CHAPTER XXXIV.
"Our doubts are traitors,
And make us lose the good we oft might win."—Shakespeare.
"The day goeth down red darkling,
The moaning waves dash out the light,
And there is not a star of hope sparkling
On the threshold of my night."—Gerald Massey.
The morning after her unfortunate visit to town, Clarissa sends to Mrs. Branscombe, asking her to come to her without delay. The secret that is in her heart weighs heavily, and Georgie must be told. Yet, now, when the door opens, and Georgie stands before her, she is dumb, and cold, and almost without power to move.
"What is it?" says Mrs. Branscombe, suddenly. The sad little smile that of late has been peculiar to her fades at sight of Clarissa's grief-stricken face. She advances, and lays a hand upon her arm. "You look positively ill, Clarissa: something dreadful has happened. I can see it in your eyes. It is bad news. Dorian,—he is not——"
She puts her hand to her throat, and leans on a chair.
"It is no bad news for you," says Clarissa, faintly, "but for me." 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?