CHAPTER XXIII.

"Star follows star, though yet day's golden lightUpon 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 plainsLie 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 achosen 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!" saysHorace, 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—mybrandy, 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, asyoushould 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 apenchantfor 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 yougo 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 curaçoa? 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 wordoughtto 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,débonnaire, 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.

"Her eyes were deeper than the depthOf 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. "Isuggested 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 onefinger; "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 youhadn'tgiven it all away, would you have given me a little of that small return?"

"No."

"Not even ifIwere 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 anesclandreever 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 andfro, "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 littlenez retroussélooking 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, whowilldance, 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 aseat, 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,myMr. Kennedy!"

"YourMr. 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 isnotthe 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 heisso 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, shedidforget 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 anywhere," 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 Ihatepeople 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.

"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 pæan of their own; while through this "wilderness of sweets"—far down between its deep banks (that are rich with trailing ivy and drooping bracken)—runs a stream, a slow, delicious, lazy stream, that glides now over its moss-grown stones, and anon flashes through some narrow ravine dark and profound. As it runs it babbles fond love-songs to the pixies that, perchance, are peeping out at it, through their yellow tresses, from shady curves and sun-kissed corners.

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 tearFrom 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 feelMore worlds of wealth gleam in an upturned eyeThan 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?Ihadn'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 uponhis 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 tearswere 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, naïvely, 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;dreadfullyunkind: 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.

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