SHALL WE NOT BE FRIENDS?
"The time I've lost in wooing,
In watching and pursuing,
The light that lies
In woman's eyes,
Has been my heart's undoing."
--Moore.
"Miss Litchfield regrets that she must refuse Sir Barry Traleigh's kind
invitation to attend the excursion this afternoon."
Sir Barry feels very much hurt and disappointed. He had done nothing to
merit Miss Litchfield's displeasure, and yet to his pleasantly worded
offer of a seat in his dogcart, she has sent him back those few coldly
formal words of refusal.
In Dolores' parlor Blondine and Dolores are having what is approaching
the most serious unfriendly words that have ever been exchanged between
them. Blondine, who has at first laughed, then pleaded and coaxed, and
scolded, finally sits down and cries. Dolores pays no attention to her
cousin's entreaties. She had said she would not go to Monaco that
afternoon, and she meant to keep her word, no matter what any one may
say to the contrary.
"You had much better get ready, and be in time," Dolores says quietly.
"I never saw any one change so in my life as you have done lately.
Whatever has got possession of you? We were going to have such a
charming time," sobs Blondine, who is utterly cast down at the prospect
of not having Dolores go and enjoy the beauties of the place with her.
Now any one may coax, scold, plead or pray, and Dolores is immovable;
but when tears are called into operation Dolores is lost. So she takes
Blondine's pretty dark head in her lap and pats it soothingly.
"Never mind, dear; do not spoil your pretty eyes with crying over me,
but when I tell you that I would not enjoy myself, that I should be
wretchedly unhappy, were I to go to-day; and that for you and uncle Dick
to go and leave me behind, would render me a kindness more than anything
else, then you will believe me, dear, will you not?"
Blondine is silent for a moment.
"I wonder if Mrs. St. James is going?" she asks presently.
"Why no, certainly not; little Roy has been so very ill lately, I should
think it would be the last thing to leave him with none but that little
nurse maid," Dolores answers decidedly.
Blondine thinks differently. As she came up the stairs she heard Mrs.
St. James tell Sir Barry that she hoped there would not be many hills to
go down, or they would certainly be dumped out of those funny little
carts.
At two the party start, and Dolores sits up stairs, listening to the
merry talk and laughter going on below. She will not so much as look out
the window to see who are going. No one but herself knows just how much
she wants to go; but she crushes the longing that arises in her heart;
she will not give in now, she will keep her word. Uncle Dick has
accepted her decision with strange quietness; the usually fussy uncle
Dick had laughed softly, and, rubbing his hands together remarked,
"Well, my girl, if you choose to be left behind, it will not be uncle
Dick who will force you to go anywhere against your will."
Then at the last moment, just before starting, Blondine had ran up to
say good bye, and actually Blondine was laughing as if she had never
regretted leaving her dear but rebellious Dolores behind.
After they had gone Dolores does some fancy work; she plays a melancholy
tune on the handsome Steinway piano, and sings an absurdly sentimental
little ballad. She reads a little, and passes the afternoon. After tea,
in the evening, she throws a white fleecy shawl around her shoulders,
and strolls down stairs and out in the garden, the sweet, flower-scented
garden. The pretty stars twinkled brightly in the clear evening sky, and
the fair young moon, just rising, casts a silver lustre over the whole
scene. The trees bend and whisper to one another; the sound of voices
comes dimly to Dolores' ears, and a strange wave of home-sickness sweeps
over and almost overwhelms her. It is such a new, strange feeling that
Dolores does not quite know what to do with herself. If Zoe were only
here, with her bright words of cheering, if she were only here to talk,
perhaps that strange lonely feeling would pass away.
"Pardon me, Miss Litchfield, but what have I ever done to offend you?
Why do you avoid me? You might have gone this afternoon in perfect
safety; you see I did not go."
Dolores is so surprised to find Sir Barry here at her side, her heart,
in spite of her, gives a glad throb. But of course she would not
acknowledge it, even to herself, that it was his presence which made it
do so. Now she looks at Sir Barry with a most bewitching smile curving
her pretty red lips, and Sir Barry goes down before that pretty, piquant
face without a struggle.
"Why, Sir Barry, I am sure you are rather visionary. I hope, if I have
hurt your feelings, you will forget, and forgive me."
Dolores gives her hand to Sir Barry with a sweet impulsive gesture not
to be resisted.
"And you will not 'cut' me any more, no matter how your temper runs?"
And Dolores, with a relieved feeling at her heart, consents.
"We shall be friends, Dolores, for the future?"
Any other time Dolores would have been shocked that a young man should
dare to call her "Dolores." But then she had heard so much lately about
Sir Barry, and she has been so much in his thoughts, that neither notice
how naturally the name slips out. It is so nice to have some one to talk
to, Dolores thinks, as she and Sir Barry walk around and around the
sweet old garden, with everything bathed in the bewitching moonbeams.
Some one is singing in the hotel, and the song floats out on the clear
night air, and comes down to the ears of the young couple walking there.
The words were sweetly pathetic, and stirred Sir Barry's heart with a
wild impulse to end all further nonsense, and ask Dolores then and there
to marry him.
"Never to know it, never,
Never to know, ah never;
Never to know the heart that's aching
All for our sake, and almost breaking;
Never to know, never to know,
The heart that we love is aching, aching, breaking."
The song ends in a piteous wail that makes Dolores shiver.
"How dreadful that song, 'Never to know,' ends," she says, never
thinking what an excellent opportunity she is giving the man at her side
to declare himself. But Dolores never thinks of this, however; and
anyway, all further confidences are over, for suddenly a little figure
appears before their astounded gaze.
"Oh, Miss Litchfield, would you please come in and quiet master Roy? His
mamma has gone away, and he is so ill, Miss, I don't know what I shall
do."
The little figure wrings her hands and looks piteously to Dolores for
help.
"Surely Mrs. St. James did not go and leave that sick child with a
little thing like you?" Sir Barry says sternly.
Goodness knows what would have been said, but for this timely
interruption, and Sir Barry feels annoyed to find his opportunity gone.
But instantly Dolores returns to see what can be done for her suffering
little friend.
"You will come out again?" Sir Barry asks, as Hester is seen whisking in
the door.
"If I can leave," Dolores answers, and Sir Barry gives the little hand
resting on the balcony rail, a gentle pat, and Dolores, with a very red
face, hurries in doors.
Poor little Roy, he is sitting bolt upright in his little iron bedstead;
the sweet pretty face is flushed and burning in a high fever; his eyes
are dull and heavy; but he holds out his arms when he sees Dolores.
"Dress an' take Roy away from here, Dolly; take and carry Roy down where
the sun shines," he says; and poor Dolores is terribly frightened;
little Roy is very ill. She tells him he will go to sleep now, as it is
dark, but in the morning they will go and see the sunshine dancing on
the water. She sends Hester for the doctor, but Sir Barry, who is
watching, meets her and says to go back and remain with Miss Litchfield,
and he will go for the physician.
All night, and all the next day, and the next, Dolores sits by the
little iron bed; she never leaves the child's side. Not for a single
moment will he allow his Dolly out of his sight. The case was very
serious.
"I should think, if his mother wants to see him again alive, she had
better be here to-day."
Mrs. St. James loves her child after her own fashion, but she loved
pleasure and her own comfort more.
"He is surely not so very ill," Dolores says, regarding the doctor's
face in alarm.
"Miss Litchfield, the child is dying; I can do nothing more for him."
Dolores is shocked. What will she do? Dear, gay, merry little Roy dying!
Oh! it cannot be possible! What can his mother be thinking of to leave
him so cruelly alone? But he never once mentioned his mother's name.
"Dolly" was there, and that was sufficient. It was useless to try to
send for Mrs. St. James; it was doubtful if they could find her if they
did; anyway, they would be back within a day or so. So it was in
Dolores' arms he died. Dolores closed the white lids over the tired
eyes, folded the tiny waxen hands upon the little breast, and bitter
tears fell upon the still peaceful baby face of her little lost friend.
Then when all was over, Dolores waited with bitter feelings for his
mother to come.
She came the next day, in the afternoon. They were a merry party, and
much pleased with their trip. Mrs. St. James, on going up to her rooms,
finds Hester, her eyes red and swollen with weeping, every blind and
shutter closed, and the child--where was he? Then she heard her boy was
dead; she would not believe it; nothing, until she stood beside the
little silent form, would convince her.
"Oh, Miss Litchfield, can I ever forgive myself, can I ever forget that
you did for him while his own mother left him? Surely now, in my deep
trouble and sorrow, you will believe me when I say I am sorry for those
careless words you heard me speak about your mother."
Dolores is sitting beside the little white casket, and on the floor,
clasping Dolores' hands, is the child's mother. Dolores wonders if her
sorrow is real, or is she so polished that she can deceive people?
Sometimes the awful suspicion does actually flash through Dolores' mind.
Yes, it is to Dolores she goes in her trouble, nor is it in Dolores'
nature to refuse any one her sympathy.
"Will you have a dispatch sent his father, Mrs. St. James? We would have
sent before, but did not know the address."
"No, no?" Mrs. St. James answers hurriedly. "I shall have him buried
here."
Dolores opens her pretty eyes in shocked astonishment. Then Mrs. St.
James rises from her kneeling posture, draws the black shawl over her
handsome shoulders, and paces the long room hurriedly; then stops in
front of Dolores, and says, with a half smile:
"Miss Litchfield, if I entreat you to silence, and entrust to you a
secret, will you help me, for my dead boy's sake, to keep it?" She draws
an easy chair beside Dolores, and goes on. "Yes, yes, you will promise,
for the child's sake, will you not, Dolores? will you not?" and Dolores,
with tears in her eyes, promises.
"You may have wondered why the child never spoke of his father, and I
suppose, when I tell you his father believed him dead three years ago,
you will be still more surprised. I was jealous of my husband's love for
Roy. I never have been to Canada since we came here, three years ago. At
that time the child was sick, and after Mr. St. James went home I never
mentioned Roy's name, for my letters were not very frequent. Of course
he considered the boy had died. If he had had the slightest fancy the
infant lived he would have had him home, and I would hold but a
secondary place in my husband's heart; that would never do. I know it is
selfish in me, but I must have all the love of my husband; it cannot be
divided, not even with my own child. Now he must never be any the wiser
about the child having died, for if he should find out I have deceived
him so long, I should never be forgiven. I do not profess to love my
husband passionately; I never could love any one or any thing very much;
it is all owing, I suppose, to my selfish disposition. There is not the
slightest doubt but that I am wholly beloved by my husband. I do not
deserve so much goodness; I am utterly unworthy of him. Promise me,
Dolores, that if ever we meet again--Heaven only knows if we ever
shall--but if we do, never breathe of what has taken place here. Your
face tells me I have merited your disapproval, but try and pity me, for
I never had any one to teach me better, or instil good principles in my
mind. When you judge me, remember a spoilt child, brought up by nurses
and teachers, has not had the benefit of home discipline."
Dolores does not know what to say, she has heard such a cruel story.
Contempt and pity struggle together in her heart. She buries her pretty
face in her pocket handkerchief and weeps--weeps for the little child
lying there, who has no fond mother's heart to mourn over him, and for
the far off father who will never see his little son now, and whose
heart would no doubt be well nigh broken if he knew no parent's face was
present to catch the last glimpse of the fast dimming baby eyes. And
seeing Dolores cry, Mrs. St. James does likewise; probably she is more
touched than she has ever been before in her life.
"Mrs. St. James, I have promised," Dolores says presently, "and no
matter what my feelings are, I shall not go back on my word."
She takes no heed of her companion's words of gratitude, neither does
she accept or notice the outstretched hand, but hurries from the room,
to find Sir Barry in the parlor opposite.
"My dear little friend, how wretchedly tired you must be, and then
bothering with that woman. Why can she not humbug someone else beside
you?" he says, hurrying forward and taking her hands in his. Probably
Sir Barry was rather cross at not having seen Dolores more often during
the past few days; and Dolores, despite her independent spirit, is very
thankful for his thought for her.
"I have done all I can," she replies sadly, and Sir Barry, terribly
afraid the next thing she will do will be to cry, goes on quickly.
"Did you know Major Gray was talking of leaving here very soon?"
Now those are the very words Dolores has been dreading to hear. She
knows perfectly well things cannot go on forever as they have been
lately, and now her heart goes down into her boots, if such a feeling is
possible.
"I must go immediately and ask about the arrangements," she says
faintly.
"And there is something I want to say to you. Can I see you this
evening?" and Sir Barry waits for her answer.
Dolores' pretty face flushes; she looks past Sir Barry, down the long
hall, and out to the blue sky beyond.
"Not to-night; some other time," she answers gently. Then, before Sir
Barry can plead more, she leaves him. But he is far from unhappy, as he
strolls down to the hotel office to smoke a sociable cigar with the
Major.