How she makes her way down to the room where Sir James sits awaiting her, Clarissa never afterwards remembers.
"It is all over: take me away!" she says, quietly, but somewhat incoherently.
"He isn"t dead?" says Sir James, who naturally conceives the worst from her agitation.
"No: it is even worse," she says. And then she covers her face with her hands, and sinks into a chair. "Ruth Annersley is here!" When she has said this, she feels that life has almost come to an end. How shall she make this wretched revelation to her father, to Georgie, to all the rest of the world?
As for Sir James, he stands at some distance from her, literally stunned by the news. Words seem to fail him. He goes up to her and takes one of her small icy-cold hands in his.
"Did you see her?"
"Yes."
"The scoundrel!" says Sir James, in a low tone. Then, "Is he very ill?" There is unmistakable meaning in his tone.
"Very." And here she falls to bitter weeping again.
It is a cruel moment: Sir James still holds her hand, but can find no words to say to comfort her; indeed, where can comfort lie?
At this instant a heavy footfall resounds along the pa.s.sage outside.
It warns them of the sylph-like approach of Mrs. Goodbody. Sir James going quickly to the door, intercepts her.
"My--my sister is quite upset," he says, nervously. "Mr. Brans...o...b.. was--was worse than she expected to find him."
"Upset!--and no wonder, too," says Mrs. Goodbody, with heavy sympathy, gazing approvingly at Miss Peyton. "There"s no denying that he"s so worn out, the pore dear, as it"s quite dispiritin" to see "im, what with his general appearings and the fear of a bad turn at any mingit.
For myself, I take my meals quite promiscuous like, since he fell ill,--just a bit here and a bit there, it may be, but nothing reg"lar like. I ain"t got the "art. Howsoever, "hope on, hope never," is my motter, miss; and we must allus hope for the best, as the sayin" is."
"Just so," says Sir James, who doesn"t know, in the very least, what to say.
"A good wife, sir, I allus say, is half the battle; and that lady up-stairs, she is a reg"lar trump, she is, and so devoted, as it"s quite affectin" to witness. Good-mornin" sir--thank you, sir. I"ll see to him, you be bound; and, with his good lady above, there ain"t the smallest----"
Sir James, opening the hall door in despair, literally pushes Clarissa out and into the cab that is awaiting them. For a long time she says nothing; and just as he is beginning to get really anxious at her determined silence, she says, with some difficulty,--
"Jim, promise me something?"
"Anything," says Jim.
"Then never again allude to this day, or to anything connected with it; and never again mention--his--name to me, unless I first speak to you."
"Never!" returns he, fervently. "Be sure of it."
"Thank you," she says, like a tired child; and then, sinking back in her corner of the cab, she cries long and bitterly.
CHAPTER x.x.xIV.
"Our doubts are traitors, And make us lose the good we oft might win."--SHAKESPEARE.
"The day goeth down red darkling, The moaning waves dash out the light, And there is not a star of hope sparkling On the threshold of my night."--GERALD Ma.s.sEY.
The morning after her unfortunate visit to town, Clarissa sends to Mrs. Brans...o...b.., asking her to come to her without delay. The secret that is in her heart weighs heavily, and Georgie must be told. Yet, now, when the door opens, and Georgie stands before her, she is dumb, and cold, and almost without power to move.
"What is it?" says Mrs. Brans...o...b.., suddenly. The sad little smile that of late has been peculiar to her fades at sight of Clarissa"s grief-stricken face. She advances, and lays a hand upon her arm. "You look positively ill, Clarissa: something dreadful has happened. I can see it in your eyes. It is bad news. Dorian,--he is not----"
She puts her hand to her throat, and leans on a chair.
"It is no bad news for you," says Clarissa, faintly, "but for me." She pauses.
"Are you in trouble, dearest?" says Mrs. Brans...o...b.., sadly. "I thought you the happiest girl alive. Is there nothing but misery in this wretched world?"
"I was in town yesterday," Clarissa begins, with an effort, and then stops. How is she to betray her lover"s falseness?
"And you saw Horace, and he is ill?" says Georgie, anxiously. "Tell me all, Clarissa."
"It is so hard to tell," says poor Clarissa; and then she turns her face to the wall, and wishes honestly that all things for her might now be at an end:
"Love, art thou bitter?
Sweet is death to me."
At this moment she could have gladly welcomed death.
"There are many things," she says, "but this worst of all. He does not love me; he has never loved me. And there is some one else; and----"
"Who is it?" asks Georgie, breathlessly, though the truth as yet is far from her.
"Ruth Annersley! She was there,--in his rooms!" says Clarissa; and, after this, there is a silence that lasts for several minutes.
The unhappy truth is told. Clarissa, shamed and heartbroken, moves away, that her companion may not see her face. As for Mrs. Brans...o...b.., at first intense wonder renders her motionless; and then, as the exact meaning of this terrible story breaks in upon her, a great and glorious gleam of unmistakable rapture lights all her face, and, sinking upon a _prie-Dieu_ near her, she presses her hands tightly together. That Dorian is exonerated, is her first thought; that he will never forgive her, is her second; and this drives all the blood from her cheeks, and the gladness from her heart, and brings her back again to the emptiness and barrenness that have made life a wilderness to her for so many months.
Going over to Clarissa, she lays her arms gently round her neck. There seems to be a new bond, born of grief, between them now.
"Do not pity me," says Clarissa, entreatingly.
"Pity you? no! There is no occasion for it. You are fortunate in having escaped such a fate as was in store for you. In time you will forget all this, and be happy in some other way."
"Shall I?" says Clarissa, drearily. "But, in the mean time, what shall I do? How shall I fill the blank here?" She lays her hand upon her heart.
"He is a wretch," says Georgie, with sudden fire. "If I were a man, I should kill him."
"You should rather be thankful to him," says Clarissa, with some bitterness. "My misery has proved your joy. The shadow has been raised from Dorian."
"Clarissa, if you speak to me like that you will break my heart," says Georgie, deeply grieved. "How could I know joy when you are unhappy?
And--and, besides, there is no joy for me anywhere. Dorian will never forgive me. How could he? I, his wife, was the one who most heartily condemned him and believed in his guilt."
"When you see him, all will be well. But he should be told; you will see to that."