CHAPTER XIII ~ A DEAD LETTER.
IT was all over,--all over at last. Dolly’s first words had said thismuch when she opened her eyes, and found Aimée bending over her.
“Has he gone?” she had asked. “Did he go away and leave me?”
“Do you mean Grif?” said Aimée.
She made a weak gesture of assent.
“Yes,” Aimée answered. “He must have gone. I heard the bell ring, andfound you lying here when I came to see what it meant.”
“Then,” said Dolly, “all is over,--all is over at last.” And she turnedher face upon the cushion and lay so still that she scarcely seemed tobreathe.
“Take another drink of water, Dolly,” said Aimée, keeping back herquestions with her usual discretion. “You must, dear.”
But Dolly did not stir.
“I don’t want any more,” she said. “I am not going to faint again. Youhave no need to be afraid. I don’t easily faint, you know, and I shouldnot have fainted just now only--that the day has been a very hard onefor me, and somehow I lost strength all at once. I am not ill,--onlyworn out.”
“You must be very much worn out, then,” said Aimée; “more worn out thanI ever saw you before. You had better let me help you up-stairs to bed.”
“I don’t want to go to bed yet!” in a strange, choked voice, and thenext moment Aimée saw her hands clench themselves and her whole framebegin to shake. “Shut the door and lock it,” she said, wildly. “I can’tstop myself. Give me some sal volatile. I can’t breathe.” And such a fitof suffocating sobbing came upon her that she writhed and battled forair.
Aimée flung herself upon her knees by her side, shedding tears herself.
“Oh, Dolly,” she pleaded, “Dolly, darling, don’t. Try to help yourselfagainst it. I know what the trouble is. He went away angry anddisappointed, and it has frightened you. Oh, please don’t, darling. Hewill come back to-morrow; he will, indeed. He always does, you know, andhe will be so sorry.”
“He has gone forever,” Dolly panted, when she could speak. “He willnever come back. To-night has been different from any other time. No,” gasping and sobbing, “it is fate. Fate is against us,--it always wasagainst us. I think God is against us; and oh, how can He be? He mightpity us,--we tried so hard and loved each other so much. We did n’t askfor anything but each other,--we did n’t want anything but that we mightbe allowed to cling together all our lives and work and help each other.Oh, Grif, my darling,--oh, Grif, my dear, my dear!” And the sobs risingagain and conquering her were such an agony that Aimée caught her in herarms.
“Dolly,” she said, “you must not, you must not, indeed. You will die,you can’t bear it.”
“No,” she wailed, “I can’t bear it,--that is what it is. I can’t bearit. It is too hard to bear. But there is no one to help me,--God won’t.He does not care for us, or He would have given us just one little crumbout of all He has to give. What can a poor helpless girl be to Him? Heis too high and great to care for our poor little powerless griefs. Oh,how wicked I am!” in a fresh burst. “See how I rebel at the first realblow. It is because I am so wicked, perhaps, that all has been takenfrom me,--all I had in the world. It is because I loved Grif best.I have read in books that it was always so. Oh, why is it? I can’tunderstand it. It seems cruel,--yes, it does seem cruel,--as cruel asdeath, to give him to me only that I might suffer when he was takenaway. Oh, Grif, my darling! Grif, my love, my dear!”
This over again and again, with wild, heart-broken weeping, until shewas so worn out that she could cry no more, and lay upon Aimée’s armupon the cushion, white and exhausted, with heavy purple rings about herwearied, sunken eyes. It was not until then that Aimée heard the wholetruth. She had only been able to guess at it before, and now, hearingthe particulars, she could not help fearing the worst.
It was just as she had feared it would be; another blow had come uponhim at the very time when he was least able to bear it, and it had beentoo much for him. But she could not reveal her forebodings to Dolly. Shemust comfort her and persuade her to hope for the best.
“You must go to bed, Dolly,” she said, “and try to sleep, and in themorning everything will look different. He may come, you know,--itwould be just like him to come before breakfast. But if he doesnot come--suppose,” hesitatingly,--“suppose I was to write to him,or--suppose you were to?”
She was half afraid that pride would rise against this plan, but shewas mistaken. Seven years of love had mastered pride. Somehow or other,pride had never seemed to come between them in their little quarrels,each had always been too passionately eager to concede, and too sureof being met with tenderest penitence. Dolly had always known tooconfidently that her first relenting word would touch Grifs heart, andGrif had always been sure that his first half-softened reproach wouldbring the girl to his arms in an impetuous burst of loving repentance.No, it was scarcely likely that other people’s scruples would keep themapart. So Dolly caught at the proposal almost eagerly.
“Yes,” she said, “I will write and tell him how it was. It was not hisfault, was it, Aimée? How could I have borne such a thing myself? Itwould have driven me wild, as it did him. It was not unreasonable at allthat he should refuse to listen, in his first excitement, after he hadwaited all those hours and suffered such a disappointment. And then tosee what he did. My poor boy! he was not to blame at all. Yes,yes,” feverishly, “I will write to him and tell him. Suppose I writenow--don’t you think I had better do it now, and then he will get theletter in the morning, and he will be sure to come before dinner,--hewill be sure to come, won’t he?”
“He always did,” said Aimée.
“Always,” said Dolly. “Indeed, I never had to write to him before tobring him. He always came without being written to. There never was anyone like him for being tender and penitent. You always said so, Aimée.And just think how often I have tried his patience! I sometimes wish Icould help doing things,--flirting, you know, and making a joke of it.He never flirted in his life, poor darling, and what right had I todo it? When he comes to-morrow I will tell him how sorry I am foreverything, and I will promise to be better. I have not been half sogood as he has. I wish I had. I should not have hurt him so often if Ihad.”
“You have been a little thoughtless sometimes,” said Aimée. “Perhaps it_would_ have been better if you could have helped it.”
“A little thoughtless,” said Dolly, restlessly. “I have been wickedlythoughtless sometimes. And I have made so many resolutions and brokenthem all. And I ought to have been doubly thoughtful, because he hadso much to bear. If he had been prosperous and happy it would not havemattered half so much. But it was all my vanity. You don’t know how vainI am, Aimée. I quite hate myself when I think of it. It is thewanting people to admire me,--everybody, men and women, and evenchildren,--particularly among Lady Augusta’s set, where there is a sortof fun in it. And then I flirt before I know; and then, of course, Grifcannot help seeing it. I wonder that he has borne with me so long.”
She was quite feverish in her anxiety to condemn herself and exculpateher lover. She did not droop her face against the pillow, but rousedherself, turning toward Aimée, and talking fast and eagerly. A brightspot of color came out on either cheek, though for the rest she was paleenough. But to Aimée’s far-seeing eyes there was something so forced andunnaturally strung in her sudden change of mood that she felt a touch ofdread Suppose something should crush her newly formed hopes,--somethingterrible and unforeseen! She felt a chill strike her to the heart at themere thought of such a possibility. She knew Dolly better than the restof them did,--knew her highly strung temperament, and feared it, too.She might be spirited and audacious and thoughtless, but a blow comingthrough Grif would crush her to the earth.
“You--you mustn’t set your heart too much upon his getting the letterin the morning, Dolly,” she said. “He might be away when it came, or--ortwenty things, and he might not see it until night, but--”
“Well,” said Dolly, “I will write it
at once if you will give me the penand ink. The earlier it is posted the earlier he will get it.”
She tried to rise then; but when she stood up her strength seemed tofail her, and she staggered and caught at Aimee’s arm. But the nextminute she laughed.
“How queer that one little faint should make me so weak!” she said. “Iam weak,--actually. I shall feel right enough when I sit down, though.”
She sat down at the table with her writing materials, and Aimée remainedupon the sofa watching her. Her hand trembled when she wrote the firstfew lines, but she seemed to become steadier afterward, and her pendashed over the paper without a pause for a few minutes. The spot ofcolor on her cheeks faded and burned by turns,--sometimes it was gone,and again it was scarlet, and before the second page was finished tearswere falling soft and fast. Once she even stopped to wipe them away,because they blinded her; but when she closed the envelope she did notlook exactly unhappy, though her whole face was tremulous.
“He will come back,” she said, softly. “He will come back when he readsthis, I know. I wish it was to-morrow. To-morrow night he will be here,and we shall have our happy evening after all. I can excuse myself toMiss MacDowlas for another day.”
“Yes,” said Aimée, a trifle slowly, as she took _it_ from her hand. “Iwill send Belinda out with it now.” And she carried it out of the room.
In a few minutes she returned. “She has taken it,” she said. “And nowyou had better go to bed, Dolly.”
But Dolly’s color had faded again, and she was resting her foreheadupon her hands, with a heavy, anxious, worn look, which spoke of suddenreaction. She lifted her face with a half-absent air.
“I hope it will be in time for to-night’s post,” she said. “Do you thinkit will?”
“I am not quite sure, but I hope so. You must come to bed, Dolly.”
She got up without saying more, and followed her out into the hall, butat the foot of the staircase she stopped. “I have not seen Tod,” shesaid. “Let us go into ‘Toinette’s room and ask her to let us have himto-night. We can carry him up-stairs without wakening him. I have doneit many a time. I should like to have him in my arms to-night.”
So they turned into Mrs. Phil’s room, and found that handsome youngmatron sitting in her dressing-gown before the fire, brushing out hergreat dark mantle of hair.
“Don’t waken Tod,” she cried out, as usual; and then when she saw Dollyshe broke into a whispered volley of wondering questions. Where in theworld had she been? What had she been doing with herself until such anhour? Where was Grif? Was n’t he awfully vexed? What had he said whenshe came in? All of which inquiries the two parried as best they might.
As to Tod--well, Tod turned her thoughts in another direction. He wasa beauty, and a king, and a darling, and he was growing sweeter andbrighter every day,--which comments, by the way, were always the firstmade upon the subject of the immortal Tod. He was so amiable, too, andso clever and so little trouble. He went to sleep in his crib everynight at seven, and never awakened until morning. Aunt Dolly might lookat him now with those two precious middle fingers in his little mouth.And Aunt Dolly did look at him, lifting the cover slightly, andbending over him as he lay there making a deep dent in his small, plumppillow,--a very king of babies, soft and round and warm, the white lidsdrooped and fast closed over his dark eyes, their long fringes makinga faint shadow on his fair, smooth baby cheeks, the two fingers inhis sweet mouth, the round, cleft chin turned up, the firm, tiny whitepillar of a throat bare.
“Oh, my bonny baby!” cried Dolly, the words rising from the bottom ofher heart, “how fair and sweet you are!”
They managed to persuade Mrs. Phil to allow them to take possessionof him for the night; and when they went up-stairs Dolly carried him,folded warmly in his downy blanket, and held close and tenderly in herarms.
“Aunt Dolly’s precious!” Aimée heard her whispering to him as she gavehim a last soft good-night kiss before they fell asleep. “Aunt Dolly’scomfort! Everything is not gone so long as he is left.”
But she evidently passed a restless night. When Aimée awakened in themorning she found her standing by the bedside, dressed and lookingcolorless and heavy-eyed.
“I never was so glad to see morning in my life,” she said. “I thoughtthe day would never break. I--I wonder how long it will be before Grifwill be reading his letter?”
“He may get it before nine o’clock,” answered Aimée; “but don’t troubleabout it, or the day will seem twice as long. Take Tod down-stairs andwash and dress him. It will give you something else to think of.”
The wise one herself had not slept well. Truth to say, she was troubledabout more matters than one. She was troubled to account for the meaningof Dolly’s absence with Gowan. Even in her excitement, Dolly had notfelt the secret quite her own, and had only given a skeleton explanationof the true state of affairs.
“It was something about Mollie and Gerald Chan-dos,” she had said; “andif I had not gone it would have been worse than death to Mollie. Don’task me to tell you exactly what it was, because I can’t. Perhaps Molliewill explain herself before many days are over. She always tells youeverything, you know. But it was no real fault of here; she was silly,but not wicked, and she is safe from Gerald Chandos now forever. And _I_saved her, Aimée.”
And so the wise one had lain awake and thought of all sorts of possibleand impossible escapades. But as she was dressing herself this morning,the truth flashed upon her, though it was scarcely the whole truth.
“She was going to elope with him,” she exclaimed all at once; “_that_was what she was going to do. Oh, Mollie, Mollie, what a romantic gooseyou are!”
And having reached this solution, she closed her small, determined mouthin discreet silence, resolving to wait for Mollie’s confession, whichshe knew was sure to come sooner or later. As to Mollie herself, shecame down subdued and silent. She had slept off the effects of her firstshock, but had by no means forgotten it. She would never forget it, poorchild, as long as she lived, and she was so grateful to find herselfsafe in the shabby rooms again, that she had very little to say; andsince she was in so novel a mood, the members of the family who were notin the secret decided that her headache must have been a very severe oneindeed.
“Don’t say anything to her about Grif,” Dolly cautioned Aimée, “it wouldonly trouble her.” And so the morning passed; but even at twelve o’clockthere was no Grif, and Dolly began to grow restless and walk to andfro from the window to the hearth at very short intervals. Dinner-hourarrived, too, but still no arrival; and Dolly sat at the table, amongthem, eating nothing and saying little enough. How could she talk whenevery step upon the pavement set her heart bounding? When dinner wasover and Phil had gone back to the studio, she looked so helpless andwoe-begone that Aimée felt constrained to comfort her.
“It may have been delayed,” she whispered to her, “or he may have leftthe house earlier than usual, and so won’t see it until to-night. Hewill be here to-night, Dolly, depend upon it.”
And so they waited. Ah, how that window was watched that afternoon! Howoften Dolly started from her chair and ran to look out, half suffocatedby her heart-beatings! But it was of no avail. As twilight came onshe took her station before it, and knelt upon the carpet for an hourwatching; but in the end she turned away all at once, and, runningto the fire again, caught Tod up in her arms, and startled Aimée bybursting into a passion of tears.
“Oh, Tod!” she sobbed, “he is not coming! He will never come again,--hehas left us forever! Oh, Tod, love poor Aunt Dolly, darling.” And shehid her face on the little fellow’s shoulder, crying piteously.
She did not go to the window again. When she was calmer, she remained onher chair, colorless and exhausted, but clinging to Tod still in a queerpathetic way, and letting him pull at her collar and her ribbons and herhair. The touch of his relentless baby hands and his pretty, tyrannical,restless ways seemed to help her a little and half distract herthoughts.
She became quieter a
nd quieter as the evening waned; indeed, she was soquiet that Aimée wondered. She was strangely pale; but she did not startwhen footsteps were heard on the street, and she ceased turning towardthe door when it opened.
“He--he may come in the morning,” Aimée faltered as they went up-stairsto bed.
“No, he will not,” she answered her, quite steadily. “It will be as Isaid it would,--he will never come again.”
But when they reached their room, the unnatural, strained quiet gaveway, and she flung herself upon the bed, sobbing and fighting againstjust the hysterical suffering which had conquered her the night before.
It was the very ghost of the old indomitable Dolly who rose the nextmorning. Her hands shook as she dressed her hair, and there were shadowsunder her eyes. But she must go back to Brabazon Lodge, notwithstanding.
“I can say I have a nervous headache,” she said to Aimée. “Nervousheadaches are useful things.”
“If a letter comes,” said Aimée, “I will bring it to you myself.”
The girl turned toward her suddenly, her eyes hard and bright and hermouth working.
“I have had my last letter,” she said. “My last letters came to me whenGrif laid that package upon the table. He has done with me.”
“Done with you?” cried Aimée, frightened by her manner. “With _you_,Dolly?”
Then for the first time Dolly flushed scarlet to the very roots of herhair.
“Yes,” she said, “he has done with me. If there had been half a chancethat he would ever come near me again, the letter I wrote to him thatnight would have brought him. A word of it would have brought him,--thefirst word. But he is having his revenge by treating it with contempt.He is showing me that it is too late, and that no humility on my partcan touch him. I scarcely could have thought that of him,” dropping intoa chair by the toilet-table and hiding her face in her hands.
“It is not like Grif to let me humble myself for nothing. And I didhumble myself,--ah, how I did humble myself! That letter,--if you couldhave seen it, Aimée,--it was all on fire with love for him. I laidmyself under his feet,--and he has trodden me down! Grif--Grif, it wasn’t like you,--it was n’t worthy of you,--it was n’t indeed!”
Her worst enemy would have felt herself avenged if she had heard theanguish in her voice. She was crushed to the earth under this last greatblow of feeling that he had altered so far. Grif,--her whilom greatesthelp and comfort,--the best gift God had given her! Dear, old, tender,patient fellow! as she had been wont to call him in her fits ofpenitence.
Grif, whose arms had always been open to her at her best and at herworst, who had loved her and borne with her, and waited upon her anddone her bidding since they were both little more than children. Whenhad Grif ever turned from her before? Never. When had Grif ever beencold or unfaithful in word or deed? Never. When had he ever failed her?Never--never--never--until now! And now that he had failed her at last,she felt that the bitter end had come. The end to everything,--to allthe old hopes and dreams, to all the old sweet lovers’ quarrels andmeetings and partings, to all their clinging together, to all thevolumes and volumes of love and trust that lay in the past, to all theworld of simple bliss that lay still unrevealed in their lost future, toall the blessed old days when they had pictured to each other what thatfuture was to be. It had all gone for nothing in the end. It must allhave gone for nothing, when Grif--a new Grif--not her own true, stanch,patient darling--not her own old lover--could read her burning, tender,suffering words and pass them by without a word of answer. And withthis weight of despair and pain upon her heart, she went back to thewearisome routine of Brabazon Lodge,--went back heavy with humiliationand misery which she scarcely realized,--went back suffering as no onewho knew her--not even Grif himself--could ever have understood that itwas possible for her to suffer. No innocent coquetries now, no spirit,no jests; for the present at least she had done with them, too.
“You are not in your usual spirits, my dear,” said Miss MacDowlas.
“No,” she answered, quietly, “I am not.”
This state of affairs continued for four days, and then one morning,sitting at her sewing in the breakfast-room, she was startled almostbeyond self-control by a servant’s announcement that a visitor hadarrived.
“One of your sisters, ma’am,” said the parlor-maid. “Not the youngest, Ithink.”
She was in the room in two seconds, and flew to Aimée, trembling allover with excitement.
“Not a letter!” she cried, hysterically. “It is n’t a letter,--it can’tbe!” And she put her hand to her side and fairly panted.
The poor little wise one confronted her with something like fear. Shecould not bear to tell her the ill news she had come to break.
“Dolly, dear!” she said, “please sit down; and--please don’t look at meso. It isn’t good news. I must tell you the truth; it is bad news, cruelnews. Oh, don’t look so!”
They were standing near the sofa, and Dolly gave one little moan, andsank down beside it.
“Cruel news!” she cried, throwing up her hand. “Yes, I might have knownthat,--I might have known that it would be cruel, if it was news at allEvery one is cruel,--the whole world is cruel; even Grif,--even Grif!”
Aimée burst into tears.
“Oh, Dolly, I did my best for you!” she said. “I did, indeed; but youmust try to bear it, dear,--it is your own letter back again.”
Then the kneeling figure seemed to stiffen and grow rigid in a second.Dolly turned her deathly face, with her eyes aflame and dilated.
“Did _he_ send it back to me?” she asked, in a slow, fearful whisper.
Her expression was so hard and dreadful a one that Aimée sprang to herside and caught hold of her.
“No,--no!” she said; “not so bad as that! He would never have done that.He has never had it. He has gone away; we don’t know where. It came fromthe dead-letter office.”
Dolly took the letter from her and opened it slowly, and there, as sheknelt, read it, word for word, as if it had been something she had neverseen before. Then she put it back into the envelope and laid it down.
“A dead letter!” she said. “A dead letter! If _he_ had sent it back tome, I think it would have cured me; but _now_ there is no cure for me atall. If he had read it, he would have come,--if he had _only_ read it;but it is a dead letter, and he is gone.”
There were no tears, the blow had been too heavy. It was only Aiméewho had tears to shed, and it was Dolly who tried to console her in astrained, weary sort of way.
“Don’t cry,” she said, “it is all over now. Perhaps the worst part ofthe pain is past. There will be no house at Putney, and the solitaryrose-bush will bloom for some one else; they may sell the green sofa,now, as cheap as they will, we shall never buy it. Our seven years ofwaiting have all ended in a dead letter.”