Faith And Unfaith Part 67

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. Brans...o...b.., reproachfully, with a fresh irrepressible sob, that goes to his heart. He s.h.i.+fts 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 Brans...o...b.., 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 pa.s.s; 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 Brans...o...b... "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 rest.i.tution."

"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.

Brans...o...b..,--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.

Brans...o...b.., 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 Brans...o...b... "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 Brans...o...b..s, Clarissa says, in a clear, audible tone,--

"I never in all my life knew two such silly people!"