Part 44 (1/2)
”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 fas.h.i.+on, 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 courts.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+ne through their unwonted moisture
”Tears are trembling in her blue eyes, Like drops that linger on the violet,”
and Dorian, with a sudden pa.s.sionate movement, takes her in his arms and presses her head down upon his breast.
”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 pa.s.sion. ”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--