"There is no life on earth but being in love!"--BEN JONSON.
"Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round;
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;
And he, amidst his frolic play,
As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odors from his dewy wing."--COLLINS.
It is the afternoon of the same day, and Dorian, with a keeper behind
him, is trudging through the woods of Hythe, two trusty setters at his
heels. He cannot be said to be altogether unhappy, because he has had
a real good day with his gun, as his bag can testify, and, be a man
never so disturbed by conflicting emotions, be he five fathoms deep in
a hopeless attachment, still he will tramp through his heather, or
ride to hounds, or smoke his favorite cigars, with the best, and find,
indeed, pleasure therein. For, truly,--
"Man's love is of man's life a thing apart;
'Tis woman's whole existence."
The sun is sinking to rest; the chill of a spring evening is in the
air. Dismissing the man who holds his bag, he sends him home to the
house by a nearer route, and, lighting a fresh cigar, follows the path
that leads through the fragrant wood into the grounds of Sartoris. The
breath of the bluebells is already scenting the air; the ferns are
growing thick and strong. He has come to a turn, that is all formed of
rock, and is somewhat abrupt, because of the sharp angle that belongs
to it, over which hart's-tongues and other graceful weeds fall lazily,
when, at a little distance from him, he sees Georgie sitting on the
fallen trunk of a tree, her head leaning against an oak, her whole
expression full of deep dejection.
As he comes nearer to her, he can see that she has been crying, and
that even now two tears are lying heavily upon her cheeks.
A troubled expression crosses his face. She looks so childish, so
helpless, with her hat upon the ground beside her, and her hands lying
listlessly upon her lap, and no one near to comfort her or to kiss the
melancholy from her large mournful eyes.
As she hears him coming, she starts to her feet, and, turning aside,
hastily dries the tears upon her cheeks, lest he shall mark her
agitation.
"What is the matter with you?" asks he, with quick but suppressed
concern.
"Nothing," returns she, in a low tone.
"You can't be crying for nothing," says Dorian; "and even your very
voice is full of tears! Are you unhappy about anything?"
"What a question to ask me!" says Mrs. Branscombe, reproachfully, with
a fresh irrepressible sob, that goes to his heart. He shifts his gun
uneasily from one shoulder to the other, hardly knowing what to say.
Is it his fault that she is so miserable? Must he blame himself
because she has found it impossible to love him?
"I beg your pardon," he says, in a low tone. "Of course I have no
right to ask you any questions."
"Yet I would answer you if I knew how," returns she, in a voice as
subdued as his own.
The evening is falling silently, yet swiftly, throwing "her dusky
veil o'er nature's face." A certain chill comes from the hills and
damps the twilight air.
"It is getting late," says Branscombe, gently. "Will you come home
with me?"
"Yes, I will go home," she says, with a little troubled submissive
sigh, and, turning, goes with him down the narrow pathway that leads
to the avenue.
Above them the branches struggle and wage a goblin war with each
other, helped by the night-wind, which even now is rising with sullen
purpose in its moan.
Dorian strides on silently, sad at heart, and very hopeless. He is
making a vigorous effort to crush down all regretful memories, and is
forcing himself to try and think with gladness of the time, now fast
approaching, when he shall be once more parted from her who walks
beside him with bent head and quivering lips. His presence is a grief
to her. All these past weeks have proved this to him: her lips have
been devoid of smiles; her eyes have lost their light, her voice its
old gay ring. When he is gone, she may, perhaps, recover some of the
gayety that once was hers. And, once gone, why should he ever return?
And----
And then--then! A little bare cold hand creeps into the one of his
that is hanging loosely by his side, and, nestling in it, presses it
with nervous warmth.
Dorian's heart beats madly. He hardly dares believe it true that she
should, of her own accord, have given her hand to him; yet he holds it
so closely in his own that his clasp almost hurts her. They do not
speak; they do not turn even to look at each other, but go on their
way, silent, uncertain, but no longer apart. By that one tender touch
they have been united.
"You are going abroad again?" she says, in a tone so low that he can
scarcely hear her.
"I was going," he says, and then their fingers meet again and press
each other gently.
Coming to the stile that leads into the next path, he lays down his
gun, and, mounting the steps, holds out his hand to help her to gain
the top.
Then, springing down to the other side, he takes her in his arms to
bring her to the ground beside him.
But when his arms have closed round her he leaves them there, and
draws her to his heart, and lays his cheek against hers. With a little
soft happy sob she lifts her arms and lays them round his neck; and
then, he tells himself, there is nothing more on earth to be wished
for.
"My wife!--my darling!" he says, unsteadily.
The minutes pass; then she looks up at him with soft speaking eyes.
There are no tears upon her cheeks, but her face is pale as moonlight,
and on it is a new deep meaning that Dorian has never seen there in
all his life before,--a gentle light, as kind as death, and as soft as
holy love!
As she so stands, gazing solemnly into his face, with all her heart in
her eyes, Dorian stoops and lays his lips on her. She colors a lovely
trembling crimson, and then returns the caress.
"You do love me at last?" he says. And then she says,--
"I do, with all my soul,"--in a tone not to be mistaken. Afterwards,
"Are you happy now?"
"Yes. How can I be otherwise? For
'Thou with softest touch transfigurest
This toil-worn earth into a heaven of rest.'
How could you so far have misjudged me?" he says, reproachfully,
referring to the old wound. "What had I done to you, that you should
believe me capable of such a thing?"
"It was my one sin," whispers she, nervously. "Is it too bad to be
forgiven?"
"I wonder what you could do, I wouldn't forgive," replies he,
tenderly, "now I know you love me."
"I think you needn't have thrown my poor glove out of the window!" she
says, with childish reproach. "That was very unkind, I think."
"It was brutal," says Branscombe. "But I don't believe you did love me
then."
"Well, I did. You broke my heart that day. It will take you all you
know"--with an adorable smile--"to mend it again."
"My own love," says Dorian, "what can I do? I would offer you mine in
exchange, but, you see, you broke it many a month ago, so the bargain
would do you no good. Let us both make up our minds to heal each
other's wounds, and so make restitution."
"Sweet heart, I bid you be healed," says Georgie, laying her small
hand, with a pretty touch of tenderest coquetry, upon his breast. And
then a second silence falls upon them, that lasts even longer than the
first. The moments fly; the breezes grow stronger, and shake with
petulant force the waving boughs. The night is falling, and "weeps
perpetual dews, and saddens Nature's scene."
"Why do you not speak?" says Georgie, after a little bit, rubbing her
cheek softly against his. "What is it that you want?"
"Nothing. Don't you know that 'Silence is the perfectest herald of
joy: I were but little happy, if I could say how much'?"
"How true that is! yet somehow, I always want to talk," says Mrs.
Branscombe,--at which they both laugh.
"Come home," says Dorian: "it grows cold as charity, and I'm getting
desperately hungry besides. Are you?"
"I'm starving," says Georgie, genially. "There, now; they say people
never want to eat anything when they are in love and when they are
filled with joy. And I haven't been hungry for weeks, until this very
moment."
"Just shows what awful stuff some fellows will talk," says Mr.
Branscombe, with an air of very superior contempt. After which they go
on their homeward journey until they reach the shrubbery.
Here voices, coming to them from a side-path, attract their notice.
"That is Clarissa," says Georgie: "I suppose she has come out to find
me. Let us wait for her here."
"And Scrope is with her. I wish she would make up her mind to marry
him," says Branscombe. "I am certain they are devoted to each other,
only they can't see it. Want of brain, I suppose."
"They certainly are exceedingly foolish, both of them," says Georgie,
emphatically.
The voices are drawing nearer; as their owners approach the corner
that separates them from the Branscombes, Clarissa says, in a clear,
audible tone,--
"I never in all my life knew two such silly people!"
"Good gracious!" says Branscombe, going up to her. "What people?"
"You two!" says Clarissa, telling the truth out of sheer fright.
"You will be so kind as to explain yourself, Clarissa," says Dorian,
with dignity. "Georgie and I have long ago made up our minds that
Solon when compared with us was a very poor creature indeed."
"A perfect fool!" says Mrs. Branscombe, with conviction.
The brightness of their tone, their whole manner, tell Clarissa that
some good and wonderful change has taken place.
"Then why is Dorian going abroad, instead of staying at home like
other people?" she says, uncertainly, feeling still puzzled.
"He isn't going anywhere: I have forbidden him!" says Mrs. Branscombe,
with saucy shyness.
"Oh, Jim, they have made it up!" says Miss Peyton, making this vulgar
remark with so much joy and feeling in her voice as robs it of all its
commonplaceness. She turns to Scrope as she says this, her eyes large
with delight.
"We have," says Georgie, sweetly. "Haven't we Dorian?" And then again
slipping her hand into his, "He is going to stay at home always for
the future: aren't you, Dorian?"
"I am going to stay just wherever you are for the rest of my life,"
says Dorian; and then Clarissa and James know that everything has come
all right.
"Then you will be at home for our wedding," says Scrope, taking
Clarissa's hand and turning to Branscombe.
Clarissa blushes very much, and Georgie, going up to her, kisses her
heartily.
"It is altogether quite too nice," says Mrs. Branscombe, with tears in
her eyes.
"If you don't look out, Scrope, she will kiss you too," says Dorian.
"Look here, it is nearly six o'clock, and dinner will be at seven.
Come back, you two, and dine with us."
"I should like to very much," says Clarissa, "as papa is in town."
"Well, then, come," says Georgie, tucking her arm comfortably into
hers, "and we'll send you home at eleven."
"I hope you will send me home too," says Scrope, meekly.
"Yes, by the other road," says Mrs. Branscombe, with a small grimace.
And then she presses Clarissa's arm against her side, and tells her,
without the slightest provocation, that she is a "darling," and that
everything is quite, quite, _quite_ TOO delicious!
* * * * *
That evening, in the library, when Georgie and Dorian are once more
alone, Branscombe, turning to her, takes her in his arms.
"You are quite happy?" he asks, questioningly. "You have no regrets
now?"
"Not one," very earnestly. "But you, Dorian,"--she slips an arm round
his neck, and brings his face down closer to her own, as though to
read the expression of his eyes more clearly,--"are you satisfied?
Think how unkind I was to you; and, after all,"--naively,--"I
am only pretty; there is really nothing in me. You have my
whole heart, of course, you know that; I am yours, indeed, but
then"--discontentedly--"what am I?"
"I know: you are my own darling," says Branscombe, very softly.
THE END.
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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES
1. Passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_.
2. The word Phoebus uses an oe ligature in the original.
3. The following misprints have been corrected:
"siting" corrected to "sitting" (page 68)
"baoadcast" corrected to "broadcast" (page 173)
"seond" corrected to "second" (page 180)
"dinning-room" corrected to "dining-room" (page 212)
"anthying" corrected to "anything" (page 244)
4. Some of the obvious punctuation errors have been corrected, e. g.,
addition of missing period at the end of sentences.
5. Other than the corrections listed above, printer's inconsistencies
in spelling, hyphenation, and ligature usage have been retained.