Faith And Unfaith Part 44

"Then why are you marrying me?" demands he, a little roughly, stung to pained anger by her words.

"Because I promised papa, when--when he was leaving me, that I would marry the very first rich man that asked me," replies she, again lifting her serious eyes to his. "I thought it would make him happier.

And it did. I am keeping my promise now," with a sigh that may mean regret for her dead, or, indeed, anything.

"Are you not afraid to go too far?" demands he, very pale, moving back from her, and regarding her with moody eyes. "Do you quite know what you are saying--what you are compelling me, against my will, to understand?"

She is plainly not listening to him. She is lost in a mournful revery, and, leaning back in her chair, is staring at her little white fingers in an absent fas.h.i.+on, and is twisting round and round upon her third finger an old worn-out gold ring. Poor little ring, so full of sweet and moving memories!

"It was very fortunate," she says, suddenly, with a smile, and without looking up at him, being still engrossed in her occupation of twisting the ring round her slender finger,--"it was _more_ than fortunate that the first rich man should be _you_."

"Much more," he says, in an indescribable tone. Then with an effort, "Would you have thrown me over had I been poor?"

"I shouldn't have consented to marry you, I think," says Miss Broughton, quite calmly.

"As I said before, to be candid is your _forte_," exclaims he, with extreme bitterness. "I wonder even if you loved a man to distraction (I am not talking of myself, you know,--that is quite evident, is it not?) would you reject him if he was not sufficiently--_bon parti_?"

"I don't think I could love any one to distraction," replies she, quite simply. It seems the very easiest answer to this question.

"I believe you speak the very honest truth when you say that," says Dorian, drawing his breath quickly. "You are indeed terribly honest.

You don't even shrink from telling the man you have elected to marry that he is no more to you than any other man might be who was equally possessed of filthy--if desirable--lucre!"

He turns from her, and, going to the window, stares out blindly upon the dying daylight, and the gardens stretched beneath, where dying flowers seem breathing of, and suggesting, higher thoughts.

He is unutterably wretched. All through his short courts.h.i.+p he had entertained doubts of her affection; but now, to have her so openly, so carelessly, declare her indifference is almost more than he can bear. "We forgive so long as we love." To Dorian, though his love is greater than that of most, forgiveness now seems difficult. Yet can he resign her? She has so woven herself into his very heart-strings--this cold, cruel, lovely child--that he cannot tear her out without a still further surrender of himself to death. To live without her--to get through endless days and interminable nights without hope of seeing her, with no certain knowledge that the morrow will bring him sure tidings of her--seems impossible. He sighs; and then, even as he sighs, five slim cold little fingers steal within his.

"I have made you angry," says the plaintive voice, full of contrition.

A shapely yellow head pushes itself under one of his arms, that is upraised, and a lovely sorrowful pleading face looks up into his. How can any one be angry with a face like that?

"No, not angry," he says. And indeed the anger has gone from his face,--her very touch has banished it,--and only a great and lasting sadness has replaced it. Perhaps for the first time, at this moment she grasps some faint idea of the intensity of his love for her. Her eyes fill with tears.

"I think--it will be better for you--to--give me up," she says, in a down-hearted way, lowering her lids over her tell-tale orbs, that are like the summer sea now that they s.h.i.+ne through their unwonted moisture

"Tears are trembling in her blue eyes, Like drops that linger on the violet,"

and Dorian, with a sudden pa.s.sionate movement, takes her in his arms and presses her head down upon his breast.

"Do you suppose I can give you up now," he says, vehemently, "when I have set my whole heart upon you? It is too late to suggest such a course. That you do not love me is my misfortune, not your fault.

Surely it is misery enough to know that,--to feel that I am nothing to you,--without telling me that you wish so soon to be released from your promise?"

"I don't wish it," she says, earnestly, shaking her head. "No, indeed!

It was only for your sake I spoke. Perhaps by and by you will regret having married some one who does not love you altogether. Because I know I could not sit contentedly for hours with my hand in any one's.

And there are a great many things I would not do for you. And if _you_ were to die----"

"There! that will do," he says, with sudden pa.s.sion. "Do you know how you hurt, I wonder? Are you utterly heartless?"

Her eyes darken as he speaks, and, releasing herself from his embrace,--which, in truth, has somewhat slackened,--she moves back from him. She is puzzled, frightened; her cheeks lose their soft color, and--

"With that, the water in her eie Arose, that she ne might it stoppe; And, as men sene the dew be droppe The leves and the floures eke, Right so upon her white cheke The wofull salt teres felle."

"I don't want to hurt you," she says, with a sob; "and I know I am _not_ heartless." There is a faint tinge of indignation in her tone.

"Of course you are not. It was a rather brutal thing my saying so.

Darling, whatever else may render me unhappy, I can at all events find comfort in the thought that you never loved any other man."

"But I did," says Miss Broughton, still decidedly tearful: "you must always remember that. There was one; and"--she is plainly in the mood for confessions--"I shall never love you or any one as I loved him."

"What are you going to tell me now?" says Dorian, desperately. He had believed his cup quite full, and only now discovers his mistake. Is there a still heavier amount of misery in store for him? "Is the worst to be told me yet?" he says, with the calmness of despair, being quite too far gone for vehemence of any description. "Why did you keep it from me until now?"

"I didn't keep anything," cries she: "I told you long ago--at least, I----"

"What is the name?" demands he, gloomily, fully expecting the hated word "Kennedy" to fall from her lips. "Better let me know it. Nothing you can possibly say can make me feel more thoroughly stranded than I am."

"I think you are taking it very unreasonably," says Miss Broughton, with quivering lips. "If I cannot bring myself to love anybody as well as poor papa, I can't help it--and it isn't my fault--and you are very unkind to me--and----"

"Good gracious! what a fright all about nothing!" says Mr. Brans...o...b.., with a sigh of intense relief. "I don't mind your poor father, you know,--I rather admire your faithfulness there,--but I thought--er--it doesn't in the least matter what I thought," hastily: "every one has silly fancies at times." He kisses her lids warmly, tenderly, until the heavy drops beneath press through and run all down her charming childish face. "I am sure of this, at least," he says, hopefully, "that you like me better than any living man."

"Well, I do, indeed," replies she, in a curious tone, that might be suggestive of surprise at her own discovery of this fact. "But, then, how bad you are to me at times! Dear Dorian,"--laying one hand, with a pathetic gesture, on his cheek,--"do not be cross to me again."

"My sweetest!--my best beloved!" says Mr. Brans...o...b.., instantly, drawing his breath a little quickly, and straining her to his heart.

CHAPTER XXVI.

"The wisdom of this world is idiotism."--DECKER.

"If thou desirest to be borne with, thou must bear also with others."--KEMPIS.

It takes some time to produce another governess suited to the Redmonds' wants. At length, however, the desired treasure is procured, and forwarded, "with care," to the vicarage.

On inspection, she proves to be a large, gaunt, high-cheek-boned daughter of Caledonia, with a broad accent, a broader foot, and uncomfortably red hair. She comes armed with testimonials of the most severely complimentary description, and with a p.r.o.nounced opinion that "salary is not so much an object as a comfortable home."

Such a contrast to Georgie can scarcely be imagined. The Redmonds, in a body, are covered with despair, and go about the house, after her arrival, whispering in m.u.f.fled tones, and casting blanched and stricken glances at each other. Dire dismay reigns in their bosoms; while the unconscious Scot unlocks her trunks, and shakes out her gowns, and shows plainly, by her behavior, that she has come to sit down before the citadel and carry on a prolonged siege.

To tea she descends with a solemn step and slow, that Amy designates as a "thud." But yet at this first tea she gains a victory. Arthur, the second boy, who has been wicked enough to get measles at school, and who is now at home to recruit himself and be the terror of his family, is at this time kept rather on short commons by his mother because of his late illness. This means bread-and-b.u.t.ter _without_ jam,--a meaning the lively Arthur rather resents. Seeing which, the Caledonian, opening her lips almost for the first time, gives it as her opinion that jam, taken moderately, is wholesome.

She goes even farther, and insinuates it may a.s.sist digestion, which so impresses Mrs. Redmond that Arthur forthwith finds himself at liberty to "tuck into" (his own expression) the raspberry jam without let or hindrance.

This marvellous behavior on the part of the bony Scot tells greatly in her favor, so far as the children go. They tell each other later on that she can't be altogether an unpleasant sort, Master Arthur being specially loud in her praise. He even goes so far as to insinuate that Miss Broughton would never have said as much; but this base innuendo is sneered down by the faithful children who have loved and lost her.

Nevertheless, they accept their fate; and, after a week or two, the new-comer gains immense ground, and is finally p.r.o.nounced by her pupils to be (as she herself would probably express it) "no' that bad." Thus, Miss McGregor becomes governess at the vicarage, vice Georgie Broughton promoted.

To be married at once, without any unnecessary delay, is Dorian's desire; and when, with some hesitation, he broaches the subject to Georgie, to his surprise and great content he finds her quite willing to agree to anything he may propose. She speaks no word of reluctance, appears quite satisfied with any arrangement he or Clarissa may think proper, makes no shrinking protest against the undue haste. She betrays no shyness, yet no unseemly desire for haste. It seems to her a matter of perfect indifference. She is going to be married, sooner or later, as the case may be. Then why not the sooner?

This is, perhaps, the happiest time of her life. She roams all day among the flowers and in the pleasure-grounds, singing, laughing, talking gayly to any one she may meet at Gowran, where, since Miss McGregor's advent, she has been. When at length it is finally settled that the marriage is to take place next month, she seems rather pleased than otherwise, and is openly delighted at the prospect held out to her by Dorian of so soon seeing, with her own eyes, all the foreign lands and romantic scenes her fancy has so often depicted.

Just now, even as the tiny clock inside the room is chiming four, Dorian is standing outside the low French window of Miss Peyton's morning-room, and, leaning half in, half out of it, is conversing with her, alone. Georgie, for the time being, is lost to sight,--happy, somewhere, no doubt, in the warm suns.h.i.+ne she loves so well.