"The waves of a mighty sorrow
Have whelmed the pearl of my life;
And there cometh to me no morrow
Shall solace this desolate strife.
* * * * *
"Gone are the last faint flashes,
Set in the sun of my years,
And over a few poor ashes
I sit in darkness and tears."--GERALD MASSEY.
All night the rain has fallen unceasingly; now the sun shines forth
again, as though forgetting that excessive moisture has inundated the
quiet uncomplaining earth. The "windy night" has not produced a "rainy
morrow;" on the contrary, the world seems athirst for drink again, and
is looking pale and languid because it comes not.
"Moist, bright, and green, the landscape laughs around:
Full swell the woods."
Everything is richer for the welcome drops that fell last night. "The
very earth, the steamy air, is all with fragrance rife;" the flowers
lift up their heads and fling their perfume broadcast upon the flying
wind;
"And that same dew, which sometime within buds
Was wont to swell, like round and Orientpearls,
Stood now within the pretty flowerets' eyes,
Like tears that did their own disgrace bewail."
Georgie, with scarcely any heart to see their beauty, passes by them,
and walks on until she reaches that part of Hythe wood that adjoins
their own. As she passes them, the gentle deer raise their heads and
sniff at her, and, with their wild eyes, entreat her to go by and
take no notice of them.
Autumn, with his "gold hand," is
"Gilding the falling leaf,
Bringing up winter to fulfil the year,
Bearing upon his back the riped sheaf."
All nature seems lovely, and, in coloring, intense. To look upon it is
to have one's heart widen and grow stronger and greater as its
divinity fills one's soul to overflowing. Yet to Georgie the hour
gives no joy: with lowered head and dejected mien she goes, scarce
heeding the glowing tints that meet her on every side. It is as though
she tells herself the world's beauty can avail her nothing, as, be the
day
"Foul, or even fair,
Methinks her hearte's joy is stained with some care."
Crossing a little brook that is babbling merrily, she enters the land
of Hythe; and, as she turns a corner (all rock, and covered with
quaint ferns and tender mosses), she comes face to face with an old
man, tall and lean, who is standing by a pool, planted by nature in a
piece of granite.
He is not altogether unknown to her. At church she has seen him twice,
and once in the village, though she has never been introduced to him,
has never interchanged a single word with him: it is Lord Sartoris.
He gazes at her intently. Perhaps he too knows who she is, but, if so,
he makes no sign. At last, unable to bear the silence any longer, she
says, naively and very gently,--
"I thought you were in Paris."
At this extraordinary remark from a woman he has never spoken to
before, Sartoris lifts his brows, and regards her, if possibly, more
curiously.
"So I was," he says; "but I came home yesterday." Then, "And you are
Dorian's wife?"
Her brows grow clouded.
"Yes," she says, and no more, and, turning aside, pulls to pieces the
flowering grasses that grow on her right hand.
"I suppose I am unwelcome in your sight," says the old man, noting her
reserve. "Yet if, at the time of your marriage, I held aloof, it was
not because you were the bride."
"Did you hold aloof?" says Georgie, with wondering eyes. "Did our
marriage displease you? I never knew: Dorian never told me." Then,
with sudden unexpected bitterness, "Half measures are of no use. Why
did you not forbid the wedding altogether? That would have been the
wisest and kindest thing, both for him and me."
"I don't think I quite follow you," says Lord Sartoris, in a troubled
tone. "Am I to understand you already regret your marriage? Do not
tell me that."
"Why should I not?" says Georgie, defiantly. His tone has angered her,
though why, she would have found a difficulty in explaining. "You are
his uncle," she says, with some warmth: "why should you not know? Why
am I always to pretend happiness that I never feel?"
"Do you know what your words convey?" says Sartoris, more shocked than
he can express.
"I think I do," says the girl, half passionately; and then she turns
aside, and moves as though she would leave him.
"This is terrible," says Sartoris, in a low voice full of pain. "And
yet I cannot believe he is unkind to you."
"Unkind? No," with a little scornful smile: "I hear no harsh words, my
lightest wish is law; yet the veriest beggar that crawls the road is
happier than I am."
"It seems impossible," says Sartoris, quietly, looking intently at her
flower-like face and lovely wistful eyes,--"seeing you, it seems
impossible to me that he can do anything but love you."
"Do not profane the words," she says, quickly. Then she pauses, as
though afraid to continue, and presently says, in a broken voice, "Am
I--the only woman he has--loved?"
Something in the suppressed passion of her tone tells Lord Sartoris
that she too is in possession of the secret that for months has
embittered his life. This discovery is horrible to him.
"Who has been cruel enough to make you wise on that subject?" he says,
impulsively, and therefore unwisely.
Georgie turns upon him eyes brilliant with despair and grief.
"So"--she says, vehemently--"it is the world's talk. You know it: it
is, indeed, common property, this disgraceful story." Something within
her chokes her words; she can say no more. Passion overcomes her, and
want of hope, and grief too deep for expression. The gentle wells that
nature supplies are dead within her; her eyes, hot and burning,
conceal no water wherewith to cool the fever that consumes them.
"You are a stranger to me," she says, presently. "Yet to you I have
laid bare my thoughts. You think, perhaps, I am one to parade my
griefs, but it is not so; I would have you----"
"I believe you," he interrupts her hastily. He can hardly do
otherwise, she is looking so little, so fragile, with her quivering
lips, and her childish pleading eyes, and plaintive voice.
"Take courage," he says, softly: "you are young: good days may yet be
in store for you; but with me it is different. I am on the verge of
the grave,--am going down into it with no one to soothe or comfort my
declining years. Dorian was my one thought: you can never know how I
planned, and lived, and dreamed for him alone; and see how he has
rewarded me! For youth there is a future, and in that thought alone
lies hope; for age there is nothing but the flying present, and even
that, for me, has lost its sweetness. I have staked my all, and--lost!
surely, of we two, I should be the most miserable."
"Is that your belief?" says Mrs. Branscombe, mournfully. "Forgive me
if I say I think you wrong. You have but a little time to endure your
grief, I have my life, and perhaps"--pathetically--"it will be a long
one. To know I must live under his roof, and feel myself indebted to
him for everything I may want, for many years, is very bitter to me."
Sartoris is cut to the heart: that it should have gone so far that she
should shrink from accepting anything at Dorian's hands, galls him
sorely. And what a gentle tender boy he used to be, and how incapable
of a dishonest thought or action! At least, something should be done
for his wife,--this girl who has grown tired and saddened and out of
all heart since her luckless marriage. He looks at her again keenly,
and tells himself she is sweet enough to keep any man at her side, so
dainty she shows in her simple linen gown, with its soft Quakerish
frillings at the throat and wrists. A sudden thought at last strikes
him.
"I am glad I have met you," he says, quietly. "By and by, perhaps, we
shall learn to be good friends. In the mean time will you do me a
small favor? will you come up to Hythe on Thursday at one o'clock?"
"If you want me to come," says Georgie, betraying through her eyes the
intense surprise she feels at this request.
"Thank you. And will you give Dorian a written message from me?"
"I will," she says again. And tearing a leaf from his pocket-book, he
writes, as follows:
"When last we parted, it was with the expressed determination on your
part never again to enter my doors until such time as I should send
for you. I do so now, and beg you will come up to Hythe on Thursday
next at half-past one o'clock. I should not trouble you so far, but
that business demands your presence. I give you my word not to detain
you longer than is absolutely necessary."
Folding up this note, he gives it to her, and pressing her hand
warmly, parts from her, and goes back again to Hythe.
When in answer to his uncle's summons, Dorian walks into the library
at Hythe on Thursday afternoon, he is both astonished and disconcerted
to find his wife there before him. She had given the letter not to
him, but to one of the men-servants to deliver to him: so that he is
still in utter ignorance of her meeting in the wood with his uncle.
"You here?" he says to her, after he has acknowledged Lord Sartoris's
presence by the coldest and haughtiest of salutations.
She says, "Yes," in a low tone, without raising her eyes.
"I was not aware you and Lord Sartoris were on such intimate terms."
"We met by chance last Monday for the first time," returns she, still
without troubling herself to turn her eyes in his direction.
"You will sit down?" says Sartoris, nervously pushing a chair towards
him. Dorian is looking so pale and haggard, so unlike himself, that
the old man's heart dies within him. What "evil days" has he not
fallen on!
"No, thank you: I prefer standing. I must, however, remind you of your
promise not to detain me longer than you can help."
"Nor shall I. I have sent for you to-day to let you know of my
determination to settle upon your wife the sum of twenty thousand
pounds, to be used for her own exclusive benefit, to be hers
absolutely to do with as may seem best to her."
"May I ask what has put this quixotic idea into your head?" asks
Dorian, in a curious tone.
Georgie, who, up to this time, has been so astounded at the disclosure
of the earl's scheme as to be unable to collect her ideas, now feels a
sudden light break in upon her. She rises to her feet, and comes a
little forward, and, for the first time since his entrance, turns to
confront her husband.
"Let me tell you," she says, silencing Lord Sartoris by a quick motion
of the hand. "On Monday I told your uncle how--how I hated being
indebted to you for everything I may require. And he has thought of
this plan, out of his great kindness," turning eyes dark with tears
upon Lord Sartoris,--"to render me more independent. I thank you," she
says, going up to Sartoris and slipping her icy cold little hands into
his, "but it is far--far too much."
"So you have been regaling Lord Sartoris (an utter stranger to you)
with a history of all our private griefs and woes!" says Dorian,
slowly, utter contempt in his tone and an ominous light in his eyes.
"You wrong her, Dorian," says his uncle, gently. "It is not as you
represent it. It was by the merest chance I discovered your wife would
feel happier if more her own mistress."
"And by what right, may I inquire, do you seek to come between my wife
and me?" says Dorian, white with anger, standing, tall and strong,
with his arms folded and his eyes fixed upon his uncle. "Is it not my
part to support and keep her? Whose duty is it, if not mine? I wish
to know why you, of all men, have dared to interfere."
"I have not come between you: I seek no such ungracious part," replies
Sartoris, with quiet dignity. "I am only doing now what I should have
done on her marriage morning had--had things been different."
"It seems to me that I am brought up here as a criminal before my
judge and accuser," says Branscombe, very bitterly. "Let me at least
have the small satisfaction of knowing of what it is I am
accused,--wherein lies my crime. Speak," he says, turning suddenly to
his wife.
She is awed more than she cares to confess by his manner, which is
different from anything she has ever seen in him before. The
kind-hearted, easy-going Dorian is gone, leaving a stern, passionate,
disappointed man in his place.
"Have I ill-used you?" he goes on, vehemently. "Have I spoken harsh
words to you, or thwarted you in any way? Ever since the first hour
that saw you my wife have I refused to grant your lightest wish?
Speak, and let us hear the truth of this matter. I am a bad husband,
you say,--so infamous that it is impossible for you to receive even
the common necessaries of life at my hands! How have I failed in my
duty towards you?"
"In none of the outward observances," she says, faintly. "And yet you
have broken my heart!"
There is a pause. And then Dorian laughs aloud,--a terrible, sneering,
embittered laugh, that strikes cold on the hearts of the hearers.
"Your heart!" he says, witheringly. "Why, supposing for courtesy's
sake you did possess such an inconvenient and unfashionable appendage,
it would be still absurd to accuse me of having broken it, as it has
never been for five minutes in my possession."
Taking out his watch, he examines it leisurely. Then, with an utter
change of manner, addressing Lord Sartoris, he says, with cold and
studied politeness,--
"If you have quite done with me, I shall be glad, as I have another
appointment at three."
"I have quite done," says his uncle, wistfully, looking earnestly at
the handsome face before him that shows no sign of feeling whatsoever.
"I thank you much for having so far obliged me."
"Pray do not mention it. Good-morning."
"Good-morning," says Sartoris, wearily. And Branscombe, bowing
carelessly, leaves the room without another word.
When he has gone, Georgie, pale and trembling, turns to Sartoris and
lays her hand upon his arm.
"He hates me. He will not even look at me," she says, passionately.
"What was it he said, that I had no heart? Ah! what would I not give
to be able to prove his words true?"
She bursts into tears, and sobs long and bitterly.
"Tears are idle," says Sartoris, sadly. "Have you yet to learn that?
Take comfort from the thought that all things have an end."