays their wages, and takes all trouble off my shoulders. +Never could understand what a perfect treasure is +till I got him. Every one says I am most fortunate in my +choice of a steward."</p> + +<p>"I dare say. It is amazing the amount of information +people possess about other people's servants. But you look +after things yourself, of course? However faithful and +trustworthy one's hirelings may be, one's own eyes should +also be in the matter."</p> + +<p>"Oh, of course," acquiesces Dorian, still cheerfully. +"Nothing like personal supervision, and so on. Every +now and then, you know, I do look over the accounts, and +ask a few questions, and show myself very learned in +drainages, and so forth. But I don't see that I gain much +by it. Horrid stupid work, too,"—with a yawn. "Luckily, +Sawyer is one of the most knowing fellows in the world, +or I suppose I should go to smash. He is up to everything, +and talks like a book. Quite a pleasure, I give you +my word,—almost a privilege,—to hear him converse on +short-horns and some eccentric root they call mangels."</p> + +<p>"It is possible to be too knowing," says his uncle, depreciatingly.</p> + +<p>"Eh? oh, no; Sawyer is not that sort of person. He +is quite straight all through. And he never worries me +more than he can help. He looks after everything, and +whatever he touches (metaphorically speaking) turns to +gold. I'm sure anything like those pheasants——"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, I dare say. But pheasants are not everything."</p> + +<p>"Well, no; there are a few other things," says Dorian, +amicably,—"notably, grouse. Why this undying hatred +to Sawyer, my dear Arthur? In what has he been found +wanting?"</p> + +<p>"I think him a low, under-hand, sneaking sort of fellow,"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span> +says Sartoris, unhesitatingly. "I should not keep him in +my employ half an hour. However," relentingly, and somewhat +sadly, "one cannot always judge by appearances."</p> + +<p>They have reached the village by this time, and are +walking leisurely through it. Almost as they reach the +hotel that adorns the centre of the main street, they meet +Mr. Redmond, the rector, looking as hearty and kindly as +usual. Lord Sartoris, who has come down on purpose to +meet him, having asked his question and received his answer, +turns again and walks slowly homeward, Dorian still +beside him.</p> + +<p>As they again catch sight of the old mill, Sartoris says, +quietly, with a laudable attempt at unconcern that would +not have deceived the veriest infant, but is quite successful +with Dorian, whose thoughts are far away,—</p> + +<p>"What a nice girl that little Ruth has grown!"</p> + +<p>"Awfully pretty girl," returns Dorian, carelessly.</p> + +<p>"Yes,"—gravely,—"very pretty; and I think—I hope—upright, +as she is beautiful. Poor child, hers seems to +me a very desolate lot. Far too well educated to associate +with those of her own class, she is still cut off by the laws +of caste from mixing with those above her. She has no +friends, no mother, no sister, to love and sympathize with +her."</p> + +<p>"My dear Arthur, how you do agonize yourself!" says +Dorian. "She has her father, and about as comfortable +a time altogether as I know of."</p> + +<p>"She reminds me of some lowly wayside flower," goes +on the old man, musingly, heedless of the brilliant interlude, +"raising its little head sadly among gay garden-plants +that care not for her, whilst beyond the hedge that +bounds her garden she can watch her own species grow +and flourish in wild luxuriance. Her life can scarcely be +called happy. There must always be a want, a craving for +what can never be obtained. Surely the one that could +bring sorrow to that pure heart, or tears to those gentle +eyes, should be——"</p> + +<p>"Asphyxiated," puts in Dorian, idly. He yawns languidly +and pulls the head off a tall dandelion, that adorns +the wayside, in a somewhat desultory fashion. The color +in the older man's cheeks grows a shade deeper, and a gesture, +as full of impatience as of displeasure, escapes him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span></p> + +<p>"There are some subjects," he says, with calm severity, +"that it would be well to place beyond the reach of ridicule."</p> + +<p>"Am I one of them?" says Dorian, lightly. Then, +glancing at his uncle's face, he checks himself, and goes +on quickly. "I beg your pardon, I'm sure. I have been +saying something unlucky, as usual. Of course I agree +with you on all points, Arthur, and think the man who +could wilfully bring a blush to Ruth Annersley's cheek +neither more nor less than a blackguard <i>pur et simple</i>. +By the by, that last little homely phrase comes in badly +there, doesn't it? Rather out of keeping with the vituperative +noun, eh!"</p> + +<p>"Rather," returns Sartoris, shortly. He drops his +nephew's arm, and walks on in silence. As a rule, +Dorian's careless humor suits him; it amuses and adds a +piquancy to a life that without it (now that Dorian's society +has become indispensable to him) would prove "flat, +stale, and unprofitable." But to-day, he hardly knows +why,—or, perhaps, hardly dares to know why,—his +nephew's easy light-heartedness jars upon him, vexing him +sorely.</p> + +<p>As they turn the corner of the road and go down the +hill, they meet Horace, coming towards them at a rapid +pace. As he sees them, he slackens his speed and approaches +more slowly.</p> + +<p>"Just as well I met you," he says, with an airy laugh, +"as my thoughts were running away with me, and Phœbus +Apollo is in the ascendant: veritably he 'rules the roast.' +This uphill work is trying on the lungs."</p> + +<p>"Where have you been?" asks Dorian, just because he +has nothing else to say, and it is such a bore to think.</p> + +<p>"At Gowran."</p> + +<p>"Ah! I'm going there now. You saw Clarissa, then?" +says Sartoris, quickly. "When do you return to town, +Horace?"</p> + +<p>"To-morrow, I think,—I hope," says Horace; and, with +a little nod on both sides, they part. But when the bend +in the road again hides him from view, it would occur to a +casual on-looker that Horace Branscombe's thoughts must +once more have taken his physical powers into captivity,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> +as his pace quickens, until it grows even swifter than it +was before.</p> + +<p>Sartoris goes leisurely down the hill, with Dorian beside +him, whistling "Nancy Lee," in a manner highly satisfactory +to himself, no doubt, but slightly out of tune. When +Sartoris can bear this musical treat no longer, he breaks +hurriedly into speech of a description that requires an +answer.</p> + +<p>"What a pretty girl Clarissa Peyton is! don't you think +so?"</p> + +<p>When Dorian has brought Miss Lee to a triumphant +finish, with a flourish that would have raised murderous +longings in the breast of Stephen Adams, he says, without +undue enthusiasm,—</p> + +<p>"Yes, she is about the best-looking woman I know."</p> + +<p>"And as unaffected as she is beautiful. That is her +principal charm. So thoroughly bred, too, in every +thought and action. I never met so lovable a creature!"</p> + +<p>"What a pity she can't hear you!" says Branscombe. +"Though perhaps it is as well she can't. Adulation has +a bad effect on some people."</p> + +<p>"She is too earnest, too thorough, to be upset by flattery. +I sometimes wonder if there are any like her in the +world."</p> + +<p>"Very few, I think," says Dorian, genially.</p> + +<p>Another pause, somewhat longer than the last, and +then Sartoris says, with some hesitation, "Do you never +think of marrying, Dorian?"</p> + +<p>"Often," says Branscombe, with an amused smile.</p> + +<p>"Yet how seldom you touch on the matter! Why, +when I was your age, I had seen at least twenty women I +should have married, had they shown an answering regard +for me."</p> + +<p>"What a blessing they didn't!" says Branscombe. +"Fancy, twenty of them! You'd have found it awkward +in the long run, wouldn't you? And I don't think they'd +have liked it, you know, in this illiberal country. So glad +you thought better of it."</p> + +<p>"I wish I could once see you as honestly"—with a +slight, almost unconscious, stress on the word—"in love +as I have been scores of times."</p> + +<p>"What a melancholy time you must have put in!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> +When a fellow is in love he goes to skin and bone, doesn't +he? slights his dinner, and refuses to find solace in the +best cigar. It must be trying,—very; especially to one's +friends. I doubt you were a susceptible youth, Arthur. +I'm not."</p> + +<p>"Then you ought to be," says Sartoris, with some anger. +"All young men should feel their hearts beat, and their +pulses quicken, at the sight of a pretty woman."</p> + +<p>"My dear fellow," says Branscombe, severely, removing +his glass from his right to his left eye, as though to scan +more carefully his uncle's countenance, "there is something +the matter with you this morning, isn't there? You're not +well, you know. You have taken something very badly, +and it has gone to your morals; they are all wrong,—very +unsound indeed. Have you carefully considered the nature +of the advice you are giving me? Why, if I were to +let my heart beat every time I meet all the pretty women +I know, I should be in a lunatic asylum in a month."</p> + +<p>"Seriously, though, I wish you would give the matter +some thought," says Lord Sartoris, earnestly: "you are +twenty-eight,—old enough to make a sensible choice."</p> + +<p>Branscombe sighs.</p> + +<p>"And I see nothing to prevent your doing so. You +want a wife to look after you,—a woman you could respect +as well as love,—a thoughtful beautiful woman, to make +your home dearer to you than all the amusements town life +can afford. She would make you happy, and induce you +to look more carefully to your own interests, and——and——"</p> + +<p>"You mean you would like me to marry Clarissa Peyton," +says Dorian, good-humoredly. "Well, it is a charming +scheme, you know; but I don't think it will come off. +In the first place, Clarissa would not have me, and in the +next, I don't want to marry at all. A wife would bore me +to death; couldn't fancy a greater nuisance. I like women +very much, in fact, I may say, I am decidedly fond of a +good many of them, but to have one always looking after +me (as you style it) and showing up my pet delinquencies +would drive me out of my mind. Don't look so disgusted! +I feel I'm a miserable sinner; but I really can't help it. +I expect there is something radically wrong with me."</p> + +<p>"Do you mean to tell me"—with some natural indigna<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span>tion—"that +up to this you have never, during all your wanderings, +both at home and abroad, seen any woman you +could sincerely admire?"</p> + +<p>"Numbers, my dear Arthur,—any amount,—but not one +I should care to marry. You see, that makes such a difference. +I remember once before—last season—you spoke +to me in this strain, and, simply to oblige you, I thought I +would make up my mind to try matrimony. So I went in +heavily, heart and soul, for Lady Fanny Hazlett. You have +seen Lady Fanny?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, a good deal of her."</p> + +<p>"Then you know how really pretty she is. Well, I spent +three weeks at it; regular hard work the entire time, you +know, no breathing-space allowed, as she never refuses an +invitation, thinks nothing of three balls in one night, and +insisted on my dancing attendance on her everywhere. I +never suffered so much in my life; and when at last I gave +in from sheer exhaustion, I found my clothes no longer +fitted me. I was worn to a skeleton from loss of sleep, the +heavy strain on my mental powers, and the meek endurance +of her ladyship's ill tempers."</p> + +<p>"Lady Fanny is one woman, Clarissa Peyton is quite another. +How could you fail to be happy with Clarissa? +Her sweetness, her grace of mind and body, her beauty, +would keep you captive even against your will."</p> + +<p>Dorian pauses for a moment or two, and then says, very +gently, as though sorry to spoil the old man's cherished +plan,—</p> + +<p>"It is altogether impossible. Clarissa has no heart to +give me."</p> + +<p>Sartoris is silent. A vague suspicion of what now appears +a certainty has for some time oppressed and haunted +him. At this moment he is sadly realizing the emptiness +of all his dreaming. Presently he says, slowly,—</p> + +<p>"Are you quite sure of this?"</p> + +<p>"As certain as I can be without exactly hearing it from +her own lips."</p> + +<p>"Is it Horace?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; it is Horace," says Branscombe, quietly.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER VI.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Tread softly; bow the head,—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In reverent silence bow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No passing bell doth toll,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet an immortal soul<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Is passing now."—<span class="smcap">Caroline Southey</span>.<br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + + +<p>A little room, scantily but neatly furnished. A low +bed. A dying man. A kneeling girl,—half child, half +woman,—with a lovely, miserable face, and pretty yellow +hair.</p> + +<p>It was almost dusk, and the sound of the moaning sea +without, rising higher and hoarser as the tide rushes in, +comes like a wail of passionate agony into the silent room.</p> + +<p>The rain patters dismally against the window-panes. +The wind—that all day long has been sullen and subdued—is +breaking forth into a fury long suppressed, and, dashing +through the little town, on its way to the angry sea, +makes the casements rattle noisily and the tall trees sway +and bend beneath its touch. Above, in the darkening +heavens, gray clouds are scurrying madly to and fro.</p> + +<p>"Georgie," whispers a faint voice from out the gathering +gloom, "are you still there?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, dear, I am here, quite near to you. What is +it?"</p> + +<p>"Sit where I can see you, child,—where I can watch +your face. I have something to say to you. I cannot die +with this weight upon my heart."</p> + +<p>"What weight, papa?"</p> + +<p>"The uncertainty about your future," says the dying +man, with some excitement. "How can I leave you, my +little one, to fight this cruel world alone?"</p> + +<p>"Do not think of me," says the girl, in a voice so unnaturally +calm as to betray the fact that she is making a supreme +effort to steel herself against the betrayal of emotion +of any kind. By and by, will there not be long years +in which to make her moan, and weep, and lament, and +give herself wholly up to that grim giant, Despair? "Put +me out of your thoughts altogether. I shall do very, very +well. I shall manage to live as others have lived before +me."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Your Aunt Elizabeth will take you in for a little while, +and then——then——"</p> + +<p>"I shall go out as a governess. I shall get into some +kind, pleasant family, and every one will be very good to +me," says the girl, still in a resolutely cheerful tone. "It +will just suit me. I shall like it. Do you understand me, +papa? I shall like it better than anything, because children +are always fond of me."</p> + +<p>The father's face grows sadder, even grayer, as she +speaks. He sighs in a troubled fashion, and strokes feebly +the little fragile hand that clings so desperately to his, +while the damps of death lie thick upon his brow.</p> + +<p>"A governess," he murmurs, with some difficulty. +"While you are only a child yourself? What a hard, hard +fate! Is there no friend to help and comfort you?"</p> + +<p>"I have a friend," replies she, steadily. "You have +often heard me mention her. You remember the name, +now,—Clarissa Peyton? She was my best friend at school, +and I know she will do what she can for me. She will be +able to find me some nice children, and——"</p> + +<p>"Friendship,"—interrupts he, bitterly,—"it is a breath,—a +name. It will fail you when you most need it."</p> + +<p>"Clarissa will not fail me," replies she, slowly, though +with a feeling of deadly sickness at her heart. "And, +besides, you must not think of me as a governess always, +papa. I shall, perhaps, marry somebody, some day."</p> + +<p>The dying man's eyes grow a shade brighter; it is a +mere flicker, but it lasts for a moment, long enough to +convince her she has indeed given some poor hope to cheer +his last hours.</p> + +<p>"Yes; to marry somebody," he repeats, wistfully, +"that will be best,—to get some good man, some kindly, +loving heart to protect you and make a safe shelter for +you. There is comfort in the thought. But I hope it will +be soon, my darling, before your spirit is broken and your +youth dulled."</p> + +<p>"I shall marry as soon as ever I can," says Georgie, +making a last terrible effort to appear hopeful and resigned. +"I shall meet some one very soon, no doubt,—very +soon: so do not fret about me any more. Why +should I not, indeed? I am very pretty, am I not, papa?" +In spite of the lightness of her words, a heavy choking<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span> +sob escapes her as she finishes her little set speech. She +buries her face in the bed-clothes, to stifle her rising grief, +but her father is almost too far gone to notice it.</p> + +<p>"Yes,—so like your mother," he mutters, somewhat +thickly, clutching aimlessly at the quilt. "Poor Alice!—poor +girl! It was that day on the beach, when the waves +were dancing, and the sun——or was it?——Did the old +man ever forgive——?"</p> + +<p>He is wandering, dreaming his death-dream of happier +days, going back, even as he sinks into everlasting sleep, +to the gilded hours of youth.</p> + +<p>The girl presses his hand to rouse him.</p> + +<p>"Think of <i>me</i> now," she entreats, despairingly; "it +will only be for a little while,—such a little while,—and +then you will be with <i>her</i> forever. Oh, papa! my dear, +my dear; smile at me once again. Think of me happily; +let me feel when you are gone that your last hours with me +were peaceful."</p> + +<p>His eyes meet hers, and he smiles tenderly. Gently +she slips her arms round him, and, laying her golden +head upon the pillow, close to him, presses her lips to his,—the +soft warm lips, that contrast so painfully with those +pale cold other ones they touch. So she remains for a +long time, kissing him softly every now and again, and +thinking hopelessly of the end.</p> + +<p>She neither sighs, nor weeps, nor makes any outward +sign of anguish. Unlike most people, she has realized +to its fullest the awfulness of this thing that is about to +befall her. And the knowledge has paralyzed her senses, +rendering her dull with misery, and tearless.</p> + +<p>Presently the white lids, weary with nights of watching, +droop. Her breath comes more evenly. Her head sinks +more heavily against the pillow, and, like a child worn +out with grief and pain, she sleeps.</p> + +<p>When next she wakes, gray dawn is everywhere. The +wind still moans unceasingly. Still the rain-drops patter +against the panes. She raises her head affrightedly, and, +springing to his feet, bends with bated breath above the +quiet form lying on the bed.</p> + +<p>Alas! alas! what change is here? He has not moved; +no faintest alteration can be traced in the calm pose of +the figure that lies just as she last saw it, when sleep o'er<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span> +came her. The eyes are closed; the tender smile—the +last fond smile—still lingers on his lips; yet, he is dead!</p> + +<p>The poor child stands gazing down upon him with +parted lips and clasped hands, and a face almost as +ashen as that marble one to which her eyes grow with a +horror unspeakable. He looks so peaceful—so much as +though he merely sleeps—that for one mad moment she +tries not to believe the truth. Yet she knows it is death, +unmistakable and relentless, upon which for the first time +she looks.</p> + +<p>He is gone, forever! without another kiss, or smile, or +farewell word beyond those last uttered. He had set out +upon his journey alone, had passed into the other happier +land, in the cold silence of the night, even while she slept,—had +been torn from her, whilst yet her fond arms encircled +him.</p> + +<p>Impelled by some indefinable desire, she lays her fingers +softly on the hand that lies outside the coverlet. +The awful chill that meets her touch seems to reach even +to her heart. Throwing her arms above her head, with a +wild passionate cry, she falls forward, and lies senseless +across the lifeless body.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Misery hurts, but it rarely kills; and broken hearts are +out of fashion. All this unhappiness came to Georgie +Broughton about a year ago, and though brain-fever followed +upon it, attacking her with vicious force, and almost +handing her over as a victim to the greedy grave, yet she +had survived, and overcome death, and returned from the +land of shadows, weakened, indeed, but with life before +her.</p> + +<p>Months passed before she could summon up sufficient +energy to plan or think about a possible future. All this +time her aunt Elizabeth had clothed and fed and sheltered +her, but unwillingly. Indeed, so grudgingly had she +dealt out her measure of "brotherly love" that the girl +writhed beneath it, and pined, with a passionate longing, +for the day that should see her freed from a dependence +that had become unspeakably bitter to her.</p> + +<p>To-day, sitting in her little room,—an apartment high +up in Aunt Elizabeth's house,—she tells herself she will +hesitate no longer, that she is strong now, quite strong,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span> +and able to face the world. She holds up her delicate +little hand between her eyes and the window, as a test of +her returning strength, only to find she can almost see +the light through it,—so thin, so fragile, has it grown. +But she will not be disheartened; and, drawing pen and +paper towards her, she tries to write.</p> + +<p>But it is a difficult task, and her head is strangely heavy, +and her words will not come to her. A vague feeling, too, +that her letter will be unsuccessful, that her friend will +fail her, distresses and damps her power to explain her +position clearly.</p> + +<p>Who can say if Clarissa Peyton will be the same at +heart as when last they parted, with many words of good +will and affection, and eyes dark with tears?</p> + +<p>Grief and misery, and too much of Aunt Elizabeth, have +already embittered and generated distrust in her young +bosom. She is tired, too. All day she has toiled, has +worked religiously, and gone through wearying household +labor, trying to repay in some faint wise the reluctant +hospitality extended to her. At this moment a sense of +utter desolation overpowers her, and with a brain on fire, +and a heart half broken, she pushes from her the partly-written +letter, and, burying her face in her arms, breaks +into low but heavy weeping.</p> + +<p>"Papa! papa!" she sobs, miserably. It is the common +refrain of all her sorrowful dirges,—the sadder that no response +ever comes to the lonely cry. Of our dead, if we +would believe them happy we must also believe that they +have forgotten us; else how (when we think on our bleeding +hearts) could they keep their bliss so perfect?</p> + +<p>Mournfully as Mariana in her moated grange, the poor +child laments, while sobs shake her slender frame. And +the day dies, and the sun goes down, and happily some +noise in the house—a step, a voice—arouses her, and, starting +as though from some ugly dream, she takes up her pen +again, and writes eagerly, and without premeditation, to +the one friend in whom she still puts faith.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER VII.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Life has rising ills."—<span class="smcap">Dyer.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + + +<p>"Papa, papa," says Miss Peyton, impatiently, without +eliciting any response.</p> + +<p>It is half-past ten, and breakfast is on the table! So +are two little white pigeons, who have flown in through the +open window, and are sitting, one on Clarissa's shoulder, +the other on the edge of the table, picking crumbs out of +her plate. The sun is streaming hotly in, the breath of +flowers floating faintly in his train. A bowl of roses, half +opened and filled with the dew of early morning, lies near +Clarissa's plate. Upon the window-sill, outside, another +little pigeon, brown-tinged and timid, stands peeping shyly +in, envying his bolder brothers, and longing for the pretty +coaxing voice of his mistress that shall make him brave to +enter.</p> + +<p>But to-day the welcome summons does not come. Miss +Peyton has an open letter in her hand, the contents of which +have plainly disturbed and interested her to an unusual +degree; so that the little bird, whose pretty brown plumage +is being transformed by the sun into richest bronze, grows +each moment more dejected. Not for him the crumbs +and the "flesh pots of Egypt."</p> + +<p>"One——two——If you don't answer me before I say +three, papa, I shall do something desperate," she says, +again, raising her voice a little.</p> + +<p>But still papa takes no heed. At this moment, poor +man, he is deep in Mr. Forster's Irish Distress Bill, and is +deaf to all surroundings.</p> + +<p>Clarissa loses patience. Taking up a teaspoon, she +makes a sharp "assault and battery" upon an unoffending +teacup, thereby creating a din compared to which the +noise of tomtoms would be sweetest music.</p> + +<p>George Peyton is not proof against this tattoo. He +looks up irritably, and for a moment withdraws his mind +from Mr. Forster's Bill.</p> + +<p>"My dear Clarissa," he says, very justly incensed, +"what is it? What on earth is the matter with you? My +dear, whatever it is, do stop that unpleasant noise: it +plays the very mischief with one's nerves."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It is only a teaspoon," begins Miss Peyton, delighted +with her success.</p> + +<p>"And a cup, I think," says Mr. Peyton. "Separately +they are unoffending, together they can annoy. If +you will put that spoon out of your hand, my dear, you +will make me much happier."</p> + +<p>"It was only when I was actually hoarse, from trying +to attract your attention, that I resorted to violent measures," +says Clarissa, severely.</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon," returns he, submissively.</p> + +<p>"Now listen to my letter," says Clarissa. "I want +your advice. It is such a dear letter, and such a sad one; +and—and something must be done at once."</p> + +<p>"I quite agree with you," murmurs her father, dreamily. +Once again his mind is losing itself in the folds of the +fragrant "Times."</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p class="author">"<span class="smcap">Mannerton</span>, Tuesday, September 24.</p> + +<p>"My <span class="smcap">dear Clarissa</span>,—</p> + +<p>"So long a time has elapsed since last I saw or heard +of you that I half fear, as you read this, it will puzzle you +to remember the writer. Am I quite forgotten? I hope +not; as I want you to do me a great service. This reason +for wishing myself still in your memory sounds selfish,—almost +rude; but what can I do? Must I not speak the +truth? And indeed I am in sore trouble. I am friendless, +all but homeless, and utterly alone in the world. But, as +I am quite determined to fight my own way, I have decided +on going out as a governess, and I want you, dear, dear +Cissy, to get somebody to try me,—somebody who would +not be too hard upon me, just at first, until I had accustomed +myself to the life and to the children's ways. You +may say I can paint very well, and, though not a brilliant +pianist, I have a good voice. (Do you recollect how, at +school, you used to say you liked to hear me sing when +the day was dying?) I can speak French and German, +but I know nothing of Italian or Latin, and I was never +very much at arithmetic, or that. I think I could get on, +after a little training; and at all events I know I must try, +as life here is not endurable.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Cissy, if time has changed you, if you have grown +cold and careless, as all the rest of this cruel world, what +shall I do? But I will not believe that even a hundred +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span>years could make you unkind or unfeeling. Do you think +you will be very long in answering this? Every hour +I shall be listening for the post: write to me, then, as +soon as you can. I am very unhappy here with Aunt +Elizabeth, who does not care for me.</p> + +<p>"I am, dear Clarissa,</p> + +<p class="regards">"Your affectionate friend,</p> + +<p class="author">"<span class="smcap">Georgie Broughton</span>.</p> + +<p>"P.S.—If you could get me pretty children, I should +be so glad; but of course it must not make any difference, +and I dare say ugly ones are just as nice, when one gets +used to them. I am dreadfully afraid of boys; but perhaps +there may be a few found somewhere amenable to +reason, and at least one or two who do not object to knees +in their knickerbockers. Do you remember the gardener's +babies at Brussels, and how fond they were of me? Dear +Cissy, write soon."</p></div> + +<p>This is the letter, with all its pathetic little confidences, +its "do you remembers?" and "have you forgottens?" +and its tone,—half proud and half beseeching,—that has +touched Miss Peyton so deeply.</p> + +<p>Her mouth trembles, there are tears in her voice and +eyes, as she finishes the last word and turns her face to +her father. Something she sees in that vague but kindly +man checks her enthusiasm for the moment; a thought +but half defined, a suspicion, disgraceful if true, crosses +her brain and fills her with indignation.</p> + +<p>"Papa! Have you been listening?" she asks, in her +sternest tones.</p> + +<p>"Listening, my dear? Of course I have. Yes, certainly, +with all my might," returns he, with unusual and +therefore doubtful alacrity. As a matter of fact, I don't +think much would be said about his "distinguished answering" +were he to be examined in the letter just read; +but all the more for this reason does he assume an air of +surprise at Clarissa's question, and covers himself with an +expression of injured innocence. Unfortunately for him, +however, Miss Peyton is a person not to be done.</p> + +<p>"No, you have not," she says, severe but calm. "You +have not heard a single syllable. Your mind was full of +that miserable paper all the time, and I am positive you +were putting together some silly speech that you imagine<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span> +would electrify those absurd men in the House of Commons."</p> + +<p>"I don't think it was a very silly speech, my dear Clarissa," +remonstrates Mr. Peyton, feebly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, then you do acknowledge you were miles away in +thought," says Clarissa, triumphant, if disgusted.</p> + +<p>"My dear girl, how you do misjudge me!" protests +poor Mr. Peyton, at his wits' end. "I assure you, I was +all attention to that very excellent letter from beginning +to end."</p> + +<p>"Were you?" returns she, sweetly. "Then, of course, +you can tell me what was the last word."</p> + +<p>She has placed her elbows on the table, and has let her +pretty face sink into the palms of her hands, and is now +regarding her father with a smile, half mocking, half malicious.</p> + +<p>"The last word! Oh, nonsense, my dear Cis! who +ever remembered the last word of anything, unless it happened +to be 'The Burial of Sir John Moore,' or 'Beautiful +Star,' or something that way? But I know your letter +was all about a young woman who has got herself into a +mess and wants to come to you now as maid or laundress. +But there is always danger in that sort of thing, you know, +and you mightn't like it afterwards: and——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, what an engrossing speech that imaginary one of +yours must have been!" says Clarissa, with a little distracted +shake of her head. "I knew you were in the +room, didn't I? No, no, no, you are altogether wrong: +this is no letter from maid or laundress, but from Georgie +Broughton. (You must remember her name, I have so +often mentioned it to you.) She is the dearest little thing +in the world,—quite that, and more. And she writes, to +tell me she is miserably poor, and wants to go out as a +governess."</p> + +<p>"Poor girl! Of all unhappy resources, the last."</p> + +<p>"Yes; isn't it wretched? But, you see, she is bound to +do something, and wearing out one's heart in a dingy school-room +seems to be the only course left open to a pretty girl +like Georgie."</p> + +<p>"Try Mrs. Redmond, then. She is looking out for a +governess for the children; and your friend might drop in +there without further trouble."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh, papa, but all those children! and Mrs. Redmond +herself, too, so fretful and so irritable,—so utterly impossible +in every way. Her very 'How d'ye do?' would +frighten Georgie to death."</p> + +<p>"People don't die of chills of that description; and your +poor little friend can scarcely expect to find everything +<i>couleur de rose</i>. Besides, 'all those children' you speak of +just resolve themselves into two, as the boys are at school, +and Cissy calls herself grown up. I should think Cissy +would be, in fact, a great comfort to her, and would be +amenable to her, and gentle—and that."</p> + +<p>At this, Miss Peyton laughs a little, and bites her lip.</p> + +<p>"Amenable," she says, slowly. "Do you know, I am +afraid my Georgie is even younger than Cissy?"</p> + +<p>"Younger!"</p> + +<p>"Well, she will certainly look younger; she has such a +little, fresh, babyish rose-bud of a face. Do you think"—anxiously—"that +would matter much?"</p> + +<p>"It doesn't sound promising; but, if she is a good girl, +one might forgive the great crime of being fresh and young. +Dear me, it is very awkward. If she had been a nice, +sensible, ugly, middle-aged person, now, all would have +gone well; but, after all, poor child, of course she can't +help her appearance."</p> + +<p>"No, she certainly cannot," says Clarissa, with a sigh, +heart-felt pity in her tone. "And her eyes are the very +color of forget-me-nots,—quite the prettiest I ever saw. +It is really too bad."</p> + +<p>"Redmond, himself, would make no difficulty about it. +He prefers to have young people about him, and was always, +you know, rather——rather melancholy when in +Miss Prood's society, who was really a most estimable +woman, and one whose moral character one could not fail +to admire, when one forgot her nose, and her——"</p> + +<p>"Temper?"</p> + +<p>"Well, yes, she was rather excitable. But, as I was saying, +Redmond and your friend would probably pull very +well; and then there's the curate. Why,"—brilliantly,—"she +might marry the curate!"</p> + +<p>"Mr. Hastings?" says Clarissa, with animation, brightening +visibly. "Why, really, so she might. Such a good-looking +man, too, and clever. It is only a day or two ago<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> +since somebody said to me, 'He has the very sort of face +they make bishops of nowadays.'"</p> + +<p>"What a very disinterested girl you are!" says her +father, with a smile, faint but amused: "without a moment's +hesitation you surrender every hope of making this +embryo bishop your own. Can devotion farther go? Well, +take my advice; and, as your heart is set upon this thing, +go down to the vicarage to-day; tell Mrs. Redmond you +have secured a governess for her; do not discuss the subject,—simply +state the fact; and I think you will find her +deeply grateful, in that you have put an end to her difficulties, +without compelling her brain to bear upon the +matter."</p> + +<p>"Machiavelli was a poor creature, when compared with +you," says Miss Peyton, saucily. "What plots and plans +swell out your busy brain! I shall go to the vicarage to-day, +as you advise, and be as sweet as honey to Mrs. Redmond, +and win my cause against all obstacles. But first"—turning +with a soft movement to caress the snowy pigeon +that rests upon her shoulder—"little home friends +must be fed."</p> + +<p>The bird, as though comprehending her words, flies +through the open window to the balcony outside, to nestle +among its more timid companions; whilst Clarissa, a creature +scarcely less fair than they, follows him, to fling breadcrumbs +for their morning meal.</p> + +<p>A little later, having dressed herself, she starts upon her +errand, ready to take the vicarage by storm.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"'Tis love, love, love, that makes the world go round."<br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + + +<p>The hot September sun beats fiercely on her as she +walks along; the day is full of languor and sweet peace. +The summer is almost done, and is dying, rich in beauty, +and warm with the ripeness of strength perfected. From +out the thickets, little birds, that three months agone scarce +knew the power of breath, now warble soft melodies, that +thrill the air with joy. Clarissa, glad, and full of purpose, +feels her heart at one with these tiny, heaven-taught musi<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span>cians, +as she follows the path beneath the leafy trees that +leads to the vicarage.</p> + +<p>As she deserts the tinted wood, and gains the road that +runs by the old mill, she finds herself face to face with +Horace Branscombe, coming towards her in a somewhat +laggard fashion. His brow is darkened by a frown: his +whole expression is moody and oppressed with discontent.</p> + +<p>As he sees Clarissa, his features—as though compelled +by a powerful will—undergo a complete change, and he +smiles, and comes forward with outstretched hand to greet +her.</p> + +<p>"Horace! you here again, and so soon?" she says, +quickly. Surprise lends haste to her tongue. She has +believed him in London; and now to see him thus unexpectedly, +and without the usual friendly warning conveyed +by letter, causes her not only pleasure, but a vague uneasiness.</p> + +<p>"Does it seem 'so soon' to you?" replies he, in a carefully +inspired tone. "To me the last two months have appeared +almost a year, so heavily have dragged the days +spent away from Pullingham."</p> + +<p>It is a very stereotyped little sentence, old and world-worn, +and smacking faintly of insincerity; but when a +woman loves a man she rarely measures his words.</p> + +<p>"I seem rude," says Clarissa, with a soft smile. "But +you will understand me. And you know you told me you +did not intend to return before Christmas."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I know." He is silent for a little while, and then, +rousing himself, as though by an effort, says, slowly,—</p> + +<p>"Did you miss me?"</p> + +<p>"I always miss you," returns she, simply: "you know +that." She flushes warmly, and lets her long lashes fall +leisurely, until at length they hide from view the sweet +confession of her eyes. There is a pause that embraces +a full minute, and then she speaks again. "You have not +yet told me the reason of your return," she says, gently.</p> + +<p>"I wearied of town," replies he. "A strange acknowledgment +for one like me, but true. For once, I honestly +pined for the country—insipid as I have always deemed +it—and craved unceasingly for something fresh, new, innocent, +something unused to gas, and the glare and unholy +glitter of a city."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span></p> + +<p>He speaks bitterly—almost passionately—and as though +for the moment he has altogether forgotten the existence +of his companion. An instant later, however, he recovers +himself.</p> + +<p>"I felt I should be happier, more fitted to cope with +my work, if I could get even one glimpse of you!"</p> + +<p>"Are you not happy, then?" asks she, gently, her heart +beating fast, her color growing and lessening rapidly.</p> + +<p>"Happy? no. Can a man be happy while a perpetual +doubt distracts him? Can he know even the meaning +of the word Peace, whilst devoured with a fear that he +shall never possess the one great good he desires?"</p> + +<p>Again, his thoughts appear to wander; and some passion, +not born of the present moment, but borrowed from +some other hour, fills his tone.</p> + +<p>"Yes," says Clarissa, nervously, questioningly, feeling +poor in words, now that the great crisis of her life has +come.</p> + +<p>"So I am here," he goes on, softly, "to solve my +doubt, to gain at least a rest from the gnawing suspense +that for so long I have endured. Need I tell you that I +love you?—that" (he pauses, and a faint contraction of +the features, that dies almost as it is born, disfigures his +face for a second)——"that you are the one woman in all +the world upon whom I have set my heart?"</p> + +<p>There is silence. For Clarissa, an intense joy holds +her mute; the very intensity of her happiness checks the +flow of speech. He, too, seems lost in thought. Presently, +however, he breaks the silence, and this time a faint anxiety +may be discernible in his voice, though his face is +calm and composed, as usual.</p> + +<p>"You do not speak, Clarissa. I have told you of my +love, and you are silent. I now ask if you can love me? +At least, give me an answer. Dearest,"—glancing at her +averted face, and seeing the shy blush that adds another +charm to its beauty,—"tell me the truth."</p> + +<p>"I can; I do love you!" says Clarissa, sweetly, and +with perfect trust. She slips her hand into his. Raising +his hat, he lifts the slender fingers to his lips, and kisses +them; and, then, together—still hand in hand—they walk +along, speechless, yet seemingly content.</p> + +<p>The road is dusty; and a few drops of rain fall, like<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> +mild blessings, into its parched furrows. The roadside +flowers, drooping and languid, fling their rich perfume, +with lavish generosity, upon the motionless air. Some +sheep, in a far-off meadow, bleat mournfully, and answer +back the echo that mocks their lament.</p> + +<p>"You have made me happier than I ever hoped to be; +but you have not yet said you will marry me." The words +come from Horace, but sound curiously far away, the very +stillness and sadness of the evening rendering them more +distant. Clarissa, glancing at him, can see he is white as +Death.</p> + +<p>"How pale he is!" she thinks, and then makes herself +happy in the belief that he is terribly in earnest about this +matter, and that his love for her is infinite.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I shall marry you," she says, with tender seriousness. +To her, this promise is a solemn bond, that nothing +but death or falsehood can cancel.</p> + +<p>"When?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, Horace, I cannot answer that question so readily. +There are so many things. Papa must be told; and James +Scrope; and you must tell Dorian and your uncle."</p> + +<p>"All that would hardly take half an hour."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps; but there are other reasons for delay, more +than I can tell you just now. And, besides, it is all so +new, so strange." She smiles, as though she would willingly +have added the words, "so sweet;" and a little happy +far-away look creeps into and illumines her eyes. "Why +are you so impatient?"</p> + +<p>"Impatient!" returns he, a touch of vehemence in his +tone. "Of course I am impatient. The sooner it is all +got over the better." He checks himself, draws his breath +somewhat quickly, and goes on in a calmer fashion: +"What sort of a lover should I be, if I showed no anxiety +to claim you as soon as possible? <i>You</i> should be the last +to blame me for undue haste in this matter. When shall +it be, then?—In one month? two? three?" He speaks +again, almost excitedly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, no," gently, but shrinking from him a little. +"That would be impossible. Why, think!—it is only this +moment you have told me you love me, and now you would +have me name our wedding-day!"</p> + +<p>"Not exactly that. But tell me some definite time, near<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> +at hand, to which I can be looking forward. Everything rests +with you now, remember that." His last words convey an +unconscious warning, but Clarissa neither heeds or understands +it.</p> + +<p>"Papa will miss me so terribly," she says, dreamily; +"it seems selfish, almost as though I were wilfully deserting +him. I should, at least, like another Christmas at +home with him. And see,"—turning to him, with gentle +earnestness,—"are we not quite happy as we now are, +loving and trusting in each other? Why, then, should we +not continue this present happiness for another year? +You are silent, Horace! You do not answer! Are you +angry with me?" She lays her hand lightly on his arm.</p> + +<p>"No; not angry." His eyes are on the ground; and +he takes no notice of the tender pressure on his arm. +"But a year is a long time to wait! So many things may +happen in twelve months; and deeds once done, forever +leave their mark."</p> + +<p>"Do not speak like that, it is as though you would foretell +evil," says Clarissa, a faint feeling of superstitious horror +making her nervous.</p> + +<p>Branscombe, raising his head, regards her curiously.</p> + +<p>"Why should there be evil to foretell?" he says, slowly. +"And yet, Clarissa, I would ask you always to remember +this hour, and the fact that it was you, not I, who wished +the postponement of our marriage. If it must be as you +say, it will be better to keep our engagement as quiet as +possible; perfectly secret will indeed be best."</p> + +<p>"Yes; if you wish it. That will please me, too. Only +papa need know of it, and——James Scrope."</p> + +<p>"And why Sir James?" with a scrutinizing gaze.</p> + +<p>"Why?"—with some surprise. "Well, I suppose because +papa and I never do anything important without telling +him of it. He is quite our oldest friend. We should +hardly get on now without Jim."</p> + +<p>"Not so old, either. I hope, by and by, you will be +able to manage without Sir James as a father-confessor."</p> + +<p>"By and by I shall have you," says Clarissa, sweetly, +with a smile and a soft blush.</p> + +<p>"True! I wonder if you will find that sufficient? I +doubt I'm half such a good fellow, Clarissa, as you believe +me."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span></p> + +<p>In which he comes nearer the truth than he ever came +before.</p> + +<p>"You are good enough for me," says Clarissa, with fond +conviction. "Will you come with me as far as the vicarage? +I must go there to-day, and the walk is such a +pretty one, and,"—with a little happy laugh,—"now you +are quite my own property, I think I should like to make +use of you. Look! there is Ruth Annersley standing at +her gate. Good-morning, Ruth! What a charming day, +is it not? after all yesterday's rain!"</p> + +<p>Ruth—who, the moment before, had made a faint +movement as though she would willingly have stepped behind +the huge rose-bush nearest to her and so have escaped +observation—comes slowly forward. She is pale; but the +intense heat of the day makes itself felt by all, and has +deprived even Miss Peyton's cheeks of some of their usual +warmth. She accepts Clarissa's proffered hand, and +smiles a faint welcome. But when Horace would, too, +have shaken hands with her, she declines to see his meaning, +and, bowing slightly, turns aside to listen to his companion's +words.</p> + +<p>"Were you raking your walks?" asks Clarissa, idly, +leaning on the gate, and gazing down the trim-gravelled +path that leads to the ivy-clad cottage beyond. "Nobody's +walks are ever as clean as yours, I think. And +your roses are something too delicious, far better than +our out-door flowers at Gowran. And so late in the season, +too!"</p> + +<p>"May I give you one?" says Ruth, dimpling prettily +at her praise.</p> + +<p>"Thank you. How sweet they are! No, no, Horace, +that is altogether too large for your coat. Ruth, will you +give Mr. Branscombe a tiny bud? That one over there, +for instance."</p> + +<p>"I don't think I see it," says Ruth, quietly. She has +grown pale again, and her lips have lost a little of the +childish petulant pout that characterizes them.</p> + +<p>"Just over there. Don't you see? Why, you are almost +looking at it, you stupid child."</p> + +<p>"I am stupid, I am afraid,"—with a faint smile. +"Come in, Miss Peyton, and gather it yourself." She +opens the gate, with a sort of determination in her man<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span>ner, +and Clarissa, going up to the rose-tree, plucks the +delicate blossom in dispute. Horace has followed her +inside the gate, but, turning rather to the left, falls apparently +in love with an artless white rose-bud that waves +gently to and fro upon its stem, as though eager to attract +and rivet admiration.</p> + +<p>"I think I prefer this flower, after all," he says, lightly. +"May I ask you to give it to me, Ruth?" His manner +is quite easy, very nearly indifferent, and his back is turned +to Clarissa. But his eyes are on Ruth; and the girl, +though with open reluctance and ill-repressed defiance, is +compelled to pick the white rose and give it to him.</p> + +<p>"Well, I really don't think you have shown very good +taste," says Clarissa, examining the two flowers. "Mine +is the most perfect. Nevertheless, I suppose wilful man +must have his way. Let me settle it in your coat for +you."</p> + +<p>Almost as she speaks, the flower drops accidentally from +her fingers; and, both she and Horace making a step forward +to recover it, by some awkward chance they tread on +it, and crush the poor, frail little thing out of all shape. +It lies upon the gravel, broken and disfigured, yet very +sweet in death.</p> + +<p>"You trod on it," says Horace, rather quickly, to Clarissa.</p> + +<p>"No, dear; I really think—indeed I am sure—it was +you," returns she, calmly, but with conviction.</p> + +<p>"It doesn't matter: it was hardly worth a discussion," +says Ruth, with an odd laugh. "See how poor a thing it +looks now; and, yet, a moment since it was happy on its +tree."</p> + +<p>"Never mind, Horace: this is really a charming little +bud," says Clarissa, gayly, holding out the rose of her own +choosing: "at least you must try to be content with it. +Good-by, Ruth; come up to Gowran some day soon, and +take those books you asked for the other day."</p> + +<p>"Thank you, Miss Peyton. I shall come soon."</p> + +<p>"Good-by," says Horace.</p> + +<p>"Good-by," returns she. But it is to Clarissa, not to +him, she addresses the word of farewell.</p> + +<p>When the mill has been left some distance behind them, +and Ruth's slight figure, clad in its white gown, has ceased<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span> +to be a fleck of coloring in the landscape, Clarissa says, +thoughtfully,—</p> + +<p>"What a pretty girl that is, and how refined! Quite a +little lady in manner; so calm, and so collected,—cold, +almost. I know many girls, irreproachably born, not to be +compared with her, in my opinion. You agree with me?"</p> + +<p>"Birth is not always to be depended upon nowadays."</p> + +<p>"She is so quiet, too, and so retiring. She would not +even shake hands with you, when we met her, though you +wanted her to. Did you remark that?"</p> + +<p>"Sometimes I am dull about trifles, such as that."</p> + +<p>"Yes. By the by, she did not seem surprised at seeing +you here to-day, although she thought you safe in town, as +we all did,—you deceitful boy."</p> + +<p>"Did she not?"</p> + +<p>"No. But then, of course, it was a matter of indifference +to her."</p> + +<p>"Of course."</p> + +<p>They have reached the entrance to the vicarage by this +time, and are pausing to say farewell for a few hours.</p> + +<p>"I shall come up to Gowran to-morrow morning first +thing, and speak to your father: is that what you will wish +me to do?" asks Horace, her hand in his.</p> + +<p>"Yes. But, Horace," looking at him earnestly, "I +think I should like to tell it all to papa myself first, this +evening."</p> + +<p>"Very well, dearest. Do whatever makes you happiest," +returns he, secretly pleased that the ice will be broken for +him before his prepares for his <i>mauvais quart-d'heure</i> in +the library. "And if he should refuse his consent, Clarissa, +what then? You know you might make so much a +better marriage."</p> + +<p>"Might I?"—tenderly. "I don't think so; and papa +would not make me unhappy."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER IX.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"A generous friendship no cold medium knows."—<span class="smcap">Pope</span>.<br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + + +<p>Mrs. Redmond is sitting on a centre ottoman, darning +stockings. This is her favorite pastime, and never fails<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span> +her. When she isn't darning stockings, she is always +scolding the cook, and as her voice, when raised, is not +mellifluous, her family, in a body, regard the work-basket +with reverential affection, and present it to her notice when +there comes the crash of broken china from the lower +regions, or when the cold meat has been unfairly dealt +with.</p> + +<p>She is of the lean cadaverous order of womankind, and +is bony to the last degree. Her nose is aquiline, and, as a +rule, pale blue. As this last color might also describe her +eyes, there is a depressing want of contrast about her face. +Her lips are thin and querulous, and her hair—well, she +hasn't any hair, but her wig is flaxen.</p> + +<p>As Clarissa enters, she hastily draws the stocking from +her hand, and rises to greet her. A faint blush mantles +in her cheek, making one at once understand that in by-gone +days she had probably been considered pretty.</p> + +<p>"So unexpected, my dear Clarissa," she says, with as +pleased a smile as the poor thing ever conjures up, and a +little weakness at the knees, meant for a courtesy. "So +very glad to see you,"—as, indeed, she is.</p> + +<p>In her earlier days she had been called a belle,—by her +own people,—and had been expected, accordingly, to +draw a prize in the marriage-market. But Penelope Proude +had failed them, and, by so doing, had brought down eternal +condemnation on her head. In her second season she +had fallen foolishly but honestly in love with a well-born +but impecunious curate, and had married him in spite of +threats and withering sneers. With one consent her family +cast her off and consigned her to her fate, declaring +themselves incapable of dealing with a woman who could +wilfully marry a man possessed of nothing. They always +put a capital N to this word, and perhaps they were right, +as at that time all Charlie Redmond could call his own +was seven younger brothers and a tenor voice of the very +purest.</p> + +<p>As years rolled on, though Mrs. Redmond never, perhaps, +regretted her marriage, she nevertheless secretly +acknowledged to herself a hankering after the old life, a +longing for the grandeur and riches that accrued to it (the +Proudes for generations had been born and bred and had +thriven in the soft goods line), and hugged the demoraliz<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span>ing +thought to her bosom that a little more trade and a +little less blue blood would have made her husband a degree +more perfect.</p> + +<p>It pleased her when the county families invited the +youthful Cissy to their balls; and it warmed her heart and +caused her to forget the daily shifts and worries of life +when the duchess sent her fruit and game, accompanied +by kind little notes. It above all things reconciled her +to her lot, when the heiress of Gowran Grange pulled up +her pretty ponies at her door, and running in, made much +of her and her children, and listened attentively to her +grievances, as only a sympathetic nature can.</p> + +<p>To-day, Clarissa's visit, being early, and therefore unconventional, +and for that reason the more friendly, +sweetens all her surroundings. Miss Peyton might have +put in an appearance thrice in the day later on, yet her +visits would not have been viewed with such favor as is this +matutinal call.</p> + +<p>"Cissy is out: she has gone to the village," says Mrs. +Redmond, scarcely thinking Clarissa has come all the way +from Gowran to spend an hour alone with her.</p> + +<p>"I am sorry: but it is you I most particularly wanted +to see. What a delicious day it is! I walked all the way +from Gowran, and the sun was rather too much for me; +but how cool it always is here! This room never seems +stuffy or over-heated, as other rooms do."</p> + +<p>"It is a wretched place, quite wretched," says Mrs. Redmond, +with a depreciating glance directed at a distant sofa +that might indeed be termed patriarchal.</p> + +<p>"What are you doing?" asks Clarissa, promptly, feeling +she cannot with any dignity defend the sofa. "Darning? +Why can't I help you?—I am sure I could darn. +Oh, what a quantity of socks! Are they all broken?" +looking with awe upon the overflowing basket that lies +close to Mrs. Redmond's feet.</p> + +<p>"Every one of them," replies that matron, with unction. +"I can't think how they do it, but I assure you they never +come out of the wash without innumerable tears." +Whether she is alluding, in her graceful fashion, to her +children or their socks, seems at present doubtful. "I +sometimes fancy they must take their boots off and dance +on the sharp pebbles to bring them to such a pass; but<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span> +they say they don't. Yet how to account for this?" She +holds up one bony hand, decorated with a faded sock, in +a somewhat triumphant fashion, and lets three emaciated +fingers start to life through the toe of it.</p> + +<p>"Do let me help you," says Clarissa, with entreaty, and, +stooping to the basket, she rummages there until she produces +a needle, a thimble, and some thread. "I dare say +I shall get on splendidly, if you will just give me a hint now +and then and tell me when I am stitching them up too +tightly."</p> + +<p>This hardly sounds promising, but Mrs. Redmond heeds +her not.</p> + +<p>"My dear, pray do not trouble yourself with such uninteresting +work," she says, hastily. "It really makes me unhappy +to see you so employed; and that sock of all others,—it +is Bobby's, and I'm sure there must be something +wrong with his heels. If you insist on helping me, do try +another."</p> + +<p>"No, I shall stitch up Bobby, or die in the attempt," +says Miss Peyton, valiantly. "It is quite nice work, I +should think, and so easy. I dare say after a time I should +love it."</p> + +<p>"Should you?" says Mrs. Redmond. "Well, perhaps; +but for myself, I assure you, though no one will believe it, +I abhor the occupation. There are moments when it almost +overcomes me,—the perpetual in and out of the needle, +you will understand,—it seems so endless. Dear, dear, +there was a time when I was never obliged to do such menial +services, when I had numerous dependants to wait on me +to do my bidding But then"—with a deep sigh, that +sounds like a blast from Boreas—"I married the vicar."</p> + +<p>"And quite right, too," says Clarissa, with a cheerful +little nod, seeing Mrs. Redmond has mounted her high +horse and intends riding him to the death. "I myself +shouldn't hesitate about it, if I only got the chance. And indeed +where could any one get a more charming husband +than the dear vicar."</p> + +<p>"Well, well, it was a foolish match notwithstanding," +says Mrs. Redmond, with a smile and a wan sort of blush; +"though certainly at that time I don't deny he was very +fascinating. Such a voice, my dear! and then his eyes +were remarkably fine."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span></p> + +<p>"'Were'—<i>are</i>, you mean," says the crafty Clarissa, knowing +that praise of her husband is sweet to the soul of the +faded Penelope, and that the surest means of reducing her +to a pliant mood is to permit her to maunder on uninterruptedly +about past glories, and dead hours rendered bright +by age. To have her in her kindest humor, before mentioning +the real object of her visit, must be managed, at +all risks. "Yours was a love-match, wasn't it?" she says, +coaxingly. "Do tell me all about it." (She has listened +patiently to every word of it about a hundred times before.) +"I do so like a real love-affair."</p> + +<p>"There isn't much to tell," says Mrs. Redmond, who +is quite delighted, and actually foregoes the charm of darning, +that she may the more correctly remember each interesting +detail in her own "old story;" "but it was all very +sudden,—very; like a tornado, or a whirlwind, or those +things in the desert that cover one up in a moment. First we +met at two croquet-parties,—yes, two,—and then at a dinner +at the Ramseys, and it was at the dinner at the Ramseys' +that he first pressed my hand. I thought, my dear, +I should have dropped, it was such a downright, not-to-be-got-over +sort of squeeze. Dear me, I can almost feel it +now," says Mrs. Redmond, who is blushing like a girl.</p> + +<p>"Yes. Do go on," says Clarissa, who, in reality, is enjoying +herself, intensely.</p> + +<p>"Well, then, two days afterwards, to my surprise, he +called with some tickets for a concert, to which my mamma, +who suspected nothing, took me. There we met again, +and it was there, right, as one might say, under mamma's +nose, he proposed to me. He was very eloquent, though +he was obliged to speak rather disconnectedly, owing to +the music stopping now and then and my mamma being +of a suspicious turn: but he was young in those days, my +dear, and well favored, no doubt. So we got married."</p> + +<p>"That is the proper ending to all pretty stories. But is +it true," says Clarissa, with a wiliness really horrible in one +so young, "that just at that time you refused a splendid +offer, all for the vicar's sake?"</p> + +<p>"Splendid is a long word," says Mrs. Redmond, trying +to speak carelessly, but unmistakably elated, "yet I must +confess there is some truth in the report to which you allude. +Sir Hubert Fitz-Hubert was a baronet of very ancient lin<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span>eage, +came over with the Conqueror, or King Alfred, I +quite forget which, but it was whichever was the oldest: +that I know. He was, in fact, a trifle old for me, perhaps, +and not so rich as others I have known, but still a baronet. +He proposed to me, but I rejected him upon the spot with +scorn, though he went on his knees to me, and swore in +an anguished frenzy, that he would cut his throat with his +razor if I refused to listen to his suit! I did refuse, but I +heard nothing more about the razor. I am willing to believe +he put some restraint upon his maddened feelings, and +refrained from inflicting any injury upon himself."</p> + +<p>"Poor fellow!" says Clarissa, in a suspiciously choky +tone.</p> + +<p>"Then I espoused the vicar," says Mrs. Redmond, with +a sentimental sigh. "One does foolish things sometimes."</p> + +<p>"That, now, was a wise one. I would not marry a +king if I loved a beggar. Altogether, you behaved beautifully, +and just like a novel."</p> + +<p>Feeling that the moment for action has arrived, as Mrs. +Redmond is now in a glow of pride and vanity well mixed, +Clarissa goes on sweetly:</p> + +<p>"I have some news for you."</p> + +<p>"For me?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, for you. I know how delicate you are, and how +unable to manage those two strong children you have at +home. And I know, too, you have been looking out for a +suitable governess for some time, but you have found a +difficulty in choosing one, have you not?"</p> + +<p>"Indeed I have."</p> + +<p>"Well, I think I know some who will just suit you. +She was at school with me, and, though poor now, having +lost both father and mother, is of very good family, and +well connected."</p> + +<p>"But the salary?" says Mrs. Redmond, with some hesitation. +"The salary is the thing. I hear of no one now +who will come for less than sixty or seventy pounds a year +at the lowest; and with Henry at school, and Rupert's +college expenses, forty pounds is as much as we can afford +to give."</p> + +<p>"Miss Broughton will, I think, be quite content with +that: she only wants to be happy, and at rest, and she +will be all that with you and Cissy and Mr. Redmond.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> +She is young, and it is her first trial, but she is very +clever: she has a really lovely voice, and paints excessively +well. Ethel has rather a taste for painting, has she not?"</p> + +<p>"A decided talent for it. All my family were remarkable +for their artistic tendencies, so she, doubtless, inherits +it; and—yes, of course, it would be a great thing for her +to have some one on the spot to develop this talent, and +train it. Your friend, you say, is well connected?"</p> + +<p>"Very highly connected, on her mother's side. Her +father was a lieutenant in the navy, and very respectable +too, I believe; though I know nothing of him."</p> + +<p>"That she should be a lady is, of course, indispensable," +says Mrs. Redmond, with all the pride that ought to +belong to softgoods people. "I need hardly say <i>that</i>, I +think. But why does she not appeal for help to her +mother's relations?"</p> + +<p>"Because she prefers honest work to begging from those +who up to this have taken no notice of her."</p> + +<p>"I admire her," says Mrs. Redmond, warmly. "If you +think she will be satisfied with forty pounds, I should like +to try what she could do with the children."</p> + +<p>"I am very glad you have so decided. I know no place +in which I would rather see a friend of mine than here."</p> + +<p>"Thank you, my dear. Then will you write to her, or +shall I?"</p> + +<p>"Let me write to her first, if you don't mind: I think I +can settle everything."</p> + +<p>"Mind?—no, indeed: it is only too good of you to take +so much trouble about me."</p> + +<p>To which Clarissa says, prettily,—</p> + +<p>"Do not put it in that light: there is no pleasure so +keen as that of being able to help one's friends."</p> + +<p>Then she rises, and, having left behind her three socks +that no earthly power can ever again draw upon a child's +foot, so hopelessly has she brought heel and sole together, +she says good-by to Mrs. Redmond, and leaves the room.</p> + +<p>Outside on the avenue she encounters the vicar, hurrying +home.</p> + +<p>"Turn with me," she says, putting her hand through +his arm. "I have something to say to you."</p> + +<p>"Going to be married?" asks he, gayly.</p> + +<p>"Nonsense!"—blushing, in that he has so closely hit<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span> +the mark. "It is not of anything so paltry I would unburden +my mind."</p> + +<p>"Then you have nothing of importance to tell me," says +the vicar; "and I must go. Your story will keep: my +work will not. I am in a great hurry: old Betty Martin——"</p> + +<p>"Must wait. I insist on it. Dying! nonsense! she +has been dying every week for three years, and you believe +her every time. Come as far as the gate with me."</p> + +<p>"You command, I obey," says the vicar, with a sigh of +resignation, walking on beside his pet parishioner. "But +if you could only understand the trouble I am in with those +Batesons you would know some pity for me."</p> + +<p>"What! again?" says Clarissa, showing, and feeling, +deep compassion.</p> + +<p>"Even so. This time about the bread. You know +what unpleasant bread they bake, and how Mrs. Redmond +objects to it; and really it <i>is</i> bad for the children."</p> + +<p>"It is poison," says Clarissa, who never does anything +by halves, and who is nothing if not sympathetic.</p> + +<p>"Well so I said; and when I had expostulated with +them, mildly but firmly, and suggested that better flour +might make better dough, and they had declined to take +any notice of my protest,—why, I just ordered my bread +from the Burtons opposite, and——"</p> + +<p>The vicar pauses.</p> + +<p>"And you have been happy ever since?"</p> + +<p>"Well, yes, my dear. I suppose in a way I have; that +is, I have ceased to miss the inevitable breakfast-lecture +on the darkness and coarseness of the bread; but I have +hardly gained on other points, and the Batesons are a perpetual +scourge. They have decided on never again 'darkening +the church door' (their own words, my dear Clarissa), +because I have taken the vicarage custom from them. +They prefer imperilling their souls to giving up the chance +of punishing me. And now the question is, whether I +should not consent to the slow poisoning of my children, +rather than drive my parishioners into the arms of the +Methodists, who keep open house for all comers below the +hill."</p> + +<p>"I don't think I should poison the children," says +Clarissa.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span></p> + +<p>"But what is to become of my choir? Charlotte Bateson +has the sweetest voice in it, and now she will not +come to church. I am at my wits' end when I think of it +all."</p> + +<p>"I am going to supply Charlotte's place for you," says +Clarissa, slyly.</p> + +<p>"Thank you, my dear. But, you see, you would never +be in time. And, unfortunately, the services must begin +always at a regular hour. Punctuality was the one thing +I never could teach you,—that, and the Catechism."</p> + +<p>"What a libel!" says Clarissa. "I shouldn't malign +my own teaching if I were you. I am perfectly certain I +could say it all now, this very moment, from start to finish, +questions and all, without a mistake. Shall I?"</p> + +<p>"No, no. I'll take your word for it," says the vicar, hastily. +"The fact is, I have just been listening to it at the +morning school in the village, and when one has heard a +thing repeated fourteen times with variations, one naturally +is not ambitious of hearing it again, no matter how +profitable it may be."</p> + +<p>"When I spoke of filling Charlotte's place," says Clarissa, +"I did not allude in any way to myself, but to——And +now I am coming to my news."</p> + +<p>"So glad!" says the vicar; "I may overtake old Betty +yet."</p> + +<p>"I have secured a governess for Mrs. Redmond. Such +a dear little governess! And I want you to promise me +to be more than usually kind to her, because she is young +and friendless and it is her first effort at teaching."</p> + +<p>"So that question is settled at last," says the vicar, with +a deep—if carefully suppressed—sigh of relief. "I am +rejoiced, if only for my wife's sake, who has been worrying +herself for weeks past, trying to replace the inestimable—if +somewhat depressing—Miss Prood."</p> + +<p>"Has she?" says Clarissa, kindly. "Worry is a bad +thing. But to-day Mrs. Redmond seems much better than +she has been for a long time. Indeed, she said so."</p> + +<p>"Did she?" says the vicar, with a comical, transient +smile, Mrs. Redmond's maladies being of the purely imaginary +order.</p> + +<p>"What are you laughing at now?" asks Clarissa, who +has marked this passing gleam of amusement.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span></p> + +<p>"At you, my dear, you are so quaintly humorous," replies +he. "But go on: tell me of this new acquisition to +our household. Is she a friend of yours?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, a great friend."</p> + +<p>"Then of course we shall like her."</p> + +<p>"Thank you," says Clarissa. "She is very pretty, and +very charming. Perhaps, after all, I am doing a foolish +thing for myself. How shall I feel when she has cut me +out at the vicarage?"</p> + +<p>"Not much fear of that, were she Aphrodite herself. +You are much too good a child to be liked lightly or by +halves. Well, good-by: you won't forget about the flannel +for the Batley twins?"</p> + +<p>"I have it ready,—at least, half of it. How could I tell +she was going to have twins," says Clarissa, apologetically.</p> + +<p>"It certainly was very inconsiderate of her," says the +vicar, with a sigh, as he thinks of the poverty that clings +to the Batley <i>ménage</i> from year's end to year's end.</p> + +<p>"Well, never mind; she shall have it all next week," +promises Clarissa, soothingly, marking his regretful tone; +and then she bids him farewell, and goes up the road +again in the direction of her home.</p> + +<p>She is glad to be alone at last. Her mission successfully +accomplished, she has now time to let her heart rest +contentedly upon her own happiness. All the events of +the morning—the smallest word, the lightest intonation, +the most passing smile, that claimed Horace as their father—are +remembered by her. She dwells fondly on each separate +remembrance, and repeats to herself how he looked +and spoke at such-and-such moments.</p> + +<p>She is happy, quite happy. A sort of wonder, too, mixes +with her delight. Only a few short hours ago she had +left her home, free, unbetrothed, with only hope to sustain +her, and now she is returning to it with her hope a certainty,—bound, +heart and soul, to the dearest, truest man +on earth, as she believes.</p> + +<p>How well he loves her! She had noticed his sudden +paling when she had begged for some delay before actually +naming her "brydale day." She had hardly believed his +love for her was so strong, so earnest: even she (how +<i>could</i> she? with tender self-reproach) had misjudged him,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span> +had deemed him somewhat cold, indifferent; unknowing +of the deep stratum of feeling that lay beneath the outward +calm of his demeanor.</p> + +<p>Dear, dearest Horace! She will never disbelieve in +him again; he is her own now, her very own, and she loves +him with all her heart, and he loves just the same, and——Oh, +if every woman in the world could only be as +happy as she is to-day, what a glorious place it would be!</p> + +<p>Not that it is such a bad place, by any means, as some +people would lead one to imagine. Surely these are disagreeable +people, misanthropists, misogamists, and such +like heretics; or else, poor souls! they are in a bad +strait, without present hope and without any one to love +them! This last seems, indeed, a misfortune.</p> + +<p>Yet why abuse a lovely world? How bright the day is, +how sweet and fresh the air, though evening is nigh at +hand! She hardly ever remembers a September so fine, +So free from damp; the very birds——</p> + +<p>Had he thought her unloving or capricious when she +pleaded for a longer engagement? (Here the tears rise +unbidden in her eyes.) Oh, surely not; he understood +her thoroughly; for had he not smiled upon her afterwards?</p> + +<p>So he will always smile. There shall never be any +cross words or angry frowns to chill their perfect love! +Their lives will be a summer dream, a golden legend, a +pure, fond idyl.</p> + +<p>Thus beguiling time with beliefs too sweet for earthly +power to grant, she hastens home, with each step building +up another story in her airy house, until at length she +carries a castle, tall and stately, into her father's house.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER X.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I have no other but a woman's reason:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I think him so, because I think him so."—<span class="smcap">Shakespeare.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p>"Where is papa?" she asks, meeting one of the servants +in the hall. Hearing he is out, and will not be back +for some time, she, too, turns again to the open door, and, +as though the house is too small to contain all the thoughts<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> +that throng her breast, she walks out into the air again, +and passes into the garden, where autumn, though kindly +and slow in its advances, is touching everything with the +hand of death.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Heavily hangs the broad sunflower<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Over its grave i' the earth so chilly;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Heavily hangs the hollyhock,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Heavily hangs the tiger lily."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>With a sigh she quits her beloved garden, and wanders +still! farther abroad into the deep woods that "have put +their glory on," and are dressed in tender russets, and +sad greens, and fading tints, that meet and melt into +each other.</p> + +<p>The dry leaves are falling, and lie crackling under foot. +The daylight is fading, softly, imperceptibly, but surely. +There is yet a glow from the departing sunlight, that, sinking +lazily beyond the distant hills, tinges with gold the +browning earth that in her shroud of leaves is lying.</p> + +<p>But death, or pain, or sorrow, has no part with Clarissa +to-day. She is quite happy,—utterly content. She marks +not the dying of the year, but rather the beauty of the +sunset. She heeds not the sullen roar of the ever-increasing +streamlets, that winter will swell into small but angry +rivers; hearing only the songs of the sleepy birds as they +croon their night-songs in the boughs above her.</p> + +<p>When an hour has passed, and twilight has come up and +darkened all the land, she goes back again to her home, +and, reaching the library, looks in, to find her father sitting +there, engrossed as usual with some book, which he is +carefully annotating as he reads.</p> + +<p>"Are you very busy?" asks she, coming slowly up to +him. "I want to be with you for a little while."</p> + +<p>"That is right. I am never too busy to talk to you. +Why, it is quite an age since last I saw you!—not since +breakfast; where have you been all day?"</p> + +<p>"You are a pet," says Miss Peyton, in a loving whisper, +rubbing her cheek tenderly against his, as a reward for his +pretty speech. "I have been at the vicarage, and have +pleaded Georgie's cause so successfully that I have won it; +and have made them half in love with her already."</p> + +<p>"A special pleader indeed. Diplomacy is your forte: +you should keep to it."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I mean to. I shouldn't plead in vain with you, should +I?" She has grown somewhat earnest.</p> + +<p>"Oh! with me!" says her father, with much self-contempt; +"I have given up all that sort of thing, long ago. +I know how much too much you are for me, and I am too +wise to swim against the tide. Only I would entreat you +to be merciful as you are strong."</p> + +<p>"What a lot of nonsense you do talk, you silly boy!" +says Clarissa, who is still leaning over his chair in such a +position that he cannot see her face. Perhaps, could he +have seen it, he might have noticed how pale it is beyond +its wont. "Well, the Redmonds seemed quite pleased, and +I shall write to Georgie to-morrow. It will be nice for +her to be here, near me. It may keep her from being +lonely and unhappy."</p> + +<p>"Well, it ought," says George Peyton. "What did the +vicar say?"</p> + +<p>"The vicar always says just what I say," replies she, a +trifle saucily, and with a quick smile.</p> + +<p>"Poor man! his is the common lot," says her father; +and then, believing she has said all she wants to say, and +being filled with a desire to return to his book and his +notes, he goes on: "So that was the weighty matter you +wanted to discuss, eh? Is that all your news?"</p> + +<p>"Not quite," returns she, in a low tone.</p> + +<p>"No? You are rich in conversation this evening. Who +is it we are now to criticise?"</p> + +<p>"The person you love best,—I hope."</p> + +<p>"Why, that will be you," says George Peyton.</p> + +<p>"You are sure?" says Clarissa, a little tremulously; and +then her father turns in his chair and tries to read her +face.</p> + +<p>"No; stay just as you are; I can tell you better if you do +not look at me," she whispers, entreatingly, moving him +with her hands back to his former position.</p> + +<p>"What is it, Clarissa?" he asks, hastily, though he is +far from suspecting the truth. Some faint thought of +James Scrope (why he knows not) comes to him at this +moment, and not unpleasingly. "Tell me, darling. Anything +that concerns you must, of necessity, concern me +also."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I am glad I know that," she says, speaking with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span> +some difficulty, but very earnestly. "To-day I met Horace +Branscombe."</p> + +<p>"Yes?" His face changes a little, from vague expectancy +to distinct disappointment; but then she cannot see +his face.</p> + +<p>"And he asked me to be his wife—and—I said, Yes—if—if +it pleases you, papa."</p> + +<p>It is over. The dreaded announcement is made. The +words that have cost her so much to utter have gone out +into the air; and yet there is no answer!</p> + +<p>For a full minute silence reigns, and then Clarissa lays +her hand imploringly upon her father's shoulder. He is +looking straight before him, his expression troubled and +grave, his mouth compressed.</p> + +<p>"Speak to me," says Clarissa, entreatingly.</p> + +<p>After this he does speak.</p> + +<p>"I wish it had been Dorian," he says, impulsively.</p> + +<p>Then she takes her hand from his shoulder, as though +it can no longer rest there in comfort, and her eyes fill with +disappointed tears.</p> + +<p>"Why do you say that?" she asks, with some vehemence. +"It sounds as if—as if you undervalued Horace! +Yet what reason have you for doing so? What do you +know against him?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing, literally nothing," answers Mr. Peyton, soothingly, +yet with a plaintive ring in his voice that might suggest +the idea of his being sorry that such answer must be +made. "I am sure Horace is very much to be liked."</p> + +<p>"How you say that!"—reproachfully. "It sounds untrue! +Yet it can't be. What could any one say against +Horace?"</p> + +<p>"My dear, I said nothing."</p> + +<p>"No, but you insinuated it. You said Dorian was his +superior."</p> + +<p>"Well, I think he is the better man of the two," said Mr. +Peyton, desperately, hardly knowing what to say, and feeling +sorely aggrieved in that he is compelled to say what +must hurt her.</p> + +<p>"I cannot understand you; you said you know nothing +prejudicial to Horace (it is impossible you should), and +yet you think Dorian the better man. If he has done no +wrong, why should any one be a better man? Why draw<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span> +the comparison at all? For the first time in all your life, +you are unjust."</p> + +<p>"No, Clarissa, I am not. At least, I think not. Injustice +is a vile thing. But, somehow, Sartoris and I had +both made up our minds that you would marry Dorian, +and——"</p> + +<p>He pauses.</p> + +<p>"Then your only objection to poor Horace is that he is +not Dorian?" asks she, anxiously, letting her hand once +more rest upon his shoulder.</p> + +<p>"Well, no doubt there is a great deal in that," returns +he, evasively, hard put to it to answer his inquisitor with +discretion.</p> + +<p>"And if Dorian had never been, Horace would be the +one person in all the world you would desire for me?" +pursues she, earnestly.</p> + +<p>George Peyton makes no reply to this,—perhaps because +he has not one ready. Clarissa, stepping back, +draws her breath a little quickly, and a dark fire kindles +in her eyes. In her eyes, too, large tears rise and shine.</p> + +<p>"It is because he is poor," she says, in a low tone, that +has some contempt in it, and some passionate disappointment.</p> + +<p>"Do not mistake me," says her father, speaking hastily, +but with dignity. Rising, he pushes back his chair, and +turning, faces her in the gathering twilight. "Were he +the poorest man alive, and you loved him, and he was +worthy of you, I would give you to him without a murmur. +Not that"—hurriedly—"I consider Horace unworthy of +you, but the idea is new, strange, and——the other day, +Clarissa, you were a child."</p> + +<p>"I am your child still,—always." She is sitting on his +knee now, with her arms round his neck, and her cheek +against his; and he is holding her <i>svelte</i> lissome figure very +closely to him. She is the one thing he has to love on +earth; and just now she seems unspeakably—almost painfully—dear +to him.</p> + +<p>"Always, my dear," he reiterates, somewhat unsteadily.</p> + +<p>"You have seen so little of Horace lately," she goes on, +presently, trying to find some comfortable reason for what +seems to her her father's extraordinary blindness to her +lover's virtues. "When you see a great deal of him, you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span> +will love him! As it is, darling, do—<i>do</i> say you like him +very much, or you will break my heart!"</p> + +<p>"I like him very much," replies he, obediently, repeating +his lesson methodically, while feeling all the time that +he is being compelled to say something against his will, +without exactly knowing why he should feel so.</p> + +<p>"And you are quite pleased that I am going to marry +him?" reading his face with her clear eyes; she is very +pale, and strangely nervous.</p> + +<p>"My darling, my one thought is for your happiness." +There is evasion mixed with the affection in this speech; +and Clarissa notices it.</p> + +<p>"No: say you are glad I am going to marry him," she +says, remorselessly.</p> + +<p>"How can you expect me to say that," exclaims he, +mournfully, "when you know your wedding-day must part +us?"</p> + +<p>"Indeed it never shall!" cries she, vehemently; and +then, overcome by the emotion of the past hour, and indeed +of the whole day, she gives way and bursts into tears. +"Papa, how can you say that? To be parted from you! +We must be the same to each other always: my wedding-day +would be a miserable one indeed if it separated me +from you."</p> + +<p>Then he comforts her, fondly caressing the pretty +brown head that lies upon his heart, as it had lain in past +years, when the slender girl of to-day was a little lisping +motherless child. He calls her by all the endearing +names he had used to her then, until her sobs cease, and +only a sigh, now and again, tells of the storm just past.</p> + +<p>"When is it to be?" he asks her, after a little while. +"Not too soon, my pet, I hope?"</p> + +<p>"Not for a whole year. He said something about November, +but I could not leave you in such a hurry. We +must have one more Christmas all to ourselves."</p> + +<p>"You thought of that," he says, tenderly. "Oh, Clarissa, +I hope this thing is for your good. Think of it seriously, +earnestly, while you have time. Do not rush +blindly into a compact that must be binding on you all +your life."</p> + +<p>"I hope it <i>will be</i> for all my life," returns she, gravely. +"To be parted from Horace would be the worst thing that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span> +could befall me. Always remember that, papa. I am +bound to him with all my heart and soul."</p> + +<p>"So be it!" says George Peyton, solemnly. A sigh +escapes him.</p> + +<p>For some time neither speaks. The twilight is giving +place to deeper gloom, the night is fast approaching, yet +they do not stir. What the girl's thoughts may be at this +moment, who can say? As for her father, he is motionless, +except that his lips move, though no sound comes +from them. He is secretly praying, perhaps, for the welfare +of his only child, to her mother in heaven, who at +this time must surely be looking down upon her with +tenderest solicitude. Clarissa puts her lips softly to his +cheek.</p> + +<p>"Our engagement will be such a long one, that we +think—"</p> + +<p>"Yes?"</p> + +<p>"We should like it keep it secret. You will say +nothing about it to any one?"</p> + +<p>"Not until you give me leave. You have acted wisely, +I think, in putting off your marriage for a while." Almost +unconsciously he is telling himself how time changes all +things, and how many plans and affections can be altered +in twelve months.</p> + +<p>"But surely you will tell James Scrope," he goes on, +after a while: "that will not be making it public. He +has known you and been fond of you ever since you were +a baby; and it seems uncivil and unfriendly to keep him +in the dark."</p> + +<p>"Then tell him; but no one else now, papa. I quite +arranged for James, he is such an old friend, and so nice +in every way."</p> + +<p>Here she smiles involuntarily, and, after a little bit, +laughs outright, in spite of herself, as though at some ridiculous +recollection.</p> + +<p>"Do you know," she says, "when I told Horace I +thought I should like Sir James to know of our engagement, +I really think he felt a little jealous! At least, he +didn't half like it. How absurd!—wasn't it? Fancy +being jealous of dear old Jim?"</p> + +<p>"Old!—old! He is a long way off that. Why, all you +silly little girls think a man past twenty-nine to be hov<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span>ering +on the brink of the grave. He can not be more than +thirty-three, or so."</p> + +<p>"He is very dreadfully old, for all that," says Miss Peyton, +wilfully. "He is positively ancient; I never knew +any one so old. He is so profound, and earnest, and serious, +and——"</p> + +<p>"What on earth has he done to you, that you should +call him all these terrible names?" says Mr. Peyton, +laughing.</p> + +<p>"He scolds me," says Clarissa, "he lectures me, and +tells me I should have an aim in life. You have been my +aim, darling, and I have been very devoted to it, haven't +I?"</p> + +<p>"You have, indeed. But now I shall be out in the cold, +of course." His tone is somewhat wistful. "That is +all one gains by lavishing one's affection upon a pretty +child and centring one's every thought and hope upon +her."</p> + +<p>"No, you are wrong there; it must be something to +gain love that will last for ever." She tightens her arm +around his neck. "What a horrid little speech! I could +almost fancy James dictated it to you. He is a sceptic, +an unbeliever, and you have imbibed his notions. Cynical +people are a bore. You wouldn't, for example, have +me fall in love with James, would you?"</p> + +<p>"Indeed I would," says George Peyton, boldly. "He +is just the one man I would choose for you,—'not Launcelot, +nor another.' He is so genuine, so thorough in +every way. And then the estates join, and that. I really +wish you had fallen in love with Scrope."</p> + +<p>"I love you dearly,—dearly," says Miss Peyton; "but you +are a dreadful goose! James is the very last man to grow +sentimental about any one,—least of all, me. He thinks +me of no account at all, and tells me so in very polite language +occasionally. So you see what a fatal thing it would +have been if I had given my heart to him. He would +have broken it, and I should have died, and you would have +put up a touching, and elaborate tablet to my memory, +and somebody would have planted snowdrops on my grave. +There would have been a tragedy in Pullingham, with Jim +for its hero."</p> + +<p>"You take a different view of the case from mine. I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span> +believe there would have been no broken heart, and no +early grave, and you would have been happy ever after."</p> + +<p>"That is a more comfortable theory, certainly for <i>me</i>. +But think what a miserable life <i>he</i> would have had with me +forever by his side."</p> + +<p>"A very perfect life, I think," says Mr. Peyton, looking +with pardonable pride upon the half-earnest, half-laughing, +and wholly lovely face so near him. "I don't know what +more a fellow could expect."</p> + +<p>"You see I was right. I said you were a goose," says +Miss Peyton, irreverently. But she pats his hand, in the +very sweetest manner possible, as she says it. Then she +goes on:</p> + +<p>"Horace said he would come up to-morrow to speak to +you."</p> + +<p>"Very well, dear. That is the usual thing, I suppose. +I hope he won't be long-winded, or lachrymose, or anything +that way. When a thing is done it is done, and discussion +is so unnecessary."</p> + +<p>"Promise me to be very, very kind to him."</p> + +<p>"I shan't eat him, if you mean that," says Mr. Peyton, +half irritably. "What do you think I am going to say to +him? 'Is thy father an ogre, that he should do this thing?' +But have you quite made up your mind to this step? Remember +there will be no undoing it."</p> + +<p>"I know that; but I feel no fear." She has grown pale +again. "I love him. How should I know regret when +with him? I believe in him, and trust him; and I know +he is worthy of all my trust."</p> + +<p>Mr. Peyton sighs. Some words come to his memory, +and he repeats them,—slowly, beneath his breath,—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"There are no tricks in plain and simple faith!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Truly, her faith is pure and simple, and free from thought +of guile.</p> + +<p>"I wonder what James Scrope will say to it all?" he says, +presently.</p> + +<p>"He never says very much on any subject, does he? +If you are going over to the Hall, will you tell him about +it?"</p> + +<p>"No; tell him yourself," says her father, in a curious +tone.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span></p> + +<p>"There is the dressing bell," says Clarissa getting up +lazily. "I don't feel a bit like eating my dinner, do you +know?"</p> + +<p>"Nonsense! The love-sick <i>rôle</i> won't suit you. And +people who don't eat dinner get pale, and lose all their +pretty looks. Run away, now, and don't be long. I feel +it would be injudicious to put cook into a tantrum again +to-night, after last night's explosion. So go and make +yourself lovely."</p> + +<p>"I'll do my best," says Clarissa, modestly.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XI.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I cannot but remember such things were,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That were most precious to me.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh! I could play the woman with mine eyes."—<i>Macbeth.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p>"To tell him herself" has some strange attraction for +Clarissa. To hear face to face, what this her oldest friend +will say to her engagement with Horace is a matter of +great anxiety to her. She will know at once by his eyes +and smile whether he approves or disapproves her choice.</p> + +<p>Driving along the road to Scrope, behind her pretty +ponies, "Cakes" and "Ale," with her little rough Irish +terrier, "Secretary Bill," sitting bolt upright beside her, as +solemn as half a dozen judges, she wonders anxiously how +she shall begin to tell James about it.</p> + +<p>She hopes to goodness he won't be in his ultra-grave +mood, that, as a rule, leads up to his finding fault with +everything, and picking things to pieces, and generally +condemning the sound judgment of others. (As a rule, +Clarissa is a little unfair in her secret comments on James +Scrope's character.) It will be so much better if she can +only come upon him out of doors, in his homeliest mood, +with a cigar between his lips, or his pipe. Yes, his pipe +will be even better. Men are even more genial with a +pipe than with the goodliest habana.</p> + +<p>Well, of course, if he is the great friend he <i>professes</i> to +be,—heavy emphasis on the verb, and a little flick on the +whip on "Cakes's" quarters, which the spirited but docile +creature resents bitterly,—he must be glad at the thought<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span> +that she is not going to leave the country,—is, in fact, +very likely to spend most of her time still in Pullingham.</p> + +<p>Not all of it, of course. Horace has duties, and though +in her secret soul she detests town life, still there is a joy +In the thought that she will be with him, helping him, encouraging +him in his work, rejoicing in his successes, +sympathyzing with his fai——, but no, of course there +will be no failures! How stupid of her to think of that, +when he is so clever, so learned, so——</p> + +<p>Yet it would be sweet, too, to have him fail once or +twice (just a little, insignificant, not-worth-speaking-about +sort of a defeat), if only to let him see how she could love +him even the more for it.</p> + +<p>She blushes, and smiles to herself, and, turning suddenly, +bestows a most unexpected caress upon "Secretary +Bill," who wags his short tail in return—that is, what they +left him of it—lovingly, if somewhat anxiously, and +glances at her sideways out of his wonderful eyes, as +though desirous of assuring himself of her sanity.</p> + +<p>Oh, yes, of course James will be delighted. And he +will tell her so with the gentle smile that so lights up his +face, and he will take her hand, and say he is so glad, so +pleased, and——</p> + +<p>With a sharp pang she remembers how her father was +neither pleased nor glad when she confided her secret to +him. He had been, indeed, distressed and confounded. +He had certainly tried his hardest to conceal from her +these facts, but she had seen them all the same. She +could not be deceived where her father was concerned. +He had felt unmistakable regret——"Be quiet, Bill! +You sha'n't come out driving again if you can't sit still! +What a bore a dog is sometimes!"</p> + +<p>Well, after all, he is her father. It is only natural he +should dislike the thought of parting from her. She +thinks, with an instant softening of her heart, of how +necessary she has become to him, ever since her final return +home. Before that he had been dull and <i>distrait</i>; +now he is bright and cheerful, if still rather too devoted +to his books to be quite good for him.</p> + +<p>He might, indeed, be forgiven for regarding the man +who should take her from him as an enemy. But Jim is +different; he is a mere friend,—a dear and valued one, it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span> +is true, but still only a friend,—a being utterly independent +of her, who can be perfectly happy without her, and +therefore, of course, unprejudiced.</p> + +<p>He will, she feels sure, say everything kind and sweet +to her, and wish her joy sincerely.</p> + +<p>James, too, is very sensible, and will see the good +points in Horace. He evidently likes him; at least, they +have always appeared excellent friends when together. +Dorian, of course, is the general favorite,—she acknowledges +that,—just because he is a little more open, more +outspoken perhaps,—easier to understand; whereas, she +firmly believes, she alone of all the world is capable of +fully appreciating the innate goodness of Horace!</p> + +<p>Here she turns in the huge gateway of Scrope; and +the terrier, growing excited, gives way to a sharp bark, +and the ponies swing merrily down the avenue; and just +before she comes to the hall door her heart fails her, and +something within her—that something that never errs—tells +her that James Scrope will not betray any pleasure +at her tidings.</p> + +<p>Before she quite reaches the hall door, a groom comes +from a side-walk, and, seeing him, Clarissa pulls up the +ponies sharply, and asks the man,—</p> + +<p>"Is Sir James at home?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, miss; he is in the stables, I think; leastways, +he was half an hour agone. Shall I tell him you are +here?"</p> + +<p>"No, thank you. I shall go and find him myself."</p> + +<p>See flings her reins to her own groom, and, with Bill +trotting at her heels, goes round to the yard, glad, at +least, that her first hope is fulfilled,—that he is out of +doors.</p> + +<p>As she goes through the big portals into the ivied +yard, she sees before her one of the stablemen on his +knees, supporting in his arms an injured puppy: with all +a woman's tenderness he is examining the whining little +brute's soft, yellow paw, as it hangs mournfully downwards.</p> + +<p>Sir James, with a pipe in his mouth,—this latter fact +Clarissa hails with rapture,—is also bending anxiously +over the dog, and is so absorbed in his contemplation of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span> +it as not to notice Clarissa's approach until she is close +beside him.</p> + +<p>"What is the matter with the poor little thing?" she +asks, earnestly, gazing with deep pity at the poor puppy, +that whines dismally and glances up at her with the peculiarly +tearful appealing expression that belongs to setters.</p> + +<p>"A knock of a stone, miss, nayther more nor less," exclaims +the man, angrily. "That's the honest truth, Sir +James, you take my word for't. Some o' them rascally +boys as is ever and allus about this 'ere yard, and spends +their lives shyin' stones at every blessed sign they sets +their two eyes on, has done this. 'Ere's one o' the best +pups o' the season a'most ruined, and no satisfaction for it. +It's a meracle if he comes round (quiet there, my beauty, +and easy there now, I tell ye), and nobody does anything."</p> + +<p>The old man stops, and regards his master reprovingly, +nay, almost contemptuously.</p> + +<p>"I really don't see why you should think it was the boys, +Joe?" says Sir James, meekly.</p> + +<p>"'Twarn't anythin' else, anyway," persists Joe, doggedly.</p> + +<p>"Poor little fellow!—dear fellow!" murmurs Miss Peyton, +caressingly, to the great soft setter pup, patting its +head lovingly, as it barks madly, and makes frantic efforts +to get from Joe's arms to hers, while Bill shrieks in concert, +being filled with an overwhelming amount of sympathy.</p> + +<p>"Better leave him to me, miss," says Joe, regarding +the injured innocent with a parent's eye. "He knows me. +I'll treat him proper," raising his old honest weather-beaten +face to Clarissa, in a solemn reassuring manner, "you be +bound. Yet them pups" (disgustedly) "is like children, +allus ungrateful. For the sake o' your handsome face, +now, he'd go to you if he could, forgetful of all my kindness +to him. Well, 'tis the way o' the world, I believe," +winds up old Joe, rising from his knees,—cheered, perhaps, +by the thought that his favorite pup, if only following the +common dictates of animals, is no worse than all others.</p> + +<p>He grumbles something else in an undertone, and finally +carries off the puppy to his kennel.</p> + +<p>"I am too amazed for speech," says Sir James, rising +also to his feet, and contemplating Clarissa with admira<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span>tion. +"That man," pointing to Joe's retiring figure, "has +been in my father's service, and in mine, for fifty years, and +never before did I hear a civil word from his lips. I think +he said your face was handsome, just now?—or was I deceived?"</p> + +<p>"I like Joe," says Miss Peyton, elevating her rounded +chin: "I downright esteem him. He knows where beauty +lies."</p> + +<p>"How he differs from the rest of the world!" says +Scrope, not looking at her.</p> + +<p>"Does he? That is unkind, I think. Why," says Clarissa, +with a soft laugh, full of mischief, "should any one +be blind to the claims of beauty?"</p> + +<p>"Why, indeed? It is, as I have been told, 'a joy forever.' +No one nowadays disputes anything they are told, +do they?"</p> + +<p>"Don't be cynical, Jim," says Miss Peyton, softly. +What an awful thing it will be if, now when her story is +absolutely upon her lips, he relapses into his unsympathetic +mood!</p> + +<p>"Well, I won't, then," says Scrope, amiably, which much +relieves her. And then he looks lovingly at his pipe, which +he has held (as in duty bound) behind his back ever since +her arrival, and sighs heavily, and proceeds to knock the +ashes out of it.</p> + +<p>"Oh, don't do that," says Clarissa, entreatingly. "I +really wish you wouldn't!" (This is the strict truth.) +"You know you are dying for a smoke, and I—I perfectly +love the smell of tobacco. There is, therefore, no reason +why you should deny yourself."</p> + +<p>"Are you really quite sure?" says Scrope, politely and +hopefully.</p> + +<p>"Quite,—utterly. Put it in your mouth again. And—do +you mind?"—with a swift glance upwards, from under +her soft plush hat,—"I want you to come for a little walk +with me."</p> + +<p>"To the end of the world, with <i>you</i>, would be a short +walk," says Scrope, with a half laugh, but a ring in his tone +that, to a woman heart-whole and unoccupied with thoughts +of another man, must have meant much. "Command me, +madam."</p> + +<p>"I have something very—very—<i>very</i> important to tell<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span> +you," says Miss Peyton, earnestly. This time she looks +at her long black gloves, not at him, and makes a desperate +effort to button an already obedient little bit of ivory.</p> + +<p>They have turned into the orchard, now bereft of blossom, +and are strolling carelessly along one of its side-paths. +The earth is looking brown, the trees bare; for Autumn—greedy +season—has stretched its hand "to reap the ripened +fruits the which the earth had yold."</p> + +<p>"Are you listening to me?" asks she, presently, seeing +he makes no response to her first move.</p> + +<p>"Intently." He has not the very faintest idea of her +meaning, so speaks in a tone light and half amused, that +leads her to betray her secret sooner than otherwise she +might have done. "Is it an honest mystery," he says, +carelessly, "or a common ghost story, or a state secret? +Break it to me gently."</p> + +<p>"There is nothing to break," says Clarissa, softly. Then +she looks down at the strawberry borders at her side,—now +brown and aged,—and then says, in a very low tone, +"I am going to be married!"</p> + +<p>There is a dead silence. Sir James says nothing. He +walks on beside her with an unfaltering footstep, his head +erect as ever, his hands clasped in their old attitude behind +his back. The sun is shining; some birds are warbling +faintly (as though under protest) in some neighboring +thicket; yet, I think Scrope neither sees the sun, nor +heeds the birds, nor knows for the moment that life flows +within him, after that little, low-toned speech of hers.</p> + +<p>Then he awakes from his stupor, and, rousing himself, +says, huskily, yet with a certain amount of self-possession +that deceives her,—</p> + +<p>"You were saying——?"</p> + +<p>"Only that I am going to be married," repeats Clarissa, +in a somewhat changed tone. The nervousness had gone +out of it, and the natural hesitation; she is speaking now +quite composedly and clearly, as if some surprise betrays +itself in her voice.</p> + +<p>Scrope is aware that his heart is beating madly. He +has stopped, and is leaning against the trunk of an apple-tree, +facing Clarissa, who is standing in the middle of the +path. His face is ashen gray, but his manner is quite calm.</p> + +<p>"Who is it?" he asks, presently, very slowly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Mr. Branscombe,"—coldly.</p> + +<p>"Dorian?"</p> + +<p>"No. Horace."</p> + +<p>"I wish it had been Dorian," he says, impulsively.</p> + +<p>It is the last straw.</p> + +<p>"And why?" demands she, angrily. She is feeling +wounded, disappointed at his reception of her news; and +now the climax has come. Like her father, he, too, prefers +Dorian,—nay, by his tone, casts a slur upon Horace. The +implied dislike cuts her bitterly to the heart.</p> + +<p>"What evil thing have you to say of Horace," she goes +on, vehemently, "that you so emphatically declare in favor +of Dorian? When you are with him you profess great +friendship for him, and now behind his back you seek to +malign him to the woman he loves."</p> + +<p>"You are unjust," says Scrope, wearily. "I know nothing +bad of Horace. I merely said I wished it had been +Dorian. No, I have nothing to say against Horace."</p> + +<p>"Then why do you look as if you had?" says Miss Peyton, +pettishly, frowning a little, and letting her eyes rest +on him for a moment only, to withdraw them again with a +deeper frown. "Your manner suggests many things. +You are like papa—" She pauses, feeling she has +made a false move, and wishes vainly her last words unsaid.</p> + +<p>"Does your father disapprove, then?" asks he, more +through idleness than a desire to know.</p> + +<p>Instinctively he feels that, no matter what obstacles may +be thrown in this girl's way, still she will carry her point +and marry the man she has elected to love. Nay, will not +difficulties but increase her steadfastness, and make strong +the devotion that is growing in her heart?</p> + +<p>Not until now, this moment, when hope has died and +despair sprung into life, does he know how freely, how altogether, +he has lavished the entire affection of his soul +upon her. During all these past few months he has lived +and thought and hoped but for her; and now—all this +is at an end.</p> + +<p>Like a heavy blow from some unseen hand this terrible +news has fallen upon him, leaving him spent and broken, +and filled with something that is agonized surprise at the +depth of the misfortune that has overtaken him. It is as<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> +a revelation, the awakening to a sense of the longing that +has been his,—to the knowledge of the cruel strength of +the tenderness that binds his heart to hers.</p> + +<p>With a slow wonder he lifts his eyes and gazes at her. +There is a petulant expression round her mobile lips, a +faint bending of her brows that bespeaks discontent, bordering +upon anger, yet, withal, she is quite lovely,—so sweet, +yet so unsympathetic; so gentle, yet so ignorant of all he +is at present feeling.</p> + +<p>With a sickening dread he looks forward to the future +that still may lie before him. It seems to him that he can +view, lying stretched out in the far distance, a lonely cheerless +road, over which he must travel whether he will or +not,—a road bare and dusty and companionless, devoid of +shade, or rest, or joy, or that love that could transform the +barrenness into a "flowery mead."</p> + +<p>"He that loses hope"—says Congreve—"may part +with anything." To Scrope, just now, it seems as though +hope and he have parted company forever. The past has +been so dear, with all its vague beliefs and uncertain dreamings,—all +too sweet for realization,—that the present appears +unbearable.</p> + +<p>The very air seems dark, the sky leaden, the clouds sad +and lowering. Vainly he tries to understand how he has +come to love, with such a boundless passion, this girl, who +loves him not at all, but has surrendered herself wholly to +one unworthy of her,—one utterly incapable of comprehending +the nobility and truthfulness of her nature.</p> + +<p>The world, that only yesterday seemed so desirable a +place, to-day has lost its charm.</p> + +<p>"What is life, when stripped of its disguise? A thing +to be desired it cannot be." With him it seems almost at +an end. An unsatisfactory thing, too, at its best,—a mere +"glimpse into the world of might have been."</p> + +<p>Some words read a week ago come to him now, and +ring their changes on his brain. "Rien ne va plus,"—the +hateful words return to him with a pertinacity not to be +subdued. It is with difficulty he refrains from uttering +them aloud.</p> + +<p>"No; he does not disapprove," says Clarissa, interrupting +his reflections at this moment: "he has given his full +consent to my engagement." She speaks somewhat slowly,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span> +as if remembrance weighs upon her. "And, even if he +had not, there is still something that must give me happiness: +it is the certainty that Horace loves me, and that I +love him."</p> + +<p>Though unmeant, this is a cruel blow. Sir James turns +away, and, paling visibly,—had she cared to see it,—plucks +a tiny piece of bark from the old tree against which he is +leaning.</p> + +<p>There is something in his face that, though she understands +it not, moves Clarissa to pity.</p> + +<p>"You will wish me some good wish, after all, Jim, won't +you?" she says, very sweetly, almost pathetically.</p> + +<p>"No, I cannot," returns he with a brusquerie foreign +to him. "To do so would be actual hypocrisy."</p> + +<p>There is silence for a moment: Clarissa grows a little +pale, in her turn. In <i>his</i> turn, he takes no notice of her +emotion, having his face averted. Then, in a low, faint, +choked voice, she breaks the silence.</p> + +<p>"If I had been wise," she says, "I should have stayed +at home this morning, and kept my confidences to myself. +Yet I wanted to tell you. So I came, thinking, believing, +I should receive sympathy from you; and now what have +I got? Only harsh and cruel words! If I had known—"</p> + +<p>"Clarissa!"</p> + +<p>"Yes! If any one had told me you would so treat me, +I should—should—"</p> + +<p>It is this supreme moment she chooses to burst out crying; +and she cries heartily (by which I mean that she gives +way to grief of the most vehement and agonized description) +for at least five minutes, without a cessation, making +her lament openly, and in a carefully unreserved fashion, +intended to reduce his heart to water. And not in vain +is <i>her</i> "weak endeavor."</p> + +<p>Sir James, when the first sob falls upon his ear, turns +from her, and, as though unable to endure the sound, deliberately +walks away from her down the garden path.</p> + +<p>When he gets quite to the end of it, however, and knows +the next turn will hide him from sight of her tears or sound +of her woe, he hesitates, then is lost, and finally coming +back again to where she is standing, hidden by a cambric +handkerchief, lays his hand upon her arm. At his touch +her sobs increase.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Don't do that!" he says, so roughly that she knows +his heart is bleeding. "Do you hear me, Clarissa? Stop +crying. It isn't doing you any good, and it is driving me +mad. What has happened?—what is making you so unhappy?"</p> + +<p>"<i>You</i> are," says Miss Peyton, with a final sob, and a +whole octave of reproach in her voice. "Anything so unkind +I never knew. And just when I had come all the +way over here to tell you what I would tell nobody else +except papa! There was a time, Jim" (with a soft but +upbraiding glance), "when you would have been sweet +and kind and good to me on an occasion like this."</p> + +<p>She moves a step nearer to him, and lays her hand—the +little, warm, pulsing hand he loves so passionately—upon +his arm. Her glance is half offended, half beseeching: +Scrope's strength of will gives way, and, metaphorically +speaking, he lays himself at her feet.</p> + +<p>"If I have been uncivil to you, forgive me," he says, +taking her hand from his arm, and holding it closely in +his own. "You do not know; you cannot understand; +and I am glad you do not. Be happy! There is no substantial +reason why you should not extract from life every +sweet it can afford: you are young, the world is before +you, and the love you desire is yours. Dry your eyes, +Clarissa: your tears pierce my heart."</p> + +<p>He has quite regained his self-control by this time, and +having conquered emotion, speaks dispassionately. Clarissa, +as he has said, does not understand the terrible +struggle it costs him to utter these words in an ordinary +tone, and with a face which, if still pale, betrays no mental +excitement.</p> + +<p>She smiles. Her tears vanish. She sighs contentedly, +and moves the hand that rests in his.</p> + +<p>"I am so glad we are friends again," she says. "And +now tell me why you were so horrid at first: you might +just as well have begun as you have ended: it would have +saved trouble and time, and" (reproachfully) "all my +tears."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps I value you so highly that I hate the thought +of losing you," says Scrope, palliating the ugliness of his +conduct as best he may. His voice is very earnest.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span></p> + +<p>"How fond you are of me!" says Miss Peyton, with +some wonder and much pleasure.</p> + +<p>To this he finds it impossible to make any answer.</p> + +<p>"Whenever I wish I had had a brother, I always think +of you," goes on she, pleasantly, "you are so—so—quiet, +and your scoldings so half-hearted. Now, even though +rather late, wish me joy."</p> + +<p>"My dear, dear girl," says Scrope, "if I were to speak +forever, I could not tell you how I long for and desire +your happiness. If your life proves as calm and peaceful +as I wish it, it will be a desirable life indeed! You have +thought of me as your brother: let me be your brother +indeed,—one in whom you can confide and trust should +trouble overtake you."</p> + +<p>He says this very solemnly, and again Clarissa's eyes +fill with tears. She does now what she has not done since +she was a little, impulsive, loving girl: she lifts her head +and presses her lips to his cheek.</p> + +<p>For one brief moment he holds her in his arms, returning +her caress, warmly, it is true, but with ineffable sadness. +To her, this embrace is but the sealing of a fresh +bond between them. To him it is a silent farewell, a final +wrenching of the old sweet ties that have endured so long.</p> + +<p>Up to this she has been everything to him,—far more +than he ever dreamed until the rude awakening came,—the +one bright spot in his existence; but now all is changed, +and she belongs to another.</p> + +<p>He puts her gently from him, and, with a kindly word +and smile, leads her to the garden gate, and so round to +where her ponies are impatiently awaiting her coming: +after which he bids her good-by, and, turning, goes indoors, +and locks himself into his own private den.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XII.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The snow is on the mountain,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The frost is on the vale,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The ice hangs o'er the fountain,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The storm rides on the gale."—<span class="smcap">Ouseley.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + + +<p>Clarissa's letter to Georgie Broughton receives a most +tender response,—tender as it is grateful. The girl writes<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span> +thankfully, heartily, and expresses almost passionate delight +at Clarissa's instantaneous and ready sympathy.</p> + +<p>The letter is short, but full of feeling. It conveys to +Clarissa the sad impression that the poor child's heart is +dry and barren for lack of that gracious dew called love, +without which not one of us can taste the blessedness of +life.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Nothing is true but love, nor aught of worth;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Love is the incense which doth sweeten earth."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>So sings Trench. To Clarissa, just now, his words convey +nothing less than the very embodiment of truth. +That Georgie should be unhappy for want of this vital essence +cuts her to the heart,—the more so that Georgie persistently +refuses to come to Gowran.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"<span class="smcap">Dearest Clarissa</span>,—Do not think me cold or ungrateful,"—so +she writes,—"but, were I to go to you and feel +again the warmth and tenderness of a home, it might unfit +me for the life of trouble and work that must lie before me. +'Summer is when we love and are beloved,' and, of course, +such summer is over for me. I know my task will be no +light or easy one; but I have made up my mind to it, and +indeed am thankful for it, as any change from this must of +necessity be pleasant. And, besides, I may not be a governess +forever. I have yet another plan in my head,—something +papa and I agreed upon, before he left me,—that +may put an end to my difficulties sooner than I think. +I will tell you of it some time, when we meet."</p></div> + +<p>"Poor darling," says Clarissa, "what a wretched little +letter!" She sighs, and folds it up, and wonders vaguely +what this other plan of Georgie's can be. Then she writes +to her again, and describes Mrs. Redmond as well as is +possible.</p> + +<p>"Accept her offer by return of post," she advises, earnestly. +"Even if, after a trial, you do not like her, still this +will be an opening for you; and I am glad in the thought +that I shall always have you near me,—at least until that +mysterious plan of yours meets the light. Mrs. Redmond +is not, of course, everything of the most desirable, but she +is passable, and very kind at heart. She is tall and angular, +and talks all day long—and all night, I am sure, if one<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span> +would listen—about her ailments and the servants' delinquencies. +She is never without a cold in her head, and a +half-darned stocking! She calls the children's pinafores +'pinbefores,'—which is quite correct, but very unpleasant; +and she always calls terrible 'turrible;' but beyond these +small failings she is quite bearable."</p> + +<p>And so on. When Miss Broughton receives this letter +in her distant home, she is again solemistress of a sickroom. +Her aunt—the hard taskmaster assigned to her by +fate—lies on her bed stricken to the earth by fever. To +come to Pullingham now will be impossible. "Will Mrs. +Redmond wait for a month, or perhaps two?" She entreats +Clarissa to do what she can for her; and Clarissa +does it; and the worried wife of the vicar, softened by +Miss Peyton's earnest explanations, consents to expound +Pinnock and "Little Arthur" to the small Redmonds until +such time as Miss Broughton's aunt shall be convalescent.</p> + +<p>"The inaudible and noiseless foot of Time" creeps on +apace, and Christmas at last reaches Pullingham. Such a +Christmas, too!—a glorious sunny Christmas morning, full +of light and life, snow-crowned on every side. The glinting +sunbeams lie upon the frozen hills, kissing them with +tender rapture, as though eager to impart some heat and +comfort to their chilly hearts.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Now trees their leafy hats do bare<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To reverence Winter's silver hair."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The woods are all bereft of green; the winds sigh wearily +through them; "no grass the fields, no leaves the forests +wear;" a shivering shroud envelops all the land.</p> + +<p>But far above, in the clear sky, Sol shines triumphant. +Nor ice, nor snow, nor chilling blast has power to deaden +him to-day. No "veil of clouds involves his radiant head." +He smiles upon the earth, and ushers in the blessed morn +with unexpected brilliancy. Innumerable sounds swell +through the frosty air; sweet bells ring joyously. All the +world is astir.</p> + +<p>Except Clarissa. She lies, still sleeping,—dreaming, it +may be, that first glad dream of youth in which all seems +perfect, changeless, passion-sweet!</p> + +<p>Upon her parted lips a faint soft smile is lingering, as<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span> +though loath to depart. Her face is lightly tinged with +color, as it were a "ripened rose." Upon one arm her +cheek is pillowed; the other is thrown, with negligent +grace, above her head.</p> + +<p>"Half-past eight, Miss Peyton, and Christmas morning; +too," says a voice more distinct than musical, and rather +reproachful. It rushes into Clarissa's happy dream like a +night-mare, and sends all the dear shades she has been +conjuring to her side back into their uncertain home.</p> + +<p>The maid pokes the fire energetically, and arranges +something upon the dressing-table with much unnecessary +vigor.</p> + +<p>Clarissa, slowly bringing herself back from the world in +which Hester, however admirable in every respect, bears +no part, sighs drowsily, and sits up in her bed.</p> + +<p>"Really that hour?" she says. "Quite too disgracefully +late! A happy Christmas, Hester!"</p> + +<p>"Thank you, miss. The same to you, and very many +of them!"</p> + +<p>"Is it a cold morning?" asks Clarissa, with a little +shiver. She pushes back the soft waving masses of her +brown hair from her forehead, and gazes at Hester entreatingly, +as though to implore her to say it is warm as a +day in June.</p> + +<p>But Hester is adamant.</p> + +<p>"Terrible cold, miss," she says, with a sort of gusto. +"<i>That</i> frosty it would petrify you where you stand."</p> + +<p>"Then I won't stand," declares Clarissa, promptly sinking +back once more into her downy couch. "I decline to +be petrified, Hester,"—tucking the clothes well round her. +"Call me again next week."</p> + +<p>"The master is up this hour, miss," says the maid, +reprovingly; "and see how beautifully your fire is burning."</p> + +<p>"I can't see anything but the water over there. <i>Is</i> that +ice in my bath?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, miss. Will you let me throw a little hot water +into it to melt it for you? Do, miss. I'm sure them miserable +cold oblations is bitter bad for you." Perhaps she +means ablutions. Nobody knows. And Clarissa, though +consumed with a desire to know, dares not ask. Hester +is standing a few yards from her, looking the very person<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span>fication +of all pathos, and is plainly an-angered of the +frozen bath.</p> + +<p>"Well, then, Hester, yes; a little—a <i>very</i> little—hot +water, just for once," says Clarissa, unable to resist the +woman's pleading, and her own fear of the "bitter chill" +that awaits her on the other side of the blankets. "My +courage has flown; indeed, I don't see how I can get up +at all,"—willfully, snuggling down even more closely into +the warm sheets.</p> + +<p>"Oh, now get up, miss, do," implores her maid. "It +is getting real late, and the master has been up asking +for you twice already."</p> + +<p>"Is papa dressed, then?"</p> + +<p>"An hour ago, miss. He was standing on the doorsteps, +feeding the sparrows and robins, when I came up."</p> + +<p>"Dear papa!" says Clarissa, tenderly, beneath her +breath; and then she springs out of bed, and gets into +her clothes by degrees, and presently runs down-stairs to +the great old hall, where she finds her father awaiting her.</p> + +<p>He is standing at the upper end, with his back to the +huge central window, through which</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Gleams the red sun athwart the misty haze<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which veils the cold earth from its loving gaze."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>A calm, clear light illumes the hall, born of the "wide +and glittering cloak of snow" which last night flung upon +the land. At its other end stand all the servants,—silent, +expectant,—to hear what the master shall say to them on +this Christmas morning.</p> + +<p>That George Peyton should refuse to address them on +this particular day is out of all hearing. His father, +grandfather, and great-grandfather had done it before him +to the then servants; therefore (according to the primitive +notions of the county) he must do the same. Yet it +is undeniable that to the present proprietor this task is a +terrible one, and not to be performed at any price, could +escape from it be shown.</p> + +<p>Eloquence is not Mr. Peyton's <i>forte</i>. To find himself +standing before an expectant audience, and to know they +are prepared to hang upon his accents, is not sweet to him,—in +fact, fills him with terrors vast and deep. Yet here +they are awaiting his speech, in a goodly row, with all<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span> +their eyes fixed on his, and their minds prepared to receive +anything he may say.</p> + +<p>He breathes a small sigh of relief as he sees Clarissa +approaching, and gives her his customary morning kiss in +a rather warmer fashion than usual, which has only the +effect of raising mirth in Clarissa's mind. She smiles in +an unfilial fashion, and, slipping her hand through his +arm, awaits what fate may have in store.</p> + +<p>Her father, when he has cast upon her one reproachful +glance, turns to the servants, and, with a heightened color +and somewhat lame delivery, says as follows:</p> + +<p>"I am very glad to see you all again——" here he +checks himself, and grows a degree redder and more embarrassed. +It occurs to him that, after all, he saw them +yesterday and the day before, and that it is on the cards +he will see them again to-morrow. Therefore why express +exuberant joy at the fact that he can see them at this +present moment?</p> + +<p>He glances, in a despairing fashion, at Clarissa; but +she is plainly delighted at his discomfiture, and refuses to +give him any assistance, unless a small approving nod can +be accounted such.</p> + +<p>Feeling himself, therefore, unsupported, he perforce, returns +to the charge.</p> + +<p>"It is a great pleasure to me to know that no changes +have taken place during the past year, I hope"—(long +pause)—"I hope we shall always have the same story to +tell."</p> + +<p>This is fearfully absurd, and he knows it, and blushes +again.</p> + +<p>"Well, at least," he goes on, "I hope we shall not part +from each other without good cause,—such as a wedding, +for instance."</p> + +<p>Here he looks at the under-housemaid, who looks at the +under-gardener, who looks at his boots, and betrays a wild +desire to get into them forthwith.</p> + +<p>"There is no occasion for me, I think, to make you a +speech. I——the fact is, I——couldn't make you a +speech, so you must excuse me. I wish you all a happy +Christmas! I'm sure you all wish me the same. Eh?——and——"</p> + +<p>Here he is interrupted by a low murmur from the serv<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span>ants, +who plainly feel it their duty to let him know, at +this juncture, that they do hope his Christmas will be a +successful one.</p> + +<p>"Well——eh?——thank you——you know," says Mr. +Peyton, at his wits' end as to what he shall say next.</p> + +<p>"You are all very kind, very kind indeed——very——. +Mrs. Lane,"—desperately,—"come here and take your +Christmas-box."</p> + +<p>The housekeeper advances, in a rounded stately fashion, +and, with an elaborate courtesy and a smile full of benignity, +accepts her gift and retires with it to the background. +The others having all performed the same ceremony, +and also retired, Mr. Peyton draws a deep sigh of relief, +and turns to Clarissa, who, all through, has stood beside +him.</p> + +<p>"I think you might have put in a word or two," he says. +"But you are a traitor; you enjoyed my discomfiture. +Bless me, how glad I am that 'Christmas comes but +once a year!'"</p> + +<p>"And how sorry I am!" says Clarissa, making a slight +grimace. "It is the one chance I get of listening to eloquence +that I feel sure is unsurpassable."</p> + +<p>They are still standing in the hall. At this moment a +servant throws open the hall door and Dorian and Horace +Branscombe, coming in, walk up to where they are, near +the huge pine fire that is roaring and making merry on the +hearth-stone; no grate defiles the beauty of the Gowran +hall. They are flushed from the rapidity of their walk, +and are looking rather more like each other than usual.</p> + +<p>"Well, we have had a run for it," says Dorian. "Not +been to breakfast, I hope? If you say you have finished +that most desirable meal, I shall drop dead: so break it +carefully. I have a wretched appetite, as a rule, but just +now I feel as if I could eat you, Clarissa."</p> + +<p>"We haven't thought of breakfast, yet," says Clarissa. +"I am so glad I was lazy this morning! A happy Christmas, +Dorian!"</p> + +<p>"The same to you!" says Dorian, raising her hand and +pressing it to his lips. "By what luck do we find you in +the hall?"</p> + +<p>"The servants have just been here to receive their presents. +Now, why were you not a few minutes earlier, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span> +you might have been stricken dumb with joy at papa's +speech?"</p> + +<p>"I don't believe it was half a bad speech," says Mr. +Peyton, stoutly.</p> + +<p>"Bad! It was the most enchanting thing I ever listened +to!—in fact, faultless,—if one omits the fact that +you looked as if you were in torment all the time, and +seemed utterly hopeless as to what you were going to say +next."</p> + +<p>"James, is breakfast ready?" says Mr. Peyton, turning +away to hide a smile, and making a strenuous effort to +suppress the fact that he has heard one word of her last +betrayal. "Come into the dining-room, Dorian," he says, +when the man has assured him breakfast will be ready in +two minutes: "it is ever so much more comfortable +there."</p> + +<p>Branscombe goes with him, and so presently, Clarissa +and Horace find themselves alone.</p> + +<p>Horace, going up to her, as in duty bound, places his +arm round her, and presses his lips lightly, gently, to her +cheek.</p> + +<p>"You never wished <i>me</i> a happy Christmas," he says, in +the low soft tone he always adopts when speaking to +women. "You gave all your best wishes to Dorian."</p> + +<p>"You knew what was in my heart," replies she, sweetly, +pleased that he has noticed the omission.</p> + +<p>"I wonder if I have brought you what you like," he +says, laying in her little palm a large gold locket, oval-shaped, +and with forget-me-nots in sapphires and diamonds, +on one side. Touching a spring, it opens, and there, +staring up at her, is his own face, wearing its kindliest expression, +and seeming—to her—to breathe forth love and +truth.</p> + +<p>For a little minute she is silent; then she says softly, +with lowered eyes, and a warm, tender blush,—</p> + +<p>"Did you have this picture taken for me, alone?"</p> + +<p>It is evident the face in the locket is even dearer to her +than the locket itself.</p> + +<p>"For you alone," says Horace, telling his lie calmly. +"When it was finished I had the negative destroyed. +I thought only of you. Was not that natural? There was +one happy moment in which I assured myself that it would<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span> +please you to have my image always near you. Was I +wrong?—presumptuous?"</p> + +<p>Into his tone he has managed to infuse a certain amount +of uncertainty and anxious longing that cannot fail to +flatter and do some damage to a woman's heart. Clarissa +raises her trustful eyes to his.</p> + +<p>"Please me!" she repeats, softly, tears growing beneath +her lids: "it pleases me so much that it seems to +me impossible to express my pleasure. You have given +me the thing that, of all others, I have most wished for."</p> + +<p>She blushes, vividly, as she makes this admission. Horace, +lifting her hand, kisses it warmly.</p> + +<p>"I am fortunate," he says, in a low tone. "Will you +love the original, Clarissa, as you love this senseless picture? +After long years, how will it be?" There is a +touch of concern and doubt—and something more, that +may be regret—in his tone.</p> + +<p>"I shall always love you," says the girl, very earnestly, +laying her hand on his arm, and looking at him with eyes +that should have roused all tenderness and devotion in his +breast:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"For at each glance of those sweet eyes a soul<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Looked forth as from the azure gates of heaven."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>He is spared a reply. Dorian, coming again into the +hall, summons them gayly to breakfast.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>In the little casemented window of the tiny chamber that +calls her mistress, sits Ruth Annersley, alone.</p> + +<p>The bells are ringing out still the blessed Christmas +morn; yet she, with downcast eyes, and chin resting in +her hand, heeds nothing, being wrapped in thought, and +unmindful of aught but the one great idea that fills her to +overflowing. Her face is grave—nay, almost sorrowful—and +full of trouble; yet underlying all is gladness that +will not be suppressed.</p> + +<p>At this moment—perhaps for the first time—she wakes +to the consciousness that the air is full of music, borne from +the belfries far and near. She shudders slightly, and +draws her breath in a quick unequal sigh.</p> + +<p>"Another long year," she says wearily. "Oh that I +could tell my father!"</p> + +<p>She lifts her head impatiently, and once more her eyes<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> +fall upon the table on which her arm is resting. There +are before her a few opened letters, some Christmas cards, +a very beautiful Honiton lace handkerchief, on which her +initials, "R. A.," are delicately worked, and—apart from +all the rest—a ring, set with pearls and turquoises.</p> + +<p>Taking this last up, she examines it slowly, lovingly, +slipping it on and off her slender finger, without a smile, +and with growing pallor.</p> + +<p>A step upon the stairs outside! Hastily, and in a somewhat +guilty fashion, she replaces the ring upon the table, +and drops the lace handkerchief over it.</p> + +<p>"Miss Ruth," says a tall, gawky country-girl, opening +the door, "the maister he be waitin' breakfast for you. +Do ee come down now." Then, catching sight of the +handkerchief, "La! now," she says, "how fine that be! +a beauty, surely, and real lace, too! La! Miss Ruth, and +who sent you that, now? May I see it?"</p> + +<p>She stretches out her hand, as though about to raise the +dainty fabric from its resting-place; but Ruth is before +her.</p> + +<p>"Do not touch it," she says, almost roughly for her. +Then, seeing the effect her words have caused, and how +the girl shrinks back from her, she goes on, hurriedly and +kindly, "You have been in the dairy, Margery, and perhaps +your hands are not clean. Run away and wash them, +and come to attend table. Afterwards you shall come up +here and see my handkerchief and all my pretty cards."</p> + +<p>She smiles, lays her hand on Margery's shoulder, and +gently, but with determination, draws her towards the door.</p> + +<p>Once outside, she turns, and, locking the door, carefully +puts the key in her pocket.</p> + +<p>Slowly, reluctantly, she descends the stairs,—slowly, and +with a visible effort, presses her lips in gentle greeting to +her father's care-worn cheek. The bells still ring on joyously, +merrily; the sun shines; the world is white with +snow, more pure than even our purest thoughts; but no +sense of rest or comfort comes to Ruth. Oh, dull and +heavy heart that holds a guilty secret. Oh, sad (even +though yet innocent) is the mind that hides a hurtful +thought! Not for you do Christmas bells ring out their +happy greeting! Not for such as you does sweet peace +reign triumphant.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Is she not passing fair?"—<i>Two Gentlemen of Verona.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + + +<p>The day at length dawns when Miss Broughton chooses +to put in an appearance at Pullingham. It is Thursday +evening on which she arrives, and as she has elected to go +to the vicarage direct, instead of to Gowran, as Clarissa +desired, nothing is left to the latter but to go down on Friday +to the Redmonds' to welcome her.</p> + +<p>She (Clarissa) had taken it rather badly that pretty Georgie +will not come to her for a week or so before entering +on her duties; yet in her secret soul she cannot help admiring +the girl's pluck, and her determination to let nothing +interfere with the business that must for the future represent +her life. To stay at Gowran,—to fall, as it were, into +the arms of luxury,—to be treated, as she knew she would +be, by Clarissa, as an equal, even in worldly matters, would +be only to unfit her for the routine that of necessity must +follow. So she abstains, and flings far from her all thought +of a happiness that would indeed be real, as Clarissa had +been dear to her two years ago; and to be dear to Georgie +once would mean to be dear to her forever.</p> + +<p>The vicar himself opens the door for Clarissa, and tells +her Miss Broughton has arrived, and will no doubt be overjoyed +to see her.</p> + +<p>"What a fairy you have given us!" he says, laughing. +"Such a bewildering child; all golden hair, and sweet dark +eyes, and mourning raiments. We are perplexed—indeed, +I may say, dazed—at her appearance; because we have +one and all fallen in love with her,—hopelessly, irretrievably,—and +hardly know how to conduct ourselves towards +her with the decorum that I have been taught to believe +should be shown to the instructress of one's children. +Now, the last young woman was so different, and—"</p> + +<p>"Young," says Miss Peyton.</p> + +<p>"Well, old, if you like it. She certainly, poor soul, did +remind one of the 'sere and yellow.' But this child is all +fire and life; and really," says the vicar, with a sigh that +may be relief, "I think we all like it better; she is quite a +break-in upon our monotony."</p> + +<p>"I am so glad you all like her;" says Clarissa, quite<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span> +beaming with satisfaction. "She was such a dear little +thing when last I saw her; so gentle, too,—like a small +mouse."</p> + +<p>"Oh, was she?" says the vicar, anxiously. "She is +changed a little, I think. To me she is rather terrifying. +Now, for instance, this morning at breakfast, she asked me, +before the children, 'if I didn't find writing sermons a +bore.' And when I said—as I was in duty bound to say, +my dear Clarissa—that I did not, she laughed out quite +merrily, and said she 'didn't believe me'! Need I say the +children were in raptures? but I could have borne that, +only, when Mrs. Redmond forsook me and actually laughed +too, I felt the end of all things was come. Clarissa," +(severely), "I do hope I don't see you laughing, too."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no!—not—not much," says Miss Peyton, who is +plainly enjoying the situation to its utmost. "It is very +hard on you, of course."</p> + +<p>"Well, it is," says the vicar, with his broad and rather +handsome smile, that works such miracles in the parish +and among the mining people, who look upon him as their +own special property. "It is difficult for a man to hope to +govern his own household when his nearest and dearest +turn him into open ridicule. Your little friend is a witch. +What shall we do with her?"</p> + +<p>"Submit to her," says Clarissa. "Where is she? I +want to see her."</p> + +<p>"Cissy will find her for you. I dare say they are together, +unless your 'Madam Quicksilver,' as I call her, has +taken to herself wings and flown away."</p> + +<p>He turns, as though to go with her.</p> + +<p>"No, no," says Clarissa; "I shall easily find her by myself. +Go, and do what you meant to do before I stopped +you."</p> + +<p>Moving away from him, she enters the hall, and seeing +a servant, is conducted by her to a small room literally +strewn with work of all kinds. Books, too, lie here in profusion, +and many pens, and numerous bottles of ink, and a +patriarchal sofa that never saw better days than it sees now, +when all the children prance over it, and love it, and make +much of it, as being their very own.</p> + +<p>On this ancient, friend a tiny fairy-like girl is sitting, smil<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span>ing +sweetly at Cissy Redmond, who is chattering to her +gayly and is plainly enchanted at having some one of her +own age to converse with.</p> + +<p>The fairy is very lovely, with red-gold hair, and large +luminous blue eyes, soft and dark, that can express all +emotions, from deepest love to bitterest scorn. Her nose is +pure Greek; her lips are tender and mobile; her skin is +neither white nor brown, but clear and warm, and somewhat +destitute of color. Her small head is covered with +masses of wavy, luxuriant, disobedient hair, that shines in +the light like threads of living gold.</p> + +<p>She is barely five feet in height, but is exquisitely +moulded. Her hands and feet are a study, her pretty +rounded waist a happy dream. She starts from the sofa to +a standing position as Clarissa enters, and, with a low, intense +little cry, that seems to come direct from her heart, +runs to her and lays her arms gently round her neck.</p> + +<p>Once again Clarissa finds herself in Brussels, with her +chosen friend beside her. She clasps Georgie in a warm +embrace; and then Cissy Redmond, who is a thoroughly +good sort, goes out of the room, leaving the new governess +alone with her old companion.</p> + +<p>"At last I see you," says Miss Broughton, moving back +a little, and leaning her hands on Clarissa's shoulders that +she may the more easily gaze at her. "I thought you would +never come. All the morning I have been waiting, and +watching, and longing for you!"</p> + +<p>Her voice is peculiar,—half childish, half petulant, and +wholly sweet. She is not crying, but great tears are standing +in her eyes as though eager to fall, and her lips are trembling.</p> + +<p>"I didn't like to come earlier," says Clarissa, kissing her +again. "It is only twelve now, you know; but I was longing +every bit as much to see you as you could be to see me. +Oh, Georgie, how glad I am to have you near me! and——you +have not changed a little scrap."</p> + +<p>She says this in a relieved tone.</p> + +<p>"Neither have you," says Georgie: "you are just the +same. There is a great comfort in that thought. If I had +found you changed,—different in any way,—what should I +have done? I felt, when I saw you standing tall and slight +in the doorway, as if time had rolled back, and we were<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span> +together again at Madame Brochet's. Oh, how happy I +was then! And now——now——"</p> + +<p>The big tears in her pathetic eyes tremble to their fall, +she covers her face with her hands.</p> + +<p>"Tell me everything," says Clarissa, tenderly.</p> + +<p>"What is there to tell?—except that I am alone in the +world, and very desolate. It is more than a year ago now +since——since——papa left me. It seems like a long century. +At first I was apathetic; it was despair I felt, I suppose; +indeed, I was hardly conscious of the life I was leading +when with my aunt. Afterwards the reaction set in; +then came the sudden desire for change, the intense longing +for work of any kind; and then——"</p> + +<p>"Then you thought of me!" says Clarissa, pressing her +hand.</p> + +<p>"That is true. Then I thought of you, and how ready +your sympathy had ever been. When—when he died, he +left me a hundred pounds. It was all he had to leave." +She says this hastily, passionately, as though it must be +gone through, no matter how severe the pain that accompanies +the telling of it. Clarissa, understanding, draws +even closer to her. This gentle movement is enough. A +heart, too full, breaks beneath affection's touch. Georgie +bursts into tears.</p> + +<p>"It was all on earth he <i>had</i> to give," she sobs, bitterly, +"and I think he must have <i>starved</i> himself to leave me even +that! Oh, shall I ever forget?"</p> + +<p>"In time," whispers Clarissa, gently. "Be patient: +wait." Then, with a sigh, "How sad for some this sweet +world can be!"</p> + +<p>"I gave my aunt forty pounds," goes on the fair-haired +beauty, glad to find somebody in whom she can safely confide +and to whom her troubles may be made known. "I +gave it to her because I had lived with her some time, and +she was not kind to me, and so I felt I should pay her +something. And then I put a little white cross on <i>his</i> +grave before I left him, lest he should think himself quite +forgotten. It was all I could do for him," concludes she, +with another heavy sob that shakes her slight frame.</p> + +<p>Her heart seems broken! Clarissa, who by this time is +dissolved in tears, places her arms round her, and presses +her lips to her cheek.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Try, <i>try</i> to be comforted," entreats she. "The world, +they tell me, is full of sorrow. Others have suffered, too. +And nurse used to tell me, long ago, that those who are +unhappy in the beginning of their lives are lucky ever +after. Georgie, it may be so with you."</p> + +<p>"It may," says Georgie, with a very faint smile; yet, +somehow, she feels comforted.</p> + +<p>"Do you think you will be content here?" asks Clarissa, +presently, when some minutes have passed.</p> + +<p>"I think so. I am sure of it. It is such a pretty place, +and so unlike the horrid little smoky town from which I +have come, and to which" (with a heavy sigh), "let us +hope, I shall never return."</p> + +<p>"Never do," says Clarissa giving her rich encouragement. +"It is ever so much nicer here." As she has never +seen the smoky town in question, this is a somewhat gratuitous +remark. "And the children are quite sweet, and +very pretty; and the work won't be very much; and—and +I am only just, an easy walking-distance from you."</p> + +<p>At this termination they both laugh.</p> + +<p>Georgie seems to have forgotten her tears of a moment +since, and her passionate burst of grief. Her lovely face +is smiling, radiant; her lips are parted; her great blue +eyes are shining. She is a warm impulsive little creature, +as prone to tears as to laughter, and with a heart capable +of knowing a love almost too deep for happiness, and as +surely capable of feeling a hatred strong and lasting.</p> + +<p>The traces of her late emotion are still wet upon her +cheeks. Perhaps she knows it not, but, "like some dew-spangled +flower, she shows more lovely in her tears." She +and Clarissa are a wonderful contrast. Clarissa is slight +and tall and calm; she, all life and brightness, eager, excited, +and unmindful of the end.</p> + +<p>Cissy Redmond, at this juncture, summons up sufficient +courage to open the door and come in again. She ignores +the fact of Georgie's red eyes, and turns to Clarissa. She +has Miss Peyton's small dog in her arms,—the terrier, +with the long and melancholy face, that goes by the name +of Bill.</p> + +<p>"<i>Your</i> dog," she says to Clarissa, "and such a pet. +He has eaten several legs off the tables, and all my fingers. +His appetite is a credit to him. How do you provide for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span> +him at Gowran? Do you have an ox roasted whole occasionally, +for his special benefit?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, he is a worry," says Clarissa, penitently. "Billy, +come here, you little reprobate, and don't try to look as if +you never did anything bad in your life. Cissy, I wish +you and Georgie and the children would all come up to +Gowran to-morrow."</p> + +<p>"We begin lessons to-morrow," says the new governess, +gravely, who looks always so utterly and absurdly unlike a +governess, or anything but a baby or a water-pixie, with +her yellow hair and her gentian eyes. "It will be impossible +for me to go."</p> + +<p>"But lessons will be over at two o'clock," says Cissy, +who likes going to Gowran, and regards Clarissa as "a +thing of beauty." "Why not walk up afterwards?"</p> + +<p>"I shall expect you," says Clarissa, with decision; and +then the two girls tell her they will go with her as far as +the vicarage gate, as she must now go home.</p> + +<p>There she bids them good-by, and, passing through the +gate, goes up the road. Compelled to look back once +again, by some power we all know at times, she sees Georgie's +small pale face pressed against the iron bars, gazing +after her, with eyes full of lonely longing.</p> + +<p>"Good-by, Clarissa," she says, a little sad imploring cadence +desolating her voice.</p> + +<p>"Until to-morrow" replies Clarissa, with an attempt at +gayety, though in reality the child's mournful face is oppressing +her. Then she touches the ponies lightly, and +disappears up the road and round the corner, with Bill, as +preternaturally grave as usual, sitting bolt upright beside +her.</p> + +<p>The next morning is soft and warm, and, indeed, almost +sultry for the time of year. Thin misty clouds, white and +shadowy, enwrap the fields and barren ghost-like trees and +sweep across the distant hills. There is a sound as of coming +rain,—a rushing and a rustling in the naked woods. "A +still wild music is abroad," as though a storm is impending, +that shall rise at night and shake the land the more +fiercely because of its enforced silence all this day.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i8">"But now, at noon,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Upon the southern side of the slant hill,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And where the woods fence off the northern blast<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The season smiles, resigning all its rage,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Without a cloud: and white without a speck,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The dazzling splendor of the scene below."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The frost has gone, for the time being; no snow fell last +night; scarcely does the wind blow. If, indeed, "there is +in souls a sympathy with sounds," I fear Georgie and Cissy +and the children must be counted utterly soulless, as they +fail to hear the sobbing of the coming storm, but with gay +voices and gayer laughter come merrily over the road to +Gowran. Upon the warm sullen air the children's tones +ring like sweet silver bells.</p> + +<p>As they enter the gates of Gowran, the youngest child, +Amy, runs to the side of the new governess, and slips her +hand through her arm.</p> + +<p>"I am going to tell you about all the pretty things as we +go along," she says, patronizingly yet half shyly, rubbing +her cheek against Miss Broughton's shoulder. She is a tall, +slender child, and to do this has to stoop a little. "You +fairy," she goes on, admiringly, encouraged perhaps by +the fact that she is nearly as tall as her instructress, "you +are just like Hans Andersen's tales. I don't know why."</p> + +<p>"Amy! Miss Broughton won't like you to speak to her +like that," says Cissy, coloring.</p> + +<p>But Georgie laughs.</p> + +<p>"I don't mind a bit," she says, giving the child's hand +a reassuring pressure. "I am accustomed to being called +that, and, indeed, I rather like it now. I suppose I <i>am</i> +very small. But" (turning anxiously to Cissy, and speaking +quite as shyly as the child Amy had spoken a moment +since) "there is a name to which I am not accustomed, +and I hate it. It is 'Miss Broughton.' Won't +you call me 'Georgie?'"</p> + +<p>"Oh, are you sure you won't mind?" says the lively +Cissy, with a deep and undisguised sigh of relief. "Well, +that is a comfort! it is all I can do to manage your name. +You don't look a bit like a 'Miss Anything,' you know, +and 'Georgie' suits you down to the ground."</p> + +<p>"Look, look! There is the tree where the fairies dance +at night," cries Amy, eagerly, her little, thin, spiritual face<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> +lighting with earnestness, pointing to a magnificent old oak-tree +that stands apart from all the others, and looks as +though it has for centuries defied time and storm and +proved itself indeed "sole king of forests all."</p> + +<p>"Every night the fairies have a ball there," says Amy, +in perfect good faith. "In spring there is a regular wreath +of blue-bells all round it, and they show where the 'good +folks' tread."</p> + +<p>"How I should like to see them!" says Georgie, gravely. +I think, in her secret soul, she is impressed by the child's +solemnity, and would prefer to believe in the fairies rather +than otherwise.</p> + +<p>"Well, <i>you</i> ought to know all about them," says Amy, +with a transient but meaning smile: "you belong to them, +don't you? Well" (dreamily), "perhaps some night we +shall go out hand in hand and meet them here, and dance +with them all the way to fairy-land."</p> + +<p>"Miss Broughton,—there—through the trees! Do you +see something gleaming white?" asks Ethel, the eldest pupil. +"Yes? Well, there, in that spot, is a marble statue +of a woman, and underneath her is a spring. It went dry +ever so many years ago, but when Clarissa's great grandfather +died the waters burst out again, and every one said +the statue was crying for him, he was so good and noble +and so well beloved."</p> + +<p>"I think you might have let me tell that story," says +Amy, indignantly. "You knew I wanted to tell her that +story."</p> + +<p>"I didn't," with equal indignation; "and, besides, you +told her about the fairies' ball-room. I said nothing about +that."</p> + +<p>"Well, at all events," says Georgie, "they were two of +the prettiest stories I ever heard in my life. I don't know +which was the prettier."</p> + +<p>"Now, look at that tree," breaks in Amy, hurriedly, +feeling it is honestly her turn now, and fearing lest Ethel +shall cut in before her. "King Charles the Second spent +the whole of one night in that identical tree."</p> + +<p>"Not the whole of it," puts in Ethel, unwisely.</p> + +<p>"Now, I suppose this is my story, at all events," declares +Amy, angrily, "and I shall just tell it as I like."</p> + +<p>"Poor King Charles!" says Georgie, with a laugh,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> +"If we are to believe all the stories we hear, half his lifetime +must have been spent 'up a tree.'"</p> + +<p>A stone balcony runs before the front of the house. +On it stands Clarissa, as they approach, but, seeing them, +she runs down the steps and advances eagerly to meet +them.</p> + +<p>"Come in," she says. "How late you are! I thought +you had proved faithless and were not coming at all."</p> + +<p>"Ah! what a lovely hall!" says Georgie, as they enter, +stopping in a childishly delighted fashion to gaze round +her.</p> + +<p>"It's nothing to the drawing-room: that is the most +beautiful room in the world," says the irrepressible Amy, +who is in her glory, and who, having secured the unwilling +but thoroughly polite Bill, is holding him in her arms +and devouring him with unwelcome kisses.</p> + +<p>"You shall see the whole house, presently," says +Clarissa to Georgie, "including the room I hold in reserve +for you when these children have driven you to desperation."</p> + +<p>"That will be never," declares Amy, giving a final kiss +to the exhausted Billy. "We like her far too much, and +always will, I know, because nothing on earth could make +me afraid of her!"</p> + +<p>At this they all laugh. Georgie, I think, blushes a little; +but even the thought that she is not exactly all she +ought to be as an orthodox governess cannot control her +sense of the ludicrous.</p> + +<p>"Cissy, when is your father's concert to come off?" +asks Clarissa, presently.</p> + +<p>"At once, I think. The old organ is unendurable. I +do hope it will be a success, as he has set his heart on +getting a new one. But it is so hard to make people attend. +They will pay for their tickets, but they won't +come. And, after all, what the—the <i>others</i> like, is to +see the county."</p> + +<p>"Get Dorian Branscombe to help you. Nobody ever +refuses him anything."</p> + +<p>"Who is Dorian Branscombe?" asks Georgie, indifferently, +more from want of something to say than an actual +desire to know.</p> + +<p>"Dorian?" repeats Clarissa, as though surprised; and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> +then, correcting herself with a start, "I thought every one +knew Dorian. But I forgot, you are a stranger. He is a +great friend of mine; he lives near this, and you must +like him."</p> + +<p>"Every one likes him," says Cissy, cordially.</p> + +<p>"Lucky he," says Georgie. "Is he your lover, Clarissa?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no,"—with a soft blush, born of the thought that +if he is not the rose he is very near to it. "He is only +my friend, and a nephew of Lord Sartoris."</p> + +<p>"So great as that?"—with a faint grimace. "You +crush me. I suppose he will hardly deign to look at +<i>me</i>?"</p> + +<p>As she speaks see looks at herself in an opposite mirror, +and smiles a small coquettish smile that is full of innocent +childish satisfaction, as she marks the fair vision +that is given back to her by the friendly glass.</p> + +<p>"I hope he won't look at you too much, for his own +peace of mind," says Cissy, at which Clarissa laughs +again; and then, the children getting impatient, they all +go out to see the pigeons and the gardens, and stay lingering +in the open air until afternoon tea is announced.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10">"Where music dwells<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lingering, and wandering on, as loath to die,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That they were born for immortality."—<span class="smcap">Wordsworth.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + + +<p>The parish church of Pullingham is as naught in the +eyes of the parishioners, in that it is devoid of an organ. +No sweet sounds can be produced from the awful and +terrifying instrument that for years has served to electrify +the ears of those unfortunate enough to possess sittings +in the church. It has at last failed!</p> + +<p>One memorable Sunday it groaned aloud,—then squeaked +mildly; cr—r—r—k went something in its inside; there +was a final shriek, more weird than the former, and then +all was still! How thankful should they have been for +that! I believe they were truly and devoutly so, but love<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span> +for the "heavenly maid" still reigned in all their hearts, +and with joy they hearkened to their vicar when he suggested +the idea of a concert to be given for the purpose of +raising funds wherewith to purchase a new organ, or, at +least, to help to purchase it. The very thought was enough +to raise high Jubilee within their musical hearts.</p> + +<p>Now, the one good thing still belonging to Mrs. Redmond +is the remains of what must once have been a very +beautiful voice. With this she possesses the power of imparting +to others her own knowledge of music,—a rather +rare gift. With her own children, of course, she can do +nothing; they are veritable dead-letters in her hands,—she +being one of those women who spend their lives admonishing +and thrusting advice upon the world, yet find +themselves unequal to the government of their own household. +But with the village choir all is different; here she +reigns supreme, and is made much of, for Pullingham is +decidedly musical, and all its young men and all its young +women either sing, or think they sing, or long after singing.</p> + +<p>Tenors, sopranos, and basses are to be met with round +every corner; the very air is thick with them. The Pullinghamites +<i>will</i> sing, whether they can or not, with a go +and a gusto that speaks well for their lungs, if a trifle trying +to the listeners.</p> + +<p>Vocal music being the thing held highest in favor in the +Methodist chapel, where Mr. Leatham, the "Methody" parson, +holds unorthodox services, many were the seceders +from the parish church to join the choir in the whitewashed +chapel and shout the hymns of Moody and Sankey, just at +the commencement of this story.</p> + +<p>Such secessions went nigh to breaking Mr. Redmond's +heart. The organ had failed him; it had wheezed, indeed, +valiantly to the last, as though determined to die game; +but a day had come, as I said, when it breathed its last +sigh and the ancient bellows refused to produce another +note.</p> + +<p>What was to be done? The villagers should and would +have music at any cost, and they never could be brought +to see the enormity of worshipping in the whitewashed +edifice that was, and is, as the temple of Belial in the eyes +of their vicar.</p> + +<p>It would take some time to procure funds for another<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span> +and more satisfactory organ. In the mean time, the whilom +choir was falling to pieces. The late organist had accepted +a fresh and more lucrative post: there was literally no +head to keep the members together. What was to be +done?</p> + +<p>In desperation, the vicar asked himself this, whilst looking +vainly round for some one to help him drag back his +flock from the vicious influence of the "American songsters," +as he most irreverently termed Messrs. M. and S. +And it was then, when he was at his wits' end, that Mrs. +Redmond most unexpectedly came to the rescue. It was +the first and the last time in her life she ever rose to the +occasion: but this one solitary time she did it perfectly, +and coming boldly to the front, carried all before her.</p> + +<p>She would undertake a singing-class; she would arrange, +and teach, and keep together a choir that should reduce +to insignificance the poor pretensions of a man like Leatham! +The vicar, dazzled by all this unlooked-for energy, +gave his consent to her scheme, and never afterwards repented +it; for in three short months she had regulated and +coached a singing-class that unmistakably outshone its +Methodistical rivals.</p> + +<p>And then came the question of the new organ.</p> + +<p>"We have some money, but not enough money," said +the vicar, one evening, to the partner of his joys; "and +something should be done to bring the want of an organ +before the public."</p> + +<p>"I should think it must be sufficiently brought before +them every Sunday," said Mrs. Redmond, triumphantly laying +her tenth mended sock in the basket near her.</p> + +<p>"The parish is all very well, my dear, but the county +ought to hear of it, and ought to help. I insist upon the +county putting its hands in its pockets."</p> + +<p>"I think you are quite right to insist," said Mrs. Redmond, +placidly; "but how are you going to do it?"</p> + +<p>"Let us give a concert," said the vicar, at last bringing +to the light of day his great project, that fairly took his +wife's breath away. "Yes, a concert, to which the whole +county shall come and hear my—nay, your—choir surpass +itself."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Redmond was struck dumb by this bold proposition, +but, finally giving in, she consented to teach the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> +choir, assiduously twice a week, all the quartettes and trios +and solos she knew; while still declaring, in a dismal +fashion, that she knew the whole thing would be a dismal +failure, and that the great cause would lose by it more +than it would gain.</p> + +<p>Many days, many hours, has Mr. Redmond spent arranging +and disarranging all the details of the proposed +concert.</p> + +<p>The idea is in itself a "happy thought,"—far happier +than any of Burnand's (so he tells himself); but a concert, +however unpretentious, is a prodigious affair, and not to +be conducted by half a dozen raw recruits.</p> + +<p>Besides, the county admires the county, and would prefer +seeing itself represented on the boards to listening to +the warblings, be they never so sweet, of an outsider. It +is so far more delicious to laugh behind one's fan at the +people in one's own set than at those outside the pale of +recognition. And, of course, the county must be humored.</p> + +<p>The vicar grows nervous as he masters this fact, and +strives diligently to discover some among the upper ten +who will come forward and help to sweeten and gild the +"great unwashed."</p> + +<p>The duchess, unfortunately, is from home; but Lady +Mary and Lady Patricia are at the Castle, and Lady Mary—when +she can be heard, which, to do her justice, is very +seldom, even in a very small room—can sing nice little +songs very nicely. Indeed, she is fond of describing her +own voice as "a sweet little voice," and certainly all truth +is embodied in the word "little."</p> + +<p>Then there is young Hicks, the surgeon's son, who +boasts a good baritone, and is addicted to Molloy and +Adams and all of their class, and who positively revels in +Nancy Lees, and such gentle beings as those to whom the +"Tar's Farewell" may be gently breathed.</p> + +<p>Then there is the long gawky man staying with the Bellews, +who can shout from afar, and make music of his own +that will probably, nay, surely, go a long way towards +bringing down the house, as far as the farmer class is concerned; +and with him will come Miss Bellew, who can +produce a very respectable second in any duet, and who<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span> +is safe to go anywhere with the long gawky young man, if +report speaks truly.</p> + +<p>Mrs. McConkie, from the neighboring parish, will lend +a helping hand, her husband being a brother clergyman; +and there is, besides, Mr. Henly, who plays the violin, and +Mr. Johnson, who can recite both comic and melancholy +pieces with such success as to bring tears or laughter, as +the case may be, into the eyes of any one with half a +soul!</p> + +<p>As nobody will confess to anything less than a whole +soul, everybody in Pullingham laughs or cries immoderately +whenever Mr. Johnson gives way to recitations.</p> + +<p>And last, but not least, there is always Sarah Martin, +the leader of the village choir, and the principal feature +in it, whose strong if slightly ear-piercing soprano must +prove her worthy of a new organ.</p> + +<p>To the vicar's intense chagrin, Dorian Branscombe is +absent,—has, indeed, been up in town since the day before +Georgie Broughton's arrival, now a fortnight old.</p> + +<p>Dorian would have been such a comfort! Not that he +sings, or plays, or fiddles, or, indeed, does anything in +particular, beyond cajoling the entire neighborhood; but +that, as it happens, is, in this case, everything. To cajole, +to entreat, to compel the people to come in and fill the +empty benches, is all the vicar would require at his +hands.</p> + +<p>And Dorian could do all this. No one ever refuses him +anything. Both old women and young women acknowledge +his power, and give in to him, and make much +of him, and hardly feel the worse because of their subservience,—he +having a little way of his own that makes +them believe, when they have been most ignominiously +betrayed into saying "yes" to one of his wildest propositions, +he has been conferring a favor upon them, more or +less, for which he is just too generous to demand thanks.</p> + +<p>But this invaluable ally is absent. The vicar, in the privacy +of his own sanctum,—where no one can witness the +ungodly deed,—stamps his feet with vexation as he +thinks on this, and tells himself he is unlucky to the last +degree, and acknowledges a worth in Dorian Branscombe +never learned before!</p> + +<p>Clarissa is perfectly delighted with the whole idea, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span> +somewhat consoles him by her ready offers of assistance, +and her determination to step into the absent Dorian's +shoes and make love to the county in his stead.</p> + +<p>She persists in calling it the "first concert of the season," +which rather alarms the vicar, who is depressed by +his wife's prognostications of failure, and sees nothing but +ruin ahead. She declares her intention of publishing it +in all the London papers, and offers the whole of the winter +conservatories to decorate the school-house (where it +is to be held), so that those accustomed to the sight of its +white and somewhat barren walls will fail to recognize it +in its new-born beauty.</p> + +<p>"Then, shall we name the 4th as the day?" says the +vicar, with some trepidation. It is now the end of January, +and he is alluding to the first week in the ensuing month. +"I wish you could sing, Clarissa! I dare say you would +help me."</p> + +<p>"Indeed I would. But Nature has proved unkind to +me. And, after all, you want no one else. The choir, in +itself, is very efficient; and if you must call for 'out-door +relief,' why, you have Lady Mary, and the others. That +fearful young-man at Bellew is a fortune in himself; and +Mr. Johnson makes everybody cry—and it is so nice to +cry."</p> + +<p>"Yes,—yes,—I dare say," says the poor vicar, who is +somewhat <i>distrait</i>, and, to say the truth, a little miserable +about the whole undertaking. "Now, there is Sarah +Martin. Do you think she will pull through? On her I +build all my hopes; but some inward doubt about her +oppresses me. Willie Bealman has a capital tenor; but +he and Sarah don't speak,—she refused him, I think,—and +so they won't sing their duet together. Then there +is Lizzie Bealman, she might stand to me; but she loses +her voice when nervous, and has a most uncomfortable +trick of giggling when in the least excited."</p> + +<p>"Put her in the background," says Clarissa. "She is +of no use, except in a chorus."</p> + +<p>"Her people wouldn't stand it. They look upon her as +a rising prima donna. I assure you, my dear Clarissa," +says the vicar, furtively wiping his brow, "only for the +sin of it, there are moments when I could wish myself be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span>neath +the sod. The incessant worry is more than I can +bear!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, now, don't say that," says Miss Peyton, patting +his arm lovingly. "It will be a great success, this concert: +I know, I feel it will!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XV.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">"As sweet and musical<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As bright Apollo's lute, strung with his hair;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Makes heaven drowsy with the harmony."—<i>Love's Labor's Lost.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p>It is night, and the 4th of February. Already is Pullingham +turning out, dressed in its very Sunday best, and +is wending its way towards the school-house, where the +concert is to be held.</p> + +<p>For the last week it has been deep in the mysteries of +solos, duets, and trios. Indeed, there is hardly a family +in the whole village that does not know by heart every +mortal thing that is going to be sung, each family possessing +a son or a daughter engaged in the common work, +and belonging to the choir; yet nevertheless it now goes +in a body to the school-house, as possessed with curiosity +as though music is an art unknown to them, and the +piping of small trebles a thing unheard of.</p> + +<p>Nothing can exceed the excitement and jealousy that +reign everywhere,—principally in the hearts of Mr. Leatham's +followers, who hope wildly, but secretly, that failure +may be the only crop their rivals may reap.</p> + +<p>It is a heavenly night, for which the Vicar is devoutly +thankful. The moon is riding high in the dark-blue +dome; the stars are all alight; the air, swift and keen, +rushes along the high-roads, sweeping all before it. There +is no sign of rain; the sky above, "star-inwrought," shows +promise of many fair to-morrows. "There is no excuse +for their non-attendance," murmurs the vicar to himself, +as he stands inside the school-house door, wording his +thought, as he might, were he thinking of the collecting<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span> +together of his flock on Easter Sunday or to the Holy +Communion.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Vast night comes noiselessly up the eastern slope,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And so the eternal chase goes round the world."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>But for the soughing wind, the world is still. One by +one, or two by two, or sometimes as a whole family, the +villagers drop in, arranging themselves modestly in the +back rows, and exchanging greetings with each other in a +subdued and whispered fashion.</p> + +<p>A little while after the door is opened, the lower half +of the hall is crowded to excess. The vicar is well beloved +by his parishioners; but above and beyond all is the desire +to see Maria, and Susan, and Ezekiel upon the boards, +"a singing for the quality!"</p> + +<p>The room itself is what reporters would term "a blaze +of light." Much ingenuity has been exercised in the decoration +of it; and certainly the designs in laurels, and +the designs in moss, and the one grand design in paper +roses, at the far end of the room, are all that heart can +desire.</p> + +<p>To Clarissa, I think, this last outburst on the part of +the village is a heart-break; but, if so, she represses her +grief valiantly, and even, with her own forgiving fingers, +condescends to brighten the monstrosity with some hothouse +flowers. But, when all is told, it remains an eyesore,—a +regrettable blot, not to be eradicated under pain +of bringing down the rage of the entire village upon the +devoted head of him or her who should interfere.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Redmond, seated on the small platform, with the +piano before her, and the choir arranged, with careful regard +to its different sizes, on each side of her, waits patiently +the coming of the county. She is looking thinner, +more miserable, than usual, and has a general air about +her of being chilled to the bone. Her fingers, lying idly +in her lap, clutch and unclutch each other aimlessly, as +though vainly searching for the accustomed sock.</p> + +<p>Miss Broughton, who is taking no part in the performance,—having +suppressed the fact of her having a very +beautiful voice, ever since her arrival at Pullingham,—is +sitting on a side-seat, longing eagerly for Clarissa's arrival. +The children have wandered a little away from her, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span> +are gazing, as lost in admiration, at the huge rose-construction +on the wall before them.</p> + +<p>Presently, the Greys of Greymount come in, with a little +shudder of disgust at finding themselves almost the first; +followed closely by Lady Mary and Lady Patricia Hort, +who do not shudder at all, but go straight up the small +passage between the seats, with their patrician noses high +in the air, and smile and nod cheerfully, and not at all +condescendingly, at Mrs. Redmond, who, poor soul, is +deeply relieved at sight of them.</p> + +<p>Lady Mary goes on to the platform; Lady Patricia sinks +into a front seat specially provided for her, whilst Lord +Alfred, their brother,—who has been inveigled into coming, +sorely against his will,—having conversed with Lady +Patricia for a few minutes, and told her several lies about +the arrangements for the evening,—not intentionally, but +through ignorance, being under the false impression that +a concert in a village is the same as a concert in town,—goes +over to one side of the building, and plants himself +listlessly with his back against a wall, from which position +he gazes in a gloomy fashion at everything in general, +but Miss Broughton in particular.</p> + +<p>Then comes everybody, and makes a great fuss about +its place,—Clarissa Peyton and her father excepted, who +go straight to where Georgie is sitting, and stay with her +all the evening.</p> + +<p>Dorian Branscombe, who has come down expressly for +the concert, at great trouble to himself, and simply to +oblige the vicar, saunters leisurely up the room towards +the middle of the evening, and looks round him dubiously, +as though uncertain where to put in his time.</p> + +<p>Seeing Clarissa, he goes up to her, and, with a faint +sigh of relief, leans over the back of her chair and says, +"Good-evening," in a languid tone.</p> + +<p>"Ah! you, Dorian?" says Clarissa, very pleased. "Now, +it <i>is</i> good of you to come."</p> + +<p>"I'm always good," says Dorian. "I'm a model boy. +It is so strange that people won't recognize the fact. +They sort of give me to understand I'm quite the other +thing, whatever that may be. Very full house, don't you +think, and awfully swagger? What's Lady Patricia got +on her? She is slightly terrifying, don't you think?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span></p> + +<p>"She isn't very well got up, certainly," says Clarissa, +reluctantly.</p> + +<p>"She's anyhow," says Mr. Branscombe, freely; and then +his eyes fall upon Georgie, who is gazing, in her rapt, +childish fashion, at the singer of the moment; and then +he doesn't speak again for a little while.</p> + +<p>"Is Horace quite well?" asks Clarissa, presently.</p> + +<p>"Quite well. He always is, you know. Who——who +is the girl next your father?"</p> + +<p>"That is my friend, Georgie Broughton. I think I told +you about her. She is governess at the vicarage, now. +Is she not lovely,—quite sweet?" asks Clarissa, eagerly.</p> + +<p>But Mr. Branscombe does not answer her. He is still +staring at the unconscious Georgie, and seems almost deaf +to Clarissa's praise of her. At this Miss Peyton is somewhat +disgusted, and declines any further attempt at laudation.</p> + +<p>"A governess!" he says, at length, raising his brows, +but without removing his eyes from the fair and perfect +face that, even now, he tells himself, is without its equal.</p> + +<p>"Yes. She is none the less sweet for that," says Clarissa, +rather coldly. She tells herself it is unlike Dorian to look +down upon any one because he or she may be in a worse +position than his own.</p> + +<p>"They are going to sing again," she says, in a tone she +seldom uses to him: "we must not talk, you know." She +had some faint idea of introducing him to Georgie, but +she abandons it, and gives him to understand that she has +at present nothing more to say to him.</p> + +<p>Whether he quite comprehends all she intends to convey, +I know not; but, raising himself slowly from his +lounging position on the back of her chair, he takes a last +look at Georgie's profile, and moves into the background.</p> + +<p>"Good-evening, Branscombe," says Lord Alfred, presently; +and Dorian, finding himself beside him, returns +the greeting, and props himself up in his turn against the +friendly wall, that shows its appreciation of them by giving +them finely whitewashed coats.</p> + +<p>The concert is getting on swimmingly. As yet no flaw +has occurred to mark the brilliancy of its success. The +opening chorus has been applauded to the echo, especially +by Lord Alfred, who feels it his duty to do something, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span> +who keeps on applauding, in the most open-hearted manner +each thing and everything, until he discovers he has +split his right glove all up the palm, when he caves in, and, +having said something impossible, puts his hands behind +his back and refuses to applaud again.</p> + +<p>Lady Mary has come forward, and entreated her audience +to "Love not," in the faintest and most plaintive of +voices. The county is delighted with her, and smiles unrestrainedly +behind its fans. "Dear Lady Mary is <i>so</i> +funny, don't you know," says Miss Grey of Greymount, in +an indescribable tone.</p> + +<p>Then comes a solo on the violin, that charms all the +back benches, and reduces the farmers' wives and daughters +to tears, as it tells them how that the poor player's +"lodging is on the cold ground."</p> + +<p>Lord Alfred, who has not yet recovered his temper, says +this is "disgusting," and "wonders what the—so-and-so—brought +him here at all."</p> + +<p>"I suppose the night brougham," says Dorian, equably, +who is now engaged in a minute examination of Miss +Broughton's head, round which her soft yellow hair is +twisted in a loose artistic coil.</p> + +<p>He is in quite a happy mood, if somewhat silent, and +says the solo isn't half bad; and now Mr. Hastings, the +curate, reads something from the "Ingoldsby Legends," +that seems to displease Cissy Redmond extremely, as she +will not lift her head during the reading, or even look at +him, and expresses herself as quite charmed when it is at +an end.</p> + +<p>And now comes the event of the evening,—the thing +that is to convince the county of the necessity for a good +organ, and to show them the rare excellence of the Pullingham +choir.</p> + +<p>Sarah Martin, the leading soprano—all muslin and blue +bows—comes forward, and begins the solo upon which all +the vicar's hopes are centred.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The shades of night are falling fast."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>begins Sarah, nobly, and goes on in a hopeful manner to +the end of the first verse.</p> + +<p>The vicar draws a deep sigh of relief!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"His brow was sad, his eye beneath,"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>goes on Sarah victoriously, her whole soul in the safe fulfilment +of her task. She gets through to the end of the +second verse as successfully as she did to the end of the +first, and then pauses to draw breath.</p> + +<p>The vicar exchanges a triumphant glance with Miss +Peyton.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"In happy homes they saw the light,"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>continues Sarah. And then—then! something horrible +happens. A sound, very terrible to the vicar, smites upon +his ear,—a sound that fills his clerical bosom with dismay. +Sarah's voice—the voice of his chief prop—has proved +false. It has given way; it has cracked upon a high note; +and <i>the</i> solo of the evening has proved a dead failure.</p> + +<p>Talk of failing for a million; talk of Isandula or Majuba +Hill; talk of Mr. Parnell and the Coercion Bill! But +was ever defeat so disastrous as this? The vicar, but for +his sex, and the publicity of the thing, could thankfully +have given way to tears. Miss Peyton flushes to her temples +and feels as if she herself has been guilty of the miserable <i>fiasco</i>.</p> + +<p>Of course it is hushed up. The piano comes out quite +strong again, under Mrs. Redmond's bony fingers; the defaulter +is gently pushed into the background, and a chorus +introduced. Nevertheless, after the breakdown, things +somehow seem to go wrong. The other singers are disheartened, +and will not do their best; while Sarah, who is +dissolved in tears in the cloak-room, and who has another +song on the programme, obstinately refuses to try her powers +again.</p> + +<p>The vicar is in despair, although he walks about valiantly +among the audience, trying, most unsuccessfully, to +appear unconcerned; whilst the coughing and sneezing, +that generally distinguish every place where silence is the +thing most to be desired, seem now on the increase, to an +alarming degree, and threaten to drown Lady Mary's second +effort.</p> + +<p>"Who <i>is</i> that blowing his nose?" demands the poor +vicar, testily, looking daggers in the direction of the sound. +Clarissa, who is the nearest to him as he makes this observation, +just saves herself from laughing aloud.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Things have taken a bad turn," says the vicar, regarding +her reproachfully. "I am afraid my first attempt will +only be remembered as a wretched failure; and that girl +has another song, and she will not venture again, and +there is no one to take her place."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Redmond, I will sing for you, if you wish it," says +a clear, childish voice, that has always something pathetic +about it. Georgie has overheard his last speech, and has +turned her soft, fair little face to his, and is speaking to +him, with a flush and a smile.</p> + +<p>"But, my dear, can you sing?" says the vicar, anxiously. +Her face is full of music; but then he has never heard +her sing. During her fortnight's stay at the vicarage she +has never sung one note, has never betrayed the fact that +she is a true daughter of Polyhymnia.</p> + +<p>"I can, indeed,—really; I can sing very well," says +Georgie, in her little earnest fashion, and without the very +faintest suspicion of conceit. She is only eager to reassure +him, to convince him of the fact that she is worthy to +come to his relief.</p> + +<p>"But the song?" says Mr. Redmond, still hesitating, and +alluding to the second solo chosen by the defaulter.</p> + +<p>"It is an old Irish song; I know it. It is 'Shule, agra,' +and it begins, 'My Mary with the curling hair,'" says +Georgie, with a slight nod. "I used to sing it long ago, +and it is very pretty."</p> + +<p>"Well, come," says the vicar, though with trepidation, +and leads her on to the platform, and up to Mrs. Redmond, +to that good woman's intense surprise.</p> + +<p>Lady Mary has nearly brought her little vague whisper +to an end. She has at last disclosed to a listening audience +that she has discovered the real dwelling-place of the +lost "Alice,"—who is uncomfortably ensconced "amidst +the starshine," if all accounts be true,—and is now quavering +feebly on a last and dying note.</p> + +<p>"This is the song," says Mrs. Redmond, putting Sarah's +rejected solo into her hand.</p> + +<p>"Thank you," says Miss Broughton She looks neither +frightened nor concerned, only a little pale, and with a +great gleam in her eyes, born, as it were, of an earnest desire +to achieve victory for the vicar's sake.</p> + +<p>Then Lady Mary's final quaver dies, and she moves to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> +one side, leaving the space before the piano quite +clear.</p> + +<p>There is a slight pause; and then the slight childish figure, +in its gown of thin filmy black, comes forward, and +stands before the audience. She is quite self-possessed, +but rather white, which has the effect of rendering her +large plaintive eyes darker and more lustrous than usual. +Her arms are half bare; her throat and part of her neck +can be seen gleaming white against the blackness of her +dress. She is utterly unadorned. No brooch or ear-rings, +or bracelets or jewels of any kind, can be seen. Yet she +stands there before them a perfect picture, more sweet +than words can tell.</p> + +<p>She holds her small shapely head erect, and seems unconscious +of the many eyes fixed upon her. Rarely has +so fair a vision graced the dull daily life of Pullingham. +Even the sturdy, phlegmatic farmers stir upon their seats, +and nudge the partners of their joys, and wonder, in a +stage whisper, who "you can be?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Redmond plays a few faint chords, and then +Georgie begins the plaintive Irish air Sarah should have +sung, and sings it as, perhaps, she never sang before.</p> + +<p>During the second verse, borne away by her passionate +desire to please, she forgets the music-sheet she holds, so +that it flutters away from her down to the floor, and lies +there; while her hands, seeking each other, grow entwined, +and hang loosely before her, showing like little +flakes of snow against the darkness of her gown.</p> + +<p>Her voice is beautiful, sweet, and full, and quick with +passion,—one of those exquisite voices that sink into the +soul, and linger there forever, even when the actual earthly +sound has died away. She carries the listeners with her, +holding them as by a spell, and leaving them silent, almost +breathless, when she has finished her "sweet song."</p> + +<p>Now she has come to the end of "Shule, agra," and +turns away somewhat abruptly to Mrs. Redmond, as +though half frightened at the storm of applause that greets +her.</p> + +<p>"Did I really sing so well?" she asked the vicar, presently, +when he has sought her out to thank her.</p> + +<p>"Well?" repeats he. "What a word to use! It was +divine; the whole room was spell-bound. What a gift<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span> +you possess! My dear, you have saved the evening, and +my honor, and the organ, and everything. I am deeply +grateful to you."</p> + +<p>"How glad I am!" says the girl, softly; "and don't +thank me. I liked it,—the singing, the applause, the feeling +that I was doing well. I will sing for you again later +on, if you wish it."</p> + +<p>"It is too much to ask," says the vicar; "but, if you +really don't mind? Lady Patricia is in ecstasies, and says +she could listen to you forever."</p> + +<p>Georgie laughs.</p> + +<p>"Well, at least she shall listen to me once more," she +says, gayly.</p> + +<p>Lady Patricia is not the only one enthralled by the +beautiful singer. Dorian Branscombe has never once removed +his eyes from her face: he is as one bewitched, +and, even at this early moment, wonders vaguely within +himself what can be the meaning of the strange pleasure, +that is so near akin to pain, that is tugging at his heart-strings.</p> + +<p>Lord Alfred, too, is plainly impressed, and stares at the +pretty creature with the black gown and the snowy arms, +until speech becomes a necessity.</p> + +<p>"Well, I never in all my life," he begins, emphatically, +and then stops. "Who is she, Branscombe?"</p> + +<p>"Don't know, I'm sure," says Branscombe, rather +shortly. What right has Hort—what right has any fellow—to +see beauty in her, except himself? The words of +her song are still running in his ears,—"My love, my +pearl!" How well they suit her! What a little baby +face she has, so pure and sweet! yet how full of feeling!</p> + +<p>"What's her name?" asks Lord Alfred, nothing +daunted.</p> + +<p>"I have quite forgotten," returns Branscombe, even +more coldly. His second answer hardly tallies with his +first; but of this he is quite oblivious.</p> + +<p>Lord Alfred raises his brows. "She has a magnificent +voice, and is very beautiful," he says, evenly. "Yet—do +you know? she reminds me somewhat of Harriet."</p> + +<p>Harriet is a third and a favorite sister of Lord Alfred's,—a +very estimable young woman, much given to the ref<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span>ormation +of drunkards, who, though rather deficient in +nose, makes up for it in prodigality of mouth.</p> + +<p>"I can't say I see the likeness," says Dorian, with as +little disgust as he can manage at so short a notice.</p> + +<p>"My dear fellow," expostulates Lord Alfred, shifting +his glass from one eye to the other and looking palpably +amused, "there is no reason in the world why you should +be grumpy because you are in love with the girl. <i>I</i> don't +want to interfere with you."</p> + +<p>"In love!" says Branscombe. "Nonsense! I never +spoke a word to her in my life."</p> + +<p>"Well, it is uncommon like it," says Lord Alfred.</p> + +<p>"Is it? Well, I can't help that, you know. Nevertheless, +I am not in love with any one."</p> + +<p>"Then you ought to take that look off your face," +persists his lordship, calmly.</p> + +<p>"I'll take off anything you like," replies Dorian? somewhat +nettled.</p> + +<p>At this, Lord Alfred laughs beneath his breath, and tells +him he will not keep him to this rash promise, as probably +the Pullingham folk, being pre-Adamites, might object to +the literal fulfilment of it.</p> + +<p>"But she is a very lovely girl, and I don't wonder at +your infatuation," he says, mildly.</p> + +<p>"Foregone conclusions seem to be in your line," returns +Dorian, with a shrug. "It seems a useless thing to tell +you again I have <i>not</i> lost my heart to Miss Broughton."</p> + +<p>"Oh, so you have remembered her name!" says his +lordship, dryly.</p> + +<p>Meantime, the concert has reasserted itself, and things +once more are going on smoothly. The vicar, all smiles +and sunshine, is going about accepting congratulations on +all sides.</p> + +<p>"Such a <i>charming</i> evening," says Mrs. Grey; "and <i>such</i> +music! Really, London could not surpass it. And what +a delicious face that girl has got—like Spring, or May, or—er——Morning, +or that. I quite envy her to you. Now +all <i>my</i> governesses are so unpleasant,—freckled, you know, +or with a squint, or a crooked nose, or that. Some people +have <i>all</i> the luck in this world," winds up Mrs. Grey, with +a gentle sigh, who has ten thousand a year and no earthly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span> +care, and who always speaks in italics whenever she gets +the slightest chance.</p> + +<p>"So glad you are pleased," says the vicar, genially. +"Yes, she is as beautiful as her voice. After all, I think +the concert will prove a success."</p> + +<p>"It <i>has</i> proved itself one," says Mrs. Grey, who adores +the vicar, and would flirt with him if she dared. "But +when do you fail in anything you undertake? Really, +dear Mr. Redmond, you should not let the idea die out. +You should give us a good time like this at least once in +every month, and than see what <i>delicious</i> windows you +could have. I for one"—coquettishly—"will promise to +come to <i>every</i> one of them."</p> + +<p>"At that rate, I should soon have no poor to look after," +says the gratified vicar, gayly.</p> + +<p>"And a good thing, too. The poor are always so oppressive, +and—er—so <i>dirty</i>, but still"—seeing a change +in his face—"<i>very</i> interesting,—<i>very</i>!"</p> + +<p>And then the concert comes to an end, and adieux are +said, and fresh congratulations poured out, so to speak, +upon the Redmonds; and then every one goes home.</p> + +<p>Dorian Branscombe climbs into his dog-cart, and drives +swiftly homeward, under the glistening stars, whose +"beauty makes unhappy,"—his mind filled with many +thoughts.</p> + +<p>"'My love, my pearl!'"—the words of Georgie's song +haunt him incessantly, and ring their changes on his brain. +"What words could be more appropriate, more suited to +her?" (Alas, when we come to pronouns it is generally all +over with us!) "A pearl! so fair! so pure! so solitary! It +just expressed her. By what right has Fate cast that pretty +child upon the cruel world to take her chance, to live or +die in it?</p> + +<p>"How large her eyes are, and what a heavenly blue, +and what a sad expression lies within them! 'Grandmamma, +grandmamma, what big eyes you have!'" Here +he rouses himself, and laughs a little, and wishes, with +some petulance, that he could put her out of his head.</p> + +<p>"'My love, my pearl!' Yes, it was a very pretty song, +and haunts one somehow; but no doubt a good night's +sleep will kill it. Hold up, you brute,"—this to the kind +and patient mare, who is doing her good nine miles an<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> +hour, and who has mildly objected to a sharp stone. +"Why didn't Clarissa introduce me to her? I wish to +goodness I hadn't to go back to town to-morrow!" And +so on, until he reaches Sartoris, and flings himself, with +some impatience, out of the trap, to the amazement of his +groom, who is accustomed to think of his master as a +young man to whom exertion is impossible.</p> + +<p>Then he goes to bed, and spends the next four hours +miserably, as he falls into a heavy slumber, and dreams +that oysters, pearl-laden, are rushing boisterously over his +body.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XVI.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"There was a sound of revelry by night."—<span class="smcap">Byron.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p>So Dorian returns to town, and stays there until the +annual hunt ball, of which he is a steward, summons him +back to Pullingham.</p> + +<p>It is, of course, the event of the season, this ball, and +occurs early in March. Clarissa, going down to the vicarage,—where, +now, indeed, she spends a good deal of +her time,—speaks to the girls about it.</p> + +<p>"I am so glad Georgie is in time for it," says Cissy, +who is a warm-hearted little soul, and who desires good +for every one. "There is something so nice about a real +big ball."</p> + +<p>"A ball!" says Georgie, growing a delicate pink, with +excitement. "I never was at a real ball in my life. Oh, +Clarissa, will you take me?"</p> + +<p>"Georgie! As if it isn't a real joy to me to have you," +says Clarissa, reproachfully. "I can't bear going anywhere +by myself, and Mrs. Grey always insists on taking +Cissy."</p> + +<p>"Well, she is very kind, you know," says Cissy, with +some regret. "But I do so wish she would let me go +with <i>you</i>. However, mamma would not like me to refuse +her, and, after all, I shall meet you both in the room. I +wish we could manage to arrive just at the same moment."</p> + +<p>"Well, I'll settle that with Mrs. Grey," says Clarissa. +"Dorian will get me a ticket for Georgie."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Who is Dorian?" asks Georgie, idly. Literally, she +cares nothing about him, regarding him in this instance +as merely a means to an end,—a person who can obtain +for her an entrance into a desired haven. She has, indeed, +forgotten that once before she asked this same +question and received her answer.</p> + +<p>"Why, I told you," says Clarissa. "He is Lord Sartoris's +nephew,—the tall handsome young man who spoke +to me at the concert."</p> + +<p>"I didn't see him. When is this ball to be?"</p> + +<p>"On the 5th. And now, about your dresses?"</p> + +<p>"Mine goes without telling," says Cissy, in a resigned +tone. "The whole county knows it by heart by this +time. After all, there is a sort of comfort in everything, +even in one's misfortune. Now, all <i>my</i> young men won't +have the trouble of looking for me, they will know me directly, +the instant their eyes light upon my gown, which +is fast becoming an heirloom."</p> + +<p>"If it is the gown you wore the other night at the Bellews', +you look very sweet in it," says Clarissa, looking +very sweet herself as she utters this comforting speech.</p> + +<p>"You are an angel, you know," says Cissy, with a +merry little laugh. "You see everybody through rose-colored +spectacles."</p> + +<p>"Isn't she rude?" says Clarissa. "One would think +I was an old fogy of ninety-five. Spectacles, indeed!"</p> + +<p>"I must run," says Miss Cissy. "I entirely forgot all +about the dinner, and mamma left it to me, as she had to +go and see old Mrs. Martin. Good-bye, dear, <i>dearest</i> +Clarissa. How I wish I could go with you to this lovely +ball!"</p> + +<p>"Never mind; people always meet," says Clarissa, consolingly.</p> + +<p>"Yes,—at Philippi," returns the irrepressible, and, +with a faint grimace, she vanishes.</p> + +<p>Georgie walks as far as the entrance-gate with Clarissa. +When there, she looks at the iron bars wistfully, and then +says, in her pretty childish way, "Let me go a little way +with you, Clarissa, will you?"</p> + +<p>Miss Peyton, who is walking, is delighted.</p> + +<p>"As far as ever you will. Indeed, I want to speak to +you. What—what is your dress like, Georgie?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span></p> + +<p>Georgie hesitates. Clarissa, misunderstanding her silence, +says, gently, "Let me give you one, dearest?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, no," says Miss Broughton, quickly. "I +have one,—I have, indeed; and it is rather pretty."</p> + +<p>"But you told me you had never been at a ball."</p> + +<p>"Neither have I. The gown I speak of was bought +for a musical party. It was given while I was with Aunt +Elizabeth."</p> + +<p>"Who gave it?"</p> + +<p>"The gown?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no,—the party."</p> + +<p>"Lady Lincoln. She has one son, Sir John, and I +think it is he gives the parties. Aunt Elizabeth was so +pleased that I was asked that she insisted on my going, +though I cried, and prayed hard to be let stay at home. +It was only"—dropping her voice, with a heavy sigh—"eleven +months after papa had—had left me."</p> + +<p>"It was cruel to force you to go against your will: but, +when you were there, did you enjoy yourself?"</p> + +<p>"I did," confesses Miss Broughton, with a blush. "I +enjoyed myself more than I can say. I do not think I ever +enjoyed myself so much in all my life. I forgot everything +for the time being, and was quite happy. To me the flowers, +the lights, the music, the pretty dresses,—everything,—were +new and fresh, and helped to take me out of myself. +And then, everybody was so kind, and Mr. Kennedy——"</p> + +<p>"Who was he?" asks Clarissa, interested at once.</p> + +<p>"A tall thin dark man, in the Guards,—the Coldstreams +or the Grenadiers, I quite forget which. He talked to me +all the evening; and, indeed, so did Sir John, Lady Lincoln's +son; but I liked Mr. Kennedy best."</p> + +<p>"Poor Sir John!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no. Of course he cared nothing. When I left, Mr. +Kennedy, and Sir John, and Aunt Elizabeth's maid, walked +home with me; and I think they were cross,—the men, I +mean. When I got home I found one of my gloves was +missing, and Aunt Elizabeth said I was very careless; and +then she asked me where was the crimson rose I had on +my bosom when starting, and, you see,"—apologetically,—"I +had given it to Mr. Kennedy, because he asked me +for it; but when I told her so, she said I was very forward! +Did you ever hear such a word?" says Miss Broughton,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span> +tears of indignation in her eyes. "Was it forward to give +a dead rose to a man who had been very kind to me for a +whole evening?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly not," says Clarissa, emphatically. "I would +give a rose to any one who was kind to me,—if they asked +for it. Did you ever see Mr Kennedy again?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; he called next day, to return me my glove, which, +he declared, he had kept by mistake. But somehow I +never got that glove again, so I suppose he took it away +with him when he left."</p> + +<p>"I suppose so. Well, I shall write to Dorian for your +ticket."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps 'Dorian' will think me a great bother."</p> + +<p>"Let him," says Clarissa, impatiently: as yet she has +not forgiven him that speech (so much mistaken) at the +concert.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The 5th has arrived. The day has dawned, lived, grown +to its full size, and then sunk, as we all must, into the arms +of Death. The night has come, with sound of music and +breath of dying flowers, and the drip, drip of the softly-flowing +fountains.</p> + +<p>The rooms are looking lovely; fair faces smile, and soft +eyes gleam; and figures, round and <i>svelte</i> as Venus's own, +sway with the music and mingle with the throng.</p> + +<p>The ball is at its height, when Clarissa, seeing Dorian, +beckons to him with her fan. It is a very slight invitation +to her side, but one instantly obeyed.</p> + +<p>"Keep one dance for a friend of mine," she says, earnestly.</p> + +<p>"Let me keep one dance for you."</p> + +<p>"That, too, if you wish it; but I have a little friend here +to-night, and she knows nobody, and, though I know you +won't like it" (calling to mind again his supposed disparaging +tone at the concert), "still, for my sake, be kind to +her."</p> + +<p>"I shall be nectar to her, if you entreat me in that fashion. +Who is she?"</p> + +<p>"Well, she is only a governess," begins Clarissa, beating +about the bush: she is quite determined, nevertheless, that +Georgie shall not be neglected or left out in the cold at +this her first ball.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span></p> + +<p>"A governess!" says Dorian, unthinkingly. "Oh, Clarissa, +don't let me in for that. I don't <i>mind</i> them a bit; +but I'm afraid of them. She is safe to ask me if I don't +think Murray's Grammar the most artfully compiled book +in the world, and I shan't know what to say in reply."</p> + +<p>"You need not be afraid of my governess," says Clarissa, +earnestly: "she will not trouble you about Murray or his +Grammar."</p> + +<p>"Of course, if you say I must dance with her, I must," +says Branscombe, with a heavy sigh.</p> + +<p>"I see her now. Come, let me introduce you to +her."</p> + +<p>"But not for this dance. I am engaged—I am, I give +you my word—to the prettiest girl in the room,—the prettiest +child, I should say."</p> + +<p>"You can dance with your child, of course; but at +least let me introduce you to my friend."</p> + +<p>With a faint and carefully subdued shrug he submits to +the inevitable, and goes where Clarissa leads. He finds +himself presently at the other end of the room, near where +a little dainty black-robed figure stands, with three men +before her, all evidently possessed with an overpowering +desire to inscribe their names upon the morsel of tinted +and gilded paper she holds in her hand.</p> + +<p>Her large blue eyes are almost black with excitement; +her lips are parted, and, like Herrick's "Julia," are like +"rubies," soft and rich. She is glancing up, in a little +puzzled fashion, at the tall fair man who is bending over +her whilst going through the usual formula, "May I have +the pleasure," etc.</p> + +<p>"Well, where is this dreadful woman?" says Dorian, +at this moment, almost impatiently; he is watching Georgie +and the fair man, and feels distinctly savage.</p> + +<p>"Why, here," says Clarissa.</p> + +<p>"Here? Not the—the girl in black, talking to Bellew!"</p> + +<p>"Yes; that is your dreadful woman."</p> + +<p>"Oh, look here, you know, it is too absurd," says Dorian, +with a low laugh. "I have danced twice with her already, +and am engaged to her for this!"</p> + +<p>"She is your 'child,' then?" asks Clarissa, opening her +eyes.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes; but a governess, my dear Clarissa?"</p> + +<p>"She is teaching the Redmond children. I told you so +at the concert."</p> + +<p>"I quite forgot,—utterly. How could one think of her +as that, you know?"</p> + +<p>"Now, please, do try and write plainly," breaks in +Georgie's voice, plaintively. "Up to this I have not been +able to read a single name upon my card."</p> + +<p>"I'll do my best," says the fair young man. "Is that +legible?"</p> + +<p>"Bellew, is it? Yes, I can read that. Thank you, so +much. Do you know, I haven't the faintest idea who I +am going to dance this with, because"—examining her +card—"it looks like 'Barleycorn,' and it can't be that, you +know?"</p> + +<p>"There once was a John Barleycorn," says Mr. Bellew, +thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>Clarissa has been claimed by Horace Branscombe, and +has disappeared. Dorian, coming to the front, goes up to +the little beauty in black and silver, and says, in a contrite +tone,—</p> + +<p>"I am so sorry I can't write; yet nevertheless <i>I</i> am +John Barleycorn, and this dance belongs to me."</p> + +<p>"Why, so it does," says Georgie, recognizing him in a +naïve manner, and placing her hand upon his arm. She +performs this last act slowly and with hesitation, as though +not entirely sure of his identity, which has the effect of +piquing him, and therefore heightening his admiration +for her.</p> + +<p>"You have forgotten me," he says, reproachfully.</p> + +<p>"Oh, no,"—slowly. "It was with you I danced the last +waltz, I think."</p> + +<p>"No. The last polka." He is even more piqued now. +"It has slipped your memory; yet there are some things +one never forgets."</p> + +<p>"Yes," says Miss Broughton, with a suppressed sigh; +"but those are unhappy things. Why think of them now? +Let us dance again, and forget while we can."</p> + +<p>"You mistake me," says Dorian, hastily. "I thought +of nothing unhappy. I thought of you. I shall never forget +this night."</p> + +<p>"Ah, neither shall I!" says Miss Broughton, very ear<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span>nestly +indeed. By an artificial observer, it might be thought +somewhat sentimentally.</p> + +<p>"Do you mean that?" says Dorian, hopefully, if curiously. +"Am I to understand you mean to keep this particular +ball forever in mind?"</p> + +<p>"You may, indeed."</p> + +<p>"But why?"—with much animation, and an over-increasing +show of hope.</p> + +<p>"Because it is my first," says Miss Broughton, confidentially, +with a little quick-drawn sigh of utter content, and +a soft, if rather too general, smile.</p> + +<p>"I see,"—disappointedly. "Is that your reason? What +a curious one!"</p> + +<p>"You think it ridiculous, don't you?" says Georgie, +faintly, ashamed of herself; "but it is quite true, and I +can't help it. I was eighteen last month, and never before +was I at any ball. I shall never forget this room,—I +know that,—or the lights, or the flowers, or the man over +there beating time for the band, or—or anything."</p> + +<p>"I think 'the man over there' has much the best of it," +says Dorian. "I wish I was the leader of that band. Is +there any chance that your partners of this evening will be +remembered by you?"</p> + +<p>"Well, I suppose I sha'n't quite forget you," says +Georgie, seriously, after a moment's careful reflection.</p> + +<p>"I'll take jolly good care you don't," says Mr. Branscombe, +rather losing his head, because of her intense calmness, +and speaking with more emphasis than as a rule belongs +to him. "You are staying at the vicarage aren't +you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," says Georgie.</p> + +<p>"And I live just three miles from that——." Here he +pauses, as though afraid to make his insinuation too plain.</p> + +<p>"At Sartoris, isn't it?" asks Georgie, sweetly. "Yes? +Clarissa showed me the entrance-gate to it last week. It +looks pretty."</p> + +<p>"Some day will you come up and see it?" asks he, with +more earnestness than he acknowledges even to himself; +"and," with a happy thought, "bring the children. It will +be a nice walk for them."</p> + +<p>"But you are always in London, are you not?" says +Georgie.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh, no, not always: I sha'n't go there again, for ever +so long. So promise, will you?"</p> + +<p>"I'll ask Mrs. Redmond. But I know we can. She +never refuses me anything," says this most unorthodox +governess.</p> + +<p>"I'm sure I'm not surprised at that," says Branscombe. +"Who could?"</p> + +<p>"Aunt Elizabeth could," says Miss Broughton.</p> + +<p>"I haven't the misfortune to know your aunt Elizabeth, +for which I am devoutly grateful, because if she 'could,' +as you say, she must be too good for hanging. By the by, +this is not <i>my</i> first ball; yet you have never taken the +trouble to ask me (though I asked you) why I intend keeping +this night as a white spot in my memory."</p> + +<p>"Well, I ask you now," says Georgie, penitently.</p> + +<p>"Do you care to know?"</p> + +<p>"I do, indeed."</p> + +<p>"Then it is because to-night I met you for the first +time."</p> + +<p>He bends his head a little, and looks into her eyes,—the +beautiful eyes that smile back so calmly into his, and +are so cold to him, and yet so full of fire,—eyes that somehow +have power to charm him as no others have yet been +able to.</p> + +<p>He is strangely anxious to know how his words will be +received, and is proportionately aggrieved in that she takes +them as a matter of course.</p> + +<p>"After all, my reason is better than yours," she says, in +her sweet, petulant voice. "Come, let us dance: we are +only wasting time."</p> + +<p>Branscombe is at first surprised, then puzzled, then fascinated. +Almost any other woman of his acquaintance +would have accepted his remark as a challenge,—would +have smiled, or doubted, or answered him with some speech +that would have been a leading question. But with this +girl all is different. She takes his words literally, and, +while believing them, shows herself utterly careless of the +belief.</p> + +<p>Dorian, passing his arm round her waist, leads her out +into the room, and again they waltz, in silence,—he having +nothing to say to her, she being so filled with joy at the +bare motion that she cares no more for converse. At last,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Like some tired bee that flags<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mid roses over-blown,"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>she grows languid in his arms, and stops before a door that +leads into a conservatory. It has been exquisitely fitted +up for the occasion, and is one glowing mass of green and +white and crimson sweetness. It is cool and faintly lit. +A little sad fountain, somewhere in the distance, is mourning +sweetly, plaintively,—perhaps for some lost nymph.</p> + +<p>"You will give me another dance?" says Branscombe, +taking her card.</p> + +<p>"If I have one. Isn't it funny?—I feared when coming +I should not get a dance at all, because, of course, I knew +nobody; yet I have had more partners than I want, and +am enjoying myself so much."</p> + +<p>"Your card is full," says Branscombe, in a tone that suggests +a national calamity. "Would you—would you throw +over one of these fellows for me?"</p> + +<p>"I would, in a minute," says Miss Broughton, naïvely; +"but, if he found me out afterwards, would he be angry?"</p> + +<p>"He sha'n't find you out. I'll take care of that. The +crowd is intense. Of course"—slowly—"I won't ask you +to do it, unless you wish it. Do you?"</p> + +<p>"There is one name on that card I can't bear," says +Miss Broughton, with her eyes fixed upon a flower she +holds. Her dark lashes have fallen upon her cheeks, and +lie there like twin shadows. He can see nothing but her +mobile lips and delicately pencilled brows. He is watching +her closely, and now wonders vaguely if she is a baby +or a coquette.</p> + +<p>"Show me the man you would discard," he says, running +her pencil down her programme.</p> + +<p>"There,—stop there. The name is Huntley, is it not? +Yes. Well, he is old, and fat, and horrid; and I know he +can't dance. You may draw the pencil across his name,—if +you are sure, <i>quite sure</i>, he won't find me out."</p> + +<p>"He shall not. But I would far rather you condemned +that fair-haired fellow you were talking to just now," says +Dorian, who is vaguely, faintly jealous of young Bellew.</p> + +<p>"But he is so much nicer than Mr. Huntley," declares +Georgie, earnestly: "and he was my first partner, and I +promised him so faithfully to keep this dance for him."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span></p> + +<p>"He'll never see you in the crush," says Branscombe.</p> + +<p>"But I told him exactly where to find me."</p> + +<p>"It is the most difficult thing in the world to be anywhere +at the precise moment stated."</p> + +<p>"But I should <i>like</i> to dance with him again," declares +Miss Broughton, innocently, being driven into a corner.</p> + +<p>"Oh, of course that ends the matter," says Dorian, in +an impossible tone, drawing the pencil with much uncalled-for +energy across Mr. Huntley's name.</p> + +<p>Then some other man comes up, and claims the little +wilful beauty for the waltz then playing, and, carrying her +off in triumph, leaves Branscombe alone.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XVII.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"It is the hydra of calamities,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sevenfold death: the jealous are the<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Damn'd."—<span class="smcap">Young.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + + +<p>Having watched her until the last fold of her gown has +disappeared, Branscombe turns abruptly away, and, passing +through a glass door that leads into the gardens outside, +paces slowly up and down the winding paths beneath +the subdued light of countless Chinese lanterns, that, hanging +amidst the foliage, contrast oddly with the cold white +brilliancy of the stars overhead, that</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Rush forth in myriads, as to wage<br /></span> +<span class="i0">War with the lines of darkness."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Cold as the night air is, not a breath of wind comes to +disturb the strange calm that hangs over land and sea. +Far down in the bay the ocean lies at rest. From the distance +a faint sound of music from the band comes softly, +seductively to the ear, but beyond and above it comes the +song of the nightingale that, resting in yonder thicket, +pours forth its heart in tender hurried melody, as though +fearful the night will be</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Too short for him to utter forth his love-chant,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And disburthen his full soul of all its music."<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span></div></div> + +<p>The notes rise and fall, and tremble on the air. No +other sound comes from the breast of nature to mar the +richness of its tone. No earthly thing seems living but +itself. For it the night appears created, and draws its +"sable curtain stained with gold" over the sleeping world. +This nightingale, of all the feathered tribes, is wakeful, +and chants its hymn of praise at midnight, whilst all its +brethren rest in peaceful slumber.</p> + +<p>The intense and solemn stillness of all around renders +more enchanting the trills and tender trembles that shake +its tiny throat. There is</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"No whispering but of leaves, on which the breath<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of heaven plays music to the birds that slumber."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Yet this one sweet bird refuses rest, and, as though one of +those "small foules" that "slepen alle night with open +eye," sings on courageously amidst the gloom.</p> + +<p>Dorian, strolling absently through the walks, and into +the shrubberies beyond, listens, and feels some sense of +comfort (that has yet with it a touch of pain) creep through +him as the nightingale's sweet song smites upon his ear.</p> + +<p>Yet this is not the only sound that disturbs the quiet of +the night. Sadly, mournfully, a half-suppressed sob falls +upon the air.</p> + +<p>Branscombe starts, and looks round suddenly, but can +see nothing. No footsteps make themselves heard. The +shrubs are sufficiently thick to conceal the presence of any +one, yet it seems to him as if the thought of that sob was +born of fancy, and that the earthly owner of it is unborn.</p> + +<p>Then some ray from the brilliant moon opens his eyes, +and he sees a woman's figure standing in a somewhat disconsolate +attitude, with her back against a tall elm, and +her eyes fixed wistfully upon the distant windows, through +which the lights are streaming, and the passing to and fro +of the dancing crowd may be distinctly seen.</p> + +<p>Dorian, recognizing her, goes quickly up to her and lays +his hand upon her shoulder. It is Ruth Annersley!</p> + +<p>She stifles a low cry, and, turning to him, grows even a +shade paler than she was a moment since.</p> + +<p>"Ruth," says Dorian, "what on earth brings you here +at this hour?"</p> + +<p>For a moment she makes him no answer. She raises<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span> +her hand to brush away the tears that still lie heavily upon +her cheeks, and then moves a little away from him, so as +to elude his touch.</p> + +<p>"I came to see them dancing," she says, at length, with +difficulty; "I thought it would be a pretty sight; and—it +is—I have been so—so pleased."</p> + +<p>The words seem to choke her. With a movement that +is terribly pathetic she lays her hand upon her heart; and +then Dorian, following the direction her eyes have taken, +sees what they see.</p> + +<p>In an open window, directly opposite to where they are +standing, two figures can be seen in very close proximity +to each other. Beyond are the forms of the dancers; the +faint sweet strains of the band float out to meet the midnight +air; but the two in the window seem lost to all but +the fact of their own existence, and that they are together. +At least, so it seems to the onlookers in the shrubberies.</p> + +<p>See, now he takes her hand,—the kindly curtain hiding +the act from those within; he stoops towards her; the girl +leans a little forward; and then Dorian knows them; the +man is Horace, and the girl Clarissa Peyton!</p> + +<p>Instinctively he glances from them to Ruth. She, too, +is leaning forward, her whole attention concentrated upon +the picture before her. Her eyes are wide and miserable, +her cheeks pale and haggard.</p> + +<p>"You have seen enough of this ball, Ruth," says Branscombe, +very gently. "Go home now."</p> + +<p>"Yes; enough,—too much," says the girl, starting into +life again. She draws her breath quickly, painfully: her +brow contracts. As though unable to resist the movement, +she again lays her hand upon her heart, and holds +it there, as though in anguish.</p> + +<p>"What is it?" asks Dorian. "Are you in pain? How +white you are!"</p> + +<p>"I am tired. I have a pain here," pressing her hand +still more closely against her side. "This morning I felt +well and strong—and now——. My mother died of heart-disease; +perhaps I shall die of it too. I think so; I hope +so!"</p> + +<p>"You are talking very great nonsense," says Dorian, +roughly, though in his soul shocked to the last degree by +the girl's manner, which is full of reckless misery. "No<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span>body +sees any amusement in dying. Come, let me see +you home."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no! Please do not come, Mr. Branscombe," entreats +she, so earnestly that he feels she has a meaning in +her words. "I have the key of the small gate, and can +run home in five minutes once I pass that."</p> + +<p>"Then at least I shall see you safely as far as the gate," +says Branscombe, who is tender and gentle in his manner +to all women.</p> + +<p>Silently they walk through the damp night grass, neither +speaking, until, coming to a curve in the way, she breaks +silence.</p> + +<p>"How beautiful Miss Peyton looks to-night," she says, +in a tone impossible to translate.</p> + +<p>"Very," says Dorian, unkindly, yet with very kindly intent. +"But then she is always one of the most beautiful +women I know."</p> + +<p>"Is she—very much admired?"—this rather timidly.</p> + +<p>"One can understand that at once," says Dorian, +quietly. "Both her face and figure are perfect." As he +says this, quite calmly, his heart bleeds for the girl beside +him.</p> + +<p>"Who has she been dancing most with?" Eagerly, +almost painfully, this question is put. The utter simplicity +of it touches Dorian to his heart's core.</p> + +<p>"With my brother, of course. She—she would not +care to dance very much with any one else now, on account +of her engagement."</p> + +<p>"Her engagement?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. She is to be married to my brother some time +next year."</p> + +<p>He hates himself bitterly as he says this: but something +within him compels him to the cruel deed, if only +through pity for the girl who walks beside him.</p> + +<p>They are now within the shade of trees, and he cannot +see her face; though in very truth, if he could have seen +it at this moment, he would not have looked at it. No +word escapes her; she walks on steadily, as though actually +made strong by the receiving of the blow.</p> + +<p>Dorian would gladly believe that her silence means indifference; +but to-night has forced a truth upon him that +for months he has determinedly put behind him. Her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span> +tears, her agitation, the agony that shone in her eyes as +she fixed them upon Horace's form in the window, have +betrayed only too surely the secret she would so gladly +hide.</p> + +<p>She makes no further attempt at conversation, and, +when they come to the little iron gate that leads on to the +road, would have passed through, and gone on her homeward +way mechanically, without bidding him even good-night, +as if (which is indeed the case) she has forgotten +the very fact of his near presence.</p> + +<p>But he cannot let her go without a word.</p> + +<p>"Good-night," he says, very kindly, his tone warmer +because of his pity for her. "Take care of yourself. +Are you sure you do not fear going alone?"</p> + +<p>"Yes." Her voice is low, and sounds strange, even in +her own ears.</p> + +<p>"Wrap your shawl more closely round you. The night +is cold. Is the pain in your side better?"</p> + +<p>"Yes,"—almost regretfully.</p> + +<p>"That is right. Well, good-by. I shall stand here until +I see you have safely turned the corner; then I shall +know you are out of all danger." He has been holding +her hand somewhat anxiously all this time, not quite liking +the strained expression in her face. Now he presses it, +and then drops it gently.</p> + +<p>"Good-night," returns she, slowly, and then turns away +from him, never remembering to thank him for his kindness,—hardly, +indeed, conscious of having spoken the +farewell word.</p> + +<p>Her brain seems on fire; her body cold as death. Oh, +to be in her own room, free from all watching eyes, where +she can fling herself upon the ground, and moan and cry +aloud against her fate, with only the friendly darkness to +overhear her! She hurries rapidly onward, and soon the +corner hides her from sight.</p> + +<p>Dorian, when she has safely passed the spot agreed +upon, goes back once more in the direction of the house. +He has hardly, however, gone two hundred yards, when +the voice of his uncle, Lord Sartoris, calling to him +through the gloom, stays his steps, and rouses him from +the painful revery into which he is fast falling.</p> + +<p>"Who were you parting with at the gate?" asks Lord<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span> +Sartoris, in so unusual a tone that Dorian looks at him in +some surprise. He is a little sorry, for reasons that do +not touch himself, that the question should have been +asked at all.</p> + +<p>"Ruth Annersley," he answers, without hesitation, feeling +that any prevarication at this moment will only make +matters worse for the unhappy girl. May not Arthur +have seen and known her?</p> + +<p>"Ruth Annersley?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. You will, of course, say nothing about it. She +was foolish enough to wish to see a few people dancing, +so came here, and, standing among the shrubs, obtained +her wish,—which, no doubt, proved as satisfactory as +most of our desires, when gained."</p> + +<p>"At this hour of the night to be here, alone!"</p> + +<p>"Yes. Very imprudent of her, of course, and all that."</p> + +<p>"There must have been some strong inducement to +make a girl of her gentle nature undertake so bold, so +daring, a step. It was a strictly improper action," says +the old man, in his most stilted style.</p> + +<p>"I dare say. Imprudent, however, was the word I used. +I am rather glad I was the one to meet her, as she knew +me; and, as a rule, people talk so much about nothing, +and make such mountains out of mole-hills."</p> + +<p>"It was fortunate, indeed, your meeting her. It might, +in fact, almost be termed a curious coincidence, your managing +to be on this deserted walk just at the required moment."</p> + +<p>There is something so unpleasant, so sneering, about +his tone that Dorian colors hotly.</p> + +<p>"I confess I hardly see it in the light you do," he says, +easily enough, but very coldly. "And I think I should +term the coincidence 'lucky,' rather than curious. I see +no difference between this walk and half a dozen others. +People don't seem to affect any of them much."</p> + +<p>"No," says Lord Sartoris.</p> + +<p>"Any other fellow might have been here as well as me. +You, for example."</p> + +<p>"Just so!" says Lord Sartoris.</p> + +<p>"Then why bring in the word curious?"</p> + +<p>"It merely occurred to me at the moment," says his +lordship, drily. "Been dancing much?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes,—no,—pretty well. Are you coming in?"</p> + +<p>They are again in front of the house, and near the steps +that lead to the conservatory.</p> + +<p>"Not just yet, I think."</p> + +<p>"Then I fear I must leave you. I am engaged for this +dance."</p> + +<p>So, for the first time, these two part coldly. The old +man goes slowly, moodily, up and down the gravelled path +beneath the brilliant moon, that—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"From her clouded veil soft gliding,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lifts her silvery lamp on high,"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>and thinks of many things in a humor more sad than bitter; +while the young man, with angry brow and lips compressed, +goes swiftly onward to the house.</p> + +<p>As he regains the ball-room, the remembrance of the +little partner he has come to claim rushes back upon him +pleasantly, and serves to dissipate the gloomy and somewhat +indignant thoughts that have been oppressing him. But +where is she? He looks anxiously around; and, after five +minutes' fruitless search, lo! there are her eyes smiling +out at him from the arms of a gay and (doubtless) gallant +plunger.</p> + +<p>The next instant she is gone; but he follows her slight +form with eager glance, and at length crosses the room to +where she is now standing with her soldier. As he does +so he flings from him all tormenting thoughts, forgetting—as +it is his nature to do—the possible misery of the future +in the certain happiness of the present.</p> + +<p>"The next is ours, is it not?" he says; and she smiles +at him, and—can it be?—willingly transfers her hand from +the heavy's arm to his; and then they dance; and presently +he takes her down to the Peytons' carriage and puts +her carefully into it, and presses her hand, I think, ever so +slightly, and then drives home, beneath the silent stars, +with an odd sensation at his heart—half pain, half pleasure—he +has never felt before.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XVIII.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Known mischiefs have their cure, but doubts have none;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And better is despair than friendless hope<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mixed with a killing fear."—<span class="smcap">May.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + + +<p>It is two o'clock on the following day. Horace,—who +came down from town for the ball, and is staying with +Dorian,—sauntering leisurely into the smoking-room at +Sartoris, finds Branscombe there, overlooking some fishing-tackle.</p> + +<p>This room is a mingled and hopelessly entangled mass +of guns, pipes, whips, spurs, fishing-rods, and sporting pictures; +there are, too, a few other pictures that might not exactly +come under this head, and a various and most remarkable +collection of lounging-chairs.</p> + +<p>There is a patriarchal sofa, born to create slumber; and +an ancient arm-chair, stuffed with feathers and dreams of +many sleepers. Over the door stand out the skeleton remains +of a horse's head, bleached and ghastly, and altogether +hideous, that, even now, reminds its master of a +former favorite hunter that had come to a glorious but untimely +end upon the hunting-field. A stuffed setter, with +very glassy eyes, sits staring, in an unearthly fashion, in +one corner. Upon a window-sill a cat sits, blinking lazily +at the merry spring sunshine outside.</p> + +<p>"Are you really going back to town this evening, Horace?" +asks the owner of all these gems, in a somewhat +gloomy fashion, bending over a fishing line as he speaks.</p> + +<p>"Yes. I feel I am bound to be back there again as soon +as possible."</p> + +<p>"Business?"</p> + +<p>"Well, I can hardly say it is exactly press of business," +says the candid Horace; "but if a man wants to gain any, +he must be on the spot, I take it?"</p> + +<p>"Quite so. Where have you been all the morning? +Sleeping?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing half so agreeable." By this time Horace is +looking at him curiously, and with a gleam in his eyes that +is half amusement, half contempt: Dorian, whose head +is bent over his work, sees neither the amusement nor the +scorn. "I did not go to bed at all. I walked down to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span> +to the farms to try to get some fresh air to carry back with +me to the stifling city."</p> + +<p>"Ah! past the mill? I mean in that direction?—towards +the upper farms?"</p> + +<p>"No; I went past Biddulph's," says Horace, easily, half +closing his eyes, and Dorian believes him. "It is lighter +walking that way; not so hilly. Did you put in a good +time last night?"</p> + +<p>"Rather so. I don't know when I enjoyed an affair of +the kind so much."</p> + +<p>"Lucky you!" yawns Horace, languidly. "Of all +abominations, surely balls are the worst. One goes on +when one ought to be turning in, and one turns in when +one ought to be going out. They upset one's whole calculations. +When I marry I shall make a point of forgetting +that such things be."</p> + +<p>"And Clarissa?" asks Dorian, dryly; "I can't say +about the dancing part of it,—you may, I suppose, abjure +that if you like,—but I think you will see a ball or two +more before you die. She likes that sort of thing. By +the by, how lovely she looked last night!"</p> + +<p>"Very. She cut out all the other women, I thought; +they looked right down cheap beside her."</p> + +<p>"She had it very much her own way," says Dorian; yet, +even as he speaks, there rises before him the vision of a +little lithe figure gowned in black and crowned with yellow +hair, whose dark-blue eyes look out at him with a smile +and a touch of wistfulness that adds to their beauty.</p> + +<p>"That little girl at the vicarage isn't bad to look at," +says Horace, idly, beating a tattoo on the window-pane.</p> + +<p>"Miss Broughton? I should call her very good to look +at," says Dorian, for the first time making the discovery +that there may be moments when it would be a sure and +certain joy to kick even one's own brother.</p> + +<p>"Here is Arthur," says Horace, presently, drawing himself +up briskly from his lounging position. "A little of +him goes a long way; and I should say, judging from the +expression of his lips, that he is in his moodiest mood to +day. You may interview him, Dorian: I feel myself unequal +to the task. Give him my love and a kiss, and say +I have gone for a ramble in the innocent woods."</p> + +<p>He leaves the room, and, crossing the halls, makes his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span> +way into the open air through the conservatory; while Lord +Sartoris, entering by the hall door, and being directed by +a servant, goes on to Dorian's den.</p> + +<p>He is looking fagged and care-worn, and has about him +that look of extreme lassitude that belongs to those to +whom sleep overnight has been a stranger. Strong and +painful doubts of Dorian's honesty of purpose had kept +him wakeful, and driven him now down from his own home +to Sartoris.</p> + +<p>A strange longing to see his favorite nephew again, to +look upon the face he had always deemed so true, to hear +the voice he loves best on earth, had taken possession of +him; yet now he finds himself confronting Dorian with +scarcely a word to say to him.</p> + +<p>"I hardly hoped to find you at home," he says, with an +effort.</p> + +<p>"What a very flattering speech! Was that why you +came? Sit here, Arthur: you will find it much more comfortable."</p> + +<p>He pushes towards him the cosily-cushioned chair in +which Horace had been sitting a minute ago.</p> + +<p>"Do I look tired enough to require this?" says Sartoris, +sinking, however, very willingly into the chair's embrace. +As he does so, something lying on the ground (that has +escaped Dorian's notice) attracts him.</p> + +<p>"What is this?" he asks, stooping to pick it up.</p> + +<p>It is a lace handkerchief, of delicate and exquisite workmanship, +with some letters embroidered in one corner.</p> + +<p>"You have been receiving gentle visitors very early," +says Lord Sartoris, turning the pretty thing round and +round curiously.</p> + +<p>"Not unless you can count Horace as one," says Dorian, +with a light laugh. "How on earth did that come +here?" Stooping, he, too, examines minutely the fragile +piece of lace and cambric his uncle is still holding. Sartoris +turning it again, the initials in the corner make themselves +known, and stand out, legibly and carefully worked, +as "R. A."</p> + +<p>Dorian's face changes. He knows the handkerchief +only too well now. He himself had given it to Ruth at +Christmas; but how had it come here? No one had entered +the room to-day except himself and—Horace!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span></p> + +<p>Notwithstanding the scene with Ruth the night before, +when she had so unmistakably betrayed her love for Horace, +Dorian had never for one moment suspected that +things had gone farther than a mere foolish girlish liking +for a man rather handsomer than the ordinary run of men. +His brother's honor he had not doubted, nor did he deem +him capable of any act calculated to bring misery upon +one who had trusted him.</p> + +<p>Now, in spite of himself, a terrible doubt arises, that +will not be suppressed; like a blow conviction falls; and +many past actions and past words crowd to his mind that, +at the time of their occurrence, seemed as mere nothings, +but now are "confirmations strong" of the truth that has +just flashed upon him.</p> + +<p>Had he lied to him when he told him a few minutes +since he had been to Biddulph's farm and not anywhere +in the direction of the Old Mill? Doubt, having once asserted +itself, makes him now distrustful of his brother's +every look and every tone. And the handkerchief! He +must have had it from Ruth herself, and dropped it here +inadvertently before leaving the room. To him the idea +that Horace should have chosen a timid, fragile, gentle +girl, like Ruth Annersley, upon whom to play off the fascinations +and wiles taught him by a fashionable world, is +nothing less than despicable. A deep sense of contempt +for the man who, to pass away pleasantly a few dull hours +in the country, would make a target of a woman's heart, +fills his mind. He is frowning heavily, and his face has +grown very white Looking up, he becomes aware that +his uncle is watching him narrowly.</p> + +<p>To the old man, the altered countenance of his nephew, +his pallor and hesitation, all betoken guilt. Dorian's eyes +are still clear and calm, as usual, but his expression has +strangely altered.</p> + +<p>"'R. A.,'" remarks Lord Sartoris, slowly. "Why, that +might mean Ruth Annersley."</p> + +<p>"It might," returns Dorian, absently. He dares not +speak his inmost thoughts. After all, Horace may not be +in the wrong: the girl's own vanity, or folly, may have led +her to believe a few words spoken in jest to mean more +than was ever intended. And, at all events, no matter +what comes of it, he cannot betray his brother.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span></p> + +<p>"How could it have come here?" asks Lord Sartoris, +without raising his eyes from the luckless handkerchief. +"Do you know anything of it?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing; except that it belongs to Ruth. I gave it to +her last Christmas."</p> + +<p>"You! A curious gift to a girl in her rank in life?"</p> + +<p>"She wished for it," returns Branscombe, curtly.</p> + +<p>"Then she is no doubt heart-broken, imagining she has +lost it. Return it to her, I advise you, without delay," says +his uncle, contemptuously, throwing it from him to a table +near. "I need not detain you any longer, now,"—rising, +and moving towards the door.</p> + +<p>"Going so soon?" says the younger man, roused from +his galling reflections, by his uncle's abrupt departure, to +some sense of cordiality. "Why, you have hardly stayed +a moment."</p> + +<p>"I have stayed long enough,—too long," says Lord Sartoris, +gloomily, fixing his dark eyes (that age have failed to +dim) upon the man who has been to him as his own soul.</p> + +<p>"Too long?" repeats Branscombe, coloring darkly.</p> + +<p>"Yes. Have you forgotten altogether the motto of our +race?—'Leal friend, leal foe.' Let me bring it to your +memory."</p> + +<p>"Pray do not trouble yourself. I remember it perfectly," +says Dorian, haughtily, drawing up his figure to its +fullest height. "I am sorry, my lord, you should think it +necessary to remind me of it."</p> + +<p>He bows and opens the door as he finishes his speech. +Lord Sartoris, though sorely troubled, makes no sign; +and, without so much as a pressure of the hand, they part<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span>.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XIX.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Lock you, how she cometh, trilling<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Out her gay heart's bird-like bliss!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Merry as a May-morn thrilling<br /></span> +<span class="i1">With the dew and sunshine's kiss.<br /></span> +</div></div> +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ruddy gossips of her beauty<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Are her twin cheeks; and her mouth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In its ripe warmth, smileth fruity<br /></span> +<span class="i1">As a garden of the south."—<span class="smcap">Gerald Massey.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + + +<p>To Georgie the life at the vicarage is quite supportable,—is, +indeed, balm to her wounded spirit. Mrs. +Redmond may, of course, chop and change as readily as +the east wind, and, in fact, may sit in any quarter, being +somewhat erratic in her humors; but they are short-lived; +and, if faintly trying, she is at least kindly and +tender at heart.</p> + +<p>As for the vicar, he is—as Miss Georgie tells him, even +without a blush—"simply adorable;" and the children +are sweet good-natured little souls, true-hearted and earnest, +to whom the loss of an empire would be as dross in +comparison with the gain of a friend.</p> + +<p>They are young!</p> + +<p>To Dorian Branscombe, Miss Broughton is "a thing of +beauty, and a joy forever; her loveliness increases" each +moment, rendering her more dear. Perhaps he himself +hardly knows how dear she is to his heart, though day +after day he haunts the vicarage, persecuting the vicar +with parochial business of an outside sort. It ought, indeed, +to be "had in remembrance," the amount of charity +this young man expended upon the poor during all this +early part of the year.</p> + +<p>Then there is always Sunday, when he sits opposite to +her in the old church, watching her pretty mischievous +little face meditatively throughout the service, and listening +to her perfect voice as it rises, clear and full of pathos, in +anthem and in hymn.</p> + +<p>The spring has come at last, though tardy and slow in +its approach. Now—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Buds are bursting on the brier,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And all the kindled greenery glows<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And life hath richest overflows,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And morning fields are fringed with fire."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span>Winter +is almost forgotten. The snow and frost and +ice are as a dream that was told. No one heeds them +now, or thinks of them, or feels aught about them, save a +sudden chill that such things might have been.</p> + +<p>To-day is beautiful beyond compare. The sun is high +in the heavens; the birds are twittering and preening their +soft feathers in the yellow light that Phœbus flings broadcast +upon the loving earth. The flowers are waking +slowly into life, and stud the mossy woods with colorings +distinct though faint:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i3">"Nooks of greening gloom<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are rich with violets that bloom<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the cool dark of dewy leaves."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Primroses, too, are all alive, and sit staring at the +heavens with their soft eyes, as though in their hearts they +feel they are earth's stars. Each subtle green is widening, +growing. All nature has arisen from its long slumber, and +"beauty walks in bravest dress."</p> + +<p>Coming up the road, Dorian meets Georgie Broughton, +walking with quick steps, and in evident haste, towards +the vicarage. She is lilting some merry little song of her +own fancy, and has her hat pushed well back from her +forehead, so that all her sunny hair can be seen. It is a +lovely hat,—inexpensive, perhaps, but lovely, nevertheless, +in that it is becoming to the last degree. It is a great big +hat, like a coal-scuttle,—as scuttles used to be,—and +gives her all the appearance of being the original of +one of Kate Greenaway's charming impersonations.</p> + +<p>"Good-morning," says Dorian, though, in truth, he +hardly takes to heart the full beauty of the fair morning +that has been sent, so rapt he is in joy at the very sight of +her. "Going back to the vicarage now?"</p> + +<p>"Yes." She is smiling sweetly at him,—the little, kind, +indifferent smile that comes so readily to her red lips.</p> + +<p>"Well, so am I," says Dorian, turning to accompany her.</p> + +<p>Miss Broughton glances at him demurely.</p> + +<p>"You can't want to go to the vicarage again?" she says, +lifting her brows.</p> + +<p>"How do you know I have been there at all to-day?" says +Dorian.</p> + +<p>"Oh, because you are always there, aren't you?" says<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span> +Georgie, shrugging her shoulders, and biting a little flower +she has been holding, into two clean halves.</p> + +<p>"As you know so much, perhaps you also know <i>why</i> I +am always there," says Branscombe, who is half amused, +half offended, by her wilfulness.</p> + +<p>"No, I don't," replies she, easily, turning her eyes, for +the first time, full upon his. "Tell me."</p> + +<p>She is quite calm, quite composed; there is even the very +faintest touch of malice beneath her long lashes. Dorian +colors perceptibly. Is she coquette, or unthinking, or merely +mischievous?</p> + +<p>"No, not now," he says, slowly. "I hardly think you +would care to hear. Some day, if I may—. What a +very charming hat you have on to-day!"</p> + +<p>She smiles again,—what true woman can resist a compliment—and +blushes faintly, but very sweetly, until all her +face is like a pale "rosebud brightly blowing."</p> + +<p>"This old hat?" she says, with a small attempt at scorn +and a very well got-up belief that she has misunderstood +him: "why, it has seen the rise and fall of many generations. +You can't mean <i>this</i> hat?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I do. To me it is the most beautiful hat in the +world, no matter how many happy generations have been +permitted to gaze upon it. It is yours!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes; I bought it in the dark ages," says Miss +Broughton, disdaining to notice the insinuation, and treating +his last remark as a leading question. "I am glad you +like it."</p> + +<p>"Are you? I like something else, too: I mean your +voice."</p> + +<p>"It is too minor,—too discontented, my aunt used to +say."</p> + +<p>"Your aunt seems to have said a good deal in her time. +She reminds me of Butler's talker: 'Her tongue is always +in motion, though very seldom to the purpose;' and again, +'She is a walking pillory, and punishes more ears than a +dozen standing ones.' But I wasn't talking exactly of +your everyday voice: I meant your singing: it is quite perfect."</p> + +<p>"Two compliments in five minutes!" says Miss Georgie, +calmly. Then, changing her tone with dazzling, because +unexpected, haste, she says, "Nothing pleases me so much<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span> +as having my singing praised. Do you know," with hesitation,—"I +suppose—I am afraid it is very great vanity on +my part, but I love my own voice. It is like a friend to me,—the +thing I love best on earth."</p> + +<p>"Are you always going to love it best on earth?"</p> + +<p>"Ah! Well, that, perhaps, was an exaggeration. I love +Clarissa. I am happier with her than with any one else. +You"—meditatively—"love her too?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, very much indeed. But I know somebody else +with whom I am even happier."</p> + +<p>"Well, that is the girl you are going to marry, I suppose," +says Georgia, easily,—so easily that Dorian feels a touch +of disappointment, that is almost pain, fall on his heart. +"But as for Clarissa,"—in a puzzled tone,—"I cannot +understand her. She is going to marry a man utterly unsuited +to her. I met him at the ball the other night, and"—thoughtlessly—"I +don't like him."</p> + +<p>"Poor Horace!" says Dorian, rather taken aback. +Then she remembers, and is in an instant covered with +shame and confusion.</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon," she says, hurriedly. "I quite forgot. +It never occurred to me he was your brother,—never, +really. You believe me, don't you? And don't think me +rude. I am not"—plaintively—"naturally rude, and—and, +after all,"—with an upward glance full of honest liking,—"he +is not a <i>bit</i> like <i>you</i>!"</p> + +<p>"If you don't like him, I am glad you think he isn't," +says Dorian; "but Horace is a very good fellow all through, +and I fancy you are a little unjust to him."</p> + +<p>"Oh, not unjust," says Georgie, softly. "I have not accused +him of any failing; it is only that something in my +heart says to me, 'Don't like him.'"</p> + +<p>"Does something in your heart ever say to you, '<i>Like</i> +some one'?"</p> + +<p>"Very often." She is (to confess the honest truth) just +a little bit coquette at heart, so that when she says this she +lifts her exquisite eyes (that always seem half full of tears) +to his for as long as it would take him to know they had +been there, and then lowers them. "I shall have to hurry," +she says; "it is my hour for Amy's music-lesson."</p> + +<p>"Do you like teaching?" asks he, idly, more for the sake<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> +of hearing her plaintive voice again, than from any great +desire to know.</p> + +<p>"Like it?" She stops short on the pretty woodland +path, and confronts him curiously: "Now, do you <i>think</i> I +could like it? I don't, then! I perfectly hate it! The +perpetual over and over again, the knowledge that to-morrow +will always be as to-day, the feeling that one can't +get away from it, is maddening. And then there are the +mistakes, and the false notes, and everything. What a +question to ask me! Did any one ever like it, I wonder!"</p> + +<p>There is some passion, and a great deal of petulance, +in her tone; and her lovely flower-like face flushes warmly, +and there is something besides in her expression that is +reproachful. Dorian begins to hate himself. How could +he have asked her such a senseless question? He hesitates, +hardly knowing what to say to her, so deep is his +sympathy; and so, before he has time to decide on any +course, she speaks again.</p> + +<p>"It is so monotonous," she says, wearily. "One goes +to bed only to get up again; and one gets up with no +expectation of change except to go to bed again."</p> + +<p>"'One dem'd horrid grind,'" quotes Mr. Branscombe, +in a low tone. He is filled with honest pity for her. Instinctively +he puts out his hand, and takes one of hers, and +presses it ever so gently. "Poor child!" he says, from +his heart. To him, with her baby face, and her odd impulsive +manner, that changes and varies with every thought, +she is merely a child.</p> + +<p>She looks at him, and shakes her head.</p> + +<p>"You must not think me unhappy," she says, hastily. "I +am not that. I was twice as unhappy before I came here. +Everybody now is so kind to me,—Clarissa, and the Redmonds, +and"—with another glance from under the long +lashes—"you, and——Mr. Hastings."</p> + +<p>"The curate?" says Dorian, in such a tone as compels +Miss Broughton, on the instant, to believe that he and +Mr. Hastings are at deadly feud.</p> + +<p>"I thought you knew him," she says, with some hesitation.</p> + +<p>"I have met him," returns he, "generally, I think, on +tennis-grounds. He can run about a good deal, but it +seems a pity to waste a good bat on him. He never hits<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span> +a ball by any chance, and as for serving—I don't think I +swore for six months until the last time I met him."</p> + +<p>"Why, what did he do?"</p> + +<p>"More than I can recall in a hurry. For one thing, he +drank more tea than any four people together that ever I +knew."</p> + +<p>"Was that all? I see no reason why any one should +be ashamed of liking tea."</p> + +<p>"Neither do I. On the contrary, one should be proud +of it. It betrays such meekness, such simplicity, such +contentment. I myself am not fond of tea,—a fact I deplore +morning, noon, and night."</p> + +<p>"It is a mere matter of education," says Georgie, laughing. +"I used not to care for it, except at breakfast, and +now I love it."</p> + +<p>"Do you? I wish with all my heart I was good souchong," +says Mr. Branscombe, at which she laughs again.</p> + +<p>"One can't have all one's desires," she says. "Now, +with me music is a passion; yet I have never heard any +of the great singers of the age. Isn't that hard?"</p> + +<p>"For you it must be, indeed. But how is it you haven't?"</p> + +<p>"Because I have no time, no money, no—no anything."</p> + +<p>"What a hesitation! Tell me what the 'anything' +stands for."</p> + +<p>"Well, I meant no home,—that is, no husband, I suppose," +says Georgie. She is quite unconcerned, and +smiles at him very prettily as she says it. Of the fact that +he is actually in love with her, she is totally unaware.</p> + +<p>"That is a regret likely to be of short standing," he +says, his eyes on hers. But her thoughts are far away, +and she hardly heeds the warmth of his gaze or the evident +meaning in his tone.</p> + +<p>"I suppose if I did marry somebody he would take me +to hear all the great people?" she says, a little doubtfully, +looking at him as though for confirmation of her hope.</p> + +<p>"I should think he would take you wherever you wanted +to go, and to hear whatever you wished to hear," he says, +slowly.</p> + +<p>"What a charming picture you conjure up!" says +Georgie, looking at him. "You encourage me. The very +first rich man that asks me to marry him, I shall say 'Yes' +to."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You have made up your mind, then, to marry for +money?" He is watching her closely, and his brow has +contracted a good deal, and his lips show some pain.</p> + +<p>"I have made up my mind to nothing. Perhaps I haven't +one to make up,"—lightly. "But I hate teaching, and I +hate being poor. That is all. But we were not talking of +that. We were thinking of Mr. Hastings. At all events, +you must confess he reads well, and that is something! +Almost everybody reads badly."</p> + +<p>"They do," says Branscombe, meekly. "I do. Unless +in words of one syllable, I can't read at all. So the curate +has the pull over me there. Indeed, I begin to feel myself +nowhere beside the curate. He can read well, and +drink tea well, and I can't do either."</p> + +<p>"Why, here we are at the vicarage," says Georgie, in a +tone of distinct surprise, that is flattering to the last degree. +"I didn't think we were half so close to it. I am +so glad I met you, because, do you know, the walk hasn't +seemed nearly so long as usual. Well, good-by."</p> + +<p>"May I have those violets?" says Branscombe, pointing +to a little bunch of those fair comers of the spring +that lies upon her breast.</p> + +<p>"You may," she says, detaching them from her gown +and giving them to him willingly, kindly, but without a +particle of the tender confusion he would gladly have seen +in her. "They are rather faded," she says, with some disappointment; +"you could have picked yourself a sweeter +bunch on your way home."</p> + +<p>"I hardly think so."</p> + +<p>"Well, good-by again," she says, turning up to him the +most bewitching and delicious of small faces, "and be +sure you put my poor flowers in water. They will live +the longer for it."</p> + +<p>"They shall live forever. A hundred years hence, were +you to ask me where they were, I swear I should be able +to show them."</p> + +<p>"A very safe oath," says Miss Broughton; and then +she gives him her hand, and parts from him, and runs all +the way down the short avenue to the house, leaving him +to turn and go on to Gowran.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XX.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"There have been hearts whose friendship gave<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Them thoughts at once both soft and grave."<br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + + +<p>In the drawing-room he finds Clarissa sitting among innumerable +spring offerings. The whole place seems alive +with them. "The breath of flowers is on the air." Primroses +and violets shine out from tiny Etruscan vases, and +little baskets of pale Belleek are hidden by clustering +roses brought from the conservatory to make sweet the +sitting-room of their mistress.</p> + +<p>"I am so glad you have come," says Clarissa, rising +with a smile to welcome him, as he comes up to her. +"The day was beginning to drag a little. Come over +here, and make yourself comfortable."</p> + +<p>"That will I, right willingly, so it pleases you, madam," +says Dorian, and straightway, sinking into the desirable +lounging-chair she has pointed out, makes himself thoroughly +happy.</p> + +<p>A low bright fire is burning merrily; upon the rug a +snow-white Persian cat sinks blinking; while Billy, the +Irish terrier, whose head is bigger than his body, and +whose hair is of the shabbiest, reclines gracefully upon an +ottoman near. Clarissa, herself, is lying back upon a +cushioned chair, looking particularly pretty, if a trifle indolent.</p> + +<p>"Now for your news," she says, in the tone one adopts +when expecting to be amused.</p> + +<p>Dorian, lifting his arms, lays them behind his head.</p> + +<p>"I wonder if ever in all my life I had any news," he +says, meditatively. "After all, I begin to think I'm not +much. Well, let me see: would it be news to say I met +and talked with, and walked with your 'lassie wi' the lint-white +locks'?"</p> + +<p>"Georgie? You——. She was with me all the morning."</p> + +<p>"So she told me."</p> + +<p>"Ah? And how far did you go with her?"</p> + +<p>"To the vicarage. As I had been there all the morning, +I couldn't well go in again,—a fact I felt and deplored."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I am glad you walked back with her," says Miss Peyton; +but she doesn't look glad. "I hope you were nice +to her?"</p> + +<p>"Extremely nice: ask her if I wasn't. And our conversation +was of the freshest. We both thought it was +the warmest spring day we had ever known, until we remembered +last Thursday, and then we agreed <i>that</i> was the +warmest spring day we had ever known. And then we +thought spring was preferable to summer. And, then, +that Cissy Redmond would be very pretty if she hadn't a +cocked nose. Don't look so amazed, my dear Clarissa: +it was Miss Broughton's expression, not mine, and a very +good one too, I think. We say a cocked hat; therefore why +not a cocked nose? And then we said all education was +a bore and a swindle, and then——. How old is she, +Clarissa?"</p> + +<p>"You mean Georgie?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Neither nineteen nor twenty."</p> + +<p>"So much! Then I really think she is the youngest-looking +girl I ever met at that age. She looks more like +sweet seventeen."</p> + +<p>"You think her pretty?"</p> + +<p>"Rather more than that: she reminds me always of +'Maggie Lauder:'</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"'Her face is as the summer cloud, whereon<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The dawning sun delights to rest his rays.'<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>And, again, surely Apollo loves to</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Play at hide-and-seek amid her golden hairs.'"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>"Dorian, don't—don't make her unhappy," says Clarissa, +blushing hotly.</p> + +<p>"I wish I could," says Dorian. He laughs as he +speaks, but there is truth hidden in his jesting tone. Oh, +to make her feel something,—that cold indifferent child!</p> + +<p>"No, no. I am in earnest," says Clarissa, a little anxiously. +"Don't pay her too much attention, if you don't +mean it."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps I do mean it."</p> + +<p>"She is very young,"—ignoring his last speech altogether. +"She is a perfect baby in some ways. It isn't +kind of you, I think."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span></p> + +<p>"My dear child, what am I doing? If I hand Miss +Broughton a chair, or ask her if she would like another +cup of tea, is that 'making her unhappy'? I really begin +to think society is too moral for me. I shall give it up, +and betake myself to Salt Lake City."</p> + +<p>"You won't understand me," begins she, sitting more +upright, as though desirous of argument; but he interrupts +her.</p> + +<p>"There you mistake me," he says. "My motives are +quite pure. I am dying to understand you, only I can't. +If you would try to be a little more lucid, all would be +well; but why I am to be sat upon, and generally maltreated, +because I walked a mile or so with a friend of +yours, is more than I can grasp."</p> + +<p>"I don't want to sit upon you," says Clarissa a little +vexed.</p> + +<p>"No! I dare say that chair is more comfortable."</p> + +<p>"I don't want anything; I merely ask you to be careful. +She is very young, and has seen few men; and if +you persist in your attentions she may fall in love with +you."</p> + +<p>"I wish to goodness she would," says Branscombe; and +then something in his own mind strikes him, and he leans +back in his chair, and laughs aloud. There is, perhaps, +more bitterness than mirth in his laugh; yet Miss Peyton +hears only the mirth.</p> + +<p>"I hope she won't," she says, severely. "Nothing would +cause me greater sorrow. Underneath her childish manner +there lies a passionate amount of feeling that, once +called into play, would be impossible to check. Amuse +yourself elsewhere, Dorian, unless you mean to marry +her."</p> + +<p>"Well, why shouldn't I marry her?" says Dorian.</p> + +<p>"I see no reason why you shouldn't. I only know you +have no intention whatever of doing so."</p> + +<p>"If you keep on saying that over and over again, I +dare say I <i>shall</i> want to marry her," says Dorian. +"There is nothing like opposition for that kind of thing; +you go and tell a fellow he can't and sha'n't marry such-and-such +a girl, and ten to one but he goes and does it +directly."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Don't speak like that," says Clarissa, entreatingly: +she is plainly unhappy.</p> + +<p>"Like what? What nonsense you have been talking +all this time! Has it never occurred to you that though, +no doubt, I am endowed with many qualities above the +average, still I am not an 'Adonis,' or an 'Apollo,' or an +'Admirable Crichton,' or any thing of that sort, and that +it is probable your Miss Broughton might be in my society +from this till the day she dies without experiencing a +pang, as far as I am concerned."</p> + +<p>"I don't know about 'Apollo' or 'Crichton,'" says Clarissa; +"but let her alone. I want her to marry Mr. Hastings."</p> + +<p>"The curate?" says Dorian, for the second time to day.</p> + +<p>"Yes. Why should you be so amazed? He is very +charming, and I think she likes him. He is very kind-hearted, +and would make her happy; and she doesn't like +teaching."</p> + +<p>"I don't believe she likes Hastings," says Dorian; yet +his heart dies within him as he remembers how she defended +him about his unlimited affection for the cup that "cheers +but not inebriates."</p> + +<p>"I believe she does," says Clarissa.</p> + +<p>"Can't you do something for <i>me</i>, Clarissa?" says Dorian, +with a rather strained laugh: "you are evidently bent on +making the entire country happy, yet you ignore my case. +Even when I set my heart upon a woman, you instantly +marry her to the curate. I hate curates! They are so +mild, so inoffensive, so abominably respectable. It is almost +criminal of you to insist on handing over to one of +them that gay little friend of yours with the yellow hair. +She will die of Hastings, in a month. The very next time +I have the good fortune to find her alone, I shall feel it my +duty to warn her off him."</p> + +<p>"Does anybody ever take advice unless it falls in with +their own wishes?" says Clarissa. "You may warn her +as you will."</p> + +<p>"I sha'n't warn her at all," says Dorian.</p> + +<p>When he has left Clarissa, and is on his homeward way, +this thought still haunts him. Can that pretty child be in +love with the lanky young man in the long-tailed coat? +She can't! No; it is impossible! Yet, how sure Clarissa<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span> +seemed! and of course women understand each other, and +perhaps Georgie had been pouring confidences of a tender +nature into her ears. This last is a very unpleasant idea, +and helps to decapitate three unoffending primroses.</p> + +<p>Certainly she had defended that fellow very warmly (the +curate is now "that fellow"), and had spoken of him a +though she felt some keen interest in him. After all, what +is it to him? (This somewhat savagely, and with the aid +of a few more flowers.) If he was in love with her, it +would be another thing; but as it is,—yes, as it <i>is</i>.</p> + +<p>How often people have advised him to marry and settle +down! Well, hang it all, he is surely as good to look at +as the curate, and his position is better; and only a few +hours ago she had expressed a desire to see something of +life. What would Arthur think of——</p> + +<p>His thoughts change. Georgie's <i>riante</i> lovely face fades +into some deeper recess of his heart, and a gaunt old figure, +and a face stern and disappointed, rises before him. Ever +since that day at Sartoris, when the handkerchief had been +discovered, a coldness, a nameless but stubborn shadow, +had fallen between him and his uncle,—a shadow impossible +to lift until some explanation be vouchsafed by the +younger man.</p> + +<p>Such an explanation it is out of Dorian's power to give. +The occurrence altogether was unhappy, but really nothing +worthy of a violent quarrel. Branscombe, as is his nature, +pertinaciously thrusts the whole affair out of sight, refusing +to let it trouble him, except on such occasions as the +present, when it pushes itself upon him unawares, and will +not be suppressed.</p> + +<p>Horace has never been to Pullingham since the night +of the ball, and his letters to Clarissa have been many and +constant, so that Dorian's suspicions have somewhat languished, +and are now, indeed, almost dead, he being slow +to entertain evil thoughts of any one.</p> + +<p>Ruth Annersley, too, though plainly desirous of avoiding +his society ever since his meeting with her in the shrubberies, +seems happy and content, if very quiet and subdued. +Once, indeed, coming upon her unexpectedly, he +had been startled by an expression in her eyes foreign to +their usual calm; it was a look half terrified, half defiant, +and it haunted him for some time afterwards. But the re<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span>membrance +of that faded, too; and she had never afterwards +risked the chance of a <i>tête-à-tête</i> with him.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Meantime, Miss Peyton's little romance about the +Broughton-Hastings affair rather falls to bits. Georgie, +taking advantage of an afternoon that sees the small Redmonds +on the road to a juvenile party, goes up to Gowran, +and, making her way to the morning room, runs to Clarissa +and gives her a dainty little hug.</p> + +<p>"Aren't you glad I have come?" she says, with the utmost +<i>naïveté</i>. "I'm awfully glad myself. The children +have all gone to the Dugdales', and so I am my own mistress."</p> + +<p>"And so you came to me," says Clarissa.</p> + +<p>"Yes, of course."</p> + +<p>"And now, to make you happy," says Clarissa, meditatively.</p> + +<p>"Don't take any thought about that. It is already an +accomplished fact. I am with <i>you</i>, and therefore I am +perfectly happy."</p> + +<p>"Still, you so seldom get a holiday," goes on Clarissa, +regretfully, which is a little unfair, as the Redmonds are +the easiest-going people in the world, and have a sort of +hankering after the giving of holidays and the encouragement +of idleness generally. The vicar, indeed, is laden +with a suppressed and carefully hidden theory that children +should never do anything but laugh and sit in the sun. +In his heart of hearts he condemns all Sunday-schools, as +making the most blessed day one of toil, and a wearying +of the flesh, to the little ones.</p> + +<p>"Why,—why," said he, once, in an unguarded moment, +bitterly repented of afterwards, "forbid them their rest on +the Sabbath day?"</p> + +<p>"What a pity the afternoon is so uncertain!" says +Clarissa. "We might have gone for a nice long drive."</p> + +<p>She goes over to the window, and gazes disconsolately +at the huge shining drops that fling themselves heavily +against the panes, and on the leaves and flowers outside; +while</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The thirsty earth soaks up the rain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And drinks, and gapes for drink again."<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span></div></div> + +<p>"I cannot feel anything to be a pity to-day," says +Georgie. "I can feel only a sense of freedom. Clarissa, +let us play a game of battledore and shuttlecock. I used +to beat you at Brussels; try if you can beat me now."</p> + +<p>Into the large hall they go, and, armed with battledores, +commence their fray. Hither and thither flies the little +white bird, backwards and forwards move the lithe figures +of the girls. The game is at its height: it is just the absorbing +moment, when 199 has been delivered, and received, +and returned, when Georgie, stopping short suddenly, +cries "Oh!" and 200 flutters to the ground.</p> + +<p>Clarissa, who is standing with her back to the hall +door, turns instinctively towards it, and sees Dorian Branscombe.</p> + +<p>"I have disturbed you. I have come in at the wrong +moment?" asks that young man, fearfully.</p> + +<p>"Ah! you have spoiled our game. And we were so +well into it. Your sudden entrance startled Georgie, and +she missed her aim."</p> + +<p>"I am sorry my mere presence should reduce Miss +Broughton to a state of abject fright," says Dorian, speaking +to Clarissa, but looking at Georgie.</p> + +<p>Her arm is still half raised, her color deep and rich, her +eyes larger, darker than usual; the excitement of the game +is still full upon her. As Dorian speaks, her lips part, and +a slow sweet smile creeps round them, and she looks earnestly +at him, as though to assure him that she is making +him a free present of it,—an assurance that heightens her +beauty, to his mind. Gazing at her with open and sincere +admiration, he tells himself that</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Nature might no more her child advance."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>"Your presence would not frighten me," she says, shaking +her head; "but it was—I don't know what; I only +know that I forgot myself for the moment and missed my +aim. Now, that was hard, because we were so near our +second hundred. Why did you not come a little sooner +or a little later?"</p> + +<p>"Because 'a thoughtless animal is man,'" quotes he, +his blue eyes full of contrition. "And the door was wide +open, and the picture before me put all other thoughts out +of my head. I wish I was a girl! I should do nothing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span> +but play battledore and shuttlecock from morning till +night." Then, reproachfully, "I think you might both +shake hands with me, especially as I can say only 'how +d'ye do' and 'good-by' in one breath: I am bound to meet +Arthur at three precisely."</p> + +<p>"What a comfort!" says Clarissa, devoutly. "Then +there is some faint chance we may be allowed to end our +afternoon in peace!"</p> + +<p>"If there is one thing on earth for which I have a keen +admiration, it is candor," says Branscombe; "I thank +you, Clarissa, for even this small touch of it. Miss +Broughton, be candid too, and say you, at least, will regret +me."</p> + +<p>"I shall," says Georgie, with decided—and, it must be +confessed, unexpected—promptness.</p> + +<p>"Ha!" says Dorian, victoriously. "Now I am content +to go. A fig for your incivility, Clarissa! At least I +leave one true mourner behind."</p> + +<p>"Two," says Clarissa, relentingly.</p> + +<p>"Too late now; apology is useless! Well, I'm off. +Can I do anything for either of you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; bring me up that little dog you promised me,—one +of Sancho's puppies."</p> + +<p>"You shall have the very prettiest to-morrow, in spite +of your ill-treatment. And you, Miss Broughton, what +can I do for you?"</p> + +<p>He is looking tenderly at the small childish face, framed +in gold, that is gazing at him smilingly from the distance.</p> + +<p>"Me?" she says, waking, as if from a revery, with a +faint blush. "Oh! give me my liberty." She says it +jestingly, but with a somewhat sad shrug of her rounded +shoulders, as she remembers the dismal school-room, and +the restraint that, however gentle, is hateful to her gay, +petulant nature. Her smile dies, and tears creep into +her eyes.</p> + +<p>In another moment she is laughing again; but months +go by before Dorian forgets the sad little petition and the +longing glance that accompanied it, and the sigh that was +only half repressed.</p> + +<p>"I like Mr. Branscombe so much," says Georgie, a little +later on, when Dorian has disappeared. They have +forsaken their late game, and are now in Clarissa's own<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span> +room, standing in a deep oriel window that overlooks the +long sweep of avenue on one side, and the parterre beneath +where early spring flowers are gleaming wet with +the rain that fell so heavily an hour ago.</p> + +<p>"Every one likes Dorian," says Clarissa, pleasantly, +but without her usual warmth when speaking of Branscombe. +"He is a general favorite, and I think he knows +it. He is like a spoiled child; he says what he likes to +everyone, but nobody takes anything he says <i>seriously</i>."</p> + +<p>This friendly hint is utterly thrown away. Miss +Broughton understands it not at all.</p> + +<p>"Yet sometimes he looks quite grave," she says,—"nearly +as grave as Mr. Hastings when in his surplice, +only not so solemn. That is all the difference."</p> + +<p>"I like Mr. Hastings in his surplice," says Clarissa; +"I think him very handsome: don't you?"</p> + +<p>"Well—yes—. Only I wish his ears didn't stick out so +much. Why do they? He always, somehow, makes me +think of Midas."</p> + +<p>"But you like him," persists Clarissa, feeling, however, +a little crestfallen. It doesn't sound promising, this allusion +to Mr. Hastings's ears.</p> + +<p>"Ever so much," says Georgie, enthusiastically; "and +really, you know, he can't help his ears. After all, how +much worse a crooked eye would be!"</p> + +<p>"Of course. And his eyes are really beautiful."</p> + +<p>"You are not in love with him, are you?" says Miss +Georgie, with an amused laugh; and again Clarissa's +hopes sink to zero.</p> + +<p>"No. But I am glad you are a friend of his. Does +he—like you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I think so: I am sure of it. Clarissa,"—with +hesitation,—"if I tell you something, will you promise me +faithfully not to tell it again?"</p> + +<p>"I promise faithfully, darling, if you wish it."</p> + +<p>"It is something Mr. Hastings said to me last night, +and though I was not told in words to keep it secret, still +I think he would wish me to be silent about it for—for a +while. There can't be any harm in confiding it to you, +can there? You are such an old friend of both."</p> + +<p>"Not the slightest harm," says Miss Peyton, with conviction. +Woman-like, she is burning with curiosity. Not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span> +for an instant does she doubt that one of her greatest +wishes is about to be fulfilled: Mr. Hastings, who has a +small though not insignificant income of his own, independent +of the Church, is about to marry her dearest +Georgie.</p> + +<p>"Her dearest Georgie," raising herself a little from her +recumbent position, leans her arm upon Clarissa's knee, +and looks up into her face: there is importance largely +mingled with delight in her fair features.</p> + +<p>"Well, then," she says, slowly, as though loath to part +all at once with her treasured news, "last night—he told +me—that he—was in love!"</p> + +<p>"Did he?"—with suppressed excitement. "And—and +you—what did you say?"</p> + +<p>"I didn't say much," says Miss Broughton, regretfully. +"I might have said a great deal more, something kinder, +more encouraging, you know; but I was so surprised and +so——"</p> + +<p>"Pleased?"—tenderly.</p> + +<p>"Pleased! I should think so," with so much <i>empressement</i> +that even Clarissa is taken aback. "I was never so +delighted in my life, only, as I said before, a little confused, +and couldn't think of anything pretty to say."</p> + +<p>"I think it was far nicer your saying nothing," says +Clarissa, very gently. She is a little disappointed in Georgie; +a woman may be glad to marry a man, but she +shouldn't say so, at least not exactly in such a cold-blooded +fashion. "I can quite understand"—with sufficient hesitation +to convince herself, at least, that she does not understand—"how +you felt nervous in spite of your happiness."</p> + +<p>"Oh, you always know everything," says Georgie, so +lovingly that Clarissa hates herself for thinking even one +unpleasant thought of her. "Well, he went on to say he +never loved before. Now, honestly, Clarissa,"—in a thoroughly +matter-of-fact tone,—"do you think that could be +true?"</p> + +<p>"Why shouldn't it be true?" says Clarissa, wishing +with all her heart the other would be a little more sentimental +over her own first love-affair, as she believes it to +be.</p> + +<p>"Well, yes, of course; he is rather young, and beauty +goes a long way with some men."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span></p> + +<p>Again Clarissa stares. She hadn't thought Georgie vain +of her own charms. How difficult it is to know any one, +even one's chiefest friend!</p> + +<p>"Then he went on to say he could never feel real happiness +again until he knew he was loved in return."</p> + +<p>"Well?"—breathlessly,—"and then——?"</p> + +<p>"I said,"—with the gayest little laugh imaginable,—"I +thought he <i>was</i> loved in return."</p> + +<p>"You <i>thought</i>, Georgie? What a strange answer! I +do think you are a little bit coquette! I am so glad, +though. Do you know, I guessed all along how it would +be?"</p> + +<p>"So did I. I knew very well how it would end. I felt +he would fall a victim sooner or later. It is rather soon, +isn't it? But of course it is only natural I should know +about it?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, only natural." Clarissa can think of nothing else +to say. Not like this had <i>she</i> felt when——. To talk of +him as a victim!</p> + +<p>"I hope everything will be settled soon," goes on Miss +Broughton, gayly, "'Happy is the wooing that isn't long +adoing.' And I should like the marriage to be soon; +wouldn't you? I think next time I see him I shall ask +him about it."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Georgie, don't! Indeed I would not, if I were +you," exclaims Clarissa, in an agony. Good gracious! Is +she lost to all sense of shame? "He won't like it. It is +surely the man's part to speak first about that."</p> + +<p>"Oh, very well,"—amicably. "But there couldn't be +any harm in my speaking about it."</p> + +<p>"Just as much as in any other woman's."</p> + +<p>"Not so much as if it was Cissy?"</p> + +<p>"Twice as much. What has she got to do with it?"</p> + +<p>"Well, a great deal, I take it,"—laughing again.</p> + +<p>"As a friend she may feel some interest in him, I suppose. +But <i>she</i> is not going to marry him."</p> + +<p>"Well, I think she is. You don't think she will refuse +him, do you?"—anxiously.</p> + +<p>"Cissy Redmond!"</p> + +<p>"Cissy Redmond."</p> + +<p>"Do you mean to tell me," says Clarissa, growing very<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span> +red, "that it is Cissy you have been talking about all this +time, and not—yourself?"</p> + +<p>"Myself! What on earth are you thinking of?" It is +now Georgie's turn to blush crimson, and she does it very +generously. Then she breaks into wild mirth, and, laying +her head on Clarissa's knees, laughs till she nearly cries. +"Oh, when I think of all I have said!" she goes on, the +keenest enjoyment in her tone,—"how I praised myself, +and how cavalierly I treated his proposal, and—what +was it I said about asking him to name the wedding-day? +Oh, Clarissa, what a dear you are!—and what a <i>goose</i>!"</p> + +<p>"Well, certainly, I never was so taken in in my life," +confesses Miss Peyton, and then she laughs too, and presently +is as deeply interested in Cissy's lover as if he had +indeed been Georgie's.</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXI.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Sin and shame are ever tied together<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With Gordian knots, of such a strong thread spun,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They cannot without violence be undone."—<span class="smcap">Webster</span>.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Sharper than the stings of death!"—<span class="smcap">Reynolds</span>.<br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p>Upon Pullingham a great cloud has descended. It has +gathered in one night,—swiftly, secretly,—and has fallen +without warning, crushing many hearts beneath it. Shame, +and sin, and sorrow, and that most terrible of all things—uncertainty—have +come together to form it, while doubt +and suspicion lie in its train.</p> + +<p>Ruth Annersley is missing! She has disappeared,—utterly! +entirely!—leaving no trace behind her, no word, +no line to relieve the heart of the old man, her father, and +which is slowly beginning to break, as the terrible truth +dawns upon him.</p> + +<p>Only yester eve she had poured out his tea as usual, had +bidden him good night,—lovingly, indeed, but not as one +would bid an eternal farewell. Afterwards, he remembered, +she had not given him—on that night of all others—the +customary kiss, but had passed away from him coldly, callously—or +was it that she feared?</p> + +<p>Tired out with his day's work, the miller had gone to bed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span> +The girl, as was her habit ever since the longer evenings +had set in, had gone for a little walk into the dewy woods, +where we are told "every bough that moves over our head +has an oracular wisdom." Alas! that they should have +taught her so little. She had crossed the road before the +very eyes of her household, had entered the green forest of +early-breaking leaves, had faded from sight, and never +came back again.</p> + +<p>The old man, who rises and goes to bed with the sun +(most constant companion of simple minds), had slept +peacefully all night, never doubting that the child of his +heart lay dreaming calm and happy dreams in her own +room. Not until the morning was far advanced did he discover +that Ruth's bed had known no occupant the night +before.</p> + +<p>Afterwards, too, he remembered how little this thought +had jarred upon him just at first. It was strange, vexing; +she should have told him where she meant to spend her +evening; but, beyond that, it caused him no pang, no suspicion.</p> + +<p>Her aunt lived in a neighboring town,—probably she +had gone there. It was only four miles away,—a walk +Ruth had taken many a day, and thought nothing of it; +but it was imprudent starting on such a journey so late in +the evening; and, besides, there was always the old mare +to drive her there and back.</p> + +<p>Messengers were despatched to her aunt's house, but +they returned bringing no tidings. She was not there—had +not been for over a fortnight.</p> + +<p>Day wanes; twilight is descending,—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">"Melting heaven with earth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Leaving on craggy hills and running streams<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A softness like the atmosphere of dreams."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>All day the miller has sat apart, his snow-white head upon +his arms, in the room her hands had beautified and made +so dear. With passionate indignation he has thrust from +him all the attempts at sympathy, all the hurtful, though +well-meant, offers of assistance held out to him by kindly +neighbors. Silent, and half maddened by his thoughts, he +sits dogged and silent, refusing food, and waiting only for +her who never comes.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span></p> + +<p>But when, at length, the gloaming comes, and day is over, +without bringing to him the frail form of her he so desires, +he rises, and, pushing back his chair, goes up to Hythe, +and into the presence of Lord Sartoris.</p> + +<p>"<i>You</i> will find me my girl," he says, and then he tells +him all the story.</p> + +<p>Sartoris listens, and, as he does so, sickens with doubt +that is hardly a doubt, and fear that is nearly a certainty. +Is this the end he has so dreaded? Is this the creeping +horror that has of late so tortured him? Alas for the unblemished +honor of the old name that for centuries has +held itself <i>sans peur et sans reproche</i>.</p> + +<p>How can he dare to offer consolation to old Annersley? +He covers his face with his hands, and bends forward over +the table. There is something in his attitude that denotes +despair, and renders more keen the agony in Annersley's +bosom.</p> + +<p>"Why do you do that?" he cries, fiercely. "What is +there to groan about? Nothing, I tell you! The child +has gone too far,—has lost her way. She didn't understand. +She cannot find her road home.—No more—no +more!"</p> + +<p>His excitement and grief are pitiful to see. He wrings +his hands; his whole bearing and expression are at variance +with his hopeful words. "She will come back in an +hour or two, mayhap," he says, miserably, "and then I +shall feel that I have disturbed your lordship: but I am +in a hurry, you see: I want her, and I cannot wait."</p> + +<p>"What do you want me to do for you?" says Sartoris, +very humbly. He feels that he can hardly lift his eyes in +this man's presence.</p> + +<p>"Find her! That is all I ask of you. Find her, dead +or alive! You are a great man,—high in authority, with +power, and servants at command. Find me my child! +Oh, <i>man</i>, help me, in some way!"</p> + +<p>He cries this in an impassioned tone. He is totally +overcome. His poor old white head falls helplessly upon +his clasped arms.</p> + +<p>Sartoris, pale as death, and visibly affected, can make +no reply. He trembles, and stands before the humble +miller as one oppressed with guilt.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span></p> + +<p>Annersley mistakes his meaning, and, striding forward, +lays his hand upon his arm.</p> + +<p>"You are silent," he says, in a terrible tone, made up of +grief and anguish more intense than words can tell. "You +do not think she is in the wrong, do you? You believe +her innocent? Speak!—speak!"</p> + +<p>"I do," responds Sartoris, and only his own heart +knows that he lies. Yet his tone is so smothered, so unlike +his usual one, that he hardly recognizes it himself.</p> + +<p>"If Mr. Branscombe were only here," says Annersley, in +a stricken voice, after a lengthened pause, "he would help +me. He has always been a kind friend to me and mine."</p> + +<p>Lord Sartoris draws a deep breath, that is almost a sob.</p> + +<p>"When does he return, my lord?"</p> + +<p>"On Saturday. He said so, at least, when leaving."</p> + +<p>"A long time," murmurs the old man, mournfully. "She +will be home before that,—if she ever comes at all." His +head sinks upon his breast. Then he rouses himself, and, +glancing at Lord Sartoris, says entreatingly, "Won't you +write to him, my lord? Do, I implore of you, and conjure +him to return. If any one can help me it will be Mr. Dorian."</p> + +<p>"I shall write to him now,—now,—at once," says Sartoris, +mechanically, feeling how hideous is the mockery of +this promise, knowing what he thinks he knows. Even +yet he clings to the hope that he has been mistaken.</p> + +<p>Thus he soothes the old man with vain promises, and so +gets rid of him, that he may be left alone with his own +thoughts.</p> + +<p>Shall he go to Dorian? This is the first engrossing idea. +Yet it affords but little consolation. To see him, to hear +him, to listen to a denial from his lips; that is what it holds +out to him, and it is all insufficient. How shall he believe +him, knowing the many things that have occurred? How +treat his very most eager denial as anything but a falsehood?</p> + +<p>For hours he paces to and fro, pondering on what is the +best course to pursue. He is not his father, that he can +coerce him. By nature suspicious (though tender-hearted +and indulgent in other ways), it comes easily to him to +believe that even the man in whom he has trusted has +been found wanting.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span></p> + +<p>"To doubt is worse than to have lost," says Massinger; +and surely he is right. Sartoris, in deep perplexity, acknowledges +the truth of this line, and tells himself that in +his old age he has been sorely tried. The whole world +seems changed. Sunshine has given place to gloom; and +he himself stands alone,—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Stoynde and amazde at his own shade for dreed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And fearing greater daungers than was nede."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Not until he is thoroughly exhausted, both in mind and +body, does he decide on leaving for town by the mid-day +train next day.</p> + +<p>In the mean time he will telegraph to Claridge's, some +faint remembrance lingering with him of Dorian's having +made mention of that hotel as being all any one's fancy +could possibly paint it.</p> + +<p>But the morrow brings its own tidings.</p> + +<p>It is almost noon, and Sartoris, sitting in his library, writing +some business letters,—preparatory to catching the up +train to town,—is disturbed by a light knock at the door.</p> + +<p>"Come in," he calls out, impatiently; and Simon Gale, +opening the door, comes slowly in.</p> + +<p>He is a very old man, and has been butler in the family +for more years than he himself can count. His head is +quite white, his form a little bent; there is, at this moment, +a touch of deep distress upon his face that makes +him look even older than he is.</p> + +<p>"Are you busy, my lord?" asks he, in a somewhat +nervous tone.</p> + +<p>"Yes; I am very much engaged. I can see no one, +Gale. Say I am starting for town immediately."</p> + +<p>"It isn't that, my lord. It is something I myself have +to say to you. If you could spare me a few minutes——." +He comes a little nearer, and speaks even more earnestly. +"It is about Ruth Annersley."</p> + +<p>Lord Sartoris, laying down his pen, looks at him intently.</p> + +<p>"Close the door, Simon," he says, hurriedly, something +in the old servant's manner impressing him. "I will hear +you. Speak, man: what is it?"</p> + +<p>"A story I heard this morning, my lord, which I feel +it my duty to repeat to you. Not that I believe one word<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span> +of it. You will remember that, my lord,—<i>not one word</i>." +The grief in his tone belies the truth of his avowal. His +head is bent. His old withered hands clasp and unclasp +each other nervously.</p> + +<p>"You are trembling," says Lord Sartoris. "Sit down. +This news, whatever it is, has unstrung you."</p> + +<p>"It has," cries Simon, with vehemence. "I <i>am</i> trembling; +I <i>am</i> unstrung. How can I be otherwise when I +hear such a slander put upon the boy I have watched +from his cradle?"</p> + +<p>"You are speaking of——?" demands Sartoris, with +an effort.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Dorian." He says this in a very low tone; and +tears, that always come so painfully and so slowly to the +old, shine in his eyes. "His sad complexion wears grief's +mourning livery." He covers his face with his hands.</p> + +<p>Sartoris, rising from his seat, goes over to the window, +and so stands that his face cannot be seen.</p> + +<p>"What have you got to say about Mr. Branscombe?" +he asks, in a harsh, discordant tone.</p> + +<p>"My lord, it is an impertinence my speaking at all," +says Gale.</p> + +<p>"Go on. Let me know the worst. I can hardly be +more miserable than I am," returns Sartoris.</p> + +<p>"It was Andrews, the under-gardener, was telling me," +begins Simon, without any further attempt at hesitation. +"This morning, early, I met him near the Ash Grove. +'Simon,' he says, 'I want to speak wi'ye. I have a secret +on my mind.'</p> + +<p>"'If you have, my man, keep it,' says I. 'I want +none o' your secrets.' For in truth he is often very +troublesome, my lord, though a well-meaning youth at +bottom.</p> + +<p>"'But it is on my conscience,' says he, 'and if I don't +tell it to you I shall tell it to some one else, because tell +it I must, or bust!'</p> + +<p>"So when he went that far, my lord, I saw as how he +was real uneasy, and I made up my mind to listen. And +then he says,—</p> + +<p>"'Night before last feyther was coming through the +copse wood that runs t'other side o' the fence from Master +Annersley's, and there, in the thickest part o' it, he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span> +saw Miss Ruth a standing, and wi' her was Mr. Branscombe.'</p> + +<p>"'Which Mr. Branscombe?' says I.</p> + +<p>"'Mr. Dorian,' he says, 'He seen him as plain as +life, though it was dusk, standing wi' his back half turned +towards him, but not so turned but what he could see his +ear and part o' his face. He had a hold o' Miss Ruth's +hands; and was speaking very earnest to her, as though +he were persuading her to something she were dead +against. And she were crying very bitter, and trying to +draw her hands away; but presently she got quiet like; +and then they went away together, slowly at first, but +quicker afterwards, in the direction of the wood that leads +to Langham. He did not stir a peg until they was out o' +sight, he was so afeard o' being seen. And now it is on +his conscience that he did not speak sooner, ever since he +saw old Mr. Annersley yesterday, like a mad creature, +looking for his girl.'</p> + +<p>"That was his story, my lord. And he told it as though +he meant it. I said to him as how Mr. Dorian was in +Lonnun, and that I didn't believe one word of it; and +then he said,—</p> + +<p>"'Lonnun or no Lonnun, there is no mistake about it. +If, as you say, he did go up to Lonnun, he must ha' +come down again by the Langham train, for he see him +wi' his two eyes.'</p> + +<p>"'Mr. Horace is very like Mr. Dorian,' I said. (Forgive +me, my lord, but there was a moment when I would +gladly have believed the blame might fall on Mr. Horace.) +'There are times when one can hardly know them asunder;' +but he scouted this notion.</p> + +<p>"'Feyther seen him,' he said. 'He had one o' them light +overcoats on he is so fond o' wearing. It was him, and +no other. He noticed the coat most perticler. And a +damn'd shame it is for him! If you don't believe me, I +can't help you. I believe it: that is enough for me.'"</p> + +<p>Gale ceases speaking. And silence follows that lasts +for several minutes. Then he speaks again:</p> + +<p>"I ask your pardon, my lord, for having so spoken +about any member of the family. But I thought it was +only right you should know."</p> + +<p>"You have acted very kindly." Even to himself his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span> +tone is strained and cold. "This Andrews must be silenced," +he says, after a little pause, full of bitterness.</p> + +<p>"I have seen to that, my lord. After what I said to +him, he will hardly speak again to any one on the subject."</p> + +<p>"See to it, Simon. Let him fully understand that dismissal +will be the result of further talk."</p> + +<p>"I will, my lord." Then, very wistfully, "Not that any +one would distrust Mr. Dorian in this matter. I feel—I +know, he is innocent."</p> + +<p>Lord Sartoris looks at him strangely; his lips quiver; +he seems old and worn, and as a man might who has just +seen his last hope perish.</p> + +<p>"I envy you your faith," he says, wearily; "I would +give half—nay, all I possess, if I could say that honestly."</p> + +<p>Just at this moment there comes an interruption.</p> + +<p>"A telegram, my lord," says one of the men, handing in +a yellow envelope.</p> + +<p>Sartoris, tearing it open, reads hurriedly.</p> + +<p>"I shall not go to town, Gale," he says, after a minute +or two of thought. "Counter-order the carriage. Mr. +Branscombe comes home to-night."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXII.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="blockquot"><p>"When there is a great deal of smoke, and no clear flame, it argues +much moisture in the matter, yet it witnesseth, certainly, that there is +fire there."—<span class="smcap">Leighton</span>.</p></div> +</div> + + +<p>Long before the night has set in he comes; and, as he +enters the room where his uncle sits awaiting him, Lord +Sartoris tells himself that never before has he seen him so +handsome, so tall, so good to look at.</p> + +<p>"Your telegram made me uneasy," he says, abruptly, +"so I came back sooner than I had intended. Had you +mine?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; some hours ago."</p> + +<p>"Did you want me, Arthur?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; but not your return here. I sent my telegram<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span> +principally to learn your address, as I had made up +my mind to go up to town. You have frustrated that +plan."</p> + +<p>There is a meaning in his tone that puzzles Dorian.</p> + +<p>"You going to trust yourself alone in our great Babylon?" +he says, raising his brows. "Why, the world must +be coming to an end. What business had you there that +I could not have managed for you?"</p> + +<p>"My business was with you."</p> + +<p>"Anything wrong?" says the young man, impatiently, +tapping a table lightly with his fingers, and frowning somewhat +heavily. "Your tone implies as much. Has anything +happened in my absence to cause you annoyance? +If so, let me know at once, and spare me any beating +about the bush. Suspense is unpleasant."</p> + +<p>"It is," says Sartoris, rising from his chair, and moving +a few steps nearer to him. "It is slowly murdering +poor old John Annersley!"</p> + +<p>"I am still hopelessly in the dark," says Dorian, shrugging +his shoulders. "What has suspense got to do with +old Annersley?"</p> + +<p>"Are you really ignorant of all that has occurred? Have +you not heard of Ruth's mysterious disappearance?"</p> + +<p>"'Ruth's disappearance?' I have heard nothing. +Why, where can she have gone?"</p> + +<p>"That is exactly what no one knows, except she herself, +of course, and—one other." Then, turning impulsively to +face his nephew, "I thought you could have told me where +she is," he says, without giving himself time to think of all +the words may convey to Dorian.</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" demands Branscombe, throwing +up his head, and flushing darkly. His eyes flash, his +nostrils dilate. "Am I to infer from your last remark that +you suspect <i>me</i> of having something to do with her disappearance?"</p> + +<p>"I do," returns Sartoris, slowly, but with his eyes upon +the ground. "How can I do otherwise when I call to +mind all the causes you have given me to doubt you? +Have you forgotten that day, now some months ago, when +I met you and that unhappy girl together on the road to the +village? I, at least, shall never forget the white misery of +her face, and the unmistakable confusion in her manner,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span> +as I greeted her. Even then the truth began to dawn +upon me."</p> + +<p>"The truth?" says Branscombe, with a short and bitter +laugh.</p> + +<p>"At that time I was unwilling to harbor unkind doubts +of you in my breast," goes on Sartoris, unmoved, nay, +rather confirmed in his suspicions by Branscombe's sneer; +"but then came the night of the Hunt ball, when I met +you, alone with her, in the most secluded part of the +grounds, and when you were unable to give me any reasonable +explanation of her presence there; and then, a little +later, I find a handkerchief (which you yourself acknowledge +having given her) lying on your library floor; about +that, too, you were dumb: no excuse was ready to your +lips. By your own actions I judge you."</p> + +<p>"Your suspicions make you unjust, my lord," says the +young man, haughtily. "They overrule your better judgment. +Are such paltry evidences as you have just put forward +sufficient to condemn me, or have you further +proofs?"</p> + +<p>"I have,—a still stronger one than any other I have +mentioned. The last place in which Ruth Annersley was +seen in this neighborhood was in Hurston Wood, at eight +o'clock on the evening of her departure, and—you were +with her!"</p> + +<p>"<i>I</i> was?"</p> + +<p>"The man who saw you will swear to this."</p> + +<p>"He must be rather a clever fellow. I congratulate +you on your 'man.'"</p> + +<p>"Do you deny it?" There is something that is almost +hope in his tone. "If not there last Tuesday, at that hour, +where were you?"</p> + +<p>"Well, really, it would take me all my time to remember. +Probably dining: got to my fish by that time, no +doubt. Later on I was at Lady Chetwoode's crush; but +that"—with a sarcastic laugh—"is a very safe thing to +say, is it not? One can hardly prove the presence of any +one at a gathering together of the clans, such as there was +at her 'at home.' I <i>wouldn't</i> believe I was there, if I +were you."</p> + +<p>He laughs again. Sartoris flushes hotly all over his +lean earnest face.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It is needless lying," he says, slowly. "The very coat +you wore—a light overcoat,—probably" (pointing to it) +"the one you are now wearing—was accurately described." +Dorian starts visibly. "Do you still hope to brave it out?"</p> + +<p>"A coat like this, do you say?" asks Branscombe, with +a nervous attempt at unconcern, laying his hand upon his +sleeve.</p> + +<p>"A light overcoat. Such was the description. But" +(with a longing that is terribly pathetic) "many overcoats +are alike. And—and I dare say you have not worn that +one for months."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I have. I wear it incessantly: I have taken rather +a fancy to it," replies Branscombe, in an uncompromising +tone. "My persistent admiration for it has driven my +tailor to despair. I very seldom (except, perhaps, at midnight +revels or afternoon bores) appear in public without +it."</p> + +<p>"Then you deny nothing?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing!"—contemptuously, making a movement as +though to depart. "Why should I? If, after all these +years that you have known me, you can imagine me capable +of evil such as you describe so graphically, it would +give me no pleasure to vindicate myself in your eyes. +Think of me as you will: I shall take no steps to justify +myself."</p> + +<p>"You dare not!" says Sartoris, in a stifled tone, confronting +him fully for the first time.</p> + +<p>"That is just as you please to think," says Branscombe, +turning upon him with flashing eyes. He frowns heavily, +and, with a little gesture common to him, raises his hand +and pushes the end of his fair moustache between his +teeth. Then, with a sudden effort, he controls himself, +and goes on more quietly: "I shall always feel regret in +that you found it so easy a matter to believe me guilty of +so monstrous a deed. I think we can have nothing further +to say to each other, either now or in the future. I wish +you good-evening."</p> + +<p>Sartoris, standing with his back almost turned to his +nephew, takes no heed of this angry farewell; and Dorian, +going out, closes the door calmly behind him.</p> + +<p>Passing through the Long Hall, as it has been called +from time immemorial, he encounters Simon Gale, the old<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span> +butler, and stops to speak to him, kindly, as is his wont, +though in truth his heart is sore.</p> + +<p>"Ah, Simon! How warm the weather grows!" he says, +genially brushing his short hair back from his forehead. +The attempt is praiseworthy, as really there is no hair to +speak of, his barber having provided against that. He +speaks kindly, carelessly—if a little wearily. His pulses +are throbbing, and his heart beating hotly with passionate +indignation and disappointment.</p> + +<p>"Very warm, sir," returns the old man, regarding him +wistfully. He is not thinking of the weather, either of its +heat or cold. He is only wondering, with a foreboding sadness, +whether the man before him—who has been to him +as the apple of his eye—is guilty or not of the crime imputed +to him. With an effort he recovers himself, and +asks, hastily, though almost without purpose, "Have you +seen my lord?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; I have only just left him."</p> + +<p>"You will stay to dinner, Mr. Dorian?" He has been +"Mr. Dorian" to him for so many years that now the +more formal Mr. Branscombe is impossible.</p> + +<p>"Not to-night. Some other time when my uncle—" +He pauses.</p> + +<p>"You think him looking well?" asks the old man, anxiously, +mistaking his hesitation.</p> + +<p>"Well! Oh, that doesn't describe him," says Branscombe, +with a shrug, and a somewhat ironical laugh. +"He struck me as being unusually lively,—in fact, 'strong +as Boreas on the main.' I thought him very well indeed."</p> + +<p>"Ay, he is so! A godly youth brings a peaceful age; +and his was that. He has lived a good life, and now is +reaping his reward."</p> + +<p>"Is he?" says Dorian, with a badly-suppressed yawn. +"Of course I was mistaken, but really it occurred to me +that he was in an abominable temper. Is a desire to insult +every one part of the reward?"</p> + +<p>"You make light of what I say," returns Simon, reproachfully, +"yet it is the very truth I speak. He has no +special sin to repent, no lasting misdeed to haunt him, as +years creep on. It were well to think of it," says Simon, +with a trembling voice, "while youth is still with us. To +you it yet belongs. If you have done aught amiss, I en<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span>treat +you to confess, and make amends for it, whilst there +is yet time."</p> + +<p>Dorian, laying his hands upon the old servant's shoulders, +pushes him gently backwards, so that he may look +the more readily into his face.</p> + +<p>"Why, Simon! How absolutely in earnest you are!" +he says, lightly. "What crime have I committed, that I +should spend the rest of my days in sackcloth and ashes!"</p> + +<p>"I know nothing," says old Gale, sadly. "How should +I be wiser than my masters? All I feel is that youth is +careless and headstrong, and things once done are difficult +of undoing. If you would go to your grave happy, +keep yourself from causing misery to those who love you +and—<i>trust</i> in you."</p> + +<p>His voice sinks, and grows tremulous. Dorian, taking +his hands from his shoulders, moves back from the old +man, and regards him meditatively, stroking his fair moustache +slowly, in a rather mechanical fashion, as he does +so.</p> + +<p>"The whole world seems dyspeptic to-day," he says, ironically. +Then, "It would be such a horrid bore to make any +one miserable that I daresay I sha'n't try it. If, however, +I do commit the mysterious serious offence at which you +broadly hint, and of which you plainly believe me fully capable, +I'll let you know about it."</p> + +<p>He smiles again,—a jarring sort of smile, that hardly +accords with the beauty of the dying day,—and, moving +away from the old man, crosses the oaken flooring to the +glass door that lies at the farther end of the room, and that +opens on to a gravelled path outside, on which lilacs are +flinging broadcast their rich purple bloom. As he moves, +with a pale face and set lips (for the bitter smile has +faded), he tramples ruthlessly, and without thought for +their beauty, upon the deep soft patches of coloring that +are strewn upon the flooring from the stained-glass windows +above.</p> + +<p>Throwing open the door, he welcomes gladly the cool +evening air that seems to rush to meet him.</p> + +<p>"Pah!" he says, almost aloud, as he strides onwards +beneath the budding elms. "To think, after all these +years, they should so readily condemn! Even that old +man, who has known me from my infancy, believes me +guilty."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span></p> + +<p>Then a change sweeps over him. Insults to himself +are forgotten, and his thoughts travel onward to a +fear that for many days has been growing and gaining +strength.</p> + +<p><i>Can</i> Horace have committed this base deed? This +fear usurps all other considerations. Going back upon +what he has just heard, he examines in his mind each +little detail of the wretched history imparted to him by his +uncle. All the suspicions—lulled to rest through lack of +matter wherewith to feed them—now come to life again, and +grow in size and importance in spite of his intense desire +to suppress them.</p> + +<p>On Tuesday night the girl had left her home. On Tuesday +morning he had been to Horace's rooms, had found +him there, had sat and conversed with him for upwards +of an hour on different subjects,—chiefly, he now remembers, +of Clarissa Peyton.</p> + +<p>The day had been warm, and he had taken off his coat +(the light overcoat he had affected for the past month), +and had thrown it on a chair, and—<i>left it there when +going</i>!</p> + +<p>The next morning he had called again and found the +coat in the very self-same place where he had thrown it. +But in the mean time, during all the hours that intervened +between the afternoon of one day and the forenoon of another, +where had it been?</p> + +<p>"The very coat you wore was minutely described."—The +words come back upon him with a sudden rush, causing +him a keener pang than any he has ever yet known. +Must he indeed bring himself to believe that his own brother +had made use of the coat with the deliberate intention +(should chance fling any intruder in the way) of casting +suspicion upon him—Dorian?</p> + +<p>In the dusk of the evening any one might easily mistake +one brother for the other. They are the same height; the +likeness between them is remarkable. He almost hates +himself for the readiness with which he pieces his story +together, making doubt merge with such entirety into conviction.</p> + +<p>The evening is passing fair, yet it brings no comfort to +his soul; the trees towering upwards lie heavily against the +sky; the breath of many flowers makes rich the air. Al<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span>ready +the faint moon arising, throws her "silver light +o'er half the world," and makes more blue the azure depths +above:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Star follows star, though yet day's golden light<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Upon the hills and headlands faintly streams."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The far-off grating sound of the corncrake can be heard; +the cuckoo's tuneless note, incessant and unmusical, tires +the early night. The faint sweet chirrups of many insects +come from far and near, and break upon the sense with a +soft and lulling harmony:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"There is no stir, nor breath of air; the plains<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lie slumbering in the close embrace of night."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>All nature seems sinking into one grand repose, wherein +strife and misery and death appear to have no part.</p> + +<p>To Dorian the tender solemnity of the scene brings no +balm. To go again to town by the night mail—to confront +Horace and learn from him the worst—is his one settled +thought, among the multitude of disordered ones; and +upon it he determines to act.</p> + +<p>But what if he shall prove innocent, or deny all knowledge +of the affair? What then can clear Dorian in his +uncle's eyes? And even should he acknowledge the fact +that he had enticed the girl from her home, how can it +benefit Dorian? He is scarcely the one to defend himself +at another's expense; and to betray Horace to clear himself +would be impossible to him.</p> + +<p>He grows bewildered and heart-sick. Reaching home, +he orders his dog-cart to be brought round, and, by taking +it a good deal out of his good gray mare, he manages to +catch the evening train to town.</p> + +<p>Lord Sartoris, sitting brooding over miserable thoughts +in the library at Hythe, has tidings brought him of his +nephew's speedy return to London, and endures one stab +the more, as he feels now more than ever convinced of his +duplicity.</p> + +<p>Arrived in town, Branscombe drives to Horace's rooms, +hoping against hope that he may find him at home. To +his surprise he does so find him,—in the midst of papers, +and apparently up to his eyes in business.</p> + +<p>"Working so late?" says Dorian, involuntarily, being +accustomed to think of Horace, at this hour, as one of a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span> +chosen band brought together to discuss the lighter topics +of the day over soup and fish and flesh. In truth, now he +is on the spot and face to face with his brother, the enormity +of his errand makes itself felt, and he hardly knows +what to say to him.</p> + +<p>"You, Dorian?" Horace, raising his eyes, smiles upon +him his usual slow impenetrable smile. "Working? Yes; +we others, the moneyless ones, must work or die; and +death is unpopular nowadays. Still, law is dry work when +all is confessed." He presses his hand to his forehead +with affected languor, and for an instant conceals his face. +"By the by, it is rather good of you to break in so unexpectedly +upon my monotony. Anything I can do for you?"</p> + +<p>"Let me speak to you," says Dorian, impulsively, laying +his hand upon his arm. "If I am wronging you in my +thoughts I shall never forgive myself, and you, in all probability, +will never forgive me either; yet I must get it off +my mind."</p> + +<p>"My dear fellow, how you have flung away undoubted +talent! Your tone out-Irvings Irving: it is ultra-tragic. +Positively, you make my blood run cold. Don't stand +staring at me in that awful attitude, but tell me, as briefly +as you can, what I have done."</p> + +<p>He laughs lightly.</p> + +<p>Dorian regards him fixedly. Has he wronged him? +Has instinct played him false?</p> + +<p>"Where is Ruth Annersley?" he asks, awkwardly, as +though getting rid of the question at any price and without +preamble. He has still his hand upon his brother's +arm, and his eyes upon his face.</p> + +<p>"Ruth Annersley?" reiterates Horace, the most perfect +amazement in his tone. If purposely done, the surprise +is very excellent indeed. "Why? What has happened +to her?"</p> + +<p>"Have you heard nothing?"</p> + +<p>"My dear fellow, how could I? I have not been near +Pullingham for a full month; and its small gossips fail to +interest our big city. What has happened?"</p> + +<p>"The girl has left her home; has not been heard of +since last Tuesday. They fear she has wilfully flung up +happiness and honor to gain—misery."</p> + +<p>"What a charitable place is a small village!" says<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span> +Horace, with a shrug. "Why should the estimable Pullinghamites +imagine so much evil? Perhaps, finding life in +that stagnate hole unendurable, Ruth threw up the whole +concern, and is now seeking a subsistence honorably. +Perhaps, too, she has married. Perhaps——"</p> + +<p>"Why do you not suppose her dead?" says Dorian, tapping +the table with his forefinger, his eyes fixed moodily +on the pattern of the maroon-colored cloth. "All such +speculations are equally absurd. I hardly came to London +to listen to such vain imaginings."</p> + +<p>"Then—I think I barely understand you," says Horace, +amicably; "you came because——?"</p> + +<p>"Because I fancied I had here the best chance of hearing +about her," interrupts Dorian, bluntly, losing patience +a little.</p> + +<p>"How fearfully you blunder!" returns Horace, still +quite calmly,—nay, in even a tone that might be called +amused. "If you mean that I have had anything to do +with her vamoose, I beg to say your imagination has run +wild. You can search the place if you like. The old lady +who attends to my wants will probably express some faint +disapprobation when you invade the sanctity of her chamber, +but beyond that no unpleasantness need be anticipated. +This is her favorite hour for imbibing brandy—<i>my</i> +brandy, you will understand (she takes it merely as a tonic, +being afflicted—as she tells me—with what she is pleased +to term 'nightly trimbles'): so if, in the course of your +wanderings, you chance to meet her, and she openly molests +you, don't blame me."</p> + +<p>"Is that all you can tell me?"</p> + +<p>"All about my old lady, certainly."</p> + +<p>"And of Ruth?"</p> + +<p>"I know nothing, as <i>you</i> should understand." He +laughs significantly.</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" demands Dorian, a little fiercely. +His eyes are dark and flashing, his lips compressed.</p> + +<p>"What can I mean, except that you are ridiculously absurd?" +says Horace, rising. "What is it you expect me +to say? I can't get you out of it. I always knew you had +a <i>penchant</i> for her, but never thought it would carry you so +far. If you will take my advice, however, you will be +milder about it, and take that look off your face. If you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span> +go in for society with that cut-up expression in your eyes, +people will talk."</p> + +<p>"Then you know nothing?" repeats Branscombe, taking +no notice of—perhaps not even hearing—the foregoing +speech.</p> + +<p>"Absolutely nothing. How should I?" says Horace, +with his soft smooth smile. "Have a brandy-and-soda, +Dorian, or a little curaçoa? Perhaps, indeed, the brandy +will be best (always allowing Mrs. McGinty has left me +any), you look so thoroughly done up."</p> + +<p>"Thank you,—nothing." He gazes at his brother long +and earnestly. "The Branscombe word <i>ought</i> to be sure," +he says, moodily.</p> + +<p>"Still unconvinced!" says Horace, with an airy laugh. +"I know I ought to take you by the shoulders, Dorian, +and pitch you down the stairs; but, somehow, I haven't +the pluck to-night. I am overdone through this abominable +law, and—you are such a tremendous fellow when +compared with me. Must you really be off so soon? +Stay and have a cup of coffee? No? Well, if it must be, +good-night."</p> + +<p>Dorian goes down the stairs,—puzzled, bewildered, +almost convinced. At the foot of the staircase he looks +up again, to see Horace standing above him still, candle +in hand, radiant, smiling, <i>débonnaire</i>, apparently without a +care in the world.</p> + +<p>He nods to him, and Dorian, returning the salute in +grave and silent fashion, goes out into the lighted streets, +and walks along in momentary expectation of a hansom, +when a well known voice smites upon his ear:</p> + +<p>"What in the name of wonder, Branscombe, brings you +here?"</p> + +<p>Turning, he finds himself face to face with Sir James +Scrope.</p> + +<p>"My presence is hardly an eighth wonder," he says, +wearily. "But how is it you are not in Paris?"</p> + +<p>"Fate ordained it so, and probably fortune, as I just +want a friend with whom to put in an evening."</p> + +<p>"You have chosen a dull companion," says Dorian, +stupidly. "What brought you home so soon? or, rather, +what took you to Paris originally?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Business partly, and partly because—er—that is, I +felt I needed a little change."</p> + +<p>"Ah! just so," says Branscombe. But he answers as +one might who has heard nothing. Sir James casts upon +him a quick penetrating glance.</p> + +<p>"Anything wrong with you, Branscombe?" he asks, +quietly. "Anything in which I can be of use to you?"</p> + +<p>"Thank you, no. I'm just a little down on my luck, +that's all." Then, abruptly, "I suppose you have heard +of the scandal down in Pullingham?"</p> + +<p>"About that poor little girl?" says Sir James. "Oh, +yes. 'Ill news flies apace;' and this morning Hodges, +who came to town to see me about Bennett's farm, gave +me a garbled account of her disappearance. I think I +hardly understand even now. How did it happen?"</p> + +<p>For a full minute Dorian makes no reply. He is looking +earnestly in James Scrope's face, to see if in it there +lurks any hidden thought, any carefully concealed expression +of mistrust. There is, indeed, none. No shadow, +no faintest trace of suspicion, lies in Scrope's clear +and honest eyes. Branscombe draws a deep breath. +Whatever in the future this friend may come to believe, +now, at least, he holds him—Dorian—clear and pure from +this gross evil that has been imputed to him.</p> + +<p>He throws up his head with a freer air, and tries, with +a quick effort, to conquer the morbid feeling that for +hours past has been pressing upon him heavily.</p> + +<p>"I know nothing," he says, presently, in answer to Sir +James's last remark.</p> + +<p>"It is such an unaccountable story," says Scrope, lifting +his brows. "Where did she go? and with whom? +Such a quiet little mouse of a girl, one hardly understands +her being the heroine of a tragedy. But how does it particularly +affect you?"</p> + +<p>Branscombe hesitates. For one brief moment he wonders +whether he shall or shall not reveal to Scrope the +scene that has passed between him and his uncle. Then +his whole sympathies revolt from the task, and he determines +to let things rest as they now are.</p> + +<p>"Arthur has tormented himself needlessly about the +whole business," he says, turning his face from Scrope.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span> +"He thinks me—that is, every one—to blame, until the +girl is restored to her father."</p> + +<p>"Ah! I quite see," says James Scrope.</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXIII.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Her eyes were deeper than the depth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of waters stilled at even."<br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + + +<p>"Dorian?" says Clarissa.</p> + +<p>"Clarissa!" says Dorian.</p> + +<p>"I really think I shall give a ball."</p> + +<p>"What?" cries a small, sweet, plaintive voice from the +corner, and Georgie, emerging from obscurity and the tremendous +volume she has been studying, comes to the +front, in her usual vehement fashion, and stands before +Miss Peyton, expectation in every feature. "Oh, Clarissa, +do say it again."</p> + +<p>"Papa says I must entertain the county in some way," +says Clarissa, meditatively, "and I really think a ball +will be the best way. Don't you?"</p> + +<p>"Don't I, though?" says Miss Broughton, with much +vivacity. "Clarissa, you grow sweeter daily. Let me +offer you some small return for your happy thought."</p> + +<p>She laughs, and, stooping, presses her warm ripe lips +against her friend's cheek. She blushes as she performs +this graceful act, and a small, bright, mischievous gleam +grows within her eye. The whole action is half mocking, +half tender:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"A rosebud set with little wilfulthorns,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And sweet as English air can make her, she."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The lines come hurriedly to Branscombe's mind, and linger +there. Raising her head again, her eyes meet his, and +she laughs, for the second time, out of the pure gladness +of her heart.</p> + +<p>"I think it was my happy thought," says Branscombe, +mildly. "<i>I</i> suggested this dance to Clarissa only yesterday. +Might not I, too, partake of the 'small return'?"</p> + +<p>"It no longer belongs to me; I have given it all away,—here," +says Georgie, touching Clarissa's cheek with one<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span> +finger; "but for that," with a slow adorable glance, "I +should be charmed."</p> + +<p>"I think I shall get pencil and paper and write down +the names," says Clarissa, energetically, rising and going +towards the door. "Dorian, take care of Georgie until +I return."</p> + +<p>"I wish I knew how," says Branscombe, in a tone so +low that only Georgie can hear it. Then, as the door +closes he says, "Did you mean your last speech?"</p> + +<p>"My last? What was it? I never remember anything." +She very seldom blushes, but now again a soft delicate +color creeps into her face.</p> + +<p>"If you <i>hadn't</i> given it all away, would you have given +me a little of that small return?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Not even if <i>I</i> were to give a ball for you?"</p> + +<p>"N-o—no."</p> + +<p>"Not if I were to do for you the one thing you most +desired?"</p> + +<p>"No—no—no!" She speaks hastily, and glances at +him somewhat confusedly from beneath her long lashes.</p> + +<p>"Well, of course, it is too much to expect," says Branscombe; +"yet I would do a good deal for you, even without +hope of payment."</p> + +<p>He comes a little nearer to her, and lays his hand upon +the table close to hers.</p> + +<p>"If you really made the suggestion to Clarissa, you deserve +some reward," says Georgie, nodding her head. +"Now, what shall it be?"</p> + +<p>"Dance half the night with me."</p> + +<p>"That would bore you,—and me. No; but if dancing +delights you—sir—may I have the pleasure of the first +quadrille?"</p> + +<p>"Madam," says Branscombe, laying his hand upon his +heart, "you do me too much honor; I am at your service +now and forever."</p> + +<p>"It is too large a promise."</p> + +<p>"A true one, nevertheless."</p> + +<p>A little earnest shade shows itself upon his face, but +Georgie laughs lightly, and moves away from him over to +the window, and at this moment Clarissa returns, armed +with paper and pencils and a very much pleased smile.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Can't I have the gardens lighted?" she says, "with +Chinese lanterns, and that? I have been thinking of it."</p> + +<p>"I don't know about 'that,'" says Dorian. "I'm not +sure but it might blow us all to atoms; but the celestial +lights will be quite 'too, too!' It must be a splendid +thing, Clarissa, to have a brain like yours. Now, neither +Miss Broughton nor I have a particle between us."</p> + +<p>"Speak for yourself, please," says Miss Broughton, very +justly incensed.</p> + +<p>"I'm doing even more than that, I'm speaking for you +too. Don't put up too many Chinese lanterns, Clarissa, +or it will be awkward: we shall be seen."</p> + +<p>"What matter? I love light," says Georgie, innocently. +"How I do hope there will be a moon! Not a mean +effort at one, but a good, round, substantial, vast old moon, +such as there was two months ago."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>She has her wish: such another moonlight night as +comes to Pullingham on the night of Miss Peyton's ball +has been rarely, if ever, seen. It breaks over the whole +place in a flood of light so whitely brilliant that the very +sleeping flowers lift up their heads, as though believing +the soft mystic light to be the early birth of morn.</p> + +<p>All around is calm and drowsy sweet. The stars come +forth to light the world, and, perhaps, to do homage to +Clarissa on this the night of her first ball.</p> + +<p>About six weeks have passed since Ruth Annersley left +her home, and as yet no tidings of her have reached Pullingham. +Already people are beginning to forget that +such an <i>esclandre</i> ever occurred in their quiet village. The +minutest inquiries have been made (chiefly by Lord Sartoris, +who is now very seldom at home); rewards offered; +numerous paragraphs, addressed to "R. A.," have appeared +in the London papers, but without result. The +world is growing tired of the miserable scandal, and Ruth's +disappearance ceases to be the one engrossing topic of +conversation at village teas and bar-room revelries.</p> + +<p>To-night is fair enough to make one believe sin impossible. +It is touched by heaven; great waves of light, sent +by the "silver queen of night," lie languidly on tree and +bower; the very paths are bright with its stray beams.</p> + +<p>"Bats and grisly owls on noiseless wings" flit to and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span> +fro, "and now the nightingale, not distant far, begins her +solitary song."</p> + +<p>Within, music is sounding, and laughter, and the faint +sweet dropping of fountains. Clarissa, moving about +among her guests, is looking quite lovely in a pale satin +trimmed heavily with old gold. She is happy and quite +content, though her eyes, in spite of her, turn anxiously, +every now and then, to the doorway.</p> + +<p>Every one is smiling, radiant. Even Dorian, who is +waltzing with any one but the woman he desires, is looking +gracious all through, and is creating havoc in the +bosom of the damsel who has rashly intrusted herself to +his care.</p> + +<p>Cissy Redmond, in the arms of a cavalry-man, is floating +round the room, her unutterable little <i>nez retroussé</i> +looking even more pronounced than usual. Her face is +lit up with pleasurable excitement; to her—as she tells +the cavalry-man without hesitation—the evening is "quite +too awfully much, don't you know!" and the cavalry-man +understands her perfectly, and is rather taking to her, +which is undoubtedly clever of the cavalry-man.</p> + +<p>He is now talking to her in his very best style, and she +is smiling,—but not at him.</p> + +<p>Within the shelter of a door, directly opposite, stands +Mr. Hastings, and he is answering back her smile fourfold. +He will not dance himself,—conscience forbidding,—yet +it pleases him to see his Cissy (as she now is) enjoying +herself. The band is playing "Beautiful Ferns" +dreamily, languidly; and I think at this very moment Mr. +Hastings's reverend toes are keeping excellent time to +the music. But this, of course, is barest supposition; for +what human eye can penetrate leather?</p> + +<p>The waltz comes to an end, and Dorian, having successfully +rid himself of his late partner, draws Georgie's +hand within his arm and leads her into a conservatory.</p> + +<p>Her late partner was a fat, kindly squire, who <i>will</i> dance, +but who, at the expiration of each effort to eclipse Terpsichore, +feels devoutly thankful that his task has come to +an end. He is, to say the mildest least of him, exceedingly +tiring, and Georgie is rather glad than otherwise that +Dorian should lead her into the cool recess where flowers +and perfumed fountains hold full sway. She sinks into a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span> +seat, and sighs audibly, and looks upwards at her companion +from under half-closed lids, and then, letting them +drop suddenly, plays, in a restless fashion, with the large +black fan she holds.</p> + +<p>Branscombe is stupidly silent; indeed, it hardly occurs +to him that speech is necessary. He is gazing earnestly, +tenderly, at the small face beside him,—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"A face o'er which a thousand shadows go."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The small face, perhaps, objects to this minute scrutiny, +because presently it raises itself, and says, coquettishly,—</p> + +<p>"How silent you are! What are you thinking of?"</p> + +<p>"Of you," says Dorian, simply. "What a foolish question! +You are a perfect picture in that black gown, +with your baby arms and neck."</p> + +<p>"Anything else?" asks Miss Broughton, demurely.</p> + +<p>"Yes. It also seems to me that you cannot be more +than fifteen. You look such a little thing, and so young."</p> + +<p>"But I'm not young," says Georgie, hastily. "I am +quite old. I wish you would remember I am nearly nineteen."</p> + +<p>"Quite a Noah's Ark sort of person,—a fossil of the +pre-Adamite period. How I envy you! You are, indeed, +unique in your way. Don't be angry with me because +I said you looked young; and don't wish to be old. +There is no candor so hateful, no truth so unpleasing, as +age."</p> + +<p>"How do you know?" demands she, saucily, sweetly, +half touched by his tone. "You are not yet a Methuselah." +Then, "Do you know your brother has come at +last? He is very late, isn't he?"</p> + +<p>"He always is," says Dorian.</p> + +<p>"And he has brought a friend with him. And who do +you think it is?"</p> + +<p>"I haven't the faintest idea," says Branscombe, turning +a vivid red.</p> + +<p>"Why, <i>my</i> Mr. Kennedy!"</p> + +<p>"<i>Your</i> Mr. Kennedy?" reiterates he, blankly, his red +becoming a crimson of the liveliest hue.</p> + +<p>"Yes, the dark thin young man I met at Sir John +Lincoln's. I dare say I told you about him?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, you did," says Dorian, grimly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I see him over there," pointing airily with her fan +through the open conservatory door to a distant wall +where many young men are congregated together.</p> + +<p>"The man with the nose?" asks Branscombe, slightingly, +feeling sure in his soul he is <i>not</i> the man with the +nose.</p> + +<p>"He has a nose," says Miss Broughton, equably, +"though there isn't much of it. He is very like a Chinese +pug. Don't you see him? But he <i>is</i> so nice."</p> + +<p>Dorian looks again in the desired direction, and as he +does so a tall young man, with a somewhat canine expression, +but very kindly, advances towards him, and, entering +the conservatory, comes up to Miss Broughton with a +smile full of delight upon his ingenuous countenance.</p> + +<p>"Miss Broughton," he says, in a low musical voice, that +has unmistakable pleasure in it. "Can it really be you? +I didn't believe life could afford me so happy a moment +as this."</p> + +<p>"I saw you ten minutes ago," says Georgie, in her +quick bright fashion.</p> + +<p>"And made no sign? that was cruel," says Kennedy, +with some reproach in his tone. He is looking +with ill-suppressed admiration upon her fair uplifted face. +"Now that I have found you, what dance will you give +me?"</p> + +<p>"Any one I have," she says, sweetly.</p> + +<p>"The tenth? The dance after next,—after this, I +mean?"</p> + +<p>Branscombe, who is standing beside her, here turns his +head to look steadfastly at her. His blue eyes are almost +black, his lips are compressed, his face is very pale. Not +an hour ago she had promised him this tenth dance. He +had asked it of her in haste, even as he went by her with +another partner, and she had smiled consent. Will she +forget it?</p> + +<p>"With pleasure," she says, softly, gayly, her usual +lovely smile upon her lips. She is apparently utterly unconscious +of any one except her old-new friend. Kennedy +puts her name down upon his card.</p> + +<p>At this Dorian makes one step forward, as though to +protest against something,—some iniquity done; but, a +sudden thought striking him, he draws back, and, bring<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span>ing +his teeth upon his under lip with some force, turns +abruptly away. When next he looks in her direction, he +finds both Georgie and her partner have disappeared.</p> + +<p>The night wanes. Already the "keen stars that falter +never" are dropping, one by one, to slumber, perfect and +serene. Diana, tired of her ceaseless watch, is paling, +fading, dying imperceptibly, as though feeling herself soon +to be conquered by the sturdy morn.</p> + +<p>Dorian, who has held himself carefully aloof from Miss +Broughton ever since that last scene, when she had shown +herself so unmindful of him and his just claim to the dance +then on the cards, now, going up to her, says, coldly,—</p> + +<p>"I think the next is our dance, Miss Broughton."</p> + +<p>Georgie, who is laughing gayly with Mr. Kennedy, turns +her face to his, some surprise mixed with the sweetness of +her regard. Never before has he addressed her in such +a tone.</p> + +<p>"Is it?" she says, gently. "I had forgotten; but of +course my card will tell."</p> + +<p>"One often forgets, and one's card doesn't always tell," +replies he, with a smile tinctured with bitterness.</p> + +<p>She opens her eyes, and stares at him blankly. There +is some balm in Gilead, he tells himself, as he sees she is +totally unaware of his meaning. Perhaps, after all, she +<i>did</i> forget about that tenth dance, and did not purposely +fling him over for the man now beside her, who is grinning +at her in a supremely idiotic fashion. How he hates a fellow +who simpers straight through everything, and looks +always as if the world and he were eternally at peace!</p> + +<p>She flushes softly,—a gentle, delicate flush, born of distress, +coldness from even an ordinary friend striking like +ice upon her heart. She looks at her card confusedly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, the next is ours," she says, without raising her +eyes; and then the band begins again, and Dorian feels +her hand upon his arm, and Kennedy bows disconsolately +and disappears amid the crowd.</p> + +<p>"Do you particularly want to dance this?" asks Dorian, +with an effort.</p> + +<p>"No; not much."</p> + +<p>"Will you come out into the gardens instead? I want—I +must speak to you."</p> + +<p>"You may speak to me here, or in the garden, or any<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span> +where," says Georgie, rather frightened by the vehemence +of his tone.</p> + +<p>She lets him lead her down the stone steps that lead to +the shrubberies outside, and from thence to the gardens. +The night is still. The waning moonlight clear as day. +All things seem calm and full of rest,—that deepest rest +that comes before the awakening.</p> + +<p>"Who is your new friend?" asks he, abruptly, when +silence any longer has become impossible.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Kennedy. He is not exactly a friend. I met him +one night before in all my life, and he was very kind to +me——"</p> + +<p>"One night!" repeats Dorian, ignoring the fact that she +yet has something more to say. "One night! What an +impression"—unkindly—"he must have made on that +memorable occasion, to account for the very warm reception +accorded to him this evening!"</p> + +<p>She turns her head away from him, but makes no reply.</p> + +<p>"Why did you promise me that dance if you didn't mean +giving it?" he goes on, with something in his voice that +resembles passion, mixed with pain. "I certainly believed +you in earnest when you promised it to me."</p> + +<p>"You believed right: I did mean it. Am I not giving +it?" says Georgie, bewildered, her eyes gleaming, large +and troubled, in the white light that illumines the sleeping +world. "It is your fault that we are not dancing now. I, +for my part, would much rather be inside, with the music, +than out here with you, when you talk so unkindly."</p> + +<p>"I have no doubt you would rather be anywhere than +with me," says Dorian, hastily; "and of course this new +friend is intensely interesting."</p> + +<p>"At least he is not rude," says Miss Broughton, calmly, +plucking a pale green branch from a laurestinus near her.</p> + +<p>"I am perfectly convinced he is one of the few faultless +people upon earth," says Branscombe, now in a white heat +of fury. "I shouldn't dream of aspiring to his level. But +yet I think you needn't have given him the dance you +promised me."</p> + +<p>"I didn't," says Miss Broughton, indignantly, in all good +faith.</p> + +<p>"You mean to tell me you hadn't given me the tenth +dance half an hour before?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span></p> + +<p>"The tenth! You might as well speak about the hundred +and tenth! If it wasn't on my card how could I +remember it?"</p> + +<p>"But it was on your card: I wrote it down myself."</p> + +<p>"I am sure you are making a mistake," says Miss +Broughton, mildly; though in her present frame of mind, +I think she would have dearly liked to tell him he is lying.</p> + +<p>"Then show me your card. If I have blundered in this +matter I shall go on my knees to beg your pardon."</p> + +<p>"I don't want you on your knees,"—pettishly. "I detest +a man on his knees, he always looks so silly. As for +my card,"—grandly,—"here it is."</p> + +<p>Dorian, taking it, opens it, and, running his eyes down +the small columns, stops short at number ten. There, +sure enough, is "D. B." in very large capitals indeed.</p> + +<p>"You see," he says, feeling himself, as he says it, slightly +ungenerous.</p> + +<p>"I am very sorry," says Miss Broughton, standing far +away from him, and with a little quiver in her tone. "I +have behaved badly, I now see. But I did not mean it." +She has grown very pale; her eyes are dilating; her +rounded arms, soft and fair and lovable as a little child's, +are gleaming snow-white against the background of shining +laurel leaves that are glittering behind her in the moonlight. +Her voice is quiet, but her eyes are full of angry +tears, and her small gloved hands clasp and unclasp each +other nervously.</p> + +<p>"You have proved me in the wrong," she goes on, with +a very poor attempt at coolness, "and, of course, justice +is on your side. And you are quite right to say anything +that is unkind to me; and—and I <i>hate</i> people who are +always in the right."</p> + +<p>With this she turns, and, regardless of him, walks hurriedly, +and plainly full of childish rage, back to the house.</p> + +<p>Dorian, stricken with remorse, follows her.</p> + +<p>"Georgie, forgive me! I didn't mean it; I swear I +didn't!" he says, calling her by her Christian name for the +first time, and quite unconsciously. "Don't leave me like +this; or, at least let me call to-morrow and explain."</p> + +<p>"I don't want to see you to-morrow or any other day," +declares Miss Broughton, with cruel emphasis, not even +turning her head to him as she speaks.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span></p> + +<p>"But you shall see me to-morrow," exclaims he, seizing +her hand, as she reaches the conservatory door, to detain +her. "You will be here; I shall come to see you. I +entreat, I implore you not to deny yourself to me." Raising +her hand, he presses it with passionate fervor to his +lips.</p> + +<p>Georgie, detaching her hand from his grasp, moves away +from him.</p> + +<p>"'Must is for the queen, and shall is for the king,'" +quotes she, with a small pout, "and to-morrow—catch me +if you can!"</p> + +<p>She frowns slightly, and, with a sudden movement, getting +behind a large flowering shrub, disappears from his +gaze for the night.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXIV.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"But sweeter still than this, than these, than all,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is first and passionate love: it stands alone."—<span class="smcap">Byron.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + + +<p>Next day is born, lives, grows, deepens; and, as the +first cold breath of even declares itself, Dorian rides down +the avenue that leads to Gowran.</p> + +<p>Miss Peyton is not at home (he has asked first for her, +as in duty bound), and Miss Broughton is in the grounds +somewhere. This is vague. The man offers warmly to +discover her and bring her back to the house to receive +Mr. Branscombe; but this Mr. Branscombe will not permit. +Having learned the direction in which she is gone, +he follows it, and glides into a region wherein only fairies +should have right to dwell.</p> + +<p>A tangled mass of grass, and blackberry, and fern; a +dying sunlight, deep and tender; soft beds of tawny moss. +Myriad bluebells are alive, and, spreading themselves, far +and wide, in one rich carpeting (whose color puts to shame +the pale blue of the heavenly vault above), make one harmonious +blending with their green straight leaves.</p> + +<p>Far as the eye can reach they spread, and, as the light +and wanton wind stoops to caress them, shake their tiny +bells with a coquettish grace, and fling forth perfume to +him with a lavish will.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span></p> + +<p>The solemn trees, that "seem to hold mystical converse +with each other," look down upon the tranquil scene that, +season after season, changes, fades away, and dies, only +to return again, fairer and fresher than of yore. The fir-trees +tower upwards, and gleam green-black against the +sky. Upon some topmost boughs the birds are chanting +a pæan of their own; while through this "wilderness of +sweets"—far down between its deep banks (that are rich +with trailing ivy and drooping bracken)—runs a stream, a +slow, delicious, lazy stream, that glides now over its moss-grown +stones, and anon flashes through some narrow ravine +dark and profound. As it runs it babbles fond love-songs +to the pixies that, perchance, are peeping out at it, +through their yellow tresses, from shady curves and sun-kissed +corners.</p> + +<p>It is one of May's divinest efforts,—a day to make one +glad and feel that it is well to be alive. Yet Branscombe, +walking through this fairy glen, though conscious of its +beauty, is conscious, too, that in his heart he knows a want +not to be satisfied until Fate shall again bring him face to +face with the girl with whom he had parted so unamicably +the night before.</p> + +<p>Had she really meant him not to call to-day? Will she +receive him coldly? Is it even possible to find her in such +an absurd place as this, where positively everything seems +mixed up together in such a hopeless fashion that one can't +see farther than one's nose? Perhaps, after all, she is not +here, has returned to the house, and is now——</p> + +<p>Suddenly, across the bluebells, there comes to him a +fresh sweet voice, that thrills him to his very heart. It is +hers; and there, in the distance, he can see her, just where +the sunlight falls athwart the swaying ferns.</p> + +<p>She is sitting down, and is leaning forward, having taken +her knees well into her embrace. Her broad hat is tilted +backward, so that the sunny straggling hair upon her forehead +can be plainly seen. Her gown is snow-white, with +just a touch of black at the throat and wrists; a pretty +frill of soft babyish lace caresses her throat.</p> + +<p>Clear and happy, as though it were a free bird's her +voice rises on the wind and reaches Branscombe, and +moves him as no other voice ever had—or will ever again +have—power to move him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"There has fallen a splendid tear<br /></span> +<span class="i1">From the passion-flower at the gate;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She is coming, my dove, my dear;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">She is coming, my life, my fate."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The kind wind brings the tender passionate love-song +to him, and repeats it in his ear as it hurries onward: +"My dove, my dear." How exactly the words suit her! +he says them over and over again to himself, almost losing +the rest of the music which she is still breathing forth to +the evening air.</p> + +<p>"My life! my fate!" Is she his life,—his fate? The +idea makes him tremble. Has he set his whole heart upon +a woman who perhaps can never give him hers in return? +The depth, the intensity of the passion with which +he repeats the words of her song astonishes and perplexes +him vaguely. Is she indeed his fate?</p> + +<p>He is quite close to her now; and she, turning round +to him her lovely flower-like face, starts perceptibly, and, +springing to her feet, confronts him with a little frown, +and a sudden deepening of color that spreads from chin to +brow.</p> + +<p>At this moment he knows the whole truth. Never has +she appeared so desirable in his eyes. Life with her means +happiness more than falls to the lot of most; life without +her, an interminable blank.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Love lights upon the hearts, and straight we feel<br /></span> +<span class="i0">More worlds of wealth gleam in an upturned eye<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Than in the rich heart or the miser sea."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>"I thought I told you not to come," says Miss Broughton, +still frowning.</p> + +<p>"I am sure you did not," contradicts he, eagerly; "you +said, rather unkindly, I must confess,—but still you said +it,—'Catch me if you can.' That was a command. I have +obeyed it. And I have caught you."</p> + +<p>"You knew I was not speaking literally," says Miss +Broughton, with some wrath. "The idea of your supposing +I really meant you to catch me! You couldn't have +thought it."</p> + +<p>"Well, what was I to think? You certainly said it. +So I came. I believed"—humbly—"it was the best thing +to do."</p> + +<p>"Yes; and you found me sitting—as—I was, and sing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span>ing +at the top of my voice. How I dislike people"—says +Miss Broughton, with fine disgust—"who steal upon other +people unawares!"</p> + +<p>"I didn't steal; I regularly trampled"—protests Branscombe, +justly indignant—"right over the moss and ferns +and the other things, as hard as ever I could. If bluebells +won't crackle like dead leaves it isn't my fault, is it? <i>I</i> +hadn't the ordering of them!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, it is, every bit your fault," persists she, wilfully, +biting, with enchanting grace largely tinctured with +viciousness, the blade of grass she is holding.</p> + +<p>Silence, of the most eloquent, that lasts for a full minute, +even until the unoffending grass is utterly consumed.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps you would rather I went away," says Mr. +Branscombe, stiffly, seeing she will not speak. He is +staring at her, and is apparently hopelessly affronted.</p> + +<p>"Well, perhaps I would," returns she, coolly, without +condescending to look at him.</p> + +<p>"Good-by,"—icily.</p> + +<p>"Good-by,"—in precisely the same tone, and without +changing her position half an inch.</p> + +<p>Branscombe turns away with a precipitancy that plainly +betokens hot haste to be gone. He walks quickly in the +home direction, and gets as far as the curve in the glen +without once looking back. So far the hot haste lasts, and is +highly successful; then it grows cooler; the first deadly +heat dies away, and, as it goes, his steps grow slower and +still slower. A severe struggle with pride ensues, in +which pride goes to the wall, and then he comes to a standstill.</p> + +<p>Though honestly disgusted with his own want of firmness, +he turns and gazes fixedly at the small white-gowned +figure standing, just as he had left her, among the purple +bells.</p> + +<p>Yet not exactly as he had left her: her lips are twitching +now, her lids have fallen over her eyes. Even as he +watches, the soft lips part, and a smile comes to them,—an +open, irrepressible smile, that deepens presently into +a gay, mischievous laugh, that rings sweetly, musically +upon the air.</p> + +<p>It is too much. In a moment he is beside her again, +and is gazing down on her with angry eyes.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Something is amusing you," he says. "Is it me?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," says the spoiled beauty, moving back from him, +and lifting her lids from her laughing eyes to cast upon +him a defiant glance.</p> + +<p>"I dare say I do amuse you," exclaims he, wrathfully, +goaded to deeper anger by the mockery of her regard. +"I have no doubt you can find enjoyment in the situation, +but I cannot! I dare say"—passionately—"you think it +capital fun to make me fall in love with you,—to play with +my heart until you can bind me hand and foot as your +slave,—only to fling me aside and laugh at my absurd infatuation +when the game has grown old and flavorless."</p> + +<p>He has taken her hand whether she will or not, and, I +think, at this point, almost unconsciously, he gives her a +gentle but very decided little shake.</p> + +<p>"But there is a limit to all things," he goes on, vehemently, +"and here, now, at this moment, you shall give +me a plain answer to a plain question I am going to ask +you."</p> + +<p>He has grown very pale, and his nostrils are slightly +dilated. She has grown very pale, too, and is shrinking +from him. Her lips are white and trembling; her beautiful +eyes are large and full of an undefined fear. The +passion of his tone has carried her away with it, and has +subdued within her all desire for mockery or mirth. Her +whole face has changed its expression, and has become +sad and appealing. This sudden touch of fear and entreaty +makes her so sweet that Dorian's anger melts before +it, and the great love of which it was part again takes +the upper hand.</p> + +<p>Impulsively he takes her in his arms, and draws her +close to him, as though he would willingly shield her from +all evil and chase the unspoken fear from her eyes.</p> + +<p>"Don't look at me like that," he says, earnestly. "I +deserve it, I know. I should not have spoken to you as +I have done, but I could not help it. You made me so +miserable—do you know how miserable?—that I forgot +myself. Darling, don't turn from me; speak to me; forgive +me!"</p> + +<p>This sudden change from vehement reproach to as vehement +tenderness frightens Georgie just a little more +than the anger of a moment since. Laying her hand upon<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span> +his chest, she draws back from him; and he, seeing she +really wishes to get away from him, instantly releases +her.</p> + +<p>As if fascinated, however, she never removes her gaze +from his, although large tears have risen, and are shining +in her eyes.</p> + +<p>"You don't hate me? I won't believe that," says +Branscombe, wretchedly. "Say you will try to love me, +and that you will surely marry me."</p> + +<p>At this—feeling rather lost, and not knowing what else +to do—Georgie covers her face with her hands, and bursts +out crying.</p> + +<p>It is now Branscombe's turn to be frightened, and he +does his part to perfection. He is thoroughly and desperately +frightened.</p> + +<p>"I won't say another word," he says, hastily; "I won't, +indeed. My dearest, what have I said that you should be +so distressed? I only asked you to marry me."</p> + +<p>"Well, I'm sure I don't know what more you could have +said," sobs she, still dissolved in tears, and in a tone full +of injury.</p> + +<p>"But there wasn't any harm in that," protests he, taking +one of her hands from her face and pressing it softly to his +lips. "It is a sort of thing" (expansively) "one does +every day."</p> + +<p>"Do you do it every day?"</p> + +<p>"No: I never did it before. And" (very gently) "you +will answer me, won't you?"</p> + +<p>No answer, however, is vouchsafed.</p> + +<p>"Georgie, say you will marry me."</p> + +<p>But Georgie either can't or won't say it; and Dorian's +heart dies within him.</p> + +<p>"Am I to understand by your silence that you fear to +pain me?" he says, at length, in a low voice. "Is it impossible +to you to love me? Well, do not speak. I can +see by your face that the hope I have been cherishing for +so many weeks has been a vain one. Forgive me for +troubling you: and believe I shall never forget how tenderly +you shrank from telling me you could never return +my love."</p> + +<p>Again he presses her hand to his lips; and she, turning +her face slowly to his, looks up at him. Her late tears<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span> +were but a summer shower, and have faded away, leaving +no traces as they passed.</p> + +<p>"But I didn't mean one word of all that," she says, +naïvely, letting her long lashes fall once more over her eyes.</p> + +<p>"Then what did you mean?" demands he, with some pardonable +impatience. "Quite the contrary, all through?"</p> + +<p>"N—ot quite,"—with hesitation.</p> + +<p>"At least, that some day you will be my wife?"</p> + +<p>"N—ot altogether."</p> + +<p>"Well, you can't be half my wife," says Mr. Branscombe +promptly. "Darling, <i>darling</i>, put me out of my misery, +and say what I want you to say."</p> + +<p>"Well, then, yes." She gives the promise softly, shyly, +but without the faintest touch of any deeper, tenderer +emotion. Had Dorian been one degree less in love with +her, he could have hardly failed to notice this fact. As it +is, he is radiant, in a very seventh heaven of content.</p> + +<p>"But you must promise me faithfully never to be unkind +to me again," says Georgie, impressively, laying a finger +on his lips.</p> + +<p>"Unkind?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; <i>dreadfully</i> unkind: just think of all the terrible +things you said, and the way you said them. Your eyes +were as big as half-crowns, and you looked exactly as if +you would like to eat me. Do you know, you reminded +me of Aunt Elizabeth!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, Georgie!" says Branscombe, reproachfully. He +has grown rather intimate with Aunt Elizabeth and her +iniquities by this time, and fully understands that to be +compared with her hardly tends to raise him in his beloved's +estimation.</p> + +<p>There is silence between them after this, that lasts a full +minute,—a long time for lovers freshly made.</p> + +<p>"What are you thinking of?" asks Dorian, presently, +bending to look tenderly into her downcast eyes. Perhaps +he is hoping eagerly that she has been wasting a thought +upon him.</p> + +<p>"I shall never have to teach those horrid lessons again," +she says, with a quick sigh of relief.</p> + +<p>If he is disappointed, he carefully conceals it. He +laughs, and, lifting her exquisite face, kisses her gently.</p> + +<p>"Never," he says, emphatically. "When you go home,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span> +tell Mr. Redmond all about it; and to-morrow Clarissa +will go down to the vicarage and bring you up to Gowran, +where you must stay until we are married."</p> + +<p>"I shall like that," says Georgie, with a sweet smile. +"But, Mr. Branscombe——"</p> + +<p>"Who on earth is Mr. Branscombe?" asks Dorian. +"Don't you know my name yet?"</p> + +<p>"I do. I think it is almost the prettiest name I ever +heard,—Dorian."</p> + +<p>"<i>Darling!</i> I never thought it a nice name before; +but now that you have called me by it, I can feel its +beauty. But I dare say if I had been christened Jehoshaphat +I should, under these circumstances, think just the +same. Well, you were going to say——?"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps Clarissa will not care to have me for so long."</p> + +<p>"So long? How long? By the by, perhaps she +wouldn't; so I suppose we had better be married as soon +as ever we can."</p> + +<p>"I haven't got any clothes," says Miss Broughton; at +which they both laugh gayly, as though it were the merriest +jest in the world.</p> + +<p>"You terrify me," says Branscombe. "Let me beg +you will rectify such a mistake as soon as possible."</p> + +<p>"We have been here a long time," says Georgie, suddenly, +glancing at the sun, that is almost sinking out of +sight behind the solemn firs.</p> + +<p>"It hasn't been ten minutes," says Mr. Branscombe, +conviction making his tone brilliant.</p> + +<p>"Oh, nonsense!" says Georgie. "I am sure it must +be quite two hours since you came."</p> + +<p>As it has been barely one, this is rather difficult to endure +with equanimity.</p> + +<p>"How long you have found it!" he says, with some +regret. He is honestly pained, and his eyes grow darker. +Looking at him, she sees what she has done, and, though +ignorant of the very meaning of the word "love," knows +that she has hurt him more than he cares to confess.</p> + +<p>"I have been happy,—quite happy," she says, sweetly, +coloring warmly as she says it. "You must not think I +have found the time you have been with me dull or dreary. +Only, I am afraid Clarissa will miss me."</p> + +<p>"I should think any one would miss you," says Dorian,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span> +impulsively. He smiles at her as he speaks; but there +is a curious mingling of sadness and longing and uncertainty +in his face. Laying one arm round her, with his +other hand he draws her head down on his breast.</p> + +<p>"At least, before we go, you will kiss me once," he +says, entreatingly. All the gayety—the gladness—has +gone from his voice; only the deep and lasting love remains. +He says this, too, hesitatingly, as though half +afraid to demand so great a boon.</p> + +<p>"Yes; I think I should like to kiss you," says Georgie, +kindly; and then she raises herself from his embrace, +and, standing on tiptoe, places both hands upon his +shoulders, and with the utmost calmness lays her lips on +his.</p> + +<p>"Do you know," she says, a moment later, in no wise +disconcerted because of the warmth of the caress he has +given her in exchange for hers,—"do you know, I never +remember kissing any one in all my life before, except +poor papa, and Clarissa, and you."</p> + +<p>Even at this avowal she does not blush. Were he her +brother, or an aged nurse, she could scarcely think less +about the favor she has just conferred upon the man who +is standing silently regarding her, puzzled and disappointed +truly, but earnestly registering a vow that sooner +or later, if faithful love can accomplish it, he will make +her all his own, in heart and soul.</p> + +<p>Not that he has ever yet gone so deeply into the matter +as to tell himself the love is all on his own side. Instinctively +he shrinks from such inward confession. It +is only when he has parted from her, and is riding quietly +homeward through the wistful gloaming, that he remembers, +with a pang, how, of all the thousand and one things +asked and answered, one alone has been forgotten. He +has never desired of her whether she loves him.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXV.</h2> + + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Love set me up on high: when I grew vain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of that my height, love brought me down again.<br /></span> +</div></div> +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The heart of love is with a thousand woes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pierced, which secure indifference never knows.<br /></span> +</div></div> +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The rose aye wears the silent thorn at heart,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And never yet might pain for love depart."—<span class="smcap">Trench.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + + +<p>When Mrs. Redmond, next morning, is made aware of +Georgie's engagement to Dorian Branscombe, her curiosity +and excitement know no bounds. For once she is literally +struck dumb with amazement. That Dorian, who is +heir to an earldom, should have fixed his affections upon +<i>her</i> governess, seems to Mrs. Redmond like a gay continuation +of the "Arabian Nights' Entertainments." When +she recovers her breath, after the first great shock to her +nervous system, she lays down the inevitable sock she is +mending, and says as follows:</p> + +<p>"My dear Georgina, are you quite sure he meant it? +Young men, nowadays, say so many things without exactly +knowing why,—more especially after a dance, as I +have been told."</p> + +<p>"I am quite sure," says Georgie, flushing hotly. She +has sufficient self-love to render this doubt very unpalatable.</p> + +<p>Something that is not altogether remote from envy +creeps into Mrs. Redmond's heart. Being a mother, she +can hardly help contrasting her Cissy's future with the +brilliant one carved out for her governess. Presently, +however, being a thoroughly good soul, she conquers these +unworthy thoughts, and when next she speaks her tone is +full of heartiness and honest congratulation. Indeed, she +is sincerely pleased. The fact that the future Lady Sartoris +is at present an inmate of her house is a thought +full of joy to her.</p> + +<p>"You are a very happy and a very fortunate girl," she +says, gravely.</p> + +<p>"Indeed yes, I think so," returns Georgie, in a low +tone, but with perfect calmness. There is none of the +blushing happiness about her that should of right be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span>long +to a young girl betrothed freshly to the lover of her +heart.</p> + +<p>"Of course you do," says Mrs. Redmond, missing something +in her voice, though she hardly knows what. "And +what we are to do without you, I can't conceive; no one +to sing to us in the evening, and we have got so accustomed +to that."</p> + +<p>"I can still come and sing to you sometimes," says +Georgie, with tears in her eyes and voice.</p> + +<p>"Ah, yes,—sometimes. That is just the bad part of +it; when one has known an 'always,' one does not take +kindly to a 'sometimes.' And now here come all my +governess troubles back upon my shoulders once more. +Don't think me selfish, my dear, to think of that just now +in the very morning of your new happiness, but really I +can't help it. I have been so content with you, it never +occurred to me others might want you too."</p> + +<p>"I will ask Clarissa to get you some one else nicer than +me," says Georgie, soothingly.</p> + +<p>"Will you? Yes, do, my dear: she will do anything +for you. And, Georgina,"—from the beginning she has +called her thus,—nothing on earth would induce Mrs. +Redmond to call her anything more frivolous,—"tell her +I should prefer somebody old and ugly, if at all bearable, +because then she may stay with me. Dear, dear! how +Cissy will miss you! And what will the vicar say?"</p> + +<p>And so on. She spends the greater part of the morning +rambling on in this style, and then towards the evening +despatches Georgie to Gowran to tell Clarissa, too, +the great news.</p> + +<p>But Clarissa knows all about it before her coming, and +meets her in the hall, and kisses her then and there, and +tells her she is so glad, and it is the very sweetest thing +that could possibly have happened.</p> + +<p>"He came down this morning very early and told me +all about it," she says, looking as pleased as though it is +her own happiness and not another's she is discussing.</p> + +<p>"Now, what a pity!" says Georgie: "and I did so +want to tell you myself, after the disgraceful way in which +you tried to wed me to Mr. Hastings."</p> + +<p>"He could not sleep; he confessed that to me. And +you had forbidden him to go to the vicarage to see you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span> +to-day. What else then could he do but come over and +put in a good time here? And he did. We had quite a +splendid time," says Miss Peyton, laughing; "I really +don't know which of us was the most delighted about it. +We both kept on saying pretty things about you all the +time,—more than you deserved, I think."</p> + +<p>"Now, don't spoil it," says Georgie: "I am certain I +deserved it all, and more. Well, if he didn't sleep, I did, +and dreamed, and dreamed, and dreamed all sorts of +lovely things until the day broke. Oh, Clarissa,"—throwing +out her arms with a sudden swift gesture of passionate +relief,—"I am free! Am I not lucky, fortunate, to have +deliverance sent so soon?"</p> + +<p>"Lucky, fortunate;" where has the word "happy" +gone, that she has forgotten to use it? Clarissa makes +no reply. Something in the girl's manner checks her. +She is standing there before her, gay, exultant, with all a +child's pleasure in some new possession; "her eyes as +stars of twilight fair," flashing warmly, her whole manner +intense and glad; but there are no blushes, no shy half-suppressed +smiles, there is no word of love; Dorian's +name has not been mentioned, except as a secondary +part of her story, and then with the extremest unconcern.</p> + +<p>Yet there is nothing in her manner that can jar upon +one's finer feelings; there is no undue exultation at the +coming great change in her position,—no visible triumph +at the fresh future opening before her; it is only that in place +of the romantic tenderness that should accompany such a +revelation as she has been making, there has been nothing +but a wild passionate thankfulness for freedom gained.</p> + +<p>"When are you coming to stay with me altogether?—I +mean until the marriage?" asks Clarissa, presently.</p> + +<p>"I cannot leave Mrs. Redmond like that," says Georgie, +who is always delightfully indefinite. "She will be in a +regular mess now until she gets somebody to take my +place. I can't leave her yet."</p> + +<p>"Dorian will not like that."</p> + +<p>"He must try to like it. Mrs. Redmond has been very +good to me, and I couldn't bear to make her uncomfortable. +I shall stay with her until she gets somebody else. +I don't think, when I explain it to him, that Dorian will +mind my doing this."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span></p> + +<p>"He will think it very sweet of you," says Clarissa, +"considering how you detest teaching, and that."</p> + +<p>While they are at tea, Dorian drops in, and, seeing the +little yellow-haired fairy sitting in the huge lounging-chair, +looks so openly glad and contented that Clarissa laughs +mischievously.</p> + +<p>"Poor Benedick!" she says, mockingly: "so it has +come to this, that you know no life but in your Beatrice's +presence!"</p> + +<p>"Well, that's hardly fair, I think," says Branscombe; +"you, at least, should not be the one to say it, as you are +in a position to declare I was alive and hearty at half-past +twelve this morning."</p> + +<p>"Why, so you were," says Clarissa, "terribly alive,—but +only on one subject. By the by, has any one seen +papa lately? He had some new books from town to-day,—some +painfully <i>old</i> books, I mean,—and has not been +found since. I am certain he will be discovered some day +buried beneath ancient tomes; perhaps, indeed, it will be +this day. Will you two forgive me if I go to see if it is +yet time to dig him out?"</p> + +<p>They forgive her; and presently find themselves alone.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>"Is it all true, I wonder?" says Dorian, after a little +pause. He is holding her hand, and is looking down at +her with a fond sweet smile that betrays the deep love of +his heart.</p> + +<p>"Quite true; at least, I hope so," with an answering +smile. Then, "I am so glad you are going to marry me," +she says, without the faintest idea of shyness; "more +glad than I can tell you. Ever since—since I was left +alone, I have had no one belonging to me,—that is, no +one quite my own; and now I have you. You will always +be fonder of me than of anybody else in the world, won't +you?"</p> + +<p>She seems really anxious as she asks this.</p> + +<p>"My darling, of course I shall. How could you ask +me such a question? And you, Georgie, do you love +me?"</p> + +<p>"Love you? Yes, I suppose so; I don't know,"—with +decided hesitation. "I am certain I like you very, very<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span> +much. I am quite happy when with you, and you don't +bore me a bit. Is that it?"</p> + +<p>This definition of what love <i>may</i> be, hardly comes up to +the mark in Mr. Branscombe's estimation.</p> + +<p>She has risen, and is now looking up at him inquiringly, +with eyes earnest and beautiful and deep, but so cold. +They chill him in spite of his efforts to disbelieve in their +fatal truthfulness.</p> + +<p>"Hardly, I think," he says, with an attempt at gayety. +"Something else is wanting, surely. Georgie, when I +asked you to marry me yesterday, and when you gave the +promise that has made me so unutterably happy ever since, +what was it you thought of?"</p> + +<p>"Well, I'll tell you," says Miss Broughton, cheerfully. +"First, I said to myself, 'Now I shall never again have +to teach Murray's Grammar.'"</p> + +<p>"Was that your <i>first</i> thought?" He is both surprised +and pained.</p> + +<p>"Yes, my very first. You look as if you didn't believe +me," says Miss Broughton, with a little laugh. "But if +you had gone through as many moods and tenses as I +have during the past week, you would quite understand. +Well, then I thought how good it would be to have nothing +to do but amuse myself all day long. And then I looked +at you, and felt so glad you had no crooked eyes, or red +hair, or anything that way. And then, above all things, I +felt how sweet it was to know I had found somebody who +would have to look after me and take care of me, so that +I need never trouble about myself any more."</p> + +<p>"Did you never once think of me?" asks he, in a curious +tone.</p> + +<p>"Of you? Oh, no! You are quite happy," says Georgie, +with a sigh. "You have nothing to trouble you."</p> + +<p>"Nothing! Of course not." Going up to her, he takes +her dear little face between both his hands, and looks +long and earnestly into her clear unconscious eyes. How +gladly would he have seen them droop and soften beneath +his gaze! "Now let me tell you how I feel towards +you," he says, smoothing her soft hair back from her forehead.</p> + +<p>"I don't think I am a bit pretty with my hair pushed +back," she says, moving away from the caressing hand,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span> +and, with a touch, restoring her "amber locks" to their +original position. She smiles as she says this,—indeed, +ill temper, in any form, does not belong to her,—and, +when her hair is once more restored to order, she again +slips her fingers into his confidingly, and glances up at +him. "Now tell me all about it," she says.</p> + +<p>"What am I to tell you?—that when I am away from +you I am restless, miserable; when with you, more than +satisfied. I know that I could sit for hours contentedly +with this little hand in mine" (raising it to his lips), +"and I also know that, if fate so willed it, I should gladly +follow you through the length and breadth of the land. If +you were to die, or—or forsake me, it would break my +heart. And all this is because I love you."</p> + +<p>"Is it?"—in a very low tone. "Does all that mean +being in love? Then"—in a still lower tone—"I know I +am not one bit in love with <i>you</i>."</p> + +<p>"Then why are you marrying me?" demands he, a +little roughly, stung to pained anger by her words.</p> + +<p>"Because I promised papa, when—when he was leaving +me, that I would marry the very first rich man that asked +me," replies she, again lifting her serious eyes to his. +"I thought it would make him happier. And it did. I +am keeping my promise now," with a sigh that may mean +regret for her dead, or, indeed, anything.</p> + +<p>"Are you not afraid to go too far?" demands he, very +pale, moving back from her, and regarding her with +moody eyes. "Do you quite know what you are saying—what +you are compelling me, against my will, to +understand?"</p> + +<p>She is plainly not listening to him. She is lost in a +mournful revery, and, leaning back in her chair, is staring +at her little white fingers in an absent fashion, and is twisting +round and round upon her third finger an old worn-out +gold ring. Poor little ring, so full of sweet and moving +memories!</p> + +<p>"It was very fortunate," she says, suddenly, with a +smile, and without looking up at him, being still engrossed +in her occupation of twisting the ring round her slender +finger,—"it was <i>more</i> than fortunate that the first rich +man should be <i>you</i>."</p> + +<p>"Much more," he says, in an indescribable tone. Then<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span> +with an effort, "Would you have thrown me over had I +been poor?"</p> + +<p>"I shouldn't have consented to marry you, I think," +says Miss Broughton, quite calmly.</p> + +<p>"As I said before, to be candid is your <i>forte</i>," exclaims +he, with extreme bitterness. "I wonder even if you loved +a man to distraction (I am not talking of myself, you +know,—that is quite evident, is it not?) would you reject +him if he was not sufficiently—<i>bon parti</i>?"</p> + +<p>"I don't think I could love any one to distraction," replies +she, quite simply. It seems the very easiest answer +to this question.</p> + +<p>"I believe you speak the very honest truth when you say +that," says Dorian, drawing his breath quickly. "You are +indeed terribly honest. You don't even shrink from telling +the man you have elected to marry that he is no more +to you than any other man might be who was equally possessed +of filthy—if desirable—lucre!"</p> + +<p>He turns from her, and, going to the window, stares out +blindly upon the dying daylight, and the gardens stretched +beneath, where dying flowers seem breathing of, and +suggesting, higher thoughts.</p> + +<p>He is unutterably wretched. All through his short +courtship he had entertained doubts of her affection; but +now, to have her so openly, so carelessly, declare her indifference +is almost more than he can bear. "We forgive +so long as we love." To Dorian, though his love is greater +than that of most, forgiveness now seems difficult. Yet +can he resign her? She has so woven herself into his +very heart-strings—this cold, cruel, lovely child—that he +cannot tear her out without a still further surrender of himself +to death. To live without her—to get through endless +days and interminable nights without hope of seeing +her, with no certain knowledge that the morrow will bring +him sure tidings of her—seems impossible. He sighs; +and then, even as he sighs, five slim cold little fingers +steal within his.</p> + +<p>"I have made you angry," says the plaintive voice, full +of contrition. A shapely yellow head pushes itself under +one of his arms, that is upraised, and a lovely sorrowful +pleading face looks up into his. How can any one be angry +with a face like that?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span></p> + +<p>"No, not angry," he says. And indeed the anger has +gone from his face,—her very touch has banished it,—and +only a great and lasting sadness has replaced it. Perhaps +for the first time, at this moment she grasps some faint +idea of the intensity of his love for her. Her eyes fill with +tears.</p> + +<p>"I think—it will be better for you—to—give me up," +she says, in a down-hearted way, lowering her lids over +her tell-tale orbs, that are like the summer sea now that +they shine through their unwonted moisture</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Tears are trembling in her blue eyes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like drops that linger on the violet,"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>and Dorian, with a sudden passionate movement, takes +her in his arms and presses her head down upon his breast.</p> + +<p>"Do you suppose I can give you up now," he says, vehemently, +"when I have set my whole heart upon you? +It is too late to suggest such a course. That you do not +love me is my misfortune, not your fault. Surely it is misery +enough to know that,—to feel that I am nothing to +you,—without telling me that you wish so soon to be released +from your promise?"</p> + +<p>"I don't wish it," she says, earnestly, shaking her head. +"No, indeed! It was only for your sake I spoke. Perhaps +by and by you will regret having married some one +who does not love you altogether. Because I know I +could not sit contentedly for hours with my hand in any +one's. And there are a great many things I would not do +for you. And if <i>you</i> were to die——"</p> + +<p>"There! that will do," he says, with sudden passion. +"Do you know how you hurt, I wonder? Are you utterly +heartless?"</p> + +<p>Her eyes darken as he speaks, and, releasing herself +from his embrace,—which, in truth, has somewhat slackened,—she +moves back from him. She is puzzled, frightened; +her cheeks lose their soft color, and—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"With that, the water in her eie<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Arose, that she ne might it stoppe;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, as men sene the dew be droppe<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The leves and the floures eke,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Right so upon her white cheke<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The wofull salt teres felle."<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span></div></div> + +<p>"I don't want to hurt you," she says, with a sob; "and +I know I am <i>not</i> heartless." There is a faint tinge of indignation +in her tone.</p> + +<p>"Of course you are not. It was a rather brutal thing +my saying so. Darling, whatever else may render me unhappy, +I can at all events find comfort in the thought that +you never loved any other man."</p> + +<p>"But I did," says Miss Broughton, still decidedly tearful: +"you must always remember that. There was one; and"—she +is plainly in the mood for confessions—"I shall +never love you or any one as I loved him."</p> + +<p>"What are you going to tell me now?" says Dorian, desperately. +He had believed his cup quite full, and only +now discovers his mistake. Is there a still heavier amount +of misery in store for him? "Is the worst to be told me +yet?" he says, with the calmness of despair, being quite +too far gone for vehemence of any description. "Why did +you keep it from me until now?"</p> + +<p>"I didn't keep anything," cries she: "I told you long +ago—at least, I——"</p> + +<p>"What is the name?" demands he, gloomily, fully expecting +the hated word "Kennedy" to fall from her lips. +"Better let me know it. Nothing you can possibly say can +make me feel more thoroughly stranded than I am."</p> + +<p>"I think you are taking it very unreasonably," says Miss +Broughton, with quivering lips. "If I cannot bring myself +to love anybody as well as poor papa, I can't help it—and +it isn't my fault—and you are very unkind to me—and——"</p> + +<p>"Good gracious! what a fright all about nothing!" says +Mr. Branscombe, with a sigh of intense relief. "I don't +mind your poor father, you know,—I rather admire your +faithfulness there,—but I thought—er—it doesn't in the +least matter what I thought," hastily: "every one has silly +fancies at times." He kisses her lids warmly, tenderly, +until the heavy drops beneath press through and run all +down her charming childish face. "I am sure of this, at +least," he says, hopefully, "that you like me better than +any living man."</p> + +<p>"Well, I do, indeed," replies she, in a curious tone, +that might be suggestive of surprise at her own discovery +of this fact. "But, then, how bad you are to me at times!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span> +Dear Dorian,"—laying one hand, with a pathetic gesture, +on his cheek,—"do not be cross to me again."</p> + +<p>"My sweetest!—my best beloved!" says Mr. Branscombe, +instantly, drawing his breath a little quickly, and +straining her to his heart.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXVI.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="blockquot"><p>"The wisdom of this world is idiotism."—<span class="smcap">Decker.</span></p> + +<p>"If thou desirest to be borne with, thou must bear also with +others."—<span class="smcap">Kempis.</span></p></div> +</div> + + +<p>It takes some time to produce another governess suited +to the Redmonds' wants. At length, however, the desired +treasure is procured, and forwarded, "with care," to the +vicarage.</p> + +<p>On inspection, she proves to be a large, gaunt, high-cheek-boned +daughter of Caledonia, with a broad accent, +a broader foot, and uncomfortably red hair. She comes +armed with testimonials of the most severely complimentary +description, and with a pronounced opinion that "salary +is not so much an object as a comfortable home."</p> + +<p>Such a contrast to Georgie can scarcely be imagined. +The Redmonds, in a body, are covered with despair, and +go about the house, after her arrival, whispering in muffled +tones, and casting blanched and stricken glances at each +other. Dire dismay reigns in their bosoms; while the +unconscious Scot unlocks her trunks, and shakes out her +gowns, and shows plainly, by her behavior, that she has +come to sit down before the citadel and carry on a prolonged +siege.</p> + +<p>To tea she descends with a solemn step and slow, that +Amy designates as a "thud." But yet at this first tea she +gains a victory. Arthur, the second boy, who has been +wicked enough to get measles at school, and who is now +at home to recruit himself and be the terror of his family, +is at this time kept rather on short commons by his mother +because of his late illness. This means bread-and-butter +<i>without</i> jam,—a meaning the lively Arthur rather resents. +Seeing which, the Caledonian, opening her lips almost for +the first time, gives it as her opinion that jam, taken moderately, +is wholesome.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span></p> + +<p>She goes even farther, and insinuates it may assist digestion, +which so impresses Mrs. Redmond that Arthur +forthwith finds himself at liberty to "tuck into" (his own +expression) the raspberry jam without let or hindrance.</p> + +<p>This marvellous behavior on the part of the bony Scot +tells greatly in her favor, so far as the children go. They +tell each other later on that she can't be altogether an unpleasant +sort, Master Arthur being specially loud in her +praise. He even goes so far as to insinuate that Miss +Broughton would never have said as much; but this base +innuendo is sneered down by the faithful children who +have loved and lost her. Nevertheless, they accept their +fate; and, after a week or two, the new-comer gains immense +ground, and is finally pronounced by her pupils to +be (as she herself would probably express it) "no' that +bad." Thus, Miss McGregor becomes governess at the +vicarage, vice Georgie Broughton promoted.</p> + +<p>To be married at once, without any unnecessary delay, +is Dorian's desire; and when, with some hesitation, he +broaches the subject to Georgie, to his surprise and great +content he finds her quite willing to agree to anything he +may propose. She speaks no word of reluctance, appears +quite satisfied with any arrangement he or Clarissa may +think proper, makes no shrinking protest against the undue +haste. She betrays no shyness, yet no unseemly desire +for haste. It seems to her a matter of perfect indifference. +She is going to be married, sooner or later, as the case +may be. Then why not the sooner?</p> + +<p>This is, perhaps, the happiest time of her life. She +roams all day among the flowers and in the pleasure-grounds, +singing, laughing, talking gayly to any one she +may meet at Gowran, where, since Miss McGregor's advent, +she has been. When at length it is finally settled +that the marriage is to take place next month, she seems +rather pleased than otherwise, and is openly delighted at +the prospect held out to her by Dorian of so soon seeing, +with her own eyes, all the foreign lands and romantic scenes +her fancy has so often depicted.</p> + +<p>Just now, even as the tiny clock inside the room is +chiming four, Dorian is standing outside the low French +window of Miss Peyton's morning-room, and, leaning half +in, half out of it, is conversing with her, alone. Georgie,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span> +for the time being, is lost to sight,—happy, somewhere, no +doubt, in the warm sunshine she loves so well.</p> + +<p>"Clarissa," he is saying, in a somewhat halting fashion,—he +is coloring hotly, and is looking as uncomfortable as +a man can look, which is saying a good deal,—"look +here."</p> + +<p>An ignominious break-down.</p> + +<p>"I'm looking," says Clarissa, somewhat unkindly; "and +I don't see much."</p> + +<p>"Well, 'tis this, you know. You won't think it queer of +me, will you?"</p> + +<p>"I won't; I promise that. Though I haven't the faintest +idea whether I shall or not."</p> + +<p>"When she is getting her things, her <i>trousseau</i>,—I want +her to have every earthly thing she can possibly fancy," +he says, at last, desperately. "Can't you manage that for +me? Do; and make any use you like of this."</p> + +<p>He flings a cheque-book into her lap through the open +window as he speaks.</p> + +<p>"She shall have everything she wants," says Clarissa; +"but I don't think"—taking up the book—"we shall require +this."</p> + +<p>"Nevertheless, keep it. You must want it; and don't +mention me in the matter at all. And—look here again—what +do you think she would like as a wedding-present?"</p> + +<p>Of course he has given her long ago the orthodox engagement +ring, the locket, the bracelet, and so forth.</p> + +<p>"Why don't you ask her?" says Miss Peyton.</p> + +<p>"Because the other day she said she adored surprises. +And I am sure she doesn't care about being asked what +she likes."</p> + +<p>"You have your mother's diamonds."</p> + +<p>"Oh, of course"—airily—"all my mother's things will +be hers; that goes without telling; but I hate old rubbish. +I want to give her something from myself to wear on her +marriage morning. Don't you see? or is it that you grow +imbecile in your old age, my good Clarissa?"</p> + +<p>"No; it only means that you are growing extravagant +in your dotage, my good Dorian. Well, mention something, +that I may object to it."</p> + +<p>"Emeralds, then?"</p> + +<p>"No: papa has set his heart on giving her those."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Rubies?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, nothing red: they would not suit her."</p> + +<p>"Opals?"</p> + +<p>"Too unlucky, she would die or run away from you."</p> + +<p>"Pearls? But of course,"—quickly: "why did I not +think of them before?"</p> + +<p>"Why, indeed? They will be charming. By the by, +Dorian, have you told Lord Sartoris of your engagement?"</p> + +<p>Dorian's brow darkens.</p> + +<p>"No. He has been from home, you know, either in +Paris or the Libyan desert, or somewhere. He only +turned up again two days ago. Seen him since?"</p> + +<p>"He was here, but I was out. Have you seen him?"</p> + +<p>"Well, yes,—at a distance."</p> + +<p>"Dorian, there is certainly something wrong between +you and Lord Sartoris. I have noticed it for some time. +I don't ask you what it is, but I entreat you to break +through this coldness and be friends with him again." +She stoops towards him, and looks earnestly into his face. +He laughs a little.</p> + +<p>"I'm tremendous friends with him, really," he says, "if +you would only try to believe it. I think him no end of a +good fellow, if slightly impossible at times. When he recovers +from the attack of insanity that is at present rendering +him very obnoxious, I shall be delighted to let +by-gones be by-gones. But until then——"</p> + +<p>"You will tell him of your engagement?"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps: if occasion offers."</p> + +<p>"No, not perhaps. Go to-day, this very evening, and +tell him of it."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I can't, really, you know," says Mr. Branscombe, +who always finds a difficulty in refusing any one anything.</p> + +<p>"You must,"—with decision: "he surely deserves so +much at your hands."</p> + +<p>"But how few of us get our deserts!" says Dorian, still +plainly unimpressed.</p> + +<p>"Well, then, I think you should speak of it openly to +him,—if only for Georgie's sake."</p> + +<p>"For her sake?" He colors again, and bites his lips. +"If you really think I owe it to her, of course I shall do +it, however distasteful the task may be; though I cannot +see how it will benefit her."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span></p> + +<p>"He is your uncle; you will wish your own family to receive +her?"</p> + +<p>"I dare say you are right," says Branscombe, with a +shrug. "People always are when they suggest to you an +unpleasant course."</p> + +<p>"What is unpleasant now? How can there be anything +to distress any one on such a heavenly day as this?" cries +the soft petulant voice he loves so well, calling to them +across a flower-bed near.</p> + +<p>Springing over it, she comes up to the window, and, +leaning her elbows on the sill close to him, laughs gayly +up into his face.</p> + +<p>"There shall be nothing to distress you, at all events, +my 'amber witch,'" returns he, gayly, too. "Come, show +me once more these gardens you love so well."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>A promise with Dorian is not made of pie-crust: though +sorely against his will, he goes up to Hythe after dinner +to acquaint his uncle formally of his approaching marriage. +The evening is calm and full of rest and quiet, a fit ending +to the perfect day that has gone before:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The long day wanes, the broad fields fade; the night—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sweet June night—is like a curtain drawn.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The dark lanes know no faintest sound, and white<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The pallid hawthorn lights the smooth-bleached lawn;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The scented earth drinks from the silent skies<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Soft dews, more sweet than softest harmonies."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Going through the woods that lie upon his right, he +walks silently onward, impressed by the beauty of the swift-coming +night, yet too restless in mind to take in all its +charms that are rich enough to satisfy a hungry soul. A +soft wind is sighing; beneath its touch the young and tender +branches are swaying lightly to and fro; all the "feathery +people of mid-air" are preening their downy plumage +and murmuring sleepy hymns ere sinking to their rest.</p> + +<p>Scarce a sound can be heard, save the distant lowing of +cattle, and the drowsy drone of a slumberous bee as it +floats idly by. The very sound of Dorian's footsteps upon +the soft grass can be distinctly heard, so deadly is the +calm that ushers in the night; when, lo! from out some +thicket, the nightingale,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span>—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i8">"Who is silent all day long;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But when pale eve unseals her clear throat, looses<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her twilight music on the dreaming boughs<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until they waken"—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>bursts into song. High and clear and exquisite rise the +notes one above the other, each vying in beauteous harmony +with the last, until one's very heart aches for love +and admiration of their sweetness.</p> + +<p>Dorian, though oppressed with many discordant thoughts, +still pauses to listen, until silence following upon the passionate +burst of melody, he draws his breath quickly and +goes on to Hythe, and into the dining-room there, where +he finds Lord Sartoris still over his wine.</p> + +<p>He is sitting at the head of the long table, looking +strangely solitary, and very much aged, considering the +short time that has elapsed since last he left Pullingham.</p> + +<p>"So you are home again, Arthur," says Dorian, coldly, +but with apparent composure. They have not been face +to face since that last meeting, when bitter words, and +still more bitter looks, had passed between them.</p> + +<p>Now, letting the quickly spoken sentence take the place +of a more active greeting, they nod coolly to each other, +and carefully refuse to let their hands touch.</p> + +<p>"Yes," says Sartoris, evenly; "I returned two days ago. +Business recalled me; otherwise I was sufficiently comfortable +where I was to make me wish to remain there."</p> + +<p>"And Constance, is she quite well?"</p> + +<p>"Quite well, thank you. Your other cousins desired to +be remembered to you. So did she, of course."</p> + +<p>A pause, prolonged and undesirable.</p> + +<p>"You will take some claret?" says Sartoris, at last, +pushing the bottle towards him.</p> + +<p>"No, thank you; I have only just dined. I came up +to-night to tell you what I dare say by this you have heard +from somebody else; I am going to be married on the 9th +of next month."</p> + +<p>Lord Sartoris turns suddenly to confront him.</p> + +<p>"I had not heard it," he says, with amazement. "To +be married! This is very sudden." Then, changing his +tone, "I am glad," he says, slowly, and with an unmistakable +sneer, "that at last it has occurred to you to set +that girl right in the eyes of the world. As a man of honor +there was no other course left open to you."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span></p> + +<p>"To whom are you alluding?" asks Branscombe, growing +pale with anger, an ominous flash betraying itself in +his gray eyes.</p> + +<p>"I hope I understand you to mean to offer full, though +tardy, reparation to Ruth Annersley."</p> + +<p>With an effort Branscombe restrains the fierce outburst +of wrath that is trembling on his lips.</p> + +<p>"You still persist, then, in accusing me of being accessory +to that girl's disappearance?"</p> + +<p>"You have never yet denied it," exclaims Sartoris, pushing +back his glass, and rising to his feet. "Give me the +lie direct, if you <i>can</i>,—if you <i>dare</i>,—and I will believe +you."</p> + +<p>"I never will," returns Dorian, now thoroughly roused,—"<i>never!</i> +If my own character all these past years is +not denial enough, I shall give no other. Believe what +you will. Do you imagine I shall come to you, like a whipped +school-boy, after every supposed offence, to say, 'I did do +this,' or, 'I did not do that'? I shall contradict nothing, +assert nothing: therefore judge me as it may please you. +I shall not try to vindicate my actions to any living man."</p> + +<p>His tone, his whole bearing, should have carried conviction +to the hearts of most men; but to the old lord, +who has seen so much of the world in its worst phases,—its +cruelties and falsehoods,—and who has roughed it so +long among his fellowmen, faith, in its finer sense, is wanting.</p> + +<p>"Enough," he says, coldly, with a slight wave of his +hand. "Let us end this subject now and forever. +You have come to tell me of your approaching marriage; +may I ask the name of the lady you intend making your +wife?"</p> + +<p>"Broughton; Georgie Broughton," says Branscombe, +briefly.</p> + +<p>"Broughton,—I hardly fancy I know the name; and +yet am I wrong in thinking there is a governess at the +vicarage of that name?"</p> + +<p>"There <i>was</i>. She is now staying with Clarissa Peyton, +I am to be married to her, as I have already told you, +early next month."</p> + +<p>"A <i>governess</i>!" says Sartoris. There is a world of unpleasant +meaning in his tone. "Really,"—with slow con<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span>tempt,—"I +can hardly congratulate you on your <i>tastes</i>! +You, who might have chosen your wife almost anywhere, +can find nothing to suit you but an obscure governess."</p> + +<p>"I don't think there is anything particularly obscure +about Georgie," replies Dorian, with admirable composure, +though he flushes hotly. "Have you ever seen her? No? +Then, of course, you are not in a position to judge of either +her merits or demerits. I shall thank you, therefore,"—surveying +his uncle rather insolently, from head to heel,—"to +be silent on the subject."</p> + +<p>After a slight pause, he turns again to Sartoris, and, +forcing him to meet his gaze, says haughtily,—</p> + +<p>"May we hope you will be present at our wedding, my +lord?"</p> + +<p>"I thank you, no. I fear not," returns the older man, +quite as haughtily. "I hope to be many miles from here +before the end of next week."</p> + +<p>Dorian smiles unpleasantly.</p> + +<p>"You will at least call upon Miss Broughton before +leaving the neighborhood?" he says, raising his brows.</p> + +<p>At this Sartoris turns upon him fiercely, stung by the +apparent unconcern of his manner.</p> + +<p>"Why should I call?" he says, his voice full of indignant +anger. "Is it to congratulate her on her coming +union with you? I tell you, were I to do so, the face of +another woman would rise before me and freeze the false +words upon my lips. To you, Dorian, in my old age, all +my heart went out. My hopes, my affections, my ambitions, +began and ended with you. And what a reward has +been mine! Yours has been the hand to drag our name +down to a level with the dust. Disgrace follows hard upon +your footsteps. Were I to go, as you desire, to this innocent +girl, do you imagine I could speak fair words to her? +I tell you, no! I should rather feel it my duty to warn +her against entering a house so dishonored as yours. I +should——"</p> + +<p>"Pshaw!" says Branscombe, checking him with an impatient +gesture. "Don't let us introduce tragedy into this +very commonplace affair. Pray don't trouble yourself to +go and see her at all. In your present mood, I rather +think you would frighten her to death. I am sorry I intruded +my private matters upon you: but Clarissa quite<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span> +made a point of my coming to Hythe to-night for that purpose, +and, as you know, she is a difficult person to refuse. +I'm sure I beg your pardon for having so unwarrantably +bored you."</p> + +<p>"Clarissa, like a great many other charming people, is +at times prone to give very unseasonable advice," says +Sartoris, coldly.</p> + +<p>"Which, interpreted, means that I did wrong to come. I +feel you are right." He laughs faintly again, and, taking +up his hat, looks straight at his uncle. He has drawn +himself up to his full height, and is looking quite his handsomest. +He is slightly flushed (a dark color that becomes +him), and a sneer lies round the corners of his lips. "I +hardly know how to apologize," he says, lightly, "for having +forced myself upon you in this intrusive fashion. The +only amends I can possibly make is to promise you it +shall never occur again, and to still further give you my +word that, for the future, I shall not even annoy you by +my presence."</p> + +<p>So saying, he turns away, and, inclining his head, goes +out through the door, and, closing it gently after him, +passes rapidly down the long hall, as though in haste to +depart, and, gaining the entrance-door, shuts it, too, behind +him, and breathes more freely as he finds the air of heaven +beating on his brow.</p> + +<p>Not until he has almost reached Sartoris once more +does that sudden calm fall upon him that, as a rule, follows +hard upon all our gusts of passion. The late interview +has hurt him more than he cares to confess even to himself. +His regard—nay, his affection—for Sartoris is deep +and sincere; and, though wounded now, and estranged +from him, because of his determination to believe the +worst of him, still it remains hidden in his heart, and is +strong enough to gall and torture him after such scenes as +he has just gone through.</p> + +<p>Hitherto his life has been unclouded,—has been all +sunshine and happy summer and glad with laughter. Now +a dark veil hangs over it, threatening to deaden all things +and dim the brightness of his "golden hours."</p> + +<p>"He who hath most of heart knows most of sorrow." +To Dorian, to be wroth with those he loves is, indeed, a +sort of madness that affects his heart, if not his brain.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span></p> + +<p>He frowns as he strides discontentedly onward through +the fast-falling night: and then all at once a thought +comes to him—a fair vision seems to rise almost in his +path—that calms him and dulls all resentful memories. +It is Georgie,—his love, his darling! She, at least, will +be true to him. He will teach her so to love him that no +light winds of scandal shall have power to shake her faith. +Surely a heart filled with dreams of her should harbor no +miserable thoughts. He smiles again; his steps grow +lighter! he is once more the Dorian of old; he will—he +must—be, of necessity, utterly happy with her beside him +during all the life that is to come.</p> + +<p>Alas that human hopes should prove so often vain!</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXVII.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Tis now the summer of your youth; time has not cropt the roses +from your cheek, though sorrow long has washed them."—<i>The Gamester.</i></p></div> +</div> + +<p>The wedding—a very private one—goes off charmingly. +The day breaks calm, smilingly, rich with beauty. "Lovely +are the opening eyelids of the morn."</p> + +<p>Georgie, in her wedding garments, looking like some +pale white lily, is indeed "passing fair." She is almost +too pallid, but the very pallor adds to the extreme purity +and childishness of her beauty, and makes the gazer confident +"there's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple." +Dorian, tall and handsome, and unmistakably content, +seems a very fit guardian for so fragile a flower.</p> + +<p>Of course the marriage gives rise to much comment in +the county, Branscombe being direct heir to the Sartoris +title, and presumably the future possessor of all his uncle's +private wealth. That he should marry a mere governess, +a positive nobody, horrifies the county, and makes its shrug +its comfortable shoulders and give way to more malicious +talk than is at all necessary. With some, the pretty bride +is an adventuress, and, indeed,—in the very softest of soft +whispers, and with a gentle rustling of indignant skirts,—not +<i>altogether</i> as correct as she might be. There are a few +who choose to believe her of good family, but "awfully +out-at-elbows, don't you know;" a still fewer who declare<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span> +she is charming all round and fit for anything; and hardly +one who does not consider her, at heart, fortunate and designing.</p> + +<p>One or two rash and unsophisticated girls venture on +the supposition that perhaps, after all, it is a real <i>bonâ fide</i> +love-match, and make the still bolder suggestion that a +governess may have a heart as well as other people. But +these silly children are pushed out of sight, and very sensibly +pooh-poohed, and are told, with a little clever laugh, +that they "are quite too sweet, and quite dear babies, and +they must try and keep on thinking all that sort of pretty +rubbish as long as ever they can. It is so successful, +and so very taking nowadays."</p> + +<p>Dorian is regarded as an infatuated, misguided young +man, who should never have been allowed out without a +keeper. Such a disgraceful flinging away of opportunities, +and birth, and position, to marry a woman so utterly out of +his own set! No wonder his poor uncle refused to be present +at the ceremony,—actually ran away from home to +avoid it. And—so—by the by, talking of running away, +what was that affair about that little girl at the mill? +Wasn't Branscombe's name mixed up with it unpleasantly? +Horrid low, you know, that sort of thing, when one is +found out.</p> + +<p>The county is quite pleased with its own gossip, and +drinks innumerable cups of choicest tea over it, out of the +very daintiest Derby and Sèvres and "Wooster," and is +actually merry at the expense of the newly-wedded. Only +a very few brave men, among whom is Mr. Kennedy, who +is staying with the Luttrels, give it as their opinion that +Branscombe is a downright lucky fellow and has got the +handsomest wife in the neighborhood.</p> + +<p>Towards the close of July, contrary to expectation, Mr. +and Mrs. Branscombe return to Pullingham, and, in spite +of censure, and open protest, are literally inundated with +cards from all sides.</p> + +<p>The morning after her return, Georgie drives down to +Gowran, to see Clarissa, and tell her "all the news," as +she declares in her first breath.</p> + +<p>"It was all too enchanting," she says, in her quick, vivacious +way. "I enjoyed it <i>so</i>. All the lovely old churches, +and the lakes, and the bones of the dear saints, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span> +everything. But I missed you, do you know,—yes, really, +without flattery, I mean. Every time I saw anything +specially desirable, I felt I wanted you to see it too. And +so one day I told Dorian I was filled with a mad longing +to talk to you once again, and I think he rather jumped +at the suggestion of coming home forthwith; and—why, +here we are."</p> + +<p>"I can't say how glad I am that you <i>are</i> here," says +Clarissa. "It was too dreadful without you both. I am +so delighted you had such a really good time and were so +happy."</p> + +<p>"Happy!—I am quite that," says Mrs. Branscombe, +easily. "I can always do just what I please, and there is +nobody now to scold or annoy me in any way."</p> + +<p>"And you have Dorian to love," says Clarissa, a little +gravely, she hardly knows why. It is perhaps the old +curious want in Georgie's tone that has again impressed +her.</p> + +<p>"Love, love, love," cries that young woman, a little impatiently. +"Why are people always talking about love? +Does it really make the world go round, I wonder? Yes, +of course I have Dorian to be fond of now." She rises +impulsively, and, walking to one of the windows, gazes +out upon the gardens beneath. "Come," she says, stepping +on to the veranda; "come out with me. I want to +breathe your flowers again."</p> + +<p>Clarissa follows her, and together they wander up and +down among the heavy roses and drooping lilies, that are +languid with heat and sleep. Here all the children of the +sun and dew seem to grow and flourish.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"No daintie flowre or herbe that growes on grownd,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No arborett with painted blossoms drest<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And smelling sweete, but there it might be fownd<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To bud out faire and throwe her sweete smels al arownd."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Dorian, coming up presently to meet his wife and drive +her home, finds her and Clarissa laughing gayly over one +of Georgie's foreign reminiscences. He walks so slowly +over the soft green grass that they do not hear him until +he is quite close to them.</p> + +<p>"Ah! you have come, Dorian," says Dorian's wife, +with a pretty smile, "but too soon. Clarissa and I +haven't half said all we have to say yet."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span></p> + +<p>"At least I have said how glad I am to have you both +back," says Clarissa. "The whole thing has been quite +too awfully dismal without you. But for Jim and papa I +should have gone mad, or something. I never put in such +a horrid time. Horace came down occasionally,—very +occasionally,—out of sheer pity, I believe; and Lord Sartoris +was a real comfort, he visited so often; but he has +gone away again."</p> + +<p>"Has he? I suppose our return frightened him," says +Branscombe, in a peculiar tone.</p> + +<p>"I have been telling Clarissa how we tired of each +other long before the right time," says Georgie, airily, +"and how we came home to escape being bored to death +by our own dulness."</p> + +<p>Dorian laughs.</p> + +<p>"She says what she likes," he tells Clarissa. "Has +she yet put on the dignified stop for you? It would quite +subdue any one to see her at the head of her table. Last +night it was terrible. She seemed to grow several inches +taller, and looked so severe that, long before it was time +for him to retire, Martin was on the verge of nervous tears. +I could have wept for him, he looked so disheartened."</p> + +<p>"I'm perfectly certain Martin adores me," says Mrs. +Branscombe, indignantly, "and I couldn't be severe or dignified +to save my life. Clarissa, you must forgive me if I +remove Dorian at once, before he says anything worse. +He is quite untrustworthy. Good-by, dearest, and be sure +you come up to see me to-morrow. I want to ask you ever +so many more questions."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>"Cards from the duchess for a garden-party," says +Georgie, throwing the invitations in question across the +breakfast-table to her husband. It is quite a week later, +and she has almost settled down into the conventional +married woman, though not altogether. To be entirely +married—that is, sedate and sage—is quite beyond +Georgie. Just now some worrying thought is oppressing +her, and spoiling the flavor of her tea; her kidney loses +its grace, her toast its crispness. She peeps at Dorian +from behind the huge silver urn that seeks jealously to +conceal her from view, and says, plaintively,—</p> + +<p>"Is the duchess a very grand person, Dorian?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span></p> + +<p>"She is an awfully fat person, at all events," says +Dorian, cheerfully. "I never saw any one who could +beat her in that line. She'd take a prize, I think. She +is not a bad old thing when in a good temper, but that is +so painfully seldom. Will you go?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know,"—doubtfully. Plainly, she is in the +lowest depths of despair. "I—I—think I would rather +not."</p> + +<p>"I think you had better, darling."</p> + +<p>"But you said just now she was always in a bad temper."</p> + +<p>"Always? Oh, no; I am sure I couldn't have said +that. And, besides, she won't go for you, you know, even +if she is. The duke generally comes in for it. And by +this time he rather enjoys it, I suppose,—as custom makes +us love most things."</p> + +<p>"But, Dorian, really now, what is she like?"</p> + +<p>"I can't say that: it is a tremendous question. I don't +know what she is; I only know what she is not."</p> + +<p>"What, then?"</p> + +<p>"'Fashioned so slenderly, young and so fair,'" quotes +he, promptly. At which they both laugh.</p> + +<p>"If she is an old dowdy," says Mrs. Branscombe, somewhat +irreverently, "I sha'n't be one scrap afraid of her, +and I do so want to go right over the castle. Somebody—Lord +Alfred—would take me, I dare say. Yes,"—with +sudden animation,—"let us go."</p> + +<p>"I shall poison Lord Alfred presently," says Dorian, +calmly. "Nothing shall prevent me. Your evident determination +to spend your day with him has sealed his +doom. Very well: send an answer, and let us spend a +'nice long happy day in the country.'"</p> + +<p>"We are always spending that, aren't we?" says Mrs. +Branscombe, adorably. Then, with a sigh, "Dorian, what +shall I wear?"</p> + +<p>He doesn't answer. For the moment he is engrossed, +being deep in his "Times," busy studying the murders, divorces, +Irish atrocities, and other pleasantries it contains.</p> + +<p>"Dorian, do put down that abominable paper," exclaims +she again, impatiently, leaning her arms on the table, and +regarding him anxiously from the right side of the very +forward urn that still will come in her way. "What shall +I wear?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It can't matter," says Dorian: "you look lovely in +everything, so it is impossible for you to make a mistake."</p> + +<p>"It is a pity you can't talk sense,"—reproachfully. +Then, with a glance literally heavy with care, "There is +that tea-green satin trimmed with Chantilly."</p> + +<p>"I forget it," says Dorian, professing the very deepest +interest, "but I know it is all things."</p> + +<p>"No, it isn't: I can't bear the sleeves. Then"—discontentedly—"there +is that velvet."</p> + +<p>"The very thing,"—enthusiastically.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Dorian, dear! What are you thinking of? Do +remember how warm the weather is."</p> + +<p>"Well, so it is,—grilling," says Mr. Branscombe, nobly +confessing his fault.</p> + +<p>"Do you like me in that olive silk?" asks she, hopefully, +gazing at him with earnest intense eyes.</p> + +<p>"Don't I just?" returns he, fervently, rising to enforce +his words.</p> + +<p>"Now, don't be sillier than you can help," murmurs +she, with a lovely smile. "Don't! I like that gown myself, +you know: it makes me look so nice and old, and +that."</p> + +<p>"If I were a little girl like you," says Mr. Branscombe, +"I should rather hanker after looking nice and young."</p> + +<p>"But not too much so: it is frivolous when one is once +married." This pensively, and with all the air of one who +has long studied the subject.</p> + +<p>"Is it? Of course you know best, your experience being +greater than mine," says Dorian, meekly, "but, just +for choice, I prefer youth to anything else."</p> + +<p>"Do you? Then I suppose I had better wear white."</p> + +<p>"Yes, do. One evening, in Paris, you wore a white +gown of some sort, and I dreamt of you every night for a +week afterwards."</p> + +<p>"Very well. I shall give you a chance of dreaming of +me again," says Georgie, with a carefully suppressed sigh, +that is surely meant for the beloved olive gown.</p> + +<p>The sigh is wasted. When she does don the white +gown so despised, she is so perfect a picture that one +might well be excused for wasting seven long nights in +airy visions filled all with her. Some wild artistic marguerites +are in her bosom (she plucked them herself from<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span> +out the meadow an hour agone); her lips are red, and +parted; her hair, that is loosely knotted, and hangs low +down, betraying the perfect shape of her small head, is +"yellow, like ripe corn." She smiles as she places her +hand in Dorian's and asks him how she looks; while he, +being all too glad because of her excessive beauty, is +very slow to answer her. In truth, she is "like the snow-drop +fair, and like the primrose sweet."</p> + +<p>At the castle she creates rather a sensation. Many, as +yet, have not seen her; and these stare at her placidly, indifferent +to the fact that breeding would have it otherwise.</p> + +<p>"What a peculiarly pretty young woman," says the +duke, half an hour after her arrival, staring at her through +his glasses. He had been absent when she came, and so +is only just now awakened to a sense of her charms.</p> + +<p>"Who?—what?" says the duchess, vaguely, she being +the person he has rashly addressed. She is very fat, very +unimpressionable, and very fond of argument. "Oh! over +there. I quite forget who she is. But I do see that +Alfred is making himself, as usual, supremely ridiculous +with her. With all his affected devotion to Helen, he +runs after every fresh face he sees."</p> + +<p>"'There's nothing like a plenty,'" quotes the duke, +with a dry chuckle at his own wit; indeed he prides himself +upon having been rather a "card" in his day, and +anything but a "k'rect" one, either.</p> + +<p>"Yes, there is,—there is propriety," responds the duchess, +in an awful tone.</p> + +<p>"That wouldn't be a bit like it," says the duke, still +openly amused at his own humor; after which—thinking +it, perhaps, safer to withdraw while there is yet time—he +saunters off to the left, and, as he has a trick of looking +over his shoulder while walking, nearly falls into +Dorian's arms at the next turn.</p> + +<p>"Ho, hah!" says his Grace, pulling himself up very +shortly, and glancing at his stumbling-block to see if he +can identify him.</p> + +<p>"Why, it is you, Branscombe," he says, in his usual +cheerful, if rather fussy, fashion. "So glad to see you!—so +glad." He has made exactly this remark to Dorian +every time he has come in contact with him during the +past twenty years and more. "By the by, I dare say you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span> +can tell me,—who is that pretty child over there, with the +white frock and the blue eyes?"</p> + +<p>"That pretty child in the frock is my wife," says Branscombe, +laughing.</p> + +<p>"Indeed! Dear me! dear me! I beg your pardon. +My dear boy, I congratulate you. Such a face,—like a +Greuze; or a—h'm—yes." Here he grows slightly mixed. +"You must introduce me, you know. One likes to do +homage to beauty. Why, where could you have met her +in this exceedingly deficient county, eh? But you were +always a sly dog, eh?"</p> + +<p>The old gentleman gives him a playful slap on his shoulder, +and then, taking his arm, goes with him across the +lawn to where Georgie is standing talking gayly to Lord +Alfred.</p> + +<p>The introduction is gone through, and Georgie makes +her very best bow, and blushes her very choicest blush; +but the duke will insist upon shaking hands with her, +whereupon, being pleased, she smiles her most enchanting +smile.</p> + +<p>"So glad to make your acquaintance. Missed you on +your arrival," says the duke, genially. "Was toiling through +the conservatories, I think, with Lady Loftus. Know her? +Stout old lady, with feathers over her nose. She always +will go to hot places on hot days."</p> + +<p>"I wish she would go to a final hot place, as she affects +them so much," says Lord Alfred, gloomily. "I can't +bear her; she is always coming here bothering me about +that abominable boy of hers in the Guards, and I never +know what to say to her."</p> + +<p>"Why don't you learn it up at night and say it to her +in the morning?" says Mrs. Branscombe, brightly. "<i>I</i> +should know what to say to her at once."</p> + +<p>"Oh! I dare say," says Lord Alfred. "Only that +doesn't help me, you know, because <i>I</i> don't."</p> + +<p>"Didn't know who you were, at first, Mrs. Branscombe," +breaks in the duke. "Thought you were a little girl—eh?—eh?"—chuckling +again. "Asked your husband who +you were, and so on. I hope you are enjoying yourself. +Seen everything, eh? The houses are pretty good this +year."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Lord Alfred has just shown them to me. They are +quite too exquisite," says Georgie.</p> + +<p>"And the lake, and my new swans?"</p> + +<p>"No; not the swans."</p> + +<p>"Dear me! why didn't he show you those? Finest birds +I ever saw. My dear Mrs. Branscombe, you really must +see them, you know."</p> + +<p>"I should like to, if you will show them to me," says +the little hypocrite, with the very faintest, but the most +successful, emphasis on the pronoun, which is wine to the +heart of the old beau; and, offering her his arm, he takes +her across the lawn and through the shrubberies to the +sheet of water beyond, that gleams sweet and cool through +the foliage. As they go, the county turns to regard them; +and men wonder who the pretty woman is the old fellow +has picked up; and women wonder what on earth the duke +can see in that silly little Mrs. Branscombe.</p> + +<p>Sir James, who has been watching the duke's evident +admiration for his pretty guest, is openly amused.</p> + +<p>"Your training!" he says to Clarissa, over whose chair +he is leaning. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself and +your pupil. Such a disgraceful little coquette I never saw. +I really pity that poor duchess: see there, how miserably +unhappy she is looking, and how——er——pink."</p> + +<p>"Don't be unkind: your hesitation was positively cruel. +The word 'red' is unmistakably the word for the poor duchess +to-day."</p> + +<p>"Well, yes, and yesterday, and the day before, and probably +to-morrow," says Sir James, mildly. "But I really +wonder at the duke,—at his time of life, too! If I were +Branscombe I should feel it my duty to interfere."</p> + +<p>He is talking gayly, unceasingly, but always with his +grave eyes fixed upon Clarissa, as she leans back languidly +on the uncomfortable garden-chair, smiling indeed every +now and then, but fitfully, and without the gladness that +generally lights up her charming face.</p> + +<p>Horace had promised to be here to-day,—had faithfully +promised to come with her and her father to this garden-party; +and where is he now? A little chill of disappointment +has fallen upon her, and made dull her day. No +smallest doubt of his truth finds harbor in her gentle bosom,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span> +yet grief sits heavy on her, "as the mildews hang upon +the bells of flowers to blight their bloom!"</p> + +<p>Sir James, half divining the cause of her discontent, +seeks carefully, tenderly, to draw her from her sad thoughts +in every way that occurs to him; and his efforts, though +not altogether crowned with success, are at least so far +happy in that he induces her to forget her grievance for +the time being, and keeps her from dwelling too closely +upon the vexed question of her recreant lover.</p> + +<p>To be with Sir James is, too, in itself a relief to her. +With him she need not converse unless it so pleases her; +her silence will neither surprise nor trouble him; but with +all the others it would be so different: they would claim +her attention whether she willed it or not, and to make ordinary +spirited conversation just at this moment would be +impossible to her. The smile dies off her face. A sigh +replaces it.</p> + +<p>"How well you are looking to-day!" says Scrope, +lightly, thinking this will please her. She is extremely +pale, but a little hectic spot, born of weariness and fruitless +hoping against hope, betrays itself on either cheek. +His tone, if not the words, does please her, it is so full of +loving kindness.</p> + +<p>"Am I?" she says. "I don't feel like looking well; +and I am tired, too. They say,—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'A merry heart goes all the day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your sad tires in a mile-a;'<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>I doubt mine is a sad one, I feel so worn out. Though,"—hastily, +and with a vivid flush that changes all her pallor +into warmth,—"if I were put to it, I couldn't tell you +why."</p> + +<p>"No? Do you know I have often felt like that," says +Scrope, carelessly. "It is both strange and natural. One +has fits of depression that come and go at will, and that +one cannot account for; at least, I have, frequently. But +you, Clarissa, you should not know what depression +means."</p> + +<p>"I know it to day." For the moment her courage fails +her. She feels weak; a craving for sympathy overcomes +her; and, turning, she lifts her large sorrowful eyes to +his.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span></p> + +<p>She would, perhaps, have spoken; but now a sense of +shame and a sharp pang that means pride come to her, +and, by a supreme effort, she conquers emotion, and lets +her heavily-lashed lids fall over her suffused eyes, as though +to conceal the tell-tale drops within from his searching +gaze.</p> + +<p>"So, you see,"—she says, with a rather artificial laugh,—"your +flattery falls through: with all this weight of imaginary +woe upon my shoulders, I can hardly be looking +my best."</p> + +<p>"Nevertheless, I shall not allow you to call my true +sentiments flattery," says Scrope: "I really meant what +I said, whether you choose to believe me or not. Yours +is a</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Beauty truly blent, whose red and white<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on.'"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>"What a courtier you become!" she says, laughing +honestly for almost the first time to-day. It is so strange +to hear James Scrope say anything high-flown or sentimental. +She is a little bit afraid that he knows why she +is sorry, yet, after all, she hardly frets over the fact of his +knowing. Dear Jim! he is always kind, and sweet, and +thoughtful! Even if he does understand, he is quite safe +to look as if he didn't. And that is always such a comfort!</p> + +<p>And Sir James, watching her, and marking the grief +upon her face, feels a tightening at his heart, and a longing +to succor her, and to go forth—if need be—and fight +for her as did the knights of old for those they loved, until +"just and mightie death, whom none can advise," enfolded +him in his arms.</p> + +<p>For long time he has loved her,—has lived with only +her image in his heart. Yet what has his devotion gained +him? Her liking, her regard, no doubt, but nothing that +can satisfy the longing that leaves desolate his faithful +heart. Regard, however deep, is but small comfort to +him whose every thought, waking and sleeping, belongs +alone to her.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Full little knowest thou, that hast not tride,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What hell it is, in swing long to bide;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To loose good dayes that might be better spent,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To wast long nights in pensive discontent;<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span><span class="i0">To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To feed on hope, to pine with feare and sorrow;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To fret thy soul with crosses and with cares;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To eate thy heart through comfortlesse dispaires."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>He is quite assured she lives in utter ignorance of his +love. No word has escaped him, no smallest hint, that +might declare to her the passion that daily, hourly, grows +stronger, and of which she is the sole object. "The noblest +mind the best contentment has," and he contents +himself as best he may on a smile here, a gentle +word there, a kindly pressure of the hand to-day, a look +of welcome to-morrow. These are liberally given, but +nothing more. Ever since her engagement to Horace +Branscombe he has, of course, relinquished hope; but +the surrender of all expectation has not killed his love. +He is silent because he must be so, but his heart wakes, +and</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Silence in love bewrays more woe<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Than words, though ne'er so witty."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>"See, there they are again," he says now, alluding to +Georgie and her ducal companion, as they emerge from +behind some thick shrubs. Another man is with them, too,—a +tall, gaunt young man, with long hair, and a cadaverous +face, who is staring at Georgie as though he would willingly +devour her—but only in the interest of art. He is +lecturing on the "Consummate Daffodil," and is comparing +it unfavorably with the "Unutterable Tulip," and is plainly +boring the two, with whom he is walking, to extinction. +He is Sir John Lincoln, that old-new friend of Georgie's, +and will not be shaken off.</p> + +<p>"Long ago," says Georgie, tearfully, to herself, "he was +not an æsthete. Oh, how I <i>wish</i> he would go back to his +pristine freshness!"</p> + +<p>But he won't: he maunders on unceasingly about impossible +flowers, that are all very well in their way, but whose +exaltedness lives only in his own imagination, until the +duke, growing weary (as well he might, poor soul), turns +aside, and greets with unexpected cordiality a group upon +his right, that, under any other less oppressive circumstances, +would be abhorrent to him. But to spend a long +hour talking about one lily is not to be borne.</p> + +<p>Georgie follows his example, and tries to escape Lincoln<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span> +and the tulips by diving among the aforesaid group. She +is very successful,—groups do not suit æsthetics,—and +soon the gaunt young man takes himself, and his long hair, +to some remote region.</p> + +<p>"How d'ye do, Mrs. Branscombe?" says a voice at her +elbow, a moment later, and, turning, she finds herself face +to face with Mr. Kennedy.</p> + +<p>"Ah! you?" she says, with very flattering haste, being +unmistakably pleased to see him. "I had no idea you +were staying in the country."</p> + +<p>"I am staying with the Luttrells'. Molly asked me down +last month."</p> + +<p>"She is a great friend of yours, I know," says Mrs. Branscombe; +"yet I hadn't the faintest notion I should meet +you here to-day."</p> + +<p>"And you didn't care either, I dare say," says Mr. Kennedy, +in a tone that is positively sepulchral, and, considering +<i>all</i> things, very well done indeed.</p> + +<p>"I should have cared, if I had even once thought about +it," says Mrs. Branscombe, cheerfully.</p> + +<p>Whereupon he says,—</p> + +<p>"<i>Thank</i> you!" in a voice that is <i>all</i> reproach.</p> + +<p>Georgie colors. "I didn't mean what <i>you</i> think," she +says, anxiously. "I didn't <i>indeed</i>."</p> + +<p>"Well, it sounded exactly like it," says Mr. Kennedy, +with careful gloom. "Of course it is not to be expected +that you ever <i>would</i> think of me, but——I haven't seen +you since that last night at Gowran, have I?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"I think you might have told me then you were going to +be married."</p> + +<p>"I wasn't going to be married then," says Georgie, indignantly: +"I hadn't a single idea of it. Never thought of it, +until the next day."</p> + +<p>"I quite thought you were going to marry me," says Mr. +Kennedy, sadly; "I had quite made up my mind to it. I +never"—forlornly—"imagined you as belonging to any +other fellow. It isn't pleasant to find that one's pet doll +is stuffed with sawdust, and yet—"</p> + +<p>"I can't think what you are talking about," says Mrs. +Branscombe, coldly, and with some fine disgust; she cannot +help thinking that she must be the doll in question,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span> +and to be filled with sawdust sounds anything but dignified.</p> + +<p>Kennedy, reading her like a book, nobly suppresses a +wild desire for laughter, and goes on in a tone, if possible, +more depressed than the former one.</p> + +<p>"My insane hope was the doll," he says: "it proved +only dust. I haven't got over the shock yet that I felt on +hearing of your marriage. I don't suppose I ever shall +now."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense!" says Georgie, contemptuously. "I never +saw you look so well in all my life. You are positively fat."</p> + +<p>"That's how it always shows with me," says Kennedy, +unblushingly. "Whenever green and yellow melancholy +marks me for its own, I sit on a monument (they always +keep one for me at home) and smile incessantly at grief, +and get as fat as possible. It is a refinement of cruelty, +you know, as superfluous flesh is not a thing to be hankered +after."</p> + +<p>"How you must have fretted," says Mrs. Branscombe, +demurely, glancing from under her long lashes at his figure, +which has certainly gained both in size and in weight since +their last meeting.</p> + +<p>At this they both laugh.</p> + +<p>"Is your husband here to-day?" asks he, presently.</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Why isn't he with you?"</p> + +<p>"He has found somebody more to his fancy, perhaps."</p> + +<p>As she says this she glances round, as though for the +first time alive to the fact that indeed he is not beside +her.</p> + +<p>"Impossible!" says Kennedy. "Give any other reason +but that, and I may believe you. I am quite sure he +is missing you terribly, and is vainly searching every +nook and corner by this time for your dead body. No +doubt he fears the worst. If you were my——I mean +if ever I were to marry (which of course is quite out of +the question now), I shouldn't let my wife out of my sight."</p> + +<p>"Poor woman! what a time she is going to put in!" +says Mrs. Branscombe, pityingly. "Don't go about telling +people all that, or you will never get a wife. By this +time Dorian and I have made the discovery that we can +do excellently well without each other sometimes."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span></p> + +<p>Dorian coming up behind her just as she says this, +hears her, and changes color.</p> + +<p>"How d'ye do!" he says to Kennedy, civilly, if not +cordially, that young man receiving his greeting with the +utmost bonhommie and an unchanging front.</p> + +<p>For a second, Branscombe refuses to meet his wife's +eyes, then, conquering the momentary feeling of pained +disappointment, he turns to her, and says, gently,—</p> + +<p>"Do you care to stay much longer? Clarissa has gone, +and Scrope, and the Carringtons."</p> + +<p>"I don't care to stay another minute: I should like to +go home now," says Georgie, slipping her hand through +his arm, as though glad to have something to lean on; +and, as she speaks, she lifts her face and bestows upon +him a small smile. It is a very dear little smile, and has +the effect of restoring him to perfect happiness again.</p> + +<p>Seeing which, Kennedy raises his brows, and then his +hat, and, bowing, turns aside, and is soon lost amidst the +crowd.</p> + +<p>"You are sure you want to come home?" says Dorian, +anxiously. "I am not in a hurry, you know."</p> + +<p>"I am. I have walked enough, and talked enough, +to last me a month."</p> + +<p>"I am afraid I rather broke in upon your conversation +just now," says Branscombe, looking earnestly at her. +"But for my coming, Kennedy would have stayed on with +you; and he is a—a rather amusing sort of fellow, isn't +he?"</p> + +<p>"Is he? He was exceedingly stupid to-day, at all +events. I don't believe he has a particle of brains, or +else he thinks other people haven't. I enjoyed myself a +great deal more with the old duke, until that ridiculous +Sir John Lincoln came to us. I don't think he knew a +bit who the duke was, because he kept saying odd little +things about the grounds and the guests, right under his +nose; at least, right behind his back: it is all the same +thing."</p> + +<p>"What is? His nose and his back?" asks Dorian; at +which piece of folly they both laugh as though it was the +best thing in the world.</p> + +<p>Then they make their way over the smooth lawns, and +past the glowing flower-beds, and past Sir John Lincoln,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span> +too, who is standing in an impossible attitude, that makes +him all elbows and knees, talking to a very splendid young +man—all bone and muscle and good humor—who is +plainly delighted with him. To the splendid young man +he is nothing but one vast joke.</p> + +<p>Seeing Mrs. Branscombe, they both raise their hats, +and Sir John so far forgets the tulips as to give it as his +opinion that she is "Quite too, too intense for every-day +life." Whereupon the splendid young man, breaking +into praise too, declares she is "Quite too awfully jolly, +don't you know," which commonplace remark so horrifies +his companion that he sadly and tearfully turns aside, +and leaves him to his fate.</p> + +<p>Georgie, who has been brought to a standstill for a +moment, hears both remarks, and laughs aloud.</p> + +<p>"It is something to be admired by Colonel Vibart, +isn't it?" she says to Dorian; "but it is really very sad +about poor Sir John. He has bulbous roots on the brain, +and they have turned him as mad as a hatter."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXVIII.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"There's not a scene on earth so full of lightness<br /></span> +<span class="i8">That withering care<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sleeps not beneath the flowers and turns their brightness<br /></span> +<span class="i8">To dark despair."—<span class="smcap">Hon. Mrs. Norton.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + + +<p>It is a day of a blue and goldness so intense as to make +one believe these two are the only colors on earth worthy +of admiration. The sky is cloudless; the great sun is +wide awake; the flowers are drooping, sleeping,—too languid +to lift their heavy heads.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The gentle wind, that like a ghost doth pass,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A waving shadow on the cornfield keeps."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>And Georgie descending the stone steps of the balcony, +feels her whole nature thrill and glow beneath the warmth +and richness of the beauty spread all around with lavish +hand. Scarcely a breath stirs the air; no sound comes +to mar the deep stillness of the day, save the echo of the +"swallows' silken wings skimming the water of the sleeping lake."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span></p> + +<p>As she passes the rose-trees, she puts out her hand, and, +from the very fulness of her heart, touches some of the +drowsy flowers with caressing fingers. She is feeling peculiarly +happy to-day: everything is going so smoothly +with her; her life is devoid of care; only sunshine streams +upon her path; storm and rain and nipping frosts seem +all forgotten.</p> + +<p>Going into the garden, she pulls a flower or two and +places them in the bosom of her white gown, and bending +over the basin of a fountain, looks at her own image, and +smiles at it, as well she may.</p> + +<p>Then she blushes at her own vanity, and, drawing back +from nature's mirror, tells herself she will go a little farther, +and see what Andrews, the under-gardener (who has +come to Sartoris from Hythe), is doing in the shrubbery.</p> + +<p>The path by which she goes is so thickly lined with +shrubs on the right-hand side that she cannot be seen +through them, nor can she see those beyond. Voices +come to her from the distance, that, as she advances up +the path, grow even louder. She is not thinking of them, +or, indeed, of anything but the extreme loveliness of the +hour, when words fall upon her ear that make themselves +intelligible and send the blood with a quick rush to her +heart.</p> + +<p>"It is a disgraceful story altogether; and to have the +master's name mixed up with it is shameful!"</p> + +<p>The voice, beyond doubt, belongs to Graham, the upper-housemaid, +and is full of honest indignation.</p> + +<p>Hardly believing she has heard aright, and without any +thought of eaves-dropping, Georgie stands still upon the +walk, and waits in breathless silence for what may come +next.</p> + +<p>"Well, I think it is shameful," says another voice, +easily recognized as belonging to Andrews. "But I believe +it is the truth for all that. Father saw him with his +own eyes. It was late, but just as light as it is now, and +he saw him plain."</p> + +<p>"Do you mean to tell me," says Graham, with increasing +wrath (she is an elderly woman, and has lived at Sartoris +for many years), "that you really think your master +had either hand, act, or part in inducing Ruth Annersley +to leave her home?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Well, I only say what father told me," says Andrews, +in a half-apologetic fashion, being somewhat abashed by +her anger. "And he ain't one to lie much. He saw him +with her in the wood the night she went to Lunnun, or +wherever 'twas, and they walked together in the way to +Langham Station. They do say, too, that——"</p> + +<p>A quick light footstep, a putting aside of branches, and +Georgie, pale, but composed, appears before them. Andrews, +losing his head, drops the knife he is holding, and +Graham grows a fine purple.</p> + +<p>"I don't think you are doing much good here, Andrews," +says Mrs. Branscombe, pleasantly. "These trees look +well enough: go to the eastern walk, and see what can be +done there."</p> + +<p>Andrews, only too thankful for the chance of escape, +picks up his knife again and beats a hasty retreat.</p> + +<p>Then Georgie, turning to Graham, says slowly,—</p> + +<p>"Now, tell me every word of it, from beginning to end."</p> + +<p>Her assumed unconsciousness has vanished. Every +particle of color has flown from her face, her brow is contracted, +her eyes are shining with a new and most unenviable +brilliancy. Perhaps she knows this herself, as, after +the first swift glance at the woman on Andrews's departure, +she never lifts her eyes again, but keeps them deliberately +fixed upon the ground during the entire interview. She +speaks in a low concentrated tone, but with firm compressed +lips.</p> + +<p>Graham's feelings at this moment would be impossible +to describe. Afterwards—many months afterwards—she +herself gave some idea of them when she declared to the +cook that she thought she should have "swooned right +off."</p> + +<p>"Oh, madam! tell you what?" she says, now, in a terrified +tone, shrinking away from her mistress, and turning +deadly pale.</p> + +<p>"You know what you were speaking about just now +when I came up."</p> + +<p>"It was nothing, madam, I assure you, only idle gossip, +not worth——"</p> + +<p>"Do not equivocate to me. You were speaking of Mr. +Branscombe. Repeat your 'idle gossip.' I will have it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span> +word for word. Do you hear?" She beats her foot with +quick impatience against the ground.</p> + +<p>"Do not compel me to repeat so vile a lie," entreats +Graham, earnestly. "It is altogether false. Indeed, +madam,"—confusedly,—"I cannot remember what it was +we were saying when you came up to us so unexpectedly."</p> + +<p>"Then I shall refresh your memory. You were talking +of your master and—and of that girl in the village +who——" The words almost suffocate her; involuntarily +she raises her hand to her throat. "Go on," she says, +in a low, dangerous tone.</p> + +<p>Graham bursts into tears.</p> + +<p>"It was the gardener at Hythe—old Andrews—who +told it to our man here," she sobs, painfully. "You know +he is his father, and he said he had seen the master in the +copsewood the evening—Ruth Annersley ran away."</p> + +<p>"He was in London that evening."</p> + +<p>"Yes, madam, we all know that," says the woman, +eagerly. "That alone proves how false the whole story is. +But wicked people will talk, and it is wise people only who +will not give heed to them."</p> + +<p>"What led Andrews to believe it was your master?" +She speaks in a hard constrained voice, and as one who +has not heard a word of the preceding speech. In truth, +she has not listened to it, her whole mind being engrossed +with this new and hateful thing that has fallen into her +life.</p> + +<p>"He says he saw him,—that he knew him by his height, +his figure, his side-face, and the coat he wore,—a light +overcoat, such as the master generally uses."</p> + +<p>"And how does he explain away the fact of—of Mr. +Branscombe's being in town that evening?"</p> + +<p>At this question Graham unmistakably hesitates before +replying. When she does answer, it is with evident reluctance.</p> + +<p>"You see, madam," she says, very gently, "it would be +quite possible to come down by the mid-day train to +Langham, to drive across to Pullingham, and get back +again to London by the evening train."</p> + +<p>"It sounds quite simple," says Mrs. Branscombe, in a +strange tone. Then follows an unbroken silence that lasts +for several minutes and nearly sends poor Graham out of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span> +her mind. She cannot quite see her mistress's face as it +is turned carefully aside, but the hand that is resting on a +stout branch of laurel near her is steady as the branch itself. +Steady,—but the pretty filbert nails show dead-white +against the gray-green of the bark, as though extreme pressure, +born of mental agitation and a passionate desire to +suppress and hide it, has compelled the poor little fingers +to grasp with undue force whatever may be nearest to +them.</p> + +<p>When silence has become positively unbearable, Georgie +says, slowly,—</p> + +<p>"And does all the world know this?"</p> + +<p>"I hope not, ma'am. I think not. Though, indeed,"—says +the faithful Graham, with a sudden burst of indignation,—"even +if they did, I don't see how it could matter. +It would not make it a bit more or less than a deliberate +lie."</p> + +<p>"You are a good soul, Graham," says Mrs. Branscombe, +wearily.</p> + +<p>Something in her manner frightens Graham more than +all that has gone before.</p> + +<p>"Oh, madam, do not pay any attention to such a wicked +tale," she says, anxiously, "and forgive me for ever having +presumed to lend my ears to it. No one knowing the +master could possibly believe in it."</p> + +<p>"Of course not." The answer comes with unnatural +calmness from between her white lips. Graham bursts +into fresh tears, and flings her apron over her head.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Branscombe, at this, throws up her head hastily, +almost haughtily, and, drawing her hand with a swift +movement across her averted eyes, breathes a deep lingering +sigh. Then her whole expression changes; and, +coming quite near to Graham, she lays her hand lightly +on her shoulder, and laughs softly.</p> + +<p>Graham can hardly believe her ears: has that rippling, +apparently unaffected laughter come from the woman who +a moment since appeared all gloom and suppressed anger?</p> + +<p>"I am not silly enough to fret over a ridiculous story +such as you have told me," says Georgie, lightly. "Just +at first it rather surprised me, I confess, but now—now I +can see the absurdity of it. There; do not cry any<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span> +more; it is a pity to waste tears that later on you may +long for in vain."</p> + +<p>But when she has gained the house, and has gone up +to her own room, and carefully locked her door, her assumed +calmness deserts her. She paces up and down +the floor like some chained creature, putting together bit +by bit the story just related to her. Not for a moment +does she doubt its truth: some terrible fear is knocking +at her heart, some dread that is despair and that convinces +her of the reality of Andrews's relation.</p> + +<p>Little actions of Dorian's, light words, certain odd remarks, +passed over at the time of utterance as being of +no importance, come back to her now, and assert themselves +with overwhelming persistency, until they declare +him guilty beyond all dispute.</p> + +<p>When she had gone to the altar and sworn fidelity to +him, she had certainly not been in love with her husband, +according to the common acceptation of that term. But +at least she had given him a heart devoid of all thought +for another, and she had fully, utterly, believed in his affection +for her. For the past few months she had even +begun to cherish this belief, to cling to it, and even to +feel within herself some returning tenderness for him.</p> + +<p>It is to her now, therefore, as the bitterness of death, +this knowledge that has come to her ears. To have been +befooled where she had regarded herself as being most +beloved,—to have been only second, where she had +fondly imagined herself to be first and dearest,—is a +thought bordering upon madness.</p> + +<p>Passionate sobs rise in her throat, and almost overcome +her. An angry feeling of rebellion, a vehement protest +against this deed that has been done, shakes her slight +frame. It cannot be true; it shall not; and yet—and +yet—why has this evil fallen upon her of all others? +Has her life been such a happy one that Fate must needs +begrudge her one glimpse of light and gladness? Two +large tears gather in her eyes, and almost unconsciously +roll down her cheeks that are deadly white.</p> + +<p>Sinking into a chair, as though exhausted, she leans +back among its cushions, letting her hands fall together +and lie idly in her lap.</p> + +<p>Motionless she sits, with eyes fixed as if riveted to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span> +earth, while tears insensibly steal down her pensive cheeks, +which look like weeping dew fallen on the statue of +despair.</p> + +<p>For fully half an hour she so rests, scarce moving, +hardly seeming to breathe. Then she rouses herself, and, +going over to a table, bathes her face with eau-de-Cologne. +This calms her in a degree, and stills the outward +expression of her suffering, but in her heart there +rages a fire that no waters can quench.</p> + +<p>Putting her hat on once again, she goes down-stairs, +feeling eager for a touch of the cool evening air. The +hot sun is fading, dying; a breeze from the distant sea is +creeping stealthily up to the land. At the foot of the +staircase she encounters Dorian coming towards her from +the library.</p> + +<p>"I have been hunting the place for you," he says, gayly. +"Where on earth have you been hiding? Visions of +ghastly deaths rose before me, and I was just about to +have the lake dragged and the shrubberies swept. Martin +is nearly in tears. You really ought to consider our +feelings a little. Why, where are you off to now?"—for +the first time noticing her hat.</p> + +<p>"Out," returns she, coldly, looking straight over his +head: she is standing on the third step of the stairs, +while he is in the hall below. "I feel stifled in this +house."</p> + +<p>Her tone is distinctly strange, her manner most unusual. +Fearing she is really ill, he goes up to her and +lays his hand upon her arm.</p> + +<p>"Anything the matter, darling? How white you look," +he begins, tenderly; but she interrupts him.</p> + +<p>"I am quite well," she says, hardly, shrinking away +from his touch as though it is hateful to her. "I am going +out because I wish to be alone."</p> + +<p>She sweeps past him through the old hall and out into +the darkening sunlight, without a backward glance or another +word. Amazed, puzzled, Branscombe stands gazing +after her until the last fold of her dress has disappeared, +the last sound of her feet has echoed on the stone steps +beyond; then he turns aside, and, feeling, if possible, more +astonished than hurt, goes back to the library.</p> + +<p>From this hour begins the settled coldness between<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span> +Dorian and his wife that is afterwards to bear such bitter +fruit. She assigns no actual reason for her changed demeanor; +and Dorian, at first, is too proud to demand an +explanation,—though perhaps never yet has he loved her +so well as at this time, when all his attempts at tenderness +are coldly and obstinately rejected.</p> + +<p>Not until a full month has gone by, and it is close upon +the middle of August, does it dawn upon him why Georgie +has been so different of late.</p> + +<p>Sir James Scrope is dining with them, and, shortly after +the servants have withdrawn, he makes some casual mention +of Ruth Annersley's name. No notice is taken of it +at the time, the conversation changes almost directly into +a fresh channel, but Dorian, happening to glance across +the table at his wife, sees that she has grown absolutely +livid, and really, for the instant, fears she is going to faint. +Only for an instant! Then she recovers herself, and +makes some careless remark, and is quite her usual self +again.</p> + +<p>But he cannot forget that sudden pallor, and like a flash +the truth comes to him, and he knows he is foul and despicable +in the eyes of the only woman he loves.</p> + +<p>When Sir James has gone, he comes over to her, and, +leaning his elbow on the chimney-piece, stands in such a +position as enables him to command a full view of her +face.</p> + +<p>"Scrope takes a great interest in that girl Ruth," he +says, purposely introducing the subject again. "It certainly +is remarkable that no tidings of her have ever since +reached Pullingham."</p> + +<p>Georgie makes no reply. The nights have already +grown chilly and there is a fire in the grate, before which +she is standing warming her hands. One foot,—a very +lovely little foot,—clad in a black shoe relieved by large +silver buckles, is resting on the fender, and on this her +eyes are riveted, as though lost in admiration of its beauty, +though in truth she sees it not at all.</p> + +<p>"I can hardly understand her silence," persists Dorian. +"I fear, wherever she is, she must be miserable."</p> + +<p>Georgie raises her great violet eyes to his, that are now +dark and deep with passionate anger and contempt.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span></p> + +<p>"She is not the only miserable woman in the world," +she says, in a low, quick tone.</p> + +<p>"No, I suppose not. But what an unsympathetic tone +you use! Surely you can feel for her?"</p> + +<p>"Feel for her! Yes. No woman can have as much +compassion for her as I have."</p> + +<p>"That is putting it rather strongly, is it not? You +scarcely know her; hardly ever spoke to her. Clarissa +Peyton, for instance, must think more pitifully of her than +you can."</p> + +<p>"I hope it will never be Clarissa's lot to compassionate +any one in the way I do her."</p> + +<p>"You speak very bitterly."</p> + +<p>"Do I? I think very bitterly."</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" demands he, suddenly, straightening +himself and drawing up his tall figure to its fullest +height. His tone is almost stern.</p> + +<p>"Nothing. There is nothing to be gained by continuing +this conversation."</p> + +<p>"But I think there is. Of late, your manner towards +me has been more than strange. If you complain of anything, +let me know what it is, and it shall be rectified. +At the present moment, I confess, I fail to understand +you. You speak in the most absurdly romantic way about +Ruth Annersley (whom you hardly knew), as though there +existed some special reason why you, above all women, +should pity her."</p> + +<p>"I do pity her from my heart; and there is a special +reason: she has been deceived, and so have I."</p> + +<p>"By whom?"</p> + +<p>"I wish you would discontinue the subject, Dorian: it +is a very painful one to me, if—if not to you." Then she +moves back a little, and, laying her hand upon her chest, +as though a heavy weight, not to be lifted, is lying there, +she says, slowly, "You compel me to say what I would +willingly leave unsaid. When I married you, I did not +understand your character; had I done so——"</p> + +<p>"You would not have married me? You regret your +marriage?" He is very pale now, and something that is +surely anguish gleams in his dark eyes. Perhaps had she +seen his expression her answer would have been different, +or, at least, more merciful.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I do," she says, faintly.</p> + +<p>"Why?" All heart seems gone from his voice. He is +gazing mournfully upon the girlish figure of his wife as she +stands at some little distance from him. "Have I been +such a bad husband to you, Georgie?" he says, brokenly.</p> + +<p>"No, no. But it is possible to be cruel in more ways +than one."</p> + +<p>"It is, indeed!" Then he sighs wearily; and, giving +up all further examination of her lovely unforgiving face, +he turns his gaze upon the fire. "Look here," he says, +presently; "I heard unavoidably what you said to Kennedy +that afternoon at the castle, that we could manage +to get on without each other excellently well on occasion: +you alluded to yourself, I suppose. Perhaps you think +we might get on even better had we never met."</p> + +<p>"I didn't say that," says Georgie, turning pale.</p> + +<p>"I understand,"—bitterly: "you only meant it. Well, +if you are so unhappy with me, and if—if you wish for a +separation, I think I can manage it for you. I have no +desire whatever"—coldly—"to keep you with me against +your will."</p> + +<p>"And have all the world talking?" exclaims she, hastily. +"No. In such a case the woman goes to the wall: the +man is never in fault. Things must now remain as they +are. But this one last thing you can do for me. As far +as is possible, let us live as utter strangers to each other."</p> + +<p>"It shall be just as you please," returns he, haughtily.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Day by day the dark cloud that separates them widens +and deepens, drifting them farther and farther apart, until +it seems almost impossible that they shall ever come together +again.</p> + +<p>Dorian grows moody and irritable, and nurses his wrongs +in sullen morbid silence. He will shoot whole days without +a companion, or go for long purposeless rides across +country, only to return at nightfall weary and sick at heart.</p> + +<p>"Grief is a stone that bears one down." To Dorian, +all the world seems going wrong; his whole life is a failure. +The two beings he loves most on earth—Lord Sartoris +and his wife—distrust him, and willingly lend an open +ear to the shameless story unlucky Fate has coined for +him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span></p> + +<p>As for Georgie, she grows pale and thin, and altogether +unlike herself. From being a gay, merry, happy little girl, +with "the sun upon her heart," as Bailey so sweetly expresses +it, she has changed into a woman, cold and self-contained, +with a manner full of settled reserve.</p> + +<p>Now and again small scenes occur between them that +only render matters more intolerable. For instance, coming +into the breakfast-room one morning, Georgie, meeting +the man who brings the letters, takes them from him, +and, dividing them, comes upon one directed to Dorian, +in an unmistakable woman's hand, bearing the London +post-mark, which she throws across the table to her husband.</p> + +<p>Something in the quickness of her action makes him +raise his head to look at her. Catching the expression of +her eyes, he sees that they are full of passionate distrust, +and at once reads her thoughts aright. His brow darkens; +and, rising, he goes over to her, and takes her hands in +his, not with a desire to conciliate, but most untenderly.</p> + +<p>"It is impossible you can accuse me of this thing," he +says, his voice low and angry.</p> + +<p>"Few things are impossible," returns she, with cold disdain. +"Remove your hands, Dorian: they hurt me."</p> + +<p>"At least you shall be convinced that in this instance, +as in all the others, you have wronged me."</p> + +<p>Still holding her hands, he compels her to listen to him +while he reads aloud a letter from the wife of one of his +tenants who has gone to town on law business and who +has written to him on the matter.</p> + +<p>Such scenes only help to make more wide the breach +between them. Perhaps, had Georgie learned to love her +husband before her marriage, all might have been well; +but the vague feeling of regard she had entertained for +him (that, during the early days of their wedded life, had +been slowly ripening into honest love, not having had time +to perfect itself) at the first check had given in, and fallen—hurt +to death—beneath the terrible attack it had sustained.</p> + +<p>She fights and battles with herself at times, and, with +passionate earnestness, tries to live down the growing +emptiness of heart that is withering her young life. All +night long sometimes she lies awake, waiting wearily<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span> +for the dawn, and longing prayerfully for some change in +her present stagnation.</p> + +<p>And, even if she can summon sleep to her aid, small is +the benefit she derives from it. Bad dreams, and sad as +bad, harass and perplex her, until she is thankful when her +lids unclose and she feels at least she is free of the horrors +that threatened her a moment since.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Thou hast been called, O sleep! the friend of woe;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But, 'tis the happy that have called thee so!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXIX.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The waves of a mighty sorrow<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Have whelmed the pearl of my life;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And there cometh to me no morrow<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Shall solace this desolate strife.<br /></span> +</div></div> +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Gone are the last faint flashes,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Set in the sun of my years,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And over a few poor ashes<br /></span> +<span class="i1">I sit in darkness and tears."—<span class="smcap">Gerald Massey.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + + +<p>All night the rain has fallen unceasingly; now the sun +shines forth again, as though forgetting that excessive +moisture has inundated the quiet uncomplaining earth. +The "windy night" has not produced a "rainy morrow;" +on the contrary, the world seems athirst for drink again, +and is looking pale and languid because it comes not.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Moist, bright, and green, the landscape laughs around:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Full swell the woods."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Everything is richer for the welcome drops that fell last +night. "The very earth, the steamy air, is all with fragrance +rife;" the flowers lift up their heads and fling their +perfume broadcast upon the flying wind;</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"And that same dew, which sometime within buds<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was wont to swell, like round and Orientpearls,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stood now within the pretty flowerets' eyes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like tears that did their own disgrace bewail."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Georgie, with scarcely any heart to see their beauty, passes +by them, and walks on until she reaches that part of Hythe +wood that adjoins their own. As she passes them, the gentle +deer raise their heads and sniff at her, and, with their<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span> +wild eyes, entreat her to go by and take no notice of +them.</p> + +<p>Autumn, with his "gold hand," is</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">"Gilding the falling leaf,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bringing up winter to fulfil the year,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bearing upon his back the ripéd sheaf."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>All nature seems lovely, and, in coloring, intense. To look +upon it is to have one's heart widen and grow stronger and +greater as its divinity fills one's soul to overflowing. Yet +to Georgie the hour gives no joy: with lowered head and +dejected mien she goes, scarce heeding the glowing tints +that meet her on every side. It is as though she tells herself +the world's beauty can avail her nothing, as, be the day</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10">"Foul, or even fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Methinks her hearte's joy is stainéd with some care."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Crossing a little brook that is babbling merrily, she enters +the land of Hythe; and, as she turns a corner (all rock, +and covered with quaint ferns and tender mosses), she +comes face to face with an old man, tall and lean, who is +standing by a pool, planted by nature in a piece of granite.</p> + +<p>He is not altogether unknown to her. At church she +has seen him twice, and once in the village, though she has +never been introduced to him, has never interchanged a +single word with him: it is Lord Sartoris.</p> + +<p>He gazes at her intently. Perhaps he too knows who +she is, but, if so, he makes no sign. At last, unable to bear +the silence any longer, she says, naïvely and very gently,—</p> + +<p>"I thought you were in Paris."</p> + +<p>At this extraordinary remark from a woman he has never +spoken to before, Sartoris lifts his brows, and regards her, +if possibly, more curiously.</p> + +<p>"So I was," he says; "but I came home yesterday." +Then, "And you are Dorian's wife?"</p> + +<p>Her brows grow clouded.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she says, and no more, and, turning aside, pulls +to pieces the flowering grasses that grow on her right +hand.</p> + +<p>"I suppose I am unwelcome in your sight," says the +old man, noting her reserve. "Yet if, at the time of your +marriage, I held aloof, it was not because you were the +bride."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Did you hold aloof?" says Georgie, with wondering +eyes. "Did our marriage displease you? I never knew: +Dorian never told me." Then, with sudden unexpected +bitterness, "Half measures are of no use. Why did you +not forbid the wedding altogether? That would have +been the wisest and kindest thing, both for him and +me."</p> + +<p>"I don't think I quite follow you," says Lord Sartoris, +in a troubled tone. "Am I to understand you already regret +your marriage? Do not tell me that."</p> + +<p>"Why should I not?" says Georgie, defiantly. His +tone has angered her, though why, she would have found +a difficulty in explaining. "You are his uncle," she +says, with some warmth: "why should you not know? +Why am I always to pretend happiness that I never +feel?"</p> + +<p>"Do you know what your words convey?" says Sartoris, +more shocked than he can express.</p> + +<p>"I think I do," says the girl, half passionately; and +then she turns aside, and moves as though she would leave +him.</p> + +<p>"This is terrible," says Sartoris, in a low voice full of +pain. "And yet I cannot believe he is unkind to you."</p> + +<p>"Unkind? No," with a little scornful smile: "I hear +no harsh words, my lightest wish is law; yet the veriest +beggar that crawls the road is happier than I am."</p> + +<p>"It seems impossible," says Sartoris, quietly, looking +intently at her flower-like face and lovely wistful eyes,—"seeing +you, it seems impossible to me that he can do +anything but love you."</p> + +<p>"Do not profane the words," she says, quickly. Then +she pauses, as though afraid to continue, and presently +says, in a broken voice, "Am I—the only woman he has—loved?"</p> + +<p>Something in the suppressed passion of her tone tells +Lord Sartoris that she too is in possession of the secret that +for months has embittered his life. This discovery is +horrible to him.</p> + +<p>"Who has been cruel enough to make you wise on that +subject?" he says, impulsively, and therefore unwisely.</p> + +<p>Georgie turns upon him eyes brilliant with despair and +grief. "So"—she says, vehemently—"it is the world's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span> +talk. You know it: it is, indeed, common property, this +disgraceful story." Something within her chokes her +words; she can say no more. Passion overcomes her, +and want of hope, and grief too deep for expression. The +gentle wells that nature supplies are dead within her; her +eyes, hot and burning, conceal no water wherewith to cool +the fever that consumes them.</p> + +<p>"You are a stranger to me," she says, presently. "Yet +to you I have laid bare my thoughts. You think, perhaps, +I am one to parade my griefs, but it is not so; I would +have you——"</p> + +<p>"I believe you," he interrupts her hastily. He can +hardly do otherwise, she is looking so little, so fragile, with +her quivering lips, and her childish pleading eyes, and +plaintive voice.</p> + +<p>"Take courage," he says, softly: "you are young: +good days may yet be in store for you; but with me it is +different. I am on the verge of the grave,—am going +down into it with no one to soothe or comfort my declining +years. Dorian was my one thought: you can never know +how I planned, and lived, and dreamed for him alone; +and see how he has rewarded me! For youth there is a +future, and in that thought alone lies hope; for age there +is nothing but the flying present, and even that, for me, +has lost its sweetness. I have staked my all, and—lost! +surely, of we two, I should be the most miserable."</p> + +<p>"Is that your belief?" says Mrs. Branscombe, mournfully. +"Forgive me if I say I think you wrong. You have but +a little time to endure your grief, I have my life, and perhaps"—pathetically—"it +will be a long one. To know I +must live under his roof, and feel myself indebted to him +for everything I may want, for many years, is very bitter to +me."</p> + +<p>Sartoris is cut to the heart: that it should have gone so +far that she should shrink from accepting anything at +Dorian's hands, galls him sorely. And what a gentle tender +boy he used to be, and how incapable of a dishonest thought +or action! At least, something should be done for his +wife,—this girl who has grown tired and saddened and out +of all heart since her luckless marriage. He looks at her +again keenly, and tells himself she is sweet enough to +keep any man at her side, so dainty she shows in her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span> +simple linen gown, with its soft Quakerish frillings at the +throat and wrists. A sudden thought at last strikes him.</p> + +<p>"I am glad I have met you," he says, quietly. "By +and by, perhaps, we shall learn to be good friends. In +the mean time will you do me a small favor? will you +come up to Hythe on Thursday at one o'clock?"</p> + +<p>"If you want me to come," says Georgie, betraying +through her eyes the intense surprise she feels at this request.</p> + +<p>"Thank you. And will you give Dorian a written message +from me?"</p> + +<p>"I will," she says again. And tearing a leaf from his +pocket-book, he writes, as follows:</p> + +<p>"When last we parted, it was with the expressed determination +on your part never again to enter my doors until +such time as I should send for you. I do so now, and +beg you will come up to Hythe on Thursday next at half-past +one o'clock. I should not trouble you so far, but +that business demands your presence. I give you my +word not to detain you longer than is absolutely necessary."</p> + +<p>Folding up this note, he gives it to her, and pressing +her hand warmly, parts from her, and goes back again to +Hythe.</p> + +<p>When in answer to his uncle's summons, Dorian walks +into the library at Hythe on Thursday afternoon, he is +both astonished and disconcerted to find his wife there +before him. She had given the letter not to him, but to one +of the men-servants to deliver to him: so that he is still +in utter ignorance of her meeting in the wood with his +uncle.</p> + +<p>"You here?" he says to her, after he has acknowledged +Lord Sartoris's presence by the coldest and haughtiest of +salutations.</p> + +<p>She says, "Yes," in a low tone, without raising her +eyes.</p> + +<p>"I was not aware you and Lord Sartoris were on such +intimate terms."</p> + +<p>"We met by chance last Monday for the first time," +returns she, still without troubling herself to turn her eyes +in his direction.</p> + +<p>"You will sit down?" says Sartoris, nervously pushing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span> +a chair towards him. Dorian is looking so pale and haggard, +so unlike himself, that the old man's heart dies within +him. What "evil days" has he not fallen on!</p> + +<p>"No, thank you: I prefer standing. I must, however, +remind you of your promise not to detain me longer than +you can help."</p> + +<p>"Nor shall I. I have sent for you to-day to let you +know of my determination to settle upon your wife the +sum of twenty thousand pounds, to be used for her own +exclusive benefit, to be hers absolutely to do with as may +seem best to her."</p> + +<p>"May I ask what has put this quixotic idea into your +head?" asks Dorian, in a curious tone.</p> + +<p>Georgie, who, up to this time, has been so astounded +at the disclosure of the earl's scheme as to be unable to +collect her ideas, now feels a sudden light break in upon +her. She rises to her feet, and comes a little forward, +and, for the first time since his entrance, turns to confront +her husband.</p> + +<p>"Let me tell you," she says, silencing Lord Sartoris by +a quick motion of the hand. "On Monday I told your +uncle how—how I hated being indebted to you for everything +I may require. And he has thought of this plan, +out of his great kindness," turning eyes dark with tears +upon Lord Sartoris,—"to render me more independent. +I thank you," she says, going up to Sartoris and slipping +her icy cold little hands into his, "but it is far—far too +much."</p> + +<p>"So you have been regaling Lord Sartoris (an utter +stranger to you) with a history of all our private griefs and +woes!" says Dorian, slowly, utter contempt in his tone +and an ominous light in his eyes.</p> + +<p>"You wrong her, Dorian," says his uncle, gently. "It +is not as you represent it. It was by the merest chance +I discovered your wife would feel happier if more her own +mistress."</p> + +<p>"And by what right, may I inquire, do you seek to come +between my wife and me?" says Dorian, white with anger, +standing, tall and strong, with his arms folded and +his eyes fixed upon his uncle. "Is it not my part to support +and keep her? Whose duty is it, if not mine? I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span> +wish to know why you, of all men, have dared to interfere."</p> + +<p>"I have not come between you: I seek no such ungracious +part," replies Sartoris, with quiet dignity. "I am +only doing now what I should have done on her marriage +morning had—had things been different."</p> + +<p>"It seems to me that I am brought up here as a criminal +before my judge and accuser," says Branscombe, very +bitterly. "Let me at least have the small satisfaction of +knowing of what it is I am accused,—wherein lies my +crime. Speak," he says, turning suddenly to his wife.</p> + +<p>She is awed more than she cares to confess by his manner, +which is different from anything she has ever seen in +him before. The kind-hearted, easy-going Dorian is gone, +leaving a stern, passionate, disappointed man in his place.</p> + +<p>"Have I ill-used you?" he goes on, vehemently. "Have +I spoken harsh words to you, or thwarted you in any way? +Ever since the first hour that saw you my wife have I refused +to grant your lightest wish? Speak, and let us hear +the truth of this matter. I am a bad husband, you say,—so +infamous that it is impossible for you to receive even +the common necessaries of life at my hands! How have +I failed in my duty towards you?"</p> + +<p>"In none of the outward observances," she says, faintly. +"And yet you have broken my heart!"</p> + +<p>There is a pause. And then Dorian laughs aloud,—a +terrible, sneering, embittered laugh, that strikes cold on +the hearts of the hearers.</p> + +<p>"Your heart!" he says, witheringly. "Why, supposing +for courtesy's sake you did possess such an inconvenient +and unfashionable appendage, it would be still absurd to +accuse me of having broken it, as it has never been for +five minutes in my possession."</p> + +<p>Taking out his watch, he examines it leisurely. Then, +with an utter change of manner, addressing Lord Sartoris, +he says, with cold and studied politeness,—</p> + +<p>"If you have quite done with me, I shall be glad, as I +have another appointment at three."</p> + +<p>"I have quite done," says his uncle, wistfully, looking +earnestly at the handsome face before him that shows no +sign of feeling whatsoever. "I thank you much for having +so far obliged me."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Pray do not mention it. Good-morning."</p> + +<p>"Good-morning," says Sartoris, wearily. And Branscombe, +bowing carelessly, leaves the room without another +word.</p> + +<p>When he has gone, Georgie, pale and trembling, turns +to Sartoris and lays her hand upon his arm.</p> + +<p>"He hates me. He will not even look at me," she says, +passionately. "What was it he said, that I had no heart? +Ah! what would I not give to be able to prove his words +true?"</p> + +<p>She bursts into tears, and sobs long and bitterly.</p> + +<p>"Tears are idle," says Sartoris, sadly. "Have you yet +to learn that? Take comfort from the thought that all +things have an end."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXX.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Oh that the things which have been were not now<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In memory's resurrection! But the past<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bears in her arms the present and the future."—<span class="smcap">Bailey.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + + +<p>Of course it is quite impossible to hide from Clarissa +Peyton that everything is going wrong at Sartoris. +Georgie's pale unsmiling face (so different from that of +old), and Dorian's evident determination to absent himself +from all society, tell their own tale.</p> + +<p>She has, of course, heard of the uncomfortable gossip +that has connected Ruth Annersley's mysterious disappearance +with Dorian, but—stanch friend as she is—has +laughed to scorn all such insinuations: that Georgie can +believe them, puzzles her more than she cares to confess. +For a long time she has fought against the thought that +Dorian's wife can think aught bad of Dorian; but time +undeceives her.</p> + +<p>To-day, Georgie, who is now always feverishly restless, +tells herself she will go up to Gowran and see Clarissa. +To her alone she clings,—not outwardly, in any marked +fashion, but in her inmost soul,—as to one who at her +worst extremity will support and comfort her.</p> + +<p>The day is warm and full of color. Round her "flow +the winds from woods and fields with gladness laden:"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span> +the air is full of life. The browning grass rustles beneath +her feet. The leaves fall slowly one by one, as though +loath to leave their early home; the wind, cruel, like all +love, wooes them only to their doom.</p> + +<p>"The waves, along the forest borne," beat on her face +and head, and half cool the despairing thoughts that now +always lie hidden deep down within her breast.</p> + +<p>Coming to Gowran and seeing Clarissa in the drawing +room window, she beckons to her, and Clarissa, rising +hastily, opens the hall door for her, herself, and leads her +by the hand into another cosier room, where they may +talk without interruption.</p> + +<p>It so happens that Georgie is in one of her worst moods; +and something Clarissa says very innocently brings on a +burst of passion that compels Clarissa to understand (in +spite of all her efforts to think herself in the wrong) that +the dissensions at Sartoris have a great deal to do with +Ruth Annersley.</p> + +<p>"It is impossible," she says, over and over again, walking +up and down the room in an agitated manner. +"I could almost as soon believe Horace guilty of this +thing!"</p> + +<p>Georgie makes no reply. Inwardly she has conceived +a great distaste to the handsome Horace, and considers +him a very inferior person, and quite unfit to mate with +her pretty Clarissa.</p> + +<p>"In your heart," says Miss Peyton, stopping before her, +"I don't believe you think Dorian guilty of this thing."</p> + +<p>"Yes I do," says Mrs. Branscombe, with dogged calmness. +"I don't ask you to agree with me. I only tell you +what I myself honestly believe." She has given up fighting +against her fate by this time.</p> + +<p>"There is some terrible mistake somewhere," says +Clarissa, in a very distressed voice, feeling it wiser not to +argue the point further. "Time will surely clear it up +sooner or later, but it is very severe on Dorian while it +lasts. I have known the dear fellow all my life, and cannot +now begin to think evil of him. I have always felt +more like a sister to him than anything else, and I cannot +believe him guilty of this thing."</p> + +<p>"<i>I</i> am his wife, and I <i>can</i>," says Mrs. Branscombe, +icily.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span></p> + +<p>"If you loved him as you ought, you could not." This +is the one rebuke she cannot refrain from.</p> + +<p>Georgie laughs unpleasantly, and then, all in a little +moment, she varies the performance by bursting into a +passionate and most unlooked-for flood of tears.</p> + +<p>"Don't talk to me of love!" she cries, miserably. "It +is useless. I don't believe in it. It is a delusion, a mere +mockery, a worn-out superstition. You will tell me that +Dorian loved me; and yet in the very early days before +our marriage, when his so-called love must have been at +its height, he insulted me beyond all forgiveness."</p> + +<p>"You are making yourself wretched about nothing," +says Clarissa, kneeling beside her, and gently drawing her +head down on her shoulder. "Don't, darling,—don't cry +like that. I know, I feel, all will come right in the end. +Indeed, unless Dorian were to come to me and say, 'I +have done this hateful thing,' I should not believe it."</p> + +<p>"I would give all the world to be able to say that from +my heart," says Mrs. Branscombe, with excessive sadness.</p> + +<p>"Try to think it. Afterwards belief will be easy. Oh, +Georgie, do not nourish hard thoughts; tear them from +your heart, and by and by, when all this is explained away, +think how glad you will be that, without proof, you had +faith in him. Do you know, unless my own eyes saw it, I +should never for any reason lose faith in Horace."</p> + +<p>A tender, heavenly smile creeps round her beautiful lips +as she says this. Georgie, seeing it, feels heart-broken. +Oh that she could have faith like this!</p> + +<p>"It is too late," she says, bitterly: "and I deserve all +I have got. I myself have been the cause of my own undoing. +I married Dorian for no other reason than to escape +the drudgery of teaching. Yet now"—with a sad smile—"I +know there are worse things than Murray's Grammar. +I am justly punished." Her lovely face is white with +grief. I have tried, <i>tried</i>, <span class="smcap">TRIED</span> to disbelieve, but nothing +will raise this cloud of suspicion from my breast. It +weighs me down and crushes me more cruelly day by day. +"I wish—I wish"—cries poor little Georgie, from her very +soul—"that I had never been born, because I shall never +know a happy moment again."</p> + +<p>The tears run silently down her cheeks one by one.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span> +She puts up her small hands to defend herself, and the +action is pitiable in the extreme.</p> + +<p>"How happy you were only a month ago!" says Clarissa, +striken with grief at the sight of her misery.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I have had my day, I suppose," says Mrs. Branscombe, +wearily. "One can always remember a time +when</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Every morning was fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And every season a May!'<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>But how soon it all fades!"</p> + +<p>"Too soon for you," says Clarissa, with tears in her +eyes. "You speak as though you had no interest left in +life."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I have," says Georgie, with a faint smile. "I +have the school-children yet. You know I go to them +every Sunday to oblige the dear vicar. He would have +been so sorry if I had deserted them, because they grew +fond of me, and he said, for that reason, I was the best +teacher in the parish, because I didn't bore them." +Here she laughs quite merrily, as though grief is unknown +to her; but a minute later, memory returning, the joy +fades from her face, leaving it sadder than before. "I +might be Irish," she says, "emotion is so changeable with +me. Come down with me now to the village, will you? +It is my day at the school."</p> + +<p>"Well, come up-stairs with me while I put on my +things," says Clarissa; and then, though really sad at +heart, she cannot refrain from smiling. "You are just +the last person in the world," she says, "one would accuse +of teaching Scripture, or the Catechism, or that."</p> + +<p>"What a very rude remark!" said Georgie, smiling +naturally for the first time to-day. "Am I such a <i>very</i> +immoral young woman?"</p> + +<p>"No. Only I could not teach Genesis, or the Ten +Commandments, or Watts, to save my life," says Clarissa. +"Come, or we shall be late, and Pullingham Junior without +Watts would, I feel positive, sink into an abyss of +vice. They might bark and bite, and do other dangerous +things."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Mrs. Branscombe (with Clarissa) reaching the school-house +just in time to take her class, the latter sits down in a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span> +disconsolate fashion upon a stray bench, and surveys the +scene before her with wondering eyes.</p> + +<p>There sits Georgie, a very fragile teacher for so rough +a class; here sits the vicar with the adults before him, +deep in the mysteries of the Thirty-nine Articles.</p> + +<p>The head teacher is nearly in tears over the Creed, because +of the stupidity of her pupils; the assistant is raging +over the Ten Commandments. All is gloom! Clarissa +is rather delighted than otherwise, and, having surveyed +everybody, comes back to Georgie, she being the +most refreshing object on view.</p> + +<p>At the top of the class, facing the big window, sits John +Spriggs (<i>ætat.</i> ten) on his hands. He has utterly declined +to bestow his body in any other fashion, being +evidently imbued with the belief that his hands were made +for the support of the body,—a very correct idea, all +things considered.</p> + +<p>He is lolling from side to side in a reckless way, and +his eyes are rolling in concert with him, and altogether +his behavior is highly suggestive of fits.</p> + +<p>Lower down, Amelia Jennings is making a surreptitious +cat's cradle, which is promptly put out of sight, behind +her back, every time her turn comes to give an answer; +but, as she summarily dismisses all questions by declaring +her simple ignorance of every matter connected with +Biblical history, the cradle progresses most favorably, and +is very soon fit to sleep in.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Branscombe, having gone through the seventh +chapter of St. Luke without any marked success, falls +back upon the everlasting Catechism, and swoops down +upon Amelia Jennings with a mild request that she will +tell her her duty to her neighbor.</p> + +<p>Amelia, feeling she has no neighbors at this trying moment, +and still less catechism, fixes her big round blue +eyes on Mrs. Branscombe, and, letting the beloved cradle +fall to the ground behind her back, prepares to blubber at +a second's notice.</p> + +<p>"Go on," says Georgie, encouragingly.</p> + +<p>Miss Jennings, being thus entreated, takes heart, and +commences the difficult injunction in excellent hope and +spirits. All goes "merry as a marriage bell," until she +comes to the words "Love your neighbor as yourself,"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span> +when John Spriggs (who is not by nature a thoroughly +bad boy, but whose evil hour is now full upon him) says audibly, +and without any apparent desire to torment, "and +paddle your own canoe."</p> + +<p>There is a deadly pause, and then Amelia Jennings +giggles out loud, and Spriggs follows suit, and, after a bit, +the entire class gives itself up to merriment.</p> + +<p>Spriggs, instead of being contrite at this flagrant breach +of discipline, is plainly elated with his victory. No smallest +sign of shame disfigures his small rubicund countenance.</p> + +<p>Georgie makes a praiseworthy effort to appear shocked, +but, as her pretty cheeks are pink, and her eyes great +with laughter, the praiseworthy effort rather falls through.</p> + +<p>At this moment the door of the school-house is gently +pushed open, and a new-comer appears on the threshold: +it is Mr. Kennedy.</p> + +<p>Going up unseen, he stands behind Georgie's chair, and +having heard from the door-way all that has passed, instantly +bends over and hands the notorious Spriggs a +shilling.</p> + +<p>"Ah! you again?" says Mrs. Branscombe, coloring +warmly, merely from surprise. "You are like Sir Boyle +Roche's bird: you can be in two places at the same moment. +But it is wrong to give him money when he is bad. +It is out of all keeping; and how shall I manage the children +if you come here, anxious to reward vice and foster +rebellion?"</p> + +<p>She is laughing gayly now, and is looking almost her +own bright little self again, when, lifting her eyes, she +sees Dorian watching her. Instantly her smile fades; +and she returns his gaze fixedly, as though compelled to +do it by some hidden instinct.</p> + +<p>He has entered silently, not expecting to find any one +before him but the vicar: yet the very first object his eyes +meet is his wife, smiling, radiant, with Kennedy beside +her. A strange pang contracts his heart, and a terrible +amount of reproach passes from his eyes to hers.</p> + +<p>He is sad and dispirited, and full of melancholy. His +whole life has proved a failure; yet in what way has he +fallen short?</p> + +<p>Kennedy, seeing Mrs. Branscombe's expression change,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span> +raises his head, and so becomes aware of her husband's +presence. Being a wise young man in his own generation, +he smiles genially upon Dorian, and, going forward, +shakes his hand as though years of devotion have served +to forge a link likely to bind them each to each forever.</p> + +<p>"Charming day, isn't it?" he says, with a beatific smile. +"Quite like summer."</p> + +<p>"Rather more like January, I think," says Dorian, +calmly, who is in his very worst mood. "First touch of +winter, I should say." He laughs as he says this; but +his laugh is as wintry as the day, and chills the hearer. +Then he turns aside from his wife and her companion, +and lays his hand upon the vicar's shoulder, who has just +risen from his class, having carried it successfully through +the best part of Isaiah.</p> + +<p>"My dear boy,—you?" says the vicar, quite pleased to +see him. "But in bad time: the lesson is over, so you +can learn nothing. I don't like to give them too much +Scripture on a week-day. It has a disheartening effect, +and——"</p> + +<p>"I wish they could hear you," says Branscombe, with +a slight shrug.</p> + +<p>"It is as well they cannot," says the vicar; "though I +doubt if free speaking does much harm; and, really, perpetual +grinding does destroy the genuine love for our +grand old Bible that we should all feel deep down in our +souls."</p> + +<p>"Feeling has gone out of fashion," says Dorian, so distinctly +that Georgie in the distance hears him, and winces +a little.</p> + +<p>"Well, it has," says the vicar. "There can't be a +doubt of it, when one thinks of the alterations they have +just made in that fine old Book. There are innovations +from morning till night, and nothing gained by them. +Surely, if we got to heaven up to this by the teaching of +the Bible as it <i>was</i>, it serves no cause to alter a word here +and there, or a sentence that was dear to us from our +childhood. It brings us no nearer God, but only unsettles +beliefs that, perhaps, up to this were sound enough. The +times are not to be trusted."</p> + +<p>"Is anything worthy of trust?" says Dorian, bitterly.</p> + +<p>"I doubt I'm old-fashioned," says the dear vicar, with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span> +a deprecating smile. "I dare say change is good, and +works wonders in many ways. We old people stick fast, +and can't progress. I suppose I should be content to be +put on one side."</p> + +<p>"I hope you will be put on my side," says Dorian: "I +should feel pretty safe then. Do you know, I have not +been in this room for so many years that I am afraid to +count them? When last here, it was during a holiday +term; and I remember sitting beside you and thinking +how awfully jolly glad I was to be well out of it, when +other children were doing their lesson."</p> + +<p>"Comfortable reflection, and therefore, as a rule, selfish," +says the vicar, with a laugh.</p> + +<p>"Was it selfish? I suppose so." His face clouds again: +a sort of reckless defiance shadows it. "You must not expect +much from me," he says, slowly: "they don't accredit +me with any good nowadays."</p> + +<p>"My dear fellow," says the vicar, quietly, "there is something +wrong with you, or you would not so speak. I don't +ask you now what it is: you shall tell me when and where +you please. I only entreat you to believe that no one, +knowing you as I do, could possibly think anything of you +but what is kind and good and true."</p> + +<p>Branscombe draws his breath quickly. His pale face +flushes; and a gleam, that is surely born of tears, shines +in his eyes. Clarissa, who, up to this, has been talking +to some of the children, comes up to him at this moment +and slips her hand through his arm. Is he not almost her +brother?</p> + +<p>Only his wife stands apart, and, with white lips and +dry eyes and a most miserable heart, watches him without +caring—or daring—to go near to him. She is silent, <i>distraite</i>, +and has altogether forgotten the fact of Kennedy's +existence (though he still stands close beside her),—a state +of things that young gentleman hardly affects.</p> + +<p>"Has your class been too much for you? Or do other +things—or people—distress you?" he asks, presently, in +a meaning tone. "Because you have not uttered one +word for quite five minutes."</p> + +<p>"You have guessed correctly: some people do distress +me—after a time," says Mrs. Branscombe, so pointedly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span> +that Kennedy takes the hint, and, shaking hands with her +somewhat stiffly, disappears through the door-way.</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes," the vicar is saying to Clarissa, in a glad tone, +that even savors of triumph, "the Batesons have given up +the Methodist chapel and have come back to me. They +have forgiven about the bread, though they made a heavy +struggle for it. Mrs. Redmond and I put our heads together +and wondered what we should do, and if we couldn't +buy anything there so as to make up for the loss of the +daily loaves, because she would not consent to poison the +children."</p> + +<p>"And you would!" says Clarissa, reproachfully. "Oh, +what a terrible admission!"</p> + +<p>"We won't go into that, my dear Clarissa, if you please," +says the vicar, contritely. "There are moments in every +life that one regrets. But the end of our cogitations was +this: that we went down to the village,—Mrs. Redmond +and I,—and, positively, for one bar of soap and a package +of candles we bought them all back to their pew in church. +You wouldn't have thought there was so much grace in soap +and candles, would you?" says the vicar, with a curious +gleam in his eyes that is half amusement, half contempt.</p> + +<p>Even Georgie laughs a little at this, and comes nearer +to them, and stands close beside Clarissa, as if shy and uncertain, +and glad to have a sure partisan so near to her,—all +which is only additional pain to Dorian, who notices +every lightest word and action of the woman he has married.</p> + +<p>"How did you get on to-day with your little people?" +asks Mr. Redmond, taking notice of her at once,—something, +too, in her downcast attitude appealing to his sense +of pity. "Was that boy of the Brixton's more than usually +trying?"</p> + +<p>"Well, he was bad enough," says Georgie, in a tone that +implies she is rather letting off the unfortunate Brixton +from future punishment. "But I have known him worse; +indeed, I think he improves."</p> + +<p>"Indeed, I think a son of his father could never improve," +says the vicar, with a melancholy sigh. "There +isn't an ounce of brains in all that family. Long ago, when +first I came here, Sam Brixton (the father of your pupil) +bought a cow from a neighboring farmer called George Gil<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span>bert, +and he named it John. I thought that an extraordinary +name to call a cow, so I said to him one day, 'Sam, why +on earth did you christen that poor inoffensive beast John?' +'John?' said he, somewhat indignantly, 'John? Why +wouldn't I call him John, when I bought him from George +Gilbert?' I didn't see his meaning then,—and, I confess, +I haven't seen it since,—but I was afraid to expose my +stupidity, so I held my tongue. Do you see it?" He +turns to Dorian.</p> + +<p>"Not much," says Dorian, with a faint laugh.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXI.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"One woe doth tread upon another's heel,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So fast they follow."—<i>Hamlet.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"One, that was a woman, sir."—<i>Hamlet.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p>Across the autumn grass, that has browned beneath the +scorching summer rays, and through the fitful sunshine, +comes James Scrope.</p> + +<p>Through the woods, under the dying beech-trees that +lead to Gowran, he saunters slowly, thinking only of the +girl beyond, who is not thinking of him at all, but of the +man who, in his soul, Sir James believes utterly unworthy +of her.</p> + +<p>This thought so engrosses him, as he walks along, that +he fails to hear Mrs. Branscombe, until she is close beside +him, and until she says, gently,—</p> + +<p>"How d'ye do, Sir James?" At this his start is so visible +that she laughs, and says, with a faint blush,—</p> + +<p>"What! is my coming so light that one fails to hear it?"</p> + +<p>To which he, recovering himself, makes ready response:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">"So light a foot<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Then, "You are coming from Gowran?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; from Clarissa."</p> + +<p>"She is well?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, and, I suppose, happy,"—with a shrug. "She +expects Horace to-morrow." There is a certain scorn in +her manner, that attracts his notice.</p> + +<p>"Is that sufficient to create happiness?" he says, some<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span> +what bitterly, in spite of himself. "But of course it is. +You know Horace?"</p> + +<p>"Not well, but well enough," says Mrs. Branscombe, +with a frown. "I know him well enough to hate him."</p> + +<p>She pauses, rather ashamed of herself for her impulsive +confidence, and not at all aware that by this hasty speech +she has made a friend of Sir James for life.</p> + +<p>"Hate him?" he says, feeling he could willingly embrace +her on the spot were society differently constituted. +"Why, what has he done to you?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing; but he is not good enough for Clarissa," protests +she, energetically. "But then who is good enough? +I really think," says Mrs. Branscombe, with earnest conviction, +"she is far too sweet to be thrown away upon any +man."</p> + +<p>Even this awful speech fails to cool Sir James's admiration +for the speaker. She has declared herself a non-admirer +of the all-powerful Horace, and this goes so far a +way with him that he cannot bring himself to find fault with +her on any score.</p> + +<p>"I don't know why I express my likes and dislikes to +you so openly," she says, gravely, a little later on; "and +I don't know, either, why I distrust Horace. I have +only a woman's reason. It is Shakespeare slightly altered: +'I hate him so, because I hate him so.' And I hope, with +all my heart, Clarissa will never marry him."</p> + +<p>Then she blushes again at her openness, and gives him +her hand, and bids him good-by, and presently he goes on +his way once more to Gowran.</p> + +<p>On the balcony there stands Clarissa, the solemn Bill +close beside her. She is leaning on the parapet, with her +pretty white hands crossed and hanging loosely over it. +As she sees him coming, with a little touch of coquetry, +common to most women, she draws her broad-brimmed hat +from her head, and, letting it fall upon the balcony, lets +the uncertain sunlight touch warmly her fair brown hair +and tender exquisite face.</p> + +<p>Bill, sniffing, lifts himself, and, seeing Sir James, shakes +his shaggy sides, and, with his heavy head still drooping, +and his most hang-dog expression carefully put on, goes +cautiously down the stone steps to greet him.</p> + +<p>Having been patted, and made much of, and having<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span> +shown a scornful disregard for all such friendly attentions, +he trots behind Sir James at the slow funeral pace he +usually affects, until Clarissa is reached.</p> + +<p>"Better than my ordinary luck to find you here," says +Sir James, who is in high good humor. "Generally you +are miles away when I get to Gowran. And—forgive me—how +exceedingly charming you are looking this morning!"</p> + +<p>Miss Peyton is clearly not above praise. She laughs,—a +delicious rippling little laugh,—and colors faintly.</p> + +<p>"A compliment from you!" she says. "No wonder I +blush. Am I really lovely, Jim, or only commonly pretty? +I should hate to be commonly pretty." She lifts her +brows disdainfully.</p> + +<p>"You needn't hate yourself," says Scrope, calmly. +"Lovely is the word for you."</p> + +<p>"I'm rather glad," says Miss Peyton, with a sigh of +relief. "If only for—Horace's sake!"</p> + +<p>Sir James pitches his cigar over the balcony, and +frowns. Always Horace! Can she not forget him for +even one moment?</p> + +<p>"What brought you?" asks she, presently.</p> + +<p>"What a gracious speech!"—with a rather short laugh. +"To see you, I fancy. By the by, I met Mrs. Branscombe +on my way here. She didn't look particularly happy."</p> + +<p>"No." Clarissa's eyes grow sad. "After all, that marriage +was a terrible mistake, and it seemed such a satisfactory +one. Do you know," in a half-frightened tone, "I +begin to think they hate each other?"</p> + +<p>"They don't seem to hit it off very well, certainly," says +Sir James, moodily. "But I believe there is something +more on Branscombe's mind than his domestic worries: +I am afraid he is getting into trouble over the farm, and +that, and nothing hits a man like want of money. That +Sawyer is a very slippery fellow, in my opinion: and of +late Dorian has neglected everything and taken no interest +in his land, and, in fact, lets everything go without question."</p> + +<p>"I have no patience with Georgie," says Clarissa, indignantly. +"She is positively breaking his heart."</p> + +<p>"She is unhappy, poor little thing," says Scrope, who<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span> +cannot find it in his heart to condemn the woman who +has just condemned Horace Branscombe.</p> + +<p>"It is her own fault if she is. I know few people so lovable +as Dorian. And now to think he has another trouble +makes me wretched. I do hope you are wrong about Sawyer."</p> + +<p>"I don't think I am," says Scrope; and time justifies +his doubt of Dorian's steward.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p class="author">"<span class="smcap">Sartoris</span>, Tuesday, four o'clock.</p> + +<p>"<span class="smcap">Dear Scrope,</span>—</p> + +<p>"Come up to me at <i>once</i>, if possible. Everything here +is in a deplorable state. You have heard, of course, that +Sawyer bolted last night; but perhaps you have <i>not</i> heard +that he has left things in a ruinous state. I must see you +with as little delay as you can manage. Come straight to +the library, where you will find me alone.</p> + +<p class="regards">"Yours ever,</p> +<p class="author">"D. B."</p> +</div> + +<p>Sir James, who is sitting in his sister's room, starts to +his feet on reading this letter.</p> + +<p>"Patience, I must go at once to Sartoris," he says, +looking pale and distressed.</p> + +<p>"To see that mad boy?"</p> + +<p>"To see Dorian Branscombe."</p> + +<p>"That is quite the same thing. You don't call him sane, +do you? To marry that chit of a girl without a grain of +common sense in her silly head, just because her eyes were +blue and her hair yellow, forsooth. And then to go and +get mixed up with that Annersley affair—"</p> + +<p>"My dear Patience!"</p> + +<p>"Well, why not? Why should I not talk? One must +use one's tongue, if one isn't a dummy. And then there is +that man Sawyer: he could get no one out of the whole +country but a creature who——"</p> + +<p>"Hush!" says Sir James, hastily and unwisely. "Better +be silent on that subject." Involuntarily he lays his +hand upon the letter just received.</p> + +<p>"Ha!" says Miss Scrope, triumphantly, with astonishing +sharpness. "So I was right, was I? So that pitiful +being has been exposed to the light of day, has he? I +always said how it would be; I knew it!—ever since last<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span> +spring, when I sent to him for some cucumber-plants, and +he sent me instead (with wilful intent to insult me) two vile +gourds. I always knew how it would end."</p> + +<p>"Well, and how has it ended?" says Sir James, with a +weak effort to retrieve his position, putting on a small air +of defiance.</p> + +<p>"Don't think to deceive me," says Miss Scrope, in a +terrible tone; whereupon Sir James flies the apartment, +feeling in his heart that in a war of words Miss Scrope's +match is yet to be found.</p> + +<p>Entering the library at Sartoris, he finds Dorian there, +alone, indeed, and comfortless, and sore at heart.</p> + +<p>It is a dark dull day. The first breath of winter is in +the air. The clouds are thick and sullen, and are lying +low, as if they would willingly come down to sit upon the +earth and there rest themselves,—so weary they seem, and +so full of heaviness.</p> + +<p>Above them a wintry sun is trying vainly to recover its +ill temper. Every now and then a small brown bird, flying +hurriedly past the windows, is almost blown against +them by the strong and angry blast.</p> + +<p>Within, a fire is burning, and the curtains are half drawn +across the windows and the glass door, that leads, by steps, +down into the garden. No lamps are lit, and the light is +sombre and severe.</p> + +<p>"You have come," says Dorian, advancing eagerly to +meet him. "I knew I could depend upon you, but it is +more than good of you to be here so soon. I have been +moping a good deal, I am afraid, and forgot all about the +lamps. Shall I ring for some one now to light them?"</p> + +<p>"No: this light is what I prefer," says Scrope, laying +his hand upon his arm. "Stir up the fire, if you like."</p> + +<p>"Even that I had not given one thought to," says Branscombe, +drearily. "Sitting here all alone, I gave myself +up a prey to evil thoughts."</p> + +<p>The word "alone" touches Sir James inexpressibly. +Where was his wife all the time, that she never came to +him to comfort and support him in his hour of need?</p> + +<p>"Is everything as bad as you say?" he asks, presently, +in a subdued tone.</p> + +<p>"Quite as bad; neither worse nor better. There are no +gradations about utter ruin. You heard about Sawyer, of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span> +course? Harden has been with me all last night and to-day, +and between us we have been able to make out that +he has muddled away almost all the property,—which, you +know, is small. As yet we hardly know how we stand. +But there is one claim of fifteen thousand pounds that must +be paid without delay, and I have not one penny to meet +it, so am literally driven to the wall."</p> + +<p>"You speak as if——"</p> + +<p>"No, I am speaking quite rationally. I know what you +would say; but if I was starving I would not accept one +shilling from Lord Sartoris. That would be impossible. +You can understand why, without my going into that infamous +scandal. I suppose I can sell Sartoris, and pay my—that +is, Sawyer's—debts; but that will leave me a beggar." +Then, in a low tone, "I should hardly care, but for her. +That is almost more than I can bear."</p> + +<p>"You say this debt of fifteen thousand pounds is the +one that presses hardest?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. But for that, I might, by going in for strict economy, +manage to retrieve my present position in a year or +two."</p> + +<p>"I wish you would explain more fully," says Sir James; +whereupon Dorian enters into an elaborate explanation +that leaves all things clear.</p> + +<p>"It seems absurd," says Scrope, impatiently, "that you, +the heir to an earldom and unlimited wealth, should be +made so uncomfortable for the sake of a paltry fifteen +thousand pounds."</p> + +<p>"I hardly think my wealth unlimited," says Branscombe; +"there is a good deal of property not entailed, and the +ready money is at my uncle's own disposal. You know, +perhaps, that he has altered his will in favor of Horace,—has, +in fact, left him everything that it is possible to +leave?"</p> + +<p>"This is all new to me," says Sir James, indignantly. +"If it is true, it is the most iniquitous thing I ever heard +in my life."</p> + +<p>"It is true," says Branscombe, slowly. "Altogether, +in many ways, I have been a good deal wrong; and the +money part of it has not hurt me the most."</p> + +<p>"If seven thousand pounds would be of any use to you," +says Scrope, gently, delicately, "I have it lying idle. It<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span> +will, indeed, be a great convenience if you will take it at a +reasonable——"</p> + +<p>"That is rather unkind of you," says Dorian, interrupting +him hastily. "Don't say another word on that subject. +I shall sink or swim without aid from my friends,—aid, I +mean, of that sort. In other ways you can help me. Harden +will, of course, see to the estate; but there are other, +more private matters, that I would intrust to you alone. +Am I asking too much?"</p> + +<p>"Don't be unkind in your own turn," says Scrope, with +tears in his eyes.</p> + +<p>"Thank you," says Dorian, simply. His heart seems +quite broken.</p> + +<p>"What of your wife?" asks Sir James, with some hesitation. +"Does she know?"</p> + +<p>"I think not. Why should she be troubled before her +time? It will come fast enough. She made a bad match, +after all, poor child! But there is one thing I must tell +you, and it is the small drop of comfort in my cup. About +a month ago, Lord Sartoris settled upon her twenty thousand +pounds, and that will keep her at least free from care. +When I am gone, I want you to see to her, and let me +know, from time to time, that she is happy and well cared +for."</p> + +<p>"But will she consent to this separation from you, that +may last for years?"</p> + +<p>"Consent!" says Dorian, bitterly. "That is not the +word. She will be glad, at this chance that has arisen to +put space between us. I believe from my heart that——"</p> + +<p>"What is it you believe?" says a plaintive voice, breaking +in upon Dorian's speech with curious energy. The +door leading into the garden is wide open: and now the +curtain is thrust aside, and a fragile figure, gowned in +some black filmy stuff, stands before them. Both men +start as she advances in the uncertain light. Her face is +deadly pale; her eyes are large, and almost black, as she +turns them questioningly upon Sir James Scrope. It is +impossible for either man to know what she may, or may +not, have heard.</p> + +<p>"I was in the garden," she says, in an agitated tone, +"and I heard voices; and something about money; and +Dorian's going away: and——" (she puts her hand up to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span> +her throat) "and about ruin. I could not understand: +but you will tell me. You must."</p> + +<p>"Tell her, Dorian," says Sir James. But Dorian looks +doggedly away from her, through the open window, into +the darkening garden beyond.</p> + +<p>"Tell me, Dorian," she says, nervously, going up to him, +and laying a small white trembling hand upon his arm.</p> + +<p>"There is no reason why you should be distressed," +says Branscombe, very coldly, lifting her hand from his +arm, as though her very touch is displeasing to him. "You +are quite safe. Sawyer's mismanagement of the estate +has brought me to the verge of ruin; but Lord Sartoris +has taken care that you will not suffer."</p> + +<p>She is trembling violently.</p> + +<p>"And you?" she says.</p> + +<p>"I shall go abroad until things look brighter." Then +he turns to her for the first time, and, taking both her +hands, presses them passionately. "I can hardly expect +forgiveness from you," he says: "you had, at least, a +right to expect position when you made your unhappy marriage, +and now you have nothing."</p> + +<p>I think she hardly hears this cruel speech. Her thoughts +still cling to the word that has gone before.</p> + +<p>"Abroad?" she says, with quivering lips.</p> + +<p>"Only for a time," says Sir James, taking pity upon her +evident distress.</p> + +<p>"Does he owe a great deal?" asks she, feverishly. "Is +it a very large sum? Tell me how much it is."</p> + +<p>Scrope, who is feeling very sorry for her, explains matters, +while Dorian maintains a determined silence.</p> + +<p>"Fifteen thousand pounds, if procured at once, would +tide him over his difficulties," says Sir James, who does +her the justice to divine her thoughts correctly. "Time +is all he requires."</p> + +<p>"I have twenty thousand pounds," says Georgie, eagerly. +"Lord Sartoris says I may do what I like with it. Dorian,"—going +up to him again,—"take it,—do, <i>do</i>. You +will make me happier than I have been for a long time if +you will accept it."</p> + +<p>A curious expression lights Dorian's face. It is half +surprise, half contempt: yet, after all, perhaps there is +some genuine gladness in it.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I cannot thank you sufficiently," he says, in a low tone. +"Your offer is more than kind: it is generous. But I +cannot accept it. It is impossible I should receive anything +at your hands."</p> + +<p>"Why?" she says, her lips white, her eyes large and +earnest.</p> + +<p>"Does that question require an answer?" asks Dorian, +slowly. "There was a time, even in our short married +life, when I believed in your friendship for me, and then +I would have taken anything from you,—from my wife; +but now, I tell you again, it is impossible. You yourself +have put it out of my power."</p> + +<p>He turns from her coldly, and concentrates his gaze +once more upon the twilit garden.</p> + +<p>"Don't speak to me like that,—at least now," says +Georgie, her breath coming in short quick gasps. "It +hurts me so! Take this wretched money, if—if you still +have any love for me."</p> + +<p>He turns deliberately away from the small pleading +face.</p> + +<p>"And leave you penniless," he says.</p> + +<p>"No, not that. Some day you can pay me back, if +you wish it. All these months you have given me every +thing I could possibly desire, let me now make you some +small return."</p> + +<p>Unfortunately, this speech angers him deeply.</p> + +<p>"We are wasting time," he says, quickly. "Understand, +once for all, I will receive nothing from you."</p> + +<p>"James," says Mrs. Branscombe, impulsively, going up +to Scrope and taking his hand. She is white and nervous, +and, in her agitation, is hardly aware that, for the first +time, she has called him by his Christian name. "Persuade +him. Tell him he should accept this money. Dear +James, speak for me: <i>I</i> am nothing to him."</p> + +<p>For the second time Branscombe turns and looks at +her long and earnestly.</p> + +<p>"I must say I think your wife quite right," says Scrope, +energetically. "She wants you to take this money; your +not taking it distresses her very much, and you have no +right in the world to marry a woman and then make her +unhappy." This is faintly quixotic, considering all the +circumstances, but nobody says anything. "You ought<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span> +to save Sartoris from the hammer no matter at what +price,—pride or anything else. It isn't a fair thing, you +know, Branscombe, to lift the roof from off her head for +a silly prejudice."</p> + +<p>When he has finished this speech, Sir James feels that +he has been unpardonably impertinent.</p> + +<p>"She will have a home with my uncle," says Branscombe, +unmoved,—"a far happier and more congenial +home than this has ever been." A faint sneer disfigures +his handsome mouth for a moment. Then his mood +changes, and he turns almost fiercely upon Georgie. +"Why will you fight against your own good fortune?" he +says. "See how it is favoring you. You will get rid of +me for years, perhaps—I hope—forever, and you will be +comfortable with him."</p> + +<p>"No, I shall not," says Mrs. Branscombe, a brilliant +crimson has grown upon her pale cheeks, her eyes are +bright and full of anger, she stands back from him and +looks at him with passionate reproach and determination +in her gaze. "You think I will consent to live calmly +here while you are an exile from your home? In so much +you wrong me. When you leave Sartoris, I leave it too,—to +be a governess once more."</p> + +<p>"I forbid you to do that," says Branscombe. "I am +your husband, and, as such, the law allows me some +power over you. But this is only an idle threat," he says, +contemptuously. "When I remember how you consented +to marry even me to escape such a life of drudgery, I cannot +believe you will willingly return to it again."</p> + +<p>"Nevertheless I shall," says Georgie, slowly. "You +abandon me: why, then, should you have power to control +my actions? And I will not live at Hythe, and I will +not live at all in Pullingham unless I live here."</p> + +<p>"Don't be obstinate, Dorian," says Sir James, imploringly. +"Give in to her: it will be more manly. Don't +you see she has conceived an affection for the place by +this time, and can't bear to see it pass into strange hands? +In the name of common sense, accept this chance of rescue, +and put an end to a most unhappy business."</p> + +<p>Dorian leans his arms upon the mantel-piece, and his +head upon his arms. Shall he, or shall he not, consent<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span> +to this plan? Is he really behaving, as Scrope has just +said, in an unmanly manner?</p> + +<p>A lurid flame from the fire lights up the room, and falls +warmly upon Georgie's anxious face and clasped hands +and sombre clinging gown; upon Dorian's bowed head +and motionless figure, and upon Sir James, standing tall +and silent within the shadow that covers the corner where +he is. All is sad, and drear, and almost tragic!</p> + +<p>Georgie, with both hands pressed against her bosom, +waits breathlessly for Dorian's answer. At last it comes. +Lifting his head, he says, in a dull tone that is more depressing +than louder grief,—</p> + +<p>"I consent. But I cannot live here just yet. I shall +go away for a time. I beg you both to understand that I +do this thing against my will for my wife's sake,—not for +my own. Death itself could not be more bitter to me +than life has been of late." For the last time he turns +and looks at Georgie. "You know who has embittered +it," he says. And then, "Go: I wish to be alone!"</p> + +<p>Scrope, taking Mrs. Branscombe's cold hand in his, +leads her from the room. When outside, she presses her +fingers on his in a grateful fashion, and, whispering something +to him in a broken voice,—which he fails to hear,—she +goes heavily up the staircase to her own room.</p> + +<p>When inside, she closes the door, and locks it, and, going +as if with a purpose to a drawer in a cabinet, draws +from it a velvet frame. Opening it, she gazes long and +earnestly upon the face it contains: it is Dorian's.</p> + +<p>It is a charming, lovable face, with its smiling lips and +its large blue honest eyes. Distrustfully she gazes at it, as +if seeking to discover some trace of duplicity in the clear +open features. Then slowly she takes the photograph from +the frame, and with a scissors cuts out the head, and, lifting +the glass from a dull gold locket upon the table near +her, carefully places the picture in it.</p> + +<p>When her task is finished, she looks at it once again, and +then laughs softly to herself,—a sneering unlovable laugh +full of self-contempt. Her whole expression is unforgiving, +yet suggestive of deep regret. Somehow, at this moment +his last words came back to her and strike coldly on +her heart: "I wish to be alone!"</p> + +<p>"Alone!" How sadly the word had fallen from his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span> +lips! How stern his face had been, how broken and miserable +his voice! Some terrible grief was tearing at his +heart, and there was no one to comfort or love him, or——</p> + +<p>She gets up from her chair, and paces the room impatiently, +as though inaction had ceased to be possible to +her. An intense craving to see him again fills her soul. +She must go to him, if only to know what he has been doing +since last she left him. Acting on impulse, she goes +quickly down the stairs, and across the hall to the library, +and enters with a beating heart.</p> + +<p>All is dark and dreary enough to chill any expectant +mind. The fire, though warm and glowing still, has burned +to a dull red, and no bright flames flash up to illumine the +gloom. Blinded by the sudden change from light to darkness, +she goes forward nervously until she reaches the +hearth-rug: then she discovers that Dorian is no longer +there.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXII.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And when we meet at any time again,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Be it not seen in either of our brows<br /></span> +<span class="i1">That we one jot of former love retain."—<span class="smcap">Drayton.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p>Not until Mrs. Branscombe has dismissed her maid for +the night does she discover that the plain gold locket in +which she had placed Dorian's picture is missing. She +had (why, she hardly cares to explain even to herself) hung +it round her neck; and now, where is it?</p> + +<p>After carefully searching her memory for a few moments, +she remembers that useless visit to the library before dinner, +and tells herself she must have dropped it then. She +will go and find it. Slipping into a pale-blue dressing-gown, +that serves to make softer and more adorable her +tender face and golden hair, she thrusts her feet into slippers +of the same hue, and runs down-stairs for the third +time to-day, to the library.</p> + +<p>Opening the door, the brilliant light of many lamps greets +her, and, standing by the fire is her husband, pale and hag<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span>gard, +with the missing locket in his hand. He has opened +it, and is gazing at his own face with a strange expression.</p> + +<p>"Is this yours?" he asks, as she comes up to him. "Did +you come to look for it?"</p> + +<p>"Yes." She holds out her hand to receive it from him, +but he shows some hesitation about giving it.</p> + +<p>"Let me advise you to take this out of it," he says, coldly, +pointing to his picture. "Its being here must render the +locket valueless. What induced you to give it such a +place?"</p> + +<p>"It was one of my many mistakes," returns she, calmly, +making a movement as though to leave him; "and you are +right. The locket is, I think, distasteful to me. I don't +want it any more: you can keep it."</p> + +<p>"I don't want it, either," returns he, hastily; and then, +with a gesture full of passion, he flings it deliberately into +the very heart of the glowing fire. There it melts, and +grows black, and presently sinks, with a crimson coal, utterly +out of sight.</p> + +<p>"The best place for it," says he, bitterly. "I wish I +could as easily be obliterated and forgotten."</p> + +<p>Is it forgotten? She says nothing, makes no effort to +save the fated case that holds his features, but, with hands +tightly clenched, watches its ruin. Her eyes are full of +tears, but she feels benumbed, spiritless, without power to +shed them.</p> + +<p>Once more she makes a movement to leave him.</p> + +<p>"Stay," he says, gently; "I have a few things to say +to you, that may as well be got over now. Come nearer +to the fire: you must be cold."</p> + +<p>She comes nearer, and, standing on the hearth-rug, +waits for him to speak. As she does so, a sharp cough, +rising to her throat, distresses her sufficiently to bring +some quick color into her white cheeks. Though in itself +of little importance, this cough has now annoyed her for at +least a fortnight, and shakes her slight frame with its vehemence.</p> + +<p>"Your cough is worse to-night," he says, turning to +regard her more closely.</p> + +<p>"No, not worse."</p> + +<p>"Why do you walk about the house so insufficiently +clothed?" asks he, angrily, glancing at her light dressing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span>-gown +with great disfavor. "One would think you were +seeking ill health. Here, put this round you." He tries to +place upon her shoulders the cashmere shawl she had +worn when coming in from the garden in the earlier part +of the evening. But she shrinks from him.</p> + +<p>"No, no," she says, petulantly; "I am warm enough; +and I do not like that thing. It is black,—the color of +Death!"</p> + +<p>Her words smite cold upon his heart. A terrible fear +gains mastery over him. Death! What can it have to do +with one so fair, so young, yet, alas! so frail?</p> + +<p>"You will go somewhere for change of air?" he says, +entreatingly, going up to her and laying his hand upon +her shoulder. "It is of this, partly, I wish to speak to +you. You will find this house lonely and uncomfortable +(though doubtless pleasanter) when I am gone. Let me +write to my aunt, Lady Monckton. She will be very glad +to have you for a time."</p> + +<p>"No; I shall stay here. Where are you going?"</p> + +<p>"I hardly know; and I do not care at all."</p> + +<p>"How long will you be away?"</p> + +<p>"How can I answer that question either? There is +nothing to bring me home."</p> + +<p>"How soon do you go?" Her voice all through is utterly +without expression, or emotion of any kind.</p> + +<p>"Immediately," he answers, curtly. "Are you in such +a hurry to be rid of me? Be satisfied, then: I start to-morrow." +Then, after an unbroken pause, in which even +her breathing cannot be heard, he says, in a curious voice, +"I suppose there will be no occasion for me to write to +you while I am away?"</p> + +<p>She does not answer directly. She would have given +half her life to be able to say, freely, "Write to me, Dorian, +if only a bare line, now and then, to tell me you are +alive;" but pride forbids her.</p> + +<p>"None, whatever," she says, coldly, after her struggle +with her inner self. "I dare say I shall hear all I care to +hear from Clarissa or Sir James."</p> + +<p>There is a long silence. Georgie's eyes are fixed dreamily +upon the sparkling coals. His eyes are fixed on her. +What a child she looks in her azure gown, with her yellow +hair falling in thick masses over her shoulders. So white,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span> +so fair, so cruelly cold! Has she no heart, that she can +stand in that calm, thoughtful attitude, while his heart is +slowly breaking?</p> + +<p>She has destroyed all his happy life, this "amber witch," +with her loveliness, and her pure girlish face, and her bitter +indifference; and yet his love for her at this moment +is stronger, perhaps, than it has ever been. He is leaving +her. Shall he ever see her again?</p> + +<p>Something at this moment overmasters him. Moving a +step nearer to her, he suddenly catches her in his arms, +and, holding her close to his heart, presses kisses (unforbidden) +upon her lips and cheek and brow.</p> + +<p>In another instant she has recovered herself, and, placing +her hands against his chest, frees herself, by a quick +gesture, from his embrace.</p> + +<p>"Was that how you used to kiss <i>her</i>?" she says, in a +choked voice, her face the color of death. "Let me go: +your touch is contamination."</p> + +<p>Almost before the last word has passed her lips, he releases +her, and, standing back, confronts her with a face +as livid as her own.</p> + +<p>In the one hurried glance she casts at him, she knows +that all is, indeed, over between them now; never again +will he sue to her for love or friendship. She would have +spoken again,—would, perhaps, have said something to +palliate the harshness of her last words,—but by a gesture +he forbids her. He points to the door.</p> + +<p>"Leave the room," he says, in a stern commanding +tone; and, utterly subdued and silenced by his manner, +she turns and leaves him.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXIII.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"A goodly apple, rotten at the heart.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!"—<i>Merchant of Venice.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"No hinge nor loop<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To hang a doubt on."—<i>Othello.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + + +<p>Dorian has been two months gone, and it is once +again close on Christmas-tide. All the world is beginning<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span> +to think of gifts, and tender greetings, and a coming year. +Clarissa is dreaming of wedding garments white as the +snow that fell last night.</p> + +<p>The post has just come in. Clarissa, waking, stretches +her arms over her head with a little lazy delicious yawn, +and idly turns over her letters one by one. But presently, +as she breaks the seal of an envelope, and reads what +lies inside it, her mood changes, and, springing from her +bed, she begins to dress herself with nervous rapidity.</p> + +<p>Three hours later, Sir James, sitting in his library, is +startled by the apparition of Clarissa standing in the +door-way with a very miserable face.</p> + +<p>"What on earth has happened?" says Sir James, who +is a very practical young man and always goes at once to +the root of a mystery.</p> + +<p>"Horace is ill," says Miss Peyton, in a tone that might +have suited the occasion had the skies just fallen. "Oh, +Jim, what shall I do?"</p> + +<p>"My dearest girl," says Scrope, going up to her and +taking her hands.</p> + +<p>"Yes, he is very ill! I had not heard from him for a +fortnight, and was growing wretchedly uneasy, when to-day +a letter came from Aunt Emily telling me he has been +laid up with low fever for over ten days. And he is very +weak, the doctor says, and no one is with him. And papa +is in Paris, and Lord Sartoris is with Lady Monckton, and +Dorian—no one knows where Dorian is!"</p> + +<p>"Most extraordinary his never getting any one to write +you a line!"</p> + +<p>"Doesn't that only show how fearfully ill he must be? +Jim, you will help me, won't you?"</p> + +<p>This appeal is not to be put on one side.</p> + +<p>"Of course I will," says Scrope: "you know that—or +you ought. What do you want me to do?"</p> + +<p>"To take me to him. I want to see him with my own +eyes."</p> + +<p>"To go yourself?" says Sir James, extreme disapprobation +in his tone. "You must be out of your mind."</p> + +<p>"I am not," returns she, indignantly. "I never was +more in it. And I am going, any-way."</p> + +<p>"What will your father say?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span></p> + +<p>"He will say I was quite right. Dear, <i>dear</i>, <span class="smcap">DEAR</span> +Jim,"—slipping her hand through his arm, and basely descending +from <i>hauteur</i> to coaxing,—"do say you will take +me to him. It can't be wrong! Am I not going to be +his wife in a month's time?"</p> + +<p>Sir James moves a chair out of his way with most unnecessary +vehemence.</p> + +<p>"How that alters the case I can't see," he says, obstinately.</p> + +<p>"You forsake me!" says Miss Peyton, her eyes filling +with tears. "Do. I can't be much unhappier than I am, +but I did depend on you, you were always so much my +friend." Here two large tears run down her cheeks, and +they, of course, decide everything.</p> + +<p>"I will take you," he says, hastily. "To-day?—The +sooner the better, I suppose."</p> + +<p>"Yes; by the next train. Oh, how obliged to you I +am! Dear Jim, I shall never forget it to you!"</p> + +<p>This is supposed to be grateful to him, but it is quite +the reverse.</p> + +<p>"I think you are very foolish to go at all," he says, +somewhat gruffly.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps I am," she says, with a rueful glance. "But +you cannot understand. Ah! if you loved, yourself, you +could sympathize with me."</p> + +<p>"Could I?" says Sir James, with a grimace that is meant +for a smile, but as such is a most startling specimen of its +class.</p> + +<p>So they go up to town, and presently arrive at the house +where Horace lies unconscious of all around him. The +door is opened to them by an unmistakable landlady,—a +fat, indolent person, with sleepy eyes, and a large mouth, +and a general air about her suggestive of perpetual beef-steaks +and bottled stout.</p> + +<p>This portly dame, on being questioned, tells them, "Mr. +Branscum has just bin given his draft, and now he is +snoozin' away as peaceable as a hinfant, bless 'im."</p> + +<p>"Is he—in bed?" asks Sir James, diffidently, this large +person having the power to reduce him to utter subjection.</p> + +<p>"Lawks! no, sir. He wouldn't stay there he's that +contrairy. Beggin' yore parding, sir, he's yore brother?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span></p> + +<p>Sir James nods. She may prove difficult, this stout old +lady, if he declares himself no relative.</p> + +<p>"To be shore!" says she. "I might 'a' knowed by the +speakin' likeness between you. You're the born himage +of 'im. After his draft we laid 'im on the sofy, and there +he is now, sleepin' the sleep of the just. Just step up and +see him; do, now. He is in a state of comus, and not +expectit to get out of it for two hours."</p> + +<p>"The young—lady—will go up," says Sir James, feeling, +somehow, as if he has insulted Clarissa by calling her +"a young lady." "She would like" (in a confidential tone +that wins on the stout landlady) "to see him alone, just at +first."</p> + +<p>"Just so," says Mrs. Goodbody, with a broad wink; and +Clarissa is forthwith shown up-stairs, and told to open the +first door she comes to.</p> + +<p>"And you," says Mrs. Goodbody to Sir James, "will +please just to step in 'ere and wait for her, while I see +about the chicking broth!"</p> + +<p>"What a charming room!" says Sir James, hypocritically; +whereupon the good woman, being intensely flattered, +makes her exit with as much grace as circumstances and +her size will permit.</p> + +<p>Clarissa opening the door with a beating heart, finds +herself in a pretty, carefully-shaded room, at the farther +end of which, on a sofa, Horace lies calmly sleeping. He +is more altered than even her worst fears had imagined, +and as she bends over him she marks, with quick grief, +how thin and worn and haggard he has grown.</p> + +<p>The blue veins stand out upon his nerveless hands. +Tenderly, with the very softest touch, she closes her own +fingers over his. Gently she brushes back the disordered +hair from his flushed forehead, and then, with a quick accession +of coloring, stoops to lay a kiss upon the cheek of +the man who is to be her husband in one short month.</p> + +<p>A hand laid upon her shoulder startles and deters her +from her purpose. It is a light, gentle touch, but firm and +decided and evidently meant to prevent her from giving +the caress. Quickly raising herself, Clarissa draws back, +and, turning her head, sees——</p> + +<p>Who is it? Has time rolled backwards? A small, +light, gray-clad figure stands before her, a figure only too<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span> +well remembered! The brown hair brushed back from +the white temples with the old Quakerish neatness, the +dove-like eyes, the sensitive lips, cannot be mistaken. Clarissa +raises her hands to her eyes to shut out the sight.</p> + +<p>Oh! not that! Anything but that! Not Ruth Annersley!</p> + +<p>A faint sick feeling overcomes her; involuntarily she +lays a hand upon the back of a chair near her, to steady +herself; while Ruth stands opposite to her, with fingers +convulsively clinched, and dilated nostrils, and eyes dark +with horror.</p> + +<p>"What brings you here?" asks Ruth, at length, in a +voice hard and unmusical.</p> + +<p>"To see the man whose wife I was to have been next +month," says Clarissa, feeling compelled to answer. +"And"—in a terrible tone—"who are you?"</p> + +<p>"The woman who ought to be his wife," says Ruth, in +the same hard tone, still with her hands tightly clasped.</p> + +<p>Clarissa draws her breath hard, but returns no answer; +and then there falls upon them a long, long silence, that +presently becomes unbearable. The two women stand +facing each other, scarcely breathing. The unnatural +stillness is undisturbed save by the quick irregular gasps +of the sick man.</p> + +<p>Once he sighs heavily, and throws one hand and arm +across his face. Then Ruth stirs, and, going swiftly and +noiselessly to his side, with infinite tenderness draws away +the arm and replaces it in its former position. She moves +his pillows quietly, and passes her cool hand across his fevered +brow.</p> + +<p>"Ruth?" he moans, uneasily, and she answers, "I am +here, darling," in the faintest, sweetest whisper.</p> + +<p>Something within Clarissa's heart seems to give way. +At this moment, for the first time, she realizes the true +position in which he has placed her. A sensation of +faintness almost overcomes her, but by a supreme effort +she conquers her weakness, and crushes back, too, the +rising horror and anger that have sprung into life. A curious +calm falls upon her,—a state that often follows upon +keen mental anguish. She is still completing the victory +she has gained over herself, when Ruth speaks again.</p> + +<p>"This is no place for you!" she says, coldly, yet with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span> +her hand up to her cheek, as though to shield her face +from the other's gaze.</p> + +<p>Clarissa goes up to her then.</p> + +<p>"So you are found at last," she says, somewhat monotonously. +"And, of all places, here! Is there any truth in +the world, I wonder? Was it shame kept you from writing, +all these months, to your unhappy father? Do you +know that an innocent man—his brother"—pointing with a +shivering gesture to the unconscious Horace—"has been +suffering all this time for his wrong-doing?"</p> + +<p>"I know nothing," replies Ruth, sternly. "I seek to +know nothing. My intercourse with the world ceased with +my innocence."</p> + +<p>"You knew of my engagement to him?" says Clarissa, +again motioning towards the couch.</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Before you left Pullingham?"</p> + +<p>"No! oh, no!—not then," exclaims Ruth, eagerly. "I +did not believe it then. Do not judge me more harshly +than you can help."</p> + +<p>The dull agony that flashes into her eyes quickens into +life some compassionate feeling that still lies dormant in +Clarissa's breast.</p> + +<p>"I do not judge you at all," she says, with infinite gentleness. +Then, with an impulsive movement, she turns +and lays her hand upon her shoulder. "Come home with +me—now!" she says. "Leave this place, Ruth, I implore +you, listen to me!"</p> + +<p>"Do not," says Ruth, shrinking from her grasp; "I +am not fit for you to touch. Remember all that has +passed."</p> + +<p>"Do you think I shall ever forget!" says Clarissa, slowly. +"But for your father's sake: he is ill,—perhaps dying. +Come. For his sake you will surely return?"</p> + +<p>"It is too late!" says the girl, in a melancholy voice. +And then, again, "It is impossible." Yet it is apparent +that a terrible struggle is taking place within her breast: +how it might have ended, whether the good or bad angel +would have gained the day, can never now be said; a sigh, +a broken accent, decided her.</p> + +<p>"My head!" murmurs the sick man, feebly, drawing his +breath wearily, and as if with pain. "Ruth, Ruth, are you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span> +there?" The querulous dependent tone rouses into instant +life all the passionate tenderness that is in Ruth's +heart. Having soothed him by a touch, she turns once +more to Clarissa.</p> + +<p>"He too is sick,—perhaps dying," she says, feverishly. +"I cannot leave him! I have sacrificed all for him, and I +shall be faithful unto the end. Leave me: I have done you +the greatest wrong one woman can do another. Why +should you care for my salvation?" Through all the defiance +there is bitter misery in her tone.</p> + +<p>"I don't know why; yet I do," says poor Clarissa, earnestly.</p> + +<p>"You are a saint," says Ruth, with white lips. And +then she falls upon her knees. "Oh, if it be in your +heart," she cries, "grant me your forgiveness!"</p> + +<p>Clarissa bursts into tears.</p> + +<p>"I do grant it," she says. "But I would that my +tongue possessed such eloquence as could induce you to +leave this house." She tries to raise Ruth from her kneeling +position.</p> + +<p>"Let me remain where I am," says Ruth, faintly. "It +is my right position. I tell you again to go; this is no +place for you. Yet stay you, sweet woman,"—she cries, +with sudden fervor, catching hold of the hem of Clarissa's +gown and pressing it to her lips,—"let me look at you +once again! It is my final farewell to all that is pure; +and I would keep your face fresh within my heart."</p> + +<p>She gazes at her long and eagerly.</p> + +<p>"What! tears?" she says; "and for me? Oh, believe +me, though I shall never see you again, the recollection of +these tears will soothe my dying hours, and perhaps wash +out a portion of my sins!"</p> + +<p>Her head drops upon her hands. So might the sad +Magdalen have knelt. Her whole body trembles with +the intensity of her emotion, yet no sound escapes her.</p> + +<p>"Ruth, for the last time, I implore you to come with +me," says Clarissa, brokenly. And once more the parched +lips of the crouching woman frame the words, "It is too +late!"</p> + +<p>A moment after, the door is opened, and closed again +and Clarissa has looked her last upon Ruth Annersley.</p> + +<p>How she makes her way down to the room where Sir<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span> +James sits awaiting her, Clarissa never afterwards remembers.</p> + +<p>"It is all over: take me away!" she says, quietly, but +somewhat incoherently.</p> + +<p>"He isn't dead?" says Sir James, who naturally conceives +the worst from her agitation.</p> + +<p>"No: it is even worse," she says. And then she covers +her face with her hands, and sinks into a chair. "Ruth +Annersley is here!" When she has said this, she feels that +life has almost come to an end. How shall she make this +wretched revelation to her father, to Georgie, to all the +rest of the world?</p> + +<p>As for Sir James, he stands at some distance from her, +literally stunned by the news. Words seem to fail him. +He goes up to her and takes one of her small icy-cold +hands in his.</p> + +<p>"Did you see her?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"The scoundrel!" says Sir James, in a low tone. +Then, "Is he very ill?" There is unmistakable meaning +in his tone.</p> + +<p>"Very." And here she falls to bitter weeping again.</p> + +<p>It is a cruel moment: Sir James still holds her hand, +but can find no words to say to comfort her; indeed, +where can comfort lie?</p> + +<p>At this instant a heavy footfall resounds along the passage +outside. It warns them of the sylph-like approach of +Mrs. Goodbody. Sir James going quickly to the door, +intercepts her.</p> + +<p>"My—my sister is quite upset," he says, nervously. +"Mr. Branscombe was—was worse than she expected to +find him."</p> + +<p>"Upset!—and no wonder, too," says Mrs. Goodbody, +with heavy sympathy, gazing approvingly at Miss Peyton. +"There's no denying that he's so worn out, the pore dear, +as it's quite dispiritin' to see 'im, what with his general +appearings and the fear of a bad turn at any mingit. For +myself, I take my meals quite promiscuous like, since he +fell ill,—just a bit here and a bit there, it may be, but +nothing reg'lar like. I ain't got the 'art. Howsoever, 'hope +on, hope never,' is my motter, miss; and we must allus +hope for the best, as the sayin' is."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Just so," says Sir James, who doesn't know, in the +very least, what to say.</p> + +<p>"A good wife, sir, I allus say, is half the battle; and +that lady up-stairs, she is a reg'lar trump, she is, and so devoted, +as it's quite affectin' to witness. Good-mornin' sir—thank +you, sir. I'll see to him, you be bound; and, +with his good lady above, there ain't the smallest——"</p> + +<p>Sir James, opening the hall door in despair, literally +pushes Clarissa out and into the cab that is awaiting them. +For a long time she says nothing; and just as he is beginning +to get really anxious at her determined silence, she +says, with some difficulty,—</p> + +<p>"Jim, promise me something?"</p> + +<p>"Anything," says Jim.</p> + +<p>"Then never again allude to this day, or to anything +connected with it; and never again mention—his—name +to me, unless I first speak to you."</p> + +<p>"Never!" returns he, fervently. "Be sure of it."</p> + +<p>"Thank you," she says, like a tired child; and then, +sinking back in her corner of the cab, she cries long and +bitterly.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXIV.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Our doubts are traitors,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And make us lose the good we oft might win."—<span class="smcap">Shakespeare.</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The day goeth down red darkling,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The moaning waves dash out the light,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And there is not a star of hope sparkling<br /></span> +<span class="i1">On the threshold of my night."—<span class="smcap">Gerald Massey.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + + +<p>The morning after her unfortunate visit to town, Clarissa +sends to Mrs. Branscombe, asking her to come to her +without delay. The secret that is in her heart weighs +heavily, and Georgie must be told. Yet, now, when the +door opens, and Georgie stands before her, she is dumb, +and cold, and almost without power to move.</p> + +<p>"What is it?" says Mrs. Branscombe, suddenly. The +sad little smile that of late has been peculiar to her fades +at sight of Clarissa's grief-stricken face. She advances,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span> +and lays a hand upon her arm. "You look positively ill, +Clarissa: something dreadful has happened. I can see it +in your eyes. It is bad news. Dorian,—he is not——"</p> + +<p>She puts her hand to her throat, and leans on a chair.</p> + +<p>"It is no bad news for you," says Clarissa, faintly, +"but for me." She pauses.</p> + +<p>"Are you in trouble, dearest?" says Mrs. Branscombe, +sadly. "I thought you the happiest girl alive. Is there +nothing but misery in this wretched world?"</p> + +<p>"I was in town yesterday," Clarissa begins, with an +effort, and then stops. How is she to betray her lover's +falseness?</p> + +<p>"And you saw Horace, and he is ill?" says Georgie, +anxiously. "Tell me all, Clarissa."</p> + +<p>"It is so hard to tell," says poor Clarissa; and then she +turns her face to the wall, and wishes honestly that all +things for her might now be at an end:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Love, art thou bitter?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sweet is death to me."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>At this moment she could have gladly welcomed death.</p> + +<p>"There are many things," she says, "but this worst of +all. He does not love me; he has never loved me. And +there is some one else; and——"</p> + +<p>"Who is it?" asks Georgie, breathlessly, though the +truth as yet is far from her.</p> + +<p>"Ruth Annersley! She was there,—in his rooms!" +says Clarissa; and, after this, there is a silence that lasts +for several minutes.</p> + +<p>The unhappy truth is told. Clarissa, shamed and +heartbroken, moves away, that her companion may not see +her face. As for Mrs. Branscombe, at first intense wonder +renders her motionless; and then, as the exact meaning +of this terrible story breaks in upon her, a great and +glorious gleam of unmistakable rapture lights all her face, +and, sinking upon a <i>prie-Dieu</i> near her, she presses her +hands tightly together. That Dorian is exonerated, is her +first thought; that he will never forgive her, is her second; +and this drives all the blood from her cheeks, and the +gladness from her heart, and brings her back again to +the emptiness and barrenness that have made life a wilderness +to her for so many months.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span></p> + +<p>Going over to Clarissa, she lays her arms gently round +her neck. There seems to be a new bond, born of grief, +between them now.</p> + +<p>"Do not pity me," says Clarissa, entreatingly.</p> + +<p>"Pity you? no! There is no occasion for it. You are +fortunate in having escaped such a fate as was in store +for you. In time you will forget all this, and be happy in +some other way."</p> + +<p>"Shall I?" says Clarissa, drearily. "But, in the mean +time, what shall I do? How shall I fill the blank here?" +She lays her hand upon her heart.</p> + +<p>"He is a wretch," says Georgie, with sudden fire. "If +I were a man, I should kill him."</p> + +<p>"You should rather be thankful to him," says Clarissa, +with some bitterness. "My misery has proved your joy. +The shadow has been raised from Dorian."</p> + +<p>"Clarissa, if you speak to me like that you will break +my heart," says Georgie, deeply grieved. "How could I +know joy when you are unhappy? And—and, besides, +there is no joy for me anywhere. Dorian will never +forgive me. How could he? I, his wife, was the one +who most heartily condemned him and believed in his +guilt."</p> + +<p>"When you see him, all will be well. But he should be +told; you will see to that."</p> + +<p>"Of course, darling. He is coming home next week. +But how shall I meet him and say all this to him! The +very thought of it is terrible."</p> + +<p>"Next week?—so soon?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; I had a line from him this morning,—the only +one he wrote me since his departure; but that was my +own fault. I am almost sorry he is coming now," says +Mrs. Branscombe, nervously. "I shall dread the look in +his eyes when I confess to him how readily I believed in +that false rumor."</p> + +<p>"You hardly deserve pity," says Clarissa, suddenly, +turning upon her with some just anger. "You undervalued +him all through. Instead of going 'down on your +knees to thank heaven, fasting, for a good man's love,' +you deliberately flung it away. How different it has been +with me! I trusted blindly, and see my reward! Even +yet I cannot realize it. It seems like some strange horri<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span>ble +nightmare, from which I must awake. Yesterday I +was so happy; to-day——"</p> + +<p>She breaks down, and bursts into bitter weeping.</p> + +<p>Georgie throws herself on her knees before her.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>"Is this your luggage, sir? Glad to see you back again, +sir."</p> + +<p>"Thank you, Jeffers. Yes, that is mine. All right at +home, I hope? Your mistress quite well?"</p> + +<p>"Quite well, sir. She is at home, awaiting you."</p> + +<p>Dorian turns away with a bitter smile. "At home, +awaiting him!" What a wretched fool he once was, when +he used to really picture to himself a fair fond woman +waiting and longing for his return, whenever Fate had +called him from her side!</p> + +<p>Arriving at Sartoris, he runs up the stairs to his own +room, meeting no one on his way. He smiles again—the +same unlovely smile—as he tells himself that Jeffers exaggerated +the case a little,—as, plainly, Georgie has taken +special pains to be out of the way to avoid meeting him +on his first arrival.</p> + +<p>Opening his door, he goes in, closing it firmly behind +him. Everything in the room is just as he had left it. +Nothing has been changed; the very book he had been +reading is lying now open at the page he had last looked +into. A glorious fire is burning in the grate. A delicate +Bohemian vase is filled with some rare sweet flowers.</p> + +<p>Whose hand had gathered them? If it was one of the +servants, it was very thoughtful. He is very fond of flowers. +He moves listlessly about, wondering vaguely how +everything can look, after some months' absence, so exactly +as if he had seen it only yesterday, when a small object +lying on a side-table attracts his notice.</p> + +<p>It is a little gray glove, soiled, finger-pressed, warm as +if its owner but just a minute since had drawn it from her +hand. It is yet almost a part of the white, soft flesh it +had covered. His brow contracts, and a pained expression +crosses his face. Taking it up, he lays it in his open +palm, and regards it earnestly; he hesitates, and then, as +though unable to prevent himself, he raises it and presses +it passionately to his lips. An instant later, with a contemptuous +gesture and an inward anathema upon his own<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span> +weakness, he flings it far from him through the open window +down on to the balcony beneath,—where it flutters +to Mrs. Branscombe's feet!</p> + +<p>Mechanically she stoops and picks it up. She has been +hurrying towards the house, having only just heard of her +husband's arrival, she not having expected him for some +time later, trains at Pullingham being none of the most +punctual.</p> + +<p>Gazing at the luckless glove, her whole expression +changes. She is beneath his window: was it his hand +flung it so disdainfully to the ground,—the glove she had +worn such a short time before, when gathering the flowers +that are now making his room so sweet? Clasping the unoffending +bit of kid closely in her hand, she enters the +house, by a wide French window, and goes straight into +Dorian's room.</p> + +<p>At the door she hesitates, and then knocks somewhat +nervously.</p> + +<p>"Come in." His voice has been so long a stranger to +her that she almost starts on hearing it, and the last remnant +of her courage vanishes. She opens the door and +goes slowly in.</p> + +<p>Dorian's back is turned to her. His coat is off, and he +is brushing his hair before a glass in the furious fashion +men, as a rule, affect. As she enters, he turns, and putting +down the brushes, regards her with undisguised surprise. +Plainly, he has not expected her.</p> + +<p>"How d'ye do?" he says, presently. It is perfectly absurd; +yet neither of them laughs. It is the most ridiculous +greeting he could possibly have made her, considering +all things; yet no sense of ridicule touches them. +They are too near to tragedy to harbor a thought of comedy.</p> + +<p>"I did not expect you until five," says Georgie, in a +constrained tone. "If I had known, I should have been +ready to receive you."</p> + +<p>"Pray do not apologize," he says, coldly. "It is very +good of you to come here now. It is more than I expected."</p> + +<p>"I came," says Georgie, with an effort, "because I have +something to tell you, that should be told without delay."</p> + +<p>"What is it?" he asks, quickly. "Is my uncle well?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Quite well. I saw him yesterday. It has nothing to +do with him; though, of course, it must touch him very +nearly."</p> + +<p>"You will be tired," he says, with grave but distant politeness. +"Sit down while you tell me your news."</p> + +<p>"No; I prefer standing." She clasps one hand tightly +over the other, and leans against the wall; she cannot, +try as she will, remove her eyes from his face. "What I +want to say is this: I have heard of Ruth Annersley!"</p> + +<p>"Have you?" with an ominous calm in look and tone. +"Where is she?"</p> + +<p>"With—your brother!"</p> + +<p>Dorian walks abruptly to the window, and stands there +so that his face cannot be seen. He is distressed beyond +measure. So his old suspicions have proved true, after all, +and Horace's protestations were as basest lies. He feels +sick at heart for his brother's honor,—that miserable remnant +of a once fair thing, that costly garment, now reduced +to rags. After a while he forces himself to speak again.</p> + +<p>"Who found her there?" he asks, huskily.</p> + +<p>"Clarissa."</p> + +<p>"Clarissa?" He is now thoroughly shocked. "What +cruel fate made her the discoverer?"</p> + +<p>"Chance. He was ill, and she went to see him, out of +pure love for him. She was rewarded by a sight of Ruth +Annersley!"</p> + +<p>"Poor girl!" says Branscombe, sadly. "So true,—so +trusting."</p> + +<p>Georgie draws her breath quickly. Are not his words +a reflection upon her?—she, who has so failed in faith +and love?</p> + +<p>"I suppose that is all you have to tell me," says Dorian, +presently, in an absent, weary way.</p> + +<p>"Not quite all," she says, with a trembling voice. She +forces herself to come nearer to him, and now stands before +him like a small pale culprit, unable to lift her eyes to +his. "I want to tell you how deeply I regret the injustice, +the—"</p> + +<p>"No, no," interrupts he, impatiently. "Let nothing be +said about that. It would be worse than useless. Why +waste words over what can never be undone?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span></p> + +<p>Still she perseveres bravely, although her breath is coming +quicker, and her lips are trembling.</p> + +<p>"I must tell you how sorry I am," she says, with a suppressed +sob. "I want to ask you, if possible, to forg——"</p> + +<p>"Believe me, it will be better to leave all this unsaid," +he interrupts her, gravely.</p> + +<p>"Then you do not care to hear how I have regretted +the wrong I did you, and——?"</p> + +<p>"As you ask me the question, I will answer you. No, +I do not. Had you, at any time, felt one particle of affection +for me, you could never have so misunderstood me. +Let things now remain as they are. Though I think that +perhaps, for the short time I shall remain at home, it will +be better for your sake that we should appear before the +world, at least, as friends."</p> + +<p>"You are leaving home again?" she asks, timidly. +Now, as he stands before her, so tall, and strong, and unforgiving, +with this new-born dignity upon him, she fully +realizes, for the first time, all she has recklessly resigned. +He had loved her at one time, surely, and she had trampled +on that love, until she had crushed out of it all life +and sweetness:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i8">"For it so falls out<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That what we have we prize not to the worth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While we enjoy it; but, being lacked and lost,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Why, then we rack the value; then we find<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The virtue that possession would not show us<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While it was ours."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>"Yes, as soon as I can finish the business that has +brought me back. I fear that will keep me two months, +at least. I wish I could hasten it, but it would be impossible." +He grows slightly <i>distrait</i>, but, after a moment, +rouses himself with a start, and looks at her. "Am I +keeping you?" he asks, courteously. (To her the courtesy +is a positive cruelty.) "Do not let me detain you any longer. +Is there anything more you wish to say to me?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing." His last words have frozen within her all +desire for reconciliation. Is he, indeed, in such great haste +to be gone? Without another word, she goes to the door, +but, as she puts out her hand to open it, something within +her grasp becomes known to her. It is the glove she had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span> +picked up on the balcony half an hour ago, and has held +ever since almost unconsciously.</p> + +<p>"Was it—was it you that threw this from the window?" +she says, suddenly, for the last time raising her beautiful +eyes to her husband's face.</p> + +<p>"Yes. This was no place for it," returns he, sternly.</p> + +<p>Going down the staircase, full of grief and wounded +pride, she encounters Lord Sartoris.</p> + +<p>"He has come?" asks the old man, in an agitated manner, +laying his hand on her arm.</p> + +<p>"He has. If you wish to see him, he is in his own +room," replies she, in a singularly hard tone.</p> + +<p>"Have you told him everything?" asks Sartoris, nervously. +"It was a fatal mistake. Do you think he will forgive +me?"</p> + +<p>"How can I say?" says Mrs. Branscombe, with a bitter +smile. "I can only tell you he has not forgiven me."</p> + +<p>"Bless me!" says Lord Sartoris; "then, I suppose, I +haven't a chance."</p> + +<p>He is disheartened by her words, and goes very slowly +on his way towards his nephew's room. When they are +once more face to face, they pause and look with uncertainty +upon each other. Then the older man holds out +his hands beseechingly.</p> + +<p>"I have come to demand your forgiveness," he says, +with deep entreaty. "Dorian—grant it!—I am very +old——"</p> + +<p>In an instant Dorian's arm is round his neck, as it used +to be in the days long ago, before the dark cloud had rolled +between them.</p> + +<p>"Not another word, or I shall never forgive you!" says +Branscombe, tenderly, with the old smile upon his lips. +And Sartoris, strong, obstinate, self-willed man that he is, +lays his head down upon his "boy's" shoulder, and sobs +aloud.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXV.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Oh, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the contempt and anger of her lips."—<i>Twelfth Night.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + + +<p>The dark day is growing colder and more drear. The +winds are sighing sadly. A shivering sobbing breeze, +that rushes in a mournful fashion through the naked twigs, +tells one the year is drawing to a close, and that truly it is +"faint with cold, and weak with old."</p> + +<p>Clarissa, riding along the forest path that leads to Sartoris, +feels something akin to pleasure in the sound of the +rushing torrent that comes from above and falls headlong +into the river that runs on her right hand.</p> + +<p>There is, too, a desolation in the scene that harmonizes +with her own sad thoughts. She has watched the summer +leaves and flowers decay, but little thought her own hopes +and longings should have died with them. Is she never +to know peace, or joy, or content again? On her "rests +remembrance like a ban:" she cannot shake it off.</p> + +<p>"Rest! rest! Oh, give me rest and peace!" she cries +aloud to her soul, but no rest cometh. The world seems +colorless, without tint or purpose. She would gladly forget, +if that might be, but it seems impossible to her.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Ourselves we cannot recreate,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor get our souls to the same key<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the remembered harmony."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The past—that is, her happy past—seems gone; the +present is full of grief; the future has nothing to offer. +This fact comes to her, and, with her eyes full of tears, she +turns the corner and finds herself face to face with Horace +Branscombe.</p> + +<p>The old smile is on his face; he comes to her and holds +out both his hands to take hers. He is worn and thin, and +very handsome.</p> + +<p>"I am too fortunate to meet you so soon," he says. +"Yet I hardly think I should shake hands with you." Evidently, +some thought unknown to her is in his mind.</p> + +<p>"I am glad you have come to that conclusion," she says, +"as there is no desire whatever on my part that our hands +should meet."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span></p> + +<p>He is plainly puzzled.</p> + +<p>"What a strange welcome!" he says, reproachfully. +"My letters during the past week should have explained +everything to you."</p> + +<p>"I have had none," says Clarissa, shortly.</p> + +<p>"No? Was that why I received no answers? I have +risen from a sick-bed to come to you, and demand the +reason of your silence."</p> + +<p>"I am sorry you troubled yourself so far. Ruth Annersley +could have given you the answer you require."</p> + +<p>His face blanches perceptibly; and his eyes, in their +usual stealthy fashion, seek the ground.</p> + +<p>"What have I to do with her?" he says, sullenly.</p> + +<p>"Coward!" says Miss Peyton, in a low tone. "Do you, +then, deny even all knowledge of the woman you have so +wronged?"</p> + +<p>"Take care! do not go too far," cries he, passionately, +laying his hand upon her bridle, close to the bit. "Have +you no fear?"</p> + +<p>"Of you? none!" returns she, with such open contempt +as stings him to the quick. "Remove your hand, +sir."</p> + +<p>"When I have said all I wish to say," returns he, +coarsely, all his real brutality coming to the surface. "You +shall stay here just as long as I please, and hear every +word I am going to say. You shall——"</p> + +<p>"Will you remove your hand?"</p> + +<p>"When it suits me," returns he; "not before."</p> + +<p>Passionate indignation conquers her self-control. Raising +her arm, she brings down her riding-whip, with swift +and unexpected violence, upon his cheek. The blow is +so severe that, for the moment, he loses his presence of +mind, and, swaying backward, lets the bridle go. Clarissa, +finding herself free, in another moment is out of his reach +and on her way to Sartoris.</p> + +<p>As she reaches the gate, she meets James Scrope coming +out, and, drawing rein, looks at him strangely.</p> + +<p>"Have you seen a ghost?" asks he, slipping from his +saddle, and coming up to her. "Your face is like death."</p> + +<p>"I have, the ghost of an old love, but, oh, how disfigured! +Jim, I have seen Horace."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span></p> + +<p>She hides her face with her hands. She remembers the +late scene with painful distinctness, and wonders if she +has been unwomanly, coarse, undeserving of pity. She +will tell him,—that is, Scrope,—and, if he condemns her, +her cup will be indeed full.</p> + +<p>Sir James—who, as a rule, is the most amiable of men—is +now dark with anger.</p> + +<p>"Branscombe—here?" he says, indignantly.</p> + +<p>"Yes. He had evidently heard nothing. But I told +him; and—and then he said things he should not have +said; and he held my reins; and I forgot myself," says +poor Clarissa, with anguish in her eyes; "and I raised +my whip, and struck him across the face. Jim, if you say +I was wrong in doing this thing, you will kill me."</p> + +<p>"Wrong!" says Scrope. "Hanging would be too good +for him. Oh, to think you should have been alone on +such an occasion as that!"</p> + +<p>"But it was a hateful thing to do, wasn't it?" says Miss +Peyton, faintly.</p> + +<p>"Hateful? Why? I only wish you had laid his cheek +open," says Sir James, venomously. "But of course this +poor little hand could not manage so much." Stooping +involuntarily, he presses his lips to the hand that rests +upon her knee.</p> + +<p>"That wasn't the hand at all," says Miss Peyton, feeling +inexpressibly consoled by his tone and manner.</p> + +<p>"Wasn't it? Then I shall kiss the right one now," +says Sir James, and caresses the other hand right warmly.</p> + +<p>"I can't go on to Sartoris to-day," says Clarissa, in a +troubled tone, checking her horse in the middle of the +broad avenue.</p> + +<p>"No; come home instead," says Scrope; and, turning, +they go slowly, and almost silently, back to Gowran.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Horace, rousing himself after his encounter with Clarissa, +puts his hand impulsively to his face, the sting of the +blow still remaining. His illness has left him somewhat +prostrate and weak; so that he feels more intensely than +he otherwise would the pain that has arisen from the sudden +stroke. A bitter execration rises to his lips; and +then, feeling that all hope of reconciliation with Clarissa +is at an end, he returns to Langham Station, and, with a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span> +mind full of evil thoughts and bitter revenge, goes back +to town.</p> + +<p>Wild and disturbed in appearance, he breaks in upon +Ruth as she sits reading alone in the very room where she +had last seen Clarissa. As he enters, she utters a glad +little cry of welcome, and, springing to her feet, goes over +to him.</p> + +<p>"So soon returned?" she says, joyfully; and then something +she sees in his face freezes within her all further expressions +of pleasure: his eyes are dark, his whole face is +livid with rage.</p> + +<p>"So you betrayed me?" he says, pushing her away from +him. "Now, no lies! I saw Clarissa Peyton to-day, and +I know everything."</p> + +<p>"You have been to Pullingham?" exclaims she, with a +little gasp. "Horace, do not blame me. What was I to +do? When she came in here, and saw me——"</p> + +<p>"Clarissa, here?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, here. I was afraid to tell you of it before, you +seemed so weak, so fretful. Last Tuesday week—the +day you had the sleeping-draught from Dr. Gregson—she +came; she entered the room, she came near you, she +touched you, she would"—faintly—"have kissed you. +But how could I bear that? I stepped forward just in time +to prevent her lips from meeting yours."</p> + +<p>"And so," he says, with slow vindictiveness, taking no +notice of her agony, "for the sake of a mere bit of silly +sentimentality you spoiled every prospect I have in life."</p> + +<p>"Horace, do not look at me like that," she entreats, +painfully. "Remember all that has passed. If for one +moment I went mad and forgot all, am I so much to be +blamed? You had been mine—altogether mine—for so +long that I had not strength in one short moment to relinquish +you. When she would have kissed you, it seemed to +me more than I could endure."</p> + +<p>"Was it? It is but a little part of what you will have to +endure for the future," he says, brutally. "You have wilfully +ruined me, and must take the consequences. My +marriage with Clarissa Peyton would have set me straight +with the world once more, and need not have altered our +relations with each other one iota."</p> + +<p>"You would have been false to your wife?" murmurs<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</a></span> +she, shrinking back from him. "Oh, no! that would have +been impossible!"</p> + +<p>He laughs ironically.</p> + +<p>"I tell you candidly," he says, with reckless emphasis, +"I should have been false to one or other of you, and it +certainly would not have been to you."</p> + +<p>"You malign yourself," she says, looking at him with +steadfast love.</p> + +<p>"Do I? What a fool you are!" he says, roughly. +"Well, by your own mad folly you have separated us irretrievably. +Blame yourself for this, not me. My affairs +are so hopelessly entangled that I must quit the country +without delay. Your own mad act has rolled an ocean +between us."</p> + +<p>He turns, and goes towards the door. Wild with grief +and despair, she follows him, and lays a detaining hand +upon his arm.</p> + +<p>"Not like this, Horace!" she whispers, desperately. +"Do not leave me like this. Have pity. You shall not +go like this! Be merciful: you are my all!"</p> + +<p>"Stand out of my way," he says, between his teeth: and +then, as she still clings to him in her agony, he raises his +hand and deliberately strikes her. Not violently, not +severely, but still with sufficient force to make her stagger +backwards and catch hold of a chair to keep her from falling.</p> + +<p>He is gone: and she, stunned, quivering, half blind with +nervous horror, still stands by the chair and tries to realize +all that has passed. As she draws a deep breath, she +places her hand, with a spasmodic movement, to her left +side, as though to quell some darting pain that lies there. +The action brings back consciousness, and that saddest of +all things, memory.</p> + +<p>"He did not mean it," she whispers to herself, with +white set lips. "It was not a blow; it was only that he +wished to put me to one side, and I was in his way, no +doubt: I angered him by my persistency. Darling! How +could I think that he would hurt me?"</p> + +<p>Languid, heart-broken, she creeps to her bed, and, flinging +herself upon it, dressed as she is, sleeps heavily until +the morn, "diffusing round a trembling flood of light," +wakes her to grief once more.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXVI.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Have mind that eild aye follows youth;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Death follows life with gaping mouth;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sen erdly joy abidis never,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Work for the joy that lastis ever;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For other joy is all but vain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And erdly joy returns in pain."—<span class="smcap">W. Dunbar.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p>Something within her knows he will return. Yet all +the next day long she sits in terrible suspense, not being +certain of the end. Towards noon he comes, sullen, disdainful, +and dark with depression.</p> + +<p>He sinks into a chair, looking tired and careworn.</p> + +<p>"You have over-fatigued yourself?" she says, gently, +going over to him and touching his hand lightly.</p> + +<p>"No. I have been to Pullingham again and back; that +is all."</p> + +<p>"There again?" she says. "And you saw——?"</p> + +<p>"Only Dorian. Don't trouble yourself about Clarissa," +he says, with an unpleasant laugh: "that game is played +out. No, Dorian, alone, I went to see." He shades his +face with his hand, and then goes on: "There are few +like him in the world. In spite of all that has come and +gone, he received me kindly, and has given me what will +enable me to commence life afresh in a foreign land." +There is remorse and deep admiration in his tone.</p> + +<p>But Ruth makes no reply: she cannot. Those last +words, "a foreign land," have struck like a dying knell +upon her heart. She watches him in despairing silence, +as he walks restlessly up and down the room in the uncertain +twilight.</p> + +<p>Presently he stops close to her.</p> + +<p>"I suppose there is some orthodox way of breaking bad +news," he says, "but I never learned it. Ruth, your father +is dead."</p> + +<p>The girl shrinks back, and puts her hand to her forehead +in a dazed, pitiful fashion.</p> + +<p>"Not dead!" she says, imploringly, as though her contrition +could bring him back to life. "Not altogether +gone beyond recall. Sick, perhaps,—nay, dying,—but +not dead!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes, he is dead," says Horace, though more gently. +"He died a week ago."</p> + +<p>A terrible silence falls upon the room. Presently, +alarmed at her unnatural calm, he lays his hand upon her +shoulder to rouse her.</p> + +<p>"There is no use in fretting over what cannot be recalled," +he says, quickly, though still in his gentler tone. +"And there are other things I must speak to you about to-night. +My remaining time in this country is short, and I +want you to understand the arrangements I have made for +your comfort before leaving you."</p> + +<p>"You will leave me?" cries she, sharply. A dagger +seems to have reached and pierced her heart. Falling +upon her knees before him, she clasps him, and whispers, +in a voice that has grown feeble through the intensity of +her emotion, "Horace, do not forsake me. Think of all +the past, and do not let the end be separation. What can +I do? Where can I go?—with no home, no aim in life! +Have pity! My father is dead; my friends, too, are dead +to me. In all this wide miserable world I have only +you!"</p> + +<p>"Only me!" he echoes, with a short bitter laugh. "A +prize, surely. You don't know what folly you are talking. +I give you a chance of escape from me,—an honorable +chance, where a new home and new friends await you."</p> + +<p>"I want no friends, no home." (She is still clinging to +his knees, with her white earnest face uplifted to his.) +"Let me be your slave,—anything; but do not part from +me. I cannot live without you now. It is only death you +offer me."</p> + +<p>"Remember my temper," he says, warningly. "Only +last night I struck you. Think of that. I shall probably +strike you again. Be advised in time, and forsake me, +like all the others."</p> + +<p>"You torture me," she says, still in the same low panting +whisper. "You are my very heart,—my life. Take +me with you. Only let me see your face sometimes, and +hear your voice. I will not trouble you, or hinder you in +any way; only let me be near you." She presses her pale +lips to his hand with desperate entreaty.</p> + +<p>"Be it so," he says, after a moment's hesitation. "If +ever, in the days to come, you repent your bargain, blame<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</a></span> +yourself, not me. I have offered you liberty, and you +have rejected it. I shall leave this country in a week's +time; so be prepared. But before going, as you are so +determined to cast in your lot with mine, I shall marry +you."</p> + +<p>She starts to her feet.</p> + +<p>"Marry me?" she says, faintly. "Make me your wife! +Oh, no! you don't know what you are saying."</p> + +<p>She trembles violently, and her head falls somewhat +heavily against his arm.</p> + +<p>"It isn't worth a fainting fit," he says, hastily enough; +but his arm, as he places it round her, is strong and compassionate. +"Can anything be more absurd than a +woman? Sit down here, and try to be reasonable. You +must be quick with your preparations, as we start on +Tuesday. I will see about a special license, and we can +get the marriage ceremony over to-morrow. I know a fellow +who will manage it all for me."</p> + +<p>"You are quite sure you will never regret this step?" +she says, earnestly, even at this supremely happy moment +placing his happiness before her own.</p> + +<p>"I don't suppose so. If it is any satisfaction to you to +know it," he says, with a shrug, "you are the only woman +I have ever loved, and probably the only one I ever shall +love."</p> + +<p>A smile—radiant, perfect—lights her face. Surely, +just then, the one moment of utter happiness, that they +tell us is all that is ever allowed to poor mortals, is hers. +It is broken by the clock of a neighboring church clanging +out the hour.</p> + +<p>"So late!" says Horace, hurriedly. "I must go. +Until to-morrow, Ruth, good-by."</p> + +<p>"Good-by!" She places her hands upon his shoulders, +and, throwing back her head, gazes long and earnestly +into his face, as though reading once again each line in +the features she loves with such devotion. "Before you +go," she says, solemnly, "call me what I shall be so soon. +Say, 'Good-by, my wife!'"</p> + +<p>"Good-by, my wife!" returns he, with more love in his +accents than she has heard for months.</p> + +<p>She presses her lips passionately to his, and again, for +the last time, breathes the word "Farewell!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</a></span></p> + +<p>His rapid footsteps descend the stairs. She listens to +them until they have ceased and all is still. Then she +goes to the window, and presses her forehead against the +cold pane, that she may once more see him as he crosses +the street. The lamps are all alight, and a lurid glare +from one falls full upon her as she stands leaning eagerly +forward to catch the last glimpse of him she loves.</p> + +<p>Presently she sinks into a seat, always with her eyes +fixed upon the spot where she last has seen him, and sits +motionless, with her fingers twisted loosely in her lap; she +is so quiet that only the red gleam from the world without +betrays the fact of her presence.</p> + +<p>Once her lips part, and from them slowly, ecstatically, +come the words, "His wife." Evidently her whole mind +is filled with this one thought alone. She thinks of him, +and him only,—of him who has so cruelly wronged her, +yet who, in his own way, has loved her, too.</p> + +<p>The moments fly, and night comes on apace, clothed +in her "golden dress, on which so many stars like gems +are strewed;" yet still she sits before the window silently. +She is languid, yet happy,—weak and spent by the +excitement of the past hour, yet strangely full of peace. +Now and again she presses her hand with a gesture that is +almost convulsive to her side; yet whatever pain she +feels there is insufficient to drown the great gladness +that is overfilling her.</p> + +<p>To-morrow,—nay, even now, it is to-day,—and it is +bringing her renewed hope, fresh life, restored honor! +He will be hers forever! No other woman will have the +right to claim him. Whatever she may have to undergo +at his hands, at least he will be her own. And he has +loved her as he never loved another. Oh, what unspeakable +bliss lies in this certainty! In another land, too, all +will be unknown. A new life may be begun in which the +old may be swallowed up and forgotten. There must be +hope in the good future.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">"When we slip a little<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Out of the way of virtue, are we lost?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is there no medicine called sweet mercy?"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Only this morning she had deemed herself miserable +beyond her fellows; now, who can compete with her in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</a></span> +utter content? In a few short hours she will be his wife! +Oh that her father could but——</p> + +<p>Her father! Now, all at once, it rushes back upon her; +she is a little dazed, a good deal unsettled, but surely some +one had said that her—her father—was—dead!</p> + +<p>The lamps in the street die out. The sickly winter +dawn comes over the great city. The hush and calm still +linger; only now and then a dark phantom form issues +from a silent gateway, and hurries along the pavement, +as though fearful of the growing light.</p> + +<p>Ruth has sunk upon her knees, and is doing fierce battle +with the remorse that has come to kill her new-born +happiness. There is a terrible pain at her heart, +even apart from the mental anguish that is tearing it. +Her slight frame trembles beneath the double shock; a +long shivering sob breaks from her; she throws her arms +a little wildly across the couch before which she is kneeling, +and gradually her form sinks upon her arms. No +other sob comes to disturb the stillness. An awful silence +follows. Slowly the cold gray morning fills the chamber, +and the sun,—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Eternal painter, now begins to rise,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And limn the heavens in vermilion dyes."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>But within deathly silence reigns. Has peace fallen upon +that quiet form? Has gentle sleep come to her at last?</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Horace, ascending the stairs cautiously, before the +household is astir, opens the room where last he had seen +Ruth, and comes gently in. He would have passed on to +the inner chamber, thinking to rouse her to prepare in +haste for their early wedding, when the half-kneeling half-crouching +figure before the lounge attracts his notice.</p> + +<p>"Ruth," he says, very gently, fearful lest he shall frighten +her by too sudden a summons back to wakefulness; but +there is no reply. How can she have fallen asleep in such +an uncomfortable position? "Ruth," he calls again, rather +louder, some vague fear sending the blood back to his heart; +but again only silence greets his voice. And again he +says, "Ruth!" this time with passionate terror in his tone; +but, alas! there is still no response. For the first time +she is deaf to his entreaty.</p> + +<p>Catching her in his arms, he raises her from her kneel<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</a></span>ing +posture, and, carrying her to the window, stares wildly +into her calm face,—the poor, sad, pretty face of her who +had endured so much, and borne so long, and loved so +faithfully.</p> + +<p>She is dead!—quite dead! Already the limbs are stiffening, +the hands are icy cold, the lips, that in life would +so gladly have returned kiss for kiss, are now silent and +motionless beneath the despairing caresses he lavishes upon +them in the vain hope of finding yet some warmth remaining.</p> + +<p>But there is none. She is gone, past recall, past hearing +all expressions of remorseful tenderness. In the terrible +lonely dawn she had passed away, with no one near +to hold her dying hand, without a sigh or moan, leaving no +farewell word of love or forgiveness to the man who is now +straining her lifeless body to his heart, as though to make +one last final effort to bring her back to earth.</p> + +<p>There is a happy smile upon her lips, her eyes are quite +closed, almost she seems as one that sleepeth. The awful +majesty of death is upon her, and no voice of earth, +however anguished and imploring, can reach her ice-bound +heart. As the first faint touch of light that came to +usher in her wedding morn broke upon the earth, she had +died, and gone somewhere</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which men call earth."<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXVII.</h2> + + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Turn forth her silver lining on the night?"—<span class="smcap">Milton.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + + +<p>The two months that Dorian has given himself in which +to finish the business that, he said, had brought him home, +have almost come to an end. Already winter is passing +out of mind, and "Spring comes up this way."</p> + +<p>The "checkered daffodil" and the soft plaintive primrose +are bursting into bloom. The gentle rain comes +with a passing cloud, and sinks lovingly into the earth's +bosom and into the hearts of the opening buds.</p> + +<p>The grass is springing; all the world is rich with fresh<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</a></span> +young life. The very snowdrops—pale blossoms, born of +bitter winds and sunless skies—have perished out of sight.</p> + +<p>Ruth is lying in her grave, cold and forgotten save by +two,—the man who has most wronged her, and the woman +who had most to forgive her. As yet, Clarissa cannot rise +out of the depression that fell upon her when Horace's +treachery was first made known to her. Her love had +seemed so good, so tender, it had so brightened all her life, +and had been so much a part of her existence, that it +seemed to carry to the grave with it all her youth and +gladness. However untrue this young love of her life had +been, still, while she believed in it, it had been beautiful +to her, and it is with bitterest grief she has laid it aside; +to her it had been a living thing, and even as it fades +from her she cries to it aloud to stay, and feels her arms +empty in that it no longer fills them.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i3">"But, oh, not yet, not yet<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Would my lost soul forget<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How beautiful he was while he did live,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Or, when his eyes were dewy and lips wet,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">What kisses, tenderer than all regret,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">My love would give.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i3">"Strew roses on his breast,—<br /></span> +<span class="i3">He loved the roses best;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He never cared for lilies or for snow.<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Let be this bitter end of his sweet quest;<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Let be the pallid silence, that is rest,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And let all go!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Mr. Winter's exquisite words come often to her; and yet, +when the first great pang is over, a sensation that may be +almost called relief raises her soul and restores her somewhat +to her old self.</p> + +<p>She is graver—if possible, gentler, more tender—than in +the days before grief had touched her. And, though her +love has really died beyond all reawakening, still the memory +of what once had been has left its mark upon her.</p> + +<p>To Sir James she has never since mentioned the name +of the man in whom she had once so firmly believed, +though oftentimes it has occurred to her that relief might +follow upon the bare asking of a question that might +serve to make common the actual remembrance of him.</p> + +<p>To-day, as Scrope comes up the lawn to meet her, as she +bends over the "bright children of the sun," a sense of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</a></span> +gladness that he is coming fills her. She feels no nervousness +or weariness with him, only rest and peace, and +something that is deeper still, though yet vague and absolutely +unknown to her own heart.</p> + +<p>She goes forward to meet him, a smile upon her lips, +treading lightly on the young grass, that is emerald in hue,—as +the color of my own dear land,—and through which</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">"The meek daisies show<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Their breasts of satin snow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bedecked with tiny stars of gold mid perfume sighs."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>"You again?" she says, with a lovely smile. He was +here only yesterday.</p> + +<p>"What an uncivil speech! Do I come too often?" He +has her hand in his, and is holding it inquiringly, but it is +such a soft and kind inquiry.</p> + +<p>"Not half often enough," she says, and hardly knows +why his face flushes at her words, being still ignorant of +the fact that he loves her with a love that passeth the love +of most.</p> + +<p>"Well, you sha'n't have to complain of that any longer," +he says, gayly. "Shall I take up my residence here?"</p> + +<p>"Do," says Miss Peyton, also in jest.</p> + +<p>"I would much rather you took up yours at Scrope," +he says, unthinkingly, and then he flushes again, and then +silence falls between them.</p> + +<p>Her foot is tapping the sward lightly, yet nervously. +Her eyes are on the "daisies pied." Presently, as though +some inner feeling compels her to it, she says,—"Why +do you never speak to me of—Horace?"</p> + +<p>"You forbade me," he says: "how could I disobey you? +He is well, however, but, I think, not altogether happy. +In his last letter, to me he still spoke remorsefully of—her." +It is agony to him to say this, yet he does it bravely, +knowing it will be the wisest thing for the woman he +himself loves.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she says, quite calmly. At this instant she +knows her love for Horace Branscombe is quite dead. +"Her death was terrible."</p> + +<p>"Yet easy, I dare say. Disease of the heart, when it carries +one off, is seldom painful. Clarissa, this is the very first +time you have spoken of her, either."</p> + +<p>"Is it?" She turns away from him, and, catching a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</a></span> +branch, takes from it a leaf or two. "You have not spoken +to me," she says.</p> + +<p>"Because, as I said, you forbade me. Don't you know +your word to me is law?"</p> + +<p>"I don't think I know much," says Miss Peyton, with a +sad little smile; but she lets her hand lie in his, and does +not turn away from him. "Horace is in Ceylon," she says +presently.</p> + +<p>"Yes, and doing very well. Do you often think of him +now?"</p> + +<p>"Very often. I am glad he is getting on successfully."</p> + +<p>"Have you forgotten nothing, Clarissa?"</p> + +<p>"I have forgotten a great deal. How could it be otherwise? +I have forgotten that I ever loved any one. It seems +to me now impossible that I could have felt all that I did +two months ago. Yet something lingers with me,—something +I cannot explain." She pauses, and looks idly down +upon her white hands, the fingers of which are twining and +intertwining nervously.</p> + +<p>"Do you mean that you have ceased to think of Horace +in the light of a lover?" he asks, with an effort certainly, +yet with determination. He will hear the truth now or +never.</p> + +<p>"What! wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice?" +she says, turning to him with some passion; and then her +anger fades, and her eyes fill with tears.</p> + +<p>"If you can apply such a word to him, your love must +be indeed dead," he says, in a curious tone, and, raising +one of her hands, he lays it upon his breast.</p> + +<p>"I wish it had never been born," she says, with a sigh, +not looking at him.</p> + +<p>"But is it dead?" persists he, eagerly.</p> + +<p>"Quite. I buried it that day you took me—to his—rooms: +you remember?"</p> + +<p>"How could I forget? Clarissa, if you are unhappy, so +am I. Take pity upon me."</p> + +<p>"You unhappy?" She lifts her eyes to his.</p> + +<p>"Yes. All my life I have loved you. Is your heart +quite beyond my reach?"</p> + +<p>She makes him no answer.</p> + +<p>"Without you I live but half a life," he goes on, entreatingly. +"Every hour is filled with thoughts of you. I have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</a></span> +no interests apart from you. Clarissa, if there is any hope +for me, speak; say something."</p> + +<p>"Would not his memory be a shadow between us always?" +whispers she, in trembling accents. "Forgiveness is within +our power, forgetfulness is beyond us! Jim, is this thing +wise, that you are doing? Have you thought of it?"</p> + +<p>"I have thought of it for more than a long year," says +Sir James. "I think all my life, unconsciously, I have loved +you."</p> + +<p>"For so long?" she says, softly; and then, "How faithful +you have been!"</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"When change itself can give no more,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis easy to be true,"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>quotes he, tenderly; and then she goes nearer to him,—tears +in her eyes.</p> + +<p>"You are too good for me," she says.</p> + +<p>"Darling," says Scrope, and after that, somehow, it seems +but a little thing that his arms should close around her, +and that her head should lie contentedly upon his shoulder.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXVIII.</h2> + +<div class="subhead"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"There is no life on earth but being in love!"—<span class="smcap">Ben Jonson.</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And he, amidst his frolic play,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As if he would the charming air repay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shook thousand odors from his dewy wing."—<span class="smcap">Collins.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + + +<p>It is the afternoon of the same day, and Dorian, with a +keeper behind him, is trudging through the woods of Hythe, +two trusty setters at his heels. He cannot be said to be altogether +unhappy, because he has had a real good day with his +gun, as his bag can testify, and, be a man never so disturbed +by conflicting emotions, be he five fathoms deep in a +hopeless attachment, still he will tramp through his heather, +or ride to hounds, or smoke his favorite cigars, with the best, +and find, indeed, pleasure therein. For, truly,—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Man's love is of man's life a thing apart;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis woman's whole existence."<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</a></span></div></div> + +<p>The sun is sinking to rest; the chill of a spring evening +is in the air. Dismissing the man who holds his bag, he +sends him home to the house by a nearer route, and, lighting +a fresh cigar, follows the path that leads through the +fragrant wood into the grounds of Sartoris. The breath +of the bluebells is already scenting the air; the ferns are +growing thick and strong. He has come to a turn, that is +all formed of rock, and is somewhat abrupt, because of the +sharp angle that belongs to it, over which hart's-tongues +and other graceful weeds fall lazily, when, at a little distance +from him, he sees Georgie sitting on the fallen trunk +of a tree, her head leaning against an oak, her whole expression +full of deep dejection.</p> + +<p>As he comes nearer to her, he can see that she has been +crying, and that even now two tears are lying heavily upon +her cheeks.</p> + +<p>A troubled expression crosses his face. She looks so +childish, so helpless, with her hat upon the ground beside +her, and her hands lying listlessly upon her lap, and no one +near to comfort her or to kiss the melancholy from her +large mournful eyes.</p> + +<p>As she hears him coming, she starts to her feet, and, +turning aside, hastily dries the tears upon her cheeks, lest +he shall mark her agitation.</p> + +<p>"What is the matter with you?" asks he, with quick +but suppressed concern.</p> + +<p>"Nothing," returns she, in a low tone.</p> + +<p>"You can't be crying for nothing," says Dorian; "and +even your very voice is full of tears! Are you unhappy +about anything?"</p> + +<p>"What a question to ask me!" says Mrs. Branscombe, +reproachfully, with a fresh irrepressible sob, that goes to +his heart. He shifts his gun uneasily from one shoulder +to the other, hardly knowing what to say. Is it his fault +that she is so miserable? Must he blame himself because +she has found it impossible to love him?</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon," he says, in a low tone. "Of +course I have no right to ask you any questions."</p> + +<p>"Yet I would answer you if I knew how," returns she, +in a voice as subdued as his own.</p> + +<p>The evening is falling silently, yet swiftly, throwing "her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</a></span> +dusky veil o'er nature's face." A certain chill comes from +the hills and damps the twilight air.</p> + +<p>"It is getting late," says Branscombe, gently. "Will +you come home with me?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I will go home," she says, with a little troubled +submissive sigh, and, turning, goes with him down the +narrow pathway that leads to the avenue.</p> + +<p>Above them the branches struggle and wage a goblin +war with each other, helped by the night-wind, which even +now is rising with sullen purpose in its moan.</p> + +<p>Dorian strides on silently, sad at heart, and very hopeless. +He is making a vigorous effort to crush down all +regretful memories, and is forcing himself to try and think +with gladness of the time, now fast approaching, when he +shall be once more parted from her who walks beside him +with bent head and quivering lips. His presence is a +grief to her. All these past weeks have proved this to him: +her lips have been devoid of smiles; her eyes have lost +their light, her voice its old gay ring. When he is gone, +she may, perhaps, recover some of the gayety that once +was hers. And, once gone, why should he ever return? +And——</p> + +<p>And then—then! A little bare cold hand creeps into +the one of his that is hanging loosely by his side, and, nestling +in it, presses it with nervous warmth.</p> + +<p>Dorian's heart beats madly. He hardly dares believe +it true that she should, of her own accord, have given her +hand to him; yet he holds it so closely in his own that his +clasp almost hurts her. They do not speak; they do not +turn even to look at each other, but go on their way, silent, +uncertain, but no longer apart. By that one tender touch +they have been united.</p> + +<p>"You are going abroad again?" she says, in a tone so +low that he can scarcely hear her.</p> + +<p>"I was going," he says, and then their fingers meet again +and press each other gently.</p> + +<p>Coming to the stile that leads into the next path, he lays +down his gun, and, mounting the steps, holds out his hand +to help her to gain the top.</p> + +<p>Then, springing down to the other side, he takes her in +his arms to bring her to the ground beside him.</p> + +<p>But when his arms have closed round her he leaves them<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</a></span> +there, and draws her to his heart, and lays his cheek against +hers. With a little soft happy sob she lifts her arms and +lays them round his neck; and then, he tells himself, there +is nothing more on earth to be wished for.</p> + +<p>"My wife!—my darling!" he says, unsteadily.</p> + +<p>The minutes pass; then she looks up at him with soft +speaking eyes. There are no tears upon her cheeks, but +her face is pale as moonlight, and on it is a new deep +meaning that Dorian has never seen there in all his life before,—a +gentle light, as kind as death, and as soft as holy +love!</p> + +<p>As she so stands, gazing solemnly into his face, with all +her heart in her eyes, Dorian stoops and lays his lips on +her. She colors a lovely trembling crimson, and then returns +the caress.</p> + +<p>"You do love me at last?" he says. And then she +says,—</p> + +<p>"I do, with all my soul,"—in a tone not to be mistaken. +Afterwards, "Are you happy now?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. How can I be otherwise? For</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Thou with softest touch transfigurest<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This toil-worn earth into a heaven of rest.'<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>How could you so far have misjudged me?" he says, reproachfully, +referring to the old wound. "What had I +done to you, that you should believe me capable of such a +thing?"</p> + +<p>"It was my one sin," whispers she, nervously. "Is it +too bad to be forgiven?"</p> + +<p>"I wonder what you could do, I wouldn't forgive," replies +he, tenderly, "now I know you love me."</p> + +<p>"I think you needn't have thrown my poor glove out of +the window!" she says, with childish reproach. "That +was very unkind, I think."</p> + +<p>"It was brutal," says Branscombe. "But I don't believe +you did love me then."</p> + +<p>"Well, I did. You broke my heart that day. It will +take you all you know"—with an adorable smile—"to +mend it again."</p> + +<p>"My own love," says Dorian, "what can I do? I would +offer you mine in exchange, but, you see, you broke it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</a></span> +many a month ago, so the bargain would do you no good. +Let us both make up our minds to heal each other's wounds, +and so make restitution."</p> + +<p>"Sweet heart, I bid you be healed," says Georgie, laying +her small hand, with a pretty touch of tenderest coquetry, +upon his breast. And then a second silence falls upon +them, that lasts even longer than the first. The moments +fly; the breezes grow stronger, and shake with petulant +force the waving boughs. The night is falling, and "weeps +perpetual dews, and saddens Nature's scene."</p> + +<p>"Why do you not speak?" says Georgie, after a little +bit, rubbing her cheek softly against his. "What is it that +you want?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing. Don't you know that 'Silence is the perfectest +herald of joy: I were but little happy, if I could +say how much'?"</p> + +<p>"How true that is! yet somehow, I always want to talk," +says Mrs. Branscombe,—at which they both laugh.</p> + +<p>"Come home," says Dorian: "it grows cold as charity, +and I'm getting desperately hungry besides. Are you?"</p> + +<p>"I'm starving," says Georgie, genially. "There, now; +they say people never want to eat anything when they are +in love and when they are filled with joy. And I haven't +been hungry for weeks, until this very moment."</p> + +<p>"Just shows what awful stuff some fellows will talk," +says Mr. Branscombe, with an air of very superior contempt. +After which they go on their homeward journey +until they reach the shrubbery.</p> + +<p>Here voices, coming to them from a side-path, attract +their notice.</p> + +<p>"That is Clarissa," says Georgie: "I suppose she has +come out to find me. Let us wait for her here."</p> + +<p>"And Scrope is with her. I wish she would make up +her mind to marry him," says Branscombe. "I am certain +they are devoted to each other, only they can't see it. +Want of brain, I suppose."</p> + +<p>"They certainly are exceedingly foolish, both of them," +says Georgie, emphatically.</p> + +<p>The voices are drawing nearer; as their owners approach +the corner that separates them from the Branscombes, +Clarissa says, in a clear, audible tone,—</p> + +<p>"I never in all my life knew two such silly people!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Good gracious!" says Branscombe, going up to her. +"What people?"</p> + +<p>"You two!" says Clarissa, telling the truth out of sheer +fright.</p> + +<p>"You will be so kind as to explain yourself, Clarissa," +says Dorian, with dignity. "Georgie and I have long ago +made up our minds that Solon when compared with us +was a very poor creature indeed."</p> + +<p>"A perfect fool!" says Mrs. Branscombe, with conviction.</p> + +<p>The brightness of their tone, their whole manner, tell +Clarissa that some good and wonderful change has taken +place.</p> + +<p>"Then why is Dorian going abroad, instead of staying +at home like other people?" she says, uncertainly, feeling +still puzzled.</p> + +<p>"He isn't going anywhere: I have forbidden him!" +says Mrs. Branscombe, with saucy shyness.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Jim, they have made it up!" says Miss Peyton, +making this vulgar remark with so much joy and feeling +in her voice as robs it of all its commonplaceness. She +turns to Scrope as she says this, her eyes large with delight.</p> + +<p>"We have," says Georgie, sweetly. "Haven't we Dorian?" +And then again slipping her hand into his, "He +is going to stay at home always for the future: aren't you, +Dorian?"</p> + +<p>"I am going to stay just wherever you are for the rest +of my life," says Dorian; and then Clarissa and James +know that everything has come all right.</p> + +<p>"Then you will be at home for our wedding," says +Scrope, taking Clarissa's hand and turning to Branscombe.</p> + +<p>Clarissa blushes very much, and Georgie, going up to +her, kisses her heartily.</p> + +<p>"It is altogether quite too nice," says Mrs. Branscombe, +with tears in her eyes.</p> + +<p>"If you don't look out, Scrope, she will kiss you too," +says Dorian. "Look here, it is nearly six o'clock, and +dinner will be at seven. Come back, you two, and dine +with us."</p> + +<p>"I should like to very much," says Clarissa, "as papa +is in town."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Well, then, come," says Georgie, tucking her arm +comfortably into hers, "and we'll send you home at +eleven."</p> + +<p>"I hope you will send me home too," says Scrope, +meekly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, by the other road," says Mrs. Branscombe, with a +small grimace. And then she presses Clarissa's arm +against her side, and tells her, without the slightest provocation, +that she is a "darling," and that everything is +quite, quite, <i>quite</i> <span class="smcap">TOO</span> delicious!</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>That evening, in the library, when Georgie and Dorian +are once more alone, Branscombe, turning to her, takes +her in his arms.</p> + +<p>"You are quite happy?" he asks, questioningly. "You +have no regrets now?"</p> + +<p>"Not one," very earnestly. "But you, Dorian,"—she +slips an arm round his neck, and brings his face down +closer to her own, as though to read the expression of his +eyes more clearly,—"are you satisfied? Think how unkind +I was to you; and, after all,"—naïvely,—"I am +only pretty; there is really nothing in me. You have my +whole heart, of course, you know that; I am yours, indeed, +but then"—discontentedly—"what am I?"</p> + +<p>"I know: you are my own darling," says Branscombe, +very softly.</p> + + +<h4>THE END.</h4> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 55%;"> +<img src="images/fig309.png" width="100%" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p class="center">1523 K Street, N. W.,</p> +<p class="author">Washington, D. C., January 24, 1888.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Ph. Best Brewing Co.</span>,</p> +<p class="center">Specialty Department, 28 College Place, N. Y.</p> + +<p>Gentlemen:—Sample of "Best" Tonic received.</p> + +<p>Gave to member of my family, was delighted with effects. Only trouble, there +was not enough of it.</p> + +<p>It seems to be a pure, excellent Tonic, improving the appetite and digestion.</p> + +<p>What would you furnish me with a dozen bottles as test.</p> + +<p class="author"><span class="smcap">S. J. Radcliffe</span>, M. D.</p> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 90%;"> +<img src="images/fig310.png" width="100%" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + + +<h5>—IS SOLD BY ALL FIRST-CLASS DEALERS IN—<br /> +HARDWARE, CROCKERY AND HOUSE-FURNISHING GOODS.<br /> +Throughout the World.<br /> +AND UNIVERSALLY ACKNOWLEDGED TO BE THE BEST KITCHEN WARE EVER PRODUCED.</h5> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>The articles are made of Sheet iron pressed into shape and coated with a pure vitreous enamel, which for tenacity and power of resisting the action +of acids has no equal.</p></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES</h2> + +<p>Some of the obvious punctuation errors have been corrected, e. g., +addition of missing period at the end of sentences. Also the following +misprints have been corrected:—<br /> + "siting" corrected to "sitting" (page 68)<br /> + "baoadcast" corrected to "broadcast" (page 173)<br /> + "seond" corrected to "second" (page 180)<br /> + "dinning-room" corrected to "dining-room" (page 212)<br /> + "anthying" corrected to "anything" (page 244)<br /><br /> + +Other than that, printer's inconsistencies in spelling, hyphenation, +and ligature usage have been retained.</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Faith and Unfaith, by Duchess + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FAITH AND UNFAITH *** + +***** This file should be named 33312-h.htm or 33312-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/3/3/1/33312/ + +Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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