Faith And Unfaith Part 51

When silence has become positively unbearable, Georgie says, slowly,--

"And does all the world know this?"

"I hope not, ma'am. I think not. Though, indeed,"--says the faithful Graham, with a sudden burst of indignation,--"even if they did, I don't see how it could matter. It would not make it a bit more or less than a deliberate lie."

"You are a good soul, Graham," says Mrs. Brans...o...b.., wearily.

Something in her manner frightens Graham more than all that has gone before.

"Oh, madam, do not pay any attention to such a wicked tale," she says, anxiously, "and forgive me for ever having presumed to lend my ears to it. No one knowing the master could possibly believe in it."

"Of course not." The answer comes with unnatural calmness from between her white lips. Graham bursts into fresh tears, and flings her ap.r.o.n over her head.

Mrs. Brans...o...b.., at this, throws up her head hastily, almost haughtily, and, drawing her hand with a swift movement across her averted eyes, breathes a deep lingering sigh. Then her whole expression changes; and, coming quite near to Graham, she lays her hand lightly on her shoulder, and laughs softly.

Graham can hardly believe her ears: has that rippling, apparently unaffected laughter come from the woman who a moment since appeared all gloom and suppressed anger?

"I am not silly enough to fret over a ridiculous story such as you have told me," says Georgie, lightly. "Just at first it rather surprised me, I confess, but now--now I can see the absurdity of it.

There; do not cry any more; it is a pity to waste tears that later on you may long for in vain."

But when she has gained the house, and has gone up to her own room, and carefully locked her door, her a.s.sumed calmness deserts her. She paces up and down the floor like some chained creature, putting together bit by bit the story just related to her. Not for a moment does she doubt its truth: some terrible fear is knocking at her heart, some dread that is despair and that convinces her of the reality of Andrews's relation.

Little actions of Dorian's, light words, certain odd remarks, pa.s.sed over at the time of utterance as being of no importance, come back to her now, and a.s.sert themselves with overwhelming persistency, until they declare him guilty beyond all dispute.

When she had gone to the altar and sworn fidelity to him, she had certainly not been in love with her husband, according to the common acceptation of that term. But at least she had given him a heart devoid of all thought for another, and she had fully, utterly, believed in his affection for her. For the past few months she had even begun to cherish this belief, to cling to it, and even to feel within herself some returning tenderness for him.

It is to her now, therefore, as the bitterness of death, this knowledge that has come to her ears. To have been befooled where she had regarded herself as being most beloved,--to have been only second, where she had fondly imagined herself to be first and dearest,--is a thought bordering upon madness.

Pa.s.sionate sobs rise in her throat, and almost overcome her. An angry feeling of rebellion, a vehement protest against this deed that has been done, shakes her slight frame. It cannot be true; it shall not; and yet--and yet--why has this evil fallen upon her of all others? Has her life been such a happy one that Fate must needs begrudge her one glimpse of light and gladness? Two large tears gather in her eyes, and almost unconsciously roll down her cheeks that are deadly white.

Sinking into a chair, as though exhausted, she leans back among its cushions, letting her hands fall together and lie idly in her lap.

Motionless she sits, with eyes fixed as if riveted to earth, while tears insensibly steal down her pensive cheeks, which look like weeping dew fallen on the statue of despair.

For fully half an hour she so rests, scarce moving, hardly seeming to breathe. Then she rouses herself, and, going over to a table, bathes her face with eau-de-Cologne. This calms her in a degree, and stills the outward expression of her suffering, but in her heart there rages a fire that no waters can quench.

Putting her hat on once again, she goes down-stairs, feeling eager for a touch of the cool evening air. The hot sun is fading, dying; a breeze from the distant sea is creeping stealthily up to the land. At the foot of the staircase she encounters Dorian coming towards her from the library.

"I have been hunting the place for you," he says, gayly. "Where on earth have you been hiding? Visions of ghastly deaths rose before me, and I was just about to have the lake dragged and the shrubberies swept. Martin is nearly in tears. You really ought to consider our feelings a little. Why, where are you off to now?"--for the first time noticing her hat.

"Out," returns she, coldly, looking straight over his head: she is standing on the third step of the stairs, while he is in the hall below. "I feel stifled in this house."

Her tone is distinctly strange, her manner most unusual. Fearing she is really ill, he goes up to her and lays his hand upon her arm.

"Anything the matter, darling? How white you look," he begins, tenderly; but she interrupts him.

"I am quite well," she says, hardly, shrinking away from his touch as though it is hateful to her. "I am going out because I wish to be alone."

She sweeps past him through the old hall and out into the darkening sunlight, without a backward glance or another word. Amazed, puzzled, Brans...o...b.. stands gazing after her until the last fold of her dress has disappeared, the last sound of her feet has echoed on the stone steps beyond; then he turns aside, and, feeling, if possible, more astonished than hurt, goes back to the library.

From this hour begins the settled coldness between Dorian and his wife that is afterwards to bear such bitter fruit. She a.s.signs no actual reason for her changed demeanor; and Dorian, at first, is too proud to demand an explanation,--though perhaps never yet has he loved her so well as at this time, when all his attempts at tenderness are coldly and obstinately rejected.

Not until a full month has gone by, and it is close upon the middle of August, does it dawn upon him why Georgie has been so different of late.

Sir James Scrope is dining with them, and, shortly after the servants have withdrawn, he makes some casual mention of Ruth Annersley's name.

No notice is taken of it at the time, the conversation changes almost directly into a fresh channel, but Dorian, happening to glance across the table at his wife, sees that she has grown absolutely livid, and really, for the instant, fears she is going to faint. Only for an instant! Then she recovers herself, and makes some careless remark, and is quite her usual self again.

But he cannot forget that sudden pallor, and like a flash the truth comes to him, and he knows he is foul and despicable in the eyes of the only woman he loves.

When Sir James has gone, he comes over to her, and, leaning his elbow on the chimney-piece, stands in such a position as enables him to command a full view of her face.

"Scrope takes a great interest in that girl Ruth," he says, purposely introducing the subject again. "It certainly is remarkable that no tidings of her have ever since reached Pullingham."

Georgie makes no reply. The nights have already grown chilly and there is a fire in the grate, before which she is standing warming her hands. One foot,--a very lovely little foot,--clad in a black shoe relieved by large silver buckles, is resting on the fender, and on this her eyes are riveted, as though lost in admiration of its beauty, though in truth she sees it not at all.

"I can hardly understand her silence," persists Dorian. "I fear, wherever she is, she must be miserable."

Georgie raises her great violet eyes to his, that are now dark and deep with pa.s.sionate anger and contempt.

"She is not the only miserable woman in the world," she says, in a low, quick tone.

"No, I suppose not. But what an unsympathetic tone you use! Surely you can feel for her?"

"Feel for her! Yes. No woman can have as much compa.s.sion for her as I have."

"That is putting it rather strongly, is it not? You scarcely know her; hardly ever spoke to her. Clarissa Peyton, for instance, must think more pitifully of her than you can."

"I hope it will never be Clarissa's lot to compa.s.sionate any one in the way I do her."

"You speak very bitterly."

"Do I? I think very bitterly."

"What do you mean?" demands he, suddenly, straightening himself and drawing up his tall figure to its fullest height. His tone is almost stern.

"Nothing. There is nothing to be gained by continuing this conversation."

"But I think there is. Of late, your manner towards me has been more than strange. If you complain of anything, let me know what it is, and it shall be rectified. At the present moment, I confess, I fail to understand you. You speak in the most absurdly romantic way about Ruth Annersley (whom you hardly knew), as though there existed some special reason why you, above all women, should pity her."

"I do pity her from my heart; and there is a special reason: she has been deceived, and so have I."

"By whom?"

"I wish you would discontinue the subject, Dorian: it is a very painful one to me, if--if not to you." Then she moves back a little, and, laying her hand upon her chest, as though a heavy weight, not to be lifted, is lying there, she says, slowly, "You compel me to say what I would willingly leave unsaid. When I married you, I did not understand your character; had I done so----"

"You would not have married me? You regret your marriage?" He is very pale now, and something that is surely anguish gleams in his dark eyes. Perhaps had she seen his expression her answer would have been different, or, at least, more merciful.

"I do," she says, faintly.