Part 9 (1/2)
A little later, having dressed herself, she starts upon her errand, ready to take the vicarage by storm.
CHAPTER VIII.
”'Tis love, love, love, that makes the world go round.”
The hot September sun beats fiercely on her as she walks along; the day is full of languor and sweet peace. The summer is almost done, and is dying, rich in beauty, and warm with the ripeness of strength perfected. From out the thickets, little birds, that three months agone scarce knew the power of breath, now warble soft melodies, that thrill the air with joy. Clarissa, glad, and full of purpose, feels her heart at one with these tiny, heaven-taught musicians, as she follows the path beneath the leafy trees that leads to the vicarage.
As she deserts the tinted wood, and gains the road that runs by the old mill, she finds herself face to face with Horace Brans...o...b.., coming towards her in a somewhat laggard fas.h.i.+on. His brow is darkened by a frown: his whole expression is moody and oppressed with discontent.
As he sees Clarissa, his features--as though compelled by a powerful will--undergo a complete change, and he smiles, and comes forward with outstretched hand to greet her.
”Horace! you here again, and so soon?” she says, quickly. Surprise lends haste to her tongue. She has believed him in London; and now to see him thus unexpectedly, and without the usual friendly warning conveyed by letter, causes her not only pleasure, but a vague uneasiness.
”Does it seem 'so soon' to you?” replies he, in a carefully inspired tone. ”To me the last two months have appeared almost a year, so heavily have dragged the days spent away from Pullingham.”
It is a very stereotyped little sentence, old and world-worn, and smacking faintly of insincerity; but when a woman loves a man she rarely measures his words.
”I seem rude,” says Clarissa, with a soft smile. ”But you will understand me. And you know you told me you did not intend to return before Christmas.”
”Yes, I know.” He is silent for a little while, and then, rousing himself, as though by an effort, says, slowly,--
”Did you miss me?”
”I always miss you,” returns she, simply: ”you know that.” She flushes warmly, and lets her long lashes fall leisurely, until at length they hide from view the sweet confession of her eyes. There is a pause 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 pa.s.sionately--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 pa.s.sion, 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.