GOOD-NIGHT.
Love us, God! love us, man! we believe, we achieve.
Let us live, let us love,
For the acts correspond:
We are Glorious, and DIE.
--E. B. B.
Good-night, dearest Dolly,' whispered Henley, as they all stood waiting
for their train in the crowded station. 'You can tell your mother as you
go home.'
'Here, Dolly! jump in,' cried John Morgan, standing by an open
railway-door; 'your aunt is calling you.'
'I can't come up till Tuesday,' Henley went on in a low voice, 'but I
shall write to your mother to-night.'
He helped her into the dark carriage: everybody seemed to lean forward
at once and say good-night; there was a whistle, a guard banged the
door, Mrs. Palmer stretched her long neck through the window, but the
train carried her off before she could speak her last words.
Dolly just saw Henley turning away, and George under a lamp-post; then
they were gone out of the station into the open country; wide and dim it
flowed on either side into the dusk. The day had come to an end--the
most wonderful day in Dolly's life. Was it a real day; was it a day out
of somebody else's existence? As Dolly sat down beside her mother she
had felt as if her heart would break with wonder and happiness; it was
not big enough to hold the love that was her portion. He loved her! She
had floated into some new world where she had never been before; where
people had been living all their lives, thought Dolly, and she had never
even guessed at it.
Had her mother felt like this? Had Frank Raban's poor young wife felt
this when he married her? So she wondered, looking up at the clear
evening sky. Might not death itself be this, only greater still and
completer--too complete for human beings? Dolly had got her mother's
hand tight in hers. 'My dear child, take care, take care!' cried Mrs.
Palmer, sharply; 'my poor fingers are so tender, Mr. Morgan; and Dolly's
is _such_ a grip. I remember once when the Admiral, with his great
driving gloves....' Her voice sank away, and Dolly's mamma began telling
John Morgan all about one episode in her life.
Meanwhile, Dolly went on with her speculations. How surprised Aunt Sarah
would be; how surprised she was herself. Dolly had had a dream, so have
most young maidens, formless, voiceless, indefinitely vague, but with a
meaning to it all the same, and a _soul_; and here was Robert, and the
soul was his, and he loved her! 'Thanks, half-way up,' murmured Mrs.
Palmer to a strange passenger who did not belong to the party.
'Tired, Zoe?' said John to his sister: 'a little bit sleepy, eh?'
'Everybody thinks I'm always tired,' said Zoe, in an aggrieved tone:
'Rhoda made me rest ever so long when I didn't want to; she popped me
down on a stool in that stupid old library, and said I looked quite worn
out, and then she was off in a minute, and I had to wait, oh! ever so
long, and I was frightened by noises.'
'Poor Zoe!' said John, laughing.
'It was too bad of her; and then they all kept leaving me behind,'
continued Zoe, growing more and more miserable 'and now you say it has
been too much for me: I am sure I wouldn't have missed coming for
anything.'
'Next time we go anywhere you keep with me, Zoe,' said John,
good-humouredly, 'and you shan't be left behind.'
'I think we are all tired,' said Mrs. Palmer, languidly, 'and we shall
be thankful to get home. Dolly, my darling, you don't speak; are you
quite worn out too?'
Dolly looked out from her dreams with a glance of so much life and
sweetness in her bright face--even the dim lamplight could not hide her
happy looks--that her mother was struck by it. 'You strange child,' she
said, 'what are you made of? You look brighter than when we started.'
'Dolly is made of a capital stuff called youth and good spirits,' said
John Morgan, kindly.
The rest of the journey was passed in shifting the windows to Mrs.
Palmer's various sensations. They all parted hurriedly, as people do
after a long day's pleasuring, only Dolly found time to give Rhoda a
kiss. She felt more kindly towards her than she had done for many a day
past. Rhoda looked curiously, and a little maliciously, into Dolly's
face. But she could not read anything more than she guessed already.
Mrs. Palmer was greatly disturbed to find herself driving home alone
with Dolly in the hansom.
'I am afraid of cabmen. I am not accustomed to them. John Morgan should
have come with me,' Mrs. Palmer said. 'I am sure the Admiral would not
approve of this! Ah! he will be over. Dolly, darling, ask the man if he
is sober. Dear me, I wish Robert was here.'
Dolly, too, was wishing that Robert was there instead of herself. Her
heart began to beat as she thought of what she had to say. She looked up
at Mrs. Palmer's pale face in the bright moonlight through which they
were driving homewards; through parks silver and silent and transformed.
They come to the river and cross the bridge; the water is flowing,
hushed, and mysterious: the bridge throws a great shadow upon the water;
one barge is slowly passing underneath the arch. The dim, distant crowd
of spires, of chimneys, and slated roofs, are illumined and multiplied
by strange silver lights. Overhead a planet is burning and sinking where
the sun set while they were still in the college garden. The soft
moon-wind comes sweeping fresh into their faces, and Dolly from this
trance awakens to whisper, 'Mamma! I have something to tell
you--something that Robert----'
'He will throw us over! I know he will!' interrupts Mrs. Palmer, as the
cab gave a jolt. 'It is quite unsafe, Dolly, without a gentleman.'
Poor Dolly forced herself to go on. She took her mother's hand: 'Dear
mamma, don't be afraid.'
'He was not sober. I thought so at the time,' cried Mrs. Palmer, with a
nervous shriek, as they came off the bridge.
Then the cab went more quietly, and Dolly found words to tell her news.
So the hansom drove on, carrying many agitations and exclamations along
with it. The driver from his moonlit perch may have heard the sounds
within. Mrs. Palmer spared herself and Dolly no single emotion. She was
faint, she was hysterical, she rallied, she was overcome. Why had she
not been told before? she had known it all along; she had mentioned it
to the Admiral before her departure; he had sneered at her foolish
dreams. Dolly would never have to learn the bitter deception of some
wasted lives. Cruel boy! why had he not told her? why so reserved?
'He feared that it would agitate you,' Dolly said, feeling that Robert
had been right. 'He told me to tell you now, dear.'
'Dear fellow, he is so thoughtful,' said Mrs. Palmer. 'Now he will be my
son, Dolly, my real son. I never could have endured any one of those
Henley girls for him. How angry Lady Henley will be. I warned Robert
long ago that she would want him for one of them. Dolly, you must not be
married yet. You must wait till the Admiral returns. He must give you
away.'
When Dolly told her that Robert wanted to be married before he left for
India, Mrs. Palmer said it was preposterous. He might have to sail any
day,--that Master told her so; the fat old gentleman in the white
neckcloth. 'No, my Dolly, we shall have you till Robert comes back. Let
the man keep the shilling for his own use.'
They had reached the turnpike by this time, with its friendly
beacon-fire burning, and the red-faced man had come out with three
pennies ready in his hand. Then by dark trees, rustling behind the walls
of the old gardens; past the palace avenue-gates, where the sentry was
pacing, with the stars shining over his head; they come to the ivy-gate
at home, and with its lamp burning red in the moonlight. Marker opened
the door before they had time to ring.
'Softly, my dear,' said Marker to Dolly, in a sort of whisper. 'My lady
is asleep; she has not been well, and--'
'Not well!' said Mrs. Palmer. 'How fortunate she did not come. What
should we have done with her? I am quite worn out, Marker; we have had a
long day. Let Julie make me a cup of coffee, and bring it up to my room.
Good-night, my precious Dolly. Don't speak to me, or I shall scream!'
'Marker, is Aunt Sarah ill?' said Dolly, anxious, she knew not why.
'Don't be frightened, my dear,' said Marker; 'it is nothing; that is,
the Doctor says she only wants rest.'
Dolly went up to her own room, flitting carefully along the passage, and
shading her light. Lady Sarah's door was closed. Mrs. Palmer was safe
for the night, with Julie in attendance. Dolly could hear their voices,
as she went by. In her own little room all was in order, and cool and
straight for her coming. The window was open, the moonlight fell upon
her little bed, where she had dreamt so many peaceful dreams, and Dolly
set her light upon the window-seat, and stood looking out. She was half
radiant still, half saddened. All the sights and sounds of that long,
eventful day were passing before her still: ringing, dazzling, repeating
themselves on the darkness.... Was it possible that he loved her--that
she loved him? The trees rustled, the familiar strokes of the church
clock came striking twelve, swinging through darkness into silence. 'Do
I love him? I think so,' said Dolly to herself. 'I hope so.' And with an
honest heart, she told herself that all should be well. Then she
wondered if she should sleep that night; she seemed to be living over
every single bit of her life at once. She longed to tell Aunt Sarah her
wonderful story. A cockchafer sailed in at the open window, and Dolly
moved the light to save its straggling legs; a little wind came blowing
in, and then Dolly thought she heard a sound as of a door below opening
softly. Was her aunt awake and stirring? She caught up the light and
crept down to see. She could hear Julie and Mrs. Palmer still
discoursing.
There is something sacred about a sick-room at times. It seems like holy
ground to people coming in suddenly out of the turmoil and emotion of
life. Dolly's excitement was hushed as she entered and saw Lady Sarah
lying quietly stretched out asleep upon a sofa. It had been wheeled to
the window, which was wide open. The curtain was flapping, all the
medicine bottles stood in rows on the table and along the shelves. There
lay Sarah, with her grey hair smoothed over her brown face, very still
and sleeping peacefully--as peacefully as if she was young still, and
loved, and happy, with life before her: though, for the matter of that,
people whose life is nearly over have more right to sleep at peace than
those who have got to encounter they know not what trials and
troubles--struggles with others, and, most deadly of all, with that
terrible shadow of self that rises with fresh might, striking with so
sure an aim. What does the mystery mean? Who is the familiar enemy that
our spirit is set to overcome and to struggle with all the night until
the dawn? There lay poor Sarah's life-adversary, then, nearly worn,
nearly overcome, sleeping and resting while the spirit was travelling I
know not to what peaceful regions.
Dolly crept in and closed the door. Lady Sarah never stirred. A long
time seemed to pass. The wind rose again, the curtain flapped, and the
light flickered, and time seemed creeping slowly and more slowly to the
tune of the sleeping woman's languid breath. It was a strange ending to
the long, glittering day, but at last a flush came into Sarah Francis's
cheeks, and she opened her eyes.... A strange new something was in that
placid face--a look. What is it, that first look of change and blurr in
features that have melted so tranquilly before us from youth to
middle-age, or from middle-age to age, modulating imperceptibly? The
light of Dolly's own heart was too dazzling for her to be in a very
observant mood just then.
'Is that my Dolly?' said the sick woman.
Dolly sprang forward. 'Oh! I am so glad you are awake,' said the girl.
'Dear Aunt Sarah, has your sleep done you good? Are you better? Can you
listen to something? Can you guess?' And she knelt down so as to bring
her face on a level with the other; but she couldn't see it very plainly
for a dazzle between them. 'Robert says he loves me; and, indeed, if he
loves me I must love him,' Dolly whispered; and her face fell hidden
against the pillow, and the mist turned to haze. Some bird in the garden
outside began to whistle in its sleep. A belated clock struck something
a long way off, and then all was silence and darkness again.
Lady Sarah held Dolly close to her, as the girl knelt beside her. 'Do
you care for him? Is it possible?' said Lady Sarah, bewildered.
Dolly was hurt by her doubt. 'Indeed I do,' she answered, beginning to
cry once more, from fatigue and excitement.
One of the two women in that midnight room was young, with the new
kindling genius of love in her heart, and she was weeping; the other was
old, with the first knell of death ringing in her ear; but when Dolly
looked up at last she saw that her aunt was smiling very tenderly. Lady
Sarah smiled, but she could not trust herself to speak. She had awakened
startled, but in a minute she had realised it all. She had felt all
along that this must be. She had not wished for it, but it was come. It
was not only of Dolly and of Robert that Lady Sarah thought that night;
other ghosts came into the room and stood before her. And then came
every day, very real, into this dream-world--Marker with a bed-chamber
candlestick, walking straight into conflicting emotions, and indignant
with Miss Dolly for disturbing her mistress. She had been shutting up
and seeing to Mrs. Palmer's coffee. She was scarcely mollified by the
great news. Lady Sarah was awake; Dolly had awakened her.
'Let people marry who they like,' said Marker; 'but don't let them come
chattering and disturbing at this time o' night, when they should a'
known better.