"The wisdom of this world is idiotism."--DECKER.
"If thou desirest to be borne with, thou must bear also with
others."--KEMPIS.
It takes some time to produce another governess suited to the
Redmonds' wants. At length, however, the desired treasure is procured,
and forwarded, "with care," to the vicarage.
On inspection, she proves to be a large, gaunt, high-cheek-boned
daughter of Caledonia, with a broad accent, a broader foot, and
uncomfortably red hair. She comes armed with testimonials of the most
severely complimentary description, and with a pronounced opinion that
"salary is not so much an object as a comfortable home."
Such a contrast to Georgie can scarcely be imagined. The Redmonds, in
a body, are covered with despair, and go about the house, after her
arrival, whispering in muffled tones, and casting blanched and
stricken glances at each other. Dire dismay reigns in their bosoms;
while the unconscious Scot unlocks her trunks, and shakes out her
gowns, and shows plainly, by her behavior, that she has come to sit
down before the citadel and carry on a prolonged siege.
To tea she descends with a solemn step and slow, that Amy designates
as a "thud." But yet at this first tea she gains a victory. Arthur,
the second boy, who has been wicked enough to get measles at school,
and who is now at home to recruit himself and be the terror of his
family, is at this time kept rather on short commons by his mother
because of his late illness. This means bread-and-butter _without_
jam,--a meaning the lively Arthur rather resents. Seeing which, the
Caledonian, opening her lips almost for the first time, gives it as
her opinion that jam, taken moderately, is wholesome.
She goes even farther, and insinuates it may assist digestion, which
so impresses Mrs. Redmond that Arthur forthwith finds himself at
liberty to "tuck into" (his own expression) the raspberry jam without
let or hindrance.
This marvellous behavior on the part of the bony Scot tells greatly in
her favor, so far as the children go. They tell each other later on
that she can't be altogether an unpleasant sort, Master Arthur being
specially loud in her praise. He even goes so far as to insinuate that
Miss Broughton would never have said as much; but this base innuendo
is sneered down by the faithful children who have loved and lost her.
Nevertheless, they accept their fate; and, after a week or two, the
new-comer gains immense ground, and is finally pronounced by her
pupils to be (as she herself would probably express it) "no' that
bad." Thus, Miss McGregor becomes governess at the vicarage, vice
Georgie Broughton promoted.
To be married at once, without any unnecessary delay, is Dorian's
desire; and when, with some hesitation, he broaches the subject to
Georgie, to his surprise and great content he finds her quite willing
to agree to anything he may propose. She speaks no word of reluctance,
appears quite satisfied with any arrangement he or Clarissa may think
proper, makes no shrinking protest against the undue haste. She
betrays no shyness, yet no unseemly desire for haste. It seems to her
a matter of perfect indifference. She is going to be married, sooner
or later, as the case may be. Then why not the sooner?
This is, perhaps, the happiest time of her life. She roams all day
among the flowers and in the pleasure-grounds, singing, laughing,
talking gayly to any one she may meet at Gowran, where, since Miss
McGregor's advent, she has been. When at length it is finally settled
that the marriage is to take place next month, she seems rather
pleased than otherwise, and is openly delighted at the prospect held
out to her by Dorian of so soon seeing, with her own eyes, all the
foreign lands and romantic scenes her fancy has so often depicted.
Just now, even as the tiny clock inside the room is chiming four,
Dorian is standing outside the low French window of Miss Peyton's
morning-room, and, leaning half in, half out of it, is conversing with
her, alone. Georgie, for the time being, is lost to sight,--happy,
somewhere, no doubt, in the warm sunshine she loves so well.
"Clarissa," he is saying, in a somewhat halting fashion,--he is
coloring hotly, and is looking as uncomfortable as a man can look,
which is saying a good deal,--"look here."
An ignominious break-down.
"I'm looking," says Clarissa, somewhat unkindly; "and I don't see
much."
"Well, 'tis this, you know. You won't think it queer of me, will you?"
"I won't; I promise that. Though I haven't the faintest idea whether I
shall or not."
"When she is getting her things, her _trousseau_,--I want her to have
every earthly thing she can possibly fancy," he says, at last,
desperately. "Can't you manage that for me? Do; and make any use you
like of this."
He flings a cheque-book into her lap through the open window as he
speaks.
"She shall have everything she wants," says Clarissa; "but I don't
think"--taking up the book--"we shall require this."
"Nevertheless, keep it. You must want it; and don't mention me in the
matter at all. And--look here again--what do you think she would like
as a wedding-present?"
Of course he has given her long ago the orthodox engagement ring, the
locket, the bracelet, and so forth.
"Why don't you ask her?" says Miss Peyton.
"Because the other day she said she adored surprises. And I am sure
she doesn't care about being asked what she likes."
"You have your mother's diamonds."
"Oh, of course"--airily--"all my mother's things will be hers; that
goes without telling; but I hate old rubbish. I want to give her
something from myself to wear on her marriage morning. Don't you see?
or is it that you grow imbecile in your old age, my good Clarissa?"
"No; it only means that you are growing extravagant in your dotage, my
good Dorian. Well, mention something, that I may object to it."
"Emeralds, then?"
"No: papa has set his heart on giving her those."
"Rubies?"
"Oh, nothing red: they would not suit her."
"Opals?"
"Too unlucky, she would die or run away from you."
"Pearls? But of course,"--quickly: "why did I not think of them
before?"
"Why, indeed? They will be charming. By the by, Dorian, have you told
Lord Sartoris of your engagement?"
Dorian's brow darkens.
"No. He has been from home, you know, either in Paris or the Libyan
desert, or somewhere. He only turned up again two days ago. Seen him
since?"
"He was here, but I was out. Have you seen him?"
"Well, yes,--at a distance."
"Dorian, there is certainly something wrong between you and Lord
Sartoris. I have noticed it for some time. I don't ask you what it is,
but I entreat you to break through this coldness and be friends with
him again." She stoops towards him, and looks earnestly into his face.
He laughs a little.
"I'm tremendous friends with him, really," he says, "if you would only
try to believe it. I think him no end of a good fellow, if slightly
impossible at times. When he recovers from the attack of insanity that
is at present rendering him very obnoxious, I shall be delighted to
let by-gones be by-gones. But until then----"
"You will tell him of your engagement?"
"Perhaps: if occasion offers."
"No, not perhaps. Go to-day, this very evening, and tell him of it."
"Oh, I can't, really, you know," says Mr. Branscombe, who always finds
a difficulty in refusing any one anything.
"You must,"--with decision: "he surely deserves so much at your
hands."
"But how few of us get our deserts!" says Dorian, still plainly
unimpressed.
"Well, then, I think you should speak of it openly to him,--if only
for Georgie's sake."
"For her sake?" He colors again, and bites his lips. "If you really
think I owe it to her, of course I shall do it, however distasteful
the task may be; though I cannot see how it will benefit her."
"He is your uncle; you will wish your own family to receive her?"
"I dare say you are right," says Branscombe, with a shrug. "People
always are when they suggest to you an unpleasant course."
"What is unpleasant now? How can there be anything to distress any one
on such a heavenly day as this?" cries the soft petulant voice he
loves so well, calling to them across a flower-bed near.
Springing over it, she comes up to the window, and, leaning her elbows
on the sill close to him, laughs gayly up into his face.
"There shall be nothing to distress you, at all events, my 'amber
witch,'" returns he, gayly, too. "Come, show me once more these
gardens you love so well."
* * * * *
A promise with Dorian is not made of pie-crust: though sorely against
his will, he goes up to Hythe after dinner to acquaint his uncle
formally of his approaching marriage. The evening is calm and full of
rest and quiet, a fit ending to the perfect day that has gone before:
"The long day wanes, the broad fields fade; the night--
The sweet June night--is like a curtain drawn.
The dark lanes know no faintest sound, and white
The pallid hawthorn lights the smooth-bleached lawn;
The scented earth drinks from the silent skies
Soft dews, more sweet than softest harmonies."
Going through the woods that lie upon his right, he walks silently
onward, impressed by the beauty of the swift-coming night, yet too
restless in mind to take in all its charms that are rich enough to
satisfy a hungry soul. A soft wind is sighing; beneath its touch the
young and tender branches are swaying lightly to and fro; all the
"feathery people of mid-air" are preening their downy plumage and
murmuring sleepy hymns ere sinking to their rest.
Scarce a sound can be heard, save the distant lowing of cattle, and
the drowsy drone of a slumberous bee as it floats idly by. The very
sound of Dorian's footsteps upon the soft grass can be distinctly
heard, so deadly is the calm that ushers in the night; when, lo! from
out some thicket, the nightingale,--
"Who is silent all day long;
But when pale eve unseals her clear throat, looses
Her twilight music on the dreaming boughs
Until they waken"--
bursts into song. High and clear and exquisite rise the notes one
above the other, each vying in beauteous harmony with the last, until
one's very heart aches for love and admiration of their sweetness.
Dorian, though oppressed with many discordant thoughts, still pauses
to listen, until silence following upon the passionate burst of
melody, he draws his breath quickly and goes on to Hythe, and into the
dining-room there, where he finds Lord Sartoris still over his wine.
He is sitting at the head of the long table, looking strangely
solitary, and very much aged, considering the short time that has
elapsed since last he left Pullingham.
"So you are home again, Arthur," says Dorian, coldly, but with
apparent composure. They have not been face to face since that last
meeting, when bitter words, and still more bitter looks, had passed
between them.
Now, letting the quickly spoken sentence take the place of a more
active greeting, they nod coolly to each other, and carefully refuse
to let their hands touch.
"Yes," says Sartoris, evenly; "I returned two days ago. Business
recalled me; otherwise I was sufficiently comfortable where I was to
make me wish to remain there."
"And Constance, is she quite well?"
"Quite well, thank you. Your other cousins desired to be remembered to
you. So did she, of course."
A pause, prolonged and undesirable.
"You will take some claret?" says Sartoris, at last, pushing the
bottle towards him.
"No, thank you; I have only just dined. I came up to-night to tell you
what I dare say by this you have heard from somebody else; I am going
to be married on the 9th of next month."
Lord Sartoris turns suddenly to confront him.
"I had not heard it," he says, with amazement. "To be married! This is
very sudden." Then, changing his tone, "I am glad," he says, slowly,
and with an unmistakable sneer, "that at last it has occurred to you
to set that girl right in the eyes of the world. As a man of honor
there was no other course left open to you."
"To whom are you alluding?" asks Branscombe, growing pale with anger,
an ominous flash betraying itself in his gray eyes.
"I hope I understand you to mean to offer full, though tardy,
reparation to Ruth Annersley."
With an effort Branscombe restrains the fierce outburst of wrath that
is trembling on his lips.
"You still persist, then, in accusing me of being accessory to that
girl's disappearance?"
"You have never yet denied it," exclaims Sartoris, pushing back his
glass, and rising to his feet. "Give me the lie direct, if you
_can_,--if you _dare_,--and I will believe you."
"I never will," returns Dorian, now thoroughly roused,--"_never!_ If
my own character all these past years is not denial enough, I shall
give no other. Believe what you will. Do you imagine I shall come to
you, like a whipped school-boy, after every supposed offence, to say,
'I did do this,' or, 'I did not do that'? I shall contradict nothing,
assert nothing: therefore judge me as it may please you. I shall not
try to vindicate my actions to any living man."
His tone, his whole bearing, should have carried conviction to the
hearts of most men; but to the old lord, who has seen so much of the
world in its worst phases,--its cruelties and falsehoods,--and who has
roughed it so long among his fellowmen, faith, in its finer sense, is
wanting.
"Enough," he says, coldly, with a slight wave of his hand. "Let us end
this subject now and forever. You have come to tell me of your
approaching marriage; may I ask the name of the lady you intend making
your wife?"
"Broughton; Georgie Broughton," says Branscombe, briefly.
"Broughton,--I hardly fancy I know the name; and yet am I wrong in
thinking there is a governess at the vicarage of that name?"
"There _was_. She is now staying with Clarissa Peyton, I am to be
married to her, as I have already told you, early next month."
"A _governess_!" says Sartoris. There is a world of unpleasant meaning
in his tone. "Really,"--with slow contempt,--"I can hardly
congratulate you on your _tastes_! You, who might have chosen your
wife almost anywhere, can find nothing to suit you but an obscure
governess."
"I don't think there is anything particularly obscure about Georgie,"
replies Dorian, with admirable composure, though he flushes hotly.
"Have you ever seen her? No? Then, of course, you are not in a
position to judge of either her merits or demerits. I shall thank you,
therefore,"--surveying his uncle rather insolently, from head to
heel,--"to be silent on the subject."
After a slight pause, he turns again to Sartoris, and, forcing him to
meet his gaze, says haughtily,--
"May we hope you will be present at our wedding, my lord?"
"I thank you, no. I fear not," returns the older man, quite as
haughtily. "I hope to be many miles from here before the end of next
week."
Dorian smiles unpleasantly.
"You will at least call upon Miss Broughton before leaving the
neighborhood?" he says, raising his brows.
At this Sartoris turns upon him fiercely, stung by the apparent
unconcern of his manner.
"Why should I call?" he says, his voice full of indignant anger. "Is
it to congratulate her on her coming union with you? I tell you, were
I to do so, the face of another woman would rise before me and freeze
the false words upon my lips. To you, Dorian, in my old age, all my
heart went out. My hopes, my affections, my ambitions, began and ended
with you. And what a reward has been mine! Yours has been the hand to
drag our name down to a level with the dust. Disgrace follows hard
upon your footsteps. Were I to go, as you desire, to this innocent
girl, do you imagine I could speak fair words to her? I tell you, no!
I should rather feel it my duty to warn her against entering a house
so dishonored as yours. I should----"
"Pshaw!" says Branscombe, checking him with an impatient gesture.
"Don't let us introduce tragedy into this very commonplace affair.
Pray don't trouble yourself to go and see her at all. In your present
mood, I rather think you would frighten her to death. I am sorry I
intruded my private matters upon you: but Clarissa quite made a point
of my coming to Hythe to-night for that purpose, and, as you know, she
is a difficult person to refuse. I'm sure I beg your pardon for having
so unwarrantably bored you."
"Clarissa, like a great many other charming people, is at times prone
to give very unseasonable advice," says Sartoris, coldly.
"Which, interpreted, means that I did wrong to come. I feel you are
right." He laughs faintly again, and, taking up his hat, looks
straight at his uncle. He has drawn himself up to his full height, and
is looking quite his handsomest. He is slightly flushed (a dark color
that becomes him), and a sneer lies round the corners of his lips. "I
hardly know how to apologize," he says, lightly, "for having forced
myself upon you in this intrusive fashion. The only amends I can
possibly make is to promise you it shall never occur again, and to
still further give you my word that, for the future, I shall not even
annoy you by my presence."
So saying, he turns away, and, inclining his head, goes out through
the door, and, closing it gently after him, passes rapidly down the
long hall, as though in haste to depart, and, gaining the
entrance-door, shuts it, too, behind him, and breathes more freely as
he finds the air of heaven beating on his brow.
Not until he has almost reached Sartoris once more does that sudden
calm fall upon him that, as a rule, follows hard upon all our gusts of
passion. The late interview has hurt him more than he cares to confess
even to himself. His regard--nay, his affection--for Sartoris is deep
and sincere; and, though wounded now, and estranged from him, because
of his determination to believe the worst of him, still it remains
hidden in his heart, and is strong enough to gall and torture him
after such scenes as he has just gone through.
Hitherto his life has been unclouded,--has been all sunshine and happy
summer and glad with laughter. Now a dark veil hangs over it,
threatening to deaden all things and dim the brightness of his "golden
hours."
"He who hath most of heart knows most of sorrow." To Dorian, to be
wroth with those he loves is, indeed, a sort of madness that affects
his heart, if not his brain.
He frowns as he strides discontentedly onward through the fast-falling
night: and then all at once a thought comes to him--a fair vision
seems to rise almost in his path--that calms him and dulls all
resentful memories. It is Georgie,--his love, his darling! She, at
least, will be true to him. He will teach her so to love him that no
light winds of scandal shall have power to shake her faith. Surely a
heart filled with dreams of her should harbor no miserable thoughts.
He smiles again; his steps grow lighter! he is once more the Dorian of
old; he will--he must--be, of necessity, utterly happy with her beside
him during all the life that is to come.
Alas that human hopes should prove so often vain!