"Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud
Turn forth her silver lining on the night?"--MILTON.
The two months that Dorian has given himself in which to finish the
business that, he said, had brought him home, have almost come to an
end. Already winter is passing out of mind, and "Spring comes up this
way."
The "checkered daffodil" and the soft plaintive primrose are bursting
into bloom. The gentle rain comes with a passing cloud, and sinks
lovingly into the earth's bosom and into the hearts of the opening
buds.
The grass is springing; all the world is rich with fresh young life.
The very snowdrops--pale blossoms, born of bitter winds and sunless
skies--have perished out of sight.
Ruth is lying in her grave, cold and forgotten save by two,--the man
who has most wronged her, and the woman who had most to forgive her.
As yet, Clarissa cannot rise out of the depression that fell upon her
when Horace's treachery was first made known to her. Her love had
seemed so good, so tender, it had so brightened all her life, and had
been so much a part of her existence, that it seemed to carry to the
grave with it all her youth and gladness. However untrue this young
love of her life had been, still, while she believed in it, it had
been beautiful to her, and it is with bitterest grief she has laid it
aside; to her it had been a living thing, and even as it fades from
her she cries to it aloud to stay, and feels her arms empty in that it
no longer fills them.
"But, oh, not yet, not yet
Would my lost soul forget
How beautiful he was while he did live,
Or, when his eyes were dewy and lips wet,
What kisses, tenderer than all regret,
My love would give.
"Strew roses on his breast,--
He loved the roses best;
He never cared for lilies or for snow.
Let be this bitter end of his sweet quest;
Let be the pallid silence, that is rest,
And let all go!"
Mr. Winter's exquisite words come often to her; and yet, when the
first great pang is over, a sensation that may be almost called relief
raises her soul and restores her somewhat to her old self.
She is graver--if possible, gentler, more tender--than in the days
before grief had touched her. And, though her love has really died
beyond all reawakening, still the memory of what once had been has
left its mark upon her.
To Sir James she has never since mentioned the name of the man in whom
she had once so firmly believed, though oftentimes it has occurred to
her that relief might follow upon the bare asking of a question that
might serve to make common the actual remembrance of him.
To-day, as Scrope comes up the lawn to meet her, as she bends over the
"bright children of the sun," a sense of gladness that he is coming
fills her. She feels no nervousness or weariness with him, only rest
and peace, and something that is deeper still, though yet vague and
absolutely unknown to her own heart.
She goes forward to meet him, a smile upon her lips, treading lightly
on the young grass, that is emerald in hue,--as the color of my own
dear land,--and through which
"The meek daisies show
Their breasts of satin snow,
Bedecked with tiny stars of gold mid perfume sighs."
"You again?" she says, with a lovely smile. He was here only
yesterday.
"What an uncivil speech! Do I come too often?" He has her hand in his,
and is holding it inquiringly, but it is such a soft and kind inquiry.
"Not half often enough," she says, and hardly knows why his face
flushes at her words, being still ignorant of the fact that he loves
her with a love that passeth the love of most.
"Well, you sha'n't have to complain of that any longer," he says,
gayly. "Shall I take up my residence here?"
"Do," says Miss Peyton, also in jest.
"I would much rather you took up yours at Scrope," he says,
unthinkingly, and then he flushes again, and then silence falls
between them.
Her foot is tapping the sward lightly, yet nervously. Her eyes are on
the "daisies pied." Presently, as though some inner feeling compels
her to it, she says,--"Why do you never speak to me of--Horace?"
"You forbade me," he says: "how could I disobey you? He is well,
however, but, I think, not altogether happy. In his last letter, to me
he still spoke remorsefully of--her." It is agony to him to say this,
yet he does it bravely, knowing it will be the wisest thing for the
woman he himself loves.
"Yes," she says, quite calmly. At this instant she knows her love for
Horace Branscombe is quite dead. "Her death was terrible."
"Yet easy, I dare say. Disease of the heart, when it carries one off,
is seldom painful. Clarissa, this is the very first time you have
spoken of her, either."
"Is it?" She turns away from him, and, catching a branch, takes from
it a leaf or two. "You have not spoken to me," she says.
"Because, as I said, you forbade me. Don't you know your word to me is
law?"
"I don't think I know much," says Miss Peyton, with a sad little
smile; but she lets her hand lie in his, and does not turn away from
him. "Horace is in Ceylon," she says presently.
"Yes, and doing very well. Do you often think of him now?"
"Very often. I am glad he is getting on successfully."
"Have you forgotten nothing, Clarissa?"
"I have forgotten a great deal. How could it be otherwise? I have
forgotten that I ever loved any one. It seems to me now impossible
that I could have felt all that I did two months ago. Yet something
lingers with me,--something I cannot explain." She pauses, and looks
idly down upon her white hands, the fingers of which are twining and
intertwining nervously.
"Do you mean that you have ceased to think of Horace in the light of a
lover?" he asks, with an effort certainly, yet with determination. He
will hear the truth now or never.
"What! wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice?" she says,
turning to him with some passion; and then her anger fades, and her
eyes fill with tears.
"If you can apply such a word to him, your love must be indeed dead,"
he says, in a curious tone, and, raising one of her hands, he lays it
upon his breast.
"I wish it had never been born," she says, with a sigh, not looking at
him.
"But is it dead?" persists he, eagerly.
"Quite. I buried it that day you took me--to his--rooms: you
remember?"
"How could I forget? Clarissa, if you are unhappy, so am I. Take pity
upon me."
"You unhappy?" She lifts her eyes to his.
"Yes. All my life I have loved you. Is your heart quite beyond my
reach?"
She makes him no answer.
"Without you I live but half a life," he goes on, entreatingly. "Every
hour is filled with thoughts of you. I have no interests apart from
you. Clarissa, if there is any hope for me, speak; say something."
"Would not his memory be a shadow between us always?" whispers she, in
trembling accents. "Forgiveness is within our power, forgetfulness is
beyond us! Jim, is this thing wise, that you are doing? Have you
thought of it?"
"I have thought of it for more than a long year," says Sir James. "I
think all my life, unconsciously, I have loved you."
"For so long?" she says, softly; and then, "How faithful you have
been!"
"When change itself can give no more,
'Tis easy to be true,"
quotes he, tenderly; and then she goes nearer to him,--tears in her
eyes.
"You are too good for me," she says.
"Darling," says Scrope, and after that, somehow, it seems but a little
thing that his arms should close around her, and that her head should
lie contentedly upon his shoulder.