"You going to trust yourself alone in our great Babylon?" he says, raising his brows. "Why, the world must be coming to an end. What business had you there that I could not have managed for you?"

"My business was with you."

"Anything wrong?" says the young man, impatiently, tapping a table lightly with his fingers, and frowning somewhat heavily. "Your tone implies as much. Has anything happened in my absence to cause you annoyance? If so, let me know at once, and spare me any beating about the bush. Suspense is unpleasant."

"It is," says Sartoris, rising from his chair, and moving a few steps nearer to him. "It is slowly murdering poor old John Annersley!"

"I am still hopelessly in the dark," says Dorian, shrugging his shoulders. "What has suspense got to do with old Annersley?"

"Are you really ignorant of all that has occurred? Have you not heard of Ruth's mysterious disappearance?"

"'Ruth's disappearance?' I have heard nothing. Why, where can she have gone?"

"That is exactly what no one knows, except she herself, of course, and--one other." Then, turning impulsively to face his nephew, "I thought you could have told me where she is," he says, without giving himself time to think of all the words may convey to Dorian.

"What do you mean?" demands Brans...o...b.., throwing up his head, and flushing darkly. His eyes flash, his nostrils dilate. "Am I to infer from your last remark that you suspect _me_ of having something to do with her disappearance?"

"I do," returns Sartoris, slowly, but with his eyes upon the ground.

"How can I do otherwise when I call to mind all the causes you have given me to doubt you? Have you forgotten that day, now some months ago, when I met you and that unhappy girl together on the road to the village? I, at least, shall never forget the white misery of her face, and the unmistakable confusion in her manner, as I greeted her. Even then the truth began to dawn upon me."

"The truth?" says Brans...o...b.., with a short and bitter laugh.

"At that time I was unwilling to harbor unkind doubts of you in my breast," goes on Sartoris, unmoved, nay, rather confirmed in his suspicions by Brans...o...b..'s sneer; "but then came the night of the Hunt ball, when I met you, alone with her, in the most secluded part of the grounds, and when you were unable to give me any reasonable explanation of her presence there; and then, a little later, I find a handkerchief (which you yourself acknowledge having given her) lying on your library floor; about that, too, you were dumb: no excuse was ready to your lips. By your own actions I judge you."

"Your suspicions make you unjust, my lord," says the young man, haughtily. "They overrule your better judgment. Are such paltry evidences as you have just put forward sufficient to condemn me, or have you further proofs?"

"I have,--a still stronger one than any other I have mentioned. The last place in which Ruth Annersley was seen in this neighborhood was in Hurston Wood, at eight o'clock on the evening of her departure, and--you were with her!"

"_I_ was?"

"The man who saw you will swear to this."

"He must be rather a clever fellow. I congratulate you on your 'man.'"

"Do you deny it?" There is something that is almost hope in his tone.

"If not there last Tuesday, at that hour, where were you?"

"Well, really, it would take me all my time to remember. Probably dining: got to my fish by that time, no doubt. Later on I was at Lady Chetwoode's crush; but that"--with a sarcastic laugh--"is a very safe thing to say, is it not? One can hardly prove the presence of any one at a gathering together of the clans, such as there was at her 'at home.' I _wouldn't_ believe I was there, if I were you."

He laughs again. Sartoris flushes hotly all over his lean earnest face.

"It is needless lying," he says, slowly. "The very coat you wore--a light overcoat,--probably" (pointing to it) "the one you are now wearing--was accurately described." Dorian starts visibly. "Do you still hope to brave it out?"

"A coat like this, do you say?" asks Brans...o...b.., with a nervous attempt at unconcern, laying his hand upon his sleeve.

"A light overcoat. Such was the description. But" (with a longing that is terribly pathetic) "many overcoats are alike. And--and I dare say you have not worn that one for months."

"Yes, I have. I wear it incessantly: I have taken rather a fancy to it," replies Brans...o...b.., in an uncompromising tone. "My persistent admiration for it has driven my tailor to despair. I very seldom (except, perhaps, at midnight revels or afternoon bores) appear in public without it."

"Then you deny nothing?"

"Nothing!"--contemptuously, making a movement as though to depart.

"Why should I? If, after all these years that you have known me, you can imagine me capable of evil such as you describe so graphically, it would give me no pleasure to vindicate myself in your eyes. Think of me as you will: I shall take no steps to justify myself."

"You dare not!" says Sartoris, in a stifled tone, confronting him fully for the first time.

"That is just as you please to think," says Brans...o...b.., turning upon him with flashing eyes. He frowns heavily, and, with a little gesture common to him, raises his hand and pushes the end of his fair moustache between his teeth. Then, with a sudden effort, he controls himself, and goes on more quietly: "I shall always feel regret in that you found it so easy a matter to believe me guilty of so monstrous a deed. I think we can have nothing further to say to each other, either now or in the future. I wish you good-evening."

Sartoris, standing with his back almost turned to his nephew, takes no heed of this angry farewell; and Dorian, going out, closes the door calmly behind him.

Pa.s.sing through the Long Hall, as it has been called from time immemorial, he encounters Simon Gale, the old butler, and stops to speak to him, kindly, as is his wont, though in truth his heart is sore.

"Ah, Simon! How warm the weather grows!" he says, genially brushing his short hair back from his forehead. The attempt is praiseworthy, as really there is no hair to speak of, his barber having provided against that. He speaks kindly, carelessly--if a little wearily. His pulses are throbbing, and his heart beating hotly with pa.s.sionate indignation and disappointment.

"Very warm, sir," returns the old man, regarding him wistfully. He is not thinking of the weather, either of its heat or cold. He is only wondering, with a foreboding sadness, whether the man before him--who has been to him as the apple of his eye--is guilty or not of the crime imputed to him. With an effort he recovers himself, and asks, hastily, though almost without purpose, "Have you seen my lord?"

"Yes; I have only just left him."

"You will stay to dinner, Mr. Dorian?" He has been "Mr. Dorian" to him for so many years that now the more formal Mr. Brans...o...b.. is impossible.

"Not to-night. Some other time when my uncle--" He pauses.

"You think him looking well?" asks the old man, anxiously, mistaking his hesitation.

"Well! Oh, that doesn't describe him," says Brans...o...b.., with a shrug, and a somewhat ironical laugh. "He struck me as being unusually lively,--in fact, 'strong as Boreas on the main.' I thought him very well indeed."

"Ay, he is so! A G.o.dly youth brings a peaceful age; and his was that.

He has lived a good life, and now is reaping his reward."

"Is he?" says Dorian, with a badly-suppressed yawn. "Of course I was mistaken, but really it occurred to me that he was in an abominable temper. Is a desire to insult every one part of the reward?"

"You make light of what I say," returns Simon, reproachfully, "yet it is the very truth I speak. He has no special sin to repent, no lasting misdeed to haunt him, as years creep on. It were well to think of it,"

says Simon, with a trembling voice, "while youth is still with us. To you it yet belongs. If you have done aught amiss, I entreat you to confess, and make amends for it, whilst there is yet time."

Dorian, laying his hands upon the old servant's shoulders, pushes him gently backwards, so that he may look the more readily into his face.

"Why, Simon! How absolutely in earnest you are!" he says, lightly.

"What crime have I committed, that I should spend the rest of my days in sackcloth and ashes!"

"I know nothing," says old Gale, sadly. "How should I be wiser than my masters? All I feel is that youth is careless and headstrong, and things once done are difficult of undoing. If you would go to your grave happy, keep yourself from causing misery to those who love you and--_trust_ in you."

His voice sinks, and grows tremulous. Dorian, taking his hands from his shoulders, moves back from the old man, and regards him meditatively, stroking his fair moustache slowly, in a rather mechanical fashion, as he does so.

"The whole world seems dyspeptic to-day," he says, ironically. Then, "It would be such a horrid bore to make any one miserable that I daresay I sha'n't try it. If, however, I do commit the mysterious serious offence at which you broadly hint, and of which you plainly believe me fully capable, I'll let you know about it."

He smiles again,--a jarring sort of smile, that hardly accords with the beauty of the dying day,--and, moving away from the old man, crosses the oaken flooring to the gla.s.s door that lies at the farther end of the room, and that opens on to a gravelled path outside, on which lilacs are flinging broadcast their rich purple bloom. As he moves, with a pale face and set lips (for the bitter smile has faded), he tramples ruthlessly, and without thought for their beauty, upon the deep soft patches of coloring that are strewn upon the flooring from the stained-gla.s.s windows above.

Throwing open the door, he welcomes gladly the cool evening air that seems to rush to meet him.