CHAPTER XVIII. ~ GRIF!
THERE was a hush upon the guests at the pretty little inn. Most of themwere not sojourners of a day, who came and went, as they did at thelarger and busier hotels,--they were comfortable people who enjoyedthemselves in their own quiet way and so had settled down for the timebeing. Accordingly they had leisure to become interested in each other;and there were few of them who did not feel a friendly interest in thepretty, pale English girl, who, report said, was fading silently outof life in her bright room up-stairs. When Aimée arrived, the mostsympathetic shook their heads dubiously.
“The sister is here,” they said; “a thoughtful little English creaturewith a child’s face and a woman’s air. They sent for her. One can easilyguess what that means.”
Any one but Aimée would have been crushed at the outset by the shockof the change which was to be seen in the poor little worn figure, nowrarely moved from its invalid’s couch. But Aimée bore the blow withoutward quiet at least. If she shed tears Dolly did not see them, and ifshe mourned Dolly was not disturbed by her sorrow.
“I have come to help Miss MacDowlas to take care of you, Dolly,” shesaid, when she gave her her greeting kiss, and Dolly smiled and kissedher in return.
But it was a terribly hard matter to fight through at first. Of course,as the girl had become weaker she had lost power over herself. She wasrestless and listless by turns. Sometimes she started at every sound,and again she lay with closed eyes for hours, dozing the day away. Themere sight of her in this latter state threw poor Phemie into an agonyof terror and distress.
“It is so like Death,” she would say to Aimée. “It seems as if we couldnever rouse her again.”
And then again she would rally a little, and at such times she wouldinsist upon being propped up and allowed to talk, and her eyes wouldgrow large and bright, and a spot of hectic color would burn on hercheeks. She did not even mention her trouble during the first twodays of Aimée’s visit, but on the third afternoon she surprised her bybroaching the subject suddenly. She had been dozing, and on awakeningshe began to talk.
“Aimée,” she said, “where is Miss MacDowlas?”
“In her room. I persuaded her to go and lie down.”
“I am very glad,” quietly. “I want to do something particular. I wantGrif’s letters, Aimée.”
“Where are they?” Aimée asked.
“In a box in my trunk. I should like to have them now.”
Aimée brought them to her without comment. The box had not been largeenough to hold them all, and there was an extra packet tied with thatdear old stereotyped blue ribbon.
“What a many there are!” said Dolly, when she came to the couch withthem. “You will have to sit down by me and hold some of them. One canwrite a great many letters in seven years.”
The wise one sat down, obediently holding the box upon her knee. Therewere so many letters in it that it was quite heavy.
“I am going to look them over and tie them in packages, according totheir dates,” said Dolly. “He will like to have them when he comesback.”
It would not have been natural for her to preserve her calmness allthrough the performance of her task. Her first glance at the firstletter brought the tears, and she cried quietly as she passed fromone to the other. They were such tender, impetuous letters. Thevery headings--“My Darling,” “My pretty Darling,” “My own sweetestLife”--impassioned, youthful-sounding, and Grif-like, cut her to theheart. Ah! how terrible it would be for him to see them again, ashe would see them! She was pitying him far more than she was pityingherself.
It was a work not soon over, but she finished it at length. The packetswere assorted and tied with new ribbon, and she lay down for a fewminutes to rest.
“You will give them to him, Aimée?” she said. “I think he will come someday; but if he does not, you must keep them yourself. I should not likepeople to read them--afterwards. Love-letters won’t stand being read bystrangers. I have often laughed and told him ours would n’t. I am goingto write a last one, however, this afternoon. You are to give it him,with the ‘dead’ letter--but they are all dead letters, are they not?”
“Dolly,” said Aimée, with a desperate effort, “you speak as if you weresure you were--going.”
There was a silence, and then a soft, low, tremulous laugh,--the merestecho of a laugh. Despite her long suffering Dolly was Dolly yet. Shewould not let them mourn over her.
“Going,” she said, “well--I think I am. Yes,” half reflectively, “Ithink I must be. It cannot mean anything else,--this feeling, can it?It was a long time before I quite believed it myself, Aimée, but now Ishould be obliged to believe it if I did not wish to.”
“And do you wish to, now?”
That little silence again, and then--
“I should like to see Grif,--I want Grif,--that is all.”
She managed to write her last love-letter after this, and to directit and tie it with the letter which had returned to her,--the “dead” letter. But the effort seemed to tire her very much, and when all wasdone and her restless excitement had died out, she looked less likeherself than ever. She could talk no more, and was so weak and prostratethat Aimée was alarmed into summoning Miss MacDowlas.
But Miss MacDowlas could only shake her head. “We cannot do anything torouse her,” she said. “It is often so. If the end comes, it will come inthis way. She feels no pain.”
That night Aimée wrote to those at home. They must come at once if theywanted to see Dolly. She watched all night by the bedside herself;she could not have slept if she had gone to her own room, and so sheremained with Dolly, watching her doze and waken, starting from nervoussleeps and sinking into them again.
“There will not be many nights through which I can watch,” she saidto herself. “Even this might be the last.” And then she turned to thewindow, and cried silently, thinking of Grif, and wondering what sheshould say to him, if they ever met again.
How could she say to him, “Dolly is dead! Dolly died because you lefther!”
Another weary day and night, and then the old change came again. Thefeverish strength seemed to come once more. Dolly would be propped up,and talk. Before very long Aimée began to fancy that she had somethingshe wished to say to Miss Mac-Dowlas. She followed her movements witheager, unsatisfied eyes, and did not seem at ease until she sat downnear her. Then when she had secured her attention the secret revealeditself. She had something to say about Grif.
Gradually, during the long weary weeks of her illness she had learnedto place much confidence in Miss MacDowlas. Her affectionate nature hadclung to her. In telling anecdotes of life in Vagabondia, she had talkedof Grif,--Vagabondia would not have been Vagabondia without Grif,--andthere was always a thrill of faithful love in her simplest mention ofhim. Truly, Miss MacDowlas beheld her reprobate nephew in a new light,surrounded by a halo of innocent romance and unselfish tenderness. Thispoor little soul, who was breaking her heart for his sake, showed himsinned against but never sinning, unfortunate but never to blame, showedhim honest, sweet of nature, true, and faultless. Where were his faultsin the eyes of his first and last love? The simple, whimsical stories oftheir loves and lovers’ quarrels, of their small economies and perfectfaith in the future,--a faith so sadly wrecked, as it seemed, by cruelFate,--brought tears into Miss MacDowlas’s eyes. Eloquent, affectionateDolly won her over before she knew what she was thinking about. He couldnot have been such a reprobate, after all,--this Griffith Donne, whohad so often roused her indignation. Perhaps he could not help beingliterary and wearing a shabby coat and a questionable hat. And Dollyhad in the end begun to see how her long-fixed opinion had softened andchanged. So she had courage to plead for Grif this afternoon. She wantedto be sure that if he should ever come back, there would be a handoutstretched to help him.
“He only wanted help,” she said; “and no one has ever helped him, thoughhe tried so hard and worked so. Aimée knows how hard he worked, don’tyou, Aimée?”
“Yes,” answer
ed Aimée, turning her working face away.
“I should like you to promise,” said Dolly, wistfully, to MissMacDowlas. “It would make me so much happier. You have been so kind tome,--I am sure you will be kind to him,--poor Grif,--poor fellow!”
Miss MacDowlas bent over her, touched to the heart.
“My dear,” she said, “he shall never want help again. He must have beenworthy of so much love, or he would never have won it. I owe him somerecompense, too. If I had not been so stupidly blind I might have savedyou both all this pain. I have grown very fond of you, Dolly,” sheended; and then, being quite overcome, she kissed the pretty hairsuddenly, gave the thin hand an almost motherly squeeze, and made thebest of her way out of the room.
“Aimée,” said Dolly, “do you remember how often I have made fun of her,when we were all so happy together? We made a good many mistakes, evenin Vagabondia, did n’t we?” And then she closed her eyes and lay silent,with wet lashes resting on her cheek.
In speaking of this afternoon, long afterwards, Aimée said it seemed thelongest and weariest she had ever known. It was extremely hot, and thevery air seemed laden with heavy languor. The sun beat down upon theouter world whitely, and scarcely a leaf stirred. Miss MacDowlas did notreturn, and Dolly, though she was not asleep, lay quite still and didnot open her eyes again. So Aimée sat and watched at her side, wonderinghow the day would end,--wondering if Phil and ‘Toinette and Mollie wouldarrive before it was too late,--wondering what that strange last hourwould be like, and how Dolly would bear it when it came, and how theythemselves would bear to think of it when it was over.
She was not quite sure how long she sat watching so, but she fanciedthat it must have been two or three hours, or even more. She got up atlast and drew down the green blinds as noiselessly as possible, and thenwent back to her place and rested her head upon the pillow near Dolly’s,feeling drowsy and tired,--she had slept so little during the past fewnights.
Dolly moved restlessly, stretching out her hand to Aimée’s and openingher eyes all at once--ah! what large, hollow, shadowy eyes they were!
“I am very tired,” she murmured, “so tired and so weak, Aimée,” dreamily. “I suppose this is what you would call dying of a brokenheart. It seems so queer that I should die of a broken heart.” “Oh,Dolly--Dolly!” Aimée whispered, “our own dearest dear, we never thoughtsuch pain could come to you.”
But even the next moment Dolly seemed to have lost herself, her eyesclosed again and she did not speak. So Aimée lay holding her hand, untilthe indoor silence, the shadow of the room, and the sound of the droningbees outside lulled her into a sort of doze, and her own eyelids fellwearily.
A minute, was it, five or ten, or more than that?
She could not say. She only remembered her own last words, thewarmth, the shadow, the droning of the bees, and the gradual losingconsciousness, and then she was wide awake again,--awakened by astrange, wild cry, which, thrilling and echoing through the room, madeher start up with a beating heart and look towards the door.
“Grif!”
That was all,--only this single rapturous cry, and Dolly, who had beforeseemed not to have the strength of a child, was sitting up, a white,tremulous figure, with outstretched arms and fluttering breath, and Grifwas standing upon the threshold.
Even when she had blamed him most, Aimée had pitied him also; but shehad never pitied him as she did when he strode to the couch and tookthe weak, worn, tremulous little figure in his arms. He could notspeak,--neither spoke. Dolly lay upon his breast crying like a littlechild. But for him--his grief was terrible; and when the loving hand waslaid upon his cheek and Dolly found her first words, they only seemed tomake it worse.
“Don’t cry,” she said. “Don’t cry, dear. Kiss me!” He kissed her lips,her hands, her hair. He could not bear it. She was so like, yet sofearfully unlike, the winsome, tender creature he had loved so long.
“Oh, my God!” he cried, in his old mad way, “you are dying, and if youdie it will be I who have murdered you!”
She moved a little nearer, so that her pretty face rested against hisshoulder and she could lift her streaming eyes to his, her old smileshining through her tears.
“Dear old fellow,” she said, “darling old fellow, whom I love with allmy soul! I shall live just to prove that you have done nothing of thekind!”
It was only Grif she wanted,--only Grif, and Grif had come.