Vagabondia

  CHAPTER XIV. ~ SEVEN LONG YEARS, BELOVED, SEVEN LONG YEARS.

  AND so Grif disappeared from the haunts of Vagabondia, and was seen nomore. And to Aimée was left the delicate task of explaining the causeof his absence, which, it must be said, she did in a manner at oncecreditable to her tact and affection for both Dolly and the unconsciouscause of all her misery.

  “There has been a misunderstanding,” she said, “which was no faultof Dolly’s, and scarcely a fault of Grif’s; and it has ended veryunhappily, and Grif has gone away, and just at present it seems as ifeverything was over,--but I can’t help hoping it is not so bad as that.”

  “Oh, he will come back again--safe enough,” commented Phil,philosophically, holding paint-brush No. 1 in his mouth, while hemanipulated with No. 2. “He will come back in sackcloth and ashes; he isjust that sort, you know,--thunder and lightning, fire and tow. And theywill make it up ecstatically in secret, and pretend that nothing hasbeen the matter, and there will be no going into the parlor for weekswithout whistling all the way across the hall.”

  “I always go in backward after they have had a quarrel,” said Mollie,looking up from a half-made pinafore of Tod’s, which, in the zeal of herrepentance, she had decided on finishing.

  “Not a bad plan, either,” said Phil “We all know how _their_ differencesof opinion terminate. As to matters being at an end between them, thatis all nonsense; they could n’t live without each other six months.Dolly would take to unbecoming bonnets, and begin to neglect her backhair, and Grif would take to prussic acid or absinthe.”

  “Well, I hope he _will_ come back,” said Aimée; “but, in the meantime, Iwant to ask you to let the affair rest altogether, and not say a word toDolly when she comes. It will be the kindest thing you can do. Just letthings go on as they have always done, and ignore every thing new youmay see.”

  Phil looked up from his easel in sudden surprise; something in hervoice startled him, serenely as he was apt to view all unexpectedintelligence.

  “I say,” he broke out, “you don’t mean that Dolly is very much cut upabout it?”

  The fair little oracle hesitated; remembering Dolly’s passionate despairand grief over that “dead letter,” she could scarcely trust herself tospeak.

  “Yes,” she answered at last, feeling it would be best only to commitherself in Phil’s own words, “she is very much cut up.”

  “Whew!” whistled Phil; “that is worse than I thought!” And the matterended in his going back to his picture and painting furiously for a fewminutes, with an almost reflective air.

  They did not see anything of Dolly for weeks. She wrote to them now andthen, but she did not pay another visit to Bloomsbury Place. It wasnot the old home to her now, and she dreaded seeing it in its newaspect,--the aspect which was desolate of Grif. Most of her letterscame to Aimée; but she rarely referred to her trouble, rather seeming toavoid it than otherwise. And the letters themselves were bright enough,seeming, too. She had plenty to say about Miss MacDowlas and theirvisitors and her own duties; indeed, any one but Aimée would have beenpuzzled by her courage and apparent good spirits. But Aimée saw belowthe surface, and understood, and, understanding, was fonder of her thanever.

  As both Dolly and herself had expected, Mollie did not keep her secretfrom the oracle many weeks. It was too much for her to bear alone, andone night, in a fit of candor and remorse, she poured out everythingfrom first to last, all her simple and unsophisticated dreams ofgrandeur, all her gullibility, all her danger,--everything, indeed, butthe story of her pitiful little fancy for Ralph Gowan. She could notgive that up, even to Aimée, though at the close of her confidence shewas unable to help referring to him.

  “And as to Mr. Gowan,” she said, “how can I ever speak to him again!but, perhaps, he would not speak to me. He must think I am wicked andbold and hardened--and bad,” with a fresh sob at every adjective. “Oh,dear! oh, dear!” burying her face in Aimée’s lap, “if I had only stayedat home and been good, like you. He could have respected me, at least,couldn’t he? And now--oh, what am I to do!”

  Aimée could not help sighing. If she only _had_ stayed at home, how muchhappier they all might have been! But she had promised Dolly not to addto her unhappiness by hinting at the truth, so she kept her own counsel.

  It was fully three months before they saw Ralph Gowan again. He had goneon the Continent, they heard. A feeling of delicacy had prompted thejourney. As long as he remained in London, he could scarcely drop outof his old friendly position at Bloomsbury Place, and he felt that fora while at least Mollie would scarcely find it easy to face him. So hewent away and rambled about until he thought she would have time to getover her first embarrassment.

  But at the end of the three months he came back, and one afternoonsurprised them all by appearing amongst them again. Mollie, sittingperseveringly at work over her penitential sewing, shrank a little,and dropped her eyelids when he came in, but she managed to behavewith creditable evenness of manner after all, and the rest welcomed himwarmly.

  “I have been to Brabazon Lodge,” he said at length to Aimée. “I spentMonday evening there, and was startled at the change I found in yoursister. I did not know she was ill.”

  Aimée started herself, and looked up at him with a frightened face.

  “Ill!” she said. “Did you say ill?”

  It was his turn to be surprised then.

  “I thought her looking ill,” he answered. “She seemed to me to be bothpaler and thinner. But you must not let me alarm you,--I thought, ofcourse, that you would know.”

  “She has never mentioned it in her letters,” Aimée said. “And she hasnot been home for three months, so we have not seen her.”

  “Don’t let me give you a false impression,” returned Gowan, eagerly.“She seemed in excellent spirits, and was quite her old self; indeed, Iscarcely should imagine that she herself placed sufficient stress uponthe state of her health. She insisted that she was well when I spoke toher about it.”

  “I am very glad you told me,” answered Aimée. “She is too indifferentsometimes. I am afraid she would not have let us know. I thank you, verymuch.”

  He had other thanks before he left the house. As he was going out,Mollie, in her character of porteress, opened the hall door forhim, and, having opened it, stood there with Tod’s new garmenthalf concealed, a pair of timid eyes uplifted to his face, a small,trembling, feverish hand held out.

  “Mr. Gowan,” she said, in a low, fluttering voice. “Oh, if you please--”

  He took the little hot hand, feeling some tender remorse for not havingtried to draw her out more and help her out of her painful shyness andrestraint.

  “What is it, Mollie?” he asked.

  “I want--I want,” fluttering all over,--“I want to thank you better thanI did that--that dreadful night. I was so frightened I could scarcelyunderstand. I understand more--now--and I want to tell you how gratefulI am--and how grateful I shall be until I die--and I want to ask you totry not to think I was very wicked. I did not mean to be wicked--I wasonly vain and silly, and I thought it would be such a grand thing to--tohave plenty of new dresses,” hanging her sweet, humble face, “and towear diamonds, and be Lady Chandos, if--if Mr. Chandos came into thetitle. Of course that was wicked, but it was n’t--I was n’t as bad as Iseemed. I was so vain that--that I was quite sure he loved me, and wouldbe very glad if I married him. He always said he would.” And the tearsrolled fast down her cheeks.

  “Poor Mollie!” said Gowan, patting the trembling hand as if it had beena baby’s. “Poor child!”

  “But,” Mollie struggled on, penitently, “I shall never be so foolishagain. And I am going to try to be good--like Aimée. I am learning tomend things; and I am beginning to make things for Tod. This,” holdingup her work as proof, “is a dress for him. It is n’t very well done,” with innocent dubiousness; “but Aimée says I am improving. And so, ifyou please, would you be so kind as not to think quite so badly of me?”

  It was all so humb
le and pretty and remorseful that he was quitetouched by it. That old temptation to kiss and console her made itquite dangerous for him to linger. She was such a lovable sight with hertear-wet cheeks, and that dubious but faithfully worked-at garment ofTod’s in her hand.

  “Mollie,” he said, “will you believe what I say to you?”

  “Oh, yes!” eagerly.

  “Then I say to you that I never believed you wicked for an instant,--notfor one instant; and now I believe it less than ever; on the contrary,I believe you are a good, honest little creature. Let us forget GeraldChandos,--he is not worth remembering. And go on with Tod’s pinaforesand dresses, my dear, and don’t be discouraged if they are a failure atfirst,--though to my eyes that dress is a most sumptuous affair. Andas to being like Aimée, you cannot be like any one better and wiser andsweeter than that same little maiden. There! I mean every word I havesaid.”

  “Are you sure?” faltered Mollie.

  “Yes,” he replied, “quite sure.”

  He shook hands with her, and, bidding her goodnight, left her standingin the narrow hall all aglow with joy. And he, outside, was communingwith himself as he walked away.

  “She is as sweet in her way as--as the other,” he was saying. “And aswell worth loving. And what a face she has, if one only saw it with alover’s eyes! What a face she has, even seeing it with such impartialeyes as mine!”

  “My dear Dolly!” said Aimée.

  “My dear Aimée!” said Dolly.

  These were the first words the two exchanged when, the evening afterRalph Gowan’s visit, the anxious young oracle presented herself atBrabazon Lodge, and was handed into Dolly’s bedroom.

  Visitors were expected, and Dolly had been dressing, and was justputting the finishing touches to her toilet when Aimée came in, and,seeing her as she turned from the glass to greet her, the wise one couldscarcely speak, and, even after she had been kissed most heartily, couldonly hold the girl’s hand and stand looking up into her changed face,feeling almost shocked.

  “Oh, dear me, Dolly!” she said again. “Oh, my dear, what have you beendoing to yourself?”

  “Doing!” echoed Dolly, just as she would have spoken three or fourmonths ago. “I have been doing nothing, and rather enjoying it. What isthe matter with me?” glancing into the mirror. “Pale? That is the resultof Miss MacDowlas’s beneficence, you see. She has presented me with thisgrand black silk gown, and it makes me look pale. Black always did, youknow.”

  But notwithstanding her readiness of speech, it did not need anotherglance to understand what Ralph Gowan had meant when he said that shewas altered. The lustreless heavy folds of her black silk might contrastsharply with her white skin, but they could not bring about that subtle,almost incomprehensible change in her whole appearance. It was such asubtle change that it was difficult to comprehend. The round, lissomefigure she had always been so pardonably vain about, and Grif had soadmired, had fallen a little, giving just a hint at a greater changewhich might show itself sooner or later; her face seemed a trifle moreclearly cut than it ought to have been, and the slender throat, set inits surrounding Elizabethan frill of white, seemed more slender thanit had used to be. Each change was slight enough in itself, but alltogether gave a shadowy suggestion of alteration to affectionately quickeyes.

  “You are ill,” said Aimée. “And you never told me. It was wrong of you.Don’t tell me it is your black dress; your eyes are too big and brightfor any one who is well, and your hand is thinner than it ever wasbefore. Why, I can feel the difference as I hold it, and it is asfeverish as it can be.”

  “You good, silly little thing!” said Dolly, laughing. “I am not ill atall. I have caught a cold, perhaps, but that is all.”

  “No you have not,” contradicted Aimée, with pitiful sharpness. “You havenot caught cold, and you must not tell me so. You are ill, and you havebeen ill for weeks. The worst of colds could never make you look likethis. Mr. Gowan might well be startled and wonder--”

  “Mr. Gowan!” Dolly interrupted her. “Did _he_ say that he was startled?”

  “Yes, he did,” Aimée answered. “And that was what brought me here. Hewas at Bloomsbury Place last night and told me all about you, and I madeup my mind that minute that I would come and judge for myself.”

  Then the girl gave in. She sat down on a chair by the dressing-tableand rested her forehead on her hand, laughing faintly, as if in protestagainst her own subjugation.

  “Then I shall have to submit,” she said. “The fact is, I sometimes fancyI do feel weaker than I ought to. It is n’t like me to be weak. Iwas always so strong, you know,--stronger than all the rest of you,I thought. Miss MacDowlas says I do not look well. I suppose,” with ahalf-sigh, “that every one will see it soon. Aimée,” hesitating, “don’ttell them at home.”

  Aimée slipped an arm around her, and drew her head--dressed in all theold elaborateness of pretty coils and braids--upon her own shoulder.

  “Darling,” she whispered, trying to restrain her tears, “I must tellthem at home, because I must take you home to be nursed.”

  “No, no!” said Dolly, starting, “that would never do. It would neverdo even to think of it. I am not so ill as that,--not ill enough to benursed. Besides,” her voice sinking all at once, “I could n’t go home,Aimée,--I could not bear to go home now. That is why I have stayed awayso long. I believe it would _kill_ me!”

  It was impossible for Aimée to hear this and be silent longer. She had,indeed, only been waiting for some reference to the past.

  “I knew it was that,” she cried. “I knew it the moment Mr. Gowan toldme. And I have feared it from the first. Nothing but that could havebroken you down like this. Dolly, if Grif could see you now, he wouldgive his heart’s blood to undo what he has done.”

  The pale little hands lying upon the black dress began to tremble in astrange, piteous weakness.

  “One cannot forget so much in so short a time,” Dolly pleaded. “And itis so much,--more than even you think. One cannot forget seven years inthree months,--give me seven months, Aimée. I shall be better in time,when I have forgotten.”

  Forgotten! Even those far duller of perception than Aimée could haveseen that she would not soon forget. She had not begun in the right wayto forget. The pain which had made the pretty figure and the soft, roundface look faintly worn, was sharper to-day than it had been even threemonths before, and it was gaining in sharpness every day, nay, everyhour.

  “The days are so long,” she said, plaiting the silk of her dress on-therestless hands. “We are so quiet, except when we have visitors, andsomehow visitors begin to tire me. I scarcely ever knew what it wasto be tired before. I don’t care even to scatter the Philistines now,” trying to smile. “I am not even roused by the prospect of meeting LadyAugusta tonight. I forgot to tell you she was coming, did n’t I? How shewould triumph if she knew how I have fallen and--and how miserable Iam! She used to say I had not a thought above the cut of my dresses. Shenever knew about--_him_, poor fellow!”

  It was curious to see how she still clung to that tender old pitying wayof speaking of Grif.

  Aimee began to cry over her again.

  “You must come home, Dolly,” she said. “You must, indeed. You will getworse and worse if you stay here. I will speak to Miss MacDowlas myself.You say she is kind to you.”

  “Dear little woman,” said Dolly, closing her eyes as she let her headrest upon the girl’s shoulder. “Dear, kind little woman! indeed it willbe best for me to stay here. It is as I said,--indeed it is. If I wereto go home I should _die!_ Oh, don’t you _know_ how cruel it would be!To sit there in my chair and see his old place empty,--to sit andhear the people passing in the street and know I should never hear hisfootstep again,--to see the door open again and again, and know he wouldnever, never pass through. It would break my heart,--it would break myheart!”

  “It is broken now!” cried Aimée, in a burst of grief, and she couldprotest no more.

  But she remained as long as she well
could, petting and talking to her.She knew better than to offer her threadbare commonplace comfort, soshe took refuge in talking of life at Bloomsbury Place,--about Tod andMollie and Toinette, and the new picture Phil was at work upon. But itwas a hard matter for her to control herself sufficiently to concealthat she was almost in an agony of anxiousness and foreboding. What wasshe to do with this sadly altered Dolly, the mainspring of whose bright,spirited life was gone? How was she to help her if she could not restoreGrif,--it was only Grif she wanted,--and where was he? It was justas she had always said it would be,--without Grif, Dolly was Dollyno longer,--for Grif’s sake her faithful, passionate girl’s heart wasbreaking slowly.

  Lady Augusta, encountering her ex-governess in the drawing-room thatevening, raised her eyeglass to that noble feature, her nose, andcondescended a questioning inspection, full of disapproval of the heavy,well-falling black silk and the Elizabethan frill.

  “You are looking shockingly pale and thin,” she said.

  Dolly glanced at her reflection in an adjacent mirror. She only smiledfaintly, in silence.

  “I was not aware that you were ill,” proceeded her ladyship.

  “I cannot say that I am ill,” Dolly answered. “How is Phemie?”

  “Euphemia,” announced Lady Augusta, “is well, and I _trust_” as if sherather doubted her having so far overcome old influences of an evilnature,--“I _trust_ improving, though I regret to hear from herpreceptress that she is singularly deficient in application to hermusical lessons.”

  Dolly thought of the professor with the lumpy face, and smiled again.Phemie’s despairing letters to herself sufficiently explained why herprogress was so slow.

  “I hope,” said her ladyship to Miss MacDowlas, afterward, “that youare satisfied with Dorothea’s manner of filling her position in yourhousehold.”

  “I never was so thoroughly satisfied in my life,” returned the old lady,stiffly. “She is a very quickwitted, pleasantly natured girl, and I amextremely fond of her.”

  “Ah,” waving a majestic and unbending fan of carved ivory. “She haspossibly improved then. I observe that she is going off very much,--inthe matter of looks, I mean.”

  “I heard a gentleman remark, a few minutes ago,” replied Miss MacDowlas,“that the girl looked like a white rose, and I quite agreed with him;but I am fond of her, as I said, and you are not.”

  Her ladyship shuddered faintly, but she did not make any furthercomment, perhaps feeling that her hostess was too powerful to encounter.

  At midnight the visitors went their several ways, and after they haddispersed and the rooms were quiet once again, Miss MacDowlas sent hercompanion to bed, or, at least, bade her good-night.

  “You had better go at once,” she said. “I will remain to give orders tothe servants. You look tired. The excitement has been too much for you.”

  So Dolly thanked her and left the room; but Miss MacDowlas did not hearher ascend the stairs, and accordingly, after listening a moment or so,went to the room door and looked out into the hall. And right at thefoot of the staircase lay Dolly Crewe, the lustreless, trailing blackdress making her skin seem white as marble, her pretty face turned halfdownward upon her arm.

  Half an hour later the girl returned to consciousness to find herselflying comfortably in bed, the chamber empty save for herself and MissMacDowlas, who was standing at her side watching her.

  “Better?” she said. “That is right, my dear. The evening was too muchfor you, as I was afraid it would be. You are not as strong as youshould be.”

  “No,” Dolly answered, quietly.

  There was a silence of a few minutes, during which she closed her eyesagain; but she heard Miss MacDowlas fidgeting a little, and at last sheheard her speak.

  “My dear,” she said, “I think I ought to tell you something. When youfell, I suppose you must somehow or other have pressed the spring ofyour locket, for it was open when I went to you, and--I saw the faceinside it.”

  “Grif,” said Dolly, in a tired voice, “Grif.”

  And then she remembered how she had written to him about what this very_dénouement_ would be when it came. How strange, how wearily strange, itwas to think that it should come about in such a way as this!

  “My nephew,” said Miss MacDowlas. “Griffith Donne.”

  “Yes,” said Dolly, briefly. “I was engaged to him.”

  “Was!” echoed Miss MacDowlas. “Did he behave badly to you, my dear?”

  “No, I behaved badly to him--and that is why I am ill.”

  Miss MacDowlas blew her nose.

  “How long?” she asked, at length. “May I ask how long you were engagedto each other, my dear? Don’t answer me if you do not wish.”

  “I was engaged to him,” faltered the girlish voice,--“we were all theworld to each other for seven years--for seven long years.”