Not until he has almost reached Sartoris once more does that sudden calm fall upon him that, as a rule, follows hard upon all our gusts of passion. The late interview has hurt him more than he cares to confess even to himself. His regard—nay, his affection—for Sartoris is deep and sincere; and, though wounded now, and estranged from him, because of his determination to believe the worst of him, still it remains hidden in his heart, and is strong enough to gall and torture him after such scenes as he has just gone through.
Hitherto his life has been unclouded,—has been all sunshine and happy summer and glad with laughter. Now a dark veil hangs over it, threatening to deaden all things and dim the brightness of his "golden hours."
"He who hath most of heart knows most of sorrow." To Dorian, to be wroth with those he loves is, indeed, a sort of madness that affects his heart, if not his brain.
He frowns as he strides discontentedly onward through the fast-falling night: and then all at once a thought comes to him—a fair vision seems to rise almost in his path—that calms him and dulls all resentful memories. It is Georgie,—his love, his darling! She, at least, will be true to him. He will teach her so to love him that no light winds of scandal shall have power to shake her faith. Surely a heart filled with dreams of her should harbor no miserable thoughts. He smiles again; his steps grow lighter! he is once more the Dorian of old; he will—he must—be, of necessity, utterly happy with her beside him during all the life that is to come.
Alas that human hopes should prove so often vain!
CHAPTER XXVII.
"Tis now the summer of your youth; time has not cropt the roses from your cheek, though sorrow long has washed them."—The Gamester.
The wedding—a very private one—goes off charmingly. The day breaks calm, smilingly, rich with beauty. "Lovely are the opening eyelids of the morn."
Georgie, in her wedding garments, looking like some pale white lily, is indeed "passing fair." She is almost too pallid, but the very pallor adds to the extreme purity and childishness of her beauty, and makes the gazer confident "there's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple." Dorian, tall and handsome, and unmistakably content, seems a very fit guardian for so fragile a flower.