"Our doubts are traitors,
And make us lose the good we oft might win."--SHAKESPEARE.
"The day goeth down red darkling,
The moaning waves dash out the light,
And there is not a star of hope sparkling
On the threshold of my night."--GERALD MASSEY.
The morning after her unfortunate visit to town, Clarissa sends to
Mrs. Branscombe, asking her to come to her without delay. The secret
that is in her heart weighs heavily, and Georgie must be told. Yet,
now, when the door opens, and Georgie stands before her, she is dumb,
and cold, and almost without power to move.
"What is it?" says Mrs. Branscombe, suddenly. The sad little smile
that of late has been peculiar to her fades at sight of Clarissa's
grief-stricken face. She advances, and lays a hand upon her arm. "You
look positively ill, Clarissa: something dreadful has happened. I can
see it in your eyes. It is bad news. Dorian,--he is not----"
She puts her hand to her throat, and leans on a chair.
"It is no bad news for you," says Clarissa, faintly, "but for me." She
pauses.
"Are you in trouble, dearest?" says Mrs. Branscombe, sadly. "I thought
you the happiest girl alive. Is there nothing but misery in this
wretched world?"
"I was in town yesterday," Clarissa begins, with an effort, and then
stops. How is she to betray her lover's falseness?
"And you saw Horace, and he is ill?" says Georgie, anxiously. "Tell me
all, Clarissa."
"It is so hard to tell," says poor Clarissa; and then she turns her
face to the wall, and wishes honestly that all things for her might
now be at an end:
"Love, art thou bitter?
Sweet is death to me."
At this moment she could have gladly welcomed death.
"There are many things," she says, "but this worst of all. He does not
love me; he has never loved me. And there is some one else; and----"
"Who is it?" asks Georgie, breathlessly, though the truth as yet is
far from her.
"Ruth Annersley! She was there,--in his rooms!" says Clarissa; and,
after this, there is a silence that lasts for several minutes.
The unhappy truth is told. Clarissa, shamed and heartbroken, moves
away, that her companion may not see her face. As for Mrs. Branscombe,
at first intense wonder renders her motionless; and then, as the exact
meaning of this terrible story breaks in upon her, a great and
glorious gleam of unmistakable rapture lights all her face, and,
sinking upon a _prie-Dieu_ near her, she presses her hands tightly
together. That Dorian is exonerated, is her first thought; that he
will never forgive her, is her second; and this drives all the blood
from her cheeks, and the gladness from her heart, and brings her back
again to the emptiness and barrenness that have made life a wilderness
to her for so many months.
Going over to Clarissa, she lays her arms gently round her neck. There
seems to be a new bond, born of grief, between them now.
"Do not pity me," says Clarissa, entreatingly.
"Pity you? no! There is no occasion for it. You are fortunate in
having escaped such a fate as was in store for you. In time you will
forget all this, and be happy in some other way."
"Shall I?" says Clarissa, drearily. "But, in the mean time, what shall
I do? How shall I fill the blank here?" She lays her hand upon her
heart.
"He is a wretch," says Georgie, with sudden fire. "If I were a man, I
should kill him."
"You should rather be thankful to him," says Clarissa, with some
bitterness. "My misery has proved your joy. The shadow has been raised
from Dorian."
"Clarissa, if you speak to me like that you will break my heart," says
Georgie, deeply grieved. "How could I know joy when you are unhappy?
And--and, besides, there is no joy for me anywhere. Dorian will never
forgive me. How could he? I, his wife, was the one who most heartily
condemned him and believed in his guilt."
"When you see him, all will be well. But he should be told; you will
see to that."
"Of course, darling. He is coming home next week. But how shall I meet
him and say all this to him! The very thought of it is terrible."
"Next week?--so soon?"
"Yes; I had a line from him this morning,--the only one he wrote me
since his departure; but that was my own fault. I am almost sorry he
is coming now," says Mrs. Branscombe, nervously. "I shall dread the
look in his eyes when I confess to him how readily I believed in that
false rumor."
"You hardly deserve pity," says Clarissa, suddenly, turning upon her
with some just anger. "You undervalued him all through. Instead of
going 'down on your knees to thank heaven, fasting, for a good man's
love,' you deliberately flung it away. How different it has been with
me! I trusted blindly, and see my reward! Even yet I cannot realize
it. It seems like some strange horrible nightmare, from which I must
awake. Yesterday I was so happy; to-day----"
She breaks down, and bursts into bitter weeping.
Georgie throws herself on her knees before her.
* * * * *
"Is this your luggage, sir? Glad to see you back again, sir."
"Thank you, Jeffers. Yes, that is mine. All right at home, I hope?
Your mistress quite well?"
"Quite well, sir. She is at home, awaiting you."
Dorian turns away with a bitter smile. "At home, awaiting him!" What a
wretched fool he once was, when he used to really picture to himself a
fair fond woman waiting and longing for his return, whenever Fate had
called him from her side!
Arriving at Sartoris, he runs up the stairs to his own room, meeting
no one on his way. He smiles again--the same unlovely smile--as he
tells himself that Jeffers exaggerated the case a little,--as,
plainly, Georgie has taken special pains to be out of the way to avoid
meeting him on his first arrival.
Opening his door, he goes in, closing it firmly behind him. Everything
in the room is just as he had left it. Nothing has been changed; the
very book he had been reading is lying now open at the page he had
last looked into. A glorious fire is burning in the grate. A delicate
Bohemian vase is filled with some rare sweet flowers.
Whose hand had gathered them? If it was one of the servants, it was
very thoughtful. He is very fond of flowers. He moves listlessly
about, wondering vaguely how everything can look, after some months'
absence, so exactly as if he had seen it only yesterday, when a small
object lying on a side-table attracts his notice.
It is a little gray glove, soiled, finger-pressed, warm as if its
owner but just a minute since had drawn it from her hand. It is yet
almost a part of the white, soft flesh it had covered. His brow
contracts, and a pained expression crosses his face. Taking it up, he
lays it in his open palm, and regards it earnestly; he hesitates, and
then, as though unable to prevent himself, he raises it and presses it
passionately to his lips. An instant later, with a contemptuous
gesture and an inward anathema upon his own weakness, he flings it
far from him through the open window down on to the balcony
beneath,--where it flutters to Mrs. Branscombe's feet!
Mechanically she stoops and picks it up. She has been hurrying towards
the house, having only just heard of her husband's arrival, she not
having expected him for some time later, trains at Pullingham being
none of the most punctual.
Gazing at the luckless glove, her whole expression changes. She is
beneath his window: was it his hand flung it so disdainfully to the
ground,--the glove she had worn such a short time before, when
gathering the flowers that are now making his room so sweet? Clasping
the unoffending bit of kid closely in her hand, she enters the house,
by a wide French window, and goes straight into Dorian's room.
At the door she hesitates, and then knocks somewhat nervously.
"Come in." His voice has been so long a stranger to her that she
almost starts on hearing it, and the last remnant of her courage
vanishes. She opens the door and goes slowly in.
Dorian's back is turned to her. His coat is off, and he is brushing
his hair before a glass in the furious fashion men, as a rule, affect.
As she enters, he turns, and putting down the brushes, regards her
with undisguised surprise. Plainly, he has not expected her.
"How d'ye do?" he says, presently. It is perfectly absurd; yet neither
of them laughs. It is the most ridiculous greeting he could possibly
have made her, considering all things; yet no sense of ridicule
touches them. They are too near to tragedy to harbor a thought of
comedy.
"I did not expect you until five," says Georgie, in a constrained
tone. "If I had known, I should have been ready to receive you."
"Pray do not apologize," he says, coldly. "It is very good of you to
come here now. It is more than I expected."
"I came," says Georgie, with an effort, "because I have something to
tell you, that should be told without delay."
"What is it?" he asks, quickly. "Is my uncle well?"
"Quite well. I saw him yesterday. It has nothing to do with him;
though, of course, it must touch him very nearly."
"You will be tired," he says, with grave but distant politeness. "Sit
down while you tell me your news."
"No; I prefer standing." She clasps one hand tightly over the other,
and leans against the wall; she cannot, try as she will, remove her
eyes from his face. "What I want to say is this: I have heard of Ruth
Annersley!"
"Have you?" with an ominous calm in look and tone. "Where is she?"
"With--your brother!"
Dorian walks abruptly to the window, and stands there so that his face
cannot be seen. He is distressed beyond measure. So his old suspicions
have proved true, after all, and Horace's protestations were as basest
lies. He feels sick at heart for his brother's honor,--that miserable
remnant of a once fair thing, that costly garment, now reduced to
rags. After a while he forces himself to speak again.
"Who found her there?" he asks, huskily.
"Clarissa."
"Clarissa?" He is now thoroughly shocked. "What cruel fate made her
the discoverer?"
"Chance. He was ill, and she went to see him, out of pure love for
him. She was rewarded by a sight of Ruth Annersley!"
"Poor girl!" says Branscombe, sadly. "So true,--so trusting."
Georgie draws her breath quickly. Are not his words a reflection upon
her?--she, who has so failed in faith and love?
"I suppose that is all you have to tell me," says Dorian, presently,
in an absent, weary way.
"Not quite all," she says, with a trembling voice. She forces herself
to come nearer to him, and now stands before him like a small pale
culprit, unable to lift her eyes to his. "I want to tell you how
deeply I regret the injustice, the--"
"No, no," interrupts he, impatiently. "Let nothing be said about that.
It would be worse than useless. Why waste words over what can never be
undone?"
Still she perseveres bravely, although her breath is coming quicker,
and her lips are trembling.
"I must tell you how sorry I am," she says, with a suppressed sob. "I
want to ask you, if possible, to forg----"
"Believe me, it will be better to leave all this unsaid," he
interrupts her, gravely.
"Then you do not care to hear how I have regretted the wrong I did
you, and----?"
"As you ask me the question, I will answer you. No, I do not. Had you,
at any time, felt one particle of affection for me, you could never
have so misunderstood me. Let things now remain as they are. Though I
think that perhaps, for the short time I shall remain at home, it will
be better for your sake that we should appear before the world, at
least, as friends."
"You are leaving home again?" she asks, timidly. Now, as he stands
before her, so tall, and strong, and unforgiving, with this new-born
dignity upon him, she fully realizes, for the first time, all she has
recklessly resigned. He had loved her at one time, surely, and she had
trampled on that love, until she had crushed out of it all life and
sweetness:
"For it so falls out
That what we have we prize not to the worth
While we enjoy it; but, being lacked and lost,
Why, then we rack the value; then we find
The virtue that possession would not show us
While it was ours."
"Yes, as soon as I can finish the business that has brought me back. I
fear that will keep me two months, at least. I wish I could hasten it,
but it would be impossible." He grows slightly _distrait_, but, after
a moment, rouses himself with a start, and looks at her. "Am I keeping
you?" he asks, courteously. (To her the courtesy is a positive
cruelty.) "Do not let me detain you any longer. Is there anything more
you wish to say to me?"
"Nothing." His last words have frozen within her all desire for
reconciliation. Is he, indeed, in such great haste to be gone? Without
another word, she goes to the door, but, as she puts out her hand to
open it, something within her grasp becomes known to her. It is the
glove she had picked up on the balcony half an hour ago, and has held
ever since almost unconsciously.
"Was it--was it you that threw this from the window?" she says,
suddenly, for the last time raising her beautiful eyes to her
husband's face.
"Yes. This was no place for it," returns he, sternly.
Going down the staircase, full of grief and wounded pride, she
encounters Lord Sartoris.
"He has come?" asks the old man, in an agitated manner, laying his
hand on her arm.
"He has. If you wish to see him, he is in his own room," replies she,
in a singularly hard tone.
"Have you told him everything?" asks Sartoris, nervously. "It was a
fatal mistake. Do you think he will forgive me?"
"How can I say?" says Mrs. Branscombe, with a bitter smile. "I can
only tell you he has not forgiven me."
"Bless me!" says Lord Sartoris; "then, I suppose, I haven't a chance."
He is disheartened by her words, and goes very slowly on his way
towards his nephew's room. When they are once more face to face, they
pause and look with uncertainty upon each other. Then the older man
holds out his hands beseechingly.
"I have come to demand your forgiveness," he says, with deep entreaty.
"Dorian--grant it!--I am very old----"
In an instant Dorian's arm is round his neck, as it used to be in the
days long ago, before the dark cloud had rolled between them.
"Not another word, or I shall never forgive you!" says Branscombe,
tenderly, with the old smile upon his lips. And Sartoris, strong,
obstinate, self-willed man that he is, lays his head down upon his
"boy's" shoulder, and sobs aloud.