THEEE weeks waited the wise one, keeping her eyes on the alert and her
small brain busy, but preserving an owl-like silence upon the subject
revolving in her mind. But at the end of that time she marched into the
parlor one day, attired for a walk, and astonished them all by gravely
announcing her intention of going to see Dolly.
“What are you going for?” said Mrs. Phil.
“Rather sudden, is n't it?” commented Mollie.
“I 'm going on business,” returned Aimée, and she buttoned her gloves
and took her departure, without enlightening them further.
Arriving at Brabazon Lodge, she found Miss MacDowlas out and Dolly
sitting alone in the parlor, with a letter from Griffith in her hand and
tears in her eyes.
Her visitor walked to the hearth, her face wrinkling portentously, and
kissed her with an air of affectionate severity.
“I don't know,” she began, comprehending matters at a glance, “I am sure
I don't know what I am to do with you all. _You_ are in trouble now.”
“Take off your things,” said Dolly, with a helpless little sob,
“and--and then I will tell you all about it. You must stay and have
tea with me. Miss MacDowlas is away, and I--am all alone, and--and, O
Aimée!”
The hat and jacket were laid aside in two minutes, and Aimée came back
to her and knelt down.
“Is there anything in your letter you do not want me to see?” she asked.
“No,” answered Dolly, in despair, and tossed it into her lap.
It was no new story, but this time the Fates seemed to have conspired
against her more maliciously than usual. A few days before Grif had
found himself terribly dashed in spirit, and under the influence of
impulse had written to her. Two or three times in one day he had heard
accidental comments upon Gowan's attentions to her, and on his return to
his lodgings at night he had appealed to her in a passionate epistle.
He was not going to doubt her again, he said, and he was struggling to
face the matter coolly, but he wanted to see her. It would be worse than
useless to call upon her at the Lodge, and have an interview under the
disapproving eyes of Miss MacDowlas, and so he had thought they might
meet again by appointment, as they had done before by chance. And Dolly
had acquiesced at once. But Fortune was against her. Just as she had
been ready to leave the house, Ralph Gowan had made his appearance, and
Miss MacDowlas had called her down-stairs to entertain him.
“I would not have cared about telling,” cried Dolly, in tears, “but I
could not tell her, and so I had to stay, and--actually--_sing_--Aimée.
Yes, sing detestable love-sick songs, while my own darling, whom I was
_dying_ to go to, was waiting outside in the cold. And that was not the
worst, either. He was just outside in the road, and when the servants
lighted the gas he saw me through the window. And I was at the
piano”--in a burst--“and Ralph Gowan was standing by me. And so he went
home and wrote _that_,” signifying with a gesture the letter Aimée held.
“And everything is wrong again.”
It was very plain that everything _was_ wrong again. The epistle in
question was an impetuous, impassioned effusion enough. He was furious
against Gowan, and bitter against everybody else. She had cheated and
slighted and trifled with him when he most needed her love and pity; but
he would not blame her, he could only blame himself for being such an
insane, presumptuous fool as to fancy that anything he had to offer
could be worthy of any woman.
What had he to offer, etc., for half a dozen almost illegible pages,
dashed and crossed, and all on fire with his bitterness and pain.
Having taken it from Aimée, and read it for the twentieth time, Dolly
fairly wrung her hands over it.
“If we were only just _together!_” she cried. “If we only just had the
tiniest, shabbiest house in the world, and could be married and help
each other! He does n't mean to be unjust or unkind, you know, Aimée; he
would be more wretched than I am if he knew how unhappy he has made me.”
“Ah!” sighed Aimée. “He should think of that before he begins.”
Then she regained possession of the letter, and smoothed out its creases
on her knee, finishing by folding it carefully and returning it to its
envelope, looking very grave all the time.
“Will you lend me this?” she said at last, holding the epistle up.
“What are you going to do with it?” asked Dolly, disconsolately.
“I am going to ask Griffith to read it again. I shall be sure to see him
to-morrow night.”
“Very well,” answered Dolly; “but don't be too hard upon him, Aimée. He
has a great deal to bear.”
“I know that,” said Aimée. “And sometimes he bears it very well; but
just now he needs a little advice.”
Troubled as she was, Dolly laughed at the staid expression on her small,
discreet face; but even as she laughed she caught the child in her arms
and kissed her.
“What should we do without you!” she exclaimed. “We need some one to
keep us all straight, we Vagabonds; but it seems queer that such a small
wiseacre as you should be our controlling power.”
The mere sight of the small wiseacre had a comforting effect upon her.
Her spirits began to rise, and she so far recovered herself as to be
able to look matters in the face more cheerfully. There was so much
to talk about, and so many questions to ask, that it would have been
impossible to remain dejected and uninterested. It was not until after
tea, however, that Aimée brought her “business” upon the carpet. She had
thought it best not to introduce the subject during the earlier part
of the evening; but when the tea-tray was removed, and they found
themselves alone again, she settled down, and applied herself at once to
the work before her.
“I have not told you yet what I came here for this afternoon,” she said.
“You don't mean to intimate that you did not come to see me!” said
Dolly.
“I came to see you, of course,” decidedly; “but I came to see you for a
purpose. I came to talk to you about Mollie.”
Dolly almost turned pale.
“Mollie!” she exclaimed. “What is the trouble about Mollie?”
“Something that puzzles me,” was the answer. “Dolly, do you know
anything about Gerald Chandos?”
“What!” said Dolly. “It is Gerald Chandos, is it? He is not a fit
companion for her, I know that much.”
And then she repeated, word for word, the conversation she had had with
Ralph Gowan.
Having listened to the end, Aimée shook her head.
“I like Mr. Gowan well enough,” she said, “but he has been the cause of
a great deal of trouble among us, without meaning to be, and I am afraid
it is not at an end yet.”
They were both silent for a few moments after this, and then Dolly,
looking up, spoke with a touch of reluctance.
“I dare say you can answer me a question I should like to ask you?” she
said.
“If it is about Mollie, I think I can,” Aimée returned.
“You have been with her so long,” Dolly went on, two tiny lines showing
themselves upon _her_ forehead this time, “and you are so quick at
seeing things, that you must know what there is to know. And yet it
hardly seems fair to ask. Ralph Gowan goes to Bloomsbury Place often,
does he not?”
“He goes very often, and he seems to care more for Mollie than for any
of the rest of us.”
“Aimée,” Dolly said next, “does--this is my question--does Mollie care
for him?”
“Yes, she does,” answered Aimée. “She cares for him so much that she is
making herself miserable about him.”
“Oh, dear!” cried Dolly. “What--”
Aimée interrupted her.
“And that is not the worst. The fact is, Dolly, I don't know what to
make of her. If it was any one but Mollie, or if Mollie was a bit less
innocent and impetuous, I should not be so much afraid; but sometimes
she is angry with herself, and sometimes she is angry with him, and
sometimes she is both, and then I should not be surprised at her doing
anything innocent and frantic. Poor child! It is my impression she has
about half made up her mind to the desperate resolve of making a grand
marriage. She said as much the other night, and I think that is why she
encourages Mr. Chandos.”
“Oh, dear,” cried Dolly, again. “And does she think he wants to marry
her?”
“She knows he makes violent love to her, and she is not worldly-wise
enough to know that Lord Burleighs are out of date.”
“Out of date!” said Dolly; “I doubt if they ever were in date. Men like
Mr. Gerald Chandos would hesitate at marrying Venus from Bloomsbury
Place.”
“If it was Ralph Gowan,” suggested Aimée.
“But Ralph Gowan is n't like Chandos,” Dolly returned, astutely. “He is
worth ten thousand of him. I wish he would fall in love with Mollie and
marry her. Poor Mollie! Poor, pretty, headlong little goose! What are we
to do with her?”
“Mr. Gowan is very fond of her, in a way,” said Aimée. “If he did not
care a little for you--”
“I wish he did not!” sighed Dolly. “But it serves me right,” with
candor. “He would never have thought of me again if I--well, if I had
n't found things so dreadfully dull at that Bilberry clan gathering.”
“'If,'” moralized Aimée, significantly. “'If' is n't a wise word, and
it often gets you into trouble, Dolly. If you hadn't, it would have been
better for Grif, as well; but what cannot be cured must be endured.”
Their long talk ended, however, in Dolly's great encouragement. It was
agreed that the family oracle was to bring Griffith to his senses by
means of some slight sisterly reproof, and that she was to take Mollie
in hand discreetly at once and persuade her to enter the confessional.
“She has altered a great deal, and has grown much older and more
self-willed lately,” said Aimée; “but if I am very straightforward and
take her by surprise, I scarcely think she will be able to conceal much
from me, and, at least, I shall be able to show her that her fancies are
romantic and unpractical.”
She did not waste any time before applying herself to her work, when she
went home. Instead of going to Bloomsbury Place at once, she stopped at
Griffith's lodgings on her way, and rather scandalized his landlady by
requesting to be shown into his parlor. Only the grave simplicity of the
small, slight figure in its gray cloak, and the steadfast seriousness
in the pretty face reconciled the worthy matron to the idea of admitting
her without investigation. But Aimée bore her scrutiny very calmly.
The whole family of them had taken tea in the little sitting-room with
Griffith, upon one or two occasions, so she was not at all at a loss,
although she did not find herself recognized.
“I am one of Mr. Crewe's sisters,” she said; and that, of course,
was quite enough. Mrs. Cripps knew Mr. Crewe as well as she knew Grif
himself, so she stepped back into the narrow passage at once, and even
opened the parlor door, and announced the visitor in a way that made
poor Grif s heart beat.
“One of Mr. Crewe's sisters,” she said.
He had been sitting glowering over the fire, with his head on his hands
and his elbows on his knees, and when he started up he looked quite
haggard and dishevelled. Was it--_could_ it be Dolly? He knew it could
not be, but he turned pale at the thought. It would have been such
rapture, in his present frame of mind, to have poured out his misery and
distrust, and then to have clasped her to his heart before she had
time to explain. He was just in that wretched, passionate, relenting,
remorseful stage.
But it was only Aimée, in her gray cloak; and as the door closed behind
her, that small person advanced toward him, crumpling her white forehead
and looking quite disturbed at the mere sight of him. She held up a
reproachful finger at him warningly.
“I knew it would be just this way,” she said. “And you are paler and
more miserable than ever. If you and Dolly would just be more practical
and reason more for each other, instead of falling headlong into
quarrels and making everything up headlong every ten minutes, how much
better it would be for you! If I was not so fond of you both, you would
be the greatest trials I have.”
He was so glad to see the thoughtful, womanly little creature, that
he could have caught her up in his arms, gray cloak and all, and have
kissed her only a tithe less impetuously than he would have kissed
Dolly. He was one of the most faithful worshippers at her shrine,
and her pretty wisdom and unselfishness had won her many. He drew the
easiest chair up to the fire for her, and made her sit down and warm
her feet on the fender, while she talked to him, and he listened to her
every word, as he always did.
“I have been to see Dolly,” she said, “and I found her crying,--all by
herself and crying.” And she paused to note the effect of her words.
His heart gave a great thump. It always did give a hard thump when he
thought of Dolly as she looked when she cried,--a soft, limp little
bundle of pathetic prettiness, covering her dear little face in her
hands, shedding such piteous, impassioned tears, and refusing to be
kissed or comforted. Dolly sobbing on his shoulder was so different from
the coquettish, shrewd, mock-worldly Dolly other people saw.
Aimée put her hand into her dress-pocket under the gray cloak and
produced her letter,--took it out of its envelope, laid it on her knee,
and smoothed out its creases again.
“She was crying over this letter,” she proceeded,--“your letter; the one
you wrote to her when I think you cannot have been quite calm enough to
write anything. I think you cannot have read it over before sending it
away. It is always best to read a letter _twice_ before posting it. So
I have brought it to you to read again, and there it is,” giving it to
him.
He burst forth with the story of his wrongs, of course, then. He could
not keep it in any longer. Things had gone wrong with him in every way
before this had happened, he said, and he had longed so for just one
hour in which Dolly could comfort him and try to help him to pluck up
spirits again, and she had written to him a tender little letter, and
promised to give him that hour, and he had been so full of impatience
and love, and he had gone to the very gates and waited like a beggar
outside, lest he should miss her by any chance, and the end of his
waiting had been that he had caught a glimpse of the bright, warm room,
and the piano, and Dolly with Gowan bending over her as if she had no
other lover in the world. He told it all in a burst, clenching his hand
and scarcely stopping for breath; but when he ended he dashed the letter
down, pushed his chair round, and dropped his head on his folded arms on
the table, with a wild, tearing sob.
“It is no fault of hers,” he cried, “and it was only the first sting
that made me reproach her. I shall never do it again. She is only in the
right, and that fellow is in the right when he tells himself that he
can take better care of her and make her happier than I can. I will be a
coward no longer,--not an hour longer. I will give her up to-night. She
will learn to love him--he is a gentleman at least--if I were in
his place I should never fear that she would not learn in time, and
forget--and forget the poor, selfish beggar who would have died for her,
and yet was not man enough to control the jealous rage that tortured
her. I 'll give her up. I'll give it all up--but, oh! my God! Dolly,
the--the little house, and--and the dreams I have had about it!”
Aimée was almost in despair. This was not one of his ordinary moods;
this was the culminating point,--the culmination of all his old
sufferings and pangs. He had been working slowly toward this through
all the old unhappiness and self-reproach. The constant droppings of the
bygone years had worn away the stone at last, and he could not bear much
more. Aimée was frightened now. Her habit of forethought showed her
all this in a very few seconds. His nervous, highly strung, impassioned
temperament had broken down at last. Another blow would be too much for
him. If she could not manage to set him right now and calm him, and if
things went wrong again, she was secretly conscious of feeling that the
consequences could not be foreseen. There was nothing wild and rash and
wretched he might not do.
She got up and went to him, and leaned upon the table, clasping her
cool, firm little hand upon his hot, desperate one. A woman of fifty
could not have had the power over him that this slight, inexperienced
little creature had. Her childish face caught color and life and
strength in her determination to do her best for these two whom she
loved so well. Her small-boned, fragile figure deceived people into
undervaluing her reserve forces; but there was mature feeling and
purpose enough in her to have put many a woman three times her age to
shame. The light, cool touch of her hand soothed and controlled Griffith
from the first, and when she put forth all her powers of reasoning, and
set his trouble before him in a more practical and less headlong way,
not a word was lost upon him. She pictured Dolly to him just as she had
found her holding his letter in her hand, and she pictured her too as
she had really been the night he watched her through the window,--not
staying because she cared for Gowan, but because circumstances had
forced her to remain when she was longing in her own impetuous pretty
way to fly to him, and give him the comfort he needed. And she gave
Dolly's story in Dolly's own words, with the little sobs between, and
the usual plentiful sprinkling of sweet, foolish, loving epithets,
and--with innocent artfulness--made her seem so charming and
affectionate, a little centre-figure in the picture she drew, that no
man with a heart in his breast could have resisted her, and by the
time Aimée had finished, Grif was so far moved that it seemed a sheer
impossibility to speak again of relinquishing his claims.
But he could not regain his spirits sufficiently to feel able to say
very much. He quieted down, but he was still down at heart and crushed
in feeling, and could do little else but listen in a hopeless sort of
way.
“I will tell you what you shall do,” Aimée said at last. “You shall see
Dolly yourself,--not on the street, but just as you used to see her
when she was at home. She shall come home some afternoon. I know Miss
MacDowlas will let her,--and you shall sit in the parlor together, Grif,
and make everything straight, and begin afresh.”
He could not help being roused somewhat by such a prospect. The cloud
was lifted for one instant, even if it fell upon him again the next.
“I shall have to wait a week,” he said. “Old Flynn has asked me to go
to Dartmouth, to attend to some business for him, and I leave here
to-morrow morning.”
“Very well!” she answered. “If we must wait a week, we must; but you can
write to Dolly in the interval, and settle upon the day, and then she
can speak to Miss MacDowlas.”
He agreed to the plan at once, and promised to write to Dolly that very
night. So the young peacemaker's mind was set at rest upon this subject,
at least, and after giving him a trifle more advice, and favoring him
with a few more sage axioms, she prepared to take her departure.
“You may put on your hat and take me to the door; but you had better not
come in if you are going to finish your letter before the post closes,”
she said; “but the short walk will do you good, and the night-air will
cool you.”
She bade him good-night at the gate when they reached Bloomsbury Place,
and she entered the house with her thoughts turning to Mollie. Mollie
had been out, too, it seemed. When she went up-stairs to their bedroom,
she found her there, standing before the dressing-table, still with her
hat on, and looking in evident preoccupation at something she held in
her hand. Hearing Aimée, she started and turned round, dropping her hand
at her side, but not in time to hide a suspicious glitter which caught
her sister's eye. Here was a worse state of affairs than ever. She had
something to hide, and she had made up her mind to hide it. She stood up
as Aimée approached, looking excited and guilty, but still half-defiant,
her lovely head tossed back a little and an obstinate curve on her red
lips. But the oracle was not to be daunted. She confronted her with
quite a stern little air.
“Mollie,” she began at once, without the least hesitation,--“Mollie, you
have just this minute hidden something from me, and I should n't have
thought you could do it.”
Mollie put her closed hand behind her.
“_If_ I am hiding something,” she answered, “I am not hiding it without
reason.”
“No,” returned Dame Prudence, severely, “you are not. You have a very
good reason, I am afraid. You are ashamed of yourself, and you know you
are doing wrong. You have got a secret, which you are keeping from _me_,
Mollie,” bridling a little in the prettiest way. “I didn't think you
would keep a secret from _me_.”
Mollie, very naturally, was overpowered. She looked a trifle ashamed of
herself, and the tears came into her eyes. She drew her hand from behind
her back, and held it out with a half-pettish, half-timid gesture.
“There!” she said; “if you must see it.”
And there, on her pink palm, lay a shining opal ring.
“And,” said Aimée, looking at it without offering to touch it, and then
looking at her,--“and Mr. Gerald Chandos gave it to you?”
“Yes, Mr. Gerald Chandos did,” trying to brave it out, but still
appearing the reverse of comfortable. “And you think it proper,”
proceeded her inquisitor, “to accept such presents from a gentleman who
cares nothing for you?”
Care nothing for her! Mollie drew herself upright, with the air of a
Zenobia. She had had too few real love affairs not to take arms at once
at such an imputation cast upon her prowess.
“He cares enough for me to want me to marry him,” she said, and then
stopped and looked as if she could have bitten her tongue off for
betraying her.
Aimée sat down in the nearest chair and stared at her, as if she doubted
the evidence of her senses.
“To do what?” she demanded.
There was no use in trying to conceal the truth any longer. Mollie saw
that much; and besides this, her feelings were becoming too strong for
her from various causes. The afternoon had been an exciting one to her,
too. So, all at once, so suddenly that Aimée was altogether unprepared
for the outbreak, she gave way. The ring fell unheeded on to the carpet,
slipped from her hand and rolled away, and the next instant she went
down upon her knees, hiding her face on her arms on Aimée's lap, and
began to cry hysterically.
“It--it is to be quite a secret,” she sobbed. “I would not tell anybody
but you, and I dare not tell you quite all, but he _has_ asked me to
marry him, Aimée, and I have--I have said yes.” And then she cried more
than ever, and caught Aimée's hand, and clung to it with a desperate,
childish grasp, as if she was frightened.
It was very evident that she was frightened, too. All the newly assumed
womanliness was gone. It was the handsome, inexperienced, ignorant
child Mollie she had known all her life who was clinging to her, Aimée
felt,--the pretty, simple, thoughtless Mollie they had all admired and
laughed at, and teased and been fond of. She seemed to have become a
child again all at once, and she was in trouble and desperate, it was
plain.
“But the very idea!” exclaimed Aimée, inwardly; “the bare idea of her
having the courage to engage herself to him!”
“I never heard such a thing in my life,” she said, aloud. “Oh, Mollie!
Mollie! what induced you to give him such a mad answer? You don't care
for him.”
“He--he would not take any other answer, and he is as nice as any one
else,” shamefacedly. “He is nicer than Brown and the others, and--I do
like him--a little,” but a tiny shudder crept over her, and she held her
listener's hand more tightly.
“As nice as any one else!” echoed Aimée, indignantly. “Nicer than Brown!
You ought to be in leading-strings!” with pathetic hopelessness. “That
was n't your only reason, Mollie.”
The hat with the short crimson feather had been unceremoniously pushed
off, and hung by its elastic upon Mollie's neck; the pretty curly hair
was all crushed into a heap, and the flushed, tear-wet face was hidden
in the folds of Aimée's dress. There was a charming, foolish, fanciful
side to Mollie's desperation, as there was to all her moods.
“That was not your only reason,” repeated Aimée.
One impetuous, unhappy little sob, and the poor simple child confessed
against her will.
“Nobody--nobody else cared for me!” she cried.
“Nobody?” said Aimée; and then, making up her mind to go to the point at
once, she said, “Does 'nobody' mean that Ralph Gowan did not, Mollie?”
The clinging hand was snatched away, and the child quite writhed.
“I hate Ralph Gowan!” she cried. “I detest him! I wish--I wish--I _wish_
I had never seen him! Why could n't he stay away among his own people?
Nobody wanted him. Dolly doesn't care for him, and Grif hates him. Why
could n't he stay where he was?”
There was no need to doubt after this, of course. Her love for Ralph
Gowan had rendered her restless and despairing, and so she had worked
out this innocent romance, intending to defend herself against him. The
heroines of her favorite novels married for money when they could
not marry for love, and why should not she? Remember, she was only
seventeen, and had been brought up in Vagabondia among people who did
not often regard consequences. Mr. Gerald Chandos was rich, made violent
love to her, and was ready to promise anything, it appeared,--not that
she demanded much; the Lord Burleighs of her experience invariably
showered jewels and equipages and fine raiment upon their brides without
being asked. She would have thought it positive bliss to be tied to
Ralph Gowan for six or seven years without any earthly prospect of ever
being married; to have belonged to him as Dolly belonged to Grif, to sit
in the parlor and listen to him while he made love to her as Grif made
love to Dolly, would have been quite enough steady-going rapture for
her; but since that was out of the question, Mr. Gerald Chandos and
diamonds and a carriage would have to fill up the blank.
But, of course, she did not say this to Aimée. In fact, after her first
burst of excitement subsided, Aimée could not gain much from her. She
cried a little more, and then seemed vexed with herself, and tried to
cool down, and at last so far succeeded that she sat up and pushed her
tangled hair from her wet, hot face, and began to search for the ring.
“It has got a diamond in the centre,” she said, trying to speak
indifferently. “I don't believe you looked at it. The opals are
splendid, too.”
“Are you going to wear it?” asked Aimée.
She colored up to her forehead. “No, I am not,” she answered. “I should
have worn it before if I had intended to let people see it. I told you
it was a secret. I have had this ring three or four days.”
“Why is it a secret?” demanded Dame Prudence. “I don't believe in
secrets,--particularly in secret engagements. Is n't Phil to know?”
She turned away to put the ring into its case.
“Not yet,” she replied, pettishly. “Time enough when it can't be helped.
It is a secret, I tell you, and I don't care about everybody's talking
it over.”
And she would say no more.