"Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows;
And when we meet at any time again,
Be it not seen in either of our brows
That we one jot of former love retain."--DRAYTON.
Not until Mrs. Branscombe has dismissed her maid for the night does
she discover that the plain gold locket in which she had placed
Dorian's picture is missing. She had (why, she hardly cares to explain
even to herself) hung it round her neck; and now, where is it?
After carefully searching her memory for a few moments, she remembers
that useless visit to the library before dinner, and tells herself she
must have dropped it then. She will go and find it. Slipping into a
pale-blue dressing-gown, that serves to make softer and more adorable
her tender face and golden hair, she thrusts her feet into slippers of
the same hue, and runs down-stairs for the third time to-day, to the
library.
Opening the door, the brilliant light of many lamps greets her, and,
standing by the fire is her husband, pale and haggard, with the
missing locket in his hand. He has opened it, and is gazing at his own
face with a strange expression.
"Is this yours?" he asks, as she comes up to him. "Did you come to
look for it?"
"Yes." She holds out her hand to receive it from him, but he shows
some hesitation about giving it.
"Let me advise you to take this out of it," he says, coldly, pointing
to his picture. "Its being here must render the locket valueless. What
induced you to give it such a place?"
"It was one of my many mistakes," returns she, calmly, making a
movement as though to leave him; "and you are right. The locket is, I
think, distasteful to me. I don't want it any more: you can keep it."
"I don't want it, either," returns he, hastily; and then, with a
gesture full of passion, he flings it deliberately into the very heart
of the glowing fire. There it melts, and grows black, and presently
sinks, with a crimson coal, utterly out of sight.
"The best place for it," says he, bitterly. "I wish I could as easily
be obliterated and forgotten."
Is it forgotten? She says nothing, makes no effort to save the fated
case that holds his features, but, with hands tightly clenched,
watches its ruin. Her eyes are full of tears, but she feels benumbed,
spiritless, without power to shed them.
Once more she makes a movement to leave him.
"Stay," he says, gently; "I have a few things to say to you, that may
as well be got over now. Come nearer to the fire: you must be cold."
She comes nearer, and, standing on the hearth-rug, waits for him to
speak. As she does so, a sharp cough, rising to her throat, distresses
her sufficiently to bring some quick color into her white cheeks.
Though in itself of little importance, this cough has now annoyed her
for at least a fortnight, and shakes her slight frame with its
vehemence.
"Your cough is worse to-night," he says, turning to regard her more
closely.
"No, not worse."
"Why do you walk about the house so insufficiently clothed?" asks he,
angrily, glancing at her light dressing-gown with great disfavor.
"One would think you were seeking ill health. Here, put this round
you." He tries to place upon her shoulders the cashmere shawl she had
worn when coming in from the garden in the earlier part of the
evening. But she shrinks from him.
"No, no," she says, petulantly; "I am warm enough; and I do not like
that thing. It is black,--the color of Death!"
Her words smite cold upon his heart. A terrible fear gains mastery
over him. Death! What can it have to do with one so fair, so young,
yet, alas! so frail?
"You will go somewhere for change of air?" he says, entreatingly,
going up to her and laying his hand upon her shoulder. "It is of this,
partly, I wish to speak to you. You will find this house lonely and
uncomfortable (though doubtless pleasanter) when I am gone. Let me
write to my aunt, Lady Monckton. She will be very glad to have you for
a time."
"No; I shall stay here. Where are you going?"
"I hardly know; and I do not care at all."
"How long will you be away?"
"How can I answer that question either? There is nothing to bring me
home."
"How soon do you go?" Her voice all through is utterly without
expression, or emotion of any kind.
"Immediately," he answers, curtly. "Are you in such a hurry to be rid
of me? Be satisfied, then: I start to-morrow." Then, after an unbroken
pause, in which even her breathing cannot be heard, he says, in a
curious voice, "I suppose there will be no occasion for me to write to
you while I am away?"
She does not answer directly. She would have given half her life to be
able to say, freely, "Write to me, Dorian, if only a bare line, now
and then, to tell me you are alive;" but pride forbids her.
"None, whatever," she says, coldly, after her struggle with her inner
self. "I dare say I shall hear all I care to hear from Clarissa or Sir
James."
There is a long silence. Georgie's eyes are fixed dreamily upon the
sparkling coals. His eyes are fixed on her. What a child she looks in
her azure gown, with her yellow hair falling in thick masses over her
shoulders. So white, so fair, so cruelly cold! Has she no heart, that
she can stand in that calm, thoughtful attitude, while his heart is
slowly breaking?
She has destroyed all his happy life, this "amber witch," with her
loveliness, and her pure girlish face, and her bitter indifference;
and yet his love for her at this moment is stronger, perhaps, than it
has ever been. He is leaving her. Shall he ever see her again?
Something at this moment overmasters him. Moving a step nearer to her,
he suddenly catches her in his arms, and, holding her close to his
heart, presses kisses (unforbidden) upon her lips and cheek and brow.
In another instant she has recovered herself, and, placing her hands
against his chest, frees herself, by a quick gesture, from his
embrace.
"Was that how you used to kiss _her_?" she says, in a choked voice,
her face the color of death. "Let me go: your touch is contamination."
Almost before the last word has passed her lips, he releases her, and,
standing back, confronts her with a face as livid as her own.
In the one hurried glance she casts at him, she knows that all is,
indeed, over between them now; never again will he sue to her for love
or friendship. She would have spoken again,--would, perhaps, have said
something to palliate the harshness of her last words,--but by a
gesture he forbids her. He points to the door.
"Leave the room," he says, in a stern commanding tone; and, utterly
subdued and silenced by his manner, she turns and leaves him.