THE SLOW SAD HOURS.
And thou wert sad, yet I was not with thee;
And thou wert sick, and yet I was not there.
--Byron.
Dolly and her mother had left the Middletons' when John Morgan drove up
in a hansom, with a message from his mother to bring them back at once.
The servant told him that they were only just gone, and he drove off in
pursuit. Bucklersbury House was blazing in the darkness, with its many
windows open and alight, and its crowds pouring in and its music
striking up. Morgan sprang out of his cab and hurried across the court,
and under the horses' noses, and pushed among the footmen to the great
front door where the inscribing angels of the _Morning Post_ were
stationed. The servants would have sent him back, but he told his errand
in a few hasty words, and was allowed to walk into the hall. He saw a
great marble staircase all alight, and people going up; and, by some
good fortune, one of the very first persons he distinguished was Dolly,
who had only just come, and who was following her mother and Robert.
She, too, caught sight of the familiar face in the hall below, and
stopped short.
'Mamma,' she said, 'there is John Morgan making signs. Something has
happened.'
Mrs. Palmer did not choose to hear. She was going in; she was at the
gates of Paradise: she was not going to be kept back by John Morgan.
There came a cheerful clang of music from above.
Dolly hesitated; the curate beckoned to her eagerly. 'Mamma, I must go
back to him,' said Dolly, and before her mother could remonstrate she
had stopped short and slid behind a diplomat, a lord with a blue ribbon,
an aged countess; in two minutes she was at the foot of the staircase,
Robert meanwhile serenely proceeding ahead, and imagining that his
ladies were following.
In two words, John Morgan had told Dolly to get her shawl, that her aunt
was ill, that she had been asking for her. Dolly flew back to the
cloak-room: she saw her white shawl still lying on the table, and she
seized it and ran back to John Morgan again, and then they had hurried
through the court and among the carriages to the place where the hansom
was waiting.
'And I was away from her!' said Dolly. That was nearly all she said. It
was her first trouble--overwhelming, unendurable, bewildering, as first
troubles are. When they drove up to Church House, the front looked
black, and closed, and terrible somehow. Dolly's heart beat as she went
in.
Everything seemed a little less terrible when she had run upstairs, and
found her aunt lying in the familiar room, with a faint odour of camphor
and chloroform, and Marker coming and going very quietly. Mrs. Morgan
was there with her bonnet cocked a little on one side; she came up and
took Dolly's hand with real kindness, and said some words of
encouragement, and led her to the bedside. As Dolly looked at Aunt
Sarah's changed face, she gulped for the first time one of life's bitter
draughts. They don't last long, those horrible moments; they pass on,
but they leave a burning taste; it comes back again and again with the
troubles of life.
Lady Sarah seemed to recognise Dolly when she first came in, then she
relapsed again, and lay scarce conscious, placid, indifferently waiting
the result of all this nursing and anxious care. The struggles of life
and its bustling anxieties had passed away from that quiet room, never
more to return.
Dolly sat patiently by the bedside. She had not taken off her evening
dress, she never moved, she scarcely breathed, for fear of disturbing
her dear sick woman. If Frank Raban could have seen her then, he would
not have called her cold! Those loving looks and tender ways might
almost have poured new life into the worn-out existence that was ebbing
away. The night sped on, as such nights do pass. She heard the sound of
carriage-wheels coming home at last, and crept downstairs to meet the
home-comers.
Dolly did not ask her mother what had delayed her when the two came in.
She met them with her pale face. She was still in her white dress, with
the dying roses in her hair. Henley, who had meant to reproach her for
deserting them without a word, felt ashamed for once before her. She
seemed to belong to some other world, far away from that from which he
had just come. She told her story very simply. The doctors said there
had been one attack such as this once before, which her aunt had kept
concealed from them all. They ordered absolute quiet. Marker was to be
nurse, and one other person. 'Of course that must be me, mamma. I think
Aunt Sarah would like me best,' she said, with a faint smile. 'Mrs.
Morgan! No, dear mamma, not Mrs. Morgan.' Then suddenly she burst into
tears. 'Oh, mamma, I have never seen any one so ill,' she said; but the
next minute she had overcome her emotion, and wiped her eyes.
'My dearest child, it is most distressing, and that you should have
missed your ball, too' said Philippa. 'I said all along, if you
remember, that she was looking a perfect wreck. You would not listen to
me. Robert, turn that sofa out of the draught. I shall not go to bed.
Julie can come down here and keep me company after you go.'
'I must go,' said Robert; 'I have still some work to finish. Take care
of yourself, Dora--remember you belong to me now. I hope there will be
better news in the morning.'
From one room to the other, all the next day, Dolly went with her heavy
heart--it seemed to drag at her as she moved, to dull her very anxiety.
It was only a pain, it did not rise to the dignity of an emotion. Mrs.
Palmer felt herself greatly neglected; she was taken ill in the
afternoon and begged to see the doctor, who made light of her ailment;
towards evening Mrs. Palmer was a great deal better. She came down into
the drawing-room, and sent Eliza Twells over for John Morgan. Lady Sarah
still lay stricken silent, but her pulse was better, the doctor said:
she could move her arm a little: it had been lying helpless before.
Faithful Marker sat by her side, rubbing her cold hands.
'Aunt Sarah, do you know me?' whispered Dolly, bending over her.
Lady Sarah faintly smiled in answer.
'Tell George to come back,' she said slowly. 'Dolly, I did as you
wished; are you satisfied?' She had gone back to the moment when she was
taken ill.
'Dearest Aunt Sarah,' said Dolly, covering her hand with kisses. Then
she ran down to tell her mother the good news. 'Aunt Sarah was rallying,
was talking more like herself again. We only want George to make her
well again. He must come. Where is he? Why does he not come?'
'Don't ask _me_ anything about George,' said Mrs. Palmer, putting up her
hands.
This was the day after the ball, but no George came, although Dolly
looked for him at every instant. John Morgan, of his own accord, sent a
second message to him and another to Raban. In the course of the day an
answer arrived from the tutor: '_G. left Cambridge yesterday. Your
telegram to him lying unopened._'