IN AN EMPTY ROOM.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour.
--Shakspeare.
The next day Dolly, coming down into the garden, found Raban with her
mother, and she went up eagerly to meet him, hoping for the news she was
looking for. But news there was none, although her mother, arm-in-arm
with Raban, had been for the last hour slowly pacing the gravel-walks,
recapitulating all their anxieties and all the complaints they had
against that tiresome boy.
'The Admiral will be so shocked. I expect him hourly; and I look to
_you_, Mr. Raban, to tell me the plain truth.'
The plain truth was that Frank could discover nothing of George. All
that long day he had followed up every trace, been everywhere,
questioned every one, including Rhoda, without result. He had come now
in the faint hope of finding him at home after all. When Dolly came to
meet them, he thought she looked anxious enough already, and he made
light of his long efforts, and shrugged his shoulders.
'I have no doubt George will turn up at Cambridge in the course of a day
or two. I have some business calls me away. I will write immediately on
my return,' he said.
Frank saw Dolly's look of surprise and disappointment as she turned
away, and his heart ached for her; but what could he do? He watched her
as she turned back towards the house again, walking slowly and with a
thoughtful bent head.
'It is quite painful to see Dolly, she has no feeling whatever for me
left,' cried Mrs. Palmer. 'Ever since dear George's conduct, I see the
saddest change in her. I can do nothing. I would drive her out. Colonel
Witherington offered me his sister's barouche any day, but Dolly won't
hear of it. Dolly, you know, is simply impossible,' said Mrs. Palmer. 'I
never knew a more desponding nature.'
'Indeed?' said Raban.
It was not his place to be sorry for her. He was not able to shield her
from grief. It was not his place to think for her, to love her in her
trouble. It was not for him: all this was for Robert Henley to do.
There was a great red sunset in the sky, islands floating, and lakes and
seas of crimson light overhead, as Dolly walked sadly and slowly into
the house, and went back to the dim sick-room.
There is no need to dwell upon the slow hours. Dolly found that they
came to an end somehow. And all the time one miserable conviction
pursued her--George was gone. Of this she was convinced, notwithstanding
all they could say to reassure her. While they had been expecting him,
and blaming him, and wondering, and discussing his plans, he had fled
from them all. Dolly at first did not face the truth, for she had sat by
her aunt's bedside half dull, half absorbed by her present anxiety; but
when Lady Sarah began to rally a little, the thought of George grew more
constant, the longing for news more unendurable; time seemed longer: it
became an eternity at last. One day she felt as if she could bear it no
longer.
Robert found her looking very much moved; her cheeks were glowing, her
eyes were shining blue; she had a cloak on her arm, and some white
summer dress, and she began tying her bonnet-strings nervously.
'Robert, I want you to take me to Cambridge,' she said. 'I want to go
now. I know I could find him--I dreamt it. Aunt Sarah wants him back
directly....'
'You are quite unreasonable, dearest,' said Robert, soothingly.
'I am not; I am reasonable,' poor Dolly said, with an effort at
self-control. 'Mr. Raban cannot find him. Robert, let me go.' And Robert
yielded reluctantly to her wish.
'Have you got a _Bradshaw_ in the house?' said he.
Dolly had got one all ready, with the page turned down--she could spare
but a few hours, and was in a hurry to get back.
After all, sympathy is more effectually administered by indirect means
than by the crowbars of consolation with which our friends, even the
kindest, are apt to belabour our grief. According to some, people don't
die, they don't fall ill, they don't change, everything always goes
right. Some reproach us with our want of faith; others drag it
forth--that silent sorrow that would fain lie half-asleep and resting in
our hearts. Poor Dolly could not speak of George scarcely even to
Robert. She sat very silently in the railway-carriage, her hands lying
listlessly in her lap, while he refuted all the fears she had not even
allowed herself to realise. This state of things annoyed Robert. He
hated to see people dull and indifferent. It was distressing and
tiresome too.
Few people were about when Robert and Dolly came across the great
triumphant court of St. Thomas, with its gateways and many stony eyes
and narrow doorways. They were on their way to All Saints', close by.
The place seemed chiefly given over to laundresses. A freshman was
standing under the arched gateway that leads to the inner court; he was
reading some neatly-written announcement in the glass shrine hanging
outside the buttery. The oaken doors were closed. Robert, seeing a
friend crossing the court, went away to speak to him. Dolly walked on a
little, and stood by the railings, and the flight of steps that lead
into the beautiful inner court of this great Palace of Art. She watched
the many lines flowing in waves of stone, of mist. At the far end of the
arched enclosure were iron-scrolled gates, with green and gold, and
misty veils of autumn drifting in the gardens beyond. And then she
remembered the summer's day when she last stood there with George, and
as she thought of him suddenly his image came before her so distinctly
that she almost called out his name. It was but an instant's impression;
it was gone; the steps were Robert's; the image was in her own mind.
'Are you tired of waiting?' said Henley. 'Now, if you like we will go on
to All Saints',' he said.
It seemed to Dolly as if she was looking at the old summer day, dimmed,
silenced, saddened, seen through some darkened pane, as they went on
together, passing under archways and galleries, and coming at last into
the quaint and tranquil court that Dolly remembered so vividly. There
she had stood; and there was George's staircase, and there was his name
painted up, and there was his window with its lattice.
Robert went off for the key of George's room, and Dolly waited. It was
so sweet, so sad, so tranquil, like the end of a long life. Dolly
wandered in and out the narrow galleries; the silence of the place
comforted her. She was glad to be alone a little bit, unconstrained, to
feel as she felt, and not as she ought to feel; quietly despondent, not
nervously confident, as they would all have her be. It was a crumbling,
sweet, sunshiny sort of waking dream. Some gleams had broken through the
clouds, and shone reflected from the many lattice windows round about
the little court. She heard some voices, and some young men hurried by,
laughing as they went. They did not see the young lady with the sweet
sad face standing under the gallery. Chrysanthemums were growing up
against the wall, with faint lilac and golden heads, the last bright
tints left upon the once gorgeous palette of summer. A delicate cool sky
hung overhead, and the light was becoming brighter. Dolly passed an open
door, and peeped in from the quaint gallery to a warm and darkened room,
panelled and carpeted. It was dark and untenanted; a fire was burning in
the grate.
'That is Fieldbrook's room; he will give us some tea presently,' said
Robert, coming up; 'but now we can get into George's.'
Robert, who seemed to have keys for every keyhole, opened an oak door,
and led the way up some stone steps. George's room was on the first
floor. Henley went in first, opened the window, dragged forward a chair.
'If you will rest here,' he said, 'I will go and find Fieldbrook. They
tell me he last heard from George. I have to speak to the
Vice-Chancellor too.' Then he was gone again, after looking about to see
that there was nothing he could do for her.
Dolly was glad to be alone. She sat down in George's three-sided chair,
resting her head upon her hand. She was in his room. Everything in the
place seemed to have a voice, and to speak to her--'George, George,' it
all said. She looked out of the little window across the court. She
could see the old windows of the library shining, and then she heard
more voices, and more young men hurried by, with many footsteps.
Ever after, Dolly remembered that last half-hour spent in George's rooms
_with_ George: so it seemed to her looking back from a time when she had
ceased to hope. She went to the writing-table, and mechanically began to
straighten the toys and pens lying on the cloth. There was the little
dagger his mother had sent him from India years before; the desk she had
given him out of her savings; and it occurred to her to open the lid, of
which she knew the trick. She pushed the spring, and the top flew up
with a sudden jerk, as it always did. Then Dolly saw that the box was
full of papers hastily thrown in, verses, notes of lectures, and a
letter torn through. 'Dearest Rh--' it began. She had no great shame
looking over George's papers, a tear fell on the dear heap as she bent
over the signs and ink-marks that told of her poor boy's trouble. What
was this? a letter stamped and addressed to herself. Had it been thrown
in with the rest by mistake? She tore it open hastily, with eager hands.
He must have written the night of their water-party: it had no date:--
DEAREST DOLLY (said the crooked lines)--This is one more
good-by, and one more service that I want you to do me; and you
have never grudged any human being love or help. I am going,
and before I go I shall make my will, and I shall leave what
little I have--not to you--but to Rhoda, and will you see to
this? I sometimes think she has not even a heart to help her
through life; she will like my money better than me. It is
quite late at night, but I cannot sleep; she comes and awakens
me in my dreams. I shall go away from this as soon as the gates
are open. It is no use struggling against my fate; others are
giving their lives for a purpose, and I shall join them if I
can. I have been flung from my anchor here, and the waves seem
to close over me. If I live you will hear from me. Dearest old
Dolly, take warning by me and don't expect too much. God bless
you!
G. V.
Will you pay Miller at the boat-house 2_l._ 10_s._ I owe him? I
think I have cleared up all other scores. I will leave the
papers with him. I shall not come back here any more.
That was all. She was standing with her letter still in her hand,
blankly looking at it, when the door opened and Tom Morgan came in. '"If
I live." What did he mean? "Ask at the boat-house?"' She laid the letter
down and went on turning over the papers without noticing the young man.
Tom walked in with a broad grin and great volubility. 'Well!' said he,
cheerfully, 'I thought it was you! I was walking with Magniac and some
others, and noticed the windows open, and I saw you standing just where
you are now, and I said to Magniac, "I know that lady." He wouldn't
believe me; but I was right, knew I was. How are you and how is Lady
Sarah? Where is George? When did he come back?' Then suddenly
remembering some rumour to which he had paid but little heed at first,
'Nothing wrong, I hope?' said Tom.
'Tom! where is this?' said Dolly, without any preamble, in her old
abrupt way, and she gave him a crumpled bill which she had been
examining.
MR. VANBUG _to_ J. MILLER--
To hieir of the _Wave_ twelve hours.
To man's time, &c. &c.
To new coteing hir with tare, &c.
'I want to go there,' she said. 'Will you show me the way?'
'To the boat-house?' said Tom, doubtfully, looking at the bill.
'Miller's, you mean?'
She saw him hesitate.
'I must go,' she cried. 'You must take me. Is it Miller's? Show me the
way, Tom.'
'Of course I can show you the way if you wish it,' said Tom.
He looked even more stupid than usual, but he did not like to refuse. He
had to be in Hall by three o'clock, that was why he had hesitated. He
had been thinking of his dinner; but Dolly began to tie on her bonnet.
She hurried out, and ran downstairs, and he followed her across the
court into the street. He was not loth to be seen walking with so pretty
a young lady. He nodded to several of his friends with velvet bands upon
their gowns; a professor went by, Tom raised his well-worn cap.
Dolly might have been amused at any other time by the quaint mediaeval
ways of the old place.
It was out of term-time, but there had been some special meeting of the
college magnates. Crimson coats and black, square caps and tassels, and
quaint old things were passing. The fifteenth century was standing at a
street corner. To-day heartily shook hands with 1500 and hurried on.
Dolly saw it all without seeing it. Tom Morgan tried to give her the
latest news.
'That is Brown,' said he, 'the new Professor of Modern Literature.'
Dolly never even turned her head to look after Brown.
'There's Smith,' said Tom: 'they say he will be in the first six for the
Mathematical Tripos.'
Then they came out of the busy High Street by a narrow lane, with brick
walls on either side. It led to the mill by the river, and beyond the
river spread a great country of water-meadows. It was a world, not of
to-day or of 1500, but of all times and all hours. Pollards were growing
at intervals, the river flowed by dull and sluggish, the land, too,
seemed to flow dull and sluggish to meet a grey horizon. There were no
animals to be seen, only these pollard-trees at intervals, and the
spires of Cambridge crowding in the mist.