"Have mind that eild aye follows youth;Death follows life with gaping mouth;Sen erdly joy abidis never,Work for the joy that lastis ever;For other joy is all but vain,And erdly joy returns in pain."—W. Dunbar.
"Have mind that eild aye follows youth;Death follows life with gaping mouth;Sen erdly joy abidis never,Work for the joy that lastis ever;For other joy is all but vain,And erdly joy returns in pain."—W. Dunbar.
"Have mind that eild aye follows youth;Death follows life with gaping mouth;Sen erdly joy abidis never,Work for the joy that lastis ever;For other joy is all but vain,And erdly joy returns in pain."—W. Dunbar.
Something within her knows he will return. Yet all the next day long she sits in terrible suspense, not being certain of the end. Towards noon he comes, sullen, disdainful, and dark with depression.
He sinks into a chair, looking tired and careworn.
"You have over-fatigued yourself?" she says, gently, going over to him and touching his hand lightly.
"No. I have been to Pullingham again and back; that is all."
"There again?" she says. "And you saw——?"
"Only Dorian. Don't trouble yourself about Clarissa," he says, with an unpleasant laugh: "that game is played out. No, Dorian, alone, I went to see." He shades his face with his hand, and then goes on: "There are few like him in the world. In spite of all that has come and gone, he received me kindly, and has given me what will enable me to commence life afresh in a foreign land." There is remorse and deep admiration in his tone.
But Ruth makes no reply: she cannot. Those last words, "a foreign land," have struck like a dying knell upon her heart. She watches him in despairing silence, as he walks restlessly up and down the room in the uncertain twilight.
Presently he stops close to her.
"I suppose there is some orthodox way of breaking bad news," he says, "but I never learned it. Ruth, your father is dead."
The girl shrinks back, and puts her hand to her forehead in a dazed, pitiful fashion.
"Not dead!" she says, imploringly, as though her contrition could bring him back to life. "Not altogether gone beyond recall. Sick, perhaps,—nay, dying,—but not dead!"
"Yes, he is dead," says Horace, though more gently. "He died a week ago."
A terrible silence falls upon the room. Presently, alarmed at her unnatural calm, he lays his hand upon her shoulder to rouse her.
"There is no use in fretting over what cannot be recalled," he says, quickly, though still in his gentler tone. "And there are other things I must speak to you about to-night. My remaining time in this country is short, and I want you to understand the arrangements I have made for your comfort before leaving you."
"You will leave me?" cries she, sharply. A dagger seems to have reached and pierced her heart. Falling upon her knees before him, she clasps him, and whispers, in a voice that has grown feeble through the intensity of her emotion, "Horace, do not forsake me. Think of all the past, and do not let the end be separation. What can I do? Where can I go?—with no home, no aim in life! Have pity! My father is dead; my friends, too, are dead to me. In all this wide miserable world I have only you!"
"Only me!" he echoes, with a short bitter laugh. "A prize, surely. You don't know what folly you are talking. I give you a chance of escape from me,—an honorable chance, where a new home and new friends await you."
"I want no friends, no home." (She is still clinging to his knees, with her white earnest face uplifted to his.) "Let me be your slave,—anything; but do not part from me. I cannot live without you now. It is only death you offer me."
"Remember my temper," he says, warningly. "Only last night I struck you. Think of that. I shall probably strike you again. Be advised in time, and forsake me, like all the others."
"You torture me," she says, still in the same low panting whisper. "You are my very heart,—my life. Take me with you. Only let me see your face sometimes, and hear your voice. I will not trouble you, or hinder you in any way; only let me be near you." She presses her pale lips to his hand with desperate entreaty.
"Be it so," he says, after a moment's hesitation. "If ever, in the days to come, you repent your bargain, blameyourself, not me. I have offered you liberty, and you have rejected it. I shall leave this country in a week's time; so be prepared. But before going, as you are so determined to cast in your lot with mine, I shall marry you."
She starts to her feet.
"Marry me?" she says, faintly. "Make me your wife! Oh, no! you don't know what you are saying."
She trembles violently, and her head falls somewhat heavily against his arm.
"It isn't worth a fainting fit," he says, hastily enough; but his arm, as he places it round her, is strong and compassionate. "Can anything be more absurd than a woman? Sit down here, and try to be reasonable. You must be quick with your preparations, as we start on Tuesday. I will see about a special license, and we can get the marriage ceremony over to-morrow. I know a fellow who will manage it all for me."
"You are quite sure you will never regret this step?" she says, earnestly, even at this supremely happy moment placing his happiness before her own.
"I don't suppose so. If it is any satisfaction to you to know it," he says, with a shrug, "you are the only woman I have ever loved, and probably the only one I ever shall love."
A smile—radiant, perfect—lights her face. Surely, just then, the one moment of utter happiness, that they tell us is all that is ever allowed to poor mortals, is hers. It is broken by the clock of a neighboring church clanging out the hour.
"So late!" says Horace, hurriedly. "I must go. Until to-morrow, Ruth, good-by."
"Good-by!" She places her hands upon his shoulders, and, throwing back her head, gazes long and earnestly into his face, as though reading once again each line in the features she loves with such devotion. "Before you go," she says, solemnly, "call me what I shall be so soon. Say, 'Good-by, my wife!'"
"Good-by, my wife!" returns he, with more love in his accents than she has heard for months.
She presses her lips passionately to his, and again, for the last time, breathes the word "Farewell!"
His rapid footsteps descend the stairs. She listens to them until they have ceased and all is still. Then she goes to the window, and presses her forehead against the cold pane, that she may once more see him as he crosses the street. The lamps are all alight, and a lurid glare from one falls full upon her as she stands leaning eagerly forward to catch the last glimpse of him she loves.
Presently she sinks into a seat, always with her eyes fixed upon the spot where she last has seen him, and sits motionless, with her fingers twisted loosely in her lap; she is so quiet that only the red gleam from the world without betrays the fact of her presence.
Once her lips part, and from them slowly, ecstatically, come the words, "His wife." Evidently her whole mind is filled with this one thought alone. She thinks of him, and him only,—of him who has so cruelly wronged her, yet who, in his own way, has loved her, too.
The moments fly, and night comes on apace, clothed in her "golden dress, on which so many stars like gems are strewed;" yet still she sits before the window silently. She is languid, yet happy,—weak and spent by the excitement of the past hour, yet strangely full of peace. Now and again she presses her hand with a gesture that is almost convulsive to her side; yet whatever pain she feels there is insufficient to drown the great gladness that is overfilling her.
To-morrow,—nay, even now, it is to-day,—and it is bringing her renewed hope, fresh life, restored honor! He will be hers forever! No other woman will have the right to claim him. Whatever she may have to undergo at his hands, at least he will be her own. And he has loved her as he never loved another. Oh, what unspeakable bliss lies in this certainty! In another land, too, all will be unknown. A new life may be begun in which the old may be swallowed up and forgotten. There must be hope in the good future.
"When we slip a littleOut of the way of virtue, are we lost?Is there no medicine called sweet mercy?"
"When we slip a littleOut of the way of virtue, are we lost?Is there no medicine called sweet mercy?"
Only this morning she had deemed herself miserable beyond her fellows; now, who can compete with her inutter content? In a few short hours she will be his wife! Oh that her father could but——
Her father! Now, all at once, it rushes back upon her; she is a little dazed, a good deal unsettled, but surely some one had said that her—her father—was—dead!
The lamps in the street die out. The sickly winter dawn comes over the great city. The hush and calm still linger; only now and then a dark phantom form issues from a silent gateway, and hurries along the pavement, as though fearful of the growing light.
Ruth has sunk upon her knees, and is doing fierce battle with the remorse that has come to kill her new-born happiness. There is a terrible pain at her heart, even apart from the mental anguish that is tearing it. Her slight frame trembles beneath the double shock; a long shivering sob breaks from her; she throws her arms a little wildly across the couch before which she is kneeling, and gradually her form sinks upon her arms. No other sob comes to disturb the stillness. An awful silence follows. Slowly the cold gray morning fills the chamber, and the sun,—
"Eternal painter, now begins to rise,And limn the heavens in vermilion dyes."
"Eternal painter, now begins to rise,And limn the heavens in vermilion dyes."
But within deathly silence reigns. Has peace fallen upon that quiet form? Has gentle sleep come to her at last?
Horace, ascending the stairs cautiously, before the household is astir, opens the room where last he had seen Ruth, and comes gently in. He would have passed on to the inner chamber, thinking to rouse her to prepare in haste for their early wedding, when the half-kneeling half-crouching figure before the lounge attracts his notice.
"Ruth," he says, very gently, fearful lest he shall frighten her by too sudden a summons back to wakefulness; but there is no reply. How can she have fallen asleep in such an uncomfortable position? "Ruth," he calls again, rather louder, some vague fear sending the blood back to his heart; but again only silence greets his voice. And again he says, "Ruth!" this time with passionate terror in his tone; but, alas! there is still no response. For the first time she is deaf to his entreaty.
Catching her in his arms, he raises her from her kneeling posture, and, carrying her to the window, stares wildly into her calm face,—the poor, sad, pretty face of her who had endured so much, and borne so long, and loved so faithfully.
She is dead!—quite dead! Already the limbs are stiffening, the hands are icy cold, the lips, that in life would so gladly have returned kiss for kiss, are now silent and motionless beneath the despairing caresses he lavishes upon them in the vain hope of finding yet some warmth remaining.
But there is none. She is gone, past recall, past hearing all expressions of remorseful tenderness. In the terrible lonely dawn she had passed away, with no one near to hold her dying hand, without a sigh or moan, leaving no farewell word of love or forgiveness to the man who is now straining her lifeless body to his heart, as though to make one last final effort to bring her back to earth.
There is a happy smile upon her lips, her eyes are quite closed, almost she seems as one that sleepeth. The awful majesty of death is upon her, and no voice of earth, however anguished and imploring, can reach her ice-bound heart. As the first faint touch of light that came to usher in her wedding morn broke upon the earth, she had died, and gone somewhere
"Above the smoke and stir of this dim spotWhich men call earth."
"Above the smoke and stir of this dim spotWhich men call earth."
"Was I deceived, or did a sable cloudTurn forth her silver lining on the night?"—Milton.
"Was I deceived, or did a sable cloudTurn forth her silver lining on the night?"—Milton.
"Was I deceived, or did a sable cloudTurn forth her silver lining on the night?"—Milton.
The two months that Dorian has given himself in which to finish the business that, he said, had brought him home, have almost come to an end. Already winter is passing out of mind, and "Spring comes up this way."
The "checkered daffodil" and the soft plaintive primrose are bursting into bloom. The gentle rain comes with a passing cloud, and sinks lovingly into the earth's bosom and into the hearts of the opening buds.
The grass is springing; all the world is rich with freshyoung life. The very snowdrops—pale blossoms, born of bitter winds and sunless skies—have perished out of sight.
Ruth is lying in her grave, cold and forgotten save by two,—the man who has most wronged her, and the woman who had most to forgive her. As yet, Clarissa cannot rise out of the depression that fell upon her when Horace's treachery was first made known to her. Her love had seemed so good, so tender, it had so brightened all her life, and had been so much a part of her existence, that it seemed to carry to the grave with it all her youth and gladness. However untrue this young love of her life had been, still, while she believed in it, it had been beautiful to her, and it is with bitterest grief she has laid it aside; to her it had been a living thing, and even as it fades from her she cries to it aloud to stay, and feels her arms empty in that it no longer fills them.
"But, oh, not yet, not yetWould my lost soul forgetHow beautiful he was while he did live,Or, when his eyes were dewy and lips wet,What kisses, tenderer than all regret,My love would give."Strew roses on his breast,—He loved the roses best;He never cared for lilies or for snow.Let be this bitter end of his sweet quest;Let be the pallid silence, that is rest,And let all go!"
"But, oh, not yet, not yetWould my lost soul forgetHow beautiful he was while he did live,Or, when his eyes were dewy and lips wet,What kisses, tenderer than all regret,My love would give.
"Strew roses on his breast,—He loved the roses best;He never cared for lilies or for snow.Let be this bitter end of his sweet quest;Let be the pallid silence, that is rest,And let all go!"
Mr. Winter's exquisite words come often to her; and yet, when the first great pang is over, a sensation that may be almost called relief raises her soul and restores her somewhat to her old self.
She is graver—if possible, gentler, more tender—than in the days before grief had touched her. And, though her love has really died beyond all reawakening, still the memory of what once had been has left its mark upon her.
To Sir James she has never since mentioned the name of the man in whom she had once so firmly believed, though oftentimes it has occurred to her that relief might follow upon the bare asking of a question that might serve to make common the actual remembrance of him.
To-day, as Scrope comes up the lawn to meet her, as she bends over the "bright children of the sun," a sense ofgladness that he is coming fills her. She feels no nervousness or weariness with him, only rest and peace, and something that is deeper still, though yet vague and absolutely unknown to her own heart.
She goes forward to meet him, a smile upon her lips, treading lightly on the young grass, that is emerald in hue,—as the color of my own dear land,—and through which
"The meek daisies showTheir breasts of satin snow,Bedecked with tiny stars of gold mid perfume sighs."
"The meek daisies showTheir breasts of satin snow,Bedecked with tiny stars of gold mid perfume sighs."
"You again?" she says, with a lovely smile. He was here only yesterday.
"What an uncivil speech! Do I come too often?" He has her hand in his, and is holding it inquiringly, but it is such a soft and kind inquiry.
"Not half often enough," she says, and hardly knows why his face flushes at her words, being still ignorant of the fact that he loves her with a love that passeth the love of most.
"Well, you sha'n't have to complain of that any longer," he says, gayly. "Shall I take up my residence here?"
"Do," says Miss Peyton, also in jest.
"I would much rather you took up yours at Scrope," he says, unthinkingly, and then he flushes again, and then silence falls between them.
Her foot is tapping the sward lightly, yet nervously. Her eyes are on the "daisies pied." Presently, as though some inner feeling compels her to it, she says,—"Why do you never speak to me of—Horace?"
"You forbade me," he says: "how could I disobey you? He is well, however, but, I think, not altogether happy. In his last letter, to me he still spoke remorsefully of—her." It is agony to him to say this, yet he does it bravely, knowing it will be the wisest thing for the woman he himself loves.
"Yes," she says, quite calmly. At this instant she knows her love for Horace Branscombe is quite dead. "Her death was terrible."
"Yet easy, I dare say. Disease of the heart, when it carries one off, is seldom painful. Clarissa, this is the very first time you have spoken of her, either."
"Is it?" She turns away from him, and, catching abranch, takes from it a leaf or two. "You have not spoken to me," she says.
"Because, as I said, you forbade me. Don't you know your word to me is law?"
"I don't think I know much," says Miss Peyton, with a sad little smile; but she lets her hand lie in his, and does not turn away from him. "Horace is in Ceylon," she says presently.
"Yes, and doing very well. Do you often think of him now?"
"Very often. I am glad he is getting on successfully."
"Have you forgotten nothing, Clarissa?"
"I have forgotten a great deal. How could it be otherwise? I have forgotten that I ever loved any one. It seems to me now impossible that I could have felt all that I did two months ago. Yet something lingers with me,—something I cannot explain." She pauses, and looks idly down upon her white hands, the fingers of which are twining and intertwining nervously.
"Do you mean that you have ceased to think of Horace in the light of a lover?" he asks, with an effort certainly, yet with determination. He will hear the truth now or never.
"What! wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice?" she says, turning to him with some passion; and then her anger fades, and her eyes fill with tears.
"If you can apply such a word to him, your love must be indeed dead," he says, in a curious tone, and, raising one of her hands, he lays it upon his breast.
"I wish it had never been born," she says, with a sigh, not looking at him.
"But is it dead?" persists he, eagerly.
"Quite. I buried it that day you took me—to his—rooms: you remember?"
"How could I forget? Clarissa, if you are unhappy, so am I. Take pity upon me."
"You unhappy?" She lifts her eyes to his.
"Yes. All my life I have loved you. Is your heart quite beyond my reach?"
She makes him no answer.
"Without you I live but half a life," he goes on, entreatingly. "Every hour is filled with thoughts of you. I haveno interests apart from you. Clarissa, if there is any hope for me, speak; say something."
"Would not his memory be a shadow between us always?" whispers she, in trembling accents. "Forgiveness is within our power, forgetfulness is beyond us! Jim, is this thing wise, that you are doing? Have you thought of it?"
"I have thought of it for more than a long year," says Sir James. "I think all my life, unconsciously, I have loved you."
"For so long?" she says, softly; and then, "How faithful you have been!"
"When change itself can give no more,'Tis easy to be true,"
"When change itself can give no more,'Tis easy to be true,"
quotes he, tenderly; and then she goes nearer to him,—tears in her eyes.
"You are too good for me," she says.
"Darling," says Scrope, and after that, somehow, it seems but a little thing that his arms should close around her, and that her head should lie contentedly upon his shoulder.
"There is no life on earth but being in love!"—Ben Jonson."Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round;Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;And he, amidst his frolic play,As if he would the charming air repay,Shook thousand odors from his dewy wing."—Collins.
"There is no life on earth but being in love!"—Ben Jonson."Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round;Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;And he, amidst his frolic play,As if he would the charming air repay,Shook thousand odors from his dewy wing."—Collins.
"There is no life on earth but being in love!"—Ben Jonson.
"Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round;Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;And he, amidst his frolic play,As if he would the charming air repay,Shook thousand odors from his dewy wing."—Collins.
It is the afternoon of the same day, and Dorian, with a keeper behind him, is trudging through the woods of Hythe, two trusty setters at his heels. He cannot be said to be altogether unhappy, because he has had a real good day with his gun, as his bag can testify, and, be a man never so disturbed by conflicting emotions, be he five fathoms deep in a hopeless attachment, still he will tramp through his heather, or ride to hounds, or smoke his favorite cigars, with the best, and find, indeed, pleasure therein. For, truly,—
"Man's love is of man's life a thing apart;'Tis woman's whole existence."
"Man's love is of man's life a thing apart;'Tis woman's whole existence."
The sun is sinking to rest; the chill of a spring evening is in the air. Dismissing the man who holds his bag, he sends him home to the house by a nearer route, and, lighting a fresh cigar, follows the path that leads through the fragrant wood into the grounds of Sartoris. The breath of the bluebells is already scenting the air; the ferns are growing thick and strong. He has come to a turn, that is all formed of rock, and is somewhat abrupt, because of the sharp angle that belongs to it, over which hart's-tongues and other graceful weeds fall lazily, when, at a little distance from him, he sees Georgie sitting on the fallen trunk of a tree, her head leaning against an oak, her whole expression full of deep dejection.
As he comes nearer to her, he can see that she has been crying, and that even now two tears are lying heavily upon her cheeks.
A troubled expression crosses his face. She looks so childish, so helpless, with her hat upon the ground beside her, and her hands lying listlessly upon her lap, and no one near to comfort her or to kiss the melancholy from her large mournful eyes.
As she hears him coming, she starts to her feet, and, turning aside, hastily dries the tears upon her cheeks, lest he shall mark her agitation.
"What is the matter with you?" asks he, with quick but suppressed concern.
"Nothing," returns she, in a low tone.
"You can't be crying for nothing," says Dorian; "and even your very voice is full of tears! Are you unhappy about anything?"
"What a question to ask me!" says Mrs. Branscombe, reproachfully, with a fresh irrepressible sob, that goes to his heart. He shifts his gun uneasily from one shoulder to the other, hardly knowing what to say. Is it his fault that she is so miserable? Must he blame himself because she has found it impossible to love him?
"I beg your pardon," he says, in a low tone. "Of course I have no right to ask you any questions."
"Yet I would answer you if I knew how," returns she, in a voice as subdued as his own.
The evening is falling silently, yet swiftly, throwing "herdusky veil o'er nature's face." A certain chill comes from the hills and damps the twilight air.
"It is getting late," says Branscombe, gently. "Will you come home with me?"
"Yes, I will go home," she says, with a little troubled submissive sigh, and, turning, goes with him down the narrow pathway that leads to the avenue.
Above them the branches struggle and wage a goblin war with each other, helped by the night-wind, which even now is rising with sullen purpose in its moan.
Dorian strides on silently, sad at heart, and very hopeless. He is making a vigorous effort to crush down all regretful memories, and is forcing himself to try and think with gladness of the time, now fast approaching, when he shall be once more parted from her who walks beside him with bent head and quivering lips. His presence is a grief to her. All these past weeks have proved this to him: her lips have been devoid of smiles; her eyes have lost their light, her voice its old gay ring. When he is gone, she may, perhaps, recover some of the gayety that once was hers. And, once gone, why should he ever return? And——
And then—then! A little bare cold hand creeps into the one of his that is hanging loosely by his side, and, nestling in it, presses it with nervous warmth.
Dorian's heart beats madly. He hardly dares believe it true that she should, of her own accord, have given her hand to him; yet he holds it so closely in his own that his clasp almost hurts her. They do not speak; they do not turn even to look at each other, but go on their way, silent, uncertain, but no longer apart. By that one tender touch they have been united.
"You are going abroad again?" she says, in a tone so low that he can scarcely hear her.
"I was going," he says, and then their fingers meet again and press each other gently.
Coming to the stile that leads into the next path, he lays down his gun, and, mounting the steps, holds out his hand to help her to gain the top.
Then, springing down to the other side, he takes her in his arms to bring her to the ground beside him.
But when his arms have closed round her he leaves themthere, and draws her to his heart, and lays his cheek against hers. With a little soft happy sob she lifts her arms and lays them round his neck; and then, he tells himself, there is nothing more on earth to be wished for.
"My wife!—my darling!" he says, unsteadily.
The minutes pass; then she looks up at him with soft speaking eyes. There are no tears upon her cheeks, but her face is pale as moonlight, and on it is a new deep meaning that Dorian has never seen there in all his life before,—a gentle light, as kind as death, and as soft as holy love!
As she so stands, gazing solemnly into his face, with all her heart in her eyes, Dorian stoops and lays his lips on her. She colors a lovely trembling crimson, and then returns the caress.
"You do love me at last?" he says. And then she says,—
"I do, with all my soul,"—in a tone not to be mistaken. Afterwards, "Are you happy now?"
"Yes. How can I be otherwise? For
'Thou with softest touch transfigurestThis toil-worn earth into a heaven of rest.'
'Thou with softest touch transfigurestThis toil-worn earth into a heaven of rest.'
How could you so far have misjudged me?" he says, reproachfully, referring to the old wound. "What had I done to you, that you should believe me capable of such a thing?"
"It was my one sin," whispers she, nervously. "Is it too bad to be forgiven?"
"I wonder what you could do, I wouldn't forgive," replies he, tenderly, "now I know you love me."
"I think you needn't have thrown my poor glove out of the window!" she says, with childish reproach. "That was very unkind, I think."
"It was brutal," says Branscombe. "But I don't believe you did love me then."
"Well, I did. You broke my heart that day. It will take you all you know"—with an adorable smile—"to mend it again."
"My own love," says Dorian, "what can I do? I would offer you mine in exchange, but, you see, you broke itmany a month ago, so the bargain would do you no good. Let us both make up our minds to heal each other's wounds, and so make restitution."
"Sweet heart, I bid you be healed," says Georgie, laying her small hand, with a pretty touch of tenderest coquetry, upon his breast. And then a second silence falls upon them, that lasts even longer than the first. The moments fly; the breezes grow stronger, and shake with petulant force the waving boughs. The night is falling, and "weeps perpetual dews, and saddens Nature's scene."
"Why do you not speak?" says Georgie, after a little bit, rubbing her cheek softly against his. "What is it that you want?"
"Nothing. Don't you know that 'Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were but little happy, if I could say how much'?"
"How true that is! yet somehow, I always want to talk," says Mrs. Branscombe,—at which they both laugh.
"Come home," says Dorian: "it grows cold as charity, and I'm getting desperately hungry besides. Are you?"
"I'm starving," says Georgie, genially. "There, now; they say people never want to eat anything when they are in love and when they are filled with joy. And I haven't been hungry for weeks, until this very moment."
"Just shows what awful stuff some fellows will talk," says Mr. Branscombe, with an air of very superior contempt. After which they go on their homeward journey until they reach the shrubbery.
Here voices, coming to them from a side-path, attract their notice.
"That is Clarissa," says Georgie: "I suppose she has come out to find me. Let us wait for her here."
"And Scrope is with her. I wish she would make up her mind to marry him," says Branscombe. "I am certain they are devoted to each other, only they can't see it. Want of brain, I suppose."
"They certainly are exceedingly foolish, both of them," says Georgie, emphatically.
The voices are drawing nearer; as their owners approach the corner that separates them from the Branscombes, Clarissa says, in a clear, audible tone,—
"I never in all my life knew two such silly people!"
"Good gracious!" says Branscombe, going up to her. "What people?"
"You two!" says Clarissa, telling the truth out of sheer fright.
"You will be so kind as to explain yourself, Clarissa," says Dorian, with dignity. "Georgie and I have long ago made up our minds that Solon when compared with us was a very poor creature indeed."
"A perfect fool!" says Mrs. Branscombe, with conviction.
The brightness of their tone, their whole manner, tell Clarissa that some good and wonderful change has taken place.
"Then why is Dorian going abroad, instead of staying at home like other people?" she says, uncertainly, feeling still puzzled.
"He isn't going anywhere: I have forbidden him!" says Mrs. Branscombe, with saucy shyness.
"Oh, Jim, they have made it up!" says Miss Peyton, making this vulgar remark with so much joy and feeling in her voice as robs it of all its commonplaceness. She turns to Scrope as she says this, her eyes large with delight.
"We have," says Georgie, sweetly. "Haven't we Dorian?" And then again slipping her hand into his, "He is going to stay at home always for the future: aren't you, Dorian?"
"I am going to stay just wherever you are for the rest of my life," says Dorian; and then Clarissa and James know that everything has come all right.
"Then you will be at home for our wedding," says Scrope, taking Clarissa's hand and turning to Branscombe.
Clarissa blushes very much, and Georgie, going up to her, kisses her heartily.
"It is altogether quite too nice," says Mrs. Branscombe, with tears in her eyes.
"If you don't look out, Scrope, she will kiss you too," says Dorian. "Look here, it is nearly six o'clock, and dinner will be at seven. Come back, you two, and dine with us."
"I should like to very much," says Clarissa, "as papa is in town."
"Well, then, come," says Georgie, tucking her arm comfortably into hers, "and we'll send you home at eleven."
"I hope you will send me home too," says Scrope, meekly.
"Yes, by the other road," says Mrs. Branscombe, with a small grimace. And then she presses Clarissa's arm against her side, and tells her, without the slightest provocation, that she is a "darling," and that everything is quite, quite,quiteTOOdelicious!
That evening, in the library, when Georgie and Dorian are once more alone, Branscombe, turning to her, takes her in his arms.
"You are quite happy?" he asks, questioningly. "You have no regrets now?"
"Not one," very earnestly. "But you, Dorian,"—she slips an arm round his neck, and brings his face down closer to her own, as though to read the expression of his eyes more clearly,—"are you satisfied? Think how unkind I was to you; and, after all,"—naïvely,—"I am only pretty; there is really nothing in me. You have my whole heart, of course, you know that; I am yours, indeed, but then"—discontentedly—"what am I?"
"I know: you are my own darling," says Branscombe, very softly.
1523 K Street, N. W.,Washington, D. C., January 24, 1888.Ph. Best Brewing Co.,Specialty Department, 28 College Place, N. Y.Gentlemen:—Sample of "Best" Tonic received.Gave to member of my family, was delighted with effects. Only trouble, there was not enough of it.It seems to be a pure, excellent Tonic, improving the appetite and digestion.What would you furnish me with a dozen bottles as test.S. J. Radcliffe, M. D.
1523 K Street, N. W.,
Washington, D. C., January 24, 1888.
Ph. Best Brewing Co.,
Specialty Department, 28 College Place, N. Y.
Gentlemen:—Sample of "Best" Tonic received.
Gave to member of my family, was delighted with effects. Only trouble, there was not enough of it.
It seems to be a pure, excellent Tonic, improving the appetite and digestion.
What would you furnish me with a dozen bottles as test.
S. J. Radcliffe, M. D.
The articles are made of Sheet iron pressed into shape and coated with a pure vitreous enamel, which for tenacity and power of resisting the action of acids has no equal.
The articles are made of Sheet iron pressed into shape and coated with a pure vitreous enamel, which for tenacity and power of resisting the action of acids has no equal.
Some of the obvious punctuation errors have been corrected, e. g., addition of missing period at the end of sentences. Also the following misprints have been corrected:—"siting" corrected to "sitting" (page 68)"baoadcast" corrected to "broadcast" (page 173)"seond" corrected to "second" (page 180)"dinning-room" corrected to "dining-room" (page 212)"anthying" corrected to "anything" (page 244)Other than that, printer's inconsistencies in spelling, hyphenation, and ligature usage have been retained.