Vagabondia

  CHAPTER XVII. ~ DO YOU KNOW THAT SHE IS DYING?

  IT had come at last,--the letter from Geneva, for which they all hadwaited with such anxious hearts and so much of dread. The postman,bringing it by the morning’s delivery, and handing it through the openeddoor to Aimée, had wondered a little at her excited manner,--she wasalways excited when these letters came; and the moment she had enteredthe parlor, holding the hurriedly read note,--it was scarcely more thana note,--there was not one of them who did not understand all before shespoke.

  Mrs. Phil burst into tears; Phil himself laid down his brush and changedcolor; Mollie silently clung to Tod as a refuge, and looked up withtrembling lips.

  Mrs. Phil was the first to speak.

  “You may as well tell us the worst,” she said; “but it is easy enough toguess what it is, without being told.”

  “It is almost the _very_ worst,” answered Aimée.

  “Miss MacDowlas wants me to go to them at once. _She_ is so ill that ifa change does not take place, she will not live many weeks, and she hasasked for me.”

  They all knew only too well that “she” meant Dolly.

  “Then,” said Phil, “you must go at once.”

  “I can go to-day,” she answered. “I knew it would come to this, and I amready to leave London at any moment.”

  There was no delay. Her small box was even then ready packed and cordedfor the journey. She had taken Miss MacDowlas’s warning in time. Itwould not have been like this heavy-hearted wise one to disregard it.She would have been ready to go to Dolly at ten minutes’ notice, if shehad been in India. She was not afraid, either, of making the journeyalone. It was not a very terrible journey, she said. Secretly, she had afancy that perhaps Dolly would like to see her by herself first, to havea few quiet days alone with her, in which she could become used to theidea of the farewell the rest would come to say. And in her mind thepoor little oracle had another fancy, too, and this fancy she confidedto Mollie before bidding her good-by.

  “Mollie,” she said, “I am going to leave a charge in your hands.”

  “Is it anything about Dolly?” asked Mollie, making fruitless efforts tocheck her affectionate tears.

  “I wish you would leave me something to do for Dolly, Aimée.”

  “It is something connected with Dolly;” returned Aimée. “I want you tokeep constantly on the watch for Griffith.”

  “For Griffith!” Mollie exclaimed. “How can I, when I don’t know whetherhe is in England or not?”

  “He is in England,” Aimée replied. “He is in London, for Mr. Gowan hasseen him.”

  “In London--and Dolly in Switzerland, perhaps dying!”

  “He does not know that, or he would have been with her before now,” saidAimée. “Once let him know that she is ill, and he will be with her. Iknow him well enough to be sure of that. And it is my impression that ifhe went to her at the eleventh hour, when she might seem to us to be atthe very last, he would bring her back to life. It is Grif she is dyingfor, and only Grif can save her.”

  “And what do you want me to do?” anxiously.

  “To watch for him constantly, as I said. Don’t _you_ think, Mollie,that he might come back, if it were only into the street to look at thehouse, in a restless sort of remembrance of the time when they used tobe so happy?”

  “It would not be unlike him,” answered Mollie, slowly. “He was very fondof Dolly. Oh, he was very fond of her!”

  “Fond of her! He loved her better than his life, and does still,wherever he may be. Something tells me he will come, and that is whyI want you to watch. Watch at the window as constantly as you can, butmore particularly at dusk; and if you should see him, Mollie, don’t waita second. Run out to him, and _make_ him listen to you. Ah, poor fellow,he will listen eagerly and penitently enough, if you only say to himthat Dolly is dying.”

  “Very well,” said Mollie, “I will remember.” And thus the wise one tookher departure.

  It was twilight in Bloomsbury Place, and Mollie crouched before theparlor window, resting her chin upon her hands, and looking out, prettymuch as Aimée had looked out on that winter evening months ago, when Mr.Gerald Chandos had first presented himself to her mind as an individualto be dreaded.

  Three days had passed since the wise one left London,--three miserable,dragging days they had seemed to Mollie, despite their summer warmth andsunshine. Real anxiety and sorrow were new experiences in Vagabondia;little trials they had felt, and often enough small unpleasantnesses,privations, and disappointments; but death and grief were new. And theywere just beginning to realize broadly the blow which had fallen uponthem; hard as it was to believe at first, they were beginning slowly tocomprehend the sad meaning of the lesson they were learning now for thefirst time. What each had felt a fear of in secret was coming to pass atlast, and there was no help against it.

  Phil went about his work looking as none of them had ever seen him lookbefore. Mrs. Phil’s tears fell thick and fast. Not understandingthe mystery, she could blame nobody but Grif, and Grif she could notforgive. To Mollie the house seemed like a grave. She could think ofnothing but Dolly,--Dolly, white and worn and altered, lying upon hercouch, her eyes closed, her breath fluttering faintly. She wondered ifshe was afraid to die. She herself had a secret girlish terror of deathand its strange solemness, and she so pitied Dolly that sometimes shecould not contain her grief, and was obliged to hide herself until hertears spent themselves.

  She had been crying during all this twilight hour she had knelt at thewindow. She was so lonely that it seemed impossible to do anything else.It would have been bad enough to bear the suspense even if Aimée hadbeen with her, but without Aimée it was dreadful. The tears slipped downher cheeks and rolled away, and she did not even attempt to dry them,her affectionate grief had mastered her completely. But she was rousedat length. Some one crossed the street from the pavement opposite thehouse; and when this some one entered the gate and ascended the steps,she rose slowly, half-reluctant, half-comforted, and with a faintthrill at her heart. It was Ralph Gowan, and she was not wise enough orself-controlled enough yet to see Ralph Gowan without feeling her pulsesquicken.

  When she opened the door he did not greet her as usual, but spoke to herat once in a low, hurried tone.

  “Mollie, where is Aimée?” he asked.

  Her tears began to flow again; she could not help giving way.

  “You had better come in,” she said, half turning away from him andspeaking brokenly. “Aimée is not here. She left London three days ago.Dolly--”

  “Dolly is worse!” he said, because she could not finish.

  She nodded, with a heart too full for words.

  He stepped inside, and, closing the door, laid his hand upon hershoulder.

  “Then, Mollie,” he said, “I must come to you.”

  He did not wait a moment, but led her gently enough into the parlor,and, blinded as she was by her tears, she saw that instant that he hadnot come without a reason.

  “Don’t cry,” he said. “I want you to be brave and calm now,--for Dolly’ssake. I want your help,--for Dolly’s sake, remember.”

  She recollected Aimée’s words--“Mr. Gowan has seen him”--and a suddenlight flashed upon her. The tears seemed to dry of their own accord allat once, as she looked up.

  “Yes,” she answered.

  He knew, without hearing another word, that he might trust her.

  “Can you guess whom I have just this moment seen?” he said.

  “Yes,” sprang from her lips, without a second’s hesitation. “You haveseen Grif.”

  “I have seen Grif,” he answered. “He is at the corner of the street now.If I had attempted to speak to him he would have managed to avoid me;and because I knew that, I came here, hoping to find Aimée; but sinceAimée is not here--”

  “I can go,” she interrupted him, all a-tremble with eagerness. “He willlisten to me; he was fond of me, too, and I was fond of him. Oh! let mego now!”

  That bright little scarl
et shawl of Dolly’s lay upon the sofa, andshe snatched it up with shaking hands and threw it over her head andshoulders.

  “If I can speak to him once, he will listen,” she said; “and if helistens, Dolly will be saved. She won’t die if Grif comes back. Shecan’t die if Grif comes back. Oh, Dolly, my darling, you saved me, and Iam going to try to save you.”

  She was out in the street in two minutes, standing on the pavement,looking up and down, and then she ran across to the other side. She keptclose to the houses, so that she might be in their shadow, and a littlesob broke from her as she hurried along,--a sob of joy and fear andexcitement. At the end of the row of houses somebody was standing underthe street lamp,--a man. Was it Grif,--or could Grif have gone even inthis short time? Fate could never have been so cruel to him, to her, tothem all, as to let him come so near and then go away without hearingthat Dolly was lying at death’s portals, and no one could save her buthimself and the tender power of the sweet, old, much-tried love. Oh, no,no! It was Grif indeed; for as she neared the place where he stood, shesaw his face in the lamp-light,--a grief-worn, pallid face, changed andhaggard and desperate,--a sight that made her cry out aloud.

  He had not seen her or even heard her. He stood there looking towardthe house she had left, and seeing, as it seemed, nothing else. Only thedarkness had hidden her from him. His eyes were fixed upon the dim lightthat burned in Dolly’s window. She had not meant to speak until shestood close to him; but when she was within a few paces of him herexcitement mastered her.

  “Grif,” she cried out; “Grif, is it you?”

  And when he turned, with a great start, to look at her, she was uponhim,--her hands outstretched, the light upon her face, the tearsstreaming down her cheeks,--sobbing aloud.

  “Mollie,” he answered, “is it _you?_” And she saw that he almoststaggered.

  She could not speak at first. She clung to his arm so tightly that hecould scarcely have broken away from her if he had tried. But he did nottry; it seemed as though her touch made him weak,--weaker than he hadever been before in his life. Beauty as she was, they had always thoughther in some way like Dolly, and, just now, with Dolly’s gay littlescarlet shawl slipping away from her face, with the great grief inher imploring eyes, with that innocent appealing trick of the clinginghands, she might almost have been Dolly’s self.

  Try as he might, he could not regain his self-control. He was sheerlypowerless before her.

  “Mollie,” he said, “what has brought you here? Why have you come?”

  “I have come,” she answered, “for Dolly’s sake!”

  The vague fear he had felt at first caught hold upon him with all thefulness of its strength.

  “For Dolly’s sake!” he echoed. “Nay, Dolly has done with me, and I withher.” And though he tried to speak bitterly, he failed.

  She was too fond of Dolly, and too full of grief to spare him afterthat. Unstrung as she was, her reproach burst forth from her without asoftened touch. “Dolly has done with earth. Dolly’s life is over,” shesobbed. “Do you know that she is dying? Yes, dying,--our own brightDolly,--and you--_you_ have killed her!”

  She had not thought how cruel it would sound, and the next instant shewas full of terror at the effect of her own words. He broke loose fromher,--_fell_ loose from her, one might better describe it, for it washis own weight rather than any effort which dragged him from her grasp.He staggered and caught hold of the iron railings to save himself, andthere hung, staring at her with a face like a dead man.

  “My God!” he said,--not another word.

  “You must not give way like that,” she cried out, in a new fright. “Oh,how could I speak so! Aimée would have told you better. I did not meanto be so hard. You can save her if you will. She will not die, Grif, ifyou go to her. She only wants _you_. Grif,--Grif,--you look as if youcould not understand what I am saying.” And she wrung her hands.

  And, indeed, it scarcely seemed as if he did understand, though at lasthe spoke.

  “Where is she?” he said. “Not here? You say I must ‘go’ to her.”

  “No, she is not here. She is at Lake Geneva. Miss MacDowlas took herthere because she grew so weak, and she has grown weaker ever since, andthree days ago they sent for Aimée to come to her, because--because theythink she is going to die.”

  “And you say that _I_ have done this?”

  “I ought n’t to have put it that way, it sounds so cruel, but--but shehas never been like herself since the night you went away, and we haveall known that it was her unhappiness that made her ill. She could notget over it, and though she tried to hide it, she was worn out. Sheloved you so.”

  He interrupted her.

  “If she is dying for me,” he said, hoarsely, “she must have loved me,and if she has loved me through all this,--God help us both!”

  “How could you go away and leave her all alone after all those years?” demanded Mollie. “We cannot understand it. No one knows but Aimée, andDolly has told her that you were not to blame. Why did you go?”

  “_You_ do not know?” he said. “You should know, Mollie, of allothers. _You_ were with her when she played that miserable coquette’strick,--that pitiful trick, so unlike herself,--you were with her thatnight when she let Gowan keep her away from me, when I waited for hercoming hour after hour. I saw you with them when he was bidding hergoodnight.”

  They had hidden their secret well all these months, but it was to behidden no longer now. It flashed upon her like an electric shock. Sheremembered a hundred things,--a hundred little mysteries she had met andbeen puzzled by, in Aimee’s manner; she remembered all she had heard,and all she had wondered at, and her heart seemed turned to stone. Theflush of weeping died out of her face, her hands fell and hung downat her side, her tears were gone; nothing seemed left to her but blankhorror.

  “Was it because she did not come that night, that you left her to die?” she asked, in a labored voice. “Was it because you saw her with RalphGowan--was it because you found out that she had been with him, that youwent away and let her break her heart? Tell me!”

  He answered her, “Yes.”

  “Then,” she said, turning to face him, still cold, and almost rigid, “itis _I_ who have killed her, and not you.”

  “You!” he exclaimed.

  She did not wait to choose her words, or try to soften the story of herown humiliation.

  “If she dies,” she said, “she has died for me.”

  And without further preface she told him all. How she had let GeraldChandos flatter and gain power over her, until the climax of her follyhad been the wild, wilful escapade of that miserable long-past day.How Ralph Gowan had discovered her romantic secret, and revealed itto Dolly. How they had followed and rescued her; even how Dolly hadawakened her from her dangerous dream with that light touch, and haddrawn her away from the brink of an abyss, with her loving, girlishhands; and she ended with an outburst of anguish.

  “Why did n’t she tell you?” she said. “For my sake she did not want therest to know; but why did not she tell you? I cannot understand.”

  “She tried to tell me,” he said, in an agony of self-reproach, as hebegan to see what he had done,--“she tried to tell me, and I would nothear her.”

  All his bygone sufferings--and, Heaven knows, he had suffered bitterlyand heavily enough--sank into insignificance before the misery of thishour. To know how true and pure of heart she had been; to know howfaithful, unselfish, sweet; to remember how she had met him with atender little cry of joy, with outstretched, innocent hands, that he hadthrust aside; to remember the old golden days in which she had so clungto him, and brightened his life; to think how he had left her lyingupon the sofa that night, her white face drooping piteously againstthe cushions; to have all come back to him and know that he only was toblame; to know it all too late. Nay, a whole life of future bliss couldnever quite efface the memory of such a passion of remorse and pain.

  “Oh, my God!” he prayed, “have mercy upon me!” And then he turned
uponMollie. “Tell me where to go to; tell me, and let me go. I must go toher now without a moment’s waiting. My poor, faithful little girl,--mypretty Dolly! Dying,--dying! No, I don’t believe it,--I won’t. Shecannot die yet. Fate has been cruel enough to us, but it cannot be socruel as that. Love will _make_ her live.”

  He dashed down Mollie’s directions in desperate, feverish haste upon aleaf of his memorandum-book, and then he bade her good-by.

  “God bless you, dear!” he said. “Perhaps you have saved us both. I amgoing to her now. Pray for me.”

  “I ought rather to pray for myself,” she said; “but for me you wouldnever have been separated. I have done it all.”

  And a few minutes after he had gone, Ralph Gowan, who had awaited herreturn before the window, turned to see her enter the room like a spiritand fling herself down before him, looking white and shaken and pale.

  “I have found it all out now,” she cried. “I have found it all out. Ihave done all this, Mr. Gowan; it is through me her heart is broken, andif she dies, I shall have caused her death, as surely as if I had killedher with my own hand. Oh, save me from thinking she will die,--help meto think she will live,--help me!”

  There was no one else to help her, and the blind terror of the thoughtwas so great that she must have help, or die. To have so injured Dolly,whom she so loved,--to have, by her own deed, brought that dread shadowof Death upon Dolly, who had saved her! Her heart seemed crushed. IfAimée had been there; but Aimée was not, so she stretched out her handsto the man she had so innocently loved. And as she so knelt beforehim,--so fair, in the childlike _abandon_ of her grief, so guilelessand trusting in her sudden, sweet appeal, so helpless against the world,even against herself,--his man’s heart was touched and stirred as it hadnever been before,--as even Dolly herself had not stirred it.

  “My poor child!” he said, taking her hands and drawing her nearer tohimself. “My poor, pretty Mollie, come to me.”

  And why not, my reader? If one rose is not for us, the sun shines onmany another as sweet and quite as fair; and what is more, it is morethan probable that if we had seen the last rose first, we should haveloved the first rose last. It is only when, like Dolly and Grif, we havewatched our rose from its first peep of the leaf, and have grown withits growth, that there can be no other rose but one.

  “_Le roi est mort--Vive le roi!_”