GOOD-MORNING.
Qu'un jeune amour, plein de mystere,
Pardonne a la vieille amitie.
Dolly passed through the sleeping house, crept by the doors, slid down
the creaking stairs, into the hall. The shutters were unopened as yet,
the dawning day was bolted out, and the place was dark and scattered
over with the shreds of the day before. A newspaper was lying on the
hall table, pieces of string upon the ground, a crumpled letter, and the
long brown-paper coffin in which the silk for her new gown had come home
the night before. Each day scatters its dust as it hurries by, and
leaves its broken ends and scraps for the coming hours to collect and
sort away, dust of mind, and dust of matter. The great kaleidoscope of
the world turns round once in its twenty-four hours; the patterns and
combinations shift and change and disperse into new combinations.
Perhaps some of us may think that, with each turn, the fragments are
shaken up and mixed and broken away more and more, until only an
undistinguishable uniform dazzle remains in place of the beautiful blue
and red and golden stars and wheels that delighted our youth.
Dorothea gave a cautious pull to the bolt of the outer door and opened
it, letting a sudden sweet chill rush of light and fresh air into the
closed house, where they had all been asleep through the night. What a
morning! All her sudden fears seemed lightened, and she jumped across
the step on to the gravel walk, and looked up and round and about. Dark
green, gold, glistening bricks, slanting lights, and sweet tremulous
shadows; the many crowding house-roofs and tree-tops aflame in the
seven-o'clock sunshine, the birds flapping and fluttering, the mellow
old church clock striking seven: the strokes come in solemn procession
across the High Street and the old brick-walled garden, and pass on I
don't know to what distant blue realms in the vault overhead.
She stopped to look at a couple of snails creeping up among the nails in
the wall. I think she then practised a little mazourka along the
straight garden walk. She then took off her hat and stopped to pin back
some of the russet of which I have spoken, then she looked up again and
drew a great breath; and then, passing the green beech and the two cut
yew-trees, she came to the placid pond in its stone basin at the end of
the garden. There it lay in its darkness and light. There were the
gold-fish wide-awake, darting and gaping as they rose to the surface;
and the water reflected the sky and the laurel-bushes, and the chipped
stone edge of the basin. When Dorothea came and looked over the brink
she saw her own smiling, disjointed face looking up at her. It was not
so bright a face as her own, somehow. It looked up grey and sad from out
of this trembling, mystical looking-glass. What was it? A cloud passing
overhead, a little, soft, fleecy, white cloud bobbing along, and then
some birds flying by, and then a rustle among the leaves. It was only a
moment, during which it had seemed to her as if the throb of nature beat
a little more slowly, and as if its rhythm had halted for an instant;
and in that moment the trouble of the night before, the doubt of
herself, came back to her. Sometimes Dorothea had wondered, as others
have done before her, if there is such a thing as real happiness in
nature. Do clouds love to sail quickly on the wind? Are pools glad to
lie placid refracting the sunshine? When the trees rustle, is it just a
chatter and a quiver, or the thrill of life answering life? The thought
of a living nature without consciousness had always seemed to her
inexpressibly sad. She had sometimes thought how sad a human life might
be that was just a human life, living and working and playing, and
coming to an end one day, and falling to the ground. It was, in truth,
not very unlike the life she might have led herself, and now--now she
was alone no longer. There was a meaning to life now, for Henley loved
her. She thought this, and then, seeing a spider's web suddenly gleam
with a long lightning flash, she turned with another glad spring of
youth to the light.
On the table, lay a letter sealed and stamped and addressed--'Miss
Vanborough, Church House, Kensington.' It was for her. There was no
mistaking it. Her first love-letter. There it lay in black and in white,
signed and dated and marked with a crest. Robert must have written it
the night before, after they had left.
A few minutes ago, in the fresh morning air, it had all seemed like a
dream of the night; here were tangible signs and wonders to recall her
to her allegiance.
Dolly took it up shyly, this first love-letter, come safe into her hands
from the hands which had despatched it. She was still standing reading
it in the window when Lady Sarah, who had made an effort, came in,
leaning on Marker's arm. The girl was absorbed; her pretty brown curly
head was bent in the ivylight, that dazzled through the leaves; she
heard nothing except the new voice speaking to her; she saw no one
except that invisible presence which was so vividly before her. This was
the letter:--
MY DEAREST DORA,--I write you one line, which will, I hope,
reach you in the morning. You are gone, and already I wish you
back again. Your sweetness, your trust in me, have quite
overpowered me. I long to prove to you that I am all you
believed me, and worthy of your choice. Do not fear to trust
your happiness to me. I have carefully studied your character.
I know you even better than you know yourself; and when you
hesitated I could appreciate your motives. I feel convinced
that we have acted for the best. I would say more, but I must
write to your mother and to Lady Sarah by to-night's post.
Write to me fully and without reserve.
Ever yours, dearest Dora,
R. V. H.
Inside Dolly's letter was a second letter, addressed to the Lady Sarah
Francis, sealed and addressed in the same legible hand. This was not a
love-letter; nobody could reasonably be expected to send two by the same
post:--
MY DEAR LADY SARAH,--Dora will have informed you of what has
occurred, and I feel that I must not delay expressing to you
how sincerely I trust that you will not disapprove of the step
we have taken. Although my appointment is not a very lucrative
one, the salary is increasing; and I shall make a point of
insuring my life before leaving England, for our dear girl's
benefit. I do not know whether Dorothea is herself entitled to
any of her father's fortune, or whether it has been settled
upon George; perhaps you would kindly inform me upon this
point, as I am most anxious not to overstep the line of
prudence, and my future arrangements must greatly depend upon
my means. You will have heard of my appointment to the
presidentship of the College of Boggleywollah. India is a long
way off, but time soon passes to those who are able to make
good use of it; and I trust that in the happiness of one so
justly dear to you, you will find consolation for her absence.
Believe me, my dear Lady Sarah, very truly yours,
R. HENLEY.
P.S.--My widow would be entitled to a pension by the provisions
of the Fund.
This was what Dolly, with so much agitation, put into her aunt's hand,
watching her face anxiously as she read it.
'May I read it?' said Dolly.
'It is only business,' said Lady Sarah, crumpling it up, and Dolly
turned away disappointed, and began to pour out the tea.
It was a very agitated breakfast, happy and shy and rather silent,
though so much had to be said. Mrs. Palmer came drifting in, to their
surprise, before breakfast was over, in a beautiful white wrapper with
satin bows. She also had received a letter. She embraced Dolly and Lady
Sarah.
'Well, what do you say to our news, Sarah? I have heard from our dear
Robert,' said she. 'You may read his letter--both of you. Sarah, I am
sorry to hear you have been ailing. If it would not be giving too much
trouble--I have been so upset by all this agitation--I should prefer
coffee this morning. I was quite frightened about myself last night,
Dolly, after I left you.... Dear me, what memories come back to one. Do
you remember our marriage, Sarah, and...?'
'Pray ring again, Dolly,' said Lady Sarah, abruptly, and she went to the
door and called Marker, shrilly and impatient.
'There is no one but me,' says Mrs. Palmer, pulling out her frills with
a deep sigh, 'who cares for those old stories. The Admiral cannot endure
them.'
* * * * *
Dolly's cup of happiness, so full before, seemed overflowing now, it
spread and spread. Happiness and sorrow overflow into other cups besides
our own. John Morgan looked in opportunely to hear the news and to ask
how they all were: his hearty congratulations came with a grateful sense
of relief. Dolly longed for sympathy in her happiness. She was glad to
be a little stunned by the cheerful view he took of what must be so sad
as well as so sweet. The news spread rapidly.
Old Sam came up with a shining face and set down the copper
coal-scuttle, the better to express his good wishes. Eliza Twells
tumbled down the kitchen-stairs with a great clatter from sheer
excitement, and when Marker, relenting, came up in her big flowing apron
for orders, her round face was rippling with smiles.
'God bless you kindly, Miss Dolly, my dear,' said the good old woman,
giving her a kiss on each cheek. 'I never took up with a husband myself,
but I don't blame ye. It is well to have some one to speak our mind to.
And did he give you a ring, my dear?'
Dolly laughed and held up her two hands. 'No ring, Marker. I don't like
rings. I wish one could be married without one.'
'Don't say that, dearie,' said Marker, gravely.