Faith And Unfaith Part 45

"Clarissa," he is saying, in a somewhat halting fas.h.i.+on,--he is coloring hotly, and is looking as uncomfortable as a man can look, which is saying a good deal,--"look here."

An ignominious break-down.

"I'm looking," says Clarissa, somewhat unkindly; "and I don't see much."

"Well, 'tis this, you know. You won't think it queer of me, will you?"

"I won't; I promise that. Though I haven't the faintest idea whether I shall or not."

"When she is getting her things, her _trousseau_,--I want her to have every earthly thing she can possibly fancy," he says, at last, desperately. "Can't you manage that for me? Do; and make any use you like of this."

He flings a cheque-book into her lap through the open window as he speaks.

"She shall have everything she wants," says Clarissa; "but I don't think"--taking up the book--"we shall require this."

"Nevertheless, keep it. You must want it; and don't mention me in the matter at all. And--look here again--what do you think she would like as a wedding-present?"

Of course he has given her long ago the orthodox engagement ring, the locket, the bracelet, and so forth.

"Why don't you ask her?" says Miss Peyton.

"Because the other day she said she adored surprises. And I am sure she doesn't care about being asked what she likes."

"You have your mother's diamonds."

"Oh, of course"--airily--"all my mother's things will be hers; that goes without telling; but I hate old rubbish. I want to give her something from myself to wear on her marriage morning. Don't you see?

or is it that you grow imbecile in your old age, my good Clarissa?"

"No; it only means that you are growing extravagant in your dotage, my good Dorian. Well, mention something, that I may object to it."

"Emeralds, then?"

"No: papa has set his heart on giving her those."

"Rubies?"

"Oh, nothing red: they would not suit her."

"Opals?"

"Too unlucky, she would die or run away from you."

"Pearls? But of course,"--quickly: "why did I not think of them before?"

"Why, indeed? They will be charming. By the by, Dorian, have you told Lord Sartoris of your engagement?"

Dorian's brow darkens.

"No. He has been from home, you know, either in Paris or the Libyan desert, or somewhere. He only turned up again two days ago. Seen him since?"

"He was here, but I was out. Have you seen him?"

"Well, yes,--at a distance."

"Dorian, there is certainly something wrong between you and Lord Sartoris. I have noticed it for some time. I don't ask you what it is, but I entreat you to break through this coldness and be friends with him again." She stoops towards him, and looks earnestly into his face.

He laughs a little.

"I'm tremendous friends with him, really," he says, "if you would only try to believe it. I think him no end of a good fellow, if slightly impossible at times. When he recovers from the attack of insanity that is at present rendering him very obnoxious, I shall be delighted to let by-gones be by-gones. But until then----"

"You will tell him of your engagement?"

"Perhaps: if occasion offers."

"No, not perhaps. Go to-day, this very evening, and tell him of it."

"Oh, I can't, really, you know," says Mr. Brans...o...b.., who always finds a difficulty in refusing any one anything.

"You must,"--with decision: "he surely deserves so much at your hands."

"But how few of us get our deserts!" says Dorian, still plainly unimpressed.

"Well, then, I think you should speak of it openly to him,--if only for Georgie's sake."

"For her sake?" He colors again, and bites his lips. "If you really think I owe it to her, of course I shall do it, however distasteful the task may be; though I cannot see how it will benefit her."

"He is your uncle; you will wish your own family to receive her?"

"I dare say you are right," says Brans...o...b.., with a shrug. "People always are when they suggest to you an unpleasant course."

"What is unpleasant now? How can there be anything to distress any one on such a heavenly day as this?" cries the soft petulant voice he loves so well, calling to them across a flower-bed near.

Springing over it, she comes up to the window, and, leaning her elbows on the sill close to him, laughs gayly up into his face.

"There shall be nothing to distress you, at all events, my 'amber witch,'" returns he, gayly, too. "Come, show me once more these gardens you love so well."

A promise with Dorian is not made of pie-crust: though sorely against his will, he goes up to Hythe after dinner to acquaint his uncle formally of his approaching marriage. The evening is calm and full of rest and quiet, a fit ending to the perfect day that has gone before:

"The long day wanes, the broad fields fade; the night-- The sweet June night--is like a curtain drawn.

The dark lanes know no faintest sound, and white The pallid hawthorn lights the smooth-bleached lawn; The scented earth drinks from the silent skies Soft dews, more sweet than softest harmonies."

Going through the woods that lie upon his right, he walks silently onward, impressed by the beauty of the swift-coming night, yet too restless in mind to take in all its charms that are rich enough to satisfy a hungry soul. A soft wind is sighing; beneath its touch the young and tender branches are swaying lightly to and fro; all the "feathery people of mid-air" are preening their downy plumage and murmuring sleepy hymns ere sinking to their rest.

Scarce a sound can be heard, save the distant lowing of cattle, and the drowsy drone of a slumberous bee as it floats idly by. The very sound of Dorian's footsteps upon the soft gra.s.s can be distinctly heard, so deadly is the calm that ushers in the night; when, lo! from out some thicket, the nightingale,--

"Who is silent all day long; But when pale eve unseals her clear throat, looses Her twilight music on the dreaming boughs Until they waken"--