Faith and Unfaith: A Novel

"Who on earth is Mr. Branscombe?" asks Dorian. "Don't you know my name yet?"

"I do. I think it is almost the prettiest name I ever heard, – Dorian."

"Darling! I never thought it a nice name before; but now that you have called me by it, I can feel its beauty. But I dare say if I had been christened Jehoshaphat I should, under these circumstances, think just the same. Well, you were going to say – ?"

"Perhaps Clarissa will not care to have me for so long."

"So long? How long? By the by, perhaps she wouldn't; so I suppose we had better be married as soon as ever we can."

"I haven't got any clothes," says Miss Broughton; at which they both laugh gayly, as though it were the merriest jest in the world.

"You terrify me," says Branscombe. "Let me beg you will rectify such a mistake as soon as possible."

"We have been here a long time," says Georgie, suddenly, glancing at the sun, that is almost sinking out of sight behind the solemn firs.

"It hasn't been ten minutes," says Mr. Branscombe, conviction making his tone brilliant.

"Oh, nonsense!" says Georgie. "I am sure it must be quite two hours since you came."

As it has been barely one, this is rather difficult to endure with equanimity.

"How long you have found it!" he says, with some regret. He is honestly pained, and his eyes grow darker. Looking at him, she sees what she has done, and, though ignorant of the very meaning of the word "love," knows that she has hurt him more than he cares to confess.

"I have been happy, – quite happy," she says, sweetly, coloring warmly as she says it. "You must not think I have found the time you have been with me dull or dreary. Only, I am afraid Clarissa will miss me."

"I should think any one would miss you," says Dorian, impulsively. He smiles at her as he speaks; but there is a curious mingling of sadness and longing and uncertainty in his face. Laying one arm round her, with his other hand he draws her head down on his breast.

"At least, before we go, you will kiss me once," he says, entreatingly. All the gayety – the gladness – has gone from his voice; only the deep and lasting love remains. He says this, too, hesitatingly, as though half afraid to demand so great a boon.

"Yes; I think I should like to kiss you," says Georgie, kindly; and then she raises herself from his embrace, and, standing on tiptoe, places both hands upon his shoulders, and with the utmost calmness lays her lips on his.

"Do you know," she says, a moment later, in no wise disconcerted because of the warmth of the caress he has given her in exchange for hers, – "do you know, I never remember kissing any one in all my life before, except poor papa, and Clarissa, and you."

Even at this avowal she does not blush. Were he her brother, or an aged nurse, she could scarcely think less about the favor she has just conferred upon the man who is standing silently regarding her, puzzled and disappointed truly, but earnestly registering a vow that sooner or later, if faithful love can accomplish it, he will make her all his own, in heart and soul.

Not that he has ever yet gone so deeply into the matter as to tell himself the love is all on his own side. Instinctively he shrinks from such inward confession. It is only when he has parted from her, and is riding quietly homeward through the wistful gloaming, that he remembers, with a pang, how, of all the thousand and one things asked and answered, one alone has been forgotten. He has never desired of her whether she loves him.

CHAPTER XXV

"Love set me up on high: when I grew vainOf that my height, love brought me down again."The heart of love is with a thousand woesPierced, which secure indifference never knows."The rose aye wears the silent thorn at heart,And never yet might pain for love depart." – Trench.

When Mrs. Redmond, next morning, is made aware of Georgie's engagement to Dorian Branscombe, her curiosity and excitement know no bounds. For once she is literally struck dumb with amazement. That Dorian, who is heir to an earldom, should have fixed his affections upon her governess, seems to Mrs. Redmond like a gay continuation of the "Arabian Nights' Entertainments." When she recovers her breath, after the first great shock to her nervous system, she lays down the inevitable sock she is mending, and says as follows:

"My dear Georgina, are you quite sure he meant it? Young men, nowadays, say so many things without exactly knowing why, – more especially after a dance, as I have been told."

"I am quite sure," says Georgie, flushing hotly. She has sufficient self-love to render this doubt very unpalatable.

Something that is not altogether remote from envy creeps into Mrs. Redmond's heart. Being a mother, she can hardly help contrasting her Cissy's future with the brilliant one carved out for her governess. Presently, however, being a thoroughly good soul, she conquers these unworthy thoughts, and when next she speaks her tone is full of heartiness and honest congratulation. Indeed, she is sincerely pleased. The fact that the future Lady Sartoris is at present an inmate of her house is a thought full of joy to her.

"You are a very happy and a very fortunate girl," she says, gravely.

"Indeed yes, I think so," returns Georgie, in a low tone, but with perfect calmness. There is none of the blushing happiness about her that should of right belong to a young girl betrothed freshly to the lover of her heart.

"Of course you do," says Mrs. Redmond, missing something in her voice, though she hardly knows what. "And what we are to do without you, I can't conceive; no one to sing to us in the evening, and we have got so accustomed to that."

"I can still come and sing to you sometimes," says Georgie, with tears in her eyes and voice.

"Ah, yes, – sometimes. That is just the bad part of it; when one has known an 'always,' one does not take kindly to a 'sometimes.' And now here come all my governess troubles back upon my shoulders once more. Don't think me selfish, my dear, to think of that just now in the very morning of your new happiness, but really I can't help it. I have been so content with you, it never occurred to me others might want you too."

"I will ask Clarissa to get you some one else nicer than me," says Georgie, soothingly.

"Will you? Yes, do, my dear: she will do anything for you. And, Georgina," – from the beginning she has called her thus, – nothing on earth would induce Mrs. Redmond to call her anything more frivolous, – "tell her I should prefer somebody old and ugly, if at all bearable, because then she may stay with me. Dear, dear! how Cissy will miss you! And what will the vicar say?"

And so on. She spends the greater part of the morning rambling on in this style, and then towards the evening despatches Georgie to Gowran to tell Clarissa, too, the great news.

But Clarissa knows all about it before her coming, and meets her in the hall, and kisses her then and there, and tells her she is so glad, and it is the very sweetest thing that could possibly have happened.

"He came down this morning very early and told me all about it," she says, looking as pleased as though it is her own happiness and not another's she is discussing.

"Now, what a pity!" says Georgie: "and I did so want to tell you myself, after the disgraceful way in which you tried to wed me to Mr. Hastings."

"He could not sleep; he confessed that to me. And you had forbidden him to go to the vicarage to see you to-day. What else then could he do but come over and put in a good time here? And he did. We had quite a splendid time," says Miss Peyton, laughing; "I really don't know which of us was the most delighted about it. We both kept on saying pretty things about you all the time, – more than you deserved, I think."

"Now, don't spoil it," says Georgie: "I am certain I deserved it all, and more. Well, if he didn't sleep, I did, and dreamed, and dreamed, and dreamed all sorts of lovely things until the day broke. Oh, Clarissa," – throwing out her arms with a sudden swift gesture of passionate relief, – "I am free! Am I not lucky, fortunate, to have deliverance sent so soon?"

"Lucky, fortunate;" where has the word "happy" gone, that she has forgotten to use it? Clarissa makes no reply. Something in the girl's manner checks her. She is standing there before her, gay, exultant, with all a child's pleasure in some new possession; "her eyes as stars of twilight fair," flashing warmly, her whole manner intense and glad; but there are no blushes, no shy half-suppressed smiles, there is no word of love; Dorian's name has not been mentioned, except as a secondary part of her story, and then with the extremest unconcern.

Yet there is nothing in her manner that can jar upon one's finer feelings; there is no undue exultation at the coming great change in her position, – no visible triumph at the fresh future opening before her; it is only that in place of the romantic tenderness that should accompany such a revelation as she has been making, there has been nothing but a wild passionate thankfulness for freedom gained.

"When are you coming to stay with me altogether? – I mean until the marriage?" asks Clarissa, presently.

"I cannot leave Mrs. Redmond like that," says Georgie, who is always delightfully indefinite. "She will be in a regular mess now until she gets somebody to take my place. I can't leave her yet."

"Dorian will not like that."

"He must try to like it. Mrs. Redmond has been very good to me, and I couldn't bear to make her uncomfortable. I shall stay with her until she gets somebody else. I don't think, when I explain it to him, that Dorian will mind my doing this."

"He will think it very sweet of you," says Clarissa, "considering how you detest teaching, and that."

While they are at tea, Dorian drops in, and, seeing the little yellow-haired fairy sitting in the huge lounging-chair, looks so openly glad and contented that Clarissa laughs mischievously.

"Poor Benedick!" she says, mockingly: "so it has come to this, that you know no life but in your Beatrice's presence!"

"Well, that's hardly fair, I think," says Branscombe; "you, at least, should not be the one to say it, as you are in a position to declare I was alive and hearty at half-past twelve this morning."

"Why, so you were," says Clarissa, "terribly alive, – but only on one subject. By the by, has any one seen papa lately? He had some new books from town to-day, – some painfully old books, I mean, – and has not been found since. I am certain he will be discovered some day buried beneath ancient tomes; perhaps, indeed, it will be this day. Will you two forgive me if I go to see if it is yet time to dig him out?"

They forgive her; and presently find themselves alone.

"Is it all true, I wonder?" says Dorian, after a little pause. He is holding her hand, and is looking down at her with a fond sweet smile that betrays the deep love of his heart.

"Quite true; at least, I hope so," with an answering smile. Then, "I am so glad you are going to marry me," she says, without the faintest idea of shyness; "more glad than I can tell you. Ever since – since I was left alone, I have had no one belonging to me, – that is, no one quite my own; and now I have you. You will always be fonder of me than of anybody else in the world, won't you?"

She seems really anxious as she asks this.

"My darling, of course I shall. How could you ask me such a question? And you, Georgie, do you love me?"

"Love you? Yes, I suppose so; I don't know," – with decided hesitation. "I am certain I like you very, very much. I am quite happy when with you, and you don't bore me a bit. Is that it?"

This definition of what love may be, hardly comes up to the mark in Mr. Branscombe's estimation.

She has risen, and is now looking up at him inquiringly, with eyes earnest and beautiful and deep, but so cold. They chill him in spite of his efforts to disbelieve in their fatal truthfulness.

"Hardly, I think," he says, with an attempt at gayety. "Something else is wanting, surely. Georgie, when I asked you to marry me yesterday, and when you gave the promise that has made me so unutterably happy ever since, what was it you thought of?"

"Well, I'll tell you," says Miss Broughton, cheerfully. "First, I said to myself, 'Now I shall never again have to teach Murray's Grammar.'"

"Was that your first thought?" He is both surprised and pained.

"Yes, my very first. You look as if you didn't believe me," says Miss Broughton, with a little laugh. "But if you had gone through as many moods and tenses as I have during the past week, you would quite understand. Well, then I thought how good it would be to have nothing to do but amuse myself all day long. And then I looked at you, and felt so glad you had no crooked eyes, or red hair, or anything that way. And then, above all things, I felt how sweet it was to know I had found somebody who would have to look after me and take care of me, so that I need never trouble about myself any more."

"Did you never once think of me?" asks he, in a curious tone.

"Of you? Oh, no! You are quite happy," says Georgie, with a sigh. "You have nothing to trouble you."

"Nothing! Of course not." Going up to her, he takes her dear little face between both his hands, and looks long and earnestly into her clear unconscious eyes. How gladly would he have seen them droop and soften beneath his gaze! "Now let me tell you how I feel towards you," he says, smoothing her soft hair back from her forehead.

"I don't think I am a bit pretty with my hair pushed back," she says, moving away from the caressing hand, and, with a touch, restoring her "amber locks" to their original position. She smiles as she says this, – indeed, ill temper, in any form, does not belong to her, – and, when her hair is once more restored to order, she again slips her fingers into his confidingly, and glances up at him. "Now tell me all about it," she says.

"What am I to tell you? – that when I am away from you I am restless, miserable; when with you, more than satisfied. I know that I could sit for hours contentedly with this little hand in mine" (raising it to his lips), "and I also know that, if fate so willed it, I should gladly follow you through the length and breadth of the land. If you were to die, or – or forsake me, it would break my heart. And all this is because I love you."

"Is it?" – in a very low tone. "Does all that mean being in love? Then" – in a still lower tone – "I know I am not one bit in love with you."

"Then why are you marrying me?" demands he, a little roughly, stung to pained anger by her words.

"Because I promised papa, when – when he was leaving me, that I would marry the very first rich man that asked me," replies she, again lifting her serious eyes to his. "I thought it would make him happier. And it did. I am keeping my promise now," with a sigh that may mean regret for her dead, or, indeed, anything.

"Are you not afraid to go too far?" demands he, very pale, moving back from her, and regarding her with moody eyes. "Do you quite know what you are saying – what you are compelling me, against my will, to understand?"

She is plainly not listening to him. She is lost in a mournful revery, and, leaning back in her chair, is staring at her little white fingers in an absent fashion, and is twisting round and round upon her third finger an old worn-out gold ring. Poor little ring, so full of sweet and moving memories!

"It was very fortunate," she says, suddenly, with a smile, and without looking up at him, being still engrossed in her occupation of twisting the ring round her slender finger, – "it was more than fortunate that the first rich man should be you."

"Much more," he says, in an indescribable tone. Then with an effort, "Would you have thrown me over had I been poor?"

"I shouldn't have consented to marry you, I think," says Miss Broughton, quite calmly.

"As I said before, to be candid is your forte," exclaims he, with extreme bitterness. "I wonder even if you loved a man to distraction (I am not talking of myself, you know, – that is quite evident, is it not?) would you reject him if he was not sufficiently —bon parti?"

"I don't think I could love any one to distraction," replies she, quite simply. It seems the very easiest answer to this question.

"I believe you speak the very honest truth when you say that," says Dorian, drawing his breath quickly. "You are indeed terribly honest. You don't even shrink from telling the man you have elected to marry that he is no more to you than any other man might be who was equally possessed of filthy – if desirable – lucre!"

He turns from her, and, going to the window, stares out blindly upon the dying daylight, and the gardens stretched beneath, where dying flowers seem breathing of, and suggesting, higher thoughts.

He is unutterably wretched. All through his short courtship he had entertained doubts of her affection; but now, to have her so openly, so carelessly, declare her indifference is almost more than he can bear. "We forgive so long as we love." To Dorian, though his love is greater than that of most, forgiveness now seems difficult. Yet can he resign her? She has so woven herself into his very heart-strings – this cold, cruel, lovely child – that he cannot tear her out without a still further surrender of himself to death. To live without her – to get through endless days and interminable nights without hope of seeing her, with no certain knowledge that the morrow will bring him sure tidings of her – seems impossible. He sighs; and then, even as he sighs, five slim cold little fingers steal within his.

"I have made you angry," says the plaintive voice, full of contrition. A shapely yellow head pushes itself under one of his arms, that is upraised, and a lovely sorrowful pleading face looks up into his. How can any one be angry with a face like that?

"No, not angry," he says. And indeed the anger has gone from his face, – her very touch has banished it, – and only a great and lasting sadness has replaced it. Perhaps for the first time, at this moment she grasps some faint idea of the intensity of his love for her. Her eyes fill with tears.

"I think – it will be better for you – to – give me up," she says, in a down-hearted way, lowering her lids over her tell-tale orbs, that are like the summer sea now that they shine through their unwonted moisture and Dorian, with a sudden passionate movement, takes her in his arms and presses her head down upon his breast.

"Tears are trembling in her blue eyes,Like drops that linger on the violet,"

"Do you suppose I can give you up now," he says, vehemently, "when I have set my whole heart upon you? It is too late to suggest such a course. That you do not love me is my misfortune, not your fault. Surely it is misery enough to know that, – to feel that I am nothing to you, – without telling me that you wish so soon to be released from your promise?"

"I don't wish it," she says, earnestly, shaking her head. "No, indeed! It was only for your sake I spoke. Perhaps by and by you will regret having married some one who does not love you altogether. Because I know I could not sit contentedly for hours with my hand in any one's. And there are a great many things I would not do for you. And if you were to die – "

"There! that will do," he says, with sudden passion. "Do you know how you hurt, I wonder? Are you utterly heartless?"

Her eyes darken as he speaks, and, releasing herself from his embrace, – which, in truth, has somewhat slackened, – she moves back from him. She is puzzled, frightened; her cheeks lose their soft color, and —

"With that, the water in her eieArose, that she ne might it stoppe;And, as men sene the dew be droppeThe leves and the floures eke,Right so upon her white chekeThe wofull salt teres felle."

"I don't want to hurt you," she says, with a sob; "and I know I am not heartless." There is a faint tinge of indignation in her tone.

"Of course you are not. It was a rather brutal thing my saying so. Darling, whatever else may render me unhappy, I can at all events find comfort in the thought that you never loved any other man."

"But I did," says Miss Broughton, still decidedly tearful: "you must always remember that. There was one; and" – she is plainly in the mood for confessions – "I shall never love you or any one as I loved him."

"What are you going to tell me now?" says Dorian, desperately. He had believed his cup quite full, and only now discovers his mistake. Is there a still heavier amount of misery in store for him? "Is the worst to be told me yet?" he says, with the calmness of despair, being quite too far gone for vehemence of any description. "Why did you keep it from me until now?"

"I didn't keep anything," cries she: "I told you long ago – at least, I – "

"What is the name?" demands he, gloomily, fully expecting the hated word "Kennedy" to fall from her lips. "Better let me know it. Nothing you can possibly say can make me feel more thoroughly stranded than I am."

"I think you are taking it very unreasonably," says Miss Broughton, with quivering lips. "If I cannot bring myself to love anybody as well as poor papa, I can't help it – and it isn't my fault – and you are very unkind to me – and – "

"Good gracious! what a fright all about nothing!" says Mr. Branscombe, with a sigh of intense relief. "I don't mind your poor father, you know, – I rather admire your faithfulness there, – but I thought – er – it doesn't in the least matter what I thought," hastily: "every one has silly fancies at times." He kisses her lids warmly, tenderly, until the heavy drops beneath press through and run all down her charming childish face. "I am sure of this, at least," he says, hopefully, "that you like me better than any living man."

"Well, I do, indeed," replies she, in a curious tone, that might be suggestive of surprise at her own discovery of this fact. "But, then, how bad you are to me at times! Dear Dorian," – laying one hand, with a pathetic gesture, on his cheek, – "do not be cross to me again."

"My sweetest! – my best beloved!" says Mr. Branscombe, instantly, drawing his breath a little quickly, and straining her to his heart.

CHAPTER XXVI

"The wisdom of this world is idiotism." – Decker.

"If thou desirest to be borne with, thou must bear also with others." – Kempis.

It takes some time to produce another governess suited to the Redmonds' wants. At length, however, the desired treasure is procured, and forwarded, "with care," to the vicarage.

On inspection, she proves to be a large, gaunt, high-cheek-boned daughter of Caledonia, with a broad accent, a broader foot, and uncomfortably red hair. She comes armed with testimonials of the most severely complimentary description, and with a pronounced opinion that "salary is not so much an object as a comfortable home."

Such a contrast to Georgie can scarcely be imagined. The Redmonds, in a body, are covered with despair, and go about the house, after her arrival, whispering in muffled tones, and casting blanched and stricken glances at each other. Dire dismay reigns in their bosoms; while the unconscious Scot unlocks her trunks, and shakes out her gowns, and shows plainly, by her behavior, that she has come to sit down before the citadel and carry on a prolonged siege.

To tea she descends with a solemn step and slow, that Amy designates as a "thud." But yet at this first tea she gains a victory. Arthur, the second boy, who has been wicked enough to get measles at school, and who is now at home to recruit himself and be the terror of his family, is at this time kept rather on short commons by his mother because of his late illness. This means bread-and-butter without jam, – a meaning the lively Arthur rather resents. Seeing which, the Caledonian, opening her lips almost for the first time, gives it as her opinion that jam, taken moderately, is wholesome.

She goes even farther, and insinuates it may assist digestion, which so impresses Mrs. Redmond that Arthur forthwith finds himself at liberty to "tuck into" (his own expression) the raspberry jam without let or hindrance.

This marvellous behavior on the part of the bony Scot tells greatly in her favor, so far as the children go. They tell each other later on that she can't be altogether an unpleasant sort, Master Arthur being specially loud in her praise. He even goes so far as to insinuate that Miss Broughton would never have said as much; but this base innuendo is sneered down by the faithful children who have loved and lost her. Nevertheless, they accept their fate; and, after a week or two, the new-comer gains immense ground, and is finally pronounced by her pupils to be (as she herself would probably express it) "no' that bad." Thus, Miss McGregor becomes governess at the vicarage, vice Georgie Broughton promoted.