CHAPTER VIII. ~ THE BEGINNING OF THE ENDING.
IT was some time before Griffith recovered from the effects of thissimple announcement of Mollie’s.
Though he scarcely confessed as much to himself, he thought of itvery much oftener than was conducive to his own peace of mind, andin thinking of it he found it assuming a greater importance andsignificance than he had at first recognized in it, and was influencedaccordingly. He went home to his lodgings, depressed and heavy ofspirit; in fact, he left Bloomsbury Place earlier than usual, because helonged to be alone. He could think of nothing but Dolly,--Dolly in thewhite merino, shining like a stray star among her employer’s guests, andgladdening the eyes of Ralph Gowan. He knew so well how she wouldlook, and how this fellow would follow her in his easy fashion, withoutrendering himself noticeable, and manage to be near her through theevening and hold his place as if he had a right to it, and he knew, too,how natural it would be for Dolly’s eyes to light up in her pleasureat being saved from boredom, and how her innocent gladness would showitself in a score of pretty ways. And it was as Mollie said,--it was forDolly’s sake that Ralph Gowan was there to-night.
“She must know that it is so herself,” he groaned, dropping his headupon the table; “but she cannot help it. She would if she could. Yes,I ‘ll believe that. She could never be false to me. I must hold fast tothat in spite of everything. I should go mad if I did n’t. I could neverlose you, Dolly,--I could never lose you!”
But he groaned again the next moment from the bottom of his desperateheart. He had become tangled in yet another web of misery.
“It is only another proof of what I have said a thousand times,” hecried out. “My claim upon her is so weak, that this fellow does notthink it worth regarding. He thinks it may be set aside,--they allthink it may be set aside. I should not wonder,” clenching his hand andspeaking through his teeth,--“I should not wonder if he has laughedmany a time at his fancy of how it will end, and how easy it will be tothrust the old love to the wall!”
At this moment, in the first rankling sting of humiliation and despair,he could almost have struck a murderous blow at the man whom fortunehad set on such a pinnacle of pride and insolence, as it seemed to hisgalled fancy. He was not in the mood to be either just or generous, andhe saw in Ralph Gowan nothing but a man who had both the power and willto rival him, and rob him of peace and hope forever. If Dolly had beenwith him, in all probability his wretchedness would have evaporated in aharmless outburst, which would have touched the girl’s heart so tenderlythat she would have withheld nothing of love and consolation which couldreassure him, and so in the end the tempest would have left no woundbehind. But as it was left to himself and his imaginings, every thoughtheld its bitter sting. He was, as it were, upon the brink of an abyss.
And while this danger was threatening her, Dolly was setting herselfsteadfastly to her task of entertaining her employer’s guests, thoughit must be confessed that she found it necessary to summon all herenergies. She was thinking of Griffith, but not as Griffith was thinkingof her. She was picturing him looking desolate among the group roundthe fire at Bloomsbury Place, or else working desperately and withunnecessary energy amidst the dust and gloom of the dimly lightedoffice; and the result was that her spirit almost failed. It was quitea relief to encounter Ralph Gowan, as she did, on entering the room: hehad seen them all latterly, and could enter into particulars; and so,in her pleasure, it must be owned that her face brightened, just asGriffith had fancied it would, when she shook hands with him.
“I did not hear that you were coming,” she said. “How glad I am!” which was the most dangerous speech she could have made underthe circumstances, since it was purely on her account that he haddiplomatized to obtain the invitation.
He did not find it easy to release her hand all at once, and certainlyhe lighted up also.
“Will you let me tell you that it was not Miss MacDowlas who brought mehere?” he said, in a low voice; “though I appreciate her kindness, as agrateful man ought. Vagabondia is desolate without you.”
She tried to laugh, but could not; her attempt broke off in theunconscious sigh, which always touched him, he scarcely knew why.
“Is it?” she said, looking up at him without a bit of the oldbrightness. “Don’t tell them, Mr. Gowan, but the fact is I am desolatewithout it. I want to go home.”
He felt his heart leap suddenly, and before he could check himself hespoke.
“I wish--I _wish_,” he said, “that you would let me take you home.” Andthe simply sounding words embodied a great deal more of tender fancythan a careless observer would have imagined; and Dolly, recognizing thethrill in his voice, was half startled.
But she shook her head, and managed to smile.
“That is not wisdom,” she said. “It savors of the lilies of the field.We cannot quarrel with our bread and butter for sentiment’s sakein Vagabondia. Did you know that Mollie had paid me a visit thisevening?--or perhaps you saw her; I think she went out as you came in.”
“Mollie!” he said, surprisedly; and then looking half annoyed, or atleast a trifle disturbed, he added, as if a sudden thought had occurredto him, “then it was Mollie, Chandos spoke of.”
“Chandos!” echoed Dolly. “Who is Chandos--and what did Chandos say aboutMollie?”
He glanced across the room to where a tall, handsome man was bendingover a fussy little woman in pink.
“That is Chandos,” he said; “and since you spoke of Mollie’s visit, Irecollect that, as we came into the house, Chandos was behind me andlingered a moment or so, and when he came to me afterward he asked ifI had seen the face that passed us as we entered. It had roused hisenthusiasm as far as it can be roused by anything.”
“It must have been Mollie,” commented Dolly, and she looked at the manon the opposite side of the room, uneasily. “Is he a friend of yours?” she asked, after scrutinizing him for a few seconds.
Gowan shrugged his shoulders.’
“Not a friend,” he answered, dryly. “An acquaintance. We have not muchin common.”
“I am glad to hear it,” was Dolly’s return. “I don’t like Chandos.”
She could not have explained why she did not like him, but certainly shewas vaguely repelled and could not help hoping that he would never seeMollie again. He was just the man to be dangerous to Mollie; handsome,polished, ready of speech and perfect in manner, he was the sort of manto dazzle and flatter any ignorant, believing child.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, half aloud, “I could not bear to think that hewould see her again.”
She uttered the words quite involuntarily, but Gowan heard them, andlooked at her in some surprise, and so awakened her from her reverie.
“Are you speaking of Mollie?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered, candidly, “though I did not mean to speak aloud.My thoughts were only a mental echo of the remark I made a momentago,--that I don’t like Chandos. I do not like him at all, even at thisdistance, and I cannot resist feeling that I do not want him to seeanything more of Mollie. We are not very discreet, we Vagabonds, but wemust learn wisdom enough to shield Mollie.” And she sighed again.
“I understand that,” he said, almost tenderly, so sympathetically, infact, that she turned toward him as if moved by a sudden impulse.
“I have sometimes thought since I came here,” she said, “that perhaps_you_ might help me a little, if you would. She is so pretty, you see,and so young, and, through knowing so little of the world and longing toknow so much, in a childish, half-dazzled way, is so innocently wilfulthat she would succumb to a novel influence more readily than to anold one. So I have thought once or twice of asking you to watch her alittle, and guard her if--if you should ever see her in danger.”
“I can promise to do that much, at least,” he returned, smiling.
She held out her hand impetuously, just as she would have held it outto Griffith, and, oh, the hazard of it,--the hazard of so throwing asideher mock airs and graces, and showing hers
elf to him just as she showedherself to the man she loved,--the Dolly whose heart was on her lips andwhose soul was in her eyes.
“Then we will make a ‘paction’ of it,” she said. “You will help me totake care of her.”
“For your sake,” he said, “there are few things I would not do.”
So from that time forward he fell into the habit of regardingunsuspecting Mollie as his own special charge. He was so faithful tohis agreement, indeed, that once or twice Griffith was almost ready toconsole himself with the thought that perhaps, after all, the child’sbeauty and tractability would win its way, and Gowan would find himselfseriously touched at heart. Just now he could see that his manner wasscarcely that of a lover, but there most assuredly was a probabilitythat it might alter and become more warm and less friendly and platonic.As to Mollie herself, she was growing a trifle incomprehensible; shepaid more attention to her lovely hair than she had been in the habitof doing, and was even known to mend her gloves; she began to be moreconscious of the dignity of her seventeen years. She complained lesspetulantly of the attentions of Phil’s friends, and accepted them witha better grace. The wise one even observed that she tolerated Brown,the obnoxious, and permitted him to admire her--at a distance. In herintercourse with Gowan she was capricious and had her moods. Sometimesshe indulged in the weakness of tiring herself in all her small braverywhen he was coming, and presented herself in the parlor beauteous andflushed and conscious, and was so delectably shy and sweet that shebetrayed him into numerous trifling follies not at all consistent withhis high position of mentor; and then, again, she was obstinate, ratherincomprehensible, and did not adorn herself at all, and, indeed, washard enough to manage.
“You are growing very queer, Mollie,” said Miss Aimée, wonderingly.
To which sage remark Mollie retorted with a tremulous, sensitive flush,and most unnecessary warmth of manner.
“I ‘m not queer at all I wish you would n’t bother so, Aimée!”
That very afternoon she came into the room with a card in her hand,after going out to answer a summons at the door-bell.
“Phil,” she said, “a gentleman wants you. Chandos, the card says.”
“Chandos!” read Phil, rising from the comfort of his couch, and takinghis pipe out of his mouth. “Who knows Chandos?--I don’t. It must be somefellow on business.”
And so it proved. He found the gentleman awaiting him in the nextroom, and in a very short time learned his errand. Chandos introducedhimself--Gerald Chandos, of The Pools, Bedfordshire, who, hearing of Mr.Crewe through numerous friends, not specified, and having a fancy--quitethe fancy of an uncultured amateur, modestly--for pictures and anabsorbing passion for art in all its forms, had taken the liberty ofcalling, etc. It was very smoothly said, and Chandos, of The Pools,being an imposing patrician sort of individual, and free from allfopperies or affectations, Phil met his advances complacently enough.It was no unusual thing for an occasional patron to drop in after thismanner. He had no fault to find with a man who, having the good fortuneto possess money, had the good taste to know how to spend it. So hemade friends with Chandos, pretty much as he had made friends withGowan,--pretty much as he would have made friends with any othersufficiently amiable and well-bred visitor to his modest studio. Heshowed him his pictures, and talked art to him, and managed to spend anhour very pleasantly, ending by selling him a couple of tiny spiritedsketches, which had taken his fancy. It was when he was takingdown these sketches from the wall that he heard a sort of smotheredexclamation from the man, who stood a few feet apart from him, and,turning to see what it meant, he saw that he had just discovered thefresh, lovely, black-hooded head, with the trail of autumn leavesclinging to the loose trail of hair,--the picture for which Molliehad sat as model. It was very evident that Chandos, of The Pools, wasadmiring it.
“Ah!” said he, the next minute. “I know this face. There can scarcely betwo faces like it.”
Phil left his sketches and came to him, the pleasure he felt on thesuccess of his creation warming him up. This picture, with Mollie’s faceand head, was a great favorite of his.
“Yes,” he said, standing opposite to it, with his hands in his pockets,and critical appreciation in his eyes. “You could not very well mistakeit. Heads are not my exact forte, you know; but that is Mollie to a tintand a curve, and I am rather proud of it.”
Chandos regarded it steadfastly.
“And well you may be,” he answered. “Your sister, I believe?”
“Mollie!” exclaimed Phil, stepping a trifle aside, to get into a betterlight, and speaking almost abstractedly. “Oh, yes, to be sure! She is mysister,--the youngest. There are three of them. That flesh tint is oneof the best points.”
And in the meantime, while this apparently trivial conversation wasbeing carried on in the studio, Mollie, in the parlor, had settledherself upon a stool close to the fire, and, resting her chin on herhand and her elbow on her knee, was looking reflective.
“That Chandos is somebody new,” ‘Toinette remarked. “I hope he has cometo buy something. I want some gold sleeve-loops for Tod. I saw somebeauties the other day, when I was out.”
“But you could n’t afford them if Phil sold two pictures instead ofone,” said Aimée. “There are so many other useful things you need.”
“He is n’t a stranger to me,” put in Mollie, suddenly. “I have seen himbefore.”
“Who?” said ‘Toinette. She was thinking more of Tod’s gold sleeve-loopsthan of anything else.
“This Mr. Chandos,” answered Mollie, without looking up from the fire.“I saw him at Brabazon Lodge the night I went to take Dolly her dress.He was with Mr. Gowan, and I dropped my glove, and he picked it up forme. I was coming out as they were going in.”
“I wonder,” said Aimée, “whether Mr. Gowan goes to Brabazon Lodgeoften?”
“I don’t know, I ‘m sure,” answered Mollie, shrugging her shoulder.“How is one to learn? He would n’t be likely to tell us. I should think,though, that he does. He is too fond of Dolly”--with a slight choke inher voice--“to stay away, if he can help it.”
“It’s queer,” commented ‘Toinette, “how men like Dolly. She is n’t abeauty, I ‘m sure; and for the matter of that, when her hair is n’t doneup right, she is n’t even pretty.”
“It isn’t queer, at all,” said Mollie, rather crossly; “it’s her way.She can make such a deal out of nothing, and she does n’t stand attrouble when she wants to _make_ people like her. _She_ says any one cando it, and it is only a question of patience; but I don’t believe her.See how frantic Griffith is about her. He is more desperately in lovewith her to-day than he was at the very first, seven years ago.”
“And she cares more for him, I’m sure,” said Aimée.
Mollie’s shoulder went up again. “She flirts with people enough, if shedoes,” she commented.
“Ah!” returned Aimée, “that is ‘her way,’ as you call it, again.Somehow, it seems as if she can’t help it. It is as natural to her asthe color of her hair and eyes. She can’t help doing odd things andmaking speeches that rouse people and tempt them into liking her. Shehas done such things all her life, and sometimes I think she will dothem even when she is an old woman; though, of course, she will do themin a different way. Dolly would n’t be Dolly without her whimsicalness,any more than Dick there, in his cage, would be a canary if he did n’ttwitter and sing.”
“Does she ever do such things to women?” asked Miss Mollie, shrewdly.She seemed to be in a singular mood this afternoon.
“Yes,” Aimée protested, “she does; and what is more, she is notdifferent even with children. I have seen her take just as much troubleto please Phemie and the little Bilberrys as she would take to pleaseGriffith or--or Mr. Gowan. And see how fond they were of her. If she hadcared for nothing but masculine admiration, do you think Phemie wouldhave adored her as she did, and those dull children would have been sodesolate when she left them? No, I tell you. Dolly’s weakness--andit isn’t such a very terrible we
akness, after all--lies in wanting_everybody_ to like her,--men, women, and children; yes, down to babiesand dogs and cats. And see here, Mollie, ain’t we rather fond of herourselves?”
“Yes,” owned Mollie, staring at the fire, “we are. Fond enough.”
“And is n’t she rather fond of us?”
“Yes, she is--for the matter of that,” acquiesced Mollie.
“Yes,” began ‘Toinette, and then, the sound of footsteps upon thestaircase interrupting her, she broke off abruptly to listen. “It isPhil’s visitor,” she said.
Mollie got up from her seat, roused into a lazy sort of interest.
“I am going to look at him,” she said, and went to the window.
The next minute she drew back, blushing.
“He saw me,” she said. “I did n’t think he could, if I stood here in thecorner.”
But he had; and more than that, in his admiration of her dimples andround fire-flushed cheeks, had smiled into her face, openly and withoutstint, as he passed.
After tea Gowan came in. Mollie opened the door for him; and Mollie, ina soft blue dress, and with her hair dressed to a marvel, was a visionto have touched any man’s fancy. She was in one of her sweet acquiescentmoods, too, having recovered herself since the afternoon; and when sheled him into the parlor, she blushed without any reason whatever, asusual, and as a consequence looked enchanting.
“Phil has gone out,” she said. “‘Toinette is putting Tod to bed, andAimée is helping her; so there is no one here but me.”
Gowan sat down--in Dolly’s favorite chair.
“You are quite enough,” he said; “quite enough--for me.”
She turned away, making a transparent little pretence of requiring ahand-screen from the mantelpiece, and, having got it, she too sat down,and fell to examining a wretched little daub of a picture upon it mostminutely.
“This is very badly done,” she observed, irrelevantly. “Dolly did it,and made it up elaborately into this screen because it was such a sight.It is just like Dolly, to make fun and joke at her own mistakes. She hasn’t a particle of talent for drawing. She did this once when Griffiththought he was going to get into something that would bring him moneyenough to allow of their being married. She made a whole lot of littlemats and things to put in their house when they got it, but Griffith didn’t get the position, so they had to settle down again.”
“Good Heavens!” ejaculated Gowan.
“What is the matter?” she asked.
He moved a trifle uneasily in his chair. He had not meant to speakaloud.
“An unintentional outburst, Mollie,” he said. “A cheerful state ofaffairs, that.”
“What state of affairs?” she inquired. “Oh, you mean Dolly’s engagement.Well, of course, it _has_ been a long one; but then, you see, they likeeach other very much. Aimée was only saying this afternoon that theycared for each other more now than they did at first.”
“Do they?” said Gowan, and for the time being lapsed into silence.
“It’s a cross-grained sort of fortune that seems to control us in thisworld, Mollie,” he said, at length.
Mollie stared at the poor little daub on her hand-screen and met hisphilosophy indifferently enough.
“_You_ ought n’t to say so,” she answered. “And I don’t know anythingabout it.”
He laughed--quite savagely for so amiable a young man.
“I!” he repeated. “I ought not to say so, ought n’t I? I think I ought.It _is_ a cross-grained fortune, Mollie. We are always falling in lovewith people who do not care for us, or with people who care for some oneelse, or with people who are too poor to marry us, or--”
“Speak for yourself,” said Mollie, with a vigor quite wonderful and newin her. “_I_ am not.”
And she held her screen up between her face and his, so that he couldnot see her. She could have burst into a passionate gush of tears. Itwas Dolly he was thinking about,--it was Dolly who had the power to makehim unhappy and sardonic,--always Dolly.
“Then you are a wise child, Mollie,” he said. “But you are a very youngchild yet,--only seventeen, is n’t it? Well, it may all come in goodtime.”
“It will not come at all,” she asserted, stubbornly.
Dolly’s little wretch of a hand-screen was quite trembling in her hand,it made her so desperate to feel, as she did, that she was of such smallconsequence to him that he could treat her as a child, and make a sortof joke of his confidence. But he did not see it.
“Ah! well, you see,” he went on, “I thought so once, but it has come tome nevertheless. The fact is, I am crying for the moon, Mollie, as manya wiser and better man has done before me.”
She did not answer, so he rose and walked once or twice across the room.When he came back to the fire, she had risen too, and was standing up,biting the edge of her screen, all flushed, and with a brightness inher eyes he did not understand. Poor little soul! she was suffering verysharply in her childish way.
He laid a hand on either of her shoulders, and spoke to her gentlyenough.
“Mollie,” he said, “let us sit down together and condole with eachother. You are not in a good humor to-night, something has raspedyou again; and as for me, I am about as miserable, my dear, as it ispossible for a man with a few thousand a year to be.”
She tried to answer him steadily, and, finding she could not, rushedinto novel subterfuge. Subterfuge was a novelty to Mollie.
“Yes,” she said, lifting the most beauteous of tear-wet eyes to hisquite eagerly. “Yes, I am crossed, and--and something has vexed me. I amgetting bad-tempered, I think. Suppose we do sit down.”
And then when they did sit down--she on the hearth-rug at his feet, hein Dolly’s chair again--she broke out upon him in a voice like a sharplittle sob.
“I know what _you_ are miserable about,” she said. “You are miserableabout Dolly.”
They had never spoken about the matter openly before, though he hadalways felt that if he could speak openly to any one, he could to thischarming charge of his. Such is the keenness of masculine penetration.And now he felt almost relieved already. The natural craving forsympathy of some kind or other was to satisfy itself through the mediumof pretty, much-tried Mollie.
“Yes,” he answered, half desperately, half reluctantly. “Dolly is themoon I am crying for,--or rather, as I might put it more poetically,‘the bright particular star.’ What a good little thing you are to guessat it so soon!”
“It did n’t need much guessing at,” she said, curving her innocent mouthin a piteous effort to smile.
He, leaning against the round, padded back of his chair, sighed, and ashe sighed almost forgot the poor child altogether, even while she spoketo him. Having all things else, he must still cry for this one othergift, and really he felt very dolorous.
Mollie, pulling her screen to pieces, looked at him with a heavy yetadoring heart. She was young enough to be greatly moved by his physicalbeauty, and just now she could not turn away from him. His long-limbed,slender figure (which, while still graceful and lithe enough, was _not_a model of perfection, as she fondly imagined), his pale, dark face,his dark eyes, even his rather impolite and uncomplimentary abstraction,held fascination for her. Not having been greatly smiled upon byfortune, she had fallen to longing eagerly and fearfully for this onegift which had been so freely vouchsafed to Dolly, who had neither askednor cared for it. Surely there was some cross-grained fate at work.
She was very quiet indeed when he at length recollected himself androused from his reverie. He looked up to find her resting her warm,rose-leaf colored cheek on her hand, and concentrating all her attentionupon the fire again. She was not inclined to talk when he spoke to her,and indeed had so far shrunk within herself that he found it necessaryto exert his powers to their utmost before he could move her to anythinglike interest in their usual topics of conversation. In fact, herreserve entailed the necessity of a little hazardous warmth of mannerbeing exhibited on his part, and in the end a few more dangerous,though h
alf-jocular, speeches were made, and in spite of the temporarydissatisfaction of his previous mood, he felt a trifle reluctant toleave the fire and the sweet, unwise face when the time came to go.
“Good-night,” he said to her, a few minutes before he went out. Andthen, noticing for the twentieth time how becoming the soft blue ofher dress was and how picturesque she was herself even in theunconsciousness of her posture, he was tempted to try to bring thatlittle, half-resentful glow into her upraised eyes again.
“I have often heard your sister make indiscreetly amiable speeches toyou, Mollie,” he said. “Did she ever tell you that you ought to havebeen born a sultana?”
She shook her head and pouted a little.
“I should n’t like to be a sultana,” she said.
“What!” he exclaimed. “Not a sultana in spangled slippers and gorgeousrobes!”
“No,” she answered, with a spice of Dolly in her speech. “The slippersare great flat things that turn up at the toes, and the sultan might buyme for so much a pound, and--and I care for other things besides dress.”
“Nevertheless,” he returned, “you would have made a dazzling sultana.”
Then he went away and left her, and she sat down upon her stool beforethe fire again and began to pull her hair down and let it hang in granddisorder about her shoulders and over her face.
“If I am so--so pretty,” she said slowly, to herself, “people ought tolike me, and,” sagaciously, “I must be pretty or he would not say so.”
And when she went to her room it must be confessed that she crept to theglass and stared at the reflection of the face framed in the abundant,falling hair, until Aimée, wondering at her quietness, raised her headfrom her pillow, and, seeing her, called her to her senses.
“Mollie,” she said, in her quietest way, “you look very nice, my dearand very picturesque, and I don’t wonder at your admiring yourself;but if you stand there much longer in your bare feet you will haveinfluenza, and then you will have to wear a flannel round your throat,and your nose will be red, and you won’t derive much satisfaction fromyour looking-glass for a week to come.”