CHAPTER XXXVI.
"Have mind that eild aye follows youth;
Death follows life with gaping mouth;
Sen erdly joy abidis never,
Work for the joy that lastis ever;
For other joy is all but vain,
And erdly joy returns in pain."—W. Dunbar.
Something within her knows he will return. Yet all the next day long she sits in terrible suspense, not being certain of the end. Towards noon he comes, sullen, disdainful, and dark with depression.
He sinks into a chair, looking tired and careworn.
"You have over-fatigued yourself?" she says, gently, going over to him and touching his hand lightly.
"No. I have been to Pullingham again and back; that is all."
"There again?" she says. "And you saw——?"
"Only Dorian. Don't trouble yourself about Clarissa," he says, with an unpleasant laugh: "that game is played out. No, Dorian, alone, I went to see." He shades his face with his hand, and then goes on: "There are few like him in the world. In spite of all that has come and gone, he received me kindly, and has given me what will enable me to commence life afresh in a foreign land." There is remorse and deep admiration in his tone.
But Ruth makes no reply: she cannot. Those last words, "a foreign land," have struck like a dying knell upon her heart. She watches him in despairing silence, as he walks restlessly up and down the room in the uncertain twilight.