Duchess

“ Laying one arm round her, with his other hand he draws her head down on his breast.
"At least, before we go, you will kiss me once," he says, entreatingly. All the gayety—the gladness—has gone from his voice; only the deep and lasting love remains. He says this, too, hesitatingly, as though half afraid to demand so great a boon.
"Yes; I think I should like to kiss you," says Georgie, kindly; and then she raises herself from his embrace, and, standing on tiptoe, places both hands upon his shoulders, and with the utmost calmness lays her lips on his. ”

“ Miss Peyton is clearly not above praise. She laughs,—a delicious rippling little laugh,—and colors faintly.
"A compliment from you!" she says. "No wonder I blush. Am I really lovely, Jim, or only commonly pretty? I should hate to be commonly pretty." She lifts her brows disdainfully.
"You needn't hate yourself," says Scrope, calmly. "Lovely is the word for you."
"I'm rather glad," says Miss Peyton, with a sigh of relief. "If only for—Horace's sake!"
Sir James pitches his cigar over the balcony, and frowns. Always Horace! Can she not forget him for even one moment? ”

“ Clarissa, understanding, draws even closer to her. This gentle movement is enough. A heart, too full, breaks beneath affection's touch. Georgie bursts into tears.
"It was all on earth he had to give," she sobs, bitterly, "and I think he must have starved himself to leave me even that! Oh, shall I ever forget?"
"In time," whispers Clarissa, gently. "Be patient: wait." Then, with a sigh, "How sad for some this sweet world can be!"
"I gave my aunt forty pounds," goes on the fair-haired beauty, glad to find somebody in whom she can safely confide and to whom her troubles may be made known. ”

“ And beyond it is Gowran, where Clarissa lives with her father, George Peyton.
Clarissa is all that is charming. She is tall, slight, svelte: indeed, earth has not anything to show more fair. She is tender, too, and true, and very earnest,—perhaps a degree too earnest, too intense, for every-day life. Her eyes, "twin stars of beauty," are deep and gray; her hair is dark; her mouth, though somewhat large, is perfect; and her smile is indescribable, so sweet it is, so soft and lingering. ”

“ So, down the dark stairs he follows her, across the stone flooring, and into the hall outside, that seems so brilliant by contrast, and so like another world, all is so changed, so different. Behind, lie silence, unbroken, perfect, a sad and dreamy light, Old-World grandeur; here, all is restless life, full of uncertain sounds, and distant footsteps, and voices faint but positive.
"Is it not like a dream?" says Clarissa, stopping to point backwards to the turret they have just quitted.
"The past is always full of dreams," replies he, thoughtfully. ”

“ As for the vicar, he is—as Miss Georgie tells him, even without a blush—"simply adorable;" and the children are sweet good-natured little souls, true-hearted and earnest, to whom the loss of an empire would be as dross in comparison with the gain of a friend.
They are young!
To Dorian Branscombe, Miss Broughton is "a thing of beauty, and a joy forever; her loveliness increases" each moment, rendering her more dear. Perhaps he himself hardly knows how dear she is to his heart, though day after day he haunts the vicarage, persecuting the vicar with parochial business of an outside sort. ”

“ Scrope's strength of will gives way, and, metaphorically speaking, he lays himself at her feet.
"If I have been uncivil to you, forgive me," he says, taking her hand from his arm, and holding it closely in his own. "You do not know; you cannot understand; and I am glad you do not. Be happy! There is no substantial reason why you should not extract from life every sweet it can afford: you are young, the world is before you, and the love you desire is yours. Dry your eyes, Clarissa: your tears pierce my heart." ”

“ With a sigh she quits her beloved garden, and wanders still! farther abroad into the deep woods that "have put their glory on," and are dressed in tender russets, and sad greens, and fading tints, that meet and melt into each other.
The dry leaves are falling, and lie crackling under foot. The daylight is fading, softly, imperceptibly, but surely. There is yet a glow from the departing sunlight, that, sinking lazily beyond the distant hills, tinges with gold the browning earth that in her shroud of leaves is lying.
But death, or pain, or sorrow, has no part with Clarissa to-day. ”

“ 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. ”

“ He has grown very pale, and his nostrils are slightly dilated. She has grown very pale, too, and is shrinking from him. Her lips are white and trembling; her beautiful eyes are large and full of an undefined fear. The passion of his tone has carried her away with it, and has subdued within her all desire for mockery or mirth. Her whole face has changed its expression, and has become sad and appealing. This sudden touch of fear and entreaty makes her so sweet that Dorian's anger melts before it, and the great love of which it was part again takes the upper hand. ”

“ She pauses.
"Are you in trouble, dearest?" says Mrs. Branscombe, 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? ”

“ At this termination they both laugh.
Georgie seems to have forgotten her tears of a moment since, and her passionate burst of grief. Her lovely face is smiling, radiant; her lips are parted; her great blue eyes are shining. She is a warm impulsive little creature, as prone to tears as to laughter, and with a heart capable of knowing a love almost too deep for happiness, and as surely capable of feeling a hatred strong and lasting.
The traces of her late emotion are still wet upon her cheeks. Perhaps she knows it not, but, "like some dew-spangled flower, she shows more lovely in her tears." ”

“ Horace,—who came down from town for the ball, and is staying with Dorian,—sauntering leisurely into the smoking-room at Sartoris, finds Branscombe there, overlooking some fishing-tackle.
This room is a mingled and hopelessly entangled mass of guns, pipes, whips, spurs, fishing-rods, and sporting pictures; there are, too, a few other pictures that might not exactly come under this head, and a various and most remarkable collection of lounging-chairs.
There is a patriarchal sofa, born to create slumber; and an ancient arm-chair, stuffed with feathers and dreams of many sleepers. ”

“ I only entreat you to believe that no one, knowing you as I do, could possibly think anything of you but what is kind and good and true."
Branscombe draws his breath quickly. His pale face flushes; and a gleam, that is surely born of tears, shines in his eyes. Clarissa, who, up to this, has been talking to some of the children, comes up to him at this moment and slips her hand through his arm. Is he not almost her brother?
Only his wife stands apart, and, with white lips and dry eyes and a most miserable heart, watches him without caring—or daring—to go near to him. ”

“ She has her wish: such another moonlight night as comes to Pullingham on the night of Miss Peyton's ball has been rarely, if ever, seen. It breaks over the whole place in a flood of light so whitely brilliant that the very sleeping flowers lift up their heads, as though believing the soft mystic light to be the early birth of morn.
All around is calm and drowsy sweet. The stars come forth to light the world, and, perhaps, to do homage to Clarissa on this the night of her first ball. ”

“ In an upper chamber, through the closed blinds of which the sun is vainly striving to enter, Reginald Branscombe, fifth Earl of Sartoris, lies dead. The sheet is reverently drawn across the motionless limbs; the once restless, now quiet, face is hidden; all around is wrapt in solemn unutterable silence,—the silence that belongs to death alone!
A sense of oppressive calm is upon everything,—a feeling of loneliness, vague and shadowy. The clock has ticked its last an hour ago, and now stands useless in its place. The world without moves on unheeding; the world within knows time no more! ”

“ As she hears him coming, she starts to her feet, and, turning aside, hastily dries the tears upon her cheeks, lest he shall mark her agitation.
"What is the matter with you?" asks he, with quick but suppressed concern.
"Nothing," returns she, in a low tone.
"You can't be crying for nothing," says Dorian; "and even your very voice is full of tears! Are you unhappy about anything?"
"What a question to ask me!" says Mrs. Branscombe, reproachfully, with a fresh irrepressible sob, that goes to his heart. He shifts his gun uneasily from one shoulder to the other, hardly knowing what to say. ”

“ 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. ”

“ You are positively fat."
"That's how it always shows with me," says Kennedy, unblushingly. "Whenever green and yellow melancholy marks me for its own, I sit on a monument (they always keep one for me at home) and smile incessantly at grief, and get as fat as possible. It is a refinement of cruelty, you know, as superfluous flesh is not a thing to be hankered after."
"How you must have fretted," says Mrs. Branscombe, demurely, glancing from under her long lashes at his figure, which has certainly gained both in size and in weight since their last meeting.
At this they both laugh. ”

“ In the terrible lonely dawn she had passed away, with no one near to hold her dying hand, without a sigh or moan, leaving no farewell word of love or forgiveness to the man who is now straining her lifeless body to his heart, as though to make one last final effort to bring her back to earth.
There is a happy smile upon her lips, her eyes are quite closed, almost she seems as one that sleepeth. The awful majesty of death is upon her, and no voice of earth, however anguished and imploring, can reach her ice-bound heart. ”