"'Her face is as the summer cloud, whereonThe dawning sun delights to rest his rays.'
"'Her face is as the summer cloud, whereonThe dawning sun delights to rest his rays.'
And, again, surely Apollo loves to
"Play at hide-and-seek amid her golden hairs.'"
"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 Ishallwant 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 forme, 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 Clarissaseemed! 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 itis.
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'sriantelovely 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 atête-à-têtewith 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 utmostnaïveté. "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 withyou, 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."
"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."
"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 nothingbut 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 ownroom, 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 saysseriously."
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. Notfor 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 muchempressementthat 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 hewasloved in return."
"Youthought, 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 hadshefelt 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. Butsheis 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 veryred, "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 agoose!"
"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.
"Sin and shame are ever tied togetherWith Gordian knots, of such a strong thread spun,They cannot without violence be undone."—Webster."Sharper than the stings of death!"—Reynolds.
"Sin and shame are ever tied togetherWith Gordian knots, of such a strong thread spun,They cannot without violence be undone."—Webster.
"Sin and shame are ever tied togetherWith Gordian knots, of such a strong thread spun,They cannot without violence be undone."—Webster.
"Sharper than the stings of death!"—Reynolds.
"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 bedThe 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 streamsA softness like the atmosphere of dreams."
"Melting heaven with earth,Leaving on craggy hills and running streamsA 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.
"Youwill 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 itselfsans 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."
"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 wordof 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. "Iamtrembling; Iamunstrung. 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, hesaw 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 histone 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."
"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.
"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.
"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 telegramprincipally 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 suspectmeof 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!"
"Iwas?"
"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.' Iwouldn'tbelieve 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 oldbutler, 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—trustin 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.
CanHorace 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: