The unhappy truth is told. Clarissa, shamed and heartbroken, moves away, that her companion may not see her face. As for Mrs. Branscombe, at first intense wonder renders her motionless; and then, as the exact meaning of this terrible story breaks in upon her, a great and glorious gleam of unmistakable rapture lights all her face, and, sinking upon a _prie-Dieu_ near her, she presses her hands tightly together. That Dorian is exonerated, is her first thought; that he will never forgive her, is her second; and this drives all the blood from her cheeks, and the gladness from her heart, and brings her back again to the emptiness and barrenness that have made life a wilderness to her for so many months. Going over to Clarissa, she lays her arms gently round her neck. There seems to be a new bond, born of grief, between them now. "Do not pity me," says Clarissa, entreatingly. "Pity you? no! There is no occasion for it. You are fortunate in having escaped such a fate as was in store for you. In time you will forget all this, and be happy in some other way." "Shall I?" says Clarissa, drearily. "But, in the mean time, what shall I do? How shall I fill the blank here?" 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. How could he? I, his wife, was the one who most heartily condemned him and believed in his guilt." "When you see him, all will be well. But he should be told; you will see to that." "Of course, darling. He is coming home next week. But how shall I meet him and say all this to him! The very thought of it is terrible." "Next week?--so soon?" "Yes; I had a line from him this morning,--the only one he wrote me since his departure; but that was my own fault. I am almost sorry he is coming now," says Mrs. Branscombe, nervously. "I shall dread the look in his eyes when I confess to him how readily I believed in that false rumor." "You hardly deserve pity," says Clarissa, suddenly, turning upon her with some just anger. "You undervalued him all through. Instead of going 'down on your knees to thank heaven, fasting, for a good man's love,' you deliberately flung it away. How different it has been with me! I trusted blindly, and see my reward! Even yet I cannot realize it. It seems like some strange horrible nightmare, from which I must awake. Yesterday I was so happy; to-day----" She breaks down, and bursts into bitter weeping. Georgie throws herself on her knees before her. * * * * * "Is this your luggage, sir? Glad to see you back again, sir."