CHAPTER II ~ IN THE CAMPS OF THE PHILISTINES.
CHAPTER III. ~ IN WHICH THE TRAIN IS LAID.
CHAPTER IV. ~ A LILY OF THE FIELD.
CHAPTER V. ~ IN WHICH THE PHILISTINES BE UPON US.
CHAPTER VI. ~ “WANTED, A YOUNG PERSON.”
CHAPTER VII. ~ IN WHICH A SPARK IS APPLIED.
CHAPTER VIII. ~ THE BEGINNING OF THE ENDING.
CHAPTER IX. ~ IN WHICH WE ARE UNORTHODOX.
CHAPTER X. ~ IN SLIPPERY PLACES.
CHAPTER XI. ~ IN WHICH COMES A WIND WHICH BLOWS NOBODY GOOD.
CHAPTER XII. ~ IN WHICH THERE IS AN EXPLOSION.
CHAPTER XIII ~ A DEAD LETTER.
CHAPTER XIV. ~ SEVEN LONG YEARS, BELOVED, SEVEN LONG YEARS.
CHAPTER XV. ~ IN WHICH WE TRY SWITZERLAND.
CHAPTER XVI. ~ IF YOU SHOULD DIE.
CHAPTER XVII. ~ DO YOU KNOW THAT SHE IS DYING?
CHAPTER XVIII. ~ GRIF!
CHAPTER XIX. ~ ROSE COLOR.
AUTHOR'S NOTE.
This my first novel was written several years ago, and published
(without any revision by me) first in a ladies' magazine under the name
of “Dorothea,” and afterwards in book form as “Dolly.” For reasons not
necessary to state here, all control over the book had passed from
my hands. It has been for some time out of print; but, having at last
obtained control of the copyright, I have made such corrections as
seemed advisable, given it the name I originally intended for it, and
now issue it through my regular publishers.
FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT.
Washington, November, 1883.
VAGABONDIA.
CHAPTER I. ~ IN WHICH WE HOLD COUNSEL.
It was a nondescript sort of a room, taking it altogether. A big, sunny
room, whose once handsome papering and corniceing had grown dingy, and
whose rich carpeting had lost its color and pile in places, and yet
asserted its superiority to its surroundings with an air of lost
grandeur in every shabby medallion. There were pictures in abundance on
the walls, and more than one of them were gems in their way, despite the
evidence all bore to being the work of amateurs. The tables were carved
elaborately, and the faded, brocaded chairs were of the order _pouf_,
and as inviting as they were disreputable in appearance; there was
manuscript music among the general litter, a guitar hung from the wall
by a tarnished blue and silver ribbon, and a violin lay on the piano;
and yet, notwithstanding the air of free-and-easy disorder, one could
hardly help recognizing a sort of vagabond comfort and luxury in the
Bohemian surroundings. It was so very evident that the owners must enjoy
life in an easy, light-hearted, though perhaps light-headed fashion; and
it was also so very evident that their light hearts and light heads rose
above their knowledge of their light purses.
They were congregated together now, holding a grand family council
around the centre-table, and Dolly was the principal feature, as usual;
and, embarrassing as the subject of said council was, not one of them
looked as if it was other than a most excellent joke that Dolly, having
been invited into the camps of the Philistines, should find she had
nothing to put on to grace the occasion. And as to Dolly,--well, that
young person stood in the midst of them in her shabby, Frenchy little
hat, slapping one pink palm with a shabby, shapely kid glove, her eyes
alight, her comical dismay and amusement displaying itself even in the
arch of her brows.
“And so the Philistine leader pounced upon me herself,” she was saying.
“You know the 'Ark,' Phil? Well, they were all in the Ark,--the Rev.
Bilberry in front, and the boys and girls filling up the corners; so you
may imagine the effect produced when they stopped, and Lady Augusta
bent over the side to solemnly proclaim her intention of inviting me
to partake of coffee and conversation on Friday night, with an air of
severely wondering whether I would dare to say 'No!'”
“Why did n't you say it?” said Aimée. “You know it will be an awful
bore, Dolly. Those Bilberry clan gatherings always are. You have said so
yourself often enough.”
“Of course I have,” returned Dolly. “And of course it will be, but
it would be dreadfully indiscreet to let the Bilberry element know I
thought so. The Bilberry doors once closed against us, where is our
respectability, and Phil's chance of success among the Philistines? It
is bad enough, of course, but there is reason to be thankful that I am
the only victim. The rest of you would be sure to blunder into the B.
B. B.'s [meaning the Bilberry black books], and that _would_ be an
agreeable state of affairs. 'Toinette, look at Tod, he is sitting in the
coal-box eating Phil's fusees.”
In 'Toinette we find Mrs. Phil, a handsome creature, young enough to
have been in the school-room, but with the face and figure of a Greek
goddess, and a pair of eyes lovely enough to haunt one's dreams as a
memory for a lifetime, and as to the rest, an inconsistent young madcap,
whose beauty and spirit seemed only a necessary part of the household
arrangements, and whose son and heir, in the person of the enterprising
Tod (an abbreviate of Theodore), was the source of unlimited domestic
enjoyment and the object of much indiscreet adoration. It was just like
Philip Crewe, this marrying on probabilities; and it was equally like
the rest of them to accept the state of affairs as an excellent joke,
and regard the result as an exquisite piece of pleasantry. 'Toinette
herself was only another careless, unworldly addition to the family
circle, and enjoyed her position as thoroughly as the rest did; and as
to Tod, what a delicate satire upon responsibilities Tod was, and how
tranquilly he comported himself under a _régime_ which admitted of free
access into dangerous places, and a lack of personal restraint which
allowed him all the joys the infantile mind can revel in!
At Dolly's exclamation Toinette rushed at him in his stronghold, and
extricated him from the coal-box with demonstrations of dismay.
“Look at his white dress!” she wailed pathetically. “I only put it on a
few minutes ago; and he has eaten two dozen fusees, if this was n't an
empty box when he found it. I hope they won't disagree with him, Phil.”
“They won't,” said Phil, composedly. “Nothing does. Dust him, and
proceed to business. I want to hear the rest of Dolly's story.”
“I _think_,” said Mollie, “that he ate Shem and Ham this morning, for I
could only find Japheth after he had been playing with his Noah's Ark.
Go on, Dolly.”
“Wait until I have taken off my things,” said Dolly, “and then we 'll
talk it over. We must talk it over, you know, if I am to go.”
She took off her hat, and then laid her shawl aside,--a little scarlet
shawl, draped about her figure and tossed over one shoulder smartly,
and by no means ungracefully,--and so stood revealed; and it must be
admitted she was well worth looking at. Not a beauty, but a fresh,
wholesome little body, with a real complexion, an abundance of hair,
and large-irised, wide-awake eyes, changeable as to color, because
capricious in expression; the sort of girl, in fact, who would be likely
to persuade people ultimately that, considering circumstances, absolute
beauty could be easily dispensed with, and, upon the whole, would rather
detract from the general charm of novelty, which, in her case, reigned
supreme.
“It is n't the mere fact of being a beauty that makes women popular,”
she would say; “it's the being able to persuade people that you are
one,--or better than one. Don't some historians tell us that Cleopatra
had red hair and questionable eyes, and yet she managed to blind the
world so completely, that no one is sure whether it is true or not, and
to this day the generality of people are inclined to believe that it
was her supernatural beauty that dragged Marc Antony to the dust at her
feet.”
Aimée's face was more nearly perfect than Dolly's; Mollie's was more
imposing, child as she was; 'Toinette threw her far into the shade in
the matter of statuesque splendor; but still it was Dolly who did all
the difficult things, and had divers tragic adventures with questionable
adorers, whose name was legion, and who were a continual source of
rejoicing and entertainment to the family.
Having tossed hat and shawl on to the table, among the manuscript music,
paint-brushes, and palettes, this young person slipped into the most
comfortable chair near the fire, and, having waited for the rest to
seat themselves, proceeded to open the council. Mollie, who was sixteen,
large, fair, beautiful, and not as tidy as she might have been, dropped
into a not ungraceful position at her feet. Aimée, who was a little
maiden with a tender, _spirituelle_ face, and all the forethought of
the family, sat near, with some grave perplexity in her expression.
'Toinette and Tod, _posed_ in the low nursery-chair,--the girl's firm,
white arm flung around the child,--swung lightly to and fro, fit models
for an artist.
“You would make a first-class picture,--the lot of you,” commented Phil,
amicably.
“Never mind the picture,” said Mollie, drawing her disreputable slippers
up under her wrapper. “We want to hear how Dolly thinks of going to
the Bilberrys'. Oh, Dolly, how heavenly it would be if you had a
turquoise-blue sat--”
“Heavenly!” interrupted Dolly. “I should think so. Particularly
celestial for Lady Augusta, who looks mahogany-colored in it, and
peculiarly celestial for a poor relation from Vagabondia. It would be
as much as my reputation was worth. She would never forgive me. You must
learn discretion, Mollie.”
“There is some consolation in knowing you can't get it,” said 'Toinette.
“You won't be obliged to deny yourself or be indiscreet. But what _are_
you going to wear, Dolly?”
“That is for the council to decide,” Dolly returned. “First, we must
settle on what we want, and then we must settle on the way to get it.”
“Other people go the other way about it,” said Aimée.
“If we were only rich!” said Mollie.
“But it is a most glaringly patent fact that we are not,” said Dolly.
“There is one thing certain, however,--it must be white.”
“A simple white muslin,” suggested 'Toinette, struggling in the grasp of
the immortal Tod,--“a simple white muslin, with an equally simple wild
flower in your hair, _à la_ Amanda Fitzallan. How the Dowager Bilberry
_would_ like that.”
“And a wide blue sash,” suggested Mollie. “And the sleeves tied up with
bows. _And_ tucks, Dolly. Girls, just think of Dolly making great eyes
at an eligible Philistine, in white muslin and a sash and tucks!”
She was a hardened little sinner, this Dolly, her only redeeming point
being that she was honest enough about her iniquities,--so honest
that they were really not such terrible iniquities after all, and were
regarded as rather good fun by the _habitués_ of Vagabondia proper. She
laughed just as heartily as the rest of them at Mollie's speech. She
could no more resist the temptation of making great eyes at eligible
Philistines than she could help making them at the entertaining but
highly ineligible Bohemians, who continually frequented Phil's studio.
The fear of man was not before her eyes; and the life she had led had
invested her with a whimsical yet shrewd knowledge of human nature, and
a business-like habit of looking matters in the face, which made her
something of a novelty; and when is not novelty irresistible? And as to
the masculine Philistines,--well, the audacity of Dolly's successes in
the very midst of the enemy's camp had been the cause of much stately
demoralization of Philistine battalions.
At her quietest she created small sensations and attracted attention;
but in her wicked moods, when she was in a state of mind to prompt her
to revenge the numerous small slights and overt acts of lofty patronage
she met with, the dowagers stood in some secret awe of her propensities,
and not without reason. Woe betide the daring matron who measured swords
with her at such times. Great would be her confusion and dire her fall
before the skirmish was over, and nothing was more certain than that she
would retire from the field a wiser if not a better woman. After being
triumphantly routed with great slaughter on two or three occasions,
the enemy had discovered this, and decided mentally that it was more
discreet to let “little Miss Crewe” alone, considering that, though it
was humiliating to be routed, even by one of their own forces, it was
infinitely more so to be routed by an innocent-looking young person,
whose position was questionable, and who actually owed her vague shadow
of respectability to her distant but august relative, the Lady Augusta
Decima Crewe Bilberry, wife of the Rev. Marmaduke Sholto Bilberry, and
mother of the plenteous crop of young Bilberrys, to whom little Miss
Crewe was music teacher and morning governess.
So it was that Mollie's joke about the tucks and white muslin gained
additional point from the family recollection of past experiences.
“But,” said Dolly, when the laugh had subsided, “it won't do to
talk nonsense all day. Here 's where we stand, you know. Coffee and
conversation on Friday night on one side, and nothing but my draggled
old green tarlatan on the other, and it's Tuesday now.”
“And the family impecuniosity being a fact well established in the
family mind,” began Phil, with composure.
“But that 's nonsense,” interrupted Aimée. “And, as Dolly says, nonsense
won't do now. But,” with a quaint sigh, “we always _do_ talk nonsense.”
But here a slight diversion was created. Mrs. Phil jumped up, with
an exclamation of delight, and, dropping Tod on to Mollie's lap,
disappeared through the open door.
“I will be back in a minute,” she called back to them, as she ran
up-stairs. “I have just thought of something.”
“Girls,” said Mollie, “it's her white merino.”
And so it was. In a few minutes she reappeared with it,--a heap of soft
white folds in her arms, and a yard or so of the train dragging after
her upon the carpet,--the one presentable relic of a once inconsistently
elaborate bridal trousseau, at present in a rather tumbled and rolled-up
condition, but still white and soft and thick, and open to unlimited
improvement.
“I had forgotten all about it,” she said, triumphantly. “I have never
needed it at all, and I knew I never should when I bought it, but it
looked so nice when I saw it that I could n't help buying it. I once
thought of cutting it up into things for Tod; but it seems to me, Dolly,
it 's what you want exactly, and Tod can trust to Providence,--things
always come somehow.”
It was quite characteristic of Vagabondia that there should be more
rejoicing over this one stray sheep of good luck than there would have
been over any ninety and nine in the ordinary folds of more prosperous
people. And Mrs. Phil rejoiced as heartily as the rest. It was her turn
now, and she was as ready to sacrifice her white merino on the shrine
of the household impecuniosity as she would be to borrow Dolly's best
bonnet, or Mollie's shoes, or Aimée's gloves, when occasion demanded
such a course. So the merino was laid upon the table, and the council
rose to examine, comment, and suggest.
“A train,” said Dolly, concisely; “no trimming, and swan's-down. Even
the Bilberry could n't complain of that, I 'm sure.”
Mollie, resting her smooth white elbows on the table in a comfortably
lounging posture, regarded the garment with great longing in her drowsy
brown eyes.
“I wish it was white satin,” she observed, somewhat irrelevantly, “and
I was going to wear it at a real ball, with real lace, you know, and a
court train, and flowers, and a fan.”
Dolly looked down at her handsome childish face good-naturedly. She
was such an incongruous mixture of beauty and utter simplicity, this
easy-going baby of sixteen, that Dolly could not have helped liking her
heartily under any circumstances, even supposing there had been no tie
of relationship between them.
“I wish it was white satin and you were going to wear it,” she said.
“White satin is just the sort of thing for you, Mollie. Never mind, wait
until the figurative ship comes in.”
“And in the interval,” suggested Aimée, “put a stitch or so in that
wrapper of yours. It has been torn for a week now, and Tod tumbles over
it half a dozen times every morning before breakfast.”
Mollie cast her eyes over her shoulder to give it an indifferent glance
as it rested on the faded carpet behind her.
“I wish Lady Augusta would mend things before she sends them to us,” she
said, with sublime _naïveté_, and then, at the burst of laughter which
greeted her words, she stopped short, staring at the highly entertained
circle with widely opened, innocent eyes. “What are you laughing at?”
she said. “I 'm sure she might. She is always preaching about liking to
have something to occupy her time, and it would be far more charitable
of her to spend her time in that way than in persistently going into
poor houses where the people don't want her, and reading tracts to them
that they don't want to hear.”
Dolly's appreciation of the audacity of the idea reached a climax in an
actual shriek of delight.
“If I had five pounds, which I have not, and never shall have,” she
said, “I would freely give it just to see Lady Augusta hear you say
that, my dear. Five pounds! I would give ten--twenty--fifty, if need be.
It would be such an exquisite joke.”
But Mollie did not regard the matter in this light. To her
unsophisticated mind Lady Augusta represented nothing more than
periodical boredom in the shape of occasional calls, usually made
unexpectedly, when the house was at its worst, and nobody was especially
tidy,--calls invariably enlivened by severe comments upon the evil
propensities of poor relations in general, and the shocking lack of
respectability in this branch of the order in particular. Worldly wisdom
was not a family trait, Dolly's half-whimsical assumption of it being
the only symptom of the existence of such a gift, and Mollie was the
most sublimely thoughtless of the lot. Mrs. Phil had never been guilty
of a discreet act in her life. Phil himself regarded consequences less
than he regarded anything else, and Aimée's childish staidness and
forethought had certainly not an atom of worldliness in it. Accordingly,
Dolly was left to battle with society, and now and then, it must be
admitted, the result of her brisk affrays did her no small credit.
For a very short space of time the merino was being disposed of to an
advantage; Dolly seating herself in her chair again to renovate the
skirt; Aimée unpicking the bodice, and Mollie looking on with occasional
comments.
“Here is Griffith,” she said, at last, glancing over her shoulder at
a figure passing the window; and the next minute the door was opened
without ceremony, and “Grif” made his appearance upon the scene.
Being called upon to describe Griffith Donne, one would hardly feel
inclined to describe him as being imposing in personal appearance. He
was a thin, undersized young man, rather out at elbows and shabby of
attire, and with a decided air of Bohemia about him; but his youthful
face was singularly pleasing and innocent, and his long-lashed,
brown-black eyes were more than good-looking,--they were absolutely
beautiful in a soft, pathetic way,--beautiful as the eyes of the
loveliest of women.
He came into the room as if he was used to coming into it in an
every-day fashion; and Dolly, looking up, gave him a smile and a nod.
“Ah, you are all here, are you?” he said. “What is on hand now? What is
all this white stuff for?” And he drew a chair up close by Dolly's side,
and lifted the merino in his hand.
“For Friday night,” answered Aimée. “Bilberry's again, Griffith. Coffee
and conversation this time.”
Griffith looked at Dolly inquiringly, but Dolly only laughed and
shrugged her plump shoulders wickedly.
“Look here,” he said, with a disapproving air, “it ain't true, is it,
Dolly? You are not going to make a burnt-offering of yourself on the
Bilberry shrine again, are you?”
But Dolly only laughed the more as she took the merino from him.
“If you want a breadth of merino to hold, take another one,” she
said. “I want that. And as to being a burnt-offering on the shrine of
Bilberry, my dear Griffith, you must know it is policy,” and immediately
went on with her unpicking again, while Griffith, bending over in an
attitude more remarkable for ease than grace, looked on at her sharp
little glancing scissors with an appearance of great interest.
It would perhaps be as well to pause here to account for this young
man's evident freedom in the family circle. It was very plain that he
was accustomed to coming and going when he pleased, and it was easy to
be adduced from his manner that, to him, Dolly was the chief attraction
in the establishment. The fact was, he was engaged to Dolly, and had
been engaged to her for years, and in all probability, unless his
prospects altered their aspect, would be engaged to her for years to
come. In past time, when both were absurdly young, and ought to have
been at school, the two had met,--an impressionable, good-natured,
well-disposed couple of children, who fell in love with each other
unreasoningly and honestly, giving no thought to the future. They
were too young to be married, of course, and indeed had not troubled
themselves about anything so matter of fact; they had fallen in love,
and enjoyed it, and, strange to say, had been enjoying it ever since,
and falling in love more deeply every day of their affectionate,
inconsequent, free-and-easy lives. What did it matter to them that
neither owned a solitary sixpence, for which they had not a thousand
uses? What did it matter to Dolly that Griffith's literary career had so
far been so unremunerative that a new suit is as an event, and an extra
shilling an era? What did it matter to Griffith that Dolly's dresses
were re-trimmed and re-turned and re-furbished, until their reappearance
with the various seasons was the opening of a High Carnival of jokes?
Love is not a matter of bread and butter in Vagabondia, thank Heaven!
Love is left to Bohemia as well as to barren Respectability, and, as
Griffith frequently observed with no slight enthusiasm, “When it comes
to figure, where's the feminine Philistine whose silks and satins and
purple and fine raiment fit like Dolly's do?” So it went on, and the
two adored each other with mutual simplicity, and, having their little
quarrels, always made them up again with much affectionate remorse, and,
scorning the prudential advice of outsiders, believed in each other and
the better day which was to come, when one or the other gained worldly
goods enough to admit of a marriage in which they were to be happy in
their own way,--which, I may add, was a way simple and tender, unselfish
and faithful, enough.
It was quite evident, however, that Griffith was not in the best of
spirits this morning. He was not as sanguine as Dolly by nature, and
outward influences tended rather to depress him occasionally. But he
never was so low-spirited that Dolly could not cheer him, consequently
he always came to her with his troubles; and to her credit, be it said,
she never failed to understand and deal with them tenderly, commonplace
though they were. So she understood his mood very well to-day. Something
had gone wrong at “the office.” (“The office” was the editorial den
which swallowed him up, and held him in bondage from morning until
night; appropriating his labor for a very small pecuniary compensation,
too, it may be added.) “Old Flynn,” as the principal was respectfully
designated, had been creating one of his periodical disturbances, or he
had been snubbed, which, by the way, was not a rare event, and to poor
Griffith slights were stings and patronage poison. He could not laugh at
the enemy and scorn discomfiture as Dolly could, and the consequence of
an encounter with the Philistines on his part was usually a desperate
fit of low spirits, which made him wretched, bitter, and gloomy by
turns.
This morning it appeared that his spirits had reached their lowest ebb,
and before many minutes had passed he was pouring forth his tribulations
with much frankness and simplicity. Mr. Griffith Donne's principal trial
was the existence of an elderly maiden aunt, who did not approve of him,
and was in the habit of expressing her disapproval in lengthy epistolary
correspondence, invariably tending to severe denunciation of his mode of
life, and also invariably terminating with the announcement that unless
he “desisted” (from what, or in what manner, not specified) she should
consider it her bounden duty to disinherit him forthwith. One of these
periodical epistles, having arrived before he had breakfasted, had
rather destroyed Griffith's customary equanimity, and various events of
the morning had not improved his frame of mind; consequently he came to
Dolly for comfort.
“And she's coming to London, too,” he ended, after favoring the
assemblage with extracts from the letter. “And, of course, she will
expect me to do the dutiful. Confound her money! I wish she would build
an asylum for irate, elderly spinsters with it, and retire into it
for the remainder of her natural life. I don't want it, and”--with
praiseworthy ingenuousness--“I shouldn't get it if I did!”
“But,” said Dolly, when they found themselves alone for a few minutes,
“it would be an agreeable sort of thing to have, Griffith, upon the
whole, wouldn't it?”
They were standing close together by the fire, Griffith with his arm
thrown round the girl's waist, and she with both her plump, flexible
hands clasped on his shoulder and her chin resting on them, and her big,
round eyes gazing up into his. She was prone to affectionate, nestling
attitudes and coaxing ways--with Griffith it may be understood--her
other adorers were treated cavalierly enough.
“A nice sort of thing,” echoed Griffith. “I should think it would. I
should like to have it for your sake. I don't care for it so much for
myself, you know, Dolly, but I want the time to come when I can buy you
such things as Old Flynn's nieces wear. It would n't be a waste of good
material on such a figure as yours. I have an idea of my own about a
winter dress I intend you to have when we are rich,--a dark blue velvet,
and a hat with a white plume in, and one of those muff affairs made of
long white silky fur--”
“Angora,” said Dolly, her artless enjoyment of the idea shining in her
eyes. “Angora, Griffith.”
“I don't know what it's called,” answered Griffith, “but it is exactly
your style, and I have thought about it a dozen times. Ah, if we were
only rich!”
Dolly laughed joyously, clasping her hands a little closer over his
shoulder. Their conversations upon prospects generally ended in some
such pleasantly erratic remarks. They never were tired of supposing
that they were rich; and really, in default of being rich, it must be
admitted that there is some consolation in being in a frame of mind
which can derive happiness from such innocent day-dreams.
“Just think of the house we would have,” she said, “and the fun we could
all have together, if you and I were rich and--and married, Griffith.
We should be happy if we were married, and not rich, but if we were rich
_and_ married--goodness, Griffith!” and she opened her eyes wide and
looked so enjoyable altogether, that Griffith, being entirely overcome
by reason of the strength of his feelings upon the subject, caught her
in both arms and embraced her heartily, and only released her in an
extremely but charmingly crushed and dishevelled condition, after he had
kissed her about half a dozen times.
It did not appear, upon the whole, that she objected to the proceeding.
She took it quite naturally and unaffectedly, as if she was used to
it, and regarded it as a part of the programme. Indeed, it was quite
a refreshing sight to see her put both her little hands up to her
disarranged hair and settle the crimps serenely.
“We should have the chances to find true people if we were rich,” she
said. “And then we could take care, of Aimée and Mollie, and help them
to make grand marriages.”
But that very instant Griffith's face fell somewhat.
“Dolly,” he said, “have you never thought--not even _thought_ that you
would like to have made a grand marriage yourself?” And though there
was not the least shade of a reason for the change in his mood, it was
glaringly evident that he was at once rendered absolutely prostrate with
misery at the thought.
These sudden pangs of remorse at his own selfishness in holding the girl
bound to him, were his weakness, and Dolly's great difficulty was to
pilot him safely through his shoals of doubt and self-reproach, and she
had her own way of managing it. Just now her way of managing it was to
confront him bravely, coming quite close to him again, and taking hold
of one of his coat buttons.
“I have thought of it a hundred times,” she said, “but not since I have
belonged to you; and as I have belonged to you ever since I was fifteen
years old, I should think what I thought before then can hardly have the
right to trouble us now. _You_ never think of marrying any one but me,
do you, Griffith?”
“Think of marrying any one else!” exclaimed Griffith, indignantly. “I
would n't marry a female Rajah with a diamond--”
“I know you wouldn't,” Dolly interrupted. “I believe in you, Griffith.
Why won't you believe in me?” And the eyes lifted to his were so
perfectly honest and straightforward that the sourest of cynics must
have believed them, and Griffith was neither sour nor a cynic, but
simply an unsuccessful, affectionate, contradictory young man, too
susceptible to outward influences for his own peace of mind.
He was a _very_ unfortunate young man, it may as well be observed at
once, and his misfortunes were all the harder to bear because he was not
to blame for them. He had talent, and was industrious and indefatigable,
and yet, somehow or other, the Fates seemed to be against him. If he
had been less honest or less willing, he might perhaps have been more
successful; but in his intercourse with the world's slippery ones he
customarily found himself imposed upon. He had done hard work for which
he had never been paid, and work for which he had been paid badly; he
had fought honestly to gain footing, and, somehow or other, luck had
seemed to be against him, for certainly he had not gained it yet. Honest
men admired and respected him, and men of intellectual worth prophesied
better days; but so far it had really seemed that the people who were
willing to befriend him were powerless, and those who were powerful
cared little about the matter. So he alternately struggled and
despaired, and yet retained his good nature, and occasionally enjoyed
life heartily in defiance of circumstances. With every member of the
Crewe household he was popular, from Tod to Mrs. Phil. His engagement
to Dolly they regarded as a satisfactory arrangement. That he was barely
able to support himself, and scarcely possessed a presentable suit of
clothes, was to their minds the most inconsequent of trifles. It was
unfortunate, perhaps, but unavoidable; and their sublime trust in the
luck which was to ripen in all of them at some indefinite future time,
was their hope in this case. Some time or other he would “get into
something,” they had decided, and then he would marry Dolly, and they
would all enjoy the attendant festivities. And in the mean time they
allowed the two to be happy, and made Griffith welcome, inviting him to
their little impromptu suppers, and taking care never to be _de trop_ on
the occasion of _tête-à-tête_ conversations.
The _tête-à-tête_ of the morning ended happily as usual. Dolly went back
to her unpicking, and Griffith, finding his ghost of self-reproach laid
for the time being, watched her in a supremely blissful state of mind.
He never tired of watching her, he frequently told her in enthusiastic
confidence. The charm in Dolly Crewe was her adaptability; she was
never out of place, and it had been said that she suited herself to her
accompaniments far oftener than her accompaniments suited themselves
to her. Seeing her in a shabby dress, seated in the shabby parlor, one
instinctively felt that shabbiness was not so utterly unbearable after
all, and acknowledged that it had a brightness of its own. Meeting her
at a clan gathering in the camps of the Philistines, one always found
her in excellent spirits, and quite undamped in her enjoyment of the
frequently ponderous rejoicings. In the Bilberry school-room, among
dog-eared French grammars and lead-pencilled music, education did not
appear actually dispiriting; and now, as she sat by the fire, with the
bright, sharp little scissors in lier hand, and the pile of white merino
on her knees and trailing on the hearth-rug at her feet, Griffith found
her simply irresistible. Ah! the bliss that revealed itself in the
prospect of making her Mrs. Donne, and taking possession of her
entirely! The joy of seeing her seated in an arm-chair of his own, by
a fire which was solely his property, in a room which was nobody else's
paradise! He could imagine so well how she would regard such a state of
affairs as a nice little joke, and would pretend to adapt herself to
her position with divers daring witcheries practised upon himself to the
dethroning of his reason; how she would make innocent, wicked speeches,
and be coaxing and dazzling and mock-matronly by turns; and above all,
how she would enjoy it, and make him enjoy it, too; and yet sometimes,
when they were quiet and alone, would drop all her whimsical little airs
and graces, and make such tender, unselfish, poetic little speeches,
that he would find himself startled in life wonder at the depth
and warmth and generosity of her girlish heart. He often found her
surprising him after this manner, and the surprise usually came when he
had just been most nearly betrayed into thinking of her as an adorable
little collection of witcheries and whimsicalities, and forgetting that
she had other moods. More than once she had absolutely brought tears
into his eyes, and a thrill to his heart, by some sudden, pathetic,
trustful speech, made after she had been dazzling and bewildering for
hours with her pretty coquetries and daring flashes of wit. No one but
Griffith ever saw her in these intense moods. The rest of them saw her
intense enough sometimes but the sudden, uncontrollable flashes of light
Griffith saw now and then, fairly staggered him. And the poor fellow's
love for her was something akin to adoration. There was only this one
woman upon earth to him, and his whole soul was bound up in her. It was
for her he struggled against disappointment, it was for her he hoped,
it was only the desperate strength of his love for her that made
disappointment so terribly bitter to him. Certainly his love made him
better and sweeter-tempered and more energetic than he would have been
if his life had not been so full of it. His one ambition was to gain
success to lay at her feet. To him success meant Dolly, and Dolly meant
Paradise, an honest Paradise, in which primeval bliss reigned supreme
and trial was unknown. Consequently the bright little scissors glanced
before his eyes a sort of loadstar.
“I did n't tell you that nephew of Old Flynn's had come back, did I?” he
said, at length.
“No,” answered Dolly, snipping diligently. “You never mentioned him.
What nephew, and where did he come from?”
“A fellow of the name of Gowan, who has been travelling in the East for
no particular reason for the last ten years. He called on Flynn, at the
office, today, for the first time; and if I had been called upon to
kick him out, I should have regarded it as a cheerful and improving
recreation.”
“Why?” laughed Dolly. “Is he one of the Philistines?”
“Philistine!” echoed Griffith, with disgust. “I should think so. A
complacent idiot in a chronic state of fatigue. Drove up to the door
in a cab,--his own, by the way, and a confoundedly handsome affair it
is,--gave the reins to his tiger, and stared at the building tranquilly
for at least two minutes before he came in, stared at Old Flynn when he
_did_ come in, stared at me, shook hands with Old Flynn exhaustedly, and
then subsided into listening and paring his nails during the remainder
of the interview.”
“Which might or might not be discreet under the circumstances,” said
Dolly. “Perhaps he had nothing to say. Never mind, Grif. Let us console
ourselves with the thought that we are not as these utterly worthless
explorers of the East are,” with a flourish of the scissors.
“Better is a dinner of herbs in Vagabondia, with a garnish of
conversation and _bon-mots_, than a stalled ox among the Philistines
with dulness.”
But about an hour after Griffith had taken his departure, as she was
bending over the table, industriously clipping at the merino, a thought
suddenly crossed her mind, which made her drop her scissors and look up
meditatively.
“By the way,” she began, all at once. “Yes, it must be! How was it I
did not think of it when Grif was talking? I am sure, it was Gowan, Lady
Augusta said. To be sure it was. Mollie, this exploring nephew of
the Flynns is to partake of coffee and conversation with us at the
Bilberrys' on Friday, if I am not mistaken, and I never remembered it
until now.”