"One woe doth tread upon another's heel,
So fast they follow."--_Hamlet._
"One, that was a woman, sir."--_Hamlet._
Across the autumn grass, that has browned beneath the scorching summer
rays, and through the fitful sunshine, comes James Scrope.
Through the woods, under the dying beech-trees that lead to Gowran, he
saunters slowly, thinking only of the girl beyond, who is not thinking
of him at all, but of the man who, in his soul, Sir James believes
utterly unworthy of her.
This thought so engrosses him, as he walks along, that he fails to
hear Mrs. Branscombe, until she is close beside him, and until she
says, gently,--
"How d'ye do, Sir James?" At this his start is so visible that she
laughs, and says, with a faint blush,--
"What! is my coming so light that one fails to hear it?"
To which he, recovering himself, makes ready response:
"So light a foot
Will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint."
Then, "You are coming from Gowran?"
"Yes; from Clarissa."
"She is well?"
"Yes, and, I suppose, happy,"--with a shrug. "She expects Horace
to-morrow." There is a certain scorn in her manner, that attracts his
notice.
"Is that sufficient to create happiness?" he says, some what
bitterly, in spite of himself. "But of course it is. You know Horace?"
"Not well, but well enough," says Mrs. Branscombe, with a frown. "I
know him well enough to hate him."
She pauses, rather ashamed of herself for her impulsive confidence,
and not at all aware that by this hasty speech she has made a friend
of Sir James for life.
"Hate him?" he says, feeling he could willingly embrace her on the
spot were society differently constituted. "Why, what has he done to
you?"
"Nothing; but he is not good enough for Clarissa," protests she,
energetically. "But then who is good enough? I really think," says
Mrs. Branscombe, with earnest conviction, "she is far too sweet to be
thrown away upon any man."
Even this awful speech fails to cool Sir James's admiration for the
speaker. She has declared herself a non-admirer of the all-powerful
Horace, and this goes so far a way with him that he cannot bring
himself to find fault with her on any score.
"I don't know why I express my likes and dislikes to you so openly,"
she says, gravely, a little later on; "and I don't know, either, why I
distrust Horace. I have only a woman's reason. It is Shakespeare
slightly altered: 'I hate him so, because I hate him so.' And I hope,
with all my heart, Clarissa will never marry him."
Then she blushes again at her openness, and gives him her hand, and
bids him good-by, and presently he goes on his way once more to
Gowran.
On the balcony there stands Clarissa, the solemn Bill close beside
her. She is leaning on the parapet, with her pretty white hands
crossed and hanging loosely over it. As she sees him coming, with a
little touch of coquetry, common to most women, she draws her
broad-brimmed hat from her head, and, letting it fall upon the
balcony, lets the uncertain sunlight touch warmly her fair brown hair
and tender exquisite face.
Bill, sniffing, lifts himself, and, seeing Sir James, shakes his
shaggy sides, and, with his heavy head still drooping, and his most
hang-dog expression carefully put on, goes cautiously down the stone
steps to greet him.
Having been patted, and made much of, and having shown a scornful
disregard for all such friendly attentions, he trots behind Sir James
at the slow funeral pace he usually affects, until Clarissa is
reached.
"Better than my ordinary luck to find you here," says Sir James, who
is in high good humor. "Generally you are miles away when I get to
Gowran. And--forgive me--how exceedingly charming you are looking this
morning!"
Miss Peyton is clearly not above praise. She laughs,--a delicious
rippling little laugh,--and colors faintly.
"A compliment from you!" she says. "No wonder I blush. Am I really
lovely, Jim, or only commonly pretty? I should hate to be commonly
pretty." She lifts her brows disdainfully.
"You needn't hate yourself," says Scrope, calmly. "Lovely is the word
for you."
"I'm rather glad," says Miss Peyton, with a sigh of relief. "If only
for--Horace's sake!"
Sir James pitches his cigar over the balcony, and frowns. Always
Horace! Can she not forget him for even one moment?
"What brought you?" asks she, presently.
"What a gracious speech!"--with a rather short laugh. "To see you, I
fancy. By the by, I met Mrs. Branscombe on my way here. She didn't
look particularly happy."
"No." Clarissa's eyes grow sad. "After all, that marriage was a
terrible mistake, and it seemed such a satisfactory one. Do you know,"
in a half-frightened tone, "I begin to think they hate each other?"
"They don't seem to hit it off very well, certainly," says Sir James,
moodily. "But I believe there is something more on Branscombe's mind
than his domestic worries: I am afraid he is getting into trouble over
the farm, and that, and nothing hits a man like want of money. That
Sawyer is a very slippery fellow, in my opinion: and of late Dorian
has neglected everything and taken no interest in his land, and, in
fact, lets everything go without question."
"I have no patience with Georgie," says Clarissa, indignantly. "She is
positively breaking his heart."
"She is unhappy, poor little thing," says Scrope, who cannot find it
in his heart to condemn the woman who has just condemned Horace
Branscombe.
"It is her own fault if she is. I know few people so lovable as
Dorian. And now to think he has another trouble makes me wretched. I
do hope you are wrong about Sawyer."
"I don't think I am," says Scrope; and time justifies his doubt of
Dorian's steward.
* * * * *
"SARTORIS, Tuesday, four o'clock.
"DEAR SCROPE,--
"Come up to me at _once_, if possible. Everything here is in
a deplorable state. You have heard, of course, that Sawyer
bolted last night; but perhaps you have _not_ heard that he
has left things in a ruinous state. I must see you with as
little delay as you can manage. Come straight to the library,
where you will find me alone.
"Yours ever,
"D. B."
Sir James, who is sitting in his sister's room, starts to his feet on
reading this letter.
"Patience, I must go at once to Sartoris," he says, looking pale and
distressed.
"To see that mad boy?"
"To see Dorian Branscombe."
"That is quite the same thing. You don't call him sane, do you? To
marry that chit of a girl without a grain of common sense in her silly
head, just because her eyes were blue and her hair yellow, forsooth.
And then to go and get mixed up with that Annersley affair--"
"My dear Patience!"
"Well, why not? Why should I not talk? One must use one's tongue, if
one isn't a dummy. And then there is that man Sawyer: he could get no
one out of the whole country but a creature who----"
"Hush!" says Sir James, hastily and unwisely. "Better be silent on
that subject." Involuntarily he lays his hand upon the letter just
received.
"Ha!" says Miss Scrope, triumphantly, with astonishing sharpness. "So
I was right, was I? So that pitiful being has been exposed to the
light of day, has he? I always said how it would be; I knew it!--ever
since last spring, when I sent to him for some cucumber-plants, and
he sent me instead (with wilful intent to insult me) two vile gourds.
I always knew how it would end."
"Well, and how has it ended?" says Sir James, with a weak effort to
retrieve his position, putting on a small air of defiance.
"Don't think to deceive me," says Miss Scrope, in a terrible tone;
whereupon Sir James flies the apartment, feeling in his heart that in
a war of words Miss Scrope's match is yet to be found.
Entering the library at Sartoris, he finds Dorian there, alone,
indeed, and comfortless, and sore at heart.
It is a dark dull day. The first breath of winter is in the air. The
clouds are thick and sullen, and are lying low, as if they would
willingly come down to sit upon the earth and there rest
themselves,--so weary they seem, and so full of heaviness.
Above them a wintry sun is trying vainly to recover its ill temper.
Every now and then a small brown bird, flying hurriedly past the
windows, is almost blown against them by the strong and angry blast.
Within, a fire is burning, and the curtains are half drawn across the
windows and the glass door, that leads, by steps, down into the
garden. No lamps are lit, and the light is sombre and severe.
"You have come," says Dorian, advancing eagerly to meet him. "I knew I
could depend upon you, but it is more than good of you to be here so
soon. I have been moping a good deal, I am afraid, and forgot all
about the lamps. Shall I ring for some one now to light them?"
"No: this light is what I prefer," says Scrope, laying his hand upon
his arm. "Stir up the fire, if you like."
"Even that I had not given one thought to," says Branscombe, drearily.
"Sitting here all alone, I gave myself up a prey to evil thoughts."
The word "alone" touches Sir James inexpressibly. Where was his wife
all the time, that she never came to him to comfort and support him in
his hour of need?
"Is everything as bad as you say?" he asks, presently, in a subdued
tone.
"Quite as bad; neither worse nor better. There are no gradations about
utter ruin. You heard about Sawyer, of course? Harden has been with
me all last night and to-day, and between us we have been able to make
out that he has muddled away almost all the property,--which, you
know, is small. As yet we hardly know how we stand. But there is one
claim of fifteen thousand pounds that must be paid without delay, and
I have not one penny to meet it, so am literally driven to the wall."
"You speak as if----"
"No, I am speaking quite rationally. I know what you would say; but if
I was starving I would not accept one shilling from Lord Sartoris.
That would be impossible. You can understand why, without my going
into that infamous scandal. I suppose I can sell Sartoris, and pay
my--that is, Sawyer's--debts; but that will leave me a beggar." Then,
in a low tone, "I should hardly care, but for her. That is almost more
than I can bear."
"You say this debt of fifteen thousand pounds is the one that presses
hardest?"
"Yes. But for that, I might, by going in for strict economy, manage to
retrieve my present position in a year or two."
"I wish you would explain more fully," says Sir James; whereupon
Dorian enters into an elaborate explanation that leaves all things
clear.
"It seems absurd," says Scrope, impatiently, "that you, the heir to an
earldom and unlimited wealth, should be made so uncomfortable for the
sake of a paltry fifteen thousand pounds."
"I hardly think my wealth unlimited," says Branscombe; "there is a
good deal of property not entailed, and the ready money is at my
uncle's own disposal. You know, perhaps, that he has altered his will
in favor of Horace,--has, in fact, left him everything that it is
possible to leave?"
"This is all new to me," says Sir James, indignantly. "If it is true,
it is the most iniquitous thing I ever heard in my life."
"It is true," says Branscombe, slowly. "Altogether, in many ways, I
have been a good deal wrong; and the money part of it has not hurt me
the most."
"If seven thousand pounds would be of any use to you," says Scrope,
gently, delicately, "I have it lying idle. It will, indeed, be a
great convenience if you will take it at a reasonable----"
"That is rather unkind of you," says Dorian, interrupting him hastily.
"Don't say another word on that subject. I shall sink or swim without
aid from my friends,--aid, I mean, of that sort. In other ways you can
help me. Harden will, of course, see to the estate; but there are
other, more private matters, that I would intrust to you alone. Am I
asking too much?"
"Don't be unkind in your own turn," says Scrope, with tears in his
eyes.
"Thank you," says Dorian, simply. His heart seems quite broken.
"What of your wife?" asks Sir James, with some hesitation. "Does she
know?"
"I think not. Why should she be troubled before her time? It will come
fast enough. She made a bad match, after all, poor child! But there is
one thing I must tell you, and it is the small drop of comfort in my
cup. About a month ago, Lord Sartoris settled upon her twenty thousand
pounds, and that will keep her at least free from care. When I am
gone, I want you to see to her, and let me know, from time to time,
that she is happy and well cared for."
"But will she consent to this separation from you, that may last for
years?"
"Consent!" says Dorian, bitterly. "That is not the word. She will be
glad, at this chance that has arisen to put space between us. I
believe from my heart that----"
"What is it you believe?" says a plaintive voice, breaking in upon
Dorian's speech with curious energy. The door leading into the garden
is wide open: and now the curtain is thrust aside, and a fragile
figure, gowned in some black filmy stuff, stands before them. Both men
start as she advances in the uncertain light. Her face is deadly pale;
her eyes are large, and almost black, as she turns them questioningly
upon Sir James Scrope. It is impossible for either man to know what
she may, or may not, have heard.
"I was in the garden," she says, in an agitated tone, "and I heard
voices; and something about money; and Dorian's going away: and----"
(she puts her hand up to her throat) "and about ruin. I could not
understand: but you will tell me. You must."
"Tell her, Dorian," says Sir James. But Dorian looks doggedly away
from her, through the open window, into the darkening garden beyond.
"Tell me, Dorian," she says, nervously, going up to him, and laying a
small white trembling hand upon his arm.
"There is no reason why you should be distressed," says Branscombe,
very coldly, lifting her hand from his arm, as though her very touch
is displeasing to him. "You are quite safe. Sawyer's mismanagement of
the estate has brought me to the verge of ruin; but Lord Sartoris has
taken care that you will not suffer."
She is trembling violently.
"And you?" she says.
"I shall go abroad until things look brighter." Then he turns to her
for the first time, and, taking both her hands, presses them
passionately. "I can hardly expect forgiveness from you," he says:
"you had, at least, a right to expect position when you made your
unhappy marriage, and now you have nothing."
I think she hardly hears this cruel speech. Her thoughts still cling
to the word that has gone before.
"Abroad?" she says, with quivering lips.
"Only for a time," says Sir James, taking pity upon her evident
distress.
"Does he owe a great deal?" asks she, feverishly. "Is it a very large
sum? Tell me how much it is."
Scrope, who is feeling very sorry for her, explains matters, while
Dorian maintains a determined silence.
"Fifteen thousand pounds, if procured at once, would tide him over his
difficulties," says Sir James, who does her the justice to divine her
thoughts correctly. "Time is all he requires."
"I have twenty thousand pounds," says Georgie, eagerly. "Lord Sartoris
says I may do what I like with it. Dorian,"--going up to him
again,--"take it,--do, _do_. You will make me happier than I have been
for a long time if you will accept it."
A curious expression lights Dorian's face. It is half surprise, half
contempt: yet, after all, perhaps there is some genuine gladness in
it.
"I cannot thank you sufficiently," he says, in a low tone. "Your offer
is more than kind: it is generous. But I cannot accept it. It is
impossible I should receive anything at your hands."
"Why?" she says, her lips white, her eyes large and earnest.
"Does that question require an answer?" asks Dorian, slowly. "There
was a time, even in our short married life, when I believed in your
friendship for me, and then I would have taken anything from
you,--from my wife; but now, I tell you again, it is impossible. You
yourself have put it out of my power."
He turns from her coldly, and concentrates his gaze once more upon the
twilit garden.
"Don't speak to me like that,--at least now," says Georgie, her breath
coming in short quick gasps. "It hurts me so! Take this wretched
money, if--if you still have any love for me."
He turns deliberately away from the small pleading face.
"And leave you penniless," he says.
"No, not that. Some day you can pay me back, if you wish it. All these
months you have given me every thing I could possibly desire, let me
now make you some small return."
Unfortunately, this speech angers him deeply.
"We are wasting time," he says, quickly. "Understand, once for all, I
will receive nothing from you."
"James," says Mrs. Branscombe, impulsively, going up to Scrope and
taking his hand. She is white and nervous, and, in her agitation, is
hardly aware that, for the first time, she has called him by his
Christian name. "Persuade him. Tell him he should accept this money.
Dear James, speak for me: _I_ am nothing to him."
For the second time Branscombe turns and looks at her long and
earnestly.
"I must say I think your wife quite right," says Scrope,
energetically. "She wants you to take this money; your not taking it
distresses her very much, and you have no right in the world to marry
a woman and then make her unhappy." This is faintly quixotic,
considering all the circumstances, but nobody says anything. "You
ought to save Sartoris from the hammer no matter at what
price,--pride or anything else. It isn't a fair thing, you know,
Branscombe, to lift the roof from off her head for a silly prejudice."
When he has finished this speech, Sir James feels that he has been
unpardonably impertinent.
"She will have a home with my uncle," says Branscombe, unmoved,--"a
far happier and more congenial home than this has ever been." A faint
sneer disfigures his handsome mouth for a moment. Then his mood
changes, and he turns almost fiercely upon Georgie. "Why will you
fight against your own good fortune?" he says. "See how it is favoring
you. You will get rid of me for years, perhaps--I hope--forever, and
you will be comfortable with him."
"No, I shall not," says Mrs. Branscombe, a brilliant crimson has grown
upon her pale cheeks, her eyes are bright and full of anger, she
stands back from him and looks at him with passionate reproach and
determination in her gaze. "You think I will consent to live calmly
here while you are an exile from your home? In so much you wrong me.
When you leave Sartoris, I leave it too,--to be a governess once
more."
"I forbid you to do that," says Branscombe. "I am your husband, and,
as such, the law allows me some power over you. But this is only an
idle threat," he says, contemptuously. "When I remember how you
consented to marry even me to escape such a life of drudgery, I cannot
believe you will willingly return to it again."
"Nevertheless I shall," says Georgie, slowly. "You abandon me: why,
then, should you have power to control my actions? And I will not live
at Hythe, and I will not live at all in Pullingham unless I live
here."
"Don't be obstinate, Dorian," says Sir James, imploringly. "Give in to
her: it will be more manly. Don't you see she has conceived an
affection for the place by this time, and can't bear to see it pass
into strange hands? In the name of common sense, accept this chance of
rescue, and put an end to a most unhappy business."
Dorian leans his arms upon the mantel-piece, and his head upon his
arms. Shall he, or shall he not, consent to this plan? Is he really
behaving, as Scrope has just said, in an unmanly manner?
A lurid flame from the fire lights up the room, and falls warmly upon
Georgie's anxious face and clasped hands and sombre clinging gown;
upon Dorian's bowed head and motionless figure, and upon Sir James,
standing tall and silent within the shadow that covers the corner
where he is. All is sad, and drear, and almost tragic!
Georgie, with both hands pressed against her bosom, waits breathlessly
for Dorian's answer. At last it comes. Lifting his head, he says, in a
dull tone that is more depressing than louder grief,--
"I consent. But I cannot live here just yet. I shall go away for a
time. I beg you both to understand that I do this thing against my
will for my wife's sake,--not for my own. Death itself could not be
more bitter to me than life has been of late." For the last time he
turns and looks at Georgie. "You know who has embittered it," he says.
And then, "Go: I wish to be alone!"
Scrope, taking Mrs. Branscombe's cold hand in his, leads her from the
room. When outside, she presses her fingers on his in a grateful
fashion, and, whispering something to him in a broken voice,--which he
fails to hear,--she goes heavily up the staircase to her own room.
When inside, she closes the door, and locks it, and, going as if with
a purpose to a drawer in a cabinet, draws from it a velvet frame.
Opening it, she gazes long and earnestly upon the face it contains: it
is Dorian's.
It is a charming, lovable face, with its smiling lips and its large
blue honest eyes. Distrustfully she gazes at it, as if seeking to
discover some trace of duplicity in the clear open features. Then
slowly she takes the photograph from the frame, and with a scissors
cuts out the head, and, lifting the glass from a dull gold locket upon
the table near her, carefully places the picture in it.
When her task is finished, she looks at it once again, and then laughs
softly to herself,--a sneering unlovable laugh full of self-contempt.
Her whole expression is unforgiving, yet suggestive of deep regret.
Somehow, at this moment his last words came back to her and strike
coldly on her heart: "I wish to be alone!"
"Alone!" How sadly the word had fallen from his lips! How stern his
face had been, how broken and miserable his voice! Some terrible grief
was tearing at his heart, and there was no one to comfort or love him,
or----
She gets up from her chair, and paces the room impatiently, as though
inaction had ceased to be possible to her. An intense craving to see
him again fills her soul. She must go to him, if only to know what he
has been doing since last she left him. Acting on impulse, she goes
quickly down the stairs, and across the hall to the library, and
enters with a beating heart.
All is dark and dreary enough to chill any expectant mind. The fire,
though warm and glowing still, has burned to a dull red, and no bright
flames flash up to illumine the gloom. Blinded by the sudden change
from light to darkness, she goes forward nervously until she reaches
the hearth-rug: then she discovers that Dorian is no longer there.