Faith And Unfaith Part 46

bursts into song. High and clear and exquisite rise the notes one above the other, each vying in beauteous harmony with the last, until one's very heart aches for love and admiration of their sweetness.

Dorian, though oppressed with many discordant thoughts, still pauses to listen, until silence following upon the pa.s.sionate burst of melody, he draws his breath quickly and goes on to Hythe, and into the dining-room there, where he finds Lord Sartoris still over his wine.

He is sitting at the head of the long table, looking strangely solitary, and very much aged, considering the short time that has elapsed since last he left Pullingham.

"So you are home again, Arthur," says Dorian, coldly, but with apparent composure. They have not been face to face since that last meeting, when bitter words, and still more bitter looks, had pa.s.sed between them.

Now, letting the quickly spoken sentence take the place of a more active greeting, they nod coolly to each other, and carefully refuse to let their hands touch.

"Yes," says Sartoris, evenly; "I returned two days ago. Business recalled me; otherwise I was sufficiently comfortable where I was to make me wish to remain there."

"And Constance, is she quite well?"

"Quite well, thank you. Your other cousins desired to be remembered to you. So did she, of course."

A pause, prolonged and undesirable.

"You will take some claret?" says Sartoris, at last, pus.h.i.+ng the bottle towards him.

"No, thank you; I have only just dined. I came up to-night to tell you what I dare say by this you have heard from somebody else; I am going to be married on the 9th of next month."

Lord Sartoris turns suddenly to confront him.

"I had not heard it," he says, with amazement. "To be married! This is very sudden." Then, changing his tone, "I am glad," he says, slowly, and with an unmistakable sneer, "that at last it has occurred to you to set that girl right in the eyes of the world. As a man of honor there was no other course left open to you."

"To whom are you alluding?" asks Brans...o...b.., growing pale with anger, an ominous flash betraying itself in his gray eyes.

"I hope I understand you to mean to offer full, though tardy, reparation to Ruth Annersley."

With an effort Brans...o...b.. restrains the fierce outburst of wrath that is trembling on his lips.

"You still persist, then, in accusing me of being accessory to that girl's disappearance?"

"You have never yet denied it," exclaims Sartoris, pus.h.i.+ng back his gla.s.s, and rising to his feet. "Give me the lie direct, if you _can_,--if you _dare_,--and I will believe you."

"I never will," returns Dorian, now thoroughly roused,--"_never!_ If my own character all these past years is not denial enough, I shall give no other. Believe what you will. Do you imagine I shall come to you, like a whipped school-boy, after every supposed offence, to say, 'I did do this,' or, 'I did not do that'? I shall contradict nothing, a.s.sert nothing: therefore judge me as it may please you. I shall not try to vindicate my actions to any living man."

His tone, his whole bearing, should have carried conviction to the hearts of most men; but to the old lord, who has seen so much of the world in its worst phases,--its cruelties and falsehoods,--and who has roughed it so long among his fellowmen, faith, in its finer sense, is wanting.

"Enough," he says, coldly, with a slight wave of his hand. "Let us end this subject now and forever. You have come to tell me of your approaching marriage; may I ask the name of the lady you intend making your wife?"

"Broughton; Georgie Broughton," says Brans...o...b.., briefly.

"Broughton,--I hardly fancy I know the name; and yet am I wrong in thinking there is a governess at the vicarage of that name?"

"There _was_. She is now staying with Clarissa Peyton, I am to be married to her, as I have already told you, early next month."

"A _governess_!" says Sartoris. There is a world of unpleasant meaning in his tone. "Really,"--with slow contempt,--"I can hardly congratulate you on your _tastes_! You, who might have chosen your wife almost anywhere, can find nothing to suit you but an obscure governess."

"I don't think there is anything particularly obscure about Georgie,"

replies Dorian, with admirable composure, though he flushes hotly.

"Have you ever seen her? No? Then, of course, you are not in a position to judge of either her merits or demerits. I shall thank you, therefore,"--surveying his uncle rather insolently, from head to heel,--"to be silent on the subject."

After a slight pause, he turns again to Sartoris, and, forcing him to meet his gaze, says haughtily,--

"May we hope you will be present at our wedding, my lord?"

"I thank you, no. I fear not," returns the older man, quite as haughtily. "I hope to be many miles from here before the end of next week."

Dorian smiles unpleasantly.

"You will at least call upon Miss Broughton before leaving the neighborhood?" he says, raising his brows.

At this Sartoris turns upon him fiercely, stung by the apparent unconcern of his manner.

"Why should I call?" he says, his voice full of indignant anger. "Is it to congratulate her on her coming union with you? I tell you, were I to do so, the face of another woman would rise before me and freeze the false words upon my lips. To you, Dorian, in my old age, all my heart went out. My hopes, my affections, my ambitions, began and ended with you. And what a reward has been mine! Yours has been the hand to drag our name down to a level with the dust. Disgrace follows hard upon your footsteps. Were I to go, as you desire, to this innocent girl, do you imagine I could speak fair words to her? I tell you, no!

I should rather feel it my duty to warn her against entering a house so dishonored as yours. I should----"

"Pshaw!" says Brans...o...b.., checking him with an impatient gesture.

"Don't let us introduce tragedy into this very commonplace affair.

Pray don't trouble yourself to go and see her at all. In your present mood, I rather think you would frighten her to death. I am sorry I intruded my private matters upon you: but Clarissa quite made a point of my coming to Hythe to-night for that purpose, and, as you know, she is a difficult person to refuse. I'm sure I beg your pardon for having so unwarrantably bored you."

"Clarissa, like a great many other charming people, is at times p.r.o.ne to give very unseasonable advice," says Sartoris, coldly.

"Which, interpreted, means that I did wrong to come. I feel you are right." He laughs faintly again, and, taking up his hat, looks straight at his uncle. He has drawn himself up to his full height, and is looking quite his handsomest. He is slightly flushed (a dark color that becomes him), and a sneer lies round the corners of his lips. "I hardly know how to apologize," he says, lightly, "for having forced myself upon you in this intrusive fas.h.i.+on. The only amends I can possibly make is to promise you it shall never occur again, and to still further give you my word that, for the future, I shall not even annoy you by my presence."

So saying, he turns away, and, inclining his head, goes out through the door, and, closing it gently after him, pa.s.ses rapidly down the long hall, as though in haste to depart, and, gaining the entrance-door, shuts it, too, behind him, and breathes more freely as he finds the air of heaven beating on his brow.

Not until he has almost reached Sartoris once more does that sudden calm fall upon him that, as a rule, follows hard upon all our gusts of pa.s.sion. The late interview has hurt him more than he cares to confess even to himself. His regard--nay, his affection--for Sartoris is deep and sincere; and, though wounded now, and estranged from him, because of his determination to believe the worst of him, still it remains hidden in his heart, and is strong enough to gall and torture him after such scenes as he has just gone through.

Hitherto his life has been unclouded,--has been all suns.h.i.+ne and happy summer and glad with laughter. Now a dark veil hangs over it, threatening to deaden all things and dim the brightness of his "golden hours."

"He who hath most of heart knows most of sorrow." To Dorian, to be wroth with those he loves is, indeed, a sort of madness that affects his heart, if not his brain.

He frowns as he strides discontentedly onward through the fast-falling night: and then all at once a thought comes to him--a fair vision seems to rise almost in his path--that calms him and dulls all resentful memories. It is Georgie,--his love, his darling! She, at least, will be true to him. He will teach her so to love him that no light winds of scandal shall have power to shake her faith. Surely a heart filled with dreams of her should harbor no miserable thoughts.

He smiles again; his steps grow lighter! he is once more the Dorian of old; he will--he must--be, of necessity, utterly happy with her beside him during all the life that is to come.

Alas that human hopes should prove so often vain!

CHAPTER XXVII.

"Tis now the summer of your youth; time has not cropt the roses from your cheek, though sorrow long has washed them."--_The Gamester._

The wedding--a very private one--goes off charmingly. The day breaks calm, smilingly, rich with beauty. "Lovely are the opening eyelids of the morn."