"Lock you, how she cometh, trilling
Out her gay heart's bird-like bliss!
Merry as a May-morn thrilling
With the dew and sunshine's kiss.
* * * * *
Ruddy gossips of her beauty
Are her twin cheeks; and her mouth,
In its ripe warmth, smileth fruity
As a garden of the south."--GERALD MASSEY.
To Georgie the life at the vicarage is quite supportable,--is, indeed,
balm to her wounded spirit. Mrs. Redmond may, of course, chop and
change as readily as the east wind, and, in fact, may sit in any
quarter, being somewhat erratic in her humors; but they are
short-lived; and, if faintly trying, she is at least kindly and tender
at heart.
As for the vicar, he is--as Miss Georgie tells him, even without a
blush--"simply adorable;" and the children are sweet good-natured
little souls, true-hearted and earnest, to whom the loss of an empire
would be as dross in comparison with the gain of a friend.
They are young!
To Dorian Branscombe, Miss Broughton is "a thing of beauty, and a joy
forever; her loveliness increases" each moment, rendering her more
dear. Perhaps he himself hardly knows how dear she is to his heart,
though day after day he haunts the vicarage, persecuting the vicar
with parochial business of an outside sort. It ought, indeed, to be
"had in remembrance," the amount of charity this young man expended
upon the poor during all this early part of the year.
Then there is always Sunday, when he sits opposite to her in the old
church, watching her pretty mischievous little face meditatively
throughout the service, and listening to her perfect voice as it
rises, clear and full of pathos, in anthem and in hymn.
The spring has come at last, though tardy and slow in its approach.
Now--
"Buds are bursting on the brier,
And all the kindled greenery glows
And life hath richest overflows,
And morning fields are fringed with fire."
Winter is almost forgotten. The snow and frost and ice are as a dream
that was told. No one heeds them now, or thinks of them, or feels
aught about them, save a sudden chill that such things might have
been.
To-day is beautiful beyond compare. The sun is high in the heavens;
the birds are twittering and preening their soft feathers in the
yellow light that Phoebus flings broadcast upon the loving earth. The
flowers are waking slowly into life, and stud the mossy woods with
colorings distinct though faint:
"Nooks of greening gloom
Are rich with violets that bloom
In the cool dark of dewy leaves."
Primroses, too, are all alive, and sit staring at the heavens with
their soft eyes, as though in their hearts they feel they are earth's
stars. Each subtle green is widening, growing. All nature has arisen
from its long slumber, and "beauty walks in bravest dress."
Coming up the road, Dorian meets Georgie Broughton, walking with quick
steps, and in evident haste, towards the vicarage. She is lilting some
merry little song of her own fancy, and has her hat pushed well back
from her forehead, so that all her sunny hair can be seen. It is a
lovely hat,--inexpensive, perhaps, but lovely, nevertheless, in that
it is becoming to the last degree. It is a great big hat, like a
coal-scuttle,--as scuttles used to be,--and gives her all the
appearance of being the original of one of Kate Greenaway's charming
impersonations.
"Good-morning," says Dorian, though, in truth, he hardly takes to
heart the full beauty of the fair morning that has been sent, so rapt
he is in joy at the very sight of her. "Going back to the vicarage
now?"
"Yes." She is smiling sweetly at him,--the little, kind, indifferent
smile that comes so readily to her red lips.
"Well, so am I," says Dorian, turning to accompany her.
Miss Broughton glances at him demurely.
"You can't want to go to the vicarage again?" she says, lifting her
brows.
"How do you know I have been there at all to-day?" says Dorian.
"Oh, because you are always there, aren't you?" says Georgie,
shrugging her shoulders, and biting a little flower she has been
holding, into two clean halves.
"As you know so much, perhaps you also know _why_ I am always there,"
says Branscombe, who is half amused, half offended, by her wilfulness.
"No, I don't," replies she, easily, turning her eyes, for the first
time, full upon his. "Tell me."
She is quite calm, quite composed; there is even the very faintest
touch of malice beneath her long lashes. Dorian colors perceptibly. Is
she coquette, or unthinking, or merely mischievous?
"No, not now," he says, slowly. "I hardly think you would care to
hear. Some day, if I may--. What a very charming hat you have on
to-day!"
She smiles again,--what true woman can resist a compliment--and
blushes faintly, but very sweetly, until all her face is like a pale
"rosebud brightly blowing."
"This old hat?" she says, with a small attempt at scorn and a very
well got-up belief that she has misunderstood him: "why, it has seen
the rise and fall of many generations. You can't mean _this_ hat?"
"Yes, I do. To me it is the most beautiful hat in the world, no matter
how many happy generations have been permitted to gaze upon it. It is
yours!"
"Oh, yes; I bought it in the dark ages," says Miss Broughton,
disdaining to notice the insinuation, and treating his last remark as
a leading question. "I am glad you like it."
"Are you? I like something else, too: I mean your voice."
"It is too minor,--too discontented, my aunt used to say."
"Your aunt seems to have said a good deal in her time. She reminds me
of Butler's talker: 'Her tongue is always in motion, though very
seldom to the purpose;' and again, 'She is a walking pillory, and
punishes more ears than a dozen standing ones.' But I wasn't talking
exactly of your everyday voice: I meant your singing: it is quite
perfect."
"Two compliments in five minutes!" says Miss Georgie, calmly. Then,
changing her tone with dazzling, because unexpected, haste, she says,
"Nothing pleases me so much as having my singing praised. Do you
know," with hesitation,--"I suppose--I am afraid it is very great
vanity on my part, but I love my own voice. It is like a friend to
me,--the thing I love best on earth."
"Are you always going to love it best on earth?"
"Ah! Well, that, perhaps, was an exaggeration. I love Clarissa. I am
happier with her than with any one else. You"--meditatively--"love her
too?"
"Yes, very much indeed. But I know somebody else with whom I am even
happier."
"Well, that is the girl you are going to marry, I suppose," says
Georgia, easily,--so easily that Dorian feels a touch of
disappointment, that is almost pain, fall on his heart. "But as for
Clarissa,"--in a puzzled tone,--"I cannot understand her. She is going
to marry a man utterly unsuited to her. I met him at the ball the
other night, and"--thoughtlessly--"I don't like him."
"Poor Horace!" says Dorian, rather taken aback. Then she remembers,
and is in an instant covered with shame and confusion.
"I beg your pardon," she says, hurriedly. "I quite forgot. It never
occurred to me he was your brother,--never, really. You believe me,
don't you? And don't think me rude. I am not"--plaintively--"naturally
rude, and--and, after all,"--with an upward glance full of honest
liking,--"he is not a _bit_ like _you_!"
"If you don't like him, I am glad you think he isn't," says Dorian;
"but Horace is a very good fellow all through, and I fancy you are a
little unjust to him."
"Oh, not unjust," says Georgie, softly. "I have not accused him of any
failing; it is only that something in my heart says to me, 'Don't like
him.'"
"Does something in your heart ever say to you, '_Like_ some one'?"
"Very often." She is (to confess the honest truth) just a little bit
coquette at heart, so that when she says this she lifts her exquisite
eyes (that always seem half full of tears) to his for as long as it
would take him to know they had been there, and then lowers them. "I
shall have to hurry," she says; "it is my hour for Amy's
music-lesson."
"Do you like teaching?" asks he, idly, more for the sake of hearing
her plaintive voice again, than from any great desire to know.
"Like it?" She stops short on the pretty woodland path, and confronts
him curiously: "Now, do you _think_ I could like it? I don't, then! I
perfectly hate it! The perpetual over and over again, the knowledge
that to-morrow will always be as to-day, the feeling that one can't
get away from it, is maddening. And then there are the mistakes, and
the false notes, and everything. What a question to ask me! Did any
one ever like it, I wonder!"
There is some passion, and a great deal of petulance, in her tone; and
her lovely flower-like face flushes warmly, and there is something
besides in her expression that is reproachful. Dorian begins to hate
himself. How could he have asked her such a senseless question? He
hesitates, hardly knowing what to say to her, so deep is his sympathy;
and so, before he has time to decide on any course, she speaks again.
"It is so monotonous," she says, wearily. "One goes to bed only to get
up again; and one gets up with no expectation of change except to go
to bed again."
"'One dem'd horrid grind,'" quotes Mr. Branscombe, in a low tone. He
is filled with honest pity for her. Instinctively he puts out his
hand, and takes one of hers, and presses it ever so gently. "Poor
child!" he says, from his heart. To him, with her baby face, and her
odd impulsive manner, that changes and varies with every thought, she
is merely a child.
She looks at him, and shakes her head.
"You must not think me unhappy," she says, hastily. "I am not that. I
was twice as unhappy before I came here. Everybody now is so kind to
me,--Clarissa, and the Redmonds, and"--with another glance from under
the long lashes--"you, and----Mr. Hastings."
"The curate?" says Dorian, in such a tone as compels Miss Broughton,
on the instant, to believe that he and Mr. Hastings are at deadly
feud.
"I thought you knew him," she says, with some hesitation.
"I have met him," returns he, "generally, I think, on tennis-grounds.
He can run about a good deal, but it seems a pity to waste a good bat
on him. He never hits a ball by any chance, and as for serving--I
don't think I swore for six months until the last time I met him."
"Why, what did he do?"
"More than I can recall in a hurry. For one thing, he drank more tea
than any four people together that ever I knew."
"Was that all? I see no reason why any one should be ashamed of liking
tea."
"Neither do I. On the contrary, one should be proud of it. It betrays
such meekness, such simplicity, such contentment. I myself am not fond
of tea,--a fact I deplore morning, noon, and night."
"It is a mere matter of education," says Georgie, laughing. "I used
not to care for it, except at breakfast, and now I love it."
"Do you? I wish with all my heart I was good souchong," says Mr.
Branscombe, at which she laughs again.
"One can't have all one's desires," she says. "Now, with me music is a
passion; yet I have never heard any of the great singers of the age.
Isn't that hard?"
"For you it must be, indeed. But how is it you haven't?"
"Because I have no time, no money, no--no anything."
"What a hesitation! Tell me what the 'anything' stands for."
"Well, I meant no home,--that is, no husband, I suppose," says
Georgie. She is quite unconcerned, and smiles at him very prettily as
she says it. Of the fact that he is actually in love with her, she is
totally unaware.
"That is a regret likely to be of short standing," he says, his eyes
on hers. But her thoughts are far away, and she hardly heeds the
warmth of his gaze or the evident meaning in his tone.
"I suppose if I did marry somebody he would take me to hear all the
great people?" she says, a little doubtfully, looking at him as though
for confirmation of her hope.
"I should think he would take you wherever you wanted to go, and to
hear whatever you wished to hear," he says, slowly.
"What a charming picture you conjure up!" says Georgie, looking at
him. "You encourage me. The very first rich man that asks me to marry
him, I shall say 'Yes' to."
"You have made up your mind, then, to marry for money?" He is watching
her closely, and his brow has contracted a good deal, and his lips
show some pain.
"I have made up my mind to nothing. Perhaps I haven't one to make
up,"--lightly. "But I hate teaching, and I hate being poor. That is
all. But we were not talking of that. We were thinking of Mr.
Hastings. At all events, you must confess he reads well, and that is
something! Almost everybody reads badly."
"They do," says Branscombe, meekly. "I do. Unless in words of one
syllable, I can't read at all. So the curate has the pull over me
there. Indeed, I begin to feel myself nowhere beside the curate. He
can read well, and drink tea well, and I can't do either."
"Why, here we are at the vicarage," says Georgie, in a tone of
distinct surprise, that is flattering to the last degree. "I didn't
think we were half so close to it. I am so glad I met you, because, do
you know, the walk hasn't seemed nearly so long as usual. Well,
good-by."
"May I have those violets?" says Branscombe, pointing to a little
bunch of those fair comers of the spring that lies upon her breast.
"You may," she says, detaching them from her gown and giving them to
him willingly, kindly, but without a particle of the tender confusion
he would gladly have seen in her. "They are rather faded," she says,
with some disappointment; "you could have picked yourself a sweeter
bunch on your way home."
"I hardly think so."
"Well, good-by again," she says, turning up to him the most bewitching
and delicious of small faces, "and be sure you put my poor flowers in
water. They will live the longer for it."
"They shall live forever. A hundred years hence, were you to ask me
where they were, I swear I should be able to show them."
"A very safe oath," says Miss Broughton; and then she gives him her
hand, and parts from him, and runs all the way down the short avenue
to the house, leaving him to turn and go on to Gowran.