Part 58 (2/2)
”Alone!” How sadly the word had fallen from his lips! How stern his face had been, how broken and miserable his voice! Some terrible grief was tearing at his heart, and there was no one to comfort or love him, or----
She gets up from her chair, and paces the room impatiently, as though inaction had ceased to be possible to her. An intense craving to see him again fills her soul. She must go to him, if only to know what he has been doing since last she left him. Acting on impulse, she goes quickly down the stairs, and across the hall to the library, and enters with a beating heart.
All is dark and dreary enough to chill any expectant mind. The fire, though warm and glowing still, has burned to a dull red, and no bright flames flash up to illumine the gloom. Blinded by the sudden change from light to darkness, she goes forward nervously until she reaches the hearth-rug: then she discovers that Dorian is no longer there.
CHAPTER x.x.xII.
”Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows; And when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain.”--DRAYTON.
Not until Mrs. Brans...o...b.. has dismissed her maid for the night does she discover that the plain gold locket in which she had placed Dorian's picture is missing. She had (why, she hardly cares to explain even to herself) hung it round her neck; and now, where is it?
After carefully searching her memory for a few moments, she remembers that useless visit to the library before dinner, and tells herself she must have dropped it then. She will go and find it. Slipping into a pale-blue dressing-gown, that serves to make softer and more adorable her tender face and golden hair, she thrusts her feet into slippers of the same hue, and runs down-stairs for the third time to-day, to the library.
Opening the door, the brilliant light of many lamps greets her, and, standing by the fire is her husband, pale and haggard, with the missing locket in his hand. He has opened it, and is gazing at his own face with a strange expression.
”Is this yours?” he asks, as she comes up to him. ”Did you come to look for it?”
”Yes.” She holds out her hand to receive it from him, but he shows some hesitation about giving it.
”Let me advise you to take this out of it,” he says, coldly, pointing to his picture. ”Its being here must render the locket valueless. What induced you to give it such a place?”
”It was one of my many mistakes,” returns she, calmly, making a movement as though to leave him; ”and you are right. The locket is, I think, distasteful to me. I don't want it any more: you can keep it.”
”I don't want it, either,” returns he, hastily; and then, with a gesture full of pa.s.sion, he flings it deliberately into the very heart of the glowing fire. There it melts, and grows black, and presently sinks, with a crimson coal, utterly out of sight.
”The best place for it,” says he, bitterly. ”I wish I could as easily be obliterated and forgotten.”
Is it forgotten? She says nothing, makes no effort to save the fated case that holds his features, but, with hands tightly clenched, watches its ruin. Her eyes are full of tears, but she feels benumbed, spiritless, without power to shed them.
Once more she makes a movement to leave him.
”Stay,” he says, gently; ”I have a few things to say to you, that may as well be got over now. Come nearer to the fire: you must be cold.”
She comes nearer, and, standing on the hearth-rug, waits for him to speak. As she does so, a sharp cough, rising to her throat, distresses her sufficiently to bring some quick color into her white cheeks.
Though in itself of little importance, this cough has now annoyed her for at least a fortnight, and shakes her slight frame with its vehemence.
”Your cough is worse to-night,” he says, turning to regard her more closely.
”No, not worse.”
”Why do you walk about the house so insufficiently clothed?” asks he, angrily, glancing at her light dressing-gown with great disfavor.
”One would think you were seeking ill health. Here, put this round you.” He tries to place upon her shoulders the cashmere shawl she had worn when coming in from the garden in the earlier part of the evening. But she shrinks from him.
”No, no,” she says, petulantly; ”I am warm enough; and I do not like that thing. It is black,--the color of Death!”
Her words smite cold upon his heart. A terrible fear gains mastery over him. Death! What can it have to do with one so fair, so young, yet, alas! so frail?
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