"But sweeter still than this, than these, than all,
Is first and passionate love: it stands alone."--BYRON.
Next day is born, lives, grows, deepens; and, as the first cold breath
of even declares itself, Dorian rides down the avenue that leads to
Gowran.
Miss Peyton is not at home (he has asked first for her, as in duty
bound), and Miss Broughton is in the grounds somewhere. This is vague.
The man offers warmly to discover her and bring her back to the house
to receive Mr. Branscombe; but this Mr. Branscombe will not permit.
Having learned the direction in which she is gone, he follows it, and
glides into a region wherein only fairies should have right to dwell.
A tangled mass of grass, and blackberry, and fern; a dying sunlight,
deep and tender; soft beds of tawny moss. Myriad bluebells are alive,
and, spreading themselves, far and wide, in one rich carpeting (whose
color puts to shame the pale blue of the heavenly vault above), make
one harmonious blending with their green straight leaves.
Far as the eye can reach they spread, and, as the light and wanton
wind stoops to caress them, shake their tiny bells with a coquettish
grace, and fling forth perfume to him with a lavish will.
The solemn trees, that "seem to hold mystical converse with each
other," look down upon the tranquil scene that, season after season,
changes, fades away, and dies, only to return again, fairer and
fresher than of yore. The fir-trees tower upwards, and gleam
green-black against the sky. Upon some topmost boughs the birds are
chanting a paean of their own; while through this "wilderness of
sweets"--far down between its deep banks (that are rich with trailing
ivy and drooping bracken)--runs a stream, a slow, delicious, lazy
stream, that glides now over its moss-grown stones, and anon flashes
through some narrow ravine dark and profound. As it runs it babbles
fond love-songs to the pixies that, perchance, are peeping out at it,
through their yellow tresses, from shady curves and sun-kissed
corners.
It is one of May's divinest efforts,--a day to make one glad and feel
that it is well to be alive. Yet Branscombe, walking through this
fairy glen, though conscious of its beauty, is conscious, too, that in
his heart he knows a want not to be satisfied until Fate shall again
bring him face to face with the girl with whom he had parted so
unamicably the night before.
Had she really meant him not to call to-day? Will she receive him
coldly? Is it even possible to find her in such an absurd place as
this, where positively everything seems mixed up together in such a
hopeless fashion that one can't see farther than one's nose? Perhaps,
after all, she is not here, has returned to the house, and is now----
Suddenly, across the bluebells, there comes to him a fresh sweet
voice, that thrills him to his very heart. It is hers; and there, in
the distance, he can see her, just where the sunlight falls athwart
the swaying ferns.
She is sitting down, and is leaning forward, having taken her knees
well into her embrace. Her broad hat is tilted backward, so that the
sunny straggling hair upon her forehead can be plainly seen. Her gown
is snow-white, with just a touch of black at the throat and wrists; a
pretty frill of soft babyish lace caresses her throat.
Clear and happy, as though it were a free bird's her voice rises on
the wind and reaches Branscombe, and moves him as no other voice ever
had--or will ever again have--power to move him.
"There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate;
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate."
The kind wind brings the tender passionate love-song to him, and
repeats it in his ear as it hurries onward: "My dove, my dear." How
exactly the words suit her! he says them over and over again to
himself, almost losing the rest of the music which she is still
breathing forth to the evening air.
"My life! my fate!" Is she his life,--his fate? The idea makes him
tremble. Has he set his whole heart upon a woman who perhaps can never
give him hers in return? The depth, the intensity of the passion with
which he repeats the words of her song astonishes and perplexes him
vaguely. Is she indeed his fate?
He is quite close to her now; and she, turning round to him her lovely
flower-like face, starts perceptibly, and, springing to her feet,
confronts him with a little frown, and a sudden deepening of color
that spreads from chin to brow.
At this moment he knows the whole truth. Never has she appeared so
desirable in his eyes. Life with her means happiness more than falls
to the lot of most; life without her, an interminable blank.
"Love lights upon the hearts, and straight we feel
More worlds of wealth gleam in an upturned eye
Than in the rich heart or the miser sea."
"I thought I told you not to come," says Miss Broughton, still
frowning.
"I am sure you did not," contradicts he, eagerly; "you said, rather
unkindly, I must confess,--but still you said it,--'Catch me if you
can.' That was a command. I have obeyed it. And I have caught you."
"You knew I was not speaking literally," says Miss Broughton, with
some wrath. "The idea of your supposing I really meant you to catch
me! You couldn't have thought it."
"Well, what was I to think? You certainly said it. So I came. I
believed"--humbly--"it was the best thing to do."
"Yes; and you found me sitting--as--I was, and singing at the top of
my voice. How I dislike people"--says Miss Broughton, with fine
disgust--"who steal upon other people unawares!"
"I didn't steal; I regularly trampled"--protests Branscombe, justly
indignant--"right over the moss and ferns and the other things, as
hard as ever I could. If bluebells won't crackle like dead leaves it
isn't my fault, is it? _I_ hadn't the ordering of them!"
"Oh, yes, it is, every bit your fault," persists she, wilfully,
biting, with enchanting grace largely tinctured with viciousness, the
blade of grass she is holding.
Silence, of the most eloquent, that lasts for a full minute, even
until the unoffending grass is utterly consumed.
"Perhaps you would rather I went away," says Mr. Branscombe, stiffly,
seeing she will not speak. He is staring at her, and is apparently
hopelessly affronted.
"Well, perhaps I would," returns she, coolly, without condescending to
look at him.
"Good-by,"--icily.
"Good-by,"--in precisely the same tone, and without changing her
position half an inch.
Branscombe turns away with a precipitancy that plainly betokens hot
haste to be gone. He walks quickly in the home direction, and gets as
far as the curve in the glen without once looking back. So far the hot
haste lasts, and is highly successful; then it grows cooler; the first
deadly heat dies away, and, as it goes, his steps grow slower and
still slower. A severe struggle with pride ensues, in which pride goes
to the wall, and then he comes to a standstill.
Though honestly disgusted with his own want of firmness, he turns and
gazes fixedly at the small white-gowned figure standing, just as he
had left her, among the purple bells.
Yet not exactly as he had left her: her lips are twitching now, her
lids have fallen over her eyes. Even as he watches, the soft lips
part, and a smile comes to them,--an open, irrepressible smile, that
deepens presently into a gay, mischievous laugh, that rings sweetly,
musically upon the air.
It is too much. In a moment he is beside her again, and is gazing down
on her with angry eyes.
"Something is amusing you," he says. "Is it me?"
"Yes," says the spoiled beauty, moving back from him, and lifting her
lids from her laughing eyes to cast upon him a defiant glance.
"I dare say I do amuse you," exclaims he, wrathfully, goaded to
deeper anger by the mockery of her regard. "I have no doubt you
can find enjoyment in the situation, but I cannot! I dare
say"--passionately--"you think it capital fun to make me fall in love
with you,--to play with my heart until you can bind me hand and foot
as your slave,--only to fling me aside and laugh at my absurd
infatuation when the game has grown old and flavorless."
He has taken her hand whether she will or not, and, I think, at this
point, almost unconsciously, he gives her a gentle but very decided
little shake.
"But there is a limit to all things," he goes on, vehemently, "and
here, now, at this moment, you shall give me a plain answer to a plain
question I am going to ask you."
He has grown very pale, and his nostrils are slightly dilated. She has
grown very pale, too, and is shrinking from him. Her lips are white
and trembling; her beautiful eyes are large and full of an undefined
fear. The passion of his tone has carried her away with it, and has
subdued within her all desire for mockery or mirth. Her whole face has
changed its expression, and has become sad and appealing. This sudden
touch of fear and entreaty makes her so sweet that Dorian's anger
melts before it, and the great love of which it was part again takes
the upper hand.
Impulsively he takes her in his arms, and draws her close to him, as
though he would willingly shield her from all evil and chase the
unspoken fear from her eyes.
"Don't look at me like that," he says, earnestly. "I deserve it, I
know. I should not have spoken to you as I have done, but I could not
help it. You made me so miserable--do you know how miserable?--that I
forgot myself. Darling, don't turn from me; speak to me; forgive me!"
This sudden change from vehement reproach to as vehement tenderness
frightens Georgie just a little more than the anger of a moment since.
Laying her hand upon his chest, she draws back from him; and he,
seeing she really wishes to get away from him, instantly releases her.
As if fascinated, however, she never removes her gaze from his,
although large tears have risen, and are shining in her eyes.
"You don't hate me? I won't believe that," says Branscombe,
wretchedly. "Say you will try to love me, and that you will surely
marry me."
At this--feeling rather lost, and not knowing what else to do--Georgie
covers her face with her hands, and bursts out crying.
It is now Branscombe's turn to be frightened, and he does his part to
perfection. He is thoroughly and desperately frightened.
"I won't say another word," he says, hastily; "I won't, indeed. My
dearest, what have I said that you should be so distressed? I only
asked you to marry me."
"Well, I'm sure I don't know what more you could have said," sobs she,
still dissolved in tears, and in a tone full of injury.
"But there wasn't any harm in that," protests he, taking one of her
hands from her face and pressing it softly to his lips. "It is a sort
of thing" (expansively) "one does every day."
"Do you do it every day?"
"No: I never did it before. And" (very gently) "you will answer me,
won't you?"
No answer, however, is vouchsafed.
"Georgie, say you will marry me."
But Georgie either can't or won't say it; and Dorian's heart dies
within him.
"Am I to understand by your silence that you fear to pain me?" he
says, at length, in a low voice. "Is it impossible to you to love me?
Well, do not speak. I can see by your face that the hope I have been
cherishing for so many weeks has been a vain one. Forgive me for
troubling you: and believe I shall never forget how tenderly you
shrank from telling me you could never return my love."
Again he presses her hand to his lips; and she, turning her face
slowly to his, looks up at him. Her late tears were but a summer
shower, and have faded away, leaving no traces as they passed.
"But I didn't mean one word of all that," she says, naively, letting
her long lashes fall once more over her eyes.
"Then what did you mean?" demands he, with some pardonable impatience.
"Quite the contrary, all through?"
"N--ot quite,"--with hesitation.
"At least, that some day you will be my wife?"
"N--ot altogether."
"Well, you can't be half my wife," says Mr. Branscombe promptly.
"Darling, _darling_, put me out of my misery, and say what I want you
to say."
"Well, then, yes." She gives the promise softly, shyly, but without
the faintest touch of any deeper, tenderer emotion. Had Dorian been
one degree less in love with her, he could have hardly failed to
notice this fact. As it is, he is radiant, in a very seventh heaven of
content.
"But you must promise me faithfully never to be unkind to me again,"
says Georgie, impressively, laying a finger on his lips.
"Unkind?"
"Yes; _dreadfully_ unkind: just think of all the terrible things you
said, and the way you said them. Your eyes were as big as half-crowns,
and you looked exactly as if you would like to eat me. Do you know,
you reminded me of Aunt Elizabeth!"
"Oh, Georgie!" says Branscombe, reproachfully. He has grown rather
intimate with Aunt Elizabeth and her iniquities by this time, and
fully understands that to be compared with her hardly tends to raise
him in his beloved's estimation.
There is silence between them after this, that lasts a full minute,--a
long time for lovers freshly made.
"What are you thinking of?" asks Dorian, presently, bending to look
tenderly into her downcast eyes. Perhaps he is hoping eagerly that she
has been wasting a thought upon him.
"I shall never have to teach those horrid lessons again," she says,
with a quick sigh of relief.
If he is disappointed, he carefully conceals it. He laughs, and,
lifting her exquisite face, kisses her gently.
"Never," he says, emphatically. "When you go home, tell Mr. Redmond
all about it; and to-morrow Clarissa will go down to the vicarage and
bring you up to Gowran, where you must stay until we are married."
"I shall like that," says Georgie, with a sweet smile. "But, Mr.
Branscombe----"
"Who on earth is Mr. Branscombe?" asks Dorian. "Don't you know my name
yet?"
"I do. I think it is almost the prettiest name I ever heard,--Dorian."
"_Darling!_ I never thought it a nice name before; but now that you
have called me by it, I can feel its beauty. But I dare say if I had
been christened Jehoshaphat I should, under these circumstances, think
just the same. Well, you were going to say----?"
"Perhaps Clarissa will not care to have me for so long."
"So long? How long? By the by, perhaps she wouldn't; so I suppose we
had better be married as soon as ever we can."
"I haven't got any clothes," says Miss Broughton; at which they both
laugh gayly, as though it were the merriest jest in the world.
"You terrify me," says Branscombe. "Let me beg you will rectify such a
mistake as soon as possible."
"We have been here a long time," says Georgie, suddenly, glancing at
the sun, that is almost sinking out of sight behind the solemn firs.
"It hasn't been ten minutes," says Mr. Branscombe, conviction making
his tone brilliant.
"Oh, nonsense!" says Georgie. "I am sure it must be quite two hours
since you came."
As it has been barely one, this is rather difficult to endure with
equanimity.
"How long you have found it!" he says, with some regret. He is
honestly pained, and his eyes grow darker. Looking at him, she sees
what she has done, and, though ignorant of the very meaning of the
word "love," knows that she has hurt him more than he cares to
confess.
"I have been happy,--quite happy," she says, sweetly, coloring warmly
as she says it. "You must not think I have found the time you have
been with me dull or dreary. Only, I am afraid Clarissa will miss me."
"I should think any one would miss you," says Dorian, impulsively. He
smiles at her as he speaks; but there is a curious mingling of sadness
and longing and uncertainty in his face. Laying one arm round her,
with his other hand he draws her head down on his breast.
"At least, before we go, you will kiss me once," he says,
entreatingly. All the gayety--the gladness--has gone from his voice;
only the deep and lasting love remains. He says this, too,
hesitatingly, as though half afraid to demand so great a boon.
"Yes; I think I should like to kiss you," says Georgie, kindly; and
then she raises herself from his embrace, and, standing on tiptoe,
places both hands upon his shoulders, and with the utmost calmness
lays her lips on his.
"Do you know," she says, a moment later, in no wise disconcerted
because of the warmth of the caress he has given her in exchange for
hers,--"do you know, I never remember kissing any one in all my life
before, except poor papa, and Clarissa, and you."
Even at this avowal she does not blush. Were he her brother, or an
aged nurse, she could scarcely think less about the favor she has just
conferred upon the man who is standing silently regarding her, puzzled
and disappointed truly, but earnestly registering a vow that sooner or
later, if faithful love can accomplish it, he will make her all his
own, in heart and soul.
Not that he has ever yet gone so deeply into the matter as to tell
himself the love is all on his own side. Instinctively he shrinks from
such inward confession. It is only when he has parted from her, and is
riding quietly homeward through the wistful gloaming, that he
remembers, with a pang, how, of all the thousand and one things asked
and answered, one alone has been forgotten. He has never desired of
her whether she loves him.