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diff --git a/33312.txt b/33312.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c36d590 --- /dev/null +++ b/33312.txt @@ -0,0 +1,14419 @@ +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: ASCII + +*** 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 + + + + + + + + + + FAITH AND UNFAITH + + A NOVEL + + BY THE AUTHOR OF + + "PHYLLIS," "MOLLY BAWN," "AIRY FAIRY LILLIAN," "BEAUTY'S + DAUGHTERS," "MRS. GEOFFREY," ETC. + + + "In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours, + Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers: + Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all."--TENNYSON. + + + NEW YORK AND CHICAGO + BUTLER BROTHERS + + + TROW'S + PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY, + NEW YORK. + + + + +FAITH AND UNFAITH. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + "A heap of dust alone remains of thee: + 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!"--POPE. + + +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! + +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! + +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. + +He is an old man, tall and gaunt, with kind but passionate 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. + +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. + +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-- + +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! + +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. + +Now Reginald is gone, and he, Arthur, reigns in his stead, +and----Alas! alas! poor Reggy!--Poor, dear old fellow! + +He rouses himself with an effort, and, going very softly to a small +door that opens from the apartment, beckons gently to somebody beyond. + +An old woman, dressed in deepest mourning, and of the housekeeper +type, answers his summons, her eyes red with excessive weeping. + +"I am going now," Lord Sartoris whispers to her in a low tone. "I have +finished everything. You will remain here until my return." + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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 +mediaeval 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. + +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 AEsthetic. + +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. + +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 mouth +being too large and his nose too pronounced for any particular style +of beauty. + +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. + +"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." + +"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." + +"Was there anything beyond?----" + +"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." + +"For how long he remembered her!" says the young man, in a tone of +slow astonishment. + +"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. + +"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?" + +"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." + + * * * * * + +About twenty years before my story opens, Dorian, 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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 +_chic_, 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. + +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 affected by women, and adored by +children, who instinctively accept him as a true friend. + +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. + + * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +"What a kind child you are, Cissy!" says Sartoris, gently; "and to +come to us _so soon_, that was so good of you." + +"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." + +"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." + +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. + +Sartoris, catching the glance, drops Miss Peyton's hand with a sigh. +She notices the half-petulant action, and compresses her lips +slightly. + +"Now I have seen you, I shall feel better," she says, sweetly. "And--I +think I must be going." + +"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. + +"I hardly like," says Clarissa, nervously; "I fear----" + +Dorian, rousing himself from his thoughts, comes back to the present +moment. + +"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." + +"If I can be of any use----," says Clarissa, kindly. Whereupon +Sartoris gives her his arm, and they all adjourn to the dining-room. + +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. + +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. + +With downcast eyes and bowed head he stands, thinking sadly how much +too old he is for new cares and fresh 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +The whole scene, though simple, is suggestive of loss 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. + +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. + +"Horace, will you tell Durkin I want to see him at once, in the +library," he says, very quietly, yet with some latent irritability. + +"In one moment," replies Horace, unmoved, going back to the low-toned +dialogue he has been carrying on with Clarissa. + +"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." + +"Shall I not see Clarissa to her carriage first?" says Horace, raising +his dark eyes for one moment to his uncle's face. + +"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. + +"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." + +"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. + +"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, 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." + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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." + +"Has he a hobby now?" + +"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." + +"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?" + +"It would take two to help him," says Mr. Branscombe, looking faintly +amused. + +"Could I be of any use?"--eagerly. "I would do anything I could for +him." + +"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?" + +"Quite sure,"--with some surprise. + +"My dear Clarissa, is it possible you have not yet seen through +Arthur's latest and greatest design?" + +"If you intend to tell me anything, do so: beating about the bush +always fatigues me to death," says Miss Peyton, in a tone of +dignified rebuke. "What does Arthur want?" + +"A little thing,--a mere trifle. He simply wants you to marry me." + +"Really, Dorian," says Clarissa, coloring slowly, but warmly, "I think +you might find some other subject to jest on." + +"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." + +"I never heard anything so absurd, so foolish, so nonsensical!" says +Miss Peyton, resentfully. + +"Nonsensical! My dear Clarissa! pray consider my----" + +"It is more! it is right down stupid of him," says Clarissa, who +plainly declines to consider any one's feelings. + +"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?" + +"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. + +"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." + +"Your uncle, though charming, and a very dear, is also a goose," says +Miss Peyton, somewhat irreverently. "Marry you, indeed! Why, I should +quite as soon dream of marrying my brother!" + +"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!" + +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. + +Branscombe stands on the steps watching her until she is quite lost to +sight behind the rhododendrons, and then strokes his moustache +thoughtfully. + +"That has quite arranged itself, I should fancy," he says, slowly. +"Well, I hope he will be very good to her, dear little thing!" + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + "Her form was fresher than the morning rose + When the dew wets its leaves."--THOMSON. + + +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. + +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. + +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 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Clarissa is all that is charming. She is tall, slight, _svelte_: +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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 _eclat_, +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + "O Helen, fair beyond compare! + I'll make a garland of thy hair, + Shall bind my heart for evermair, + Until the day I die!" + + +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 Phoebus +Apollo. + + "The morn is merry June, I trow: + The rose is budding fain." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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!" + +"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. + +"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?" + +"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!" + +"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?" + +"Something over thirty, I fancy," says papa, uncertainly. + +"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 and bronzed from +foreign travel--enters quietly, staid and calm as ever. + +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. + +"Why, you have forgotten me," she says, presently, in a low tone of +would-be reproach. "While I--I knew you at once." + +"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." + +"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." + +"I?" says Sir James, rather taken aback at this unexpected onslaught. + +"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?" + +"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." + +"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. + +"Yet I still believe it must be the most interesting spot on earth," +he says, still clinging to old thoughts and settled convictions. + +"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." + +"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." + +"Most things do. There is an old grandaunt of mine hung in the gallery +at Scrope----" + +"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?" + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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. + +"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." + +"Make it Thursday. That day comes first," said Scrope. + +"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?" + +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 + + "Like a picture rich and rare." + +"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." + +"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." + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + "All thoughts, all passions, all delights, + Whatever stirs this mortal frame, + All are but ministers of Love, + And feed his sacred flame."--COLERIDGE. + + +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 beneath, and up these runs Clarissa, +gayly, when Thursday morning had dawned, and deepened, and given place +to noon. + +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. + +Miss Peyton, throwing up one of the window-sashes, steps boldly into +the drawing-room and confronts this eminent tatter. + +"Good-morning," she says, sweetly, advancing with smiling lips. + +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. + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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." + +It is a wild day, though warm and sweet, and the wind outside is +tearing madly over lawn and shrubberies into the wood beyond. + +"But in the mean time you will perhaps catch cold, of rheumatism, or +something," says Clarissa, hesitating. + +"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." + +"Is Jim in?" asks Clarissa, presently, having seated herself in a +horribly comfortless but probably artistic chair. + +"_James is_ in," says Miss Scrope, severely. "Do you mean my brother? +It is really almost impossible to understand young people of the +present age." + +"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." + +"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 were he to call you by some hideous pet name, +or, more properly speaking, nickname?" + +"I shouldn't mind it in the least; indeed, I think I should rather +like it," returns Clarissa, mildly. + +"I believe that to be highly probable," retorts Miss Jemima, with +considerable scorn. + +Clarissa laughs,--not an irritating laugh, by any means, but a little +soft, low, girlish laugh, very good to hear. + +"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 holding out to him a slender ungloved hand, on +which some rings sparkle brilliantly. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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. + +"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. + +"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." + +"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." + +She follows him across hall and corridor, through two modern rooms, +and past a _portiere_, 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. + +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. + +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. + +Miss Peyton, scarce noticing the monkish refectory, runs to the stairs +and mounts them eagerly, Sir James following her in a more leisurely +fashion. + +"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! + +The high chimney-piece is _en rapport_ 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. + +Miss Peyton is plainly entranced with the whole scene, and for a full +minute says nothing. + +"I feel as though I were a child again," she says, presently, as +though half regretful. "Everything comes back 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?" + +"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?" + +"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." + +"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." + +Miss Peyton gives way to mirth. She sits down on a wretchedly +uncomfortable, if delightfully mediaeval, chair and laughs a good deal. + + "Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us + To see oursels as others see us!" + +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!" + +"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." + +"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. 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." + +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. + +"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." + +"And Horace," says Clarissa, idly, "is he another?" + +But Sir James, though unconsciously, resents the question. + +"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." + +"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. + +"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." + +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 account her free of all unworthy thought +or frivolous design. Here is + + "A countenance in which do meet + Sweet records, promises as sweet." + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"Is it not like a dream?" says Clarissa, stopping to point backwards +to the turret they have just quitted. + +"The past is always full of dreams," replies he, thoughtfully. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + "A violet by a mossy stone + Half hidden from the eye! + Fair as a star, when only one + Is shining in the sky."--WORDSWORTH. + + +The baby morn has flung aside its robes, and grown to 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. + +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. + + "'Tis raging noon; and, vertical, the sun + Darts on the head direct his forceful rays. + O'er heaven and earth, far as the ranging eye + Can sweep, a dazzling deluge reigns; and all, + From pole to pole, is undistinguished blaze. + Distressful Nature pants! + The very streams look languid from afar, + Or, through th' unsheltered glade, impatient, seem + To hurl into the covert of the grove." + +A tender stillness reigns over everything. The very birds are mute. +Even the busy mill-wheel has ceased to move. + +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. + +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,-- + + "Fresh as the month, and as the morning fair." + +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, and what it can be. The mouth, mobile and slightly +parted, betrays it most. + +Her lashes, covering her brown eyes, are very long, and lie a good +deal on her cheeks. Her manner, without a suspicion of _gaucherie_, is +nervous, almost appealing; and her smile, because so rare, is very +charming, and apt to linger in the memory. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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,-- + + "Fiery Titan, who + ----with his peccant heat + Has dried up the lusty liquor new + Upon the herbis in the greene mead," + +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. + +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. + +"Good-morning, Ruth," says Dorian Branscombe, with a smile, apparently +oblivious of the fact that morning has given place to noon many hours +agone. + +Ruth returns his salutation gently, and lets her hand lie for an +instant in his. + +"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!" + +Ruth acquiesces amiably. + +"It is warm,--very," she says, calmly, but indifferently. + +"'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. + +"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. + +"How pale you are!" he says, abruptly. + +"Am I? The heat, no doubt,"--with a faint smile. + +"But thin, too, are you not? And--and--" he pauses. "Anything wrong +with you, Ruth?" + +"Wrong? No! How should there be?" retorts she, in a curious tone, in +which fear and annoyance fight for mastery. Then the storm dies away, +and the startled look fades from her pretty face. + +"Why should you think me unhappy because I am a little pale?" she +asks, sullenly. + +Branscombe looks surprised. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"Where are you going?" he asks, coldly. + +"I was going to Hythe," returned the young man, easily. "Just as well +I didn't, eh? Should have found you out." + +"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." + +"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." + +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. + +"How is your father, Ruth?" asks he, detaining her by a quick movement +of the hand. + +"Quite well, thank you, my lord." Some timidity is discernible in her +tone, caused by the unmistakable reproof and sternness in his. + +"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." + +"I hope not, my lord," returns she, steadily, although his voice has +meaning in it. In another moment she is gone. + +"How does your farming go on, Dorian?" asks Lord Sartoris, presently, +rousing himself from a puzzling revery. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"It is possible to be too knowing," says his uncle, depreciatingly. + +"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----" + +"Yes, yes, I dare say. But pheasants are not everything." + +"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?" + +"I think him a low, under-hand, sneaking sort of fellow," 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." + +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. + +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,-- + +"What a nice girl that little Ruth has grown!" + +"Awfully pretty girl," returns Dorian, carelessly. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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----" + +"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. + +"There are some subjects," he says, with calm severity, "that it would +be well to place beyond the reach of ridicule." + +"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 _pur et simple_. By the by, that last +little homely phrase comes in badly there, doesn't it? Rather out of +keeping with the vituperative noun, eh!" + +"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. + +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. + +"Just as well I met you," he says, with an airy laugh, "as my thoughts +were running away with me, and Phoebus Apollo is in the ascendant: +veritably he 'rules the roast.' This uphill work is trying on the +lungs." + +"Where have you been?" asks Dorian, just because he has nothing else +to say, and it is such a bore to think. + +"At Gowran." + +"Ah! I'm going there now. You saw Clarissa, then?" says Sartoris, +quickly. "When do you return to town, Horace?" + +"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, as his pace quickens, until it grows even swifter +than it was before. + +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. + +"What a pretty girl Clarissa Peyton is! don't you think so?" + +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,-- + +"Yes, she is about the best-looking woman I know." + +"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!" + +"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." + +"She is too earnest, too thorough, to be upset by flattery. I +sometimes wonder if there are any like her in the world." + +"Very few, I think," says Dorian, genially. + +Another pause, somewhat longer than the last, and then Sartoris says, +with some hesitation, "Do you never think of marrying, Dorian?" + +"Often," says Branscombe, with an amused smile. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"What a melancholy time you must have put in! 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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +Branscombe sighs. + +"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----" + +"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." + +"Do you mean to tell me"--with some natural indignation--"that up to +this you have never, during all your wanderings, both at home and +abroad, seen any woman you could sincerely admire?" + +"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?" + +"Yes, a good deal of her." + +"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." + +"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." + +Dorian pauses for a moment or two, and then says, very gently, as +though sorry to spoil the old man's cherished plan,-- + +"It is altogether impossible. Clarissa has no heart to give me." + +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,-- + +"Are you quite sure of this?" + +"As certain as I can be without exactly hearing it from her own lips." + +"Is it Horace?" + +"Yes; it is Horace," says Branscombe, quietly. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + "Tread softly; bow the head,-- + In reverent silence bow, + No passing bell doth toll, + Yet an immortal soul + Is passing now."--CAROLINE SOUTHEY. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Georgie," whispers a faint voice from out the gathering gloom, "are +you still there?" + +"Yes, dear, I am here, quite near to you. What is it?" + +"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." + +"What weight, papa?" + +"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?" + +"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." + +"Your Aunt Elizabeth will take you in for a little while, and +then----then----" + +"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." + +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. + +"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?" + +"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----" + +"Friendship,"--interrupts he, bitterly,--"it is a breath,--a name. It +will fail you when you most need it." + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +"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 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. + +"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----?" + +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. + +The girl presses his hand to rouse him. + +"Think of _me_ now," she entreats, despairingly; "it will only be for +a little while,--such a little while,--and then you will be with _her_ +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 came her. The eyes are closed; +the tender smile--the last fond smile--still lingers on his lips; yet, +he is dead! + +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. + +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. + +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. + + * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +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, 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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +"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? + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + "Life has rising ills."--DYER. + + +"Papa, papa," says Miss Peyton, impatiently, without eliciting any +response. + +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. + +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." + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +George Peyton is not proof against this tattoo. He looks up irritably, +and for a moment withdraws his mind from Mr. Forster's Bill. + +"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." + +"It is only a teaspoon," begins Miss Peyton, delighted with her +success. + +"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." + +"It was only when I was actually hoarse, from trying to attract your +attention, that I resorted to violent measures," says Clarissa, +severely. + +"I beg your pardon," returns he, submissively. + +"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." + +"I quite agree with you," murmurs her father, dreamily. Once again his +mind is losing itself in the folds of the fragrant "Times." + + "MANNERTON, Tuesday, September 24. + + "My DEAR CLARISSA,-- + + "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. + + "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 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. + + "I am, dear Clarissa, + + "Your affectionate friend, + + "GEORGIE BROUGHTON. + + "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." + +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. + +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. + +"Papa! Have you been listening?" she asks, in her sternest tones. + +"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. + +"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 would electrify those absurd men in the House of +Commons." + +"I don't think it was a very silly speech, my dear Clarissa," +remonstrates Mr. Peyton, feebly. + +"Oh, then you do acknowledge you were miles away in thought," says +Clarissa, triumphant, if disgusted. + +"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." + +"Were you?" returns she, sweetly. "Then, of course, you can tell me +what was the last word." + +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. + +"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----" + +"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." + +"Poor girl! Of all unhappy resources, the last." + +"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." + +"Try Mrs. Redmond, then. She is looking out for a governess for the +children; and your friend might drop in there without further +trouble." + +"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." + +"People don't die of chills of that description; and your poor little +friend can scarcely expect to find everything _couleur de rose_. +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." + +At this, Miss Peyton laughs a little, and bites her lip. + +"Amenable," she says, slowly. "Do you know, I am afraid my Georgie is +even younger than Cissy?" + +"Younger!" + +"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?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"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----" + +"Temper?" + +"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!" + +"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 since somebody said to me, 'He has the +very sort of face they make bishops of nowadays.'" + +"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." + +"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." + +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. + +A little later, having dressed herself, she starts upon her errand, +ready to take the vicarage by storm. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + "'Tis love, love, love, that makes the world go round." + + +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 musicians, as she +follows the path beneath the leafy trees that leads to the vicarage. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +"Yes, I know." He is silent for a little while, and then, rousing +himself, as though by an effort, says, slowly,-- + +"Did you miss me?" + +"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. + +"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." + +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. + +"I felt I should be happier, more fitted to cope with my work, if I +could get even one glimpse of you!" + +"Are you not happy, then?" asks she, gently, her heart beating fast, +her color growing and lessening rapidly. + +"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?" + +Again, his thoughts appear to wander; and some passion, not born of +the present moment, but borrowed from some other hour, fills his tone. + +"Yes," says Clarissa, nervously, questioningly, feeling poor in words, +now that the great crisis of her life has come. + +"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?" + +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. + +"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." + +"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. + +The road is dusty; and a few drops of rain fall, like 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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"When?" + +"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." + +"All that would hardly take half an hour." + +"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?" + +"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? _You_ 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. + +"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!" + +"Not exactly that. But tell me some definite time, near 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. + +"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. + +"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." + +"Do not speak like that, it is as though you would foretell evil," +says Clarissa, a faint feeling of superstitious horror making her +nervous. + +Branscombe, raising his head, regards her curiously. + +"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." + +"Yes; if you wish it. That will please me, too. Only papa need know of +it, and----James Scrope." + +"And why Sir James?" with a scrutinizing gaze. + +"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." + +"Not so old, either. I hope, by and by, you will be able to manage +without Sir James as a father-confessor." + +"By and by I shall have you," says Clarissa, sweetly, with a smile and +a soft blush. + +"True! I wonder if you will find that sufficient? I doubt I'm half +such a good fellow, Clarissa, as you believe me." + +In which he comes nearer the truth than he ever came before. + +"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!" + +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. + +"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!" + +"May I give you one?" says Ruth, dimpling prettily at her praise. + +"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." + +"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. + +"Just over there. Don't you see? Why, you are almost looking at it, +you stupid child." + +"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 manner, 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. + +"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. + +"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." + +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. + +"You trod on it," says Horace, rather quickly, to Clarissa. + +"No, dear; I really think--indeed I am sure--it was you," returns she, +calmly, but with conviction. + +"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." + +"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." + +"Thank you, Miss Peyton. I shall come soon." + +"Good-by," says Horace. + +"Good-by," returns she. But it is to Clarissa, not to him, she +addresses the word of farewell. + +When the mill has been left some distance behind them, and Ruth's +slight figure, clad in its white gown, has ceased to be a fleck of +coloring in the landscape, Clarissa says, thoughtfully,-- + +"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?" + +"Birth is not always to be depended upon nowadays." + +"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?" + +"Sometimes I am dull about trifles, such as that." + +"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." + +"Did she not?" + +"No. But then, of course, it was a matter of indifference to her." + +"Of course." + +They have reached the entrance to the vicarage by this time, and are +pausing to say farewell for a few hours. + +"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. + +"Yes. But, Horace," looking at him earnestly, "I think I should like +to tell it all to papa myself first, this evening." + +"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 _mauvais quart-d'heure_ in the library. "And if he +should refuse his consent, Clarissa, what then? You know you might +make so much a better marriage." + +"Might I?"--tenderly. "I don't think so; and papa would not make me +unhappy." + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + "A generous friendship no cold medium knows."--POPE. + + +Mrs. Redmond is sitting on a centre ottoman, darning stockings. This +is her favorite pastime, and never fails 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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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 demoralizing +thought to her bosom that a little more trade and a little less blue +blood would have made her husband a degree more perfect. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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." + +"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. + +"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. + +"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 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. + +"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." + +This hardly sounds promising, but Mrs. Redmond heeds her not. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"'Were'--_are_, 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." + +"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. + +"Yes. Do go on," says Clarissa, who, in reality, is enjoying herself, +intensely. + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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 lineage, 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." + +"Poor fellow!" says Clarissa, in a suspiciously choky tone. + +"Then I espoused the vicar," says Mrs. Redmond, with a sentimental +sigh. "One does foolish things sometimes." + +"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." + +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: + +"I have some news for you." + +"For me?" + +"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?" + +"Indeed I have." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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. 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?" + +"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?" + +"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." + +"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 _that_, I think. But why does she not appeal for +help to her mother's relations?" + +"Because she prefers honest work to begging from those who up to this +have taken no notice of her." + +"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." + +"I am very glad you have so decided. I know no place in which I would +rather see a friend of mine than here." + +"Thank you, my dear. Then will you write to her, or shall I?" + +"Let me write to her first, if you don't mind: I think I can settle +everything." + +"Mind?--no, indeed: it is only too good of you to take so much trouble +about me." + +To which Clarissa says, prettily,-- + +"Do not put it in that light: there is no pleasure so keen as that of +being able to help one's friends." + +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. + +Outside on the avenue she encounters the vicar, hurrying home. + +"Turn with me," she says, putting her hand through his arm. "I have +something to say to you." + +"Going to be married?" asks he, gayly. + +"Nonsense!"--blushing, in that he has so closely hit the mark. "It is +not of anything so paltry I would unburden my mind." + +"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----" + +"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." + +"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." + +"What! again?" says Clarissa, showing, and feeling, deep compassion. + +"Even so. This time about the bread. You know what unpleasant bread +they bake, and how Mrs. Redmond objects to it; and really it _is_ bad +for the children." + +"It is poison," says Clarissa, who never does anything by halves, and +who is nothing if not sympathetic. + +"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----" + +The vicar pauses. + +"And you have been happy ever since?" + +"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." + +"I don't think I should poison the children," says Clarissa. + +"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." + +"I am going to supply Charlotte's place for you," says Clarissa, +slyly. + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"So glad!" says the vicar; "I may overtake old Betty yet." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"Did she?" says the vicar, with a comical, transient smile, Mrs. +Redmond's maladies being of the purely imaginary order. + +"What are you laughing at now?" asks Clarissa, who has marked this +passing gleam of amusement. + +"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?" + +"Yes, a great friend." + +"Then of course we shall like her." + +"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?" + +"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?" + +"I have it ready,--at least, half of it. How could I tell she was +going to have twins," says Clarissa, apologetically. + +"It certainly was very inconsiderate of her," says the vicar, with a +sigh, as he thinks of the poverty that clings to the Batley _menage_ +from year's end to year's end. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _could_ she? with tender self-reproach) had misjudged him, +had deemed him somewhat cold, indifferent; unknowing of the deep +stratum of feeling that lay beneath the outward calm of his demeanor. + +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! + +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. + +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---- + +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? + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + "I have no other but a woman's reason: + I think him so, because I think him so."--SHAKESPEARE. + + +"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 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. + + "Heavily hangs the broad sunflower + Over its grave i' the earth so chilly; + Heavily hangs the hollyhock, + Heavily hangs the tiger lily." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Are you very busy?" asks she, coming slowly up to him. "I want to be +with you for a little while." + +"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?" + +"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." + +"A special pleader indeed. Diplomacy is your forte: you should keep to +it." + +"I mean to. I shouldn't plead in vain with you, should I?" She has +grown somewhat earnest. + +"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." + +"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." + +"Well, it ought," says George Peyton. "What did the vicar say?" + +"The vicar always says just what I say," replies she, a trifle +saucily, and with a quick smile. + +"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?" + +"Not quite," returns she, in a low tone. + +"No? You are rich in conversation this evening. Who is it we are now +to criticise?" + +"The person you love best,--I hope." + +"Why, that will be you," says George Peyton. + +"You are sure?" says Clarissa, a little tremulously; and then her +father turns in his chair and tries to read her face. + +"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. + +"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." + +"Yes, I am glad I know that," she says, speaking with some +difficulty, but very earnestly. "To-day I met Horace Branscombe." + +"Yes?" His face changes a little, from vague expectancy to distinct +disappointment; but then she cannot see his face. + +"And he asked me to be his wife--and--I said, Yes--if--if it pleases +you, papa." + +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! + +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. + +"Speak to me," says Clarissa, entreatingly. + +After this he does speak. + +"I wish it had been Dorian," he says, impulsively. + +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. + +"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?" + +"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." + +"How you say that!"--reproachfully. "It sounds untrue! Yet it can't +be. What could any one say against Horace?" + +"My dear, I said nothing." + +"No, but you insinuated it. You said Dorian was his superior." + +"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. + +"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 the comparison at all? For the first time in all your +life, you are unjust." + +"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----" + +He pauses. + +"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. + +"Well, no doubt there is a great deal in that," returns he, evasively, +hard put to it to answer his inquisitor with discretion. + +"And if Dorian had never been, Horace would be the one person in all +the world you would desire for me?" pursues she, earnestly. + +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. + +"It is because he is poor," she says, in a low tone, that has some +contempt in it, and some passionate disappointment. + +"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." + +"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 _svelte_ 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. + +"Always, my dear," he reiterates, somewhat unsteadily. + +"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 will love him! As it is, darling, do--_do_ +say you like him very much, or you will break my heart!" + +"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. + +"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. + +"My darling, my one thought is for your happiness." There is evasion +mixed with the affection in this speech; and Clarissa notices it. + +"No: say you are glad I am going to marry him," she says, +remorselessly. + +"How can you expect me to say that," exclaims he, mournfully, "when +you know your wedding-day must part us?" + +"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." + +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. + +"When is it to be?" he asks her, after a little while. "Not too soon, +my pet, I hope?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"I hope it _will be_ for all my life," returns she, gravely. "To be +parted from Horace would be the worst thing that could befall me. +Always remember that, papa. I am bound to him with all my heart and +soul." + +"So be it!" says George Peyton, solemnly. A sigh escapes him. + +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. + +"Our engagement will be such a long one, that we think--" + +"Yes?" + +"We should like it keep it secret. You will say nothing about it to +any one?" + +"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. + +"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." + +"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." + +Here she smiles involuntarily, and, after a little bit, laughs +outright, in spite of herself, as though at some ridiculous +recollection. + +"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?" + +"Old!--old! He is a long way off that. Why, all you silly little girls +think a man past twenty-nine to be hovering on the brink of the +grave. He can not be more than thirty-three, or so." + +"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----" + +"What on earth has he done to you, that you should call him all these +terrible names?" says Mr. Peyton, laughing. + +"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?" + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"You take a different view of the case from mine. I believe there +would have been no broken heart, and no early grave, and you would +have been happy ever after." + +"That is a more comfortable theory, certainly for _me_. But think what +a miserable life _he_ would have had with me forever by his side." + +"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." + +"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: + +"Horace said he would come up to-morrow to speak to you." + +"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." + +"Promise me to be very, very kind to him." + +"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." + +"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." + +Mr. Peyton sighs. Some words come to his memory, and he repeats +them,--slowly, beneath his breath,-- + + "There are no tricks in plain and simple faith!" + +Truly, her faith is pure and simple, and free from thought of guile. + +"I wonder what James Scrope will say to it all?" he says, presently. + +"He never says very much on any subject, does he? If you are going +over to the Hall, will you tell him about it?" + +"No; tell him yourself," says her father, in a curious tone. + +"There is the dressing bell," says Clarissa getting up lazily. "I +don't feel a bit like eating my dinner, do you know?" + +"Nonsense! The love-sick _role_ 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." + +"I'll do my best," says Clarissa, modestly. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + "I cannot but remember such things were, + That were most precious to me. + + * * * * * + + Oh! I could play the woman with mine eyes."--_Macbeth._ + + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +Well, of course, if he is the great friend he _professes_ 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 that she is not going to +leave the country,--is, in fact, very likely to spend most of her time +still in Pullingham. + +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---- + +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. + +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. + +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---- + +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!" + +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 +_distrait_; now he is bright and cheerful, if still rather too devoted +to his books to be quite good for him. + +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 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. + +He will, she feels sure, say everything kind and sweet to her, and +wish her joy sincerely. + +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! + +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. + +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,-- + +"Is Sir James at home?" + +"Yes, miss; he is in the stables, I think; leastways, he was half an +hour agone. Shall I tell him you are here?" + +"No, thank you. I shall go and find him myself." + +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. + +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. + +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 it as not to notice Clarissa's +approach until she is close beside him. + +"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. + +"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." + +The old man stops, and regards his master reprovingly, nay, almost +contemptuously. + +"I really don't see why you should think it was the boys, Joe?" says +Sir James, meekly. + +"'Twarn't anythin' else, anyway," persists Joe, doggedly. + +"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. + +"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. + +He grumbles something else in an undertone, and finally carries off +the puppy to his kennel. + +"I am too amazed for speech," says Sir James, rising also to his feet, +and contemplating Clarissa with admiration. "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?" + +"I like Joe," says Miss Peyton, elevating her rounded chin: "I +downright esteem him. He knows where beauty lies." + +"How he differs from the rest of the world!" says Scrope, not looking +at her. + +"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?" + +"Why, indeed? It is, as I have been told, 'a joy forever.' No one +nowadays disputes anything they are told, do they?" + +"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! + +"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. + +"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." + +"Are you really quite sure?" says Scrope, politely and hopefully. + +"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." + +"To the end of the world, with _you_, 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." + +"I have something very--very--_very_ important to tell 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. + +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." + +"Are you listening to me?" asks she, presently, seeing he makes no +response to her first move. + +"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." + +"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!" + +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. + +Then he awakes from his stupor, and, rousing himself, says, huskily, +yet with a certain amount of self-possession that deceives her,-- + +"You were saying----?" + +"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. + +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. + +"Who is it?" he asks, presently, very slowly. + +"Mr. Branscombe,"--coldly. + +"Dorian?" + +"No. Horace." + +"I wish it had been Dorian," he says, impulsively. + +It is the last straw. + +"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. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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. + +"Does your father disapprove, then?" asks he, more through idleness +than a desire to know. + +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? + +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. + +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 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. + +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. + +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." + +"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. + +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. + +The world, that only yesterday seemed so desirable a place, to-day has +lost its charm. + +"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." + +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. + +"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, 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." + +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. + +There is something in his face that, though she understands it not, +moves Clarissa to pity. + +"You will wish me some good wish, after all, Jim, won't you?" she +says, very sweetly, almost pathetically. + +"No, I cannot," returns he with a brusquerie foreign to him. "To do so +would be actual hypocrisy." + +There is silence for a moment: Clarissa grows a little pale, in her +turn. In _his_ turn, he takes no notice of her emotion, having his +face averted. Then, in a low, faint, choked voice, she breaks the +silence. + +"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--" + +"Clarissa!" + +"Yes! If any one had told me you would so treat me, I +should--should--" + +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 _her_ "weak endeavor." + +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. + +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. + +"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?" + +"_You_ 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." + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +She smiles. Her tears vanish. She sighs contentedly, and moves the +hand that rests in his. + +"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." + +"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. + +"How fond you are of me!" says Miss Peyton, with some wonder and much +pleasure. + +To this he finds it impossible to make any answer. + +"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." + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + "The snow is on the mountain, + The frost is on the vale, + The ice hangs o'er the fountain, + The storm rides on the gale."--OUSELEY. + + +Clarissa's letter to Georgie Broughton receives a most tender +response,--tender as it is grateful. The girl writes thankfully, +heartily, and expresses almost passionate delight at Clarissa's +instantaneous and ready sympathy. + +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. + + "Nothing is true but love, nor aught of worth; + Love is the incense which doth sweeten earth." + +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. + + "DEAREST CLARISSA,--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." + +"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. + +"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 +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." + +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. + +"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. + + "Now trees their leafy hats do bare + To reverence Winter's silver hair." + +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. + +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. + +Except Clarissa. She lies, still sleeping,--dreaming, it may be, that +first glad dream of youth in which all seems perfect, changeless, +passion-sweet! + +Upon her parted lips a faint soft smile is lingering, as 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. + +"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. + +The maid pokes the fire energetically, and arranges something upon the +dressing-table with much unnecessary vigor. + +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. + +"Really that hour?" she says. "Quite too disgracefully late! A happy +Christmas, Hester!" + +"Thank you, miss. The same to you, and very many of them!" + +"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. + +But Hester is adamant. + +"Terrible cold, miss," she says, with a sort of gusto. "_That_ frosty +it would petrify you where you stand." + +"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." + +"The master is up this hour, miss," says the maid, reprovingly; "and +see how beautifully your fire is burning." + +"I can't see anything but the water over there. _Is_ that ice in my +bath?" + +"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 personfication of all +pathos, and is plainly an-angered of the frozen bath. + +"Well, then, Hester, yes; a little--a _very_ 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. + +"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." + +"Is papa dressed, then?" + +"An hour ago, miss. He was standing on the doorsteps, feeding the +sparrows and robins, when I came up." + +"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. + +He is standing at the upper end, with his back to the huge central +window, through which + + "Gleams the red sun athwart the misty haze + Which veils the cold earth from its loving gaze." + +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. + +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. + +Eloquence is not Mr. Peyton's _forte_. 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 their eyes fixed on his, and their minds prepared to receive +anything he may say. + +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. + +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: + +"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? + +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. + +Feeling himself, therefore, unsupported, he perforce, returns to the +charge. + +"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." + +This is fearfully absurd, and he knows it, and blushes again. + +"Well, at least," he goes on, "I hope we shall not part from each +other without good cause,--such as a wedding, for instance." + +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. + +"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----" + +Here he is interrupted by a low murmur from the servants, who plainly +feel it their duty to let him know, at this juncture, that they do +hope his Christmas will be a successful one. + +"Well----eh?----thank you----you know," says Mr. Peyton, at his wits' +end as to what he shall say next. + +"You are all very kind, very kind indeed----very----. Mrs. +Lane,"--desperately,--"come here and take your Christmas-box." + +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. + +"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!'" + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +"We haven't thought of breakfast, yet," says Clarissa. "I am so glad I +was lazy this morning! A happy Christmas, Dorian!" + +"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?" + +"The servants have just been here to receive their presents. Now, why +were you not a few minutes earlier, and you might have been stricken +dumb with joy at papa's speech?" + +"I don't believe it was half a bad speech," says Mr. Peyton, stoutly. + +"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." + +"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." + +Branscombe goes with him, and so presently, Clarissa and Horace find +themselves alone. + +Horace, going up to her, as in duty bound, places his arm round her, +and presses his lips lightly, gently, to her cheek. + +"You never wished _me_ 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." + +"You knew what was in my heart," replies she, sweetly, pleased that he +has noticed the omission. + +"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. + +For a little minute she is silent; then she says softly, with lowered +eyes, and a warm, tender blush,-- + +"Did you have this picture taken for me, alone?" + +It is evident the face in the locket is even dearer to her than the +locket itself. + +"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 please you to have my image always near you. Was I +wrong?--presumptuous?" + +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. + +"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." + +She blushes, vividly, as she makes this admission. Horace, lifting her +hand, kisses it warmly. + +"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. + +"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: + + "For at each glance of those sweet eyes a soul + Looked forth as from the azure gates of heaven." + +He is spared a reply. Dorian, coming again into the hall, summons them +gayly to breakfast. + + * * * * * + +In the little casemented window of the tiny chamber that calls her +mistress, sits Ruth Annersley, alone. + +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. + +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. + +"Another long year," she says wearily. "Oh that I could tell my +father!" + +She lifts her head impatiently, and once more her eyes 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. + +Taking this last up, she examines it slowly, lovingly, slipping it on +and off her slender finger, without a smile, and with growing pallor. + +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. + +"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?" + +She stretches out her hand, as though about to raise the dainty fabric +from its resting-place; but Ruth is before her. + +"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." + +She smiles, lays her hand on Margery's shoulder, and gently, but with +determination, draws her towards the door. + +Once outside, she turns, and, locking the door, carefully puts the key +in her pocket. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + + "Is she not passing fair?"--_Two Gentlemen of Verona._ + + +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. + +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. + +The vicar himself opens the door for Clarissa, and tells her Miss +Broughton has arrived, and will no doubt be overjoyed to see her. + +"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--" + +"Young," says Miss Peyton. + +"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." + +"I am so glad you all like her;" says Clarissa, quite beaming with +satisfaction. "She was such a dear little thing when last I saw her; +so gentle, too,--like a small mouse." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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?" + +"Submit to her," says Clarissa. "Where is she? I want to see her." + +"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." + +He turns, as though to go with her. + +"No, no," says Clarissa; "I shall easily find her by myself. Go, and +do what you meant to do before I stopped you." + +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. + +On this ancient, friend a tiny fairy-like girl is sitting, smiling +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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!" + +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. + +"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." + +She says this in a relieved tone. + +"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 together again at Madame Brochet's. Oh, how happy I was then! +And now----now----" + +The big tears in her pathetic eyes tremble to their fall, she covers +her face with her hands. + +"Tell me everything," says Clarissa, tenderly. + +"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----" + +"Then you thought of me!" says Clarissa, pressing her hand. + +"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. + +"It was all on earth he _had_ to give," she sobs, bitterly, "and I +think he must have _starved_ himself to leave me even that! Oh, shall +I ever forget?" + +"In time," whispers Clarissa, gently. "Be patient: wait." Then, with a +sigh, "How sad for some this sweet world can be!" + +"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 _his_ 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. + +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. + +"Try, _try_ 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." + +"It may," says Georgie, with a very faint smile; yet, somehow, she +feels comforted. + +"Do you think you will be content here?" asks Clarissa, presently, +when some minutes have passed. + +"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." + +"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." + +At this termination they both laugh. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"_Your_ 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 him at Gowran? Do you have an +ox roasted whole occasionally, for his special benefit?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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. + +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. + +"Good-by, Clarissa," she says, a little sad imploring cadence +desolating her voice. + +"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. + +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. + + "But now, at noon, + Upon the southern side of the slant hill, + And where the woods fence off the northern blast + The season smiles, resigning all its rage, + And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue, + Without a cloud: and white without a speck, + The dazzling splendor of the scene below." + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +"Amy! Miss Broughton won't like you to speak to her like that," says +Cissy, coloring. + +But Georgie laughs. + +"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 _am_ 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?'" + +"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." + +"Look, look! There is the tree where the fairies dance at night," +cries Amy, eagerly, her little, thin, spiritual face 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." + +"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." + +"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. + +"Well, _you_ 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." + +"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." + +"I think you might have let me tell that story," says Amy, +indignantly. "You knew I wanted to tell her that story." + +"I didn't," with equal indignation; "and, besides, you told her about +the fairies' ball-room. I said nothing about that." + +"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." + +"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." + +"Not the whole of it," puts in Ethel, unwisely. + +"Now, I suppose this is my story, at all events," declares Amy, +angrily, "and I shall just tell it as I like." + +"Poor King Charles!" says Georgie, with a laugh, "If we are to +believe all the stories we hear, half his lifetime must have been +spent 'up a tree.'" + +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. + +"Come in," she says. "How late you are! I thought you had proved +faithless and were not coming at all." + +"Ah! what a lovely hall!" says Georgie, as they enter, stopping in a +childishly delighted fashion to gaze round her. + +"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. + +"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." + +"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!" + +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. + +"Cissy, when is your father's concert to come off?" asks Clarissa, +presently. + +"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 _others_ like, is to see the +county." + +"Get Dorian Branscombe to help you. Nobody ever refuses him anything." + +"Who is Dorian Branscombe?" asks Georgie, indifferently, more from +want of something to say than an actual desire to know. + +"Dorian?" repeats Clarissa, as though surprised; and 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." + +"Every one likes him," says Cissy, cordially. + +"Lucky he," says Georgie. "Is he your lover, Clarissa?" + +"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." + +"So great as that?"--with a faint grimace. "You crush me. I suppose he +will hardly deign to look at _me_?" + +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. + +"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. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + + "Where music dwells + Lingering, and wandering on, as loath to die, + Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof + That they were born for immortality."--WORDSWORTH. + + +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! + +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 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. + +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. + +Tenors, sopranos, and basses are to be met with round every corner; +the very air is thick with them. The Pullinghamites _will_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +It would take some time to procure funds for another 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? + +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. + +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. + +And then came the question of the new organ. + +"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." + +"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. + +"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." + +"I think you are quite right to insist," said Mrs. Redmond, placidly; +"but how are you going to do it?" + +"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." + +Mrs. Redmond was struck dumb by this bold proposition, but, finally +giving in, she consented to teach the 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. + +Many days, many hours, has Mr. Redmond spent arranging and +disarranging all the details of the proposed concert. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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." + +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. + +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 is safe to go +anywhere with the long gawky young man, if report speaks truly. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +Clarissa is perfectly delighted with the whole idea, and 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. + +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. + +"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." + +"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." + +"Yes,--yes,--I dare say," says the poor vicar, who is somewhat +_distrait_, 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." + +"Put her in the background," says Clarissa. "She is of no use, except +in a chorus." + +"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 beneath the sod. The incessant worry is more than I +can bear!" + +"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!" + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + + "As sweet and musical + As bright Apollo's lute, strung with his hair; + And when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods + Makes heaven drowsy with the harmony."--_Love's Labor's Lost._ + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 together of his flock on Easter Sunday or to the +Holy Communion. + + "Vast night comes noiselessly up the eastern slope, + And so the eternal chase goes round the world." + +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. + +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!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 are gazing, as lost in admiration, at the huge +rose-construction on the wall before them. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Ah! you, Dorian?" says Clarissa, very pleased. "Now, it _is_ good of +you to come." + +"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?" + +"She isn't very well got up, certainly," says Clarissa, reluctantly. + +"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. + +"Is Horace quite well?" asks Clarissa, presently. + +"Quite well. He always is, you know. Who----who is the girl next your +father?" + +"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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +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. + +"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. + +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 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. + +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 _so_ funny, don't you know," says Miss Grey of Greymount, in an +indescribable tone. + +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." + +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." + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + "The shades of night are falling fast." + +begins Sarah, nobly, and goes on in a hopeful manner to the end of the +first verse. + +The vicar draws a deep sigh of relief! + + "His brow was sad, his eye beneath," + +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. + +The vicar exchanges a triumphant glance with Miss Peyton. + + "In happy homes they saw the light," + +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 _the_ solo of the evening has proved a dead failure. + +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 _fiasco_. + +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. + +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. + +"Who _is_ 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. + +"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." + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"But the song?" says Mr. Redmond, still hesitating, and alluding to +the second solo chosen by the defaulter. + +"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." + +"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. + +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. + +"This is the song," says Mrs. Redmond, putting Sarah's rejected solo +into her hand. + +"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. + +Then Lady Mary's final quaver dies, and she moves to one side, +leaving the space before the piano quite clear. + +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. + +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?" + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +"Did I really sing so well?" she asked the vicar, presently, when he +has sought her out to thank her. + +"Well?" repeats he. "What a word to use! It was divine; the whole room +was spell-bound. What a gift you possess! My dear, you have saved the +evening, and my honor, and the organ, and everything. I am deeply +grateful to you." + +"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." + +"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." + +Georgie laughs. + +"Well, at least she shall listen to me once more," she says, gayly. + +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. + +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. + +"Well, I never in all my life," he begins, emphatically, and then +stops. "Who is she, Branscombe?" + +"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! + +"What's her name?" asks Lord Alfred, nothing daunted. + +"I have quite forgotten," returns Branscombe, even more coldly. His +second answer hardly tallies with his first; but of this he is quite +oblivious. + +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." + +Harriet is a third and a favorite sister of Lord Alfred's,--a very +estimable young woman, much given to the reformation of drunkards, +who, though rather deficient in nose, makes up for it in prodigality +of mouth. + +"I can't say I see the likeness," says Dorian, with as little disgust +as he can manage at so short a notice. + +"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_ don't want to interfere with you." + +"In love!" says Branscombe. "Nonsense! I never spoke a word to her in +my life." + +"Well, it is uncommon like it," says Lord Alfred. + +"Is it? Well, I can't help that, you know. Nevertheless, I am not in +love with any one." + +"Then you ought to take that look off your face," persists his +lordship, calmly. + +"I'll take off anything you like," replies Dorian? somewhat nettled. + +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. + +"But she is a very lovely girl, and I don't wonder at your +infatuation," he says, mildly. + +"Foregone conclusions seem to be in your line," returns Dorian, with a +shrug. "It seems a useless thing to tell you again I have _not_ lost +my heart to Miss Broughton." + +"Oh, so you have remembered her name!" says his lordship, dryly. + +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. + +"Such a _charming_ evening," says Mrs. Grey; "and _such_ 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 _my_ governesses are so +unpleasant,--freckled, you know, or with a squint, or a crooked nose, +or that. Some people have _all_ the luck in this world," winds up Mrs. +Grey, with a gentle sigh, who has ten thousand a year and no earthly +care, and who always speaks in italics whenever she gets the slightest +chance. + +"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." + +"It _has_ 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 _delicious_ windows you could +have. I for one"--coquettishly--"will promise to come to _every_ one +of them." + +"At that rate, I should soon have no poor to look after," says the +gratified vicar, gayly. + +"And a good thing, too. The poor are always so oppressive, and--er--so +_dirty_, but still"--seeing a change in his face--"_very_ +interesting,--_very_!" + +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. + +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. + +"'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? + +"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. + +"'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 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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + + "There was a sound of revelry by night."--BYRON. + + +So Dorian returns to town, and stays there until the annual hunt ball, +of which he is a steward, summons him back to Pullingham. + +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. + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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." + +"Well, she is very kind, you know," says Cissy, with some regret. "But +I do so wish she would let me go with _you_. 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." + +"Well, I'll settle that with Mrs. Grey," says Clarissa. "Dorian will +get me a ticket for Georgie." + +"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. + +"Why, I told you," says Clarissa. "He is Lord Sartoris's nephew,--the +tall handsome young man who spoke to me at the concert." + +"I didn't see him. When is this ball to be?" + +"On the 5th. And now, about your dresses?" + +"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 _my_ +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." + +"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. + +"You are an angel, you know," says Cissy, with a merry little laugh. +"You see everybody through rose-colored spectacles." + +"Isn't she rude?" says Clarissa. "One would think I was an old fogy of +ninety-five. Spectacles, indeed!" + +"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, _dearest_ Clarissa. How I wish I could go with +you to this lovely ball!" + +"Never mind; people always meet," says Clarissa, consolingly. + +"Yes,--at Philippi," returns the irrepressible, and, with a faint +grimace, she vanishes. + +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?" + +Miss Peyton, who is walking, is delighted. + +"As far as ever you will. Indeed, I want to speak to you. What--what +is your dress like, Georgie?" + +Georgie hesitates. Clarissa, misunderstanding her silence, says, +gently, "Let me give you one, dearest?" + +"Oh, no, no," says Miss Broughton, quickly. "I have one,--I have, +indeed; and it is rather pretty." + +"But you told me you had never been at a ball." + +"Neither have I. The gown I speak of was bought for a musical party. +It was given while I was with Aunt Elizabeth." + +"Who gave it?" + +"The gown?" + +"Oh, no,--the party." + +"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." + +"It was cruel to force you to go against your will: but, when you were +there, did you enjoy yourself?" + +"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----" + +"Who was he?" asks Clarissa, interested at once. + +"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." + +"Poor Sir John!" + +"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, +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?" + +"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?" + +"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." + +"I suppose so. Well, I shall write to Dorian for your ticket." + +"Perhaps 'Dorian' will think me a great bother." + +"Let him," says Clarissa, impatiently: as yet she has not forgiven him +that speech (so much mistaken) at the concert. + + * * * * * + +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. + +The rooms are looking lovely; fair faces smile, and soft eyes gleam; +and figures, round and _svelte_ as Venus's own, sway with the music +and mingle with the throng. + +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. + +"Keep one dance for a friend of mine," she says, earnestly. + +"Let me keep one dance for you." + +"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." + +"I shall be nectar to her, if you entreat me in that fashion. Who is +she?" + +"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. + +"A governess!" says Dorian, unthinkingly. "Oh, Clarissa, don't let me +in for that. I don't _mind_ 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." + +"You need not be afraid of my governess," says Clarissa, earnestly: +"she will not trouble you about Murray or his Grammar." + +"Of course, if you say I must dance with her, I must," says +Branscombe, with a heavy sigh. + +"I see her now. Come, let me introduce you to her." + +"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." + +"You can dance with your child, of course; but at least let me +introduce you to my friend." + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"Why, here," says Clarissa. + +"Here? Not the--the girl in black, talking to Bellew!" + +"Yes; that is your dreadful woman." + +"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!" + +"She is your 'child,' then?" asks Clarissa, opening her eyes. + +"Yes; but a governess, my dear Clarissa?" + +"She is teaching the Redmond children. I told you so at the concert." + +"I quite forgot,--utterly. How could one think of her as that, you +know?" + +"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." + +"I'll do my best," says the fair young man. "Is that legible?" + +"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?" + +"There once was a John Barleycorn," says Mr. Bellew, thoughtfully. + +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,-- + +"I am so sorry I can't write; yet nevertheless _I_ am John Barleycorn, +and this dance belongs to me." + +"Why, so it does," says Georgie, recognizing him in a naive 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. + +"You have forgotten me," he says, reproachfully. + +"Oh, no,"--slowly. "It was with you I danced the last waltz, I think." + +"No. The last polka." He is even more piqued now. "It has slipped your +memory; yet there are some things one never forgets." + +"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." + +"You mistake me," says Dorian, hastily. "I thought of nothing unhappy. +I thought of you. I shall never forget this night." + +"Ah, neither shall I!" says Miss Broughton, very earnestly indeed. By +an artificial observer, it might be thought somewhat sentimentally. + +"Do you mean that?" says Dorian, hopefully, if curiously. "Am I to +understand you mean to keep this particular ball forever in mind?" + +"You may, indeed." + +"But why?"--with much animation, and an over-increasing show of hope. + +"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. + +"I see,"--disappointedly. "Is that your reason? What a curious one!" + +"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." + +"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?" + +"Well, I suppose I sha'n't quite forget you," says Georgie, seriously, +after a moment's careful reflection. + +"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?" + +"Yes," says Georgie. + +"And I live just three miles from that----." Here he pauses, as though +afraid to make his insinuation too plain. + +"At Sartoris, isn't it?" asks Georgie, sweetly. "Yes? Clarissa showed +me the entrance-gate to it last week. It looks pretty." + +"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." + +"But you are always in London, are you not?" says Georgie. + +"Oh, no, not always: I sha'n't go there again, for ever so long. So +promise, will you?" + +"I'll ask Mrs. Redmond. But I know we can. She never refuses me +anything," says this most unorthodox governess. + +"I'm sure I'm not surprised at that," says Branscombe. "Who could?" + +"Aunt Elizabeth could," says Miss Broughton. + +"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 _my_ 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." + +"Well, I ask you now," says Georgie, penitently. + +"Do you care to know?" + +"I do, indeed." + +"Then it is because to-night I met you for the first time." + +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. + +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. + +"After all, my reason is better than yours," she says, in her sweet, +petulant voice. "Come, let us dance: we are only wasting time." + +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. + +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, + + "Like some tired bee that flags + Mid roses over-blown," + +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. + +"You will give me another dance?" says Branscombe, taking her card. + +"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." + +"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?" + +"I would, in a minute," says Miss Broughton, naively; "but, if he +found me out afterwards, would he be angry?" + +"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?" + +"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. + +"Show me the man you would discard," he says, running her pencil down +her programme. + +"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, _quite sure_, he won't find +me out." + +"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. + +"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." + +"He'll never see you in the crush," says Branscombe. + +"But I told him exactly where to find me." + +"It is the most difficult thing in the world to be anywhere at the +precise moment stated." + +"But I should _like_ to dance with him again," declares Miss +Broughton, innocently, being driven into a corner. + +"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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + + "It is the hydra of calamities, + The sevenfold death: the jealous are the + Damn'd."--YOUNG. + + +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 + + "Rush forth in myriads, as to wage + War with the lines of darkness." + +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 + + "Too short for him to utter forth his love-chant, + And disburthen his full soul of all its music." + +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. + +The intense and solemn stillness of all around renders more enchanting +the trills and tender trembles that shake its tiny throat. There is + + "No whispering but of leaves, on which the breath + Of heaven plays music to the birds that slumber." + +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. + +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. + +Yet this is not the only sound that disturbs the quiet of the night. +Sadly, mournfully, a half-suppressed sob falls upon the air. + +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. + +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. + +Dorian, recognizing her, goes quickly up to her and lays his hand upon +her shoulder. It is Ruth Annersley! + +She stifles a low cry, and, turning to him, grows even a shade paler +than she was a moment since. + +"Ruth," says Dorian, "what on earth brings you here at this hour?" + +For a moment she makes him no answer. She raises 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. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +"You have seen enough of this ball, Ruth," says Branscombe, very +gently. "Go home now." + +"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. + +"What is it?" asks Dorian. "Are you in pain? How white you are!" + +"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!" + +"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. "Nobody sees any amusement in dying. Come, +let me see you home." + +"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." + +"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. + +Silently they walk through the damp night grass, neither speaking, +until, coming to a curve in the way, she breaks silence. + +"How beautiful Miss Peyton looks to-night," she says, in a tone +impossible to translate. + +"Very," says Dorian, unkindly, yet with very kindly intent. "But then +she is always one of the most beautiful women I know." + +"Is she--very much admired?"--this rather timidly. + +"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. + +"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. + +"With my brother, of course. She--she would not care to dance very +much with any one else now, on account of her engagement." + +"Her engagement?" + +"Yes. She is to be married to my brother some time next year." + +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. + +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. + +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 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. + +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. + +But he cannot let her go without a word. + +"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?" + +"Yes." Her voice is low, and sounds strange, even in her own ears. + +"Wrap your shawl more closely round you. The night is cold. Is the +pain in your side better?" + +"Yes,"--almost regretfully. + +"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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +"Who were you parting with at the gate?" asks Lord 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. + +"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? + +"Ruth Annersley?" + +"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." + +"At this hour of the night to be here, alone!" + +"Yes. Very imprudent of her, of course, and all that." + +"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. + +"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." + +"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." + +There is something so unpleasant, so sneering, about his tone that +Dorian colors hotly. + +"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." + +"No," says Lord Sartoris. + +"Any other fellow might have been here as well as me. You, for +example." + +"Just so!" says Lord Sartoris. + +"Then why bring in the word curious?" + +"It merely occurred to me at the moment," says his lordship, drily. +"Been dancing much?" + +"Yes,--no,--pretty well. Are you coming in?" + +They are again in front of the house, and near the steps that lead to +the conservatory. + +"Not just yet, I think." + +"Then I fear I must leave you. I am engaged for this dance." + +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-- + + "From her clouded veil soft gliding, + Lifts her silvery lamp on high," + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + + "Known mischiefs have their cure, but doubts have none; + And better is despair than friendless hope + Mixed with a killing fear."--MAY. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"Yes. I feel I am bound to be back there again as soon as possible." + +"Business?" + +"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?" + +"Quite so. Where have you been all the morning? Sleeping?" + +"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 to the farms to try to get some fresh air to carry back with me to +the stifling city." + +"Ah! past the mill? I mean in that direction?--towards the upper +farms?" + +"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?" + +"Rather so. I don't know when I enjoyed an affair of the kind so +much." + +"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." + +"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!" + +"Very. She cut out all the other women, I thought; they looked right +down cheap beside her." + +"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. + +"That little girl at the vicarage isn't bad to look at," says Horace, +idly, beating a tattoo on the window-pane. + +"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. + +"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." + +He leaves the room, and, crossing the halls, makes his 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. + +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. + +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. + +"I hardly hoped to find you at home," he says, with an effort. + +"What a very flattering speech! Was that why you came? Sit here, +Arthur: you will find it much more comfortable." + +He pushes towards him the cosily-cushioned chair in which Horace had +been sitting a minute ago. + +"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. + +"What is this?" he asks, stooping to pick it up. + +It is a lace handkerchief, of delicate and exquisite workmanship, with +some letters embroidered in one corner. + +"You have been receiving gentle visitors very early," says Lord +Sartoris, turning the pretty thing round and round curiously. + +"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." + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"'R. A.,'" remarks Lord Sartoris, slowly. "Why, that might mean Ruth +Annersley." + +"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. + +"How could it have come here?" asks Lord Sartoris, without raising his +eyes from the luckless handkerchief. "Do you know anything of it?" + +"Nothing; except that it belongs to Ruth. I gave it to her last +Christmas." + +"You! A curious gift to a girl in her rank in life?" + +"She wished for it," returns Branscombe, curtly. + +"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. + +"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." + +"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. + +"Too long?" repeats Branscombe, coloring darkly. + +"Yes. Have you forgotten altogether the motto of our race?--'Leal +friend, leal foe.' Let me bring it to your memory." + +"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." + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + + "Lock you, how she cometh, trilling + Out her gay heart's bird-like bliss! + Merry as a May-morn thrilling + With the dew and sunshine's kiss. + + * * * * * + + Ruddy gossips of her beauty + Are her twin cheeks; and her mouth, + In its ripe warmth, smileth fruity + As a garden of the south."--GERALD MASSEY. + + +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. + +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. + +They are young! + +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. + +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. + +The spring has come at last, though tardy and slow in its approach. +Now-- + + "Buds are bursting on the brier, + And all the kindled greenery glows + And life hath richest overflows, + And morning fields are fringed with fire." + +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. + +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 Phoebus flings broadcast upon the loving earth. The +flowers are waking slowly into life, and stud the mossy woods with +colorings distinct though faint: + + "Nooks of greening gloom + Are rich with violets that bloom + In the cool dark of dewy leaves." + +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." + +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. + +"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?" + +"Yes." She is smiling sweetly at him,--the little, kind, indifferent +smile that comes so readily to her red lips. + +"Well, so am I," says Dorian, turning to accompany her. + +Miss Broughton glances at him demurely. + +"You can't want to go to the vicarage again?" she says, lifting her +brows. + +"How do you know I have been there at all to-day?" says Dorian. + +"Oh, because you are always there, aren't you?" says Georgie, +shrugging her shoulders, and biting a little flower she has been +holding, into two clean halves. + +"As you know so much, perhaps you also know _why_ I am always there," +says Branscombe, who is half amused, half offended, by her wilfulness. + +"No, I don't," replies she, easily, turning her eyes, for the first +time, full upon his. "Tell me." + +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? + +"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!" + +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." + +"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 _this_ hat?" + +"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!" + +"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." + +"Are you? I like something else, too: I mean your voice." + +"It is too minor,--too discontented, my aunt used to say." + +"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." + +"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 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." + +"Are you always going to love it best on earth?" + +"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?" + +"Yes, very much indeed. But I know somebody else with whom I am even +happier." + +"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." + +"Poor Horace!" says Dorian, rather taken aback. Then she remembers, +and is in an instant covered with shame and confusion. + +"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 _bit_ like _you_!" + +"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." + +"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.'" + +"Does something in your heart ever say to you, '_Like_ some one'?" + +"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." + +"Do you like teaching?" asks he, idly, more for the sake of hearing +her plaintive voice again, than from any great desire to know. + +"Like it?" She stops short on the pretty woodland path, and confronts +him curiously: "Now, do you _think_ 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!" + +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. + +"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." + +"'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. + +She looks at him, and shakes her head. + +"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." + +"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. + +"I thought you knew him," she says, with some hesitation. + +"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 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." + +"Why, what did he do?" + +"More than I can recall in a hurry. For one thing, he drank more tea +than any four people together that ever I knew." + +"Was that all? I see no reason why any one should be ashamed of liking +tea." + +"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." + +"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." + +"Do you? I wish with all my heart I was good souchong," says Mr. +Branscombe, at which she laughs again. + +"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?" + +"For you it must be, indeed. But how is it you haven't?" + +"Because I have no time, no money, no--no anything." + +"What a hesitation! Tell me what the 'anything' stands for." + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"I should think he would take you wherever you wanted to go, and to +hear whatever you wished to hear," he says, slowly. + +"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." + +"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. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"May I have those violets?" says Branscombe, pointing to a little +bunch of those fair comers of the spring that lies upon her breast. + +"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." + +"I hardly think so." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + + "There have been hearts whose friendship gave + Them thoughts at once both soft and grave." + + +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. + +"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." + +"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. + +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. + +"Now for your news," she says, in the tone one adopts when expecting +to be amused. + +Dorian, lifting his arms, lays them behind his head. + +"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'?" + +"Georgie? You----. She was with me all the morning." + +"So she told me." + +"Ah? And how far did you go with her?" + +"To the vicarage. As I had been there all the morning, I couldn't well +go in again,--a fact I felt and deplored." + +"I am glad you walked back with her," says Miss Peyton; but she +doesn't look glad. "I hope you were nice to her?" + +"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 _that_ +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?" + +"You mean Georgie?" + +"Yes." + +"Neither nineteen nor twenty." + +"So much! Then I really think she is the youngest-looking girl I ever +met at that age. She looks more like sweet seventeen." + +"You think her pretty?" + +"Rather more than that: she reminds me always of 'Maggie Lauder:' + + "'Her face is as the summer cloud, whereon + The dawning sun delights to rest his rays.' + +And, again, surely Apollo loves to + + "Play at hide-and-seek amid her golden hairs.'" + +"Dorian, don't--don't make her unhappy," says Clarissa, blushing +hotly. + +"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! + +"No, no. I am in earnest," says Clarissa, a little anxiously. "Don't +pay her too much attention, if you don't mean it." + +"Perhaps I do mean it." + +"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." + +"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." + +"You won't understand me," begins she, sitting more upright, as though +desirous of argument; but he interrupts her. + +"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." + +"I don't want to sit upon you," says Clarissa a little vexed. + +"No! I dare say that chair is more comfortable." + +"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." + +"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. + +"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." + +"Well, why shouldn't I marry her?" says Dorian. + +"I see no reason why you shouldn't. I only know you have no intention +whatever of doing so." + +"If you keep on saying that over and over again, I dare say I _shall_ +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." + +"Don't speak like that," says Clarissa, entreatingly: she is plainly +unhappy. + +"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." + +"I don't know about 'Apollo' or 'Crichton,'" says Clarissa; "but let +her alone. I want her to marry Mr. Hastings." + +"The curate?" says Dorian, for the second time to day. + +"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." + +"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." + +"I believe she does," says Clarissa. + +"Can't you do something for _me_, 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." + +"Does anybody ever take advice unless it falls in with their own +wishes?" says Clarissa. "You may warn her as you will." + +"I sha'n't warn her at all," says Dorian. + +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 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. + +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 _is_. + +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---- + +His thoughts change. Georgie's _riante_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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 +remembrance of that faded, too; and she had never afterwards risked +the chance of a _tete-a-tete_ with him. + + * * * * * + +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. + +"Aren't you glad I have come?" she says, with the utmost _naivete_. +"I'm awfully glad myself. The children have all gone to the Dugdales', +and so I am my own mistress." + +"And so you came to me," says Clarissa. + +"Yes, of course." + +"And now, to make you happy," says Clarissa, meditatively. + +"Don't take any thought about that. It is already an accomplished +fact. I am with _you_, and therefore I am perfectly happy." + +"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. + +"Why,--why," said he, once, in an unguarded moment, bitterly repented +of afterwards, "forbid them their rest on the Sabbath day?" + +"What a pity the afternoon is so uncertain!" says Clarissa. "We might +have gone for a nice long drive." + +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 + + "The thirsty earth soaks up the rain, + And drinks, and gapes for drink again." + +"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." + +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. + +Clarissa, who is standing with her back to the hall door, turns +instinctively towards it, and sees Dorian Branscombe. + +"I have disturbed you. I have come in at the wrong moment?" asks that +young man, fearfully. + +"Ah! you have spoiled our game. And we were so well into it. Your +sudden entrance startled Georgie, and she missed her aim." + +"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. + +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 + + "Nature might no more her child advance." + +"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?" + +"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 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." + +"What a comfort!" says Clarissa, devoutly. "Then there is some faint +chance we may be allowed to end our afternoon in peace!" + +"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." + +"I shall," says Georgie, with decided--and, it must be confessed, +unexpected--promptness. + +"Ha!" says Dorian, victoriously. "Now I am content to go. A fig for +your incivility, Clarissa! At least I leave one true mourner behind." + +"Two," says Clarissa, relentingly. + +"Too late now; apology is useless! Well, I'm off. Can I do anything +for either of you?" + +"Yes; bring me up that little dog you promised me,--one of Sancho's +puppies." + +"You shall have the very prettiest to-morrow, in spite of your +ill-treatment. And you, Miss Broughton, what can I do for you?" + +He is looking tenderly at the small childish face, framed in gold, +that is gazing at him smilingly from the distance. + +"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. + +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. + +"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 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. + +"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 _seriously_." + +This friendly hint is utterly thrown away. Miss Broughton understands +it not at all. + +"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." + +"I like Mr. Hastings in his surplice," says Clarissa; "I think him +very handsome: don't you?" + +"Well--yes--. Only I wish his ears didn't stick out so much. Why do +they? He always, somehow, makes me think of Midas." + +"But you like him," persists Clarissa, feeling, however, a little +crestfallen. It doesn't sound promising, this allusion to Mr. +Hastings's ears. + +"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!" + +"Of course. And his eyes are really beautiful." + +"You are not in love with him, are you?" says Miss Georgie, with an +amused laugh; and again Clarissa's hopes sink to zero. + +"No. But I am glad you are a friend of his. Does he--like you?" + +"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?" + +"I promise faithfully, darling, if you wish it." + +"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." + +"Not the slightest harm," says Miss Peyton, with conviction. +Woman-like, she is burning with curiosity. Not 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. + +"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. + +"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!" + +"Did he?"--with suppressed excitement. "And--and you--what did you +say?" + +"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----" + +"Pleased?"--tenderly. + +"Pleased! I should think so," with so much _empressement_ 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." + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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. + +"Well, yes, of course; he is rather young, and beauty goes a long way +with some men." + +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! + +"Then he went on to say he could never feel real happiness again until +he knew he was loved in return." + +"Well?"--breathlessly,--"and then----?" + +"I said,"--with the gayest little laugh imaginable,--"I thought he +_was_ loved in return." + +"You _thought_, 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?" + +"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?" + +"Yes, only natural." Clarissa can think of nothing else to say. Not +like this had _she_ felt when----. To talk of him as a victim! + +"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." + +"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." + +"Oh, very well,"--amicably. "But there couldn't be any harm in my +speaking about it." + +"Just as much as in any other woman's." + +"Not so much as if it was Cissy?" + +"Twice as much. What has she got to do with it?" + +"Well, a great deal, I take it,"--laughing again. + +"As a friend she may feel some interest in him, I suppose. But _she_ +is not going to marry him." + +"Well, I think she is. You don't think she will refuse him, do +you?"--anxiously. + +"Cissy Redmond!" + +"Cissy Redmond." + +"Do you mean to tell me," says Clarissa, growing very red, "that it +is Cissy you have been talking about all this time, and +not--yourself?" + +"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 _goose_!" + +"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. + + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + + "Sin and shame are ever tied together + With Gordian knots, of such a strong thread spun, + They cannot without violence be undone."--WEBSTER. + + "Sharper than the stings of death!"--REYNOLDS. + + +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. + +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. + +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? + +Tired out with his day's work, the miller had gone to bed 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Day wanes; twilight is descending,-- + + "Melting heaven with earth, + Leaving on craggy hills and running streams + A softness like the atmosphere of dreams." + +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. + +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. + +"_You_ will find me my girl," he says, and then he tells him all the +story. + +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 _sans peur et sans reproche_. + +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. + +"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!" + +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." + +"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. + +"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, _man_, help me, in some way!" + +He cries this in an impassioned tone. He is totally overcome. His poor +old white head falls helplessly upon his clasped arms. + +Sartoris, pale as death, and visibly affected, can make no reply. He +trembles, and stands before the humble miller as one oppressed with +guilt. + +Annersley mistakes his meaning, and, striding forward, lays his hand +upon his arm. + +"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!" + +"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. + +"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." + +Lord Sartoris draws a deep breath, that is almost a sob. + +"When does he return, my lord?" + +"On Saturday. He said so, at least, when leaving." + +"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." + +"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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +"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,-- + + "Stoynde and amazde at his own shade for dreed, + And fearing greater daungers than was nede." + +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. + +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. + +But the morrow brings its own tidings. + +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. + +"Come in," he calls out, impatiently; and Simon Gale, opening the +door, comes slowly in. + +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. + +"Are you busy, my lord?" asks he, in a somewhat nervous tone. + +"Yes; I am very much engaged. I can see no one, Gale. Say I am +starting for town immediately." + +"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." + +Lord Sartoris, laying down his pen, looks at him intently. + +"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?" + +"A story I heard this morning, my lord, which I feel it my duty to +repeat to you. Not that I believe one word of it. You will remember +that, my lord,--_not one word_." 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. + +"You are trembling," says Lord Sartoris. "Sit down. This news, +whatever it is, has unstrung you." + +"It has," cries Simon, with vehemence. "I _am_ trembling; I _am_ +unstrung. How can I be otherwise when I hear such a slander put upon +the boy I have watched from his cradle?" + +"You are speaking of----?" demands Sartoris, with an effort. + +"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. + +Sartoris, rising from his seat, goes over to the window, and so stands +that his face cannot be seen. + +"What have you got to say about Mr. Branscombe?" he asks, in a harsh, +discordant tone. + +"My lord, it is an impertinence my speaking at all," says Gale. + +"Go on. Let me know the worst. I can hardly be more miserable than I +am," returns Sartoris. + +"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.' + +"'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. + +"'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!' + +"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,-- + +"'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 saw Miss Ruth a standing, and wi' her was +Mr. Branscombe.' + +"'Which Mr. Branscombe?' says I. + +"'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.' + +"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,-- + +"'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.' + +"'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. + +"'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.'" + +Gale ceases speaking. And silence follows that lasts for several +minutes. Then he speaks again: + +"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." + +"You have acted very kindly." Even to himself his tone is strained +and cold. "This Andrews must be silenced," he says, after a little +pause, full of bitterness. + +"I have seen to that, my lord. After what I said to him, he will +hardly speak again to any one on the subject." + +"See to it, Simon. Let him fully understand that dismissal will be the +result of further talk." + +"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." + +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. + +"I envy you your faith," he says, wearily; "I would give half--nay, +all I possess, if I could say that honestly." + +Just at this moment there comes an interruption. + +"A telegram, my lord," says one of the men, handing in a yellow +envelope. + +Sartoris, tearing it open, reads hurriedly. + +"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." + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + + "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."--LEIGHTON. + + +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. + +"Your telegram made me uneasy," he says, abruptly, "so I came back +sooner than I had intended. Had you mine?" + +"Yes; some hours ago." + +"Did you want me, Arthur?" + +"Yes; but not your return here. I sent my telegram principally to +learn your address, as I had made up my mind to go up to town. You +have frustrated that plan." + +There is a meaning in his tone that puzzles Dorian. + +"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?" + +"My business was with you." + +"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." + +"It is," says Sartoris, rising from his chair, and moving a few steps +nearer to him. "It is slowly murdering poor old John Annersley!" + +"I am still hopelessly in the dark," says Dorian, shrugging his +shoulders. "What has suspense got to do with old Annersley?" + +"Are you really ignorant of all that has occurred? Have you not heard +of Ruth's mysterious disappearance?" + +"'Ruth's disappearance?' I have heard nothing. Why, where can she have +gone?" + +"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. + +"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 _me_ of having something to do +with her disappearance?" + +"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, as I greeted her. Even +then the truth began to dawn upon me." + +"The truth?" says Branscombe, with a short and bitter laugh. + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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!" + +"_I_ was?" + +"The man who saw you will swear to this." + +"He must be rather a clever fellow. I congratulate you on your 'man.'" + +"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?" + +"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 _wouldn't_ believe I was there, if I were you." + +He laughs again. Sartoris flushes hotly all over his lean earnest +face. + +"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?" + +"A coat like this, do you say?" asks Branscombe, with a nervous +attempt at unconcern, laying his hand upon his sleeve. + +"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." + +"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." + +"Then you deny nothing?" + +"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." + +"You dare not!" says Sartoris, in a stifled tone, confronting him +fully for the first time. + +"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." + +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. + +Passing through the Long Hall, as it has been called from time +immemorial, he encounters Simon Gale, the old butler, and stops to +speak to him, kindly, as is his wont, though in truth his heart is +sore. + +"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. + +"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?" + +"Yes; I have only just left him." + +"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. + +"Not to-night. Some other time when my uncle--" He pauses. + +"You think him looking well?" asks the old man, anxiously, mistaking +his hesitation. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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 entreat you to +confess, and make amends for it, whilst there is yet time." + +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. + +"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!" + +"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--_trust_ in you." + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +Throwing open the door, he welcomes gladly the cool evening air that +seems to rush to meet him. + +"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." + +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. + +_Can_ 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. + +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. + +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--_left it there when going_! + +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? + +"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? + +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. + +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. Already the faint moon arising, throws +her "silver light o'er half the world," and makes more blue the azure +depths above: + + "Star follows star, though yet day's golden light + Upon the hills and headlands faintly streams." + +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: + + "There is no stir, nor breath of air; the plains + Lie slumbering in the close embrace of night." + +All nature seems sinking into one grand repose, wherein strife and +misery and death appear to have no part. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Working so late?" says Dorian, involuntarily, being accustomed to +think of Horace, at this hour, as one of a 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. + +"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?" + +"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." + +"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." + +He laughs lightly. + +Dorian regards him fixedly. Has he wronged him? Has instinct played +him false? + +"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. + +"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?" + +"Have you heard nothing?" + +"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?" + +"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." + +"What a charitable place is a small village!" says 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----" + +"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." + +"Then--I think I barely understand you," says Horace, amicably; "you +came because----?" + +"Because I fancied I had here the best chance of hearing about her," +interrupts Dorian, bluntly, losing patience a little. + +"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--_my_ 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." + +"Is that all you can tell me?" + +"All about my old lady, certainly." + +"And of Ruth?" + +"I know nothing, as _you_ should understand." He laughs significantly. + +"What do you mean?" demands Dorian, a little fiercely. His eyes are +dark and flashing, his lips compressed. + +"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 _penchant_ 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 go +in for society with that cut-up expression in your eyes, people will +talk." + +"Then you know nothing?" repeats Branscombe, taking no notice +of--perhaps not even hearing--the foregoing speech. + +"Absolutely nothing. How should I?" says Horace, with his soft smooth +smile. "Have a brandy-and-soda, Dorian, or a little curacoa? Perhaps, +indeed, the brandy will be best (always allowing Mrs. McGinty has left +me any), you look so thoroughly done up." + +"Thank you,--nothing." He gazes at his brother long and earnestly. +"The Branscombe word _ought_ to be sure," he says, moodily. + +"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." + +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, _debonnaire_, +apparently without a care in the world. + +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: + +"What in the name of wonder, Branscombe, brings you here?" + +Turning, he finds himself face to face with Sir James Scrope. + +"My presence is hardly an eighth wonder," he says, wearily. "But how +is it you are not in Paris?" + +"Fate ordained it so, and probably fortune, as I just want a friend +with whom to put in an evening." + +"You have chosen a dull companion," says Dorian, stupidly. "What +brought you home so soon? or, rather, what took you to Paris +originally?" + +"Business partly, and partly because--er--that is, I felt I needed a +little change." + +"Ah! just so," says Branscombe. But he answers as one might who has +heard nothing. Sir James casts upon him a quick penetrating glance. + +"Anything wrong with you, Branscombe?" he asks, quietly. "Anything in +which I can be of use to you?" + +"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?" + +"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?" + +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. + +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. + +"I know nothing," he says, presently, in answer to Sir James's last +remark. + +"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?" + +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. + +"Arthur has tormented himself needlessly about the whole business," he +says, turning his face from Scrope. "He thinks me--that is, every +one--to blame, until the girl is restored to her father." + +"Ah! I quite see," says James Scrope. + + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + + "Her eyes were deeper than the depth + Of waters stilled at even." + + +"Dorian?" says Clarissa. + +"Clarissa!" says Dorian. + +"I really think I shall give a ball." + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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." + +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: + + "A rosebud set with little wilfulthorns, + And sweet as English air can make her, she." + +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. + +"I think it was my happy thought," says Branscombe, mildly. "_I_ +suggested this dance to Clarissa only yesterday. Might not I, too, +partake of the 'small return'?" + +"It no longer belongs to me; I have given it all away,--here," says +Georgie, touching Clarissa's cheek with one finger; "but for that," +with a slow adorable glance, "I should be charmed." + +"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." + +"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?" + +"My last? What was it? I never remember anything." She very seldom +blushes, but now again a soft delicate color creeps into her face. + +"If you _hadn't_ given it all away, would you have given me a little +of that small return?" + +"No." + +"Not even if _I_ were to give a ball for you?" + +"N-o--no." + +"Not if I were to do for you the one thing you most desired?" + +"No--no--no!" She speaks hastily, and glances at him somewhat +confusedly from beneath her long lashes. + +"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." + +He comes a little nearer to her, and lays his hand upon the table +close to hers. + +"If you really made the suggestion to Clarissa, you deserve some +reward," says Georgie, nodding her head. "Now, what shall it be?" + +"Dance half the night with me." + +"That would bore you,--and me. No; but if dancing delights +you--sir--may I have the pleasure of the first quadrille?" + +"Madam," says Branscombe, laying his hand upon his heart, "you do me +too much honor; I am at your service now and forever." + +"It is too large a promise." + +"A true one, nevertheless." + +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. + +"Can't I have the gardens lighted?" she says, "with Chinese lanterns, +and that? I have been thinking of it." + +"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." + +"Speak for yourself, please," says Miss Broughton, very justly +incensed. + +"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." + +"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." + + * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +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 _esclandre_ 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. + +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. + +"Bats and grisly owls on noiseless wings" flit to and fro, "and now +the nightingale, not distant far, begins her solitary song." + +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. + +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. + +Cissy Redmond, in the arms of a cavalry-man, is floating round the +room, her unutterable little _nez retrousse_ 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. + +He is now talking to her in his very best style, and she is +smiling,--but not at him. + +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? + +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. + +Her late partner was a fat, kindly squire, who _will_ 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 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. + +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,-- + + "A face o'er which a thousand shadows go." + +The small face, perhaps, objects to this minute scrutiny, because +presently it raises itself, and says, coquettishly,-- + +"How silent you are! What are you thinking of?" + +"Of you," says Dorian, simply. "What a foolish question! You are a +perfect picture in that black gown, with your baby arms and neck." + +"Anything else?" asks Miss Broughton, demurely. + +"Yes. It also seems to me that you cannot be more than fifteen. You +look such a little thing, and so young." + +"But I'm not young," says Georgie, hastily. "I am quite old. I wish +you would remember I am nearly nineteen." + +"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." + +"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?" + +"He always is," says Dorian. + +"And he has brought a friend with him. And who do you think it is?" + +"I haven't the faintest idea," says Branscombe, turning a vivid red. + +"Why, _my_ Mr. Kennedy!" + +"_Your_ Mr. Kennedy?" reiterates he, blankly, his red becoming a +crimson of the liveliest hue. + +"Yes, the dark thin young man I met at Sir John Lincoln's. I dare say +I told you about him?" + +"Yes, you did," says Dorian, grimly. + +"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. + +"The man with the nose?" asks Branscombe, slightingly, feeling sure in +his soul he is _not_ the man with the nose. + +"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 +_is_ so nice." + +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. + +"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." + +"I saw you ten minutes ago," says Georgie, in her quick bright +fashion. + +"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?" + +"Any one I have," she says, sweetly. + +"The tenth? The dance after next,--after this, I mean?" + +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? + +"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. + +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, bringing 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. + +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. + +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,-- + +"I think the next is our dance, Miss Broughton." + +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. + +"Is it?" she says, gently. "I had forgotten; but of course my card +will tell." + +"One often forgets, and one's card doesn't always tell," replies he, +with a smile tinctured with bitterness. + +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 _did_ 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! + +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. + +"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. + +"Do you particularly want to dance this?" asks Dorian, with an effort. + +"No; not much." + +"Will you come out into the gardens instead? I want--I must speak to +you." + +"You may speak to me here, or in the garden, or any where," says +Georgie, rather frightened by the vehemence of his tone. + +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. + +"Who is your new friend?" asks he, abruptly, when silence any longer +has become impossible. + +"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----" + +"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!" + +She turns her head away from him, but makes no reply. + +"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." + +"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." + +"I have no doubt you would rather be anywhere than with me," says +Dorian, hastily; "and of course this new friend is intensely +interesting." + +"At least he is not rude," says Miss Broughton, calmly, plucking a +pale green branch from a laurestinus near her. + +"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." + +"I didn't," says Miss Broughton, indignantly, in all good faith. + +"You mean to tell me you hadn't given me the tenth dance half an hour +before?" + +"The tenth! You might as well speak about the hundred and tenth! If it +wasn't on my card how could I remember it?" + +"But it was on your card: I wrote it down myself." + +"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. + +"Then show me your card. If I have blundered in this matter I shall go +on my knees to beg your pardon." + +"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." + +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. + +"You see," he says, feeling himself, as he says it, slightly +ungenerous. + +"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. + +"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 +_hate_ people who are always in the right." + +With this she turns, and, regardless of him, walks hurriedly, and +plainly full of childish rage, back to the house. + +Dorian, stricken with remorse, follows her. + +"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." + +"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. + +"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. + +Georgie, detaching her hand from his grasp, moves away from him. + +"'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!" + +She frowns slightly, and, with a sudden movement, getting behind a +large flowering shrub, disappears from his gaze for the night. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + + "But sweeter still than this, than these, than all, + Is first and passionate love: it stands alone."--BYRON. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 paean 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. + +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. + +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---- + +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. + +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. + +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. + + "There has fallen a splendid tear + From the passion-flower at the gate; + She is coming, my dove, my dear; + She is coming, my life, my fate." + +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. + +"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? + +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. + +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. + + "Love lights upon the hearts, and straight we feel + More worlds of wealth gleam in an upturned eye + Than in the rich heart or the miser sea." + +"I thought I told you not to come," says Miss Broughton, still +frowning. + +"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." + +"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." + +"Well, what was I to think? You certainly said it. So I came. I +believed"--humbly--"it was the best thing to do." + +"Yes; and you found me sitting--as--I was, and singing at the top of +my voice. How I dislike people"--says Miss Broughton, with fine +disgust--"who steal upon other people unawares!" + +"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_ hadn't the ordering of them!" + +"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. + +Silence, of the most eloquent, that lasts for a full minute, even +until the unoffending grass is utterly consumed. + +"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. + +"Well, perhaps I would," returns she, coolly, without condescending to +look at him. + +"Good-by,"--icily. + +"Good-by,"--in precisely the same tone, and without changing her +position half an inch. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +It is too much. In a moment he is beside her again, and is gazing down +on her with angry eyes. + +"Something is amusing you," he says. "Is it me?" + +"Yes," says the spoiled beauty, moving back from him, and lifting her +lids from her laughing eyes to cast upon him a defiant glance. + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"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!" + +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 his chest, she draws back from him; and he, +seeing she really wishes to get away from him, instantly releases her. + +As if fascinated, however, she never removes her gaze from his, +although large tears have risen, and are shining in her eyes. + +"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." + +At this--feeling rather lost, and not knowing what else to do--Georgie +covers her face with her hands, and bursts out crying. + +It is now Branscombe's turn to be frightened, and he does his part to +perfection. He is thoroughly and desperately frightened. + +"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." + +"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. + +"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." + +"Do you do it every day?" + +"No: I never did it before. And" (very gently) "you will answer me, +won't you?" + +No answer, however, is vouchsafed. + +"Georgie, say you will marry me." + +But Georgie either can't or won't say it; and Dorian's heart dies +within him. + +"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." + +Again he presses her hand to his lips; and she, turning her face +slowly to his, looks up at him. Her late tears were but a summer +shower, and have faded away, leaving no traces as they passed. + +"But I didn't mean one word of all that," she says, naively, letting +her long lashes fall once more over her eyes. + +"Then what did you mean?" demands he, with some pardonable impatience. +"Quite the contrary, all through?" + +"N--ot quite,"--with hesitation. + +"At least, that some day you will be my wife?" + +"N--ot altogether." + +"Well, you can't be half my wife," says Mr. Branscombe promptly. +"Darling, _darling_, put me out of my misery, and say what I want you +to say." + +"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. + +"But you must promise me faithfully never to be unkind to me again," +says Georgie, impressively, laying a finger on his lips. + +"Unkind?" + +"Yes; _dreadfully_ 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!" + +"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. + +There is silence between them after this, that lasts a full minute,--a +long time for lovers freshly made. + +"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. + +"I shall never have to teach those horrid lessons again," she says, +with a quick sigh of relief. + +If he is disappointed, he carefully conceals it. He laughs, and, +lifting her exquisite face, kisses her gently. + +"Never," he says, emphatically. "When you go home, 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." + +"I shall like that," says Georgie, with a sweet smile. "But, Mr. +Branscombe----" + +"Who on earth is Mr. Branscombe?" asks Dorian. "Don't you know my name +yet?" + +"I do. I think it is almost the prettiest name I ever heard,--Dorian." + +"_Darling!_ 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----?" + +"Perhaps Clarissa will not care to have me for so long." + +"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." + +"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. + +"You terrify me," says Branscombe. "Let me beg you will rectify such a +mistake as soon as possible." + +"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. + +"It hasn't been ten minutes," says Mr. Branscombe, conviction making +his tone brilliant. + +"Oh, nonsense!" says Georgie. "I am sure it must be quite two hours +since you came." + +As it has been barely one, this is rather difficult to endure with +equanimity. + +"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. + +"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." + +"I should think any one would miss you," says Dorian, 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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + + "Love set me up on high: when I grew vain + Of that my height, love brought me down again. + + * * * * * + + "The heart of love is with a thousand woes + Pierced, which secure indifference never knows. + + * * * * * + + "The rose aye wears the silent thorn at heart, + And never yet might pain for love depart."--TRENCH. + + +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 _her_ +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: + +"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." + +"I am quite sure," says Georgie, flushing hotly. She has sufficient +self-love to render this doubt very unpalatable. + +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. + +"You are a very happy and a very fortunate girl," she says, gravely. + +"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 belong to a young girl betrothed freshly to the +lover of her heart. + +"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." + +"I can still come and sing to you sometimes," says Georgie, with tears +in her eyes and voice. + +"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." + +"I will ask Clarissa to get you some one else nicer than me," says +Georgie, soothingly. + +"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?" + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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." + +"He could not sleep; he confessed that to me. And you had forbidden +him to go to the vicarage to see you 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." + +"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?" + +"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. + +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. + +"When are you coming to stay with me altogether?--I mean until the +marriage?" asks Clarissa, presently. + +"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." + +"Dorian will not like that." + +"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." + +"He will think it very sweet of you," says Clarissa, "considering how +you detest teaching, and that." + +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. + +"Poor Benedick!" she says, mockingly: "so it has come to this, that +you know no life but in your Beatrice's presence!" + +"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." + +"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 _old_ 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?" + +They forgive her; and presently find themselves alone. + + * * * * * + +"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. + +"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?" + +She seems really anxious as she asks this. + +"My darling, of course I shall. How could you ask me such a question? +And you, Georgie, do you love me?" + +"Love you? Yes, I suppose so; I don't know,"--with decided hesitation. +"I am certain I like you very, very much. I am quite happy when with +you, and you don't bore me a bit. Is that it?" + +This definition of what love _may_ be, hardly comes up to the mark in +Mr. Branscombe's estimation. + +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. + +"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?" + +"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.'" + +"Was that your _first_ thought?" He is both surprised and pained. + +"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." + +"Did you never once think of me?" asks he, in a curious tone. + +"Of you? Oh, no! You are quite happy," says Georgie, with a sigh. "You +have nothing to trouble you." + +"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. + +"I don't think I am a bit pretty with my hair pushed back," she says, +moving away from the caressing hand, 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. + +"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." + +"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 +_you_." + +"Then why are you marrying me?" demands he, a little roughly, stung to +pained anger by her words. + +"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. + +"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?" + +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! + +"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 _more_ than fortunate that +the first rich man should be _you_." + +"Much more," he says, in an indescribable tone. Then with an effort, +"Would you have thrown me over had I been poor?" + +"I shouldn't have consented to marry you, I think," says Miss +Broughton, quite calmly. + +"As I said before, to be candid is your _forte_," 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--_bon parti_?" + +"I don't think I could love any one to distraction," replies she, +quite simply. It seems the very easiest answer to this question. + +"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!" + +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. + +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. + +"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? + +"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. + +"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 + + "Tears are trembling in her blue eyes, + Like drops that linger on the violet," + +and Dorian, with a sudden passionate movement, takes her in his arms +and presses her head down upon his breast. + +"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?" + +"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 _you_ +were to die----" + +"There! that will do," he says, with sudden passion. "Do you know how +you hurt, I wonder? Are you utterly heartless?" + +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-- + + "With that, the water in her eie + Arose, that she ne might it stoppe; + And, as men sene the dew be droppe + The leves and the floures eke, + Right so upon her white cheke + The wofull salt teres felle." + +"I don't want to hurt you," she says, with a sob; "and I know I am +_not_ heartless." There is a faint tinge of indignation in her tone. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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?" + +"I didn't keep anything," cries she: "I told you long ago--at least, +I----" + +"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." + +"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----" + +"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." + +"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! Dear Dorian,"--laying one hand, with +a pathetic gesture, on his cheek,--"do not be cross to me again." + +"My sweetest!--my best beloved!" says Mr. Branscombe, instantly, +drawing his breath a little quickly, and straining her to his heart. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + + "The wisdom of this world is idiotism."--DECKER. + + "If thou desirest to be borne with, thou must bear also with + others."--KEMPIS. + + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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 _without_ +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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, for the time being, is lost to sight,--happy, +somewhere, no doubt, in the warm sunshine she loves so well. + +"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." + +An ignominious break-down. + +"I'm looking," says Clarissa, somewhat unkindly; "and I don't see +much." + +"Well, 'tis this, you know. You won't think it queer of me, will you?" + +"I won't; I promise that. Though I haven't the faintest idea whether I +shall or not." + +"When she is getting her things, her _trousseau_,--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." + +He flings a cheque-book into her lap through the open window as he +speaks. + +"She shall have everything she wants," says Clarissa; "but I don't +think"--taking up the book--"we shall require this." + +"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?" + +Of course he has given her long ago the orthodox engagement ring, the +locket, the bracelet, and so forth. + +"Why don't you ask her?" says Miss Peyton. + +"Because the other day she said she adored surprises. And I am sure +she doesn't care about being asked what she likes." + +"You have your mother's diamonds." + +"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?" + +"No; it only means that you are growing extravagant in your dotage, my +good Dorian. Well, mention something, that I may object to it." + +"Emeralds, then?" + +"No: papa has set his heart on giving her those." + +"Rubies?" + +"Oh, nothing red: they would not suit her." + +"Opals?" + +"Too unlucky, she would die or run away from you." + +"Pearls? But of course,"--quickly: "why did I not think of them +before?" + +"Why, indeed? They will be charming. By the by, Dorian, have you told +Lord Sartoris of your engagement?" + +Dorian's brow darkens. + +"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?" + +"He was here, but I was out. Have you seen him?" + +"Well, yes,--at a distance." + +"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. + +"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----" + +"You will tell him of your engagement?" + +"Perhaps: if occasion offers." + +"No, not perhaps. Go to-day, this very evening, and tell him of it." + +"Oh, I can't, really, you know," says Mr. Branscombe, who always finds +a difficulty in refusing any one anything. + +"You must,"--with decision: "he surely deserves so much at your +hands." + +"But how few of us get our deserts!" says Dorian, still plainly +unimpressed. + +"Well, then, I think you should speak of it openly to him,--if only +for Georgie's sake." + +"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." + +"He is your uncle; you will wish your own family to receive her?" + +"I dare say you are right," says Branscombe, with a shrug. "People +always are when they suggest to you an unpleasant course." + +"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. + +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. + +"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." + + * * * * * + +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: + + "The long day wanes, the broad fields fade; the night-- + The sweet June night--is like a curtain drawn. + The dark lanes know no faintest sound, and white + The pallid hawthorn lights the smooth-bleached lawn; + The scented earth drinks from the silent skies + Soft dews, more sweet than softest harmonies." + +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. + +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,-- + + "Who is silent all day long; + But when pale eve unseals her clear throat, looses + Her twilight music on the dreaming boughs + Until they waken"-- + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +"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." + +"And Constance, is she quite well?" + +"Quite well, thank you. Your other cousins desired to be remembered to +you. So did she, of course." + +A pause, prolonged and undesirable. + +"You will take some claret?" says Sartoris, at last, pushing the +bottle towards him. + +"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." + +Lord Sartoris turns suddenly to confront him. + +"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." + +"To whom are you alluding?" asks Branscombe, growing pale with anger, +an ominous flash betraying itself in his gray eyes. + +"I hope I understand you to mean to offer full, though tardy, +reparation to Ruth Annersley." + +With an effort Branscombe restrains the fierce outburst of wrath that +is trembling on his lips. + +"You still persist, then, in accusing me of being accessory to that +girl's disappearance?" + +"You have never yet denied it," exclaims Sartoris, pushing back his +glass, and rising to his feet. "Give me the lie direct, if you +_can_,--if you _dare_,--and I will believe you." + +"I never will," returns Dorian, now thoroughly roused,--"_never!_ 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." + +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. + +"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?" + +"Broughton; Georgie Broughton," says Branscombe, briefly. + +"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?" + +"There _was_. She is now staying with Clarissa Peyton, I am to be +married to her, as I have already told you, early next month." + +"A _governess_!" says Sartoris. There is a world of unpleasant meaning +in his tone. "Really,"--with slow contempt,--"I can hardly +congratulate you on your _tastes_! You, who might have chosen your +wife almost anywhere, can find nothing to suit you but an obscure +governess." + +"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." + +After a slight pause, he turns again to Sartoris, and, forcing him to +meet his gaze, says haughtily,-- + +"May we hope you will be present at our wedding, my lord?" + +"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." + +Dorian smiles unpleasantly. + +"You will at least call upon Miss Broughton before leaving the +neighborhood?" he says, raising his brows. + +At this Sartoris turns upon him fiercely, stung by the apparent +unconcern of his manner. + +"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----" + +"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 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." + +"Clarissa, like a great many other charming people, is at times prone +to give very unseasonable advice," says Sartoris, coldly. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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." + +"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. + +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. + +Alas that human hopes should prove so often vain! + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + + "Tis now the summer of your youth; time has not cropt the + roses from your cheek, though sorrow long has washed + them."--_The Gamester._ + + +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." + +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. + +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 _altogether_ 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 she is charming all round and fit for anything; and +hardly one who does not consider her, at heart, fortunate and +designing. + +One or two rash and unsophisticated girls venture on the supposition +that perhaps, after all, it is a real _bona fide_ 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." + +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. + +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 Sevres 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. + +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. + +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. + +"It was all too enchanting," she says, in her quick, vivacious way. "I +enjoyed it _so_. All the lovely old churches, and the lakes, and the +bones of the dear saints, and 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." + +"I can't say how glad I am that you _are_ 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." + +"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." + +"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. + +"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." + +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. + + "No daintie flowre or herbe that growes on grownd, + No arborett with painted blossoms drest + And smelling sweete, but there it might be fownd + To bud out faire and throwe her sweete smels al arownd." + +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. + +"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." + +"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." + +"Has he? I suppose our return frightened him," says Branscombe, in a +peculiar tone. + +"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." + +Dorian laughs. + +"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." + +"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." + + * * * * * + +"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,-- + +"Is the duchess a very grand person, Dorian?" + +"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?" + +"I don't know,"--doubtfully. Plainly, she is in the lowest depths of +despair. "I--I--think I would rather not." + +"I think you had better, darling." + +"But you said just now she was always in a bad temper." + +"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." + +"But, Dorian, really now, what is she like?" + +"I can't say that: it is a tremendous question. I don't know what she +is; I only know what she is not." + +"What, then?" + +"'Fashioned so slenderly, young and so fair,'" quotes he, promptly. At +which they both laugh. + +"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." + +"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.'" + +"We are always spending that, aren't we?" says Mrs. Branscombe, +adorably. Then, with a sigh, "Dorian, what shall I wear?" + +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. + +"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?" + +"It can't matter," says Dorian: "you look lovely in everything, so it +is impossible for you to make a mistake." + +"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." + +"I forget it," says Dorian, professing the very deepest interest, "but +I know it is all things." + +"No, it isn't: I can't bear the sleeves. Then"--discontentedly--"there +is that velvet." + +"The very thing,"--enthusiastically. + +"Oh, Dorian, dear! What are you thinking of? Do remember how warm the +weather is." + +"Well, so it is,--grilling," says Mr. Branscombe, nobly confessing his +fault. + +"Do you like me in that olive silk?" asks she, hopefully, gazing at +him with earnest intense eyes. + +"Don't I just?" returns he, fervently, rising to enforce his words. + +"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." + +"If I were a little girl like you," says Mr. Branscombe, "I should +rather hanker after looking nice and young." + +"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. + +"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." + +"Do you? Then I suppose I had better wear white." + +"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." + +"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. + +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 +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." + +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. + +"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. + +"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." + +"'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. + +"Yes, there is,--there is propriety," responds the duchess, in an +awful tone. + +"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. + +"Ho, hah!" says his Grace, pulling himself up very shortly, and +glancing at his stumbling-block to see if he can identify him. + +"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 +can tell me,--who is that pretty child over there, with the white +frock and the blue eyes?" + +"That pretty child in the frock is my wife," says Branscombe, +laughing. + +"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?" + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +"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." + +"Why don't you learn it up at night and say it to her in the morning?" +says Mrs. Branscombe, brightly. "_I_ should know what to say to her at +once." + +"Oh! I dare say," says Lord Alfred. "Only that doesn't help me, you +know, because _I_ don't." + +"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." + +"Lord Alfred has just shown them to me. They are quite too exquisite," +says Georgie. + +"And the lake, and my new swans?" + +"No; not the swans." + +"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." + +"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. + +Sir James, who has been watching the duke's evident admiration for his +pretty guest, is openly amused. + +"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." + +"Don't be unkind: your hesitation was positively cruel. The word 'red' +is unmistakably the word for the poor duchess to-day." + +"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." + +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. + +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, yet grief sits heavy on her, "as the mildews hang upon +the bells of flowers to blight their bloom!" + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"Am I?" she says. "I don't feel like looking well; and I am tired, +too. They say,-- + + 'A merry heart goes all the day, + Your sad tires in a mile-a;' + +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." + +"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." + +"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. + +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. + +"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." + +"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 + + 'Beauty truly blent, whose red and white + Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on.'" + +"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! + +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. + +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. + + "Full little knowest thou, that hast not tride, + What hell it is, in swing long to bide; + To loose good dayes that might be better spent, + To wast long nights in pensive discontent; + To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow; + To feed on hope, to pine with feare and sorrow; + To fret thy soul with crosses and with cares; + To eate thy heart through comfortlesse dispaires." + +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 + + "Silence in love bewrays more woe + Than words, though ne'er so witty." + +"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. + +"Long ago," says Georgie, tearfully, to herself, "he was not an +aesthete. Oh, how I _wish_ he would go back to his pristine freshness!" + +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. + +Georgie follows his example, and tries to escape Lincoln and the +tulips by diving among the aforesaid group. She is very +successful,--groups do not suit aesthetics,--and soon the gaunt young +man takes himself, and his long hair, to some remote region. + +"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. + +"Ah! you?" she says, with very flattering haste, being unmistakably +pleased to see him. "I had no idea you were staying in the country." + +"I am staying with the Luttrells'. Molly asked me down last month." + +"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." + +"And you didn't care either, I dare say," says Mr. Kennedy, in a tone +that is positively sepulchral, and, considering _all_ things, very +well done indeed. + +"I should have cared, if I had even once thought about it," says Mrs. +Branscombe, cheerfully. + +Whereupon he says,-- + +"_Thank_ you!" in a voice that is _all_ reproach. + +Georgie colors. "I didn't mean what _you_ think," she says, anxiously. +"I didn't _indeed_." + +"Well, it sounded exactly like it," says Mr. Kennedy, with careful +gloom. "Of course it is not to be expected that you ever _would_ think +of me, but----I haven't seen you since that last night at Gowran, have +I?" + +"No." + +"I think you might have told me then you were going to be married." + +"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." + +"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--" + +"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, and to be filled with sawdust sounds +anything but dignified. + +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. + +"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." + +"Nonsense!" says Georgie, contemptuously. "I never saw you look so +well in all my life. You are positively fat." + +"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." + +"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. + +At this they both laugh. + +"Is your husband here to-day?" asks he, presently. + +"Yes." + +"Why isn't he with you?" + +"He has found somebody more to his fancy, perhaps." + +As she says this she glances round, as though for the first time alive +to the fact that indeed he is not beside her. + +"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." + +"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." + +Dorian coming up behind her just as she says this, hears her, and +changes color. + +"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. + +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,-- + +"Do you care to stay much longer? Clarissa has gone, and Scrope, and +the Carringtons." + +"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. + +Seeing which, Kennedy raises his brows, and then his hat, and, bowing, +turns aside, and is soon lost amidst the crowd. + +"You are sure you want to come home?" says Dorian, anxiously. "I am +not in a hurry, you know." + +"I am. I have walked enough, and talked enough, to last me a month." + +"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?" + +"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." + +"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. + +Then they make their way over the smooth lawns, and past the glowing +flower-beds, and past Sir John Lincoln, 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. + +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. + +Georgie, who has been brought to a standstill for a moment, hears both +remarks, and laughs aloud. + +"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." + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + + "There's not a scene on earth so full of lightness + That withering care + Sleeps not beneath the flowers and turns their brightness + To dark despair."--HON. MRS. NORTON. + + +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. + + "The gentle wind, that like a ghost doth pass, + A waving shadow on the cornfield keeps." + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"It is a disgraceful story altogether; and to have the master's name +mixed up with it is shameful!" + +The voice, beyond doubt, belongs to Graham, the upper-housemaid, and +is full of honest indignation. + +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. + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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----" + +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. + +"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." + +Andrews, only too thankful for the chance of escape, picks up his +knife again and beats a hasty retreat. + +Then Georgie, turning to Graham, says slowly,-- + +"Now, tell me every word of it, from beginning to end." + +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. + +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." + +"Oh, madam! tell you what?" she says, now, in a terrified tone, +shrinking away from her mistress, and turning deadly pale. + +"You know what you were speaking about just now when I came up." + +"It was nothing, madam, I assure you, only idle gossip, not worth----" + +"Do not equivocate to me. You were speaking of Mr. Branscombe. Repeat +your 'idle gossip.' I will have it word for word. Do you hear?" She +beats her foot with quick impatience against the ground. + +"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." + +"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. + +Graham bursts into tears. + +"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." + +"He was in London that evening." + +"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." + +"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. + +"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." + +"And how does he explain away the fact of--of Mr. Branscombe's being +in town that evening?" + +At this question Graham unmistakably hesitates before replying. When +she does answer, it is with evident reluctance. + +"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." + +"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 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. + +When silence has become positively unbearable, Georgie says, slowly,-- + +"And does all the world know this?" + +"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." + +"You are a good soul, Graham," says Mrs. Branscombe, wearily. + +Something in her manner frightens Graham more than all that has gone +before. + +"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." + +"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. + +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. + +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? + +"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 more; it is a pity to waste tears that later on +you may long for in vain." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Sinking into a chair, as though exhausted, she leans back among its +cushions, letting her hands fall together and lie idly in her lap. + +Motionless she sits, with eyes fixed as if riveted to earth, while +tears insensibly steal down her pensive cheeks, which look like +weeping dew fallen on the statue of despair. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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." + +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. + +"Anything the matter, darling? How white you look," he begins, +tenderly; but she interrupts him. + +"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." + +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. + +From this hour begins the settled coldness between 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"I can hardly understand her silence," persists Dorian. "I fear, +wherever she is, she must be miserable." + +Georgie raises her great violet eyes to his, that are now dark and +deep with passionate anger and contempt. + +"She is not the only miserable woman in the world," she says, in a +low, quick tone. + +"No, I suppose not. But what an unsympathetic tone you use! Surely you +can feel for her?" + +"Feel for her! Yes. No woman can have as much compassion for her as I +have." + +"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." + +"I hope it will never be Clarissa's lot to compassionate any one in +the way I do her." + +"You speak very bitterly." + +"Do I? I think very bitterly." + +"What do you mean?" demands he, suddenly, straightening himself and +drawing up his tall figure to its fullest height. His tone is almost +stern. + +"Nothing. There is nothing to be gained by continuing this +conversation." + +"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." + +"I do pity her from my heart; and there is a special reason: she has +been deceived, and so have I." + +"By whom?" + +"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----" + +"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. + +"I do," she says, faintly. + +"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. + +"No, no. But it is possible to be cruel in more ways than one." + +"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." + +"I didn't say that," says Georgie, turning pale. + +"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." + +"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." + +"It shall be just as you please," returns he, haughtily. + + * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"It is impossible you can accuse me of this thing," he says, his voice +low and angry. + +"Few things are impossible," returns she, with cold disdain. "Remove +your hands, Dorian: they hurt me." + +"At least you shall be convinced that in this instance, as in all the +others, you have wronged me." + +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. + +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. + +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 for the dawn, and longing prayerfully for some change +in her present stagnation. + +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. + + "Thou hast been called, O sleep! the friend of woe; + But, 'tis the happy that have called thee so!" + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. + + "The waves of a mighty sorrow + Have whelmed the pearl of my life; + And there cometh to me no morrow + Shall solace this desolate strife. + + * * * * * + + "Gone are the last faint flashes, + Set in the sun of my years, + And over a few poor ashes + I sit in darkness and tears."--GERALD MASSEY. + + +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. + + "Moist, bright, and green, the landscape laughs around: + Full swell the woods." + +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; + + "And that same dew, which sometime within buds + Was wont to swell, like round and Orientpearls, + Stood now within the pretty flowerets' eyes, + Like tears that did their own disgrace bewail." + +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 wild eyes, entreat her to go by and +take no notice of them. + +Autumn, with his "gold hand," is + + "Gilding the falling leaf, + Bringing up winter to fulfil the year, + Bearing upon his back the riped sheaf." + +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 + + "Foul, or even fair, + Methinks her hearte's joy is stained with some care." + +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. + +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. + +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, naively and very gently,-- + +"I thought you were in Paris." + +At this extraordinary remark from a woman he has never spoken to +before, Sartoris lifts his brows, and regards her, if possibly, more +curiously. + +"So I was," he says; "but I came home yesterday." Then, "And you are +Dorian's wife?" + +Her brows grow clouded. + +"Yes," she says, and no more, and, turning aside, pulls to pieces the +flowering grasses that grow on her right hand. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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?" + +"Do you know what your words convey?" says Sartoris, more shocked than +he can express. + +"I think I do," says the girl, half passionately; and then she turns +aside, and moves as though she would leave him. + +"This is terrible," says Sartoris, in a low voice full of pain. "And +yet I cannot believe he is unkind to you." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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?" + +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. + +"Who has been cruel enough to make you wise on that subject?" he says, +impulsively, and therefore unwisely. + +Georgie turns upon him eyes brilliant with despair and grief. +"So"--she says, vehemently--"it is the world's 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. + +"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----" + +"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. + +"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." + +"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." + +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 simple linen gown, with its soft Quakerish +frillings at the throat and wrists. A sudden thought at last strikes +him. + +"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?" + +"If you want me to come," says Georgie, betraying through her eyes the +intense surprise she feels at this request. + +"Thank you. And will you give Dorian a written message from me?" + +"I will," she says again. And tearing a leaf from his pocket-book, he +writes, as follows: + +"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." + +Folding up this note, he gives it to her, and pressing her hand +warmly, parts from her, and goes back again to Hythe. + +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. + +"You here?" he says to her, after he has acknowledged Lord Sartoris's +presence by the coldest and haughtiest of salutations. + +She says, "Yes," in a low tone, without raising her eyes. + +"I was not aware you and Lord Sartoris were on such intimate terms." + +"We met by chance last Monday for the first time," returns she, still +without troubling herself to turn her eyes in his direction. + +"You will sit down?" says Sartoris, nervously pushing 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! + +"No, thank you: I prefer standing. I must, however, remind you of your +promise not to detain me longer than you can help." + +"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." + +"May I ask what has put this quixotic idea into your head?" asks +Dorian, in a curious tone. + +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. + +"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." + +"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. + +"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." + +"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 wish +to know why you, of all men, have dared to interfere." + +"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." + +"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. + +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. + +"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?" + +"In none of the outward observances," she says, faintly. "And yet you +have broken my heart!" + +There is a pause. And then Dorian laughs aloud,--a terrible, sneering, +embittered laugh, that strikes cold on the hearts of the hearers. + +"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." + +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,-- + +"If you have quite done with me, I shall be glad, as I have another +appointment at three." + +"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." + +"Pray do not mention it. Good-morning." + +"Good-morning," says Sartoris, wearily. And Branscombe, bowing +carelessly, leaves the room without another word. + +When he has gone, Georgie, pale and trembling, turns to Sartoris and +lays her hand upon his arm. + +"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?" + +She bursts into tears, and sobs long and bitterly. + +"Tears are idle," says Sartoris, sadly. "Have you yet to learn that? +Take comfort from the thought that all things have an end." + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. + + "Oh that the things which have been were not now + In memory's resurrection! But the past + Bears in her arms the present and the future."--BAILEY. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +The day is warm and full of color. Round her "flow the winds from +woods and fields with gladness laden:" 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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +"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!" + +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. + +"In your heart," says Miss Peyton, stopping before her, "I don't +believe you think Dorian guilty of this thing." + +"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. + +"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." + +"_I_ am his wife, and I _can_," says Mrs. Branscombe, icily. + +"If you loved him as you ought, you could not." This is the one rebuke +she cannot refrain from. + +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. + +"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." + +"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." + +"I would give all the world to be able to say that from my heart," +says Mrs. Branscombe, with excessive sadness. + +"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." + +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! + +"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, +_tried_, TRIED 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." + +The tears run silently down her cheeks one by one. She puts up her +small hands to defend herself, and the action is pitiable in the +extreme. + +"How happy you were only a month ago!" says Clarissa, striken with +grief at the sight of her misery. + +"Yes, I have had my day, I suppose," says Mrs. Branscombe, wearily. +"One can always remember a time when + + 'Every morning was fair, + And every season a May!' + +But how soon it all fades!" + +"Too soon for you," says Clarissa, with tears in her eyes. "You speak +as though you had no interest left in life." + +"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." + +"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." + +"What a very rude remark!" said Georgie, smiling naturally for the +first time to-day. "Am I such a _very_ immoral young woman?" + +"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." + + * * * * * + +Mrs. Branscombe (with Clarissa) reaching the school-house just in time +to take her class, the latter sits down in a disconsolate fashion +upon a stray bench, and surveys the scene before her with wondering +eyes. + +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. + +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. + +At the top of the class, facing the big window, sits John Spriggs +(_aetat._ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Go on," says Georgie, encouragingly. + +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," 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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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?" + +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. + +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. + +He is sad and dispirited, and full of melancholy. His whole life has +proved a failure; yet in what way has he fallen short? + +Kennedy, seeing Mrs. Branscombe's expression change, 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. + +"Charming day, isn't it?" he says, with a beatific smile. "Quite like +summer." + +"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. + +"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----" + +"I wish they could hear you," says Branscombe, with a slight shrug. + +"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." + +"Feeling has gone out of fashion," says Dorian, so distinctly that +Georgie in the distance hears him, and winces a little. + +"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 _was_, 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." + +"Is anything worthy of trust?" says Dorian, bitterly. + +"I doubt I'm old-fashioned," says the dear vicar, with 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." + +"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." + +"Comfortable reflection, and therefore, as a rule, selfish," says the +vicar, with a laugh. + +"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." + +"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." + +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? + +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, _distraite_, 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. + +"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." + +"You have guessed correctly: some people do distress me--after a +time," says Mrs. Branscombe, so pointedly that Kennedy takes the +hint, and, shaking hands with her somewhat stiffly, disappears through +the door-way. + +"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." + +"And you would!" says Clarissa, reproachfully. "Oh, what a terrible +admission!" + +"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. + +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. + +"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?" + +"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." + +"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 +Gilbert, 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. + +"Not much," says Dorian, with a faint laugh. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. + + "One woe doth tread upon another's heel, + So fast they follow."--_Hamlet._ + + "One, that was a woman, sir."--_Hamlet._ + + +Across the autumn grass, that has browned beneath the scorching summer +rays, and through the fitful sunshine, comes James Scrope. + +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. + +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,-- + +"How d'ye do, Sir James?" At this his start is so visible that she +laughs, and says, with a faint blush,-- + +"What! is my coming so light that one fails to hear it?" + +To which he, recovering himself, makes ready response: + + "So light a foot + Will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint." + +Then, "You are coming from Gowran?" + +"Yes; from Clarissa." + +"She is well?" + +"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. + +"Is that sufficient to create happiness?" he says, some what +bitterly, in spite of himself. "But of course it is. You know Horace?" + +"Not well, but well enough," says Mrs. Branscombe, with a frown. "I +know him well enough to hate him." + +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. + +"Hate him?" he says, feeling he could willingly embrace her on the +spot were society differently constituted. "Why, what has he done to +you?" + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Having been patted, and made much of, and having 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. + +"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!" + +Miss Peyton is clearly not above praise. She laughs,--a delicious +rippling little laugh,--and colors faintly. + +"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. + +"You needn't hate yourself," says Scrope, calmly. "Lovely is the word +for you." + +"I'm rather glad," says Miss Peyton, with a sigh of relief. "If only +for--Horace's sake!" + +Sir James pitches his cigar over the balcony, and frowns. Always +Horace! Can she not forget him for even one moment? + +"What brought you?" asks she, presently. + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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." + +"I have no patience with Georgie," says Clarissa, indignantly. "She is +positively breaking his heart." + +"She is unhappy, poor little thing," says Scrope, who cannot find it +in his heart to condemn the woman who has just condemned Horace +Branscombe. + +"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." + +"I don't think I am," says Scrope; and time justifies his doubt of +Dorian's steward. + + * * * * * + + "SARTORIS, Tuesday, four o'clock. + + "DEAR SCROPE,-- + + "Come up to me at _once_, if possible. Everything here is in + a deplorable state. You have heard, of course, that Sawyer + bolted last night; but perhaps you have _not_ 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. + + "Yours ever, + + "D. B." + +Sir James, who is sitting in his sister's room, starts to his feet on +reading this letter. + +"Patience, I must go at once to Sartoris," he says, looking pale and +distressed. + +"To see that mad boy?" + +"To see Dorian Branscombe." + +"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--" + +"My dear Patience!" + +"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----" + +"Hush!" says Sir James, hastily and unwisely. "Better be silent on +that subject." Involuntarily he lays his hand upon the letter just +received. + +"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 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." + +"Well, and how has it ended?" says Sir James, with a weak effort to +retrieve his position, putting on a small air of defiance. + +"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. + +Entering the library at Sartoris, he finds Dorian there, alone, +indeed, and comfortless, and sore at heart. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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?" + +"No: this light is what I prefer," says Scrope, laying his hand upon +his arm. "Stir up the fire, if you like." + +"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." + +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? + +"Is everything as bad as you say?" he asks, presently, in a subdued +tone. + +"Quite as bad; neither worse nor better. There are no gradations about +utter ruin. You heard about Sawyer, of 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." + +"You speak as if----" + +"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." + +"You say this debt of fifteen thousand pounds is the one that presses +hardest?" + +"Yes. But for that, I might, by going in for strict economy, manage to +retrieve my present position in a year or two." + +"I wish you would explain more fully," says Sir James; whereupon +Dorian enters into an elaborate explanation that leaves all things +clear. + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"If seven thousand pounds would be of any use to you," says Scrope, +gently, delicately, "I have it lying idle. It will, indeed, be a +great convenience if you will take it at a reasonable----" + +"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?" + +"Don't be unkind in your own turn," says Scrope, with tears in his +eyes. + +"Thank you," says Dorian, simply. His heart seems quite broken. + +"What of your wife?" asks Sir James, with some hesitation. "Does she +know?" + +"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." + +"But will she consent to this separation from you, that may last for +years?" + +"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----" + +"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. + +"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 her throat) "and about ruin. I could not +understand: but you will tell me. You must." + +"Tell her, Dorian," says Sir James. But Dorian looks doggedly away +from her, through the open window, into the darkening garden beyond. + +"Tell me, Dorian," she says, nervously, going up to him, and laying a +small white trembling hand upon his arm. + +"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." + +She is trembling violently. + +"And you?" she says. + +"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." + +I think she hardly hears this cruel speech. Her thoughts still cling +to the word that has gone before. + +"Abroad?" she says, with quivering lips. + +"Only for a time," says Sir James, taking pity upon her evident +distress. + +"Does he owe a great deal?" asks she, feverishly. "Is it a very large +sum? Tell me how much it is." + +Scrope, who is feeling very sorry for her, explains matters, while +Dorian maintains a determined silence. + +"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." + +"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, _do_. You will make me happier than I have been +for a long time if you will accept it." + +A curious expression lights Dorian's face. It is half surprise, half +contempt: yet, after all, perhaps there is some genuine gladness in +it. + +"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." + +"Why?" she says, her lips white, her eyes large and earnest. + +"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." + +He turns from her coldly, and concentrates his gaze once more upon the +twilit garden. + +"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." + +He turns deliberately away from the small pleading face. + +"And leave you penniless," he says. + +"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." + +Unfortunately, this speech angers him deeply. + +"We are wasting time," he says, quickly. "Understand, once for all, I +will receive nothing from you." + +"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_ am nothing to him." + +For the second time Branscombe turns and looks at her long and +earnestly. + +"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 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." + +When he has finished this speech, Sir James feels that he has been +unpardonably impertinent. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +Dorian leans his arms upon the mantel-piece, and his head upon his +arms. Shall he, or shall he not, consent to this plan? Is he really +behaving, as Scrope has just said, in an unmanly manner? + +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! + +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,-- + +"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!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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!" + +"Alone!" How sadly the word had fallen from his 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---- + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. + + "Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows; + And when we meet at any time again, + Be it not seen in either of our brows + That we one jot of former love retain."--DRAYTON. + + +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? + +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. + +Opening the door, the brilliant light of many lamps greets her, and, +standing by the fire is her husband, pale and haggard, with the +missing locket in his hand. He has opened it, and is gazing at his own +face with a strange expression. + +"Is this yours?" he asks, as she comes up to him. "Did you come to +look for it?" + +"Yes." She holds out her hand to receive it from him, but he shows +some hesitation about giving it. + +"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?" + +"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." + +"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. + +"The best place for it," says he, bitterly. "I wish I could as easily +be obliterated and forgotten." + +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. + +Once more she makes a movement to leave him. + +"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." + +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. + +"Your cough is worse to-night," he says, turning to regard her more +closely. + +"No, not worse." + +"Why do you walk about the house so insufficiently clothed?" asks he, +angrily, glancing at her light dressing-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. + +"No, no," she says, petulantly; "I am warm enough; and I do not like +that thing. It is black,--the color of Death!" + +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? + +"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." + +"No; I shall stay here. Where are you going?" + +"I hardly know; and I do not care at all." + +"How long will you be away?" + +"How can I answer that question either? There is nothing to bring me +home." + +"How soon do you go?" Her voice all through is utterly without +expression, or emotion of any kind. + +"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?" + +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. + +"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." + +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, so fair, so cruelly cold! Has she no heart, that +she can stand in that calm, thoughtful attitude, while his heart is +slowly breaking? + +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? + +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. + +In another instant she has recovered herself, and, placing her hands +against his chest, frees herself, by a quick gesture, from his +embrace. + +"Was that how you used to kiss _her_?" she says, in a choked voice, +her face the color of death. "Let me go: your touch is contamination." + +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. + +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. + +"Leave the room," he says, in a stern commanding tone; and, utterly +subdued and silenced by his manner, she turns and leaves him. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. + + "A goodly apple, rotten at the heart. + Oh, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!"--_Merchant of Venice._ + + "No hinge nor loop + To hang a doubt on."--_Othello._ + + +Dorian has been two months gone, and it is once again close on +Christmas-tide. All the world is beginning 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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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?" + +"My dearest girl," says Scrope, going up to her and taking her hands. + +"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!" + +"Most extraordinary his never getting any one to write you a line!" + +"Doesn't that only show how fearfully ill he must be? Jim, you will +help me, won't you?" + +This appeal is not to be put on one side. + +"Of course I will," says Scrope: "you know that--or you ought. What do +you want me to do?" + +"To take me to him. I want to see him with my own eyes." + +"To go yourself?" says Sir James, extreme disapprobation in his tone. +"You must be out of your mind." + +"I am not," returns she, indignantly. "I never was more in it. And I +am going, any-way." + +"What will your father say?" + +"He will say I was quite right. Dear, _dear_, DEAR Jim,"--slipping her +hand through his arm, and basely descending from _hauteur_ 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?" + +Sir James moves a chair out of his way with most unnecessary +vehemence. + +"How that alters the case I can't see," he says, obstinately. + +"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. + +"I will take you," he says, hastily. "To-day?--The sooner the better, +I suppose." + +"Yes; by the next train. Oh, how obliged to you I am! Dear Jim, I +shall never forget it to you!" + +This is supposed to be grateful to him, but it is quite the reverse. + +"I think you are very foolish to go at all," he says, somewhat +gruffly. + +"Perhaps I am," she says, with a rueful glance. "But you cannot +understand. Ah! if you loved, yourself, you could sympathize with me." + +"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. + +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. + +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." + +"Is he--in bed?" asks Sir James, diffidently, this large person having +the power to reduce him to utter subjection. + +"Lawks! no, sir. He wouldn't stay there he's that contrairy. Beggin' +yore parding, sir, he's yore brother?" + +Sir James nods. She may prove difficult, this stout old lady, if he +declares himself no relative. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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. + +"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!" + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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---- + +Who is it? Has time rolled backwards? A small, light, gray-clad figure +stands before her, a figure only too 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. + +Oh! not that! Anything but that! Not Ruth Annersley! + +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. + +"What brings you here?" asks Ruth, at length, in a voice hard and +unmusical. + +"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?" + +"The woman who ought to be his wife," says Ruth, in the same hard +tone, still with her hands tightly clasped. + +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. + +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. + +"Ruth?" he moans, uneasily, and she answers, "I am here, darling," in +the faintest, sweetest whisper. + +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. + +"This is no place for you!" she says, coldly, yet with her hand up to +her cheek, as though to shield her face from the other's gaze. + +Clarissa goes up to her then. + +"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?" + +"I know nothing," replies Ruth, sternly. "I seek to know nothing. My +intercourse with the world ceased with my innocence." + +"You knew of my engagement to him?" says Clarissa, again motioning +towards the couch. + +"Yes." + +"Before you left Pullingham?" + +"No! oh, no!--not then," exclaims Ruth, eagerly. "I did not believe it +then. Do not judge me more harshly than you can help." + +The dull agony that flashes into her eyes quickens into life some +compassionate feeling that still lies dormant in Clarissa's breast. + +"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!" + +"Do not," says Ruth, shrinking from her grasp; "I am not fit for you +to touch. Remember all that has passed." + +"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?" + +"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. + +"My head!" murmurs the sick man, feebly, drawing his breath wearily, +and as if with pain. "Ruth, Ruth, are you 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. + +"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. + +"I don't know why; yet I do," says poor Clarissa, earnestly. + +"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!" + +Clarissa bursts into tears. + +"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. + +"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." + +She gazes at her long and eagerly. + +"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!" + +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. + +"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!" + +A moment after, the door is opened, and closed again and Clarissa has +looked her last upon Ruth Annersley. + +How she makes her way down to the room where Sir James sits awaiting +her, Clarissa never afterwards remembers. + +"It is all over: take me away!" she says, quietly, but somewhat +incoherently. + +"He isn't dead?" says Sir James, who naturally conceives the worst +from her agitation. + +"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? + +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. + +"Did you see her?" + +"Yes." + +"The scoundrel!" says Sir James, in a low tone. Then, "Is he very +ill?" There is unmistakable meaning in his tone. + +"Very." And here she falls to bitter weeping again. + +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? + +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. + +"My--my sister is quite upset," he says, nervously. "Mr. Branscombe +was--was worse than she expected to find him." + +"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." + +"Just so," says Sir James, who doesn't know, in the very least, what +to say. + +"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----" + +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,-- + +"Jim, promise me something?" + +"Anything," says Jim. + +"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." + +"Never!" returns he, fervently. "Be sure of it." + +"Thank you," she says, like a tired child; and then, sinking back in +her corner of the cab, she cries long and bitterly. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. + + "Our doubts are traitors, + And make us lose the good we oft might win."--SHAKESPEARE. + + "The day goeth down red darkling, + The moaning waves dash out the light, + And there is not a star of hope sparkling + On the threshold of my night."--GERALD MASSEY. + + +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. + +"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, 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----" + +She puts her hand to her throat, and leans on a chair. + +"It is no bad news for you," says Clarissa, faintly, "but for me." She +pauses. + +"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?" + +"I was in town yesterday," Clarissa begins, with an effort, and then +stops. How is she to betray her lover's falseness? + +"And you saw Horace, and he is ill?" says Georgie, anxiously. "Tell me +all, Clarissa." + +"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: + + "Love, art thou bitter? + Sweet is death to me." + +At this moment she could have gladly welcomed death. + +"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----" + +"Who is it?" asks Georgie, breathlessly, though the truth as yet is +far from her. + +"Ruth Annersley! She was there,--in his rooms!" says Clarissa; and, +after this, there is a silence that lasts for several minutes. + +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 _prie-Dieu_ 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. + +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. + +"Do not pity me," says Clarissa, entreatingly. + +"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." + +"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. + +"He is a wretch," says Georgie, with sudden fire. "If I were a man, I +should kill him." + +"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." + +"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." + +"When you see him, all will be well. But he should be told; you will +see to that." + +"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." + +"Next week?--so soon?" + +"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." + +"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 horrible nightmare, from which I must +awake. Yesterday I was so happy; to-day----" + +She breaks down, and bursts into bitter weeping. + +Georgie throws herself on her knees before her. + + * * * * * + +"Is this your luggage, sir? Glad to see you back again, sir." + +"Thank you, Jeffers. Yes, that is mine. All right at home, I hope? +Your mistress quite well?" + +"Quite well, sir. She is at home, awaiting you." + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 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! + +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. + +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. + +At the door she hesitates, and then knocks somewhat nervously. + +"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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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." + +"Pray do not apologize," he says, coldly. "It is very good of you to +come here now. It is more than I expected." + +"I came," says Georgie, with an effort, "because I have something to +tell you, that should be told without delay." + +"What is it?" he asks, quickly. "Is my uncle well?" + +"Quite well. I saw him yesterday. It has nothing to do with him; +though, of course, it must touch him very nearly." + +"You will be tired," he says, with grave but distant politeness. "Sit +down while you tell me your news." + +"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!" + +"Have you?" with an ominous calm in look and tone. "Where is she?" + +"With--your brother!" + +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. + +"Who found her there?" he asks, huskily. + +"Clarissa." + +"Clarissa?" He is now thoroughly shocked. "What cruel fate made her +the discoverer?" + +"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!" + +"Poor girl!" says Branscombe, sadly. "So true,--so trusting." + +Georgie draws her breath quickly. Are not his words a reflection upon +her?--she, who has so failed in faith and love? + +"I suppose that is all you have to tell me," says Dorian, presently, +in an absent, weary way. + +"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--" + +"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?" + +Still she perseveres bravely, although her breath is coming quicker, +and her lips are trembling. + +"I must tell you how sorry I am," she says, with a suppressed sob. "I +want to ask you, if possible, to forg----" + +"Believe me, it will be better to leave all this unsaid," he +interrupts her, gravely. + +"Then you do not care to hear how I have regretted the wrong I did +you, and----?" + +"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." + +"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: + + "For it so falls out + That what we have we prize not to the worth + While we enjoy it; but, being lacked and lost, + Why, then we rack the value; then we find + The virtue that possession would not show us + While it was ours." + +"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 _distrait_, 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?" + +"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 picked up on the balcony half an hour ago, and has held +ever since almost unconsciously. + +"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. + +"Yes. This was no place for it," returns he, sternly. + +Going down the staircase, full of grief and wounded pride, she +encounters Lord Sartoris. + +"He has come?" asks the old man, in an agitated manner, laying his +hand on her arm. + +"He has. If you wish to see him, he is in his own room," replies she, +in a singularly hard tone. + +"Have you told him everything?" asks Sartoris, nervously. "It was a +fatal mistake. Do you think he will forgive me?" + +"How can I say?" says Mrs. Branscombe, with a bitter smile. "I can +only tell you he has not forgiven me." + +"Bless me!" says Lord Sartoris; "then, I suppose, I haven't a chance." + +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. + +"I have come to demand your forgiveness," he says, with deep entreaty. +"Dorian--grant it!--I am very old----" + +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. + +"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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV. + + "Oh, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful + In the contempt and anger of her lips."--_Twelfth Night._ + + +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." + +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. + +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. + +"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. + + "Ourselves we cannot recreate, + Nor get our souls to the same key + Of the remembered harmony." + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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." + +He is plainly puzzled. + +"What a strange welcome!" he says, reproachfully. "My letters during +the past week should have explained everything to you." + +"I have had none," says Clarissa, shortly. + +"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." + +"I am sorry you troubled yourself so far. Ruth Annersley could have +given you the answer you require." + +His face blanches perceptibly; and his eyes, in their usual stealthy +fashion, seek the ground. + +"What have I to do with her?" he says, sullenly. + +"Coward!" says Miss Peyton, in a low tone. "Do you, then, deny even +all knowledge of the woman you have so wronged?" + +"Take care! do not go too far," cries he, passionately, laying his +hand upon her bridle, close to the bit. "Have you no fear?" + +"Of you? none!" returns she, with such open contempt as stings him to +the quick. "Remove your hand, sir." + +"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----" + +"Will you remove your hand?" + +"When it suits me," returns he; "not before." + +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. + +As she reaches the gate, she meets James Scrope coming out, and, +drawing rein, looks at him strangely. + +"Have you seen a ghost?" asks he, slipping from his saddle, and coming +up to her. "Your face is like death." + +"I have, the ghost of an old love, but, oh, how disfigured! Jim, I +have seen Horace." + +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. + +Sir James--who, as a rule, is the most amiable of men--is now dark +with anger. + +"Branscombe--here?" he says, indignantly. + +"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." + +"Wrong!" says Scrope. "Hanging would be too good for him. Oh, to think +you should have been alone on such an occasion as that!" + +"But it was a hateful thing to do, wasn't it?" says Miss Peyton, +faintly. + +"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. + +"That wasn't the hand at all," says Miss Peyton, feeling inexpressibly +consoled by his tone and manner. + +"Wasn't it? Then I shall kiss the right one now," says Sir James, and +caresses the other hand right warmly. + +"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. + +"No; come home instead," says Scrope; and, turning, they go slowly, +and almost silently, back to Gowran. + + * * * * * + +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 mind full of evil thoughts +and bitter revenge, goes back to town. + +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. + +"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. + +"So you betrayed me?" he says, pushing her away from him. "Now, no +lies! I saw Clarissa Peyton to-day, and I know everything." + +"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----" + +"Clarissa, here?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"You would have been false to your wife?" murmurs she, shrinking back +from him. "Oh, no! that would have been impossible!" + +He laughs ironically. + +"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." + +"You malign yourself," she says, looking at him with steadfast love. + +"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." + +He turns, and goes towards the door. Wild with grief and despair, she +follows him, and lays a detaining hand upon his arm. + +"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!" + +"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. + +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. + +"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?" + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI. + + "Have mind that eild aye follows youth; + Death follows life with gaping mouth; + Sen erdly joy abidis never, + Work for the joy that lastis ever; + For other joy is all but vain, + And erdly joy returns in pain."--W. DUNBAR. + + +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. + +He sinks into a chair, looking tired and careworn. + +"You have over-fatigued yourself?" she says, gently, going over to him +and touching his hand lightly. + +"No. I have been to Pullingham again and back; that is all." + +"There again?" she says. "And you saw----?" + +"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. + +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. + +Presently he stops close to her. + +"I suppose there is some orthodox way of breaking bad news," he says, +"but I never learned it. Ruth, your father is dead." + +The girl shrinks back, and puts her hand to her forehead in a dazed, +pitiful fashion. + +"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!" + +"Yes, he is dead," says Horace, though more gently. "He died a week +ago." + +A terrible silence falls upon the room. Presently, alarmed at her +unnatural calm, he lays his hand upon her shoulder to rouse her. + +"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." + +"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!" + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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. + +"Be it so," he says, after a moment's hesitation. "If ever, in the +days to come, you repent your bargain, blame 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." + +She starts to her feet. + +"Marry me?" she says, faintly. "Make me your wife! Oh, no! you don't +know what you are saying." + +She trembles violently, and her head falls somewhat heavily against +his arm. + +"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." + +"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. + +"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." + +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. + +"So late!" says Horace, hurriedly. "I must go. Until to-morrow, Ruth, +good-by." + +"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!'" + +"Good-by, my wife!" returns he, with more love in his accents than she +has heard for months. + +She presses her lips passionately to his, and again, for the last +time, breathes the word "Farewell!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + "When we slip a little + Out of the way of virtue, are we lost? + Is there no medicine called sweet mercy?" + +Only this morning she had deemed herself miserable beyond her fellows; +now, who can compete with her in utter content? In a few short hours +she will be his wife! Oh that her father could but---- + +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! + +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. + +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,-- + + "Eternal painter, now begins to rise, + And limn the heavens in vermilion dyes." + +But within deathly silence reigns. Has peace fallen upon that quiet +form? Has gentle sleep come to her at last? + + * * * * * + +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. + +"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. + +Catching her in his arms, he raises her from her kneeling 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. + +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. + +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. + +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 + + "Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot + Which men call earth." + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII. + + "Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud + Turn forth her silver lining on the night?"--MILTON. + + +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." + +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. + +The grass is springing; all the world is rich with fresh young life. +The very snowdrops--pale blossoms, born of bitter winds and sunless +skies--have perished out of sight. + +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. + + "But, oh, not yet, not yet + Would my lost soul forget + How beautiful he was while he did live, + Or, when his eyes were dewy and lips wet, + What kisses, tenderer than all regret, + My love would give. + + "Strew roses on his breast,-- + He loved the roses best; + He never cared for lilies or for snow. + Let be this bitter end of his sweet quest; + Let be the pallid silence, that is rest, + And let all go!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +To-day, as Scrope comes up the lawn to meet her, as she bends over the +"bright children of the sun," a sense of 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. + +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 + + "The meek daisies show + Their breasts of satin snow, + Bedecked with tiny stars of gold mid perfume sighs." + +"You again?" she says, with a lovely smile. He was here only +yesterday. + +"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. + +"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. + +"Well, you sha'n't have to complain of that any longer," he says, +gayly. "Shall I take up my residence here?" + +"Do," says Miss Peyton, also in jest. + +"I would much rather you took up yours at Scrope," he says, +unthinkingly, and then he flushes again, and then silence falls +between them. + +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?" + +"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. + +"Yes," she says, quite calmly. At this instant she knows her love for +Horace Branscombe is quite dead. "Her death was terrible." + +"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." + +"Is it?" She turns away from him, and, catching a branch, takes from +it a leaf or two. "You have not spoken to me," she says. + +"Because, as I said, you forbade me. Don't you know your word to me is +law?" + +"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. + +"Yes, and doing very well. Do you often think of him now?" + +"Very often. I am glad he is getting on successfully." + +"Have you forgotten nothing, Clarissa?" + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"I wish it had never been born," she says, with a sigh, not looking at +him. + +"But is it dead?" persists he, eagerly. + +"Quite. I buried it that day you took me--to his--rooms: you +remember?" + +"How could I forget? Clarissa, if you are unhappy, so am I. Take pity +upon me." + +"You unhappy?" She lifts her eyes to his. + +"Yes. All my life I have loved you. Is your heart quite beyond my +reach?" + +She makes him no answer. + +"Without you I live but half a life," he goes on, entreatingly. "Every +hour is filled with thoughts of you. I have no interests apart from +you. Clarissa, if there is any hope for me, speak; say something." + +"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?" + +"I have thought of it for more than a long year," says Sir James. "I +think all my life, unconsciously, I have loved you." + +"For so long?" she says, softly; and then, "How faithful you have +been!" + + "When change itself can give no more, + 'Tis easy to be true," + +quotes he, tenderly; and then she goes nearer to him,--tears in her +eyes. + +"You are too good for me," she says. + +"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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII. + + "There is no life on earth but being in love!"--BEN JONSON. + + "Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round; + Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound; + And he, amidst his frolic play, + As if he would the charming air repay, + Shook thousand odors from his dewy wing."--COLLINS. + + +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,-- + + "Man's love is of man's life a thing apart; + 'Tis woman's whole existence." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"What is the matter with you?" asks he, with quick but suppressed +concern. + +"Nothing," returns she, in a low tone. + +"You can't be crying for nothing," says Dorian; "and even your very +voice is full of tears! Are you unhappy about anything?" + +"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? + +"I beg your pardon," he says, in a low tone. "Of course I have no +right to ask you any questions." + +"Yet I would answer you if I knew how," returns she, in a voice as +subdued as his own. + +The evening is falling silently, yet swiftly, throwing "her dusky +veil o'er nature's face." A certain chill comes from the hills and +damps the twilight air. + +"It is getting late," says Branscombe, gently. "Will you come home +with me?" + +"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. + +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. + +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---- + +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. + +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. + +"You are going abroad again?" she says, in a tone so low that he can +scarcely hear her. + +"I was going," he says, and then their fingers meet again and press +each other gently. + +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. + +Then, springing down to the other side, he takes her in his arms to +bring her to the ground beside him. + +But when his arms have closed round her he leaves them 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. + +"My wife!--my darling!" he says, unsteadily. + +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! + +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. + +"You do love me at last?" he says. And then she says,-- + +"I do, with all my soul,"--in a tone not to be mistaken. Afterwards, +"Are you happy now?" + +"Yes. How can I be otherwise? For + + 'Thou with softest touch transfigurest + This toil-worn earth into a heaven of rest.' + +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?" + +"It was my one sin," whispers she, nervously. "Is it too bad to be +forgiven?" + +"I wonder what you could do, I wouldn't forgive," replies he, +tenderly, "now I know you love me." + +"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." + +"It was brutal," says Branscombe. "But I don't believe you did love me +then." + +"Well, I did. You broke my heart that day. It will take you all you +know"--with an adorable smile--"to mend it again." + +"My own love," says Dorian, "what can I do? I would offer you mine in +exchange, but, you see, you broke it 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." + +"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." + +"Why do you not speak?" says Georgie, after a little bit, rubbing her +cheek softly against his. "What is it that you want?" + +"Nothing. Don't you know that 'Silence is the perfectest herald of +joy: I were but little happy, if I could say how much'?" + +"How true that is! yet somehow, I always want to talk," says Mrs. +Branscombe,--at which they both laugh. + +"Come home," says Dorian: "it grows cold as charity, and I'm getting +desperately hungry besides. Are you?" + +"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." + +"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. + +Here voices, coming to them from a side-path, attract their notice. + +"That is Clarissa," says Georgie: "I suppose she has come out to find +me. Let us wait for her here." + +"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." + +"They certainly are exceedingly foolish, both of them," says Georgie, +emphatically. + +The voices are drawing nearer; as their owners approach the corner +that separates them from the Branscombes, Clarissa says, in a clear, +audible tone,-- + +"I never in all my life knew two such silly people!" + +"Good gracious!" says Branscombe, going up to her. "What people?" + +"You two!" says Clarissa, telling the truth out of sheer fright. + +"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." + +"A perfect fool!" says Mrs. Branscombe, with conviction. + +The brightness of their tone, their whole manner, tell Clarissa that +some good and wonderful change has taken place. + +"Then why is Dorian going abroad, instead of staying at home like +other people?" she says, uncertainly, feeling still puzzled. + +"He isn't going anywhere: I have forbidden him!" says Mrs. Branscombe, +with saucy shyness. + +"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. + +"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?" + +"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. + +"Then you will be at home for our wedding," says Scrope, taking +Clarissa's hand and turning to Branscombe. + +Clarissa blushes very much, and Georgie, going up to her, kisses her +heartily. + +"It is altogether quite too nice," says Mrs. Branscombe, with tears in +her eyes. + +"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." + +"I should like to very much," says Clarissa, "as papa is in town." + +"Well, then, come," says Georgie, tucking her arm comfortably into +hers, "and we'll send you home at eleven." + +"I hope you will send me home too," says Scrope, meekly. + +"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, _quite_ TOO delicious! + + * * * * * + +That evening, in the library, when Georgie and Dorian are once more +alone, Branscombe, turning to her, takes her in his arms. + +"You are quite happy?" he asks, questioningly. "You have no regrets +now?" + +"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,"--naively,--"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?" + +"I know: you are my own darling," says Branscombe, very softly. + + +THE END. + + + + +[Illustration: The "Best" Tonic + +A Concentrated Liquid Extract of Malt and Hops] + + + 1523 K Street, N. W., + Washington, D. C., January 24, 1888. + +PH. BEST BREWING CO., + Specialty Department, 28 College Place, N. Y. + +Gentlemen:--Sample of "Best" Tonic received. + +Gave to member of my family, was delighted with effects. Only trouble, +there was not enough of it. + +It seems to be a pure, excellent Tonic, improving the appetite and +digestion. + +What would you furnish me with a dozen bottles as test. + + S. J. RADCLIFFE, M. D. + + +[Illustration: AGATE IRON WARE.] + +--IS SOLD BY ALL FIRST-CLASS DEALERS IN-- + +HARDWARE, CROCKERY AND HOUSE-FURNISHING GOODS. + +Throughout the World. + +AND UNIVERSALLY ACKNOWLEDGED TO BE THE BEST KITCHEN WARE EVER +PRODUCED. + +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. + + + + +TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES + + +1. Passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_. + +2. The word Phoebus uses an oe ligature in the original. + +3. The following misprints have been corrected: + "siting" corrected to "sitting" (page 68) + "baoadcast" corrected to "broadcast" (page 173) + "seond" corrected to "second" (page 180) + "dinning-room" corrected to "dining-room" (page 212) + "anthying" corrected to "anything" (page 244) + +4. Some of the obvious punctuation errors have been corrected, e. g., +addition of missing period at the end of sentences. + +5. Other than the corrections listed above, printer's inconsistencies +in spelling, hyphenation, and ligature usage have been retained. + + + + + +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.txt or 33312.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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