'SING HOARSE, WITH TEARS BETWEEN.'
'Sing sorrow, sing sorrow, triumph the good.'
--AEschylus, _Agamemnon_.
Robert had come back from India prepared to fight Dolly's battle.
Although expressing much annoyance that this disagreeable task should
have been left to him, he remembered Rhoda as an inoffensive little
thing, and he had no doubt but that she would hear reason, if things
were clearly put before her. She was too much in her right to be
expected to give up everything, but Robert had but little doubt that he
should be able to effect a compromise; he had lived long enough to
realise how much weight one definite, clearly-expressed opinion may have
in the balance. It was most fortunate that his official duties should
have brought him home at this juncture. Dolly must consent to be guided
by him. He was in some sense her natural protector still, although he
felt at times that there was not that singleness of purpose about his
cousin which he should have wished to find in the woman whom he looked
upon as his future wife. At this time he had no intention of breaking
with her. He wished to keep her in suspense. She deserved it: she had
not once thought of him; she had behaved most childishly--yielded where
she should have been firm, sacrificed everything to a passing whim; she
had been greatly tried, of course, but even all this might have been
partly avoided if she had done as he recommended. So thought Robert as
he was tying his white neckcloth in the glass at his hotel. The gilt
frame reflected back a serious young man and a neatly-tied cravat, and
he was satisfied with both. He came back to a late dinner with Rhoda
after Mrs. Palmer's Thursday Afternoon had departed, taking away its
cloaks and hats. Signor Pappaforte was the last to go. M. de Molleville
took leave. Mrs. Palmer, needless to say, was charmed with the
Molleville family--counts, marquises, dukes. They all lived in the
house, overhead, underfoot. Mdme. la Comtesse was a most delightful
person. M. le Comte was the only one of the family she did not take to,
M. le Comte being a sensible man, and somewhat abruptly cutting short
Mrs. Palmer's many questions and confidences.
The table was prettily laid in the big dining-room; the lamplight
twinkled upon the firmament of plates and silver spoons, and the flowers
that Rhoda had herself arranged. She was waiting for her guests. Robert
having, as in duty bound, first rung at his aunt's door, and learned
from Julie that Mademoiselle was resting, and that Madame was dressing
still, came across to the other apartment, where all was in order and
ready to make him comfortable. Rhoda was sitting in her usual place on
the little low chair by the fire. She had taken off her white dress--she
had put on a velvet gown; in her dark hair were two diamond stars: they
_shone_ in the firelight as she sat thoughtfully watching the little
flame. 'Have you brought them?' she said, without looking round. 'Are
you alone? Come and sit down here and be warmed while you wait.'
Rhoda's voice was like a bell, it rang so clear; when she was excited it
seemed to rise and fall and vibrate. At other times she would sit
silent; but though she sat silent, she held her own. Some people have
this gift of voiceless emotion, of silent expression. Rhoda was never
unnoticed: in her corner, crossing a street, or passing a stranger in a
crowded room, she would mark her way as she passed along. It was this
influence which had haunted poor George all his life, which made itself
felt now as it had never done before. Rhoda now seemed suddenly to have
bloomed into the sweetness and delicate brightness which belongs to some
flowers, such as cyclamen and others I could name. She had been
transplanted into clear air, into ease of mind and of body; she suddenly
seemed to have expanded into her new life, and her nature had kindled to
all sorts of new and wonderful things. Many of these were to be bought
with silver and gold; it was not for affection, nor for the highest
emotions, that little Rhoda had pined: hers was the enthusiasm of
common-place: it was towards bright things of every kind that this
little flame spirit turned so eagerly. Sometimes A gets credit for
saying what B may have thought and felt, what C has lived for years with
courage and self-denial; then comes a Rhoda, who _looks_ it all without
an effort or a single word, and no wonder that Robert and many others
were struck by her strange beauty and touched by her gentle magnetism of
expression and of grace.
Henley came up, and without any hesitation established himself in the
warm corner she indicated. The stiffness he had undoubtedly felt when
they first met had worn off since that 'business talk'--so Rhoda called
it; and now he did not know whether it was business or pleasure as he
listened to Rhoda's low song of explanation, and watched her white
fingers opening to the fire. Signor Pappaforte's tenor was not to
compare to Rhoda's soft performance. Perhaps I am wrong to use such a
word; for, after all, she was as genuine as Dolly herself in her way--as
Dolly who had fallen asleep, and was far away in spirit, dreaming a
little dream of all that had happened that day.
Rhoda resumed their conversation quite naturally. 'We may be
interrupted,' she said earnestly, 'and there is one more thing I want to
say to you. You know better than I do; you must judge for me. I always
hoped that when you came, all would be arranged. I know nothing of
business,' she said, smiling. 'I only know that I like my pretty things,
and that it makes me happy to live here, and to have my flowers and my
nice dresses and fresh air. Is it wrong? It seems a sort of new life to
me;' and a wistful face was gently upraised. 'If Dolly wishes it I will
give it all back--everything,' said Rhoda, who knew that she was pretty
safe in making this generous offer, and she smoothed the soft velvet
fold wistfully with her fingers, as if she felt it was no longer her
own. 'Dolly refused, when I begged her to take it all long ago,' she
added. 'Now I wish she had agreed before I became accustomed to this new
life. I confess that I do not like to look back. Serge and smoke and
omnibuses all seem more horrid than ever.'
Robert scarcely knew how to answer the poor little thing. 'Did you offer
to give it all up?' he said, starting up, and walking up and down with
long strides to hide his embarrassment. 'I was never told of it, or I
should certainly have ac----Dolly should have told me,' he said
quickly--all his embarrassment turning into wrath against Dolly.
'Don't blame her,' said Rhoda, in a low voice; 'she is so generous, so
noble. I can understand her refusing for herself; though I think if I
had loved any one as--as Dolly must love--I should have thought of his
interest first of all, and not of my own impulse. I know people might
say it is very foolish of me and weak-minded,' she said, faltering.
'They could only say that _you_ were a true woman, and respect you for
your generous devotion,' said Robert, taking her hand. He dropped it
rather awkwardly as Miss Rougemont came into the room, followed almost
immediately by Mrs. Palmer.
'That tired child of mine is still asleep,' said Mrs. Palmer. 'Marker
wouldn't let me awaken her.'
'Then perhaps we had better not wait,' said Rhoda, whose dark eyes were
never more wakeful. 'Ring the bell, Miss Rougemont.'
So Rhoda and her guests sat down with a very good appetite to dinner;
she charmed them all by her grace as a hostess. Miss Rougemont, who was
not a guest, discreetly retired as soon as the meal was over.
Robert passed a very disturbed night. It was near twelve o'clock next
morning when he rang at the door of his aunt's apartment. Dolly had been
expecting him for a long time. The baker, the water-carrier with his
clanking wooden pails, Mr. Anley's familiar tones, inquiring whether
Miss Vanborough was '_engagee_'--every ring, every voice had made her
heart beat. Robert found Mr. Anley still sitting with Dolly. They were
by an open window full of spring flowers. The cheerful rattle of the
street below, the cries of itinerant vendors, the noisy song of a bird
in the sunshine, and the bright morning light itself poured into the
room in a great stream of dazzling motes and gold, through which the
girl came blushing to meet her kinsman.
'I am afraid your long sleep has not rested you,' he said, looking at
her hard, as she stood in the slanting stream, all illuminated for an
instant--her rough hair radiant, her black gown changed to a purple
primrose mist; then she came out of the light into every day, and again
he thought how changed she was.
'I have brought you some violets,' and he gave her a bunch that he held
in his hand. Robert thought Dolly changed. How shall I describe her at
this time of her life? The dominant radiance of early youth was gone; a
whole lifetime had come into the last few months. But if the brightest
radiance was no longer there, a less self-absorbed person than Robert
Henley might have been touched by the tender sweetness of that pale
face. Its peaceful serenity did not affect him in the same way as
Rhoda's appealing glances; it seemed to tell of a whole experience far
away, in which he was not, and which, in his present frame of mind, only
seemed to reproach him.
Dorothea had no thought of reproach. She was a generous girl, unselfish,
able to forgive, as it is not given to many to forgive. She might
remember, but malice was not in her. Malice and uncharitableness as
often consist in the vivid remembrance of the pang inflicted, as in that
of the blow which caused it. Dolly never dwelt long upon the pain she
had suffered, and so, when the time came to forgive, she could forgive.
She had all along been curiously blind to Robert's short-comings; she
had taken it for granted that she was in fault when he asserted the fact
with quiet conviction; and now in the morning light she had been telling
herself (all the time Squire Anley had been talking of his plans and
benevolent schemes for a dinner at a cafe, presents for half the county,
etc. etc.) that perhaps she herself had been surprised and embarrassed
the night before, that Rhoda was looking on, that Robert was never very
expansive or quick to say all that he really felt, that this would be
their real meeting.
The kind squire soon went off pleased at the idea of a happy lovers'
meeting. He knew that there had been some misunderstanding. He looked
back as he left the room, but the stream of light was dazzling between
them, and he could not see their faces for it.
He might have stayed; his presence would have been a relief, so Dolly
thought afterwards, to that sad sunshiny half-hour through which her
heart ached so bitterly. She grasped the poor little bunch of violets
tight in her fingers, clenching the bitter disappointment. It was
nothing that she had to complain of, only everything. Had sorrow opened
her eyes, had her own remorse opened her eyes?
'I did not think,' Robert was saying, 'I should see you so soon again,
Dora. Poor Lady Sarah, of course, one could not expect.... I remember
driving away,' he added, hastily, as her eyes filled, 'and wondering
when I should get back; and then--yes, Marker called the cab back. I was
glad of it afterwards. I had just time to come in and say good-by again.
Do you remember?' And he tried to get up a little sentiment.
Dolly looked up suddenly. 'Why did Marker call you back, Robert?' she
asked, in a curious voice.
'I had forgotten my great-coat,' said Robert. 'One wants all one's wraps
in the sunny Mediterranean. How pleasant this is! Is it possible I have
ever been away?' And then he sat down in an affectionate attitude by
Dolly on the green velvet sofa. He would not scold her yet; he would try
kindness he thought. He asked her about herself, tried to reproach her
playfully for her recklessness in money matters, spoke of his own
prospects, and the scheme which had brought him home. Martindale had
resumed his old post at the college for six months. It is not necessary
here to enter into all Robert's details. He spoke of a growing spirit of
disaffection in the East, and suddenly he discovered that Dolly was no
longer listening.
'Why do you tell me all this, Robert?' she said, hoarsely, forgetting
the role of passive acquiescence she had promised herself to play.
It hurt Dolly somehow, and wearied her to talk to Robert upon
indifferent subjects. The hour had come--the great hour that she had
dreaded and longed for--and was this all that it had brought? Sometimes
in a tone of his voice, in a well-known look, it would seem to her that
reconciliation was at hand; but a word more, but a look more, and all
separation was over for ever--all reproach; but neither look nor word
came. The key-note to all these variations of feeling never sounded.
Poor Dolly hated and loved alternately during this cruel hour; loved the
man she had loved so long, hated this strange perversion of her heart's
dream. We love and we hate--not the face, nor the voice, nor the actions
of this one or that one, but an intangible essence of all. And there sat
Henley, talking very pleasantly, and changed somehow. Was that Robert?
Was this herself? Was Robert dead too, or was it her own heart that was
so cold.
Rhoda met her leaving the room some few minutes after.
'I have come to fetch you to luncheon,' said Miss Parnell. 'Is Mr.
Henley there? I see you have got your violets, Dolly. Miss Rougemont and
I showed him the way to the flower-market. We met at the door. I am
afraid she kept him too long. It was very wicked of her.'
Mrs. Palmer joined them at luncheon. Miss Rougemont carved and attended
to their wants. Dolly was grateful for a Benjamin-like portion that she
found heaped upon her plate, but she could not eat it. Everything tasted
bitter somehow. Miss Rougemont was an odd, battered woman, with an
inexpressive face; but she was not so insensible as Rhoda imagined. More
than once during luncheon Dolly found her black rolling eyes fixed upon
her face. Once, watching her opportunity, the companion came close up to
Dolly and said, in a low voice, 'I wished to say to you that I hope you
do not think that it was I who detained Mr. Henley this morning. Miss
Parnell, who rarely considers other people's feelings, told me that she
had told you that _I_----' Dolly blushed up.
'He came in very fair time,' she said, gently. Miss Rougemont did not
seem satisfied. 'Forgive me,' she said. 'I am old and you are young. It
is well to be upon one's guard. It was not I who detained Mr. Henley.'
She meant well, poor woman; but Dolly started away impatiently, blushing
up with annoyance. How dare Miss Rougemont hint, and thrust her
impertinent suspicions before her?
Squire Anley, with his loose clothes flying, with a parcel under each
arm, with bonbons enough in his pockets for all the children in
Pebblesthwaite, a list of names and addresses in his hand, was inquiring
his way to a dressmaker, Mademoiselle Hays, whose bill he had promised
Mrs. Boswarrick to pay. (Squire Anley often paid Mrs. Boswarrick's
bills, and was repaid or not, as the case might be. At all events, he
had the satisfaction of seeing the little lady in her pretty Paris
dresses.) All day long the sunshine has been twinkling, carriages are
rattling cheerfully over the stones, sightseers are sightseeing, the
shops are full of pretty things.
Lord Cowley has just driven out of the great gates of the British
Embassy, and the soldier has presented arms. Flash goes the bayonet in
the sunshine. Squire Anley, looking about, suddenly sees Dorothea on the
other side of the street, and crosses to meet her.
'Alone?' said he. 'This is very wrong. What are you doing? Where is
everybody?'
'I am not alone,' said Dolly; 'they are in that shop. Rhoda went in to
buy something, and she called Robert to give his advice.'
The Squire opened his eyes.
'It was very exemplary of Robert Henley to go when he was called,' he
said, laughing. 'And where are you all going to?'
'I have to take some money from Mrs. Fane to a sick man in the English
Hospital,' Dolly said. 'It is a long way off, I'm afraid. Mamma thought
it too far, but they are coming with me.'
Here Robert came out of the shop to look for Dolly.
'I did not know you had stayed outside,' he said in his old
affectionately dictatorial way, drawing her hand through his arm, 'I
should have scolded you, but I see you have done us good service.' And
he shook hands with the Squire.
'I was on my way to try and find you,' said the Squire. 'I have ordered
dinner at the "Trois Freres" at six. Don't be late. I am the most
punctual of men, as Miss Dolly knows by sad experience.'
'Punctuality always seems to me a struggle between myself and all
eternity,' said Dolly, smiling.
Robert looked at his watch, and then back at the shop. 'There is nothing
more necessary,' he said. 'I promised Rhoda to come for her again in
twenty minutes. She is divided between blue and sea-green. I am afraid
we shall be almost too late for the hospital to-day. Can't you come
back, Dolly, and help her in her choice?'
Dolly's face fell.
'I can't wait; I _must_ go,' she said. 'The man is expecting his money
to get home, and Mrs. Fane is expecting him.'
'To-morrow will do just as well, my dear Dolly. You are as impetuous as
ever, I see,' said Robert. 'We can't leave Rhoda alone, now that we have
brought her out.'
'To-morrow _won't_ do,' cried Dolly, and she suddenly let go his arm.
'_I_ will go alone. I am used to it. I must go,' she insisted, with a
nervous vehemence which surprised Mr. Anley. It was very unlike Dolly to
be vexed about small matters.
But here Rhoda, smiling, came in turn from the door of the shop. She was
dressed in violet and lilac and bright spring colours; in her hand she
held a little bunch of flowers, not unlike that one which Robert had
given Dolly at her suggestion.
'What is all this? Now we are going to the hospital?' she said. 'I
should have had my pony-carriage to-morrow--that was my only reason for
wishing to put off the expedition.'
A large open carriage with four places was passing by; Robert stopped
it, and they all three got in. Mr. Anley watched them as they drove
away. He did not quite like the aspect of affairs. He had thought Dolly
looking very sad when he met her standing at the shop door. What was
Rhoda being so amiable about? He saw the lilac bonnet bending forward,
and Dolly's crape veil falling as the carriage drove round the corner.