"Love set me up on high: when I grew vain
Of that my height, love brought me down again.
* * * * *
"The heart of love is with a thousand woes
Pierced, which secure indifference never knows.
* * * * *
"The rose aye wears the silent thorn at heart,
And never yet might pain for love depart."--TRENCH.
When Mrs. Redmond, next morning, is made aware of Georgie's engagement
to Dorian Branscombe, her curiosity and excitement know no bounds. For
once she is literally struck dumb with amazement. That Dorian, who is
heir to an earldom, should have fixed his affections upon _her_
governess, seems to Mrs. Redmond like a gay continuation of the
"Arabian Nights' Entertainments." When she recovers her breath, after
the first great shock to her nervous system, she lays down the
inevitable sock she is mending, and says as follows:
"My dear Georgina, are you quite sure he meant it? Young men,
nowadays, say so many things without exactly knowing why,--more
especially after a dance, as I have been told."
"I am quite sure," says Georgie, flushing hotly. She has sufficient
self-love to render this doubt very unpalatable.
Something that is not altogether remote from envy creeps into Mrs.
Redmond's heart. Being a mother, she can hardly help contrasting her
Cissy's future with the brilliant one carved out for her governess.
Presently, however, being a thoroughly good soul, she conquers these
unworthy thoughts, and when next she speaks her tone is full of
heartiness and honest congratulation. Indeed, she is sincerely
pleased. The fact that the future Lady Sartoris is at present an
inmate of her house is a thought full of joy to her.
"You are a very happy and a very fortunate girl," she says, gravely.
"Indeed yes, I think so," returns Georgie, in a low tone, but with
perfect calmness. There is none of the blushing happiness about her
that should of right belong to a young girl betrothed freshly to the
lover of her heart.
"Of course you do," says Mrs. Redmond, missing something in her voice,
though she hardly knows what. "And what we are to do without you, I
can't conceive; no one to sing to us in the evening, and we have got
so accustomed to that."
"I can still come and sing to you sometimes," says Georgie, with tears
in her eyes and voice.
"Ah, yes,--sometimes. That is just the bad part of it; when one has
known an 'always,' one does not take kindly to a 'sometimes.' And now
here come all my governess troubles back upon my shoulders once more.
Don't think me selfish, my dear, to think of that just now in the very
morning of your new happiness, but really I can't help it. I have been
so content with you, it never occurred to me others might want you
too."
"I will ask Clarissa to get you some one else nicer than me," says
Georgie, soothingly.
"Will you? Yes, do, my dear: she will do anything for you. And,
Georgina,"--from the beginning she has called her thus,--nothing on
earth would induce Mrs. Redmond to call her anything more
frivolous,--"tell her I should prefer somebody old and ugly, if at all
bearable, because then she may stay with me. Dear, dear! how Cissy
will miss you! And what will the vicar say?"
And so on. She spends the greater part of the morning rambling on in
this style, and then towards the evening despatches Georgie to Gowran
to tell Clarissa, too, the great news.
But Clarissa knows all about it before her coming, and meets her in
the hall, and kisses her then and there, and tells her she is so glad,
and it is the very sweetest thing that could possibly have happened.
"He came down this morning very early and told me all about it," she
says, looking as pleased as though it is her own happiness and not
another's she is discussing.
"Now, what a pity!" says Georgie: "and I did so want to tell you
myself, after the disgraceful way in which you tried to wed me to Mr.
Hastings."
"He could not sleep; he confessed that to me. And you had forbidden
him to go to the vicarage to see you to-day. What else then could he
do but come over and put in a good time here? And he did. We had quite
a splendid time," says Miss Peyton, laughing; "I really don't know
which of us was the most delighted about it. We both kept on saying
pretty things about you all the time,--more than you deserved, I
think."
"Now, don't spoil it," says Georgie: "I am certain I deserved it all,
and more. Well, if he didn't sleep, I did, and dreamed, and dreamed,
and dreamed all sorts of lovely things until the day broke. Oh,
Clarissa,"--throwing out her arms with a sudden swift gesture of
passionate relief,--"I am free! Am I not lucky, fortunate, to have
deliverance sent so soon?"
"Lucky, fortunate;" where has the word "happy" gone, that she has
forgotten to use it? Clarissa makes no reply. Something in the girl's
manner checks her. She is standing there before her, gay, exultant,
with all a child's pleasure in some new possession; "her eyes as stars
of twilight fair," flashing warmly, her whole manner intense and glad;
but there are no blushes, no shy half-suppressed smiles, there is no
word of love; Dorian's name has not been mentioned, except as a
secondary part of her story, and then with the extremest unconcern.
Yet there is nothing in her manner that can jar upon one's finer
feelings; there is no undue exultation at the coming great change in
her position,--no visible triumph at the fresh future opening before
her; it is only that in place of the romantic tenderness that should
accompany such a revelation as she has been making, there has been
nothing but a wild passionate thankfulness for freedom gained.
"When are you coming to stay with me altogether?--I mean until the
marriage?" asks Clarissa, presently.
"I cannot leave Mrs. Redmond like that," says Georgie, who is always
delightfully indefinite. "She will be in a regular mess now until she
gets somebody to take my place. I can't leave her yet."
"Dorian will not like that."
"He must try to like it. Mrs. Redmond has been very good to me, and I
couldn't bear to make her uncomfortable. I shall stay with her until
she gets somebody else. I don't think, when I explain it to him, that
Dorian will mind my doing this."
"He will think it very sweet of you," says Clarissa, "considering how
you detest teaching, and that."
While they are at tea, Dorian drops in, and, seeing the little
yellow-haired fairy sitting in the huge lounging-chair, looks so
openly glad and contented that Clarissa laughs mischievously.
"Poor Benedick!" she says, mockingly: "so it has come to this, that
you know no life but in your Beatrice's presence!"
"Well, that's hardly fair, I think," says Branscombe; "you, at least,
should not be the one to say it, as you are in a position to declare I
was alive and hearty at half-past twelve this morning."
"Why, so you were," says Clarissa, "terribly alive,--but only on one
subject. By the by, has any one seen papa lately? He had some new
books from town to-day,--some painfully _old_ books, I mean,--and has
not been found since. I am certain he will be discovered some day
buried beneath ancient tomes; perhaps, indeed, it will be this day.
Will you two forgive me if I go to see if it is yet time to dig him
out?"
They forgive her; and presently find themselves alone.
* * * * *
"Is it all true, I wonder?" says Dorian, after a little pause. He is
holding her hand, and is looking down at her with a fond sweet smile
that betrays the deep love of his heart.
"Quite true; at least, I hope so," with an answering smile. Then, "I
am so glad you are going to marry me," she says, without the faintest
idea of shyness; "more glad than I can tell you. Ever since--since I
was left alone, I have had no one belonging to me,--that is, no one
quite my own; and now I have you. You will always be fonder of me than
of anybody else in the world, won't you?"
She seems really anxious as she asks this.
"My darling, of course I shall. How could you ask me such a question?
And you, Georgie, do you love me?"
"Love you? Yes, I suppose so; I don't know,"--with decided hesitation.
"I am certain I like you very, very much. I am quite happy when with
you, and you don't bore me a bit. Is that it?"
This definition of what love _may_ be, hardly comes up to the mark in
Mr. Branscombe's estimation.
She has risen, and is now looking up at him inquiringly, with eyes
earnest and beautiful and deep, but so cold. They chill him in spite
of his efforts to disbelieve in their fatal truthfulness.
"Hardly, I think," he says, with an attempt at gayety. "Something else
is wanting, surely. Georgie, when I asked you to marry me yesterday,
and when you gave the promise that has made me so unutterably happy
ever since, what was it you thought of?"
"Well, I'll tell you," says Miss Broughton, cheerfully. "First, I said
to myself, 'Now I shall never again have to teach Murray's Grammar.'"
"Was that your _first_ thought?" He is both surprised and pained.
"Yes, my very first. You look as if you didn't believe me," says Miss
Broughton, with a little laugh. "But if you had gone through as many
moods and tenses as I have during the past week, you would quite
understand. Well, then I thought how good it would be to have nothing
to do but amuse myself all day long. And then I looked at you, and
felt so glad you had no crooked eyes, or red hair, or anything that
way. And then, above all things, I felt how sweet it was to know I had
found somebody who would have to look after me and take care of me, so
that I need never trouble about myself any more."
"Did you never once think of me?" asks he, in a curious tone.
"Of you? Oh, no! You are quite happy," says Georgie, with a sigh. "You
have nothing to trouble you."
"Nothing! Of course not." Going up to her, he takes her dear little
face between both his hands, and looks long and earnestly into her
clear unconscious eyes. How gladly would he have seen them droop and
soften beneath his gaze! "Now let me tell you how I feel towards you,"
he says, smoothing her soft hair back from her forehead.
"I don't think I am a bit pretty with my hair pushed back," she says,
moving away from the caressing hand, and, with a touch, restoring her
"amber locks" to their original position. She smiles as she says
this,--indeed, ill temper, in any form, does not belong to her,--and,
when her hair is once more restored to order, she again slips her
fingers into his confidingly, and glances up at him. "Now tell me all
about it," she says.
"What am I to tell you?--that when I am away from you I am restless,
miserable; when with you, more than satisfied. I know that I could sit
for hours contentedly with this little hand in mine" (raising it to
his lips), "and I also know that, if fate so willed it, I should
gladly follow you through the length and breadth of the land. If you
were to die, or--or forsake me, it would break my heart. And all this
is because I love you."
"Is it?"--in a very low tone. "Does all that mean being in love?
Then"--in a still lower tone--"I know I am not one bit in love with
_you_."
"Then why are you marrying me?" demands he, a little roughly, stung to
pained anger by her words.
"Because I promised papa, when--when he was leaving me, that I would
marry the very first rich man that asked me," replies she, again
lifting her serious eyes to his. "I thought it would make him happier.
And it did. I am keeping my promise now," with a sigh that may mean
regret for her dead, or, indeed, anything.
"Are you not afraid to go too far?" demands he, very pale, moving back
from her, and regarding her with moody eyes. "Do you quite know what
you are saying--what you are compelling me, against my will, to
understand?"
She is plainly not listening to him. She is lost in a mournful revery,
and, leaning back in her chair, is staring at her little white fingers
in an absent fashion, and is twisting round and round upon her third
finger an old worn-out gold ring. Poor little ring, so full of sweet
and moving memories!
"It was very fortunate," she says, suddenly, with a smile, and without
looking up at him, being still engrossed in her occupation of twisting
the ring round her slender finger,--"it was _more_ than fortunate that
the first rich man should be _you_."
"Much more," he says, in an indescribable tone. Then with an effort,
"Would you have thrown me over had I been poor?"
"I shouldn't have consented to marry you, I think," says Miss
Broughton, quite calmly.
"As I said before, to be candid is your _forte_," exclaims he, with
extreme bitterness. "I wonder even if you loved a man to distraction
(I am not talking of myself, you know,--that is quite evident, is it
not?) would you reject him if he was not sufficiently--_bon parti_?"
"I don't think I could love any one to distraction," replies she,
quite simply. It seems the very easiest answer to this question.
"I believe you speak the very honest truth when you say that," says
Dorian, drawing his breath quickly. "You are indeed terribly honest.
You don't even shrink from telling the man you have elected to marry
that he is no more to you than any other man might be who was equally
possessed of filthy--if desirable--lucre!"
He turns from her, and, going to the window, stares out blindly upon
the dying daylight, and the gardens stretched beneath, where dying
flowers seem breathing of, and suggesting, higher thoughts.
He is unutterably wretched. All through his short courtship he had
entertained doubts of her affection; but now, to have her so openly,
so carelessly, declare her indifference is almost more than he can
bear. "We forgive so long as we love." To Dorian, though his love is
greater than that of most, forgiveness now seems difficult. Yet can he
resign her? She has so woven herself into his very heart-strings--this
cold, cruel, lovely child--that he cannot tear her out without a still
further surrender of himself to death. To live without her--to get
through endless days and interminable nights without hope of seeing
her, with no certain knowledge that the morrow will bring him sure
tidings of her--seems impossible. He sighs; and then, even as he
sighs, five slim cold little fingers steal within his.
"I have made you angry," says the plaintive voice, full of contrition.
A shapely yellow head pushes itself under one of his arms, that is
upraised, and a lovely sorrowful pleading face looks up into his. How
can any one be angry with a face like that?
"No, not angry," he says. And indeed the anger has gone from his
face,--her very touch has banished it,--and only a great and lasting
sadness has replaced it. Perhaps for the first time, at this moment
she grasps some faint idea of the intensity of his love for her. Her
eyes fill with tears.
"I think--it will be better for you--to--give me up," she says, in a
down-hearted way, lowering her lids over her tell-tale orbs, that are
like the summer sea now that they shine through their unwonted
moisture
"Tears are trembling in her blue eyes,
Like drops that linger on the violet,"
and Dorian, with a sudden passionate movement, takes her in his arms
and presses her head down upon his breast.
"Do you suppose I can give you up now," he says, vehemently, "when I
have set my whole heart upon you? It is too late to suggest such a
course. That you do not love me is my misfortune, not your fault.
Surely it is misery enough to know that,--to feel that I am nothing to
you,--without telling me that you wish so soon to be released from
your promise?"
"I don't wish it," she says, earnestly, shaking her head. "No, indeed!
It was only for your sake I spoke. Perhaps by and by you will regret
having married some one who does not love you altogether. Because I
know I could not sit contentedly for hours with my hand in any one's.
And there are a great many things I would not do for you. And if _you_
were to die----"
"There! that will do," he says, with sudden passion. "Do you know how
you hurt, I wonder? Are you utterly heartless?"
Her eyes darken as he speaks, and, releasing herself from his
embrace,--which, in truth, has somewhat slackened,--she moves back
from him. She is puzzled, frightened; her cheeks lose their soft
color, and--
"With that, the water in her eie
Arose, that she ne might it stoppe;
And, as men sene the dew be droppe
The leves and the floures eke,
Right so upon her white cheke
The wofull salt teres felle."
"I don't want to hurt you," she says, with a sob; "and I know I am
_not_ heartless." There is a faint tinge of indignation in her tone.
"Of course you are not. It was a rather brutal thing my saying so.
Darling, whatever else may render me unhappy, I can at all events find
comfort in the thought that you never loved any other man."
"But I did," says Miss Broughton, still decidedly tearful: "you must
always remember that. There was one; and"--she is plainly in the mood
for confessions--"I shall never love you or any one as I loved him."
"What are you going to tell me now?" says Dorian, desperately. He had
believed his cup quite full, and only now discovers his mistake. Is
there a still heavier amount of misery in store for him? "Is the worst
to be told me yet?" he says, with the calmness of despair, being quite
too far gone for vehemence of any description. "Why did you keep it
from me until now?"
"I didn't keep anything," cries she: "I told you long ago--at least,
I----"
"What is the name?" demands he, gloomily, fully expecting the hated
word "Kennedy" to fall from her lips. "Better let me know it. Nothing
you can possibly say can make me feel more thoroughly stranded than I
am."
"I think you are taking it very unreasonably," says Miss Broughton,
with quivering lips. "If I cannot bring myself to love anybody as well
as poor papa, I can't help it--and it isn't my fault--and you are very
unkind to me--and----"
"Good gracious! what a fright all about nothing!" says Mr. Branscombe,
with a sigh of intense relief. "I don't mind your poor father, you
know,--I rather admire your faithfulness there,--but I thought--er--it
doesn't in the least matter what I thought," hastily: "every one has
silly fancies at times." He kisses her lids warmly, tenderly, until
the heavy drops beneath press through and run all down her charming
childish face. "I am sure of this, at least," he says, hopefully,
"that you like me better than any living man."
"Well, I do, indeed," replies she, in a curious tone, that might be
suggestive of surprise at her own discovery of this fact. "But, then,
how bad you are to me at times! Dear Dorian,"--laying one hand, with
a pathetic gesture, on his cheek,--"do not be cross to me again."
"My sweetest!--my best beloved!" says Mr. Branscombe, instantly,
drawing his breath a little quickly, and straining her to his heart.