Faith And Unfaith Part 34

"Myself! What on earth are you thinking of?" It is now Georgie's turn to blush crimson, and she does it very generously. Then she breaks into wild mirth, and, laying her head on Clarissa's knees, laughs till she nearly cries. "Oh, when I think of all I have said!" she goes on, the keenest enjoyment in her tone,--"how I praised myself, and how cavalierly I treated his proposal, and--what was it I said about asking him to name the wedding-day? Oh, Clarissa, what a dear you are!--and what a _goose_!"

"Well, certainly, I never was so taken in in my life," confesses Miss Peyton, and then she laughs too, and presently is as deeply interested in Cissy's lover as if he had indeed been Georgie's.

CHAPTER XXI.

"Sin and shame are ever tied together With Gordian knots, of such a strong thread spun, They cannot without violence be undone."--WEBSTER.

"Sharper than the stings of death!"--REYNOLDS.

Upon Pullingham a great cloud has descended. It has gathered in one night,--swiftly, secretly,--and has fallen without warning, crus.h.i.+ng many hearts beneath it. Shame, and sin, and sorrow, and that most terrible of all things--uncertainty--have come together to form it, while doubt and suspicion lie in its train.

Ruth Annersley is missing! She has disappeared,--utterly!

entirely!--leaving no trace behind her, no word, no line to relieve the heart of the old man, her father, and which is slowly beginning to break, as the terrible truth dawns upon him.

Only yester eve she had poured out his tea as usual, had bidden him good night,--lovingly, indeed, but not as one would bid an eternal farewell. Afterwards, he remembered, she had not given him--on that night of all others--the customary kiss, but had pa.s.sed away from him coldly, callously--or was it that she feared?

Tired out with his day's work, the miller had gone to bed The girl, as was her habit ever since the longer evenings had set in, had gone for a little walk into the dewy woods, where we are told "every bough that moves over our head has an oracular wisdom." Alas! that they should have taught her so little. She had crossed the road before the very eyes of her household, had entered the green forest of early-breaking leaves, had faded from sight, and never came back again.

The old man, who rises and goes to bed with the sun (most constant companion of simple minds), had slept peacefully all night, never doubting that the child of his heart lay dreaming calm and happy dreams in her own room. Not until the morning was far advanced did he discover that Ruth's bed had known no occupant the night before.

Afterwards, too, he remembered how little this thought had jarred upon him just at first. It was strange, vexing; she should have told him where she meant to spend her evening; but, beyond that, it caused him no pang, no suspicion.

Her aunt lived in a neighboring town,--probably she had gone there. It was only four miles away,--a walk Ruth had taken many a day, and thought nothing of it; but it was imprudent starting on such a journey so late in the evening; and, besides, there was always the old mare to drive her there and back.

Messengers were despatched to her aunt's house, but they returned bringing no tidings. She was not there--had not been for over a fortnight.

Day wanes; twilight is descending,--

"Melting heaven with earth, Leaving on craggy hills and running streams A softness like the atmosphere of dreams."

All day the miller has sat apart, his snow-white head upon his arms, in the room her hands had beautified and made so dear. With pa.s.sionate indignation he has thrust from him all the attempts at sympathy, all the hurtful, though well-meant, offers of a.s.sistance held out to him by kindly neighbors. Silent, and half maddened by his thoughts, he sits dogged and silent, refusing food, and waiting only for her who never comes.

But when, at length, the gloaming comes, and day is over, without bringing to him the frail form of her he so desires, he rises, and, pus.h.i.+ng back his chair, goes up to Hythe, and into the presence of Lord Sartoris.

"_You_ will find me my girl," he says, and then he tells him all the story.

Sartoris listens, and, as he does so, sickens with doubt that is hardly a doubt, and fear that is nearly a certainty. Is this the end he has so dreaded? Is this the creeping horror that has of late so tortured him? Alas for the unblemished honor of the old name that for centuries has held itself _sans peur et sans reproche_.

How can he dare to offer consolation to old Annersley? He covers his face with his hands, and bends forward over the table. There is something in his att.i.tude that denotes despair, and renders more keen the agony in Annersley's bosom.

"Why do you do that?" he cries, fiercely. "What is there to groan about? Nothing, I tell you! The child has gone too far,--has lost her way. She didn't understand. She cannot find her road home.--No more--no more!"

His excitement and grief are pitiful to see. He wrings his hands; his whole bearing and expression are at variance with his hopeful words.

"She will come back in an hour or two, mayhap," he says, miserably, "and then I shall feel that I have disturbed your lords.h.i.+p: but I am in a hurry, you see: I want her, and I cannot wait."

"What do you want me to do for you?" says Sartoris, very humbly. He feels that he can hardly lift his eyes in this man's presence.

"Find her! That is all I ask of you. Find her, dead or alive! You are a great man,--high in authority, with power, and servants at command.

Find me my child! Oh, _man_, help me, in some way!"

He cries this in an impa.s.sioned tone. He is totally overcome. His poor old white head falls helplessly upon his clasped arms.

Sartoris, pale as death, and visibly affected, can make no reply. He trembles, and stands before the humble miller as one oppressed with guilt.

Annersley mistakes his meaning, and, striding forward, lays his hand upon his arm.

"You are silent," he says, in a terrible tone, made up of grief and anguish more intense than words can tell. "You do not think she is in the wrong, do you? You believe her innocent? Speak!--speak!"

"I do," responds Sartoris, and only his own heart knows that he lies.

Yet his tone is so smothered, so unlike his usual one, that he hardly recognizes it himself.

"If Mr. Brans...o...b.. were only here," says Annersley, in a stricken voice, after a lengthened pause, "he would help me. He has always been a kind friend to me and mine."

Lord Sartoris draws a deep breath, that is almost a sob.

"When does he return, my lord?"

"On Sat.u.r.day. He said so, at least, when leaving."

"A long time," murmurs the old man, mournfully. "She will be home before that,--if she ever comes at all." His head sinks upon his breast. Then he rouses himself, and, glancing at Lord Sartoris, says entreatingly, "Won't you write to him, my lord? Do, I implore of you, and conjure him to return. If any one can help me it will be Mr.

Dorian."

"I shall write to him now,--now,--at once," says Sartoris, mechanically, feeling how hideous is the mockery of this promise, knowing what he thinks he knows. Even yet he clings to the hope that he has been mistaken.

Thus he soothes the old man with vain promises, and so gets rid of him, that he may be left alone with his own thoughts.

Shall he go to Dorian? This is the first engrossing idea. Yet it affords but little consolation. To see him, to hear him, to listen to a denial from his lips; that is what it holds out to him, and it is all insufficient. How shall he believe him, knowing the many things that have occurred? How treat his very most eager denial as anything but a falsehood?

For hours he paces to and fro, pondering on what is the best course to pursue. He is not his father, that he can coerce him. By nature suspicious (though tender-hearted and indulgent in other ways), it comes easily to him to believe that even the man in whom he has trusted has been found wanting.

"To doubt is worse than to have lost," says Ma.s.singer; and surely he is right. Sartoris, in deep perplexity, acknowledges the truth of this line, and tells himself that in his old age he has been sorely tried.

The whole world seems changed. Suns.h.i.+ne has given place to gloom; and he himself stands alone,--

"Stoynde and amazde at his own shade for dreed, And fearing greater daungers than was nede."

Not until he is thoroughly exhausted, both in mind and body, does he decide on leaving for town by the mid-day train next day.

In the mean time he will telegraph to Claridge's, some faint remembrance lingering with him of Dorian's having made mention of that hotel as being all any one's fancy could possibly paint it.

But the morrow brings its own tidings.

It is almost noon, and Sartoris, sitting in his library, writing some business letters,--preparatory to catching the up train to town,--is disturbed by a light knock at the door.