Faith and Unfaith: A Novel. Duchess

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      "What is it, Clarissa?" he asks, hastily, though he is far from suspecting the truth. Some faint thought of James Scrope (why he knows not) comes to him at this moment, and not unpleasingly. "Tell me, darling. Anything that concerns you must, of necessity, concern me also."

      "Yes, I am glad I know that," she says, speaking with some difficulty, but very earnestly. "To-day I met Horace Branscombe."

      "Yes?" His face changes a little, from vague expectancy to distinct disappointment; but then she cannot see his face.

      "And he asked me to be his wife – and – I said, Yes – if – if it pleases you, papa."

      It is over. The dreaded announcement is made. The words that have cost her so much to utter have gone out into the air; and yet there is no answer!

      For a full minute silence reigns, and then Clarissa lays her hand imploringly upon her father's shoulder. He is looking straight before him, his expression troubled and grave, his mouth compressed.

      "Speak to me," says Clarissa, entreatingly.

      After this he does speak.

      "I wish it had been Dorian," he says, impulsively.

      Then she takes her hand from his shoulder, as though it can no longer rest there in comfort, and her eyes fill with disappointed tears.

      "Why do you say that?" she asks, with some vehemence. "It sounds as if – as if you undervalued Horace! Yet what reason have you for doing so? What do you know against him?"

      "Nothing, literally nothing," answers Mr. Peyton, soothingly, yet with a plaintive ring in his voice that might suggest the idea of his being sorry that such answer must be made. "I am sure Horace is very much to be liked."

      "How you say that!" – reproachfully. "It sounds untrue! Yet it can't be. What could any one say against Horace?"

      "My dear, I said nothing."

      "No, but you insinuated it. You said Dorian was his superior."

      "Well, I think he is the better man of the two," said Mr. Peyton, desperately, hardly knowing what to say, and feeling sorely aggrieved in that he is compelled to say what must hurt her.

      "I cannot understand you; you said you know nothing prejudicial to Horace (it is impossible you should), and yet you think Dorian the better man. If he has done no wrong, why should any one be a better man? Why draw the comparison at all? For the first time in all your life, you are unjust."

      "No, Clarissa, I am not. At least, I think not. Injustice is a vile thing. But, somehow, Sartoris and I had both made up our minds that you would marry Dorian, and – "

      He pauses.

      "Then your only objection to poor Horace is that he is not Dorian?" asks she, anxiously, letting her hand once more rest upon his shoulder.

      "Well, no doubt there is a great deal in that," returns he, evasively, hard put to it to answer his inquisitor with discretion.

      "And if Dorian had never been, Horace would be the one person in all the world you would desire for me?" pursues she, earnestly.

      George Peyton makes no reply to this, – perhaps because he has not one ready. Clarissa, stepping back, draws her breath a little quickly, and a dark fire kindles in her eyes. In her eyes, too, large tears rise and shine.

      "It is because he is poor," she says, in a low tone, that has some contempt in it, and some passionate disappointment.

      "Do not mistake me," says her father, speaking hastily, but with dignity. Rising, he pushes back his chair, and turning, faces her in the gathering twilight. "Were he the poorest man alive, and you loved him, and he was worthy of you, I would give you to him without a murmur. Not that" – hurriedly – "I consider Horace unworthy of you, but the idea is new, strange, and – the other day, Clarissa, you were a child."

      "I am your child still, – always." She is sitting on his knee now, with her arms round his neck, and her cheek against his; and he is holding her svelte lissome figure very closely to him. She is the one thing he has to love on earth; and just now she seems unspeakably – almost painfully – dear to him.

      "Always, my dear," he reiterates, somewhat unsteadily.

      "You have seen so little of Horace lately," she goes on, presently, trying to find some comfortable reason for what seems to her her father's extraordinary blindness to her lover's virtues. "When you see a great deal of him, you will love him! As it is, darling, do —do say you like him very much, or you will break my heart!"

      "I like him very much," replies he, obediently, repeating his lesson methodically, while feeling all the time that he is being compelled to say something against his will, without exactly knowing why he should feel so.

      "And you are quite pleased that I am going to marry him?" reading his face with her clear eyes; she is very pale, and strangely nervous.

      "My darling, my one thought is for your happiness." There is evasion mixed with the affection in this speech; and Clarissa notices it.

      "No: say you are glad I am going to marry him," she says, remorselessly.

      "How can you expect me to say that," exclaims he, mournfully, "when you know your wedding-day must part us?"

      "Indeed it never shall!" cries she, vehemently; and then, overcome by the emotion of the past hour, and indeed of the whole day, she gives way and bursts into tears. "Papa, how can you say that? To be parted from you! We must be the same to each other always: my wedding-day would be a miserable one indeed if it separated me from you."

      Then he comforts her, fondly caressing the pretty brown head that lies upon his heart, as it had lain in past years, when the slender girl of to-day was a little lisping motherless child. He calls her by all the endearing names he had used to her then, until her sobs cease, and only a sigh, now and again, tells of the storm just past.

      "When is it to be?" he asks her, after a little while. "Not too soon, my pet, I hope?"

      "Not for a whole year. He said something about November, but I could not leave you in such a hurry. We must have one more Christmas all to ourselves."

      "You thought of that," he says, tenderly. "Oh, Clarissa, I hope this thing is for your good. Think of it seriously, earnestly, while you have time. Do not rush blindly into a compact that must be binding on you all your life."

      "I hope it will be for all my life," returns she, gravely. "To be parted from Horace would be the worst thing that could befall me. Always remember that, papa. I am bound to him with all my heart and soul."

      "So be it!" says George Peyton, solemnly. A sigh escapes him.

      For some time neither speaks. The twilight is giving place to deeper gloom, the night is fast approaching, yet they do not stir. What the girl's thoughts may be at this moment, who can say? As for her father, he is motionless, except that his lips move, though no sound comes from them. He is secretly praying, perhaps, for the welfare of his only child, to her mother in heaven, who at this time must surely be looking down upon her with tenderest solicitude. Clarissa puts her lips softly to his cheek.

      "Our engagement will be such a long one, that we think – "

      "Yes?"

      "We СКАЧАТЬ