"There's not a scene on earth so full of lightness
That withering care
Sleeps not beneath the flowers and turns their brightness
To dark despair."--HON. MRS. NORTON.
It is a day of a blue and goldness so intense as to make one believe
these two are the only colors on earth worthy of admiration. The sky
is cloudless; the great sun is wide awake; the flowers are drooping,
sleeping,--too languid to lift their heavy heads.
"The gentle wind, that like a ghost doth pass,
A waving shadow on the cornfield keeps."
And Georgie descending the stone steps of the balcony, feels her whole
nature thrill and glow beneath the warmth and richness of the beauty
spread all around with lavish hand. Scarcely a breath stirs the air;
no sound comes to mar the deep stillness of the day, save the echo of
the "swallows' silken wings skimming the water of the sleeping lake."
As she passes the rose-trees, she puts out her hand, and, from the
very fulness of her heart, touches some of the drowsy flowers with
caressing fingers. She is feeling peculiarly happy to-day: everything
is going so smoothly with her; her life is devoid of care; only
sunshine streams upon her path; storm and rain and nipping frosts seem
all forgotten.
Going into the garden, she pulls a flower or two and places them in
the bosom of her white gown, and bending over the basin of a fountain,
looks at her own image, and smiles at it, as well she may.
Then she blushes at her own vanity, and, drawing back from nature's
mirror, tells herself she will go a little farther, and see what
Andrews, the under-gardener (who has come to Sartoris from Hythe), is
doing in the shrubbery.
The path by which she goes is so thickly lined with shrubs on the
right-hand side that she cannot be seen through them, nor can she see
those beyond. Voices come to her from the distance, that, as she
advances up the path, grow even louder. She is not thinking of them,
or, indeed, of anything but the extreme loveliness of the hour, when
words fall upon her ear that make themselves intelligible and send the
blood with a quick rush to her heart.
"It is a disgraceful story altogether; and to have the master's name
mixed up with it is shameful!"
The voice, beyond doubt, belongs to Graham, the upper-housemaid, and
is full of honest indignation.
Hardly believing she has heard aright, and without any thought of
eaves-dropping, Georgie stands still upon the walk, and waits in
breathless silence for what may come next.
"Well, I think it is shameful," says another voice, easily recognized
as belonging to Andrews. "But I believe it is the truth for all that.
Father saw him with his own eyes. It was late, but just as light as it
is now, and he saw him plain."
"Do you mean to tell me," says Graham, with increasing wrath (she is
an elderly woman, and has lived at Sartoris for many years), "that you
really think your master had either hand, act, or part in inducing
Ruth Annersley to leave her home?"
"Well, I only say what father told me," says Andrews, in a
half-apologetic fashion, being somewhat abashed by her anger. "And he
ain't one to lie much. He saw him with her in the wood the night she
went to Lunnun, or wherever 'twas, and they walked together in the way
to Langham Station. They do say, too, that----"
A quick light footstep, a putting aside of branches, and Georgie,
pale, but composed, appears before them. Andrews, losing his head,
drops the knife he is holding, and Graham grows a fine purple.
"I don't think you are doing much good here, Andrews," says Mrs.
Branscombe, pleasantly. "These trees look well enough: go to the
eastern walk, and see what can be done there."
Andrews, only too thankful for the chance of escape, picks up his
knife again and beats a hasty retreat.
Then Georgie, turning to Graham, says slowly,--
"Now, tell me every word of it, from beginning to end."
Her assumed unconsciousness has vanished. Every particle of color has
flown from her face, her brow is contracted, her eyes are shining with
a new and most unenviable brilliancy. Perhaps she knows this herself,
as, after the first swift glance at the woman on Andrews's departure,
she never lifts her eyes again, but keeps them deliberately fixed upon
the ground during the entire interview. She speaks in a low
concentrated tone, but with firm compressed lips.
Graham's feelings at this moment would be impossible to describe.
Afterwards--many months afterwards--she herself gave some idea of them
when she declared to the cook that she thought she should have
"swooned right off."
"Oh, madam! tell you what?" she says, now, in a terrified tone,
shrinking away from her mistress, and turning deadly pale.
"You know what you were speaking about just now when I came up."
"It was nothing, madam, I assure you, only idle gossip, not worth----"
"Do not equivocate to me. You were speaking of Mr. Branscombe. Repeat
your 'idle gossip.' I will have it word for word. Do you hear?" She
beats her foot with quick impatience against the ground.
"Do not compel me to repeat so vile a lie," entreats Graham,
earnestly. "It is altogether false. Indeed, madam,"--confusedly,--"I
cannot remember what it was we were saying when you came up to us so
unexpectedly."
"Then I shall refresh your memory. You were talking of your master
and--and of that girl in the village who----" The words almost
suffocate her; involuntarily she raises her hand to her throat. "Go
on," she says, in a low, dangerous tone.
Graham bursts into tears.
"It was the gardener at Hythe--old Andrews--who told it to our man
here," she sobs, painfully. "You know he is his father, and he said he
had seen the master in the copsewood the evening--Ruth Annersley ran
away."
"He was in London that evening."
"Yes, madam, we all know that," says the woman, eagerly. "That alone
proves how false the whole story is. But wicked people will talk, and
it is wise people only who will not give heed to them."
"What led Andrews to believe it was your master?" She speaks in a hard
constrained voice, and as one who has not heard a word of the
preceding speech. In truth, she has not listened to it, her whole mind
being engrossed with this new and hateful thing that has fallen into
her life.
"He says he saw him,--that he knew him by his height, his figure, his
side-face, and the coat he wore,--a light overcoat, such as the master
generally uses."
"And how does he explain away the fact of--of Mr. Branscombe's being
in town that evening?"
At this question Graham unmistakably hesitates before replying. When
she does answer, it is with evident reluctance.
"You see, madam," she says, very gently, "it would be quite possible
to come down by the mid-day train to Langham, to drive across to
Pullingham, and get back again to London by the evening train."
"It sounds quite simple," says Mrs. Branscombe, in a strange tone.
Then follows an unbroken silence that lasts for several minutes and
nearly sends poor Graham out of her mind. She cannot quite see her
mistress's face as it is turned carefully aside, but the hand that is
resting on a stout branch of laurel near her is steady as the branch
itself. Steady,--but the pretty filbert nails show dead-white against
the gray-green of the bark, as though extreme pressure, born of mental
agitation and a passionate desire to suppress and hide it, has
compelled the poor little fingers to grasp with undue force whatever
may be nearest to them.
When silence has become positively unbearable, Georgie says, slowly,--
"And does all the world know this?"
"I hope not, ma'am. I think not. Though, indeed,"--says the faithful
Graham, with a sudden burst of indignation,--"even if they did, I
don't see how it could matter. It would not make it a bit more or less
than a deliberate lie."
"You are a good soul, Graham," says Mrs. Branscombe, wearily.
Something in her manner frightens Graham more than all that has gone
before.
"Oh, madam, do not pay any attention to such a wicked tale," she says,
anxiously, "and forgive me for ever having presumed to lend my ears to
it. No one knowing the master could possibly believe in it."
"Of course not." The answer comes with unnatural calmness from between
her white lips. Graham bursts into fresh tears, and flings her apron
over her head.
Mrs. Branscombe, at this, throws up her head hastily, almost
haughtily, and, drawing her hand with a swift movement across her
averted eyes, breathes a deep lingering sigh. Then her whole
expression changes; and, coming quite near to Graham, she lays her
hand lightly on her shoulder, and laughs softly.
Graham can hardly believe her ears: has that rippling, apparently
unaffected laughter come from the woman who a moment since appeared
all gloom and suppressed anger?
"I am not silly enough to fret over a ridiculous story such as you
have told me," says Georgie, lightly. "Just at first it rather
surprised me, I confess, but now--now I can see the absurdity of it.
There; do not cry any more; it is a pity to waste tears that later on
you may long for in vain."
But when she has gained the house, and has gone up to her own room,
and carefully locked her door, her assumed calmness deserts her. She
paces up and down the floor like some chained creature, putting
together bit by bit the story just related to her. Not for a moment
does she doubt its truth: some terrible fear is knocking at her heart,
some dread that is despair and that convinces her of the reality of
Andrews's relation.
Little actions of Dorian's, light words, certain odd remarks, passed
over at the time of utterance as being of no importance, come back to
her now, and assert themselves with overwhelming persistency, until
they declare him guilty beyond all dispute.
When she had gone to the altar and sworn fidelity to him, she had
certainly not been in love with her husband, according to the common
acceptation of that term. But at least she had given him a heart
devoid of all thought for another, and she had fully, utterly,
believed in his affection for her. For the past few months she had
even begun to cherish this belief, to cling to it, and even to feel
within herself some returning tenderness for him.
It is to her now, therefore, as the bitterness of death, this
knowledge that has come to her ears. To have been befooled where she
had regarded herself as being most beloved,--to have been only second,
where she had fondly imagined herself to be first and dearest,--is a
thought bordering upon madness.
Passionate sobs rise in her throat, and almost overcome her. An angry
feeling of rebellion, a vehement protest against this deed that has
been done, shakes her slight frame. It cannot be true; it shall not;
and yet--and yet--why has this evil fallen upon her of all others? Has
her life been such a happy one that Fate must needs begrudge her one
glimpse of light and gladness? Two large tears gather in her eyes, and
almost unconsciously roll down her cheeks that are deadly white.
Sinking into a chair, as though exhausted, she leans back among its
cushions, letting her hands fall together and lie idly in her lap.
Motionless she sits, with eyes fixed as if riveted to earth, while
tears insensibly steal down her pensive cheeks, which look like
weeping dew fallen on the statue of despair.
For fully half an hour she so rests, scarce moving, hardly seeming to
breathe. Then she rouses herself, and, going over to a table, bathes
her face with eau-de-Cologne. This calms her in a degree, and stills
the outward expression of her suffering, but in her heart there rages
a fire that no waters can quench.
Putting her hat on once again, she goes down-stairs, feeling eager for
a touch of the cool evening air. The hot sun is fading, dying; a
breeze from the distant sea is creeping stealthily up to the land. At
the foot of the staircase she encounters Dorian coming towards her
from the library.
"I have been hunting the place for you," he says, gayly. "Where on
earth have you been hiding? Visions of ghastly deaths rose before me,
and I was just about to have the lake dragged and the shrubberies
swept. Martin is nearly in tears. You really ought to consider our
feelings a little. Why, where are you off to now?"--for the first time
noticing her hat.
"Out," returns she, coldly, looking straight over his head: she is
standing on the third step of the stairs, while he is in the hall
below. "I feel stifled in this house."
Her tone is distinctly strange, her manner most unusual. Fearing she
is really ill, he goes up to her and lays his hand upon her arm.
"Anything the matter, darling? How white you look," he begins,
tenderly; but she interrupts him.
"I am quite well," she says, hardly, shrinking away from his touch as
though it is hateful to her. "I am going out because I wish to be
alone."
She sweeps past him through the old hall and out into the darkening
sunlight, without a backward glance or another word. Amazed, puzzled,
Branscombe stands gazing after her until the last fold of her dress
has disappeared, the last sound of her feet has echoed on the stone
steps beyond; then he turns aside, and, feeling, if possible, more
astonished than hurt, goes back to the library.
From this hour begins the settled coldness between Dorian and his
wife that is afterwards to bear such bitter fruit. She assigns no
actual reason for her changed demeanor; and Dorian, at first, is too
proud to demand an explanation,--though perhaps never yet has he loved
her so well as at this time, when all his attempts at tenderness are
coldly and obstinately rejected.
Not until a full month has gone by, and it is close upon the middle of
August, does it dawn upon him why Georgie has been so different of
late.
Sir James Scrope is dining with them, and, shortly after the servants
have withdrawn, he makes some casual mention of Ruth Annersley's name.
No notice is taken of it at the time, the conversation changes almost
directly into a fresh channel, but Dorian, happening to glance across
the table at his wife, sees that she has grown absolutely livid, and
really, for the instant, fears she is going to faint. Only for an
instant! Then she recovers herself, and makes some careless remark,
and is quite her usual self again.
But he cannot forget that sudden pallor, and like a flash the truth
comes to him, and he knows he is foul and despicable in the eyes of
the only woman he loves.
When Sir James has gone, he comes over to her, and, leaning his elbow
on the chimney-piece, stands in such a position as enables him to
command a full view of her face.
"Scrope takes a great interest in that girl Ruth," he says, purposely
introducing the subject again. "It certainly is remarkable that no
tidings of her have ever since reached Pullingham."
Georgie makes no reply. The nights have already grown chilly and there
is a fire in the grate, before which she is standing warming her
hands. One foot,--a very lovely little foot,--clad in a black shoe
relieved by large silver buckles, is resting on the fender, and on
this her eyes are riveted, as though lost in admiration of its beauty,
though in truth she sees it not at all.
"I can hardly understand her silence," persists Dorian. "I fear,
wherever she is, she must be miserable."
Georgie raises her great violet eyes to his, that are now dark and
deep with passionate anger and contempt.
"She is not the only miserable woman in the world," she says, in a
low, quick tone.
"No, I suppose not. But what an unsympathetic tone you use! Surely you
can feel for her?"
"Feel for her! Yes. No woman can have as much compassion for her as I
have."
"That is putting it rather strongly, is it not? You scarcely know her;
hardly ever spoke to her. Clarissa Peyton, for instance, must think
more pitifully of her than you can."
"I hope it will never be Clarissa's lot to compassionate any one in
the way I do her."
"You speak very bitterly."
"Do I? I think very bitterly."
"What do you mean?" demands he, suddenly, straightening himself and
drawing up his tall figure to its fullest height. His tone is almost
stern.
"Nothing. There is nothing to be gained by continuing this
conversation."
"But I think there is. Of late, your manner towards me has been more
than strange. If you complain of anything, let me know what it is, and
it shall be rectified. At the present moment, I confess, I fail to
understand you. You speak in the most absurdly romantic way about Ruth
Annersley (whom you hardly knew), as though there existed some special
reason why you, above all women, should pity her."
"I do pity her from my heart; and there is a special reason: she has
been deceived, and so have I."
"By whom?"
"I wish you would discontinue the subject, Dorian: it is a very
painful one to me, if--if not to you." Then she moves back a little,
and, laying her hand upon her chest, as though a heavy weight, not to
be lifted, is lying there, she says, slowly, "You compel me to say
what I would willingly leave unsaid. When I married you, I did not
understand your character; had I done so----"
"You would not have married me? You regret your marriage?" He is very
pale now, and something that is surely anguish gleams in his dark
eyes. Perhaps had she seen his expression her answer would have been
different, or, at least, more merciful.
"I do," she says, faintly.
"Why?" All heart seems gone from his voice. He is gazing mournfully
upon the girlish figure of his wife as she stands at some little
distance from him. "Have I been such a bad husband to you, Georgie?"
he says, brokenly.
"No, no. But it is possible to be cruel in more ways than one."
"It is, indeed!" Then he sighs wearily; and, giving up all further
examination of her lovely unforgiving face, he turns his gaze upon the
fire. "Look here," he says, presently; "I heard unavoidably what you
said to Kennedy that afternoon at the castle, that we could manage to
get on without each other excellently well on occasion: you alluded to
yourself, I suppose. Perhaps you think we might get on even better had
we never met."
"I didn't say that," says Georgie, turning pale.
"I understand,"--bitterly: "you only meant it. Well, if you are so
unhappy with me, and if--if you wish for a separation, I think I can
manage it for you. I have no desire whatever"--coldly--"to keep you
with me against your will."
"And have all the world talking?" exclaims she, hastily. "No. In such
a case the woman goes to the wall: the man is never in fault. Things
must now remain as they are. But this one last thing you can do for
me. As far as is possible, let us live as utter strangers to each
other."
"It shall be just as you please," returns he, haughtily.
* * * * *
Day by day the dark cloud that separates them widens and deepens,
drifting them farther and farther apart, until it seems almost
impossible that they shall ever come together again.
Dorian grows moody and irritable, and nurses his wrongs in sullen
morbid silence. He will shoot whole days without a companion, or go
for long purposeless rides across country, only to return at nightfall
weary and sick at heart.
"Grief is a stone that bears one down." To Dorian, all the world seems
going wrong; his whole life is a failure. The two beings he loves most
on earth--Lord Sartoris and his wife--distrust him, and willingly lend
an open ear to the shameless story unlucky Fate has coined for him.
As for Georgie, she grows pale and thin, and altogether unlike
herself. From being a gay, merry, happy little girl, with "the sun
upon her heart," as Bailey so sweetly expresses it, she has changed
into a woman, cold and self-contained, with a manner full of settled
reserve.
Now and again small scenes occur between them that only render matters
more intolerable. For instance, coming into the breakfast-room one
morning, Georgie, meeting the man who brings the letters, takes them
from him, and, dividing them, comes upon one directed to Dorian, in an
unmistakable woman's hand, bearing the London post-mark, which she
throws across the table to her husband.
Something in the quickness of her action makes him raise his head to
look at her. Catching the expression of her eyes, he sees that they
are full of passionate distrust, and at once reads her thoughts
aright. His brow darkens; and, rising, he goes over to her, and takes
her hands in his, not with a desire to conciliate, but most
untenderly.
"It is impossible you can accuse me of this thing," he says, his voice
low and angry.
"Few things are impossible," returns she, with cold disdain. "Remove
your hands, Dorian: they hurt me."
"At least you shall be convinced that in this instance, as in all the
others, you have wronged me."
Still holding her hands, he compels her to listen to him while he
reads aloud a letter from the wife of one of his tenants who has gone
to town on law business and who has written to him on the matter.
Such scenes only help to make more wide the breach between them.
Perhaps, had Georgie learned to love her husband before her marriage,
all might have been well; but the vague feeling of regard she had
entertained for him (that, during the early days of their wedded life,
had been slowly ripening into honest love, not having had time to
perfect itself) at the first check had given in, and fallen--hurt to
death--beneath the terrible attack it had sustained.
She fights and battles with herself at times, and, with passionate
earnestness, tries to live down the growing emptiness of heart that is
withering her young life. All night long sometimes she lies awake,
waiting wearily for the dawn, and longing prayerfully for some change
in her present stagnation.
And, even if she can summon sleep to her aid, small is the benefit she
derives from it. Bad dreams, and sad as bad, harass and perplex her,
until she is thankful when her lids unclose and she feels at least she
is free of the horrors that threatened her a moment since.
"Thou hast been called, O sleep! the friend of woe;
But, 'tis the happy that have called thee so!"