"When there is a great deal of smoke, and no clear flame, it
argues much moisture in the matter, yet it witnesseth,
certainly, that there is fire there."--LEIGHTON.
Long before the night has set in he comes; and, as he enters the room
where his uncle sits awaiting him, Lord Sartoris tells himself that
never before has he seen him so handsome, so tall, so good to look at.
"Your telegram made me uneasy," he says, abruptly, "so I came back
sooner than I had intended. Had you mine?"
"Yes; some hours ago."
"Did you want me, Arthur?"
"Yes; but not your return here. I sent my telegram principally to
learn your address, as I had made up my mind to go up to town. You
have frustrated that plan."
There is a meaning in his tone that puzzles Dorian.
"You going to trust yourself alone in our great Babylon?" he says,
raising his brows. "Why, the world must be coming to an end. What
business had you there that I could not have managed for you?"
"My business was with you."
"Anything wrong?" says the young man, impatiently, tapping a table
lightly with his fingers, and frowning somewhat heavily. "Your tone
implies as much. Has anything happened in my absence to cause you
annoyance? If so, let me know at once, and spare me any beating about
the bush. Suspense is unpleasant."
"It is," says Sartoris, rising from his chair, and moving a few steps
nearer to him. "It is slowly murdering poor old John Annersley!"
"I am still hopelessly in the dark," says Dorian, shrugging his
shoulders. "What has suspense got to do with old Annersley?"
"Are you really ignorant of all that has occurred? Have you not heard
of Ruth's mysterious disappearance?"
"'Ruth's disappearance?' I have heard nothing. Why, where can she have
gone?"
"That is exactly what no one knows, except she herself, of course,
and--one other." Then, turning impulsively to face his nephew, "I
thought you could have told me where she is," he says, without giving
himself time to think of all the words may convey to Dorian.
"What do you mean?" demands Branscombe, throwing up his head, and
flushing darkly. His eyes flash, his nostrils dilate. "Am I to infer
from your last remark that you suspect _me_ of having something to do
with her disappearance?"
"I do," returns Sartoris, slowly, but with his eyes upon the ground.
"How can I do otherwise when I call to mind all the causes you have
given me to doubt you? Have you forgotten that day, now some months
ago, when I met you and that unhappy girl together on the road to the
village? I, at least, shall never forget the white misery of her face,
and the unmistakable confusion in her manner, as I greeted her. Even
then the truth began to dawn upon me."
"The truth?" says Branscombe, with a short and bitter laugh.
"At that time I was unwilling to harbor unkind doubts of you in my
breast," goes on Sartoris, unmoved, nay, rather confirmed in his
suspicions by Branscombe's sneer; "but then came the night of the Hunt
ball, when I met you, alone with her, in the most secluded part of the
grounds, and when you were unable to give me any reasonable
explanation of her presence there; and then, a little later, I find a
handkerchief (which you yourself acknowledge having given her) lying
on your library floor; about that, too, you were dumb: no excuse was
ready to your lips. By your own actions I judge you."
"Your suspicions make you unjust, my lord," says the young man,
haughtily. "They overrule your better judgment. Are such paltry
evidences as you have just put forward sufficient to condemn me, or
have you further proofs?"
"I have,--a still stronger one than any other I have mentioned. The
last place in which Ruth Annersley was seen in this neighborhood was
in Hurston Wood, at eight o'clock on the evening of her departure,
and--you were with her!"
"_I_ was?"
"The man who saw you will swear to this."
"He must be rather a clever fellow. I congratulate you on your 'man.'"
"Do you deny it?" There is something that is almost hope in his tone.
"If not there last Tuesday, at that hour, where were you?"
"Well, really, it would take me all my time to remember. Probably
dining: got to my fish by that time, no doubt. Later on I was at Lady
Chetwoode's crush; but that"--with a sarcastic laugh--"is a very safe
thing to say, is it not? One can hardly prove the presence of any one
at a gathering together of the clans, such as there was at her 'at
home.' I _wouldn't_ believe I was there, if I were you."
He laughs again. Sartoris flushes hotly all over his lean earnest
face.
"It is needless lying," he says, slowly. "The very coat you wore--a
light overcoat,--probably" (pointing to it) "the one you are now
wearing--was accurately described." Dorian starts visibly. "Do you
still hope to brave it out?"
"A coat like this, do you say?" asks Branscombe, with a nervous
attempt at unconcern, laying his hand upon his sleeve.
"A light overcoat. Such was the description. But" (with a longing that
is terribly pathetic) "many overcoats are alike. And--and I dare say
you have not worn that one for months."
"Yes, I have. I wear it incessantly: I have taken rather a fancy to
it," replies Branscombe, in an uncompromising tone. "My persistent
admiration for it has driven my tailor to despair. I very seldom
(except, perhaps, at midnight revels or afternoon bores) appear in
public without it."
"Then you deny nothing?"
"Nothing!"--contemptuously, making a movement as though to depart.
"Why should I? If, after all these years that you have known me, you
can imagine me capable of evil such as you describe so graphically, it
would give me no pleasure to vindicate myself in your eyes. Think of
me as you will: I shall take no steps to justify myself."
"You dare not!" says Sartoris, in a stifled tone, confronting him
fully for the first time.
"That is just as you please to think," says Branscombe, turning upon
him with flashing eyes. He frowns heavily, and, with a little gesture
common to him, raises his hand and pushes the end of his fair
moustache between his teeth. Then, with a sudden effort, he controls
himself, and goes on more quietly: "I shall always feel regret in that
you found it so easy a matter to believe me guilty of so monstrous a
deed. I think we can have nothing further to say to each other, either
now or in the future. I wish you good-evening."
Sartoris, standing with his back almost turned to his nephew, takes no
heed of this angry farewell; and Dorian, going out, closes the door
calmly behind him.
Passing through the Long Hall, as it has been called from time
immemorial, he encounters Simon Gale, the old butler, and stops to
speak to him, kindly, as is his wont, though in truth his heart is
sore.
"Ah, Simon! How warm the weather grows!" he says, genially brushing
his short hair back from his forehead. The attempt is praiseworthy, as
really there is no hair to speak of, his barber having provided
against that. He speaks kindly, carelessly--if a little wearily. His
pulses are throbbing, and his heart beating hotly with passionate
indignation and disappointment.
"Very warm, sir," returns the old man, regarding him wistfully. He is
not thinking of the weather, either of its heat or cold. He is only
wondering, with a foreboding sadness, whether the man before him--who
has been to him as the apple of his eye--is guilty or not of the crime
imputed to him. With an effort he recovers himself, and asks, hastily,
though almost without purpose, "Have you seen my lord?"
"Yes; I have only just left him."
"You will stay to dinner, Mr. Dorian?" He has been "Mr. Dorian" to him
for so many years that now the more formal Mr. Branscombe is
impossible.
"Not to-night. Some other time when my uncle--" He pauses.
"You think him looking well?" asks the old man, anxiously, mistaking
his hesitation.
"Well! Oh, that doesn't describe him," says Branscombe, with a shrug,
and a somewhat ironical laugh. "He struck me as being unusually
lively,--in fact, 'strong as Boreas on the main.' I thought him very
well indeed."
"Ay, he is so! A godly youth brings a peaceful age; and his was that.
He has lived a good life, and now is reaping his reward."
"Is he?" says Dorian, with a badly-suppressed yawn. "Of course I was
mistaken, but really it occurred to me that he was in an abominable
temper. Is a desire to insult every one part of the reward?"
"You make light of what I say," returns Simon, reproachfully, "yet it
is the very truth I speak. He has no special sin to repent, no lasting
misdeed to haunt him, as years creep on. It were well to think of it,"
says Simon, with a trembling voice, "while youth is still with us. To
you it yet belongs. If you have done aught amiss, I entreat you to
confess, and make amends for it, whilst there is yet time."
Dorian, laying his hands upon the old servant's shoulders, pushes him
gently backwards, so that he may look the more readily into his face.
"Why, Simon! How absolutely in earnest you are!" he says, lightly.
"What crime have I committed, that I should spend the rest of my days
in sackcloth and ashes!"
"I know nothing," says old Gale, sadly. "How should I be wiser than my
masters? All I feel is that youth is careless and headstrong, and
things once done are difficult of undoing. If you would go to your
grave happy, keep yourself from causing misery to those who love you
and--_trust_ in you."
His voice sinks, and grows tremulous. Dorian, taking his hands from
his shoulders, moves back from the old man, and regards him
meditatively, stroking his fair moustache slowly, in a rather
mechanical fashion, as he does so.
"The whole world seems dyspeptic to-day," he says, ironically. Then,
"It would be such a horrid bore to make any one miserable that I
daresay I sha'n't try it. If, however, I do commit the mysterious
serious offence at which you broadly hint, and of which you plainly
believe me fully capable, I'll let you know about it."
He smiles again,--a jarring sort of smile, that hardly accords with
the beauty of the dying day,--and, moving away from the old man,
crosses the oaken flooring to the glass door that lies at the farther
end of the room, and that opens on to a gravelled path outside, on
which lilacs are flinging broadcast their rich purple bloom. As he
moves, with a pale face and set lips (for the bitter smile has faded),
he tramples ruthlessly, and without thought for their beauty, upon the
deep soft patches of coloring that are strewn upon the flooring from
the stained-glass windows above.
Throwing open the door, he welcomes gladly the cool evening air that
seems to rush to meet him.
"Pah!" he says, almost aloud, as he strides onwards beneath the
budding elms. "To think, after all these years, they should so readily
condemn! Even that old man, who has known me from my infancy, believes
me guilty."
Then a change sweeps over him. Insults to himself are forgotten, and
his thoughts travel onward to a fear that for many days has been
growing and gaining strength.
_Can_ Horace have committed this base deed? This fear usurps all other
considerations. Going back upon what he has just heard, he examines in
his mind each little detail of the wretched history imparted to him by
his uncle. All the suspicions--lulled to rest through lack of matter
wherewith to feed them--now come to life again, and grow in size and
importance in spite of his intense desire to suppress them.
On Tuesday night the girl had left her home. On Tuesday morning he had
been to Horace's rooms, had found him there, had sat and conversed
with him for upwards of an hour on different subjects,--chiefly, he
now remembers, of Clarissa Peyton.
The day had been warm, and he had taken off his coat (the light
overcoat he had affected for the past month), and had thrown it on a
chair, and--_left it there when going_!
The next morning he had called again and found the coat in the very
self-same place where he had thrown it. But in the mean time, during
all the hours that intervened between the afternoon of one day and the
forenoon of another, where had it been?
"The very coat you wore was minutely described."--The words come back
upon him with a sudden rush, causing him a keener pang than any he has
ever yet known. Must he indeed bring himself to believe that his own
brother had made use of the coat with the deliberate intention (should
chance fling any intruder in the way) of casting suspicion upon
him--Dorian?
In the dusk of the evening any one might easily mistake one brother
for the other. They are the same height; the likeness between them is
remarkable. He almost hates himself for the readiness with which he
pieces his story together, making doubt merge with such entirety into
conviction.
The evening is passing fair, yet it brings no comfort to his soul; the
trees towering upwards lie heavily against the sky; the breath of many
flowers makes rich the air. Already the faint moon arising, throws
her "silver light o'er half the world," and makes more blue the azure
depths above:
"Star follows star, though yet day's golden light
Upon the hills and headlands faintly streams."
The far-off grating sound of the corncrake can be heard; the cuckoo's
tuneless note, incessant and unmusical, tires the early night. The
faint sweet chirrups of many insects come from far and near, and break
upon the sense with a soft and lulling harmony:
"There is no stir, nor breath of air; the plains
Lie slumbering in the close embrace of night."
All nature seems sinking into one grand repose, wherein strife and
misery and death appear to have no part.
To Dorian the tender solemnity of the scene brings no balm. To go
again to town by the night mail--to confront Horace and learn from him
the worst--is his one settled thought, among the multitude of
disordered ones; and upon it he determines to act.
But what if he shall prove innocent, or deny all knowledge of the
affair? What then can clear Dorian in his uncle's eyes? And even
should he acknowledge the fact that he had enticed the girl from her
home, how can it benefit Dorian? He is scarcely the one to defend
himself at another's expense; and to betray Horace to clear himself
would be impossible to him.
He grows bewildered and heart-sick. Reaching home, he orders his
dog-cart to be brought round, and, by taking it a good deal out of his
good gray mare, he manages to catch the evening train to town.
Lord Sartoris, sitting brooding over miserable thoughts in the library
at Hythe, has tidings brought him of his nephew's speedy return to
London, and endures one stab the more, as he feels now more than ever
convinced of his duplicity.
Arrived in town, Branscombe drives to Horace's rooms, hoping against
hope that he may find him at home. To his surprise he does so find
him,--in the midst of papers, and apparently up to his eyes in
business.
"Working so late?" says Dorian, involuntarily, being accustomed to
think of Horace, at this hour, as one of a chosen band brought
together to discuss the lighter topics of the day over soup and fish
and flesh. In truth, now he is on the spot and face to face with his
brother, the enormity of his errand makes itself felt, and he hardly
knows what to say to him.
"You, Dorian?" Horace, raising his eyes, smiles upon him his usual
slow impenetrable smile. "Working? Yes; we others, the moneyless ones,
must work or die; and death is unpopular nowadays. Still, law is dry
work when all is confessed." He presses his hand to his forehead with
affected languor, and for an instant conceals his face. "By the by, it
is rather good of you to break in so unexpectedly upon my monotony.
Anything I can do for you?"
"Let me speak to you," says Dorian, impulsively, laying his hand upon
his arm. "If I am wronging you in my thoughts I shall never forgive
myself, and you, in all probability, will never forgive me either; yet
I must get it off my mind."
"My dear fellow, how you have flung away undoubted talent! Your tone
out-Irvings Irving: it is ultra-tragic. Positively, you make my blood
run cold. Don't stand staring at me in that awful attitude, but tell
me, as briefly as you can, what I have done."
He laughs lightly.
Dorian regards him fixedly. Has he wronged him? Has instinct played
him false?
"Where is Ruth Annersley?" he asks, awkwardly, as though getting rid
of the question at any price and without preamble. He has still his
hand upon his brother's arm, and his eyes upon his face.
"Ruth Annersley?" reiterates Horace, the most perfect amazement in his
tone. If purposely done, the surprise is very excellent indeed. "Why?
What has happened to her?"
"Have you heard nothing?"
"My dear fellow, how could I? I have not been near Pullingham for a
full month; and its small gossips fail to interest our big city. What
has happened?"
"The girl has left her home; has not been heard of since last Tuesday.
They fear she has wilfully flung up happiness and honor to
gain--misery."
"What a charitable place is a small village!" says Horace, with a
shrug. "Why should the estimable Pullinghamites imagine so much evil?
Perhaps, finding life in that stagnate hole unendurable, Ruth threw up
the whole concern, and is now seeking a subsistence honorably.
Perhaps, too, she has married. Perhaps----"
"Why do you not suppose her dead?" says Dorian, tapping the table with
his forefinger, his eyes fixed moodily on the pattern of the
maroon-colored cloth. "All such speculations are equally absurd. I
hardly came to London to listen to such vain imaginings."
"Then--I think I barely understand you," says Horace, amicably; "you
came because----?"
"Because I fancied I had here the best chance of hearing about her,"
interrupts Dorian, bluntly, losing patience a little.
"How fearfully you blunder!" returns Horace, still quite calmly,--nay,
in even a tone that might be called amused. "If you mean that I have
had anything to do with her vamoose, I beg to say your imagination has
run wild. You can search the place if you like. The old lady who
attends to my wants will probably express some faint disapprobation
when you invade the sanctity of her chamber, but beyond that no
unpleasantness need be anticipated. This is her favorite hour for
imbibing brandy--_my_ brandy, you will understand (she takes it merely
as a tonic, being afflicted--as she tells me--with what she is pleased
to term 'nightly trimbles'): so if, in the course of your wanderings,
you chance to meet her, and she openly molests you, don't blame me."
"Is that all you can tell me?"
"All about my old lady, certainly."
"And of Ruth?"
"I know nothing, as _you_ should understand." He laughs significantly.
"What do you mean?" demands Dorian, a little fiercely. His eyes are
dark and flashing, his lips compressed.
"What can I mean, except that you are ridiculously absurd?" says
Horace, rising. "What is it you expect me to say? I can't get you out
of it. I always knew you had a _penchant_ for her, but never thought
it would carry you so far. If you will take my advice, however, you
will be milder about it, and take that look off your face. If you go
in for society with that cut-up expression in your eyes, people will
talk."
"Then you know nothing?" repeats Branscombe, taking no notice
of--perhaps not even hearing--the foregoing speech.
"Absolutely nothing. How should I?" says Horace, with his soft smooth
smile. "Have a brandy-and-soda, Dorian, or a little curacoa? Perhaps,
indeed, the brandy will be best (always allowing Mrs. McGinty has left
me any), you look so thoroughly done up."
"Thank you,--nothing." He gazes at his brother long and earnestly.
"The Branscombe word _ought_ to be sure," he says, moodily.
"Still unconvinced!" says Horace, with an airy laugh. "I know I ought
to take you by the shoulders, Dorian, and pitch you down the stairs;
but, somehow, I haven't the pluck to-night. I am overdone through this
abominable law, and--you are such a tremendous fellow when compared
with me. Must you really be off so soon? Stay and have a cup of
coffee? No? Well, if it must be, good-night."
Dorian goes down the stairs,--puzzled, bewildered, almost convinced.
At the foot of the staircase he looks up again, to see Horace standing
above him still, candle in hand, radiant, smiling, _debonnaire_,
apparently without a care in the world.
He nods to him, and Dorian, returning the salute in grave and silent
fashion, goes out into the lighted streets, and walks along in
momentary expectation of a hansom, when a well known voice smites upon
his ear:
"What in the name of wonder, Branscombe, brings you here?"
Turning, he finds himself face to face with Sir James Scrope.
"My presence is hardly an eighth wonder," he says, wearily. "But how
is it you are not in Paris?"
"Fate ordained it so, and probably fortune, as I just want a friend
with whom to put in an evening."
"You have chosen a dull companion," says Dorian, stupidly. "What
brought you home so soon? or, rather, what took you to Paris
originally?"
"Business partly, and partly because--er--that is, I felt I needed a
little change."
"Ah! just so," says Branscombe. But he answers as one might who has
heard nothing. Sir James casts upon him a quick penetrating glance.
"Anything wrong with you, Branscombe?" he asks, quietly. "Anything in
which I can be of use to you?"
"Thank you, no. I'm just a little down on my luck, that's all." Then,
abruptly, "I suppose you have heard of the scandal down in
Pullingham?"
"About that poor little girl?" says Sir James. "Oh, yes. 'Ill news
flies apace;' and this morning Hodges, who came to town to see me
about Bennett's farm, gave me a garbled account of her disappearance.
I think I hardly understand even now. How did it happen?"
For a full minute Dorian makes no reply. He is looking earnestly in
James Scrope's face, to see if in it there lurks any hidden thought,
any carefully concealed expression of mistrust. There is, indeed,
none. No shadow, no faintest trace of suspicion, lies in Scrope's
clear and honest eyes. Branscombe draws a deep breath. Whatever in the
future this friend may come to believe, now, at least, he holds
him--Dorian--clear and pure from this gross evil that has been imputed
to him.
He throws up his head with a freer air, and tries, with a quick
effort, to conquer the morbid feeling that for hours past has been
pressing upon him heavily.
"I know nothing," he says, presently, in answer to Sir James's last
remark.
"It is such an unaccountable story," says Scrope, lifting his brows.
"Where did she go? and with whom? Such a quiet little mouse of a girl,
one hardly understands her being the heroine of a tragedy. But how
does it particularly affect you?"
Branscombe hesitates. For one brief moment he wonders whether he shall
or shall not reveal to Scrope the scene that has passed between him
and his uncle. Then his whole sympathies revolt from the task, and he
determines to let things rest as they now are.
"Arthur has tormented himself needlessly about the whole business," he
says, turning his face from Scrope. "He thinks me--that is, every
one--to blame, until the girl is restored to her father."
"Ah! I quite see," says James Scrope.