"'Tis love, love, love, that makes the world go round."
The hot September sun beats fiercely on her as she walks along; the
day is full of languor and sweet peace. The summer is almost done, and
is dying, rich in beauty, and warm with the ripeness of strength
perfected. From out the thickets, little birds, that three months
agone scarce knew the power of breath, now warble soft melodies, that
thrill the air with joy. Clarissa, glad, and full of purpose, feels
her heart at one with these tiny, heaven-taught musicians, as she
follows the path beneath the leafy trees that leads to the vicarage.
As she deserts the tinted wood, and gains the road that runs by the
old mill, she finds herself face to face with Horace Branscombe,
coming towards her in a somewhat laggard fashion. His brow is darkened
by a frown: his whole expression is moody and oppressed with
discontent.
As he sees Clarissa, his features--as though compelled by a powerful
will--undergo a complete change, and he smiles, and comes forward with
outstretched hand to greet her.
"Horace! you here again, and so soon?" she says, quickly. Surprise
lends haste to her tongue. She has believed him in London; and now to
see him thus unexpectedly, and without the usual friendly warning
conveyed by letter, causes her not only pleasure, but a vague
uneasiness.
"Does it seem 'so soon' to you?" replies he, in a carefully inspired
tone. "To me the last two months have appeared almost a year, so
heavily have dragged the days spent away from Pullingham."
It is a very stereotyped little sentence, old and world-worn, and
smacking faintly of insincerity; but when a woman loves a man she
rarely measures his words.
"I seem rude," says Clarissa, with a soft smile. "But you will
understand me. And you know you told me you did not intend to return
before Christmas."
"Yes, I know." He is silent for a little while, and then, rousing
himself, as though by an effort, says, slowly,--
"Did you miss me?"
"I always miss you," returns she, simply: "you know that." She flushes
warmly, and lets her long lashes fall leisurely, until at length they
hide from view the sweet confession of her eyes. There is a pause that
embraces a full minute, and then she speaks again. "You have not yet
told me the reason of your return," she says, gently.
"I wearied of town," replies he. "A strange acknowledgment for one
like me, but true. For once, I honestly pined for the country--insipid
as I have always deemed it--and craved unceasingly for something
fresh, new, innocent, something unused to gas, and the glare and
unholy glitter of a city."
He speaks bitterly--almost passionately--and as though for the moment
he has altogether forgotten the existence of his companion. An instant
later, however, he recovers himself.
"I felt I should be happier, more fitted to cope with my work, if I
could get even one glimpse of you!"
"Are you not happy, then?" asks she, gently, her heart beating fast,
her color growing and lessening rapidly.
"Happy? no. Can a man be happy while a perpetual doubt distracts him?
Can he know even the meaning of the word Peace, whilst devoured with a
fear that he shall never possess the one great good he desires?"
Again, his thoughts appear to wander; and some passion, not born of
the present moment, but borrowed from some other hour, fills his tone.
"Yes," says Clarissa, nervously, questioningly, feeling poor in words,
now that the great crisis of her life has come.
"So I am here," he goes on, softly, "to solve my doubt, to gain at
least a rest from the gnawing suspense that for so long I have
endured. Need I tell you that I love you?--that" (he pauses, and a
faint contraction of the features, that dies almost as it is born,
disfigures his face for a second)----"that you are the one woman in
all the world upon whom I have set my heart?"
There is silence. For Clarissa, an intense joy holds her mute; the
very intensity of her happiness checks the flow of speech. He, too,
seems lost in thought. Presently, however, he breaks the silence, and
this time a faint anxiety may be discernible in his voice, though his
face is calm and composed, as usual.
"You do not speak, Clarissa. I have told you of my love, and you are
silent. I now ask if you can love me? At least, give me an answer.
Dearest,"--glancing at her averted face, and seeing the shy blush that
adds another charm to its beauty,--"tell me the truth."
"I can; I do love you!" says Clarissa, sweetly, and with perfect
trust. She slips her hand into his. Raising his hat, he lifts the
slender fingers to his lips, and kisses them; and, then,
together--still hand in hand--they walk along, speechless, yet
seemingly content.
The road is dusty; and a few drops of rain fall, like mild blessings,
into its parched furrows. The roadside flowers, drooping and languid,
fling their rich perfume, with lavish generosity, upon the motionless
air. Some sheep, in a far-off meadow, bleat mournfully, and answer
back the echo that mocks their lament.
"You have made me happier than I ever hoped to be; but you have not
yet said you will marry me." The words come from Horace, but sound
curiously far away, the very stillness and sadness of the evening
rendering them more distant. Clarissa, glancing at him, can see he is
white as Death.
"How pale he is!" she thinks, and then makes herself happy in the
belief that he is terribly in earnest about this matter, and that his
love for her is infinite.
"Yes, I shall marry you," she says, with tender seriousness. To her,
this promise is a solemn bond, that nothing but death or falsehood can
cancel.
"When?"
"Oh, Horace, I cannot answer that question so readily. There are so
many things. Papa must be told; and James Scrope; and you must tell
Dorian and your uncle."
"All that would hardly take half an hour."
"Perhaps; but there are other reasons for delay, more than I can tell
you just now. And, besides, it is all so new, so strange." She smiles,
as though she would willingly have added the words, "so sweet;" and a
little happy far-away look creeps into and illumines her eyes. "Why
are you so impatient?"
"Impatient!" returns he, a touch of vehemence in his tone. "Of course
I am impatient. The sooner it is all got over the better." He checks
himself, draws his breath somewhat quickly, and goes on in a calmer
fashion: "What sort of a lover should I be, if I showed no anxiety to
claim you as soon as possible? _You_ should be the last to blame me
for undue haste in this matter. When shall it be, then?--In one month?
two? three?" He speaks again, almost excitedly.
"Oh, no, no," gently, but shrinking from him a little. "That would be
impossible. Why, think!--it is only this moment you have told me you
love me, and now you would have me name our wedding-day!"
"Not exactly that. But tell me some definite time, near at hand, to
which I can be looking forward. Everything rests with you now,
remember that." His last words convey an unconscious warning, but
Clarissa neither heeds or understands it.
"Papa will miss me so terribly," she says, dreamily; "it seems
selfish, almost as though I were wilfully deserting him. I should, at
least, like another Christmas at home with him. And see,"--turning to
him, with gentle earnestness,--"are we not quite happy as we now are,
loving and trusting in each other? Why, then, should we not continue
this present happiness for another year? You are silent, Horace! You
do not answer! Are you angry with me?" She lays her hand lightly on
his arm.
"No; not angry." His eyes are on the ground; and he takes no notice of
the tender pressure on his arm. "But a year is a long time to wait! So
many things may happen in twelve months; and deeds once done, forever
leave their mark."
"Do not speak like that, it is as though you would foretell evil,"
says Clarissa, a faint feeling of superstitious horror making her
nervous.
Branscombe, raising his head, regards her curiously.
"Why should there be evil to foretell?" he says, slowly. "And yet,
Clarissa, I would ask you always to remember this hour, and the fact
that it was you, not I, who wished the postponement of our marriage.
If it must be as you say, it will be better to keep our engagement as
quiet as possible; perfectly secret will indeed be best."
"Yes; if you wish it. That will please me, too. Only papa need know of
it, and----James Scrope."
"And why Sir James?" with a scrutinizing gaze.
"Why?"--with some surprise. "Well, I suppose because papa and I never
do anything important without telling him of it. He is quite our
oldest friend. We should hardly get on now without Jim."
"Not so old, either. I hope, by and by, you will be able to manage
without Sir James as a father-confessor."
"By and by I shall have you," says Clarissa, sweetly, with a smile and
a soft blush.
"True! I wonder if you will find that sufficient? I doubt I'm half
such a good fellow, Clarissa, as you believe me."
In which he comes nearer the truth than he ever came before.
"You are good enough for me," says Clarissa, with fond conviction.
"Will you come with me as far as the vicarage? I must go there to-day,
and the walk is such a pretty one, and,"--with a little happy
laugh,--"now you are quite my own property, I think I should like to
make use of you. Look! there is Ruth Annersley standing at her gate.
Good-morning, Ruth! What a charming day, is it not? after all
yesterday's rain!"
Ruth--who, the moment before, had made a faint movement as though she
would willingly have stepped behind the huge rose-bush nearest to her
and so have escaped observation--comes slowly forward. She is pale;
but the intense heat of the day makes itself felt by all, and has
deprived even Miss Peyton's cheeks of some of their usual warmth. She
accepts Clarissa's proffered hand, and smiles a faint welcome. But
when Horace would, too, have shaken hands with her, she declines to
see his meaning, and, bowing slightly, turns aside to listen to his
companion's words.
"Were you raking your walks?" asks Clarissa, idly, leaning on the
gate, and gazing down the trim-gravelled path that leads to the
ivy-clad cottage beyond. "Nobody's walks are ever as clean as yours, I
think. And your roses are something too delicious, far better than our
out-door flowers at Gowran. And so late in the season, too!"
"May I give you one?" says Ruth, dimpling prettily at her praise.
"Thank you. How sweet they are! No, no, Horace, that is altogether too
large for your coat. Ruth, will you give Mr. Branscombe a tiny bud?
That one over there, for instance."
"I don't think I see it," says Ruth, quietly. She has grown pale
again, and her lips have lost a little of the childish petulant pout
that characterizes them.
"Just over there. Don't you see? Why, you are almost looking at it,
you stupid child."
"I am stupid, I am afraid,"--with a faint smile. "Come in, Miss
Peyton, and gather it yourself." She opens the gate, with a sort of
determination in her manner, and Clarissa, going up to the rose-tree,
plucks the delicate blossom in dispute. Horace has followed her inside
the gate, but, turning rather to the left, falls apparently in love
with an artless white rose-bud that waves gently to and fro upon its
stem, as though eager to attract and rivet admiration.
"I think I prefer this flower, after all," he says, lightly. "May I
ask you to give it to me, Ruth?" His manner is quite easy, very nearly
indifferent, and his back is turned to Clarissa. But his eyes are on
Ruth; and the girl, though with open reluctance and ill-repressed
defiance, is compelled to pick the white rose and give it to him.
"Well, I really don't think you have shown very good taste," says
Clarissa, examining the two flowers. "Mine is the most perfect.
Nevertheless, I suppose wilful man must have his way. Let me settle it
in your coat for you."
Almost as she speaks, the flower drops accidentally from her fingers;
and, both she and Horace making a step forward to recover it, by some
awkward chance they tread on it, and crush the poor, frail little
thing out of all shape. It lies upon the gravel, broken and
disfigured, yet very sweet in death.
"You trod on it," says Horace, rather quickly, to Clarissa.
"No, dear; I really think--indeed I am sure--it was you," returns she,
calmly, but with conviction.
"It doesn't matter: it was hardly worth a discussion," says Ruth, with
an odd laugh. "See how poor a thing it looks now; and, yet, a moment
since it was happy on its tree."
"Never mind, Horace: this is really a charming little bud," says
Clarissa, gayly, holding out the rose of her own choosing: "at least
you must try to be content with it. Good-by, Ruth; come up to Gowran
some day soon, and take those books you asked for the other day."
"Thank you, Miss Peyton. I shall come soon."
"Good-by," says Horace.
"Good-by," returns she. But it is to Clarissa, not to him, she
addresses the word of farewell.
When the mill has been left some distance behind them, and Ruth's
slight figure, clad in its white gown, has ceased to be a fleck of
coloring in the landscape, Clarissa says, thoughtfully,--
"What a pretty girl that is, and how refined! Quite a little lady in
manner; so calm, and so collected,--cold, almost. I know many girls,
irreproachably born, not to be compared with her, in my opinion. You
agree with me?"
"Birth is not always to be depended upon nowadays."
"She is so quiet, too, and so retiring. She would not even shake hands
with you, when we met her, though you wanted her to. Did you remark
that?"
"Sometimes I am dull about trifles, such as that."
"Yes. By the by, she did not seem surprised at seeing you here to-day,
although she thought you safe in town, as we all did,--you deceitful
boy."
"Did she not?"
"No. But then, of course, it was a matter of indifference to her."
"Of course."
They have reached the entrance to the vicarage by this time, and are
pausing to say farewell for a few hours.
"I shall come up to Gowran to-morrow morning first thing, and speak to
your father: is that what you will wish me to do?" asks Horace, her
hand in his.
"Yes. But, Horace," looking at him earnestly, "I think I should like
to tell it all to papa myself first, this evening."
"Very well, dearest. Do whatever makes you happiest," returns he,
secretly pleased that the ice will be broken for him before his
prepares for his _mauvais quart-d'heure_ in the library. "And if he
should refuse his consent, Clarissa, what then? You know you might
make so much a better marriage."
"Might I?"--tenderly. "I don't think so; and papa would not make me
unhappy."