Faith And Unfaith Part 57

Above them a wintry sun is trying vainly to recover its ill temper.

Every now and then a small brown bird, flying hurriedly past the windows, is almost blown against them by the strong and angry blast.

Within, a fire is burning, and the curtains are half drawn across the windows and the gla.s.s door, that leads, by steps, down into the garden. No lamps are lit, and the light is sombre and severe.

"You have come," says Dorian, advancing eagerly to meet him. "I knew I could depend upon you, but it is more than good of you to be here so soon. I have been moping a good deal, I am afraid, and forgot all about the lamps. Shall I ring for some one now to light them?"

"No: this light is what I prefer," says Scrope, laying his hand upon his arm. "Stir up the fire, if you like."

"Even that I had not given one thought to," says Brans...o...b.., drearily.

"Sitting here all alone, I gave myself up a prey to evil thoughts."

The word "alone" touches Sir James inexpressibly. Where was his wife all the time, that she never came to him to comfort and support him in his hour of need?

"Is everything as bad as you say?" he asks, presently, in a subdued tone.

"Quite as bad; neither worse nor better. There are no gradations about utter ruin. You heard about Sawyer, of course? Harden has been with me all last night and to-day, and between us we have been able to make out that he has muddled away almost all the property,--which, you know, is small. As yet we hardly know how we stand. But there is one claim of fifteen thousand pounds that must be paid without delay, and I have not one penny to meet it, so am literally driven to the wall."

"You speak as if----"

"No, I am speaking quite rationally. I know what you would say; but if I was starving I would not accept one s.h.i.+lling from Lord Sartoris.

That would be impossible. You can understand why, without my going into that infamous scandal. I suppose I can sell Sartoris, and pay my--that is, Sawyer's--debts; but that will leave me a beggar." Then, in a low tone, "I should hardly care, but for her. That is almost more than I can bear."

"You say this debt of fifteen thousand pounds is the one that presses hardest?"

"Yes. But for that, I might, by going in for strict economy, manage to retrieve my present position in a year or two."

"I wish you would explain more fully," says Sir James; whereupon Dorian enters into an elaborate explanation that leaves all things clear.

"It seems absurd," says Scrope, impatiently, "that you, the heir to an earldom and unlimited wealth, should be made so uncomfortable for the sake of a paltry fifteen thousand pounds."

"I hardly think my wealth unlimited," says Brans...o...b..; "there is a good deal of property not entailed, and the ready money is at my uncle's own disposal. You know, perhaps, that he has altered his will in favor of Horace,--has, in fact, left him everything that it is possible to leave?"

"This is all new to me," says Sir James, indignantly. "If it is true, it is the most iniquitous thing I ever heard in my life."

"It is true," says Brans...o...b.., slowly. "Altogether, in many ways, I have been a good deal wrong; and the money part of it has not hurt me the most."

"If seven thousand pounds would be of any use to you," says Scrope, gently, delicately, "I have it lying idle. It will, indeed, be a great convenience if you will take it at a reasonable----"

"That is rather unkind of you," says Dorian, interrupting him hastily.

"Don't say another word on that subject. I shall sink or swim without aid from my friends,--aid, I mean, of that sort. In other ways you can help me. Harden will, of course, see to the estate; but there are other, more private matters, that I would intrust to you alone. Am I asking too much?"

"Don't be unkind in your own turn," says Scrope, with tears in his eyes.

"Thank you," says Dorian, simply. His heart seems quite broken.

"What of your wife?" asks Sir James, with some hesitation. "Does she know?"

"I think not. Why should she be troubled before her time? It will come fast enough. She made a bad match, after all, poor child! But there is one thing I must tell you, and it is the small drop of comfort in my cup. About a month ago, Lord Sartoris settled upon her twenty thousand pounds, and that will keep her at least free from care. When I am gone, I want you to see to her, and let me know, from time to time, that she is happy and well cared for."

"But will she consent to this separation from you, that may last for years?"

"Consent!" says Dorian, bitterly. "That is not the word. She will be glad, at this chance that has arisen to put s.p.a.ce between us. I believe from my heart that----"

"What is it you believe?" says a plaintive voice, breaking in upon Dorian's speech with curious energy. The door leading into the garden is wide open: and now the curtain is thrust aside, and a fragile figure, gowned in some black filmy stuff, stands before them. Both men start as she advances in the uncertain light. Her face is deadly pale; her eyes are large, and almost black, as she turns them questioningly upon Sir James Scrope. It is impossible for either man to know what she may, or may not, have heard.

"I was in the garden," she says, in an agitated tone, "and I heard voices; and something about money; and Dorian's going away: and----"

(she puts her hand up to her throat) "and about ruin. I could not understand: but you will tell me. You must."

"Tell her, Dorian," says Sir James. But Dorian looks doggedly away from her, through the open window, into the darkening garden beyond.

"Tell me, Dorian," she says, nervously, going up to him, and laying a small white trembling hand upon his arm.

"There is no reason why you should be distressed," says Brans...o...b.., very coldly, lifting her hand from his arm, as though her very touch is displeasing to him. "You are quite safe. Sawyer's mismanagement of the estate has brought me to the verge of ruin; but Lord Sartoris has taken care that you will not suffer."

She is trembling violently.

"And you?" she says.

"I shall go abroad until things look brighter." Then he turns to her for the first time, and, taking both her hands, presses them pa.s.sionately. "I can hardly expect forgiveness from you," he says: "you had, at least, a right to expect position when you made your unhappy marriage, and now you have nothing."

I think she hardly hears this cruel speech. Her thoughts still cling to the word that has gone before.

"Abroad?" she says, with quivering lips.

"Only for a time," says Sir James, taking pity upon her evident distress.

"Does he owe a great deal?" asks she, feverishly. "Is it a very large sum? Tell me how much it is."

Scrope, who is feeling very sorry for her, explains matters, while Dorian maintains a determined silence.

"Fifteen thousand pounds, if procured at once, would tide him over his difficulties," says Sir James, who does her the justice to divine her thoughts correctly. "Time is all he requires."

"I have twenty thousand pounds," says Georgie, eagerly. "Lord Sartoris says I may do what I like with it. Dorian,"--going up to him again,--"take it,--do, _do_. You will make me happier than I have been for a long time if you will accept it."

A curious expression lights Dorian's face. It is half surprise, half contempt: yet, after all, perhaps there is some genuine gladness in it.

"I cannot thank you sufficiently," he says, in a low tone. "Your offer is more than kind: it is generous. But I cannot accept it. It is impossible I should receive anything at your hands."

"Why?" she says, her lips white, her eyes large and earnest.

"Does that question require an answer?" asks Dorian, slowly. "There was a time, even in our short married life, when I believed in your friends.h.i.+p for me, and then I would have taken anything from you,--from my wife; but now, I tell you again, it is impossible. You yourself have put it out of my power."

He turns from her coldly, and concentrates his gaze once more upon the twilit garden.

"Don't speak to me like that,--at least now," says Georgie, her breath coming in short quick gasps. "It hurts me so! Take this wretched money, if--if you still have any love for me."

He turns deliberately away from the small pleading face.