Beck Center English Dept. University Libraries Emory University
Emory Women Writers Resource Project Collections:
Women's Genre Fiction Project

Faith and Unfaith, an electronic edition

by The Duchess [Hungerford, Mrs. (Margaret Wolfe Hamilton), 1855?-1897]

date: [1883]
source publisher: John W. Lovell Company
collection: Genre Fiction

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CHAPTER XXXIV.

"Our doubts are traitors,
And make us lose the good we oft might win."
SHAKESPEARE.
"The day goeth down red darkling,
The moaning waves clash out the light,
And there is not a star of hope sparkling
On the threshold of my night."
GERALD MASSEY.

THE morning after her unfortunate visit to town, Clarissa sends to Mrs. Branscombe, asking her to come to her without delay. The secret that is in her heart weighs heavily, and Georgie must be told. Yet, now, when the door opens, and Georgie stands before her, she is dumb, and cold, and almost without power to move.

"What is it?" says Mrs. Branscombe, suddenly. The sad little smile that of late has been peculiar to her fades at sight of Clarissa's grief-stricken face. She advances, | | 281 and lays a hand upon her arm. "You look positively ill, Clarissa: something dreadful has happened. I can see it in your eyes. It is bad news. Dorian,--he is not----"

She puts her hand to her throat, and leans on a chair.

"It is no bad news for you," says Clarissa, faintly, "but for me." She pauses.

"Are you in trouble, dearest?" says Mrs. Branscombe, sadly. "I thought you the happiest girl alive. Is there nothing but misery in this wretched world?"

"I was in town yesterday," Clarissa begins, with an effort, and then stops. How is she to betray her lover's falseness?

"And you saw Horace, and he is ill?" says Georgie, anxiously. "Tell me all, Clarissa."

"It is so hard to tell," says poor Clarissa; and then she turns her face to the wall, and wishes honestly that all things for her might now be at an end:

"Love, art thou bitter?
Sweet is death to me."
At this moment she could have gladly welcomed death.

"There are many things," she says, "but this worst of all. He does not love me; he has never loved me. And there is some one else; and----"

"Who is it?" asks Georgie, breathlessly, though the truth as yet is far from her.

"Ruth Annersley! She was there,--in his rooms!" says Clarissa; and, after this, there is a silence that lasts for several minutes.

The unhappy truth is told. Clarissa, shamed and heartbroken, moves away, that her companion may not see her face. As for Mrs. Branscombe, at first intense wonder renders her motionless; and then, as the exact meaning of this terrible story breaks in upon her, a great and glorious gleam of unmistakable rapture lights all her face, and, sinking upon a prie-Dieu near her, she presses her hands tightly together. That Dorian is exonerated, is her first thought; that he will never forgive her, is her second; and this drives all the blood from her cheeks, and the gladness from her heart, and brings her back again to the emptiness and barrenness that have made life a wilderness to her for so many months.

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Going over to Clarissa, she lays her arms gently round her neck. There seems to be a new bond, born of grief, between them now.

"Do not pity me," says Clarissa, entreatingly.

"Pity you? no! There is no occasion for it. You are fortunate in having escaped such a fate as was in store for you. In time you will forget all this, and be happy in some other way."

"Shall I?" says Clarissa, drearily. "But, in the mean time, what shall I do? How shall I fill the blank here?" She lays her hand upon her heart.

"He is a wretch," says Georgie, with sudden fire. "If I were a man, I should kill him."

"You should rather be thankful to him," says Clarissa, with some bitterness. "My misery has proved your joy. The shadow has been raised from Dorian."

"Clarissa, if you speak to me like that you will break my heart," says Georgie, deeply grieved. "How could I know joy when you are unhappy? And--and, besides, there is no joy for me anywhere. Dorian will never forgive me. How could he? I, his wife, was the one who most heartily condemned him and believed in his guilt."

"When you see him, all will be well. But he should be told; you will see to that."

"Of course, darling. He is coming home next week. But how shall I meet him and say all this to him! The very thought of it is terrible."

"Next week?--so soon?"

"Yes; I had a line from him this morning,--the only one he wrote me since his departure; but that was my own fault. I am almost sorry he is coming now," says Mrs. Branscombe, nervously. "I shall dread the look in his eyes when I confess to him how readily I believed in that false rumor."

"You hardly deserve pity," says Clarissa, suddenly, turning upon her with some just anger. You under-valued him all through. Instead of going `down on your knees to thank heaven, fasting, for a good man's love,' you deliberately flung it away. How different it has been with me! I trusted blindly, and see my reward! Even yet I cannot realize it. It seems like some strange horri- | | 283 ble nightmare, from which I must awake. Yesterday I was so happy; to-day----"

She breaks down, and bursts into bitter weeping. Georgie throws herself on her knees before her.

* * * * * * *

"Is this your luggage, sir? Glad to see you back again, sir."

"Thank you, Jeffers. Yes, that is mine. All right at home, I hope? Your mistress quite well?"

"Quite well, sir. She is at home, awaiting you."

Dorian turns away with a bitter smile. "At home, awaiting him!" What a wretched fool he once was, when he used to really picture to himself a fair fond woman waiting and longing for his return, whenever Fate had called him from her side!

Arriving at Sartoris, he runs up the stairs to his own room, meeting no one on his way. He smiles again--the same unlovely smile--as he tells himself that Jeffers exaggerated the case a little,--as, plainly, Georgie has taken special pains to be out of the way to avoid meeting him on his first arrival.

Opening his door, he goes in, closing it firmly behind him. Everything in the room is just as he had left it. Nothing has been changed; the very book he had been reading is lying now open at the page he had last looked into. A glorious fire is burning in the grate. A delicate Bohemian vase is filled with some rare sweet flowers.

Whose hand had gathered them? If it was one of the servants, it was very thoughtful. He is very fond of flowers. He moves listlessly about, wondering vaguely how everything can look, after some months' absence, so exactly as if he had seen it only yesterday, when a small object lying on a side-table attracts his notice.

It is a little gray glove, soiled, finger-pressed, warm as if its owner but just a minute since had drawn it from her hand. It is yet almost a part of the white, soft flesh it had covered. His brow contracts, and a pained expression crosses his face. Taking it up, he lays it in his open palm, and regards it earnestly; he hesitates, and then, as though unable to prevent himself, he raises it and presses it passionately to his lips. An instant later, with a contemptuous gesture and an inward anathema upon his own | | 284 weakness, he flings it far from him through the open window down on to the balcony beneath,--where it flutters to Mrs. Branscombe's feet!

Mechanically she stoops and picks it up. She has been hurrying towards the house, having only just heard of her husband's arrival, she not having expected him for some time later, trains at Pullingham being none of the most punctual.

Gazing at the luckless glove, her whole expression changes. She is beneath his window: was it his hand flung it so disdainfully to the ground,--the glove she had worn such a short time before, when gathering the flowers that are now making his room so sweet? Clasping the unoffending bit of kid closely in her hand, she enters the house, by a wide French window, and goes straight into Dorian's room.

At the door she hesitates, and then knocks somewhat nervously.

"Come in." His voice has been so long a stranger to her that she almost starts on hearing it, and the last remnant of her courage vanishes. She opens the door and goes slowly in.

Dorian's back is turned to her. His coat is off, and he is brushing his hair before a glass in the furious fashion men, as a rule, affect. As she enters, he turns, and putting clown the brushes, regards her with undisguised surprise. Plainly, he has not expected her.

"How d'ye do?" he says, presently. It is perfectly absurd; yet neither of them laughs. It is the most ridiculous greeting he could possibly have made her, considering all things; yet no sense of ridicule touches them. They are too near to tragedy to harbor a thought of comedy.

"I did not expect you until five," says Georgie, in a constrained tone. "If I had known, I should have been ready to receive you."

"Pray do not apologize," he says, coldly. It is very good of you to come here now. It is more than I expected."

"I came," says Georgie, with an effort, "because I have something to tell you, that should be told without delay."

"What is it?" he asks, quickly. "Is my uncle well?"

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"Quite well. I saw him yesterday. It has nothing to do with him; though, of course, it must touch him very nearly."

"You will be tired," he says, with grave but distant politeness. "Sit down while you tell me your news."

"No; I prefer standing." She clasps one hand tightly over the other, and leans against the wall; she cannot, try as she will, remove her eyes from his face. "What I want to say is this: I have heard of Ruth Annersley!"

"Have you?" with an ominous calm in look and tone. "Where is she?"

"With--your brother!"

Dorian walks abruptly to the window, and stands there so that his face cannot be seen. He is distressed beyond measure. So his old suspicions have proved true, after all, and Horace's protestations were as basest lies. He feels sick at heart for his brother's honor,--that miserable remnant of a once fair thing, that costly garment, now reduced to rags. After a while he forces himself to speak again.

"Who found her there?" he asks, huskily.

"Clarissa."

"Clarissa?" He is now thoroughly shocked. "What cruel fate made her the discoverer?"

"Chance. He was ill, and she went to see him, out of pure love for him. She was rewarded by a sight of Ruth Annersley!"

"Poor girl!" says Branscombe, sadly. "So true,--so trusting."

Georgie draws her breath quickly. Are not his words a reflection upon her?--she, who has so failed in faith and love?

"I suppose that is all you have to tell me," says Dorian, presently, in an absent, weary way.

"Not quite all," she says, with a trembling voice. She forces herself to come nearer to him, and now stands before him like a small pale culprit, unable to lift her eyes to his. "I want to tell you how deeply I regret the injustice, the----"

"No, no," interrupts he, impatiently. "Let nothing be said about that. It would be worse than useless. Why waste words over what can never be undone?"

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Still she perseveres bravely, although her breath is coming quicker, and her lips are trembling.

"I must tell you how sorry I am," she says, with a suppressed sob. "I want to ask you, if possible, to forg----"

"Believe me, it will be better to leave all this unsaid," he interrupts her, gravely.

"Then you do not care to hear how I have regretted the wrong I did you, and----?"

"As you ask me the question, I will answer you. No, I do not. Had you, at any time, felt one particle of affection for me, you could never have so misunderstood me. Let things now remain as they are. Though I think that perhaps, for the short time I shall remain at home, it will be better for your sake that we should appear before the world, at least, as friends."

"You are leaving home again?" she asks, timidly. Now, as he stands before her, so tall, and strong, and unforgiving, with this new-born dignity upon him, she fully realizes, for the first time, all she has recklessly resigned. He had loved her at one time, surely, and she had trampled on that love, until she had crushed out of it all life and sweetness:

"For it so falls out
That what we have we prize not to the worth
While we enjoy it; but, being lacked and lost,
Why, then we rack the value; then we find
The virtue that possession would not show us
While it was ours."

"Yes, as soon as I can finish the business that has brought me back. I fear that will keep me two months, at least. I wish I could hasten it, but it would be impossible." He grows slightly distrait, but, after a moment, rouses himself with a start, and looks at her. " Am I keeping you ? " he asks, courteously. (To her the courtesy is a positive cruelty.) "Do not let me detain you any longer. Is there anything more you wish to say to me?"

"Nothing." His last words have frozen within her all desire for reconciliation. Is he, indeed, in such great haste to be gone? Without another word, she goes to the door, but, as she puts out her hand to open it, something within her grasp becomes known to her. It is the glove she had | | 287 picked up on the balcony half an hour ago, and has held ever since almost unconsciously.

"Was it--was it you that threw this from the window?" she says, suddenly, for the last time raising her beautiful eyes to her husband's face.

"Yes. This was no place for it," returns he, sternly. Going down the staircase, full of grief and wounded pride, she encounters Lord Sartoris.

"He has come?" asks the old man, in an agitated manner, laying his hand on her arm.

"He has. If you wish to see him, he is in his own room," replies she, in a singularly hard tone.

"Have you told him everything?" asks Sartoris, nervously. "It was a fatal mistake. Do you think he will forgive me?"

"How can I say?" says Mrs. Branscombe, with a bitter smile. "I can only tell you he has not forgiven me."

"Bless me!" says Lord Sartoris; " then, I suppose, I haven't a chance."

He is disheartened by her words, and goes very slowly on his way towards his nephew's room. When they are once more face to face, they pause and look with uncertainty upon each other. Then the older man holds out his hands beseechingly.

"I have come to demand your forgiveness," he says, with deep entreaty. "Dorian--grant it!--I am very old----"

In an instant Dorian's arm is round his neck, as it used to be in the days long ago, before the dark cloud had rolled between them.

"Not another word, or I shall never forgive you!" says Branscombe, tenderly, with the old smile upon his lips. And Sartoris, strong, obstinate, self-willed man that he is, lays his head down upon his "boy's" shoulder, and sobs aloud.

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