Kitabı oku: «Faith and Unfaith: A Novel», sayfa 16
CHAPTER XXIV
"But sweeter still than this, than these, than all,
Is first and passionate love: it stands alone." – Byron.
Next day is born, lives, grows, deepens; and, as the first cold breath of even declares itself, Dorian rides down the avenue that leads to Gowran.
Miss Peyton is not at home (he has asked first for her, as in duty bound), and Miss Broughton is in the grounds somewhere. This is vague. The man offers warmly to discover her and bring her back to the house to receive Mr. Branscombe; but this Mr. Branscombe will not permit. Having learned the direction in which she is gone, he follows it, and glides into a region wherein only fairies should have right to dwell.
A tangled mass of grass, and blackberry, and fern; a dying sunlight, deep and tender; soft beds of tawny moss. Myriad bluebells are alive, and, spreading themselves, far and wide, in one rich carpeting (whose color puts to shame the pale blue of the heavenly vault above), make one harmonious blending with their green straight leaves.
Far as the eye can reach they spread, and, as the light and wanton wind stoops to caress them, shake their tiny bells with a coquettish grace, and fling forth perfume to him with a lavish will.
The solemn trees, that "seem to hold mystical converse with each other," look down upon the tranquil scene that, season after season, changes, fades away, and dies, only to return again, fairer and fresher than of yore. The fir-trees tower upwards, and gleam green-black against the sky. Upon some topmost boughs the birds are chanting a pæan of their own; while through this "wilderness of sweets" – far down between its deep banks (that are rich with trailing ivy and drooping bracken) – runs a stream, a slow, delicious, lazy stream, that glides now over its moss-grown stones, and anon flashes through some narrow ravine dark and profound. As it runs it babbles fond love-songs to the pixies that, perchance, are peeping out at it, through their yellow tresses, from shady curves and sun-kissed corners.
It is one of May's divinest efforts, – a day to make one glad and feel that it is well to be alive. Yet Branscombe, walking through this fairy glen, though conscious of its beauty, is conscious, too, that in his heart he knows a want not to be satisfied until Fate shall again bring him face to face with the girl with whom he had parted so unamicably the night before.
Had she really meant him not to call to-day? Will she receive him coldly? Is it even possible to find her in such an absurd place as this, where positively everything seems mixed up together in such a hopeless fashion that one can't see farther than one's nose? Perhaps, after all, she is not here, has returned to the house, and is now —
Suddenly, across the bluebells, there comes to him a fresh sweet voice, that thrills him to his very heart. It is hers; and there, in the distance, he can see her, just where the sunlight falls athwart the swaying ferns.
She is sitting down, and is leaning forward, having taken her knees well into her embrace. Her broad hat is tilted backward, so that the sunny straggling hair upon her forehead can be plainly seen. Her gown is snow-white, with just a touch of black at the throat and wrists; a pretty frill of soft babyish lace caresses her throat.
Clear and happy, as though it were a free bird's her voice rises on the wind and reaches Branscombe, and moves him as no other voice ever had – or will ever again have – power to move him.
"There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate;
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate."
The kind wind brings the tender passionate love-song to him, and repeats it in his ear as it hurries onward: "My dove, my dear." How exactly the words suit her! he says them over and over again to himself, almost losing the rest of the music which she is still breathing forth to the evening air.
"My life! my fate!" Is she his life, – his fate? The idea makes him tremble. Has he set his whole heart upon a woman who perhaps can never give him hers in return? The depth, the intensity of the passion with which he repeats the words of her song astonishes and perplexes him vaguely. Is she indeed his fate?
He is quite close to her now; and she, turning round to him her lovely flower-like face, starts perceptibly, and, springing to her feet, confronts him with a little frown, and a sudden deepening of color that spreads from chin to brow.
At this moment he knows the whole truth. Never has she appeared so desirable in his eyes. Life with her means happiness more than falls to the lot of most; life without her, an interminable blank.
"Love lights upon the hearts, and straight we feel
More worlds of wealth gleam in an upturned eye
Than in the rich heart or the miser sea."
"I thought I told you not to come," says Miss Broughton, still frowning.
"I am sure you did not," contradicts he, eagerly; "you said, rather unkindly, I must confess, – but still you said it, – 'Catch me if you can.' That was a command. I have obeyed it. And I have caught you."
"You knew I was not speaking literally," says Miss Broughton, with some wrath. "The idea of your supposing I really meant you to catch me! You couldn't have thought it."
"Well, what was I to think? You certainly said it. So I came. I believed" – humbly – "it was the best thing to do."
"Yes; and you found me sitting – as – I was, and singing at the top of my voice. How I dislike people" – says Miss Broughton, with fine disgust – "who steal upon other people unawares!"
"I didn't steal; I regularly trampled" – protests Branscombe, justly indignant – "right over the moss and ferns and the other things, as hard as ever I could. If bluebells won't crackle like dead leaves it isn't my fault, is it? I hadn't the ordering of them!"
"Oh, yes, it is, every bit your fault," persists she, wilfully, biting, with enchanting grace largely tinctured with viciousness, the blade of grass she is holding.
Silence, of the most eloquent, that lasts for a full minute, even until the unoffending grass is utterly consumed.
"Perhaps you would rather I went away," says Mr. Branscombe, stiffly, seeing she will not speak. He is staring at her, and is apparently hopelessly affronted.
"Well, perhaps I would," returns she, coolly, without condescending to look at him.
"Good-by," – icily.
"Good-by," – in precisely the same tone, and without changing her position half an inch.
Branscombe turns away with a precipitancy that plainly betokens hot haste to be gone. He walks quickly in the home direction, and gets as far as the curve in the glen without once looking back. So far the hot haste lasts, and is highly successful; then it grows cooler; the first deadly heat dies away, and, as it goes, his steps grow slower and still slower. A severe struggle with pride ensues, in which pride goes to the wall, and then he comes to a standstill.
Though honestly disgusted with his own want of firmness, he turns and gazes fixedly at the small white-gowned figure standing, just as he had left her, among the purple bells.
Yet not exactly as he had left her: her lips are twitching now, her lids have fallen over her eyes. Even as he watches, the soft lips part, and a smile comes to them, – an open, irrepressible smile, that deepens presently into a gay, mischievous laugh, that rings sweetly, musically upon the air.
It is too much. In a moment he is beside her again, and is gazing down on her with angry eyes.
"Something is amusing you," he says. "Is it me?"
"Yes," says the spoiled beauty, moving back from him, and lifting her lids from her laughing eyes to cast upon him a defiant glance.
"I dare say I do amuse you," exclaims he, wrathfully, goaded to deeper anger by the mockery of her regard. "I have no doubt you can find enjoyment in the situation, but I cannot! I dare say" – passionately – "you think it capital fun to make me fall in love with you, – to play with my heart until you can bind me hand and foot as your slave, – only to fling me aside and laugh at my absurd infatuation when the game has grown old and flavorless."
He has taken her hand whether she will or not, and, I think, at this point, almost unconsciously, he gives her a gentle but very decided little shake.
"But there is a limit to all things," he goes on, vehemently, "and here, now, at this moment, you shall give me a plain answer to a plain question I am going to ask you."
He has grown very pale, and his nostrils are slightly dilated. She has grown very pale, too, and is shrinking from him. Her lips are white and trembling; her beautiful eyes are large and full of an undefined fear. The passion of his tone has carried her away with it, and has subdued within her all desire for mockery or mirth. Her whole face has changed its expression, and has become sad and appealing. This sudden touch of fear and entreaty makes her so sweet that Dorian's anger melts before it, and the great love of which it was part again takes the upper hand.
Impulsively he takes her in his arms, and draws her close to him, as though he would willingly shield her from all evil and chase the unspoken fear from her eyes.
"Don't look at me like that," he says, earnestly. "I deserve it, I know. I should not have spoken to you as I have done, but I could not help it. You made me so miserable – do you know how miserable? – that I forgot myself. Darling, don't turn from me; speak to me; forgive me!"
This sudden change from vehement reproach to as vehement tenderness frightens Georgie just a little more than the anger of a moment since. Laying her hand upon his chest, she draws back from him; and he, seeing she really wishes to get away from him, instantly releases her.
As if fascinated, however, she never removes her gaze from his, although large tears have risen, and are shining in her eyes.
"You don't hate me? I won't believe that," says Branscombe, wretchedly. "Say you will try to love me, and that you will surely marry me."
At this – feeling rather lost, and not knowing what else to do – Georgie covers her face with her hands, and bursts out crying.
It is now Branscombe's turn to be frightened, and he does his part to perfection. He is thoroughly and desperately frightened.
"I won't say another word," he says, hastily; "I won't, indeed. My dearest, what have I said that you should be so distressed? I only asked you to marry me."
"Well, I'm sure I don't know what more you could have said," sobs she, still dissolved in tears, and in a tone full of injury.
"But there wasn't any harm in that," protests he, taking one of her hands from her face and pressing it softly to his lips. "It is a sort of thing" (expansively) "one does every day."
"Do you do it every day?"
"No: I never did it before. And" (very gently) "you will answer me, won't you?"
No answer, however, is vouchsafed.
"Georgie, say you will marry me."
But Georgie either can't or won't say it; and Dorian's heart dies within him.
"Am I to understand by your silence that you fear to pain me?" he says, at length, in a low voice. "Is it impossible to you to love me? Well, do not speak. I can see by your face that the hope I have been cherishing for so many weeks has been a vain one. Forgive me for troubling you: and believe I shall never forget how tenderly you shrank from telling me you could never return my love."
Again he presses her hand to his lips; and she, turning her face slowly to his, looks up at him. Her late tears were but a summer shower, and have faded away, leaving no traces as they passed.
"But I didn't mean one word of all that," she says, naïvely, letting her long lashes fall once more over her eyes.
"Then what did you mean?" demands he, with some pardonable impatience. "Quite the contrary, all through?"
"N – ot quite," – with hesitation.
"At least, that some day you will be my wife?"
"N – ot altogether."
"Well, you can't be half my wife," says Mr. Branscombe promptly. "Darling, darling, put me out of my misery, and say what I want you to say."
"Well, then, yes." She gives the promise softly, shyly, but without the faintest touch of any deeper, tenderer emotion. Had Dorian been one degree less in love with her, he could have hardly failed to notice this fact. As it is, he is radiant, in a very seventh heaven of content.
"But you must promise me faithfully never to be unkind to me again," says Georgie, impressively, laying a finger on his lips.
"Unkind?"
"Yes; dreadfully unkind: just think of all the terrible things you said, and the way you said them. Your eyes were as big as half-crowns, and you looked exactly as if you would like to eat me. Do you know, you reminded me of Aunt Elizabeth!"
"Oh, Georgie!" says Branscombe, reproachfully. He has grown rather intimate with Aunt Elizabeth and her iniquities by this time, and fully understands that to be compared with her hardly tends to raise him in his beloved's estimation.
There is silence between them after this, that lasts a full minute, – a long time for lovers freshly made.
"What are you thinking of?" asks Dorian, presently, bending to look tenderly into her downcast eyes. Perhaps he is hoping eagerly that she has been wasting a thought upon him.
"I shall never have to teach those horrid lessons again," she says, with a quick sigh of relief.
If he is disappointed, he carefully conceals it. He laughs, and, lifting her exquisite face, kisses her gently.
"Never," he says, emphatically. "When you go home, tell Mr. Redmond all about it; and to-morrow Clarissa will go down to the vicarage and bring you up to Gowran, where you must stay until we are married."
"I shall like that," says Georgie, with a sweet smile. "But, Mr. Branscombe – "
"Who on earth is Mr. Branscombe?" asks Dorian. "Don't you know my name yet?"
"I do. I think it is almost the prettiest name I ever heard, – Dorian."
"Darling! I never thought it a nice name before; but now that you have called me by it, I can feel its beauty. But I dare say if I had been christened Jehoshaphat I should, under these circumstances, think just the same. Well, you were going to say – ?"
"Perhaps Clarissa will not care to have me for so long."
"So long? How long? By the by, perhaps she wouldn't; so I suppose we had better be married as soon as ever we can."
"I haven't got any clothes," says Miss Broughton; at which they both laugh gayly, as though it were the merriest jest in the world.
"You terrify me," says Branscombe. "Let me beg you will rectify such a mistake as soon as possible."
"We have been here a long time," says Georgie, suddenly, glancing at the sun, that is almost sinking out of sight behind the solemn firs.
"It hasn't been ten minutes," says Mr. Branscombe, conviction making his tone brilliant.
"Oh, nonsense!" says Georgie. "I am sure it must be quite two hours since you came."
As it has been barely one, this is rather difficult to endure with equanimity.
"How long you have found it!" he says, with some regret. He is honestly pained, and his eyes grow darker. Looking at him, she sees what she has done, and, though ignorant of the very meaning of the word "love," knows that she has hurt him more than he cares to confess.
"I have been happy, – quite happy," she says, sweetly, coloring warmly as she says it. "You must not think I have found the time you have been with me dull or dreary. Only, I am afraid Clarissa will miss me."
"I should think any one would miss you," says Dorian, impulsively. He smiles at her as he speaks; but there is a curious mingling of sadness and longing and uncertainty in his face. Laying one arm round her, with his other hand he draws her head down on his breast.
"At least, before we go, you will kiss me once," he says, entreatingly. All the gayety – the gladness – has gone from his voice; only the deep and lasting love remains. He says this, too, hesitatingly, as though half afraid to demand so great a boon.
"Yes; I think I should like to kiss you," says Georgie, kindly; and then she raises herself from his embrace, and, standing on tiptoe, places both hands upon his shoulders, and with the utmost calmness lays her lips on his.
"Do you know," she says, a moment later, in no wise disconcerted because of the warmth of the caress he has given her in exchange for hers, – "do you know, I never remember kissing any one in all my life before, except poor papa, and Clarissa, and you."
Even at this avowal she does not blush. Were he her brother, or an aged nurse, she could scarcely think less about the favor she has just conferred upon the man who is standing silently regarding her, puzzled and disappointed truly, but earnestly registering a vow that sooner or later, if faithful love can accomplish it, he will make her all his own, in heart and soul.
Not that he has ever yet gone so deeply into the matter as to tell himself the love is all on his own side. Instinctively he shrinks from such inward confession. It is only when he has parted from her, and is riding quietly homeward through the wistful gloaming, that he remembers, with a pang, how, of all the thousand and one things asked and answered, one alone has been forgotten. He has never desired of her whether she loves him.
CHAPTER XXV
"Love set me up on high: when I grew vain
Of that my height, love brought me down again.
"The heart of love is with a thousand woes
Pierced, which secure indifference never knows.
"The rose aye wears the silent thorn at heart,
And never yet might pain for love depart." – Trench.
When Mrs. Redmond, next morning, is made aware of Georgie's engagement to Dorian Branscombe, her curiosity and excitement know no bounds. For once she is literally struck dumb with amazement. That Dorian, who is heir to an earldom, should have fixed his affections upon her governess, seems to Mrs. Redmond like a gay continuation of the "Arabian Nights' Entertainments." When she recovers her breath, after the first great shock to her nervous system, she lays down the inevitable sock she is mending, and says as follows:
"My dear Georgina, are you quite sure he meant it? Young men, nowadays, say so many things without exactly knowing why, – more especially after a dance, as I have been told."
"I am quite sure," says Georgie, flushing hotly. She has sufficient self-love to render this doubt very unpalatable.
Something that is not altogether remote from envy creeps into Mrs. Redmond's heart. Being a mother, she can hardly help contrasting her Cissy's future with the brilliant one carved out for her governess. Presently, however, being a thoroughly good soul, she conquers these unworthy thoughts, and when next she speaks her tone is full of heartiness and honest congratulation. Indeed, she is sincerely pleased. The fact that the future Lady Sartoris is at present an inmate of her house is a thought full of joy to her.
"You are a very happy and a very fortunate girl," she says, gravely.
"Indeed yes, I think so," returns Georgie, in a low tone, but with perfect calmness. There is none of the blushing happiness about her that should of right belong to a young girl betrothed freshly to the lover of her heart.
"Of course you do," says Mrs. Redmond, missing something in her voice, though she hardly knows what. "And what we are to do without you, I can't conceive; no one to sing to us in the evening, and we have got so accustomed to that."
"I can still come and sing to you sometimes," says Georgie, with tears in her eyes and voice.
"Ah, yes, – sometimes. That is just the bad part of it; when one has known an 'always,' one does not take kindly to a 'sometimes.' And now here come all my governess troubles back upon my shoulders once more. Don't think me selfish, my dear, to think of that just now in the very morning of your new happiness, but really I can't help it. I have been so content with you, it never occurred to me others might want you too."
"I will ask Clarissa to get you some one else nicer than me," says Georgie, soothingly.
"Will you? Yes, do, my dear: she will do anything for you. And, Georgina," – from the beginning she has called her thus, – nothing on earth would induce Mrs. Redmond to call her anything more frivolous, – "tell her I should prefer somebody old and ugly, if at all bearable, because then she may stay with me. Dear, dear! how Cissy will miss you! And what will the vicar say?"
And so on. She spends the greater part of the morning rambling on in this style, and then towards the evening despatches Georgie to Gowran to tell Clarissa, too, the great news.
But Clarissa knows all about it before her coming, and meets her in the hall, and kisses her then and there, and tells her she is so glad, and it is the very sweetest thing that could possibly have happened.
"He came down this morning very early and told me all about it," she says, looking as pleased as though it is her own happiness and not another's she is discussing.
"Now, what a pity!" says Georgie: "and I did so want to tell you myself, after the disgraceful way in which you tried to wed me to Mr. Hastings."
"He could not sleep; he confessed that to me. And you had forbidden him to go to the vicarage to see you to-day. What else then could he do but come over and put in a good time here? And he did. We had quite a splendid time," says Miss Peyton, laughing; "I really don't know which of us was the most delighted about it. We both kept on saying pretty things about you all the time, – more than you deserved, I think."
"Now, don't spoil it," says Georgie: "I am certain I deserved it all, and more. Well, if he didn't sleep, I did, and dreamed, and dreamed, and dreamed all sorts of lovely things until the day broke. Oh, Clarissa," – throwing out her arms with a sudden swift gesture of passionate relief, – "I am free! Am I not lucky, fortunate, to have deliverance sent so soon?"
"Lucky, fortunate;" where has the word "happy" gone, that she has forgotten to use it? Clarissa makes no reply. Something in the girl's manner checks her. She is standing there before her, gay, exultant, with all a child's pleasure in some new possession; "her eyes as stars of twilight fair," flashing warmly, her whole manner intense and glad; but there are no blushes, no shy half-suppressed smiles, there is no word of love; Dorian's name has not been mentioned, except as a secondary part of her story, and then with the extremest unconcern.
Yet there is nothing in her manner that can jar upon one's finer feelings; there is no undue exultation at the coming great change in her position, – no visible triumph at the fresh future opening before her; it is only that in place of the romantic tenderness that should accompany such a revelation as she has been making, there has been nothing but a wild passionate thankfulness for freedom gained.
"When are you coming to stay with me altogether? – I mean until the marriage?" asks Clarissa, presently.
"I cannot leave Mrs. Redmond like that," says Georgie, who is always delightfully indefinite. "She will be in a regular mess now until she gets somebody to take my place. I can't leave her yet."
"Dorian will not like that."
"He must try to like it. Mrs. Redmond has been very good to me, and I couldn't bear to make her uncomfortable. I shall stay with her until she gets somebody else. I don't think, when I explain it to him, that Dorian will mind my doing this."
"He will think it very sweet of you," says Clarissa, "considering how you detest teaching, and that."
While they are at tea, Dorian drops in, and, seeing the little yellow-haired fairy sitting in the huge lounging-chair, looks so openly glad and contented that Clarissa laughs mischievously.
"Poor Benedick!" she says, mockingly: "so it has come to this, that you know no life but in your Beatrice's presence!"
"Well, that's hardly fair, I think," says Branscombe; "you, at least, should not be the one to say it, as you are in a position to declare I was alive and hearty at half-past twelve this morning."
"Why, so you were," says Clarissa, "terribly alive, – but only on one subject. By the by, has any one seen papa lately? He had some new books from town to-day, – some painfully old books, I mean, – and has not been found since. I am certain he will be discovered some day buried beneath ancient tomes; perhaps, indeed, it will be this day. Will you two forgive me if I go to see if it is yet time to dig him out?"
They forgive her; and presently find themselves alone.
"Is it all true, I wonder?" says Dorian, after a little pause. He is holding her hand, and is looking down at her with a fond sweet smile that betrays the deep love of his heart.
"Quite true; at least, I hope so," with an answering smile. Then, "I am so glad you are going to marry me," she says, without the faintest idea of shyness; "more glad than I can tell you. Ever since – since I was left alone, I have had no one belonging to me, – that is, no one quite my own; and now I have you. You will always be fonder of me than of anybody else in the world, won't you?"
She seems really anxious as she asks this.
"My darling, of course I shall. How could you ask me such a question? And you, Georgie, do you love me?"
"Love you? Yes, I suppose so; I don't know," – with decided hesitation. "I am certain I like you very, very much. I am quite happy when with you, and you don't bore me a bit. Is that it?"
This definition of what love may be, hardly comes up to the mark in Mr. Branscombe's estimation.
She has risen, and is now looking up at him inquiringly, with eyes earnest and beautiful and deep, but so cold. They chill him in spite of his efforts to disbelieve in their fatal truthfulness.
"Hardly, I think," he says, with an attempt at gayety. "Something else is wanting, surely. Georgie, when I asked you to marry me yesterday, and when you gave the promise that has made me so unutterably happy ever since, what was it you thought of?"
"Well, I'll tell you," says Miss Broughton, cheerfully. "First, I said to myself, 'Now I shall never again have to teach Murray's Grammar.'"
"Was that your first thought?" He is both surprised and pained.
"Yes, my very first. You look as if you didn't believe me," says Miss Broughton, with a little laugh. "But if you had gone through as many moods and tenses as I have during the past week, you would quite understand. Well, then I thought how good it would be to have nothing to do but amuse myself all day long. And then I looked at you, and felt so glad you had no crooked eyes, or red hair, or anything that way. And then, above all things, I felt how sweet it was to know I had found somebody who would have to look after me and take care of me, so that I need never trouble about myself any more."
"Did you never once think of me?" asks he, in a curious tone.
"Of you? Oh, no! You are quite happy," says Georgie, with a sigh. "You have nothing to trouble you."
"Nothing! Of course not." Going up to her, he takes her dear little face between both his hands, and looks long and earnestly into her clear unconscious eyes. How gladly would he have seen them droop and soften beneath his gaze! "Now let me tell you how I feel towards you," he says, smoothing her soft hair back from her forehead.
"I don't think I am a bit pretty with my hair pushed back," she says, moving away from the caressing hand, and, with a touch, restoring her "amber locks" to their original position. She smiles as she says this, – indeed, ill temper, in any form, does not belong to her, – and, when her hair is once more restored to order, she again slips her fingers into his confidingly, and glances up at him. "Now tell me all about it," she says.
"What am I to tell you? – that when I am away from you I am restless, miserable; when with you, more than satisfied. I know that I could sit for hours contentedly with this little hand in mine" (raising it to his lips), "and I also know that, if fate so willed it, I should gladly follow you through the length and breadth of the land. If you were to die, or – or forsake me, it would break my heart. And all this is because I love you."
"Is it?" – in a very low tone. "Does all that mean being in love? Then" – in a still lower tone – "I know I am not one bit in love with you."
"Then why are you marrying me?" demands he, a little roughly, stung to pained anger by her words.
"Because I promised papa, when – when he was leaving me, that I would marry the very first rich man that asked me," replies she, again lifting her serious eyes to his. "I thought it would make him happier. And it did. I am keeping my promise now," with a sigh that may mean regret for her dead, or, indeed, anything.
"Are you not afraid to go too far?" demands he, very pale, moving back from her, and regarding her with moody eyes. "Do you quite know what you are saying – what you are compelling me, against my will, to understand?"
She is plainly not listening to him. She is lost in a mournful revery, and, leaning back in her chair, is staring at her little white fingers in an absent fashion, and is twisting round and round upon her third finger an old worn-out gold ring. Poor little ring, so full of sweet and moving memories!
"It was very fortunate," she says, suddenly, with a smile, and without looking up at him, being still engrossed in her occupation of twisting the ring round her slender finger, – "it was more than fortunate that the first rich man should be you."
"Much more," he says, in an indescribable tone. Then with an effort, "Would you have thrown me over had I been poor?"
"I shouldn't have consented to marry you, I think," says Miss Broughton, quite calmly.
"As I said before, to be candid is your forte," exclaims he, with extreme bitterness. "I wonder even if you loved a man to distraction (I am not talking of myself, you know, – that is quite evident, is it not?) would you reject him if he was not sufficiently —bon parti?"
"I don't think I could love any one to distraction," replies she, quite simply. It seems the very easiest answer to this question.
"I believe you speak the very honest truth when you say that," says Dorian, drawing his breath quickly. "You are indeed terribly honest. You don't even shrink from telling the man you have elected to marry that he is no more to you than any other man might be who was equally possessed of filthy – if desirable – lucre!"
