CHAPTER XXXVII.

"Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud
Turn forth her silver lining on the night?"
MILTON.

THE two months that Dorian has given himself in which to finish the business that, he said, had brought him home, have almost come to an end. Already winter is passing out of mind, and "Spring comes up this way."

The "checkered daffodil" and the soft plaintive primrose are bursting into bloom. The gentle rain comes with a passing cloud, and sinks lovingly into the earth's bosom and into the hearts of the opening buds.

The grass is springing; all the world is rich with fresh | | 299 young life. The very snowdrops--pale blossoms, born of bitter winds and sunless skies-have perished out of sight.

Ruth is lying in her grave, cold and forgotten save by two,--the man who has most wronged her, and the woman who had most to forgive her. As yet, Clarissa cannot rise out of the depression that fell upon her when Horace's treachery was first made known to her. Her love had seemed so good, so tender, it had so brightened all her life, and had been so much a part of her existence, that it seemed to carry to the grave with it all her youth and gladness. However untrue this young love of her life had been, still, while she believed in it, it had been beautiful to her, and it is with bitterest grief she has laid it aside; to her it had been a living thing, and even as it fades from her she cries to it aloud to stay, and feels her arms empty in that it no longer fills them.

Mr. Winter's exquisite words come often to her ; and yet, when the first great pang is over, a sensation that may be almost called relief raises her soul and restores her somewhat to her old self.

She is graver--if possible, gentler, more tender--than in the days before grief had touched her. And, though her love has really died beyond all reawakening, still the memory of what once had been has left its mark upon her.

To Sir James she has never since mentioned the name of the man in whom she had once so firmly believed, though oftentimes it has occurred to her that relief might follow upon the bare asking of a question that might serve to make common the actual remembrance of him.

To-day, as Scrope comes up the lawn to meet her, as she bends over the "bright children of the sun," a sense of | | 300 gladness that he is coming fills her. She feels no nervousness or weariness with him, only rest and peace, and something that is deeper still, though yet vague and absolutely unknown to her own heart.

She goes forward to meet him, a smile upon her lips, treading lightly on the young grass, that is emerald in hue, -as the color of my own dear land,--and through which

"You again?" she says, with a lovely smile. He was here only yesterday.

"What an uncivil speech! Do I come too often?" He has her hand in his, and is holding it inquiringly, but it is such a soft and kind inquiry.

"No: half often enough," she says, and hardly knows why his face flushes at her words, being still ignorant of the fact that he loves her with a love that passeth the love of most.

"Well, you cha'n't have to complain of that any longer," he says, gayly. "Shall I take up my residence here?"

"Do," says Miss Peyton, also in jest.

"I would much rather you took up yours at Scrope," he says, unthinkingly, and then he flushes again, and then silence falls between them.

Her foot is tapping the sward lightly, yet nervously. Her eyes are on the "daisies pied." Presently, as though some inner feeling compels her to it, she says,--"Why do you never speak to me of-Horace?"

"You forbade me," he says: "how could I disobey you? He is well, however, but, I think, not altogether happy. In his last letter to me he still spoke remorsefully of--her." It is agony to him to say this, yet he does it bravely, knowing it will be the wisest thing for the woman he himself loves.

"Yes," she says, quite calmly. At this instant she knows her love for Horace Branscombe is quite dead. "Her death was terrible."

"Yet easy, I dare say. Disease of the heart, when it carries one off is seldom painful. Clarissa, this is the very first time you have spoken of her, either."

"Is it?" She turns away from him, and, catching a | | 301 branch, takes from it a leaf or two. "You have not spoken to me," she says.

"Because, as I said, you forbade me. Don't you know your word to me is law?"

"I don't think I know much," says Miss Peyton, with a sad little smile; but she lets her hand lie in his, and does not turn away from him. "Horace is in Ceylon," she says presently.

"Yes, and doing very well. Do you often think of him now?"

"Very often. I am glad he is getting on successfully."

"Have you forgotten nothing, Clarissa?"

"I have forgotten a great deal. How could it be otherwise? I have forgotten that I ever loved any one. It seems to me now impossible that I could have felt all that I did two months ago. Yet something lingers with me,--something I cannot explain." She pauses, and looks idly down upon her white hands, the fingers of which are twining and intertwining nervously.

"Do you mean that you have ceased to think of Horace in the light of a lover? " he asks, with an effort certainly, yet with determination. He will hear the truth now or never.

"What! wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice?" she says, turning to him with some passion; and then her anger fades, and her eyes fill with tears.

"If you can apply such a word to him, your love must be indeed dead," he says, in a curious tone, and, raising one of her hands, he lays it upon his breast.

"I wish it had never been born," she says, with a sigh, not looking at him.

"But is it dead?" persists he, eagerly.

"Quite. I buried it that day you took me--to his--rooms: you remember?"

"How could I forget? Clarissa, if you are unhappy, so am I. Take pity upon me."

"You unhappy?" She lifts her eyes to his.

"Yes. All my life I have loved you. Is your heart quite beyond my reach?"

She makes him no answer.

"Without you I live but half a life," he goes on, entreatingly. "Every hour is filled with thoughts of you. I have | | 302 no interests apart from you. Clarissa, if there is any hope for me, speak; say something."

"Would not his memory be a shadow between us always?" whispers she, in trembling accents. "Forgiveness is within our power, forgetfulness is beyond us! Jim, is this thing wise, that you are doing? Have you thought of it?"

"I have thought of it for more than a long year," says Sir James. "I think all my life, unconsciously, I have loved you."

"For so long?" she says, softly; and then, "How faithful you have been!"

quotes he, tenderly; and then she goes nearer to him,--tears in her eyes.

"You are too good for me," she says.

"Darling," says Scrope, and after that, somehow, it seems but a little thing that his arms should close around her, and that her head should lie contentedly upon his shoulder.