Faith and Unfaith: A Novel. Duchess
that embraces a full minute, and then she speaks again. "You have not yet told me the reason of your return," she says, gently.
"I wearied of town," replies he. "A strange acknowledgment for one like me, but true. For once, I honestly pined for the country – insipid as I have always deemed it – and craved unceasingly for something fresh, new, innocent, something unused to gas, and the glare and unholy glitter of a city."
He speaks bitterly – almost passionately – and as though for the moment he has altogether forgotten the existence of his companion. An instant later, however, he recovers himself.
"I felt I should be happier, more fitted to cope with my work, if I could get even one glimpse of you!"
"Are you not happy, then?" asks she, gently, her heart beating fast, her color growing and lessening rapidly.
"Happy? no. Can a man be happy while a perpetual doubt distracts him? Can he know even the meaning of the word Peace, whilst devoured with a fear that he shall never possess the one great good he desires?"
Again, his thoughts appear to wander; and some passion, not born of the present moment, but borrowed from some other hour, fills his tone.
"Yes," says Clarissa, nervously, questioningly, feeling poor in words, now that the great crisis of her life has come.
"So I am here," he goes on, softly, "to solve my doubt, to gain at least a rest from the gnawing suspense that for so long I have endured. Need I tell you that I love you? – that" (he pauses, and a faint contraction of the features, that dies almost as it is born, disfigures his face for a second) – "that you are the one woman in all the world upon whom I have set my heart?"
There is silence. For Clarissa, an intense joy holds her mute; the very intensity of her happiness checks the flow of speech. He, too, seems lost in thought. Presently, however, he breaks the silence, and this time a faint anxiety may be discernible in his voice, though his face is calm and composed, as usual.
"You do not speak, Clarissa. I have told you of my love, and you are silent. I now ask if you can love me? At least, give me an answer. Dearest," – glancing at her averted face, and seeing the shy blush that adds another charm to its beauty, – "tell me the truth."
"I can; I do love you!" says Clarissa, sweetly, and with perfect trust. She slips her hand into his. Raising his hat, he lifts the slender fingers to his lips, and kisses them; and, then, together – still hand in hand – they walk along, speechless, yet seemingly content.
The road is dusty; and a few drops of rain fall, like mild blessings, into its parched furrows. The roadside flowers, drooping and languid, fling their rich perfume, with lavish generosity, upon the motionless air. Some sheep, in a far-off meadow, bleat mournfully, and answer back the echo that mocks their lament.
"You have made me happier than I ever hoped to be; but you have not yet said you will marry me." The words come from Horace, but sound curiously far away, the very stillness and sadness of the evening rendering them more distant. Clarissa, glancing at him, can see he is white as Death.
"How pale he is!" she thinks, and then makes herself happy in the belief that he is terribly in earnest about this matter, and that his love for her is infinite.
"Yes, I shall marry you," she says, with tender seriousness. To her, this promise is a solemn bond, that nothing but death or falsehood can cancel.
"When?"
"Oh, Horace, I cannot answer that question so readily. There are so many things. Papa must be told; and James Scrope; and you must tell Dorian and your uncle."
"All that would hardly take half an hour."
"Perhaps; but there are other reasons for delay, more than I can tell you just now. And, besides, it is all so new, so strange." She smiles, as though she would willingly have added the words, "so sweet;" and a little happy far-away look creeps into and illumines her eyes. "Why are you so impatient?"
"Impatient!" returns he, a touch of vehemence in his tone. "Of course I am impatient. The sooner it is all got over the better." He checks himself, draws his breath somewhat quickly, and goes on in a calmer fashion: "What sort of a lover should I be, if I showed no anxiety to claim you as soon as possible? You should be the last to blame me for undue haste in this matter. When shall it be, then? – In one month? two? three?" He speaks again, almost excitedly.
"Oh, no, no," gently, but shrinking from him a little. "That would be impossible. Why, think! – it is only this moment you have told me you love me, and now you would have me name our wedding-day!"
"Not exactly that. But tell me some definite time, near at hand, to which I can be looking forward. Everything rests with you now, remember that." His last words convey an unconscious warning, but Clarissa neither heeds or understands it.
"Papa will miss me so terribly," she says, dreamily; "it seems selfish, almost as though I were wilfully deserting him. I should, at least, like another Christmas at home with him. And see," – turning to him, with gentle earnestness, – "are we not quite happy as we now are, loving and trusting in each other? Why, then, should we not continue this present happiness for another year? You are silent, Horace! You do not answer! Are you angry with me?" She lays her hand lightly on his arm.
"No; not angry." His eyes are on the ground; and he takes no notice of the tender pressure on his arm. "But a year is a long time to wait! So many things may happen in twelve months; and deeds once done, forever leave their mark."
"Do not speak like that, it is as though you would foretell evil," says Clarissa, a faint feeling of superstitious horror making her nervous.
Branscombe, raising his head, regards her curiously.
"Why should there be evil to foretell?" he says, slowly. "And yet, Clarissa, I would ask you always to remember this hour, and the fact that it was you, not I, who wished the postponement of our marriage. If it must be as you say, it will be better to keep our engagement as quiet as possible; perfectly secret will indeed be best."
"Yes; if you wish it. That will please me, too. Only papa need know of it, and – James Scrope."
"And why Sir James?" with a scrutinizing gaze.
"Why?" – with some surprise. "Well, I suppose because papa and I never do anything important without telling him of it. He is quite our oldest friend. We should hardly get on now without Jim."
"Not so old, either. I hope, by and by, you will be able to manage without Sir James as a father-confessor."
"By and by I shall have you," says Clarissa, sweetly, with a smile and a soft blush.
"True! I wonder if you will find that sufficient? I doubt I'm half such a good fellow, Clarissa, as you believe me."
In which he comes nearer the truth than he ever came before.
"You are good enough for me," says Clarissa, with fond conviction. "Will you come with me as far as the vicarage? I must go there to-day, and the walk is such a pretty one, and," – with a little happy laugh, – "now you are quite my own property, I think I should like to make use of you. Look! there is Ruth Annersley standing at her gate. Good-morning, Ruth! What a charming day, is it not? after all yesterday's rain!"
Ruth – who, the moment before, had made a faint movement as though she would willingly have stepped behind the huge rose-bush nearest to her and so have escaped observation – comes slowly forward. She is pale; but the intense heat of the day makes itself felt by all, and has deprived even Miss Peyton's cheeks of some of their usual warmth. She accepts Clarissa's proffered hand, and smiles a faint welcome. But when Horace would, too, have shaken hands with her, she declines to see his meaning, and, bowing slightly, turns aside to listen to his companion's words.
"Were you raking your walks?" asks Clarissa, idly, leaning on the gate, and gazing down the trim-gravelled path that leads to the ivy-clad cottage beyond. "Nobody's walks are ever as clean as yours, I think. And your roses are something too delicious, far better than our out-door flowers at Gowran. And so late in the season, too!"
"May I give you one?" says Ruth, dimpling prettily at her praise.
"Thank you. How sweet they are! No, no,