CHAPTER XVI. ~ IF YOU SHOULD DIE.
THE postman paid frequent visits to Bloomsbury Place during these summerweeks. At first Dolly wrote often herself, but later it seemed tofall to Miss MacDowlas to answer Aimée’s weekly letters and Mollie’sfortnightly ones. And that lady was a faithful correspondent, and didher duty as readily as was possible, giving all the news, and recordingall Dolly’s messages, and issuing regular bulletins on the subject ofher health. “Your sister,” she sometimes wrote, “is not so well, and Ihave persuaded her to allow me to be her amanuensis.” Or, “Your sisteris tired after a rather long drive, and I have persuaded her torest while I write at her dictation.” Or sometimes, “Dolly is ratherstronger, and is in excellent spirits, but I do not wish her to exertherself at present.” But at length a new element crept into theseletters. The cheerful tone gave way to a more dubious one; Dolly’swhimsical messages were fewer and farther between, and sometimes MissMacDowlas seemed to be on the verge of hinting that her condition wasa weaker and more precarious one than even she herself had at firstfeared.
Ralph Gowan, on making his friendly calls, and hearing this, was bothanxious and puzzled. In a very short time after his return he hadawakened to a recognition of some mysterious shadow upon the household.Vagabondia had lost its spirits. Mrs. Phil and her husband werealmost thoughtful; Tod disported himself unregarded and unadmired,comparatively speaking; Mollie seemed half frightened by the aspectaffairs were wearing; and Aimee’s wise, round face had an older look.And then these letters! Dolly “trying Switzerland” for her health, Dollymysteriously ill and far away from home,--too weak sometimes to write.Dolly, who had never seemed to have a weakness; who had entered thelists against even Lady Augusta, and had come off victorious; whohad been mock-worldly, and coquettish, and daring; who had made openonslaught upon eligible Philistines; who had angled prettily and withsinful success for ineligible Bohemians! What did it mean? And where wasDonne? Certainly he was never to be seen at Bloomsbury Place or in itsvicinity in these days.
But, deeply interested as he was, Gowan was not the man to askquestions; so he could only wait until chance brought the truth tolight.
He came to the house upon one occasion and found Aimée crying quietlyover one of Miss MacDowlas’s letters in the parlor, and in his sympathyhe felt compelled to speak openly to her.
Then Aimée, heavy of heart and full of despairing grief, handed him theletter to read.
“I have known it would be so--from the first,” she sobbed. “We are goingto lose her. Perhaps she will not live to come home again.”
“You mean Dolly?” he said.
“Yes,” hysterically. “Miss MacDowlas says--” But she could get nofurther.
This was what Miss MacDowlas said:--
“I cannot think it would be right to hide from you that your sister isvery ill, though she does not complain, and persists in treating herincreasing weakness lightly. Indeed, I am sure that she herself doesnot comprehend her danger. I am inclined to believe that it has notyet occurred to her that she is in danger at all. She protests that shecannot be ill so long as she does not suffer; but I, who have watchedher day by day, can see only too plainly where the danger lies. And so Ithink it best to warn you to be prepared to come to us at once if at anytime I should send for you hurriedly.”
“Prepared to go to them!” commented Aimée. “What does that mean? Whatcan it mean but that our own Dolly is dying, and may slip out of theworld away from us at any moment? Oh, Grif! Grif! what have you done?”
Gowan closed the letter.
“Miss Aimée,” he said, “where _is_ Donne?”
Aimée fairly wrung her hands.
“I don’t know,” she quite wailed. “If I only did--if I only knew where Icould find him!”
“You don’t know!” exclaimed Gowan. “And Dolly dying in Switzerland!”
“That is it,” she returned. “That is what it all means. If any of usknew--or if Dolly knew, she would not be dying in Switzerland. It isbecause she does not know, that she is dying. She has never seen himsince the night you brought Mollie home. And--and she cannot livewithout him.”
The whole story was told in very few words after this; and Gowan,listening, began to understand what the cloud upon the house had meant.He suffered some sharp enough pangs through the discovery, too. The lastfrail cords that had bound him to hope snapped as Aimée poured out hersorrows. He had never been very sanguine of success, but even afterhoping against hope, his tender fancy for Dolly Crewe had died a verylingering death; indeed, it was not quite dead yet, but he was beginningto comprehend this old love story more fully, and he had found himselfforced to do his rival greater justice. He could not see his virtues asthe rest saw them, of course, but he was generous enough to pity him,and see that his lot had been a terribly hard one.
“There is only one thing to be done,” he said, when Aimée had finishedspeaking. “We must find him.”
“Find him! We cannot find him.”
“That remains to be proved,” he answered. “Have you been to hislodgings?”
“Yes,” mournfully. “And even to the office! He left his lodgings thatvery night, paid his bills, and drove away in a cab with his trunk.Poor Grif! It was n’t a very big trunk. He went to the office the nextmorning, and told Mr. Flynn he was going to leave London, and one ofthe clerks told Phil there was a ‘row’ between them. Mr. Flynn was angrybecause he had not given due notice of his intention. That is all weknow.”
“And you have not the slightest clew beyond this?”
“Not the slightest. He spent all his spare time with Dolly, you know;so there is not even any place of resort, or club, or anything, where wemight go to make inquiries about him.”
Gowan’s countenance fell. He felt the girl’s distress keenly, apart fromhis own pain.
“The whole affair seems very much against us,” he said; “but he may--Isay he _may_ be in London still. I am inclined to believe he is myself.When the first passion of excitement was over, he would find himselfweaker than he fancied he was. It would not be so easy to cut himselfoff from the old life altogether. He would long so inexpressibly tosee Dolly again that he could not tear himself away. I think we maybe assured that even if he is not in London, at least he has not leftEngland.”
“That was what I have been afraid of,” said Aimée, “that he might haveleft England altogether.”
“I cannot think he has,” Gowan returned.
They were both silent for a moment. Aimée sat twisting Miss MacDowlas’sletter in her fingers, fresh tears gathering in her eyes.
“It is all the harder to bear,” she said next, “because Dolly has alwaysseemed so much of a _reality_ to us. If she had been a pale, etherealsort of girl, it might not seem such a shock; but she never was. Sheeven used to say she could not bear those frail, ethereal people inbooks, who were always dying and saying touching things just at theproper time, and who knew exactly when to call up their agonized friendsto their bedside to see how pathetically and decorously they made theirexit. Oh, my poor darling! To think that she should be fading away anddying just in the same way! I cannot make it seem real. I cannot thinkof her without her color, and her jokes, and her bits of acting, and herlittle vanities. She will not be our Dolly at all if they have left her.There is a dress of hers up-stairs now,--a dress she couldn’t bear.And I remember so well how she lost her temper when she was making it,because it would n’t fit. And when I went into the parlor she was cryingover it, and Grif was trying so hard to console her that at lastshe laughed. I can see her now, with the tears in her eyes, lookinghalf-vexed and half-comforted. And Tod, too,--how fond she was of Tod,and how proud of him! Ah, Tod,” in a fresh burst, “when you grow up,the daisies may have been growing for many a year over poor little AuntDolly, and you will have forgotten her quite.”
“You must not look at the matter in that desponding way,” said Gowan,quite unsteadily. “We must hope for the best, and do what we can. Youmay rely upon me to exert myself to the utm
ost. If we succeed infinding Donne I am sure that he will do the rest. Perhaps, next summerVagabondia will be as bright as ever,--nay, even brighter than it hasbeen before.”
All his sympathies were enlisted, and, hopeless as the task seemed, hehad determined to make strenuous efforts to trace this lost lover. Menhad concealed themselves from their friends, in the world of London,often before, and this, he felt sure, Griffith Donne was doing; andsince this poor little impassioned, much-tried Dolly was dying in spiteof herself for Griffith Donne’s sake, and seemed only to be saved by hispresence, he must even set himself the task of bringing him to light andclearing up this miserable misunderstanding. Having been Dolly Crewe’slover, he was still generous enough to wish to prove himself her friend;yes, and even her luckier lover’s friend, though he winced a trifle atthe thought. Accordingly, he left the house that night with his mindfull of half-formed plans, both feasible and otherwise.
During the remainder of that week he did not call at Bloomsbury Placeagain, but at the beginning of the next he made his appearance, bringingwith him a piece of news which excited Aimee terribly.
“I know I shall startle you,” he said, the moment they were alonetogether, “but you can scarcely be more startled than I was myself. Ihave been on the lookout constantly, but I did not expect to be rewardedby success so soon. Indeed, as it is, it has been entirely a matter ofchance. It is as I felt sure it would be. Donne is in London still.I know that much, though that is all I have learned as yet. Late lastnight I caught a glimpse--only a glimpse--of him hurrying through aby-street. I almost fancied he had seen me and was determined to get outof the way.”
“The pretty English girl,” said the guests at the inn, “comes down nolonger to the _table d’hôte!_” “The pretty English girl,” remarked thewiseacres, “does not even drive out on these days, and the doctor callsevery morning to see her.”
“And sometimes,” added one of the wisest, “again in the evening.”
“Consumption,” observed another.
“Plainly consumption,” nodding significantly. “These English frauleinsare so often consumptive,” commented a third. “It is astonishing toremark how many come to ‘try Switzerland,’ as they say.”
“And die?”
“And die,--as this one will.”
“Poor little thing!” with a sigh and a pitying shrug of the shoulders.
And in the meantime up-stairs the basket chair had been taken away fromthe window, and a large-cushioned, chintz-covered couch had been pushedinto its place, and Dolly lay upon it. But luxurious as her couch was,and balmy as the air was, coming through the widely opened window, shedid not find much rest. The fact was, she was past rest by this time,she was too weak to rest. The hot days tried her, and her sleeplessnights undermined even her last feeble relic of strength. Sometimesduring the day she felt that she could not lie propped up on the pillowsa moment longer; but when she tried to stand or sit up she was gladto drop back again into the old place. She lost her breath fearfullysoon,--the least exertion left her panting.
“If I had a cough,” she said once to Miss MacDowlas, “I could understandthat I was ill--or if I suffered any actual pain, but I don’t, and eventhe doctor admits that my lungs are safe enough. What is it that he saysabout me? Let me see. Ah, this is it: that I am ‘below par--fearfullybelow par,’ as if I was gold, or notes, or bonds, or something. My ideason the subject of the money market are indefinite, you see. Ah, well; Iwonder when I shall be ‘above par’!”
She never spoke of her ailments in any other strain. Even as she layon her couch, too prostrate to either read or work, she made audacioussatirical speeches, and told Miss MacDowlas stories of Vagabondia, justas she used to tell them to Grif himself, only that in these days shecould not get up to flourish illustratively; and often after lying foran hour or so in a dead, heavy, exhausting day-sleep, she opened hereyes at last, to jest about her faithful discharge of her duties ascompanion. Only she herself knew of the fierce battles she so oftenfought in secret, when her sore, aching heart cried out so loud for Grifand would not--_would_ not be comforted.
She saw Phemie frequently. The much-abused professor had proved himselfa faithful friend to them. He had never been quite able to forget thelittle English governess, who had so won upon him in the past, eventhough this same young lady, in her anxiety to set Lady Augusta atdefiance, had treated him somewhat cavalierly. Indeed, hearing that shewas ill, he was so touched as to be quite overwhelmed with grief.He gained Euphemia frequent leaves of absence, and sent messages ofcondolence and bouquets,--huge bunches of flowers which made Dolly laugheven while they pleased her. There was always a bouquet, stiff in formand gigantic in proportions, when Phemie came.
At first Phemie caught the contagion of Dolly’s own spirit andhopefulness, and was sustained by it in spite of appearances; but itsinfluence died out at the end of a few weeks, and even she was not to bedeceived. An awful fear began to force itself upon her,--a fear doublyawful to poor, susceptible Phemie. Dolly was getting no better; she waseven getting worse every day; she could not sit up; she was thinner andlarger-eyed than ever. Was something going to happen? And at the merethought of that possible something she would lose her breath and sitlooking at Dolly, silent, wondering, and awe-stricken. She began toponder over this something, as she tried to learn her lessons; shethought of it as she went to bed and she dreamed of it in the night.Sometimes when she came in unexpectedly and found Dolly in one of thoseprostrate sleeps, she was so frightened that she could have cried outaloud.
She came in so one evening at twilight,--the professor had brought herhimself and had promised to escort her home,--and she found Dolly in oneof these sleeps. So, treading lightly, she put the bouquet in water, andthen drew a low chair to the girl’s side and sat down to watch and waituntil she should awaken. Miss MacDowlas was in her own room writingto Aimée; so the place seemed very quiet, and it was its quietness,perhaps, which so stirred Phemie to sorrowful thoughts and fear.
Upon her brightly flowered chintz cushions Dolly lay like the shadowof her former self. The once soft, round outlines of her face hadgrown clear and sharp-cut, the delicate chin had lost its dimple, thetransparent skin upon the temples showed a tracery of blue veins, theclosed eyelids had a strange whiteness and lay upon her eyes heavily.She did not move,--she seemed scarcely to breathe. Phemie caught her ownbreath and held it, lest it should break from her in a sob of grief andterror.
This something awful _was_ going to happen! She could not recoverherself even when Dolly wakened and began to talk to her. She could notthink of anything but her own anguish and pity for her friend. She couldnot talk and was so silent, indeed, that Dolly became silent too; andso, as the dusk fell upon them, they sat together in a novel quiet,listening to a band of strolling musicians, who were playing somewherein the distance, and the sound of whose instruments floated to them,softened and made plaintive by the evening air.
At last Dolly broke the silence.
“You are very quiet, Phemie,” she said. “Are you going to sleep?”
“No,” faltered Phemie, drawing closer to her. “I am thinking.”
“Thinking. What about?”
“About you. Dolly, do you--are you very ill--worse than you were?”
“Very ill!” repeated Dolly, slowly, as if in wonder. “Worse than I was!Why do you ask?”
Then Phemie lost self-control altogether. She left her seat and felldown by the couch, bursting into tears.
“You are so altered,” she said; “and you alter so much every week. Icried over your poor, thin little hands when first I came to see you,but now your wrist looks as if it would snap in two. Oh, Dolly, darling,if--if you should die!”
Was it quite a new thought, or was it because it had never come home toher in such a form before, this thought of Death? She started as if shehad been stung.
“If I should die!” she echoed. “_Die!_”
“Phemie, my dear,” said Miss MacDowlas, opening the door, “the professoris waiting
down-stairs.”
And so, having let her sorrow get the better of her, Phemie had no timeto stay to see if her indiscretion had done harm. If she did not gonow, she might not be allowed fresh grace; and so she was fain to tearherself away.
“I ought n’t to have said it!” she bewailed, as she kissed Dolly againand again. “Please forget it; oh, do, please, forget it! I did not meanit, indeed! And now I shall be so frightened and unhappy!”
“Phemie,” said Dolly, quietly, “you have not frightened _me_; so youhaven’t the least need to trouble yourself, my dear.”
But she was not exactly sorry to be left alone, and when she was aloneher thoughts wandered back to that first evening Phemie had called,--theevening she had gone to the glass to look at her changed face. She hadsat in the basket-chair then,--she lay back upon her cushions now, anda crowd of new thoughts came trooping through her mind. The soft air wasscented and balmy; the twilight sky was a dome of purple, jewel-hung;people’s voices came murmuring from the gardens below; the far-off musicfloated to her through the window.
“If I should _die!_” she said, in a wondering whisper,--“I, Dolly Crewe!How strange it sounds! Have I never thought that I could die before, oris it strange because now it is so real and near? When I used to talkabout death to Grif, it always seemed so far away from both of us; itseemed to me as if I was not good enough or unreal enough to be nearto Death,--great, solemn Death itself. Why, I could look at myself, andwonder at the thought of how much I shall see and know if I should die.Grif, how much I should have to tell you, dear,--only that people arealways afraid of spirits, and perhaps you would be afraid, too,--even ofme! What would they say at home? Dear, old, broken-hearted fellow, whatwould _you_ say, if I should die?”
She could not help thinking about those at home; about Aimée and Mollieand Phil and Toinette, sitting together in the dear old littered room atBloomsbury Place,--the dear old untidy room, where she had sat with Grifso often! How would they all bear it when the letter came to tell themshe was gone, and would never be with them and share their pleasures andtroubles again! And then, strangely enough, she began to picture herselfas she would look; perhaps, laid out in this very room, a dimly outlinedfigure, under a white sheet,--not her old self, but a solemn, wondrousmarble form, before whose motionless, mysterious presence they wouldfeel awed.
“And they would turn down the white covering and look at me,” she foundherself saying. “And they would wonder at me, and feel that I was faraway. Oh, how they would wonder at me! And, at the very last, beforethey hid my face forever under the coffin-lid, they would all kiss mein that tender, solemn way,--all but Grif, who loved me best; and Grifwould not be there!”
And the piteous rain of heavy tears that rolled down her cheeks, andfell upon her pillow, was not for herself,--not for her own pain andweariness and anguish,--not’ for the white, worn face, that would beshut beneath the coffin-lid, but for Grif,--for Grif,--for Grif, who,coming back some day to learn the truth, might hear that she had died!