"Love set me up on high: when I grew vainOf that my height, love brought me down again."The heart of love is with a thousand woesPierced, which secure indifference never knows."The rose aye wears the silent thorn at heart,And never yet might pain for love depart."—Trench.
"Love set me up on high: when I grew vainOf that my height, love brought me down again.
"Love set me up on high: when I grew vainOf that my height, love brought me down again.
"The heart of love is with a thousand woesPierced, which secure indifference never knows.
"The heart of love is with a thousand woesPierced, which secure indifference never knows.
"The rose aye wears the silent thorn at heart,And never yet might pain for love depart."—Trench.
"The rose aye wears the silent thorn at heart,And never yet might pain for love depart."—Trench.
When Mrs. Redmond, next morning, is made aware of Georgie's engagement to Dorian Branscombe, her curiosity and excitement know no bounds. For once she is literally struck dumb with amazement. That Dorian, who is heir to an earldom, should have fixed his affections uponhergoverness, seems to Mrs. Redmond like a gay continuation of the "Arabian Nights' Entertainments." When she recovers her breath, after the first great shock to her nervous system, she lays down the inevitable sock she is mending, and says as follows:
"My dear Georgina, are you quite sure he meant it? Young men, nowadays, say so many things without exactly knowing why,—more especially after a dance, as I have been told."
"I am quite sure," says Georgie, flushing hotly. She has sufficient self-love to render this doubt very unpalatable.
Something that is not altogether remote from envy creeps into Mrs. Redmond's heart. Being a mother, she can hardly help contrasting her Cissy's future with the brilliant one carved out for her governess. Presently, however, being a thoroughly good soul, she conquers these unworthy thoughts, and when next she speaks her tone is full of heartiness and honest congratulation. Indeed, she is sincerely pleased. The fact that the future Lady Sartoris is at present an inmate of her house is a thought full of joy to her.
"You are a very happy and a very fortunate girl," she says, gravely.
"Indeed yes, I think so," returns Georgie, in a low tone, but with perfect calmness. There is none of the blushing happiness about her that should of right belong to a young girl betrothed freshly to the lover of her heart.
"Of course you do," says Mrs. Redmond, missing something in her voice, though she hardly knows what. "And what we are to do without you, I can't conceive; no one to sing to us in the evening, and we have got so accustomed to that."
"I can still come and sing to you sometimes," says Georgie, with tears in her eyes and voice.
"Ah, yes,—sometimes. That is just the bad part of it; when one has known an 'always,' one does not take kindly to a 'sometimes.' And now here come all my governess troubles back upon my shoulders once more. Don't think me selfish, my dear, to think of that just now in the very morning of your new happiness, but really I can't help it. I have been so content with you, it never occurred to me others might want you too."
"I will ask Clarissa to get you some one else nicer than me," says Georgie, soothingly.
"Will you? Yes, do, my dear: she will do anything for you. And, Georgina,"—from the beginning she has called her thus,—nothing on earth would induce Mrs. Redmond to call her anything more frivolous,—"tell her I should prefer somebody old and ugly, if at all bearable, because then she may stay with me. Dear, dear! how Cissy will miss you! And what will the vicar say?"
And so on. She spends the greater part of the morning rambling on in this style, and then towards the evening despatches Georgie to Gowran to tell Clarissa, too, the great news.
But Clarissa knows all about it before her coming, and meets her in the hall, and kisses her then and there, and tells her she is so glad, and it is the very sweetest thing that could possibly have happened.
"He came down this morning very early and told me all about it," she says, looking as pleased as though it is her own happiness and not another's she is discussing.
"Now, what a pity!" says Georgie: "and I did so want to tell you myself, after the disgraceful way in which you tried to wed me to Mr. Hastings."
"He could not sleep; he confessed that to me. And you had forbidden him to go to the vicarage to see youto-day. What else then could he do but come over and put in a good time here? And he did. We had quite a splendid time," says Miss Peyton, laughing; "I really don't know which of us was the most delighted about it. We both kept on saying pretty things about you all the time,—more than you deserved, I think."
"Now, don't spoil it," says Georgie: "I am certain I deserved it all, and more. Well, if he didn't sleep, I did, and dreamed, and dreamed, and dreamed all sorts of lovely things until the day broke. Oh, Clarissa,"—throwing out her arms with a sudden swift gesture of passionate relief,—"I am free! Am I not lucky, fortunate, to have deliverance sent so soon?"
"Lucky, fortunate;" where has the word "happy" gone, that she has forgotten to use it? Clarissa makes no reply. Something in the girl's manner checks her. She is standing there before her, gay, exultant, with all a child's pleasure in some new possession; "her eyes as stars of twilight fair," flashing warmly, her whole manner intense and glad; but there are no blushes, no shy half-suppressed smiles, there is no word of love; Dorian's name has not been mentioned, except as a secondary part of her story, and then with the extremest unconcern.
Yet there is nothing in her manner that can jar upon one's finer feelings; there is no undue exultation at the coming great change in her position,—no visible triumph at the fresh future opening before her; it is only that in place of the romantic tenderness that should accompany such a revelation as she has been making, there has been nothing but a wild passionate thankfulness for freedom gained.
"When are you coming to stay with me altogether?—I mean until the marriage?" asks Clarissa, presently.
"I cannot leave Mrs. Redmond like that," says Georgie, who is always delightfully indefinite. "She will be in a regular mess now until she gets somebody to take my place. I can't leave her yet."
"Dorian will not like that."
"He must try to like it. Mrs. Redmond has been very good to me, and I couldn't bear to make her uncomfortable. I shall stay with her until she gets somebody else. I don't think, when I explain it to him, that Dorian will mind my doing this."
"He will think it very sweet of you," says Clarissa, "considering how you detest teaching, and that."
While they are at tea, Dorian drops in, and, seeing the little yellow-haired fairy sitting in the huge lounging-chair, looks so openly glad and contented that Clarissa laughs mischievously.
"Poor Benedick!" she says, mockingly: "so it has come to this, that you know no life but in your Beatrice's presence!"
"Well, that's hardly fair, I think," says Branscombe; "you, at least, should not be the one to say it, as you are in a position to declare I was alive and hearty at half-past twelve this morning."
"Why, so you were," says Clarissa, "terribly alive,—but only on one subject. By the by, has any one seen papa lately? He had some new books from town to-day,—some painfullyoldbooks, I mean,—and has not been found since. I am certain he will be discovered some day buried beneath ancient tomes; perhaps, indeed, it will be this day. Will you two forgive me if I go to see if it is yet time to dig him out?"
They forgive her; and presently find themselves alone.
"Is it all true, I wonder?" says Dorian, after a little pause. He is holding her hand, and is looking down at her with a fond sweet smile that betrays the deep love of his heart.
"Quite true; at least, I hope so," with an answering smile. Then, "I am so glad you are going to marry me," she says, without the faintest idea of shyness; "more glad than I can tell you. Ever since—since I was left alone, I have had no one belonging to me,—that is, no one quite my own; and now I have you. You will always be fonder of me than of anybody else in the world, won't you?"
She seems really anxious as she asks this.
"My darling, of course I shall. How could you ask me such a question? And you, Georgie, do you love me?"
"Love you? Yes, I suppose so; I don't know,"—with decided hesitation. "I am certain I like you very, verymuch. I am quite happy when with you, and you don't bore me a bit. Is that it?"
This definition of what lovemaybe, hardly comes up to the mark in Mr. Branscombe's estimation.
She has risen, and is now looking up at him inquiringly, with eyes earnest and beautiful and deep, but so cold. They chill him in spite of his efforts to disbelieve in their fatal truthfulness.
"Hardly, I think," he says, with an attempt at gayety. "Something else is wanting, surely. Georgie, when I asked you to marry me yesterday, and when you gave the promise that has made me so unutterably happy ever since, what was it you thought of?"
"Well, I'll tell you," says Miss Broughton, cheerfully. "First, I said to myself, 'Now I shall never again have to teach Murray's Grammar.'"
"Was that yourfirstthought?" He is both surprised and pained.
"Yes, my very first. You look as if you didn't believe me," says Miss Broughton, with a little laugh. "But if you had gone through as many moods and tenses as I have during the past week, you would quite understand. Well, then I thought how good it would be to have nothing to do but amuse myself all day long. And then I looked at you, and felt so glad you had no crooked eyes, or red hair, or anything that way. And then, above all things, I felt how sweet it was to know I had found somebody who would have to look after me and take care of me, so that I need never trouble about myself any more."
"Did you never once think of me?" asks he, in a curious tone.
"Of you? Oh, no! You are quite happy," says Georgie, with a sigh. "You have nothing to trouble you."
"Nothing! Of course not." Going up to her, he takes her dear little face between both his hands, and looks long and earnestly into her clear unconscious eyes. How gladly would he have seen them droop and soften beneath his gaze! "Now let me tell you how I feel towards you," he says, smoothing her soft hair back from her forehead.
"I don't think I am a bit pretty with my hair pushed back," she says, moving away from the caressing hand,and, with a touch, restoring her "amber locks" to their original position. She smiles as she says this,—indeed, ill temper, in any form, does not belong to her,—and, when her hair is once more restored to order, she again slips her fingers into his confidingly, and glances up at him. "Now tell me all about it," she says.
"What am I to tell you?—that when I am away from you I am restless, miserable; when with you, more than satisfied. I know that I could sit for hours contentedly with this little hand in mine" (raising it to his lips), "and I also know that, if fate so willed it, I should gladly follow you through the length and breadth of the land. If you were to die, or—or forsake me, it would break my heart. And all this is because I love you."
"Is it?"—in a very low tone. "Does all that mean being in love? Then"—in a still lower tone—"I know I am not one bit in love withyou."
"Then why are you marrying me?" demands he, a little roughly, stung to pained anger by her words.
"Because I promised papa, when—when he was leaving me, that I would marry the very first rich man that asked me," replies she, again lifting her serious eyes to his. "I thought it would make him happier. And it did. I am keeping my promise now," with a sigh that may mean regret for her dead, or, indeed, anything.
"Are you not afraid to go too far?" demands he, very pale, moving back from her, and regarding her with moody eyes. "Do you quite know what you are saying—what you are compelling me, against my will, to understand?"
She is plainly not listening to him. She is lost in a mournful revery, and, leaning back in her chair, is staring at her little white fingers in an absent fashion, and is twisting round and round upon her third finger an old worn-out gold ring. Poor little ring, so full of sweet and moving memories!
"It was very fortunate," she says, suddenly, with a smile, and without looking up at him, being still engrossed in her occupation of twisting the ring round her slender finger,—"it wasmorethan fortunate that the first rich man should beyou."
"Much more," he says, in an indescribable tone. Thenwith an effort, "Would you have thrown me over had I been poor?"
"I shouldn't have consented to marry you, I think," says Miss Broughton, quite calmly.
"As I said before, to be candid is yourforte," exclaims he, with extreme bitterness. "I wonder even if you loved a man to distraction (I am not talking of myself, you know,—that is quite evident, is it not?) would you reject him if he was not sufficiently—bon parti?"
"I don't think I could love any one to distraction," replies she, quite simply. It seems the very easiest answer to this question.
"I believe you speak the very honest truth when you say that," says Dorian, drawing his breath quickly. "You are indeed terribly honest. You don't even shrink from telling the man you have elected to marry that he is no more to you than any other man might be who was equally possessed of filthy—if desirable—lucre!"
He turns from her, and, going to the window, stares out blindly upon the dying daylight, and the gardens stretched beneath, where dying flowers seem breathing of, and suggesting, higher thoughts.
He is unutterably wretched. All through his short courtship he had entertained doubts of her affection; but now, to have her so openly, so carelessly, declare her indifference is almost more than he can bear. "We forgive so long as we love." To Dorian, though his love is greater than that of most, forgiveness now seems difficult. Yet can he resign her? She has so woven herself into his very heart-strings—this cold, cruel, lovely child—that he cannot tear her out without a still further surrender of himself to death. To live without her—to get through endless days and interminable nights without hope of seeing her, with no certain knowledge that the morrow will bring him sure tidings of her—seems impossible. He sighs; and then, even as he sighs, five slim cold little fingers steal within his.
"I have made you angry," says the plaintive voice, full of contrition. A shapely yellow head pushes itself under one of his arms, that is upraised, and a lovely sorrowful pleading face looks up into his. How can any one be angry with a face like that?
"No, not angry," he says. And indeed the anger has gone from his face,—her very touch has banished it,—and only a great and lasting sadness has replaced it. Perhaps for the first time, at this moment she grasps some faint idea of the intensity of his love for her. Her eyes fill with tears.
"I think—it will be better for you—to—give me up," she says, in a down-hearted way, lowering her lids over her tell-tale orbs, that are like the summer sea now that they shine through their unwonted moisture
"Tears are trembling in her blue eyes,Like drops that linger on the violet,"
"Tears are trembling in her blue eyes,Like drops that linger on the violet,"
and Dorian, with a sudden passionate movement, takes her in his arms and presses her head down upon his breast.
"Do you suppose I can give you up now," he says, vehemently, "when I have set my whole heart upon you? It is too late to suggest such a course. That you do not love me is my misfortune, not your fault. Surely it is misery enough to know that,—to feel that I am nothing to you,—without telling me that you wish so soon to be released from your promise?"
"I don't wish it," she says, earnestly, shaking her head. "No, indeed! It was only for your sake I spoke. Perhaps by and by you will regret having married some one who does not love you altogether. Because I know I could not sit contentedly for hours with my hand in any one's. And there are a great many things I would not do for you. And ifyouwere to die——"
"There! that will do," he says, with sudden passion. "Do you know how you hurt, I wonder? Are you utterly heartless?"
Her eyes darken as he speaks, and, releasing herself from his embrace,—which, in truth, has somewhat slackened,—she moves back from him. She is puzzled, frightened; her cheeks lose their soft color, and—
"With that, the water in her eieArose, that she ne might it stoppe;And, as men sene the dew be droppeThe leves and the floures eke,Right so upon her white chekeThe wofull salt teres felle."
"With that, the water in her eieArose, that she ne might it stoppe;And, as men sene the dew be droppeThe leves and the floures eke,Right so upon her white chekeThe wofull salt teres felle."
"I don't want to hurt you," she says, with a sob; "and I know I amnotheartless." There is a faint tinge of indignation in her tone.
"Of course you are not. It was a rather brutal thing my saying so. Darling, whatever else may render me unhappy, I can at all events find comfort in the thought that you never loved any other man."
"But I did," says Miss Broughton, still decidedly tearful: "you must always remember that. There was one; and"—she is plainly in the mood for confessions—"I shall never love you or any one as I loved him."
"What are you going to tell me now?" says Dorian, desperately. He had believed his cup quite full, and only now discovers his mistake. Is there a still heavier amount of misery in store for him? "Is the worst to be told me yet?" he says, with the calmness of despair, being quite too far gone for vehemence of any description. "Why did you keep it from me until now?"
"I didn't keep anything," cries she: "I told you long ago—at least, I——"
"What is the name?" demands he, gloomily, fully expecting the hated word "Kennedy" to fall from her lips. "Better let me know it. Nothing you can possibly say can make me feel more thoroughly stranded than I am."
"I think you are taking it very unreasonably," says Miss Broughton, with quivering lips. "If I cannot bring myself to love anybody as well as poor papa, I can't help it—and it isn't my fault—and you are very unkind to me—and——"
"Good gracious! what a fright all about nothing!" says Mr. Branscombe, with a sigh of intense relief. "I don't mind your poor father, you know,—I rather admire your faithfulness there,—but I thought—er—it doesn't in the least matter what I thought," hastily: "every one has silly fancies at times." He kisses her lids warmly, tenderly, until the heavy drops beneath press through and run all down her charming childish face. "I am sure of this, at least," he says, hopefully, "that you like me better than any living man."
"Well, I do, indeed," replies she, in a curious tone, that might be suggestive of surprise at her own discovery of this fact. "But, then, how bad you are to me at times!Dear Dorian,"—laying one hand, with a pathetic gesture, on his cheek,—"do not be cross to me again."
"My sweetest!—my best beloved!" says Mr. Branscombe, instantly, drawing his breath a little quickly, and straining her to his heart.
"The wisdom of this world is idiotism."—Decker."If thou desirest to be borne with, thou must bear also with others."—Kempis.
"The wisdom of this world is idiotism."—Decker."If thou desirest to be borne with, thou must bear also with others."—Kempis.
"The wisdom of this world is idiotism."—Decker.
"If thou desirest to be borne with, thou must bear also with others."—Kempis.
It takes some time to produce another governess suited to the Redmonds' wants. At length, however, the desired treasure is procured, and forwarded, "with care," to the vicarage.
On inspection, she proves to be a large, gaunt, high-cheek-boned daughter of Caledonia, with a broad accent, a broader foot, and uncomfortably red hair. She comes armed with testimonials of the most severely complimentary description, and with a pronounced opinion that "salary is not so much an object as a comfortable home."
Such a contrast to Georgie can scarcely be imagined. The Redmonds, in a body, are covered with despair, and go about the house, after her arrival, whispering in muffled tones, and casting blanched and stricken glances at each other. Dire dismay reigns in their bosoms; while the unconscious Scot unlocks her trunks, and shakes out her gowns, and shows plainly, by her behavior, that she has come to sit down before the citadel and carry on a prolonged siege.
To tea she descends with a solemn step and slow, that Amy designates as a "thud." But yet at this first tea she gains a victory. Arthur, the second boy, who has been wicked enough to get measles at school, and who is now at home to recruit himself and be the terror of his family, is at this time kept rather on short commons by his mother because of his late illness. This means bread-and-butterwithoutjam,—a meaning the lively Arthur rather resents. Seeing which, the Caledonian, opening her lips almost for the first time, gives it as her opinion that jam, taken moderately, is wholesome.
She goes even farther, and insinuates it may assist digestion, which so impresses Mrs. Redmond that Arthur forthwith finds himself at liberty to "tuck into" (his own expression) the raspberry jam without let or hindrance.
This marvellous behavior on the part of the bony Scot tells greatly in her favor, so far as the children go. They tell each other later on that she can't be altogether an unpleasant sort, Master Arthur being specially loud in her praise. He even goes so far as to insinuate that Miss Broughton would never have said as much; but this base innuendo is sneered down by the faithful children who have loved and lost her. Nevertheless, they accept their fate; and, after a week or two, the new-comer gains immense ground, and is finally pronounced by her pupils to be (as she herself would probably express it) "no' that bad." Thus, Miss McGregor becomes governess at the vicarage, vice Georgie Broughton promoted.
To be married at once, without any unnecessary delay, is Dorian's desire; and when, with some hesitation, he broaches the subject to Georgie, to his surprise and great content he finds her quite willing to agree to anything he may propose. She speaks no word of reluctance, appears quite satisfied with any arrangement he or Clarissa may think proper, makes no shrinking protest against the undue haste. She betrays no shyness, yet no unseemly desire for haste. It seems to her a matter of perfect indifference. She is going to be married, sooner or later, as the case may be. Then why not the sooner?
This is, perhaps, the happiest time of her life. She roams all day among the flowers and in the pleasure-grounds, singing, laughing, talking gayly to any one she may meet at Gowran, where, since Miss McGregor's advent, she has been. When at length it is finally settled that the marriage is to take place next month, she seems rather pleased than otherwise, and is openly delighted at the prospect held out to her by Dorian of so soon seeing, with her own eyes, all the foreign lands and romantic scenes her fancy has so often depicted.
Just now, even as the tiny clock inside the room is chiming four, Dorian is standing outside the low French window of Miss Peyton's morning-room, and, leaning half in, half out of it, is conversing with her, alone. Georgie,for the time being, is lost to sight,—happy, somewhere, no doubt, in the warm sunshine she loves so well.
"Clarissa," he is saying, in a somewhat halting fashion,—he is coloring hotly, and is looking as uncomfortable as a man can look, which is saying a good deal,—"look here."
An ignominious break-down.
"I'm looking," says Clarissa, somewhat unkindly; "and I don't see much."
"Well, 'tis this, you know. You won't think it queer of me, will you?"
"I won't; I promise that. Though I haven't the faintest idea whether I shall or not."
"When she is getting her things, hertrousseau,—I want her to have every earthly thing she can possibly fancy," he says, at last, desperately. "Can't you manage that for me? Do; and make any use you like of this."
He flings a cheque-book into her lap through the open window as he speaks.
"She shall have everything she wants," says Clarissa; "but I don't think"—taking up the book—"we shall require this."
"Nevertheless, keep it. You must want it; and don't mention me in the matter at all. And—look here again—what do you think she would like as a wedding-present?"
Of course he has given her long ago the orthodox engagement ring, the locket, the bracelet, and so forth.
"Why don't you ask her?" says Miss Peyton.
"Because the other day she said she adored surprises. And I am sure she doesn't care about being asked what she likes."
"You have your mother's diamonds."
"Oh, of course"—airily—"all my mother's things will be hers; that goes without telling; but I hate old rubbish. I want to give her something from myself to wear on her marriage morning. Don't you see? or is it that you grow imbecile in your old age, my good Clarissa?"
"No; it only means that you are growing extravagant in your dotage, my good Dorian. Well, mention something, that I may object to it."
"Emeralds, then?"
"No: papa has set his heart on giving her those."
"Rubies?"
"Oh, nothing red: they would not suit her."
"Opals?"
"Too unlucky, she would die or run away from you."
"Pearls? But of course,"—quickly: "why did I not think of them before?"
"Why, indeed? They will be charming. By the by, Dorian, have you told Lord Sartoris of your engagement?"
Dorian's brow darkens.
"No. He has been from home, you know, either in Paris or the Libyan desert, or somewhere. He only turned up again two days ago. Seen him since?"
"He was here, but I was out. Have you seen him?"
"Well, yes,—at a distance."
"Dorian, there is certainly something wrong between you and Lord Sartoris. I have noticed it for some time. I don't ask you what it is, but I entreat you to break through this coldness and be friends with him again." She stoops towards him, and looks earnestly into his face. He laughs a little.
"I'm tremendous friends with him, really," he says, "if you would only try to believe it. I think him no end of a good fellow, if slightly impossible at times. When he recovers from the attack of insanity that is at present rendering him very obnoxious, I shall be delighted to let by-gones be by-gones. But until then——"
"You will tell him of your engagement?"
"Perhaps: if occasion offers."
"No, not perhaps. Go to-day, this very evening, and tell him of it."
"Oh, I can't, really, you know," says Mr. Branscombe, who always finds a difficulty in refusing any one anything.
"You must,"—with decision: "he surely deserves so much at your hands."
"But how few of us get our deserts!" says Dorian, still plainly unimpressed.
"Well, then, I think you should speak of it openly to him,—if only for Georgie's sake."
"For her sake?" He colors again, and bites his lips. "If you really think I owe it to her, of course I shall do it, however distasteful the task may be; though I cannot see how it will benefit her."
"He is your uncle; you will wish your own family to receive her?"
"I dare say you are right," says Branscombe, with a shrug. "People always are when they suggest to you an unpleasant course."
"What is unpleasant now? How can there be anything to distress any one on such a heavenly day as this?" cries the soft petulant voice he loves so well, calling to them across a flower-bed near.
Springing over it, she comes up to the window, and, leaning her elbows on the sill close to him, laughs gayly up into his face.
"There shall be nothing to distress you, at all events, my 'amber witch,'" returns he, gayly, too. "Come, show me once more these gardens you love so well."
A promise with Dorian is not made of pie-crust: though sorely against his will, he goes up to Hythe after dinner to acquaint his uncle formally of his approaching marriage. The evening is calm and full of rest and quiet, a fit ending to the perfect day that has gone before:
"The long day wanes, the broad fields fade; the night—The sweet June night—is like a curtain drawn.The dark lanes know no faintest sound, and whiteThe pallid hawthorn lights the smooth-bleached lawn;The scented earth drinks from the silent skiesSoft dews, more sweet than softest harmonies."
"The long day wanes, the broad fields fade; the night—The sweet June night—is like a curtain drawn.The dark lanes know no faintest sound, and whiteThe pallid hawthorn lights the smooth-bleached lawn;The scented earth drinks from the silent skiesSoft dews, more sweet than softest harmonies."
Going through the woods that lie upon his right, he walks silently onward, impressed by the beauty of the swift-coming night, yet too restless in mind to take in all its charms that are rich enough to satisfy a hungry soul. A soft wind is sighing; beneath its touch the young and tender branches are swaying lightly to and fro; all the "feathery people of mid-air" are preening their downy plumage and murmuring sleepy hymns ere sinking to their rest.
Scarce a sound can be heard, save the distant lowing of cattle, and the drowsy drone of a slumberous bee as it floats idly by. The very sound of Dorian's footsteps upon the soft grass can be distinctly heard, so deadly is the calm that ushers in the night; when, lo! from out some thicket, the nightingale,—
"Who is silent all day long;But when pale eve unseals her clear throat, loosesHer twilight music on the dreaming boughsUntil they waken"—
"Who is silent all day long;But when pale eve unseals her clear throat, loosesHer twilight music on the dreaming boughsUntil they waken"—
bursts into song. High and clear and exquisite rise the notes one above the other, each vying in beauteous harmony with the last, until one's very heart aches for love and admiration of their sweetness.
Dorian, though oppressed with many discordant thoughts, still pauses to listen, until silence following upon the passionate burst of melody, he draws his breath quickly and goes on to Hythe, and into the dining-room there, where he finds Lord Sartoris still over his wine.
He is sitting at the head of the long table, looking strangely solitary, and very much aged, considering the short time that has elapsed since last he left Pullingham.
"So you are home again, Arthur," says Dorian, coldly, but with apparent composure. They have not been face to face since that last meeting, when bitter words, and still more bitter looks, had passed between them.
Now, letting the quickly spoken sentence take the place of a more active greeting, they nod coolly to each other, and carefully refuse to let their hands touch.
"Yes," says Sartoris, evenly; "I returned two days ago. Business recalled me; otherwise I was sufficiently comfortable where I was to make me wish to remain there."
"And Constance, is she quite well?"
"Quite well, thank you. Your other cousins desired to be remembered to you. So did she, of course."
A pause, prolonged and undesirable.
"You will take some claret?" says Sartoris, at last, pushing the bottle towards him.
"No, thank you; I have only just dined. I came up to-night to tell you what I dare say by this you have heard from somebody else; I am going to be married on the 9th of next month."
Lord Sartoris turns suddenly to confront him.
"I had not heard it," he says, with amazement. "To be married! This is very sudden." Then, changing his tone, "I am glad," he says, slowly, and with an unmistakable sneer, "that at last it has occurred to you to set that girl right in the eyes of the world. As a man of honor there was no other course left open to you."
"To whom are you alluding?" asks Branscombe, growing pale with anger, an ominous flash betraying itself in his gray eyes.
"I hope I understand you to mean to offer full, though tardy, reparation to Ruth Annersley."
With an effort Branscombe restrains the fierce outburst of wrath that is trembling on his lips.
"You still persist, then, in accusing me of being accessory to that girl's disappearance?"
"You have never yet denied it," exclaims Sartoris, pushing back his glass, and rising to his feet. "Give me the lie direct, if youcan,—if youdare,—and I will believe you."
"I never will," returns Dorian, now thoroughly roused,—"never!If my own character all these past years is not denial enough, I shall give no other. Believe what you will. Do you imagine I shall come to you, like a whipped school-boy, after every supposed offence, to say, 'I did do this,' or, 'I did not do that'? I shall contradict nothing, assert nothing: therefore judge me as it may please you. I shall not try to vindicate my actions to any living man."
His tone, his whole bearing, should have carried conviction to the hearts of most men; but to the old lord, who has seen so much of the world in its worst phases,—its cruelties and falsehoods,—and who has roughed it so long among his fellowmen, faith, in its finer sense, is wanting.
"Enough," he says, coldly, with a slight wave of his hand. "Let us end this subject now and forever. You have come to tell me of your approaching marriage; may I ask the name of the lady you intend making your wife?"
"Broughton; Georgie Broughton," says Branscombe, briefly.
"Broughton,—I hardly fancy I know the name; and yet am I wrong in thinking there is a governess at the vicarage of that name?"
"Therewas. She is now staying with Clarissa Peyton, I am to be married to her, as I have already told you, early next month."
"Agoverness!" says Sartoris. There is a world of unpleasant meaning in his tone. "Really,"—with slow contempt,—"I can hardly congratulate you on yourtastes! You, who might have chosen your wife almost anywhere, can find nothing to suit you but an obscure governess."
"I don't think there is anything particularly obscure about Georgie," replies Dorian, with admirable composure, though he flushes hotly. "Have you ever seen her? No? Then, of course, you are not in a position to judge of either her merits or demerits. I shall thank you, therefore,"—surveying his uncle rather insolently, from head to heel,—"to be silent on the subject."
After a slight pause, he turns again to Sartoris, and, forcing him to meet his gaze, says haughtily,—
"May we hope you will be present at our wedding, my lord?"
"I thank you, no. I fear not," returns the older man, quite as haughtily. "I hope to be many miles from here before the end of next week."
Dorian smiles unpleasantly.
"You will at least call upon Miss Broughton before leaving the neighborhood?" he says, raising his brows.
At this Sartoris turns upon him fiercely, stung by the apparent unconcern of his manner.
"Why should I call?" he says, his voice full of indignant anger. "Is it to congratulate her on her coming union with you? I tell you, were I to do so, the face of another woman would rise before me and freeze the false words upon my lips. To you, Dorian, in my old age, all my heart went out. My hopes, my affections, my ambitions, began and ended with you. And what a reward has been mine! Yours has been the hand to drag our name down to a level with the dust. Disgrace follows hard upon your footsteps. Were I to go, as you desire, to this innocent girl, do you imagine I could speak fair words to her? I tell you, no! I should rather feel it my duty to warn her against entering a house so dishonored as yours. I should——"
"Pshaw!" says Branscombe, checking him with an impatient gesture. "Don't let us introduce tragedy into this very commonplace affair. Pray don't trouble yourself to go and see her at all. In your present mood, I rather think you would frighten her to death. I am sorry I intruded my private matters upon you: but Clarissa quitemade a point of my coming to Hythe to-night for that purpose, and, as you know, she is a difficult person to refuse. I'm sure I beg your pardon for having so unwarrantably bored you."
"Clarissa, like a great many other charming people, is at times prone to give very unseasonable advice," says Sartoris, coldly.
"Which, interpreted, means that I did wrong to come. I feel you are right." He laughs faintly again, and, taking up his hat, looks straight at his uncle. He has drawn himself up to his full height, and is looking quite his handsomest. He is slightly flushed (a dark color that becomes him), and a sneer lies round the corners of his lips. "I hardly know how to apologize," he says, lightly, "for having forced myself upon you in this intrusive fashion. The only amends I can possibly make is to promise you it shall never occur again, and to still further give you my word that, for the future, I shall not even annoy you by my presence."
So saying, he turns away, and, inclining his head, goes out through the door, and, closing it gently after him, passes rapidly down the long hall, as though in haste to depart, and, gaining the entrance-door, shuts it, too, behind him, and breathes more freely as he finds the air of heaven beating on his brow.
Not until he has almost reached Sartoris once more does that sudden calm fall upon him that, as a rule, follows hard upon all our gusts of passion. The late interview has hurt him more than he cares to confess even to himself. His regard—nay, his affection—for Sartoris is deep and sincere; and, though wounded now, and estranged from him, because of his determination to believe the worst of him, still it remains hidden in his heart, and is strong enough to gall and torture him after such scenes as he has just gone through.
Hitherto his life has been unclouded,—has been all sunshine and happy summer and glad with laughter. Now a dark veil hangs over it, threatening to deaden all things and dim the brightness of his "golden hours."
"He who hath most of heart knows most of sorrow." To Dorian, to be wroth with those he loves is, indeed, a sort of madness that affects his heart, if not his brain.
He frowns as he strides discontentedly onward through the fast-falling night: and then all at once a thought comes to him—a fair vision seems to rise almost in his path—that calms him and dulls all resentful memories. It is Georgie,—his love, his darling! She, at least, will be true to him. He will teach her so to love him that no light winds of scandal shall have power to shake her faith. Surely a heart filled with dreams of her should harbor no miserable thoughts. He smiles again; his steps grow lighter! he is once more the Dorian of old; he will—he must—be, of necessity, utterly happy with her beside him during all the life that is to come.
Alas that human hopes should prove so often vain!
"Tis now the summer of your youth; time has not cropt the roses from your cheek, though sorrow long has washed them."—The Gamester.
"Tis now the summer of your youth; time has not cropt the roses from your cheek, though sorrow long has washed them."—The Gamester.
"Tis now the summer of your youth; time has not cropt the roses from your cheek, though sorrow long has washed them."—The Gamester.
The wedding—a very private one—goes off charmingly. The day breaks calm, smilingly, rich with beauty. "Lovely are the opening eyelids of the morn."
Georgie, in her wedding garments, looking like some pale white lily, is indeed "passing fair." She is almost too pallid, but the very pallor adds to the extreme purity and childishness of her beauty, and makes the gazer confident "there's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple." Dorian, tall and handsome, and unmistakably content, seems a very fit guardian for so fragile a flower.
Of course the marriage gives rise to much comment in the county, Branscombe being direct heir to the Sartoris title, and presumably the future possessor of all his uncle's private wealth. That he should marry a mere governess, a positive nobody, horrifies the county, and makes its shrug its comfortable shoulders and give way to more malicious talk than is at all necessary. With some, the pretty bride is an adventuress, and, indeed,—in the very softest of soft whispers, and with a gentle rustling of indignant skirts,—notaltogetheras correct as she might be. There are a few who choose to believe her of good family, but "awfully out-at-elbows, don't you know;" a still fewer who declareshe is charming all round and fit for anything; and hardly one who does not consider her, at heart, fortunate and designing.
One or two rash and unsophisticated girls venture on the supposition that perhaps, after all, it is a realbonâ fidelove-match, and make the still bolder suggestion that a governess may have a heart as well as other people. But these silly children are pushed out of sight, and very sensibly pooh-poohed, and are told, with a little clever laugh, that they "are quite too sweet, and quite dear babies, and they must try and keep on thinking all that sort of pretty rubbish as long as ever they can. It is so successful, and so very taking nowadays."
Dorian is regarded as an infatuated, misguided young man, who should never have been allowed out without a keeper. Such a disgraceful flinging away of opportunities, and birth, and position, to marry a woman so utterly out of his own set! No wonder his poor uncle refused to be present at the ceremony,—actually ran away from home to avoid it. And—so—by the by, talking of running away, what was that affair about that little girl at the mill? Wasn't Branscombe's name mixed up with it unpleasantly? Horrid low, you know, that sort of thing, when one is found out.
The county is quite pleased with its own gossip, and drinks innumerable cups of choicest tea over it, out of the very daintiest Derby and Sèvres and "Wooster," and is actually merry at the expense of the newly-wedded. Only a very few brave men, among whom is Mr. Kennedy, who is staying with the Luttrels, give it as their opinion that Branscombe is a downright lucky fellow and has got the handsomest wife in the neighborhood.
Towards the close of July, contrary to expectation, Mr. and Mrs. Branscombe return to Pullingham, and, in spite of censure, and open protest, are literally inundated with cards from all sides.
The morning after her return, Georgie drives down to Gowran, to see Clarissa, and tell her "all the news," as she declares in her first breath.
"It was all too enchanting," she says, in her quick, vivacious way. "I enjoyed itso. All the lovely old churches, and the lakes, and the bones of the dear saints, andeverything. But I missed you, do you know,—yes, really, without flattery, I mean. Every time I saw anything specially desirable, I felt I wanted you to see it too. And so one day I told Dorian I was filled with a mad longing to talk to you once again, and I think he rather jumped at the suggestion of coming home forthwith; and—why, here we are."
"I can't say how glad I am that youarehere," says Clarissa. "It was too dreadful without you both. I am so delighted you had such a really good time and were so happy."
"Happy!—I am quite that," says Mrs. Branscombe, easily. "I can always do just what I please, and there is nobody now to scold or annoy me in any way."
"And you have Dorian to love," says Clarissa, a little gravely, she hardly knows why. It is perhaps the old curious want in Georgie's tone that has again impressed her.
"Love, love, love," cries that young woman, a little impatiently. "Why are people always talking about love? Does it really make the world go round, I wonder? Yes, of course I have Dorian to be fond of now." She rises impulsively, and, walking to one of the windows, gazes out upon the gardens beneath. "Come," she says, stepping on to the veranda; "come out with me. I want to breathe your flowers again."
Clarissa follows her, and together they wander up and down among the heavy roses and drooping lilies, that are languid with heat and sleep. Here all the children of the sun and dew seem to grow and flourish.